This story takes you into the vivid imagination of two young country boys forming an outlaw gang, pulling off a bank robbery, and evading discovery by a passing car. Huh? The Killer Kid Gang Issue 019 Welcome to Issue No. 018 of Short Stories by J Mel, entitled, The Killer Kid Gang When Joe and I were growing up in ranch country on the Rolling Plains of West Texas, we read and watched stories about notorious outlaws on the western frontier. Tales abounded of hard-riding infamous criminals who robbed banks, trains, and stagecoaches with guns blazing and made daring escapes into the rugged badlands of Indian Territory. Their glamorized escapades always involved fast horses and secret hide-outs. Larger than life, especially in death, these unscrupulous cowboys portrayed a lifestyle of unlimited excitement and unbridled passion lived in excess, though short in duration. As kids with real horses, large expanses of native rangeland, gullies, and vivid imaginations, we became those infamous outlaws. This is the story of one of our many adventures about how two infamous outlaws met and formed a little-known gang known as The Killer Kid Gang. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello.” Joe said in his slow Texas drawl. For some reason, as he spoke, my seven-year-old brain made an association between Joe, a young boy of my age, and a baby Horned Toad. The baby Horned Toad is an exact miniature replica of an adult who hasn’t changed much in the last hundred years. By comparison, Joe was a miniature tall lanky cowboy from the 1880 era. And cowpokes like them still existed to a large measure when we were kids. They worked on the large cattle ranches common to our area back in the day. They still existed when we were kids on huge spreads of land like the 6666 Ranch, Pitchfork Ranch, and the Matador Land & Cattle Company. Joe was the spitting image of his father and older brother and effortlessly brandished their Texas drawl. He always, and I mean always, wore a Stetson hat, cowboy boots, long-sleeved western-cut shirt, Levi’s, and a leather belt. He unabashedly displayed more admiration and fondness towards horses and hunting dogs than most people. In proof of that fact, after reaching adulthood, and this is a “true fact,” as some West Texas folks would say, his wife gave him a choice between her and his equine and canine friends. She was not his choice. Anyway, I shook the thought off, and asked, “You want to spend the day ridin?” Without hesitation, Joe replied, “Sure. I’ll meet you at the northeast corner of our place. O.K.?” I whispered, “Bring plenty of ammo.” I hurried into the kitchen and began packing a lunch for the trail. Mom watched silently and then inquired, “You runnin’ away?” I replied matter-of-factly. “Me and Joe are gonna be ridin’ the pastures today n I thought we might need some grub.” She snapped back with a subtle smile and a shake of her head, “Joe and I, (emphasizing the “I”) are going to be riding…” How many states or territories do you expect to explore on your ‘ride?’ and don’t you think you should get permission first?” I responded with my head in the refrigerator, “Don’t we have any of those apricot preserves you made last year?” “Yes. They are in the basement” she retorted and then emphasized “That does not answer my question, young man!” Sensing the ominous tone of her voice, I looked up at her and replied, “We plan to meet at the corner of Joe’s place and spend the day in that general area in the pastures and creeks, if that’s O.K. Joe’ll ride Blonde and I’ll be on Judy.” Judy was our part-Shetland pony. Mom replied, “Stay clear of the East Afton highway unless you go up to Joe’s house and don’t pester any rattlers or bother anyone’s cattle.” That was clearance for the day’s activity in my mind. As I rushed from the kitchen to the toy playroom where the basement door was, I said “We won’t rustle any cattle or rope any cars, Mom.” I wasn’t worried about parental clearance since Joe and I had in the past explored an area that stretched all the way from our land to the South Pease River in the past and frequently rode our horses on each other’s pastures. This was no big deal to our parents. The basement was not my favorite place. It’s entrance was a floor door that had a handle on one of its long sides used to pull it up on its hinges exposing a dark, foreboding staircase that descended into an earthen hole under our house. The light switch was inconveniently located inside the basement on a 2 x 4 board attached vertically to the second or third step down into the basement. Entrance to that depth was creepy because it was dark and the light from above exposed spider webs and the ambient air was very cool which made it feel like you were entering into another dimension. I carefully descended the to third step where I could see the dark outline of wooden shelves on the left side of the staircase. Finding the light switch, I