Dear Reader,

Today and every Saturday for the next few weeks, I will be sharing, at no cost, several chapters of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series on Substack.

My objective in writing the Finding Billy Battles series was to tell a compelling story by weaving fact and fiction into what I call “faction.” Therefore, many of the events, places, and people in Billy’s life are real, and I have attempted to be as accurate as possible with those facts.

I am proud to say that each book in the series has won several literary awards. You can read about some of those awards and read reviews of each book on my Amazon book page, https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B001KHDVZI/?ccs_id=24ac3875-21a9-421b-9a04-ec9dcb645d14, or my website, https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/

If you choose to follow Billy Battles on his rousing and sometimes perilous journeys—and I hope you will—I welcome your thoughts about the book. Feel free to drop me a line at jhawker69@gmail.com.

Today, I am publishing Chapter Five of Book #1 in the Finding Billy Battles series. During the ensuing weeks, I will post a new chapter each succeeding Saturday.

Last Saturday, I published Chapter Four of Book #1. If you missed that post or any of the earlier posts of the book, you can access them on my website at https://ronaldyatesbooks.com/.

I hope you will join Billy Battles on his incredible 100-year-long journey through life.

 

Finding Billy Battles: An Account of Peril,

Transgression and Redemption

(Book 1 of a Series)

Copyright © 2014 by R. E. Yates

Published by California Times Publishing,

Los Angeles

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921605

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or using any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is an original work of fiction. However, some names, characters, places, and incidents described in this book are based on facts. Others were invented by the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

 

CHAPTER 5

Early next morning, Ben, Mr. Hawes, and I prepared to ride out to Battles Gap. Mr. Hawes, who was more portly than the rest of us and didn’t fancy a half day’s ride on the back of a horse, rented a spring wagon at the livery.

As we were preparing to leave, Bill Tilghman waved us down. “Hold on. Are you fellers ridin’ out now?”

“Why, yes, we want to see if we can bring this transaction to a close,” Mr. Hawes said.

“I sure wish you’d wait a bit. Wyatt and I thought we might ride out with you, but we have some business to transact this morning.”

Bill had recently bought a saloon south of the Deadline called the Oasis, for his brother Frank to run and Bill had to sign some papers to conclude the transaction. Wyatt had agreed to run a faro game in the place. A Dodge City newspaper reported, tongue-in-cheek, that the specialty of the Oasis would be “Methodist cocktails and hard-shell Baptist lemonades.”

“Why don’t you ride on out when you finish. I expect we won’t be movin’ too fast,” said Ben, nodding toward Mr. Hawes, who sat sheepishly in the spring wagon.

“We might just do that,” Bill said. Then looking at me, he added, “You mind what I told you about them brothers… I didn’t like the look of them two—or their ma.”

“We are quite prepared,” Mr. Hawes said, lifting a blanket in the spring wagon and revealing a Winchester repeating rifle. Ben was wearing his Army Colt .44, and I had a shotgun in my saddle scabbard.

“You won’t be much of a match for them boys with their Big Fifty buffalo guns,” Bill said. “Why, they could pick you off one by one at a thousand yards just like lickin’ butter off a knife.”

“Why would they do that?” Ben asked. “They seemed friendly enough the other day.”

“They weren’t being friendly,” Bill said. “They were bein’ tolerable.”

“We are under no illusions that these people will have the money to buy the property,” Mr. Hawes said. “But if nothing else, there should be a question of rent. After all, they are squatting on the property.”

“That may be, but you will play hell gettin’ them off of it now that they have settled on it,” Bill said. “I expect they plan on stayin’ put, rent or no rent.”

“Well, we will see about that,” Mr. Hawes said. “There are laws about these things, after all.”

I looked at Ben and then at Bill. “Do you think there might be trouble?

Mrs. Kimble seemed to be a reasonable sort.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” Bill said. “She ain’t no ordinary sage hen. That woman is about as warm as an icicle.”

I wasn’t convinced, and neither were Ben or Mr. Hawes. A few minutes later, we began the journey to Battles Gap. We hadn’t gone more than half a mile when Bill Tilghman caught up with us.

“I almost forgot. Ben, Billy, do you recall that little dry arroyo about three hundred yards or so from your homestead?” Bill asked. I remembered crossing the arroyo where the ruts of the trail dipped into a shallow spot.

“If you have any trouble, get back to it and follow it southeast for about a half mile. We will look for you there. Mr. Hawes here will have to leave the spring wagon and ride double with one of you.”

