by Geff Moyer
Billy recalled a night in Quitovac and said, “I hearda that Madero fella.” He also thought of the young bartender and hoped he was staying clear of the fray.
John continued, “Ya ‘member that bandito you were chasin’ a few years back? Uh, Dorotéo Arango?”
“Yeah! Asshole gave us many a hairy chase!”
“He’s even part of the revolution, but he done changed his name to Pancho Villa. Guess he thinks that’ll make up fer all he done afore. Ya don’t wanna go back down there and get caught up in that shit storm.” Then John added with a devious grin, “Iffin that’s where ya been, that is! Stay on as my deputy and we could watch each other’s back, know what I mean?”
Billy knew exactly what he meant. John wanted to keep an eye on him, see that he didn’t go after Pasco. At least on this side of Naco. Billy also knew that when he did go after Pasco, John wouldn’t know a damn thing about it. The last thing he would want to do is have to go through a friend to get to an enemy, especially one as dangerous as John Foster.
“One-hundred-and-seventy-five a month.”
“John, what’s the date?”
“April ten.”
“Still nineteen ten?”
“Yep,” John said, wondering if the Sonora sun had scrambled his friend’s brains.
Mexico had burned away over a year of Billy’s life. A stay-put lawman would mean good food, a warm bed, and whorehouses. Then Jeff’s words flew through his head, “There’s gotta be more to life than food, fire and fuckin’!” Yes, there is, thought Billy—being a Peace Officer.
“Got yerself a deputy, John!”
“Good,” replied Foster and tossed him a tin star. “I think ya know the oath!”
Billy clasped the star in his palm. It felt good. It felt right. The tin was cool in his palm. He started to pin it on but stopped. Attaching it to his soiled Mexican clothing would do it a dishonor. He kept it tightly gripped in his hand.
“There’s a decent boarding house on the high hill to the east. No bedbugs and good food. The old lady who runs it’s named Castle, and she is built like one.”
“What about the barracks at old Fort Naco?” asked Billy. “Wouldn’t there be some room there? They ain’t bad.”
“Army left and they tore the place down. It was fallin’ apart anyways—in worse shape than our barracks back in Nogales. The wood, at least the pieces without termites, was used to build the apothecary down the street.”
“The what?”
“Apothecary! Fancy name fer the drug store and soda shop. They sell medicines, ice cream, stuff like that!”
“Medicines? They got anything fer a toothache?”
“Hell, we got a dentist fer that.”
“Ya mean some four-fingered barber who yanks them out?”
“Nope! A real live dentist from back East. He’s even got one of them ‘lectricy drills.”
“No shit?”
“No shit! Look at this here!” John flipped a switch on a device on his desk. “This here’s my Crocker and Curtis ‘lectricy fan,” he shouted over the noise.
“Purty nice, John,” Billy shouted back, feeling the air blow across his face.
“Told ya, Naco’s changed, Billy! We’re growin’!” He shut off the loud, spinning device. “Wish it weren’t so damn loud. I took it apart and put it back together, too, tryin’ to make it quieter. That telephone, the fan, why do all them new ‘ventions gotta be so noisy?”
“Boardin’ house, huh?” Billy said with a bit of apprehension.
“They even got a bath house with hot and cold runnin’ water,” stated John. “Take advantage of it!” Sensing Billy’s reluctance he asked, “Ya short of cash? I can spot ya a little if....”
“No, no thanks, John. ‘Preciate it, but I got some stoved up. It’s just...well...no barracks, all ‘em folks in the street, a boardin’ house—lotta changes I gotta get my head ‘round!”
“While yer at it git yerself some clothes that ain’t filled with Mexican critters. Haircut and shave’d be fittin’ too.”
Billy chuckled, “I hear ya!”
John was dead right about the barracks at old Fort Naco, but Billy didn’t agree that they were worse than the ones back in Nogales. Baking under the Arizona heat, the roofing shingles in Nogales would dry up and crack. When it rained, they got a shower on their bunks. On cold nights, the walls had splits so wide they’d let in enough breeze to blow off their blankets. The flannel mouths up at the territory seat were keen on paying men to risk their lives and protect their fat asses, but couldn’t give a hoot where those men ate and slept.
