The door opens to the basement. I forgot to press for the lobby and passed it without notice. She sweeps out of the car like a virgin doe. I hear a woman’s voice call from the laundry room down the hall.
“¿Quien es, Allamanda?”
“Si, soy yo,” she replies.
Allamanda, that must be her name.
“¿Tienes el Fabric Softener con tigo?”
“No, no lo traje.”
What a lovely name, Allamanda, a flower no doubt. I must look it up.
“Lo vas a necisitar. ¡Apurate, que la puerta se sierra!”
“¡No!” she shouts. “¡No, no quiero entrar con este gringo pendejo!”
Maybe that didn’t go so badly. I showed the proper respect by not rudely addressing her without parental supervision. That’s important in Hispanic culture, is it not? I suddenly feel so alone in the car, so vulnerable, and I must make a decision. What floor? Any Igbo in his right mind would support my decision to return home immediately. I feel so weak as if my heart pumps air instead of blood. I couldn’t bear to be seen right now. It’s as if I’d be caught in some foul act. I also have a sudden uncontrollable urge for a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream, maybe a spoonful of ice cream on the side.
I press my floor. The door closes. The car starts. I stare at the flashing numbers and will them to keep moving. I pray to the Gods as well. My efforts are ignored. The car slows. No, not the lobby! Not now! Bouncing to a halt, my heart freezes. The door opens. The light pours in. Standing before me …
It was agreed. They would flee through the back, away from the main military force, away from the gatling gun, away from the fire Dolan had started under the army’s protection, away from the town they had fought so hard to save and toward the wooded banks down by the river beneath the cover of darkness.
“I’ll go out first In order to draw the fire of the soldiers and Dolan’s forces, then you go, Mr. McSween, behind the others.”
“If you go out there first, I’m going with you,” Tom O’Folliard announced.
“And me,” echoed JoséChavez y Chavez.
“The more, the merrier,” smiled the Kid. “I just don’t want Mr. McSween out there alone.”86
… is no one! I exhale in relief. The Gods obviously support my decision to return. But the Gods only help those who help themselves. I can’t risk another close call like that again. I hold the elevator and peer out. I hear the front door open, Tony greeting a dweller. I must make a dash for the stairway. Nobody walks up the stairs in this building, not even to the second floor. I stumble into the hallway sensing critical eyes burrowing into my back. I shiver involuntarily as I grunt open the stairwell door. I squeeze in, the cool air flushing my face, the door echoing shut behind me. Finally, I’m safe.
Now for the difficult climb home.
As they huddled in the back room of the once stately McSween home, the fire strengthened It’s grip around them. Flames from the celling leapt down upon the floor. As Tom and Chavez waited for Billy to give the signal, the Kid coolly rolled a cigarette. When a flaming board pounced from the celling beside him, he looked heavenward, said, “Thanks for the light,” and took obvious pleasure in smoking his final shuck.87
Staring up the stairs, I hesitate momentarily. It doesn’t seem fair that I should be forced to climb such a steep rise. It adds insult to injury now that I can’t go outside, that I have to delay nourishment and other simple pleasures. Still, I brace myself for the heavy exertion and begin the difficult ascent home.
When Billy charged out the door and into the back yard, an army of guns opened fire. With both six shooters blazing, he yelled to O’Folliard and Chavez, “Make for the rear gate while I cover you.” Clutching Billy’s Winchester to his chest, Tom ran for his life Into the shadows as José and the Kid lay down a line of fire before following close behind. McSween, Instead of using the fusillade aimed at the Kid to cover his escape, waited for the boys to clear the fence before stepping out himself. Armed only with a bible, he declared his surrender.
“As God Is my witness, I surrender. Who among you will take charge of this humble prisoner?”
He was answered with another hall of bullets, and this time they did not miss.88
Chapter Thirteen
I lie upon a hospital bed in an empty white room. I’m paralyzed. Trying to move, even just a toe or finger, causes me to experience a dizziness that increases the harder I press. Trying to speak fills me with such nausea that I’m racked with the fear of suffocating on my own vomit like a man with his broken jaw wired shut. I try to relax as the violent heartbeats stab my chest with clublike precision.
