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Appaloosa that from a distance looked like a white or light gray horse with a black mane and tail. The small dark spots scattered over him weren’t noticeable at more than forty or fifty yards. It was a fine, spirited animal, and the best horse Curly had ever managed to steal in his entire life.
    The Bishop kid watched as Curly checked the cinch from habit. Billy was around seventeen, a tall skinny kid with big hands and feet and straw-colored hair growing out over his ears. He looked awkward and clumsy, but as usual appearances were deceiving. Once out in the steep rocky hills southeast of town he had demonstrated that he was as sure-footed as a goat. And he could do all kinds of tricks with his pearl-handled Colt and break bottles or puncture tin cans tossed into the air. In his spare time he was always practicing with that gleaming, nickel-plated gun, which had led Curly to call him Billy “the Kid” Bishop. That pleased him like a new pony, but most people still just called him the Bishop kid. His folks were dead and Uncle Willy had given him the job at the stable because he liked horses and didn’t seem to mind shoveling manure.
    “Say, Curly, do you know that tall fellow who rode in on that black horse?” the boy asked. “Looked like a gunfighter, didn’t he?”
    Curly wanted to tell him, in the most casual and offhand way, that it was Johnny Ringo. But Johnny Ringo wouldn’t like that, so Curly did the next best thing, and said in the most casual and offhand way, “Fellow calls hisself Easter.”
    Billy “the Kid” Bishop’s eyes and mouth popped wide open. Like everyone else, he had heard about the gunfight over in Silver City. “Easter! You sure, Curly?”
    Curly shrugged. “That’s the name he signed in the register.”
    There was a strange glow in the boy’s eyes. “Some folks think Easter is really Billy the Kid. The Kid was from Silver City. You think he could still be alive, Curly?”
    “Sure,” Curly said, grinning. “You’re Billy the Kid.”
    The boy grinned sheepishly. “I mean the real Billy the Kid. Bonney. Not Bishop.”
    “Don’t tell me he’s still alive, too.”
    “You don’t think Easter could be him, then?”
    “It ain’t likely, seeing as how Pat Garret blasted the Kid with his cannon two or three years back. Besides, Bonney was a sawed-off little runt with buckteeth.”
    The Bishop kid put his hand over his mouth. He had one tooth that suck out a little more than the others. “You never told me you knew the Kid, Curly.”
    “Forgot to mention it, I guess,” Curly said easily. “I rode with him for a while in ‘78, using another name.” In fact Curly had never even seen the Kid, but he had begun to believe the lies he told, although hardly anyone else did. “But I was only kidding you about Easter. I just gave him that name as a sort of joke, and it looks like he took a liking to it.” He grinned to himself and added, “Prob’ly just some dude who wears his gun for show.”
    The kid also grinned, though he looked a little disappointed. “You gonna get in trouble doing that, Curly. Mad Dog Shorty said he was gonna kill you for giving him that bad name.”
    “Mad Dog Shorty better bring plenty of help,” Curly said, as he stepped astride the eager Appaloosa. “And I don’t mean just Pike and them.”
    The Bishop kid came a little closer, looking up at him. “Say, Curly, when you gonna teach me how to shoot? You keep saying you will, but you never get around to it.”
    “Yeah, it looks like I’ve done waited too long,” Curly said, glancing down at the gun the boy always wore, even when he was cleaning out the stalls. “From what I hear, you’ve done gone and learned how all by yourself.”
    There was a kind of pride in the boy’s grin. “I’ve been practicing every chance I get. But I don’t guess I’ll ever be as good as you, Curly.”
    “You never know,” Curly said generously. “You keep at it long enough, you might come in a close