The Half Breed

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Rosita. Long Walker sent it to her as a birthday present,’ Riley replied, a worried note in his voice. ‘I’m a mite unsettled about having it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s got a 7th Cavalry brand on it.’

  ‘That’s that loud mouthed Yankee General Custer or something they call him, he runs the 7th,’ the Kid replied. ‘He still pushing trouble, like last year on the Washita at Black Kettle’s village?’

  ‘Sure, got his patrols crossing into the Comanche lands.’

  The Kid grunted angrily. Men like Custer were a menace to the peace of the West. They repeatedly broke the peace treaties other men had risked much to make with the hostile Indian tribes. This infringement on the land of the Comanche would make the other shore of the Brazos River’s Salt Fork unhealthy for the white man. There was only one bright spot about the whole business, it would be likely to halt any further pursuit of him.

  ‘One of these days that loud mouthed, long haired Yankee’s going to learn what a riled, hostile Injun can do,’ the Kid prophesied, and his guess was to be proved correct in a few years time on the banks of the Little Bighorn River.

  Rosita returned, carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow. She put them on the table, then went to blow out all but one small lamp which stood on the mantle over the fireplace. The Kid poked the pillow with a finger, tossed his hat on to the table and grinned at the girl; he looked about fourteen years old in the light of the lamp, but Rosita was not fooled. She knew that here was as dangerous a man as could be found anywhere in the West.

  ‘That’s a tolerable hard pillow you’ve given me, gal,’ he said.

  ‘Hard like your heart, Cabrito,’ she answered in Comanche. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘And you. Sleep deep and dream happy.’

  Riley and his daughter left the Kid alone in the dining-room and he put the pillow at the edge of the centre table. It would be a good deal softer than the saddle which he would be using for the next few days. He drew the blankets up around his ears, slid his hat to one side of his head, and went to sleep. The Kid could sleep anywhere, any time and not even the faint lamp glow could keep him awake.

  The lamp was left for a purpose. If a chance traveller came on the building in the dark he could enter the dining-room and sleep on one of the tables, or the floor, without waking Riley or any of the other guests. This was the reason the Kid took the centre table; anybody coming in could use one nearer the door without having to disturb him. There was another reason, anyone trying to sneak up on the Kid would have a longer walk, giving more warning noise to his keen ears.

  Six riders came slowly through the darkness, towards Sanchez Riley’s place slouched in the saddles like tired men, their horses leg weary from hard riding.

  Coming to a halt Salar looked at the white gelding in the corral with some interest. It was too dark for him to see much so he could not tell the difference between the gelding and the Kid’s big stallion.

  ‘Is it the Kid’s hoss?’ Smith whispered.

  ‘I think so. He would never leave that white devil of his with other horses,’ Salar replied, no more loudly.

  ‘He’s up at the house then,’ hissed Smith, swinging from his horse. ‘You stop here and watch the corral, Tonk, Sundon. The rest of us’ll go up and look for him.’

  Four of the men started towards the house; the other two took up position to watch the corral. They drew and checked their guns; if the Ysabel Kid got by Smith and the other boys they would be on hand to stop him when he came for his horse.

  Smith and his party darted for the house, they did not draw their guns at first for there was nothing to be gained by charging into the building, gun in hand. Sanchez Riley might not be asleep and he was known to be a fast hand with a gun. He wouldn’t take kindly to armed men charging about his place in the dark hours.

  The men reached the wall of the dining-room and moved along it. Salar halted by the window the Kid had looked through earlier, peering into the dining-room. The lamp’s light was fading as the oil in it burned away but there was enough to show the shape on the table.

  ‘Is it the Kid?’ Smith hissed, holding down the whisper to a pitch where it was only just audible.

  ‘I’m nearly sure it is,’ Salar replied. ‘That looks like his hat and it was his horse in the corral. He’d sleep in here if he came after Riley was in bed.’

  ‘I’ll go in and down him,’ suggested the young gunman, still trying to redeem himself for his failure to take Dusty Fog.

