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  One of the dead men was Bill McCloskey, who was lying on his back with a bullethole in the middle of his chest. His eyes were open and staring, as if surprised to find their owner dead.

  A short distance away were two other corpses, both lying on their stomachs, sprawled as if shot down while running away.

  Falcon walked over to the bodies and knelt down, examining them. He saw that Buck Morton had eleven bulletholes, all in his back. Next to him lay Frank Baker, the back of his head blown off and three more holes in his back.

  Falcon removed his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead, stood and turned to face the Regulators.

  “Dick, what happened here?” Falcon asked, frowning.

  Brewer thought for a moment, then said, “Morton there grabbed a gun from one of the hands and plugged McCloskey, then he and Baker tried to make a run for it.”

  Falcon looked down at the bodies. The rope marks on their wrists were still deep and red.

  Falcon nodded, “I guess they chewed through those ropes on their hands, snuck up on one of you and stole a gun, then shot and killed the only man among you who was halfway friendly to them?”

  The Kid stepped forward, a stubborn cant to his jaw. “That’s the story, Falcon. And you and everybody else can take it or leave it.”

  Falcon glanced back at Morton’s body, seeing a pistol on the ground next to his hands, still purple from the ropes that had been on them.

  He shook his head, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a dead man drawing a gun.”

  Later on, the site of this killing would forever be called “Dead Man’s Draw.”

  Falcon walked over to Brewer and stood before him. “This won’t look good, Dick. I have some more news, some good and some bad.”

  Brewer took out his fixings and began to build a cigarette as the other Regulators gathered around.

  “Tell us, Falcon.”

  “The good news is that Dolan wasn’t able to form a posse to come after you. Seems the good people of Lincoln are mostly on your side in this matter.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Brewer asked, trailing smoke from his nostrils.

  “Two days ago, Governor Axtell paid a brief visit to Lincoln. He stayed for three hours, all of it spent in the company of Jimmy Dolan.”

  The Kid snorted. “The leader of the Santa Fe Ring paying his respects, no doubt.”

  “After listening to Dolan’s side of things, he issued a proclamation the next day, declaring that John B. Wilson’s appointment by the county commissioners as a justice of the peace was illegal and void, and all processes issued by him were void. He said Wilson had no authority whatsoever to act as justice of the peace.”

  Brewer flipped his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. “Is that all?”

  “No. He also revoked Robert Widenmann’s appointment as a federal marshal, and he asked the post commander at Fort Stanton to assist territorial civil officers in maintaining order and enforcing legal processes, which consist only of what Judge Bristol and Sheriff Brady and his deputies say.”

  Bowdre stepped forward, his forehead wrinkled. “What’s all that double-talk mean, Falcon?”

  Falcon looked at him. “It means that you Regulators have no legal authority to make any arrests or kill anyone with the law’s blessing.” He looked over at the dead men.

  “Damn!” the Kid said. He glanced at Brewer. “What’re we gonna do, Dick?”

  “You boys head on up to San Patricio and make a camp. I’ll mosey on into Lincoln and see what the lay of the land is, and whether we’re wanted men or not.”

  He looked at Falcon. “Will you ride with me, Falcon? I don’t relish ridin’ into Lincoln without some back up.”

  Falcon nodded. “I don’t agree with what you men did here today, Dick, but I’ll go along to make sure you get a fair hearing.”

  Twenty

  On the night of March thirty-first, the Kid, along with Macnab, French, Waite, Middleton, and Brown, rode into Lincoln. They went directly to the Tunstall store, fired up the big iron stove in the back, and sat around drinking whiskey and eating whatever they could find—all except the Kid, who drank only coffee and ate nothing at all.

  They had received a message by a Mexican kid who told them Señor Brewer said to come to Lincoln on April one. There would be a trial and they would all be cleared of any wrongdoing.

  As they sat around, most of the men getting alkalaied on the whiskey, they talked about what had happened to bring them to this point in their lives. The more they talked, the more they all became convinced that Sheriff Brady was as much responsible for Tunstall’s murder and the disorder in the district as anyone.

  They also became convinced he was shielding Tunstall’s murderers, and they decided to ambush the sheriff the first chance they had.

  They finally fell into a drunken sleep, vowing to do something about Tunstall’s killing first thing in the morning.

