Free The Half Breed by J. T. Edson Page A

his dark skin. The horse was a white, a fine looking animal and almost as large as the Kid’s Nigger. Seeing it gave the Kid another idea. He’d meant to leave his horse in a corral if one was empty, but not now.
    About a hundred yards from the building was a large clump of scrub-oaks. The white could stay there; it would find plenty of good grazing and water and would not stray. The Kid headed to the clump, removed the saddle and laid it carefully in the protective cover of a thick bush, leaving his rifle in the boot. Earlier in the day he’d washed the black colouring from the horse and resumed his normal clothing. Now he was pleased he’d done so. The black clothing merged into the darkness and he could move on silent feet, almost invisible in the night.
    The light came from the dining-room on the hotel side of the building and was the only part of the big house which showed any sign of life. The Kid made for one of the two doors but took the precaution of looking through the window before entering the room.
    A big, fattish man and a tall, slender, black-haired girl sat at a table, but they were the only occupants. The Kid relaxed, pushing open the door and walking in.
    For one so fat-looking the big man was not slow. He came to his feet as the door opened, a Dragoon Colt lined on it. He was a cheery-looking man, his face a mixture of Spanish and Irish blood. He wore a dirty white shirt, open at the neck, cavalry blue trousers and his feet were bare. Yet there was nothing dirty or unkempt about him.
    ‘ Cabrito !’ the man yelled, lowering the gun, as he recognized an old friend, ‘Long time since we was seeing you last.’
    ‘Howdy, Sanchez,’ replied the Kid, holding out his hand to the man. ‘You get fatter every time I see you.’
    ‘Tis praising me you are,’ Riley said, his voice seemed to be warring between the brogue of old Ireland and the gentler accents of Spain.
    The girl was also on her feet. She was pretty, tall and her sleek black hair was as dark as the Kid’s own. She was dark-eyed and there was something wild about her which might have resulted from her Comanche mother. She was Rosita Kathleen Riley, the big man’s only child.
    ‘ Hola cabrito ,’ she said, coming forward with her arms held out to the Kid. Then in Comanche she went on, ‘And how many girls have you kissed since we last met?’
    ‘Not one, Little Bird,’ replied the Kid, speaking Comanche just as faultlessly, then returning to English again, ‘I’ve got to be going on tomorrow, good and early, Rosie gal.’
    ‘Huh!’ she pouted. ‘I bet you’re going to see another girl. You and that big, white haired gringo, Mark Counter, there’s not the one a girl might trust.’
    The Kid laughed. Sanchez Riley’s daughter would not speak to any other man in this manner. No other man could have come in and kissed her without her father to contend with, but the Kid was exceptional. He ruffled the girl’s long hair, then turned his attention to Riley:
    ‘You all got a room, Sanchez?’
    The big man shook his head, looking distressed. ‘ Cabrito , son of my oldest and best friend, I must tell you I have not. All my six bedrooms are being used by guests. Would you care to share my room?’
    ‘No thanks, I’ll be lighting out early and don’t want to disturb you. Say, Rosie, how about some food? Then I’ll hunk down here on one of the tables.’
    The Kid was mildly curious about the guests who’d taken all Riley’s bedrooms but he did not ask. The men were most likely outlaws either going to or coming from a job and curiosity about such might only bring trouble. A man’s private business was his own, so the Kid asked no questions.
    The girl flitted into the kitchen and came out with a plate of stew. The Kid sat at a table and ate with the appetite of a healthy young man. He ate well, and drank the coffee the girl brought, for he did not know when he would get another meal.
    While the Kid was eating, Riley sat with him,