Killing Halfbreed

Killing

Halfbreed

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ACK
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Killing Halfbreed

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Killing

Halfbreed

Zack Mason

Dogwood Publishing

Lawrenceville, Georgia

Killing Halfbreed
is a work of fiction.  All names and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by Dogwood Publishing

Copyright © 2006 by Zack Mason

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  Published in the United States by Dogwood Publishing, a division of More Than Books, Inc., Georgia.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request from the publisher.

ISBN:  0-9787744-7-7

ISBN-13:  978-0-9787744-7-9

Manufactured in the United States of America.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Second Edition: July 2012

Cover Design by Matt Smartt

This book is dedicated to

God,

who has given me every good gift I’ve ever had

-and-

to my wife,

who’s supported me in

every moment of my writing

“I am a poor wayfaring stranger

Traveling through this world of woe”

                            - Wayfaring Stranger

A war rages within me.  Two bloods course through my veins, two ancestries battle for control. Two fleshes struggle, one Indian, one White.  One civilized, one untamed.  I’ve changed opinions several times as to which is which.

My name is Jake Halfbreed.

Descended from both Scottish traders and Cherokee chieftains, I’ve never been quite certain how to chart my path. 

My mother christened me Jacob Phineas Talbot, a moniker I’ve never really liked, especially the Talbot part.  Friends just call me Jake. Where I got Halfbreed is a little more complicated.

My great-great grandfather, on my pa's side, was a Cherokee chief everyone called Chief Broom.  He married his daughter to an important Scottish trader, and their son was given the last name Halfbreed.

Since then, we’ve had just about as much White blood as Cherokee marry into the line, so I figure I’m still about half and half.  I’m proud of the name Halfbreed, which I rightfully inherited from my father, though he died before I was born.

After that, Ma moved to northwest Georgia and began calling our clan Talbot, since Halfbreed's an obvious Indian name.  She adopted that name in a futile attempt to escape the scorn and prejudice laid on us for our mixed ancestry.  Said she got it from some French trader she once knew.

I’ve never cared for the name Talbot.  The people I like call me Halfbreed.

Without a pa to hunt game and generally look out for us, we grew up fast in the lower Appalachians.  Ma raised my brother and me to be respectable, honorable young men, in spite of the fact we were dirt poor.

She always did her best to get her hands on whatever books she could find for our education, so our house had quite a library by the time I’d grown.

She made us read those books too, inside and out, over and over again. At times, I would have wagered she cared more about our education than she did our fields.

Even if she hadn’t pushed, I would’ve devoured those books.  I’ve always had a hunger for things of learning.

Poor families who struggle together are usually close-knit ones.  Ours was no exception.

Ben and I were inseparable growing up.  With just two years between us brothers, we never played, hunted, or fought alone, and since Ma passed, Ben's about the closest person to me anywhere on this earth.

My trouble all began with a letter, as trouble so often does, and my sister-in-law was the author of this particular letter.

Ben went west a couple of years ago.  He discovered a girl named Jessica out there and married her soon after.  They settled in New Mexico Territory, and he'd written me quite a bit about her in our correspondence.  She sounded very nice from all he’d said, but I'd never laid eyes on her myself.

Actually, this letter was the first direct contact I'd ever had with her, so getting one from her instead of Ben was surprise enough. 
What
she wrote left me shaken.

Dear Jake,         

I know you and I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but under the circumstances, I do not know to whom else I could turn.

Benjamin told me that if I was ever in trouble, I could call on you for help.  I hope he’s right.

I don't have any family, outside of Benjamin, so you are my only hope.  Of late, we've had problems with some people from town.  They have even threatened us, but until now we’d dismissed it as nothing more than bluster.

Benjamin went out after some stray cattle a few nights ago and has not returned.  He’s never been gone this long before, and I greatly fear something may have happened.

I have every hope that he is still alive, but I remain quite distressed.  I don't know what else to do. Benjamin always said he could count on you ‘come hell or high water’, so I'm praying I can too.  Please come swiftly.

Your Sister-in-law,

Jessica

So, that there letter is what put me on this dusty stage all the way to New Mexico. What I would find when I got there was anybody’s guess.

The postmark on her letter was over a month old.  I only hoped I wasn’t too late.  She had not explained the details of their problems with the townsfolk, probably figuring to wait until I arrived.

The one thing I did know is that she and Ben were both right.  As long as I was drawing breath, they could count on me.

There is a river running through this town

It carries the water

There isn't any way to slow it down

Or make it stop

"
Sweet Jesus"

                     - Gary Chapman

My stage pulled into Cottonwood, New Mexico a little after twelve noon.  Looking around, it seemed an odd name for the town, considering there weren't many Cottonwood trees to speak of.  At least none I could see.

I didn't waste any time.  I knew from correspondence my brother’s ranch stood about four miles northeast of town.  I got more specific directions and a horse from the town hostler.

The horse he sold me was a healthy, chestnut-colored mustang.  It surprised me to see such a fine horse for sale in such a podunk as this, but who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I headed directly to the ranch, anxious to speak with Jessica and find out what had happened, desperately hoping the whole thing would just be a false alarm.

I envisioned my arrival as a joyous reunion.  I would find my brother sitting in his kitchen, right where he was supposed to be, steam rising from a cup of coffee, crinkling the weekly paper as he folded it to get to the next section.

He would greet me with that familiar, quirky smile I’d seen a thousand times growing up.  Everything would be fine and dandy and we’d just spend the afternoon catching up.  I wished for that with all my heart, but a sinking in my gut whispered suspicions to the contrary.

Nearing the ranch, I rounded a low hill.  The land unfolded before me into a landscape which stole the breath from my very lungs.  I had entered a smallish valley carpeted in lush, green grass and framed by gently rolling hills.  Sharper, purplish mountain peaks strained up majestically in the distance behind those, their darker colors contrasting markedly with the hues on the hills in the afternoon sun.  A few cattle dotted the vale, their faint lowing barely audible.

This valley was actually just a portion of a much larger valley, one in which lay all the local ranches and the town as well.  Here, it narrowed into a smaller finger of a vale, forming a snug home for whoever could tame it.

My brother had chosen well.

Riding up, I found the ranch house easy enough —  if you could call it that.  It was actually a small log cabin, primitive, but suitable enough.  I'm sure it served its purpose.

I found the initials “BT” carved into the front doorpost, which would stand for “Ben Talbot” of course.  I was in the right place.

Before I could dismount, a weakness washed over me, momentarily blurring my vision.  The cabin seemed to melt away, and I saw myself standing over a pile of ashes in its place.  As quick as the strange vision came, it left, and the cabin reappeared.

I shook my head to clear it.  My mind must have been playing tricks on me.  I wrote the aberration off to exhaustion from my long journey.

I called out.

No answer.

That didn't really mean much. Most of the work on a ranch was usually done away from the main house.  A lot of the time, it was hard to catch people at home, unless they were wealthy enough to hire others to do the hard work.