Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  “Shoot!” exclaimed young Billy, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

  But Cleaver Old didn’t return home that night. The next morning Billy and a few neighbors went looking for him. With Uvalde resting at the southern base of the Texas Hill Country, those hills were the logical place for folks to hunt. That’s where Billy and the neighbors found his mutilated body under a six-foot Mesquite tree, the work of a cougar. Apparently he had tried to hop into the tree to escape the angry cat, but the Mesquite trees in that area didn’t grow to an escapable height.

  “Must’ve been a fair sized cat,” commented Haskin Pike, the Old’s nearest neighbor. “Must a yanked poor Cleaver right outta that tree.”

  When Billy saw the sight he threw himself on top of his father’s body, hysterically pounding on the man’s chest..

  “Why didn’t ya take me with ya?” he screamed through sobs and tears over and over. “I coulda been there! I coulda been there!”

  Haskin Pike grabbed the boy’s flailing arms.

  “Come on, Billy Boy, come on,” Haskin shouted over Billy’s wailing, “ya don’t wanna ‘member him like this.”

  Before Haskin could finally pull the sobbing boy from the mangled body, Billy had ripped the blood stained, hand carved ivory pipe from his father’s pocket. Two other men led him away.

  They buried his father on the land he had worked since he was a boy, alongside his brother Ethan and Billy’s grandparents in the small plot to the north of their home. A dark time followed for him and his ma, who was not a strong woman. The farm was too much for her, so Billy gave up his schooling. A year later Daria Old married that neighbor Haskin Pike. He was a widower with no children and a good man with a kindly spot in his heart for his newly acquired stepson. The addition of the Haskin property doubled the size of both farms, doubled the size of their goat herd, doubled the work, and doubled the stench. Everything everywhere smelled like goats. He had never told his mother about his pa’s pipe. He kept it hidden under his mattress. Late at night he’d pull it out and just sniff in the maple aroma. Not only did it help him fall asleep, it helped stem the smell of goats.

  Over the next three years, each morning became more of a struggle for Billy to rise and face the chores needed to tend the goat herd and work the farm. There were even times when he wished he was back in school. Haskin Pike had to occasionally remind his stepson to not abuse the goats for simply being goats. For his mother’s sake he tried his best to settle into what appeared to be his destiny, but deep inside he knew he wasn’t meant to be a goat herder or a farmer. But what he was meant to be, he had no idea.

  One morning he woke up to the usual clamor of the bells from the goat’s necks. Instead of covering his head with a pillow to drown out the noise he sat up, realizing what he had to do. Daria Old was nursing his second half-sister when he sat down at the table.

  “My brain’s sayin’ I ain’t a farmer, ma. I ain’t no goat herder. I hate them goats. Haskins makin’ enough money from the herd, he can hire some help, so me goin’ won’t be a burden on ya’ll, and ya got the two girls to care for...ya don’t need me ’round to worry ‘bout, too.”

  “You can dislike goats, Billy, but you shouldn’t ever say ya hate anything,” she said in her normal soft voice. “Ya say yer brain’s tellin’ you ya ain’t a farmer, so what’s it tellin’ you ya are?”

  “It ain’t had the courtesy of doin’ that yet.”

  “Don’t you think ya being gone, out of my sight, would make me worry ‘bout ya, too? Even more? Yer only fourteen, Billy.”

  “Almost fifteen, and I’m tall, ma, I can pass fer sixteen and get a job.”

  “Doin’ what? What do you have to offer someone? Goats are what ya know, Billy.”

  “I’ll go somewhere where there ain’t no goats.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “West! A cattle ranch, maybe.”

  Daria Old forced a tearful smile and said, “Ya think goats stink, wait ‘til yer ‘round a herd of cattle.” She stared at her son for a long moment then took his hand, sighed, and said, “But no one can keep a person where they don’t wanna be.”

  October, 1897

  The Dempsey’s bunkhouse door clamored open and shut and Henry Anderson stomped over to Billy’s bunk with a huge grin on his face.

  “I’ma doin’ it, Billy, just like I said I would.”

  “Doin’ what?” asked Billy as he lie on his bunk puffing on his pipe.

  “I done thrown in my hat for the Alamogordo deputy sheriff job. Election’s in two weeks. Ya gonna vote fer me?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Henry,” teased Billy. “Who ya runnin’ agin?”

