Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene 39, 40 & 41

McCutchen replayed the events of the last two days in his mind, frustrated that he'd underestimated his fugitives. His face itched with four days' growth. It was the longest he had gone without shaving since his youth, and it would get longer before it was done. On top of it all, his sloppiness had gotten him outmaneuvered by an old goat roper. The setbacks goaded him.

The sun set behind the hills and darkness fell quickly, the trail dissolving into the night. If he kept pushing he might lose it, following a shadow trail. Worse yet he might alert the fugitives by broaching their camp too suddenly. He couldn't stomach anyone getting the drop on him again—not twice in a single day. But he was close, he could smell it. He hadn't been delayed when he passed the women in the wagon. Clearly the O'Brien girl was a chip off the old block, doing her damnedest to obstruct justice.

She'd showed him the shovels, all too willing to reveal that part of the plan. Less than a mile further he had spotted where they'd left the road and stomped about under a pecan tree overturning the earth everywhere. Either they really buried the marihuana there and intended to make it harder for him to dig it up, or more likely, the whole thing was a ruse. He hadn't wasted time figuring it out.

He wasn't about to stop with the seizure of the marihuana. He had to uproot the entire operation and hold the perpetrators responsible. If Bronco and his daughter were involved beyond what they swore, which they most certainly were, he could come back for them. The old man was in no shape to run, and too damned stubborn to try.

There had been a trail to follow, so he followed it. Stick to the trail, the golden rule of the golden age for the Texas Rangers. It was the one old relic he would never abandon. "Track a flea in a circus and ain't no man on earth can stand up to you and get away with it," his grandfather had told him on several separate occasions. Thoughts of the old man shamed McCutchen.

He dismounted and continued forward on foot, stooping to follow the tracks in front of him. He cursed how quickly the canyon sank into grey shadow. He had to stop. It was too risky to continue. But he kept putting one foot in front of the other, telling himself he would stop after the next one.

And then he lost it. He swore, squinting his eyes, trying against all reason to pull more light out of the air. Exposed and lost, he peered through the trees on both sides of the trail. If he had passed their camp, had they heard him? He quietly drew one of his .45s and squatted to take a closer look at the ground.

Alternately he stood, took two steps back the way he had come, and squatted to inspect the trail until to his great relief, he found it. All three horses had pushed through the brush in the same spot. Leaving Chester, he moved gingerly through the undergrowth where the snapped branches and disturbed debris made the path much easier to follow.

As soon as he could make out the steep canyon wall through the black branches he stopped. Combing every inch of the slope methodically, he looked for evidence of his fugitives. Without knowing for sure whether he had the element of surprise he couldn't risk barging in. He had to gather more information. He'd never tracked anyone he understood so little about.

 It took him almost half an hour, but after spotting the occasional shifting of their horses, he managed to distinguish three lumps lying on the ground nearby, under an overhanging rock. It was almost completely dark in the canyon, but they hadn't seen him. Now the dark would be his ally.

He sat down with his back against a tree, deciding to wait another couple of hours until the night was at its darkest. He wanted his fugitives to be good and groggy when they woke with his .45s in their faces. If they decided to struggle then, well, so be it.

Darkness engulfed the canyon floor, the moon blocked by steep canyon walls. Soft sounds of sleep echoed gently off the overhanging rock as the horses and the forest rested in stillness. Exactly at the night's apex the eyes flickered open again, shifting slightly, gathering information. With a slithering silence they inched forward from the pitch black of the cave toward the fresh night air.