The Collected Works of Billy the Kid

by Michael Ondaatje

shifted one degree.

  Or in the East have seen

  the dark grey yards where trains are fitted

  and the clean speed of machines

  that make machines, their

  red golden pouring which when cooled

  mists out to rust or grey.

  The beautiful machines pivoting on themselves

  sealing and fusing to others

  and men throwing levers like coins at them.

  And there is there the same stress as with stars,

  the one altered move that will make them maniac.

  *

  MISTUH…PATRICK…GARRETT!!!

  Mescalero territory is a flat region, no rivers, no trees, no grass. In August the winds begin and at that time everybody who can moves away. If you stayed, you couldnt see the sun for weeks because, if opened, your eyes would be speckled and frosted with sand. Dust and sand stick to anything wet as your eyeball, or a small dribble from your nostril, a flesh wound, even sweat on your shirt. A beard or moustache weighs three times as much after you are caught in the storms. Your ears are so blocked that you cannot hear for a good while afterwards, which is just as well for all there is is the long constant screech and scream of wind carrying anything it can lift.

  I had been caught in the Mescalero that August for two days. Blindfolding the horse I veered it east when the storm let down, came to stony land and tumbleweed. Tumbleweed wont survive in the Mescalero for it is blasted to pieces in minutes. But here, tumbleweed moved like tires out of nowhere; you could be knocked off your horse by them. In another half day I got to the Chisum ranch. Had been there once a few years earlier and had liked them very much. It was, anyway, the only place you could have superb meals which became even better by your realisation that there was nothing near them for almost a hundred miles.

  I arrived at their house mind blasted, and spent those strange three hours while the Chisums rushed around me, giving me drinks, gesturing towards the bath they had poured—all in total silence for I heard nothing, only the wind I remembered from 24 hours back—before my ears had been gradually sprayed and locked. I put my head under water and weaved about, the hot water stinging even more my red face. Drunk on water, I staggered from the tub and passed out on the bed.

  Sallie came in when I was waking and threw me a towel. Can you hear now? I nodded. Her voice like piercing explosions. Yes, but softly, I said. She nodded. We got visitors, she said. Do you know him? William Bonney? He’s brought his girlfriend that he plans to marry. My mind awake then. I’d of course heard of him. But leaning back to think of it, I fell asleep. Sallie must have covered me up properly with a sheet because I woke up a long while later and was warm. I could hear the boy Bonney arguing with John.

  I joined them just as they were finishing dinner. Bonney seemed relaxed, his left heel resting on his right knee. He ate corn, drank coffee, used a fork and knife alternately—always with his right hand. The three days we were together and at other times in our lives when we saw each other, he never used his left hand for anything except of course to shoot. He wouldn’t even pick up a mug of coffee. I saw the hand, it was virgin white. Later when we talked about it, I explained about how a hand or muscle unused for much work would atrophy, grow small. He said he did fingers exercises subconsciously, on the average 12 hours a day. And it was true. From then on I noticed his left hand churning within itself, each finger circling alternately like a train wheel. Curling into balls, pouring like waves across a tablecloth. It was the most hypnotising thing I ever saw.

  He jumped up, and introduced himself informally to me, not waiting for Chisum to, and pointed out Angie. She was a good 6" taller than him, a very big woman, not fat, but big bones. She moved like some fluid competent animal.

  Bonney was that weekend, and always was, charming. He must, I thought, have seduced Angie by his imagination which was usually pointless and never in control. I had expected him to be the taciturn pale wretch—the image of the sallow punk that was usually attached to him by others. The rather cruel smile, when seen close, turned out to be intricate and witty. You could never tell how he meant a phrase, whether he was serious or joking. From his eyes you could tell nothing at all. In general he had a quick, quiet humour. His only affectation was his outfit of black clothes speckled with silver buttons and silver belt lock. Also his long black hair was pulled back and tied in a knot of leather.

  It was impossible to study the relationship he had with the large tall Angie. After dinner they sat in their chairs. He would usually be hooked in ridiculous positions, feet locked in the chair’s arms, or lying on the floor with his feet up. He could never remain in one position more than five minutes. Angie alternatively never moved violently like Billy. Only now and then she shifted that thick body, tucked her legs under those vast thighs that spread like bags of wheat, perfectly proportioned.

  After an evening of considerable drinking we all retreated to our rooms. And the next morning, Billy and Angie who had been planning to leave, decided to stay. I was glad as I didnt understand either of them and wanted to see how they understood each other. At breakfast a strange thing happened that explained some things.

  Sallie had had a cat named Ferns who was very old and had somehow got pains in its shoulders during the last two days. I looked at it after breakfast and saw it had been bitten by a snake. It was in fact poisoned and could not live. It already had gone half blind. John decided then to kill it and lifted the half paralysed body to take it outside. However, once out, the cat made a frantic leap, knowing what was going to happen, fell, and pulled itself by two feet under the floor boards of the house. The whole of the Chisum house was built in such a way that the house stood on a base which was 9" off the ground. The cat was heard shifting underneath those floors and then there was silence. We all looked under the boards from the side of the house, seeing into the dark, but we couldnt see Ferns and couldnt crawl under to get him. After a good hour, from the odd thrashing, we knew the cat was still alive and in pain. It would I theorised probably live for a day and then die. We sat around on the verandah for a while and then Billy said, do you want me to kill it. Sallie without asking how said yes.

