Assorted Short Stories

By Alain Midiere

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465367624

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Copyright © 2011 by Alain Midiere.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011916651

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4653-6761-7

ISBN: Softcover    978-1-4653-6760-0

ISBN: Ebook          978-1-4653-6762-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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99280

Contents

99280-MIDI-layout-low.pdf

An Irish Dream

Irish Dreams the Sequel

Inside Out

Missile Affair

Bank Robbers

The Ranch Feud

Frieda

Against the Cartel

Mexican Adventure

The Last Hope Mine

Protection

Air Rescue

The End of a Tyran

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AN IRISH DREAM

The room of that little pub was resounding with the shouts of the crowd assembled around the makeshift ring on which two men were pounding each other. It was obvious, by the shouts, that one was the favorite.

Your left, Pat, your left.

Go down the brisket, Pat, look at that belly.

Patrick McAllistair was one of them. His opponent, a burly man heavier by 40 lb, was a McIntyre crowd; there was no love lost there. Pat went down with a left, and when the other man lowered his guard, he connected with a wicked right hook on the jaw, and his adversary went down heavily and was counted out among the cheers of the onlookers. Just then, a newcomer rushed to the ring, calling to Pat.

Pat, you got to come quick. Your mother took on the fever. The doc is with her. She is in a bad way.

Patrick jumped over the ropes, collected his money from the purse holder, and ran out. The people fell silent. The fever had already claimed fifteen lives. It was a bad epidemic with no end in sight.

When Pat got home, the doctor greeted him at the door. Not much hope, I am afraid. She is going the same way you father did.

Pat exclaimed, That’s sixteen deaths already! Is there no remedy for it?

I am afraid not. You better prepare yourself for the end.

And Pat said softly, After she goes, I am not staying in this hell. I am leaving.

The doctor asked, Where will you go to escape this hell?

Pat replied, I am thinking of that new country I heard about—America. A lot of Irish have gone there already.

But I’ve heard also it’s a country of savages!

And Pat said, "New challenges, just what I need.

His mother lasted three days. In one month, he had lost his father and mother. Patrick left for Dublin and looked for the American Embassy, where he filed a demand for immigration, and he was told his passport and immigrant form would be ready within the month. He went back home and paid a visit to the McIntyre Manor to speak to the Lord, who was very sorry about his losses and very surprised when he told him he was leaving.

Patrick asked him, point-blank, if he would be interested in buying his property, and the lord said yes and gave him a very good offer. They agreed on the terms, and Patrick told him that he would be out within the month. They shook hands, and he left him with a final good-bye. Patrick worked pretty hard that final month, wanting to leave everything in top shape. Ready to go, he did the tour, said his good-byes, stopped at the graves, and was on his way. In Dublin, all the papers were waiting for him. Then he had to think about the ship. The luck of the Irish—a ship for America was scheduled to sail in one week, and Patrick could stay on board if he was willing to help. He was shown his cabin and put to work. A week later, with beautiful sunshine, they were saying good-bye to Ireland.

Will I see it ever again? Patrick thought. The crossing by sailboat was long and monotonous. They encountered only one bad storm, when everybody had to pitch in and help. The sailing into the port of New York was a thing you wouldn’t forget: All the sails were up, the foghorns going on in our honor. It was amazing how they could dock a sailboat with such precision. They finally left the ship with trembling legs after one month at sea. The passport and immigration took a long time, and then they were free to go. Small coaches were waiting in line to take fares. Patrick climbed in one, asked the coachman to take him to a reasonable priced hotel, and then relaxed back.

Then he had to look for a job. Patrick had no illusions. He was a farmer. There were no jobs for a farmer in New York, so he went to apply for a dishwasher’s job in restaurant and found a job with a low pay. But you cannot be choosy when you start. People he was working with were nice and helpful. Days went by, and one night, after work, one of his coworkers asked him if he wanted to watch a fight, so Patrick went along. It was in a building basement and no ring. People around the fighters kept them in: Two burly men, muscular, in the 250 1b range, were pounding each other; there was no style, just strength and wild punches, until one connected, and the opponent fell for the count.

Patrick asked his friend how much they were paid, and he said, Usually 100 bucks for the loser and 250 for the winner, but the money is on the betting.

Just then, the man who put up those shows came forward. Anybody want to take on the winner?

Patrick went up to the man. I do. He then went back to his friend. Here, two hundred bucks. Bet them for me, on me winning. The fight lasted no more than ten minutes; a powerful right hook to the jaw ended it.

The spectators were stunned, and his friend was openmouthed. Where did you learn to fight like that?

Ireland.

