The Half Breed

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This book is set in 9/10½ point Intertype Times.

Corgi Books are published by

Transworld Publishers Ltd,

Century House 61—63 Uxbridge Road,

Ealing, London W5 5SA

Made and printed in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham

The Half Breed

THE HALF BREED

THE dun horse was running well, its long forelegs reaching out and dragging ground under it, the hind legs propelling the horse forward. Behind him the posse had stopped firing, probably because Sheriff Dickson had told them to stop, but more likely because they saw the futility of trying to hit a fast riding man from the heaving saddle of a racing horse.

Mort Lewis bent low along the neck of his horse, urging it on yet trying to hold back some reserve in case it was needed. The dun ate work, loved to run and would willingly run until it dropped; the posse were only just holding their own against him. One thing and only one thing was in Mort Lewis’s favour; he knew the country better than the pursuing men, knew it as only a man with Indian blood in his veins could know it. Mort Lewis was half Indian. His father had been a man with ideals, one being that he could scratch a living from one horse spread in the hills, the other that one day people would forget he had married a Comanche girl and accept both he and his son into their society. He died without seeing either of his dreams take shape. Mort Lewis was a half-breed, it was made plain to him every time he came to the town of Holbrock. The cowhands accepted him but the other folks, people of the town, kept clear of him. Brenton Humboldt, justice of the peace and business man, leading citizen of the town sent his daughter to an Eastern relative because she was friendly with Mort. Then ordered him from the Humboldt property, swearing that no half-breed would ever set foot in his house or on his land.

But there was no danger of that happening now with a posse behind Mort, a posse with three of Dave Stewart’s men riding in it. His only hope was to get into the thick wood over the next hill where he might hide until there was a chance to slip through and head for the Comanche country. No posse would dare to follow him into the land of those savage fighting warriors and he would be safe. Even Stewart’s three hardcases, Scanlan, Milton and Salar, would not dare to cross the river beyond Sanchez Riley’s place for that was the Comanche country, and Chief Long Walker had taken a lodge oath that no white man should enter his land.

The racing dun swung up the slope, sticking to the well-worn surface of the stagecoach trail rather than breaking over the open land where a wrongly placed foot might find a gopher hole. If the dun went down Mort would be at the mercy of the posse which was clinging to his trail like a pack of ravaging wolves. They topped the rim behind him and he heard another couple of shots, but the bullets came nowhere near him. Salar, the best rifleman of them all, was not using his Buffalo Sharps rifle yet; he would save the costly bullets until they ran the dun to a halt. Then from a range Mort’s old Spencer carbine could not reach, the Mexican would get down, take careful aim and do what his boss, Dave Stewart, wanted.

Mort’s dun rocketed over the top of the rim and down the other side. Once around the blind corner at the bottom he would have a clear run to the woods and a chance of safety. The posse was almost a mile behind him and, crowding on the trail, were slowing each other down.

The young rider was tall, well built, with a reserve of strength in his powerful frame. His hair was black and straight, telling, as did his rather high cheekbones and his coal black eyes, of his Comanche blood. The face was handsome by European standards and the cheekbones were not too obvious, but they gave sign to men who knew the West. His clothes were not those of a working cowhand; he wore a buckskin shirt tucked into levis and on his feet were Comanche moccasins. Around his waist was a gunbelt, a plain handled Army Colt butt forward at his right side. Mort made no attempt to draw either the revolver or the Spencer carbine which showed from the saddleboot under his left leg. There was no need for him to try and draw the weapons, he was out of range for both Colt and the Spencer, and he didn’t want to kill; not even the men following him. There were a couple of men in the posse who’d treated him decently; Sheriff Dickson had given Mort work as a deputy when one who could read signs was needed. The rest of the posse were men Mort wouldn’t have spat on if they were on fire; loafers from the town, men who were willing to jump into any trouble but would neither work nor wash. To them he was the half-breed and they hated him. Much of the hate was caused by envy, for Mort could excel them in so many things. Stewart’s men were along to make sure Mort was not taken alive. That was what Dave Stewart wanted and what Dave Stewart wanted he usually got.

The blind curve was ahead and Mort hurled the horse around it. Then he saw the two riders ahead of him. They had come out of the woods and were blocking his way. The dun tried to turn, but was travelling too fast, it lost footing and Mort felt it going down. He tried to throw his balance to bring the horse back to his feet but was too late. The dun went down and Mort tried to kick his feet free of the stirrups and leave the saddle. He was just too late. The falling horse caught his foot and he crashed forward. He lit down rolling to break his fall, the instinct of self-preservation acting through his winded, dazed body. His Army Colt had been thrown from his holster and he dived for it as the dun struggled back to his feet.

