The Collected Works of Billy the Kid

  Also by Michael Ondaatje

  FICTION AND MEMOIR

  Coming Through Slaughter (1976)

  Running in the Family (1982)

  In the Skin of a Lion (1987)

  The English Patient (1992)

  Anil’s Ghost (2000)

  Divisadero (2007)

  POETRY

  The Dainty Monsters (1967)

  The Man with Seven Toes (1969)

  Rat Jelly (1973)

  Elimination Dance (1976)

  There’s a Trick with a Knife I’m Learning to Do (1979)

  Tin Roof (1982)

  Secular Love (1984)The Cinnamon Peeler (1991)

  Handwriting (1998)

  NON-FICTION

  The Conversations: Walter Murch and the

  Art of Editing Film (2002)

  I send you a picture of Billy made with the Perry shutter as quick as it can be worked—Pyro and soda developer. I am making daily experiments now and find I am able to take passing horses at a lively trot square across the line of fire—bits of snow in the air—spokes well defined—some blur on top of wheel but sharp in the main—men walking are no trick—I will send you proofs sometime. I shall show you what can be done from the saddle without ground glass or tripod—please notice when you get the specimens that they were made with the lens wide open and many of the best exposed when my horse was in motion

  *

  These are the killed.

  (By me)—

  Morton, Baker, early friends of mine.

  Joe Bernstein. 3 Indians.

  A blacksmith when I was twelve, with a knife.

  5 Indians in self defence (behind a very safe rock).

  One man who bit me during a robbery.

  Brady, Hindman, Beckwith, Joe Clark,

  Deputy Jim Carlyle, Deputy Sheriff J.W. Bell.

  And Bob Ollinger. A rabid cat,

  birds during practice,

  These are the killed.

  (By them)—

  Charlie, Tom O’Folliard

  Angela D’s split arm,

  and Pat Garrett

  sliced off my head.

  Blood a necklace on me all my life.

  *

  Christmas at Fort Sumner, 1880. There were five of us together then. Wilson, Dave Rudabaugh, Charlie Bowdre, Tom O’Folliard, and me. In November we celebrated my 21st birthday, mixing red dirt and alcohol—a public breathing throughout the night. The next day we were told that Pat Garrett had been made sheriff and had accepted it. We were bad for progress in New Mexico and cattle politicians like Chisum wanted the bad name out. They made Garrett sheriff and he sent me a letter saying move out or I will get you Billy. The government sent a Mr. Azariah F. Wild to help him out. Between November and December I killed Jim Carlyle over some mixup, he being a friend.

  Tom O’Folliard decided to go east then, said he would meet up with us in Sumner for Christmas. Goodbye goodbye. A few days before Christmas we were told that Garret was in Sumner waiting for us all. Christmas night. Garrett, Mason, Wild, with four or five others. Tom O’Folliard rides into town, leaning his rifle between the horse’s ears. He would shoot from the waist now which, with a rifle, was pretty good, and he was always accurate.

  Garrett had been waiting for us, playing poker with the others, guns on the floor beside them. Told that Tom was riding in alone, he went straight to the window and shot O’Folliard’s horse dead. Tom collapsed with the horse still holding the gun and blew out Garrett’s window. Garrett already halfway downstairs. Mr. Wild shot at Tom from the other side of the street, rather unnecessarily shooting the horse again. If Tom had used stirrups and didnt swing his legs so much he would probably have been locked unde1 the animal. O’Folliard moved soon. When Garrett had got to ground level, only the horse was there in the open street, good and dead. He couldnt shout to ask Wild where O’Folliard was or he would’ve got busted. Wild started to yell to tell Garrett though and Tom killed him at once. Garrett fired at O’Folliard’s flash and took his shoulder off. Tom O’Folliard screaming out onto the quiet Fort Sumner street, Christmas night, walking over to Garrett, no shoulder left, his jaws tilting up and down like mad bladders going. Too mad to even aim at Garrett. Son of a bitch son of a bitch, as Garrett took clear aim and blew him out.

  Garrett picked him up, the head broken in two, took him back upstairs into the hotel room. Mason stretched out a blanket neat in the corner. Garrett placed Tom O’Folliard down, broke open Tom’s rifle, took the remaining shells and placed them by him. They had to wait till morning now. They continued their poker game till six a.m. Then remembered they hadnt done anything about Wild. So the four of them went out, brought Wild into the room. At eight in the morning Garrett buried Tom O’Folliard. He had known him quite well. Then he went to the train station, put Azariah F. Wild on ice and sent him back to Washington.

  *

  In Boot Hill there are over 400 graves. It takes the space of 7 acres. There is an elaborate gate but the path keeps to no main route for it tangles like branches of a tree among the gravestones.

  300 of the dead in Boot Hill died violently 200 by guns, over 50 by knives some were pushed under trains—a popular and overlooked form of murder in the west. Some from brain haemorrhages resulting from bar fights at least 10 killed in barbed wire.

