Lucky Billy (29 page)

"Yes."

"The newspapers have christened you 'Billy the Kid.'"

"They're always trying to pick a fuss. They prank up their stories."

"But you are the notorious brigand they write of? The young daredevil whose escape from a burning house surrounded by gunmen is still on everyone's lips?"

Billy shrugged.

"How did you do it?"

"Luck as much as anything."

"It took considerable bravado."

"I didn't have much choice."

"And you're the one who shot Morris Bernstein?"

"That wasn't me. That was some other Billy. The papers said I robbed a buckboard down in Texas, too, but that was someone else that took my name."

"How do I know you didn't take
his
name?"

"You don't."

"Did you shoot William Brady?"

"That's what the warrant says."

"And Andrew A. Roberts?"

Billy glanced away.

"Please sit." The Kid took off his hat and, hat on knees, sat on a kitchen chair facing the governor, who—thoughtfully, gently—tapped his massy brow. "I cannot help thinking—I mean to say, in my work, the most loathsome, wretched, appalling specimens of humanity parade before my desk. This nationality is like a hive of human bees. The vermin almost devour me. You've seen them yourself, I don't doubt. I cannot help thinking that you are above the norm. I know to what extremity you've been reduced. You have it in your power to—to clear your name."

"That's all I want."

"When I came to this territory, I found that the law was practically a nullity and had no way of asserting itself. Even a governor's powers are limited. I could not possibly have stopped the troubles in this place by civil means. I needed the military. I am a military man. I have never heard music as fascinating and grand as that of a battle. But your military here is one more faction, I am afraid it's taken sides."

"You can say that again."

"The president has agreed to declare martial law if all else fails. In my view, it should have been done long ago. There have been more than a hundred murders in this county alone in the last year. I have found that every calculation based on experience elsewhere fails in New Mexico. Still, permit me to think—I judge from your appearance—that your motives have not been without honor. This country was not made for civilized men. It is a wilderness without the manna, shall we say?"

"Sure."

"Yet, it contains some of the best grazing lands in the whole United States. The outlaws and rustlers will lose in the long run. The people of America need beef. It is inevitable that land holdings will become larger and beef production rationalized and made more efficient. With peace and the restoration of law, this territory will prosper, and I am determined that it do so. We were making progress; your wars in this county seemed to be over. Then Attorney Chapman was shot. It was cold-blooded murder. I knew the man, we'd met several times and corresponded extensively. In truth, he'd fired a salvo of letters at me and at others demanding Colonel Dudley's arrest. Perhaps he made himself a target. But the very public nature of this crime is all the more reason to arrest its perpetrators. We are at the pivot point. I wish to put an absolute stop to the resurgence of your deplorable 'wars,' and I intend to use every means at my disposal. Here is my offer: testify before the grand jury and a court of law—convict the murderers of Huston Chapman—and I will let you go scot-free with a pardon in your pocket for all your misdeeds."

Wallace watched Billy glance around the room. Squire Wilson had fallen asleep on the covers of his bed. It was cold in this shack. The governor stood, slipped his overcoat off the chair back, and wrapped it around himself. "If I do that, they'll kill me," said the Kid.

"We can prevent it. I have a plan. We seize you while you're sleeping. To all appearances, this capture will be genuine." Wallace sat.

"Who does the seizing?"

"You may choose the men."

"You ought to go ahead and get Jimmy Dolan before you seize me. He and Campbell done it."

"Campbell and Evans are locked up now."

"Not for long. They're bound to escape. And when they do, you won't easily find them. Watch the Fritz place, Baca's ranch, the brewery. They'll either go to Seven Rivers or the Jicarilla Mountains. Also, what I want you to do when you arrest me is put me in irons."

"I understand. You're afraid of the loss of your reputation as a desperate man. Are you still bent on vengeance?"

"I'm tired of all the killing."

"Why is it you know so much about these people?"

"I ran with them once."

"And now you've changed your mind? You were on their side once and you had a change of heart and now you think them bad characters?"

"I thought they were bad a long time ago."

"Are they angry at your—your turnaround?"

"Not unless they find out about this. What's that you're writing down?"

