Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  Even looking as grizzly as he did and dressed as he was, Foster immediately recognized his old friend. The man grinned, jumped out of his chair, and extended his hand.

  “Billy Old!” he declared. “How the hell are ya?”

  “John, what the devil ya doin’ here?” asked Billy.

  “They hung a deputy marshal badge on me and stuck me down here ‘bout a year ago,” he answered, gripping Billy’s hand with both of his.

  “Who in the government hates ya?” Billy asked with a grin.

  “Who don’t?” replied John Foster. The Deputy Marshal laughed and pulled a bottle of good whiskey along with two glasses from a desk drawer. “Ya look like you could use this.”

  It felt good to not only see a friendly face, but also a familiar one—one that had no hate in its eyes and could speak English, which had almost become foreign to his ears. And one that he could safely turn his back on. John Foster was also at Jeff’s deathbed. This made him privy to the same story as Billy. John knew the names...“Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...”

  “What’s with all them folks in town, John? Some kinda holiday? Last time I was here this place was hardly bigger than a rabbit turd.”

  “Growth, Billy. Gettin’ a lot of hay shakers and ranchers ‘round here. Hell, we even got telephones.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit!” Foster pointed to the contraption hanging on the wall. “Wanna call somebody?”

  “Don’t know who that’d be, John!”

  “Whatta ‘bout Anna?”

  “She left me a short time after Jeff went under,” explained Billy, not wanting to make eye contact with his old friend. “Two years was all she could handle with bein’ a Ranger’s wife. Took my boys and moved back to Kelvin.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Billy.” John replied with great sincerity. “She’s a good woman.”

  “Yeah, that’s why she shed herself of me,” Billy sternly declared, hoping it would close the subject. And it did. Foster poured two shots of the good whiskey, then gestured at the crank phone on the wall.

  “I hate when that goddamn thing rings,” he declared. “Bout scares the shit outta me ev’ry time. I’ve took it apart and put it back together twice now to see if I could calm the clatter, but can’t seem to figger the damn thing out.”

  Billy recalled how John liked to tinker. He was always taking his weapons apart and putting them back together. He’d clean them even when they didn’t need it. The man had a natural curiosity for how things were made and worked.

  “Gotta admit though it’s come in handy a few times,” the Deputy Marshal continued. “If some bad ass is on his way to town I sometimes know ‘fore he gets ‘ere.”

  “That’s a good thing!”

  “Yeah, yeah, it is!” agreed John Foster. “Now and then I even getta phone call up from Mexico. Matter-a-fact got one just yesterday.” With a sly smirk John added, “Word has it that Amador and Quías are worm meat.”

  Apparently the telephone hadn’t heard about Alvarez yet, but Billy knew John Foster well enough to know where this conversation was going.

  “That the word, huh?” Billy casually remarked, then downed the shot of liquor. He grimaced slightly as the strong beverage burned his insides. It was a good burn though. The best he’d had since he and Tanok drained his flask of the “good stuff” back in that El Papalote alley.

  “Yeah, it is!” the deputy replied, casting a keen eye on Billy, but still maintaining an indifferent tone. “Amazin’ how the word spreads, ain’t it, Billy?”

  “Amazin’, John.”

  “Even out in the desert,” he added. “Ya think maybe the wind blows it up from the South?”

  “I thought the telephone brung it,” replied Billy as he smiled and helped himself to another shot of the very good whiskey.

  John stared at his friend for a moment over the tip of his still full shot glass.

  “Word is some gringo’s been roamin’ around Sonora like an avengin’ angel. He downed the shot in one smooth gulp.

  “Sure a lot of words goin’ ‘round, John!”

  Then the conversation went precisely where Billy knew it would.

  “I ain’t gonna allow no killin’ on this side of Naco, Billy.”

  Billy started to pour himself another shot but figured if he did, he’d have to lie down. It’s been too long since he put that good of whiskey into such an empty gullet. He pushed the cork back into the bottle.

  “Didn’t even cross my mind, John,” he lied.

  “Well, then I hope what I’m gonna show ya ain’t gonna change yer mind.” John Foster picked up his cell keys and said, “Come with me.”

