The Half Breed (5 page)

‘Dead! If you get him near the Comanche lands make it look as if they killed him. But get him one way or another.’

Dusty and the young cowhand made good time to the Chass place. It was a small, untidy, badly cared for building, the windows covered with dirty sacks. The moment Dusty came near enough he could see why Wally did not care for the place. There was a stench of dirt and decay about it, rotting food and filth pervaded the air and almost masked the sickly smell of death.

The house was just as dirty as Dusty had expected from outside appearances. It was just a one-room building and was filthy beyond belief. The furnishings were poor and rickety, the table lay on one side and a chair broken in a corner. Dusty went in, his face wrinkling with distaste. He struck a match and looked around; there was no need to search the man’s belongings. Dusty was looking for more than clothing or gear, something he could not explain. He’d a hunch about this business; something said at the trial had caught his attention and he wanted to check his theory.

‘Hold the door open, Wally,’ Dusty said, ripping the sacks from the window as he spoke to let more light into the room. ‘I want to look at the floor.’

Dusty examined the floor, there was a shape marked out in the dust and dirt; the shape of a human body. It was blurred and indistinct but told him all he wanted to know.

Turning, he walked to the door. Wally stood outside. ‘Back to town now, Cap’n?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to see the Lewis place first.’ Dusty replied. ‘Would we have time afore nightfall?

‘Be dark afore we get back to town,’ Wally replied.

‘See you get double time after midnight,’ grinned Dusty. ‘It’s a funny thing about the blood, Wally.’

‘I didn’t see no blood.’

‘Yeah. That’s what’s funny about it.’

They rode on across country, forded a shallow stream and reached the Lewis place as the sun was setting. Mort’s house was no bigger, although better cared for, than the other cabin. As they rode up, Dusty noticed that there was only one set of tracks but he could not tell anything about them. He was not skilled at reading tracks and wished he’d got the Kid along. To the Ysabel Kid they would have told a complete story. It was the same at the other place; there was a sign, but Dusty could not tell if it was recently made or not.

The inside of the house was fairly clean. A warbag was lying on the bed and Dusty took it up. He opened the neck and tipped the contents out. The first thing he saw was a slip of paper. He opened it and read Miss Anthea Clover’s name and address, written in a neat feminine-looking hand: that proved part of Mort’s story and should be enough to clear him, for they could find the woman and get her evidence. There was Mort’s spare clothing in the bag and a powder flask, bullet-bag and bullet mould. Dusty picked up the bullet mould and examined it. It was the same as the one Dusty used and looked like a nutcracker except the crushing end was solid in two pieces, with two small holes in the centre. The two holes allowed the molten lead for the bullets to be poured into the moulds inside the metal end. Dusty opened it and noticed something straight away. The two moulds allowed a man to make either round ball or the conical, elongated bullets which were used as a load for the Colt 1860 Army revolver. But with this one, only round balls could be made; the elongated mould was broken through at the pointed end and would be no use.

Putting the rest of the gear into the warbag, Dusty shoved the mould into his pocket and went to the door. Wally stretched and yawned showily, then grinned and mounted his horse. Dusty swung afork the paint and they rode away from the cabin, heading for town.

The clock was touching ten when Dusty rode up to the corral which formed the civic pound and the sheriff’s stable, It was empty, so Dusty turned his horse in through the gate. He cared for the big stallion, paid off Wally and then went to the jail. Mort Lewis and Dickson were playing checkers in the office when Dusty came in.

‘See all you wanted to, Dusty?’ Dickson asked.

‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty, going to the cupboard and taking Mort’s revolver out. He looked down the chamber front, seeing the rounded heads of the .44 balls used for the load. Taking the mould from his pocket he went on. ‘How long’s the conical shaper been broken, Mort?’

‘Shucks, six month or more. I dropped the damned thing and a piece broke out of it. Would have writ and complained to Colonel Colt but I never used the shaped bullets anyway.’

‘You’re like the Kid — pour a load in raw and stick a round ball on top?’

‘Sure. I tried the combustible cartridges one time but the charge in them’s too light.’

Dusty replaced the gun, his face showing nothing of the interest he felt. He came to the table and moved one of Dickson’s men to, another square, allowing Mort to clear the board in a series of jumps.

‘Whyn’t you go out and look up Mr. Humboldt?’ Dickson growled. ‘He’s been here about every ten minutes, wanting to know if you’re back.’

