The Half Breed (9 page)

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There was a three-handed game of poker going on in the sheriff’s office. The players, Dusty Fog, Sheriff Dickson and Mort Lewis, were engrossed in their game and looked up with some annoyance as a man looked in through the door, and peered around at them.

‘Folks’re gathering down at the Long Glass, Jerome,’ he said. ‘Reckon it’s about time you was getting the prisoner down there.’

‘What prisoner?’ Dickson replied. ‘It’s an enquiry that was started a week back. We’ll bring the Kid down when he gets back and we can start.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ the man answered. Looking pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings, he went on. ‘Dave Stewart’s come back, got Scanlan and four more men with him. He’s been to see Humboldt about starting the trial and I reckon he’s going to get his way.’

‘All right, Tom,’ Dickson drawled easily. ‘Go back and tell them we’ll be along at twelve o’clock and not before.’

The man closed the door and left the sheriff looking at his fellow players. He met Dusty’s eyes and they looked at the wall clock. It was quarter to eleven.

In the week he’d been waiting for the Kid’s return Dusty had learned much about the town of Holbrock. He’d seen Stewart taking the two battered gunmen out of town, heading for his ranch. The rancher had not made another appearance in town, until his arrival this morning. He’d come in alone but Scanlan and the other men could quite easily have returned to town without being noticed.

Dusty’s stay gave him a chance to learn something about the people of the town. He’d spent some time with Humboldt, talking about the proposition which had brought him to the town. Dusty was satisfied the proposition would pay off for his Uncle but was not satisfied with Humboldt. The man was a shrewd business man, but he was also an arrant snob. It took Dusty only one visit to the man’s home to know this. He’d also learned about Humboldt’s dislike for Mort Lewis. The townsman hinted regularly that he didn’t think the Kid should have taken the risk of going to the Comanche country, but Dusty knew the concern was mostly to make a good impression on him.

‘Reckon Humboldt might try and make you start the hearing early?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Humboldt’s being pushed to get the money for this notion of his. I reckon he might try to please Dave Stewart, not knowing how you feel about it, Dusty,’ Dickson replied, for he knew of Dusty’s reason for being in town. ‘That’s unless you’ve given him something definite to go on.’

‘Which I haven’t yet,’ Dusty answered. ‘I wanted—’

Whatever Dusty wanted was never said. The rear door of the room was opening. Dusty came to his feet; hands crossing and the matched guns coming from his holsters, his chair flying backwards. At the same moment Dickson flung himself sideways from his chair, hand fanning to the butt of his gun and Mort went over backwards, throwing his chair and rolled towards the wall rack of weapons. None of them knew who was entering through the door, but were taking no chances.

‘Sure didn’t know I rated a civic reception,’ remarked a familiar voice.

The Ysabel Kid stepped into the room, a broad grin on his face, and pushing a limping, scared-looking man ahead of him.

‘You damned crazy Comanche,’ Dusty growled, holstering his guns and eyeing his friend grimly. ‘I near on killed you.’

‘You near on done it afore,’ replied the Kid. ‘I tell you, Dusty, it’s like to scare a man bald, living round you.’

Dickson holstered his gun as he got to his feet and rubbed his hip which had hit the floor hard. His eyes went to the Kid, then to Tonk who staggered to the desk and sank into Dickson’s empty chair.

‘What happened to you?’ asked the sheriff.

‘He got his leg hurt a mite,’ the Kid answered for Tonk. Then he took the thin book from his belt, holding it out. ‘This here’s what you want. And this lobo’s got something he wants to tell you.’

‘No, I ain’t!’ Tonk yelled, then winced in pain as the Kid caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Where you taking me, Kid?’

‘Back out’n town a piece,’ drawled the Kid, grinning meaner than the snarl of a buffalo-wolf.

Tonk tried to struggle, but he was too weak from loss of blood and pain. On his face was a look of terror far beyond the pain he was suffering, a look the other men were hard put to explain. Dickson watched, frowning; he was not a man to allow needless cruelty, or the torturing of a prisoner. Then he remembered Tonk was one of the six who’d left town after the Kid, there were many questions which needed answering.

