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Sheriff Garrett planned to take his four prisoners on horseback across country to Las Vegas, forty miles by the Santa Rosa road, and then on by rail to Santa Fé. Before starting he bought them a drink in Beaver Smith's saloon as a warm bracer for the hard, cold journey. Now that Billy the Kid was his prisoner, there was no show of resentment or enmity on the part of either. As far as appearances went, a spirit of cordial camaraderie prevailed between them. They addressed each other as "Billy" and "Pat" and seemed as friendly as they once had been in their days of intimate association in Fort Sumner. They talked of old times, discussed old friends, recalled old incidents.

"Remember, Billy, the time you knocked over the jackrabbit with your six-shooter when I had missed it six times?"

"Yes, I remember. That was a joke on you, Pat."

"I'm better with a rifle. Ought to be. Had enough practice killing buffalo for a living in the Panhandle."

"I'm better with the six-shooter. Ought to be. Had plenty of practice with it. At tin cans and men."

So they fraternized in pleasant talk. Except that the Kid wore handcuffs and Garrett was never without rifle and six-shooter, you might have thought them comrades with only affection for each other. But if the occasion had warranted, either would have killed the other between