Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene 61, 62, 63

McCutchen jumped from the train to the sounds of rising cheers and applause, clearly not for him. A couple of trainmen, recently dubbed special agents but resembling mules more than men, followed him as he beelined for the crowd. Without any idea what the crowd had gathered for, he knew his fugitives would use the raucous for a screen. Inconvenient, but not disastrous. As he drew closer a voice, amplified and distorted yet vaguely familiar, rang out over the hoi polloi.

"Now I know you good folk have gathered here first and foremost to cheer on your team in the first game of this year's World Series!" More cheers. "And it don't matter if you're rooting for the Cubs or the Red Sox!" A less unified clatter broke out as people touted their personal favorites, someone yelling out Babe Ruth's name to uproarious laughter. "I know one thing is true of all of us. We're here rooting for America!" Uneven chants of "U.S.A." bumped into each other before they finally rose into a clamorous singularity.

McCutchen had completely forgotten about the baseball season being cut short due to the war, and that today was the series opener. Closing within a few blocks of the gathering, he was more concerned with identifying the voice behind the microphone. Whoever he was, he had the audience eating out of his hand.

"On a serious note, we all know why we've gathered here on September 5thinstead of late October. I don't need to tell you about the brave young men gone to Europe to fight a world war. To fight against tyranny half the world over that threatens us even here at home. We salute them by name." A smattering of names and cheers came from the audience as they remembered their loved ones, passed and living.

This guy is good. McCutchen wracked his brain but couldn't place the voice.

"I'm going to tell you about a similar threat right here on our doorstep, one that demands we do something now to stop it, before it's too late." A roustabout in the crowd yelled loud enough for McCutchen to hear as he came within a block. "Tell us, Bronco! What is it!"

McCutchen swore under his breath. Bronco O'Brien. Even as two other rangers tore apart his ranch looking for marihuana, he could still raise hell. I should have shot 'em when I had the chance. A few scattered laughs died down as McCutchen reached the fringes of the crowd.

"I'll tell you, son." A profound quiet settled over the large gathering. "A certain scurrilous lot, along with spineless members of our government have gone to calling folk like you and me unruly and immoral." A smattering of boos broke out. "It's down right disconcerting, but their intentions are far more grave than hurting our feelings."

McCutchen scanned the crowd for a black face, head and shoulders above the rest. He didn't yet know exactly what his fugitives looked like, but a blind idiot underwater could tell a seven foot darkie apart from this crowd.

The booing hushed. "These folk call themselves Dry, and they insist that hard-working, God-fearing folk such as ourselves have no right to guide our own lives according to our own standards of morality. They say they know better, and that the government should rule their way to be the only legal way."

A tumultuous booing and hissing rose from the crowd, McCutchen already being jostled even on the very edges. He indicated for the special rangers to split up and circle around, while he retreated to a nearby two-story cathouse to gain higher ground.

No one molested him or hindered his entrance. Only a few girls lounged about downstairs with a couple of drunks. On his way up the stairs he allowed himself a moment to ponder the speech. He hated to admit it, but he agreed. Prohibition was a damned travesty cooked up by spineless goodie-goodies like his own father, too incapacitated by their own self-righteousness to scourge the world of evil with blood and sweat. Instead they depended on lilly-livered pastors and politicians to do the job for them.