Halfbreed Law: A Havelock Novel

by Chuck Tyrell

  ****

  The rodent watched in the darkness for a long time. When there was no suspicious movement from the prone form beyond the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of its chest, it scampered toward the fallen man from the shelter of the cholla where its nest was built.

  It was a quick shadow slightly darker than the moonlit vista. Quick, but not fast enough to escape the notice of a desert owl. Huge yellow eyes followed its progress toward the object of its greed. It was mesmerized by something that glinted silver in the moonlight; something that lay atop the dark form sprawled on the hard desert floor. In its tiny mind, the packrat coveted. Greed blinded it to the dangers of the night.

  The rat darted from the shelter of a big prickly pear to the shadow cast by the man's body. Peering up the outflung arm, the packrat could catch tantalizing glimpses of the shiny object of its desire—the Deputy U.S. Marshal's badge pinned to the pocket of Havelock's gray shirt.

  The sharp eyes of the owl followed the rat's progress as it climbed eagerly up the arm of the unmoving man. Instinctively, the owl knew the time to strike was the moment the rat reached its prize. At that moment, the rodent's entire attention would be focused on the object it coveted.

  The packrat poised for a final scamper to pick up the badge. The owl lifted its wings, silently. In perfect concert, the two hunters moved: one motivated by greed, the other by hunger.

  ****

  The first thing Havelock heard after the rifle shot was the agonized death squeak of the packrat, followed by the near-silent flurry of beating wings as the owl bore its prey away. He started at the sound, and pain seared through his head. He lay motionless. The pain dulled.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. It was night. Then he remembered. The redheaded woman from the Golden Skillet. She'd shot him. That was late afternoon. Now, it was well into the night.

  Donovan. He'd left Donovan shackled to a tree. Havelock turned over. Again, he lay motionless until the pain dulled. He fell back three times before he could get up on all fours. Then, pain in his left knee told him crawling would never work.

  Twice, he tried to stand. Both times, he awoke stretched full length on the ground. Agony flashed through his brain. He started inching toward the place where he'd left Donovan shackled to a mesquite tree, dragging his left leg straight out behind.

  He found the tree. But Donovan was gone. Then he realized the horses were gone, too. He'd crawled right by the scrub oak thicket without noticing. The seriousness of his predicament finally came home full force.

  No horses.

  He checked his holster.

  No gun, though there were bullets.

  And the snub-nosed pistol he usually carried in the small of his back was still cached somewhere this side of Burnt Wells, along with his big Bowie knife.

  The woman had taken his guns, but not his boots. Fighting the red mist of pain that seared his mind, Havelock managed to extract the thin, razor-sharp stiletto from his boot. It was his only weapon, and his only tool.

  With the knife in hand, he scooted over to the mesquite tree and cut a branch from it. He trimmed it to about six feet long, so that one end was about the thickness of his wrist and the other slightly larger than the base of his thumb. As with all mesquite branches, it was crooked, but it would have to do.

  Grasping his newly cut staff has high as he could reach, Havelock carefully pulled himself to his feet. For a full minute he stood, panting, as his head reeled and his stomach heaved. He knew his head was split square down the middle, and it felt like it could be no less than three times its normal size.

  Carefully, Havelock raised a hand to the center of his pain. His hair was matted with dried blood. The bullet had plowed a furrow across his head, starting about two inches above his left ear. If he'd not been falling away, it might have punched its way through his brain. Well. She'd not killed him. And he still had a job to do. He'd promised to free the governor's daughter. He'd promised to get the gold back. And he'd promised to bring in Buzz Donovan, regardless of his condition.

  Havelock took a tentative step. The throbbing in his head didn't get any worse. Gingerly, he walked over to where he'd tied the horses. Even in the moonlight, the tracks told the story. Donovan and the redhead had ridden the horses off to the northwest, toward Eagle Eye Mountain.

  He retraced his steps to the place where he'd been shot. Off to the right, he found his hat. The five bullets he habitually carried in the crown were still there. Havelock's spirits picked up. There might be a way out of this mess, yet.

