by Mason, Zack
Killing
Halfbreed
ALSO BY ZACK MASON
Killing Halfbreed
Shift
Chase
Turn
Killing
Halfbreed
Zack Mason
Dogwood Publishing
Lawrenceville, Georgia
Killing Halfbreed is a work of fiction. All names and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by Dogwood Publishing
Copyright © 2006 by Zack Mason
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Dogwood Publishing, a division of More Than Books, Inc., Georgia.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request from the publisher.
ISBN: 0-9787744-7-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-9787744-7-9
Manufactured in the United States of America.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Second Edition: July 2012
Cover Design by Matt Smartt
This book is dedicated to
God,
who has given me every good gift I’ve ever had
-and-
to my wife,
who’s supported me in
every moment of my writing
“I am a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world of woe”
- Wayfaring Stranger
A war rages within me. Two bloods course through my veins, two ancestries battle for control. Two fleshes struggle, one Indian, one White. One civilized, one untamed. I’ve changed opinions several times as to which is which.
My name is Jake Halfbreed.
Descended from both Scottish traders and Cherokee chieftains, I’ve never been quite certain how to chart my path.
My mother christened me Jacob Phineas Talbot, a moniker I’ve never really liked, especially the Talbot part. Friends just call me Jake. Where I got Halfbreed is a little more complicated.
My great-great grandfather, on my pa's side, was a Cherokee chief everyone called Chief Broom. He married his daughter to an important Scottish trader, and their son was given the last name Halfbreed.
Since then, we’ve had just about as much White blood as Cherokee marry into the line, so I figure I’m still about half and half. I’m proud of the name Halfbreed, which I rightfully inherited from my father, though he died before I was born.
After that, Ma moved to northwest Georgia and began calling our clan Talbot, since Halfbreed's an obvious Indian name. She adopted that name in a futile attempt to escape the scorn and prejudice laid on us for our mixed ancestry. Said she got it from some French trader she once knew.
I’ve never cared for the name Talbot. The people I like call me Halfbreed.
Without a pa to hunt game and generally look out for us, we grew up fast in the lower Appalachians. Ma raised my brother and me to be respectable, honorable young men, in spite of the fact we were dirt poor.
She always did her best to get her hands on whatever books she could find for our education, so our house had quite a library by the time I’d grown.
She made us read those books too, inside and out, over and over again. At times, I would have wagered she cared more about our education than she did our fields.
Even if she hadn’t pushed, I would’ve devoured those books. I’ve always had a hunger for things of learning.
Poor families who struggle together are usually close-knit ones. Ours was no exception.
Ben and I were inseparable growing up. With just two years between us brothers, we never played, hunted, or fought alone, and since Ma passed, Ben's about the closest person to me anywhere on this earth.
My trouble all began with a letter, as trouble so often does, and my sister-in-law was the author of this particular letter.
Ben went west a couple of years ago. He discovered a girl named Jessica out there and married her soon after. They settled in New Mexico Territory, and he'd written me quite a bit about her in our correspondence. She sounded very nice from all he’d said, but I'd never laid eyes on her myself.
Actually, this letter was the first direct contact I'd ever had with her, so getting one from her instead of Ben was surprise enough. What she wrote left me shaken.
Dear Jake,
I know you and I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but under the circumstances, I do not know to whom else I could turn.
Benjamin told me that if I was ever in trouble, I could call on you for help. I hope he’s right.
I don't have any family, outside of Benjamin, so you are my only hope. Of late, we've had problems with some people from town. They have even threatened us, but until now we’d dismissed it as nothing more than bluster.
Benjamin went out after some stray cattle a few nights ago and has not returned. He’s never been gone this long before, and I greatly fear something may have happened.
I have every hope that he is still alive, but I remain quite distressed. I don't know what else to do. Benjamin always said he could count on you ‘come hell or high water’, so I'm praying I can too. Please come swiftly.
Your Sister-in-law,
Jessica
So, that there letter is what put me on this dusty stage all the way to New Mexico. What I would find when I got there was anybody’s guess.
The postmark on her letter was over a month old. I only hoped I wasn’t too late. She had not explained the details of their problems with the townsfolk, probably figuring to wait until I arrived.
The one thing I did know is that she and Ben were both right. As long as I was drawing breath, they could count on me.
There is a river running through this town
It carries the water
There isn't any way to slow it down
Or make it stop
"Sweet Jesus"
- Gary Chapman
My stage pulled into Cottonwood, New Mexico a little after twelve noon. Looking around, it seemed an odd name for the town, considering there weren't many Cottonwood trees to speak of. At least none I could see.
I didn't waste any time. I knew from correspondence my brother’s ranch stood about four miles northeast of town. I got more specific directions and a horse from the town hostler.
The horse he sold me was a healthy, chestnut-colored mustang. It surprised me to see such a fine horse for sale in such a podunk as this, but who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I headed directly to the ranch, anxious to speak with Jessica and find out what had happened, desperately hoping the whole thing would just be a false alarm.
I envisioned my arrival as a joyous reunion. I would find my brother sitting in his kitchen, right where he was supposed to be, steam rising from a cup of coffee, crinkling the weekly paper as he folded it to get to the next section.
He would greet me with that familiar, quirky smile I’d seen a thousand times growing up. Everything would be fine and dandy and we’d just spend the afternoon catching up. I wished for that with all my heart, but a sinking in my gut whispered suspicions to the contrary.
Nearing the ranch, I rounded a low hill. The land unfolded before me into a landscape which stole the breath from my very lungs. I had entered a smallish valley carpeted in lush, green grass and framed by gently rolling hills. Sharper, purplish mountain peaks strained up majestically in the distance behind those, their darker colors contrasting markedly with the hues on the hills in the afternoon sun. A few cattle dotted the vale, their faint lowing barely audible.
This valley was actually just a portion of a much larger valley, one in which lay all the local ranches and the town as well. Here, it narrowed into a smaller finger of a vale, forming a snug hom
e for whoever could tame it.
My brother had chosen well.
Riding up, I found the ranch house easy enough — if you could call it that. It was actually a small log cabin, primitive, but suitable enough. I'm sure it served its purpose.
I found the initials “BT” carved into the front doorpost, which would stand for “Ben Talbot” of course. I was in the right place.
Before I could dismount, a weakness washed over me, momentarily blurring my vision. The cabin seemed to melt away, and I saw myself standing over a pile of ashes in its place. As quick as the strange vision came, it left, and the cabin reappeared.
I shook my head to clear it. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. I wrote the aberration off to exhaustion from my long journey.
I called out.
No answer.
That didn't really mean much. Most of the work on a ranch was usually done away from the main house. A lot of the time, it was hard to catch people at home, unless they were wealthy enough to hire others to do the hard work.
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. D
eadly 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.