To celebrate the dog days of summer, I figured it best to take a nostalgic look back at all the dumb things I did as a kid growing up in rural Texas. This list should also serve as peace of mind for all you parents out there who are worried about your kids reaching the ripe old age of eighteen (by highlighting the fact that all of us currently reading this managed to survive our own childhood which was probably downright stoopid when compared to that of our own kids). I actually try to get my boys to do dumb things on a regular basis. When I suggest they cut their fingernails with a kitchen knife or use the neighbor’s cat for archery practice they roll their eyes, shake their heads, and say something like, “That sounds really dumb, Dad.”
To get this list started, I’m making a confession, one that I hope doesn’t get me in trouble. When I was thirteen, I shot a neighbor’s bull in the balls. Not on purpose, mind you. I accidentally shot a bull, in the balls, with a .22 caliber rifle. I see those raised eyebrows. How, you might ask, does a thirteen-year-old accidentally shoot a bull in his balls?
This part of the story probably won’t win me any good citizen awards either, but the intended target was a jack rabbit. I know, I know. What kind of crazed maniac runs around a ranch shooting at cuddly little bunnies? First off, jack rabbits aren’t that cuddly. And for a few years during my early teens, we had a metric crap ton of jack rabbits digging warrens all over the ranch. (I’ll leave the telling of the tale of epic rabbit hunts for another day.) These rabbits were a qualified menace that could result in a cow or a horse stepping in a hole at an inopportune time. (At least, that was the reasoning for my license to kill.)
So, me and a buddy (the son of the bull’s owner) end up tracking a jack rabbit a dizzying distance through waist-high buffalo grass before the rabbit finally comes to a stop some fifty yards distant. We freeze and drop. The only problem is that there is a bull in the way. To put it more specifically, there is a pair of bull’s balls dangling in the line of the shot. But not to fret. I’m a crack aim by the age of thirteen, and I’ve got ice in my veins. (I’ve got allergies in my eyes and throat, but ice in my veins.)
Ever so slowly, I creep just enough to the right. The rabbit looks like he’s about to bolt. We’ve chased this rascal far enough. I’ve got a clear line of site. I take the shot.
No dirt kicks up. The rabbit doesn’t even budge. I must have killed him so quickly, he doesn’t even know he’s dead. On the other hand, the bull bellows and jolts like it’s just been hit with an electric prod—his ball sack a pendulum swaying in the breeze.
“Dude, you just shot my dad’s bull in the balls!”
Like any responsible, young lads with guns, we jump to our feet and run all the way back to the house, having totally forgotten about the rabbit. We solemnly swore not to tell anyone about the stray bullet and fervently hoped the bull wouldn’t drop off in performance because of it. As far as I know, the bull kept to his quota, and I’ve never mentioned the matter…until now.
At the Desk This Week
Writing has occurred! Yay! Despite being saddled with wrangling duties (while the wife is out of town), I managed to get in a few hours of writing on the final episode of the third season of The Green Ones. All is well. My characters are totally oblivious to the fact that I’m about to drop them out of the sky and put them through hell. Mwahahaha. The calm before the electrical storm. It’s so fun to write these calm moments where characters can joke and feel human…when I know all about the inhuman things I’m about to do to them. Mwahahaha! (Okay, maybe chasing little varmints around the ranch did darken my soul just a tad.)
Twitch and Die! Scratching the Surface, Scenes 5-7
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Outside, the sun lay beneath the horizon. Its glow bathed the eastern sky in living fire—tongues of orange and red and purple licking the bellies of stubborn cloud cover. Chancho hesitated on the porch for a moment before striding quickly into the street. Only then did he turn to see Starr inspecting the body he’d left in its static condition hours earlier.
Angelo trudged further down the sidewalk. He and Chancho locked their eyes on the menacing windows of the house across the way. Nothing stirred. Chancho gave the nod and Angelo jogged south to check on his donkeys. Chloe joined Chancho’s side, her favorite knife in her hand. He hoped she would not need to use it.