His friend, with a wide smile, added, We are going to make money with a fighter like you. That was okay with Pat; that was more in his line than washing dishes. His friend was right; they started to make money, and his reputation grew. The kind of people coming just to see him fight became classier. But Patrick was not happy. He hadn’t come to America to become a boxer.

One day, he got his chances: He learned about the fledging railroad company looking for tracklayers out west, laying new lines; it was hard and dangerous work but good pay. It was a challenge, just what he was looking for. He said good-bye to his friend, and a few days later, he was on his way to be a tracklayer.

Before leaving, there were two items he had to buy that he thought would be needed: a rifle and a handgun. For the rifle, he chose a Henry Repeater, with a fourteen-shell magazine, the favorite of the buffalo hunters. For the handgun, there were two choices, cross body draw, where the gun handle faced forward with the holster on your left hip, or the regular position with your holster low on your right hip. That one he thought would be easier for him to learn to draw fast.

He was on a train for the first time in his life. It was slow since it was a freighter, carrying railroad ties and rails. He didn’t mind; this way he had time to familiarize himself with new countryside, wild with very few towns. Everything was an eye-opener for him, a source of new wonders: wild rivers, forests of tall trees, large plains of high grass, and a horde of buffalo. He was enjoying every mile.

Finally, we arrived to where the line ended. The encampment was huge with so many people running around. Tents and equipment were everywhere, and the noise was deafening. We were directed to a tent, where a man gave us a form to complete and a badge with a number to hook on our clothes with instructions never to take it off. Pat did not realize that there had been almost thirty on the train. Another man took them in charge and showed each of them their tents, where the tents for the meals were, and the times for those meals, and finally, he let them put their personal stuff away, showing them the place for getting started to work—no questions, all well organized. Patrick was ready and went to work. It didn’t take him days to find out that it was a back-breaking job, either carrying ties and rails or using the sledgehammer to the spikes holding the rail on the ties. They had special metal measures to make sure of the space between the ties and another one to verify the space between the rails. After ten to twelve hours of that work, they had just enough strength to eat and fall like logs on their bunk beds. Patrick thought he was in good shape, but he found out he had a way to go.

After over a month of that grueling work, Patrick was not so tired at the end of a day and was more in shape than ever. One day, he bumped into a coworker. He excused himself and was going on when a meaty hand grabbed his shoulder, and a voice said to him from behind, Hey, buddy, don’t you look where you are going?

Pat replied, I said excuse me!

The big man, a good 300 lb, said, Well, that’s not enough! He threw a wild punch, but Pat saw it coming. He sidestepped, grabbed his wrist and arm, and pivoting, threw him over his hip, and the big man went flying, landing with a crash. He was up, coming after Pat with a roar. I’ll kill you. Pat stopped him with a straight jab to the mouth, then followed with his favorite right cross hook to the jaw. The big man went down and stayed there.

The foreman came over. Come on, back to work. Jim, wake him up with a bucket of water. Then turning to Pat, he added, You got quite a punch. You should do well in our Saturdays’ evening fights.

After he left, Pat asked, What did he mean with the Saturdays’ fights?

One of the workers told him, Every Saturday evening, to let out steam, we have boxing matches between whoever want to fight with a purse of five hundred bucks to the winner given by the management. Well, Pat always welcomed news of fighting for money. Next day, they came looking for workers having some experience in hunting, and Pat came forward, having done a lot of hunting in Ireland. He was joined by another man; they were given horses. Both of them had weapons. A horde of buffalo had been spotted the day before so they went for them very carefully. The Indians also hunted buffalo, those being their game number one.

It was fairly easy to find the tracks of the buffalo herd. There were no Indians in sight. They moved closer and around to have the wind in their faces. Pat’s partner had hunted buffalo before, so Pat listened to his plans to approach the herd and position for shooting. He said the shots usually didn’t scare the herd, and they would have time to shoot five or six of them before they moved. He told Pat the best area for a kill was right behind the right shoulder. At his signal, they both shot, and two buffalo went down. They kept on shooting; when six were killed, they stopped shooting, having enough meat for the camp. Then the fun part started of skinning and cutting the beasts.

Pat mounted his horse and rode back to camp to get some help. Even with five of them working hard, it was almost dark before they finished. Help had come with a wagon to bring back the meat and the skins. Even at the late hour, they enjoyed a good buffalo steak, which was well earned. Patrick especially enjoyed the horseback ride and decided to buy a horse at the first town they arrived. Saturday night was there, and Pat was eager to see those fights starting. They had cleared a large space in the center of the camp. It looked like everybody from the camp was there; entertainment was rare. Pat wanted to see first what kind of fighters they had at the camp. Most of them were tracklayers, which meant they were 200 lb and over. Some were good fighters, but most were brawlers; there were a lot of wilds punches but no style. So, after the third fight, he went forward and offered to fight anyone. Three men rushed to the challenge, and Pat had only one at a time. The first didn’t last ten minutes; the second was a lot better, and Pat enjoyed the fight.

