by Geff Moyer
“I swear, Billy, I could float a horseshoe in yer coffee.”
Orion snorted and stomped his hoof so Billy removed the nosebag and rubbed his friend’s nose. He crossed to his bedroll, relaxed and pulled out his pipe. After tamping down and lighting the maple flavored tobacco, he leaned back against his saddle and watched the stars slowly blink on. Usually they comforted him. They were steady, always there. Tonight, for some reason, they made him feel very much alone. It was nights like this when he and Jeff would talk until dawn. It troubled him that he hadn’t been able to decide which star his friend was on. He knew it would have to be one that moved around a lot because Jeff wasn’t a patient man. Maybe one of those stars that shot across the night sky in one direction then came back from another direction, always heading for some new adventure. He figured that was probably what Jeff would like. The man craved new assignments. If he wasn’t chasing down a bad man, he was at the whorehouse or saloon. He’d groom Vermillion three times a day, practice his quick draw, clean his fancy Colt, and sometimes just roam the streets of Nogales on the prod. Billy knew Jeff truly believed he was destined to become a Dime Novel hero, at almost any cost. So he made it a point to always be right alongside his reckless friend. He had taken it upon himself to keep this hotheaded temple of knowledge and good humor above ground. He’d lost a close friend in the past by not being around and he wasn’t going to let that happen again. But it did. Once again he wasn’t there when a friend was put under and it ate at his guts every day.
He stretched out on his bedroll and listened to the fast flowing water. He hoped he’d see one of those stars that shot across the night sky. At least then he’d know his friend was watching over him and knowing what he was doing. But it was a night without shooters. He let the sound of the creek lull him to sleep.
Retta was floating down the creek straddling a log. With her dress hiked up to her waist, he could see the often visited mound of dark hair snuggled against the bark. Spotting his campsite she began yelling for her “ni’sings” and frantically hand-paddled to the shore. The log slid smoothly onto the moist bank. She hopped off and began running towards him laughing and throwing off her clothes, but it wasn’t the body he knew. This Retta was skinny, weathered, and old. So skinny she slipped right down into an anthill screaming.
He woke up the next morning with a rock solid boner. It angered him that the whore who was also servicing one of the killers of his best friend could still stir him that way. He thought the rot gut red eye had cleansed his privates and his mind of Retta. It seemed to have, until now. So why did he dream about her? Maybe he needed to unload some baggage. It had been several weeks. Maybe more. Standing by the small creek he dropped his trousers, knelt down, and doused his privates with a hatful of cool water and watched his member slowly collapse.
“Don’t do that agin,” he warned it.
Several days later, after making a swing to the southwest, Billy and Orion reached the town of El Veracruz. It was hardly any bigger than Banori. At the local cantina he was greeted by a jolly, kettle-bellied policeman with open arms who even treated him to a shot of tequila. In passing Billy mentioned the names...“Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...”
“Ah, Señor Ranger,” the happy hombre said, “I know many men with those names, but no policemen.”
Once again supplies were almost nonexistent, along with fresh water. He wondered what that policeman could be feeding on to have grown so fat in this nothing of a town. He did manage to procure a partial bowl of cold pozolé. Even though he figured it was possibly someone’s leftovers, definitely not the fat policeman’s, he downed it quickly. The stew was tasty and still a bit warm, but only padded his belly by a smidgen. More empty tortilla shells and a few beans again, that was it. The smithy did sell him a small bag of oats for twice its worth. He knew a man could last near a month without food, but Orion starts to bitch if his breakfast is late.
The bartender offered him the only room in the back of the cantina. When he went in to check it out he found a hole in the roof the size of a wheel barrel. The floor and the small cot were covered in piles of bat guano and bird shit. He thanked the man but declined the offer, making the excuse of how he liked to sleep under the stars.
