by Geff Moyer
“John, we got some scalp hunters in town.”
John sat up, rubbed his eyes and asked, “One of ‘em ridin’ an appaloosa?”
“Yeah! Ya know them assholes?”
“Been through three times this year, always headin’ north, never see ‘em comin’ back south though. The nigger’s Willie Shoso. The two whites are a couple of idiot brothers named the Farleys. The breed calls himself Jack after his hero, that murderin’ Modoc Captain Jack. Funny, two white men and a breed and they let the darky run the gang....and that curly wolf was raised on sour milk! How’d ya know they was scalp hunters?” John rose quickly from the bunk, excited. “They got scalps on ‘em? Iffin so we can arrest ‘em.”
“Didn’t see any, but I ran ‘cross them down in San Moise. They had piggin’ strings fulla hair.”
“They go down to Fat Frank’s?” asked John as he strapped on his gun belt.
“Headed that way.”
“Guess we better take a stroll o’er there. Git the smoothbore!”
“Pump?”
“Double barrel! It looks meaner and I like the nasty sound it makes when ya cock it.”
The first thing that violated the senses in Fat Frank’s was a combined, putrid odor of stale beer, vomit, overflowing spittoons, and pickled hard boiled eggs. Second was a large, bullet-ridden, blood stained Confederate Stars & Bars flag hanging behind the bar with two crossed Calvary sabers suspended in front of it. All the rest of the walls were bare. Fat Frank wouldn’t allow any other décor to draw attention from his Stars & Bars. It was also one of the darkest saloons in town with only two small windows in front facing the north. While most of Naco featured electric lights, Fat Frank still preferred the yellow haze of the lump oil lamps. Maybe it was because they created shadows for his questionable patrons to fade into, but probably because he was just one cheap, low life, bastard.
Fat, mean, and old, Franklin Aberdeen Trudeau still hated Yankees and considered anyone who wore a badge to be one. But he had one blind eye and was too obese to back up any of his belligerent guttural bursts. So he’d just be surly whenever possible, which was all the time. In his younger days though, he was on the winning side of six Alabama duels. Since his aiming eye was not the blind one, and even as mean as his customers were, they had no desire to face the lard-bucket if he had a shooter in his chubby hand.
John Foster fisted open the saloon doors and cheerfully stomped in.
“Hello, Willy!” he chortled. “Welcome back!”
Billy stepped in behind his friend and positioned himself to the right of the door, shotgun aimed up and resting on his shoulder. He chuckled to himself, “Jesus, John’s still got cajones the size of melons!”
Without turning from his leaned stance on the bar the black hombre said, “Hello, John! Ya gots ‘ere quicker than I thoughts ya would; only gots one drink down me.”
“Got me a sharp-eyed deputy now; younger eyes than mine. He sees things poco pronto!” John casually walked up to the bar and muscled one of the Farley brothers aside so he could stand next to Willy. The brother scowled but gave ground. “Ya just passin’ through our lovely town, Willy?” John asked as he took the Farley brother’s shot glass and downed its contents. “Or ya gonna stay and maybe open a nice little business here?”
Billy couldn’t hold back. “Like a wig shop?”
The heads of the breed and both brothers snapped to Billy. Willy turned his head slowly and stared. “We know ya, Deputy?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Ever been to San Moise?”
“Matter a fact we like it down thar!” answered Willy. “You?”
“I was there awhile back,” Billy answered and took the scattergun off his shoulder. “Didn’t like it though! Place smelt like burnt locusts.”
“Who the hell e’er smelt burned locusts?” asked one of the Farley brothers.
“Ever leaned o’er a campfire and accidently set off a little a yer hair?” Billy added. “Smells like burnin’ locusts.” Knowing all bad men were not stupid, he could tell by the look in Willie’s eyes that he got the message.
Then Fat Frank decided to weigh in, his voice still carrying a deep Alabama draw.
“Foster, why ya and yer hot shot deputy gotta be such shitboxes and harass my customers?”
