“Damn, McCutchen. There’s more blood than whiskey in there.” Sheriff Big Benny Lickter entered through the front door of what had originally been the one-room jail but now served as his office just off Del Rio’s town square. He dropped his hat on his desk. “You really know how to wake a sleepy border town.”

“Have you ever tried the Mustang wine in that place?”

“The Mustang wine? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. It’s horrible, that’s all.” McCutchen drummed his fingers on the sheriff’s desk, eyeing the sheriff’s newest outfit. This one looked like something made for silent film rather than real work—vest and tie made from a shiny material, suspenders a necessity to hold the sheriff’s bulk in place. “You satisfied with my report yet?”

Lickter sat down with a huff. “What, that? Yeah, yeah. Sorry for the wait. Just returning from the undertaker. Turns out one of those Mexicans was the real nasty sort. One of Villa’s lieutenants.”

“That’s a plus.” The news indeed brightened his mood a little, not a bad swap for Ballinger.

Lickter smoothed his hair and sopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. McCutchen nodded politely to mask his disgust. Well over six feet tall and fat, Lickter couldn’t tolerate heat. Hardly forgivable in a place that saw 90 degrees much of the year. The sheriff continued, “Did anybody tell you it looks like you got shot in the chest?”

While transporting his prisoner to jail and reporting the incident to ranger headquarters via telegraph, McCutchen had totally forgotten about the wound. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and tearing the bloodied undershirt, he laughed out loud.

“You rangers get shot so much it’s funny now?”

“Only if the bullet packs a punch as weak as that nigger Jack Johnson after twenty rounds with Jess Willard.”

“I’m afraid, Ranger McCutchen, that I don’t follow boxing much.”

Still smiling, McCutchen sat back in his chair. “You got an old rag you don’t need? Some tape and gauze?”

Lickter tossed him his handkerchief.

McCutchen admired it. “Fancy.” But Lickter waved him off dismissively. The ranger gently tugged the bullet out of his chest while applying pressure with the kerchief. “Apparently, the barroom table took all the fight out of it.”

“Well that was down right kindly.” Lickter sat up straight in his chair, smoothing his vest and necktie. McCutchen thought the effort pathetic when what the man needed was to smooth the sloppy rolls of flesh he tried to conceal with his dandified dress. “So what of this feller you got stinking up my jail cell? I’ll be damned if there ain’t more Mexicans underfoot these days than cockroaches.”

“Las cucarachas,” McCutchen mused as he held the kerchief over the wound. He thought the label was insulting to the bug, an adaptive specimen living in the harshest of conditions. “Well, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to question that greaser about something I heard the lot of ‘em talking over just before the scuffle.”

“Makes no difference to me, but I hope you understand Mexican. That one’s been in a little trouble before. Don’t speak much English as I recall.”

“I’m sure we’ll understand each other just fine.” McCutchen got up and headed toward the back where the more modern jail with multiple cells had been added to the original building. Tiring of the sweaty sheriff, he itched to find some answers.

“You mind me asking what got you so fired up in the first place?”

McCutchen stopped as he reached the first door of iron bars and whistled for the deputy to open it. “Don’t worry yourself none. If I find something, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, hey. The gauze and stuff is right there in the cabinet. Better grab some before you bleed on my clean jailhouse floors.” Lickter wiped the smile off his face. “And I’m sorry about your man. What was it, Baldinger?”

McCutchen grabbed a roll of gauze and some tape. “Ballinger. Yeah, that was a hell of a thing.” The door buzzed, and McCutchen opened it with a click. He looked back at Lickter, who was smiling childishly. He had an obsession with all things modern, from clothing to weapons and apparently electric locks on prison doors.

“Nothing but the best for Del Rio.” It sounded like a campaign slogan.

McCutchen put the pieces together; Lickter was a politician working as a lawman. He nodded. “And thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, friend. I hope you get some answers.”

Chancho waited until the undertaker stepped out for dinner and slipped in through the back door. The business end of the funeral parlor reeked of formaldehyde, but not from the embalming of the undertakers most recent guests. Shielding his nose and mouth, it didn’t take Chancho long to find the four bodies dumped in a pile by the back door. It looked as though doubting recompense for his labor, the proprietor had decided to hold off preparations.

 “Primitivo. For the first and last time, it is nice to see you.” Chancho’s voice reverberated louder than he had intended. After checking the hall into the parlor, he returned to the bodies. Rummaging in Primitivo’s pockets he found what he’d come for—the gold coin. The undertaker had apparently been late for lunch. Glancing at the other three faces, Chancho sighed with relief. At least Vicente was not among them.

On his way out, Chancho held the coin up to a swath of light slicing between two curtains. “The eagle clutching the snake. The cause of and answer to all my problems.” As he emerged back into the daylight he breathed deep. While this particular problem seemed to have resolved itself, the reminder from his past rattled him.

He had a record of deserting the people closest to him. Shoving aside a stack of pallets, he hefted his bundle of supplies and slung it over his shoulder. Primitivo couldn’t threaten the orphanage any more. Chancho patted the coin in his pocket. There was nothing else to do. Not yet. After the revolution he could exhume the rare gold coins. Maybe then he could redeem some of his past actions, enough to sleep in peace.

For now, his life with Muddy and Nena, his life herding goats and growing marihuana, was all he wanted.