Dylan stared into Paco's seamed, oak colored face and grinned, spittle giving his chin a glossy sheen, "Looked into its eyes? I smacked it upside the head and drop kicked it like a football!"

Paco stepped back a bit, clearly worried about the mental state of the boss's son. He went back to his pickup and brought out a thermos. "Here, señor, drink some coffee and tell me all that has happened."

Dylan grabbed the cup and drank greedily, not even registering the scalding liquid pouring down his throat and spilling on his chest. He told Paco everything, even about the hallucinations. By the time he was finished, Paco was out of coffee and the other farmhands were showing up for work.

"What do you do now, señor?" Paco asked, more than a little concerned at the possible answers to this question.

"Not me, amigo. Us." Dylan replied as he put his arm around the foreman's shoulders and steered him back towards the pickup. "I need your help. Follow me in the truck while I track it."

Still a little worried that Dylan might have suffered a head wound himself, Paco stopped walking and asked, "But señor, how can you track something that flies? You said El Chupacabra flew away."

"No I didn't," Dylan stated firmly while he pushed Paco towards the truck again. "I said it seemed to fly. It was leaping and gliding. I'll bet we find tracks where it pushed off every 80 or 100 feet."