A Legend Launched in a Moonlit Night---New

This is a new rewrite of a fictionalized true story I wrote years ago for USM. I'd recently reread it, and saw how much better it could be, so I couldn't resist. As I said before, it is based on a true story, that being the general events, but I took liberty in the talking and a few details, and of course G-rated the talking for here as well. I hope you enjoy!





A Legend Launched in a Moonlit Night



Pat entered the shed that held the bodies.

Two white lumps four feet square lay in the far left corner.

Sunlight showed boots and legs spilling from the piles. Flies buzzed in the shadows as he uncovered the white face of his deputy, Jim Bell. He pulled the cover down to see the black exit wound from a bullet shot through his back to his chest.

He stepped over Bell to the other.

The flies buzzed louder here as he pulled off the cover to see the black, drying gore that escaped through shredded skin that once formed deputy Bob Ollinger’s face and chest, shot through with his own double-barreled shotgun a few yards away.

The sheriff struggled with frustration at the mess left for him from the work of the young, skinny kid he had chased down and captured four months previous.

The Kid seemed to be awaiting hanging in Lincoln. In reality, he waited silently like a crouching, caged tiger, for the right moment to leap and mangle his two relaxed guards. The Kid left for Pat the result of his deadly determination to be free. Jim lay pierced with a slug while Bob lay taken down with his own gun.

Under the shade of his black hat, the tall, slim lawman glared at Lincoln‘s people, his black mustache everyone knew covering a set frown, and said not a word.

His absence from the previous event made no difference in his conclusion that the town displayed cowardice to the same degree as the Kid’s display of deadliness. He’d heard the people were out on the streets, watching. He knew they lifted no hand to stop this one young man from murder, securing weapons and a horse, and trotting off, all in broad daylight. He looked at them with distain before entering his office.

Everyone wanted to be rid of outlaws like the Kid, but no one had the grit to go after them he thought, or make a move to stop them from escaping. He looked at his badge and considered ripping it off, walking outside, and challenging any man to take it and go after the Kid. He knew no one would step up.

Besides, the Kid would be in Mexico by now. That was the only real thing for Billy to do. By the time Pat saw the bodies, he reasoned that Billy would be across the border, or at least in another state.

So went the logic for weeks, giving him time to cool down. And begin laughing at the new “sightings.”

They came alone and with company. Each visit had a new and original tale, and Pat sometimes waited for the door to shut behind them before chuckling, but other times laughed straight at them. It depended on his mood, whether he liked them, how much whiskey he had sipped, or how ludicrous the story. One old man saw the Kid in Las Vegas playing Monte and having his cigar lit by a dancer sitting on his lap. A group of scared farmers entered with the story that they saw him. “Yes, we know it was him.” He was riding at the head of a group of 25 cowboys down around the border. A couple who had just gotten married said that he was outside the church and wished them a happy life together, remarking that he could never do the same.

One wild story came from a lone visitor whom Pat respected. He stared at the lawman John Poe as he told him the ludicrous news that the Kid had been living not more than a few miles north of this office. Pat leaned back silently, cocked his head, and looked the lawman in the eyes for several seconds.

“How would you know this, John?”

“Well, sir, I have a, uh, friend I don’t want to name. I told him I wouldn’t. He’s a drunk. He’s got the habit of sleeping it off where he ain’t supposed to be. Well, the other night he’s sleeping it off in the loft of old Diedrick’s barn up in White Oaks. Around dawn he wakes when in comes Diedrick and another fellow.”

Pat nodded. “Diedrick plays both ways. He’ll help the Kid, but when he’s gone, he’ll help us.”

“Yeah, I understand there’s a lot of that here. Guess people want to watch their backs. That can be good, and it can bad.” “Sometimes you don’t know who’s loyal or lying.”

“So these two guys go to talking, and the one tells Diedrick that the Kid is hiding out with a friend on a sheep camp outside the old fort.”

“Fort Sumner.”

Poe nodded and took the seat in front of the desk.

Pat looked at his desk, staring for several seconds.

Poe fidgeted in the silence. “Ain’t that the dirt?”

Garrett looked up. “Man!” He looked to the side. “You’re sure it was the Kid.”

“Yes.”

“Durn him. IF he’s there, he’s taunting me, John. But it goes to reason. He’s got an army of friends there and Paulita.” “Who?”

“Paulita Maxwell. His girl.” Garrett smiled. “And my sister-in-law.” “Well if that don’t beat it.” “Ironic, huh? And she’s Pete’s sister.”

“Pete Maxwell! Yes, I’ve heard of him. His dad pretty much owned the whole fort.”

