The Complete and Factual life of Billy the Kid

By William Brent

Billy the Kid: Robin Hood or hoodlum? After 90 years of romantic myths, this book shatters the spell and uncovers the brutal, even stranger truth about the youngest of the famous Western desperadoes. Billy Bonney, whose death in 1881 ended a reign of terror in New Mexico, has become legendary as a defender of small settlers against big ranchers… a lighting draw who dropped 21 men, one for each year of his life… a “gentleman outlaw who was gunned down unarmed and helpless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Fell Publishers, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780883917589

Book preview

There

1

Come gather around, and I’ll sing you a song, A tale of Pat Garrett, and the Kid, who went wrong, Way down in New Mexico, long, long ago, Where a mans only law was his own forty-four.

BALLAD OF BILLY THE KID

I grew up with accounts of Billy Bonney, and the violent days of the Lincoln County War. My mother, Carlotta Brent, nee Baca, was a young girl in Lincoln, during those lawless days, and played a minor part during the siege at the McSween house. My father, Jim Brent, was deputy to Pat Garrett and John Poe, and later was elected sheriff of Lincoln County, himself.

My mother always said the Kid was cute, but she was careful not to voice this in the presence of Dad, who, like most dedicated lawmen, wouldn’t give an outlaw— any outlaw—anything but the back of his hand. My mother also said that one of her older sisters was quite smitten, as it was said in those days, with the Kid, and that her father—my grandfather—Saturnino Baca kept an eagle eye on her so that the romance wouldn’t flourish into anything more than that.

And, aside from the happenings, re Billy the Kid, handed down to me through my family, I was bom at the turn of the century in Silver City, New Mexico, and grew up there, where Billy Bonney, alias the Kid, got his start in crime.

In the early 70s Silver City was a hell roaring town, with a saloon on practically every comer. It was here that Billy Bonney (later alias Billy the Kid) lived and went to school in his younger years. He left here at the age of twelve, or close to it, after committing his first major" crime, as his horde of biographers have told you. For killing a man, they have emphatically stated.

There are two versions of this hoary old myth— to wit:

(1) The Kid, a gallant little fellow, killed this man, a blackguard blacksmith, for making crude and insulting remarks to the Kid’s mother. He did this with his trusty little pocket knife, and/or a rock.

(2) That this same ruffian of a blacksmith had made the same insulting remarks to the Kid’s mother, and that a man by the name of Moulton, Ed Moulton, had defended her honor, by either beating up said blacksmith, or laying him out with a fierce tongue lashing, all of which made young Bonney eternally grateful; and that later, to this stripling, came the opportunity to save Moulton’s life, returning the favor.

That Moulton was jumped by three plug uglies in a saloon, and was getting his comeuppance, but good, and was in a bad way, when in the nick of time Billy Bonney comes in, grasps the situation in a flash, jumps the ruffian, who was about to give good old Ed the coup de grace with a chair, and stabs him to death, thus ending the ruckus.

All very touching, romantic and somewhat Rover-boyish, but none of these chroniclers have bothered to explain what a boy of twelve was doing in a saloon. Those old time saloon men had hard and fast rules abut this. No minors were allowed inside, unless it was some kid selling papers, and then he was hustled out of there pronto, if he showed any inclination to hang around. However, it’s never been said that Billy Bonney sold papers. Billy was not the paper selling type.

In later years, when Billy Bonney, alias the Kid, became famous—or infamous might better put it—and reams of stories were published about him, no one was more surprised than Ed Moulton to learn that the Kid had once saved his life in Joe Dyer’s saloon.

I must have been dead drunk, commented Ed dryly.

A short fill-in on Billy’s brief background is necessary here, to establish a clearer picture of the youth who later became the most feared and deadly outlaw in Southwestern history. We’ll come to his big crime shortly. Billy Bonney couldn’t be termed an underprivileged kid of the era. His mother, Kathleen Antrim, ran a successful boarding house, and was quite indulgent with her offspring.

Mr. Antrim, the step-father, was engaged in the precarious and uncertain business of mining, and spent much of his time up in the hills. He contributed little to the family finances. It was said, by the real old timers, that young Billy didn’t like his step-father and, no doubt, the feeling was mutual.

It seemed that, when Antrim learned of Billy’s wayward episodes, he approved the direct method of punishment—a trip out behind the woodshed where a good strap was applied to a tender part of Billy’s anatomy— much to Mrs. Antrim’s acute distress. To prevent such, Mrs. Antrim ran interference, on Billy’s behalf, to keep these escapades from reaching her husband’s ears. It is quite apparent that Billy and his step-father didn’t see eye to eye.

Young Billy was having constant, irritating brushes with the law, but so far he’d never been jailed, because of his youth and his cunningness in covering his tracks. At his tender age, he was already adept at petty thievery, rolling drunks behind the various saloons, and always fighting. In fights, he had learned the advantage of getting the big edge, which stood him in such good stead in later years. When a fight started, he’d grab a sizable rock first thing, which he would use most effectively. He always carried a knife, like today’s switch-blade set, though his was not a push-button affair, but a good, solid stockman’s knife, which he never hesitated to draw to intimidate or cow his antagonist—if Billy happened to be getting the worst of it.