  ‘That’d be real smart,’ Smith answered sarcastically. ‘We fire a shot and Sanchez’ll be on us afore we can get out of it. We don’t know who owns them horses in the corral, and they’re not cowhosses. They might belong to a bunch of Rangers and we don’t want to tie in with them.’

  ‘You’re right at that,’ Salar agreed, remembering that the Kid had many good friends who would investigate his disappearance. ‘The less witnesses the safer it will be.’

  ‘Sure,’ hissed Smith. ‘You take Amp to the door there, Salar, and I’ll go in the other with the button here. I’ll sneak up and try to buffalo the Kid. If we get him like that we can tote him across the river and make it look like the Commanches got him.’

  Salar did not care for the idea, but could not think of a better one so he moved into operation. Smith removed his boots and in stocking feet went through the door. At the other end of the room he could see Salar and the other man. The young gunman was behind Smith, gun out and cocked, his breathing sounding loud in Smith’s ears.

  Motioning the youngster to remain where he was, Smith moved forward. He lifted each foot with care and placed it down slowly, making sure there was no board to squeak a warning to the sleeping shape on the table. There was no move from the blanket wrapped shape, other than the steady rise and fall as the Kid breathed.

  Nearer moved Smith; his Dance Brother’s revolver heavy in his hand, and his palm sticky. There was still no movement other than the Kid’s steady breathing as Smith lifted his gun. Even with his hat over his head a hard blow from the barrel of the revolver should slow him down. Then they could all pile in, grab the dazed man and drag him outside.

  The gun came smashing down with all Smith’s strength. Then he gave a startled yell. The Kid was moving, rolling off the edge of the table. Smith’s gun barrel smashed on the wood of the table top; his arm went numb with the force of the blow and the loading rammer burst from its retaining catch.

  The Kid had wakened when the doors opened, laid waiting for the right moment, then moved. He took blankets and pillow with him as he rolled from the table away from Smith. As he fell the Kid threw the pillow at the lamp. His arm was good and the feeble light flickered out, throwing the room into complete darkness. He hit the floor and rolled under the table, gripping Smith’s ankles and heaving. The gunman let out a wild yell as he was pulled from his feet, sprawling backwards to crash into another table and knocking it over.

  There was confusion amongst the other three members of Smith’s party. They were in complete darkness and faced by a dangerous man who had the advantage of being able to shoot, or knife, any man he came across in the room, without the risk of injuring a friend.

  Salar licked his lips and stood without moving; then lifted his gun from his waistband but did not cock it. The click would sound too loud in the silence. The Mexican was a night-fighter of some skill but did not care to take his chances in such circumstances. He hoped the others would have enough sense to remain motionless until the Kid betrayed himself, or until Sanchez Riley came with a light.

  Slowly, silently, the Kid came to his feet. In the darkness his black clothing made him unseen. There was only one way out of the room, and that was through the window. It was not a pleasant thought. The window showed just a little lighter than the surrounding blackness so a man going through would make a good target for the guns.

  Seconds ticked away slowly, then a sound reached the Kid, a low sound but one which told him all he wanted to know. Someone was moving
towards him, sliding his feet along the floor, feeling carefully for any obstruction. The man could know little about night-fighting, or he would never have started moving so soon.

  The young gunman moved forward, inching his way along the floor. He was sure his progress was undetected and meant to get close to the Kid. How he would know it was the Kid he never thought. This was his chance to make up for missing Dusty Fog in the Holbrock saloon. He cocked his Colt, the noise loud in the stillness. Vaguely he guessed there was someone near him and opened his mouth to whisper Smith’s name.

  A hand gripped the youngster’s throat, clamping hard and stopping the involuntary yell which welled up. Then another hand gripped his shirt front and he was pushed backwards, hard. With a violent heave from his unseen attacker he was reeling towards the window.

  The Kid attacked in complete silence and with all his speed. He sent the youngster staggering towards the window then went sideways, flattening against the wall. He was only just in time.

