Halfbreed Law: A Havelock Novel

by Chuck Tyrell

  Dimly Havelock heard firing from the lip of the rise. More than one gun, too. He shifted his aim toward the big brave, but he was no longer there.

  Again, silence fell on the slopes of Eagle Eye Mountain.

  8

  Havelock didn't move. The Apaches may have gone, but then again they might be just lying low to escape the fire from him and those just over the rim, whoever they were. Apache netdahe braves have the same aversion to lead poisoning as any white man.

  "Iron Knee," called a voice from beyond the lip.

  "I hear you, Horn Stalker."

  "The Apaches have gone, my friend. Come."

  "All right." Havelock stood up, gingerly flexing his left knee. His limp was pronounced as he stepped around the dead horse to loosen the girth and strip the saddle from the grulla's back. A toneless curse escaped his lips as he started up the slope with the heavy saddle slung over his shoulder.

  Havelock climbed with his Winchester in his right fist, loaded and cocked. Something in the way Horn Stalker had used Havelock's Indian name warned him that all might not be as it seemed. And more than one rifle had been firing.

  The muzzle of the Winchester came over the edge of the rim first, topped by Havelock's watchful black eyes.

  "Come up, Havelock. Join our little party." The cold light in Donovan's blue eyes didn't match his jovial tone of voice. "Everyone is present and accounted for. Let me make introductions.

  "That red Indian lying on the blankets is Horn Stalker, sometime employee of the marshal of Vulture City and hunter for the owner of the Golden Skillet of the same metropolis. The woman tending him is my sister, Laura Donovan."

  "Half-sister," the woman said.

  "We've met," Havelock said, carefully keeping all traces of emotion from his face.

  The woman ignored Havelock and continued working on Horn Stalker's wound. Havelock noticed that her touch was gentle, but sure. She'd seen and treated wounds before. Anyone could see that she was a tough no-nonsense woman of the kind that thrived in wild rough country like this. She'll do, Havelock thought.

  Donovan took in the angle of Havelock's hat, perched on his head to avoid the crease Laura Donovan had put in his hair. The smile on his face was close to a sneer as he said, "Yes. I see you two have met. Laura is an excellent shot with a rifle. I'm surprised you are still with us."

  "My luck," Havelock said dryly.

  Neither Havelock nor Donovan mentioned the Winchester Havelock held fully cocked and casually pointing in Donovan's direction. It was not a time for shooting. That would only help the Apaches get what they wanted.

  A young cowboy with gold-red hair stepped from the shadows of the cavern. His wide blue eyes gave him a look of youthful innocence, furthered by the grin on his face. A sprinkle of boyhood freckles were still scattered across the bridge of his nose. He was young, but the gun he wore was full-grown. Havelock could see it had seen use, lots of careful use. This youngster was someone to steer clear of in a scrap, Havelock figured.

  Donovan took the younger man by the arm, turning to Havelock. "This is my baby brother, Archibald Donovan. Finally got all my family together. First time in more than ten years. I suppose I must thank you for that, marshal."

  "Me, I'm his half-brother, like Laura's his half-sister," the youngster said with the grin still on his face. "We got the same Pa, but different Ma's."

  That made no matter to Havelock. His voice was cold and sharp. "Where's the girl?"

  "She's all right. Don't you worry none. There may be a problem, though. Seems she don't want to go back to that stodgy Pa of hers. She likes it right here, with the likes of us."

  Archibald Donovan turned toward the mouth of the cavern. "Come on out, Carrie, honey. He won't hurt ya."

  Marshal Meade had called her a kid, but the girl who came out of the cave was no child. In years, she might have been no more than fifteen, but in every other way, she was a woman. No mistake.

  She wore men's clothes, and they were a little big on her. But her well-formed breasts pushed at the shirt fabric, and her full hips filled the jeans completely. It looked like the outfit had come from the younger Donovan's warbag. Havelock spent a scant minute wondering just how he was going to transport that woman-child to Wickenburg through nearly forty miles of hostile Apache country. Then his mind came back to the problem at hand.

  The girl twined her arms about young Donovan's waist and lifted her face to him. Naturally, he kissed her.

