The Half Breed (16 page)

‘See you in a minute, Carney,’ he said.

Carney Lee did not reply, he was looking across the range and shaking his head sadly. The death of the rancher hit him badly, they’d been friends for more years than he could remember. The Judge had never been a man of letters. His name came, not from law, but from being a good judge of horses and corn liquor. Now he was dead, murdered and the old foreman swore he would get the man who had killed him.

The Ysabel Kid turned and walked back across the, sand to the woods, looking back at the body as if trying to get his bearings. Then he went through the trees his eyes on the ground. He turned and looked back, the body and the sand patch was hidden by trees and bushes. A few steps further on he found what he was looking for. A tree had fallen and there was a clear view of the Judge’s body. There was sign on the ground, sign which was plain to the Kid, even though half removed. The Kid lay on the ground behind the tree and looked over. He could see one small patch through the gaps in the trees, a clear opening of about two-foot, with no branches or anything in the way.

‘About sixty yards, I’d say,’ he remarked. ‘That’d take some practice.’

With the words he turned and began to track the sign. The man had known what he was doing, he covered his tracks well and might have deceived a less skilled trailer than the Kid. Even the Kid did not find it easy to follow the man to where he’d left his horse. There were droppings to show the horse had stood for some time, at least half an hour.

‘No point in trailing him now,’ the Kid said to himself; a habit he had picked up on the long lonely scouts he often took when riding herd or in time of trouble.

Turning, he walked back to the edge of the woods and found Carney Lee waiting for him. The foreman was clearly curious and could not restrain his curiosity any longer.

‘What you been doing?’he asked.

‘Now that ain’t a gentlemanly question,’ replied the Kid with a grin. ‘I’d’ve brought you a piece back on a leaf if I’d known?

‘Took you long enough to do that,’ grunted Lee sardonically. ‘You wants to try taking croton oil.’

‘Who gets the spread now the Judge’s dead?’ the Kid asked, disregarding the foreman’s cold eyes.

‘Hughie, I reckon.’

‘He with the herd you were working?’

‘Nope, stayed on at the spread, said he’d meet us out there but he hadn’t showed when I left to look for the Judge,’ Lee answered, and there was suspicion in his eyes. ‘You find something in there?’

‘Might be something, might be nothing,’ answered the Kid. ‘How far round do you reckon that knife hilt’d be? Bigger’n a .45, or even a .50 barrel?’

‘Sure, near on an inch. Twice as big as a .50. You reckon the Judge was shot fust, then the knife shoved in to make it look like that was how he died?’

‘Nope, I don’t reckon that at all. I’m real interested in knives. Just like the Judge and ole Mig are interested in long guns.’

The Kid stopped talking. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he looked at the edge of the trail, then towards the body and finally towards the woods. Things were beginning to tie into a pattern but there was just one small thread missing. One thing he had to tie in to make him sure his theory was correct. Every other thing he saw, the knife hilt, the way the Judge’s body lay and the horse tracks tied in, but there was one little thing missing.

Hooves sounded on the trail behind them; three riders were coming at a fair speed. It was almost an hour since the foreman had sent off his riders and both were returning at the same time, for, even as Noisy came into view with two more men, Joe and another rider came hurtling towards them from the other side.

The Ysabel Kid studied the two men with Noisy. One wore range clothes; he was a tanned, grey haired man belting a brace of guns and sporting a sheriff’s star on his vest. He looked a hard, but honest lawman; the Kid remembered him from the old days: Sheriff Eb Alberts. He looked at the Kid, recognizing him and nodding a greeting.

The other man was also known to the Kid. Doc Jerkin, lean, bald and amiable, good customer from the Kid’s smuggling days.

There was no time for small talk. The sheriff swung down from his horse, keeping it off the sand. He looked at the body, then nodded to the doctor who dismounted and followed him towards the body.

‘Keep off the sign, Eb!’ said the Kid and the urgent note, in his voice made the sheriff look down at the horse tracks, then step clear of them.

