Chapter Twelve

The Lincoln County War raged on with a life of its own. It drained the county’s resources, led all the key participants to financial ruin, and left widows and orphans in its wake.⁷⁶

It was Billy the Kid who first heard the horses, maybe a mile off. He made out the distant rumbling with his ear pinned to the floor of the McSween living room. The way they pounded, Billy calculated, they must be weighed down with something. In this territory a force of that size only carried one thing: guns and lead. His first instinct was to run, but they were already surrounded by Jimmy Dolan’s collection of cutthroats. He turned to wake Brewer, then feeling stupid, slapped his knee. Brewer cashed his chips in last April during the shootout at Blazer’s Mill. Billy still couldn’t believe the shot by Buckshot Roberts when Brewer stuck his head up Just above the logs. Every bounty hunter west of the Pecos had wanted their hides since Dolan put a two-hundred dollar price tag on each Regulator. Old Buckshot never collected, however. Charles Bowdre saw to that.

But who could this mass of riders be? were they citizens and local ranchers who supported their struggle to rid the valley of The House? If not, then who?⁷⁷

Outrages were committed on both sides, yet without exception the five-day siege of the McSween household along the main street of Lincoln in the very center of town had an especially perverse element.⁷⁸

The phone rings as I stand before the threshold of freedom. I must get out before the answering machine clicks in or risk ill fortune. I throw caution to the wind, swing open the door, and leap out. Miraculously, the coast is clear. I lumber quickly down the empty hall, my rug-padded footsteps the only sound. The elevator opens immediately upon my touch. Empty! I take a deep breath before entering to protect myself from foul odors caged within. I descend smoothly holding my breath. Please make it without stopping—10, 9, 8, 7, 6 (my lungs scream for air), 5, 4, 3 … 3! No, it’s stopping! Who would get in on the third floor? I can barely contain my agitation. I’m forced to exhale. I hold my nose and breath through the mouth. The car slows and bumps to a halt. The door hesitates, then opens …

Billy took his ear from the floor and looked around the McSween living room. He could find few remains of the original Regulators. Middleton was still recovering from the chest wound he received at Blazer’s Mill where George Coe had his trigger finger shot off as well. Hiding out while he learned to shoot left handed, George was joined by his cousin Frank after he had escaped jail just before Dolan could hang him. Neither were In the mood for a big fight. Billy’s closest compadre, Fred Waite, had gone back to Indian Territory to rejoin his Choctaw brethren and with him went the Kid’s dreams of starting a ranch. Bowdre had returned to his wife, Manuela, to protect her from Dolan’s raiding parties after his gangs razed San Patricio where her young cousin, Allamanda, had been raped so brutally, she bled to death.

Doc Scurlock was up to his old tricks “recovering” stolen cattle. Chisum’s stock detective Frank McNab and poor Ab Sanders ate their last breakfast together, bushwhacked by the Three Rivers Boys who joined forces with Dolan because they hated Chisum for owning the best grazing land. They weren’t the only gang to work for Dolan now that Murphy had drunk himself to a slow death, and they weren’t the only ones to give up ranching to rustle Chisum cattle, rebrand It, and sell It to Dolan so he could fulfill his bloated U.S. Army contracts. Kinney’s Santa Ana bunch, Jesse Evans’ gang, Frank Wheeler and his San Nicholas Spring rustlers, Sheriff Peppin and his “deputies,” countless bounty hunters and hired guns, It was no wonder that the last of the McSween faction, just a handful of those brave or foolish enough to stick It out to the end, were holed up at the lawyer’s house In Lincoln surrounded by hoards of well-armed and ruthless men.

Then who could those riders be?⁷⁹

The five-day siege of the McSween household is considered by historians as the climactic end to the Lincoln County War. The war’s denouement, however, would last years. With certain participants the war was never over. Many would seek revenge long after the smoke cleared. One in particular, Robert Olinger, vowed to avenge his friend Bob Beckwith killed on the last night of the five-day siege. He placed the blame squarely upon Billy’s head, and it was Billy’s head he vowed to get.⁸⁰

I’m shocked at her beauty: small, five foot two, maybe ninety pounds, with blue/black hair, ebony eyes, and tanned skin like a palomino pony. An ashen cross on her smooth forehead marks the day. Light wisps of hair float along the curve of her neck as she enters the car without looking up. Turning gracefully, she corners herself. She must be Mexican, possibly of Indian blood. Ah, noble Native American stock blended with the proud blood of Conquistadores. The harsh elevator light circles above her like a halo. I try to catch my breath without breathing heavily. As we begin our descent, I melt into the paneling.

The riders were on the outskirts of Lincoln by now and If they weren’t friendly, it was only a matter of time before Dolan’s men shot them up like snakes in a pit. In spite of the sand bags they had piled up behind the windows and doors, the McSween home was no fortress. Mrs. McSween had gone through great lengths to furnish her home with the style and grace befitting the home of a big city lawyer, as if by example, she could lead Lincoln from being a dusty cowtown into becoming a great metropolis. Now, even the piano that Mrs. McSween had insisted on playing to bolster their spirits, was riddled with bullet holes. It was the first piano in these parts, was it doomed to be the last?

