Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  Looking at the animals and frowning he asked, “Why don’t ya two assholes fix me breakfast sometime?”

  After refilling and replacing the animal’s nose bags he relit his small fire and made his usual strong coffee using the last of his safe water from the one canteen next to him. It helped his head. Then he fried some bacon, enough to bring a few slices to Páayo´ Taaqa.

  “Hey, Three Man,” he called out as he carried the bacon to his neighbor in the kiva that didn’t seem as far away as it did last night. “Can yer belly handle some bacon?”

  Three Man didn’t respond. Billy knew immediately that he was gone. The glow around him had vanished. For a good minute he just stared at the old Indian. He thought about all the fellow would have seen in his long lifetime. He wondered how many battles he had fought and how many children he had made...how many white men he had killed.

  Orion snorted in the distance and Billy figured the animals were finished feeding and needed the bags removed from their noses. They could wait. He sat the bacon aside and covered the body with one of the Indian’s many blankets. He gathered all the belongings surrounding Three Man and placed them atop or tight to his body. Then he turned to the stones.

  Plenty of stones.

  It took about ninety of them altogether. When he was finished he remembered the bacon, which he placed on top of the stones.

  “This here’s to et on yer trip up to them cloud gods.”

  Date unknown

  The fat, jolly policeman was happily stirring the boiling contents of a large iron cauldron suspended over a roaring fire. The tantalizing aroma of the pork and hominy pozole made Billy’s mouth water. The policeman grinned then handed him an empty bowl, inviting him to enjoy the tasty treat. Like a hungry orphan Billy grabbed the bowl and hovered over the contents of the cauldron, awaiting his helping of the stew. The fat man laughed as he churned and mixed the pozole.

  Then Billy saw the arm.

  A man’s forearm with a tattoo of Old Glory was floating and bobbing in the steaming mixture. Repulsed, he stepped back and turned to the policeman whose face had now formed into that of Tomás Amador. Then it melted into the face of Delores Quías, then Moises Alvarez, then Diaz Pasco. Just as it was about to take the shape of the mysterious Victoriano, Billy kissed the ground hard. Flat on his back with the wind knocked from his lungs, stunned and groggy, he realized he had been sleeping in the saddle again. Before he dared to move he ran a quick check for broken bones. The sound of an angry rattlesnake shocked the remainder of his senses back into focus. The wind returned to his lungs. Then a second rattle sounded, followed by a third. Orion had walked right into the middle of a rattlesnake orgy. The horse had managed to buck and leap free of the snakes, but the move had thrown his sleeping rider from the saddle. Billy was spread eagle in the middle of their lusty ritual. He froze everything but his eyes. He peeked left and right, spotting a rattler on each side and just a few feet from his face. Both were coiled, ready to do away with this unwelcomed intruder in their bedroom. The third one was coiled somewhere out of his line of sight. If he rolled either direction they’d strike. If he reached for his weapon they’d strike. If he tried to get up they’d strike. Even if he remained motionless he knew they would soon strike anyway, just for the hell of it. Rattlers are like that.

  Captain whinnied and hee-hawed then stepped right into the middle of the standoff. As the snake to Billy’s left reared back to strike, the mule slammed his heavy hoof down on its head, mashing it into a slimy patty of dirt, blood, brains, and venom. Then the snake on Billy’s right struck, but not at Billy. It flew into the air straight at Captain in an attempt to defend his or her mate. Billy watched the serpent’s riveted underbelly sail a good two feet over his face like it was flying. Captain took a quick step backwards, raised his head, and slammed his teeth down on the soaring serpent, snatching it out of mid air. Dangling right above Billy’s head, the snake twisted and hissed but couldn’t free itself from Captain’s crushing jaws. The mule shook his head violently, snapping the snake’s body up and down and side-to-side. Then he whipped his head to his left and released his jaws. The smashed and broken snake flew into the brush. The third snake seemed to come out of nowhere. It struck the lower part of Captain’s front leg. By that time Billy was up and drawing his Smith & Wesson. He fired and the remaining rattler’s head exploded.