I looked at Ben and Mr. Hawes. They still weren’t convinced, but they agreed to head for the gully in case of difficulty with the Kimbles.

I can recall the ride to Battles Gap as if it were yesterday. It was one of those cool summer days that don’t come very often in parched western Kansas. Off to the southeast, it had begun to sprinkle just enough to keep the dust down. A crisp breeze drifted around us.

After an hour or so, we could see clouds of reddish dust coming closer to us from the northwest. This was unmistakably caused by a large number of horses moving at a fast pace. Not wanting to tempt fate, we moved off behind a small hill to see who was riding our way.

“What do you think?” I asked no one in particular.

“We best keep hunkered down here till they get closer,” Ben said. “I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with any of them Comanches or Kiowas.”

While most of the Comanches and Kiowas had moved peacefully onto the reservations, a few renegade bands were still raiding and killing. Ben and I tied the horses to the spring wagon and asked Mr. Hawes to stay with them. Then we crawled to the top of a small knoll, where we could watch the oncoming horsemen from relative obscurity.

About fifteen minutes later, we could see that the dust was caused by a small column of soldiers on horseback. We untied our horses, and Ben and I rode out to meet the column, followed by Mr. Hawes in the spring wagon.

“Which way are you headed?” asked the captain at the head of the column.

There were about thirty soldiers behind him riding in columns of twos. “We’re headed southwest,” I answered.

“You best be careful,” the captain said. “There are renegade Comanches and Kiowas all over the area. They hit a farm just west of here. Stole all the horses and killed a family of six, including four young’uns. We lost their trail a few miles back.”

“We have about three more hours of ridin’ to get where we are going,” Ben said. “Do you think we might run across those Indians?”

“You are welcome to ride with us a spell,” the captain said. “We are doubling back southwest.”

“That’s a relief,” said Mr. Hawes. “We are not well armed for any kind of encounter with savages.”

“Even if you were well armed, the three of you wouldn’t stand much of a chance out here. We figure there are close to a hundred Comanches and Kiowas on the loose. And they are well armed.”

“We are mighty obliged to you, Captain,” Mr. Hawes said. “We do appreciate the opportunity to tag along.”

We fell in behind the captain, Ben and I riding just ahead of Mr. Hawes and the spring wagon.

“Where you folks from?” the captain asked as we rode along a rutted trail flanked by scrub and prairie grassland.

“Dodge City,” said Mr. Hawes. “We operate a newspaper there.”

The soldiers, the captain informed us, were from Fort Dodge. They had been chasing the Comanches and Kiowas along with several other troops from Oklahoma and Texas for almost two weeks, but the Indians were staying a step ahead of them, and so far, there had been no contact.

“They are too clever to stand and fight us,” the captain said.

“Maybe they are just waiting for the right place and right time,” Ben said.

“Could be the case,” the captain said. “But I don’t think they want to tangle head-on with us.” He nodded toward a wagon pulling a rapid-fire six-barrel Gatling gun that could fire 400-500 rounds of 45-70 cartridges per minute.

We rode with the army column for about two hours until the captain and his troopers turned south. We continued on west and about forty-five minutes later, we came to the arroyo and the slight dip in the trail leading up to the house. We rode another hundred or so yards past the arroyo, and then we stopped and watched the house for a few minutes.

“Looks like no one’s home,” Ben said. “What do you think, Billy?”

“Let me ride up and have a look-see,” I suggested.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mr. Hawes said. “Ben and I will ride up in the spring wagon. Less threatening that way. You stay put, Billy. I wouldn’t want your ma to think I wasn’t lookin’ out for you.”

I wasn’t happy about the idea, but it made sense to have someone hang back just in case there was trouble. Ben got off his horse and tied it to the back of the spring wagon, and then he and Mr. Hawes traveled the final quarter mile toward the house. When they arrived at the house, they climbed out of the spring wagon and banged on the door. There was no answer.

Ben yelled, “Anybody to home?”

I decided to ride on in. Just as I was about to kick my horse, a woman’s voice from behind me said, “Hold up there, sonny. I’ll ride in with you.”

It was Mrs. Kimble. She was dressed in men’s britches, sitting astride a mule. “Have you all come to turn us out?”

“No ma’am, we’ve come to talk some business.”

We moved off toward the house. Ben and Mr. Hawes stood by the spring wagon, watching us. Then, from around both sides of the house, came the two Kimble brothers, Nate and Matthew. They were both carrying rifles, which they had leveled at Ben and Mr. Hawes.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Never you mind, sonny. You just keep moving.”