“Just in case.” She gave him a peck on the cheek before continuing across the street.
Chancho followed her to the porch where he’d seen the shooting begin. A pool of drying blood complete with drag trail indicated at least two had died in the shooting. And they weren’t even inside Thurber’s perimeter fence yet.
The drag marks led into the house. Chancho clutched the grip of his pistol, took a deep breath, and drew it. He smashed the latch with his boot and sent the door careening into the wall behind it.
Side by side, he and Chloe squeezed through the opening. They systematically checked every room front to back, including a small upstairs.
“Nothing.” Chloe met Chancho back in the living room.
“No one,” Chancho corrected as he stooped to pick up a shell casing. He was relieved it was a .35 rifle casing and not a .45 pistol.
“And the recipient?”
Chancho had forgotten about the blood. The trail led straight to the entryway closet. Together they approached and threw open the door.
“Why would they drag one of their own from the porch to leave him in the closet?”
Chancho shook his head. “He wasn’t one of their own.”
“Whose was he?”
“Knock, knock.” Starr skirted the blood on the porch and stuck his head inside. “Don’t shoot.”
“No worries, mi amigo. Just us.”
“One more, huh? So this is what you were talking about last night.” He stretched his open hand toward Chancho. “Found these in the front yard, all six in a heap like they’d been dumped by someone shooting off the porch.”
Chancho grudgingly accepted the casings. They were .45’s, the caliber used by all Texas Rangers. He shook his head. “That’s where he stopped to reload.” He handed Starr the .35 casing. “We found this.”
“Two gunmen?”
“So it would seem.” Chancho led them outside into the open air. He couldn’t spend another second inside the empty homes.
“The guy you shot was definitely Company. He had TPE scrip in his pocket.” Starr held out his other hand.
Chancho nodded. “The Company knows we’re here, but they get jumped by someone else before they can move in.”
“Maybe we were an innocent third party. You know, wrong place, wrong time?” Chloe added optimistically.
Chancho would have liked to believe it. “No. I think our presence instigated this.” He shifted his gaze up one end of the street and down the other. “New York Hill wasn’t as abandoned as we thought.”
“The question is what do we do now?” Chloe sheathed her knife. “We can’t exactly sneak in anymore.”
“Two men are dead. That’s gonna have consequences.” Starr shifted his weight from his injured leg.
Chancho nodded. “Si, amigos, and I have a feeling the consequences are only going to pile up. I’m afraid we must part ways.”
“What?” Starr and Chloe responded simultaneously.
Chancho indicated Starr’s wounded leg. “You are still bleeding, and last time I checked, bullets do not remove themselves.” During Chancho’s nearly sleepless night he had continued to ponder the missing journal and Starr’s attempts to defend TPE when Mrs. Marcon had indicted them. He wanted a chance to look around without his political partner.
“I could have removed it last night, if you would have let me.”
“The slug is preventing further blood loss—”
“The door jamb nearly stopped it,” Starr objected.
“And there’s probably wood fragments along with the bullet,” Chancho continued. “Trust me, mi amigo, this is a wound better not mended in the field. I’ve seen many more die from infection than from bullets. You could take a donkey back to Gordon and get it dressed properly by noon.”
Starr glared at him. “And what are you two gonna do?”
Chancho shrugged. “Oh, maybe some sightseeing, necking, that sort of thing. Nothing special.”
Chloe punched him in the arm.
The dead zone was getting crowded. From his original vantage point, McCutchen watched a single rider on a donkey leave toward Gordon. After first light he’d caught a glimpse of a mysterious horse and rider skirting New York Hill, also headed toward Gordon. His line of sight had been blocked, so he couldn’t be certain how close the rider had come to the houses, or whether he’d dithered there. Nothing felt like a coincidence at this point.
