The Half Breed

by J. T. Edson

  The words ended. Betty moved fast, her fist swung hard, slamming into the young man’s cheek and staggering him. He gave an angry snarl and was about to step forward when Jesse barked:

  ‘Back off there, Ben! You asked for what you got. Our bunch don’t mishandle no lady.’

  Two of the outlaws were unhitching the team from the coach, working with a speed which showed they knew their way around harness horses. All but one of the horses were sent galloping off in the direction the coach had come. The other horse was held by one of the gang ready to be used for the kidnapping.

  ‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse said to Betty. ‘Me’n my gang don’t use no violence against a lady like you. So, iffen you won’t get on that there hoss and ride with us I am going to cut down this bunch one after the next until you come.’

  Betty watched the young outlaw’s eyes as he spoke. At different times, on the OD Connected, she’d met most of the top Texas gunfighting men. She’d seen the smoothly efficient killers like her cousin, Wes Hardin and Ben Thompson, King Fisher, Clay Allison or Mannen Clements. This boy was not in that magic class but he would do just what he said if she did not obey. From his appearance and the way he acted Betty knew he would not hesitate to shoot down an unarmed man to keep his word.

  The guard caught Betty’s eye and made a sign, but she almost imperceptibly shook her head. The man was willing to risk his life to try and save her but she did not want it. Any attempt would lead to bloodshed and none of the men from the stagecoach would be left alive. There was no need for such a risk, not with Bent’s Ford five miles away. By Betty’s reckoning there should be three men who, individually or collectively, could sing two gangs like this to sleep one-handed. Left-handed at that.

  So Betty agreed to go along and not raise any ructions. She watched them checking through the baggage as Ben went up once more and pitched it down to them. Jesse asked which of her belongings she wanted to take with her, so she pointed to her over-night bag.

  All the time Betty watched the young men, studying them with eyes which knew the West and knew the signs. They all wore cowhand style clothes, but they were not cowhands. Every one of the five wore ready-made boots, which no cowhand worth his salt would think of doing and their hats were cheap woolsey. The gunbelts were another pointer. The tall leader, Jesse, wore a good belt, but it did not hang as well as it might and appeared to have been made for a more portly man. The other four wore belts which showed signs of crude alterations, small things like leather being cut away to leave the trigger-guard clear of the revolver.

  The signs told Betty she was tangled with a bunch of youngsters full of the so-called excitement and adventure of being outlaws. The way they were acting showed that they’d been reading the lurid fanciful stories which were being written about such outlaws as Jesse and Frank James. The politeness to her, the slipping of money into the nester’s purse instead of robbing him, were all part of the pattern. The leader would use the name Jesse to try and make people believe he was Jesse James.

  Betty smiled. In New York and on the trains she’d seen books like ‘True and Factual Life of Jesse James’, which showed the Clay County outlaw as an unselfish, kind, noble Robin Hood using a Navy colt instead of yew longbow. The girl had never met the famous Dingus James, but had heard Dusty Fog’s views on him both as a Confederate Army hero and a train and bank robber. They were not complimentary, but more truthful to the outlaw’s real nature than the fanciful stories in print.

  Her smile broadened as she remembered her cousin’s reply when one of the younger OD Connected hands had spoke of Jesse James robbing only the rich. ‘Sure,’ was Dusty’s reply. ‘Jesse wouldn’t rob the poor. They’d have nothing worth taking.’

  Which summed up Jesse James’ generous behaviour.

  These young outlaws were trying to copy the fictional Jesse James. Their behaviour was proof of it, and there was more to come.

  Jesse gave an order and one of the gang went to collect the horses, but they were not the fine, fiery steeds such as the James gang were supposed to ride when on their missions. The horses brought back looked to be the culls left behind in some trail-end town as not worth taking back to Texas with a trail-driver’s remuda. If horses like that had ever been found in the OD Connected remuda, even as culls, there would have been hell raised by Ole Devil.

  ‘Joe,’ Jesse snapped, as he looked at the harness horse from the scattered team. ‘You take that hoss. We can’t have no lady riding bare-backed with us. She can have your hoss.’

