Muddy worked the lever action of the rifle sliding another .52 caliber, necked-down, rimfire cartridge into the chamber of his Spencer Repeater. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb during the same motion and pulled the trigger fluidly. Over and over he rained down lead from the bluff into the valley of the San Felipe Springs, intending to convince those below that they were outnumbered, or at least evenly matched, by the sheer volume of rounds from his volley. The challenge was not to kill anyone, while still convincing them he could.

That became next to impossible due to the smoke put off by the Spencer. Not that it would matter for much longer. The ranger Chancho had spoken of seemed determined to ride him down. Finally Muddy stopped firing and lay on his back against the rocks. He knew they could see the smoke rising from his position. The gunfire coming in his direction intensified, bullets whistling overhead and showering rock chips down on him.

He didn’t want to leave without his goats. One already shot dead, he’d spotted at least a dozen others stumbling toward the springs before opening fire to protect them. The shootout would drive them west and south down the valley, but he had to reach them before they drank too much water at the next set of springs.

The rancher he’d shot probably wouldn’t even lose a toe. It seemed more than fair payment for a goat. But he figured the ranger wouldn’t see it that way. It rankled him—that they could run him from his property, kill his animals, and still demand that he pay them in blood. The old Muddy would have killed half of them already. At the very least he was getting his goats.

He belly-crawled away from the bluff until he could stand. “Yup, Yup!” Calling Tripalo he mounted the horse and kicked him into a gallop down the back side of the hill into a densely thicketed draw leading north. He had to ride far enough to convince the ranger he was going home, running away.

After a few minutes of dodging mesquite branches and ducking under live oak, Muddy found the draw he wanted. The gravel wash would mask his tracks and keep him out of sight while leading him west and then south. Muddy stopped after riding several hundred feet and went back on foot to cover his tracks in the gravel. Mounting again he continued his wrap-around path back toward the springs, coming at them this time from the south.

If the ranger found his trail he would assume it continued north, not back toward the springs. The ruse would give Muddy time to herd the goats along the southern border of their property. Finally he and Tripalo worked their way eastward, past the lower springs, in search of what he hoped were living goats.

It would be a kick to the head to shoot at a sheriff and a ranger for nothing. All of it because of El Chupacabra, a campfire story. But already pregnant with fear, the land sought a demon to blame, and he’d given them one. He heard a moan and a bleat. Jumping down from Tripalo, he advanced on foot until he found the bedraggled herd of colicky goats bogged down in mud. They had barely made it two-hundred yards from the scene of the shootout.

Muddy scanned the southeast bank of the creek bed for signs of movement. Finding it clear, he slogged to the aid of the nearest goat. Tipping the animal over in the mud, he stuck it the same way he had done the others. The hole in its side gargled and spat green foam. Finally the goat belched as its throat relaxed. One after the other he treated them until they were all resting, alive and well.

Relieved, he turned his focus toward the Anglo lawmen. Crouching behind a rock outcropping at the top of the southeast bank, he searched for signs of the sheriff. Better yet, he spotted the ranger, having given up the chase, talking to the sheriff under the big hackberry. Apparently the two men had dismissed the ranchers. It was a small victory, but Muddy had taken the upper hand. Smiling, he ushered the mending goats down the valley until they reached a familiar trail heading home.

“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 marihuana Texas has ever seen, maybe the only crop, and I plan on stopping them.”

“Marihuana? 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’s 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 marihuana. 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 dripping 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 ticks 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 revealing a dozen tightly rolled marihuana cigarettes. He licked the side of one, dangling it from his lips while he closed the tin and put it 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. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to rub away the tiredness of doing his job ceaselessly for the last sixteen years. The last five years he’d spent making sure the border stayed free of marihuana, and now all of that was at stake. Violence instigated by the intoxicant had crippled him, requiring him to depend on the same drug just to do his job. He took another drag and finally 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 marihuana’s evils, its ability to unloose a man’s depravity if he was 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, left there by a mob of angry Mexicans hopped up on marihuana. It always itched in the heat. He scratched the edges of it while he 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.

He finished the cigarette and flicked away the butt, running the back of his hand across the short stubble on his cheek that had formed there since the morning. He hated the feel of it, but it would serve as fuel for his anger over the next 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.

As he slowed his breathing 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.