Killing Halfbreed (14 page)

"Good idea, Pick.  Why don't you do that?  In the meantime, I'll go up there and have a look around, see what I see."

Pick didn't trouble to answer, he was already muttering to himself and walking away.

***

After the sun had finally dropped behind the darkened hills, I slipped away from my hiding place in search of my horse.  Without him, I’d be stranded.  I found him not too far down the way, which was lucky.  I didn't feel so naked now that I had my rifle back.

No moonlight again, and there wasn't any way to track at night without it, so I made camp.  Early the next morning, I scrambled up the hillsides of the enclave to see if I could find any sign of the shooters.  Just a few tracks might give me an idea of who they were.

It wasn't very hard to find where one of the shooters had stood.  The buzzards gave him away.  He still lay there, shot through the stomach, dead.

That meant one of the shots I’d heard had killed this man.  I recognized him as a Hartford man, but I couldn't remember his name.  He was just a regular roper.

It soon became apparent to me that it was the first shot which had struck this man. Upon being hit, he'd either jerked off the second shot, intending it for whoever had killed him, but instead had nearly hit me, or he'd been trying for me in the first place and the first shot had thrown off his aim.  I suspected the latter since he worked for Hartford.

That meant the other shooter had been trying to protect me and had probably saved my life.  I confirmed this an hour later while searching the opposite slope of the enclave.  There I found some sign left by the second shooter.  He had indeed been opposite the dead man and could have easily killed me where I'd hid, but he hadn't.  This was the second time I’d been unexpectedly saved by a hidden rifleman.

The identity of my savior intrigued me more than that of whoever had tried to kill me.  It was common knowledge most people in the valley wanted me dead, but somebody actually wanted me alive?  Why?

Again, nothing that had just happened really changed my plans any.  The main threat to me seemed to have been eliminated, so I packed my gear and rode on after the rustlers.  I’d just be a little more cautious from now on.

            A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, catching in my eyebrow, the wetness of it a strange, annoying sensation.  I unconsciously wiped my brow and glanced up at the glaring sun, its heat overwhelming.  The sky was a hard blue, crystal clear, and yet not one cloud hinting at respite was in sight.

            Not just the sun, but the day itself was unbearable, and terribly familiar.  Looking ahead in the dusty street, my heart stopped, dread paralyzing me where I stood
. 
The gallows.  Again.  The rough wooden structure stood tall and straight and mean
under the burning yellow sun.  The crowd was there, jeering, almost snarling in bloodthirsty glee.

            They were leading him up the stairs again.  I had to stop it.  I tried to run for the gallows, but my feet felt like they were made of lead.  I called upon all my strength to move them, but I felt like I was swimming in molasses.  The gallows seemed to recede a step back for every forward one I took.

            Desperation rose up.  I had to stop them.  I tried to yell. "Stop!” my mind cried, “You can't, He's innocent!  Innocent blood!"  But my throat was closed and dry, and no sound escaped.  I choked on the dust filling my lungs.

            I couldn't quit, I had to stop them.  Suddenly, the gallows’ stairs were right before me.  Relief swept through me in one brief wave, relief that dissipated as soon as I saw they were already slipping the noose around his neck.

            "Stop!"  This time I was able to actually yell it. The executioner blocked my path, mocking laughter in his eyes.  Black stubble lined his fat jowls and dirt smeared his cheeks.  I wanted to beat that hateful smile off his ugly face with all my being, but all I could do was fall to my knees in the hot dirt and weep as I heard the trap door crash open.  The rope twanged low as it snapped taut.

            He swung in the breeze, his rope creaking in a slow, repeated moan.  The sheriff stood on the scaffold next to his body, smiling at me, hating me, mocking me.  His countenance took on an evil cast.  "You're to blame," he said.  No matter where I turned, I couldn't escape his glare.  He was everywhere.  And that creaking.  The rope just kept creaking.  Stop the creaking!

           
I awoke with a start.

The creaking of the swaying rope still echoed in my ears, but it had been another sound which had wakened me.  Quickly, I shook clear the sleepy cobwebs from my mind.

The stars were uncommonly bright, mainly because it was a new moon and darker than normal.  My horse stood alert, ears lifted, listening for something.

Sometimes, if a man waited for more warning than that, it could be the death of him.  Silently, I slipped from my camp into the darkness and peered into the void beyond, seeking some noise which would give away the intruder's location.

It could be just a bobcat or coyote, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  Shoot, a bobcat or coyote was plenty dangerous as it was.  I was just preoccupied with the armed kind of vermin at the moment.

On the opposite side of the fire and to the left, some dry brush cracked.  Too heavy to be an animal.  Stealthily, I circled a little to the right to put the fire squarely between myself and the intruder, blinding whoever it was to my position.

"I've got you covered, now come on in toward the fire where I can see you.  Keep your hands high if you don't want some decorative holes in your shirt."

Slowly, from the shadows, emerged a slight figure with their hands raised above their head.  He seemed cool and relaxed, in spite of the fact he was being threatened.

"I'm not chasin' you, hombre, I saw the fire, thought you might have some coffee to spare.  If you ain't takin' to the idea, I can head on my way."

From that distance, I couldn't see the man very clearly with only firelight for illumination.  His voice was a bit high and raspy, almost growling.  Still, I didn't feel threatened, so I holstered my gun and approached him.

"If two strangers can't have coffee together peaceably in this day and age, then I don't know what the world is coming to."  I held out my hand to reassure the man.  He took it.