Still, the Kid regretted nothing. In spite of all the setbacks they had suffered, there were also a few great victories. Morton and Baker, members of the “posse” that “attempted to arrest” Tunstall, had got their just desserts and McClosky too, that traitor. Billy knew all along that McClosky wore the Dolan brand and was just waiting for an opportunity to expose him. Expose him he did. He exposed his guts for the vultures to chew on. Of the other posse members, Hill got his while trying to rob an Immigrant family with Jesse Evans. They didn’t figure on the old German defending himself. Too bad the German aimed his shotgun low on Jesse as he ran off, but with his britches full of lead It must have made the ride home a painful one. Manuel Segovia, that phony Indian, wasn’t as lucky. Too bad Billy wasn’t there when José Chavez y Chavez turned his toes Into daisies.

And old Sheriff Brady was on his way to arrest McSween with another “legal posse” when the Regulators bushwhacked Brady and his deputies right there on main street. All escaped but Brady, which only made sense since he was the only one they were aiming at anyway. Billy even got his Winchester carbine back, the one that Brady confiscated the last time he had arrested him. A bullet dusted Billy’s leg on both sides after he jumped the fence to retrieve the rifle, but that was the rifle Tunstall had given him. He’d have taken a bullet through the heart trying to retrieve It. He had to lie In his own blood beneath the floor of the old Tunstall store while the posse tore It apart looking for him, but It was well worth the effort. With the 16 shot repeating rifle, his new revolver (a Double-Action Colt Thunderer!) and his old dependable Peacemaker, he’d either escape or make peace with his Maker trying. He would have liked to finish Murphy off himself if that low-down bone-plumber hadn’t drunk himself Into a death stupor. Unfortunately, Dolan was still alive and kicking and would stop at nothing until he finished off McSween and every last one of his followers.

But his mind was wandering, what about these riders? He put his ear back to the floor. The horses had entered the town and slowed to a walk.⁸¹

If Billy had died along with so many others on that fateful night, no one would have ever heard of “the Kid.” Yet the desperate boldness that was to characterize his deeds, whether he was portrayed as an outlaw saint or infant rascal, gave ample fodder to the Santa Fe Ring-dominated papers that supported Dolan. Every issue featured tales of the infant rascal’s “outrages” against humanity. It wasn’t long before the dime novels began to pick up on America’s growing interest in “Billy the Kid, the Boy Bandit King.”⁸²

Carefully, I breathe in through the nose. A light fragrance of spring flowers fill the elevator car. Tightly, she grasps a large basket of laundry in her slim arms. What her foremothers lovingly carried to a river bordered by lush grasses and singing birds, she now hauls to a hot pipe-lined basement in the thundering bowels of the Tower of Babel. Instead of birds whistling in the whispering winds, furnaces and other strange machines rattle and pound. Instead of the sweet sound of rippling water taking her mind away as she hand-washes each shirt with love, washing machines slush soap and spin. Instead of cottonwoods swaying garments tame amid the happy chatter of señoras sharing the past as señoritas wax upon the future, dryers flop clothes as patrons fight for folding space. I want to reach out and touch her, maybe say something just to let her know I understand, I feel her pain, I …

I pull back my latex-gloved hand and hide it behind my back.

Billy looked over to Tom O’Folllard, a recent recruit, Just a boy, but at heart a true Regulator. He had drifted west of the Pecos, a small time thief and latched on to Billy with a desperation born of orphan need. It was an act Billy understood well being saved from the Jesse Evans gang by Frank and George Coe when they offered him their cabin for a winter of hunting bear and learning the ways of the West. Tom followed Billy everywhere. No man or beast was more loyal. He even rode with Billy to guard his horse during romantic rendezvous. With a sudden flush of affection, Billy determined that he would get Tom out safely, no matter what the cost.

“Tom,” Billy whispered.

O’Folllard awoke instantly at the sound of the Kid’s voice.

“Listen carefully, Tom. Tell me what you hear?”

They listened together. Billy wondered with sudden hope if the riders could be his missing pals leading a posse of citizens and native New Mexicans to free them. He listened to the horses hooves for telltale gaits, but didn’t like the sound of It. The hooves had a relaxed gait, a lazy lope, like a large mass of riders under control, no rush, no worry, the way men ride when they’re sure that the enemy Is pinned down, can’t escape, and they’re just riding In to help finish them off. Only one mass of men rode like that, the cavalry, and If so, they weren’t riding In to disperse the Dolan gang which had the McSween house completely surrounded. No, the cavalry wasn’t riding in to save the McSween gang from a bloody slaughter, they were riding In to see that the job got done.

“I don’t like it, Billy, there must be a hundred riders,” Tom said nervously.

“Don’t you fret none, Tom. How many traps have we wiggled our way out of? I’m going to get you out if I have to carry you on my back. Do you trust me?”

“You bet I do, Billy!” Tom declared.

“Good,” The Kid smiled. “Now wake up McSween, Chavez, and the others. We got some planning to do.”

