Killing Halfbreed

by Mason, Zack

  It wasn't very hard to find where one of the shooters had stood. The buzzards gave him away. He still lay there, shot through the stomach, dead.

  That meant one of the shots I’d heard had killed this man. I recognized him as a Hartford man, but I couldn't remember his name. He was just a regular roper.

  It soon became apparent to me that it was the first shot which had struck this man. Upon being hit, he'd either jerked off the second shot, intending it for whoever had killed him, but instead had nearly hit me, or he'd been trying for me in the first place and the first shot had thrown off his aim. I suspected the latter since he worked for Hartford.

  That meant the other shooter had been trying to protect me and had probably saved my life. I confirmed this an hour later while searching the opposite slope of the enclave. There I found some sign left by the second shooter. He had indeed been opposite the dead man and could have easily killed me where I'd hid, but he hadn't. This was the second time I’d been unexpectedly saved by a hidden rifleman.

  The identity of my savior intrigued me more than that of whoever had tried to kill me. It was common knowledge most people in the valley wanted me dead, but somebody actually wanted me alive? Why?

  Again, nothing that had just happened really changed my plans any. The main threat to me seemed to have been eliminated, so I packed my gear and rode on after the rustlers. I’d just be a little more cautious from now on.

  A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, catching in my eyebrow, the wetness of it a strange, annoying sensation. I unconsciously wiped my brow and glanced up at the glaring sun, its heat overwhelming. The sky was a hard blue, crystal clear, and yet not one cloud hinting at respite was in sight.

  Not just the sun, but the day itself was unbearable, and terribly familiar. Looking ahead in the dusty street, my heart stopped, dread paralyzing me where I stood. The gallows. Again. The rough wooden structure stood tall and straight and mean under the burning yellow sun. The crowd was there, jeering, almost snarling in bloodthirsty glee.

  They were leading him up the stairs again. I had to stop it. I tried to run for the gallows, but my feet felt like they were made of lead. I called upon all my strength to move them, but I felt like I was swimming in molasses. The gallows seemed to recede a step back for every forward one I took.

  Desperation rose up. I had to stop them. I tried to yell. "Stop!” my mind cried, “You can't, He's innocent! Innocent blood!" But my throat was closed and dry, and no sound escaped. I choked on the dust filling my lungs.

  I couldn't quit, I had to stop them. Suddenly, the gallows’ stairs were right before me. Relief swept through me in one brief wave, relief that dissipated as soon as I saw they were already slipping the noose around his neck.

  "Stop!" This time I was able to actually yell it. The executioner blocked my path, mocking laughter in his eyes. Black stubble lined his fat jowls and dirt smeared his cheeks. I wanted to beat that hateful smile off his ugly face with all my being, but all I could do was fall to my knees in the hot dirt and weep as I heard the trap door crash open. The rope twanged low as it snapped taut.

  He swung in the breeze, his rope creaking in a slow, repeated moan. The sheriff stood on the scaffold next to his body, smiling at me, hating me, mocking me. His countenance took on an evil cast. "You're to blame," he said. No matter where I turned, I couldn't escape his glare. He was everywhere. And that creaking. The rope just kept creaking. Stop the creaking!

  I awoke with a start.

  The creaking of the swaying rope still echoed in my ears, but it had been another sound which had wakened me. Quickly, I shook clear the sleepy cobwebs from my mind.

  The stars were uncommonly bright, mainly because it was a new moon and darker than normal. My horse stood alert, ears lifted, listening for something.

  Sometimes, if a man waited for more warning than that, it could be the death of him. Silently, I slipped from my camp into the darkness and peered into the void beyond, seeking some noise which would give away the intruder's location.

  It could be just a bobcat or coyote, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Shoot, a bobcat or coyote was plenty dangerous as it was. I was just preoccupied with the armed kind of vermin at the moment.

