Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  Billy was stunned. Did he hear right, or did the Indian misunderstand him? “Ya hear? Ya hear? What he hell ya mean ya hear?” He got up so fast it made his head spin and sent a shot of pain through his ribs and hand all at the same time. He collapsed back to his knees, but anger overpowered the pain as he spat out his next words. “Ifin ya were close enough to hear why didn’t ya step in and save me a finger?”

  “Four bad men, one Feather Yank, ten Billy Old fingers—I no dumb Injun!”

  “They took my goddamn finger!”

  Feather Yank quickly stood up and stomped over to a blood-stained flat rock mostly embedded in the dirt. He bent over, picked something up, and crossed to Billy.

  “Here!” He tossed Billy’s little finger to the ground in front of him. “They no take!” He returned to cooking the trout.

  Billy stared at the shriveled object at his feet. It looked like a dried-up dog turd. He wondered if he should save it.

  “Put on necklace and wear,” suggested the Indian. “Then no lost!”

  Billy picked up his little finger and tried to wipe off the caked blood and dirt then realized how silly that was. “Where was ya hidin’ when they did this?” he asked the Indian as he held up his severed finger.

  “In tree!” Feather Yank turned and pointed out a thick pine about half way between the camp and the clump of trees where Billy had tethered Orion. “Too far to help Billy Old keep finger. Dark best for throat cut. Do Jack first, then black skinned man. Brothers big sleepers, do last!” Using a stick he shuffled and rearranged the hot coals around the trout.

  “Ya been trailin’ them fer two months, ya say?”

  “Sí!”

  “Did ya know I was trailin’ them, too?”

  “You make many noise!”

  “Yeah, ya said that!”

  Billy tried to rise but the pain in his ribs was actually worse than that in his hand. He groaned and clutched his side then layed back flat on the ground. Feather Yank studied him for a moment.

  “Watch fish!” he ordered. Billy wondered how the hell he was going to do that when he could hardly stand. Feather Yank walked down to the river, scooped up a handful of mud, and carried it back to where Billy was laying. “Lift shirt!” he said. Billy did, with great difficulty. The Pima smeared the cool mud across his rib cage. “Let dry!” He returned to the fire and prodding at the trout.

  The mud felt good. Very good! It reminded him of the healing moss. But it didn’t quell his frustration.

  “How long ya known I been trailin’ them?” he asked. “How long ya been back there watchin’ me watchin’ them?”

  “Billy Old make...”

  “Many noise, yeah I know! How long, ya goddamn shifty Pima?”

  “Hour after you leave Naco,” Feather Yank replied with a chortle.

  “Hour? Hour?” Billy bellowed. “Then why the hell didn’t ya join up with me; might still have my damn finger?”

  Feather Yank pointed at the little finger still in Billy’s hand and said, “Do still have damn finger!”

  “You know what I mean, goddamn ya!”

  Feather Yank looked straight at Billy and grinned. “They catch you they slow down to have fun with you...not so slip’ry...then I catch them.”

  Billy’s jaw dropped. “Ya sumbitch!” he gasped. “Ya used me as bait! Oh, that’s low down, Feather Yank, even for a damn Injun.”

  “Fish done!”

  The Rainbows were delicious. Even though chewing them sent sharp pains through Billy’s cheekbones and second broken nose, he devoured every part of it. He groaned in disgust as he watched the Indian suck out their eyeballs.

  “Best part,” declared the Pima with a big smile.

  Feather Yank retrieved Billy’s shoulder holster and .45, along with his Smith & Wesson which was lying next to Willie’s body. He placed them in Billy’s lap. Then he stripped the four scalp hunters of their clothing, belongings, and weapons. Billy said nothing. He just watched the Pima gather the riches of his hunt, knowing they would be distributed among his people. With his bounty loaded, Feather Yank helped Billy mount Orion. Then the Indian turned his horse to the west and Billy turned Orion southeast for Naco. He left his severed digit by Willy Shoso’s bare feet as a tasty appetizer for whatever might come along to dine on the unburied lot.

  As he began to ride away the Pima shouted over his shoulder, “Goodbye, Billy Old.”

