The Half Breed (10 page)

THE QUARTET

THE Wells Fargo stage coach might be the fastest form of public transport from Dodge City, through the Indian Nations, to Texas, but it was far from comfortable.

Betty Hardin reached that decision in the first couple of miles of the trip and now, within five miles of her destination at Bent’s Ford in the Indian Nations, found no cause to change her mind. As she tried to find a more comfortable, or less uncomfortable, piece of the hard stuffed leather seat she found herself hoping her cousin, Dusty Fog, would have better accommodation waiting for her when she reached the stage station at Bent’s Ford. That was why Betty had come this way. Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid had taken a herd to Mulrooney, Kansas, and were headed down trail again; she’d telegraphed, arranging to join up at Bent’s Ford and would travel home to the Rio Hondo with them. She hoped they would have a horse for her, but even a buggy would be preferable to the hard seat of the coach.

She was a small, beautiful, shapely girl who would please the eyes of most men. Her hair was black, shining and long. Her face was tanned but not burned and harshened by the sun of her native Texas range. The skin was smooth, delicate-looking and the features as near perfect as a woman could rightly expect. Her eyes were long-lashed, black, and met a man’s without distrust or promise. It was the face of a capable, self-controlled young woman who could become grimly determined when need arose. The hands of the OD Connected ranch would have sworn that the appearance did not lie for Betty Hardin ruled the spread with an iron hand. Her figure was rich and full, the curves mature and eye-catching without being flaunting or provocative. The black bolero jacket and the frilly bosomed white silk shirt-waist emphasized her swelling breasts as they strained against the covering, but there was nothing of show about her. Her black divided skirt was long and concealed the trim hips and shapely legs without hiding them. On her feet were dainty, high heeled, fancy stitched boots with Kelly spurs strapped to them. Her hat, a snow white Stetson, lay on the seat by her left hand.

All in all, Betty Hardin was a very attractive young woman, neither cold and aloof nor warmly inviting. She looked like an extraordinarily competent and capable young woman in what was still a man’s land; asking no privilege, nor accepting any, because of her sex.

The three men travelling with her were an oddly assorted trio. They’d done little talking for the past day, having worked out all conversation early in the journey. Even the fat, loud check-suited whisky drummer no longer tried to impress Betty with his well-travelled intellect. He sat in his corner seat and puffed on his oily black cigar, blowing the smoke ostentatiously through the window. He’d tried to impress Betty with his talk of New York — until he found that she not only knew the city but was just returning from it.

Next to the drummer sat a soberly clad, stuffy-looking, prosperous business man from an Indian Nations township. He didn’t say much, tried to keep his expensive broadcloth suit from getting too dusty and failed. He’d refused, horrified, when offered a cigar and some whisky from the drummer’s flask. His conversational efforts after that were restricted to an occasional groaned complaint at the discomfort of the coach.

The third man was a lean, mournful-looking, gaunt and poorly dressed Kansas nester who looked as if he carried the worries of the world on his shoulders. He was going to a Texas town where a kinsman had died and left him a small property. His main topic of conversation was limited to the poor farming of Kansas and how little money he’d managed to scrape together from selling his place.

Betty knew the man really did have little money, he ate only sparely and was obviously very close to the blanket. Though he was a nester and she born to the richest, largest ranch in Texas, Betty felt sorry for him and hoped he would have better luck with the property in the Lone Star State.

The girl moved again; she’d done much riding and not a little on the back of a horse which an Eastern lady would have thought half trained, but this hard stagecoach seat was worse than any saddle she had ever sat. Betty turned and looked out of the window at the brush and shrub lined route; they were following the winding line which the buffalo had made on their migrations across the plains. The stageline knew that the buffalo invariably picked the easiest and best watered route, so they followed the tracks. The coach was approaching a bend and the girl braced herself against the lurching as it went around.

Suddenly, as the coach turned the corner, the driver gave a startled curse, hauled on his reins and kicked hard on the brake, bringing his team to a halt.

‘Throw ‘em high!’ a voice yelled. ‘Reach for it, guard, or we’ll cut you down.’