‘I need a doctor, Jerome,’ Tonk whined. ‘I’m hurt bad.’

‘Sure,’ grunted the Kid unfeelingly. ‘That leg’ll likely have to come off, happen it don’t get seen to, and fast. But you aren’t going no place until you tell the sheriff all you told me out there.’

So Tonk talked, the words flooding out of him. What he said confirmed Dusty Fog’s theory and threw a lot of light on the murder of Dexter Chass. Dickson looked at Mort Lewis for a long moment and opened his mouth to say something.

From the street came an ominous rumbling and tramping of feet. Dickson went to a window and looked out. Practically every man in town was coming along the street. In the lead was Humboldt, Stewart and three or four of the leading citizens of the town. Behind them, at the forefront of the crowd came Scanlan and Milton, with two other hard-faced men.

‘We could have trouble, Dusty,’ he warned. ‘Stewart’s been using his time to get them bunch all stirred up.’

Dusty went to the window. He’d handled crowds in tough towns and knew the signs of a mob as well as did Dickson. This was one coming, orderly yet, but a mob for all of that. They were here to e!lforce their will on Dickson and did not aim to be stopped by words this time.

‘Let’s just you and me out first, Jerome. Learn what they want. You and Mort stay on inside, Lon. Keep this hombre quiet,’ Dusty snapped, then stepped up close to Tonk, dropping his voice to a grim, urgent note. ‘Mister, you need a doctor real fast. Just remember one thing. The longer we are the less chance you’ve got of keeping both legs. So when I call for you, come out and tell the truth.’

Dickson went to the cupboard and lifted Mort Lewis’ gun-belt out, passing it to the man, then he opened the desk drawer and lifted out an Army Colt. ‘She’s all loaded and capped ready, Mort.’

Quickly Lewis strapped on his gunbelt, settled it down on his lean waist, then dropped the Colt into the holsters, making sure it was loose enough for a fast draw. There was grim determination in his eyes as he looked at the others. One thing Lewis was sure, if it came to shooting he’d something to settle with Scanlan.

‘We don’t want any shooting if we can help it,’ Dusty said, glancing at the neat handwriting in the diary and reading what he wanted to know. ‘Remember, you two stop in here until I give the sign. Bring this diary with you when you come out, Lon.’

With that, Dusty and Dickson went to the door. Dusty drew it open and they stepped on to the sidewalk, closing it again before any of the advancing crowd could see into the office.

The mob slowed down uncertainly as they saw the two standing before them. Dusty was well enough known n the town to pause any man who meant to force trouble with the sheriff. But Stewart came on; his face held a vicious smile. Humboldt looked distinctively uncomfortable as he stepped forward with the rancher, while the rest of the leading citizens halted in confusion, allowing Scanlan and the other four men to move by them and fan out around their boss.

Humboldt stopped at the foot of the sidewalk, licked his lips and looked at Stewart who nodded in encouragement. The pompous-looking townsman coughed then began to speak, his voice wavering, and far from its usual booming note.

‘Sheriff Dickson, as Holbrock’s justice of the peace I demand you bring your prisoner, Mort Lewis, for trial.’

‘Right now?’ Dickson gently enquired.

‘Right now!’ Humboldt agreed; and there was a rumble of agreement from the rest of the crowd.

‘Before the Ysabel Kid gets back?’

‘The Kid said seven days and he’s not back yet,’ put in Stewart. ‘I don’t reckon he’ll be coming back again.’

Dickson watched the crowd, they all appeared to have been drinking, maybe not much, but enough to make them willing to go along with a strong leader. All too well the sheriff knew how persuasive Stewart could be when he started talking. He could easily bring this crowd to believe they were being fooled by the law and that a plot to allow a murdering half-breed escape justice was afoot. Some in the crowd would believe it, others would go along just for the pleasure of raising hell.