"The information you've given me about Dolan and Campbell." Wallace stared at the Kid with his black eye, the sentry, but the other was drifting. This precious specimen before him had killed how many men? The papers said one for every year of his life but of course they overstated. "Your duty is plain," he mumbled while writing, but even as he spoke he felt a touch of disdain. The Kid looked leery. He'd placed his hat on the floor, his knee jacked up and down, he kept swiveling his head. "We will put you in irons if that is your wish. Don't you worry about it. We'll hold you at Fort Stanton, how's that? Surely, that will not injure you in the public estimation."

"The only thing I'm afraid of on the fort is they could poison me there. Or shoot me through a window at night. I am not afraid to die like a man fighting but I would not like to be killed like a dog unarmed."

"I'll arrange that no harm come to you."

"Arrest Tom, too."

"Tom?"

"Tom O'Folliard. There's indictments for him. He'd be lost without me."

"Are you still bent on vengeance?" Wallace asked him again. "I've been told all this began when you swore to kill the murderers of a man named Tunstall."

"That's right. They murdered him, see, and I could have prevented it. I should of stopped them. Mr. Tunstall was a respectable man. He treated me square."

"And you're still angry about it?"

"I've calmed down a little. I'm sick of all the fighting. It still gets to me, though. You wouldn't know it sometimes because I make a lot of jokes. I'm not really a killer. I may be a general spiteful fellow, I've never been satisfied anywhere I was, but I have got some pride. These newspapers don't know the first thing about me. 'I le will go down in history.' Well, if that's true, they better get it right. I'm not a cold-blooded tough. I want things to square up, that's all I want. Those people that killed Mr. Tunstall ought to pay."

"Attorney Chapman, too."

"The same damn men."

"Yes, your former friends."

"That rankles me, too. I made it up with them and look at what they did."

"I understand. You'd like your name to be cleared. You don't wish to be a scapegoat." Wallace smiled, the dreamy eye glowed. All at once his heart melted. "I'll level with you, Mr. Bonney. 'Kid.'" He held up some scribbled pages. "This is not the information you've given me.
That
is stored away in here." He tapped his forehead. "No, this is part of a book I am writing.
This
is where my heart lies. I have been writing it in my spare time in Santa Fe since becoming governor. Writing it in the Palace of Governors. Ha! Palace! Have you ever seen the place? Hardly a palace. But it has been my"—he sniffed—"my portal to a different world. The second door from the west end plaza-front opens into a spacious passage. Take the first left-hand door in that passage, pass through my office, and there is a room with one small window, grimy walls, undressed boards, and rain-stained cedar rafters. The ceiling bends beneath the weight of many tons of wet mud. Palace! I submit to you, this so-called palace is more like a cave. A place built when William Shakespeare was alive! It leaks on rainy clays, I must have a fire to counteract the damp. But once there, at my rough pine table—not unlike this one—I am the Count of Monte Cristo in his dungeon of stone, lost to the world. I lock the door, bolt the windows, and bury myself in these very pages." He rattled the foolscap. "I know no happier way of passing the time in these dangerous wilds. It takes me so completely out of the present world."

Wallace smiled at Billy.

