Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  He quietly said, “Forgive me, Jeff.”

  The man with the crooked eye shouted, “Donde está Pasco?”

  “Speak English, Pelado,” Billy shouted back.

  One of the policemen stepped forward with a bit of a stagger which told Billy that most of the man’s courage was coming from what he had consumed in the cantina. Advantage! Billy could see him squint into the setting sun. Advantage!

  “Where is our amigo, my friend?”

  “Long as ya got the whore, I ain’t yer friend, amigo.”

  “All we want is trade, Señor,” slurred the policeman with a sadistic grin. “The whore for our amigo! Even Steven, as you gringos say!” He chuckled at his attempt at humor then looked around with a mock expression of wonderment. “But I do not see him. You try to cheat us, amigo? All four of us?”

  The policemen laughed at the odds.

  A shot rang out from the north and the crooked eye exploded out the back of the tall, ugly man’s head. Both he and Abbie collapsed to the dirt. Not certain what had just happened, everyone, including Billy, glanced in the direction from which the sound had come. It was like time had frozen everything. Another shot rang out and a second policeman’s chest opened like a large blooming rose as he, too, fell to the dirt. Then time thawed and all hell broke loose. The mouthy policeman closest to Billy drew his pistola. Billy quickly planted four rounds into the man’s torso. The fourth policeman fired several wild shots as he ran back into the cantina, chased by the last two bullets from Billy’s gun. He hurried over and knelt next to Abbie, checking her pulse. Still pumping.

  “Sorry, Billy,” she gasped. He wondered how she could even tell it was him through her swollen and bloody eyes. “I stayed in that fancy hotel room too long.”

  He bedded the empty Smith & Wesson, awoke his seven-clip .45, and ran over to the side of the cantina door.

  “Sorry, Cap’n,” he whispered. “Goin’ in!”

  He entered with the .45 leveled, holding it steady in both hands. It was dead quiet in the cantina. Billy scanned the room. The bartender’s hands were stretched so high his dirty fingernails almost scraped the ceiling. The two old checkers players had managed to flee by the side door into the alley, leaving their game unfinished. The whores must have taken Sunday off. No sign of the other policeman. To his surprise, at a corner table sat the same gambler he had encountered in La Bandera. The man gave Billy a subtle nod towards the upright piano. Billy noticed the instrument wasn’t quite flush against the wall. He aimed his .45 square at its center.

  “Play Red River Valley!” he whispered.

  Six shots exploded from his seven round clip into the piano. The old upright chimed and clanked and pinged in agony as pieces of wood and wire flew from it. A few seconds later came a thud, followed by a limp hand still clutched around a pistola flopping out from the space behind the instrument.

  He turned to the gambler and said, “Hope he didn’t owe you money, too.”

  The gambler smiled.

  Billy ran out of the cantina and back to Abbie. It took muscles he had forgot he had to lift and carry her to the other side of the bridge. She was heavy. Not fat, just thick and sturdy. A light breeze blew back her hair and he saw that the animals had cut off her ear.

  John Foster was waiting on the U.S. side of the bridge.

  “Sure wish we could do somethun ‘bout them stray shots ‘cross this border!” remarked the grinning Deputy Marshal who was walking toward the bridge on the Arizona side carrying Billy’s Winchester 1895 Second Model Sporting Rifle with the Malcolm Model #3 hunting scope. “Someone might get hurt.”

  “Couldn’t let ‘nother friend die o’er there, John,” Billy stated, groaning as he tried to lift Abbie onto Orion’s back.

  Foster stepped over and helped him hoist her into Orion’s saddle. The black had patiently stood perfectly still, sensing that he needed to.

  “Neither could I,” the deputy marshal added as they settled Abbie into the saddle. She swayed and Billy knew she was about to pass out.

  “Ring up the doc, John,” ordered Billy. “Tell him I’m headin’ to his place. And why didn’t ya tell me Chief Amador was in on it?” asked Billy.

  “Ya heard Jeff say the same names I did,” replied John.

  “I didn’t know his name was Victoriano,” Billy said. “I always called him Chief Amador.