On top of it all, he’d had let an old, black housemaid pick his lock. “Shut up back there. I’m trying to stay undiscovered, sight and sound.” McCutchen redialed the knob on his binoculars in an effort to identify the man on the donkey.
“Oh, like you did last night? You was real sneaky, slipping around on dat roof like a greased black bear. Uh-uh, I would a barely known you was around,” Nanette quipped.
McCutchen ground his teeth.
“Not dat I’m judging, mind you. I’m just a fat, old black lady hobbling around on creaky joints like a farm house floor. No sir, I couldn’t sneak up on a dead dog.”
McCutchen shifted his gaze slowly to the right until the donkey and rider appeared in his viewfinder. It wasn’t Chancho’s lady friend. After a final adjustment to the lens, he was positive it was Chancho’s partner, the man who’d been in the stone house. But McCutchen still couldn’t get a good look at his face.
“Lest its name was J.T. Smarty Pants, of course.” Nanette guffawed as she snapped the clip into the receiver of her Model 8 Remington rifle and used it to load the magazine.
McCutchen turned to face her. “Look, God knows why, but you made my father’s dying months gentler. For that I’m indebted. But I don’t need no fairy godmother flappin’ her gums faster than wings, no matter how quick she is with a Remington.”
“You noticed, did ya? That first fella seemed sorta slow, after getting punctuated and all. But dem others sure did light outta’ there like Br’er Rabbit outta Uncle Remus’ cabbage patch.” She shook her head while reloading the clip for maximum capacity. “Dat one done made his final journey I suppose, but those others might still be a running. Weren’t so dark, I could a buried a couple—”
“Why are you here, woman? Under different conditions I’m sure New York Hill would be a good place to look for new employ, but considering—”
“Considering da curse done either kilt all da white folk or run ‘em off screaming, I ain’t got nothing better to do than sit around and pick belly lint? We been over this, Junior.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Junior? What da hell else I supposed to call ya? ‘Cause you ain’t never gonna be John McCutchen to me, not after your daddy.”
“J.T. will be fine.” McCutchen stood and whistled for Chester.
“Oh, dat’s right. You Mr. J.T. Smarty Pants, uh-huh.” She winked and tried to slap McCutchen’s buttock. He blocked her.
“Ooh, you still just as quick. But I’ll get you one a these days. Your daddy put up a fight too, but—”
McCutchen cut her off with a glare. “Ms. Bougere—”
“Oh, so we’s formal now?”
“Nannie, you were answering my question.” McCutchen slung his saddle onto Chester’s back and cinched the girth.
“Yes I was, until you so rudely interrupted. Young’uns these days, I swear.” She shook her head. “As I was saying, J.T. Smarty Pants, I ain’t afraid a no curse, seeing how my soul’s as black as my skin. You think you da same way, but I see past all that bad boy nonsense. Oh, I understand. It's trouble that makes the monkey chew on hot peppers, but you got too much of yo daddy in ya.”
McCutchen stood there scratching the back of his neck. She had lost him at ‘monkey’.
“So I reckon you’re gonna need a little Nannie here and there, for good measure. A little spice for yo sugar,” she winked.
He checked the lashing on his shotgun and saddlebags. “I don’t need—”
“Besides, I done spent the last three months watching a damn fine man drug down into the grave. There wasn’t a thing I could do to stop dat. But now dat it’s done, I got a thing or two to say straight into da devil’s ear. I can see you’s headed there anyway, so I might as well do da introducing.” She slapped her thigh and clicked her tongue, calling the mule she’d used to track him over the surrounding country for over a week.
He still couldn’t figure how she’d done it without him knowing. Rubbing the scar under the brim of his grandfather’s Stetson, he remembered another queer old woman who’d once offered a helping hand. She’d died in the process. “The people around me—”
“Death ain’t a poor aim, J.T.” Nanette clutched her mule’s reins and scanned the terrain to the east. “If he shoots for you, he ain’t gonna hit me, nor da other way round. I cain’t run fast or ride hard, but I got a keen eye and a smooth trigger. And you needing both a those things.”
