The Half Breed

by J. T. Edson

  The crowd caught the drift of the words and knew what the next move was going to be. So, with one accord they started to back off, one eye on the group before the jail, the other searching for a safe place for when Colt magic was made.

  ‘Which of ‘em shot Cass, if any?’ Stewart asked.

  ‘None of them. You did. Came up behind him and shot from a distance. The bullet didn’t go through, as it would have with the width of the cabin. Then you moved the cattle over the line, came back, picked up Chass and toted him to the cabin; left him face up on the floor. What you forgot was that the bleeding’d stopped and there was none on the floor. That told me what’d happened. Tonk confirmed it for me.’

  ‘Tonk?’grunted Stewart.

  ‘Sure, the Kid got him alive, killed the rest of the bunch sent after him. He talked.’

  ‘Did, huh?’ Stewart said. He knew Tonk would talk if captured. From what Dusty said, Tonk was a prisoner and screaming loud enough to spill it all over the county. ‘Just fancy that.’

  Humboldt stood staring at the men, not knowing what to do or say. He was no fighting man and his reactions were far too slow for what was coming next. He stood as if fixed to the spot, his mouth hanging open as he realized that Stewart was accused of murdering the old man in the hills. It was all like a crazy nightmare, only far more dangerous than any nightmare could ever be.

  Stewart grinned; a bitter, hate-filled grin. Then his hand lifted, fingers curling around the butt of his gun. At that moment the group before the jail broke into sudden movement.

  Dusty Fog’s hands crossed. Before any others, the matched guns were out, flame tearing from the barrels, throwing lead into Stewart before the man’s Colt cleared leather. Even as Stewart spun around the rest were in action and gun thunder rocked the street of Holbrock.

  Humboldt was trapped. His feet would not answer the terrified commands of his brain. He was in the line of fire and a serious hazard to Dusty’s party. This could have been why the Ysabel Kid acted as he did, although Humboldt would always attribute it to the strength of his personality winning over a savage young man..

  Whatever the cause, the Ysabel Kid moved fast. He flung himself forward, knocking Humboldt out of the way and bringing the fat, pompous man down in the street. Then, as they landed, the Kid rolled over Humboldt’s well-padded body, hitting the dust of the street, and throwing lead into one of the two new Stewart men.

  Milton was second off the mark, in this whirlwind blur of action. His gun was flaming slightly before the sheriff’s Army Colt threw down on him. Dickson felt the burning pain of a near miss as lead slashed across his ribs. His own aim was better; Milton rocked back on his heels, fell backwards, sending one more wild shot from his twitching hands before he dropped the gun.

  Scanlan’s gun was out, lining on Dusty Fog when the door of the jail was thrown open and Mort Lewis hurled out with a Colt in his hand.

  ‘Scanlan!’ Mort roared; and his gun lashed flame sending a bullet into the big gunman’s body.

  Scanlan rocked under the impact of the lead, staggering and trying to shift his aim. Mort Lewis landed flat on the sidewalk, fanning the remaining five bullets up into Scanlan’s body, shooting with savage speed and throwing him, limp as a rag doll, to the ground. Mort Lewis watched the man go down and his grim smile told that the death of his dog was avenged.

  The last gunman lined on the rolling body of the Ysabel Kid, his first shot sending dust flying into the young Texan’s face and blinding him. The Kid fired by sheer instinct, the heavy old Dragoon booming and sending lead into the man. The bullet struck an instant too late. Up on the rim, Long Walker saw the Kid’s danger and showed that he was still tolerably fast for an elderly Comanche gentleman. The Buffalo Sharps came to his shoulder and bellowed out. The heavy bullet smashed into the centre of the gunman’s back, burying itself within inches of Humboldt’s scared face. The gunman was thrown forward, full into the slamming power of the Ysabel Kid’s Dragoon gun. He was dead before his body even hit the ground.

  Then it was over. The thunder of shots died away and smoke drifted from the scene. Less than five seconds had elapsed since the fist movement but Stewart was down, badly hit. Milton, Scanlan and the other two gunmen were dead. Dickson lifted a hand to his bloody side, knowing the wound was not serious or he would never have kept his feet to shoot back.