  Betty was grateful for the thought, although she almost wished to be riding the stage coach horse, it looked as if it could outrun those saddle-horses given half a chance. She accepted the horse indicated by the outlaw called Joe and allowed Jesse to help her mount.

  ‘How about them weapons down there?’ Ben growled, jumping down from the coach and fastening Betty’s bag to his saddlehorn.

  Jesse looked at the shotgun and the two revolvers which the guard and driver had dropped. ‘They belong to you boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ the guard replied. ‘I bought the scatter a piece back and Wells Fargo don’t supply revolvers to us no more.’

  ‘We’ll leave ‘em then,’ announced Jesse, magnanimously waving his hand. ‘My bunch don’t take nothing from a man doing a job of jobs. If they’d belong to the Wells Fargo bunch we’d have taken them, but not from you. Don’t try and touch ‘em afore we’re out of sight.’

  With this final gesture Jesse flipped the loop of his rope around the neck of Betty’s horse, turned and rode off, the others following him. The girl accepted this more as a tribute to prowess as a horse-woman than for any other reason. It could hardly be due to the horse, it was a sorry creature, the worst of a bad bunch and would be unable to outrun any of the others.

  Betty did not mean to try and escape. If she succeeded, the gang might go back and kill the men from the stagecoach. They would stop their polite treatment if she tried, and failed. It was as well not to take any chances or give any provocation to a bunch like this. They were as dangerous to fool with as a fully loaded, cocked Colt revolver; safe to a certain point, then deadly.

  The guard and driver watched the gang taking Betty away. Their thoughts ran on the same lines as Betty’s, seeing the gang as the dangerous amateurs they were. Neither man liked letting the girl go without a fight and knew the sooner they made Bent’s Ford the better it would be. They could not make it before dark, that was sure and no pursuit could be organized before the morning. The guard spat disgustedly, turned and walked to pick up his weapons.

  ‘A fine thing!’ yelled the business man, staring after the fast departing gang. ‘An armed guard and we still get robbed. I’m not without friends among the Wells Fargo superintendents, my man, I’ll see this gets reported.’

  ‘You do that,’ grunted the guard, holstering his Colt and tucking the shotgun under his arm.

  ‘Why didn’t you do something?’

  ‘Like what? That was a dangerous bunch there. Happen I’d tried to fight them off they’d killed the lot of us.’

  The business man’s face lost some of the indignation as he listened to the guard’s words. He gulped, and watched the guard and driver starting to walk in the direction of Bent’s Ford.

  ‘Jesse!’ he gasped to the whisky drummer. ‘They called that outlaw Jesse. We were robbed by Jesse James.’

  The drummer did not reply. He’d drawn the same conclusion as the business man, and was not waiting around to discuss it. The only men who were armed had started to head for Bent’s Ford and he did not aim to be left out here. Without a word to the other two passengers he started off. The business man and the nester exchanged looks then departed hurriedly in the tracks of the others.

  The outlaw band and their prisoner rode overland from the stage trail. Once away from it, Jesse reached up and pulled off his bandana, wiping the sweat from his face. He was a good-looking young man, but there was a weakness about his mouth which did not fit in with his pose as a masterfu
l outlaw. He looked a young man who would not take kindly to hard work, and had probably lived on petty crime until getting ambitious and starting this gang.

  ‘Shouldn’t let the gal see your face, Jesse,’ the one called Ben growled.

  ‘Have a hell of a job not to,’ grinned Jesse. ‘It’ll take a piece afore we can get paid off for her and we can’t keep the bandanas on all that time.’

  ‘She’ll know all of us,’ objected the one riding the stageline horse.

  ‘That’s right, she will,’ agreed Jesse. ‘Do you bunch reckon that we’re going to let Jesse James or Sam Bass get the credit for our job.’ He snorted angrily. ‘Like hell we are. Not even Jesse James ever pulled a stage hold-up and a kidnapping right after each other.’

  Betty hid her smiles, gripping the reins in her dainty, gloved hands and rode easily; Jesse must think there would be some special distinction in kidnapping Ole Devil’s granddaughter. He was also afraid that some other famous outlaw would try to sneak his thunder. She wondered how he was going to get word over all those miles to the Rio Hondo to get the ransom money back.