I looked behind me to see Mrs. Kimble pointing an Army Colt at my back. I watched Ben give up his Colt. Mr. Hawes spread open his coat to show that he was not heeled. The Winchester rifle remained in the spring wagon, hidden under the blanket.

We arrived at the house just in time to hear Mr. Hawes bellow, “This is an outrage. We came here to discuss the sale of this property. What are you planning to do, steal it?”

“That all depends,” said Mrs. Kimble. “Did you bring the deed? And just who are you?”

“Why, I am the boy’s temporary guardian. He works at my newspaper, the Dodge City Union. My name is Horace Hawes.”

Sarah Kimble nodded. “Yes, he said that the other day.” She motioned for Matthew to remove the shotgun from my scabbard. Matthew appeared to be the older of the two brothers.

“What do you want us to do with ’em, Ma?” Nate Kimble asked.

“Take ’em to the barn while I think on it a spell,” she said. Then, turning to me, she asked, “Where’s that deed?”

Before I could answer, Mr. Hawes spoke up: “It’s in Dodge City. You don’t think we would bring such a valuable document all the way out here, do you?’

“Well then, how did you expect to conduct any business?” Sarah asked.

“We never planned on dealing with such claim-jumping scum as yourselves,” Mr. Hawes said. Sarah seemed to ignore that remark.

“Where’s that law dog that was with you the other day?” Sarah was looking at me but pointing her arm at Mr. Hawes. “And you shut your pie hole,” she yelled as he was about to speak.

“He and another deputy are not far behind us,” I answered as convincingly and assertively as I could.

“That a fact,” she said. “Well, we best take real good care of you all then. Get ’em to the barn now,” she shouted at her two sons. “And make sure you hog-tie ’em good and proper.”

One of the brothers, I can’t recall which now, herded us into the barn while the other drove the spring wagon in to keep it out of sight. My horse and Ben’s were walked in afterward.

“Mrs. Kimble, this is madness,” Mr. Hawes shouted as the two brothers bound and gagged us. “Everybody knows we were coming out here, including Deputies Tilghman and Earp.”

There was no answer from Sarah Kimble, who stood in the doorway of the barn. Satisfied that her offspring were rendering us immobile, she turned to remove any trace of the spring wagon’s tracks, as well as those of our horses, from the grounds. When her sons had finished tying us up, they walked out of the barn and swung the two broad doors shut. Inside, we could hear Mrs. Kimble order the brothers to ride out as far as the arroyo and remove any trace of the spring wagon tracks. The two grabbed a couple of branches and dragged them behind their horses, pretty much obliterating any trace of our horses or Mr. Hawes’s rented spring wagon.

An hour went by, then two. What were they going to do with us? Kill us and bury us somewhere out in the prairie? I had managed to work my hands free of the hemp rope used to bind us by rubbing them against the rough edge of an upraised plank on the floor. I removed my gag and was about to do the same when Mr. Hawes shook his head violently and nodded toward the spring wagon. That was when I remembered the Winchester that he had wrapped in a blanket and placed under the seat.

I walked to the spring wagon and pulled the rifle as well as a half box of ammunition out from under the seat. I returned to where Mr. Hawes and Ben were still tied up and gagged. I removed their gags and was working on their hands when we heard footsteps and voices outside the barn. Then Sarah Kimble called out, and the two brothers who were walking toward the barn turned and returned to the house.

“Get out quick,” Ben hissed. “They may come back any minute. And remember what Bill said. Get to the arroyo and wait there. Take the Winchester.”

“What about you and Ben?” I asked.

“Never you mind about us,” Mr. Hawes said. “They won’t be so imprudent as to harm us—not with you free and loose. Where would that get them? Before you go, reach into my vest pocket and get the penknife in there.”

At that moment, we heard the Kimble brothers outside. They didn’t seem to be returning to the barn. Nevertheless, I hastily jerked the penknife out of Mr. Hawes’s pocket, opened it, and put it in his still-bound hands.

“Now hurry and get to the arroyo,” he said, his voice muted but adamant.

“And, Billy,” said Ben as I turned to leave. “Don’t you be fearful of usin’ that rifle on them Kimble boys, ’cause sure as hell they won’t hesitate a minute to use them buffalo guns on you.”

