Give The Devil His Due

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/OM-GEN+

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

"Give The Devil His Due" 

by

Doug Donnan

       

              [ Twenty miles just outside of Sonora Mexico / Circa 1880 ]

     "Did you hear that amigo?" Guadalupe asked as he held an ear-cupped hand

just up under the wide curling brim of his mountainous straw sombrero. He spat a

dark unctuous gob of something at the crackling stick and sagebrush campfire.

There was an immediate responsive hiss from the smoldering rocky recipient within

the encompassing circle of glowing, burnt-orange stones.

     "Hear what Lupe?" the pre-occupied cowboy just across from him there in the

surrounding blackness asked.

     "That poco growling-like sound... way out there," he replied as he pointed off into

the sharp shapes and shadows of their chosen campsite in the sprawling, moonlight-

washed arroyo. "It sounded like... it could have been... the Chupa--

     "I didn't hear nuthin'. Yer jist spooked is all," Bartleby cut in as he squinted down

into his black leather, pocket-sized store-bought Bible. "Whyn't you jist go ahead n'

turn in amigo. We got us a long ride if we wanna' make it all the way into Sonora by

tomorrow. That ol' ranchero friend of yers might jist give them two fence ridin' jobs to

somebody else if we ain't there on time to meet up with him. Whadja say his name was

again anyway?"

     "Chupacabra," Lupe finished undaunted as he rolled his wide-open onyx eyes all

around and about the midnight sky.

     "Chupawhatta?" from the now flustered Bartleby. "I thought you said his name

was Guttierez or sumthin' like--"

     "Ssh," Guadalupe finger-lipped as he bent down low as if trying to hide inside the

licking flames of the fire. "The goat sucker," he offered furtively with a deathly

whisper. "El Diablo del Noche... The Chupacabra!"

      A few silent seconds went by as the tired twosome listened and waited. Then both

of their horses whinnied and snorted , seemingly unsettled, perhaps alarmed might be

a better word.

     "You've gone plum loco amigo," Bartleby decided as he used his Biblette as a holy,

accusatory pointer. "That there howling you heard was probly jist the wind warblin' n'

whistlin' all around this here box canyon we chose to call home...our casa for tonight.

Now sumthin' out there's got our ponies riled n' fussin'. Probly a night lizard or some

damn sidewinder snake." He carefully drew out his Colt pistol from the bedroll just

behind him. "I'll tend to them... n' you,  you jist try n' git some shut-eye. That

chimi-changa, goat sucker nonsense is all in yer damn fool head. If you were to try

n' read this here good book, n' I'm jist guessin' that that ain't never gonna happen

somehow, you'd find out that there is really only one true Diablo mi amigo n'

I think that it's a pretty damn safe bet that even he, ol' Satan himself, wouldn't be

caught dead roamin' around out here in this Godforsaken place. Now you can go on n'

dream about it all you want, but I don't care to hear no more about it....comprende-vu?

I'll be back direckly."

     "Pero...but you don't understand Bartleby. The chupacabra is not what you--

     With his gun in one hand and dog-eared Bible in the other, Bartleby slowly

disappeared out into the surrounding shroud of darkness. The bright, owl-eyed,

allabaster moon followed along indifferently. It, and the Almighty himself, were to be

the only silent witnesses to the unexpected horror just ahead for the two range-weary

vacqueros.  

*     *     *

     In a remote unmapped, meandering Mexican mesa such as this one, time does not

tickity-tik-tickity-tik off some golden pocket watch fob or simply pass by with a body's

perpetual pounding heartbeats, it more or less drifts along, at its own choosing, its own

pace, its own sun n' stars melancholy metronome-like measure. Time, as the supreme

ruler out here at the ass end of nowhere, neither rushes nor waits for anybody...

or anything.

Somewhere within that same nebulous vacuum of time Guadalupe jolted awake. Rather

disoriented, he struggled to try and separate his swimming, conscious thoughts away

from some haunting, ominous, south-of-the-border nightmare he'd been having there

by the dying popping and pissy campfire.

     "Oye... Bartleby!" he called as he tried desperately to regain his campsight focus.

     Far off and away a wind-whipped silence was the only haunting reply.

     "Donde estas? Are the horses," he gulped down a dry swallow in wide-eyed fear,

"Are you...okay mi amigo?"

     Nothing.

     But, just then, suddenly, a rather large, distorted, angular shadow began to develop,

perhaps appear or paint would be a better choice of words, across the open-face of the

enormous sandstone boulder that abutted the two cowboy's chosen overnight resting

place. Lupe hadn't noticed it at first, but within a few timeless heartbeats he caught it

out of the corner of his eye. It was growing, gaining in size somehow as it approached.

Walking on all fours, almost nonchalantly, it seemed. It was inside the campsight now.

It drew in close, up to the dim light of the exhausted sticks and brush of the campfire.

     A rather large, doll-eyed, cud chewing black mountain goat!

     He stared at it for quite some time as it strolled all around the campsight.

He refused to believe his eyes at first, but after one or two rubs he couldn't help but

break out into a maniacal fit of uncontrollable laughter. "It's just a goat. It's only a

damn loco goat!" he yelped several times as he slapped down on his bended knees.

He soon straightened up and performed a relieved nocturnal stretch. Lupe scrounged

around for a few gnarly stick fragments and tossed them into the starving campfire.

"Oye! Bart!," he tried as his mirth subsided somewhat. "Did you jsut see this monster

out there? Did the horses run off to escape this killer mountain goat?" he chuckled.

     There was no reply...only silence.

     "Donde estas?" with more concern as he squinted into the darkness. "Bartleby?"

     Only the maddening sound of the far off drifting, feintly whistling arroyo wind.

     Suddenly, just there behind him, a very subtle, but obtrusive noise. He turned

'round, slowly, to check behind him.

There was nothing. The massive rock slab that silently announced the midnight goat

previously, offered no reflections, no shadows...nada... nothing.

     Then the wayward goat sounded off an unexpected, shrill, blood-curdling bleat.

     "Baarrreeeeeeeee!"

     Lupe snapped a wide-eyed look back through the nebulous, steamy curtain of heat

that rose from the licking flames of the revived campfire. The unexpected midnight

campsight visitor was all but crying out now...

     "Barrreeeeeee...Bahreeeeee...Bartlebeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

     The yelping goat was straining its raggedy woolen neck and open throat up, up

high, calling out wildly to something out in the darkness.

     Just then, there was a powerful explosion of flying phosphorescent sparks,

flames and all other red hot campfire debris.

     "Madre de Dios!" Lupe shouted out in horror.

     A massive, coal black charred and scarred cloven hoof had stomped into the

stone ring of fire. His heart now a spasmodic triphammer as he whipped a prayerful

sign of the cross just atop his profusely sweating forehead.

     "The Chupaca--" he hesitated, now completely frozen in time, place and fear.

NO! NO! NO! Bartleby you were wrong...Dead wrong! It is the...

                                                          _____ End _____