Parker 02 - The Guilty (18 page)

brown, with square geometric shapes and light blue cornering. The skies were clear, the air thick and humid, so I took

off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist. Fashion be

damned.

Unsurprisingly my Impala was one of several dozen available. I climbed in, put my coffee in the cup holder, adjusted

my seat and began the drive.

I took the I-25 North exit and headed toward downtown

Santa Fe. Once I was reasonably sure I wasn't about to drive

into a telephone pole or have a pack of wolves chase me, I

took out my cell phone headset and called Amanda. Nobody

picked up and it went right to voice mail.

"Hey, it's me. Just wanted to let you know I landed safe.

I'm driving a seven-year-old Chevy Impala with thirtyseven thousand miles on it. There's barely anyone else on

the road. Actually, I think I might be the only person driving

in New Mexico right now. Anyway, I love you, call me

when you get this."

The drive was much easier than I expected, the coffee

keeping my blood percolating, but the breathtaking scenery

was what really kept my eyes open. Despite the set sun, there

was just enough light to make out the stunning mesas and

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Jason Pinter

even snow-capped peaks miles and miles away. It was a far

cry from the city, where I'd become accustomed to metal

towers and gridlock. I listened to the absolute silence, just

stared into the black horizon and tried to take in a part of the

country most people back east barely believed existed.

When I finally arrived in Fort Sumner, I stopped at a

Super 8, parked the Impala and stepped inside.

The lobby was filled with framed documents that looked

a hundred years old, and a kiosk held a handful of county

maps and brochures for various tourist attractions. The night

manager wore an actual cowboy hat, and booked my room

with a sleepy smile. I studied the documents as I passed, and

could immediately tell that not only did Fort Sumner house

a great deal of history, it was damn proud of it. I grabbed a

handful of brochures, including a pamphlet for the Museum

of Outlaws and Lawmen. It opened at 9:00 a.m. I wanted to

be the first one there.

The rooms were like any typical hotel--brown drapes,

floral comforters, paintings of old men fishing and settled

lakes reflecting moonlight. My cell phone log had three

missed calls: two from the
Gazette,
one from Amanda.

I set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., remembering the time difference. Figured that would give me enough time to shower and

grab a quick bite.

My jeans felt like they were glued to my legs, so I peeled

them off, tossed them on top of my shirt. I checked myself out

in the mirror, patted my stomach. New York food had been

good to me.

I did fifty pushups and thirty crunches and then fell into

bed after my right triceps cramped up. I turned off the light

and closed my eyes, and then my phone rang. It read Amanda

Cell. I answered it.

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"Hey."

"Hey yourself. How's the great outdoors?"

"I'm staying in a Super 8. And it does have a roof."

"Okay, how's the great Super 8?"

"Better than a Motel 6."

"Ooh, don't let Motel 6 hear that. So how was the flight?"

"Not too bad, actually left almost on time, which I don't

think has ever happened to me before. I have to be up early

tomorrow to get to the museum."

"Early bird gets the homicidal maniac's rifle, huh?"

"I think Socrates said that."

"So, you think there's a lead there?"

"Yeah, I do. You don't hang up on a question unless you've

got something to hide."

"Guess they won't be able to hide much when you show

up."

"That's the idea."

"Well, I'll let you get to sleep, Henry." I waited a moment

to hear if she would say anything else. I wanted to ask it, but

almost felt like by doing so I was ringing a bell that couldn't

be silenced. But I had to.

"Amanda? Are we okay?"

"Yeah..." she said, hesitantly. "Why would you even ask

that?" My stomach clenched.

"Just making sure. G'night, babe."

"Sleep well. Go get 'em tomorrow."

"I will. Night."

She hung up. I placed the phone on the nightstand and

closed my eyes. It was barely five minutes later when the

phone beeped again. Just once. I had a text message.

I opened the phone, clicked Text Messages. The message

was from Mya. It read: Im Sorry. ForGIve Me.

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I stared at the phone for a moment, wondered what she

meant by it. Then it hit me, and I smiled.

As my eyes closed, I was glad to know Mya was finally

moving on with her life, offering the closure I'd needed for

so long.

24

I was dressed and ready to go by eight. Into my bag went a

tape recorder, pen and notepad, and the copies of the Winchester 1873 Xerox from Agnes Trimble. I bought a muffin

and slammed down a cup of coffee in the small motel dining

room. My worry about standing out was assuaged, seems

jeans and a T-shirt are common just about everywhere. The

manager, a short, cherry-cheeked woman named Marjorie,

inquired as to the purpose of my visit.

"I'm a history buff," I said.

"Ooh!" she squealed, nearly spilling the pot of coffee.

"Then you've
definitely
come to the right place. Are you

going to the Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen?"

"That's actually my first stop."

"Oh goodness, if you love history, you won't be able to get

enough of that place. My husband and I make a trip once a

month, and as soon as the kids are old enough we're buying

family passes. Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Pat Garrett, John

Tunstall, Billy the Kid, gosh, it's just enough to get a person

excited." She gave me a mischievous grin and leaned closer.

"Just don't be stealin' nothin'."

I eyed her, confused. "What do you mean?"

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"Oh, let's just say things have a way of disappearing

around this town. Collectors and vagabonds are absolutely

shameless.
It's a real pity, how little respect some folks have.

If you take a look at John Chisum's military sword in the

museum," she said, leaning closer, "it ain't the real thing. Real

sword was stolen ten ought years ago. They just tell people

it's the real thing to keep up appearances, save money on insurance."

