t’s an odd thing but, as I get older, the recent past I fades—the names of my great grandchildren, what I read in the newspaper about world events a month ago, who came to visit me last week—becomes like smudged pictures, a child’s crude drawing in broad crayons. Some of the pictures I can make out if I squint hard, others are just meaningless collections of fuzzy lines. At the same time, the distant past, the years more than seven decades ago when I was a young boy, leap into my mind with crystal clarity. The people I met in those days, friends and enemies—Wellington, Santiago, Bill, Victorio, Ghost Moon, even my beloved horse,

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Coronado—take on the aura of legend. They are sharper and more real in my mind than the cheerful nurse who tends to my daily needs and gabbles on about her latest boyfriend as she plumps my pillows, draws my drapes and brings my meals. The meals are disgusting, tasteless slop. I’ve asked for tortillas, beans, spicy stew and a drink of the mescal I shared with Santiago so many times, but she just laughs and tells me that my mashed carrots are good for me. That’s a joke, I’m ninety years old, why should I care what’s good for me? Bill never did, and he was eighteen when I knew him. I’ve been thinking a lot about Bill lately. I knew him as Bill Bonney, but he had many names: Henry Antrim, Kid Antrim, El Chavito. The world knows him today as Billy the Kid. I think continually about the times our paths crossed in Lincoln County seventy-three years ago. For five months our stories, our fates, were inter- twined, whether I wanted them to be or not. I’ve told many people those stories, my kids and grandkids, casual acquaintances, newspapermen, but there’s one story about him I’ve never told anyone. I guess I’m ashamed of my part in it, but there’s not much time left. If I’m ever going to tell it, it’d better be now.

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When I said goodbye to Bill in the summer of 1878, surrounded by the bodies and fires of the Lincoln County War, I was convinced I would never see him again. I certainly hoped not; death seemed to follow wherever Bill went, and I’d had enough of that. I heard about him, of course, in newspapers and dime novels. And some of it might even have been true. I was drifting around, doing odd jobs and wondering what to do with the rest of my life. In the spring of 1881, I landed on a ranch outside Las Cruces. One day, I read that Pat Garrett, the new sheriff of Lincoln, had captured Bill at Stinking Springs and that he was being held in the jail up at Santa Fe. It seemed like Bill was almost royalty, holding court in his jail cell, being interviewed by reporters, writing to the governor and granting audiences with local dignitaries. I smiled at that. Bill would be in his element, charming the curious who came to peer at him through the cell bars. For the three months that Bill was in Santa Fe, I followed his story as if it were a novel. My interest in him revived. In March, I learned that he was to be brought down to Mesilla for trial, less than a half day’s ride from where I was working.

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Bill coming so close made me nervous, but I convinced myself that I had no need to go into Mesilla. I would stay on the ranch and read about the trial in the newspapers. And I did for the first two weeks of April as Bill was acquitted of the murder of Buckshot Roberts. Then, on April 10, one of the ranch hands rides up to the bunkhouse as we’re settling down for dinner. “They found him guilty of Sheriff Brady’s murder,” he yells as he dismounts and barges through the open door. “I met a fella on the trail who was in the court- house yesterday. He told me.” “They gonna hang him?” a man asks through a mouthful of beans. “Don’t know,” the cowboy shrugs. “Sentencing’s on Wednesday.” “It ain’t fair,” another man says. “I heard there was seven or eight men shot Brady from ambush. How come Billy’s the only one ever charged with murder?” “I heard,” someone else contributes, “that Brady weren’t killed right off. The Kid steps out from hiding, cool as you please, and shoots Brady in the head in cold blood. Shot Hindeman too, I heard.” A gabble of voices breaks out, each with a different version of events. I sit silently, the only man in the

4 desert legends room who knows what happened when Brady was shot. I should, I was there. “They’ll hang him fer sure,” a louder voice interrupts my memories. “They’ll never hang Billy the Kid,” someone else says. “He’s broken out of every jail in the Territory. He’ll break out of this one as well.” I leave the speculation and step out into the evening air. For the first time realization dawns that Bill really will hang this time. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, if not for Brady, then for enough other times I can recall. I knew it would happen sooner or later, but a part of me is sorry. His story, complex and violent as it was, is a part of my story and I can’t deny that. Then I decide I’ll go into town on Wednesday to see the sentencing. I have to, all stories need an ending.