I picked up the Winchester and box of ammunition, ran to the rear of the barn, and slid through a door that was ajar. Then I ran for all I was worth toward the arroyo, keeping the barn between me and the house. I was terrified because there was very little cover. In one hand, I held the Winchester, in the other the box of ammunition. Luckily, there were a few small hills that hid me from view. When I reached the lip of the arroyo, I stumbled and slid down the embankment, landing on my back. When I hit the ground, both the Winchester and the ammunition flew from my hands. I lay there for a moment, dazed and confused.

When I regained my senses, I wondered what was happening to Mr. Hawes and Ben. I wasn’t convinced that the Kimbles wouldn’t harm them. Then it occurred to me that I had better retrieve the Winchester and ensure it was loaded, though for the life of me, I never figured I would use it. The largest living thing I had ever shot was a coyote that had been stealing our chickens, and even then, I was upset about it for a week. That coyote was only doing its best to survive. Then it hit me: I was just like that coyote—a living thing facing a struggle for survival.

The Winchester had landed in mud, barrel first. That meant I had to clean the mud out of the end of the barrel. I looked around for the .45-75 center fire cartridges. They were scattered all around in the mud. I checked the Winchester to see if it was loaded. Luckily, it was. There were eight cartridges in a magazine that held twelve. I used my pocketknife to whittle down a dead tree branch so I could clean the mud out of the rifle’s barrel. Getting the mud out of the barrel was no easy chore. Then I remembered that there was a five-section cleaning rod under the trap of the buttstock. There was no time to perform a normal cleaning. I opened the trap, pulled the rods out, and used one to poke the mud down and into the chamber where I could clean it out. I tore off a piece of my shirt and cleaned the action in the receiver as best I could. One of the lessons that Luther Augustus Longley had pounded into my head during our hunting excursions in northeastern Kansas was how important it was to keep your weapons clean.

“You take care of your weapons, keep ’em clean and oiled, and they will never let you down,” Luther used to tell me. “If’n you don’t, why, they will be ’bout as useless as a dog barkin’ at a knothole.”

Once I was satisfied that the Winchester was operable and would not blow up in my face, I crawled to the top lip of the arroyo to a point where I could see the barn and the small road leading to our homestead. I peered over the edge.

There was no sound or any hint of movement coming from either the barn or the house. I worried that the Kimble brothers may have done something to Mr. Hawes and Ben. My mind raced with all manner of horrific images. There were no gunshots. Had they been stabbed or clubbed to death as they sat helplessly tied up in the barn?

I looked up at the sun dropping lower in the now-cloudless sky. It looked to be about three in the afternoon. I contemplated returning to the barn, but thought better of it. I slid a couple of feet below the lip of the arroyo, where I couldn’t be seen from the house or the barn and added four more cartridges to the Winchester’s magazine. I then spent the next few minutes cleaning the mud and dirt off the cartridges that had fallen out of the box. I picked up fifteen. In addition to the twelve already in the rifle, I had a total of twenty-seven rounds in case of trouble. Not exactly an arsenal—especially if I had to burn powder with the Kimble brothers. And I was praying I would not have to. Shooting at another human being was not something I had ever planned on, and frankly, I wasn’t sure if I could do it.

I crawled back up to the lip of the arroyo and peered at the barn. There was no activity anywhere. I waited for another ten minutes or so and was about to run back toward the homestead when the barn doors burst open and out came Mr. Hawes and Ben in the spring wagon. Ben was vehemently slapping the horse’s rump with the traces, and Mr. Hawes was looking back at the house.

For a moment, I was awestruck by this scene; then I decided I had better run toward the spring wagon so I wouldn’t be left behind. I ran toward the rutted path the spring wagon was moving along, waving the Winchester and yelling. A moment later, I saw the front door swing open and the Kimble brothers emerge with their buffalo guns. They both took aim at the spring wagon, which was about two hundred yards from the house at that point—an easy shot for any accomplished buffalo hunter with a Sharps .50.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I stopped, fell to the ground, and without really aiming, fired two shots at the brothers. I saw dust kick up in front of one of the men, both of whom dropped abruptly to their knees. I got up and continued running toward the pathway and the spring wagon. I was about a hundred yards away when Mr. Hawes saw me and waved me on.

“Hurry, Billy,” I could hear him yelling. Just then, I heard a noise I would never forget. It sounded as though a giant hummingbird had just flown past my head. Then it dawned on me: That was no hummingbird. It was the sound of a .50 caliber bullet singing past my ear. A second later, I heard it again. This time I watched the big slug plow into the dry dirt some twenty feet in front and to the left of me. I jumped to the side and then continued running. I knew a Sharps was a single-shot gun, so it would take a moment for the brothers to reload.

