The wife and I lasted three whole minutes into the most recent presidential-exercise-in-high-blood-pressure before we looked at each other, shook our heads, and went back to reading our perspective books. I’m honestly pretty surprised one or both of the candidates didn’t die on the stage, or at least pass out from breathing each others’ hot air.
Never fear! I have the perfect solution for fixing said debacle before we hit the second round. Replace the journalistic moderator with a high-power shrink. Done and done. Well, almost done. I think it would be wise to give the psychiatrist the ability to shock one or both of the candidates when necessary—just enough juice to shut them up. Not so much that they swallow their tongue or wet their pants or anything gruesome like that.
After this ingenious idea struck me yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about the juicy possibilities.
Candidate A: Do we want this maniac with his finger on the button?
Candidate B: What button? What are you even talking about?
Candidate A: [mockingly] Wh-wh-what button? Where am I? Who took my medication?
Moderator: Candidate A, I hear a lot of anger and bitterness in your words. When did this hatred for your mother begin?
Moderator: Hmmm. When you belittle others, how does that make you feel? Do you feel that you need to belittle others to justify your own self-worth?
Moderator: When you label your opponent a ‘clown’ are you expressing a deep-seated fear of politics becoming a circus? Or are you addressing your own Oedipal tendencies?
Moderator: I’ve brought these sanitized, foam, anger bats so we can do some anger therapy. Once I blow this whistle, we will continue the debate. Whenever you hear something that prompts you to roll your eyes or mumble under your breath, simply use this medicinal bat to whump your opponent instead. Remember, if you get out of control, I’ll be forced to use Ms. Shock Stick. [wields ten foot cattle prod]
It’s just too much fun to imagine these scenarios. I had a hard time falling asleep last night because of it. Next time the reality of our democracy has you down, just imagine yourself as the “shrink of the debates” and have fun with it.
But seriously, (not that seriously) there’s a reason why questions are more helpful than screaming. At the most basic level, questions imply an awareness of “other.” One can pontificate to an empty room. But a question requires a second person. A thoughtful question requires one to pay close attention to a second person. A non-rhetorical question indicates that you would like to hear from that other person.
These fundamental differences can be illustrated via social media through the two platforms of Facebook and Quora. As you are probably aware, Facebook is the leading platform for yelling at people (and then ignoring all the angry responses). You may not be familiar with Quora, a social media platform built entirely around asking questions. As you’ve likely guessed, I much prefer Quora over Facebook. The whole premise of Quora is to provide a place for anyone and everyone to ask questions. For the most part, the best questions rise to the top. Often the people providing possible answers to the questions are immensely qualified to do so. At the very least, Quora is much more likely to generate actual conversations.
All of this to leave you with my hopefully helpful tip of the week: To create a healthier society, healthier relationships, and a healthier you, make an effort everyday to ask one person a thoughtful question. I’ll start: “If you could ask one of the presidential candidates one question about something personal and meaningful to you, what would it be?”
At the Desk This Week
This week, I’ve gone back and spent more time hanging out with each of my key doppelgängers in the “real-verse” where Season 3 of The Green Ones is based. I like the way each of those gangers is developing as their own character. With that new information in my head, I’m rewriting the first two episodes before jumping back into episode 3. I’m hoping this will be the last time I need to loop back to the beginning in an effort to get back up to speed with my former skill level (back before I shifted my focus away from full-time writing).
While the current climate in our society and world is still a distraction, and my kids are still doing half of their schooling from home, and blah, blah, blah… Overall, I’m falling in love again with these characters and with their worries. I’m escaping (at least part of the time) into their world and away from my own. As a result, the story is growing richer and fuller. My writing chops are returning, and that’s a positive thing.
New Friends and Old, Scene 7 - Planes, Trains and Blood, Scene 3
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
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 led 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. It was 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. He wrapped it with extra gauze, and he smoked.
He elevated the bandaged hand above his head. The pain returned to a manageable level. He could not begin to understand the events of the last several hours, nor was he sure he wanted to. His thoughts a minefield, he eluded encounters with painful memories and avoided past failures, all the while forcing his mind to gloss 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. 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. “Damn caves.” McCutchen’s bloody stump throbbed at the sight of it. He reined Chester to a stop and dismounted to take a closer look at the tracks.
