Chapter Thirteen

I lie upon a hospital bed in an empty white room. I’m paralyzed. Trying to move, even just a toe or finger, causes me to experience a dizziness that increases the harder I press. Trying to speak fills me with such nausea that I’m racked with the fear of suffocating on my own vomit like a man with his broken jaw wired shut. I try to relax as the violent heartbeats stab my chest with clublike precision.

The manchild enters the hospital room dressed as a Mexican vaquero. I notice a slight wisp of a beard beginning to settle upon his boyish face. He grabs a pillow and lowers it over my head.

The room darkens. I’m unable to breathe. I struggle hopelessly. I begin to spin in a furious whirlpool becoming dizzy beyond tolerance, nausea creeping up the throat. Like a skin diver rushing to the surface for air, my lungs scream to breathe until I give in and they fill with water.

I’m dying. I feel myself rise through the ceiling like passing through a soft cloud. I enter a puffy white tunnel circling skyward. From below a faint voice beckons me, calling me back. I look down and see an old man in a wheelchair. Great-grandfather! His voice gets louder. I make out his plea …

“Hello … Hello … Hello …?”

I reach over, grab the answering machine and pull it out of the wall. I take it by the tail and swing it overhead. It smashes into the wall breaking into shards of plastic that bounce on the floor before settling along the baseboard.

I pause before the sudden silence. Light beams squeezing through black curtains flay the dust swirling in disturbed fury.

AND THE LORD SAID UNTO MOSES, SPEAK UNTO AARON THY BROTHER … THAT HE DIE NOT: FOR I WILL APPEAR IN THE CLOUD UPON THE MERCY SEAT.⁸⁹

Sun streams poke my eyes. Helios is not happy. Neither am I. Fortunately, Helios will soon ride his fiery chariot over the horizon. “The sun is too harsh for men to view directly,” the Igbo observed, “so we must interpret the shadows in order to see the light.” Man has always attempted to interpret the shadows. Modern man has developed photography in which light is used to burn a shadow on paper in an attempt to freeze reality. This shadow is now trusted more than words. However, according to the Igbo, dreams “are the shadows of reality,” and they interpreted dreams to reveal great truths. Spirits, both good and evil, could enter dreams and deliver messages or even possess you.

What would the Igbo have said about photographs? When first confronted with this technology, most ancient peoples believed that photographs robbed you of your soul. Photographs of the dead often do seem to be possessed by some spirit. When I stare at an old picture of a family member or friend, I feel closer to them, sometimes even hearing their voice in the back of my mind—how they might feel about something or someone, or what they would say if asked.

I suddenly remember the two photographs I had just been dreaming about.

Upon his deathbed, L.G. Murphy listened intently to Dolan’s rendition of the five-day battle. Against his doctor’s orders, the major lit a cigar that Dolan had smuggled in. He washed down the blood he coughed up with his first whiskey in months. Dolan, however, spared his dying benefactor the business books for if he offered him those they’d really kill him.

The protégé had followed his mentor’s teachings faithfully and, subsequently, had run the business into the ground. The House was bankrupt. It was a particularly bitter pill for Dolan, still young and vital, to swallow. With both Tunstall and McSween finally dead and no one left to challenge him, Dolan was broke. Without money, Sheriff Peppin resigned and The House was no longer ‘The Law.’ ‘The Bank’ closed its shutters to howling depositors.

‘The Store’ was claimed by the county. Converted into a court house, the old Murphy/Dolan hangout, where many a scheme had been hatched, now became the new symbol of law and order west of the Pecos. This irony was not lost on the local populace who referred to the new county seat sourly as ‘The New Law.’