The two riders looked young but they reacted with a speed which showed that defending their lives was not an unusual thing for them. The small man on the big paint horse flipped his left hand across his body, the white handled Colt leaving the holster at his right side in a flickering, sight-defying blur of movement. At the same moment, the tall, dark youngster afork the huge white stallion bent forward and slid the Winchester rifle from his saddleboot, levering a bullet into the breech as he brought it up.

The rifle spat and for a fast taken shot it was either very lucky or very accurate. The bullet kicked the gun from under Mort’s hand; a second shot following to prove that skill not luck was behind the hit. The gun was knocked to one side and, as it landed, the second bullet knocked it further away.

‘Hold it there, mister!’ snapped the smaller man, bringing his horse forward to stand over Mort and lining his Colt down. ‘Lon could just as easily have downed you as hit the gun.’

Mort looked up at the two men. The paint’s rider was small, not more than five foot five or six at most, but he held the gun with the air of a master. He was a handsome, pleasant.looking young man wearing plain range clothes though his low-crowned black JB Stetson hat was expensive and his high heeled boots were made-to-measure. His saddle was a well made, expensive rig, and the big horse showed breeding in every line. The young man did not look the sort to own such a hat, boots, saddle or horse. He looked even less likely to be wearing a buscadero gunbelt with two holsters, and a second white handled Army Colt butt forward at his left side, mate to the revolver held in his left hand.

All in all, that dusty blond-haired youngster might look young and insignificant, but Mort was not fooled. There was that indefinable something which told one cowhand that another was a tophand. This small, grey-eyed youngster on the big paint was all of that; a tophand and one who could handle those matched guns or the Winchester carbine booted at the left of his saddle with more than ordinary skill. He was not the sort of man one could take chances with and his voice showed he expected Mort to obey.

The other man, if man could be the term for he didn’t look much more than sixteen years old, was tall and slim. There was a whipcord strength about the youngster, a wiry power which did not seem right for one so young-looking. His face was tanned as dark as Mort’s own; a strangely young-looking face, innocent in feature, babyish almost but with red-hazel eyes that were neither young nor innocent. They were cold, hard and menacing as they squinted along the blued barrel of the old yellow boy, lining the V notch of the backsight and the tip of the foresight on Mort’s body.

The youngster wore all black, from his hat, his bandana, shirt and levis, right down to his boots. Even the gunbelt was black leather and only the walnut grips of the old Dragoon Colt butt forward at his right side and the ivory hilt of the bowie knife at his left hand relieved it. He looked wild, alien and almost Indian as he sat the saddle of his seventeen hand white stallion. The horse was a beauty, even bigger and better than the huge paint that the other man rode, and, like the paint, was a horse that no beginner could manage. Both would take a good man to handle them.

Mort saw all this in one swift glance. He heard the posse drawing nearer and flung himself forward. His horse was on its feet but he did not try for the saddle. Instead, he flung himself towards the side of the trail. If he could beat the rifle and the Colt and get into the bushes, he might still get away.

The small cowhand acted fast. He did not shoot but his right hand brought the length of hardplaited, three strand Manila rope from the saddlehorn and sent the noose flipping out. Mort heard the hiss of the rope but left it too late; even as he tried to avoid the loop, it fell over his head. The small man pulled back, tightening the loop and pinning Mort’s arms to his sides, then quickly dropped two more loops around Mort’s shoulders.

‘Give it up, friend,’ the small man drawled, his voice calm, firm and without any sign of animosity. ‘You can’t get away now.’

Mort stood still, his face as inscrutable as he could manage. The posse would be in sight any minute now and he knew that he was going to die. If so, he would try and die without disgracing his Comanche mother’s blood.

The posse came tearing around the corner, bringing their horses to a sliding halt; hands reaching for weapons as they saw Mort standing in the centre of the trails Leading the men were Stewart’s three riders; Scanlan, big, burly and heavy, his bristle-covered, scarred face split in an evil grin as he saw Mort. Milton, lean, cadaverous and a fast man with a gun, sat at the right of the trail. Salar was at the left, a tall, swarthily handsome Mexican who dressed in the height of
charro
fashion: a fancy, silver decorated bolero jacket. frilly bosomed white silk shirt, trousers which were tight at the waist and thigh but flared out at the bottoms and high heeled boots with big rowelled Spanish spurs. Yet, unlike most Mexicans, he showed no sign of a knife and gave no indication of the Mexican’s affinity for steel as a fighting weapon. He was fast with the silver mounted, nickel plated Army Colt in the low hanging holster, and a deadly shot with his Sharps Buffalo rifle.

The three men were the pick of Dave Stewart’s hardcase crew. They were supposed to be cowhands but their duties were more concerned with enforcing Dave Stewart’s will. Scanlan was Stewart’s foreman, a hard-fisted, bullying killer. The other two were his companions, and it was rare that one was seen without the other two.

