Free The Half Breed by J. T. Edson

he was matched by a man who knew as much about tracking as he did himself. He also got the feeling the Ysabel Kid knew who was doing the trailing.
    ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Smith growled. ‘He didn’t take wing and fly off.’
    ‘That’s right, he did not,’ agreed Salar. ‘I know what he did, the blanket trick. I wondered when he would try to throw us. We’ll have to try and find where he left.’
    ‘On the other side most likely,’ Smith suggested.
    ‘Most likeley, but not certainly. The Kid knows we’re after him and he might come up this side again, then follow the arroyo until he can cross without our seeing his sign.’
    ‘What are you fixing to do, Salar?’ asked one of the other men.
    ‘Go down to the bottom and find out where the Kid left. It’s going to take some time.’
    Smith slouched in his saddle and fumed at the delay. The Kid was ahead and still covering ground. If there’d been a point high enough one of the men could have tried to see some sign of the dark boy on the white horse. It would have been possible to spot them a good distance away. But there was no piece of land high enough for them to make use of it.
    So the gunmen waited, resting their horses while Salar made a careful search. It took the Mexican all of an hour and a half to locate where the Kid had left the arroyo and pick up the trail. Salar could not hurry: the Kid knew they were after him and was taking some trouble to make his line as awkward as he could.
    At last Salar brought his horse to a halt. He sat looking round him, remembering just where he was. Smith watched the Mexican and asked:
    ‘What’s holding us up now?’
    ‘I have a — what you call it — hunch,’ Salar replied. ‘The Kid’s making for Sanchez Riley’s place.’
    ‘Could be at that,’ agreed Smith. Sanchez Riley’s store saloon-hotel lay near the edge of Comanche country. The gunman knew of the place, but had no idea where it was. ‘If he hasn’t we’ll have lost him for good.’
    ‘We have now,’ reminded Salar. ‘He’s got such a lead on us that he’ll be over the Salt Fork of the Brazos and into Comanche country. I don’t think we’ll follow him over the river.’
    Neither did Smith. It would be highly dangerous for a white man, or a party of white men, to enter the domain of the Comanches. There was much to be said for heading for Sanchez Riley’s place. The man knew what went on in the Comanche country and might hear if the Kid slipped in. There was also a chance the Kid would stop off at Sanchez Riley’s and they might catch up with him there.
    ‘Let’s head for Riley’s, then,’ grunted Smith. ‘How come you know where it lays, Salar?’
    ‘I worked up this way once before,’ replied the Mexican, but did not say who he had worked for or what he had done. ‘I know the way.’
    It was night as the Ysabel Kid rode towards Sanchez Riley’s place. There was only one light showing in the big T-shaped building which housed a store, a saloon and a hotel. He was almost to the building when he remembered something which made him worried about his decision to come this way.
    ‘Damn it, Nigger hoss,’ the Kid said, as he rode nearer the three big corrals a short way from the building. ‘I done forgot ole Salar used to ride for Thomas Riveros’ Comanchero bunch. He’ll know how to find this place. Us’ns best sleep easy.’
    The horses in the corrals moved around. In two of the corrals were several animals; the Kid looked them over with care. In the first corral were Sanchez Riley’s horses, in the second some half dozen or so really fine looking animals. The Kid studied them; they were good, fast stock, better than the average cowhand would be riding. Such horses would be owned either by a party of Texas Rangers or a bunch of outlaws. One was as likely as the other to be staying at the house.
    In the other corral there was only one horse. The Kid looked at it and a grin split his face, his teeth showing white against