Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  Of course, the curious Captain headed straight for the ruins. At first Billy thought about calling him back, but then figured it could be a good place to camp for the night. First he’d have to chase out the rattlers and scorpions that called it home. The closer they got the more familiar the ruins became. Then he remembered.

  “Chaco Canyon,” he muttered.

  He and his friend Henry Anderson had visited the strange ruins back in New Mexico years ago when both worked for a ranch in Alamogordo. This was a much smaller version of those same types of pueblos, but still the same. He strained his brain trying to remember the name of the Indians who once lived at Chaco, but couldn’t.

  Captain heard the chanting first and it stopped him in his tracks. Orion’s ears twitched upwards when the sound reached them. Billy was the last to hear it, but recognized it immediately—an Indian death chant. Somewhere in those ruins an Indian was dying. Hoping not to interrupt the ritual he led Orion and Captain to a half standing pueblo with walls still high enough to help hide the glow of a fire and keep a respectful distance from where the death chant was coming.

  “We’ll let the fella take his goin’ in peace,” he told the two animals as he stripped them of their burdens and slipped on their nosebags.

  He built a fire, not a big one, but strong enough to cook himself a hot meal. After eating he spread out his bedroll and pulled the ivory pipe from his pocket. Just as he began to light it the chanting stopped.

  “I dream of you, white man,” a graveled voice called from somewhere among the ruins.

  Billy sat up and stiffened as the voice continued.

  “I dream of pony with mark of star gods on head.”

  Billy could hear the age in the voice.

  “I dream star on chest lead you to me. I am too old to come to you but want to see your face.”

  The first thing Billy thought of was a trap. Maybe the old voice had some young pals waiting to collect some coup.

  “I am alone and too old to fight, no fear,” the voice replied, seeming to read Billy’s thoughts.

  “No fight?” Billy finally called out.

  “No fight, Ranger,” replied the old voice.

  “How the hell’d he know...?” Billy mumbled.

  He had his gun drawn and was already creeping towards the voice when it spoke again.

  “If you no come to me I will talk all night so you cannot sleep,” the voice added with a chuckle, “or ‘til I go to cloud gods, if that come first.”

  Billy saw the small glow of the man’s fire first. He peeked around a half decayed pueblo wall and saw the Indian sitting cross-legged on several blankets in the middle of a small kiva, like the ones back in Chaco canyon. It surprised him that he remembered what the shallow pits were called. A painted lance decorated with feathers was standing straight up, stuck in the ground within easy reach of the old man. Encircling him was a carefully arranged gathering of clothing, beads, peace pipes, arrows, an unstrung bow, scalps, knives, tomahawks, necklaces, and a fancy headdress. It was probably everything the old fellow owned.

  Before Billy even came into the man’s view he said, “No pistola, Ranger. Fighting days long gone.”

  Billy stepped into full view of the Indian, but still maintained a safe distance. He knew how dying Indians liked to take a fresh scalp with them to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Through the glow of the small fire Billy could count the cracks and crevasses in the man’s face. He knew this was one salty Indian.

  “What ya doin’ out here ‘lone?” Billy asked.

  “Dying,” answered the Indian.

  “Alone?” Billy asked, glancing around the decaying pueblo walls, still alert for any pals the old Indian might have hidden.

  The man smiled and said, “No one jump at you, Ranger. I face death alone. My people grow weak, run from kachina in death mask. I will pull off mask and spit in face of wearer. I pray wearer is my fourth squaw—mean woman, grow big as bear, hairy, too.”

  Billy couldn’t help but chuckle. “What tribe are ya?” he asked.

  “Hopi.”

  Trusting the man wasn’t a threat and had no hidden pals wanting to count coup, he holstered his Smith & Wesson. “Yer a long way from home,” he stated.

  “I begin here,” explained the old Indian as he raised his thin arms and made a circling gesture. “My people move north from this place, follow star the gods put on Ranger pony. When time to go from this world, I come to place I begin nine hundred moons ago.”

