Killing Halfbreed (3 page)

"Now, Tadd, get out of here. Talon can keep that five bucks as a lesson to you.  Don't get mixed up with the likes of these again, ya hear?"

The boy turned redder than a beet and mumbled something unintelligible as he hurried outside.  Once I felt he was probably safely on his way, I turned the others loose, swiftly reholstering both my pistols.

"Now, boys, why don't y'all collect your things and head home for the night?"

They did so, even more reluctantly.  As they left, Charlie called out, "Don't think this is the end of it, Talbot!"

John said nothing.  He just grinned and strolled out the door with Jim and Luke following.

I turned to find everyone else staring at me, eyes wider than saucers.  I sighed.  Why did I always have to be so impulsive and quick to stick my nose in places where it didn’t belong?

The man in the expensive suit caught my attention.  His eyes weren’t wide.  He was grinning like a coyote.

The next morning, I found the saloon empty except for Sheriff O’Connor, who was having breakfast alone.  He motioned for me to join him.

"Talon gang pulled out this morning.  Heard about your little fiasco with 'em and Henry Tadd last night.  Mighty brave thing you did there.  Some might say….
foolish
."

I looked for derision in the sheriff's eyes, but found none.

"Sheriff, sometimes our battles are chosen for us," I said with a shrug.

"Well, you don't have to worry about them boys for a while now.  Not sure why they pulled out so fast, but they were gone ‘fore sun up."  The lawman patiently cut himself a hefty slice of fried egg and hoisted it to his mouth.

"Do you have any leads on the murder the other night?" I asked.

"Should I?"  He tilted his head slightly, studying me as if I’d said something incriminating.

"Well, you are conducting an investigation, aren't you?"

"Where were
you
the night in question?"  He didn’t drop his gaze.

"Traveling on the stage, on my way here."

The sheriff was nonplussed.  "How did you know it happened at night anyway, unless you were involved?"  I thought he must have been joking, but his expression said he was dead serious.

"Well….since the body was found in the morning, I figured the logical conclusion was it happened the night before."

"Could have been shot
after
the sun came up, ever think of that?"

I grunted in response.  The sheriff bit into a piece of bacon, chewing heavily.  "Can you prove you were on the stage?"

"No, they didn't exactly give me a stamped ticket."

"You left-handed or right-handed?"

"Right.  Why does that matter?"

"What kind of gun do you have?  Ever been to Wyoming?"

"I've got a Colt and no, never been to Wyoming."  I didn't know what his game was.  Heck, I wasn't even sure the sheriff knew what his game was, but my best bet was to answer the questions, regardless of how stupid they sounded.

He ate silently for a few minutes, chewing eggs and bacon alternately.  Finally, he looked up.

"I wouldn't fret too much.  I'm sure the Talons are the responsible ones.  Can't see much other reason why they'd take off so sudden.  I'll put a bulletin out on the telegraph charging them with the murder.  Granted, if they hadn't been in town at the time, I would've naturally suspected you, being a stranger and all.  You’re pretty lucky, I guess."

"Yeah, I guess.  Why would my being a stranger matter?"

"Well, this kind of thing's never happened here before, only proves it had to be a stranger who did it."

"I don't think it proves that at all.  I didn't get into town until mid-afternoon with the stage. Why don't you see if anyone saw me get off?"

"You could have staged your arrival, pardon the pun."  He eyed me with renewed suspicion.  I leaned back in my seat and let out a sigh of exasperation.  Sometimes, it seemed the people who only made half-sense were the most dangerous of all.  Reckless with their words, yet convincing enough to convince themselves, along with anybody else who didn't care enough to pay attention to their idiot form of logic.

I folded my napkin and stood up.  "Well, I think I'll skip breakfast today, Sheriff.  Let me know if I can be of any further help."  I walked out the door into the bright morning sun.

"Let
me
know if you plan to leave town!" He called after me.

***

“Good Morning,” I hollered. 

With the exception of my odd conversation with Sheriff O’Connor, everything else seemed to be going smoothly.  The sun was up, the sky was blue and cloudless, and I'd already had a cup of joe.  I was ready to get busy.

I’d come to the hostelry to get my horse.  I planned to ride out along the range and see what I could see around my brother's ranch in the way of clues.  I hadn’t spent much time out there the day before I was in such a rush to get back to Cottonwood looking for Ben and Jessica.

After that, I would come back to town and start asking some serious questions as to my brother's whereabouts.  I intended to get some answers too.

Henry Tadd was inside the barn, looking sleepy and slightly disheveled.  That didn't surprise me, seeing as how he'd come close to losing his life the night before.  Still, I figured anybody who'd been given a new lease on life like that ought to be happy about it.

"What's so good about it?" he responded without taking his gaze from the dirt at his feet.  I commented that he had a lot of things to be thankful for this morning.

"Look, pal, you may think you’re so slick an’all, but you shouldn't go around buttin’ into other people's business.  I would have been just fine last night without you!"

I was a little taken aback by the unexpected attack, but I let it go.  I'd seen this guy's type a thousand times if I'd seen it once.  An ego the size of a mountain of buffalo chips, he couldn't stand for anyone to help him out, even if it were to save his own stupid, little chicken neck.

