Billy Old, Arizona Ranger

by Geff Moyer

  “The fuck he don’t,” stated Billy and started to step towards the man.

  Wheeler grabbed Billy’s arm and said, “Good relations, Billy!”

  “Cap’n, ya know what a pelado is?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Low life scum. That’s what the fuckin’ pepper gut called us.”

  “That a fact?” stated Wheeler. For a moment he looked at the chuckling policeman who was bellied up to the bar with his back towards the two Rangers. He said something to his amigos and they all laughed. Wheeler whipped out his knife and stepped up to the back of the unsuspecting policeman. In a flash, faster than Billy thought the old Cap’n could even move, he turned the blade sideways and slithered it up between the man’s breeches and fancy belt. With a jerk upwards he slashed the belt in half. The first thing to hit the floor was the machete, followed by the fancy belt. After that came the policeman’s breeches. The cantina erupted in laughter because he wasn’t wearing any skivvies. The flustered hombre pulled up his breeches and glared at the captain. For a moment Billy could see revenge in the hombre’s eyes and his hand start to reach for the machete, but he quickly realized how difficult it would be to wield a blade in one hand and hold up his breeches with the other. He hurried out the door spewing a trail of Spanish curse words.

  “Feather Yank taught me that trick,” explained the captain. “Finally got to try it.”

  Five cantinas and four whorehouses later they were right back where they started. As they crossed back into the Arizona side of Nogales Wheeler said, “At least I got outta that stuffy office fer awhile.”

  The next time Billy saw Jeff was three days later, dying in that shitty Mexican jail.

  April 10, 1910

  The air in the dentist office was oddly pleasing. Since Billy wasn’t familiar with the odor the only word that came to his mind was “clean.” A large apparatus with many cords and skinny metal arms resembling a big praying mantis hovered over a high backed leather chair. The strange machine was intimidating, but not enough to make him turn and skedaddle or the pain to mysteriously vanish again. Dr. Steven Rollins was seated reading the paper. He jumped up to greet his new patient.

  “Welcome, Sir,” he stated cheerfully. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Been fightin’ a bad toothache for months, Doc.”

  “Have a seat, please,” invited the dentist. “Let’s take a look.”

  Billy removed the sombrero and eased into the high backed black chair, not only suspect of the threatening metal arms suspended over his head, but also the large electrical cord running from the metal insect straight into an oversized plug in the wall.

  “I’m Doctor Rollins, Steven Rollins,” the friendly young man stated.

  He hardly looked old enough to shave. Billy figured the fellow must be fresh out of dentist school. At least he supposed and hoped dentists went to some kind of school.

  “Billy Old. Forgive my smell, Doc. I been out on the trail and ain’t been in town long enough to get a proper bath.”

  “No problem, Mr. Old,” Dr. Rollins replied with a smile, then slipped a white mask over his mouth and nose.

  Billy gave a soft but painful chuckle and asked, “Ya gonna rob me, Doc?”

  The dentist laughed and explained as he crossed to a sink, “Germs are our enemy, Mr. Old.”

  Then Billy knew the fellow was definitely from the East—he actually washed his hands before he began probing around in his mouth. It took less than thirty seconds for the young dentist to find the problem.

  “Mr. Old, you have a wisdom tooth that has grown in at an angle, putting pressure on your molar. That’s what is causing your pain.”

  Billy remembered the two Mexican barbers and how they gestured with their hands at an angle.

  “The position of the wisdom tooth makes it impossible for me to simply extract it. I’ll have to cut the gums around it so it can be shifted to a proper position for extraction. That will eliminate the pressure on your molar and stop the pain.”

  “Will it hurt?” asked Billy, trying to decipher every word the man just said.

  Dr. Rollins reached to the counter on his left and held up an awkwardly shaped thingamajig with a big black cup on the end.

  “This is called The Clover. It was invented by an Englishman named Joseph Clover. It’s for applying ether.”

  “Applyin’ what?”

