Freya Stark traveled among the remote valleys of western Persia (today's Iran) in the early 1930s, when this area was barely known and rarely visited by Europeans. (Actually, it's not much better known today.) But while her travels may have been pioneering, this account is surprisingly dull and mundane. Stark travels from village to village, briefly meeting the locals, eats a meal or two, then goes on the next day to repeat the process. There's rarely a spark of excitement or adventure -- just a dry recording of events and observations.

Stark's aloof writing style doesn't help. She seems to keep the reader at arm's length from the characters she meets, offering just a superficial look at most of them.

The first half of the book is further handicapped by a lack of maps. As Stark travels about, she casually rattles off the names of landmarks and places as if the reader were intimately acquainted with the area. In fact, frustrated readers will soon discover that it is impossible to tell whether she is traveling east, west, north or south -- or just wandering in circles. The second half of the book has three maps, which helps, although you'll need a magnifying glass to read one of them.

I don't want to make it sound like there is NOTHING interesting in this book. There are a few moments of tense encounters, and occassionally she shows off a dry wit. But these are too few and far between. I can only recommend this book to someone who has a scholarly interest in this region of Iran.

The prose is basically along these lines: "And so we came to a village and there were tribesmen there and we all gathered into a tent & drank tea." I mean, it's THAT dry; there is no emotion or suspense to this book whatsoever.

If this book had good historical data it would be acceptable (and I'll admit that that was what I was expecting), but unfortunately it is a travelogue, not a history lesson, and ends up reading like the personal journal of a very boring person (though I know that Ms. Stark has led anything BUT a boring life).

However, it IS a travelogue after all, not a history book, so it's not like I was deceived -- I just thought it would've been something else. Therefore, no less than 3 stars.

On the other hand, I found this to be a wonderful narrative of a trip to a land that most people will never see, a visit to cultures that are most likely gone in today's world, and, most interestingly, the story of a woman in an area in which women never venture far from their homes. Her descriptions of the details of the countryside and the lives of the people she meets are exquisite and conjure up images despite the absence of pictures. Because of the quality of the writing, it is an easy and fairly quick read.

Garrett and, to a lesser degree, Upson, write as technicians of fact-conveyance rather than writers. I found that this actually served to whet my appetite to learn more as I read. When you're hearing about a legend straight from the mouth of the horse that was chasing him, the awe you feel overrides your contempt for shoddy writing style.

Having said that, the book is just the right length and so is nowhere near as boring as the claims I had heard here and elsewhere prior to my buying and reading it. The writing, although nonchalantly functional most of the time, is kept tight which is necessary. To have imbued it with imaginative streaks and cosmetic touch-ups would have certainly destroyed the flow of what is, you'll soon find if you pick it up, a fast river of intrigue. Anyway, Upson has done quite a good job at injecting artistry in his sections so there is no really terrible lack of good writing here.

Of course, Garrett's leaden, subdued delivery do deaden the thrills a little. It's interesting how he balances his attitude toward 'The Kid' throughout the book. At times, he seems to speak admirably of him (allbeit apparently with a false tone sometimes); at others, he seems genuinely distanced from him, almost indifferent to whether or not their paths will actually cross.

Biased? Of course it is. What do you expect? Even so, 'The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid' is made the definitive work on the topic because it, like the legend it examines, is a product of the same time. The best way to read it is with an analytical mind. By all means, challenge Garrett on his words when you feel he's deviating from his function as a chronicler - that is the point of reading this book a hundred and twenty years later. Unlike more recent biographers who would do exhaustive research based on documents, wide-sweeping second-hand information and historical 'givens', it's best to go straight to those 'givens' yourself and get to grips with them. Sheriff Garrett's book is a remarkable fountain of first generation facts and factoids and it commands the respect of academics and casual readers alike because of its durability. After all, just how many accounts of book length from the Old West survive today, especially those that receive serious scrutiny from a variety of disciplines.

My only peeve lies in Garrett and Upson's ardent declarations regarding the aftermath of 'The Kid's slaying. Why did they repeat themselves so many times that 'The Kid' was dead and buried and 'that was that'. It seems that Garrett was a little insecure in case he was challenged over the fate of his quarry. Whatever the case, the insecure tone he adopts in the last pages seems to somehow lend strength to the camp of 'Flat Earthers' who claim that Billy the Kid survived into the next century....cue Brushy Bill Roberts......

The introduction to this book by J.C. Dyke is good, and explains a lot; especially the last paragraph, wherein he says,"The reading (and study) of [this book] is essential to an understanding of that mythical hero, the Robin Hood of the Southwest, who was once just a bucktoothed, thieving, murderous little cowboy-gone-bad, Billy the Kid."

Of course, the author, Pat Garrett, was not an unprejudiced reporter of events, for it was he who ended the life of William Bonney, also known as William Antrim (his foster father's surname). It is also interesting I think, in passing, to mention that Billy the Kid was not a product of the West, but a transplanted New Yorker.

Elsewhere, you will read that Pat Garrett's writing effort is poor, and leaves much to be desired. He readily admits it. In his own words, he says, "I make no pretension to literary ability, but propose to give to the public in intelligible English, 'a round, unvarnished tale,' unadorned with superfluous verbiage."