February, 1908
It was the smell of rain and a dark grey sky with a rumbling belly that had sent Billy and Jeff to the roof of the old barracks with two hammers, a box of nails, and a burlap bag stuffed with shingles.
“Where is Vermillion?” Billy asked Jeff, as they squatted on the roof repairing potential leaks. “I heard a Yankton and Deadwood, but ain’t ne’er heard of Vermillion.”
“After all these years yer finally asking me that? Why?”
“I don’t know. Just tryin’ to make talk while we fix this shitty roof, I guess.”
“Southeastern corner of the state,” replied Jeff, speaking loudly as he hammered in a fresh shingle. “On a bluff over-lookin’ the Missouri River. Lewis and Clark camped there August twenty-fourth, eighteen four. Shot their first buffalo there. John Audubon stayed there, too.”
“Who?”
“John Audubon. He drew birds.”
“Huh?”
“He drew pictures of birds. Hand me some more nails!”
“Why?”
“Cause I’m out of them! Why’d ya think?”
“No! Why’d that Awd’bon fella draw birds?” Billy slipped Jeff a handful of nails.
“So folks would know the different kinds of birds in America.”
“Folks wanna know that?”
“Sure.”
The fact that someone actually took the time to draw birds amazed Billy. He wondered how the artist got them to stay still long enough to be drawn.
“Did this Awd’bon fella get paid to draw them birds?”
“He put his drawings together in a book and sold copies of it. That’s how he made money.”
“And folks truly spent their money fer that bird book?”
“Just like I did for that goat book, remember?” They both laughed then Jeff continued, “Spirit Mound is right outside Vermillion, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Ya never heard of Spirit Mound?”
“Nope!”
“Bet Sparky has!” remarked Jeff.
“I ain’t Sparky!”
“It’s a sacred place where the Injuns are ‘fraid to go.”
“Why?”
While pounding in another shingle, Jeff said, “Somethin’ about little devils livin’ there. I don’t know. Ask Sparky!” He chuckled with his next statement. “Couple of pals of mine and I used to make Indian Whiskey then sell it to the local Injuns to get drunk on so they’d get brave enough to climb Spirit Mound.”
“What’s Indian Whiskey?”
Jeff stopped pounding and grinned as he explained, “Ya take a barrel of Missouri River water and pour in two gallons of alcohol. Then you toss in a couple of drops of strychnine to make them a little crazy, along with a couple of plugs of tobacco to make ‘em sick. An Injun won’t believe it’s whiskey if it doesn’t make ‘em crazy and sick. Then a few bars of soap to make it foam up at the top, a good half pound of red pepper, stir in some sagebrush and boil it ‘til it turns brown. Strain it into another barrel—Walla!—Indian Whiskey. I tell ya, Billy, the fools loved the stuff! Made a lot of that shit, especially after they killed my friend Richie Fuller. We were hiding in the grass one evening, watchin’ the drunk idiots circle all around that mound, trying to get the guts to climb it. I finally got bored and went home. Richie stayed. Next morning they found his body—stabbed seven times. Apparently they spotted him hidin’ out, watch
in’ them and...well, many a day I wish I would’ve stayed with him...he might still be around if I had.” Jeff went silent for a long moment and Billy saw his friend drift to somewhere far away. “Richie Fuller. Good fella,” Jeff finally continued. “We grew up together, use to swap the latest Dime Novels.” He chuckled at the memory then looked straight at Billy and stated, “Over the next few years I mixed up seven barrels of that shit, one for every stab in Richie’s body. Never killed any Injuns...wanted to...God knows I wanted to...but never could get myself to put in enough strychnine. Until you, he was the best friend I ever had.” He sent a stream of tobacco juice violently sailing off the roof then slammed the hammer down so hard on the next shingle that it splintered.
“Ain’t we gotta ‘nough holes in this roof without ya makin’ more,” Billy joked, hoping to cool his friend’s fiery mettle. He watched his friend stare at the ruined shingle for a moment then toss it aside. Then he gave Billy one of his patented grins exposing his tobacco-stained teeth and grabbed a fresh shingle.
“Okay, now I got one for you.”
“One what?” asked Billy.
