Killing Halfbreed (2 page)

Still….no matter how much I rationalized, something felt wrong.  I knew it deep in my bones.

The front door was shut.

I pushed it open, and the faint odor of a rotting body greeted me in a rush.

Just a dead animal, probably behind the cabin
, I forced myself to believe, fearing it wasn’t.

The state of the interior raised my hackles even more.  No one had been here for weeks.  The stagnant air lay heavily upon the thick dust which covered all.  It was not the kind of condition a woman would live in.

Yet, the scene was not one of simple abandonment either. The table was set for one, the silverware still in neat order.  A single plate lay skewed on the floor, some crumbs scattered around it.

The stench of decay grew a little stronger as I advanced.  With a lump in my throat, I headed to the bedroom.

In here, the odor was worse.  There was no body on the bed, at least, but residue spots surrounded by water rings stained the untidy bedspread.  

Searching harder, I found a coyote’s corpse stretched out on the floor beyond the bed.  He’d been dead for several weeks.

Relief washed through me.

The coyote must have smelled food, gotten into the cabin, and knocked the plate onto the floor to get at it.  Fresh claw marks on the window sill and the back of the front door told me the door must have swung shut behind him and he’d been unable to get back out.  Most likely, he'd died of dehydration.

Finding the coyote was certainly a relief, but it didn’t answer the critical question: Where were Ben and Jessica?

For the coyote to have gotten inside in the first place, the door had to have been left ajar.  What could have made Jessica abandon everything so fast that she the door ajar and food on the table?

Nothing good, that was for sure.  My concerns were exploding into full-blown, heart-wrenching worry.  My only remaining hope was that Jessica might have moved back into town, staying with someone there until I arrived.

I checked the cabin more thoroughly, but not much else stood out.

Under the table, the glint of something shiny caught my eye.  Reaching down, I picked up the glass face to a pocket watch.

It had surely fallen from someone’s watch, but whose?  Ben’s?  A layer of dust on it said maybe.  I slipped it into my pocket.

***

"This here town's a wild ‘un, awright, but we sure ain't used to no murders!"

I scanned the room for the fifteenth time that night.  I was looking for anything out of the ordinary, but so far, no luck.  After leaving Ben’s abandoned ranch, I’d checked the various boarding houses, but there was no sign of either Ben or Jessica anywhere.

I searched the town high and low, but it seemed nobody knew anything about either of them.  I’d come to the saloon to get some dinner and listen to any dirty laundry being shared, hoping I might pick up on something, and I’d already learned a lot about some of the local characters in town.

"Yessiree, a murder!  Why that's jes unpop'lar if'n you ask me,"
the old miner continued
, "Shootin' a man in the back jes goes agin' the grain."

 
The miner fell silent, sipping his whiskey and staring into the mirror behind the bar, most likely contemplating the various unpleasant aspects of murder.

Just then, the batwing doors swung inward.  A man around thirty years of age strode in, dressed in a pressed black suit with a grey pin-striped vest. 
Fancy duds for the frontier
.  He sat down at a card table by himself with his back to the wall.  That right there said a lot about him.

Three men were behind me playing poker at a green cloth card table.  The overweight one smoking a cigar and wearing a fedora hat was Carlton Andrews, who, incidentally, owned Cottonwood's only bank.  I’d already spoken with him earlier in the day.

The other two poker players I only knew by name and reputation.  Frank Thomason and Henry Barr were both ranch hands out on the Double B, which was owned by Bill Hartford.  Thomason was known to be rougher and more quick-tempered.  Barr was more reserved and kept to himself.  Still, he gave the impression of one who quietly, but keenly studies their surroundings.

The miner continued his monologue.

"Sure would like to know who did it.  It's unsettlin' to know there's a murderin' snake around.  Don't know who to trust..."
 

Seated further down the bar was Doc Whitley.  He wasn't looking in the best of spirits tonight, but then, he didn't seem to have been looking very sharp for a while.  He had on a frayed, dark grey suit which had seen better days, and he’d slung his jacket over his barstool before sitting on it.  Yellow sweat stains lined the armpits of his white shirt, and his face wore a frown that could have shut up a clown.

