Billy the Kid Read Online Free PDF Page A

Rawls to be a banker or a lawyer. He certainly wasn't a rancher—his skin was too smooth, hands too pink and soft. His suit had been cut in Phoenix, maybe, and those fine boots were surely out of Tucson, made by that Italian immigrant down there. Billy looked at them enviously. But he had shining new ones, thanks to Art Smith.
    "What's his name?" Rawls asked.
    "He goes under a lot of false names," Billy replied, sensing Perry beginning to steam again.
    "Doesn't make any difference," Rawls said after the screech trailed off. "I'm just glad you've got him." Then he frowned. "Say, I haven't seen you around these parts; Sheriff."
    Billy felt a slight quiver in his gut for the first time but explained cordially, "I'm just a poor deputy, Mr. Rawls. I work that festerin' hellhole of Yuma. Jus' bringin' this stickup artist up the mountain for trial. We got him last week on the lower Colorado. He was livin' like a king down there. Had two women, a barrel o' whiskey, and anytime he got hungry rustled hisself a calf an' cut a loin off it. Havin' hisself a time."
    Perry spat brown juice out the open window in disgust.
    "That a fact?" Rawls nodded, scanning Perry's profile. "I'm a banker in Jerome and open the doors each day wondering if we'll make it through. I'm beginning to believe it's worse now than it was ten years ago. You lawmen have got to clean them up."
    Billy found it hard to keep a straight face but said earnestly, "Mr. Rawls, we are sincerely dedicated to that."
    Rawls's head snapped down in a confirming, righteous nod that quivered his jowls. Then he settled back, curiosity satisfied.
    Billy looked down the length of the car a moment, then turned and settled back, too. Most aboard seemed to be townspeople, although there were a few cowhands. One mem looked like he might be a miner. There were a couple of mothers with cranky children. He made a guess that the other car was populated pretty much the same. Just folks moving around the territory for one reason or another. He hoped Art wouldn't get reckless with that scattergun.
    No. 2 northbound hauled a combined express and mail car as well as the two passenger cars. They weren't as plush as the steam-heated eastern coaches he'd heard about, but the seats had padding under knobby green fabric. Oil lamps swung on gimbals from the ceiling.
    Billy put his eyes on one and tried to think about going to New York or Chicago, where he'd never been, if he didn't go back to Mexico and marry Helga. With his share of the loot, why not go to London or maybe Paris with her? He'd never seen the sea. Maybe, just maybe, he should do that before he bought a ranch.
At least,
he thought,
I don't feel boxed in now—thanks, unfortunately, to Art.
    Billy sighed and dug his shoulders deeper into the green pile, tipping his hat even lower over his eyes, again putting off thoughts of Art Smith somewhere up the tracks. He stared down at the black toes of his new boots. Actually, this was something like coming home, he figured. He wondered if Polkton, his place of birth, was still the same. It must have grown some in two years.
    His boyhood days had been grand up to the buggy accident that took his papa's life. He'd been so proud of his papa, the best gunsmith in the whole world. He'd made a .44 for the president as well as for the king of England. Papa was Polkton's claim to fame.
    The first time Billy had ever pulled a trigger was when he was four and Papa held Billy's small hands in his own as the gun jumped and made his ears ring. By the time he was seven, Billy could outshoot most of the men in town. Papa said, "Billy, you're a true artist!" Then that runaway horse tipped the buggy when Billy was eight, breaking his heart.
    Two years later Billy's mama married a blacksmith, a friend of his late papa's. Stern and strict, with a bad temper, the blacksmith took an immediate dislike to his new stepson. Then Billy's mother died of lobar pneumonia, and he had to be rescued by cousin Willie's