Bounty

Pat pushed open the Pale Horse Saloon’s swinging double doors and entered the dim building’s dusty belly.  His boots clumped on the wooden floor, echoing through the smoky, liquor-drenched air as he approached the clean shaven barkeep polishing a glass tumbler with a white handkerchief.  By flickering candlelight, Pat caught a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror adorning the back wall.  He flipped two gold eagles on the bar; well-versed in the business, Pat knew some barmen tempered their wares with turpentine or passed off cheap tequila in fancy labeled bourbon bottles, but he hoped the generous coinage would win a quality product.

“Whiskey, two glasses, three fingers.”  Pat rubbed his bushy mustache as the lanky barkeep fetched the order.  Barely thirty-one, frontier life and bartending at Beaver Smith’s had made Pat’s face wise.  Still handsome, an edge in his eyes betrayed a part of his soul carefully tucked away.  Gambling, heavy drinking, and being on the right side of the fastest iron coarsened Pat so that inside he felt as rugged as the surrounding New Mexico Territory landscape.  His scars illustrated a wild lifestyle, but the star affixed to his chest cemented authority.

The barkeep filled both tumblers halfway with the amber liquid.  “Anything else for ya tonight, Sheriff?”

Pat took the bottle from his hands.  “This will do.  Ready another.  I’m drinking with the boss, and we both know how thirsty that white liner gets.”

The barkeep palmed the coins and pulled out another bottle from under the counter.

Pat grabbed the two glasses and headed to a corner table where a squat man sat, smoking a thin cigar and drinking beer.  He set the filled tumblers in center of the table, beside a nearly burnt-out candle on a small circular dish; white wax spilled over the rim, pooling on the table.  “Mind if I join ya with a little white eye, Pete?”

After another long drag of his cigar, Pete nodded and let blue smoke spill from his nostrils.  It twisted and undulated, vanishing into the dark air.  His Christian name was Pedro, but he changed it to sound more American after taking over his father’s ranch and surrounding buildings in Fort Sumner.  Pat worked for him a few years back and found Pete kind, despite his penchant for whiskey.  Though two years younger than the Sheriff, Pete looked older: a receding hairline and a crooked, decaying tooth complimented his sun dried skin.  Despite everything his father bequeathed, Pete could not escape time or bad habits. 

It was same for every man. 

Pat sat across from him, resting the uncorked whiskey bottle beside the tumblers.  Pat slid one of the filled glasses forward, taking the other and raising it up.  Pete returned the gesture.

“What are we drinking to, Pat?”

“To health, Pete.  To health.”

As soon as they finished their shots, Pat refilled the glasses.  “Where is he, Pete?  Where you got him hid?”

“You got the wrong pig by the tail, Pat.  He’s not here.” he said, never taking his eyes off the whiskey in front of him.

“I’ve heard he’s been lurking around Fort Sumner past few weeks.  Hiding in these parts like some fat dog tick.”  Pat raised his glass and the men knocked back the shots.  Pete lit another cigar, Pat poured another glass.

“What you’re up to is bad business, Pat.  Leave him alone and go back to Lincoln.  Get behind a bar; go back to Apolionaria, she’s a good wife.  Let that man roam the wilderness where he belongs.”

“That’s no man, Pete.  He’s a monster.”

“Call him what you will, let’s drink.”  Pete raised his glass, clinking it midair against Pat’s before downing their shots.  This time, Pete poured the next round.

Pat leaned back in his chair.  Years of bartending conditioned his liver—he could hold liquor as long as Atlas held Earth, but serious work was at hand.  He needed to keep a clear head.  “Really, Pete, how many men has he killed now?”

“Not as many as they claim.  It’s all corral dust.  I wouldn’t put much stock in anything those rapscallions say.  With that mark Governor Wallace put on his head, lots of lips have been flapping lately.  Seems like money makes men liars and traitors ‘round these parts.  Seems to turn friends against one and other.”

Pat ignored the jab.

“Word around the campfire is that he’s got a soft spot for your sister.”  Pat studied Pete, searching for any tell.  “She back at your place?”