As Tom dutifully crawled off, Billy peered through the window. The soldiers poured down the street. At the end of the long column, he could make out a gatling gun.⁸³

Following the fall of the house of McSween and the cause he championed, and in the aftermath of death and anarchy that followed, Billy the Kid made his name. Like a baptism by fire, Billy leaped out of that flaming building an obscure teenager and landed into the history books as the most famous desperado in the annals of the old southwest.⁸⁴

At least Commander Dudley would allow Mrs. McSween safe passage out. Maybe she could even argue our case, show him the papers we got on Dolan, plead for protection Instead of attack …

No, Billy knew that was wishful thinking. There was only one law In this territory, and Dolan owned It, and there was also only one way out: guns a-blazln’.⁸⁵

I pull my eyes away and try to focus up at the descending numbers. Nonchalantly, I sneak a peek at the curved mirror in the corner giving me a wide angle view of the car. I see my enormous presence obscuring her slight figure in the background. Although she hasn’t looked at me once, I feel she must hate me. I’m everything most base and vile to her: a fat, ugly gringo who wants only one thing, and it’s not conversation. How can I change her mind? No, it is impossible. I’m not the ideal ambassador to change any Latin American señorita’s mind about the gringo. I only confirm the worst, regardless of intention, noble or otherwise.

The door opens to the basement. I forgot to press for the lobby and passed it without notice. She sweeps out of the car like a virgin doe. I hear a woman’s voice call from the laundry room down the hall.

“¿Quien es, Allamanda?”

“Si, soy yo,” she replies.

Allamanda, that must be her name.

“¿Tienes el Fabric Softener con tigo?”

“No, no lo traje.”

What a lovely name, Allamanda, a flower no doubt. I must look it up.

“Lo vas a necisitar. ¡Apurate, que la puerta se sierra!”

“¡No!” she shouts. “¡No, no quiero entrar con este gringo pendejo!”

Maybe that didn’t go so badly. I showed the proper respect by not rudely addressing her without parental supervision. That’s important in Hispanic culture, is it not? I suddenly feel so alone in the car, so vulnerable, and I must make a decision. What floor? Any Igbo in his right mind would support my decision to return home immediately. I feel so weak as if my heart pumps air instead of blood. I couldn’t bear to be seen right now. It’s as if I’d be caught in some foul act. I also have a sudden uncontrollable urge for a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream, maybe a spoonful of ice cream on the side.

I press my floor. The door closes. The car starts. I stare at the flashing numbers and will them to keep moving. I pray to the Gods as well. My efforts are ignored. The car slows. No, not the lobby! Not now! Bouncing to a halt, my heart freezes. The door opens. The light pours in. Standing before me …

It was agreed. They would flee through the back, away from the main military force, away from the gatling gun, away from the fire Dolan had started under the army’s protection, away from the town they had fought so hard to save and toward the wooded banks down by the river beneath the cover of darkness.

“I’ll go out first In order to draw the fire of the soldiers and Dolan’s forces, then you go, Mr. McSween, behind the others.”

“If you go out there first, I’m going with you,” Tom O’Folliard announced.

“And me,” echoed JoséChavez y Chavez.

“The more, the merrier,” smiled the Kid. “I just don’t want Mr. McSween out there alone.”⁸⁶

… is no one! I exhale in relief. The Gods obviously support my decision to return. But the Gods only help those who help themselves. I can’t risk another close call like that again. I hold the elevator and peer out. I hear the front door open, Tony greeting a dweller. I must make a dash for the stairway. Nobody walks up the stairs in this building, not even to the second floor. I stumble into the hallway sensing critical eyes burrowing into my back. I shiver involuntarily as I grunt open the stairwell door. I squeeze in, the cool air flushing my face, the door echoing shut behind me. Finally, I’m safe.

Now for the difficult climb home.

As they huddled in the back room of the once stately McSween home, the fire strengthened It’s grip around them. Flames from the celling leapt down upon the floor. As Tom and Chavez waited for Billy to give the signal, the Kid coolly rolled a cigarette. When a flaming board pounced from the celling beside him, he looked heavenward, said, “Thanks for the light,” and took obvious pleasure in smoking his final shuck.⁸⁷

Staring up the stairs, I hesitate momentarily. It doesn’t seem fair that I should be forced to climb such a steep rise. It adds insult to injury now that I can’t go outside, that I have to delay nourishment and other simple pleasures. Still, I brace myself for the heavy exertion and begin the difficult ascent home.

When Billy charged out the door and into the back yard, an army of guns opened fire. With both six shooters blazing, he yelled to O’Folliard and Chavez, “Make for the rear gate while I cover you.” Clutching Billy’s Winchester to his chest, Tom ran for his life Into the shadows as José and the Kid lay down a line of fire before following close behind. McSween, Instead of using the fusillade aimed at the Kid to cover his escape, waited for the boys to clear the fence before stepping out himself. Armed only with a bible, he declared his surrender.

“As God Is my witness, I surrender. Who among you will take charge of this humble prisoner?”

He was answered with another hall of bullets, and this time they did not miss.⁸⁸