by Chuck Tyrell
Chuckling, Havelock walked to the door to watch Skinner's show. The dust was just settling over the red-and-black lacquered Concord coach. Wil Jacks was already changing the teams. Four passengers clambered from the coach. Two of them would walk across Garet Havelock's life with hobnailed boots: U.S. Marshal M.K. Meade was one, Laura Donovan was the other.
The U.S. Marshal headed straight for the jailhouse. He walked head down, body leaning forward almost belligerently. With his bowed legs and blocky build, he reminded Havelock of a bulldog. He was just as tenacious, too.
The job of U.S. Marshal was a political plum. A job to which men were appointed, many times in return for favors rendered, sometimes for outright bribes. U.S. Marshals that sat on their duffs were not uncommon. But such was no description of M.K. Meade. He was a man used to having unpleasant jobs shoved on him, jobs that he got done without flash or fanfare. Arizona was better for marshals the likes of M.K. Meade.
Garet Havelock held a healthy respect for Marshal Meade, something he didn't grant many men.
"Morning, marshal. What brings you to the gates of Hell?" Havelock shoved his hand out in greeting.
Meade clasped the hand. "Garet, m'boy, you really know how to stir things up. Sometimes, I think you lay awake nights thinking up ways to make trouble for me." The tone was jocular, but the marshal's face was serious.
Havelock silently stepped back while the federal marshal moved on into the dim office. The heavy door banged shut behind them. Havelock shot a glance toward the cellblock. The three-inch door was closed.
Meade looked inquiringly at Hunter, who sat with his bandaged leg propped up on the roll-top desk.
"Marshal Meade, this here's Timothy Hunter. He's the new jailer."
"New jailer? Where's Pappy Holmes?"
"Dead. Francisco Valenzuela killed him trying to break Buzz Donovan out of jail early last night."
"Make it?"
"No. Hunter like to cut him in half with a sawed-off 10 gauge when he tried to come through a hole he blowed in the back wall. Trouble was, he blew himself into the wrong cell and Hunter was waiting for him."
"Might-a been better if Donovan had gotten out," Meade said.
Havelock's retort was sharp. "Three good men, maybe four, are dead because of that man. And my town is out a hundred thousand in gold. Buzz Donovan is going nowhere. I'll see to that."
"Sorry, Garet. You'll have to let him go."
"What!" Havelock's face tightened down. He wondered what politics were involved this time.
The federal marshal didn't like it any more than Havelock did.
"Garet, the governor's daughter has been kidnapped." Meade held out a scrap of paper. Havelock took it.
I GOT YUR DOTTER. HAPPEN YU WANT HER LIVING YU GET BUZZ DONOVAN TO EAGLE EYE MOUNTAIN IN ONE PIECE. YOU GOT THREE DAYS.
Havelock handed the note back.
The two men stood for a long moment, thinking. Meade broke the silence.
"Garet, you deliver Donovan to Eagle Eye Mountain. As of now, you're a deputy U.S. Marshal. You've got three things to do. One. Get the governor's kid out safely. Two. Get the bullion. Three. Bring Donovan and the kidnapper back. No questions asked."
The squat marshal held out his hand. It held the simple silver star of a deputy U.S. Marshal.
Havelock took a deep breath, letting it whistle out slowly between his teeth. Then he took the badge.
"How much time?"
"This is your second day. You'd better be at Eagle Eye Mountain by sundown tomorrow."
"Okay. I'll have the kid in Wickenburg by dawn, day after tomorrow. Then I'll go get Donovan, his partner, and the gold. That suit you?"
"That'd be a big help."
The two marshals had forgotten Timothy Hunter. He sat silently, moving only his eyes, looking first at one lawman, then the other. They stood close together, almost like conspirators. Havelock towered over Meade some six inches, but the disparity didn't affect their attitudes. Their voices were pitched low, their tone conversational. Still, Hunter couldn’t help but catch the deadly serious nature of their purpose and the breadth of their on-the-spot planning.
"Hunter," Havelock said suddenly.
