The Real Billy the Kid: With new light on the LINCOLN COUNTY WAR; Facsimile of Original 1936 Edition

THE REAL

BILLY THE KID

CHAPTER I

First Years of Billy the Kid

William H. Bonney, JR., was an Irishman. He was born on New York’s East Side on November 23, 1859. A brother, Edward, followed Billy in 1861. During the summer of 1862, when Billy was almost three and his brother one, their parents removed to the West, settling at Coffeyville, Kansas, on the Verdigris River, a short distance north of the Indian Territory. Soon after their arrival in Kansas, the father, William H. Bonney, Sr., died, leaving his young widow and two baby boys with but a scant outfit and little ready cash. The widow disposed of all the property, with the exception of a wagon and team of horses and joined a large party of emigrants heading for Pueblo, Colorado. There she married a man named Antrim, and moved to Santa Fé, where they opened a restaurant and boarding house during the summer of 1863. One of their first boarders was Ash Upson, who at that time was working for The Daily New Mexican. Billy was still under five years of age.

When he was eight years old Billy acquired the habit of dealing monte. He had no use for toys, never played ball or marbles, and consequently his hands were as trim, nimble and shapely as those of a girl. His only toy was a pack of Mexican cards. He soon became as skillful at dealing as any of the older gamblers in and around Santa Fé. This led him to saloons and tendijons, where games of cards were played at all hours of the day and night. Here he watched every turn of the cards and the manner of shuffling and dealing, and soon became one of the most proficient dealers in the community.

After five years in Santa Fé, Antrim decided to move to Silver City, New Mexico, at that time a lively mining town. Ash Upson was responsible for this change. It was he who put the idea into Antrim’s head and clinched it by his avowed intention of going with them to the booming mining camp. The Antrims sold their business in Santa Fé and opened a restaurant and boarding house in Silver City. Billy was then nine years old. Antrim was a miner. He was usually away from home all day, while his wife was busy cooking and attending to her many duties about the house and restaurant. The boarders were made up of all classes — miners, merchants, saloon men, adventuresome women, gamblers, teamsters and toughs. It was among such people that Billy passed his boyhood. Mrs. Antrim was a kindly woman and the relationship between mother and son was one of perfect understanding.

From the day of his arrival in Silver City till the fall of 1871, when Billy was twelve years old, he exhibited no signs of developing into a desperado or outlaw. Bold, daring, reckless, open-handed, Billy Bonney was a great favorite with everyone, especially the old and decrepit. Never was he seen addressing a woman without first removing his hat. If he happened to be speaking to an elderly one whose attire indicated poverty, it was a pleasure to see the eager, sympathetic expression that lit his face as he proffered assistance or afforded her the information she was seeking. No small child ever lacked a lift across the gutter or the assistance of a strong arm to help carry a heavy burden when Billy was near at hand.

To all those who knew his mother, his courtesy and benevolence of spirit were no mystery. She was of Irish descent, of medium height, straight and graceful in her carriage, with regular features, light blue eyes and a luxuriant growth of soft golden hair. She did not quite attain beauty; still she was a handsome, pleasant-looking woman. She kept many boarders in her neat home. Her charities were well-known in Silver City. Many a penniless, hungry tenderfoot or stranger had cause to bless her and his luck in finding her hospitable home. She was a genuine lady — a lady by instinct and education.

Billy, who worshiped his mother above everything on earth, was unhappy at home because of the tyranny and cruelty of his stepfather. It was this that drove him away from a loving mother’s care. He himself often declared that the treatment accorded him by his stepfather was wholly responsible for his going to the bad. His mother died in 1878 and Edward, his younger brother, must have died in Silver City, for nothing was ever heard of him after his own departure.

Billy’s education was very limited, though not any more so than that of most of the boys during that period in the border country. There were no public schools then, but his mother sent him to a private school, where his record showed him to be a bright and attentive scholar. But he really acquired more information at his mother’s knee than at the little country school. His brain was as active as that of a man or woman twice his age. He wrote a fair letter, was good at arithmetic, and loved to read the newspapers to learn the news from other parts of the country.

Together with his good qualities, Billy had his faults, like most boys — but his faults usually prevailed over his good qualities. He had an ungovernable temper and in his angry moods was dangerous. Not that he was loud or swaggering. Far from it. He had absolutely no bark; it was all bite! He never took advantage of an antagonist, but, barring size and weight, would when fully aroused fight any man in Silver City. The trouble with Billy at this stage was that he would not stay whipped. This characteristic, which later developed so strongly in him, was no doubt caused by the cruel treatment meted out to him by his stepfather, whose actions he could not openly resent, because of his great love for his mother. When oversized and worsted in a fight, he sought such arms as he could lay his hands on, using them with diabolically murderous intent.

Toward the end of his stay in Silver City, he was the constant companion of Jesse Davis (later known as Jesse Evans), then only a boy, but as daring and dangerous as many a more experienced desperado. Jesse Davis was older than Billy and considered himself as sort of a tutor for his younger comrade. They soon parted at Silver City, only to meet again many times on different sides during their brief and bloody careers, for Jesse cashed in his chips only a short time before Billy.

Billy’s departure from Silver City was hastened by an unfortunate event. This was the actual turning point in his life. It outlawed him and compelled him from that time on to follow the forbidden path — a victim of his ungovernable temper.

