by Geff Moyer
Sparky was a bit more reluctant in accepting Jeff. Not as part of their small band, but as a leader or planner. Sparky was leery of Jeff always seeming to be at half cock, too ready to put his quick draw to the test. Born and raised in Nogales, along with two brothers and three sisters, Sparky had grown up witnessing his fair share of viciousness. He also knew many of those incidences could’ve been avoided if men weren’t so anxious to kill. When he applied to be a Ranger, Captain Wheeler knew the simple-minded fellow would probably have trouble driving nails in a snow bank, but from growing up with such a collection of childhood friends, Sparky spoke Spanish, Apache, and Yaqui better than he did English. Since he had yet to find a flaw in any of Jeff’s previous plans he rarely voiced a concern, but always kept a close eye on the newest Ranger’s temperament. If Kidder seemed too spunky Sparky would speak. All would listen.
The four Rangers were hidden in some rocks on a small hill overlooking the ghost town of Trigger Point, which sat a half-day east of Redington near the Galiuro Mountains. It was an old silver town that managed to birth only four buildings before the pale gray metal was played out and the residents sought richer ground. Three of the buildings were on the east side. A single story attempt at a hotel was on the south end. Behind it were the collapsed poles that once supported the tents found in mining towns that sprang up overnight. The canvas had long rotted away. A saloon rested in the middle and a general store on the north end. The lone building on the west side was a livery next to a small corral.
Feather Yank, Wheeler’s favorite Pima scout, had informed the captain of a gang of cattle rustlers that were using the town as a hideout to alter the brands on stolen beef. From there they would drive their misbegotten herd south to Willcox and peddle it. The problem was the Pima had no idea how many men were in the gang, so neither did the Rangers. Even from their vantage point they could see no movement in any of the abandoned buildings left to the appetite of that hungry old bitch Mother Nature.
“Wish that damn Injun would’ve stuck around long enough to get us something more useful,” complained Jeff.
Peering through his binoculars, Freddie said, “I think we can whittle it down to just the three buildin’s on the east side.” He handed the glasses to Jeff. “Take a hard look at the livery.”
Jeff scanned the building and asked, “What am I lookin’ for?”
“Ain’t no glass in them windows,” Freddie pointed out.
With a hint of sarcasm Billy reminded him, “It’s a goddamn ghost town, Freddie.”
Ignoring Billy, Freddie said to Jeff, “Keep watchin’ them busted out windows!”
A few moments later Jeff ‘s body slightly stiffened. “Something’s moving in there.” He slowly lowered the glasses and exclaimed, “Cows! They’re keepin’ the stolen cattle inside that old livery.”
“Usin’ it as a crowdin’ pen to cross brand them critters,” added Freddie, “hidden away from pryin’ eyes.”
“Bet it stinks to high heaven in thar,” said Sparky.
Freddie pointed down the hill and said, “They gotta be in one of them three buildin’s on the east.”
“Three buildings, four of us,” said Sparky. “Which buildin’ gets two of us?” The other men looked at Sparky. Baffled by their staring he asked, “What?”
Billy grinned and said, “That’s pretty fast cipherin’, Sparky!”
“I can count to twenty, durn it!”
“Nineteen-and-a-half,” Freddie reminded him. “I say we go in two from the North, two from the South, aimin’ only at them east side buildins.”
“Work our way to the middle,” nodded Billy in agreement.
“Let’s work them to the middle,” Jeff stated. “Get them all trapped in one place!”
“How?” asked Billy.
“We do like Freddie said, two from the north, two from the south, but we set torch to the two end buildings.”
“Let the fire do the work’ fer us,” agreed Freddie. “Why not?” Then he looked at Billy and mimicked, “It’s a goddamn ghost town.”
“What if they gots more cows in ‘em other buildins?” asked Sparky. “Hate to burn up some po’ cows.”
“Go down there and check, Sparky,” Billy teased again. “We’ll wait here fer ya.”
“Freddie, let’s you and me take the north,” stated Jeff.
