Chapter 29

Laredo Texas was a sleepy little town near the boarder with Mexico. Largely built of adobe bricks and plastered with white stucco. Main Street was wide and almost deserted at noon time as the hot sun beat down. In one of the cantinas, someone was playing a Spanish flamenco tune on a guitar. Chris rode past the building and stopped several yards further up the street. He brought his horse to a halt near a tank filled with water for livestock. At one end sat a hand pump. He placed his hands on the pump and worked the handle several times. When the water began to run, he quickly removed his hat and placed his head under the flow of cool water. The shock of cold to his hot body made him shiver for a few seconds.

The Professor parked the wagon at the water trough, so his mare could drink. He then dismounted the highly painted cart and tied the lead rope to the hitching post.

“I could use a cold drink myself,” said the Professor looking all around.

“The water’s clear and cold,” said Chris as he began to work the handle once more.

“That stuff’s for horses, cows, pigs and goats. What I need is a tall glass of ice cold beer . . . followed by a glass filled with Bourbon.”

“Okay,” said Chris “you go to the Cantina and I’ll take care of the horses.”

“Thanks my friend,” and off trotted the Professor to disappear from Chris’s view into the building. Inside he went straight to the bar. On his way he passed lots of tables, which were empty. Off to the right was a low stage where sat a Mexican on a stool, he had been playing the guitar. He stopped when the Professor came through the door. His eyes followed him to the bar. On the left, a lone man was seated at a table. He was eating some beans and tortillas. He had a bottle of Tequila and a glass half full of the booze in front of him. He too, kept his eyes on the Professor.

“Barman . . . a tall cold beer and a shot of Bourbon if you please?” ordered the Professor to the fat chubby Mexican bartender.

“Thee beer . . . she is not too cold senior,” he replied.

“Whatever,” said the Professor “Just make it a tall one.”

“Si, Senior.” The barman worked the tap to draw a thick headed glass full, then past it across the bar to the Professor. He took the glass and placing it to his lips and began to gulp the contents down. He didn’t halt until the glass was drained to where there was less than an inch of beer left.

“Aawww,” exclaimed the Professor setting the glass on the bar and wiping the foam from his upper lip. “Well.” He said looking the barman in the eye.

“Well, what senior?” asked the barman.

“My good man . . . where is my shot of Bourbon?”

“I am sorry senior . . . we have no . . . how you say . . . Bur-ban . . . only Tequila.”

“Close enough.” The barman quickly set a glass on the bar and poured it to the rim with the clear liquid from a bottle. The Professor tipped it up and swallowed the entire contents of the glass. “Ooowe . . . that’s just like cleaning fluid.”

“Professor,” said the lone man seated at a corner table. He turned toward the voice. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the man now walking toward him.

“Choctaw Charlie . . . I do believe,” said the Professor in a very loud voice. Charlie looked surprised at the elevated tone he used to greet him. Charlie held out his hand as he got closer to him.

“It’s been a long time,” said Charlie.

“It certainly has been a long time, Choctaw Charlie.” This time his words were even louder.

“What’s with you?” asked Charlie.

“Nothing,” said the Professor. He pulled a silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to the barman. “Will that cover my bill?”

“Si Senior.”

“I think I better hit the road,” said the Professor as he started toward the door.

“I’ll walk out with you,” said Charlie.

“That won’t be necessary . . . I can find my way to the door.”

“Something’s wrong . . . what is it?”

“Not a thing . . . I have to leave town . . . the sooner the better.” He pulled away from Charlie and hurried to the door way. “It’s been nice seeing you Choctaw Charlie,” he shouted loudly. This time Chris heard the cry and he quickly tied his horse to the wheel of the wagon. He came closer and stood near the wooden walk way. The Professor came out and went straight to the middle of the street with Charlie following close behind him.

“Hello Charlie,” said Chris standing to his left. Charlie jumped when he heard his name called. He became really nervous, when he realized who it was that had called his name. “Bucky called you his friend . . . he also said I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Christopher Le Monte,” he said and lifted his hands into the air “Please . . . don’t kill me . . . I beg you.” He began to walk slowly backwards down the street; Chris matched his pace step for step.

