Fistful of Reefer @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } Contents Copyrite page Introduction to Reeferpunk Chapter One: El Diablo and the Rinche Chapter Two: El Chupawhata? Chapter Three: Giddyup Chapter Four: Catholic Hills Chapter Five: San Felipe Springs Chapter Six: Don't Come Knocking Chapter Seven: Chancho's Reefer Madness Chapter Eight: The Trail Chapter Nine: The Campfire Chapter Ten: From the River Chapter Eleven: New Friends Chapter Twelve: Hacienda O'Brien Chapter Thirteen: When Darkness Falls Chapter Fourteen: Rock With Eyes Chapter Fifteen: The Plot Thickens Chapter Sixteen: McCutchen's Play Chapter Seventeen: Planes, Trains and Blood Chapter Eighteen: Boomtown Chapter Ninteen: Anticlimax Chapter Twenty: When Home Ain't Home Chapter Twenty One: Revolutionary Gold Chapter Twenty Two: The Road to Revolution Chapter Twenty Three: Friends and Foes Bio Fistful of Reefer by David Mark Brown ***** A Reeferpunk novel Copyright 2011 David Mark Brown Cover art by Erin Mehlos Licensing notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this au couUthor. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. This book is entirely a work of fiction. Introduction to Reeferpunk (the series) Reeferpunk is a dieselpunk, spaghetti-Western, refried alternate-history of what could have become of the southern half of North America if cheap oil never got cheap, and instead brilliant minds devised an early cellulosic ethanol from the wondrous cannabis plant. Mein Hanf! What if during the turbulent years of the Mexican Revolution and the grisly war to end all war a sinister and wealthy oligarchy set their minds to control 30% of the world's known petroleum resources in order to bring a global economy to its knees just as it was learning to walk? What if the success of their evil plot relied, in part, on the gumption of a disillusioned Mexican revolutionary turned goat herder and hemp farmer, along with his two native American friends? The pulp world of Reeferpunk promises to deliver a surge equivalent to a cocktail of 1 part serotonin, 2 parts adrenaline, with a dash of grenadine served over ice. It scratches the urge primeval. Whether experiencing an apocalyptic dust zone rampant with zombies, or torching an arsenal of German weaponry in revolutionary Mexico, Reeferpunk delivers thrilling, high-octane action. Also available: Reeferpunk, Volume One, a collection of four shorts. Coming in January 2012, Twitch and Die! A Western plague novel. FISTFUL of REEFER ONE El Diablo and the Rinche (Del Rio, TX; August 29th, 1918) Cantinas on either side of the border fascinated Chancho�"such important frivolousness. He cupped his shot of tequila, a Reposado rested in American oak, in the palm of his hand while listening to a collision of conversations. Not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, he shut his eyes. Slurred English came from the direction of the bar only to be drowned out by Tejano-flavored Spanish. The tang of mohair and sweat, exaggerated by the closed confines, rose in Chancho’s nostrils prompting him to drain his glass. Anise gently burning his nostrils and caramel resting on his tongue, he thanked God for giving Mexico the agave. He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth, the conversation at hand grabbing his attention. �śWhat did you just say?” Vicente, a goat herder from a neighboring ranch, held hi/p>s hands up defensively and shook his head. �śI’m not accusing you, I swear.” �śSorry,” Chancho tried again, �ścan you repeat�"”� Another man sitting at the table cut him off. �śIt’s just a superstition. Catholics.” Vicente hissed, �śDead goats are not a superstition. They had tiny holes on their necks,” he pointed to his own neck, �śright here.” He turned back to Chancho. �śBut I’m not saying that you�"” �śNo. No. For the love of God, stop yammering and go back. Did you say, Chupacabra?” Vicente looked puzzled. �śYes.” He nodded. �śThat is what they call the demon.” �śEl Chupacabra, the monster that feeds on goats and lives in the Catholic Hills? My Catholic Hills?” Confused, Chancho rubbed the back of his neck underneath where his floppy sombrero rested. An uneasiness settled over everyone at the table. Vicente shrugged. �śI was wondering if you’d seen it.” �śSeen it?” Slowly Chancho turned his head from side to side as he adjusted the leather strap that had risen uncomfortably around his throat. A prickling sensation caused him to glance over his shoulder toward the bar, a quick movement fleeing from the corner of his eye. Two dusty gringos sat on stools. One of them clearly the source of the loud, slurred English. �śWhat Vicente is trying to ask is whether you are the demon’s caretaker or his captor.” �śHuh?” Chancho whipped his head back around. �śWhat? Like in the story? The immortal guardian of an infinitesimal evil chomping at the chance to devour all good in the world?” He forced a laugh, but no one else was laughing. �śI suppose I'll have to make acquaintance with a couple of Indian witch doctors next?” He wagged his finger. �śNo my friends, I suspect you've been dipping your ladle in the wrong pot, confusing the outhouse for the inn.” He wondered what parts of the conversation he’d missed. Why hadn’t he been paying attention? �śNo, if there was a demon living in my hills I would know about it.” He looked each man in the eyes. �śIt’s just a story.” �śDamn right.” A man whom Chancho recognized as Vicente’s cousin, Raul, joined the conversation for the first time. �śWhat there is, my friends, is a whole field of marihuana. The Catholic Hills are not full of demons, they’re full of marihuana.” Raul spoke loudly, and the way he kept saying the word �śfull” hinted strongly he felt there was enough to go around. The narrow cantina seemed to close in on Chancho as he cursed himself for choosing the diversion in the first place. The tequila, however delicious, had not been worth a fight�"which at this point Chancho doubted he could avoid. He rubbed his missing notch of earlobe while smiling enthusiastically. Despite the three sets of eyes directly in front of him, he felt most keenly aware of eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. �śLook, my friends�"”� Raul continued. �śThe goats didn’t die from demon curse or fright, they died from colic�"from too much marihuana.” Chancho held a wave’ held aring smile. He did not know these men well, but didn’t wish to create ill will with neighboring ranches. His whole intent in crossing the border into Texas two years earlier in 1916 had been to start fresh. He felt hot and cramped.� What had been a din of mingled voices and creaking floorboards moments before now seemed like an isolating silence, as if everyone listened for his next words. To stall for time he turned his head from side to side, rubbing the grit on the back of this neck and scanning the room. This time he caught the eyes of a Mexican giving him the ugly from two tables away. Somehow the man seemed familiar. And he was certain the gringo at the bar was listening. Raul spoke loudly, �śThe only question is whether or not Chancho will compensate for El Patron’s goats by offering his friends some of the marihuana that killed �Śem.” Raul drummed the table with his fingers. The noise drew Chancho’s attention immediately. He recognized it as a ploy to distract him from the movements of Raul’s other hand, which had shifted south of the table, possibly to scratch himself, but most likely toward a gun belt. Chancho took a deep breath. �śMy friends, El Chupacabra is only a story told around the fire. I don’t know anything about any dead goats, and if I�"” With sudden force, a meaty hand clapped down on Chancho’s shoulder from behind. He spun to face a grizzled, brown face smeared awkwardly with a half snarl, half smile. The jolt forced his mind to make the connection, �śPrimitivo.” �śDel Rio, my old friend. At first I thought you hadn’t recognized me.” Chancho stood to shake the hand of one of Pancho Villa’s lieutenants, a devil-driven man whom Chancho had ridden under for almost two years. His pock-marked face wrinkled in all the wrong places, uncomfortable with the concept of smiling. �śHow could I forget the bravest man to ever ride beside our beloved Francisco?” �śHa!” Primitivo barked a single laugh while wrapping his arm around Chancho’s shoulder. He addressed the rest of the table. �śPlease pardon our friend, Chancho. We have some overdue business to tend to. I promise I’ll bring him right back.” Chancho played along, slapping the lieutenant on the back and smiling as the two men returned to Primitivo’s table. Chancho glanced back to see Vicente shoving his cousin, the two of them arguing under their breath, before he focused his attention on the larger problem�"namely Primitivo. While Chancho was glad to have a reprieve from Raul’s extortion, he knew whatever business the lieutenant referred to would be uglier, and much more dangerous. For two years Chancho had ceased to be a revolutionary, doing nothing but herding goats and growing marihuana. He hadn’t even touched a gun since Columbus. But there was no greater representative of the dark underbelly of the Mexican revolution than Primitivo Vega. Despite Chancho’s best efforts, he now sat directly across the table from him. �śI hoped I would find you well, Del Rio Villarreal.” It disturbed Chancho that Primitivo knew his given name. He’d never used it among the Villistas. He’d hardly used it outside of the orphanage where he’d grown up. Clearly the old lieutenant was playing at something, but Chancho had no idea what. The gnarled revolutionary looked him up and down. �śPersonally I knew you didn’t do it. But the others, they were suspicious. After all,” he shrugged, �śit didn’t look good. The way you disappeared at Columbus, right after Ah Puch was killed.” Chancho’s eyes grew large before they shrank to slits. �śAre you accusing me of killing�"”� �śNot me.” Primitivo leaned back in his chair. �śVilla and the others, your friends.” He shook his head. �śThey’re dead now, by the way. Not Villa, but the others. You and Villa are the only ones who know about the gold. Well, and me of course. I figured it out.” He smiled thinly. The gesture enraged Chancho. �śMeirda.” He slapped the table. �śGold? Have the boys been using your head for pi�ąata practice again? What gold?” Primitivo’s face fell slack before embodying the devil himself. He slammed his hand down on the table inches from Chancho’s. �śDammit. I know you have it.” He snarled, leaning in close to Chancho’s face until they both hovered over the center of the table. Slowly he pulled his hand back and flicked his eyes downward. Chancho glanced at where Primitivo’s hand had been before shifting his gaze to absorb the full significance of what stared up at him from the rough wood surface of the table�"a special mint, twenty peso gold piece embossed with the image of the eagle clutching the snake. With Villa’s permission, he and Ah Puch had orchestrated the heist of the entire mint. The take had been so colossal, that even Primitivo had been kept out of it. Grateful, Villa had allotted Ah Puch and Chancho small shares, each a substantial fortune. It had been Chancho who insisted the coins remain hidden until the revolution’s end. So the two friends had stashed their coins together�Ś at the orphanage where he’d grown up. �śNo.” His mind raced. �śI found this coin in an orphanage, you know.” Chancho’s eyes grew large, his worst nightmare unfolding before him. �śAn orphanage that’s running low on supplies by the way. It seems the Constitutionalist Army has burned all their fields and raided their stores as punishment for sheltering Villistas. But you wouldn’t know about that.” �śIf you touch�"”� Primitivo spit as he spoke the words, �śEven our beloved Francisco can’t protect them all, and apparently, neither can you. Now give me the gold.” Chancho pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment, buying time to think. Primitivo had only the one coin, and probably worked alone. Still, Chancho doubted the lieutenant had lied about the condition of the orphanage. He’d probably burned the fields himself. To save the orphanage, he’d have to shake Primitivo and come up with enough cash to hold the Sisters over until the end of the revolution. Only then could the rare gold coins be used safely. Finally, he looked the revolutionary lieutenant in the eyes, shaking his head. �śYou were never the shiniest peso, so I’ll make this simple. I didn’t take the gold, and I would never kill�"”� �śMaybe you did, maybe you didn’t.” Primitivo attempted another smile, his voice all honey and gravel. �śShiny or no, I can be reasonable. You can keep your share. Hand over Ah Puch’s gold and I’ll take it to Vier ake it lla as a token of good will�"as an apology for deserting him at Columbus. Who knows, maybe some of the orphans won’t starve.” He riveted Chancho with a deadpan expression, �śor meet a more violent end.” �śYou piece of petrified dung, I don’t have it.” Chancho maintained a stoic exterior while his insides sank like a horse in a bog. It was certainly his fault if the orphanage was in dire straights. He’d only thought of a safe place to stash the gold. �śClearly you haven’t spent it on frivolities.” Primitivo spit against the wall, wiping a string of drool from his mustache with the back of his hand. �śYou look as ratty as ever.” Before Chancho could explain further, the lieutenant continued. �śI’m sure your friends are missing you.” He looked over Chancho’s shoulder. �śTake care of your business with them. Then take me to the gold, or I’ll bury you after I’ve forced you to bury the charred corpses of your precious Sisters and all their little vermin.” Chancho stood, pushing his chair back and speaking loudly, �śSorry to hear about the syphilis, but I guess I should get back to my friends.” He reached over the table to shake the lieutenant’s hand. Each man attempted to break the bones of the other. Finally he dismissed himself and walked casually back to where Vicente and Raul still appeared to be arguing. On arriving, Chancho slumped into his chair. Immediately Vicente pulled a smoking tin from his breast pocket and flipped it open, offering Chancho a marihuana cigarette. �śRaul is a hothead. Ignore him. Here.” Chancho took the cigarette while Vicente struck a match on the edge of the table and lit the tip. Chancho puffed once and stopped before the paper lit fully, removing the cigarette from his mouth to marvel at it. �śHow much did you pay for this?” Vicente laughed. �śToo much. Marihuana has gotten expensive north of the border. Why?” Chancho handed the cigarette back to him grinning like a cheshire cat. �śSaint Mary, Mother of God, you’ve given me a plan to save the Sisters at Mt. Sabinas.” He slapped Vicente on the shoulder. �śOh, by the way, my friend over there is the bastard whelp of a jackal, and he’ll kill you if he gets the chance.” Without even glancing toward the lieutenant’s table, Chancho donned his sombrero and bolted for the back door. ~~~ The wine lacked panache, made from mustang grapes despite the fifty-year-old lenoir vines rooted two miles from the stool where he sat. Shame, the rest of the establishment was respectable. McCutchen listened past the drunken blather of Special Ranger Ballinger for the conversations going on around him, mostly in Spanish. Increasingly, he felt their celebration of a job well done boded poorly with the locals. That was the life of a ranger in the borderlands. He sighed, taking another swig of wine. The berries hadn’t even ripened�"too vegetal, acidic. Then they got sloppy with the sugar, too much, too early in the fermentation, creating a bright red swill. He put down his glass and drummed his fingers on the bar. They were Texas-side in a town called Del Rio. But after eight straight years of Mexican revolution and a constant rabble of refugees spilling over the border, over a third of the saloon’s patrons were Mexicans. Carranza’s presidency continued as illegitimately asustitimate Huerta’s, and shiftless Mexicans seemed to accept incompetent governance as an excuse for violent and criminal behavior. With gunrunning, goat rustling and general banditry driving reprisal killings to an all-time high, the general mood was such that Anglos hated Mexicans, Mexicans hated Anglos, and just to make things worse, a handful of old Tejanos resented both. McCutchen loathed laziness, helplessness and corruption, which most of the people surrounding him had in spades. A clump of four Mexicans hovering over shots of mescal and tequila caught McCutchen’s attention. Over the next minute he heard mention of the dried leaves and buds of the Mexican c�Ą�ąamo plant more than once. Locals knew it only as loco weed, but this broad label often included several noxious species that caused temporary madness in grazing livestock. Mexicans differentiated between the worthless weeds and the product they called marihuana. Unregulated and unnoticed, officially the U.S. had no stance on the narcotic, but McCutchen knew better. He took another sip of wine before noticing that one of the Mexicans had gone. Before he could locate the missing man, Ballinger elbowed him nearly causing him to spill what was left of his fermented piss and grape juice onto his denim jacket. �śDammit, Ballinger. Wrap it up before you make more trouble than you resolve.” �śLoosen up, McCrutch.” Ballinger laughed at his own pun. While sipping his wine and contemplating cracking Ballinger across the chops, a loud slap on the table behind McCutchen focused his attention. Through the corner of his eye he located his fourth Mexican, a wet-behind-the-ears sort embroiled in an argument with an ugly hombre who looked like he’d been born during a stampede. He sighed, fully aware that a half-dozen illegal schemes were being hatched at this very moment in this one bar alone. At least experience had taught him that a certain Darwinian wisdom usually won the day as the criminal sort weeded themselves out by their own stupidity. Reluctant to waste wine, even wine that smelled of wet hay, McCutchen drained his glass in a gulp. He dreaded the coming of prohibition state-wide. Ridiculous. Knowing marihuana to be the real threat, he had little time for draft dodgers and bootleggers, the spineless and pathetic. Yet, soon ranger resources would be called on in greater numbers to crack down on pancho-clad bootleggers moving moonshine via donkey under the cover of night. That too was the life of a ranger in the borderlands. Speaking of pancho-clad bootleggers, the Mexican voices to his left grew louder. He turned to see one of them holding a familiar cigarette and knew it was time to move. Ballinger, belly up to the bar, was about to order his fifth shot of tequila when McCutchen decided the celebration was over. It was time to get back to work. But before he could enact his plan the fourth Mexican bolted out the back. He cursed his poor timing while taking Ballinger by the scruff, �śThat’s enough.” �śLike hell. I’ve just started,” Ballinger tried to resist. The steady din of noise surrounding them receded. McCutchen backed him toward the table of Mexicans while barking in his face, �śYou’re already drunk as a Mexican whore.” Tension in the saloon crackled to the breaking point as he pushed the drunken Ballinger. �śSon of a�"” Ballinger tripped over his own feet and stumbled. Trying heled. Trto catch himself, he flipped the table where the Mexicans were seated. The rest went down pretty much as McCutchen had planned. At first, anyway. Ballinger fell clean over, pinning the smallest Mexican beneath him. The two sitting on the far side jumped to their feet, reaching for their irons. One of them was fast, but McCutchen had killed plenty of fast before. By the time the Mexican flashed his metal, McCutchen had drawn both of his Colt .45s and dropped the hammers. The roar ripped through the narrow saloon as the first man fell. The second dipped his shoulder and dodged to his right, extending his life for an instant. What happened next was pure bad luck. The second Mexican committed too heavily to his lunge and lost his feet. As he fell, he finally loosed his pistola. McCutchen leveled both of his .45s and let him have it in the chest. By reflex, the dying Mexican squeezed off one slug that unfortunately channeled right through the top of Ballinger’s skull and out at the base of his neck. Falling limp, he draped over the third man who temporarily stopped squirming. McCutchen noticed something metallic flash in the corner of his eye. This too was the life of a borderlands ranger. The shot came hot and premature, splintering the wood of the bar behind him. He lunged for the shelter of the overturned table and landed softly on the body he’d recently dispatched there. Another slug struck the edge of the table on his way down, too fast for a single shooter. Two shooters remained, and the man pinned under Ballinger would free himself sooner rather than later. Three irons to his two would be poor odds without the tactical element of surprise, and he wanted the last man alive. The fresh burn of gunpowder tickled his nostrils. Now or never. He inched back from the table so that it wouldn’t block his motion. With both arms outstretched and his Colt Flat Tops pointed in the directions of the loudest scuffling, he rose up on his knees. Thunder and lightning battered the bar as lead pounded the table in front of him. He steadied both hands, dropped the hammers and loosed heavenly elements of his own while binding two more Mexicans in the grip of death. Nothing moved in the saloon but gently wafting smoke. McCutchen stood, his right hand trained on the Mexican who’d freed himself from under Ballinger’s dead body, his left hand roaming the narrow room from side to side. Breathing fast, a trickle of sweat ran down the cavity of his chest causing a stinging sensation. He felt a pinch. Letting one eye flicker down to take a look, he saw a red stain spreading there. He relaxed, taking a deep breath. It burned, but not badly. He slowed his pulse, calmed his breathing. Humming gently, he relaxed his shoulders and cracked his neck. Finally, he looked the remaining Mexican in the eyes, �śYou’ve got the blood of a ranger on you, greaser.” Walking around the table while holstering one of his .45s, he knelt where the man lie on the floor with his hands raised above his head. McCutchen sneered. Ballinger’s normal cologne of sweat and alcohol had been enriched with human defecation. He was riffraff, sure. But a ranger, nonetheless. McCutchen gripped his remaining Colt around the cylinder and clapped it against the side of the Mexican’s head. ro TWO El Chupawhata? �śDamn, McCutchen. There’s more blood than whiskey in there.” Sheriff Big Benny Lickter entered through the front door of what had originally been the one-room jail but now served as his office just off Del Rio’s town square. He dropped his hat on his desk. �śYou really know how to wake a sleepy border town.” �śHave you ever tried the Mustang wine in that place?” �śThe Mustang wine? What’s that got to do with anything?” �śNothing. It’s horrible, that’s all.” McCutchen drummed his fingers on the sheriff’s desk, eyeing the sheriff’s newest outfit. This one looked like something made for silent film rather than real work�"vest and tie made from a shiny material, suspenders a necessity to hold the sheriff’s bulk in place. �śYou satisfied with my report yet?” Lickter sat down with a huff. �śWhat, that? Yeah, yeah.” He smoothed his hair and sopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. McCutchen nodded politely to mask his disgust. Well over six feet tall and fat, Lickter couldn’t tolerate heat. Hardly forgivable in a place that saw 90 degrees much of the year. The sheriff continued, �śDid anybody tell you it looks like you got shot in the chest?” While transporting his prisoner to jail and reporting the incident to ranger headquarters via telegraph, McCutchen had totally forgotten about the wound. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and tearing the bloodied undershirt, he laughed out loud. �śYou rangers get shot so much it’s funny now?” �śOnly if the bullet packs a punch as weak as that nigger Jack Johnson after twenty rounds with Jess Willard.” �śI’m afraid, Ranger McCutchen, that I don’t follow boxing much.” Still smiling, McCutchen sat back in his chair. �śYou got an old rag you don’t need, and some tape and gauze?” Lickter tossed him his handkerchief. McCutchen admired it. �śFancy.” But Lickter waved him off dismissively. The ranger gently tugged the bullet out of his chest while applying pressure with the kerchief. �śApparently, the barroom table took all the fight out of it.” �śWell that was down right kindly.” Lickter sat up straight in his chair, smoothing his vest and necktie. McCutchen thought the effort pathetic when what the man needed was to smooth the sloppy rolls of flesh he tried to conceal with his dandified dress. �śSo what of this feller you got stinking up my jail cell? I’ll be damned if there ain’t more Mexicans underfoot these days than cockroaches.” �śLas cucarachas,” McCutchen mused as he held the kerchief over the wound. He thought the label was insulting to the bug, an adaptive specimen living in the harshest of conditions. �śWell, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to question that greaser about something I heard the lot of �Śem talking over just before the scuffle.” �śMakes no difference to me, but I hope you understand Mexican. That one’s been in a little trouble before. Don’t speak much English as I recall.” �śI’m sure we’ll understand each other just fine.” McCutchen got up and headed toward the back where the more modern jail with multiple cells had been added to the original building. Tiring of the sweaty sheriff, he itched to find some answers. �śYou mind me asking what got you so fired up in the first place?” McCutchen stopped as he reached the first door of iron bars and whistled for the deputy to open it. �śDon’t worry yourself none. If I find something, I’ll let you know.” �śOh, hey. The gauze and stuff is right there in the cabinet. Better grab some before you bleed on my clean jailhouse floors.” Lickter wiped the smile off his face. �śAnd I’m sorry about your man. What was it, Baldinger?” McCutchin grabbed a roll of gauze and some tape. �śBallinger. Yeah, that was a hell of a thing.” The door buzzed, and McCutchen opened it with a click. He looked back at Lickter, who was smiling childishly. He had an obsession with all things modern, from clothing to weapons and apparently electric locks on prison doors. �śNothing but the best for Del Rio.” It sounded like a campaign slogan. McCutchen put the pieces together; Lickter was a politician working as a lawman. He nodded. �śAnd thanks.” �śThink nothing of it, friend. I hope you get some answers.” ~~~ �śDo you know who I am?” McCutchen pulled a chair in front of the cell holding the Mexican and took a seat. �śUn rinche.” The man spat out the answer. McCutchen responded calmly. �śThese bars won’t save you from my judgment any more than your prayers will from God’s. Do you understand me?” He tapped his holster and leaned forward, �ś�żcomprende?” He rolled the �śr” like a native speaker. The man in the cell narrowed his eyes and grunted, �śSi.” �śNow let’s start with your name, tu nombre.” �śVicente Zambrano.” The response was immediate and minimal. McCutchen nodded. Good. �śYou spoke earlier of marihuana.” He paused to gauge Vicente’s response, the Mexican clearly confused. This was not the line of questioning he had expected. Slowly, he nodded, so McCutchen continued. �śI’ll make this easy on you. All I want to know is who and where. Quién y donde.” At first Vicente’s eyes widened with fear and then narrowed to slits again. He breathed heavily before speaking through his teeth, �śSolamente mi primo sabía exactamente.” He struggled to speak in English, �śBut someone has killed him.” McCutchen got his meaning clear enough. He had shot and killed Vicente’s cousin earlier. �śUnderstood. Tell me what you know.” Vicentatitify">Ve looked nervous for the first time. McCutchen worried he was having second thoughts about cooperating, but after a few moments, Vicente continued, �śPaís del diablo. Devil country.” Vicente wrung his sweaty hands while McCutchen waited without budging for him to continue. He translated the best he could. �śIt is said that the hills north of el patron’s ranch are haunted by a powerful demon. The Church, the Catholic Church, bought the land in order to bind the demon within its boundaries. They say the demon wanders the hills looking for enough blood, human blood when he can find it, but goat blood works too, in order to gain the strength to break the blessed spell of the Church and roam free again.” Vicente shifted on his bench while McCutchen tried to gauge him. He wasn’t sure he’d translated everything correctly. Was this pathetic Mexican really telling him a tale of blood drinking demons and the Catholic Church? What the hell could this possibly have to do with marihuana? He was about to get upset when Vicente, apparently aware of the ranger’s incredulity, continued more urgently. �śWe found goats. One of ours and one from the Catholic Hills. We found them down at the springs between our properties. They had been killed, drained of all their blood, every last drop. I swear. We found only two small holes and bite marks on the neck.” He lowered his voice again. �śThey call the demon El Chupacabra. My friend, he found goats of el patron’s by the springs, gone mad just from seeing the creature.” McCutchen stood, asking for permission to enter the cell to be more persuasive. �śLook son, so help me�"” Vicente raised his voice and rushed to the point. �śMy cousin did not believe it. He called it stupid superstition. Some of el patron’s goats wandered again into the Catholic Hills, but he went after them.� When he found them he said they had gone mad, but it was from eating c�Ą�ąamo, marihuana. He was telling us�Ś” Vicente looked at the floor. �śThat was what he was telling us in the cantina.” McCutchen was stunned. He’d expected to hear a story of a smuggler meeting them at the river, bringing marihuana across the border. Not this. Before he could absorb it, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar lady’s voice carrying from the front office. He slid the chair back to its former place. �śYou’re telling me that this marihuana was growing here in Texas? Your cousin found a field of marihuana growing in Texas?” Vicente nodded, �śSi.” Part of McCutchen still wanted to beat the man, unwilling to accept what he was being told. But even if he beat the worthless greaser to death he’d still have to see the proof with his own eyes. �śOkay. One more thing. Where exactly are these springs where you found the goats?” ~~~ The iron bars clicked shut behind him, and McCutchen strode into the sheriff’s office with a polite smile on his face. �śWhy Miss Lickter, it’s a pleasant surprise to see you today.” The slight Daisy Lickter wore a thin white dress that hung on delicate straps, exposing her shoulders, before resuming sleeves that ended with frills around her wrists. The dress lifted her ample bosom with a high waistline thatboristline flowed to a hem just above her knees, a style he’d never seen before. She curtsied, �śRanger McCutchen, the pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.” McCutchen swallowed, taking the young lady’s hand loosely while producing a mild bow of his own. Easy on the eyes, the sheriff’s daughter had grown up nicely. While not much for the trivialities of civility, McCutchen did maintain good working relationships. Sheriff Lickter, despite being a soft politician lamely disguising his Jewish heritage by switching the �śh” in his name to a �śk”, was sheriff of an important border town. And as far as McCutchen knew, he wasn’t corrupt. �śWhy Mr. McCutchen, have you been shot?” McCutchen realized he’d failed to tidy his shirt after staunching the bleeding earlier. He relaxed and allowed himself a chuckle, �śHardly.” �śNow I don’t claim to be an expert in such matters, Ranger McCutchen, but how does one go about getting himself hardly shot?” He tensed again as Daisy moved more quickly than most of the men he’d laid low, placing her hand over the bandage on his chest. He tried to relax himself by taking deep breaths, but the air was laced with her intoxicating perfume, like sage brush ground with cinnamon. He shifted his neck, popping it to relieve some of the tension. �śWell Miss Lickter, I suppose that’s a reasonable question, but one I’m afraid I don’t have a simple answer for.” She ran her fingers gently around the edges of the bandage. �śI suppose it wouldn’t hurt to be more than hardly bandaged despite being hardly shot.” She batted her eyes while her hot breath tickled him. She lightly pressed her bosom into his rigid stomach and simultaneous ripped the bandage from his chest. He flinched from the suddenness more than the pain. Benny floundered to control his daughter. �śHoney. The dressing was sufficient. Are we going to have dinner? I’m sure Ranger McCutchen would consider joining us.” �śOh Father, hold your horses. No doubt you won’t waste away.” She flittered back and forth between the cabinet of medical supplies and the shocked ranger. Deftly she dressed the wound with swift yet graceful movements, taking every opportunity to make subtle physical contact. McCutchen struggled not to notice her proud breasts and plunging neckline, or the way her delicate umber skin whispered beneath the falling loops of dirty blonde hair that refused to stay completely restrained in its loose knot. The girl, while cunning, tried too hard to assert herself as a woman. Nothing like his unassuming Elizabeth. The thought of her choked him, like a fist-sized tumor in his gut trying to work its way out. The burn scar on his ring finger flush with pain, he pushed her memory back into the pitch of his soul where it had lived for the last fifteen years. Tensely, he waited for Daisy to finish. �śThere. Now Ranger McCutchen can join us for dinner in comfort knowing that his wounds have been properly dressed.” She curtsied again. �śIt’s the least I could do in exchange for your company.” She caught McCutchen briefly with her eyes before lowering them. �śMarvelous.” Big Benny huffed. �śWould you like to join us, McCutchen? If I remember correctly, you favor a good steak? Bravo’s has the best, and there’s a decent chance nobody’ll shoot at us.” Dangerous, that one. McCutchen noted how effortlessly she switched from brazen to demure. He checked himself, smiled and accepted the invitation. It’d been awhile since he’d tasted a good steak. ~~~ Bravo’s did indeed serve a quality steak, without need of adulteration with sauce. The blood, the heat, the salt rub applied just before the flames charred the surface to lock in its flavor�"this one thing done right redeemed a week’s worth of wrong. Daisy’s advances seemed clumsy in comparison to the grace McCutchen found in his ribeye. As he rested his fork, the flavors still lingering, a couple of local goat ranchers begged Sheriff Lickter’s pardon. �śSorry to interrupt your dinner, Sheriff. But something’s gotta be done.” �śCalm down, Marvin. Now what's gone and got you so riled up? The missus ain’t started shooting at you from the porch again, has she?” Big Benny tried to relax the situation with a laugh. �śNo sir, Sheriff. Ain’t nothing of the sort.” �śTell him.” The second rancher elbowed Marvin. McCutchen took up his glass of wine, this time a 1915 Lenoir from Val Verde with legs that coated the side of the glass with a burgundy color so deep it reminded him of coagulated blood. He dipped his nose into the glass and inhaled the hints of earth and fruit, cleansing the stink of Ballinger’s dirt and the lure of Daisy’s oversexed, teenage fantasies. Finally he tipped the wine into his mouth and swished it around. �śYou see, it’s this demon El Chupacabra that the Mexicans is talking about.” Big Benny dabbed his mouth with his napkin. �śEl chupawhata?” The second rancher piped in, �śI lost half a dozen goats just the day before yesterday.” Big Benny waved them off, �śNow hold on there. This is the first I’m hearing of it.” McCutchen swallowed his wine in a gulp and put down his glass. A hint of pepper lingered on his palate, the perfect match to the steak he had just finished. �śEl Chupacabra. That boy Vicente in your jail was telling me about it. He says there’s a demon loose in the hills that feeds on the blood of goats. And men, I suppose.” Marvin’s eyes grew wider. Big Benny put down his napkin and turned to face McCutchen. �śWhich hills?” �śJust north of the Upper San Felipe Springs.” Big Benny scowled, �śSan Felipe? Hell, those springs water half the mohair in Val Verde County, even with the new irrigation canals. What sorta trouble are you two trying to cause with this stupid story about El Chupacolada?” �śPardon me, Sheriff.” McCutchen interrupted, turning to the ranchers. The absurdity of their fear only enhanced his enjoyment of the meal. �śWhat’s this about your goats gone missing?” �śThat thing, whatever it is, it got �Śem. Some of my best, too.” McCutchen glanced at Lickter, who gave hnd , who gim permission to continue. �śAnd you’ve seen this El Chupacabra?” �śWell no. I ain’t seen the thing.” Both ranchers squirmed. �śBut you found the dead goats? Drained of their blood?” �śNot exactly.” McCutchen raised a brow. �śNot exactly?” He ran his tongue over his teeth and took another swig from his glass. �śWell no. That’s just it. That thing done drug �Śem off, up into the Catholic Hills.” The ranchers reasserted their claim to the sheriff. �śAnd something’s gotta be done about it. Old Gonzales says the beast done drained one of his and left the carcass right there at the springs, sucked bone dry with two little holes on the neck.” The rancher pointed to the side of his neck. Marvin added, �śYes sir, we got enough to worry about with bandidos coming across the Rio Grande without having to worry about some deranged demon-beast in the north scaring our goats off from the only good source of water. And they say the beast has got a couple of Indian witch-doctors protecting it.” The ranchers started arguing among themselves. �śHell, there ain’t no Indian witch-doctors.” �śIs so.” �śAnd you seen �Śem?” �śWell, I hadn’t�"” �śThe only man I ever seen working any goats in them hills be this little Mexican feller.” �śGoofy guy.” Marvin tried to save face by contributing something. � �śThey say the Catholic Church worked a magic on him that makes him immune. He’s supposed to be a guard or something. We find him, I bet we get some answers.” Abruptly McCutchen’s pleasure from the conversation ceased. �śThis Mexican, he wear a big, floppy sombrero?” Both ranchers answered at once. �śThe biggest. That’s the one.” THREE Giddyup The room felt stuffy. McCutchen pushed his hand up underneath the rim of his Grandfather’s Stetson and scratched the scar on the side of his head. Mexicans always seemed to be connected to marihuana. He closed his eyes. Dammit if he wasn’t the only one level-headed enough to set aside the demon nonsense and realize that each outlandish story seemed to support the next. Before he could cut the ranchers off Daisy beat him to it. � �śGentlemen, I hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid I need some fresh air.” She addressed her father, �śMay I be dismissed?” Without waiting for an answer she turned her gaze to McCutchen and batted her eyes. McCutchen jumped to. �śOh, pardon me.” He stoeigUod, pulling the lady’s chair back for her to rise. He tried to watch her leave, but the blood and wine had rushed to his head. Dizzy, he plopped back down in his chair. He managed a single sentence, �śSheriff, I’m gonna want a look at those springs,” before the rest of the conversation drowned beneath a rushing pulse in his ears. So some clever Mexican had created a ruse to protect his precious crop. McCutchen knew a demon when he saw one, and he’d burn it out of the Catholic Hills like he’d burned it out of Matamoros years ago. His mind began to swim with wine and memories, gripping him in a trance. His thoughts were haunted by flames�"first the field of marihuana, then the bonfire, then the old woman’s house. The cackling faces of the vaqueros possessed by the narcotic, the silhouette of the girl slumping dead in a sliver of moonlight, the old woman eviscerated for helping him�"all of it consumed by the haunting flames. Sweaty and breathing rapidly, he clutched at the table to support himself. The faces of the sheriff and the ranchers stared back at him while flames danced in the background. They had asked him a question, but he couldn’t shake the waking nightmare. They gestured toward the window. Fighting to distinguish between the nightmare and reality he found himself locking eyes through the glass with a lanky Mexican in an oversized sombrero. Slapping the table with both hands and spilling the Lenoir, he broke the pulsing rush in his ears in time to hear the ranchers’ jabbering. �śThat’s him! That’s the one. The guardian of the beast!” Off balance and still attempting to shake his visual hallucinations, McCutchen burst from his chair, overturning the table. �śDammit, McCutchen! Get ahold of yourself.” Lickter used his massive weight to stabilize the ranger. His mind abuzz with the threat of marihuana and the nightmares of Matamoros, McCutchen could see only the Mexican crouched beneath the window. �śOutta my way, Lickter.” He shoved the sheriff and charged unsteadily toward the front door. But the memories of Matamoros followed him, aspects of the nightmare imposing themselves over his current reality. The menace hidden inside darkened adobes, the ignorant betrayal of the Mexican people, the evisceration of the old lady�"all of it because of marihuana, and all of it now connected to this Mexican. Daisy’s scent, lingering in the air and on his clothes, pushed him to the edge of guilt. The burn scar around the base of his ring finger pulsed. But none of it had been his fault. He would not take the blame. He had not grown the plant. He had not threatened the lives of innocent people by spreading it. He’d been chosen by fate to stop it, and he’d purge marihuana from the state of Texas come hell or high water. He’d annihilate the threat, at all costs. � Tensed and on the verge of shaking, McCutchen burst through the door. ~~~ After spotting Daisy through the window of Bravo’s, Chancho forgot about his rush to gather supplies and return to the Catholic Hills before running into Primitivo. Mesmerized by her bounce and sway, he watched her, pouty lips and all, swish her way toward the door. Entranta tify">Eced, he failed to recognize her predicament as she heaved against the sticky door with her backside, until it whooshed open, spilling her right into his lap. With a clatter entirely too loud he dropped his supplies while cradling her around the back and knees. The heat of her bare flesh against his skin erased the distasteful encounter at the cantina. After calculating, and subtly surpassing, the polite limits of the embrace he placed her back on her feet. �śHow embarrassing! I really must beg your pardon, sir.” Daisy turned around to face him. �śOh, it’s nothing, se�ąorita.” �śWhy Mr�Ś.” she paused slightly, �śVillarreal. Del Rio Villarreal, I believe?” �śSi, se�ąorita. But you can call me Chancho. I mean, that’s what my friends call me. Chancho.” Daisy regathered her poise. �śI should say you don’t look like a pig.” She batted her eyes. �śIt’s just a nickname, se�ąorita.” He laughed, �śThe kids at the orphanage, they�Ś” he trailed off, leaving an awkward silence and cursed himself for such an amateur mistake, and for drawing such attention to it. �śI must apologize again. It seems my clumsiness has caused you to drop your burden.” Chancho remembered the supplies he’d been carrying, and bent down to gather them. �śOh it’s nothing, really. Perdoname for being so bold, se�ąorita, but I dare say your stumbling rivals the most graceful dance for most.” On his way down to the sidewalk he noticed Daisy’s bare legs, golden brown and smooth, and lingered until he was sure she’d noticed. She allowed him to stare a moment, before bending politely with her knees together. Chancho soon realized this motion had emphasized her knack for pressing her breasts together and keeping them between her and to whomever she was speaking. A very powerful means of controlling the conversation. Happily he allowed himself to swim under her control, even as he faked gathering his supplies. �śIt’s just that my father, you know, the sheriff, and these ranchers were prattling on and on about this awful El Chupacabra killing goats. I couldn’t take it any more. In my rush it seems I nearly bumped you over.” �śEl Chupacabra?” Chancho snapped out of the spell. He stood to look through the front window of Bravo’s, where two chilling eyes sought him and held him in their grip, blaming him for something he prayed to God he hadn’t done. After what seemed several seconds he squatted back down. �śWho is that man sitting with tu padre?” Daisy smiled, �śOh? The stunningly handsome one? That’s Ranger McCutchen. I hear he killed four men just this morning.” �śRinche. Dios mio.” Chancho caught himself, �śReally, a Texas Ranger?” He tried to sound nonchalant as he rushed to bundle his supplies into a large canvas cloth. Suddenly he stopped. �śKilled four men? Where?” �śAt the bar �Ścross the way.” Daisy gestured with her wrist, too civilized to point. �śAnd the men?” Chancho endeavored to slow his breathing. �śOh, I don’t know. Ruffians, I suppose.” She seemed to dismiss the topic with several bats of her eyes while Chancho resumed gathering his goods. �śMy, what an odd selection of goods you’ve got here.” Daisy kept the conversation going while Chancho shoved goat sheering equipment, mechanical parts, gunpowder, cleaning supplies, food stuffs and female unmentionables all back into the bundle. He made a quick effort to tuck the latter underneath a bag of salt, but failed. �śThose were pretty.” Chancho tied the fabric in a knot, tighter than he had last time. �śThey’re not mine.” He winced. �śI mean�"” �śWell I should hope not.” �śIt was real nice running into you, or I should say, catching you, se�ąorita.” He winked, hoping she wouldn’t notice how sweaty he’d gotten. �śBut I, ah.” Squatting on his heels now, he peeked over the sill of the storefront window. �śMaybe we can�Ś” through the window he spotted the rinche moving quickly toward the door. He smiled weakly before blurting out, �śusted es muy bonita.” At the same moment the front door burst open, spilling loud voices into the street. ~~~ Out of sight around the corner of Bravo’s, Chancho slammed himself up against the wall at the same moment the door to the restaurant rebounded violently, slamming shut again. �śWhy, Ranger McCutchen.” Daisy sang sweetly, revealing an edge of concern. Chancho gathered himself and cursed under his breath when he realized he’d left his bundle on the boardwalk out of reach. His plan would be no good without the tractor parts at the very least.� �śWhat on earth has come over you?” Daisy continued, now with an audible quiver in her voice. Lightning quick Chancho braved a glance around the corner. It wasn’t pretty. Even the fleeting glimpse told him the rinche was glazed with bloodlust. He’d seen the look of crazed zealotry before on the face of Villa himself. He couldn’t leave without his supplies, and besides, Daisy was in danger even if only he knew it. �śOut of my way, slut.” The rinche’s voice rattled, emerging from deep within his chest. Without another thought Chancho swept around the corner, snagging the bundle in his left hand and staying low as he rushed toward Daisy and the rinche. Daisy squeaked with fright, the rinche’s forearm knocking her from her feet. Chancho used her shadow to mask his approach. With the door of Bravo’s swinging open again, Chancho spun to his right, flinging his bundle forward while replacing it for the second time that day with Miss Lickter’s delicate frame.� Brushing past her backside as she fell, he embraced her with his left arm at the last possible instant. Continuing to spin, Chancho lunged backward past the rinche. With a lighting flick of his wrist he spirited a .45 from its holster as he kicked the door of Bravo’s, catching the sheriff’s arm in the threshold and sending his pistol skittering across the boardwalk. Finally losing his feet, the pair crashed down in a heap. Aftere.