To Hell on a Fast Horse (25 page)

THE TRIAL OF LEE
and Gililland began on May 26, 1899, at Hillsboro, New Mexico, a rapidly declining mining town in Sierra County (the defense had won a change of venue from Las Cruces). The prosecution had opted to try the accused for the murder of little Henry Fountain first. The trial of their associate, William McNew, for the murder of Albert Fountain had occurred a few weeks earlier but the Territory had decided to drop the case, fearing that an acquittal would weaken the case against Lee and Gililland. So McNew, who had been twiddling his thumbs in Garrett’s jail while his buddies were on the run, was released on bail—he was still charged as an accomplice in Henry’s murder. William Carr, arrested with McNew in April 1898, had been granted his freedom after a preliminary hearing failed to produce convincing evidence against him. The entire focus of the
Territory, then, was Lee and Gililland. Albert B. Fall, who had recently returned from his Spanish-American War service, headed up the defense team. The lead attorney and big gun for the Territory was the ringmaster of the Santa Fe Ring, Thomas Benton Catron.

Unlike Billy the Kid’s Mesilla trial in 1881, which only grew in stature as Billy’s legend grew, the Lee-Gililland trial received immediate national attention. A special telegraph line was installed between Hillsboro and the railroad, twenty miles away, so the numerous reporters present could file their stories on what happened each day. And what developed was a masterful defense by Fall, who relentlessly badgered prosecution witnesses, easily confusing them. Fall was especially merciless when it came to Jack Maxwell, the prosecution’s chief witness. Maxwell claimed to have been at the Lee ranch on the day of the Fountain disappearance and to have observed the defendants arrive on jaded horses, after which they slept outside with their guns for the next two nights. But Maxwell had also signed a contract with Garrett and Perry that promised him $2,000 if he delivered information leading to the conviction of the killers. Obviously, Fall argued, the powers that be were out to get the defendants from the beginning, when they should have been searching for the “real murderers.”

The one witness Fall failed to rattle was Pat Garrett. The sheriff was not the star witness, but he was a star attraction. On the day of his testimony, there was a noticeable increase of the “gentler sex” present in the courtroom. One reporter, overawed by Garrett’s physical presence, described the sheriff as standing over
seven feet
in his stockings. He was, the reporter continued, the “terror of evildoers in New Mexico for a generation.” Of course, any mention of Garrett in the newspapers included the obligatory reference to his fame as the killer of Billy the Kid. Garrett had a lot riding on this trial, and it was more than just the substantial reward money. He had assembled much of the evidence against the defendants, the men also responsible for the death of his deputy at Wildy Well. He
firmly believed them guilty of the Fountain murders. A conviction would validate the decision to bring him back to New Mexico Territory to ferret out the killers. It would mean the Doña Ana County voters had been right to keep him in office, and it would validate his dogged detective work. It would make him something more than the slayer of the Kid.

On June 13, after seven minutes of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty. Although evidence presented during the trial had been fairly incriminating, much of it was circumstantial. Fall had done a superb job of casting doubt on witness testimony—there were no eyewitnesses to the crime—and the victims’ bodies had not been found. More than all of this, though, the trial had become something larger than the defendants, larger than the victims. It had become another battleground for Republicans and Democrats, the big cattlemen and the small ranchers, the Santa Fe Ring and those outside the Ring. When the verdict was announced, the spectators in the courtroom jumped up, clapping and cheering. Lee and Gililland were mobbed with well-wishers, receiving slaps on the back and countless handshakes. Although the Territory’s prosecutors put on a good face, holding out the prospect of a future trial for the murder of Albert Fountain, they had essentially bet the house on the outcome in Hillsboro. No one would ever again face the bench for the murders of Albert and Henry Fountain, nor would Lee and Gililland ever go to trial for killing Deputy Sheriff Kearney.

Whether or not justice was served in Hillsboro will never be known with certainty. Garrett did not think so, nor did the Fountain family. Two years before, Pinkerton detective John C. Fraser had written Governor Thornton that he “felt satisfied that this entire matter will come home to Oliver Lee.” Indeed, Lee remains a suspect even now. But the cattleman also had plenty of supporters, and over a ten-year period beginning in 1918, he was elected three times as a state representative and three times as a state senator. While serving in the
legislature, Lee was said to have always carried a .45-caliber pistol in a holster hidden by his long dress coat. He died in 1941, and today his old Dog Canyon ranch house has been restored and is open to the public as part of the Oliver Lee Memorial State Park.

