Death Is Waiting In Sonora

DEATH IS WAITING IN SONORA

By Alfred Bekker

The volume of this book corresponds to 40 pocket pages.

The American West in the years after the Civil War: Jeff Kane has fled from the law by crossing the border to Mexico and meets men unwilling to accept that the war is over. Men celebrating the assassination of President Lincoln and preparing for a resumption of the fight ...

Cover: Edward Martin

Copyright

Ein CassiopeiaPress Buch: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books und BEKKERpublishing sind Imprints von Alfred Bekker.

© by Author

© dieser Ausgabe 2018 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westfalen

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1

Jeff Kane had covered a day long ride when he reached Magdalena, a small town in the Mexican province of Sonora. The man, also known as 'Laredo Kid' since his time as a postman between San Antonio and Laredo, reined in his horse on a nearby hill in front of the city and let his eye travel. The few houses of Magdalena looked like they were thrown in the rugged, barren land that looked like an ember. A land that God had to have created in anger.

Kane rode along Main Street, which called itself "Calle de los Santos" – the street of saints. May the devil know why it bore that name. There had to be a reason. Perhaps the answer was to be found in the cemetery where Kane had passed. Many of the graves bore no names and even more bore names that sounded American.

Otherwise, the city consisted only of a snow-white church, a few houses of sandstone or clay and some bodegas, where the vaqueros of the area drank their tequila.

At the end of the "Calle de los Santos" was the largest of these bodegas. An ugly wooden construction whose facade color had to be faded decades ago.

Jeff Kane reined in his horse, dismounted and tied the animal up at the hitchrack in front of the bodega. Then he knocked the dust off his clothes. A week-long ride through dry, desert-like areas made the sand crawl everywhere and it was no doubt time he take a bath.

In Laredo he had escaped his pursuers, who had falsely accused him of murder. Since then, he had kept on the Mexican side of the border and had also avoided towns.

From the bodega was heard quarrelsome babble.

Kane let the swing doors fly apart and entered.

Inside there was a pleasant semi-darkness.

The bodegero was a short stocky man with dark eyes and a bushy mustache. He stared at Kane like a ghost. The five men in the bodega turned and fell silent. They had spoken English. Obviously, they were Americans. Kane noticed immediately that they were excellently armed. They were wearing deeply strapped revolver belts and Bowie knives. Their clothes were tattered. Some worn-out Drillich trousers, which used to come from the Confederate Army's former holdings, linen shirts. One of the guys wore a full-length Saddle Coat. Between his teeth was a cigarillo. The pants had been through best times already, but the revolver belt and the boots were of such fine workmanship that you could get the idea that they both had not belonged to him for so long.

Another had a dark beard that nearly grew beneath his eyes and a gray Confederate cap with the badges removed. Their outlines were clearly visible as the cloth underneath was less bleached by the sun.

Kane went to the bar.

He wore two revolver straps around his hips – the second one so that the Colt handle protruded forward. The man in the Southern cap stared there the whole time. He himself wore a scuffed holster with a long-drawn navy colt in it. His hand gripped the handle of the long Bowie knife.

Kane turned to the bodegero.

"Can I get a bath and a room for the night?" he asked.

"Well, senor ...," said the Bodegero. Kane did notice that he had looked first at a man sitting at one of the tables. He wore a suit and a bow around his shirt collar. Around the hips hung an army holster with the flap removed, so the colt could be pulled right away. His face was carved in stone. The lines were hard and the look out of his steel-blue eyes penetrating. Only after he nodded, the Bodegero gave his consent. "No problem, senor. If you pay in advance."

Kane put a few coins on the table.

"That will last for one night. If you like tortillas, there's even a meal included."

"Thank you. Do you have whiskey? My throat is dry."

"Only tequila, senor!"

"For my part ..."

The Bodegero poured out and Kane emptied the glass in one gulp.

The man in the saddle coat pointed to Kane's weapons.

