The Kid

The Kid heard Siringo gallop off that night and he told Manuela on heading out that he needed to find Paulita. She seemed to be avoiding him and he was going to the Maxwell house to see why.

She was not there, but the Navajo maid was. The thirty-five-year-old Deluvina focused on the Kid’s holstered Colt .41 Thunderer and feigned ignorance of the youngest Maxwell’s whereabouts. But Deluvina had been purchased as a child for fifty dollars by Lucien Maxwell and she felt kin to Billy as a fellow orphan, so she was fond enough to let the murderer wait in the lilac parlor for the girl. She even brought him fresh sun tea and a saucer of apple cobbler as he stewed on the love seat, worriedly thinking of Paulita. She won’t want a wanted man.

At last he heard the girl on the porch, confiding to someone in Spanish, “Lo pasé muy bien.” I had a very nice time. There was a male response the Kid couldn’t catch, and he was too cautious to go to the front door. He heard it open and shut, and he stood as he heard her soft footsteps on the floral carpet of the hallway. She may have been heading back to the kitchen, but then she halted in shock at seeing the Kid in the parlor, his face full of tragedy.

“Who let you in?” she asked.

He felt it was the wrong first question. “Deluvina,” he said. And he ticked his head toward the front porch. “Who was that?”

“José,” she said. She seemed irresolute, even fearful, and she lurked in the hallway as if he were dangerous.

Billy fell back onto the love seat and smiled as in a strained counterfeit of ease he patted a spot next to him. “Enter, my angel! Sit!”

She walked in but took the violet wing chair five feet away from him. She was wearing knee-high boots and the culottes that preceded jodhpurs.

“Moonlight ride?” he asked.

Even in a forced smile her cute dimples showed. “You know how I have always plumed myself on my horsemanship.”

“Riding with?”

“My brother’s roan mare.”

“I meant ‘Who’s this José?’?”

“José Jaramillo. Lorenzo Jaramillo’s son.” Even in the heat of July her forearms were crossed over her breasts and she seemed to be trembling. She earnestly asked, “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

“Why would I?”

“Because you do that. You do worse.”

The Kid felt a hot burn of irritation flush his cheeks. “I’m not a ruthless murderer. My hand was forced each time.”

She ever so gently said, “Hah.” Like she found him delusional.

The night was getting pear-shaped. “And how is St. Mary’s Convent School?”

“I graduated.”

“Congratulations!”

“Lots of people do it,” she said.

“And now what?”

She sighed. “Doubts. Disappointment.”

And then Pete Maxwell was at the parlor doorway in a striped nightshirt and slippers. With false bonhomie, he said, “I thought I detected Billy’s voice. What a treat to see you again!”

“Hola, Pedro.”

With a catch of nervousness in his voice he said, “I hear no officers of the law can find you, yet here you are in plain sight!”

“I hither and yon a bit.”

“Well,” Pete Maxwell said, and then he seemed at a loss for words. His hands palsied as he stared at the Kid’s six-shooter. Then he flung a scowl to his sister as he said, “Don’t forget the lamps like you do, Paulita.”

She shooed him off with the flick of a hand. When he was gone, she whispered, “Pete disapproves of our . . . friendship. But he won’t do anything about it. You fill him with terror.”