Garrett nodded and frowned. “I remember capturing the Kid at the Springs, John. When he sat inside that hut we surrounded, he was madder than all get-out. He called me no-good pole cat with every breath he took.” Garrett leaned closer. “But you know what? When he finally came out with his hands in the air, he had this look.” He looked into Poe’s eyes. “He was relaxed, John. Relaxed and happy. His eyes sparked. And I knew what it meant. I knew what he thought. He never let in the thought of hanging. He joked around and I knew what he was doing. He was looking for the way. He knew it would come. What made me nervous was how he let my men put their guards down. He did it from the time he walked out of that hut until he killed my deputies. I saw how my men took ease and smiled with him, but they never knew the Kid like I did. It scared me. “Before I left for the Oaks, I warned both of them, and not for the first time, that if they let their guard down for a second, that man will kill.” Pat nodded. “And he did.”

Pat stood and walked to the door. “When I saw those bodies, I was furious. I cursed the whole town for standing around.” He turned back. “Then I realized those people were just plain scared. Scared out of their wits to do anything.” He walked behind his desk. “So I had to reckon with myself that I’m not mad at them.” He turned and looked at Poe. “It’s the Kid. I’m sick of him. He’s got to be killed. Now it’s my turn not to think of anything else.”

Poe stared up at the tall man.

“John, you don’t have any plans for a while, do you?”

“Um, no.”

“Good. How about serving your community? You’re my first deputy.”

The pair saddled up and rode slowly out of town the next day.

“Uh, Pat, aren’t we getting more men?”

“We’re heading to Roswell to pick up another good man, John. Kip.”

“Kip McKinney?”

“And it’s just us three.” He turned and smiled at Poe.

“Why?”

“When I tried to mount a good posse the last time, two things happened. One, word got around quicker than chickens in the rain, and two, my new ‘posse’ got on a real drunk that night, whooping up how they’re going to shoot it out with the Kid, and come next morning, only two showed for business. I had to start over until I got the Texas men behind me. I don’t need neither thing happening now. I just want to slip inside Sumner and have a look, see if I can find out anything.”

They found Kip in Roswell, a burly man who didn’t mind the new job, but who didn’t seem to like Pat. Pat deputized him, and the three ate dinner at a hotel. The conversation stayed minimal, and after dinner, Pat leaned back with a mug of coffee.

“When the heck are we moving?” Kip asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He looked at John.

“I have people to look up tonight.”

John looked from Kip to Pat. “Pat, don’t you think we should be moving as soon as possible?”

He put down his mug and leaned forward. “IF he is there, he’ll be there when we get there. And I want him to get his confidence up. I’m playing his old game against himself.” He stood and walked through the door while putting his hat on with his two deputies staring after him.

“Sounds like crap,” Kip said.

Pat walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. He could see Ash in the lit window, reading. Soon the door opened and Pat and his men walked in, taking off their hats. “Good evening,” Pat said, smiling.

“Sit down!” Ash scrambled out of their way. “Well!” Ash smiled and sat himself. He could not think of anything to say. He had heard about the breakout, and expected Pat to be out looking for the Kid.

“Ash, my friend,” Pat began, leaning closer. “I have a job for you.”

“Oh?”

“A job that could land you a ton of money.”

“Oh.”

The two deputies stared at each other.

“You’ve heard the news, I take it.”

Ash nodded.

“This thing that happened, it’s made the Kid pretty popular. Now, you’re a great newsman yourself.”

“Thank you, sheriff.”

“You write well. And you’ve met the Kid.”

“Yes, I have.”

“I’m after him right now. I intend to end this story soon. When it’s ended, I think people will want to read the whole thing from beginning to end. Don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

“How would you like to write the story? All of it in book form?”

“Does sound interesting. I’ll need a lot of details.”

“That’ll be provided when I get back.” Pat heard a rustling of one of his men. “What do you think, Ash?”

“Pat, my friend, I think I’ll wait until you get back. Kind of depends on how it ends, doesn’t it?” He smiled.

“Yeah.” He frowned and stood, putting on his hat.

“I wish you the best, sheriff.”

“Thank you.”

When the three stepped onto the porch, Kip stepped up next to him. “That’s the most...sheriff, with all due respect…”

“Keep it, Kip. I don’t want your dirt.”

As light broke through the sky they mounted and rode leisurely out of Roswell toward the Fort with Pat thinking hard on several plans. They rode until the evening of July 13, as the hot sun sunk in the clear sky giving way to a deep, cool blue. They dismounted southwest of the Fort in the woods and built a fire as Pat prepared to lay down his first plan.