  Slowly the crowd started to emerge from their cover; Humboldt came to his feet, face smudged with dirt and scared. He looked at the Kid who was standing up, rubbing the dust and grit from his eyes and cursing. This was the time for the leading citizen of the town to make a speech, praising the sheriff for an adroit job of work, but the words would not come.

  Dickson looked at the crowd, cold contempt in his eyes. He stepped towards Humboldt, removing the badge from his shirt. ‘Here, you wanted this, now you’ve got it. Find another sheriff.’

  Humboldt stared as the star was thrust into his hand. ‘But . . . but . . .!’

  The ex-sherjff didn’t even look back, he turned to Lewis. ‘I know a town that wants a marshal and deputy Mort. Reckon we could take it on?’

  ‘Reckon we could surely make a try,’ Lewis agreed. ‘Let’s get your side fixed, then we can pick up my duffle and ride over to see.’

  Without even another word the two men entered the jail office and closed the door behind them. Humboldt watched them go, saw the impassive line of Comanches who were still watching the town and gulped down the words of apology he’d been ready to give, unwillingly, to Mort Lewis. Then he looked at Dusty Fog.

  ‘Er . . . now this is all over, Captain,’ he began, the words rushing out, ‘I hope you and the Kid will be my guests until you leave. My daughter is coming home on tomorrow’s stage. She’s quite musical and I hear the Kid sings well. We might have a pleasant musical evening.’

  ‘Reckon it’d be all right?’ inquired the Kid. ‘You didn’t like having Mort Lewis around.’

  ‘That’s different,’ snorted Humboldt ‘He’s a half-breed. I mean, you know about these people with Indian blood.’

  ‘Do we?’ asked Dusty gently, without moving from the porch, his eyes flickering to the Ysabel Kid.

  ‘That was why I suspected him from the start,’ Humboldt babbled on, not knowing what to make of this reaction. ‘It was wrong this time, but you know what these people with mixed blood are. He was part Indian and you can’t trust a man with Indian blood, can you?’

  There was a bitter smile on the Kid’s face and a cold gleam in his eyes as he replied, his voice sardonic and unfriendly:

  ‘Reckon you can’t . . . say, how’d you like to meet my grandpappy?’

  Humboldt was not a discerning man, he noticed nothing unusual in the way the Kid spoke. If it would put him in with Dusty Fog, Humboldt was willing to meet and entertain all the Ysabel Kid’s kin.

  ‘I’d admire to meet your grandfather,’ he boomed warmly. ‘But he doesn’t live in Holbrock, does he?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied the Kid, raising his hand in a salute to the old Comanche chief who was following his men off the rim. ‘He’s up there, my mammy’s father.’

  Humboldt stared at the dark, babyishly innocent, handsome face and the meaning of the words sank into his numbed brain. ‘You mean . . . you mean . . .’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed the Ysabel Kid. ‘That was Grandpappy Long Walker up there on the rim.’

  Part II

  THE QUARTET

  THE Wells Fargo stage coach might be the fastest form of public transport from Dodge City, through the Indian Nations, to Texas, but it was far from comfortable.

  Betty Hardin reached that decision in the first couple of miles of the trip and now, within five miles of her destination at Bent’s Ford in the Indian Nations, found no cause to change her mind. As she tried to find a more comfortable, or less uncomfortable, piece of the hard stuffed leather seat she found herself hoping her cousin, Dusty Fog, would have better accommodation waiting for her when she reached the stage station at Bent’s Ford. That was why
Betty had come this way. Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid had taken a herd to Mulrooney, Kansas, and were headed down trail again; she’d telegraphed, arranging to join up at Bent’s Ford and would travel home to the Rio Hondo with them. She hoped they would have a horse for her, but even a buggy would be preferable to the hard seat of the coach.