  He stood up and took off his boots and socks, went to his room, returned, he had washed his hands. He asked us to go into the living room and sit still. Then he changed his mind and asked us to go out of the house and onto the verandah and keep still and quiet, not to talk. He began to walk over the kitchen floor, the living room area, almost bent in two, his face about a foot from the pine floorboards. He had the gun out now. And for about half an hour he walked around like this, sniffing away it seemed to me. Twice he stopped in the same place but continued on. He went all over the house. Finally he came back to a spot near the sofa in the living room. We could see him through the window, all of us. Billy bent quietly onto his knees and sniffed carefully at the two square feet of floor. He listened for a while, then sniffed again. Then he fired twice into the floorboards. Jumped up and walked out to us. He’s dead now Sallie, dont worry.

  Our faces must have been interesting to see then. John and Sallie were thankful, almost proud of him. I had a look I suppose of incredible admiration for him too. But when I looked at Angie, leaning against the rail of the verandah, her face was terrified. Simply terrified.

  *

  Down the street was a dog. Some mutt spaniel, black and white. One dog, Garrett and two friends, stud looking, came down the street to the house, to me.

  Again.

  Down the street was a dog. Some mutt spaniel, black and white. One dog, Garrett and two friends came down the street to the house, to me.

  Garrett takes off his hat and leaves it outside the door. The others laugh. Garrett smiles, pokes his gun towards the door. The others melt and surround.

  All this I would have seen if I was on the roof looking.

  *

  You know hunters

  are the gentlest

  anywhere in the world

  they halt caterpillars


  from path dangers

  lift a drowning moth from a bowl

  remarkable in peace

  in the same way assassins

  come to chaos neutral

  *

  Snow outside. Wilson, Dave Rudabaugh, and me. No windows, the door open so we could see. Four horses outside. Garrett aimed and shot to sever the horse reins. He did that for 3 of them so they got away and 3 of us couldnt escape. He tried for 5 minutes to get the reins on the last horse but kept missing. So he shot the horse. We came out. No guns.

  *

  One morning woke up

  Charlie was cooking

  and we ate not talking

  but sniffing

  wind wind so fine

  it was like drinking ether

  we sat hands round knees

  heads leaned back taking lover wind

  in us sniffing and sniffing

  getting high on the way

  it crashed into our nostrils

  *

  This is Tom O’Folliard’s story, the time I met him, eating red dirt to keep the pain away, off his body, out there like a melting shape in the sun. Sitting, his legs dangling like tails off the wall. Out of his skull.

  What made me notice him was his neck. Whenever he breathed the neck and cheek filled out vast as if holding a bag of trapped air. I introduced myself. Later he gave me red dirt. Said want to hear a story and he told me. I was thinking of a photograph someone had taken of me, the only one I had then. I was standing on a wall, at my feet there was this bucket and in the bucket was a pump and I was pumping water out over the wall. Only now, with the red dirt, water started dripping out of the photo. This is his story.

  At fifteen he took a job with an outfit shooting wild horses. They were given a quarter a head for each one dead. These horses grazed wild, ate up good grass. The desert then had no towns every fifty miles. He sucked the clear milk out of a chopped cactus, drank piss at times. Once, blind thirsty, O’Folliard who was then seventeen killed the horse he sat on and covered himself in the only liquid he could find. Blood caked on his hair, arms, shoulders, everywhere. Two days later he stumbled into a camp.

  Then half a year ago he had his big accident. He was alone on the Carrizoza, north of here; the gun blew up on him. He didnt remember anything after he saw horses moving in single file and he put the gun to his shoulder. Pulling the trigger the gun blew to pieces. He was out about two days. When he woke up, he did because he was vomiting. His face was out to here. From that moment, his horse gone, he lived for four days in the desert without food or water. Because he had passed out and eaten nothing he survived, at least a doctor told him that. Finding water finally, he drank and it poured out of his ear. He felt sleepy all the time. Every two hours he stopped walking and fell asleep placing his boots into an arrow in the direction he was going. Then he would get up, put boots on and move on. He said he would have cut off his left hand with a knife to have something to eat, but he realised he had lost too much blood already.

  He killed lizards when he got onto rock desert. Then a couple of days later the shrubs started appearing with him following them, still sleeping every two hours. First village he came to was Mexican. José Chavez y Chavez, blacksmith. The last thing O’Folliard noticed was Chavez sandbagging him in the stomach. O’Folliard going out cold. When he woke José had him in a bed, his arms trapped down.