Garrett is motivated, he says, by an "impulse to correct the thousand false statements which have appeared in the newspapers and in yellow-covered cheap novels."

And, there is no doubt at all that the stories of Billy's exploits were greatly exaggerated by an Eastern press eager for stories of gunplay and adventure on the Western frontier. Today's myth of Billy the Kid is largely descended from the pulp stories created by the inflamed minds of Eastern "journalists" and the latter-day Hollywood screen-writers who have made no attempt at all to portray the truth.

Pat Garrett claims to have known Billy throughout the period known as the "Lincoln County Wars," and having listened to Bonney's reminiscences around campfires and says he has interviewed many persons since Bonney's death. That much would seem to be undisputed.

Bonney was born in 1859, six years after the birth of another Southwestern hardcase, John Wesley Hardin. In fact, they were contemporaries and were raising hell at the same time. Bonney, however, died young at the age of 21, in 1881. Hardin died at the age of 42--twice Billy's age--in 1895. And, if the rumors are true, Hardin probably killed twice as many men. They both started young. Both are reputed to have had fearful tempers. Neither were killed in the face-to-face "quick draw" shootouts so dear to the hearts of Hollywood writers. Instead, both of their executioners used stealth to kill their quarries.

According to Garrett, in Pete Maxwell's darkened bedroom, where he shot Billy to death, Billy was holding a butcher knife in one hand and drawing his double-action Colt "Lightning" revolver ("self-cocker") with the other, while asking in Spanish, "Quien es? Quien es?" ("Who is it? Who is it?") They were, again according to Garrett, at point blank range. The only other witness was Pete Maxwell. There are other versions to the story, including one which insists that Bonney was unarmed except for the knife, which he had used to cut off a chunk of beef from a hanging carcass outside, because he was hungry.

My question is this: it is undisputed that he was holding the knife, and the reason for which he had it. So, where was the beef? It is unlikely that he ate it raw, or stuck it in a pocket. Probably he was holding it in his other hand, intending to cook it. In which case, if he had a revolver tucked in his waistband, he must have had to drop the beef to fetch his revolver.

It is probably of little importance; a Billy Bonney armed with a butcher knife, at close quarters, would still have needed killing. But, did he make the fatal mistake of coming to a gunfight armed only with a knife?

I think that this is an important book, if for no other reason than the relationship that existed between the author and William Bonney. I recommend it. My version is in the hard cover.

Joseph Pierre

It is a book of two halves. The first deals with Ringo's early years, from childhood to his participation in the Mason County War. This seems to be well researched and offers some interesting insights into his life, and certainly seems to clear up some of John Ringo's movements at that time.

Thereafter, the book takes an alarming turn for the worst. Much of the second half is a blatant attack on Wyatt Earp and anybody who dares to have a good word to say about him. For the record, I am neither pro-Earp, or anti-Earp (nor for that matter am I pro-Ringo or anti-Ringo) - I am just interested in learning more about these fascinating characters and the truth behind their lives. In no way can I condone such a biased, and at times, childish attempt at a 'historical biography'.

I found that I began to question the author's motives for writing the book. Was he really trying to write a biography on Ringo? Or was this another tedious, and pointless excuse to attack Wyatt Earp. It would have been much better had the author concentrated more on his chosen subject.

Instead he writes a lengthy account of the gunfight at the OK Coral (For which Ringo took no part) and events leading up to it, but paints only half the picture. He does not make mention of many contributary factors leading to hostilities between the two groups ie. Earp and Behans affections for Josephine Marcus; Ike Clanton supposedly double-crossing Earp - to name only a couple. Constantly through his book Johnson cites evidence that portrays Earp as the villain, and the the 'cowboy' elemant as honest ranchers. Remarkably he even states that John Ringo was not involved in criminal activity because he was not particularly known in local towns. Johnson says this is proved because they always spelt his name wrong. How naive! Anyone who studies Western history knows individual names were often spelt wrong eg. look at how many ways contemparies of Wild Bill Hickok spelt his name, and surely he was well known.Certainly I do not believe Ringo was as bad as he has been traditionally portrayed, but this kind of arguement is ridiculous.

The author continues his attacks against many authors. He clearly detests Stuart Lake's biography of Wyatt Earp - certainly not a new or unique opinion. Yet the irony is that Mr. Johnson has achieved a biography as one sided (if not more) than Lake's.

He continually criticizes other authors such as Jack Burrows and their arguements, using the phrase 'without documentation'. Yet 'without documentation' Johnson claims that the reason for Ringo's heavy drinking and dark moods, were because of his experiences in the Mason County War. Maybe, but the author takes this for fact. He also states catagorically that Ringo committed suicide, and does not even enter into discussions about the other possibilities. He only uses the evidence that fits into his opinion.

Surely the purpose of a historical account is to present both sides of the arguement, and draw sensible, logical conclusions. This book fails miserably to do that, and for the most part can not be taken seriously.

It is a shame that Mr. Johnson believes his opinion to be far superior and important, than historical facts and truths.

McWilliams understood the contribution and the resulting plight early on, before the Civil Rights movement, before Ceasar Chavez. McWillaims did us all a favor by not becoming the outside spokesman for what developed as a cause that he understood and elequently outlined in history and in ethic.