Killing Halfbreed by Zack Mason Page A

Talbot.”
    “Huh?”
    “Don’t like Talbot.  Never did.”
    I finished my whiskey and left, hoping he would make up his mind quick.
     
    ***
     
    I stuck around town that afternoon and had dinner in the hotel restaurant.  After dark, I found myself back in the saloon, which was the only place in town active that late.
    I thought maybe I'd pick up a poker game later.  In the meantime, I sat at the bar nursing a whiskey.  Red was pointedly avoiding all small talk with me.  I could tell he was thinking hard about what I'd asked him, but he wasn't going to hurry his decision.
    Next to me was Pick Johnson, the old miner who would lose himself up in the hills for days at a time.  I found out his real name was Zachariah.  He said nobody anywhere else called him Pick, just here in Cottonwood.
    The only other patron of the bar at the moment was Doc Jason Whitley.  I knew Whitley by reputation only.  He was at one time supposedly one of the best doctors around.  He'd been one of Cottonwood’s first settlers, coming in right after the Big Three.  As a town founder, he was also on the town council.
    Whitley's main reputation these days didn't stem from his medical abilities or leadership on the council, but from the amount of alcohol he consumed.  Slowly and quietly, he’d become the town drunk.  No one could quite pin down the time people first started noticing it, but there was no doubt about it now.
    At the moment, he sat slumped over on his stool, resting his head on top of his forearm, apparently asleep.  I watched him for a while, amazed that he could hold such a precarious position while unconscious and not fall off the stool.
    Pick saw me watching him.
    "Sure’s a pity, ain’t it?  Man like that studies half his life to be a doc and throws it all to the hogs for a few drinks.  Did ya know people still go to him?  He’s still sober enough of the time to work.  An’ even if he's half-sloshed, where else ya gonna go?  He's the only doc for miles.  Sure’s a pity, though.  Why, Cappy an' me, the other night..."
    "Why don't we ever see Cappy 'round here, Pick?"  Red joined the conversation.
    "He don't take to being ‘round a lot of people.  Not much for city folk, if’n ya know what I mean."
    "Sure like to meet him sometime.  Some people say he don't exist."
    "Bunch of durned liars, is what they are!  How could he not exist?  I see him every dad-blamed day."  Pick rolled his eyes in disbelief.
    "I dunno.  Just sayin' is all."
    Polishing a glass, Red moved to the other end of the bar and picked up Doc's empties.  The soused physician was roused from his stupor by the activity and stumbled to a standing position.  It was a miracle he could stay afoot with the way he was swaying.
    He staggered and barely avoided a collision with a table on his way out the door, only to bump into some of Dunagan's hands coming into the saloon.  Pick was right.  It was a pity to see a fine man like that go to waste.  Couldn't see the why of it, but then I'd never walked in his shoes.
    I decided to see if any of the newcomers were up for a game of poker.
     
    ***
     
    Marlby O'Connell was an Irish immigrant who'd come west in search of fortune, but right now he was staring into the business end of a colt .45 and his feet were frozen to the floor.  His hand rested impotently on the butt of his own gun, which was still in its holster.
    "Marlby, I don't know what got into you, but I don't want to have to shoot you.  There's been enough killing in this town."
    Jake Halfbreed's eyes were blue steel and his hand was steady.  His gun was centered right on Marlby's belly button.  Gutshot was a painful way to go.
    He’d accused Jake of cheating during the last hand of poker, though everyone at the table knew it was just pretense.  He’d gone for his own iron, but Talbot’s draw had been like quicksilver.  Talbot had him dead to rights, but Marlby couldn't control his rage.
    Marlby had worked on Logan's ranch for