  It was going on nine in the morning when the Kid saw Sheriff William Brady and Billy Matthews, along with George Hindman, John Long, and George Peppin, walk out of the Dolan and Murphey Store. All were deputized or, as in the case of Matthews, officers of the county. Matthews was district attorney for Lincoln.

  The Kid was concealed behind an adobe brick wall where a gate for wagons led into a corral behind the Tunstall Store. Six Regulators were with the Kid . . . Frank MacNab, John Middleton, Rob Widenmann, Jim French, Henry Brown, and Fred Waite. They had been waiting since dawn.

  “Here they come,” said the Kid.

  “I’ll take down Brady,” Middleton whispered, jacking a shell into his rifle. “I owe the son of a bitch for what he done to our boss. I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this. Killin’ Morton an’ Baker wasn’t near enough satisfaction to suit me. I want Brady, the rotten bastard. He’s bought an’ paid for by Dolan, an’ everybody in Lincoln County knows it . . . he ain’t got nobody fooled.”

  “We all owe him,” the Kid replied.

  “Damn right,” Waite said, cocking his single-shot Colt pistol.

  Behind them, Henry Brown rushed up with a Spencer carbine in his hands.

  “Do you see ’em?” Brown asked, barely raising his head above the wall. “Yonder they is ... I see em now. Brady’s got a rifle, and Matthews has a pistol . John Long an’ Peppin are carryin’ iron. Can’t tell from here about Hindman, but he hardly ever goes without a gun.”

  “Get down,” the Kid snapped.

  “They’ll see you,” Middleton added. “Just wait ’til you hear their boots . . . wait ’til they’re real close. One thing we can’t afford to do is miss this opportunity to kill the sorry sons of bitches.”

  “I’m gonna kill that bastard Brady myself,” Waite said around a cheekful of chewing tobacco. “This damn war has got plumb out of hand, an’ Brady’s the one who allowed it. He’s all mine.”

  “Just make damn sure he’s dead,” Middleton whispered as the sound of feet moving across hard ground reached them. “Put eleven slugs in him, just like we done to Billy Morton, that no good bastard Baker, an’ McCloskey. Eleven bullets, boys, so they know who done this. We want to make damn sure we put a signature on these killin’s.”

  “Nobody’s gonna be countin’ bulletholes in dead men,” the Kid said. “Just make real sure all of ’em are dead . . . ’specially Brady.”

  “I ain’t real sure ’bout this,” Henry Brown said, although he cocked his Spencer as quietly as he could. “Shootin’ a damn sheriff could get us in a bunch of trouble. We could all wind up in territorial prison up at Fort Stanton.”

  “Brady ain’t no real sheriff, anyhow,” the Kid said. “He’s a damn hired gun workin’ for Murphy an’ Dolan, just like he was some cowboy mendin’ fences. The laws in the New Mexico Territory don’t mean a damn thing to him.”

  “Quiet now!” Waite hissed. “I can hear ’em talkin’. When they get close, we all rise up an’ start shootin’. I sure as hell ain’t gonna count the bullets I put in Brady. All I’m go
nna do is make damn sure he’s dead.”

  The Kid recalled how John Tunstall looked the day they found him with two bullet holes in his gut. “Just don’t forget how our friend Mr. Tunstall died,” he said, his hand growing wet on the stock of his rifle. “Think about how Mr. Tunstall was layin’ in a pool of blood that day below the Penasco. That oughta be enough to keep your trigger finger sharp.”

  Jim French, a new member of the Regulators, spoke in a soft voice. “What about that new feller in town, the big guy who bought into Beaver Smith’s saloon? Somebody told me his name was Falcon MacCallister, an’ that he was hell on wheels with a gun. We need to know where he stands in this . . . if he’s gonna take a side.”

  “He’s a good friend of mine, saved my life a couple of times,” the Kid replied. “You heard right—he is downright handy with a six-shooter. But it don’t appear he’s takin’ no side in this war yet. I been figurin’ Jimmy Dolan would offer MacCallister his price to join sides with ’em, after what we done to Morton an’ Baker. But word is, MacCallister told him he was a friend of Big John Chisum an me, an’ that puts him on our side of things. Mr. Chisum wants this trouble stopped. Evans an’ his boys have been rustling his cattle mighty often. Maybe that’s why Falcon MacCallister came to Lincoln County in the first place, to help Chisum put a stop to all the cattle stealin’ out at his ranch. Could be MacCallister’s workin’ for Chisum an’ they been keepin’ it under their hats.”