  It stopped Billy in his tracks. He had parted company with the Indian many times over the past five or six years and this was the first time he had ever heard him say goodbye. It made him wonder if the stories were true: did the Pima see the future? Now, along with every inch of his body, his heart was hurting, too. He watched the old fellow ride away.

  When John Foster heard Billy’s story and how Feather Yank had used him as bait, he laughed so hard he almost pissed his pants. Figuring he could at least get some much needed sympathy at the whorehouse he walked in to the parlor. The moment Henrietta spotted him she started laughing and said his enlarged nose and black eyes made him look like a raccoon. Abbie came in and just added insult to injury.

  “I think I once skinned somethun that looked like ya,” she said with a laugh.

  At least Irene Castle was sympathetic to his plight. She wrapped his rib cage tightly with a long stretch of cloth, slapped two cuts of beef on his eyes, and kept him on her sofa for the rest of the day without a drop of whiskey—which was really the worst of the insults. Every day for a week she cleaned and doctored his hand and pampered him until she was certain her favorite boarder wasn’t getting blood poison or gangrene.

  “Ya’d think a fella’d get extry pay fer losin’ a finger!” Billy complained to John Foster everyday for about two weeks. Truth is after a short time of being minus the little digit he didn’t even miss it, except when it came to cupping his hand on Henrietta’s breasts. The missing left little finger allowed a bit of her right tit to elude his grip. He could live with that. He also found the missing finger had no effect on his shooting skills, especially the one he was still honing.

  The deserted shack he discovered northwest of town belonged to an old prospector who went out searching for silver and never returned. That was seven years ago, so he was either living rich or in a buzzard’s belly. The shack wasn’t livable, except for spiders, rats, lizards and snakes, but the well pump still worked so he had water. A small, half-collapsed lean-to provided shade for Orion while he practiced his marksmanship. Every day over the next several weeks he made time to spend sixty-minutes there. Thirty were for honing his skill with his new Winchester 1895 Second Model Sporting Rifle with the Malcolm Model #3 hunting scope. The other thirty were spent slowly digging a hole. At the end of his self-training course, he could split a pea pod at seventy-five yards and had dug a hole a little over five feet deep.

  June 17, 1910

  Twenty-two days and Pasco would be sprung.

  John hadn’t arrived yet so Billy was alone in the office. Over the past seven weeks he’d come to enjoy sitting in John’s swivel chair and putting his feet up on the desk. It felt good. As he relaxed, leaned back and put his arms behind his head he smiled to himself.

  “Wonder if I could get used to this?”

  Then the ringing telephone shattered the quiet room and made his ears want to fold into his skull. He flung his feet off the desk causing the chair and him to spin and topple backwards. Now he knew why John said the damn thing scares the hell out of him. This was only the second time he had heard it ring. The first time he was back by Pasco’s cell reminding the fellow of his upcoming planting, so he didn’t get the full grating impact of the loud contraption until now. He lifted and placed the listening piece to his ear then softly spoke into the horn in front.

  “Hello?” There was a stretch of silence until he repeated himself a little louder. “Hello?”

  “John?” a voice came plowing into his ear.

  Billy moved the listening cone a little further away from his now throbbing ear and replied, �
��Uh, no! He ain’t here yet!”

  “To whom am I speaking?” asked the loud voice from somewhere deep inside the contraption.

  “I’m the deputy.”

  “This is former State Representative Henry Ashurst. Can you pass along a message to Marshal Foster, Deputy, uh, Deputy....?”

  Feeling it wise to fib, Billy answered, “Smith. William Smith, sir.”

  “Are you capable of passing along a message, Deputy Smith?”

  “Yeah, yessir, I’m cap’ble.”

  “Okay, listen carefully, Deputy. First, tell John that yesterday the U.S. Senate approved a bill to make Arizona and New Mexico the next two states. You got that?”

  “Arizona and New Mexico are gonna be states.”

  “Now this next part is very important. You listening?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Tell him Henry said,” then in a childish voice Ashurst chanted, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! Told ya so! Got that, Deputy Smith?”

  “Uh, I think so.”

  “Repeat that last part, please!”

