Billy the Kid (5 page)

Billy glanced out. It was quite a sight, he had to admit. He'd never seen a train holdup.

Mapes swung back into the cab, cursing wildly. He'd been stopped before in a rock cut but never on the flat.

Billy said to Rawls, noticing a diamond ring on his finger, "I'll have those guns now." He knew he shouldn't take the time but couldn't resist twitting the man. "That's trouble," he advised pointing his barrel at the ring.

"It won't come off," Rawls gasped.

Billy shrugged and carefully laid two of Rawls's guns into the blanket, slipping the third, a little silver-inlaid Colt .41 caliber derringer, into his waistband. "Too bad. I saw a man lose a finger that way on the border. Chopped clean."

Rawls spat at his chubby finger and began tugging at it.

Billy yelled, "Now, everybody git down low! We're gonna do a little shootin'." He put a slug into the pine tops over Art's head. The passengers ducked. Billy fired randomly again, interested in what Art was doing.

Billy saw Art put a load of buckshot into the mail car door, which had opened and quickly closed. Then he shoved the ten-gauge back Into its scabbard, pulled a .45, and rode close to the door.
A true professional,
Billy thought. Bank cash was in that car, Art had said.

Joe was herding Mapes and the fireman up against the hot driving wheel. Billy winged a shot that way, then unshackled Perry's wrist from the seat frame.

He made it a point to be heard: "Do something decent for once in your life. Go back an' help those poor people in car two. I'll ask the judge to go easy on you." He gave Perry a gun from the blanket.

Perry answered with a slightly bewildered look and started back toward the rear of the car.

Rawls was on his hands and knees between the seats, Billy noticed, and had seen the prisoner re-leased. He was frowning. "Keep your heads down," Billy ordered. "Save your lives." He flipped another shot toward the pine tops and then reached into the blanket for a fresh gun.

Seeing Perry enter car 2, Billy deftly pulled the four corners of the blanket together, then began hauling it with his left hand, towing it toward the door, pointing the borrowed Smith & Wesson at empty seats. He'd dump the blanket into Art's burlap bag.

Jaw sagging, Rawls came up slowly. "Hey, wait a minute," he said weakly.

Billy paused by the door, plucked the silver star from his chest, and tossed it. The badge landed with a clatter by Rawls's feet.

Billy said to the passengers, "Thank you kindly, folks. You're an outstandin' group of citizens, an' I'll remember you always."

THEY RODE OFF
down the piney slope from the tracks—Joe with the tin cash box from the mail car; Billy clutching the laden blanket; Perry with a hand wrapped around a woman's silk long coat with loot from car 2; and Art bringing up the rear, throwing worried glances back to see if anyone was poking out to shoot.

Lawyer Jack Lapham, of Polkton, Arizona, stared after them. He thought he recognized one of them.

Jack's eyes narrowed on the riders' dodging backs. The lawyer was framed in a window of the second car, his silky, lemon-white hair blowing in the light breeze. He was a frail man, with a bony, seamed, distinguished countenance. There'd been two other attorneys in all of Arizona Territory when he'd come out from Illinois in '60. So he'd been around awhile.

"I can't believe it, but that's Billy Bonney," he said, strictly to himself. His eyes were on the second rider, who sat his horse as if he were joined to it, his whole body fluid. "That it is."

He remembered Billy a bit differently. A brush of yellow mustache had been under the boy's nose when he was a ranch hand with Willis Monroe a few years back, out on the Tuckamore. This boy was clean-shaven and certainly dressed fancier than Billy had ever dressed. He'd known Billy to wear homemade boots, not the spit 'n' shine jobs this bandit sported. But it was Billy all right. Lapham was convinced. He'd seen enough of the face. More than that, it was the way he sat his horse. And what a shot he was, the best in all of Arizona.

He watched as the riders weaved in and out of the tree trunks, racing almost soundlessly on the deep beds of brown needles, away from the puffing engine and lowering fire. Then they disappeared.

Shaken thoroughly at having recognized Billy, Lapham eased himself back to his seat, suddenly feeling each of his seventy-two years.
Incredible,
he thought. Billy had always been a little wild, he remembered; he hadn't had any particular respect for law and order, got himself into scraps, and was thought to have put the Double W brand on several more calves than Willis Monroe actually owned. Willis had always had to hold him down. But the boy had never done anything really bad.
Train robbery, my lord,
Lapham thought.

