The Half Breed

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I don’t do no fist fighting, neither, Salar,’ warned the Kid in a gentle tone which did not fool the Mexican. ‘So leave her lie, afore I spoils them nice lace cuffs.’

  Salar removed his hand. He was proud of the lace cuffs and did not want them torn, nor his wrist cut to the bone.

  Scanlan forced himself upwards against the savage, battering fists, bracing himself against the wall and snarling threats through his bloody lips. He forgot his gun, forgot everything to get at this small Texan who was smashing blows at him, rocking his head from side to side. He got one foot into Dusty’s stomach and pushed hard, hurling him across the office. Dusty slammed into the wall and bounced forward as, with a roar of rage, Scanlan charged, meaning to smash Dusty by brute strength.

  For an instant Dickson thought he should help Dusty. Standing transfixed, amazed by the strength of the small Texan and the fury of Dusty’s attack, he saw the huge man charge and expected to see the small Texan smashed to the ground by sheer weight.

  Dusty went straight forward, as if to meet the rush. At the last moment he swerved, caught Scanlan’s wrist in his hands, and threw him at the wall. He was out of all control and crashed hard enough to jar the reward posters from their hook. Scanlan staggered back dazed but Dusty was on him again, turning him and sinking a fist almost wrist deep into his stomach. Scanlan croaked in pain and bent forward to meet the other punch Dusty was throwing, a beautiful left uppercut, timed to perfection to meet the downswinging jaw. The huge man was lifted erect, his arms flailing wildly as he went over and landed flat on his back.

  Still Dusty had not finished. The sight of the dead dog, wantonly and needlessly killed, filled him with a cold and murderous rage. The Kid watched, he had never seen his friend so angry and hoped Dusty would remember that the deadly ju-jitsu and karate techniques, taught to him by Ole Devil Hardin’s Japanese servant, could easily kill when used with full strength.

  Gripping the front of Scanlan’s shirt Dusty dragged the man into a sitting position and slammed home another punch, smashing his bead to the floor. The big gunman was limp and unconscious but Dusty hardly noticed. He pulled the man half erect once more and his fist smashed home. He took hold of the shirt for another blow but Dickson decided it was time to intervene.

  ‘Easy, Cap’n Fog,’ he said worriedly. ‘You’ll kill him if you keep hitting him like that.’

  Slowly the anger left Dusty’s eyes, the cold rage seeping out of him. He let go of Scanlan’s shirt and the man flopped back limply to the ground. Then Dusty straightened up, his hands were clenched but he opened them, moving the fingers to get them working again. He was breathing heavily as he stepped clear of Scanlan and looked at the dog. Then his eyes went to Salar and there was cold, bitter hate in the gaze.

  ‘Whose dog was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Mine,’ replied Mort Lewis, there was deep grief in his voice. ‘I’ve had him for years. He was about the only friend I ever had. If I get half a chance I’ll kill Scanlan for doing that.’

  ‘He’s not far from being dead now,’ Dickson put in grimly. ‘And, by gawd, he asked for it.’

  Dusty swung to face Salar. ‘Pick the dog up,’ he ordered.

  ‘It is beneath the dignity of a—’

  ‘Mister,’ Dusty’s voice dropped to hardly more than a whisper. ‘You pick up that dog and carry it out of the door.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ replied Salar.

  The Ysabel Kid knew these race-proud Spanish Mexicans, they would rather die than submit to something beneath their dignity. Salar would willingly face Dusty with a gun, even if he knew he would die, rather than submit to an indignity. The knife point moved, dropping and before Salar realized had slit the holster from top to bottom. Before the Mexican could move his gun was gone, held by the Ysabel Kid. The Kid nodded to Dusty, knowing his friend could handle things.

  ‘You’ll either pick him up or I’ll give you worse than I gave the other two.’

  For an instant Salar stood immobile. He could face death without flinching, risk his life for his perverted sense of honour. But he could not risk being beaten into a bloody, marked hulk like Scanlan. Salar was proud of his good looks, he would not risk having them battered by the hard fists of the small Tejano. There was hate and worse on the man’s face as he walked forward and lifted the dog. He carried the dog out through the rear door of the jail and found there was worse to come.

