Killing Halfbreed

by Mason, Zack

  I broke.

  I finally broke.

  My spirit couldn’t bear the burden any longer. If it hadn’t been for my sins, He wouldn’t have died. Neither Joshua, nor Jesus.

  What did that mean? What could I do? I knew the dreaded answer. Nothing. How can you bring a man back to life again?

  You can’t. A man was dead because of my crimes. Actually, two men were dead because of my crimes.

  I could kill myself, but wouldn’t that make the sacrifice of their lives worthless? Was this hell? Was this how God punished sinners, by showing them their sins had killed another, but they could do nothing about it?

  I had no fix. No way out. What could I do?

  At long last, understanding pierced my cluttered, unlit mind. Somehow, God’s wrath was appeased by the selfless acts of those two men.

  But wasn’t He a God of love? Isn’t that what we’re always taught? Hadn’t I felt His love? Why would He do these things if He were a loving God? Why would he kill Miller, a boy who loved Him, in exchange for some rotten, no-good like me?

  It was the only way He could show His love and still have me take my sin seriously. My crimes had caused death. God had miraculously provided me with a way to have a new life, and not pay the penalty of my sins myself.

  I bowed my head in submission. I finally understood. Deep in my heart, I accepted His gift. There is a tremendous warmth which accompanies the knowledge God is smiling at you.

  Poor Josh Miller.

  He died to teach me this truth, how God had provided a way to return to Him. What respect I held for that young man now.

  The visions were whisked from my mind like vapors in the face of the wind. The breeze flowing across the mesa ceased. I lifted my face, but I was alone atop the bluff. My praying was finished.

  I felt light and clean, cleaner than I’d felt in a long time, and I wanted to jump up and dance.

  Instead, I climbed back down the bluff, made camp, and bedded down for the night.

  ***

  At dawn, I packed my gear and loaded the horse. I wanted an early start, before the sun grew too hot.

  I swung into the saddle, but stopped short of spurring my mount eastward.

  Just as the Apache chief had said, I’d found the mesa in the desert. I’d found God up there.

  I felt renewed, clean even, but what should I do next? Something strong was pulling me back to the top of that mesa. I was supposed to learn something more up there.

  ***

  I climbed those rocks again. This time, I walked all the way to the center of the mesa — I hadn’t made it much past the edge before. An invisible hand compelled me to kneel once more. Being in God’s presence made you weak in the knees. Who can stand before Him?

  The breeze was slight. It rolled a few of the tiniest pebbles around in unpredictable lines. I closed my eyes and imagined it was God’s touch I felt across my face.

  The wind’s strength grew. I opened my eyes.

  Dark grey clouds were tumbling and rolling in from the mountains very rapidly. They boiled with the ferocity of a major storm.

  I’d never seen anything like it in the desert. This storm was of God. My gut said run, find shelter, hide from the tempestuous mass, but my knees stayed glued to the ground. Lightning flashed brilliantly, one fearsome bolt after another. Thunder boomed, echoing across the desert floor. I couldn’t move, and the storm loomed ever closer.

  Then, it was right over me with hard, biting rain pelting my skin. Its cold sting drew deep shivers. Lightning seared some rocks ahead of me, shattering them into shards. I was momentarily blinded by the flash as ragged splinters flew in all directions.

  My heart fluttered a mile a minute, yet I was helpless. The blast of lightning had burned large brown spots in my vision, and its thunder pounded so loud, it rattled my chest with power.

  I saw Joshua Miller again.

  No! Would I be forever plagued by visions of his limp body swinging from the gallows? Would I never be released from the guilt of this horror? I thought I’d been forgiven. Wasn’t it over?

  Next, I saw Tom Logan’s body laying in dark blood on the saloon floor, onlookers standing over him. I saw Jinny Logan weeping and clinging to her mother, her heart broken for a father she’d never see again.

  I watched her mother’s face which seemed so impassive at first glance, but was really lined with fear and grief.

