Lucky Billy Page 9

  "My father liked to lead me and my brother up and down Broadway. Had all we could do to keep up with the man. Smoked a big cigar. Threw the stub on the sidewalk and my brother and me foughten over it but the cattle got snippy. There's so many people traipsing up and down Broadway, every time I see a cattle drive that's what I think of. I like it better here."

  "Room to breathe, eh? Did your father come west?"

  "Just my mother and me. And my brother Josie."

  "And where is she now?"

  "In her grave in Silver City."

  Tunstall paused. "I am sorry to hear it. I sometimes feel unworthy of a mother's love. We all do, I suppose. Were you close to your mother?"

  "She's in my mind a lot."

  "What sort of woman was she?"

  "She enjoyed life. It was hard to watch her die. Full of vinegar. Pushy. Always trying to keep me up to the mark when I was a boy. I'm afraid I bucked."

  "How did she die?"

  "Consumption."

  "And is your father living?"

  "I suppose he died. I never saw him again after leaving New York. My stepfather, Antrim—he's in Silver City."

  "Some people have both their father and mother yet grow up devoid of parental affection. My father's gruff and distant but he listens to reason. He lends support to my cause. I've told him repeatedly, now's the time to jump in. Land in New Mexico will be treble its value at this time next year. New Mexico offers as fine a field to rake in a few dollars as anyone could wish for. This is a golden opportunity. Upon my word, when I contemplate the future, it all falls into place. My mind runs ahead, I can scarcely catch up. After you boys see me through this crisis, each of you shall have your own little ranch. I promise you that. Some of us, you see, have title to a sufficient number of spots as to allow those whom we favor to settle themselves upon the intervening spaces. It's a patchwork quilt. You boys will fill it in. I dare say we'll make a powerful association. Me, you, Brewer, Waite, Middleton, Brown. You are sensible men of the highest courage and firmness and ambition. I am willing to assist you all as to money. By Jove, we'll be princes! I can buy all the county scrip available at one dollar and sell it at a dollar-fifty. I intend to control it all if I can. County scrip, land and cattle, loans on cattle. Mercantile goods sold at a nice profit. Government contracts for flour and corn. Absolute control of the price of grain—this means cornering the market. Can you imagine it, Kid? The acquisition of titles to a great many ranches. We move forward like an army as broad as the land, taking all of the various paths to wealth. I feel like an old bachelor, my mind runs on nothing but dollars and cents and, of course, dodging bullets, hem hem. It's a rum business, yes, but we must defend ourselves. I am opposed to any violence that isn't absolutely necessary. Fear of my life has never occurred to me. I keep my hand on my—what do you call it?—'shooting iron'—should trouble arise but that isn't very likely. Did you know I'm nearly blind in my right eye? I dare say, no one knows it. The eye looks perfectly normal when you see it. It's quite an advantage, I think, in many ways. Suppose I ever marry—the possibility is not remote—I shall look at my wife with that eye alone in order to believe that she is perfect and unblemished. This is policy, not fancy, hem hem. All men should do the same. One might call it zoology. My mother is a dear, poetical, religious, warmhearted darling. We differ on religion. Hers is the usual C of E claptrap, mine is selfish and hard. My principle is best expressed by Shakespeare: 'To thine own self be true.' As regards to a hereafter, my ideas are cold. I call on no names, past, present, or to come. I can say that regarding self-control I have not met my equal, or at least I think not. I'm afraid I talk a lot. Sometimes I can't stop. I know what they say about me, they say that brown-coated, beef-eating Englishman and his plans and all his proud talk—"

  Tunstall went silent. Billy glanced toward his boss. His half-moon profile, ragged with shadows, flickered into shape inside the night's emulsion. His smile looked hideous. His normally lidded eyes, or eye—only one was visible—had swollen in its socket and the white was even whiter than his pale skin, white inside white. His talk, the Kid sensed, was full of nervous rattle but nonetheless it stirred his young soul— Can you imagine it? Yes, I can imagine it. My own ranch and cattle, horses galore. Tunstall had opened a curtain in his mind and the spectacle on stage confused him with excitement. Then again he was tired, both of them were tired. "You need some rest, Mr. Tunstall."