‘You said we’d hold off until noon today, when the Kid should be back,’ Dickson reminded them. ‘And Mort doesn’t come for the
hearing
until the Kid shows.’

Stewart nudged Humboldt, causing the townsman to start nervously, and lick his lips. Then Humboldt gave a warning:

‘Sheriff, the County Commissioners have held a meeting on your conduct and actions in this affair. We find them most unsatisfactory and are obliged to serve notice on you that unless you hand Lewis over for trial, we will be compelled to remove you from office and appoint a man who will do so.’

‘Just like that?’ asked Dickson softly.

‘That’s right, Dickson,’ agreed Stewart. ‘Just like that.’

‘Didn’t know you were one of the County Commissioners, Dave,’ remarked Dickson. ‘You must have been elected real recent.’

‘You might say that. So how about it, Dickson. We may as well call off all this foolishness. The Ysabel Kid’s dead . . .’

The office door opened and a mocking voice said, ‘Lordy, they don’t tell a body anything these days.’

The Kid stepped through the door, leaving it open. He leaned his left shoulder against the jamb, the diary hanging in his left hand; his right hand hung negligently near the walnut grips of his old Dragoon gun.

Humboldt looked down and gulped as he saw the thin booklet. ‘Is that the diary, Kid?’

‘Surely is, Judge.’

‘And you went to Long Walker’s camp in the Comanche country to get it?’ Stewart jeered, his disbelief plain.

‘You reckon I didn’t?’

Stewart’s sneer grew broader, but the triumph was gone from his eyes. ‘You, one lone white man, went to the Comanche camp and brought it back with you?’

‘Where else would I have got it from?’

‘Could have been out at the breed’s place.’

‘All right,’ drawled the Kid mildly, but there was nothing mild about the wolf-savage way his lips twisted in a grin. ‘What’d you want to show I’d been to Long Walker’s village?’ The grin was more twisted and savage than ever. ‘You mebbee want to see Long Walker his-self?’

‘Yeah,’ sneered Stewart sarcastically. ‘We want to see old Long Walker.’

The Kid threw back his head and from his throat came the wild, ringing imitation of a buffalo-wolf’s howl. From the rim which overlooked the town came an answering howl. There were startled yells as the crowd turned and saw that the rim was lined with Comanches, fifty or more of them, looking down at the town with cold, impassive eyes.

A grey haired man rode his horse slightly ahead of the others, then halted without movement. Across his arm lay a Buffalo Sharps rifle which, even at that distance, Stewart recognized. The rancher licked his lips, that was Salar’s rifle and he wouldn’t have traded it off to the Comanche. That meant one thing and one thing only; Salar was dead and so were the other five men who had rode with him. On the whole Stewart hoped they were dead, for it was trite but true to say dead men told no tales.

‘That’s Long Walker,’ an old-timer in the crowd shouted, pointing to the grey haired Indian. ‘I saw him when he signed the treaty four years back.’

‘And like I said, I brought back that there diary,’ the Kid drawled. ‘It was in Mort’s lodge, like he said it was.’

‘And it shows that Mort was at the Comanche camp on the eleventh,’ Dusty went on. ‘So he wasn’t anyplace near where Chass was killed with the bullet from a combustible cartridge.’

A cowhand in the crowd yelled, ‘Mort never used them sort. He used to laugh at us and say we couldn’t handle a man-sized load, like he used.’

‘Don’t listen to all this claptrap, Humboldt!’ Stewart bellowed. ‘If you and your bunch want me to back that idea of your’n.’

Humboldt gulped. He was in a real tight spot and didn’t know how to get out of it. Dusty had not given him anything definite. He needed money urgently and had listened to Stewart’s offer to finance them. They’d been warned that the trial of Mort Lewis was the condition for the money, so Humboldt had come along with the demand for the trial to commence. Now there was no need to try Mort and he could sue the town for false arrest if they tried it.