The doctor bent over the body, glanced at the knife, then knelt and took a closer look. He straightened up and shrugged. ‘Can’t do a thing here. If I can, I’d like to take the Judge over to his place.’

The other two riders came up; Joe and a good looking young man. His clothes were those of a working cowhand but his Stetson did not sit at the correct ‘jack-deuce angle over his off-eye’. It showed him as a dude, a newcomer to the cattle country for such rarely managed to wear a Stetson in the cowhand manner. His face was pallid under the sun-reddening; he was obviously badly shaken, or so it appeared.

He came across the sand fast, halting by the body and swaying. The sheriff shot out a hand to support the young man, gripping his right shoulder and bringing a wince of pain.

‘Shoulder hurt?’ asked the Kid mildly.

‘A little,’ the young man replied, his tones not Western. ‘I bruised it using a Buffalo Sharps.’

‘Telled you it’d be too much for you,’ grunted Lee. ‘You would listen to Jeff Dawson. You don’t need a .50 Sharps for shooting mule deer.’

The young man stood staring at the body. Joe was still waiting, he’d a horse fastened to his saddlehorn to take the body back to the ranch. None of the men spoke for a moment then the young dude asked:

‘Who did it?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ answered the sheriff. ‘Were you with the herd, Hughie?’

‘No. I got lost on my way out to them. I only just found them,’ Hughie Hurley replied. ‘And I thought I was getting to know my way round the range. That’s a knife in Uncle Sam’s back.’

‘Sure,’ agreed the sheriff.

‘Then you’d better arrest the Mexican. The man who owns the next ranch.’

‘Why?’ asked the Kid.

‘Everybody knows he and my Uncle weren’t friends.’

‘We’ll go and tell Mig, anyways,’ said the sheriff. ‘You’d best come, Hughie. And you too, Carney, Lon. The boys can help Doc take the Judge back to the spread.’

‘Jeff Dawson told me there was bad blood between my Uncle and that Mexican!’ Hughie raised his voice. ‘Are you going to make an arrest?’

‘Sure I am,’ the sheriff replied. ‘Just as soon as I find out who done it.’

The men loaded the body across a saddle, covering it with a trap. Then Carney Lee gave orders to the two cowhands.

‘Don’t you pair start talking about how the Judge was killed, or anything,’ he snapped. ‘We don’t want some fool yelling for war with the Mexicans over it.’

‘We know ole Mig wouldn’t do nothing like this,’ Joe answered. ‘We won’t say nothing at all.’

‘I’ll see they don’t,’ grunted the doctor.

The rest of the men, the sheriff, Lee, Hurley and the Kid got their horses and rode across the range. Dropping to Alberts’ side the Kid remarked, ‘That sign back there read a mite strange, Eb.’

‘What’s strange about it?’ grunted Alberts. ‘The Judge rode out there easy enough. He allus come back from that ways and—’

Alberts stopped speaking. His eyes had unconsciously studied the sign as he went to the body but it had only just struck him how strange it was. His eyes went to the Kid, trying to read something in the Indian-dark, almost babyishly innocent face. He failed and wondered how much the dark youngster knew, how much the sign told him. There was no chance to ask, for Lee and Hurley caught up with them.

‘Any idea where the Judge went in town, Carney?’ asked the Kid.

‘Nope, he usually tells me, didn’t this time.’

‘He went into the telegraph office,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Funny, I saw him coming out of it just afore sundown last night. He stopped at the hotel overnight and never came down to the Lone Star for a drink or a game of poker. Was aiming to ask him about it but he come stomping out of the telegraph office and on to his hoss without giving me a chance.’

The Kid lounged in his saddle, thinking fast. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, yet there was something vital missing. He wondered who the Judge was telegraphing. It could not be Ole Devil for Judge Hurley knew a man would be riding as soon as Ole Devil received the letter but could not possibly reach Tasselton County earlier than this morning. The Kid wished Dusty, Mark or even young Waco was here to help him. There were things he wanted to talk over and nobody here he could trust.

