Congratulations

“Congratulations, Pat, you shot yourself a boy,” Deputy John Poe looked down at the body of the young, dying man that bled at the lawmen’s feet.

Sheriff Pat Garrett squatted above the frigid, barren earth and looked into the face of the boy they had just ambushed. His words were like the puffs of breath that hung by his cheeks: soft and delicate, “Tom O’Folliard.”

Steam rose from the hole in Tom’s chest as blood continued oozing to the frozen ground below. His breathing was short and ragged and blood stained his teeth red.
Garrett stayed hunkered down for a moment and let his shoulders sag. He grabbed a handful of dirt and half-heartedly threw it down as he stood; his knees popped loudly in the cold December air, “It was supposed to be Bonney. Why was O’Folliard in front?”

The sound of boots running toward them in the darkness caused members of the posse to raise their firearms. One of their own, Luke Callahan slowed his pace and approached Garrett with a grimace and a shake of his head, “Billy and the others musta skinned out, Mr. Garrett. We can’t follow ‘em in the dark.”

Garrett nodded, “That’s all right, Callahan, we’ll track ‘em in the morning. Help the others bring young Mr. O’Folliard inside. We can at least make his last moments as comfortable as possible.”

Pat Garrett had done everything right, had followed all the leads, gathered all the best intel in his efforts to capture Billy the Kid. He and his tired and cold comrades had sat in an abandoned old military hospital for three days on the outskirts of town in hopes of catching Billy and the other outlaws as they returned to Fort Sumner. Christmas drew closer, and Garrett knew his boys were itching for home.

They had been so close.

Garrett’s heart had jumped in his chest when the quiet jangle of approaching horses alerted them of Billy’s presence, but strangely, his pulse evened out and slowed as he took sights with his rifle. The riders came closer, and though he could not see the lead rider’s face, Garrett easily picked out the jaunty sombrero perched atop the man’s head. The sombrero was a Billy the Kid trademark, and Garrett took aim and fired. That should have been the end of Billy the Kid.

Garrett was silent as his men took O’Folliard into the old building and resumed their card game from earlier. He waited outside until he could hear the sounds of his men warming, then he picked up a rock and flung it into the darkness, “It aint fair!”

Governor Lew Wallace had recently been putting a lot of pressure on Garrett, ever since helping to fix the election that made Garrett a lawman. Wallace had put a public bounty on The Kid’s head through the newspapers, and he demanded results.

The pressure on Garrett to produce was immeasurable.

The door opened behind Garrett and Deputy Poe’s voice carried through the night air, “Pat? O’Folliard’s callin’ for you.”

Garrett’s head pounded. He pressed his fingers into his forehead and said, “Yuh. I’m comin’ back inside.”

Poe led Garrett to the rear of the old hospital. O’Folliard lay on the floor, swaddled in blankets to keep the cold from seeping in as he died. Poe handed Garrett a small envelope, “This was in his saddle bag. It’s addressed to his grandmother. Apparently they were on their way to visit the old woman.”

Garrett briefly read the letter as Poe left. The letter was uninteresting, so Garrett leaned down on one knee, “Tom? Tom, can you hear me?”

The young man’s eyes opened and, although bleary, seemed cognizant, “Hello there, Garrett. I guess the law’s come ridin’ in to Fort Sumner, huh?”

“Come on now, Tom, Billy’s a wanted criminal; the law will follow him until the day he’s brought to justice. Tell me where he’s headed.”

O’Folliard’s eyes clouded, either with pain or with memory. His voice was hushed as he said, “Billy the Kid is a beloved hero to most of the folks around here.”

“Pfah,” Garrett spat, “he’s no Robin Hood, robbing the rich to give to the poor. He’s not a great train robber, who captures the imagination of ordinary people who might wonder what it might be like to rob a train and suddenly become very rich. There is not one ounce of nobility in that boy, nothing that would make people love him.”

O’Folliard shook his head, “The name of Billy The Kid will go down in history as one who was fiercely loyal to friends, was cool under fire, and as one who stood against the corrupt powers-that-be.”

Tom was silent for a moment; Garrett thought maybe the boy had expired, but O’Folliard spoke at last, “I will go to my grave with the greatest sadness one can carry.”

“What’s that, Tom?”

O’Folliard coughed, a weak wheeze that escaped his lips, “I never told her how much I loved her.”

“Who, Tom? Who do you love?”

“The one you hunt. Billy the Kid.”

“What?”

O’Folliard chuckled. It was not a weak gasp from a dying man, but rather a strong hearty laugh, “Billy the Kid is the finest woman I have ever known, and my only wish is that I could have told her how I felt.”

“Bullshit!” Garrett got up and paced around the small room, anger flaring, “Billy the Kid aint a woman, Tom, everyone knows that.”

Another shake of the head, “Nah, everyone thinks that.”

Garrett walked to the door and stood there, facing the wall. It was common knowledge that Tom O’Folliard was Billy the Kid’s most faithful lackey. Garrett was uninterested in hearing a dying man’s final lies to save a friend. He was ready to storm out and let O’Folliard die alone in the darkness, but he could not. It was his duty as sheriff to glean as much information as he could, so he returned to sit by the young man’s side as he closed in on his final destination.

He was also curious.

“Tell me about Billy the Kid, Tom.”

Sweat glistened on O’Folliard’s forehead in the dim candlelight, even in the dead of winter. He smiled up at Garrett, indicating that he would be glad to talk about Billy.
“I first saw the Kid in November of 1877, when my employer, Mr. Tunstall hired her on to help defend the herds from the likes of that bastard Dolan.”

