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Authors: Theodore Taylor
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into the air in an arc.
The gun locked on a gasping Art, whose hands had automatically sunk to his waist. The hands began rising again. The
boom
of the gun echoed back over the taupe ridges and flats.
Billy said hoarsely, "Now drop your belts an' kick 'em away."
The men he'd shot in his life before today were rustlers, all on Cudahy land except that cheating Juarez man. The same thing had happened each time. They'd drawn, and instinct had moved Billy the Kid to fire, putting blinding speed and coordination into his hands and eyes. At the instant it happened, when the gun fired, he'd felt nothing. But when it was over, his body tingled, as it did now.
Hit in the chest, Joe was groaning in the dirt.
Billy didn't bother to look at him. He towed the burlap bag back, holding Perry and Art at bay with his right hand. Among the fresh mounts he'd picked a sleek bell mare, and reaching her, he used his left hand to stuff the saddlebag, eyes darting between the burlap bag and the two men.
He finished and mounted, then leaned to pull the slipknot on the hitching line, loosening the other three horses. He kicked at a sorrel, and they scattered.
Taking a last look at Art, Billy said, "Your youngest had another fault. He was impulsive." Then he galloped out between the rocks into deep twilight, vanishing. The sound of hooves diminished quickly.
***
PERRY HAD GONE FOR HIS GUN , but it was tOO late. In a rage Art knelt down by Joe to rip open his blood-drenched shirt. Then he looked up and off, the blocky face maniacal in the near darkness.
"Catch those horses, Perry," he barked. "Let's try to find a doctor. We'll take care of Billy later."
***
ABOUT TEN O'CLOCK , when the three-quarter moon, just risen, made the harsh country ivory and pillow soft, Billy was hidden back in a canyon. He hadn't lighted a fire. Boots off, he'd bedded down for the night, the .44s on each side of him at hip level. He'd eaten some jerked beef and was waiting for uneasy sleep.
Windless chill had spread over the low mountains and ivory light began defining brush clumps along the lips of the draw. There were stirrings and rustlings along the sharp banks of the water-cut vee. Not far away, coyotes made themselves known.
Billy looked at the wide sky, shivering suddenly. Some of it was the penetrating chill; some was the fact that he realized he was alone again. There had been many people along the way over the past two years, but often, at moments like this, it seemed he'd been alone since leaving Willis Monroe and the Double W. And Kate. Only Helga was in his life, and she was far away.
8
KATE MONROE was down on the living room floor, talking to herself. Parts of a new wringer from wondrous Chicago were littered about her. The lamp by her knees cast a warm glow on the assembly instruction sheet. She was perplexed by the diagram.
At nineteen Kate Monroe was a very pretty girl. Her hair was straw colored in the summer, for she was outdoors a lot, but turned honey when snows hit the Tuckamore. It was long, and she wore it grasped at the nape of her neck with a bone clasp. Shaken out and loose, as it was now, it framed her face perfectly.
Kate had an open, sunny face; it hid well the two sharp recent tragedies in her young life. Her mother had died recently back in Missouri. And then there was the tragedy she shared with Willis. The death of their baby. She rarely spoke of either.
Ever since her husband had been elected sheriff, Kate had done much of the work around the ranch, even bossing Gonzalvo, their only regular hand. Simply stated, Willis, as an arm of the law, wasn't there very often, except for roundups. But then Kate had always done for herself, teaching students who were sometimes her own age. The pioneer blood of her grandparents flowed strong in her veins. She'd never been weak, never been afraid of a man's work. Yet she was entirely feminine.
"Insert Roller A into handle arm ... Roller B goes into...," she was saying as Cotton and Duke
The gun locked on a gasping Art, whose hands had automatically sunk to his waist. The hands began rising again. The
boom
of the gun echoed back over the taupe ridges and flats.
Billy said hoarsely, "Now drop your belts an' kick 'em away."
The men he'd shot in his life before today were rustlers, all on Cudahy land except that cheating Juarez man. The same thing had happened each time. They'd drawn, and instinct had moved Billy the Kid to fire, putting blinding speed and coordination into his hands and eyes. At the instant it happened, when the gun fired, he'd felt nothing. But when it was over, his body tingled, as it did now.
Hit in the chest, Joe was groaning in the dirt.
Billy didn't bother to look at him. He towed the burlap bag back, holding Perry and Art at bay with his right hand. Among the fresh mounts he'd picked a sleek bell mare, and reaching her, he used his left hand to stuff the saddlebag, eyes darting between the burlap bag and the two men.
He finished and mounted, then leaned to pull the slipknot on the hitching line, loosening the other three horses. He kicked at a sorrel, and they scattered.
Taking a last look at Art, Billy said, "Your youngest had another fault. He was impulsive." Then he galloped out between the rocks into deep twilight, vanishing. The sound of hooves diminished quickly.
***
PERRY HAD GONE FOR HIS GUN , but it was tOO late. In a rage Art knelt down by Joe to rip open his blood-drenched shirt. Then he looked up and off, the blocky face maniacal in the near darkness.
"Catch those horses, Perry," he barked. "Let's try to find a doctor. We'll take care of Billy later."
***
ABOUT TEN O'CLOCK , when the three-quarter moon, just risen, made the harsh country ivory and pillow soft, Billy was hidden back in a canyon. He hadn't lighted a fire. Boots off, he'd bedded down for the night, the .44s on each side of him at hip level. He'd eaten some jerked beef and was waiting for uneasy sleep.
Windless chill had spread over the low mountains and ivory light began defining brush clumps along the lips of the draw. There were stirrings and rustlings along the sharp banks of the water-cut vee. Not far away, coyotes made themselves known.
Billy looked at the wide sky, shivering suddenly. Some of it was the penetrating chill; some was the fact that he realized he was alone again. There had been many people along the way over the past two years, but often, at moments like this, it seemed he'd been alone since leaving Willis Monroe and the Double W. And Kate. Only Helga was in his life, and she was far away.
8
KATE MONROE was down on the living room floor, talking to herself. Parts of a new wringer from wondrous Chicago were littered about her. The lamp by her knees cast a warm glow on the assembly instruction sheet. She was perplexed by the diagram.
At nineteen Kate Monroe was a very pretty girl. Her hair was straw colored in the summer, for she was outdoors a lot, but turned honey when snows hit the Tuckamore. It was long, and she wore it grasped at the nape of her neck with a bone clasp. Shaken out and loose, as it was now, it framed her face perfectly.
Kate had an open, sunny face; it hid well the two sharp recent tragedies in her young life. Her mother had died recently back in Missouri. And then there was the tragedy she shared with Willis. The death of their baby. She rarely spoke of either.
Ever since her husband had been elected sheriff, Kate had done much of the work around the ranch, even bossing Gonzalvo, their only regular hand. Simply stated, Willis, as an arm of the law, wasn't there very often, except for roundups. But then Kate had always done for herself, teaching students who were sometimes her own age. The pioneer blood of her grandparents flowed strong in her veins. She'd never been weak, never been afraid of a man's work. Yet she was entirely feminine.
"Insert Roller A into handle arm ... Roller B goes into...," she was saying as Cotton and Duke
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