Reeferpunk Shorts

by David Mark Brown

  “You take. Good medicine.”

  He ignored her and instead tried to level his Colt toward the door where the torn curtain still covered most of the opening, but it was little use. He couldn’t steady his aim, his face and neck yanking to the left. He’d be able to kill a man at ten feet, maybe. At least it was night. But the fire would make it easy for the bandits to see him and the old lady when they stepped from the burning house.

  The woman bent down and took the tin. She shoved it into McCutchen’s chest. “O.K., O.K.” He put the tin into an inner pocket in his duster.

  The old lady didn’t wait any longer. She surged toward the curtain, pushing through it into the night before McCutchen could respond. Gunfire blazed from all around. McCutchen lurched toward the door, chapped that he was following the old lady’s lead. But when a bullet struck the door frame, shrapnel from the wood and rock knocked him off balance. He hit the door jam hard, causing the remains of the burning roof to collapse inward.

  Sparks showered around him as a roof support struck him on the shoulder and drove him to the ground. The smoldering support pinned his left hand, cooking the flesh. Smoke burned his lungs. He rolled onto his back and heaved the beam off. Above, he saw night sky where the roof had been.

  He couldn’t believe it, but gunshots continued as the old lady called down fire from heaven while the Winchester delivered it. He pulled himself into the chill night air on his belly, bear crawling away from the illumination of the flames toward the nearest shelter. A hot slug struck him in the thigh like a hornet. He gritted his teeth, rolling onto his back.

  Another flash, followed quickly by a pop, originated from the brush beyond the clearing the goats had grazed. Dirt kicked up next to the ranger’s boot. He steadied his aim toward the source of the flash and let his Colt roar. After tearing off three quick shots, he continued toward >

  He threw his back up against the cold cement, gasping for breath. His head spun. Lights danced and popped in his vision until the night suddenly fell quiet. The gunfire ceased, but he couldn’t stop the spasms. Finally, overwhelmed by pain, he passed out.

  ~~~

  McCutchen awoke to several sensations at once. Scattered drops of rain chilled his exposed skin and hissed among the burning embers of the chink house’s rubble. Numbness alternated with electricity throughout his extremities. The orange light of the sun brushed the belly of the clouds on the horizon. Finally a snuffling beside his heard jerked him totally awake.

  A goat, one of the twins belonging to the old lady, nuzzled at the crusted blood in his hair. Snorting along his shoulder the animal tugged his duster open and sniffed the tin in his pocket.

  “Alright, that’s enough. Shoo.” Lying flat on his back, he tried to wave the animal off, but even the slightest movements were difficult. He found his hat lying next to his head, brim down and relatively dry. Well that’s a stroke of luck. He propped himself up and discovered his Colt digging into his back. “Hello pretty.”

  He checked the cylinder. Three bullets. No sooner than the blood returned to all its normal circuits, his nervous tics kicked in. He could breath, but his right eye flickered and his neck randomly jerked his whole face to the left worse than it had as a child. A crackling sensation returned in his shoulder and hand, like someone had shoved his frame into skin three sizes too small.

  He’d forgotten about the burn. Picking at the charred edges of his duster, he glimpsed the white puss forming in and around the wound. His left hand had swollen and cracked, first degree burns covering the back of it. The flesh trapped under his ring blistered and continued to cook. He tried to spin it, but it stuck fast, his meaty hand much too swollen. He shook his head. Elizabeth, why can’t I let you go?

  Finally he remembered the bullet to his thigh. Cringing, he bent down to check behind the torn flap of bloodied denim. “Hot damn, I’ll live yet.” It had merely scratched him, nothing more than a bite of flesh. Coming full circle he remembered what had brought him to Mexico in the first place. Grinding his teeth, he allowed the poison of the night’s events to flow through his veins, strengthening him with hatred.

  The goat lapped water from the trough, the thought of drink giving McCutchen immediate purpose. “Mind if I join you?” Sweeping flotsam aside, he cupped his hands to drink. After several scoops he steeled himself against the pain and rose to his full 6’3” height. He had some killing to attend to, but first.

  He scanned the scene around him. Senseless. A warm slice of sun burned over the horizon and under the clouds, blinding him as he peered toward the old woman’s house. He shaded his eyes and moved closer. Remnants of a pool of blood and drag marks in the dirt indicated where the old croon’s first shots had struck home, most likely a kill. He refused to think about the woman herself. There could’ve been only one outcome for her, and thinking about it made his eye spasm.

  He moved around the edge of the rubble, into the clearing between the woman’s house and the wilderness beyond.engness be The first grisly site he encountered was the companion goat, throat slit from ear to ear, his side half charred by burning rubble. Pattering rain drops dappled the thick dust, disguising the blood trails. But he found one that started in the center of the clearing and worked its way toward the brush.