However, Thomas B. Catron and the Sante Fe Ring weren’t about to give up influence in the wilderness that they had developed so profitably. They knew that Dolan would be more willing now than ever to compromise himself. Colonel Dudley could still award them cattle contracts for a kickback and also lend a hand with his troops in a pinch. A sympathetic new sheriff was merely a matter of money. District Attorney Rynerson and Judge Bristol still had control over who could be tried, and more importantly, who could not. Chisum, sick with gout and the cancer that would claim his life in a few years, was reeling from the losses incurred while supporting Tunstall and McSween. Suffering even further from the subsequent resumption of rustling, he was scaling back his cattle operations and looking to cut a deal. Maybe he’d even join forces with The Ring to elect a sheriff and rid the county of uncontrollable elements.

There was much opportunity to be found in the rubble of war, and best of all, little opposition. Anyone who dared to cause trouble, however, would have to be silenced and quickly, before they galvanized the war’s discontents. Unfortunately, Billy the Kid, was not the kind to forgive and forget. Nor was he one who took lightly to being told what to do. Types like the Kid had to be made an example to others. For Billy, the war wasn’t over whether he liked it or not.⁹⁰

AND HE SHALL TAKE OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL TWO KINDS OF GOATS FOR A SIN OFFERING.⁹¹

I have the two photographs before me.

A soft twenty-five watt bulb illuminates the two portraits just dimly enough to make out differences and similarities purely, without harsh light stabbing their features beyond recognition. On the left is a postcard reproduced from an original 3” x 2” glass ferrotype. It’s the only verifiable photo of Billy the Kid. From this single reproduction all visions of the Kid have sprung. Writers, historians and film makers have gazed upon it and imagined the man within. Of all the data that has been questioned, debated, revised or rejected, this image alone is irrefutable. Whether we like it or not, all reflections of the Billy the Kid eventually lead us back to this dirty, scratched, reproduction, its features dulled with age.

He wears an inexpensive slouch hat (unsuitable for the trail), a scarf tied in front, a leather vest, a bib shirt upon which, according to experts, is printed a nautical anchor, and a hooded sweater that an old Navajo woman, Deluvina, had sewn especially for him. His dark pants are tucked into a pair of boots with heels adding two inches to his height. Proudly displayed is a watch and chain received from a friend, Dr. Hoyt. In his right hand he holds a Winchester Carbine like a cane, its butt on the floor, and wears a gambler’s pinky ring. It was said of Billy that he “could eat pumpkins through a picket fence.” The light glancing off his front teeth appears to confirm this.

Behind his left hand is holstered a .45 caliber Army Colt pistol. This led to the myth that he was a left-handed gun, later disproved. First of all, ferrotypes are developed backwards. Furthermore, gambler’s pinky rings were worn on the left hand saving the right hand for dealing. No one trusted a left-handed dealer. Finally, none of his contemporaries ever made mention of it. More recent copies have properly reversed the image.

“Billy posed for it standing in the street near old Beaver Smith’s saloon on the main street of old Fort Sumner (long abandoned by the army and purchased by Pete Maxwell, Paulita’s father).

“I never liked the picture. I don’t think it does Billy justice. It makes him look rough and uncouth. The expression on his face was really boyish and very pleasant. He may have worn such clothes as appear in the picture on the range, but in Fort Sumner he was careful of his personal appearance and dressed neatly and in good taste.”

- Paulita Maxwell92

This faded photo is all that is left of Billy the Kid. Not a gun, spur, or saddle survives; not a bone or stitch of clothing can be verified. Billy bequeathed it to Deluvina, the old Navajo woman, shortly before he was to be hung, upon her promise not to show anyone, except Paulita, lest it could be used to hunt him down should he escape. He couldn’t have placed it in surer hands. After Pat Garrett shot the Kid in the back and ran out of Pete Maxwell’s bedroom with the old man at his heels, Deluvina was the only one brave enough to enter Señor Maxwell’s room and check on Bilito. Although she rushed out sobbing “my little boy is dead!”, Garrett and the other two deputies waited until daylight before venturing into the room guns drawn.