  "The deal was the girl for Donovan," Havelock said tersely.

  "Arch, let go of that child," Donovan ordered.

  The young man reluctantly complied. He looked at Havelock. "Marshal, I'm more than willing to keep my word. In fact, I make a point of doing that. Only thing is, I don't like to force folks to do what they don't wanna do." He turned to face the girl and continued. "Carrie don't wanna go back to Prescott, do you, honey?"

  The girl shook her chestnut curls, emphatically negative. She had not spoken one word. That bothered Havelock. He wished she'd speak for herself.

  Before he could question the girl directly, a shot from the desert sent them scrambling for cover. From the corner of his eye, Havelock noticed that the girl had not moved with the sound of the shot. She followed a second later, reacting to the movement of Arch Donovan. That delay preyed on Havelock's mind for a second or two. After that, he was too busy trying to stay alive to ponder it.

  The height advantage of the small clearing in front of the cave was all that kept the group alive. The first five minutes were fierce, with the roar of gunfire sounding more like a war than a battle. In the thick of it, Havelock glimpsed Laura Donovan down on one knee, using her long-barreled saddle gun with quiet efficiency. Then the thought hit him that maybe her shot back in the desert had not gone astray by accident. If she'd wanted it that way, he'd be fodder for the buzzards right now. And for a brief moment, he wondered why she'd pulled up.

  The Apaches dropped back with one warrior dead and perhaps two wounded. Five sets of eyes, two black and three blue, searched the desert for signs of Apaches. Above, the desert sun reached for the tops of the Big Horns and began to slide around the edge of Eagle Eye Mountain. And out on the flat, a spot of sunlight stood out in the sun-cast silhouette of the mountain: the eye of the eagle.

  "Looks like they have gone," said Donovan, easing back from his vantage point at the edge of the rim.

  "They'll be back," Havelock said without taking his eyes off the desert.

  "Once more before the sun leaves," agreed Horn Stalker. He too kept his eyes on the desert from his pallet of blankets. Donovan was used to people agreeing with his opinions. His face turned dark with anger.

  "I am not unfamiliar with Indian warfare. I have fought Apaches in the past. And I say they will not come again today." His voice held the tone of command.

  It was almost as if the Apaches themselves decided to make an ass of Barnabas Donovan. The first shot sent Donovan's greasy Stetson flying and its owner diving for cover. The second showered sharp bits of sandstone into Havelock's face, narrowly missing his right eye and drawing tiny droplets of blood from his cheek.

  "Marshal!" The warning came from Laura Donovan. Havelock squeezed off a shot and rolled sharply to his left, knowing as he did that his shot had missed. As he faced upward, he saw what the woman had warned him of. A blocky Apache brave had come down the mountain from above the cavern. Havelock was closest. He had only time enough to take the chopping war axe on the wooden forearm of his rifle. It stopped with the blade inches from his face, hooked over the barrel.

  Havelock put his right foot in the brave’s belly and shoved as he pulled on the rifle. The Indian went up and over Havelock's head, landed on the downhill side of the lip, and tumbled down the incline toward his fellow warriors.

  Havelock rolled another half-turn to the left. The brave he'd missed moments ago was now near the top of the slope, seconds away. Havelock felt the cold certainty in his gut that said he was too late. Still, he tried to bring the Winch
ester into play. Then the Apache's victory shout turned into a gurgle and he fell heavily on top of the marshal, splashing him with blood. Havelock shoved the body aside, not looking to see who had shot the warrior yet knowing it had been Laura Donovan.

  "Buzz, I've only got three more rounds," Arch said.

  "Laura?"

  "Two," she said.

  "Red man?"

  "Three," said Horn Stalker through clenched teeth.

  "Havelock?"

  "Two in the rifle and three in my pistol," he said. He kept the five cartridges in the crown of his hat as trump cards. No telling when or how he would need them.

  A deep voice called from the desert.

  "Havelock. Garet Havelock. Do you hear me?"

  "Tom Morgan! Yes. I hear you."

  "Come down here. Let's parlay."

  Havelock stood up. He took a step forward when the sound of a hammer cocking stopped him.

