The Half Breed (8 page)

Sweat was pouring down Smith’s face; ever since the young gunhand was killed at Riley’s there’d been doubt in his mind. He knew he was lucky to be alive, the Kid could easily have used his bowie knife when he dragged Smith down. There’d been no noise when the Kid moved in the darkness. Just that silent rush which sent the young gunhand sprawling backwards into the window to his death. Not one of the men knew how the Kid got out of the room, or if he’d stayed in until they left. It was almost uncanny that a white man could move in such silence.

The song was going on, an old range ballad the men had heard many times before. They could imagine the black dressed rider coming through the woods; he would be unprepared for the ambush and they’d have no trouble in bringing him down.

‘So he whipped out his ole hawglegs,

At which he warn’t never slow,

When the Yankee done saw him a-coming,

He knowed it was time for to go.

So he jumped on his fast running speed hoss,

And fogged it like hell to the West,

Then Rosemary-Jo got her a fortune

The Yankee knowed he loved her best.’

The voice was coming nearer now, the lilting song sounding over the beating hooves of his horse. The waiting men tensed, caressing the triggers of their rifles, hoping they’d hear the end of the song before they cut off the singer.

‘ “No, no,” she cried in a minute,

I love me a Texan so sweet,

So I’m headed down to ole Dallas town,

This bold Texas cowhand to meet.

So the Yankee rode down to the border,

He met an old pal, Bandy Parr,

Who run with the carpetbaggers,

And a meeting they held in a bar.

So Rosemary-Jo got word to her pappy,

He straddled his strawberry roan,

And said, “From that ornery critter,

I’ll save Rosemary-Jo, she’s my own”.’

‘One more verse, that’s about all, Kid,’ Smith hissed under his breath. ‘It sure is a pity; I never heard the song sung all the way through.’

The sound of the song and the hooves were closer now. The men lined their rifles, sighting on the opening from the woods. They’d let the Kid into the open, then send a volley which would tear him from the saddle.

‘Now the Yankee done went to Dallas,

Met the Texan out on the square,

His draw was too slow and as far as I know,

The Yankee’s still laying out—’

The horse came into sight, travelling at a fast lope. The song ended just an instant before the big white appeared. Smith’s sighting-eye, along the blued barrel of his Henry rifle, took in an empty saddle. He let out a startled curse and was about to come to his feet. The Kid was not in his saddle, nor was there any sign of him.

The Ysabel Kid was no man’s fool. Nor was he exactly unused to handling such situations as this. He’d returned to Riley’s place after concluding his business with Chief Long Walker and Riley had told him what he knew; one man was dead, and the others had gone, their tracks headed back in the direction they came. The Kid guessed what might happen on his return journey to Holbrock and this place was the most logical for the ambush. It would be out in the open and not in the thick woods the men would lay in wait, for Salar would want to be in the open where he could get the best use from his Buffalo Sharps.

So, with this in mind, the Ysabel Kid was very alert as he came into sight of the woods for the first time. He’d seen the watching man, even recognizing Salar, and knew what was happening. This made him ready for trouble as he came through the woods, but knew how to handle it. His singing was to lull the waiting men’s suspicions, making them believe they were going to get him served up like a plate of hominy grits.

The Kid left the saddle just as the horse came out of the woods. He lit down at the edge of the trail, his old yellow boy in his hands, ready to make some real fast war. A shrill whistle left his lips and the big white’s even lope changed to a racing gallop, carrying it through the ambush area before the men could fire at it. Once clear, the horse swung to one side, into cover, and stood waiting for the Kid’s next order.

Then the Kid erupted through the opening, racing for safety and the shelter of a pair of close growing cottonwoods. One of the men yelled, let loose of his rifle with one hand and pointed to the black dressed shape of the Kid. The Winchester flowed to the Kid’s shoulder and he fired without breaking his stride. The man stopped pointing, his hand flopped to his side, his rifle from the other hand; then he crumpled and went down, a bullet between the eyes.

The other four gunmen brought up their weapons, swinging to the new line. The Kid hurled over a small bush and lit down rolling. The first shots missed him, although Salar’s bullet had draughted his neck as he lit down. Smith made a mistake; in his eagerness to get at the Kid he rose and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

‘Get down, Smith!’ Salar screamed.

It was too late. The Kid’s roll ended behind the desired shelter of the two cottonwoods. The rifle appeared for an instant, cracked once, then disappeared again. It was out a bare two seconds, but in that time Smith was dead, hit in the head with a flat-nosed Tyler Henry forty-four bullet. He was dead before his body hit the ground. He’d achieved one thing before he died: he’d heard all but the last word of the Rosemary-Jo lament song.