The manchild enters the hospital room dressed as a Mexican vaquero. I notice a slight wisp of a beard beginning to settle upon his boyish face. He grabs a pillow and lowers it over my head.
The room darkens. I’m unable to breathe. I struggle hopelessly. I begin to spin in a furious whirlpool becoming dizzy beyond tolerance, nausea creeping up the throat. Like a skin diver rushing to the surface for air, my lungs scream to breathe until I give in and they fill with water.
I’m dying. I feel myself rise through the ceiling like passing through a soft cloud. I enter a puffy white tunnel circling skyward. From below a faint voice beckons me, calling me back. I look down and see an old man in a wheelchair. Great-grandfather! His voice gets louder. I make out his plea …
“Hello … Hello … Hello …?”
I reach over, grab the answering machine and pull it out of the wall. I take it by the tail and swing it overhead. It smashes into the wall breaking into shards of plastic that bounce on the floor before settling along the baseboard.
I pause before the sudden silence. Light beams squeezing through black curtains flay the dust swirling in disturbed fury.
AND THE LORD SAID UNTO MOSES, SPEAK UNTO AARON THY BROTHER … THAT HE DIE NOT: FOR I WILL APPEAR IN THE CLOUD UPON THE MERCY SEAT.89
Sun streams poke my eyes. Helios is not happy. Neither am I. Fortunately, Helios will soon ride his fiery chariot over the horizon. “The sun is too harsh for men to view directly,” the Igbo observed, “so we must interpret the shadows in order to see the light.” Man has always attempted to interpret the shadows. Modern man has developed photography in which light is used to burn a shadow on paper in an attempt to freeze reality. This shadow is now trusted more than words. However, according to the Igbo, dreams “are the shadows of reality,” and they interpreted dreams to reveal great truths. Spirits, both good and evil, could enter dreams and deliver messages or even possess you.
What would the Igbo have said about photographs? When first confronted with this technology, most ancient peoples believed that photographs robbed you of your soul. Photographs of the dead often do seem to be possessed by some spirit. When I stare at an old picture of a family member or friend, I feel closer to them, sometimes even hearing their voice in the back of my mind—how they might feel about something or someone, or what they would say if asked.
I suddenly remember the two photographs I had just been dreaming about.
Upon his deathbed, L.G. Murphy listened intently to Dolan’s rendition of the five-day battle. Against his doctor’s orders, the major lit a cigar that Dolan had smuggled in. He washed down the blood he coughed up with his first whiskey in months. Dolan, however, spared his dying benefactor the business books for if he offered him those they’d really kill him.
The protégé had followed his mentor’s teachings faithfully and, subsequently, had run the business into the ground. The House was bankrupt. It was a particularly bitter pill for Dolan, still young and vital, to swallow. With both Tunstall and McSween finally dead and no one left to challenge him, Dolan was broke. Without money, Sheriff Peppin resigned and The House was no longer ‘The Law.’ ‘The Bank’ closed its shutters to howling depositors.
‘The Store’ was claimed by the county. Converted into a court house, the old Murphy/Dolan hangout, where many a scheme had been hatched, now became the new symbo
l of law and order west of the Pecos. This irony was not lost on the local populace who referred to the new county seat sourly as ‘The New Law.’
However, Thomas B. Catron and the Sante Fe Ring weren’t about to give up influence in the wilderness that they had developed so profitably. They knew that Dolan would be more willing now than ever to compromise himself. Colonel Dudley could still award them cattle contracts for a kickback and also lend a hand with his troops in a pinch. A sympathetic new sheriff was merely a matter of money. District Attorney Rynerson and Judge Bristol still had control over who could be tried, and more importantly, who could not. Chisum, sick with gout and the cancer that would claim his life in a few years, was reeling from the losses incurred while supporting Tunstall and McSween. Suffering even further from the subsequent resumption of rustling, he was scaling back his cattle operations and looking to cut a deal. Maybe he’d even join forces with The Ring to elect a sheriff and rid the county of uncontrollable elements.
