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
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