Halfbreed Law: A Havelock Novel

by Chuck Tyrell

  Warm air pushed from Mexico, taking the cloud formation with it. Up across the desert, over the Gila Bend Mountains, and onward toward the mountains of the Big Horns at surprising speed. In the Big Horns, the great sheep from which the range took its name began to hunt for shelter. Instinct told them the coming storm would not be pleasant.

  The sun peeked over the rim of the world. At that very moment, three strong warriors seized Havelock from behind. He clenched his hands, but did not struggle, knowing that would only make things worse. And the warriors did not force his hands open.

  Within moments they had him stripped and clothed only in a leather loincloth. His feet and head were bare; his brace was dark against the whiteness of his leg. After they finished and turned toward the chief's lodge, he shoved the pellets into a fold in the waistband of the loincloth. One of them, he put in his mouth, finally working up enough saliva to swallow it. He'd surely need to be oblivious to pain if he were to run barefooted over the desert floor.

  Puma came from his wickiup to stand before Havelock.

  "Iron Knee, killer of my grandson Gonthalay, this day you run. The gods will decide if you live or die."

  "Yes, father," Havelock said.

  Puma's warriors gathered in the clearing, fourteen in all. They were quiet, watching Havelock closely; hunters focused on their prey. They were armed with knives and war axes, as bows and arrows were not allowed during the run of death.

  "Look," said Puma, pointing westward. "There is a stone with a white face." It was a small boulder a little more than a hundred yards away.

  "I see it," Havelock said.

  "When you reach that stone, my warriors come. Go."

  The stone was nearly due north. Havelock's objective was nearly due west, up the flank of Eagle Eye Mountain. He set out for the stone at a walk, calling on his experience in the desert to place his feet carefully without seeming to cringe. He had to minimize the damage to his feet. They'd have to carry him a long way if he were to outrun death at the hands of Puma's braves.

  Just before reaching the stone, Havelock stopped and threw a panic-stricken look over his shoulder. The warriors screamed, shaking their weapons but not coming after him until he passed Puma's designated marker.

  He set out at a ground-eating trot. He often ran in the desert outside Vulture City to exercise his knee as much as to build up stamina. He knew he could keep this pace for hours. But he could feel the desert floor eating into the soles of his bare feet. He'd have to do something quickly or his feet would be torn to bloody ribbons.

  Havelock passed the stone, and a roar went up from the warriors as they sprinted after him. Again, he glanced over his shoulder. A long lean warrior was far in the lead, at least twenty yards ahead of the pack. Havelock broke into a sprint, angling to the left. The lead warrior came whooping after him, waving a war axe over his head.

  A gully that cut down the flank of Eagle Eye Mountain was less than a quarter-of-a-mile away. Maybe two minutes away. The warrior in front had lengthened his lead to almost fifty yards.

  Havelock forced his tender feet to go even faster. Seconds away, he could see the lip of the gully. Then he was plunging over, out of sight of the pursuing Apaches.

  Instantly, he dove sharply to the left, going uphill. Moments later, he found what he'd hoped for—a large sandstone shelf cropping up from the bottom of the wash. Concealed behind it, with a shard of shale in his hand, he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply as he waited.

  He heard the lead warrior plunge over the edge of the gully after him. A moment of confusion followed. Then he let out a screech as he spotted Havelock's tracks, now blood-stained, leading up the gully toward the mountain. On the warrior came, as fast as his muscular legs could carry him.

  Havelock was ready. Still, the warrior nearly got away. The naked marshal leaped from behind the sandstone shelf and collided with the speeding brave, knocking him down, but nearly failing to get an arm around the neck and under his chin. The brave writhed, trying to break the hold, but Havelock's arms and shoulders were stronger than any ordinary man's. Havelock held the hammerlock, closing the carotid arteries and blocking the flow of blood to the brave's brain. In seconds, he was unconscious. Havelock dropped the limp body and snatched up the brave's axe. There was not enough time to take the moccasins. He plunged up the gully, trying to keep to the softer sand to save his feet. Another two hundred yards or so and he would reach his first goal—the cave where his party had stood off the Apache attack.