  “That’s a powerful asshole to be goin’ after, Billy,” John Foster warned him. “Ya know he’s prob’ly already rattled his hocks south.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I know Abbie’s gonna be okay,” Billy stated. He took hold of Orion’s reins, stood on the left side of the horse, and supported Abbie with his right hand. “Ifin she don’t make it, I ain’t gonna let them town assholes give her a pauper’s burial just ‘cause she’s a whore.” In a voice a little louder than a whisper he added, “Walk slow, Big O.”

  Sensing their destination Orion lowered his head and began a slow, smooth walk towards the doctor’s office.

  July, 1910

  Abbie’s first few days were the worst. Her nose had a slight but permanent hook to it. She had lost two jaw teeth and, of course, an ear. Three ribs were cracked, but none had punctured a lung. The knife slashes on her arms and legs and breasts weren’t deep enough to warrant stitches so they wouldn’t scar. She was lucky. It also turned out that the big, tough landlady Irene Castle had a heart as huge as her body. She admitted to Billy that in her younger days and prior to her collecting of tobacco chewing husbands, she had also been a “fallen angel” as she liked to call it. She allowed her favorite boarder to place Abbie in the spare room abruptly vacated by the traveling salesman. One of the man’s previous “lonely housewives” had tracked him down with a child in hand. That same night he headed out for parts unknown.

  Just four days after Abbie was left in the capable hands of Irene Castle, a strange box arrived at John Foster’s office. Billy walked in to find John studying the curious object.

  ‘Bout time ya got here,” stated John. “I been itchin’ to see what’s in this here thing.”

  Billy saw a wooden box wrapped in several rabbit skins and tied with twine.

  “Why din’t ya open it then?”

  ‘Cos it’s got yer name written on the skins, and I think it was writ in blood. “Besides, it’s agin the law to open another man’s mail.”

  “My name? What is it?”

  “Now how the hell am I su’pose to know that?”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “It was just sittin’ here on the desk when I came in. Well, ya gonna open it?”

  Billy cut the twine, removed the skins, and pried off the wooden top.

  “Jesus,” he said, recoiling from the box’s grotesque contents and foul odor.

  All John Foster could manage to stammer was, “Holy shit,” three times as he backed away from the container. Packed neatly in its wooden coffin was the severed head of Victoriano Amador. A sharp stick had been plunged into its right eye socket to secure a note with just two words scribbled on it in blood.

  “Even. Tanok.”

  “Who the hell’s Tanok?” asked a confused and disgusted John Foster.

  Closing and rewrapping the box, and relieved that he wouldn’t have to haul his ass back down into that shithole of Sonora, Billy simply said, “A friend.” He also remembered something Sparky had once said: “Make a friend of a Yaqui and he’s yer friend fer life.” He left the office with the box snuggled under his arm. The next morning when the remaining Mexican police began to arrive for their daily assignments, they were greeted by the head of Victoriano Amador perched on the steps of the Naco police station.

  September, 1910

  It was a Sunday morning and Billy had planned to sleep in, but his slumber was disturbed by an early knock on the room. Groggy and slightly hung over he hated to leave his soft bed.

  “Who is it?”

  “The smitty,” answered the deep voice from beyond the door.

  “Just a
minute.”

  He climbed out of bed and slipped on his britches. A second before his hand touched the doorknob the Peace Officer in him stirred. He pulled his Smith & Wesson from its bed, too.

  “What’d ya need?” he inquired before opening the door.

  “Got sump’um here fer ya from Miss Abbie, Mr. Billy,” replied the deep voice with a thick Mississippi accent.

  He slipped the weapon back to bed, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door. With his typical toothy grin the smitty’s large muscular arm thrust a flat item out to Billy. It was about one foot by one foot and wrapped in newspaper.

  “What is it?” asked Billy.

  “I ain’t a nosy man, Mr. Billy. Din’t ask. Miss Abbie jist says give this to Mr. Billy one day after she be gone.”

  “Gone? What’d ya mean gone?”

  “Like I says, Mr. Billy, ain’t a nosy man, but the girl be long gone, both she and that purty horse a hers.”