Postwar Lincoln County was in a state of anarchy. Practically speaking, both sides lost. Tunstall and McSween were dead. Murphy was dying. Dolan was bankrupt and drinking heavily. In war, there may be no justice, but there is authority. Now, there was neither.⁹³

The other photo is of Harry O’Brian, alias Honest Harry, my great-grandfather, who is so old that no one, not even he, knows when he was born. It is said he was already middle aged when he had my grandfather (who died before I was born). The doctors estimate he’s well over a hundred years old, but they can’t verify his age until after he’s dead. Written on the back of this black and white print, yellowed with age, is “1959,” a year before he entered the nursing home. He already looks a century old. Still, he stood erect, clean shaven, wearing a Fedora, tie, and grey three-piece suit. In his vest, a watch chain is clipped to his left pocket leading to his right. In his left hand, he grasps a cane with an old ring on his pinky. They say he was a bookie at the track before the state took over horse betting. That’s how he got his name Honest Harry. He never wrote a thing down: figuring the odds, taking bets and determining the pay offs all in his head. Never once did he miscalculate or fail to pay on a winner.

Sheriff Kimball, who replaced an unpaid Peppin, was without a budget for deputies or bullets. Until the Santa Fe Ring or some new benefactor could reassert itself, he wisely kept out of sight.⁹⁴

I look side to side at each reproduction, squint, go in and out of focus, lean forward and pull back. The boy and the old man: how the body sags, the skin wrinkles, the cheeks sink in. The teeth get replaced by dentures. The ears enlarge and drag. The eyes grow sullen and fade. It’s as if the whole body just gives up trying to hold itself together allowing the chaos of the world to pull at it until, finally relaxing, it sinks into turmoil and oblivion, never to be heard from again. Unless …

The Igbo wore ceremonial masks of their ancestor’s portraits so their souls could then possess them. Then, as egwugwu, they could make judicious decisions on everything from when to plant yams to matters of criminal law. Would a photograph’s graven imagery have reminded the Igbo of their egwugwu masks? Could a photograph also impart the wisdom of the dead, or has modern man so closed himself off to such things that he can no longer hear their voices? Does the failure to hear our ancestor’s voices lead us to lose all sense of honor and decency; to commit foul and unnatural acts?

Meanwhile, with no source of income for the hired guns and cutthroats drafted into the war, they turned their attentions to pillaging the land. Jesse Evans re-formed his gang and found easy prey among the tired pioneers straggling in from the east. The Dona Ana bunch (once mercenaries for Dolan and led by ex-deputy John Kinney) went on a rampage throughout the native New Mexican community, shooting both men and children, raping the women, and stealing anything in the villages of value as they burned churches in their wake. The Three Rivers Boys, who were relatively well behaved, now felt free to rustle as much cattle as they could rebrand without fear of retribution.

Conversely, previously law-abiding citizens now felt free to seek retribution for outrages committed by their former brethren under the guise and protection of war. Local patriarch, Hugh Beckwith, blamed his brother-in-law for dragging one of his sons, Bob (killed in McSween’s backyard), into the war. He loaded his shotgun with ten rounds of buckshot and threw down on his sister’s husband. He had the common courtesy, however, to tell his sister, as she held his nephew, to step aside, “because I will pull the trigger either way.”

Such tales failed to move Colonel Dudley, the only authority left in the territory. His response was to finally enforce Washington’s non-intervention directive giving his men strict orders to stay out of civil disputes. He then sank into a drunken stupor, ignored the pleas of the local populace, and patiently awaited an inquiry appointed to investigate his complicity in the death of McSween.

I take out the old watch Great-grandfather gave me as a child. The gold has faded to a dull grey. The hands are broken, the glass cracked. Gone are fob and chain. The lid, which once lifted to mark time over countless days, last opened long ago. If this was the watch in my great-grandfather’s photograph, could it also be the watch from an even older epoch of history? If so, how did it get into my great-grandfather’s possession?