El Gabino was northwest of El Veracruz and one of the few towns on his dusty map that he had visited several years ago on another of the Ranger’s many fruitless pursuits of Dorotéo Arango. He was certain it was a place where he could replenish his supplies. They were getting low and he was tired of just beans, jerky, and tortilla shells. Perhaps he might even be able to sleep on something more pleasing to his back than the hard ground. As he shifted and stretched in the saddle to help relieve the stiffness, Orion started nervously twitching and snorting. They were at the outskirts of El Gabino.
“Easy!” ordered Billy, as he patted his friend’s neck. “What’s eatin’ ya, shithead?”
Billy could feel Orion’s muscles tighten under him. Something was stressing the animal. Usually this was a warning of danger, but there was no one in sight. The street was empty, not even a stray dog, just dead silence.
“Where the hell is ever’body?”
Without being spurred Orion snorted, bucked a little, and picked up his pace, anxious to get them clear of whatever danger he was sensing. Then Billy noticed the yellow flags hanging on the doors of practically every building in the town.
“Shit!” he muttered. “Cholera! Fog it, Big O!”
The black leapt into action. They were clear of the barrio within seconds. After another fifteen minutes of hard riding, Billy pulled Orion to a halt and climbed off. As the horse searched for some rare vegetation, Billy stooped down and tried to recreate his map in the dry Sonora earth.
“We’re in a pickle, boy,” he finally declared. “If we don’t wanna be more parched bones in this shithole we gotta swing north to Colonia Reforma, and we’re both gonna be purty damned hungry by the time we git there. Can ya handle it?”
Orion snorted and bobbed his head.
“And keep yer nose open fer some fresh spring water.”
By the time they reached Colonia Reforma, they were in an endless duel of grumblings exploding from their empty bellies. Orion won with one loud enough to chase a scrawny, barking dog back into an alley. Billy stabled the black with a plentiful nosebag and then filled his own belly with close to a dozen tamales and several warm beers at a small cantina. Besides hard liquor, beer was about the only safe liquid to drink below the border. The tamales were tasty, but his temperamental tooth forced him to chew on just one side of his mouth. He figured he could live with that until he could find a dentist and get the damn nuisance yanked. Providing Mexico has such a person.
When trying to get a hotel room a surly clerk rudely informed him that they were all filled up. The man’s demeanor told Billy he obviously didn’t want a gringo defiling what he mistakenly considered a fancy facility. He was finally able to land a small shack at the south end of town from a bartender who didn’t care whose money he got as long as it was money. It was a nasty, dirty, cobwebbed filled structure with barely enough room to turn around. It had a small cot with a yellowed mattress that smelled like year-old sweat and piss. But it did have a roof with no holes in it. He flipped the thin mattress over and placed his tarp on top of it so the occupying bedbugs would have to fight through an extra layer before they could feast on him.
Colonia Reforma offered two whorehouses, which was unusual for a town its size. Still, very few of the whores would even talk to him. When they did, it was all business. With the exception of the greedy bartender who rented him the shack, the remaining town folk chose to steer clear of this gringo stranger, too. Neither of the local policemen would even speak to him.
“No habla!” they’d reply and start to walk away. So he tried Spanish, and to that he got a cold and firm, “No comprénde!”
He split the next two days between the two brothels drinking and lounging in the parlors and studying faces. To insu
re himself of not having another dream about Retta, he unloaded some baggage with a big, feisty redhead with green eyes that could send a fellow into a trance.
After acquiring more beans, jerky, pipe tobacco, oats, a few airtights of peaches, beef biscuits, and tomatoes, and some withered yet edible carrots, he saddled Orion and left the unfriendly town.
It had been years since he had spent this much time riding alone and it was giving him too much time to think. He would hear things he couldn’t see and see things that weren’t there. Even though it had been many weeks since he had burned those scalps, he still found himself peeking over his shoulder. Were those scalp hunters hunting him with as much vigor as he was hunting his prey? No one saw him take the hair. At least he didn’t think anyone did. Maybe some kid was hidden in one of the buildings peeking out a window. Maybe some drunk was lying in an alley and saw the deed. Maybe there’s something about Orion’s hoof prints that make them easy to track, but his path had been too erratic and twisting, mainly to keep the horse happy. Besides, they would’ve surely lost track of his hoof marks among all the others in the towns he had passed through. He wished his friend was riding on his right, covering his back like he did for six years, telling him stories, teaching him little tidbits of history and two dollar words, joking about anything and everything. Even his bitching about Injuns would be a grateful earful.
