Billy’s Blues Read online

  BREWER

  As much as I hate to admit it Mr. McSween, The Kid has a point. While we stand around and argue, Dolan and his hired guns are holed up in the Murphy store planning the next move. And Brady’s already made his. He’s taken over the Tunstall store with a writ of attachment. While we chew the fat, his deputies are feasting on the supplies we ordered all the way from St. Louis so the people wouldn’t have to go into debt and lose their homes. While we’re sitting on our high horses, Brady’s boys are sitting on boxes of brand new bullets. I don’t think they plan to leave without a fight. And whether we like it or not, Murphy and Dolan’s next step will be to take the fight to us. How can we get the store back from Brady or defend ourselves against Dolan without fighting?

  McSWEEN

  We must find a legal way.

  THE KID

  And what about Mr. Tunstall’s murderers—is there a legal way to arrest a legal posse?

  McSWEEN

  Yes, if we can prove that Tunstall was arrested with unnecessary force.

  WASHINGTON

  Scuse me Mr. McSween, suh, but they’s somethin’ I’s thinks you should knows.

  McSWEEN

  If it relates to our discussion, George.

  WASHINGTON

  (taking off his blue Civil War cap)

  Yes suh, I believe it do. I’s dere tah help lif Mistah Tunstah body on de table fo de doctah tah view. Then I stay tah lif de body in de coffin. I’s see dat Sheriff Brady, he pay de doctah from de fort a hundred dollah, and dat doctah, he din stay long enough but look de body over and say deys two bullet holes. Dat all he see, jess two bullet holes dat kill Mistah Tunstah and no odah damage to de body.

  McSWEEN

  My good man, do you mean to tell me that you witnessed Sheriff Brady paying the doctor from Fort Stanton to falsify an official report?

  WASHINGTON

  Da Rev. Ealy dere too. He see de body, but he no see de sheriff pay de man.

  McSWEEN

  If this be true, the official report will fail to note the full damage to the body. Brady will be able to support his story that Tunstall was shot while resisting arrest. However, we do have the good reverend’s testimony. He assisted in the post-mortem. As a doctor, his testimony can counter Dr. Appel’s in a court of law.

  THE KID

  Law, what law? Murphy’s got the support of Colonel Dudley’s doctor, because Dudley buys his beef from Murphy who steals it from us. Murphy’s got everyone in his pocket: the sheriff, the army, the district attorney, Judge Bristol, Governor Axtell, and it’s all backed by the Sante Fe Ring who lords over the entire territory. That kind of law ain’t going to punish the cowards that killed Mr. Tunstall.

  The men nod in support. The Kid then reaches over and picks up his Winchester.

  THE KID

  Mr. Tunstall gave me this gun to hunt with and that’s exactly what I’m going to use it for. I’m going to hunt down his murderers, each and every one of them, and I’m not going to rest until I see them in their graves and that includes Brady.

  The men voice their support of The Kid, except McCloskey, who has a look of deep concern etched on his face.

  McSWEEN

  But that’s cold blooded murder Billy. If we break the law, we are no better than they. Law and order is what we need now more than ever, or else we will all descend into wild animals.

  THE KID

  There’s no law here, but Murphy’s law. Murphy and Dolan aren’t going to rest until they see all of us buried next to Mr. Tunstall. It’s us against them. I say kill them before they kill us. If anyone has a better plan than that, I’d like to hear it.

  THE OTHERS

  Hear, hear!

  A knock is heard from the front door and all the cowboys draw their guns (except McSween and his wife who are unarmed). There is a heavy pause. A second knock is heard. The men cock their triggers back. The Kid, alone, stands and approaches the door.

  THE KID

  Who goes there?64

  Each muffled ring beyond my woolen cocoon, echoes loudly in the cold darkness of my bedroom. The ringing finally stops and the answering machine clicks in.

  “Hello …?”

  O.K. I’m coming, I’m coming …

  VOICE OFFSTAGE

  El Chivato, Is that you?

  THE KID

  Chávez! Who’s with you?