The courtroom is packed with a cross section of New Mexico. Filthy cowboys straight off the range stand shoulder-to-shoulder with slick, well-dressed gamblers. Mexicans holding wide sombreros by their sides jostle Apache warriors wrapped in brightly colored blankets. The bearded and balding Judge Bristol presides behind

5 john wilson a broad desk set up on a crude platform, and assorted lawyers occupy a rough table before him. Bill sits on a regular parlor chair to one side, wrists and ankles shackled together. He’s slouching to one side, holding his head in a cupped hand. There’s a sullen look on his face, and he takes no interest in the proceedings going on around him. Bill looks older than I remember, still boyish but with a coarseness to his features that wasn’t there before. Judge Bristol raps the desk with his gavel and the murmurs of conversation die away. “The defendant will rise,” he says. Bill slouches to his feet and stands staring at the floor in front of him. “Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” Bristol asks. The only response he gets is the merest shake of the head. “In that case, I direct that you, William Bonney, alias the Kid, alias William Antrim, be turned over to the sheriff of Lincoln County to be confined in jail in that town until May thirteenth next, on which date, between the hours of nine am and three pm, you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead.” Even though the sentence surprises no one, a buzz of conversation runs round the room. Bill’s eyes don’t even flicker at the news of when he is to die.

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A huge man steps forward, roughly grabs Bill’s shackles and hauls him forward. It’s almost comic to see the slight Bill beside such a giant. “Who’s that?” I ask the man beside me. “That’s Deputy Bob Olinger,” the man replies. “He hates Billy something fierce. Reckon he’ll be smiling when the Kid swings.” Olinger pushes Bill through the crowd toward the door. They pass within a couple of feet of where I am standing. As he draws level, Bill suddenly looks up and meets my eye. He winks and his face breaks into a broad grin. Suddenly he’s the cheerful, charming kid I met on the trail to Lincoln so long ago. “Come visit me in Lincoln, Jim,” he says in a low voice, “but make it quick.” Then, with a shove from Olinger, he’s gone. “What’d he say?” the man beside me asks. “Didn’t catch it,” I reply and push my way out of the courthouse. I stand in the street, as the audience streams out around me, everyone talking excitedly about the sentence. Bill is already back in the small jail next door. I’m surprised that he recognized me and bothered that he talked to me. I had planned to stand anonymously in the crowd and watch. But then Bill never was one to let people

7 john wilson do what they wanted. A swirl of confused emotions runs through me. I had thought today would be an ending, a final severing of my relationship with Bill, but it’s not. His invitation to visit him in Lincoln and that smile of his brings the past vividly to life. This is not an ending, it’s a new beginning. I curse under my breath and kick the dirt. I need to think, but deep down inside I know what I will do.

I come into Lincoln from the south, past the old court- house, Squire Wilson’s house and the low veranda of the Tunstall store. I rein in Coronado and sit gazing at the vacant patch of ground where McSween’s house stood. A grubby Mexican boy in a sombrero several sizes too big for him scuttles up to me. “Hola, señor,” he says, holding his hat on with one hand as he bobs up and down. “I take you to Wortley Hotel.” It’s not a question. “No thank you,” I say. “I know the way.” I dig a coin from my pocket and toss it down to him. He catches it deftly, and I begin to trot past him. “I take Coronado to the stable,” he says. I turn back in the saddle. “How do you know my horse’s name?”

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The boy points to the center of his forehead where Coronado sports a distinctive white star. “And you are Señor Jim. Señor Billy told me you were coming.” So Bill was certain I would respond to his request. The certainty is typical of his arrogance, sending the boy out to meet me is typical of his sense of humor. “What’s your name?” I ask with a smile. “Pablo, señor,” the boy says, returning my smile. “All right then,” I say swinging down from the saddle and handing Pablo Coronado’s reins. “Take him to the livery stable, unsaddle him, brush him down and feed him. Tell the owner I’ll come by and pay him later. I’ll walk over to the hotel and freshen up.” The boy nods enthusiastically and leads Coronado away. I walk slowly down the street that President Hayes called “the most dangerous street in America.” Memories swirl at me from all sides—Tunstall, McSween, Brewer, Brady, they’re all here, and the link to every one is in a jail cell at the end of the street. I stop outside the Wortley Hotel, a single-story adobe building with a narrow front door and small windows, and stare across at the two-story courthouse and jail that used to be Dolan’s store. A large man that I recognize as Bob Olinger, the deputy who escorted Bill out of the courthouse in Mesilla, is standing

