by Chuck Tyrell
"Come with me, Jake."
"Yes, sir."
"Who saddled the buckskin?"
"I did," Jake said. He was proud to have done something for the town marshal. "Wil said I could."
"This ol' buckskin is a little tough to saddle sometimes. So let me show you a trick or two."
The boy was all big ears and bright eyes. Havelock got his undivided attention.
It would be a good thing to have a son like this boy. Havelock shook the thought from his head and slipped his hand beneath the girth. The boy's eyes widened in surprise.
"But. But..." He sputtered. "The surcingle was tight when I left the livery stable."
Havelock smiled at the boy. "Like I said, this ol' buckskin horse has a trick or two. He'll take a deep breath and blow up his stomach so you can't get that cinch tight. What I do is give him a good punch in the belly with my knee. That busts the air out of him, fast.
"But you're not quite big enough to do that, so you'd better lead him around in a tight circle, making him switch head and tail about three times, good and fast. Then take that surcingle up a notch or two, like this." Havelock tightened the cinch.
"I been meaning to ask you, marshal. I mean, well, if you don't mind, sir… Your cinch buckle's on the off side, opposite to everyone else's. I been wondering. I mean, well, how come, marshal?"
"You know I walk a bit stiff, right?"
The boy nodded.
"A man shot me in the left knee one time, and it hasn't worked too good since. I can't get into the saddle from the on side because that shot-up knee won't hold me up. So, to get the buckskin more familiar with me on the off side, I do everything from that side. Cinch up. Mount. Groom. You name it. It's kinda made this ol' horse a little odd, though. He thinks his off side is his on side. An ordinary cowpoke had better watch out. This buckskin comes unwound if someone tries to get on him the regular way."
"You mind what the marshal tells you, boy. He ain't never talked nonsense in his whole life," Pappy said. "You listen to him good and you're liable to live past forty-'leven, like me." The old jailer chuckled and handed Havelock a bag of provisions and two full canteens.
"That'll be fifty cents for the grub and a dollar for the water, Garet."
Pappy continued before Havelock could answer, "Yeah, I know, put it on the books as expenses."
"That's right," said Havelock. He tied the sack of provisions over the saddlebags. The marshal slipped his Winchester into the saddle scabbard and mounted the buckskin gelding.
"Pappy. I'm counting on you and Hunter to mind the fort. I won't be gone more than three days. If I can't find out what's going on by then, chances are, I never will. I'll just turn around and head back."
4
Havelock reined the buckskin around the hanging tree and up the slight incline to the crest of the hogback from which he'd seen the smoke. He took his binoculars from the case that swung from the saddle horn. Once more he carefully surveyed the surrounding desert. The smoke was still there, so thin now it seem to Havelock that he might be seeing it because he wanted to see it. But no. It was real.
Off to the right, just about due west of Vulture City, dust hung on the desert air. Looked to have been raised by eight or ten horses.
Another pall of dust hung over the Wickenburg road, north of town. Too little for the stage, too much for a lone rider, unless he was coming fast and didn't care about the dust he raised.
Every sense honed pin-prick sharp, Havelock rode into the desert. It wasn't the desert that weighed on his mind—Garet Havelock had ridden more desert miles than he cared to count—it was Tom Morgan. It wasn't like him to go missing. Where could he be? Why hadn't he showed up yet?
Morgan's not gonna make it back, the thin feather of smoke seemed to say, punctuated by the clouds of dust in the desert at midday. These incongruities grated on Havelock's mind like grit between the teeth.
The marshal sat in the saddle for a long moment after stowing away the binoculars. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind. And they all boiled down to one thing. That smoke in the desert held a key. If he didn't go find out what the key unlocked...There was no way out. He had to go.
The trail angled off to the left of the all-but-invisible column of smoke. He pushed the buckskin into a ground-eating single-foot, not caring about the dust that rose from its hooves announcing to all with eyes to see that the marshal of Vulture City was leaving town.
