Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  “Torcido!” explained the barber.

  Again, in frustration, Billy gestured for him to just pull the sumbitchin’ thing. The man shrugged his shoulders then reached to his tray of tools and returned with a long, thin, double-edged sharp knife aimed at Billy’s mouth.

  “Stop!” Billy yelled and leapt from the chair.

  “Ya don’t pull no tooth with a knife, goddamn it,” he blurted through the pain as he stomped towards the door. “Ya ain’t diggin’ fer gold, asshole!”

  Back to mescal.

  The local policía were both good men with no ties to any gunrunners. To Billy’s surprise neither owned a piece of either whorehouse. They even sent out telegrams to other border towns asking for any information on policemen named “Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...” Every day for weeks he’d walk into the telegraph office, and every day the same answer: No one knew anything, or no one was talking.

  He considered making a new plan, but decided it wasn’t time. He had to hang with the one that got him here. He needed to map out a route that would take him back east and through other towns. Just like the one he mapped out on that table in San Moise that took him west. Surely there were some little towns he had missed. But what if that plan was just as worthless as his current one? Would he make another one taking him back west again, then another east again, then another and another until his ass was one, big, fat callous and Orion leg’s were nubs?

  “Think, knothead,” he chastised himself.

  Again he wished Jeff were here to help him wring out this damn problem. Again he realized if Jeff were here there wouldn’t be a damn problem to wring out. He decided an evening at the whorehouse might help him think, but coming up on midnight he still hadn’t thought of any way to improve his piss-poor plan. In a habit he got into when he was a respected Ranger he left by the back door, angry and drunk. In the darkness he stumbled over an old Yaqui sleeping in the alley. The Indian leapt to his feet, groggy-eyed, but with a knife in hand pointed square at Billy’s throat.

  “Whoa, whoa, ol’ fella,” Billy cried, backing away from the annoyed Indian. “Didn’t see ya there, sorry ‘bout that!” He pulled out his refilled flask. “Have one on me!”

  The Indian accepted Billy’s slurred apology. He sheathed his knife, grabbed the flask, and hogged down a long pull. That was when Billy noticed the scar across his neck where someone had botched a throat slitting. He also saw that the Yaqui was missing his left hand.

  It didn’t take them long to drain Billy’s flask. Thinking their evening was over he said adios and started to leave the alley. The old Indian slurred, “No, no!” and pulled out a wineskin from under the blanket he had been sleeping on and offered it to Billy. Sniffing its contents made Billy’s nose hairs retreat clear up and hide behind his eyebrows.

  “Pulque!” stated the Yaqui. “Drink!” he demanded.

  Billy had experienced pulque once at the Quechan reservation where he had also dined on the roasted tarantula. It’s a powerful drink made from the malquey, an agave plant. Contrary to those who believe the evil white man introduced fire water to the Indian, pulque and tiswin had been getting the rojo hombre stewed long before the blanco hombre ever planted a boot in the west.

  A half-dozen sips later and the two alley dwellers were soused and singing “Red River Valley.” Well, Billy was singing. The Yaqui was chanting in more of a howling caterwaul. Several times a whore would stick her head out the back door and tell them to pipe down. He was surprised he could remember the words to his friend’s favorite song. Even more surprised when he finally realized just how sad those words were.

  The old Yaqui sported a face that mirrored a century of dried leather. Billy was shocked to learn the man named Tanok, meaning Sun, was only thirty-seven-years-old. When he asked him how he lost his hand, Tanok told a story that sucked Billy’s cajones right up into his belly.

  “Had hand ‘til six months ago,” the Indian replied in English clearer than Sparky’s. “Chicano policeman say I steal bottle of wine. Tanok did not. But he say Christian Bible say thief lose hand. Two of his compadres hold me down. Quias chop off hand.”

  Billy sat up. His mind desperately tried to rinse away the strong liquor. Did he hear right?

  “Quias?” he asked. “Did ya say Quias?”

  “Si,” answered Tanok and gulped down another mouthful of pulque.

  “And he was a policeman?”

  “Si.”

  “What was his first name?”

  “No hear. No care. Someday kill.”

  Even though it was a rather common last name south of the border, it was the first time Billy had heard it hitched to a policeman.

  “Where was this?”

