July 14, 1881
Billy The Kid, an infamous outlaw, was haunted by the night. Pants less with his sleeves rolled up, he had planned on getting some meat from the house he was staying in near Pete’s. He held a meat cleaver in one hand and a pistol in other because he had heard something. A creak. His gut told him something wasn’t right. His muscles tensed. He held his breath. Listening for anything else. His heart beats echoed in his ears. He swallowed. He kept his mouth shut tight. Making sure he wouldn’t make a sound. He carefully walked up the three steps leading to the front door of the house. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Quien viene alla? Quien viene alla?” What felt like an hour, there was no response. He wasn’t at ease with the silence. He took careful steps further inside. He had came across the bedroom which was near the backdoor. In the dark, he could make out another head beside the one in the bed. He raised his pistol. “Quien es ese? Quien es ese?” Pat Garett, a recently made sheriff, pulled out his pistol. He was ready to fire. Some other shadow zoomed to him. He dropped his weapon. The clouds separated. The moonlight shined on both of them. The other two men who had been in the bedroom with him and Pete were shocked to find a man biting into his neck. Drinking his blood. Pat cried out. Billy dropped everything in his hands. He took a step back. Spooked by Pat’s screaming, the two gunmen behind him began to fire at the stranger. Billy ran to his horse. He untied it from a wooden pole. The horse stood on its hind legs. Terrified by the presence of the stranger and the booming echoes of the bullets, it neighed loud.
“Easy boy! Easy!” He pulled the reins. Forcing it to settle for a second so he could get on. The horse immediately ran east without having to kick its thighs. His hat, pistol, and other belongings were gone. The wind swept his hair away from his face. The world became blurry. He blinked the tears out of his eyes. He could make out the vast lonely desert. He couldn’t think straight. All he wanted was to see a house with light inside. A warm fireplace with friendly people. Some home cooking and fresh water.
What the hell did I see? What the-?
He pulled the reins. Stopping the horse. He jumped off. He ran to a thorny bush where he vomit out his last meal. He wiped the excess bits of vomit from his lips with his sleeve. “Can’t be real! It can’t be!” His shaking said a different story. “But I ain’t no loon! I never did nothing bad!” An owl hoot. He looked around. His eyes went wide. He tried to see if there was anyone or anything nearby.
A wolf howled at the moon. The wind blew the dirt and anything else that was barely holding on the ground. All these noises unnerved him. He hopped back on his horse and rode deeper into the darkness. Afraid to even stop. Eventually, the horse fell over. Billy hit the ground. He flinched. “Son of a bitch!” He crawled to the horse. He took the canteen off. The horse struggled to catch its breath. “C’mon boy. Stay on your feet.” He poured some water into the horse’s mouth. He drank some too. With what was barely left, he hooked the canteen back on the saddle. He pushed against the ground as he got himself up. He took a step and stumbled. Pain bounced in his right leg. He didn’t hear anything break. It must have been swollen or twisted. He couldn’t tell with the unbearable pain that was keeping his mind occupied. He grabbed a knife from the small pocket of the saddle. He collapsed. He forced himself to sit up. Cringing at the slightest of movement. He gripped the knife with both hands. The horse was sleeping.
His hands were shaking. Dirt stained his clothes and face. Even at night, he was uncomfortable in the vicious heat. “I’ve gotta wake up! I’m dreaming!” He slapped himself. That didn’t work. He punched himself. No results. He had to take a chance. To know if he was awake or not. He stared at the blade. He took time to cut his finger. Only breaking skin. That very small cut brought him to a sense of reality. He knew he was present in the real world. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was happening. He continued to stay awake in case that blood thirsty madman somehow found him. He wasn’t sure what he could do but he didn’t want to take a risk. A couple of hours had gone by. He had fallen asleep before three AM. Morning came without the madman finding him. A traveling couple, driving in a carriage, found him with his horse.
“Poor young man! Who could have done this?” ,said the wife who was in her forties. Her husband, similar in her age, knelt near Billy. He checked his pulse. “He’s alive but that horse right there got some flies.” She walked toward him. “His hand is bleeding. He did this to himself?” “Looks like it.” The husband lifted him up. “The desert does that to a boy.” She helped her husband bring him in the carriage. While her husband drove, she took care of Billy. Putting a wet towel over his forehead. She continuously fanned him. They soon found themselves in the town they had planned to move into. “Excuse me pal. Where’s the doctor?” ,said the husband. He stopped near a saloon. The man he was talking to pointed straight ahead and said, “Turn right and you’ll see it.” “Thanks.”
At the clinic, the doctor put Billy in a bed. A cold wet towel was on his forehead. There was a glass of water on the drawer nearby. A clean set of clothes were on a chair for him. “I don’t know how you found him at the right time but he would have been dead if you didn’t.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted. “Wait a minute....” He recalled the wanted posters detailing a criminal’s features and even a sketch of the man. “That’s Billy The Kid!”
