Lucky Billy (8 page)

The last battle is about over & the waters are calm enough now to settle down & I can see to your investments. Things were so bad I nearly felt home sick (a weakness I never allowed to come over me since I left you) but I had too much fighting on hand, to think about leaving the front. I hope you will have spent a very merry Christmas when you receive this & that a happy new year will follow it. You know you have all my love.

Most affectionately,
John

Lincoln, New Mexico
2/78

7 Belsize Terrace
Hampstead,
London, England

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Tunstall,

Your son is "all right" but we are very busy. The Sheriff has attached his store and threatens to attach his stock. Should anything occur to him you will be sure to hear from me at once.

Yours sincerely,
Robert A. Widenmann

W
HAT ARE YOU MEN DOING?

"Taking inventory."

"Of my property? This is a damned high-handed business. What the devil gives
you
the right—"

"The law, Englishman."

"The law be damned!"

William H. Bonney watched his new boss, who briefly looked ready to fly off the handle then a moment later distractedly appeared like a greenhorn trying to act dangerous. I Ie didn't know what to look like. Bonney and Fred Waite stood at the door of J. H. Tunstall & Co., General Merchandise, Billy with his short-barrel Colt's Thunderer in his right hand, arms menacingly folded across his chest, Fred with his Winchester loosely cradled in his fingers, both watching Mr. Tunstall losing the struggle to adjust his response to the seizure of his store. Billy thought, What next? He could understand Tunstall's jitters, he'd been there himself, he knew what it was like to be bullied by thugs. If a horse won't buck all that's left to it is fussing. Tunstall straightened up, his back seemed to stiffen. Good for him. Across the counter, coolheaded Sheriff Brady clung to a ladder suspended from a rail above the shelves; above
Tunstall's
shelves. Brady'd been dictating to Jim Longwell below him the names and quantities of those items that he plucked from their places and threw back as though he owned them—fourteen boxes of Lamonta hosiery, twenty-three of the Fletcher no. 78 flat white corset laces, ninety spools of black thread, thirty-eight cards of hair ribbons, thirteen bolts of cheap gingham, eight of cotton checks, boxes and boxes of Gauntlet Brand Cream Tartar; the shelves were deep, Billy knew.

At the door, Fred scowled. The scowl was nothing special. Billy had observed that Fred Waite's scowl was more quizzical than threatening, and he often wore it. Beyond Fred, Mr. Tunstall's darkening face and corrugated hair were still as a silhouette while, dancing around him, pear-shaped Rob Widenmann sputtered and fumed in his distinctly un-American fez. When Brady first ordered Tunstall's property attached, Widenmann had turned into a helter-skelter battle-ax and swore he would have those who did this to his friend dead or alive. Now he swung his arms, stormed back and forth, and tried to act salty, to Billy's chagrin. And Mr. Tunstall standing there straight as a wiping stick; he kept himself uneasily inside himself except his protracted silence betrayed him. Dull of tongue, Widenmann jumped in. "Your court order is against Alexander McSween. This is Mr. Tunstall's store."

"They're partners, ain't they?" said Brady.

"How merny times. How many terms—how ... many terms." At the door, Billy caught Fred's eye. Arms flailing, Widenmann spit it out. "How many
times
did I tell you they are not partners! Tell him, Harry."

John Tunstall looked around at the barrels of nails, spindles of rope, bins of oats and barley, drawers of thread, and Billy followed his gaze. Seventeen iron hoes, twenty-three pails, a dozen axes, more than thirty shovels. Fred had told Billy that these were all commodities their boss had personally bought in St. Louis and arranged to have freighted to Lincoln last year. He lingered near the iron cage with its desk and high stool and account books and ledgers. "You'll hear about this" was all he could say.

"Tell them, Harry, tell them!"

"And those horses and mules out back. They are my personal property, exclusively."

"Then take the damn horses, Englishman. What do I care? I've got work to do."

"Call your men off, then."

"Jim, would you please march around back and tell Peppin and Davis that the Englishman and his friends can take them animals away?"