  I saw Marlby O’Connell standing in the street in Cottonwood, facing me, his body slumping, about to fall, my bullet in his chest, deep redness spreading over his shirt where it’d hit.

  I saw men broken and bleeding in the box canyon on my ranch. Would-be rustlers who would not live to steal another day. I saw men with arms crushed by rocks, legs pinned. Blood covered the floor of the entrance to the canyon. Some wounded moaned and cried. I saw a man whose skull had broken open.

  I wanted to vomit.

  In the other entrance, I saw men who seemed asleep, except for the blood coming from their ears. Then, I saw Henry Tadd. I was surprised to see he’d been among the rustlers, and grieved to see he was dead and horribly disfigured. The stampeding cows had downed him and his horse, cutting them to ribbons with their sharp hooves.

  I saw some men wheeling his body in a wagon up to the Logan ranch and I watched as Jinny Logan understood who was dead. Grief burst forth in a torrent of tears. She’d been hurt twice beyond comfort.

  I saw Elizabeth. Beautiful Elizabeth, with her smooth, white cheeks and lively brown eyes. I saw her dying in the street. The bullet which had been meant for my heart had struck hers instead, spilling her precious blood into the dust. I couldn’t reverse that flow.

  “But God,” I pled, “Marlby wouldn’t let me alone...those men were rustling me...and I...I was going to lose everything. I didn’t know Henry Tadd was there...Logan should have known better...I didn’t have time to stop Elizabeth….”

  Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth. Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth.

  “But what about the criminal behind all of this? Somebody’s directing all the rustling, somebody else shot Elizabeth, not me. What about them? Aren’t they more guilty? Why is it my fault?”

  Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth. Tom, Joshua, Jinny, Marlby, Henry, Elizabeth.

  I couldn’t escape it. God had laid this guilt on me without mercy. Lighting flashed in front of me again, clearing the vision, but I couldn’t erase the residue of those images from my mind’s eye.

  Could guilt kill a man? Their blood was on my head. He was right. It was my fault. How many men were dead because of my quick gun or rash plans? How many women wept over their lost loved ones because of me? What had I contributed to this world, but death and blood?

  Everything stilled once more save that original gentle breeze. Shakily, I made my way back down the cliff, feeling worse than I’d ever felt in my life, not understanding God’s purpose.

  ***

  I camped that night, completely exhausted. I didn’t really understand what was happening to me, but I knew I was involved in some kind of a spiritual battle with God.

  He was trying to teach me something, but it was very confusing. The first day, I thought He’d forgiven me of my sins. I’d felt an unusual lightness of being and cleanliness of heart like never before in my life. Something like that could only be supernatural.

  But on the second day, He’d forced me to relive all the devastation I’d wrought. So, what in the world did He want?

  Was I forgiven or not? Was I supposed to do penance? Go back and try to fix what I’d done? How?

  Before Joshua Miller, I hadn’t given God much thought. I’d always believed He was up there somewhere, but too distant, not really caring. Then, His hand had undeniably and miraculously stepped in to save my life.

  At this point, as far as I was concerned, there was no denying He acted in this world. Still, over the course of the past year, I hadn’t been sure if He actually cared about me or if He was just torturing me. Why did H
e have to be so unclear?

  I had to get back up on that rock tomorrow.

  It would probably drain me again. Best to get some rest.

  ***

  The third day, I climbed back up. The weather was peaceful, no storms in sight — except in my spirit.

  My mind reeled in confusion. I was an unspiritual man suddenly thrust into a strange, spiritual world. I was in over my head.

  I moved to the center of the mesa again, but this time when I knelt, it was of my own volition.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  I waited some more.

  The stillness was complete. The breeze of the previous days was barely detectable. Maybe God had nothing more to say to me. After a few minutes, I gave up and started to stand.

  Then, a thought, not quite a vision of the same class as the days before, but a simple picture entered my mind.