  7

  Still leaning heavily on his mesquite staff, Havelock made his way to where he thought the second Indian he shot should be. He was still there, stiff in rigor mortis. No one had come back for him, but they would. Havelock knew he had to get away quickly. And he had to keep out of sight, or his hair would festoon an Apache war shirt.

  The dead Apache clutched an old Springfield. Havelock broke the hammer. He took the long knife from the Indian's belt. It wasn't a Bowie, but it was good and sharp.

  It almost took more strength than Havelock could muster to turn the stiff corpse over. But once he did, he could see the handle of a Colt's revolver. He seized it and pulled it from under the dead man. It was an old cap-and-ball Dragoon that had been converted to .44 cartridges. It was fully loaded. Havelock removed one cartridge, rotated the cylinder so that the empty lay beneath the hammer, and thrust it into his holster. The familiar weight of a weapon at his hip made him feel better.

  Now, if that blasted thirst that turned his throat to sandpaper would just go away, he'd be all right. But it wouldn't. It would get worse. Much worse. His tongue would turn black. His tissues would scorch. His mind would give up its tenuous hold on reality and lust after the mirages of water in the distance. When the day came, living Hell would come tramping along with the rising sun.

  A thought hit Havelock. She'd shot him late in the afternoon. Likely the woman and Donovan would not have gone far before camping for the night. Especially if they thought Havelock was dead. Considering the flat land, maybe...just maybe...he could spot their campfire from the hogback hill behind him.

  It took half an hour to climb the hogback. By that time, his head was throbbing less, but at times nausea still twisted his stomach into knots.

  In spite of the tough climb, Havelock didn't sweat. The moisture in his body had already been sucked out by the dry desert air and loss of blood from his wound.

  Taking his bearings from the waning moon, Havelock first located the dark bulk of Eagle Eye Mountain in the distance. Slowly he searched the desert floor with careful eyes. There! Fire. Reflected off a sandstone face among the foothills over to the left.

  That's smart, he thought. Don't make a beeline for the mountain. Keep to the foothills where you can stay out of sight.

  He knew the fire was Donovan's. So that's where he would go. If his luck and strength held out, he'd be there before they woke in the morning.

  Before leaving, Havelock did one more thing. He went back to the dead Indian and removed his knee-high moccasins. He sat down, took off his boots, and tried the moccasins on. They were a bit loose, but much better than cowman's boots for hiking across the desert. He tied the leggings over his trousers, left his boots by the dead Indian in exchange, and struck out for the dim reflection of the campfire.

  Back in Vulture City, Timothy Hunter, deputy marshal's badge pinned to his vest, made the rounds. His progress was slow, he leaned heavily on a knotted cane, but no one thought of arguing with the sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm, or with the set look of determination on his bearded face.

  In a Jicarilla Apache rancheria deep in the Big Horn Mountains, a big black man with a missing right hand rested quietly, his fever broken at last.

  ****

  The moon went down, leaving the land flat and black. A red haze burned behind Havelock's eyes as he plodded toward the flicker of light.

  Slowly, it came closer. The reflection itself weakened as the fire died, but Havelock wa
s close enough to catch even the faint glow of coals giving up their last sliver of warmth.

  The need for caution invaded his numbed and throbbing brain. He stopped, shoulders hunched, swaying back and forth like a grizzly scenting the wind. His eyes had sunk deep into the dark sockets of his face. His lips had thinned down, raw edges to the wound that was his mouth.

  Weariness struck every cell in his body. Every scrap of tissue cried for moisture. Slowly, with infinite care, he lifted the heavy old Dragoon Colt from his holster. The left hand followed the right to the grips of the old gun, for Havelock needed the strength of two hands just to raise the pistol. With both thumbs, he pulled back the hammer to full cock. The click sounded like a rifle shot in the ink-black silence.

  Havelock stood for a long moment, listening as closely as his exhausted body would permit. No sound of movement, no unnatural sound at least, followed the cocking of the pistol. Off to his left, he heard the patter of packrat feet. Further on, a beetle clicked.

  Havelock worked around closer to the edge of the clearing. The fire now held hardly a glow. In the deep shadows next a cliff rising behind the campsite, Havelock could make out two prone forms. Got 'em, he thought, and gathered his strength for the encounter.

