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Looking out across Bonito Valley a few miles west of Lincoln, a quaint adobe farmhouse stands to day on a shelf of land at the foot of tall hills from whose slopes the winds bring the fragrance of piñon. Fields of wheat, oats, and alfalfa spread to the little river which here loiters in lazy loops and still pools. Cattle and sheep graze in the pastures. Orchards hang heavy with apples, pears, plums, and peaches. Within a few yards of the farmhouse door, a brimming asequia sings a song of peace.

This is the home of Ygenio Salazar who by miracle is alive to-day to tell of the bold ruse that saved his life in the great adventure in Lincoln nearly a half century ago. A cheery, gravely courteous man, he is well past threescore and ten, with iron-gray hair and moustache, and tall, broad shouldered frame that suggests power that must have been his in his younger years.

"Billy the Kid," said Salazar, "was the bravest fellow I ever knew. All through the three-days' battle he was as cool and cheerful as if he were playing a game instead of fighting for his life. When it began to look as if we should all be killed, the other men stood about silent, with long faces, hopeless. But not the Kid. He was light-hearted, gay, smiling all the time. 'You look muy contento,' Chavez y Chavez said to him with a sort of resentment. 'Well, why not?' answered the Kid. 'No use getting excited.'