The soldiers continued firing on Lipscomb, McCutchen and the sheriff until the latter convinced all three of them to drop their weapons and lie down. “Dammit, we’re on your side!”

“Cease fire!” The officer in command marched forward with a small detachment. “What in the name of all things holy! You boys better have a good explanation for all this, or God help me, the coyotes are going to feed tonight!”

McCutchen was the first to stand, hands still raised head high. “Here’s your explanation,” he narrowed his eyes at the approaching officer, “Sergeant—”

“Sergeant Major.”

“You just let three known fugitives aided by a seventy-year-old man break onto your airstrip and steal a plane, all the while preventing local law enforcement and the Texas Rangers from doing their job.” He flashed them his star.

“Well, la-di-da. Boys, we got ourselves a Texas Ranger, shooting at American troops, trespassing and vandalizing government property, all the while preventing us from cleaning up their mess before it cost the government a $30,000 airplane! Shit. You fellas are about as useful as a tit on a billy goat.”

“Your incompetence cost you—”

“Incompetence! You piss—”

“Gentlemen!” The sheriff interrupted. “We’ve had casualties, for God’s sake.”

For the first time the sergeant major took a broader scope of the situation. Lipscomb stood on one leg, blood soaking through his pants and an arrow through his hand. McCutchen looked like death eating a cracker: a bandaged left hand, broken arrow in his arm, crusted blood and dirt covering his cheek, neck and chest.

“Like I said before, we’re on the same side here.” The sheriff plucked cactus needles from his face.

“Ah hell. Lysander.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get the medic. We’ll meet him in the hanger.” The soldier trotted off. “Tooley, Smith. Round up those horses, and for God’s sake clean up that dead Negro over there.” He turned back to the sheriff, who had become the de-facto liaison. “Speaking of, should we be concerned with that one? I’m assuming he ain’t with you, seeing how I’m pretty sure you guys are the ones who lit ‘em up.”

The sheriff gave Lipscomb a look. “He was a local smuggler mixed up with our fugitives. Good riddance.”

McCutchen broke back into the conversation. “Sergeant Major, I’d be grateful for your medical services, but I’m still tracking three fugitives.”

“Through the air? Not likely.”

“I’m sure you’re interested—”

“In getting my plane back? You’re damn straight. I’ll get my plane back, Lord willing those nut bags don’t crash it.”

McCutchen’s teeth ground audibly.

“About your fugitives, the sheriff’s right. Like it or not, we’re on the same side now. The order went out before they left the ground. Jesus, Mary and Joseph if it don’t make us look like a bunch of tumbleweed humpers, but there you have it. We got all eyes watching for a stolen plane bumping its butt across the hills. If they got the sense to not crap and call it food they’ll head west before they decorate a cliff with the fanciest tinsel this side of the Atlantic—”

“Major! This man ain’t dead.”

The whole entourage turned on their heels toward a private inspecting the black body still slumped in the saddle. Everyone but Deputy Lipscomb, who used the opportunity to bend down for the discarded Spencer rifle. “Gun!” In a single motion he cocked and fired.

The private stumbled backwards while McCutchen drew his Colt, pointing it at Lipscomb.

“Good God almighty!” The major bellowed as he unsheathed his sword. For a pregnant few seconds the party stood each other down before the shocked private broke the stalemate.

“He’s dead now.”

Jesse’s body shifted inch by inch until it sloughed from the saddle completely, thudding to the ground where his mare’s legs spilled from their holsters. Just as gradually, all eyes shifted to Lipscomb. He held the rifle loosely in one hand, the other turned outward in surrender, blood running down his arm. “I saw a gun, and took the shot.” He bent down and deposited the Spencer back on the ground.

McCutchen slowly holstered his Colt as the group took a collective breath. For the second time that morning he suspected the local lawman of more than he let on.

“Tooley, get these men to the hanger. The medic’ll be there soon. Then show ‘em the barracks where they can get cleaned up.” The major turned to go, still muttering, “I got a damn plane to find and a trigger-happy bunch a looney tunes.” He called over his shoulder, “I’ll come and find you when I got any news on your fugitives,” before trailing off into a string of colorful expletives.

McCutchen waited patiently for the medic to finish removing the shot from his chest and staunch the bleeding. Taking deep breaths, he reminded himself that sooner or later the fugitives would have to land. When they did, he’d pick up the trail again. After the medic moved on to Lipscomb, who was turning pale from loss of blood, he quietly dismissed himself and found the livery. The cavalry at Fort Clark kept a good number of horses on hand, still the most reliable means of pursuit in the rugged borderlands.

Fraternizing with a fiery appaloosa, Chester acknowledged McCutchen with a snort. After some grooming and another guzzle of water the ranger saddled his four-legged companion and rode out the way they’d come in, bound for Brackettville.

Having expanded the manhunt to a much larger investigation, McCutchen determined to proceed on his own terms. He suspected both the military and the local law of being involved in the larger conspiracy. While he didn’t doubt the military would help him find the plane, he knew he couldn’t rely on them for getting to the bottom of anything, except the barrel. Profits dangled like low hanging fruit along the border. A profit big enough could tempt almost anyone with gumption enough to go and get it.

On arriving in Brackettville he directed the rangers waiting in Fredericksburg on to Rocksprings with orders to wrap up loose ends with Bronco O’Brien. That brought a much needed smile to his morning. After chasing sausage, gravy and biscuits with a carafe of coffee he purchased a ticket on the first train departing for San Angelo, where he’d have quick access to most of central and western Texas.

Certain his fugitives weren’t heading for Mexico and that they were only the tip of a seditious network, he determined to inject his brand of poison into the heart of the operation and track it to the furthest reach of every artery. He’d panic the most visible members of the conspiracy into revealing their connections. Then he’d track them to their bitter ends.

After handing Chester off to stable boys with firm orders to load him on the train last for quick departure, he took a minute to relieve himself. Flipping the seat down on the crapper, he fumbled with a cigarette. Everything was a nuisance with only one hand. Finally he inhaled several long drags and began to relax. He’d remained jittery even after filling his stomach at breakfast. His body couldn’t hold up forever under the current level of abuse.

Filling the basin, he splashed water in his face. He ran fingers across coarse stubble and stared back at the man he saw in the mirror. Almost 40 years old and weathered well beyond that, his skin was creased with exhaustion. Scars, fresh and old, dotted every visible surface, as well as the rest of his body. Those who chose to break the law, to flee justice, to rob him of the dignity of a clean shave—

He slammed his fist down on the counter, closed his eyes, rolled his neck loosely on his shoulders. This was what the work had brought him to. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore. What have I become? He flashed back to Matamoros and the lifeless face of the Mexican girl as it listed into the moonlight, the image of Swisher slumped against the fence in the alley. He held his bandaged club of a hand in front of his face. The words “El Chupacabra” ran across his thoughts. El Chupacabra, the demon, the monster.

He rubbed the scar along the side of his head before putting his grandfather’s Stetson back on and taking one last look at his face in the mirror. He noticed the medic had shaved two tiny bald spots while removing lead pellets. “I’ll give you your monster.”

He walked to the edge of the platform as the train pulled into the station. He’d already taken this case to the edge, and he didn’t mind pushing it over. America still needed heroes whether she believed in them or not. His form of justice might never make him a hero, but a lover’s infidelity was no excuse for a great man to ingratiate himself with whores.