"Do you work here, boy?" asked Hunter, "Or are you the South's youngest horse thief?"
"No need to fret, Mister, I work here," replied the boy, then he continued to lead the horse away.
Satisfied he wasn't being rustled, Hunter walked in through the hanging doors of the saloon. Standing just inside the entryway, he looked around. He first noticed half a dozen men playing poker at two of the five tables, giving him a glance as he entered. Cheers erupted from some rugged looking gamblers playing craps in the far corner of the room. They were next to the stairs that led up to the second story.
Hunter recognized the elderly man behind the bar that stretched across the entire back wall. He walked over, the sound of his spurs clinking on the dirty, pinewood planked floors. He tossed a gold piece on the counter.
"Hunter James," the old man said as he served him up a glass of beer and a bottle. "Been a long time, six, maybe eight years, or so."
"Howdy, Matt. Seems more like twenty, by the looks of you."
Matt laughed louder than Hunter expected, then said, "Well, you were just a kid when you left on out of here, with three dead men under your belt, as I recall."
Two cowhands at the other end of the bar overheard this and glanced in his direction.
Hunter replied, "Yeah, well, I lost track over the years. Don't matter much; ammo's fairly easy to come by."
Hunter took a swig of his beer, and then continued, "This place hasn't changed much, 'cept for the whorehouse across the street. I see it's a hotel now."
"Yea, some rich Yankee bought it. Old man Wilson's daughters were even gittin' too old for the boys 'round here. Bad for business with no whores 'round."
"So what's the deal, Matt, you still own this shit hole?"
"Yea, I own it; bartend, keep the peace, so to speak. But I'm gittin' old, lookin' for somebody 'round here to help keep the peace for me. Someone I can trust – maybe someone like you."
Hunter downed his beer, slamming the mug on the bar, "Don't go trusting me too much. How's 'bout a room and a bath?"
Matt turned around and grabbed a key marked number 3 and tossed it to him. The gunslinger grabbed up his bottle, walked across the room, and headed up the stairs.
"Hey, Hunter," Matt yelled after him, "I got a letter here for ya, might be important." Hunter turned at the top of the stairs, looking back.
"I'll see you in the mornin', right now I need to wash and get some shut eye."
Matt shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment, about the washing part, "Suit yourself," he replied as the gunslinger turned the corner at the top of the stairs, disappearing down the hallway.
* * * * *
Hunter woke the next morning at sun up. He always slept well on a chicken-feathered mattress, especially with the back of the chair shoved under the doorknob for an extra lock. He dressed, pulling on his black pants, black shirt, and then his razor tip boots. His left boot sheathed a six-inch boot knife. He stood and buckled on his gunbelt which cradled the two silver colored .44 Colt Walkers and double rows of cartridges all the way around. He shoved the thirteen-inch Bowie knife inside the front of the gunbelt. The sawed off double-barreled shotgun rested nicely in the custom made, side-mount, shoulder holster. He slipped into his light-colored, elk-skin, rawhide fringed jacket with inside individual pockets that held his extra shotgun shells. He picked up his rifle, and last, but not least, he put on his black hat with its rattlesnake band. He was now ready for his morning meal.
The moment he entered the hallway, he smelled the aroma of bacon in the air wafting up from downstairs. On the first floor in the saloon was a southern style breakfast being served by a large Negro woman. Hunter overheard a patron refer to her as Bessie, as he was coming down the stairs. Matt was sitting at one of the poker tables drinking coffee. In front of him was his empty breakfast plate. After a few minutes in the chow line, Hunter walked his coffee, bacon, eggs, taters, and grits over, sitting down across from his old friend.
From his inside jacket pocket, Matt pulled out a worn faded letter and slid it across the table.
Without saying a word, Hunter picked up the paper. He removed a small knife out of a sheath that was sown into the topside of his hat. He then used it to cut the rawhide string that kept the letter closed. Unfolding it, he began to read it to himself...
