The Half Breed (13 page)

With the dust washed from Eph’s throat, Bent got them ready to move off with the first song. He waved his hand to the Kid and suggested that he started with ‘Little Joe The Wrangler’.

For an impromptu group the quartet got on well. There was not a sound through the room as the few customers and the girls from the dancehall listened. The, four voices worked in well; Madsen’s second tenor, Eph’s baritone and Bent’s bass giving able backing.

There was some applause from the listening crowd when the song came to an end, and Madsen took over with the sad ballad of ‘My Darling Clementine.’ Then Eph’s baritone gave the lead in the lament of a dying cowhand,

The song was just at the crucial point when the doors of the bar opened and a party of weary, footsore men entered.

Eph’s song died as Bent lunged forward from the bar towards the men at the door. He recognized the driver and guard of the late stagecoach. Recognized them, and knew they were in trouble, for he’d not heard the coach arrive.

‘What’s happened, Scatty?’ he snapped.

‘Been held up,’ replied the guard. ‘They took off with that young gal who was travelling with us.’

The Ysabel Kid left the bar and crossed the room fast, his face no longer young and innocent looking. The guard gulped and took a pace aback. He was a brave man, good with his weapons and used to taking care of himself in times of trouble, but that black-dressed boy looked meaner and more dangerous than a cow moose defending her new-born calf. ‘What gal was that?’ he growled.

‘Miss Hardin,’ the driver replied for the guard. ‘Ole Devil Hardin’s grand-daughter. She — hell fire, Ole Devil’s gall There’ll be hell on over this.’

‘Mister,’ growled the Kid, his voice sounding like a Comanche taking a lodge oath of vengeance. ‘That hell’s going to break loose a damned sight sooner than you expect. What happened?’

The businessman pushed forward glaring wildly around the room. His eyes lit on Chris Madsen, but, despite his earlier remarks, he did not appear to recognize the United States Marshal.

‘It was the James gang!’ the businessman yelled.

‘The James gang?’ Madsen remarked. He’d been eyeing Eph with some interest but turned and crossed the room, digging his badge from his pocket. ‘Are you sure of that?’

‘The leader was a big man,’ put in the drummer eagerly, not wishing to be left out of the limelight. ‘Six-foot three or four at least, and mean looking—’

‘Weren’t they masked?’ Madsen asked, then turned to Eph who was putting his hat on. ‘Don’t go yet, Eph. We’ll be doing some more singing when I’ve tended to this.’

‘Of course they was masked,’ replied the drummer heatedly. ‘You should have seen that Jesse James. Big! — He was at least six feet four and his eyes were black. Coldest eyes I ever saw, they just seemed to go right through a man.’

‘You sure it was Jesse James?’ Madsen went on, glancing back to Eph.

‘One of them called him Jesse,’ the businessman answered, wanting to get the attention back to himself once more. ‘There were at least ten of them in the gang and the guard didn’t dare do a thing against them.’

Madsen looked up at the roof, as if searching for strength to carry on. The Ysabel Kid turned to the guard, about to ask how Betty Hardin was taken without a fight. Madsen could read the signs and wanted to keep things peaceable, so he looked at the passengers and said:

‘You gents best go to the bar and get a drink, after all that danger you’ve been in.’

‘May I ask who you are?’ inquired the businessman pompously.

‘Madsen, U.S. Marshal.’

‘Then, sir, may I ask how a gang like the James brothers could be allowed to operate in Oklahoma Territory, robbing and plundering. It’s an outrage, sir, I was robbed of a considerable sum—’

‘I’ll see Marshal Thomas about it, sir,’ Madsen replied, hiding a grin. ‘He handles the James gang, You wouldn’t want me to get into no jurisdictional trouble with him, would you?’

The businessman snorted, but turned and followed the other passengers to the bar. There, surrounded by an eager audience, he forgot his principles and stood with a glass of whisky in his hand, telling all and sundry about his narrow escape. There was a considerable difference in the descriptions the three men gave of the outlaws and none was accurate enough to help in the search.

‘All right,’ growled the Kid. ‘Tell it!’

‘Jesse James!’ Madsen snorted. ‘Why does every witness in a hold-up have to insist it was Jesse James?’

Eph wandered over looking interested. ‘You sure it couldn’t have been old Dingus then?’

‘I never forget the description of any wanted man, Eph,’ replied Madren. ‘A big man, over six-foot, wide shouldered, with mean black eyes — pah! Jesse James’s slim built, five-foot ten and his eyes are light blue. That description don’t even tally with Cole Younger, or any of the James gang.’

