by Geff Moyer
“Ya know what they call him?” inquired Wheeler.
“Horse’s ass?” responded Billy. Both Rangers burst out laughing.
“Shuddup!” shouted the angry captain. “They call him ‘The Silver-Tongued Sunbeam of the Painted Desert,’ ‘cause he’s such a smooth talker.”
“That’s quite a handle,” remarked Jeff.
“Sure is,” added Billy. “Must take a purty big biz’ness card.”
The two men laughed again. Then the captain slammed his fist down on his desk and they quickly swallowed their amusement, remembering that Harry Wheeler could have them shoveling horse shit for days if he got the itch, and he appeared very close to getting it.
“People listen to what he’s got to say, bellowed the captain. “And right now he’s sayin’ some purty shitty things ‘bout us, and shitty things ‘bout us can make others up in the territorial government cut our shitty fundin’ down to even shittier than it is. To make things worse he’s a shitty Democrat and they ain’t ne’er liked the establishin’ of the Rangers anyways. So yer dumbass stunt was just that...a shitty dumbass stunt that could cost us some jobs!”
“Sorry, Cap’n!” Jeff stated, struggling to hide a smile. “We didn’t know how shitty he was.”
“Yeah, Cap’n,” added Billy. “All them shitty fat asses look alike in them suits.”
Wheeler glared at the two men then finally said, “You will both write a letter of apology to the man. I want ‘em on my desk ‘fore the day’s done. Got that?”
“Yessir,” replied Jeff.
“Now git outta here,” Wheeler clamped some angry teeth down on an innocent cigar.
“Uh, Cap’n?” asked Billy. “Could we write one letter and botha us sign it? I’m purty shitty at letter writin’.”
The captain hesitated for a long moment, cold eyeing the two men before finally answering, “Alright!” Then he shifted his eyes directly to Jeff and added, “But it better be good!”
After the two Rangers left Wheeler’s office Jeff stopped outside the door and turned to Billy.
“Yer not gonna get away with not addin’ anything to that letter. I’m not doin’ it all myself.”
“Hell, Jeff,” replied Billy with a devilish grin, “I don’t even know how to spell ‘pology.’”
Jeff’s eyes tightened as he leaned in close to Billy’s face and said, “I’ll teach ya, goddamn it!”
“Fifth fuckin’ grade!” Billy reminded his friend.
“That’s a shitty excuse, Billy!”
March, 1909
He jerked Orion to a halt and said aloud, “Hold it!”
The black released a snort that sounded like “Why?”
“If that Gen’ral Torres is any kind of Gen’ral, he’d have punished them fellas by sendin’ them to the towns with the most Yaquis.” Orion snorted again, this time in agreement. “That’s where the trouble’d be. But we’ll need more supplies.” Orion snorted in agreement. “San Moise,” Billy declared.
The town was just a two day ride south and big enough for him to purchase more supplies. How many, he had no idea because he didn’t know where they’d be headed after that, but at least it was a starting point. He gave Orion his head.
The land between Los Pozos and San Moise mirrored the rest of Sonora—bleak, dry, and hot. Pockmarked with bristly shrubs and creosote and jojoba bushes, it was like riding through a painting by an artist who only owned three colors: brown, yellow, and a small dab of green for the occasional cactus. No wildlife was in sight, at least not when the sun was hungry. It was on the third day when Billy saw the buzzards. About a dozen of the skin-eaters were circling and swooping down on something in the brush ahead. Orion snorted at the smell seconds before the hot south breeze pushed it into Billy’s nose.
He patted Orion’s neck and said, “Yeah, I caught it, too, Big O.”
Carefully they pushed through the high thickets and underbrush and came upon a small clearing. The sight they saw caused Orion to snort and shake his head and Billy’s guts to tumble. Eleven dead, half-eaten Apaches, five men, three women, and three children lay in eleven grotesque positions. The ground around each body had soaked up most of the blood, but couldn’t hide a lingering reddish-brown stain. All had been scalped and left to be feasted on by the neighborhood occupants. The women had been raped, front and back, probably after they were shot. Apache women fight like hell. From the number of bullet holes in each body Billy figured at least four men had to have done this carnage.
“Scalp hunters,” he mumbled in disgust.
August, 1903
“I tell ya,” exclaimed Sparky as he knelt over the bodies of two children, “either ‘em Injuns who done this scalpin’ had some purty dull knives, or they was jista learnin’ ‘bout scalpin’!”
