The Half Breed

by J. T. Edson

  There were eight men in the group ahead of the Kid. Seven of them were old hands; battle-tried warriors with scalps hanging before their lodges. They sat their horses, faces expressionless and inscrutable, looking for all the world as if they were carved from stone.

  The eighth Comanche was a youngster, just initiated to the Dog Soldier Lodge and without trophy or scalp taken in war. He watched the approaching rider, then lifted his lance, shook it in the air and let out a war-yell which was savage enough to scare the hair out of a silvertip grizzly. He sent his wiry pony forward, changing from rock-still to a gallop in a split-second and hurled down the slope at the Ysabel Kid.

  The lance point, held along the neck of the racing pony, was ready to split through the Kid like a needle through a piece of cloth. The Kid stopped his horse for an instant, then started it forward again, still lounging in the saddle. For all his nonchalant appearance he was tense and ready and felt the big white horse moving more lightly now. Old Nigger always knew what was expected of him. The Kid kept on riding, making no attempt to draw a weapon but watching the young Comanche all the time.

  At last, with the lance point driving full at him, the Kid moved. His right hand slapped down, knocking the lance to one side; his knee gave the white a signal. The big horse sidestepped the charging pony, allowing it to shoot by. The young brave was off-balance and he did not get a chance to recover. The Kid lashed up a backhand slap full into the face of the onrushing Comanche, knocking him from the racing war-pony. As the young brave fell, the Ysabel Kid came out of the saddle of his big white. The Comanche lit down hard, lost his lance and lay winded on the ground. The Kid landed astride the brave, then knelt over him, the sun glinting on the blade of his razor sharp bowie knife as it came out of the sheath to the brave’s chin, resting in position to slit the brown throat.

  ‘You live or you die,’ said the Kid in the deep-throated Comanche tongue, looking down into the brave’s amazed eyes. ‘Choose!’

  The young brave looked up taking in the dark face above him and reading no sign of hesitation. A refusal would bring the knife slashing across his throat, biting through to the neck bone. That was the Comanche way; the way of a Dog Soldier who took a prisoner in such a manner. The young Comanche hated having to choose life at the hands of a white man, no matter how well the white man spoke the Comanche language and knew their customs. Then he remembered. There was no disgrace in falling to the hands of this dark-faced Texan who rode the huge white stallion.

  ‘I live!’ he said.

  The Kid came to his feet, stepping clear and sheathing the knife. From all around came the shattering yells of the Comanche braves and the thunder of hooves. They came down towards the Kid, riding with that superb skill which made them the supreme horse-Indians. It made an awe-inspiring sight: racing ponies, each ridden by a savage-faced warrior, armed and painted for war.

  Suddenly, when it seemed that all the horses would collide and crush the Kid under their weight, they stopped as if some giant hand held them, halting their horses and sitting like statues again. The dust churned up by the hooves of the horses settled again and the circle broke to allow a grey-haired man to ride through. He came forward, face inscrutable, his eyes on the black-dressed young Texan. Sitting his huge horse the Indian looked at the Kid, not speaking.

  Slowly the Kid lifted his right hand in a peace sign. The Comanche dialect rolled from his tongue again:

  ‘Greetings, Long Walker. I have ridden many miles to see you.’

  * * *

  ‘He’s coming!’ Salar yelled, bringing his horse to a halt by Smith’s side. ‘I saw him in the distance.’

  ‘No mistake is there?’ Smith replied.

  It was the day the Kid was due back, nine in the morning, and the men were tired of waiting. They’d been camped out in the thick brush on the Holbrock side of the dense woods for the past few days, since losing the Kid at Sanchez Riley’s place. It was no fun, for they were short on rations and could not get any more from town. They did not dare risk going into Holbrock for food for Dusty Fog was no fool and would guess what they were doing. Handling the Ysabel Kid was dangerous enough, without the added hazard of Dusty Fog and the sheriff.

