The Half-Breed Gunslinger

by Bret Lee Hart

  "Doc, I'm goin' up there to that ranch and find the boy. You can sit tight or head north, your choice."

  "I might only be a Doctor, but I'm no coward, James Dolin. I can shoot a scattergun like any other."

  "I know you can, Doc, but I'm goin' it alone. There's enough dead bodies around here 'cause of me, and I'm not sure my conscience can handle anymore." Hunter stared at the doctor, a glare of rage and regret.

  It made the man squirm inside, just a bit.

  "So don't argue with me," the gunslinger continued, "or I'll knock you out and stuff you down in that lime-rock jail of yours; got it?"

  "I don't like it, son," said the doc, "but I understand. It's settled then, I'm going north to search out my family, and hope they haven't found any trouble."

  Doc had taken good care of the Appaloosa. Outside now, Hunter saddled the steed through the pain of his battered ribs, at the same time feeling good about his clearing head. The bullet wounds were healing nicely and showed no sign of infection.

  He shook the doctor's hand while thanking him for being there before mounting and riding north towards Lugar's ranch. That was the last time he would ever see the good Doctor.

  Chapter Ten

  Hunter James Dolin was a man who lived with strength and skill, and he would need all of that to survive another battle, especially in his current condition. The sun was approaching three hours past straight up as he moved along. He stayed off the main road, riding through the swampy sawgrasses that lay on the other side of the tree line, avoiding the open roads and the more heavily traveled paths. The no-name horse was well rested and eagerly maneuvered through the brush, as they came within sight of the big oak and the Dolin cabin.

  Hunter pulled back the reins, coming to a stop as he combed the countryside for any movement. Satisfied there was no one about, he checked his guns, knowing full well they were at the ready, before continuing across the shallow part of the creek that ran off the main river.

  He dismounted in front of the open barn doors and pulled his left-hand colt. Cocking the hammer back, the gunslinger entered cautiously to find the building empty. He gently released the revolver's hammer forward, sliding it back into its holster as he kneeled down, reading the story the tracks in the sand told him. There were extremely large, moccasin footprints that could only belong to one man. The man they had called Gator, who had been blown up with the Jackson hotel, which to Hunter seemed so very long ago.

  He stood and followed the tracks to the edge of the hay, where he found dried blood that was now black. Farther up the hay pile, he spotted a ribbon. The same ribbon that had been woven through Lilith's hair the day she left town. The gunslinger bent down on one knee, picking up the red bow. He caressed it between his fingers and brought it up to his nose, inhaling its scent deeply. Tears did not come. He would not cry. The half-breed learned long ago men don't cry, they just make things right.

  Hunter pocketed the memento and left the barn for the cabin. He walked across the lawn, glancing up at the gulls as he went. Without breaking his stride, he kicked in the front door, both pistols drawn and at the ready, only to find it empty.

  How many times does a man have to kick in his own front door for fear of intruders? thought Hunter, before heading back outside where he began tracking Gator's trail, once again.

  It led him back across the creek and to the north, in the direction of Frank Lugar's Ranch. As Hunter made his way up the path, he heard a distant rumble to the west. A wall of purple and black was approaching in the sky off the gulf. A huge storm was rolling in; this along with the coming of the night could give the gunslinger an advantage. The darkness would help keep him from being seen and the rain would help keep him from being heard.

  * * * * *

  The storm came hard at first, blanketing the sun an hour before its usual time to set. The wind pushed the rain sideways, only seen through the darkness by the flashes of lightning which were followed quickly by the claps of thunder. It was slow moving for him, but he patiently continued on toward the ranch.

  After a while the violence of the storm settled, leaving a steady downpour. Hunter could see the inner log fence that surrounded Lugar's ranch from where he had taken refuge, just inside the thick tree line of a patch of cypress. The half-breed removed his bow from the saddle, along with his remaining arrows. He wished he had taken the time to make more, but three would have to do. He left the horse behind, making his way on foot just inside the edge of the woods, weaving in and out through the numerous cypress trees. He took his time, resting against an occasional oak or pine.