< heap. spinning on his behind in a terrible flurry of kicking legs, Chancho managed to face the rinche, still embracing Daisy with his left and gripping the .45 in his right. The rinche stepped forward with a second .45 pointed directly at his head. �śIt figures you would have two.” Chancho paused to catch his breath before whispering in Daisy’s ear, �śNow that, se�ąorita, was a dance.” �śLet the girl go, you coward.” Sheriff Lickter emerged from Bravo’s rubbing his wrist. �śMr. Lickter, you mistake my intentions. The only reason I’m currently embracing your daughter in such an undignified manner was to spare her backside and her dignity from a bruising.” He lowered his voice again to a whisper. �śOne out of two isn’t bad.” Daisy proceeded to squirm in his lap endeavoring to straighten her dress and recover her dignity which had indeed been bruised. He pinched her lightly. She elbowed him in return. �śYour daughter is merely a guest in my lap, not a prisoner.” He removed his arm from around her waist as a sign of his intent. She gave him a sideways nod. �śGracias, Se�ąor Villarreal.” He winced at the use of his surname. Brushing herself off, she rose to her feet and turned toward the rinche. �śNow what’s all of this about?” �śStep away, honey. We’ve got business with this cretin.” The Sheriff reached for his daughter’s hand. Daisy crossed her arms and stamped her foot. �śNonsense. All this man has done today is save me from a spill twice, the second time after Ranger McCutchen caused the matter.” Chancho used the opportunity to get to his feet, remaining sheltered in part by Daisy’s slight shadow and keeping the stolen .45 trained on its owner. The rinche glared, shaking visibly as Chancho leaned close to Daisy’s ear. �śWould you mind inching my bundle just a few feet closer? I might need to leave in a hurry. Muchas gracias.” Daisy looked at the three men in turn before deciding she might as well assist the only one of them who had been treating her like a lady. She bent down to drag the bundle of supplies close to Chancho’s feet. �śI should kill you now.” The rinche finally spoke, his voice a mere croak. �śWell se�ąor, not from my perspective, but to each his own.” Finished with her task, Daisy turned to face him, her face less than a foot from his own. Despite the temptation, Chancho remained riveted on the rinche’s smoldering eyes, looking for any indication of whether he would shoot to kill like he apparently had that morning. Something told him he would be dead already if the rinche had not wanted him alive. Reluctantly he decided this suspicion was his only card to play. �śNow se�ąorita, I have one last request, and it is the most important of all. Por favor, stand several paces away, in the street.” She hesitated before eventually conceding. As she brushed past him he whispered one last thing, �śAnd for the love of God, close your eyes, tight.” Addressing the rinche he continued, �śNow gentlemen, let us put down our weapons and discuss tindnd dischis misunderstanding like civilized men. Hmmm?” Chancho shifted slightly until he stood just left of his bundle. Placing the pistol in his left hand he held it out prone, waiting for the rinche to do the same thing. Finally the rinche spun his pistol, holding it by the cylinder and barrel instead of the grip. The two men’s eyes never broke from each other. Slowly Chancho began to bend his knees. The rinche followed suit. When the two men neared the ground Chancho nodded and waited for the rinche to drop his pistol first. A long moment passed before Sheriff Lickter broke the silence, �śFor God’s sake, McCutchen. Just drop it. What’s he gonna do? Shoot us all? After he let Daisy go?” Without blinking the rinche dropped his pistol and began to straighten up. Chancho dropped his pistol as well. Grabbing his bundle of supplies with his right hand he hooked his index finger through the loop of his bootstrap. Keeping the rinche’s eyes locked on his own, he extended a nearly invisible rip cord from the side of his boot as he simultaneously brought the bundle to his waist. Much further and he knew the charge in the tip of his boot would detonate, God willing the powder had stayed dry and the phosphorus igniter still worked. He hadn’t even thought about the custom addition to the boots for over a year, put there by his once best friend�"the same Ah Puch he’d only hours ago been accused of killing for gold. Without another word he gave Daisy a wink and leapt upward, clasping the front lip of the overhang with his left hand. The rinche reached for his .45 while the sheriff lunged for Chancho’s legs. Before either could be obtained, Chancho extended his right arm, heaving the bundle onto the roof, and at the same time detonating the chili bomb in the tip of his boot. With a small display of fireworks and an innocent pop, the feather-light dust burst into the air. Quickly spreading six feet across, the cloud of chili powder enveloped both the sheriff and the rinche. Kicking his right leg, Chancho swung himself up and onto the roof. Without looking down he shouldered his bundle and bolted noisily atop the tin sheeting. Gunfire cracked as the rinche fired blindly, only sound to guide him. Still, he came closer than Chancho would have liked. Three more long strides and he decided it time to come back down to earth. Leaping the several feet to the ground he hit softly and rolled. �śLittle Sister! Am I glad to see you!” His horse, a tiny sorrel mare, snorted and nodded her head. �śHere, help me with these supplies.” Chancho picked up the knotted bundle and looped it over the saddle horn. His left foot in the stirrup, he slapped the horse on the rump while heaving himself into the saddle. ~~~ Bolting down the street, chili powder burning his nose, eyes and throat, McCutchen loosed his last two rounds, missing the mark wildly. He knew this to be his man, and through rapidly blinking eyes he was watching him ride away. His own horse had been hayed and watered at the livery that morning. He hated to steal a horse, knowing violence could break out over such an act, but with tears streaming down his face he scanned the area for a fast mount despite himself. Reading his jusReadingmind, Lickter intervened. �śFollow me.” He coughed and struggled to fill his lungs. �śI’ve got something better.” The men ran back to the sheriff’s office as quickly as their cowboy boots and chili-burdened lungs would allow. �śJohnson! Out back, now!” Lickter bellowed for the on-duty deputy as he and McCutchen sprinted down the alley behind the jail. His throat on fire, McCutchen stopped to catch his breath and swallow his surprise. When Lickter had spoken of something better he’d been referring to his auto. Lickter opened the driver’s door. �śIt’s a 1918 Packard Twin 6 Touring. Well don’t just stand there, get in.” As he spoke, Johnson scurried out of the jail and jumped into the back seat while McCutchen took the passenger front. �śWhat the hell happened to you?” Johnson responded to the men’s bloodshot eyes. �śLong story.” Lickter turned the key and throttled the engine with a grin on his face that spread from horizon to horizon. �śThere’s water under the seat.” He popped the clutch, spinning the tires as they lurched out of the alley and onto the street. McCutchen barked over the engine noise, �śHe was heading north!” �śWe’ll catch �Śem. There’s a good road out of town.” Lickter progressed through the gears as they pushed panicked townspeople onto the sidewalks and out of the path of the growling Packard. �śI’ve become a bit of an auto racer.” McCutchen rummaged underneath his seat for the water while fighting the urge to rub his eyes. �śCan you even see?” �śGood enough.” After splashing water in his face McCutchen slowed his blinking and focused on his rage, and the road. He’d been in a few autos, but never one this powerful. He clutched at the handhold on the door and held his grandfather’s Stetson atop his head as they jolted roughly out of town. Lickter had been right about catching him. A couple of minutes later McCutchen spotted the fleeing Mexican a few hundred yards off the road to the east. �śIt looks like he’s easing away from us.” � �śDon’t you worry. There’s a road up a ways that’ll cut him off. We’ll beat him there.” Smug with confidence, Lickter pressed the pedal all the way down. The engine whined as the tires tore at the dirt, bouncing about the rutted road. McCutchen wished he were at the controls, hating the feeling of tagging along for the ride. Another couple of minutes passed and he couldn’t even see the Mexican anymore. Damn cars will never be much count verses a man on a good horse. McCutchen felt the car slow before noticing an intersection ahead. Johnson braced himself in the back seat just before Lickter stomped the break while turning the wheel. As the car started to slide and fishtail he released the break, shifted into a lower gear and stomped down equally hard on the gas. The result was a graceful moment of flight, like jumping a creek on horseback, but McCutchen had never experienced anything quite like it. The auto glided on the dirt road like it was frozen smooth as ice. As the turning car neared its new heading, the tires struck a rut and jolted him from his wide-eyed elation, causing him to smack the side of his head on the frame of the car. �śSorry about that!” Lickter grinned. �śShould have warned ya’ the landings can get a bit rough sometimes.” McCutchen ter McCutrubbed the side of his head as Lickter shifted gears again and tore off at full speed while barking orders to the back seat. �śJohnson, get ready to pop this guy as we head him off! But aim for the horse for God’s sake. We don’t want to kill �Śem, yet.” Johnson went to work while Lickter winked at McCutchen, �śI’ve had a few special adjustments made to the car, you know, for times like these.” McCutchen turned in his seat to catch of glimpse of Johnson’s mysterious preparations. �śWhat the hell?” Johnson had turned down half the back seat and pulled a large metal tube out of the trunk. Apparently well rehearsed in his duties, Johnson nimbly negotiated the small space while hurriedly attaching a stand into special fixtures on the back passenger-side door. He rolled down the window and attached the tube. McCutchen faced Lickter, beginning to wonder about the sanity of this man he had known from a distance for several years. �śWhat the hell is that thing?” Lickter laughed. �śOh it’s just a little something from friends across the pond.” �śWhat? The British are interested in the Mexican border?” McCutchen frowned. �śNot exactly.” Lickter shrugged. �śConnections. We call it a bazooka. You’ll see why in a second. I’ve only had good excuse to use it a few times.” He sensed the ranger’s tension. �śLighten up. This’ll be fun.” Then toward the back seat he bellowed, �śtwo o’clock!” � Johnson responded immediately. �śGot �Śem!” �śHe’s gonna try to dash, but he won’t make it. For heaven’s sake make sure you take the shot before he gets too close!” The Mexican rode at full gallop, although his horse, a tiny sorrel mare, wasn’t cut out for this sort of mad dash across country. With his own horse, Chester the Fifth, McCutchen would have caught the guy in another few miles without any of this gasoline-powered raucous. The bone rattling along with the fumes from the engine combined with the damned chili powder had given him a headache. Chili powder! What kind of marihuana-growing greaser uses chili powder? That same greaser had spotted the auto and adjusted course just as they’d expected, trying to angle further east to keep from being cutoff from his northern escape. Stupid Mexican had no way of knowing he was opening himself up for a broadside from whatever sort of assault Lickter and Johnson had in mind. The auto and horse closed fast, both leaving a trail of dust lingering in the breeze. �śYou’re gonna want to plug your ears.” Lickter shouted over the noise of the engine. McCutchen wondered how anything could make it louder than it already was. But the answer came with an ear-popping thwump and woosh as the bazooka fired its grenade in an arching path toward the Mexican. With uncanny timing the rider chose against his previous course and steered his horse toward the auto in a northwesterly direction. Off target, the grenade slammed down into a clump of prickly pear cactus and exploded. If nothing else, shrapnel from the cactus along with the roar of the explosion battered the horse and rider. Undeterred they rode directly toward the auto. �śReload dammit!” Johnson was already on it. He slid a fresh grenade down the barrel and tried to swing the tube in line with the galloping horse, but it came at them too quickly. He swung the bazooka toward the rear of the car in an attempt to keep a bead on the Mexican, releasing the locking mechanism of the door in the process. All three men were too late in realizing the Mexican had taken a line directly behind them. McCutchen scrambled to draw his Colts as the tires caught a rut in the road.� Johnson thudded into the door with his full weight, causing it to suddenly swing open. With his hand still gripped around the trigger he launched the second grenade up and over the front of the speeding Packard. The road, dragging at his legs, yanked him free of the door and sent him tumbling head over heals into the ditch. �śSon of a�"” Both of the remaining men cursed as the road in front of them erupted into flames. Shrapnel impacted the grill and windshield of the car as Lickter yanked the wheel, lifting the tires out of the rut and bouncing them around the explosion just in time. But no sooner than they had missed the new crater in the road the Packard plowed headlong into a ditch. McCutchen, hands flailing in front of him, smacked into the dash while Lickter cracked his ribs on the steering wheel. Dust and chunks of road showered down on them as McCutchen lifted his head enough to see through the broken windshield that the Mexican continued riding north unmolested. FOUR Catholic Hills Having ridden far enough in the wrong direction, Chancho steered the tiny horse toward the drooping sun in the west. Not exactly the image of Don Quixote, but not Sancho Panza either, his legs dangled precariously close to the tops of prickly pear cactus as Sister Espanoza chose her own path toward home. They both felt the weariness of the day’s unexpected events. Being shot at was normal enough, but being chased by a bomb breathing auto stretched the far flung limits of his imagination. And all of it interrupting his chance encounter with Daisy! That blessed scenario had run through his imagination a thousand times over. Her exotic skin and hair. Of course when it finally came to fruition, along comes a rinche to spoil it. He shook his head to dispel the lingering image of her sweat-glistening breasts pressed lightly together right before him, the perfection of her delicate yet top-heavy frame. Her perfume, like a brew of wildflowers, lingered in his nostrils, controlling his thoughts. Espanoza snorted. �śI’m sorry, girl. You know I’m a sucker for a pretty se�ąorita, but you’re still the only one for me.” He stroked her neck. �śYou know me better than any other.” Instantly he felt bad for thinking about himself after putting so many others at risk. Since his rabble rousing with Villa he’d done his best to dream of nothing more than fine women and the occasional life-enhancing gizmo�"of course a few minor schemes here and there, but nothing revolutionary. Nothing to draw the attention of a rinche. Then it wase w obvious. Everything had started with Primitivo. The rinche had been the quiet gringo at the bar, and he’d been listening. Slowly the gravity of the situation settled in his mind like mud in a churned up watering hole. He tested the integrity of the bundled supplies secured to the saddle horn before returning his thoughts to that morning. But all he could think of were the four men Daisy had claimed the rinche shot dead. Were Vicente and his cousin dead because of him? Chancho’s heart sank into his boots. Still, he had to do right by the orphanage. If Primitivo had survived the cantina, Chancho would take care of him later.� He had stashed the gold at Mt. Sabinas intending it as scholarship�"seed money for a real revolution, so that none of the others would have to follow his steps, forced into servitude or soldiering. There would be no scholarship in the future without food for the present. Why were false revolutions so hard to kill and true ones so impossible to start? Immediately he could think of three reasons: Greed, lust, revenge. He knew Primitivo to be motivated by all three. The rinche he didn’t know at all. Rinche or no, the plan was still good. But first, how could he tell his best friends that an old revolutionary and a mysterious Texas Ranger were hunting him because of his connections to the largest single treasure in North America, which he stole from Carranza three years ago and hasn’t told them about until now? He could see it in his mind’s eye. Good evening, mis amigos. I made some enemies in town today. But rather than pack up and leave I would prefer to hang around long enough to harvest our crop of c�Ą�ąamo. Trust me. He knew it’d never work. Muddy and Nena were too tactical, too practical. They wouldn’t understand his sense of calling, his relationship with the mystical. Hell, he didn’t understand it. But somehow he knew it would be alright. The crop was the first fruits of the land. It was God’s. He hadn’t realized it belonged to the orphanage already until that morning. Primitivo, the rinche�"none of them could stop him. Finally he deduced that Muddy’s fanciful tale of El Chupacabra, one of his favorite fireside stories, was the only answer. He wanted desperately to be loyal to Muddy and Nena, but he knew his first loyalty lay with the orphanage. When the time came, Muddy and Nena would understand. They had to. �śChancho. Good, you’re back. We’re just getting ready for supper.” Muddy greeted Chancho from the chuck wagon without looking up from dicing tomatoes. Before he knew it Espanoza had guided them back into camp. �śHuh? Oh, bueno. Now that you mention it, I’m starving.” Monday �śMuddy” Sampson, a mammoth-sized, dark-skinned Seminole came from a people birthed in the swamps of Spanish Florida when Algonquin speaking tribes blended with escaped African slaves. Now neither slave nor Indian, he belonged to a fierce minority that carried their identity and liberty with honor. The locals referred to them as maroons or los mascogos. �śYou’d starve if we didn’t remind you to eat,” came a woman’s voice from inside a nearby herder’s wagon. �śI ate breakfast on my own.” Chancho jumped down from Espanoza’s back. �śWhat, a couple of stale biscuits you squirreled away in your wagon?” Chancho grunted. It chapped him that he was so transparent. Muddy intervened. �śNena, why don’t you feed Little Sister before she passes out.” He finally looked up while scraping the tomatoes into a pot. �śShe looks like you galloped her all the way home, and sounds even worse.” Chancho patted Espanoza and noticed a thick lather creeping from under her saddle. �śThat I can explain. And she’s not going to pass out, and besides, I can tend to it.” Chancho set his bundle down on the ground and turned his attention to the saddle’s girth. �śDon’t worry, girl. I won’t let that gruff woman touch you.” �śGruff woman?” Muddy laughed, �śI see you’re still apologizing to Little Sister. You’ve been distracted with dreams of Miss Lickter the whole ride back, haven’t you?” Chancho feigned insult. �ś�ĄIncreíble!” �śGruff woman?” Nenaiquita Losoya finally emerged from the herder wagon that she and Muddy shared and stood on its stoop. A curvaceous Kickapoo with ruddy skin, she wore her long, black hair like curtains over her bare breasts. �śThen why is your hat on backwards?” �śQue? My sombrero’s not on�"” Chancho put his hand to the crest of his sombrero. �ś�ĄAy, chihuahua!” Yanking it back, he found it full of tiny needles. �ś�ĄPor el amor de Dios! Nopal explotando. Sister, what has the world come to?” The horse’s rump had also been peppered. Chancho narrowed his eyes at Nena. �śYou had better grab the brush.” Then he turned his attention to his horse’s posterior. �śPoor Little Sister.” ~~~ Dinner consisted of mutton stewed all day with raisins, dates, pecans and tomatoes, served over a bed of rice. Muddy topped it off with dried mangos from relatives in Nacimiento, Coahuila. The three unlikely friends didn’t always have it this nice, but they enjoyed it when they got the chance. Chancho waited until they relaxed after dinner with cups of Muddy’s favorite coffee before bringing up the happenings of his day. Although he knew it was obvious something disturbed him other than the memory of Miss Lickter’s serpentine figure, it was not their way to force a thing before it was ready. While carefully leaving out his conversation with Primitivo and any connection to the revolution or gold, he mentioned the presence of the neighboring ranchers, the reference to El Chupacabra and his harrowing escape from the sheriff and the ranger. After he finished applying his most dramatic story-telling flare to the bold dash toward the ravenous bomb-throwing auto he leaned back against his saddle, cupping the back of this head in his hands. He swallowed hard. It pained him to lie to his friends, even if it was only by omission. Peering up past the dying light of the fire he focused on the first bright stars of the evening as each of them wondered in their different way what these events meant for their future. �śWell,” Nena pondered out loud while looking at Muddy, �śYou created the story of El Chupacabra. Who else has heard it?” Chancho answered, �śYour relatives. You told it to them a few months ago.” �śHmmm.” Muddy grunted. �śMaybe I shouldn’t have killed those goats down by the springs.” �śYou what!” Chancho yelled. Nena shook her head. �śWhat? I thought it might help keep bandits away.” �śBy killing the goats before they can be stolen?” �śNo, no. Nothing like that.” Muddy leaned forward toward the fire pit leaving Nena leaning against the log by herself, the sweat on his arm glistening from where her skin had pressed up against his. �śI made it look like El Chupacabra. It was easy, with the story based on us to begin.” Nena didn’t believe him. �śYou killed goats?” �śNo, they were colicky from marihuana. You know, the stupid animals can’t help it. They ate too much, and of course went straight for water. I thought that if people heard these hills were haunted we would be safe. That no one would find our field of c�Ą�ąamo marihuana or take our goats.” Chancho nodded. �śThat’s not a bad idea, actually.” �śChancho!” Nena chided, �śDon’t encourage him.” �śI mean, terrible. What were you thinking?” �śHmmm.” Muddy grunted again. �śI think one of the goats belonged to Gonzales.” �ś�ĄAy, caramba! The rancher I saw today was a neighbor of Gonzales.” Chancho rubbed the stubble on his chin vigorously. For a second he worried about playing it up too much. The three friends each in turn took sips of coffee. Muddy threw a rock into the dying fire. �śWhat do you think they’re going to do?” Chancho let a moment pass. �śWell. If they believe the story, or some hideous version of it, they think you two are Indian witch doctors and I am some sort of chaperone either sent to guard the spirit or guard others from it while it grows increasingly stronger from drinking the blood of man and goat alike until it will no longer be bound by the power of the Catholic Church but roam free to ravage any and all who live along the border.” The other two nodded. �śWhat would you do?” Muddy protested, �śBut it’s just a story.” �śYes, but dead goats are real.” Nena ended the matter with her standard practical insight. �śI would form a hunting party.” The three silently agreed. After several minutes passed Muddy drained the last drop of his coffee and leaned back against Nena’s side. He pulled her close, wrapping his huge arm around her tiny waste so that his hand rested back in his own lap. The tight, curly hair of his forearm tickled her breasts as they rested gently on him. Stray wisps of her hair tickled his nose. �śSo what are we going to do?” Chancho shielded his eyes from the smoke as the cook fire went out. �śWe have to harvest the crop.” �śThere won’t be time.” �śWe’ve put everything into it,” Chancho continued. �śWe won’t have anything left. And the gringos’ll probably just burn it, afraid it carries some sort of Indian magic.” �śWhat about the goats?” Muddy interjected. Nena got slightly louder. �śWe don’t have the time.” It served as a slap to Chancho’s face, and a potentially lethal blow to his plan. �śBut we do!” He stood up and paced beyond the reach of the smoking embers. �śI wasn’t planning on having it ready just yet, but I can.” �śThe harvester? Will it work?” Muddy smoothed Nena’s hair away from his face and gently ran his fingers through the full length of it. �śI just need a day. One day,” Chancho stamped his foot, �śand it’ll work. I know machines; I’ve been building them since I was a boy!” He resumed his pacing. �śI figure we have three days. It would have taken them the rest of today to get back into town. Tomorrow they’ll start putting together the party, but it’ll take them a while to get the word to the neighboring ranches. They’ll plan to meet the day after and ride to the edge of the property and set up camp, probably at the springs. Then in three days they come looking for El Chupacabra and his host.” He clapped his hands, both giddy and guilty at the same time. He believed his words even though he knew them to be lies. Nena turned her head to look up into Muddy’s face as if to remind him that it was his job to bring his friend back from the precipice of madness whenever he tarried too close. �śWe can start rounding up the goats tomorrow while you work on the harvester.” Muddy played his part. �śFourty-eight hours from now and we leave with whatever we can take.” She nodded and put her head back on his chest. He focused his next words on Chancho. �śThis is not your revolution.” Chancho plopped down in front of his saddle, crossing his legs and pulling his boots up underneath him. The site of his boots, hand-made by Ah Puch, reminded him that unfortunately it was still his revolution. He rubbed the tattered leather around the torn tip of the right boot�"encrusted with both chili and gun powder. He had promised their creator he would keep them for life, a life that despite his foolishness he was still living. He spit in his hands and rubbed the boots clean. Finally he grunted, �śOK, but�"” �śBut we’ve worked too hard for this life to let the Anglos take it from us again,” Muddy interrupted. �śWe’re together on that.” ~~~ Secluded in the middle of thousands of acres of rugged wilderness, the three friends chose to live honestly and simply out of three sheepherder wagons, most of their resources tied up in the land. They had done their best to remain out of trouble at a time when trouble came calling. Stars shone above, and a tender breeze rippled the hemp canvas of Chancho’s wagon as he slept. Having pitched camp at almost 2,000 feet, the evenings were pleasant despite days in the nineties. Stretched out stark naked on his mattress his dreams carried him unwillingly yet again to the moment the revolution died to him; Columbus, New Mexico, March 9th, 1916. dy height The sliver of moon shone above Chancho and Ah Puch, as they approached the edge of the sleeping town. �śThis is not a good idea,” Ah Puch whispered in Spanish. �śWhy are we attacking the gringos? They are ignorant to our cause, but they are not our enemies.” Chancho was indignant. �śVilla says they have been supporting Carranza. That makes the gringos our enemy.” Ah Puch lagged in the single file formation until he walked beside Chancho, both of them doing their best to follow the cattle tracks by moonlight. �śThat’s ridiculous. There are more gringos than water in the ocean. How can they all be our enemy?” Ah Puch lowered his voice even further, so that only Chancho could hear it. �śVilla is going mad. I have known him longer than you. He is blinded by anger.” Chancho pushed Ah Puch, shushing him. �śDo not say such a thing. He is a true revolutionary. We will be victorious.” �śVictorious? Listen to yourself. A week ago you argued most vehemently against this attack. Villa no longer listens to anyone, even you.” �śMaybe I started listening to him.” Chancho flicked his head over his shoulder toward a rustling. Someone in line behind them had stumbled. �śAgain, you have no sense of timing, my friend. No, we are not revolutionaries tonight. Not even bandits.” Ah Puch took his place back in single file, now behind Chancho instead of ahead. �śBad things will happen tonight. We should not have come.” After another minute the column of marching peons and boys had shifted even further to the west, bypassing the fort and heading into the town of Columbus itself. Slowly the line stopped, each revolutionary crouching down behind the rump of the man in front of him. They had not chosen exactly the right course, and were steering around a small cluster of cabins built on the outskirts of the fort grounds. Chancho focused hard on his every step as he drew closer to the cabins. The constant pulse of the evening matched his breathing. The ignorant and lazy gringos were all sleeping, not a single light in a window. Chancho grinned. This attack would force the worthless gringo army to chase them deep into Mexico, where Villa would lead them right to Caranza’s front porch. They would fight for the revolution even if they were too stupid to see it. He swelled with pride until he feared his feet would leave the ground. The idea had been partly his own, but he had not shared it with Ah Puch because he had known he would disapprove. But he would show him. He would show them all. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a jack rabbit lope out from under a juniper. The movement disoriented him. Instinctively he reached for the rabbit to steady himself, to reconnect with the ground upon which he tread, to keep from getting dizzy with revolutionary fervor. Then he heard a sound that should not have been there. A sound that with sudden clarity he knew should not be part of the fabric of his native lands, despite the fact it had become as familiar as a baby’s rattle. The click lodged in his mind, a double-action trigger ready to fire. At the same moment his foot snared a root. Flailing, he fell forward, the night sky pitching all around him and the ground rushing upward. height="0"> A flash and a roar came from one of the darkened cabin windows, and the night tore violently like a womb in the teeth of a lion. All that was precious to Chancho spilled in that moment onto the desert sand. Scorching lead whistled past his ear, taking a small piece of the lobe with it. In fast forward he crashed into a prickly pear, the night air flickering and then blazing with the voices of his companions, �ś�ĄViva Villa. Viva revolucion!” Someone standing over him split the air in two with the unquenchable appetite of gunpowder and flame before disappearing into the night. Chancho rolled onto his back, freeing himself from the cactus. �śAh Puch.” Still standing there above him in silhouette against the starry sky, his closest friend stared back at him. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes, lurching forward as his chest surged with blood. Chancho awoke at the same place in the nightmare as always, with the same feeling choking him from his sleep. It should have been me. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and listened to the gentle sounds of early morning. He did not often choose to rise early, but when it was thrust upon him he took it as a sign�"a signal from heaven to listen. Why, he wondered, had he never liked to listen? Ah Puch’s words rattled in his head. Is it because I have no sense of time? True revolutionaries like Maximilian Robespierre, George Washington, even Jesus the Christ understood the importance of timing. I just live for the moment. He stretched and reflected on the two years since leaving the revolution. The standoff with the rinche had been the first time he’d held a gun during that time. He had hoped the void left by violence would fill with understanding. But so far, it hadn’t. He picked up his boots and moved them out of the doorway. Without wasting time on clothing, he grabbed a Bible given to him by his adopted grandmother and climbed out of his wagon into the embrace of all the earth. The stars had gone, the eastern horizon yet to blush with the colors of morning. He moved carefully in his bare feet around cacti and thorns until he reached a rock outcropping perched on the bluff. He skirted the edge until he found the best way up and scrambled to the top. He eased his bare buttocks onto the cool sandstone, crossing his legs as he sat. In the startling stillness he wondered if his own breathing might be the beginning of a vicious wind across the globe. He rested the Bible in his lap, opening it to his favorite book of Ecclesiastes. Too dark to read, he located the book by the worn feel of the gilded pages and left the text open in his lap, breathing the same air. Staring into the muted tones of the horizon, he rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe, doing his best to listen. To listen to anything and everything that may fall down to him from the heavens or rise up to him from the earth. But no matter how quiet he got, he never found an answer to why he’d been spared, and his best friend taken. ~~~ Chancho grew increasingly aware of the activity around him until he snapped out of his meditation all together. For miles around rugged, scrub-covered hills and valleys wove a maze of time’s creation, crafted by nature’s elements. In the field below him grew their precious c�Ą�ąamo, the tops of the stalks bristling in the morning breeze. He loved their little farm, but something this mog, hing thrning unsettled him. He yawned and stretched. A handful of goats groused around the brush at the base of the rock outcropping. Further down in the valley he finally noticed the problem; The herd had found a way to reach the marihuana buds. �śAh crap.” He snapped his Bible shut and jumped off the rock. A startled goat at the base of it began to bleat, then belched before puking a green sludge onto Chancho’s bare feet and legs. �śAh crap.”� The goat’s eyes rolled back into its head. It staggered and wheezed intensely as a green froth formed around its mouth. �śHold on little fella.” It gargled and moaned in response as it dragged itself blindly in the direction of Chancho’s voice. He dashed gingerly back toward the camp while calling out for the others, �śMuddy. Nena. Wake up, the goats have got into the field again.” As he passed the fire pit, Nena ducked her head out the doorway on the side of their wagon, her long, dark hair spilling forward. �śWe’re awake. And for God’s sake, at least put on a loin cloth, crazy Mexican.” Chancho covered himself with his Bible. �śWhatever. You should talk.” He rolled his eyes. �śTell Muddy some already have colic.” The three friends mounted and rode down the hill toward the field of c�Ą�ąamo, whooping and hollering as they went. The field was thick with the ghastly moaning of goats, the whites of their eyes flickering in the morning light as they swiveled blind heads on stiff necks protruding from bloated bodies. Goats belched and puked, wafting a gas that reeked of a stagnant salt-water marsh. Chancho gagged, grateful he’d not yet eaten breakfast. Some, too sick to stagger along in front of the horses fell over prone and exhaled a ragged bleating, unable to relieve their bloated stomachs. But the riders continued to lunge at the goats, either herding them forward or knocking them over. If the goat could puke, it would live. Only when the pressure in their rumen, their largest stomach, grew too great would they die. A chaotic stampede ensued. Belching, frothy-mouthed goats, uncertain of which direction they were being herded, tumbled out of the field. The sickest ones groaned and dragged themselves away from the horses’ hooves. Chancho rode down the furrows waving his floppy sombrero over his head while Nena and Muddy did their best to keep the goats from scattering too far toward the southern end of their property and heading for water. The springs also happened to be the source of their closest neighbors. FIVE San Felipe Springs Finally all the goats either milled around in a loose, rasping herd clear of the field, or had collapsed from eating too much of the c�Ą�ąamo’s green leaves. Nena and Chancho herded the able goats northward toward the next valley where they could counter the colic with basic roughage, while Muddy tended to those who were too sick. He knelt beside the first goat and massaged its stomach before jabbing a large 16-gage needle into its bloated rumen. The goat bleated sharply from the g ipinch, but soon a noxious stream of gas purged through the puncture until the goat’s breathing returned to normal. The whites of its eyes flickered and rolled round right in its head as it belched in approval. One by one Muddy treated every goat he could get to in time. In the end only two suffered fatal colic. Thoroughly slimed in green, frothy puke he mounted his horse, Tripalo, and gently ushered the recovering goats northward until they got the hint. With the rest of the herd beyond them they soon continued on their own. At the southern edge of the field Muddy stared at the two dead goats. When he’d first met Chancho, Muddy had insisted they raise goats rather than sheep. Goats did better in the arid hills. Besides, sheep were stupid animals, while goats were affectionate. Muddy couldn’t help himself. He felt a connection with them. Mohair had been bred for a specific use. Men kept and groomed the goats only to take from them what they wanted, as they did with his people. The unique product of a multi-facetted oppression, white people had found dark-skinned Seminoles useful as scouts and warriors. But each time they served their masters, they were shorn, reduced to domestic animals. Now they were a shaved people, bald and useless, and Monday �śMuddy” Sampson feared their true skins would not return. After being forced from his community upon marrying a Kickapoo woman, he felt the burden deeply. While not a hostile separation, the distance was real. Now he herded goats. He enjoyed the work, but it failed to fill his heart with passion like the stories passed on to him from his grandmother. He gritted his teeth. For all he knew in a few short days he wouldn’t even be a goat herder, but a nothing, a fugitive without land or a people. But speculation was Chancho’s job, not his own. Work helped him push the damning anger beneath the surface, and so he worked with all his strength. At least a dozen goats had escaped toward the springs, following their natural inclination after colic, to do the worst possible thing and drink. The water sped up the off-gassing from the tender leaves and buds of marihuana, causing death. The goats needed roughage and time for their natural bacteria to recover from the shock. Rather than wait for the others to return, Muddy stopped by the wagon to get his rifle and bandoliers and ride to the springs alone. He seldom wore them, because they reminded him of his time with the 14th Scout Troop of the U.S. Cavalry. Most of the maroons of Brackettville, TX had ridden with the 14th before it disbanded in 1914. Having served with honor and courage during the Indian Wars, the black Seminoles lost their usefulness as the last of the warrior Comanche and Apache were bottled up or killed. Determined to create brighter memories in the future, Muddy accepted the unwanted ones at present. Riding atop of Tripalo, who himself was as black as pitch and almost 18 hands high, Muddy knew the twosome created a grim sight worthy of armageddon. He and the black gelding had been together for six years. Shot twice with lead and pierced once by an arrow, Tripalo had seen his share of violence. Muddy had been the only man to serve his entire time in the scout on the back of the same horse; a horse that, lacking legs, would tear at his enemies’ throats with his teeth. The pair covered the ground between camp and the springs slow C spis ly, keeping a wary eye open for any trailing dust or signs of life. He reckoned Chancho’s timetable for a potential hunting party to be mostly accurate, but wild assumption served no purpose beyond the campfire. Thick-chested and blunt, Muddy’s huge upper body, criss-crossed with bullets, made his sombrero look undersized. He carried his father’s Spencer Repeating Rifle, the butt resting on his thigh. Using the Blakeslee cartridge box in his saddle bags he could fire 20 rounds a minute for three and a half minutes without stopping for more than a few seconds to reload. Having done that only once, he hoped never to again. He reined Tripalo onto a goat path meandering down a gentle slope and chose a northeasterly path underneath a ribbon of cottonwood trees to mask both sight and sound. Considerably taller than the average Anglo, he dwarfed every Mexican he’d ever met and stood out on hilltops like night at noon. His size, an asset when his youthful blood boiled, now served as a barrier. But unlike language and culture, the fear inflicted by his size didn’t lessen with learning. The overwhelming black menace of his presence struck hard at people’s animal instincts, initiating fight or flight. Outside of his own people, he’d met only two who did not flinch when they first saw him�"Nena and Chancho. It was no small thing. Finally he left the shade and climbed up the backside of a steep bluff overlooking the northern most spring of the Upper San Felipe Springs. For a thousand feet beneath him the cool, clear water filtered along the lateral strata of rock before emerging at multiple points along the bottom of the valley as it sloped southward toward the border. As he drew near the crest he steeled himself for conflict. He could find a dozen colicky goats or a hornet’s nest of unhappy ranchers rattled by the thought of demons, zombie goats and witch doctors. Something essential and basic to his existence craved the violence, but he also knew that a normal life�"love in the arms of his wife, possibly children�"mixed with violence like blood and oil.� He hovered over the possible scenarios and landed on the side of the goats. He was a goat herder. The goats were his charge, and he would protect them. It was a simple, clean decision, the way he liked it. Dismounting, he lay on his stomach and inched forward for a look over the edge. What he saw in the valley of the springs, while not surprising, shocked him none the less. ~~~ �śNow I ain’t saying that I don’t appreciate your help with this, McCutchen, but I’m sure you got more important things to tend to than a case of missing goats.” Sheriff Lickter lifted his hat to sop the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. �śJust keep those toothless goat-ropers out of the way so I can take a good look around without them fouling up the area more than they already have.” McCutchen moved his gaze slowly around the scene at the Upper San Felipe Springs and shook his head. It was a mess. Goat tracks littered the area. Trails led in and out of the valley at every possibility. Where hooves had sunk in the mud during the wet season the ground had crusted over, leaving the surface pockmarked worse than the moon. �śDad gummit, you fellers back on outta here and give the ranger some room.” Lickter did his best to take control of the situation despite feeling the odd man out. ">~t="0"> McCutchen took a knee to investigate what looked like dried blood. The ranchers had already hauled off and buried the dead goats out of concern for disease. Damn fools were afraid a demon figment of their imagination would end up contagious. Why were people always last to blame their own damn ignorance? You want a chupacabra to take the blame, start with the collective consciousness of the ignorant. He turned over a cracked section of crusted dirt to confirm the blood had soaked through. This was definitely where one of the goats had bled out, ten feet from the edge of the nearest pool. A few feet away, at the base of a yaupon holly, something caught his eye�"a dried, green crust too far from the water to be moss. The ranchers, and everyone else for that matter, could have their damn El Chupacabra. He was hunting for criminals, enemies of the state, growing marihuana in the Catholic Hills. He stood and took a moment to let the blood circulate evenly through his body again. He’d found regurgitated roughage, barf. Vicente may have been telling the truth. All the blathering about El Chupacabra seemed to be a ruse to cover the fact some goats got colic from eating too much marihuana. If they came down here to get a drink it would have killed them. A branch snapped in the brush at the bottom of the springs. Instinctively he drew his Colts and ducked for cover. At the same moment a rifle crack came from behind him. He spun, one gun leveled on the brush with the other pointed at an ecstatic rancher gesticulating wildly while smoke rose from the barrel of his rifle. �śI got that damn thing! I got it, right down there in the bog.” McCutchen jumped up with his Colt leveled at the rancher who still held his rifle aimed in the ranger’s general direction. �śDammit Sheriff. You keep them men under control before they kill someone. Or before they force me too.” He stared the rancher down until he lowered his weapon. His point made, McCutchen turned back toward the brush which was rustling again. Walking quickly toward the sound he confirmed his suspicion�"goats. Still, he jumped when he saw their condition. The rancher who’d taken the shot piped up, �śWhat is it? Is it the monster?” McCutchen stood his ground while an Angora goat twitched and writhed in the mud at his feet. Its bloated stomach vented an awful gas from where the bullet had torn through it. The normal spatter of dark, red blood washed away with a spew of green foam that boiled and spurted from the opening. Behind the lead animal several others stumbled down the slope of the valley toward the water, their eyes rolling back into their heads. Their stomachs looked as though they’d snag on the brush and burst. He followed the trail back up the slope with his eyes as far as he could. It was something. At least he knew this trail could lead back to the marihuana, although it would probably lead him back and forth across thousands of acres before he found it. Finally he turned back toward the sheriff and the ranchers. �śYou killed a goat.” �śI didn’t kill no damn goat.” The ranchers pushed their way past Lickter, despite his protests, to get a closer look. But they stopped when they came eye to eye with McCutchen, who strode up out of the bottom toward them. He froze the ringleader with a glare. �śHave a look.” Dismissing them with a jerk of his head, he caught the sheriff by the arm before he could follow the others. �śTell me about these hills.” �śWhat?” Lickter looked confused. �śThe Catholic Hills?” �śExactly. Like for beginners, why do they call them the Catholic Hills?” But before Lickter could respond the ranchers cut him off. �śJesus, Joseph and Mary!” �śWhat in God’s name done happened to �Śem?” �śIt’s too late. The demon got �Śem. They’ve gone crazy from it.” �śWe gotta put �Śem down.” McCutchen turned toward the ranchers just in time to see dirt kick up at their feet. Thunder rolled across the valley as a rifle crack came from atop the northern ridge. The shot came from a distance, but close enough to be lethal. Then rapidly came another�"this one tearing through the end of a rancher’s boot. �śDammit! He shot my foot!” Realization sank into the ranchers’ wooden skulls, and they dove for cover. Lickter made a dash for the horses, but McCutchen didn’t budge. He watched the ridge line intently, trying to spot the source of the shots. When another one came he saw the muzzle flare just before it whizzed past him, striking the thicket of mountain laurel where the horses were tied. This time both he and Lickter ducked for cover behind an immature hackberry tree and stand of scrub oak. More bullets struck the brush where the ranchers had crash landed. McCutchen gave a shrill two-toned whistle with a trill at the end. Within moments his horse, Chester V, galloped around the laurel to join them. McCutchen, who never tied his horse, flung himself into the saddle as another bullet tore into the bark of the hackberry tree. Lickter did his best to find the source and return fire, but his .45 wasn’t much count from this distance. The ranchers, armed with rifles, blindly peppered the bluff with bullets. Nothing slowed the torrent of lead flying at them from above, almost too fast for a single man. McCutchen lashed Chester and the two of them shot off to the east trying to clear the line of fire and find a way around to the northern slope. As they reached a full gallop hot lead yanked McCutchen’s hat from his head, leaving it dangling by a cord around his neck. It was either a damn good shot only missing the mark by inches, or an even better shot intended to toy with him. The ranger seethed with anger as he spurred Chester on. Either way, the situation had gone well beyond personal. ~~~ Muddy worked the lever action of the rifle sliding another .52 caliber, necked-down, rimfire cartridge into the chamber of his Spencer Repeater. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb during the same motion and pulled the trigger fluidly. Over and over he rained down lead from the bluff into the valley of the San Felipe Springs, intending to convince those below that they were outnumbered, or at least evenly matched, by the sheer volume of rounds from his volley. The challenge was not to kill anyone, while still convincing them he could. That became n CThal anyext to impossible due to the smoke put off by the Spencer. Not that it would matter for much longer. The ranger Chancho had spoken of seemed determined to ride him down. Finally Muddy stopped firing and lay on his back against the rocks. He knew they could see the smoke rising from his position. The gunfire coming in his direction intensified, bullets whistling overhead and showering rock chips down on him. He didn’t want to leave without his goats. One already shot dead, he’d spotted at least a dozen others stumbling toward the springs before opening fire to protect them. The shootout would drive them west and south down the valley, but he had to reach them before they drank too much water at the next set of springs. The rancher he’d shot probably wouldn’t even lose a toe. It seemed more than fair payment for a goat. But he figured the ranger wouldn’t see it that way. It rankled him�"that they could run him from his property, kill his animals, and still demand that he pay them in blood. The old Muddy would have killed half of them already. At the very least he was getting his goats. He belly-crawled away from the bluff until he could stand. �śYup, Yup!” Calling Tripalo he mounted the horse and kicked him into a gallop down the back side of the hill into a densely thicketed draw leading north. He had to ride far enough to convince the ranger he was going home, running away. After a few minutes of dodging mesquite branches and ducking under live oak, Muddy found the draw he wanted. The gravel wash would mask his tracks and keep him out of sight while leading him west and then south. Muddy stopped after riding several hundred feet and went back on foot to cover his tracks in the gravel. Mounting again he continued his wrap-around path back toward the springs, coming at them this time from the south. If the ranger found his trail he would assume it continued north, not back toward the springs. The ruse would give Muddy time to herd the goats along the southern border of their property. Finally he and Tripalo worked their way eastward, past the lower springs, in search of what he hoped were living goats. It would be a kick to the head to shoot at a sheriff and a ranger for nothing. All of it because of El Chupacabra, a campfire story. But already pregnant with fear, the land sought a demon to blame, and he’d given them one. He heard a moan and a bleat. Jumping down from Tripalo, he advanced on foot until he found the bedraggled herd of colicky goats bogged down in mud. They had barely made it two-hundred yards from the scene of the shootout. Muddy scanned the southeast bank of the creek bed for signs of movement. Finding it clear, he slogged to the aid of the nearest goat. Tipping the animal over in the mud, he stuck it the same way he had done the others. The hole in its side gargled and spat green foam. Finally the goat belched as its throat relaxed. One after the other he treated them until they were all resting, alive and well. Relieved, he turned his focus toward the Anglo lawmen. Crouching behind a rock outcropping at the top of the southeast bank, he searched for signs of the sheriff. Better yet, he spotted the ranger, having given up the chase, talking to the sheriff under the big hackberry. Apparently the two men had dismissed the ranchers. It was a small victory, but Muddy had taken the upper hand. Smiling, he ushered the mending goats down the valley until they reached a familiar trail heading home. ~~~ oats down an> �śAs I was saying earlier,” clearly frustrated, Sheriff Lickter took a deep breath before continuing, �śthe Catholic Church is the proper owner of these here hills for miles north and westward. I think the spread’s just shy of a hundred thousand acres.” �śThe Catholic Church?” �śThey up and bought it a few years back. I’ve seen the deed. It was the largest single purchase anyone could remember.” Lickter scratched his chin, a sour look on his face. �śI reckon the only manager, that I know of, is that Mexican feller we chased yesterday, and I’d like to talk to him about damages done to my auto. Gonna take me a month just to get the parts.” McCutchen rolled his head on his neck until it popped. It seemed fitting that the sheriff would be more concerned about his precious toys than about stomping out a terrible evil. �śI’d like to talk to him myself.” The muscles in his neck and shoulders were tightening. He knew he needed to be alone, but he wasn’t quite done with the sheriff. Lickter pulled out a handkerchief to mop his sweaty brow. �śDon’t you think it’s about time you fill me in on why you want this feller so bad? I know good and well you don’t care none for these ranchers’ goats.” �śThere you’re wrong, Sheriff.