  Billy followed the Deputy Marshal as he unlocked the heavy door to the cell area. Its rusty hinges emitted a screech that sounded like a hog being butchered. John grinned devilishly and gestured towards the hinges.

  “I like to keep ‘em thatta way. Sometimes I open and close the door a few times in the middle of the night just to listen to my company bitch.”

  “Ya devil you,” said Billy with a big smile.

  “Hell, it’s a jail, not a damn rest home. Only got one fella in here right now, but ya might recall him.”

  They passed two empty cells. Each had a bunk bed, one sink, and one toilet bucket. What was in the third and last cell about made Billy dance a jig. There in the bottom bunk, flat on his back, sound asleep was Diaz Pasco. He was littler than Billy remembered. His feet didn’t even reach the end of the short bed, and he was perfectly positioned for a quick throat slitting.

  “He showed up back in Naco ‘bout a month ago,” explained John. “Wasn’t here two weeks ‘fore he crossed the bridge and landed himself a ninety day sentence for drunken disorderly and strikin’ a peace officer.”

  Billy looked at John Foster.

  “No, it weren’t me he hit. My former deputy. I woulda hit him back...whole buncha times!”

  Pasco stirred and rolled over.

  “When’s he get sprung?” Billy asked with his eyes fixed on the sleeping man.

  “Now, Billy,” said John with a grin, “the fact that ya asked that question tells me ya mighta already done changed yer mind.”

  John Foster left the Rangers right after Jeff’s murder. The two had become good friends. Not as close as Jeff and Billy, but close enough for John to be just as angry over the half-assed investigation that led to no arrests. But that wasn’t why he left the Rangers. He switched over to the local lawman side because all the traveling with being a Ranger angered his hip, which was injured in a showdown straight out of the Dime Novels while he was still a Ranger. It happened in the streets of Nogales. The three Tragship brothers had just killed Sheriff Donny Austin. Since the law was gone they decided to smoke up the whole damn town in a drunken rampage. They didn’t know that an Arizona Ranger was in the barber shop at the time. John heard the shots, ran outside with lather still covering his face and found his friend Donny lying in the street. The brothers had stood over the dead sheriff pumping bullet after bullet into his head until there was no more head. John removed his vest and covered the mash that what was once Donny’s face. Outraged, he dashed over to the sheriff’s office and grabbed a pump-action twelve gauge. Outside in the street were five more bodies, one of them a woman, along with a couple of horses and an unknown number of dogs. John knew he’d have to get close enough for the street howitzer to be effective, so he waited alongside a building until the killers boldly walked by. With no fear for his own life he stepped into full view and calmly said, “Hi, boys!” When he told the story he claimed he owed his life to the shaving lather.

  “Em Tragship boys were so shocked at seein’ a lather-faced fella, they froze,” he’d explain with a chuckle.” “I think they done thought I was some crazy, rabid knothead, but that split second gave me the advantage.”

  He took an arm off one, the face off another, and sent the third to hell. One Tragship bullet managed to hit him in the hip and left him with a limp, but not
enough to keep him from being a lawman only a lump-brained jackass would dare to rile. Since local lawman only had to protect one small territory, sometimes just within the city limits of a town, John appeased his hip by leaving the Rangers and becoming a Peace Officer. Somehow, someway, he ended up down in this shithole of a border town. The only thing that kept him from putting a bullet between Pasco’s eyes was the oath he had taken as a lawman.

  Having been both a local lawman and a Ranger, Billy felt the former was a bit less taxing. Not that he’d ever say that to John. He knew the damage that bullet had done to his friend’s hip so he didn’t blame John for making the switch. A Ranger’s assignment could keep him in the saddle for days, if not weeks, and sleeping on cold, rocky ground. One bite from a scorpion or a rattler could put a lone man under so Rangers usually traveled in pairs. Many times those Rangers were teamed up with Indian trackers.

  January, 1908

  Resting just eleven miles north of the border and only a few miles northwest of Nogales, Arivaca had always been a hotbed of illegal border crossings and gunrunning. Captain Wheeler had gotten wind of a wagon load of stolen guns from the Mexican Army was heading north through that area. How Wheeler got that information, no one knew or dared to ask. The wily old captain always seemed to know things that others couldn’t even have guessed. And one thing every Ranger knew was never question the captain’s orders. But that didn’t stop a hotheaded Jeff Kidder from opening his mouth.