Dear Son,
Even though we have never met, I have thought of you as of late, as I am gitin old. When I die I leave you my cabin behind the big oak, three hundrid paces off the Myakka River. It's a good cabin, It's all I got.
James Dolin
"Where did you get this, Matt?" Hunter asked, holding up the letter in his hand.
The old man looked over his coffee cup as he took a sip, then said, "Your pa gave it to me 'bout a year back, just shy a week before some trappers found his body floating in the Myakka River." Matt paused a moment before continuing, "He was gunshot in the back."
Hunter stopped chewing his meal. "Who dun it?"
"Don't know fer sure, "Matt said in a quiet voice, leaning in towards Hunter. "Your pa made a lot of enemies in his life. If I had to guess, I'd say, Frank Lugar and his boys, Jake and little Johnny. They would be first on my list."
"What happened between this Frank and my pa?" asked Hunter, as he chewed on a piece of fatback.
Matt set down his coffee and continued to talk in a hushed tone. "Your pa and Frank's brother Billy robbed trains together. They had a falling out that ended up in a gun battle right here in this very street. He shot Billy dead. Your pa might have been a faster draw than you, but I don't think so."
Hunter finished his coffee then stood up. Setting the empty cup on the table, he grabbed his rifle and went toward the front doors.
"Where you headed?" hollered Matt from his seat.
"I'm going to see my cabin," Hunter said without turning. Then he was gone, leaving the hinges creaking as the swinging saloon doors paddled back and forth.
Matt could hear the sound of his spurs clanking on the wood deck fade, as he walked further away down the front porch.
The same boy who had taken his horse to the barn the day before, jumped up and out of a hammock tied up between two palm trees.
"Get your horse, Mister?"
"Yeah, boy. Can you saddle him and bring him out to me? There'll be a gold piece in it for ya'."
"Yes sir, Mister!"
The gunslinger watched as the boy ran next door into the half-red, half-unpainted barn. The barn, in a strange way, reminded Hunter of himself. He also liked this small, good-looking boy from the beginning. The youngster seemed hard working and respectful, there weren't many like him around these parts.
Hunter stood in the street rolling a smoke in his good hand, which was a bit of a chore. His left hand used to be the quickest, but now that he was missing part of his middle finger, his right hand might temporarily be dominant.
Ten minutes or so had gone by and he started to wonder if he might need to lend a hand, when the boy appeared through the big double doors, the wind blowing his shoulder length, sandy-brown hair.
"Here's your horse, Mister."
Hunter checked the App over. He looked clean and brushed. Walking around to the other side of the horse, he loosened and then re-tightened the belly strap.
"You do good work, son; been doin' it long?"
"Yes sir, all my life," the boy said proudly.
"All your life, huh?" said Hunter with a grin. "What's your name, boy?"
"Zeke." said the boy.
"Tell me, Zeke, is there a cabin on the river by a big oak?"
"Oh, yes sir, Mister, 'bout half a day's walk south a' here. Follow the river, you can't miss it."
Hunter mounted his horse and reached into his top pocket. He plucked out a gold piece and flipped it to the boy. The boy caught the worn gold coin, and in one motion slid it into the front of his trousers.
Hunter thought, that boy could be a gunfighter one day, with the proper training, as he rode out of town. He headed south then west toward
the river to find his cabin, and possibly his home.
Was he old enough to have shaken off that traveling urge? Was he tired enough to settle down? He didn't know. Hell, nobody knew. All he knew for sure was sooner or later he would run into the man or men that killed his pa, and he would kill them, or his name wasn't Hunter James Dolin.
Chapter Three
Hunter traveled easily down the wagon trail, riding at a steady gallop. It was mid-morning and very cool for this time of year. "Whoa, boy," he said softly as he pulled back on the reins. He untied his leather-skinned water pouch and took a long drink. He looked about studying the land, some of it was familiar to him, but a lot of it had changed. He noticed the trees had grown much taller. He had traveled this same road as a small boy, when it was no more than a goat path. Today the land was more open, but somehow seemed older.
