Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

“Cuse me, pard’un me, ‘cuse me, pard’un me, ‘cuse me...” he kept repeating as he shouldered his way towards Billy. Suddenly he stopped and tried to focus as he stared into the face of a certain man in passing. “Jimmy Wasko? Do yer wife know yer here?” Then he laughed, smacked the fellow on the back, and stumbled on over to Billy and Henrietta.

  “Billy Boy,” he slurred and removed his hat, “please innaduse me to yer lady friend”

  Billy smiled and said, “Henrietta, John Foster. John, Henrietta.”

  John squeezed in with them and the two person love seat released a groan.

  “Charmed!” he slurred. “Got a friend?”

  “John, ne’er seen ya here,” stated Billy, trying his best not to laugh at the very drunk Deputy Marshal. “Sure ya ain’t lost?”

  John reached over and took Billy’s beer from his hand, helped himself to a long pull, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and handed the brew back to Billy.

  “I figger with all ‘em felons ‘em fat asses are gonna be turnin’ loose, I best git re’quainted with visitin’ whorehouses.” He turned to Henrietta. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she replied with a giggle.

  “Now,” John slurred to Henrietta, “regardin’ my earlier inquire...Got a friend? I got lots a baggage to unload.”

  Henrietta called out, “Cassie Lou?”

  For a little woman she featured a strong voice that bounced off the four walls of the whorehouse parlor. In a flash a good sized raven haired, worn beauty with ice blue eyes that could freeze a man solid was in John’s lap. The two-person love seat was putting up one hell of a fight.

  “Now that’s service,” stated John. “I cain’t even git that kinda service at the café I et at ev’rday.” Once again he tried to focus his eyes as he studied Cassie Lou. “No offense, darlin’ but ya look likes ya might well have some Injun in ya.”

  “Quarter Pueblo,” replied Cassie Lou, starting to rise from John’s lap. “If that bothers ya, Marshal, I can get...”

  “John! Quarter, huh?” Foster replied with a grin as he pulled Cassie back down onto his lap. “That’s jist fine, darlin,’ jist fine.”

  The two person love seat held its own.

  June 30, 1910

  Nine days and Diaz Pasco would be sprung.

  Running short of thirty-eight seventy-two rounds Billy paid another visit to the gun shop. The eager clerk who thought he was an expert on T.R.’s hunting habits greeted him.

  “How’s the huntin’ goin,’ Deputy?”

  “Ain’t been yet. Just been honin’ up my skills. Need ‘nother box of thirty-eight seventy-twos.”

  The clerk reached up on the shelf behind him and removed a box of cartridges. “Ya know, it’s funny,” he explained. “I was just thinkin’ of ya the other day.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It was on Saturday, June twenty-fifth, thirty-four years to the day that them heathens wiped out Custer and his men. My second cousin on my mother’s side was one of them men—proud member of the Seventh Calvary.”

  “Why’d that make ya think a me?”

  “Well, not so much you as yer weapon—The Winchester eighteen ninety-five Second Model Sporting Rifle with the Malcolm Model number three hunting scope. If Custer and his men would’ve had a weapon like that, whoo doggies, that battle would’ve had a whole ‘nother outcome.”

  “S’pose so.”

  “Ya know the Seventh only had single shot breech loading Springfield’s, don’tcha? Them damn Injuns all had repeatin’ Winchesters.” Then he leaned in towards Billy and said, “Ya know where they got them?”

  “From a gun salesman?”

  The salesman dropped his smug smile and Billy thought he could hear the hairs on the back of the man’s neck bristle and stiffen. Then the fellow tried to puff himself up to a height he could never reach and blurted, “Sir, I would never sell weapons to Indians.”

  “Where’d they get them then?”

  The man regained his composure, glanced around the shop that he already knew was empty but still wanted to place a little drama on his next spilling of wisdom. He leaned in close to Billy and whispered, “The Krauts. Them damn Huns been sellin’ guns to Injuns for years. They want this country. They want our resources.”

  “The Germans?” asked Billy, doing his very best to not laugh in this fool’s face.

  “Yessir, Deputy! Them godless Huns are gonna make war on us. Ya wait and see!”

  Billy paid for the thirty-eight seventy-twos and slipped the box in his pocket.

