“Do you know who I am?” McCutchen pulled a chair in front of the cell holding the Mexican and took a seat.

“Un rinche.” The man spat out the answer.

McCutchen responded calmly. “These bars won’t save you from my judgment any more than your prayers will from God’s. Do you understand me?” He tapped his holster and leaned forward, “¿comprende?” He rolled the “r” like a native speaker.

The man in the cell narrowed his eyes and grunted, “Si.”

“Now let’s start with your name, tu nombre.”

“Vicente Zambrano.” The response was immediate and minimal.

McCutchen nodded. Good. “You spoke earlier of marihuana.” He paused to gauge Vicente’s response, the Mexican clearly confused. This was not the line of questioning he had expected. Slowly, he nodded, so McCutchen continued. “I’ll make this easy on you. All I want to know is who and where. Quién y donde.”

At first Vicente’s eyes widened with fear and then narrowed to slits again. He breathed heavily before speaking through his teeth, “Solamente mi primo sabía exactamente.” He struggled to speak in English, “But someone has killed him.”

McCutchen got his meaning clear enough. He had shot and killed Vicente’s cousin earlier. “Understood. Tell me what you know.”

Vicente looked nervous for the first time. McCutchen worried he was having second thoughts about cooperating, but after a few moments Vicente continued, “País del diablo. Devil country.”

Vicente wrung his sweaty hands while McCutchen waited without budging for him to continue. He translated the best he could.

“It is said that the hills north of el patron’s ranch are haunted by a powerful demon. The Church, the Catholic Church, bought the land in order to bind the demon within its boundaries. They say the demon wanders the hills looking for enough blood, human blood when he can find it, but goat blood works too, in order to gain the strength to break the blessed spell of the Church and roam free again.”

Vicente shifted on his bench while McCutchen tried to gauge him. He wasn’t sure he’d translated everything correctly. Was this pathetic Mexican really telling him a tale of blood drinking demons and the Catholic Church? What the hell could this possibly have to do with marihuana? He was about to get upset when Vicente, apparently aware of the ranger’s incredulity, continued more urgently.

“We found goats. One of ours and one from the Catholic Hills. We found them down at the springs between our properties. They had been killed, drained of all their blood, every last drop. I swear. We found only two small holes and bite marks on the neck.” He lowered his voice again. “They call the demon El Chupacabra. My friend, he found goats of el patron’s by the springs gone mad just from seeing the creature.”

McCutchen stood, asking for permission to enter the cell to be more persuasive. “Look son, so help me—”

Vicente raised his voice and rushed to the point. “My cousin did not believe it. He called it stupid superstition. Some of el patron’s goats wandered again into the Catholic Hills, but he went after them. When he found them he said they had gone mad, but it was from eating cáñamo, marihuana. He was telling us…” Vicente looked at the floor. “That was what he was telling us in the cantina.”

McCutchen was stunned. He’d expected to hear a story of a smuggler meeting them at the river, bringing marihuana across the border. Not this. Before he could absorb it, his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar lady’s voice carrying from the front office. He slid the chair back to its former place. “You’re telling me that this marihuana was growing here in Texas? Your cousin found a field of marihuana growing in Texas?”

Vicente nodded, “Si.” Part of McCutchen still wanted to beat the man, unwilling to accept what he was being told. But even if he beat the man to death he’d still have to see the proof with his own eyes.

“Okay. One more thing. Where exactly are these springs where you found the goats?”