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[lincoln county]
[after highways 2]
The drive across White Sands is quick - little traffic, open road, clear sky - and they don't slow down until they hit Carrizozo, and it's not too much farther until they reach Capitan.
He tells her stories as he notices landmarks, but it's really just landscape, save for the few small towns they've come across.
It's so familiar it makes him nervous and excited at the same time.
It's like it ain't changed a bit.
The road into Lincoln is only a two-lane highway, with worn pavement and faded stripes, the hills on the side of the road brown and green from mix of heat and spring rain. It's quiet (they've turned the radio off at this point) and he's shed the sunglasses, eyes focused on the landscape.
There's a two-story brick building coming into view on the right side of the street, and they're already going pretty slow (not much traffic, but there are a few other people around), but he leans back and exhales, giving a nod to indicate what he's talking about.
"That's the courthouse." A beat. "Welcome to town."
The drive across White Sands is quick - little traffic, open road, clear sky - and they don't slow down until they hit Carrizozo, and it's not too much farther until they reach Capitan.
He tells her stories as he notices landmarks, but it's really just landscape, save for the few small towns they've come across.
It's so familiar it makes him nervous and excited at the same time.
It's like it ain't changed a bit.
The road into Lincoln is only a two-lane highway, with worn pavement and faded stripes, the hills on the side of the road brown and green from mix of heat and spring rain. It's quiet (they've turned the radio off at this point) and he's shed the sunglasses, eyes focused on the landscape.
There's a two-story brick building coming into view on the right side of the street, and they're already going pretty slow (not much traffic, but there are a few other people around), but he leans back and exhales, giving a nod to indicate what he's talking about.
"That's the courthouse." A beat. "Welcome to town."
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She looks at him, serious and sincere.
"That isn't something you need to thank me for -- I'm here because I want to be, okay? And you -- "
She shakes her head.
"I don't think you know how easy you are to talk to."
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At her second comment, he smiles slightly.
"Maybe it comes from bein' a poet, I got plenty of words t'spare."
And no shortage of dreams to chase.
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"You're a good friend to have, Doc. Don't forget that."
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You went back east while Billy sat in this courthouse...
He glances up at the front door, nodding.
"I'll try'n remember that when I next start doubtin' myself."
Then he leads the way inside.
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She follows, wondering what kind of stories these walls would share if only they could.
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Billy the Kid.
There are weapons in cases and informational cards to describe what everything is, drawings and photos, maps. History.
(Only to Doc it's not all that removed at all.)
"Those aren't his chaps," he murmurs, looking in a particular case. "Least none that I ever saw."
There's a part of the room dedicated to The Regulators and the war, and his name is peppered through the stories printed on the displays.
(It's an odd feeling.)
He stops at a certain spot on the wall and lets out a low, impressed whistle.
"Now that," he motions at the photograph on the wall. "Is the real thing. Hell, that...was durin' the war."
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(A and piece of it -- a living piece -- is barely a foot away.)
She turns to look at the photo in question when he speaks, and steps closer to study the image, spotting Doc on the far left almost immediately.
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His eyes wander the shot, and he taps on #11.
"Frank Coe. He got out 'fore things got ugly. I wonder how he's doin' these days," he mutters, curious.
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The faux chaps earn another amused perusal before she turns her attention to a timeline of the Lincoln County War.
Quietly, "How weird is it, seeing all this?"
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Doc traces his finger along a section of timeline.
(Deaths.)
Brewer. McKloskey. (And the speculation that the Regulators murdered him due to the 'fact' that they found the body with enough bullets for each man to have taken a shot.) Bowdre. Stephens. McSween.
O'Foliard. (He was just 14 and a half.)
Scurlock. (Killed in the ambush in which Billy the Kid was captured.)
He taps his name twice with a fingertip.
"S'why you don't believe everything y'read in the papers," he whispers, shooting her a half-grin that defies the cold feeling at the base of his spine, the tingle in his abdomen over that thick patch of scar tissue.