  On the opposite side of the fire and to the left, some dry brush cracked. Too heavy to be an animal. Stealthily, I circled a little to the right to put the fire squarely between myself and the intruder, blinding whoever it was to my position.

  "I've got you covered, now come on in toward the fire where I can see you. Keep your hands high if you don't want some decorative holes in your shirt."

  Slowly, from the shadows, emerged a slight figure with their hands raised above their head. He seemed cool and relaxed, in spite of the fact he was being threatened.

  "I'm not chasin' you, hombre, I saw the fire, thought you might have some coffee to spare. If you ain't takin' to the idea, I can head on my way."

  From that distance, I couldn't see the man very clearly with only firelight for illumination. His voice was a bit high and raspy, almost growling. Still, I didn't feel threatened, so I holstered my gun and approached him.

  "If two strangers can't have coffee together peaceably in this day and age, then I don't know what the world is coming to." I held out my hand to reassure the man. He took it.

  "Well, I was beginning to wonder," the stranger replied. I watched him sit lightly upon a rock. He moved with a grace uncommon to most men, and it reminded me of the cat-like movements of a gunslinger. I thought I better keep a close eye on him.

  "Name's Jake Halfbreed."

  "Will Madison."

  “I don’t have any coffee brewing at the moment, but I can make some.”

  “No worry. It’s your fire, I’ll make the coffee.”

  "If you don't mind me askin', what brings you out this way, Madison?"

  He took out his tin and started a pot brewing. There’s something about the rich smell of strong coffee that awakens the senses.

  "Nah, I don't mind. Truth is, I don't know myself. Just passin' up the trail if you know what I mean. Not really heading for any place in particular, just driftin’. You?"

  I didn't want to give away my real purpose to this stranger. For all I knew, he could be one of the rustlers backtracking to catch me off guard.

  "I'm heading up north, looking to get some more cattle." Half-truths could be strategic.

  "Any place in particular?" He gave me an odd, curious look, which heightened my sense of caution again. It wasn't customary to ask another man such prying questions on the frontier. Being too curious could get a man killed.

  "I figured I'd head up Colorado way to look."

  "You think you might need any help bringing 'em down the trail?" He looked hopeful. "I certainly ain't got nothing better to do."

  "Well, I'm not actually going to be buying that many." My tone was flat, trying not to leave any possible opening for him, but then I surprised myself and added, "I could use some company though. Another hand would make it easier to deal with Indians and such."

  I wasn’t sure why I'd offered to let him tag along. In spite of my previous concerns, something about him made me feel like I could trust him, even if I hadn’t laid eyes on him before. He gave me the impression he was a man to ride the trail with, and the Lord knew I might need help further up it when I actually caught my rustlers.

  "I'd pay you of course, though it wouldn't be much."

  "Nah, don't worry about it. Trail gets lonely sometimes, and I got plenty to tide me over. Like I said, I ain't headed nowhere in particular, might as well go nowhere with company than nowhere alone."

  We talked a bit more, and then slept soundly until the sun rose.

  ***

  Will Madison didn't exude a lot of physical strength, but I detected a quiet confidence in his spirit. I felt comfortable with him at once, but at the same time, he seemed to be hiding something from me. Some subjects he just refused to talk about, not that he spoke that much mind you. He liked hi
s privacy.

  I didn't sense this was for any sinister reason, so I didn't press the issue, just walked lightly sometimes and chalked it up to some odd quirk in his personality.

  His voice was a little higher than usual, which had probably got him in a lot of fights growing up. He certainly had a fast draw to compensate for it though. I wondered if that draw of his might have developed because of past harassment for his size or voice. I asked him about it, but he just shrugged, letting me draw my own conclusions.

  He had a wiry strength in spite of his size and was one of the most durable men I'd ever met. We rode the dusty trail all day long without me hearing a single complaint out of his mouth. At the end of each day, my backside was screaming at me to stop, but if he was hurting too, he never let on. Not one to be shown up, I kept my mouth shut of whining. I guess he could’ve been doing the same thing.

