"Hey yah hey, hey yah hey oh..." Chavez stood with his eyes to the heavens, singing a Navajo funeral chant.
Doc knelt on the ground nearby, offering up some Christian prayers for Tommy's soul, all the while looking daggers at Billy. Billy, meanwhile, was sadly going through the few possessions in Tom's satchel. There were several newspapers, all of which contained articles about Billy and I, a five-cent book called Billy the Kid: Prince of Pistoleers, and a different five-cent book called Rampaging Riddle: Queen of the Frontier. Billy hefted a Mason jar of marbles from the depths of the satchel. He looked at it for a moment, then wound up and threw it against a rock as hard as he could. The sounds of glass breaking and Billy's roar of rage and grief seemed to echo forever.
"He was just a damn kid," Billy muttered, fighting to control his tears. "Just a damn kid. I was supposed to protect him, but I didn't. I let him down."
I tried to comfort him. "You did try to protect him. I heard you yell for him to get down; he just wasn't quick enough. It's not your fault."
"Goddamn it, it is my fault," Billy snapped. "I shouldn't have let him join the gang in the first place. He was too damn young and careless."
I chose not to reply. I knew nothing I had to say could erase Billy's feelings of guilt and responsibility for Tommy's death. I passed Billy a dented old cracker tin, which contained a bit of cake I'd bought a few towns back. It was Billy's favorite kind, too: white cake with sweet frost.
"Nah, I ain't got no appetite today, 'Rena," Billy replied sadly, dropping the tin.
The winter air was beginning to make our faces sting, so we sought shelter in the shell of an abandoned house. I gathered some frozen twigs and got an anemic fire going. The boys and I huddled near the center of what had once been the main room. Billy sat opposite us. He had a hangdog expression on his face and was shivering heartily. It was a cold morning and Billy had only a thin sweater and small fire to keep him warm. And for the first time in anyone's memory, Billy was not wearing his gunbelt.
"I spent a lot of nights in this cabin after the Lincoln War," said Billy, looking around him. "I tried to put other outfits together, but they were never the same. When you all came back, I felt like there was nothing I wouldn't do to keep a gang together and keep riding."
"What are you saying, Chivato?" asked Chavez.
Billy answered him with another question. "Do you know what the Mexican Blackbird is?"
"A broken trail goes down to Old Mexico." said Hendry.
"It's a half-black, half-Mexican whore in Puerto de Luna."
"So...you mean you named the trail after her, right?" Doc wanted to know. Billy shook his head, not meeting Doc's eyes. "There is no trail, is there?"
"No," Billy mumbled.
"You son of a bitch!" Doc said with quiet fury. "You rode a fourteen-year-old boy straight into his grave, and the rest of us straight to hell." Doc stood, cocked his rifle, and pointed it at Billy's chest. Hands steady, voice shaking, Doc declared, "William H. Bonney, you are not a god."
Billy straightened up to his full height, locking his eyes with Doc's. "Why don't you pull that trigger and find out?"
Slowly, Doc lowered the weapon. "You're not worth it," he said. Starting for the door, he added, "I'm leaving. I'm going home."
Doc barely had got his feet out the door when gunfire erupted. I felt Chavez's arm knock me back against the stone wall. I was angry with him for pushing me, until I realized why he'd done it. Billy's number one rule of fighting was: When the shooting starts, get your back up against something solid and keep it there.
Billy and Chavez dragged Doc into the cabin. Blood was pouring from a neat hole in his chest. I knew in an instant he couldn't be saved. Billy grabbed for his guns, accidentally firing a round into the air because his hands were trembling from anger.
"PAT! YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Billy howled. "YOU KILLED A BOY! AND YOU KILLED DOC!"
"They're startin' to surround us. We gotta skin outta here." said Dave.
"Who's leaving first?" I asked.
"Hendry William French, you never killed nobody. The posse ain't gonna shoot at you." Dave called.
"Go to hell. They shot Tommy," Hendry snapped back.
"Somebody's gotta do it!" Dave reasoned.
Billy patted Dave on the back. "Dave, it's your gang. You lead us out."
"What?!" Dave cried, panicked. "This ain't my gang. It's your gang. It's always been yours."
Billy cocked his pistol. "Don't cross me, Dave," he warned.
"Billy," Doc choked. "Let me finish the game."
Billy nodded his consent. He knew Doc was about to die, and I guessed Billy didn't want him to suffer. Doc needed some help standing, then he burst out the doorway. Within seconds, he was facedown in the snow, felled by bullets from the posse. I felt sick to my stomach as I saw him. Of all the regulators, Doc had always been the one I'd liked the least, but I hadn't wished him dead. What were we going to tell Yen?
I'd never been one to panic during battle, but now I could hardly think clearly. There was so much confusion and gunfire it was all I could do to dodge the bullets. Billy was still in the house, but Chavez, Dave, and Hendry were nowhere to be found.
'They all left me,' I thought bitterly, recognizing the sound of far-off hoofbeats.
I crept to a corner of the house that was overgrown with waist-high brush. I concealed myself in it and managed to wound a few members of Garrett's posse. The able-bodied men surrounded the cabin, catching Billy by surprise. Billy had run out of ammo and couldn't fight back. He transformed almost instantly, from the famously brave outlaw Billy the Kid, to a man who looked as helpless as a newborn pup. He laid on his belly in the cabin, silently pleading for his life, his face the picture of defeat. There are some things a person just shouldn't have to see...