April 15, 1881
The jailer’s keys jangled. He entered the cell block followed by two men. “Time to go, Kid. This here is Deputy J. W. Bell. I believe you know Deputy Olinger. They’re here to take you to Lincoln.” He fitted a key in the door and unlocked the cell.
Bell stepped in. A man of average height, the deputy had an easy manner about him. He had a full mustache, a twinkle in his eye and smile lines at the corners, hardly the demeanor of a hardened lawman. He manacled the Kid’s wrists and feet. “This way, we got a prison wagon out front.” He led the way toward the office. Olinger waited at the cell door.
Billy glanced at the big deputy as he passed. “Bob.” He managed a crooked grin.
“That’s Deputy Olinger to you, boy. You best remember my rules and fast, Kid, if you know what’s good for you.” His eyes and a cruel curl at the corner of his mustache filled in or else. He fell in behind the prisoner.
Spring could be dreary. A cold light rain fell from folded felt clouds, rendering muddy ruts still stiff with winter frost a slippery slime. The prison wagon matched the mood. It was a circus wagon for wild animals without the bright paint and gold leaf. Bell opened the cell on wheels and helped Billy hoist his heavily chained limbs inside. Seating consisted of rough wooden benches bolted to the floor. The wagon might hold as many as a dozen prisoners. Billy was the only passenger for this trip. The door clanged shut. Bell twisted the key in the heavy padlock.
He tied his saddle horse to the back of the cage and climbed up to the driver’s box. Olinger put on a slicker to ward off the rain. He toed a stirrup and launched his bulk into the saddle of a sturdy bay. He nudged the horse up alongside the wagon and patted his rope.
“Enjoy the ride, Kid. It won’t be long now.”
“Hey up!” Bell called to the mule team. The wagon lurched forward, rocking its way over the muddy ruts.
April 17, 1881
The campfire snapped and popped sending showers of sparks into a cold black sky. Bell and Olinger sat beside the fire with plates of hardtack, jerky and beans. The circle of firelight illuminated the wagon beyond the comfort of its warmth. Billy huddled on a bench, cast in orange and black shadow bars. He shivered with the cold. The beans had gone cold on his tin plate by the second forkful.
“Hey J. W., it’s cold out here. How about lettin’ me sit by the fire some?”
Bell glanced at Olinger. “He’s all chained up, Bob. Don’t seem like it’d do any harm.”
Olinger scowled. “Get used to it, Kid. The only place you’re goin’ is to a cold grave. The next heat you see is likely to be in hell.”
“Com’on, Bob,” Bell said.
“Let him be.” He turned toward the wagon. “You ever seen a hangin’, Kid?”
No answer.
“Too bad if you haven’t. It’d give you something to think about besides bein’ cold. Me, I seen quite a few back in Fort Smith. The first thing the good people of Lincoln have to do is build you a gallows. One with a trap door that breaks clean. You cain’t have a good hangin’ without a clean drop. In Fort Smith they did enough hangin’s, they had a permanent gallows. You always got a clean drop on that gallows. They had good hangmen too. No substitute for experience when it comes to a good hangin’. Those boys knew how to tie that noose proper. They knew where to put that big old knot for the best chance to break your neck. That’s a good hangin’, when they break your neck. If I was you I’d be most worried about the hangman. Don’t expect they got that much experience up in Lincoln.”
“All right, Bob, ain’t that about enough?”
“Shut up, J. W. I’m just givin’ the boy there somethin’ to think about. It’ll take his mind off the cold. Yeah, Kid, I’d be worried about gettin’ a good hangin’ in Lincoln. You don’t see many bad hangin’s in Fort Smith, but I heard about a few. See if your neck don’t break, you choke to death. A lot of swingin’ and kickin’ goes into that. You piss your pants. Your face gets uglier than ordinary. The hood mostly hides that, but it must not feel too good. Sure looks ugly, though. Course that ain’t the worst hangin’. A real bad one can take your head off. Imagine that. The body falls through the trapdoor. So does the head, unless a course it lands on the scaffold. Then it just sort a rolls around there, spillin’ blood all over. The noose just swings. Yup a bad hangin’ is what I’d worry about. Some inexperienced hangman don’t know how to do it proper. That’d worry me.”
“Go to hell, Olinger.”
“Maybe someday, Kid, but you’ll be there long before me. Sleep well.”
Fort Sumner
April 18, 1881
Dusk crowded the kitchen for light, not yet banished to the need of a lamp. The ashen-faced girl stood framed in the hallway entrance.
“They’re fixin’ to hang him, Deluvina.” She rushed into the older girl’s arms.
“There, there, muchacha.”
“But they’re gonna hang him. They’re gonna hang my Billy.”
“Who told you this?”
“It’s all over town.” She sobbed.
Boots sounded at the front door. Heels clicked along the hall. “I guess she heard,” Pete said.
Deluvina nodded.
