Dinner consisted of mutton stewed all day with raisins, dates, pecans and tomatoes, served over a bed of rice. Muddy topped it off with dried mangos from relatives in Nacimiento, Coahuila. The three unlikely friends didn't always have it this nice, but they enjoyed it when they got the chance.

Chancho waited until after dinner to bring up the happenings of his day. It was not their way to force a thing before it was ready, or to ruin a happy moment with bad news. Relaxing over a cup of Muddy's favorite coffee, Chancho had all but decided to regale them with the entire story.

While taking a final sip, he instead seized on a welcome distraction. "I heard mention of El Chupacabra in town today, twice." Chancho let the words hang over the glowing embers of the cook fire. He'd get to the part about the rinche threatening their lifestyle soon enough. For now he peered across the fire at the crooked smile forming on Muddy's face.

"You don't say."

Leaning back against his saddle, Chancho focused on the first bright stars of the evening. The same ones he'd seen every evening for almost two years. "I can't figure how they got the idea, but some hands from the Gonzales place are claiming the demon killed some of their goats." He glanced back at Muddy who'd lost his smile from before.

"How many goats?"

"Two. And then two more." Silence as thick as wool stretched out in every direction. Chancho drank it in before continuing. "I heard the Sheriff was talking the matter over with a Texas Ranger and a couple Anglo ranchers."

"That's ridiculous."

The defensive tone in Muddy's voice sparked the fruition of the idea that had budded in Chancho's brain moments earlier. "That's what I told them. That El Chupacabra was just a fanciful story. They insisted they had proof."

Nena joined the conversation. "What proof?"

"Dead goats. Blood sucked dry with two little holes on the neck."

"Anything could have done that. A mountain lion." Nena flashed an angry look at her husband and lover. "Who else have you been telling that ridiculous story?"

Chancho answered, "Your relatives. You told it to them a few months ago."

"Hmmm." Muddy grunted. "Maybe I shouldn't have killed those goats down by the springs."

"You what!" Chancho yelled. Nena shook her head.

"What? I thought it might help keep bandits away."

"By killing the goats before they can be stolen?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Muddy sat forward leaving Nena leaning against the log by herself, the sweat on his arm glistening from where her skin had pressed up against his. "I made it look like El Chupacabra. It was easy, with the story based on us to begin."

Nena sounded incredulous. "You killed goats?"

"No, they were colicky from marihuana. You know, the stupid animals can't help it. They ate too much, and of course went straight for water. I thought that if people heard these hills were haunted we would be safe. That no one would find our field of cáñamo marihuana or take our goats."

Chancho nodded. "That's not a bad idea, actually."

"Chancho!" Nena chided, "Don't encourage him."

"I mean, terrible. What were you thinking?"

"Hmmm." Muddy grunted again. "I think one of the goats belonged to Gonzales."

"How could they make the connection to El Chupacabra unless..." Nena put a hand on Muddy's back.

"I started spreading the story to complete the ruse."

 Chancho rubbed the stubble on his chin vigorously. He wondering if the demon really could be the cause of all the trouble. It was just plausible enough. If locals had gone to blaming every missing goat on El Chupacabra the matter could warrant intervention from the law. The rinche was still a stretch. But maybe he'd overheard the conversation in the cantina and gotten involved accidentally.

Chancho swore. Maybe the rinche hadn't recognized him from the cantina, but had only wanted to question him about missing goats. Chancho shook his head. His eyes. Looking up, he realized the other two were staring at him.

Nena spoke. "There is more."

"Unfortunately, mis amigos." Chancho nodded. And the lie by omission just happened. He'd never told his new friends about the significance of his role in the revolution. That the Constitutional Government held him responsible for the heist of their national coffers. That he'd abandoned Villa. Besides, maybe the rinche didn't know about his past either. Maybe he wanted payback for his dead companion. Maybe Chancho was being blamed for goat rustling. What did it matter? The truth would sort itself out eventually. In the meantime, El Chupacabra wouldn't mind taking the heat.

"They know who I am." Chancho sighed. "Some ranchers must have pointed me out. The sheriff and the rinche came after me."