  “Mark my words, Deputy,” the clerk insisted as Billy turned to leave the shop. “We are gonna have us some trouble with them huns.”

  Billy returned to the Marshal’s office. John was sitting in a rocker out front. He relaxed next to him. The two just sat and rocked for several minutes, not even speaking. Again Billy thought to himself, “I might be able to get used to this.” Several people strolled by and nodded a hello. A few wagons lumbered through, causing both Billy and John to chase away the dust with their hats.

  Billy lit his pipe, took a couple pulls then said, “John, ya know what that crazy ass gun shop clerk done told me?”

  John lit a cigarette and said, “What?”

  “That Germany’s gonna make war on the U.S?”

  John laughed and stated, “Sounds like the fool’s been drinkin’ from Hassayampa Creek. Sides, how the hell’d they get here?”

  “Boats, I guess!”

  “Hell, our Navy’d blow ‘em outta the water ‘fore they even reached the shore.”

  “Think so?”

  “Now if you be sayin’ them Huns are gonna do somethin’ o’er there ‘cross the pond then, yeah, hell, yeah. Them Europe assholes are always killin’ off each other’s kings and queens and such. Ya’d think they could learn by our example!”

  “What example?”

  “Ya don’t have as many wars when ya ain’t got a bunch of rich kings and queens callin’ the shots, tryin’ to collect taxes from folks that ain’t got them, arguin’ over whose gonna marry who, who owns that castle, who owns this castle, and so on. That’s what’s good ‘bout a democracy: Fewer damn wars!”

  “We done had wars!”

  “But we had reasons fer ‘em, Billy! They were nes’sary...well, ‘cept fer that fuckin’ Civil War; weren’t no reason fer it! Goddamn waste of lives! I tell ya this though, if ‘em dumb ass Europe folks get ‘emselves into a war, it’ll be a humdinger. All them new weapons and ways to kill folks...shit! Billy, they got guns that fire hun’derds a bullets a minute, and cannon that’ll shoot o’er five miles? Hell, they got gases that’ll rip up yer lungs and make them bleed right inside ya, make ya choke on yer own blood. Nosiree, Billy Boy, the next war o’er there ain’t gonna be nice. Let’s hope we’re smart ‘nough to stay clear of it.”

  Just as Billy was about to ask John what he meant by there not being a reason for the Civil War, Walter Simmons, the tubby bartender from the Imperial Palace came huffing and puffing up the street.

  “Marshal,” he managed to gasp out. Coming to a halt in front of Billy and John and panting to catch his breath, he managed to huff out, “It’s Clara Silvers, John! She’s at it again!”

  John let out a chortling sigh and told Billy to fetch a blanket from one of the cells and meet him at the Imperial Palace. Then he and Walter hurried off down the street. When Billy was within eyesight of the saloon, blanket in hand, he saw a woman standing stark naked in front of the Imperial Palace. She wasn’t doing anything, like dancing or parading around, just standing there in a stiff upright position like a soldier ready for morning inspection. Several people, especially men, had gathered around laughing. The woman refused to move or speak and John was obviously reluctant to force her inside by touching her naked body. Then the door to the tailor’s shop down the street flew open and Billy saw a frantic man run out and head towards the crowd.

  John grabbed the blanket from Billy and draped it around the woman’s shoulders. She still didn’t say a
word, didn’t even bother to grasp and close it up, just stood there, arms still hanging at her side, the blanket open in the front for all to see. The tailor ran up and closed the blanket. The naked woman’s face went into an immediate scowl. Her hands began making wild gestures. The man just nodded his head and led the woman back to his shop. The crowd, still laughing, began to disperse.

  Walter Simmons looked at John and laughed.

  “Third time this year, Marshal,” he said. “Think Abner’ll ever learn?” Then he wobbled back inside the saloon.

  “What the hell was that ‘bout?” asked Billy.

  “That’s the tailor’s wife Clara Silvers,” explained John. “She’s a mute. She likes to go visit her mother back in St. Louie. Abner don’t like payin’ fer the train ticket, ‘specially since she likes to go a lot. Since she can’t nag and bitch at him ‘bout it, that’s her way of fin’ly gettin’ the tightwad to give in. It’s worked three times this year.”

  “Why don’t he just move his biz’ness to St. Louie?” asked Billy.