  He took three long steps into the clearing and faced the forms. "All right, Donovan. You're covered."

  The prone forms remained motionless. Then Havelock knew. Bitter bile rose in his throat, choking off his oaths. For the second time in three days, Garet Havelock had followed a decoy fire.

  The shaking began deep down in his guts. It was like ague, only worse. A chill swept through his body. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. He sank to his knees, then toppled over on his side. Inside his head, the fires of Hell raged. Still, he slept. Or lost consciousness at any rate.

  The sun was two hours up when Havelock awoke. Two hours into the day he was supposed to deliver Donovan to Eagle Eye Mountain in exchange for the Governor's daughter. He stared for a moment at the cobalt blue of the morning sky. Suddenly, he sensed a presence. He carefully turned his head to look across the dead ashes of the decoy campfire. An Indian squatted patiently in the shade of a clump of organ pipe. Havelock grimaced to notice that the circle of ashes from the campfire was a good six feet across, much too big for a campfire in hostile Indian territory. He hadn't noticed that the night before.

  Havelock tried his voice. "You wouldn't have a drink on you, would you Horn Stalker?" It came out a coarse, cracked whisper.

  The Yavapai got up and padded over to the fallen lawman. Without expression, he stared down at the marshal. Then he smiled.

  "What would you do, white man, if I weren't around to get you out of the messes you get into?"

  "Guess I'd have to locate another educated Yavapai," Havelock's attempt to smile cracked his lower lip and a dark drop of blood oozed out, but he was too dehydrated to bleed much.

  Horn Stalker knelt in the dust and uncapped his canteen. First, he wet a bandanna and held it to Havelock's face. The marshal sucked greedily at the damp cloth. Tiny trickles of life worked their way down his throat. The water was brackish and lukewarm. Havelock had never tasted anything better in his life.

  He reached for the canteen. One sip. Two. A delicious coolness spread through his parched body. Layer upon layer of tissue revived with each swallow of water.

  Then, Horn Stalker spoke again, this time seriously. "Apaches are not far away. They follow from the body of the brave you killed yesterday. It will be a close thing as to who gets to Donovan first, us or the Apaches."

  The lithe hunter disappeared into the desert flora surrounding the clearing. In a moment, he reappeared, leading two horses. One was Havelock's grulla—saddle, Winchester, and all.

  "I found him headed back to Vulture City. There wasn't no one around, so I claimed him as a maverick. You happen to know who he belongs to? Sure is a fine horse." Horn Stalker's obsidian eyes sparkled.

  "Anyone who tries to get on that horse from the on side gets dumped, quick," said Havelock. "I trained that grulla that way myself. Glad I did, too."

  It took only two attempts for Havelock to get to his feet. Horn Stalker did not offer to help, not did Havelock ask. Both knew it was the unwritten law of the desert that a man either took care of himself, or died.

  Havelock limped to the grulla. He gathered the reins, lifted his right foot and pushed it into the off-side stirrup, and grasping the saddle horn with both hands he heaved himself aboard the patient horse. He sat a moment while his head cleared. Then he looked at his Indian friend. "Let's ride," he said.

  Horn Stalker nodded, and led off on a trail toward Eagle Eye Mountain that no white man had ever followed.

  Half an hour at a fast single-foot brought the two desert riders to the foothills of the Big Horn range. Eagle Eye Mountain towered to the north, its baleful single eye—a hole that ran completely through the mountain near the summit—just visible.

  The Yavapai picked his trail carefully. It would take a good man to follow it.

  Even an Apache would make slow going of this trail. The signs were few. Both Horn Stalker's and Havelock's horses had rawhide boots instead of iron shoes. They left precious little in the way of tracks. In fact, a white man would probably have sworn no horses had passed that way.

  The Apaches seemed to materialize right out of the ground. One moment the desert was quiet and peaceful, the next it was shattered by gunfire.

  Havelock palmed the old Dragoon by reflex. He stuck it in the nearest Apache's face and pulled the trigger. It seemed like an eternity between the click of the descending hammer, the roar of the old .44, and the destruction of that wild Apache face. Now, at least, he knew that the old gun would actually fire.