  “No one! No one else wants the job. I’m a shoe-in! Ya know what that means, don’t ya?”

  “What?”

  “Yer gonna be my deputy. Yer gonna be workin’ fer me.”

  “Whoa, whoa now, Henry! I admire ya fer doin’ it, but I ain’t no...”

  “Ya white liverin’ on me, Billy Old?” Henry asked, leaning down into his friend’s face. “Ya done tol’ me in that fancy ass Las Cruces hotel room that ifin I got to be a sheriff ya’d be my deputy.”

  “I was just funnin’ with ya, Henry. I ne’er thought...”

  “Ya got sumthun agin lawmen, Billy Old?”

  “No, no, it ain’t that. I like lawmen. I just...just...”

  “Just what, goddamn it?”

  “I ain’t got the smarts to be a lawman,” Billy shamefully admitted. “I quit my schoolin’ in the fifth grade.”

  “And I quit mine in the sixth. That makes me a year smarter than ya so I’ll be doin’ the thinkin’ and you’ll be at my right hand. Can’t cut cattle all yer life, Billy boy.”

  About a week before the election a letter from Haskin Pike finally found him. His mother had died six months ago giving birth to their third child, another girl. Too late to even attend her funeral and to give a final goodbye, he got very drunk. Henry’s offer was still bouncing around his head. One soused night in the bunkhouse while staring at the flame in the stove, an empty bottle of cheap rye at his feet and another in his hand, he suddenly blurted out his mother’s words.

  “I praise good thoughts, good words, and good deeds,” he slurred. “I reject all bad thoughts, bad words, and bad deeds.”

  He’d always believed those were good words to live by, and he figured becoming a lawman would’ve pleased her. He accepted Henry’s offer. As soon he was sworn in and pinned on that badge he knew he had made the right decision. He stared at the piece of metal on his vest. He wiped it to a soft glow with his sleeve. Suddenly he was filled with self-respect and confidence. He felt taller, stronger. That little chunk of tin had given him balance and purpose. Billy Old had become a Peace Officer.

  Except for jailing drunken cowboys and breaking up saloon brawls, his close to a year stretch as an Alamogordo deputy was uneventful, until he met Bessie Mae Hampstead. She was a member of the local vaudeville troupe and as wild as a mustang in season. The hot-tempered daughter of a local farmer, she and Billy were night and day, boot heel and horseshit, but moved into a small shed together anyway. Even though they didn’t have a pot to piss in, the baggage handling was the wildest and craziest Billy had ever had. On many a night the walls of the old shack would rattle and shake so loudly they could probably be heard clear back to her daddy’s farm.

  But they also had their dark times. Many nights, long after her show was over, he had to come to the small theatre and drag her out kicking and screaming and calling him names that would make a bullwhacker blush. When she didn’t get her way she’d holler and spit in his face and sabotage his meals with excess salt or pepper or castor oil. Just three months into their volatile cohabitation the young woman put a bullet in his chest. Even though the slug was a horse hair away from putting him under and laid him up for months, he wouldn’t press charges.

  “She done headed out, Billy,” a sorrowful Henry informed him about two weeks into his bed-ridden recovery. “She got hooked up with a tra
velin’ actin’ troupe and headed for parts unknown. Ya should’ve pressed charges, Billy. Least that’d kept her here.”

  Billy lowered his head and softly said, “No one can keep a person where they don’t wanna be.”

  About a week after Henry delivered the news about Betsy, Billy was visited by a trio of grim looking town councilmen. Clarence Hopper was the owner of the largest dry goods store in Alamogordo and second in importance to a Mayor that was rarely sober enough to stand up, let alone lead any type of meeting. Clarence was a decent, no-nonsense fellow from South Carolina.

  “Billy, Henry’s been killed,” Clarence stated flatly in a strong southern accent that he refused to shed.

  Billy was stunned and angered. The first and only words out of his mouth were, “Who did it?”

  “We got the culprit,” exclaimed Clarence. “No need to fret yo’self ‘bout that.”

  Rabbit Taylor was the next councilmen to speak. Believe it or not, contrary to most folk’s opinion of bankers being fat and lazy, Rabbit was far from it. His real name was Randall, but there wasn’t a man in town that could best him in a footrace at the Fourth of July picnic games, so everyone called him Rabbit.

