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.
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