by Geff Moyer
“La Bandera,” Billy thought. It was even further south than San Moises where his plan began, and nowhere near the border, and not in Yaqui country. Maybe General Torres did send them far away. Maybe he’ll be following the assholes clear down into Mexico City. As he climbed on Orion he also grumbled over Quías’s response to his question about the mysterious Victoriano.
”Office?” he groused.
He wondered what was this Victoriano fellow, some kind of businessman, banker or store keeper? He had never heard of some lazy “office sitter” throwing themselves into the middle of a gun fight. Unless it was a Peace Officer, Billy didn’t think people in offices even packed guns. He couldn’t make any sense of it.
“It‘d make sense to Jeff!” he shouted aloud in frustration.
Orion snorted in agreement.
“Oh, and I suppose you know someone who has an office, shithead?” he snapped back at the animal and waited for a response. “I didn’t think so. Hell, ya ain’t even got the sense God gave a...” He started to say “horse” than quickly changed it to “goose!”
Angry and confused, he jerked Orion’s curb straps and the two headed southeast for La Bandera.
September, 1904
“I tell ya, fellas, the man who sits in that office is important,” explained Jeff to ears that would rather listen to Freddie’s harmonica playing. “I voted the first time in ninety-six, then again in at the turn of the century. It’s every American’s duty. That’s why I’m takin’ some vacation days and goin’ up to Colorado to vote.”
Arizona was a territory so to vote Jeff had to go to a state. None of the other three Rangers relaxing in the barracks could understand why he’d waste good vacation days making that trip. None of them had ever voted and weren’t about to start now.
Sparky was stretched out on his two mattresses when he said, “Too fer to go.”
Then Freddie taunted Jeff by blowing “Dixie” on his harmonica.
“Everyone should vote, goddamn it,” he chastised his friends. “You don’t want just any fool sittin’ in that office.”
Billy sat up on his bunk. “There’s a goddamn fool in that office now,” he spat. “T.R. weren’t no general and he ain’t no damn President neither.”
“Then go with me and vote against him,” suggested Jeff.
Billy grunted and added, “Only ways he got the job in the first place was ‘cause McKinney got hisself shot by that crazy ass Polock!”
“McKinley,” Jeff corrected his pal.
“It’s ‘cause a that ol’ Injun curse!” said Freddy as he pounded his harmonica in the palm of his hand to remove some lingering spit. “That’s what done it!”
“What Injun curse?” asked Sparky. “Done what?”
“Something about some fella tippin’ o’er a canoe,” added Freddie. “That’s all I can ‘member!” He blew once on his harmonica. Satisfied it was spit free, he slipped it back in his shirt pocket.
Sparky was baffled, as usual. “Some fella got an Injun curse jist fer tippin’ o’er a canoe?”
Jeff sighed and explained, “It was a curse put on Harrison when he was fightin’ at the Battle of Tippecanoe. He whupped Tecumseh and his warriors. Tecumseh’s brother, some asshole Injun they called ‘The Prophet,’ put a curse on Harrison and said every President elected at the same time as Harrison would die. It’s a bunch of bullshit! That’s all!”
“I don’t know, Jeff. Em Injun curses hold some pow’ful medicine,” warned Sparky. “My gramps done lost all his teeth ‘cause a Injun curse.”
“Oh, come on, Sparky!” scoffed Jeff.
“True as a hen lays eggs! My gramps done tol’ me ‘bout it! We be sittin’ on the porch. I was a little shaver...”
“When were you ever little?” Freddie joked.
“Oh, when I was ‘bout six I was yer height now,” said Sparky, flipping the tease right back on his little pal.
Freddie chuckled and said, “Kiss yer grandma’s butt.”
“I asked him what happened to all his teeth, and he tol’ me an Injun done cursed ‘em and they all falt out.”
“All at the same time?” asked Billy.
“That’s jist what I said!” replied Sparky. “Gramps, I says, all at the same time I says, and he says, ‘Oh, no, o’er a spell a forty-some years.’ Can ya believes that? A curse that done hung ‘round fer forty years? Nosireebob! Ya don’t wanna mess with ‘em Injun curses!”