Today’s Igbo save everything. Pieces of broken technology get recycled into all kinds of practical uses. Old clothes are patched into generations of outerwear. Any bottle, can or jar, be it plastic, glass or tin, makes for fine tableware. Old iron is collected by the local “bender” who melts it down into tools. Broken Styrofoam, old light bulbs, torn and mauled linoleum, mangled machine parts, even tangled shreds of hair and nail clippings—they easily find their way to the local juju market which straddles a tenuous line between this century and the last. For the Igbo, there isn’t an item, no matter how seemingly useless, that doesn’t possess some value, or why would it have been produced in the first place? The greater the mystery of its reason for creation—of the space and time it must have traveled with some forgotten purpose—the greater its power for wonder and enchantment and, if nothing else, a fine ornamental curiosity for a knick-knack shelf consisting of alien artifacts from the 20th Century. I pocket the watch as a talisman of good luck. May it guide me to do the right thing.

Recent immigrants, attracted to the West by the government’s promise of free land, law, and order, began to flee back to the east complaining bitterly of the outrages and general lawlessness. President Hayes, having won a hotly contested election by one electoral vote (and a minority of voters), decided to replace the corrupt governor, Axtell, with the Bible-thumping, Civil War General, Lew Wallace.

Governor Wallace promptly pardoned everyone and turned his attention to finishing the biblical novel, Ben Hur, his one-way ticket out of such a god-forsaken frontier post.⁹⁵

AND HE SHALL TAKE THE TWO GOATS, AND PRESENT THEM BEFORE THE LORD AT THE DOOR OF THE TABERNACLE OF THE CONGREGATION.⁹⁶

Ironically, the amnesty proclamation seemed to work. With Lincoln County looted out, most of the gangs disbanded its members moving on to fresher pastures. Those with roots stayed, but many took advantage of their clean slates to start over. Most of the Regulators got back to what they were doing before they rose up to challenge The House monopoly. Frank and George Coe went back to ranching on the Ruidoso. Unable to convince his close friend to do the same, Fred Waite left Billy the Kid behind and returned to Indian territory to serve as a tax collector. The mean and menacing Doc Scurlock moved his family to Texas and became a school teacher. On the other side, Colonel Dudley was exonerated at his trial (which featured a hostile cross-examination of the Kid by the Colonel himself). Even Dolan appeared to embrace a more civilized order when, through intermediaries, he offered the Kid an olive branch.

The peace parley took place on Main Street in Lincoln on February 18, 1879, exactly one year to the day an unarmed Tunstall was shot to death by the posse authorized by Sheriff Peppin but led by Dolan. All participants were loaded for bear. Dolan brought Billy Mathews (who had shot Billy in the thigh at the Brady shootout) and Jesse Evans (who led the sub-posse that arrested Tunstall). Billy came with Tom O’Folliard and Jose Salazar (both had followed Billy out of the burning McSween house). They actually worked out a six-point agreement and celebrated with a few rounds of drink (the Kid abstaining as usual). As they were leaving the bar together in newfound respect and friendship, Dolan got into an argument with Huston I. Chapman in the middle of Main Street. He shot the unarmed, one-armed lawyer for refusing to dance. Chapman had been representing Mrs. McSween against Dolan and Colonel Dudley. His methodology included a healthy mixture of prosecution (for her Husband’s murder); civil suits (for property lost); and a letter campaign to the governor, the president, and local newspapers discrediting the Ring. In other words, according to Dolan, he was a man “that needed killing.” The Kid, O’Folliard, and Salazar witnessed the murder, but were held at bay by Mathews and Evans who had their guns drawn first.⁹⁷

Chapman’s death gave the Ring an opportunity to re-consolidate its power in the region utilizing a spin that modern public relation firms would envy. At first, it looked bad for Dolan. Angered that his amnesty proclamation had been ignored, Wallace issued orders to the military to arrest Dolan for the murder of Chapman with Evans and Mathews as accessories. All three surrendered voluntarily with Dudley providing comfortable quarters at the fort.