  This restarted him. "We're on the homestretch, Antrim. All it takes is holding our heads above water while the land rises and the railroad lays tracks and the people pour in. We'll settle on our ranches, each on his own, and take wives and raise children. It's true, however— wives!" Tunstall was nodding his head in the dark. "It's true the female sex is scarce in these parts."

  "There's plenty of Mexes."

  "You like the Spanish women, eh? Tell me, how do you do it? How do you manage to get them alone? They never leave their daughters five minutes alone, even with a gentleman. A minute after you're ensconced with the lovely one an old hag comes in and sits against the wall and gazes into vacancy." He paused. "By the powers, I'm spent. I'm on my last legs."

  "They sneak out at night."

  "Who?"

  "The daughters. That's how I get them alone."

  "Then you know how to obtain the suet from the pudding. I'm afraid I can't ignore their imperfections myself. Their love of display, their slight knowledge of economy. They invariably possess a tribe of poor relations. I know, I know. The young Spanish women are mighty nice looking. And a lusty young man like yourself—" Tunstall laughed. "I tell all inquiries that I love horses and dogs and that's enough for me."

  "It's enough for me, too."

  "Then you see lovemaking as quite a waste of time?"

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  "What you ought to do is marry a girl whose family still holds a Spanish land grant. You'd secure two things at once. But take care she doesn't lower and degrade you, Kid. The proudest man alive can wind up a brute." His voice had grown fainter and now lapsed into silence. Both men allowed their gazes to drag behind the stars pouring over the horizon. They watched without speaking and Billy's fatigue flowered, grew heavy.

  Footsteps came behind. "My watch," said Fred Waite.

  The Kid swung around and slid off the barricade. "You need sleep, Mr. Tunstall."

  "I could use a little sleep. I'm fairly exhausted. Our little chat has done me good, Antrim. I'm grateful to you boys. Upon my word, we'll weather this storm. We'll leave Gauss here in the morning, he's old, they won't hurt him, assuming they return. It's impossible to tell where they'll show up next. In any case, we'll bring the horses back to Lincoln. Let the sheriff have them. Let him bear the costs of feed until the courts restore them to my possession. We ought to clear out at the first crack of dawn."

  But at the first crack of dawn when everyone was saddled, John Tunstall was still fussing with his travel box, a gift from his father, as he'd once told the Kid. As Billy watched, his boss shrank. Me no longer was a giant. They couldn't go yet, he had to wind his gold half-hunter pocket watch in its velvet plush drawer in the mahogany box with the silver corner brackets and inlaid silver plates, and he crouched above the watch as though panning for gold. Then he had to primp, cut his fingernails, file them, clean his face, and pomade his hair. The lid of the box contained a mirror inside, and Mr. Tunstall placed the box on the barricade, settling it onto a grain sack of earth like a hen on its nest so it wouldn't fall off, to see himself in the mirror. Inside the box were mysterious fluids and creams, soaps, scissors, nail files, a snuff box—sprays!—most in silver cases or silver brocade encasing glass bottles, and each with the initials prominently embossed, J H T for John Henry Tunstall. Billy felt a pang of dread. Absorbed in himself, the Englishman seemed blithely unaware that others were present and watching him and waiting. He needed a shake. Where's that ranch you promised me? I feel sorry for the man, he's just as green as I am. And Widenmann's a lardy bull in a china shop, and Fre
d doesn't care. Only Dick Brewer seems to know what's going on.

  Tunstall sat on the ground and pulled off his boots and removed his hose and with the silver-and-ivory-handled scissors trimmed his toenails. At last, shod again, he packed away the travel box and signaled the others his readiness to leave.

  On the Ham Mills Trail to Lincoln—through bare hills and brown grass, over passes, through canyons—Fred and Billy hung back. Brewer, Tunstall, and Widenmann led, the others kept to the middle with Tunstall's horses and mules, Middleton in their midst in the wagon. "Think the Boys'll come back?" Fred asked his friend.

  "Will the sun rise tomorrow?"

  "If you ask me, Rob nearly got himself shot. How did you ever get involved with those fellows?"

  Billy hesitated. "It was not a choice I made. I was on the dodge then. I just more or less fell in with that crowd and made the best of it."

