The Half Breed (6 page)

The girl was also on her feet. She was pretty, tall and her sleek black hair was as dark as the Kid’s own. She was dark-eyed and there was something wild about her which might have resulted from her Comanche mother. She was Rosita Kathleen Riley, the big man’s only child.

‘
Hola cabrito
,’ she said, coming forward with her arms held out to the Kid. Then in Comanche she went on, ‘And how many girls have you kissed since we last met?’

‘Not one, Little Bird,’ replied the Kid, speaking Comanche just as faultlessly, then returning to English again, ‘I’ve got to be going on tomorrow, good and early, Rosie gal.’

‘Huh!’ she pouted. ‘I bet you’re going to see another girl. You and that big, white haired gringo, Mark Counter, there’s not the one a girl might trust.’

The Kid laughed. Sanchez Riley’s daughter would not speak to any other man in this manner. No other man could have come in and kissed her without her father to contend with, but the Kid was exceptional. He ruffled the girl’s long hair, then turned his attention to Riley:

‘You all got a room, Sanchez?’

The big man shook his head, looking distressed. ‘
Cabrito
, son of my oldest and best friend, I must tell you I have not. All my six bedrooms are being used by guests. Would you care to share my room?’

‘No thanks, I’ll be lighting out early and don’t want to disturb you. Say, Rosie, how about some food? Then I’ll hunk down here on one of the tables.’

The Kid was mildly curious about the guests who’d taken all Riley’s bedrooms but he did not ask. The men were most likely outlaws either going to or coming from a job and curiosity about such might only bring trouble. A man’s private business was his own, so the Kid asked no questions.

The girl flitted into the kitchen and came out with a plate of stew. The Kid sat at a table and ate with the appetite of a healthy young man. He ate well, and drank the coffee the girl brought, for he did not know when he would get another meal.

While the Kid was eating, Riley sat with him, bemoaning the poor quality of the Rio Grande smugglers and comparing them unfavourably with the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel. To Sanchez it was cheaper to buy the goods legally than from the men who now ran contraband across the big river.

‘It was a terrible blow when you retired,
Cabrito
,’ he finished.

‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid. He might have been a successful and prosperous smuggler had he not thrown his lot in with Dusty Fog after the death of Sam Ysabel. There were times when the Kid missed the thrill of running smuggled goods, but they were very rare. His life at the OD Connected, as a member of Ole Devil’s floating outfit, was rarely dull enough for him to have time to spare in fruitless day-dreaming.

‘I wish you’d take my room, old friend.’

‘No thanks, Sanchez. I might have some callers looking for me and I don’t want you getting into no fuss.’

Sanchez Riley snorted angrily. ‘Your father and I went into the Comanche country as friends. If you are in any trouble—’

‘I’m not. There’s a bunch after me but I might have shook them. I left my old Nigger hoss out back there. Saw a white in the corral, who’s it belong to?’

‘Rosita. Long Walker sent it to her as a birthday present,’ Riley replied, a worried note in his voice. ‘I’m a mite unsettled about having it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s got a 7th Cavalry brand on it.’

‘That’s that loud mouthed Yankee General Custer or something they call him, he runs the 7th,’ the Kid replied. ‘He still pushing trouble, like last year on the Washita at Black Kettle’s village?’

‘Sure, got his patrols crossing into the Comanche lands.’

The Kid grunted angrily. Men like Custer were a menace to the peace of the West. They repeatedly broke the peace treaties other men had risked much to make with the hostile Indian tribes. This infringement on the land of the Comanche would make the other shore of the Brazos River’s Salt Fork unhealthy for the white man. There was only one bright spot about the whole business, it would be likely to halt any further pursuit of him.

‘One of these days that loud mouthed, long haired Yankee’s going to learn what a riled, hostile Injun can do,’ the Kid prophesied, and his guess was to be proved correct in a few years time on the banks of the Little Bighorn River.

Rosita returned, carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow. She put them on the table, then went to blow out all but one small lamp which stood on the mantle over the fireplace. The Kid poked the pillow with a finger, tossed his hat on to the table and grinned at the girl; he looked about fourteen years old in the light of the lamp, but Rosita was not fooled. She knew that here was as dangerous a man as could be found anywhere in the West.