  “He’s the only tailor in town,” explained John, “makin’ too much money here. Wouldn’t be so bad if she were decent to look at. Them Jew women are a bit too hairy fer my taste.” He looked up at the front of the saloon and licked his lips. “Well, since I’m here, think I’ll have a beer. Wanna join me?” Seeing the bewildered expression on Billy’s face, John grinned and said, “What? Just ‘nother day in the life of a stay put Peace Officer, Billy Boy.”

  July 4, 1910

  Five days and Diaz Pasco would be sprung.

  John was pacing the floor as Billy walked in from late afternoon rounds.

  “Lot of fellas gettin’ drunk fer the fireworks tonight,” warned Billy. “We may be in fer a few overnight guests.” John kept pacing. “Still no telegram?”

  “The goddamn fight was close to three hours ago,” Foster snapped. “My pal up in Reno said he’d wire me soon as it was over.”

  “Why ya so worked up o’er one ol’ prize fight?”

  “Ya know who’s fightin’, Billy?

  “Ain’t got no in’trest.”

  “Ya should in this one! It’s ‘nother damn darky name a Jack Johnson. He’s a beast! He’s goin’ up agin James Jeffries, the man Jack London called ‘the chosen rep’sen’tive of the white race.’ Iffin Johnson beats Jeffries, he done beat the best of the white man. That ain’t good, Billy. Nosiree, ain’t good at all!”

  Billy suddenly realized why John said the Civil War was a “goddamn waste of lives.” It also became clear why he had never chased Fat Frank and his stars and bars out of town.

  Young Orin Stample burst through the open door with the telegram. John snatched it from his small hand.

  ‘Bout damn time, boy!” he barked.

  Orin turned three shades of white. Billy gave him a dime and the boy scampered back to the telegraph office for his next delivery. For a long moment John just stood there, holding the yellow piece of paper, afraid to let his eyes settle on it. He took a deep breath then read the words he had feared for hours.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, wadding up the cable and throwing it in the trash. “Gonna go see Cassie Lou!”

  Billy didn’t see him again until the next day. He even missed the fireworks. No matter how he tried to figure it, Billy couldn’t get his head around how one prize fight could mean the end of the white man. Then he remembered what Sparky said about Jeff and the Indian Whiskey: “Takes a powerful lot of hate.” Now here it was again—another friend who just lumps a certain kind of folks into one big pile of hate.

  July 7, 1910

  Two days and Pasco would be sprung.

  Ever since Henrietta introduced John to Cassie Lou, Billy had been arriving at the office ahead of him. John had been keeping some late nights with his quarter Pueblo. Billy figured she reminded him of his dead wife, and that’s okay. He deserved some good times. John’s late arrival also gave Billy the opportunity to pay another visit to the cabrón in cell four. After the heavy door screeched its’ customary good morning, he ambled down to Pasco’s cage.

  “Two days...then I’m gonna plant ya!”

  He turned and left with the usual bellows following him out of the cell area. The heavy screeching door finally covered the screams. John showed up ten minutes later.

  “Mornin’,” he said and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I gotta talk to ya, Billy.”

  “Okay!”

  “Serious stuff now,” John added with a frown. “Ya better sit down.”

  “What ya gonna do, fire me?” asked Billy with a grin.

  “Ya should be so lucky!” John hesitated, trying to figure out how to form the words into what he needed to say. He sipped the strong coffee. Billy watched his eyes widen and his lips pucker. Then he shook his head as to rattle his eyes into focus.

  Sensing his quandary Billy said, “Just spit it out, John! Festerin’ll twist up yer bowels!”

  John sat down and sighed deeply. “How’d ya think the town would take it iffin I married a whore?” He rose quickly and began to pace again. “Not only a whore, but a breed!”

  Billy was so stunned he didn’t know what to say. After just twelve days his friend was ready to marry? Finally words came to him. “Uh, John, a lot of fellas done hitched up with whores. Ain’t nuthun new. I bet if Jeff were still ‘round, he’d of hitched up with Abbie.”

  “Jeff wouldn’t have to worry ‘bout a mayor and a town council or what ‘em scrubby clean, mealy-mouthed church folk’d be sayin’.”

  “Ya ain’t even known her fer two weeks, John.”

  “Only knew my first wife fer a month.”

  “Month’s longer than bein’ shy a two weeks.”