They wolfed down tin plates of beans and bread over the fire as Pat turned to Poe. “John, you’re not from the parts. These people don’t know you from Adam.”

Poe chewed slowly, looking at Pat.

“I want you to go into town tomorrow. Get a meal or something. You’re a sheep owner from the Oaks, heading over to Texas to see family. Start talking. See what you can bring up.”

“Yeah.” Poe rolled his eyes and put his food down and took a drink of water. “Hell, with all those friends you say he got in there, I gotta come up with something.” He looked at his plate with a grimace. “I’m going to turn in. Anybody want this?” He held out his food, and Pat saw the beans shaking just slightly.

The town bustled with what to Poe seemed mostly Mexicans. He rode slowly through the widest street, watching the blanket-clad women on the porches and in doorways, and feeling the thousand and some eyes on him. Those in front seemed not to notice him, but as he passed, he felt them turn and stare down his back. He looked in several long buildings as he passed. One seemed to be a cantina. He dismounted and entered.

He took a table that sat between a large group of Mexicans and another group of American cowboys. He ordered a steak and a beer. “Olah,” came a greeting from the Mexican table.

He turned to the Mexicans.

“Olah…hello,” he said to the crowd.

“Who are you?” asked someone from the cowboy table.

“I’m Smith from down at the Oaks.”

“Never heard of you,” a young hand said.

“Yeah? You from the Oaks?”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t been there long. Trying my hand with sheep. I’m on my way back home in Texas.”

“A Texas man!” An older, pudgy cowboy yelled. “Well heck! I was born in Texas.”

“So was I.”

“I hate those yellow snakes from Texas, mister,” the old man said.

“Why do you think I moved to New Mexico?”

“You are a man I like,” the old cowboy said. “Those Texas sons of guns don’t know when to keep their long noses out of anybody’s business.”

“You sure got that right!” Poe exclaimed, although he had no idea what the man was talking about. “They’ll stick their noses in everything for an extra buck to add to their ranches full of stolen cattle,” he added for effect.

“Hey, are you staying for a night?”

“Gotta get moving,” Poe said. “Got a long way to go.”

“Ah heck. The Mexicans are having a baile. And they can throw one great baile.”

“Si,” someone said from the Mexican table.

Whatever a baile was, Poe began to feel more comfortable. He looked at the bar. “Did they have to steal back a bull from Texas for my steak?”

Both tables laughed drunkenly.

“Hey cowboy.” Poe leaned closer to the old man. “I read that the Kid, Billy Bonny, killed his guards and ran. Maybe up this way, huh?”

Silence.

All eyes glared at him. He noticed arms moving, and guessed some went for their guns. He sat not moving his hands as he heard chairs from the Mexican table scrape the floor. Every Mexican stood and walked out the door.

He looked at the cowboys. “What’s with them?” They stared on at him, not moving. He looked at his table, trying to play calm, and sighing. He looked up again. “Just trying for conversation.”

“Why do you want that conversation?” The old man asked. “I suggest you answer the right way.”

The right way? What was that? “Listen. Forget it. I didn’t say anything. Okay? I’ll just leave then. Is that the right way?” He stood, ready for one of them to draw his sidearm. They simply sat and glared. He turned to walk, expecting a bullet in the back. When he hit the sunlight, he squinted and noticed the Mexicans next to the building, still watching him. He mounted and began riding with the group following him. Some took horses to continue following. They’ll kill me once I’m out of town, he thought. He rode on, looking behind, circling around the town on an old trail heading east so as not to bring them back to Pat, and to make them think he headed for Texas. He rode tense for a quarter of a mile before looking back and seeing no one. Finally, he turned toward camp breathing easier.

“Yes, he’s there,” he said to Pat and Kip as he dismounted.

“Who did you talk to?”

“Don’t know, but take my word.” He relayed the story.

“A baile is a dance,” Pat said. “They hold them all the time in the Fort.” He looked at his men. “And the Kid loves a good dance.”

The evening of July 14 grew darker until it gave way to the white light of a full moon. The three lawmen left their horses at camp and crept slowly toward the outskirts of the west side, feeling the cool breeze carrying the sweet smell of peaches. Their long shadows moved steadily along the paths between the peach trees as they made their way slowly through the orchard. At the edge, they could see one long building glowing with light where people mingled amid whoops and yells over the music. They sat behind several large trees, watching. Waiting. Their six guns in front of their noses.

The music stopped for good as the lights began to go out with lanterns floating from the building. “Shoot. None of them look like the Kid.”

“How could you tell?” Kip asked. “We’re too far away.”