  Captain was limping in fast circles and favoring his bitten leg. It took great effort for Billy to finally get the animal to the ground and lying on its side. He pulled some pipe tobacco from his bag, doused it with water, and squeezed and kneaded until it became a gooey poultice—a remedy he had learned from Feather Yank. He pressed it onto the snake bite. Captain groaned and grunted a soft hee-haw. Billy wrapped a cloth around the bite, securing the mixture to the mule’s leg.

  “Be still now, Cap’n! This’ll draw out some of the poison,” he said softly, stroking the animal’s neck and trying to keep him calm. He knew if Captain decided to get up there was no way in hell he could stop the strong beast from doing so, so he made camp right there in the rattler’s vacated bedroom. He dined on the snake Captain had smashed and the one he had shot. Every few hours he would change the poultice on the mule’s leg, eventually using up an entire canteen of their safe water. It wasn’t a guaranteed remedy, but since Feather Yank suggested it, Billy trusted it. Orion stood and watched, snorting concern over the state of his friend. Fortunately the mule didn’t try to stand. He slept most of the time, which kept the poison from surging through his veins. Soon it would lose its killing powers. The morning of the third day Captain was up and hee-hawing again. That was also when Billy discovered the crushed canteen. The mule had been laying on it. They were now down to three canteens of safe water.

  For Captain’s sake Billy slowed their pace for that one day. Orion would occasionally nudge the mule’s neck with his nose. Captain would shake his head up and down twice assuring his friend that he was going to beat the Reaper. Billy wondered if animals had names for Death, too.

  A slight, prideful smile crossed his face as the town of El Plomo came into view, just in time and right where his dusty table top map said it would be. It was a decent little place and another day of rest would be good for Captain, and his toothache was making a vicious return visit. He was also out of pipe tobacco.

  First he made certain the two animals were stabled and well-fed. He had noticed a barber shop with a sign in the window that said “Dentista.” Reluctantly, he entered the small establishment. The barber was standing at the mirror trimming his nose hair, but immediately turned and dusted off his barber chair.

  “Sí, Señor?” he asked with a grin.

  “Dolor de muela!” explained Billy, pointing to his jaw.

  “Sí, sí, Señor!” the man anxiously said and gestured to the chair. “Sit, por favor!”

  Without wiping his hands of the nose hairs he began probing in Billy’s mouth. After inflicting more pain the man removed his fingers. Billy spat out a few small hairs that had nested on his tongue as the barber tried to explain the situation.

  “Tooth torcído,” the man stated with a gesture of tilting his hand at an angle.

  Too impatient to recognize the word and too frustrated with the come-and-go pain, Billy ordered, “Just pull the goddamn thing!” He mimicked yanking out the tooth. The barber shrugged his shoulders, picked up a pair of pliers, and guided them towards his patient’s wide open mouth. In the nick of time Billy noticed the dried, crusty blood on the end of the tool. “STOP!” he shouted. The barber leapt back in fear. “Ya ain’t stickin’ that dirty thing in my mouth!” He got up and walked out. There were still many towns and barrios ahead of him. Perhaps he’d find a barber with clean pliers and fewer nose hairs. He went straight to the nearest cantina and replenished his flask. After three shots of tequila the toothache dwindled to a tolerable level. He spat out the last of the nose hairs.

  The cantina had three rooms upstairs and they actually allowed a gringo to use one. Not fre
e, of course, but cheap. When he entered the room he realized why. Cockroaches that had been residing there didn’t even bother to scurry for shelter. They just turned and looked at him as if saying, “What the hell are you doing in our room?” A face full of cobwebs gave him a tingling welcome and he immediately thought of the tarantula he had crushed with a rock in the desert, but couldn’t remember how long ago. The room was obviously the former quarters of a resident whore who was likely dead or moved on to more lucrative parts, or fortunate enough to land a husband. Torn and yellowed wallpaper depicting various wildflowers clung desperately to the walls. Soiled doilies covered two small tables on each side of a bed hardly big enough for one, let alone a whore with a customer. A vase of very dead flowers rested on one of the tables. The slightest touch would crumble them to dust. On the other was a cracked and empty water bowl. No pitcher. The bed’s thin mattress was stained and still carried the odors of hundreds of lusty encounters. He tossed it on the floor, spread his own bedroll across the leather straps, and stretched out his saddle sore body. He stared up at the roof and tried to recall the last one he had over his head. Before he could remember he was fast asleep.