“Oh hell, Frank,” responded John Foster. “This ain’t harassin’!” With his back still to the scowling Farley brother, John lifted his boot and stomped his heel down on the man’s toes. Billy leveled the shotgun.
“Shit!!” the brother squealed, grabbing his foot and hopping from the bar on one leg. “Ya sumbitch!”
“That’s harassing, Frank!”
The angry Farley’s hand instinctively reached for his belly gun, but the sweet sound of a cocking shotgun changed his mind. The second Farley helped his cursing brother into a chair.
John looked Willy square in his ugly face and said, “Willy, ya know that I know what ya fellas are up to and soon I’m gonna catch ya with the goods, but I ain’t gonna arrest ya. Nope! No sir! I’m gonna turn ya over to the Injuns. Might even stick ‘round and watch ‘em skin ya, too. Ain’t had no good entertainment in months.”
“Maybe ya needs to git out more, John,” suggested Willy with a grin that displayed three missing front teeth.
Foster smiled. “Well, Willy, until ya fellas haul yer dirty asses outta my clean town I’ll be doin’ just that.
“We be outta here at daybreak, John,” Willie turned to the bar.
Smacking Willie on the back with the palm of his hand, John replied, “Glad to hear that, Willy!”
Billy could see every muscle in Willie’s body stiffen, but the tall black man wisely kept his composure. John turned and showed his back to the four skunks. He left the saloon with Billy slowly backing out behind him with the shotgun again resting on his shoulder. As they were walking back to his office John slapped Billy on the back.
“Damnation, Billy Boy,” he gushed. “I ain’t had that much fun since I got this here job!”
Billy wondered why John even allowed a greasy shit pit like Fat Frank’s to stay open. Suddenly the Deputy Marshal stopped walking and said, “What was all that jabber ‘bout ‘burnin’ locusts?” Billy told him about the San Moise incident. “Shouldn’t flapped yer gums ‘bout that,” chastised John. “Em are bad hombres. I’d watch yer back ‘til they’re long gone.”
“Lemme tail ‘em, John!”
“Huh?”
“Gimme a few days to tail ‘em.”
“Ya got a death wish?”
“Ya know they’re headin’ up to one of the rez’s fer scalps!”
“Ya can’t do nuthun ‘less ya catch them with the goods,” John reminded him. “It’s the time of the lawyer! Sleezy bastards are gettin’ scum buckets like them off on little twisty things in the law. Hell, we got two a them blood suckers right here in Naco. I tried to get Pasco on assault with intent to kill, but the leech got it down to strikin’ an officer. ‘Stead of five years, he got ninety days. That’s why my last deputy quit. Shit, I miss the ol’ days,” grieved John. “Ya did what ya had to do, no blood suckin’ lawyers.”
“Come on, John, I need to feel like a Peace Officer.”
Foster stopped walking, gave Billy a hard stare, and said “What the hell ya think ya are now?”
“No offense, John, but I ain’t used to sittin’ ‘round waitin’ fer somethun to happen.”
John looked at his deputy for a long moment then finally sighed and continued walking. “Yeah, I know what ya mean!” he admitted. “It took me some gettin’ used to, too.”
“Once I see where they’re headed I’ll get back to you and ya use yer telephone to warn them.”
“Let the reservation police be ready fer them. Let them take care of ‘em?” John stated, intrigued with the idea. “They spot ya, Billy, they’ll kill ya quicker than flies to shit. ‘Specially now that ya opened yer trap and let ‘em know what ya did.”
“I’ve tracked assholes ‘fore, John.”
&nb
sp; They continued their walk back to the office in silence. Billy knew John was letting the idea ferment.
Finally Foster said, “Okay, three days! No more! If ya think they be even sniffin’ at ya, ya hightail it back here.”
“Thank ya, John.”
“Wish I could go with ya!” He patted his hip and said, “Older I git, more I feel that goddamn Tragship gift.”
“Someone’s gotta hold down the fort.”
Early the next morning he tossed a few days of supplies across Orion’s rump. The black didn’t complain. He figured the horse was just glad to be getting out of that stable and back on the trail. Any trail!
