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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Song of Eagles
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Twenty-eight
It was a bitterly cold December night as the Kid, riding behind Billie Wilson, Dave Rudabaugh, Tom Pickett, and Charley Bowdre made their way through spits of wind-driven snow to the Wilcox Ranch house near Fort Sumner to escape the storm.
They built a fire in the old fireplace, tied their horses behind the house, and got set to wait out the snow. The house had been abandoned for years, and the Kid felt safe there. He didn't think the ambushers would be able to find them in this weather. They should be safe to hole up there for a day or two, or until the weather broke.
Two days later, when the snowfall had slowed to mere sprinkles, the Kid and his men left the Wilcox house and rode all day until they came to an abandoned rock house at Stinking Springs.
Cold and hungry, the men stopped to fix some hot food and let the horses rest overnight.
When Bowdre went out at first light to feed the horses, he was met by a fusillade of bullets fired by Pat Garrett and a posse of more than a dozen men who had been tipped off by an informer who hoped to earn part of the reward.
The Kid and everyone else scrambled from their bedrolls to fetch rifles.
Bowdre, mortally wounded, staggered back through the snow toward the house, leaving a trail of blood.
“They've murdered you, Charley!” the Kid shouted when Bowdre was closer to the house. “But we'll get revenge. Turn around and start shooting. Kill some of the sons of bitches before you die.”
Bowdre turned around, confused, dazed by pain and blood loss, holding his hands in the air as though in surrender. “I'm dying!” he cried, stumbling toward Garrett's hiding place before he fell face-down in the snow near Garrett's feet.
The Kid signaled his men to lead their horses into the house by the back door. He had run outside to untie his bay mare when Pat Garrett fired directly into the horse's chest, felling it so it blocked the entrance.
Two more horses had their ropes cut in two by bullets and took off before the Kid's men could reach them, dragging loose rope behind them.
Rifle fire began between both factions, a constant drone of blasting guns. Gunfire came from the rear of the house and from all sides, too many guns for four men without horses to make good their escape.
“They've got us cornered,” he told Rudabaugh.
Rudabaugh cupped his hands around his mouth. “We want to surrender!” he cried.
“You go out first,” the Kid snapped, “since givin' up was your idea.”
Without hesitation Rudabaugh tossed out his gun, raised his hands in the air, and walked out into the snow. He came up to Garrett and lowered his head.
“We've got you, Dave,” Garrett said.
“I know. The others will give themselves up if you promise to take us to Santa Fe to stand trial. We won't none of us have a chance if you haul us to Las Vegas.”
“You aren't exactly in a position to make deals.”
“Would you rather fight a while longer an' maybe lose a few good men on your side?”
Garrett appeared to consider it.
The Kid, listening from a window, spoke to Wilson. “Dave ain't got as much nerve as I figured. He's tryin' to make us a deal to go to jail in Santa Fe, like he's scared of them folks up in Las Vegas.”
“One thing's for sure, Kid,” Wilson said. “This time we ain't gonna be so lucky. There ain't no way to escape from this place.”
The Kid knew Wilson was right. “Then I reckon we give up an' hope for a fair trial.”
“Won't be no such thing, an' you know it.”
“It's come down to choices. We shoot it out with Garrett until our guns run empty or until his boys kill us off one at a time, or we make the best deal we can.”
“Then we're finished,” Wilson said, sighing, resting his rifle against a wall. “They'll hang every damn one of us. We're as good as dead.”
“Maybe not. Governor Wallace said we'd get a good lawyer to defend us.”
“I don't believe a damn word Lew Wallace says. If you ask me, he's plumb crazy . . . writing books all the time. Hell, he's hardly ever in his office, so I hear.”
“You got any better ideas?”
“Nope,” Wilson said after a moment's thought. “I guess we toss out our guns an' march out there with Rudabaugh. Damn, but it sure sticks in my craw.”
One by one the three remaining Regulators walked slowly out of the rock house to join Dave Rudabaugh.
Garrett looked the Kid in the eye. “You made the right choice. We'll take you over to Miz Wilcox and get her to feed you something.”