9 john wilson beneath the second-story balcony, leaning on a post and cradling a ten-gauge shotgun. He’s staring straight at me. My gaze drifts left, where three men are busy hammering raw lumber together to form a crude scaf- fold. It doesn’t have to be fancy, it’s only going to be used once, then souvenir hunters will scramble to get a piece of the gallows upon which Billy the Kid was hanged. As I turn back, a shadowy figure raises a hand at one of the second-floor windows at the corner of the courthouse. I squint hard but can’t make out more than a shape. Is it Bill? As I turn and go into the hotel, Olinger crosses the street and confronts me. “You the fella that the Kid spoke to in Mesilla?” he asks in an aggressive voice. “I am,” I say. I can see no point in denying it. “What’d that murdering little rat say to you?” I thought of telling Olinger that it was none of his business, but if I want him to allow me in to see Bill, it probably won’t pay to antagonize him. “I’m a friend. He asked me to come and visit him.” “You a Regulator?” “No. I worked for Tunstall, but I never rode with the Regulators. I was a scout for the 10th Cavalry at Fort Stanton.”

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My explanations seems to satisfy Olinger, who nods his massive head slowly. “Cost of a visit’s five dollars and a bottle of good whiskey. You got that?” I nod. “Good,” he says. “Bring them over tomorrow after- noon, before dinner. Garrett’ll be off to White Oaks, so there’ll only be me and Jimmy Bell. You won’t be disturbed, but we’ll be watching you, so nothing funny.” I nod once more. Olinger turns and strides back over the road, swinging his shotgun by his side. I go into the hotel, pay two dollars for a room, wash and eat dinner. I’m not certain I’ve done the right thing in coming here, but the decision’s made now. I will see Bill tomorrow and hope it leads to an ending, but I know nothing ever happens the way you expect when Bill’s involved. I wander over to the livery stable to see Coronado. Pedro is still there. “Señor, Jim. I did a good job, no? Your horse is happy.” I have to admit that Pedro is right. Coronado is standing in a stall, unsaddled and brushed down, chewing contentedly. “You have done a good job,” I say, slipping Pedro another coin. “Thank you.” “You are welcome, señor. You go to see Señor Billy tomorrow?”

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“Yes, tomorrow before dinner. I arranged it with Deputy Olinger.” Pedro’s expression darkens. “He’s a bad man. He treats Billy badly. I think Billy will kill him.” “I don’t think so,” I say. “Bill’s a prisoner in shackles. He’s guarded day and night.” “Billy is a hero.” Pedro’s eyes gleam with enthusiasm. “He is El Chavito. He can do anything. They will never hang El Chavito.” I smile at Pedro’s childish enthusiasm. That’s the power of Bill’s charm. He can make impressionable people think he’s a hero. I know, I fell for it once, but I’ve seen Bill’s other side, the cold eyes that count a human life as nothing. There’s no escape this time. Bill will hang in a few days. “We’ll see,” I say noncommittally. “Good night.” “Good night, Señor Jim. I shall sleep here to make sure that no one disturbs your horse.” “Thank you, Pedro,” I reply, turning and walking back over to the hotel, where I buy a bottle of the best whiskey Sam Whortley has and go to bed.

The next day, I wander around town, killing time. I stand for a long time staring at the pile of blackened

12 desert legends adobe bricks where McSween’s house once stood. The wall where the Regulators hid to ambush Sheriff Brady still stands, complete with the holes they dug to fire through. The blood from all the men who died here has long since soaked into the dry earth, but their ghosts still hover in the air. There’s still a woodpile where I last saw Bill and where he shot Beckwith. I thought then that was the end of our story, but stories don’t always end when you want them to. Maybe today, Bill’s and my story will end. Pedro follows me around, not being a nuisance but always there in the background, ready to answer my questions or run an errand. He’s outside the jail when it’s time to go and see Bill. “You cannot enter with a gun, Señor Jim,” He says as I approach the door. “Olinger will take and not give back.” I hesitate and look back toward the hotel. “I will hold for you,” Pedro says. “I will sit here”— he indicates the wooden boardwalk at our feet—“and Olinger will not touch. I will not let the bad man steal your gun.” I smile at Pedro’s confidence. “All right,” I say, sliding my revolver out of its holster. “Guard it well.”

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“With my life, Señor Jim.” Pedro’s brow is furrowed with such seriousness at the importance of his task that I laugh out loud as I hand my gun over. “I won’t be long.” I go through the front door and enter a long room. Olinger sits to my left, his shotgun lying on a low desk beside him. “About time,” he says, standing. “I’m ready for dinner. You bring the money?” I hand over five dollars and the promised bottle of whiskey. “Good,” Olinger says, pocketing the money and carefully placing the whiskey in the drawer of his desk. “The cowardly little rat’s this way.” Olinger leads me through a door into another room with a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. On the stairs I ask, “Why do you hate Bill so much?” Olinger turns and looms over me. “Because he’s a filthy little sneak who’ll steal the teeth out of your mouth if you let him. He thinks he can do whatever he wants and get away with it. He killed my friend Bob Beckwith. I ain’t about to forgive him for that. Best day of my life’ll be the day that rat swings kicking from the gallows. And if you try anything to prevent that, I’ll put a bullet through you just as quickly as I will him. Understand?”

