Sister Blandina Meets “Billy the Kid”
Sister Blandina was an Italian-born immigrant to the United States who became a Sister of Charity in 1866. After teaching for several years in Ohio, she was sent by her superiors to Trinidad, Colorado in 1872 for missionary work. Among the many fascinating stories found in her memoir, At the End of the Santa Fe Trail, we have included a few pages from one of the most striking tales of Catholic charity in the Wild West
My scattered notes on “Billy the Kid’s Gang” are condensed, and some day you will be thrilled by their perusal.
The Trinidad Enterprise–
Yesterday one of the Vigilant Committee came to where I was on our grounds–acting as umpire for a future ball game–and said: “Sister, please come to the front yard. I want you to see one of ‘Billy’s gang,’ the one who caused such fright in Cimarron week before last.” My informant passed the news to the Nine and their admirers, so that it became my duty to go with the pupils, not knowing what might take place.
When we reached the front yard, the object of our curiosity was still many rods from us. The air here is very rarefied, and we all are eagle-eyed in this atmosphere. We stood in our front yard, everyone trying to look indifferent, while Billy’s accomplice headed toward us.
He was mounted on a spirited stallion of unusually large proportions, and was dressed as the Torreros (Bull-Fighters) dress in old Mexico. Cowboy’s sombrero, fantastically trimmed, red velvet knee breeches, green velvet short coat, long sharp spurs, gold and green saddle cover. A figure of six feet three, on a beautiful animal, made restless by a tight bit–you need not wonder, the rider drew attention. His intention was to impress you with the idea “I belong to the gang.” The impression made on me was one of intense loathing, and I will candidly acknowledge, of fear also.
The figure passed from our sight. I tried to forget it, but it was not to be. Our Vigilant Club, at all times, is on the alert to be of service. William Adamson, a member of the Club, came excitedly, to say–“We have work on hand!”
“What kind of work?” I asked.
“You remember the man who frightened the people in Cimarron, and who passed our schoolhouse some weeks ago?”
“Yes, William.”
“Well, he and Happy Jack, his partner, got into a quarrel, and each got the drop on the other. They continued eyeing and following each other for three days, eating at the same table, weapon in right hand, conveying food to their mouth with left hand.
“The tragedy took place when they were eating dinner. Each thought the other off guard, both fired simultaneously. Happy Jack was shot through the breast. He was put in a dug-out 3x6 ft. Schneider received a bullet in his thigh, and has been brought into Trinidad, thrown into an unused adobe hut, and left there to die. He has a very poor chance of living.”
“Well, William, we shall do all we can for him. Where did this all take place?”
“At Dick Wooten’s tollgate–the dividing line between Colorado and New Mexico.”
At the noon hour we carried nourishing food, water, castile soap and linens to the sick and neglected man. After placing on a table what we had brought, my two companions, William Adamson and Laura Menger, withdrew. I walked towards the bed and, looking at the sick man, I exclaimed, “I see that nothing but a bullet through your brain will finish you!”
I saw a quivering smile pass over his face, and his tiger eyes gleamed. My words seemed heartless. I had gone to make up for the inhuman treatment given by others, and instead, I had added to the inhumanity by my words.
After a few days of retrospection, I concluded it was not I who had spoken, but Fear, so psychologists say.
At our first visit I offered to dress the wound, but to my great relief the desperado said, “I am glad to get the nourishment and the wherewith to dress my wound, but I shall attend to it myself.” Then he asked: “What shall I call you?”
“Sister,” I answered.
“Well, Sister, I am very glad you came to see me. Will you come again?”
“Yes, two and three times a day. Good-bye.”
We continued these visits for about two months, then one day the sick man asked: “Sister, why is it you never speak to me about your religion or anything else?”
I looked and smiled.
He continued: “I want to tell you something. I allude to the first day you came. Had you spoken to me of repentance, honesty, morals, or anything pertaining to religion, I would have ordered you out. ‘I see that nothing but a bullet through your brain will finish you.’ Sister, you have no idea what strength and courage those words put into me. I said to myself, ‘no shamming here, but the right stuff.’”
Dear Sister Justina, imagine what a load was lifted, to know for a certainty I had not added pain to the downtrodden culprit, for so he is at present. The patient seemed to wish to talk. He asked:
“Sister, do you think God would forgive me?”
I repeated the words of Holy Scripture as they then came to my mind. “If your sins were as scarlet, or as numerous as the sands on the seashore, turn to Me, saith the Lord, and I will forgive.”
“Sister, I would like to tell you some things I have done–then, I will ask you, if you think God can forgive me.”
Seating myself, I waited, as he continued.