There were five masked men standing in the trail, all holding Winchesters. The guard remained still, his shotgun across his knees. He left the weapon and raised his hand shoulder high, not offering to make a fight. He was a guard, but not paid to commit suicide or endanger the lives of the passengers. That was Wells Fargo’s orders, the guard must never risk getting a passenger killed. If there’d been less men he might have taken a chance, but a shotgun was a slow weapon and he would be cut down before he could shoot.

‘Throw it down,’ the tallest of the outlaws barked. ‘And your belt guns.’

The shotgun was tossed to one side followed by the revolvers belonging to guard and driver. Then the tall man laid his rifle to one side of the trail and drew his revolver, ordering the two men on the box to climb down.

In the coach, Betty Hardin watched her fellow passengers. Her right hand rested just under the left side of her coat, but she remained seated. Her eyes went to the drummer; he was armed, wearing a Tranter revolver in a stiff holster which would effectively prevent a fast draw. Betty knew something of guns and gun handlers; she hoped the drummer would not try anything foolish in an attempt to impress her or save his wealth.

The other two men did not appear to be armed. The business man looked flushed, angry and indignant at the outrage of being held up and robbed. The nester showed even more misery as the door of the coach was jerked open and the masked man looked in.

For an instant the outlaw seemed shaken to see a woman passenger. He ordered the men to climb out, stepping back to allow them to obey. Then he returned, holding out his hand to the girl.

‘My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d step out here with the others. Us honest road-agents have to make a living.’

Betty stood up and accepted the man’s hand as she climbed down. She saw the guard and driver were unarmed and altered her plans. She gave the five outlaws a glance which told her plenty, then joined the men who were standing in a line under the guns of the gang. The tallest of the outlaws advanced, keeping out of the line of fire and held out his hand to the drummer.

‘Shell out, fatty,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to pull that gun.’

The drummer, face pale and his bluster gone, produced a thick wallet from his inside pocket. The outlaw accepted the wallet and tucked it into his waist band and went to the prosperous-looking man.

‘Now you, senator,’ he said.

The business man gave an angry snort, but produced a wallet. The young outlaw hefted it in his hand, flipped it open and shook his head.

‘Sorry, senator. I can’t see a rich gent like you travelling this light. You going to fork it over or do we take your pants with us when we go.’

‘This’s an outrage,’ spluttered the business man, but he reached under his shirt, fumbled and finally managed to pull out a thick, well padded money-belt. ‘I warn you, you ruffians. I’m a personal friend of Marshals Tilgham, Thomas and Madsen. They’ll bring you to book.’

‘I bet they will, senator,’ laughed the outlaw, stuffing the money-belt through his belt and moving to the nester. ‘We wouldn’t have took your pants, senator. Not with you having a lady along. Now, friend, how much you going to donate to this here deserving charity?’

The nester gulped, dipping his hand into his pocket and bringing out a thin chain purse. He held it out nervously, expecting to be beat over the head with a revolver for having so little wealth~

‘This all you’ve got, friend?’ the outlaw inquired, glancing into the purse at the five-dollar pieces. The nester nodded and the outlaw looked away. ‘Ben come here and search him. And watch how you do it.’

Another of the masked men came forward, ran his hands over the nester’s body then straightened and said, ‘Cleaner than a hound’s tooth, Jesse.’

The outlaw called Jesse grunted. He stepped back and holstered his gun. Then took the drummer’s wallet, opened it and extracted two ten-dollar bills, slipping them into the nester’s purse before handing it back! Then he glanced at the driver and guard.

‘What’s in the box, boys?’

‘Nothing, she’s empty,’ the driver replied.

‘No offence meant, but we’ll just take a look,’ Jesse said. ‘Climb up and see, Ben.’

The other man went behind and climbed up to the boot. He grunted in annoyance as he found it empty, then started to examine the luggage piled on top.

‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse spoke to Betty. ‘I’d surely admire a donation from you. Just give what you can spare, save enough to get you where you’re going and let us boys have the rests’

‘My bag’s in the coach,’ Betty replied, a smile flickering on her face. ‘I’ll get it if you want . . .’

‘Jesse,’ Ben called from the top of the coach. ‘She’s a Miss Hardin, and going to the OD Connected ranch in the Rio Hondo country of Texas.’