  Billy began to dig around in his pockets for a coin to give the smitty but the man raised his hand and backed away.

  “No need, Mr. Billy. Miss Abbie done gimme two shiny silver dollars fer my trouble.” As the big man turned to leave he tossed one last statement over his shoulder. “Sure gonna miss our monthly visits though.”

  Puzzled and curious, Billy shut the door and twisted the deadbolt. He sat down on the bed and removed the newspaper surrounding the flat item. There was no note, no letter, just a beautiful painting of Orion standing on a small mesa almost in the exact pose as the first time he and Jeff spotted the black stallion. She had signed it “A. Crutchfield.”

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered with a smile, realizing that his friend must have described the whole encounter with Orion to Abbie in great detail. She had captured almost all of it, right down to the blue moon and the eerie light it spread across the land, even the challenging look in Orion’s eyes. The sleep finally left his head and things began to tumble into place. Abbie had done exactly what Jeff said he thought she might one day do—got on Lavender and just kept riding, didn’t even say goodbye. He hoped she went off somewhere to become an “arteest.” All those whorehouses could use a new painting.

  Just to be certain no fat asses from the Territorial Government were going to come down on John Foster for the incident on the Mexican side of Naco, Billy stayed for another two months. John married Cassie Lou Bluefield the day after Thanksgiving. Billy was his best man and Henrietta her bridesmaid. As John and Cassie stood before the altar, Henrietta gave a subtle gesture with her thumb towards the preacher reading the verses and leaned into Billy’s ear.

  “Until you come along he was one of my regulars,” she whispered. “The toad faced vulture playin’ the organ is his wife. Now ya know why he was a regular.”

  Billy swallowed a belly laugh so hard that he almost farted it out the other end.

  Pretty certain that the whole shooting incident was dead and buried he reluctantly returned his deputy badge and traded John his fancy Winchester 1895 Second Model Sporting Rifle with the Malcolm Model #3 hunting scope for the Winchester 30-30 in the rifle rack. The two men’s goodbyes were short but sincere. Both had the feeling their paths would probably never cross again. Later Billy found out that after Congress finally did pass that parole act John quit his job. He and Cassie Lou moved to Santa Maria, California, where he opened a small fix-it shop. John Foster loved to tinker.

  December, 1910

  After supper, retired Ranger Captain Harry Wheeler liked to sit on the porch of his small ranch outside of Benson and watch the sun set while enjoying a good cigar. Between puffs of blue smoke, he saw a distant figure on a black horse approaching his house. As the twosome grew closer, he recognized the white star on the horse’s head.

  “I’ll be dipped in sheep shit,” he muttered and stepped down off his porch to greet this long lost compadre. “Billy Old, ya ol’ shitwad,” the former captain called out with a huge smile. “Where the hell ya been hidin’?”

  Billy patted Orion’s neck as he came to a halt and simply said, “They’re all dead, Cap’n!”

  “Huh? Who?” asked the confused captain, fearing Billy was talking about more ex-Rangers. “Who’s dead, Billy?”

  “Them assholes who put Jeff under,” answered Billy. “They’re all dead. I couldn’t walk this earth knowin’ they still was.”

  Captain Wheeler lowered his head and sighed, “Well, Billy, I can’t condone what ya done...” then he lifted his head and let loose a toothy grin locked around the big cigar, “but I sure as shit ain’t gonna mourn the sumbitches.”

  Billy tugged on Orion’s reins and said, “Just wanted ya to know, Cap’n!” He started to turn the horse.

  “Billy, yer welcome to stay the night. Supper’s still warm.”

  “ ‘Preciate that, Cap’n, but I gotta get to Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles? Why?”

  “Gotta tell Jeff I got them!”

  He turned the black northwest. Harry Wheeler watched the twosome fade into the darkness.

  “Got a long ride ‘heada us, Big O,” said Billy as he patted his friend’s neck. At first he had thought about taking the train, but the idea of having so many star-filled nights ahead of him made him figure he’d have plenty of time to decide which stars Jeff and Freddie were on.