She turned toward the houses on New York Hill. “Besides if you gonna keep track a both those folk down yonder and dat donkey on a collision course with dat stranger, you either gonna have to throw one eye in each direction or have old Nannie find her a comfy spot over yonder on Steam Shovel Ridge.”
McCutchen hadn’t mentioned either the donkey or the strange horse. She was capable, and he needed the help. Plus, the two days he’d spent with Nanette Bougere while his father died had been enough to know he didn’t have the time or energy to wrestle her down. “I’m not accepting one drop of your blood on my hands.”
“I ain’t planning on spilling none. Least not my own.”
“Alright. It’s a good plan.” He reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a lump of hardtack. “You have supplies?”
“Hells ya. Better’n dat tooth-breaking excuse for bread. I got more than enough for me and my mule.”
McCutchen nodded. “I’m gonna find out what our dogies are up to, but I expect to be right back. I’m pretty sure the other three are determined to head inside the fence.”
“What in da name of all things holy they wanna do dat for?”
“Looking for answers. I don’t know which ones, but I’d like to find out.”
“Well you better go ask ‘em while you got da chance,” Nanette shook her head.
McCutchen nodded. “The Mexican’s tough to kill. I’ve tried it myself, and I can’t say that for anyone else still living.”
“Well then, if I introduce myself, I’ll make sure to keep you out of it.”
“Just tell me where they went in, where they were headed, and if anyone else comes crawling out the cracks.” McCutchen packed his binoculars and hoisted himself into the saddle. “Better find some shade.”
Nanette looked up at the cloud cover smothering the earth from horizon to horizon.
McCutchen continued, “It looks like you’ve gotten too much sun.”
“Oh, dat your idea of a joke, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
“Hyah.” McCutchen gave the order and Chester surged down the back of the knob, taking the direct route in hopes of gaining ground.
“I swear,” Nanette called after them. “Young’uns these days.”
After skirting the northern edge of Big Lake as fast as he and Chester could safely manage, McCutchen reached the highest ridge east of the water. A notch there created a bottle neck, the same one the donkeys had taken the day before. He knew the animal would return this way. The real questions were whether the other rider would overtake him first, and what would happen when or if he did.
After dismounting McCutchen climbed a low hanging elm branch and scanned the path he expected the donkey to take. He’d openly intervened the night before but hoped to stay out of the way as much as possible. With a good vantage he could use his binoculars along with his middling ability to read lips to gather a fair amount of information.
On accident he picked up the horseman first. After focusing the lens for a clearer view he cursed. “Lipscomb.” The derby hat and pretentious vest—there was no doubt. McCutchen expanded the field until he picked up the donkey. He swore again. They were going to cross paths in the valley below, and they were riding in his direction. If he tried to get closer, he’d be seen.
Knowing Lipscomb was involved made it critical he gain as much from their encounter as possible. Sheriff Lipscomb didn’t waste time on happenstance or trivia. Due to his recent attempt to hold McCutchen’s reins, the sheriff’s dealings were of personal interest. McCutchen clutched the branch above his head and pulled himself higher in the tree. Without time to move to another location, he’d make the best of this one.
Knowing a man is lying to you is valuable. Knowing who he’s telling the truth to is one better. McCutchen settled himself in the saddle of the tree and peered through the binoculars. One good look at Lipscomb would tell him what side of the fence this other fella was on, as well as what percentage of shit Lipscomb had been shooting all along.
At least the recent years of drought had lowered the level of the lake, leaving a relatively open marsh along the southern shore. That meant an unobstructed line of sight for McCutchen. In a couple minutes the two men would see each other. That meant if Lipscomb planned on shooting he wanted to talk first.
