Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  On the ground he saw the second tinaja. It had been shattered in the animal’s panic and the two of them were drinking up the last of its contents. They were back to five canteens.

  Day 10 of 13

  Once again he thought he was dreaming. Dogs were growling, barking and yelping. Horses were whinnying and mules were hee-hawing. He leaped out of his bedroll and drew his gun expecting to see the Red Ghost charging into his campsite again. What he saw in the moonlight was amazing. At precisely the same time Orion and Captain launched two coyotes into the air with swift kicks from their hind legs. Billy chuckled at the sight of the desert hobos twisting and spinning in mid air. They struck the dirt rolling and yelping then ran off. This time, though, they had brought some friends. Three other ones were snarling and circling the horse and mule. One coyote made the fatal mistake of coming straight at Orion, who reared up and brought his front hooves down on the scavenger’s back. Billy heard a loud, sickening crack. The coyote yelped once then was dead silent. A second coyote, thinking it was clever, came at Captain from the side. Then Billy saw something that caused his jaw to drop—Captain’s right leg flew out in a sideways kick striking the attacker square in the snout. The coyote flew backwards like it had just run face first into a locomotive, its snout mashed into its face. Billy had heard mules could do that—kick sideways—but had never seen it. The lone uninjured coyote and his pal with the crushed snout slinked off into the desert night, both whimpering in defeat. Orion raised his head then reared and snorted and stomped his hoof. Captain released a loud whinny that quickly turned into a proud hee-haw. Billy treated them both to a withered carrot.

  Day 11 of 13

  He knew the hills in the distance were the type created by a river. The Rio Yaqui was close. Pretty soon they’d be across this deathtrap. He wanted to speed up, but knew the hills were still days ahead. He was trying to keep their steady and safe pace when Captain suddenly stopped and stared off to his left.

  “What the hell’s wrong with ya, Cap’n?” The mule started walking south. “Hey, where ya goin’?”

  Billy remembered what the breeder back in Quitovac had told him, “Mules are curious animals.” Then Captain began snorting and stomping at an object sticking up from the ground. Billy and Orion crossed to him. For some reason an unusual boulder had earned the mule’s curiosity. When Billy saw it, it also sparked his fancy. It was its shape that intrigued him—like a big bone. It was very long with much of it still buried under the shifting sand. He ran his hand along the object. It felt different, not like rock. It was smoother. He tapped on it. It didn’t sound like stone. It felt like a strange combination of hard, hollow, and brittle at the same time. He had seen many unusual things in his roaming around Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, but never anything like this. He decided it was a bone, but a bone from what? It was huge. Even though he knew he shouldn’t exert himself in this hellhole, he pulled his E-tool from the supplies suspended across Captain’s back.

  “Guess maybe yer curiosity done rubbed off on me,” he told Captain.

  He dug the sand away from part of the large bone. In a short time he had unearthed what appeared to be the lower leg bone of some animal, but it was about eight feet long. He dug a little more and uncovered part of what looked like the upper leg bone.

  “Jesus!” he found himself stating aloud. “This thing’s gotta be o’er twenty feet tall.”

  An elephant in a traveling circus was the biggest animal Billy had ever seen. He knew this bone didn’t belong to such a beast. It was more like a lizard bone, but one hell of a big lizard. He wondered if more of these over-sized monster lizards might be romping around this desert. One could be watching him right now digging up the resting place of his dead pal. He wondered what would happen if he came across a live one. Could he kill it? Could Orion outrun such a gigantic beast? Could Captain? With legs as big as he figured this thing could have, it would take very long strides, snatching them up in minutes. To match the size of the leg bone meant the monster’s head had to be bigger than two or three rain barrels. He shuddered as he envisioned the size of its teeth. It might even be able to spit venom like some lizards do, but a lizard that size could probably spit venom hundreds of feet. The threat of this new and deadly monster shook him to his toenails. This was worse than the Red Ghost. Over the next two days the screech of a hawk or buzzard would bugger him into pulling his Smith & Wesson and looking for lizards bigger than a house. He didn’t sleep either night, just sat by the fire, guns in hand.