Billy was a decent tracker. Not as good as Sparky, but neither was anyone else in the Rangers. Due to all the people growth in and around Naco, he had to stay within eyeshot of the scalp hunters until they reached ground that wasn’t so cluttered with tracks. Then he could drop back to a safer distance. The four men left shortly after dawn, heading west. It looked as though they had set their sights on the Papago reservation, but after a couple hours of riding they turned north at the small town of Palominas and began following the San Pedro River upstream. Now Billy thought he had a pretty good idea where they were headed—the San Carlos Apache Reservation. The river ran straight to the secluded southwest corner of the Rez, a perfect place to ambush some peaceful Apaches and fill up their pigging strings. He considered heading back to Naco and giving John the news right then, but it was a ten day ride up to San Carlos. What if the scalp hunters changed their minds, trashed their trail, and veered west towards the Papago Rez? It was closer. Since John had given him three days, he decided to stay on their trail for at least another day. Knowing he could follow the river allowed him to pad the distance between him and his quarry.
An hour before dusk the four men made camp under some cottonwoods alongside the river. When Billy got within sight of them they had already unsaddled their mounts, laid out their bedrolls, and built a fire. Prone in the high dry shrub on the crest of a small hill, he watched through his spyglass. They were down for the night. A few minutes later he could smell the coffee and almost hear the sizzling bacon. It made him jealous because he knew his night would be fireless with no coffee, and his dinner would be jerky and hard sinkers. Orion was hidden in a small clump of trees about fifty yards further back, so he couldn’t snort and stomp to warn Billy about the breed creeping up behind him.
Something slammed down between his shoulder blades. The air blasted from his lungs. A kick in his ribs flipped him over just in time to see the butt of a rifle coming straight at his face. Then more pain was followed by welcomed darkness.
The sun had just about finished its work day when he awoke. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. It was smashed and caked with dried blood. He could barely see. Both of his eyes were almost swelled shut. What fretted him most was the strange position in which he was bound: flat on his stomach, his right arm twisted behind him and tied tightly by a rope to his ankles. Another rope went from his ankles to the stump of a dead tree several feet back. His left arm was stretched straight out in front of him with his hand resting on a flat rock. A rope went from his left wrist to a stake in the ground. Four fingers of his left hand were bound together with his little finger splayed out from the others. He couldn’t move anything. It was like he was a deer placed on his stomach and ready to be gutted from the back.
“What the hell is this?” he thought. Then he noticed the breed standing over him grinning, sporting his shoulder holster and .45.
“Have a nice rest, Hair Burner?” asked one of the Farley brothers. The question was followed with another kick to his ribs.
“Don’t bust him up too bad now, Lucas!” Willy Shoso chuckled. “We gots ten days a fun ‘head of us!” Willy knelt down next to Billy’s face and said, “Ya like to burn hair, huh, does ya, white boy? Smells like burnin’ locusts, huh?”
Billy grunted defiantly and said, “Smells better than yer breath!”
“Since we got him on his tummy,” stated Leon, the other Farley brother as he began to unbuckle his britches, “I wanna do his ass up good!”
“Pin it up, Leon!” said Willy. “We gots ten days fer that! Ya’ll git yer turn! We gonna takes our time with this hair burner.” Still kneeled down next to Billy, Willy gently rested the blade of his scalping knife at the point where Billy’s little finger knuckled to his hand. The realization of why he was secured in that manner sent a chill through his body. Willy leaned close to his ear. “Now here’s what we gonna do, Hair Burner. Sincen we gots us a ten day ride up to San Carlos Rez, I’m a gonna take me one finger a day durin’ that ride. After we git up thar and git our hair, I’m a gonna set yers on fire and watch ya try to put it out with no digits, just yer stubby palms. After my boys have thar fun, that is!” The other three men hooted and howled.
Willy pushed his blade down hard and fast. For a split second Billy struggled to realize what had happened. Then the pain shot through his hand, up his arm, into his brain, and came screaming out his of mouth.
