The Half Breed (17 page)

The big white horse snorted loudly from the top of the slope. Instantly the Kid’s ears detected a faint noise on the other side. A shot rang out and the Kid spun round, falling out of sight behind the tree, his old Dragoon gun in his hand. He lay without a move, out of sight of the man who had shot at him from the top of the other slope.

Time ticked by, the Kid lay still, watching his horse and listening. There was a scuffling sound on the other slope, the big white horse turned its head to whatever was moving. By watching his horse the Kid knew the man was slipping down the slope, coming towards him and he prepared to hand out a real surprise.

The footsteps drew near, the Kid tensed and lunged forward, his Dragoon gun slanting up.

‘Hold it!’ he snapped.

A cowhand the Kid remembered seeing in the dining-room at the ranch, stood at the foot of the slope, a revolver in his hand. He was fast, very fast. The Colt came up and roared, lashing flame at the Kid but the man was off balance and missed. The Kid felt the wind of the bullet by his cheek and shot back, throwing a .44 round, soft lead ball into the man. The Kid shot to kill: a man as fast as this was way too fast to take chances with. The man rocked on his heels, a hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his head shattered wide open.

Leaping forward the Kid kicked the man’s gun to one side, then looked down at him. It was a pity there’d been no other way of handling the matter. The man, alive and talking, would have been more use to him.

Gun in hand the Kid went up the slope fast, like a Comanche Dog Soldier hunting a white scalp. Keeping to every bit of cover he could find, he reached the top. He could see the sign left by the man and followed it, but went with caution. The tracks led him through the woods to a small cave. For a moment the Kid stood outside, then darted forward with his gun out. He flattened by the side of the cave, listening for some sound to warn him that others were about.

For a moment he waited, then flung himself in through the opening, his gun lined. The cave was empty but had been used regularly. In one corner lay a pile of blackened embers; the Kid went to these, touching them and finding they were still warm. The man who’d tried to kill him must have been burning some papers here.

Without relaxing, or holstering his gun, the Kid went over the cave, studying the sign on the ground. Three men regularly used the cave and had been doing for some time. A hole had been scraped in the ground and a large, flat rock lay by it, dragged aside to allow the papers to be burned, the Kid thought. He turned and left the cave, finding tracks where two men had talked, then separated. One was the man the Kid had killed; the other set went off to where two horses had been tied. Only one horse remained now but there were tracks to show which way the other went. The Kid, glancing at the sun, knew he would have to go back to the ranch for the inquest.

For all his hurry the Kid was cautious, there was still danger. The man he was after, the man who killed Judge Hurley, would not hesitate to kill again.

The burial was over and the inquest convened when the Kid came back. There was little enough to be said. The Judge had been murdered by a knife, killed by person or persons unknown. That was the verdict reached and the Kid did little or nothing to add to or help clear up the mystery. He just stated the plain facts, that he’d been on his way to see the Judge, found him dead and waited until Carney Lee came up. He did not mention the things he saw in the woods and Lee, taking his cue from the Kid, said nothing about it either.

The library and office was cleared, only the Kid, the sheriff, Lee, Hughie, and the doctor remained. They waited while the cowhands left the room then Carney Lee looked at the Kid.

‘You was some close mouthed just now, Lon.’

‘Pays to be,’ replied the Kid.

‘Not when there’s been two killings—’ growled the sheriff.

‘Three!’

The sheriff stopped speaking at the Kid’s quiet interruption. All eyes went to the dark young man. For a moment none of them said a word, then Alberts snapped, ‘Who was the other?’

‘One of the Judge’s hands. Tried to kill me in a
bosque
about four-mile from the spreads Tall jasper, dark, looked about thirty or so. Wore a staghorn handled Colt gun, looked like a tophand.’

‘McMurry!’ Lee spat the word out. ‘You allow he tried to kill you?’

‘Took a couple of shots at me,’ replied the Kid. ‘I had to kill him, he was too fast for me to handle any other way.’

‘Why’d he want to kill you?’ the sheriff put in grimly.

‘I’ve made a tolerable few enemies in my short and sinful life, that could have been why — or because I was looking at something I shouldn’t have been.’