  "On the dodge from what?"

  "I had a fuss with a man."

  Fred waited. "And?"

  "And I killed him."

  "Is that so."

  "So I left Arizona."

  "For where?"

  "New Mexico."

  "Is that when you met the Boys?"

  "No. I roamed around first. I wasn't well-posted on the best ways of getting along in the world just at that time."

  "But you are now?"

  "I'm getting there. Where I first met Jesse Evans and the Boys was stealing a horse from a church in Mesilla last August or September. They were doing the like. Leading off the best mounts as quiet as mice while their owners inside sang, 'There Is a Happy Land.' I came north with the boys, spent some time at Fort Sumner, partnered up there with a hog farmer named Garrett. Garrett also bardogged at Beaver Smith's saloon. He was tall as a fire pole and me, I'm short, they called us The Long of It and The Short of It. They called us all sorts of things. Both Garrett and me, before he got married, we sugared the women. We had our love scrapes. We had a bushel of fun making the citizens at Sumner think the Boys had come to shoot up the town."

  "Had they?"

  "No. There are pleasures in that town they wouldn't want to disturb. It was us firing shots at midnight in the air. The Boys did steal some cattle nearby to sell to James Dolan for five dollars a head. He sold them to the army for fifteen."

  "Quite a profit."

  "The way he does business."

  The treeless hills around them broke against a raise with dry yellow grass rising to the horizon, and their horses started steaming. Dick Brewer up ahead tempered their pace. "I've been thinking," said Fred. "First you ran with the Boys and now you're with us. You're like Antony, then."

  "Who's he?"

  "First he fought for Caesar and the Romans. Then he fought for Cleopatra and the Egyptians. Have you heard of Cleopatra?"

  "Everyone's heard of Cleopatra."

  "Very pretty."

  "What happened to Antony?"

  "He was muchwhat a lady's man. Like you. First he's on one side then on the other and then there's a war, just like we got brewing."

  "And how did he do?"

  "I didn't get that far."

  Billy looked at Fred, riding easy to his left. Handsome and tall and fully contained, with his whiskey-barrel voice and permanent scowl and rock-steady eyes. He felt drawn to the man; he had a certain dignity. "Who cares what side you're on?"

  "Don't make any difference. Pick one and stick with it."

  Was that a reproach? You couldn't tell with Fred. He never changed pitch, never shouted, never whined. "I agree, stick it out."

  "And Macky's no saint," Fred continued. "A pettifogging lawyer. Mr. Tunstall, I don't know. I suppose he's square. Here we are fighting for Scotch and English swells against the poor Irish."

  "Poor be fucked."

  "You're right about that. Both sides are out to get rich off the other."

  "I think he has principles. Tunstall, not McSween."

  "That's because he's got us to do his dirty work for him."

  "Mr. Tunstall pitches in."

  Fred wavered. Billy sensed him struggling to agree. "Well, I believe in principles."

  "I do, too."

  "One time I found two cockroaches in a flapjack. I thought, one's okay but I draw the line at two."

  The Kid laughed. "One of my principles is never steal the same horse twice. Even horses know my name."

  "Is that why you call yourself William Bonney now? What happened to Antrim?"

  "They're looking for a young man in Arizona by the name of Antrim. I thought it would help if that wasn't me."

  "Is there a warrant?"

  "I didn't wait to find out."

  "Why Bonney, then?"

  "Why not? It sounds nice."

  "But you're not a nice person."

  "No, I am not."

  "So what's the point?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's gotta be a point."

  "Stay alive, that's the point."

  Fred appeared to consider this and nodded. He looked unblinkingly ahead. "What I'd like to get out of this is a ranch."

  "I've paltered with that idea myself."

  "My own, not an Englishman's."

  "He told me last night we'll all get ranches, everyone that works for him. I couldn't believe it. You and me, Fred, we could fall in together."

  "He said that, did he? Do you have a place in mind?"

  "I like that long stretch south of the Peñasco."

  "So do I. Below the ridge? Near the big cutbank?"

  "That's the one."

  They rode in silence for a while. Ahead, their shadows began to grow longer, and the first pines and cedars spotting ridges to the west were backlit by the sun.