“Why?” asked Freddie.
“I seen a ‘Pache take a scalp afore. Grab, slice and pull! Slick as a weasel! ‘Em here kid’s haids look like they done been hacked and sliced I don’t know how many times.”
Just as Jeff was turning away from the sight in disgust a shout came from behind the burned farm house.
“Got a woman back here!” cried Billy.
The men had been on the trail of some rustlers when they spotted wisps of smoke in the distance. Freddie, Jeff, and Sparky hurried to the other side of the smoldering structure. Billy was standing over the naked body of a woman laying face up in the high grass, obviously the two children’s mother.
As they approached, Billy warned them, “It ain’t purty!”
Again Jeff had to turn from the sight. He crossed back to his mount to fetch his E-tool. “Let’s bury them,” he insisted.
Right then Sparky called out, “Got some tracks o’chere!”
He had wandered several paces to the west of the empty corral. Billy and Freddie joined him to eyeball the tracks. Jeff kept moving towards a cottonwood. He wanted the bodies underground right this minute. Even with growing up hearing such morbid tales of Indian attacks and knowledge of his uncle’s brutal demise, he had never seen a scalped body and didn’t want to look at it any longer. He had three holes to dig; one large, two small. He dug in quiet fury, jamming his e-tool into the dry earth, chopping through tree roots, upturning rocks and tossing them aside.
“One horse,” declared Sparky, “Headin’ west! It ain’t Injun though. It’s shod.”
“The husband?” asked Freddie.
“What?” asked Billy, “Ya thinkin’ he hightailed it outta here and left his family to them Injuns?”
“Don’t think it twere Injuns,” declared Sparky, still studying the ground. “Don’t think it twere Injuns at all. No Injun’s gonna make such a mess a scalpin.’ They just ain’t! A scalp’s too powerful a med’cine to hack up the ways thesechere folks bin done.”
“I don’t get it,” said Freddie. “Whether Injuns did this or not, why ain’t there more tracks ‘steada just this one set?”
“Looky chere!” insisted Sparky, who was pointing at some disturbed dirt. Billy and Freddie hurried to him.
“See how the ground is mushed down?” directed Sparky. “I think whoever done this ragged their horse’s hooves to cloud their trail. Em other tracks o’er there, the shod ones, be deep, meanin’ that there fella took off like a bat outta hades. Question is, be it from bein’ ‘fraid, or bein’ mad?”
“Well,” exclaimed Billy, “while ya two figger that out I’m gonna help Jeff dig.”
When Billy reached the cottonwood he saw that Jeff’s cheeks and neck were pale, but his forehead was a steaming red hot. It looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to upchuck in disgust or explode in anger.
“Never seen anything like that, Billy,” Jeff stated without stopping his shovel from stabbing and scooping up the dry land. “Never seen anything like that anywhere.”
The other two Rangers helped Jeff and Billy finish the graves and bury the woman and two children, all the while listening to Sparky try to unknot the mystery. They agreed to follow the single set of tracks for a spell. An hour later t
hey wished they hadn’t. Lying next to a small water hole were three dead Apache children, two boys and one girl, all around seven or eight years old. Their throats had been slit and they had been scalped in the same clumsy and crude manner as those back at the farm house. The trail of the single rider continued west.
“Jesus,” muttered Freddie. “What the hell’s goin’ on out here?”
“Keep following the tracks,” Jeff spat.
“Should we bury them kids?” asked Freddie.
“Let ‘em rot,” Jeff coldly stated. “Let their folks find them like we found those white kids.”
“We don’t touch ‘em,” warned Sparky. “Don’t git yer scent on any of ‘em.”
The Rangers left the small, mutilated bodies untouched and continued following the lone, shod tracks. As they crested a hill blanketed in tall grass they spotted a camp by a stream.
“Jicarilla,” noted Sparky. “Can tell by their wickiups.”
The four men, riding side-by-side, Jeff to Billy’s right, slowly descended towards the Indian camp. Before they were even halfway down the high grassy slope, eight braves came galloping out, all armed. They stopped about fifty yards from the Rangers, also lined side-by-side.
“Lemme go it ‘lone,” stated Sparky.
“No fuckin’ way!” declared Jeff as he tightened the grip on Vermillion’s reins.
