Whiskey Jim’s
November 27, 1880
Last light gathered shadows in the golden glow at the day’s end. The Kid sat at a table with O’Folliard, nursing whiskeys, while they watched Wilson and Pickett hoot and holler over a dice game in a dusty corner across the room. The rest of the saloon was deserted. Tables scattered around the large room stood idle, surrounded by the skeletons of empty chairs. Hiding out at Whiskey Jim’s served a purpose what with that Treasury agent having arrested Cage and the Dedricks. They’d sure as hell gotten out just in time. His thoughts drifted to Fort Sumner and Paulita. He’d been away too long. He missed the comforts of the young Maxwell girl. She had a sweet scent about her. He could almost taste it. It got his britches all anxious. He tossed off his drink and poured another.
“Time we get out of here, Tom.”
He cocked his head. “Where you figure we should go, Billy?”
“Fort Sumner’s more like home.”
O’Folliard smiled. “For some.”
“We been here a spell. Hang around too long and word just naturally gets out.”
“Won’t never get out of Fort Sumner.” He couldn’t resist joshing his friend.
“We got friends there.”
He smiled mischievously. “Some do.”
“Aw, don’t give me none of your sass.”
Tom held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’. No offense intended.”
“I know your intended. I’m just lookin’ out for them as ain’t smart enough to look out for theirself.”
“Yo, Whiskey Jim’s!”
The muffled shout from the yard silenced the game. Who’d bother to call out to a saloon when you could just as easily walk in? Somebody expectin’ trouble that’s who.
Greathouse set the glass he was polishing down on the bar, pulled his apron off and came around to the front door.
The Kid and Tom exchanged glances and followed Whiskey Jim’s portly frame to the door.
“Who’s there?” the innkeeper called. He didn’t need a reply to recognize a dozen heavily armed men.
“Sheriff Carlyle, Jim. You’ve got some guests in there we’ve got business with.”
“What guests?”
“Billy the Kid and his boys.”
Billy stepped up behind Greathouse and put a gun to his head. “Best act like a hostage, Jim. It’ll likely go easier that way.”
“Much obliged,” he said over his shoulder. “Glad you’re here Sheriff. They’ve been holdin’ me hostage for days now.”
Carlyle said something inaudible to his deputies. They spread out in the gathering shadows, surrounding the house. He turned back to Whiskey Jim. “Let me talk to the Kid.”
“I’m here.”
“How about letting me come in for a talk?”
“Alone and unarmed.”
“Sure, as long as you let Jim go.”
Billy thought. “Hostage exchange, what do you say Dave?”
Rudabaugh had roused himself from a whiskey haze to stand at the front window. He spat. “Jim’s likely a better cook.”
“Maybe so, but them posse men is less likely to do somethin’ rash so long as we got the sheriff.”
He grunted assent to the logic, nodded to Pickett and tossed his head to the back room. “Tom, you and O’Folliard take the back.” He motioned Wilson to the far side of the front window while he took the other.
Billy nodded. “All right, Sheriff, shuck your iron and com’on in.”
Carlyle unbuckled his gun belt and handed his shotgun to a nearby deputy. He crossed the yard to the porch step, alone and unarmed. “You all right, Jim?”
“I’m fine.”
“Let him go, Kid.”
“He’s free to go.”
Jim lumbered out the door and waddled through the blue shadows as fast as his stubby legs would carry his bulk.
Carlyle stepped inside under cover of the Kid’s gun. He waved to a nearby table.
“Have a seat, Sheriff.”
Carlyle scowled at the gun. “Put that thing away, Billy. I’m unarmed.”
“We’re surrounded.”
“That’s the point. You are surrounded. You boys need to put down your guns and surrender. You ain’t leavin’ here alive any other way.”
“We’ll see about that. I figure if you don’t lead us out of here, I’ll be recitin’ them same verses for you.”
Carlyle shook his head. “Shoot me and you’ve got no hostage, you’re still surrounded and outnumbered. You’re whipped, Kid. Face it.”
“Tough talk, Sheriff. You sound like a man with no thought of dyin’.” He thumbed the self-cocker’s hammer to press the point.
A shot sounded somewhere in the yard. Billy turned to the door. Carlyle bolted from his chair overturning it with a clatter as he dove through the nearest front window. Early evening purple erupted in a ring of muzzle flashes, gun reports and powder plumes. Rudabaugh and the boys returned fire. Carlyle rolled across the front porch. His body jinked and jerked, peppered in lead hail. He crawled off the front porch and fell still in the yard.
Billy saw opportunity in Carlyle’s death throes. “Hold your fire!”
The shooting fell silent, revealing the dead man’s identity to the horrified posse. They’d killed their own, or so it seemed with no accounting for the bullets belonging to Rudabaugh and Wilson. Time passed. The posse drifted back to the front of the guesthouse, leaderless and uncertain, they talked among themselves. After a time, Whiskey Jim came forward.
“They want to claim the body and be on their way.”
The Kid grinned. “Truce,” he said.
Fort Sumner
December 1, 1880
The Kid’s back. The news stuck in Maxwell’s craw as his boots crunched snow crust on the way home from Hargrove’s. Cold moonlight made a ghostly cast of his breath. The young gun had been gone long enough he’d begun to hope they might be shut of him. Well he hadn’t come nosin’ around Paulita yet. Maybe there was still some hope.
He clumped up the porch step, stomped the snow from his boots and stepped into the warm glow inside. He closed the door and shrugged out of his heavy coat. He clenched his jaw at the sound a familiar laugh coming from the kitchen. So much for hope.
He hung his coat on a peg beside the door and paused. Now what? His objections to her seeing the Kid had done no good. In fact they brought out a defiant streak in the girl that likely made things worse. It might be best just to let nature take its course. She was young. He was wild. Neither one had the makings of a future together. He didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t know what more to do about it, short of playin’ the Kid at his own game. He’d as soon kiss a rattler.
The floorboards creaked as he paced the dark passage back to the kitchen. He found Billy and Paulita having a cup of coffee. She tossed a charged glance his way, challenging him not to say anything. The Kid leaned back in his chair and smiled that crooked smile of his.
“Pete.”
“Billy. I heard you was back in town. When did you get in?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“We hadn’t seen you in so long I was beginnin’ to think you’d got lost.”
“Heck no, Pete, I’m like that bad penny that turns up sooner or later.”
Bad penny. “I expect so. You plan on stayin’ long?”
He cut his gaze to Paulita. “Yeah.”
She blushed.
Pete nodded. He stepped to the sideboard and picked up a tin plate and fork. He took a biscuit from a basket on the counter. He ladled fragrant fatback and beans from a pot bubbling on the stove. Supper in hand he headed back down the hall to his room.
“See you around, Billy.”
“See ya’, Pete.” He tossed his head toward the hall passage. “He’s mellowed some.”
Paulita shrugged. Her eyes turned dreamy. “Maybe he knows.”
“Knows what?”
She took his hand. “It’s bigger than he is.”
He twisted a grin. “How’d you know?”
Her eyes drifted beneath half lids. “Them buttons is under a frightful strain.”
He followed her eyes. “‘Pears so.”
“Here, have some more coffee. He’ll be sawin’ logs before you know it.”