� I happen to have a fondness for goats. Knew a couple in Mexico that did me a kindness once. But about the rest, you’re right.” McCutchen ended his brief reverie and got serious. �śI got reason to believe that the Mexican feller, as you called him, and his compadres are growing the largest crop of marihuana Texas has ever seen, maybe the only crop, and I plan on stopping them.” �śMarihuana? You mean that stuff the Mexican’s roll into cigarettes?” �śExactly.” �śNo offense,” Lickter lifted his hat to wipe his brow, �śbut with everything going on in the borderlands, why the hell are the rangers fussing over a plant that never harmed no one? There ain’t no law against marihuana.” McCutchen lost his patience. The muscles in his jaw constricted as his eye twitched. �śLook, you got a mess of ranchers itching to kill a goat-eating demon-monster that lives somewhere in those hills, right?” Lickter nodded. �śAnd they’s going to keep hounding you and shooting at each other until they’re satisfied something’s been done about it.” Lickter nodded again. McCutchen took a deep breath and tried to relax. �śWell then, if you wouldn’t mind doing me one more favor, you could catch up with those ranchers and let them know to spread the word. I’m personally going to lead the hunting party leaving from here at sun up day after tomorrow. We’ll comb the whole spread. They’ll find their El Chupacabra and I’ll find my marihuana. And while we’re at it, I’ll try to make sure they don’t shoot each other.” Lickter nodded again and stuck out his hand, sweat dripping from the end of his nose. �śHey, whatever gets them out of my hair.” They shook on it and the sheriff turned to go. As he straddled his horse and spurred him onward he called back over his shoulder, �śhappy hunting!” McCutchen huffed, glad to see the sweaty sheriff go, and just in time. Right after Lick Cht heigter rode away the ranger’s facial ticks bloomed. His neck jerked to the side as his eye twitched uncontrollably. He hadn’t been alone all day, and his medication was past due. Sitting at the base of the hackberry, he fumbled with the inside pocket of his duster until he produced a small tin. Old and rusting, it required all his focus to pry open the lid. The top flipped up on crusty hinges revealing a dozen tightly rolled marihuana cigarettes. He licked the side of one, dangling it from his lips while he closed the tin and put it back in its place. He took out a lighter. Flicking it open, he held the flame to the tip. After a singular, slow drag he let the smoke curl out his nostrils while he rubbed his eyes, trying to rub away the tiredness of doing his job ceaselessly for the last seventeen years. The last five years he’d spent making sure the border stayed free of marihuana, and now all of that was at stake. Violence instigated by the intoxicant had crippled him, requiring him to depend on the same drug just to do his job. He took another drag and finally began to relax. The muscles in his throat loosened as he rolled his neck. His ailment would never blind him to the truth. Only he understood marihuana’s evils, its ability to unloose a man’s depravity if he was too weak to contain it. And now the worst sort of criminals intended to unleash utter chaos by spreading the corrupting intoxicant throughout his Texas. He took off his grandfather’s Stetson and rubbed the scar along the side of his head, left there by a mob of angry Mexicans hopped up on marihuana. It always itched in the heat. He scratched the edges of it while he puffed on the cigarette and looked at the hat sitting in his lap. His anger from before rekindled as he noticed the ragged bullet hole winking back at him. Of all the years his grandfather and he had ridden as Texas Rangers never had the hat sustained such a grievous injury. It was a personal insult, a slap in the face of justice. He finished the cigarette and flicked away the butt, running the back of his hand across the short stubble on his cheek that had formed there since the morning. He hated the feel of it, but it would serve as fuel for his anger over the next days�"however many it took until the job was done. It had become his tradition during a manhunt to ride unshaven. The growing beard would serve as a reminder that his native lands suffered from the irritation of injustice. As he slowed his breathing and crossed his legs, cowboy boots and all, into the lotus position, he already knew he would not shave again until the Mexican feller fed the buzzards. The hunt was on. SIX Don’t Come Knocking The moment Muddy spotted Nena riding out to meet him he recognized she dressed for war. Her hair braided and coiled around her neck, she wore a leather breastplate formed to fit snugly around her waist and chest. Strapped to her back, the tips of her crossbow stuck out beyond her elbows. The sight both rattled and thrilled him. This was how he’d first seen her, first designed to have her, several years ago. But the realization that su Fled ch times had come upon them again grieved him. For a brief span of months he’d thought to be done with war until the last twenty four hours had fanned the embers to flame. He knew Nena would not hesitate to protect her own. She road slowly past the haggard herd of goats, careful not to agitate them, before sidling up next to Muddy without a word. Her horse, Bella, had learned a compensated long walk to keep pace with Tripalo. Nina looked over her man, searching for injury. He did the same to her, taking special notice of the old scar running diagonal across her back and how her crossbow settled into the dimple where her lower back met her butt. She had devised the weapon herself, insisting it compensated for her lack of upper-body strength. As they rode side by side, Bella’s saddle rubbing against his leg, he recalled all their times spent like this before, quietly soaking in the presence of the other. Thanking God that both parties were still alive. Knowing that soon a time would come when it would not be so. He thought he saw hunger in his woman’s eyes, unsure whether it was hunger for him or hunger for war. Finally she spoke, �śYou had trouble at the springs?” �śA little,” he nodded. She scowled. Muddy huffed before continuing, �śNo one died. I had to open fire on the sheriff and the ranger.” She waited for him to continue. �śAnd some ranchers. They were killing our goats. I encouraged them not to.” He smiled sideways at her. Despite herself she smiled back. �śMonday Sampson, you are a trouble maker.” She shoved him before pulling him toward her, nearly causing him to fall from his saddle and into her lap. Standing in her stirrups and holding him by a fistful of shirt, she kissed him furiously. Finally she shoved him back upright in his saddle. �śWe will see what else you have to say for yourself later tonight. But first, supper.” With the mention of supper Muddy’s stomach growled. He had not eaten all day, and the day was nearly over. After riding into camp, Nena tended to the animals while Muddy washed himself and began to cook. Outside of war, cooking was Muddy’s only means of expressing himself. Tonight would be nothing as spectacular as the night before, but the motions soothed him. He kept the fire small and the smoke a minimum while unpacking hard tack, pinto beans and coffee. He insisted on his coffee. Next to the scent of Nena’s skin, damp from exertion, only roasted coffee beans from Coatepec could compare. The oil from the beans smelled lightly of almond, and Muddy swore Nena dabbed her skin with it when he wasn’t looking. � For dessert they would finish their fresh fruit, combined with homemade goat cheese. All in all, still a good meal. Just before sunset Chancho returned from the field covered in grease and smelling of manure. �śHola. I see you’re still alive. I think Nena was worried. Nonsense, I told her.” He knelt, enthusiastically rubbing his hands in the dirt and clapping them together. �śBesides, who would tangle with the witch doctor of El Chupacabra?” He smiled and looked back and forth between the couple as he rubbed the grease from between his fingers with the gritty dirt. �ś�żQué paso?” Muddy squatted next to the fire and stirred the beans. �śSo, the harvester is coming along well?” �ś her Ky">nd Si! It's almost finished. Tomorrow we'll complete it, and then we harvest! Wait until you see it in action.” He began to pace and throw his arms about as he spoke. �śIt’s no locomotive, but it may be my best creation yet. It is truly marvelous, but I’m most pleased with the carburetor. I have to say, I didn’t know if it would work at first. Oh, but mis amigos, it does not only work, it is a miracle. Not just a machine. And the fuel! It's so simple, you’d never guess.” �śManure?” Nena smiled at Chancho’s enthusiasm. �śYes, manure. But how did you�"” Nena wrinkled her nose. �śOh, yes.” Chancho smelled himself. �śI see what you mean. Well, mis amigos,” Chancho made an elaborate bow and flourish. �śPlease excuse me while I make myself more acceptable to the lady.” He started to jog towards his wagon when he stopped. �śOh, Muddy. Did you run into much trouble at the springs?” �śNo, not much.” �śAh, bueno. See Nena. I told you there was nothing to worry about. And you had to go all warrior princess.” Chancho again started toward his wagon, this time mimicking a Sevillanas dancer holding castanets over his head. As he danced he sang a tune of his own devising, �śTres Amigos, they ride for adventure. Tres Amigos, they ride for thrill. With goats and marihuana they ride!” Muddy and Nena laughed at him, as they were supposed to, while he bumped up the steps into his wagon. It felt good to laugh. It was Chancho’s gift to them. While they translated their passions into matters of seriousness, Chancho funneled his into humor and dreams. His ability to poke fun at himself was the only thing that made his bouts of manic self-absorption bearable, and sometimes even admirable. �śHe is crazy, you know that.” Nena relaxed, leaning against a log. �śYes. I knew that the moment I realized he was a friend.” �śWhy? Because someone has to be crazy to like you?” Muddy stirred the beans with his back to Nena. �śYou said it.” She thumped him with a dirt clod. �śHey, you’ll get dirt in the beans.” �śLike there isn’t dirt in the beans already.” Muddy mocked offense, �śThere’s never dirt in my beans. Mealy worms, maybe.” The fire burned low, so Muddy transferred the cast iron pot of beans to a rock and put the pot of coffee over the embers while they were hot enough to bring it to a boil. He threw a clump of hard tack in with the beans and put the lid back on the pot, once again enjoying the simple rhythms of daily life. Nena interrupted him, �śI like you, and I’m not crazy.” �śHmmm. I don’t�"” �śMonday.” Nena cut him off. �śDon’t boil more water than you need for the coffee.” �śYou’re right. No joking.” As the coffee started to heat Muddy held his nose over it for a whiff�"mild and delicate, nothing like himself. He dropped a square of chocolate into the pot and sat in the dirt next to Nena, taking a deep breath. �śYou did not fear me when we met because you had b Kusee inanished fear from your life, which by some, would be considered crazy. Chancho, on the other hand, did not fear me because he could not see anything to fear. He saw nothing but the stories my grandmother had filled him with, the same ones she gave me when I’d visit.” He ran his nose along the glistening skin of her arm, growing dizzy on the sweat and almond oil before continuing. �śChancho does not see the world the way others do. You and I, we kill fear with courage. Chancho kills it with trust. That makes him crazy, but it’s a good crazy.” Both of them sat there in silence. The last of Chancho’s humor having run its course, they found themselves serious again. Muddy sat up to add a tablespoon of cinnamon to the coffee before it came to a boil. Retaking his spot, he broke the silence, �śIt might be a long time before we can come back.” Nena wrapped herself around his mighty arm and rested her head on his shoulder. �śMaybe we won’t want to.” ~~~ After a few moments Chancho reappeared from his wagon and washed for supper. With considerably less manure on his person the three friends enjoyed their meal and settled in for coffee as they discussed how to keep the goats out of the c�Ą�ąamo patch. �śI’ll sleep in the field tonight,” Chancho offered, �śin case any of our amigos pequinos get the munchies.” Nena scoffed, �śI think it’s so you can whisper sweet nothings to your machine.” �śNothing of the sort.” Chancho waved her off. �śIf you cannot accept my selfless gesture,” he looped his hand around in the air as if to finish his sentence visually. �śBesides, I whisper substantialities, never nothings.” �śI’m sure�"”� Chancho cut her off, �śNo, no. I’ve made up my mind. Tonight the stars will gaze down upon my substantialities, and be blessed.” Nena and Muddy both snorted, but Chancho continued, �śWithin 24 hours, mis amigos, we will be adventuring north with a wealth of both goats and marihuana. Tres amigos, we ride. You will see.” Finally, when only a few streaks of color remained in the sky, Chancho grabbed his things and marched down the slope toward the field for the night. An orchestra of crickets began their nightly performance. Nena had started to shake with her desires even before she finished her coffee. Now that nothing stood in her way she released a fury of kisses on Muddy’s face and neck, the air chilled just enough to emphasize the heat emanating from their bodies. Before she could go further he rose with her in his arms and carried her to their wagon. She felt all the familiar intimacy they had built together, but today’s events unleashed a storm in her that had remained dormant. Lulled to sleep by months and even years of relative safety, the thought of her lover’s life at risk brought urgency to her lovemaking. She had to feel him as close to her as possible, to wrap him up inside her and keep him safe. For the rest of that evening they nourished each other. It did not dispel the fear of loss, but it expressed her gratitude for Kratjustify"the possessing. Tomorrow would come bearing secrets, but tonight she would know and be known fully. Whatever happened tomorrow, tonight she had a good life. They pressed into each other and quaked. The wagon fell still as the lovers rested in the midst of their thanksgiving, bathed in the delicate scent of almond oil and the musk of mohair. Nena lay her head over Muddy’s heart, listening to its beat gradually slow. She tasted his sweat on her lips, and after several minutes she spoke. �śI remember the first time I saw you. So menacing, and so proud. I knew instantly it would never do to have you as an enemy.” He ran his fingers down her shoulder and arm where her sweat started to chill. �śAnd you, standing one foot in front, even of your father. I had to stare past you to stare at him, yet he was not offended in your presumption. He was proud that you stood there. That fact made me stare at you.” �śYou were angry.” �śI knew we would lose if we fought.” �śOh?” Nena lifted her head from his chest to look him in the eyes. �śI already wanted to make love to you more than kill you.” He smiled. �śIt would have been a conflict of interest in war.” She slapped him on the chest and repeated his last word as she lie back down, �śWar. War had already changed by then. My father taught me to fight using the words and the laws of the Mexicans, and then the Anglos. He accused the Mexican government of handing our lands over to you and your people. Our fight was with them.” �śYes, but we fought along side them. Los mascogos. They favored us, at least while we remained useful to them.” �śYour people did what they had to, same as mine.” She wove her fingers through the curly hair on his chest. �śNow you are my people. You and Chancho, that crazy Mexican.” She always attached the epithet. It was her pet name for him. �śAnd we are again at war.” �śWar?” Now Muddy repeated the word. �śWe are outsiders here, with only each other for family. Chancho has been spit out by his beloved revolution. Our peoples do not accept our love, and the Anglo lusts only for the land, making us rivals.” �śAnd?” Muddy raised his brows. She could tell he was waiting for her to lead up to something. �śChancho, that crazy Mexican, he is a dreamer. You said it yourself. He can see impossible things and make them possible, and I love him for that. But, for all his vision he could not see lightning if it struck him. He will get us into trouble if we do not shepherd him.” Muddy smiled. �śSo what is your plan?” She always unveiled her deepest thoughts and most intricate schemes immediately after rapturous sex. Of course her husband was most attentive and compliant then. It was not really manipulation, but cunning. It was her way. "What if the hunting party is not just hunting El Chupacabra?” Muddy nodded. �śYou mean what if they are after us.” �śThey may accuse us of stealing goats. They K gooursmay be angry or jealous of the land. They will not need good reason, especially if empowered by the law. My father taught me well that the law is a false god to many. And the ranger �"” �śHe is trouble.” Nena continued, �śIf he is anything like los rinches in Chancho’s stories, yes, he is trouble.” �śWe need to be ready to fight.” �śThere may come a time when we cannot run, not with the whole camp on our backs. The wagons will be too cumbersome and slow. If they come after us we’ll have to leave everything but the horses. Chancho won’t like it, and so he won’t prepare for it. We’ll have to.” �śOf course, you’re right.” Muddy shifted onto his elbow. �śTomorrow�"” �śI will finish the rest of the preparations while you and Chancho play with your toy. I don’t need you spoiling the surprise.” �śOh really? Should that comfort me?” �śWhatever you like, but right now you should be comforting me so I can sleep. I’m chilled.” Nena grabbed Muddy’s arm and draped it over her exposed skin as she rolled over and nestled herself in his stomach. He wrestled free of her in order to pull a large mohair blanket over the two of them. SEVEN Chancho’s Reefer Madness Chancho awoke to the rhythms of the earth, aligned with the sun and moon and stars as if he had lain with his eyes open all night memorizing their heavenly courses. In fact he’d slept more soundly than he could remember, and he awoke before the sun feeling invigorated. Not a day passed without his longing to return to Mexico, but this morning he longed more for the ideals behind the revolution. He longed for equality and freedom, the values so closely tied to the land. Lying with his back to the earth, absorbing its nutrients, feeling its connection, he became a part of every peon’s and every rancher’s fight. Cosmic strings drew him and bound him to his fellow man. An unseen calling ripened in his gut, this very moment on the verge of seed. He stood and stretched his legs, running his hand along the stalks of c�Ą�ąamo as he walked barefoot down the furrow. His thoughts burst from his mind. Embracing greatness, they swelled to fill the earth. Communing with all God’s creation, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, he grew giddy with revelation. He was, and always had been, free. The realization bound him with the determination that every man should live with the same universal freedom. Suddenly he knew the purpose for which his life had been extended�"to live as liberator of both the land and its people. To liberate the Sisters of Mt. Sabinas, yes. But beyond that, to liberate all mankind. He stamped his bare feet in the soil between two furrows of c�Ą�ąamo, shaking the dirt from his bare butt and raising his hands up ove Nhim. As he lavished praise on the fictional beast for the new life it brought, a jealous sun pierced the horizon with delicious beams of orange light. He held the pose for a few seconds, a scene worthy of classic literature, until his stomach growled ferociously. But first things first. I’ve got to get dressed and find some breakfast. After dispelling fluids from his bladder while humming the tune of la cucaracha, and a short wrestling match with his pants, he trotted off toward camp. It pleased him that on this day, the day of his greatness, he remembered to tend to such simple things as clothing and food. When he arrived at camp Muddy stoked a small fire for coffee as Nena stitched up her favorite pair of shoes. �śBuenos días, mis amigos.” �śYou’re dressed, that’s good.” Nena didn’t look up from her work. �śSo, you noticed. I was rather proud of that myself.” Chancho spun himself around even though no one was watching. �śWhat is for breakfast my good man.” He did his best impersonation of an Anglo accent, the sort he imagined a stuffy city slicker would use�"continually morphing between a doodlebug Yankee and an Irishman. �śCoffee, but not yet.” Muddy added more grounds to the kettle. �śOh. In that case, I’ll help myself to some tortillas and butter. Do either of you want anything while I’m at it?” �śCould you bring me some more bacon and eggs? That is, if there’s any left.” �śAy dios mio.” Chancho stopped in mid bounce, �śYou had bacon and eggs without me?” �śShe’s just pulling your leg.” Muddy tried not to snicker. �śI knew that.” Chancho slapped his leg, frustrated with how easily he’d fallen for the joke. �śBut while you devils sit around devising ways to trick me I have been up for hours preparing for greatness! Well, for the last fifteen minutes, at least.” He waved his arms dramatically. �śThis is the day we usher history into the present. The day we harvest the energies of the earth with the energies of man and in so doing proclaim our liberties under the sun! You, my dearest compadres, are you with me!?” �śYes, yes. To the end, rah rah, and all that.” �ś�ĄExcelente!” Chancho turned toward the chuck wagon. �śBut first, tortillas.” ~~~ �śNow bang it. No, no. Right there. Give it a good whack. No, no, with the wrench.” Chancho shifted his grip of the custom carburetor he had built for the purpose of mixing oxygen with methane gas and feeding it into the combustion chamber. �śWait, wait.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a smudge of grease and manure across his face. �śO.K. Now.” Muddy whacked the side of the carburetor with a wrench in an attempt to drive it properly into place. �ś�ĄEx Sy"> aligncelente, mi amigo!” Chancho released his grip on the carburetor and rubbed his hands together. �śBueno, bueno. Now we just need to attach the fuel tank.” �śWhat, that big barrel of shit?” �śNo, no. Not the barrel of shit, my crude friend. But the barrel on top of it has been filling with methane gas for the last two days. With the ninety degree heat it should be full by now.” Chancho spit on his hands and rubbed them in the dirt before slapping them together. �śHere, give me a hand. It feels so good to get greasy again. You know, to make something from nothing. To give life to a heap of rusty metal.” The men each took a grip on the thirty gallon drum. �śWhat are we going to do with it?” Muddy did not share Chancho’s eager confidence. �śSimple. We carry the methane barrel over to the harvester and attach it to the valve beneath the seat. You hold it there while I tighten the straps to keep it in place. �żSi?” Muddy sighed. �śO.K.” �śUno, dos, tres.” The two men yanked the drum free from the manure barrel. Half the valve kept the methane gas inside the fuel barrel, but the goat manure was exposed to the air. Muddy caught a good whiff. �śUg. Manure should not be collected in a single vessel.” �śI don’t know.” Chancho continued as the two men waddled toward the eight-foot-tall harvester cannibalized from former farm equipment. �śHave you ever used one of those fancy new toilets? I’ve heard you can squat right next to the kitchen without even putting your boots on.” �śWhy would anyone want to squat in their own house? Sounds lazy to me.” �śIndoor plumbing, mi amigo. It isn’t lazy, it’s innovation. Soon, you won’t even need to wipe.” Muddy grunted. �śHmm. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.” �śO.K., now I’ll help you hold the tank while you shimmy into position. Then I’ll clamp the valves together. No problem.” �śNo problem? So I lie down underneath this contraption holding your thirty gallons of fart gas on my chest while you monkey around on top of it?” �śSi.” �śAlright.” Muddy shimmied gradually under the harvester until he held the tank directly below the seat. Chancho clamped the valves together easily and tended to the leather straps meant to hold the tank in place. �śAre those straps going to hold this thing? I mean, once it gets going?” Chancho shrugged. �śSure. Why not?” Muddy shook his head. �śYou’re riding this thing, right?” �śAbsolutely. This is a delicately tuned machine.” He lovingly patted the steering wheel. �ś�żListo?” �śWhat? You’re the one in charge here. I’m just holding the fart gas.” �śExcelente.” Chancho jumped down. �śAnd you’ve done a fine job Sne eight="0 of it. But we’re ready now.” He grabbed Muddy by the heals and pulled him out from under the machine. Muddy stood up wiping the dust from his backside. Then the two men admired the completed harvester. �śThis thing even looks like El Chupacabra,” Muddy said. �śThat’s what I call her.” Chancho nodded. The harvester stood eight feet tall with plenty of clearance. It snarled at them with four sets of teeth made of sickle bars salvaged from an old sugar cane harvester. A ground level sickle bar on each side of the machine matched a higher sickle bar set around four feet, just below the level of the leaves and buds of the c�Ą�ąamo. Each sickle bar consisted of a set of lateral moving blades that cut the stalks of the plants, and each sickle bar was driven by a pair of cam shafts running perpendicular to them for the length of the harvester. These cam shafts not only drove the sickle bars but stripped the branches, leaves and buds from the cut stalks before ejecting them out the back into wind rows for field retting. Each cam shaft, equipped with a series of teeth, rested at the bottom of a funnel-shaped shoot or trough with openings around the shaft large enough for leaves and buds to drop through but small enough to keep the bulk of the stalk inching backward until it ejected. Once the leaves and buds were removed from the stalk they fell into a canvas sack girdled to both sides of the harvester and bundled in the back. When the sack was filled it would be removed, emptied and then reattached for the next load. The entire bulk of the machine sat on three large wheels, one in center front and two in the back. �śAnd you’re sure this is going to work?” Muddy looked back and forth from the machine to the field of c�Ą�ąamo. Chancho scratched his chin and thought about the Sisters. He thought about the smoldering eyes of the rinche and the truth he’d failed to convey to his best friends. �śIt has to.” Then he turned to look at Muddy. �śAnd if it doesn’t, I’ll fix it.” He clapped Muddy on the shoulder sending a cloud of dust into the air. ~~~ Chancho sat in the driver seat running through the functions of the different levers he had attached for engaging the drive shaft, the cam shafts and the sickle bars. He had also installed a kill switch, to cut access to the methane, and a brake. �śNo problem!” He waved a thumbs up toward Muddy who stood fifty yards away and continued to back up even as he returned the gesture. Chancho checked that his sombrero was secured to his head, released the brake, clicked the gas open and hit the igniter button. Juice from the battery cranked the two-stroke engine, rolling it over roughly for a few moments before chugging to life. He fiddled with the choke until the engine fired regularly. �śHiyiyiyiyia!” Chancho leapt in his seat and gloated in victory. �śI told you it would work!” Muddy jumped up and down pointing at him. �śYes. It’s exciting, I know!” But Muddy shook his head and pointed madly. Finally he ran toward Chancho yelling, �śFire!” �śFire?” Chancho looked all around before finally looking down. �śFire! �ĄAy dios mio!” The valve between the carburetor and the tank spewed flames a foot long underneath C S unsture. Chancho’s seat. He panicked. Trying to hit the fuel cut-off, he missed and hit the ignite button sending another surge of gas into the carburetor. With a woof the flame swelled to engulf the metal seat. The fire ball sent Chancho leaping into the air and sprawling over the edge of the platform. During his hasty exit his knee struck the levers to engage the drive shaft and sickle bars. As he hit the ground rolling, the harvester lurched into motion and started off toward a clump of goats grazing nearby. Growling, bearing its teeth and spewing flame the harvester known as El Chupacabra bore down on the spooked herd at a full five miles an hour�"until Chancho caught up with it and hit the kill switch. Muddy ran up behind him as the harvester rolled to a stop. �śYour ass is on fire.” Chancho was already dismissing him. �śYes, yes. I know. Just a little tweak and she’ll be ready.” He scratched his chin. �śI guess I didn’t couple the valves tight enough.” �śI think it’s going to take more than a little tweak to couple your cheeks together. They’re on fire.” �śHuh? What?” Chancho snapped out of it. �śWhat’s on fire?” �śYour ass.” Muddy pointed with his chin. �śMy wah?” Chancho craned his neck. �śAh crap.” He dropped to the ground scooting his butt in the dirt. �śI don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone jump that high. And so gracefully.” Chancho shook his head and tried not to grin. �śIt wasn’t so bad. Better than the Wright Brothers’ first attempt.” �śThe Who Brothers?” Muddy reached down to pull him up. �śOh never mind. Just some fellow visionaries who knew not to give up after simple setbacks.” Minutes later Chancho had fixed the leak and rode a bit high in the saddle as the harvester chugged its way along the first two rows of c�Ą�ąamo. The burned fringes of his pants revealed his reddened cheeks as they hovered over the cooling metal seat, but the machine gobbled up the plants just as he had planned. The upper stalks fell one by one into the two troughs on either side and twisted gently down hill toward the back as the teeth on the cams removed all the leaves and buds dropping them into the sack beneath. The machine left nothing behind but windrows of stalks as it rolled steadily forward. Muddy watched him for another minute before he decided to join in. Catching up to the c�Ą�ąamo gobbling El Chupacabra, he leapt onto the side board. It was thrilling to feel the churning engine rattle through his bones, to watch the c�Ą�ąamo stalks fall into the troughs and surrender their bounty to the spiraling cam shafts. Days worth of labor passed before them in hours. It was as Chancho said. Not lazy, but innovation. And all of it powered by manure and the sun. It was a dizzying time to be alive. Maybe there was hope for the black Seminole as farmers�"as something other than the military and political pawns they had been for almost two centuries. And yet, within the next twenty four hours he would abandon his land, again. From Africa to Florida to Mexico to th S Mecene Catholic Hills, his people had been either captives or fugitives�"forced to ally themselves with the strong in the land in betrayal of the weak. It was a cursed heritage, but while other peoples had gone to the grave, the black Seminole had remained in the land. He was still free. He still had family to fight for, and he still had the strength to fight. As they reached the end of the first two rows Chancho killed the gas and pulled the brake. �śYou did it, Chancho.” Muddy slapped him on the back and shook him by both shoulders, smiling from ear to ear. �śYou did it.” He knew it was exactly what Chancho needed to hear. �śWe did it.” They looked over the field they had yet to harvest. �śThis is going to be the single largest harvest of marihuana the world has ever known.” It was hyperbole, but there were indeed five full acres waiting to be plucked from the earth. After a long pause Chancho cranked the engine up before speaking over the mechanical racket, �śWe should ride northward first.” Muddy nodded. �śIt will be the easiest way to escape unnoticed. But we’ll need to take the marihuana to my people in Brackettville. They can help us finish curing it.” �śI figured that.” Chancho scratched his chin and shrugged. �śWe’ll find a way.” Muddy knew that was Chancho’s way of saying his mind couldn’t handle anymore annoying details at the moment, so he dismissed himself. �śI’ll pull the wagon around.” He leapt off the side of the moving harvester and made his way back to Tripalo and the wagon. He pulled himself up into the saddle. �śWell Trip, we’re gonna make a go of it, aren’t we?” The huge, black horse snorted and shook its mane. EIGHT The Trail A shot echoed across the valley toward McCutchen’s position on the side of the hill. It came from behind him. Spinning Chester on his heels, he searched the brush for signs of his quarry. Two more shots rang out. He scanned the larger area for clues as to what was happening. Riders from the ridge lines converged on the source of gunfire until he heard shouting. A rancher on the ridge above him waved his arms before cupping his hands around his mouth. �śIt’s coming right for you! There in the brush. Fast as hell!” Chester sensed it first, whatever it was, and tensed. �śWhoa, boy.” McCutchen pulled both his Colts from their holsters, deciding it better to leave his rifle sheathed. He heard only the ranchers until the brush directly in front of him exploded with commotion as a full grown jaguar barreled toward him from thirty feet away. He dropped the hammers on both pistols, but the animal was too fast. It reached a rock outcropping in one swift motion and leapt directly at him. Chester reared, putting himself in the path of the cat so it struck both him and McCutchen. McCutchen’s right shoulder reeled from the blow as he held his left arm steady enough to pull the trigger. He split the air with burning gunpowder, searing the beast with hot lead, b Vthe blow aut gravity had yet to be paid. Churning his legs, Chester toppled over. McCutchen forgot about the cat�"a second to clear his legs from the stirrups or get crushed. Embracing his current momentum he found purchase with his left boot and thrust his foot downward with all his might. Arching his back, he hoped to catch enough air to avoid landing on his head. The opposite side of the valley, upside down, rolled in his vision until he looked straight down at the bottom. The ground sped up as he pulled his legs underneath him just in time, striking the side of a juniper and landing hard on hands and knees. After rolling several times further downhill, he came to a stop in a thicket of scrub oak and briar. At the same moment, Chester hit the ground on his right side, rump-first, and slid before rolling all the way over. His feet underneath him, he powered back up the hill in three quick lunges where he stood on the trail and quivered. McCutchen took more time getting up. The impact with the jaguar left his right shoulder on fire, and the rough landing on the jagged terrain hadn’t helped. He stood slowly. Both legs still worked. He rotated his arm, discovering about half mobility. The cat had left burning claw marks, but nothing was broken. The cat. McCutchen jerked to attention and scanned the brush, coming up empty. �śOf all the stupid�Ś” He scurried up the hillside to check on Chester. �śWhoa, boy. Not every day we run into one of those, huh?” He reined him forward and back, checking his legs. �śAlright, we’re good boy.” The gashes in the horse’s neck would require attention to fend off infection, but they weren’t too deep. �śJust a scratch.” As he pulled himself back into the saddle, more gunshots echoed over the ridge. He spurred Chester into a gentle lope. From the top of the ridge, he saw the jaguar. Dead now, it lay bleeding out in a large clearing surrounded by a growing ring of slack-jawed ranchers. McCutchen rode down to join them. �śYou must have winged him pretty good.” �śHe drew the line here, looking for a fight. But didn’t have much fight left.” One of the ranchers jumped off his horse and sidled up cautiously to the 200 pound cat. After deciding the animal was completely dead, he pulled its lips back away from its teeth. �śYou think this here jaguar coulda done that to Gonzales’ goats?” �śThis thing ain’t El Chupacabra!” An argument broke out among them. McCuthen had been so distracted by the jaguar he hadn’t noticed the rest of the clearing. Something about it seemed odd. Finally he realized it was a camp site, clear as day. Remains of a fire pit, stumps pulled up as stools, and wagon tracks leading away to the north. �śI’ll be damned.” He turned toward the clump of hopeless ranchers mussing up his crime scene. �śHey! Shut it down, boys. And back them horses out of the clearing.” Confused, the ranchers stopped their fussing. �śWhat you seen, Ranger?” �śYou’re mucking up a campsite I need to take a closer look at.” No one budged. �śLook, men. Here’s your El Chupacabra.” McCutchen pointed at the jaguar. �śDamn thing nearly killed me. I’m sure it could have dragged off countless g [f ca A couple of ranchers narrowed their eyes and looked like they still wanted to argue. McCutchen cut them off. �śI hate to disappoint, but there ain’t no demon monster in these hills. These are regular hills, with regular monsters, and regular men. We done killed the monster, and this clearing is where the men were camped last night. So unless you want to take this argument to the next level,” he rested his hand on his holster, �śI suggest you back your horses on out of here and stop churning up my evidence.” The rancher who had been inspecting the jaguar returned to his horse, and the rest followed suit. As far as McCutchen was concerned he’d fulfilled his commitment to the rabble. He’d taken them hunting and nobody had gotten killed. He was the only one injured. As they huddled again beside a rock outcropping to continue their argument, he turned his attention to gathering information about his prey. Deep wagon ruts and the extent of scorching around the fire pit revealed the clearing had been a long term campsite. McCutchen dismounted to take a closer look. Kicking the cinders with his boot, he felt heat radiating off the coals with the back of his hand. They had left no earlier than that morning. He stood to soak in the surroundings, gathering all the details to recreate the story. He needed to know as much as possible about these people if he was going to track them. Not only what they were doing, but why. Several stumps sat upright around the charred pit. Most of them looked out of place. Taking a closer look at each one, only three had been there for long, the others dragged there recently to throw him off their numbers. So most likely there were just three. Three wagons, three men. With so many tracks, individual footprints were difficult to distinguish. He stooped to inspect one particular track, a small moccasin among boots. Maybe the rumors weren’t total horse puckey. Apparently, his fugitives included one Mexican and at least one Indian�"a witch doctor no doubt. He smirked at the thought. Suddenly anxious to find what he’d been looking for all along, he stood. Several tracks lead toward the rock outcropping where the ranchers stood arguing. He knew the dim-witted rednecks would never see past their fears and superstitions. Maybe the jaguar would be enough to satisfy them, maybe it wouldn’t. Sure as hell, they’d come up with a new boogie man by tomorrow. They lowered their voices as he jogged past them and crested the short rise. �śAh hell,” he stamped his boot. The marihuana was gone, all of it. He walked to the edge of the field. Good God. This was the second largest patch of marihuana he’d ever seen. The largest, south of Matamoros, he’d burned personally. He shook his head. It looked to be five or six acres, freshly harvested. But how? The stalks had been crushed, pinched off, rather than sliced cleanly or hacked with a machete. He spotted tire tracks. Shocked he had missed the obvious, he put the pieces together. He’d seen this sort of thing before with sugarcane. They must have used a monster sickle bar to harvest in a hurry. He stood, woozy from dehydration and blood loss. The scar on the side of his head itched with the heat of the day. He lifted his hat to scratch at the old wound, the motion reminding him of his fresh ones. The land to the south was [thetio rugged, steep valleys until the border. No way they could make that trip with wagons. He and the ranchers had ridden from the east, more or less. That left the north and the west. One of the fugitives was definitely a Mexican, but Mexico didn’t set right in his gut. The greaser had chosen to live out here with a couple of Indians for a reason. He reined in his thoughts. Focus on the evidence. These guys were loners. Over the last couple of years no one had even caught a decent glance of them. Certainly not common bandits, and yet obviously not common ranchers either. Rumors of goat-eating demons and witch doctors where the best thing he had to go on. They were up to something, but he had no idea what. Rule number one, always follow the tracks. Walking to the northern edge of the field, he followed the unique three-wheel tracks of the harvester. What were they thinking? They had taken everything with them, either making them the dumbest fugitives he’d ever tracked, or�Ś the thought made him momentarily nervous. Sometimes bad guys are just stupid. Actually, often they were stupid. Maybe this time he would get lucky, despite his rocky start. The tire tracks lead north and gradually east until they met up with the tracks from the three wagons. From there everything became muddled by the herd of goats�"judging by the amount of manure left behind, at least a few dozen, easily more. He wanted to follow the tracks further, but his legs ached. Cowboys weren’t cut out for walking, and he wished he’d stayed on Chester. The tracks headed north into the confines of a valley that continued northward. At some point they’d have to change course to avoid populated areas. McCutchen felt certain they would head west. A small band of loners with all their possessions hoping to go unnoticed would eventually have to head west, into the Davis Mountains and the Trans-Pecos wilderness. But they were moving way too slowly to make it. He hiked back to the campground confident he had time to take Chester to the vet in Del Rio. He couldn’t risk Chester V dying out from under him due to preventable infection, not after the years they’d shared. Inspecting the claw marks on his shoulder, already tightening with crusted blood, he decided they could both benefit from medical attention. ~~~ As their first day on the trail dragged into late afternoon, the goats showed signs of weariness and Chancho struggled with disappointment, his harvester having run out of gas an hour earlier. He patted Sister Espanoza. She also seemed moody about hauling the marihuana wagon that had been pulled by El Chupacabra until it had broken down. �śAt least you won’t run out of methane.” Chancho tried half-heartedly to cheer them both. On cue the horse cut loose a flappy fart. �ś�ĄExcelente!” It was a good joke and brightened their mood. His harvester had liberated a field’s worth of c�Ą�ąamo from the earth before the ignorant rinche could stop them, and El Chupacabra would remain where they’d left him until he could return. The plan was working. Minutes later Nena found a dry inlet stemming from the main wash and hidden from the rest of the valley by a forested sandbar. Both sides of the small draw were steep and rocky, creating a perfect pen for containing the goats. While Chancho helped Nena herd them from behind, Muddy pulled the chuck wagon as far into the narrow draw as he could. Taking a bucket of feed, he coaxed them further forward bef [r f widthore spreading the feed in four clumps at the head of the inlet. With good shelter, brush for grazing and a small pool where a spring seeped from the hillside, the herd settled happily. As the goats ate Muddy moved among them counting each head. �śForty two.” Throwing the bucket back into the chuck wagon, he embraced Nena, who had just finished blocking the entrance to the inlet using the other wagons. �śThey’re all there. So far, so good.” Dressed in warrior attire complete with crossbow, she had taken several minutes that morning to lace up leather leggings that left only her knees exposed to thorns, snakes or whatever assaults nature or man might throw at her. �śSo far.” She loosened her crossbow and laid it in the back of the chuck wagon so she could feel the fullness of Muddy’s embrace. �śGet a wagon you two.” Chancho dropped his saddle on a patch of gravel. �śBut first, shouldn’t we rustle up some supper?” �śWe have a wagon.” Nena batted her eyes. �śIs that where you’re going to sleep?” Muddy indicated Chancho’s saddle. �śSure. Good a spot as any to be blessed with my presence. Maybe I’ll even use a rock as a pillow and have visions of angels climbing back and forth on a ladder from heaven.” �śCatholics are crazy.” Nena lowered the tailgate to the chuck wagon. �śBesides, don’t angels have wings? Why would they need a ladder?” Chancho scratched his chin. �śYou know, that’s a good question. I’ll have to ask Jacob when I see him.” �śWhy not ask God?” �śOr him.” Chancho sat in the gravel and leaned back against his saddle. �śShould we have a fire and some coffee?” He rubbed his hands together. Nena frowned and looked at Muddy, who refused to look her in the eyes. �śWell,” he shuffled his feet. �śThe wood is dry. It won’t smoke much. We could have a fire.” He braved a look at Nena through the corner of his eye. �śAs long as we put it out before dark.” She huffed. �śAfter tonight, no more fires. At least for a few days, until we’re sure no one is following us.” �śWho would be following us?” Chancho stretched and put his hands behind his head. �śRanchers hunting for El Chupacabra?” �śThe rinche.” Nena hissed the words. �śAy, el rinche.” Chancho nodded and fell silent. Muddy pulled a tin kettle from the chuck wagon and shook it. �śChancho, why don’t you get us some water from the spring before the goats muddy it up. Nena and I will start the fire and work out supper.” He gave her a look that told her to cut it out. After Chancho left he turned to her, �śDon’t make him moody. He’s no fun when he’s moody.” Nena rolled her eyes. NINE ^The l="8" width The Campfire The sun set behind them as they finished up dinner. Muddy held Nena in his arms, content they had been given another day together. He watched Chancho wash the dishes over the fire and pour the extra water on the coals. He muddied the pit about with his boot, careful not to soil the torn tip, and then polished the leather surface clean with spit. After he’d finished and sat back to enjoy his coffee, he noticed Muddy staring at him. �śLet’s have a good story. Muddy, give us a story. Just no blood-sucking of any sort.” Nena leaned into Muddy’s shoulder and squeezed his arm. He loved to surprised her with stories she hadn’t heard, but there were few of those left�"some of the old stories, the ones about his people. �śTell us an old story.” She looked into his dark eyes where images of past glories swam. �śI’ll tell a story, but only if you sing a song when I finish.” She scowled at him. Chancho clapped, �ś�ĄMaravilloso! A story and a song. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.” Nena nestled herself against her man, her form of consent, and Muddy took a moment to locate the story he wanted even though he’d known which one he had to share even before they had cooked their meal. He had saved it for this moment his entire life. Having practiced it in his head for years as a youth he had never spoken it out loud. Finally the moment had come for the telling of the story that defined him. �śI don’t believe I’ve told you the story of the first African hero of my people, one of the first to taste freedom in Spanish Florida. His story has inspired many more young warriors who have followed, including me.” Chancho smiled, took a deep breath and settled himself until his head rested on his saddle. �ś1739. My people were not even my people yet, but Florida swelled with Seminoles and escaped African slaves from British Carolina plantations. Britain and Spain were ripe for war. Sergeant Jeremiah Tripalo,” Nena caught his eye with the mention of his horse’s name, and he smiled, �śrose to prominence among the settlers of the first free black community in North America, Gracia Real de Santa Teresa de Mose. Fort Mose. The citizens of Fort Mose were fierce, self-determined warriors, and as a strategic settlement, the Spanish had trained them and equipped them heavily for war.” Muddy took another sip of coffee before continuing. �śThe blacks had no other option. Defeat to the British meant life as chattel. Desperate men learn quickly to fight. But men burned by the fires of hell while still walking the earth take to fighting easier than drawing breath. Tripalo was the latter.” Chancho thought of his friend, Ah Puch, and the scars he had carried from his childhood into his life of banditry. Fighting had been a way of life for him. The connection made Chancho grateful for his upbringing in the orphanage. Although he lacked parents, he’d been sheltered and loved. Muddy continued. �śAfter attempting an unsuccessful rebellion, the wife of his youth and his three young children were slaughtered before his eyes by his former ma chisfy"ster. But instead of pacifying him, the executions caused him to tear out the throats of the two men holding him and nearly beat his master to death before Tripalo fled naked and wounded into the forest. �śEventually he took another wife from among a Seminole band living near the fort, and so spent much of his time outside the fort walls. It became well known, the story of his escape, because he spoke of it during his sleep. And it was said he roamed the forest between Fort Mose and British Carolina late at night in a trance, haunted by the tragedy of his past. �śThe Spanish learned of his passion for revenge and his knowledge of the forest, even at night, and promoted him to sergeant, offering him secret missions to demoralize and destabilize their common British foe. Tripalo’s new job was to incite insurrection and lead uprisings among the African slaves working the plantations. This job became his calling, his mission in life. Without rest he dedicated himself to freeing hundreds of black souls until he became both a living legend and the Black Ghost. �śStories about Tripalo spread among the plantations, and by the fall of 1739 plantation owners were preparing for the Black Ghost. At the same time his demons, coupled with his lust for his kindred’s liberty, drove him deeper into British Carolina to lead larger groups of slaves to freedom. One night, word spread to a large plantation north of Stono, South Carolina that the Ghost was coming for his people. �śHe arrived silently at sundown to discover two dozen slaves gathered outside their low-roofed quarters, a roughly chinked log bunkhouse. He grimaced. It would be the largest group he’d tried to liberate at once. A rabble of caged animals, malnourished and scared, they’d made what preparations they could by scraping together a small bundle of stale bread and a stolen canteen of water. � �śThe timing felt poor, but he would not abandon his kinsmen. Without a word he ushered his people into the forest. Armed with two ball and cap pistols and a machete, they stole into the shadows and fumbled southward. Unaccustomed to the forest, the large group moved slowly and awkwardly. After an hour Tripalo knew their time was too short and their distance too long. The last two trips had been near escapes requiring minimal blood shed. Tonight his gut told him they would not make Florida without a fight. �śOnly ten miles south of Stono, and more than a dozen miles from Florida and freedom, they’d been run down. The baying of the hounds, bred for cruelty as well as tracking, alerted Tripalo of their pursuers. Looking for an edge, he led his people into a swamp to cancel the advantage of the horses and challenge the hounds. Silently, the Black Ghost and his brothers bobbed in the oily water like logs, all of them now invisible. Through the haze of the darkened swamp they watched with wide eyes as a posse of twenty men on horseback, each with rifle and sword, drew cautiously nearer. �śFor half an hour they floated among snakes and alligators, mouths just above the surface. Half of their pursuers dismounted to search the edges of the swamp more closely, while the other half held the hounds in check for fear of gators. The dogs, frustrated at being restrained, bayed furiously. �śWithout sound the Black Ghost encouraged his brothers to bob closer to the shores rather than further away�"closer to the pursuers, closer to the men who had beat, burned, broken and abused them. But they were so many, and well armed. Slowly, Tripalo posi c Trpursuerstioned himself within ten feet of a man on shore. Five feet. He closed his eyes and felt the pulse of the earth combining with the fear of his enemy. Then within arms reach, he opened his eyes and glared into the man’s soul. �śFear rippled on the slave owner’s face as Tripalo’s surging muscles rippled the surface of the water. He burst from the brackish swamp and with a single motion gripped the man’s hair, cutting off his head with the machete. Before the decapitated body hit the water Tripalo charged the nearest man on mount, hurdling the head of his first victim with bruising force. As the head struck the man from his horse, the Ghost pounced with gleaming machete. �śMuskets were attempting to track the Ghost when the waters suddenly boiled and burst into hideous life. The hounds broke their bonds and plunged into the torrent. Gators, alerted by blood, joined the fray. Slaves, men formerly bound by their oppressors, leapt from the water with blood curdling screams that momentarily froze the posse in place. �śFinally the cacophony was joined by the percussion of igniting gunpowder. Muskets blazed in a panic, drawing a bead on anything that moved. After several deafening seconds they were spent, and a half dozen slaves lay bleeding or dead. Gators churned the waters while hounds yelped and screamed. �śThe Ghost leapt from horse to horse slashing with his machete, tearing at eyes and biting at throats. But the remaining riders bore down hard on his brothers, now exposed and unarmed. The posse members on foot huddled together, back to back, cutting down black men as they hurdled themselves like human clubs. Just as quickly as the surprise had favored Tripalo and his people, the armament of the posse had shifted the advantage. Exhausted and armed only with their fury, the blacks were no match for plantation men well trained with swords. �śOne after another the blacks fell and breathed their last yet sweetest breath, releasing their spirits as free men. Tripalo saw only the faces of his fallen sons, his baby daughter, and his wife. He took no notice of the rib jutting from his side, splintered by a musket ball. He did not feel the life ebbing from him, his neck nicked by a gleaming sword. He fought on. He felled six, removing two swords and throwing them toward his remaining brothers. �śHe discovered he could no longer draw breath, so he fought without breathing. He lunged toward a rider, cutting the horses front legs out from under him. The beast screeched and collapsed to the forest floor while Tripalo used the entire weight of his body to drive his machete through the man’s neck. �śSeven. He staggered to his feet, seizing for breath, clutching at his neck. He begged God for a few more moments to exact his revenge and to free his brothers. He had no voice left so he hurled himself silently toward the posse members left on foot, held at bay by his two brothers armed with swords. �śBefore he reached the remaining clump of four, still fighting back to back, he flung his machete with all the force he could muster. It cut deep into the meat of a man’s shoulder, breaking his collar bone and dropping him to his knees. Then, like a fragmenting cannon ball, Tripalo spent his last on the three men still standing. He burst head first into another man’s skull, cracking it with his own. Like a lead flag unfurling, he draped his dying body over them with crushing weight. �śThe two black men with swords dispatched the plan cche at his ntation men from where they gasp under the Black Ghost’s body. Without warning, two more rode from the shadows with gleaming swords. In an instant the last of the blacks fell, bleeding out in the same clump of mortal ransom just paid to the demon of slavery, captor and slave alike. �śAll said, six posse members survived the massacre. Cursing the devil that created black men, they left the dead for the gators and returned home. After the feeding frenzy died down the swamp fell silent. One surviving black man came trembling out of the water. He had never moved during the entire fight. Frozen with fear and immobilized by years of abuse, he watched his brothers die. �śAnger swelling in his heart, he laid his hand on the chest of the Black Ghost, still warm with the memory of life. A single tear streaked his cheek, and he swore a solemn oath over the dead body of the first hero of my people that it would be his last tear as a slave. It is said that the man who swore that oath was my great, great, great, great, great grandfather, and the founder of our tribe.” ~~~ With sudden finality Muddy fell silent. The three friends each took a deep breath. Minutes passed as the story generated a heat in Chancho’s soul�"a passion to sacrifice himself heroically and break the bonds of injustice. Next he fell into a deep reverie of his childhood, of the woman who first ignited his soul with stories of liberty, freedom and courage�"with the stories of the black Seminole. The same woman, Muddy’s grandmother, had trained her grandson to carry on the tradition. He was now the best among the black Seminole, a people which over the years Chancho had longed to adopt as his own. He had no other people. No heritage or legacy to call on for guidance or direction. The Mexican revolution no longer wanted him. When his grandmother, Muddy’s grandmother, had suggested he seek out her grandson living in Texas near a town called by his own name, it seemed like God directing him. Del Rio meant from the river. Found as a baby on the banks of the river, he crossed the river in an attempt to find Del Rio the man. At last he felt on the verge of discovery. Then, just as suddenly as Muddy had fallen silent, Nena pierced the night air with song. In response to Muddy’s story she sang of a hero of the Kickapoo people�"a hero that surrendered her life in the name of freedom. TEN From the River A crack of thunder shook Chancho from his sleep. Startled, he sat up in time to feel the first large drops of a pelting rain. After wiping the fog of sleep from his mind the threat lodged itself there. Running toward the opening of the tiny inlet where the wagons blocked the way, he squeezed past them into the gravel flat of the dry riverbed. A gust of wind whipped past his cheek bringing a wave of swollen raindrops splashing down around him. His worst fears clutched him as he looked at his feet where the water was already inches deep, and rising. Another flash of lightening burned a terrifying image into his brain as a menacing wall of water rushed to meet them, two hundred yards upstream. �śFlood! Flood f/b> He flapped his sombrero and cackled wildly, �ś�ĄAndanle, pequi�ąitos, andanle!” He did everything he could to flush the goats to higher ground, forcing them to climb the rocky slopes. Behind him, the giant wave slammed into the sandbar island, ripping in two. He spun in time to see another bolt of lightning illuminate the crushing surge of water beating against the wagons as it rushed past. He sprung down the inlet from rock to rock until plunging into knee-deep water to help Muddy pull the marihuana wagon further into the inlet. The two men cracked their backs until the wheels settled so deeply in the gravel they would no longer budge. Without pause Muddy leapt onto the runner of the wagon. �śNena!” He bellowed into the storm, but the word whipped from his lips. �śThe horses! The island!” Chancho scrambled onto the wagon beside Muddy and pointed at the tiny sandbar, now nearly inundated in the surge. Nena had secured the three horses, but had gotten caught on the sandbar when the wave hit. With the terrible force of rushing water ripping away the vegetation, the sandbar itself was shrinking. Muddy gripped Chancho by the shoulders. �śI can’t swim!” Chancho looked across the widening gap, twenty feet. Maybe more. He gripped Muddy’s arms and shook him. �śThrow me! Throw me, mi amigo!”