bent down as I descended deeper to view the shelves on my left and find solace that a rattlesnake was not flickering its tongue at me. We did not expect to find rattlesnakes every time we visited the basement – just occasionally. And when we did, we summoned our dad. He would promptly send them to rattlesnake purgatory. He explained that rattlesnakes had a positive role in our ecology but that did not include our house, barns, or cow pens. When he found them in our way, he killed them. He had a quart jar of rattlesnake rattlers that he kept on display on his old rolltop desk. It was full. He only kept the biggest ones. I quickly found the preserves, blew the dust off the jar to confirm that it had mom’s apricot preserve label on it and exited the basement to finish packing our lunch. Joe and I caught our respective mounts, Blonde and Judy, and saddled up. We each buckled our gun-slinger pistol holsters around our hips, attached our rifles and make-shift saddle bags to our saddles, pulled our hats tight on our heads, and trotted towards our rendezvous spot. It was about one-half mile from Joe’s house and about one mile from mine. As we made our way to the destination point, our minds were flooded with limitless adventures of bank robberies, stagecoach chases, and Indian raids ready to be staged better than those we witnessed on television, like Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke, and Wagon Train. We met and immediately saw a stagecoach in distress that needed heroic action that required racing our gallant steeds into a nearby pasture that took us into a creek bed where the main imaginary adventure began… The autumn night was clear with a slippery smile from the moon surrounded by a full canopy of stars when Billy heard someone approaching his campsite nestled in the bottom of a dry creek bed enclosed by mesquite trees rustling in the breeze. His campfire cast earie shadows on the five-foot creek bed walls and would only be visible as a glow by anyone passing by. Still, he was jumpy. He pulled his .45 Peacemaker and tried to blend into the shadows cast on the southeast side of the campfire. He heard Blonde, his horse, snort. Listening intently, he heard the saddle speak as someone dismounted and gently put weight on one leg touching the grass and twigs on the prairie floor. He moved silently towards the sound and peeked over the top of the creek. Not ten feet away he saw the shadows of a man dismounting his horse. He was facing him. Billy slowly positioned his pistol towards the shadow and cocked it, amplified by the silence of the night. The shadowy figure froze, and Billy shouted, “Who goes there? If you want to live, drop your gun, and walk towards my voice!” The shadowy figure replied, “I ain’t pulled my gun and I ain’t gonna drop it. I ain’t aiming to do no harm. Just passing through and thought I might get a cup of Joe. Who are you?” Billy, surprised with the stranger’s non-compliance, said, “I got eyes like a hoot owl and can see you ain’t complying with my orders so you must have a backbone and a tiny brain. Step to your left and come down into the creek where I can lay campfire eyes on you. Make one small move and I’ll blow yore brains out.” The stranger complied and soon was on the opposite side of the campfire from Billy. They closed ranks on the campfire and studied each other’s faces intently. Finally, the stranger spoke, “I know you. I seen yore likeness on a Wanted Poster in Wichita, not six months ago. You’re on the run, Billy. Billy the Kid.” Billy lowered his Peacemaker as he said, “Well, I’ll be damned. Yore a poster boy too! I seen it in Abilene not long ago. Can’t remember yore name. But it was on a poster with Butch Cassidy. I ought to just shoot you right here and now and collect that $1,000 bounty.” The stranger laughed, and said, “How you gonna collect the bounty without getting arrested when you try to do it? Talk about a d*****s. I spect we need to be friends cause we can’t be enemies and survive. I am The Sundance Kid. I reckon if we form a gang it’ll have to be called The Kid Gang.” Billy laughed as he holsters his gun and replied, “Not a very intimidating name, if you ask me. Be better if we called it The Killer Kid Gang. I am Billy the Kid. Put your horse up and have a cup of Joe.” Billy and Sundance drank Joe and shared embellished and over-dramatized stories of daring criminal capers until the whispering winds in the darkness and the mournful serenade of the coyotes lulled them to sleep next to the crackling campfire. The campfire was still smoldering when Billy awoke the next morning with a large rattlesnake snuggled in the blanket along his backside. Recognizing its presence, he slowly found his Peacemaker, took a true aim, and K Boom removed the reptile’s head leaving a squiggling headless snake behind and a new friend rudely awakened and instantly in a deep crouch position with his big ir