He realized he could hear rushing water to his right. Quickly tying off the pouch, he maneuvered the Appaloosa, making his own opening straight through a thin growing part of the brushy tree line. He broke out onto some grassy flatlands, one hundred feet from the river. The boy was right, you couldn't miss it. On the other side of the bank, where the water was shallow and fast moving, proudly stood the giant oak, shading the modest log cabin from the morning sun. There was also a small barn, and besides that, a corral for livestock. A hundred yards beyond was the main river.
With a kick of the spurs and a "Ya", the horse and rider took off as one, disturbing the flow of the knee-deep waters as they crossed.
All in one motion, Hunter slowed the App to a stop and dismounted in front of the cabin. He stood for a moment, combing the countryside with his eyes and ears for intruders. Satisfied there was no one about, he kicked the heavy wood door open with one boot, pistol drawn, and took a step down into the log structure. Lucky for them he was alone.
It was a small, well built, one roomer. There was a bed with a mattress, a wood-burning stove, and a kitchen table, with two mismatched chairs. There were six windows, two in front, two in back, and one on each side. They were made of wood shutters, split down the middle with cross-shaped slits carved out at their centers. These crosses looked like religious symbols, but he knew they were portals for shooting rifles out of. Up and down, or side to side. He walked to the center of the room, studying the floor as he went – wood planked, and dug out a foot deep below the doorjamb. With a hand ax, you could easily chop out slits between the logs, lay low, and shoot your enemy outside with full cover from a belly position. The cabin had so much mud packed on it; it would be hard to burn. Only an outlaw expecting trouble would build a fortress like this. Yup, he thought, this is for sure the cabin my pa built; James Dolin is written all over this place.
Exiting his small domain, Hunter closed the door behind him, mounted his horse, and headed back the way he came. He glanced once again at the small barn and coral, much like any other he'd seen before.
As he rode, he thought about supplies he would need to live out here in his cabin. There was no hurry, he had plenty of gold to pay for a room at the hotel, and Bessie cooked some good grub. There was gambling to be done, and it had been a long while since he smelled a woman up close. Hunter was smiling and wondering where all the pretty women were, when his horse suddenly spooked at a gunshot, coming from what seemed to be the wagon trail on the other side of the tree line.
He quietly rode through the brush onto the path. There he saw a family, a man, a woman, two girls, and a small boy in a covered wagon. Three Indians on horseback were holding them up at gunpoint. Two others had dismounted and were ransacking a pack mule tied up alongside. They were so busy with what they were doing; they didn't hear Hunter stroll up behind them.
He came to a halt, at a distance of ten feet. He quietly pulled out the shortened double-barreled shotgun and laid it over the saddle, pointing directly at their backs. With the other hand, he then pulled the shiny revolver and, with a loud boom, he shot the feathers off the head of the short, chubby Indian rummaging through the family belongings. This immediately got everyone's attention.
The featherless Indian stared in disbelief. The three on horseback turned quickly, Hunter brought up the shotgun at the same time clicking both hammers back with his thumb.
"Hold it right there," he told them. "This here scatter-gun at this distance will do some damage to you all. And this .44..." Hunter held up the revolver, spun it sideways, spun it forward, spun it backward into the holster, and back out again, aiming at the two on the ground as he cocked the trigger back with his thumb, "won't be shootin' feathers this time."
Even if these savages didn't speak English, the gunslinger knew they understood what he meant. Staring down the barrels of a sawed-off shotgun needed no translation; this language was worldwide.
The leader of this bunch said some words in Injun. The two braves on foot, doing the ransacking, jumped up on their horses and rode off into the swamp. The other two on horseback slowly followed.
The leader stared into the half-breed's eyes, possibly searching for fear. There was none. He then looked down at the shotgun, before yelling out in his best Indian war cry while rearing up his horse, he turned and followed his braves without looking back.
The middle-aged man jumped down from the wagon, and walked over to his savior on the spotted horse.
"Thank ya, Mister; you come along in the nick of time."
Hunter replaced the .44 cartridge with a new one, before putting his guns away, then lit up a smoke.