‘I’ll likely do just that,’ replied Dusty. ‘Who’s your coroner?’

‘Doc Harvey. Doctor and undertaker both. He gets them coming and going.’

‘Let’s go see him,’ suggested Dusty. ‘Shut your cell door as you go in, Mort.’

The sheriff rose and followed Dusty from the office. Mort rose, cleaned the checkers, cigarette butts, burnt matches and coffee cups from the table. Then he turned and went back to his cell, closing the door behind him and lying on the hard bunk.

The doctor was annoyed at being called into his office at half past ten. He was a thin, miserable-looking man wearing a sober black suit, a white shirt without a collar and slippers. His pleasure was even less as he listened to the reason for the visit.

‘Sure, I shoved old Dexter under as fast as I could get the hole dug,’ he grunted. ‘Did it as fast as I could.’

‘You examine the body, doctor?’ asked Dusty.

‘Nope. He’d been dead at least eleven days. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant chore.’

‘It won’t get any better either,’ Dusty replied gently. ‘Sheriff wants him out and the bullet dug out before morning.’

‘
What?
’ Harvey howled like a stuck goat at the words. ‘I can’t rightly do that. I buried him—’

‘And you’re going to have to dig him up again,’ Dickson replied. ‘You’re County Coroner, Doe, and get paid for handling things like this. There’s been some talk around the County Commissioners’ about stopping paying you as there’s not been any work for you to do.’

‘He’s buried proper. I don’t reckon I could dig him up without an order from the Justice of the Peace.’

‘All right, Doe,’ Dickson answered mildly. ‘I’ll go see Mr. Humboldt now. He was asking me if I’d found out where that fifty dollar consignment of coroner’s gear had gone. Saw Big Maisie down to the Flats yesterday. She’s got a necklace that looks like it cost all of fifty dollars.’

Harvey’s sallow face looked even paler. He shot a nervous glance at the door which led to his living room. ‘Hold your voice down, Jerome,’ he ordered quickly. ‘You know there ain’t nothing in that story. It’s just that the wife wouldn’t understand and I hates to see her worried, When do you want that bullet?’

‘We’ll lend you a hand,’ Dickson replied.

‘Doc,’ Dusty remarked as the men left the room, heading for the graveyard. ‘It’s right you can tell which way a body was lying by where the body blood’s settled down, isn’t it?’

‘I heard something about it,’ Harvey growled back. ‘See, Jerome, the blood clots down. If he’s been lying on his stomach it settles in the front or vice versa.’

Dickson nodded. He knew how blood settled and wondered if the doctor had made any of the tests he was supposed to do as Coroner. It was understandable if he had not, Dickson decided, as they uncovered the coffin, raised it to the surface and opened the lid. Harvey, muttering miserably, pulled a bandana over his face and went to work.

Dusty and Dickson drew back, allowing him to work, and stood in silence. Then they replaced the body and reburied it in the shallow grave. Harvey licked his lips nervously and held out his hand with a piece of lead in it.

‘Here you are, Jerome,’ he said ‘This’s the bullet. He’d been lying on his back, from all the signs.’

Dickson struck a match and looked at the bullet. It was elongated, the tip just a little bushed by the impact with flesh. Dusty took the bullet and nodded as if he’d been expecting it.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ Dickson said.

‘That’s all right,’ Harvey answered. ‘Er — Jerome — about that fifty dollar consignment that was lost!’

‘I don’t know a thing about it, Doc,’ the sheriff drawled. ‘Send me a written report of what you found.’

The doctor went his way, leaving Dusty and Dickson to go towards the jail. The sheriff watched Dusty, then remembered something that was bothering him.

‘Stewart’s men left town soon after you did.’

‘So?’

‘They were headed out the same way as the Kid,’

‘Likely. I thought they might. Keep them out of our way,’ drawled Dusty.

‘What’d you find out at the Chass place?’

‘Nothing much. Only that Chass wasn’t killed in the house at all.’

Dickson stopped, his worries about the Ysabel Kid fading as he faced Dusty. ‘What did you say?’

‘Chass wasn’t killed in the house. He was lying on his back, according to the doctor and Stewart. But there was no blood on the cabin floor. The bullet was still inside, too.’

‘So what?’

‘Chass lived in a small cabin. Had he been shot across the width of it, the bullet would have gone clear through him. He was lying in the centre of the room, so the bullet should have gone through. It didn’t.’

‘You know something?’ Dickson growled.