  Billy knew there were twelve moons in a year, but couldn’t handle the ciphering to figure the old man’s age. He took comfort in a frog squat that still allowed him to spring to his feet if necessary.

  “My people say before you die you see all you have done, good and bad—all arrows you shoot, all men tomahawk hit, all horses you have, all women you love.” Then the old Indian grunted and added, “So far, no see shit.”

  Billy chuckled and said, “Yeah, my people say that, too. Seems to me though it’d make a fella happy to see all he’s done, but I ain’t ne’er seen a man die happy.”

  “Man should be happy to go the cloud gods.”

  “Cloud gods, huh? White man ever try to Christian ya?”

  “Try,” the Indian answered with a grin. “Me no mansito. You keep Christian god. Me keep mine. What you call pony?”

  “Orion.”

  The old man smiled and said, “Good name.” He sniffed the air. “You have burro?”

  “Mule.”

  “Smell like strong one.”

  “Try standin’ next to him,” replied Billy with a chuckle that seemed to put both men a little more at ease.

  “What they call you, Ranger?”

  At last Billy sat down in the sand, but still kept a decent stretch between them. “Billy Old. You?”

  “Páayo´ Taaqa...mean Three Man...I fight like three man...long ago, not now. Bones break if I fight now. Thought I die standin’ up, but old bones no let me. Why Ranger Billy Old long way from home, too?”

  “Lookin’ fer some fellas.”

  The old Indian nodded his head in understanding and asked, “How many?”

  “Four. Bad men, bad Mexican police.”

  “I look one time many moons back,” stated Páayo´ Taaqa. “Three bad man. Mexican, too.”

  “Did ya git them?”

  The Indian glanced at his surrounding items then pulled three dark scalps from a pile and held them up with a toothless grin. He placed the scalps back in the exact position they had been resting and reached for a peace pipe. For a moment Billy thought about asking what the men did to warrant being hunted, but since the Indian didn’t pry into the nature of his hunt, he’d let common courtesy stand its ground.

  “Smoke, Ranger Billy Old!” It wasn’t a question.

  Three Man lifted a fancy pipe to his wrinkled lips. It was painted in many colors and featured two eagle feathers hanging from the center of its long stem. After lighting it with a twig from the fire he puffed and pulled several times, taking its contents deep into his lungs. He expelled a long stream of white smoke then ceremoniously offered it to Billy with two hands. Scooting to within arm’s reach, Billy nodded his thanks and took the pipe. After one puff and a deep inhale he realized it wasn’t tobacco.

  “Holy shit, Three Man,” he coughed as he handed the pipe back to Páayo´ Taaqa. “This don’t taste like kinnikinnick. Whatcha got in here?” He coughed again and again.

  The Indian smiled, patted his stomach, and said “Help stop pain here.”

  “I got some jerky if yer hungry,” Billy offered in a raspy voice still trying to clear his lungs.

  “No, no, Ranger Billy Old. No hungry pain...dark demon eat belly...soon no belly...then go to cloud gods.”

  After a few more puffs the man offered the pipe back to Billy. He knew if he refused the offering it would be considered an insult, and even as old and frail as the Indian appeared, he was pretty sure Páayo´ Taaqa could still handle that lance stuck next to him with some deadly speed an
d accuracy. He took another puff and inhaled. It came easier the second time. After a moment he let it slowly drift from his mouth as he handed the pipe back to Three Man. That was when he realized he was grinning, and the grin seemed frozen in place.

  “Good stuff, hey, Ranger Billy Old?” He placed the pipe back in its original position among the many treasures surrounding him.

  Billy blinked his eyes to regain his focus, but it refused to return. The one Hopi had magically turned into three.

  “Uh, ya said ya dreamed of me and Orion?” he asked, the words seeming to echo in his head. He chuckled.

  “Back when know I die, six moons ago,” Three Man explained, “dream last man I see in this world is white man. Thought tricky coyote come into dream and made person white to anger Three Man. But this day I dream of white man with star on chest and pony with star on head. Then you come. My vision...and you come. Cloud gods must want white man to cover me with stone. Still not know why.” The old man glanced around and said with a smile, “Plenty stone here.”