"You heard what Marshal Meade's been saying. I'll be gone as long as it takes to do the job. That means you're in charge while I'm away. You're Deputy Hunter. As of now. And I'll put it in writing before I go."
"Don't worry none, marshal. This town will still be here when you get back. I'll see to it."
Havelock grinned. "Come on, Marshal Meade. I'll walk as far as the hotel with you. You can get some rest while I see about getting this operation on the road."
The two men parted in front of the hotel with a firm handshake. Havelock's attention went momentarily to a striking redhead coming out of the Golden Skillet. She was the same woman that had gotten off the stage earlier. He automatically tipped his hat as she swept by, with a smile on her face that said she knew who the marshal was even if he didn't know her. That smile stuck in Havelock's mind as he strode down the street toward Horn Stalker's shack.
The wizened Indian squatted in the meager shade of a mesquite arbor. His face was a relief map of the Big Horn Mountains he loved to hunt. Horn Stalker, a Yavapai of indeterminate age, kept the Golden Skillet stocked with fresh bighorn meat. He knew the desert. It was his home. Even his clothes took on the flat, faded look of the desert at midday—brown, withered, and entirely utilitarian.
Horn Stalker was another of the few men Havelock respected. He was the marshal's ace in the hole.
"Horn Stalker." The man showed no sign he'd heard, but Havelock knew he was listening. "I'm leaving for Eagle Eye Mountain in an hour with Buzz Donovan. I have to turn him loose. Someone up there has the town's gold and the governor's daughter. He'll trade the girl for Donovan.
"I have to take the girl to Wickenburg. I want you to keep an eye on Donovan and his partner 'til I get back. I gotta bring them in, too."
Horn Stalker nodded once. That was enough. Havelock knew that when the time came, Horn Stalker would find him.
An hour later, four horses stood hip-shot in front of the jailhouse. Havelock was ready, except for the weariness that dragged at his tough body. The hard ride back from Burnt Wells and the fitful sleep the night before were taking their toll. But he had to ride. And Buzz Donovan was not the kind to allow an instant of anything less than complete vigilance.
Havelock jerked the ring of keys off the wall and headed for Donovan's cell.
"Get up, Donovan. We're leaving."
Donovan's smile broadened. "And where is it we will be going, marshal?"
"Eagle Eye Mountain."
"Fine." Obviously, Donovan knew the plan.
Havelock pushed Donovan ahead of him, through the open door into the plaza. "Climb on that bay," he commanded.
The outlaw mounted. Havelock shackled one hand, ran the chain under the saddle tree and up through the hole in the pommel to where he could shackle the other hand. No use taking chances.
"Marshal, we will be going through Apache territory. I would appreciate a gun."
"The note said to deliver you in one piece, Donovan. There's nothing about any gun. I'll take care of whatever comes up. You just lie low if there's any trouble." Havelock wasn't about to give Donovan even a whiff of a way to make a break.
Havelock pulled a lariat off his saddle and proceeded to build a hangman's noose in it. This he slipped over Donovan's head, drawing it snug just behind the outlaw's left ear.
"Don't make any sudden moves," Havelock advised. "This necktie won't get too tight without your doing something foolish."
Donovan was silent, and his face lost a bit of its daredevil look.
Havelock checked the water in all eight canteens. He slipped a .44-40 Winchester into the scabbard on his grulla. He put the .45 Sharps in the saddle boot of his spare horse. Once more he went over everything in his mind. They were as ready as he could make them. He turned to Hunter, who was standing in the door of the jailhouse
.
"Tell Marshal Meade when he comes over that I will meet him in Wickenburg day after tomorrow morning. He'll know what to do."
"Ride careful, marshal," Hunter said, sticking out a big hand.
Havelock grasped it. "Thanks. I will."
He mounted the grulla and picked up the lead lines. "Come on, Donovan. Time's a-wasting."
Ten minutes outside Vulture City, Havelock halted. He sat for five minutes, then set off at a walk. Then he smelled again the whiff of dust he had caught just before they stopped. Someone was ahead of them.
Out in the desert, Havelock was even more careful. Maybe it was the vastness that whet his senses and got him to noticing the normal little things around without really paying attention them. Then, let anything unnatural happen, and he'd see it instantly.
