“I’m not worried about Tully,” she said, handing me the bottle.

The liquor was so strong I felt I had swallowed a flame. It did wake me, at least. Katie Garza kept looking toward the river.

“Billy’s got a fever,” she said. “He’s babbling about all the people he’s killed lately. Is any of it true?”

“Well, some of it, at least,” I said.

“How many has he killed?” she asked bluntly.

“I’d have to clear my head in order to be sure,” I said. “In the last few days I’ve lost count.”

“Did he kill all the mutes?” she asked.

“I saw two of them dead,” I said. “Then we parted company. I assume he killed the other two.”

“He’s talking about an Indian boy,” Katie said. “Did he kill an Indian boy?”

I just nodded.

Katie sighed. “We better go south as soon as his fever breaks,” she said. “Maybe we can hide in the mountains.”

“Who do you think will come?” I asked.

“My father and my Apache brother,” she said. “They won’t be stopped by this little river. They don’t care if they kill Billy in Mexico or Texas.”

“It all seems so pointless,” I said. “When I met Billy he had only killed one man, and that was mostly an accident. Now he shoots down half the people he meets. I wish he’d stayed with you the first time we came.”

“I do, too, but it’s just wishful thinking,” she said, worry in her face. “I just hope he’ll go south. I don’t want to fight my pa and my brother, but I don’t want them to kill Billy, either.”

I accepted the bottle and took another sip of the flame.

17.

Billy’s fever raged for two days. Katie attended him the whole time, keeping him wrapped up and getting enough water down him to keep him from becoming dehydrated.

The nervous caballeros were made to keep watch along the river, waiting for Isinglass or Bloody Feathers.

The third night the fever broke; the next day Billy was able to sit by a table in the sun, eat pozole, and sip a little beer. But his grip was so weak he had to hold his beer bottle with both hands. He looked small, pallid, and depressed; sitting with him, it was hard to believe such a pinched and weary boy had killed nine men in a little over a month.

“Read to me, Sippy,” he said. “I got a headache—it might go away if I listen.”