"My book is what they call a toga novel. The hero is a rebel and a fighter. He's much like you—impetuous. And he also seeks revenge. It is nearly his undoing. He is a Jew, you see, and the Jews are rebelling against their Roman oppressors. His father's long dead; he has inherited the estate; they were quite rich. Judah Ben-Hur—for that is his name—searches for another father in the course of the narrative. Various elders essentially adopt him: Quintus Arrius, a Roman; Balthasar, an Egyptian. I realize these names mean nothing to you. He comes into his own under their love and guidance but never manages to expel the hatred from his heart. Like you, Ben-Hur finds himself in a predicament. He hates a man who had been his closest friend when they were young, a Roman named Messala. This man turns on Ben-Hur, has him arrested. He sells him into slavery, confiscates his wealth, imprisons his mother and sister. And when the chance presents itself—I shall not go into details, but my hero, through the agency of a father figure, regains his freedom from slavery—when the chance presents itself, Ben-Hur crushes his former friend, his great strength and cunning leaving his antagonist a cripple for life. And note the exquisite irony, 'Kid.'" Wallace couldn't help placing Billy's sobriquet in quotes. "Messala had made his former friend a slave, and the latter acquired his strength as an oarsman on a Roman galley. Are you following the sinuous turns of my plot? Now he uses that strength to defeat his antagonist in a chariot race. While overtaking Messala, he snags the Roman's wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle. In the ensuing violent crash, Messala almost dies. Of course, he lives on to plot against his enemy but his power is diminished. There you have my story, or the extent of it thus far. I've researched it impeccably. It has a charming picturesqueness in its descriptions of scenery, persons, and customs. Its philosophy is sound and its moral and religious tone is pure. And it teems with adventure as well, 'Kid.' Adventure and love. In her jocular manner, my spouse refers to my novel as 'Christ and a horse race.' The Christ, you see, appears in my book. A daring feat for a novelist."

"A horse race?" said Billy.

"Yes, exactly." Wallace grew excited. Smiled, widened his eyes. Dry spittle webbed the corners of his mouth and he wiped them with his forefinger and thumb. "You would enjoy it thoroughly. You're a horseman, are you not? 'On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! Dost thou linger now? Good horse—oho, Aldebaran. Well done! Ha, ha!'"

"What sort of names are those?"

"Arabian. They are Arabian horses. 'Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!' shout the common people, cheering on the race. Among the Romans under the consul's awning, it is a different story. 'By Hercules!' says one. 'The dog throws all his weight on the bits.'"

"The dog?"

"Let me put to you a question, Mr. Bonney. Ben-Hur has had his revenge; his enemy lies broken. But the Romans still govern his beloved homeland. He secretly raises three legions of Jews and trains them to fight and drive the Romans from Judea. But one evening he receives a letter from a friend. The letter tells him about a new king, a savior, who will lead the Jews from bondage. Imagine his disappointment, then, when he finds this man dressed not as a real king but as a common carpenter, with sun-scorched hair and ordinary sandals. What should he do? The question to me is hardly academic. This is the fork in my story right now. Should he fight against the Romans or follow this so-called king in the desert?"

"I know what you're driving at. It's Jesus, right?"

"Exactly! The Christ!"

"Well, he had his revenge, he might as well go ahead and repent."

"It's not a matter of repenting. The Romans occupy his land."

"Why not kick them out first then follow Jesus?"

"Is that how you would do it? Remember, this king is his spiritual father. He's been searching for a father all his life."

"I don't know why he'd do that. I never missed having a father myself. Fathers be fucked. All they ever do is put in a gay time and crawl out the back window. If they run into money, that's it right there, you never see them again. I'll tell you what you ought to do. This Ben ought to make a secret meeting with the emperor. The emperor gets himself up as an ordinary man and sneaks out of his palace and meets him in a shack like this one here. It's late at night. Midnight. Just a lantern on the table. And your Ben shows up and the emperor waiting there offers him a bargain. I'll leave you alone if you turn in the rebels, that's what he could say. It depends on if Ben is still in it for revenge or if he's for himself now. Sometimes there comes a time when your best friend is yourself and to hell with all the rest. Jesus Christ doesn't have a damn thing to do with it. Some people won't let you live your own life. You have to haul freight or make yourself an arrangement. Once you discover there is no hell, your job is to make it soft on yourself, hot for everyone else. Give that a try, Governor. That's how you could write it."

"What's that noise?" Wallace jumped up. The Kid grabbed his Winchester, Wallace warily padded to the door. "Singing," he announced. "Someone's singing outside." He unbarred the door, swung it open, peered into the night. In the dark outside, illuminated by torches, a handful of Mexicans, women and men, serenaded the shack. Wrapped in serapes, one man played a guitar, another sawed on a fiddle. The young women wore long silver earrings and silk-embroidered shawls; ringlet curls hanging from their piled hair had been pasted to their foreheads with wet sugar.

Por la luna doy un peso,
por el lucero un tostón
Por Bilicito famoso
—
mi vida y mi corazón.