  Billy’s head was spinning and what Three Man had just said made it spin even more.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You...you want me to bury you?”

  “Cover with stone so coyote not eat, then spirit go to cloud gods and make rain for my people.”

  “Ain’t ya got no family or no one to do that?” asked Billy, knowing he could not wait around this abandoned pueblo for the old Injun to finally go under. He had his plan, such as it was.

  “All gone,” replied the Indian. “This one live too long. Maybe that why gods curse me with white man puttin’ on stones.”

  “Look, I’d like to help ya,” Billy had to shake his head to get his eyes rattled back into place, “but I gotta move on first thing in the mornin’.” It took him three tries to finally stand. “What the fuck ya put in that pipe?” The spinning in his head had advanced to somersaults. He wanted to lie down, but was still uncertain of his safety.

  The Indian looked at him with a crooked grin.

  “Okay to sleep, Ranger Billy Old,” Three Man declared. “This Hopi not take scalp in sleep. No honor.”

  As much as his body wanted to accept the man’s invitation, his mind kept returning to Orion and Captain.

  “Gotta get nosebags offa my animals,” he slurred. The sound of his own voice seemed deep and slow and again echoed around his head.

  “Cloud gods call soon, Ranger Billy Old. I sleep now, too.”

  The old Indian lie back on his blanket and closed his eyes. Billy stared at him. He noticed what seemed to be a glow around the old man, but blamed it on whatever the hell was in that pipe. It took a several more moments until he remembered why he stood up: the nosebags. He glanced around to regain his bearings. His head felt like a balloon inflating larger and larger and trying to lift him off his feet and float him away. He chuckled at the sensation, but his voice seemed high pitched like a woman’s. Once again he had to remind himself of the nosebags.

  The journey back to Orion and Captain took very careful maneuvering over broken walls that seemed to quiver when he touched them, almost like they were breathing. Several times he stopped and gently ran his hand across an unusual stone. Each time he did the stone seemed to giggle and tingle beneath his fingertips. It felt good. After what seemed like an hour he finally reached the decaying pueblo where he had left Orion and Captain. At first it frightened him when he saw that their heads had turned a light grey color. Then he recalled the nosebags. He slipped them from their heads and let them drop to the ground. The bedroll lying ten feet away looked like a huge, inviting cushion stuffed with soft feathers. He stumbled over to it and collapsed in a heap.

  April, 1890

  Luckily it was the bottom strand of barbed wire that some fat heifer had pushed loose. Otherwise the arrow would have sunk deep into his spine instead of the fence post. He had squatted to double tack the wire back in place when the wooden shaft made a loud thud a foot above his head. The post vibrated.

  “What the hell,” he gasped, trying to turn and stand but fell back on his haunches.

  Then he heard a sound people out west hadn’t heard for years, one that Billy had never heard: the war whoop of a charging Indian. It reminded him of his crazy uncle who had fought for the Rebs and always screamed out the Texas yell when he was drunk, which was often. But the sight charging at him quickly erased that grating memory. Coming out of the morning sun was a warrior on horseback, riding full tilt straight at him, yelping like a wild animal. At first Billy thought it was joke. Indians don’t do that anymore. Then a second arrow whistled by his left shoulder and thudded into the ground beyond the wire. Still perched in the dirt he drew his gun and fired twice in the air, hoping it would frighten away this cracked-brained or drunk Indian. It didn’t. He kept charging. He veered his mount at the last moment, kicking up dry earth, close enough for Billy to see that his face and chest were covered in war paint. On the run, the Indian looped his pony back towards the lone cowboy with his ass still planted in the dirt. He notched another arrow and came galloping in for a third try. This time he would be close enough to hit meat. Billy reluctantly aimed his gun at the charging horseman, screamed for him to stop, but to no avail. The lunatic was headed straight at him, full speed, bow pulled taut. Billy fired. The Indian spun off his horse backwards and lay on the ground gurgling.

