In the Footsteps of Giovanni the Hermit
The Hermit foresees the death of The Kid
“Billy the Kid,” Giovanni said to himself. “That is a name known from one end of the territory to the other. And sadly, not in a positive way.”
He had expected more of a rough and tumble-looking individual. Instead, here was a scrawny boy in front of him wearing a hat and clothes that were much too large for him. He seemed ready to cry from remorse and from the need to unburden himself. He fixed his eyes upon the ground as the younger man composed himself.
“I haven’t been in these here parts very long,” The Kid started. “I just had to leave the Arizona area after I shot my first man. He was known as F. P. Cahill. He was a blacksmith. I shot him in the Camp Grant Saloon when he began apokin’ fun at me. He was agreenin’ me for drinkin’ on account that I was so young.”
The Hermit thought that the act of shedding one’s first human blood would be a very harrowing experience for anyone, regardless of their age. He waited patiently for the boy to continue.
“Naturally I couldn’t come straight here. I rode on down to the Chihuahua area, where they weren’t too likely to be alookin’ for me. There I continued to hang around the saloons and gamblin’ places. They sure do have some pretty women down there, though. A man gets kinda lonely, ‘ya know?”
Giovanni understood the nature of loneliness well. “Most men,” he thought, “have a loneliness that is of their own making. Some just had it thrust into their own lives. That seemed to be the case with this kid.”
“Well, since some boys learned me how to speak Spanish when I was younger, I got along right well with them people. But finally,” he continued, “I came to these here parts, where I got me a job with a rancher named John Tunstall. What I found out about later was the fact that he and two others named John Chisum and Alexander
McSween were mixed up in some range wars. Then Mr. Tunstall got hisself killed by some men who called themselves ‘The Regulators.’ His foreman — Dick Brewer, I think — swore that he’d kill the men who shot his boss.”
Giovanni could sense that Billy the Kid had unwittingly let himself be drawn into a situation that he wasn’t ready for at a time in his life when he should have been in school.
“After a battle that lasted five days in the middle of July, Alexander McSween was shot dead after the house where he was holed up was burned to the ground. I left an’ went to the home of my friend
Peter Maxwell. I used to stay there often and whenever anybody came to the door I would ask, ‘¿Quién es?’ in Spanish so that they wouldn’t know just who they was talkin’ to.”
The boy was scared. The Hermit could see that readily enough. As he continued to listen to the tale, he had a vision of the boy waking up from a nap and coming out of the room in stockinged feet. He would be shot by two cowboys and a lawman named Pat Garrett. Giovanni could also tell that one day Billy the Kid’s two buddies, Tom O’Folliard and Charlie Bowdre, would be lain in graves beside him. He shuddered at the vision. He was brought back to his senses by a question.
“Am I forgiven?” Billy asked.
The Hermit looked sadly upon him and said, “I bless you and know that I will continue to pray for you the rest of my life. He laid the palm of his hand gently on the boy’s forehead and he said, “Go in peace.”
The boy seemed to be much more tranquil as he got up. He was quiet without that incessant need to talk. With a weak, shy smile he got up on his horse and rode slowly westward.
The Hermit remained in the shadows gazing at him, as his figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He held up his right hand saying under his breath, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a sinner, now, and at the hour of my death.”