  The half-breed moved quickly, but silently, through the woods in short spurts as the Indians had for hundreds of years. With some help from a sustained flicker of lightning, he could see the main house. In a squatting position, he waited, surveying the area. Around the corner of the house, a guard appeared armed with a rifle, walking the railed porch that appeared to go all the way around the building.

  Hunter nocked the arrow, pulling the string back to full draw. He aimed high on the man's neck, compensating for the distance and the heavy force of the rain. The shot would be a kill in the windpipe, inhibiting the man from yelling out and warning others.

  He took a deep breath then released the arrow; it flew straight and true to hit its target dead center. The gunman's rifle dropped as he clutched his throat with both hands, before barrel-rolling head first over the rail to the wet ground below.

  Death's a bitch, Hunter thought.

  He immediately left the woods, launched himself over the waist-high fence. Then he sprinted twenty paces, jumping the porch rail at the back of the house. He nocked another arrow while making his way along the outer wall, stopping to peek around the corner.

  Another guard stood smoking with his back to him.

  Hunter loosed the arrow, hitting its target between the man's shoulder blades.

  The shocked cowboy turned, raising his revolver toward Hunter.

  With his last arrow, the half-breed shot the man's gun hand through the wrist, before the trigger could be pulled. The gun hit the wood porch flooring with a clank, followed by the dead man with a thud. Dropping the bow, the gunslinger pulled one of his .44s and worked his way across the grounds after leaving the porch. He ducked into the barn.

  There was little moonlight and the hard rain gave effective cover for him to move around with little chance of being seen or heard. No one was watching the horses the barn held, eight well-broke cattle ponies in all. This gave Hunter an idea of the number of crackers he faced. With two men done for, that most likely meant there were six left.

  With the boss gone, he figured they would most likely be holed up in the main house. Holstering the Colt, he pulled out the shotgun, breaking it open to make sure the shells were dry. Satisfied, he ventured out into the rainy night, leaving the cover of the barn heading toward the bunkhouse. Hunter glanced again at the two-story house, making a mental note that the upper windows were dark; the only light he could see was coming from the bottom floor.

  The front door to the bunkhouse was closed but unlocked. Cautiously, he entered, making his way down the shadow-ridden hall. There were three doors on the right with one on the left. Hanging on the wall was a lantern which he lit with a wood match pulled from his coat pocket. He started for the first door on the right when he heard a sound coming from the door on his left. It sounded to him like labored breathing. Kicking in the door, Hunter swept the room with the scattergun at the ready, holding the lantern high with the other hand.

  There, lying on a cot was Zeke, wheezing heavily, obviously burning up with fever. Hunter hung the light on a nail sticking out of the wall. Walking over to the boy's bedside, the gunslinger felt his forehead with the palm of his hand. He was hotter than a spent cartridge from Sam Colt's equalizer. The boy was unconscious and would die soon if he didn't get him some doctoring.

  "Hang in there, little man," Hunter proclaimed quietly, "help's a' comin'."

  With urgency, he left the ro
om, setting the oil lamp on the floor in the middle of the hallway. He began kicking open the other three doors one at a time, with the double barrels pointing the way. The small rooms were all empty. The clock was ticking against the boy, so he hurried out into the rain, running straight for the main house. The gunslinger took the four steps two at a time, stopping only to peer through the front window. He saw one of the men sleeping in a chair by the fire. Quiet time was over.

  Hunter shoved the shotgun through the window, breaking the glass pane, and fired one barrel, opening the man's chest before he knew what had happened. He sidestepped and fired the other barrel at the handles of the double front doors, blasting them open. Hunter holstered the shotgun without taking time to reload it and pulled both Colts, cocking the hammers back, as he entered the two-story home.

  As soon as he stepped into the foyer, he heard boots running down the stairs; they then began firing directly in front of him. The shots rang out, and the gunslinger began firing as well. The sound was deafening, the room quickly filled with smoke as the flashes of the ignited gunpowder pushed the bullets out the barrels. A bullet scraped Hunter's right cheek, turning his head slightly. Another bullet nicked his elbow, almost making him drop his .44.