‘That’s a tolerable hard pillow you’ve given me, gal,’ he said.

‘Hard like your heart,
Cabrito
,’ she answered in Comanche. ‘Sleep well.’

‘And you. Sleep deep and dream happy.’

Riley and his daughter left the Kid alone in the dining-room and he put the pillow at the edge of the centre table. It would be a good deal softer than the saddle which he would be using for the next few days. He drew the blankets up around his ears, slid his hat to one side of his head, and went to sleep. The Kid could sleep anywhere, any time and not even the faint lamp glow could keep him awake.

The lamp was left for a purpose. If a chance traveller came on the building in the dark he could enter the dining-room and sleep on one of the tables, or the floor, without waking Riley or any of the other guests. This was the reason the Kid took the centre table; anybody coming in could use one nearer the door without having to disturb him. There was another reason, anyone trying to sneak up on the Kid would have a longer walk, giving more warning noise to his keen ears.

Six riders came slowly through the darkness, towards Sanchez Riley’s place slouched in the saddles like tired men, their horses leg weary from hard riding.

Coming to a halt Salar looked at the white gelding in the corral with some interest. It was too dark for him to see much so he could not tell the difference between the gelding and the Kid’s big stallion.

‘Is it the Kid’s hoss?’ Smith whispered.

‘I think so. He would never leave that white devil of his with other horses,’ Salar replied, no more loudly.

‘He’s up at the house then,’ hissed Smith, swinging from his horse. ‘You stop here and watch the corral, Tonk, Sundon. The rest of us’ll go up and look for him.’

Four of the men started towards the house; the other two took up position to watch the corral. They drew and checked their guns; if the Ysabel Kid got by Smith and the other boys they would be on hand to stop him when he came for his horse.

Smith and his party darted for the house, they did not draw their guns at first for there was nothing to be gained by charging into the building, gun in hand. Sanchez Riley might not be asleep and he was known to be a fast hand with a gun. He wouldn’t take kindly to armed men charging about his place in the dark hours.

The men reached the wall of the dining-room and moved along it. Salar halted by the window the Kid had looked through earlier, peering into the dining-room. The lamp’s light was fading as the oil in it burned away but there was enough to show the shape on the table.

‘Is it the Kid?’ Smith hissed, holding down the whisper to a pitch where it was only just audible.

‘I’m nearly sure it is,’ Salar replied. ‘That looks like his hat and it was his horse in the corral. He’d sleep in here if he came after Riley was in bed.’

‘I’ll go in and down him,’ suggested the young gunman, still trying to redeem himself for his failure to take Dusty Fog.

‘That’d be real smart,’ Smith answered sarcastically. ‘We fire a shot and Sanchez’ll be on us afore we can get out of it. We don’t know who owns them horses in the corral, and they’re not cowhosses. They might belong to a bunch of Rangers and we don’t want to tie in with them.’

‘You’re right at that,’ Salar agreed, remembering that the Kid had many good friends who would investigate his disappearance. ‘The less witnesses the safer it will be.’

‘Sure,’ hissed Smith. ‘You take Amp to the door there, Salar, and I’ll go in the other with the button here. I’ll sneak up and try to buffalo the Kid. If we get him like that we can tote him across the river and make it look like the Commanches got him.’

Salar did not care for the idea, but could not think of a better one so he moved into operation. Smith removed his boots and in stocking feet went through the door. At the other end of the room he could see Salar and the other man. The young gunman was behind Smith, gun out and cocked, his breathing sounding loud in Smith’s ears.

Motioning the youngster to remain where he was, Smith moved forward. He lifted each foot with care and placed it down slowly, making sure there was no board to squeak a warning to the sleeping shape on the table. There was no move from the blanket wrapped shape, other than the steady rise and fall as the Kid breathed.

Nearer moved Smith; his Dance Brother’s revolver heavy in his hand, and his palm sticky. There was still no movement other than the Kid’s steady breathing as Smith lifted his gun. Even with his hat over his head a hard blow from the barrel of the revolver should slow him down. Then they could all pile in, grab the dazed man and drag him outside.