  “Pedro Conde. La casa de putas.” Tanok squeezed the last of the pulque from his wineskin.

  Billy then repeated the names to Tanok. “Amador, Quías, Alvarez, Pasco, Victoriano...Amador...” but the only one the Yaqui could give him was Quias. That was enough though. It was his first real lead since Retta drunkenly slurred out Los Pozos as the location of the former Tomás Amador. Pedro Conde was also a border town. He had missed it on his trek west because he was so focused on the Yaqui villages. He began to think he might have misjudged General Torres. Maybe the greaser didn’t send those men to Yaqui country. Those fellows are gunrunners and rustlers. To keep up their business they had to hang close to the border. He figured that ol’ fart Torres could even be gettin’ a cut of their illegal doings. He was angry he hadn’t thought of that sooner.

  Finding himself rapidly sobering he rose and brushed off the remnants of the dirty alley then handed the Yaqui a five dollar gold piece. The Indian’s eyes grew wide as he grinned at the sight of such a fortune. Then the grin quickly turned to a frown.

  “Ten cuidado! Él es un gran mal hombre!” he advised Billy.

  Pedro Conde was about fifty miles southeast of that dark alley. From there he decided he would work his way back east towards Nogales, sticking to only the towns along the border. The next morning he got a week’s worth of supplies and tossed them across Orion’s hind quarters. After three unsuccessful attempts to snatch and pull the load off with his teeth, and after another reminder of the automobile, Orion accepted the load.

  With the brutal Mexican sun darkening his skin, a beard and moustache, hair almost to his shoulders, combined with his new outfit, he was being slowly reborn into his surroundings. Even the local food and water had stopped stampeding his bowels. He figured dressed and looking the way he had been was another reason why Tomás Amador had spotted him so quickly. It could also be why he hasn’t gotten any information from the hundreds of other people he’d questioned. But now he had a destination: Delores Quías, in the town of Pedro Conde. At least he hoped it was the same Quías. From Tanok’s description it sounded like him.

  “A big, bad man!”

  It bothered him that he no longer looked like a Ranger...but he wasn’t. For seven years he was told “Show your badge, show ‘em yer a Ranger. Be proud of it!” He was! He still was! Nothing meant more than being a Peace Officer. But was he still one? The Ranger star was not on his chest. He refused to defile it by pinning it to his current clothes, but inside he was still a Peace Officer. His pa used to say, “Yer brain might lie to you, but yer heart never will.” Then his ma would add, “All good feelings and all good deeds come from yer heart. Pay heed to yer heart, Billy.” He thought he was, but the thus far worthless plan came from his brain, catching him in his own loop. He wondered if that made it a lie. Was his brain tricking him into roaming forever around Sonora, Mexico?

  “No!” he said aloud to the hot south wind. “So what if my brain thunk it up—my heart wants it. That makes it right. I’m seekin’ justice, badge or no badge!”

  The two made camp about twenty-five miles southeast of El Papalote. Although jerky played hard ball with his tooth, he didn’t want to chance a fire. Being that close to the border made the area a common crossing place for renegade Apaches and any ki
nd of bad man. Orion snagged a mouthful of grass from a patch the greedy, dry ground had overlooked.

  “Don’t chew so loud, shithead!” Billy scolded. “Ya want some assholes to find our nestin’ place? They’d probably et you!”

  Orion snorted in defiance and stomped his hoof.

  “Hell yes they would! Don’t argue with me!”

  Orion snorted again, twice, and stomped his hoof even harder.

  “No way! They’d et you ‘fore they’d et me. ‘Sides, what di’ference do it make? We’d both still be et.”

  Since the pain in his tooth seemed to be sleeping, he joined it.

  October, 1906

  Freddie and Langston Penny were several days overdue when Captain Wheeler received a telegram from a Mexican policeman in La Morita, a border town east of Nogales. The wire said a Ranger had been there for two days and no one could get him to leave the saloon. He wouldn’t tell anyone his name, his clothing was covered in blood, and he kept drinking and threatening anyone who came near him. He refused to eat and had even been sleeping in the saloon. The telegram also warned the captain to get some help down here pronto or they might have to shoot him.

  Wheeler had reports of an Indian raiding party that was killing white settlers in the area north of La Morita then skipping back down across the border. The strange thing was that no one could tell what these Indians were. Their markings and clothing were unknown.

