By Terry Burns

The jail in Lincoln County New Mexico was on the second floor above the Sheriff’s office.  I had been given the opportunity to talk to one of the most famous killers in history, Billy the Kid.  I admit it, as I ascended the stairs I was thinking national exposure, in spite of the fact that normally I do articles for newspapers back east and the occasional dime novel.  With the kid set to hang the following morning, this was sure to be his last interview . . . and my big break.

As I topped out the stairs I found the kid playing cards with Deputy J. W. Bell, hampered by the manacles on his hands.  I wouldn't have said it to his face, but he was a singularly homely young man, with buck teeth and a slight build.  Not at all what I expected.

"Mr. Bell, I'm Rick Dayton, a writer.  I'm here to interview Mr. Bonney."

He made a sort of a grunt which I took as acquiescence, and helped myself to a chair.  I sat against the wall and began to ask questions.  The kid paid little attention but focused on the card game as if they played for more than matches.

I wrote in my journal: “The most notorious shootist in the West appears to be but a boy, a very plain young man, extremely quiet and reserved.  Hardly what one would expect for one said to have killed a man for every year of his life, twenty-one.”

I stopped writing and asked him if the statement about the number of men he had killed was true.  He gave me a sideways glance.  “You expect me to answer a question like that right in front of a deputy sheriff?  You ain’t as smart as I took you for.”

“Aw, Billy,” Bell said, “you’re gonna hang in the morning anyway.  You ought to tell your story to the man.”

I waved his comment aside.  “That’s all right.  He certainly doesn’t have to answer any questions he doesn’t wish to respond to.  How did you get started in a life of crime, Billy?”

A flash of anger came into his eyes.  “I don’t consider myself to be involved in a life of crime as you put it.  I ain’t had no choice in the way things have come about.  But as to what happened first, I reckon you’d have to lay that at the door of a no account by the name of Sombrero Jack up Silver City way.  Never did know his last name.  He made me hide a bunch of stolen laundry.  The sheriff put me in jail when he found it and I wouldn’t snitch on who really done it.  I fooled him, though, I crawled through the chimney and escaped.”  He snickered.  “I’ve escaped a lot.”

“How old were you, Billy?”

“Then?  I was fifteen.  There was a poster put out on me after the escape and I took to calling myself Henry.  Henry Antrim.”

“Is that when you killed your first man?”

“Told you I didn’t want to talk about that,” he snapped.  Then he glanced at Bell and more softly said, “Aw, maybe you’re right.  What have I got to lose?  There was this guy named Windy Cahill there in Silver City.  He was the camp blacksmith and a real bully.  I didn’t move fast enough to suit him one day and he flung me to the ground and took to whomping on me.  I pulled his own gun outta his belt and shot him.  Funny, that was the first time I ever shot a gun.”  He produced a most unappealing grin and spread the cards on the crate they were using for a table.  "Three aces," he said.

"Billy, you gotta be cheating.  It ain't natural to have this much luck."  Bell looked like he had swallowed a toad.

"I don't need to cheat to beat you."

I tried to get his attention again.  “Surely that was self-defense.”

Billy dealt a new hand.  “Before he died he had people write out a statement that I figured ought to clear me, but they threw me in the post stockade and was gonna hang me.  Out here in the west, they think anybody old enough to kill somebody is old enough to hang.  But I escaped.”

“Amazing!  What happened then.”

“I roamed around Arizona and the Indian territory for a while, then I got caught up in the Lincoln County war."  He looked across the table and said, "The dealer takes three," before he went on.  "We all done some killing in that.  Don’t understand why I should be singled out . . . “

He reached out to place a wager of ten matches into the pot, but in the process knocked a card to the floor.  It was the Jack of Hearts.

“Didn’t mean to do that, Bell.  Hard to play with handcuffs on."

“That’s all right, kid.”  Bell bent to pick up the card.  His head was below the top of the table for a fraction of a second.  It was enough.

The kid struck like a snake, pulling the deputy’s gun.  Bell jerked his head back up to look down the muzzle of his own weapon.  I held my breath.

“Do what I tell you, Bell, and be mighty quick about it.”  Billy’s voice became crisp and sharp.  “Don’t make a false move.  You’re a dead man if you do.  I don’t want to kill you.  You’ve been good to me.  Turn around and walk out the door.  I’m gonna lock you in the armory.”  He looked at me.  “You too.”

We turned and marched out the door.  I could hear the kid shuffle behind us in his leg irons

I’ve thought about what happened next.  I think I know why Bell did what he did.  Maybe his pride was hurt.  The kid had been sitting there talking about all of his escapes, yet here we were.  I expect he couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain how he had been tricked to Sheriff Pat Garrett.

We came to the head of the back stairs, almost to the armory door.  The kid was maybe five or six feet behind us.  I know Bell must have thought the wall would shield him long enough as he suddenly made his move.  He started to take the steps three at a time.  I jerked back against the wall. 

The kid was just too quick.  The bullet took Bell under the left shoulder blade, cutting through his heart.  I turned and found myself looking into the eyes of certain death.

We held each other's eyes for an eternity, then unexpectedly he grinned.  “You see what I mean?  It ain’t ever my fault.  Didn’t have to happen like this.”

He jammed Bell’s gun into his belt and caught up a double-barreled shotgun from the armory.

“You can just wipe that sweat off your forehead.  If I shoot you, who’s gonna tell my story?  You get yourself back into that jail and stay put.  You poke as much as your nose out here and I’m gonna blow it off, though.”

I didn’t need any further encouragement.  Billy apparently paused on the stairs and used Bell’s keys to remove the shackles, because moments later I looked out the window to see he wasn’t wearing them running down the back steps.  I saw him cut down Deputy Bob Olinger with what I discovered was Olinger's own shotgun.  The kid jumped on a horse and rode off.

I sat down abruptly, suddenly shaking too bad to stand.  It made no sense that I was still alive.  When my hand was steady enough I would write what would surely be my finest story.