Chapter One
Of all the fellows I met during my years wandering about, not one was more likable than Billy the Kid. Something about the Kidāmaybe his squirrel-toothed grin, his big ears, his infectious laughāwon you over. Thatās why Iām glad I didnāt kill him when I had the chance. Maybe I should have because he had threatened me, but it was nothing personal, just that we had both taken a fancy to the same seƱorita.
I never intended to ride into New Mexico Territory, but I didnāt intend to get hanged, either, and thatās what wouldāve happened had I stayed around Leadville, Colorado, after the killing. It seems a lawyer up there, who was no more than a polecat in a fancy suit, took a shotgun blast to the back. He didnāt take it well because he just up and died. But like all skunks his killing raised a stink, and folks figured I was the man who had performed this valuable public service. These folks, a lot of good and decent people when they were sober, decided to throw a necktie party in my honor, but I declined the invitation, thanks to a little help from a friend and a mule I called Flash.
As fast as Flash could carry me, which was a little quicker than I could walk and a lot slower than I could run, I angled southeast toward Trinidad and the New Mexico line. From my buffalo-hunting days in West Texas I knew the southeast corner of New Mexico Territory was a good place to hide, an outlawās paradise. Of course I didnāt feel like an outlaw, but those fine folks in Trinidad hadnāt really considered my thoughts when they decided otherwise. I wasnāt an outlaw. An outlaw galloped away from trouble on some fine stallion, but there I was trotting through Colorado on a damned mule. A few years later when I ran into an acquaintance from Leadville, I learned that Flash, slow as he was, probably saved my life; the law couldnāt figure out how I could have gotten out of town since no horses were reported stolen and nobody had seen me get on the stage.
This was back in the fall of 1877āI remember it because just a few weeks earlier we had celebrated the first anniversary of Coloradoās becoming a stateāand the trains still hadnāt reached Leadville, in large part because of a dispute between the Santa Fe and the Denver and Rio Grande railroads. Everybody thought the railroad was progress, and maybe it was for law-abiding citizens, but on this trip I had my doubts. The problem was, the telegraph followed the railroad wherever it went, and the railroad was planning to go everywhere, if you believed every land speculator with a deed and every promoter with a dream. The telegraph sure limited a manās freedom, especially when he couldnāt escape one county without the sheriff in the next learning of his departure.
Without any problem I made it past El Moro, a little burg that was the southern terminus of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad and the end of the infernal telegraph. In Trinidad, though, I wasnāt so lucky. I was just riding through town, hunkered low on the muleās bare back, my hat pulled down over my eyes, when a clump of schoolboys started hurrahing me for riding such a superb animal as Flash. I donāt know that it hurt the muleās feelings, Flash being no faster of mind than he was of foot, but it kind of riled me that here I was minding my own business and these six yearlings were laughing at my mode of transportation. It didnāt help my dignity any when Flash broke wind, and those six whistles took to slapping their knees. I didnāt have a razor strop to impart some manners on their backsides, but I had a pistol tucked in my britches. The problem was, I only had three bullets and I couldnāt get those boys to line up single file for me. If I was going to get blamed for a positive contribution to society, like shooting a lawyer, I might just as well do something bad so when the law caught up with me I wouldnāt be going to jail for nothing. I jerked the halter on my mule, figuring to teach those schoolboys a lesson in manners, but Flash just kept trotting. For a mule, he had good sense for avoiding trouble.
Outside of Trinidad, Flash began the ascent up the rugged trail leading to Raton Pass and New Mexico Territory. That trail was carved out of the mountain almost single-handedly by Uncle Dick Wootton, a grizzled pioneer who was so damned proud of his work that he charged a toll of everyone passing his place. It was getting dark, but that was fine because I was broke and figured I would have to slide past the wooden gate and hope Uncle Dick Wootton and his hounds didnāt discover my trespass. Getting by Woottonās gate unpaid was akin to slipping daylight past a rooster, but I was lucky. It took to storming and raining, driving the dogs to shelter and Wootton to his stove. I squeezed past the tollgate free and got a cold shower to boot. On the downward slope of Raton Pass I breathed easier, knowing I was in New Mexico Territory and beyond the reach of the telegraph.
By then Iād about worn my neck out looking over my shoulder, but I kept riding south toward Lincoln County. At that time it took up the southeast quarter of the territory and was said to be the largest county in all of the United States. The eastern half was grassland broken down the middle by the Pecos River valley. Without owning a single acre, the cowman John Chisum controlled this grazing land from south of Fort Sumner to near the Texas border. The countyās western half was a series of mountains and valleys where the Mexicans had lived pretty much peacefully for decades and where white men were moving in to set up farms. The county was a paradise for rustlers because of John Chisumās huge herds to the east and all the mountainous hiding places to the west.