"You are well equipped, Mister – two Colts! It certainly has its advantages if you have two irons in your belt. Especially if one of the primers blocks in the revolving breech."

"I'll sell one of them if you're interested!" Kane said. "I need some money. Interested?"

"For sure."

"One hundred American dollars – no pesos."

"Let me see, mister."

Kane unbuckled the second strap, put it rolled in onto the counter, and slid it over to the guy in the saddle coat.

The guy in the Southern cap spat and pointed at the Saddle Coat man. "Better don’t do any business with him."

"Why?" Kane asked.

"Because he does not have a hundred dollars – just enough pesos to afford a tequila here."

"Shut up, Dooley!" growled the Saddle Coat man, taking the gun from the holster and opening the revolving breech.

"It's true!" defended Dooley and pushed back the southern cap on the neck.

"It’s you who’s keen on the gun!" growled the Saddle Coat man.

Dooley grimaced and turned to the other gringos in the bodega. "Has anyone of you ever seen Brannigan owning a hundred bucks?"

Laughter filled the room.

Brannigan, the man in the Saddle Coat, bared his teeth like a beast of prey. "If anyone here doubts that I pay my debts, then he should tell me frankly, so I can blow his brains out!"

"Keep calm!" Kane replied. "I do not mind auctioning the Colt to the highest bidder!"

Dooley laughed harshly.

"Thanks, but I have a gun!"

Brannigan said, "I'll give you the hundred dollars, mister ... What's your name?"

"Call me Laredo Kid," Kane replied, because he could not think of anything better at the moment and he wanted to avoid having his real name spread around the area. After all, he could not rule out that those who unjustly accused him of murder might not stick to his tracks in Mexico, even though Texan marshals on the other side of the border, of course, had no powers whatsoever.

Brannigan strapped on the strap. His other revolver he wore left and with the handle forward.

"Not so fast," Kane said. "First the money!"

Brannigan grinned. Then he reached into the pocket of his saddle coat and pulled out a small bundle of bills. He counted out a hundred dollars and put them on the bar.

"Here, mister."

Kane looked at the bills with a glance.

"These are Confederate dollars," Kane stated. "Since the war is over, you can burn them in the oven without hesitation!"

Brannigan grinned.

"Listen to him, boys! Must be a fucking Yankee if he does not want these dollars!"

Laughter answered him. The bodegero fell back into a corner. He seemed to suspect that he could stand in the line of fire if the going became tough.

"I want my belt back," Kane said calmly.

"One Colt is enough to you, Laredo Kid! Then you just have to be always careful that the primers sit well!"

Kane's eyes narrowed. "I hate to say things twice!" he hissed through his teeth.

Brannigan reached for the Colt and yanked it out. Since he was obviously used to it, he reached for his own weapon crossover. Apparently he did not really trust the iron he had taken from Kane.

The barrel pointed to Kane’s chest.

"What do you want to do now, Laredo Kid?" he asked. "Undo the trade? Take my gun off?" Brannigan sneered. "You're welcome to try, and I'll take your other weapon too!"

For a moment nothing happened.

At that moment, one could have heard dropping a pin onto the coarse floorboards of the bodega.

Brannigan cocked.

It clicked.

"Come on, Laredo Kid! What are you waiting for!"

"All right then, Brannigan!" the man at the table intervened. He got up now. Brannigan seemed a bit confused. "Major Jackman, I ..."

"Take the dollars, Brannigan, and give the gentleman back his belt," the man said relentlessly, straightening his bow. Then he leaned back, his right resting on the Army holster.

Brannigan cussed.

"Major Jackman, this is probably just a fucking Yankee!" he said.

"He's Texan in his language," contradicted the man who was called Major Jackman. He got up, moved to Kane and reached into his jacket pocket. He took out a few bills. Union dollars. "I have a better idea," he said.

"And that would be?" Kane asked.

"I buy the weapon. The price is not excessive and it is a nice piece." He gave Kane the money. He counted and pocketed it. Jackman stretched his hand in Brannigan's direction. Whereupon he snapped off and gave Jackman the revolver belt. Jackman hung him over his shoulder.