“I tried to tell her it wouldn’t come to no good.”
Paulita lifted her chin. She glared watery-eyed over her shoulder. “So you got what you wanted, Pete.”
“No I didn’t, Paulita. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Well I am.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to warn you.”
“That s’posed to make me feel better?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t s’pose so.” He turned on his heel and clumped back down the hall to the front proch.
“He means well, muchacha.”
“I know.” She buried her head in Deluvina’s shoulder. “He just don’t have to be so damn right all the time.”
Deluvina’s gaze drifted over the girl’s head, away to some far seen place. She turned a knowing vision over in her mind, unwilling to say anything unless it should be so. She closed her eyes. The vision grew stronger. A knowing grew firm in her heart.
“I do not see this hanging.”
“I won’t neither.” The girl sobbed. “They say it’ll be down in Lincoln next month. I couldn’t bear the thought a watchin’.”
The Navajo girl saw far. “I do not see this hanging.”
Tularosa
April 19, 1881
The roadhouse amounted to little more than a rest stop on the stage road between La Mesilla and Lincoln. Lincoln County didn’t allow for lavish accommodations. Most nights they camped along the road. Bell and Olinger slept under the stars in good weather, under the wagon in bad. Other than an occasional concession to nature’s call, they kept the Kid in his cage. At least this stop meant a hot meal that amounted to something more than fatback and beans.
As luck would have it, for good or ill, a stage pulled in shortly after they did. As was their custom in such situations, Olinger had the watch while Deputy Bell went inside to see about supper. The custom never left the Kid to himself.
The stage driver announced they’d stop for supper and to change teams. The passengers stepped down from the coach led by a man in dark suit and bowler hat. He looked a little unsteady on his feet as he helped a beautiful woman in a plum colored dress down. She accepted his help without looking any too pleased for the favor. Proper lady, Billy thought, bothered by a drunk drummer. Likely she’d be glad of a rest stop.
“Hey, who you got there?” the drummer called to Olinger.
Olinger glanced at the man annoyed. Most everything annoyed him.
“A prisoner,” he said.
“I might never have guessed. Anybody famous?”
The sullen deputy ignored the question.
A stage hand came around the coach to unhitch the team. “That there’s Billy the Kid,” he said under his breath. “They’s takin’ him up to Lincoln to hang.”
“You don’t say.” He turned to the woman who’d started into the roadhouse. “I say Miss Bancroft, do you know who they have in that prison wagon?”
“I’m certain I do not.”
Her curt reply confirmed Billy’s suspicion. Undaunted the drummer pressed on.
“That there’s Billy the Kid. I read about his trial. These officers are taking him up to Lincoln to hang.”
“Oh, my!” She covered her mouth with a handkerchief filled hand.
“Com’on, let’s go have a closer look. It isn’t every day you see a notorious condemned desperado.”
“You gonna let them make a spectacle out of me?” Billy asked.
“Shut up, Kid. You made a spectacle out of yourself the day you killed Sheriff Brady. For all I care the good citizens of New Mexico can make a sign post out of your worthless hide.”
The drummer tried to take the woman’s arm. She shook him off, but followed him, her curiosity aroused.
Billy sat in gathering shadows as the curiosity seekers approached the wagon. The woman was quite pretty with delicate features, a porcelain complexion and dark violet eyes. They stopped a few steps from the wagon.
“Can’t see much from here,” the drummer said.
They moved closer.
Billy made a sudden lunge at the bars. “Boo!”
“Ahh!” She screamed and shrank back.
The drummer nearly jumped out of his skin.
Billy broke into peals of laughter. The laughter turned to a howl of pain when Olinger slammed his rifle barrel across his fingers where he gripped the bars. “What did you do that for, Bob? I was just funnin’ the folks.”
“Shut up, Kid.”
The woman squared her shoulders. “Is it necessary to strike a defenseless prisoner like that? He certainly couldn’t do us any real harm.”
“You’ve had your look, ma’am. I suggest you move along.”
She looked up into the wagon. “Does he mistreat you like that often?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“He does, then.” She turned on Olinger. “I shall see this matter reported to your superior.”
“This is a condemned murderer, lady. He don’t get no special treatment. Now move along before I have you arrested for obstructing justice.”
“You what? I declare, sir, your conduct is most unbecoming an officer of the law.”
“What’s goin’ on here, Bob?” Bell asked.
“This man is abusing the prisoner,” the woman said. “Are you his superior?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Who is then?”
“Shut up, J. W.,” Olinger said.
“You shut up, Bob. It’s Sheriff Pat Garrett out of Lincoln.”
“And who might you be?”
“Deputy J. W. Bell, ma’am.”
“And this man?” She stuck her chin at Olinger.
“Don’t pay her no mind, J. W.”
“I’ll take care of this, Bob.”
“Ma’am, I assure you, I’ll see to it the prisoner comes to no further trouble.”