  "Run for it!" Horn Stalker's shout registered dimly on Havelock's consciousness. He sent another bullet after a shadowy desert form but couldn't tell if it did any damage. Then the two riders burst through the line of Apaches and thundered on toward Eagle Eye Mountain.

  From behind them came the whoop of pursuing Apaches. There was no need for silence now, and the desert guerrillas liked a good chase.

  "I know of a cave on the side of Eagle Eye Mountain," shouted Horn Stalker. "We could make a stand there."

  Havelock nodded. He also noticed a red stain spreading from beneath Horn Stalker's left arm, and the gray cast of the Yavapai's face. But he was a hard man. He'd do what had to be done. And Havelock would stick with him.

  "How far?"

  "Thirty minutes. If we can hold the pace." Horn Stalker didn't look like he could go ten, much less thirty.

  The men concentrated on helping their horses. How far horse can run often depends on the skill of their riders. Still, yips from the Apaches behind them sounded closer.

  Shots began to buzz by the fleeing horsemen. Random shots they were, but a lucky random shot can kill a man just as dead as one that is well aimed.

  Horn Stalker's hand lifted. He made sign language for "Not far. Hurry," and pointed to a scar on the side of the mountain. Havelock nodded.

  The grulla grunted and broke stride. Then he settled back to his old rhythm. But not for long.

  Fifty long strides the grulla took, putting all the effort left in his dying heart to carrying Havelock up the slopes of Eagle Eye Mountain. Fifty long strides, and the grulla collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

  Havelock had only time enough to slip his feet from the stirrups and snatch the Winchester saddle gun from the saddle boot. Upon impact he was rolling, frantically seeking shelter behind the dead horse before the Apaches caught up with him. He came to a stop with the rifle pointed back the way he had come. He took a deep breath and waited for death from the desert to come sneaking in.

  Horn Stalker's horse carried him up and over the lip of the rise that fronted the cave. Looks like he'll make it, was Havelock's fleeting thought.

  Suddenly, everything was quiet. Only the sound of Havelock's harsh breathing broke the sun-backed silence. Then the buzzing of a blue-tail blowfly as
it settled on the blood that still oozed from the hole low in the abdomen of the dead grulla horse. Other blue-tails joined the first. A big yellow jacket came. But not the Apaches. Not yet, anyway.

  Havelock remained motionless. Sweat formed under his hatband and stung in the furrow cross his head. It rolled down his brow and trickled through the valley between his shoulder blades. His breathing was shallow now, soundless. And his unblinking black eyes stared straight down the trail, though he knew the Apaches would come from the sides. His years in the desert had taught him a man can spot small movements better from the side of his eyes than by looking straight at them.

  Let 'em come. Today's a good day for dying. Havelock gritted his teeth against twin throbbing pains in his head and knee. He fought the urge to move, to lessen the pressure on his knee, to find a more comfortable position.

  A rifle cracked from the lip of the rise about twenty feet to the left of where Horn Stalker's horse had disappeared. An Apache brave arched up from behind a creosote bush, clawing at the blood that gushed from his torn throat. Sounds of the body thrashing soon faded. The desert was silent again.

  A movement caught the corner of Havelock's eye. Just a flicker of buckskin against the desert background. He didn't turn his head, only his eyes. Nothing there. Still, Havelock knew an Apache was there. He coiled his muscles, ready to spring to meet any attack.

  When they came, it was from three directions. Havelock was ready for the warrior behind the clump of tumbleweed. The Winchester seemed to move of its own accord, swinging and lining itself up on the Indian's broad, naked chest. Havelock squeezed off the shot. The 40-grain slug dusted the Apache front and back. The painted form flopped to the desert floor, dead.

  Havelock didn't watch the body fall. His rifle was already swinging to meet the rush coming from straight ahead. Two warriors came, one big and burly, the other wiry and dried as if his muscles were made of jerky. Havelock picked the smaller target and pulled the trigger.

  The thin man spun about and went down as Havelock jacked another shell into the chamber of the Winchester.