1875, Silver City, New Mexico Territory In the barn, sixteen-year-old Wilma smelled the deputy sheriff, whiskey and stale sweat, as he crept up behind her. "Herb, what do you want?" He grabbed her hair and tugged at her Levis. She twisted free, ran to her saddlebags, and yanked out her pistol. "You skinny bitch, you don't know how to shoot." "Try me." His hand went for his holstered pistol. Her gun roared. The slug slammed into his forehead. He fell, dead. * * * It didn't matter that the deputy sheriff tried to assault her. Wilma had killed a lawman. She was now on the run and needed a disguise. She dressed in some of her brother's old clothes. She changed her name to William, Billy for short, with the last name of her step-dad in New York. Billy Bonney rode into the history books, a gunslinger with twenty-two notches on a colt forty-one, a legend, even during her short life.