Song of Eagles (24 page)

He shook his head. Damn, but life was strange. Here was the man sworn to hang him risking his own reputation in order to give the Kid a chance to make a new life.

The Kid rode up on Falcon's cabin in the darkness. He halted his horse a safe distance away.

“Falcon MacCallister!” he called out. “Don't shoot. I'm a friend.”

Moments later a shadow appeared at a rear corner of the house, staying back just enough to have cover in case trouble started.

“Who's there?” a familiar deep voice asked.

“It's me, Billy Bonney . . . the Kid”

“Can't be. The Kid's dead and buried at Fort Sumner,” Falcon replied.

“Garrett shot the wrong man. If you'll give me a minute I can explain.”

“It does sound like you, Kid. Looks a helluva lot like you, too, even in the moonlight. Swing down, only remember I've got a gun trained on your belly. If this is some kind of trick it ain't gonna work.”

The Kid stepped down gingerly. “It's no trick, Falcon. Garrett shot Billy Barlow the other night, thinkin' it was me.”

He ground hitched his horse and walked toward Falcon with his hands showing.

“It is you,” Falcon said. “Come inside, quick, before anyone else sees you, and I'll light a lamp.”

The Kid followed Falcon through the back door. Falcon walked around the room, closing cloth curtains over all the windows before he turned to a table in the kitchen. A match was struck and quickly a flame came to life in a lantern.

Falcon turned down the wick so the light was dim. “Take a seat at the table. I'll boil a pot of coffee while you tell me the whole story.”

The Kid slumped into a hand-made hide-backed chair. “Me an' Barlow rode to Fort Sumner. We went to the dance they was havin' there. Afterwards, we went to my friend Jesus Silva's house so he could fix us somethin' to eat.”

“Was Garrett at Fort Sumner?” Falcon asked, stoking the potbelly with sticks of firewood before adding a few dippers of water to a smoke-blackened coffeepot, then a handful of beans after he put the pot on the stove.

“We had a few folks warn us that Garrett an' two deputies were in the vicinity earlier that day, but I guessed he'd cleared out when we didn't see no sign of him.”

“Go on,” Falcon said, coming over to the table, examining the Kid's face in the lamplight.

“We was hungry for beef, since we'd been hidin' out in the hills for so long. Jesus said Pete Maxwell had a side of beef fresh killed, hanging on a corner of his porch. I offered to go cut a slice off it, only Barlow said he'd go. He took a knife an' went across them dark streets to Maxwell's while me an' Jesus talked about things, about how bad it has gotten for us here in Lincoln County.”

When the Kid hesitated, Falcon said, “Tell me what happened next.”

“I heard two or three shots. I pulled my pistol an' went runnin' outside.”

“The shots came from Maxwell's place?”

“That general direction. That's when I heard voices, only I didn't actually recognize but one of 'em.”

“That'd be Pat Garrett.”

“Right. Garrett said, 'that was the Kid, and I think I've got him'.”

“But it was Barlow he shot?” Falcon asked.

“Yeah. Shot him dead. Then this voice I didn't recognize said, 'Pat, you've shot the wrong man!' real loud.”

“What did Garrett say?”

“He said to pull the body inside so they could see him in the light, but he was sure it was me—the Kid—he'd killed.”

“So they pulled the body into Maxwell's place, where they could see the dead man's face.”

“Right, an' that's when this different voice . . . I figure it was Tip McKinney . . . said, 'He don't even look like the Kid, Pat. I think you shot the wrong man. Besides, the Kid wouldn't come to this place. It'd be too dangerous for him.' ”

“What happened afterward?”

“That's the really strange thing, Falcon. I was havin' trouble making out what they was sayin', so I edged around the corner of the house I was hidin' behind, an' Pat looked up and saw me, plain as day.”

Falcon's eyes narrowed before he turned to the pot on the stove and took it and poured them cups of steaming, black coffee.

