Gunslingers Don't Sing or Dance, Mike Marino [classic romance novels .txt] 📗

said.

 

“Don’t you make a mistake. Just because you are a woman doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if you don’t do as I say. Hand over the map and I’ll walk away...no harm to anyone.”

 

A giant bolt of lightning in the form of the largest black man to roam the earth burst into the room and subdued Monty throwing him to the ground. Monty’s face had the look a man has when he is facing a firing squad without a blindfold, only this time his firing squad had arms the size of a water buffalo and his head was completely shorn of hair, yet covered in tattoo’s of various voodoo figures of the astral forces. Mumbo jumbo to me, but was relieved that this rather large spirit in human form was where he was, when he was.

 

I went over to Monty and retrieved the firearm he dropped when he was dropped by a superior force. An unnatural force of nature I might add. I helped Monty to his feet  and searched his waistcoat pocket. Inside the left pocket was his half of the map.

 

“I’ll take this if you have no objections,” I said pointing to the giant standing next to him.

 

Monty, ever the gentleman, made of grand show of dusting himself off, picking up his bowler and bowed low. “I bid you all a good evening. If you think this is over, think again. I’ll be prepared next time. I want that treasure!”

 

“Well, looks like you’re out of luck old boy so climb back under your rock.” I was feeling pretty cocky considering I had the force of Thor in the room backing me up. Monty bowed, ever the gentleman con man then made a hurried hasty retreat into the womb of the New Orleans night.

 

“I’m glad that’s over,” I said with much relief.  I then went up to Thor and introduced myself. He replied with a smile larger than Louisiana speaking excitedly in a patois I couldn’t understand. Isadora came to the rescue.

 

“He is a Haitian and speaks very little English, Mr. Dooley. He is a friend of a friend of mine in Port Au Prince wanted by the police there for murder, self defense I assure you so he was able with the help of friends escape capture and bribed his way here on a boat. He needed a place to stay, and I needed protection. Not everyone understands voodoo and some would have us burned at the stake. His name is Jean-Paul Pelissier.”

 

Self defense? What idiot would dare challenge this mountain? Only one with a death wish I felt.

 

“Now we must go. Mr. Debauchery I fear he will be back with more men. We must go to the village so I may protect us through ceremony and join the others. It will open your eyes Mr. Dooley. It will certainly open your eyes to a whole new dimension!”

 

We left in a hurry, arriving  on foot a mile past the Saint Roch cemetery to “the village” a small conclave of huts in a field along a muddy stream. As we entered people were dancing like whirling dervishes of the Muslim religion in the East. Drums were pounding out an African beat, and great bonfires illuminated the world before us. This was the voodoo village where those whose faith is voodoo live and celebrate and seek protection with the help of spirits. As it turns out, Isadora is their protector through her spells and charms in exchange for gifts of money or items.

 

Not all was voodoo however. Many Jamaicans were living in New Orleans as well and would mix with the Haitians in voodoo ceremony. While Haitians danced and chanted, Jamaicans smoked ganja, Hindi for marijuana. They would settle back with huge pipes and inhale they enjoyed peering through the haze of ganja and the smoke of the ceremonial bonfires.

 

As took a seat on the ground against a rock I watched mesmerized as Isadora created potions and spells for those who sought her help and guidance while Jean-Paul kept a keen watchful eye on the celebrants.   I also made a new friend from Jamaica who sauntered over to my rock, took a seat on the dirt next to me and passed his hand carved pipe filled with ganja to me. It had so been a visit to a city of opium, wine, marijuana and sex. A wonderful land of decadence. It would soon change as Isadora, Jean-Paul and myself would head for Mexico in two days now that we had both halves of the map.

 

We all knew it wouldn’t be an easy trip. Never mind the mountain bandits, Mexican Federales, and Apaches defending their lands we may encounter as we intruded….but...Monty Debauchery was determined to get that treasure,  as he said ‘at any cost’.

 

I didn’t want to worry about that now, The ganja was working it’s magic filling my mind with visions. Voodoo dancers in front of me and steady drumbeats were blending with the bonfires, stars and full moon above. I now felt the power of voodoo...and watched in rapt attention the beautiful Isadora as she performed her priestess duties.  She was right in something she said earlier that was echoing in my head…”Voodoo will open your eyes Mr. Dooley. It will certainly open your eyes to a whole new dimension!”