‘Who were they, Scotty?’ Bent asked the guard.

‘Bunch of buttons, likely on their first chore, which is why I took no chances with them. I didn’t like the look of that boy leading ‘em. Seemed he might go hawg-wild and start shooting if there was trouble. That’s why I didn’t stack in when they were taking Miss Hardin with them. She warned me off: I was set to make a go, but she signalled me not to do it.’

That figgered to the Kid: Betty knew gunmen. She’d know that help was at Bent’s Ford and would go along with the outlaws. The Kid suddenly felt better. If he’d stayed with his friends there would be no one here to go help Betty.

‘If they lay a hand on that gal,’ he growled savagely, ‘I’ll—’

‘Ease down, Kid,’ Scotty answered, recognizing the young man now. ‘They won’t harm her none. They’re gentlemen owlhoots. Just out of a story book, robbing the rich to give to the poor. Why, they gave that there nester some money out of the take, ‘cause he didn’t have much. Didn’t take me’n Wheeler’s guns with ‘em when we said we bought them. They won’t hurt her none — unless they get scared.’

Ysabel Kid let out his breath in a long gust. He thought of Betty Hardin as a well-loved sister and swore he’d not rest until she was free. If those owlhoots had harmed her in any way they’d learn how a quarter-Comanche boy acted when he got riled. He could rely on the guard’s judgment of the men. They would treat Betty well enough as long as they weren’t spooked and their pose as gentlemen outlaws wasn’t shattered.

‘Where’d it happen?’ he asked.

‘Five-mile out. Scattered our team and left us afoot. You can’t find their line in the dark, Kid.’

‘Scotty’s right, Lon,’ Madsen agreed. ‘How many were there in the gang, Scotty?’

‘Five,’ answered the guard, grinning as he heard the whisky drummer telling a couple of enthralled girls and a young cowhand how he’d have stopped the hold-up if there had not been eighteen men in the gang.

‘Won’t need a big posse then,’ remarked Madsen thoughtfully. ‘It’d be best if we didn’t take too many men. If we come on that gang they might get scared.’

‘Wonder how they aim to send the ransom note,’ Scotty said as he turned to leave the saloon. ‘Might help you, if you lose their trail.’

The doors closed behind the driver and guard as they headed for the Wells Fargo office to make their reports of the incident. Madsen stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. He could see there was no need to send telegraph messages; the less men hunting the gang the safer it would be for Betty Hardin.

‘I’ll take you along, Kid,’ he said, then as if as an afterthought: ‘You’d best ride along Eph.’

Eph scratched his jaw. ‘Waal, happen it’s all the same to you, and there ain’t no great danger to Miss Hardin, I’d as soon be left out.’

‘Can’t do it, Eph,’ replied Madsen gently. ‘All these gents here are hidebound for some place urgent and you allow to be just juning around. Legislation of the Oklahoma Territory says a duly appointed officer can deputise any man. It means a spell in pokey to refuse and you wouldn’t want that to happen. We might have to wire your home town and let them know.’

Eph’s smile faded, his face tightened and his hand dropped to his belt, only inches from his gun butt. Chris Madsen’s eyes never left the Texan’s face, but his fingers spread slightly, hovering near the butt of his gun. Then slowly Eph relaxed, the grin came back and he was once more the happy-go-lucky cowhand who’d earlier sung in the quartet.

‘Wouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble, Chris,’ he drawled easily. ‘It might be inconvenient but I’ll go along with you. Allus did say there was a nasty, mean streak in tenors though. The Kid’s another one,’

‘Sure,’ replied Madsen, also relaxing. ‘I’ll stable your hosses in the barn with mine tonight. Wouldn’t want to wake up and find them gone, would we?’

With that Madsen turned back to the bar. Eph met the Kid’s sardonic gaze and grinned wryly, ‘I’ll tell you, Lon, that’s a tolerable smart lawman.’

Bent relaxed; nothing could be done until morning so he could get on with some more singing. His quartet gathered at the bar, keeping clear of the hold-up victims who were still telling of their experience.

‘Know something, Chris?’ said the Kid, as he leaned his elbow on the bar. ‘I feel sorry for that bunch,’

The words carried to the other party and a girl asked what the Kid meant. It was the businessman who replied. He’d taken a few whisky slugs and felt ready to head out and handle the gang without help. He focused his eyes on the Kid, no easy matter, for the Kid appeared to be spinning around with the rest of the room.

