The Half-Breed Gunslinger
Bret Lee Hart
Smashwords Edition
The Half-Breed Gunslinger
Presented by Western Trail Blazer
Digital ISBN: 9781476419237
Copyright © 2012 Bret Lee Hart
Cover Art Copyright © 2012 Karlee Dawn and Laura Shinn
Editors – Lee Baldwin and Rebecca J. Vickery
Design Consultant – Laura Shinn
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
The Half-Breed Gunslinger is a work of fiction.
Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.
Foreword
The year was 1860. Some of the white men of these times were outlaws who dwelt in the swamps far south of the Carolinas, trying to make a living any way they could. Most of them were out-of-work soldiers, since the surrender and removal of Chief Billy Bowlegs, leader of the Seminole Indian Tribe, which brought the end of the third and last of the Seminole Indian Wars. This left much land for the taking.
These same men worked as hired gunmen for cattle ranchers, who found themselves in a power struggle over these lands. With the Indian Wars all but over, most of the armies moved north out of Florida, leaving it lawless.
All but a few hundred Seminoles remained in the southern swamp territories. These Indians, along with other tribes, were intermingled with runaway Negro slaves who would not surrender to the Northern Armies. They retreated deep into the swamps to avoid relocation or death. The swamps in these parts were brutal. Gators, snakes, and insects made their home here.
There was more open range cattle in Florida than in Texas and all the other states combined. The men who drove these cows were called 'crackers', from the cracks of their whips they used to move the herds. Some were honest men and some were rustlers and murderers, depending on who they rode for.
With the election of the first Republican President, a congressman named Abraham Lincoln, talk of abolishing slavery seemed to be pushing the country toward instability. War between all the states was brewing, making the future of the south uncertain. The only thing for certain around these parts – men lived and died by the gun, taking what they wanted, or they died trying.
October's dry air temporarily pushed the mosquitoes deep into the marshes that in summertime were said to be thick enough to choke out herds of cattle. It took a special breed of man to live here, and an even harder man to survive.
Chapter One
Hunter James Dolin, a man in his prime, half-white, half-Indian, was a gambler by choice and a gunslinger of necessity. He headed south; the massive rains had brought the swamps further inland, but the ridge he traveled was high for this area. There were many different kinds of trees on this trail, great oaks, yellow pine, and Australian pines, as well. The path was fairly narrow and curvy, intertwining between them.
Now that the wind and rain were dying down and the first signs of daybreak was appearing through the trees, those three outlaws would surely start hunting him again. He felt they were close.
About ninety miles back and a few days earlier, in the Crackerjack Saloon along the Withlacoochee River, Dolin's ace-high straight flush had beat one of the three outlaws' full house. He won fair and square – two ounces of gold and a just 'broke in' Henry rifle. These days that was more than reason enough to kill a man.
Hunter had felt the itch in his craw that warned him he had out-stayed his welcome, and knew it was high time for him to leave this place. Without taking his eyes off the men at the poker table, Hunter had gathered up his winnings, while he spoke, "Thank you, Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."
The man at the table to Hunter's left, the one who just lost his Henry rifle, had stood and replied angrily, "Do you think we're just gonna' let you walk on out of here, half-breed?"
"Easy, Billy," said a man the others called Jed. He had sat across the rickety wood card table from Hunter. "We're dealing with a man that's awful lucky, or very good – not sure which."
Hunter had stood, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, and then picked up his rifle without reply.
"Which way you headin', mister?" asked Jed.
"Not sure yet, just wanderin'."
"Just wanderin', huh? Well, you be careful, there's a lot of bad men hereabouts."
"Thanks for the warnin'," Hunter had said, with a tip of his hat to the third man, who had yet to speak. Hunter slowly backed his way out the front swinging doors of the old rustic saloon, and stepped out into the rain.
"What the devil, Jed?" yelled Billy, slamming his fist on the card strewn table, "We just gonna' let him go?"
"Shut up, stupid! We ain't lettin' nobody go. We're gonna' give him a day's ride to forget about us, then we'll track him down, kill him, get our gold back."
"And my rifle, Jed, don't forget 'bout my rifle."
* * * * *
The rain had come down hard for three days now, the wind was steady. It had been a hell of a storm, but these men were determined to finish what they had started.
Hunter hid his Appaloosa and his packhorse in a natural cave of vines and pine needles that draped over several, large yellow pine trees. He was determined to draw first blood. Hunter knew from experience that the attacker had the advantage over the attacked. On foot, he took with him the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. Strapped around his waist he wore two forty-four Colt Walker revolvers, along with a thirteen-inch Bowie knife he kept tucked in the front of his belt.
A hundred paces down the trail, he found a forty-foot oak tree and climbed, stopping a little less than halfway up. There he waited, squatting on a large branch, with killing on his mind and determined to survive at all costs.
