Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  Feather Yank did as he was ordered. He found the stolen cattle. If Wheeler would’ve said stick around to see how many rustlers were there perhaps he would’ve. Jeff wondered if that made Wheeler responsible for the deaths of that woman and the children. Or should Feather Yank have used initiative and stuck around longer to gather more information? Maybe Indians don’t have initiative. Maybe it’s not in their nature. He wondered why he was putting all of this effort into trying to figure out this particular Pima. What’s the point? He’s just another dirt worshipper. Sure, Jeff knew it was his plan to set fire to the buildings, but how was he to know the woman and children were in there? He couldn’t see through walls. Still, no matter how many excuses he’d conjure up, the guilt remained. It was his plan. He also knew he had to cool his heels. He’d be on the trail with this Indian for several days. Finally he tied his bedroll across Vermillion’s butt and said, “Let’s go.”

  As the two rode off towards Arivaca Sparky said, “Wonder whichen will make it back in one piece.”

  The captain was right about the Pima keeping his mouth shut. Regardless of how many times Jeff tried to make conversation with the stoic Indian on the short ride to Arivaca, all he got was an occasional grunt. Of course, everything he said was on the prickly side. Common sense finally began to sink back into Jeff’s head. To ease the tension he knew had created he tried to make peace with the Pima over the next few days, or his version of peace. The Indian still merely grunted in response. Every time Jeff would ask where they were headed next, the Indian would respond with the same frustrating two words, “Find guns!”

  “Ya know, Feather Yank,” Jeff suggested one afternoon, “when ya retire you should become one of those wooden Indians that stand outside of stores holdin’ cigars. They never talk either!”

  “No like cigars! Smell like horse shit!”

  On their third night while again sitting silently around a small campfire in the foothills of the San Luis Mountain range, Jeff knew he had to find a way to put a crack in the wall between them.

  “Feather Yank, I ain’t never apologized to an Injun, but I figger I owe you one,” he quietly stated. “I’m truly sorry I got in yer face like that back in the corral. I just don’t appreciate havin’ the death of a woman and a baby on my head.”

  The Indian looked at him and said, “Not on head, Jeff Kidder, in heart. This heart heavy with deaths of much women and children; Must live with it.”

  Jeff knew it was something he would have to learn to live with, but how? It was his plan. He tried changing the subject. “What’s that figure on your necklace, that fellow playin’ a flute?”

  “Kokopelli,” replied Feather Yank.

  “What’s a kokopelli?”

  “When the Kokopelli play flute in village, next morning all squaws in village be with child.”

  Jeff sneered. “You believe that shit?”

  “You believe stork bring baby?”

  Jeff chuckled to himself. He was surprised to actually hear a sense of humor coming from an Injun. Then he recalled a night in a Quechan camp with Billy and two young squaws. They heard a flute playing outside the tepee they were given to stay in. He wondered if he might have a half-breed kid running around that reservation. But at least now he had the stoic Indian saying more than just “Find guns,” so he decided to push a little more.

  “What’s your story, Feather Yank? The white man’s got his Bible and story of how everything began, ya know? What’s yers?”

  Without hesitation, Feather Yank poured out his proud history.

  “Juh-wert-a-Mah-kai make world from sweat off chest. Take four times to get right. From his eye he make Noo-ee, ‘nother man, to help make more people. Juhwerta Mahkai take ball to make sun. He put ball in North, no good! He put in South, no good! West no good! East good! From more sweat Juhwerta Mahki make more people, man, woman, and they make more people, but these people no good, so Juhwerta Mahki kill them. He bring down sky.”

  “The sky?” Jeff stated skeptically.

  “Si.”

  “How could he bring down the sky?”

  “Fire, stone come from sky. Kill all! Happen four times. On last try he get earth right and people right. Then Juhwerta Mahki tell people big flood come and they must go under earth.”

  “Under? Ya mean like in caves?”

  “Hole in ground!”

  “Hole in ground? Ya don’t get away from a flood by goin’ in a hole, fer crissake! Hell, the water would flood a hole in the ground! Ya sure they didn’t climb to the tops of mountains where they’d be...”

  “No, no! Water too high!”

  “Water was too high to go up a mountain yet they were safe in a hole in the ground?” asked Jeff in a condescending tone. “Don’t make sense!”

