Twitch and Die!

Ch.5: Get Ready, Get Set

Chancho had been uneasy with the decision, but Angelo stood firm. It would be a party of four. Angelo’s knowledge of the backcountry could easily prove critical. He would lead them to Thurber. If Texas Pride Energy was as vigilant as he insisted, he would need to guide them past armed guards as well.

Leaving the others to tend the bodies and gather supplies, Chancho sought solace in his Model T. For several minutes he sat behind the wheel, massaging an old injury to his shoulder—a bullet wound put there by a Texas Ranger wearing a chewed-up black hat.

The rinche. There was no denying it was happening again. Why won’t he leave me alone?

Chancho rested his head on the wheel, ridding self-pity from his thoughts. If he’d been the target, he wouldn’t be breathing. If the Angel of Death had not visited the stone house… Chancho hesitated.

Lifting his head, he focused on what he knew. The last time he and the rinche squared off, Chancho had won. The people had won. He wasn’t the Angel of Death. He wasn’t even a Ranger anymore. He was just a man. Besides, the rinche had given him a second chance to bring revolution. The rinche had made Chancho who he was, even if he’d since forgotten.

Chancho used the side mirror to look at his back. Chloe had treated the gash, a wide swath of his tattoo covered in bandage. The eagle’s wings spread across each of his boney shoulder blades, stretching to the tops of his shoulders.

His beak snatched the serpent, binding him behind the head. Beneath the gauze, the powerful talons burst from his flesh, seizing the snake, pinning him against the cactus upon which the golden eagle perched. Chancho stretched to feel his own skin—where the ink had brought the talons to life. He felt their power, the determination in the beak. His calling was to keep them sharp.

The snake running the Mexican government had switched from Carranza to Obregón, both equally corrupt. Chancho’s initial efforts to fight for the weak and poor had ended in nothing but war—ugly, violent, meaningless. His best friend, Ah Puch, had been brained by a stray bullet that should have struck him. He rubbed the missing notch of earlobe, a reminder of how close the bullet had come to doing just that. Yet God preserved him. Called him.

Chancho had tried to hide from life after that. The rinche stole every comfort, yet God preserved him. Still. This time would be different. Chancho was no longer clueless to the collateral damage his revolutionary fervor inflicted on those closest to him. He would be both passionate and responsible. For Ah Puch, por la revolución.

Holding his serape in his lap, he ran his fingers over the script tattooed along his left arm, from shoulder to wrist. Los menos, perdieron y perdedores. The least, lost and losers. It was his call to arms. These were the people Jesus the Christ had died for. They were his people too. Whatever nationality, the Motorcycle Mexican was one of them. Angelo had reminded him of that.

Finally he ran his fingers over the frayed hole in his serape where the guncotton had gone off. “Not bad, that one. Hopefully the others work as well.” He darned it with nimble hands, carefully shifting the tin plating and replacing the guncotton with a fresh patch.

Ah Puch had taught him to sew while riding with Pancho Villa. But the embellishments were a hundred percent Chancho. Physics and chemistry came easy to him. Nature was his classroom, and whenever he took the time to study she opened new truths to him.

With a little more sulphuric acid and hemp fabric he’d come up with an explosive more powerful and stable than photographic flash powder. He ran his hand over the new patch, saying a quick prayer. Stable might not be the right word, but the material had proven stable enough, as long as the weather didn’t turn too hot and dry. Directing the charge had been the real challenge. The bruise on his chest indicated he’d have to revisit it, when he got the chance.