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pening there, what furore of excitement his escape had aroused, what hurried plans of pursuit were taking shape. His distant view from the hilltop was the last he ever had in life of the mountain village that had been the scene of his most thrilling exploits and desperate adventures. A moment more and the valley was left behind and he was swallowed up between the towering walls of Baca Cañon.
A few miles up the cañon where the trail turned west along the foot of the mountain range stood the little adobe jacal of Jesus José Padilla. Directly above it Capitan peak went up to the blue sky in heavily wooded, tumultuous slopes. The clatter of hoofs brought old man Padilla to the door.
"Tengo mucho hambre, amigo," said the Kid, dismounting with a clank of leg chains. "Tiene Usted alguna cosa para comer?"
The Mexican bustled about the house and set out bread, goat's cheese, and cold coffee, upon which Billy fell with gusto.
"Ahora dame un pedaso de papel," said the Kid when he had finished eating. Padilla brought him a piece of writing paper upon which in pencil the Kid wrote a note to Billy Burt, county clerk at Lincoln, on whose black horse he had escaped. The missive read, according to Martin Chavez, who saw it later:
Billy Burt—You would cry if you lost your horse. I won't need him any more. I am sending him back to you. Much obliged. Give my regards to Pat Garrett. Tell him to look out or he will be next.
Billy the Kid.
Folding the note in his bandanna handkerchief, the Kid tied it to one of the cantle strings on the saddle and, taking the bridle off the horse's head, fastened it securely