Billy the Kid (13 page)

"Joe drew on me."

"I don't know that," Wilson said softly. "Far as I'm concerned, it's murder until you prove different."

"I can't prove it. You haven't got the Williamses to say I did..."

Wilson shrugged. "That's the sheriff's problem. He enforces the law, as he informed me the other day. But he's got another problem now, Billy. He concealed a felony." A hint of a smile passed across Wilson's face.

Billy gripped the bars. He read the smile correctly. Now Willie had been dragged down, too.

"Something else, Billy? Wilson went on. "About noon I sent some wires. The answers came back an hour ago." He held them up. "You
do
have a record! Killed a man in El Paso. The marshal there arrested you and let you go. Isn't that right? You're a cold-blooded gunfighter?

Billy answered, "That's all behind me, Pete, I swear. Now on, I'll herd cattle."

Wilson nodded agreement. "Yes, it is all behind you. You need taming. It's long overdue."

"I made a confession, wrote those names down—"

Wilson broke in. "You'll hang." He turned abruptly and started for the stairs.

Billy shouted after him, "Damn you, you waited till Willie was out of town!"

Wilson halted at the head of the steps. He wasn't visible to Billy, but his voice was clear enough.

"In case you hear some men and mules outside tonight, I'll tell you what's happening. They're towing gallows to the front of the courthouse. We're gonna hang a man day after tomorrow. He's saying his beads over in Cottonwood jail tonight. He killed a man, too." Wilson stopped the ringing words to ask, "You hear?"

"I hear."

"Billy, I'm leaving those gallows up. You'll be on them in three weeks or so. It'll only take me about two hours to convict you. On train robbery alone."

Then Wilson's boots retreated down the steps as Billy backed away from the bars to sit limply on the cot.

***

ABOUT TEN O'CLOCK,
Billy caught the rattle of chains, the squeak of wood on timber roller, the hoarse yells of men urging on mules. Then he got a glimpse of the platform going by, its crossbar stark in the moonlight. He turned away from the window, bathed in sweat, and for the first time in his life felt a terrible fear.
Death on the gallows.

An hour after dawn, when the rooster chorus over Polkton had ceased, Frank Phillips walked along the jail corridor, yawning and still sleepy-eyed, placing his gun down on the small table midway between his office and the stairs.

Several times during the night, Billy had stopped pacing to stare at the table with its warning sign:
REMOVE ALL WEAPONS BEFORE ENTERING THE CELLS.

"Mornin', Billy," Phillips said cheerfully.

"Mornin', Frank," Billy replied just as cheerfully, as the jailer went back to the kitchen to begin his rounds with the food trays. The trusty cook had been banging pots since five in the morning.

A few minutes later, Phillips returned with Billy's breakfast in his left hand, unlocking the door with his right. "Be another warm one, I think," Frank said. "Don't look like winter'll ever get here."

Billy answered, "I might welcome it this year," watching closely as the door creaked open.

He sprang, sweeping the jailer's head against the iron doorframe. The tray flew up, splattering coffee and oatmeal, as Phillips sagged to the floor. The other three prisoners in Polkton jail moved to the bars to watch.

Billy stepped over Phillips and then darted to the gun table, grabbing the .45 off it. He looked down the line of cells. The other prisoners stared at him but didn't ask to come along. One said, "Good luck." Dobbs had been released the afternoon before.

Billy ran for the steps and made it down four, then stopped and held.

Young Toby Gaines, the assistant jailer, was almost up to the second landing, reporting for work. Gaines froze a second but then reached for his hip, fright tightening his mouth. He saw the .45 and froze again.

Billy leaped and kicked out, his boot toe catching Gaines beneath the chin. With a whistling sigh, Gaines tumbled backward, but Billy was already on the move, leaping over Gaines's still-tumbling body. He pounded down the last flight and out the door.

Polkton wasn't awake. A buckboard moved slowly at the far end of Decatur. Two riders, incoming, were beyond the buckboard. A six-up wagon was turning out of Hollister. A few people were trudging along the boardwalks. The livery was opening.

As the wood-mill whistle shrieked, Billy flattened himself against the courthouse wall, glancing tensely at the empty gallows, then slid along the wall to Willie's office.

