Billy the Kid (12 page)

***

BILLY WORKED HIS
shoulders against the bars that lined the short corridor on the top jail floor. Willie sat on the cot nearby, a tablet on his lap.

"I got to think about it, Willie. I really do," Billy said.

Willie knew he was wrestling with that old "honor among thieves" code. Billy had never been one to point a finger. Always he'd rather face a whip, Willie remembered. He'd had that particular stubborn streak long before he'd stopped a train.

Billy crossed to the cot to pick up his ocarina. He blew a few notes on it. "It, ah ... opens up some other things."

Willie frowned at him, wondering what the "other things" might be. He'd ask later, he decided. "Just write their names down, when you write the confession. I'll give it to Pete," he said, extending the tablet.

Billy looked uncertain.

"If you turn witness, Wilson said he'd help."

"If I don't?"

Willie answered flatly, "A rope."

The hollowed sweet-potato-shaped ocarina fell from his hand to the cot. "How's that?"

"While you were in Mexico, the railroads got a law passed. Train robbery's death."

Billy let out a slow whistle.

"Think about it," Willie said. "You gonna trade your Adam's apple for a coupla drifters?" Willie rose and started for the door, the tablet still in his hand.

"Leave it."

"Now we'll get somewhere."

Billy smiled cautiously. "Away from a rope."

"Who were they, Billy?" Willie asked.

"Three guys who said their names was Smith."

Willie was baffled. "All with the same name?"

"Father and two sons. Art, Perry, and Joe."

Willie's frown widened. "How'd they look?"

Billy described them, and then the sheriff muttered, "You do pick 'em."

"What's wrong?"

Willie laughed glumly. "Unless I miss my guess, you hooked up with Art Williams."

Billy frowned.

"And they're from Texas."

"How d'you know?"

"They've only got about thirty thousand dollars on their heads in four states. Bank robbery, train robbery, two counts of murder. I forget what else. I should have kept goin' after them."

Billy nodded, then smiled. "I'd agree to that."

Willie said, "It's not funny. Write your confession. I'll get it later."

As the sheriff opened the door, Billy spoke up. "You know, I coulda killed you last night. Long before Kate butted in."

"Why didn't you?"

Billy's grin broadened. "I jus' keep makin' these dumb mistakes, Willie Next time"

"Uh-huh," Willie grunted, then shouted down the corridor toward the jailer's office, "Frank, come lock this door. Got a dangerous man in here"

As Frank Phillips approached, Billy said, "Say hello to Kate for me She ever makes any extra those biscuits, jus' dump 'em in here"

Willie got his gun off the small stand in the corridor. "That reminds me," he said, buckling it on and looking over at Billy. "I'm going to take her away for a few days. I decided riding home last night."

Billy smiled knowingly. "Do that! Women like trips."

Willie flared. "But that's about all you're expert in, besides guns."

"I'll be glad to come with you," said Billy, grinning.

At the top of the stairs, Willie waited for Phillips to finish with Billy's cell. Then he told him in a low voice, "Frank, do me a favor. Take care of Billy. You know, a little extra on his plate He won't give you any problem."

Phillips glanced back toward Billy. "Anything you say, Sheriff."

Willie added, "Don't mention it to Pete Wilson, huh?"

The jailer nodded.

"And oh, Frank, I'm leavin' Almanac here. Get some new shoes on him."

Phillips nodded again and Willie continued down the steps, his voice floating back, loudly now, "He wouldn't need 'em if I hadn't had to ride all over creation..."

Billy laughed.

***

LATER, BILLY WAS PRONE
on the cot, tootling the ocarina, when Sam Pine brought a prisoner up. Sam paused to toss a sack of Bull Durham into the cell. Billy stopped playing to say thanks.

"Where'd you learn to play that thing?" Sam asked.

Billy examined the clay sweet potato rather than looking at the deputy. He'd had twenty ocarinas if he'd had one They didn't ride too well in a saddlebag. "You might not believe it, but my mother was a piano teacher."

"You should have stuck to the piano," Sam advised drily.

Billy grinned over, spotting the new prisoner. "Welcome, friend," he said. "My name's Bonney."

The man had a thin body, thin face He looked almost tubercular.

"How'd you get so unlucky?" Billy asked in a friendly tone.

