not correct. The truth is that Bell took the
Kid, at his request, into the yard back of the jail; returning, the Kid
sprang quickly up the stairs to the guard-room door, as Bell turned to
say something to old man Goss, a cook, who was standing in the yard. The
Kid pushed open the door, caught up a revolver from a table, and sprang
to the head of the stairs just as Bell turned the angle and started up.
He fired at Bell and missed him, the ball striking the left-hand side of
the staircase. It glanced, however, and passed through Bell's body,
lodging in the wall at the angle of the stair. Bell staggered out into
the yard and fell dead. This story is borne out by the reports of Goss
and the Kid, and by the bullet marks. The place is very familiar to the
author, who at about that time practiced law in the same building, when
it was used as the Court House, and who has also talked with many men
about the circumstances.

The Kid now sprang into the next room and caught up Ollinger's heavy
shotgun, loaded with the very shells Ollinger had charged for him. He
saw Ollinger coming across the street, and just as he got below the
window at the corner of the building the Kid leaned over and said,
coolly and pleasantly, "Hello, old fellow!" The next instant he fired
and shot Ollinger dead. He then walked around through the room and out
upon the porch, which at that time extended the full length of the
building, and, coming again in view of Ollinger's body, took a second
deliberate shot at it. Then he broke the gun across the railing and
threw the pieces down on Ollinger's body. "Take that to hell with you,"
he said coolly. Then, seeing himself free and once more king of Lincoln
street, he warned away all who would approach, and, with a file which he
compelled Goss to bring to him, started to file off one of his leg
irons. He got one free, ordered a bystander to bring him a horse, and at
length, mounting, rode away for the Capitans, and so to a country with
which he had long been familiar. At Las Tablas he forced a Mexican
blacksmith to free him of his irons. He sent the horse, which belonged
to Billy Burt, back by some unknown friend the following night.

He was now again on his native heath, a desperado and an outlaw indeed,
and obliged to fight for his life at every turn; for now he knew the
country would turn against him, and, as he had been captured through
information furnished through supposed friends, he knew that treachery
wa