McCutchen studied the face of the man riding the donkey—strong, confident, angry. He seemed familiar. His clothes said he was a businessman, but of the self-made sort. Or he could have been a politician, minus the common look of excessive pandering. Of course, it was the sort of company McCutchen should have expected Chancho to keep.
He just couldn’t figure it. There was no mistaking Lipscomb’s sort. The calculating bastard would shoot his own grandmother if it suited him. On the other hand, McCutchen always envisioned the young sheriff hatching from a lizard egg in a bird nest and eating his entire family from the start.
But if he knew anything about Chancho Villarreal, beyond being misguided and as annoying as the trail trots, the Mexican would never have dealings with Lipscomb or with anyone who did. At least not knowingly.
As McCutchen watched, Lipscomb must have ridden into the open. The politician’s head jerked in that direction. His hand reached inside his jacket briefly before emerging again, empty. The man swore, and McCutchen understood the feeling exactly. Lipscomb had no friends, and his business was never the cheery sort. The politician didn’t seem particularly threatened, which meant he didn’t know Lipscomb well enough, or he felt the equal. But they knew each other. There was no doubting that.
McCutchen grunted. The encounter unfolding before him felt eerily reminiscent of his own dealings with Lipscomb a few weeks earlier. He didn’t like it one bit. The two men drew closer until he watched them both in the viewfinder at once.
The politician started the conversation, still several yards away, in an effort to mark his territory. It was the sort of playground antics Lipscomb would take advantage of. After a few seconds without speaking, Lipscomb pulled his horse up at a ninety-degree angle to the donkey. He sat a good two feet higher in the saddle.
McCutchen had lucked out. He’d be able to watch the politician straight on while catching Lipscomb’s profile.
The sheriff finally answered, something ribald no doubt, calling the politician’s manhood into question. To McCutchen’s surprise, the politician didn’t bite. He laughed instead of lashing out. Politicians. McCutchen focused the lens on the man’s face as tightly as he could. He must have a card to play, or he wouldn’t be so smug. There wouldn’t be time to switch back and forth. McCutchen wouldn’t be able to read lips from profile anyway, so he stayed with the politician.
“When were you planning on telling me about all this?” He maintained a poker face, but his eyes betrayed an edge of raw hatred when he spoke. “I suppose I didn’t need to know one of my state’s largest private companies is culpable in the worst contagion in its history?” He had balls, anyway. McCutchen had to give him that. “First off, it’s not groundless. Second, I’m not beholden to you or the people who’ve hired you.” Careful there, cowboy. Don’t push him too far.
The politician flicked his hand under his jacket and McCutchen found himself flinching in response. Whoa, hold on. But the politician pulled out a book rather than a gun. McCutchen had to steady himself and missed some words.
“…journal.” The politician shook his head at Lipscomb’s response. “The entries are written through next week, in advance.” Son of a bitch. “I’ll hold on to it, thank you.” He slipped the journal back into his jacket pocket. There was a long pause, and McCutchen wished he could catch Lipscomb’s response. He’d be offering bits of truth, fending off the successful attack.
The sheriff must have turned it back on the politician at a certain point, because his expression hardened from smug victory back to poker face. “What does any of that have to do with me? It’s not my job to defend Texas Pride Energy or the people who would blame it.”
Lipscomb spoke for some time again before the politician shrugged it off. “A woman in Gordon mentioned a black book, yes. But she was delirious.” Lipscomb interrupted before allowing the politician to continue. “She’s dead now. The so called Angel of Death made a visit while we were talking with her.”
McCutchen couldn’t resist. He shifted the binoculars to see Lipscomb’s response. He was laughing—a cold, mirthless laughter that chilled McCutchen to watch without being able to hear. He shifted back to the politician, missing words again.