  The fight was over as quickly as it had started. The half-breed's guns were empty, and when the smoke cleared, he could see two cowhands laying still on the stairway.

  How many men left? Three, maybe four?

  He stepped backward into the shadows in the corner of the room, putting his revolvers away. He loaded the shotgun as it was a faster reload than the Colts. This move turned out to be a good one. As soon as he slid in the second shell from his inside pocket, a man came through a doorway, firing wildly to his own demise. Hunter let him have both barrels from the side, taking the man off his feet and ending his life before he hit the floor.

  The hot, smoky shells popped out as he broke the shotgun. With great speed, it was reloaded as were his Colts, all by feel. His eyes were panning around the room, looking for any sign of movement. The house was quiet.

  He now took the time to assess his wounds. His right cheek had a slight burn to it and his elbow dripped blood, the bullet grazed the bone and hurt like hell, but all in all his injuries were minor. The five-day-old wounds on his side and leg had reopened from all his activity, turning his bandages red. He didn't believe the blood loss was significant. He still had his strength, after all, and his head remained clear. With his arms crossed, and a loaded colt in each hand, the gunslinger began sweeping the house for any others.

  The storm was passing, giving the moonlight a chance to shine through the windows, making it easier to see. This allowed the gunslinger to move more quickly. He made it through the kitchen and into a back bedroom, when he heard the pounding hooves of horses on the run. He rushed to the window to see the remaining three men making their escape. Pulling out his pistols, he broke the glass and opened fire on the fleeing riders. He shot two in the back, making them tumble from their horses to the ground. The third got away, disappearing into the night. Hunter cursed. If he'd had his rifle with him, not one would have survived.

  He searched the rest of the house including the upstairs to find out he was alone before he hurriedly made his way back to get his horse. He thought he knew which trail the old doc would be traveling on. It was a direct route north and the only path that would accommodate his rig. Doctor Harmon had a day's head start on them, but Hunter and Zeke could move faster than the wagon and would not be restricted to the roads and trails. Time was not on the boy's side, so he must move quickly.

  After removing a section of fence to bring the Appaloosa through, Hunter tethered him to a post outside the bunkhouse and entered. The lantern still burned in the hallway. He snatched it up and went to the room where Zeke was laying.

  The boy lay too still, his eyes wide open, and his brow no longer sweated. Like all the others that meant so much to Hunter, Zeke was dead. The gunslinger went to both knees and bowed his head having only one regret – there was no one left to kill. He took the lantern and slung it against the wall.

  The flames erupted, immediately moving up and catching the ceiling, bringing it alive with the colors of red and orange. Hunter took one last look at Zeke before darting from the room and high-tailing it out of the building. He mounted the uneasy Appaloosa, who welcomed the boot heels to its sides as they took off at a dead run away from the wood structure now engulfed by fire. The smoke mushroomed to the sky, above a wall of flames.

  Hiding behind a giant oak tree, Chin Yang watched as the gunslinger and his spotted horse disappeared into the cold wet darkness, not once looking back.

  The half-breed gunslinger with the name Hunter James Dolin, beaten and battered, with new bloody wounds that would become old scars of the past, rode deep into the swamps on his trusty Appaloosa. He had finally been given a name. From now on, the horse would be called Zeke.

  The gunslinger had one thing on his mind – hunt down, find, and kill the man who got away.

  The End (or is it?)

  About the Author:

  Bret Lee Hart, a second generation Floridian, has spent the last twenty-five years in Marine construction; he is married and the father of two. His mother’s maiden name is Emerson, as in Ralph Waldo, and on his father’s side, Edgar Allen Poe can be found hanging on the family tree. With this bloodline of writers, and being named after Bret Harte from his western short stories, it was inevitable his imagination would find its way into print.

  The Half-Breed Gunslinger is the first book of this series. Many other adventures are soon to be unleashed from the storyteller's mind in different genres, such as Fantasy and the Paranormal.

  Be sure to watch for Hunter James Dolin: The Half-Breed Gunslinger – Book II, coming soon from Western Trail Blazer.

  Please visit Western Trail Blazer at

  westerntrailblazer.com