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the whole is more than the sum of its parts
She isn't even conscious of the thought; it's barely formed, morphing into a half-sick feeling that settles in the pit of her stomach, because --
the whole says doc's dead, dead like the others he's had to leave on the trail
-- she remembers the disgust in his voice the other morning.
"That's right."
She swallows.
"Don't put any stock in what makes it to print. You made it out, and the world's a better place with you in it."
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He shrugs.
"Papers said the Apaches got hold of me, and they left it at that."
A smear of blood soaked into the dirt and drag marks.
They left him behind and while it saved his life, he has the unique point of view of the man left for the coyotes and buzzards (or the Apaches) to tear apart. He remembers coming back around, mouthful of dust and salt and blood, his horse gnawing on his hair.
It was silent.
He was alone.
Part of you died that day, you're just not sure which part it was.
He looks over at her and nods.
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"Were you out there by yourself all night?"
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He points to a black and white photograph with the caption 'adobe ruins at Stinking Spring', showing a run-down structure made of bricks.
"I was done. We found out Billy hadn't been leadin' us to Ol' Mexico like he said...he said that he'd be nothin' but an old gringo down south...that it was the same as bein' dead."
He's telling a story (just the facts, facts are safer) and he keeps his voice level and quiet.
"I got angry...I drew on him. Never dared to before. I was angry and tired and scared and I just...I couldn't pull the trigger. I realized he was right...so I left."
He drops one hand to his left side, fingers grazing that scar through his t-shirt.
"I went down soon as I stepped out the door...sharpshooter. They hauled me back in but it got ugly real fast. I knew...if they were gonna make it out they needed cover fire, so I grabbed a second Colt and...last thing I remember was fallin' in the dirt."
His eyes are distant, focused past that photograph.
"Woke up to Nova chewin' on my hair that afternoon...the boys must have cut him loose as they were runnin'. I hauled myself up into the saddle and rode north...sun was setting. So not overnight...just all afternoon."
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"Course it all went t'hell after Richard got cut down. Fuckin' Kid took over and sent us all straight to goddamn hell."
All afternoon.
She watches his hand fall to his side.
That's more than long enough.
"Thank god you had that vest."
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He nods.
"M'damn grateful I had that vest on."
Damn lucky.
Doc glances around the room to ensure nobody's been listening to their conversation (there's another young couple across the way) and then he continues to wander towards the staircase.
There's a bullet hole in the wall at the base of the stairs.
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She trails a few feet behind him, tilting her head at the pockmarked wall, and the couple gets a quick glance before she speaks.
"Did he really ... ?"
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Doc moves up the narrow staircase, footsteps quiet against the hardwood.
(Even with boots, he can carry himself light on his feet.)
"Best dollar-eighty he ever spent."
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"Is that how much the ammunition cost?"
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"Ollinger was a bastard," he tells her, continuing up the stairs until they reach the second floor, and he looks at her. "I mean...he was the one who told 'em to tie me up by my wrists and drag me behind the stage on the way into town, after I got arrested in New York and brought back to Lincoln."
There is no love lost between outlaw and the deputy.
"He carried a double barreled shotgun, but instead of shotgun pellets he kept the barrels full of dimes - eighteen in each barrel. He liked to talk 'bout how much damage a buck-eighty could do to a ten-dollar steer...he liked to talk really. Tried to find reasons t'pick outlaws off...hell he'd rib on me for hours when I was stuck down in the pit 'neath the gallows."
A pause.
"After Billy shot Deputy Bell...he picked up that damn shotgun...walked to the window and shot that son of a bitch. So yeah, guess you could say it cost him a buck-eighty for the ammunition. Eighteen dimes."
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Her eyes move around the room without truly seeing the pot-belly stove or the window.
"God."
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"Rough town," he offers. "Rough time. Especially for a wanted man."
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And I kind of wish I'd been the one to do it, but that is not the here or now.
"After what he did to me."
He pauses, thinking.
"I'm just saying...times have changed. To the world, I wasn't worth a penny more than the bounty I had on my head at any given moment, and for awhile, that wasn't even much."
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"Are you saying you feel worthless?"
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