Sometimes, according to Louie Abraham—a onetime buddy of Billy’s, and about the same age—Billy would simply clench the unopened knife in his fist. This to give the punch an extra sock, much the same as a short piece of lead pipe would do—or anything weighty. Billy knew most of the tricks all right, even at such an early age.

He was a quick study, as an actor might put it, bright and alert, and among his other accomplishments was his fluency in Spanish. He could speak the language as well, if not better than his own. In profanity, too, he was equally talented—in both tongues. The Mexican kids liked him, which Billy reciprocated—perhaps for the reason that he could dominate them more easily than kids of his own nationality. Whatever the reason, the Kid liked and was liked in turn by the Mexicans as a whole. This held true right down to the end.

Billy Bonney went to school, but it was pretty much of a wasted effort. He had a sharp, active mind, but books held little interest for him. He preferred playing hooky, doing things on his own. Perhaps, he went as high as the fourth grade, according to old timers.

Already young Billy had developed a distinct personality of his own. He was a pathological liar on occasion, indulging in long, drawn out tales of derring-do, with himself in the role of hero. He was also a little show off, and a juvenile braggart, and was given to tantrums and uncontrolled temper when crossed. Once, according to Harvey Whitehill, old time Grant County sheriff, Billy was ordered to stay after school, along with two other kids, for some infraction of the rules. Billy promptly went into his act, emoting all over the place, and started to just up and leave, when class was dismissed.

His teacher, however, wasn’t intimidated one bit. She was a big, solid, husky gal, and she yanked Billy back into the room and proceeded to cuff and whale the daylights out of him, with Billy yelling and kicking. When it was all over, Billy was flat on the floor, with teacher sitting astride his rump, demanding an apology, which she got from a very reluctant Billy, since it was considerable of a concesssion for him. But he apologized, nevertheless.

Later Billy confided to his two friends that he took it because he didn’t want to hit a woman, but he’d get even—they could bet on that. Apparently he didn’t, because shortly thereafter he left school for good.

This, then, was the boy that writers have painted as a little Lord Fauntleroy. A nice, gentle, little fellow, who, hat in hand, always said yes, ma’am and no, ma’am to the ladies; an elegant little gentleman—a regular Sir Galahad of the small fry. Ash Upson was the worst of these chroniclers. Others have taken their cue from him, especially so about Billy Bonney’s character.

Ash Upson was a newspaper man, and lived for some months at Mrs. Antrim’s boarding house in Silver City, when the Kid was growing up. Years later he became postmaster at Roswell, New Mexico. He was the ghost author of Pat Garrett’s book, The Authentic Life of Billy the Kid, written after the Kid had bowed out, first published in 1882. Upson’s description of the Kid and his days in Silver City was maudlin and sticky to the point of hysteria. He knew better. To quote just one paragraph as a horrid example:

Bold, daring and reckless, he was open handed, generous hearted, frank and manly, a favorite of all classes and ages; especially was he loved and admired by the old and decrepit and the young and helpless. To such he was a champion, a defender, a benefactor, a right arm. He was never seen to address a lady, especially an elderly one, but with his hat in his hand; and did her attire or appearance evidence poverty, it was a poem to see the eager, sympathetic, compassionate look in Billy’s sunny face as he proffered assistance or afforded information. A little child never lacked a lift across a gutter or the assistance of a strong arm to carry a heavy burden when Billy was in sight. End of quote.

This is but a sample. In the book he continues to call the Kid our hero. We’ve got to admit that Billy didn’t go around kicking old ladies in the shins, but then neither did Cherokee Bill or the Dalton boys. To give Upson the benefit of all doubts, it’s possible that he was swayed by the credit side of Billy’s split personality. For the Kid could be an extremely friendly and likable sort, seemingly without guile, his boyish grin open and captivating. If Billy was an enigma to everyone else, he wasn’t to himself. He knew where he was going and how to get there.

Yet, Pat Garrett, who undoubtedly knew the Kid as well if not better than anyone, was dismayed and embarrassed when he read Upson’s stuff in draft form. He so told my father, Jim Brent, his deputy, wondering what he could do to hold Upson down, get him to stick to the facts. Because Ash Upson must have known better. As stated, he’d lived at Mrs. Antrim’s boarding house in Silver City for several months, and knew the youthful Kid intimately and just what kind of a squirt he was. And he certainly knew later on in Bonney’s career of the Kid’s wholesale cattle stealings, depredations, killings, murders and double-crossings. Why, then, did Upson attempt to heroize, glamorize and make a super man out of the Kid even then?

His explanation to Garrett was simple. The Kid was big news. Eastern papers and magazines had already made a legend of Billy Bonney. The readers wanted their bad men to be heroic. Look at Robin Hood, Dick Turpin—and more recently—Jesse James. Why, the Kid could be a sort of Beau Ideal of the West. It was the only way to get a big sale of the book, and so forth and so on. Apparently Ash Upson was more interested in getting a best seller than telling the truth.

