Until this point, Epix's "Billy the Kid" series has largely eschewed the weight of its historical context in favor of crafting its own dramatic narrative. While some familiarity with the titular character's story has granted certain names and anecdotes greater resonance, it has primarily operated on its own terms. In the episode "Fate," the introduction of Pat Garrett, the man who will ultimately meet Billy's end, carries a sense of ominous significance, as if we are all meant to sharply inhale upon hearing his name. If it weren't for the need to double-check his significance by Googling him, it might have been a cool moment.
"Fate," as a title, holds a double meaning. On the one hand, Billy's fate is in question. But when Pat leads him back to Jesse Evans' gang, that's the word he uses too: "Fate must have brought us back together." It's hard to reconcile Billy's sudden decision to ride with Jesse and agree to rustle John Chisum's cattle, especially given how things were left in the previous episode. That moment lacked any sense of truth, and neither does this one. It makes you wonder why the show keeps coming back to these two characters.
Billy and Jesse have a brief conversation about Barbara, and that seems to be the extent of it. All is forgiven, even though Jesse's compatriots, especially Bob Olinger, don't take to Billy. But a drunken fistfight resolves that issue. We're supposed to buy into the idea of Billy as a good man forced to make bad decisions, but it's not so easy to sell that idea when he's acting like a bit of a lout. Later, when Chisum's cowboys lay an ambush for the gang, resulting in Billy mortally wounding a man, the victim says outright, "Why do you have to rob and kill people like me?" Subtlety is not their strong suit.
Billy maintains that his intention is not to kill anyone. When discussing his current notoriety with Pat, he says he doesn't care about being famous, much less famous for murder. Yet he kills people every episode without much provocation. He executed Don Ortiz last week, so his unwillingness to kill a cowboy here doesn't quite sit right. Fortunately, the script makes it easy by having the man try to shoot Billy in the back. Killing in self-defense is perfectly okay with him. But it's still difficult to know what the show is really trying to say here. It just seems confused, torn between making us sympathize with the protagonist while also having him look cool by dropping a man with every shot he fires.
When the Seven Rivers Gang's exploits make the papers, Billy is deeply saddened to hear himself described as a lawless desperado. But what was he expecting? At one point, he literally plays a small violin, almost daring us to laugh. The gang needs to move on, so it's just as well that an old associate of Jesse's named Frank Baker arrives just in time with a job offer. He proposes they travel to Lincoln County, which is still pretty lawless, and enter the employ of Lawrence Murphy, a well-to-do businessman who needs a private army to scare competitors away from his interests. He's willing to pay a particularly high price for the notorious William H. Bonney, which Jesse isn't thrilled about. But Billy wants to embrace his status. If people require his services now, they're going to have to pay for them, and Jesse can either take that or leave it.
Billy springs Segura from the clutches of the jail in a matter of minutes, a moment so intense that it feels like a thunderbolt. As Billy unleashes a barrage of bullets on one of the guards, the muzzle flash from his gun lights up the wanted poster on the wall of the dimly lit cell like a beacon. "You are different," Segura concludes, echoing his earlier thoughts. But it doesn't seem to deter him much. Together, they make a break for freedom, only to be separated by the relentless pursuit of the law. Despite having just met, they assure each other that they will always be brothers. In the Wild West, friendships do indeed bloom swiftly, don't they?