  “My people story, Jeff Kidder! I tell it!”

  “Okay! Okay! Calm down! Your face is turning red!”

  For a second Jeff thought he saw the flicker of a smile flash across Feather Yank’s face.

  The Indian continued, “People who not go in hole die. After water go ‘way, people come out of hole and make all other people and all animals from wet clay.”

  As he watched the Pima gently stir the twigs in their small fire, he recalled a story from his childhood, something about a “hundred pounds of clay.”

  “A big flood destroyed the world in the white man’s book, too,” he remarked.

  “Flood come to many peoples.”

  “Ya think it was the same flood?”

  “No matter!” replied Feather Yank. “World still have bad people.”

  With that last statement the Indian rolled over and was asleep in seconds.

  The San Luis Mountains are a low range running about nine miles. The next morning Feather Yank led Jeff to a certain point of high ground overlooking a deep, dried river wash that could easily hide a traveling wagon. They knelt in the tall grass. From ground level, they couldn’t see into the wash, wouldn’t even know it was there, but from their current height, it was a cinch.

  “Wash go northeast. Chief Wheeler say wagon go Tucson. Tucson northeast!” The Indian refused to use the term Captain. He felt “Chief” was more respectful.

  “He told you that? About Tucson?” That was news to him.

  “Chief Wheeler say we follow wagon to Tucson, see who buy guns.”

  “So he wants us to find the buyer, too? Why the hell didn’t he tell me all that?”

  “Indian talk less,” the Pima stated and started to rise, but suddenly stopped. “No move, Jeff Kidder!” he warned.

  “Huh?”

  “No move!”

  Jeff froze. Feather Yank pulled his knife from its sheath and whisked a small red scorpion off the back of Jeff’s shoulder, dangerously close to his neck. “Little red ones plenty nasty!” He crushed the scorpion under his moccasin.

  A chill forced sweat beads to pop out on Jeff’s forehead as he managed to stammer, “Thanks.”

  “We camp here,” stated Feather Yank as he stripped his Paint. Early the next morning the Pima was shaking Jeff awake. “Up!” he ordered. “Wagon in wash!”

  Jeff rubbed the sleep from his eyes, rose, and hurried to where the Indian was prone in the high grass, peering down into the wash. Sure enough, three men, one driver and two escorts were taking a wagon up the wash. Even though its contents were covered by a tarp, it was easy to make out their shapes—cartons of rifles. Six, Jeff believed.

  “No wear policía clothes,” said Feather Yank. “Wear Army clothes.”

  “I don’t get it,” mumbled Jeff.

  “Soldier safer in U.S. than policía.”

  “So you think they’re really policía dressed as soldiers?”

  “Find out in Tucson!”

  With that, the pair saddled and mounted their horses and started the slow crawl to Tucson, staying out of sight on the high ground over the wash to keep an eye on the wagon. It took two days for the sluggish vehicle to finally cover the rugged sixty-some miles to Tucson. The soldiers drove it di
rectly to the town’s crowded railroad yards.

  Hidden a few standing railcars away, Jeff whispered, “We need to take them before they get those guns loaded onto a train.”

  “No! Chief say need know where train go.”

  “I thought we were supposed to stop the shipment of the guns.”

  “I not say that!”

  “Wheeler wants to know the buyer AND where the guns are going?”

  “Si!”.

  “Why didn’t he tell me any of this?”

  “Indian talk less! When guns on train, we look in crates.”

  “Why? We know they’re guns!”

  “You see through wood, Jeff Kidder?”

  This Indian was growing on him and gnawing at him at the same time. Knowing Feather Yank was right about making certain there were guns in those crates grated at him, but the way he said it had amused him. It was clever. No, he decided. It couldn’t have been meant that way. Indians aren’t witty.

  “What about the gunrunners?”

  “If there, we kill.”

  The sun was sinking when the three soldiers finally off-loaded the crates and left the boxcar. Jeff and Feather Yank waited another half hour so darkness would help cover their way to the target. The boxcar door scraped loudly as the Pima pushed it open. The grinding sound bounced off nearby cars. The smell of past cattle shipments rushed up their noses. Rancid hay and dried cow chips covered the floor. The two climbed inside. Feather Yank flipped back the tarp, pulled his large knife from its sheath and began prying open one of the crates. It was creaking even louder than the boxcar door. Suddenly it popped off, striking the wall of the boxcar with a clanging sound that made them feel like they were inside a bell. Then the lid crashed to the floor.