* * *
Having chained them hand and foot to the floor of a covered wagon to preclude any possibility of escape, Sheriff Garrett escorted the Kid, Dave Rudabaugh, Tom Pickett, and Billy Wilson off to Fort Sumner. At the time, the Kid had no way of knowing the promise made to Rudabaugh would be betrayed ... they would be taken to Las Vegas to stand trial, and the lawyer Governor Wallace promised to have defend them would not arrive.
* * *
At Fort Sumner the Kid asked if he could say good-bye to a girlfriend, the daughter of the Navajo woman who had worked for McSween.
Deputy Jim East didn't like the idea. “He might figure a way to escape, Sheriff.”
But Garrett relented. “Leave 'em both chained together so they can't run off.”
East pointed the Kid and Rudabaugh into the shack where the Navajo girl lived. The Kid smiled when he saw her and hobbled over to give her a kiss.
“They will hang you, Billy,” she whispered.
“They ain't got me hung yet.”
“But this time, maybe so you won't be so lucky as before, I think.”
He chuckled. “Don't worry. It's freezin' cold in that wagon. Give me your shawl. I'll give you this tintype they made of me, so you'll have somethin' to remember me by until I'm free again.”
“I am afraid you won't ever be free, Billito. ”
He continued to chuckle. “I've got a few cards up my sleeve I haven't played yet.”
“But all the others, the ones who would help you, are dead or in prison.”
“Who says I need any help?”
“You are never serious,
Billito.
”
“Time to go,” Jim East said from the doorway. “Get back in that wagon so I can chain you two to the floor.”
Billy took the shawl the girl gave him and wrapped himself against the cold.
They were marched outside at gunpoint, then herded into the wagon as heavier snow began to fall.
But just as the driver was about to climb up in the wagon seat, a lone rider appeared through the swirling snow. The Kid watched him approach.
“I know that man,” said the Kid a moment later. “That's Falcon MacCallister. He may have changed his mind and decided to help us.”
But MacCallister rode over to Sheriff Garrett and stopped his horse, blocking the path of the wagon.
“I just heard you captured Billy the Kid,” he said.
“Him and three more. This means the Lincoln County War is officially over,” Garrett said. “I'm taking them up to Las Vegas to stand trial before Judge Fountain.”
“That double-crossin' son of a bitch,” Rudabaugh growled when he heard about the broken promise. “If I could get my hands on a gun, I'd kill him.”
“This ain't the time or the place,” the Kid said, watching MacCallister closely to see if he might come to their aid.
“I don't think the Kid shot Sheriff Brady,” Falcon told Pat Garrett. “He told me his side of the story.”
“That's up to a jury,” Garrett replied.
Falcon looked back at the snow-covered wagon. “I hope it's a fair jury. Be a shame to hang an innocent man.”
“I know the Kid,” Garrett said. “One thing he isn't is an innocent man. He's done more'n his share of killing in this county. But all that's over now.”
Oddly, MacCallister grinned. “I wouldn't be too sure of that, Sheriff.”
“And just what do you mean by that, Falcon?”
Falcon shrugged. “Some men are just natural born hard to kill, either by a gun or a rope. I wouldn't start dancing on his grave or spending any of that reward money until you've got the grave dug.”
“There are half a dozen witnesses who'll swear the Kid shot Brady.”
“Half a dozen Murphey and Dolan men?”
“That's a false accusation. It will be citizens of the town who actually saw the killing.”
Again, MacCallister grinned and wagged his head. “I'd be real sure of that before I took him to trial. He's got lots of friends.”
“They won't save him from justice.”
“From what I hear tell, Sheriff, it may not be justice, after all.”
Garrett looked back at the wagon. “We're wasting time here, Falcon. You're entitled to your opinion, but a judge and jury will decide the final outcome.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Falcon said, swinging his horse away to ride to the back of the wagon where he halted his mount again.
He looked into the Kid's eyes. “You ride quiet up to where Sheriff Garrett's taking you, son. Don't try anything that'll give him a reason to gun you down.”
“I didn't kill Brady,” the Kid said, his teeth chattering in the cold.
“Never said you did. Just bide your time, and maybe things will change.”
Falcon rode off at a trot, and soon his outline was lost in sheets of windblown snow. The wagon jolted forward, wheels creaking over frozen ground.
