Fistful of Reefer: A Pulpy Action Series from Schism 8

Dressed For War

THE MOMENT MUDDY SPOTTED Nena riding out to meet him, he recognized she dressed for war. With her hair braided and coiled around her neck, she wore a leather breastplate formed to fit snugly around her waist and chest. Strapped to her back, the tips of her crossbow stuck out beyond her elbows.

The sight both rattled and thrilled him. This was how he’d first seen her, first designed to have her, several years ago. The realization that such times had come upon them again grieved him. 

She rode past the haggard herd of goats, careful not to agitate them, before sidling up next to Muddy without a word. Her horse, Bella, had learned a compensated long walk to keep pace with Tripalo. Nena looked over her man, searching for injury. He did the same to her, taking special notice of the old scar running diagonal across her back and how her crossbow settled into the dimple where her lower back met her butt. She had devised the weapon herself, insisting it compensated for her lack of upper-body strength.

As they rode side by side, Bella’s saddle rubbing against his leg, he recalled all their previous times spent this way, quietly soaking in the presence of the other. Thanking God that both parties were still alive. Knowing that soon a time would come when it would not be so. He thought he saw hunger in his woman’s eyes, unsure whether it was hunger for him or hunger for war.

Finally she spoke. “You had trouble at the springs?”

He nodded. “A little.” She scowled. Muddy huffed before continuing. “No one died. I had to open fire on the sheriff and the Ranger.” She waited for him to continue. “And some ranchers. They were killing our goats. I encouraged them not to.” He smiled sideways at her.

Despite herself she smiled back. “Monday Sampson, you are a trouble maker.” She shoved him before pulling him toward her, nearly causing him to fall from his saddle and into her lap. Standing in her stirrups and holding him by a fistful of shirt, she kissed him furiously. Then she shoved him back upright in his saddle. “We will see what else you have to say for yourself later tonight. But first, supper.”

With the mention of supper, Muddy’s stomach growled. He had not eaten all day, and the day was nearly over. After riding into camp, Nena tended to the animals while Muddy washed himself and began to cook. Outside of war, cooking was Muddy’s only means of expressing himself. Tonight would be nothing as spectacular as the night before, but the motions soothed him.

He kept the fire small and the smoke to a minimum. He unpacked hard tack, pinto beans, and coffee—always coffee. Next to the scent of Nena’s skin, only roasted coffee beans from Coatepec could compare. The oil from the beans smelled lightly of almond, and Muddy swore Nena dabbed her skin with it when he wasn’t looking.

For dessert they would finish their fresh fruit combined with homemade goat cheese. All in all, still a good meal.

Just before sunset, Chancho returned from the field covered in grease and smelling of manure. “Hola. I see you’re still alive. I think Nena was worried. Nonsense, I told her.” He enthusiastically rubbed his hands in the dirt and clapping them together. “Besides, who would tangle with the witch doctor of El Chupacabra?” He smiled and looked back and forth between the couple as he rubbed the grease from between his fingers with the gritty dirt. “¿Qué paso?”

Muddy squatted next to the fire and stirred the beans. “So, the harvester is coming along well?”

“¡Si! It's almost finished. Tomorrow we'll complete it, and then we harvest! Wait until you see it in action.” He paced and threw his arms about as he spoke. “It’s no locomotive, but it may be my best creation yet. It is truly marvelous. I’m most pleased with the carburetor. I have to say, I didn’t know if it would work at first. Oh, but mis amigos, it does not only work, it is a miracle. Not just a machine. And the fuel! It's so simple, you’d never guess.”

“Manure?” Nena smiled at Chancho’s enthusiasm.

“Yes, manure. But how did you—” Nena wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yes.” Chancho smelled himself. “I see what you mean. Well, mis amigos.” Chancho made an elaborate bow and flourish. “Please excuse me while I make myself more acceptable to the lady.” He started to jog toward his wagon when he stopped. “Oh, Muddy. Did you run into much trouble at the springs?”

“No, not much.”

“Ah, bueno. See Nena, I told you there was nothing to worry about. And you had to go all warrior princess.” Chancho again started toward his wagon, this time mimicking a Sevillanas dancer holding castanets over his head. As he danced he sang a tune of his own devising, “Tres Amigos, they ride for adventure. Tres Amigos, they ride for thrill. With goats and m*******a they ride!” He bumped up the steps into his wagon.

Muddy and Nena laughed at him, as they were supposed to. It felt good to laugh. It was Chancho’s gift to them. His ability to poke fun at himself was the only thing that made his bouts of manic self-absorption bearable, and sometimes even admirable.

“He is crazy, you know that.” Nena relaxed against a log.

“Yes. I knew that the moment I realized he was a friend.”

“Why? Because someone has to be crazy to like you?”

Muddy stirred the beans with his back to Nena. “You said it.” She thumped him with a dirt clod. “Hey, you’ll get dirt in the beans.”

“Like there isn’t dirt in the beans already.”

Muddy mocked offense. “There’s never dirt in my beans. Mealy worms, maybe.”

The fire burned low. Muddy transferred the cast iron pot of beans to a rock and put the pot of coffee over the embers while they were hot enough to bring it to a boil. He threw a clump of hard tack in with the beans and put the lid back on the pot, enjoying the simple rhythms of daily life.

Nena picked up the conversation. “I like you, and I’m not crazy.”

“Hmmm. I don’t—”

“Monday,” Nena cut him off. “Don’t boil more water than you need for the coffee.”

“Understood.” Muddy held his nose over the coffee for a whiff—mild and delicate, nothing like himself. He dropped a square of chocolate into the pot and sat in the dirt next to Nena. “You did not fear me when we met, because you had banished fear from your life, which by some, would be considered crazy. Chancho, on the other hand, did not fear me because he could not see anything to fear. He saw nothing but the stories my grandmother had filled him with, the same ones she gave me when I’d visit.”

He ran his nose along the glistening skin of her arm, growing dizzy on the sweat and almond oil before continuing. “Chancho does not see the world the way others do. You and I, we kill fear with courage. Chancho kills it with trust. That makes him crazy, but it’s a good crazy.”

Muddy sat up to add a tablespoon of cinnamon to the coffee before it came to a boil. Retaking his spot, he broke the silence. “It might be a long time before we can come back.”

Nena wrapped herself around his mighty arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe we won’t want to.”