Vulture Gold

by Chuck Tyrell

  Vulture Gold

  by

  Chuck Tyrell

  Smashwords Edition

  Vulture Gold

  ISBN: 978-1-4581-2362-6

  Presented by Western Trail Blazer

  Copyright © 2011 by Chuck Tyrell

  Cover Art Copyright © 2011 by Karen Michelle Nutt & Chuck Tyrell

  Produced by Rebecca J.Vickery

  Design Consultant – Laura Shinn

  (Previously released in Great Britain by Robert Hale Ltd. Black Horse Westerns in 2005

  and by Dales Large Print Editions in 2006.)

  Smashwords License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this ebook without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Vulture Gold is a work of fiction.

  Though some actual towns, cities, and locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities of characters or names used within to any

  person past, present, or future are coincidental.

  Dedication

  "For Corinne.

  Without her encouragement, Vulture Gold would not be."

  Vulture Gold

  by

  Chuck Tyrell

  Chapter One

  The stench of death clung to the dry earth of Vulture City, a patch of hell on the Mojave Desert. The town's burgeoning jumble of dugouts, tarpaper shacks, and batten-on-plank houses fanned out from a plaza bordered by Garth's Mercantile and Vulture Mine headquarters, the Carrion Saloon, the Vulture Hotel, and the marshal's office and jail. One street leading from the plaza ended at the Vulture Mine.

  Gold sweetened the smell of death; pretty, plentiful gold from the Vulture Mine – the richest in Arizona, maybe the richest in the West.

  The stamp-mill crushed the ore sweated from the mother lode and separated the precious metal from the quartz. Men with greed etched on their faces melted down the gold and poured it into forms for ingots—an inch thick, three inches wide, and ten long. Each weighed about twenty-two ounces at fineness of just over nine hundred.

  Six boxes of twenty bars each stood stacked against the sides of the bullion-room pit at Vulture Mine headquarters. The iron grate that secured the pit leaned against the far wall, open for inventory. Ralph Judd carefully laid another ingot in a new box. Superintendent Harry Chambers sat in the back room at a table made of dynamite crates and jotted entries in the ledger.

  The instant an explosion rocked the face of the mine, half a mile away, three men barged into the bullion room with six-guns in their hands and bandannas covering their faces.

  "Don't move!"

  The order came from a tall, white man with commanding ice-blue eyes beneath the rim of his dirty felt hat. The other two were Mexicans.

  Judd's hands shot up and he froze, but Harry Chambers stepped from the back room and slammed the iron grate down on the bullion pit. Judd leaped for the padlock. His shaking fingers fumbled to fit it through the hasp.

  "Gringo hijo de puta!" Two pistols spat flame almost as one. One bullet threw Judd across the iron grate in a sprawl. The padlock slipped from his dying fingers to splat in the blood on the pit's dirt floor.

  The other bullet drilled Chambers' left shirt-pocket, punctured his heart, and slammed him wide-armed against the back wall. His dying spasms tipped him over to lie face down in his own gore. The bullion room filled with the coppery scent of ripped and bloody flesh and the offal odor of bowels voided in death.

  The big man holstered his gun. "Let's get that gold out of here," he ordered.

  The Mexicans ignored his unspoken disapproval of the shootings.

  The trio quickly hauled the bullion from the pit and loaded it onto two pack-mules tethered outside. Four boxes went in canvas pouches strapped to the pack saddles. They lashed the remaining two bullion boxes to the forks.

  "Move!" shouted the leader.

  The Mexicans roweled their horses and lunged away, jerking the gold-laden mules after them. The bandit leader rushed back into the bullion room for the ingots on Judd's desk. The leader ran from the bullion room, threw a pair of saddlebags across the skirt of his rig, and leaped into the saddle.

  "Halt!" Marshal Garet Havelock roared. He'd hustled back from investigating the mine explosion, but was still two hundred yards away. He went down on one knee and jacked a shell into his Winchester.