Jim Longwell strolled toward the Kid and Fred standing on either side of the doorway. Tunstall's store was long and wide, with floors made of wood, three-foot-thick walls, and steel plates inside its shutters. Its entrance was a set of metal doors that opened onto Lincoln's single road. The place was built like a fort; a lot of good that did the Englishman. As Longwell slipped between them, Billy raised the Thunderer so he'd get a good look at it, and opened his mouth and contemptibly hawked, but it sounded too dry. Longwell then paused and they stared at each other while behind him Fred levered his carbine, whose swift collision of sliding metal parts hummed through the wood stock and up any skittish spines within earshot. Longwell spit on the floor and continued. They followed him out.

Other Dolanites stood outside the door or sprawled on the bench, and behind the store five or six of the Boys lingered by the gate to Tunstall's corral. Facing the gate, Bonney's eyes slid incessantly above, behind, and between these former associates, who stared at him smugly. He felt rooted to the spot. Only George Davis nodded. George had taught Billy, when he ran with the Boys, how to breach an adobe corral and take possession of its horses by using ordinary ropes to saw through the wall of hardened mud and straw. Now the Kid worked for Tunstall, their enemy. Their contempt felt religious; he'd become a heretic. It was a matter of pride for William H. Bonney to mask his discomfort with silent arrogance. He tested a sneer but felt at the same time so conscious of himself peering out from such an unfinished body that he surely would stumble, even drop his gun, if he took another step. Some wiseacre said, "How old are you, Kid? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Older than that."

"He don't know how old he is. No one ever told him."

Davis's voice sounded mock-friendly. "You like muscling for the Englishman, Kid? Looks like they fattened you up."

"Mr. Tunstall does not keep a mean table."

"We miss your smart ass."

He'd practiced relentlessly, drawn and shot at whiskey bottles, rehearsed the insults guaranteed to spark rage and make his adversary rashly pluck at his weapon. He'd armored himself with a scowl like Fred's so no one could see the muddle inside. He'd shot a man before, he knew how it felt, and the next time he vowed to be calm as a nun. His intractable cockiness still felt oversized; he wished he'd grow into it now instead of later. He'd run out of patience. He liked to whip himself up. You sons of bitches better watch your backs. Look for a ditch you can die in, Brady. If this don't beat stealing soldiers' horses at three in the morning outside Arizona whorehouses!

Five minutes later, Fred and the Kid led the horses and mules toward McSween's house while the livid John Tunstall strode ahead full steam visibly fuming despite his little victory. He burst into McSween's followed by Rob Widenmann with his open-ass shuffle trying to catch up. Billy and Fred stayed outside to guard the horses. Fred rolled a cigarette and lit it and drew. The Kid's eyes scanned Lincoln's shabby adobes. Even at midday the sun at a slant almost missed the town, the way its only road hid in this valley hanging halfway up the mountains on a February day, with high bare hills and higher peaks behind them upraised on either side. Snubbing posts lined the wide dirt street, stock tied to some, while behind the doby houses were crudely fenced yards with milk cows, goats, pigs, chickens, and sheep, though the fences were porous and most of these creatures had the run of the town. Across the road from McSween's, a patrol of yellow-legs from Fort Stanton had singled out a blanket-wrapped Pueblo Indian and were searching the pannier on his burro's back. Bordered by line-trees, fields climbed the stretched earth up behind the houses to the base of the hills.

The Kid said to his new friend and confederate, "Tell me again what this is all about."

"It's like this," said Fred. He pulled on his cigarette, blew out smoke. His voice was so deep that despite his height, five inches taller than the five-seven Billy, it seemed to well up from the earth at his feet. Fred was half Chickasaw. He'd attended not one college but three, in Illinois, Arkansas, and Missouri. His mustache, not unlike Alexander McSween's, plunged diagonally down from nostrils to chin line, though the Kid and Fred had confidentially agreed that McSween's kinky lip- and chin-hair looked like a Chinaman's—or a blanket Indian's.

Billy ought to talk. His hp was just peach fuzz.

Fred Waite spoke slowly but was so quick of reflex he could easily grab a squirrel off a tree trunk and whip it in circles by its long tail and fling it up dizzy into the topmost branches, the Kid had seen him do it. "Okay. This Emil Fritz was kind of a
jefe
with Murphy and Dolan. He was partners in the House. So he died. And Murphy got laid up. Laid up, all right. They told him go ahead and drink all you want, you got cancer of the stomach. Myself, I've known men who could make themselves stop breathing. Their will was that strong."