“…funny?” The politician nodded. “He seemed like your kind of chap. Anyway, it was all a bunch of nonsense. She kept blathering about a secret mine and a woman with yellow eyes.” His face revealed shock for the first time during the meeting. “So it’s true? TPE is responsible?” McCuctchen held his breath, attempting to deflect his own shock. The next words could be critical pieces of the puzzle. The politician shook his head, making it hard for McCutchen to track. “… killed half of them. Dammit, Lipscomb. What is this thing? You know, don’t you?”
McCutchen’s stomach clenched, his jaw popping with rage. It took all his control to steady his breathing and hold the binoculars motionless. “Chancho’s looking for it right now.” The politician’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “Watch yourself, Lipscomb. My loyalties have never been in question. And I don’t have to answer to the likes of you, anyhow.” He’d lost his cool. McCutchen half expected to see him knocked from his donkey, but Lipscomb contained himself.
“I’ll get your black book, if it exists. And don’t worry, my political partner might not understand the intricacies at play, but I do.” He paused. “There’s a flip side to that coin that you and yours need to understand as well.” He paused for Lipscomb to respond. “You’ve killed people. For that there’s always a price. Now, if you’ll excuse me. As pleasant as it’s been to rendezvous twice in one morning, I’ve got a bullet to remove from my leg before I head back.”
He nudged the donkey forward, then stopped. “I found this on the man who shot me.” He turned to fetch something from his saddlebags, but kept speaking. McCutchen caught the end of it. “…like yours and mine.” The politician tossed a pistol to Lipscomb.
McCutchen widened the viewfinder. Lipscomb spun the pistol before tucking it into his own bags. He rode off laughing. Meanwhile, the politician had begun to unpack his med kit.
McCutchen lowered the binoculars and took a deep breath. One of the last things the politician had said reverberated in his head. You’ve killed people. For that there’s always a price. The implications dizzied him. Carefully, McCutchen lowered himself down the branches and back to solid ground. He propped his back against the trunk, closed his eyes, and rubbed the scar under his hairline.
He hadn’t even suspected the possibility. Even with all of Nanette’s superstitious talk of evil and curses, why would he? His dad had even told him, but he’d thought the old man to be delusional. It’s the land, son. The land’s fighting back. The water, the soil. The Company’s poisoned it, so now it’s poisoning us.
At the hospital, the day his father died, Doc Quick had tried to tell him. It’s a prison, he’d said. But not the illness. He wasn’t talking about the twitch. The hospital, the town, McCutchen’s handlers, all of it. Doc had been a prisoner, and I left him there to rot.
McCutchen had gone back to the hospital. He’d broken in Christmas night, looking for answers. But he’d found Doc’s dungeon lab empty, bleached and scrubbed in a sloppy effort to remove the blood spattered over every surface. He’d assumed Doc had given up and left, an indication that Lipscomb had told the truth about the illness being incurable. But what if…
McCutchen bolted upright and whistled for Chester. If Doc had been a prisoner, then that meant he’d escaped. He would have burned a hole through Hell itself to get back to his wife and daughter. Abby. Thinking of the little girl, technically his sister-in-law, convicted him of his guilt further. He’d failed them. Doc had tried to tell him, but he’d missed it. He’d been working for the enemy all along.
Chester emerged from the east side of the ridge and loped to his side. McCutchen tossed the binoculars in his bags and swung into the saddle. “Hyah!” They lit off to the north, dodging cactus and ducking mesquite, his mind racing faster than his heart.
The illness wasn’t a curse of nature sent to avenge man’s abuse of her. It was a God-damned, man-made atrocity. And McCutchen was going to kill every last man responsible for making it. But first he had to check on Doc. If anyone knew what the twitch was, how to stop it and who was responsible, it would be Doc.
Cutting a visible path, McCutchen chose the closest thing to direct as possible. It was over a two-hour ride under normal circumstances. He and Chester would have to make it less today. There could be only one place to find Doc or Isabella or details on their location—the family stone.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Twitch and Die!, Season Four 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!