There was much opportunity to be found in the rubble of war, and best of all, little opposition. Anyone who dared to cause trouble, however, would have to be silenced and quickly, before they galvanized the war’s discontents. Unfortunately, Billy the Kid, was not the kind to forgive and forget. Nor was he one who took lightly to being told what to do. Types like the Kid had to be made an example to others. For Billy, the war wasn’t over whether he liked it or not.90
AND HE SHALL TAKE OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL TWO KINDS OF GOATS FOR A SIN OFFERING.91
I have the two photographs before me.
A soft twenty-five watt bulb illuminates the two portraits just dimly enough to make out differences and similarities purely, without harsh light stabbing their features beyond recognition. On the left is a postcard reproduced from an original 3” x 2” glass ferrotype. It’s the only verifiable photo of Billy the Kid. From this single reproduction all visions of the Kid have sprung. Writers, historians and film makers have gazed upon it and imagined the man within. Of all the data that has been questioned, debated, revised or rejected, this image alone is irrefutable. Whether we like it or not, all reflections of the Billy the Kid eventually lead us back to this dirty, scratched, reproduction, its features dulled with age.
He wears an inexpensive slouch hat (unsuitable for the trail), a scarf tied in front, a leather vest, a bib shirt upon which, according to experts, is printed a nautical anchor, and a hooded sweater that an old Navajo woman, Deluvina, had sewn especially for him. His dark pants are tucked into a pair of boots with heels adding two inches to his height. Proudly displayed is a watch and chain received from a friend, Dr. Hoyt. In his right hand he holds a Winchester Carbine like a cane, its butt on the floor, and wears a gambler’s pinky ring. It was said of Billy that he “could eat pumpkins through a picket fence.” The light glancing off his front teeth appears to confirm this.
Behind his left hand is holstered a .45 caliber Army Colt pistol. This led to the myth that he was a left-handed gun, later disproved. First of all, ferrotypes are developed backwards. Furthermore, gambler’s pinky rings were worn on the left hand saving the right hand for dealing. No one trusted a left-handed dealer. Finally, none of his contemporaries ever made mention of it. More recent copies have properly reversed the image.
“Billy posed for it standing in the street near old Beaver Smith’s saloon on the main street of old Fort Sumner (long abandoned by the army and purchased by Pete Maxwell, Paulita’s father).
“I never liked the picture. I don’t think it does Billy justice. It makes him look rough and uncouth. The expression on his face was really boyish and very pleasant. He may have worn such clothes as appear in the picture on the range, but in Fort Sumner he was careful of his personal appearance and dressed neatly and in good taste.”
- Paulita Maxwell92
This faded photo is all that is left of Billy the Kid. Not a gun, spur, or saddle survives; not a bone or stitch of clothing can be verified. Billy bequeathed it to Deluvina, the old Navajo woman, shortly before he was to be hung, upon her promise not to show anyone, except Paulita, lest it could be used to hunt him down should he escape. He couldn’t have placed it in surer hands. After Pat Garrett shot the Kid in the back and ran out of Pete Maxwell’s bedroom with the old man at his heels, Deluvina was the only one brave enough to enter Señor Maxwell’s room and check on Bilito. Although she rushed out sobbing “my little boy is dead!”, Garrett and the other two deputies waited until daylight before venturing into the room guns drawn.
Postwar Lincoln County was in a state of anarchy. Practically speaking, both sides lost. Tunstall and McSween were dead. Murphy was dying. Dolan was bankrupt and drinking heavily. In war, there may be no justice, but there is authority. Now, there was neither.93
The other photo is of Harry O’Brian, alias Honest Harry, my great-grandfather, who is so old that no one, not even he, knows when he was born. It is said he was already middle aged when he had my grandfather (who died before I was born). The doctors estimate he’s well over a hundred years old, but they can’t verify his age until after he’s dead. Written on the back of this black and white print, yellowed with age, is “1959,” a year before he entered the nursing home. He already looks a century old. Still, he stood erect, clean shaven, wearing a Fedora, tie, and grey three-piece suit. In his vest, a watch chain is clipped to his left pocket leading to his right. In his left hand, he grasps a cane with an old ring on his pinky. They say he was a bookie at the track before the state took over horse betting. That’s how he got his name Honest Harry. He never wrote a thing down: figuring the odds, taking bets and determining the pay offs all in his head. Never once did he miscalculate or fail to pay on a winner.