  Chavez had knocked out Tom as he had gone to throw himself in water which would have got rid of his thirst but killed him too. Chavez gave it to him drop by drop. A week later he let Tom have his first complete glass of water. Tom would have killed Chavez for water during that week. When he finally got to a doctor he found all the muscles on the left side of his face had collapsed. When he breathed, he couldnt control where the air went and it took new channels according to its fancy and formed thin balloons down the side of his cheek and neck. These fresh passages of air ricocheted pain across his face every time he breathed. The left side of his face looked as though it had melted by getting close to fire. So he chewed red dirt constantly, his pockets were full of it. But his mind was still sharp, the pain took all the drug. The rest of him was flawless, perfect. He was better than me with rifles. His feet danced with energy. On a horse he did tricks all the time, somersaulting, lying back. He was riddled with energy. He walked, both arms crooked over a rifle at the elbows. Legs always swinging extra.

  MISS SALLIE CHISUM: ON BILLY

  I was sitting in the living room

  when word was brought he had arrived.

  I felt in a panic. I pictured him

  in all the evil ugliness

  of a bloodthirsty ogre.

  I half expected he would slit my throat

  if he didnt like my looks.

  I heard John saying with a wave of his hand,

  Sallie, this is my friend, Billy the Kid.

  A good looking, clear-eyed boy stood there

  with his hat in his hand, smiling at me.

  I stretched out my hand automatically to him,

  and he grasped it in a hand as small as my own

  *

  Crouching in the 5 minute dark

  can smell him smell that mule sweat

  that stink need a shotgun

  for a searchlight to his corner

  Garrett? I aint love-worn

  torn aint blue I’m waiting

  smelling you across the room

  to kill you Garrett going

  to take you from the knee up

  leave me my dark AMATEUR!

  *

  A motive? some reasoning we can give to explain all this violence. Was there a source for all this? yup—

  “Hill leaped from his horse and, sticking a rifle to the back of Tunstall’s head blew out his brains. Half drunk with whisky and mad with the taste of blood, the savages turned the murder of the defenceless man into an orgy. Pantillon Gallegos, a Bonito Cañon Mexican, hammered in his head with a jagged rock. They killed Tunstall’s horse, stretched Tunstall’s body beside the dead animal, face to the sky, arms folded across his breast, feet together. Under the man’s head they placed his hat and under the horse’s head his coat carefully folded by way of pillows. So murdered man and dead horse suggested they had crawled into bed and gone to sleep together. This was their devil’s mockery, their joke—ghastly, meaningless. Then they rode back to Lincoln, roaring drunken songs along the way.

  “Lucky for Billy the Kid and Brewer that they had gone hunting wild turkeys, else they would have shared Tunstall’s fate. From a distant hillside they witnessed the murder.”

  *

  To be near flowers in the rain

  all that pollen stink buds

  bloated split

  leaves their juices

  bursting the white drop of

  spend out into the air at

  you the smell of things dying

  flamboyant smell stuffing up your

  nose and up like wet cotton in the brain

  can hardly breathe nothing

  nothing thick sugar death

  *

  In Mexico the flowers

  like brain the blood drained

  out packed with all the liquor perfume

  sweat like lilac urine smell

  getting to me from across a room

  if you cut the stalk

  your face near it

  you feel the puff of air escape

  the flower gets small smells sane

  deteriorates in a hand

  *

  When Charlie Bowdre married Manuela, we carried them on our shoulders, us on horses. Took them to the Shea Hotel, 8 rooms. Jack Shea at the desk said Charlie—everythings on the house, we’ll give you the Bridal. No no, says Charlie, dont bother, I’ll hang onto her ears until I get used to it.

  HAWHAWHAW

  *

  White walls neon on the eye

  1880 November 23 my birthday

  catching flies with my left hand

  bringing the f
ist to my ear

  hearing the scream grey buzz

  as their legs cramp their

  heads with no air

  so eyes split and release

  open fingers

  the air and sun hit them like pollen

  sun flood drying them red

  catching flies

  angry weather in my head, too

  I remember this midnight at John Chisum’s. Sallie was telling me about Henry. They had had it imported from England by ship, then train, then Sallie had met the train and brought it the last seventy miles in a coach. Strangest looking thing she said. It could hardly walk up a stair at first because it was so heavy and long. Its tail, which was dark brown with an amber ridge all down the middle of its length, stood up like a plant, so when he moved up and down hills the first thing you saw was this tail. In the house, John’s clock banged away in the kitchen, the noise and whirr reeling out onto us on the porch. John and Sallie, the mutt Henry, and me. I had come in that morning.

  They call it a bassett says Sallie, and they used to breed them in France for all those fat noblemen whose hounds were too fast for them when they went hunting. So they got the worst and slowest of every batch and bred them with the worst and slowest of every other batch and kept doing this until they got the slowest kind of hound they could think of. Looks pretty messy to me, I said. John scratched his groin awkwardly but politely—I mean not many would have noticed if they hadnt been on the lookout, expecting it as it were. John began a story.

  When I was in New Orleans during the war I met this character who had dogs. I met him because I was a singer then, and he liked to sing, so we used to sing together quite a lot. He seemed a pretty sane guy to me. I mean, he didnt twitch or nothing like that. Well, a month or two after I left New Orleans, I got a note from another friend who sang with us once in a while, and he said Livingstone, who was the first singer, had been eaten by his dogs. It was a postcard and it didnt say anymore. When I was in New Orleans again, two or three years later I found out.