‘What he means, my dear,’ he said wisely, ‘is that he’s sorry for that poor young lady, helpless, defenceless, in the hands of those bloodthirsty desperadoes.’

‘I tell you, boys,’ drawled the Kid to the other members of the quartet, ‘he don’t know lil ole Betty Hardin. Let’s give Barbara Allen a whirl, shall we?’

* * *

The following morning at the first light of dawn, the Ysabel Kid was out saddling his big white stallion. He slid the Winchester rifle into the saddleboot and checked that a full box of Winchester .44 rimfire bullets, his powder flask, bullet bag and percussion caps were in his saddlepouch. He was leaving his bedroll with Bent to lighten the load on his horse, Near at hand Chris Madsen and Eph Tenor were also preparing for the ride and Bent stood by with packages of food.

‘Dusty and Mark might be along today,’ the Kid said as he swung astride the white horse. ‘Tell them what’s happened and to wait here until they hear from me.’

The three men rode off along the stage trail while Bent watched them. He felt sorry for the hold-up gang, matched against the combined talents of the three men.

The stage coach was where it was left the previous day for the Wells Fargo men wanted to let the posse search the ground before bringing in a new team and messing the sign up. Chris Madsen halted his horse and nodded to the Kid, who swung down from his saddle and went forward his eyes on the ground. Madsen could read sign well, but he knew that the Kid could make him look a learner in the art.

The Kid examined the ground with great care; Betty Hardin’s life and safety depended on his skill. There was much he could read from the dust at the edge of the trail and the grass crushed down by feet, and little that he missed. He could guess how tall each member of the gang was and even recognized boot prints.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said, mounting the horse with a quick Indian-like bound. ‘They aren’t experts, that’s for sure. And they haven’t done much of this work, or if they have, it hasn’t paid them.’

‘How’d you know, Kid?’ Eph asked.

‘Easy, their boots are run over at the heels, one pair looks like it’s damned near worn clean through. They’d have bought new boots had they been in the money. Hosses aren’t much either, sore-footed bunch from the looks of their sign. We can run them down if we catch up on them.’

‘ ‘Cepting they’ve got Miss Härdin, so we can’t,’ reminded Eph. ‘Looks like they’ve left some clear sign for you.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ replied the Kid. ‘They’re playing at being real smart owlhoots. They’ll have some game worked out for throwing us off their tracks.’

The sign was plain enough to allow them to make fair time following it. The Kid rode at the head of the party, Eph following and Madsen bringing up the rear. They did not speak as they rode but all were alert. The way of working was standard. The man following the sign would give it his full attention while the other two kept a careful lookout for possible ambush. There was not much danger of ambush as yet, but none of the three believed in taking foolish risks. The gang they were after would be well ahead, but there were other outlaws around who might take an aggressive attitude to the posse.

For once in his life the Ysabel Kid was anxious and worried. Although Betty Hardin was a cool, capable young lady, she was outnumbered by the gang. She’d have sense enough to go along without causing any trouble, knowing that help was coming.

The Kid brought his horse to a halt as they approached the rocky land. His eyes took in the crushed grass: the party had stopped here and got down from their horses. He looked around, then stiffened as a small black object lying on the ground caught his eyes.

‘Tracks go off that ways, Kid,’ Eph remarked.

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘There ain’t but one of ‘em being rid, rest are led. Look how close they’re together, Men wouldn’t ride all bunched up like that. ‘Sides, there ain’t but the five hosses going off.’

‘Rest took to the rocks then, Kid,’ Madsen said. ‘Make it harder for us. How do you call it, stick after the five or try and trail the gang over the rocks?’

‘Stick after the gang. They’ll have to leave this rock some place. The one with the spare hosses’ll make good time across the range, then scatter them. We’d wind up following one lone man, which is harder than trailing a bunch.’

‘Which way’d they go over the rock then?’ asked Eph, looking down at the, hard ground and seeing nothing to help him.

‘Their spare hosses would have to be left in that outcrop there,’ Madsen guessed. ‘We could try and pick up their line over that way, Lon.’

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid, walking forward. He bent and picked up the glove Betty had dropped, a grin flickering across his face.

At the outcrop the Kid went over the ground again, learning all he could, but it was not much. He estimated how long the horses were left, which was easy enough from the droppings left behind. Then he started following the trail over ground which gave little sign, even of six horses. It was a slow business but the Kid was painstaking.