Rudabaugh asked, “What did he mean, maybe things will change?”
“Can't say for sure,” the Kid replied, “but if there's one feller in Lincoln County who could make things change, that was him.”
“He didn't come right out an' offer to change the circumstances we're in right now.”
The Kid covered his freezing ears with the shawl the Navajo girl gave him. “From what I know about him, that ain't his way of handlin' things.”
Rudabaugh made a face. “Looks to me like he's gonna ride off an' let us hang.”
Tom Pickett spoke up. “He's supposed to be one bad hombre with a gun, but he didn't show much of it here today. He coulda got the drop on Garrett an' let us loose.”
“He'd be breakin' the law,” the Kid replied. “If we get any help from him, it'll come another way.” He paused, then said in a low voice, “Like the other night at the ambush.”
Rudabaugh's expression did not change. “My money says we'll never set eyes on him again. We'll be facin' a hangman's noose all by our lonesome.”
The Kid rested against the side of the wagon, deciding it was no use to try to convince the others that Falcon MacCallister might offer them a way out. At the moment, even the Kid had no idea how the big gunman could help.
One thing the Kid was certain of . . . he wasn't going to let anybody hang him. Somehow, he'd find a way to cheat the hangman out of his chance to make him swing at the end of a rope.
Twenty-nine
Roy walked over to Falcon at his table and handed him the early edition of the
Las Vegas Gazette
and his morning coffee.
“Boss, there's a couple of pages 'bout the Kid in the paper this mornin'.”
“Thanks, Roy.”
Falcon poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table, lit a cheroot, and leaned back with his boots on the table while he smoked and drank and read.
J.H. Koogler, editor of the
Gazette
had obtained an interview with the Kid in jail. Falcon read on ...
Through the kindness of Sheriff Romero, a representative of the
Gazette
was admitted to the jail yesterday morning. Mike Cosgrove, the obliging mail contractor who often met the boys while on business down the Pecos, had just gone in with five large bundles. The doors at the entrance stood open, and a large crowd strained their necks to get a glimpse of the prisoners, who stood in the passageway like children waiting for a Christmas tree distribution. One by one the bundles were unpacked, disclosing a good suit for each man. Mr. Cosgrove remarked that he wanted 'to see the boys go away in style.'
Billy 'the Kid' and Billie Wilson, who were shackled together, stood patiently while a blacksmith took off their shackles and bracelets to allow them an opportunity to make a change of clothing. Both prisoners watched the operation which was to set them free for a short while. Wilson scarcely raised his eyes and spoke but once or twice to his
compadres,
Bonney, on the other hand, was light and chipper and was very communicative, laughing, joking, and chatting with the by-standers.
Falcon threw back his head and laughed at this description.
The Kid will be grinning and joking with the noose on his neck and his feet over nothing but air,
he thought with some affection. The more he found out about the Kid, the more he realized they were kin in their souls. Now, if only he could help the Kid get out of this scrape and off somewhere to start a new life.
He shook his head. Wishful thinking, he thought, and began to read the rest of the article.
“You appear to take it easy,” the reporter said.
“Yes! What's the use of looking on the gloomy side of everything? The laugh's on me this time,” he said. Then, looking around the
placita,
he asked, “Is the jail in Santa Fe any better than this?”
This seemed to trouble him considerably, for, as he explained, “This is a terrible place to put a fellow in.” He put the same question to everyone who came near him, and when he learned that there was nothing better in store for him he shrugged his shoulders and said something about putting up with what he had to.
He was the attraction of the show, and as he stood there, lightly kicking the toes of his boots on the stone pavement to keep his feet warm, one would scarcely mistrust that he was the hero of the 'Forty Thieves' romance which this paper has been running in serial form for six weeks or more.
“There was a big crowd gazing at me, wasn't there?” he exclaimed, and then smilingly continued, “Well, perhaps some of them will think me half a man now. Everyone seems to think I was some kind of animal.”
He did look human, indeed, but there was nothing very mannish about his appearance, for he looked and acted a mere boy. He is about five-foot, eight or nine inches tall, slightly built and lithe, weighing about 140; a frank and open countenance, looking like a schoolboy, with the traditional silky fuzz on his upper lip; clear blue eyes, with a roguish snap about them; light hair and complexion. He is, in all, a handsome looking fellow, the imperfection being two prominent front teeth, slightly protruding like squirrels' teeth, and he has agreeable and winning ways.