  "You will not leave this area," Donovan said. "I do not trust that black Indian and I do not trust you. You will stay."

  "Let him go, Buzz. He's the only one who can get us out of here." Laura Donovan quietly cocked her rifle and held it pointed at her brother. "If you so much as twitch your finger, Buzz, I will blow the back of your head off. In Vulture City I heard how Garet Havelock kept the mob from hanging you. He could have let them have you, you know."

  Donovan didn't like it. But he could tell the woman meant every word. "He just wanted the gold," Donovan said. "That's all."

  "I don't think so, Buzz. I heard a lot of talk in town. People say the marshal is honest. And I believe it.

  "Marshal, if you go out there, will you be coming back?" The woman's eyes stayed on Donovan like she knew what Havelock would answer.

  "Of course. I've got a job to do. The first thing is to return the governor's daughter to him. I'll be back."

  "Then go."

  Havelock nodded. He looked hard into Laura Donovan's eyes for a long moment. Then, he stepped off the rim and carefully picked his way down the slope in the direction Tom Morgan's voice had come from, his rifle drooping casually from the crook of his right arm.

  Fifty yards down the slope two warriors materialized from the desert in front of Havelock. He stopped, rifle ready. They signaled him to follow and walked away through head-high stands of cholla jumping cacti.

  Havelock followed them, wending his way as deftly through the cacti as they did. He noticed that two more painted men had closed in behind him. It wasn't a comfortable feeling, but he wouldn't let it show. By the look on his face, Garet Havelock was out for a Sunday stroll.

  Then the desert opened up into a large clearing. A huge gaunt figure lay on a pallet on the ground. His right arm ended in a well-bound stump. The old Indian Havelock had seen riding away into the desert from the fire fight stood by Morgan's side.

  "Howdy, Tom." Havelock's voice was neutral but his eyes were full of concern for his friend. He ignored the old man. "How are you?"

  "Passable, Garet. Just passable. You should have told me those Valenzuela boys was half Yaqui. I'd-a been a heap more careful, then. Not even the Apaches go into Yaqui country without mighty good cause."

  "Had I known, you'd-a been told."

  Morgan changed the subject. "Some pickle you've got yourself into. What's the deal?"

  Quickly Havelock told Morgan of the kidnapping and the conditions for the release of the governor's daughter.

  "Ordinarily I would have sent you out to arrange a safe passage through this territory. As it was, I had no choice but to bungle through on my own.

  "There are six of us up there: three whole men, one wounded man, and two women, one of which can shoot better than most men."

  Morgan listened to Havelock closely. His skin was paper-thin and pulled tight against his skull. His eyes peered from hollows beneath craggy brows. Dark crevices beneath his cheekbones spoke of the ordeal he had survived. But now, he was concerned for his friend.

  "It's too bad you had to kill that boy, Garet. He was the grandson of the old chief, here."

  "I figured something like that. Otherwise, they wouldn't keep coming like they do. How do we get around it?"

  "Don't know if you can."

  "Iron Knee." The strong voice of the withered old man standing next to Morgan held authority. "Only you. You stay. Others go. Tomorrow you run. My warriors will kill you. You pay for the son of my son."

  "I guess that's it, Garet. If you surrender, they'll let the others go. I talked them into not killing you without a chance. You get to run. It's a thing Apaches do for brave enemies."

  There was no choice. He had to do it. His first duty was to get the governor's daughter safe to Wickenburg. His other assignments could wait. His surrender would free the others, and at least, he'd have a running chance...even with an iron knee.

  "Thanks, Tom. A running chance is all a man can ask for." Garet turned to the chief. "Grandfather," he said, "I would that your grandson had not died by my bullet. But he did, and I must face it. I will run against death. I shall go to those in the cave and tell them to leave. I will return in the middle of night. Tomorrow, I run."

  A flicker of something that may have been respect crossed the old man's face. He nodded curtly and turned his back on Havelock and Morgan.

  Havelock grasped the left hand Morgan held out to him. "I'll be back shortly," he said. And as he retraced his steps to the clearing in front of the cave, he just wished the throbbing in his head would go away.

