by Robert Gear (May 2026)
This is an almost true story of Billy the Cockerel Kid, a young White man, who blazed a trail of killings throughout the territories of Arizona and New Mexico in the malleable past. Historians have suggested or even confirmed to the best of their ‘knowledge’ that he became known as ‘Billy the Cockerel Kid’ due to being dropped on his head in a New York tenement at a very early age. Some say he had also come under the influence of a giant Rooster named ‘Mo,’ but there is little evidence to back up that view. And subsequent actions by Billy suggest that he was not enamored of that particular demographic.
Much of the evidence I have obtained for this account of Billy’s life comes from that enigmatic masterpiece, The Lawless Lands, authored by Frederick R. Lincoln, who knew someone who knew the Kid in his most flourishing days. Wild-West enthusiasts will know the book well. Incidentally F. R. Lincoln was the half-brother of the well-known ornithologist who pioneered research into the giant Roc Bird of Middle Eastern mythology.
Legend has it that Billy killed twenty-one men, “excluding Mexicans.”
The man who shot Billy the Cockerel Kid is reputed to be the White man Pat Garnet (often misspelled ‘Garrett). His pride in the name was evident from the blood-stone garnet he ostentatiously attached to his left ear lobe. By the way, his nose was an unsuitable venue, it being already fully occupied with nose rings sometimes referred to as ‘artificial nasal discharges’—a decorative element later to be popular among the youth of a malleable future.
Garnet claimed the $500 reward that Governor Lew Wallace (the author of Ben Hur) had offered. Unfortunately, Wallace was by then no longer Governor, and Garnet had difficulty reaping the reward. He did eventually receive it after much altercation with Governor Wallace’s replacement and other bureaucrats in Santa Fe. By the way, research has confirmed that both Garnet and Billy learned to shoot strait by aiming at empty bottles, live chickens and an assortment of undocumented visitors.
What is definitely known about this gunslinger is the following:
At the age of 14 he and his older brother stood as witness at their White mother’s wedding at the First Presbyterian Church of Santa Fe, New Mexico; the mother died promptly after that, but this may have been unconnected with the nuptials. About a year later Billy made a killing—the first of many.
This episode has been handed down to us by a reliable storyteller, and so I have no reason to doubt its authenticity.
So how did Billy kill his first non-Mexican? Was it an act of self-defense as some have argued? The facts are more or less as follows:
Billy was enjoying a quiet drink in Stinking Springs, a two-horse town in New Mexico Territory. He may not have reached the age of 16 at the time, but as far as I can ascertain, age limits regarding the imbibing of alcohol were not stringently observed in this almost God-forsaken outpost. A few cattlemen and cattle rustlers and ne’er-do-wells sauntered in and out of the clapboard saloon. On the whole such clientele and the employees were friendly and enjoyed a good chat about the weather and which undertakers to patronize and so on. I cannot determine despite burdensome research, whether any of those present were ‘trans’ or ‘transphobe,’ or claimants of any of the cluttered nouns, pronouns or adjectives of current fashions, but many of them dressed in a variety of interesting ways. Arguments there were, and indeed on occasion raised voices and fisticuffs, but these were the result of disagreements in regard to the unfortunate women on offer or global warming. Such affairs were settled in the main amicably after a few bloody noses or such like.
Then something so far unknown in these desert regions strove to enter the story books. A tall figure, ungainly in movement, strutted through the batwing doors shaking the dust from its claw-like feet. The regulars looked up from their cups and cards and were astonished at the sight; here was a giant rooster or perhaps a transcockerel—something more commonly observed in the milieu of sophisticated Eastern Ivy Leaguers. The ambiguity disturbed the drinkers. This plumed vision of the future shoved aside the onlookers and demanded two things: a pint of non-alcoholic beer and a clean space to cluck and curse.
You can imagine the reaction of the patrons. They stared anxiously, not wanting to argue with such a visually distracting artifice—that is, all except the Kid. He did not look up, but his instincts were powerful; he intuited the change of air pressure in an instant and kept his head down closely studying the froth on the surface of his potation.
What happened next is subject to differing interpretations, but all of them lead one to understand that Billy could see the future of the books and illustrated comics that were yet to be written about him. He heard or sensed that the giant man-bird cursed him behind his back. Within a split-second stretching out to infinity, the remains of the creature lay prostrate; the elements of the integumentary system burst asunder, and a few feathers, claws and a beak wafted down upon the zinc bar top, on which by now only Billy was leaning, having already replaced his Colt Peacemaker into its holster.
The scattered remains of the creature were scooped up and tossed onto a dung heap behind the Wilcox ranch—a nearby landmark later consumed by the vagaries of the high desert dust storms. The patrons resumed their habitual callings as though no more was to be said. They took their roles for granted as did most of those who were later faced with such intrusions. They didn’t wish to offend. Only Billie it seems could act decisively.
Incidentally, I have searched through the relevant New Mexico Territory and State Archives and can find nothing more about this incident. Perhaps not everything is known or allowed to be known.
That is the beginning of the legends about Billy. And to be honest, the killing of this pretentiously assured rooster may not have been counted in the Kid’s tally of ‘twenty men not including Mexicans.’
A few years later, when Garnet shot Billy he is reported to have said, “Sorry, boy, You were right all along, but the law has to take its course, and I only shot you to get my $500 reward and a carbon-free net-zero sticker to add to my collection.” It is also reported that in token of their prior friendship, Garnet tossed his ear-lobe ornamentation into the open grave.
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Robert Gear is a Contributing Editor to New English Review who now lives in the American Southwest. He is a retired English teacher and has co-authored with his wife several texts in the field of ESL. He is the author of If In a Wasted Land, a politically incorrect dystopian satire.
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