“I’d know him,” Garrett said. “Neither of you ever saw him, but I’d know his walk. I know him too well.”

The building emptied and stood dark and quiet as the street grew louder with drunken partiers trying to make their way. Some stumbled close to the trio.”

“What do we do now?” Kip asked.

Pat sighed. “Well, there’s Pete.” He looked at Poe. “He plays it both ways, too.”

“Yeah, he’ll know,” Poe said.

Pat turned toward the road, then looked down to where Pete’s large house stood behind a picket fence. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” Maybe we need more men, he almost said. “Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us.” As he looked over the street, the image of his two former deputies splashed across his mind. I’m as good a fighter as any, he thought, but the Kid is just plain desperate. He’s a killer. Pat could not get those images out of his head.

“C’mon, Pat. Let’s talk to him,” Kip said.

Pat felt himself rise and break through the cold paralysis in which the images bound him. The trio continued down the side of the emptying road in the shadows, toward the picket fence.

They walked along it to the small meat house near the long porch and slunk around the shadows of it to the porch’s corner where the steps lie. Pat turned to them. “Holster your guns. I don’t want anyone seeing you out here waving them. Wait here along the steps until I get back.”

Kip hunkered on the ground as Poe sat on the steps. Pat continued to the first corner room where he slung back the blanket covering the doorway and walked into darkness.

Pat rocked the bundle in the bed against the wall under the window. “Pete, wake up. It’s Pat.” He took a chair beside the bed as the dark figure squirmed, then sat up. “Pete, where’s Billy?”

The moonlight shown out across the yard as the two deputies waited. Suddenly, a small figure came bustling toward the corner of the fence, jumped it, then walked with a quick gate along it, toward the meat house. He drew closer, and the two saw the young man wore no hat and only an undershirt, and carried a knife with a gun tucked in his pants. A Mexican’s after beef, Poe thought. I hope it’s not one from today who’ll recognize me.

He drew close to the meat house door before spotting the two men. He backed off it, then circled toward them. He snatched his gun and covered the two as fast as a cat.

Poe rose. “Hey, it’s all right.”

“Quien es?” the figure asked. “Who is it?”

“It’s all right, Mexican.”

“Quien es?” the figure repeated, making a full circle around him and walking backward into Pete’s room.

Inside, Garrett sat startled at the entrance---and the voice. The dark shape entered, dropping the blanket behind him, engulfing the three in total darkness. Garrett heard him stepping closer.

“Pedro,” came a desperate hiss. “Quienes son estos hombres afuera?” “Pete, who are those men outside?”

“El es!” Pete shouted---“It’s him!”---to Pat…or possibly the other man.

Garrett half stood and fired twice into darkness, and dove for a corner. He looked across the dark room and noticed something white before him, and fired again. The shot hit the sink and ricocheted to Pete’s headboard, where Pete scrambled up and out the door. Garrett jumped, running for the exit, almost slamming into Pete. He lunged for Poe’s drawn gun, trained on the fleeing man. “Don’t shoot Pete!”

Fort Sumner awoke and ran toward the shots.

“What happened?” Poe asked.

“That was the Kid and I think I got him.”

“No it wasn’t! It was a Mexican!”

Residents threatened to swarm the porch, and Garrett and his men, with guns drawn, ordered them back and not to come near.

“Get a lantern!” Garrett ordered Pete.

The flame lit that end of the porch, and the party took it around the corner to the window. Garrett held it up to the sill and peered in. The young man he sought lay sprawled face up on the floor, his white face and body in the pool of light, his knife and gun lying at the edge of the darkness. One red spot on the middle of his chest sported the passage through his body to the floor where the blood already formed a puddle.

Some residents walked with rifles while others swarmed the lawmen with curses. Garrett and his deputies boxed themselves in the room.

“Clear the porch! Now!”

The stalemate stood for hours.

Sometime in the night, a few women walked up and demanded entrance to begin the wake for the popular young outlaw. Pat allowed them to take the body to a woodshed, and he and his deputies helped, keeping watch over the crowd. Candles surrounded the body for the rest of the night, and the women dressed Billy in an oversized dress shirt.

Early the next morning, the Kid was placed unceremoniously--- finally---in a grave next to two of his pals, launching forever the legend of his life.

The legend grew as newspapers vied to report the best stories of the young outlaw, and bloomed large with the deal Pat made with Ash Upson. It catapulted the Kid and Pat to immediate, international fame, the size of which the small body in the humble grave could never have imagined---the same grave which was visited many years later by a tall, skinny figure who, standing over it, took out his canteen.

“To Billy the Kid!” Pat said, raising his toast, and drank.

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