  ‘Get a shovel,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I want a grave digging.’

  Before Salar could decide if even a savage beating was worth the final and highest blow to his dignity there was an interruption. He was saved from making the choice by the Kid, looking out of the door.

  ‘We’ve got us some trouble, Dusty,’ said the Kid. ‘Regular deputation for the sheriff. All righteous, upright and soberly solid citizens.’

  Dusty turned and walked back into the jail. Salar looked down at the dog, then at the loosened dog hairs which marked his elegant black coat. His hate for Dusty Fog grew by the minute, swelling to an almost maniacal rage. Then sense returned to him. He felt the slashed edges of the holster and knew his revenge would be delayed until he could get a new holster and make practice with it. He was fast with a gun, but only when drawn from a holster. He’d always used one and knew that any attempt at drawing from his waistband would be fatal for him. He must wait, have a new holster made, learn its hang and ways, and then take this accursed pair of Tejanos who had humiliated him.

  The office was quiet as Dusty and the Kid went back. The Kid picked his rifle up, ignoring the two men who were just beginning to move. He glanced at the cell and gave Mort a reassuring nod, then joined Dusty at the side of the door, listening to what was going on outside.

  The men out front were a mixed looking bunch, a fair cross-section of the town and county population. There were solid citizens wearing expensive or near expensive broadcloth jackets and the latest town-style trousers. There were cowhands from the local spreads; cheery, happy-go-lucky young men who were along to see what was happening. There were the saloon loafers who’d made up the posse and others of their kind. The rest were poor business men, trying to scratch a living in the town, a couple of poorly dressed professional gamblers and an odd assortment of less definable men, men who wore the cowhand dress, but were not cowhands, or Dusty did not know the signs.

  The leaders of the deputation appeared to be a tall, handsome young man wearing expensive range clothes; a range-land dandy, arrogant, successful and used to having his own way, and a shorter, thick-set townsman, the best dressed of the townsmen in the crowd. He was a pompous-looking, well-padded man, his side-whiskers and heavy moustache outward and visual proofs, as was his suit and the heavy gold watch chain across his vest, of his success and affluence.

  The handsome man watched Dickson step from the office glanced at the shotgun resting across the sheriff’s arm and dropped his hand to fondle the butt of the pearl handled Army Colt in his holster.

  ‘You brought the half-breed in?’ he asked, his voice tough, the voice of an important man dealing with an unimportant official.

  ‘I brought Mort Lewis in,’ agreed Dickson.

  ‘We’ve come for him, Jerome.’

  ‘There’ll be no lynching, Stewart,’ warned Dickson.

  ‘Lynching, sheriff?’ Dave Stewart replied, looking indignant for the benefit of the crowd. ‘We don’t aim to lynch him. We’re going to give him a trial.’

  ‘Without a judge, or counsel for his defence?’

  ‘Mr. Humboldt here’s a justice of the peace, he can take the trial,’ Stewart scoffed. ‘We’ll give the breed a fair trial, then hang him.’

  ‘Not so fast, David,’ the other man put in hastily. ‘We’ll see he gets a fair trial, Jerome. Even a half-breed gets fair treatment in our town.’

  ‘I’m holding Mort for questioning, pending inquiry into Dexter Chass’s killing,’ Dickson answered. ‘There’s not enough evidence yet, not to bring a murder charge against Mort Lewis!’

  ‘We�
�ll be the judge of that,’ Stewart growled. ‘Won’t we, boys?’

  There was a low rumble of agreement from a section of the crowd. It was the starting rumble of a lynch mob but as yet not more than half of the men present would be willing to take the law into their own hands.

  ‘Mort’s held for questioning, nothing more. There’ll be no trial.’

  Stewart smiled, his face hard and vicious. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of trying to stop us, would you, Jerome?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  There was something in the way Dickson spoke which warned the men in the crowd that they would have to come openly against the sheriff if they wanted to take the prisoner. Many were willing to go along with the ‘trial’ thereby gaining spurious legality for the proceedings. This same faction were not willing to gain even the good will of Dave Stewart and take the prisoner by force. Then the affair would carry the taint of a lynch mob and be against the law.

