Fistful of Reefer: A Pulpy Action Series from Schism 8

The Chase Begins

Chili powder burned his nose, eyes, and throat. McCutchen loosed his last two rounds, missing the mark wildly. Through blinking eyes, he watched his man ride away.

His own horse had been hayed and watered at the livery that morning. He hated to steal a horse, knowing violence could break out over such an act, but with tears streaming down his face he scanned the area for a fast mount.

Lickter intervened. “Follow me.” He coughed and struggled to fill his lungs. “I’ve got something better.” The men ran back to the sheriff’s office as quickly as their cowboy boots and chili-burdened lungs would allow. “Johnson! Out back, now!” Lickter bellowed for the on-duty deputy as he and McCutchen sprinted down the alley behind the jail.

His throat on fire, McCutchen stopped to catch his breath and swallow his surprise. When Lickter had spoken of something better he’d been referring to his auto. Lickter opened the driver’s door. “It’s a 1918 Packard Twin 6 Touring. Well don’t just stand there, get in.” As he spoke, Johnson scurried out of the jail and jumped into the back seat while McCutchen took the passenger front.

“What the hell happened to you?” Johnson asked.

“Long story.” Lickter turned the key and throttled the engine with a grin on his face that spread from horizon to horizon. “There’s water under the seat.” He popped the clutch. Spinning the tires, they lurched out of the alley and onto the street.

McCutchen barked over the engine noise, “He was heading north!”

“We’ll catch ‘em. There’s a good road out of town.” Lickter progressed through the gears as they forced panicked townspeople onto the sidewalks and out of the path of the growling Packard. “I’ve become a bit of an auto racer.”

McCutchen rummaged underneath his seat for the water while fighting the urge to rub his eyes. “Can you even see?”

“Good enough.”

After splashing water in his face, McCutchen slowed his blinking and focused on his rage, and the road. He’d been in a few autos, but never one this powerful. He clutched at the handhold on the door and held his grandfather’s Stetson atop his head as they jolted roughly out of town. Lickter had been right about catching him. A couple of minutes later, McCutchen spotted the fleeing Mexican a few hundred yards off the road to the east. “It looks like he’s easing away from us.”

“Don’t you worry. There’s a road up a ways that’ll cut him off. We’ll beat him there.” Smug with confidence, Lickter pressed the pedal all the way down. The engine whined as the tires tore at the dirt. McCutchen hated the feeling of tagging along for the ride. Another couple of minutes passed, and he couldn’t see the Mexican. Damn cars will never be much count versus a man on a good horse.

Finally McCutchen noticed the intersection. Johnson braced himself in the back seat just before Lickter stomped the brake and turned the wheel. As the car started to slide and fishtail, he released the brake, shifted into a lower gear, and stomped down equally hard on the gas. The result was a graceful moment of flight, like jumping a creek on horseback, but McCutchen had never experienced anything quite like it.

The auto glided on the dirt road like it was frozen smooth as ice. But when the turning car neared its new heading, the tires struck a rut and jolted McCutchen from his wide-eyed elation. He smacked the side of his head on the frame of the car.

“Sorry about that!” Lickter grinned. “Should have warned ya’. The landings can get a bit rough sometimes.” Shifting gears yet again, Lickter tore off at full speed while barking orders to the back seat. “Johnson, get ready to pop this guy as we head him off! Aim for the horse, for God’s sake. We don’t want to kill ‘em…yet.”

Johnson went to work. Lickter winked at McCutchen. “I’ve had a few special adjustments made to the car, you know, for times like these.”

McCutchen turned in his seat to catch a glimpse of Johnson’s mysterious preparations. “What the hell?” Johnson had turned down half the back seat and pulled a large metal tube out of the trunk. Apparently rehearsed in his duties, he nimbly negotiated the small space in order to attach a stand into special fixtures on the back passenger-side door. He rolled down the window and attached the tube.

McCutchen faced Lickter, beginning to wonder about the sanity of this man he had known from a distance for several years. “What the hell is that thing?”

Lickter laughed. “Oh it’s just a little something from friends across the pond.”

“What? The British are interested in the Mexican border?” McCutchen frowned.

“Not exactly,” Lickter shrugged. “Connections. We call it a bazooka. You’ll see why in a second. I’ve only had good excuse to use it a few times.” He sensed the ranger’s tension. “Lighten up, this’ll be fun.” Then toward the back seat he bellowed, “two o’clock!”

Johnson responded immediately. “Got ‘em!”

“He’s gonna try to dash. For heaven’s sake, make sure you take the shot before he gets too close!”

The Mexican rode at full gallop. His horse, a tiny sorrel mare, wasn’t cut out for this sort of mad dash across country. With his own horse, Chester the Fifth, McCutchen would have caught the guy in another few miles without any of this gasoline-powered raucous. The bone rattling, along with the fumes from the engine combined with the damned chili powder, had given him a headache. Chili powder! What kind of m*******a-growing greaser uses chili powder?

That same greaser had spotted the auto and adjusted course just as they’d expected, trying to angle further east to keep from being cut off from his northern escape. Stupid Mexican had no way of knowing he was opening himself up for a broadside from whatever sort of assault Lickter and Johnson had in mind. The auto and horse closed fast, both leaving a trail of dust lingering in the breeze.

“You’re gonna want to plug your ears,” Lickter shouted over the noise of the engine.

McCutchen wondered how anything could make it louder than it already was. The answer came with an ear-popping thwump and woosh as the bazooka fired its grenade in an arching path toward the Mexican. With uncanny timing, the rider chose against his previous course and steered his horse toward the auto in a northwesterly direction.

Off target, the grenade slammed down into a clump of prickly pear cactus and exploded. If nothing else, shrapnel from the cactus along with the roar of the explosion battered the horse and rider. Undeterred, they rode directly toward the auto.

“Reload dammit!”

Johnson was already on it. Sliding a fresh grenade down the barrel, he tried to swing the tube in line with the galloping horse, but it came at them too quickly. In the process of swinging the bazooka toward the rear of the car, Johnson released the locking mechanism of the door. All three men had failed to realize the Mexican had taken a line directly behind them.

McCutchen scrambled to draw his Colts, but the tires caught a rut in the road.

Johnson thudded into the door, his full weight swinging it open. With his hand still gripped around the trigger he launched the second grenade up and over the front of the speeding Packard before the road yanked him free.

“Son of a—” The road in front of them erupted into flames. Shrapnel impacted the grill and windshield of the car as Lickter yanked the wheel, lifting the tires out of the rut and bouncing them around the explosion just in time. But no sooner than they had missed the new crater in the road, the Packard plowed headlong into a ditch.

McCutchen smacked into the dashboard while Lickter cracked his ribs on the steering wheel. Dust and chunks of road showered the car. McCutchen lifted his head. Through the broken windshield, he watched his man ride away unmolested for the second time in one day.

END of Episode Three