The bodies of Albert and Henry Fountain have never been found. The entire affair has earned a place as the Southwest’s most enduring murder mystery.

O
N FRIDAY, OCTOBER
6 1899, Pat Garrett was sitting in his Las Cruces office when a well-dressed stranger walked in and introduced himself as Sheriff George Blalock of Greer County, Indian Territory. He was hunting a fugitive named Norman Newman, who a year before had robbed and killed Blalock’s partner. Although Newman had been quickly apprehended, he had escaped from jail on July 1. Since that time Blalock had followed the outlaw across the Texas Panhandle and all over southern New Mexico, having already made three trips to the Territory. Blalock understood that Newman, who was using the alias Billy Reed, was currently employed as a cook at W. W. Cox’s San Augustin Spring ranch. Blalock showed Garrett a warrant for Newman’s arrest that he had earlier sworn out at the Doña Ana County courthouse, and he asked for help in apprehending the fugitive.

Garrett called for his deputy, José Espalín, and the three set out for the Cox place. Blalock warned Garrett that Newman was a desperate character and they had to be prepared for a fight—Garrett knew the type. He decided they would surround the house and approach it from opposite sides. Newman did not know Garrett, so he thought it best if he went in and confronted the outlaw. No one at the Cox place noticed the officers closing in on the structure except for two of Cox’s little girls in the yard, and as they easily recognized Garrett, they paid him no mind. The twenty-five-year-old Newman was standing in the kitchen, just having finished washing the dishes and wiping his hands on a towel.

“Are you Mr. Reed?” Garrett asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Garrett. I am sheriff of this county and have a warrant for you.”

“All right, Mr. Garrett,” Newman calmly replied.

Garrett reached out with his handcuffs, and the next thing he knew, Newman had punched him in the head. Garrett grabbed hold of Newman, who lunged through the kitchen’s open French door, dragging the two-hundred-pound Garrett out with him. Espalín ran up to the door and shoved his pistol in Newman’s face and shouted at him to stop. Garrett ordered Espalín not to shoot the man, who continued to struggle. Espalín turned his six-shooter around and struck Newman a sharp blow or two on the head with the pistol’s butt, causing him to collapse, taking Garrett down with him. The two officers held on tight, and Garrett fished again for his handcuffs. It was then that an aged bulldog named Old Booze saw the fight, charged across the yard and, growling and snapping his teeth, leapt on Espalín. The deputy let go of Newman and did his best to fight off the crazy dog, cursing, yelling, and kicking at the animal.

With only Garrett holding him, Newman sprang to his feet, fighting and throwing punches at the sheriff. He finally broke free of Gar
rett’s grasp when his shirt tore apart, leaving Garrett clutching the tattered pieces of fabric. Garrett and Espalín chased after Newman and ordered him to halt. The outlaw went in the house and ran down a hall toward his room when Espalín, assuming that Newman was going for his gun, blasted him with two shots to the back. Newman fell forward, a dead man.

The coroner’s inquest in Las Cruces exonerated all three lawmen of any wrongdoing. Sheriff Blalock transported Newman’s body back to Greer County, Oklahoma, for burial. But when the sheriff went to apply for the reward on the outlaw, it was pointed out that the governor had offered the reward for Newman’s “arrest and conviction.” Garrett knew all about that, too.

This incident did not endear Garrett to the Cox crowd, who had taken a liking to the young Newman. Cox’s wife, pregnant at the time, had been in the pantry when Garrett came after Newman in the kitchen. Her brother, Print Rhode, was so mad about the deadly scuffle and shooting—which could have injured his sister and the Cox girls—that he threatened to kill Garrett on sight. Rhode, whose full name was Archie Prentice Rhode, had been born to a dry goods merchant in Lavaca County, Texas, in July 1868. At about the age of twenty, he had traveled to southern New Mexico with the family of W. W. “Bill” Cox. He was stocky, with strong arms and hands, standing nearly five and a half feet tall and weighing around 140 pounds. He had pale blue eyes and a light, sandy complexion that easily burned in New Mexico’s intense sunlight. When he was not wearing his wide-brimmed hat, it was plainly evident that Rhode’s reddish brown hair was fast disappearing from his forehead.

One old-timer remembered Rhode as someone who wanted to be a tough guy and had a hard time getting along with folks. That did not seem to be a problem with the Cox clan, who thought he was dependable and fiercely loyal. That loyalty also found its way to Oliver Lee, who married Winnie Rhode in October 1898, making Lee a
brother-in-law of both Bill Cox and Print Rhode. Rhode, in fact, took the stand for Lee at the Hillsboro trial. Pat Garrett was a neighbor so Bill Cox tried to stay on friendly terms with the lawman and his family, but Rhode did not care for Garrett, and the sheriff, who had dealt with a number of outlaw wannabes, felt the same way about Rhode. The two had even more reason to dislike each other after the robbery of the George D. Bowman & Son Bank in Las Cruces on February 12, 1900.