  That first day we rode together, I felt obliged to tell Will about the rustlers I was following. It wouldn’t have been right to lead him into a dangerous situation without knowing what was coming. It’s always better to put the truth out there from the start and let the cards fall where they may.

  To my surprise, he just nodded as if to show me it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. He’d decided ‘to ride the trail with me for a while, and no good-for-nothing rustlers were going to change his mind’, as he’d put it.

  We tracked the rustlers for several more days. Luckily, there hadn’t been any rains to wash the sign away, but if we were catching up to them, we couldn’t tell it. With them driving a herd, they should have been slowed down considerably. They must have been pushing the limit. They had to know we were on their back trail.

  On the third day, we found new tracks which crossed the trail of my cows. The unshod hoof prints of the newcomers could only mean Indians.

  Probably Apache. The trail split off again right away, the herd going with the Indians and the rustlers continuing north by themselves.

  We had to make a decision: follow the rustlers or my cows?

  We rode in the direction the Indians had gone.

  It wasn't too long before we crossed a ridge and spotted the Apache camp. They must have seen us about the same time, because five riders broke out from among the others to meet us. They rode bareback with confidence, their long raven hair bouncing in the wind. No war paint on their faces bode well, but it could also mean we just took them by surprise. As they drew near, my back tingled in apprehension. Apaches were not ones to mess with lightly.

  Will and I reined in our horses side by side, well outside the camp. My horse stammered about a little, but I tugged back on his bridle and settled him down. I noticed Will had not drawn his weapon. Neither had I for that matter, but Will’s hand was resting on the grip of his rifle.

  The Apaches pulled their horses up about thirty feet short of us, staring blankly. I raised my hand in a gesture of peace.

  They seemed to accept that. I was relieved to discover one of them spoke a bit of English.

  I didn't have much hope for rescuing my cattle at this point. Even if they hadn't slaughtered them yet, there was no way they’d lose face in front of their people by giving the cows up to a couple of white men.

  Still, it never hurt to try, so I explained the situation, how the cows they'd recently acquired had not belonged to the men who’d traded them. The Indians merely shrugged, making it clear they didn't really care. Their bored expressions seemed to ask if that was the only reason I had bothered them. Their contempt was obvious.

  Then and there, I gave up on my cattle. No matter how good Will and I were, we weren't going to be able to take them back from an entire Apache camp

  I’d have to kiss those cows goodbye, but I sure wasn't going to let the rustlers get away with it.

  We asked for a description of the men, but their response was more blank facial expressions. I scrounged in my saddle bag and found a box of ammo, which I tossed over to them. An Apache in the center of the group caught it one-handed, and they examined it closely. They were satisfied with the payment.

  They proceeded to describe the men and their horses in great detail. From their description, I recognized a couple of the Talon gang, along with some others I didn't think I knew. They said there’d been seven of them, which matched the tracks we’d been following. Their description of the horses was even more detailed. Apaches valued horses a lot more than they did white men.

  Will and I set back on the trail. I'd be durned if I was going to let them get away with stealing my cattle and trading them away. I had a feeling we'd catch up shortly.

  It was a comfort having Will alongside. The whole time I was talking to those Apaches, he never took his hand off that rifle.

  ***

  Will and I stumbled across their camp about nine in the morning. It was completely abandoned.

  I looked around warily as an uneasy breeze blew through the rustler’s extinguished camp. Its whispers seemed to bear a message of caution.

  Will was alert as well. He crouched, trying to spy out all the angles without looking too obvious. I kicked the remains of the fire. The thieves had been here within the past few hours — the ashes were still hot.

  Suddenly, I wanted nothing better than to get out of there, under cover or not, I didn't care. Something didn't feel right. We were too vulnerable, too visible.

  I motioned at Will to move to the horses so we could leave. A flash of sunlight glinted off a rifle barrel up in the cliffs above and behind him. The owner was trying to get into a better position to fire at us and doing his best to stay out of sight.