  “I’ve seen him, too,” Waite offered. “Some men got a look about ’em, an’ I sure as hell wouldn’t be lookin’ forward to tanglin’ with MacCallister. Far as I know, he ain’t took no side yet, but a man can’t be too careful. I sure hope you’re right about him bein’ tight with you and Chisum. From the looks of him I sure don’t want no part of him in a fight.”

  “If he joins up with Dolan,” the Kid whispered as the sound of footsteps and muted voices came close, “friend or no friend, we won’t have no choice but to shoot him down. Now get ready, boys. Don’t let Brady escape. Or Matthews, neither. Them’s the two that have been causin’ us problems.”

  “What about ole’ Dad Peppin?” Brown asked.

  “If he takes a gun to us, kill him,” the Kid answered with no hesitation. “If he stays out of it, leave him be. Got no quarrel with Peppin, but we gotta remember he’s a lawdog an’ he takes his pay from Murphy an’ Dolan, so don’t go gettin’ too softhearted. If Peppin comes out with a gun, drop him an’ make sure he stays there.”

  “George ain’t no bad man, Kid,” Brown protested. “He’s caught in the middle, looks like to me. I heard him say the other day he wished the army would come down an’ put a stop to all this rustlin’ an’ killin’.”

  “Kill him, anyhow,” Middleton warned. “We don’t need no damn witnesses.”

  “Where’s that big feller, MacCallister?” Waite asked. “Wish we knowed where he was.”

  “Down at Beaver Smith’s, most likely,” the Kid responded, his trigger finger tightening. “Don’t worry none ’bout him, I done told you, he’s a friend of mine. It’s Brady an’ Matthews we want.”

  “Here they are,” Waite said. “I can’t wait no longer, an’ I sure as hell can’t miss from this range.”

  Waite rose up above the top of the wall and fired off a quick shot. The Kid came up at almost the same time, aiming for Billy Matthews.

  Sheriff Brady let out a yell and fell over on his back. Billy Matthews, whirling, took off at a run in the other direction, making for Murphey’s store as fast as he could.

  The Kid sighted in on Matthew’s right leg and triggered off a well-placed shot.

  Matthews went down, shrieking and clutching his thigh as a sheaf of papers he had held in one hand went fluttering down the street.

  Brown and French opened fire. Sheriff Brady sat up with his hands pressed to his belly, just as another bullet struck him full in the chest.

  Brady toppled over on his back, groaning, twisting this way and that while blood pumped from two bulletholes.

  The blasting of gunfire ended the quiet in Lincoln, and now the Kid could hear women and children screaming all over the town. As he watched Sheriff Brady, Billy Matthews came staggering to his feet and took off in a lumbering run. John Long got up and started running in the same direction.

  But as they ran a fusillade of bullets came from the adobe wall.

  Hindman was felled almost at once. Ike Stockton, owner of a Lincoln saloon, raced outside to help Long. A spray of bullets caught Long in his back and ribs. He slumped to the street, and Ike ran back inside his drinking establishment

  The Kid and Jim French leapt over the wall.

  “I’ll get Brady’s gun!” the Kid shouted. He ran over to the sheriff and picked up his Winchester.

  Billy Matthews, watching from the Cisneros house across the road, took aim and fired.

  The bullet punched through the Kid’s thigh, and zipped through French’s leg, as well.

  The Kid dropped Brady’s rifle, and he and French hobbled back to the protection of the wall.

  More shooting ensued . . . Matthews was firing from the Cisneros home, and Long, although badly wounded, was shooting from the corner of Dolan’s store with a repeating rifle.

  Sheriff Brady lifted his head off the dirt. Clutched in his bloody hand were arrest warrants for most of the Regulators, and a writ of attachment for all of Tunstall’s remaining property, including the ranch itself.

  Someone—the Kid wasn’t sure who—came over the top, of the wall and fired five shots into Sheriff Brady’s head and body. William Brady fell back on the caliche, quivering as the last pieces of paper fell from his grasp.