Finding witnesses willing to testify wasn’t so easy, however. Few were brave enough to risk “protective custody.” After meeting with local citizens, Wallace came to the realization that William H. Bonney, known locally as the Kid, was his man. He was highly praised in the community and afraid of no one. Although Billy desired a clean slate, he feared the local Ring-controlled authorities wouldn’t recognize it without a governor’s pardon.

Wallace issued a 100 dollar reward for Billy Bonney, alias the Kid, delivered alive, although nobody dared attempt to collect it. Through intermediaries, however, a meeting was finally arranged.⁹⁸

AND AARON SHALL CAST LOTS UPON THE TWO GOATS; ONE LOT FOR THE LORD, AND THE OTHER LOT FOR THE SCAPEGOAT.⁹⁹

“At the time designated, I heard a knock at the door, and I called out, ‘Come in.’ The door opened somewhat slowly and carefully, and there stood the young fellow generally known as the Kid, his Winchester in his right hand, his revolver in his left.

“‘I was sent for to meet the governor here at 9 o’clock,’ said the Kid. ‘Is he here?’

“I rose to my feet, saying, ‘I am Governor Wallace,’ and held out my hand. When we had shaken hands, I invited the young fellow to be seated.

“‘Your note gave promise of absolute protection,’ said the young outlaw warily.

“‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and I have been true to my promise,’ and then pointing to Squire Wilson, I added, ‘This man, whom of course you know, and I are the only persons in the house.’ This seemed to satisfy the Kid for he lowered his rifle and returned his revolver to his holster. When he had taken his seat, I proceeded to unfold the plan I had in mind to enable him to testify to what he knew about the killing of Chapman at the forthcoming session of court two weeks later without endangering his life. I closed with the promise, ‘In return for your doing this, I will let you go scot-free with a pardon in your pocket for all your misdeeds.’

“When I finished, the Kid talked over the details of this plan for his fake arrest with a good deal of zest. He even ventured the suggestion that he should be hand-cuffed during his confinement in order to give a bona-fide coloring to the whole proceeding.”

- Governor Lew Wallace100

Shortly after the Kid agreed to let himself be “arrested,” Dolan et al conveniently escaped from the prison at Colonel Dudley’s Fort Stanton. Billy lived up to his side of the bargain with Governor Wallace testifying in the case against Dolan. However, no one ever bothered to re-arrest Dolan, so while Billy was hauled in and out of the court room unshaven, dressed in rags and chains, and guarded by two heavily armed deputies, Dolan walked freely in and out of the courtroom, clean shaven and well dressed. Further compounding the state’s case was Judge Bristol who had known ties to The Ring. In fact, The Ring’s leader, T.B. Catron himself made a rare trip down from Las Vegas just to defend Dolan. It’s no coincidence that Bristol and Catron were both Free Masons, but so was the prosecuting attorney, District Attorney Rynerson, who didn’t even bother to interview his star witness, Billy the Kid, before the trial. Surprising no one, all charges were eventually dropped against Dolan as well as Evans and Mathews in absentia.

By this time, most of the smoke had settled and Wallace was already taking credit for bringing peace to Lincoln County in the same vein that he took credit for having saved Washington, D.C. fifteen years earlier during the Civil War. In July of 1864, he had been called upon to defend the nation’s capital only to be routed by Jubal Early at Frederick leaving 1,000 men behind in a hasty retreat. Fortunately, the prisoners slowed Early’s advance on Washington long enough for Grant’s last minute reinforcements to entrench themselves. Now, outmaneuvered by The Ring, Wallace again retreated. This time he left behind his loyal witness to answer for his actions. While Wallace returned all his attentions toward completing his masterpiece, Ben Hur, Billy was still in jail without a pardon. Rynerson was now free to turn all his attentions toward convicting Billy of the war crime of killing Brady, ignoring both the governor’s amnesty proclamation and the fact that Billy was but one of a group of Regulators. Billy, seeing the writing on the wall, escaped jail yet again, leaving his own message carved into the stockade.