  “Why the hell are you teamin’ me up with that fuckin’ Pima, Cap’n?” Jeff demanded. “Why not Billy or Freddie?”

  Wheeler’s eyes tightened, but he decided to give his Ranger one more chance to back off. He calmly answered, “This assignment needs a good tracker.”

  Not reigning in his tone, Jeff spouted back, “Then team me up with Sparky, goddamn it, not that fuckin’ fool who couldn’t even get us the right information ‘bout Trigger Point!”

  “Did Feather Yank start that fire?”

  “Smokin’ them rustlers out was the best way to handle that situation. We were blind ‘cause the lazy fucker didn’t hang ‘round long enough to...”

  The captain rose quickly. “That ‘lazy fucker’ and I been friends for twenty years,’ he fired at Kidder, “clear back to when we was with Crook chasin’ down that shitbird Geronimo. He can track a scorpion ‘cross a flat rock. He keeps his mouth shut and I trust him with my life.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Jeff fired right back. “But why the hell do ya spect me to trust the fucker with mine?”

  Wheeler leaned into Jeff’s face. “Ya don’t know shit, Kidder!” he declared. “Ya got all that college learnin’ and ya don’t shit! Lemme tell you something ‘bout the Pima. In all their history they never attacked no white settlers. Fact is they actually helped ‘em. They’re a decent, good people with a proud heritage. You’re goin’ with Feather Yank! Now git yer finger outta yer ass and git yer gear! I’m done talkin’ to ya!”

  The tough captain didn’t turn away from Jeff’s face. He held his gaze until the Ranger clicked his heels in a steamed turn and stomped out of the office.

  Normally whenever Wheeler assigned a Ranger to a duty with Feather Yank he would tell the story of how the Pima got his name, but Jeff had put a burr so far up the captain’s ass he didn’t bother. It was a funny tale—to everyone except Feather Yank’s uncle, the tribal Medicine Man. When he was two-years-old and yet to be named, the toddler crawled into his uncle’s tepee and yanked every feather out of one of his ceremonial headdresses, about one-hundred-and-fifty eagle feathers. His uncle was ready to skin the boy until Feather Yank’s mother told her brother he was stupid for leaving the headdress within reach of a child. Then she reminded him that he had three lazy squaws who needed something to do besides give him babies and baths. Let them put the headdress back together, she told him. From that day on, much to the chagrin of his Uncle, the boy was known as Feather Yank.

  Sparky and Billy were sitting on the porch of the barracks when Jeff stormed past them, threw open the door, and entered the building without saying a word.

  “What’s he all horns and rattles ‘bout?” asked Sparky, letting a wad of tobacco spittle spew out into the dirt.

  Before Billy could even rise Jeff kicked the door back open and started towards the corral toting his bedroll.

  “Jeff, what’s goin’ on?” inquired Billy.

  Without even glancing at his two friends Jeff groused, “Wheeler teamed me up with that fuckin’ Pima.”

  “Kiss my grandma’s butt,” exclaimed Sparky. “What’s the Cap’n thinkin’?”

  Feather Yank was standing in the corral feeding his Paint a carrot. Jeff dropped his bedroll and began walking to the Indian. Rising, Billy and Sparky froze their eyes on the encounter, ready to jump to action. Even though the Pima dressed like a white man, in long breeches and a twill shirt, he refused to abandon his moccasins, long hair, and fancy necklace of over a hundred large colored beads of red, white, and blue. The colors were not for the sake of Ol’ Glory. Each one had its own sacred meaning to his people. In the center of the necklace was a medallion with the figure of a man playing a flute.

  “Feather Yank,” Jeff shouted before he even reached the man.

  Sensing the Ranger’s hostility and not bothering to turn toward the approaching man the Pima said, “Whatchu want, Jeff Kidder?”

  “Look at me, goddamn it! I wanna talk to ya.”

  Feather Yank turned to face Jeff. Knowing their friend’s temperament, Billy and Sparky decided to head towards the corral. The Pima and the Ranger stood toe-to-toe, almost the exact same heights, both primed and ready to lock horns. Although Jeff had at least fifteen pounds on the lean Indian, Feather Yank had twenty more years of killing under his belt.

