I bought myself another full complement of weaponry—pistols, rifles, derringers—but the prospect of overtaking Billy seemed more and more fanciful, and eventually, sunk in moral paralysis, I abandoned the notion and fell in with a small wagon train to Santa Fe.

9.

At that point I never expected to see Billy Bone again—it seemed likely that our destinies had diverged forever. And yet, not a week later, I ran into him on the Rio de las Vacas on the very day that he killed the Apache boy, the most debated and inexplicable of all his murders.

The wagoneers I traveled south from Trinidad with were a rough crew, prone to loud cursing and ear-biting, eye-gouging fights while in their cups. By the time we reached Taos Pueblo I had concluded that it was only a matter of time before my own ears became eligible for biting, or my eyes for gouging. I lingered in Taos for a day, pretending illness but really only intending to let a certain space grow between me and the wagon train; I even contemplated a visit with Sister Blandina at the Glorieta mission.

But before I could make up my mind, a young Indian came in from the west who reported having seen a fabulous beast: a white mountain lion. The creature had been sighted several times, north of Jemez Pueblo. This excited so much talk that I thought I’d just drift over that way and have a look for myself. I had begun to consider leaving the West—a white mountain lion would be a remarkable thing to see before I did.

Of course, I should have known better than to credit such hunters’ reports. When I reached Jemez Pueblo I found a village of singularly uncommunicative people. Only the old woman could speak any English, and she disclaimed all knowledge of any white mountain lion. There had once been an old white wolf in the vicinity, but that was years ago, she said.

I was greatly disappointed. A book had already begun to take shape in my mind which would involve Orson Oxx and Sitting Bull, both of whom would be in pursuit of the fabulous white cat. I could call it The White Cougar; or, Death in the Rockies.

But the people of Jemez Pueblo sullenly denied the existence of such a beast. Their skepticism caused my confidence to slip, but I set out up the Rio de las Vacas anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of something white; even a wolf would do.