� Muddy froze, eyes like snakes eggs hatching with slithering fear. He shook his head.� Chancho reached up to grip him by both ears, �śThrow me, dammit!” And he started running toward the end of the wagon, toward the island, toward the surging water. Without time to hesitate Muddy pursued him, gripping him by the belt and the scruff of his neck. Just before Chancho reached the end of the line, slipping on the smooth wood, Muddy yanked him off his feet. The gorilla of a man pumped every ounce of his being up through his legs, into bent knees and bulging thighs. As both men lunged forward toward the swell, he spun. Whipping Chancho like a rag doll into a backbreaking three-sixty, he released him, clothes flapping, into the blinding rain. As Chancho arced through the storm, Muddy plunged off the wagon into the rushing water. He tore at the soft, splintering wood but ripped past it. The second wagon, jutting further into the river, caught him broadside. It slipped slightly with his weight smashing into it, but held. Bruised, but not broken, he pulled himself, hand over hand, along its edge. Chancho, blinded by pelting rain, curled into a ball to control the pitch and yaw of his tumbling body. He wasn’t going to make it. He’d known that from the beginning. Sensing his body was about to strike the water, he flung his arms and legs wide. With a slap the sucking water ripped at his clothing fiercer than he could believe. But his left hand hit something solid, a branch. He clutched it, feeling it give with his weight. Hold, dammit! He lunged further up the branch, the small tree, pulling his head above water. In a flash of lightning, he s kghtt iaw Nena tugging at the reins of the horses. She held all three of them in one hand while clutching the base of the tiny tree with her other. �śI’ve got you!” she screamed into the wind. Chancho pulled himself closer, left hand then right, before finally finding purchase in the shifting gravel with his boots. He lunged onto the beach as the horses yanked Nena into the air. The tree tore away from its roots and disappeared. Chancho struggled to his feet, choking on the water he’d swallowed. Nena was too light. She couldn’t secure the frightened horses. One after the other the animals’ hooves slipped in the shifting sand and gravel as they stepped too close to the rushing water. Startled, they jostled each other about, pulling Nena off balance. But if one of the smaller horses fell into the water, they wouldn’t be able to swim out. They couldn’t make it. Chancho gripped her by the arm and pulled himself up to join her. �śThank you!” Nena locked him with her eyes, �śThey can’t make it. It’s too fast! Only Tripalo!” �śThe island’s shrinking! It won’t last!” Chancho bellowed back. �śA chain! Tripalo and I will form a chain!” Before Chancho could think, Nena continued, �śBoost me!” She indicated for Chancho to hold out his hands and lace them together. As he did so she launched herself over Tripalo’s head and onto his back. Spinning around to face front, she took the reins while whispering directly into the animal’s ear. She stroked his neck and inched him steadily forward into the water. Chancho held the other two horses steady while Nena submerged the giant horse up to his belly. The water surged around his butt and under his neck until he was in as far as he could go without scrambling on the slick rocks. He held his ground as Nena indicated for Chancho to bring Bella, her own horse. After soothing Sister Espanoza, Chancho left her standing alone on the shrinking sand bar. He stepped into the swirling eddy created by Tripalo’s massive body, coaxing Bella into the water. The mare snorted and pulled at the reins, but obeyed. Down-current and shielded by Tripalo, Bella held steady in the water. Chancho tossed the reins to Nena and scrambled back onto the island. Nena pulled Bella forward until she verged on swimming. Seeing what they were up to, Muddy waved to them from the bank downstream of the inlet, ready to catch Bella and help her from the water. Nena released Bella’s reins, slapping her sharply on the buttock. The horse snorted and surged into the water. The current ripped her hooves from the slippery rocks, forcing her to swim. For an eternity she swam, bobbing above the water, stumbling, clutching for purchase. Muddy looped an arm around a root and lunged for the reins just shy of the bit. He caught the horse and steadied her as she established her legs in the gravel. Straining at the water, she pulled herself on shore, exhausted and trembling. At the same time, Chancho mounted Sister Espanoza. He brought her into the swirling water alongside Tripalo, whose muscles shook from the strength of the current. �śWe go together!” Nena nodded. Simultaneously they slapped the bare skin of their horses while clinging tightly to their manes. The animals obediently plunged into the torrent and k to they slapswam. Chancho felt Tripalo’s rippling flank as it bumped up against him and Sister Espanoza. Even with the larger horse taking the initial assault of the water he and Espanoza lost ground more rapidly. He felt her strength flagging underneath him, already too exhausted and too small. His weight was forcing her underwater. ~~~ Nena saw the mare’s panic and knew what Chancho was thinking. �śNo! You won’t make it! We’re too far from shore! Stay on the horse, she can do it!” But they both knew she was lying. Nena tried desperately to position Tripalo, but he was barely making it on his own, his slick black skin deflecting the rushing water like a polished river rock. In a flash Nena looped the reins, tying them off around her ankle. �śChancho, no!” Unheeding, Chancho pushed off the side of Little Sister, tossing himself into the swirling water. An arrow on a pendulum, Nena launched head first after him and disappeared beneath its surface. The water slipped almost frictionlessly around her bare skin. With only the sense of touch and the grace of God to guide her in the black annihilation, she caught Chancho with her left hand. Bubbles swirling around her face and pouring from her nostrils, she tugged the reins with her foot. Catching them with her right hand, she pulled the two of them toward Tripalo. But Tripalo began losing ground rapidly. With the weight of both Chancho and Nena tugging on him, he panicked. Nena felt him churning the water more urgently. She guided Chancho’s hand up to the reins close to Tripalo’s head. Together they rose to the surface for a gulp of air. Chancho had the reins in both hands now. With a flicker of her eyes, Nena searched the shore line for Muddy. The instant she saw him, she let go. �śNena, no!” But she was gone, below the surface instantly. Muddy leapt toward her but caught his foot on a root, flinging face first into the water as Tripalo and Chancho slammed into him. Nena went completely limp, locking her hands behind her head and giving herself over to the flood. She’d protected her people. She prayed she’d gotten them to safety. She had died fulfilling her only wish in life. It was not a tragedy then. It was a good death. With her feet downstream she bounced off rocks, buffeted by the current. Finally, drawn by instinct and convulsing from lack of oxygen, she struggled to the surface for a gulp of water and air. Lightning flashed, splitting the night. Against the burning, ionized sky, she saw the clear outline of a human figure flying through the air toward her�"a human shadow momentarily frozen like a still image, like the photograph she had seen once of a man diving from a cliff into a pool below. Her mind knew he must be moving, but there was no movement in the image. Then suddenly the figure clapped the surface of the water and grasped her around the waist. She surged to life with the touch and embraced the stranger. Together they held against the current until slowly they drew closer to shore. With a sharp jerk she found herself on dry ground. �śWhy, she’s nearly naked.” After burping up water Nena responded to what sounded to her like an accusation. �śI’m not naked. I’m Nenaiquita Losoya of the Mexican Kickapoo,” and she collapsed. ~~~ Stunned and empty, Muddy and Chancho laid on the bank of the river, the grey depth of night breaking with the light of dawn. But lost to a grim exhaustion, the two friends struggled against disbelief and oxygen-deprived muscles. Muddy’s massive frame shuddered as he heaved a thin bile, choking on mouthfuls of river water and stomach acid. Then more quietly, he sobbed. �śShe shouldn’t have done it.” Chancho lay face first in the storm’s debris, like another piece of detritus washed up and deposited on shore. He spoke to no one in particular, save the God who should have been in charge, but clearly wasn’t. �śShe shouldn’t have done it.” He threw himself onto his back and screamed, �śIt should have been me! Do you hear me, dammit! It should have been me! �ĄMi dios! �żPor qué me hace usted esto?” But nothing came in response. Just the rushing water and the quite sobs of the hulking black man lying in the mud beside him�"the man whose wife had just died to save him. He swallowed hard. He had suffered loss, yes. But the deepest loss was not his to suffer. He laid a weak hand on the shuddering back of his friend before closing his eyes, relenting to the exhaustion. ELEVEN New Friends McCutchen rose an hour before the sun after a poor night’s sleep on a fetid hotel mattress. Having returned to Del Rio for medical attention, his and Chester’s wounds demanded no further delay. He ran his hands across the three-day growth on his face. Every day he spent without shaving was a day he spent living with an injustice, and duty demanded he set it right. Chester snorted impatiently as McCutchen arrived at the livery. Riding at a trot, they followed a dirt road west out of town, the grey of predawn giving way to the rich colors of a rising sun. But as the road bent northward, dark thunderheads rolled in the distance. An hour later McCutchen felt the humidity in the air, a storm ravaging the terrain north of the Catholic Hills. What would have normally been bad news, he now welcomed. Tracking an individual on horseback could be tricky in stormy weather, but slow-moving wagons would leave a muddy gash across the terrain. The anticipation of the trail exhilarated him. No ridiculous peons crossing the river at night leading a donkey burdened with hooch. No wild goose chase for draft dodgers holed up in jacals. By nightfall he’d be hard upon a criminal element of the worst sort, growing and trafficking marihuana in Texas. This should be the life of a ranger in the borderlands. He and Chester left the main road, choosing an animal trail that pointed them north of the Catholic Hills where he anticipated intersecting the tracks he’d been forced to abandon the day before. The increasingly rugged terrain slowed them, and McCutchen took the opportunity to medicate. Opening the small tin, he dangled a cigarette from his lips while he flicked his lighter to life and lit the delicate paper at its tip. His night of fitful sleep did noth n anding to sooth his pain where the jaguar had clawed him the day before, and the bruising where the spent slug had struck him during the saloon incident had worsened. But the injuries where trite. They were barely remarkable in the long litany of scrapes and scars the ranger had taken over his seventeen years of service to Texas. The soothing effects of the marihuana lessened the pain and stiffness almost instantly. Wounds, scars, doubts were swept into the recesses of his psyche to remain locked where they belonged, enabling him to work efficiently and effectively. Not ruled by the narcotic like most, it made him more of a man, not less. He drew strength from it forcefully, by deliberate decision with every puff. He rolled his shoulders in their sockets, his neck listing loosely while he breathed deep, releasing the smoke through his nose. He closed his eyes, allowing Chester to pick their course through the hills. Sharpening his ears, he heard jack rabbits scurrying under prickly pear, rattlesnakes striking warning, and scorpions scuttling across sand not yet warmed by the sun. The raw elements of his surroundings held all the wisdom and knowledge he needed to carry out his duty. He felt the earth and the sky crying out, burdened by injustice. McCutchen had studied the thoughts and beliefs held by many of the peoples native to the land. Not so modern to reject the truths behind ancient tradition, he also refused to blindly accept tradition at the expense of modern technology. He used every faculty available to perform his job, both mental and spiritual. Fate had revealed to him the terrible truth behind the c�Ą�ąamo plant and its dried marihuana leaves. He fought to both preserve and destroy that truth. It was the delicate path he’d been called to follow. And now, led to a steep precipice, a place of immediate threat, he would ride into the face of that threat and choke it. With sweat running down his back in the midmorning heat, McCutchen realized he should have come across the fugitive’s trail already. Cresting a bluff just north of the Catholic Hills, he dismounted to stretch his legs and have a look around. Unless the fugitives had changed course, heading east, or�Ś a sudden thought unnerved him. Had they waited within sight to see if he would follow them, and when he hadn’t, turned around and went back? He panicked. They could be in Mexico by now. He cursed and stamped his foot. It had been arrogant of him to break his own rule. Always follow the trail, he chided himself. In his frustration he caught something shimmering in the corner of his eye�"something metallic in the valley, stuck in the temporary river. That’s when it hit him. The river bed had been dry the day before, a virtual highway in the wilderness. His trail was underwater now. He caught the glimmer again. Halfway submerged, he could see the top of a tractor reflecting the sunlight�"the sickle bar harvester abandoned by the fugitives. �śI’ll be damned.” Angling slowly down the slope to the river’s bank, he and Chester followed it upstream. At some point the trail would leave the river bed. The trick was to see where. Just before noon he found deep hoof prints along both sides of the river. Backtracking, he started at the site of a bloated horse caught in a log jam, obscured by brush and foaming water. Now they were either doubling up, or the rider had gone down with the horse. What else had they lost in the storm? And more importantly, wh sporhey wich direction had they taken out of the valley? He rode upstream to where he had seen the tracks and followed them until he reached a small inlet that had served as their campsite. The steep slopes were littered with goat track while the bottom had been carved up by wagons. He followed the wagon tracks along a narrow ledge northward out of the inlet. On the other side of the bend a small clearing several feet above the level of the flood led gently out of the valley. In the clearing he gathered better information from the tracks until something confused him. He dismounted for a closer look. Due to a muddle of horse tracks going back and forth, probably to pull the wagons free, he couldn’t be sure, but there appeared to be too many horses. At least three, maybe four, when there should have only been two left. Someone had helped them. He swung back into the saddle and followed the trail out of the valley. Goat track joined the fray on top of the rim. After regrouping they headed north, now in a country much more open and flat than the hills they’d left behind. McCutchen kicked Chester into a trot, shifting his eyes between the tracks and the horizon in the distance. It wouldn’t do for his fugitives to know they were so closely pursued. Not yet. ~~~ �śWake up you lazy deadbeats. This is no time for a nap.” Nena kicked Chancho in the side, a little harder than required. He nudged Muddy, the two men slow to wake. Clearing the fog from his eyes, Chancho had to rub them twice. �śNena?” Muddy shot alert instantly. She bent down to help him up, but he half pulled her over in the process, and on her knees she joined him for a crushing embrace. Quickly he released her. �śAre you o.k? Are you hurt?” She smiled deviously. �śI died. But it was’t so bad.” He stood, lifted both of them to their feet. �śJust take it easy, for now.” They embraced more tenderly, thanking God for one more day together. Chancho cleared his voice and the couple embraced him as well. �śAre you crying?” �śI’m Mexican. It’s called passion.” Nena rolled her eyes. �śCrazy Mexican.” But Chancho let the tears flow. After a long moment Muddy released them from his bear hug. �śBut how?” Nena put an arm around each of the men, steering them back toward the campsite. Before they reached the inlet she gave a sharp whistle. �śThe storm brought us more than trouble.” As they rounded the corner two individuals stood there. �śNew friends.” Gripped by the presence of the most striking female he had ever seen, Chancho froze. She stood bent gently toward him straining water from her long, strawberry blond hair with her fingers while the rising sun shone directly on her. Her hair burst into radiant flame as her skin glistened with beads of water�"her blouse soaked through and clinging to her breasts. Aware of their presence, she swung her dripping mane onto her back and beamed a smile at them that rivaled the sun. �śMuddy, Chancho. These good people pulled me from the river.” Nena nodded first toward the elder man and then toward his daug sware theyhter. �śMeet Bronco O’Brien and his daughter, Chloe.” Chancho noticed the man for the first time. He worried his impropriety had been too obvious, then over compensated by lunging toward Mr. O’Brien with his hand jutted out in front of him. �śSir, we are grateful with our lives. You have brought our Nena back to us from the grave of the river.” He gripped the man’s hand with a genuineness that spoke louder than words. More gracefully he shifted toward Miss O’Brien, causing her to pull her wet blouse away from her stomach and chest with a sucking sound that only made the matter worse. Chancho smiled politely, took her hand in his and bowed. �śSe�ąorita. Do not worry. You are much more modest than the company to which I am accustomed.” He spoke softly, indicating Nena with a nudge of his bowed head. �śI heard that.” Meanwhile Muddy’s chin continued to quiver as he approached Bronco. Continually aware of his effect on others, he had waited to introduce himself. But the aging Anglo rancher hadn’t flinched or hesitated since laying eyes on the hulking black man. Chancho knew the rancher’s reaction had endeared him to each of them. �śYou have given my mate and my love back to me.” The two men gripped hands. �śYou have my loyalty and friendship, if you want it, as long as I draw breath.” �śWell Mister,” Bronco squeezed Muddy’s hand even tighter, �śI believe you, and I’m grateful. I reckon such a friendship is worth something in the world today.” He let go of Muddy’s hand. �śBut technically speaking, you should be thanking my daughter. She’s the one that pulled your woman from the river.” He turned toward her, �śI ain’t much of a swimmer myself.” �śDaddy, it’s only because I got there first.” �śNo baby. It’s because you were the right person to do it.” �śAnd again, I thank you.” Nena nestled herself up against Muddy and pushed him in Chloe’s direction. �śYes, ma’am, as do I.” Muddy took her hand, keeping his eyes averted. Chloe squeezed it tight. �śHey, don’t look so sad.” She batted him on the shoulder and smiled. �śThis is a happy time, ain’t it? I’m just glad we came along when we did.” Muddy smiled and looked her in the eyes. �śI’m glad too. Thank you.” Shifting from one foot to the other, Chloe changed the topic. �śNow that we’re all friends, why don’t we break camp and head for home? I’m going to die in this muggy heat if we don’t get up into the breeze.” Bronco nodded. �śWe’ll be more than happy to help you pull your wagons out. Our horses are fresh enough for the work. There’s a nice gentle slope up to the top, just north of here. Serves as a popular picnic area and swimming hole in the summer. You fellers just picked the wrong spot to camp.” Chloe continued, �śIt looks like most of your goats got out safe. They’re nibbling grass up top.” With mention of the animals it hit Chancho like a sack of wet flour. �śSister Espanoza.” He looked at Nena, who s atdth="23 only shook her head. Chloe looked back and forth between their sad expressions. �śThere wasn’t someone else was there?” Chancho shook his head. �śMy horse. I named her after a nun�"a woman who raised me. She was,” he paused to keep his voice from cracking, �śa friend.” Muddy gripped Chancho in a bear of a hug, letting him shake loose his grief. �śShe was the only one who knew me before.” He felt the last connection holding him to his home land and his former life sever. ~~~ Chancho shifted uneasily in his wet saddle, its shape ill-suited to Bella’s back. Each footfall reminded him that Sister Espanoza was gone. The bubble of his romantic adventure had burst. He’d lost his treasured sombrero. His harvester sat rusting in a river bed. His horse and companion had gone, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the life he left behind. The image of Daisy Lickter bending down to assist him on the sidewalk played across his mind�"his fantasy for two long years. Fair skinned, her mother of Spanish decent, she had been a shimmering jewel in a dusty land. He longed to look again into her many facets, but could not, because of Primitivo, and the damn rinche. �śSo, Chancho, if you don’t mind me calling you that. Tell me about yourself.” Chloe interrupted his sulking, Bella having drifted close to her and the wagon she pulled. �śWhy do people call you Chancho? It can’t be your given name.” Chancho shrugged. He tried to hold onto his moodiness, but Chloe’s unassuming warmth roused him. �śNo, no. I was christened Del Rio Villarreal.” He smiled. �śAlso an unlikely name I suppose, but as a baby I was found by the banks of the great Río Bravo del Norte. When I arrived at the orphanage the Sisters thought it appropriate I be named, �Śfrom the river.’” �śAnd Chancho?” �śOh yes. That’s simple. I eat like a pig.” Chloe looked skeptical. �śWhen I bother to eat anyway. I guess I’ve never been much on table manners. Ever since I can remember, the other orphans called me Chancho.” She continued to give him the eye. �śHey, I used to smell like one too.” Chloe acted at leaning closer to take a sniff and then nodded as if to confirm the �Śused to’ part of Chancho’s claim. Smiling, the two road quietly along side each other listening to the noise of the wagon until she asked another question. �śWhat was it like growing up in an orphanage and all?” Chancho studied her face, her fair hair drying in the breeze. �śI hope you don’t mind me asking.” Chancho looked her in the eyes before responding with a dramatic recitation. �śBehold, thou art fair, my love. Behold, thou art fair. Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks. Thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.” Chloe’s jaw fell slack. She drew a breath to respond but couldn’t find the words. �śSong of Solomon. The Sisters taught us to memorize the Holy Scriptures, although that was a passage I took to of my own.” Chancho grinned childishly. �śOh.” �śIt get’s better from there, you know. But perhaps not appropriate for mixed company.” �śHmmm. I, uh�"�ś �śPerhaps more apt, in response to your question that is,” Chancho enjoyed having someone new to tease and welcomed the distraction from his grief, �śwould be God’s promise in Romans 8.” He drummed his fingers on the saddle horn. �śIt says something about all of us being adopted as God’s children. Abba, Father. Those were verses the Sisters taught us.” Chancho stroked the stubble on his chin and nodded. �śAll and all, what is there to say? It was my childhood. I’ve nothing else to compare it to.” After a series of stutters Chloe frowned and then brightened deliberately. �śI bet you will someday.” �śPardon?” �śOh. I mean,” she blushed. �śIt’s just that, someday I reckon you’ll have kids of your own and give them a loving home. That’s all.” She spoke with her hands flailing around in the air, the reins still in them, her horse indifferent to the random tugging on the bit and bridle. �śI mean there’s still time. Well, you haven’t missed out or anything. You’re young!” She bit her lip and fell silent. �śI see what you mean.” Smiling, Chancho rode with his reins looped over the horn. It had been an understanding he held with Sister Espanoza. He would interfere with her heading only when necessary, but otherwise leave the steering up to her. �śMr. Villarreal, I’m afraid I’m not quite myself today. I must have hit my head on a rock�"�ś �śWhat about you? Tell me about your family.” �śMy family?” She flung her hands out wide before resting them again in her lap. �śWell, you’ve met my family.” �śIt’s just you and your father?” �śJust me and my father? I’ve never heard it put like that.” She paused. �śYes?” Chancho nudged her on. She laughed, hardy and loud, regaining her composure. �śWell, it’s just that my father has never been a simple man, not really. He does the work of a small army. Always has. Well, since my mother died. But I was just a little girl then. So he’s been like this ever since I can remember.” �śLike what?” Chancho lifted his feet from the stirrups and crossed his legs over the horn. Chloe seemed amused but continued, �śAn army. He’s been my provider, my protector, my teacher and my father. And sometimes a big brother. So the house has always felt full.” �śYour father sounds like quite a man.” �śBesides, we do have a couple hired hands too, and a maid. Hermila has always tended toward my more feminine needs.” �śAh, well. The feminine needs.” Chancho nodded to himself. �śYou have to�"�ś Chloe cut him off, �śYou want to know why people call him spleYoBronco?” Chancho raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. �śIt’s because he bucks everything. If it’s not this, it’s that. The oil boom. Prohibition. Bronco O’Brien, the buckenest man you’ll ever meet. That’s what people say about him, anyway. But he’s always seemed like an old softy to me.” The two continued in silence for several minutes. What had started off as a muggy morning had evolved into a sweltering day. Chancho shifted in his wet clothing to avoid rubbing his skin raw and pined for his lost sombrero. The goats followed the chuck wagon requiring little attention, so Muddy and Nena nuzzled each other on the front bench, Tripalo pulling it dutifully. Bronco pulled the third wagon along the other flank of the goats, easy going in the flatlands. Eventually Chancho’s eyes wandered back toward Chloe. He looked her over without her noticing. Her hair had dried, and she was rolling it into a loose bundle over the back of her neck. Wisps of reddish strands continued to swirl around her face. Her skin, pale and exotic, was deeply freckled. So strange, he thought, that there be such diversity in the world. Suddenly he found himself tugged by a ferocious desire to see more and to know more. Not just in regards to Chloe, but in the face of a big, broad world full of complexity and wonder. The thought challenged him. For a man who deplored ignorance, so much remained unfamiliar to him. He rushed along the current of his thoughts until his curiosity burst its banks. �śWhy are you and your father helping us? Pardon me, por favor. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.” Chloe looked at him steadily for a long moment. �śI think my father would say it was the right thing to do.” �śAnd you?” Chloe brushed wisps of hair from her face. �śDon’t get me wrong. We ain’t friendly to just anyone who comes along, especially not when they’re camping without permission on our property.” She frowned at Chancho briefly but broke back into her beaming smile. �śA matter of fact, we got plenty of enemies in this world, more than’s healthy I suppose. But like I said, that’s just my daddy’s nature. We got a saying in our little family, �ŚPeople who treat each other like family are worthy of family.’” Chancho rubbed his missing notch of earlobe, �śI like it. But why us?” �śWell. We done seen you guys struggling against the flood from the beginning. We’d been riding the wash since dinner when we heard the storm coming. We never did find any of our rascally strays, so we rode out of the valley a few minutes before the surge hit your camp. We’d just turned to head for home when my dad pulled up on the reins. He swore he heard something, voices, and I guess he did. We rode back a ways and spotted your wagons from the opposite bluff.” �śWhen we spotted your horses on the sandbar we knew there’d be trouble. Trespassers or not, we had an obligation at that point. So we rode downstream till we could access the bank. No sooner than we got there then this lovely Indian woman come bobbing down the river.” Chancho stopped her. �śBut your obligation ended when you saved Nena. Why are you still helping us?” �śAnyway, the point being, we saw what you did for each other. We knew you understood the sdert="0truth of family. The real meaning. Once we saw you up close we knew for sure. I could tell my daddy done made up his mind when he saw your hulking friend, Muddy.” �śWho, that mouse?” �śIt’s strange the way his mind churns away up there. But I think he figures any group as unlikely as yours don’t take the idea of family for granted. Those sorts of folks, well we always welcome them into ours.” She beamed another smile at him. �śWell mi hermana, what’s for dinner? I’m getting awfully hungry. How much further is it to Hacienda O’Brien? Chloe blushed again. Chancho liked the affect. �śWell, don’t go figuring we got you a bed ready or nothing. You ain’t quite family yet.” �śWhy Miss O’Brien, is that a proposal? Because we’ve only just met.” Chancho flashed a wicked grin. �śWhy Del Rio Villarreal! You scoundrel. I believe you’ve twisted my words. I didn’t intend any such thing �"�ś �ś�ĄDisculpeme por favor, perdóneme!” Chloe’s pale skin flushed bright red as Chancho laughed heartily, medicine for his soul. Finally he leaned toward Chloe and slapped her horse on the rump, sending the animal trotting away toward the herd. TWELVE Hacienda O’Brien Bronco hung his hat on a hook by the door and welcomed his guests inside. Without his hat the old man seemed excessively weathered and tough, like jerky wrapped around barbed wire. �śHermila! We got guests for dinner.” As the last of the party filtered through the door a frumpy, Mexican woman scuttled in from a back room with flour covering her hands and apron. �śSe�ąor, I was making the biscuits.” She hurried over to the guests and took their hands each in turn. �śHola, hola. Bienvenido.” She smiled at them and hurried off. �śDamn if I ain’t tired after that night.” Bronco rubbed the back of his neck. �śI imagine you folk could do with a little rest as well, considering.” Everyone agreed. �śIt’ll be another half hour before dinner’s ready. Maybe the hands’ll be back by then. Ya’ll might as well take a load off �"” Before he could finish, the front door swung open. �śSpeaking of the devil.” Chloe grabbed Nena by the elbow. Leading her toward the stairs, they took their leave in order to wash up for dinner. �śHey fellas, we was just talking about y’all.” Bronco slapped the two young ranch hands on the shoulders. �śThese are my two faithful hands, Beau and Luke.” Once everyone exchanged greetings Beau plopped down on a bench to take his boots off. �śI don’t know if it means anything particular boss, considering,” he nodded toward their guests, �śbut on our way in for dinner Luke and I spotted a fella just off to the west.” Luke broke in, �śHe seemed to be slinking around, like he didn’t want to be seen. I don’t think he saw us.” Bronco scratched his chin before looking at Chancho and Muddy. �śThat mean anything to you?” Chancho rubbed his hands on his pants. �śYes. Unfortunately.” Bronco narrowed his eyes, waiting for him to continue. �śWell, se�ąor, there’s a good chance that the man is a Texas Ranger, and that he’s following us.” After a moment Bronco continued, �śYou care to elaborate on that?” Chancho shook his head. �śWe are only goat herders and farmers. We have done our best to mind our own business, but we are outsiders. And�"” Muddy broke in, �śThere were arguments over water and live stock. Shots were fired. We were run off our land. We did not want trouble, so we took all that we could and left. That was only yesterday morning. We have no idea why the ranger is involved, and we hoped he would not follow us.” �śWe had hoped that once we left our land he’d give up.” Chancho began to sweat, wondering whether he’d be forced to reveal the rest of the truth�"that his past was putting them all at risk. This was not how he’d envisioned coming clean with his friends. �śCrack my corns if you three ain’t the host of El Chupacabra.” Bronco’s outburst silenced the rest of the room. �śSlap me on the behind with a board and tell me you didn’t do it.” Surprisingly agile, Bronco pranced about the room with his gnarled fingers clenched like claws in mockery of the demon beast. �śI just heard the tale yesterday, but the crazy story’s probably already spread through the southern half of the state. Don’t tell me. Some yellow twit probably made the whole damn thing up just to take your land.” Chancho croaked, �śNot exactly.” But Bronco continued unabated. �śTarnation, the trials we have to endure because of lesser men too afraid and stupid to get off their asses and work for a living. Oh no. My goats didn’t die on account of me being a numb nut. It was El Chupacabra that got �Śem. It ain’t my fault I’m too much of a nimrod to�"” Suddenly Bronco stopped in mid-sentence and grew thoughtful. After a long, awkward pause he continued. �śSomething about all this don’t make no sense. I got one question. What’s that stuff you got packed in your wagon? You said you was herders and farmers. What were you farming before all this nonsense broke out?” Chancho shrugged. �śIt’s only c�Ą�ąamo. Marihuana.” Bronco frowned. �śI think Anglos call it hemp,” Muddy offered. �śHemp? You mean that there is the stuff they make rope and canvas from?” �śNo, se�ąor. You make rope and fabric from the stalks of the plant, but we had to leave those behind. We could only take the leaves and buds. The seeds can be used for oil and medicine, but the buds are used mostly for,” he shrugged again struggling to explain, �śrecreation.” Muddy took over. �śMarihuana is widely smoked in Mexico. It’s a mild intoxicant.” �śIntoxicant? Shit.” Bronco slapped his thigh. �śThat there’s why this ranger’s after ya’ll. I’ll be dammed if he’s some fool after a goat-guzzling demon.” Chancho shook his head, confused over whether this was a good turn of events or a poor one. �śNo. Why would he be after us for marihuana? It’s just a plant.” �śHell, whiskey’s made from a plant too, and you can barely find a drop of the good stuff between here and Austin.” Bronco stamped about the room in a huff. �śThe Germans are still making wine by the barrel, but the damn prohibitionists are causing a shit storm over that now, too. Sticking their noses in other people’s business.” He was getting redder by the second, a jaunty marionette without strings. �śIf I have to hear one more damn sermon on the evils of liquor.” �śLook, you fellers just don’t get it, being colored and all. But you’ve heard of prohibition ain’t ya?” Muddy and Chancho shook their heads. �śHell, y’all have been lying low. Damn Presbyterians and Baptists have been tearing up the countryside saying that booze is the cause of all our problems, ranting and raving about demon rum and whatnot. The whole state’s gone to war, wets vs. drys. Of course it’s all a tall glass of goat piss, but that don’t seem to matter none. Alcohol’s all but banned for a hundred miles in every direction, excepting Mexico of course.” Chancho still wasn’t making the connection. What did any of this have to do with Primitivo or the orphanage or the rinche? The marihuana was only important because he needed money to save the Sisters of Mt. Sabinas and the orphans. Chancho took a deep breath, preparing to interrupt, to tell the whole truth, when Bronco continued. �śDamn, boy. If this here marihuana is an intoxicant like you say it is, then the law is going to be all over it like stink on shit. The rangers were called in last year to keep illegal booze from coming across the border. The government, bunch of peckerwoods, done decided that if anything is any fun then it ain’t no good for society. They say that liquor’s gonna be outlawed all across the land by this time next year.” Bronco gradually came off his soapbox and back to reality. �śLook, if you boys swear that the only trouble you’re in is over some tall tale and this here intoxicant,” he waited for them to respond. Chancho shifted his eyes between Bronco and Muddy, thinking about how much good the marihuana money could do the orphanage. Briefly he wondered if the rinche pursued chupacabras, gold, or marihuana. But it didn’t seem to matter. He shrugged, �śSi, se�ąor. We’ve done nothing.” �śAlrighty then. I got a plan.” ~~~ McCutchen cursed his luck for the tenth time and continued to run the possible scenarios through his head. He could ride into Rocksprings to round up help from the local sheriff, but that meant leaving the ranch unattended. He could risk riding in alone, walk right through the front door, but he didn’t know how his fugitives would respond in a tight spot. Least appealing, he could stake the place out and wait. He had recognized the spread as Bronco O’Brien’s before he’d even seen the ranch house, which meant now he’d have to contend with the crotchety old cuss and his hands as well {hanBrien’. There was no doubt the tracks cut through the stands of mesquite, live oak and juniper heading straight for the house. Just when he knew he couldn’t stall any longer he caught movement in the corner of his eye. �śSon of a�Ś” Spurring Chester forward, they wove through the brush to get a better view until it was unmistakable. A herd of goats and at least a couple of wagons moved away toward the north. He galloped quickly to a small rise, lifting himself in the saddle to gain a better view in every direction. No movement at the ranch headquarters. He saw no evidence of anyone at all save the wagons and the herd. �śHot damn. Maybe my luck’s changing.” He rubbed Chester’s neck a moment longer. Maybe. "Hyaw!” Lashing the horse, they shot out toward the herd, once again choosing speed and surprise as his trusted allies. Chester ducked and dodged, weaving his way through the scattered brush while maintaining a gallop. They closed on the slow moving wagons at an angle. Within a hundred yards he caught sight of movement in the back of the lead wagon, a quick glint of steel. Instinctively he drew one of his Colts. Still hidden from sight, the driver lashed the reins and shot off at full speed, leaving the herd behind. The second wagon followed suit. �śSo that’s how you wanna' play it.” McCutchen fired a shot into the air giving them fair warning and accidentally panicking the herd. A mass of goats broke into a trot after the wagons while others bolted in every direction. Chester jerked, a juniper branch lashing McCutchen across the face. He swore and holstered his Colt. The brush grew too dense to flank the wagons so he pulled into an opening behind the herd and lashed Chester into full gallop. As the ranger rode past a scattering of goats the jolting wagons plunged out of view, the scenery dropping away. Meanwhile the road bottlenecked, forcing goats into a clot directly in front of them. Both banks of the road eroded sharply into a single cut where the road bore downhill drastically. Lightning quick a decision had to be made. Either jump the cliff with no way of knowing how far it was to the bottom, or rein Chester into the growing clot of goats. He yanked the reins with his right hand, leaning into the turn with all his weight. Chester responded with the precision of a seasoned cutting horse. Leaping the three feet down to the surface of the road, he landed straddling a frightened goat, after which things quickly turned less graceful. Like hairy pinballs, goats shot out from under the galloping horse, striking the next nearest animal. Horse and rider submerged in a surging ocean of mohair, bleats rippling outward from the point where they plunged through the surface. Striking goats with his fore and back legs, Chester leapt again and slid, straining every muscle to slow his momentum while maintaining his feet in the ever-shifting sea. Battered goats tumbled from under his punishing hooves until finally the horse reeled back with all its weight. Its front hooves slid to a stop in the gravel as it sat, with a crunching thud, on top of the least fortunate goat of all. Exhaling a last muted bleat, the creature fell limp under the full weight of the horse’s rump. Chester regained his balance, prancing about nervously and snorting. McCutchen drew his .45 and fired into the air, encouraging the goats to scatter. As soon as a path opened in front of them {ronr, they resumed the chase. The wagons continued to barrel down the rutted out road with no signs of stopping. McCutchen drew as near as caution allowed and fired again, this time into the wood of the trailing wagon. Nothing. They weren’t even firing back. Easy to chase down, he hadn’t the slightest idea how to pull the wagons over�"short of shooting the drivers. More than a little concerned about the absence of the third wagon, he decided to risk riding in close. Twenty yards from the trailing wagon, he leveled his Colt and continued closing the gap until the driver saw him. But instead of pulling over, the driver bailed out over the edge. McCutchen holstered his .45 and pulled Chester up next to the runaway horse and wagon. But the horse strained away from him until the wheels of the wagon caught in a rut and jolted hard, snapping the leather harness. Completely untethered, the wagon’s tongue bounced along the road. McCutchen yanked the reins, pulling Chester clear just in time. As the tongue dug into the surface of the road the wood splintered, sending the wagon vaulting upward, spiraling and flipping simultaneously until it crashed back down to the road on its wheels again, but this time sideways. It rolled three times before finally shattering into a splintered heap. Wisely, the lead wagon came to a stop, the driver stepping down with his hands above his head. McCutchen approached with his .45 drawn but pointing at the dirt. Neither driver was Mexican, and neither was the one he had chased from Del Rio a few days earlier. �śWhat you got in that wagon you so anxious to risk your life over, Mister?” The stranger spat a mouth full of oily chew onto the ground beside his boot. �śAin’t nothing I’m willing to risk my life over. What’s it to you?” �śWell then, you won’t mind if I take a look.” McCutchen eased Chester around the back of the wagon while keeping an eye on the stranger. He used his other Colt to brush aside the canvas flap and peer inside. Nothing but a chuck wagon�"cooking utensils and goat feed scattered about in a jumble. He turned back to the stranger. �śLook, you got thirty seconds. I’m going to ask you two simple questions. If you don’t give me straight answers I’m going to handcuff you to your buddy and drag you from here to Rocksprings, at which point I’ll head back to the ranch and get my answers some other way.” The man nodded. �śGood. First, who the hell are you?” �śBeau Blackwood.” He spit again. The ranger tapped his .45 on the saddle impatiently. �śI work for Bronco O’Brien. This here’s his ranch.” McCutchen nodded. It was the most likely explanation. �śHow did you come by these wagons and goats? I thought Bronco was a sheep man.” �śYes, sir. He’s a sheep man. Now I reckon he’s a goat man. Although you hadn’t helped that none, now have ya’?” He looked past the ranger at the scattering of injured goats. �śLook. Alls I know is that some passersby had one less horse than they needed and a herd too many goats. Bronco knows a steal of a deal when he sees one, so now he’s got one less horse and a bunch more goats. He told me, and my buddy back there, to take the goats up to the north hill in order to keep �Śem clear of the sheep.” �śAnd the wagons? { the norWhat the hell you need them for to herd goats?” The ranch hand spit. �śWell, Ranger, I suppose that’s how the previous owners done been leading �Śem. Got �Śem trained up regular to follow the chuck thinking theys gonna get fed.” �śThese previous owners, if I head back to the ranch house, I ain’t gonna find them there now am I?” �śLook Mister. You done asked your two questions, and I done gave you straight answers. I swear on my parents graves, God bless �Śem. You’re the one standing here holding a gun on me, and seeing hows I’m unarmed I tolerated your rudeness.” McCutchen started to interrupt, but the ranch hand was just getting started. �śAnd on top of that, you done busted up one of my boss’s new wagons and scattered his goats. And I don’t even know if my buddy back there has got a broken back. I gather you’re the law and all, so I’ve tried to be respectful. But I don’t know what the hell you’re looking for, or why you’re bothering me looking for it.” McCutchen narrowed his eyes at the man. It was all true. Underhanded, but true. He looked him up and down one last time. He hadn’t been at the Catholic Hills, McCutchen knew that much. He also knew he was being played, successfully. �śYou just keep taking these goats north, you get my drift, and we won’t have any more trouble.” The ranch hand nodded and spit one last time for good measure. ~~~ �śO’Brien! Bronco! It’s Ranger McCutchen. I need a word with you.” McCutchen stood well clear of the house so he could see anyone leaving out the back. �śYou can stop all the yelling. I hear ya’, and there ain’t nobody else around.” Bronco emerged from the barn and stood with his arms crossed. �śLet me guess. You been tracking someone and the trail led you straight to my ranch. You saw my boys taking my newly acquired goats to the north hill, chased �Śem like a banshee, startling half the herd to death, and now you come to make recompense for the critters. You didn’t hurt my boys did you?” McCutchen burned, the jackass of a rancher chaffing him already. He knew Bronco wouldn’t give him any useful information, and probably do his damnedest to waste his time. It would have been more efficient to drop him where he stood and search the premises, but the old cuss was too prominent in the community. �śGood. Let’s just cut the crap, why don’t we. Yes, I tracked someone to your ranch. I already found their tracks leading away to the south�"three horses and a wagon. That’s at least one person more than what I’m looking for. But I guess you knew that.” Bronco snorted and hacked a dirt encrusted loogie. �śI reckon.” McCutchen kept his hand on his Colt as he dismounted and strode toward the disgruntled rancher. �śI’ll overlook the prank you pulled with your boys diverting me while the fugitives made their escape. But without a little cooperation from you, I can’t guarantee the safety of anyone I find in the company of said fugitives.” He pushed past Bronco and into the barn. Bronco followed hot on his heals but made no attempt to stop him. �śNow I know you ain’t threatening the lives of my family, but you better listen close, Ranger.” He waited for McCutchen to turn and face him. �śI don’t know nothing about any fugitives. My daughter and I helped some folk out this m {lk toorning that was caught in a flash flood. I gather the tracks play out the truth of that well enough.