  Feeling foolish but obeying Billy chanted, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! Told ya so!”

  “That was only five ‘Nah’s’, Deputy!”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s six ‘Nah’s!’ Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! Now try it again please.”

  Billy rolled his eyes and said, “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! Told ya so!”

  “Very good, Deputy! Thank you.” The line went dead.

  Billy waited a long moment. “Hello? Ya still there? Hello?” He hung up the contraption. “Now that was fuckin’ strange!”

  John arrived fifteen minutes later and Billy relayed the message precisely as Ashurst had given it. Foster laughed.

  “What the hell was that ‘bout?”

  “Back in ninety-three I was a deputy up in Flagstaff,” explained Foster. “Henry Ashurst was a turnkey at the same jail. He was just nineteen but had a fire in his ass to get into politics even back then. Well, he didn’t take kindly to how we’d treat some of the more rambunctious prisoners. When we’d rough them up a bit to get answers to things that needed bein’ answered, Henry’d get all upset and warn us, ‘Ya know when we become a state yer gonna have to stop that shit! It ain’t right!’ I’d tell him they ain’t gonna make this pisspot place a state, too much desert and too many damn Injuns. ‘When they do,’ Henry told me, ‘I’m gonna laugh in yer face.’ O’er the years when we’d cross paths he’d remind me, ‘John, I’m gonna laugh in yer face one day,’ he’d say.” Then a concerned frown crossed John’s face and he added, “Come to thinka it, how’d that fat ass know where I was? Ya know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one a them assholes that stuck me down here in the first place! Here’s to yer statehood, Henry!” John raised his hand towards the telephone and extended his middle finger.

  “I ne’er knew you was a deputy up in Flagstaff,” said Billy.

  “Dark time fer me, Billy.” explained Foster as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Lost my wife to cholera.” He sipped the warm brew. “Damn, Billy, I swear I could paint a house with yer coffee.”

  “Ne’er knew ya was married either.”

  John sat down at his desk, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

  “Only fer six months. She was part Hopi, ‘bout a quarter was all, but she had a special place in her heart for them people. Bein’ a nurse she spent a lot of time in their camps, treatin’ them and things. Caught cholera and...and up and died on me.”

  “Sorry, John.”

  “Aw, that was my younger days, long gone, long forgotten; try not to let my head go there.”

  “Any kids?”

  “Not together long enough. Like to have some though...maybe someday...ifin I don’t get too old to make ‘em. Always wondered what a kid I made would like like.” He chuckled and took a deep pull on his store bought cigarette then followed it with another sip of Billy’s strong coffee.

  Images of his own two boys flashed through Billy’s head. If his ciphering was right they’d be four and three by now. He wondered how they looked.

  June 25, 1910

  Fourteen days and Pasco would be sprung.

  It was Billy’s turn to clean the rifles. John had just received his weekly copy of the Tucson Citizen and was pouring over every word. Suddenly he jumped up, wadded up the paper, and threw it across the room.

  “Goddamn fat asses are at it agin,” he yelled.

  “What’s a matter?” Billy asked, startled by the man’s outburst.

  Pointing to the crumpled paper he spat, “That! That piece a shit news! Oughta wipe my ass with it!”

  Billy picked up the crumpled paper and searched for what had upset his friend. “What am I lookin’ fer here, John?”

  “Gimme that piece of shit,” John demanded.

  He snatched the paper, crossed to the trash can, lit the paper on fire, and dropped it in the container. “That’s what I think of yer fuckin’ parole,” he spat at the flames in the trash can.

  “Who’s been paroled?”

  “Ev’erone, goddamn it,” John bellowed. “Em fat asses up in Washington started a Parole Commission so them scum buckets convicted of a federal crime could be paroled ‘fore their sentences are up.”

  “I’m in the dark here, John!” He opened the door of the office and tried to fan out the smoke with his John B.