‘You’re in a hell of a spot, Judge, aren’t you?’ asked the Kid, mockingly.

‘Yes, I am,’ Humboldt replied, speaking before he realized what the Kid had said. His face turned redder and he spluttered, ‘I mean — er — that is—’

‘Hold it, all of you!’ Stewart yelled. ‘That don’t mean Lewis didn’t kill old Dexter Chass. Harvey might have been mistaken about how long Chass’d been dead. Mort Lewis could’ve sneaked around to the Chass cabin the day he come . . .’

‘Chass wasn’t killed in the cabin, Stewart,’ Dusty. interrupted. ‘He was killed when he found a bunch of men pushing some of his stock on to the Lewis range.’

‘Yeah?’ Stewart replied, hand falling to his side. ‘Now who’d do a thing like that, and why?’

‘To stir up trouble between Lewis and Chass is why,’ drawled Dusty, watching the rancher all the time. ‘As for who, the way I heard it, Tonk, Salar, Milton and Scanlan.’

The crowd caught the drift of the words and knew what the next move was going to be. So, with one accord they started to back off, one eye on the group before the jail, the other searching for a safe place for when Colt magic was made.

‘Which of ‘em shot Cass, if any?’ Stewart asked.

‘None of them. You did. Came up behind him and shot from a distance. The bullet didn’t go through, as it would have with the width of the cabin. Then you moved the cattle over the line, came back, picked up Chass and toted him to the cabin; left him face up on the floor. What you forgot was that the bleeding’d stopped and there was none on the floor. That told me what’d happened. Tonk confirmed it for me.’

‘Tonk?’grunted Stewart.

‘Sure, the Kid got him alive, killed the rest of the bunch sent after him. He talked.’

‘Did, huh?’ Stewart said. He knew Tonk would talk if captured. From what Dusty said, Tonk was a prisoner and screaming loud enough to spill it all over the county. ‘Just fancy that.’

Humboldt stood staring at the men, not knowing what to do or say. He was no fighting man and his reactions were far too slow for what was coming next. He stood as if fixed to the spot, his mouth hanging open as he realized that Stewart was accused of murdering the old man in the hills. It was all like a crazy nightmare, only far more dangerous than any nightmare could ever be.

Stewart grinned; a bitter, hate-filled grin. Then his hand lifted, fingers curling around the butt of his gun. At that moment the group before the jail broke into sudden movement.

Dusty Fog’s hands crossed. Before any others, the matched guns were out, flame tearing from the barrels, throwing lead into Stewart before the man’s Colt cleared leather. Even as Stewart spun around the rest were in action and gun thunder rocked the street of Holbrock.

Humboldt was trapped. His feet would not answer the terrified commands of his brain. He was in the line of fire and a serious hazard to Dusty’s party. This could have been why the Ysabel Kid acted as he did, although Humboldt would always attribute it to the strength of his personality winning over a savage young man..

Whatever the cause, the Ysabel Kid moved fast. He flung himself forward, knocking Humboldt out of the way and bringing the fat, pompous man down in the street. Then, as they landed, the Kid rolled over Humboldt’s well-padded body, hitting the dust of the street, and throwing lead into one of the two new Stewart men.

Milton was second off the mark, in this whirlwind blur of action. His gun was flaming slightly before the sheriff’s Army Colt threw down on him. Dickson felt the burning pain of a near miss as lead slashed across his ribs. His own aim was better; Milton rocked back on his heels, fell backwards, sending one more wild shot from his twitching hands before he dropped the gun.

Scanlan’s gun was out, lining on Dusty Fog when the door of the jail was thrown open and Mort Lewis hurled out with a Colt in his hand.

‘Scanlan!’ Mort roared; and his gun lashed flame sending a bullet into the big gunman’s body.

Scanlan rocked under the impact of the lead, staggering and trying to shift his aim. Mort Lewis landed flat on the sidewalk, fanning the remaining five bullets up into Scanlan’s body, shooting with savage speed and throwing him, limp as a rag doll, to the ground. Mort Lewis watched the man go down and his grim smile told that the death of his dog was avenged.