  11

  The shouts of the warriors drew nearer, telling Havelock he had little margin. Thanks to the native drug, however, the pain from his feet did not incapacitate him.

  He ran on, jumping from rock to rock as the gully steepened. Then he decided to leave the gully for a dash to the cavern before the pursuing warriors could sight him.

  It was a steep climb to the top of the bank. Havelock forced himself to move quickly yet carefully, because careful climbing saved foot leather. The thin soles of his feet still had to carry him a long way.

  As he topped the gully's bank, the warriors boiled around a bend, catching sight of his climbing figure. They screamed and started to spread out, some launching themselves at the walls of the gully, hoping to outflank him to the west. But they lost so much time climbing the steep side of the gully that he was again out of sight by the time they reached the top. Havelock ran for the cave, ignoring the tearing sensations from the soles of his feet.

  The sun climbed higher in the pale sky. And to the south, thunder rumbled as the storm front pushed into the desert above the Gila River. Havelock stayed grimly ahead of his pursuers. They were now back to following him by the trail of blood he left with every step. It was impossible to avoid the sharp edges of sandstone, shale, and dried desert wood. They cut. Havelock bled. But he was far from giving in.

  The thunderheads crept closer. A wind started to blow from the south. The creatures of the desert sought refuge as they sensed the fury of the coming storm. Soon all that moved was the white man with a leather-and-steel brace on his left leg and an Apache war axe clutched in his right fist. Thirteen Apache warriors clamored after him, as yet unable to catch up, but getting closer. They paid no attention to the weather.

  Havelock's breath was coming in great heaves when he topped the lip of the rise that fronted the mouth of the cave. But there was no time for rest.

  He moved rapidly into the cave, trusting his sense of direction to take him to where the horses had been tied. His bundle was still on the ledge. In the shirt he'd bundled a pair of moccasins and a knife. He slipped the moccasins on and strode back to the banked fire where the can of tallow lay by the wall of the cave. He quickly smeared all the tallow into the folds of the shirt and wrapped it tightly around the head and handle of the war axe. He shoved the bundled axe head into the banked coals as he listened for Apache pursuit. As the cloth of the shirt caught fire, he heard the warriors scrabbling up the embankment. There was no more time.

  Shielding the makeshift torch from the mouth of the cave with his body, Havelock ran toward the back of the cavern.

  The flames melted the tallow and fed on the grease, showing Havelock his way ahead. The smoke from the torch moved ahead of him, leading the way toward whatever opening existed at the other end of the cavern.

  Knife in hand, he paused, listening for pursuit. No sounds came. Perhaps the braves were cautious about plunging into the unknown of dark cavern.

  Beyond the spring, the cave quickly narrowed until Havelock had to turn sideways to edge along. Light from his torch showed sand on the floor of the cave, and in the sand, the five-pad footprints of another kind of puma—the animal from which the old chief took his name. But Havelock had no choice. The flow of air through the cave got stronger. He pushed on, solid rock scraped against his chest and back as he went.

  Then there was nothing before him. The torch was still alive, but its light no longer reflected from stone walls. Silently, Havelock moved into a large chamber.<
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  Originally, the cavern had probably been carved by the waters now shrunken to a tiny spring. Stalactites and stalagmites survived at the far side of the chamber, but a tumble of jagged rocks cascaded down the near side. The thin roof of the cavern had caved in like a badly shored mine shaft. High up the slope of tumbled rock, Havelock could see a sliver of daylight. His way out.

  Shoving the knife into his leather loin cloth and holding the torch high, Havelock started to climb. Ten feet, twenty. Then from across the chamber came the soft warning growl of a cougar. Havelock froze.

  The big cats rarely attacked unless provoked, and they didn't like fire. Havelock hoped it would be enough. Across the chamber, he could see the puma's eyes reflecting the light of the torch. Then, they disappeared.

  The cat jumped from its ledge and padded out of the chamber the way Havelock had come in.

  Havelock waited.