  “Most Indians I’ve known are quieter!”

  “We no all look same either!”

  Jeff chuckled. Perhaps this Pima does have a sense of humor, he thought. He pushed aside some straw packing and pulled out a strange looking rifle. It was too dark in the boxcar to read the weapon’s marking so he took it to the door and held it up to the twilight.

  “Gewehr?” he exclaimed. “Shit! These are German rifles! What the hell are they doing....?”

  “May we help you, gentlemen?” came a voice from outside the boxcar.

  Jeff and Feather Yank froze as they stared at four men, all with heavy moustaches and dressed in black suits, white shirts with dark string ties, and bowler hats. It was like each had been stamped out of a mold in some factory. The sight would’ve been humorous except for the sobering fact that each toted a shotgun. They matched, too.

  “Please return the weapon to its crate and climb out!” ordered the voice.

  “We’re Arizona Rangers,” explained Jeff.

  “That’s fine! Do as I ask please!”

  As soon as Jeff and Feather Yank’s feet touched the ground all of the men lowered their shotguns. One short man stepped forward.

  “Thank you. Nathan Zimmerman, Pinkerton Detective Agency,” the short man grinned and extended his hand.

  Confused but relieved, Jeff shook the man’s hand. “Jeff Kidder, Arizona Rangers. What the hell’s goin’ on here, Detective?”

  “What are you two doing here, Ranger?” inquired Zimmerman, still smiling.

  “Uh, our Cap’n ordered us to follow these weapons.”

  “Why?”

  Briefly glancing at Feather Yank then returning to the Pinkerton, Jeff replied, “To be honest, Detective, I’m not really sure!”

  “You saw what the weapons are?” asked Zimmerman.

  “German rifles, but what the hell are they....”

  Feather Yank decided to speak. “They go to White Father in Washington.”

  A stunned stillness passed among the men. Finally the detective replied, “Smart Injun, ya got there, Ranger.”

  Jeff took a step closer to the short Pinkerton and brusquely said, “He’s a Pima! And ya bet yer ass he’s smart!”

  Momentarily taken aback from Jeff’s stern reaction, the Pinkerton recovered his congeniality and said, “Of course!” He looked directly at Feather Yank and extended his hand. “My apologies, sir!” The Pima reluctantly shook it and grunted. “He’s right,” the detective continued. “These rifles are going to the War Department in D.C.”

  “Why?” Jeff inquired, still confused.

  “For some time we’ve believed Germany has been shipping arms to the Mexican army and the Mexican police. This could be our proof. The three soldiers you followed here are Mexican policemen working with us. One of them is a Pinkerton.”

  “So why all the fuss? Other countries sell weapons to Mexico. Hell, even the U.S.”

  “Not at the rate Germany has! Although we haven’t seen them until now our sources tell us that over forty thousand of these new Gewehrs have been delivered over the past six months. Working near the border like you do, and with all the unrest down in Mexico, do you really think their government has the money to buy that many fancy German weapons?

  After wrapping his mind around the moment, Jeff said, “Are you tellin’ me Washington thinks Germany is arming the Mexican Army? For what?”

  “That’s what the President needs to find out,” answered Zimmerman. “But first, we needed proof. Looks like we got it.”

  “We got proof, too,” stated Feather Yank as he turned. “Come! We go tell Chief Wheeler.”

  Feather Yank simply walked away. Jeff momentarily studied the four armed men. “Uh, that it, Detective Zimmerman?”

  “That’s it!” the Pinkerton answered with another grin.

  As Jeff hurried to catch up to Feather Yank he heard the grinding of the boxcar doors being closed, followed by the distinct sound of a metal lock securing the contents. Before he could even form a word, the Pima spoke first.

  “Good we no kill soldiers.”

  “Just what goddamn proof do we have?” The question shot from Jeff’s mouth.

  “German arm Mexican army, maybe invade!”

  “Invade? Invade what?” Jeff asked. Then a thunderbolt shot through his head and he stopped dead in his tracks. “The U.S.?