Don Miguel Hernandez came from the door of his home. It was a big, old Spanish style building, white walled and cool. Several
vaqueros
were standing around the corral, looking at the approaching party with interest but not animosity.

Don Miguel Hernandez came from the front door of his home as the riders drew rein outside. He was a tall, slender man, grey haired, at least fifty years old but still ramrod straight. He was one of the finest type of Mexican
hildalgo
, brave, a shrewd business man and a gentleman in the strictest sense of the word. He strode forward to meet the guests, a smile of welcome on his face.

‘
Saludos
, Eli, Carney, Mr. Hurley,’ he said, then his eyes went to the Ysabel Kid and the smile grew even more warm; ‘
Cabrito
, it has been long since I last saw you. You will stay the night, all of you?’

‘Ain’t just a-visiting Mig,’ replied the sheriff. ‘We found Judge Hurley this morning.’

‘How did the old goat get himself lost?’ Hernandez answered, smiling. ‘I always said he didn’t know this country and—’

‘We found him dead, at the Dry River ford.’

The Ysabel Kid was watching Hernandez as the sheriff replied. There was no doubt that the Mexican was genuinely shocked at the news. His face showed it for a brief instant, then he got control and relapsed into the expressionless mask which gave nothing away.

‘Got a knife in his back,’ the Kid said gently.

Hernandez wiped a hand across his face, shook his head as if to clear it and gave a sigh. ‘Poor old Sam,’ he said. ‘We had our little quarrels—’

‘This wasn’t a little one,’ Hurley put in, his voice throbbing with grief and anger. ‘Everybody knows you and my Uncle were enemies. You could have been waiting for Uncle Sam at the ford and—’

‘And what?’ asked the Kid, before any of the others could say a word.

‘Everybody knows Mexicans use knives,’ Hurley finished lamely, for he was a dude and did not know how to read sign. He had not read the strange message in the sand.

‘So do other folks,’ replied the Kid. ‘This ain’t a running iron I’ve got on my belt.’

For all the Kid’s words there was tension in the air. The
vaqueros
were gathered around and muttered angrily at the insult to their master. Carney Lee dropped his hand to his side. He did not agree with what the young man had said, but Hughie Hurley was the Judge’s nephew and Lee’s boss, so the old ranch foreman was ready to defend the youngster from the consequences of his rash words. It was an explosive situation and one which needed delicate handling.

The Kid’s words relieved some of the tension and Hernandez spoke gently, showing no offence at the insult.

‘Come inside, all of you. The boy is disturbed by his Uncle’s death and he means nothing by the words.’

‘Sure,’ Lee replied. ‘You’d best know one thing, Hughie. Your Uncle and Don Miguel here’ve been feuding for the past thirty years, but they’ve never stopped being friends. Remember that time Mig bought some fancy rifle that the Judge wanted, Eb?’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ answered the sheriff, grinning. ‘Judge come to town breathing fire and smoke. Told Mig that he was going to start shooting the next time they met. Wanted to step into the street and settle it like gentlemen. You’d have thought there’d be killing certain sure. Then word come that a bunch of Santanta’s Kiowa bucks were raiding Mig’s herd. Damned if Mig and the Judge didn’t get their hosses and ride out side by side to handle them Kiowas.’

‘Was another time,’ Lee went on, looking hard at young Hurley. ‘The Judge bought one of the Volcanic rifles out from under Mig’s nose. They wasn’t talking for a month after that. Mig come off a hoss, got hurt bad. Your Uncle went East to fetch back a doctor who knowed more’n Doe Jerkin about bone setting. Brought Mig a Volcanic rifle back, help get him over his fall.’

The Kid nodded in agreement. The feud between Judge Hurley and Miguel Hernandez was due to their hobby of collecting firearms. It was never so serious that it could not be put off when there was trouble and co-operative action was needed.

Hurley looked embarrassed, but held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was misled by what the hands at the ranch told me. My Uncle was most uncomplimentary about you, and I heard that you and he were enemies.’

