“Come on in, Tony. Julia. Looks like people in Sumner are on our side. They shouldn’t hand us over—but keep quiet anyway.”
Billy opened the back gate and let me, Julia, and Frank into the yard.
For three weeks now the four of us had been riding across New Mexico, hiding from cops and living off scraps of odd work. I had stopped trying to make sense of it. Was my real life the one I’d left behind—or this?
Everything around me was bluntly real. I sat on a horse, smelled its sweat, walked on foot sometimes, touched the world with my hands and skin. I ate, drank, slept. And sometimes Julia and I found a moment for fast, fierce love. I spoke English. I could drive a herd, shoot a Colt.
I had no friends here except my companions. But Billy had dozens. Without them we’d have been caught long ago. We hid at his friends’ places.
At night we talked and tried to build a plan. Sometimes Billy said we needed to gather a new gang and serve some new boss. Sometimes he wanted to rob a merchant. Sometimes he drank too much, forgot caution, started strutting and picking fights.
From our talks I learned the story of this local war—and it echoed my past life so perfectly it made my stomach tighten.
Turns out the county had been run for years by two merchants named Dolan and Murphy. They’d arrived five years earlier, bribed the authorities right up to the governor, and looked ready to take office themselves. Then a competitor appeared: Andy Maxwell, convinced he was no worse than they were. He started recruiting farmers sick of Dolan’s monopoly. Each side built its own muscle: Dolan had his “Warriors,” Maxwell his “Regulators.” The gangs fused with law enforcement—each with its own deputy sheriff.
And then it began: shootings, bodies almost weekly. Dolan’s support was stronger. In the end it all led to the siege of Maxwell’s house.
And his death.
Right in front of my eyes.
Which left me with one conclusion: history really does go in circles. Pretty slogans are always a curtain for the real motives of war—power and money. Old Marx had been right: economics is the engine under every conflict.
***
“Boys, let’s go eat,” Billy was swaggering again. “I’ve got two dollars and some change. Enough for whiskey too.”
Frank jumped up gladly. Julia didn’t react—her father’s death sat heavy on her, though she tried not to show it. But we really did need food. I took her hand and the four of us crossed the road to a saloon with a sign: Roadhouse.
The place was crowded. We pulled our hats low and tucked into a far corner. Across the room sat a strange mustached gentleman beside a big box on a tripod. Every few minutes he boomed an offer:
“Portraits for half a dollar! You’ll have your likeness by tomorrow!”
We needed to order at the bar.
“Sit tight. I’ll go,” Billy counted his coins and strode over.
I squeezed Julia’s hand again.
“You hungry?”
“A little.”
“I’m hungry as a dog,” Frank said. Frank was always hungry—especially for drink.
Suddenly a shout rose at the bar.
“Hey! I was here first! It’s my turn!”
“Yeah? Want to order a piece of lead instead? I can serve you quick!”
Billy’s voice. Damn it. Again. This time with some big bearded brute.
“Back off!” the bearded man snarled. He looked dangerous.
I moved before it became blood.
I reached Billy—his Colt already half out.
“Billy, let him order. We’re not in a hurry. Put the gun away. We don’t need trouble, right?”
Billy stared at me with wild eyes—then the sanity returned. Hot-headed, not stupid. With a sour look he shoved the Colt back into the holster and muttered to the bearded man:
“Fine. Order. Quick.”
The man ordered beer, dumped coins on the bar, and left.
Billy ordered steaks for all of us and a bottle of whiskey, and we retreated. The food arrived fast. Thick, juicy steaks. Two dollars well spent.
“Only half a dollar and tomorrow you’ll have your portrait! Ferrotype—the latest technology replacing fine art! Soon painters will be useless!” the photographer kept barking, but the cowboys only snorted.
“Hey! Half a dollar? Let’s do it! Take our picture!” Billy had become loose after a few shots.
“Billy. Don’t. We don’t need to show ourselves,” I tried to pull him back, but he didn’t listen.
“Tony, who cares. I want a portrait. Come on. I’ve got exactly half a dollar left.”
He jumped up, marched to the photographer. I followed—if I didn’t, he’d get us all killed.
“Here!” he slapped down the coin. “Make a portrait. Me and Tony.”
“Excellent, gentlemen! Stand here. Professional portraits are fashionable—pose with your tools. Do you have tools?”
“Sure do!”
Billy grabbed his Winchester, struck a theatrical pose with his hand on the barrel, shifting his holster into view. I stood beside him.
The photographer aimed the box, then lifted a big reflector—some kind of flash—and commanded:
“Don’t move. One, two, three!”
The flash blinded me.
I felt myself falling—falling through blackness. Something exploded in my skull. I lost consciousness for a heartbeat—
—and when I opened my eyes, the Roadhouse and Billy were gone.
I was sitting at a table, holding Yulka’s hand under it. People around me. I knew them all: the boss, Andrei Petrovich Maksimov, Zhanna, Vaska…
“Alright, that’s it for today. Osipov at noon. Everyone back to your stations,” the boss said, standing to end the meeting. Chairs scraped. Everyone rose.
I let go of Yulka’s hand.
“Mr. Maksimov, I head to the radio station right now?” Zhanna chirped.
“Yes, go,” the boss said and walked out stroking his mustache. Vaska after him. The rest trailed outside. I let everyone pass, then gave Yulka’s elbow one last secret squeeze as she moved toward Daddy’s Mercedes and turned toward my car.
And then a flash detonated in my head.
I saw what would happen in seconds.
I spun around, sprinted two strides, caught Yulka, and slammed her to the asphalt, covering her with my body.
Gunfire. A punch in my leg. Something cut my forehead. Blood flooded my eyes. Fire burst in my skull.
But I knew—
Yulka was alive.
I’d saved her.
***
“Anton… how are you?”
What…?
I opened my eyes and the room came into focus. Hospital. Yulka was sitting by my bed.
“Yulia… hi. I’m alright. Recovering. The leg hardly hurts now. Listen— I had a dream. Or not a dream. I can’t understand it. How are you?”
“Living,” she said quietly.
I knew she was shattered by her father’s death, trying not to show it. Nearly a month had passed since the funeral. The papers had already stopped writing about the murder—just another bloody headline of the nineties, replaced by newer horrors. Our team had scattered; everyone had walked away from politics.
“Anton, I had a very strange dream last night too,” Yulka said softly. “You asked me about Billy the Kid. I asked Zhanna, she found a book for me. And I dreamed I was in America—like a western—cowboys, horses, and you saved me there… and then here…”
“Did you bring the book?”
“Yes. Here.”
She handed me a worn paperback.
Translated from English:
“The Authentic Life of Billy the Kid.”
On the cover was a ferrotype photograph: Billy the Kid posed with his Winchester, Colt on his hip.
I knew there should be another man in that photo.
But there wasn’t.
He was gone.
THE END
Based on real events
—
Igor Metalski
2023
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