  “We tried to get him to hire ‘nother deputy,” explained Rabbit with genuine remorse. “But he insisted that he could handle trouble ‘lone ‘til you were back on yer feet. He went into the saloon to break up a fight and a drunken cowhand belly shot him. The fella was so close it set Henry’s shirt on fire. Took the poor lad near two days to pass on. We’re gonna hang the sumbitch, though, Billy, don’t ya worry ‘bout that!”

  Billy didn’t say a word.

  “Billy,” added Clarence Hopper as he sat on the foot of the bed, patting Billy’s leg. His Carolina accent was dripping with as much sincerity as he could arouse. “We’re truly sorry ‘bout this, but we had to hire another Deputy Marshal and he’s brought on another deputy. Now, we are gonna cover yo’ medical expenses until y’all are up and better, and we’ll give ya a sev’rance when ya are.”

  Even though he didn’t understand the word “sev’rance,” Billy didn’t say a word.

  After a brief moment of silence, Clarence stood up and said, “Well, sorry it had to turn out like this, Billy. We hope ya understand—for the sake of the town—we had to move on.”

  Billy didn’t say a word.

  As he reached for the door handle, Rabbit said, “Billy, ya take good care a yerself now, ya hear?”

  The third councilman, who had never said a word, threw three words over his shoulder as he left.

  “Git well, Billy,” the man stated with a sad smile.

  Clarence was the last to leave. He stopped at the door, turned to Billy and nodded, then shut the door behind him.

  Billy slammed his fist down on the bed and felt a couple of stitches pop loose in his chest. He told himself he should’ve been there, covering Henry’s back. He cursed his stupidity for ever getting involved with Bessie Mae in the first place. She was the reason he was in this bed. She was why Henry had to go into that saloon alone. She was why he lost the first and only job that made him feel proud, made him feel like he actually mattered. It took a solid two months for him to completely recover from the wound and regain his strength. Too much liquor and too many whores quickly depleted the severance pay from the town council. The Dempsey’s offered him his cow cutting job back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He knew he could still do the job, but just didn’t have the fire. Henry’s death and Bessie Mae’s departure had left a hole in him that he didn’t know how to fill.

  “Remember the Maine,” was the cry on the street. Figuring Cuba was far enough away to help him shake off some bad memories, he joined up. Little did he know about the new memories that war would create. It was also during this time with the Rough Riders that he realized he didn’t miss riding fence. He didn’t miss cutting cattle. He didn’t miss being a hired hand. He didn’t even miss Bessie Mae. He missed being a Peace Officer.

  Cuba was a hot, nasty, mosquito-filled shithole. Although the war hardly lasted long enough to dig enough graves, his unit was stuck there as part of an occupying force until September ’99. The fighting had stopped, but men were still dying of malaria, dysentery, and yellow fever. A few just simply blew out their brains. Finally he and the surviving men he had enlisted with in Texas were put on a boat and shipped to the port of Galveston. In November of that same year they were officially mustered out of the Rough Riders with only a pitiful amount of discharge money and no words that even came close to a thank you.

  Galveston was a pig sty filled with unemployed, maimed, and angry soldiers. Finding a job there was like barking at the knot. He hoped that since crime was wild in the port city, maybe he could land a position as a Peace Officer. He soon found out that the city officials weren’t interested in pinning a star on a former Rough Rider.

  Without the world exploding as many people had predicted, the twentieth century rolled in without a whimper. By March, Billy decided he’d had a gut full of Galveston. It had been twelve years since he left his hometown of Uvalde, Texas. It was close to April, a blooming time back home and a good time for a visit. He could see his mother’s grave, maybe even meet his half sisters. Two days later he was stepping off the train in San Antonio. From there he would buy a horse and make the ride southwest to Uvalde. But at the San Antonio station he was greeted by a poster hanging on the depot wall that read, “Good men wanted in Nogales. Join the soon-to-be-formed Arizona Rangers.”

  “Gimme a ticket for Nogales,” he told the bald agent in the ticket office window.

  Uvalde would have to wait.

  May, 1910

  Billy and John were just finishing lunch at the café when they heard the calliope music coming from the north side of town.

  “Can’t be the circus,” declared John as the two lawmen stepped out of the café, both still toothpick-mining for food remnants. “They come by train and I didn’t get no call from that damn loud contraption.”