A man on the dodge grows suspicious of everyone, so I had gone out of my way to avoid people, trouble, and, the way it worked out, food. After two weeks on the owl hoot trail, the back side of my belly button began to rub against the front side of my backbone, I was that hungry. I stuck to the foothills in the western half of Lincoln County, figuring Flash could never outrun a good horse on the flat land, but he could at least carry me to cover where I could defend myself with my three bullets.
Hunger can cloud your judgment like a thunderstorm blots out the sun. One evening just before dusk I caught a whiff of the best thing I had ever smelled in my lifeāroasting beef. By then I didnāt care if the devil himself was cook as long as I could have a few bites.
Riding down a draw, I saw a half-dozen men lounging around a big camp fire, the carcass of a dead yearling nearby. For rustlers they were rather lackadaisical, me getting within fifty yards of them before a single one noticed me and then only after Flash broke wind. A couple of them grabbed at their six-guns, but when they saw the mule I was riding, they didnāt think me much of a threat and let their revolvers slide back into their holsters. All but one of them, a redheaded fellow, returned to cooking. The redhead, though, angled away from the fire and toward me. He eyed me pretty closely, never saying a word until I pulled back the halter on Flash. The mule stopped not twenty feet from the man, whom I took to be the leader. For what seemed like forever, he stared at me and I stared back.
āFine-looking mule youāre riding,ā he finally said, then narrowed his eyes at me. āYou lost or just get tired of plowing?ā
Well, Iād plowed enough to know what the backside of a mule looked like, and Iād lived long enough to know a thief when I saw one. This fellow wouldāve stolen flies from a blind spider. No doubt he and his cohorts were bad men, but I was downright hungry and not too choosy about who I took as friends as long as they shared their food.
āIs this Wyoming?ā I asked him.
āWhy, hell yes,ā he lied.
I just grimaced. āDamnation, then I am lost. I was trying to find New Mexico Territory.ā
The fellow just grinned. āJesse Evans is my name, and Iām from Texas. You ever rustle any cattle?ā
Well, Iād done some cowboying in past years, even helping drive one of the first herds from Texas to Abilene, Kansas, so I knew a little bit about that line of work. I shook my head. āCanāt say I ever did rustle any cattle.ā
Evansās face clouded for a moment.
āBranding strays is what I always called it,ā I continued. āIn fact, thereās no better steak than one from another manās beef.ā
āThen, hell, you ought to love supper, compliments of John Chisum himself.ā
Taking that as an invitation, I started to slide off my mule until Evansās voice turned cold as ice. I froze atop Flash.
āNo man eats beef Iāve butchered without telling me his name.ā He stood there staring with his cold gray eyes. He was a modest-sized man, maybe five feet six and a hundred and fifty pounds at most, but like most men that claimed to be Texans he looked bigger and meaner. The problem with Texans was they were easily insulted. Call one a bastard and he might not think a thing of it, likely because it was true or he didnāt know the meaning of such a big word. But forget to introduce yourself, and it was like spitting on the Alamo.
To make amends for my lack of social graces, I announced myself. āHenry Lomax.ā Instantly the five men hunkered around the campfire shot to their feet and lined up in a semicircle behind Evans, their hands sliding toward the guns in their holsters.
Evansās gray eyes became narrow slits as his hand fell to the butt of his pistol. Apparently I had now insulted his fragile Texas disposition as well as that of all his thieving partners.
āYou any kin to a fellow named Gadrich Lomax?ā
I could honestly say I wasnāt, my kin not being stupid enough to name a kid Gadrich. I shook my head. āNever heard of him.ā
āA damned swindler. If I ever catch him, Iām gonna kill him. Where you from?ā
āArkansas,ā I said.
Evansās hard gaze softened. āGadrich Lomax was a damn Yankee, New York or New Jersey.ā He paused, spitting with disgust at the ground. āI sold him a blind horse for a good wad of greenbacksācounterfeit greenbacks, it turned out. The sheriff threw me in jail for passing the bad money.ā
I fought the urge to laugh. Here a cattle thief was complaining about being taken by another crook.
Evans lifted his finger and pointed it at my nose. āIf I ever find Gadrich Lomax, Iāll kill him, or if I find out youāre his kin, Iāll kill you.ā Behind him his cohorts dropped their guard and gathered back around the fire, pulling slabs of meat out and chowing down.
I was about to pass out from hunger before the cloud of Gadrich Lomax passed from Evansās strange disposition. Finally he nodded that I could join in the meal. I fairly fell off Flash and darted for the fire, but Evans kept me from taking a steak until he had introduced me all around. I donāt remember all their names, but three of themāTom Hill, Frank Baker, and Buck Mortonāwould later join Jesse Evans in the killing that lit the Lincoln County War.
I knew these were all bad men, and I didnāt much care for them, but I sure liked their food. I rode with them for two weeks because I was hungry and because I figured if I tried to leave them, they just might up and shoot me in honor of Gadrich Lomax, whoever the hell he was. Further, Flash could never outrun their horses in an escape. All the rustlers seemed amused by me riding a mule and carrying a gun with only three cartridges. They went around loaded down with enough ammunition to feed a Gatling gun for a week.
