The soldiers continued firing on Lipscomb, McCutchen and the sheriff until the latter convinced all three of them to drop their weapons and lie down. “Dammit, we’re on your side!”
“Cease fire!” The officer in command marched forward with a small detachment. “What in the name of all things holy! You boys better have a good explanation for all this, or God help me, the coyotes are going to feed tonight!”
McCutchen was the first to stand, hands still raised head high. “Here’s your explanation,” he narrowed his eyes at the approaching officer, “Sergeant—”
“Sergeant Major.”
“You just let three known fugitives aided by a seventy-year-old man break onto your airstrip and steal a plane, all the while preventing local law enforcement and the Texas Rangers from doing their job.” He flashed them his star.
“Well, la-di-da. Boys, we got ourselves a Texas Ranger, shooting at American troops, trespassing and vandalizing government property, all the while preventing us from cleaning up their mess before it cost the government a $30,000 airplane! Shit. You fellas are about as useful as a tit on a billy goat.”
“Your incompetence cost you—”
“Incompetence! You piss—”
“Gentlemen!” The sheriff interrupted. “We’ve had casualties, for God’s sake.”
For the first time the sergeant major took a broader scope of the situation. Lipscomb stood on one leg, blood soaking through his pants and an arrow through his hand. McCutchen looked like death eating a cracker: a bandaged left hand, broken arrow in his arm, crusted blood and dirt covering his cheek, neck and chest.
“Like I said before, we’re on the same side here.” The sheriff plucked cactus needles from his face.
“Ah hell. Lysander.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the medic. We’ll meet him in the hanger.” The soldier trotted off. “Tooley, Smith. Round up those horses, and for God’s sake clean up that dead Negro over there.” He turned back to the sheriff, who had become the de-facto liaison. “Speaking of, should we be concerned with that one? I’m assuming he ain’t with you, seeing how I’m pretty sure you guys are the ones who lit ‘em up.”
The sheriff gave Lipscomb a look. “He was a local smuggler mixed up with our fugitives. Good riddance.”
McCutchen broke back into the conversation. “Sergeant Major, I’d be grateful for your medical services, but I’m still tracking three fugitives.”
“Through the air? Not likely.”
“I’m sure you’re interested—”
“In getting my plane back? You’re damn straight. I’ll get my plane back, Lord willing those nut bags don’t crash it.”
McCutchen’s teeth ground audibly.
“About your fugitives, the sheriff’s right. Like it or not, we’re on the same side now. The order went out before they left the ground. Jesus, Mary and Joseph if it don’t make us look like a bunch of tumbleweed humpers, but there you have it. We got all eyes watching for a stolen plane bumping its butt across the hills. If they got the sense to not crap and call it food they’ll head west before they decorate a cliff with the fanciest tinsel this side of the Atlantic—”
“Major! This man ain’t dead.”
The whole entourage turned on their heels toward a private inspecting the black body still slumped in the saddle. Everyone but Deputy Lipscomb, who used the opportunity to bend down for the discarded Spencer rifle. “Gun!” In a single motion he cocked and fired.
YOU ARE READING
Fistful of Reefer
ActionA spaghetti-Western, refried alternate history, Fistful of Reefer features goats, guns and the camaraderie of outcasts. Set along the Texas border during the waning years of the Mexican revolution, you'll meet a group of unlikely heros and their unl...
