Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene eleven

Having ridden far enough in the wrong direction, Chancho steered his tiny horse toward the drooping sun in the west. Not exactly the image of Don Quixote, but not Sancho Panza either, his legs dangled precariously close to the tops of prickly pear cactus as Sister Espanoza chose her own path homeward.

They both felt the weariness of the day's unexpected events. Being shot at was normal enough, but being chased by a bomb breathing auto stretched the far flung limits of Chancho's imagination. He fiddled with his missing notch of earlobe.

They knew his name. It would only be a matter of time, and they would come for him. The Catholic Hills were expansive, but not infinite. He cast a forlorn expression across the panorama. Heat waves rolled from the surface of the scrub covered hills—the blank, uncondemning wilderness. Soon a posse would traipse across its silent soil, echoing his name with every falling hoof, forcing him and his friends to flee their quiet life.

"Mierda." Chancho patted the neck of Sister Espanoza. "Why did a rinche have to get himself killed? This is worse than Primitivo. Now I can't go to Mexico, and I can't stay here." He slumped further in the saddle. "And you want to know the worst part? I didn't even do anything."

Sister Espanoza snorted.

"You always say that. Besides, you weren't there."

The horse tossed its mane, curling her lips to reveal her broad, yellow teeth.

"I had one shot of tequila. That's it!" Chancho waved his hand in front of his face, chasing off a horse fly. "What's done is done, pequeña hermana. The question is what are we going to tell Muddy and Nena?"

Chancho rubbed the back of his neck, recalling the conversation around the table at the cantina. "Speaking of Muddy, the trouble started over rumors of El Chupacabra." He nodded to himself, Sister Espanoza having tuned him out. "Daisy mentioned the rinche and her father had been discussing the matter as well."

 Of all the cursed days to finally have a chance encounter with Daisy, after imagining the blessed scenario a thousand times over. Her exotic skin, sun-drenched hair. Never had his fantasies included a crazy-eyed rinche. He shook his head to dispel the lingering image of her sweat-glistening breasts pressed lightly together right before him, the perfection of her delicate yet top-heavy frame. Her perfume, like a brew of wildflowers, lingered in his nostrils.

Espanoza snorted. "Lo siento, pequeña hermana. You know I'm a sucker for a pretty señorita, but you're still the only one for me." He stroked her neck and tested the integrity of the supplies looped over the saddle horn. "You know me better than any other." Instantly he felt bad for thinking about himself after putting so many others at risk. At least Vicente had survived.

Since his rabble rousing with Villa he'd done his best to dream of nothing more than fine women and the occasional life-enhancing contraption. Of course there were a few minor schemes like growing a field of cáñamo, but nothing revolutionary. Nothing to draw the attention of a rinche.

Slowly the gravity of the situation settled in his mind like mud in a churned up watering hole. How was he going to tell his best friends he was wanted by a rinche for his association with the killing of another rinche? He could see it in his mind's eye. Good evening, mis amigos. I made some enemies in town today. But rather than pack up and leave I would prefer to hang around long enough to harvest our crop of cáñamo. Trust me.

"Chancho. Good, you're back. We're just getting ready for supper."

"Huh?" Chancho jolted from his inner world. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'm back."

From the chuck wagon Muddy continued dicing tomatoes without looking up.

Before Chancho had known it Sister Espanoza had guided him back into camp. "Bueno. Now that you mention it, I'm starving."

Monday "Muddy" Sampson, a mammoth-sized, dark-skinned Seminole came from a people birthed in the swamps of Spanish Florida when Algonquin speaking tribes blended with escaped African slaves. Now neither slave nor Indian, he belonged to a fierce minority that carried their identity and liberty with honor. The locals referred to them as maroons or los mascogos.

"What kind of man starves unless reminded to eat?" A woman's voice came from inside a nearby herder's wagon.

"I ate breakfast on my own." Chancho jumped down from Sister Espanoza's back.

"What? A couple of stale biscuits you squirreled away in your wagon?"

Chancho grunted. It chapped him he was so transparent.

Muddy intervened. "Nena, why don't you feed Little Sister before she passes out." He finally looked up while scraping the tomatoes into a pot. "She looks like you galloped her all the way home, and sounds even worse."

Chancho stroked the horse, noticing a thick lather creeping from under her saddle. "That I can explain. And she's not going to pass out, and besides, I can tend to it." Chancho set his bundle down on the ground and turned his attention to the saddle's girth. "Don't worry, pequeña hermana. I won't let that gruff woman touch you."

"Gruff woman?"

Muddy laughed, "I see you're still apologizing to Little Sister. You've been distracted with dreams of Miss Lickter the whole ride back, haven't you?"

Chancho feigned insult. "¡Increíble!"

"Gruff woman?" Nenaiquita Losoya finally emerged from the herder wagon that she and Muddy shared and stood on its stoop. A curvaceous Kickapoo with ruddy skin, she wore her long, black hair like curtains over her bare breasts. "Then why is your hat on backwards?"

"Que? My sombrero's not on—" Chancho put his hand to the crest of his sombrero. "¡Ay, chihuahua!" Yanking it back, he found it full of tiny needles. "¡Por el amor de Dios! Nopal explotando. Sister Espanoza, what has the world come to?" The horse's rump had also been peppered. Chancho narrowed his eyes at Nena. "You had better grab the brush." Then he turned his attention to his horse's posterior. "Pequeña hermana pobre."