Song of Eagles (23 page)

The Kid approached Falcon MacCallister's cabin slowly with his hands in plain sight. He didn't want the gunman to shoot before he recognized him.

Falcon came out on the porch, a rifle balanced in his right hand.

“It's me, the Kid!” he cried, raising both palms as he guided his horse toward the house with his knees. “Just wanted to talk a minute if you can spare the time.”

“Ride in and climb down.”

The Kid wondered if Falcon might have changed his mind about helping him after hearing about the two deputies killed in the escape. He knew Falcon was a friend, but he also knew Falcon didn't much approve of his new life as a gunman on the run.

He was still a little unsure if Falcon would get the drop on him to earn the five hundred dollar reward . . . or worse, just shoot him down at point-blank range, since the reward posters for Billy the Kid, alias William Bonney, said Dead or Alive.

The Kid stopped his horse and stepped to the ground. A late afternoon sun cast shadows among the piñons surrounding the shack. “I got to ask you, Falcon. I'm takin' a big chance by comin' here, but I need to know if you've changed your mind 'bout our friendship, whether you've given up on me ever goin' straight.”

“If I had, you'd be dead by now, son.”

“I know you didn't mean for me to kill no one when I escaped, but there weren't no other way. I want you to know I appreciate your help, and that I tried to get away without any killin', but they wouldn't let me.”

Falcon sighed, “I know that, Kid. Olinger wouldn't have hesitated to kill you if you'd given him half a chance.”

“I've a mind to go after Murphey and Dolan, especially after all they done to our friend Chisum. They've hit his cowherds mighty hard lately.”

“And I've made a few of 'em pay for it with their lives,” Falcon replied.

“I'd heard some got shot.”

“A few. The ones who were dumb enough not to toss down their guns and clear out of this country like I told 'em to. I never warn a man but once.”

“I'm real glad to know you ain't out after me,” the Kid said, trusting Falcon's words. “I sure as hell don't need no more enemies.”

“Sheriff Garrett has hired two experienced deputies from down in Texas, John Poe and Tip McKinney. They're both good with a gun, so be careful.”

“Garrett's gunned down or locked up most of my friends with the Regulators. I'm pretty much on my own now. Met a young feller named Billy Barlow. He's back at our camp keepin' an eye on things.”

“It looks to me like the Lincoln County War is finished.” Falcon said in a calm voice. “Your side took a helluva whipping. Politics were against you, and when they brought in the army, the deck was stacked.”

“We was fightin' for somethin' we believed in, settin' things right for the way they murdered poor ole' John Tunstall an' then Alexander McSween.”

“I understand, Kid, but that doesn't change anything.”

“I'm findin' that out real fast.”

“What do you aim to do? Seems foolish for you to hang around this part of the territory. Sooner or later, with that reward posted, they'll hunt you down and kill you or take you to stand trial.”

“Unfinished business is what's keepin' me here. There's a few more who have to pay for what they did to Mr. Tunstall an' Mr. McSween. Then I reckon I'll clear out an' head down to Mexico.”

“You could get killed seeking more revenge,” Falcon said in a matter-of-fact way. “You've settled a number of scores, you and your friends. Why not let it rest?”

“I ain't built that way, Falcon. When a man's a friend of mine, I believe in bein' loyal to him plumb to the end, if that comes.”

“I admire that in you, son, but it could also wind up being a death sentence.”

“I stared death in the eye before. I ain't scared to do it again.”

Falcon grinned. “Things are a lot worse for you since your escape from the Lincoln County jail. You've killed a pair of deputies, and that's something they won't tolerate.”

“Didn't want to shoot Bell. He ran for the stairs an' I didn't have no choice. Olinger, he had it comin'. You won't get much argument on that in these parts.”

“He was a bully, all right, but he had a badge. That makes it a lot worse for you.”

“Couldn't hardly have been much worse,” the Kid said, remembering his escape. “They had me chained up like a dog, waitin' to stand trial for murderin' Sheriff Brady. I didn't kill Brady.”

“They've got plenty of witnesses who'll say otherwise on a witness stand.”

“I never even aimed at Brady. That's the honest truth of the matter.”

“Truth is sometimes hard to find when powerful people try to hide it,” Falcon said.

“I reckon I'm findin' that out, too.”

Falcon gave him a lingering look. “If I were you, Kid, I'd head for Mexico, or damn near anyplace else. It's just a matter of time before somebody bushwhacks you for the reward money. I'd give moving on some serious thought.”

