by Chuck Tyrell
Halfbreed Law
A Havelock Novel
by Chuck Tyrell
Halfbreed Law by Chuck Tyrell
Copyright© 2016 Chuck Tyrell
Cover Design Livia Reasoner
Sundown Press
www.sundownpress.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
1
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 packed with twenty bars were stacked against the sides of the pit in the floor of the bullion room at Vulture Mine headquarters. The iron grate that covered the pit stood open, leaning on the far wall. Ralph Judd was carefully laying another ingot in a new box. The superintendent, Harry Chambers, sat at a table made out of old dynamite crates in the back room, jotting entries in the ledger.
An explosion rocked the face of the Vulture Mine, half a mile away.
Marshal Garet Havelock burst from his office, running with a stiff awkward stride toward the mine, a Winchester .44-40 clutched in his left hand.
At that same moment, three men walked into the bullion room, guns in hand.
"Don't move!"
Judd froze, hands above his head. He looked at each outlaw carefully so he could describe them later, when Marshal Havelock asked.
The leader was a white man, over six feet tall, shoulders so broad they filled the doorway. The eyes under the dirty felt hat were red-rimmed, cold blue, and commanding.
The other two looked like Mexicans, alike enough to be twins. But Judd never had the chance to find out.
Harry Chambers stepped out of the back room and slammed the grate down over the bullion pit. Judd leaped for the padlock, trying 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’s 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 said.
The two Mexicans ignored his unspoken disapproval of the shootings.
The trio quickly hauled the bullion from the pit and loaded it on two pack mules tethered outside. Four boxes went in canvas pouches strapped to the sides of the packsaddles. They lashed the remaining two to the forks, hurriedly, but well.
"Move!" shouted the leader as he turned back into the bullion room for the ingots on Judd's desk. 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 shots from the bullion room told Garet Havelock the explosion was a decoy. Someone was stealing Vulture City’s gold. He'd run nearly half-a-mile from his office, and now, if he couldn't stiff-leg it back soon enough, bandits would make off with his town's gold.
He was still a quarter-of-a-mile away when he saw two of the three bandits ride off, leading the pack mules. But the big man went back into the bullion room.
The breath tore at Havelock's chest. He jacked a shell into the chamber of the .44-40 as he got closer.
The big outlaw ran from the bullion room, threw a pair of saddlebags across the skirt of his rig, and leaped into the saddle.
Havelock was still two hundred yards off. He went down on one knee. "Halt!" he roared.
The outlaw reined his horse around. It reared, and he stared at Havelock, unafraid. He tilted his head back and laughed. The sound echoed from the stone walls of the buildings around the plaza. Havelock had heard that mocking laugh before, during darker times, and it brought 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 face down. The startled mount raced for the trail, saddlebags jouncing.
Havelock jacked a new cartridge into his rifle the moment the first shot was on its way. He waited, rifle to cheek, for the downed outlaw to move. The man lay still.
Slowly Havelock stood, his rifle held ready. He walked toward the body, but by the time he reached it, citizens of Vulture City were appearing in the plaza.
Solomon Garth stood on the steps of his store, only two doors down from the bullion room. "Know who it is, marshal?"
"Yeah. It's Barnabas Donovan."
Havelock knelt by the fallen outlaw. Blood spread from under his right shoulder. Putting the muzzle of his rifle to the base of Donovan's head, Havelock laid a finger on the artery in his neck—strong, steady pulse.
"Pappy!"
At Havelock's shout, Pappy Holmes, the jailer, stuck his head out of the door of the marshal’s office.
"Get that 10-gauge Greener and come on out here."
In less than a minute, the old man stood by Havelock, looking down at the unconscious outlaw. Both hammers of the wicked, sawed-off shotgun were at full cock.
"Hey!" The shout came from inside the bullion room. "Judd and the super are dead! Those jaspers killed them."
Havelock knew he'd have to move fast, or another man would swing from the gnarled ironwood tree that stood next to the jail. He quickly scanned the crowd, looking for one particular man. There he was, huge and black, standing in front of Garth's store.