  So did Ben. He drew off his bandana with a sigh of resignation, showing a sullen, mean face with a sprouting of downy whiskers on his jowls.

  ‘How you fixing to let her kin know, Jesse?’ he asked.

  Joe, trying to get comfortable on the bare back of the stage-line’s horse, grinned. He was a moronic-looking youngster of perhaps seventeen, and looked enough like Jesse to be his brother. He was also proud of Jesse and regarded him as smarter than he was.

  ‘Don’t you just reckon ole Jesse got it all worked out?’ he asked.

  Jesse apparently had not got it worked out, but his brain was working on it. Betty decided to help out.

  ‘You could send a letter to Bent’s Ford,’ she suggested. ‘Find another stage that’s headed there and send word to Bent. Tell him what you’ve done and suggest he telegraphs Grandpappy. Then, likely, Grandpappy will send back for him to pay you.’

  ‘Sure, that’s just what I was going to say,’ said Jesse, looking relieved. ‘Bent’s a Texas man and Ole Devil’ll deal through him. Save us keeping you with us for too long, ma’am.’ He paused and thought out the rest of the idea. ‘We’ll tell him to get the money, send up a smoke signal when it’s ready and we’ll let him know how to deliver it to us.’

  The idea showed careful thought. Betty made the suggestion in case something went wrong and the tracks left by the gang were wiped out so that the Ysabel Kid could not find them. This way the letter, delivered to a stagecoach, would give Dusty Fog and the others somewhere to start in the search.

  It was not really likely that the message would ever be sent. At dawn Dusty, Mark and the Kid would be on her trail. The Kid could follow a line with the skill of his Comanche grandfather and would find the gang. Dusty could easily raise a plan which would liberate her from their clutches.

  Betty was almost sorry for the young men. Jesse and the others were not really bad; just misguided. They’d chosen a life of outlawry believing it to be a gentlemanly and easy way of making a living. They were going to learn that it was not the best way of life for a man and was full of danger. She hoped they would learn from this lesson, and not be shot down trying a robbery where the guard could handle his guns.

  Despite Betty’s thoughts to the contrary, Jesse was not without some of the basic outlaw skills. They pulled their horses up as they came level with a stretch of rough, rocky ground which made a contrast with the grassy range. Betty expected the outlaws to ride their horses on to the rocky ground to prevent them being followed. But Jesse did not, he brought the horse to a halt and stopped the others.

  ‘Here y’are, Ben,’ he said, handing the other his reins. ‘Take off with the hosses. Make a big circle, then scatter them.’

  He removed the saddle from his horse, followed by Sim and Jube, the other two members of the gang. Sim was a pleasant-looking youngster, Jube, chubby and cheerful, but a poor hand with horses. They stripped off their saddles, handed the reins to Ben and waited for Joe. The youngster was looking puzzled.

  ‘Ain’t but enough hosses for us four over there, Jesse,’ he said, pointing across the rocky land to a large outcrop of stones.

  ‘We’ll take that hoss you’re on then,’ Jesse replied. ‘Ride it over there and see that everything’s all right.

  For a moment, while most of the gang were on foot, Betty was almost tempted to make a break for it. Then she held her hand. They obviously knew the country far better than she did. It would be dark before she could get back to the stage trail and make Bent’s Ford. She could find her way back in the light but did not want to try it in the dark. Jesse might treat her gallantly but he would be nasty if she caused him any trouble.

  The three men swung their saddles on to their shoulders and Jesse nodded to Betty to dismount. There was a delay while Joe off-saddled her horse, then she was requested to lead the saddle-less horse which Joe had ridden. Taking the reins Betty followed the men, stopping to watch Ben riding off across the grassy land, leading the other horses and making a good, bold track. Jesse saw the girl watching and his chest puffed out with pride.

  ‘I thought of that idea myself,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Real smart,’ Betty answered.

  ‘Sure. There’ll be a posse after us, but they’ll follow Ben and the hosses. He’s smart, Ben is. Take them for a hell of a run, if you’ll pardon the word, ma’am. Then turn the hosses loose and scatter them and swing back to our hide-out. They’ll never find us.’

