William H. "Billy the Kid" Bonney Jr. loves to take risks. But Billy's luck runs out when, during a train heist, a passenger recognizes the nineteen-year-old outlaw. Fed up with his bad ways, Sheriff Willis Monroe, Billy's own cousin, decides to track him down. The Kid's two-timing partners are hunting him, too--and a posse wants Billy ( and the sheriff) dead. This gripping fictional tale imagines William Bonney's fate had his life of crime taken a very different turn. Fans of adventure will be riveted by Theodore Taylor's fresh take on a legendary character. Includes an author's note about the real Billy the Kid. "Has definite appeal for readers interested in the era or those looking for a different kind of action book."-- School Library Journal "A rippin' good read."-- The Bulletin THEODORE TAYLOR (1921-2006), an award-winning author of many books for young people, was particularly known for fast-paced, exciting adventure novels. His books include the bestseller The Cay, Timothy of the Cay, The Bomb, Air Raid--Pearl Harbor!, Ice Drift, The Maldonado Miracle, and The Weirdo, an Edgar Award winner for Best Young Adult Mystery. THERE WAS WAVERING WHITE FIRE over Cochise County, one of those sapping early September days when the sky was light cobalt and cloudless. Since dawn any breeze that had crossed the nearby puny, snuff-colored mountains was filled with high fever. Billy Bonney sat bootless on the boardwalk planks in sweating misery outside Little Sally's Saloon, warm, half-gone Mex beer by his side, fanning himself in the shade with a stained, dusty hat, thinking that McLean had to be the worst, poorest town of all. Sometime or another, the wind would hide it with dunes. It had died in 1876, when the tin mine quit, but hadn't decently buried itself yet, five years later. He thought he maybe should have stayed in Douglas or gone on to Tucson. Yet one didn't offer much more than the other. They were both miserable towns. He made his swollen feet comfortable, extending them to the full angle of the shade. For the last few minutes, he'd been picking at the idea of going back to Mexico, going back to work for the Cudahys, the meat people from Chicago, shooting down rustlers on the Durango spread. He'd done that and it was like target practice. The rustlers never had a chance. Aside from the money, there wasn't much appealing about working for the Cudahys. He pushed the thought away for the time being. Just now, nobody with any common sense was ambling about in McLean. Not even lizards. Yet he heard a voice: "Move yo' laigs, cowboy." The Texas-flavored drawl carried distinctly over the lifeless midafternoon murmur that trickled out of Little Sally's. It was too oven stifling to even laugh at the gruff orders. But Billy looked up with interest. There were three of them, trail flushed and alkali dusty. One was a squat man with a square face that reminded Billy of a large cube of whiskered bedrock. About fifty, Billy guessed. He looked as tough as oak heart. Another, looking midtwenties, was big and burly, also fatty. Then there was a young one, also burly and fatty. Maybe nineteen. They all looked a bit alike. They'd come out of nowhere. "I said, 'Move yo' laigs.'" That was the youngest one talking so emphatically. Billy frowned up at him, not quite believing any right-minded human would come on that strong in this heat. The speaker had loose lips, a beetle brow, and the damnedest bullet necklace that Billy had ever seen. The bullets were pierced through with baling wire. A silly decoration, Billy thought. The speaker looked remarkably like some boy lumberjack, but he was dressed more like a trail rider. Billy cocked his head and said, with rapt amusement, "Step around 'em, boy. Plenty o' room. I'm jus' too tuckered to accommodate." Billy watched as the fatty fellow frowned at his partners, then seemed to make up his mind. It was fascinating to watch those dumb gray eyes operate. The boy aimed a large marred boot toe. Billy estimated that it would hit him just below the rump, in thigh flesh. It was a big slabby toe that would hurt. Billy's back parted from the adobe wall and he came up in one smooth move, a .44 suddenly in his hand. The gun thudded and the felt crown jumped from the boy's tall black hat before the intruder could get anywhere near his own hip holster. He froze in panic. Billy fanned another shot near the formerly threatening toe, sending splinters of wood; then he turned his attention to the others, ready to shoot again. The visitors stood openmouthed and amazed. What had been lazing against the wall-an ordinary, no-good, shiftless, scruffy young cowhand-was now erect and tense, cold-eyed, lips tight against teeth. Thin smoke spiraling from his barrel, he was ready for a third shot. Suddenly full of fury, three days of yellow beard on his rigid jaws, he appeared ready to clear the town. He looked older than he was. Actually, he'd just turned nineteen. Heads poked ou