  “Billy, I ain’t sayin’ we gonna get hitched tonight or tomorrow, fer crissake! I just need yer ‘pinon ‘bout what ya think towns folk’d say.”

  “A fellas gotta do what makes him happy, John. Do Cassie Lou make ya happy?”

  “I’m a good twenty years her elder.”

  “Do she make ya happy?”

  “Like a bee in a honey pot!”

  “Then fuck ‘em!”

  “I’m gettin’ too old to go huntin’ fer a new job.”

  “Ya crazy?” laughed Billy. “They got a good man here willin’ to take on a shitty job. They ain’t gonna find no one else to do it. Ain’t that many knotheads like you ‘round.”

  “They could always offer you the job!”

  Billy looked him in the eye and said, “And they can go shit splinters!” For a second Billy studied his perplexed friend then said, “My ma and pa always told me ‘listen to yer heart, not yer brain. Yer brain’ll lie to ya, yer heart won’t.’ That’s what helped me get through all that shit down in Sonora. I listened to my heart ‘cause I knew it was right, and that made what I was doin’ right, too. If ya wanna hitch up with Cassie Lou, just fuckin’ do it. It’s yer heart that deserves to be happy. Yer brain’ll learn to live with it.”

  July 9, 1910

  Diaz Pasco’s ninety days would be up at midnight.

  That afternoon Billy had told John he was going to make the ride up to Bisbee to visit Freddie Rankin’s folks and see how his little girl was doing. John hoped that he had forgotten Pasco was being sprung that night, or he simply wanted to avoid the temptation of blowing his brains out by not being in town. Either way, the Marshal was relieved.

  Orion was finally going to get a good run. Billy could tell the black was growing restless just circling a corral. He needed some stretch in his muscles and sweat on his back. So he turned the horse’s head north and leaned down into his ear.

  “Fog it, Big O!”

  The stallion leapt into action. They made the twelve mile ride to Bisbee in less than thirty minutes arriving around four PM. Billy registered for a room at the hotel then found the local general store and purchased a doll. Having attended Freddie’s funeral two years ago, finding his grave was easy. A tombstone that wasn’t initially there was now at the site. It read “Frederick B. Rankin, 1
872-1908. Arizona Ranger, Father, Loving Son.” Billy wondered what the “B” was for. He chuckled at the thought of it being “Boulder.” He stood for a moment just staring at the stone.

  “I know ya ain’t in there, Freddie. Yer up on one of them stars flyin’ ‘round the skies. Ain’t figgered whichen yet. I just wanted ya to know that I found yer shooter...and I’m gonna plant him!”

  Eldridge and Janelle Rankin were surprised and pleased to see Billy. Since Isabel was on a hay ride but would be home for supper, they convinced him to stay. After what he had heard about Janelle’s home cooking from Freddie it didn’t take much convincing. As they awaited Isabel’s return, Janelle fixed and served tea on a fancy silver tray.

  “Oh, I forgot the sugar,” she said.

  As soon as she returned to the kitchen Eldridge put his finger to his lips and made a soft shushing sound. He pulled a small flask from his pocket and spiked his and Billy’s cups with a shot of rum. Billy considered telling him he knew who killed his son, but feared Eldridge might want to see the man brought to justice with a trial. He had no intentions of wasting that much time on Diaz Pasco. When Janelle returned with the sugar she also carried a large book. It displayed several neatly placed tintypes of Freddie at various ages, along with the same of Isabel.

  “Look at these two, Billy,” stated Janelle. “This is Freddie at one year old, and this is Isabel at one year old. Don’t they look alike?”

  “Sure do,” Billy replied courteously, but didn’t really see the resemblance.

  “She is her daddy’s girl!” Janelle smiled.

  As she continued to turn the pages of the book and give the details of each and every tintype, Billy began to think of his own family. He had no tintypes of his mother or father, only the pictures in his head. He wondered if Anna had any of his sons. Maybe someday he’ll find out. He thought that looking at tintypes was supposed to make a person happy, but these didn’t. Maybe it was the way Janelle described them. Even though she appeared to be excited about showing them to someone new, her voice said different. It seemed to come from a sad place. Fortunately Isabel walked in the door and Janelle’s face lit up. Much to Billy’s relief she closed the depressing book.