  “When ya scouted those rustlers at Trigger Point what’d ya see?”

  “Cattle,” Feather Yank coldly replied.

  “No shit! What the hell else?”

  “Small fire with branding stick.”

  “No people?”

  “People?”

  “Yeah! Ya know, those things that walk ‘round on two legs?

  “No people,” the Indian replied with a snort and turned back to his Paint.

  “How long’d ya eyeball the place? Look at me, goddamn ya!”

  The Indian slowly turned to Kidder. His eyes were formed into two narrow slits. “Why you ask, Jeff Kidder?”

  “Cause a woman and children were there!”

  “You kill?”

  “Yeah, goddamn it! We kill!”

  “Many woman and children killed out here, Jeff Kidder,” the Indian started to again turn away.

  Jeff grabbed Feather Yank’s shirt and pulled the Indian towards him. They were eye-to-eye and all four eyes were blazing red.

  “Hey, fellas,” Sparky called out as he and Billy hurried to the corral.

  “Not by me, goddamn it,” Jeff snarled. “Maybe if you’d have scouted better they wouldn’t...”

  Jeff’s words were cut short by the recognizable sharp side of a knife blade pressing against his belly. He looked down and saw the large weapon in the Pima’s hand. He knew the strong Indian could quickly slice him clean through to his backbone.

  “No grab Feather Yank, Jeff Kidder,” hissed the Indian, his eyes steely and cold.

  Jeff released the shirt and stepped back, his hand on his Colt.

  “Jeff!” Billy yelled as he entered the corral.

  “He pulled a knife on me, Billy! The fuckin’ injun pulled a knife on me!”

  Sparky’s long legs brought him to Jeff before Billy could get there. He squared up his six-foot-ten-inch frame directly in front of Kidder.

  “Fer a college boy ya ain’t none too smart!” declared Sparky. “Don’t ne’er pull an Injun up close to ya!”

  “That’s twice today I’ve been told I ain’t smart, Sparky and I don’t like it.” He tried to shoulder his way past Sparky but the big man stepped from side-to-side blocking any further foolish action J
eff might be pondering. “Get outta my way, Sparky!”

  “Too much hate in yer eyes right now, Jeff. Ain’t gonna do it!”

  Kidder backed away from Sparky and squared his body for a confrontation.

  “Ya gonna pull on me, Jeff?” asked Sparky.

  “No Injun’s gonna press a blade to my belly!”

  In one quick stride Sparky was chest-to-chest with Jeff. With huge hands he grasped Jeff’s shirt and lifted him a good foot off the ground. Billy saw the shocked expression on his friend’s face. Apparently he had no idea of Sparky’s real strength.

  “That gonna make ya famous?” Sparky growled, their noses almost touching.

  Jeff could smell the tobacco juice in Sparky’s mouth and feel his legs helplessly dangling in the air. Then as fast as he was lifted, his feet were back on the ground, and he found himself stumbling backwards.

  “Chief Wheeler say find stolen cattle,” Feather Yank blurted. “I find stolen cattle, go back and tell him. Job done!” He sheathed the knife. “Always do what Chief Wheeler say.” After the last statement the Pima climbed on his Paint. “We go now, Jeff Kidder!”

  Again Sparky leaned into Jeff’s face. “They be a simple people, Jeff,” he hissed. “Ya tell ‘em go get wood, they do it, but they ain’t gonna jist build a fire without ya tellin’ ‘em that, too.”

  Sparky’s homespun explanation was like someone had lit a candle in a dark room. Billy saw it in his friend’s eyes. Jeff glanced at Feather Yank, then back at Sparky. The latter’s words actually sunk into the stubborn South Dakotan’s head. He recalled the Arikara tribe near his hometown. They were peaceful Indians, but dumb as dirt, or so he thought. He recalled telling one of them who was working on his folk’s farm to take a bucket down to the creek. Fifteen minutes later the Indian had not returned, so Jeff went looking for him. The Indian was just standing by the creek with the bucket in his hand.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked the Arikara.

  “Take bucket to creek,” the man answered.