“Ya did take note of there bein’ very little cover on that side, din’cha?” commented Freddie.
“Freddie,” Sparky jokingly pointed out, “someone left a purf’cly good buggy on that end a town. Ain’t got no wheels, but a lotta ripped up canvas fer ya to hide b’hind.”
Jeff turned to Billy and Sparky and said, “You two gotta give us ten minutes to circle ‘round and get in place. We need to light both fires at the same time to drive them into that center building.” He pointed to the rocks below their hill. “Then squat down in those rocks and we’ll have them in a cross fire when they come out.”
“Sounds good!” replied Billy, dropping to his belly. “Let’s make like snakes, Sparky!”
“We got rocks, Freddie,” Sparky grinned and taunted as he laid his six-foot-ten-inch body on the ground and began crawling down the hillside. “Ya squat that little body of yers down in that ol’ rottin’ canvas, ya here?”
“Kiss yer grandma’s butt, ya overgrown turd,” replied Freddie. “Hope they shoot yer dick off.”
“Too small of a target,” Billy said as he punched up his crawling to stay clear of his big friend’s crushing hands.
Twelve minutes later the four Rangers were in position. Each team stuffed dry grass and straw against the sides of the rotting buildings and lit it just seconds apart. In less than a hare’s heartbeat the two weathered and cracked tinder boxes were blazing like they were soaked in lump oil. The speed of the spreading fire shocked them all. Sparky and Billy quickly squatted behind the rocks at the south end of town while Freddie and Jeff struggled to find any kind of cover behind the old buggy.
“This cover ain’t fer shit, Jeff. Damn canvas ain’t gonna stop a slug.”
“Maybe they’ll see Sparky and just give up.”
Even though the flames were across the street they still scared the patties out of the mossbacks. They mooed, wailed, kicked, and banged against the walls of the livery. Three men hurried out of the former saloon to check on the ruckus. As soon as they reached the center of the street they saw the flames in the two end buildings eating the dried structures and already nipping at the edges of the building they had just left.
“Arizona rangers! hands up!” yelled Jeff from the north.
Almost simultaneously Billy yelled from the south, “Arizona rangers! Hands up!”
The men didn’t oblige. All three drew and began firing in the direction of the demanding voices. They backed towards the former saloon, sending wasted ammo into the air, nowhere near the hidden Rangers.
“Ya damn fools,” yelled Jeff. “Don’t go back in there!” No Ranger had yet fired a shot.
The flames ate the rotten wood like giant termites. Smoke was already pouring from the middle building. The men inside fired wildly out the windows.
“They gotta come out,” declared Billy. “They’re gonna roast in there.”
Suddenly a scream overpowered the sound of burning timber. A woman carrying a baby ran from the building. Her hair and dress were on fire. Before she even reached the center of the dusty street, so was the blanket around the infant.
“Oh no,” Jeff found himself saying and started to rise and go to the woman. Freddie yanked him back.
“Ya can’t help them,” he said, as the woman and baby fell to the ground in a screaming, twisting, burning mass.
One of the rustlers ran from the middle building to help the burning duo, but failed. Dropping to his knees he pounded the ground. His hands and head lifted to the sky as if pleading and the Rangers heard him release a piercing scream. He then raised his gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
“Jesus!” muttered Freddie.
A young boy about eight or nine ran out of the same building, his clothing also on fire. He was sprinting south, screaming and swatting at the flames, and straight towards Billy and Sparky. In just three long strides Sparky had ripped off his duster and reached the burning child. He wrapped him in his coat, threw him to the ground, and desperately tried to smother the blaze. Then the burning roof of the middle building collapsed.
For a long spell the four Rangers didn’t speak. They had no idea how many cooked bodies were still in the building, and really didn’t want to know. Since the woman and baby were fused together from the heat, they only had to dig two graves.
Just a half hour later Sparky buried the boy he tried so hard to save. Even though Freddie offered to help, the big man swallowed the pain of his singed hands and dug the fourth grave alone.