  The next morning Captain was steady and ready to travel. The blacksmith told Billy of a fresh water spring a short distance to the southwest of the small town, so he was able to get his safe water supply back up to his remaining four canteens. The smithy also sold him an ample supply of oats for the animals at a fair price. As far as his own sustenance, it was mule deer jerky, beans, and tortilla shells again, but he did manage to get his hands on a goodly amount of turnip greens to help keep his bowels flowing. He also replenished his pipe tobacco supply. It wasn’t maple flavored, but would do. Thankfully the toothache had performed another of its vanishing acts. He recalled other ones he had suffered over the years. None would come and go like this one. They’d arrive and torture him until vanquished. It was like this toothache was purposefully tormenting him. His mother’s words returned: “I praise good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. I reject all bad thoughts, bad words, and bad deeds.” He wondered if he was being punished because his deed wasn’t good. But it was. He was dealing justice to men who had escaped it and deserved it. That is the job of a Peace Officer.

  “No,” he said aloud. “My deed ain’t bad. It’s justa ‘nother goddamn toothache.”

  The trio went west, then north, then east, then west again. Then south, then north again, veering, twisting, and baking in the sun. The land, the towns, the people, all looking the same, and fresh water was rare as gold. When he could procure a room or shed or tent, and stable the animals, he’d do it, but most of the time his bed was the hard Mexican ground. He’d visit every cantina and whorehouse in every town that offered one. Though the whores looked different, the insides of the houses were all the same, and smelled the same. There was a bar, a few tables, a couple of time-worn-moth-eaten parlor chairs filled by whores perched with one leg draped across the arm in an attempt to provoke business. But what fascinated him the most was the same painting of a plump, naked woman lying on her side in every whorehouse that could afford it. How bored that artist must have been painting the same portrait over and over and over, he thought. He wondered if any of the whores ever thought about the woman in the painting. Who was she, why was she posed like that, and why was her painting hung in dozens of whorehouses? Maybe she wasn’t even a whore. Maybe she was the painter’s wife. But who’d want a naked painting of their wife hanging in whorehouses? To any of the women who would listen, or were sober enough to listen, he’d repeat his mantra: “Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...” None wanted to talk, just take his baggage and his money.

  Date unknown

  There was no way to escape the dancing devils. The ground was too flat, dry, and barren. Several miles ahead and slightly to the north was a small mesa, but he knew they couldn’t reach it before the devils would be on them. The whirling, twisting dust columns thrived on this type of land. They devoured dirt and sand, birthing one-hundred foot high twisting and churning pillars that rose and vanished into a turquoise sky. Billy had never seen this many at one time. It was like every devil across the entire county of Sonora had decided to rendezvous here. There were too many to avoid and they were spread too wide to go around. The sterile land had also made certain there was nothing the threesome could use as protection. Waiting them out was all they could do. The twisters weren’t strong enough to scoop up the world and carry it away like a true Texas tornado, but this many could damage an animal’s eyes, maybe even blind it. He hopped off Orion and pulled his last shirt from the saddlebag. After ripping it into two long strips he bound the eyes of both horse and mule. He pulled his bandana over his face, gripped the animal’s reins, squatted in the dirt, and awaited the attack.