  I saw myself in my mind, but I was a walking dead man. Parts of my flesh were rotting. In places, I could see inside my own body. The rot ran all the way through to muscle and sinew; it wasn’t just limited to my skin.

  Then, the rot faded until it was invisible to the eye. On the outside I looked perfectly healthy and whole again. I saw myself facing Bill Hartford and his hands out on my ranch. It was a scene I’d lived several times.

  Hatred was written across my face. While I watched, I saw the hatred marking my soul, blackening it, rotting it. Then, that new rot faded away until it was invisible also. It remained, but was just unseen.

  I saw a lamb, an unblemished lamb, and I saw a man placing that lamb on an ancient stone altar. The man took a knife and slit the innocent lamb’s throat. Dark blood ran down the altar’s top and collected in pools at its base.

  Next, I saw myself kneeling on the mesa, and I understood I was seeing myself that first day up here. I was kneeling before God and I was asking Him for forgiveness. As I did, He poured the lamb’s blood over my head, though I didn’t feel it.

  After He did, I looked cleaner, purer. The blood was scarlet, but it too faded into me, penetrating into the rot. I could no longer see the blood. I felt, though, that the rot was gone. I was alive!

  Throughout this “vision,” what stuck in my mind the most was the deep red blood flowing from the wound in that innocent lamb. That image burned into me the knowledge that an innocent being had suffered for me.

  Innocent blood.

  God had forgiven me of my sins that first day on the mesa. My lightness-of-being had not been imagined, but I had taken my own sins too lightly, and God had corrected me yesterday by emphasizing to me the full weight of them. I vowed I would never forget again.

  I wished I had a Bible or something. I didn’t know anything about this religious stuff. I wanted to know what God wanted from me now.

  ***

  I decided to go up on that mesa again for a fourth day. I wasn’t feeling compelled any more, just thirsty for more. I hoped He would not turn silent again.

  That day, no images came to mind, just a long series of thoughts and understanding. I won’t bore you with all the details of what I was shown, but I’ll give you the gist of it.

  I considered the events of the past year, and understanding came to me about what I should have done in each situation instead of how I’d actually handled it. I was shamed to see how far off I’d been in all my choices, but at least now I had peace, finally understanding. I tried to learn as much as I could from these examples so I hopefully wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes.

  The desert captivated me for a few more days after that. I alternated between climbing the mesa and just riding around the flat lands on my horse, thinking. In my entire life, I’d never had so much free time.

  Then, it was time to go.

  I am a poor wayfaring stranger

  Traveling through this world of woe

  Yet there's no sickness, no toil or danger

  In that bright world to which I go

  I'm going there to see my father

  I'm going there no more to roam

  I'm only going over to Jordan

  I'm only going over home

  Yes, Lord

  I know dark clouds will gather around me

  I know my way is rough and steep

  Yet beauteous fields lie just before me

  Where God's redeemed their vigils keep

  I'm going there to see my mother

  She said she'd meet me when I come

  I'm only going over to Jordan

  I'm only going over to home

  Goin' home now

  Oh, somebody show me the way home

  "Wayfaring Stranger"

  As surely as I’d felt drawn to the top of that mesa day after day, now I knew it was time to return to Cottonwood. I was a rabbit heading into a pit of vipers, and I didn’t even know who all the vipers were.

  The old me would have preferred to go as a mongoose rather than a rabbit, but my fierce methods had so far only created more vipers to fight. I’d have to trust in God for protection. He’d already stepped in and saved me from death a number of times. I figured He would probably continue to do so, at least until my reason for being here was done, whatever that was.

  This time, I was determined to not leave that town until I figured out who had killed my brother and Elizabeth. It was a pretty sure bet they were one and the same.

  Mentally, I made a list of the suspects:

  Bill Hartford

  Carlton Andrews

  Sheriff McCraigh

  Rob Murphy

  The Talons

  Jim Dunagan

  Renee DuBois

  Michael Byers

  Hartford made no attempts to hide his hatred for me. He’d formed the original posse in spite of the Sheriff McCraigh’s objections after the hanging. He’d repeatedly invaded my property and attacked me there, and he had a vested interest in the water spring on my ranch. If I ever decided to restrict his access to it, he’d be in trouble, and he knew it.