“Leave Paulita outta this, Pat.  Her business is of no concern to you.”  He swallowed hard.  “We gonna drink or not?”

“In a moment.  Pete, when I worked for you, I gave my all.  You were a good boss, and I know you’re a good man.  Your father raised you right, proper.  You tolerate Billy, but he’s on the wrong side of the law.  When Lincoln County appointed me as Sheriff Kimbell’s successor, I swore to restore law and order.  I intend to keep that oath. The last thing we need is a killer glorified into some kind of hero in the newspapers.  Makes others want to take arms, start trouble.  This territory is filled with enough vigilantes and rustlers.”  Pat lifted his glass.

“You’ve been bringing down the Regulators,” Pete said before draining the shot.  Pat held his.  “But Billy is another matter.  You’re a decent shot, Pat.  That’s true.  Billy’s aim is from the gods, though.  Against him you’re dead, and death don’t look attractive on any man.” 

“Listen here, Pete.  There’s more at stake here than you realize.  I’m not gunning after him just because of the money.” 

“I’m sure that sweetened the deal though.  Build your name up in politics and line your purse—sounds rather Republican to me.”  Pete’s words were becoming slurred around the edges.  He filled his glass again.

“I’ve been tailing him for seven months, getting to know what and who he knows.  Billy is like a black-tailed prairie dog, always burrowing, always hiding.  He’s slippery, and he has friends all over, helpin’ him hide.  He’s a folk hero to ‘em.  They think he’s in the right, killing those men.”  Pat drank half the whiskey in his glass.  Pete motioned to top him off but was halted with a wave of the Sheriff’s hand.  “After he escaped from the Lincoln Courthouse, I started hearing rumors about him.  Not the kind of things from the papers either.  Things no God faring man has any business saying.”

“Them rapscallions,” Pete said, “they’ll say anything.  Like women after church or a whore after a tumble.”

“That’s what I thought at first too.  Then there were more and more stories about the carnage Billy was leaving.  Stories to ice blood.”

“What stories?”

“Some cattle had been mutilated around Taiban, ‘round where Billy’d been sighted.”

“Cattle?” Pete leaned forward.

“The ranchers whispered it was the Kid, that they’d seen him late at night, killing the livestock.  They all blamed an Indian living near Stinking Spring where we nabbed the Kid last December.  That Indian’s an old Mescalero shaman named Espemez.  He’s a pariah, his tribe drove him out, claiming he was tapping into bad spirit world energies.  The hill folk call on him from time to time when they need services that are…outside of the white man’s capacity, if you follow.”  Pat paused.  “If medicine isn’t helping, or an old cowboy needs to fix his impotence, Espemez has a cure.  Or if someone or someplace is being haunted....”

Pete laughed.  “Haunted, as in ghosts?”

The sheriff did not smile.  “Story goes Billy gets the old Apache to perform some sort of ritual, giving him…powers.”

“Powers?”  Pete snorted.  “Pat, you’re an educated man.  I’ve heard you tell some whoppers over a tipple, but this…  A man’s life is on the line.”

“I told you.  He ain’t no man.”  Pat leaned back, tugging his mustache.  The wooden chair creaked under his weight.  “Truth be told, I didn’t believe it at first.  Thought Billy just cooked it up himself to scare locals so they would stay out of his way.  Me and a few of the boys rode to Stinking Spring and found that old redskin’s camp.  The horses were spooked when we came up on it.  They wouldn’t go near, so me and Deputy Mason and Frank Stewart left the horses with Jim East and Lee Hall as we came up on what was left of the shaman.  Billy made short work of Espemez.”

“Don’t sound like the Kid to shoot up some Indian, especially after seeking sanctuary,” Pete said, fumbling with the whiskey bottle.

“No.  Weren’t bullets that killed the Indian.  Espemez had this look of terror on his face, like he died frozen in horror.  There were marks on his face and throat—marks from no animal I’d ever seen.  Not tracks around either, just boot prints.  There wasn’t a drop of blood in that man.  Not a drop.  This…this smell hung around the camp, like death but worse, and we all felt like something was watching us.  Pete, I can’t tell you the relief I felt when we skinned out of there, and you know I’m no coward.”