Salar licked his lips. That was Smith and Amp down, leaving Tonk on the other side of the trail, but Tonk was not the most staunch of men. He would dog it, if things got any stiffer. The man with Salar was looking worried too, things were not going as he’d planned. The Kid was not dead and could only be dislodged with considerable risk. There was also a chance that the wind might carry the sound of shooting to the town. If that happened Dickson would be headed out to investigate.

‘We got to get him, Salar,’ the gunman called, showing his shoulder and jerking it back as the Kid’s rifle cracked. The shirt was torn and a bloody furrow burned across the man’s shoulder.

Salar’s Buffalo Sharps bellowed back, kicking a four-inch splinter of wood from the tree behind which the Kid was hiding, but doing no damage. It was a very fair piece of shooting, for Salar did not take a careful aim.

‘Keep him busy,’ Salar answered. ‘I’ll try and get through the woods behind him.’

Before the other man could either agree or object, Salar had rolled down into the bottom of the stream bed and started to move along it. His idea was to keep out of the Kid’s sight, effect a complete surprise and avoid getting killed, The Winchester 66, with its comparatively weak, 28-grain load, was not a long range weapon, but Salar was still well within range for the Ysabel Kid to make a hit.

From behind him, he heard the crack as the gunman fired at the Kid. Then from the other side of the trail Tonk opened up a bombardment which would help hold the Kid down and might even drown any slight noise Salar made when moving through the woods! The Kid was not firing back. Unlike the gunmen, whose ammunition was paid for by Stewart, the Kid had to buy his own, and did not intend to waste any needlessly, He watched the two men who were firing at him, keeping an ear cocked for any unusual noises and waited. His attention held by the gunmen caused the Kid to miss Salar’s departure, The Mexican was not shooting but the Kid expected that: a Sharps bullet was a costly thing and Salar would not waste any, even if someone else was paying the bill.

The Mexican rolled down into the stream bed and moved along it. He tried his best to combine speed with invisibility and was relieved when he saw the woods closing in on him. Carefully he climbed out of the stream bed and faded into the woods. He paused to get his bearings, then headed on silent feet towards the trail. At the edge he paused and made sure the Kid could not see him before darting across to the shelter of the other side. Then he stopped, sinking to the ground and lying still. There was something wrong, he could almost feel it. He remained still, listening, but could hear nothing. The woods, were as silent as a grave; the only sound was the crackling of the rifles down trail. Yet Salar could not throw off the feeling that things were not as they should be.

At last he rose and moved on, but went with some caution for he was dealing with a dangerous man. Salar knew how keen the Ysabel Kid’s senses were, a slight noise would warn him. Then he would move and fade into the woods like a shadow. Salar was good in the woods, but he was not willing to match skill with the black dressed
gringo
devil.

Salar moved on, testing each piece of ground before setting a foot on it and moving the other. He held his rifle ready for use but it was an awkward weapon in a fast-moving fight, especially in thick cover like this.

Suddenly Salar halted, his right foot poised in the air. He lowered the foot with infinite care. Here was luck, such luck as he never expected. It was only by sheer chance that Salar saw what he did: another second and he would have moved by. Through a narrow gap between the twisting undergrowth and tree trunks, Salar could see the Ysabel Kid behind the two cottonwoods. It was blind chance that he could see through to the edge of the woods. The gap was narrow, but it would give Salar the chance he wanted. There might even be thin branches in the way but that would make no difference for Salar’s Buffalo Sharps rifle. The .45 calibre, 550-grain bullet, powered by the explosive force of one hundred and twenty grains of powder, built up an energy of around 2,300 pounds per square foot and left the barrel at something like 1,400 feet per second. It would tear through the thin branches in Its path as if they were not there at all, going straight into the’ Kid’s back, killing him before he knew what had hit him.

So Salar rested his rifle on the side of a tree, taking a firm grip on it and laying his sights with all the care he could manage. The picture was perfect, Salar’s fingers caressed the trigger, starting to make the squeeze which would loose the bullet. He would accomplish what several men before him had tried unsuccessfully to do; he would kill the Ysabel Kid.

Then Salar relaxed slightly. A chance breeze moved a tree branch and partially obscured the Kid from view. Salar held his fire, the branch was thick enough to deflect the bullet: it might only be a slight deflection, but would cause the bullet to miss. If the bullet did miss, Salar knew where he would be tangled in the Ysabel Kid’s kind of country with a long, heavy and awkward rifle, a single shot rifle at that, against the Kid’s handier Winchester. The instant that bullet missed, the Kid would be moving. He’d be back into the woods, hunting for the man who had fired. That Salar did not want.