A curious thought struck Freddie so he put a question to Jeff.
“Jeff, ya say this here ‘Prophet’ fella made up the curse when Harrison whupped him in some fight?”
“So the myth goes,” replied Jeff. “But that’s all it is, myth, just another stupid redskin legend!”
“When did Harrison fight in that Injun War and whup that Prophet fella?” prodded Freddie.
Jeff thought for a moment then spoke as if reciting the answer to a test, “Battle of Tippecanoe, eighteen eleven!”
The little man frowned then asked another question.
“What was a Pres’dent doin’ fightin’ in an Injun war?”
“He wasn’t President yet,” answered Jeff.
“So when did he get the job a Pres’dent?”
“Eighteen forty.”
“That when he died?”
Impatiently Jeff replied, “Okay, here it is: Harrison in eighteen forty, Lincoln in eighteen sixty, Garfield in eighteen eighty, McKinley in nineteen hundred. All zeroes! All died! Okay? It was a coincidence! That’s all! There is no goddamn Injun curse!! It’s a buncha bullshit!”
“Now, my cipherin’ ain’t as good as yers, Jeff,” admitted Freddie, “but don’t eighteen eleven come afore eighteen forty? So that there curse was put on Harrison neigh onto thirty years afore he got to be Pres’dent, right? So how’d this here ‘Prophet’ fella even know Harrison was ever gonna be a Pres’dent?”
Jeff stared at Freddie. No words came to his mouth because no answer came to his mind. His harmonica playing friend had brought up a point he’d never considered, and it was so simple. He was embarrassed at his inability to provide an answer. He wondered why that question never occurred to him back in college. Would Professor Temple have had an answer?
After a short period of nothingness, Sparky laughed and said, “Looks like we done stumped the college boy.” With that statement Freddy and Billy joined the mocking laughter.
Flustered, but trying not to laugh along with his friends, Jeff replied, “It’s still bullshit and I’m still gonna go vote, goddamn it!”
“Well, if yer plumb set on makin’ the trip,” stated Billy, “then at least vote agin the damn fool!”
“He has done some good things since he’s been in office, Billy.”
Billy huffed and lit his pipe.
“Like what?” Freddie asked with genuine curiosity.
“Well, the Meat Inspection Act,” Jeff explained, seizing the opportunity to regain his status. “The Pure Food and Drug Act, the...”
“Whoa, whoa now,” exclaimed Sparky. “Chew ‘em words finer. What be ‘em ‘Act’ things?”
“Those two acts,” Jeff explained, “means that it’s safer to buy food without it being contaminated.” The other three men just stared at him. “Poisoned!” he clarified.
Still not quite grasping the content, which was normal for Sparky, he asked, “What kinda fool’d et poison food anyways?”
Then Freddie had a recollection.
“My little girl got real sick from some bad baby food one time that we got in airtights,” he claimed. “They said it was somethin’ in the can that done it.”
“Airtights have sickened a lot of folks over the years,” stated Jeff. “T.R.’s act makes sure the people who make those airtights can’t do that again.” Feeling comfortable that his status had been reclaimed he added, “Nuthun they sell can hurt anyone. It all gets inspected before they can ever sell it. That’s what the person in the office of President can do, should do; protect the people.”
“The only
office that goddamn fool should be sittin’ in is an undertaker’s,” blurted Billy. “He done got enough deaths on his head.” With that last statement he stomped out of the barracks.
Jeff didn’t go to Colorado.
1910
La Bandera was a distance to his rear. Tomás Amador, Delores Quías, and Moises Alvarez were dead. Two to go: Diaz Pasco hopefully awaiting his fate back in Naco, if that gambler was telling him the truth. No reason for him not to. And the mysterious Victoriano perched behind a desk in an office somewhere. Billy figured he’d find a way to make Pasco tell him where that office was. Heading to Naco meant backtracking north. As usual, Orion bitched. Every five minutes for the first hour the plucky horse would try to turn east or west or south. Any direction besides the one from which they had just come. About every five minutes for that first hour Billy would have to yank the black’s curb-strap and remind him of what a shithead he was. Finally, knowing he could get resupplied in Naco, he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the last of his withered carrots. He split it in two with the bigger half going to Orion. It hurt to chew.