  The dancing devils swarmed on them like the plagues he had heard Bible thumpers preach about in bunkhouses. He held the reins tight to keep the animals from panicking at the dust and noise around them. As fast as they arrived they were whirling off. He surveyed his two partners, then himself, and couldn’t help but laugh. All three were caked in a burnt orange dust. They looked like three rusty statues. He removed the two pieces of his last shirt from their eyes, shook the earth from them, and used them to clean himself off. Both Orion and Captain snorted and shook their heads and bodies creating another flurry of dust and debris. Even as ridiculous as the threesome had appeared, Billy knew the devils had done their damage. The nostrils of both Orion and Captain were caked with orange dirt. Horses and mules can’t breathe from their mouths. If their nostrils weren’t cleared, the dust would mix with their snot and become rock hard, and they’d suffocate. He knew he’d have to use some of their precious supply of safe water. Of the five canteens hanging across Captain’s haunches, only two were still full.

  “Ya ain’t gonna like this,” he said to Orion as he grabbed the side of his bit, forced the animal’s head upward, and quickly poured water into both nostrils.

  Orion jerked backwards and shook his head. Snorting and sneezing the black expelled most of the dust and debris, a lot of it right back on to Billy. He did the same to Captain with the same results. For several minutes the two continued to react to the unpleasant remedy, snorting and shaking their heads. Neither animal would even look at him for the rest of the day. As he was setting up camp that evening, both remained a good twenty feet from him.

  Date unknown

  A high pitched, painful groan coming from some mesquite and granjero bushes to the north stopped the threesome in their tracks. Just as Billy was about to spur the animals onward, figuring it was some type of animal, another high pitched gasp filled his ears. This time it sounded human. Captain’s curiosity, of course, was taking him straight into the high mesquite.

  “Whoa, Cap’n!” Billy ordered. The mule obeyed. If it was a wounded animal in the bushes then its natural instincts would be to attack whatever approached. Billy climbed off Orion. “Ya two stay here! I’ll take a look.” He drew his Smith & Wesson and cautiously entered the thorny granjero bushes. He had heard no other sound since that last gasp, so whatever was in there could’ve gone under. A familiar odor invaded his nostrils, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t the usual smell of death, but had a slight rotting scent to it. He covered his mouth and nose with his bandana. It didn’t help. Beyond the mesquite he saw that the ground was covered with the tracks of unshod Indian ponies and those of shod mounts of men obviously in pursuit. All were moving rapidly to the north. The ground around him was pounded into a hard crusty surface. He figured it was an old trading trail the Apaches were still using for raids into Mexico. From the depth and distance of the tracks the Indians must have been riding like hell to reach the U.S. before the Mexican soldiers or Rurales or Police, or whoever was on their tails could catch them. That led him to believe he’d find a dying Indian pony, shot during the chase. Maybe its rider. Instead, when he parted the bushes he discovered a dead squaw lying on her stomach with several bullet holes
in her back. Shot from her horse, she had landed in the high mesquite along the trail, hiding her body from the pursuers. They must have been close to the raiders because an Apache would not leave a wounded squaw behind. Or perhaps she was at the tail end of the raiding party and none of the other Indians saw her fall.

  She was young. Her head was turned sideways and her eyes and mouth were open and frozen in a hideous death mask of pain and fear. The next sight forced the breath from his lungs and his body recoiled in horror. Her buckskin dress had hiked slightly up above her buttocks and an infant’s leg was protruding from her womb. The ground was still dark from her broken water sack. Now he recalled the rotting smell. He grimaced but couldn’t turn away.

  September, 1883

  “Billy, wake up! I need your help.”

  A sleepy nine-year-old Billy sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “What’s wrong, Pa?”

  “The cow’s birthin’ and it’s breech.” Then Billy noticed the blood on his father’s forearms. “I tried to turn the calf but couldn’t. We gotta pull it out ‘fore it tears up its momma’s innards.”

  With that last statement his pa was out of Billy’s room and headed back to the barn. Billy quickly realized the importance. While there were twenty or thirty goats on their small farm, they only owned one cow and they depended on her milk. He slipped on his trousers and shoes and ran to the barn. When he entered the small structure the smell smacked him in the face.