That branch moved and Salar laid his sights again. This was the moment, the Mexican’s breathing halted as he sighted. Then he stiffened up. The rifle barrel tilted into the air and slid through his fingers. He clutched spasmodically at the tree and slid down. The hilt of a knife rose from the centre of his back.

A brown hand reached forward, gripped the knife and plucked it out. A second hand lifted the rifle, stripped the bandolier from the dead man’s shoulders and moved them away. Then the hand took the Mexican’s sombrero and threw it to one side and gripped the lank black hair. The wailing howl of a buffalo wolf rang out and the knife ripped around, biting into the flesh of Salar’s forehead.

The Ysabel Kid’s eyes flickered at the two men. He glanced up at the sun and estimated the time. They would need displacing fast if he was to make it back to town. He knew he must deal with them now for he could not have them hanging on his tail much longer. They would have an easy target with the Kid riding along the trail in open country. He missed Salar down there: the man wasn’t doing much at all. Yet the Kid did not know the danger he was in.

The wailing call of a buffalo wolf came to the Kid’s ears. He turned his head to look back at the woods, then gave his attention to the men down the slope. Even as he watched, there sounded the flat bark of a rifle from the edge of the woods and the man who’d been with Salar jerked upright, staggered and went down once more.

Tonk saw the other man go down and stared for a moment, trying to see some sign of the Mexican. Panic hit him: Salar wasn’t anywhere. He’d taken a Mexican stand-off, lit out when the going got dangerous. That was all Tonk wanted to know, he wasn’t facing the Ysabel Kid alone. Turning, he backed away, then leapt to his feet and started running for the horses.

The Ysabel Kid saw what was happening; his rifle followed the man, lining on him, then spat once. Tonk felt as if someone had run a redhot iron through his thigh. He gave a yell of pain and staggered, hit into a tree and tried to force himself on.

‘Hold it!’ yelled the Kid plunging forward from behind his tree and bringing up the rifle.

Tonk saw the black dressed young Texan, saw the raised rifle and knew he was done. The range was such that the Ysabel Kid could hardly miss, or wound, again. If Tonk did not yell ‘calf rope’ fast he would get a bullet.

‘Don’t shoot, Kid!’ he screamed back, holding on to the tree for support. ‘I’m done, don’t shoot me.’

Then Tonk’s eyes bulged as he saw the dark shapes at the edge of the woods behind the Kid. He tried to yell a warning but the words would not come, so he raised a shaking finger and mouthed out vague, gurgling sounds.

‘That’s all right,’ the Kid replied, not turning to look behind. ‘I know all about them. Me’n you’s going to make us some talk.’

‘They’ll kill us, Kid!’ Tonk wailed. ‘I’m hurt bad—’

‘Sure you are,’ answered the Kid without sympathy. ‘Bind your bandana around that leg; do it tight. Toss your gun this ways while you’re about it.’ He paused and watched his orders carried out, whistling a loud note which started his horse back towards him. Then he looked down at Tonk. ‘Who killed that Chass hombre?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tonk replied, biting down his pain.

‘Don’t, huh?’ grunted the Kid. He kicked Tonk’s weapons well away, then turned to walk to his horse, gripping the saddlehorn. ‘Waal, adios.’

‘Kid. You can’t leave me!’ screamed Tonk, eyes on those grim shapes at the edge of the woods. ‘Kid, don’t leave me here. You can’t!’

‘You wouldn’t want to be betting on that, now, would you?’

‘I’ll talk, Kid. I’ll tell you everything. Don’t let them get at me.’

The Kid turned and walked back. Tonk babbled out the full story of how Dexter Chass died, talking fast, eagerly, spilling all he could to the interested Kid. When the story came to an end the Kid grunted his satisfaction, then asked where the man’s horse was.

‘Over the rim. Don’t leave me, Kid. They’ll kill me.’

‘They won’t,’ replied the Kid, grinning savagely. ‘You’re born to stretch a hanging rope.’

Tonk stared in terror as the Kid rode over the rim, then returned with a horse. The leg wound hurt badly but Tonk managed to mount his horse. He had to, for the Kid made no attempt to help him. In the saddle he gripped the horn with both hands, waiting for orders.

‘Me’n you, friend,’ drawled the Kid, ‘we’re going into town by the back way. You’re going to take me to the sheriff’s pound. Don’t try nothing funny. Then you’re going to tell the sheriff all you told me. Happen you don’t, me’n you’re coming out here again. I’ll be safe enough — don’t know if you will.’