With a jerk on his mare’s reins Sparky turned directly in front of Vermillion, blocking Jeff’s path. With eyes tight and teeth gritted he ordered, “Haul in yer horns!”
Billy saw Jeff’s eyes tighten. He knew that look well so he quickly shifted Orion to his friend’s right where Jeff’s fancy Colt rested. With cold eyes Jeff leaned towards Sparky, having to look up into the big man’s face.
“I see the slightest twitch from any of them red assholes I’m comin’ down this hill a-smokin’, Sparky. Ya better duck.”
The three Rangers hung back and watched the tall Ranger descend the hill. They didn’t do it because Sparky was in charge. They simply all knew when it came to dealing with Indians, no one was better suited.
“Da go te’,” Sparky called out to the warriors as he raised one hand in the air and purposely zig-zagged his horse down the slope as a sign for a palaver. Billy chuckled to himself when he saw every Indian in that line mumble to one another about this huge man who made his mount look like a colt.
One brave muscled up some courage, spurred his pony a few steps forward, and yelled, “Deeya, deeya!”
Sparky knew that meant “leave,” but he stopped his horse about forty feet from the Indians, climbed off, and slowly walked towards the brave, keeping both hands in the air.
“Da go Te, Da go Te,” the big man repeated.
The brave finally dismounted and walked towards Sparky. While the tall grass was waist high to the Jicarilla, it barely reached Sparky’s knees. The other Rangers could see the whites of the brave’s eyes grow large at the sight of the giant man approaching him. If there was a Goliath in any of his Indian children’s tales, that brave was about to meet him. When the two were only ten feet apart, Sparky tapped his chest.
“Sparks,” he said, his deep voice resonating down the hill and causing the Indian ponies to stir.
“Litso Chinii,” the brave stated loudly, also tapping his chest and trying to not show fear of this large white man, but the quiver in his reply said different.
After several loud sentences the small Apache’s fears subsided enough to allow the two to come within five feet of each other. That also brought their conversation down to a level out of earshot of either group of tense onlookers. The Rangers watched the brave point back towards the camp, then gesture up the hill. Sparky listened and nodded his head. Just like that the palaver was over.
Taking a step backwards, Sparky raised his hand and said, “A-key-yeh!”
The brave took a step backwards, raised his hand and said, “Egogahan!”
The brave climbed back on his pony and the warriors headed back to their camp. Sparky stepped onto his mount and returned to the Rangers.
“Well,” he explained, “it ain’t good. They done got the farmer down there in the camp. Said he came ridin’ in screamin’ and shootin’, kilt a squaw and ‘nother brave afore they could stop ‘im. Said he was all crazy mad killin’ fer no reason. I told Yellow Dog, that was that fella’s name, ‘bout the farm and the woman and chillin. He says they din’t do it. I believe him.”
In a caustic tone Jeff asked, “Why?”
“Paches hate lies. Oh, they might twist the truth a bit, but I could see from the look in that brave’s eyes when I telled ‘im ‘bout the farm and ‘em folks, they din’t do it. Near as I kin figger ‘em farm folks were killed whiles the farmer was away. He comes back, finds ‘em all scalped and dead and figgers ‘em ‘Paches done it. Went crazy and charged into this ‘ere camp.
“What about them Apache kids by the water hole?” Freddie asked.
“Din’t tell Yellow Dog ‘bout ‘em. Jicarilla be very pertec’ive of their chillins. That might’ve riled ‘em so they’d done took it out on us. ‘Sides, that farmer din’t kilt ‘em kids.”
“Who did?” asked Billy.
“Same skunks that kilt ‘em farm folks,” answered Sparky. “It’d take more than some farmer to sneak up on three ‘Pache kids and cut their throats.”
“So what’s gonna happen to the farmer?” asked Jeff.
“Oh, it done happened. They cut off his Johnson and ball sack and let him bleed out.”
“Jesus!” muttered Freddie.
Jeff exploded, “Godless pig-fuckin’ animals! Can’t they just kill a man outright?”
“Killin’s killin’,” responded Sparky. “Makes no never mind how it’s done!”
Jeff gave Sparky a hard look and said, “How about a bullet to the head? Quick and clean!”
Although Sparky had trouble recalling a great many things, Jeff’s feelings towards Indians wasn’t one of them. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with him on a hill overlooking an Apache camp that would soon realize they had three missing children.