“Fuckin’ knothead!” he mumbled. “If Jeff was here ya wouldn’t be here anyways!”
He killed off the airtights the quickest, especially the ones with peaches. For the next several days it was jerky and hard sinkers. They barely filled his belly and would send his tooth into a throbbing frenzy that was only soothed when bathed in mescal. Looking forward to some soft food and beer, he was relieved to see the distant adobe buildings of Toritos to the southwest. A satisfying smile forced some of the dust on his face to tumble down on his vest. The town was right where his tabletop map said it would be.
It was a short lived smile. Barely more than fifty feet into the town he was greeted by three mounted and uniformed men. Not the usual soiled, tan colored police uniforms. Each of these men wore two ammo belts strapped in an X over dark blue shirts. Their brown breeches were covered by chaparejos lined with studded silver conchas stretching down the length of the leg and stopping just above identical shiny chiuahuas’ with wide metal rowels. They even sported matching white sombreros. All three packed shiny new Winchesters.
Some Mexican towns established a Rural Guard known as Rurales. They were a no-nonsense bunch of well-armed vigilantes with military training. One of their jobs was to discourage any corrupt policemen from even considering their peaceful barrio as a possible haven. They also didn’t care for any former Arizona Rangers hanging around, unless he was decorating a cottonwood. With three rifles pointed at him, Billy was escorted straight through to the outskirts of Toritos. They passed a tasajero where the smell of the smoking beef spilled from the building. His mouth watered. He could picture the carcasses slowly being smoked in large ovens. Even though he asked in polite Spanish if he could at least gather a few supplies, the Rurales simply shook their heads and guided him and Orion to a sign that read, “Gracias por la visita Toritos.” A Rurale said one word, “Vamose!” They showed him their mount’s asses and spurred them back towards town.
“Obliged, assholes!” he yelled as the men rode off.
Without looking back, one of the Rurales raised his hand and extended his middle finger.
“Fuck!” Billy mumbled. “Some damn plan!” Orion snorted in agreement. Billy looked at the horse and said, “Oh, and I s’pose you could come up with a better one?”
It was a ten day ride to Quitovac, the next town on his crude map. It rests on the edge of one of the most inhospitable deserts in Mexico. To reach the Rio Yaqui, the river where many Yaquis established their villages and towns and where he hoped the Mexican police would be the thickest, he’d have to cross that desert. Problem was he had only three days of supplies. He figured he could stretch them out to last five, maybe six, but those last few days were going to be belt-tightening. He had lived off the land before, but usually in a place where the game was tastier than bony sage hare and rubbery lizard. He knew one of the most abundant meals in a place like this was rattlesnake. With all its venom in its fangs and not in its body, a man can eat its meat without croaking before dessert. Of course, the critters had to be pulled out of hiding, snagged, their heads cut off, and skinned. They didn’t take kindly to that. And the goddamn head can still bite an hour after it’s been hacked. Rattlers don’t go under easy.
His calculations were close. He and Orion finished the last of the jerky, sinkers, and oats the morning of the seventh day. With no beans or vegetables to balance his diet he could feel his bowels becoming potgutted. He hadn’t relieved himself in three days. Still being a far cry from Quitovac, he had to do something to loosen his innards. He thought the wild onions would help, but all they did was make his breath strong enough to down a fly in flight. So he turned to another desert treat. Prickly pears are small purple, grape-like objects that grow on the ends of cactus, but like rattlers, they also have a way of biting back. He had to wear gloves to pick them or they’d bless his fingertips with several nasty, little, painful thorns that felt like he’d just rested his hand on a red hot griddle. Next, they have to be rolled in the dirt and washed to completely remove the thorns, then sliced into strips and cooked. But even after devouring several of the bland tasting pears, his bowels wouldn’t move. Every step Orion took jarred his innards. The only thing that briefly relieved the discomfort was a good, long fart. When the two finally reached Quitovac, he found himself in an odd state: starving yet plugged up stiffer than a new pair of boots.