  9

  Laura Donovan was out front to meet him, rifle in hand. The others were back in the cave. Havelock could see a flicker of fire back in the recesses of the cavern, and he smelled cooking meat. A rumbling in his stomach at the smell reminded him that he had eaten nothing since shortly before noon the day before.

  Havelock's face held its normal stern look, and though Laura searched it for a sign of what happened during the pow-wow with Tom Morgan, he gave no indication. He smiled at her, but his eyes were clouded and distant. He brushed past her and walked into the cave. The light of the fire silhouetted his lithe form. He paused a moment at the cave's mouth, but didn't look back. Then he squared his shoulders and stepped into the depths of the cave, out of Laura's line of sight.

  Arch and Carrie were holding hands, sitting together on the far side of the fire. Donovan was tending a large chunk of meat that was spitted over the fire and sizzling. A pot of coffee steamed in the coals at the edge closest to Donovan's hand. Horn Stalker lay on a saddle blanket against the cave wall to the left.

  Donovan looked up as Havelock walked in. The marshal's grim face said all was not well. Havelock looked from the meat to Donovan with his eyebrows arched in question.

  "Arch got an antelope yesterday morning," Donovan said.

  From the darkness beyond the reach of the firelight came the restless stomp and rustle of horses. At least they were safe from Apache horse stealers for the night. Havelock could hear Laura walking in behind him.

  "What happened, Havelock? Did you sell us to that black Apache to save your hide? What kind of deal are you two working against us now?" Donovan’s face held a sneer.

  "Donovan, one of these days you're going to jump to conclusions just once too often. When you do, it will be the last thing you ever do. Now, shut up and listen." Havelock kept his Winchester pointed casually at Donovan's big, hard stomach as he talked. He thumbed back the hammer just to emphasize his point.

  "Don't be disturbed, marshal. Hold your temper, now." Donovan was not one to go against a stacked hand. At the moment, Havelock held all the aces.

  Havelock let the silence hold for a good minute. When he spoke, he talked to Arch Donovan.

  "Arch. The time has come to quit funning. Do you think as much of Carrie as you have been making out?"

  "Yes, sir, marshal. I do."

  Havelock then spoke to the girl, but left his eyes on Arch's face. "What about you, Carrie? Do you want to stay with Arch?"

  The girl made no sound.

  "Ma
rshal, she can't hear you. And she can't answer you even if she could hear you. She can't hear and she can't talk, but she's more woman than all of those who can." Arch reached and turned Carrie's face toward his own with one finger. Looking into her eyes he said, "Don't worry, Carrie, I'll get you out of this." The girl focused on his lips. When he finished, she nodded vigorously, a wide smile on her lovely face.

  "Okay, Arch. Here's the deal I offer you. You weren't in on the robbery at Vulture City, though I wager you were the one who hid the gold. You promise me that you'll take Carrie into Wickenburg and I won't press charges against you. We won't mention the kidnapping, either. Marshal Meade is waiting there for me. But you tell him I sent you with the girl. Now. Let her go back to her family. Go to see her as a beau ought to. Court her. Then, if she wants to follow you through Hell, get her old man's okay on it first. And make it legal. If you quit the outlaw trail before you get started, you still got a chance to stay alive long enough to give her a good home and a fine family."

  Havelock could see that the boy was tempted.

  "Laura," the marshal continued, "I'd be obliged if you would go into Wickenburg with Arch and Carrie. I'm going to send Horn Stalker too, and you could sort of take care of him."

  "Certainly, Garet," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do what he asked. She stepped around the fire to stand between the couple and the wounded Indian.

  "What about me?"

  Havelock turned his attention to the outlaw. "Yeah, Captain Barnabas Donovan. What about you? Ride to Wickenburg and M.K. Meade will have you in chains. Stay around here and those Apaches out there will make you wish you had never left my jail. It's your choice, but if I were you, I'd forget about Vulture City's gold and strike out for parts unknown. There's plenty of places on the outlaw trail fit for the likes of you. Brown's Hole. Round Valley. Hole in the Wall. But they're getting fewer and fewer. And there will soon be a time when you can't find a place to hide anymore."

  "And what gives you the idea that we can just ride out of here?"