  “Ether! It’s a gas that renders the patient unconscious.” The dentist pointed to a specific part of the unusual device. “Liquid ether is placed in this reservoir. When I pump this, water rotates in this jacket around the ether, which keeps it from getting too cold and helps create a vapor. You breathe in the vapor through this large cup. In just moments, you’re in a deep sleep. You won’t feel a thing, Mr. Old.”

  “It’s safe?” inquired Billy.

  “Absolutely!”

  “How much?”

  “I can do the entire procedure for three dollars, sir.”

  Billy woke up over two hours later. It was the deepest sleep he had ever experienced. He dreamed he was on the stage of a packed opera house receiving a thunderous applause for something he had no idea he had done. He dreamed his pa was sitting on their porch smoking his hand carved ivory pipe with a cougar skin rug wrapped around his bare feet. He dreamed Orion and Captain were singing Red River Valley in strange harmonic human voices. Three Man was laughing and playing patty cake with Freddie’s daughter. Not one dream with skinny whores and anthills, or fat policemen and severed limbs, or giant man-eating lizards. When he awoke, he felt content and refreshed, but confused by his surroundings.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Old,” smiled Dr. Rollins. “How do we feel?”

  “Uh, rested,” he found himself saying.

  He wondered why his hand hurt. He opened his fist and saw he was still grasping the tin star, which had made five deep impressions in his palm from its five points. His toothache was gone, but now there was a fire in his gums. He touched his cheek and it felt large and puffy.

  “Please keep the cotton padding in your mouth for at least two or three more hours,” explained Dr. Rollins. “For the next few days eat only soft foods. If you can survive on just soup, it would be wise.” He handed Billy a small bottle of pills. “If the pain gets too intense take two of these. In one week I want you to come back so I can make sure there is no infection and the stitches are dissolving correctly.”

  “Dissolving?” Billy thought he knew what the word meant.

  “Yessir! After the gums were cut they had to be stitched back up. The stitches I used are made from cat gut so they’ll dis...”

  “Ya put cat guts in my mouth?”

  “Mr. Old, I assure you, they are sterilized and safe, and will completely dissolve over the next several days.”

  “Will they...taste like...cat?”

  “I don’t know,” laughed the dentist. “I’ve never tasted cat.”

  It was a shaky and slow walk from the dentist office to the boarding house, especially the climb up the tall hill. Several times he had to stop and let his brains tumble back into place and sturdy himself on any item that was nearby. When he finally reached the door, a very large woman greeted him.

  “Ya Billy Old, young fella?” asked the woman.

  “Yes’um,” he mumbled.

  “John Foster told me ya was a comin’. I’ll show ya the room.”

  Old Lady Castle was exactly as John had described her. Take three boulders, stack them on top of each other, put a head on top and add two arms and two legs and that would be Irene Castle. Billy stood at an even six foot, but still looked up to meet her green eyes. She had a high, raspy voice that always seemed to have a smile buried in it. He liked her immediately. If she wasn’t so old, he figured she’d be a good, big match for Sparky. He chuckled as he imagined the size of their babies.

  “Do ya chew?” Mrs. Castle asked as she led him up the stairs to his room.

  “No, ma’am!”

  She squinted at Billy’s ja
w and demanded, “Then what’s in yer mouth?”

  Struggling to speak through cotton packing, Billy replied, “Got a tooth pulled!”

  “Oh! Good! Damn tobacco spit stains my carpets. My second and fourth husbands chewed, rest their souls!” She crossed herself. “Had to replace six carpets. Damn nasty habit. Lord knows my fifth sure as hell ain’t gonna be a chewer, soon as I hook him, that is.” She laughed from her toes up. “If ya womanize, do it at the whorehouse or in a hay loft! Don’t bring them back here to my place, savvy?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “All my boarders are good folks. Treat them decent and they’ll do the same, savvy?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “And stop the goddamn ‘ma’amin’ fer crissake! Name’s Irene!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Breakfast at seven, supper at seven,” Irene Castle explained as she opened the door to the room. “Yer on yer own fer lunch!”

  The room was small, but had a welcome feel to it. The bed looked plumper than anything Billy had ever experienced or could even remember seeing. A white doily covered a small table placed by the bed. A three drawer dresser was against the wall beneath a painting of a waterfall.

