A Texas Cow Boy Part 22

I stepped forward trembling like an aspen leaf, for fear I would miss and thereby fail to win Miss Bulah's admiration. I was afraid, should the bullet miss its mark, that the few dozen birds would be all killed before my time would come around again, there being so many men waiting for a shot. At last I cut loose and off went the turkey's head, also Mr.

Miller's happy smile. You see he lacked "two bits" of getting cost for the bird.

Another one was put up, and off went his head. This was too much for Mr.

Miller, two birds already gone and only two dollars and "six bits" in the pot. He finally after humming and hawing awhile, said:

"Gentlemen, I don't like to weaken this early in the game, but you all know I have got a large family to support and consequently I will have to rule this young man out of the ring. He's too slick with a pistol to have around a game of this kind anyway."

I hated to quit of course, but it was best, for I might have missed the very next time, and as it was Bulah would think that I would have carried out my promise if I had been allowed to keep on.

After that, during my stay on the T. P. R. R., I was called the "Turkey shooter." Often while riding near the railroad track, maybe four or five hundred miles from Toyah, some one would hail me from a pa.s.sing train by that name; and whenever I would ride into a town there was sure to be some fellow on hand to point me out. They all knew me so well by my horse, Croppy, he being milk white and both ears being off close up to his head. He was indeed a notable animal, as well as a long, keen, good one.

That night nearly everybody got drunk, old Ash excepted of course, as he was already full. The ball was a grand success. The dancers on the womens' side, were all married ladies, with the exception of Miss Bulah and a Miss Lee; and those on the opposite side were a terribly mixed mob, but mostly gamblers, horse thieves and cow boys. The railroaders didn't take any stock in the ball. Maybe it was because there were so many on the floor wearing six-shooters and bowie knives around their waists.

It was indeed a grand sight next morning looking at black eyes and swollen heads. Every Chinaman, there being a dozen or two living in town, skipped for parts unknown that night. There was too many loose bullets flying through the air to suit them; and it is said that the "Pig-tails" have shunned Toyah ever since that New Year's night.

A few days after New Years a telegram came to Ash, from Garrett who had arrived at Pecos Station stating: "Come on the first train as I am in a hurry to get home." Ash got me to answer it as he, having drank too much Tom and Jerry, was unable to walk to the Telegraph office. I sent the following message: "Can't leave here; owe every man in town."

In a few minutes another one came, an answer to the one just sent, stating: "If you don't come down on the morning train I will strike out and leave you."

This one raised Ash's s.p.u.n.k, so he told me to write down just what he told me, and then give it to the operator. I done as requested, which ran thus: "Go to, hic, h--l, d---- you!"

The next evening, Garrett arrived on the west bound pa.s.senger, and next morning, after paying a lot of saloon bills, etc., took old Ash back with him.

I had, the day after New Year's, went down to the Pecos and brought my ponies up to Toyah, therefore I took a little spin out into the country to pa.s.s off the time, every now and then, or at least to look through a few herds of cattle in that vicinity.

After spending about two weeks around Toyah, I struck out for Colorado City, two hundred miles east. Of course I hated to part with Miss Bulah; and so did Mr. Newell hate to part with me, for he was losing a good cash boarder.

Ill.u.s.tration: "BILLY THE KID."

CHAPTER XXVII.

A TRUE SKETCH OF "BILLY THE KID'S" LIFE.

The cut on opposite page was taken from a photograph and represents the "Kid" as he appeared before the artist after having just returned from a long, tiresome raid; and the following sketch of his short but eventful life was gleaned from himself, Ash Upson and others. The circ.u.mstance connected with his death I got from the lips of John W. Poe, who was with Garrett when he fired the fatal shot.

Billy Bonney, alias the "Kid" was born in New York City, November the 23rd, 1859; and at the age of ten he, in company with his mother and step-father, Antrim, landed in the Territory of New Mexico.

Mr. Antrim, shortly after his arrival in the Territory, opened up a restaurant in Santa Fe, the Capitol, and one of his boarders was the jovial old Ash Upson, my informant, who was then interested in a newspaper at that place.

Often when Ash was too busily engaged about his office to go to dinner, Mrs. Antrim would send it by her little merry-eyed boy, Billy, who was the pride of her life.

Finally Ash sold out and moved to Silver City, which was then booming on account of its rich mines. And it wasn't long until Mr. Antrim followed and opened up another eating house there, with Ash as a boarder again.

Thus it will be seen that my informant was just the same as one of the family for quite a while.

The "Kid's" first man, as told to me by himself, was a negro soldier in Ft. Union, whom he shot in self-defence.

His next killing was a young blacksmith in Silver City whom he killed in a personal encounter, but not according to law, hence it was this sc.r.a.pe that first caused him to become an outcast; driven from pillar to post, out of reach of a kind mother's influence.

It was a cold stormy night when he, after kissing his mother's pale cheeks for the last time on this earth, rode out into the darkness, headed west for the wilds of Arizona, where he soon became an adept at cards and horse stealing.

He finally landed in the City of Chihuahua, Old Mexico, with a pocket full of Arizona gold. Here he led a gay life until one night when a bullet from his trusty revolver sent a rich mexican monte-dealer to his long and happy home.

The next we hear of him is in the friendly land of Texas, where he remained in retirement until the spring of 1876, when he drifted across the lonely Gandalupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico, then the outlaw's Paradise.