Garet Havelock rode easy in the saddle, but his eyes took in everything in his surroundings. He saw the big horned toad sunning himself on an outcropping sandstone. A cactus wren scolded him as he went by, leading Donovan's horse and the two spare mounts in single file.
By now, Havelock knew the rider in front of him was not familiar with the desert. Or else, he wanted to make sure Havelock followed him. Either way, Havelock wasn't happy about it.
A tenderfoot in this desert was an invitation to the entire Jicarilla Apache nation to ride out for the kill. Vulture City lost citizens and visitors to Apaches regularly. Havelock himself could name maybe a hundred who were dead by Apache lance...or worse.
Donovan also noticed the rider's sign. His smug smile got wider. And Havelock noticed that he cast around for more sign. There was plenty. An overturned rock. A crushed mesquite twig. The faint smell of acrid desert dust. An outline of a horseshoe in the outer rim of an anthill. Sticks scattered from a packrat's nest. Oh, there was plenty of sign, all right.
The sun crept across the pale blue sky with maddening indifference to whatever mites of life might struggle across the desert beneath. Twice, Havelock stopped: once to water the horses from the canteens, and once to switch mounts.
Eagle Eye Mountain was a good day and a half ride from Vulture City. And the deadline on the note offered no leeway. Time was not for wasting.
But who was the rider ahead? Who knew so exactly what trail Havelock would take? Or perhaps he was unconsciously following the trail of the mysterious rider...
6
Off to the west lay a spiny ridge, a fluke of nature in this land of flatness. Havelock turned the horses toward it. The lineback dun he now rode picked its way through the cholla, yucca, and prickly pear with ease. Havelock chose a gully cut into the face of the ridge to make his ascent. It kept riders and horses off the skyline.
Havelock stopped short of the crest. He walked the dun forward until only his eyes were above the ridgeline. There he reined in his mount. It stood perfectly still except for the random twitchings of its hide that sent the big desert flies back into the air.
Only Havelock's eyes moved. He searched every inch of the trail ahead. Nothing. Heat waves shimmered up from the desert floor, creating mirages—vast lakes of silvery phantom water—in the distance.
Then he caught movement in the corner of his vision. He cautiously turned his head until he faced the source of the movement. At first, he saw nothing. Then a lithe brown form stepped from behind a clump of mesquite. Two more braves followed the first Apache. Then, a fourth. Their course was straight, not the zig-zag of hunters or the intense caution of those on the warpath. They were headed home. Two of the dusky men had fresh scalps hanging from their belts. From the color, they had once belonged to white men. All four Apaches had U.S. Army issue Springfield carbines.
Their pace was swift. They ran at a dogtrot, yet raised no dust. The pattern was spread wide, not single file as many white men supposed Indians traveled. The four worked as smoothly as any trained army scouts, leapfrogging past each other, the lead man squatting and searching the terrain while the other three went by. It would take a mighty good man to surprise that bunch, Havelock thought as he watched them until they were out of sight.
The marshal stayed at his lookout for five minutes after the Apaches were gone. Then he slowly backed his horse down to where Donovan waited with the extra mounts—even he wasn't foolhardy enough to attempt escape into the desert. Havelock quickly made the Indian sign for warriors, the sign for Apache, held up four fingers, and then pointed southwest. Donovan nodded. He held up his manacled hands with a question on his face. Havelock shook his head grimly. He took up the lead rope to Donovan's horse, gathered in the loose end of the lariat attached to Donovan's throat, and started out. The pace was a slow walk; the direction, northwest.
Still, Havelock felt uneasy. Where there are four Apaches, there are more. And a rider was acting like a tenderfoot was ahead of him. The situation had all the makings of trouble. And the marshal didn't like it at all.
Half an hour later, he heard shots. First, the heavy roar of Springfields—three shots, almost as one. Then, the feisty bark of a Winchester saddle gun's returning fire.
The fight was dead ahead, about a thousand yards off by the sound.
Havelock turned abruptly westward toward high ground. Desultory firing continued as he rode a wide circle. He stopped when the firing was due east. Only a hogback hid the marshal and his prisoner from the fight.
