Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene 68 & 69

Still dripping wet from his laborious swim across the river, Chancho had been grateful to find the Harley where he’d left it. He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt and secured the bag of coins to the back of the bike. For the first time he stood back to admire the machine. Brilliant in design, two cylinders fed constant power to the back wheel through a simple chain. Wide handlebars provided for easy balance.

Simple. Two cylinders, two wheels and a few gallons of gasohol could carry him almost 200 miles in a single day. The thought of the places he had been over the previous week chilled him. This day, and how ever many days followed, would extend the distance between now and then.

Fuel reserves running low, he needed gas. Occupying his conscious thoughts with one task at a time, he divided his present from the future one gold coin at a time. Within the hour he reached a paved road heading northwest of Del Rio, the Rio Bravo snaking back and forth just south of it. Sputtering to a stop he pushed the bike for a few miles before a passing motorist pulled off onto the shoulder.

“Outta gas?”

“Yessir. Still getting used to the machine.” Chancho lowered the stand and mopped the sweat from his brow.

“I know what you mean. Ain’t quite like riding a horse, is it?” A burly man reached into his back seat for a gas can, his untamed beard wearing him. “I always carry some spare.”

“Gracias, señor, but I don’t want you to run out a few miles down the road.”

“Nonsense. I got more than enough to get me to Langtry.” The man wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and overalls without a shirt. The hair spilling down his chest and shoulders had been rubbed bald by the straps. He hefted the can so that gas sloshed audibly. “Ain’t doing nothing in the can but sitting there.”

This reasoning resonated with Chancho and his new found mission. “I’d be much obliged.” The man approached with the can while Chancho removed the gas cap on the bike.

“Never tried one of these two-wheelers myself. Adjusting to four was hard enough, but the missus never liked horses.” He leaned closer. “I think she don’t like the feeling of giving up control. Slow to trust, that one.” He finished tipping the can and removed it. “It ain’t a lot, but it should help you find more.”

“I’m grateful, señor.” The two men shook hands, the stranger’s grip calloused and thick like a work glove. Chancho started to release, but the man continued the grip past comfortable convention. He looked back and forth between Chancho and the Harley with narrowed eyes before finally letting go.

Chancho smiled, opening the silk bag on the back of the bike without an attempt to hide what it contained. The man’s eyes widened further than Chancho would have thought possible as he flipped him a single gold coin.

“What’s this?” He held it away from his body, inspecting it in his open palm.

Chancho rubbed the missing notch of his earlobe. “Something I’ve had for a while, but don’t have use for any longer.” He re-secured the bag, giving the strips of cloth a good yank. “Let’s just say, they ain’t doing nothing in the bag but sitting there.” Chancho mounted the bike preparing to go when a beefy hand rested on his shoulder.

“Mister,” the man looked him in the eyes. “I reckon I’d stay off the main roads, if I were you. I think I’ve heard something about law men looking for a Mexican on a motorcycle. I’d hate for someone to mistake you for him.”

Chancho nodded. “Gracias. I think I will.” They shook again. “It was nice to meet you…”

“Grady.”