The older man was impressed with the speed with which he did this.
"Well, I didn't like the odds much. You all headin' for town?"
"I'm Doc Harmon, this is my wife Lizzy, and these are my three children. And yes, we're tryin' to get to Myakka City."
"Well Doc, git your goods together, and I'll ride you in the rest of the way."
"Are you the law 'round here, sir?"
"No, I'm a man like any other."
"I doubt that," said the doc with much conviction.
The gunslinger snapped his fingers several times, "Come on Doc, lets git movin', ain't safe out here in the open."
"Yes sir, thank you, sir."
They made it into town without further incident. Hunter tipped his hat to the women folk, and then rode on down toward the saloon, planning to have a chat with Matt and a drink or three. It was nearly high noon and he felt his tongue might swell with the heat.
He stabled the Appaloosa with the boy inside the barn, and began checking over his packhorse.
"Everythin' is just the way you left it, Mister," Zeke said, his head held high.
"I see that. Keep up the good work, boy, and we'll git along just fine."
After a wink and a nod to the boy, Hunter checked his guns. The gunslinger did this out of pure habit, more than anything. He then walked the dusty, horse-manure ridden road, up the steps and into the saloon. He walked through the small crowd to the far end of the bar before turning and putting his back against the wall. He struck a stick-match, bringing it up to the end of his unlit cigar. As smoke billowed out from under Hunter's hat like a chimney, Matt set a beer down in front of him. He then filled a shot glass full of his good whiskey for both of them. They stood across the bar from each other, drinking for a time, before Matt broke the silence.
"Seen you ride in with the new doc. They run across some trouble?"
"You don't miss much 'round here, do you, Matt?"
"I've learned over the years that a mere scrap of information can save your life."
"Yeah," replied Hunter, sarcastically. "I think you've also learned over the years to gossip like a church lady."
Matt chuckled at this comment, like he so often did.
Hunter finished his beer and slammed back another shot of whiskey. Matt refilled his glass, while the gunslinger continued the conversation.
"I just happened to come along on Doc and his family being held up by some renegade Indians. The lead brave was Miccosukee, I'm sure of that; he had what looked like a tomahawk sca
r on his left cheek." As Hunter said this, he ran his index finger from his temple down to his jaw. "I run them off without trouble, havin' them dead to rites with the scatter-gun."
"You son-of-a-bitch." Matt laughed from the gut. "You been back in these parts 'bout a month now, and you're already makin' enemies. You're a Dolin all right. That's Buffalo Tiger; he runs a small band of renegades that done been run out of the Tennessee valley a few years back, And if you made him look weak in front of his braves, he'll be lookin' to run across you again."
Hunter did not reply or show any reaction whatsoever.
"Well, what cha gonna' do, son?" asked Matt.
"Right now, I'm gonna' whip some ass at one of them there card tables." He nodded toward a couple of old cowboys starting up a game of poker; they had the look of veterans from wars past. Hunter walked over to the table, his spurs clanking.
"You boys lookin' to play some poker?"
The cowboys looked up and saw a man, six-foot-two, long jet-black hair, with steel blue eyes that pierced souls and made a man feel vulnerable. He had weapons from his cowboy hat to his razor sharp, knife-tipped boots. He was twenty-five, maybe thirty, they didn't know – hard to tell 'til you knew what a man'd been through.
One of the old veterans, with chin whiskers down to his belly, and a nine-inch scar down his throat, asked in a raspy voice.
"Are you James Dolin's Injun bastard son, the one everybody's been talkin' 'bout?"
"That'd be me," said Hunter.
The other man at the table was older as well. He was short and stocky and had an impressive handlebar mustache. Both men had hair white as snow, but Hunter could tell these two weren't far beyond their prime.
"Got any money?" asked the man with the handlebar mustache. "We ain't playin' for red cloth."
That comment got a cackle from them two. They sounded like a couple of old hens.
Hunter slowly reached into his inside coat pocket.
The Half-Breed Gunslinger Page 2