“I have done all that a bad man can do. I have been a decoy on the Santa Fe Trail.”
He saw I did not grasp his meaning, so he explained:
“I dressed in my best when I expected to see horsemen or private conveyance take to the Trail. Addressing them politely, I would ask, ‘Do you know the road to where you are going?’ If they hesitated, I knew they were greenies. I would offer to escort them, as the Trail was familiar to me, and I was on my way to visit a friend. We would travel together, talking pleasantly, but all the while my aim was to find out if the company had enough in its possession to warrant me carrying out my purpose.
“If I discovered they did not have money or valuables I would direct the travelers how to reach the next fort. If they possessed money or jewelry, I managed to lose the trail at sunset and make for a camping place. When they slept, I murdered them and took all valuables. The fact of being off the Trail made it next to impossible for the deed to be discovered.
“Another thing I took pleasure in doing was to shoot cows and steers for their hides. I remember one time I shot several cows that belonged to a man from Kansas. I left the carcasses for the coyotes. The old man had a great deal of spunk in him, so he and his herders trailed and caught me with the hides.
“They had a rope with them which they threw over the limb of a tree and placed me under the rope. Before going any farther the old man said to me, ‘Say your prayers, young man; you know the law of the plains, a thief is hanged.’ I said, ‘I’m not a thief, I shot at random. When I saw my shots had taken effect, I took the hides of the animals I had shot. What would you have done?’
“‘I would not have shot at random into a bunch of cows,’ he answered. I saw some of the fellows felt sorry for me, and I added: ‘Did none of you ever make a mistake? I acknowledged I did wrong.’ All but the old man said, ‘Let the fellow go,’ and waited for the old man to speak. ‘Well, if you all think he ought to be let go, I don’t say anything against it,’ he said. So they let me go.
“As soon as I got where my pals were, I told them how near I came to being strung up. They all laughed and said I had the young ones to thank that I was able to tell the tale. I added, ‘I’ll wager ten cents I’ll scalp the old man and throw the scalp on this counter.’ They laughed and took up my wager.
“The next day I went to find in what direction the cattle I had fired into had gone. I soon discovered the herd trail and followed it, and at noon I saw the cattle. The old man was sitting on a stump with his back to me. I slipped up quietly behind him passed my sharp knife round his head while holding his hair, and carried his scalp on a double run to where I had left my bronco; then, whirled to where my pals were. They each had told some of the deeds he had done, and Happy Jack had just finished telling an act which I will not tell you, but I added: ‘Here is my last achievement. Scalped a man on a wager of ten cents,’ while saying this I threw the scalp on the counter. ‘Give me my dime,’ I said.
“Sister, now do you think God can forgive me?”
I answered: “Turn to Me in sorrow of heart and I will forgive, saith the Lord.”
“Sister, I do not doubt that you believe that God will forgive me: I’m going to tell you what I think God would do. Through you, God is leading me to ask pardon for my many devilish acts.
“He is enticing me, as I enticed those who had valuables; then, when He gets me, He will hurl me into hell, more swiftly than I sent my victims to Eternity. Now what do you think about that, Sister?”
“I will answer you by asking you a question. Who was the sinner who asked Christ to remember him when He came into His Kingdom?”
“I don’t know, Sister.”
“It was the malefactor dying at the side of Christ on the cross who called for mercy at the last moment. He was told by the very Christ–God–‘This day, thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.’”
“That sounds fine, Sister; but what will my pals think of me? Me, to show a yellow streak! I would rather go to the burning flames. Anyhow, when I get there, I will have to stay chained, maybe.”
“Experience is a great teacher.”
“You bet it is, Sister.”
“I’m going to give you an experience.” I got the fire shovel and placing two burning coals on it, brought it to the bedside of the patient. “Now place one finger over these coals, or let me tie your hand, so that one finger will burn for ten seconds, then tell me if, in either case, the pain will be diminished.”
“Say, Sister, let me think this thing over.”
At our next visit the patient did not allude to our last conversation. I do not speak on religious subjects to him unless questioned. This routine work of taking him nourishment, linens, etc., continues. We had been doing it for about four months when this particular incident took place.
On a Saturday morning we arrived at our patient’s adobe house when, for the first time, we heard voices in his room. Rapping at the door, the patient in a loud irritated voice called out: “Come in, Sister, and look at these hypocrites and whited sepulchres. Do you know what brought them here? Shame! You shamed them, you, a Catholic Sister, who has been visiting me for over four months and bringing wherewith to keep me alive. You never once asked me whether I was a Jew, Indian, or devil. You shamed them into coming. They say I belong to their church!”