They were fighting by rounds, and it took Pat four rounds to knock him out, to the wild cheers of the crowd. The third fight was also a short one, but for Pat it was a five hundred bucks worth of evening well earned. He went to talk to the second fighter and told him he was impressed. He asked him where he had learned boxing; the guy told him that he had learned it in New York from a British trainer. Pat gave him half of the five hundred bucks, telling him he had earned them, making a friend after that hunt. They moved slowly forward, but the weather was getting colder. They had been lucky so far, but they were due for some bad weather, and it came with a storm of a violence Pat had never experienced before in Ireland: winds of over hundred miles, driving rains, and flooded rivers.

They had to tie everything down as the tents would have flown; work was stopped. The storm lasted three days, and it took them another day to repair the damages. That storm put us behind schedule, so the next few days, work was frenetic. They finally got to a little town where the workers could find a drink. Pat went looking for his horse, the one he wanted to buy. He found him; it was love at first sight: a light brown gelding with four white socks, beautiful lines, gentle, intelligent brown eyes, which were slightly slanted, and a name which was perfect for him, Velvet. He bought him right away with the saddle. They passed the spot where the town people had already started the station, moving forward to the next future town. After that day, Pat took Velvet for a two hours’ ride, which both enjoyed. A bond started forming between them, which came close to affection. They had two more hunts in the following weeks, and Pat used Velvet each time. She must have been on hunts before because the gunshots didn’t seem to bother her, nor did the smell of blood.

The Saturday night fights were not so good for Pat; after seeing him fight, he had no more opponents. A few months back, Patrick had noticed a group of young Chinese practicing a kind of fighting, which looked strange to him. As he watched them, he realized it was all a question of speed, agility, suppleness, and a lot of power behind each hit. So he went to see the one who seemed to be the leader and asked him if he could join their group. The Chinese looked at him up and down and said, Can you do that? He did a move that involved spreading the legs wide apart with the butt on the floor. Pat had done a lot of Irish wrestling where such moves were common, so he did. The Chinese man was surprised, but he showed more agile moves that Pat imitated without effort, and the Chinese finally relented and said, Okay, you can join us. The trainer was amazed at Pat’s ability to do all the moves he showed him.

After that day, Pat enjoyed learning a new kind of fighting called Kung Fu. The Chinese were a big part of the compound community; there were more than forty of them. Their built didn’t allow them to work as tracklayers, which was a job of strength, but they were very useful in a lot of other jobs like working as cooks, servers, accountants, and mostly laundry, where they shone. Remember, there were over 120 people working on the tracks, getting dirty and not having time to do their laundry, so that was a job for them. The tracks were an education: you could hear ten different languages spoken there.

Well, Velvet and Pat were ready for a hunt by themselves. The weather was warmer. They were on the trail of a small herd of buffalo, crossing a wooded area, and Pat heard voices, in the wood. He dismounted and took few steps, and then a woman screamed, and a raucous voice shouted, Shut her up. Pat reached his horse, grabbed his rifle, and ran in the direction of the scream. He came to a clearing in the wood and stopped short, appalled by what he saw. Three dirty men, probably renegades, had a woman stripped naked lying on the ground. Her hands were tied to a tree limb with a dirty gag in her mouth. Two of them were holding her legs apart, and the third was getting ready to rape her. Pat saw red at the spectacle. He ran forward, with his gun raised, and slammed the butt on the back of his head. He heard a satisfying crunch. Then he reversed the gun and shot another who was fumbling for his handgun, and then he shot the last one who was holding both hands in surrender. Pat had no hesitation after what he had seen. He then went to the girl, almost stopping at the beauty of that naked body. She was a young Indian woman, around —twenty-two to twenty-three years old, black curly hair falling past her shoulders, light brown doe-like eyes, straight little nose, full mouth with lips asking for a kiss, two full, proud breasts, hourglass-shaped hips, long slender legs, and everything a ripe peach color. Pat bent down, picked up her dress, a loincloth, and went to her with a smile. He took his knife to free her hands. He took off the dirty gag and gave her the clothes, and to give her some privacy, he went to pull the three bodies out of sight, all three dead.

All the time, the young woman was watching Pat without fear, but curiosity and maybe a little admiration. When Pat saw she was ready, he went to her and tried to make himself understand. Where are the horses of the dead men? He imitated a horse. She laughed, a nice crystal sound, came to him, took his hand, and led him into the woods forty yards away where the horses were tied. Using a rope from one of the saddles, he cut pieces and tied them in a line together, then led them to the dead men. He tied the leader to a tree and then proceeded to hoist the bodies across the saddles, with the hands and feet bound together under the belly of the horses so they would not fall off. All the time, she was watching with admiration at the strength he displayed on hoisting those dead bodies.

