by Geff Moyer
The bartender leaned over and whispered to Billy, “Arango hombres.”
The burning body of Alex MacDougal flashed across Billy’s mind. He felt his hand slowly lower to his Smith & Wesson. He wanted to air hole the pus-bags, but there were still too many customers in the cantina. Besides, he wasn’t a Ranger anymore. He knew what Jeff would’ve done. Ranger badge or not, as soon as he heard the word “Arango” his pearl handled Colt would’ve been out and blazing. Then two Mexican policemen burst through the door, each toting pump action shotguns. The men still in the cantina fell to the floor pulling screaming whores along with them. Billy turned and saw the bartender dropping behind the bar so he slammed his palms on the top, vaulted to the sober side, and squatted in the sawdust with the young man. At least eight shotgun blasts split and stung the ears of every other cowering person in the small room. Then just like that it was over. The cantina stopped bouncing and ringing and the whores stopped screaming. Billy and the bartender slowly rose. People began to slip out of their hiding places and wipe the lingering sulfur residue from their eyes. The two shit-smelling, perforated, and very dead hombres in the corner didn’t get off a single shot. Their table, bottles, chairs, and the checkers and board were in a hundred pieces.
So was the young whore.
“I thought y’all liked Arango,” said Billy, very confused.
“No, no, senor,” explained the bartender. “Arango men fight for Madero. Presidente Diaz we like.”
Although he didn’t ask, Billy wondered, “Who the hell is Madero?”
The next morning he rose early to follow the bartender’s map to the mule breeder’s farm. As he led Orion out of the stable he heard the solemn music of a funeral dirge. A procession of people following a cold-meat wagon carrying the collected pieces of the dead young whore slowly passed. He removed his hat and waited for them to turn the corner towards the cemetery. The older whore who had tried to replace the young one was dressed in black with a veil covering her face. She walked alongside the coffin, sobbing, with her hand resting on it. He realized she was the dead girl’s mother.
The farm was about two miles north of town. The breeder had a mulada of seven animals for sale clustered in a small corral. Billy eyed the group, wondering which one to select. He’d never bought a pack mule, never even ridden one. He wondered if he should check its teeth and legs like he would a horse. A strong back was an obvious, but beyond that he was clueless. In hopes of making the decision easier he entered the corral for a closer look. The smell almost knocked him over. As he stood examining a dull grey colored beast something nudged his back. He turned and was staring into the face of a big brown mule.
“Hi, fella!” Billy said and nodded to the brown animal. He continued on to another mule. As he lifted the second mule’s head to inspect its teeth the big brown one again nudged him from behind. When Billy turned to face him for the second time the animal almost seemed to be grinning at him. As he started to move on to a third mule he was nudged again. This time hard enough to push him forward a foot or two. He turned and the same brown mule hee-hawed loudly.
“I’ll take this one!” Billy told the farmer as he patted the head of the big brown animal. “Think he wants outta here.”
“Burros son animals curiosos.” the breeder told him.
“¿Como se llama?” asked Billy.
“Capitano!” replied the breeder.
Billy chuckled. “Captain! Good name fer a mule.”
He paid the man and led Captain over to Orion for a formal introduction.
“Shithead, Cap’n! Cap’n, Shithead!” Patting the mules neck he added, “His real name’s Orion, but after a few weeks ‘long side him ya’ll be callin’ him Shithead, too.”
On the ride back to town Billy kept laughing at the way the two animals eyed one another. For the past several years Orion’s trail buddy had been Vermillion. Now there was this odd smelling and odd looking creature almost as big as him trotting along side. He knew a mule is even-tempered and patient, and hoped some of those qualities might rub off on his haughty and stubborn partner, but doubted it. Even after four years he and Orion still quibbled over who was really riding who.
July, 1905
The big, black stallion was backlit by a full blue moon and glaring at them from atop a small rise. The two exhausted Rangers were returning from a wasted search for some slippery cattle rustlers up around McNeal. The black just stood there watching them. Even from that distance Billy and the stallion locked eyes. It was like the horse took a look at the two tired cowboys and thought, “Go ahead! I dare you.”