‘Such as?’ Alberts asked.

‘Pieces chipped out of some tree trunks.’

From the way the Kid spoke, Alberts knew there was no point in continuing the questioning. He wanted to get at the mystery, but knew that once the Kid dug in his toes there was no shifting him. If the worst came to the worst, the Kid would forget how to speak English and go over to pure Comanche, which Alberts did not speak.

‘This here McMurry,’ said the Kid. ‘He worked these parts for long?’

‘Took on for the round-up. Tophand, good with cattle but a mite close mouthed. He was one of the best hands I ever saw with a branding iron.’

‘He was one of your branders on the last gather?’

‘Sure.’

The Kid looked thoughtful. Things were falling into place, dropping in to fit the pattern, He did not mention his ideas yet, but went to where the knife lay on the table. It had been shown in evidence at the inquest but so far the Kid had not been given a chance to examine it. He took it up, turning it in his hands. The knife was usual in form, looking like a butcher’s steel sharpened down to a point. He gave little attention to the blackened hilt, his eyes were on the blade.

The Kid knew knives. His mother had been the daughter of Chief Long Walker and his French-Creole squaw. From both the Kid inherited the knife-savvy of a nation of knife-fighters who knew few if any betters. All his life he’d handled knives of various kinds and there was much he knew about them. This knife was all wrong as a fighting weapon, there was no guard to protect the hand from a slash, there was no edge to rip into the knife-fighter’s target, the belly. It was a weapon designed purely for murder, for there was only one way it could be used: in thrust which would sink the point home.

Carefully the Kid tested the balance of the weapon, then gripped it by the point. His hand whipped back and the knife hurled across the room into the wooden shield just below the Remington Rolling Block rifle. The Kid went forward and leapt to catch the rifle as the jolt brought it sliding from the pegs.

He rested the rifle back again, seeing that the pegs were set so that the long barrel tip just rested. He turned and looked at the others who were staring at him with undivided attention.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if this knife would throw.’

‘Looks like it will,’ Carney answered grimly. He did not know what the Kid was up to, but was willing to go along with him.

‘Is that how my Uncle was killed, by a thrown knife?’

‘Nope.’

‘You saw the sign, Lon. You’re not trying to tell me it was pushed in by hand, are you?’ growled Lee.

The sheriff snorted angrily. He could read sign and knew that there was no way this knife could have been pushed in to the Judge’s back by hand. The Judge would not, could not, have ridden fifty yards with the knife in his back and there was no sign that another man was out on the sand. The man could not have been riding behind the Judge, holding him after killing him, then pushing him off. The horse tracks proved that; they were just deep enough to have been made by the animal carrying the Judge’s weight so far, then the right depth for a riderless horse.

‘How the hell did it happen, Lon?’ he asked.

‘You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you, which same I won’t,’ answered the Kid. ‘Like to talk with Hughie and Carney alone, Eb.’

‘You will if you want to,’ replied the sheriff wryly. ‘I want to get this lot cleaned up, Lon. Election’s due real soon and I don’t want a thing like this hanging over me.’

‘Happen we can help you a mite, give us time,’ drawled the Kid and Alberts had faith in his quiet words.

Alone in the room with Lee and Hughie, the Kid dropped his voice and told them what he knew, and what he suspected but couldn’t prove. Hughie gave his agreement with some of it, the stuff he himself knew to be possible, and was willing to go along with the Kid’s idea.

‘I don’t know,’ Lee objected. ‘It’ll be dangerous and Hughie ain’t used to handling anything like this.’

‘Thing being Hughie won’t be handling it. There can’t be a move made until dark and then I’ll be here, not Hughie.’

‘I can’t have that, Kid,’ Hughie put in. ‘You’re risking your life to—’

‘Sure, but I know what to expect, you don’t,’ answered the Kid. ‘There’ll be no risk if you do your part.’

It took some doing, but Lee and the Kid finally persuaded the young man it would be best if he played the game their way. So Hughie agreed and a few moments later Carney went out to ask all the men to keep well clear of the library as Hughie was trying to work out the ranch books and wanted quiet.

