“Now, that’s sass!” Billy said, when he heard of the adventure. He had been in a low mood; if he spoke at all it was only to mutter about killing Isinglass, or Mesty-Woolah, or the Texans.

“Let’s go, boys,” he said. “I’ve eaten the last dern bean I ever intend to eat in ugly Tularosa.”

“Go where, Billy?” Joe inquired.

“Go see Katie,” Billy said. “I want to hear all about the robbery.”

Joe had just worked out an arrangement with a local horse trader to break forty rough colts the man had acquired—he had been looking forward to it, horses being one of the chief pleasures of Joe’s life.

“I told that man I’d work his colts,” he reminded Billy.

“Then stay and work ’em, I’m leaving,” Billy said. “It’s too ugly around here for me. I’ll just take Sippy along to protect me. When you get tired of having horses kick you and bite you you can find us down the river.”

He looked perky for the first time in days. It was the hope of seeing Katie Garza that had changed his mood.

“I expect I can have those colts polished up in about two weeks,” Joe said.

“Why hurry? Take a month,” Billy said. “Katie and I might rob a few banks, or maybe the President will visit and we can rob him.”

“I doubt the President will journey this far west,” Joe said.

I think he questioned the wisdom of letting Billy out of his sight, but he had given his word to the horse trader and didn’t like to renege.

“Try to keep him moderate, Mr. Sippy,” he said, as we were mounting.

“Why, old Sippy’s the one who’s apt to need watching,” Billy said with a grin. “He might see a train and chase it to California, or take some other wild notion.”

Joe Lovelady looked skeptical, but we left anyway.

“It’s always a pleasure to leave Tularosa, ain’t it, Sippy?” Billy said as we rode out of town.

30.

Traveling with Billy Bone was a slower affair than traveling with Tully or Joe. The passage of time didn’t weigh on him as it does on some men. If we crossed a creek he might remember that he needed to wash his socks, in which case he’d stop, pull off his boots, and wash them.

He’d acquired an old Winchester during our stay in Tularosa, and while his socks dried he practiced riflery, shooting at anything in sight, from soaring hawks and drifting buzzards to jackrabbits, prairie dogs, and even lizards. Before we got halfway to Las Cruces, his socks were clean but he was out of ammunition for the Winchester. He hadn’t killed any game, either—I never saw him hit anything with the Winchester. We lived on some jerky Joe had insisted we take.