Doctors didn't earn much out west.  They were lucky to see a pig or a few chickens in payment for their services, and the few times there was cash to be had, it didn't go very far towards new suits or smiles.

He raised his glass to his lips with a shaky hand, pausing briefly to wipe a smudge off the rim with his fingers before indulging.  The doc was getting more than a slight reputation for being a lush.

"Well, I take that back, yessir.  I kin always trust Cappy.  Cappy's my partner.  Did I tell you that?"

This question the miner directed my way.  I nodded, assuring him that he’d already mentioned Cappy.  He went on.

"Me and Cappy go back a long ways.  Ain't nobody else in the world I trust more than him."

Renee DuBois was dressed in a tight, scarlet dress made of satin, its bodice cut low and the hem higher than propriety would allow.  Black fishnets showed off a pair of young legs, provoking hoots and whistles on a regular basis which she seemed to enjoy.

Her long, blonde hair was wavy, slightly dirty, and fell in tresses down to her shoulders.  Her milk-white complexion, highlighted by rosy pink cheeks, accentuated her wide, beautiful eyes, which were green, like liquid emeralds.

Tonight, she was the sole hostess / waitress for the entire saloon.  Rumor had it she would do more than serve drinks for the right price.

"Now, what if'n Cappy done it?  That there’s a brain buster.  Hadn't thought of that!  Nah, not Cappy.  He ain’t like that.  I known him too well.  Look at me now, ‘specting even Cappy.  Why this murder thing's got me all twisted up!"

The remaining four patrons of the saloon this evening were seated around another table closer to the front door.  They were not playing cards, but drinking and raising Cain at the top of their boisterous lungs.

They were the Talon gang, and most people knew to stay clear of them.  John Talon was the reputed head of the quartet.  His eyes were grey and hard enough to cut steel.  Unshaven, he wore a dusty trail outfit, unremarkable except for the pearl-handled six-shooters which hung low on his hips, gunslinger style.

To John's left, sat his younger brother, Jim.  Jim was mean too, but not nearly as feared as his older brother.

Luke Phillips was the third member of the gang.  Luke was cautious, slippery, and deadly, and while he would roar along in laughter with the others, his eyes never lost their sharp watchfulness.  Deadly like a viper, you never knew when he would strike.

Charlie Pugh, the last member of the gang, had his back to me.  The wildest and craziest of the bunch, Charlie had already been reprimanded by the sheriff three times this week for recklessly shooting off his gun at indiscriminate objects within town limits.  Beer in hand, he currently sported what looked to be about five days worth of beard growth. 

No one knew exactly why the Talon gang had been in town for the past week.  There were various rumors, of course, the most widely accepted being an unsolved bank robbery two counties over, which had taken place the preceding Friday.

"Would you just listen to me ramble on like a dad-blamed fool.  I ain’t even making sense no more.  What did you think about the murder, son?  What was your name again?"

The miner turned to me.  Ol’ Pick Johnson was a washed-up prospector who’d maintained several fruitless claims up in the hills for years.  Cappy was his alleged partner, of whom he constantly spoke, but whom nobody had ever seen.  Thus, most townspeople had deemed "Cappy" to be mythological, just a part of Ol’ Pick’s lonely imagination.

Pick was the open, friendly sort, and I, being new to town, had gleaned a lot about these people from him.  In fact, I'd gotten most of my information from him, but not all of it.  Names and reputations were one thing, but nothing could beat first-hand observations.  Still, this man was a fountain of information who talked a mile a minute.

The murder which had Pick so agitated had sent a wave of uneasiness throughout Cottonwood.  Not so much because someone had been killed, but because of
how
they'd been killed.  Open dueling of pistols and other armed or unarmed battles were common, but this morning the town had awoken to find a dead man in one of its alleys, shot in the
back
.

Shooting somebody in a fair fight was acceptable, but shooting someone in the back went against every unspoken rule and code of the West.  That was simply murder.

The murdered man had been a cowhand from one of the three big ranches nearby.  I wasn't clear as to which one.  He wasn't very well known, or even popular, and so far there were a million and one rumors as to who'd killed him, and not a one of them worth considering.  The town's favorite was clearly the Talon gang.