He didn't have long to wait. They came up the trail single file, moving slowly on horseback – a perfect scenario for an Indian style ambush. Well, a half-Indian ambush in Hunter's case. The path was located directly under the tree branch where he quietly waited.
The first two men passed by, the man named Jed leading the way. Hunter dropped off the branch onto the third man, Bowie knife in hand. He buried the knife to the hilt between the neck and shoulder bone. By the amount of hot blood that flowed over Hunters' hands and the amount splattering his chest, he figured the knife must have pierced the man's jugular vein.
One down, two to go, ran through the gunslinger's mind.
The momentum of the jump took him and the bleeding body off the other side of the horse, onto the ground. As they were falling, Hunter caught a glimpse of a fourth rider, lagging behind and bringing up the rear, The planned ambush had been for three horseman, but it was too late to change it now. He would follow his plan and worry about the straggler when needed.
Hunter hit the forest floor and rolling to one knee, he pulled the double-barreled shotgun from his side shoulder holster. He blasted the second rider, the man named Billy, with both barrels as he was turning, the shrapnel taking out the man's throat.
That's two down, Hunter counted to himself.
> Luckily, the first rider Jed, caught some of the buckshot, which slowed him just enough. Dropping the sawed off shotgun from his right hand, Hunter drew a Colt with his left. He shot Jed three times in the chest, knocking him off the horse to the ground, dead.
Three down, one to go, thought Hunter.
Suddenly, from Hunter's left there came a flash of light instantaneously followed by the sound of gunfire, and then a yell of pain. The yell had come from his own lips. The unexpected fourth and last rider, the one who should have been taken out first, blasted Hunter's revolver out of his left hand, along with the tip of his middle finger.
Hunter quickly drew his right-handed Colt, but before he could turn, the fourth rider spoke, stopping him in his tracks.
"Drop the gun, or I'll kill you right here and now."
Hunter turned his head slowly; he looked up at the tall thin man on the horse, who he had not seen before. It had been a long time since the man's face had known a straight razor, and Hunter couldn't tell if he was Cajun or just hadn't taken a bath for a long spell.
Without making any sudden moves, Hunter said, "You can kill me now 'cause I'm not givin' up my gun."
"You will give'r up," demanded the man on the horse, "One way or the other."
With a deadly stare at the man, Hunter continued in a calm and steady voice, "I don't know you, Mister, but you best think about this – is your life worth two ounces of gold?"
Before his question could be answered, Hunter swung his gun around, launching himself into a turning roll, coming upright quick, firing, shooting the man between the eyes. The Cajun went backwards off his horse and to the ground, a red hole forming on his forehead. He managed to get off a shot as he fell, his bullet missing its target, ricocheting off the tip of Hunter's left boot.
The woods went eerily still and silent, along with the Cajun's heart.
Hunter got to his feet, blood dripping from his hand. He picked up his other revolver off the wet leafy ground, along with his shotgun. He then went over to the dead man sheathing his knife in his neck and retrieved it. He walked down the path to the pine tree cave and entered, pulling a bandana and a bottle of whiskey off the packhorse. Taking a long swig off the bottle, and then soaking the rag with whiskey, he wrapped up his bloody stub of a finger. His breathing returned to normal and Hunter leaned tiredly, back first, against the nearest pine, sliding down to a sitting position just seconds before passing clean out...
Chapter Two
Dark now, many hours had passed. Hunter woke with a jerk from a deep sleep to the sound of a screeching owl. No matter how many times he'd been woken by the owl's shrill scream, it still made him grab the butt of his gun in a moment of distress. After realizing the owl meant him no harm, he knew he must get moving before anyone wandered by, and discovered what went on here. Without wasting more time, he gathered up his belongings.
Able to round up two of the dead men's horses, he rummaged through their saddlebags. He took what little food they contained, a small sack of horse grain, and some jerky. He went through the dead men's pockets. The only one holding money was Jed, the leader of this bunch, who had two gold coins in his trousers.
Four men dead over a card game, Hunter thought as he worked, what a damn shame, then a grin appeared on his face. I guess I would trade an ace-high, straight flush for the lives of them four scoundrels anytime.
He dragged the bodies into the pine tree cave, along with their gear before setting their horses free. The gear and animals were worth much, but having them in his possession would require an explanation. He didn't take anything that was marked or recognizable. The killings were justified, but it was his word against four deceased white men. Who would believe a half-breed? The reward was not worth the risk. He thought of scalping the men to make it look like an Indian attack, but if the scalps were ever found, it could be evidence against him. Instead, he mounted his horse and headed south, down the trail deeper into the swamps, leaving the bodies to the mercy of the Turkey buzzards, critters, and the worms.
The rain continued to fall at a steady drizzle, fueled by a cold front from the north, beating back the southern winds. There would be no bedding down so he napped in the saddle from time to time as he moved along. This went on until Hunter was two days away from the gun battle and the four rotting corpses. Living on jerked beef and whiskey was fine, but he must hunt soon.
