Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene 36, 37 & 38

 “O’Brien! Bronco! It’s Ranger McCutchen. I need a word with you.” McCutchen stood well clear of the house so he could see anyone leaving out the back.

“You can stop all the yelling. I hear ya’, and there ain’t nobody else around.” Bronco emerged from the barn and stood with his arms crossed. “Let me guess. You been tracking someone and the trail led you straight to my ranch. You saw my boys taking my newly acquired goats to the north hill. You chased ‘em like a banshee, startling half the herd to death, and now you come to make recompense for the critters. You didn’t hurt my boys did you?”

McCutchen burned, the jackass of a rancher chaffing him already. He knew Bronco wouldn’t give him any useful information, and probably do his damnedest to waste his time. It would have been more efficient to drop him where he stood and search the premises, but the old cuss was too prominent in the community. “Good. Let’s just cut the crap, why don’t we. Yes, I tracked someone to your ranch. I already found their tracks leading away to the south—three horses and a wagon. That’s at least one person more than what I’m looking for. But I guess you knew that.”

Bronco snorted and hacked a dirt-encrusted loogie. “I reckon.”

McCutchen kept his hand on his Colt as he dismounted and strode toward the disgruntled rancher. “I’ll overlook the prank you pulled with your boys diverting me while the fugitives made their escape. But without a little cooperation from you, I can’t guarantee the safety of anyone I find in the company of said fugitives.” He pushed past Bronco and into the barn.

Bronco followed hot on his heels, making no attempt to stop him. “Now I know you ain’t threatening the lives of my family, but you better listen close, Ranger.” He waited for McCutchen to turn and face him. “I don’t know nothing about any fugitives. My daughter and I helped some folk out this morning that was caught in a flash flood. I gather the tracks play out the truth of that well enough.” He paused and narrowed his eyes.

McCutchen nodded.

“We brought ‘em back here so they could get sorted out. After dinner they offered me a business deal—one that I accepted. That deal stipulated that if my daughter accompany them and their goods just a mite further then we could keep the last wagon when they were done with it. Me, being the protective father that I am, sent my maid along with her. To keep a watchful eye.”

“O’Brien, dammit. You can’t expect me—”

“I ain’t finished!” Bronco cut him off, standing on his tiptoes and pushing into the ranger’s face. “If any harm comes to my daughter or my servant from the hands of you or anyone else, then you’ll have to answer to me, and I’ll bring a judgement that’ll make Sodom and Gomorrah blush.” He hacked another loogie inches from the ranger’s boot.

McCutchen drew his Colt .45 Flat Top and pointed it at the old man’s head, bridging the short distance between them. He had killed people for less. “Look, you hardheaded old cooter. As far as you’re concerned, I’m the one that brought the fire on Sodom and Gomorrah in the first place. And I got plenty more of it for you and yours.”

Bronco pushed his forehead into the barrel of the ranger's pistol, glaring at him. McCutchen, in turn, used the barrel to back the rancher slowly in a circle so he could scan the barn thoroughly. As much as he wanted something to be out of place, he couldn’t see it. He scattered some papers on the old man’s desk. “What are these?”

“Pamphlets,” O’Brien spit again at the ranger’s feet, “protesting the likes of you invading the privacy of simple citizens such as myself.”

McCutchen recognized the foreign language. “In German?”

“Naw, in ancient Hebrew.”

McCutchen ground his teeth. Workshop, desk, tools. It was the barn of an activist pain in the ass. He wasn’t going to win this round, and his fugitives were putting daylight between them.