‘Come in and I’ll show you the latest cause for our enmity.’ The men went into the house, following Don Miguel to the large room used as library and study. For a moment the Kid thought he was back at the OD Connected, except that Ole Devil Hardin’s interest was handguns and the Mexican collected rifles. With the eager air of a collector showing off his prizes. Hernandez waved the others to chairs and called to a servant to bring refreshments for his guests.

The walls of the study were covered with long arms of almost every kind and variety. There were muskets of the snapchance, wheellock, flintlock and percussion fired mechanisms. Single, double, quadruple barrelled long arms and early experimental repeating muzzle loaders. The Kid looked at the weapons for he was a rifle shot beyond peer and a keen student of long arms. He recognized an old Ferguson rifle, the earliest attempt at making a breech loading weapon, at least, the earliest successful attempt. There were cartridge rifles of many kinds; a line of Winchesters, starting with the forefather of the family, the Volcanic rifle, the Henry and a couple of types of the old yellow boy, the Model of ‘66. A rifle of the newer Model 73 pattern was underneath, but below that was a gun which made the Kid catch his breath. It was this gun Don Miguel picked up, brought to them and held out with the joy of a collector.

The rifle was a Model 73, a weapon the Kid had seen but not managed to obtain. A Model 73 as he only dreamed about. The woodwork was black walnut, finely carved and checked. The metal was deep blued, finely engraved, and on the top of the barrel was printed the words, ‘One of a Thousand.’

‘This is the latest bone of contention,’ Hernandez said, showing the rifle with some pride. ‘The Winchester Company are selecting their finest barrels and making up these special rifles, I managed to get the only one the Company held and old Sam was furious. He’s got to wait—’

The words died as he realized Judge Hurley would never have one of the magnificent ‘One of a Thousand’ rifles now.

The Kid was looking at it with the expression of a man seeing visions. He’d admired the Model 73, but this was beyond anything he’d ever seen and he knew that one way or another, he must get one. It was at that moment that the Kid saw something which took his attention off the Winchester. He came to his feet and walked across the room to a weapon which hung in the place of honour over the fireplace.

It was all of seven-foot long and appeared to be at least an inch across the muzzle. It was an old fashioned musket, a flintlock, as the hammer and frizzen pan showed.

Looking up at the gun, the Kid remarked, ‘I never saw one this size. I’d bet it’d kick like a Missouri mule. A man’d need muscles on his muscles to lift and fire it.’

Alvarez knew the Kid was interested in long arms and came forward with the pride of a collector showing off his favourite piece. ‘He wouldn’t hold it and fire from the shoulder. It’s a wall gun and meant to be fired from a rest. Originally it would have been rested on the wall of a fort to fire at an attacker. You are right when you say you’ve never seen one this size before. There are very few of them and this is the longest. A London, England, gunsmith called John Thompson made it in the late 1600’s and it is still in working condition. I’ve often meant to try it out but my bones are too brittle for the kick.’ He paused and sighed. ‘This was another cause of our feud. Sam bought a wall gun, but it was a foot shorter; he never forgave me for that.’

‘That’s a real fancy piece all right,’ the Kid drawled.

Hernandez turned back to the other men. ‘Excuse me, please, I get carried away when I talk of my collections. You say Sam was killed by a knife?’

The Kid reached up and ran a finger around the inside wall of the gun’s barrel then looked at it. He turned and joined the others who were drinking coffee brought in by a barefoot peon.

‘Like you to come on over to the Judge’s house for the inquest, Mig,’ the sheriff said.

‘Of course,’ the Mexican answered. ‘We’ll ride as soon as you’ve finished your coffee.’

Judge Hurley’s ranch was much the same in appearance as the Hernandez place. The ranch crew were sitting around, outside the bunkhouse, silent, with none of the usual rowdy horseplay. Doe Jerkin came to the door of the ranch and watched the sheriff and the others leave their horses in the stable at the right of the house.

‘I brought the Judge in. Undertaker’s come and laid him out ready for the burying. I reckon he’d want to be buried on the place, Hughie. We’ll talk about it later on. I left the body in the library, locked the door.’