By now both the spring wagon and I were about three hundred yards from the house and the Kimbles. I fell to the ground once again, placed the Winchester’s barrel on a small outcrop of fieldstone, and took aim. I could see the brothers getting ready to fire at the spring wagon, which was only a hundred yards or so from the arroyo. I fired off four shots in rapid succession, aiming in the general direction of the brothers. Dirt kicked up near them, and I watched them scramble back toward the house.

Had I stopped there, my life might have turned out quite different. But I didn’t. I still had six cartridges in the Winchester’s magazine, and I decided to empty them at the retreating Kimble brothers. Just as I did, Mrs. Kimble appeared at the door and immediately collapsed to the ground. I heard one of the Kimble brothers screaming: “Ma, Ma, get up, Ma.”

She didn’t get up, and instead, the two brothers pulled her into the house. Mr. Hawes watched this scene unfold and then looked at me with horrified eyes. Ben had stopped the spring wagon, and I got up and ran toward it. I reached the wagon a few seconds later and clambered aboard. Ben whipped the traces, and the wagon lurched toward the arroyo, following the rutted trail to the bottom. At that point, he stopped the wagon, and the three of us moved to the lip of the arroyo, where we had a view of the house and the barn.

“What happened back there?” Ben asked.

“Why, I think Billy here may have shot Mrs. Kimble,” Mr. Hawes said.

“I was shooting at the two brothers,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. “They were shooting at me, and I just shot back. She came to the door while I was firing.”

“Now what?” Ben asked. “All we have is the Winchester, and how many cartridges?”

“I think about fifteen… I—”

“Let’s reason this out,” Mr. Hawes interrupted. “Bill Tilghman said he would be riding out this way today. I say we stay here and wait for him. Your horses are still in that barn, and we can’t outrun anybody in this spring wagon.” Mr. Hawes looked at his pocket watch. “It’s nigh on to three thirty. I expect we have another three hours of light left. If Deputy Tilghman doesn’t arrive before the sun drops. Then we will wait till it’s dark and start back for Dodge.”

I was only hearing pieces of what Mr. Hawes was saying. All I could think of was that I had shot Mrs. Kimble. I saw it over and over in my mind. One minute she was standing in the doorway, the next she was falling to the ground. I had shot a woman… someone’s mother. I thought of my mother. How would I feel if I watched someone shoot her? I would be enraged. I could imagine how the two Kimble brothers must have felt.

“Don’t you think they will come after us right away?” I asked. “They must be thinking about revenge…”

“Now we don’t know how bad Mrs. Kimble is,” Mr. Hawes said. “She may not be badly hurt—”

“Or she could be dead as a tin of corned beef,” Ben interjected. “In which case, them boys are goin’ to come lookin’ for us with them buffalo guns. And here we are with just one Winchester and a few rounds of ammunition. I don’t much like them odds.”

“Well, one of the lessons I learned from the War of the Rebellion is that sometimes it is best to go on the offensive,” Mr. Hawes said. “Especially if you are weaker, because the enemy never expects it.”

Ben didn’t look convinced. And neither did I.

“I don’t know, Horace,” Ben said. “There may be three of us, but we only have one weapon.”

“Not true, Ben,” Mr. Hawes said. “We have the element of surprise on our side, and that is a powerful weapon. If we can get the drop on those boys, why, our problems will be over. Then all we have to do is wait for Bill to get here.”

“What about Mrs. Kimble?” I asked.

I hate to admit it today, but at this point, I almost felt like crying. I had never killed anything but varmints, and even then, it was painful. Now I had shot a woman, and while she may not have been the most agreeable person I had ever met, she was, nevertheless, a female. I had to take a few deep breaths to avoid showing any emotion.

“Now you listen, Billy,” Ben said. “You heard what Bill Tilghman said. Them Kimbles are about as crooked as snakes in a cactus patch. They must have done something powerful bad to get those Comanches and Kiowas so angried up a few years back.”

I nodded. “I guess so… but—”

“Ain’t no but about it.”

“That’s all well and good,” Mr. Hawes said, jumping into the conversation. “We have bigger fish to fry right now. Billy can deal with his conscience once we are safely away from here.”

We fell silent for several minutes, watching the house. Finally, Mr. Hawes spoke up.

“Perhaps the first thing to try is appeasement,” he said. “We have a spring wagon, and we can offer to transport Mrs. Kimble to a doctor.”

“If she ain’t dead,” Ben said.

