Chapter 1. A Man To See You
Charles H. Burns had traveled far from New York City to New Mexico and it looked almost untouched. It was June of 1940 and the world was in peril, but the quiet town of Silver City looked as if it had not changed. Men were dressed in cowboy boots and Stetson hats and the women looked like Mexican senoritas from out of a book. Charles was being quickly baked into his crisp black suit like a turkey in a roasting pan, but he was clearly on a mission. He disregarded the strange looks he got as he entered a small bar and asked for directions.
"I'm looking for the Tunstall Ranch. Is that close to here?" he asked, his voice calm and without a trace of the anxiety that he was feeling.
The place went completely silent. All eyes turned toward this city boy in his sweat-drenched jacket. This was unheard of. The bartender gave the directions and Charles left, now unsure of the task he was about to complete. He drove to where the bartender told him, expecting to see a large ranch with cows and chickens roaming freely over the land.
Instead, there was a large house with dark green shutters with a brick walkway that led to it. Horses grazed in one pasture to the right of the house and a group of chickens were scattered about the property. A vegetable garden of considerable size could be seen in the back. It was a nice little ranch, quaint and pleasant.
A boy of 20-something came up to Charles. Under his hat, you could see his freckled face and dark blue eyes that shone like jewels in the sunlight. He was tall; about six feet even, with a southwestern drawl that commanded attention.
"Hello. My name is Charles Holden Burns. I'm hear to speak to Mrs. Laurence," Charles said, looking up at his young man, being he was a mere five feet seven inches.
"What're you here for?" he asked.
"I'm writing a book on the Lincoln County War and Billy the Kid."
"Does she know you were comin'?"
"No, I'm afraid she doesn't," Charles answered, hoping that wouldn't be a problem.
"Well, I don't know if she'll want to talk to you, but come on up to the house and I'll see if she will. It always depends on what kind of mood she's in. That's just how she's always been," he explained.
"Yes, I understand. Thank you, uh… what's your name?"
"Patrick. Patrick Hurley, Mr. Burns. Come on in," he said, holding the door open for him.
The men both took off their hats and disappeared behind a pair of solid oak doors. Patrick led Charles down a long hallway, down a shorter one, and then told him to wait there. He knocked upon the door in front of them. A feminine voice from the other side called out and he opened it to reveal a parlor that had shelves and shelves full of books.
"Grandma, there's a man to see you. His name is Charles Holden Burns and he's writing a book," Patrick told an elderly woman who was sitting in a blue armchair.
"About what, dear?" she asked.
"The Lincoln County War…" He paused. "…And Billy the Kid."
She closed her book and placed it carefully on the table. The room was silent. Charles waited intently for an answer. He had never been more nervous in his life. He could hear the clinking of ice in a glass and the woman take a sip from it.
"Show him in," she said, a serious tone overcoming her voice.
Patrick waved Charles in and helped offered the old lady an arm, which she declined. Charles went quickly into the room and found himself standing in front of a 79-year-old woman with graying hair. Her skin was fair and wrinkled, softened with a genuine smile and a pair of dark blue eyes that equally matched the glow of her grandson's. She stuck out her hand and shook hands with Charles, having a firmer grip than he anticipated.
"It's a pleasure meeting you Mrs. Laurence," Charles said, in awe of this woman.
"Please, Mr. Burns, only call me Cordelia and definitely don't use that dreadful surname. It's a constant reminder of my weaknesses," she said with a joyful smile. "So, Charles, if I may call you Charles, Patrick tells me you're writing a book about the war… and a dear friend of mine."
"Yes, Cordelia, I've been interested in it since I was a very young boy, especially your part in it. I mean, there weren't many women who happened to be, uh…"
"Outlaws? I was an outlaw. I'll gladly admit it. At the time, I thought my part to be quite miniscule. Of course, it was my father's death that started the whole thing," she said. "Anyway, what would you like to know, Charles?"
"Everything, actually," Charles said with enthusiasm. "Just start from the first time you saw Billy the Kid to whenever you feel it necessary to end."
"Alright, young man. Patrick, I'm sure you have things to do, darling. And if you heard half of this, your mother would never let you around me again," she said to her grandson.
"Yes, Grandma," he said, kissing her on her wrinkled forehead.
She watched him leave with a warm smile, then turned to Charles who was now seated at the table across from her. Cordelia poured him a glass of iced tea and herself another glass of whiskey, smirking as she did so.
"I'm so proud of that boy. Of course, I'm proud of all my boys. Always have been, but you'd know that wouldn't you. I was so proud of them I named my sons after them: John, Richard, and William Harrison. My husband never understood the last two, or the reason I wanted John to name his son Patrick, but John knew."
"After Pat Garrett. You loved him, didn't you?" Charles asked.
Cordelia blushed and nodded her head. She took a sip of whiskey and turned her small body fully toward Charles, a grin on her face.
"So you want me to begin when I first met Billy? Well then…"