by Geff Moyer
“Uh, no, sorry,” Billy answered as the minor disturbance in his Levis calmed. It amazed him how quickly she had turned it on then just as quickly shut it down, but that was what he liked about whores: they were always ready. He figured that was why he wasn’t upset when his marriage fell apart. He expected a woman to want it as often as he did. Otherwise, what’s the point?
As Abbie downed the last bite of her third biscuit she asked, “Ya gonna kill the sumbitch?”
Billy smiled and replied, “Now why would I go to all the trouble of gettin’ the man drunk and havin’ his baggage unloaded, plus payin’ ya to do it, if I was just gonna kill him anyways?”
Abbie looked straight into his eyes. He thought he saw a little sparkle in them as she answered, “Pleasure?”
Late that night as he lay in the plump bed at the boarding house, Abbie’s single word was still twisting around his head: “Pleasure!” Is that why he was doing this? Tomás Amador, Delores Quías, Moises Alvarez. Just names of dead men, that’s all they were; men who deserved to die. He didn’t think he felt pleasure from their deaths. Satisfaction maybe, accomplishment absolutely, but he felt no remorse. Should he? Should he be asking God for forgiveness? Why? He’d never asked God for anything before. Can’t start now! That would make him...? “What was the two dollar word Jeff used?” he asked himself. “Uh, hippo...hippo...crick? Crate? Crit, like grit...hippogrit! That’s it! An asshole that pretends to have feelings he ain’t really got!” He rolled over on his side and bit down on his unlit pipe. “No!” he heard himself say aloud. “This ain’t pleasure! They took my friend. I’m takin’ them.” Then another one of Jeff’s two-dollar words popped into his brain and he spoke it aloud: “Vindickive!” He thought about it for a moment then added, “Yeah, that word fits me best. Like that ol’ Missouri River, fuck with me and I’ll vindickive ya! Ain’t pleasure, it’s justice.”
Proud of himself for remembering those words, he chewed on the pipe stem for a few moments then put it back on the white doily covering the small table by the bed. He stared at the ceiling, wishing he could see the stars. Then more of Jeff’s words slowly floated down and covered him like a warm blanket.
“This world is always gonna to have bad people, and some of us are put here to try and stop their evil doin’s.”
August, 1907
“Make no mistake, fellas,” warned Captain Wheeler, “Dave Shepherd ain’t nothun but a splinter in the ass of life—an animal, a rapin’, killin’ monster that eats from the trough. He’s livin’ to git dead and he knows it. At that last farmstead, he and his two compadres raped and killed an eleven-year-old girl.”
“Jesus!” Freddie winced. “That’s only a year older than Isabel.”
Captain Wheeler used his carved willow stick to point out locations on the wall map of Arizona territory.
“That farm was just north of Three Points. Right here!” The willow whacked a specific point on the map. “Dave knows ever’one’s after his ass, includin’ the Army, so he’s gonna skirt fer Mexico. He’s got the Papago Nation to his west, so I figger he’ll ride along it, headin’ south, and try to cross the border at Sasabe.” Again, but with much more deliberation, the willow whacked a point on the map where Sasabe sat. “Here!”
“Ouch!” whispered Billy to Jeff. “Bet they felt that!”
Jeff chuckled quietly, not wanting to experience the wrath of his very determined captain. Billy always wondered where Wheeler got his information, but every time he asked him the captain would just grin and say, “If I told ya I’d have to shoot ya.”
Everyone knew when Sparky had a question. First, his face would contort into the expression of a constipated man struggling to expel a huge log, then he’d dip his left shoulder, then dip his right, then ask his question at the exact same time he was raising his hand.
“Cap’n, Three Points is ‘bout fifty miles from Sas’be and we’re a good thirty from it. Iffin ‘em hombres are already on the trail, we could be cuttin’ it close to git thar on time.”
Wheeler looked at Sparky and said, “They have this new contraption, Sparky. It’s called the train.”
Sparky chuckled and said, “Aw, shoot, Cap’n, the train ain’t new.”
Sometimes Sparky made Billy feel smart.
