Cantinas on either side of the border fascinated Chancho—such important frivolousness. He cupped his shot of tequila, a Reposado rested in American oak, in the palm of his hand while listening to a collision of conversations. Not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, he shut his eyes.

Slurred English came from the direction of the bar only to be drowned out by Tejano-flavored Spanish. The tang of mohair and sweat, exaggerated by the closed confines, rose in Chancho's nostrils prompting him to drain his glass. Anise gently burning his nostrils and caramel resting on his tongue, he thanked God for giving Mexico the agave.

He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth, the conversation at hand grabbing his attention. "What did you just say?"

Vicente, a goat herder from a neighboring ranch, held his hands up defensively. "I'm not accusing you, I swear."

"Sorry," Chancho tried again, "can you repeat—" 

Another man sitting at the table cut him off. "It's just a superstition. Catholics."

Vicente hissed, "Dead goats are not a superstition. They had tiny holes on their necks," he pointed to his own neck, "right here." He turned back to Chancho. "But I'm not saying that you—"

"No. No. For the love of God, stop yammering and go back. Did you say, Chupacabra?"

Vicente looked puzzled. "Yes." He nodded. "That is what they call the demon."

"El Chupacabra, the monster that feeds on goats and lives in the Catholic Hills? My Catholic Hills?" Confused, Chancho rubbed the back of his neck underneath where his floppy sombrero rested. An uneasiness settled over everyone at the table.

Vicente shrugged. "I was wondering if you'd seen it."

"Seen it?" Slowly Chancho turned his head from side to side as he adjusted the leather strap that had risen uncomfortably around his throat. A prickling sensation caused him to glance over his shoulder toward the bar, a quick movement fleeing from the corner of his eye. Two dusty gringos sat on stools. One of them clearly the source of the loud, slurred English.

"What Vicente is trying to ask is whether you are the demon's caretaker or his captor."

"Huh?" Chancho whipped his head back around. "What? Like in the story? The immortal guardian of an infinitesimal evil chomping at the chance to devour all good in the world?" He forced a laugh, but no one else was laughing.

"I suppose I'll have to make acquaintance with a couple of Indian witch doctors next?" He wagged his finger. "No my friends, I suspect you've been dipping your ladle in the wrong pot, confusing the outhouse for the inn." He wondered what parts of the conversation he'd missed. Why hadn't he been paying attention? "No, if there was a demon living in my hills I would know about it." He looked each man in the eyes. "It's just a story."

"Damn right." A man whom Chancho recognized as Vicente's cousin, Raul, joined the conversation for the first time. "What there is, my friends, is a whole field of marihuana. The Catholic Hills are not full of demons, they're full of marihuana." Raul spoke loudly, and the way he kept saying the word "full" hinted strongly he felt there was enough to go around.

The narrow cantina seemed to close in on Chancho as he cursed himself for choosing the diversion in the first place. The tequila, however delicious, had not been worth a fight—which at this point Chancho doubted he could avoid. He rubbed his missing notch of earlobe while smiling enthusiastically. Despite the three sets of eyes directly in front of him, he felt most keenly aware of eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. "Look, my friends—" 

Raul continued. "The goats didn't die from demon curse or fright, they died from colic—from too much marihuana."

Chancho held a wavering smile. He did not know these men well, but didn't wish to create ill will with neighboring ranches. His whole intent in crossing the border into Texas two years earlier in 1916 had been to start fresh. He felt hot and cramped.  What had been a din of mingled voices and creaking floorboards moments before now seemed like an isolating silence, as if everyone listened for his next words.

To stall for time he turned his head from side to side. Rubbing the grit on the back of his neck, he scanned the room. This time he caught the eyes of a Mexican giving him the ugly from two tables away. Somehow the man seemed familiar. And Chancho was certain the gringo at the bar was listening.

Raul spoke loudly, "The only question is whether or not Chancho will compensate for El Patron's goats by offering his friends some of the marihuana that killed 'em." Raul drummed the table with his fingers. The noise drew Chancho's attention immediately. He recognized it as a ploy to distract him from the movements of Raul's other hand, which had shifted south of the table, possibly to scratch himself, but most likely toward a gun belt.

Chancho took a deep breath. "My friends, El Chupacabra is only a story told around the fire. I don't know anything about any dead goats, and if I—" With sudden force, a meaty hand clapped down on Chancho's shoulder from behind. He spun to face a grizzled, brown face smeared awkwardly with a half snarl, half smile. The jolt forced the mental connection, "Primitivo."

"Del Rio, my old friend. At first I thought you hadn't recognized me."

Chancho stood to shake the hand of one of Pancho Villa's lieutenants, a devil-driven man whom Chancho had ridden under for almost two years. His pock-marked face wrinkled in all the wrong places, uncomfortable with the concept of smiling. "How could I forget the bravest man to ever ride beside our beloved Francisco?"

"Ha!" Primitivo barked a single laugh while wrapping his arm around Chancho's shoulder. He addressed the rest of the table. "Please pardon our friend, Chancho. We have some overdue business to tend to. I promise I'll bring him right back."

Chancho played along, slapping the lieutenant on the back and smiling as the two men returned to Primitivo's table. Chancho glanced back to see Vicente shoving his cousin, the two of them arguing under their breath, before focusing his attention on the larger problem—namely Primitivo. While Chancho was glad to have a reprieve from Raul's extortion, he knew whatever business the lieutenant referred to would be uglier, and much more dangerous.

For two years Chancho had ceased to be a revolutionary, doing nothing but herding goats and growing marihuana. Disillusioned by the violence, he hadn't even touched a gun since Columbus. But there was no greater representative of the dark underbelly of the Mexican revolution than Primitivo Vega. Despite Chancho's best efforts, he now sat directly across the table from him.