She seemed to settle some. “See that you do, though I’m still of a mind to report this man.” She turned on her heel and marched into the roadhouse.
Olinger spat.
Bell handed him a plate of roast beef, biscuits and gravy. “Here you eat this out here. I’ll get you a plate that’s still hot, Billy.”
“Don’t coddle him, J. W.”
“No need to abuse him, either.”
“You handle a sidewinder your way you get bit. I’ll handle him my way.”
Lincoln
April 21, 1881
The prison wagon lumbered up the street to the courthouse under a warm spring sun and a chill northwest breeze. Bell hauled lines and drew the team up along the side entrance to the second-floor jail. He set the brake and wrapped the lines around the handle. He climbed down and set off for the sheriff’s office. Olinger swung down from his saddle and looped a rein over the iron fence to the courthouse side yard. He wandered over to the wagon.
“Your new home, Kid, for a few days at least.” He laughed.
Bouncing around in a box for most of a week had given him plenty of time to think. He didn’t need bully Bob Olinger to remind him they planned to hang him. The way he had it figured he had three weeks to get the routine down and figure his opportunities. One thing was sure. He wanted no part of a rope. He’d bust out of this jail or die in the trying. Either way he’d be better off by his reckoning.
Bell bounced down the courthouse steps with a ring of keys. “Pat says put him up in number two.” He unlocked the cage. “Com’on, Billy, let’s get you settled.”
He stood hunched over, and dragged his chains to the back of the wagon. Bell helped him down and led the way to the side door. Olinger came along with a rough shove that about knocked the Kid down. Bust out or die trying. Either way he promised himself, he’d kill the son of a bitch Olinger.
The side door to the former mercantile known as the House led to the sheriff’s office and jail. A stairway from the first-floor office led to the second-floor jail. Billy followed Bell up the stairs to a landing. A corridor at the top of the stairs led past a closed door to a row of cells. The door caught his interest. Bell paused at the second cell. He unlocked the door.
“In here.”
He stepped inside. Bell started to close the door. “Hey, what about these?” He held up his manacled hands.
The deputy paused. “I guess they can come off now.”
Olinger arched a brow. “You sure, J. W.?”
That made it certain. “I’m sure, Bob.” He removed the cuffs and locked the cell door. Olinger led the way out of the cell block. He went down to the office while Bell took the chains to the door Billy noticed at the head of the stairs. He unlocked it and stepped inside. Billy strained to get a glimpse of what was inside. He could just make the end of a rifle rack. The armory. He cracked his gap-toothed grin. He flexed his wrists where his cuffs had been. He was beginning to get a feel for this jail already.
Bell relocked the room and disappeared down the stairs. Billy stretched out on the bunk. Between the springs and a rickety wooden frame he guessed he might wake himself up if he rolled over. At least it stood still. He must have dozed off on account of waking up to sunlight slanting along the cells from some uncertain source and the tapping of boot heels coming his way. He rolled up on an elbow and brighted.
“Afternoon, Pat.”
“Billy. I see they got you settled.”
“I guess.”
“Supper won’t be along for a couple hours so I thought I’d come by and see if you need anything.”
“That’s right decent of you. I could use a gun, a horse and the loan of your keys.”
Garrett laughed. “I should have known you’d try to impose on my good nature. I don’t think so, Kid. I was thinkin’ more like a Bible or writing paper and pen for a last will and testament or such like that.”
“Hell I wrote Governor Wallace enough letters some might get to thinkin’ he’s my adopted father. All I ever asked for was the pardon he agreed to give me if I testified against Dolan. If he’d a kept that bargain, I’d a rode off and never been no trouble to nobody. But no, the answer’s always the same, no answer. The new governor ain’t even took office yet. I cain’t think of anyone else to write to.”
“Well, there’s the acting governor. He might not pardon you outright, but he might commute your sentence or grant a stay of execution.”
He shook his head. “And get myself caged up for the rest of my days.”
“You might get paroled sometime down the road when all the hot blood simmers down. Things like that have a way of happening.”
“Maybe for some, but things like that don’t hold much for me.”
“Look Billy, I know you want a pardon. You figure you deserve it like everybody else. I might even agree with you, but somehow you got yourself on the wrong side of the politics of this thing.”
“What’s politics got to do with it?”
“More than you might think. The governor ain’t gonna pardon you unless the district attorney agrees. Rynerson ain’t about to do that. You’re a notorious outlaw. He’s fixin’ to ride your conviction all the way to higher office in Santa Fe.”
“And for that, I hang. Who’s the murderer here anyway?”
“All I’m sayin’ is give the governor a chance. Plead for clemency. He may be willing to do that even if he won’t pardon you. Then take your chances on parole. We’ll get a minister to counsel you, attest to your repentance, your reformed character. With a little luck, you’ll be out in a few years.”
“A few years. I’ll think about it.”
Garrett turned. “Let me know if you need anything.”
His footsteps died away in the fading light.