“Ya all know what the ugly bastard looks like,”continued Wheeler. “We been eyeballin’ pitchers of him for six months now and this is our first good lead.” Then he glanced at his pocket watch. “Jeff, Billy, Freddie, ya got fifteen minutes to make that train to Sasabe. Bring the asshole in or take ‘im out, don’t much matter which.”
With their mounts housed in a boxcar the train ride from Nogales to Sasabe took less than thirty minutes. Usually Freddie would fill the time playing his harmonica, but on this trip all he did was talk about his daughter. Billy and Jeff learned more about Isabel then they ever imagined they could. He didn’t even make one mention of his “little dressmaker.” Understanding that what Dave Shepherd had done had truly rattled Freddie, the other two Rangers let him ramble. By the time the three arrived in Sasabe, they knew his daughter’s school marm’s names from kindergarten up to her current fourth grade one. They knew how much she weighed at birth, how tall she was now, when she was toilet trained, and the hell Freddie’s parents went through to do it.
“My folks got them flushin’ toilets put in,” Freddie laughed as he explained. “She thought it was gonna suck her down and spill her out into the ocean to be et by a big fish.”
May, 1894
Greeting him was a sculptured and highly decorated golden throne-like stool resting on a small platform. Next to the grandiose device was a long brass chain hanging from a tank overhead. A sign on the wall said, “Please pull chain when finished.”
Having a few days off, Billy’s friend Henry Anderson suggested they ride down to Las Cruces and crony around the whorehouses. Rumor had it that the town featured some of the finest brothels in the territory, a whole street lined with them.
“We’ll be like two kids in a candy store,” declared Henry.
They treated themselves to a dandy room in a fancy Las Cruces hotel. They marveled at the large bed, but wondered why it had a frilly roof.
“Ain’t no sun in here fer it to block,” remarked Henry as he studied the strange lacy cover.
“Maybe the roof leaks,” suggested Billy, staring at the embossed tin tiles above.
“Better not,” stated Henry, “fer the price we paid fer it.”
A fancy table with two chairs rested in a corner next to a window that allowed the tempting night lights of Las Cruces to glow through. There was a dresser for their belongings, which neither brought, and a tall mirror framed in gold mounted to the wall. Both stood in front of the mirror for several minutes, having never seen such a clear view of themselves from head to foot.
“I think we cut quite a figger,” Henry stated with a proud grin.
“’Them whores ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em,” added a smiling Billy as he studied his reflection.
Continuing to admire himself, Henry stated, “Ya know, I think I oughta go into politics. I look purty damn good.”
“Now why would ya wanna let yer ass grow fat?”
“No, no,” added Henry. “I mean sumthun like, say, runnin’ fer sheriff. They ain’t got fat asses.”
“No, but they sometimes get their asses shot off.”
“We can’t ride fence all our lives, Billy,” Henry removed his hat and turned sideways to admire himself from a different angle. “Shed yer hat and turn sideways,” he instructed.
“What fer?”
The two stood back-to-back and stared into the mirror. “Don’t ya see it?” asked Henry. “We could be brothers; same height, same hair color and eyes.”
“ ‘Cept I’m purtier,” exclaimed Billy with a grin.
“Yeah, well, we’ll let ‘em whores decide that.”
They ordered room service and filled their bellies with things to eat that they didn’t even know a fellow could ea
t. They smoked a couple of expensive cigars. They took another look at themselves in the long mirror.
“Yessir,” declared Henry, “I’d make a dandy fine sheriff.”
“Ya get ‘lected sheriff, Henry, and I’ll be yer deputy,” Billy teasingly scoffed.
Then right as the two horny cowboys were ready to set off on their tour of the local candy stores, Billy’s stomach reminded him of just how much he did eat. He had to use the hotel facilities. Pronto! He hurried down the hallway and opened a fancy door with the word “Lavatory” engraved above it in glittering gold. Carefully he sat down to do his business. Unlike the wooden outhouses he was used to, this metal fixture was cold. He quickly raised his butt in fear of getting stuck there.
“How embarrassin,’” he thought, “if someone had to get ya unstuck from a privy seat.”