I took out the brochure, looked at the dozens of guns,

swords and artifacts in the pictures. "Is that so," I said, not so

much a question.

"Places like that keep this town going," she added. "Heck,

there wouldn't be any need for this hotel without them.

Anyway, enjoy your trip, don't worry 'bout what I said.

There's enough real history in that place to send you home

happier'n a pig in slop."

I thanked Marjorie, grabbed my recorder and notebook and

headed out. The museum was on East Sumner Avenue, less

than half a mile from the motel. It was just past eight-thirty.

All the houses and shops looked like they'd been pulled from

old Western movies. Low-hanging awnings, typeface with

old-style lettering, bright yellows and reds slapped on warped

wooden signs. It was like the town was bending over

backward to retain its precious nostalgia.

The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen was a one-story

building that occupied most of one block. Sitting outside

were two pitch-black cannons aimed at each other across the

entryway, as though daring visitors to step past. Beside them

stood a carriage-style wheel, painted bright yellow. The signage showed an image of a man leaning on a rifle. A rifle

which, upon closer inspection, looked pretty darn like a Winchester 1873.

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157

There were no lights on and the windows were barricaded.

Not boarded, but barricaded as though the museum was defending itself from an impending attack. And if Marjorie was

telling the truth, maybe it needed that line of defense.

I wiggled the front door, which was locked, but nothing

that would have prevented anyone with amateur lock-picking

skills and ten free minutes from circumventing. I stuck my

hands in my pockets and waited.

At ten to nine, a thirty-something man with shoulderlength sandy blond hair, tattered jeans and cowboy boots,

walked past the cannons. He nodded at me, took a ring of keys

from his pocket and unlocked the front door.

He turned to me and said, "You here for the museum?"

"Yessir," I said.

"You a college boy?"

I smiled. "No, sir, a few years out. Just came to visit." He

nodded, as though that was a suitable answer.

"Just give me ten minutes to open up." He went inside

and I waited.

Twelve minutes later he propped the front door open and

waved me inside.

The museum was astonishing. It only consisted of four or

five large rooms, but each room was packed to the gills with

antique guns, bullets, cannons, actual carriages, bows and

arrows, belts, rifles and every and any other weapon that

looked like it might have been used by, or against, John

Wayne. The walls were covered with glassed-in documents

that were remarkably well-preserved, along with photos of the

writers and/or recipients of the correspondence. The air had

a musty smell, the floor speckled with sawdust.

The manager took a seat behind a counter, put his feet up

and opened a newspaper.

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Jason Pinter

"You need anything," he said to me, "just holler."

Behind the counter hung several replica guns that were

available for purchase. Several boxes of dead ammunition

lined the shelves. A small sign read 10 Shells For $5.

I paid the ten-dollar entrance fee. A few other visitors

ambled in after me, also happy to pay and gaze at the history

of violence.

I took a slow lap around, surveying the dozens of guns,

even running my fingers along the cannons that guarded the

entryway into each new room. One room was decorated to

resemble an Old West blacksmith's shop, complete with anvil

and tools, bent metals and horseshoes. Along the walls were

rifle parts in various stages of development, like a before-andafter of gun manufacturing.

After sating my curiosity, I made my way around the

museum until I found the exhibit featuring the military

cavalry sword of John Chisum which Marjorie claimed was

a fake.

The sword was mounted in a glass case nearly four feet

long. The blade was slightly curved. I examined the security

glass, wondered if the sword had actually been stolen. And

if so, why it had never been reported.

Behind the sword was a black-and-white photograph

featuring a caravan of horses, and a portrait of a man who

was presumably John Chisum. A black placard above the

sword explained that Chisum was a cattle driver, and one

of the first to send a herd into New Mexico. Chisum was

a tangential part of the infamous Lincoln County Wars, a

feud between businessmen Alexander McSween and John

Tunstall and their rivals Lawrence Murphy and James

Dolan. During these wars, Chisum had been accosted by a

band of outlaws known as the Regulators. The Regulators

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159

were notorious cattle thieves, who pilfered from Chisum

and other herders, but were deputized after Tunstall's murder. They hunted down the men who killed Tunstall, killing

four including a corrupt sheriff named William Brady.

According to a placard on the wall, the Regulators consisted

of men named Dick Brewer, Jim French, Frank McNab, John

Middleton, Fred Waite, Henry Brown and Henry McCarty.

Next to the name of Henry McCarty, it read: aka William

H. Bonney, aka Billy the Kid.

In the very last room of the museum I found what I'd come

across the country for: an exhibit featuring the Winchester

1873.

Behind a crystal-clear glass case was mounted a pristine

Winchester, along with various posters and propaganda leaflets.

I took out the Winchester Xeroxes, compared them. The

weapon in front of me looked identical to the one on the page.

Inside the case on a poster, written in big bold letters

beneath two opposing firing pistols, were the words:
Winches-

ter 1873 edition: The Gun That Won the West.

There were several bullets mounted to the display below the

weapon. A placard identified them as authentic .44-40 magnum

ammunition, the very kind used by that edition Winchester.

I compared the gun and the Xerox until I was reasonably

certain they were one and the same. Then I waited until the

museum had quieted and the manager was free of troublesome tourists. He was reading a copy of the
Albuquerque

Journal,
looked bored to death, but he set it on the counter

when he saw me approach.

"Help you?" he said.

I pointed at the relics lining the walls.

"This is some pretty amazing stuff," I said, opening a