  The young gunman reeled, his shoulders crashing into the window. At the same moment there were three flashes of flame, two from the other end of the room; one from near at hand. The young gunman gave a single, shrill scream as the force of the bullets threw him backwards. His shoulders went through the glass, wilted over and crashed out into the nights He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The flashes of gun-flame in the pitch blackness temporarily blinded the three remaining gunmen, but not the Ysabel Kid. He had known what to expect and his eyes were closed, missing the blinding effect when powder ignited and flared from the barrels of the guns. While the other men were blinded he was sliding along the wall, and opened the door just as Smith yelled:

  We got him, Salar! Light out!’

  Salar and the other gunman turned to dash out and run for their horses. Smith saw the door open and thought that for once the youngster was acting correctly. There was no time to lose, already overhead were the sounds of men jumping out of their beds. The big gunman turned and left by the door, running towards the horses and not noticing that the youngster was not in front of him. He mounted and saw that one horse was still without a rider. He also saw whose it was and growled an angry curse.

  ‘Roy,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell’re you fooling at?’

  ‘Where is he?’ Salar snarled, watching the lights appear at the upper windows of the building over the dining-room part they’d just left. ‘We’ve got to get away from here, and pronto!’

  Then Salar guessed what had happened. It lent an urgency to their departure. The Mexican had been considerably surprised that the Ysabel Kid had made such an elementary mistake as to be skylined in the window. Now he knew that it was the young gunhand who lay dead outside the dining-room windows There was a second, even more unpleasant point. The Kid was alive, unharmed and on the prod. At any minute his rifle or the old Dragoon might throw lead at them.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Salar hissed. ‘We didn’t get the Kid.’

  The words brought instant departure. The other men knew of the skill of the Ysabel Kid and didn’t want him in a fight. He had not returned for the white horse, but that meant nothing to them. They turned their horses and headed off into the night, drawing rein only when they’d put almost a mile between themselves and Sanchez Riley’s place.

  Salar brought his horse to a halt and the others stopped around him, straining their ears to pick up some sound which would warn that the Kid was in pursuit.

  ‘We’ve lost him now,’ Smith growled.

  ‘I ain’t sorry, about that,’ put in another man. ‘That damned Kid’s too much like an Injun for me.’

  ‘What we going to do about him?’ Salar inquired. ‘Dave wants him dead and it’ll go bad for some of us if he isn’t. We can’t get him before he crosses the river and I’m not going after him.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see if he gets back.’

  ‘He’ll get back, Señor Smith,’ Salar replied. ‘We might stay around here but it would do little good. There are so many ways the Kid could get back towards Holbrock without touching here. Besides, Sanchez Riley’s the Kid’s friend. He would be on the look-out for us.’

  ‘The Kid’ll have to head back to Holbrock when he’s done though,’. Smith remarked thoughtfully. ‘Which means he’ll come through the woods, follow the trail. We could lay for him either in the woods, or where the trail comes out of them. That would be the best place, plenty of cover and less chance of the Kid getting hid down, with that damned yellow boy of his’n going.’

  ‘Is good thinking,’ agreed Salar. ‘One man could get on that rim beyond the woods and be able to see the Kid far off. Then we could lay for him. It will be the best way to get him.’

  ‘Mean sagehenning out there,’ Smith replied. ‘But it’ll be worth it. We’ll stay out and not let the folks at Holbrock know we’re back. Then when the Kid comes through we’ll be ready.’

  ‘He might come through in the night,’ the man called Tonk pointed out.

  ‘Sure, but there’ll be some moon in a few days and that white stallion’ll show up real well.’

  With that Smith turned his horse and started in the direction they’d come. The other men followed him, riding away from Sanchez Riley’s place.

  The Ysabel Kid lay in the darkness away from the house for a time, listening to the sound of the departing men. Then he heard voices shouting from the opened windows of the bedrooms.

  ‘What’s the shooting, Frank?’ called a voice as a man, keeping clear of the lamplight, came to the side of his bedroom window.

  ‘I don’t know, Jesse,’ came the reply. ‘You all right, Cole?’

  ‘Sure, I’m all right,’ a third voice replied.