That anyone would dare rob a bank in Garrett’s town in broad daylight seems beyond foolhardy, but then again, criminals are not always known for their intelligence. Still, William Wilson and Oscar Wilbur nearly pulled it off. After riding into Las Cruces and sticking their guns in the face of the bank’s cashier, they quickly collected more than $1,000 in greenbacks and then calmly walked out the door and got back on their horses. They slowly rode away until someone in town fired two pistol shots to sound the alarm. The robbers then spurred their mounts into a gallop and struck out to the east toward the Organ Mountains. Twenty minutes later, Garrett started two posses—with Deputy Ben Williams leading one while Garrett rode in front of the other. The posses had no luck tracking down the suspects the first day, but by the end of the next day, six men had been arrested who either fit the robbers’ descriptions or were thought to be connected in some way to the holdup. None of the bank’s money was found, and all six were soon released. Garrett and his men continued to scour the Organs for the robbers, but by the end of the week, they seemed to have gotten away.

Wilson and Wilbur did get away, but not clean. Garrett was given a tip that told him who the robbers might be, as well as information that they had been living in Hanover, in Grant County. Garrett sent Ben Williams there to investigate, and the deputy found out that Wilbur’s wife had told her friends a short time before the robbery that she was moving to San Antonio. Williams traveled to San Antonio, nearly
six hundred miles from Las Cruces, where he soon located Wilson and Wilbur, and, with the help of a local deputy sheriff, captured them. Once back in Las Cruces, Wilbur turned state’s evidence on the promise of a lesser sentence. He said that Print Rhode and Will Cravens had provided the horses for the robbery and that they had been paid $100 each as their share. On March 22, Rhode and Cravens were arrested and charged as accessories to robbery. They were released after each posted a $1,000 bond.

The four men’s cases were brought before the court on April 20. Both Wilbur and Wilson pled guilty and awaited their sentence while Rhode and Cravens pled not guilty. Judge Parker presided over the four-day trial of Rhode and Cravens, and, once again, Garrett had to sit still while he heard the defense attorney, Albert B. Fall, ridicule a case he had put together. Fall was not the prosecution’s biggest worry, however. Their primary problem was Wilson, who contradicted all of Wilbur’s claims concerning Rhode and Cravens’s involvement. Garrett took the stand and did his best to vouch for the truthfulness of Wilbur’s confession, but at that point, even if Honest Abe Lincoln had come back from the dead, he would have had trouble overcoming the doubt cast in the minds of the jury. Rhode and Cravens were found not guilty. Garrett was not happy, but at least he had put two of the robbers away.

PAT GARRETT PROBABLY COULD
have held the sheriff’s position in Doña Ana County for the rest of his life, but he chose not to run again in 1900. He told a newspaper reporter that times had changed in the Territory, and the sheriff’s office no longer needed his “peculiar talents in the line of good marksmanship and quick action at the head of posses.” Polinaria and the children may have had something to do with his decision, and there was also his ranch and his mining investments that could always use more of his attention. His decision is puz
zling, though, because the sheriff’s office provided a steady income, and the way Garrett liked to gamble—both at the poker table and in business—the Garrett family definitely needed that income. Nevertheless, Garrett’s term as sheriff expired on December 31, 1900, after which he retired to private life—for just twelve months.

In December 1901, Pat Garrett’s name was once again in the nation’s press, and in a very big way. Teddy Roosevelt, the hero of San Juan Hill (“that damned cowboy” to his critics), became the nation’s president after the assassination of President William McKinley, and as the position of collector of customs at El Paso was set to expire at the end of the year, Roosevelt decided to put his own man in the position. He soon set his sights on ex-lawman Garrett.

It is unknown how Garrett’s name first came into consideration, but El Paso was practically his second home (not really a good thing), where his penchant for stiff-bosomed shirts, high collars, and Prince Albert coats had earned him the nickname “dandy sheriff.” Garrett likely learned that the present collector would not be reappointed and began building support to get the nomination. By December 5, he was on a train to Washington, D.C., to lobby the president in person. Traveling with him was nemesis-turned-strange-bedfellow Albert B. Fall. In a highly sensational move, Fall had switched from the Democratic to the Republican Party after the 1900 elections. Once in Washington, Garrett and Fall stepped up the pressure on the president, by making sure he received written endorsements and telegrams, as well as visits from prominent New Mexico politicians—all good Republicans, of course. On December 9, Garrett met with an old associate from New Mexico’s bloody outlaw days: Lew Wallace.