  She was a small, beautiful, shapely girl who would please the eyes of most men. Her hair was black, shining and long. Her face was tanned but not burned and harshened by the sun of her native Texas range. The skin was smooth, delicate-looking and the features as near perfect as a woman could rightly expect. Her eyes were long-lashed, black, and met a man’s without distrust or promise. It was the face of a capable, self-controlled young woman who could become grimly determined when need arose. The hands of the OD Connected ranch would have sworn that the appearance did not lie for Betty Hardin ruled the spread with an iron hand. Her figure was rich and full, the curves mature and eye-catching without being flaunting or provocative. The black bolero jacket and the frilly bosomed white silk shirt-waist emphasized her swelling breasts as they strained against the covering, but there was nothing of show about her. Her black divided skirt was long and concealed the trim hips and shapely legs without hiding them. On her feet were dainty, high heeled, fancy stitched boots with Kelly spurs strapped to them. Her hat, a snow white Stetson, lay on the seat by her left hand.

  All in all, Betty Hardin was a very attractive young woman, neither cold and aloof nor warmly inviting. She looked like an extraordinarily competent and capable young woman in what was still a man’s land; asking no privilege, nor accepting any, because of her sex.

  The three men travelling with her were an oddly assorted trio. They’d done little talking for the past day, having worked out all conversation early in the journey. Even the fat, loud check-suited whisky drummer no longer tried to impress Betty with his well-travelled intellect. He sat in his corner seat and puffed on his oily black cigar, blowing the smoke ostentatiously through the window. He’d tried to impress Betty with his talk of New York — until he found that she not only knew the city but was just returning from it.

  Next to the drummer sat a soberly clad, stuffy-looking, prosperous business man from an Indian Nations township. He didn’t say much, tried to keep his expensive broadcloth suit from getting too dusty and failed. He’d refused, horrified, when offered a cigar and some whisky from the drummer’s flask. His conversational efforts after that were restricted to an occasional groaned complaint at the discomfort of the coach.

  The third man was a lean, mournful-looking, gaunt and poorly dressed Kansas nester who looked as if he carried the worries of the world on his shoulders. He was going to a Texas town where a kinsman had died and left him a small property. His main topic of conversation was limited to the poor farming of Kansas and how little money he’d managed to scrape together from selling his place.

  Betty knew the man really did have little money, he ate only sparely and was obviously very close to the blanket. Though he was a nester and she born to the richest, largest ranch in Texas, Betty felt sorry for him and hoped he would have better luck with the property in the Lone Star State.

  The girl moved again; she’d done much riding and not a little on the back of a horse which an Eastern lady would have thought half trained, but this hard stagecoach seat was worse than any saddle she had ever sat. Betty turned and looked out of the window at the brush and shrub lined route; they were following the winding line which the buffalo had made on their migrations across the plains. The stageline knew that the buffalo invariably picked the easiest and best watered route, so they followed the tracks. The coach was approaching a bend and the girl braced herself against the lurching as it went around.

  Suddenly, as the coach turned the corner, the driver gave a startled curse, hauled on his reins and kicked hard on the brake, bringing his team to a halt.

  ‘Throw ‘em high!’ a voice yelled. ‘Reach for it, guard, or we’ll cut you down.’

  There were five masked men standing in the trail, all holding Winchesters. The guard remained still, his shotgun across his knees. He left the weapon and raised his hand shoulder high, not offering to make a fight. He was a guard, but not paid to commit suicide or endanger the lives of the passengers. That was Wells Fargo’s orders, the guard must never risk getting a passenger killed. If there’d been less men he might have taken a chance, but a shotgun was a slow weapon and he would be cut down before he could shoot.

  ‘Throw it down,’ the tallest of the outlaws barked. ‘And your belt guns.’

  The shotgun was tossed to one side followed by the revolvers belonging to guard and driver. Then the tall man laid his rifle to one side of the trail and drew his revolver, ordering the two men on the box to climb down.

  In the coach, Betty Hardin watched her fellow passengers. Her right hand rested just under the left side of her coat, but she remained seated. Her eyes went to the drummer; he was armed, wearing a Tranter revolver in a stiff holster which would effectively prevent a fast draw. Betty knew something of guns and gun handlers; she hoped the drummer would not try anything foolish in an attempt to impress her or save his wealth.

  The other two men did not appear to be armed. The business man looked flushed, angry and indignant at the outrage of being held up and robbed. The nester showed even more misery as the door of the coach was jerked open and the masked man looked in.