‘Nope, Suspect a mite but I’m not talking about it, yet.’

They walked on together and at the jail Dickson stopped. ‘Dusty! There’s six men after the Kid. Stewart’s boys must be looking for him.’

‘Likely,’ agreed Dusty, sounding unconcerned.

‘What’s Stewart playing at?’ growled Dickson. ‘Why’s he want Mort killed, or the Kid for that?’

‘I don’t know about Stewart unless he wants the Lewis place as well as Chass’. In that case he wouldn’t want the Kid to come back with proof that Mort was at the Injun camp.’

‘I’ll jail him first thing tomorrow,’ Dickson snapped. ‘And he’d walk out as soon as he’d got a lawyer,’ drawled Dusty. ‘We’ve no proof that Stewart’s men went after the Kid.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

‘Sure, they might catch up with Lon. That’d be real dangerous.’

‘Sure it would, The Kid—’

‘I mean dangerous for them,’ replied Dusty, with complete confidence in his friend’s ability to take care of himself. ‘How’d you like to come to the Humboldt house for lunch tomorrow?’

‘I’m not likely to get invited, not until nearer election time,’ Dickson answered with a grin.

Dusty grinned back. ‘You wouldn’t want to bet on that?’

* * *

The Ysabel Kid turned in the saddle of his big white stallion and looked back across the range. The woods were well behind him now and he was headed through the rolling, broken, open range country. He gave the land behind him a thorough scrutiny, missing nothing: not even the small cloud of dust some two miles behind him. It was a small cloud for the ground did not give off much dust and a less keen-eyed man might have missed it, but not the Kid. One horse could not cause so much dust-stirring, that was for sure.

Equally for sure, the riders were following him. He’d changed direction twice since first discovering he was being followed and each time the dust cloud had changed where he’d turned.

‘Still coming, old Nigger hoss,’ he said, with quiet satisfaction. ‘They got a man with ‘em as can read sign. Waal, we can make that same sign — and hide it some, too.’

The pursuit did not unduly worry the Kid. The men were a good two miles behind him and travelling slower, reading his sign. While they were following him, the Kid was making more tracks ahead of them. It would be dark soon and the Kid knew he was in no danger. He would make a dry camp ahead and they would never find him in the darkness. There was no chance of the men riding up on him, his senses were too alert for that. There was no chance of their finding him by accident; his horse was trained to remain silent at such times; a thing of great use to a man when he was smuggling, and hiding in the dark from the contraband-hunting Border Patrol.

He twisted back and slouched easily in the saddle, allowing the big horse to make a gentle pace across country. He was out in the open and the men might be able to see him but that was no danger. They could not run him down before it was dark and would only tire their horses trying, while he could hold this even walk and keep the white stallion fresh for a run if they closed with him. The men would know this and would keep to his tracks, trying to avoid being seen. If they knew the country they’d head for a waterhole or stream near to the Kid, working on the assumption that he would camp near water.

Just before darkness the Kid found a stream, watered his big horse, filled his canteen, then rode on for another mile before making a dry camp. He was indifferent to hardship and just as at home sagehenning under the stars as in a bed at the OD Connected ranch house. He ate some hardtack from his saddlebag, drank sparingly, and cared for his horse; then with his saddle for a pillow and his old yellow boy close to hand, the Kid went to sleep.

His guess proved correct. Salar and his men made for the stream, reaching it in the darkness and trying to locate his camp. They gave up the attempt in the end and went to sleep, waiting for the morning when they hoped to re-locate the Kid’s tracks. It would cause a considerable delay.

Before dawn the Kid, refreshed by a good sleep, was riding on. He estimated that he’d increased his lead on the pursuing men and still knew a trick or two to confuse them. The man who was reading sign back there was good, and would be hard to throw off the track. Then the Kid remembered that Salar was known as a skilled reader of sign. The Kid thought of this as he rode on, keeping his eyes open for a certain type of country. He had to prevent the other men getting too close now. Salar was known as a fine rifle shot and there’d been a Buffalo Sharps rifle in the Mexican’s saddleboot when he rode with the posse. If Salar was to get within half a mile of the Kid and find a clear shot it was doubtful if the Kid would know what had hit him.

Luck favoured him for just ahead he saw what he wanted, an arroyo~ He rode towards the steep sloped gash where rains and flowing water had eroded the land, biting down deeper and deeper until the slopes were over ten feet high. The Kid hoped the bottom would be a fast flowing stream over hard rock but found instead there was no water at all. The rains of almost a fortnight earlier had swept along the arroyo bottom, levelling the sandy soil and leaving it soft. A horse would leave plain tracks down there, marks which a half-blind Digger Indian could follow.