The half-breed pondered in his mind what had happened back on the trail. He knew that the Seminole Indians wouldn't mind him killing four white men, but the Army might. He had heard rumors the blue coats had pretty much packed up and left the state. Then again, these were just rumors and, until he knew for sure, he would have to remain cautious. This would not be a problem for the gunslinger. Caution was second nature to him, and it would be his middle name, if James was not.
Hunter had spent three years tracking Indians out west for the United States Army, but that was a long time ago. He was in his early teens when he left Florida, heading north, then out west. Some said he was searching for his father. If you asked him, he would say a man doesn't need a reason to wander; a man just needs the drive in his soul.
The westward movement had sparked this inside many-a-man in years past. Even so, he knew it was the mixed blood flowing through his veins which gave him such a passion for travel. In a sense he was always running, never from trouble, but toward it. His mother was a Lower Creek Indian who had died during his birth. His father had been rumored to be James Dolin, a known soldier turned bank robber and gunfighter. He was a half-breed, sometimes accepted by all, but mostly accepted by none. This made Hunter James Dolin one of the toughest men of his time.
As the rain suddenly stopped falling, he found himself riding upon a grassy field. Then he saw movement. Dusk was approaching, a perfect time for hunting rabbit. He dismounted the Appaloosa, thinking it would be best to stay quiet and not attract any unwanted attention.
He unstrapped his bow and notched an arrow. Pulling back the bowstring, he shot one of the many rabbits he saw feeding along the tree line. His arrow flew true, hitting its target just below the ear. A perfect head shot. While retrieving the animal, Hunter stumbled across a small clearing in the woods just off the trail. He started a small fire there with the lighter'd knot he always carried in his saddlebags.
The lighter'd knot, or stump wood, was found at the base of the southern pine tree. After the tree's death, all the sap runs to its bottom. This wood can be dug out just below the ground. With the touch of a lit match, this fueled root will catch fire, making it possible to burn the wet wood of the swamp.
He skinned the varmint with the skill of a slaughterer. He used the same arrow that made the kill as a spit, cooking its flesh to medium. This took a while, but the gunslinger was patient, and the ground was a nice change from the saddle. He then gobbled up the meat feverishly, leaving nothing but bones.
After lighting a cigar from a burning stick from the fire, he redressed his wound. The fingertip was healing nicely, but it still throbbed frequently. The gunslinger could handle the pain, for he had built up quite a tolerance over the years. The itching was the worst as it seemed the part of his finger needing scratching was the missing piece. Hunter found this strange, but at the same time, this was reassuring. In this day and age, he knew more men died from infection, setting in on an open wound, than they did in any other way. Another good excuse to always have whiskey on hand – for sterilization, of course.
Spreading the coals of the fire around and covering them with a layer of dirt, he made a warm dry area to lay out a blanket. This he learned from the Northern Indians, who spent half their year dealing with snow. But it also worked well here, on the wet, cold grounds of the southern swamps. The trick was to make sure to put the right amount of dirt down between yourself and the hot coals, or you just might wake up with your clothes on fire. With one ear open for the slightest sound and his hat covering his face to block the moonlight, he slept through the remainder of the night. No dreams came to h
im, this was a good sign.
* * * * *
He awoke with the sun. The cold, dry air from the north had pushed the humidity deeper into the swamps. Hunter felt refreshed after finally getting a good night of sleep. He buried the coals from the fire further and brushed away all signs of his camp before packing up and moving on.
* * * * *
Two more days and nights of travel had passed. The only thing that crossed his path during this time was a small doe he arrow shot. After skinning the carcass, he carved out some steaks and stripped the rest for jerky. The steaks were packed in salt to delay rot. The jerky was salted and slowly dried in a smoker he made from bamboo.
Hunter had finished off the whiskey days ago, his tobacco supply was getting low, and he needed a bath. Hopefully, the place he was heading for had survived the Indian wars. If not, the half-breed was in for a long week. With a full stomach of deer steak, he rode on. If his memory served, he should be close now. Hunter pictured the town in his head. He remembered a trading post, and a country store located next to a whorehouse. Across the street was a Hotel and saloon. It would be nice to sleep in a warm, dry bed for a change, and with little thought, he could taste the whiskey pouring down his throat to warm his belly.
Night was falling; suddenly there was a movement up ahead, near what appeared to be a bend in the road. Hunter pulled back the reins, halting his horse in its tracks. Listening and looking forward, he heard a creaking sound. After a short moment of study, he realized what it was. Hunter rode up to it.
The sign swinging in the wind, read:
Myakka City
Pop. 60
Well how 'bout that, he thought, puzzled. Myakka is a city now.
He turned the corner, moving up the road a spell before entering the small town. He dismounted in front of Mats Place Hotel Saloon. A handsome boy, who looked to be no more than ten years old, jumped down off the porch. Without saying a word, he took the reins from Hunter and turned the Appaloosa down the street, heading toward a large barn, half-painted red.
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