  Betty did not reply to this, although she could have told Jesse what he had failed to think about. She followed the men across the hard ground, knowing how little sign they were leaving. Carefully she slipped off one of her gloves and let it fall to the ground, unseen by the men. It would be a marker for the Kid.

  Four horses were hidden among the outcrop, but they were of no better quality than the four left behind. Betty snorted angrily for they must have been without water for some time, but Jesse wasn’t cruel and he watered them before they rode on. Just before dark they reached a shallow rocky bottomed, fast running stream. Jesse grinned at the girl as they rode into the water, then turned upstream. They followed the stream for a time and Betty slid off her second glove, tossing it into the branches of a scrub-oak as they scraped under it, the branches tugging at their legs and along the flanks of the horses.

  Just before it was too dark to see, Jesse brought his gang on to the shore and led them on. Betty tried to get her bearings. She dropped her handkerchief soon after they left the stream but had nothing more to use for a marker. She doubted if it would be needed, for they had come from the rocky and barren ground on to grass which would hold a track.

  The girl was used to long hours of riding and was pleased that her trip to the East had done little to soften her. The men did not mean to stop, that was for sure. They pushed on through the night and came on to a trail which led down through a small town. Betty watched the silent and deserted buildings knowing that people were sleeping inside. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Jesse by her side. The young man held his revolver, the barrel pointing at her side. She nodded, reassuring him that she did not mean to make any foolish outcry. They passed through the town and stuck to the trail for a time before turning on to a narrow, winding path which led through some rough, wooded country. The girl knew they’d been riding almost all the night and it would soon be dawn. She also knew that they were not far from the scene of the hold-up. Her instinct for direction was working and told her they’d ridden in a wide circle.

  A dark shape loomed up ahead of them. Jesse halted his gang, slid from his horse and advanced across the clearing towards a small farm house. A moment later he gave a whistle and the others rode towards him. He stood in front of the house and waved his hand.

  ‘Climb down, ma’am,’ he said, ‘This here’s where we hide out.’

  Betty climbed down; she felt stiff and sore but knew it would go off. She walked
on to the porch as Jesse opened the door and stepped inside. She heard him fumbling around and then light a lamp. Stepping into the living-room of the small two-room building, Betty looked around with distaste. The room was furnished with rickety old chairs, a table and a cooking stove. It was dirty, littered with food scraps, old newspapers and assorted junk.

  ‘Reckon you’ll feel a mite hungry after your ride, ma’am,’ Jesse said. ‘Set a spell while Joe here cooks up a meal.’

  The girl watched Joe light the stove and take up a filthy frying pan and a battered coffee pot. He set both on the stove and opened a cupboard to take out some eggs. There was other food there, ham, bread, butter and beans, but he left them alone.

  ‘Ole Joe’s not the best cook, but he licks the rest of us,’ Jube remarked, speaking directly to Betty for the first time and blushing furiously.

  That was obvious to the girl. She watched Joe’s clumsy way of handling the frying pan; then as he broke an egg into the half-ready fat she snorted. She hated to see things done badly when she could do them better. She crossed the room and pushed Joe to one side.

  ‘Ugh!’ she snapped, making a wry face as she looked at the blackened, burnt mass of fat and the egg. ‘And am I supposed to eat this?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jesse grunted huffily. ‘We’ve been eating it.’

  ‘You’re forgetting I’m a lady,’ Betty answered, hoping her cousin Dusty never heard she’d made the claim. ‘I bet Jesse James wouldn’t serve food like this to a lady prisoner.’

  That was all Jesse needed to hear. He would not want Betty to say she’d received anything but the best treatment while held by his gang. There was, however, a problem — none of the gang could cook any better than Joe.

  ‘All right,’ said Betty, ‘I’ll cook for you. Heat me some water and wash out the frying pan, Joe. Get it clean. Jube, you can clean these plates and cups,’ she indicated a pile of dirty, unwashed crockery on the table. ‘Sim, see if you can find a broom and clean this place out. No good expecting a lady to put up with this for an indefinite time.’