The sun passed overhead and was well on its way toward the rim of the Big Horn Mountains. Three times Havelock had stopped to rest his horse. Each time, he swabbed its mouth out with his bandana, wetted from one of the canteens. Each time, he mounted up again, he altered his course westward until now he was looking directly at the vapor of smoke that still rose tauntingly from the desert ahead.
By now he figured the smoke came from Burnt Well. At least the buckskin will be able to drink up before we head back, Havelock thought.
But such was not to be the case.
Burnt Well was on a flat, surrounded by low, humpbacked hills. You could see it, if you knew where to look, from a couple of hundred yards away. If you didn’t know where to look, you could ride right by to die in the heat of the desert before you reached Centennial Wash.
Havelock had the smoke to guide him. He could see the fire when he crested the hill. It had been carefully laid with a backup supply of greasewood sticks cunningly stacked so that they'd roll down on the fire as those ahead burned to ash. A fire set like that would burn for a good twenty-four hours. This one looked like it had been going since before dawn.
As he got closer, Havelock noticed something spitted on a stick stuck upright about a foot from the fire. There was a peculiar odor in the air, too. One he'd not smelled since the war...the odor of cooking human flesh.
Havelock squinted against the tears that sprang to his eyes when he recognized the object spitted on the stick. It was the big black right hand of Thomas Jefferson Morgan.
Havelock didn't even stop to put out the fire. He didn't go to water his horse either, because he could see the stiff legs of Morgan's dead mule sticking out of the well. He just turned the big buckskin around and lit out for Vulture City like the ghost of big Tom Morgan was on his tail.
****
The buckskin stumbled for the second time. His usually sleek hide was lathered and rough with desert dust. His ordinarily faultless stride was jerky, and his great desert-toughened muscles had begun to fail him with Vulture City still far away.
Havelock reined the horse to a stop. Wearily he swung from the saddle. One of the two canteens he'd started the day with was still half full. He uncapped it and poured the water into his hat. The buckskin sucked at it noisily. His head came a little higher. He nuzzled Havelock's shoulder.
The lawman hauled the saddlebags and grub sack from behind the saddle. He pulled the snub-nosed pistol from behind his bag and removed the heavy Bowie knife from his gunbelt. They fit in the saddlebag after he had removed the long-legged Apache moccasins. He removed his heavy boots and put on the moccasins.
He shouldered the saddlebags and grub bag, picked up the boots, and trudged to an outcropping of rock in the desert floor. Finding a crevasse in the outcrop, he cached the things, carefully sighting landmarks in three directions so he could recover the weapons later.
He'd keep his Colt and his Winchester and pray that nothing came along that required more ammunition than he carried in the guns and his gun belt. He made sure the cache was invisible to the casual eye, caught up the buckskin's reins, and started walking toward Vulture City.
Half an hour later, his limp became more pronounced.
"Buck," he said. "You're gonna have to carry me again for a while." The horse grunted softly as Havelock swung up. Then, he plodded on.
The sun burned its way to the edge of the Big Horns.
A half-crippled lawman and his game buckskin horse struggled step by painful step toward home. The lawman knew his town was threatened because a huge black ha
nd, fingers splayed wide in mute supplication, had been left roasting on a fire that was set to decoy Vulture City's marshal out into the desert.
The buckskin horse stumbled more often now, but kept doggedly carrying his load toward the desert town. The marshal sat listlessly in the saddle, his head bobbing with the rhythm of the horse's steps. It had only been four hours since he gave the buckskin the last of the water and already his tongue swelled in the hot cave of his mouth.
Havelock halted the horse at the top of a rise. The horse stood quietly, head down, as Havelock searched the countryside through his field glasses. No dust rose through the gathering dusk. Smoke no longer rose behind him. Ahead, he could make out the pillars of smoke from evening cook fires in Vulture City. At his present pace, it'd be an hour before he got there.
The man and the horse plodded on, relieved somewhat by the setting of the sun.
The unmistakable twin-throated roar of the 10-gauge Greener brought Havelock's head snapping up. It sounded like it was not more than a couple of hundred yards away. Was he that close to town?
Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he snatched his saddle gun from its scabbard and slid from the back of the buckskin. He winced as his left foot hit the ground, sending sparks of pain through his knee. He clenched his teeth and struck out in the direction of the sound of that shotgun. Seconds after the bellow of the shotgun came the crack of a pistol: one, two, three, four shots. Havelock counted without thinking as he plunged onward, rifle loaded and at the ready.
Suddenly, the back wall of the jail loomed into sight. Havelock dropped and lay still. He didn't plan to move until he found out what was happening.
A spark sputtered from the dark shadows to his right. It chased itself in a zigzag line down the jailhouse wall. Instantly Havelock roared, "Giant powder! Pappy. Hunter. Get down." The dry surfaces of his throat cracked and tore. He choked a little on the welling blood. He spat crimson from his mouth as he dived behind a jutting ledge of desert shale. He lay there, panting, his face pressed into the gritty dirt, waiting for the explosion.
Dust, rocks, and bits of plaster flew into the air, some of them landing beyond where Havelock lay. The stone wall of the jail threw most of the force of the explosion outward. As the dust cleared, a small hole, just big enough for a man to crawl through, appeared in the back wall. A lithe figure in black darted to the hole and hissed, "Donovan."
Havelock drew bead on the man, but before he could call for him to surrender, a shotgun blast threw the black figure backward to spreadeagle on the ground. It twitched for a moment, then lay still.
The marshal walked slowly over and looked down at the dead eyes of Francisco Valenzuela. His chest was a mass of torn flesh, bloody froth, and strips of black. He probably never knew what hit him. By the same token, now he could never tell whatever he knew about the hand of Tom Morgan and why it had been left roasting over a decoy fire.
Havelock walked wearily around the jail to the front door. There wasn't much of it left. A shotgun blast from the inside had nearly torn it off its hinges. Pappy Holmes lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. He cradled the 10 gauge to his chest. His bleary eyes lifted to meet Havelock's.
He struggled to speak. When it came, the voice was terribly old and weak. "Garet," it croaked. "Glad to see you back. Couldn't of held that black Meskin off much longer."
The old man laid his head down on his folded arms. By the time Havelock got to him, he was dead.
Garet Havelock stood very still for a long time. From somewhere deep in his soul, there arose a bitter smoldering anger. Suddenly, he started for the door to the cellblock.
"Whoever you are," came Hunter's voice from inside, "you'd better sing out and sing out now. Elsewise, you'll be singing in Hell." Twin clicks of cocking shotgun hammers punctuated the big man's challenge.
"Havelock." With that one word, the marshal kicked the door open and strode to Donovan's cell.
"Mark you this, Barnabas Donovan, and mark it well. Three good men, maybe four, are dead on your account. I'm going to see that you pay for their lives, in full."
The redheaded outlaw smiled. And the taunt in that smile was clear. "Havelock, you have not one piece of evidence against me for murder. I have killed no one."
Donovan was no ordinary unschooled badman. But then, while still in his teens, he'd been a captain of Yankee cavalry. And what else?
Havelock frowned at his old enemy. The rage still burned deep down inside him, but Donovan's taunting smile and cool attitude served to temper that fire to a fine cutting edge.
"Donovan, I owe you. Don't figure on spending any of Vulture City's gold. Because even if you figure out a way to get out of this jail—and I don't think you will—you'd better keep a sharp eye on your back trail because I'll be a coming after you."
Donovan smiled again.
Damn his confidence, thought Havelock. Damn his Irish gall.
"Thank you for your concern and undivided attention, marshal. Thank you very much." Donovan casually turned over, faced the wall, and proceeded to go to sleep.
Havelock moved to the cell Hunter occupied. There was a hole in the outer wall. Valenzuela had blown open the wrong cell. Dust covered everything. Hunter's hair and beard were white. His red-rimmed eyes peered anxiously from a plaster-dust covered face.
"Pappy's dead," Havelock said. "So's Francisco Valenzuela. We sure came out on the short end of that bargain."
"I done the best I could, marshal. I just couldn't get out of this cell."