William Bonney was incarcerated here

first time December 22nd 1878

second time March 21st 1879

and hope I never will be again

Billy, the only Lincoln War veteran charged with a crime, was officially an outlaw on the run, yet again.¹⁰¹

To the Santa Fe Ring, trying to regain control, Billy was a thorn that had to be removed. In order to convince the Lincolnites that their man Dolan was back in the saddle again, the Kid had to be made into an example. They had tried peace, intimidation, and the law, but they still had a weapon of which they themselves had yet to realize the full power: propaganda. With a slew of Ring subsidized papers (The Albuquerque Review, Grant County Herald, Las Cruces Semi-Weekly, Las Vegas Gazette, Lincoln County Leader, Roswell Daily Record, and the Sante Fe New Mexican), they could spread the word that there was a new outlaw among us, one unlike any before. Painted as young and ruthless with extraordinary physical gifts, the infant rascal proved an infectious scapegoat. Other papers eagerly followed suit.

Between articles on alleged misdeeds and atrocities committed by the teenage terror, the Las Vegas Gazette presented an ongoing serial entitled “The Forty Thieves,” an action-adventure-romance that featured the “boy bandit king.” The series proved popular enough to be made into comic books and dime novels back East.

Although the Kid was well respected, even revered in areas immediately surrounding Lincoln and Fort Sumner, outlining towns started forming lynch mobs upon hearing of his arrival.

However, the most damaging article to Billy’s hopes of a pardon, was an editorial in the Gazette that was reprinted in other papers and mailed directly to the governor by an anonymous party. This famous editorial did more to destroy Billy’s reputation than any previous misdeed, real or imagined.¹⁰²

AND AARON SHALL BRING THE GOAT UPON WHICH THE LORD’S LOT FELL, AND OFFER HIM FOR A SIN OFFERING.¹⁰³

You Lew Wallace

Dear Sir

I noticed in the Las Vegas gazette a piece which stated that Billy the Kid a name given me by certain Papers was the captain of a land of outlans. There is no such organization in existence. So the gentleman must have draws heavily upon the imagineation.

My business at the white oaks at the time I was waylaid and my horse killed was to see judge Leanard who had my case in hand in order to Defend me. He had written to me to come up as you had allowed him the power to get Everything Straigtind up. I made my escape on foot to a station. forty miles from the Oaks kept by Mr. Greathouse. When I got up the next morning the house was surrounded by an outfit led by one Carlyle. Geathouse went out to speak with them and then carclyle came into the house and demanded a surrender. I asked for their papers and they had none. So I concluded it amounted to nothing more than a mol and told Carlyle that he would have to stay in the house and lead the way out that night. Soon after a note was brought in stating that if Carlycle did not come out inside of five minutes they would kill the station keeper. in a short time a shot was fired on the outside and Carlyle thinking Greathouse was killed jumped through the window and was killed by his our Party they think it was me trying to make my escape. the Party then withdrew. They returned the next day to lurn an old man Spencers house and Greathouses also.

There is no Doubt but what there is a great deal of stealing going on in the Territory and a great deal of property is taken across the Plains as it is a good outlet but so far as my being at the head of a land there is nothing of it. In several instances I have recovered stolen property when there was no chance to get an officer to do it.

One instance for Hugh zuler post office Puerts de Luna another for Pabls Analla same place if some impartial Party were to investigate this matter they wuld find it far different from the impression put out by the Papers and others who are out to get me but why I do not know.

Yours Respect.

W. H. Bonney¹⁰⁵

“Others with prices on their heads simply moved on to greener pastures, why didn’t Billy?”

- Thomas Milton Seagraves107

“I will say that I would not have hesitated to marry him and follow him through danger, poverty, or hardship to the ends of the earth in spite of anything he had ever done or what the world might have been pleased to think of me. That is the way of Spanish girls when they are in love.”

- Paulita Maxwell108

THEN SHALL HE KILL THE GOAT OF THE SIN OFFERING.¹⁰⁹