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beside him when Charley and the boy rode up. When he was ready, the man snapped the gate closed, quite professionally, and began firing at several ragged targets about thirty feet away. When the man had gone through his six bullets and was about to reload again, Charley called over to him.
    â€œExcuse me, mister. Is there a man called Holliday working here?”
    The businessman continued to eject brass while he nodded.
    â€œHolliday’s my instructor. He’s right over there,” he said.
    His nod took their attention to the porch of a small wooden shack nearby where the figure of a man dressed in all black was slumped back in a large overstuffed chair, snoring away.
    â€œSometimes it’s hard to think of Plunker Holliday as an instructor,” said the man. “Especially when he’s napping, like that. But he’s training me to be a real fine shootist, just like he is . . . in spite of that bad eye of his.”
    â€œThat’s him,” said Charley. “Thanks, mister.”
    â€œIt’s ‘Thank you, Mr. Mayor,’” cut in Holliday, who was by then standing up and taking off his coat.
    Charley tipped his hat to the man.
    â€œYour Honor,” he said.
    Charley and the boy dismounted, tied off their horses, and walked across an open area to where Holliday was just starting off toward them. The three of them stopped and shook hands.
    â€œMighty good ta see you two, Mr. Sunday . . . Henry Ellis,” he said.
    Charley answered, “Mighty good to see you, too, Holliday.”
    â€œYou thinkin’ about puttin’ together another cattle drive, are ya?” said the Wild West show sure shot. Because I’m gettin’ pretty bored with this teachin’ job.”
    â€œNot quite,” said Charley. “I can’t offer you another cattle drive, but we got something that offers a little more excitement this time around.”
    Holliday cocked his head. He stared at Charley with his one good eye.
    â€œAnd just what might that be?”
    â€œHave you ever been to Mexico, Plunker Holliday?” asked Charley.
    Holliday took a moment to study Charley’s eyes, then he looked over to the boy. When he realized the two were dead serious about taking him to Mexico he answered:
    â€œNope, I’ve somehow managed to keep myself on this side of the border all these years. But now I get the feelin’ I’ll be wearin’ itchy wool ponchos and ten-gallon sombreros for a spell. Who’re ya goin’ after?” he asked.
    â€œHenry Ellis’s parents were abducted a few days ago,” said Charley. “We don’t have much time, I’m afraid.”
    â€œI might be a little rusty,” said Holliday. “I don’t shoot people that much anymore. I just teach people ta shoot people nowadays. Lemme get my possibles together. Then I’ll meet you two up at the sandwich shop on Main Street. Best we get somethin’ under our belt buckles before we head down inta Mexico, don’t ya think?”
    Charley shook his head.
    â€œNo,” said Charley. “There’ll be more than three of us when we go. No, you go on and eat. Me and Henry Ellis have another fella we need to talk to within riding distance from here. Suppose you just take your time packing up and eating. Just be at my ranch in Juanita tomorrow, before noon.”

C HAPTER F IVE
    Jagged strands of blazing white lightning zigzagged across the darkened sky, while thunder rolled repeatedly. Heavy rain came down in sheets, pounding the rigid buildings and barbed-wire-covered walls that made up the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville.
    Inside one of the squalid cellblocks, a uniformed prisoner’s ruddy fist slammed into the defiant face of Mitchell Pennell who, like the others surrounding him, was dressed in lackluster prison garb.
    â€œYou’re a pig, Mitch Pennell,” said the convict who was administering the beating. “A cheatin’,