‘Reckon it’ll take him long, Carney?’ asked one of the hands.

‘Most all day, he reckons. Looks like Jeff made his own system and he’s away hunting.’

The hands went about their business and Carney slouched off on his own. He joined the Kid in the house some time later. ‘One of them slipped off,’ he said. ‘I let him go, didn’t want to make him suspicious.’

‘
Bueno
,’ replied the Kid, then turned as Hughie came up to him. ‘Man, you surely look elegant, ole Mark Counter’d go green if he saw that jacket.’

Hughie’s face reddened slightly. The green velvet smoking jacket was a present from a maiden aunt and packed by mistake when he came West. The Kid had wanted Hughie to wear something conspicuous. In addition to green velvet, black lapel and collared smoking jacket, he was wearing a fez-like hat, a present from the same maiden aunt. The Kid scowled, thinking Hughie was jobbing him, then grinned as he saw the real reason. Hughie’s hair was considerably lighter in colour than the Kid’s.

The idea was put into practice immediately. Hughie spent the day alone in the office, working on the books and trying to solve Jeff Dawson’s system of book-keeping. The Kid doubted if there would be any danger during daylight and so headed for town to see the sheriff.

It was dark when he rode back, and the ranch crew were eating their supper. Hughie was with them, his coat and hat coming in for a lot of good-natured chaff. The Kid did not make any attempt to join the other men, but headed for the library and slipped in. Keeping well clear of the windows the Kid moved around the room, checking everything. He looked under the table at the trapdoor, seeing the bolts were shot home. With his search complete he went to wait behind the door.

Footsteps outside sounded to the Kid, the door opened and he heard Hughie saying, ‘I’m going through with it even if the Kid isn’t back, Carney.’

‘I tell you it ain’t safe,’ Lee replied and they entered carrying a lamp.

Hughie took the lamp and set it on the desk. It gave him a light where he wanted to work but the rest of the room was in deep shadow. The two men stood for a moment, then Carney Lee growled: ‘I shouldn’t let you go through with it, boy. If the Kid’s right—’

‘I reckon he is.’

The two men swung round, Hughie reaching for the lamp and Lee dropping his hand to his side as he saw the dark, shadowy shape. They recognized the voice. It said much for the young Easterner’s presence of mind that he did not lift the lamp and let the light shine on the Kid.

‘That you, Lon?’ Lee hissed unnecessarily.

‘Naw, it’s Santa Anna,’ came back the mocking voice. ‘You’d best get out of here, Carney. You know what to do?’

‘Sure I do. I only hope it goes right.’

There came a low chuckle from the Kid, his voice sardonic. Lee guessed the mocking, Indian-hard grin was playing on the Kid’s face as he replied: ‘Happen it don’t, remember one thing — I don’t like lilies.’

Carney Lee chuckled, then went to the door. He opened it and walked out, closing it behind him. At the desk Hughie began working on the books, his pen scratched, he checked figures and might have been alone, for the Kid remained silent and unseen in the deep shadows. They did not speak, for that the Kid had insisted on. He doubted if there was any actual danger to the young man until the ranch crew were all asleep but someone might be watching from outside.

A knock on the door brought the Kid’s Dragoon gun into his hand, the door opened and the ranch cook entered, tray in hand, bringing coffee and cookies for Hughie.

‘Boys are all turning in,’ the cook said, setting the tray on the edge of the desk. ‘You going to be working long?’

‘I’m fixing to finish the books tonight, cookie,’ Hughie replied. ‘Tell Carney I aim to get them done tonight, Thanks for the coffee.’

The cook left without even knowing there was a second man in the room. The Kid holstered his gun and moved silently to the window. He waited until he saw the bunkhouse lights going out one after another, then knew It was time for him to take Hughie’s place.

Hughie worked for a few minutes, then rose, stretched and started to pace the room as if working the stiffness out of his bones. He passed in and out of the circle of light three or four times, then stopped in the darkness and quickly removed coat and hat, handing them to the Kid, who slipped them on. The Kid made sure he could move comfortably, then went and sat at the desk, pretending to be working on the books. Hughie sat down in a comfortable chair in the darkness and watched the Kid.

