'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.
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?'
'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.
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.
'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
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