The last gunman lined on the rolling body of the Ysabel Kid, his first shot sending dust flying into the young Texan’s face and blinding him. The Kid fired by sheer instinct, the heavy old Dragoon booming and sending lead into the man. The bullet struck an instant too late. Up on the rim, Long Walker saw the Kid’s danger and showed that he was still tolerably fast for an elderly Comanche gentleman. The Buffalo Sharps came to his shoulder and bellowed out. The heavy bullet smashed into the centre of the gunman’s back, burying itself within inches of Humboldt’s scared face. The gunman was thrown forward, full into the slamming power of the Ysabel Kid’s Dragoon gun. He was dead before his body even hit the ground.

Then it was over. The thunder of shots died away and smoke drifted from the scene. Less than five seconds had elapsed since the fist movement but Stewart was down, badly hit. Milton, Scanlan and the other two gunmen were dead. Dickson lifted a hand to his bloody side, knowing the wound was not serious or he would never have kept his feet to shoot back.

Slowly the crowd started to emerge from their cover; Humboldt came to his feet, face smudged with dirt and scared. He looked at the Kid who was standing up, rubbing the dust and grit from his eyes and cursing. This was the time for the leading citizen of the town to make a speech, praising the sheriff for an adroit job of work, but the words would not come.

Dickson looked at the crowd, cold contempt in his eyes. He stepped towards Humboldt, removing the badge from his shirt. ‘Here, you wanted this, now you’ve got it. Find another sheriff.’

Humboldt stared as the star was thrust into his hand. ‘But . . . but . . .!’

The ex-sherjff didn’t even look back, he turned to Lewis. ‘I know a town that wants a marshal and deputy Mort. Reckon we could take it on?’

‘Reckon we could surely make a try,’ Lewis agreed. ‘Let’s get your side fixed, then we can pick up my duffle and ride over to see.’

Without even another word the two men entered the jail office and closed the door behind them. Humboldt watched them go, saw the impassive line of Comanches who were still watching the town and gulped down the words of apology he’d been ready to give, unwillingly, to Mort Lewis. Then he looked at Dusty Fog.

‘Er . . . now this is all over, Captain,’ he began, the words rushing out, ‘I hope you and the Kid will be my guests until you leave. My daughter is coming home on tomorrow’s stage. She’s quite musical and I hear the Kid sings well. We might have a pleasant musical evening.’

‘Reckon it’d be all right?’ inquired the Kid. ‘You didn’t like having Mort Lewis around.’

‘That’s different,’ snorted Humboldt ‘He’s a half-breed. I mean, you know about these people with Indian blood.’

‘Do we?’ asked Dusty gently, without moving from the porch, his eyes flickering to the Ysabel Kid.

‘That was why I suspected him from the start,’ Humboldt babbled on, not knowing what to make of this reaction. ‘It was wrong this time, but you know what these people with mixed blood are. He was part Indian and you can’t trust a man with Indian blood, can you?’

There was a bitter smile on the Kid’s face and a cold gleam in his eyes as he replied, his voice sardonic and unfriendly:

‘Reckon you can’t . . . say, how’d you like to meet my grandpappy?’

Humboldt was not a discerning man, he noticed nothing unusual in the way the Kid spoke. If it would put him in with Dusty Fog, Humboldt was willing to meet and entertain all the Ysabel Kid’s kin.

‘I’d admire to meet your grandfather,’ he boomed warmly. ‘But he doesn’t live in Holbrock, does he?’

‘Nope,’ replied the Kid, raising his hand in a salute to the old Comanche chief who was following his men off the rim. ‘He’s up there, my mammy’s father.’

Humboldt stared at the dark, babyishly innocent, handsome face and the meaning of the words sank into his numbed brain. ‘You mean . . . you mean . . .’

‘Sure,’ agreed the Ysabel Kid. ‘That was Grandpappy Long Walker up there on the rim.’