"Sorry, son, next time I won't bother."  I got my horse from its stall and led it from the barn.

"I'm not your son," he called after me.

I waved my hand dismissively and left.

Those first couple of days, events popped like corn in a hot skillet, but after that, nothing.  The days began passing with the speed of growing grass, and Sheriff O’Connor made about as much progress as I did.

Since the murder of that cowhand, he hadn't had any more epiphanies, nor had he discovered any clues.  He just walked around town asking his peculiar questions about things that didn't matter.  It all seemed pretty pointless — he'd never get anywhere that way — but my only concern was for Ben and Jessica, not the dead cowhand.

One thing I gave him, he was an intriguing character, always acting like he knew something you didn't, and half the time, he made you feel that whatever he knew was about you.  He eyed me suspiciously every now and then, as if he still suspected me of killing the guy.

I couldn't have cared less.

He left me on my own, though, when it came to finding my brother.  Every time I asked him about it, he would mutter something about Ben being a no good rustler and then wander away, ignoring further questions.

I quickly came to understand that many people around town thought my brother was a cattle rustler.  I tried to not let it get to me, but my hackles went up every time someone implied it.  I had to remember they didn't know my brother the way I did.  They didn't know Ma raised us both to be honorable men.  Ben would rather die a painful death than gain something by illegitimate means.  I was of the same mind.

Nothing I said made one bit of difference though.  I was stonewalled.  No one would discuss Ben at all other than to hint at things I knew weren't true.  They weren't sorry he was gone.

I began to grow desperate.  I’d come out here to help Ben, but so far I couldn't even find out the circumstances of his disappearance.  No wonder Jessica had written me instead of seeking help from the law.

At the two week mark, Sheriff O’Connor suddenly announced he was pulling up stakes and leaving town for good.  It took everybody by surprise, especially with an unsolved murder investigation ongoing, except me.  I'd already decided the guy was a little touched in the head.  On his way out of town, he pulled his horse up short before me in the street.

"Figured out who killed that cowhand," he said.  "That's why I'm leaving.  Too dangerous for me, knowing what I know."

I asked the natural question, "Well, why don't you just arrest whoever did it?"

"Nah.  Wouldn't be very feasible.  Easier to leave."  Then, he gave me a look which made me think he still had some suspicions as to whether or not
I'd
done it.  After he’d gone, I decided it was probably for the best.

The town elected Harris McCraigh, a former gambler turned cowhand, to fill the vacancy.  He'd worked as the foreman on Jim Dunagan's ranch for several years, and then as a Texas Ranger.  He’d returned to Cottonwood a few weeks earlier, and everybody in town seemed happy to see him back.  I liked him a lot better than O’Connor.  He was a no-nonsense, straight shooter who seemed to care about his job.  He wasn't as affable or flamboyant as O’Connor, but he wasn't as weird either.

After about three weeks with nothing to show for it, I decided I might find out more by working on one of the three big ranches in the valley.  Maybe living among the other cowhands, I'd hear some gossip or some other piece of news that would help me find Ben.

Cottonwood Valley had originally been settled by three friends who'd each established a large ranch in the valley: Bill Hartford, Jim Dunagan, and Thomas Logan.  Between the three of them, they owned most of the land in the valley.  They were arguably the most powerful men around.

Soon after their arrival came the first settlers of the town to set up shop and cater to the needs of the hands the ranches employed.  The town had grown and prospered, but the focus of everyday life in Cottonwood had never strayed from the Big Three.

I considered each of the ranches for work.  Bill Hartford was a large, barrel-chested rancher from the far side of the valley.  A brusk, aggressive type, I didn't see myself getting along very well with him.

Jim Dunagan struck me as an okay guy, but not real amicable either.  Tom Logan was a friendly, respectable man, popular with most everybody.  He also had the most ranch hands of the three spreads, and his land was closest to my brother's, so I decided to ask him for a job.

As I rode up to the large, white-planked home, one of the prettiest blondes I’d seen for a while stepped out from the front door.  She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but she was adult enough to catch a man's eye.  Still, no man had apparently caught hers as of yet, for a sweet innocence still graced her face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Ma'am.”  I tipped my hat.  “I’ve come looking for work.  Didn't know if your pa might need an extra hand."  I assumed this was Logan's daughter who I'd heard so much about.  Half the single men in the valley were stumbling over each other trying to catch her attention.  I could see why, but she was a little young for me.

"I'm not sure if he's hiring, sir, but I'll go ask."  She turned and flitted back inside.  Soon, a strikingly beautiful woman, who could only be her mother, stepped outside, drying her hands on a dish towel.

"You looking for work?"

"Yes ma'am."  I held her gaze to show I was honest.

"Well, my Tom is needing some extra help at the moment.  He's up on the ridge over there branding today.  Go on over, and he'll tell you what to do."  She smiled and even though I knew my mission would not allow this to be a permanent abode for me, I felt a little at home.

Logan hired me, and I liked him right away.  His strength belied his trim frame.  He seemed to take a genuine interest in everybody around him, and I admired that.

The next days didn't bring me any new insights into what had happened to Ben.  The cowhands were either very tight-lipped around me, or they just didn't know anything.