Not noticing the aggressive language, I remarked “I’m so glad your friends have found you. Should you need us in the future, we will be at your service.”
Then one of the ladies of the company said: “It was only yesterday that a member of our Methodist congregation was told that the sick man was a Methodist. She went at once to our minister and he appointed this committee, and we are here, ready and willing, to attend to the sick man.”
I told her that it made me happy to know the patient will have his own visiting him.
With a pleasant good-bye, we took our leave. On returning to the Convent, while making our program for sick calls, I remarked: “Billy the Kid’s partner has found friends. Rather they have found him, and they intend to give him all the aid he needs. So we will withdraw, but be on the alert, in case we should have to continue our visits.” This was said to a member of the Vigilant Club, who always accompanied my companion and myself to this particular patient.
Two weeks had elapsed when our protector of the Vigilant Committee came to the schoolhouse to say: “Sister, Billy’s pal needs us again. I visited him several times during the past two days. He told me that no one has been to see him for a week.”
So this noon we visited the desperado, the same as we had done at first. His being neglected by those who had promised to attend to him made me think that the ladies we met in his room are perhaps mothers of families, and cannot spare the time from their home. Again, some of the ladies maybe were as much afraid of him, as I had been, so it is easy to see why they could not keep their promise, but it would have been more just to let me know they were going to discontinue aiding him. Perhaps their husbands did not approve of their visiting a bandit. The general sentiment is, “Let the desperado die.”
To-day when we got to the adobe, everything was deathly quiet and the door was ajar. I noiselessly walked in. This is the scene that met me. The patient stretched full length, his eyes glazed and focused on the ceiling; his six-shooter in his right hand with the muzzle pointing to his temple. Quick as a flash I took in the situation and as quickly reached the bedside. Placing my hand on the revolver and lowering the trigger while putting the weapon out of his reach, I remarked: “The bed is not a good place from which to practice target shooting.”
He said, “Just in the nick of time, Sister.” As though we had not been absent a day. I named the different edibles we had brought him. The subject of the act he was about to commit was never mentioned. By intuition he understood he was not to speak against those who had promised to attend him and did not do so.
Another month passed by and the patient was visibly losing strength. I managed to get his mother’s address. She lives in California.
After a week we resumed our visits. At the noon call our patient was quite hilarious. I surmised something unusual had taken place. He lost no time in telling me that Billy and the “gang” are to be here, Saturday at 2 P.M., and I am going to tell you why they are coming.
“Do you know the four physicians who live here in Trinidad?”
“I know three of them,” I answered.
“Well, the ‘gang’ is going to scalp the four of them,” (and his tiger eyes gleamed with satisfaction) “because not one of them would extract the bullet from my thigh.”
Can you imagine, Sister Justina, the feeling that came over me? One of the gentlemen is our Convent physician!
I looked at the sick man for a few seconds, then said: “Do you believe that with this knowledge I’m going to keep still?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Meet your gang at 2 P.M. next Saturday.”
He laughed as heartily as a sick man could laugh and said, “Why, Sister, Billy and the gang will be pleased to meet you. I’ve told them about you and the others, too, who call themselves my church people,” but seeing the conversation did not please, he said no more.
In the interval between this visit and the Saturday 2 P.M., which was to be such a memorable day for me, I wrote to his mother not in an alarming strain, but enough to give her to understand he might not recover. Fourteen days later, she arrived. That was quick time, for she depended on mules and horses for conveyance. I cannot give you any idea of the anxiety of the days previous to the coming ordeal of meeting the gang.
Saturday, 2 P.M., came, and I went to meet Billy and his gang. When I got to the patient’s room, the men were around his bed. The introduction was given, I can only remember, “Billy, our Captain, and Chism.”
I was not prepared to see the men that met me, which must account for my not being able to recall their names.
The leader, Billy, has steel-blue eyes, peach complexion, is young, one would take him to be seventeen–innocent-looking, save for the corners of his eyes, which tell a set purpose, good or bad. Mr. Chism, of course this is not his real name, has a most bashful appearance. I judge he has sisters. The others, all fine looking young men. My glance took this description in while “Billy” was saying: “We are all glad to see you, Sister, and I want to say, it would give me pleasure to be able to do you any favor.”
I answered, “Yes, there is a favor you can grant me.” He reached his hand toward me with the words “The favor is granted.”
I took the hand, saying: “I understand you have come to scalp our Trinidad physicians, which act I ask you to cancel.” Billy looked down at the sick man who remarked: “She is game.”
What he meant by that I am yet at a loss to understand. Billy then said: “I granted the favor before I knew what it was, and it stands. Not only that, Sister, but at any time my pals and I can serve you, you will find us ready.”
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