“A ‘why are ya asking me that now’ question. Why haven’t you ever told me about the whore who shot you?”
Billy bristled and said, “She weren’t no whore.”
“Oh,” Jeff said softly, hoping he didn’t just light a firecracker. “Sorry.”
“She was a crazy bitch.”
Jeff breathed a sigh of relief, chuckled, and said, “Oh, well, hell, that explains it...’cause it’d take a hellava lot to piss off a whore enough to shoot a fella. They can’t afford to kill off their customers.”
Both laughed. Jeff let loose another stream of tobacco juice which gave Billy a craving. He pulled out his pipe and lit it.
“Don’t catch the roof on fire,” Jeff warned him. “The government would probably charge us for the damage. Up here ‘round all this dry wood it might be a good idea to chaw it, not smoke it.”
“Gives me the hiccups somethun fierce!” answered Billy in a voice that carried over his hammering. “I’ll be careful. ‘Sides, if this worthless hunk of horse shit burnt down maybe we’d get us a decent one.”
“Oh, right!” chided Jeff. “I’m sure that fat ass Henry Ashurst and his cronies would spring for the money to do anything fer us.”
“We sent him that ‘pology letter.”
“I sent him that apology letter!”
“I helped,” Billy claimed with a grin.
“Yeah?” replied Jeff, stopping his pounding and looking at his friend. “Spell apology!”
“Fifth fuckin’ grade,” Billy said with a smile and pounded in another shingle.
The sky rumbled, grunted, and flashed all that day but was only teasing. It squirreled away its treasured moisture. After dinner Freddie said he was feeling lucky and Jeff said he was feeling bored. Jeff knew Freddie wouldn’t visit the whorehouses because of his intentions with his “little dressmaker with the huge udders,” so the two decided to go into town, see the vaudeville show, and play a little poker. With no current assignments, Billy and Sparky perched themselves on the porch of the sort-of-repaired barracks to enjoy a quiet evening. Billy lit his pipe as Sparky cut off a half dollar sized plug of chaw and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Yer pipe ‘minds me a flapjacks soaked in maple syr’p,” Sparky remarked as he sniffed the air, stretched out his long legs, and planted his feet on the porch railing. “My ma made ‘em fer us ev’ry Sunday mornin’. Then she’d tote us off to church. Most time by our ears!”
“Yer ma must be one helluva lady to reach yer ears,” teased Billy.
“She got long arms,” laughed Sparky. “I seen her reach plumb ‘cross the supper table and whack my brother up side his haid and ne’er even lift her fanny outta the chair.”
“Ya went to church, huh!”
“Had to! Pa’d whup us silly iffin we dint. But he ne’er went. Always thunk that twern’t fair—put on shoes and go to church whiles Pa got to rock on the porch. Or go fishin’.”
The distant sound of single gunshot stirred the night air. Billy rose and said, “Where’d that come from?”
Still seated Sparky replied, “Towards town. Pro’bly some drunk.”
Billy listened for a long moment then replied, “No follow up.” He relaxed and sat back down.
“Like I says, pro’bly a drunk.”
“Ain’t no drunks in Nogales,” kidded Billy.
“Ain’t no fleas on hounds either,” replied Sparky.
After another long moment Billy asked, “Ya still a churchgoer, Sparky?”
“Not so much...been meanin’ to though. We used to go to the Presb’terian Church on the east of town, but it burned down some time ago and they ain’t ne’er builded it back, so’s I ain’t been fer awhiles now.” Sparky laughed with his next statement. “Ma always says ‘em damn Catholics pro’bly torched it.” He yawned and stretched his body, surely reaching close to seven feet, then let loose a wad of tobacco spit a good eight feet into the air, over the railing, and onto the dirt, kicking up a decent sized cloud of dust. “Always thought that’d be a good job,” he added.
“What?” asked Billy, a little confused but laughing, “Burnin’ down churches?”
“Kiss yer grandma’s butt! No! Bein’ a pastor. Ya only gotta work one hour a week, on Sundays, and ya jist read from the Good Book. Course, ya gotta knows how to read real good. Ain’t got that one down yet!” Sparky wiped a few droplets of tobacco drool from his chin.