  The outlaw reined his horse around. He stared at Havelock, unafraid, then tilted back his head, and laughed. The sound echoed from the stone walls of the buildings around the plaza. Havelock had heard that mocking laugh before, in darker times, and it brought back unpleasant memories. The bandit lunged his horse toward the mountain trail out of town.

  Havelock squeezed off a shot. The horse reared wildly, almost going over. The big rider clung for a moment then dropped off, arms and legs flailing. He landed head first, bounced, and lay still, face down. The startled mount raced for the trail, saddlebags jouncing.

  Havelock levered a new cartridge into the chamber and waited, rifle to cheek. The downed outlaw lay motionless. Slowly, the marshal stood, rifle held ready. By the time he reached the prone man, citizens of Vulture City began to appear in the plaza.

  "Know who it is, Marshal?" Solomon Garth stood on the steps of his store.

  "Yeah. It's Barnabas Donovan."

  Havelock knelt by the fallen man. Blood spread from under his right shoulder, mixing with the dust. He put the muzzle of his rifle to the base of Donovan's head then laid a finger to the artery in his neck—strong, steady pulse.

  "Pappy!"

  At Havelock's shout, jailer Pappy Holmes stuck his head out the door of the marshal's office.

  "Get that 10-gauge Greener and get out here."

  A moment later, the old man stood by Havelock. He peered at the unconscious outlaw, both hammers of the wicked sawed-off double-barreled shotgun cocked.

  "Hey!" A cry came from the bullion room. "Judd and the super are dead!"

  For an instant, Havelock saw a blackened body swinging from the ironwood hanging-tree and the death smell cloyed in his nostrils. He'd tried to stop the last lynching—a young drifter—but either the mob had been too much, or Havelock had not been enough. The boy hung there for three days while Havelock nursed his pride in the jail and the miners laughed at the half-breed marshal who couldn't stand up to their mobs.

  Unless he moved fast, Donovan too would swing from the hanging tree. Havelock's tongue licked over his thin, dry lips, but didn't leave much moisture behind. He scanned the crowd for someone he could trust. Tom Morgan, huge and black, stood near Garth's store. He owed Havelock for Santa Fe.

  "Tom Morgan," Havelock called.

  Morgan moved through the crowd, his face impassive.

  "Help Pappy get this body into the jailhouse, if you would."

  Morgan nodded. He shifted his Ballard .50 so it hung beneath his left armpit, muzzle down. Havelock took the Greener shotgun from Pappy, who moved to grab the outlaw's knees. Morgan motioned him away. He picked up the unconscious body in his great arms as if it were a child and carried it into the jailhouse.

  "Wil Jacks."

  "Right here, Marshal."

  "We're going to need nine good horses, Wilford. Make one of them my grulla. And saddle Tom Morgan's mule, if you please."

  Jacks hurried off.

  Havelock turned to the angry crowd. He took a deep brea
th, and scowled to hide his unease. "All right, I want those killers worse than you do. We've got one, and we'll get the others. I want eight men to go with me and Tom Morgan."

  Almost everyone clamored to go, but a few hung back, not willing to ride out with a 'breed and a black. God. It seemed like every time he proved himself, he had to turn around and do it all over again.

  Havelock raised his hand. The crowd quieted.

  "Benson, Dailey, Decker, Smythe, Foggarty, Swenson, Carson, Mills. Hold up your right hands. Do you swear to uphold the law? You're deputies. Meet me in front of the jail in five minutes. We'll probably be gone for a couple of days. Be ready."

  The men broke and ran to prepare.

  "What's this about a dead man?"

  Havelock didn't answer. He started walking toward the jail across the plaza. Though his left knee was stiff, his pace was swift. Doc Withers had to trot to keep up.

  "What's your hurry? The jail isn't afire, and that man's dead, isn't he?"

  "No."

  Doc Withers stuttered, but didn't stop.

  Havelock slammed the door after them when they entered the marshal's office. Pappy held the Greener dead center on Havelock's chest, and Morgan stood with his Ballard .50 rifle halfway to his shoulder.