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. McCutchen nodded. �śWe brought �Śem back here so they could get sorted out. After dinner they offered me a business deal�"one that I accepted. That deal stipulated that if my daughter accompany them and their goods just a mite further then we could keep the last wagon when they were done with it. Me, being the protective father that I am, sent my maid along with her. To keep a watchful eye.” �śO’Brien, dammit. You can’t expect me �"” �śI ain’t finished!” Bronco cut him off, standing on his tiptoes and pushing into the ranger’s face. �śIf any harm comes to my daughter or my servant from the hands of you or anyone else, then you’ll have to answer to me, and I’ll bring a judgement that’ll make Sodom and Gomorrah blush.” He hacked another loogie inches from the ranger’s boot. McCutchen drew his Colt .45 Flat Top and pointed it at the old man’s head, bridging the short distance between them. He had killed people for less. �śLook, you hardheaded old cooter. As far as you’re concerned, I’m the one that brought the fire on Sodom and Gomorrah, and I got plenty more of it for you and yours.” Bronco pushed his forehead into the cold barrel of the ranger's pistol, glaring at him. McCutchen, in turn, used the barrel to back the rancher slowly in a circle so he could scan the barn thoroughly. As much as he wanted something to be out of place, he couldn’t see it. He scattered some papers on the old man’s desk. �śWhat are these?” �śPamphlets,” O’Brien spit again at the ranger’s feet, �śprotesting the likes of you invading the privacy of simple citizens such as myself.” McCutchen recognized the foreign language. �śIn German?” �śNaw, in ancient Hebrew.” McCutchen ground his teeth. Workshop, desk, tools. It was the barn of an activist pain in the ass. He wasn’t going to win this round, and his fugitives were putting daylight between them. �śYou’ve played me today, and gotten away with it. But I wouldn’t gloat if I were you. There’re a lot of transgressions a man can be found guilty of. I’ll make sure one of them finds you in the end.” With that he holstered his Colt, turning his back on the old bastard before he could see him grin. THIRTEEN When Darkness Falls �śThis’ll do. Come on, everyone grab a shovel and start digging in a different spot.” Chloe unloaded shovels from the back of the wagon. �śJust dig up the surface enough to make it look like we buried the stuff here.” Chancho spit in his hands and rubbed them together. �śAnd you’re sure the marihuana’ll be alright?” ~ght="toge�śChancho!” Nena chided him. �śWhat he meant was, are you sure you won’t get in trouble for hiding the marihuana.” The unlikely group started working beneath the shade of a large pecan tree surrounded by a thicket of unruly live oak. Chloe smiled and wiped her brow. �śMarihuana. Booze. It ain’t no fun to have a hidey-hole if you don’t get to use it.” She turned another shovel full of dirt before driving the tip into the soft soil again with her boot. �śAnd who’ll ever find it? Naw. He finished building that trap door in the barn this past winter. He’s already started stocking up on his favorite whiskeys. He’s got the whole operation mapped out in his head. Hiding your marihuana’ll only make it more fun. Nothing’s more fun for my daddy than sticking it to the law.” �śI apologize, Miss O’Brien.” Chancho dipped his head as he continued to dig. �śI didn’t mean to infer more importance upon our humble harvest than on you and your family’s wellbeing.” �śOh nonsense. I understand your concern. And I’ll personally take care of turning the leaves so they dry evenly, just like you showed me. They’ll cure up nice in the cellar and be waiting for you when you return.” Muddy worked his shovel quickly, turning scoop after scoop of soil without looking up. �śJust keep digging.” Chancho rededicated himself to the shovel and tried to think positively. He could still ride to the orphanage with money enough to help, it just might take a few days longer to lose the rinche and circle back. After a long pause Chloe picked up the conversation from before. �śBesides, people’ve been jumping at shadows for months now. Everybody’s shooting at everybody, and the government is just making it worse.” She kept working the tip of her shovel with graceful movements while sweat dribbled down her face and neck causing the light fabric of her blouse to cling to her breasts. �śWildcatters are littering the land north and west of here with derricks, exploiting the ignorant and robbing �Śem of the land’s wealth with the help of fat-cat bankers who’re making sure the government gets their share.” Chancho caught Chloe’s eye as they dug. She smiled before tugging her drooping blouse back into place and finishing her sermon. �śThe whole damn machine is chewing up the land faster than the common folk can respond to it.” �śI’ve never seen a boom town.” Chancho offered. �śYou ain’t missing much.” The four kept at it for another few minutes until the humus of the forest floor hung thick in the air. �śAlright, that’s good enough. Just toss the shovels back in the wagon. Hurry up. We’re trapped if he catches us in here.” Chloe tossed her shovel in and brushed her hands off. Chancho grabbed her by the shoulders, looking her in the eyes. �śAre you sure you’ll be alright?” �śOf course. Don’t be silly. What sort of trouble could me and Hermila get into?” �śThe rinche, he is �"�ś �śOh he’s just a law man with a stick up his butt.” Chancho smiled. �śWell put.” He held her there a moment longer. �śCome on, we’re wasting time here.” She pulled away. Chancho jumped into his saddle, now on the back of his new horse, a dappled grey mare, the shortest horse the O’Briens owned. She flinched with his sudden movements, so he stroked her neck until she relaxed. �śDon’t worry little Bautizada, you’ll get used to it.” Muddy saddled up while Nena embraced her new sister. �śWe are bound together now. You have pulled me from the river and protected my family. That makes you my family as well.” Muddy lead Bella toward them. Nena mounted with whisper quickness, her crossbow sticking up above her shoulder. With a flourish Chancho bowed low from his saddle. �śThank you for your hospitality. Perhaps next time you will have a room made up for me?” �śThere might be room in the barn.” Chloe beamed her rising-sun smile and winked. �śNow git! Go on!” She waved her arms and the three friends rode out of the thicket and back onto the main road with nothing more than they could carry. ~~~ They rode south for two more hours, Nena in the lead and Muddy in the rear, working their way toward Brackettville through rough and isolated country. Seasonal streams ran in the bottom of draws and washes. Rocky peaks rose over a thousand feet above the valley, shadowing them by late afternoon. As the sun set behind the hills to the west they slowed to find shelter for the night, and after two very long days, finally get some rest. Pocked with caves and caverns of various sizes, the countryside promised convenient hideouts. Created by the chemical reaction between petroleum rising from its ancient burial and subterranean pools of water percolating through porous limestone, the caves evolved from cracks and fissures into intricately interlaced hollow spaces deep beneath the surface. Chancho rode in between his two friends, sandwiched and safe, held up by their watchfulness. He knew they had learned to take no moment of peace for granted�"to assume hard times were as close as their next breath. They were tough, strong and vigilant. He loved them for it, but it distanced him at times like these. Times when they felt they had to protect him, lest he get lost or be a liability. Even now he rode half dazed, completely unaware of his surroundings. It saddened him that he brought his friends trouble by doing whatever his heart demanded at the moment without stopping to think about the consequences to those around him. He was helplessly impetuous. At the same time, he knew God intended him for more. He had to learn from his struggles�"take his casual stance toward the present and use it to create a better future, one where the ideals of the revolution would thrive in every heart whether brown, white or black. His pulse raced at the thought. Injustice could not stand in the face of true vision. People like the O’Brien’s were suffering and fighting against their own ruling class just as the peons of the Mexican revolution, but they had so many more weapons available to them. He grew dizzy with the realization of how much he still had to learn before being jarred from his musing when little Bautizada stopped. Nena reigned up Bella in front of him. Dismounting, she disappeared into the brush for several minutes before returning with a smile on her face. �śThis is the place. We ideplaeigned ll camp here tonight.” She grabbed Bella’s reins and led her through the brush. �śBut no fire, and no coffee.” Chancho and Muddy groaned, but they knew they were too tired to make elaborate preparations for supper or to stay up for story or song. Following Nena through the brush, Chancho finally saw what she had seen from the trail, an overhang in the steep canyon wall large enough to shelter them and their horses. �śThere is a cave in the back, but no bats.” Nena unloaded supplies from her saddle bags. �śBats?” Chancho looked around warily. �śYes, bats. Small, winged mammals.” �śI know what a bat is. I was just wondering�Ś” �śThe opening to the cave is too small. Bats will not enter a cave mouth so small for fear of predators waiting on the other side. Besides, no guano.” She unrolled an animal skin full of jerky and dried fruit for supper. �śYou had time to pack all this at the O’Brien’s ranch?” Chancho marveled. Nena shook her head. �śShe packed all this before we left the Catholic Hills.” Muddy smiled. �śOf course.” Chancho sighed, �śYou knew we would have to leave the wagons behind. You prepared for this.” Nena tossed each of them some food. �śIt's my gift, just like yours is talking.” She silenced him with a glare. �śNow eat. We leave before sunrise. If Bronco’s plan worked, the ranger won't catch up with us tonight.” �śIf it didn't work?” Muddy tore a piece of jerky in his teeth. Nena pulled her crossbow from its mount on her back and laid it down on the ground next to her. �śKeep your Spencer close.” She sat up on her knees and bent forward to kiss him on the forehead. �śI have already died once today.” Within minutes they'd packed the rest of the food and created pillows for themselves with canvas stuffed bundles of marihuana, the small supply they'd brought with them for trade. The last of the suns rays illuminated the bellies of wispy clouds barely visible through the trees. Darkness overtook them and they slept, so eager for rest that they failed to notice the two gleaming, yellow eyes peering out at them from the cave entrance. ~~~ McCutchen replayed the events of the last two days in his mind, frustrated that he’d underestimated his fugitives. His face itched with four days’ growth�"the longest he had gone without shaving since his youth, and it would get longer before it was done. On top of it all, his sloppiness had gotten him outmaneuvered by an old goat roper. The setbacks goaded him. The sun set behind the hills and darkness fell quickly, the trail dissolving into the night. If he kept pushing he might lose it, follow a shadow trail and have to double back in the morning. Worse yet he might alert the fugitives if he broached their camp too suddenly. He couldn’t stomach anyone getting the drop on him again�"not twice in a single day. But he was close, he could smell it. He hadn’t been delayed when he passed the women in the wagon. Clearly the O’Brien girl was a chip off the oldip in a si block, doing her damnedest to obstruct justice. She’d showed him the shovels, all too willing to reveal that part of the plan. Less than a mile down the road he had spotted where they’d left the road and stomped about under a pecan tree overturning the earth everywhere. Either they really buried the marihuana there and intended to make it harder for him to dig it up, or more likely, the whole thing was a ruse. He hadn’t wasted time figuring it out. He wasn’t about to stop with the seizure of the marihuana. He had to uproot the entire operation and hold the perpetrators responsible. If Bronco and his daughter were involved beyond what they swore, which they most certainly were, he could come back for them. The old man was in no shape to run, and too damned stubborn to try. There had been a trail to follow, so he followed it. Stick to the trail, the golden rule of the golden age for the Texas Rangers. It was the one old relic he would never abandon. �śTrack a flea in a circus and ain’t no man on earth can stand up to you and get away with it.” his grandfather had told him on several separate occasions. Thoughts of the old man shamed McCutchen. He dismounted and continued forward on foot, stooping to follow the tracks in front of him. He cursed how quickly the canyon sank into grey shadow. He had to stop. It was too risky to continue. But he kept putting one foot in front of the other, telling himself he would stop after the next one. And then he lost it. He swore, squinting his eyes, trying against all reason to pull more light out of the air. Exposed and lost, he peered through the trees on both sides of the trail. If he had passed their camp, had they heard him? He quietly drew one of his .45s and squatted to take a closer look at the ground. Alternately he stood, took two steps back the way he had come, and squatted to inspect the trail until to his great relief, he found it. All three horses had left the trail in the same spot, ducking through the brush toward the canyon wall. Leaving Chester behind, he moved gingerly through the undergrowth where the snapped branches and disturbed debris made the path much easier to follow. As soon as he could make out the steep canyon wall through the black branches he stopped. Combing every inch of the slope methodically, he looked for evidence of his fugitives. Without knowing for sure whether he had the element of surprise he couldn’t risk barging in. He had to gather more information. Who were these people? He’d never tracked anyone he understood so little about. � It took him almost half an hour, but after spotting the occasional shifting of their horses, he managed to distinguish three lumps lying on the ground nearby, under an overhanging rock. It was almost completely dark in the canyon, but they hadn’t seen him, so now the dark would be his ally. He sat down with his back against a tree, deciding to wait another couple of hours until the night was at its darkest. He wanted his fugitives to be good and groggy when they woke with his .45s in their faces. If they decided to struggle then, well, so be it. FOURTEEN n="center">Rock With Eyes Darkness engulfed the canyon floor, the moon blocked by steep canyon walls. Soft sounds of sleep echoed gently off the overhanging rock as the horses and the forest rested in stillness. Exactly at the night’s apex the eyes flickered open again, shifting slightly, gathering information. With a slithering silence they inched forward from the pitch black of the cave toward the fresh night air. Whisking open and shut several times, the yellow eyes finally emerged, embedded deep in the skull of a pallid, skeletal figure that took several seconds to expand to its full height. Moments later several other grotesque figures emerged from the small opening, each with glowing, yellow eyes and pale flesh. Clothed in shimmering, slick hides that clung tightly to their bodies, they appeared in the open as sparkling ghosts with firefly eyes. Expanding to surround the sleeping fugitives, and responding as one being to an unspoken cue, they unsheathed a dozen luminescent knives of crystal, each a foot long. The sudden movement and glowing light startled the sleepers as an angry hissing engulfed them, and cold boney hands assaulted them from every angle. The crossbow and Spencer Repeater disappeared before Nena and Muddy could reach for them. Chancho tore at a grasping hand and blocked a flickering blue knife as it slashed for his throat. Instead it bit into the thin skin of his forearm and struck bone. He kicked his assailant in the chest as it dragged him toward the cave opening, but his boot deflected off the tough, slippery hide. Muddy bellowed in anger and clutched two of the creatures in headlocks, bashing their skulls together as knives slashed at him from every direction. The motions combined with the glittering skins dazed him. Twisting wildly with his elbows extended at head height, he lurched unsteadily before several attackers hit him low, lifting him from the ground and driving him backwards into the dirt. He crashed down with a thud that took his breath and left him stunned. Suddenly Nena’s voice cut the night air with piercing clarity, �śNeemwa Ihkweea, Ehtamwa Ihkweea! Hear me, see me!” She prayed for protection for her people in her native tongue, and instantly the assault stopped, their attackers backing away slowly. A gravelly voice answered her, speaking in a similar Kickapoo tongue, �śYou are one of the people?” Chancho scurried toward the others on hands and knees while Muddy struggled to draw a full breath. Nena answered calmly, �śWe are of the people, yes.” �śBut your friends are not, he is black and �"” �śYou are white.” Nena responded curtly. Several of their attackers looked back and forth at each other before silently coming to agreement. �śWe must go inside. You will come with us.” They began to close on them, Chancho jumping to his feet. �śWhat are they saying? What’s �"” �śFsscht!” Nena silenced him and rose to her feet as well. She snarled at the one who spoke for the others. �śWe will enter only as guests, not prisoners.” He showed no sign of emotion. �śOf course. We bring no one into our home unless they be a guest. The rest we kill.” This time he waited politely for her, unly e oderstanding that the others could not speak their language. Nena turned to help Muddy up and spoke to him and Chancho in English. �śWe have been invited inside, as friends. It would be seen as a rejection of friendship if we refused.” Chancho grew pale and pointed toward the tiny cave opening. �śGo in there?” �śOtherwise, they will most likely kill us.” He dusted himself off and checked the bleeding from his arm before looking around at the strange yellow eyes gazing back at him. He remembered Nena mentioning how bats avoided small openings for fear of predators. Realizing his predators where already surrounding him he shrugged it off. �śWell, if you put it that way.” He strode toward the cave, �śAt least I don’t have to worry about fitting through there with my sombrero.” Muddy put his hand on Nena’s arm. �śWhat about the horses? We need them.” Nena turned toward the leader and indicated the horses with a point of her chin. He likewise gestured to those next to him who trotted obediently over to the horses. �śWe have a secure place for them. They will be fed and watered.” ~~~ McCutchen had almost fallen asleep when he heard a struggle coming from the fugitive’s camp. He shifted his position to get a better view, but all he could see were faint flashing lights�"glowing apparitions. The strangeness of the sight chilled him, and for several moments he froze. Then a woman’s voice pierced the night with a frightening urgency. What the hell? He tried to get closer, but everything fell silent, and he couldn’t risk giving away his position. He strained his eyes until, for a moment, he thought he saw several figures standing in the shelter of the overhanging rock. Then they were gone, leaving him wondering if the whole thing had been a dream. He waited a few minutes after the last movement before slipping quietly from the brush. Footprints mingled and overlapped so badly it was impossible to tell their number, but certainly more than three. And blood. A trail of blood led toward the mouth of a small cave. McCutchen drew his second Colt and advanced on the opening, a storm of thoughts circling in his head. Who the hell lived in a place like this? And what had they done with his fugitives? What was he going to do now if he found them? Before he could think his way clear of the questions he crouched and ducked his head inside the cave, leading with his shiny .45s. A heavy thud reverberated from the back of the small cave and he froze, begging his eyes to adjust to the brand new depth of darkness inside. A skittering across the cave floor grew louder in his ears. He stretched the surface space of his eyes until they were white saucers in the blackness. Closer. The skittering echoed in the small space, making it impossible to locate the exact source. He had only barely entered the opening of the cave, and despite himself was instinctively backing out, when his eyes caught a flicker of a shadow flying toward him. He flashed his pistols toward the movement, but it caught him in the hand before he could react. A second quickly followed the first. Two sets of razor sharp teeth clutched his hand in a searing pain, and ground his bones like a paires t. < of reciprocating bear traps. Stumbling backwards, he flung himself toward the opening. He threw his guns out into the night ahead of him, but he couldn’t shake the monsters clinging to his left hand. Violently he clipped the top of his head on the low rock at the mouth of the cave and pitched out of the opening. He slammed his hand down on the rocks as he fell, in a vein attempt to free himself from the beasts that seized him. In the dim light of the night air he finally beheld his attackers, two black-shelled beetles, each almost a foot long. The insects where terrifying in size and were ripping his hand apart in their claws. He seized a loose rock and brought it crashing down on the back of one of them. The shell split and gushed a sticky green ooze. The dying insect pitched with seizure, releasing a shrill cry. McCutchen raised the rock again, but before he could bring it down the remaining beetle ripped his ring finger from his hand and flickered back into the shelter of the cave. �śGood God!” McCutchen clutched his wounded hand and stared in shock where the finger had been moments before. He gathered himself and struggled to his feet with difficulty. Putting his good hand to his head, he pulled it away covered in blood. �śIf that ain’t a good God damn.” He had forgotten hitting his head. �śMy hat.” He panicked. His grandfather’s Stetson rested in a heap next to the mouth of the cave. Returning his Colts to their holsters, he inched toward the opening which had transformed into a yawning nightmare, a blackness within the blackness of night. But nothing on the whole damn planet would separate him from his hat, without killing him first. He snatched it and staggered into the woods toward the first aid kit he kept in Chester’s saddle bags. ~~~ Together, the friends followed the glittering, faintly luminescent hides through winding crawlspaces for half an hour until they stood inside a much larger subterranean room. Without a sound the leader left them to spread advance word of their arrival. Chancho’s jaw dropped as he gazed around the room. For a hundred feet the walls of the cave were lined with tiny, twinkling lights�"nothing like open flames or oil lamps. His hosts paid no attention as he stepped toward the nearest ones. Bending down to inspect one more closely, it buzzed lightly in his ears. Upon touching it he realized with sudden shock it was electric. The whole length of the room buzzed with electric lights, frustrating every potential shadow. The glorious effect drove away every ounce of foreboding he had felt about being underground. Any sense of claustrophobia disappeared. �śElectric lights.” He whispered to himself. �śIncreíble.” � Stalactites hung from the ceiling while helictites decorated the walls. One wall contained dozens of large crystals, glowing with luminescence. Chancho inched away from the entrance as the cave dwellers who had accompanied them began to spread out and find places to rest. Only one of them remained behind to guard the entrance. It appeared they were indeed guests. With his curiosity totally overwhelming his fear, Chancho wandered about the narrow cavern, which turned out to be more of a passage. Generally oblong in shape, over a hundred feet long and twenty feet across at its widest point, narrower necks broke the space up into a series of chambers sometimes connected wes Generalith multiple windows and passageways. As Chancho advanced along the main path it became clear that there were others in the cavern as well, many others. Almost every new chamber held either an individual or a family, each of them staring intently at him. Self-conscious, he looked down at himself. Bedraggled and dirty, he had gone from flood to cave, and his arm was dripping blood onto the rock floor. Without noise an elderly woman approached him, giving him a slight start. She nodded, indicating his wound, and beckoned him to follow. He looked back the way he had come. He could see Muddy sitting where they had entered, his hulking presence a smudge against the glowing rock wall of the cave. No harm in seeking medical attention, I suppose. She nodded for him to sit while she took a wooden box from a shelf carved in the rock. As she studied his arm she clucked softly to herself before opening the box and taking out a small tin can. She unscrewed the top revealing a brush dripping with black ooze. Gently she scraped off the excess ooze and scooted closer to Chancho. As he held his arm out to her she revealed a toothless grin. Then, lightning quick, she snatched his arm out of mid air and lavished the medicinal ooze on the wound. Chancho clutched his arm, gritting his teeth and holding back the temptation to cry out. He squeezed his eyes tight, the flesh of his arm boiling. Then he heard a clicking and felt subtle pinches around the edge of the wound. Opening his eyes, he saw a huge, black beetle gnawing at his arm. He barked while fumbling backwards off his perch. Before he could get to his feet another sound swelled the cavern and pulsed around the inside of his head, like blood pushing through veins, or an owl’s wings beating the air. He stood, trying to identify the source, but it surrounded him, echoing off every wall. Finally he looked back at the old woman. She was laughing, quaking almost silently, creating only a small guttural sound in the back of her throat. Looking at the others, he realized everyone was laughing�"at him. Their laughter filled the space with a pulse, creating the sensation of being a baby in a womb. The sound, the light, the presence of so many others, it warmed him. Retaking his seat in front of the old woman, he did his best to mimic their laughter. She steadied herself and took the beetle between her finger and thumb. She held it close to a sticky gauze which it seized hungrily in its pincers. After a few seconds the beetle, encrusted with strands of gauze, ate at the skin around the rough edges of his wound. As it did so the sticky strands wove in and out, back and forth, across the wound with the movement of the beetle’s pincers. Chancho gripped his elbow, holding his arm still. Amazingly, the blood that had been seeping from the wound clung to the clot forming between the black ooze and the strands of gauze. The old lady put the beetle back in its cage and dropped it in the box. With a clean cloth dipped in water she dabbed the wound gently. The throbbing subsided. If he hadn’t been looking at the wound he wouldn’t have known it was there. �śIncreíble,” he whispered. Before he could think about the language barrier he asked the woman, �śWhat was that?” The woman smiled. �śOh, sorry. I forgot �"” �śGuano.” Chancho flinched, �śYou speak English?” The woman cocked her head, giving him a toothless grin. Her yellow eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, her cheeks irritated and red. �śGuano.” �śGuano?” Chancho finally understood. He put his nose to the wound and sniffed. �śAy caramba. Guano.” He closed his eyes and started to laugh, this time assimilating the native form much more naturally. While he was laughing the same gravelly voice he had heard outside announced from behind him in adequate English, �śThe chief is ready to meet you.” ~~~ Nena, Muddy and Chancho were ushered through a series of narrow passageways and small rooms until they entered a luxurious, yawning cavern. It buzzed with the gentle hum of electric lights, the walls smooth and curving like the dried bones of a giant. Several surfaces boasted ornate paintings and tapestries varying from story panels to impressionistic art. The room so overwhelmed them it took several moments to realize a man sat on the far end among a heap of cushions. Their escort indicated they were to move forward. Nena found it natural to take the lead, still the voice of negotiation for her people. But this time she negotiated with her people as well, and had no idea of what to negotiate. She played through several possibilities in her mind. What sort of recompense would the cave dwellers want now that the three of them knew of their existence? Would it be as easy as swearing to remain silent, or would there be blood? And even more basic, who where these people? And what were they doing here? Finally the chief spoke, in English. �śWelcome. I hope you have not been treated too roughly. We are not accustomed to guests.” He was a short man, elderly, but not infirm, with white, wispy hair. His nose hooked so sharply it jutted towards the ground. But his eyes pierced them and his gaze was strengthened by his jaw. He invited them to join him on the cushions where he sat cross-legged.� As they sat Nena responded. �śWe were treated no worse than I would have expected from proud Kickapoo warriors.” She crafted her words so as to compliment her host while portraying personal strength. The chief nodded. �śWe have not maintained much of a warrior tradition, but we do what we must to survive.” He was self-deprecating, surprising Nena. Maybe these where not to be negotiations after all. �śIt looks to me you are doing much more than merely surviving. These caves are truly remarkable.” �śThank you, we are proud of them. At first everything we did was from necessity. But that was over ninety years ago. During my lifetime we have shifted our focus to discovery. It has made life underground,” he hesitated, �śmore pleasant.” Nena did not know where to go next with the conversation, but before she could continue Chancho interrupted, �śIt’s simply amazing. How do you generate electricity for your lights?” He waved his arms about energetically as he spoke. The chief shook briefly with silent laughter. �śYes, we’ve only had those for the last several years. I am proud to say they are a product of my granddaughter, Crystal. She was the one who first thought of gathering the cave winds to turn wheels producing electricity. We have three small generators that create power for ateughter, Crour lights.” �śWonderful!” Chancho clapped. �śLike windmills for pumping water. It’s so simple.” The chief smiled, �śSometimes it’s the simplest solutions that are the hardest to see.” Chancho nodded. Nena asserted herself back into the conversation. �śSo you have been living here secretly all these years?” She put emphasis on the word �Śsecretly.’ �śYes,” the chief closed his eyes before continuing, �śwe have remained hidden.” He opened them. �śYou are from Mexico, correct?” �śYes. My people still live there. I moved north,” she indicated Muddy with a point of her chin, �śfor my man.” The chief nodded. �śMany of us were also from Mexico. We were part of the Kickapoo that left to return to Indian territory, but we did not make it. It was reported that Indian territory was shrinking as its inhabitants grew. Without a home ahead of us or behind us we decided to go no further.” Nena could no longer contain her excitement, �śThen you are indeed relatives.” The chief continued, �śAt first we used the caves only for shelter at night and for temporary defense against our enemies. Then it became plain that we would never be safe in a world no longer our own. Not just our land had been taken, but our way of life. Finally, the simple answer came to light. We discovered the vastness of the caves out of curiosity. We carved homes from them out of necessity, until the space within the earth finally became a place to ourselves.” Chancho asked, �śHow many of you are there?” �śThat, I will not say, but there are many.” The chief looked from person to person, gripping them with his piercing eyes. �śThe only question that remains, is whether you will be numbered with them.” The friends glanced back and forth at each other, unsure how to answer. �śAs you have observed, our existence here depends on secrecy. A secrecy we have maintained with diligence for over three generations. It would not do for us to betray those efforts with neglect.” Nena tensed. It had been a negotiation all along, only she had been lulled asleep during the process. Her mind flashed in an effort to detect what ground she had lost. What strength could she still bring to bear? Would they be required to stay here? The chief continued, �śIt has also become apparent we cannot remain detached from the world above us.” His eyes flashed to each of them in turn. �śWe need friends. Allies. Family,” he nodded more to himself than anyone else, �śwho live on the surface. We need a connection to the outside world we can trust will not betray our secret. I am asking you to be that connection.” Nena was shocked. She looked at Muddy, who raised his eyebrows. She turned toward the chief. �śBut you don’t�"” He interrupted her. �śNot one of you has looked selfishly or acted selfishly toward each other or your surroundings since you have entered my sight. We live closely with each other. It has become impossible to hide our intentions from each other. Yours are as clear to me as my own. You,” he nodded toward Nena, �śare upset for letting down your guard. Your only intent upon entering was to ter eanegotiate the safety of your people. You,” he indicated Muddy, �śare unable to disguise your love and passion for your woman, and your concern about troubles that await you on the surface. And you,” now he nodded towards Chancho. �śYou have made my decision easy. You have shown no interest in your own safety, only the pure joy of discovery.” �śI know,” he continued, �śyour time is short with us, and so I make my invitation bluntly. I know you will not threaten our safety.” He looked Nena in the eyes. �śNeither will we threaten yours.” He looked at Chancho, �śBut will you join our people?” Nena looked into Muddy’s eyes. He trusted her completely. She shifted her gaze to Chancho, whose eyes swam with tears he tried to hold back. She knew he felt an outcast, without family. To an extent they all did. But for Chancho, the chief’s offer represented the fulfillment of one of his deepest dreams�"to be part of a people. Chancho gripped both Nena and Muddy by their arms and smiled at them before looking longingly back into the chief’s deep gaze. �śSi, se�ąor. We will.” ~~~ After the decision had been made the chief gestured for several other members of the tribe to be let into the room. As a council they briefly discussed the nature of their relationship with their new family members. Chancho found the whole process amazing, but with much of the conversation conducted in the old Algonquian tongue, his attention flittered. He studied the paintings on the walls, learning what he could from the story panels depicting the descent of the people from the surface to the caves below. They also repeatedly depicted the image of the beetle and the bat. With a chill he wondered if the cave dwellers tamed the bats for different uses like the old lady had with the beetle. His attention snapped back the conversation as it shifted to English. �śThe man on the surface. What of him?” A cave dweller asked. Nena put her hand on Chancho’s. �śHe is an enemy. You may have saved us by bringing us here. We did not expect him to be so close behind us.” �śHe is white man’s law?” Muddy spoke for the first time since entering the caves. �śYes. He is a Texas Ranger. He pursued us here out of no fault of our own and seeks to arrest or kill us because of a medicine and intoxicant that we carry.” He realized he did not know what had happened to their packs. �śOr that we did carry.” The gravelly voice interjected, �śWe have all of your things. Nothing was left behind.” Muddy nodded. �śIt is called marihuana, and the white man is frightened by its properties. But our people, the Mexicans,” he nodded toward Chancho, �śand the black Seminole. We cherish it.” �śWe would appreciate a sample. If it is so important we would like the opportunity to study the properties you speak of.” Chancho was still trying to catch up, �śWhat about the ranger? Is he at our camp?” The man with the gravely voice interjected again, �śHe tried to follow us intofolr packs. the caves. He was well armed, so the watchman released two sentinel beetles and sealed the entrance. That is all we know for the moment.” �śSentinel beetles?” Chancho couldn’t help himself. Everyone fell quiet, until finally the chief spoke. �śThey are one of our greatest accomplishments, our guardians. But they are very dangerous, even to us.” He pointed with his chin at Chancho’s arm. �śYou have met one of our smaller beetles, a pet. We use them for many things. But the largest of them are trained for defense. Half a dozen sentinels can clean a man’s bones in an hour. If two have been released at the entrance you used we will have to take you out another direction.” �śAnd the ranger?” Chancho asked. The chief shrugged, returning to the greater topic at hand. �śI am sure there is much you would like to know about us and our existence underground. There is also much we would like to know about changes occurring on the surface, but our time is short. It is unlikely the man hunting you was killed by our sentinels. When two are released it is just a warning. We have waited many months to meet you. We can wait longer to hear what you know. For now, in exchange for some of your marihuana, we would like to offer you safe passage through our caves and some simple gifts to assist you in your travels.” The chief pointed with his chin and the men standing around the entrance snapped into action. The man with the gravelly voice returned the travelers’ satchels to them while two others sat a wooden crate down next to the chief. Chancho unrolled his bundle and removed a large pile of drying leaves and buds. Their pungent smell curled from the canvas and slowly filled the room. �śTo heighten the intoxicant and medicinal value, these buds should be dried evenly for another week.” He touched his finger to the sticky residue oozing from one of the buds. �śThis sap contains its richest properties. If smoked or ingested it can help reduce tumors, settle indigestion or remedy pain.” Chancho shrugged and shook his head. �śI’m sorry. There are many others among my people who could tell you more.” The chief nodded. �śIt is enough. During the years of peace our secrecy has bought we have developed a hunger for discovering natural properties. Many of my people, my granddaughter among them, will enjoy the mystery. We thank you.” He reached into the crate that sat beside him and pulled out a smaller wood box similar to the one Chancho had seen earlier. �śThis is a medical kit. It contains a salve made from guano beneficial for all external wounds. It will prevent infection and promote healing. The gauze is made from living rock and spider silk, but do not apply it directly. It will irritate in large amounts and is very rare. You will want to use this.” The chief reached into a small cage and pulled out a five inch long beetle, gripping it with thumb and forefinger. �śThe beetles have developed quite an appetite for spiders and bat guano, as well as human flesh. It is best to keep him hungry, but if you do not need him for several days you should feed him with salve. Manure of any sort will work for a spell.” He put the beetle back. �śThese I do not believe you have seen yet.” He pulled another wooden box from the crate and handed it to the man with the gravelly voice who took over the explanation. �śThese are our last line of defense. We havefe the mae used them only once when a group of bandits persisted in using our caves.” He opened the lid of the box and revealed several dried gourds. He removed one and handed it to Muddy, who hefted it and passed it to Chancho. �śThese are filled with a paste made from cooking a mixture of lamp fuel and guano. It is difficult to make, but once it has cooled it can be handled safely, until it is mixed again with heat.” He indicated a wick drilled through the hard shell. �śLight this fuse and stand clear. They are effective from several feet, even in the open, and more so in contained areas like a cave.” The three friends nodded and handed the gourd back to the man with the gravelly voice. He returned it to its case and moved the entire crate closer to Muddy. After a short discussion as to which exit the travelers would use, the chief stood to indicate the conclusion of their meeting. He approached each of the three friends in turn and formally introduced himself. �śNow you know me. I am Sun Never Sets.” Nena bowed, �śNow you know me. I am Nenaiquita Losoya.” Next Muddy replied, �śNow you know me. I am Monday Sampson, known to my friends and family as Muddy.” Finally Chancho. �śNow you know me. I am Del Rio Villarreal, but known as Chancho.” Sun Never Sets backed away from Chancho and smiled. �śBefore I became chief I was known simply as Sunny. It was what my parents called me. I am too old for formality now, so I would like it very much if you called me that as well.” ~~~ After being dismissed from Sunny’s chambers they found themselves in a section of living cave they had not yet seen. A low table of rock carved from the floor ran the length of the narrow cavern where dozens of Kickapoo were gathered for an evening meal. On seeing the food Chancho’s stomach growled. Welcomed as family, they ate roasted bat, a hardy bread, and a paste explained as being made from beetles which tasted like ground chicken and pecans. Some members of the tribe, preferring days on the surface, were elected as farmers, hunters and gatherers. The conflicting schedules meant that the evening meal was the one time of the day and night when everyone in the tribe could gather around subterranean tables to break bread. For some it served as breakfast while for others it was supper. Nena fetched some dried fruit from their supplies which was received enthusiastically. After eating their fill, everyone broke into smaller clusters, talking among themselves. Several curious cave-dwellers surrounded Nena, detaining her with questions of her heritage and life on the surface. Muddy entertained a huddle of small children by making funny faces, even before the meal finished. Afterwards they assaulted him, climbing up and down his massive frame like the trunk of a tree. In the midst of the after meal frivolity Chancho remained, more or less, by himself. At first he gazed around the room basking in what he considered his new family�"his stomach full and heart happy. Eventually he wandered from the main cavern into smaller tributaries. Most of them ended quickly in small pools of crystal clear water or living walls covered with mesmerizing rock formations. Eventually he found a darkened corridor that tapered into a small opening with no light coming from the other side. He stooped, putting his head close until he felt the breeze created from the narrow opening and sniffed a faint odor of sulfur and something else even more noxious. Having totally forgotten his previous anxiety for small spaces, he had just stuck his head into the mouth when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder. �śBats. It is not safe for you,” said the same gravelly voice from before. Chancho turned around and stood before the man who had just hours ago attacked him. Tall and slender, he could have easily been younger than Chancho, but he did not look it. He smiled, the gesture ill-suited for his hawkish face. �śNow you know me. I am Rock With Eyes.” Chancho bowed. �śI am sorry, for how we met.” Chancho smiled. �śI did not know you then. But now you know me. My name is Chancho.” The two men embraced and started back toward the room with the long table. �śWhy are the bats dangerous?” �śIt is not the bats, but the beetles, and the gas. The beetles live off guano. The guano produces a poisonous gas known as ammonia which, when mixed with water, creates ammonium hydroxide.” �śBut how have you learned�"�ś �śWe know many things.” Rock With Eyes attempted another smile. Then he indicated the red irritation of his skin. �śWe have grown somewhat accustomed to the gas. I can tolerate very high amounts, but it is eventually lethal. Some of my people believe the gas is what causes our eyes to change.” Chancho looked more deeply into his strange yellow eyes. �śIs it just the color? You know, that changes?” Rock With Eyes shook his head. �śIf any light is present at all, I can see clearly in it. My eyes are the sharpest in the tribe. It was the reason my parents named me. It is natural for me to watch.” The two men arrived back at the table where Muddy and Nena were still engaged. �śBut now it is time to return to the surface. The sun is rising, and your horses will not be hidden from anyone with keen senses.” Chancho had lost track of time and forgotten the reality that awaited them on the surface. All the chupacabras of the Anglo’s world had seemed miles away, when in reality only a hundred yards of rock separated him. Thoughts of the rinche and the endangered orphanage settled like a stone in his stomach.� He knew they had to go, but still, he regretted leaving so quickly. They gathered their things, packing the gourds and medical kit in their bundles, and began the journey out from under the hills. For what seemed like miles of pitch black caverns they followed Rock With Eyes, until they reached a small room dimly lit with natural light. The air was slightly warmer and dryer, and their movement kicked up a light, choking dust. �śI cannot accompany you to the surface. It is much too bright for my eyes.” Chancho peered toward the opening. It looked to him that the sun wasn’t even up. �śThere is a watchman standing guard over your horses. Ask him and he will point you in whichever direction you would like.” In the dark he embraced each of them before they turned to go. �śWait.” Chancho squinted in the darkness as a blue glimmer emerged from Rock With Eyes’ clothing. �śTake this. An apology.” The crystal blade hung suspended in the air. Chancho hesitated. �śYou don’t need �"” ghtt=" �śPlease.” Rock With Eyes tilted the hilt toward him until Chancho received it with silent thanks. Before they stepped out into the world above ground, Rock With Eyes called out to them. �śWhen you return make sure you introduce yourselves by the names which we know you. I would not want to make the same mistake twice.” Chancho peered back into the darkness where he could see two glowing, yellow eyes. �śThank you, and don’t worry.” FIFTEEN The Plot Thickens McCutchen encouraged Chester carefully up the steep slope of the canyon wall. At the first hint of light he had picked up the tracks of the fugitives’ horses and followed them. His fugitives had not been on the beasts when they were lead up the slope by night, but after the strange events of last night he embraced the basics. Fumbling with his good hand, he pulled the smoking tin from his duster and lit the tip of a fresh marihuana cigarette, his second in the last few hours. He never permitted himself such an indulgence, but the vacant real estate that used to accommodate his left ring finger throbbed. Removed at the second knuckle only the blister from his wedding ring remained, a burn scar from a previous life. Now that his finger was gone, the stub felt more naked and the memory more raw, so he wrapped it with extra gauze and smoked. He puffed on the cigarette, elevating the bandaged hand above his head. The pain subsided and returned to a manageable level. He could not begin to understand the events of the last several hours, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. His thoughts a minefield, he eluded encounters with painful memories, avoided past failures, all the while forcing his mind to flicker lightly across every page of his history. He needed the big picture in moments like these, moments when a single minute detail could cause him to lose his way. Moments when the abstract grew tedious. He was missing a finger. That was concrete enough, and someone owed him. He would catch the bastards and make them pay. Refocusing his determination, he banished thoughts of failure and swallowed his embarrassment. As long as the tracks continued he had all the means he needed to set things right. After an hour he discovered where the horses had been held overnight. Tracks lead in and out of a small hollow just below the crest of a hill. A cave opened in the back of it, large enough for a man to crawl through. �śDamn caves.” McCutchen’s bloody stump throbbed at the site of it. He reined Chester to a stop shy of entering the hollow and dismounted to take a closer look at the tracks. As he suspected, the tracks were shallower and cleaner on the way in, while leaving a deeper impression on the way out. The three horses had left with riders, probably within the hour. Loath to get too close to the cave opening, he inched further into the hollow to inspect the footprints before they mounted the horses. Four sets of tracks. One had accompanied the horses into the hollow. The other three he had seen in the Catholic Hills, two sets of boots, one huge, and a smaller set of moccasins. After hearing a woman’s voice cry out the night before he suspected the smaller set belonged to her�"two men and a woman. He backed away from the cave and led Chester along the trail on foot, looking for one more critical piece of evidence to set his mind at rest. Just before he gave up the search he found it, a marihuana bud. These were no doubt his fugitives, and they still carried at least a portion of the illicit crop�"the corrupting element he swore to keep out of Texas. The fresh trail called to him, so he kicked Chester into a trot and followed it south. With the fugitives aware of his pursuit, it proved to be a difficult task. All day he struggled with the fact that he simply didn’t know his quarry well enough. They had kept to themselves in the Catholic Hills. O’Brien and his daughter had helped them, and O’Brien took a sharp dislike to most. But they had paid him well. They had come out of the caves alive, and with the assistance of someone. He still couldn’t put it together. They were the best he’d ever tracked, and he worried he was losing too much time. Steadily heading south, he worried he’d run out of Texas soil with no legal reason to pursue them into Mexico. If he hoped to stop them before that happened, he had to figure out their motives�"connect the dots. They hadn’t tried to jump him. Not once during the course of the day had they attempted to set a trap or go on the offensive. They knew he was alone. Strange that a group of three hadn’t given it more thought. And why south? Why now? Had they only chosen Mexico after they discovered his pursuit? Had the flash flood changed their plans? They were too smart to be playing it by ear. McCutchen continued to follow the trail, wracking his brain to gain the upper hand. They had caravanned north, met up with O’Brien and then fled south toward mysterious caves. Finally he landed on it. They were too smart. He’d assumed all along the fugitives were slow-witted, lonely outsiders. But their survival over the last twenty four hours refuted that conclusion. Most runners didn’t make it half a day. Not only were they intelligent, they seemed to understand people, or more likely, and this seemed to be the salient point, they knew people. These three were not loners. The large crop of marihuana, the special harvester, meeting up with O’Brien in the middle of the night. Bastards. They beat him because they were part of a larger syndicate, links in a chain.� A network growing, storing and distributing marihuana in the state of Texas. The caves had been a trap. Whoever had helped them escape had no doubt dug up the buried marihuana by now, stashing it in the caves. But if the fugitives were only growers, who ran the operation? And why create a new market for an unknown intoxicant with the demand for illegal booze skyrocketing? What value could there be in moving marihuana north across the border? Dammit, it didn’t make sense. The rhythmic movement of Chester’s hooves along with the practice of splitting his attention between the trail and the reasoning behind the trail hypnotized him. His mind sharpened during the trance, coming to a pinpoint focus. After hours of scanning his thoughts for flotsam the moment of discovery was at hand. What forces along the border would profit? The border. That was the key. The borderlands were the most unstable region in the whole of the United States. Surely some would seek to profit from that, at fuld profind some to proffer it to others. Finally the connection he sought slammed into place like a keystone falling from heaven to miraculously complete an intricate arch. Twice in his career as a ranger he encountered advanced German weaponry employed in conflict along the border. The first had been a Huertista stash south of Matamoros. Grenades, machine guns, things he couldn’t identify. That episode ended with a chain of events destroying the entire munitions dump. Big Benny Lickter had been the second. Now certain of it, no other explanation existed for a German Jewish immigrant turned sheriff to possess such advanced machinery and weapons. Friends from across the pond indeed. Lastly, there had been the pamphlets on Bronco O’Brien’s desk. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, Rocksprings being on the edge of German hill country. McCutchen nodded to himself as he emerged from his trail-bound trance. He’d heard fear-mongering politicians prattle on about the threat from German immigrants and spies, but dismissed it as another chupacabra. Feasibly, the German government could be working through a complacent Mexican government to destabilize the border. Crazy, yes. Impossible, no. That meant his fugitives might be bolting for the border. Or they might be aiming for another rendezvous with the final link in the chain, their last connection. His gut told him it was the latter. Everywhere they’d gone so far had been intentional, not a mad dash, but a strategic plan. The town of Brackettville dotted the map directly between him and the border. Having assumed they were trying to steer clear of people, he had failed to see the pattern emerging, the network. Brackettville wasn’t an inconvenience to avoid, but their last connection. It struck him in the face like a fist. All he had to do now, was figure out the connection. ~~~ Muddy, Nena and Chancho reached Brackettville after dark. They paused on the edge of town to discuss their options one last time. �śWe could head for Mexico.” Nena leaned forward in her saddle. �śIt would be possible to reach the border before sunrise.” Muddy grunted. �śPossible. But difficult. There are many eyes on the border.” Chancho was too tired to think straight. He sank deeper inside himself with exhaustion. As if Muddy could sense it, he continued, �śBesides, we need to rest. What good will it do to step in a rabbit hole in the dark?” Nena glowered. �śWe do not need to rest. Chancho needs to rest.” The sound of his name snapped him out of his trance. �śI’m sorry, mis amigos.” He took a deep breath. �śBut I do not want to go to Mexico. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not yet.” �śNot yet?” Nena narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him through the dim twilight. �śWhy not yet?” Chancho sighed. �śI can’t go to Mexico,” he paused, �śuntil I have the money from the marihuana.” �śThe money? We don’t even have the marihuana.” Nena was incredulous. Muddy shushed her and waited for Chancho to continue. �śI wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” Chancho pinched the bridge of his nose. Now that ose Nena opened her mouth to speak, but caught herself. Muddy remained a statue on Tripalo’s back. �śThe orphanage where I grew up is in trouble. Three years ago I helped steal a massive wealth of Constitutional gold. One of Villa’s old lieutenants, Primitivo Vega, has most likely burned the orphanage’s fields. He’s threatening the Sisters unless I lead him to the gold.” Nena could no longer keep quiet. �śBut the ranger?” �śHe overheard our conversation�"shot the bar to hell after I left.” Worse than Nena’s white hot anger was Muddy’s steady accusation, �śWhy did you not tell us?” Chancho shriveled inside. �śI’m sorry. I need the money from the marihuana to help the Sisters.” He grew more urgent. �śThe land belongs to God. And the first fruits, it seemed like a sign�"that the crop was meant to help them. But,” he paused, �śI thought you would want to leave before I could harvest it.” �śYou’re damn right!” Nena thumped her saddle horn. �śNena.” Muddy spoke the single word with force enough to stun a bull, like a lead pipe across its brow. He turned to Chancho. �śMarihuana or no, we would have found a way to help the Sisters. We are friends.” Muddy’s disappointment crushed Chancho. Why hadn’t he seen that being loyal to his family at Mt. Sabinas meant being loyal to his whole family? As small as it was, he couldn’t afford to lose any part. �śYou’re right. I couldn’t see past myself. I felt it was my fault, so I wanted to save them.” �śAnd now what are we to do?” Nena hissed, �śyou’ve left us no choice.” Muddy’s eyes shown in the dark as he turned toward his wife. �śI don’t want to go to Mexico.” Nena breathed rapidly, her chest heaving. ”He has already put our lives at risk with his lies. How many more will it take? If he wants to help the Sisters at Mt. Sabinas, I say we leave him there to replant the fields himself. There is no longer a home for us here!” Chancho surged back to life. �śBut what about Sunny, and Bronco, and Chloe? We’re fighters in a new revolution. Don’t you see? Birth directed us. We’ve been stewed in stories of freedom. We’ve been trained in war and revolution. We’ve been separated from family to seek a larger one.” Chancho grew animated in the settling darkness. �śAnd this has become our home.” He swept his arms out wide indicating the lands surrounding them. �śAnd our home needs our help.” Muddy rose his hand to interrupt, but Chancho continued. �śThis land has chosen us.” Nena could no longer tolerate Chancho’s fantasies. "You are as blind as you are crazy." Chancho had insulted her character, accusing her of disloyalty to family. Not so long ago his words would have been cut short, a knife at his throat. �śWe do nothing to help our friends and family by staying here, but only put them in harms way. And how has this land chosen us? We are wanted criminals.” She shot Muddy an angry eye. �śThe ranger will follow us and threaten anyone who helps us.” Bella pawed the ground nd t how has ervously as Nena drew her crossbow and held it in her lap. Muddy slapped his fist into his open palm. �śStop. We have come to Brackettville already. The ranger will follow, just as you’ve said. We have already involved those who live here. That was my decision. Chancho has lied, but lies are not new to any of us.” He turned to Chancho and took a deep breath as Tripalo shifted his weight. "The crop belongs to all of us. The decision on how to use it is not yours to make. However, we now have more immediate matters to tend to." Neither Nena nor Chancho dared interrupt Muddy as he continued. �śWe have not been defeated. We are not lost or alone, and we should not act that way.” His words were hammers on anvils. �śWe will take the position of strength and stand up to the ranger when the time comes.” He put his hand on Nena’s shoulder as tenderly as he could. �śBut for now, I agree with Chancho. We should not go to Mexico.” Nena avoided his attempts at affection and reasserted her control. �śCome then. Main street will be trafficked enough to mask our tracks. If you insist on staying here overnight we should at least ensure we aren’t found out by morning.” She could not mask her fury at losing the battle, but she would not cede the war. ~~~ Before the moon rose over the treetops Muddy reined Tripalo to a stop in a neighborhood designed for decommissioned black Seminole scouts. His two years at Fort Clark left him with strong connections in the old troop, connections more willing to overlook his taking a Kickapoo wife than his immediate family had been. � With palpable tension still sparking between them, the three friends dismounted in front of a small wooden framed house. It looked like all the other houses on the block, save a single light flickering behind drawn curtains where a window had been opened to the evening breeze. As Muddy knocked on the front door a rifle barrel jutted out the opened window, pointing straight at Chancho. He and Nena froze. �śJesse! It’s Muddy.” �śMuddy?” A head stuck out the window above the barrel. �śWell, I’ll be. Get yourself inside!” The rifle barrel withdrew and a few seconds later the door opened. �śMad Muddy Sampson. I’ll be derned.” The two men embraced each other and slapped backs hardily. �śAnd is this that firecracker Nenaiquita? Give this old rascal a hug.” Nena obeyed, doing her best not to smile. �śAnd who’s this?” Muddy made the introduction as Chancho greeted his new host. �śThis is my good friend, Chancho Villarreal.” The two men shook hands. �śIt is my honor to meet you, Mr. Warrior. Muddy has spoken of you often.” �śOh please, call me Jesse. And I swear half of the stuff Muddy says ain’t truth. But I reckon you two know that by now.” The old man slapped Chancho on the back, forcing him to jump to keep his balance. �śJust the other day I heard tell of a goat-bleeding monster goes by El Chupacabra. Sounded just like a story Mad Muddy used to tell around the campfire, �Ścept folk were repeating it like it was true.” Muddy lifted his hand as if to speak. �śBut I’m sure you guys probably already know all about that, huh? Now come on, bring those horses around back and we’ll get ya’ll settled in.”sets ha After unsaddling the horses and scooping a coffee can of grain for each, the group settled around the kitchen table. Muddy started the conversation. �śYour greeting has gotten stiff since I saw you last.” �śHell, this whole town has gone stiff since you left. The war in Europe got the military coiled up like a rattler that don’t know where to strike. With the revolution still going on in Mexico more peons are flooding across the river now then ever, and bandits too. For the most part people overlook a small bunch of dark-skinned ex-scouts, but you never know. Don’t count to get lazy.” Jesse smiled a patchwork smile revealing every other tooth gone. �śI don’t suppose so.” Muddy set his coffee cup on the table. �śYou seem to know an awful lot about the situation.” �śYessir.” Jesse grinned again. �śA man’s gotta’ eat ain’t he?” Muddy stared back at him. �śWell, I’ve been working, part-time mind you, as a guide of sorts.” Nena asked, �śAnd who exactly would an old scout be guiding?” Jesse slapped his leg, �śDagnabbit if you young’uns ain’t worse than that slippery old Capt’n Chandler. Greasy white feller. But enough about me. I knew when the locals started yapping about Muddy’s fictional monster that ya’ll be by sooner or later, and it does this old man good to have the company.” Jesse shook his head. �śThem white folk, they tend to find all sorts of things to demonize, whether it be booze or black folk. But a demon strengthened by two Indians and protected by a Mexican, that’s making it awful easy." He slapped the table. "So out with the bad news that brung ya.” Muddy swallowed a gulp of coffee. �śA Texas Ranger has tracked us to Brackettville, determined to catch or kill us. Or both.” Jesse scratched his ear as Nena and Chancho took sips from their coffee. �śAin’t that beat all. Two years ago you was tracking outlaws for this damn country and now they tracking you. Can’t say I’m surprised. There any point in me asking why, other than the bull plop about El Chupacabra?” Chancho grimaced and looked down at his cup, wondering if Muddy would wait for him to explain all over again. Instead Muddy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a couple of marihuana leaves. �śWe think because of these.” �śWhat? Marihuana? That don’t make no sense. There ain’t no law against marihuana.” Muddy continued, �śWe’ve grown and harvested lots of it, and it seems the Anglos fear it much like alcohol.” �śWell, I’ll be.” Jesse nodded. �śHell, there ain’t no figuring whites and what they fear. If you say so, I don’t doubt it. But it ain’t no matter to me. There’s a slobbering El Chupacabra behind every bush these days.” He took a gulp of coffee. �śYou say this ranger’s tracking you. Should I be on my porch with my babies?” The old man reached under the table and produced two mare’s leg 44-40 lever-action pistols, cut down from Winchester 92s. Chancho choked on his coffee. �śWhat are those?” Muddy took one to look it over more closely. �śJesse, what kind of guide are you?” �śHonestly, fellas. I’m just an old scout too long for this world. I had to find something to pass the days.” �śWoodcarving would pass the days.” Nena said. �śThis is a mite more fun.” He put the mare’s leg on the table. �śI know the land.” He shrugged. �śSome friends needed a favor. The next thing I know I’m showing folk across the border. It keeps me busy and keeps me fed.” �śNo.” Nena interrupted. �śThis is a warrior looking for a warrior’s death.” Jesse grinned. �śAll the same, should I be keeping these handy?” �śThe ranger will know we are in town, but not where.” A second thought occurred to Nena as she spoke. �śUnless someone saw us�"” �śAin’t nobody gonna’ talk to no Texas Ranger about what they saw. This is a military town. Military ain’t been friendly with the rangers since I was a boy first entering this land. Ain’t cut from the same cloth.” Jesse picked at the stubble on his chin. �śNow if the sheriff start poking around�Ś” He trailed off and then started talking more to himself than his guests. �śBut that wouldn’t be till morning at the earliest.” Chancho cleared his throat. He’d been eyeing a closed door behind him, and now looked hopeful. �śMr. Warrior, you wouldn’t happen to have indoor facilities. The coffee, it goes right through me.” �śWhat? That? Yeah, I got a fancy wacha’ majiggy. A water closet.” Chancho pushed his seat back from the table with enthusiasm. �śBut it don’t work. Latrine’s attached to the shed out back.” Jesse thumbed toward the back door. Crestfallen, Chancho trudged outside while Jesse finished his thought from before. �śY’all be fine here �Śtill the morning, but we gotta come up with a plan to get you safely on your way. Now Mexico�"” �śWe’re not going to Mexico.” Muddy interrupted. Nena looked away toward the window. �śNot going to Mexico�Ś” Jesse sputtered. �śWhat in tarnation. That makes things a mite more difficult.” Slowly the old man looked around the table, staring each of them in the eye and thinking. Finally he slapped the table, spilling what was left of his coffee. �śMuddy, you think you could still fly one of those scout planes?” SIXTEEN McCutchen’s Play McCutchen cupped his hand over the phone’s receiver and swore. Ranger headquarters in Austin refused to send help. He was already making things up as he went. Now instead of helping they threatened to recall him. �śDammit, sir. I’m not tending to a pet project or wasting the department’s resources. This ain’t just about marihuana.” He decided to play his last card, knowing it could come back to bite him in the ass if he was wrong. �śI have evidence of German interference and sabotage.” A voiarrele him in tce prattled on for quite some time from the other end of the receiver. McCutchen waited tensely. He had gone this far. �śYes, evidence. German weapons and written propaganda.” An accusatory question echoed from the other end. �śYes. In Texas. That’s what I’ve been saying.” McCutchen rubbed his forehead. �śThree of the growers are meeting with someone else in the chain in Brackettville overnight. I need you to order the local law enforcement to at least help me contain them until morning.” The irritation continued pouring from the earpiece until McCutchen interrupted. �śSir, it does make sense. Why wouldn’t the Germans want to disrupt the border? With America bearing down on them in Europe this could be their last chance to win the war. If our safety at home is threatened who the hell is gonna care about the damned Allies?” It seemed the tide was shifting in his favor. �śYes, marihuana is that dangerous. I’ve seen it up close. It can wreck a man twice as fast as alcohol and turn him three times as evil. And I’m telling you, these men are bringing it to our homes whether we like it or not.” There was a silence on the other end. McCutchen looked around the Sheriff’s Office from his position against the far wall. It was the second to last place he wanted to have this conversation, but the only other phones in town were at the last place, the fort. Finally concessions came from Austin. The captain agreed to send two men to Fredericksburg that night with orders to call the Brackettville Sheriff’s Office in the morning for current information. He also agreed to redirect two rangers recently assigned to Laredo who could be there in 24 hours. Most importantly he released the official order to apprehend the three fugitives using whatever local assistance deemed necessary. Eager to get off the phone, McCutchen thanked him and hung up. The men coming from Laredo meant nothing. They would be too late to help. But the men heading to Fredericksburg, McCutchen could order them to continue on to Rocksprings and round up Bronco and his crew. He would make sure the crotchety old bastard got his comeuppance. As he wondered where the attending deputy had gone off to another officer, whom McCutchen hadn’t heard enter the room, startled him. �śPardon me, ranger, uh�Ś” �śMcCutchen. J.T. McCutchen.” He strode forward to shake his hand. �śAnd you are?” �śDeputy Lipscomb. Sorry, I couldn’t help overhear some of your conversation. What were you saying about the Germans? If you don’t mind me asking.” McCutchen very much minded and didn’t want to waste any more time. But more importantly, he needed local cooperation. He stared at the man. �śI only ask because I’ve run across a couple of Huns on my own. Been working on a pet theory to answer some questions been nagging at me.” He shrugged. �śI thought maybe a ranger with experience along the border might be able to help.” McCutchen nodded. �śTell you what, deputy. You help me find the sheriff and I’ll fill you in.” ~~~ McCutchen pulled off his boots, dropping them beside the bed. It had taken him another hour, but he’d finally forced the sheriff’s hand. With no shortage of grumbling, a dozen men took up watch for any sign of his fugitives, Lipscomb the only eager one of the bunch. Not to mention that by staking his reputation on a theory, McCutchen had gone all or nothingall watch for with ranger headquarters. After everything else, he’d roused an equally grumpy doctor to tend his missing finger. Finally the pounding in both his head and hand subsided as the aspirin kicked in. Exhausted and in desperate need of sleep to untangle his thoughts, he took off his tattered Stetson and lay back on the bed. The hat was an unwelcome reminder of the tarnished glory of the rangers, the glory that his grandfather had once embodied. He wanted more than anything to return that glory, but he doubted the modern Texas citizen would understand the importance of what he was doing. His job had become a thankless one, making it all the more noble and necessary. Slipping off around midnight, he slept until 5:00am when he awoke with a fresh clarity of mind. �śBuffalo soldiers. Of course.” He bolted out of bed and reached for his boots, knocking them over with his bandaged hand. With more intentional efforts he pulled his boots on and stepped outside. Completely dark and quiet, the town square boasted several proud stone buildings guarding an ornate courthouse. McCutchen knew there should be men stationed throughout the town watching for movement. He needed to find the closest one to ask where the retired Negro scouts had settled in town. After pulling his duster back to expose his sidearms, he started waving his hands in the air. Less than a minute later a man emerged from behind a shop across the street and waited on the sidewalk. The man lit a cigarette as McCutchen walked over to greet him. �śI suppose it won’t matter now if I have myself a smoke. Seeing how anyone watching up and down the street would know who and where I was.” He took a puff and continued, �śYou must be the ranger.” McCutchen sized the man up with a glance and decided to allow him a degree of irritation after being on watch most of the night. �śRanger McCutchen.” �śSwisher.” They shook hands. �śWhat can I do ya for, ranger?” McCutchen hesitated. �śLook, I don’t mean to offend, but I’m about to roust a henhouse in the hopes of catching a rooster in the act. More than likely, it ain’t gonna be pretty. I need someone I can depend on to watch my back.” Swisher blew smoke through his nose. �śSo you plan on ruffling some more feathers.” He shrugged. �śThese roosters. They the kind that like to fight?” �śYes.” �śGood.” Swisher tucked his jacket behind his holster. �śWhat do you need?” McCutchen nodded. �śWhere do the old Negro scouts live?” ~~~ The two men ducked down a dark alley bisecting back yards, a constant buzz of crickets masking their movements. Picket fences entangled with vines flanked them on both sides. The homes grew smaller and closer together until finally Swisher stopped next to a large date palm. �śThe next three blocks are mostly retired Buffalo and their families. How do we tell which one?” �śHorses. The fugitives were riding three horses, one of �Śem probably the biggest damn horse you’ve ever seen.” McCutchen pointed acron peight="0" ss the alley and Swisher started to obey. �śWait.” McCutchen turned. �śWhat?” �śI got a better idea.” Swisher squatted down forcing McCutchen to do the same. �śYou say you’re looking for a Negro scout who’d be helping your fugitives navigate the border?” �śIt’s possible. Look, we’re�"” �śI know a feller. Troublemaker. We’ve been watching him for a while.” �śI don’t have time�"” �śDammit, this’ll save you time. He lives on the next block, and there’s a good chance he’s your man.” McCutchen didn’t like surrendering control of his own raid, but this was the local help he’d asked for. �śLead the way. The less time we’re exposed out here the better.” � Taking opposite sides of the street they sidestepped a block before working the next alley over. McCutchen kept his eyes open for signs of the three horses, just in case. Predawn lingered in the air, and he hoped Swisher wasn’t wasting his precious time. �śPssstt.” Swisher waved him over. From behind a dilapidated shed three rumps twitched their tails visibly in the grey light. �śGood job. These are the ones. Now tell me about this troublemaker.” Swisher shook his head. �śNo time for the whole story, but he’s a smuggler.” �śWhat kind of smuggler?” McCutchen inched closer to Swisher’s face. �śA smuggler. Booze, livestock, people.” Swisher shrugged. �śGuns?” Swisher paused slightly. �śYeah, probably.” �śLook. I need to know what sort of firepower I’m gonna run into in there�"” �śHold on a second,” Swisher stopped him. �śIf there’s at least four armed men in there, wouldn’t it be better just to surround the house and wait for �Śem to come out? There’s another watch just a few blocks �"” �śI’m not asking you to go inside. I’m just asking you to watch the back yard and make sure no one gets out, or gets the drop on me.” He rubbed his neck. �śIt’s a small house. One bedroom?” �śYeah, and one room for everything else.” �śGood.” �śAnd you’re just gonna go in the front door?” �śYes.” �śDamn, you rangers are crazy. Suit yourself.” He shook his head. �śI’ll burn anybody that comes out the back, no problem.” McCutchen turned to go. �śWait, he’ll be well armed. If I see anything you should know about, I’ll give you a whistle.” �śGood.” McCutchen started down the alley in order to circle around ci, o to the front when a subtle click registered on a nearly subconscious level�"the click of a double-motion rifle hammer being cocked. He dove at the same time the rotting boards of the picket fence exploded�"the quiet ripped in two with gunfire. He sprawled face first in the dirt as Swisher returned fire. Another blast peppered the fence. He scrambled to his feet and jumped behind the trunk of a palm tree just as a bullet clipped it. �śWhat can you see?” Swisher groaned. �śBoth windows.” �śYou hit?” �śNah, it’s nothing.” McCutchen knew some of the shot must have got him. Not enough powder for a shotgun, he figured they were using rifle rounds loaded with shot. He stepped back from the palm enough to catch a glimpse of the horses. �śJust keep an eye on the horses.” �śJesse! You old bastard.” Swisher called. �śThere’s too many of us. We just want your guests.” McCutchen lowered his voice in the hopes it wouldn’t carry inside the house. �śYou think the others heard the shots?” �śAt least a few of them did.” �śWell it looks like we’ll try it your way after all.” Swisher started to laugh, but was cut short. �śSwisher?” McCutchen heard something like a taut cord being struck, a whisper. �śSwisher?” The deputy leaned against the fence. He heard it again. Swisher’s body jolted before rolling forward revealing two arrows jutting from his rib cage. A voice came from the backdoor. �śWell you can’t have �Śem, you damn Hun!” McCutchen’s eyes widened as he spotted a silent figure in the alley thirty yards past Swisher. He kicked the tree, propelling himself into the alley as a third arrow whizzed past his ear. He squeezed off two rounds before he hit the ground rolling. Through the corner of his eye he saw gunpowder flashes, and a continuous blasting ate away the picket fence. As he regained his balance an arrow struck him in the left forearm, stopping half mast. His bandaged hand spasmed with pain while he steadied his Colt searching the alley, but the figure had gone. Further down the alley he saw another lawman gesturing toward someone out of view. With the fence nearly gone, a few exhausted shot peppered him at the same time another bullet clicked into the chamber. He spun out of the way, heading for cover, as the rifle roared again. Two men burst from the back door heading for the horses. McCutchen fired once, but a third man emerged from the yawning doorway spinning two sawed-off, lever-action rifles and firing them faster than the smoke could clear. This time the shot struck the ranger in the chest like a nest of hornets. He clutched in pain, pulling his aim high and wide. He retrained his Colt on the man with the mare’s legs, black as night, the whites of his eyes gone wild. They exchanged fire over the top of the chewed up fence. Two pellets struck McCutchen in the face, dropping him to the ground in a daze. He tried to shake off the shock, dragging himself toward the fence with his bandaged hand and elbow, even as the arrow tore at his flesh. Horses’ hooves echoed in the dark as the animals were yanked free from their post. Boots pounded the crustnde "They’re getting away! One of you get some horses. The other two get after �Śem!” He wrenched himself to his feet and slammed into the picket fence with his shoulder. The rotten boards buckled as he pushed his way through. Reaching the back of the house, he paused at the corner. Jerking his head out and back he barely missed kissing the feathers of an arrow as it whisked in front of his face and struck the wall of the shed with a thwack. He took two steps back and then dove low with his Colt drawn. Instantly another arrow buzzed past his shoulder as he responded with hot lead. He missed, but the bullet startled the horse causing the next arrow to stray wildly. McCutchen hit the ground before he could squeeze off another round. He gave chase into the street, but the fugitives were gone before he got there. The two deputies came running up seconds later, breathing heavy. �śYou alright?” �śI need my horse.” McCutchen ran toward the town square. �śBut you’ve got an arrow in your arm!” McCutchen shouted over his shoulder, �śYou better look after Swisher. He’s got two in his chest.” With every step his pulse throbbed along his left arm and hand. The awkward arrow finally caused him to stop long enough to snap the longer end off against a tree. Shortly after that he ran into the sheriff, Lipscomb and another deputy on horseback, leading Chester behind them. With a whistle the horse broke away from the sheriff and sidled up next to McCutchen. He used his right hand to hoist himself into the saddle. �śThey’re heading east.” �śToward the fort?” McCutchen finally put the piece in place. �śOne of them used to be a colored scout with the 14th. The military wouldn’t help them, would it?” �śHell no. They disbanded the 14th� two years ago.” �śAnd they got no friends left there?” McCutchen deeply distrusted the military, for both their incompetence and corruption in the borderlands. The sheriff barked the order, �śBeefy, you get back to the office and call ahead to the fort. Let �Śem know they got company.” McCutchen stared Lipscomb in the eye, growing increasingly suspicious of the lawman. It hadn’t escaped him that the Negro scout called Swisher a Hun. He lashed Chester into a gallop and briefly wondered if Lipscomb was on to something. Entirely too many Germans populated his border. ~~~ Jesse reloaded his mare’s legs with regular rounds as he bounced in the saddle behind Muddy, ignoring the blood oozing from his side. �śSorry about that. I knew that snake Swisher had been staking me out, but I didn’t figure he’d make the cod e saddnnection.” �śI’m afraid Nena was right, we’ve only brought you trouble.” Muddy and Jesse rode double in the lead, Chancho following them closely, while Nena brought up the rear. �śNothing doing. I’ve been in trouble since you left.” Jesse finished loading his weapons and craned his neck to see behind them. �śLook, I haven’t been totally honest with you.” �śI’ve never known you to be anything less than honest.” �śWell, now you have.” He winced as Tripalo barreled into a dry wash and lunged up the other side. �śThat shoot out was just as much about me as it was you.” �śI don’t understand.” They dodged a large prickly pear forcing Jesse to clutch tighter around Muddy’s waist. The horizon ahead of them shone with the oranges and yellows of a rising sun, but had yet to brush away the shadows of night. Jesse shook his head. �śThere’s something going on along the border involving international players. It’s big.” �śMexico’s big.” �śNah, bigger than Mexico. Europe. Hell, the whole damn world. I’m sorry, I just haven’t put it together. Apparently there’re folk that don’t want me to.” �śWhy would those folk suspect you?” Jesse clutched his side. �śLet’s just say I’ve seen some things they didn’t want me to.” �śLike what?” �śJust shut-up for a second. Damn, Nena’s usually the one with all the questions. There’s some stuff I need to tell you, and not much time for the telling.” A gunshot rang out behind them. Jesse continued, �śSome fellers offered me a job a while back to help them move some guns across the border. I didn’t like the way they smelled, so I told �Śem no. I doubled back and followed them to the biggest stash of weapons I’d ever seen. Crazy stuff too. They turned out to be Germans connected somehow to the Mexican government. Obviously they got spies around here too. I knew Swisher was one, but there’s probably more.” Gunshots echoed behind them. Muddy clutched the reins, his prayers for Nena a clot in his heart. Jesse squeezed him around the waist. �śFocus, Muddy. Trust me, she’s fine. No army of rangers could bring that battle ax down. Anyway, not everything’s relevant, but there are things that can’t die with me.” Muddy cut him off. �śYou won’t die.” �śThat’s not for you to decide, dammit. The good Lord and I have known it was coming for a long time now. But you need to listen!” Jesse grew more urgent. �śThere’s an abandoned railroad tunnel and mine south of here, not far from the border. The Huns are using it as a headquarters. I haven’t had the chance to report its whereabouts. If I can, I’ll use a phone at Fort Clark. I still got some friends there, but I got enemies there too. We got enemies there. First priority is to get y’all out safely. Now you know about the hideout, so there’s two chances the knowledge’ll survive,” He lifted his hand from his side, blood still oozing from the wound, �śeven if I don’t.” �śNow that I know, whoustikno, notll I tell?” Muddy was still confused. �śYou’ll figure it out. The fort’s just ahead. We gotta figure a way through the fence if we’re gonna reach the airstrip.” �śI think we’ve got just the thing. Can you reach the saddle bags? I just hope no one knows we’re coming.” SEVENTEEN Planes, Trains and Blood Chancho cut the second gourd open with the crystal knife. Muddy rolled the putty from the first gourd into a long snake in his hands before sticking it to the chain link fence. He connected the first snake with the second and buried a fuse in the end. Nena and Jesse exchanged gunfire with the ranger at a hundred yards. With little cover and Nena firing Muddy’s Spencer with deadly accuracy, their pursuers had been forced to dismount and hit the dirt with only their pistols at long range. But even at that range they were getting close. �śHurry. It’s only a matter of time.” Nena grunted in an effort to heft the butt of the rifle higher on her shoulder. She stood, creating a shield for the others. Chancho tossed Jesse’s lighter to Muddy, who flicked it to life and lit the fuse. �śGet down, you crazy woman.” Jesse pushed Nena to the ground as Muddy and Chancho grabbed the horses’ reins. Nothing happened. Then a short series of pops, a fissuring crackle, peeled the fence back like a knife through flesh. �śLeave the horses.” Jesse barked. �śYou can’t take them where you’re going. Go. Go!” Chancho unloosed his saddle bags, hefting them over his shoulder. Jesse tossed Muddy’s bags to him, depositing something swiftly into them before he did so. Nena fetched her own. �śNena, leave me the Spencer.” Jesse already held the Blakeslee Cartridge Box. For the first time, Nena noticed the blood soaking through his shirt. �śYou’re injured.” �śDamn hardheaded woman. I’ll cover you!” �śI’ll help.” �śGood God darnit! You made me swear, and now we both got troubles.” He nodded toward the airstrip. �śYou get �Śem to the plane. I’ll be right behind you.” Nena looked over her shoulder. A small number of soldiers emerged from a barracks no further from the hanger than they were themselves. The old man would not change his mind, and the ranger, already back on his horse, advanced on them. Without a word she threw him the Spencer and darted with deer-like grace toward the others. Wasting no time he loaded it with the Blakeslee and threw himself to the ground, resting the barrel on a rock. His first bullet cut the sheriff’s horse out from under him, sending the law man smashing into a prickly pear. The two remaining riders split up, forcing him to choose. Without hesitatin: Th the sheron he chose the ranger. But as he swung the rifle into position the ranger leapt from his horse in mid-gallop, changing the tables on him again. �śPolecat!” Jesse swung the rifle toward the deputy who pulled his horse up, uncertain of how to proceed. The Spencer bucked as Jesse encouraged the deputy with a hot slug to the leg. With his horse raring, he bailed out of the saddle backwards and crunched down on his head. Quickly, Jesse tried to find the ranger in his sites, but rock chips showered him as a ricochet grazed his shoulder. �śThis ain’t good.” Chucking the Spencer he leapt onto Tripalo’s back, two more bullets barely missing their mark. �śWe got one more ride, old friend. Hyaw!” With the ranger on foot he and Tripalo took the upper hand. High in the saddle Jesse crossed his arms over his head, pulling his duel mare’s legs from their criss-crossed holsters strapped to his back. In a single downward movement he spun the two pistols, working the levers to load them as Tripalo bore down on the ranger, hungry for blood. Jesse burned the air with lead and smoke, spinning the cutdown Winchesters to reload them. The damned ranger, insistent on survival, whistled for his horse as he zigged a crooked path toward it. Jesse kept the 44-40s blazing until both were empty, amazed the ranger still lived. With Tripalo only twenty yards away and galloping at full speed, the ranger finally mounted his horse. Nothing for it now. Old enough to know what he was about to do was the stupidest thing he could think of, Jesse left all earthly anchor. He leapt from the saddle and crashed full-mast into the shocked Texas Ranger. Entangled, the two men flew from horse to ground over the span of a full 10 yards, the ranger absorbing the blow as they hit. Jesse bounced, the ranger’s ribs compacting below him, and rolled a summersault in midair before crashing down to earth. Tripalo swung an arching loop. For several seconds the falling of hooves and the ringing in his head were the only things Jesse could hear. He pitched over on his stomach and heaved himself up from the ground, taking a few staggering steps toward the rangers’ crumpled body. He felt like he’d been tossed from a moving train while crossing a bridge a hundred feet above a river. Suddenly a bullet clipped his left arm. Angrier than a mother porcupine and with more quills, the sheriff walked steadily toward him, his pistol spitting lead. Tripalo’s hoofbeats coming up fast behind him and to his right, Jesse threw his right hand out to catch the saddle horn in his grip. With one bound he bounced his chest off the neck and shoulders of the running horse, his right foot in the stirrup, and let his momentum swing his left leg over the rump of the horse until he was seated backwards in the saddle. As he passed by he waved at the sheriff who still had one bullet left in the cylinder, the one Jesse had been waiting his entire life for�"seventy years of living up to his Warrior name. When the burning lead tunneled through his chest he thought first of the Warriors who had gone before him. He had served his people just as they had. Next he thought of Muddy and Nena, hoping for his people’s future. ~~~ They reached the biplane moments before the soldiers figured out what was going on. The early morning gunfire woke some and caught others in various stages of routine. Spurring them to take up arms theye uot in stumbled from barracks in disarray, but the idea that someone would steal a plane came late to the party. With no clear idea of the threat or who they were shooting at the soldiers drove them in the direction of the airstrip intending to strand them in the open. Not yet in imminent danger, Nena coiled, ready with her crossbow and waiting to strike. Muddy dropped his things to unscrew the gas cap and take a whiff. �śThere’s gas. Chancho, load our things in the back.” He moved around the front of the craft. �śBritish S.E. 5 with a second seat. This is nothing like what I’ve flown.” �śBut you can fly it.” Chancho slogged the saddle bags under the seat. �śNo time for flight school, mi amigo. �ĄViva la revolucion!” �śShut up, you crazy Mexican! We’re on a U.S. airstrip,” Nena snapped. �śPerdóneme. The heat of the moment.” He slapped Muddy on the back. In the distance, orders finally came to use all necessary force to prevent the invaders from stealing an aircraft. The follow-up command floated across the fort grounds even more loudly, �śBut for God’s sake, don’t shoot the plane!” Gunshots followed tentatively, wide or high of their mark, in an effort to encourage the invaders to stand down. �śWell, mis amigos, I suggest we get in the plane." Chancho started to climb into the front seat. �śMuddy!” Nena crouched with her crossbow directed toward the breach in the fence. Muddy followed her aim until he saw Tripalo walking toward them across the gravel compound with Jesse slumped in the saddle. Muddy gritted his teeth. Past the hulking black horse metal gleamed in the shadows of the hanger as a rifle drew a bead on the old scout. Muddy bolted past Nena, snatching her crossbow and releasing a torrent of darts. Like a starting pistol, the rifle crack released the stored up tension across the entire fort. The soldiers, assuming they had been fired upon, loosed shots with more deadly intent. Taking knees, they fired at every perceived threat. Slowly, Lipscomb emerged from the shadow of the hanger, firing the stolen Spencer Repeater, his target shifting from Jesse to Muddy. Unarmed, Chancho clung to the hull of the aircraft. �śNena! Muddy!” He knew Muddy would never make it. A bullet thwacked the wooden frame of the plane causing him to flinch. He scanned for the source. �śThe rinche!” Nena heard him. McCutchen and the sheriff stood in the breach firing from behind their horses, unconcerned about the safety of the plane. Without another thought Nena dashed toward Muddy, leaping shards of lead and gravel. Muddy moved steadily toward Jesse, exhausting his supply of arrows until he finally struck the deputy, causing him to drop the Spencer. But before he could sprint the last thirty yards to his mentor, friend and father a searing pain chewed into the meat of his thigh. �śMuddy!” Nena dove, rolled and sprang to his side as he double clutched, stumbling forward onto his knees. She nimbly caught his crushing weight and saved him from sprawling face first. �śJesse!” He continued to strain his muscles, dragging the couple forward on their hands and knees until his leg folded under the weight. iv sse �śYou stupid kids.” Blood dripping down his leg and from the stirrup, Jesse regained consciousness. Ashen faced and dry, he swallowed hard before he could talk. �śGit, or I’ll shoot you myself. This is my funeral, not yours.” His fingers twitched, eventually managing a yank of the reins. Obediently Tripalo turned, heading back toward the breach in order to block the ranger’s line of fire. Muddy clutched a fistful of gravel and peppered the side of the hanger in a burst of rage. �śI’ll see all of you in hell!” �śMuddy.” Nena buried her head and shoulder in his armpit and lurched upward, wrenching his arm. �śTime to go.” Heaving upward with his good leg, the two of them loped awkwardly toward the plane. Shots pocked the runway and tore through the fabric of the aircraft. Having awoken to violence, a frenzy unleashed on the fort and everyone in it. Chancho jumped down from the cockpit and helped Muddy climb into the rear seat as he and Nena took the front. Within seconds the engine sputtered and came to life, the prop a spinning blur pulling them forward. Unarmed, vulnerable and cramped onto Chancho’s lap, Nena turned in a fit of frustration, slapping him across the face. �śYou have done this to us!” Silenced by the sting and the anger in her voice, Chancho closed his eyes in grief and in prayer. Did the people around him always come to harm? Bouncing down the runway, distancing themselves from the dying gunfire, the three gritted their teeth and clutched the aircraft with white-knuckles as the wind whipped past them faster. Muddy focused everything on his memories of flying scout planes for the 14th, the tug and pull of the controls in his hands, the pitch of the wings, the torque of the engine. But everything had changed in the years since. Completely ignorant of their center of gravity, the power that tugged them down the runway felt unfamiliar. With a grunt he pulled harder on the controls. Their stomachs rose and fell as the plane bounced, pitching dangerously from side to side. The cost Jessie had paid for their freedom played in his mind along with his dying wish that they would survive him. With a steely anger Muddy jerked the controls, lifting them into the air. ~~~ The soldiers continued firing on Lipscomb, McCutchen and the sheriff until the latter convinced all three of them to drop their weapons and lie down. �śDammit, we’re on your side!” �śCease fire!” The officer in command marched forward with a small detachment. �śWhat in the name of all things holy! You boys better have a good explanation for all this, or God help me, the coyotes are going to feed tonight!” McCutchen was the first to stand, hands still raised head high. �śHere’s your explanation,” he narrowed his eyes at the approaching officer, �śSergeant�"” �śSergeant Major.” �śYou just let three known fugitives aided by a seventy-year-old man break onto your airstrip and steal a plane, all the while preventing local law enforcement and the Texas Rangers from doing their job.” He flashed them his star. �śWell, la-di-da. Boys, we got ourselves a Texas Ranger, shooting at American trot Ahis ops, trespassing and vandalizing government property, all the while preventing us from cleaning up their mess before it cost the government a $30,000 airplane! Shit. You fellas are about as useful as a tit on a billy goat.” �śYour incompetence cost you�"�ś �śIncompetence! You piss�"�ś �śGentlemen!” The sheriff interrupted. �śWe’ve had casualties, for God’s sake.” For the first time the sergeant major took a broader scope of the situation. Lipscomb stood on one leg, blood soaking through his pants and an arrow through his hand. McCutchen looked like death eating a cracker: a bandaged left hand, broken arrow in his arm, crusted blood and dirt covering his cheek, neck and chest. �śLike I said before, we’re on the same side here.” The sheriff plucked cactus needles from his face. �śAh hell. Lysander.” �śYes, sir.” �śGet the medic. We’ll meet him in the hanger.” The soldier trotted off. �śTooley, Smith. Round up those horses, and for God’s sake clean up that dead Negro over there.” He turned back to the sheriff, who had become the de-facto liaison. �śSpeaking of, should we be concerned with that one? I’m assuming he ain’t with you, seeing how I’m pretty sure you guys are the ones who lit �Śem up.” The sheriff gave Lipscomb a look. �śHe was a local smuggler mixed up with our fugitives. Good riddance.” McCutchen broke back into the conversation. �śSergeant Major, I’d be grateful for your medical services, but I’m still tracking three fugitives.” �śThrough the air? Not likely.” �śI’m sure you’re interested�"” �śIn getting my plane back? You’re damn straight. I’ll get my plane back, Lord willing those nut bags don’t crash it.” McCutchen’s teeth ground audibly. �śAbout your fugitives, the sheriff’s right. Like it or not, we’re on the same side now. The order went out before they left the ground. Jesus, Mary and Joseph if it don’t make us look like a bunch of tumbleweed humpers, but there you have it. We got all eyes watching for a stolen plane bumping its butt across the hills. If they got the sense to not crap and call it food they’ll head west before they decorate a cliff with the fanciest tinsel this side of the Atlantic�"” �śMajor! This man ain’t dead.” The whole entourage turned on their heals toward a private inspecting the black body still slumped in the saddle. Everyone but Deputy Lipscomb, who used the opportunity to bend down for the discarded Spencer rifle. �śGun!” In a single motion he cocked and fired. The private stumbled backwards while McCutchen drew his Colt, pointing it at Lipscomb. �śGood God almighty!” The major bellowed as he unsheathed his sword. For a pregnant few seconds the party stood each other down before the shocked private broke the stalemate. �śHe’s dead now.” Jesse’s body shifted inch by inch until it sloughed from the saddle completely, thudding to the ground where his mare’s legs spilled from their holsters. Just as gradually, all eyes shifted to Lipscomb. He held the rifle loosely in one hand, the other turned outward in surrender, blood running down his arm. �śI saw a gun, and took the shot.” He bent down and deposited the Spencer back on the ground. McCutchen slowly holstered his Colt as the group took a collective breath. For the second time that morning he suspected the local lawmen of more than they let on. �śTooley, get these men to the hanger. The medic’ll be there soon. Then show �Śem the barracks where they can get cleaned up.” The major turned to go, still muttering, �śI got a damn plane to find and a trigger-happy bunch a looney tunes.” He called over his shoulder, �śI’ll come and find you when I got any news on your fugitives,” before trailing off into a string of colorful expletives. ~~~ McCutchen waited patiently for the medic to finish removing the shot from his chest and staunch the bleeding. Taking deep breaths, he reminded himself that sooner or later the fugitives would have to land. When they did, he’d pick up the trail again. After the medic moved on to Lipscomb, who was turning pale from loss of blood, he quietly dismissed himself and found the livery. The cavalry at Fort Clark kept a good number of horses on hand, still the most reliable means of pursuit in the rugged borderlands. Fraternizing with a fiery appaloosa, Chester acknowledged McCutchen with a snort. After some grooming and another guzzle of water the ranger saddled his four-legged companion and rode out the way they’d come in, bound for Brackettville. Having expanded the manhunt to a much larger investigation, McCutchen determined to proceed on his own terms. He suspected both the military and the local law of being involved in the larger conspiracy, and while he didn’t doubt the military would help him find the plane, he knew he couldn’t rely on them for getting to the bottom of anything, except the barrel. Profits dangled like low hanging fruit along the border, and a profit big enough could tempt almost anyone with gumption enough to go and get it. On arriving in Brackettville he directed the rangers waiting in Fredericksburg on to Rocksprings with orders to wrap up loose ends with Bronco O’Brien. That brought a much needed smile to his morning. After chasing sausage, gravy and biscuits with a carafe of coffee he purchased a ticket on the first train departing for San Angelo, where he’d have quick access to most of central and western Texas. Certain his fugitives weren’t heading for Mexico and that they were only the tip of a seditious network, he determined to inject his brand of poison into the heart of the operation and track it to the furthest reach of every artery. He’d panic the most visible members of the conspiracy into revealing their connections, and then track them to their bitter ends. After handing Chester off to stable boys with firm orders to load him on the train last for quick departure, he took a minute to relieve himself. He flipped the seat down on the crapper and fumbled with a cigarette. Everything was a nuisance with only one hand. Finally he inhaled several long drags and began to relax. He’d remained jittery even after filling his stomach at breakfast. He knew his body couldn’t hold up forever under its cur unveral lonrent level of abuse. He splashed water in his face from the basin, running his fingers across the course stubble, and stared back at the man he saw in the mirror. Almost 40 years old and weathered well beyond that, his skin was creased with exhaustion. Scars, fresh and old, dotted every visible surface, as well as the rest of his body. Those who chose to break the law, to flee justice, to rob him of the dignity of a clean shave�" He slammed his fist down on the counter, closed his eyes, rolled his neck loosely on his shoulders. This was what the work had brought him to. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore. What have I become? He flashed back to Matamoros and the lifeless face of the Mexican girl as it listed into the moonlight, the image of Swisher slumped against the fence in the alley. He held his bandaged club of a hand in front of his face. The words �śEl Chupacabra” ran across his thoughts. El Chupacabra, the demon, the monster. He rubbed the scar along the side of his head before putting his grandfather’s Stetson back on and taking one last look at his face in the mirror. He noticed the medic had shaved two tiny bald spots while removing lead pellets. �śI’ll give you your monster.” He walked to the edge of the platform as the train pulled into the station. He’d already taken this case to the edge, and he didn’t mind pushing it over. America still needed heroes whether she believed in them or not. His form of justice might never make him a hero, but a lover’s infidelity was no excuse for a great man to ingratiate himself with whores. ~~~ �śMuddy! Stay with me!” Nena wrenched herself around backward, yelling into the wind. In the rear cockpit of the biplane Muddy shook his head, clearing the tears from his eyes and focusing on the sound of Nena’s voice. Without time to tend to his wound, too much blood had drained out. The higher altitude made his heart beat faster and his head spin. �śI’ll make it!” But he wasn’t sure. �śWe’ll run out of gas before I run out of blood.” He grimaced. �śThe flight time can’t be more than a few hours!” Chancho chimed in. �śWe’ve been flying for over three hours already!” They each looked over the edge. A thousand feet below, the ground rushed by at over 100 mph, hills dotted with clumps of trees and brush. In the distance a skeletal city of black oil derricks scarred the horizon like jagged stitches on the seam between sky and earth. Chancho pointed, �śBoomtown!” Nena shifted in Chancho’s lap. �śWe have to land!” �śYou’re telling me.” Chancho tried to rub feeling back into his legs and fend off the chill wind. Muddy knew from the time they took off that crashing would be more likely than landing. Watching the countryside pass beneath him, he momentarily regretted not setting a course for Mexico, but his choice had been final, even before Jesse. When he wasn’t focused on landing the plane without killing them, he seethed over the dishonor and ingratitude extended toward his mentor. He had to correct it. Three hours had passed as he flew aimlessly, running scenarios through his mind. He had flown them back in the general direction of Bronco’s, but heading straight there would be too obvious. They needed a Theaimlflat surface away from notice while maintaining access to ground transportation. No use in landing the plane just to be stranded in the wilderness without even a horse among them. He'd figured out the best option thirty minutes ago, but hesitated to commit to it. Watching the ground blur past, he spotted the place and finally forced his mind to assent. He banked the plane sharply. Through the support struts of the biplane they watched dark smoke from a distant derrick transition toward the nose of the plane and across to the other side until it passed out of sight toward the back. Turning a full 270 degrees they came around for what, one way or the other, would be their final pass. Muddy dipped the nose of the plane into a low wisp of cloud, all three of them shivering from the cold and damp as well as the unnerving feeling of whistling blindly through the air at 100 miles an hour. Moments later they emerged from the cloud into much warmer air within a few hundred feet of the ground. Beneath them a railroad, like a chalk line snapped across the surface of the earth, continued seamlessly over a small hill on the horizon. �śThe railroad?” Chancho craned his neck, �śI love trains, but I don’t want to see one�"” Nena interrupted. �śThere should be room beside the tracks to land. The hill will slow us.” �śBut what about trains!” �śExactly. Sooner or later a train will come, and we'll get on!” �śWhat if it’s sooner?” Nena turned until she could look Chancho in the eye. �śYou had better not die. I am not finished with you yet.” Chancho swallowed and grew quiet. Muddy wondered which his friend feared more, dying in a gruesome crash or living to face Nena. Muddy lifted in his seat, sending shockwaves of pain through his body and used the adrenaline to focus. Land the plane. He repeated the words as a mantra. He slowed as much as he dared, pulling hard on the controls to keep the nose up. Tears whipped off the sides of his face, the temperature of the air rising steadily as their altitude fell. Green blurs of scrub and live oak swelled in his peripheral vision as the ground rushed toward them. �śHold on!” First contact came too hard, but he held the wings level and the nose up. They bounced, the landing gear creaking under the pressure. The torque on the steering slammed Muddy against the side of the fuselage, the smaller steering mechanism in the front cockpit bruising Nena’s ribs. Aware of the strain put on Muddy, she did what she could to hold it steady. With both of them focused on maintaining the plane’s wheels, Chancho was first to spot the belching smokestack looming over the hill. �śTrain! �ĄPor el amor de dios! Train!” Seconds later a 125 ton steam engine chugged into view. �śIt was sooner!” The plane crashed down a second time, snapping off the rear wheel, grinding the tail of the plane into the ground and jamming the controls. Steam purged from the sides of the engine as it deployed full brakes. They could have easily stopped by the top of the hill, but with the hundred yards between them and the train shrinking every second they’d never make it. Even if Muddy could steer effectively, the terrain thirty feet from the tracks grew thick with juniper. Still, crashing into trees se inut on Muddemed favorable to a smoldering furnace on wheels. A terrible screeching licked his ears as slick steel wheels slid along polished tracks while the steam breaks spewed sparks. He plunged the controls of the plane forward, shifting the flaps enough to lift the tail off the ground, dipping the nose instead. Skidding momentarily on one wheel, the plane bounced sideways and for a split-second, flew. Muddy revved the engine full throttle for one brief burst before cutting it entirely. As the train closed within twenty yards, the chewed up tail of the plane lashed out over the tracks before the craft, with its final gasp, lurched forward and out of the way. Blasted with hot steam as the hundred ton beast slid past them, Muddy overcorrected and finally lost the battle to the jammed controls. The left wing dipped into the ground, catapulting the nose of the plane into the body of the train. The full heft of the plane’s 200hp Hispano-Suiza v8 engine struck the gap between the second and third cars and lodged under the coupler, the only saving grace the fact that both vehicles had slowed below twenty miles an hour. Still, the combined force ripped the left wing from the fuselage of the plane, splintering the wooden frame in multiple spots. Nena dangled from the front cockpit, dragging her feet across the railroad ties as they slid past at over 15 miles and hour. Chancho, dizzy from a lashing strike across the face from a snapped support cable, held three of her fingers in a tenuous grip. Each passing railroad tie chewed another piece out of the side of the plane, dropping her closer to the grinding wheels of the train. He lunged toward her. Throwing his weight out of the cockpit he grabbed her wrist and slung her away from the train. Allowing her weight to pull him the rest of the way out of the cockpit, he followed her to the ground, where both of them bounced and rolled clear of the tracks. Moments later the remaining section of the fuselage bit into the ground. The mass of the train rolled it before the steel wheels cut it in two, crushing the front half. Completely detached, the rear cockpit, with Muddy still in it, slid to a stop yards from where Nena and Chancho lay crumpled. Sixty long seconds later the train finally shuttered to a stop. EIGHTEEN Boomtown Dizzy yet lucid, Chancho wondered if they had flown in a wide arching circle. He could swear the first several people emerging from the cars at the back of the train wore U.S. Army uniforms. �śAy dios mio. It’s not fair.” He checked his torso for injuries and came up clean. �śOf all the stupid�Ś Nena.” Crawling over, he shook her gently. She moaned and fluttered her eyes. �śYou’ll be O.K. Remember, you were saying how much you loved me.” �śCrazy Mexican.” She shoved him away weakly. The soldiers continued toward the front of the train cautiously. Chancho smiled at her. �śWe have trouble, but I have a plan.”� �śCrap.” Ignoring her, Chancho crawled rd woiv heitoward the fuselage of the plane while hiding his movements the best he could. As he neared the tattered capsule he grew increasingly worried. Muddy had been furthest from the impact, and Chancho had never conceived his best friend could suffer serious injury. Muddy had always been impervious. But the unsettling thought occurred to him now. Like the struts snapping on the bi-wing, he felt suddenly untethered and vulnerable. The cockpit faced away, forcing him to scamper around. �śMuddy.” The hulking man seemed intact but pale, if pale was possible for his skin color. Chancho slapped him lightly in the face. �śAre you hurt, mi amigo?” He looped his arms beneath Muddy’s armpits and tested the resistance. �śNena?” �śNo, no. It’s Chancho.” �śIs she �"” �śYes, she’s fine. She’ll be around in a minute, but for the moment it appears you have chosen a train loaded with U.S. Cavalry to crash into. Muy malo. You should be more careful.” Chancho tutted before heaving Muddy a few inches. �śI’m sorry, now we �"” �śDon’t worry, I have a plan.” �śCrap.” �śHey! That’s what Nena said.” Muddy laughed briefly before degenerating into a coughing fit. �śBut I have to hurry. Can you get out and help Nena?” �śYes. Go.” Chancho peaked over the top of the shattered fuselage. Scattered shouts were drawing closer. Grabbing a two foot long pipe, a remnant of the landing gear, he bear-crawled into the brush where he scampered forward toward the engine without being noticed. He knew trains. Steam engines in particular. Since adolescence he and machines spoke on a first name basis, and trains had captured his fascination early on. Finally God had given him an opportunity to serve the others, a chance to be useful rather than troublesome. He would make the most of it. As he reached the tender, the driver stepped down to check the front of the train. Quietly Chancho snuck into the gap between cars. �śA Janney.” He had seen the new coupler model once before. �śIngenious.” He pulled up on the link to disengage the knuckles and jammed the pinched end of the pipe into the joint to keep the knuckles open, hopefully. Leaping onto the runner of the tender he shuffled forward toward the cab. At the corner where the tender met the cab he yanked a shovel from its mounting and moved quickly toward the oblivious fireman. �śWhat the�Ś” Chancho clocked the man with the backside of the shovel, dropping him to the cabin floor. �śSorry about that.” Gathering him under the armpits, he lowered him off the train. �śNow, we’re going to need a little more steam.” After making a few quick adjustments Chancho was about ready when, �śHey Frank! Get your ass down here and help me with this mess.” He grabbed the shovel and ducked out of the way. ignner of�śI’m afraid Frank is not available, mi amigo.” �śWho the hell! Hey you can’t �"” his protest was cut short by the crunching sound of bone impacting bone. �śWhy don’t you give me a hand Frank.” Muddy and Nena appeared around the corner of the tender. �śAh, mis amigos! All better I see.” �śNot exactly.” Nena snapped. Despite her ill temper she reached out for Chancho’s hand. He pulled her into the cab as angry voices erupted from behind them. �śHey! Stop right there.” A bullet ricocheted off of the engine. Both Nena and Chancho took one of Muddy’s beefy hands, heaving him into the cab. �śGo.” He grunted as he came to rest against the far wall. Muddy slammed the lever forward, releasing the break and gave the engine full steam. The beast hissed to life and lurched forward. �śSuccess!” The train’s pulse slowly increased. �śThe saddle bags! The med kit!” Nena gripped Chancho, realizing they had forgotten them. �śMuddy needs it.” �śNo problem. Stay here.” Chancho felt the call of the occasion swelling in him, giddy with revolutionary fervor and the glory of his adventures with Villa. Stealing a train again! He thought of Ah Puch and the heist they had pulled off together years before. Maybe I should have kept the magnetic spurs. Rubbing spit on his boots for good luck, he snagged a fireman’s glove and levered a burning coal into it using tongs.