After a few moments Chancho reappeared from his wagon and washed for supper. With considerably less manure on his person the three friends enjoyed their meal and settled in for coffee as they discussed how to keep the goats out of the cáñamo patch.

“I’ll sleep in the field tonight,” Chancho offered, “in case any of our amigos pequinos get the munchies.”

Nena scoffed, “I think it’s so you can whisper sweet nothings to your machine.”

“Nothing of the sort.” Chancho waved her off. “If you cannot accept my selfless gesture,” he looped his hand around in the air as if to finish his sentence visually. “Besides, I whisper substantialities, never nothings.”

“I’m sure—” 

Chancho cut her off, “No, no. I’ve made up my mind. Tonight the stars will gaze down upon my substantialities, and be blessed.” Nena and Muddy both snorted, but Chancho continued, “Within 24 hours, mis amigos, we will be adventuring north with a wealth of both goats and marihuana. Tres amigos, we ride. You will see.”

Finally, when only a few streaks of color remained in the sky, Chancho grabbed his things and marched down the slope toward the field for the night. An orchestra of crickets began their nightly performance.

Nena had started to shake with her desires even before she finished her coffee. Now that nothing stood in her way she released a fury of kisses on Muddy’s face and neck, the air chilled just enough to emphasize the heat emanating from their bodies. Before she could go further he rose with her in his arms and carried her to their wagon.

She felt all the familiar intimacy they had built together, but today’s events unleashed a storm in her that had remained dormant. Lulled to sleep by months and even years of relative safety, the thought of her lover’s life at risk brought urgency to her lovemaking. She had to feel him as close to her as possible, to wrap him up inside her and keep him safe.

For the rest of that evening they nourished each other. It did not dispel the fear of loss, but it expressed her gratitude for the possessing. Tomorrow would come bearing secrets, but tonight she would know and be known fully. Whatever happened tomorrow, tonight she had a good life.

They pressed into each other and quaked. The wagon fell still as the lovers rested in the midst of their thanksgiving, bathed in the delicate scent of almond oil and the musk of mohair. Nena lay her head over Muddy’s heart, listening to its beat gradually slow. She tasted his sweat on her lips, and after several minutes she spoke. “I remember the first time I saw you. So menacing, and so proud. I knew instantly it would never do to have you as an enemy.”

He ran his fingers down her shoulder and arm where her sweat started to chill. “And you, standing one foot in front, even of your father. I had to stare past you to stare at him, yet he was not offended in your presumption. He was proud that you stood there. That fact made me stare at you.”

“You were angry.”

“I knew we would lose if we fought.”

“Oh?” Nena lifted her head from his chest to look him in the eyes.

“I already wanted to make love to you more than kill you.” He smiled. “It would have been a conflict of interest in war.”

She slapped him on the chest and repeated his last word as she lie back down, “War. War had already changed by then. My father taught me to fight using the words and the laws of the Mexicans, and then the Anglos. He accused the Mexican government of handing our lands over to you and your people. Our fight was with them.”

“Yes, but we fought alongside them. Los mascogos. They favored us, at least while we remained useful to them.”

“Your people did what they had to, same as mine.” She wove her fingers through the curly hair on his chest. “Now you are my people. You and Chancho, that crazy Mexican.” She always attached the epithet. It was her pet name for him. “And we are again at war.”

“War?” Now Muddy repeated the word.

“We are outsiders here, with only each other for family. Chancho has been spit out by his beloved revolution. Our peoples do not accept our love, and the Anglo lusts only for the land, making us rivals.”

“And?” Muddy raised his brows. She could tell he was waiting for her to lead up to something.

“Chancho, that crazy Mexican, he is a dreamer. You said it yourself. He can see impossible things and make them possible, and I love him for that. But, for all his vision he could not see lightning if it struck him. He will get us into trouble if we do not shepherd him.”

Muddy smiled. “So what is your plan?”

She always unveiled her deepest thoughts and most intricate schemes immediately after rapturous sex. Of course her husband was most attentive and compliant then. It was not really manipulation, but cunning. It was her way. "What if the hunting party is not just hunting El Chupacabra?”