The Kid toed the ground with his boot. “I have been thinkin' on it some. But like I said before, I've still got business with Jimmy Dolan an' Lawrence Murphey. Maybe a couple more.”

“You're old enough to make up your own mind on it, but you won't be able to raise another army like they did when Brewer organized the Regulators. Folks are scared now.”

“I'd stand a better chance if you'd throw in with me an' Barlow, even for just a little while. I've heard it said you're damn near a one man army yourself.”

Falcon wagged his head. “I don't champion causes, and I never join organizations. I make it a habit to act alone.”

“Sure would be a help if you changed your mind just this once.”

“Sorry, son.”

“Looks like I'll be handlin' it on my own, then. Thought I'd ask.”

Falcon seemed to hesitate, pointing the muzzle of his rifle down. “I might still be of some help, if Dolan's men aren't smart enough to leave catching you in the law's hands. I don't much cater to vigilante justice—not by you, Kid, and not by Dolan and his friends. If his men continue to try and hunt you down to settle a score for Dolan, some of 'em are gonna pay for their mistake in blood. I've already sent word to Dolan and Murphey. If they ignore my warning, they'll lose a few more gunslicks who ride for 'em.”

“I reckon that's a whole lot better'n nothing,” the Kid told him.

“If you care to come inside, I'll boil coffee. It'll be dark soon and coffee will be a help against the night chill.”

“I figure I'd better get back to camp. Barlow's gettin' real jumpy lately. But I'm obliged for the offer. We've been livin' on beans an' fatback for quite a spell, an' our coffee's nearly gone.”

“I'll send along a sack of Arbuckles,” Falcon said, turning to go back inside his rented cabin. “Maybe I can rustle up a little something else to eat.”

“Be mighty kind of you, Falcon. Trouble is, I can't pay.”

“I didn't say anything about money.” Falcon disappeared inside, leaving the Kid to his thoughts.

It would have changed things considerably if Falcon had decided to join them. He was deadly with a six-shooter and a rifle. Men with good sense feared him around Lincoln, since his reputation was more widely known now.

But MacCallister was firm about not joining the fight in an official way, and he wasn't the type to be argued with . . . the Kid knew him well enough to know that.

A few minutes later Falcon came out with a small burlap bag full of coffee beans and other foodstuffs. He handed them over to the Kid.

“We're much obliged, Falcon.”

The tall gunman merely nodded

The Kid hung the bag over his saddlehorn and mounted his sorrel mare.

“You ride careful, Kid,” Falcon said, “cause there'll be plenty of 'em out to hang you or shoot you in the back to get that reward.”

“Sure wish you'll reconsider, after you think about it some,” the Kid said, collecting his reins.

“Nothing to think about,” Falcon replied. “My mind's made up.”

The Kid turned his horse for the ride back to camp, but he held his horse in check a moment. “No matter how this turns out, Falcon, you've been a good friend and they're hard to find.”

Falcon grinned, then his face turned serious. “You keep looking over your shoulder. Stay away from the towns, such as Lincoln or Fort Sumner. That's where your enemies have got the best chances.”

“I'll remember what you said,” the Kid replied, waving before he urged his sorrel to a short lope up a wooded hillside to the west.

* * *

Barlow was nervous, irritable. “We can't stay out in these woods forever, Kid. I'm tired as hell of beans and sleepin' on hard ground. I could stand the sight of a pretty woman, too, if you know what I mean.”

“I know just what you mean,” the Kid said, chewing a warm tortilla they made with some of the
masa trigo
flour Falcon gave them.

“Let's ride north,” Barlow continued. “Maybe things won't be so hot for us up around Fort Sumner, or Mesilla.”

“They could be worse,” the Kid observed, chewing. “That's Sheriff Pat Garrett's jurisdiction.”

“He won't be expectin' us to ride right into his back yard, will he?”

“Hard to say about Pat. He's smart.”

“But you an' him was friends.”

“That was before they hung that badge on his chest and before they offered that reward.”

Barlow took a sip of his coffee. “Money sure can change a man,” he agreed.

“We could ride up to Fort Sumner at night, maybe slip in real quiet. I've got plenty of friends there. Jesus Silva would hide us out for a day or so.”

“That Indian slave girl, Deluvina Maxwell, is sure enough a pretty gal,” Barlow said.