  “Let’s get out of town!” Middleton cried above the roar of continuous gunfire. “We got Brady. Long is hurt bad, an’ Billy Matthews has a few holes in him, too!”

  Somehow, George Peppin had escaped the flying lead, and lay hidden behind a stone water trough . . . the Kid saw him lift his head above the stones for a glimpse at what was happening on the main road through Lincoln.

  “Okay,” the Kid said as gunshots became more sporadic, less frequent. “We did what we came to do. Let the bastards think on this a spell.”

  With their objectives mostly accomplished, the Kid led his men to their horses behind the Tunstall corral and mounted up to ride out of town.

  But John Middleton saw something from the back of his horse and he raised a hand to halt the others. “Yonder’s Matthews,” he said bitterly.

  Middleton shouldered his rifle and fired a single shot at the district attorney. The slug caught Matthews in the lower leg and sent him sprawling on his face.

  “There, you sumbitch!” Middleton snarled. “Now you’ve got two bad legs!”

  “You got him!” Waite exclaimed, helping French climb up on his horse with blood pumping from his leg wound. He looked up at French. “John just helped square things for what they done to you, Jim. He got Matthews.”

  But the Kid saw Billy Matthews struggle to his hands and knees to make a quick exit around a corner of the Cisneros house just in the nick of time.

  “We’ll get the rest of ’em later,” the Kid promised, turning his sorrel away from the fence.

  Waite rode up alongside him. “You know damn well this is gonna force Dolan an’ Murphy to send up to Fort Stanton for the army to come after us.”

  The Kid merely shrugged. “I ain’t scared of no black footsoldiers, so long as I got a good horse.”

  Waite nodded, for the soldiers at Stanton were mostly all infantrymen.

  Middleton rode up, grinning, levering another shell into his rifle. “Did you see that sumbitch fall down, Kid? He went down like he was poleaxed.”

  “He sure as hell did,” the Kid agreed, swinging his horse away from Lincoln. “That was one hell of a fine shot you made, only he kept on crawlin’ after you shot him.”

  Middleton scowled. “Maybe the bastard will bleed to death, anyhow.”

  The Kid kicked his horse to a lope toward a stand of juniper
pines. “Either way, we taught Murphy an’ Dolan an’ his boys a real important lesson. They’d better not mess with the Regulators or we’ll come gunnin’ for ’em.”

  “Damn right,” French said, tying a bandanna around the hole in his thigh. “We showed them high an’ mighty boys a thing or two.”

  The bullet wound in the Kid’s thigh had begun to throb, and he was losing a lot of blood. He took a red scarf from his neck and tied it tightly around his injury.

  “We ain’t done with ’em yet,” the Kid promised as they left Lincoln behind. “We haven’t squared things with Jesse yet, or some of the rest of ’em. Now let’s get hid on the Ruidoso some place ’til we get healed up.”

  With that, the Regulators vanished into the pine woods, and soon the sounds of their horses faded to silence.

  * * *

  Jeffery Gauss peered around the corner of the doorframe of his adobe hut, watching the last of the Regulators disappear in a dense forest. He watched silently for a moment.

  “Is it over?” His wife asked, cowering in the kitchen near her cast-iron wood stove.

  “Appears so. Them was John Tunstall’s friends. Call themselves the Regulators now. Dick Brewer and McSween got ’em all sworn in as deputies, only they just shot Sheriff Brady so many times he’s gotta be dead. Those boys sure don’t act like lawmen, bushwhackin’ our sheriff. That real young one, the boy they call Billy the Kid, is the feller who killed Sheriff Brady, an’ I’ll testify to it in a court of law. Far as I’m concerned they oughta hang that Kid. I ain’t no authority on the subject, but he acts like a mean-natured killer. He shot Bill Brady like a man shoots a crippled horse. . . .”

  Twenty-one

  The Kid’s leg was throbbing, and the freezing wind mixed with snow from the March norther blowing in wasn’t helping any, though the cold had made the bleeding almost stop. When the Regulators split up after killing Sheriff Brady, the Kid told Jim French to follow him toward the Ruidoso, saying he thought he knew where they might get some medical help for the wounds in their legs.