He stabled Orion with a full nosebag. The small restaurante specializing in green chili might be the solution to his clogged bowels. He knew drinking the local water would help release his innards, but it would also lay him up in some seedy hotel room for near a week. He gobbled down two bowls of the powerful green mixture, which was made with the local water, but boiled to a slightly safer consumption. Twenty minutes later he was frantically seeking a public privy. The trots stayed with him for the rest of the day and dried up his innards to the point that he finished an entire canteen of his safe water.
Quitovac wasn’t a large town. It only featured one cantina that, naturally, doubled as a whorehouse with no extra rooms to let. Once again, a friendly bartender came to his rescue. The young man owned two old tents at the edge of town. They were specifically for letting to travelers. He had a roof again, even though it was canvas. As in all the towns he had visited, the answer was the same though: No one knew any policemen by the names of...“Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...”
The young bartender told him the trip across the desert would take at least two weeks, if he didn’t get lost. “No pronto desert,” explained the bartender in broken English. “Jornado del muerto.”
Billy knew exactly what he meant: a journey of death. He had traveled his share of deserts and knew he could not rush across, especially the one he was facing. After a few more tequilas, a couple more beers, and some deep thinking, he determined five canteens would not be enough. He purchased a small pot and rigged up a fire pit outside the tent to boil enough water to get his canteen supply back up to five. He also bought two tinajas from an old woman at a street pottery booth. They were heavy, but he’d need them. With his canteens and necessary food supplies, and additional water in the tinajas, the load would be too much for Orion. Later that evening he returned to the cantina and the friendly young bartender.
“Need a pack mule,” he stated to the bartender.
“Mu...mu...?” stammered the Mexican. “No comprénde, senor.”
“Ass,” explained Billy.
The bartender smiled and pointed to one of the whores.
“No, no,” Billy laughed then added, “Burro. Grande burro.”
“Ah, si, burro.”
The bar
tender tore a small piece of paper from a yellowed wanted poster on the wall behind him. It featured the likes of the Apache Kid, who had been assumed dead for ten years. With a chunk of charcoal he drew a crude map. Then the grinning bartender pointed to his drawing and said, “Ass!” He started to laugh at his own humor, but cut it short as his eyes fell upon two hombres entering the cantina.
“Is there a trail across the desert to the Rio Yaqui?” asked Billy.
“No trail, Senor, folla’ sun.”
Billy chuckled and said, “Just keep headin’ west, huh?”
Smiling and pointing towards his right the bartender replied, “Si, Senor, West!”
Then Billy watched the bartender’s expression rapidly change. He had seen that look in a hundred men. It was fear and danger. He turned nonchalantly, keeping one arm leaning on the weathered bar to not present a threat to some trigger happy new customers. The moment he laid eyes on the two new patrons that familiar tingle returned and the back of his neck started itching. Both men were filthy. He watched the dozen or so customers in the cantina quickly sink to about half that size.
“Mierda!” mumbled the bartender with a frown that quickly turned to a forced grin as he pulled two bottles of mescal from under the counter and placed them on the bar.
The two hombres approached the bar. Small dust clouds puffed forth from their worn chaparejos with each step. Both smelled like they had shit their pants. They gave Billy a hard stare, to which he returned with a smile and a nod. With a disgusted grunt they nodded back and scooped up their mescal, then crossed to a corner table that had been quickly vacated by two fleeing old men, leaving their checker game unfinished. One of the nasty hombres grabbed a reluctant young whore who Billy thought couldn’t have been much older than Freddie’s daughter. The man pulled her to the table and forced her down on his lap. She grimaced at their rank odor. An older whore across the room started to cross to the men, maybe in an attempt to take the place of the inexperienced and frightened young girl. She was quickly grabbed by another customer and hustled out the door of the cantina.