� �śChancho!” He poked his head out of the cab, pulling it back instantly as a whistle and ping indicated a near miss. Gunfire echoed from less than a dozen cars back. �śI think they’re upset about their plane.” He shoved the glove into his belt. �śChancho!” Nena lashed out at him, but before she could say another word he swung himself over the top of the tender, landing on a heap of coal. Speeding toward the gap between the tender and the decoupling train, he planted a boot on the metal lip and launched himself across the gulf. Landing with a thud and a tumble he pulled up just shy of the edge. He progressed another half-dozen strides across the top of the box car before bullets began bouncing off steel. Without time to consider the landing, Chancho leapt from the roof of the box car, arching further up before finally bending toward gravity and reality. He was on course for the shattered carcass of the plane, but was also coming down entirely too fast to avoid it. �śOh mierrrrda!” Boot-first he collided with the plywood frame, crunching through the hull with his foot before tucking his shoulders and crashing into the ground. His boot, caught in the wreckage, yanked from his foot as he bounded head over heals. Amongst a spray of bullets he clambered back to the wreck and ducked inside. Noticing the intense heat creeping southward from his belt, he fetched the smoldering glove from his endangered nether regions and dumped the coal into the cockpit. With lead whizzing past heizz fro yanked the saddle bags from the compartment, flipped open the box of gourds, and dumped them into the echoing confines of the cockpit. After chucking the box and throwing the bags over each shoulder he touched the tips of two fuses to the burning coal, leaving one and taking the other. �śAy! My boot!” Amid flying splinters of wood he clutched his boot. Yanking it from the side of the plane, he tucked it under his arm. Then heaving the lit gourd high up over the approaching troop, he turned tail and high-stepped it toward the engine, one boot on, one boot off. � An instant later a whoof ignited the air. Splintering wood shot in every direction as a concussive blow bowled the soldiers over backwards. Ears ringing, Chancho managed to keep one foot moving in front of the other. The bullets stopped and he focused on gaining ground. One boot in his hand, saddle bags flopping, he closed the gap slowly. But he was getting winded. Finally he neared the back of the tender, lungs burning, foot bleeding. Chucking his boot on top of the coal he latched a single finger around a grip. While wrapping his other fingers around the handle he stumbled, nearly dropping a saddle bag. Barely staying upright, he lost several strides on the engine which was increasing speed. �śChancho! Give me your hand.” Nena clutched the hold he had just missed and reached back for him. With fresh hope he chugged his legs in rhythm with the locomotive and lunged forward, clasping her wrist. �śJump!” He leapt forward and up as she pulled him crashing down on top of her. �śNow get off of me.” He sat up on the narrow running board, clinging to the tender and trying to catch his breath. �śSee.” He heaved. �śI knew,” another breath, �śwe could be friendly, after all that.” �śNo. We are not.” With poison in her eyes, she snatched a saddle bag and turned toward the cabin. ~~~ Nena dumped the contents of the saddle bag on the cabin floor. Taking the medical kit she opened the lid slowly. An angry beetle clattered inside it. After preparing all the ingredients she cut Muddy’s pants to the crotch and gripped the oversized beetle with her thumb and forefinger. Chancho helped Muddy drink as Nena guided the beetle in his work. The guano salve disinfected the ragged edges of the wound, a through and through, and the water revived him. �śI’m fine.” He stroked Nena’s hair as she stooped over him. �śYou're alive.” �śWe’re all alive.” He tried to sooth the warrior in her. �śI'm not sure that is such a good thing,” she hissed. The barbs came too quickly for Chancho to shrug them off. Nena’s temper had flared at him before, but it had always died down quickly. �śLo siento. I’m sorry for bringing trouble.” �śAre you? You speak without change.” She narrowed her eyes at him. �śI will not listen any more. We should have gone to Mexico.” Muddy clutched her hand. �śI stopped us from�"” �śYou listened to him.” Nena put both her hands on Muddy’s face. �śI need you to listen to me. Jesse is dead.” Muddy closed his eyes. Nena continued. �śThe ranger is still pursuing us and now the cavalry. This will not stop. It is getting worse.” Her voice wavered causing Muddy to open his eyes and look deeply into hers. �śWe had a quiet life.” He pulled her to him and embraced her trembling body. �śWe will again.” She shook her head. �śNo, we won’t. Not like this. There is nowhere for us to go. Why didn’t you fly to Mexico?” He held her head in his hands, looking again into her eyes. �śI was angry. I am angry. Jesse served these people his entire life, for right or for wrong. Four years retired and they gun him down at the very fort he served to protect, like a dog. He did nothing but help us. We did nothing but defend ourselves. I will not allow it to stand. No life lived like that is worth living.” Life returning to him, he shifted his gaze between Nena and Chancho. �śThese people will know they were served and protected by the likes of Jesse Warrior, by generations of Warriors, even if I am the last one remaining.” He stroked Nena’s hair. �śWe must earn the life before we can live it. It is how it has always been. Chancho?” �śSi?” �śWe’re heading east, correct?” �śSi. Toward the boomtown we saw from the air.” �śGood. It'll be a lawless place.” �śWe cannot hide. They know what we look like now, not that we would blend anyway.” Nena could not let it go. Chancho shoveled more coal into the furnace and checked the boiler levels. Bumping against a clipboard dangling from a wire he loosed several papers. While gathering them before the wind could whip them from the cabin, a headline caught his eye. �śHola, what’s this?” He read out loud from the flyer. �śA dry vote is against Del Rio Villarreal and his friends. A dry vote is against immigrants, yes. But a dry vote is against progress too. A dry vote is against liberty. America will only remain the land of the free as long as it is home to the brave. Blowhards and fear mongers are already destroying both. The evidence is clear for those willing to see.” He looked at the other two. �śIt is signed Bronco O’Brien.” He scanned the inside of the pamphlet, his eyes widening. �śIt’s about us! All of it.” �śEverything?” �śEverything! The rinche, the marihuana, everything.” Chancho lowered his voice, �śexcept the orphanage.” He had almost forgotten again about the knot of responsibilities clawing at him. Nena stammered. �śBut how? We only�"” �śIt has been two days. O’Brien is making it public.” Muddy reached for the flyer. �śHe probably assumes we are in�Ś” he apologized to Nena with his eyes, �ś�ŚMexico by now.” �śIt says there is a rally today, in a town called Blondie.” Chancho scratched his chin. �śWhat does it mean? doMuddy re” �śIt means that we may not have to hide.” Nena spoke, �śIf these flyers have reached the boomtown�"” �śWe would fit the description.” Muddy sat up, his color already returned to normal, darker than the lumps of coal. �śAnd if O’Brien’s right about prohibition, a boomtown would be a willing audience.” �śWe will ask them for help?” Nena scowled. �śWe will test their spirit.” Muddy held her close. �śYou will judge them for us, but first�"” �śWe will challenge them! We will burden them! Yes, we will raise the banner of freedom! Viva la revolucion!” Chancho danced about the tiny cabin. �śYou will see. It will work, I can feel it.” A crackle of static interrupted him, followed by a tinny voice echoing in the cabin. He jumped. �śWireless! How did I miss that? Incredible. Wireless on a train!” �śAnswer it!” Nena shook her fist at him. �śDisculpeme.” He lifted the receiver. �śHola.” �śNot in Spanish!” �śOh, sorry. I mean, hello?” Unaffected, the voice spoke firmly from the other end. �śIn a few moments you will be forced from the main track onto a side rail. I recommend you slow down and take the opportunity to turn yourselves in. If you do not step off the train with your hands over your head the moment the engine stops my men will shoot first. There will be no questions.” A steady static resumed as the line went dead. Chancho hung up and looked out the window. On cue, they chugged past a switch. The sign read, �śBlondie.” For 180 degrees, oil derricks cramped the horizon like broken teeth on a saw. ~~~ �śDid that sign say �ŚBlondie’?” Nena helped Muddy to his feet. �śSi.” �śWhat time did that flyer�"” �śNoon.” �śAnd it’s almost�"” �śNoon. Si. It appears we will be paying Mr. O’Brien a visit sooner than we expected.” Chancho scratched his chin, wondering if Chloe would be with him. �śStop the train.” Nena stamped her foot. �śStop the train before we reach the station.” Chancho jumped. �śSi, si, of course.” He cut off the steam and pulled the break, the station still a few hundred yards away. �śWe will need a diversion.” Muddy tested his leg, finding it solid enough to walk on. �śAs soon as the train slows Nena and I will jump off. Chancho, you release the break and give the engine full steam before you follow.” �ś�ĄExcelente!” Chancho’s eyes watered with excitement. �śOnce we reach the crowd we can raise the cry for revolucion! The rinche wilrinscratchel not be able to stop it.” �śI don’t think the ranger is here. It sounded like he was on a train as well, but he’ll have others,” Muddy said. �śWe can’t trust anyone.” Nena cut in. �śOur story on a flyer means nothing. There is no guarantee these people will help us.” She checked on the distance to the station�"two hundred yards and closing. �śNo, but the crowd will help us whether they intend to or not. Remember, disorder will favor us. Stay together.” Muddy hoisted a saddle bag over his shoulder and grabbed Nena around the waist. �śAnd if there is no revolution?” She quipped. �śWe will find a way out. Chancho, follow us quickly. We will wait.” Reaching the lowest step Muddy and Nena swung their arms outward and leapt from the train. Chancho released the break and gave the engine all the steam he had left from the dwindling furnace. �śSorry girl, but they’ll fix you up.” With the last saddle bag over his shoulder he leapt clear of the railroad ties and hit the ground running. Only a hundred yards from the station, the deputies spotted them instantly, and gunshots pursued them into the brush. But shortly after the friends began hurdling sagebrush and cactus, shouts of alarm rose as the runaway engine slammed into a barricade. Forgotten for the moment, they worked their way toward the edge of town. The town proper barely deserved the label, and certainly didn't justify the name �ŚBlondie.’ Smeared in mud and oil, the countryside reeked. Rivulets of oil-tainted water swirling with rainbow refractions and littered with refuse drained away from the town. As they drew nearer, sulfur gas choked them and dirt gave way to mud. The few areas that had dried since the recent rains became treacherously rutted. But despite all the evidence of human tampering they had yet to see a single person from the town, other than the ones shooting at them. Finally they reached a semblance of main street. Tromping along uneven boardwalks, they hurried past the most haphazard lean-tos and shanties Chancho had ever seen. Mexican peons had more pride in their buildings, and the only substantial structures appeared to be saloons and whorehouses. The occasional glass window, smeared thick with mud and spattered oil, was useless. Every gap, every space between and behind, and sometimes even in front, boasted a rickety derrick. They jutted from the ground like jagged, unnatural weeds. Whether covered at the base with plywood shacks and posted warnings of dangerous gas, or bilging away in the open, the derricks pumped their precious black ooze into pipes on the surface. The unearthliness of the empty streets, the ever-present clanking and the odious off-gassing caused Chancho to shiver. A ricocheting bullet brought him back to reality. The edge of the crowd loomed in the street, still blocks a way, while their pursuers angled toward them purposing to cut them off. It would be close�"the bullets even closer. Muddy could not run at full speed, and Nena was burdened with helping him. Chancho, who had been in the lead, broke away from the boardwalk and ran toward the gunmen. �śI’ll catch up with you in the crowd! Say hi to Chloe for me!” ght le �śChancho!” But there was no time for argument. Muddy and Nena continued toward the crowd at a fast lope. Chancho concentrated on not twisting an ankle in the rutted road while running directly toward trouble. �śHey! I’m Chancho, fast as fast can be!” He taunted the deputized goons until a slug bit into the edge of his boot. �śMadre de Dios.” Zig-zagging toward the opposite side of the street he drew most of their attention and fire. Upon gaining the far boardwalk he continued toward the deputies as long as he dared. After hot slugs splintered a saloon railing right beside him, he ducked through swinging doors with the deputies only fifty feet away. �śHey! The bar’s closed. Everyone’s at the�"” a busboy left behind to guard the place attempted to cut him off. �śPerdoname, but some men with guns are right behind me.” Chancho dodged him. �śI suggest you get down, mi amigo.” He ran straight through to the back. Finding the door locked he lowered his shoulder and crashed through it as the men burst through the front. �śThe bar’s closed!” �śShut up, idjit!” The first man barreled the busboy over, the second one clocking him in the chin with a boot as he rushed by. Chancho bounced off a dumpster in the back, dropping his saddle bags. He turned to retrieve them but a bullet slurped into the mud right beside them. Reeling, he took off toward the crowd as loud cheers rose. �śPara mi? You shouldn’t have.” The back ally reeked of stale mud and discarded garbage, the sludge sucking at his boots, but a gap between derricks led to the next street over. He slogged his way across a stagnate mud soup skimmed with oil scum just as the gunmen pushed through the remaining shards of the back door. Two bullets whizzed past him on either side before he rounded the nearest pump house. With the pursuers never gaining clear line of sight again he reached the crowd and slipped into a fissure of humanity. Now to find Muddy and Nena, and with any luck, possibly Miss O’Brien. NINETEEN Anticlimax McCutchen jumped from the train to the sounds of rising cheers and applause, clearly not for him. A couple of trainmen, recently dubbed special agents but resembling mules more than men, followed him as he beelined for the crowd. Without any idea what the crowd had gathered for, he knew his fugitives would use the raucous for a screen. Inconvenient, but not disastrous. As he drew closer a voice, amplified and distorted yet vaguely familiar, rang out over the hoi polloi. �śNow I know you good folk have gathered here first and foremost to cheer on your team in the first game of this year’s World Series!” More cheers. �śAnd it don’t matter if you’re rooting for the Cubs or the Red Sox!” A less unified clatter broke out as people touted their personal favorites, someone yelling out Babe Ruth’s name to uproarious laughter. �śI know one thing is true of all of us. We’re here rooting for America!” Uneven chants of �śU.S.A.hants ofut Babe R bumped into each other before they finally rose into a clamorous singularity. McCutchen had completely forgotten about the baseball season being cut short due to the war, and that today was the series opener. Closing within a few blocks of the gathering, he was more concerned with identifying the voice behind the microphone. Whoever he was, he had the audience eating out of his hand. �śOn a serious note, we all know why we’ve gathered here on September 5th instead of late October. I don’t need to tell you about the brave young men gone to Europe to fight a world war. To fight against tyranny half the world over that threatens us even here at home. We salute them by name.” A smattering of names and cheers came from the audience as they remembered their loved ones, passed and living. This guy is good. McCutchen wracked his brain but couldn’t place the voice. �śI’m going to tell you about a similar threat right here on our doorstep, one that demands we do something now to stop it, before it’s too late.” A roustabout in the crowd yelled loud enough for McCutchen to hear as he came within a block. �śTell us, Bronco! What is it!” McCutchen swore under his breath. Bronco O’Brien. Even as two other rangers tore apart his ranch looking for marihuana, he could still raise hell. I should have shot �Śem when I had the chance. A few scattered laughs died down as McCutchen reached the fringes of the crowd. �śI’ll tell you, son.” A profound quiet settled over the large gathering. �śA certain scurrilous lot, along with spineless members of our government have gone to calling folk like you and me unruly and immoral.” A smattering of boos broke out. �śIt’s down right disconcerting, but their intentions are far more grave than hurting our feelings.” McCutchen scanned the crowd for a black face, head and shoulders above the rest. He didn’t yet know exactly what his fugitives looked like, but a blind idiot underwater could tell a seven foot darkie apart from this crowd. The booing hushed. �śThese folk call themselves Dry, and they insist that hard-working, God-fearing folk such as ourselves have no right to guide our own lives according to our own standards of morality. They say they know better, and that the government should rule their way to be the only legal way.” A tumultuous booing and hissing rose from the crowd, McCutchen already being jostled even on the very edges. He indicated for the special rangers to split up and circle around, while he retreated to a nearby two-story cathouse to gain higher ground. No one molested him or hindered his entrance. Only a few girls lounged about downstairs with a couple of drunks. On his way up the stairs he allowed himself a moment to ponder the speech. He hated to admit it, but he agreed. Prohibition was a damned travesty cooked up by spineless goodie-goodies like his own father, too incapacitated by their own self-righteousness to scourge the world of evil with blood and sweat. Instead they depended on lilly-livered pastors and politicians to do the job for them. He reached the landing mildly out of breath and scanned the audience for his fugitives as Bronco lashed the crowd further into a tizzy. �śThey say we can’t drink what we want! They say we can’t do what we want unless they approve! Ladies and gentlemen,” this brought a few snickers among the roughnecks, �śthey sa ks,cany we can’t earn a living unless they approve of the manner we live!” For a moment McCutchen thought the crowd would turn violent as pushing broke out. Focusing on the trouble spot, he recognized a dark-haired, brown-skinned man jumping up and down and waving his arms at the stage. �śGotchya.” McCutchen swung himself over the balcony railing, landing in the street below. On the way down he spotted a couple of deputies hovering like vultures. �śI’m Ranger McCutchen.” He flashed them his star. �śCome with me. The Mexican is the one in the middle waving his arms.” Bolting toward the crowd he pulled out his buck knife and whipped it open. Guns would never work in a crowd like this. Even from crowd level the Mexican was easy to spot, jumping up and down, waving his arms. What the hell was he thinking? The three men plowed a road through the crowd, the deputies flashing their irons. All the while Bronco lashed the whole lot to the edge of madness. A moment of doubt flashed across McCutchen’s mind. If this thing breaks�Ś but he flushed the thought as he caught a dark, angry movement out of the corner of his eye. A sledge hammer of a fist crashed down on his head, compressing his spine like a spring. Lightning spread into every finger and toe, jolting his body ridged and then collapsing him. Through popping yellow blurs of light he saw the Negro, but helpless to do anything about it, he slumped to his knees. The crowd kept him from falling further. Only when he clapped his hands to his ringing ears did he realize he’d dropped his knife. A muffled gunshot cut through the ringing and woke him from his shock. A nimrod deputy had tried to get a shot off in the middle of the mob. A knee caught him in the ribs doubling him over, but on the way to the ground he spotted his knife. Punching someone in the back of the knee he grabbed the knife and pulled himself up by someone’s shirt as Bronco’s voice reverberated over the speakers, �śWhat the hell? Calm down, folks. We ain’t here to fight each other.” A fist flew toward McCutchen’s face, but he ducked it, letting it collide with the next fellow in line. �śWhat in God’s name?” Bronco continued, �śMr. Villarreal? Is that you?” McCutchen flashed his eyes to his left where he saw the Mexican still waving his arms. �śEveryone! Everyone. I’ll be damned. This is the feller I’ve been talking about, kicked off his land for growing a crop.” McCutchen was close enough to reach out and grab the Mexican by the scruff when someone from behind did just that to him. Strong fingers cracked the bones in his neck, crushing his windpipe. Bronco kept jabbering. �śHelp that man to the stage!” McCutchen flipped his knife in his hand and lunged it backwards, landing a sound blow. The death grip around his neck slacked just enough. He wheezed for breath and twisted the blade. A blow to his hand forced him to drop the knife, but the damage had been done. All the while Bronco kept at it, �śWhere’s Muddy and Nena? They with you?” Nearing unconsciousness, McCutchen grabbed at the arm choking him with both hands. Twisting suddenly to the side and wrenching his throat excruciatingly, he swept his leg and collapsed the black monster’s feet out from under him. Refusing to release his grip, the giant dragged McCutchen down with him. �śGood Lord! Someone get that lawman off of that black giant. That’s the no good ranger who broke up all my equipment and refused to pay recompense!” The crackling voice of Bronco irritated the ranger almost rahat m as much as the hand around his burning throat. Roughly, several sets of hands levered him off and tossed him backwards while others restrained him. �śDammit! I’m a Texas Ranger.” �śAnd I’m Babe Ruth.” A hairy fist clocked him in the jaw. �śNow shut up and let the man talk.” ~~~ It took several helping hands to heave Muddy back on his feet, an audible gasp rippling outward as he stood. Nena burst through the wall of humanity, joining his side and hissing at anyone who looked them in the eye. �śNow don’t let his size fool ya. He’s a teddy bear, that one.” Bronco’s fresh reference to Teddy Roosevelt lightened the mood. �śNow make way for him and his little Indian lady to join my friend Chancho up here.” Chancho was still jumping up and down. Horrified, Nena finally saw the dark red blood oozing from Muddy’s side. �śYou’re hurt.” �śKidney.” He didn’t try to hide it. �śYou need a doctor.” She nuzzled against him, using her body as a crutch. �śWe need to hide first.” �śWe can do both.” She panicked. He shook his head and squeezed her. �śI don’t know.” The crowd staggered away from them, frightened by both Muddy’s size and Nena’s dagger eyes. Eventually a wiry lad with flamboyant red hair bursting from his cap slipped quietly under Muddy’s other arm. Nena began to lash out at him, but Muddy had already shifted his weight, accepting the help. His black eyelids drooped calmly as he locked her in his gaze. Mesmerized, she lugged his heavy frame forward through the separating sea of humanity, unable to break away from his expression. Something new appeared there, something haunting which in their years of marriage she’d never seen. Bronco’s voice continued to crackle over the loudspeaker. As the crowd coughed them up onto the base of the stage it struck her. Her husband’s expression was not quite apology, not quite fear, but surrender. Before Nena could panic further Chloe burst from around the stage, she and Chancho both embracing them. �śI’m so glad to see y’all! And of all the places.” She tried to squeeze them, but Nena resisted. Chloe backed away, recognizing the fear. �śYou’re hurt.” �śNot me. Muddy.” Tears trailed down Nena’s cheeks. The blood stain spread before their eyes. Everyone froze in shock. Muddy was the first to speak. �śI’m sorry.” He drooped more heavily on those holding him up. Beginning to wobble, the wiry lad squeaked. Chloe jumped between him and Chancho to help with the burden. From the stage above them Bronco knelt down close to their heads, �śTake him around the back of Rosarita’s. Beau and Luke will make sure no one follows. Chloe, you fetch Doc Brambaugh. Go!” Chancho piped up. �śI’ll get the doctor! Tell me where he is.” Nena bore her teeth, only the weight of Muddy keeping her from tearing at the Mexican’s throat. fy"> thdiv heiYou’ve done enough!” �śBut I can help.” �śNo! You have helped too much already, you stupid Mexican.” �śBut we�"” Her eyes shrank to laser points filled with venom. �śDo not follow us. We are safer on our own.” Wiping all evidence of emotion from her face, she continued, �śYou are not with us. You can have your stupid revolution, but if I see you again�Ś” She turned, and the group dragged the mountainous heap of man quickly behind the stage and out of sight. ~~~ Chancho tried to follow, but Bronco grabbed him by the shoulder. �śFriend.” He waited until Chancho acknowledged him before shaking his head. Then he nodded at Beau and Luke who helped thrust Chancho up onto the stage. During the silence the crowd had begun to cool. Some noticed the deputy crumpled on the ground, shot by his own gun. They dragged him to the edge and rolled him into the ditch. Others continued to threaten the ranger lest he open his mouth. Conversations sprouted like mushrooms after a rain�"arguments over whether a greaser and his Negro friend could be trusted, whether Bronco was an old windbag, whether the game had started yet or not, who would win and if Babe would throw a no-hitter. Chancho’s revolution was dying before it started. He recognized the momentum seeping from the crowd as plainly as he’d seen blood seeping from Muddy’s side. He saw the hope in Bronco’s eyes, trusting him to bring a new spark to the rally. Hoping, that despite his brown skin, Chancho could convince those in the crowd tempted to vote with the Drys as a means to set apart the immigrants who integrated alcohol into their daily lives, to reconsider. Bronco stepped to the mic to introduce him. �śThis is the man, who, new to our country, has dreams more American than you or I. Who dreams of an America where a man can care for his own land, can pull life giving minerals from beneath its surface, can support his family, or live just for the joy and adventure of life itself.” A smattering of half-hearted cheers rose from the crowd. �śBut, he’s also a man recently robbed of his land, forced from his home by yon ranger for growing a crop we know as hemp!” Some sharp statements of disbelief rose from the crowd. �śIt’s true. The Mexicans use it differently than we do, and it appears the same folk who fear liquor fear hemp as well. I ask you, where will it stop?” Chancho wavered on the stage, lost in a sticky darkness more foul than the ooze bubbling up through the cracks and fissures of Blondie. He surrendered willingly. Bronco’s voice scratched at the surface of his thoughts, digging a hole down to him, but he sank quicker than the outside world could catch up. Down, past Ah Puch, dead before he hit the ground. Down, past Jesse, seeping his Warrior blood into ungrateful soil. Down, past Muddy. Until no one was left. Hands tugged at him, exhuming him from his mental grave, but he was not yet for the world of the living. Bronco shook him lightly. �śSon, wake up. This is it. You gotta help yourself here boy. It’s gonna take a miracle to get you and your friends out of this one.” He pushed him toward the mic. Chancho thought briefly of his revolution, studied the crowd looking back at him and shook his head. �śLo ciento, I’m to< ooze just a goat herder.” Quickly he left the stage, his only thought to distance himself from the rest of humanity. �śYou’re a seditionist!” The rinche’s voice shouted over the crowd and echoed in his head like a table dragged across an empty room. Maybe he was right. A short distance away a clump of men ogled a brand new Harley Davidson twin cylinder motorcycle, the proud owner straddling the machine and retelling a daring exploit while the engine idled. His mind a vacuous pit, Chancho strode toward the man, shoved him from the bike and sped off heading south. TWENTY When Home Ain’t Home Chancho begged the horizon to swallow him, but with each rise it retreated further into the distance, refusing to bend to his will. So his life lengthened rise after rise by no doing of his own. He held the throttle as open as the rutted roads allowed, working his way southward like a dog dumped hundreds of miles from home, but with the scent etched into his awareness. No where else to go, burning feelings of betrayal and loss unraveling the edges of his conscious thought. Only instinct remained. Something in him, despite the sting of self-loathing coating his soul like tar, demanded that life continue. Somehow, the road jarring beneath him and juniper and mesquite blurring past him, kept him breathing. But not truly alive, not dreaming. He’d always believed that a man without dreams was walking only�"living without being alive. His dreams had been enough for twenty men, and were responsible for digging the chasm that swallowed him. They devoured him as he rode under a September sun. Voices gradually returned, those he had known, those who had known him. But they accused him of lacking love, lacking understanding. He agreed with them all, and one by one he detached his umbilical cord from their nourishing. He separated himself from human relationship in his mind, removing his parasitic existence from the lives of those he’d bled dry until no one remained. He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned onto a paved state highway�"no more tedious bumps hindering him. Shifting gears he accelerated the Harley to 80 mph. The wind rustled his hair, and for several miles he wondered where his lost sombrero had ended up. But it didn’t matter. One less burden to remove, one less receptacle for collecting shattered dreams. One step closer to cutting failure’s tethers. Eventually the highway veered off course and instincts drew him away from its smooth surface back onto rutted paths�"heading south, heading home. The jarring left him without peace. With no one else left to frustrate his thoughts, he had only himself. In a thunderclap of discovery Chancho realized the person with which he had grown most tired of was himself. His efforts to protect others from himself had resulted in a most pointed self-affliction. His balance on the bike began to waver, forcing him to pull over. He lowered the kickstand and stumbled onto hands and knees. A sudden quavering overtook him. Rolling in the dirt like a dog inflicted by anded up. skunk, he clenched every muscle against the sting and the stench. But nothing would remove it. No amount of self-debasement, no simple crust of earth, no scouring rock.� He shook from head to foot until cramps shot his legs and arms out straight, causing his back to arch and lift from the ground. For a full minute his body rolled with a rigid physical pain, racking his muscles with cramps. Finally the process finished with him, leaving him limp and exhausted. As the sun crept low in the west he lifted his head from its wallow, forcing his mind to assess its surroundings. Instincts true, he’d reached the Catholic Hills. ~~~ He cut cross-country toward their last camp site, stopping for a drink along the way. Unconscious of his expectations, he simply had to be there again, to stand in the last place he’d know as home. When he finally did, disappointment crushed him. Somehow he’d hoped it would rekindle him, restore what he had lost the moment he’d lost Nena and Muddy. With utter finality his broken heart burst, spilling its grief into the soil of the Catholic Hills. Not wanting to die anywhere else, its fraying strings had drawn him to its last remembered place of joy. Now that his heart was free to grieve its loss, all the distance Chancho had put between himself and those he loved recoiled into a suffocating proximity. And he cried. Finally he cried. Eventually he cried, not for himself or his loss, but for his friends. He awoke to darkness, a crescent moon falling in the night sky. The cloak of night lessened the edge of his grief, and he rose to walk the perimeter of his old camp. Four days since they’d left. A week ago they had lived here in peace, and he had dreamed. Arriving at the rock outcropping, he scrambled to the top and sat. Below him sat their windrows of retting hemp, unmolested. The only thing they’d left behind, now the only thing that remained. He was an ass. A hard-headed numb nut, and it had cost him the simple life, the good life that God had given him. He could not listen. He could not change�"always chasing empty revolutions rather than living the fullness of life set before him. He knew now that there was no revolution, not like the one he had sought. The revolution occurred inside the heart of every person, small, quiet yet equally as powerful. His was over now. Having come out on the losing side, he chose selfishness over service. The thought settled over him both slowly and yet startlingly sudden, like autumn leaves after a hard freeze. The revolution was over. All his adult life he had been captured by the concept. Revolucion. That everything wrong could change in a cataclysmic instant for the better. That the poor, the weak, the many could come together and win victory over the corrupt, greedy and unjust. That the land and its people could win their liberty from their oppressors. These had been his guiding forces in life. Now more than ever, he acknowledged that change for the worse came in sudden storms. But good change�"he shook his head. There would be no revolution. There had been Muddy and Nena, raising goats, stories around the fire, good coffee and good friends, but he had despised these things for a lie. Only one thing remained�"to offer his life to save those at the orphanage. He hadn’t the money, but maybe his blood still had value. He’d fetch his share of the gold and take it to Villa as a gesture. Maybe it would buy the Sisters protection un prffetil the revolution’s end. ~~~ Jumping down from the cab, Chancho slapped the side of the Jeffrey Quad truck that had brought him the last fifty miles. With a final wave the driver rumbled around the bend of the rutted-out road. Chancho craned his stiff neck. The Sabinas Mountains encased him on three sides. Stashing the motorcycle and swimming across the Río Bravo del Norte under the cover of night had been easy enough. Finding a ride into the remote area near the orphanage of Mt. Sabinas had been more difficult, but on the third day after leaving the Catholic Hills he stood only a couple miles’ walk from the place of his upbringing. From the river and then back and forth across it, what had started as a journey of conquest and self-discovery ended in surrender and loss. At least hope still remained that his last gesture of selflessness could bring some level of purpose to the emptiness he felt. And it would be nice to see the Sisters, even if he had to explain to them that he’d caused their troubles. The vigor of the uphill hike helped counter the cooler mountain temperatures. Still, the chill began to work its way through his tattered serape and thin peasant’s shirt as he ascended into the dampness of low hanging clouds. He sniffed his armpit, causing himself to shiver. So much for making a good impression on the moment of his prodigal return. He smiled at the thought of old Espanoza’s remarks. Topping the final ridge to behold the stone orphanage, his face fell suddenly slack. The wooden gates had been splintered and cast aside. Gaping wounds in the walls where stones had been toppled revealed a charred inner courtyard. Chancho, drenched in a cold sweat, scrambled over the broken gates before tripping and falling to his knees still fifty meters from the main building. Skeletal remains of the twin pinyon pines on either side of the path stood as impotent sentinels, looking on with closed eyes at the flame-gutted ruins of Mt. Sabinas Orphanage. The wooden timbers that had supported the thatched adobe roof littered the interior of the building’s stone shell like spent matchsticks. Wisps of cloud and fog replaced vibrant frescos of cherubim, seraphim, and a depiction of the Last Supper. Chancho gasped for breath, seizing at the thin air as frantically as he clutched at his faith in a fallen God. Crawling on hands and knees for several meters, he finally lifted himself against the hull of a pinyon and stumbled to the blackened doorframe of the only home he’d known for the first 20 years of his life. Gone. It was all gone. The long rows of benches, the office, the kitchen, the Sisters’ quarters. The Sisters. In a flash, panic overcame shock, and Chancho heaved himself through the rubble toward the remains of the sleeping quarters. Terrified of what he might discover, he had to know. Buried under heaps of debris and a thick slurry of ashen mud, all that remained were haunting fragments of the lives he’d left behind almost four years earlier�"until he reached the far end of the building. Streaked with soot and tears Chancho clambered over one last pile of debris, to the spot that had once been his own, and turned over the remains of a heavy timber door. Composed as a twisted lullaby, the scorched springs of a twin mattress created the final resting place of a tiny human figure. Leathery sinew and cracked bones had cooked into the metalintws of springs, their final moments becoming a single nightmare. Remembering Primitivo’s words about burying charred corpses, he knew now that the bastard had already burned them all before their conversation in Del Rio. Chancho lurched against the stone wall and splattered bile for several feet as he hunched his shoulders and heaved until a thin trail of blood dangled from his lips. Then, clawing at the crumbling plaster with bloody fingers, he smashed clump after clump of it�"chucking it into the remnants of the stone wall until exhaustion encompassed him like a skeletal womb. ~~~ Untold hours later he emerged from the wreckage as the sun began to set. The clouds having burned off, a sliver of orange light glinted off the lime-washed plaster walls that remained intact. Still numb with grief, all he knew to do was return to the hole in the outer wall where he had once kept his childhood treasures, and where he’d recently kept the revolutionary gold that had brought him nothing but terrors. His heart already spilt, his mind already spent, nothing remained but his soul. And he felt it nearly lost. How could a loving God sleep while the wicked burned the world down? Chancho swallowed hard. But it had been his job to save the orphanage. It had been his fault they�Ś he clutched his throat. He needed to breach the surface before he drowned. Emerging from a stand of fir trees, soot and tears encrusting his eyes, he felt his way forward blindly. The cliff trail, positioned several hundred meters above Valle de la Serenidad, had been strictly forbidden for the orphans to use. Thus it had served as Chancho’s private escape and fortress. With nothing but a steep stone wall on his left and a sheer cliff on his right, he stumbled along the familiar trail daring death to take him. But it was not yet his time, and he reached the cleft without misstep. He flicked his pocket knife open and located the one stone out of the thousands that concealed a hollow in the wall�"the spot where he’d always kept his hopes and dreams. Shimming the rock until it fell outward, he laid it aside and slipped his hand inside. Seconds later he withdrew a tattered burlap sack, decayed yet intact. Dropping the sack on his lap with a muted jingle, he took a deep breath and stared across the valley at the sun setting opposite him�"the same sun he’d watched rise a week ago, but a different man watching it. A Bible story struck him, one about a servant who’d been given talents of gold to invest for his master. Two other servants had taken their gold coins and profited with them, earning their master’s approval. But the third man had buried his gold, afraid to incur his master’s wrath upon losing the money. He figured as long as he didn’t lose it�Ś It went badly for the man, just as it had gone badly for himself. He hefted the sack of gold coins, both his and Ah Puch’s share of the unimaginable fortune they’d liberated from Carranza and Obregon. Taking a fine silk bag from the burlap he wrapped the remaining identical bag and placed it securely back in the hollow of the wall. God had planted the money in infertile soil. Unfaithful, Chancho had only buried it. Now the orphanage was gone, the orphans most likely dead, and Chancho’s dream dead along with them. But Ah Puch’s dream could still live. Ah Puch had dreamed only for the hacienda where his parents had been worked to death to be bought and divided among the remaining peons, but Cg pignhancho had gotten his friend killed before it could happen. Ah Puch, I’m sorry. Chancho spit in his hand and rubbed it on his boot, clearing a tiny spot of soot and ash. I have not learned my lesson, but I will. I will live to make one of our dreams come true. The only obstacle remaining was his own share of the wealth. As long as he possessed it, the false hope of revolution would possess him. He would slip north of the border and put his selfish and destructive dream of revolution to death for good, evading Primitivo and Villa long enough to come back and make Ah Puch’s dying dream a reality. He opened the silk bag in his lap and ran his fingers over the raised surface of each twenty-peso gold coin, trying to feel the words and symbols with more than his fingers. �śEstados Unidos Mexicanos, United Mexican States.” He no longer believed in the words, nor that they would ever be true. The eagle clutching the snake had been a powerful image for him once, indicating that the noble people of Mexico would dispatch the unjust. He counted them, laying them on the surface of a flat rock�"one hundred coins, more money than he would earn honestly in a lifetime. TWENTY-ONE Revolutionary Gold Still dripping wet from his laborious swim across the river, Chancho had been grateful to find the Harley where he’d left it. He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt and secured the bag of coins to the back of the bike. For the first time he stood back to admire the machine. Brilliant in design, two cylinders fed constant power to the back wheel through a simple chain. Wide handlebars provided for easy balance. Simple. Two cylinders, two wheels and a few gallons of gasohol could carry him almost 200 miles in a single day. The thought of the places he had been over the previous week chilled him. This day, and each day to follow, would extend the distance between now and then. With fuel reserves running low, he needed gas. Occupying his conscious thoughts with one task at a time, he divided his present from the future one gold coin at a time. Within the hour he reached a paved road heading northwest of Del Rio, the Rio Bravo snaking back and forth just south of it. Sputtering to a stop he pushed the bike for a few miles before a passing motorist pulled off onto the shoulder. �śOutta gas?” �śYessir. Still getting used to the machine.” Chancho lowered the stand and mopped the sweat from his brow. �śI know what you mean. Ain’t quite like riding a horse, is it?” A burly man reached into his back seat for a gas can, his untamed beard wearing him. �śI always carry some spare.” �śGracias, se�ąor, but I don’t want you to run out a few miles down the road.” �śNonsense. I got more than enough to get me to Langtry.” The man wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and overalls without a shirt. The hair spilling down his chest and shoulders had nd knlledbeen rubbed bald by the straps. He hefted the can so that gas sloshed audibly. �śAin’t doing nothing in the can but sitting there.” This reasoning resonated with Chancho and his new found mission. �śI’d be much obliged.” The man approached with the can while Chancho removed the gas cap on the bike. �śNever tried one of these two-wheelers myself. Adjusting to four was hard enough, but the missus never liked horses.” He leaned closer. �śI think she don’t like the feeling of giving up control. Slow to trust, that one.” He finished tipping the can and removed it. �śIt ain’t a lot, but it should help you find more.” �śI’m grateful, se�ąor.” The two men shook hands, the stranger’s grip calloused and thick like a work glove. Chancho started to release, but the man continued the grip past comfortable convention. He looked back and forth between Chancho and the Harley with narrowed eyes before finally letting go. Chancho smiled, opening the silk bag on the back of the bike without an attempt to hide what it contained. The man’s eyes widened further than Chancho would have thought possible as he flipped him a single gold coin. �śWhat’s this?” He held it away from his body, inspecting it in his open palm. Chancho rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe. �śSomething I’ve had for a while, but don’t have any use for any longer.” He re-secured the bag, giving the strips of cloth a good yank. �śLet’s just say, they ain’t doing nothing in the bag but sitting there.” Chancho mounted the bike preparing to go when a beefy hand rested on his shoulder. �śMister,” the man looked him in the eyes. �śI reckon I’d stay off the main roads, if I were you. I think I’ve heard something about law men looking for a Mexican on a motorcycle. I’d hate for someone to mistake you for him.” Chancho nodded. �śGracias. I think I will.” They shook again. �śIt was nice to meet you�Ś” �śGrady.” �śChancho. My friends call me Chancho.” He said the words by habit, but after they left his mouth he wished they hadn’t. �śOr they did, anyway.” He kick started the bike and pulled away, one coin lighter. ~~~ Chancho stuck close to the river, and the border, for another hour, as if the whole country were a dying friend. Even though he knew he would return, leaving hung in his throat like a final goodbye. Indeed his beloved Mexico gasped for its dying breath, unable to bare up any longer under the burden of cruel men. Finally he pulled off the pavement, heading north along a substantial dirt road. By noon his stomach growled as loudly as the Harley. Approaching a village named Santa Polco, he gauged stopping for supplies an acceptable risk. The town sprouted from its natural surroundings like a sand castle on the beach, the majority of the buildings composed of mud and earth brick unadorned with color. Rough timbers and boards speckled the few retail buildings along both sides of the road. A simple church occupied the most prominent position at the end of town. Wooden timbers jutted from the adobe plastered walls supporting an ornamental second story narrowing to a parapet and a bell housing, topped with a cross. The square buildings and flat roofs of the town reminded him of his childhood and the field trips from the orphanage to the nearest village market. He coasted to a stop in front of the only building resembling a café. A wooden sign hanging from the veranda read, �śTortilleria La Esperanza.” Completely isolated, Chancho saw no signs of electricity, telephones or even autos. A few horses anchored to a hitching post swatted flies with twitching tails. As much as he loved machines and modern devices, the quiet that enveloped him as he cut the engine nourished his soul. The surrounding hills winked back at him. Behind the hills to the west rose proud mountains, the beginning of the Davis range. Nothing like the Sabinas, still, they invited him. He stamped feeling back into his feet and slapped the dust from his back and shoulders. This was a good place. If he could quietly gather information about sources of water, he might roam the area for a while. About to enter the cafe, he changed his mind and headed instead to the church. Opening the large wooden doors he could hear his grandmother’s voice echo in his thoughts, �śMan cannot live on bread alone.” But the old woman was Muddy’s grandmother, not his own. He dropped to his knees, resting his head on the back pew and cried out to God. He prayed his best friends were O.K. He prayed he had not caused Muddy’s death or capture. He prayed God forgive his narrow vision and selfishness that had caused so much suffering to those he’d claimed to love. As his thoughts turned to Primitivo and then the rinche, the crunch of footsteps on the earthen floor aroused him. He turned to face a boy, no older than twelve, smiling down at him. �śI like your motorcycle.” Chancho stood, dusting off his knees. The boy continuing, �śyou should leave the dust, so that people will know you’ve been praying. It works with my mother.” Chancho followed the natural course of introductions. �śHow’s that?” �śWhen I am supposed to come to the church for morning prayers I play outside instead, but when I’m finished I make sure my knees are dirty so that I don’t get in trouble.” The boy grinned proudly. �śThat is very clever, but what excuse do you give God?” The boy looked insulted. �śGod doesn’t need any excuses, he knows my heart.” Bested, Chancho had to agree with the child’s logic. �śYou are very clever, indeed.” Still grinning, the boy rocked onto his toes. �śThat’s what my mother says, but she doesn’t think it’s a good thing.” Chancho tussled the boys dark hair. �śOh, it’s a good thing. Just make sure you remember, your mother will always be at least as clever as you.” He brushed the remaining dust from his knees. �śShe knows you play outside instead of praying in here.” The boy was about to argue when Chancho cut him off. �śCome. I’ll show you the motorcycle.” He pushed the hulking door open letting the overexposed sunlight flood temporarily into the dim sanctuary. �śMy name is Chancho.” The boy shook his outstretched hand. �śI’m Pepe.” They walked hand in hand for the few blocks back to the cafe. �śChancho is a funny name.” Chancho nodded. �śI’m a funny man.” After he’d explained the workings of the bike sufficiently to satisfy Pepe’s significant curiosity, while fending off several questions about what the silk bag contained, the two entered the cafe together. Noon had slid past by an hour, and Chancho preferred not to ignore his grumbling stomach any longer. �śPepe, where are the eggs?” A short, plentiful woman with the same smile as the boy spoke from behind a wooden counter. �śAnd who is this?” Upon turning she realized her son was not alone. �śThis is Chancho.” The boy beamed at his mother. �śHe drives a motorcycle.” She frowned. �śAnd he prays!” This caused the adults to laugh. �śIs this true?” The woman asked. Chancho raised his brows. �śOn both counts, but I don’t do either very often, I’m afraid. Chancho Villarreal.” Chancho extended his hand. The woman stood on tiptoes and rested her breasts on the counter as she reached across to shake it. The view reminded him of God’s genius in creating woman. At the same time he thought of Daisy and Chloe, wondering if he would ever find a woman to love a man such as himself, or if he would ever deserve it. �śEsperanza.” She bowed slightly, fixing her apron. �śAre you hungry, Mr. Villarreal? Because I can make you a wonderful black bean frittata with fresh tortillas, if my son would cross the street and get me a dozen eggs.” She glared at the boy who immediately darted out the door. �śI’m starving, and whatever it is, I’m sure a frittata would be great.” Chancho sat at the nearest table, stretching his legs out in front of him. The small cafe contained four or five small tables and a dozen handmade chairs. �śYou’ve never had a frittata?” The woman plopped a scoop of lard into a frying pan. �śI’m not certain.” �śWell, you will be when my son returns, if he returns.” She feigned exasperation while tucking a ringlet of loose hair behind her ear. �śHe seems very bright.” �śOh he is, but he can be a handful. And my hands are so small.” She held one up for Chancho to inspect. �śI see.” He paused, wondering if he was about to overstep polite conversation, but the intimacy of the village and his need for human connection drove him on. �śAnd his father?” She covered the tiny hitch in her voice quickly, �śNo. No father to speak of.” �śLo ciento.” �śDon’t apologize. It seems like another life. I was a different person then.” With vigor and experience she diced a chile and several sprigs of cilantro. �śWhere is that silly boy?” �śI myself am in search of a different life. Is this a good place to find one?” Chancho watched her work across the top of the counter. She turned to face him, still holding a knife in her right hand, and nodded. �śIt can be. Life is simple here.” She looked at him more clot halisely than she had so far. �śWhen you have little, there is little to be taken, and much to defend.” Chancho took a moment to ponder her words. �śAre there those who would take away the little that is so much?” She turned up the heat under a pot of beans, stirring them slowly. �śSome.” Pepe burst through the front door depositing the dozen eggs on the counter. �śMr. Gomez asked for two dozen tortillas at closing.” �śBueno. Now get yourself washed up for supper.” �śThen can I play checkers with Chancho?” Pepe scooted around the counter to the sink. �śMr. Villarreal,” she prompted. �śCan I play checkers with Mr. Villarreal?” �śYou’ll have to ask him.” Pepe peeked over the counter. �śI would be honored to match wits over a game of checkers. Just take it easy on me.” Chancho smiled. �śNo way. I like to win.” Pepe shook his hands off in the air. Chancho stood. �śBut maybe I should wash my hands as well.” �śPlease, help yourself.” Esperanza invited him around the counter to use the sink. After losing a game of checkers to Pepe, dinner was ready. After another minute of debate Chancho convinced Esperanza to join him and Pepe, and the three of them enjoyed the closest thing any of them had had to a family meal in a long while. They finished the frittata and a dozen homemade tortillas with mango for dessert. The food lifted his spirits, as did their company. The boy so bright and unassuming, his mother such a tender spirit, bathed in the scents of butter and flour. He was not worthy of their kindness. �śIf you need a place to stay�"” �śNo.” Chancho shook his head. �śI can’t stay. I shouldn’t.” �śOh, I didn’t mean, I only meant that�Ś” Chancho rested his hand over hers, a gesture that startled her with its intimacy. �śI’m sorry. I only meant that I have to keep moving. But I will need some camping supplies.” Pepe piped in. �śMr. Gomez has everything. His store is right over there. I’ll show you.” Chancho raised his eyebrows and looked at Esperanza, asking her permission. �śGo, go.” She shooed Pepe from the table. �śBut you have school work, so come right back.” She narrowed her eyes at him. �śYes, ma’am.” Chancho stood. �śWhat do I owe you?” �śHonestly, we ate most of it.” Esperanza straightened her apron nervously. �śHardly. I insist on paying, but I’ll have to get change from across the street.” �śReally, Mr. Villarreal�"” �śThat way I can make sure Pepe comes right back afterward.” Chancho stepped through the door as Pepe held it open. When they reached his bike he convinced Pepe to wait for him across the street as he slipped two gold coins from the bag, one for Mr. Gomez and one for Esperanza and her son. Ninety-seven left. ~~~ Chancho lay down in the mud and lapped water like a dog. After he finished he waited several seconds for his image to reappear as the ripples calmed. Each week that passed left his face more gaunt, his eyes more hollow. He slapped the surface with his hand and sat back on a flat rock buried in the mud. Somehow his bones felt loose despite his tight, leathery skin. He wiped water away from his whiskers with the back of his hand and closed his eyes, gazing up at the sun. Slowly he rolled to his knees, sinking his hands in the mud as he pushed himself upright. Wiping them on his tattered pants he walked back to the Harley. The tires were wearing thin, but they would hold a little longer as long as he avoided sharp rocks. For the hundredth time over the last month he thought about the previous owner, wondering how the motorcycle’s fate would have been different had he not stolen it. Covered in dust, it still seemed a dignified machine despite the ignoble heap of items Chancho had lashed to its back fender: an extra gas can, a bedroll, a pot and a coffee kettle among other elements of survival he had collected�"traded for with gold coins. A sturdy sombrero, a more practical sort than his last, topped it all off. With a sigh he put the hat back on his head. Concerned about gas and tired of the vibration, he pushed the bike a mile further down the cattle and game trail he had been following since morning. Finally he reached the designated meeting spot high up on a ridge overlooking the east. A few hours early, he rested his back against the trunk of a mountain cedar and fell asleep. He dreamt of an oil field belching black smoke and scorched with flame. Derricks consumed to the point of matchsticks snapped and crumbled in the winds created by the hungry tongues of fire. Then the ground shifted. A great earthquake lifted the surface which bulged from the ground, tilting vertically until it unfolded inhuman legs and stood. Great clods of earth fell thunderously from the creature’s back as it unfurled completely, stretching toward the heavens in agony and prayer. In his dream Chancho felt he knew its pain. Stumbling, exhausted of its soul, the mountainous creature fell back to earth with a force so destructive, so tumultuous, Chancho jerked in his sleep. He clapped the back of his head against the tree, waking himself with a cruel headache. Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and walked to the edge of the cliff. Recognizing the terrain from his dream as the miles of land stretching out in front of him, he suddenly understood the vision as prophecy rather than dream. He shivered from the thought. As sure as the rinche was coming for him, unstoppable and inexhaustible, a monster even greater than the ranger was coming to consume the land and bleed it dry. Chancho sat, hanging his feet over the edge. He remembered the crowded derricks of Blondie�"the place where his former life had come to rest. His troubles still pursued him, but the end to those crept near. He pulled the silk bag from his pocket. Soiledpoc, so t and slack, it no longer jingled. Holding the bottom he emptied the last coin into his opened palm. With a tight cord binding the coin to the knot in his gut, the solitary presence of it forced him to retch. More alone then he had ever felt as an orphan, he clutched the last remnant of revolution. The last promise of his dreams glimmered in his calloused and dirty hand. But what had the dreaming gotten him? He stabbed the terrain with dagger eyes, daring it to answer his question. Nothing. No one. Putting the dream to death had given him purpose. For a month he evaded the ranger, sleeping with wild animals and hiding in holes. Strangers had provided basic necessities in exchange for gold coins from the Mexican revolution, coins pilfered from the arrogant and corrupt. But his strength had slipped away with each coin, and now there was little left. One damn coin. And with no one on earth more interested in meeting him, to take that dream for good, clarity dawned on Chancho even as the sun set. The last coin, the last life left, should go to the rinche. With the law man threatening reprisals against the people of Santa Polco, Chancho could not hold him off any longer. What more selfless act could he perform than to surrender the final remnant of his false dream to his worst enemy in order to protect the only people left in the world who cared about him? Thus, the moment of his defeat would guarantee the ranger’s victory. A rustling in the brush startled him from his thoughts. �śPepe, compa�ąero. You are a good friend.” �śYou look terrible.” Pepe sat down next to his new best friend. �śOoph, and you smell worse. You should take a bath.” Chancho raised a brow. �śOh? And when was the last time you took a bath, mi amigo?” Pepe smelled himself. �śWhat? Like a week ago. I don’t smell as bad as you.” Hoarsely, Chancho laughed, but he choked on the sound and ended with a fit of coughing. �śTrue. Pepito, you always speak the truth. That too is a good quality.” �śThat’s not what Mr. Gomez says. He says I talk too much.” Chancho nodded. �śI suppose there is a time when saying nothing at all is best, better even than telling the truth.” �śBut�"” �śWhy don’t you practice it first, and then decide what you think?” Chancho punched him in the shoulder. �śGracias for the supplies.” Chancho took the backpack from Pepe. �śI’ll return the pack tomorrow.” �śBut�"” �śNo, no. You need to practice. Just listen. I have an even more important job for you, the most important one yet.” He waited for Pepe to nod his head in affirmation. �śI have one gold coin left�"” �śBut I already�"” �śUh. Practice.” Chancho cut him off. �śI know who I’m going to give it to. I’ve already decided. I cannot allow him to harm you or anyone in Santa�"” �śThe rinche?” Pepe froze in disbelief. Chancho nodded. �śThe rinche.” �śBut�"” �śYour job is to tell him.” Chancho put his arm around the boy, who looked shocked and disgusted. �śI need you to find the rinche or find a way to let him know, he is to meet me in Santa Polco tomorrow at five o’clock in the afternoon.” Chancho shook the boy lightly. �śThis is the most important part.” Pepe finally unfroze and looked him in the eyes. �śHe must promise not to hurt anyone in Santa Polco, and I will turn myself in. Tomorrow at five o’clock.” Pepe nodded slowly. �śCan I talk now?” Chancho slapped him on the back. �śSi, mi amigo. You did good.” �śThe rinche is a bad person, and you are a good one. You shouldn’t surrender to him.” Chancho ruffled his hair. �śVery clever once again. But, Pepito, sometimes when bad people do bad things, good people must do good things.” Pepe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. �śIf I let the rinche harm you or your mother would that be a good thing?” Finally Pepe conceded, shaking his head. �śI know, it is a hard lesson. I am only now learning it.” Chancho stood helping Pepe to his feet. �śSo now you are smarter than me.” �śI was already smarter than you.” Pepe grinned and dodged Chancho’s playful punches. �śYou rascal! Now give me a hug.” Chancho knelt and embraced the boy, a part of him wishing he was Pepe’s father, and a part of him wondering if he would ever have the chance to father a child of his own. He held him as long as he dared. �śNow off with you. Go straight home to your mother. There will be time enough to find the rinche in the morning. He will not be far.” Pepe scampered away obediently, Chancho calling after him, �śBut be careful!” Silence settled over him like a shroud, his end having been decided and set in motion. Maybe it was not as serious as all that. He prayed God would allow him to fulfill Ah Puch’s dream yet, but he felt as if death had already claimed him. ~~~ Silence followed Chancho from the ridge to the valley and into the village of Santa Polco. Since his conversation with Pepe he had spoken nothing out loud and remembered no noise of note. He left the motorcycle behind so that Pepe could go back for it later. It would be his final gift. Chancho smiled. The boy had promise with machines. Chancho entered town from behind the church, searching the opened windows for signs of life. Even as he was glad to see that the townspeople had chosen the wisest course and disappeared, a desperate loneliness choked him. No doubt the word had spread to stay away. While Chancho hoped the ranger would not instigate violence, he did not know what to expect. He had made little attempt during the last month to understand the man who determined to destroy him. It no longer mattered why. When Chancho stood in the dirt road he realized why he’d chosen to surrender in Santa Polco. Discouragingly, selflessness had not been his motivator. He drank in the familiar surroundings. He had chosen them as an anchor to the childhood from whence his dreams had begun to flourish. Now that he stood among the adobe buildings, surrounded by the smells of the earth, he clutched tighter to the coin in his pocket. The town exemplified human pliad berelationships bound up together, while maintaining an easy relationship with their environment. Rubbing the coin’s surface vigorously for the last hour, he had polished it with the oils from his skin. He took it from his pocket but refused to look at it, or the symbols engraved on it. After a final look up at the cross perched atop the chapel he placed one foot in front of the other, making his way down the main street of the abandoned village. Shattering the quiet, the bell behind him rang out the hour, five o’clock. He had not heard it ring at any other time, but before he considered it further the ranger rode into the street from behind the last buildings. One hand shading the sun from his eyes, he held his pistola in the other, pointing it at the ground. Chancho knew the weapon would be deadly from this range. Swallowing hard, he kept one foot moving steadily in front of the other, drawing closer to his captor. Questions about Muddy and Nena consumed his thoughts. Were they alive? Were they caught? Knowing nothing more about their condition than when he had seen them last, he only hoped his surrender would bring knowledge of them. But if his friends had not been captured, Chancho thrilled at the idea, the ranger would squeeze him for answers he did not have. He would keep quite until the ranger revealed his hand. Chancho took a deep breath. End well, he repeated to himself. Even if he had no friends, he must be a friend. It was all that remained to be done. End well. Impatient with Chancho’s slow pace, the rinche started toward him on horseback, then stopped suddenly. Chancho had not seen it, but life stirred inside the darkness of the tortilleria. Lightning fast the ranger raised his pistol. Horrified, Chancho threw his hands out in surrender, dropping the coin. �śNo!” The glint of the setting sun from the falling gold coin flashed in the ranger’s eyes. He fired once. Chancho’s body jarred sharply as his knees struck the hard crust of the dirt road, the gunshot echoing off the mountains in the distance. In searing pain, he gasped a single, hard breath while never taking his eyes off the shadows in the cafe. A figure appeared there, and another behind it. �śChancho!” He shook his head. �śPepe, no,” his voice a mere croak. Esperanza restrained the boy from running, but the both of them walked slowly into the street. She bent down to whisper something in the boy’s ear, keeping him close. �śThere doesn’t have to be violence.” The ranger encouraged his horse forward slowly. �śJust turn around and head back inside. I promised the boy I wouldn’t hurt you folk, but the promise is off if you get in my way.” Chancho waved them off, but they ignored him, instead moving several strides closer to his side. �śThis is your last warning.” The rinche cocked the trigger, rolling the cylinder into position. A soft rustling came from Chancho’s right where he and the ranger turned to see Mr. Gomez stepping slowly from his store, his hands held in front of him. Moments later a subtle stirring aroused the entire village. Darkened doorways revealed familiar faces. Behind him Chancho heard the heavy wooden doors of the churrs n frontch swing open. �śOut of gas, stranger?” Chancho strained to see behind him, and could not hold down a choking laugh when he spotted the burly Grady, straw hat and all, leading a flood of others from the sanctuary. From every building in town people emerged, walking cautiously into the street, drawing nearer to him. �śThe joke’s over!” McCutchen’s horse pawed nervously at the ground as the ranger leveled his pistol directly at Chancho’s head. �śThis man is getting justice one way or the other.” But before he could pull the trigger Esperanza stood in the line of fire, her back to the ranger. She opened her palm to reveal a single gold coin. Chancho looked around at the mob closing in on him. Each of the people in the forefront held a familiar gold coin. Every one of his coins, every person he had traded with plus friends and family whom he had never met, poured into the road surrounding him. �śEveryone back inside!” But the rinche had been forgotten. With dirty hands, Chancho smudged the tears streaming down his face. Esperanza knelt in front of him, her gentle scent of flour and butter embracing him. She placed her fingers beneath his chin and spoke intimately. �śYour kindness and generosity, even to strangers, has taught us that good people must do good things.” She lifted his gaze until they locked eyes. �śAnd it is not just us. You have inspired thousands. They sing about you. We have made arrangements.” She touched her hand gently to the spreading stain on his shoulder. �śBut first,” She nodded at Mr. Gomez who knelt beside her and unrolled a bundle of first aid supplies. After doing the best they could with the wound, Grady stooped down and hefted the Mexican over his shoulder. �śYou’re lighter than a sack of feed, my friend.” He looked at Esperanza with concern. �śCome.” She ushered the entire crowd foreword toward the ranger, who continued to sputter with rage. As Chancho and the crowd approached him from one direction, an entourage of two dozen vaqueros and cowboys closed in from behind. Each of them armed, they leveled their weapons directly at him. Esperanza stopped three feet in front of McCutchen. �śRide away. It is your only choice.” The ranger swelled visibly with rage, grinding his teeth and sucking breath through clenched lips. �śYou win this round, but this greaser ain’t out of the woods.” He turned his horse and road off at a deliberate pace. After the ranger left, Grady loaded Chancho into the back of a wagon where Esperanza and Pepe joined him. Taking the reins, Grady drove the two-horse team toward the nearest train station, escorted by two dozen riders. TWENTY-TWO The Road to Revolution At the station a large crowd cheered as the wagon pulled up to the platform. Dazed, Chancho failed to understand it. Grady steadied the team rs n th="while Pepe ran ahead to ensure a doctor got on board and that everything was ready. Esperanza silenced Chancho’s sputtering, trying to explain the situation. �śYou have inspired people to get involved�"to live life rather than watch it happen.” �śBut the train, where am I�"” �śTo Austin. We are riding with you. The entire train is for you. The switches have been cleared from here to the capital.” �śAustin?” �śWe will demand a pardon from the governor. He will have no choice.” �śBut why? I failed.” Tears streaked his pain-etched face. �śNo.” Esperanza shook her head, a ringlet of her dark hair whispering across his cheek as she held her face only inches from his. �śDon’t you see? You’ve succeeded.” A tear of her own mingled with his. �śWhen you first came to Santa Polco you said you were in search of a different life.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. �śYou didn’t just find one. You created one for all of us.” �śWhat? The coins?” She smiled. �śNot just the coins, you dense, silly man. The vision behind them.” Chancho couldn’t believe the words he was hearing. How did she know about the vision behind them? How could anyone have known? And right when he had finally killed all hope of its fulfillment, erased the revolutionary nonsense from his dream-addled head. He uttered one last pathetic question, �śWhat vision?” Esperanza rolled her eyes. �śThat if one person’s kindness could make a difference, together we could change everything. That our fears and doubts should not keep us from doing what we know to be right.” �śOh.” Stupefied, Chancho closed his eyes. �śWe’re ready.” Grady tucked his head into the back of the wagon. �śPepe found a stretcher to make it easier. Clever boy you got there.” Esperanza blushed. �śHere, help me, and we’ll load him. He needs a doctor. He’s getting weaker.” In the open air, cheers and thunderous applause greeted Chancho as several men streamed forward to lend a hand at carrying the folk hero’s stretcher. Much of the crowd were brown-skinned, but even more where white. A few Chinese huddled together at the back of the platform. Weak and flustered, Chancho managed to wave as the sea of humanity pushed him forward, lifting him up the steps and onboard the train. Inside, Esperanza directed the stretcher into a private car where a doctor waited. They transferred Chancho to the bed, before everyone but Pepe retreated under strict orders from the doc. Clinging stubbornly to the bedside, Pepe took Chancho’s hand and placed something cold into it. Finally he relented, joining his mother. A song broke out among the crowd on the platform, but Chancho couldn’t understand the words. He focused on the object Pepe had placed in his hand. A golden eagle with a snake in its beak shimmered back at him through his tear-clouded eyes. He clutched the last gold coin to his chest as the doctor applied pressure to the wound. Eyes fluttering, he passed out. ~~~ The view from Chancho’s third floor window at the Driskill Hotel included the governor’s mansion, Saint Mary’s Cathedral and of course the State Capital. But the opulence of his hotel room distracted him from the view, lifting him out of his skin and dropping him on foreign soil. He fingered the drapes for the eighth time and turned to look at his disheveled bed. It was the plushest thing he'd ever come into contact with. Had he not been nearly unconscious when his new friends had helped him into it the night before, he certainly would have resented soiling it. Nearly lunchtime on his third full day after entering Austin, he struggled to wrap his mind around the sudden changes thrust upon him. Most of the first night and day blurred together, highlighted by occasional snippets of Esperanza running her fingers through his hair or nurses changing his bedpan. Yesterday morning he'd been escorted by a mob from the hospital to the capital steps, where a rally had been in progress since his arrival by train. After a hand shake with the governor it was done. He held a full pardon. Only later, during the governor’s speech, did he realize the pardon included Muddy and Nena as well. A bittersweet victory, considering their disappearance after Blondie, and that technically the pardon covered them whether living or dead. Whisked from the capitol steps straight to a celebration banquet and ball, he posed for photos and shook hands while answering the same questions. �śWill you honor us by running for the House of Representatives?” �śToo bad you haven’t been a Texan longer, or we’d have you in the Senate.” What could he say? He’d never been to Austin, never seen the capital, had no idea what the legislature even did. Seventy-two hours earlier he had been determined to surrender to the rinche and forfeit his dreams. But now. He scratched his chin, finding it nearly smooth. Gazing at his reflection in the window, he barely recognized the man he saw there. Sallow and haggard around the edges, the wear and tear of his month in the wilderness was obvious, but the intensity and humility in his eyes startled him most. What had seemed a game and an adventure two months earlier, shone now as a mission and a burden. Finally he understood that dreams held repercussions. The mere dreaming of them changed the world. Acting upon them, well, Chancho’s heart fluttered. Acting upon a dream cost the dreamer everything. He put his hand to the glass, trying to feel the pulse of Texas’s capital city. Was he really doing this? Could he nourish the dream, draining his own life until it flourished, leaving himself an empty husk? He skimmed the pages of his life, remembering the sun set over the Catholic Hills, the warm brush of a beautiful woman’s skin, good coffee and stories shared across the fire. Everything came back to his moment of defeat in the village of Santa Polco�"the moment he discovered the sacrificial nature of dreams. The dreamer’s very soul births a dream, his energy nourishes it, his life’s blood brings it to blossom. Jesus had summarized it brilliantly, �śBlessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” For the first time he felt the depth of the words, and he knew the answer. Born a dreamer, he would also die for his dream. He had only to learn humility to understand the dreamer’s sacrificial role. His was still the same dream, to liberaeamavite the land and its people. Only now it took surprising shape. Politics. He slapped the glass with his palm, taking a deep, determined breath and stretching the ache in his shoulder. �śAustin, mi amigo, we’ll do this together. �ĄViva revolucion!” The telephone beside the bed rang as he shared his first official declaration of intent with his empty hotel room. He finally heard it on the second ring. �ś�żHola?” �śUm, yes.” The voice on the other end addressed him with the same formal rigidity he had encountered frequently over the last twenty-four hours. �śA lady and a small child are here to see you.” �ś�żSi?” After a pause the voice continued, �śShall I send them up, sir? Or will you be coming down?” �śAh. Well I’m not properly dressed, so just send them up.” Chancho stared out the window, still basking in his recent decision. �śSir?” �ś�żSi?” Chancho scratched himself. �śVery well. I’ll send them right up.” Chancho hung up, looking at his naked reflection in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. �śNow, what to wear?” He stepped to the wardrobe and opened it. A tailored and freshly pressed tan suit with patch pockets and a faux belt hung on a single hanger. Chancho zipped his pants just as a knock came at the door. �ś�ĄBuenos dias!” He opened it to Esperanza and Pepe, both wide-eyed at their surroundings. �śMi casa es su casa.” He bowed with an elaborate flourish. �śAlmost makes the whole manhunt and getting shot thing worth it, si?” Esperanza closed her gaping mouth and smiled. �śAre you rich now?” Pepe bounded onto the bed. �śPepe!” �śSorry, mama.” Hang dog, he crawled down from the mountainous bed. Chancho put his arm around the boy while addressing Esperanza. �śNo really, we should try it out.” He slapped the bed with his hand. Esperanza started and raised her eyebrows. Chancho sputtered, �śI mean, you know. For fun.” Esperanza blushed. �śFor jumping!” Confused, Pepe looked up at them until Chancho changed the subject. �śAnd there’s an indoor toilet. It’s amazing. I’ve used it four times.” He showed Pepe the handle, explaining how gravity caused it to flush. Finally he turned back to Esperanza. �śSo, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Esperanza sighed, suddenly looking very serious. �śWe must go home today. Our train leaves this afternoon.” Chancho felt the gravity of his recent decision settle as the thought of being alone tightened in his throat. He took her hand while keeping Pepe clutched to his side. �śAll of this is because of you. I would be in jail or dead if you had not stood up to him.” Hugging him, she cried softly onto his good shoulder. is goodlde or deaYou have brought the village to life. Wildcatters have troubled us for months. We did not know how to stand up to them. Now we do.” Chancho looked her in the eyes. �śReally? I had a dream about oil and Santa Polco.” They stared at each other for several seconds. �śNever mind.” He took a deep breath. �śI’ve decided I will run for the House.” Esperanza looked hurt and excited at the same time. �śReally?” Chancho nodded. �śYou will win, and you will make a difference.” She released him, taking Pepe’s hand. �śWe’re glad you’re healthy, and that the governor pardoned you and your friends.” �śThank you.” The thought of Muddy and Nena grieved him. �śI have to find them. I will leave for San Antonio today.” Esperanza smiled nervously while backing toward the door. �śBut I will come visit you soon, in Santa Polco.” Chancho waved his good arm around in the air to illustrate a whirlwind. �śElections are in a month. I know Santa Polco is not quite in my district, but I’ll make an exception.” He knelt down to look Pepe straight in the eye. And for you, Pepito. I left a present for you at our meeting spot.” Pepe’s eyes popped from his head. �śYou mean�"” �śChancho!” Esperanza stamped her foot. �śOf course you will have to listen to your mother, and do everything she says.” He smiled up at her. �śBut I can think of no one better to care for my motorcycle than you. Keep it in working order for me. O.K.?” Pepe grinned. It was the same mischievous grin Chancho had seen in the church when they’d first met. �śNow let’s go. I’ll walk you to the station.” �śBut don’t you have to pack?” �śOh yes. I almost forgot.” He grabbed the gold coin from the dresser, slipping it into his pocket, and tucked his sombrero under his arm. �śReady.” Hand in hand, with Pepe tucked in between, the couple walked down the hall. The boy piped up as they reached the steps, �śSince the governor is paying for us, don’t you think we should have lunch first?” TWENTY-THREE Friends and Foes Despite his recent celebrity status, Chancho had to wait nearly an hour before seeing Bronco O’Brien at the Bexar County Jail. During his wait he pondered the gaping expanse between Austin and San Antonio. While geographically close, the two towns were ideologically worlds apart. San Antonio, dominated by cattlemen and military, opposed Austin’s politicians and university students. By the time the guard escorted him to Bronco’s cell he understood why the Rangers had chosen to imprison the old man in San Antonio despite Ranger headquarters being in Austin. �śChancho, you scamp!” Bronco’s greeting caused the guard to stiffen, hesitant to let Chan goodn Austicho into the cell. �śI knew you’d give �Śem hell!” Finally ushering Chancho inside, the guard slammed the bars behind him. �śYou’ve got half an hour. Whistle if you want out before that.” �śI heard about your pardon a couple days ago. I hope that bastard, McCutchen, got what was coming to him.” Chancho hugged Bronco. �śYou know, I haven’t heard. Last I seen him was at Santa Polco.” Bronco slapped his leg. �śHe won’t be able to survive the scandal. I bet you dollars to cow pies he was a civilian by the time you shook the governor’s hand. Hot damn. You gotta tell me what it was like. That limp-wit Hobby. He’d a pardoned his own mother’s murderer to git rid of this mess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he did.” He stopped to breath. �śSorry about that. Just that I ain’t had nobody to visit with since Chloe left a few days ago. Here.” Bronco ushered Chancho over to the prison issue mattress. �śHave a seat. I’m gonna stretch my legs for a bit.” �śHow is Chloe?” Her mention caused a wave of mixed emotion in Chancho. Part of him had hoped to see her. �śOh, she’ll make it. Hermilla’s been taking care of her. Beau and Luke can run the ranch. She’s a tough nugget, that one.” His voice started to quiver as he paced the cell. �śI don’t know how I would have done it without her, after her mother died.” He turned and winked at Chancho. �śYou should stick around. She’s supposed to be back in town today.” Chancho changed the subject. �śI want to apologize, Mr. O’Brien.” �śFir what?” He started pacing again. �śFor landing you in here.” �śDag blast it. Now cut that out. That piss ant, McCutchen, had me thrown in here, not you. Ha!” He slapped his leg. �śYou’re the one who made sure it was the last official thing he did. I should be thanking you.” He sighed. �śBesides, I’ll be getting out pretty soon. Trumped up charges on obstruction of justice and violation of the county liquor laws can’t hold me for long. Tried to get me for inciting a riot, but the judge already threw that one out. I think they just want me cooling my heels until after the elections.” He snapped his fingers. �śSpeaking of! Chloe mentioned the buzz around Austin. Is it true? Don’t shoot me no shit, boy.” Chancho smiled and nodded. �śHot damn! That’ll show �Śem. Did you know you’re the first bonafide Mexican representative since Texas became a state?” It struck Chancho all over again how little he knew about the world he was entering. �śOh Daddy, leave the man alone. He hasn’t even gotten elected yet.” Chloe stood in the hall waiting for the guards to buzz her into the main prison corridor. �śWhy, don’t you think he’ll win?” Bronco slapped Chancho on his sore shoulder, bring tears to his eyes. �śOh, he’ll win, but first things first.” The door clicked and Chloe swung it open. She whisked around the door swaying her hips like a movie stare ath="23" allet on the silver screen rather than a rancher’s daughter in a county lockup. Chancho stood, holding his peace and trying to think about anything other than settling down to the pastoral life with Chloe in her perfect fitting jeans. �śAnd what things might you be referring to?” Bronco winked at Chancho elaborately, playing at something completely beyond him. �śWhy Chancho, have you been crying?” Chancho looked back and forth between them, both acting funny. �śIt’s just my�Ś” he gestured toward the sling immobilizing his arm, but gave up and shrugged his shoulders. �śAnd what’s that silly outfit you’re wearing? Is this what people in Austin are wearing these days?” Sputtering, he looked down at his clothing, �śI �"” but the door buzzed again, cutting him off. Slowly the heavy bars swung open. �śWell, ain’t this just a party,” Bronco said. �śIt’s about time.” Chancho gasped as Muddy and Nena stepped into the corridor, followed by a long silence. �śAt least he’s not naked.” Nena gripped the bars of the cell. �śAnything else is an improvement.” She looked him in the eyes. �śAlthough these bars are not becoming to a man of great vision.” Muddy stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Moments ago Chancho’s worst fear had been that his best friends were dead and gone. He had not prepared for the even worse possibility, that they lived but had not forgiven him. This sudden fear pulled him toward the floor like a millstone around his neck. �śI’m sorry �"” �śNo.” Muddy cut him off. �śWe should have stayed together.” Nena nodded. �śYou were right, Chancho. The people were ready.” Chancho shook his head. �śNo. I was't ready. I was selfish and proud.” A tear trailed down Nena’s face and Chancho broke down into sobs. �śNow look who’s crying.” He reached his arms through the bars to give both of them an awkward hug. �śYou started it, you crazy Mexican.” Nena’s voice quivered. Chloe and Bronco joined in, completing the group. Finally Bronco broke them up. �śThis is sweet and all, but one of us is supposed to be doing jail time here. The rest of you should be hugging and kissing on the outside.” He ribbed Chancho. �śBut how did you get here?” Chancho asked. �ś�ŚCause the guard there is sweet on my daughter. Just lets her walk right through.” Bronco said loudly. �śNo,” Chancho corrected. �śNot in here, but how did you get to be here? How have you hidden all this time?” �śOh that was easy, honey.” Chloe sparkled. �śI took �Śem straight out of Blondie once we realized you were gone and dropped �Śem off south of the ranch. Daddy kept the ranger busy.” Bronco danced. �śYou should have seen him. The crowd worked him over pretty good before it was all over. He wanted to arrest �Śem allresht="0, but he settled for me.” Chancho’s boyish fascination returned. �śOf course, the Kickapoo. And you stayed with them the whole time?” Muddy nodded. �śThey were more than glad to hide us. We stayed until Chloe left the signal that it was safe. When we learned we’d been pardoned we came here.” �śBut how did you know I �"” Nena cut him off. �śDon’t be dense. We knew you would be looking for us, and we knew you would visit Mr. O’Brien.” Chancho shook his head. �śAm I really that predictable?” They were interrupted by the guard. �śAlright. That’s enough. Only one visitor at a time.” He ushered Muddy and Nena with a drawn nightstick. �śOut. Out.” Chloe held fast. �śI’m staying, honey.” The guard sighed, �śAlright. You in the cell, come on.” Bronco stepped front and center. �śHot damn. I knew they’d come to their senses.” �śNot you, old man. The Motorcycle Mexican.” Bronco laughed. �śSo is that what they’re calling you?” Chancho shrugged as the guard escorted him from the cell. �śI’ll get you out, Mr. O’Brien. After I get elected, I’ll do everything I can.” �śI know you will, son. Don’t worry about me. They got great chili in here. I’ll gas �Śem out before its over.” He clenched his cheeks and ripped a barn burner that echoed off the walls. �śDaddy!” �śNo one can silence Bronco O’Brien!” He danced about his cell while the guard herded Chancho toward the second set of doors leading to the entryway. Chloe clutched at Choncho’s sleeve imploring him with her eyes. �śHe’s keeping his spirits up, but he can’t stay in here. Please.” Chancho brushed her cheek with his hand. �śI’ll get him out. I promise.” She kissed him on the forehead. �śYa’ll be careful. It can be rough out there, even for a celebrity.” Chancho rolled his eyes. �śPlease, se�ąorita, I'm no celebrity. I’m the Motorcycle Mexican.” �śBreak it up.” The door buzzed and the guard shoved him through it. �śI’ll keep a room ready for you at the ranch.” Chloe blew a kiss through the bars as the three friends turned to leave. ~~~ �śBautizada! Bella, Tripalo!” Dressed like a gentleman but prancing about like a school boy, Chancho embraced the horses while creating a scene in front of the jail. �śHow did you get them?” �śWe didn’t. A man from Fort Clark transferred them here yesterday with instructions to hand them over to Del Rio Chancho Villarreal, aka the Motorcycle Me Mojustixican. That’s you, my friend.” Muddy put his arm around him. �ś�ĄIncreíble!” �śThere’s more.” He wrapped Nena in his other arm. �śBut the rest can wait until we get to Brackettville. Come, we have a long ride in front of us.” �śWait,” Chancho stopped. �śI need some clothes.” �śWhat’s wrong with those.” Nena snickered. �śWe don’t have any money.” Muddy looked him over, the corners of his mouth starting to curl. �śBesides, you look fine.” �ś�ĄIncreíble!” Chancho shoved him. �śWe do have money, and these are my politicking clothes. I can’t muck them up on horseback.” �śHow do we have money?” Nena prodded him. Chancho ran his thumbs up and down along the sides of his vest, grinning. �śI made them compensate us for our marihuana.” �śYou didn’t.” Chancho nodded. �śI did. The rinche had it destroyed as soon as they found it under Bronco’s barn. I think the governor wanted it kept secret.” He pulled a money clip from his pocket. �śTwelve hundred dollars.” He flapped the money as he skipped toward the boardwalk, Nena and Muddy chasing him. �śCome. You two look ratty.” ~~~ After two days of riding the friends fell comfortably into old patterns, passing the time alternating between conversation, laughter and total silence. They held a new appreciation for the simpleness of a trail ride without pursuit. Chancho explained to them what he found at Mt. Sabinas, and how he’d used his share of the gold. Muddy and Nena did their best to console his grief over the loss of his orphanage family. Muddy vowed to help him track down Primitivo, and Nena offered that perhaps most of the orphans had survived. As they neared Brackettville on the second day a solemness shrouded Chancho until Muddy offered one of his favorite stories involving Jesse during their time in the troop. At the end Nena punctuated the story, �śHe died the way he wanted.” They all nodded, riding three abreast down Main Street. �śIt was a good death.” Chancho added. Clearing his throat, he begged them with his eyes to not prolong his agony any longer, having waited since San Antonio to hear the rest of the story Muddy had alluded to. Nena rode closer to Tripalo. Reaching into his saddle bags she pulled out a small tin can and tossed it to Chancho. Muddy explained, �śBronco’s men collected me and Nena’s saddle bag in Blondie before the ranger could, although they never found yours.” Chancho slapped his forehead. �śAy. I dropped it behind a saloon. It had the knife from Rock With Eyes.” �śWell, there was nearly a riot�"” �śYou would’ve liked it.” Nena added. Muddy continued, �śWe made it out in the confusion, but didn’t unpack the bags until we reached the caves. When we did, we found that. It was Jesse’s,wased to. Ne I’m certain.” Chancho popped the lid from the can and carefully slid the contents into the palm of his hand. �śWhat are they?” Muddy exchanged glances with Nena, both of them giving Chancho more time. �śEach of them is made from a different material.” He tucked the can into his pocket, using both hands to inspect the flat donut-shaped discs. He finally looked up at the others as they turned down a side street heading for Jesse’s place. �śWe’d hoped you could tell us their purpose.” Muddy said. �śThere were doubles of each material. We left the others with Sunny and his granddaughter.” �śShe was the female version of you. You’ll have to meet her, I just don’t want to be there when you do.” Chancho feigned offense as Nena motioning her hand like a mouth. �śYap, yap, yap.” Muddy played peacemaker. �śWe thought they might be used�"” �śWith machinery.” Chancho interrupted. �śEngines, pumps, anything mechanical. Si.” He scratched his chin. �śIt’s ingenious. So simple. Why didn’t I think of this? It’s always the simplest solutions that are most difficult.” Holding up a ring made of light plastic he peered at Muddy through the hole in the middle of it. �śRemember the tank of methane for the harvester?” Nena smirked. �śI wish I would have seen that.” �śMy scorched buttocks are another matter.” Chancho waved her off. �śBut the fire wouldn’t have happened with one of these. See?” He tossed it to Muddy. �śWith one of these the right size sandwiched between the tank and the rest of the valve the gas would not have leaked.” Chancho manipulated another ring in his hand, one made from a bendable rubber. Nena was skeptical. �śWhy would Jesse have hidden tractor parts in our bags.” �śNot just tractor parts. Everything.” Chancho grew animated. �śAutos, appliances, plumbing, pumps. Especially anything with liquids or gases.” Muddy made the connection the rest of them missed. �śLike oil.” �śSi. Definitely oil.” Chancho tracked the thought down, finally making the connection. �śOil!” But before they could follow the thought further they arrived at Jesse’s. �śIs this�"” �śThis is it.” �śWhat happened?” Chancho gawked in disbelief at the charred wreckage of Jesse’s stick-framed house. Tattered remains of the old, scout’s personal effects fluttered gently in the breeze, scattered about the property. The burnt debris had been overturned, a path leading into the middle. They dismounted, Nena glaring about the neighborhood while Muddy and Chancho approached the rubble. Rummaging their way into the pile, they overturned a section of siding still intact. �śSanta Maria.” The hollow beneath it revealed an earthen cellar. With Nena standing watch the men climbed down and waited several seconds at the bottom for their eyes to adjust. Dim light filtered through the opening above them. �śDid you know about this placbou climbed e?” Muddy shook his head. The room extended for a dozen feet, the walls covered with empty shelves from floor to ceiling. Broken jars and empty ammunition cartons laid strewn across the floor. Like the rubble above, this room had been ransacked. �śWhat did he keep in here?” Chancho inspected the dust patterns on a shelf looking for evidence of what they had held. After several seconds Muddy answered. �śGuns, food, anything he needed for emergencies, and it looks like he was preparing for emergencies, lots of them.” �śIt looks like Jesse Warrior was not retired after all.” Muddy ran a hand over an empty shelf. �śHe said something to me on the way to the airstrip�"that he had stumbled into something big involving Germans and a hideout near here.” Chancho waited for him to finish. �śWhoever did this, they were looking for something, and it wasn’t guns.” Chancho rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe. �śWhatever it was, do you think they found it?” �śFrom what I know of Jesse, which obviously was not as much as I thought, I doubt it. This room would have been for emergency supplies, not for secrets.” �śPlus someone came back down here after they burned the house. Why would they have done that, if they already had what they wanted?” Chancho climbed up into the sunlight first. �śWhy burn the house at all if you are certain it contains nothing of value?” Muddy climbed up the earthen steps next. �śJesse had a modern toilet, remember?” �śHe never used it, but built an outhouse instead.” �śExactly. He said it didn’t work.” �śAy caramba.” �śHelp me find it.” The two men carved a new path through the rubble until they discovered the overturned ceramic toilet�"the bowl broken, but the pull-chain tank intact. Muddy reached inside it and pulled out a heavy metal object with rubberized handles. �śWhat is it?” Chancho’s jaw dropped. �śI don’t know, but let’s get out of this mess.” They retreated to the big palm tree by the road. The object was heavy. Constructed mostly from metal, several buttons lined one side, and words had been stenciled along the length of it in Spanish. Chancho used his sleeve to wipe the grime from its surface until he could read the label, �śGeological survey�"Secretariat of the Interior.” He slowly shifted his gaze from the object to Muddy and then Nena. �śI’ve seen these words before.” Nena prodded him. �śThere’s a lid.” Chancho carefully flipped the top of the device open while Muddy held it. Beneath the lid was another solid surface made from a different material. He tapped it. �śIt’s glass, but�Ś like a photo plate.” �śAs in photographs?” �śExactly. The last time I saw something like this was on Generalwas align="ju Obregon’s personal train bound for Texas, just before Ah Puch and I, uh, diverted it. Come to think of it, it’s probably still where we left it.” Chancho sat the device on the ground. �śI’m going to try something.” Atop the row of identical black buttons sat a larger red button. Chancho pressed it. A low buzz from within the box grew in intensity. The three friends backed away until it popped. A fizzling sound trailed off into silence as the glass surface began glowing blue. The glow increased until it revealing patterns of darkened black lines and illuminated blue areas of the glass. Holding their breath, they watched the patterns emerge. �śIt’s a map.” Nena saw it first. �śOf what?” The image filled nearly the entire surface, still spreading into the corners. �śIt’s big, look.” Chancho held his finger over the surface. �śThis is the Texas Gulf Coast. This is Mexico.” �śAnd this is what? California?” �śMust be. Coahuila, Chihuahua, all the Northern provinces and Southwestern states.” Nena pointed at the glass surface. �śSo what do all these dots indicate? And why are there so many of them in Texas?” �śAnd if that one button revealed this map, what about all the others?” Chancho added, �śthis thing could be like a box of negatives.” A noise came from the next block over causing Muddy to close the lid. �śHere.” He handed the devise to Chancho. �śLet’s figure it out somewhere else.” The three friends mounted up. �śBesides, don’t you have a campaign to run? And I miss my goats.” Chancho grinned nonstop as they rode quietly out of town. ~~~ McCutchen turned, burying his Colt .45 into the stranger’s belly with surprising speed considering his level of inebriation. At the same time he felt a pinch in his ribs. He looked down to see a pistol jabbing into his own side, applied with the same stealth and speed. �śHa.” He removed his Colt and let the hammer down gently. �śI guess you got me.” Holstering his gun he turned back to the bar and drained what remained of his fourth glass of wine. An empty bottle sat next to the now empty glass. �śPull the trigger or push off. I’m busy.” �śAre you? �ŚCause to me, it looks like your calendar’s wide open. What, now that you’re not a ranger and all.” Grinding his teeth, McCutchen slowly popped his neck and turned to face the stranger. �śYou son of a�Ś” He stopped when he finally looked the man in the face. �śDo I know you?” The man smiled. �śWe’ve met, once.” �śI’ll be damned.” McCutchen slapped the surface of the bar. �śLipscomb. What the hell are you doing in Del Rio? Taking a vacation?” �śDo you mind?” Lipscomb indicated the stool next to McCutchen. �śSure. Be my guest, but the wine sucks here.” Lipscomb nodded to the barkeep, �śbebaridth="er.” He turned back to the ex-ranger. �śYou’re looking good, my friend.” �śCut the crap, Deputy�"�ś �śUhh,” Lipscomb tapped his badge, �śIt’s Sheriff now.” �śWell congratulations. I’m glad someone benefitted from this circus, �Ścause it sure as hell wasn’t me.” �śThat’s what I wanted to talk to you about, McCutchen. You see, I don’t just work for the people of Brackettville. I have,” he paused to take a drink as his beer arrived. �śDrinking a Heineken?” McCutchen grumbled. Lipscomb ignored him, �śNow where was I? Oh yes. Let’s just say I answer to other interested parties,” he cleared his throat, �śthat compensate me well.” �śDo you mind?” McCutchen lifted his empty glass, tapping it with his finger. Lipscomb flagged down the bartender again. �śWhat interested parties?” �śOne interested party, to be specific, and I’m sure you could already guess as to their identity.” �śGuesses are ugly for everyone involved.” �śTrue. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’d hate to have to kill you for no good reason.” McCutchen tensed noticeably, but quickly let it go. He didn’t trust Lipscomb and wouldn’t anytime soon, but there was no point in preparing for a fight he would lose. �śThat would be a shame.” �śIndeed, but it need not come to that.” Lipscomb took another swig of beer. �śI’ve come with a job offer.” �śHah.” McCutchen scoffed. �śWhy the hell would I want to work for you, as a deputy?” The bartender filled his glass. �śNothing like that. No, you wouldn’t be working for me. And let me make one thing perfectly clear.” He gripped McCutchen in a steely glare that caused him to flush. �śIt wouldn’t be in any official capacity.” End Greetings from Author David Mark Brown I hope you’ve enjoyed Fistful, the first in the Reeferpunk franchise. I’m looking forward to writing many more in the series, and am particularly fond of the characters that you will get to know and love over the next decade's worth of Reeferpunk. I know the first book was cataclysmically good. The next three will somehow be even better. I'll grow fat on my wealth of penny rolls (I like my money in shiny form) leading to a blase fifth book, then rebound for the sixth, seventh and eighth. The ninth will be a terrible attempt to take the characters into space on a diesel-powered locomotive (only read it if intoxicated). And blah, blah, blah. So I hope you stay tuned! I’m pretty stoked about my upcoming plague novel, Twitch and Die! (hopefully out by Christmas). If you have read the shorts then you may recognize �śtwitch” as the nickname for the plague that will someday turbaridh and Dien our nation’s corn belt into the zombie-filled dust zone. This second Reeferpunk novel describes the events surrounding the birth and initial outbreak of the horrible plague. Enjoy the show! Bio I wrote my first award-winning story in 4th Grade, titled "The human bean." It wasn't a play on words. My profound piece about the human condition blundered into a mutant story about a human/legume crossbreed. (Curse you, phonics! But hello, commercial fiction!) My first book, Tainted Love: God, Sex and Relationships for the Not-so-pure-at-heart (inspired by my soiled experiences) was published in 2002 by InterVarsity Press. After several years of retooling myself as a novelist (by drinking more and making less money), I reemerged in 2009 with the idea for Reeferpunk. Raised on a Texas cattle ranch and schooled at the U of Montana (Berkeley of the Rockies), I am the world's most self-proclaimed redneck granola. When not spinning genius into the aethernet I obsess over home wine making, earthen construction, social justice, ultimate Frisbee and industrial hemp. My lovely wife and I adopted our first child from Vietnam before producing a second through more traditional means. The four of us live happily in Nampa, Idaho. Connect with me online: Twitter: RedneckGranola Facebook: RedneckGranola Smashwords: DavidMarkBrown Website: The Green Porch ; Reeferpunk Also available: Reeferpunk, Volume One , a collection of four shorts: Reefer Ranger: Texas Ranger, J.T. McCutchen, didn't heed the Mexican revolution until it spilled across his border. Soon every revolutionary'll know, you've got to kill the man before you fight the power. Fourth Horseman: If the Dustbowl can't erase the regrets that haunt the Fourth Horseman, it's unlikely the tequila will. Besides, what's Armageddon without Death? Del Rio Con Amore: This ain't just Villa's revolution anymore and there's a whole lot of gold about to go disappearing. Viva this! Paraplegic Zombie Slayer: A neurotoxin transforms the Texas panhandle into a forbidden dust zone where Georgy Founder struggles to keep his three young sons alive and together as a family. It turns out that post-apocalyptic 1928 Texas ain't very handicap accessible, and while zombie-slaying is fulfilling, wheelchair lifts are pretty damn slow. Coming in January 2012: Twitch and Die! A Wester! End Table of Contents Copyrite page Introduction to Reeferpunk Chapter One: El Diablo and the Rinche Chapter Two: El Chupawhata? Chapter Three: Giddyup Chapter Four: Catholic Hills Chapter Five: San Felipe Springs Chapter Six: Don't Come Knocking Chapter Seven: Chancho's Reefer Madness Chapter Eight: The Trail Chapter Nine: The Campfire Chapter Ten: From the River Chapter Eleven: New Friends Chapter Twelve: Hacienda O'Brien Chapter Thirteen: When Darkness Falls Chapter Fourteen: Rock With Eyes Chapter Fifteen: The Plot Thickens Chapter Sixteen: McCutchen's Play Chapter Seventeen: Planes, Trains and Blood Chapter Eighteen: Boomtown Chapter Ninteen: Anticlimax Chapter Twenty: When Home Ain't Home Chapter Twenty One: Revolutionary Gold Chapter Twenty Two: The Road to Revolution Chapter Twenty Three: Friends and Foes Bio