by Chuck Tyrell
Havelock said nothing, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Laura's pain. Finally, he changed the subject.
"What about the gold?"
"That gold. That gold! That was the only thing you could say out there. 'Bring the gold.' It threatened to crush you all the way in, bouncing around in the back of that buckboard with you lying next to it, burning with fever."
Laura drew a big breath. When she spoke again, she was calmer. "The gold is back in the bullion room. Except for six bars."
"One's in my saddlebags. The others are at the assay office in Camp Verde. Donovan got four thousand dollars for them."
A tap on the door broke into the conversation. Big Timothy Hunter walked in, limping slightly, but without a cane. The star rode well on his chest, and he had an air of authority about him. Behind him came Doc Withers and another swarthy man Havelock had not seen for years—his brother, Johannes Havelock.
"Johnny," Havelock's voice was still little more than a whisper.
The younger Havelock grasped his brother's hand. "I was in Galveston when I heard you was havin' trouble," he said. "I came running, but you'd already taken care of things. As usual."
"Thanks, kid."
"Now, you just move away from there, young man. I've got to see to the patient." Doc Withers moved Johnny Havelock aside and folded down the bed covers. He checked the bandages that swathed Havelock's torso.
"You're a lucky man, Garet Havelock. Lucky, I tell you. Mountain Ebson said you turned to shoot at O'Rourke and that's what saved your life. Donovan's bullet ripped through some muscle and penetrated your abdominal sac, but didn't puncture your intestines. Don't think we'll have any problem with peritonitis. Somehow, that wound didn't seem like something a .45 caliber pistol should make."
"It felt like a cannonball," Havelock said, grinning weakly. "But that's why I prefer Colt's revolvers."
"What?" Doc asked.
"Donovan had a Smith & Wesson Schofield. Pretty guns. Big caliber. But only 29 grains of powder. My .44-40 Colt has 40 grains. Makes a big difference. Maybe that's it."
"Good to see you in your right mind, marshal," Hunter said. “Figuring stuff out like that. Well, Vulture City's been real quiet while you were gone. An' I made sure it stayed thataway. Guess you'll be back on your feet any day now. I'll clean out the office," the big man said.
"Do you like lawing, Hunter?"
Hunter grinned. "I'll say one thing. It beats the hell out of...oh, 'scuse me, Miss..." Hunter's face turned red as he continued. "Uh, it's a lot better than working a single jack twelve hours a day in the mine."
"Just keep that badge, then. I've got enough holes in me to last for one lifetime. I figure I'll mosey on up and over the Mogollon Rim. I've got me a little place on Silver Creek there. Think I'll finish proving up the homestead on it and raise good horses. And maybe boys. Johnny, what do you think?"
"Well. I gotta get back to Texas. But I'll ride that far with you."
Laura was silent.
"This man still needs rest," Doc Withers said. "Now, you all get out of here and let the nurse do her job. Tom Morgan left some herbs for you to make into tea. You're supposed to drink one cup a day, he said. I don't know what's in those Indian medicines, but sometimes they work wonders. Won't hurt to try."
Grumbling good-naturedly, the visitors left. Doc Withers shut the door quietly as he followed them out.
Havelock watched Laura as poured hot water into a teapot.
"I was thinking," he said. "I sure would be proud if you'd come in partners with me on that Silver Creek homestead."
Laura tossed her hair and turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling.
"Of course, Garet Havelock. I wouldn't have it any other way," she said, handing him a mug. "Now, drink your tea."
About the Author
Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author, uses the pen name of Chuck Tyrell for his Western novels. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only 19 miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since, including a 4th place in the World Annual Report competition, a 2nd place in the JAXA Naoko Yamazaki Commemorative Haiku competition, the first-place Agave Award in the 2010 Oaxaca International Literature Competition, and the 2011 Global eBook Award in western fiction. Raised on a ranch, Whipple brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, Whipple maintains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction. Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, Asian American Journalists Association, and Tauranga Writers Inc.
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