‘Hell, this’ll spoil things for us, Lon,’ Madsen growled, as they came in sight of the rocky bottomed, fast running stream.

They halted on the banks and looked at the stream. The trail ended at the edge of the water, without any hint as to whether the riders crossed straight over, went up or downstream.

The Kid sat his horse, listening to the sound of the stream running over the rocky bed. His attention was on the sound as he heard Madsen speaking.

‘Up or down, do you reckon, Eph?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Never had a chance to be at this end of a — mean I never rode in a posse afore.’

‘I’d near on bet upstream,’ the Kid said finally.

‘Any reason for it?’ enquired Madsen.

‘Listen,’ replied the Kid. ‘There’s some real fast water, likely a waterfall near to hand. They went downstream and they’d have to come out again before it’d be worth it.’

The other two listened, faintly catching the noise of rushing, falling water above the sound of the stream before them. Both felt admiration at the way the Kid heard, recognized, and saw the importance of the sound.

‘Would you reckon they’d know about it?’ asked Madsen. ‘Likely. They know this country. They planned this whole thing out in advance, even to losing us here on the stream. They’d get here just afore dark, way I see it. Wouldn’t take no chances of breaking a hoss’s leg in the dusk.’

With that the Kid rode into the water, heading upstream; the others followed him. It was easy to follow the bed of the stream, and they splashed on until they came to some branches partially hanging over the water. The Kid saw the second glove and showed it to the other two, then slipped it with its mate in his pocket. Then he looked at the tip of a branch and leaned forward to scrape the horse hairs from it. Ignoring the other two he carefully separated the different coloured hairs, peering at them as they lay in his palm.

‘Make it a bay, couple or so roans, a black and a couple of duns,’ he said, passing the hairs back to Madsen, who confirmed the colours. ‘Be a mite of help, happen we catch up.’

Eph was watching everything with undisguised interest. ‘You mean you can tell all this, just by reading sign and finding hoss hair?’

‘Why sure,’ Madsen replied. ‘Except there aren’t another ten men in the West who can read sign like the Kid, I reckon to be fair, so’s Billy and Heck, but we’re yearly beef compared with the Kid.’

The horses started forward once more, the Kid watching the banks of the stream. He was trying to work out how long the gang had stayed in the water. They would come ashore before it was dark which would bring them out somewhere along the stretch they were now following.

A flutter of white caught the Kid’s eyes. At the same moment the Kid saw marks on the bank where the horses had left and he turned the head of his white towards it. Swinging down from the saddle he picked up the handkerchief and slid it into his bulging pocket. He glanced at the sun, it was now long past noon.

‘Let’s take a bite of Bent’s chow,’ he suggested. ‘Let the hosses blow.’

So they halted on the banks of the stream, loosening the saddle girths and allowing the horses to drink, then browse on the stunted vegetation at the side of the stream. The men ate their meal in silence, then sat smoking for a time, allowing the horses to rest. At last Madsen came to his feet, stubbed out his cigarette and went to his horse.

The tracking was resumed; slowly they worked over the ground in the direction taken by the gang. Then they reached easy ground and the speed of their trailing picked up. For all that, the sun was down when they brought their horses to a halt on a stagetrail.

‘This’s a hell of a note,’ Madsen grunted. ‘There’s a small town down that way, they’d likely go the other direction.’

The Kid did not agree. ‘They’ve been swinging the other way all the time and their line was headed up-trail when they came off.’

‘If they kept to this trail they’d have to pass through the town ahead,’ objected Madsen. ‘They wouldn’t want to risk it, not having Miss Hardin along.’

‘It’d be getting on two, three o’clock at least when they come through. Sure wouldn’t meet many folks at that time,’ answered the Kid. ‘They’d chance it and we’d have to be real lucky to find their line again if they stick to the trail for any distance.’

Madsen nodded. There was something in what the Kid said. He turned his horse and headed towards the small town. The other two followed him now. He was the U.S. Marshal and in command of the posse, it was his place to lead them. In the town he could ask around and find out if anyone had heard riders passing through in the night. He had the authority to ask and would get the answers.

They rode into the main street. It was empty and deserted, for most of the citizens were at dinner, in their homes after closing their business or finishing work. The saloon’s windows were lit but only three horses stood hip-shot at the hitching rail.

Madsen was looking for some sign of the marshal’s office but saw none as they rode along the street. He gave the three horses a casual glance and would have ridden on but the Kid caught his arm.