Billy had never set foot in a church, even as a child. His mother’s great grandparents were from Persia and she still practiced Zoroastrianism. He never understood it or could even pronounce it, but would watch her on certain nights praying by the hearth. When he was twelve years old, she finally tried to explain her religion to him and why she always prayed by fire light.
“It brings us closer to our god,” she explained.
Billy wondered if it was the same God other people prayed to, but never asked. His father didn’t cotton to anything about any religion and had little tolerance for those who did. That was why his mother never prayed in front of him. So Billy was left to make up his own mind. Growing up he’d hear his friends repeating their versions of Good Book stories they were told in church, and in almost every bunkhouse there was a Bible thumper ready to bore everyone. So it wasn’t as if he was a stranger to religion, or resented it. He just never had any interest in it. Never felt the need. When he enlisted in the Rough Riders there was a line on the enlistment papers to write in his religion. He simply scribbled “dont no.” Now he told himself if he did set foot in a church it might get him to thinking twice about having to kill someone and give that fellow an advantage. So he stayed clear of them. Jeff wasn’t much of a churchgoer either. He said he preferred a whorehouse to God’s house. He knew what to expect in a whorehouse and never left one feeling guilty.
“Sparky, ya ever heard tell of a place called Spirit Mound up in the Dakotas?”
“The Little People,” Sparky replied in an ominous tone.
“Huh?”
“They’re a buncha little devils that live on that thar mound. Tales say ‘em little folk be fierce fighters and’ll kilt anyone who comes near their mound.”
“Little Devils?”
“Yup! The Omaha and Otoe won’t even go near the place. Claim ‘em little people kilt over three hun’derd warriors and left hund’derds others crippled fer life!”
“No shit?”
“How’d ya hear a the place?”
“Jeff!”
“He been thar?”
“He lived by it, up in Dakota.”
Billy puffed his pipe a few times and Sparky let fly another wad of tobacco juice. A long moment passed.
“Ever hear tell a Indian Whiskey?” Billy asked.
Sparky momentarily stopped chomping his plug and looked at Billy.
“That’s killin’ stuff, Billy. In the ol’ days Frenchy trappers mixed it up to poison off t
he Injuns so they could git all the skins and furs. Bad stuff, Injun Whiskey!” The two sat quietly for a few moments as Billy puffed and Sparky chewed. “Jeff tell ya ‘bout that, too?” he finally asked.
“Yeah!”
Sparky shook his head, spewed out another mouthful of spittle, and said, “Gotta have a powerful lot a hate to mix up that poison.”
Billy took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. “Yeah!” he sighed. “Guess so.” He wasn’t worried about Jeff trying to make Indian Whiskey now, not down here. He knew the Missouri River didn’t run anywhere near Arizona.
“Powerful lotta hate,” Sparky repeated more to himself than to Billy.
Sparky was about as far from a mean person as Billy had ever known, but he heard the disgust in the tall man’s voice with that last statement. He knew Sparky took issue with Jeff’s feelings towards Indians. It wasn’t that Sparky was fond of all Indians he knew or met. The big man just had a warm place in his heart for all people in general. Billy often fretted about that. He had seen many fellows with warm hearts end up in cold boxes.
Sparky’s ears heard it first: two horses slowly approaching the barracks gate. Billy heard it seconds later. Soon both saw the silhouettes of two horses entering the gate, but only one rider. They recognized it as Jeff. A few seconds later they saw the body of Freddie Rankin draped across the saddle of the second horse.
“Someone shot him,” Jeff called out, very distressed.
Billy and Sparky hurried over to the two horses. With Sparky’s long legs, he arrived before Billy was half way across the open area of the barracks.
“No, no, no,” bellowed Sparky. “Not Freddie! Not Freddie!” His eyes filled with tears. For a moment Billy thought the gentle giant was going to collapse.
“The shot just came outta nowhere,” explained Jeff. “Couldn’t even get a bead on where.”
Billy could see the trails of tears that had cut through the dust on Jeff’s face.
“He said he was feelin’ lucky,” Sparky sobbed, gently placing his hand on his friend’s body. “Po’ little guy,” he added with tears rolling down his large face. “I’ll tote him to the hospital.”