  “Three drawers?” he thought. “I ain’t got enough stuff to fill three drawers.”

  “Here ya go, Mr. Old,” said Mrs. Castle as she dropped the skeleton key into his hand. “Privy’s at the end of the hall. Ya pull the chain to flush it. Bathhouse is out back; plenty of soap and towels and hot water. ‘Preciate it if you’d take advantage of it ‘fore ya put them clothes down on that bed quilt, savvy?” With that last statement she was stomping away down the hallway. Billy felt the floor slightly tremble with each of her steps. Nearing the staircase to the parlor below Irene Castle tossed one more statement over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen if ya got any questions...like precisely where that bathhouse is!” She laughed and disappeared down the steps.

  “I must really stink,” he snickered to himself, which sent a twinge of pain through his jaw.

  After tossing his saddlebags on the bed he remembered the mistake he had made in El Papalote—taking a bath then having to climb back into the same filthy clothes. He refused to be that stupid again. He walked back down the high hill to take a gander at Naco’s new stores. He had three drawers to fill.

  For the next few days he survived on soup and soft bread. Each morning Mrs. Castle made him a special serving of warm milk toast.

  “Ya know,” she bellowed one morning, “if ya weren’t so goddamn young I’d be aimin’ at makin’ ya my fifth husband! Course, maybe that’s what I need—a young one—to keep up with me. Won’t kill ‘im off so fast!” Then she’d laugh from her toes up.

  The stitches in his gums had dissolved with no taste akin to cat. Of course, he had no idea what cat tasted like anyways. The pain in his jaw was quickly becoming a nasty memory. His new clothes made him feel like an American again. Once again he had to cut the scratchy collars off the three shirts he had purchased. The two pairs of Levi Strauss’ were stiff and needed breaking in, but at least they didn’t have holes in the knees and backsides. He kept the chaps he had purchased in El Papalote, but burned the sombrero and serape, along with the critters they housed. His most expensive item was a John B. 10X Felt Shiner in black, much fancier than the one Tomas Amador had put a bullet through. He also treated himself to a haircut and shave, but kept a moustache and goatee.

  Settling into a boarding house was easier than he figured, probably due to the pleasant nature of Irene Castle. The house offered four rooms for boarding. The fifth one was Mrs. Castle’s personal living space. One room belonged to a widowed school marm. Her hair was always pulled straight back so tightly it made her eyes look like one of Billy’s Angora goats, and her favorite word seemed to be “humph.” She reminded him of every marm he had ever had and how they all seemed to feed on prunes and proverbs and have a natural dislike for children.

  Another room went to the flamboyant owner of Naco’s new Vaudeville theatre, a fellow who called himself Benny Cohan and claimed to be a distant cousin of some Broadway star with the same last name. Billy had no idea who he was talking about. The man was obsessed with neck scarves and waist sashes. At every meal he’d sport a colorful matching tandem. He would blurt out funny things like, “My eyes smell onions,” or “I am such a tender ass.” Billy couldn’t get a handle on a single word of it. He figured Jeff would’ve, though.

  One room went to a retired traveling salesman whose diarrhea of the jawbone consisted of his many past exploits in lonely housewife seduction, flavored with details that made the old school marm humph and Irene Castle chuckle. Billy figured the bragging salesman had been sipping from Arizona’s legendary Hassayampa Creek. Anyone who drank from it could never tell the truth. It wasn’t long before he started taking many of his meals at the local café.

  Just three days after Billy took the deputy job, John Foster had to make an overnight trip to a nearby small town to help identify a suspected bank robber. At least that’s what he told Billy who figured his shifty friend was testing his word about not putting a bullet in Pasco’s brain pan. He probably went fishing. Taking advantage of his time alone with Pasco, late that night he unlocked the heavy, screeching door to the cell area and walked down to the greaser’s temporary home. Pasco was asleep.

  Very softly Billy said, “Wake up, fucker!”