  Day 13

  The Rio Yaqui was a wet blessing. Orion and Captain grazed and drank and frolicked while Billy floated naked in the cool water. Then he spread his bedroll on the soft grass and slept. And he slept. And he slept. Orion nudged him with his nose. Captain hee-hawed and slobbered into his ear. When he finally woke up he had no idea how long he had been out, but a full bladder and growling stomach told him it had to have been quite awhile. He relit the campfire. At first he considered beans and bacon, but the river was so teeming with catfish he couldn’t pass it up. It only took a matter of minutes to pull in two fat bottom feeders. He devoured every edible part of both of them. After supper he boiled enough river water to get his canteen supply back up to five. Then to his surprise, he actually fell back to sleep and woke with the sunrise.

  The trio camped by the river for another two days. Refreshed and seeing both animals were grass bellied, and somewhat certain no giant lizards or the Red Ghost were sniffing at their trail, they began their journey to the villages and towns along the river. If his plan held water then his prey should be sipping tequila and unloading their baggage in at least a few of them.

  Unless someone had given them reason not to be, like Dorotéo Arango, Yaquis were usually friendly to Rangers. Still, Billy knew riding into any town filled with Yaquis didn’t always mean you’d ride out. He pulled the Ranger badge from his vest pocket and pinned it on his chest in plain sight, even though it had no authority and made a nice shiny target. He ran his fingers across the metal. He had forgotten how good it felt, how it gave him balance. That familiar, returning sense of pride caused him to sit up in the saddle and brush some of the desert from his clothes. He would let the glistening piece of tin guide him.

  He spent weeks riding in and out of every village and grotto in his path. Eventually the trio came to the point where the Rio Yaqui forked, part going southeast the other northwest. Captain wanted southeast, Orion northwest. After staring at the fork for several minutes, he spat in his hand and slapped his palms together. The spittle shot to the north. Captain grunted and hee-hawed his displeasure, but that was their route, decided by one of the most tested methods in the West.

  The spit-directed trail led them along the river to the town of Querobabi. From there it was northwest to Altar, then northeast to Saric, then west again to Noche Buena. Days and weeks no longer existed. The land had become an endless canvas of the same boring shades of brown and yellow with a few coarse patches of green good only for giving shade to rattlers. He roamed in and out of villages and towns, almost reaching the Gulf of California. Then he dipped southeast, but soon looped back to the northwest to catch a few small barrios he had heard about from people in other towns. Always the same question, always the same answer: “No Amador, Alvarez, Quías, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...” He’d lost count of how many times he had to replace thrown or worn out iron from the hooves of both animals. He had more raw kack-biscuits on his inner thighs than a toad has warts, and they couldn’t decide if they wanted to just make him itch or burn like hell, so they did both. His toothache kept coming and going like an adulterous wife. He would tell himself he was getting it yanked at the next town, but the moment he drew close to one the pain would hide. Probably because something in his head really didn’t trust a Mexican dentist—if there even was such a thing.

  For awhile he had placed a small pebble in a maleta hanging from Orion’s saddlebags, one for each day, but now the rawhide pouch was overflowing with more pebbles than he w
as capable of counting. He dumped out the tiny stones, threw down the maleta, and stomped it into the sand with his boot. His frustration was at a peak. All this time and just one man dead—Tomas Amador. Then he wondered why he was still including that name. The man was dead. Why was he still repeating the name “Amador?” Should he drop it? No! They’d become words that no longer spewed from his mouth like venom from a snake, but flowed like a fast stream of clear, fresh water. Like the words to a song. Like Red River Valley. “Amador, Alvarez, Quías, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...”

  He was cat napping in the saddle when Captain came to an abrupt stop and hee-hawed loudly. This also caused Orion to stop and whinny. Billy opened his eyes and gathered his senses. He was surprised to find the three of them in a small barrio standing outside a cantina.

  Captain was staring at the building. Hanging over the door was a sign that read, “Limpiénse los píes.” Billy remembered it immediately. The first time he saw it he wondered why some run down cantina would have a sign that read, “Wipe your feet!” They had passed through this tiny village a few days ago. Besides a rundown corral and two empty adobes the only building still standing was this old cantina. He hadn’t even wasted the time to go in it.

  “How the hell’d we end up back here?” He asked Orion. The horse snorted and walked in a circle.