As he suspected, they were shallower and cleaner on the way in. They left 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. He needed 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. Kicking Chester into a trot, he followed it south. With the fugitives aware of his pursuit, it proved to be a difficult task. All day he struggled with the fact 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, soon 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. Early on, he’d assumed 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—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 and stashed 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.
McCutchen split his attention between the trail and the reasoning behind the trail while allowing the rhythmic movement of Chester’s hooves to hypnotize 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, and 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 he had 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 encounter. It made perfect sense. 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. He had dismissed all of 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 sunset. They paused on the edge of town to discuss their options one last time.
“We could head for Mexico.” Nena leaned forward in her saddle. “It would be possible to reach the border before sunrise.”
Muddy grunted. “Possible, but difficult. There are many eyes on the border.”
Chancho was too tired to think straight. The desert orchestra of crickets was hypnotic, causing him to sink deeper inside his exhaustion. As if Muddy could sense it, he continued, “Besides, we need to rest. What good will it do to step in a rabbit hole in the dark?”
Nena glowered. “We do not need to rest. Chancho needs to rest.”
The sound of his name snapped him out of his trance. “I’m sorry, mis amigos.” He took a deep breath. “But I do not want to go to Mexico. Not tonight, not tomorrow.”
Nena narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him through the dim twilight. “Would you mind sharing why you do not want to go to Mexico?”
Chancho sighed. He had no good reason for not wanting to cross the border, yet he had several good reasons he shouldn’t. Trouble was, he hadn’t shared any of them with his closest friends. Without being any closer to understanding why the rinche was tracking them, the only thing for certain was he did not intend to give up easily. Chancho could not risk the loss of human life due to his concealing parts of the story.
“I can’t go to Mexico,” Chancho said. “I have not been honest with you, mis amigos.” Chancho rushed onward without looking Muddy or Nena in the eyes. “I am wanted by the Constitutional Government for destruction of property, theft, and murder.” He fetched the gold coin from his pocket. Stretching from his saddle, he handed it to Muddy. “For robbing a very large amount from a very important train for Pancho Villa. Afterwards, when things were at their worst, I abandoned Villa.”
“Why would you be afraid to tell us this?”
Muddy shushed Nena and waited for Chancho to continue.
“When I finally understood the truth behind war, I panicked. I didn’t want to remember the old Chancho anymore. I didn’t want you to know him either, so I tried to bury the past.” Cricket song throbbed, almost visible in the failing twilight. “And then, after the rinche, I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to change what we have.”
“What would that be, other than a lack of trust?” Nena quipped.
Muddy silenced her with a quick slash of his hand. “More importantly, what is it you still need to tell us?”
“I thought it would go away, that the rinche would stop looking for us. That we could keep everything the way it was.” Chancho rubbed the notch of his earlobe. Now that he spoke the words out loud, they felt small and pathetic.
Nena opened her mouth to speak, but caught herself. Muddy remained a statue on Tripalo’s back.
Chancho told them about the cantina, about Primitivo, about leaving out the back door before the shootout. He told them how he thought his problem had resolved itself until he found out about the dead Ranger. Finally he concluded, “I honestly don’t know why the sheriff and the rinche chased me.”
Nena could no longer keep quiet. “Why was it easier to blame Muddy’s El Chupacabra?”
“Maybe I didn’t want it to be my fault.”
“You didn’t want to be alone.” Muddy spoke in a somber, even tone. “You feared if it was only you they were after that we would leave.”
“No.” Chancho shook his head.
Muddy said, “As long as the three of us are together, the present guards you from the past.” Worse than Nena’s white-hot anger was Muddy’s steady accusation. “How could you think we would leave?”
Chancho shriveled inside. “Lo siento, I…I just wanted to preserve our simple life, maybe fall in love. I should have trusted you.”
“You’re damn right!” Nena thumped her saddle horn.
“Nena.” Muddy spoke the single word with force enough to stun a bull, like a lead pipe across its brow. He returned the gold coin to Chancho. “Whether the rinche is after goat rustlers, revolutionaries, murderers, or marihuana farmers, we will stick together. It is what family does.”
Muddy’s disappointment crushed Chancho. As small as his family was, he couldn’t afford to lose any part. “You’re right. I couldn’t see past my own self-pity.”