“Hot blade!” demanded Willy, extending his hand behind him. The breed pulled a second knife from the coals and handed it to Willy. “Can’t let ya bleed out on us now, can we?” smiled Willie.
Another scream exploded as the red hot knife was pushed against Billy’s hand to curb the bleeding. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, tears streaming from his eyes. Welcomed darkness came again.
When consciousness returned, his head was filled with a rushing noise. It took some time before he realized it was the river. Birds were chirping. It was morning. He had been out all night. His eyes strained to open but could only manage two small slits. Bloodshot and swollen they were barely able to see a tree over his head. Then the pain attacked. First his ribs ached with every breath. Then his hand felt like it was roasting in a fire. He could take in no air through his broken nose. Thankfully his ass didn’t hurt. He raised his left hand to observe the damage.
“Why?” he thought. Why was he was able to raise his arm? Through the narrow slits he saw himself also raise his right arm. Neither was bound. Then he noticed the dressing covering the vacant spot where his little finger once lived. He looked down at his feet. They were also free. He slowly raised his head and strained to see the four Scalp hunters still asleep on their bedrolls.
“This is crazy,” he thought. “They left me loose while they slept?”
Every part of his body screamed in pain as he raised himself up, quietly as possible. He strained to get to one knee, trying not to let his mouth reveal just how much it hurt, and all the time keeping a constant eye slit on the sleeping men. Stifling a grunt by biting down on his good hand, he stood and froze. Dizziness batted his brain in circles. Somehow he managed to keep his balance, but certain one of those sleeping assholes would stir and spot him. He squinted to locate their horses and was shocked but pleased to see Orion tethered among them. He turned slowly to creep over to his friend, keeping a swollen eye on the sleeping Farley brother closest to him. His head started to soar so he stopped and waited for it to land. Stealing another cautious glance at the sleeping men he noticed the blood oozing from and pooling about the neck of the Farley brother closest to him.
“What the hell?” he thought.
Then he looked at the other brother sleeping to the left of his sibling—same pool of blood in the same place. Confused he carefully stepped around the two Farley brothers moving a few feet closer to Willie and the Breed. All the time he kept his damaged hand pressed against his throbbing rib cage. Fighting through clouded eyes he saw that their necks also featured wide grins and were bathed in pools of blood.
“You like trout, Billy Old?” came a familiar voice from near the river.
Billy couldn’t believe his swollen eyes. Feather Yank was walking up from the river bed with two wiggling trout on a stick. He was so overwhelmed, he collapsed to his knees. Every emotion in his body exploded together in a laugh that hurt his ribs, but he didn’t give a damn.
“You bad tracker, Billy Old,” stated Feather Yank. “Too many noise!”
Like a surgeon the Pima split the two ten-inch rainbows down the middle and scraped out their guts with the same knife he had used to slit four throats. Billy tried to speak, but his mouth felt like the bottom of his boot. His throat just rasped out something even he couldn’t understand. Feather Yank tossed him a canteen. It hurt to catch, but it was a grateful pain. He downed three long swigs. The water was cool and delicious. The best he’d ever tasted. He swished more around in his mouth and spat it and blood into the dirt. Then he poured some on his head and face. While Feather Yank was busy wrapping the fish in some large leaves, Billy used his bandanna to dry and clean his face as best he could. The Pima nodded his head towards the ripening bodies in the hot sun.
“Bad men!” he stated. “Take scalp of any Indian, say it Apache for bounty. I track two moons. Miss many times. Slip’ry men, very slip’ry.” Then with a sly grin the Indian added, “Catch now!” He pushed the wrapped trout deep into the coals of the fire.
“Ya saved my life. Obliged!” Billy was finally capable of choking out. “They was plannin’ on havin’ some nasty fun with me!”
“I hear!” Feather Yank replied, kneeling by the fire, poking at the cooking trout.
“They was gonna cut off my fingers,” added Billy. “One by one, each day until they reached San Carlos, then that, that...that goddamn nasty ass Farley brother...”
“I hear, Billy Old!” Feather Yank adamantly repeated.