  After several dragging minutes, he continued his climb. At the top, he threw the sputtering torch back into the cavern and pulled out the knife again. The opening was large enough for him, but a piñon pine had taken root by a large boulder above the hole and its branches formed a thick cover over it. He'd have to worm his way through the piñon branches while keeping an eye out for Apaches. Wind whipped the piñon into a frenzy of movement.

  Slowly, Havelock poked his head through the opening. The wind tore at his hair. What once had been a sinkhole now looked like a natural indent in the land. The northern edge looked like a continuation of Eagle Eye Mountain. The southern edge was a lip, probably a hundred feet above the mouth of the cave and at least a quarter of a mile back from it.

  Havelock grasped a piñon branch and pulled himself into the thicket. No cry announced that the Apaches had discovered him.

  He bellied out of the tree's clutches to shelter behind the boulder it was rooted to. He stopped to survey the edges of the indent. Still no sign of the Apaches.

  Havelock stood and walked west, keeping to his original plan. As he topped the edge of the indent, a shout from below announced that he'd been spotted.

  Then angry storm clouds blotted out the sun, catching the warriors unaware. Lightning preceded the storm that had already filled Centennial Wash and flooded the Gila River.

  Intent on their hunt, the Apaches had failed to notice the strength of the storm. But they halted as one when a mighty bolt ripped a gnarled old juniper from the side of the mountain. There were few things that frightened Apache warriors more than lightning.

  Havelock continued his climb, aiming for the ridge the marked the divide of the Big Horns. The moccasins helped but the Indian medicine was wearing off and he could feel the pain of the damage done to the soles of his feet. His head throbbed and his knee was feeling the strain.

  Another bolt came. This time, closer. The Apaches darted about in jerky circles shouting "Pis! Pis!"

  Pis, the speckled nighthawk, was supposed to be able to dodge lightning. The Apaches believed that if they darted about like the nighthawk, shouting his name, the gods would think they could dodge the bolts. Not wanting to waste precious lightning on something they cannot hit, the gods would then throw none at the warriors.

  Havelock topped the divide just as the heavy curtain of rain hit. He had concentrated so totally on climbing the steep slope that he was unprepared for the steep drop on the other side. The force of the rain smashed him, sending him down the sharp incline, struggling for balance. His leather moccasins slipped on the wet rocks. He plunged downward, rolling with the sheets of water.

  The rain drove the dancing Apaches to shelter. It turned the desert into a sea of mud. Every gully and every wash foamed with floodwaters that carried the dead bodies of animals, branches torn from living trees, and anything else in their way.

  Havelock rolled downhill with the gathering force of water. He smashed a shoulder against the rocks and lost hold of his knife. His cry of pain was lost in the roar of the solid sheet of falling water. Halfway to the bottom, he snagged up against an old juniper deadfall, banging his injured head against its solid trunk.

  Havelock woke to the sound of guttural Apache voices. And although his head felt like it had once again been the target of Laura Donovan's rifle, he recognized his name, Iron Knee. And someone must have said something about the lightning because several braves shouted "Pis! Pis!"

  He could hear the Indians plainly, but he could not see them. The downpour had washed him far under the juniper deadfall and then piled sticks, branches, leaves, packrat's nests, and other debris over him until he was completely hidden from view.

  He lay on his right side, facing the juniper's trunk. It was impossible to see him except from directly above. Still, he didn't open his eyes until long after the footsteps and voices of the Apaches had receded back up the slope. Perhaps for a little while, he slept. Or, maybe he lost consciousness again.

  ****

  Far up toward Prescott, thunder still rumbled. At the Apache camp, Puma listened to his braves tell how Iron Knee had fled back to the cave. How a mountain lion had come out afterward, bounding up the mountain away from them. How the white man had suddenly appeared high up the mountainside, climbing for the divide. How the lightning had come when they tried to pursue him. And how he was miraculously gone after the rain had passed. Perhaps, they ventured, he was once again a mountain cat.