The time dragged by. The Kid was like an Indian in his patience. He tried to carry on as he’d watched Hughie doing, though he doubted if there was any need for such deception. Hughie tried to stay awake in his excitement but after a couple of hours his head began to sag on his chest. He shook it off twice, then went to sleep sitting in the chair.

The Kid pretended to work on. From the steady breathing he knew Hughie was asleep and that was what he wanted. The Kid knew the danger he was in and the risk he was taking; but he also knew his own capability at handling such a situation.

A faint sound came to the Kid’s ears; he tensed, ears straining. It was not Hughie moving in his sleep, or his breathing, for the Kid’s ears had grown used to both sounds and this one broke through them. It was only a faint noise. The room lay still and dark except for the light which shone on the Kid as he sat at the desk.

There was a faint hissing sound; the Kid heard and moved with all the speed he could manage. Throwing himself from the chair, he lit down on the floor, rolling back into the darkness. There was a roar, and a spurt of flame from under the table. Something hissed through the air, and thudded into the desk. The Kid hit the floor with his Dragoon gun in his hand. He was blinded by the muzzle flash from under the, table, but he shot back by instinct. He heard a thud, as if something wooden fell to the floor, then he was on his feet and hurling towards the door. Hughie was awake, his senses were muddled for an instant, but he got control of them. As the Kid opened the door, Hughie was grabbing the lamp from the desk. He stopped, staring at the thing which stood quivering in the wood of the desk, It was the hilt of a knife like the one which had killed his uncle.

‘Come on, Hughie!’ roared the Kid, racing for the front door of the house and jerking it open.

Hughie followed. He heard the Kid running along the side of the house and came out. The Kid turned the corner of the house and shouted a challenge. There was a fast exchange of shots, then a man yelled:

‘Don’t shoot, I’m hit!’

Turning the corner Hughie saw the Kid advancing on a man who stood at the outside doors of the cellars. The light of the lamp showed the man on his knees, holding his arm. He was a cowhand who worked for the ranch and looked scared as well as in pain. The .44 ball had only grazed his arm but the bicep was ripped wide open.

Light showed from the bunkhouse and Carney Lee appeared carrying a lamp. He was fully dressed and his gun was in his hand. Stopping, he looked at the cowhand and growled, ‘McMurry’s bunkie. Was it him? I heard a shot. Was that—’

‘I didn’t do it!’ yelled the cowhand. ‘I only opened the door and let Jeff Dawson in.’

‘Dawson?’ growled Carney Lee. ‘Where is he?’

‘Still in the cellars.’

The Kid jerked up the cellar doors and went down the steps. He went with caution, gun in hand, ready to shoot, Carney Lee followed. They passed through the Judge’s supply cellar and opened a door at the end. Apart from the Judge’s ample stock there was nothing to be seen, but there was still another door showing in the lights. They went towards it, flattening on either side. The Kid moved fast. He kicked the door open and went in with his old Colt Dragoon ready for action. He found his caution unneeded. Carney Lee’s lamp showed a stocky youngish man lying on the floor. He was face up, two bullet holes in his head.

‘Jeff Dawson,’ Lee grunted, then poked down at the long wall gun which lay by the man’s side. ‘You mean that was how he done it?’

There were running steps and the sheriff came in followed by a deputy. They’d come from town with the Kid and stayed out on the range waiting for the shooting to start before moving in.

Some time later, the sheriff, Hughie and Lee were in the library examining the knife while the Kid told them how he’d guessed what had happened.

‘I knowed there was something wrong from the sign,’ he said. ‘The Judge wasn’t knifed, there was no sign near enough. Even had there been it couldn’t have been done!’

‘Why not?’ asked Hughie. ‘You showed the knife could be thrown.’