“And now what are we to believe?” Nena hissed. “If we are wanted for the killing of a Texas Ranger, it will not be safe for us anywhere north of the border.”
Muddy’s eyes shown in the dark as he turned toward his wife. “I 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? I am not afraid of Carranza or Villa. We should ride to Mexico. There is no longer a home for us here!”
Chancho surged back to life. “But what about Sunny, and Bronco, and Chloe? We can’t just leave them. They are family too.” Chancho grew animated in the settling darkness. He swept his arms out wide to indicate the land surrounding them. “Since the rinche drove us from the Catholic Hills, our home has only expanded.”
“You are as blind as you are crazy. You would call me disloyal to family? We do nothing to help our friends and family by staying here. We only put them in harm’s way. We are wanted criminals thanks to you.” She shot Muddy an angry eye. “And we are wasting time.” Bella pawed the ground nervously as Nena drew her crossbow and held it in her lap. “The Ranger will follow and threaten anyone who helps us.”
Muddy slapped his fist into his open palm. “Stop.” Even the crickets obeyed. “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. “You were wrong not to trust us, but you were right that the reason we are pursued is not important.”
“We are guilty of nothing. We are not lost or alone, and we should not act that way.” Muddy’s words were hammers on anvils. “We 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. “But for now, I agree with Chancho. We should not go to Mexico.”
Nena avoided his attempts at affection, reasserting her control. “Come 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 made no attempt to mask her fury at losing the battle.
Battered by regret, Chancho pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew Nena had not ceded the war. His actions over the last few days had caused damage not easily undone.
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. Nena and Chancho froze.
“Jesse! It’s Muddy.”
“Muddy?” A head stuck out the window. “Well, I’ll be. Get yourself inside!” The rifle barrel withdrew, and a few seconds later the door opened.
“Mad Muddy Sampson. I’ll be derned.” The two men embraced and slapped backs hardily. “And is this that firecracker Nenaiquita? Give this old rascal a hug.”
Nena obeyed, doing her best not to smile.
“And who’s this?”
Muddy introduced Chancho to their new host. “This is my good friend, Chancho Villarreal.”
The two men shook hands. Chancho said, “It is my honor to meet you, Señor Warrior. Muddy has spoken of you often.”
“Oh please, call me Jesse. And I swear, half of the stuff Muddy says ain’t truth. But I reckon you know that by now.” The old man slapped Chancho on the back, forcing him to jump to keep his balance. “Just 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, ‘cept folk were repeating it like it was God’s truth.” Muddy lifted his hand as if to speak. “But I’m sure ya’ll know all about that, huh? Now come on, bring those horses around back and we’ll get ya’ll settled in.”
After unsaddling the horses and scooping a coffee can of grain for each, the group settled around the kitchen table. Muddy started the conversation. “Your greeting has gotten stiff since I saw you last.”
“Hell, 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 than 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—every other tooth gone.
“I don’t suppose so.” Muddy set his coffee cup on the table. “You seem to know an awful lot about the situation.”
“Yessir.” Jesse grinned again. “A man’s gotta’ eat ain’t he?”
Muddy stared back at him.
“I’ve been working, part-time mind you, as a guide of sorts.”
Nena asked, “And who exactly would an old scout be guiding?”
Jesse slapped his leg, “Dagnabbit 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. “Them 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. “A 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. “Ain’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. “We think because of these.”
“What? Marihuana? That don’t make no sense. There ain’t no law against marihuana.”
Muddy continued, “We’ve grown and harvested lots of it, and it seems the Anglos fear it much like alcohol.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Jesse nodded. “Hell, 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. “You 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. “What are those?”
Muddy took one to look it over more closely. “Jesse, what kind of guide are you?”
“Honestly, fellas. I’m just an old scout too long for this world. I had to find something to pass the days.”
“Woodcarving would pass the days,” Nena said.
“This is a mite more fun.” He put the mare’s leg on the table. “I know the land.” He shrugged. “Some friends needed a favor. The next thing I know I’m showing folk across the border. It keeps me busy and keeps me fed.”
“No,” Nena interrupted. “This is a warrior looking for a warrior’s death.”
Jesse grinned. “All the same, should I be keeping these handy?”