Sam Pine had come in at seven o'clock, two minutes before, and was trapped by his desk, lifting the cloth cover off his typewriter. He raised his hands slowly as Billy held the .45 on him. "You're a damn fool, Billy," he said.

Billy moved up to hold the gun at Sam's throat, relieving Sam's holster with his left hand. "I was a damn fool to come back to Polkton. Open that gun locker, Sam."

The deputy pulled at a pocket chain while crossing to the locker. "Willie had it all fixed for you. Clemency."

"He thought he did," Billy said grimly.

Pine opened the locker, then stood back. He watched as Billy grabbed a Spencer .56 and some ammunition and retrieved his belt and his beloved .44s. He tossed Phillips's gun into the locker, slamming the door. Sam said, "All this is going to do is guarantee those gallows."

"That's already done. Talk to Pete Wilson. Now open that safe." Billy waved a .44 toward the heavy safe. "My saddlebag still in it?"

Pine pleaded, "Billy, just get the hell out of here. Don't make it any worse."

"Open it up, Sam," Billy ordered.

Pine sighed and moved to the safe. Kneeling down, he began working the combination. It finally clicked home, and he pulled the door.

"Jus' slide the saddlebag this way," Billy demanded.

Sam looked up at him. "Let me take you back to the cell. I can keep this quiet."

"Slide it," Billy said tersely.

The deputy gave the two-pocket saddlebag, evidence tag still on it, a shove. Billy scooped it up, dropping Sam's pistol in.

"Now sit down, Sam, and stay put. Tell Willie I had to do it. Tell him to ask Wilson why. If he comes after me, Sam—I don't know what I'll do. Tell him that."

Billy ran for the back door of the office as Pine lunged up. He grabbed a loaded gun from inside the safe, yelling, "Billy!"

At the door Billy spun and shot.

Sam hit the floor, wounded in the shoulder. His gun fired into the wall.

***

PETE WILSON WAS TYING
his horse in the courthouse stable when he heard the shots. He turned and his eyes widened as he saw Billy approach. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He began to quiver.

Billy was wishing he had time to take pleasure from it but barked, "Saddle up Willie's horse." Almanac was two stalls down, freshly shod.

Terrified, Wilson had trouble moving. He was stiff, walking on eggs. "Don't shoot me, Billy," he pleaded. The bulldog face had lost its ruddiness. It had the consistency of a crumpled paper bag.

"Please don't shoot me."

Chin hopping with fear, Wilson edged toward the gelding's stall.

"Convince me, Pete," Billy said, wanting so much to put a bullet into his head.

Wilson lifted a saddle and blanket off the rail, hands dancing, urine spreading over his razor-creased pants.

There were shouts from the courthouse, and Billy's eyes strayed from Wilson for a moment. But he got them back on the attorney in time to see him move the cinch to the tight hole, then slip it back two. It was enough to dump the saddle off.

Billy raged, "Tighten it up all the way, Pete, or your head comes off."

The little man gave a frantic tug to set the cinch, then came out of the stall, fluttering hands in the air, as Billy whipped past him to ram the Spencer into the scabbard. He swung up on Almanac after setting the saddlebag.

Shouting, spurring, Billy slammed the gelding's great shoulder into Wilson, knocking him down, as a bullet from the rear of the courthouse whined off the stable side.

Billy jumped the corral fence with the big white horse, then hammered north as other shots rang out. He heard the whiz of bullets.

THE SMALL SHOP IN PHOENIX
was known simply as Georgette's.

Willie was suffering.

Perched uncomfortably on a rather delicate white-framed, purple-upholstered chair, he was worried about it collapsing. But that's where he'd been told to sit. He felt all legs. Here and there in the faintly perfumed salon were mannequin forms with dresses advertised from New York or Paris. On one wall was a large framed travel poster advertising the Hotel Chevalier on Place de la Concorde.

He could hear the murmur of female voices from the fitting room, including, every so often, Kate's ecstatic comments. Then the woman who owned the shop stuck her head around a velvet drape. "Moment, Monsieur Monroe. Zare are so many hooks."

She was small, dark-haired, and dressed like an easterner. In her early forties, he estimated. It was hard to believe this woman existed. "You're a long way from home," he said. "This is Arizona."

Georgette smiled back. "
Oui,
so
primitif.
" Then she scurried toward the fitting room.