When ready, he went to get Velvet. He came back and signaled the woman, asking and showing her where she wanted to mount—in front of him or at the back. She chose the back, so he took his foot off the stirrup, and in one quick move, she was behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest, tight. What a sensation! he thought. He could feel her breasts against his back. Her whole body was plastered against him; he could have bet she was enjoying it. He was! By hand, she directed him to the Indian camp. They started quite an uproar on arriving at the camp with the woman behind him and three dead bodies in tow. A tall, imposing figure came out of a tent, and the young woman slid off Velvet and ran to him, talking a mile a minute and bowing in front of him. Pat deducted he was the leader of the tribe and maybe also the father of the woman. He dismounted in front of that man and bowed.

The chief accepted Patrick’s bowing by a slight dip of the head and then said, Chief White Eagle thank you. Save Running Doe life. Name?

Patrick.

The chief then added, Chief White Eagle make Patrick blood brother. Just then, a strapping young warrior came forward, pointing his finger to Pat and then to Running Doe, all the while talking. The chief shook his head, looked at Pat, and said, Brother Running Doe want fight. He then went on to explain by gestures: one man, one horse, yes; one man, one woman, one horse, no; fight for honor, hand to hand. Pat understood most of it. The part he liked was it was not a husband but the brother, so be it. He wouldn’t use boxing but only wrestling. He took his gun belt and his leather jacket off, depositing all at the girl’s feet, keeping only his pants. A murmur came from the onlookers; they had never seen a white man built like that. The track laying had led him to develop all beautiful muscles in his body and a tan to match the Indians. Running Doe was devouring him with her eyes, and the women with her were giggling. The brother was also nicely built, and he knew how to fight.

After fifteen minutes, Pat got him in an arm lock with his leg across his throat. The pressure of his leg would be enough to choke him, so he had to surrender. They both got up, the brother bowing to Pat. A commotion started in the crowd; ranks opened, and a big Indian surged forward, shouting Indian curses. He pushed the brother aside, came to Pat, poked him in the chest, then poked himself, and with his hands, he made it like he was breaking Pat, who understood perfectly that he had been challenged to a fight. He looked at the girl and could see fear in her face. So this one was the bad one of the camp; he had to take him out—no mercy, boxing would have to do it. He planted his feet solid and waited for the rush he knew was coming.

The Indian rushed him with a roar and was stopped with a hard jab to the mouth, followed by a solid cross to the stomach, and everybody could hear the whoosh coming from his mouth. He didn’t get the message and rushed again, wide open, and Pat was ready for him with another solid jab, and then his favorite—with his legs solid on the ground and all his weight behind his punch, he delivered his right hook to the chin. Everyone could hear the punch connect. His eyes glazed, he took one step back, fell on his butt, and then flat on his back, out. The silence was complete. The chief looked at him and whispered, Kill?

Pat just made the imitation of a baby asleep, and the Indians exploded into talk. Running Doe had a big smile for him. The chief signaled to Pat for the ceremony of blood brotherhood, a cut on the wrists of both men, a mixing of their blood, so Pat was part of the tribe, who would him welcome any time. The big Indian was up, but still didn’t know what had happened to him. With signs, Pat told the chief and the warriors around that the three horses and the gear, including the guns, were theirs to keep, but they had just to get rid of the bodies.

Patrick was elated; being part of the tribe would give him the chance to come often, learn the language, and most of all, to see Running Doe, who had made a deep inroad into his heart. He noticed the warriors manipulating the rifles, obviously puzzled, and he decided to show them how to use them before someone got hurt. So he went to them and with signs gathered them around him, the chief included. He took one gun and a bullet and demonstrated how to load and unload that bullet. That was an old Spencer, with no magazine. Then he explained to them how to aim, the use of the front sight and the one above the trigger, and how to align both. He then chose a target, a tree branch, aimed, and shot, and the branch fell off. That was easy shooting, but the Indians were impressed. He had the warriors try out, even the chief, and he was impressed how fast they learned. Then followed the lessons with the handguns. After showing them how to load, grab it, and shoot and how the barrel of the gun should point like their index fingers, he wanted to show off a little.

He took six pinecones and lined them up on a fallen tree trunk. He went about twenty-five yards, gave a cone to the chief, and told him through signs to hold it high and at a signal of Pat to drop it. Pat gave the signal; by the time the cone reached the ground, Pat had drawn his gun, shot six times, and the six cones were gone. The Indians could not believe it. They ran to get the cones, all six with bullet holes in them. The camp was buzzing,