“The Ranger will know we are in town, but not where.” A second thought occurred to Nena as she spoke. “Unless someone saw us—”
“Ain’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. “Now if the sheriff starts poking around…” He trailed off and then started talking more to himself than his guests. “But 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. “Mr. Warrior, you wouldn’t happen to have indoor facilities. The coffee, it goes right through me.”
“What? That? Yeah, I got a fancy wacha’ majiggy—a water closet.” Chancho pushed his seat back from the table with enthusiasm. “But 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. “Ya’ll be fine here ‘till morning, but we gotta come up with a plan to get you safely on your way. Now Mexico—”
“We’re not going to Mexico,” Muddy interrupted. Nena looked away toward the window.
“Not going to Mexico…” Jesse sputtered. “What 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. “Muddy, you think you could still fly one of those scout planes?”
END of Episode Seven
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. “Dammit, 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. “I have evidence of German interference and sabotage.”
A voice prattled on for quite some time from the other end of the receiver. Anxious, McCutchen waited. He had gone this far. “Yes, evidence. German weapons and written propaganda.” An accusatory question echoed from the other end. “Yes, in Texas. That’s what I’ve been saying.” McCutchen rubbed his forehead. “Three 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. “Sir, 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. “Yes, 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. 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 phone in town was 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 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 startled him. “Pardon me, Ranger, uh…”
“McCutchen. J.T. McCutchen.” He strode forward to shake his hand. “And you are?”
“Deputy 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.
“I 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 me.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe a Ranger with experience along the border might be able to help.”
McCutchen nodded. “Tell you what, deputy. You help me find the sheriff, and I’ll fill you in.”
McCutchen pulled off his boots and dropped them beside the bed. It had taken 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 was the only eager one of the bunch.
After everything else, McCutchen had roused an equally grumpy doctor to tend to his missing finger. The pounding in both his head and hand subsided as the aspirin kicked in. Exhausted and in desperate need of sleep to, he removed 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.
Drifting off around midnight, he slept until 5:00am. He woke with a fresh clarity of mind. “Buffalo soldiers, of course.” He reached for his boots, knocking them over with his bandaged hand. After a more intentional effort, he pulled them on and stepped outside. 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. Pulling his duster back to expose his sidearms, he waved 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. “I 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, “You 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. “Ranger McCutchen.”
“Swisher.” They shook hands. “What can I do ya for, ranger?”
McCutchen hesitated. “Look, 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. “So you plan on ruffling some more feathers.” He shrugged. “These roosters, they the kind that like to fight?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Swisher tucked his jacket behind his holster. “What do you need?”
McCutchen nodded. “Where do the old Negro scouts live?”
The two men ducked down a dark alley bisecting back yards. A constant buzz of crickets masked their movements. Picket fences entangled with vines flanked them on both sides. The homes grew smaller and closer together until Swisher stopped next to a large date palm.
“The next three blocks are mostly retired Buffalo and their families. How do we tell which one?”
“Horses. The fugitives were riding three horses, one of ‘em probably the biggest damn horse you’ve ever seen.” McCutchen pointed across the alley and Swisher started to obey.
“Wait.”
McCutchen turned. “What?”
“I got a better idea.” Swisher squatted down, forcing McCutchen to do the same. “You say you’re looking for a Negro scout who’d be helping your fugitives navigate the border?”
“It’s possible. Look, we’re—”
“I know a feller. Troublemaker. We’ve been watching him for a while.”
“I don’t have time—”
“Dammit, 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. “Lead 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. Predawn lingered in the air, and he hoped Swisher wasn’t wasting his precious time.
“Pssstt.” Swisher waved him over. From behind a dilapidated shed, three rumps twitched their tails visibly in the grey light.
“Good job. These are the ones. Now tell me about this troublemaker.”
Swisher shook his head. “No time for the whole story, but he’s a smuggler.”
“What kind of smuggler?” McCutchen inched closer to Swisher’s face.
“A smuggler. Booze, livestock, people.” Swisher shrugged.