  A half a mile from Wheeler’s ranch he got a hankering to stop in and see his old pal Sparky on the way to Los Angeles, and finally get a gander at the “little dressmaker with the huge udders.” He jerked Orion to a halt as he struggled to recall the name of the town where his giant friend was preaching the gospel.

  “What the hell was the name of that town?” he asked Orion, who simply snorted. He wanted to smack himself on the side of the head to see if the name would pop back into the right place. He did. It didn’t.

  “Fifth fuckin’ grade.”

  Epilogue

  October, 1934, Taos, New Mexico

  “It belonged to my father,” the man replied. “Then you are the A. Crutchfield who painted this?”

  She found it difficult to take her eyes from the painting of Orion. First she saw the flaws. Next came the memories, both painful and pleasing. Why this young man was so oddly familiar became suddenly clear.

  “Yer...yer Billy Old’s boy?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he grinned. “William.”

  Looking at his smile made her feel she had just jumped back in time twenty-four years. Her hand started to touch the hair covering her missing ear, but she didn’t.

  “How’s yer pa,” she managed to ask.

  “He died back in nineteen fourteen.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that,” responded Abbie. Wondering if Billy’s past had caught up with him, she knew she had to ask the next question. With a measured tone she asked, “How?”

  “He was shot.”

  “By Mexican police?”

  “Uh, no,” replied the man, baffled by her question. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Cause he pissed off one hell of a lot of ‘em.”

  “My mother and father split up a few years before that. My father married another woman and, well, I guess she was a little crazy or something. They got into an argument one night and she shot him. He was a peace officer down in Pearce, Arizona at the time so that’s where they buried him. I take it you two were friends...or something?”

  “Friends,” Abbie firmly stated. “How’d ya find me? How’d ya make the connection?”

  “I’m a deputy sheriff in Bernalillo County, down in Albuquerque. I saw the name A. Crutchfield in a newspaper story about the artists up here in Taos. It said you painted horses. When my mother died a few months back my brother and I were cleaning out some stuff and we found the only two things we could tie back to our father: a pipe with a buffalo head carved out of ivory and this painting. My brother’s a smoker so he took the pipe. When I read the article I remembered this painting was done by an A. Crutchfield. So I took a day off to come up here to see if it was you that did it.

 
“Why?” Abbie asked. “It ain’t worth nothun. I ain’t famous.”

  “Well, it’s not really the painting I’m curious about. It’s my father. I was only two years old when he and mom divorced. I only saw him once in the few years before his death. I barely remember him, let alone know anything about him. Mom refused to talk about him; even went to court and added an “S” to our last name, making it Olds.” He chuckled and continued, “Made us sound like we belong to the rich automobile family, she’d say.”

  “Yet you drive a Ford.”

  They laughed. He liked her laugh. It was deep, from the gut. She winched a little at hearing so much of Billy in his laugh, but still enjoyed it. Her mind flashed back to that night in the fancy hotel room when she felt the strange feeling of rejection.

  “All I know is he was an Arizona Ranger and a Peace Officer,” he added, stepping into the middle of her memory. “I was hoping you could, well, light up a dark room, so to speak.”

  Abbie smiled, looked at the man for a moment then asked, “How much time ya got?”

  “Whatever it takes,” he answered with a smile.

  The next morning William Kidder Olds climbed into the old Ford full of stories and free of baggage. Before he had even sparked the car’s ignition, Abbie was seated at her work table ciphering out what bills she could pay with the twenty dollars he had insisted on leaving her.

  Whores survive by numbers.

  Historical Background

  Jeff Kidder was born on a farm in Vermillion, South Dakota in the early 1870s. He was college educated and an avid reader of dime novels and he constantly practiced the “quick draw,” at which he became proficient. When his folks divorced, sold their family farm and moved away, Kidder went down to Arizona to join the Rangers. Not being completely sold on the man, the Ranger Captain assigned him to the streets of Nogales where he served as a deputy for close to a year before finally being admitted into the Rangers. He proved to be an excellent Ranger, making many arrests, so many in fact that the crooked Mexican police involved with gunrunning and rustling actually put a bounty on his head.