  “I know, ya hame-headed fleabag, I know we rode in a circle! Why?” Turning his wrath to Captain he continued, “And you, dumbass, I thought mules were su’pose to be smart!” Captain replied with a hee-haw that almost sounded like a laugh. “Okay, fine! Just fer them smartass remarks I’m gonna go in and have a drink and ya two can bake out here in the sun.” He tethered the two animals to a post by a trough of murky water and stepped up to the door of the cantina. “Figger out where we go next, dumbasses!” He threw the words back at the animals. Lying at the base of the door was a coarse, rectangular horsehair rug. He wiped his feet.

  “Sí, Señor?” the bartender asked as Billy approached the bar.

  “Tequila,” he answered and scanned the room.

  Two old men were seated at a table playing checkers. Every cantina, two old men playing checkers, always looking the same—loose fitting soiled yellow shirts that were probably once white, baggy pantalones, sandals, and long, grey-streaked hair covered by straw sombreros that didn’t stop the sun from cracking their faces. An old whore was seated with them, trying to influence their moves. A couple of local hombres at the end of the bar momentarily eyed Billy suspiciously, but after he smiled and nodded they returned to their mescal and conversation. The bartender placed a glass, a bottle of tequila, and a salt shaker on the bar.

  “Sorry, no lime,” the bartender said. Then took a chunk of charcoal and made a mark on the bottle at the point where its contents currently rested.

  Billy poured himself a shot, licked the side of his hand and sprinkled on some salt. He licked the salt and downed the shot of tequila in one swift gulp. It burned, soothed, and satisfied at the same time. Fortunately his flirtatious toothache had been playing hooky for a few days so he didn’t have to waste any of the liquid by resting it on the enamel devil, just let it go where it was supposed to go. After the initial singe had waned he poured himself another. This one he would sip, take his time. Scanning the room again he spotted something he had originally missed: a man dressed in gringo clothing was asleep with his head on a table in a far corner.

  “¿Ese es un gringo?” he asked the bartender, pointing to the man at the table.

  “Sí, Señor! Ranger, like you!”

  “Ranger? Ain’t no Rangers no more!”

  As he started to cross to see who this man was, the bartender voiced a concern, “¡No problema, Señor! Por favor! Siempre esta´ borrachos!”

  “No trouble!” Billy assured him and crossed to the sleeping man’s table. The first thing he noticed was the man was missing his right arm from the elbow down. He tapped lightly on the table. “Hey, Ranger?” he said in a voice just above a whisper. No response. He tapped a little louder and repeated, “Hey, Ranger!”

  In a sleepy, drunken stupor, and with great effort, the man raised his head slightly and garbled, “Ain’t no Rangers no more! Lemme the fuck ‘lone!” With a thud his head returned to the table.

  Billy was shocked. It was J. J. Brookings, the Ranger who was with them on that deadly chase of Dorotéo Arango. He recalled how J.J. had caught two bullets in his right forearm during their escape from that gorge. He had been sent to the Nogales hospital for surgery and Billy had lost track of him after that.

  “J.J.?” Billy whispered softly.

  The man slowly raised his head and tried to focus his blurred eyes on this stranger. “Who be askin’?” he slobbered, wiping the drool from his chin with his remaining left forearm.

  The moment Billy sat down at the table the foul odor hit him. J.J. smelled like he bathed in alcohol and shit. The stench almost forced him to rise and step away, but he knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t.

  “It’s me, J.J., Billy Old.”

  J.J. raised his head up further, still trying to find vision through the milky haze that covered his eyes.

  “Billy?” he muttered.

  “Yeah!”

  The man’s face was dirty and bloated. Through his beard Billy could see open sores surrounding his mouth. He looked twenty years older than he was. His clothing was soiled, torn, and filthy, just like his body.

  “Billy Old?” J.J. asked, confused.

  “Yeah, J.J.! It’s me!”

  J.J. looked around and asked, “Am I in Nogales?”

  Billy felt his heart break. “No, J.J.! No, this here ain’t Nogales.”

  “Well, where hell am I then?” he asked, slowly gathering what few wits the alcohol hadn’t burned away.

  “What happened, J.J.? Why ya here in this shitsaken hole?”

  “Ya don’t know, Billy?”

  “Why would I know, J.J.?”

  “Well, hell, if ya don’t know how the hell should I?” He laughed and exposed teeth that if not rotted were simply not there. Harsh, deep coughing quickly killed the laughter.