Weād generally have beef two or three times a week, whenever Jesse got the urge to kill someone elseās animal. Mostly weād steal cattle for Lawrence G. Murphy, who ran a big store in Lincoln and held the government contracts to sell beef to the Mescalero Apache Reservation in the mountains and Fort Stanton in the foothills. Murphy made almost pure profit on those contracts, since he used somebody elseās cattle to fill them. Though he paid the rustlers good money, they mostly returned it to him through the overpriced goods he sold in his store and the watered-down liquor he dispensed in his saloon. There was a lot of talk, though, about an upstart Englishman who was opening a competing store and jeopardizing Murphyās virtual economic monopoly on the entire county.
In the two weeks I rode with them, we stole maybe three hundred head of cattle, and I had put a little distance between my belly button and my backbone. I was getting itchy to leave, figuring the sheriff would run into us sooner or later and throw us in jail.
Well, I was half right. Sheriff William Brady rode out one day just as we were butchering a stolen calf. I was beginning to think a military brass band could slip up on the Evans gang, with no harder a time than the sheriff and I had had. Well, the sheriff caught us dead to rights, and I figured he might even be looking for me because of the Leadville incident. Like a skunk when the wind changes, I thought my past had blown back to me. But instead of arresting us, the sheriff did an odd thing. He gathered wood and started the fire that cooked us all a good beefsteak. Thereās nothing tastier than a stolen beefsteak. It rests good on the stomach if not on the conscience.
We were eating around the fire when the sheriff asked me my name. Not accustomed to running from the law, I never thought I ought to use an alias. Of course the whole gang knew my name by then, so I admitted to being Henry Lomax.
āYou been up in Colorado within the past month or so?ā Brady asked. āI got a flier at the office on a Lomax that killed a lawyer up Leadville way.ā
All the heads around the campfire jerked toward me, and I saw a look of newfound respect in the rustlersā hard eyes. I shrugged, then stammered a moment before Jesse Evans interrupted.
āLomaxās been riding with us for six weeks,ā he said. āYou sure it wasnāt Gadrich Lomax? Now, thereās a son of a bitch.ā
The sheriff shrugged and asked for another slab of steak.
We had just about finished supper when a rifle blast pierced the night air. Everybody dove for cover and their guns. All of a sudden the night was still as death, with us trying to find the location of our assailant amidst the broken and rocky terrain. Suddenly we heard this giggling, then laughing, out there behind a couple of rocks. Cursing, several of the men picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and shoved their pistols back in their holsters. With the barrel of his rifle this fellow raised his hat above the top of the rock. When no one fired, he stood up and walked into camp, slapping his thigh with his hat and carrying on as proudly as a puppy with two peters.
That was the first time I ever saw Billy the Kid. He had a gangly, awkward look about him, and he damn sure wasnāt a handsome kid, not with those two buckteeth and big ears, but what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in spirit. I still had my pistol pointed at his heart and couldāve killed him as he sauntered in, but Jesse Evans strolled by and pushed the barrel of my gun toward the ground. āItās just the Kid,ā he said, as if no more explanation was needed.
āYou boys better hope we stay on the same side of things,ā the Kid said as he ambled into camp, howdying everyone he knew and eyeing me suspiciously. Approaching me, he pointed his finger at my nose. āYouāre the man Iām looking for.ā
My flesh began to crawl. Did he know about Leadville? My gun was still in my hand, but I didnāt feel too secure about my chances, not with the cool confidence in the Kidās eyes and the sheriff squatting over his stolen beefsteak not twenty feet away.
āIāve been looking for a partner,ā he informed me, āand youāre the one.ā
Before I said I wanted anything to do with him, the Kid told me to be ready to head out come morning. Engaging and confident, he had a way of dragging folks along for the ride.
Just after sunrise I left with the Kid, him funning me for Flash and promising to trade the animal for a horse, just in case we had some hard riding to do.
āWhyād you want me for a partner?ā I finally asked.
āI didnāt,ā he answered. āYou just donāt have the look of the hard types you were riding with. I figured they would get you in more trouble than you could get out of.ā
The Kid was right. Jesse Evans and his gang were nothing but trouble.
Chapter Two
Billy was no more than seventeen years old at the time, a full decade younger than me. I mean, Billy wasnāt many years removed from clinging to his mommaās skirt or eating dirt outside, yet here I was throwing in with him like he was a U.S. Senator. He had a winning personality and couldāve well become a politician except for one flawāhe was basically honest. Unlike Jesse Evans and his men, the Kid had a sense of right and wrong. Most men drifting through Lincoln County had no more conscience than a Democrat had sense.
Billy was a natural lead steer. Iād been on enough trail drives to know that no matter how big the herd, one animal always emerged as the leader. A good lead steer can start a herd moving when some animals are balky, can keep a herd calm when thereās reason to panic, and can give a herd direction. The Kid was a good lead steer, and though many older men would eventually follow him, I was the first.
For all his...