I winced at that comment. After some discussion, we decided that Mr. Hawes should walk toward the house carrying a white handkerchief. When he got to within shouting range, he should offer to transport Mrs. Kimble to a doctor in the spring wagon.

“I make a less threatening figure than you two,” he said. That was true. He was in his mid-fifties and tended toward the rotund side—hardly someone with a menacing appearance.

“Yeah, but that won’t make a difference to them two if they decide to put you in the sights of them buffalo guns,” Ben said. “We could just leave once it gets dark.”

“What about our horses?” I asked. Ben and I had rented them at the livery, and I didn’t relish the thought of having to pay for mine if I didn’t bring it back.

“The horses be damned!” Ben was irritated that I had brought up that subject. “I would rather squabble with the livery man than them two buffalo hunters.”

While we were mulling over Ben’s words, two shots were fired from the house in rapid succession. Dirt kicked up about five feet from where Mr. Hawes lay concealed just below the lip of the arroyo, and another .50 caliber ball thudded into the rear of the spring wagon, which was just visible from where it sat in the arroyo.

We slid farther down into the gulch, just in time to see the horse spook and break into a run up the other side and down the road, pulling the empty wagon behind him.

“Now ain’t this a perfect fix,” Ben hissed. “No horses, and now no spring wagon.”

A second later, two more shots rang out, and I heard that hummingbird sound again as both projectiles flew over our heads and slammed into a cottonwood tree that was growing at the bottom of the gulch.

“Still want to walk out there with a white flag?” Ben asked Mr. Hawes.

Mr. Hawes cleared his throat. “I think not,” he rasped. We were all in need of water, and the arroyo was dry. Another ten minutes went by with no activity from the house.

“Why don’t I head off down the road and see if I can find the spring wagon,” I offered. “That nag couldn’t have run very far…”

Before anybody could respond, two more bullets from the Kimbles’ buffalo guns slammed into the ground. Only this time, they were coming from the left of our position.

“The sons a bitches have flanked us,” Ben yelled. We moved farther to the right past a slight hump in the ground that provided a modicum of cover. I was the last one to move around that hump, and I still held the Winchester. I quickly loaded another five cartridges in the magazine and pointed the rifle in the general direction from which I thought the shots were being fired. I could not see anything.

“Billy, what are you doing?” Mr. Hawes was clawing at my foot, attempting to pull me closer to where he and Ben were hugging the bank of the arroyo.

I kicked his hand away. I don’t know what got into me in that moment, but I was, as Luther had once put it, in a sod-pawin’, horn-tossin’ frame of mind. I felt a sense of invulnerability that I would feel a few more times in my life, as if nothing could touch me.

“Move back over here,” Mr. Hawes bawled. Once again, he had grabbed my leg. “You fool boy, you will get your head blown off.”

“Leave me be,” I snapped. “I think I can see them…”

A second later, two more rounds plowed into the dirt just in front of me. I could see the black powder rising in the air about two hundred yards away; then I saw one of the brothers slowly get to his feet and walk to a clump of scrub trees. I recall thinking how disdainful that act was, as if he was convinced the three of us presented no danger to them. I wasn’t sure why they would think that way. After all, I had just shot their mother.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Ben. “Give me the Winchester, Billy. This kind of thing was my job in the Union Army.”

I hesitated. Then Mr. Hawes chimed in. “Give Ben the rifle, William.”

Another round from a Sharps slammed into the dirt in front of me. I rolled down deeper into the arroyo, and as I did, I handed the rifle to Ben.

I watched Ben sight down the barrel of the Winchester and make a few adjustments to the rear sight. When I peered over the edge of the arroyo, I could see one of the brothers walking toward it. Ben led the moving figure just slightly. He fired once, then worked the rifle’s lever action, and then he fired again. At the first shot, the figure stopped, staggered to his right, and then fell to the ground. The second shot was not needed.

From somewhere behind where the figure had fallen, I heard a man’s voice cry out.

“Matthew, Matthew. You all right? Get up, get up.”

“Jesus, Ben, you sure curled him up good,” Mr. Hawes said.

“Hand me some more cartridges, Billy,” Ben said.

I nodded and handed Ben the box of cartridges but kept my eye on the area, where Ben had apparently just shot Matthew Kimble.

Mr. Hawes had heard and seen enough.

“You, uh… Nate Kimble,” he yelled. “Are you ready to yield?” There was no answer.

“I’ll ask you again, Nate Kimble. Are you now prepared to lay down your arms?”

“You sons a bitches… I’ll die first… you kilt my ma, and now my brother.” Nate Kimble’s voice was hard at first; then it cracked and tailed off.

