Read Killing Halfbreed for Free Online Page B

Beauty!"   The deputy was hovering just outside my cell door.  I hadn't even heard him coming.
    Sleep had been impossible.  Apparently, a peaceful night's rest fled swiftly when you only had a few hours to live.
     
    ***
     
    I dwelt on the manacles chafing my wrists as I emerged into the blinding sunlight from the dark confines of my prison.  They were solid, tight, not even a hint of extra room to wriggle my wrists through in an escape.  I could grab at the sheriff’s gun, but I wasn’t about to shoot somebody else, especially a lawman.  Shooting Logan had been a drunken mistake.  Sober, I couldn’t contemplate such a thing.
    The roughly-hewn gallows loomed across the street.  Surrounding the base of the platform were more people than I had seen gathered together in a long time, and their glares were universally unforgiving.  I’d been just another ranch hand until two days ago, working hard and living rough.  Now, I was the man of the hour. 
    Two nights ago, I’d come to town with some other cowhands to live it up, which had become part of my frustrated routine.  We’d played cards off and on and drank more than we played.  For some unfathomable reason, Tom Logan had chosen that night of all nights to publicly accuse me of rustling his cattle.
    No time would have been a good time to accuse me of something like that, since nothing made my blood boil more than a false accusation, but that night was one of the worst times he could have picked as I was over-the-top drunk and feeling uncommonly frustrated over Ben’s disappearance.
    Logan was a highly respected man in Cottonwood valley, a family man of impeccable character who employed anywhere from 20 to 30 men on his ranch, depending on the time of year.  He also served on the town council and owned one of the general stores.
    Logan had always treated me with cordiality and respect, and I’d always liked him, but when he accused me of rustling cattle, that half bottle of whiskey drowned out what little was left of my weakened voice of reason.
    I called him a liar and the argument escalated quickly.  I vaguely remember yelling for Logan to draw, and then my gun was in my hand, smoking before Logan had even cleared leather.
    I’d been too drunk to notice that Logan wasn’t armed.
    The wrath of the town descended upon me swiftly.  My own compadres grabbed me, pinned my arms to my sides, and then wrenched away my gun.  As I watched Tom bleed to death on the coarse, wooden floor, the bartender pulled a well-oiled shotgun from behind his bar to cover me while somebody else ran to get the sheriff.
    The next morning, my hangover was compounded by the horrendous realization of what I’d done, which was cheerfully recounted to me by the sheriff's deputy at least thirteen different times.  Everyone in that saloon had seen me shoot down one of the town’s most admired men in an unfair fight.  The town council had no problem sentencing me to be hanged.  The only delay would be the time it took them to build the gallows.
    Squinting in the sun’s glare, I stared at my fate.  Sheriff McCraigh led me by the arm toward the wooden platform and then stopped me ten feet short of the stairs.  An odd silence hung in the air.
    Glares all around.
    Then, the jeering began.  A few here and there at first, then growing into a jumbled roar of insults and mockery.
    I glared back at them defiantly.  What right did they have to judge me?  Anyone with any sense knew that if you were going to accuse someone of a crime like cattle rustling, you’d better come prepared to fight.  It wasn’t my fault Logan hadn’t been armed.  Logan knew I was drunk .   He knew I’d fight.  How was I to know he wasn’t carrying a gun ?
    This whole scene was ridiculous, I decided.  If Logan had been just another gunslinger, nobody would’ve cared, but because of his standing, they were going to hang me.
    “Hang you!” I shouted back at the jeering crowd.  I spat at them, which