  Dave Stewart knew the way the crowd was thinking. He knew that some of the loafers and hardcases would follow him, but they were not the people he must have behind him. He needed the support of the solid and influential citizens before he could stir up any outright attack on the sheriff; the support of the men who could cover the incident up after it was done; for their reputations and their necks, they would be compelled to keep quiet. He must go slowly, move the crowd gradually up to the point where they would not back down.

  ‘Have it your way, Jerome,’ he said, knowing every man in the crowd was waiting on his words. ‘Folks feel bad about letting a half-breed kill a nice old man like Dexter Chass. Shoot him in the back and leave him out at his house like that. Why, old Dexter might have laid there for days, suffering, with that bullet in him and nobody’d have known. And you telling us that you’re not going to let justice be done?’

  ‘I’m telling you that I’m not satisfied that Mort’s guilty.’

  ‘What’d you want? Him to admit it?’ Stewart replied. ‘Let us talk to him for a spell, we’ll soon get the truth out of him.’

  ‘Mort stays where he is,’ Dickson answered.

  ‘You wouldn’t use that shotgun, not against your friends, Jerome,’ Stewart mocked. ‘You aren’t going to shoot down your good friends to save that—’

  ‘Any man who tries to take a prisoner from me’s no friend of mine,’ Dickson replied, ‘You’d best break it up and go to your homes.’

  ‘You’re only one man, Jerome,’ warned Stewart. ‘One man, a man the town appointed to defend them and their property from murderers like that half-breed. Now, one man’s not going to stop us seeing justice done. Is he, boys?’

  Put that way it was a challenge to the citizens; they had to stand up for their rights as freeborn Texans. They were mumbling among themselves, the more restless spirits preparing to take action. The odds were very good, one man against a crowd. Then the mumbles died as the jail door opened. It suddenly became more plain that it was three against the crowd.

  Dusty stepped out, moving to Dickson’s left side and stood with his hands resting at waist level, thumbs hooked in his belt. The Kid came out to the right side, looking meaner than hell. The old yellow boy held negligently in his right hand the buttplate resting on his hip and the muzzle pointing into the air. His right hand moved, flipping open the lever and closed it again, then he stood without a move. His voice was cold and sardonic as he spoke to the crowd.

  ‘Reckon you didn’t take the trail count close enough, mister. Try again.’

  ‘Who are they, Dickson?’ Stewart growled. He could feel his hardcase, saloon loafers fading away from him, weakening before the two handy-looking men who flanked the sheriff. With men like that to back him Dickson could inflict more than a little damage on the crowd.

  ‘Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid.’

  ‘Captain Fog,’ Stewart growled and the crowd repeated the names in a low rumble of sound. ‘You mean Dusty Fog?’

  ‘As ever there was,’ replied the Kid, his mocking eyes on the rancher. ‘You gents still fixing to take the prisoner?’

  Before Stewart could reply, the fattish, pompous-looking man by his side moved forward holding out his hand to Dusty trying to raise a welcoming smile which looked sincere.

  ‘Captain Fog,’ he said, his unctuous voice full of respectful greeting. ‘My name is Humboldt. I believe your Uncle asked you to come and see me on his behalf?’

  Dusty’s hands stayed where they were, he made no attempt to take the proffered hand. ‘That’s right. Uncle Devil sent me along to look into that idea of yours.’

  Humboldt coughed modestly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it most satisfactory—’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Dusty cut through the gushing words with his cold drawl. ‘You’d best tell it.’

  ‘Mort Lewis killed his neighbour,’ Humboldt replied. ‘We merely wanted to see that justice—’

  ‘You sure he did it?’ asked the Kid.

  ‘— er — I—’ Humboldt began, then faltered. It did not look as if Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid approved of their actions, and they were two men he needed for the successful fulfilment of his plans.

  ‘Sure we’re sure,’ Stewart growled. ‘The breed’s been feuding with poor old Dexter for years.’