  It could be that he knew about the gold too. That could explain why after letting my land remain unclaimed for so many years, he was so desperate all of a sudden to see me off of it.

  I was convinced the gold had something to do with everything.

  Carlton Andrews was a man who worked in the shadows and was another prime suspect. He’d fabricated a false mortgage document in a ploy to evict me from the ranch. Luckily, that hadn’t worked, and I hadn’t seen much of him since, but then, he wouldn’t try such a direct approach again. He was the kind who would normally work behind the scenes if he were involved.

  The only motive I could come up with for him was, again, the possible knowledge of the gold.

  I couldn’t ignore the cattle rustling though. The rustlers had been directly involved with my brother’s removal, and they’d attacked my herds hard. I was pretty sure Rob Murphy was the head of the rustlers, or at least one of their leaders. He could be running the show himself, or Bill Hartford could be directing him.

  The Talons had been in on the rustling as well, that much was for sure. They could be just part of the gang, or they could be running it. I was sure they held a grudge from when I’d shown them up my first day in town.

  Yet, they weren’t the type to let grudges go unavenged. Not unless they had a vested interest in something more important. Maybe they knew about the gold too. That could also explain the attack on my brother.

  Sherrif McCraigh had made it clear he despised me for killing Logan, but he had also defended me several times against unjust attacks by others. Could he really be that honorable, or was he just drawing possible suspicion away from himself?

  I felt I could write Renee DuBois off the list, at least as a ringleader. She’d hurt me bad. Because of her — and myself — Elizabeth was dead. Renee had lured me into that trap, but she hadn’t pulled the trigger. She was working with whoever it was. Maybe I could find them by watching her.

  Then, several people had given me reason to believe the vicious rumors started about
my past had been initiated by the newspaperman, Mike Byers. I had no idea what his motive could be. Could he be behind it all, or, like Renee, was he also working with whoever it was, and if so, why? What did he have against me if he didn’t know about the gold?

  I was certain there was one man behind it all, and all leads pointed toward the gold. If I could figure out who knew about that, I would have a prime suspect on my hands.

  Last of all, I considered Jim Dunagan. He was a prominent rancher who needed my spring just like Hartford. Once again, he could also know about the gold. He was a quiet man who like to stay out of the limelight. Was that his natural personality, or was he trying not to draw attention to himself?

  Unfortunately, there was one other possibility. It could be somebody I hadn’t considered or didn’t even know yet, and that meant it could be anybody. An unknown could easily shoot me in the back while I was still unsuspecting. I would have to keep my guard up with everyone.

  Then, a crazy idea hit me. Cappy. Cappy, the mysterious miner nobody had ever seen. If anybody might know about the gold, it would be him. Maybe his hermit-like ways were for a reason, and not just some eccentric habit. If he turned out to be more than a figment of Pick’s imagination, he would jump to the top of my list.

  Then again, no one had ever seen Cappy. Maybe he and Pick were one in the same. Pick seemed to know a little something about everybody in the valley. I would have to keep my eye on him too.

  I packed my saddlebags and mounted up. Once and for all, it was time to find this man who was ruining my life. I was curious to see how Cottonwood would receive me, but life is an adventure, isn’t it?

  ***

  Riding into town, I was tense, ready for anything. Cottonwood was like enemy territory.

  My worries were for naught, however. The streets were deserted when I got there, which was unusual, but not unheard of.

  Good. The longer I went undetected, the better.

  I pulled my horse up to the hitching post and dismounted. I turned around and almost jumped out of my skin to see Sheriff McCraigh standing not two feet from me. I certainly hadn’t seen him coming. I swore under my breath. I’d been keenly searching for anybody as I came in, and it wasn’t a good sign that the Sheriff had been able to sneak up on me like that.