Chapter Nineteen

“What was it about this killer of men, this pariah of society, this product of Bowery slum and Western lawlessness that has made him the object of such wide and undimming interest?”148

Shedding clothes in disgust, I draw a hot bath and scrub disease and infestation from my skin. I draw a second bath to fully rinse myself. With a fresh pair of surgical gloves, I lift the infected clothes into the tub and add bubble bath and a dash of bleach.

Beely thee Keed, está muy hombre. All Mexican peepul heez amigos. He steal from el rico an’ give to el pobre. That Beely, hee small like muchacho, but cajónes, I yi yi! El Keed cajones beeg as el toro bravo, thee fighting bull. An’ thee señoritas—ieee! They love thee Keed mucho grande. Thee Keed bee tough with thee muchachos, but tender with thee muchachas. There bee many a maiden with heart saved for heem.

El Chivato heez called, an’ like thee beely goat, hee gentle, but no get heem irritado. Then hee butt heads with any man, sin temor, without fear. ¡An’ loyal! Hee always help thee amigo in need. Just ask Jose Chavez y Chavez. Hee bee muerto, dead, had Beely not help heem. ¿Have you heard thee story of how El Chivato save heem?¹⁴⁹

As I walk into the kitchen to indulge in the supplies I had sacrificed so much to acquire, I’m taken by the light. The midday sun floods the apartment overwhelming my senses. I’ve had enough light for the day. I should be in bed asleep, but find myself oddly energetic in spite of my exhaustion—wired-tired, you might say. After fixing myself a Hershey Bar fluffer-honey-nutter sandwich and a large glass of milk with vanilla ice cream, I settle down in my throne overlooking my newspaper domain. I have so much time to kill before tomorrow, yet I dare not sleep.

El Chivato, San Bilito Bandito, hee thee best three-card monte dealer, west of thee Pecos, south of thee Rio Grande. When El Keed shuffle thee cards, no one ever fine thee queen. Hee an’ Chavez, they partner, el compañeros jugador. When El Keed deal three-card monte, Chavez play heez geetar an’ sing. Chavez gather thee crowd an’ beezy thee players while Beely, hee move thee cards. If there bee trouble, Chavez six-shooter, hee pull an’ cock.

One day, they work on Tunstall ranch, el norte in Nuevo Mexico, an’ El Chivato, hee hear of thee Chavez arrest for dueling south of thee border in Zaragoza. Eet was there Chavez gamble away mucho dinero from thee hombres, so they gather in thee town plaza with mucho rope. Beely ride heez coballo bLanco 130 mile of rough terrain. Hee cross thee muddy Rio Grande, an’ arrive by meed-night.

Beely, hee not know well thee town Zaragoza, an thee night, eet bee negro mucho, so hee listen for thee playing of geetar by Chavez. That bee how El Keed, hee fine heez compadre. Hee wake thee jailer and say in thee tongue of Espana fluente, “I bee el policía federales with dos gringos prisioneros.” When thee guard unlock thee jail, hee get thee six-shooter shove in thee stomach. That night they cross thee Rio Grande on Beely’s caballo blanco. Next day they play three-card monte in El Paso until they earn enough dinero to buy Chavez his own caballo an’ ride back to Fort Sumner in time to take thee hot bath and dress for Señor Pete Maxwell an’ heez Saturday night baile. Beely, hee dance weeth all thee señoritas an’ Chavez, hee play geetar an’ sing. All thee peepul happy to see El Chivato, San Bilito Bandito, back again.¹⁵⁰

As soon as I finish eating, I’m overcome with fatigue. The sun reflects off the building beyond, each flash of light a dagger in my tired eyes. Each apartment (quietly critical by the light of the moon) objects loudly to my existence in the harsh definition of high noon. I’ve had enough of these people telling me what to do, frowning upon my actions, who are they to judge me, me, a soul who bothers no one, one who only seeks to exist at the most modest of levels, who only wishes to be left alone, but isn’t even allowed to leave his home in peace long enough to gather the simplest of sustenance with which to sustain this meager life? How can I be more humble before the Gods than I have become, yet they award me with countless prying eyes.

Searchlights constantly seek me out during the night and spy on me all day, continually criticizing, condemning, doubting my very worth. But I can fight back. I can use their words, their pitiful lives, their own stories of madness and murder to quiet them. I can get the final revenge, snuff them out, silence them for all time. I feel my mind racing now. Eye-prying sun-streaks knife through slices of shade. Devil’s snowflakes dance in the flames. I know exactly what to do and I’m going to do it right now. I stand up.

Everybody like Beely the Keed. Su vista penetrava al corazón de toda la gente. His face went to everybody’s heart.¹⁵¹

Newspapers rise again in triumph, each fitting neatly atop the other. Like an expert brick mason, I rebuild the walls of Troy. Each section of paper rises to block another slice of sinister light. It takes hours, but as the last sliver of sun sets behind the evil building facing me, the last newspaper fits neatly into place blocking out all the apartments completely.

Now, no one can see me. All the leaks are plugged. I can think clearly again. I haven’t slept since the park bench, but I’m too tired to give in. If sleep drags me under again, I’ll only wake gasping for air, if I wake at all, and I can’t afford that, not now, now that I have something to do, something that must be done, a mission, a purpose.

Mr. Smith, My Dear Sir:

I was surprised to hear from you, but am always glad to hear from those who had a good feeling for the Kid.

I can tell you this about him, that he killed several of the most noted outlaws that ran in this part of New Mexico. All of the men he killed got just what was coming to them. I never knew him to shoot a man in the back.

That he ever killed as many men as he is blamed for, or ever killed for money is absurd. He never seemed to care for money, except to buy cartridges with; then he would much prefer to gamble for them straight. Cartridges were scarce, and he always used about ten times as anyone else. Billy was the best shot with a six-shooter I ever saw.

He would go to the bar with anyone, but I never saw him drink a drop. Always in a good humor and ready to do a kind act to some one. Billy never talked much of the past; he was always looking into the future, although he often talked of his mother.

He was a wonder and you would have been proud to know him better.

As Ever,

Frank B. Coe¹⁵²

A reason to live or die—kill or be killed.