“Ya happy now?”
Orion snorted.
“Can we get back to headin’ north now?”
Orion snorted.
“Ya’ll do anythin’ fer a carrot, won’t ya?”
Orion snorted and nodded his head.
“Ya whore!”
It was cold that first night heading to Naco. Even the woolen serape wouldn’t fend off the chill. He reckoned a fire would be too risky if some of Alvarez’s friends were on his trail. If the asshole had any friends. The question of a “man behind a desk” still had him stumped. He wondered if even Jeff could figure that one out. A cold breeze forced him to tighten the blanket around his shoulders. A coyote howled in the distance. He listened to its long lonely bay. For some reason it brought his thoughts back to that gambler. Mexico had long been a haven for ex-patriots, bandits, rapists, murderers, renegade Indians, even former Confederate soldiers who refused to accept defeat. But the gambler’s last statement had been bouncing around Billy’s brain pan all day: “Ain’t much to smile ‘bout ‘round here.”
“That’s the truth,” he muttered to himself.
He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled, the last time something made him laugh or feel good—maybe singing in that alley with Tanok. He was wearing down. He knew how this trek was changing him. He’d always considered himself a carefree man, just another fellow doing his job. Just another Peace Officer. When this was finally over would he be the same Billy Old? Even though he had no legal badge or had taken no oath, he still felt like a Peace Officer. It was in his blood. A Peace Officer was supposed to uphold justice. Isn’t that what he was doing? Upholding justice and bringing it to a few who had escaped it? Sure, he had hardened, but he knew to finish this it was how he had to be. It didn’t necessarily mean he had to stay that way.
“When this is over,” he told himself, “I’ll bring back the old Billy Old.” He chuckled at his words. Orion moved over closer to him, lowered his large head, and nudged him with his nose. “Sorry, Big O,” said Billy as he stroked the stallion’s nose. “Ain’t got no more carrots. We’ll get some in Naco.”
The horse released a frustrated snort but remained close to his friend. Billy sensed Orion‘s uneasiness and began humming “Red River Valley.”
Three days later and only one away from Naco, Billy decided it was safe enough to build a fire and have a hot meal. He tossed the last of his saved bacon lard into the skillet, but before he added his remaining beans, he mixed a few of them in with the last small handful of oats for Orion and slipped on his nosebag. Since horses can’t vomit, he knew the beans would probably make the stallion shit about every mile the next day, but Orion needed nourishment, too. He certainly wasn’t getting any from the barren Sonora ground.
His tooth was almost to the point of unbearable. He had even considered trying to knock it out himself with the butt of his Smith & Wesson, but figured he’d probably end up knocking out the wrong one. Shaking his flask he could tell it was down to only a few sips. Orion snorted and stomped his hooves.
“If you gotta shit already,” Billy told him, “do it downwind.”
Emerging from the darkness as if they had just been born of the earth itself stepped seven Yaquis, all with rifles, and all aimed at Billy. He rose quickly but knew his Smith & Wesson would never leave leather before he would have seven slugs in him. One of the Indians slowly walked into the glow of the fire. In his right hand was a plucked and cleaned quail, ready for roasting. Then Billy noticed the man’s missing left hand.
Tanok handed the quail to Billy and said, “Gracias.”
All seven Yaquis then turned and disappeared into the night shadows as silently as they had come. Relief washed over Billy in a rush. His legs wobbled and his stomach churned. He was about to soil his breeches. He scampered off into the brush before he ruined his last pair of Levi Strauss’. As he squatted behind a bush, hoping a rattler didn’t bite his ass, he realized he didn’t have any paper.
May, 1902
Leaning against the side of an outhouse in the Mexican border town of Los Fresnos, Billy couldn’t help chuckling at Jeff’s exploding bowels inside. Eariler that day the two Rangers had swapped lead with three rustlers. Two were now feeding crows and one got away, but a blood trail said he wouldn’t be long in the saddle. Before they herded the stolen thirty butt-heads back up across the border, they decided to enjoy the favors of the small town.