  Billy grabbed the bottle of tequila and his glass from the bar and returned to the table. When he poured the man a drink, J.J. downed it like water. No grimace. No burn. It’s a funny thing with drunks—Billy had seen it many times—they have moments of clarity during those first few drinks after waking from a passed out state. Almost like their minds are foggy when awakened, but the liquor chases away the fog, but only for a short time. Soon it rolls back in and the passed out state returns.

  J.J. scooped up the bottle of tequila, eyed it lovingly, and said, “G’mornin’, darlin’!” He poured himself a second drink and downed it as smoothly as the first.

  “Ya gonna talk to me now?” asked Billy.

  “Whata ya wanna talk ‘bout, Billy Boy?” asked J. J. as he poured himself a third shot.

  Just as he was raising the small glass to his lips Billy grabbed his hand.

  “What the hell ya doin’ here, J.J.?”

  Anger flashed across J.J.’s face. How dare anyone come between him and his tequila! He glared at Billy for a long moment then raised his half arm. Billy released his hand.

  “They sent me to that Nogales hospital,” he explained, finishing his drink and pouring a fourth. “Couldn’t save my arm so they tried me out in the telegraph office. Only needed one hand to poke a key.” He chuckled, swigged down the tequila, and poured himself a fifth. “Couldn’t learn all ‘em dits and dashes though.” With each drink he began to speak faster and clearer. “Can’t throw a lasso or draw a shooter with my left hand, so deputy work was out, and it takes two arms to cradle a scattergun, and I ain’t gonna stare down no plow mule’s ass! Been on the drift since. Oh, they gimme a pissant little pension fer losin’ my limb. Drank it up in no time.” After his seventh shot he looked around the room. With words beginning to slur again he asked, “Where hell am I?” There was a long pause as he stared off into the distance. B
illy knew the fog was returning. “How’d I get back to Nogales?” He squinted to see who was across the table from him. “Billy Old, damn it’s good to see ya!” He poured himself another drink. “They got any whores in this shithole, Billy Boy? I could sure do with a fat whore right now with a big fat ass like ‘em fat asses up at the ter-a-tory seat.” J.J. stood awkwardly and shouted to the bartender, “Hey, amigo, where’s the whores?” No one in the cantina even glanced his way. He fell back into his chair laughing. It took only seconds for the laughter to turn to coughing. His head dipped and slowly swayed side to side. The fog had rolled back in. Billy’s guts ached knowing there was nothing he could do. He pulled two five dollar gold pieces from his pocket and placed one in J.J.’s hand.

  “Now ya listen to me, J.J., and ya listen good! Ya take this and get yerself fed and cleaned up and outta this fuckin’ hole. Ya hear me now?”

  “Outta this fuckin’ hole,” slurred J.J., barely lifting his chin from his chest. “Right, Billy boy, outta this fuckin’....” J. J. He laid his head back down on the table. The fog had turned to sleep. Billy stared at his friend for a long moment. He rose and walked over to the bartender holding the second five dollar gold piece at eye level.

  “Habla inglés?” he asked the man.

  “Sí! Yes!” the bartender replied.

  “I just gave my friend one of these to get hisself straightened out. This one’s fer you!” He stuffed the gold piece into the bartender’s pocket. “Help him or kill him.”

  He turned and walked out of the cantina knowing whichever the man did would put J.J. in a better place. Both Orion and Captain admonished him for leaving them tied out in the heat, but he was too angry to respond. How many other Rangers were in the same state as J.J. Brookings? He wished there was a hunting season on fat asses.

  Date unknown

  The sun was about to be swallowed by the horizon when he spotted the ruins. He thought it was a strange location for a village, and certainly not on his tabletop map. There was no sign of tilled land or a water source, just endless sunlight and heat. He also noticed these were not the usual decaying adobe dwellings he’d seen all over Sonora. Yet there was something familiar about them. Orion snorted at the ground and stomped his hooves. Billy looked down and realized they were no longer following a simple horse trail. They were actually on some type of sendero that led straight into the heart of the deserted pueblos. Looking behind him he was surprised to see that they had been on it for some time and he hadn’t even noticed. The Jojoba bushes and drifting sand had all but swallowed it up.