  ‘There’s no mistake,’ Salar replied. ‘I didn’t wait, but came as soon as I was sure it was the Kid.’

  Smith grunted. There’d been several false alarms over the last two days and nights. They’d turned out once in the darkness when a rider on a light coloured horse approached, only to discover they’d made a mistake. Now they were all bad-tempered and irritable, wanting this business over and done with.

  ‘Get hid out, then,’ Smith snapped. ‘Both sides of the trail.’ They knew where to go for they’d already picked out the best spots for their ambush. Smith and two of the men took cover amongst the rocks at the side of the trail where they’d been camped, while Salar and the other men darted across the trail and flattened down amongst the bushes and trees at the other side. Salar slid behind a rock, his Buffalo Sharps in his hands, a bandolier, with the long .45 rifle bullets shining dully in the loops, around his shoulders. It was a weapon he favoured above any other and could guarantee to hit a man-size target at half a mile. The range would be much less here. He set the adjustable rearsight, then looked around. He lay at the edge of a shallow gully, hardly more than the dried out bed of a long departed stream. The edge of the water-course and the bottom were lined with bushes and the stream-bed ran back to the wood.

  The men lay in the places they’d picked, rifles ready, lining on the trail as it emerged from the woods. Because of their failure to catch up with the Kid, the men had come to regard him as almost a supernatural being. The feeling was playing on their nerves when they heard the faint sound of a man singing: a pleasant, untrained tenor voice.

  ‘A Yankee rode into ole Texas,

  A mean kind of cuss and real sly,

  Who fell in love with Rosemary-Jo,

  Then turned and told her, “Goodbye”.’

  Smith looked across the trail to where Saltar was lying ready. The Mexican could read the angry, unasked question and nodded: he’d heard the Ysabel Kid sing before and knew the voice. The Kid must be thinking there was no danger so close to Holbrock, that he’d thrown off the pursuers and was safe. He certainly did not sound to be worried as he rode through the woods singing on:

  ‘So Rosemary-Jo telled her tough pappy,

  Who yelled, “Why hombre, that’s bad.

  In tears you left my Rosemary-Jo,

  No Yankee can make my gal sad”.’

  Sweat was pouring down Smith’s face; ever since the young gunhand was killed at Riley’s there’d been doubt in his mind. He knew he was lucky to be alive, the Kid could easily have used his bowie knife when he dragged Smith down. There’d been no noise when the Kid moved in the darkness. Just that silent rush which sent the young gunhand sprawling backwards into the window to his death. Not one of the men knew how the Kid got out of the room, or if he’d stayed in until they left. It was almost uncanny that a white man could move in such silence.

  The song was going on, an old range ballad the men had heard many times before. They could imagine the black dressed rider coming through the woods; he would be unprepared for the ambush and they’d have no trouble in bringing him down.

  ‘So he whipped out his ole hawglegs,

  At which he warn’t never slow,

  When the Yankee done saw him a-coming,

  He knowed it was time for to go.

  So he jumped on his fast running speed hoss,

  And fogged it like hell to the West,

  Then Rosemary-Jo got her a fortune

  The Yankee knowed he loved her best.’

  The voice was coming nearer now, the lilting song sounding over the beating hooves of his horse. The waiting men tensed, caressing the triggers of their rifles, hoping they’d hear the end of the song before they cut off the singer.

  ‘ “No, no,” she cried in a minute,

  I love me a Texan so
sweet,

  So I’m headed down to ole Dallas town,

  This bold Texas cowhand to meet.

  So the Yankee rode down to the border,

  He met an old pal, Bandy Parr,

  Who run with the carpetbaggers,

  And a meeting they held in a bar.

  So Rosemary-Jo got word to her pappy,

  He straddled his strawberry roan,

  And said, “From that ornery critter,

  I’ll save Rosemary-Jo, she’s my own”.’

  ‘One more verse, that’s about all, Kid,’ Smith hissed under his breath. ‘It sure is a pity; I never heard the song sung all the way through.’