He sighed deeply. This was a world far removed from where he lived, from where he ever wanted to live.

He'd promised Kate he'd come along to the salon but now regretted it. There were a dozen other things he could be doing in Phoenix, although he didn't have anything particular in mind. She'd already coaxed him to test-drive the new steam buggy, which had ended in disaster against a light standard. She'd pulled him into a dry-goods store to look at curtains; she'd wheeled and dealed a new bedroom lamp from him. The only thing he'd really enjoyed was supper—or dinner, as Kate insisted—the previous evening.

He passed a restless moment shining his boot ankles with a palm, then began to pick at lint on his trousers, when Kate glided in, beautiful in a frilly dress. He grinned at her approvingly as she took several turns, the long white dress swishing.

Georgette stood back. "Exquiseet!
Magnifique! Merveilleux!
"

Willie threw a helpless look at the salon owner as Kate positioned herself in front of him. She smiled. "Something I can wear when I milk the cows."

"I, ah ... like that one, too," he said, struggling.

Georgette dropped her Parisian accent. "And between us, sir, it came straight from Paris last month." Now she sounded New York.

Kate laughed as he shook his head.

Georgette began sticking pins into her mouth, moving toward Kate to make an adjustment.

"Which one?" Kate asked.

Willie replied feebly, "Take all three if you want." The shorthorns were ready for market; he'd have the money.

She let out a delighted yip.

A voice yelled in over it. "Polkton sheriff?"

Willie turned in the purple chair, frowning slightly. Who could want him in Phoenix? "In here"

The voice belonged to a blue-uniformed policeman from the Phoenix force. Blinking around at the decor of the room, looking with bewilderment at the woman with a mouthful of pins, he moved across it to pass a telegram. With another glance at Georgette, he said, "It's important. I traced you through the hotel."

Willie could not believe it on first reading. Yet at the same time, he'd known from the moment he saw it that something had happened with Billy Bonney. He grunted as if hit in the belly.
Sheriff Willis Monroe, c/o Phoenix Police. Please Locate.
Billy had escaped.... Sam Pine wounded ... So forth and so on. Wilson had signed it, likely with great pleasure.

He passed the wire to Kate, saying dully to Georgette, "How much do we owe you?" He watched Kate's face. The same incredulity fell over it. "He couldn't have," she murmured.

Willie snapped, "He did." There'd be no way to save him now.
His only chance is to put a thousand miles between himself and Arizona,
Willie thought.

Georgette broke in, "Seventy-eight, including the hat."

Almost in a daze Kate said, "I have to change."

Willie counted money. "Hurry."

Tears coming, Kate flared, "Damn him!"

***

AFTER NO. 11 CLEARED
the Phoenix yards and got a "go" signal on the northbound tracks, the wooden signal ball slid up and the engineer opened the throttle full for the emergency run to Polkton. Just the engine. It would take six hours, upgrade all the way.

The next scheduled train wasn't until 4:20, but the stationmaster had offered the engine. Without coaches to pull, the Brooks climber lunged ahead.

Kate sat in the fireman's seat, a shawl holding down her big hat. Hardly noticing or even caring about the ashes that occasionally drifted in to spot the new dress, she stared listlessly out. She'd gotten over some of the anger and disappointment of having the trip ruined. She'd even told herself it was to be expected when Billy was around.

Willie was across the cab, standing behind the engineer. He was going over and over his last conversation with Billy. What had happened back there? Billy had seemed content to accept the short term in Yuma.
Why? Why?
Willie asked the question again and again. Then gave up. There was no logical explanation. Just crazy Billy. Or maybe P. J. Wilson had changed his mind and threatened Billy with the rope.

Wind whipping at his face, Willie stared out from his side across the barren Salt River flats. Memories flooded back again. He and Billy had often raced beside engines like this one. Bareback, shouting at the waving trainmen. Willie could almost see Billy galloping ahead, wide-open on the little white-socked Laramie pony, grinning with joy.

Listening to the roar of the firebox, the drumming of the cylinders, the whine of steel on steel, Willie turned his head away from the memory to face the possibility that he would have to kill his old friend, or be killed by him. Billy had nothing to gain by a return trip to Polkton, nothing to gain by being captured. He'd take a bullet in his brain rather than handcuffs, Willie believed.