  A tiny smile came to the old chief's face. His totem had protected Iron Knee. And Tom Morgan, lying in a wickiup nearby, heard him say: "The gods have spoken. My grandson is avenged in spirit. His ghost cries no longer for the blood of the white man with the iron knee."

  ****

  Havelock strained to open his eyes. The slight movement of his head brought a wave of blinding pain. Smashing it against the juniper's trunk had done nothing to heal the concussion caused by Laura Donovan's bullet. A groan escaped his dry lips. Stubs of broken juniper branches had scraped and poked him as the flood shoved him into the deadfall. He'd bled in a dozen places, and one sharp splinter had driven itself deep into the fleshy part of his forearm. He had to extract it, but first he needed to work his way out of the deadfall.

  Stick by stick, sodden leaf by sodden leaf, Havelock rid himself of the burden of flotsam the flood waters had covered him with. Each movement was slow and careful. He held his left arm still, trying not to hit that sliver on anything. Still, it was almost sundown by the time he was able to drag himself from under the fallen juniper.

  Fifty yards away, the remnants of the rainstorm had collected in the hollowed rocks in the bottom of the wash. Havelock didn't risk standing up. Just the effort of getting out of the deadfall made him dizzy. And that piece of cordwood was still in his left forearm.

  The hot sun had dried the land and the man. At the rock basin, he sucked eagerly at the rainwater. It tasted of mud. It was wonderful.

  The sun dropped behind the western mountains far beyond the Colorado River, filling the sky with gold. Although the days were hell-fire hot, at more than 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, nights were cold. And Havelock had no more than a loincloth to keep him warm. Nevertheless, he slept.

  It was light long before the sun topped the divide. Havelock's eyes opened with the dawn. His body shook, from the effects of the damage done to it as much as from the cold. The edges of the wound where the wood protruded were now an angry red. As soon as it was light enough to see well, Havelock struggled to his feet. Then he remembered the pellets he'd shoved in the fold of his loincloth before starting the run. He shoved a finger into the fold. The flood had melted the pellets and left a lump of green stuff. Havelock scooped what was left onto his index finger. It was a mound about the size of the end of his little finger. Probably about two pellets worth. He swallowed about half, putting the other half on a flat piece of sandstone. Then took another drink from the rock basin.

  Within half an hour, the Pueblo remedy had done its work. Havelock felt no pain, though he was still a bit dizzy when he stood. He had to cut that splinter out of his arm. And that meant f
inding the knife he'd lost as the flood had bowled him down the hillside.

  He struggled up the hill to the crest, stopping at the point where he could just see over. No smoke marked the place where the Apaches had been camped. Perhaps they'd gone back to their rancheria.

  Havelock searched carefully, but it was nearly two hours before he found the knife wedged into a crack in the rocks just above the basin that still held several gallons of rainwater.

  Pain had returned to his battered body. It was time for the last of the Pueblo painkiller. But there were things to do before he could cut the splinter out.

  First, he needed fire. He soon found a piece of flint, and he had the knife to act as steel. He struck the flint against the blade. It gave off a strong spark.

  Now, for tinder. He got that from a rotten log. Broken open, it supplied a powder that held a spark well. Tiny dry sticks, leaves, and larger chunks of wood completed his preparations. Still, it took fifteen minutes to get a blaze going.

  He kept the fire small, but the mere sight of it lifted Havelock's spirits.

  He cut some ears from a nearby prickly pear plant and held them over the fire to burn off the spines. He placed them on a flat sandstone and beat them to a pulp with the handle of the knife. From a nearby juniper, he cut several long strips of inner bark, tough supple stuff that made excellent string. Then he sharpened the knife with a sandstone and stropped it on one of his moccasins. Much as he didn't want to, he had to cut that splinter out while the painkiller still held.

  He made the slice quickly and deeply, shoving the knife along his arm with its point running along the splinter and the edge cutting at his flesh. Blood flowed. He grasped the end of the splinter and worked it. With the incision made, the muscle and skin of Havelock's arm didn't bind the splinter tightly, and he was able to slowly work it backward until it suddenly came loose. More blood followed.