  For an instant the outlaw seemed shaken to see a woman passenger. He ordered the men to climb out, stepping back to allow them to obey. Then he returned, holding out his hand to the girl.

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d step out here with the others. Us honest road-agents have to make a living.’

  Betty stood up and accepted the man’s hand as she climbed down. She saw the guard and driver were unarmed and altered her plans. She gave the five outlaws a glance which told her plenty, then joined the men who were standing in a line under the guns of the gang. The tallest of the outlaws advanced, keeping out of the line of fire and held out his hand to the drummer.

  ‘Shell out, fatty,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to pull that gun.’

  The drummer, face pale and his bluster gone, produced a thick wallet from his inside pocket. The outlaw accepted the wallet and tucked it into his waist band and went to the prosperous-looking man.

  ‘Now you, senator,’ he said.

  The business man gave an angry snort, but produced a wallet. The young outlaw hefted it in his hand, flipped it open and shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, senator. I can’t see a rich gent like you travelling this light. You going to fork it over or do we take your pants with us when we go.’

  ‘This’s an outrage,’ spluttered the business man, but he reached under his shirt, fumbled and finally managed to pull out a thick, well padded money-belt. ‘I warn you, you ruffians. I’m a personal friend of Marshals Tilgham, Thomas and Madsen. They’ll bring you to book.’

  ‘I bet they will, senator,’ laughed the outlaw, stuffing the money-belt through his belt and moving to the nester. ‘We wouldn’t have took your pants, senator. Not with you having a lady along. Now, friend, how much you going to donate to this here deserving charity?’

  The nester gulped, dipping his hand into his pocket and bringing out a thin chain purse. He held it out nervously, expecting to be beat over the head with a revolver for having so little wealth~

  ‘This all you’ve got, friend?’ the outlaw inquired, glancing into the purse at the five-dollar pieces. The nester nodded and the outlaw looked away. ‘Ben come here and search him. And watch how you do it.’

  Another of the masked men came forward, ran his hands over the nester’s body then straightened and said, ‘Cleaner than a hound’s tooth, Jesse.’

  The outlaw called Jesse grunted. He stepped back and holstered his gun. Then took the drummer’s wallet, opened it and extracted two ten-dollar bills, slipping the
m into the nester’s purse before handing it back! Then he glanced at the driver and guard.

  ‘What’s in the box, boys?’

  ‘Nothing, she’s empty,’ the driver replied.

  ‘No offence meant, but we’ll just take a look,’ Jesse said. ‘Climb up and see, Ben.’

  The other man went behind and climbed up to the boot. He grunted in annoyance as he found it empty, then started to examine the luggage piled on top.

  ‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse spoke to Betty. ‘I’d surely admire a donation from you. Just give what you can spare, save enough to get you where you’re going and let us boys have the rests’

  ‘My bag’s in the coach,’ Betty replied, a smile flickering on her face. ‘I’ll get it if you want . . .’

  ‘Jesse,’ Ben called from the top of the coach. ‘She’s a Miss Hardin, and going to the OD Connected ranch in the Rio Hondo country of Texas.’

  Jesse looked at the girl; his brown eyes were all she could see over the mask which hid the rest of his features. ‘That makes you kin to Old Devil Hardin then, ma’am?’

  Ben jumped down from the top of the coach as Betty nodded her agreement. ‘He’s my grandfather,’ she said.

  A gleam came to Jesse’s eyes as he studied the girl. ‘Reckon he’d pay well to get you back again.’

  ‘He might. But he’d be more likely to nail your hides to the corral fence.’ Betty sniffed, eyeing the man with contempt. ‘There’s some money in my bag . . .’

  ‘Not as much as Old Devil’d pay to get you back,’ Jesse replied. ‘Joe, keep a hoss out of that team and scatter the rest!’ He turned back to Betty. ‘I reckon you can ride, ma’am?’

  ‘Do you reckon you could make me?’ countered Betty.

  Ben grinned, stepping towards her, his rifle in his right hand. The left lifted up Betty’s chin, tilting her head back. ‘You’re a spunky lil . . .’