  CHAVEZ

  Constable Martinez and many other compadres who have come in support of the good padre Tunstall, God bless his soul.

  The men lower their guns and the Kid opens the door. Chavez enters and the Kid looks outside.

  THE KID

  Well stake me to a fill, there must be sixty compañeros out there.

  The men relax, smile, and murmur with relief. McSween steps forward and addresses Chavez. As everyone’s attention turns to Chavez, McClosky edges toward the door.

  CHAVEZ

  The people have come, señor, to take part in the great battle to reclaim our town from the Murphy/Dolan banditos. We are well armed and ready to die in the glorious cause for freedom.

  Unnoticed, McCloskey slips out the door.

  McSWEEN

  Chávez, you are a fine and honorable man, but your men have families. Tell them to go home and protect their homes. With the current state of lawlessness, unsupervised women and children are in grave danger. Besides the Jesse Evans gang, Murphy has sent for John Kinney and his Doña Ana bunch. There have been reports that he’s turned them loose on the populace. These mercenaries have begun a reign of terror: raping, pillaging, and shooting down all native New Mexicans. Please express my warmest gratitude for their support, but tell your men that I could not bear it if anything should happen to their homes and family in their absence. Afterwards, please show in Constable Martinez.

  Chávez leaves

  THE KID

  Why did you send those men away? With an army like that we could have fried Murphy and Dolan in Texas butter.

  McSWEEN

  Mob violence is the first sign of anarchy. A bloodbath will not solve our problems, Billy. Violence only breeds more violence. Be patient, laddy buck, law and order shall prevail.

  Chávez enters with Constable Martinez.

  CONSTABLE (graciously)

  Salutaciónes. Señor McSween, señora (bowing to Mrs. McSween). I have come to see if I can be of service.

  McSWEEN

  Yes, My good man, you’ve arrived just in time.65

  “Hello … Hello …?”

  Alright, already, I said I was coming.

  Another knock on the door.

  THE KID

  Who goes there?

  VOICE OFFSTAGE

  It’s Frank Coe and my cousin George. We’ve ridden into town to see justice done. Charles Bowdre, Henry Brown, and Jim French are with us. We’ve also brought Squire Wilson.

  McSWEEN

  Excellent, come in. Now we can establish law and order.

  The local ranchers enter with the grandfatherly Squire Wilson.

  McSWEEN

  Squire Wilson, you still have the authority to issue warrants for arrest I presume?

  WILSON

  Why yes, I believe I do.

  McSWEEN

  Can you also empanel a coroner’s jury?

  WILSON

  A what?

  McSWEEN

  A group of able citizens sworn in to take testimony in determining the cause of death.

  WILSON

  You mean to use as evidence in case of a trial?

  McSWEEN

  Yes, that is exactly what I mean. We will assemble 12 good men to act as a grand jury and take testimony. They’ll determine how Tunstall was killed and who killed him. Then we can legally authorize warrants for their arrest. Constable Martinez will assist in carrying out the orders. You can also swear in deputies, can you not?

  WILSON (smiling)

  I can and will.66

  Tomorrow, O.K.? Tomorrow, I’ll be there.

  McSWEEN

  Const
able Martinez, bring Billy, and Fred Waite along with you to arrest Brady and Dolan at the Murphy Store. Squire Wilson, you bring the rest of the deputies over to serve the other warrants at the Tunstall store. Then scatter the rest of Murphy’s men and reclaim the store as our own. Widenmann?

  WIDENMANN

  Yavolt, herr commandant!

  McSWEEN

  You are to go to Fort Stanton and appeal to Colonel Dudley. He must be made aware of the situation here. He must be convinced that troops are needed to prevent an all out war.

  THE KID (aside to Brewer)

  I hope those soldiers don’t turn their guns on us.67

  Tomorrow, I swear.

  McSWEEN

  I’m going to show my wife to bed. If you need me at any time tonight, I’ll be at my desk working on legal papers.

  The McSweens exit. Brewer turns to face the newly sworn in deputies.