“Guns?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Look, I need to know what sort of firepower I’m gonna run into in there—”
“Hold on a second,” Swisher stopped him. “If there’s at least four armed men in there, wouldn’t it be better just to surround the house and wait for ‘em to come out? There’s another watch just a few blocks—”
“I’m not asking you to go inside. I’m asking you to watch the back yard and make sure no one gets out or gets the drop on me.” McCutchen rubbed his neck. “It’s a small house. One bedroom?”
“Yeah, and one room for everything else.”
“Good.”
“And you’re just gonna go in the front door?”
“Yes.”
“Damn, you Rangers are crazy. Suit yourself.” He shook his head. “I’ll burn anybody that comes out the back, no problem.”
McCutchen turned to go.
“Wait,” Swisher said. “He’ll be armed to the teeth. If I see anything you should know about, I’ll give you a whistle.”
“Good.” McCutchen started down the alley. He was planning to circle around to the front when a subtle click registered on a nearly subconscious level—the click of a double-action rifle hammer being cocked. He dove at the same time the rotting boards of the picket fence exploded from buckshot.
He sprawled face-first in the dirt as Swisher returned fire. Another blast peppered the fence. He scrambled to his feet and ducked behind the trunk of a palm tree as a bullet clipped it. “What can you see?”
Swisher groaned. “Both windows.”
“You hit?”
“Nah, it’s nothing.”
McCutchen knew Swisher had caught some pellets. Not enough powder for a shotgun, he figured they were using rifle rounds loaded with shot. He stepped back from the palm for a broader view. “Just keep an eye on the horses.”
“Jesse! You old bastard,” Swisher called. “There’s too many of us. We just want your guests.”
McCutchen lowered his voice in the hopes it wouldn’t carry inside the house. “You think the others heard the shots?”
“At least a few of ‘em did.”
“It looks like we’ll try it your way after all.”
Swisher started to laugh, but was cut short.
“Swisher?” McCutchen heard something like a taut cord being struck, followed by a whisper. “Swisher?” The deputy leaned against the fence. He heard it again. Swisher’s body jolted before rolling forward. Two arrows jutted from his rib cage.
A voice came from the backdoor. “Well you can’t have ‘em, 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.
Gunpowder flashed in the corner of his eye. A continuous blasting ate away the picket fence. The moment he regained his balance, an arrow stuck half-mast in his left forearm. His bandaged hand spasmed with pain as he steadied his Colt to search the alley. 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 headed for more solid cover before 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. He was black as night except for the wild whites of his eyes. 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 dragged 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 crusted dirt of the alley. More gunfire split the morning wide open. McCutchen raised himself on an elbow to see through the gaps of the picket fence.
The first two horses were already out of sight. The rear guard with the mare’s legs was still in range. Mccutcheon aimed and fired a final shot. It splintered the very corner of a shack before striking its flesh and bone target. It was a hit, McCutchen knew it.
He rolled onto his back. Three deputies stood over him. "They’re getting away! One of you get some horses. The other two get after ‘em!” He wrenched himself to his feet and slammed through the picket fence with his shoulder.
McCutchen paused at the corner of the shack that had been splintered by his last shot. Jerking his head out and back, he nearly kissed the feathers of an arrow as it whisked in front of his face and struck the house behind him with a thwack.
He stepped back and then dove low with his Colt drawn. 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. 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. “You alright?”
“I need my horse.” McCutchen ran toward the town square.
“You’ve got an arrow in your arm!”
McCutchen shouted over his shoulder, “You 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 caused him to stop long enough to snap the longer end off against a tree. Shortly afterward, he ran into the sheriff, Lipscomb, and another deputy on horseback. Best of all, they were leading Chester behind them.
McCutchen whistled. The horse broke away from the sheriff and sidled up next to the Ranger. He had to use his off-hand to hoist himself into the saddle. “They’re heading east.”
“Toward the fort?”
McCutchen put the piece in place. “One of them used to be a colored scout with the 14th. The military wouldn’t help them, would it?”
“Hell no. They disbanded the 14th two years ago.”
“And 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, “Beefy, you get back to the office and call ahead to the fort. Let ‘em know they got company.”
McCutchen stared Lipscomb in the eye, openly showing his suspicion of the lawman. It hadn’t escaped him that the Negro scout called Swisher a Hun. He lashed Chester into a gallop. There were entirely too many Germans populating his border.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read these scenes of Fistful of Reefer, Season 1 of The Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from The Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy The Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!