  “Chief Wheeler,” Feather Yank explained and kept walking, “he wise man. Have visions, like Indian.”

  Jeff struggled to catch up with the fast walking Pima. “That’s the craziest notion I ever heard. Germany is not gonna invade the U.S.”

  Feather Yank stopped and turned to Jeff, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You no listen, Jeff Kidder! Not what Chief Wheeler say! Not what Feather Yank say! German have Mexican do it.”

  The Indian turned and kept walking, leaving a stunned Jeff Kidder standing alone. Finally capable of forming some words he hurried after Feather Yank.

  “Why didn’t he tell me this?” he shouted. Then as he reached Feather Yank’s side he found himself mumbling, “Yeah, yeah, Indian talk less!”

  When the two returned to Ranger headquarters Jeff once again decided to climb into his captain’s face. Horn tossing mad he demanded to know why he wasn’t privy to the information given to Feather Yank.

  “Sit down, Ranger!” the captain demanded. He lit a cigar, blew out of long stream of blue smoke as Jeff impatiently squirmed in the hard-backed chair. “There’s a lotta shit goin’ on o’er in Europe. Them damn fools always seem to be fightin’ each other, stirrin’ up trouble. ‘Specially ‘em godless Huns and Turks! Who’s our main pal o’er there?”

  “Uh, England,” answered Jeff, wondering where this conversation was going.

  “Ya know yer politics. Good,” smirked Wheeler. “If the Brits had to go to war, don’t ya think we’d give ‘em a hand?”

  “I suppose...maybe...if we had a reason!”

  “How ‘bout this reason:” exclaimed Wheeler. “What better way for the Huns to disrupt our helpin’ the Limeys than to have an invasion from Mexico?” Wheeler stared at Jeff for a moment. “I can see by yer expression ya think that’s a pretty far-fetched notion, right?”

  Jeff shrugged. “You’re
the Cap’n, Cap’n!”

  Sitting on the corner of his desk and leaning towards Jeff in an obvious position of authority, Wheeler chided, “Then humor yer Cap’n, Ranger! Imagine it did happen! Who’d be first hit?”

  Jeff stirred as if in the defendant’s seat facing a stern district attorney. “Well, us, obviously.”

  “Ain’t it better to be safe than sorry?”

  “I suppose so, but...!”

  Wheeler rose from the desk, towering over the seated Jeff.

  “Ain’t no supposin’ ‘bout it, Kidder. The fact that ya thought it was a far-fetched notion is exactly why I gave Feather Yank the details and not you. If a Ranger don’t believe in his mission, he’ll prob’bly fuck it up. Maybe get hisself killed. Feather Yank has ne’er questioned any orders I’ve given him. As ya know, he’s still breathin’.” Turning his back to Jeff, the hardnosed captain returned to the swivel chair behind his desk, but not without one more reminder of precisely who was in charge. “Now get the hell outta here and grab some hot grub!”

  Jeff rose, turned in a huff and stomped out of the room, his pride bruised by the captain trusting an Indian scout more than him. Wasn’t his stint as a lawman in Nogales proof enough to Wheeler? Hadn’t his completion of dozens of successful missions warranted the man’s trust more than some Indian? He knew Wheeler was right about one thing—he would’ve thought, and still did think, that Mexico invading the U.S. was about the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard. Would hearing that absurd notion ahead of time have made him less cautious, less of a Ranger? “Hell no!”

  As he left the office, Feather Yank was waiting outside the headquarters door, standing in a stiff pose with his arms crossed. With one hand he held an object out to Jeff.

  “Cigar?”

  1910

  “I need a deputy, Billy,” John Foster said. “Cinco de Mayo’s comin’ up next month. Even though we’re a bit more civilized now, ya know how wild things can get ‘round that time.” The idea immediately appealed to Billy. He had worn a star for so long he felt naked and unbalanced without one. “Besides, word has it a revolution is brewin’ down there, which pro’bly means we’re gonna get us a shitload of refugees crossin’ the border. I’m gonna need help with that, too. I swear, Billy, I ain’t ne’er seen a place as fucked up as Mexico. They got all ‘em players down there—Diaz, Zapata, Huerta, Madero, Carranza—all a ‘em wantin’ power.”