Slowly, one butt cheek at a time, he eased his fanny down on the cold throne. He was relieved to feel how quickly it warmed up. Once he accomplished his mission, he obeyed the sign and reached up and pulled the chain. The fixture beneath him shook and trumpeted like a circus elephant. Water swirled and gushed, frightening him so badly he leaped up to escape the ass-eating monster. Forgetting his britches were still around his ankles he tried to run from the water beast, but it got him. He fell and cracked his forehead on the gold sink, knocking him out cold.
After what seemed like an hour of thumb-twirling and anxious glances out the window at the beckoning night lights of Las Cruces, Henry decided to check on his missing compadre. He walked down the hall to the door marked “Lavatory,” and knocked on it. No reply.
“Billy? Ya in there, Billy?”
Henry slowly opened the door. There was his friend on the privy floor with his pants down around his ankles and blood oozing from his forehead. Fortunately the hotel had a doctor on staff who stitched up the gash in Billy’s head. Fearing a concussion he ordered Henry to keep Billy relaxed for the rest of the night, but not let him fall asleep. After the doctor finally left, Henry plopped down in a chair and gazed longingly out the window at the taunting Las Cruces lights.
“Sorry, Henry,” mumbled Billy, avoiding eye contact with his frustrated friend.
Henry just sat staring out the window, shaking his head. Finally he said, “Billy Old, only you could put an onion in a apple pie.”
August, 1907
Sasabe was a border town that might as well have a pair of swinging saloon doors dividing the two countries. It was vigilantly protected by a fat, slumbering guard oblivious to the flies feasting on the leftover burrito in his moustache. It was an easy location for scum buckets like Dave Shepherd to pass back and forth between Mexico and the U.S. The Rangers wasted no time finding a good location to establish a proper greeting for the three outlaws. Just north of town was a sharp turn in the trail from Three Points. Being the only trail from that town the Rangers figured, or at least hoped, Dave and his pals would use it. High rocks about thirty feet tall on each side made it a tight passage. By waiting just around a natural bend, they wouldn’t be spotted until the three men were right in front of them. The rocky walls also carried the sounds of hooves, so they would hear anyone coming from quite a distance. They settled in and waited. Once again, all Freddy could talk about was Isabel.
Sure enough, late that same afternoon Dave Shepherd and his two saddle buddies came trotting around that rocky bend simply to be warmly greeted by three Rangers, weapons drawn. His two partners immediately threw up their hands. Dave decided to scoot.
“I got ‘im!” cried Freddie, spurring his mount.
In a matter of minutes, the other two cretins were on the ground and cuffed without any resistance. Then Billy and Jeff heard a shot, followed by the painful scream of a horse. Then silence.
Billy turned to Jeff, worried. “What’d ya think?” he asked.
“Go check it out! I’ll keep these two company!”
Billy leapt on Orion and circled around the rocky bend. Another shot rang out, followed by a short pause, then another shot, a pause, another shot, pause, another shot. Seven more shots each followed by a brief pause led Billy to the site. Freddie was straddling the riddled body of Dave Shepherd slowly pulling the triggers of two empty weapons.
“I think you got him, Freddie,” declared Billy.
Freddie bent at the waist to get his face closer to the very dead Dave Shepherd. With a pinch of piss and a pound of pleasure in his voice he said, “No more little girls fer you, asshole.”
May, 1910
Cinco de Mayo came and went with no killings. To Billy, it was just another testament as to how tame the area was becoming. The jail did collect a few drunks, mostly men who had never celebrated the holiday before—meaning the American settlers new to the region. There was one shooting. A whore named Rachel put a hole through a farmer’s cheek with her parlor gun after he had cut her leg with a knife.
“Justifiable,” claimed John Foster.
The farmer lived, but won’t have much fun explaining the hole in his face to his wife. Rachel was stitched up and immediately returned to work. Whores survive by numbers.
There was the usual parade, which always amazed Billy. These were peasants, people with nothing. Yet once a year they managed to come up with fancy, colorful costumes. He knew they kept them stored away for the celebration, but how? Where? To live in such squalor yet keep these clothes so clean, so fresh, so exciting, made him marvel. The parade and mariachi band passed from the Mexican side to the U.S. side, then back again to the Mexican side. The drunks had sobered by the next morning so Billy released them after each put forth a two dollar fine. He saw Pasco staring at him, obviously still trying to figure out just who was this tormenting gringo.