“He said he would do anything I asked him to do,” Garrett wrote Polinaria about the meeting, “says I did him a great favor once (in the ‘Kid’ affair), so he is anxious to express his gratitude.”

Wallace went with Garrett to the White House, after which several newspapers reported that Roosevelt had decided on Garrett for the collec
tor of customs and that the president would send the appointment to the Senate. Texas Republicans were not pleased, feeling that the post should go to a Texan. Telegrams began to pour in opposing Garrett’s nomination. Many in the anti-Garrett crowd claimed that the ex-lawman was unfit for the office; others attacked his character. One letter writer argued that the appointment of a man who had made a record for himself as a killer would reflect poorly on Roosevelt’s administration.

Garrett visited the White House once again on December 15 to make his final appeal for the El Paso post.

“Garrett, they say you’re a drunkard,” Roosevelt said, bluntly.

“It isn’t true, Mr. President. But I’ve been drinking all my life.”

“You are charged with being a gambler,” Roosevelt added.

“I know the difference between a straight and a flush, Mr. President, and in my section of the country, a man who doesn’t know this doesn’t know enough to keep the flies off in fly season.”

“I am told you are an atheist and an infidel.”

“I have pronounced views on some subjects, Mr. President, but I know enough to keep them to myself when they don’t agree with the men around me.”

Roosevelt liked the straight-shooting Garrett and forwarded his appointment to the Senate, where it was soon confirmed. On December 20, Roosevelt invited Garrett back to the White House for the signing ceremony. The president signed Garrett’s commission with a gorgeous gold-clad and engraved Wirt fountain pen. Handing the pen to the ex-lawman, Roosevelt looked his new collector in the eye and said, “Mr. Garrett, I am betting on you.”

“Mr. President, you will win that bet,” Garrett replied, a proud smile breaking across his face.

THIS APPOINTMENT OF PAT GARRETT
created a surge of new interest in the story of Billy the Kid. A reporter for the
Silver City Enterprise
hunted up sixty-four-year-old Harvey Whitehill, former sheriff of Grant County, and prodded him for his recollections of the Kid, which Whitehill gladly gave. An El Paso reporter tried to do the same with Garrett, but he had no interest in revisiting that part of his life for the press. When the reporter asked him where he might find a copy of Garrett’s
The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid,
Garrett refused to tell him. “The new collector, if he has his way,” wrote the reporter, “will bury the event.”

Garrett had buried Billy back in 1881, but there was no way he could bury the legend that was already taking on a life of its own. The Kid was a double-edged sword for Garrett. The ex-sheriff’s reputation and fame had been established by hunting down and killing Billy. That act put many people in Garrett’s debt, not the least of whom was Lew Wallace, who easily could have ignored Garrett’s request for assistance in swaying the president. It was, in fact, Garrett’s reputation as the killer of Billy the Kid that got the attention of Roosevelt, who was famously infatuated with the American West. But at the same time, the Kid cast a dark shadow over Garrett. He had never been able to escape the accusations that he was nothing but a coward and a murderer. This, coupled with Americans’ fondness for transforming their outlaws into heroes, left Garrett exasperated and, at times, bitter.

Garrett’s presidential appointment finally gave him a status and respectability he had not known as a county sheriff. The El Paso customhouse monitored a flood of goods coming from Mexico, everything from livestock to tourists’ trinkets. The annual duties collected amounted to some $40,000. Unfortunately, Garrett did not have the autonomy in his new position he had known as sheriff. There were plenty of critics, disgruntled about his appointment, and politically sensitive Washington bureaucrats watching his every move. Complaints against Garrett’s interpretation of Treasury Department rules soon appeared in the newspapers. One story, which ran under the headline “Made the General Pay,” reported on how Garrett refused
to refund the duties collected of General Harrison Gray Otis for items he was bringing into the United States as gifts for his grandchildren. Otis, editor of the
Los Angeles Times,
filed a protest with the Treasury Department. A much bigger flap, however, came over Garrett’s appraisal of three-thousand-plus cattle imported by the Corralitos Ranch of Casas Grandes, Mexico. The cattle company vigorously protested the duties charged by Garrett, who ended up traveling to New York City to argue the case before the Board of Appraisers—not very successfully.