At Lincoln, the county seat, he hired out as a cow boy to a young Englishman by the name of Tunstall.

In the spring of '78 Mr. Tunstall was killed by a mob, headed by a fellow named Morton, from the Reo Pecos.

The "Kid" hearing of his employer's foul murder, rode into Lincoln from the Tunstall ranch to learn the full particulars concerning the killing.

He and the young Englishman were warm friends and before leaving the ranch he swore vengeance against every one of the murderers.

Arriving in the mexican Plaza of Lincoln the "Kid" learned that Morton and crowd had pulled back to the Reo Pecos. So he joined a crowd composed of the following named parties: R. M. Bruer, J. G. Skurlock, Charlie Bowder, Henry Brown, Frank McNab, Fred Wayt, Sam Smith, Jim French, McClosky and Johnny Middleton, and started in pursuit. This was just the beginning of the "b.l.o.o.d.y Lincoln County war" which you have all read so much about. But it is said that the "Kid" killed every man connected with the murder of his friend before the war ended.

Billy was caught in a great many close places during the six month's b.l.o.o.d.y encounter, but always managed to escape, as though possessed of a charmed life. There is one of his hair-breadth escapes I wish to relate, just to show how cool he was in time of danger.

He and about a dozen of his men were housed up at lawyer McSween's in Lincoln, when thirty-five of the Seven River "warriors" and two companies of United States Soldiers under command of Col. Dudly of the Ninth Cavalry, surrounded and set the large two-story building on fire, determined to capture or kill the young outlaw.

The house was burning on the south side from whence the wind came, and as the fire advanced the little crowd would move further north, into an adjoining room. There was a fine piano in the parlor, the property of Mrs. McSween, who was absent, and on this the "Kid" played during the whole time, "just to amuse the crowd outside" he said.

Finally everything was wrapped in flames but the little kitchen which stood adjoining the main building on the north, but still the coa.r.s.e music continued to sail forth out onto the night air.

At last the blaze began to stick its firey tongues into the kitchen.

Then the music ceased, and the little band, headed by the "Kid" made a bold dash for liberty, amidst the thick shower of hot lead. The balance can be described best by quoting a negro soldier's words, he being nearest the kitchen door when the dash was made: "I jes' tell you white folkses dis n.i.g.g.e.r was for getting away from dah, kase dat Billy-goat was shooten wid a gun and two six-pistols all bofe at de same time."

The "Kid" and Tom O'Phalliard were the only ones who came out of this sc.r.a.pe unhurt. Mr. McSween, owner of the burned building was among the killed. He had nine bullets in his body.

Late that fall when the war had ended, "Kid" and the remainder of his little gang stole a bunch of horses from the Seven River warriors, whom they had just got through fighting with and drove them across the Plains to the Texas Panhandle, at Tascosa on the Canadian, where they were soon disposed of at good figures.

After lying around the little town of Tascosa for nearly a month, squandering their surplus wealth on poor whisky and mexican woman, they, with the exception of Fred Wayt and Henry Brown who struck east for the Chickisaw nation where the former's mother and two half-breed sisters lived, pulled back to Lincoln County, New Mexico, to continue their lawlessness.

From that time on, the "Kid" made a specialty of stealing cattle and horses, although he would kill a man now and then, for what he supposed to be a just cause. Let it be said right here that the "Kid" was not the cruel hearted wretch that he was pictured out to be in the scores of yellow-back novels, written about him. He was an outlaw and maybe a very wicked youth, but then he had some good qualities which, now that he is no more, he should be credited with. It has been said and written that he would just as soon shoot an innocent child as a mule-eared rabbit.

Now this is all wrong, for he was noted as being kind to the weak and helpless; there is one case in particular which I can prove:

A man, now a highly respected citizen of White Oaks, was lying at the point of death in Ft. Sumner, without friends or money, and a stranger, when the "Kid," who had just come into town from one of his raids, went to his rescue, on hearing of his helpless condition; the sick man had been placed in an old out-house on a pile of sheep skins. The "Kid"

hired a team and hauled him to Las Vegas, a distance of over a hundred miles, himself, where he could receive care and medical aid. He also paid the doctor and board bills for a month, besides putting a few dollars in money in the sick man's hand as he bid him good bye.

This circ.u.mstance was told to me by the sick man himself, who at the time was hale and hearty, on hearing of the "Kid's" death. While relating it the tears chased one another down his manly cheeks, to the end, at which time he pulled out a large red handkerchief and wiped them away.

After the "Kid's" capture at Stinking Springs, he was lodged in jail at Santa Fe, and the following spring taken to Mesilla, county seat of Dona Ana county, and tried before Judge Bristol for the murder of Sheriff Brady, during the Lincoln county war.

He was sentenced to be taken to Lincoln, and hung on the 13th day of May. On the 21st day of April he was turned over to Pat. Garrett, who, being sheriff, was to see that the law was carried out.

There being no jail in Lincoln, Garrett used his office, which was up-stairs in the two-story court house, to guard the prisoner in. Robert Ollinger and J. W. Bell, two men who should have been hung before William Bonney was born--judging from reliable reports, were secured to do the guarding.

The morning of April, 28th, Garrett was making preparations to go to White Oaks, when he told the guards to be very watchful as the prisoner, not having but a few more days to live, might make a desperate effort to escape.