They heard the sound of a horse and turned to see who was coming. One of Alberts’ deputies came racing up to a sliding halt. He’d ridden hard and his face showed there was something badly wrong.

‘Eh,’ he gasped, swinging down from his horse, ‘Ole Joe Tucker’s been killed. We found him dead in the post office, shot through the head.’

The Ysabel Kid turned to the doctor. ‘Did you go through the Judge’s pockets when you brought him in, Doc?’

‘Nope, left it for the sheriff, why?’

Ignoring the sheriff who was talking with the deputy, the Kid went to the door of the house. ‘Let’s take a look at them right now.’

The doctor led the way into the hall, his hat and bag were on a small table along with a sheet of paper and a pencil. The Kid glanced at the paper in passing, it was half covered with writing and there was a black smudge on the top of it.

Taking a key from his pocket the doctor opened the door that led into the library. The Kid went in first, his gun in his hand. The room was dark and still, at one end of it a large table showed through the darkness; on it was a bulky, sheet covered shape.

The doctor brought a lamp from one of the other rooms. His eyes went to a chair and the coat which lay by its side. ‘That’s strange, I hung the Judge’s coat over the chair,’ he said.

The Kid went forward, lifting the coat and seeing what he expected. The pockets had been turned out. Turning to the doctor, the Kid said, ‘You’d, best get Eb in here, Doc.’

Alberts arrived fast; he came into the room followed by Hughie Hurley and Carney Lee. They looked around; the young man went to the office desk, bending down to look at the door.

‘Somebody tried to break in here,’ he said.

The others went to the desk; there were three deep grooves cut into the wood around the lock as if someone had been trying to find some way to open it. The sheriff gave an angry growl, turned and went to the windows, trying each one of them in turn. He looked puzzled as he turned back to the others.

‘Who came in here, Doc?’ he asked.

‘Only me and the undertaker, after the boys helped to get the Judge in. Then when we was finished I came out and locked the door.’

‘Then how the hell did anybody get in?’ growled Alberts indicating the windows. ‘These’re both fastened on this side.’

The Kid crossed the room fast, looking at the windows, they were both securely fastened and so was the door. He looked around the big study, the walls were lined with rifles. It was a plainly furnished room, a big table, an assortment of chairs, a well filled bookcase and the desk. There was nowhere a man could be hiding; yet someone had come in and left again.

Carney Lee strode to the table where the body lay, bending to look under it. He straightened up again. ‘Didn’t come through the trapdoor, the bolts are still shot.’

Crossing the room the Kid bent over, looking at the trapdoor. The bolts were shot across and were rusted as if the trapdoor was not used. It was quite likely for the door led to a small cellar where the family could hide in case of attack. Now it was connected with the other cellars of the building.

‘Who all’s got keys to the room here?’ asked the Kid.

‘I have,’ Hughie replied. ‘I think Jeff Dawson had one and my Uncle.’

‘Wouldn’t have done anybody any good to have a key,’ growled the doctor. ‘I been outside that door, writing my report, ever since the undertaker finished laying the Judge out. There ain’t been nobody in or out of it.’

‘Where’s this Dawson gent now?’ asked the Kid.

‘Went hunting last night,’ Hughie replied. ‘He came and asked me where the Judge was, then said he was going on a hunting trip when I told him Uncle Sam’d gone to town. He often went when there wasn’t much work on so I didn’t object. Besides, it’d give me a chance to work on the books. Jeff uses a system I’ve never seen before but I think I’m getting the hang of it now.’

‘Did the undertaker empty the Judge’s pockets?’ asked the Kid.

‘Nope. We allus leave that sort of thing to the sheriff,’ answered the doctor. ‘I can’t see how the hell anybody could get in and out of here with all the doors locked.’

‘We could make a search of the cellars,’ Alberts suggested. ‘Although I don’t see how the hell a man could get down there. That trapdoor’s bolted from the top. I don’t even think the bolts’d work.’