 

She was right. Even without voodoo, I felt as though she had cast a spell over me. I’d follow her to the edge of the earth if it were flat and jump into the abyss if I had too. First...Mexico, the abyss can wait.

Chapter Seven - The Rio Grande Gang

 

The Rio Grande Gang

(A Chapter from a Buck Bronson Texas Ranger Dime Novel)

By Baxter Dooley

Buck Bronson and the Texas Rangers rode there horses hard and were hot on the trail of the bloody Rio Grande Gang led by the notorious Trigger Finger Dan as they raced to the Mexican border near Laredo. Their intent was  to deliver a wagon load f stolen U.S. Cavalry  rifles and ammo to the Mexican bandits in exchange for pesos and gold.  The rifles were the latest death dealing military Springfield Model 1870’s with .45 caliber bullets packing enough power to hold off  any Mexican government posse who dared face the blazing barrels of the notorious Mexican bandit gangs who controlled the countryside and mountain regions.

 

After they delivered the cargo of firepower  and collected their ill gotten money and gold, Trigger Finger and his gang would cross the  border to whoop it up south of the border spending every crooked peso on cheap whiskey and even cheaper wenches  in Monterey miles  away from the Tex-Mex border towns where the long arm of the Texas lawdogs  might attempt a daring raid to capture the outlaw gang. If that happened the would surely  face a Hanging Judge Parker trial and it was an inevitable outcome where they would walk up the wooden steps of the gallows to swing high in the hot and dusty Texas sun to meet their maker face to face before they would spend an eternity in the fires of Hades with other fast guns.

 

Buck was the first to spot the outlaws and the wagon load of stolen guns. “There they are boys,” he yelled to the Rangers. “It’s now or never!” Guns began to blaze and smoke filled the air. Trigger Fingers gang took refuge in the red rock formations and returned fire. The wagon of weapons turned towards the shelter of the rocks too hard and a wagon wheel broke as the wagon teetered and turned over scattering  wooden boxes of rifles and ammunition in four directions.

 

The Rangers faced fierce fire from the outlaws bringing two of them down in a hail of bullets. It was anybody’s guess now as to who would win the battle. Would Trigger Finger Dan face frontier justice? Or would Buck Bronson and the Rangers be wiped out and left for dead in the dust?

(Baxter Dooley - 1867)

 

(Letter from Isadora Lavolier to her sister in Baton Rouge, Louisiana - July 30, 1867)

Dearest Tia,

Tomorrow I leave New Orleans for Mexico with a Mr. Baxter Dooley (I’ll explain later who he is, once I figure it out myself!) and of course Jean-Paul with whom I feel safe at all times.

 

Remember Papa’s map? Thanks to Baxter we now have both halves of it not that it really matters.  Now I have a chance to fulfill Papa’s dream by finding the lost treasure.

We leave on the morning  tide by sail to Mexico. We are going with  a good Cajun captain, Mr. Marcel, a friend of Papa’s. You remember him I’m sure. He would always bring us candy and gifts after his journeys.  Smuggling, Papa always said. Imagine, Mr. Marcel, a pirate smuggler!

 

We plan on making landfall near Vera Cruz and by land from there once we purchase horses and supplies. We want to look like gringo prospectors looking for small nuggets of gold in a stream and Lord not the lost treasures of Coronado. Just crazy American gringos. What a surprise it will be if we find it!!! Of course I will share my portion with you.

 

I anticipate Monty Debauchery will try to follow us and take the treasure once we lead him to it, I’m sure he memorized his half of the map as clearly as a school child learns his scripture. I’m counting on it. His half had the route leading north from Mexico City, so he probably has already gotten wind of our plans and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not on his way to Mexico City right now and will head well north ahead of us to intercept our trail and follow from there. I’m hoping this is the case.

 

Well, dear sister, I must close for now and get some rest. I only pray that my magic will be a match for the Aztec gods, should they get angry with us! Baxter is worried about bandits, I worry about other forces unseen.

 

Take care and I will contact you when we return.

All my love, Isadora.

Chapter Eight - The Cruise to Vera Cruz

The haunted harbor of neurotic New Orleans was already teeming with steamships being loaded by quiet Negro workers who were most recently servile livestock under the plantation lash prior to Emancipation, now freed slaves of only a short time,