Pete smirked.  “I’ll drink to that.” 

Letting his gaze fall across the bar, Pat saw an old grandfather clock beside a silent piano.  The face read 8:31 as the pendulum swung back and forth, a metronome counting mortality. 

“We came up on this little church near Taiban Spring.  The walls reeked with the same stench surrounding the shaman’s camp.  We found the priest, his body broken, marked up the same as the Indian.  ‘Cept this time it was worse, like the killer took time to enjoy his work.  Not much left of preacher man’s face.  Again, no blood anywhere.  Just those same boot prints…heading west.  Towards here.”

Pat finished the shot.  Pete chuckled.

“That’s a good one, Pat.  Had me going a spell.  When you get done hunting the Kid, you should write this all down.  Might make you a rich man.”

“Dismiss it if you’d like, Pete.  You don’t have to believe me.  But you should know we just found some more cattle.  They were ripped apart—worse than the others.  He’s losing control, Pete.  Not just murdering, but destroying.”

“Why should I care?” Pete looked away from the sheriff.

“It was your cattle just marred, Pete.  It was the Kid, swear to Christ.  He is coming here with that soft spot for your little sister.  He’s coming here, Pete.”

Pete furrowed his brow as sweat beaded across his face.  For the first time fear simmered in the rancher’s eyes.  “The Kid has been around.  I’ve heard him and Paulita late at night, talking in whispers.  I know he’s dangerous to other cutthroats, but he’s always been kind to her.”

“He ain’t the same happy-go-lucky man you knew.  He’s something else now.  If you’d seen the destruction he’s left behind his trail, you’d want him shot too.  Why protect him?” Pat asked.

“Seems like the world’s changing faster than I’d like to admit.  Every year, more law comes down on us.    I suppose it was inevitable, but I miss this country’s freedom.  I miss the way things were.”  Pete shook his head.  “I guess I protected him because I was protecting the past.  Sounds silly, but it’s the best I got.”

“I’ve come to you as a man, Pete.  Out of respect for my old boss, my pal.  I’m going to your place.  I’m going to wait for the Kid with Paulita, and when he shows, I’m gonna end his godforsaken life.  I would rather your permission, and I would despise your scorn, but I am the law.  I’m going with or without your consent.”

Pete rested his palm flat on the table and sighed. 

“Thanks for coming to me first, Pat.  It means a lot.  I love Paulita.  I never want any harm to come to her.”

“Me neither.  I want the killing over.  Stopping the Kid is the best thing for this great territory.  Paulita is in trouble, Pete.  Your little sister.”

“If you feel the need to protect her, by all means.  I would consider it a great service.  Her room is in the southeast corner, ground floor.  I’m already half-drunk, so I’ll just be sitting here, finishing what I started.”

Pat nodded.  “Finish the bottle.  I got another one waiting behind the bar.  Thank you, Pete.  I’ll see no harm comes to Paulita.”

Pat rose, scraping the chair’s legs on the floor as he stood.  Pete grabbed the sheriff’s right arm, halting his exit.  “I don’t want to be remembered as a coward, Pat.  Or a traitor.” 

Pat pulled away…

The sheriff rode through the July night towards Pete Maxwell’s ranch.  A coyote wail wafted in the wind and somewhere, close, an owl answered, the soundtrack to stars glimmering overhead.  Pat dismounted his steed, hitching her on a post outside of Pete’s white fence.  From his saddle bags, he produced some rope and held it by his side.  The home looked quiet, the only light burning in Paulita’s corner room.  Pat entered the yard, stopping in front of her room.  He took a gulp of the night before entering unannounced.

Paulita sat up in her bed and whispered, “Billy?”

"¿Cómo estás, Paulita?" Pat said, thankful he’d arrived before the Kid.