Jesse looked at the girl; his brown eyes were all she could see over the mask which hid the rest of his features. ‘That makes you kin to Old Devil Hardin then, ma’am?’

Ben jumped down from the top of the coach as Betty nodded her agreement. ‘He’s my grandfather,’ she said.

A gleam came to Jesse’s eyes as he studied the girl. ‘Reckon he’d pay well to get you back again.’

‘He might. But he’d be more likely to nail your hides to the corral fence.’ Betty sniffed, eyeing the man with contempt. ‘There’s some money in my bag . . .’

‘Not as much as Old Devil’d pay to get you back,’ Jesse replied. ‘Joe, keep a hoss out of that team and scatter the rest!’ He turned back to Betty. ‘I reckon you can ride, ma’am?’

‘Do you reckon you could make me?’ countered Betty.

Ben grinned, stepping towards her, his rifle in his right hand. The left lifted up Betty’s chin, tilting her head back. ‘You’re a spunky lil . . .’

The words ended. Betty moved fast, her fist swung hard, slamming into the young man’s cheek and staggering him. He gave an angry snarl and was about to step forward when Jesse barked:

‘Back off there, Ben! You asked for what you got. Our bunch don’t mishandle no lady.’

Two of the outlaws were unhitching the team from the coach, working with a speed which showed they knew their way around harness horses. All but one of the horses were sent galloping off in the direction the coach had come. The other horse was held by one of the gang ready to be used for the kidnapping.

‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse said to Betty. ‘Me’n my gang don’t use no violence against a lady like you. So, iffen you won’t get on that there hoss and ride with us I am going to cut down this bunch one after the next until you come.’

Betty watched the young outlaw’s eyes as he spoke. At different times, on the OD Connected, she’d met most of the top Texas gunfighting men. She’d seen the smoothly efficient killers like her cousin, Wes Hardin and Ben Thompson, King Fisher, Clay Allison or Mannen Clements. This boy was not in that magic class but he would do just what he said if she did not obey. From his appearance and the way he acted Betty knew he would not hesitate to shoot down an unarmed man to keep his word.

The guard caught Betty’s eye and made a sign, but she almost imperceptibly shook her head. The man was willing to risk his life to try and save her but she did not want it. Any attempt would lead to bloodshed and none of the men from the stagecoach would be left alive. There was no need for such a risk, not with Bent’s Ford five miles away. By Betty’s reckoning there should be three men who, individually or collectively, could sing two gangs like this to sleep one-handed. Left-handed at that.

So Betty agreed to go along and not raise any ructions. She watched them checking through the baggage as Ben went up once more and pitched it down to them. Jesse asked which of her belongings she wanted to take with her, so she pointed to her over-night bag.

All the time Betty watched the young men, studying them with eyes which knew the West and knew the signs. They all wore cowhand style clothes, but they were not cowhands. Every one of the five wore ready-made boots, which no cowhand worth his salt would think of doing and their hats were cheap woolsey. The gunbelts were another pointer. The tall leader, Jesse, wore a good belt, but it did not hang as well as it might and appeared to have been made for a more portly man. The other four wore belts which showed signs of crude alterations, small things like leather being cut away to leave the trigger-guard clear of the revolver.

The signs told Betty she was tangled with a bunch of youngsters full of the so-called excitement and adventure of being outlaws. The way they were acting showed that they’d been reading the lurid fanciful stories which were being written about such outlaws as Jesse and Frank James. The politeness to her, the slipping of money into the nester’s purse instead of robbing him, were all part of the pattern. The leader would use the name Jesse to try and make people believe he was Jesse James.

Betty smiled. In New York and on the trains she’d seen books like ‘True and Factual Life of Jesse James’, which showed the Clay County outlaw as an unselfish, kind, noble Robin Hood using a Navy colt instead of yew longbow. The girl had never met the famous Dingus James, but had heard Dusty Fog’s views on him both as a Confederate Army hero and a train and bank robber. They were not complimentary, but more truthful to the outlaw’s real nature than the fanciful stories in print.

Her smile broadened as she remembered her cousin’s reply when one of the younger OD Connected hands had spoke of Jesse James robbing only the rich. ‘Sure,’ was Dusty’s reply. ‘Jesse wouldn’t rob the poor. They’d have nothing worth taking.’