Thinking about Willis, Lapham pulled a linen handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped at his wizened face. He barely heard the jumble of voices and angry shouts along the tracks as passengers poured out. He sat shaking his head in dismay, wondering if anyone in car 2 had recognized Willie's cousin. The only passengers from Polkton that he'd noticed were a mother and her young daughter, who were new to town and not likely to know Billy.

He peered again down the sun-mottled slope, making up his mind not to mention Billy Bonney until they reached Polkton. It wasn't the immediate business of forty ranting passengers. Sometimes he thought his long years in the practice had taught him more about people than about law. People who got robbed were generally unreasonable. His own wallet had held fourteen dollars, but he was no longer concerned about it.

Feeling the need for a drink, he stuck a thin, splotched hand into his coat to extract a slim silver flask. He took a quivering mouthful of whiskey, rinsed, then swallowed. In a moment the pounding of his heart began to slow. He sat thinking of Billy Bonney as Mapes, aided by a few passengers, kicked and raked the cordwood embers off the tracks.

Waiting for the ruckus to subside, his mind went back in time, reviewing the holdup while frowning fits and starts darted across his face, and wordless murmurs filtered from his lips. Age had not dulled his mind, only slowed it.

He'd first met Willis Monroe in his own office, when Willis came in to change the title of the Tuckamore land after his dad died. Later he'd introduced pretty teacher Kate Mills to Willie, worried that young Billy, always the ladies' man, would try to snap her up instead. She'd become Monroe's wife.
Good for her,
he'd thought.

Then cousin Billy had gone to Mexico, Lapham remembered, two or three years ago. Time ran together. Even Willis said he'd finally lost track of him.

Lawyer Lapham blew out a disheartened breath. Willis was in a thorny bush, he concluded, and opted for another drink from the flask. As a friend of both the sheriff and Billy, Lapham was most dismayed. As a lawyer and a student of men under stress, he was also intrigued. Willie was duly elected sheriff and would have to catch Billy—or at least try; then he might have to hang his cousin until the boy was pronounced dead. Regretfully, the law had no provision, so far as Lapham knew, for family ties and friendship.

Downing his second drink, he got up and projected the yellow-white mane out the window. "Anybody know who those bastards were?" he yelled in a squeaky voice.

He heard a woman behind him clear her throat in protest, and turned. "Pardon me, madam," Lawyer Lapham said, lowering his watery eyes apologetically. He'd broken wind when he turned, and he wasn't sure which had offended her.

NEAR MIDAFTERNOON
, Willie Monroe rode into Polkton flanked by Pook Pine, Deputy Sam's freckled son, who'd been sent to the Double W to fetch him. On a frisky pinto, the boy held his head high, feeling great importance because he'd summoned the sheriff. He'd chatted with Kate while Willie saddled up.

Ahead of them Polkton sprawled quietly in weathered boards, substantial granites, and new brick. Starting at Decatur Street, the town of about fifty buildings of varied vintages meandered like patchwork in both directions, hacked out of plateau pineland. There was talk of bricking Decatur, but for now it was hard-packed dirt. Saloon Row, off near the depot to the west, shared a shabby, already dying street with five brothels and three miner and lumberjack boarding-houses. Across town the Chinese and Mexicans had their shanties. Two new churches, along with the big brick courthouse, dominated the low skyline. Mountains rose on all sides of the town.

Willie liked Polkton and most of the people in it. He'd seen it mushroom from a few hundred miners and timbermen and cowmen up to nearly three thousand citizens in twelve years. It had been settled as a soldier's post, expired in the sixties, and then came to life again in the seventies.

News of the holdup had eddied along the streets, and Willie heard an occasional shout of "Go git 'em, Sheriff." Then there was a derisive voice: "Better late than never, Sheriff." He nodded without looking at the sources along the boardwalks and beneath the porch overhangs. He had powerful enemies, like rancher Earl Cole, as well as friends.

He'd taken the day off to repair Kate's buggy out at the ranch.
Bad timing,
he thought.

Cantering through light traffic of wagons, buckboards, and bicycles, staying well clear of a gasping steam buggy, he could now see a dozen or more people on the courthouse steps. He knew they weren't waiting for an eclipse He shook his head.