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I nod and follow Olinger past several cells where men I don’t know sit disconsolately. We enter a large room. One corner of the room, the corner that includes the window I saw the figure at yesterday, has been made into a cell, and the two inside walls are ceiling-high sets of bars. There’s a padlocked door in the bars, and a deputy I don’t recognize is pacing back and forth outside it. Bill is squatting on the floor of the cell by the window. He gets to his feet when he sees us enter. “Hello, Bob,” Bill says, flashing a winning smile. “Good of you to take time out of your busy schedule to drop by. I see you’ve brought me a visitor.” “Shut up,” Olinger snarls. He introduces the other deputy, “This here’s Deputy James Bell. He will shoot you dead just as surely as I will if you step within an arm’s length of them bars. You got five minutes, a minute for each dollar. I’m taking the other pris- oners over to Wortley’s for dinner. James, if he goes near the bars or tries to stay longer than five minutes, shoot him.” Bell nods, but he doesn’t look happy with the order. “Shouldn’t you stay while this fella’s here?” he asks. “I’m hungry enough already,” Olinger replies, “and I get mighty ornery when I’m hungry. If I were

15 john wilson to stay, I might shoot Bonney just for fun. You look after them—just keep your finger on the trigger.” Olinger turns to leave. “A pleasure talking to you, Bob, as always,” Bill says, shuffling across his cell to the bars, the chain of the shackles round his ankles dragging on the wooden boards. “You have yourself a fine supper now and come back all refreshed. I’m looking forward to one more conversation with you.” Olinger grunts a curse over his shoulder. “You stand there,” Bell orders, his hand hovering over his holster. “And no funny stuff.” I look over at Bill. He’s wearing a dark blue bibbed shirt with an elaborate anchor design on the front. He’s hatless and looks in better shape than he did in the courthouse at Mesilla. “Howdy, Jim,” he says with a broad smile. “I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you. What’ve you been doing since we last talked?” “This and that,” I say, not wishing to get into a meaningless conversation. “How are you doing?” Bill laughs out loud. “As well as a man can when the sound of them building his scaffold keeps him awake nights.” “Why did you ask me here?”

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“For a talk with an old friend. Anything wrong with that?” “No, I guess not,” I say. “Besides,” Bill continues, “you’re the only true friend I got left, excepting maybe Deputy Bell here. He looks after me decent, not like that savage Olinger.” “Them jurors in Mesilla got it about right,” Bell says. “You’re guilty of what they say and I reckon you deserve to hang, Billy, but that ain’t no reason to treat you like an animal afore you do.” “And I appreciate that, Deputy Bell, and that’s why I count you among my friends.” Bill turns back to face me. “Everyone else I cared for’s dead now. Some, like my ma, through no fault of others, but a lot—Charlie Bowdre, Big Tom O’Folliard, John Tunstall, Dick Brewer—were killed by men with no concern but lining their own pockets. Now I’ve killed men, I admit that, but I ain’t never shot a man I didn’t have to or who didn’t deserve to die.” Bill’s at his most charming, and I desperately want to believe him, even though I know he’s lying. I’ve seen Bill when that cold look comes into his eyes. At those times, he’s as capable of any evil he accuses others of. Unexpectedly, he changes the subject. “Why did you accept my invitation?” he asks.

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I have to think about that. “To say goodbye,” I reply eventually. “Don’t say goodbye too soon,” Bill says. “I ain’t finished yet.” I’m about to ask what he means when we’re inter- rupted by footsteps and doors banging downstairs. Bill stands and shuffles over the window. Bell tenses, but all Bill does is look out for a moment and then return to the bars. “That’s Bob off to fill that belly of his,” he says with a grin. “That man sure does like his food. Well, I guess we’ll say goodbye then, Jim. I’d shake hands, but I don’t want Bell to have to shoot you.” I’m surprised by the abruptness of Bill’s dismissal. “The five minutes isn’t up yet.” “It don’t take that long to say goodbye,” Bill says. “Besides, I need to pay a visit to the outhouse, too much rich food in here, I reckon, and my friend Deputy Bell here won’t take me if you’re still here.” “Okay,” I say, standing up. “Goodbye, Bill.” “Goodbye.” I leave the room, descend the stairs and exit the courthouse deep in thought. I’m almost back at Wortley’s Hotel before I realize I forgot to retrieve my gun from Pedro. I turn round. Bill and Deputy Bell are leaving by a side door and heading over to

