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

bemoaning the poor quality of the Rio Grande smugglers and comparing them unfavourably with the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel. To Sanchez it was cheaper to buy the goods legally than from the men who now ran contraband across the big river.
    ‘It was a terrible blow when you retired, Cabrito ,’ he finished.
    ‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid. He might have been a successful and prosperous smuggler had he not thrown his lot in with Dusty Fog after the death of Sam Ysabel. There were times when the Kid missed the thrill of running smuggled goods, but they were very rare. His life at the OD Connected, as a member of Ole Devil’s floating outfit, was rarely dull enough for him to have time to spare in fruitless day-dreaming.
    ‘I wish you’d take my room, old friend.’
    ‘No thanks, Sanchez. I might have some callers looking for me and I don’t want you getting into no fuss.’
    Sanchez Riley snorted angrily. ‘Your father and I went into the Comanche country as friends. If you are in any trouble—’
    ‘I’m not. There’s a bunch after me but I might have shook them. I left my old Nigger hoss out back there. Saw a white in the corral, who’s it belong to?’
    ‘Rosita. Long Walker sent it to her as a birthday present,’ Riley replied, a worried note in his voice. ‘I’m a mite unsettled about having it.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s got a 7th Cavalry brand on it.’
    ‘That’s that loud mouthed Yankee General Custer or something they call him, he runs the 7th,’ the Kid replied. ‘He still pushing trouble, like last year on the Washita at Black Kettle’s village?’
    ‘Sure, got his patrols crossing into the Comanche lands.’
    The Kid grunted angrily. Men like Custer were a menace to the peace of the West. They repeatedly broke the peace treaties other men had risked much to make with the hostile Indian tribes. This infringement on the land of the Comanche would make the other shore of the Brazos River’s Salt Fork unhealthy for the white man. There was only one bright spot about the whole business, it would be likely to halt any further pursuit of him.
    ‘One of these days that loud mouthed, long haired Yankee’s going to learn what a riled, hostile Injun can do,’ the Kid prophesied, and his guess was to be proved correct in a few years time on the banks of the Little Bighorn River.
    Rosita returned, carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow. She put them on the table, then went to blow out all but one small lamp which stood on the mantle over the fireplace. The Kid poked the pillow with a finger, tossed his hat on to the table and grinned at the girl; he looked about fourteen years old in the light of the lamp, but Rosita was not fooled. She knew that here was as dangerous a man as could be found anywhere in the West.
    ‘That’s a tolerable hard pillow you’ve given me, gal,’ he said.
    ‘Hard like your heart, Cabrito ,’ she answered in Comanche. ‘Sleep well.’
    ‘And you. Sleep deep and dream happy.’
    Riley and his daughter left the Kid alone in the dining-room and he put the pillow at the edge of the centre table. It would be a good deal softer than the saddle which he would be using for the next few days. He drew the blankets up around his ears, slid his hat to one side of his head, and went to sleep. The Kid could sleep anywhere, any time and not even the faint lamp glow could keep him awake.
    The lamp was left for a purpose. If a chance traveller came on the building in the dark he could enter the dining-room and sleep on one of the tables, or the floor, without waking Riley or any of the other guests. This was the reason the Kid took the centre table; anybody coming in could use one nearer the door without having to disturb him. There was another reason, anyone trying to sneak up on the Kid would have a longer walk, giving more warning noise to his keen ears.
    Six riders came slowly through the darkness, towards Sanchez Riley’s place slouched in the saddles like