Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene six

Bravo’s did indeed serve a quality steak, without need of adulteration with sauce. The blood, the heat, the salt rub applied just before the flames charred the surface to lock in its flavor—this one thing done right redeemed a week’s worth of wrong. Daisy’s advances seemed clumsy in comparison to the grace McCutchen found in his ribeye. As he rested his fork, the flavors still lingering, a couple of local goat ranchers begged Sheriff Lickter’s pardon.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Sheriff. But something’s gotta be done.”

“Calm down, Marvin. Now what's gone and got you so riled up? The missus ain’t shooting at you from the porch again, is she?” Big Benny tried to relax the situation with a laugh.

“No sir, Sheriff. Ain’t nothing of the sort.”

“Tell him.” The second rancher elbowed Marvin.

McCutchen took up his glass of wine, this time a 1915 Lenoir from Val Verde with legs that coated the side of the glass with a burgundy color so deep it reminded him of coagulated blood. He dipped his nose into the glass and inhaled the hints of earth and fruit, cleansing the stink of Ballinger’s dirt and the lure of Daisy’s oversexed, teenage fantasies. Finally he tipped the wine into his mouth and swished it around.

“You see, it’s this demon El Chupacabra that the Mexicans is talking about.”

Big Benny dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “El chupawhata?”

The second rancher piped in, “I lost half a dozen goats just the day before yesterday.”

Big Benny waved them off, “Now hold on there. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

McCutchen swallowed his wine in a gulp and put down his glass. A hint of pepper lingered on his palate, the perfect match to the steak he had just finished. “El Chupacabra. That boy Vicente in your jail was telling me about it. He says there’s a demon loose in the hills that feeds on the blood of goats. And men, I suppose.” Marvin’s eyes grew wider.

Big Benny put down his napkin and turned to face McCutchen. “Which hills?”

“Just north of the Upper San Felipe Springs.”

Big Benny scowled, “San Felipe? Hell, those springs water half the mohair in Val Verde County, even with the new irrigation canals. What sorta trouble are you two trying to cause with this stupid story about El Chupacolada?”

“Pardon me, Sheriff.” McCutchen interrupted, turning to the ranchers. The absurdity of their fear only enhanced his enjoyment of the meal. “What’s this about your goats gone missing?”

“That thing, whatever it is, it got ‘em. Some of my best, too.”

McCutchen glanced at Lickter, who gave him permission to continue. “And you’ve seen this El Chupacabra?”

“Well no. I ain’t seen the thing.” Both ranchers squirmed.

“But you found the dead goats? Drained of their blood?”

“Not exactly.”

McCutchen raised a brow. “Not exactly?” He ran his tongue over his teeth and took another swig from his glass.

“Well no. That’s just it. That thing done drug ‘em off, up into the Catholic Hills.” The ranchers reasserted their claim to the sheriff. “And something’s gotta be done about it. Old Gonzales says the beast done drained one of his and left the carcass right there at the springs, sucked bone dry with two little holes on the neck.” The rancher pointed to the side of his neck.

Marvin added, “Yes sir, we got enough to worry about with bandidos coming across the Rio Grande without having to worry about some deranged demon-beast in the north scaring our goats off from the only good source of water. And they say the beast has got a couple of Indian witch-doctors protecting it.”

The ranchers started arguing among themselves. “Hell, there ain’t no Indian witch-doctors.”

“Is so.”

“And you seen ‘em?”

“Well, I hadn’t—”

“The only man I ever seen working any goats in them hills be this little Mexican feller.”

“Goofy guy.” Marvin tried to save face by contributing something.

 “They say the Catholic Church worked a magic on him that makes him immune. He’s supposed to be a guard or something. We find him, I bet we get some answers.”

Abruptly McCutchen’s pleasure from the conversation ceased. “This Mexican, he wear a big, floppy sombrero?”

Both ranchers answered at once. “The biggest. That’s the one.”