A cloud came over his face when he made some allusion to his being made the hero of fabulous yarns, and something like indignation was expressed when he said that our Extra misrepresented him in saying that he called his associates cowards. “I never said any such thing,” he pouted, “I know they ain't cowards.”
Billie Wilson was glum and sober, but from underneath his broad-brimmed hat we saw a face that had by no means bad look. He is light-complexioned, light hair, bluish grey eyes, is a little stouter than Bonney, and far quieter. He appears ashamed and is not in very good spirits.
Falcon snorted.
Reporters,
he thought,
only one rung above lawyers on the social scale, but sometimes they can write something so dumb it defies description
. He smirked as he read on . . .
A final stroke of the hammer cut the last rivet in the bracelets, and they clanked on the pavement as they fell.
Bonney straightened up. Then, rubbing his wrists where the sharp edged irons had chafed him, he said, “I don't suppose you fellows would believe it, but this is the first time I ever had bracelets on. But many another fellow had them on, too.”
With Wilson he walked toward the little hole in the wall to the place which is no “sell” on a place of confinement. Just before entering he turned and looked back and exclaimed: “They say, 'a fool for luck and a poor man for children'—Garrett takes them all in!' ”
We saw them again at the depot when the crowd presented a really warlike appearance. Out of one of the windows, on which he was leaning, he talked freely with us of the whole affair.
“I don't blame you for writing of me as you have. You had to believe others' stories. But then I don't know as anyone would believe anything good of me, anyway,” he said. “I wasn't the leader of any gang. I was for Billy all the time. About that Portales business, I owned the ranch with Charlie Bowdre. I took it up and was holding it because I knew that sometime a stage line would run by there, and I wanted to keep it for a station.”
[It was rumored that the ranch at Los Portales which the Kid had homesteaded with Bowdre was a rendezvous for stolen stock, but none was ever found there.]
“But I found there were certain men who wouldn't let me live in the country, so I was going to leave. We had all our grub in the house when they took us in, and we were going to a place about six miles away in the morning to cook it and then light out. I haven't stolen any stock. I made my living gambling, but that was the only way I could live. They wouldn't let me settle down. If they had, I wouldn't be here today.” He held up his right hand, on which was the bracelet. “Chisum got me into all this trouble, and wouldn't help me out. I went to Lincoln to stand my trial on the warrant that was out for me, but the Territory took a change of venue to Doña Aña, and I knew that I had no show, and so I skinned out. When I was up to White Oaks the last time, I went there to consult with a lawyer, who had sent for me to come up. But I knew I couldn't stay there, either.”
The conversation then drifted to the question of the final round-up of the party.
“If it hadn't been for the dead horse in the doorway I wouldn't be here. I would have ridden out on my bay mare and taken my chances at escaping,” said he. “But I couldn't jump over that, for she would have jumped back, and I would have got it in the head. We could have stayed in the house but there wouldn't have been anything gained by that, for they would have starved us out. I thought it was better to come out and get a square meal—don't you?”
The prospect of a fight (at the train) exhilarated him, and he bitterly bemoaned being chained. “If I only had my Winchester I'd lick the whole crowd,” was his confident comment on the strength of the attack party. He sighed and sighed again for a chance to take a hand in the fight, and the burden of his desire was to be set free to fight as soon as he should smell powder.
As the train pulled out, he lifted his hat and invited us to call and see him at Santa Fe, calling out
“Adios!'”
Falcon smiled, thinking that if the Kid's brains were as large as his
cojones,
he would probably be president some day.
He folded the paper and laid it on the table, taking out another cigar and lighting it. He knew he could do nothing to help the Kid unless he survived his trial in Santa Fe and was brought back to Lincoln to stand trial for the killing of Sheriff Brady.
He poured more coffee and sat there, smoking and thinking. It was a perplexing problem, but he would figure some way to help the Kid, whatever it took.
Roy walked over and took the coffeepot to refill it.
“You think the Kid's gonna come out of this all right, boss?”
“We'll see, Roy, we'll see.”

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