  In Boot Hill there are only 2 graves that belong to women and they are the only known suicides in that graveyard

  *

  The others, I know, did not see the wounds appearing in the sky, in the air. Sometimes a normal forehead in front of me leaked brain gases. Once a nose clogged right before me, a lock of skin formed over the nostrils, and the shocked face had to start breathing through mouth, but then the moustache bound itself in the lower teeth and he began to gasp loud the hah! hah! going strong—churned onto the floor, collapsed out, seeming in the end to be breathing out of his eye—tiny needle jets of air reaching into the throat. I told no one. If Angela D. had been with me then, not even her; not Sallie, John, Charlie, or Pat. In the end the only thing that never changed, never became deformed, were animals.

  *

  Mmmmmmmm mm thinking

  moving across the world on horses

  body split at the edge of their necks

  neck sweat eating at my jeans

  moving across the world on horses

  so if I had a newsman’s brain I’d say

  well some morals are physical

  must be clear and open

  like diagram of watch or star

  one must eliminate much

  that is one turns when the bullet leaves you

  walk off see none of the thrashing

  the very eyes welling up like bad drains

  believing then the moral of newspapers or gun

  where bodies are mindless as paper flowers you dont feed

  or give to drink

  that is why I can watch the stomach of clocks

  shift their wheels and pins into each other

  and emerge living, for hours

  *

  When I caught Charlie Bowdre dying

  tossed 3 feet by bang bullets giggling

  at me face tossed in a gaggle

  he pissing into his trouser legs in pain

  face changing like fast sunshine o my god o my god

  billy I’m pissing watch

  your hands

  while the eyes grew all over his body

  Jesus I never knew that did you

  the nerves shot out

  the liver running around there

  like a headless hen jerking

  brown all over the yard

  seen that too at my aunt’s

  never eaten hen since then
>
  *

  Blurred a waist high river

  foam against the horse

  riding naked clothes and boots

  and pistol in the air

  Crossed a crooked river

  loving in my head

  ambled dry on stubble

  shot a crooked bird

  Held it in my fingers

  the eyes were small and far

  it yelled out like a trumpet

  destroyed it of its fear

  *

  After shooting Gregory

  this is what happened

  I’d shot him well and careful

  made it explode under his heart

  so it wouldnt last long and

  was about to walk away

  when this chicken paddles out to him

  and as he was falling hops on his neck

  digs the beak into his throat

  straightens legs and heaves

  a red and blue vein out

  Meanwhile he fell

  and the chicken walked away

  still tugging at the vein

  till it was 12 yards long

  as if it held that body like a kite

  Gregory’s last words being

  get away from me yer stupid chicken

  *

  Tilts back to fall

  black hair swivelling off her

  shattering the pillow

  Billy she says

  the tall gawky body spitting electric

  off the sheets to my arm leans her whole body out

  so breasts are thinner

  stomach is a hollow

  where the bright bush jumps

  this is the first time

  bite into her side leave

  a string of teeth marks

  she hooks in two and covers me

  my hand locked

  her body nearly breaking off my fingers

  pivoting like machines in final speed

  later my hands cracked in love juice

  fingers paralysed by it arthritic

  these beautiful fingers I couldnt move

  faster than a crippled witch now

  *

  The barn I stayed in for a week then was at the edge of a farm and had been deserted it seemed for several years, though built of stone and good wood. The cold dark grey of the place made my eyes become used to soft light and I burned out my fever there. It was twenty yards long, about ten yards wide. Above me was another similar sized room vbut the floors were unsafe for me to walk on. However I heard birds and the odd animal scrape their feet, the rotten wood magnifying the sound so they entered my dreams and nightmares.

  But it was the colour and light of the place that made me stay there, not my fever. It became a calm week. It was the colour and the light. The colour a grey with remnants of brown—for instance those rust brown pipes and metal objects that before had held bridles or pails, that slid to machine uses; the thirty or so grey cans in one corner of the room, their ellipses, from where I sat, setting up patterns in the dark.

  When I had arrived I opened two windows and a door and the sun poured blocks and angles in, lighting up the floor’s skin of feathers and dust and old grain. The windows looked out onto fields and plants grew at the door, me killing them gradually with my urine. Wind came in wet and brought in birds who flew to the other end of the room to get their aim to fly out again. An old tap hung from the roof, the same colour as the walls, so once I knocked myself out on it.

  For that week then I made a bed of the table there and lay out my fever, whatever it was. I began to block my mind of all thought. Just sensed the room and learnt what my body could do, what it could survive, what colours it liked best, what songs I sang best. There were animals who did not move out and accepted me as a larger breed. I ate the old grain with them, drank from a constant puddle about twenty yards away from the barn. I saw no human and heard no human voice, learned to squat the best way when shitting, used leaves for wiping, never ate flesh or touched another animal’s flesh, never entered his boundary. We were all aware and allowed each other. The fly who sat on my arm, after his inquiry, just went away, ate his disease and kept it in him. When I walked I avoided the cobwebs who had places to grow to, who had stories to finish. The flies caught in those acrobat nets were the only murder I saw.