Muddy nodded. “You mean what if they are after us.”

“They may accuse us of stealing goats. They may be angry or jealous of the land. They will not need good reason, especially if empowered by the law. My father taught me well that the law is a false god to many. And the ranger —”

“He is trouble.”

Nena continued, “If he is anything like los rinches in Chancho’s stories, yes, he is trouble.”

“We need to be ready to fight.”

“There may come a time when we cannot run, not with the whole camp on our backs. The wagons will be too cumbersome and slow. If they come after us we’ll have to leave everything but the horses. Chancho won’t like it, and so he won’t prepare for it. We will have to.”

“Of course, you’re right.” Muddy shifted onto his elbow. “Tomorrow—”

“I will finish the rest of the preparations while you and Chancho play with your toy. I don’t need you spoiling the surprise.”

“Oh really? Should that comfort me?”

“Whatever you like, but right now you should be comforting me so I can sleep. I’m chilled.” Nena grabbed Muddy’s arm and draped it over her exposed skin as she rolled over and nestled herself in his stomach. He wrestled free of her in order to pull a large mohair blanket over the two of them.

Chancho awoke to the rhythms of the earth, aligned with the sun and moon and stars as if he had lain with his eyes open all night memorizing their heavenly courses. In fact he’d slept more soundly than he could remember, and he awoke before the sun feeling invigorated. Lying with his back to the earth, absorbing its nutrients, feeling its connection, he became a part of it.

Cosmic strings drew him and bound him to all creation, including his fellow man. An unseen calling ripened in his gut, this very moment on the verge of seed. He stood and stretched his legs, running his hand along the stalks of cáñamo as he walked barefoot down the furrow. His thoughts burst from his mind. Embracing greatness, they swelled to fill the earth.

Communing with all God’s creation, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, he grew giddy with revelation. All of the land belonged to God. Chancho was, and always had been, free to roam it. No rinche could take his home away from him.

 He stamped his bare feet in the soil between two furrows of cáñamo, shaking the dirt from his bare butt and raising his hands up over his head. Making a declaration of victory, he shook his fists at the heavens while clenching his cheeks at the earth. “¡Buenos días, El Chupacabra, heraldo de la nueva vida!”

As he lavished praise on the fictional beast for the new life it brought, a jealous sun pierced the horizon with delicious beams of orange light. He held the pose for a few seconds, a scene worthy of classic literature, until his stomach growled ferociously.

But first things first. I’ve got to get dressed and find some breakfast. After dispelling fluids from his bladder while humming the tune of la cucaracha, he held a short wrestling match with his pants. Finally he trotted off toward camp. It pleased him that on this day, the day of his greatness, he remembered to tend to such simple things as clothing and food.

When he arrived at camp Muddy stoked a small fire for coffee as Nena stitched up her favorite pair of shoes.

“Buenos días, mis amigos.”

“You’re dressed, that’s good.” Nena didn’t look up from her work.

“So, you noticed? I was rather proud of that myself.” Chancho spun himself around even though no one was watching. “What is for breakfast my good man.” He did his best impersonation of an Anglo accent, the sort he imagined a stuffy city slicker would use—continually morphing between a doodlebug Yankee and an Irishman.

“Coffee, but not yet.” Muddy added more grounds to the kettle.

“Oh. In that case, I’ll help myself to some tortillas and butter. Do either of you want anything while I’m at it?”

“Could you bring me some more bacon and eggs? That is, if there’s any left.”

“Ay dios mio.” Chancho stopped in mid bounce, “You had bacon and eggs without me?”

“She’s just pulling your leg.” Muddy tried not to snicker.

“I knew that.” Chancho slapped his leg, frustrated with how easily he’d fallen for the joke. “But while you devils sit around devising ways to trick me I have been up for hours preparing for greatness! Well, for the last fifteen minutes, at least.” He waved his arms dramatically. “This is the day we usher history into the present. The day we harvest the energies of the earth with the energies of man and in so doing proclaim our liberties under the sun! You, my dearest compadres, are you with me!?”

“Yes, yes. To the end, rah rah, and all that.”

“¡Excelente!” Chancho turned toward the chuck wagon. “But first, tortillas.”