"I hoped I would find you well, Del Rio Villarreal."

It disturbed Chancho that Primitivo knew his given name. He'd never used it among the Villistas. He'd hardly used it outside of the orphanage where he'd grown up. Clearly the old lieutenant was playing at something, but Chancho had no idea what. The gnarled revolutionary looked him up and down.

"Personally I knew you didn't do it. But the others, they were suspicious. After all," he shrugged, "it didn't look good. The way you disappeared at Columbus, right after Ah Puch was killed."

Chancho's eyes grew large before they shrank to slits. "Are you accusing me of killing—" 

"Not me." Primitivo leaned back in his chair. "Villa and the others, your friends." He shook his head. "They're dead now, by the way. Not Villa, but the others. You and Villa are the only ones who know about the gold. Well, and me of course. I figured it out." He smiled thinly.

The gesture enraged Chancho. "Mierda." He slapped the table. "Gold? Have the boys been using your head for piñata practice again? What gold?"

Primitivo's face fell slack before embodying the devil himself. He slammed his hand down on the table inches from Chancho's. "Dammit. I know you have it." He snarled, leaning in close to Chancho's face until they both hovered over the center of the table. Slowly he pulled his hand back and flicked his eyes downward.

Chancho glanced at where Primitivo's hand had been before shifting his gaze to absorb the full significance of what stared up at him from the rough wooden surface of the table—a special mint, twenty peso gold piece embossed with the image of the eagle clutching the snake. With Villa's permission, he and Ah Puch had orchestrated the heist of the entire mint.

The take had been so colossal, that even Primitivo had been kept out of it. Grateful, Villa had allotted Ah Puch and Chancho small shares, each a substantial fortune. It had been Chancho who insisted the coins remain hidden until the revolution's end. So the two friends had stashed their coins together... at the orphanage where he'd grown up. "No." His mind raced.

"I found this coin in an orphanage, you know." Chancho's eyes grew large, his worst nightmare unfolding before him. "An orphanage that's running low on supplies by the way. It seems the Constitutionalist Army has burned all their fields and raided their stores as punishment for sheltering Villistas. But you wouldn't know about that."

"If you touch—" 

Primitivo spit as he spoke the words, "Even our beloved Francisco can't protect them all, and apparently, neither can you. Now give me the gold."

Chancho pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment, buying time to think. Primitivo had only the one coin. Angry about being cut out, he was certainly working behind Villa's back, and probably alone. Still, Chancho doubted the lieutenant had lied about the condition of the orphanage. He'd probably burned the fields himself.

What could he do? To save the orphanage he'd have to shake Primitivo and convince Villa his trusted lieutenant was willing to betray the revolution for personal wealth. But he himself had abandoned Villa during his darkest hour. Surrendering the location of the gold would not only put himself in jeopardy, it would make things worse for the orphanage. Finally, he looked the revolutionary lieutenant in the eyes, shaking his head. "You were never the shiniest peso, so I'll make this simple. I didn't take the gold, and I would never kill—" 

"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't." Primitivo attempted another smile, his voice all honey and gravel. "Shiny or no, I can be reasonable. You can keep your share. Hand over Ah Puch's gold and I'll take it to Villa as a token of good will—as an apology for deserting him at Columbus. Who knows, maybe some of the orphans won't starve." He riveted Chancho with a deadpan expression, "or meet a more violent end."

"You piece of petrified dung, I don't have it." Chancho maintained a stoic exterior while his insides sank like a horse in a bog. It was certainly his fault if the orphanage was in dire straits. He'd thought it a safe place to stash the gold, failing to think through the ramifications if anyone found out.

"Clearly you haven't spent it on frivolities." Primitivo spit against the wall, wiping a string of drool from his mustache with the back of his hand. "You look as ratty as ever." Before Chancho could explain further, the lieutenant continued. "I'm sure your friends are missing you." He looked over Chancho's shoulder. "Take care of your business with them. Then take me to the gold, or I'll bury you after I've forced you to bury the charred corpses of your precious Sisters and all their little vermin."

Chancho stood, pushing his chair back and speaking loudly, "Sorry to hear about the syphilis, but I guess I should get back to my friends." He reached over the table to shake the lieutenant's hand. Each man attempted to break the bones of the other. Finally he dismissed himself and walked casually back to where Vicente and Raul still appeared to be arguing.

On arriving, Chancho slumped into his chair. Immediately Vicente pulled a smoking tin from his breast pocket and flipped it open, offering Chancho a marihuana cigarette. "Raul is a hothead. Ignore him. Here."

Chancho took the cigarette while Vicente struck a match on the edge of the table and lit the tip. Chancho puffed once and stopped before the paper lit fully, removing the cigarette from his mouth to marvel at it. "How much did you pay for this?"

Vicente laughed. "Too much. Marihuana has gotten expensive north of the border. Why?"

"Raul was right about one thing." Chancho handed the cigarette back to him grinning like a cheshire cat.

"Oh?"

"What would you say if I promised you all the marihuana you could want at half the price?"

Vicente couched a smile in reluctance. "I'd say you would have a deal, my friend. Are you saying—"

"Friend," Chancho put a hand on his shoulder, riveting him with his eyes. "The weathered board who interrupted us before is the bastard whelp of a jackal looking for a chance to unburden his revolver into my gut. Give me a head start out the back door," Chancho winked, "and I'll deliver enough marihuana for you and your friends for a year." He slapped Vicente on the shoulder. Without even glancing toward the lieutenant's table, Chancho donned his sombrero and bolted for the back door.