Mort could see no sign of the posse’s leader, Sheriff Jerome Dickson, and knew that he would most likely be dead before the sheriff arrived. He felt the rope go slack and the horse move back slightly from him.

‘Stopped him for us, did you,’ grunted Scanlan, glancing at the two cowhands. ‘Good, the boss’ll likely give you a reward.’ He reached for the rope on his saddle and unstrapped it. ‘You should have killed him, but we’ll soon tend to that.’

‘Just what do you reckon you’re going to do?’ asked the small Texan, his voice suddenly hard.

‘Going to decorate that cottonwood up there, sonny,’ replied Scanlan and grinned at the laugh which came from the posse. ‘See how the breed looks hanging around it.’ The small man shook his head, swung from his horse and walked to Mort. The gun was back in leather, Mort saw, and wondered what the youngster hoped to do against the full strength of the posse.

‘Oh no!’ drawled the small Texan.

Scanlan swung back to face him. Then his eyes went to the Indian dark, innocent-looking boy. He was lounging in the saddle of his big white with the Winchester rifle resting on his shoulder; his right hand gripping the small of the butt, three fingers folded through the lever of the rifle and the other resting on the trigger. Slowly Scanlan studied the boy, then dropped his eyes to the small man.

‘You reckon you can stop us?’ he asked, throwing a grin at the other posse members.

‘Do you reckon I can’t?’

Scanlan did not answer for a moment. His eyes went first to the paint horse and then to the white handled guns which were butt forward in the small cowhand’s holsters. A hard grin came to his lips and he nodded understandingly.

‘Two guns, slung for a crossdraw, fancy, white handled guns at that, Paint hoss and all,’ he sneered, mockingly, pleased that he’d got an audience. ‘Who do you think you are — Dusty Fog.’

‘Mister,’ the dark boy spoke for the first time, his voice hard and sardonic under the easy drawl. ‘He doesn’t think. He
knows
he’s Dusty Fog.’

‘Yeah,’ scoffed Scanlan, throwing a glance at the other men in the posse. ‘I reckon you’ll be the Ysabel Kid, then.’

‘How’d you all guess?’ the dark boy’s voice was mocking. ‘Or did ole Salar there tip you the wink?’

Salar frowned, his eyes narrowed as he looked harder at the young man. Scanlan clearly was not satisfied and his voice dripped sarcasm as he turned his eyes to the small man once more.

‘All right, Dusty,’ he said, waving his hand towards Milton, ‘This here’s Wes Hardin and I’m Wild Bill—’

It was at that moment that the big paint moved so the men could see the brand it carried. Burned on the hip were two letters, an O and a D, the straight edge of the D touched by the side of the O, Scanlan could read the brand, OD Connected, the brand of Ole Devil Hardin’s Rio Hondo ranch. Dusty Fog was Ole Devil’s nephew.

There was a moment of uncertainty for Scanlan, then he shrugged it off. That short runt could not be Dusty Fog, although the other might be the Ysabel Kid.

‘Tell you, Dusty,’ he went on, forgetting to complete his sarcastic introduction of the other posse members, calling each one the name of a famous gunfighter. ‘You want for us to ask real nice afore you let’s us hang him.’

‘Mister,’ the small man’s voice was still even. ‘I’d show you my card, but I doubt if you can read. One thing I do know. The only way you can hang this feller is by passing me.’

Scanlan lifted his right foot to step forward, then set it down again. His eyes were on the small man, noting the relaxed, casual way he stood; there was no fancy position taking, no sinking into the so-called gunman’s crouch. The young man stood erect, hands by his side, yet there was something latent and deadly about him which warned Scanlan more than any amount of words. Suddenly the small man was no longer small, but stood taller than any man here, or so it seemed to Scanlan.

‘Shem!’ Salar reached his decision and spoke a warning. ‘That’s the Ysabel Kid. I recognize him now.’

‘Now ain’t he the smart one,’ the dark boy’s drawl was mocking. ‘I recognized him right off at that.’

There Seanlan had it laid out before him. The dark boy was the Ysabel Kid and the other one really was Dusty Fog. The thought brought Scanlan to a halt; to hang Mort Lewis he’d have to pass the guns of Dusty Fog. Scanlan and every man in the posse knew Dusty Fog and something about him. He was a legend in his own life, the small Texas cowhand called Dusty Fog. In the War he’d been known as one of the South’s best cavalry officers. He’d been a captain at seventeen and his name was said in the same breath as John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby. They were names which stood at the height of the South’s fast riding, raiding light cavalry. Since the War, Dusty’s name was known as a tophand with cattle, a rough mount rider, ranch segundo, trail boss and town taming lawman. His name ranked high in each of those trades, and among the highest of the fast draw breed. They said he was the fastest gun in Texas.