He couldn’t resist. “When you get outta here, I’m gonna plant ya!” He turned and walked away.
“¿Quien chingados es?”
Billy closed the screeching, heavy door behind him, smiled, and locked it.
“¿Quien chingados es?”
He crossed to the rifle rack and removed Pasco’s Sharps. It felt warm, like it still held the heat from the round that took Freddie. He slid it back in the case next to other long rifles. For a moment he studied them all: a Henry, two shotguns—one double barrel and one pump, and a Winchester 30-30. He recalled the latter being Jeff’s choice for hunting. Jeff was one of the best shots Billy had ever seen with a long rifle, yet he seldom used one. Billy didn’t own a rifle. When he needed one for assignments, he’d sign it out from the Ranger’s armory. Truth was he never considered himself that good of a shot with a rifle, but for what he had planned for Señor Pasco, he’d need to be.
“This here’s the Winchester eighteen ninety-five Second Model Sporting Rifle, complete with a Malcolm Model number three hunting scope,” explained the salesman in Naco’s gun shop. The fellow was about the same height as Billy, but sported a pot belly that couldn’t be hidden under his vest. His mutton chop sideburns fed into a neatly trimmed moustache to make up for the fact that he had no hair on the top of his head. “This gem is the first Winchester rifle with a box magazine underneath the action instead of the old tubular one.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Billy.
“Means it’s safe to chamber a variety of different military and hunting cartridges, but I’d stick with thirty-eight to seventy-two rounds. Best penetration! Twenty-four inch round barrel, crescent butt plate. Punch the eye out of a flea at over a hundred yards. Goin’ huntin’?”
“Yeah,” Billy answered as he handled the long beauty.
“What are you usin’ now?”
“Winchester thirty-thirty,” he lied.
“Good weapon,” stated the clerk. Even though Billy was the only other person in the store, the mutton-chopped man leaned in towards him. “Not many folks know this, friend,” the salesman whispered, “but this here model is Teddy Roosevelt’s favorite huntin’ rifle.”
“You don’t say!”
“I do say!”
The man looked as though he might pop his vest
buttons so Billy said nothing. He knew T.R.’s favorite hunting rifle was the Model 1895 Lever Action .405 Winchester. Besides, an argument might agitate the fellow into bumping up his price.
“How much?” Billy asked.
“Just seventy-five dollars, friend, and that’s includin’ the scope!”
“Would you take sixty-five?”
“Tell you what,” replied the man, rubbing his chin. “Since you’re my first customer today, make it an even seventy and I’ll throw in a couple of boxes of thirty-eight seventy-two cartridges.”
At thirty-six years of age, Billy Old bought himself his first hunting rifle.
October, 1884
“I told ya ‘fore, Billy,” Cleaver Old reminded his ten-year-old son, “ya ain’t gonna hunt with me ‘til yer eleven.”
“That’s only three months ‘way, Pa.”
“More like six months. Yer in the fifth grade, boy. Ain’t ya s’posed to know how to cipher better ‘an that?”
“I won’t git in yer way, Pa.”
“Ya ain’t goin’ wit me, Billy! Ain’t nuthun more to say!.”
Cleaver Old had established his rule of an age limit for hunting long before Billy was even born. When he was eleven, his pa took him and his little brother Ethan on a fall hunting trip. They camped out in the woods just a few miles walk from their farm. Up bright and early the next morning they were poised and hid, awaiting the first signs of deer. Soon enough, a buck roamed into range. Ethan had begged his pa all night to let him fire the weapon. The man agreed if the opportunity arose. Here it was. Young Ethan carefully sighted up the old black powder musket and squeezed the trigger just like he was taught to do. It backfired, killing him instantly and sending small pieces of metal into the cheeks of Cleaver and his Pa. The scars left on their faces were a constant reminder of the tragedy. Cleaver vowed to never let any of his children hunt before they were eleven-years-old.
“Now ya stay here and help yer ma wit chores. I’ll be back ’fore supper.”