Then he sat across the table from the Kid, pulled out a cigar, and lighted it. After a couple of puffs to get it going, he took a tentative sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“Did Pat raise an alarm when he saw you?” he asked.

“No, an' that's the funny thing. He kind'a motioned me with his head to take off, like he'd almost expected to see me standin' there.”

Falcon smoked thoughtfully for a moment, then leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, his fists together under his chin.

“So, you think by then he knew he shot the wrong man and was trying to hide it?”

Kid shook his head, eyebrows knit together. “No, I don't think that was it at all, Falcon. I may be wrong, but I kind'a got the idea maybe Garrett did it on purpose, to give me a chance to make a break for it and start a new life somewhere's else without John Law on my back trail.”

Falcon nodded, slowly. “I see your point, Kid. Even if he shot the wrong man, he could always have said the two of you were together and still raised an alarm and come after you.”

The Kid jerked his head up and down. “That's the way I figured it, too, Falcon.”

“What did Pat do then, after he waved you off?”

“He told the other men to shut the door, an not to let nobody inside to view the body. That's when the door closed and I didn't hear no more voices.”

“But you knew Garrett shot the wrong man. If anyone else in Fort Sumner saw you after the shooting, the whole town would know about Garrett's mistake.”

“Jèsus Silva knows, of course, from when I came runnin' back into his house. I told him to run fetch my horse, that it would be too dangerous out there for me. I made up my mind to clear out of town and lay low, 'til I saw what Garrett aimed to do about killin' Barlow, and to talk to you 'bout what I suspect Garrett's doin' by lettin' me go.”

Falcon nodded. “I've seen Barlow. He looks a little bit like you.”

“Except for the beard,” the Kid explained. “And his skin is real dark, not like mine.”

“I was told they buried the Kid ... the body, early the next morning. Garrett himself had the coffin made and put Barlow in it and nailed the lid shut. He probably did that so anyone who knew you couldn't get a look at the body.”

“That's the way I figure it. An' now Garrett's applied to the territorial legislature to collect the reward that was posted for me.”

Falcon stared into the Kid's eyes, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Garrett gets the reward money, and you get away with your life. That's not a bad trade-off, Kid.”

“I ain't got away yet. Somebody could still recognize me. That's why I been hidin' out up at Frank Lobato's sheep camp and only ridin' at night.”

“You took a big chance coming here,” Falcon observed. “You could have been followed.”

“I made sure I wasn't.”

“Do you trust this Frank Lobato? And how about your friend Jesus Silva? Will they keep their mouths shut about what really happened?”

“They're good friends, Falcon, 'bout as good as you.”

“But either one of them could challenge Pat Garrett's claim to the reward if they brought you in, dead or alive.”

“I trust 'em not to do that.”

“A trusting nature can get a man killed, son.”

“Like I told you, they've been my friends through all this trouble. I'm bettin' my life, I reckon, that neither one of 'em will ever say a word.”

Falcon got up to check on the coffee and pour another cup, a thoughtful frown creasing his face.

“I guess I wanted your advice on what to do,” the Kid said when Falcon said nothing more.

Falcon added wood to the stove. “There are two possibilities, the way I see it. Garrett made a simple mistake in the dark and he's hoping to cover it up, figuring you'd be smart enough to head for parts unknown and never show back up here in the New Mexico Territory again.”

The Kid added his own thoughts. “Me an' Pat were friends before this war started. I still believe he's doin' me a favor, lettin' folks think he killed me on purpose when he knew all along it was Barlow on that porch.”

“Had you ever met John Poe or McKinney?”

The Kid wagged his head. “I believe it was you who first told me they came from down in Texas. I've never set eyes on either one.”

Falcon came back to the table. “That way, Garrett could pull it off, collect the reward, and do you a favor all at the same time, providing you weren't seen leaving this part of the country.”

“I'd like to believe me an' Pat were good enough friends so he'd do that.”

“You heard both of his deputies say the body didn't resemble you physically,” Falcon continued, “but in spite of that he tells his men to pull the body inside and close the door . . . not to let anybody see it.”