‘I’ve heard these places sometimes have secret passages,’ Hughie remarked, eyeing the walls with interest.

‘Not this’n,’ Carney Lee answered. ‘I was here when it was built, there ain’t no secret passages in it.’

‘Look,’ said the Kid. ‘We’re all tired now, we’ve had us a long day. Why’n’t we get us some sleep and get together in the morning?’

‘I can’t make it until noon at the earliest,’ Alberts replied. ‘I’ve got to ride back to town and look into the other killing.’

‘We’ll hold us a hearing at one o’clock tomorrow then,’ suggested the doctor. ‘See if we can’t work something out.’

‘What’s in the desk?’ asked the Kid as they turned to leave the room.

‘Uncle Sam’s cash box, there’s usually a fair bit of money in it. He usually keeps a bottle of best bonded whisky in it.’

‘That all?’

‘All the books and paperwork of the ranch are in there, too.’

The Kid looked thoughtfully around. ‘That’s a tolerable pile of books I’d reckon,’ he mused.

‘Not too many,’ Hughie answered.

‘Reckon I’ll turn in,’ said the Kid. ‘You reckon you’d best keep one of the hands out in the hall, and leave the lamp burning in here, Carney?’

‘Might be as well,’ Lee replied, knowing the Kid would never make such a request without good reason. ‘I’ll get Joe, Noisy and one of the other old hands to spell each other.’

The men were at the door when the Kid turned, looking back at the weapons which hung on the walls and particularly at a fine Remington Rolling Block rifle which hung over the centre of the fireplace. He stood looking at it for a moment, then turned and left the room.

The following morning the men gathered outside the room where they ate their meals. The Ysabel Kid was talking with Carney Lee and the ranch foreman nodded his agreement. Then they trooped into the room and sat at the table, the meal was almost silent. Just before they finished, Carney Lee turned to Hughie Hurley and said:

‘What do you want the hands to do today, boss?’

‘Put them to whatever you think needs doing, Carney.’ Hughie replied, making the answer he’d heard his Uncle give each day since his arrival.

‘Are you going to work on the books, Hughie?’ asked the Kid. ‘It might be best to have them all ready for when the Judge’s lawyer comes out.’

‘You’re right, Lon,’ Hughie agreed. ‘It’ll take me all day to do it. I wish Jeff Dawson was here. Do any of you boys know where he might be?’

‘Never telled us, Hughie,’ replied one of the men. ‘He don’t have much truck with us common folks.’

The Kid rose, stretched and announced he was going to ride the bedsprings out of his horse. The other men were to be working around the spread, or riding the nearer ranges so as to be on hand for the funeral which was due to start in a couple of hours.

Before the Kid got his horse he saw several men riding out to begin work. He caught his big white, saddled it and swung up. The horse snorted but the Kid rode out without fuss. Then the white settled down to serious work, carrying the Kid across the range.

Once clear of the ranch house the Kid halted and took his bearings. It was some time since he’d ridden this range and then only on odd visits, with a load of contraband. However, his senses worked well, once he saw a range he never really forgot it. He knew what he was looking for and also roughly where to find it. So when he started his horse he was making for a definite place.

He went through three large
bosques
, examining the trees and looking around for final proof of the theory he had formed.

In the fourth
bosque
he found something. Swinging down from his saddle he looked at the sign on the ground, then advanced along the tracks. He went slowly, every sense working for he knew he was dealing with a dangerous enemy, a man who would not hesitate to kill. In the centre of the
bosque
was a tree sloped valley with a fairly open bottom. The Kid left his horse at the top of the slope and went down on foot. A tree trunk lay across the bottom of the valley and further along were several more growing. Glancing at the trunk of the fallen tree the Kid studied certain marks around it, then walked to the nearest of the growing trees, also examining the trunk. Nodding in satisfaction the Kid went to the next tree, he moved along the line, glancing back to check on the distance. Stopping by one tree he bent forward and drew out his bowie knife, digging into the wood to extract something.