“Did Bucky beg for his life . . . or did you just stab him in the back while he slept?”

“Please . . . don’t.”

“You’re just plain yellow . . . the only way you could have done it was in the back.”

“If you don’t kill me . . . I’ll tell you about those two brothers of yours.” His voice was shaky as he pleaded.

“There’s a jail right behind you,” said Chris “drop your weapons and go inside.”

“Your brothers . . . they’ll get you . . . if you don’t let me help you.”

“You . . . help me . . . just like you helped Bucky?” Chris stopped walking toward Charlie “Drop your weapons, or draw . . . damn you.”

Charlie’s hands went to his belt buckle which he unfastened and dropped the belt and its load of weapons which fell to the ground. “Don’t shoot . . . I give up.”

“Inside the jail,” ordered Chris. The half Indian turned with his hands in the air and walked to the jail house. He went through the door and quickly stepped to one side. He was now out of Chris’s sight. He drew a small gun from his boot. He cocked the weapon and pointed it chest high at the open door way. He stood there for several seconds until his name was called again.

“Charlie . . . what do you think you’re doing?” asked Chris from outside the jail. “Either you step back into view, or I’ll shoot you on sight.”

“Chris . . . let me go and I’ll help you with your brothers.”

“What kind of a fool do you take me for . . . Charlie? You killed Bucky . . . so now you’re going to pay for it . . . as for my so called brothers . . . . I don’t need any help with them.”

Charlie looked around the office of the jail. His eye caught the shotgun in a rack on the wall behind the desk. He jumped over the desk and grabbed it. He had trouble with the locking mechanism that held the weapon in the rack. He was still trying to free the gun from the rack, when Chris entered the jail. He began to laugh when he saw Charlie struggled to free the weapon. Charlie pulled the derringer from his waist band and pointed it at Chris. Seeing him drawing the little gun, Chris exited the building.

“You better give up Charlie,” yelled Chris as he stood close to the wall beside the door.

Charlie retuned to the shotgun once more and shouted “Never.”

Just then a man came running toward the jail house. On his chest was a badge which had sheriff inscribed on it. “What’s going on here?” he demanded with his gun drawn. Chris raised his hands to shoulder height.

“This half breed killed a friend of mine in the eastern part to the state,” explained Chris. “I was just trying to get him to surrender to the law.”

“Who are you to be capturing anyone?” demanded the Sheriff.

“Nobody . . . just the friend of the man he killed by stabbing him in the back.”

“Okay . . . you stay right here and let me handle this,” ordered the man.

“He’s all yours,” said Chris as he stepped away from the door. “I should tell you this . . . he’s trying to get your shotgun out of the rack . . . oh yeah . . . one more thing . . . he’s got a derringer in his waist band.” Chris walked away from the jail and toward his horse. He untied the animal and walked back toward the jail, he stopped and waited about twenty yards from the jail house.

“You, in the Jail . . . this is the Sheriff,” he yelled as he stood next to the door way. “Give yourself up and you won’t be harmed.”

“Okay,” said Charlie. A few seconds went by.

“Step into the door way so I can see you,” demanded the Sheriff.

“My hand is caught,” Charlie said.

“Okay . . . I’m coming in,” he said and stepped into the door way.

“NO!” Screamed Chris as the man stepped into the open door way. There was a loud blast as the shotgun fired and knocked the man backwards out into the street. Chris drew his gun and ran forward to the door way. There he stood for a second then peeked inside. Charlie was trying to get the shotgun reloaded. “Charlie” he shouted. The Indian dropped the shotgun and tried to draw his little gun. He cocked it and pointed it at Chris. There was the sound of a very loud blast from the .45 in Chris’s hand. The bullet hit Charlie in the heart and he fell backwards onto the floor.

Lots of people gathered round the jail house as Chris walked to his horse and mounted. He pulled his stud over to the Professor. “It never stops.”

“No . . . my friend . . . and possibly it never will.”

“So long,” said Chris as he waved a two finger salute to the Professor and pulled Midnight around.

“Goodbye, my friend . . . stay alive.”