This was Dusty Fog; the man Scanlan would have dismissed as a nobody, the man Scanlan was forced to face if he meant to hang Mort Lewis.

The other one, that baby-faced, mocking voiced boy on the big white stallion, he too was a living legend; the Ysabel Kid, Loncey Dalton Ysabel. Down on the Rio Grande stories were told of him from the days when he and his father ran contraband across the river. He was known as a man who could throw lead with some speed and accuracy, disproving the theory that his old four pound two ounce Colt Dragoon gun was long out of date and over-heavy. He was also known to be a fine exponent on the art of cut and slash in the traditional style of the old Texas master, Colonel James Bowie. But it was with his rifle that he was best known, with an old Kentucky rifle, then with the Winchester Model of 66, the old yellow boy. What Dusty Fog was to the handling of revolvers, the Ysabel Kid was to a rifle. There were other things about this dark, dangerous young man. It was said he could speak fluent Spanish and make himself thoroughly understood in six Indian dialects; that he could ride anything with hair and that he could follow a track where a buck Apache would not know how to begin trying.

That was the Ysabel Kid, friend, companion and sidekick of Dusty Fog. He did not need Dusty’s aid to bolster his own reputation.

Of all the men in the West, Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid were the worst possible for Scanlan’s purpose. The two Texans said Mort would not hang and they meant every word they said. Neither would back down and there was only one way to take their prisoners. If Dusty Fog said Mort was not going to hang he would back the words. He was bad enough on his own, but backed by the Ysabel Kid was more than a match for Scanlan’s two friends and the rest of the posse.

Dusty watched the crowd. Rope-fever was plain on the faces of most of the men. He could read their type as well as he could read their insane desire to see a man kicking at the end of a rope. The loafers wanted to kill, to hang this man so they could boast they’d helped in doing it. There was no desire for justice, nor just cause to wish for hanging, just rope-fever. It was a sickening sight.

Sheriff Dickson came around the corner, trying to urge a better speed from his horse. He saw everything as he came into sight of the men; Mort Lewis standing with a rope around his arms; Scanlan holding his own rope and the other men behind him. Then Dickson saw the small Texan and the youngster on the white horse, but hardly gave them a second glance. They’d not been in the posse when it left town and must have come on to Mort as he turned the corner. They were lucky Mort Lewis was not a killer, Dickson thought, or they’d have not taken him so easily.

‘What’s the idea, Scanlan?’ Dickson asked.

‘We caught Lewis.’

‘I can see that. What’s the rope for?’

Scanlan did not reply. He knew that, the sheriff was a man he did not scare. He also knew that Jerome Dickson had warned them that there would be no lynching. One of the saloon-hardcases of the posse, not knowing Dickson so well, called out:

‘We’re going to save the County the money for a trial.’

Dickson swung down from the horse. He swore he’d see the livery barn owner about giving him this wind-broke animal to ride in a posse. His own horse was tired and he’d done as usual, sending to the livery-barn for another. The horse had looked all right but showed itself unable to keep up with the rest of the posse’s mounts. He could guess why. They wanted to get to Mort Lewis before he arrived. If they’d done so Mort would be dead. Dickson was surprised that he was not dead. He felt the eyes of the small cowhand on him and gave Dusty more attention.

Dusty looked at the sheriff. Dickson was a tall, spare man of middle age, his face tanned and strong-looking. His brownish moustache was neatly clipped and his clothes were just good enough to show that he was the honest sheriff of a poor county. The gunbelt, with the plain handled Army colt showed signs of care and the holster hung just right. Dickson was poor, honest and a good man with a gun. There was a grim look on his face as he turned to the watching posse.

‘There’ll be no lynching while I’m sheriff,’ he said.

Scanlan’s sneer grew thicker. ‘Which same won’t be long, way you’re acting.’

‘Maybe, but while I am, what I say goes.’

‘What’s he wanted for, sheriff?’ Dusty asked.

Dickson was satisfied he was correct: here was a man to be reckoned with. There was the way he stood, the way he looked right at a man, the way his matched guns lay in the holsters of that belt. A man who was among the magic-handed group known as the top guns. Things would go badly if he was to side with the others in wanting to hang Mqrt Lewis.

‘They say he killed a man,’ Dickson replied, wondering how he had ever thought the other man was small.

‘Did he?’

‘I don’t know. When I went to question him he dived through the window of the Long Glass saloon, back in Holbrock, went afork his horse and lit out of town.’

The Ysabel Kid’s eyes went to the posse, his contempt plain as he studied the faces of the men.

‘Maybe he thought he wouldn’t get a chance to tell his story,’ the Kid said. ‘That
hombre
there,’ his left thumb indicated Scanlan, ‘sounded tolerable eager to have him hung.’

‘He killed old Dexter Chass, that’s why,’ Scanlan spat out. ‘Shot poor ole Dexter down without a chance.’