“Yes,” came the breed’s answer, “I reckon I do. You done yore share and more. I aim tuh do mine.”
One of those brown hands had so maneuvered that it had slipped inside the waistband of the overalls and was hidden. Unseen by Kipp, it now came forth, holding a tiny derringer. Before Tad grasped the import of the breed’s intention, Black Jack had pressed the muzzles of the little double-barreled gun into his own back. A dull roar as the hammer fell and the soft-nosed .44 slug ripped its way upward through Black Jack’s spine and into his chest. A second thudding roar. Then the smoking gun dropped to the floor.
Kipp was on his feet, staring strangely at the breed. Tad saw Black Jack’s face twist upward, white teeth showing in a twisted grin.
“Yuh see I’m keepin’ my word,” said the breed through smiling lips. “I won’t bother yuh no more. I’m—goin’ now. So long.”
The bearded head sagged forward. The body swayed sidewise. Kipp caught it and lowered him gently to the floor, dead.
Tad, entering the cabin, saw dimly outlined in the blue smoke haze Kipp squatting beside the body of the dead outlaw, staring into the glazing black eyes of the half-breed who had made the old sheriff’s life a living hell.
Kipp looked up. Tad was amazed to see the sheriff’s eyes wet with unshed tears.
“He was my son, Ladd,” said Kipp simply.
Tad stared stupidly for a moment, stunned at the sheriff’s words. Then he nodded understandingly. Slim and the other outlaw, stirred in their drunken slumber and slept on. Tad looked up to see Shorty, gun in hand, framed in the doorway.
“Black Jack done killed hisse’f, Shorty,” Tad explained. “Pete awake?”