  And in the barn next to us there was another granary, separated by just a thick wood door. In it a hundred or so rats, thick rats, eating and eating the foot deep pile of grain abandoned now and fermenting so that at the end of my week, after a heavy rain storm burst the power in those seeds and brought drunkenness into the minds of those rats, they abandoned the sanity of eating the food before them and turned on each other and grotesque and awkwardly because of their size they went for each other’s eyes and ribs so the yellow stomachs slid out and they came through that door and killed a chipmunk—about ten of them onto that one striped thing and the ten eating each other before they realised the chipmunk was long gone so that I, sitting on the open window with its thick sill where they couldnt reach me, filled my gun and fired again and again into their slow wheel across the room at each boommm, and reloaded and fired again and again till I went through the whole bag of bullet supplies—the noise breaking out the seal of silence in my ears, the smoke sucked out of the window as it emerged from my fist and the long twenty yard space between me and them empty but for the floating bullet lonely as an emissary across and between the wooden posts that never returned, so the rats continued to wheel and stop in the silences and eat each other, some even the bullet. Till my hand was black and the gun was hot and no other animal of any kind remained in that room but for the boy in the blue shirt sitting there coughing at the dust, rubbing the sweat of his upper lip with his left forearm.

  PAULITA MAXWELL: THE PHOTOGRAPH

  In 1880 a travelling photographer came through Fort Sumner. Billy posed standing in the street near old Beaver Smith’s saloon. The picture makes him rough and uncouth.

  The expression of his face was really boyish and pleasant. He may have worn such clothes as appear in the picture out on the range, but in Sumner he was careful of his personal appearance and dressed neatly and in good taste. I never liked the picture. I don’t think it does Billy justice.

  *

  Not a story about me through their eyes then. Find the beginning, the slight silver key to unlock it, to dig it out. Here then is a maze to begin, be in.

  Two years ago Charlie Bowdre and I criss-crossed the Canadian border. Ten miles north of it ten miles south. Our horses stepped from country to country, across low rivers, through different colours of tree green. The two of us, our criss-cross like a whip in slow motion, the ridge of action rising and falling, getting narrower in radius till it ended and we drifted down to Mexico and old heat. That there is nothing of depth, of significant accuracy, of wealth in the image, I know. It is there for a beginning.

  *

  She leans against the door, holds

  her left hand at the elbow

  with her right, looks at the bed

  on my sheets— orangespeeled half peeledbright as hidden coins against the pillowv

  she walks slow to the window

  lifts the sackcloth

  and jams it horizontal on a nail

  so the bent oblong of sun

  hoists itself across the room

  framing the bed the white flesh

  of my arm

  she is crossing the sun

  sits on her leg here

  sweeping off the peels

  traces the thin bones on me

  turns toppling slow back to the pillow

  Bonney Bonney

  I am very still

  I take in all the angles of the room

  *

  January at Tivan Arroyo, called Stinking Springs more often. With me, Charlie, Wilson, Dave Rudabaugh. Snow. Charlie took my hat and went out to get wood and feed the horses. The shot burnt the clothes on his stomach off and lifted him right back into the room.
Snow on Charlie’s left boot. He had taken one step out. In one hand had been an axe, in the other a pail. No guns.

  Get up Charlie, get up, go and get one. No Billy. I’m tired, please. Jesus watch your hands Billy. Get up Charlie. I prop him to the door, put his gun in his hand. Take off, good luck Charlie.

  He stood there weaving, not moving. Then began to walk in a perfect, incredible straight line out of the door towards Pat and the others at the ridge of the arroyo about twenty yards away. He couldnt even lift his gun. Moving sideways at times but always always in a straight line. Dead on Garrett. Shoot him Charlie. They were watching him only, not moving. Over his shoulder I aimed at Pat, fired, and hit his shoulder braid. Hadnt touched him. Charlie hunched. Get up Charlie kill him kill him. Charlie got up poking the gun barrel in snow. Went straight towards Garrett.

  The others had ducked down, but not Garrett who just stood there and I didnt shoot again. Charlie he knew was already dead now, had to go somewhere, do something, to get his mind off the pain. Charlie went straight, now closer to them his hands covered the mess in his trousers. Shoot him Charlie shoot him. The blood trail he left straight as a knife cut. Getting there getting there. Charlie getting to the arroyo, pitching into Garrett’s arms, slobbering his stomach on Garrett’s gun belt. Hello Charlie, said Pat quietly.

  Snow outside. Wilson, Dave Rudabaugh and me. No windows, the door open so we could see. Four horses outside.

  *

  Jim Payne’s grandfather told him that he met Frank James of the James Brothers once.

  It was in a Los Angeles movie theatre. After the amnesty he was given, Frank had many jobs. When Jim’s grandfather met him, he was the doorman at the Fresco Theatre. GET YOUR TICKET TORN UP BY FRANK JAMES the poster said, and people came for that rather than the film. Frank would say, ‘Thanks for coming, go on in’.