"Were you at war?" he asked.

"Like almost everyone."

"I suppose you were fighting for the right side as a Texan."

"Looks different to everyone, what the right side was," Kane replied.

Jackman grinned. "I was a major in the Army of the Confederate States of America – and even if a war is over for a few traitors who signed the capitulation – not for me! And I'm not the only one!"

Kane knew that there were some stalwarts who did not want to understand that the cause of the South was lost. Out and over. Guerrilla forces, still attached to the spirit of the South, raged in Kansas and Missouri – but also in the Oklahoma Indian Territory. Some also pulled back to Mexico when the Union Army's blue shirts were crowding them.

The best known of these gang leaders was William C. Quantrill. But he was by no means the only one.

Many of these groups, despite their supposedly high patriotic ideals, had fallen down to mere criminal gangs for a long time.

And Kane had the vague idea that he had just met such a bunch here.

"I'm proud to have been in Gettysburg," said Jackman. "And although the other side has proven to be superior at the moment, our fight is far from over. We form ourselves. Did you hear that the Yankee president was executed?"

"Lincoln? Then that news spread even to this area by now ..." Kane said.

"A brave patriot shot him."

"I'm sorry if I cannot completely follow you, Major ..."

"I am always in need of good people. If you were at war, you can shoot too. The guy you took off the revolver belt would probably have learned it. What do you think about joining us? Brannigan is also Texan like you!"

"Sorry, Major Jackman. It will not work," Kane said.

"Why not? Now do not say that you have anything to lose! You rather look like someone forced to spend some time here in Sonora. Then you can do that with us! And by the way, it would be worthwhile for you too. Because we have introduced such a kind of tax system here and do live rather well by it."

"I have my own plans."

"I would not ride with this bastard either!" Brannigan growled.

"Shut up, Brannigan!" Major Jackman snapped, before turning back to Kane. "We have more than twenty men under arms. And if you want to put down roots in this area, then you should not mess with us. Because here we decide on our own whether someone is allowed to pass or not."

At that moment a man in black leather vest and black hat came through the swinging doors.

"Hey, Major, whom does the horse with the blue yankee coat on the saddle belong to?"

Everyone stared at Kane.

Major Jackman grimaced. "Now I understand," he muttered. "So you are really a Yankee!"

"The war is over," Kane said.

"Not for me! There is no place for you in Magdalena, Laredo Kid – or whatever your name may be in truth!" Major Jackman snapped his fingers and turned to the Bodegero. "Return him the money he gave you, Hombre ..."

"But ..."

"Tortillas and a bath he will have to take elsewhere!"

The Bodegero put the money on the bar. Kane decided that it was useless trying to prevail. He took the money, pocketed it, and headed for the swinging doors. He was not in the mood for trouble and that was obviously pre-programmed here. Major Jackmann and his gang seemed to regard Magdalena as their private property.

The man in black backed away from Kane. He had his thumbs trapped behind the deeply-strapped belt.

Kane had just reached the swinging doors when he noticed a movement behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brannigan move.

Brannigan tore out the revolver. A shot cracked out of his revolver.

Kane slid sideways.

He shoved the swinging door open with his shoulder and reached for his own weapon at the same time. With a cat-like, hundredfold practiced movement, his right hand tore the .45 out of the holster, while the left slid over the cock and pulled it back.

Brannigan's bullet hissed past Kane, burning a hole in the swinging door's wood.

Kane’s shot, however, caught Brannigan in the arm.

Brannigan screamed, dropping the gun.

Heavily, the Colt fell to the ground while the blood shot out of Brannigan's wound.

"Damned!" he croaked, grimacing.

Kane cocked.

The Major's men had their hands on their weapons, but none of them dared to rip out his Colt. They had seen how quickly Kane could pull and how well he could hit.

And it was clear to each of them that the one who now took up his weapon lost his life within a blink of an eye.

"Stay calm!" said Kane.