  "Let's hope we picked the right side, then," said Fred.

  "Let's."

  The sun in Fred's face had made him cock his hat; he was looking at the Kid. "So what happened with that man you killed?"

  "Which one?"

  "In Arizona."

  "He died."

  Fred paused for a long thirty seconds. "I mean, what's the story?"

  "It was at Camp Grant. The blacksmith there liked bullyragging me. So I bought a gun and the next time he done it I shot him in the gut. He died the next day and I pulled like hell for New Mexico Territory."

  "Where you met the Boys stealing horses from a church."

  "There was some roaming in between."

  "Is that the only man you killed?"

  "More or less."

  "When I just asked about it you said, Which one?"

  "I must have been thinking about Brady's posse. What would of happened if we started firing. Sometimes when things run through your mind it's almost like you've done them already."

  "I know what you mean. So he's the only one you killed?"

  "You asked me that already. Wiat are you, some sort of bounty hunter, Fred? Have you ever killed a man?"

  "No, I haven't. What's it like?"

  "It ain't much. I don't know. Sometimes you can't help it."

  "How did it feel? Did it make you feel bad?"

  "Not bad, not good. I got somewhat excited. Then I settled down." What he didn't tell Fred was the strange way he'd pictured it just before he fired: percussion of impact, spray of dust and blood, sorrowful groan, man flying backwards. Windy Cahill took an entire day to die, the Kid later learned, but by then he'd fled the territory. Riding next to Fred, he worried his mind back along lines he would have chosen to forget if he'd had a choice—back to Silver City after his mother died. At fourteen, he joined Sombrero Jack's gang and began his life of crime with a certain ignominy: stealing butter from a rancher. Later, George Schaefer stole Charley Sun's revolvers, plus his clothes and blankets, and gave the Kid the clothes to hide in his room, but his landlady saw them and called Sheriff Whitehill to teach him a lesson. All my life, he thought now, riding next to Fred, people tried to teach me lessons; it's time I taught them some.

  The wind picked up. The sun was getting colder. Fred seemed content wi
th Billy's answers and said nothing.

  He convinced the softy sheriff to let him have the run of the Silver City jail instead of being locked in his cell, then that night escaped through a chimney. Then he fled to Arizona. These events, in his mind, all seemed to accordion, or resemble the broken surface of a lake whose crests hide the troughs, thereby stringing them together across stretches of tedium. He was fifteen, sixteen, and stole some horses around Fort Grant and again was arrested, this time by Miles Wood who, serving as sheriff, dressed himself as a waiter and hid his gun beneath a tray and pulled it on the Kid as he ate breakfast at the Hotel de Luna.

  Wood marched him to the guardhouse at Fort Grant. Could it be, he wondered now, that Wood had gotten wind of his first escape? He hired a blacksmith to rivet shackles on the Kid but still he broke out, with the help of John Mackie and a rat-tail file, later returning to the Fort Grant area—like a dog to his vomit, Billy thought now. And who should he run into there but the very blacksmith who'd riveted the shackles? At Atkin's Cantina this man recognized the. Kid, knocked him down, slapped his face, mussed his hair, taunted him. He was only a boy! And Windy Cahill was a man, a thirty-two-year-old mick born across the sea in Galway, and Billy didn't have to take it.

  What he remembered was the rage: red, blinding, hot. Cahill pinned him down with his knees on his arms but he managed to free one and draw his pistol and thrust it in his belly. You kill just one man and your hand's in the game and the shame and confusion you felt when he whaled you vanish as a bubble pops. And afterwards the deed blooms as if it's happened a thousand times before and could only transpire this way again, following ancient tunnels and channels inside the hidden world, the one we really live in. Deeds did themselves—you were just the messenger. You've been baptized, little boy. And now you're damned for life. The act of killing doesn't stop when the gun's fired because that little bullet on its big errand sucks you out of yourself, right through the barrel, and one damn thing now leads to another and you have to go along and keep on going, if you don't you're—nothing. You don't even leave footprints. And something hard and sharp now skewers your days, those past and those to come, something like an ice pick driven through a deck of cards. "You still there, Fred?"