"Well, I was beginning to wonder," the stranger replied.  I watched him sit lightly upon a rock.  He moved with a grace uncommon to most men, and it reminded me of the cat-like movements of a gunslinger.  I thought I better keep a close eye on him.

"Name's Jake Halfbreed."

"Will Madison."

“I don’t have any coffee brewing at the moment, but I can make some.”

           
“No worry.  It’s your fire, I’ll make the coffee.”

"If you don't mind me askin', what brings you out this way, Madison?"

He took out his tin and started a pot brewing.  There’s something about the rich smell of strong coffee that awakens the senses.

"Nah, I don't mind.  Truth is, I don't know myself.  Just passin' up the trail if you know what I mean.  Not really heading for any place in particular, just driftin’.  You?"

I didn't want to give away my real purpose to this stranger.  For all I knew, he could be one of the rustlers backtracking to catch me off guard. 

"I'm heading up north, looking to get some more cattle."  Half-truths could be strategic.

"Any place in particular?"  He gave me an odd, curious look, which heightened my sense of caution again.  It wasn't customary to ask another man such prying questions on the frontier.  Being too curious could get a man killed.

"I figured I'd head up Colorado way to look."

"You think you might need any help bringing 'em down the trail?"  He looked hopeful.  "I certainly ain't got nothing better to do."

"Well, I'm not actually going to be buying that many."  My tone was flat, trying not to leave any possible opening for him, but then I surprised myself and added, "I could use some company though.  Another hand would make it easier to deal with Indians and such."

I wasn’t sure why I'd offered to let him tag along.  In spite of my previous concerns, something about him made me feel like I could trust him, even if I hadn’t laid eyes on him before.  He gave me the impression he was a man to ride the trail with, and the Lord knew I might need help further up it when I actually caught my rustlers.

"I'd pay you of course, though it wouldn't be much."

"Nah, don't worry about it.  Trail gets lonely sometimes, and I got plenty to tide me over.  Like I said, I ain't headed nowhere in particular, might as well go nowhere with company than nowhere alone."

We talked a bit more, and then slept soundly until the sun rose.

***

Will Madison didn't exude a lot of physical strength, but I detected a quiet confidence in his spirit.  I felt comfortable with him at once, but at the same time, he seemed to be hiding something from me.  Some subjects he just refused to talk about, not that he spoke that much mind you.  He liked his privacy. 

I didn't sense this was for any sinister reason, so I didn't press the issue, just walked lightly sometimes and chalked it up to some odd quirk in his personality.

His voice was a little higher than usual, which had probably got him in a lot of fights growing up.  He certainly had a fast draw to compensate for it though.  I wondered if that draw of his might have developed because of past harassment for his size or voice.  I asked him about it, but he just shrugged, letting me draw my own conclusions.

He had a wiry strength in spite of his size and was one of the most durable men I'd ever met.  We rode the dusty trail all day long without me hearing a single complaint out of his mouth.  At the end of each day, my backside was screaming at me to stop, but if he was hurting too, he never let on.  Not one to be shown up, I kept my mouth shut of whining.  I guess he could’ve been doing the same thing.

That first day we rode together, I felt obliged to tell Will about the rustlers I was following.  It wouldn’t have been right to lead him into a dangerous situation without knowing what was coming.  It’s always better to put the truth out there from the start and let the cards fall where they may.

To my surprise, he just nodded as if to show me it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.  He’d decided
‘to ride the trail with me for a while, and no good-for-nothing rustlers were going to change his mind’,
as he’d put it.

We tracked the rustlers for several more days.  Luckily, there hadn’t been any rains to wash the sign away, but if we were catching up to them, we couldn’t tell it.  With them driving a herd, they should have been slowed down considerably.  They must have been pushing the limit.  They had to know we were on their back trail.

On the third day, we found new tracks which crossed the trail of my cows.  The unshod hoof prints of the newcomers could only mean Indians.

Probably Apache.  The trail split off again right away, the herd going with the Indians and the rustlers continuing north by themselves.

We had to make a decision: follow the rustlers or my cows?

We rode in the direction the Indians had gone.

It wasn't too long before we crossed a ridge and spotted the Apache camp.  They must have seen us about the same time, because five riders broke out from among the others to meet us.  They rode bareback with confidence, their long raven hair bouncing in the wind.  No war paint on their faces bode well, but it could also mean we just took them by surprise.  As they drew near, my back tingled in apprehension. Apaches were not ones to mess with lightly.

Will and I reined in our horses side by side, well outside the camp.  My horse stammered about a little, but I tugged back on his bridle and settled him down. I noticed Will had not drawn his weapon. Neither had I for that matter, but Will’s hand
was
resting on the grip of his rifle.

The Apaches pulled their horses up about thirty feet short of us, staring blankly.  I raised my hand in a gesture of peace.

They seemed to accept that.  I was relieved to discover one of them spoke a bit of English.

I didn't have much hope for rescuing my cattle at this point.  Even if they hadn't slaughtered them yet, there was no way they’d lose face in front of their people by giving the cows up to a couple of white men.

Still, it never hurt to try, so I explained the situation, how the cows they'd recently acquired had not belonged to the men who’d traded them.  The Indians merely shrugged, making it clear they didn't really care.  Their bored expressions seemed to ask if that was the only reason I had bothered them.  Their contempt was obvious.

Then and there, I gave up on my cattle.  No matter how good Will and I were, we weren't going to be able to take them back from an entire Apache camp

I’d have to kiss those cows goodbye, but I sure wasn't going to let the rustlers get away with it.