The man didn't answer, so Sam answered for him. "Name's Dobbs. He broke a girl's jaw down on Saloon Row 'bout an hour ago. We'll cool him off for a day. She don't want to press charges."

Billy chided, "That's no way to treat females. Give 'em love"

He began blowing the ocarina as Sam Pine put Dobbs into the next cell.

After Sam went down the steps, Dobbs came up to the bars. "It's all over Saloon Row about you," he said. "Sheriff's friend."

Billy put the ocarina down.

Dobbs said, "I hear you're going to get the gallows."

"Oh?"

WHIPPED DOWN BY HEAT
and blowing sand, Art and Perry straggled into Colterville for grub, a night's rest, and a forefoot shoe for Art's roan. They were in a foul mood.

The copper-mine town was as mealy as McLean, squatting on pink grime in a handful of tin-roofed frame buildings. A rail spur and Bates's freighters out of Polkton fed and clothed it. Aside from cactus patches, there wasn't a piece of green within five miles.

They'd gone seventy wandering miles south, without whiff or sight of Billy Bonney, and a complaining Perry was all for washing it out. He wanted to drop below the border, hole up in Cananea for a spell, maybe then go on to El Paso, think about robbing a bank.

But Art, though weary, was still possessed. He knew he'd never get a good night's sleep—in Texas, Arkansas, or any other place—until he could see Joe's killer over a shotgun bead.

Now they were in Colterville's general store, up at the counter, arousing little curiosity from the few afternoon customers. Because it was a jumping-off place for the deserts below, red-eyed men like themselves frequently paused for replenishment. No questions were asked. No one cared.

On the silent metallic slopes outside, under a dazzling blue sky, light wind picked up the dust and whirled it up into fleeting cones. A rig jingled by, mules plodding. Down the street an anvil rang. The roan would be ready soon for the ride to the border.

Art's sun-punished eyes tiredly scanned the shelves as he called off the minimum supplies he thought they'd need.

Earlier, studying a territory map of the basin, he'd clicked off the places south where Billy might go. There were four towns, of any size at all, to the border. Billy would likely be in one of them, he thought. With money and an itch to spend it, he'd find himself a first-class crib and relax a few days. If he didn't do that, he'd at least alight long enough to have a drink, buy grub. Someone would see him. Someone would know where he'd gone.

Then Art's gaze fell on the thin stack of the Polkton weekly. He frowned at a headline:
Train Robber
Surrenders to Sheriff.
He stepped closer to the stack, putting on his specs.

Meaty hands jumping in sudden excitement, he lifted the top copy and held it to the layer of sun that penetrated the dim store. "Perry," he said, in a breathless whisper, "look here. Look!"

Perry leaned in.

Art read on, amazed. There was just no way of calculating what that kid lunatic would do next. Joe's death had been enough of a blow, but now Billy had gone and handed over the saddlebag.

Perry opened his mouth to speak, but Art rasped, "Later."

He turned back to the counter, again seething inwardly. Yet he was calm and polite, drawling softly, as he canceled the grub order, making the excuse that they'd stay around a day or two longer in Colterville.

"Got a hotel here?" he asked the storekeeper.

The aproned man shook his head. "Roomin' house, that's all. Yale's. On up the street, toward the mine."

Art smiled. "Sure a friendly little town here."

Art bought the paper, saying he wanted to read about the big fire in Cleveland, and then they clumped out to begin walking in the direction of the ringing anvil.

"Nothin' we can do," said Perry lifelessly. He wasn't too unhappy that Billy had been put away. Ever since McLean and the dancing bullets, not to mention Dunbar's Rocks, Perry had considered the possibility that Art might be winged if they stumbled upon Billy. Then Perry would have to face the gunfighter alone. Perry knew he wasn't a match.

Art glanced at his oldest son with disapproval but kept a thoughtful silence. They stopped a moment to let a mine wagon rumble past.

"Let's git outta here tomorrow, else we'll wind up where Billy is," Perry continued, in the wake of the wagon.

Art snapped, "They got the money, an' Billy. That's all they want right now. You read it."

"Well, Pa, I think—"

Art scoffed, "Askin' sheriffs south of here an' along the border to keep a lookout for us ain't gonna git 'em anywhere. Besides, the newspaper said there's three of us. Stop frettin'."

They trudged on down the wide street.