"What happened to them?"

"They died. And when Lawrence Murphy dies, Jimmy Dolan will be left the last one of the partnership. He's already in charge of the House by hisself now. So Emil Fritz dies, this was about maybe four years ago—long before Mr. Tunstall shows up, or you neither, Kid—and his family hires Alexander McSween, the only green-bag in town, to clean up the estate. Where the trouble began is Mac is supposed to collect a big policy that Fritz had taken out but the insurance company has gone belly-up by this time. And Dolan says the Fritz estate owes him a pile. They were partners in the House. But Mac claims the opposite, the House owes a lot of money to the estate, and besides there are other heirs, he points out. And this insurance money is eight thousand dollars." Fred looked at the Kiel. "Are you following this?"

Billy nodded and shrugged.

"Well, look. Pay attention. This is the part where the soldiers on the ramparts talk about the king's been acting queer lately."

"What king?"

"Never mind. So Mac has to go all the way to New York and find another lawyer there. Together, they get most of the money from the bankrupt insurance company. But he won't pay it out until he determines who gets what and who owes who. Dolan, meantime, goes to court in Mesilla and gets them to believe his side of the story, which is not a surprise given Judge Bristol's being in their pockets. He accuses McSween of embezzlement because he's holding on to money which is owed to him, Dolan. That's why Macky Sween got arrested in December and thrown in the hoosegow. And yesterday, see, Dolan gets Bristol to issue a writ of attachment for eight thousand dollars against McSween. They come racing back to Lincoln and Dolan makes the sheriff go to Mr. Tunstall's store and start seizing his goods because Tunstall's supposed to be partners with McSween. That's what Dolan says. They're in Macky's house too." Fred nodded toward McSween's house. "They're taking inventory there. And next they plan to go to Mr. Tunstall's ranch and attach all his cattle and horses."

"It ain't fair!"

"It's like I always say. When folks lose their heads they get dumb as sheep. You got to rile them up to get any justice."

"I know how to get justice."

"It's just a way to harass Mr. Tunstall through Macky Sween. He's been cutting into Dolan's business something serious. It's the back door they found to sweep Tunstall out of town. McSween they hate, too. But Tunstall has cost them."

"I'm glad I joined up with the Englishman, then."

"You didn't know all this?"

"I knew it like you know about getting someplace without paying much attention."

"And you're Irish, ain't you?"

"That don't mean I'd muscle for a lot of rusty Irish thugs."

"But you used to, didn't you? You ran with the Boys?"

"The Boys weren't working for James Dolan then."

"But you stole Tunstall's horses."

"He forgave me for that."

"So how come you switched sides?"

"How come I switched sides? That's all you ever say. I switched because the Boys never sprung me from jail. Plus, they owed me money. Besides, it wasn't sides before I switched."

"Those are pretty good reasons."

"And Mr. Tunstall paid me a visit in jail and offered to get me out if I returned his buggy horses. He took to me, Fred. He asked me right there if I wanted a job and I said sure, doing what? Working on his ranch. Protecting his interests. Could I shoot a gun, he asked. Is the pope Catholic? He hired me on the spot, in the Lincoln county jail. He's impulsive, that man."

"That's how I hired to him, too. I was staying at Patrón's. You want a job? he says. Why not? I answer. I'm of the same mind, I find him hasty. Or a poor judge of character. Does he strike you as capable? He looked up a tree in there."

"He strikes me as rich. He's always writing home for money. Fred, no one ever gave me anything before. He gave me a gun, a new horse, a saddle. At first I thought who is this milk-knee? He says he won't cook but one time on the Feliz when Saturnino Baca offered to do so Mr. Tunstall confided he would not eat anything that Mexican touched. So he removes his coat and waistcoat and gloves and turns up his sleeves and shakes the frying pan like crazy, dusting its contents with flour, and squats at the fire while coughing the smoke out and rubbing his eyes."

"And that endeared him to you?"

"Well, he's an Englishman. I can understand how he feels about Baca. But he pitches in. He believes in this country. It takes a lot of understanding, he says, because it is new and not even a mining country yet. It has as good a future as California, he says, even if at present it's in a slumber—but things will go ahead with a rush very soon."