Light it Up
1010 Words
“As I was saying earlier,” clearly frustrated, Sheriff Lickter took a deep breath before continuing, “the 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.”
“The Catholic Church?”
“They 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. “I reckon the only manager, that I know of, is that Mexican feller we chased yesterday. 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. “I’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. “Don’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.”
“There 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. “I got reason to believe that the Mexican feller, as you called him, and his compadres are growing the largest crop of m*******a Texas has ever seen, maybe the only crop, and I plan on stopping them.”
“m*******a? You mean that stuff the Mexicans roll into cigarettes?”
“Exactly.”
“No offense,” Lickter lifted his hat to wipe his brow, “but 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. “Look, you got a mess of ranchers itching to kill a goat-eating demon-monster that lives somewhere in those hills, right?” Lickter nodded. “And they’re 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. “Well 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 m*******a. 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 dripped from the end of his nose. “Hey, 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, “Happy hunting!”
McCutchen huffed, glad to see the sweaty sheriff go, and just in time. Right after Lickter rode away, the ranger’s facial tics 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 to reveal a dozen tightly rolled m*******a cigarettes. He licked the side of one, dangled it from his lips, and tucked the tin 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. He rubbed his eyes, trying to rub away the tiredness of doing his job ceaselessly for the last sixteen years. The last five years had been spent making sure the border stayed free of m*******a, and now all of that was at stake.
Violence instigated by the intoxicant had crippled him, requiring him to depend on the same d**g just to do his job. He took another drag and 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 m*******a’s evils, its ability to unloose a man’s depravity if he be 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. The jagged reminder had been left there by a mob of angry Mexicans hopped up on m*******a. It itched in the heat.
He scratched the edges of it, 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.
McCutchen finished the cigarette and flicked away the butt. He ran the back of his hand across the short stubble on his cheek—three o’clock shadow. He hated the feel of it, but it would serve as fuel for his anger over the following 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.
He 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.
END of Episode Four
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