“We didn’t come here seeking violence. You attacked us. We defended ourselves.” Mr. Hawes’s voice was dispassionate and steady.

I rolled over onto my back. Above me, large white clouds were moving swiftly under an indigo sky. Nearby, the branches of a cottonwood tree sent a spear of shade slicing into the arroyo.

How could this be happening? I recall thinking. It was a beautiful day. The earth smelled fresh from the light rain that had recently fallen. Who would have thought two people who were alive just a few minutes ago were now lying dead? It just didn’t make any sense. At that moment, I felt like throwing up. I doubled up and moved down deeper into the arroyo. As it turned out, I didn’t vomit. Instead, I went through a moment of dry heaving, and then I felt like weeping. But I didn’t.

“You all right, Billy?” Ben asked. He was looking down the barrel of the Winchester, watching the area where we had last seen Nate and Matthew Kimble.

I nodded. “I felt kinda sick there for a minute.”

“Well, this has been a terrible day,” Mr. Hawes said. “All of us should feel a bit ill.”

We sat there for another thirty minutes, and then we heard the sound of a neighing horse coming from behind us. We turned around and saw Bill Tilghman and Wyatt Earp. Bill was riding his horse, and Earp was in our spring wagon with his horse tied to the back.

“What the hell is going on here?” Bill demanded, climbing down from his horse. “We could hear shootin’ a mile away.”

“You best keep low… one of them Kimbles is still out there with his buffalo gun,” Ben said.

Wyatt pulled the spring wagon into the bottom of the arroyo and climbed out.

Mr. Hawes and Ben spent the next few minutes recounting our encounter with the Kimble brothers and their mother. When they had finished, Bill and Wyatt looked at one another, then at me.

“Jesus, Billy.” Bill Tilghman shook his head in disbelief. “It didn’t take you long to add more wrinkles to your horns.”

“You want to tell ’em, or should I?” Wyatt asked Bill, who nodded back at him.

“Well, first off, them folks weren’t no nesters,” Wyatt continued.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Hawes insisted. “They are squatting on private property belonging to the Battles family.”

“Not the point,” Wyatt said. As usual, he was reserved and tight-lipped—a trait that could be infuriating when you wanted a more thorough clarification of any event. Conversation was not his strong point. That drawback hurt him in his occasional quests for political office and in his various business dealings later in life. Even when I saw him several years later in places like San Diego and Los Angeles, talking to him was a chore because I had to do most of the talking. I am not sure I ever saw him smile while I was in Dodge City, and he certainly wasn’t smiling now.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “We were only defending ourselves.”

“That may be, but you three picked a nasty bunch to tangle with,” Wyatt said. “These boys and their ma ain’t Kimbles. They belong to the Bledsoe clan.”

“I am not sure I understand what you are gettin’ at, Mr. Earp,” Mr. Hawes said. “Kimbles or Bledsoes, they were still squatting on private property, and they attacked us.”

“You know that, and Bill and I here know that, but that won’t make no never mind to the Bledsoe clan,” Wyatt said. “All of them Bledsoes were raised on sour milk.”

Bill Tilghman cleared his throat and looked at me. “Didn’t you tell me that some of the Kimble family was wiped out by some renegade Comanches and Kiowas a while back?”

“Why, yes,” I said. “That’s what Mrs. Kimble told us the other day when they invited us in for a noon meal.”

“Well, it weren’t no off-the-reservation Indians that did in them Kimbles,” Bill said. “It was the Bledsoes, and now it looks like you just bucked out a couple of ’em.”

“Surely,” Mr. Hawes began, “we have done a service to law enforcement then.”

“You might rightly think so,” Wyatt said. “But the Bledsoe clan is well connected in Topeka. In fact, one of them is a grandee in the governor’s office. We’d best talk to Bat about this when we get back to Dodge.”

Bill nodded toward the Winchester Ben was still holding. “Is that what you used on the Bledsoes?”

“It is.” I looked at Bill and then Wyatt. “You best let me have it.” Ben handed the rifle to Bill.

“Bill, we need to talk turkey with whoever is still out there with a Sharps .50,” Wyatt said.

At that, Wyatt cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Bledsoe, this is Deputy Earp and Deputy Tilghman from Dodge City. Do you hear me?”

There was no answer.

“Let’s wash off the war paint,” Wyatt continued. “Don’t make any sense to burn any more powder today.”

There was still no answer. Then, before Wyatt could say another word, we watched Nate burst from the barn on my horse with Ben’s in tow.