“I done tol’ ya to not drink the water down here, ya Dakota dummy!” Billy yammered at the outside of the closed privy door.
With a voice that sounded strained and weak, Jeff exclaimed, “The goddamn whore told me it was a shot of tequila.”
“At least it was only a shot and not a full glass,” explained Billy. “Otherwise you’d be stuck in that little shack fer a week.”
Jeff groaned then asked, “Why the hell’d she do that?”
“They like to pull that joke on knotheaded gringos down here fer the first time.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I fergot you was new.”
“Go back there and shoot her for me,” Jeff demanded.
“Nope.”
“Some friend you are!” A guttural eruption shook the outhouse so hard it caused a roof shingle to slide off and strike the ground. “Can ya fetch me some paper,” Jeff grunted from inside the smelly half-moon shack.
“Ya mean there ain’t none in there?”
“Would I ask if there were, goddamn it?”
“Well, seems to me that a smart college fella like you would’ve taken note a that ‘fore he loosed his innards.”
“Billy, yer pissin’ me off!”
Billy patted his pockets then glanced around the ground. “Ain’t got none; don’t see none ‘round.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Use yer bandana.”
“Good thinkin’!”
“Jist don’t put it back ‘round yer neck.”
1910
Naco, Mexico and Naco, Arizona were not old towns. Both were established in 1897 as a border crossing to connect the copper mines on each side. Both had quickly petered out. The Mexican side looked as if it had been baking in the sand for a century. Coming from the south meant Billy would have to pass through it. He could’ve skirted it, but wanted to take another look at Lucheia’s cantina. He paused for a moment in front of the small adobe structure that resembled a hundred others he had visited for the past...how long has it been? He imagined the gunshots as Jeff fought for his life. The empty, riddled water trough still sat rotting in the sun. Could Pasco be in there right now? Could he get this over with right now? No. He had to make a plan to get what he needed out of Pasco—the whereabouts of Victoriano. He also knew that common courtesy says first check in with the local Marshal on the Arizona side. Rangers always did that. Let him know that this stranger in town was not a threat. But he wasn’t a
Ranger. And he was a threat...to Diaz Pasco.
At first no one paid them any mind. The shoulder length hair, beard, and serape and sombrero made him part of the scenery. Then a tall, ugly policeman with a crooked eye noticed the white star on the black stallion’s forehead. Soon four of them had gathered and were glaring at the twosome. Orion blew a contemptuous snort and sent snot in their direction.
“Easy, boy,” Billy said as he patted the horse’s neck.
While they maintained a bold bravado, that twelve foot stretch of bridge that crossed nothing but sand felt like one-hundred-and-twelve. As soon as the black’s hooves left the wooden planks of the bridge, both deeply exhaled. They had entered Arizona Territory. Of course, that decrepit, sun bleached bridge that divided the two countries wouldn’t stop a stray bullet from mysteriously crossing the border and finding its way into Billy’s spine or Orion’s ass. But it was the U.S., and it felt damn good.
To his surprise, they had to dodge several wagons and people as they made their way along the main street of the Arizona side of Naco. He didn’t remember it being this cluttered. It still wasn’t anywhere near the size of Nogales, but had certainly stepped up its energy. He wondered if this, like his Christmas Eve arrival in El Papalote, was some kind of holiday. What holiday? What comes after Christmas? New Years! No, he spent New Year’s in an El Papalote whorehouse. Easter? Is it Independence Day already?
He stopped in front of the Marshal’s office. Saddle sore and badly in need of a bath, he climbed off Orion, hitched him to the post, and walked into the small building. It was a typical Marshal’s office, about ten-by-ten. A large metal door separated the office from the jail cells. A rifle rack dressed the south wall. Under it a small table held a tin coffee pot balanced over a single lump oil burner. A pot-bellied stove rested in a corner and a crank telephone hung on the wall behind and slightly to the left of the desk. To his shock, seated in a swivel chair behind that desk was former Ranger John Foster.