One day as Billy’s mother was walking by a bunch of street-corner idlers, someone in the crowd passed an insulting remark about her. Billy heard the remark. Quick as a flash of lightning, he smashed the fellow in the mouth, then, springing to the street, he stooped for a rock. The man made a rush for him, but as he passed Ed Moulton, a well known citizen of Silver City, he received a stunning blow on the ear. This knocked him down. Billy was caught and restrained, but the punishment by no means satisfied the enraged boy, and burning for revenge he visited a miner’s cabin, procured a Sharp’s rifle and started in search of his mother’s insulter. By a streak of luck, Moulton saw him with the gun, and with difficulty persuaded him to return it to the cabin. Three weeks later, Moulton, a large, powerful man, got into a fight at Joe Dyer’s saloon. He was getting the best of his two husky assailants when the man who had insulted Billy’s mother saw an opportunity to take revenge on Moulton. He rushed upon him with a heavy barroom chair upraised, and was in the act of bringing it down on Moulton’s head, when Billy, who was looking on, darted beneath the chair. One-two-three — at each count his arm rose and fell. Then, rushing through the crowd, his right hand holding a bloody pocket knife above his head, he went out into the night, an outcast, a wanderer, a murderer!

His only thought was for his mother. He rushed to the house and bade her good-bye for the last time. Her influence followed him all through life — even when he was an outcast murderer. He always had a deep devotion and respect for good women, born, doubtless, of his adoration for her.

Billy Bonney wandered for three days and nights — a mere boy of twelve — without meeting a human being, except one Mexican sheep-herder. He spoke Spanish as fluently as any Mexican and was able to secure from the herder a small stock of provisions, consisting of tortillas and mutton, which he carried away with him. On foot and bewildered, he suddenly found that he had been travelling in a circle and was back in the vicinity of McKnight’s ranch. Here he discovered some horses. Quickly securing a pony and finding a piece of rope, which he used for a bridle, he was soon headed for Arizona, with his first stolen horse. While on the road, he picked up a companion who was travelling in the same direction, and together they rode into Camp Bowie, afterward Fort Bowie, Arizona, on a sore-backed pony, hungry and without a dime to their names. Bonney’s new partner once had had a name, but he had changed it so often that he was now known only as Alias. The two satisfied their hunger and disposed of the pony. Then they borrowed a condemned rifle and a pistol from the soldiers, and with a pocketful of ammunition resumed their wanderings.

Camp Bowie was situated in Pima County, on what was then known as the Chiracahua Apache Indian Reservation. At this time the Indians were at peace, so there was no danger in going among them. Bonney and Alias were headed for Sonora, Mexico, going in a southwesterly direction from the fort when, eight miles out, they came upon a party of three Indians in one of the mountain passes. The redmen were returning to the fort with twelve horses, five of which were packed with pelts, several saddles and many blankets. The Indians spoke Spanish, so Bonney parleyed with them, trying to persuade them to let him have two of the ponies. He promised to return and pay their price, but his arguments fell on deaf ears. Snapping to a decision, Bonney and Alias did the only thing possible under the circumstances. The Kid’s own version of the affair speaks for itself:

It was a groundhog case. Here were twelve good ponies, four or five saddles, a good supply of blankets and five pony-loads of pelts. Here were three blood-thirsty savages, reveling in all this luxury, and refusing to succor two freeborn white American citizens, footsore and hungry. The plunder had to change hands — there was no alternative — and as one live Indian could place a hundred United States troops on our trail in two hours, and as dead Indians would be likely to choose some other route, our resolves were taken. In three minutes there were three ‘good Injuns’ lying around there, careless-like, and with ponies and plunder we skipped. There was no fight. It was about the softest thing I ever struck.

Nothing was heard of the boys for several days but it was generally known that they had disposed of the ponies, pelts, blankets and other articles to a party of Texas immigrants, more than a hundred miles from Camp Bowie, for soon thereafter they returned to the reservation splendidly mounted and armed and with considerable money in their pockets. They were soon on the best of terms with the soldiers, government officials and citizens at Camp Bowie, Apache Pass, San Simon, San Carlos and, in fact, all the settlements in that vicinity. They spent much of their time at Tucson, where Bonney’s skill as a monte dealer and all-around gambler kept him constantly occupied. The two boys lived in great style and on friendly terms with the sporting fraternity which was at that time a powerful element in Arizona. If the Southern Arizona authorities knew anything of the killing of the three Indians and the stealing of the horses and plunder, nothing was ever done about it. In those days no one regretted the killing of three Indians — or three hundred — besides nothing was to be gained by prosecuting the two boys.

Bonney soon tired of the quiet life on the reservation. Together with his friend Alias, he again took to the road and, in the neighborhood of San Simon, ran onto a band of eight or ten Apache Indians. Indians are fond of horse-racing; it is in fact one of their greatest sports. The boys, knowing this, proposed a horse race, to which the Indians quickly acquiesced. Bonney was mounted on a beautiful horse, but he arranged the race between the Indians’ fastest pony and Alias’ horse, a very inferior animal. Bonney then changed horses with Alias, at the same time insisting that Alias should hold all the stakes on the race — money and firearms. At a signal the horses broke away. Alias, mounted on Bonney’s fast charger, flew the track and never once slackened his headlong pace until he reached a deserted cattle ranch, many miles away from the race track. Bonney and his horse lost the race, but Alias had made off with all the stakes and was now far beyond pursuit. In his most eloquent Spanish Bonney convinced the Indians that his companion had not only taken the stakes, but had also robbed him of his fine horse, saddle and bridle. He claimed he had lost everything he possessed and now had only a worthless scrub pony. He wept and made such a fearful fuss about his losses that the Indians gave him a good horse in exchange for the scrub pony. Two days later an odd hundred miles from the race track, Bonney and Alias divided the spoils and enjoyed a hearty laugh over the amusing little