  ~~~

  He didn’t want to finish analyzing the scene, but he had no choice. Temporarily leaving the blood trail, he swung wide to search the edge of the brush first, drawing his Colt just in case. He recognized the prickly pear he’d loosed three rounds into the night before. At least one of the slugs had not been wasted, blood spatter covering several pads. The trail led south toward a cluster of large mesquites, probably where the horses had been tied up. He would check that later.

  Moving more quickly, he steeled himself for the inevitable.

  “Good God.” In an opening surrounded by acacia shrubs McCutchen found the remains of the old woman’s body. She hadn’t just been killed. She had been desecrated. He swallowed and took a deep breath before bending down over the grisly scene. The woman had been shot several times. By the looks of it, more than a few of them before she fell, and some after. In anger one of the bandits had carved her with a knife.

  He coughed, finding it harder to breathe. About to stand, he noticed something clenched in the woman’s hand. Prying back her fingers revealed the amulet she had kissed the night before. Too much unfinished business, he thought, as he rubbed the amulet between his thumb and finger. Slipping it inside his duster, he remembered the tin. Curious, he opened it.

  “Crazy old bitty.” The tin contained a dozen tightly rolled marihuana cigarettes. He clenched the busted and swollen fingers of his left hand, listening to the voices of his grandfather and the old woman in competition. But his grandfather, a ranger to the end, had gone to rest along time ago. This woman’s body was barely cold, and she had died, in part, because of him. “Good medicine.” It was the least he could do for a woman whose name he would never know.

  He pulled out a single cigarette. Stooping over the burning coals of a roof beam, he puffed it to life and took a slow drag. He coughed at first, hacking up a loogie, then settled back into inspecting the scene. By the time he reached the mesquites where the horses had been tied his breathing came easier.

  There had been five of them. One dead, one wounded. Out of the three remaining, one was heavy while the other two where slight. They rode away toward the south. The woman had mentioned Huerta. If these were Huertistas operating this far north they needed protection against the roving Villistas, the infamous peon cavalry of Pancho Villa. Only one place for twenty miles could provide that sort of protection. First he had to find his horse.

  The remaining goat followed him half way to the cantina before turning around. He felt affection for the little loaner, but a half-chewed up gringo rinche wandering around Matamoros by himself early in the morning was conspicuous enough without a goat trailing him. On the other hand, there was no point in being furtive now. No longer tracking his prey, his next move would
be offensive. Soon enough his enemies would know exactly where he was.

  By the time he reached the northern edge of town his tic had completely gone. “Wejus gone. ll I’ll be damned.” He patted the tin in his duster.