“How were we to know?” Freddie finally muttered.
“If that goddamn Pima would’ve done his job we would’ve known!” Jeff spat with venom. “How can you miss seein’ a woman and kids, fer crissake?”
“It weren’t Feather Yank’s fault, Jeff,” said Billy. “They were rustlers! They picked their callin’, all of them!”
“You’re okay with killin’ a woman and kids, Billy?” Jeff fired at Billy. “Now that you got a couple of babies are ya really okay with that?”
“No, I ain’t! But there ain’t nothun we can do ‘bout it now, is there? Sometimes, sometimes good plans just go bad.”
“So it was my fault, huh?” asked Jeff defensively.
“Nobody said that, Jeff,” interjected Freddie. “We all agreed to fire them buildings.”
“But it was my idea, damn it.” Pointing at the fresh graves Jeff added, “I have to live with this.”
“We all gotta live with it,” declared Sparky as he removed his hat. “I think we oughta say a prayer.”
The other Rangers removed their hats and Sparky said The Lord’s Prayer. While the others whispered “Amen,” Billy hoped the man and woman and baby would end up on the same star. Without any more words the Rangers mounted their horses. It was a long, slow, quiet ride back to Nogales.
March, 1909
His room at the San Moise hotel was about the size of four one seater privies placed side-to-side and back-to-back, forming a perfect square. The small bed offered a straw-stuffed linen bag as a mattress. It rested on crossed leather straps attached to an old wooden frame that he hoped wouldn’t collapse under his weight. Being an even six feet tall, he knew his feet would dangle over the end of a structure built for shorter people. The yellowed pillow cost him an extra ten pesos. A sharp pain punched his jaw. “Ain’t got time fer ya now,” he muttered to himself then pulled out his flask and soothed the tooth with a blanket of tequila. He was aware of the whereabouts of the many towns on his tabletop map, but had only actually been to a few of them. He knew his plan was a big gamble, and he hated gambling, but it was a plan, and he had made it. He wished he could hear his friend say “Good thinking.” Finally the toothache calmed and sleep defeated the short bed.
Something was in his room. He felt a presence, but his eyes wouldn’t open. From far away strange sounds began to fill his head. They started low and muffled then slowly increased in volume until they were raw and heavy and packed with pain. Muscling up some courage he finally opened his eyes. Eleven Apaches, five men and three women were standing at the foot of his bed. The men were moaning and swaying while the women were sobbing and holding the three limp bodies of their papooses. All were pointing to the tops of their heads, but none had tops of heads. They were bloody masses with no hair and pieces of exposed brain throbbing and oozing in the moonlight shining through the hotel window. He gasped, closed and opened his eyes again, then sat up quickly. The room was empty, but he could still smell death. It took him a good hour to fall back to sleep.
Early the next morning he purchased a week’s worth of supplies, saddled Orion, and tossed them across the black’s rump. The testy horse snorted and twitched at the excess weight. Billy grabbed Orion’s jakoma and pulled his head low enough to whisper into his ear.
“Ya heard a the automobile, shithead?”
Orion let loose a defiant snort that sent snot exploding into the dirt, but wisely stopped his twitching.
Checking his six canteens of water Billy discovered a bullet hole in one that must have come from the weapon of Tomas Amador. He pulled the empty and ruined canteen from Orion’s saddle. Shaking it, the lead slug inside sounded like a baby’s rattle. He held it up in front of the horse and patted its neck.
“Yer lucky, Big O! This piecea lead woulda ripped up yer innards.”
There was no sense in buying another canteen and filling it here in town. The bugs in the local water would leave him laid up and running at both ends for days. For now, five canteens would have to be enough.
One boot was in the stirrup when something caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see four men riding slowly into town. An old familiar tingle climbed up his spine and rested like a red burr on the back of his neck. He couldn’t recall the first time he had it. All he knew was that it came every time he spotted a bad man and had yet to fail him. Right now that burr was itching like a fat bite from a thirsty Cuban mosquito.