  Either the prisoner was a light sleeper or the screeching door had served its purpose and already stirred his senses. He blinked a few times, sat up on his cot and coughed. After realizing it wasn’t morning he rubbed his eyes into focus.

  “What you want, gringo?” he managed to grumble.

  In a cold, flat tone Billy replied, “When you get outta here, I’m gonna plant ya!” Then he turned, walked out of the cell area, closed the heavy, noisy door behind him, and locked it.

  Stunned and angered from this late night surprise visit all Diaz Pasco could do was shout from his iron home, “¿Quien chingados es? Hey?? ¿Quien chingados es?”

  Billy knew it would be fruitless to ask the beaner about the mysterious Victoriano. Knowing he was being sprung in sixty-some days, Pasco would just lie. Even if he did tell him who or where Victoriano was, Billy had no idea of how long it would take to find the man. That might give Pasco the chance to squirrel away under another rock when he got out of jail. So he decided to put those sixty-some days to use by coming up with of a good way to make the killer talk, and a good way for him to die. He also figured since it had been a fair spell since he had unloaded some baggage, what better way to pass some of those sixty-some nights than in a whorehouse?

  Naco only had one whorehouse left on its side of the border, so it didn’t surprise Billy to find it a bit loud and busy. What did surprise him, though, was who he spotted shopping her wares across the crowded parlor.

  “ABBIE!” he shouted over the clamor of clinking glasses, giggling whores, and whooping men.

  She immediately recognized the smiling face across the room. Abbie Crutchfield squealed, ran over to him, leapt into his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Laughing, the two turned circles before collapsing onto, fortunately, a vacant love seat.

  “What the hell ya doin’ in Naco?” he asked.

  “Too many bad men in Nogales,” she explained. “Life’s a bit more toler’ble here. Not as busy, but what the hell, I’m eatin’!”

  For a good hour they sipped the coffin varnish the place called whiskey and reminisced about Jeff. She cried in his arms and he in hers. It felt good. For over two years he had bottled up his remorse and corked it with hatred. He knew crying was supposed to be unmanly or cowardly, but he didn’t care. The liquor excused it. Neither had truly mourned their friend’s passing. He had kept himself too angry and she had kept herself too busy.

  “Truth is, Billy,” admitted Abbie, “another reason I come to Naco is ‘cause this is where he got kilt. Don’t know what I was thinkin.’ I mean, I couldn’t do nuthun
‘bout it. At first I thought I could. Thought I could lure one of ‘em bastards up to my room and slit his throat. Deep down I knew I couldn’t. Hell, I ain’t even sure what they look like.” She wiped away a tear and tried to cover her loss with humor. “Guess I did love the hotheaded jerk.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to her declaration so he just nodded and lowered his head. He knew a man wasn’t supposed to love another man, unless it was his pa, but couldn’t think of any other way to describe his feelings. He cursed himself for not knowing more words.

  As the place began to get even more crowded and louder she suggested they go up to her room. Every whore has her own room in which to live and conduct business. The walls were purposely thin so customers could hear their neighbor’s lusty grunts and groans. The animal noises seeping through the walls usually helped speed up the time with their current customer. Whores survive by numbers.

  The room was small and dingy. Not much different than any other whore’s room he had visited, except for one thing. Hanging on her wall was a painting of a horse. She noticed Billy staring at it.

  “Ya like it?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” answered Billy.

  “I painted it,” she replied with much pride. “It’s Lavender.”

  “Lavender?”

  “My Bay,” Abbie responded as if he should know that. “Her name’s Lavender, my fav’rite color.”

  Then Billy remembered. A few years ago Abbie had saved up enough money to buy herself a horse. It was a pretty Blood Bay. She housed it at the livery in exchange for servicing the blacksmith once a month. She must have worked out the same deal here with the local smithy. At least once or twice every couple of weeks she would take it for a run, just so the animal would remember it had legs and she could feel like the fresh breeze was temporarily cleansing her soul. Jeff had told Billy that one day he expected her to just keep going, not look back, not even say goodbye. Go to California, New Orleans, anywhere. He felt she didn’t belong in this part of the country. But she always came back. Now Billy knows why.