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘It could be thrown, but not to stick hilt deep in a man. I don’t reckon there’s a knife made, apart from a James Black bowie like I carry, that can be sunk hilt deep into a man with a throw. It’s a matter of balance and weight, or something. So the knife hadn’t been pushed in, hadn’t been thrown in. The way the Judge’s hoss acted was a pointer. It walked out there easy enough, then something spooked it, made it rear and pitched the Judge! That told me something, it meant the Judge was killed there. It’d take more than a hoss rearing to throw him off, unless he’d just been hurt bad. So I took a look in the woods and found where a man lay up with a rifle or something. Only the Judge was knifed, not shot. I touched the knife hilt earlier and got some black on my finger, thought at first the knife’d been, near fire and got scorched. Knowed different then; it was powder blackening. The doctor got some on his hands when he pulled the knife out. I could see what might have happened, only I’d never seen a gun with a bore big enough to take the knife. It got me at first, then I saw it, when Don Miguel said a wall gun had to be fired from a rest. The man got a rest, the only place he could hide and the Judge wasn’t in sight until he got half-way across the patch. I checked the muzzle of Don Miguel’s gun while we were at his place: it was a mite rusty inside so it hadn’t been fired. That let him out. I suspected you, Hughie, but when I took my ride I found where Dawson practised with his gun. He’d been doing it for a fair piece, you’d not been here that long.’

‘I know why Dawson did it,’ Hughie answered. ‘I’ve made out enough from the books to know that he’d been robbing my uncle for at least two years.’

‘And the Judge got to suspecting him, got the Cattlemen’s Association on it,’ the sheriff growled. ‘He went to town to see if there was either a letter, or a telegraph message from them. Got it the morning he was killed. Dawson shot him, then found he couldn’t go to the body without leaving sign, so left it until the body was brought back to the ranch. Sneaked back in, through the cellar, up through the trap-door—’

‘But it was bolted on the top side,’ objected Hughie. The Kid laughed, going to the table and pulling it aside. He gripped the ring and pulled, the trapdoor lifted straight up, the bolts splitting where the floor joined and still appearing to be closed.

‘That was how he did it. He must have fitted this up while he was working on the books alone,’ he drawled. ‘Dawson knew he might need to get rid of the Judge one day and got things ready. Tried to kill the Judge that way one night and missed. Then when Dawson heard you was coming out, Hughie, he knew he’d got to move fast. You went out to watch the tally work and took over. McMurry was hair-branding some of the herd and Dawson didn’t get a chance to tell him to stop. The other hand told us all about it, He’s been talking plenty.’

‘You were sure it was a wall gun?’ asked Hughie.

‘Don Miguel told us the Judge had one and I couldn’t see it anywhere. It should have been hung over the fireplace but Dawson took it. Then knew the empty space’d be noticed and put the Remington up there. Only the Remington wasn’t as long as the wall gun and didn’t set safe on the pegs. I wouldn’t have noticed, until it fell. Then I looked and saw that the pegs were made for a longer rifle. It was just another thing to point to Dawson. He was the only man other than the Judge and Carney who could come in here at any time. He was the only man with enough time on his hands, when the other boys were on the range, to learn how to use that thing with a knife for a charge. That took some learning. I found the trees he’d used for targets and one with a broken knife in it. That was when McMurry tried to drop me. He’d heard me moving and came to look. I trailed him back to the cave they’d been using to meet away from the spread. Kept their records there but it was too late. McMurry killed the post office gent in town, had to stop him telling about the letter and wires the Judge was sending.’

‘You wouldn’t want to take on as my deputy, would you, Lon?’ Alberts asked.

The Kid laughed. ‘I’m already hired, Eb. Couldn’t change my job. They know too much about me. One thing I do know, if any of those OD Connected fellers hear about me wearing that green jacket I’ll come back here and fix somebody’s wagon for good.’

Carney Lee and Hughie both laughed. They were looking at the tall, lean, Indian-dark young Texan. He didn’t look more than sixteen, yet he packed a world of savvy into his young head. They owed him a lot; he’d saved them from what could have developed into a range war with the Mexicans on the next ranch. He’d helped to break a rustling gang which was costing the ranch hard-earned money and he’d found the man who murdered Judge Hurley.

They owed a lot to the grandson of Chief Long Walker of the Comanches, the ex-border smuggler who now rode as part of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, the Ysabel Kid.