‘We made us a hit,’ the Kid said and his voice showed more excitement than was usual. ‘Bay and roan hoss . . .’

‘There’s a hell of a lot of both in the Indian Nations,’ Madsen replied.

‘Sure, but that bay’s favouring his off-hind a mite, like one we’ve been on the trail of all day.’

Madsen looked down at the bay, noting the way it was keeping weight off its right hind leg. It could be a coincidence but they’d little to go on. He swung his horse to the hitching rail and dismounted, tossed the reins over the rail, then ducked around his horse to look the bay over. Behind him the Kid and Eph were also dismounting. The Kid went around his white horse and was about to join Madsen when he stopped, looking at the saddle on the washy sorrel.

‘I’ll take money these are what we’re after,’ he remarked casually. ‘Take me for a tenspot, Chris?’

‘I’ll take you,’ Madsen replied, grinning. He could not lose on the bet. If the Kid was wrong the ten-dollar bet would be his, if the Kid was right they’d got part of the gang and that was worth the tenspot.

Without another word the Kid went to the sorrel, reaching up behind the cantle. Then extended a hand to Madsen, holding a woman’s overnight bag in it. Madsen looked at the two sets of silver initials on the bag; BH and OD, the O touching the straight side of the D.

‘You saw it,’ he growled.

‘And you didn’t,’ replied the unsympathetic Kid, holding out his other hand.

‘I’ll pay you when we get through.’

‘Oh no,’ drawled the Kid. ‘My pappy allus used to tell me, “Trust in the Lord, but make other folks pay their gambling debts right off.” ’

Madsen grinned, handing over two five-dollar pieces which the Kid slid away. Then they both went to the window. There was not much to see: a few men sitting at tables and three youngsters wearing cowhand clothes, lounging at the bar. They were a poorly dressed trio, but even as the posse watched, one of them pulled a ten-dollar bill from a roll and paid for a round of drinks.

‘They’re our boys,’ Eph said eagerly. ‘Cowhands as poor looking as them shouldn’t have all that money.’

‘Let’s make some talk,’ Madsen replied.

The three youngsters at the bar, and the rest of the customers studied the new arrivals with interest, for their town saw few strangers. The three youngsters at the bar started drunkenly, their eyes focusing on the Marshal’s badge Madsen wore pinned to his calfskin vest. The whisky died in them, leaving only a cold, scared feeling in their stomachs. It was plain they were guilty men.

Chris Madsen was a trained law officer. He knew the rules for approaching a suspect and watched the three young men all the time. They might not be the men he was looking for, but they were scared at the sight of his badge and a scared man was every bit as dangerous as a hardened killer. So they gave all their attention to the youngsters at the bar. Not one of them noticed a whiskered, hard-faced man who sat with his back to the wall, near the door. He gave Chris Madsen a hard look and dropped his hand out of sight behind the table, glanced at the door and gently eased his chair back, preparing to come to his feet.

Madsen halted in front of the three youngsters, his hand hanging by the butt of his gun ready to draw. He sensed that the Ysabel Kid was just as ready at his left side and wondered what Eph was doing at his right.

‘You boys done much riding?’ he asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ Ben asked, the whisky making him tough.

‘Chris Madsen, U.S. Marshal,’ Madsen introduced himself.

Eph was not paying much attention to the three youngsters, knowing Madsen and the Kid could handle them. He glanced in the bar mirror and saw the bearded man coming from the chair, his gun lining on the marshal’s back. Eph’s left hand shot out, thrusting Madsen violently to one side and sending him staggering behind the Kid. The bearded man’s shot crashed out, the bullet making a hole in the bar between Sam and Jube. Eph turned, his right hand lashing down as he moved, the ivory handled Colt swinging up ready. When he was fully around his left hand fanned the hammer. The three shots came so fast they sounded as one continuous roll, the bearded man took the lead. He spun around, crashed into the wall and slid down, his gun falling from his hand as he went.

The Ysabel Kid never accounted himself fast with a gun, for it took him all of a second to draw and shoot his old Dragoon. A fast man could halve that time and kill at the end. He caught a glimpse of what was happening, saw the three young men starting to move towards their guns. His palm twisted outwards, caught the worn walnut grips of his old gun and lifted the Dragoon from leather. His thumb cocked the hammer and he threw down on the three youngsters long before they moved. He picked Ben out as the most dangerous and the yawning muzzle of the old cap and ball .44 lined on his stomach.