The Mostly True Story of Rudabaugh and Webb by Mike Watt

Author:Mike Watt [Watt, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications

“Old Fort Sumner” sat inside a crumbling wall, half adobe and half wood. Named after the famed military man Edwin Vose Sumner, the structure’s original purpose was the containing and internment of the Navajo and Mescalero Apache, thanks in a large part to the efforts of none other than the great Kit Carson. For five long years, from 1863 to 1868, the Indians made do within those walls, fed on beef sold to the fort by Charles Goodnight and his partner, Oliver Loving. Then just as abruptly, the government shut down the whole operation in ‘68, selling the buildings and land to landowner Lucien Maxwell. Goodnight and Loving formed their own namesake trail somewhat further west.

Maxwell’s son, Pedro Menard Maxwell, best-known as Pete, more-or-less liked and amiable enough, had a sturdy house within the walls, adjacent to Beaver Smith’s little saloon with its own modest kitchen. It was in this saloon that ex-buffalo hunter and future lawman Pat Garrett slung drinks on occasion, and jawed away the hours with the remaining members of The Regulators, Bonney included.

Without their mission of revenge for the death of their rancher-boss, the young magnate English John Tunstall, the gang was aimless, restless. They whiled their time away stealing horses and cattle from local ranchers, John Chisum among them, then change brands and sell them below the border to Mex drovers, who would then sell them back to Chisum. It was a game the rancher was tired of playing.

The “gang” that Rudabaugh encountered operating out of, or very near, the Greathouse and Kuch Wagon Stop, was little more than a loose cadre of men whose comings and goings occasionally coincided with animal theft. Beside Pickett and Wilson, both Charlie Bowdre and “Bigfoot Tom” O’Folliard had planted stakes in Old Fort Sumner, with Mrs. Manuela Bowdre, Charlie’s half-Mex wife, doing the cooking for “the boys.”

“We’s called ‘The Rustlers’,” said Henry the Kid. Dave wasn’t impressed.

“You went from ‘Regulators’ to ‘Rustlers’? Cuz ‘The Hole in the Wall Gang’ was already taken?”

They were leaning against a fence, sharing a smoke and shirking duties, watching the horses exercise. “You shouldn’t talk to me that way,” said Henry.

Dave turned his head to look at the younger man. “What way?”

“Teasing me like that. Interpreting I’m stupid. I’m not stupid.”

Dave wasn’t in the mood to fight anyone at the moment. ‘The Kid’ reminded him too much of eager Little Jack Allen, a blowfly that wouldn’t go away, bringing all manner of shit with it. “Fine,” Dave said. “I’ll lay off.” Henry nodded. “Who are you anyway? I mean, what do I call you? ‘Billy’ or ‘Henry’ or ‘Kid’? Pick one.”

“Henry’s fine,” said The Kid. “Mostly only the Mexicans call me Billy.”

Dave nodded. Stubbed the butt of his cigarette out on his boot heel and flicked the remnants away.

Henry was instantly energetic. “You wanna ride out later? Maybe we can⁠—”

“What?” asked Dave. “Eat corn through a fence?” He walked back to the bunkhouse, leaving Henry McCarty shaking with anger. But at least he hadn’t called the boy stupid.

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