Just before they reached the smithy, Art stopped. "Made up my mind. We're goin' to Polkton."

Perry sucked his breath in. "'Polkton'?" He showed alarm.

Art seemed his old self again. He'd shaken off despair. The blocky face was set, gray eyes charged. "If the jail up there is anything like Texas, not even rats'll crawl after midnight. Jailer's asleep. All you hear's snores, Perry. No one's around. We'll visit the jail."

Perry's forehead bunched in a worried frown as he stared at his father.

Art nodded resolutely. "Yessir, I'm gonna wake Billy Bonney up 'bout ten seconds before I shoot 'im. Jus' long enough to let him know it's me. How you like that, Perry? Then we'll get our money back."

***

KATE SAID,
"Let's try it."

Kneeling on the kitchen floor beside her husband, she watched as he tightened the bolt on the new wringer handle.

"What'll they invent next?" he marveled.

"Maybe an indestructible woman," Kate answered bittersweetly, rising to fish a sopping pair of long johns out of the sink.

He glanced at her contemplatively. He took a turn on the lugs that held the wringer to the wooden tub. "We haven't been anywhere in a long time." He made an effort to say it offhandedly, to surprise her.

Kate stopped the movement of the heavy underwear. Water droplets hit the floor. Her eyes narrowed. "That cow did kick you."

He pretended to study the wringer. "Right in the head."

Kate dumped the soggy johns into the tub, trying to analyze the expression on his face. "You mean what I think you mean?"

"Sure, I mean it, Kate." He took pleasure from her look of wonder. "Now, there's a rodeo comin' up in Flagstaff day after tomorrow. Last one this year. We missed Prescott! Or we could go to Tucson. If you don't like that—"

"Phoenix. To shop," Kate said distinctly.

Willie was dumbfounded. "Shop? We just got this thing. What else do we need?"

"It just may paralyze you, but I need some new clothes."

Willie remained speechless.

Kate got back on her hands and knees to lean into his ear. "Phee-nix," she said. "Phee—"

"Phoenix," he nodded ruefully.

They took the 10:35 out of Polkton depot the next morning.

The Marks Hotel, in Phoenix, boasted about its elevator, first in the territory, as well as its elegant dining room with golden candlelight and tuxedoed waiters.

Kate Monroe lifted her wineglass toward her husband.

P. J. WILSON WAS STANDING
about six feet back from the cell bars, shadowy in the unlit corridor. The full moon helped a little.

Billy squinted and smiled. "Hello, Pete. Didn't expect any visitors tonight."

Wilson peered back but didn't answer. Since noon he'd been looking forward to this moment, savoring it throughout a busy afternoon.

Billy slid off the cot and went to the bars, looking through the steel rounds at the prosecuting attorney. He said sincerely, "Willie tol' me what you were doin', an' I sure appreciate it."

Wilson kept to silence as Billy felt himself being examined, head to foot. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other, that night he'd thrown beer in Pete's face.

A bit nervously Billy said, "I can hardly see you out there, Pete Want me to call for Frank an' git a lamp? Might help us to talk better. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"It's not necessary," Wilson answered.

Billy laughed tentatively. "You know, I been wantin' to apologize to you. What's it been, Pete? Three years? I jus' had too much to drink that night." Billy was suddenly apprehensive. "Anyway, I apologize."

Stepping closer, revealing his face in a pale band of light from outside, Wilson said, "Willie almost had me convinced what a nice fellow you really are."

"Like everyone I've made a few mistakes, Pete. I..." Billy stopped, wondering what Wilson had on his mind. Then words rushed out. "You let me off, Pete an' I'll be out of this territory fast as a horse or train'll take me I promise you that."

Wilson listened patiently.

There was something ominous about this visit. Billy felt trapped and helpless in the cell. "I wrote those names down. I didn't know who I was ridin' with, how bad they were. They're professionals. I'm not. I signed the confession. I was broke, Pete..." Billy's voice trailed off. The little man seemed to be toying with him, enjoying the panic.

"Any other explanations?" Wilson asked.

Billy shook his head.

"All right. Earl Cole took a ride out to Yavapai town this morning with an interpreter. On his own. He talked to a couple of trackers. You know what he learned? There's a dead man about fifty miles from here, down past the Ben Moores. One of the Williamses. You shot him, Billy."