  The sound of the song and the hooves were closer now. The men lined their rifles, sighting on the opening from the woods. They’d let the Kid into the open, then send a volley which would tear him from the saddle.

  ‘Now the Yankee done went to Dallas,

  Met the Texan out on the square,

  His draw was too slow and as far as I know,

  The Yankee’s still laying out—’

  The horse came into sight, travelling at a fast lope. The song ended just an instant before the big white appeared. Smith’s sighting-eye, along the blued barrel of his Henry rifle, took in an empty saddle. He let out a startled curse and was about to come to his feet. The Kid was not in his saddle, nor was there any sign of him.

  The Ysabel Kid was no man’s fool. Nor was he exactly unused to handling such situations as this. He’d returned to Riley’s place after concluding his business with Chief Long Walker and Riley had told him what he knew; one man was dead, and the others had gone, their tracks headed back in the direction they came. The Kid guessed what might happen on his return journey to Holbrock and this place was the most logical for the ambush. It would be out in the open and not in the thick woods the men would lay in wait, for Salar would want to be in the open where he could get the best use from his Buffalo Sharps.

  So, with this in mind, the Ysabel Kid was very alert as he came into sight of the woods for the first time. He’d seen the watching man, even recognizing Salar, and knew what was happening. This made him ready for trouble as he came through the woods, but knew how to handle it. His singing was to lull the waiting men’s suspicions, making them believe they were going to get him served up like a plate of hominy grits.

  The Kid left the saddle just as the horse came out of the woods. He lit down at the edge of the trail, his old yellow boy in his hands, ready to make some real fast war. A shrill whistle left his lips and the big white’s even lope changed to a racing gallop, carrying it through the ambush area before the men could fire at it. Once clear, the horse swung to one side, into cover, and stood waiting for the Kid’s next order.

  Then the Kid erupted through the opening, racing for safety and the shelter of a pair of close growing cottonwoods. One of the men yelled, let loose of his rifle with one hand and pointed to the black dressed shape of the Kid. The Winchester flowed to the Kid’s shoulder and he fired without breaking his stride. The man stopped pointing, his hand flopped to his side, his rifle from the other hand; then he crumpled and went down, a bullet between the eyes.

  The other four gunmen brought up their weapons, swinging to the new line. The Kid hurled over a small bush and lit down rolling. The first shots missed him, although Salar’s bullet had draughted his neck as he lit down. Smith made a mistake; in his eagerness to get at the Kid he rose and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

  ‘Get down, Smith!’ Salar screamed.

  It was too late. The Kid’s roll ended behind the desired shelter of the two cottonwoods. The rifle appeared for an instant, cracked once, then disappeared again. It was out a bare two seconds, but in that time Smith was dead, hit in the head with a flat-nosed Tyler Henry forty-four bullet. He was dead before his body hit the ground. He’d achieved one thing before he died: he’d heard all but the last word of the Rosemary-Jo lament song.

  Salar licked his lips. That was Smith and Amp down, leaving Tonk on the other side of the trail, but Tonk was not the most staunch of men. He would dog it, if things got any stiffer. The man with Salar was looking worried too, things were not going as he’d planned. The Kid was not dead and could only be dislodged with considerable risk. There was also a chance that the wind might carry the sound of shooting to the town. If that happened Dickson would be headed out to investigate.

  ‘We got to get him, Salar,’ the gunman called, showing his shoulder and jerking it back as the Kid’s rifle cracked. The shirt was torn and a bloody furrow burned across the man’s shoulder.

  Salar’s Buffalo Sharps bellowed back, kicking a four-inch splinter of wood from the tree behind which the Kid was hiding, but doing no damage. It was a very fair piece of shooting, for Salar did not take a careful aim.

  ‘Keep him busy,’ Salar answered. ‘I’ll try and get through the woods behind him.’