  “I think one of ‘em might be dead,” explained Wheeler to Billy and Jeff. “I sent the two, but only one’s in the saloon. Somethin’ happened. Better go check it out.”

  “Since these Injuns are unknown, how ‘bouts we take Sparky ‘long with us, Cap’n?” Billy suggested.

  “Good thinkin’!” Jeff added.

  The next train traveling east out of Nogales wasn’t until the following morning, so the Rangers saddled up and headed southeast on a three hour ride to the small border town of La Morita.

  “Ya think it be Freddie?” Sparky asked. He was very worried about his little friend. “Langston’s ain’t ne’er fought no Injuns,” Sparky reminded them.

  “So, ya sayin’ ya think it’s Langston who’s dead?” asked Billy.

  “Nope,” replied Sparky. “If he ain’t ne’er fought Injuns, he mighta run off at the sighta ‘em, leavin’ Freddie ‘lone.”

  “If he did and it got Freddie killed,” responded Jeff, “I’m gonna put a bullet in his brain.”

  Sparky frowned to himself. Now he had two worries, and that was a lot for Sparky. He was worried if his little pal was still alive, and if he’d have to stop Jeff from following through with his threat. The rest of the ride was as still as a bug-less night in January. Each man fretted silently to himself, worried about which Ranger lived and which didn’t. They picked up their pace and arrived in La Morita in just under three hours, a little before five in the afternoon. The town featured two cantinas. They found the unknown Ranger in the first one they entered.

  It was Freddie.

  He had planted himself at a table in a dark corner. A near empty bottle of tequila rested in front of him. His head was tilted back and he appeared to be asleep. Drool was flowing from the corner of his mouth. His right arm was on the table with gun in hand. The three friends approached with caution.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Sparky spoke softly, “Freddie? Hey, Freddie, we’re here.”

  Freddie slowly opened his eyes. They were glazed over yet darted from side-to-side. His cheeks were hollow. His face was grey and ghostly. The blood on his shirt was crusted and turning a rusty brown and mixed with dried, yellow vomit.

  “Wansome’quila?” he slurred.

  “What the hell are ya doin’, Freddie?” asked Billy.

  The bartender had joined the group. “Por favor, Señor, get him out!” he pleaded. “His smell, it is stinking up my place.”

  “Hace cuant hempo paso’ el aqúi?” inquired Sparky.

  “Dos dias!” answered the bartender.

  Billy took hold of one of Freddie’s arms as Jeff grasped the other. The two lifted him out of the chair.

  “We gotta get some food in ya, Boulder!” stated Billy.

  Suddenly Freddie jerked free of his two friends, staggering and waving his shooter. “NO!” He sobbed and screamed, “Ya ain’t gonna make me eat him! Ya ain’t...” His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor exhausted, drunk, starving, and terrified.

  They got two hotel rooms and managed to get Freddie cleaned up and as comfortable as possible. Sparky had an extra shirt in his saddlebags. It fit the small Ranger like a night gown, but at least it wasn’t caked with blood and puke. Freddie slept for close to twenty hours, interspersed with occasional screams repeating the same thing he yelled in the saloon, “Ya ain’t gonna make me eat him! Ya ain’t...” Finally his senses began to unscramble.

  “I ain’t ne’er seen nuthun like it,” he explained as he sipped his third bowl of hot broth with shaking hands, spilling some on his shirt. “Them Injuns held that poor boy down and that chief cut out his heart. Right there, right in front of me...and Langston weren’t dead when it was done. The screamin’...I can still hear his screaming.” Freddie began to sob.

  “Easy, Boulder,” said Sparky.

  Freddie was shaking so badly Billy had to take the bowl of hot liquid from his hands. After taking several deep breaths the sobbing lessened and he continued.

  “Then the fucker rubbed Langston’s heart all over my face and shirt and kept yellin’, ‘Like that, little Ranger, like that?’ and laughin’...just laughin’...with this crazy look in his eyes. Then...then...he et it.”

  The other three Rangers looked at each other in silence.

  “He et it!” repeated Freddie like he was still trying to believe it himself. “Then them other Injuns cut Langston up into pieces, just hacked ‘im up. Then they started cooking them pieces. The smell! I can still smell it, fellas! I can still smell it!” The sobbing returned.