“No horse looks at me like that,” exclaimed Billy as he slipped the lasso off his lizzy and began to slacken the rope.
Jeff groaned and said, “Billy, I’m beat and my ass is already sore. Ignore the sumbitch.”
“I want him, Jeff! Look at him! Standin’ there like a statue!”
“It’s a fuckin’ horse, Billy, and what the hell’s wrong with Swiss?”
For the past few years Billy had been riding a chocolate gelding appropriately named Swiss. He was a good horse and kept a good head, and seemed to like his rider. So even Billy wondered why he was so hell bent on snagging this stallion. Maybe it was because they had failed at their assignment and he didn’t want to return to Nogales empty handed. Maybe he just needed a challenge. No. It was a connection. He felt it the moment their eyes locked, and he knew from stories heard over the years that a man knows when he has found the right mount. The animal becomes more than just his horse. They became one...like Jeff and Vermillion.
The black stomped his hooves several times as if saying, “What’re ya waiting for?”
“He’s darin’ me,” Billy said as he looped his lasso. “I can feel him laughin’ inside.”
Jeff sighed and readied his rope. “Alright,” he surrendered, “just hope that big fella doesn’t kill us both.”
It was a painful pursuit filled with clever maneuvering from both the Rangers and the stallion, but they finally managed to pin the cunning horse down in Leslie Canyon.
Later that night Jeff pointed up to the sky and said, “See those three stars in a line there?”
Billy knew precisely where to look. “Ya.”
“They’re called Orion’s belt—three bright stars in the constellation of Orion. Seeing your black has that white star on his forehead...”
Billy finished his sentence. “I should call him Orion.”
He leaned back against his saddle, lit his hand carved ivory pipe, and pondered the suggestion as he stared at the night sky. Even though he never knew their name, those three stars and the Big Dipper had always been his favorites. Many a night he had watched them travel across the sky, wondering if some other fellow was up there watching him travel across the sky.
“Fittin’!” he finally declared.
Roped and lead back to the Ranger’s barracks in Nogales, the strong and stubborn black fought them every step of the way. The only thing that seemed to temporarily calm him was when he would trot alongside Vermillion. If Billy put the black next to him and Swiss, the wild horse would get as agitated as a prairie dog spotting a rattler. When he thought Billy wasn’t paying attention he’d suddenly jerk to one side in hopes that this strange being would lose the rope that kept him from breaking range and heading for the hills.
For the first few weeks the black was a beast with a bellyful of bedsprings. No one could stay on him. Finally, after five weeks of fart-knocking falls, and bruised tailbones Billy was able to stay in the saddle. But to this day he doesn’t think Orion considers himself broken...just cooperating.
April, 1909
He stayed another day and night in Quitovac, spending most of his time in the cantina. The blood and the splintered pieces of chairs and table and checker board had been cleaned up, but the stubborn smell of death had yet to leave the room. He knew the next two weeks would be hell in the saddle, but to reach the towns where he hoped his prey could be cowering, it was a necessary hell. Th
e friendly bartender had once again greeted him with a smile when he entered. Even in just the short time Billy had been in Quitovac he had grown to like the fellow. Outside of Sparky, this was the first time he had felt a liking towards anyone since Jeff’s death, especially a Mexican. Before leaving the cantina to return to his tent, he gave the young man two silver dollars just for the hell of it.
“Gracious, senor,” exclaimed the smiling bartender. Then with a serious dip of his eyebrows he added, “Trece días a Rio Yaqui. No let desert eat you.”
The next morning Billy loaded both animals with supplies, most on Captain’s strong back. He had boiled enough water to fill the two heavy tinajas. He covered and secured their contents with rabbit hides and hung one on each side of Captain’s midsection. Taking a last long look at his animals and checking his supplies, he decided they were as ready as they’ll ever be. The newly formed trio set out across one of the deadliest stretches of ground in Mexico.