  After a quick look up and down the river bank of the Rio Grande he curled his lips and pierced the morning air with a sharp two-toned whistle. He bent the pitch upward and added a trill at the end, repeating it twice before crouching behind a yucca. It didn’t pay to be a visible target anywhere along the river these days, on either bank. In less than a minute he heard a familiar whinny as his horse, Chester the IV, came trotting up from the river bottom.

  ~~~

  Sleek and happy, Chester snorted. Not in the least perturbed it had been thirty six hours since McCutchen left him by the river, he mulled green grass around the bit in his mouth.

  “No, no. I’m fine. You?” McCutchen gritted his teeth, swinging himself up into the saddle. In no hurry, and not particularly desirous of agitating his wounds further, he lead Chester at a comfortable walk around the western edge of town. Having been spotted heading north toward the river, he carefully remained out of view, so watching eyes would assume he had returned to Texas soil. Good riddance. But he wasn’t going home yet. He had work to do.

  The two-story, stone hacienda jutted from the horizon, visible from miles away. Dismounting on the backside of a knob, he indicated for Chester to stay close. With his Colts reloaded, he took jerky, dried apricots and a canteen to the top of the rise. Making himself comfortable, he watched the comings and goings while putting together a plan for his night raid.

  The property for miles around belonged to Hacienda Nuevo Santander. As well, the hacienda operated over seventy acres of farmland and a mill. It wasn’t cotton, but McCutchen couldn’t tell from his perch what the mill processed. A cluster of adobe houses sat at the near corner of the fields. That would be the first place they would spot him, if he wasn’t careful.

  On a slight rise to the east perched the hacienda proper. Brick buildings surrounding the original stone mansion included a store, cantina, blacksmith, kitchen and whatever else the hacendado deemed necessary to live according to proper standards.

  A damn waste. Extravagance leading to laziness and weakness, as far as McCutchen was concerned. Many of the Mexicans felt the same way, disassembling or crushing most of the haciendas at the beginning of the revolution. The fact this one still prospered fit with the notion that Huerta had taken a liking to it personally. But that was none of his business. His concern was that vaqueros from this hacienda had rustled cattle from Texas ranches, including the Corona, and had recently tried to kill him, twice.

  Both stealing cattle and threatening the life of a ranger were killing offenses. That meant the law stated he could kill them twice, and he intended to. Justice was coming, but it would have to wait until nightfall. Only one thing troubled him. He’d never gotten a good look at the men, not at the cantina or at the old woman’s.

  If gambling, affliction of the pathetic, had not been beneath him, McCutchen would’ve bet the bastard that carved the woman still had the Winchester. That was something. And with any luck, he’d reclaim his lost Colt too. His .45 would no doubt be gripped by the man who organized the ambush at the cantina. He’d put down whichever hijo de puta he fo Thta und with his pistola, and be doing the world some good.

  To pass the time he would work through his relaxation regimen and try to take a nap before heading down for reconnaissance later. He grunted as he crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his thighs, careful to avoid the gunshot wound. Opening his palms upward he cleared his mind.

  ~~~

  McCutchen observed several sentinels setting up watch around the periphery of the hacienda, including one dang near the nob where he’d just been. When darkness fell, he slipped easily through the first line of defense.

  Guessing they would switch the watch by midnight, and anxious to get the job done sooner rather than later, he moved quickly. He couldn’t have hoped for a better situation. Some of the hacendado’s men started a large bonfire to fend off the damp chill blowing inland from the Gulf of Mexico. McCutchen knew their line of sight would be diminished by the flames. The peons remained the wildcard.

  He and Chester steered clear of the fire and the buildings, choosing the spot safest from stray eyes. For several minutes McCutchen sat quietly in the saddle observing the scene. Several men, six to eight, sat on benches around the edge of the fire whooping and hollering while peons milled nervously across from them.

  McCutchen shook his head. For amusement the vaqueros had chosen to humiliate peons by making them dance. The breeze shifted, carrying their voices toward him.

  "This is some good stuff, yes?"

  “Why don’t you have some?"

  "Oh that’s right, I forgot.”

  "You’re too busy dancing." The vaqueros cackled with laughter, firing off rounds in the air and at the peons’ feet. The raucous startled their horses which had been tied up opposite McCutchen’s position. These dumb bastards, Villa could come riding in here with an army, and they’d never hear it. Finally they quieted down as the leader picked up where he’d left off.

  “Besides, you’re too poor and ugly to smoke the General’s personal marihuana.” A vaquero choked and blew smoke, the others laughing at him.

  Finally the pieces started to fit. The crop McCutchen had seen during the day was cañamo, marihuana. Even if Huerta smoked incessantly, the only reason to grow this much this far north was for trade along the border to obtain information, weapons and favors. Whatever benefit McCutchen experienced from the plant, these men were obviously too boorish and undisciplined to enjoy. It spurred an evil inside them. Intoxicated and cruel, the jackals turned violent on the huddle of peons scattering them toward the adobes. The image of the eviscerated old lady flashed in his mind.