While Garrett didn’t see it this way, and only wanted his book to be a refutation of the lurid, derogatory stories in the yellow press and magazines—Garrett, a quiet man, who rarely raised his voice, and disliked bickering and disagreement—he didn’t argue the point. Besides, there was a verbal agreement between himself and Upson for Ash to write the book, and Pat deferred to Upson’s wishes.

If, however, you have read the Garrett book, you will note sharply that when Garrett, himself, comes into the picture, he takes charge of the story, telling it in first person. And his story, with minor variations here and there, becomes the most accurate and authentic account ever written of the grown-up Kid and the events that took place.

Maurice Fulton of Roswell, New Mexico, corroborates that statement in a footnote to Garrett’s book, which he later edited for re-publication. Fulton, now dead, was Lincoln County’s most respected historian.

Garrett has many times told the story of his part in the Billy Bonney affair to Jim Brent, during their long association as friends and brother peace officers. But in his accounts to my father, Garrett embellished the story with many interesting details and sidelights, which were not in Ash Upson’s writings. Garrett’s part will be told thusly in this book, to the best of the author’s ability.

Now as to the Kid’s birthplace and name: Mrs. Antrim told Ash Upson and others in Silver City that he was bom in New York City, November 23, 1859; that the family moved to Kansas in 1862; that Mr. Bonney, Billy’s father, had died there when Billy was too young to remember much about him; that she, Mrs. Bonney and family, two boys—Billy and a younger brother—moved to Colorado, where she married Antrim; that the family moved to Santa RFe and lived there some four years, then moved to Silver City.

The Kid, in later talks with Garrett, Upson, Mr. and Mrs. McSween—all of whom my father and mother knew intimately in Lincoln—substantiated these vital statistics. So, in view of contrary reports and the complete lack of any other records then, these facts must be accepted at face value.

So much pure and unadulterated hokum has been written about the Kid: that he was bom here, there and elsewhere; that his name wasn’t William Bonney, but Henry McCarty, or McCartney or something else; that such facts have been proven by extensive research. What research? There is none, even to back up Mrs. Antrim’s statement or Billy Bonney’s own account. In view of this, it seems logical and reasonable to accept such data from those who should have known—Mrs. Antrim and the Kid, himself. He was called Billy Bonney, and signed his name William Bonney, or William H. Bonney, or W. H. Bonney, and that is what he will be called here. The Kid certainly knew how to sign his own name.

As to where and when he was born, this seems of little importance anyway, and will be given none in this account. What is important, is how, when and why he turned bad; what kind of a person Billy Bonney really was; what motivated his actions up to the time of his youthful death; how he seemed to others who knew him well—all of these things, without the flagrant and bald-faced discolorations of word-happy writers, who didn’t know a cow from a coot, or a six-shooter from a sextet.

To round out the picture, one more facet of Billy’s character should be added—a solid streak of exhibitionism, coupled with a cockeyed sense of humor. This is illustrated in a story told by Mrs. Harry Glennon of Silver City, whose mother had Billy and Louie Abraham in her classes in grade school.

One day, Billy, along with some buddy, got into a neighbor’s old trunk and found a collection of women’s clothing. Nothing else. Promptly an idea suggested itself; that it would be funny as hell if both of them dressed up as women and went down town and put on a show. His buddy, not having Billy’s uninhibited nerve, reneged the deal, so Billy put on the show alone.

With mincing steps, he paraded up and down Bullard Street in female attire and a big floppy hat, flirting outrageously with the men in passing. Some fun for Billy Bonney, and he soon had a crowd of kids following him, giggling and laughing. Being the center of attraction was right up the Kid’s alley, but it turned sour when the town marshal recognized Billy, despite the disguise, and promptly took him in.

Word quickly got to Mrs. Antrim, and she hurried to the jail and pleaded with the marshal to let Billy go with, of course, a stem reprimand. It was simply a boyish prank, she insisted, and she’d certainly give her son a piece of her mind when she got him home.

The marshal was fed up with Billy’s pranks. Well, I don’t know, he said dubiously. The boy’s always into something. This time he could be charged with being a public nuisance. I ought to take him before the judge.

Mrs. Antrim’s pleadings became more fervent, swearing she’d keep her son out of further mischief.

All right, the marshal finally said. I’ll let him go. We’ve been pretty lenient with this boy, though, he added. And next time he gets into trouble, I’m going to lock him up. You make sure he understands that, Mrs. Antrim.

She promised she would.

The next time happened to be the big crime, which his biographers have told you was a killing. Here’s about how it happened.

North Bullard Street was a collection of decrepit, frame and adobe shacks, which housed a large part of the local Chinatown. The Orientals worked as cooks, waiters, laundrymen, and some owned eating houses. And these long queued Chinese constituted the number one priority for bedevilment by Billy Bonney and other juvenile delinquents of the era.

A week or so after the marshal’s ultimatum, on a Saturday morning, Billy and two buddies—Louie Abraham and a Mexican kid named Chato Belmudes—were loafing around, wondering what to do to have some fun.

Louie was the son of David Abraham, an early pioneer who’d migrated westward in 1871—a highly respected businessman. Louie was an easy going, well brought up kid from a solid, substantial family. There was nothing of the delinquent about