Sam Pine was there. So was the stationmaster. He spotted Lawyer Lapham. There were assorted businessmen. Grayson, who owned the bank, for one He'd holler. Then he saw the massive frame of Earl Cole.
I might have known it,
he thought. The wolves were honing their fangs. Cole was by far his worst enemy.

Moving briskly out to the steps was P. J. Wilson, the prosecuting attorney assigned to the county. Willie let out a gloomy breath and slowed Almanac to a walk. He could almost smell the anger and frustration on the steps.

Wilson shouted, "Willis, this is the third train robbery in a year!" The pompous little red-haired peacock was bristling outwardly, but Willie knew that beneath the bristle, he was jumping with delight. Bad news for the incumbent sheriff was good news for P. J. Wilson.

Part of his problem as sheriff, Willie believed, was Wilson's constant, dedicated undercutting. Skimpy of height and always simmering because he had to look up, the fashion-dandy DA was the sour well that had fed the Paiute rumor. More than that, Willie had long suspected that Wilson had made a preelection deal with Earl Cole to share land parcels. Cole's licking in the polls upset the money cart. There were no other evident reasons for Wilson's hostility toward him.

Willie saw Dobbs, the skinny straw-haired Tombstone man who had bobbed up shortly after the election, hovering near Cole. Owner of a hacking cough that identified him wherever he went, Dobbs was definitely a hired gun, if Willie could believe the reports on him. He was again certain Dobbs had shot him, and that Cole had paid for it, proof or not. It was a score he intended to settle some day, one way or another.

He went casually on up to the hitching post and dismounted before answering, with measured blandness, "You're the territorial attorney here, Wilson. You unhappy with me, call the federal marshals in. Meanwhile, take my advice once again. Tell the railroads to start ridin' shotgun in those trains, like the stagecoaches."

Willie took up a position at the bottom of the steps, facing the group. He purposely cloaked himself in calm.

Banker Grayson snapped, "They got over twelve thousand this time."

Willie acknowledged quietly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Grayson. I'll be goin' after them within an hour."

Wilson stared at the sheriff, then turned, asking the group, "Anyone know who they were?"

As Willie moved toward the first step, Lawyer Lapham said reluctantly, "Billy Bonney was one of them."

Feeling as if stone had shifted under his feet, Willie gasped and froze. Had he heard right? He knew his mouth was hanging open. Billy was only nineteen. He watched, speechless, as Wilson looked at Lapham. Then the DAs eyes came slowly back to Willie and stayed. "Your cousin, eh, Willis?" There was naked satisfaction on the bulldog face.

Willie studied Lapham in a state of shock. "You must be mistaken, Mr. Lapham. We both know Billy. Stoppin' trains isn't his style."

The aged lawyer stood in silence, a hint of sadness around his eyes.

Willie sought words. "He's ah ... he's been in Mexico almost two years now. He wouldn't—" The words sheared off.

Lapham finally shook his head. "It was Billy. I know how close you are—family and all."

"He might have looked like Billy."

"My vision is still good, Willis. Remember how Billy sat a horse? No one else here rides that way."

Willie felt ill. Lapham seemed very positive. And his eyes were still good, Willie knew. Vaguely he heard Wilson saying, "A year ago I told you I heard Billy was in trouble on the border. You wouldn't believe it."

Willie fixed his gaze on Wilson. He felt anger welling up. Yes, he recalled it! No, he hadn't believed it! Billy, too, had had a run-in with Pete Wilson when the territorial attorney had first arrived. The little man wasn't one to forgive or forget.

Wilson continued, flat and hard, "Willis, I want you to get a posse—"

Willie interrupted with a roar, "You stick to prac-ticin' law an' I'll enforce it!"

Immediately he regretted losing his temper. An embarrassed silence fell over the group on the courthouse steps. Sounds of squeaking wagon wheels and voices from down the street rose in the awkward gap.

In some ways Pete Wilson was his superior. At least, they had to maintain a relationship. Willie took a deep breath and tried to recover, peeved with himself that he'd let Wilson reach him again. He'd never been able to match words with the brainy lawyer. He always felt lumbering and inadequate around him. Wilson was ten years older and fluent in speech. Willie wasn't.

Seeking relief he glanced over at Sam Pine. "You interview the witnesses?"

Sam nodded. "I've got everything written down, Willie. Mapes took the train on to Prescott, but I've got his statement, too."