“That's just about exactly what was said.”

Falcon gave him a lopsided grin. “Garrett knew it was the wrong body. What we don't know is whether he made an honest mistake, or if he meant to let you live. I don't reckon it matters, unless somebody sees you who can identify you.”

The Kid gave an uneasy glance out the cabin windows. “It's my idea to take off for the Mexican border. Maybe go down to Sonora for a few years, where I've got some Yaqui Indian friends in the horse business.”

“I'd damn sure travel at night until I crossed the Rio Grande,” Falcon said

“I'd aimed to.”

“Later on, after you give it a few years for things to cool down, you could cross back into Texas some place. Only you'll have to go by a different name.”

The Kid grinned weakly. “I've got a different name, a real one.”

“What do you mean by that?” Falcon asked.

“All these years, folks thought my name was Antrim, or some said it was McCarty. Then I took to usin' Bonney for my last name, on account of it was my aunt's real name. She was from up in Indian Territory. But ain't none of 'em my actual birth name at all.”

Falcon chuckled. “Just what the hell is your name, Kid? You've used about as many as there are ticks on a dog.”

The Kid leaned back in his chair. “I was born William Henry Roberts, in Buffalo Gap, Texas, in eighteen fifty-nine. My daddy was called Wild Henry Roberts. My momma died when I was real young, an my daddy was meaner'n hell to me. So I ran off to live with my aunt Kathrine Bonney up in the Nations.”

Falcon was still chuckling softly. “So there's nothing to that story about you being born in New York City?”

“I made it all up, 'cause I didn't want my real daddy to find me. He's powerful mean, an' he'd give me a terrible whippin' for runnin' away like I done.”

“Then you're really William Henry Roberts.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That's right, Falcon. You're the only one livin' who knows the truth about who I am.”

The smell of coffee burning brought Falcon back over to the stove, where he poured two more tin cups of coffee. He put one in front of the Kid and tasted his own, blowing on it to cool it down a mite.

“Thanks,” the Kid muttered. “I sure do hope my secret will be safe with you.”

“It is,” Falcon said. He shook his head, grinning again. “I could never make folks believe this county's most desperate outlaw was named Kid Roberts, anyway. They'd laugh me out of the territory.”

“Things'll go better for me if everybody believes I'm Billy Bonney, an' that I'm dead an' buried at Fort Sumner. Garrett gets to collect the reward, an' I can start a new life down in Mexico.”

“Just make sure you get there without being identified,” Falcon said solemnly. “Travel the back roads at night until you strike that river. They call it the Rio Bravo down there, and there's plenty of shallow places to cross, especially this time of the year.”

“That's just what I plan to do, only once again I ain't got any food, like the last time I came to see you.”

“Food isn't a problem, son,” Falcon said, walking over to a shelf laden with beans and flour and tins of peaches and tomatoes. “I can give you all you'll need.”

“You've sure proved to be a mighty good friend, Falcon, and, God knows and I've learned those are few and far between.”

Falcon began sacking up staples for the Kid's ride to the border. “Let's just say I was young and foolish once. I hope you've learned a lesson from this. When you take up a gun, it can be your own death sentence. This time, you got lucky on that score. Another man lies buried in your grave. Try to remember that before you give any thought to taking another man's life.”

“I won't forget it,” the Kid promised, meaning every word.

Once he had the Kid's saddlebags full of enough food for his upcoming journey, Falcon said, “Go on out there and feed and water your mount, then we'll get some shuteye. You're going to need to be well rested before you start your trip.”

“Well, I guess I'll sleep in tomorrow, and lay about here restin' up for the trip.”

“Yeah, it's best if you take it easy and sleep tomorrow as much as you can. We can start out late in the day when the sun's low in the sky, so it'll be harder to get a fix on you if we come upon someone along the way.”

The Kid crinkled up his forehead, “What do you mean we, Falcon? You ain't plannin' on headin' down to Mexico too, are ya?”