“Well,” Sparky said, “anyways ya look at it he’s with his wife and kids now.”
Jeff was livid. “So we’re just gonna let them fuckin’ Injuns get away with killin’ a white man?”
“Yea, we are!” Sparky said forcefully. “We’re gonna ride outta here, alla us!”
Sparky could easily pluck Jeff right out of his saddle, toss him to the ground, and simply sit on him until he cooled down. Billy watched his friend’s tense body wisely ease. But the hate in his eyes didn’t.
Ever the mediator and trying to ease the friction between Sparky and Jeff, Freddie asked, “So who kilt the woman and kids back at the farm?”
“Yer guess is as good as mine,” answered Sparky, pulling his face from Jeff’s and sitting up straight in his saddle. “Below the border ya kin still git five dollars a scalp, ya know! Don’t much matter what color it be.”
Sparky turned his horse towards Nogales. Billy and Freddie followed. Jeff gave one last glare down to the Jicarilla village then spurred Vermillion to join the other Rangers.
March, 1909
Chancing that the restaurante in San Moise was clean enough to not reacquaint him with that rascal Montezuma, Billy downed a sort of hot supper of tamales and rice. After the meal he sat sipping a mug of warm, skunky-smelling Mexican beer, offsetting its bitter taste by sprinkling in some salt and pulling several tokes on his pipe. At the same time he used his finger to trace out a crude map on the dusty table. His years with the Rangers had taught him that the best place to get information about the Mexican police is from the people who hated them the most: the peasants and the Yaquis. If the peasants had a problem, the police were only willing to help them in exchange for food, which they had little enough of already, or some private time with their daughters. The Yaquis had no love for any kind of authority. Unlike the Apache, who were basically roaming hunters, the Yaquis set up permanent villages, even towns. Li
ke the Apache, though, they were fierce warriors. Their enemies had been coming at them for centuries—the Tolmecs, Aztecs, Spanish Conquistadors, Apaches, and now the Mexicans. Since they surrendered to Mexican rule in 1901, 15,000 had been rounded up and sold into slavery on Yucatan plantations. The Yaquis had no love for the Mexicans, especially the Mexican army and police. Since Yaqui country was a hot bed of trouble, Billy hoped General Torres had enough decency in him to plunk Jeff’s killers down in the thick of it.
Recalling some of the towns along the route he figured if he didn’t go straight west towards Yaqui country, but veered in various directions, he could resupply in those towns. Also, by changing directions, Orion might not be so damn cantankerous. One of the black’s more frustrating quirks was that he disliked taking the same trail twice, and especially backtracking. Billy had never known a horse with such a keen sense of direction and such an irritating streak of stubbornness.
He wiped his finger on his vest and studied the crooked trail he had made on the dusty table top. Each change of direction was the location of a town. He knew the names of those towns, but had no idea how to spell them. So for each town he just made a little circle in the dust. He also had no clue of what supplies would be available so it left a pretty big unknown to his plan. But it was still a plan, and he’d concocted it. Just like Jeff would’ve done.
September, 1907
“We’re not gonna just ride in all willy-nilly!” declared Jeff. We don’t know which of those four buildings they’re in, how many there are, or how well armed they are. “I don’t think any of us want to be another ghost in that ghost town.
“Sparky,” taunted Billy, “Go take a look!”
“Kiss yer grandma’s butt!”
“So what’s the plan?” Freddie asked.
Until Jeff Kidder arrived, Billy and Sparky had always considered Freddie as the thinker of the group. After a few assignments with the Ranger from South Dakota, Freddie gladly passed that burden to Jeff. Freddie was the most cautious of the foursome, probably because he had the most to lose: a daughter who lived with his parents. The girl’s mother had died giving her life. That was eight years ago so no one knew Freddie when it happened. Billy assumed it must’ve stung him deep because he won’t visit the whorehouses. He says he wants to “keep himself clean for the next mother of his daughter.” Freddie’s parents owned and operated a very successful dry goods store up in Bisbee. They had hoped their son would join the family business, but Freddie was never content standing behind a counter doling out feed and eggs and clothes. They feared yet respected his decision to become an Arizona Ranger. Along with Billy, Freddie was one of the first to enlist in the Rangers. He was twenty-six and the smallest of their group, standing at just a boot heel over five feet, but he was thick and solid. Billy had nicknamed him “Boulder.”