The gun came smashing down with all Smith’s strength. Then he gave a startled yell. The Kid was moving, rolling off the edge of the table. Smith’s gun barrel smashed on the wood of the table top; his arm went numb with the force of the blow and the loading rammer burst from its retaining catch.

The Kid had wakened when the doors opened, laid waiting for the right moment, then moved. He took blankets and pillow with him as he rolled from the table away from Smith. As he fell the Kid threw the pillow at the lamp. His arm was good and the feeble light flickered out, throwing the room into complete darkness. He hit the floor and rolled under the table, gripping Smith’s ankles and heaving. The gunman let out a wild yell as he was pulled from his feet, sprawling backwards to crash into another table and knocking it over.

There was confusion amongst the other three members of Smith’s party. They were in complete darkness and faced by a dangerous man who had the advantage of being able to shoot, or knife, any man he came across in the room, without the risk of injuring a friend.

Salar licked his lips and stood without moving; then lifted his gun from his waistband but did not cock it. The click would sound too loud in the silence. The Mexican was a night-fighter of some skill but did not care to take his chances in such circumstances. He hoped the others would have enough sense to remain motionless until the Kid betrayed himself, or until Sanchez Riley came with a light.

Slowly, silently, the Kid came to his feet. In the darkness his black clothing made him unseen. There was only one way out of the room, and that was through the window. It was not a pleasant thought. The window showed just a little lighter than the surrounding blackness so a man going through would make a good target for the guns.

Seconds ticked away slowly, then a sound reached the Kid, a low sound but one which told him all he wanted to know. Someone was moving towards him, sliding his feet along the floor, feeling carefully for any obstruction. The man could know little about night-fighting, or he would never have started moving so soon.

The young gunman moved forward, inching his way along the floor. He was sure his progress was undetected and meant to get close to the Kid. How he would know it was the Kid he never thought. This was his chance to make up for missing Dusty Fog in the Holbrock saloon. He cocked his Colt, the noise loud in the stillness. Vaguely he guessed there was someone near him and opened his mouth to whisper Smith’s name.

A hand gripped the youngster’s throat, clamping hard and stopping the involuntary yell which welled up. Then another hand gripped his shirt front and he was pushed backwards, hard. With a violent heave from his unseen attacker he was reeling towards the window.

The Kid attacked in complete silence and with all his speed. He sent the youngster staggering towards the window then went sideways, flattening against the wall. He was only just in time.

The young gunman reeled, his shoulders crashing into the window. At the same moment there were three flashes of flame, two from the other end of the room; one from near at hand. The young gunman gave a single, shrill scream as the force of the bullets threw him backwards. His shoulders went through the glass, wilted over and crashed out into the nights He was dead before he hit the ground.

The flashes of gun-flame in the pitch blackness temporarily blinded the three remaining gunmen, but not the Ysabel Kid. He had known what to expect and his eyes were closed, missing the blinding effect when powder ignited and flared from the barrels of the guns. While the other men were blinded he was sliding along the wall, and opened the door just as Smith yelled:

We got him, Salar! Light out!’

Salar and the other gunman turned to dash out and run for their horses. Smith saw the door open and thought that for once the youngster was acting correctly. There was no time to lose, already overhead were the sounds of men jumping out of their beds. The big gunman turned and left by the door, running towards the horses and not noticing that the youngster was not in front of him. He mounted and saw that one horse was still without a rider. He also saw whose it was and growled an angry curse.

‘Roy,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell’re you fooling at?’

‘Where is he?’ Salar snarled, watching the lights appear at the upper windows of the building over the dining-room part they’d just left. ‘We’ve got to get away from here, and
pronto
!’

Then Salar guessed what had happened. It lent an urgency to their departure. The Mexican had been considerably surprised that the Ysabel Kid had made such an elementary mistake as to be skylined in the window. Now he knew that it was the young gunhand who lay dead outside the dining-room windows There was a second, even more unpleasant point. The Kid was alive, unharmed and on the prod. At any minute his rifle or the old Dragoon might throw lead at them.