Desert, Day 1 of 13
The desert is a demon with a huge appetite. It cooks its meat in the daytime and freezes it at night. Billy, Orion, and Captain were nothing more than walking meals for Gila monsters, coyotes, rattlers, bobcats, buzzards, tarantulas, scorpions, centipedes, and things no one could even describe or imagine. Even the vegetation was their enemy. The Jumping Cholla Cactus will hook anything that makes the mistake of passing too close. Its spines jab and lock in under the hide of both man and beast. Getting shy of them is like pulling out dozens of tiny fish hooks. The agave plant is armed with long sharp spikes that shred clothing, puncture skin, and leave a bloody, burning hole the size of a ten-penny nail.
Feather Yank says the desert is a tricky coyote that fools a man into dying so the dry ground can drink his blood and the critters can have his meat. The sun gets his bones. Since moving too fast would drain their energy and kill them, and moving too slow would cook them and kill them, Billy had to find that safe pace that kept them moving and kept them alive.
It was a long day of struggling to maintain that steady pace while weaving in and out of underbrush that was as hungry as the critters he knew was watching them. As the sun was finally collapsing over a hilltop to the west he decided to make camp. After freeing both animals of their burdens he filled and slipped on their nosebags. While they ate he spent an hour plucking cholla thorns from their hides and from his own arms and legs. Since he knew a cold desert night was coming he built a large fire, cooked up some bacon and beans and wrapped them in a tortilla shell. He knew the fire would keep some critters at bay, but a fellow rarely sleeps alone in the desert. Something was always bound to try to snuggle up in his bedroll on a cold night. He purposely hadn’t taken a piss all day, and for a reason: A Buffalo Soldier in the Rough Riders had told him about the ditch and piss trick: dig a shallow, skinny ditch around his bedroll and then piss in it. The urine was supposed to repel snakes, scorpions, and spiders. He figured this was as good a place as any to try it. He spread out his bedroll then slipped his e-tool from the packing. Every Ranger was issued an e-tool, a folding shovel with a handle about eighteen inches long and a blade eight inches wide. It was mainly for digging graves.
He shoveled out a thin ditch a few inches deep all the way around his bedroll, then he pissed in it. It felt good and he had enough stored-up piss to completely encircle his bedroll. A few hours later he awoke with a tarantula sitting on his chest, inches from his face. He could count the eight eyes staring at him. He had seen a great many of these furry devils, even eaten some at a pansaje with some Quechan Indians, but he never knew they hissed. He shuddered and whisked the beast off his chest, grabbed a rock and crushed it into a gooey mash, then sat up the rest of the night in case any relatives came looking for their missing kin.
“So much fer ditch n’ piss,” he muttered.
He watched the sun rise in the east. Since he hadn’t slept since crushing the spider he figured the threesome could get an early start before that sizzling old bastard turned loose all of its heat. As he packed the supplies back onto Captain he spotted a hole the size of a ten-penny nail in the lower side of one of the tinajas. It was drained dry.
“Goddamn thorns,” he yelped and tossed the ruined tinaja into the dry brush where it shattered. For a second he thought he heard the bushes chuckle at his ignorance. He pulled his S&W and sent a round into their midst. After the sound had rippled its way far off into the distant mesas his eyes narrowed and he scanned the other vegetation. “Got four more here, fellas,” he warned them. Not one bush dared to even giggle.
Day 5 of 13
It was a hard sleep, his first in days. He thought he was dreaming when the whinnying, snorting, hee-hawing, snarling, growling, and yapping filled his head. He opened his eyes and saw it was still night time and he wasn’t dreaming. Three coyotes were circling the campsite, keeping a fair distance until they decided on which animal to attack. All it took were a few chucked rocks for Billy to scatter them.