  BREWER

  Men, serving these warrants isn’t going to be easy. Dolan and Brady aren’t going to take kindly to being thrown in their own jail. Any deputy who feels he doesn’t have the stomach for the job should leave now or forever hold his peace, because when we start, there’s no turning back.

  Brewer looks around, but no one moves.

  BREWER

  Then we’re all in. I suggest we get going.

  THE KID

  Before we go anywhere we gotta have a name.

  BREWER

  A name?

  MIDDLETON

  The Kid’s right, we need to call ourselves something.

  THE KID

  Thanks John. Sorry I got all sore at you before. Mr. Tunstall’s murder got me ornery. It’s not you I’m mad at.

  MIDDLETON

  That’s all right, Kid. Guess we’re all techy as a teased snake.

  BREWER

  Well, now that we’ve all kissed and made up, let’s get down to business.

  THE KID

  I say we should call ourselves The Regulators.

  BREWER

  Jesus, Billy, this ain’t no game we’re playing.

  MIDDLETON

  Billy’s right, a name will give us an identity, give others a reason to fear us.

  BREWER

  What do you think, Frank and George?

  FRANK

  Billy’s got a point. We want people to know who we are and what we stand for. The Regulators has a righteous ring to it.

  GEORGE

  I agree with my cousin.

  BREWER

  The Regulators … Is that all right by everybody? (everyone nods) All right then, Billy, we’ll call ourselves The Regulators.

  THE KID

  Now we gotta take an oath.

  BREWER

  Billy, we ain’t no boys in knickers sneakin’ up and down the alleys of Silver City stealin’ butter and laundry.

  MIDDLETON

  Now Richard, The Kid’s talkin’ sense here. If we don’t swear allegiance, what’s to stop anyone of us from turning tail and running when we need them most. If we can’t trust each other with our lives, what’s the point in even bothering to fight? We might as well split up now and cut our losses.

  THE KID

  That’s right, Dick, and the oath’s gotta be iron clad. We all gotta be willing to fight to the death for each other.

  BREWER

  All right, I’ll consider the motion seconded. All agreed say aye.

  ALL

  Aye!

  BREWER

  Now I would like to add something. Does everyone agree that as special constable duly appointed by Squire Wilson, I should be our leader?

  ALL

  Aye.

  BREWER

  Then as your leader I want all Regulators to raise their right hands (they do). As a Regulator I swear to uphold the law while serving these warrants.

  ALL

  I do.

  BREWER (looking towards the Kid)

  That means bringing them back alive.

  THE KID

  As long as they surrender.

  BREWER

  I also swear not to chicken out or desert the cause until every warrant is served and all Mr. Tunstall killers are brought to justice.

  ALL

  I do.

  BREWER

  And finally, as motioned by William H. Bonney, known to all as The Kid, I furthermore swear that each Regulator will fight to the death for each other if need be.

  ALL

  I do.

  BREWER

  Now, it’s “Iron Clad.” Everyone present is officially a Regulator.

  THE KID

  And, remember (Billy rests his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver), any traitor will have to answer to me.

  BREWER

  (rolling his eyes and shaking his head)

  Did everyone swear? Hey, where’s McClosky? That boy is never here when you need him.68

  Yes, Tomorrow.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bilito was one of the kindest and best boys I ever knew. He was not bloodthirsty. He was forced into killing in defense of his own life. In all his career he never killed a native citizen of New Mexico, which was one of the reasons we were so fond of him.”69

  I sit in the living room surrounded by countless years of newspapers. Once organized into chronological towers, they have fallen over like a house of cards in slow motion or time-lapse photography in reverse. I have trouble reading them now. The words grow fuzzy in front of unfocused eyes. The palms slip over pages that fingers barely have the strength to turn. I toss current issues, unfinished, into the fray.

  The newspapers have spread across the floor like lost days—the headlines, the top stories, the photos with grinning heads of state—all swim in a darkening pool of faded ink and withered paper. Each day, another house burned; another government toppled; another pocket picked by politicians, preachers, hookers, and other petty thieves. The whole world, captured within these folded pages, delivered daily to my door, picked up by these hands, deposited here in this living room. All these sentences of history, these millions of words, rise like the flood waters of memory before overflowing into consciousness. How long can the leaky dam hold?