“That son of a bitch is taking our horses, Billy,” Ben shouted as Nate disappeared behind the barn. We didn’t see him again until he had gone about two hundred yards, and then only sporadically as he was careful to keep the barn between himself and our line of sight.

I remember wondering how a man could ride off, leaving the bodies of his dead mother and brother behind. My conclusion: this was a callous, cold, insensitive man with little or no compassion in his soul. Later, I would learn just how accurate that impression of Nate Bledsoe was.

Bill Tilghman jarred me from my reverie. “We best see what’s in the house and see what’s what with that other Bledsoe lyin’ out there in the grass.”

The five of us crawled up out of the arroyo, fanned out, and walked across the field, looking for any sign of Matthew.

“Over here,” Ben shouted. He was standing over Matthew’s body. He had been shot through the carotid artery and had bled out into the dry, sandy soil. “We’ll pick him up after we take a look in the house,” Bill said. “Are you sure ain’t nobody else in there other than Sarah?”

“There was a boy in the house a few days ago,” I said.

We walked the two hundred yards or so to the house and entered through the open front door. What we found was not a pleasant sight.

Sarah Bledsoe was lying on the table where, just a few days before, we had eaten a noon meal. She had been shot through the throat. Her face was ashen. A rag had been pushed into the wound in her throat in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Lord, I ain’t seen nothing like that since Dora Hand was murdered,” Wyatt said.

“I am no murderer,” I shouted. I then ran out of the house and fell to my knees. A powerful tightness seized my throat, almost choking me. Then the tears flowed.

“Goddamn it,” I shouted at nobody in particular. “I didn’t mean to kill anybody.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Mr. Hawes. “We know that, Billy,” he said. “You saved our lives. Nobody’s going to fault you.”

What Mr. Hawes said was possibly true, but the fact remained I had killed someone, and the first human life I ever took was that of a woman, even if she was mean enough to have a reserved seat in hell.

About then, Bill Tilghman appeared in the doorway of the cabin. “Looky here what we found.”

He stood in the doorway, and in front of him was the little boy, whom we had only gotten a glimpse of during our last visit. Sarah had told us that he was her daughter’s son and had been born after the Comanche and Kiowa attack. He was about three years old and had a crop of tousled, straw-colored hair that spilled over his ears. He was dressed in faded blue overalls and scuffed brown high-top shoes.

“She probably wasn’t lyin’ about that,” Bill said. “But his mother was not Sarah’s daughter. Them Bledsoes likely killed her and her family and took the boy.”

We poked around in the house for a few more minutes, and then Wyatt and Bill wrapped the bodies of Sarah Bledsoe and Matthew in blankets and placed them in the back of the spring wagon. Ben and I looked in the barn. There were three sorry excuses for horses in there—a couple of whey-back sorrels and a cow-hocked pinto, all three of which had seen better days. It was little wonder that Nate had taken off with the two horses Ben and I had ridden in on. We found some blankets, two saddles, and bridles, and prepared the horses for the trip back to Dodge City.

“Tie the pinto to the wagon.” Bill looked at Mr. Hawes. “Any objections to driving the wagon?”

“I have none if the passengers don’t have any,” Mr. Hawes said, nodding toward the two bodies covered in the wagon. Wyatt lifted the boy up to the wagon seat next to Mr. Hawes.

“What’s your name, boy?” Mr. Hawes asked.

“Jeremy,” the boy said in a soft voice between a whimper and a whisper. “Where’s my ma?”

Mr. Hawes looked around at Bill and Wyatt, as if to ask, What should I tell him?

Finally, Mr. Hawes slapped the traces on the horse’s rump, and the wagon lurched forward. “Don’t you worry none about that, Jeremy,” he said. “We are going to look out for you now.”

The trip back to Dodge was without incident. We took Jeremy to Mrs. Kimmelmann’s, with the idea that he would eventually be turned over to an orphanage in Topeka. But a few days later, after Mrs. Kimmelmann had grown attached to Jeremy, she made it abundantly clear that he would not be going to any orphanage.

“My man and I never had any young’uns, and if nobody objects, I will bring him up as my own,” she said. In those days, adoptions were much less complicated than they are today, though she did file adoption papers in the Ford County courthouse.

A few days after our return, things were looking better for Jeremy, but they definitely weren’t looking that way for me. That day at the homestead, where I had been born nineteen years before, was the day that my life turned down a path neither my mother nor I could ever have imagined.

Next Saturday: Chapter Six

***

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