The Kid chuckled. “She's always been a little sweet on me. So has Celsa Gutierrez, Pat Garrett's sister-in-law.”

“Let's stop talkin' about it and ride up that way, just to see the lay.”

“I reckon we could, if we done it careful.”

“I say we start first thing in the mornin',” Barlow said. “I sure could set my teeth into a chunk of good beefsteak.”

“Sounds good to me, too,” said the Kid.

“Then it's settled. We pull out at first light for Fort Sumner and slip in tomorrow night, after we make sure there ain't no signs of a posse.”

“Garrett wouldn't be dumb enough to bring a whole big bunch with him. Falcon MacCallister said he'd hired two men from down in Texas with experience. John Poe and Tip McKinney were their names.”

“I've heard of Poe,” Barlow said. “Can't recall, but I think he was from down around the Pecos.”

“Won't make no difference if we don't run into 'em in the dark,” the Kid said, wondering how much truth lay behind his words.

The Kid rode cautiously into Fort Sumner on the night of July twenty-fourth, along with his new partner, Billy Barlow. Folks who knew the Kid often related how much the two looked alike, the only difference being Barlow was shorter, a half-breed Mexican from the panhandle country of west Texas, and sported a close-cropped beard. He had become a Regulator when stealing cattle from Jimmy Dolan became too risky.

“We'll go to Saval Gutierrez's house,” the Kid said. “He can give us something to eat besides beans. Maybe his wife has some fresh tortillas.”

“I don't like it,” Barlow said as they guided their horses into Fort Sumner.

“Don't like what?” the Kid asked. “Last night you was all hot and bothered about comin' up here to Fort Sumner.”

Barlow shrugged. “I changed my mind. You know Garrett and his deputies are crawlin' all over the county lookin' for you an' any of the rest of us Regulators who ain't dead or in jail. Garrett has become a tool of those boys up in Santa Fe.”

“I can ask my ole' friend Pete Maxwell if there's been any sign of a posse,” the Kid replied, swinging his horse over to the rear of Saval's adobe house in the dark.

Off in the distance he could hear harmonicas and guitars playing, and the sound of laughter coming from the old fort headquarters building, which now served as the gathering place for sheepmen and cowboys who made a living from the area.

But Barlow had still had concerns.

“Gutierrez is Garrett's brother-in-law, Kid. He might tell somebody we're here.”

“Not Saval. He's a friend, an' he damn sure ain't got no lost love for Pat since he became sheriff. There's some bad blood between 'em.”

The Kid laughed softly in the darkness. “Besides, his daughter Celsa would gut him if he turned me in.”

“I still don't like it,” Barlow said, swinging down off his horse behind Saval Gutierrez's shack. “Somethin' about this don't feel quite right.”

“You're too damn edgy, Barlow,” the Kid said, tying off his horse at a corner of a shed behind Saval's. “Relax. There's a dance goin' on. Hear that music? We'll have some fun for a change instead of bein' on the run from the law every damn day, the way we've been living'. I'm tired of boiled beans and sleeping on hard ground . . . especially sleeping alone.”

Barlow looped his reins around a corral post. “What makes you so damn sure the law ain't here, waitin' for us?” he asked, giving their surroundings a look. He paid particular attention to the center of the village, where they could hear the music being played.

“Garrett wouldn't come here. He knows I've got too many friends in Fort Sumner.”

“I ain't so damn sure,” Barlow muttered, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt .41, an older, single-action pistol he seemed to prefer.

“Let's walk over to Jesus Silva's house,” the Kid suggested, listening to music coming from the dance. “Jesus will feed us good, an' we won't have no worries. Jesus will have some meat, at least somethin' besides beans. Saval is poor as a church mouse, an' we might starve here at his place.”

“Sure seems quiet tonight,” Barlow said, “in spite of all that damn Meskin music coming from over yonder in the middle of town.”

The Kid stopped in his tracks. “If it'll make you feel any better I'll go ask Pete Maxwell if he's seen Garrett or any of the posse before we eat.”

Barlow looked at the Kid, his lips turning up in a small smile. “You sure you don't want to head over to Maxwell's just so's you can get a gander at his daughter, Paulita?”

The Kid smiled back, “Well, that wouldn't exactly be an unwelcome occurrence, now would it?”

“I'm hungry enough to eat a bear,” Barlow said. “Let's just be real sure we go careful.”