Hanging from the lizzys on the rider’s saddles were several pigging strings, each boldly displaying enough scalps to make wigs for a hundred bald easterners. A horrid odor trailed them. Billy wasn’t sure if it came from the scalps or the rangy men themselves. One rode an Appaloosa, a rare horse down here. They were bred by the Nez Perce up in Idaho. There was no way these scalp hunters would venture that far from the safety of the Mexican border. Billy figured the man probably took the horse from an Indian he had scalped, and that dead Indian had probably traded for it or stole it from another Indian until the mount had finally worked its way this far south. He also noticed the hooves of the men’s horses were blanketed with tattered burlap sacks to help cover their trail. They lumbered past him, staring straight ahead. Here was a gringo clad in gringo clothing, alone, this far south, and they didn’t even give him a second glance. He was insulted. The town noises soon surrendered to the sound of the out-of-tune player piano in the cantina.
The Peace Officer in him was screaming for a rebirth, but had no right to one. He ached to just pull his Smith & Wesson and Colt .45 automatic and air-hole all four of them, even in the back if need be because they deserved no better. Then use his knife to add their hair to the hideous collections swinging from their saddles. He knew that was what Jeff would’ve done, regardless of their number. The four men tethered their mounts in front of the cantina and entered. He couldn’t believe they had left their bounty unattended. These scum buckets had truly put the fear of the godly bullet into the people of San Moise.
He led Orion to the front of the cantina and tethered him to a post a few feet from the scalp hunter’s mounts. Stealing a fast glance into the cantina he saw all four hombres were bellied up to the bar while the bartender frantically filled their glasses with rye. Quick as a whistle Billy snagged all the pigging strings of scalps, grabbed Orion’s reins, and led him two buildings to the west. Even though he carried the strings at full arm’s length the vile stench still drifted into his nose and caused Orion to snort in disgust. He tossed the bounty into a pile in the middle of the street so when the hombres left the saloon they’d be certain to see it. Then as he leaned over to light the disgusting swag a twinge of pain again shot through his jaw.
“Told ya I ain’t got time fer ya,” he stated and lightly smacked his jaw with the palm of his hand.
The hair torched fast. The smell from the burning pile reminded him of the foul odor of burning locusts when the farms around his home town had to clear their fields of the hungry insects. He spurred Orion to the northwest.
For two days he kept a tight look over his shoulder in case the assholes had caught wind of his doings. He was relieved when the town of Banori, the first one on his dusty table top map, came into view. He took a deep
, satisfying breath. Even though the barrio was nothing but a hump in the earth so small a caterpillar could’ve crawled from end-to-end holding its breath, it meant the first part of his plan was in granite.
The tiny place didn’t even have a policeman and apparently didn’t receive many visitors because the one road through was suffering from an outbreak of fat, one-foot-tall, undisturbed anthills. Orion carefully dodged them, not wanting hundreds of angry, stinging little pests crawling up his legs. The only supplies Billy could scrounge up were a half-pound of oats and a few tortilla patties. The small cantina did have enough mescal to replenish his flask, but smelled like it doubled as a stable. The bar was a weathered, warped board balanced across two empty barrels. When leaned on it sported enough splinters to pierce even the most shirted of elbows. Two old men were at a table playing checkers, of course. The bartender was seated by them cheering on their moves and taunting their mistakes. A whore was passed out on the floor. She was so skinny it looked as if she could slip through the floor board slats and fall into the crawl space below. For a moment Billy thought she was dead. Then she groaned, rolled over, and he wondered how many anthills her grandchildren would be kicking down today.
The two camped for the night a few miles west by a small, fast flowing creek, water he felt was safe enough to refill a canteen. He unsaddled Orion and slipped on the nosebag of oats, then cooked himself a handful of beans and wrapped them in some tortilla patties. The cool, clean creek water made for good, strong coffee. Jeff’s voice bounced around his head and made him smile.