  The music stopped and was immediately followed by a crackling, muddled voice speaking through a megaphone. As Billy and John walked north towards the noise, followed by curious town folk, the voice became clearer.

  “Right here in black and white, folks,” blurted the voice. “This is scientific proof from some of the most famous scholars in the world.”

  When Billy and John turned north onto third street they found a crowd already gathered around a medicine wagon parked in front of the Imperial saloon, Naco’s most popular watering hole. Painted across both sides of the wagon in large letters were the words “Doc Lionel Davenport.” A fancy dressed midget in a bowler was scurrying about the crowd handing out newspapers. A natty dressed, gangly fellow with a beard and bushy black hair partially covered by a tall stove pipe hat was perched on top of the wagon, megaphone in hand. He reminded Billy of the tintypes he had seen of Abe Lincoln.

  “Poison gases, friends,” declared Doc Davenport. “That’s right, friends. Poison gases raining down on God’s green earth from that devil comet.”

  Most folks already knew that Hally’s Comet would be flying by around May 19, but they didn’t know about the poisonous gases in the comet’s tail that were going to snuff out all life on the planet.

  “Read for yourself, friends,” shouted Doc as held up a newspaper and continued, “Los Angeles Times...’Doom and gloom coming to earth.’ He replaced that paper with another. ”Phoenix Sun...’Poison in the comets tail will kill all life on earth.’ Tucson Citizen...’Poison air, Poison Air.’ Just read what my assistant Hercules is handing ya, folks! It’s all there in black and white.”

  The crowd mumbled, stirred, and gasped at the news. John grabbed one of the papers from the passing Hercules. Billy couldn’t help but stare at the little man. The only midget he had ever seen was in a circus, and that one was dressed as a clown. He stared at the dwarfs features, watched his wobbling legs scurry through the growing crowd of people, wondered how his thick, stubby fingers could dole out the papers so
rapidly, never dropping one. It took Hercules’ vanishing amongst the legs of the crowd to pull Billy’s attention back to the newspaper.

  “What’s it say, John?”

  “Scientists say the world could be endin’.”

  “No shit?”

  “They think there’s poisonous gas in the tail of Hally’s Comet and we’re all goners.”

  Everyone had just nine days to live...unless they bought Doc Davenport’s patented Comet Poison Protection Pills, of course. For the remainder of the day the wagon stayed put right there in front of the Imperial Saloon. The town came to it in damn near a panic. While Hercules was busy handing out pills and collecting dollar bills, Doc continued to preach death and doom from his wagon. A lot of folks bought the pills, including every whore in the whorehouse, most Naco business owners, many farmers and ranchers, Billy and John, and the congregations of both churches, which all downed the little tablets together during an all night prayer vigil on May 19. Not wanting some strange poison to disrupt his plan, Billy spent an extra dollar for a pill to crumble up in Pasco’s hash.

  Doc and Hercules made a killing. The comet didn’t. Everyone in Naco woke up on the morning of May 20 alive and thankful to be breathing the same air from the day before.

  “Guess them pills worked,” declared Billy as he poured himself a cup of Irene Castle’s weak coffee.

  “Told ya they would,” she stated and continued frying eggs and bacon.

  June, 1910

  The first day of June was hotter than a fart in a glove. John Foster’s noisy Crocker & Curtis electric fan was simply spinning the same air around the stuffy office. Billy decided that the outside heat was better than the inside heat. He was sitting in a rocker in front of the office, smoking his pipe and fanning himself with his hat when four ragged cabróns crossed the bridge from the Mexican side of Naco. One of them was riding an Appaloosa. He sat up. The usual tingle shot up his spine and rested on the back of his neck. This time he got a better look at the quartet: two white men, one black, and one breed. And this time they took a look at him. The star on his chest was reflecting the sunlight. The breed on the last horse held his stare the longest. There were no pigging strings with scalps hanging from their lizzys, so Billy figured they were on their way to one of the peaceful reservations to gather some. Reservation Indians didn’t put up as much of a fight. He watched them turn right off Towner Avenue and onto fourth, which meant they were most likely heading for Fat Frank’s place, an establishment that still welcomed and fed off their kind. John Foster was stealing an afternoon nap in one of the empty cells when Billy shook him.