  ‘Is all right, Señor James,’ Sanchez Riley’s voice sounded from the ground floor. ‘A private matters I apologize that your sleep was disturbed.’

  * * *

  The Ysabel Kid was a day-and-a-half into Comanche country. He’d crossed the Salt Fork of the Brazos before daylight on the morning after his visit to Sanchez Riley’s and was now riding through the wild, open country of the greatest of the horse-Indians, the Comanche.

  In that time he’d seen tracks of small hunting parties, not new enough to worry him, and sign of a large band but no warriors. He did not expect to see the Comanche until they wanted to be seen. He expected a Comanche scout had spotted him early that morning. The scout would have seen him and gone haring off to warn others that a white man was in the land of the Comanche, or might still be watching to find out what folly brought a lone man into their land.

  The Kid held his Nigger horse to the same easy walk; there was no need for hurry now and no chance of Salar’s bunch following him. He studied the range around him, examining every inch for the first sign that the Comanche wanted him to be aware of their presence.

  It was fine land here, rolling slopes, hills, valleys; rich and well watered. The grass was deep, fully capable of supporting and fattening vast herds of cattle. But the Comanche ruled this land and did not want cattle; only the great, shaggy buffalo, the mule-deer, the pronghorn antelope and the wild horse grazed on the rich grass. It was wild, beautiful, wide open and free from the corrupting influence of the white man. This was how all the plains must have looked before the white man came. Looking at it, the Kid felt a vague stirring, a half-wish that the white man had never come, bringing great herds of cattle and the rest: the town, the farmer, moving in and driving the free-roaming Indian from his land.

  That would happen here, the Kid knew. The White Father in Washington might give his word that no white man would move across the Salt Fork of the Brazos, but that word would be broken. Pressure would be brought to bear on the Senate, more land would be needed, then it would happen again. The Army would move in and the Comanches would be driven from this fertile land to whatever useless bit of soil the white men did not want. That was the way of the white man; it was no wonder the Indians fought so savagely against it.

  While he was thinking, the Kid was riding
along, his every sense alert as he rode. He knew now he was being watched by cold eyes that followed his every move. But he made no attempt to draw either the Winchester or the old Dragoon revolver. He was here in peace and wanted to give no sign of war. Resistance would be out of the question and useless, for he was surrounded, watched, and the Comanche would show themselves only when they were ready, not before.

  The big white horse snorted, throwing back its head as the wind brought the scent of hidden men.

  ‘Easy, ole Nigger hoss,’ the Kid said gently. ‘I know they’re about.’

  For another ten minutes he rode on, giving no sign that he knew the hidden watchers were around him, closing in all the time. It was the deadly war of nerves the Comanche liked to play on a man. One faltering move could bring an arrow or a bullet for the Comanche had no use for a coward or a man who spooked at shadows.

  Then there were Comanches ahead of him. They came over the top of the rim he was climbing, to his right and left. Although the Kid never changed his easy position he knew there were others behind him.

  The group were squat, thick-bodied, hard-faced warriors, with lank black hair framing their faces. They were naked to the waist, a breech-cloth and calf-high Comanche moccasins being all they wore. To men who didn’t know the Indians in general and Comanche in particular, these warriors looked poorly dressed and armed. They did not wear fancy doeskin warshirts, feathered headdress or any of the war-wear affected by other tribes, nor did they show signs of either repeating rifle, war bow or revolver. Their sole weapon appeared to be the lance. Each man held the needle pointed, razor edged, seven foot war lance, and wore a knife at his belt, but there was no sign of a firearm amongst them.

  The Ysabel Kid was a man who knew Indians in general and more than a little about Comanches. The sign was plain enough and told a grim and savage story. Those warriors were Dog Soldiers, members of the bravest, finest, supreme Commanche war lodge. They carried the weapon of the chosen, the lance: it was the only weapon a Comanche Dog Soldier needed. His knife was not used to kill, but only as a means of taking a scalp, or ending the life of an enemy who did not deserve the honourable thrust of the lance. They used no bow, no rifles, no revolvers; but they’d be fighting long after lesser Comanches had been driven, off and gone from the battle.