  “Use to be,” explained John jabbing his finger towards the burning paper, “afor that thar fuckin’ commission they be makin,’ them assholes convicted of federal crimes had to serve their whole sentence with no chance of parole. Now them bleedin’ heart fat asses are gonna give ‘em the chance to go free early.” John kicked the trash can. Fortunately it didn’t fall over and spread its flaming contents across the dry, wooden floor. “Why do we even do this job, Billy? What the hell good are we? If it ain’t some shifty ass lawyer gettin’ the scum buckets off, it’s the goddamn government givin’ ‘em paroles. I need to retire. No, I need to get drunk.”

  He stomped out of the office. Billy took the trash can with its smoldering contents outside before the entire office was engulfed in smoke. He turned on the noisy Crocker & Curtis electric fan and aimed it at the open door. Three hours later John still hadn’t returned and Billy was worried. Foster was not a high lonesome drinker. Billy hadn’t seen him drunk one time since he arrived in Naco. He figured it was time to find him and the best place to look for a man who wanted to get drunk wouldn’t be the ice cream parlor.

  The first saloon he visited was the Imperial. No John. Then he peeked in the other two, but still no John. As he stood on the corner of Tower and Fourth Street scratching his head and worried about his missing friend, two gunshots came from the direction of Fat Frank’s.

  “Oh, shit!” he mumbled, drawing his Smith & Wesson and making tracks towards the ratty establishment. Two more shots rang out followed by what he thought was laughter. He crept up to one of the small windows and squinted inside the dark room. Two more shots erupted, followed by the sound of something shattering, then whooping and laughter. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing in the dimly lit room. John and Fat Frank were seated in two chairs side-by-side. Both held a smoking shooter in one hand and a bottle of liquor in the other.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on in there?” Billy yelled from outside.

  “That you, Billy boy?” slurred a very drunk John Foster.

  “Yeah!”

  “Git yer ass in here!”

  “We ain’t gonna shoot ya!” laughed a very drunk Fat Frank.

  Billy carefully stood in the doorway allowing the swinging doors to stay between him and the drunken men, “What’s all the shootin’?”

  “I’m gettin’ ‘lectricity put in tomorrow,” answered Fat Frank.

  “So we’re gettin’ rid a all them damn ugly lump oil lamps,” John added, firing again and shattering a lamp across the room.

  “Pull up a chair, Deputy!” suggested Fat Frank. “Join the fun!”

  “I
told Frank ‘cause a them fat asses’ parole thing he’s gonna be seein’ a lot of shifty ol’ friends and he’ll be seein’ them lots better in ‘lectric lights.”

  “Don’t want none a ‘em sumbitches sneakin’ out without payin’,” explained Frank as he destroyed another lamp and downed a long swig from the bottle in his chubby hand.

  “Yeah,” stated John. “Can’t trust convicts!” He fired again and missed a lamp. “Damn!”

  “Ha!” taunted Frank.

  “I’m still ‘head of ya by one!”

  Billy pushed aside the swinging doors and stepped into the room. It was littered with shattered lump oil lamps. Fortunately, since it was daytime, none were lit. Otherwise the two drunken sharpshooters might be sitting in the middle of a burning building.

  “Ya say yer gettin’ ‘lectri’cy tomorrow?” asked Billy.

  “Fellas are gonna start stringin’ the wires first thing in the morn,” Fat Frank proudly slurred. “Place’ll soon be lit up like a Christmas tree.” He fired at another lamp, missing it. “Shit!”

  “Like the Fourth of July,” John proudly added as he fired and hit the lamp Fat Frank had just missed. “HA!”

  “What’d ya gonna do ‘bout tonight’s customers?” Billy asked.

  Fat Frank and John paused their shooting and looked at each other for a moment.

  “Gonna be awful dark in here,” Billy added.

  “Dint think a that!” replied Fat Frank, looking at John.

  “Me neither!” said John, looking at Fat Frank.

  “What the hell!” said Fat Frank, and shot at another lamp.

  “Yeah, what the hell,” said John, and shot at another lamp.

  Billy shook his head and left the two inebriated fellows to their fun.

  That night John Foster did another uncharacteristic thing: he showed up at the whorehouse. Billy was sitting on a tattered love seat in the parlor with Henrietta in his lap when John stumbled in, still drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn’t spot Billy.

  “Billy Boy,” the Marshal shouted and staggered through the medium-sized crowd.