  Before the other man could either agree or object, Salar had rolled down into the bottom of the stream bed and started to move along it. His idea was to keep out of the Kid’s sight, effect a complete surprise and avoid getting killed, The Winchester 66, with its comparatively weak, 28-grain load, was not a long range weapon, but Salar was still well within range for the Ysabel Kid to make a hit.

  From behind him, he heard the crack as the gunman fired at the Kid. Then from the other side of the trail Tonk opened up a bombardment which would help hold the Kid down and might even drown any slight noise Salar made when moving through the woods! The Kid was not firing back. Unlike the gunmen, whose ammunition was paid for by Stewart, the Kid had to buy his own, and did not intend to waste any needlessly, He watched the two men who were firing at him, keeping an ear cocked for any unusual noises and waited. His attention held by the gunmen caused the Kid to miss Salar’s departure, The Mexican was not shooting but the Kid expected that: a Sharps bullet was a costly thing and Salar would not waste any, even if someone else was paying the bill.

  The Mexican rolled down into the stream bed and moved along it. He tried his best to combine speed with invisibility and was relieved when he saw the woods closing in on him. Carefully he climbed out of the stream bed and faded into the woods. He paused to get his bearings, then headed on silent feet towards the trail. At the edge he paused and made sure the Kid could not see him before darting across to the shelter of the other side. Then he stopped, sinking to the ground and lying still. There was something wrong, he could almost feel it. He remained still, listening, but could hear nothing. The woods, were as silent as a grave; the only sound was the crackling of the rifles down trail. Yet Salar could not throw off the feeling that things were not as they should be.

  At last he rose and moved on, but went with some caution for he was dealing with a dangerous man. Salar knew how keen the Ysabel Kid’s senses were, a slight noise would warn him. Then he would move and fade into the woods like a shadow. Salar was good in the woods, but he was not willing to match skill with the black dressed gringo devil.

  Salar moved on, testing each piece of ground before setting a foot on it and moving the other. He held his rifle ready for use but it was an awkward weapon in a fast-moving fight, especially in thick cover like this.

  Suddenly Salar halted, his right foot poised in the air. He lowered the foot with infinite care. Here was luck, such luck as he never expected. It was only by sheer chance that Salar saw what he did: another second and he would have moved by. Through a narrow gap between the twisting undergrowth and tree trunks, Salar could see the Ysabel Kid behind the two cottonwoods. It was blind chance that he could see through to the edge of the woods. The gap was narrow, but it would give Salar the chance he wanted. There might even be thin branches in the way but that would make no difference for Salar’s Buffalo Sharps rifle. The .45 calibre, 550-grain bullet, powered by the explosive force of one hundred and twenty grains of powder, built up an energy of around 2,300 pounds per square foot and left the barrel at something like 1,400 feet per second. It would tear through the thin br
anches in Its path as if they were not there at all, going straight into the’ Kid’s back, killing him before he knew what had hit him.

  So Salar rested his rifle on the side of a tree, taking a firm grip on it and laying his sights with all the care he could manage. The picture was perfect, Salar’s fingers caressed the trigger, starting to make the squeeze which would loose the bullet. He would accomplish what several men before him had tried unsuccessfully to do; he would kill the Ysabel Kid.

  Then Salar relaxed slightly. A chance breeze moved a tree branch and partially obscured the Kid from view. Salar held his fire, the branch was thick enough to deflect the bullet: it might only be a slight deflection, but would cause the bullet to miss. If the bullet did miss, Salar knew where he would be tangled in the Ysabel Kid’s kind of country with a long, heavy and awkward rifle, a single shot rifle at that, against the Kid’s handier Winchester. The instant that bullet missed, the Kid would be moving. He’d be back into the woods, hunting for the man who had fired. That Salar did not want.

  That branch moved and Salar laid his sights again. This was the moment, the Mexican’s breathing halted as he sighted. Then he stiffened up. The rifle barrel tilted into the air and slid through his fingers. He clutched spasmodically at the tree and slid down. The hilt of a knife rose from the centre of his back.