I finally broke my train of thought and turned my attention to the miner.

"Name's Jake Talbot.  Don’t know what I think about the murder yet.  Too early to tell.  But I'm sure the sheriff will have some answers as soon as he completes his investigation."

"Wouldn't count on that, Sonny,” he cackled.  “I've always said that sheriff wasn't worth his own weight in cow dung.  You just wait, betcha he don't come up with nothing."

"If I were you, Pick, I'd watch my tongue."  The banker spoke without turning from his cards.  "You never know who's listening."

The miner grunted and turned back to his drink.  Renee took a bottle of whiskey and a glass over to the stranger in the fancy duds.  He poured himself a drink and kept doing exactly what I was doing, observing.

The batwing doors swung in once more, and in came Henry Tadd.  I'd met him earlier that day at the livery down the street where he worked as a hostler.  A meek fellow, thin and gangly, Henry was probably about eighteen and still more boy than man.  He seemed anxious to prove his place in the world, but unsure of exactly how to go about it.

Henry made his way over to the Talons’ table and asked if they wanted to start a poker game.  Charlie Pugh busted up laughing and made some smart comment that Henry obviously didn't catch.  John Talon grinned at the boy, showing his teeth, and pulled out a deck of cards.  Luke Phillips simply pulled out a chair and waved for Henry to sit down.

For the next thirty minutes or so, the saloon remained pretty quiet and uninteresting, except for the occasional squeal of laughter from one of the "working girls" upstairs.

Suddenly, the calm was shattered by Henry Tadd's high-pitched accusation of Charlie cheating.  Face flushed with anger, he pushed himself back from the table to stand in protest, but before he'd more than half-risen from the chair, Charlie Pugh had covered him with a six-iron.

"You callin' me a cheat, boy?"  Charlie sneered, mocking him.  Henry froze, staring into that muzzle, seeing his life pass before his eyes.  He was unarmed, but even with a gun, he would have been helpless.

I found myself propelled across the room toward the scene with a seemingly unconscious volition.  Sticking my nose into other people's affairs was a bad habit of mine that had almost gotten me killed on more than one occasion.

"That boy's unarmed,
Hoss
.  You gonna shoot an unarmed man?"  I met Charlie's eyes coolly.

Pugh wouldn't return my gaze.  He kept watching the trapped and frightened hostler. "Boy called me a cheat.  Don't nobody call me a cheat and get away with it."

"Are you one?"

"You want in on this action, stranger?  There's plenty to go around."

"Jacob Talbot's the name.  We don't have to be strangers anymore.  I hate not knowing people I might have to kill.  Granted, that's assuming you persist in your persecution of this unarmed boy.  If you hadn't noticed, I
am
armed."

Pugh's eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds, but then refixed on Tadd.  He didn't like my confident tone.

I watched each of them for a sign one of Pugh’s friends would come to his aid.  Luke and Jim stared blankly at their cards, both hands visible, but John eyed me with piqued interest.

Charlie broke the silence once more, "Well, you know what?  I
hadn't
noticed that..."  He tried to jerk his Colt around to bear on me, but before it had swung more than halfway, he froze his arm in place, well aware that my muzzle was now staring him down from less than five feet away.

Likely, he'd never seen a draw so fast.  Many back home said my hand was a blur when I pulled iron.  There was no way he could beat it, so he remained motionless, pointing his gun at empty air, halfway between Tadd and me.

Jim Talon shifted in his seat, and I had my other Colt out of my holster in a blink, covering him as well.  Jim's hand was only on the grip of his iron.  He hadn't even cleared leather before I'd pinned him too.

"Henry, how much money have you lost to Charlie tonight?"

"'Bout ten bucks, but I lost five to John too."  The young hostler was slowly regaining some confidence.

"Well, I tell you what, why don't you give him his money back, Charlie?  I tend to agree with Henry, I think you're a cheat."

"Why you...!"

I clicked back the hammer with my thumb.  "Why you
what?
 What, Charlie?  Don’t like that?  I don’t think you're in much of a position to argue.  Give him his money and drop the gun."

Pugh grudgingly did both.