Bloodstains and Folklore: The Case of Billy the Kid’s Workbench.

By Jeremiah Slatten

Here at Billy the Kid’s Historical Coalition, we’re driven by a singular passion: preserving history as it truly happened. The story of Billy the Kid is already rich, compelling, and layered with the complexities of the Old West. It doesn’t need embellishments, fabrications, or modern-day mythmaking to make it entertaining. The real history stands on its own, and our mission is to honor that truth while ensuring it is passed on to future generations.

At The Coalition, we believe in setting the record straight—not out of malice or to tear others down, but out of respect for the historical figures and events we study. When we encounter inaccuracies, whether they stem from misunderstanding, misinformation, or deliberate distortion, we approach them with a commitment to integrity and clarity. We aim to correct the narrative so that Billy the Kid’s legacy—and that of the world he lived in—is presented as faithfully as possible. By separating fact from fiction, we aim to give Billy’s history the respect it deserves and ensure that the truth remains at the heart of every tale told about him. For us, the authentic story of Billy the Kid is more than enough—it’s one of the greatest chapters in the history of the American West.

Still, the West has always been fertile ground for legends, and objects have a way of collecting stories they may not deserve. A saddle left in a barn becomes Jesse James's, a rifle hanging over a hearth is said to have belonged to Wyatt Earp, and a simple workbench, worn and weathered, is claimed to have cradled Billy the Kid's body after Pat Garrett shot him down in 1881. But as with so much in the history of the West, separating truth from folklore is a tricky business, and the story of this workbench is no different.

After Billy the Kid was killed by Pat Garrett, the outlaw’s body was taken to a nearby building in Fort Sumner. There, as the story goes, his body was placed on a workbench, stretched out, and prepared for a funeral that would come quickly, as was the custom of the time. That much, at least, is plausible, given the limited resources and the practicalities of frontier life. But the tale takes a sharp turn into speculation when a self-proclaimed detective, known more for his flair for the dramatic than for rigorous historical research, claimed to have rediscovered the infamous workbench over a century later.

Around 1925, historian Maurice Fulton visited Stella Abreu's Billy the Kid Museum. During his visit, he photographed several items on display, including the carpenter's workbench. This image provides a rare glimpse into the artifacts associated with the era, though its connection to Billy the Kid remains speculative.

According to his version of events, this "detective" tracked the workbench to a chicken coop in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where it had allegedly been sitting, forgotten, for decades. From there, he claimed to have extracted DNA samples from the bench, which he insisted belonged to Billy the Kid. While the idea of unearthing such an artifact makes for a compelling story, it is riddled with logical and scientific fallacies.

First, the practicalities of frontier life cast serious doubt on the notion that a woodshop workbench would have survived intact and unaltered for over 140 years, let alone made its way to a chicken coop in Albuquerque. Workbenches were utilitarian objects, subject to years of hard use, repairs, refinishing, and repurposing. If the bench had been used for over a century, it would have accumulated countless layers of grime, materials, and biological traces, making it nearly impossible to isolate any DNA that could definitively be tied to Billy the Kid.

Moreover, the claim that DNA samples were successfully extracted and could be identified as Billy’s are built on a fundamental misunderstanding—or deliberate misrepresentation—of both forensic science and historical context. To confirm the DNA as Billy the Kid’s, there would need to be a known, verified DNA sample from him or a close relative for comparison. Such a sample does not exist. Any biological material on the bench, even if it were present and recoverable after decades of exposure, would be untraceable to Billy or anyone else without such a baseline. This renders the supposed detective’s claims scientifically unprovable at best, and outright fabrication at worst.

In 1923, Stella Abreu, the niece of Pete Maxwell, opened her Billy the Kid Museum roughly 12 miles from Fort Sumner. Stella was the daughter of Manuel Abreu and Odila Maxwell, Pete Maxwell's sister.

Then there’s the issue of provenance. As mentioned before, provenance is the documented history of an object, and this workbench has none. Its alleged journey from Fort Sumner to Albuquerque is speculative at best, lacking any records, eyewitness accounts, or evidence to back it up. The chain of custody is nonexistent, leaving the story built entirely on the unsubstantiated claims of one individual. In law enforcement terms, this is the equivalent of presenting evidence with no documentation, no witnesses, and no way to verify its authenticity.

The detective’s flair for self-promotion only deepens the skepticism. His colorful narrative, complete with DNA extractions and improbable rediscoveries, seems more tailored to headline-grabbing than historical accuracy. The notion he once held a badge doesn’t lend credibility to his story—especially given a past incident involving a suspect and a bullet that, much like his workbench tale, didn’t follow a straight line to the truth.

Curiously, some folks who claim to have uncovered the truth about Billy's workbench also have a way of weaving their own myths. A badge might not mean what it used to, and no legend grows without a few stray shots along the way. That’s the thing about the West—it’s full of men who want their names written down alongside the ones who already made the books.

The West has always been good at making legends out of ordinary things. A gunslinger becomes a hero, a lawman becomes a saint, and a workbench becomes a sacred relic. But the truth of the matter is that most of the objects that touched Billy the Kid’s life—his rifle, his shackles, and maybe even the bench where his body rested—were treated no differently than the man himself. Once their usefulness was done, they were cast aside and forgotten. It was only years later, when Billy had become a figure of legend, that people started looking for pieces of him in the things he might have left behind.

The  workbench is a good story, and like all good stories from the West, it’s bound to stick around. But a story isn’t the same as history, and a workbench isn’t a window into Billy’s life or death. It’s just a piece of wood, weathered and worn, carrying more tales than it ever deserved. Billy the Kid didn’t live long enough to worry about his legacy, and no one in Fort Sumner thought to save the scraps of his story. And maybe that’s as it should be. The West was never meant to be pinned down, and neither was Billy.