  I have a chair, a throne of sorts, set up at one end of the room to look out over a raging sea of words. I sit watch, like an old man on the dock by the bay, accompanied by my last box of Deep Night Double Fudge Sandwich Cookies and a gallon of powdered milk, freshly mixed. For desert, I have four CO2-powered canisters of Super Creamy Reddi-Wip Deluxe Sweetened Instant Grade A Real Whipped Heavy Cream, Ultra Pasteurized. I can suckle them for hours. Four should be enough.

  Beyond is a long window, twenty-feet wide, running the full length of the living room. A low window sill—two feet high—serves as a less than reassuring border between myself and the outdoors. If I happened to casually stumble over it, I’d go reeling through the glass, plunge head over heels, and crash through the roof of the garage below into the back seat of some Mercedes or BMW owned by a luckless neighbor. “Hello, Apartment 14D? I believe there’s a problem with your car. It may not be ready in time for tomorrow’s commute.”

  “On his way to Señor McSween’s house, just a day before the five-day siege, Bilito and his friend, Tom O’Folliard, rode up while I was trying to plow my fields with a riding horse. He asked why I would do this and I had to tell him that all my other horses had been rustled by Jesse Evans and his gang. While they switched all their gear from the pack horse to the ones they were riding, I told them I could not accept such a gift. They rode off and left the horse anyway.”

  - Martin Chávez70

  As the sun recedes behind the building beyond, her red fingernails claw the floor unable to find a handhold on the yellowed pages of time. Each newspaper lies perfectly still, unruffled by her scratchy grip. Darkness settles in over the clumped landscape of folded paper and ink welcoming the cool embrace of night.

  So many stories, every day, how can we feel for them beyond the catharsis they minister? How can we experience them wi
th any more simpático than a passive audience in the theater? Like the definition of drama that Aristotle outlined in his Poetics, drama and comedy purge the self of pent-up emotions. Left to fester inside, such passions would foul the body and spirit to the point of corruption, poisoning the mind and body with bile, or worse, exploding like an appendicitis or a deranged sniper picking off innocents from a tower. Feel for the characters on stage, cry for their pain, help us forget our own.

  Bertold Brecht redefined this concept. In experiencing theater, we are merely displacing our emotions onto others, so we don’t have to face them ourselves. The anger, frustration, the love needed to inspire us to personal change is magically purged and transferred to distant characters whose lives play out our emotional dilemmas to a conclusion at a safe distance. Rather than transforming ourselves, we feel temporarily relieved until the problems, purged but unsolved, eventually return. Thus, like a narcotic, the audience needs another cathartic fix to hold them until the next crisis. Many who live off such fixes often seek melodrama in their own lives: a silly romance, a one-night stand, a heated debate, hand to hand combat—constant turmoil to mask unresolved issues. High drama keeps things simple.

  I notice only two cookies left and save them, a pleasant reminder of the box just finished. I take a last swig of milk, one glassful left, another sweet memory to share with the last pair of Double Fudges. Hunger abated, I switch to the first canister of Reddi-Wip and refocus on the ocean before me, the air taking on the sound of surf breaking upon the shore at my feet.

  But what of those people who live out their dramas in the black and white world of the daily news—are their souls not lost between the lines? What screams are sealed in that silent space between splashes of ink? As I look out over the graveyard of their suffering, the skeletal remains of once teeming lives, I can make out distant whispers rising on the soft magnetic waves of emptiness.

  Straining, I detect the ruffles of brushing dust like the sound of blank audio tape hissing through speakers that modulate with anticipation. Slowly, the whispers rise in a strange mumbled harmony, struggling to be heard above the cacaphonic concent, ascending into the last streams of sunlight as if they could ride light waves to my ears. Like choppy radio transmissons, broken language and dust particles mingle in a sand storm of reflected light. Voices surge momentarily above the din as I struggle to pick individual words out of the light, focusing on swirling dust particles before losing them in the shadows. What can they be saying to me: a message, random complaints, instructions?