  McCutchen thought a couple vaqueros had broken out in a scuffle, until he realized the one who seemed to be el Jefe had snuggled up with a peon women. She tried to defend herself, and he turned rough. Slapping her, she fell back almost tumbling into the fire. A cry came from one of the adobes. So they’re watching. If he could take out the first few vaqueros maybe the peons would help, or at least not get in the way.

  El Jefe stood and spat on the girl while she squirmed on the ground. Then McCutchen noticed it. On the the bench beside the man rested a rifle, the old woman’s Winchester. Plus, as el Jefe approached the girl he chose to draw a knife, rather than a gun, threatening her with it lewdly.

  That left no more than six men against the six bullets in his Colt. He lashed Chester with the reins. The two of them, horse and rider, drew within yards of the fire before the vaqueros realized a terrible apparition bore down on them. Gazing dumbly into the darkness they first spotted Chester’s flaring nostrils, then McCutchen, as he swung his right leg backwards over Chester’s rump. He spun around completely to make a running dismount. The ranger needed every bullet to count.

  ~~~

  With his momentum carrying him toward the vaqueros, McCutchen focused on the first among them to respond and squeezed the trigger. The cylinder rolled, the hammer fell, gunpowder ignited and a singular hole appeared in his forehead. Again, McCutchen squeezed the trigger. Fire lit the end of his barrel. A second man fell with a sudden hole to the forehead.

  Chester continued at full bore. Leaping over the fire he clipped a burning branch that showered sparks on the retreating men. McCutchen slowed to a steady walk, mechanically working both hands as if he held the second .45 in his left. In reality the right had to work twice as fast. He pulled the trigger a third time, and a fourth. Two more men fell, skulls vented to the night. But it wasn’t enough.

  A bullet whizzed past McCutchen’s head. The immediate crack, like axe on wood, meant it’d been all too close. He whistled for Chester and bolted toward the adobe buildings, putting the bonfire between him and the remaining vaqueros, including the son of a bitch with the knife.

  Only two mo
re rounds came close as he reached for horn and stirrup, snagging Chester at full gallop between the fire and the adobe homes. But as McCutchen shifted his weight into the saddle Chester slumped and dove headfirst into the ground. The sudden change of momentum flung McCutchen sprawling over the horse’s head.

  He hit hard with no time for pain. Dirt pelted him in the face as a bullet missed low. To make things worse, he heard el Jefe ordering someone to go for help.

  McCutchen scurried back to the fallen horse who rasped up a mixture of blood and foam with every labored breath. “Dammit. I’m sorry, boy.” He took shelter behind the horse and felt the animal’s warm body jerk with fresh bullet wounds. Now he was in for it. No horse, no element of surprise and only two more bullets--

  Angry at himself for stupidly losing precious seconds he reloaded his Colt with rounds from his belt. He tried to think. If one vaquero rode for help only two remained. If he could get them and find a horse--

  A slug tore through the meat of his calf, interrupting his thoughts. His body hummed with pain, every nerve fighting to override his ability to reason. But he had to think. Something was wrong. He wasn’t in their line of fire. Like a shotgun blast it came to him.

  The glint of fire light on steel flickered in an adobe window. He rolled to his left as another flare revealed a rifle baifyd a rifrrel spewing hot lead. The bullet struck Chester mercifully in the head. With no cover and no choice McCutchen pumped his good leg, hobbling toward a narrow opening between adobe homes.

  Only a couple of stray shots pursued him, the vaqueros possibly reloading. He braced himself against the cold adobe and tried to think clearly, but he was losing the battle. The peons had turned against him. Stupid Mexicans were all alike, willing to shoot the guy helping them, just because he’s a gringo. Or did they know he was a rinche? How could they know? But who the hell else would charge in here alone?

  His line of thought wasn’t helping, but furious, he couldn’t stop. All the piss poor treatment he’d taken from Mexicans over the years. Even the children hissed, “Rinche, pinche, cara de chinche,” calling him a mean ranger with the face of a bug. He was only doing his job. And a damn fine job at that, protecting worthless, ungrateful trash. And now Chester. The best damn horse he had ridden, shot down by some snot-nosed peasant. Not even a hardened bandito, but a peon who couldn’t even recognize help when he saw it — a peon growing marihuana and spreading it into my Texas! A darkness absorbed him fully.