"Chancho." Muddy raised a brow, worry furrowing his forehead.

"No, no, mis amigos. Nothing as terrible as all that. But..." he lifted the tip of his boot in the air, picking at the tattered leather. "Shooting was involved." Briefly he summarized the encounter in the street, enhancing his role of saving Daisy from abuse, while reserving his most elaborate story-telling flair for the end of the auto chase. "That's why Sister Espanoza and I returned bearing extraneous vegetation." For a second he worried about playing it up too much.

Nena split the dreg-heavy remains of coffee between them.

Muddy threw a rock into the dying fire, shooting a plume of sparks upward into the sky now more black than blue. "What do you think they're going to do?"

Chancho let a moment pass. "Well. If they believe the story, or some hideous version of it, they think you two are Indian witch doctors and I am some sort of chaperone either sent to guard the spirit or guard others from it while it grows increasingly stronger from drinking the blood of man and goat alike until it will no longer be bound by the power of the Catholic Church but roam free to ravage any and all who live along the border." The other two nodded. "What would you do?"

Muddy protested, "But it's just a story."

"Yes, but dead goats are real."

Nena ended the matter with her standard practical insight. "I would form a hunting party."

Whether the men came hunting a fictional demon, a wanted revolutionary or the suspected killer of a Texas Ranger the result would be the same. The men would come, forcing the three of them to leave. But Chancho refused to leave his life behind. He needed the little he had. He'd miss the Catholic Hills, but maybe he could take the rest with him.

After several minutes passed Muddy drained the last drop of his coffee. He leaned back against Nena's side and pulled her close. Wrapping a huge arm around her tiny waist, his hand rested back in his own lap. "So what are we going to do?"

The couple had become Chancho's family. Shielding his eyes from the smoke as the cook fire went out, he set his mind to its task. "We have to harvest the crop."

"There won't be time."

"We've put everything into it," Chancho continued. "We won't have anything left to start over. And the gringos'll probably burn it, afraid it carries some sort of Indian magic."

"What about the goats?" Muddy interjected.

Nena got slightly louder. "We don't have the time."

It served as a slap to Chancho's face, and a potentially lethal blow to his plan. "But we do!" He stood up and paced beyond the reach of the smoking embers. "I wasn't planning on having it ready just yet, but I can."

"The harvester? Will it work?" Muddy smoothed Nena's hair away from his face and gently ran his fingers through the full length of it.

"I just need a day. One day," Chancho stamped his foot, "and it'll work. I know machines. I've been building them since I was a boy!" He resumed his pacing. "I figure we have three days. It would have taken them the rest of today to get back into town. Tomorrow they'll start putting together the party, but it'll take them a while to get the word to the neighboring ranches. They'll plan to meet the day after and ride to the edge of the property and set up camp, probably at the springs. Then in three days they come looking for El Chupacabra and his host." He clapped his hands, both giddy and guilty at the same time. He believed his words even though he knew they could be lies.

Nena looked into Muddy's face as if to remind him that it was his job to bring his friend back from the precipice of madness whenever he tarried too close.

"We will start rounding up the goats tomorrow while you work on the harvester." Muddy played his part. "Fourty-eight hours from now and we leave with whatever we can take." She nodded and put her head back on his chest. He focused his next words on Chancho. "This is not one of your schemes or adventures."

Chancho plopped down in front of his saddle, crossing his legs and pulling his boots up underneath him. 

Finally Muddy stared at the creases in his own hands. "I am sorry. This is my fault. If we can disappear until the others are convinced there is no El Chupacabra, maybe we can return. Eventually they will realize it is nonsense. But in two days time, we must leave. If we draw Anglo blood..." he breathed deep and fell silent, having used his allotment of words for the day.

Chancho rubbed the tattered leather around the torn tip of his right boot—encrusted with both chili and gun powder. The sight of the boots reminded him of a promise he'd made to their creator. He'd promised Ah Puch he would keep them for life, a life that despite his foolishness he was still living. He spit in his hands and rubbed the boots clean. "Okay. But we've worked too hard for this life to let the Anglos take it from us."