It is a strange and lonely existence, devoid of conscience or morals, empty and chilled below zero in the midst of the scorching late-Spring desert... the life of the hired killer. Billy Hale lived that life. Square of jaw, short, but stout, he was blonded by birth and years in the Southwestern sun, which also left him leathery and wrinkled around his cold blue eyes. The crags were deepened from squinting into the bright azure sky and brilliance of Old Sol, and straining through the sights of a Sharps .50 Buffalo rifle. His skin belied his mere 27 years, broken and tanned, hardened by the elements, more like a weathered and used up saddle than that of the face of a man. He was a killer and sometimes cow thief, but more than that, a sure machine of quick and thorough violence. He sat in stern silence like a cougar waiting, eyes fixed upon a known deer trail, anticipating that burst, that brief explosive rush which would overtake the unsuspecting quarry. He was a pure killer from ambush.
The trail was an old one, dating to before Oñate, in fact, to the explorer Cabeza DeVaca winding his way to Culiacan, and to the Anasazi, the Ancient Ones, well before him. Between Las Cruces and the town of Shakespeare, it was known well to one frequent traveler’s sturdy, over-laden wagon. Aaron Rogers, a businessman of sorts, was a seller of wares to the out-of-the-way. Portly, dour and self-serving, Rogers purchased much needed supplies in Las Cruces and Mesilla from wholesaler, or as it was known in those days, sutler, Henry Quintana, and hauled them to Shakespeare, west of present-day Deming. There he resold them for exorbitant prices. Of late, the sutler had begun hiring Rogers to haul his own goods to Henry’s sister Loretta, who tended his business in Shakespeare. She had her instructions: mark the goods even higher.
Miners’ suppliers, livery people, whiskey and mescal sellers, Mexican cooks and other misfortunates who had settled there paid dearly, with every cent earned during their soulless existence, as did their customers, even more pitiful than they. But, no one really considered the inflated prices arbitrary. Or maybe they had just become numbed by economic abuse. Shakespeare was well off the beaten trails of the Butterfield Stage Line and Pony Express. Both passed through the more amenable city of Lordsburg to the north, as did the Southern Pacific Railroad recently building from the west. Until the big silver had played out, Shakespeare had been a booming place. Now, depleted and corrupt, the town was not a place Loretta Quintana wanted to be, nor was her brother’s business any longer a source of satisfaction.
Corruption notwithstanding, the citizens of Shakespeare had needs, a fact of which Hale was glad this particular day. Laying on the short outcropping of rock he’d found overhanging the trail, he moved silently to steady his aim. Just out of sight from anyone wandering through the outskirts of town, he was far enough away, the sound of a singular gunshot would be swallowed immediately in the deadness of the greasewood. He was just close enough to handily slip back into the dust-choked streets of the woeful western town. Pulling back the hammer to ready the massive round, Billy Hale was not sorry to waste the corpulent and pompous Rogers, because, after all, his clients, the notorious Mannings of El Paso, would be the ones to take Rogers’, and ultimately Henry Quintana’s, place and profits.
Hale viewed the killing as not only a matter of profit, but also as securing a cheaper source of goods for him, his brothers Bud and Johnnie, and their cronies. It wouldn’t hurt his position, either, that his clients happened to have serious issues with Rogers’ brother, J.C., and friend Dallas. Hale considered the elimination a dual benefit to himself and his brothers. It would be a statement to J.C. and Dallas, and a silent warning to Henry Quintana. Sullen Shakespeare was now more of an outlaw hideout with all its nefarious hangers-on and their ilk, great and wasted characters which played-out mining towns invariably spawned. It had become nothing more than a place to avoid, except by those who were cursed enough to live there either by choice or chance. Some unfortunates became stranded when most of the silver mined out years before, as it had in the Atwood and Jim Crow digs. Their destiny was to expire in the desolate confines of the forgotten and dying town in which Hale would thrive.
In his bi-monthly Thursday deliveries, Aaron Rogers was as predictable as he was greedy, this Thursday no exception. “This will open the Ball,” Billy Hale chuckled under his breath. He swore quietly at some unnoticed creosote bush that briefly spoiled his sighting, but he relaxed again as Rogers’ wagon moved solidly into the rifle's view. Certain the rifle would splatter Rogers’ life all over the trail, Hale stilled his breath and pulled the single-set trigger with ease and habitual dispassion. The heavy man's body bucked violently at the report, tumbled head over heels off the far side of the westbound wagon and onto the packed-caliche trail below.
In the next instant Hale caught a movement in the back of the wagon. A tousled head rose hesitantly above the sideboard. Hale quickly realized Rogers’ sole progeny, Aaron Rogers, Jr., all of maybe 12 years old, probably expecting to see renegade Apaches attacking, had awakened instead to see his father fall from the wooden freighter. Hearing no further blasts, he stood helplessly. Billy only wasted a few seconds assessing the situation. He slipped another one of the cartridges into the rifle. The big Buffalo gun recoiled once again, and young Rogers’ chest exploded as his body catapulted through the air, and dropped six feet past his father, well off the trail.
Hale watched the lifeless bodies momentarily for any signs of movement, saw the blood barely form scarlet pools before it soaked quickly into the hot desert sand. He listened intently for any approaching danger. Hearing nothing, he stood, turning on his heels, and started for his horse, neither sensing nor contemplating the outrage his act would ignite. He felt satisfaction in completing his task, and made a mental note to talk with his client. The boy had not been a planned consideration, and therefore was not included in the original quote. He would be extra.
After ejecting the second spent shell, the hired gun reloaded a new round before easing the powerful Sharp’s back into its scabbard. Hale gathered up the steeldust gelding from his pickets where he had been left to crop on a small parcel of grass out of sight. He slipped easily into the saddle, and casually turned the horse down towards Shakespeare to sneak in the back way.
Rogers’ wagon continued up the trail to the forlorn village without him or his son, the team knowing the way better than Rogers himself had known it. The horses only sensed from habit that fresh oats, a rubdown, and cool water awaited them, not caring that the reins were no longer held. The town of Shakespeare would have its delivery right on time this afternoon, but the price would be, at last, reasonable. Both Aaron Rogers, Senior and Junior, would not be needing a place to lay up tonight and would never want for anything again except final resting places. Their last breaths having been suddenly sucked in March 31st, 1881 at 3:04 in the afternoon on the third and ill-fated trip that month, their executions would awaken the giant. Their deaths would open the Pandora’s box of private feuds that would shake El Paso to its new and growing foundation.
From "Four Dead in 5 Seconds" by Rand Roberson-Copyright © 2006