  “What the hell’s wrong with ya, ya fuckin’ knothead?” yelled Billy, as he got up and ran over to the downed man just in time to hear his final death rattle and see the life leave his eyes.

  “There ain’t no damn injun wars no more!”

  He saw the hole in the man’s sternum bubbling and oozing life, and rapidly gathering flies. “Why’d you make me do that?” he screamed. Then he noticed this wasn’t some young brave. It was an old man.

  Henry Anderson came galloping up yelling, “What’s all the shootin’?”

  Billy was standing over the Indian’s body, pale and shaking. At only sixteen years old he had just killed a man.

  Henry leaped off his horse when he spotted the dead Indian. “Not another one,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  “Another what?” Billy asked, his voice nervously breaking into a high pitch.

  “We get three or four a ‘em old Ute warriors ever’ year,” explained Henry. “They get fed up with life on the Rez, paint themselfs up like the ol’ days, chew some peyote, and make a su’cide charge, usually at one a us fence riders. Guess they figger ‘cause we’re mostly ‘lone we make easy pickins. Ya done right by shootin’ him, Billy. He’d a cut ya to pieces. He was aimin’ to meet the Great Spirit with a purty new scalp. Yers!”

  Fighting a sick feeling in his guts Billy stammered, “Should...should we bury him?”

  “Hell, no!” declared Henry. “His pals know what he was doin’. They’ll come find him.” Henry slipped his arms under the Indian’s shoulders. “Grab his feet,” he ordered Billy.

  “Why?”

  “We’ll carry him up to that pine on the hill and lean him agin it.”

  “Why?” asked Billy as he reluctantly grabbed the dead man’s feet.

  As the two carried the Ute up the small hill Henry explained, “Them Utes got some strange things they do with their dead, paintin’ ‘em up, dancing ‘round ‘em, weird shit. If ya bury thisa one it could just piss off the others and we’d have more of ‘em chargin’ at us. Besides, thisa way his pals will see him, and puttin’ him on the ‘tuther side of the tree you won’t have to see him agin case they don’t come and get him. They sat the Indian up against the far side of the pine. “Purfek!” Henry exclaimed. “Now even if they don’t git him, the coyotes need to eat, too.”

  Henry hopped back on his horse and headed towards the west fence line, his responsibility. Henry was from Abilene, Kansas. He liked to tell folks that he was born on the same day Wild Bill Hickok shot his own deputy in that town. Billy had the north fence and Paulo Cacciattore the south. Paulo was the first real foreigner Billy had ever met. It took him a lo
ng spell to understand his patter and get used to hearing so many words end in A. The east was filled with the Dempsey’s ranch house, barn, corral, and bunk house. Billy had been working there for several months.

  His head kept turning back and forth from the pine hiding the dead Indian to the ass end of Henry’s mount which was growing smaller in the distance. As soon he was certain his friend was out of sight he dropped to his knees and discovered how hard it was to sob and upchuck at the same time.

  “Ya done right by shootin’ him, Billy.” Those words echoed in his head for months. Even though he never saw if the Indian was ever collected by his pals, he still saw the dead man almost every night for weeks in his dreams. The corpse would be leaning against that pine, but in each dream it would be more and more decayed. He could see and smell the rotting flesh dripping from the Indian’s body, the hole in his chest layered with maggots. Sometimes he’d wake up and find his pillow and blankets soaked from sweat. Sometimes he’d just wake up crying.

  Date unknown

  Suddenly it was morning. His mouth was as dry as the ground under him. His tongue felt like a thousand tiny boots had stomped across it during the night. His head was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

  “What the fuck was in that pipe?” he groaned and rubbed his forehead.

  To make things even worse, his tooth hurt. Fortunately one of his canteens was next to him, but he didn’t recall putting it there. He guzzled half of it down before remembering he should conserve his safe water. Too late now. Pulling the flask from his vest he took a swig of mescal and allowed it to rest on the angry tooth for as long as the remainder of his mouth could handle the burn, then he spat it into the sand. Orion and Captain were restless, anxiously awaiting their breakfast.