Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene seven

The room felt stuffy. McCutchen pushed his hand up underneath the rim of his Grandfather’s Stetson and scratched the scar on the side of his head. Mexicans always seemed to be connected to marihuana. He closed his eyes. Dammit if he wasn’t the only one level-headed enough to set aside the demon nonsense and realize that each outlandish story seemed to support the next. Before he could cut the ranchers off Daisy beat him to it.

 “Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid I need some fresh air.” She addressed her father, “May I be dismissed?” Without waiting for an answer she turned her gaze to McCutchen and batted her eyes.

McCutchen jumped to. “Oh, pardon me.” He stood, pulling the lady’s chair back for her to rise. He tried to watch her leave, but the blood and wine had rushed to his head. Dizzy, he plopped back down in his chair, managing a single sentence. “Sheriff, I’m gonna want a look at those springs.” The rest of the conversation drowned beneath a rushing pulse in his ears.

So some clever Mexican had created a ruse to protect his precious crop. McCutchen knew a demon when he saw one, and he’d burn it out of the Catholic Hills like he’d burned it out of Matamoros years ago. His mind began to swim with wine and memories, gripping him in a trance. His thoughts were haunted by flames—first the field of marihuana, then the bonfire, then the old woman’s house. The cackling faces of the vaqueros possessed by the narcotic, the silhouette of the girl slumping dead in a sliver of moonlight, the old woman eviscerated for helping him—all of it consumed by the haunting flames.

Sweaty and breathing rapidly, he clutched at the table to support himself. The faces of the sheriff and the ranchers stared back at him while flames danced in the background. They had asked him a question, but he couldn’t shake the waking nightmare. They gestured toward the window. Fighting to distinguish between the nightmare and reality he found himself locking eyes through the glass with a lanky Mexican in an oversized sombrero.

Slapping the table with both hands and spilling the Lenoir, he broke the pulsing rush in his ears in time to hear the ranchers’ jabbering.

“That’s him! That’s the one. The guardian of the beast!”

Off balance and still attempting to shake his visual hallucinations, McCutchen burst from his chair, overturning the table.

“Dammit, McCutchen! Get ahold of yourself.” Lickter used his massive weight to stabilize the ranger. His mind abuzz with the threat of marihuana and the nightmares of Matamoros, McCutchen could see only the Mexican crouched beneath the front window.

“Outta my way, Lickter.” He shoved the sheriff and charged unsteadily toward the door. But the memories of Matamoros followed him, aspects of the nightmare imposing themselves over his current reality.

The menace hidden inside darkened adobes, the ignorant betrayal of the Mexican people, the evisceration of the old lady—all of it because of marihuana, and all of it now connected to this Mexican. Daisy’s scent, lingering in the air and on his clothes, pushed him to the edge of guilt. The burn scar around the base of his ring finger pulsed. But none of it had been his fault. He would not take the blame.

He had not grown the plant. He had not threatened the lives of innocent people by spreading it. He’d been chosen by fate to stop it, and he’d purge marihuana from the state of Texas come hell or high water. He’d annihilate the threat, at all costs.

  Tensed and on the verge of shaking, McCutchen burst through the door.