Garrett was well aware of the Lincoln County Cattle War, and bloody feud that erupted between rivals John Tunstall and James Dolan. The events of that massacre led to other deeds of misfortune for The Kid, “I know all about the war, Tom. Tell me about The Kid.”

“I don’t know who William H. Bonney is, whoever he was, he’s long buried. I suspect the Kid did it. She came to us on the run from something, but we never asked; it weren’t none of our business. She was immediately accepted as one of us. We all knew she was a girl, but she made it known that no one else was to know.”

Garrett shook his head. Billy the Kid could not be a girl; it was inconceivable! Nevertheless, he asked, “Why?”

“Cuz if Dolan found out a girl was workin’ for Mr. Tunstall, he’d think we was weak, and there’d be a bunch of trouble.”

Garrett frowned; it made sense. Word of Billy the kid’s actions spread faster than floodwaters. In the Wild West, reputation counted for a lot.

“It’s impossible.”

O’Folliard wheezed, “Have you ever seen Billy?”

“Of course! I…”

“Sheriff?”

“Well, no, not in an official capacity. I must have seen him before I was elected, but…”

O’Folliard was quiet but Garrett knew he was smiling, “Have you seen the drawings of him in the newspapers? The wanted posters?”

Garrett had memorized every detail of Billy the Kid’s features, “He’s short…”

“Petite.”

Garrett eyed O’Folliard but continued, “About five-foot-eight, blond hair, bucktoothed.”

O’Folliard smiled, “It’s just a little overbite. I think it’s kinda cute.”

Garrett shook his head and pointed at O’Folliard, “That can’t be true; Billy’s got a reputation with the ladies. Are you telling me he fooled all those women?”

“No need. Each and every one of them would lie for the Kid; she’s everything they could never be, even in their dreams.”

Garrett grit his teeth and shook his head. The sound of a man professing his love for Billy the Kid made his stomach turn, “It’s all a lie!”

“Most of it,” O’Folliard agreed, “most of what you’ve heard about the Kid is a fabrication.”

Garrett was about to utter a forceful rebuke, but held his tongue; he knew how stories gained strength as they rolled across the desert. He had wondered, on more than one occasion, how much of what was told to him about William H. Bonney was true, “Like what?”

O’Folliard lurched a little on the floor. His skin was pale and ashen and every breath was a monumental effort; he was fading fast.

Garrett squatted down and placed a hand on the lad’s chest, “Tom, what else about Billy the Kid is a lie?”

O’Folliard’s eyes opened halfway, but Garrett couldn’t tell if the lad could actually see. Garrett didn’t really care; it was irrelevant at that point, “The Kid didn’t kill Sheriff William Brady and Deputy Hindman.”

Garrett snorted, “The entire town of Lincoln witnessed the gunfight. Billy was a coward and fired at a man of the law from behind a wall and stole the dead man’s rifle as he lay dead in the street.”

“You forget, I was there. Billy never fired on Brady. Not because he suffered from a moment of strong moral character,” O’Folliard laughed. This time his laugh was as weak as the rest of him,

“His bullets were wet and wouldn’t fire. Now, I won’t debate intent, but officially, Billy didn’t fire upon Brady and Hindman.”

Garrett got down on the cold floor and rested on his elbow. His face was only a few inches from O’Folliard’s, “Tom, you’ve got to know you are on your deathbed, all right?”

Tears slowly fell from O’Folliard’s eyes, “Tell my grandma I love her.”

“Tom, do you swear to me all you’ve said tonight is the truth?”

“Every word.”

“And Billy the Kid is actually a woman?”

O’Folliard’s eyes closed for the last time. Just before he stopped breathing he whispered, “Yes, and I love her.”


*** ************************ ***

Seven months later, on the night of July 14th of 1881, after several weeks of cat-and-mouse dodging and tracking, Pat Garrett and his posse heard rumors that Billy the Kid was going back to Fort Sumner to meet with old friend Pete Maxwell.

Garrett told his deputies to wait outside the Maxwell ranch while he went in to talk to the rancher. It was nearing midnight when Garrett and Maxwell heard footsteps outside. The Kid must have seen the deputies’ horses, because he called out before entering the darkened house, “¿Quien es?”

Billy backed into the room, looking outside as he did so. “Pete?” he whispered.

Maxwell was at Garrett’s side along the far wall. He whispered solemnly in Garrett’s ear, “That’s him.”

The deafening report of two shots fired indoors at such a late hour made the people of Fort Sumner jump from bed.

Garrett leaped from the front steps and shouted to his anxious deputies, “I killed the Kid! I killed the Kid!” The burden of the long hunt was lifted from Garrett’s shoulders, and it took both deputies to keep the sheriff from collapsing to the ground. He stayed in John Poe’s arms for a few minutes, then collected himself and walked back into the Maxwell house.

Inside, candles had been lit to illuminate the room. A Mexican woman sat on the floor, cradling Billy’s head in her lap and weeping openly. She looked up at Garrett and yelled at him, “You son of a bitch! You didn’t even have the nerve to kill him face to face!”

It took three men to help her from the Maxwell house and bring her home.

The woman’s strong hostile reaction hurt Garrett, but it made him see how the women all looked up to Billy; she was a hero to them. Garrett and Poe stood alone in Maxwell’s room, looking down at the bloodstained body on the floor: the hips, the subtle swell of breasts beneath the white shirt. There could be no mistake.

“Congratulations Pat, you shot yourself a girl.”