18 desert legends the outhouse. Bill goes in and Bell stands outside. I look around but there’s no sign of Pedro. He prob- ably ran to hide when Olinger came out, and I doubt he’ll come out while Bell’s standing there. I saunter back across the street, nodding to a man leaning on the fence beside the courthouse gate. I’m still wondering what my meeting with Bill meant. Is it the ending I hoped for? Bill exits the outhouse, hauling at the belt of his pants. With Bell behind him, he shuffles slowly back to the courthouse, the chain from his ankle shackles raising tiny whirlwinds of dust as it drags in the dirt. Just before he disappears through the door, Bill looks up and grins at me. “Thank you,” he says. For what, I wonder, coming to visit him? Surely our friendship doesn’t mean that much to him. I move around the side of the building. “Pedro,” I call. There’s no response. I’m about to ask the man by the gate if he’s seen the boy, when I see a small figure crouching behind the outhouse. “Pedro?” The boy leaps to his feet as if he’s been shot. “It’s okay to come out now,” I say. “Olinger’s over at the hotel and Bell’s taken Bill back upstairs.” Pedro stares wild-eyed at me for a moment and then takes off like a rabbit across the field. What’s going on? Then I realize, Pedro isn’t carrying my gun.

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I spin round just as two shots ring out from inside the courthouse. My first thought is that Bill has tried to escape and Deputy Bell has killed him. Then the side door is flung open and Bell stands there. Blood is streaming down one side of his face and he’s clutching his stomach. He takes five or six stumbling steps and collapses facedown on the ground beside the man standing by the gate. At the same moment, Olinger and his prisoners appear out of the hotel. The big man sees Bell fall, draws his revolver and runs over to stand looking stupidly at the body. He still has his napkin tucked into his shirt. I see a movement and look up. The window of Bill’s cell is open and Bill is leaning out, holding Olinger’s shotgun. “Hello, Bob,” Bill says conversationally. Olinger looks up. “I told you I was looking forward to our next talk.” Bill’s smiling broadly. Olinger begins to raise his gun. The shotgun explodes and the contents of both barrels catch Olinger full in his broad chest, hurling him back. He’s dead before his body hits the ground. For what seems like an age, there’s silence. Nobody moves, the prisoners across the street, the man by the gate, me, Bill, everyone is frozen to the spot by the sudden violence. Then Bill turns and addresses the man

20 desert legends by the gate. “I ain’t going to shoot you. This town’s mine at last. Go and get me a prospector’s pick to work on these shackles and saddle a good horse for me.” The man stares up at Bill. “Do it,” Bill says and the man hurries off. I take a step forward, and Bill turns to look at me. “You used me,” I say, bitterly. “It was all a set up. Pedro was working for you all along. He got me to trust him and give him my gun, and then he passed the gun to you through the back of the outhouse.” Bill nods. “That’d be about right.” “You used my gun to shoot Bell. You said he was your friend.” Bill shrugs. “I truly regret that. Bell was good to me, but he would never have let me go. Olinger, on the other hand, deserved every piece of lead I gave him.” Anger is building in me, but there’s nothing I can do. I feel betrayed, but I should have known better. Nothing good ever came from associating with Bill Bonney, and I’ve had enough lessons in that over the years to learn that. The man from the gate returns and throws a small hammer up to Bill, who catches it deftly. “Let me get these shackles off and we can ride off together, Jim. It’ll be like old times. Think about it.”

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Bill disappears from the window, and I hear the sound of the hammer working on the chain. Old times! I want nothing to do with old times except to forget them. Swallowing hard, I turn away toward the livery stable. I saddle Coronado, collect my bags from the hotel and ride out of town. I don’t see Pedro or Bill and I have no wish to. At the edge of town I unbuckle my empty holster and throw it into a clump of bushes. In all the years since then, I never carried another gun. I also never returned to Lincoln, although, I hear it hasn’t changed much. The Tunstall store and the court- house are still there, and I understand some people have made good money showing visitors the bullet hole on the stairs where Bill shot poor Deputy Bell. I never saw Bill again, though I heard of him. It was impossible not to back in those days. Pat Garrett tracked him down and shot him one night at Pete Maxwell’s place at old Fort Sumner, three months after he escaped from Lincoln. It meant nothing to me. I think I finally did say goodbye that day when Bill asked me to ride with him out of Lincoln.

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