  "Will," I whispered, “Rifleman, twelve o’clock.”

  "You got one too, Jake."

  We stood facing each other for a moment and somehow we both understood the other's thoughts without speaking. I twisted deftly and swept my rifle from its scabbard, pausing only to aim at the gunman on the ridge. Will duplicated my effort, and it was hard to tell which of us was swifter. Our rifles barked in unison, taking the ambushers completely off guard. Both targets yelped in either pain or surprise, I couldn't tell which.

  I dove to the ground for cover. Will scrambled around the horses. A third gunman whipped off a hurried shot which spewed up dirt to my right. I fired a couple back his way but couldn't tell if I’d hit home. I wasn't real worried about him though. From the sound of it, he carried a pistol, not a rifle.

  There were a few more sporadic shots aimed our way, but nothing threatening. We'd cut the ambush off before it had got started.

  We let the quiet set in for a good while and then decided they'd left. Searching the ridge line, we found Will had killed his target. The man’s dusty body lay in a twisted angle. Blood on an opposing ledge testified that I'd at least wounded mine, but he'd been able to get away with the third, unknown shooter.

  Will grinned at me as if to brag about who was the better shot. I was a little put off by that. I didn't like being shown up.

  Will convinced me to head back to the ranch. He pointed out, rightly, that my cows were gone for good. We were just seeking revenge now, and putting our lives in danger to do it.

  He also pointed out that I still had thirty good cows waiting for me back on my ranch which needed watching, and which might get rustled as well if I delayed my return much longer.

  The wisdom in what he said was clear, so we headed home. Will thought he might as well tag along, being that he didn't have anywhere else to go. Said he could help me out on the ranch.

  I told him I wouldn't be able to pay him anything, but he didn't care, said a man had to keep busy, even if he didn't get paid. I thought that was mighty foolish, but mama always taught me not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  We worked hard the rest of the summer and into the fall. We finished expanding the watering hole. It was a good spring, so by the time we were done, it could handle thousands of cattle — if we were ever to have that many. Doesn’t hurt to dream.

  Will impressed me with his dedication. I've never seen an
ybody work so hard for nothing.

  ***

  The sun was hot in the brilliant, blue sky. I mopped the sweat from my brow. The beautiful weather mirrored my spirit.

  Things finally seemed to be going my way, and I was pleased with our progress. We'd gotten a lot done and fairly quickly. Things always did seem to go faster when you had help. The ranch was not only in tip-top shape, but it was improved to boot.

  On top of that, I thought I might have a new lead on Ben's disappearance. The Apaches had mentioned that one of the rustlers had a horse with a white star on his forehead. I’d bumped into one of Dunagan’s men yesterday, who thought he’d seen one of the men working on Logan’s ranch with a horse like that.

  I planned to go to town tomorrow to talk to Michael Byers, the newspaperman, about it. He seemed to know just about everybody and he’d been receptive to me so far, at least more so than anyone else.

  As I plotted my next moves, I spied a plume of dust rising up from the road that led to Cottonwood.

  Somebody was coming to see us.

  It looked like just one wagon rather than a group of horses, so it didn’t appear to be a threat. Will spotted the dust cloud too and moved to my side to await the visitor.

  It turned out to be Carlton Andrews. I noted the dusty trail hadn't seemed to sully his immaculate suit any.

  "Ho, there, Talbot!" He waved a hand in my direction and tipped his hat at Will.

  "I hoped to be able to find you out here today. Glad to see my trip was not in vain."

  "Halfbreed’s the name. What can I do for you?"

  "Halfbreed, eh?” He looked puzzled. “Well, you asked me to bring you a copy of the mortgage agreement your brother had signed once I found it. I had misplaced it apparently, which is why I'm delayed in bringing it, but here it is!

  "As you can see, we paid him a sum of several thousand dollars in the form of a loan, with the ranch property being used as securing collateral."