“What the hell ya wakin’ me fer?” he shouted at Orion and Captain. “There was only three of them! They come back, ya kick the shit outta them desert hoboes, ya hear?” He released their tethers. He knew Orion wouldn’t go anywhere and figured Captain was smart enough to not wander off in this deathtrap. “There! Now if they come back, show ‘em who’s boss! It’s hard enough to get shut-eye out here without ya two chicken shits wakin’ me.”
Day 8 of 13
He needed a warm supper, something besides the jerky and hard biscuits that vexed his tooth. The odor of sizzling bacon could be smelled for miles, especially in the desert, but his stomach insisted on taking the chance of attracting unwelcomed guests anyway. He knelt by the fire and tossed some beans into the small iron skillet to simmer in the grease alongside the bacon. He leaned his face over the skillet and sniffed in the fine smell. Moments before the pork had turned to an edible color, his ears caught a noise in the distance. It was like a bunch of grunts, but high pitched grunts. He’d never heard anything like it, but could tell it was coming his way. The grunts soon became a piercing, gurgling, almost painful noise, obviously unfamiliar to the ears of the entire trio because Orion and Captain stirred and stomped and whinnied and hee-hawed as the sound grew louder and closer. He stood up and drew his gun, straining to see what was coming, but dusk in the desert before the moon blinks on turns everything into an inky blackness.
Orion and Captain were almost in a panic, shuffling and turning in circles, snorting and making sounds Billy had never heard them make before. He backed away from the fire and filled his left hand with the weapon from his shoulder holster. The sound seemed to be all around them. He was spooked. He expected to see the Reaper explode from the darkness, his red eyes glowing under a black hood and his skeleton arms swinging a bloody scythe as he slashed everything in his path. Now the air was filled with a shrill, gurgling clamor that was so loud he felt as if his head was going to burst like a melon. Then a terrifying sight blasted through the brush, causing him to stumble backwards and fall to the ground. A huge red camel thundered into the campsite. Steam was snorting from its nostrils, drool pouring from its wide open mouth. Its heavy hooves crashed down into the fire, flipping the iron skillet and spilling the bacon and beans into the coals. Orange and red hot cinders sailed into the air and danced around the camel’s legs causing whisks of its hair to ignite and die like hundreds of tiny explosions. Billy was screaming and cursing. Then a chill shot through his body. He felt every muscle tighten and freeze like a frigid wind had iced him solid. Strapped to the camel’s back, right between the animal’s humps, was a headless human skeleton.
As fast as it struck, the camel trampled off into the desert night.
With cold sweat soaking his clothing and suffering from a case of the shakes like none he’d ever known, he realized he hadn’t fired a shot from either weapon. Orion and Captain had run off into the darkness, but he knew they’d return. Gathering his senses he jumped up and screamed again, then began firing into the dark void where the beast had vanished. Aft
er emptying both weapons he dropped to his knees, panting and trying to catch his breath. Tears were spilling down his cheeks and he realized he had pissed himself.
“The Red Ghost,” he gasped, and quickly reloaded both weapons.
He knew the legend but never believed it. The U.S. Calvary tried an experiment with camels in the Southwestern desert. In the 1880’s, so the legend goes, a young Calvary recruit was having trouble staying on a camel, so in fun his fellow soldiers lashed him to a big red one and smacked its rear. It didn’t end up being much fun for the recruit. The frightened animal took off, outrunning its pursuers and disappearing into the desert. The young recruit and the big red camel were never seen again. Alive, that is! From the Grand Canyon up north down to the deserts of Sonora, stories spread about a big red camel with a skeleton rider. Folks named it the Red Ghost. People began to spot the eerie twosome just lumbering through the desert. Stories were told about how it would turn, charge, and trample anyone who tried to catch it, how it would suddenly appear at night to lone campers and stampede through their campsites, and how bullets bounced off it or passed through it. He believed it now.
An hour later Orion and Captain came wandering back.
“Glad to see I can count on the two a you chicken shits,” Billy spat at his companions.
The animals wandered over to where Captain’s supplies were laying and began lapping at something.
“What ya got there?” Billy asked as he walked over to them.