Curiously, the Kid was not over-disappointed at the sight. He turned in his saddle and, while the horse picked a way along the edge of the arroyo, unstrapped his bedroll and got two blankets out. He saw a place ahead where the steep slopes were cut back to allow an easy way down to the bed of the arroyo. Before turning the big white stallion the Kid gave the surrounding land a careful glance. The men following behind must be at least three or four miles back and travelling slow. They were nowhere in sight and he doubted if they could see him.

The horse knew what to expect and halted at the top of the slope. The Kid dismounted and spread the two blankets end to end, down the slope. The horse stepped on to the blankets, walking forward over the first, and halted before leaving the second.

The Kid worked fast. He brushed away any signs of his progress and lifted the first blanket, carrying it ahead of the second. The white moved forward and the process was repeated. Each time the Kid moved a blanket forward the horse stepped on to it. Even on the soft sand of the arroyo bottom the horse’s weight was distributed and there was no sign of its passing.

It was slow work; the Kid turned downstream, in the opposite direction to which he wanted to go. For almost half a mile he followed the base of the arroyo until he found a place to leave. He’d passed other places but hoped the men trailing him were going to have some trouble in locating which way he’d gone.

Reaching the top of the arroyo the Kid made sure his departure was not too obvious. Then, rolling the blankets once more, he headed across country. Now he kept to every bit of cover he could find, sticking to low ground and never crossing a rim without making a searching examination of the surrounding land.

Eventually he reached a spot where he could not keep hidden, he had to ride across nearly half a mile of open land. The big white stallion, with the Kid dressed all in black, would stand out like a nigger on a snowbank, A man on a high place miles back might see him and that would spoil all his work in the arroyo. The riders would head for the spot, then find his tracks.

Stopping his horse in the shade of a clump of scrub-oaks, the Kid dismounted and opened his warbag. He took out a light grey shirt and a pair of blue jeans, then changed into them. Next he took a package from the warbag, placed his black shirt and trousers in and turned back to the horse. The Kid opened the package and dropped a hand into it looking at the black powder which was smeared on his fingers. He rubbed his hand along the horse’s neck and watched the black mark left behind. Working fast the Kid turned his white into what appeared to be a piebald, Then, packing his gear, he fixed it to the saddle and rode forward into the open.

Far behind, riding the trail left by the Kid, Salar and the other five men were worried. They’d failed to find where he had camped on the previous night and had wasted time trying to locate his tracks the following morning. The gunmen did not like the way things were going. The Ysabel Kid apparently knew they were after him and if he decided to make a fight of it they must see him first or some of them would be dead.

Ahead of the others, riding slowly and watching the ground all the time, was Salar. There was enough sign for him to be able to follow the Kid without any great trouble, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew much both at following and hiding his trail.

Suddenly Salar brought his horse to a halt. The tracks they’d been following along the top of the arroyo were no longer to be seen. He halted and stared at the ground. Swinging from his horse he bent closer, his eyes examining every inch of the earth before him.

‘What’s wrong, Salar,’ Smith asked.

‘The Kid’s playing clever,’ Salar replied, looking around him.

The young gunman, eager to make up for his failure with Dusty Fog at Holbrock, rode to the end of the arroyo and looked down. ‘He never went down there,’ he announced. ‘It’s clear, ain’t no sign of a track.’

Salar stepped forward, his eyes on the gentler slope which led to the bottom of the arroyo. There was a twisted smile on his lips; he knew what the Kid had done. It was going to take some hard work to find out in which direction the Kid had gone and even more to know where he had left. Salar knew that he was matched by a man who knew as much about tracking as he did himself. He also got the feeling the Ysabel Kid knew who was doing the trailing.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Smith growled. ‘He didn’t take wing and fly off.’

‘That’s right, he did not,’ agreed Salar. ‘I know what he did, the blanket trick. I wondered when he would try to throw us. We’ll have to try and find where he left.’

‘On the other side most likely,’ Smith suggested.

‘Most likeley, but not certainly. The Kid knows we’re after him and he might come up this side again, then follow the arroyo until he can cross without our seeing his sign.’

‘What are you fixing to do, Salar?’ asked one of the other men.