  ‘You know what these half-breeds are, Cap’n,’ Humboldt went on, smiling ingratiatingly at the Kid. The dark young man was only an employee of Ole Devil Hardin but he was also reputed to be one of captain Fog’s closest friends. The small Texan might resent any snobbish objections to his friend, so the Kid rated very civil treatment. ‘You can’t trust any man with Indian blood, can you?’

  The mocking gleam in the Kid’s eyes grew more in evidence. ‘Was the hombre scalped as well as shot?’

  ‘Er — no. Not that I know of,’ replied Humboldt, clearly disappointed that he was unable to answer in the affirmative. ‘Why?’

  ‘You know what Injuns are,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Course, the hombre’d only be half scalped, seeing as Mort’s only half Injun.’

  The crowd were watching the three men on the porch. The cowhands staring with admiring eyes at a master of their trade a man they hero-worshipped. No cowhand would willingly go against the wishes of Dusty Fog. The rest of the crowd knew that there was no chance of their getting the prisoner and any attempt at doing so would be dangerous.

  Humboldt licked his lips. He wanted to make a good impression on Dusty and said, ‘My house is, of course, at your disposal. I hope both you and the Kid will consider yourselves my guests.’

  ‘Not until this business is settled,’ replied Dusty. ‘Have you held an inquest on the killing?’

  ‘Why no, we haven’t,’ replied Humboldt, brightening. Here was a way to settle this business without offending Captain Fog. Humboldt was sure that the young Texan would accept the evidence at its face value and there was much that was damaging to Mart Lewis. ‘I think we’d better do so, Sheriff.’

  ‘Yeah, it could do with a bit of airing,’ Dickson said dryly.

  ‘Tell Warren we’ll start in half, an hour. Down at the Long Glass, Captain,’ he went on for Dusty’s benefit.

  Dusty nodded. There was nothing unusual in holding an inquest in a saloon. Often in a small town like Holbrock the saloon was the only place large enough for a court. The bar would be closed down and the inquest held in an air of sober respectability. Even ladies could enter the saloon at such a time, a thing never permitted under normal circumstances.

  ‘It would be best,’ Humboldt managed to get a boom of civic righteousness in his voice. ‘After all, none of us wish to take the law into our own hands.’

  The other townsmen, the more sober citizens of the crowd, gave their enthusiastic agreement to the words. None of them wished to become involved in a lynching. The Texas Rangers nosed out such things, no matter how well they were concealed. Somebody always talked and word got out. Once the Texas Rangers got to hear of the lynching, even as a drunken rumour, they would investigate and probe deeper until they got at the truth. Mo
ney, social position, local standing meant nothing to the Rangers when a crime had been committed. No man connected with the lynching would be safe again. So most townsmen were pleased that there was no immediate danger of lynching.

  Stewart’s face was hard, no longer smiling as he felt his support ebbing away. He wished he’d brought his ranch crew to town with him and wondered where Salar, Milton and Scanlan were. With them on hand he would chance facing the three men on the side-walk before the jail.

  The wish was partly granted. The jail door opened and Milton staggered out supporting Scanlan. Stewart stared, he could hardly believe his eyes at the sight. Milton’s mouth was swollen and bruised, and there was a trickle of blood running from under his hat. He could barely stand, and the weight of Scanlan was making him stagger badly.

  But Scanlan’s condition was worse. Stewart knew his foreman’s skill as a rough-house fighter and could hardly believe that he was seeing correctly. Scanlan’s face was never anything to be proud of, but it looked far worse now. His top lip was swollen to almost four times its usual size, split and bloody; his right eye was slit and the rest of his face was marked to almost the same extent. Whoever had handled Scanlan in such a manner must, if lone-handed, be a veritable giant, Stewart thought. He knew Dickson too well to think the sheriff had organized and helped in a mass attack on the two men.

  ‘What the hell?’ Stewart growled. ‘Who did that?’

  ‘I did,’ Dusty replied.

  It was on the tip of Stewart’s tongue to snarl out a denial, but he saw that to do so would be tantamount to calling Dusty a liar. In Texas there was only one reply to such an accusation, a fast drawn Colt.

  ‘That’s the living truth,’ Dickson went on. ‘Scanlan killed Mort’s old Pete dog in there and Cap’n Fog took exception to it.’