  "Most folks knock afore they come a-bustin' in," Pappy said. He released the hammers on the shotgun and leaned it against Havelock's scarred wooden desk.

  "Where's Donovan?" Havelock asked.

  Pappy waved a hand toward the cells in the rear. "Still out. First cell."

  "Come on, Doc."

  Donovan stirred as Havelock and Doc Withers entered the cell. The doctor felt his pulse and nodded. "No problem with this man," he said. "Heartbeat like a horse's." The doc continued his examination. "Got a fair-sized knot on his head. But he's just unconscious. Now, let's have a look at that wound."

  Havelock's bullet had ripped a deep gash beneath Donovan's right arm. It had bled a lot, but wasn't life-threatening.

  Doc Withers stitched the wound and dressed it. As he straightened up, Donovan mumbled. "Whass goin' on?"

  The doctor cast a caustic look at Donovan. "Let me see. You're dead, and I'm Saint Peter. God and I have been discussing whether to send you to Hell now or put it off a while so the Devil can get some rest."

  Doc snapped his black bag closed. "Havelock, let me out of here."

  Havelock opened the cell door.

  Donovan opened his eyes and watched the doctor leave.

  "Donovan."

  The outlaw looked at the marshal.

  "Two men are dead in the bullion room across the way. I'm gonna see you swing for that."

  Donovan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before replying. "I've killed no one," he said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if talking made his head hurt.

  "The hell you say."

  "Look at my gun. I've not fired it."

  "Pappy. Bring me Donovan's rig."

  The Greener appeared first, hammers cocked, followed by Pappy's relief-map face. He held out Donovan's fancy tooled-leather rig. Havelock pulled the bone-handled Smith & Wesson from the holster. He broke the gun open. The cylinder held five live bullets. The hammer had rested on an empty chamber.

  Donovan's voice took on a sarcastic edge. "Well, boy. Tell me. How did I kill anyone without firing my gun?" he said.

  "Don't push it, Donovan. When I get through with you, you'll wish you were up for murder." Havelock's ears burned at Donovan's calling him "boy," but he wheeled on his good leg and strode back into the office.

  Tom Morgan waited, ready to ride. Sounds outside said the posse was restless. Havelock tucked a trap-door Springfield rifle under his arm and picked up a box of .45-70 cartridges. He stepped out of the marshal's office, with Morgan a half-pace behind, then stuffed the Springfield into its saddle scabbard and the shells into the off-side saddlebag.

  Havelock mounted his slate-gray, grulla mustang from that same off-side. His game left knee prevented him from mounting a horse in the usual way. "Listen up," Havelock shouted. "Two good men died today. And the mine's out a sight of gold. Now those thieves have a fifteen-minute start on us, but we can catch them. Morgan, lead out."

  The posse thundered into the unforgiving desert that surrounded Vulture City.

  * * * * *

  Morgan tracked as well as any Apache. And the outlaws, with their two mules, left a trail even a tenderfoot could follow. The hoofprints led south toward the juncture of the Hassayampa and Gila rivers.

  The posse rode under the brassy sky for two hours before Havelock called a halt to rest and water the horses. The men sipped sparingly from their canteens and swabbed the horses' mouths with wet bandannas. The posse stood silent, waiting for Havelock to speak. He sensed their trust, and vowed not to let them down. Wasn't often a Cherokee half-breed got respect.

  "Where d'ya think they're headed, Tom?"

  The black man shrugged. He hunkered down, picked up a dry mesquite twig, and sketched a rough map.

  "This here's the Hassayampa. If they keep on going like this, they'll hit the big bend of the Gila, right here."

  Morgan's twig drew a rough S for the Gila River and a crooked line for the Hassayampa, which ran into the Gila at the top left-hand curve of the S.

  "Them rowdies could be headed for Dixie, but I can't see that town giving them much of a welcome. They could be going to Surprise Well, east and south of Woolsey Butte. And they could strike out for the Bosque Wood camp over across the Hassayampa. Now, that's what I figure they'll do, so they can cross the ford that lies just above the old Richards place."