‘Go down to the bottom and find out where the Kid left. It’s going to take some time.’

Smith slouched in his saddle and fumed at the delay. The Kid was ahead and still covering ground. If there’d been a point high enough one of the men could have tried to see some sign of the dark boy on the white horse. It would have been possible to spot them a good distance away. But there was no piece of land high enough for them to make use of it.

So the gunmen waited, resting their horses while Salar made a careful search. It took the Mexican all of an hour and a half to locate where the Kid had left the arroyo and pick up the trail. Salar could not hurry: the Kid knew they were after him and was taking some trouble to make his line as awkward as he could.

At last Salar brought his horse to a halt. He sat looking round him, remembering just where he was. Smith watched the Mexican and asked:

‘What’s holding us up now?’

‘I have a — what you call it — hunch,’ Salar replied. ‘The Kid’s making for Sanchez Riley’s place.’

‘Could be at that,’ agreed Smith. Sanchez Riley’s store saloon-hotel lay near the edge of Comanche country. The gunman knew of the place, but had no idea where it was. ‘If he hasn’t we’ll have lost him for good.’

‘We have now,’ reminded Salar. ‘He’s got such a lead on us that he’ll be over the Salt Fork of the Brazos and into Comanche country. I don’t think we’ll follow him over the river.’

Neither did Smith. It would be highly dangerous for a white man, or a party of white men, to enter the domain of the Comanches. There was much to be said for heading for Sanchez Riley’s place. The man knew what went on in the Comanche country and might hear if the Kid slipped in. There was also a chance the Kid would stop off at Sanchez Riley’s and they might catch up with him there.

‘Let’s head for Riley’s, then,’ grunted Smith. ‘How come you know where it lays, Salar?’

‘I worked up this way once before,’ replied the Mexican, but did not say who he had worked for or what he had done. ‘I know the way.’

It was night as the Ysabel Kid rode towards Sanchez Riley’s place. There was only one light showing in the big T-shaped building which housed a store, a saloon and a hotel. He was almost to the building when he remembered something which made him worried about his decision to come this way.

‘Damn it, Nigger hoss,’ the Kid said, as he rode nearer the three big corrals a short way from the building. ‘I done forgot ole Salar used to ride for Thomas Riveros’ Comanchero bunch. He’ll know how to find this place. Us’ns best sleep easy.’

The horses in the corrals moved around. In two of the corrals were several animals; the Kid looked them over with care. In the first corral were Sanchez Riley’s horses, in the second some half dozen or so really fine looking animals. The Kid studied them; they were good, fast stock, better than the average cowhand would be riding. Such horses would be owned either by a party of Texas Rangers or a bunch of outlaws. One was as likely as the other to be staying at the house.

In the other corral there was only one horse. The Kid looked at it and a grin split his face, his teeth showing white against his dark skin. The horse was a white, a fine looking animal and almost as large as the Kid’s Nigger. Seeing it gave the Kid another idea. He’d meant to leave his horse in a corral if one was empty, but not now.

About a hundred yards from the building was a large clump of scrub-oaks. The white could stay there; it would find plenty of good grazing and water and would not stray. The Kid headed to the clump, removed the saddle and laid it carefully in the protective cover of a thick bush, leaving his rifle in the boot. Earlier in the day he’d washed the black colouring from the horse and resumed his normal clothing. Now he was pleased he’d done so. The black clothing merged into the darkness and he could move on silent feet, almost invisible in the night.

The light came from the dining-room on the hotel side of the building and was the only part of the big house which showed any sign of life. The Kid made for one of the two doors but took the precaution of looking through the window before entering the room.

A big, fattish man and a tall, slender, black-haired girl sat at a table, but they were the only occupants. The Kid relaxed, pushing open the door and walking in.

For one so fat-looking the big man was not slow. He came to his feet as the door opened, a Dragoon Colt lined on it. He was a cheery-looking man, his face a mixture of Spanish and Irish blood. He wore a dirty white shirt, open at the neck, cavalry blue trousers and his feet were bare. Yet there was nothing dirty or unkempt about him.

‘
Cabrito
!’ the man yelled, lowering the gun, as he recognized an old friend, ‘Long time since we was seeing you last.’

‘Howdy, Sanchez,’ replied the Kid, holding out his hand to the man. ‘You get fatter every time I see you.’

‘Tis praising me you are,’ Riley said, his voice seemed to be warring between the brogue of old Ireland and the gentler accents of Spain.