  “Git some more rest, Freddie” ordered Sparky.

  “No, no, I ain’t done,” Freddie frantically insisted and choked down his sobbing. “I gotta tell ya, I gotta tell ya the rest, gotta get it out. We gotta tell the Cap’n. That fuckin’ chief...that fuckin’ bastard...he started tryin’ to make me et pieces of Langston. He kept stuffin’ chunks of meat in my mouth and holdin’ it shut and makin’ me chew and makin’ me swallow and I kept pukin’ and gaggin’ and...and...he kept yellin,’ ‘We do same to all Rangers. Rangers stay away, stay away, stay...’ and shovin’ more pieces of Langston in my mouth and...”

  “Easy, Freddie, easy,” stated Sparky as he touched his friend’s shoulder.

  “Then I guessed I passed out,” Freddie said, his voice seeming to slightly calm. “The next thing I knew I woke up with my hands tied to my lizzy. My horse had wandered into this town. Where are we?”

  “La Morita,” answered Jeff.

  “My head was spinning and poundin’ and all I could think ‘bout was getting’ that...that taste outta my mouth.” He looked up at his friends and tears filled his eyes. “It’s still there, fellas, it’s still there.” Through the returning sobbing he spat and shouted, “The bastard took my harmonica.”

  “What ‘em Injuns look like?” asked Sparky.

  Freddy shook his head and reached for the bowl of hot broth.

  “None I’d e’er seen! They had big cloth headdresses wrapped ‘round them with all diff’rent colors of big feathers stuffed in them. Colors I ain’t ne’er seen ‘fore, and I mean BIG feathers. Ain’t ne’er seen a bird that big!” He guzzled down the remaining broth.

  “How many of them were there?” asked Jeff.

  “Twenty, thirty, at least,” Freddie replied as he held out the empty bowl for more broth.

  “What’d ya think, Sparky?” inquired Billy, as he took the empty bowl and ladled in more broth from the small bucket they had taken from the local cantina.

  Removing his hat and scratching his large head, Sparky said, “Well, I hear tell of
a tribe called Karankawa in east Texas. S’posedly they et their enemies. Says it give ‘em powers!”

  “East Texas?” exclaimed Jeff. “What the hell are they doin’ clear out here?”

  “Maybe East Texans were too chewy,” joked Billy.

  No one laughed. They just looked at him.

  “Sorry!” he added.

  They gave Freddie another day of rest then returned to Nogales and relayed the story to Captain Wheeler. Without a second thought he decided to dump this job on the Army.

  “Let ‘em skin-hungry Injuns et a few soldiers ‘stead a my men,” he declared.

  “Cap’n?” Sparky asked, “How ya gonna tell Langston’s folks ya can’t send home his body fer a Christian burial?”

  “Guess I’ll have to lie, Sparky,” replied Wheeler. “No parent needs to get that kinda news.”

  For a brief moment Jeff tried to picture his grandfather’s reaction when his son was returned to him as rotting chunks in a box. “Fuckin’ savages,” he muttered. “Sooner we kill them all the better this country’ll be.” He stomped out of Wheeler’s office.

  Nothing more was ever heard of these strange cannibal Indians with the large colorful feathers. The Army unit sent from Fort Naco did find an abandoned campsite near where Freddie had described. It did have a scattering of human bones. No live Indians. The killing of settlers stopped. There were no stories about people being eaten. If they were Karankawa maybe they went back to East Texas. Maybe down into Mexico, making them no longer a U.S. problem. Maybe they just ate each other.

  Freddie bought himself a new harmonica, but it was close to a month before he could eat any kind of meat.

  February, 1910

  It was a little before noon of their third day when Billy and Orion arrived in Pedro Conde. The town looked like a hundred others. At first it seemed too little to even warrant a policeman, but then Billy figured maybe that was what Quias wanted. The asshole wouldn’t have to work as hard and could spend more time at the whorehouse and cantina. He ate lunch at a small restaurante run by a friendly family named Salazar. When his meal of enchiladas and rice was served by their two young sons it made him think of his own boys. It had been two years since he had seen them. Born in ’06 and ’07 they’d be close to four and three by now.