by a pair of sandstone shoulders. Billy knew them well. Easily they'd get to them by sundown, or before.
Art yelled harshly from behind, "Let's git some speed on, Billy Boy. It's three days to the border."
Billy shouted back, without turning, "You afraid of a lil' ol' posse, Art? Man with your experience? Rest your fears! The sheriff in Polkton mus' be seventy now. Weary ol' man. Phil Metcalf. Never was much of a sheriff. Couldn't catch rain in a storm." Then Billy laughed at his own words.
The laughter echoed across the mountains.
Art yelled angrily, "This ain't no joke we're on, Billy Boy, although you been actin' like it. Git goin', man."
***
WILLIE TROTTED ALMANAC toward the Yavapai village, deep in thoughts of Billy Bonney. He boiled at his cousin, yet he also felt a growing, gnawing remorse.
He knew Billy's constant need for funds. Of certainty, Billy had long ago gambled away any cash from the Cudahy people. He wasn't good at cards. Or he'd spent It on any pretty female face and receptive eyes that maneuvered by. Dollars flew from his pockets like flushed quail, and pride wouldn't let him ask any man for another stake.
So perhaps Pete Wilson had been right about the trouble at El Paso, Willie reluctantly decided. If Billy was desperate for cash, who knew what he'd do.
There were so many memories; he and Billy went back so far. The memories kept creeping out. After all, they'd grown up together.
People will have to understand that now,
Willie thought. It would be no blood hunt. He wanted Billy alive for a fair trial.
The wagon road toward the Yavapai wickiups wound down from Polkton plateau through grazing land, skirting a bend of the Tuscum River for a ways. There seemed to be reminders at every mile that fell under Almanac's loping hooves, like the white school building they'd both attended on the outskirts of town. Glancing at it, he could almost hear Billy's panicked cry of "Hey, Willie!" and feel himself launch toward the backs of four boys about to pound sap out of Mrs. Bonney's only son. The kid had never been very good with his fists.
The serene Tuscum, the color of creamed coffee and willow-snagged, brought back another sharp memory. His throat caught. Off and on, over the years, he'd thought about that one beautiful summer afternoon. Billy had been nine or ten. They'd been swimming, buck naked, in a muddy creek.
On the slick bank, Billy had shouted, "Willie, lookit me, I'm a goldurned frog," then hit the water in a splatting belly bust.
As Billy's grinning face broke surface, Willie had said, "Billy, frogs don't belly bust like that."
Billy's head went under and came up again, spurting a stream. "Then I'm a goldurned fountain, a-spittin' at the world."
That was always his problem, Willie believed: spitting at the world. Always, it seemed, the world just spit back. It was a wonder Billy even was still alive.
Yet, in all probability, Willie knew, if Kate Mills hadn't come along, they'd both still be ranching above Tuckamore Creek, taking weekly runs through Saloon Row, where Billy in his cups would inevitably take on a miner, then need rescue.
Kate had been the turning point. Billy had finally viewed her as a plague come to visit. No man in his right mind got married until he was forty, Billy had declared.
Willie remembered the wedding morning when Billy, as sullen best man, flipped the ring as if it were a coin toss. Then he'd gone away on a week's drunk. Returning, he moped around another week, finally to say, "I'm headed to Mexico."
And that's how they'd parted.
Much later Willie had thought about Billy's departure and suspected that Billy had fallen in love with Kate Mills. As a seventeen-year-old bride, she'd been closer in age to Billy.
Willie rode steadily on toward the hogans in shallowing light, the palomino dipping his head to grab at grass that curled over the wagon ruts in places.
Whatever their memories, whatever their bond, Willie knew he'd have to get Billy and bring him back
Art yelled harshly from behind, "Let's git some speed on, Billy Boy. It's three days to the border."
Billy shouted back, without turning, "You afraid of a lil' ol' posse, Art? Man with your experience? Rest your fears! The sheriff in Polkton mus' be seventy now. Weary ol' man. Phil Metcalf. Never was much of a sheriff. Couldn't catch rain in a storm." Then Billy laughed at his own words.
The laughter echoed across the mountains.
Art yelled angrily, "This ain't no joke we're on, Billy Boy, although you been actin' like it. Git goin', man."
***
WILLIE TROTTED ALMANAC toward the Yavapai village, deep in thoughts of Billy Bonney. He boiled at his cousin, yet he also felt a growing, gnawing remorse.
He knew Billy's constant need for funds. Of certainty, Billy had long ago gambled away any cash from the Cudahy people. He wasn't good at cards. Or he'd spent It on any pretty female face and receptive eyes that maneuvered by. Dollars flew from his pockets like flushed quail, and pride wouldn't let him ask any man for another stake.
So perhaps Pete Wilson had been right about the trouble at El Paso, Willie reluctantly decided. If Billy was desperate for cash, who knew what he'd do.
There were so many memories; he and Billy went back so far. The memories kept creeping out. After all, they'd grown up together.
People will have to understand that now,
Willie thought. It would be no blood hunt. He wanted Billy alive for a fair trial.
The wagon road toward the Yavapai wickiups wound down from Polkton plateau through grazing land, skirting a bend of the Tuscum River for a ways. There seemed to be reminders at every mile that fell under Almanac's loping hooves, like the white school building they'd both attended on the outskirts of town. Glancing at it, he could almost hear Billy's panicked cry of "Hey, Willie!" and feel himself launch toward the backs of four boys about to pound sap out of Mrs. Bonney's only son. The kid had never been very good with his fists.
The serene Tuscum, the color of creamed coffee and willow-snagged, brought back another sharp memory. His throat caught. Off and on, over the years, he'd thought about that one beautiful summer afternoon. Billy had been nine or ten. They'd been swimming, buck naked, in a muddy creek.
On the slick bank, Billy had shouted, "Willie, lookit me, I'm a goldurned frog," then hit the water in a splatting belly bust.
As Billy's grinning face broke surface, Willie had said, "Billy, frogs don't belly bust like that."
Billy's head went under and came up again, spurting a stream. "Then I'm a goldurned fountain, a-spittin' at the world."
That was always his problem, Willie believed: spitting at the world. Always, it seemed, the world just spit back. It was a wonder Billy even was still alive.
Yet, in all probability, Willie knew, if Kate Mills hadn't come along, they'd both still be ranching above Tuckamore Creek, taking weekly runs through Saloon Row, where Billy in his cups would inevitably take on a miner, then need rescue.
Kate had been the turning point. Billy had finally viewed her as a plague come to visit. No man in his right mind got married until he was forty, Billy had declared.
Willie remembered the wedding morning when Billy, as sullen best man, flipped the ring as if it were a coin toss. Then he'd gone away on a week's drunk. Returning, he moped around another week, finally to say, "I'm headed to Mexico."
And that's how they'd parted.
Much later Willie had thought about Billy's departure and suspected that Billy had fallen in love with Kate Mills. As a seventeen-year-old bride, she'd been closer in age to Billy.
Willie rode steadily on toward the hogans in shallowing light, the palomino dipping his head to grab at grass that curled over the wagon ruts in places.
Whatever their memories, whatever their bond, Willie knew he'd have to get Billy and bring him back
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