Billy, the missionary, and me--ii

I told you, starting out, that this story's got a bit of a stretch. If you haven't quit yet, there's more to come. Stay in the saddle.

Just about every great Western yarn's got a horse, as does this one. Now this John Miller, who shoulda' been dead because he was, once upon a time, the legendary Billy the Kid, and was, at the time of this story, living incognito not all that far away from the Zuni pueblo of western New Mexico, not a codger either, at best or worst, middle-aged--this John Miller, like any cattleman, loved horses.

This one--the horse in this yarn--was, out there in New Mexico, a thing of beauty and legends. His name was John the Flyer, and he was, by most people's standards, the quickest thing on hooves. John Miller, the outlaw, the cattle rustler, had eyes for John the Flyer and let it be known among the white guys who met at the Zuni pueblo to spin yarns that someday he'd have it, by hook or by crook, so to speak.

The guy who broke and owned John the Flyer bought him and another feisty mount from a missionary a couple days' ride away, but then lost one of those fine horses when he took off and ran somewhere into eternity--which is an expression the owner wouldn't have used because he was a preacher himself, also a missionary, although it's not recorded anywhere what he did say when that horse lit out.

No matter. The parson broke John the Flyer and was, ever after, the envy of the neighborhood when he rode that beautiful thing, swift as lightening, admired by everyone, including John Miller/Billy the Kid, who told a couple of his buckaroos he wanted it himself and was going to get it.

Now just a word about the parson/missionary. He'd come to New Mexico from Chicago, where he'd tended horses at a track, so he knew good ones when he'd spot 'em, and John the Flyer was just that. This man of the cloth was rounder as a preacher, a missionary who descended on whoever would listen (and many who wouldn't) with clear-throated admonitions to quit their wicked ways and turn to Jesus. Indefatigable, he was, and no respecter of persons because everybody, red and white, got sermons.

That didn't mean people listened. When he and his wife, Effy, finally settled across the river from the Zuni pueblo, most Sabbaths the two of them were just about the only living things who'd show up for worship. Empty rooms sucked the life out of him, and he got depressed.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

One day right about then, John Miller, alias Billy, stood beside the preacher's corral, admiring John the Flyer. Now the Parson had got wind of Billy's designs, and, like Peter the disciple, he wasn't a man to back away from confrontation, spiritual or otherwise. 

"What you want here, fella?" he might have said, something akin.

Miller probably told him he loved the horse. And then he looked at the preacher. "I was fixin' to steal him," John Miller said, right out front, "but then I realized he belonged to a preacher of the Word and that wouldn't be a right thing to do to a man of God." 

If you're thinking this horse story is going to end up at OK Corral, put it out of your mind. It's a story about a man people claimed was Billy the Kid; but it's also a story of a man of the cloth. Right about then and there, at the corral, the two of them shook hands. The missionary and the murderer became, well, good buddies, relatively speaking.

There's still more to the tale, but you'll have to wait until Monday.