Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

This guy (from top to bottom) wore a Stetson big enough to take a bath in, a “western” shirt with fancy embroidery and leather cuffs, and brand new Levi’s tucked into a pair of boots that must have cost five hundred dollars, not counting the fancy silver toe guards.

But his attire aside, he bought a copy of my latest novel, The Payback , and handed it across the table. “Just write ‘to Billy,’ ” he said.

“Not Billy the Kid, by any chance?” I asked. I was smiling when I asked, but he took me seriously.

“Bill Bonney,” he said. “I don’t much like being called ‘Kid.’ Guess I can’t blame folks, though.”

“Surely that isn’t your real name?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Why not? Bonney is a common enough name, and so is William. It had to happen.”

I still didn’t know whether or not he was telling the truth about his name, but something about him intrigued me. Something in his eyes, in his manner, made me think that if his name wasn’t William Bonney, he still believed it was. He seemed somehow out of place, and I wanted to know more about him.

But there was something a little frightening about him, as well. A coldness, an aloofness, that surrounded him like a wall.

“I’ve read all your books,” he said. “I can’t say I like many of them.”

Not something a fan usually tells you after you sign the novel he just bought. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything in particular you don’t like?”

“You write good,” he said. “But you don’t put many gunfights in the books. Not the real kind. Not one fast draw against another.”

“That’s mostly a myth,” I said. “Professional gunfighters almost never fought each other. In fact, I can’t think of a single case where it happened.”

“What about Jim Courtright and Luke Short?”

“Some people count that,” I said. “But I’m not sure they should. Jim Courtright was a gunfighter, but Luke Short was a gambler. Short never tried a fast draw in his life before that fight.”

“But he won,” Bonney said. “Luke Short beat him.”

“By dumb luck. Short just snapped off a wild shot that should have missed. Instead the bullet clipped off the tip of Courtright’s thumb as he was cocking his pistol. Before he could switch the pistol to his good hand, Short took careful aim and killed him.

“The simple truth is, the fast-draw gunfight just didn’t happen often, and never between gunfighters. Most gunfights were just, shoot the other man any way possible, including in the back.” Bonney’s face was flushed. “That’s not true. What about the code of the West? How do you explain that?”

“There’s nothing to explain. The ‘code of the West’ didn’t come from the West at all. Ned Buntline put that into one of his dime novels and it stuck. It was an even bigger myth than the gunfight at high noon.”

“You don’t know anything,” he said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even belted on a Colt, let alone fired one. Some Western writer you are.”

“I have fired a Colt,” I said. “And I can usually hit what I aim at. But I’m a writer. I research the Old West, and I write stories about it. That’s all.

“Look, if I offended you, I’m sorry. I do appreciate the fact that you read my novels, even if you disagree with them.”

“You’re still wrong,” he said. “You’re wrong about everything. I know what I’m talking about. You should see me draw a six-gun. I’m as good as any of them were.

“Maybe watching me use a six-gun would convince you?”

“I’m sure you’re very good,” I said. “Certainly better than I am. But I’ll have to pass on the demonstration. I still have five cities to hit in the next five days.”

His face was red from forehead to neck. He started to say something, stopped himself. For a minute he stared at me, then simply turned and headed for the door. But he looked back before leaving. “You’ll see me again,” he said. “You can count on it.”

Something in the tone of his voice shook me. There are nuts and oddballs everywhere, but most are harmless. I wasn’t sure that was true of this guy. I had a hunch he was so far around the bend that he was completely out of sight, if you know what I mean.

For the rest of the evening and most of the night I was on edge, constantly feeling as if someone was watching my every move. I spent the evening in my hotel room, and even went so far as to call my agent just to talk about “William Bonney,” if that was his real name.

My agent’s name is Sam Catton, and he’s a no-nonsense, hard-nosed son-of-a-mule, but he’s also the best friend I have. He was concerned, but thought it was nothing to worry about. “By noon tomorrow you’ll be in Denver,” he said. “Odds are you’ll never see this joker again.”

Sam almost always makes sense, and what he had to say calmed me down considerably. So much so that when I called my wife, Mary Kay, I never even mentioned the incident. And at nine the next morning I was in Denver. The book signing there went off without a hitch, and without William Bonney showing up.

Two days after that I was in Dallas, at yet another bookstore, only this time it didn’t go quite so well. The first person in line was William Bonney. He didn’t have a book. He walked up to the table and looked down at me.

“You and me,” he said. “That’s the only way to settle this. Just you and me, and the best man wins.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“You know,” he said. “A gunfight, a showdown. You and me. Then we’ll see who’s right.”

“You’re crazy. If you aren’t going to buy a book, then you’ll have to leave. I don’t have time for crazy talk like that.”

“It’s the only way to settle it. You have to see that. It’s the only way.”

“I’m going to have the owner call the police,” I said. “You’d better leave.”

I stood up and moved toward the counter. William Bonney stepped in front of me. “I’m leaving,” he said. “But this ain’t the end of it. We’re going to settle this right.”

He turned and walked out of the store. I waited until I was back at my hotel, then called the police and asked if there was anything they could do. It was carefully explained to me that so far William Bonney, if that was his real name, had done nothing illegal. At most he might be charged with harassment, and that only if he persisted in bothering me.

And even if grounds to arrest him could be found, where was he? I couldn’t be sure he’d given me his real name, I didn’t know where he lived, or much of anything else about him.

The police officer I spoke with advised me to go on with my tour and forget about Bonney. He was probably just a nut, and like as not, I’d never hear from him again. With no recourse, I tried to do as advised, putting Bonney out of my mind as much as possible. The last two cities on the tour came and went with no sign of William Bonney.

On Sunday I returned home, a ranch-style house in Arizona, located as far as possible from the nearest neighbor. I frequently feel guilty leaving Mary Kay alone there so much of the time, but she claims to love it. I let her convince me she’s perfectly all right.

Mary Kay is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and why she married a raw-boned, homely, country boy like me is beyond comprehension. But I’m eternally grateful that she did. She’s the love of my life, the very meaning of life. Coming home to her after a long absence is like leaving hell and entering heaven. It makes up for everything.

Time at home doesn’t seem to have a speed. We are surrounded by desert, and no matter the rush of time in the outside world, the desert remains timeless. So do we. The days blend, Mary Kay is there, and whether I’m at home with her five minutes or five months, the happiness and contentment I feel never fade.