Sheriff Kimball, who replaced an unpaid Peppin, was without a budget for deputies or bullets. Until the Santa Fe Ring or some new benefactor could reassert itself, he wisely kept out of sight.94
I look side to side at each reproduction, squint, go in and out of focus, lean forward and pull back. The boy and the old man: how the body sags, the skin wrinkles, the cheeks sink in. The teeth get replaced by dentures. The ears enlarge and drag. The eyes grow sullen and fade. It’s as if the whole body just gives up trying to hold itself together allowing the chaos of the world to pull at it until, finally relaxing, it sinks into turmoil and oblivion, never to be heard from again. Unless …
The Igbo wore ceremonial masks of their ancestor’s portraits so their souls could then possess them. Then, as egwugwu, they could make judicious decisions on everything from when to plant yams to matters of criminal law. Would a photograph’s graven imagery have reminded the Igbo of their egwugwu masks? Could a photograph also impart the wisdom of the dead, or has modern man so closed himself off to such things that he can no longer hear their voices? Does the failure to hear our ancestor’s voices lead us to lose all sense of honor and decency; to commit foul and unnatural acts?
Meanwhile, with no source of income for the hired guns and cutthroats drafted into the war, they turned their attentions to pillaging the land. Jesse Evans re-formed his gang and found easy prey among the tired pioneers straggling in from the east. The Dona Ana bunch (once mercenaries for Dolan and led by ex-deputy John Kinney) went on a rampage throughout the native New Mexican community, shooting both men and children, raping the women, and stealing anything in the villages of value as they burned churches in their wake. The Three Rivers Boys, who were relatively well behaved, now felt free to rustle as much cattle as they could rebrand without fear of retribution.
Conversely, previously law-abiding citizens now felt free to seek retribution for outrages committed by their former brethren under the guise and protection of war. Local patriarch, Hugh Beckwith, blamed his brother-in-law for dragging one of his sons, Bob (killed in McSween’s backyard), into the war. He loaded his shotgun with ten rounds of buckshot and threw down on his sister’s husband. He had the common courtesy, however, to tell his sister, as she held his nephew, to step aside, “because I will pull the trigger eith
er way.”
Such tales failed to move Colonel Dudley, the only authority left in the territory. His response was to finally enforce Washington’s non-intervention directive giving his men strict orders to stay out of civil disputes. He then sank into a drunken stupor, ignored the pleas of the local populace, and patiently awaited an inquiry appointed to investigate his complicity in the death of McSween.
I take out the old watch Great-grandfather gave me as a child. The gold has faded to a dull grey. The hands are broken, the glass cracked. Gone are fob and chain. The lid, which once lifted to mark time over countless days, last opened long ago. If this was the watch in my great-grandfather’s photograph, could it also be the watch from an even older epoch of history? If so, how did it get into my great-grandfather’s possession?
Today’s Igbo save everything. Pieces of broken technology get recycled into all kinds of practical uses. Old clothes are patched into generations of outerwear. Any bottle, can or jar, be it plastic, glass or tin, makes for fine tableware. Old iron is collected by the local “bender” who melts it down into tools. Broken Styrofoam, old light bulbs, torn and mauled linoleum, mangled machine parts, even tangled shreds of hair and nail clippings—they easily find their way to the local juju market which straddles a tenuous line between this century and the last. For the Igbo, there isn’t an item, no matter how seemingly useless, that doesn’t possess some value, or why would it have been produced in the first place? The greater the mystery of its reason for creation—of the space and time it must have traveled with some forgotten purpose—the greater its power for wonder and enchantment and, if nothing else, a fine ornamental curiosity for a knick-knack shelf consisting of alien artifacts from the 20th Century. I pocket the watch as a talisman of good luck. May it guide me to do the right thing.
Billy’s Blues Page 9