  Morgan paused and chewed on the twig. "Havelock, I don't like the way them Mexes shuffled they trail here. They up to no good. Count on it."

  Havelock nodded. "You're probably right. We'd better cover our bets. You know where Surprise Well is. Take four men to hit Surprise. I'll take the others and cover Richards Crossing. Either way, we're bound to get them. But keep your eyes peeled."

  "I'll do it."

  The posse mounted up.

  "Benson. Decker. Mills. Swenson. You four go with Morgan to Surprise Well. Benson, you're in charge. If they go that way, you get 'em." Havelock made it look like the white man was the leader. Morgan understood.

  "Rest of you, ride with me. Let's cut those killers off at Richards Crossing. Move out!"

  Havelock and his men pushed their mounts hard, and when they topped the rise on the west bank of the Hassayampa, they saw the Mexicans leading two pack mules up the far side of Richards Crossing.

  The marshal piled off his grulla with the trap-door Springfield in his hands. He'd sighted in the rifle for five hundred yards. The outlaws were at least that far and moving away. Havelock bellied down, using his forearms to brace the heavy rifle. He held high, led his target, and gently touched off the big .45-70 slug. He'd reloaded by the time the report died away. As he turned the sights on the second outlaw, the first threw his arms wide and tumbled from his mount.

  The Springfield roared again. A moment later, the second outlaw's horse stumbled and went down. The rider lit on his feet and ran toward a brush-filled arroyo.

  "Now that's shooting," Reb Carson declared.

  "Get that man!" Havelock roared.

  The four posse-men plunged their mounts down the embankment, splashed through the shallow Hassayampa, and struck out after the fleeing outlaw. The mules stopped and began cropping grass along the riverbank. They ignored the shooting and shouting.

  Havelock shoved the Springfield into its scabbard, mounted the grulla, and walked him across the river. The Mexican lay face up, one eye open and staring. The other half of his face had exploded when the Springfield's big slug exited through his right cheekbone. Still, Havelock recognized Innocente Valenzuela from the wanted posters. The one in the arroyo would be Francisco. The brothers stuck together, the dodgers said.

  Havelock reined the mouse-colored, grulla gelding toward the grazing mules. He dismounted, wrested a bullion box from the first mule, and laid
it on the waist-high riverbank. He used the steel-plated butt of the Springfield to bang the lock off the bullion box, hasp, and all. He lifted the lid.

  This box, too, was full of slim golden bars.

  * * * * *

  A tired, dusty posse rode in just past noon, twenty-four hours after the Vulture Mine robbery. When the riders turned the corner, a new hangman's noose dangled from the biggest branch of the tough old ironwood. Pappy Holmes stood by the jailhouse door with the sawed-off Greener in the crook of his arm. Havelock smelled trouble, and his stomach tightened.

  "Where's Morgan?" Pappy's rough voice sounded hot and dry as the desert.

  "Sent him after Francisco Valenzuela. The Mexican got away."

  Wearily, Havelock swung down from the slate grulla. "Thanks, boys," he said. "Foggarty, take that gold over to the bullion room, would you?"

  "Sure, Marshal."

  "Benson, you and Smythe can help him unload."

  The three men rode across the plaza with the two pack mules and their six bullion-boxes. The other five waited for Havelock's orders.

  "That's all boys. Thanks. Oh, Dailey. Can you take my crowbait over to Wil at the livery? Much obliged."

  The burly rider leaned down for the grulla's reins.

  "We're ready to go out again, Marshal, anytime you say. Judd and the super was good men. And we only got two of them what did it."

  "That's good to know, Dailey. Thanks." Havelock's gratitude was real. How many half-breeds could get that kind of co-operation? And it had been a long time coming too. He limped into his office, slumped into the chair, and put his game left leg up on the desk. "Donovan give you any trouble?" he asked.

  Pappy squinted at Havelock. He held the 10-gauge Greener like he never wanted to put it down. "No. Donovan ain't no trouble. It's them law-abidin' townsfolk as wants to hang him 'at's giving me trouble."

  "How'd they find out he's alive?"