The Kid chuckled softly. “I ain't stayed alive this long in the middle of a war in the New Mexico Territory by not bein' careful when the need arises. You gotta quit worryin' so much about the wrong things, Billy.”

“It's my nature to worry,” Barlow replied.

They walked softly across a narrow roadway toward the dark outline of Jesus Silva's adobe.

“Ain't even no dogs barkin',” Barlow observed.

“No reason why a dog should bark tonight,” the Kid said, feeling sure of himself. “This ain't unfriendly territory. If there was trouble, Pete would have sent word.”

Music from a tiny cantina caught the Kid's attention, and he halted. “Let's stop at the dance. Celsa might be there, an' I need to tell her where I've been. I figure she's been worried, since I ain't talked to her in a spell.”

“But she's Pat Garrett's sister-in-law.” Barlow said it with concern in his voice.

“Won't matter. She wouldn't say a damn word to that lawman Garrett. Let's go.”

* * *

At the dance, the Kid swept Celsa Gutierrez and several other young maidens across the floor, including Paulita Maxwell. Billy Barlow stood in a corner of the cantina with his hand near his gun, scowling and looking over his shoulder at the slightest sound.

“I sure am hungry,” Barlow said after the Kid was through making a few turns across the dance floor with Celsa in his arms while the music played.

“We'll drop over at Silva's place,” the Kid replied, giving Celsa a kiss on the cheek. “He'll have something to feed us an' you can be sure of that.”

“Be careful, Billy,” Celsa warned, her face twisted with concern. “Someone say they see Pat Garrett and two more men ride through the peach orchard this afternoon. I don't see them myself, but I hear people talk about it.”

“We'll be real careful,” the Kid told her. “No need to worry none about me, because I was born a real careful man, an' I intend to stay that way.”

“I
worry,
” Celsa said. “Pat is saying he will kill you.”

“Pat wouldn't do that. Hell, we're friends from way back when he first came to New Mexico Territory, an' he knows I wouldn't double-cross him.”

* * *

They left the cantina in the dark, a moonless sky giving them no light to go by. The Kid led the way to Jesus Silva's back door and knocked softly.

“Quien es?
” a gentle voice cried.

“It's me,
Billito,
”the Kid answered.

The door opened a crack.

“Is that really you,
Chivato?
” Jesus asked.

“It's me, an' a friend. Billy Barlow. We've been on the run so long I'd forgotten what it's like to knock on a friend's door without duckin' down.”

“Come in,” Jesus whispered, “only be careful,
Billito.
I am told Sheriff Garrett and two deputies—John Poe from down in Texas, and Tip McKinney—have been in town earlier in the day asking about you.”

“Are they gone now?” the Kid asked.

Jesus gave the darkness a slow examination. “Who can say,
Billito?
You know Garrett is after the reward posted on your head.”

The Kid and Barlow stepped inside Silva's small adobe and hung their hats on a peg.

“When was the last time anyone seen Garrett or his deputies?” Barlow asked in a quiet voice.

“They came early, before sundown,” Silva replied. “No one has seen them since.”

“I can ask Pete Maxwell,” the Kid responded. “Pete's been friendly to me during all this trouble. He's a friend of John Chisum's.”

“Be careful,” Jesus warned. “The governor has posted a big reward for you.”

“I know all about the reward,” the Kid replied.

Jesus added sticks of firewood to his stove.

“Have you got any beef?” the Kid asked. “We been livin' on beans and fatback so long I 'bout forgot what a good beefsteak tastes like.”

“No. But Señor Maxwell has just killed a fresh beef, and it is hanging at the corner of his porch. He told me I can cut off as much as I need.”

“I'll go,” Barlow said. “Just give me a sharp knife, and I can get what we want . . .”

* * *

Pat Garrett, John Poe, and Tip McKinney had arrived at Fort Sumner well after dark, and it was near midnight when they crept across the peach orchard toward the Maxwell house.

Pete Maxwell, angered by the Kid's attentions to his daughter, Paulita, had sent a trusted vaquero into White Oaks to tell John Poe about the Kid's frequent visits to his house.

John Poe whispered to Garrett as they slipped through the darkness, “You know, Pat, I ain't never seen Bonney before. How'll I know it's him?”

Pat whispered back, “Don't shoot unless I give the word.”

When they got to the Maxwell house, Pete was inside asleep, with no lights on.

