Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene 31, 32 & 33

McCutchen rose an hour before the sun after a poor night's sleep on a fetid hotel mattress. Having returned to Del Rio for medical attention, his and Chester's wounds demanded no further delay. He ran his hands across the three-day growth on his face. Every day he spent without shaving was a day he spent living with an injustice. Duty demanded he set it right.

Chester snorted impatiently as McCutchen arrived at the livery. Riding at a trot, they followed a dirt road west out of town, the grey of predawn giving way to the rich colors of a rising sun. But as the road bent northward, dark thunderheads rolled in the distance. An hour later McCutchen felt the humidity in the air, a storm ravaging the terrain north of the Catholic Hills. What would have normally been bad news, he now welcomed. Tracking an individual on horseback could be tricky in stormy weather, but slow-moving wagons would leave a muddy gash across the terrain.

The anticipation of the trail exhilarated him. No ridiculous peons crossing the river at night leading a donkey burdened with hooch. No wild goose chase for draft dodgers holed up in jacals. By nightfall he'd be hard upon a criminal element of the worst sort, growing and trafficking marihuana in Texas. This was the life of a ranger in the borderlands.

He and Chester left the main road, choosing an animal trail pointing north of the Catholic Hills. In a couple hours they'd intersect the tracks he'd been forced to abandon the day before. The increasingly rugged terrain slowed them, and McCutchen took the opportunity to medicate. Opening the small tin, he dangled a cigarette from his lips while flicking his lighter to life. He lit the delicate paper at its tip.

His night of fitful sleep did nothing to soothe his pain where the jaguar had clawed him the day before, and the bruising where the spent slug had struck him during the saloon incident had worsened. But the injuries were trite. They were barely remarkable in the long litany of scrapes and scars the ranger had taken over his sixteen years of service to Texas.

The soothing effects of the marihuana lessened the pain and stiffness almost instantly. Wounds, scars, doubts were swept into the recesses of his psyche to remain locked where they belonged, enabling him to work efficiently and effectively. Not ruled by the narcotic like most, it made him more of a man, not less. He drew strength from it forcefully, by deliberate decision with every puff.

He rolled his shoulders in their sockets. His neck listed loosely while he breathed deep, releasing the smoke through his nose. He closed his eyes, allowing Chester to pick their course through the hills. Sharpening his ears, he heard jack rabbits scurrying under prickly pear, rattlesnakes striking warning, and scorpions scuttling across sand not yet warmed by the sun. The raw elements of his surroundings held all the wisdom and knowledge he needed to carry out his duty. He felt the earth and the sky crying out, burdened by injustice.

McCutchen had studied the thoughts and beliefs held by many of the peoples native to the land. Not so modern to reject the truths behind ancient tradition, he also refused to blindly accept tradition at the expense of modern technology. He used every faculty available to perform his job, both mental and spiritual.

Fate had revealed to him the terrible truth behind the cáñamo plant and its dried marihuana leaves. He fought to both preserve and destroy that truth. It was the delicate path he'd been called to follow. And now, led to a steep precipice, a place of immediate threat, he would ride into the face of that threat and choke it.

With sweat running down his back in the midmorning heat, McCutchen realized he should have come across the fugitive's trail already. Cresting a bluff just north of the Catholic Hills, he dismounted to stretch his legs and have a look around. Unless the fugitives had changed course, heading east, or... a sudden thought unnerved him.