He turned to Donovan. "I'm going over there for a look-see. You'll be here when I get back if you're smart."
"You go right ahead, marshal. Pay me no mind."
"On second thought, I think I'll play it safe." Havelock walked around to the side of Donovan's horse, taking up the slack in the rope around Donovan's neck as he went. He pulled the hammer of his Winchester to full cock and shoved the muzzle under Donovan's chin. The outlaw strained away from the deadly gun. Keeping up the pressure on Donovan's chin, Havelock unlocked the shackle on the prisoner's right hand.
"Step down, slow and easy," he said, making sure the outlaw's chin stayed skewered on the rifle's muzzle. Donovan carefully dismounted.
"Sit down with your back to that mesquite."
Donovan complied.
Havelock took the chain around behind the slim tree, pulling Donovan's left arm behind his back and around the tree trunk. Then he pulled the chain around the outlaw's stomach to fasten to his right wrist, which was strained as far as it could go behind his back from the other direction. He'd stay put.
"Thank you for leaving me for the fowls of the air, marshal."
"You just stay real still and the buzzards won't even notice you."
Havelock led the horses with him almost to the top of the hogback. He tied them in a clump of scrub oak. They'd keep to the shade, naturally, staying out of sight.
Just the thought of crawling brought more pain to Havelock’s game leg. Still, it had to be done, so he crawled.
Sporadic firing continued. The Springfields seemed to change position, but the sound of the Winchester always came from the same place.
After what seemed like an hour, but was actually more like five minutes, Havelock looked down on the battlefield. The first thing he noticed was a chestnut sorrel horse, down and dead. A flicker of movement behind it showed that the rider was still alive.
Immediately, a Springfield spoke. Havelock spotted the Apache the moment he fired. He was an older man, his black hair liberally streaked with gray. A calico headband kept his long hair in place.
One.
Movement off to the left showed Havelock the second Indian. Just a youngster, maybe out on his first sortie. He was intent on creeping up on whoever was behind the dead sorrel. He was good, but not good enough to escape the notice of a desert veteran like Garet Havelock.
Two spotted. There should be another.
But Havelock couldn't spot him. Besides, that youngster was getting too close to wait much longer. A couple of minutes more at this pace, and Havelock would have to shoot the boy. Maybe he'd have to shoot him even sooner.
Havelock drew a careful bead on the boy. As he jumped up to m
ake his dash, a netdahe war whoop on his lips, Havelock shot him. The way he fell told Havelock the boy was dead. Instantly, he shifted his aim toward the old man, but he was no longer there.
The third man showed himself. His shot kicked dirt and bits of desert rock into Havelock's face. Havelock rolled frantically to his right, disregarding the sharp prickles of cacti. Two full turns and he was up on his elbows, rifle at his cheek, aiming at the place from which the shot had come.
At first he saw nothing. Then a small bird, about to land on a patch of cholla, suddenly veered and flew to another landing place further on. Havelock put seven shots into the clump, spacing them evenly across its width, as fast as he could work the lever. No sound came from behind the cactus, but a moccasined foot pushed its way into sight, digging a furrow in the desert dust. It arched stiffly, quivered, and went limp.
Havelock waited. The foot did not move. He lifted his gaze the place where the boy went down. The body was gone!
The sound of hoofbeats came from a gully on the far side. The old Apache came boiling over the edge, going away. Havelock let him go. The old man held the body of the boy in front of him across the withers of the pinto pony he rode. Could be his son, Havelock figured, or maybe his grandson.
A figure stood up from behind the downed sorrel. Havelock stared. It was the redheaded woman he'd seen coming out of the Golden Skillet. The one who'd given him that knowing smile.
Havelock struggled to his feet. It was almost the last move he ever made. When he looked at the redhead again, she had her rifle to her shoulder and there was no mistaking her intent. The gun was aimed at Garet Havelock.
Then he was falling. He dimly heard the report of the rifle as his head split into a million pieces of blinding light, then darkness. He wondered, even as his consciousness was snuffed out, Why? Why would that woman shoot me?