"I don't blame you. You did right. That's why Donovan's still here. You did good. You've got Pappy's job if you want it. He doesn't have much use for it now."
Havelock didn't wait for an answer. He turned and strode into the marshal's office, slamming the door behind him. He could feel Hunter's eyes at his back, as Hunter said softly, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I'll do that job, marshal, good enough for Pappy and me both."
The pool of blood around the old man had clotted. The edges were turning black. Havelock turned Pappy over and pried the shotgun from his death grip.
A little smile was frozen on the old man's face. Blood seeped from the ragged wounds in the old body: one low over the left hip, the other, the one that killed him, through the breastbone.
A few townsmen gathered outside the ruined door but Havelock paid them no attention. Someone must have sent for Doc Withers, because the little sawbones was the first to break the silence.
"Garet," he said gently. "Garet. Let us take him away. We'll lay him to rest tomorrow. Right now, let's get him down to Westerly's so's he can be made ready."
Havelock looked at the doctor, but his face was blank.
"Send someone out back to get my buckskin. He carried me far and fast. But we still didn't make it in time. Now Pappy's dead, Doc. He never hurt nothing in his life, and now, he's dead."
"We're going to take him, Garet. Okay with you?"
"Sure, Doc. Take him." This time Havelock was back in control of himself. "We'll bury him in the morning."
Four men answered Doc Withers's signal. They walked softly into the room, picked up the frail old body, and left. Doc Withers stood for a moment. Havelock looked up, but said nothing. The doctor turned to leave.
"You'll find Francisco Valenzuela around back," Havelock said to the doctor's back. "Get him planted tonight."
Havelock spent the night with his feet propped up on his desk, nodding and waking, guarding the ruined front door.
Inside the cellblock, Hunter didn't rest much better. The hole in the wall of his cell was not conducive to sleep.
Donovan slept like a baby.
5
Most of the town turned out for Pappy's funeral procession, a long line of tough men trudging behind a black buckboard as it made its way to the town graveyard.
A hole three feet wide, six feet long, and six feet deep had been hacked from the protesting desert floor as Pappy's final resting place. The pine box was let down into the hole with two laria
ts, which were then pulled from under it. Men stood around, looking first at Havelock's face, then at the open grave, and back to Havelock's face again.
Finally, Havelock broke the silence. "John Frederick Holmes was a good man. He never let a prisoner get away but he never mistreated one neither. When I get to Hell, I hope Pappy Holmes is the jailer."
Havelock grabbed a shovel and began fiercely scooping clods into the grave. Others joined, trading off with the shoveling until the dirt mounded above Pappy's meager bones. A wooden marker was pounded into the head of the grave. It read:
John Frederick Holmes
1808 - 1882
Gunned down on the job
Havelock stayed for a long moment after everyone else had gone. He said nothing, just stood there looking down at the grave. Where is this going to end? Vulture City's stolen gold had got one man in jail, several people wounded, two outlaws and one jailer dead, and Tom Morgan missing, except for his hand.
Somewhere out there, Havelock thought, there's got to be another man. Donovan and the Valenzuela brothers didn't do it alone. If they had, Donovan wouldn’t be so cocksure.
The marshal finally left the grave, striding toward the plaza as if he had come to an important decision.
Havelock opened the new front door to the jail to find Timothy Hunter sitting in the marshal's chair with his wounded leg propped up on the desk.
"Just because a man's got a scratch or two don't mean he has the right to take over the marshal's chair," Havelock growled.
"Yes, sir. No, sir." Hunter grinned, but made no attempt to move. "I figured if I've gotta do the work of two men, I'd better start getting around. This here's as far as I got."
"Good. You just keep up and moving. First thing you know, you'll be worth your salt," Havelock said.
Hunter's good-natured reply was drowned out by the rumble of the incoming Wickenburg stage. Skinner, the driver, always brought the big Concord in at full speed, pushing his horses as hard as he could, all the while shouting at the top of his lungs, "Whoa. Whoa back, you motherless critters," and other expletives unfit for the human ear. It was well known that Hank Skinner could cuss for ten minutes straight without ever going back over familiar ground.