Garrett turned to Poe and McKinney. “You boys stay out here on the porch and keep a sharp lookout. I'll slip inside and ask Pete about the message he sent concerning the Kid.”

Soon after Garrett went through the door, Poe saw a shadowy figure crouched over, making his way toward the house in the darkness.

When he was forty feet away the man stopped, evidently seeing the outline of Poe and McKinney on the porch.

“Quien es?
” the man whispered in a hoarse voice.
“Quien es?”

Poe and McKinney weren't about to reveal their identities by answering, so they remained quiet.

The man then stepped abruptly up to Pete Maxwell's bedroom window.

“Pedro, quienes son estros hombres afuera?”
the man whispered toward the Maxwell bed.

Pete Maxwell sat up in bed, startled, and called out, “That's him!”

Garrett, startled by the sudden commotion in the bedroom, drew his pistol and fired at the shadowy figure.

* * *

Two gunshots rang out, and the Kid jumped out of his chair at Jesus Silva's table, clawing his Colt .44 free of its holster as he came to his feet.

“That came from Maxwell's,” the Kid said.

Jesus went to a window of his shack. “Yes. I can see a body lying on the porch. It must be your friend, Barlow.' ”

The Kid edged to Silva's back door. “But who would shoot a man without a gun coming to Pete's back porch with a knife to cut off a slice of beef?”

“Maybe it is Pat Garrett,” Silva warned.

“But why would he shoot Barlow?”

“He may have believed it was you,
Billito.
The two of you look the same in the dark.”

“Damn,” the Kid hissed, stepping out into the darkness.

* * *

He could hear voices coming from Pete Maxwell's porch, and he recognized one as that of John Poe.

“You've shot the wrong man, Pat. This isn't Billy the Kid. He wouldn't come to this place unarmed.”

“It's him . . . I think,” a voice the Kid recognized as Garrett's replied. “I
know
it's him.”

“He don't even
look
like your description of him,” Poe insisted.

“It sure as hell don't,” another voice said, probably the voice of deputy McKinney.

“Pull the body inside Maxwell's bedroom,” the Kid heard Garrett say. “We won't let nobody get a good look until we're sure. One of you boys light a lamp inside, once we've got the door closed. I know Billy the Kid. I'll damn sure recognize him when I see him.”

“I'm tellin' you this is the wrong man,” Poe insisted as he picked up the dead man's feet and began pulling him into Pete Maxwell's bedroom.

“It can't be,” Garrett said. “I'm sure I recognized him even in the dark.”

“But this feller's got a beard,” McKinney's voice exclaimed as they pulled the body inside. “You know Billy the Kid ain't got no beard.”

“Just shut up and close the goddamn door,” Garrett snapped as a crowd of people came toward Maxwell's place, drawn by the gunshots.

The Kid edged closer to the house, wanting to see if Billy Barlow was in fact dead.

Suddenly, Garrett looked over his shoulder and stared directly at the Kid, his gun in his hand hanging next to his leg.

Instead of raising the gun and firing, Garrett shook his head at the Kid, then turned and walked into the house.

The Kid holstered his pistol and hurried back to his horse, wondering why Pat Garrett did not say publicly he'd killed Barlow, and why he didn't try to shoot him when he had the chance.

The Kid mounted and rode at a slow trot out of Fort Sumner toward Frank Lobato's sheep camp high in the mountains south of Fort Sumner, wondering what was behind the strange behavior of Pat Garrett. Surely he had immediately recognized his mistake, shooting down Billy Barlow when he was supposed to be after him. And why didn't he raise an alarm when he saw the Kid standing nearby? The Kid couldn't make head nor tail of what was going on in Pat Garrett's mind.

* * *

Two days later, as the Kid was resting up at Frank Lobato's sheep camp, a rider from Fort Sumner came through—Iginio Salazar, who was an old friend.

“Kid,” Salazar said before he brought his horse to a full stop, “you won't believe what Pat Garrett do.”

The Kid got up off his bedroll. “Tell me what you're talking about.”

“Garrett shoot your young friend, Billy Barlow, an now he passes the body off as you. They bury him the next day, and Sheriff Garrett now tries with the territorial legislature for the five hundred dollar reward.”

The Kid looked to the south, toward Mexico. “Maybe Garrett is doin' me a favor,” he said under his breath. “Could be if I clear out of this country, everyone will believe I'm dead, an' that will be the end of it.”