Paulita gasped and started to leap out of the bed, but Pat moved like a rattlesnake, throwing his weight on her as he covered her mouth with his sleeve.  She tried to bite his arm, but his duster muted the attack.  Ranch experience and a taller frame made him no match for the fighting beauty.  She squirmed as Pat roped her down, tying her to the oak bed posts.  He gagged her with his dirty red bandana, deliberately making it too tight so she could not scream.  After securing her, he was able to see Paulita in the dim gas lamp light.  Straight dark hair fell past her shoulders, and her large brown eyes watered as she flopped like an injured scorpion on the bed.  Pat pitied the woman—her only crime was loving a creature of darkness.

Pat turned the wheel at the gas lamp’s base, softening the room’s illumination.  He grabbed a chair by a desk and sat beside her headboard.  Paulita tried to say something to him, but he did not want to risk removing the gag so she could warn the Kid.  He stroked her lovely hair until she gave up struggling, and the room fell into an eerie quiet.  Time seemed to halt for the sheriff, yet his heart beat like the old clock back at the Pale Horse Saloon.

It was after midnight when Pat noticed the smell.  The acrid death looming over Billy’s victims poured into the room like cigar smoke.  Pat swallowed hard and drew his single action cavalry revolver and pointed it at the closed door, cocking back the hammer so it was poised to strike the first bullet in the cylinder.  Five chances to right justice and stop evil.  Paulita’s bedroom door slowly opened.  She squirmed as the door opened and Pat prayed she did not blow his cover—sweat poured down his back as he aimed.  When the door swung open, Pat had to suppress a scream.

In the doorway stood Billy the Kid’s unmistakable silhouette—the wide brim sombrero and tall, thin build—but his eyes were aflame, burning rubies glowing in the desert night.  The thing that was once Sheriff Pat Garrett’s friend paused in the door way, sensing something was amiss with the scene.  Pat noticed the Kid’s fingers were now elongated claws, poised to draw his Colt .44. 

"¿Quién es?” the Kid called into the room.  The words dripped with a jagged, ethereal quality.  “¿Quién es?"

Pat fired twice—the first struck the Kid’s chest, a shade above his heart, the second nailed him between the eyes, knocking off his hat.  The monster howled.   Its wraithlike bawl rattled the walls, and the Kid flew out of the room.  Pat rushed to the doorway in time to see the fiend’s radiating crimson eyes rise up, up into the New Mexico night, becoming swallowed within the infinite blazing stars until they were nothing, nothing at all. 

One of Pete’s ranch hands, dressed in pajamas and carrying a pistol, ran towards the sheriff.  “Is everyone all right?  Sounded like an animal attacking.”

Pat raised his revolver and squeezed off two more shots.  The man fell, crumpling on his side in fetal position.  The spilling blood creeping outwards from the ranch hand’s body reminded Pat of the candle wax at Pete’s table in the saloon.  He scooped up Billy’s sombrero and tossed it on the body, sighing.     

Still tied to the bed, Paulita thrashed about.  Pat returned to her side and pulled down the gag. 

“Bastard,” she said.  “How could you shoot him?  He was your friend.”

“My fried died a long time ago.  I don’t know what has been visiting you, but it wasn’t Billy.  You’re a lucky woman, Paulita.  He could have ripped you apart, left little pieces for your brother to bury.”

“He would never harm me.  We were going to leave together, head to Old Mexico after he made peace with Wallace.  He wanted to see you next Wednesday, make peace with you as well.”

“Hogwash, there was never going to be peace and you know it.  If he did take you with him, he would have damned you too.”  Pat began untying her, a sadness welling in his heart.

“Billy will kill you for this.”

Pat looked towards the body outside.  “He’s already dead.  He died here tonight.  That’s what we are going to tell everyone.  Kid’s smart.  I pray he’ll take the cue, stay gone.  Hopefully that monster will take what’s left of his soul and that smell of death and vanish forever.”

Paulita rubbed her wrists, red and swollen from the rope.  “Sheriff, the only monster is you.  There is no difference between you and him, except he actually stood for honor.  You, you only stand by yourself.  He’ll never be gone, sheriff.  Never.  And from now on you’ll have to look over your shoulder.  You’ll never shake that smell.  It will follow you on the trail, all the way down to hell, sheriff.  That is your fate.”

Pat looked out into the night.  Pete was right, the world was changing.  And no man can escape time or bad habits.  No man.