"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 that it hung by a strap, muzzle down, beneath his left armpit. Havelock took the Greener shotgun from Pappy, who moved to grab the outlaw's knees, but Morgan motioned him away. He picked up the unconscious body up in his great arms as if it were no more than a child. The black man raised an eyebrow at the life in the body, but he carried it into the jailhouse without a word.
"Wil Jacks."
The livery stable owner stepped forward. “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 toward the livery corral.
Havelock turned to the angry crowd. "Okay. I want those men worse than any of you do. We've got one, and we can get the rest.
I want eight men to go with me and Tom Morgan."
Almost every man immediately clamored to go. Havelock raised his hand and the crowd quieted.
"Benson, Dailey, Decker, Smythe, Foggarty, Swenson, Carson, Mills. You are now deputies. Meet me in front of the jail in five minutes. We could be gone for a couple of days. Be ready."
The men broke and ran to prepare.
"What's this about a dead man?" Doc Withers fit his name. Small, but spry, he had a backbone that wouldn't bend for Goliath. Usually, his eyes twinkled—but right now, they were dead serious.
Havelock didn't answer. He just started for the jail across the plaza. Though his left knee was a bit stiff, his pace was swift. The doctor 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. After they entered the marshal’s office, Havelock slammed the door shut. Pappy held the Greener dead center on Havelock's chest, and Morgan stood with his Ballard .50 halfway to his shoulder.
"Most folks knock afore they come a bustin' in a place," Pappy said. He released the hammers on the shotgun and leaned it against Havelock's scarred wooden desk.
"Where's Donovan?"
"Still out. First cell."
"Come on, Doc."
Donovan stirred restlessly as Havelock and Doc Withers entered the cell. The doctor felt his pulse and nodded. "No problem with this man," he said. "He's got the pulse of a horse." 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 along Donovan's side beneath his right arm. It had bled a lot, but wasn’t life-threatening. Doc Withers quickly stitched the wound and dressed it. As he straightened up, Donovan mumbled. "Whass goin’ on?"
The doctor cast a caustic look in Donovan’s direction. "Let me see. You're dead, and I'm Saint Peter. God and I have been talking about whether to send you to Hell now or put it off a while so the Devil can get some rest." Doc stuffed his instruments back in the black bag and snapped it closed. "Garet, let me out of here."
Havelock opened the cell door. Donovan's eyes followed the doctor out.
"Donovan."
The outlaw turned his gaze on the marshal.
"Two men are dead in the bullion room across the way. I'm gonna see that you swing for that."
Donovan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before replying. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if words made his head hurt. "I've killed no one."
"The hell you say."
"Look at my six-shooter. I've not fired it."
"Pappy. Bring me Donovan's rig."
The Greener appeared first, both hammers cocked. Then came Pappy's relief-map face. He held out Donovan's fancy leather rig. Havelock pulled the bone-handled Smith & Wesson .45 from the holster. The ammunition would probably fit the rifle Havelock had seen in a saddle scabbard on Donovan's horse. He broke the revolver open and looked at its loads. Five bullets in the cylinder. None had been fired. The hammer had rested on an empty chamber.
A sarcastic edge came to Donovan’s voice. "Well, boy. Tell me. How did I kill those men 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 there, ready to ride. Sounds from outside said the posse was restless and anxious to go. Havelock tucked a Sharps sliding block rifle under his arm and picked up a box of .45-70 cartridges. He stepped out of the jail with Morgan a half pace behind. He stuffed the Sharps in the saddle scabbard and the shells in his off-side saddlebag. Then he mounted his slate-gray grulla mustang from that same off side. With a game knee, he couldn’t mount a horse in the usual way.
"Listen up," Havelock shouted. "Two good men died today. And the town's out a sight of gold. Now those thieves’ve got a fifteen-minute start on us, but we can catch them. Morgan, lead out."
The posse moved 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 place to cross when the water was high.
The posse, leather-tough Arizona men who'd been over the desert many times, 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 was silent, waiting for Havelock to say something. He could sense their trust, and vowed to himself not to let them down. Wasn’t often a Cherokee half-breed got respect.
"Where d'ya think they're headed, Tom?"
The big black man shrugged. He hunkered down on the sand, picked up a dry mesquite twig, and sketched a rough map.
"This here's the Hassayampa. If they keep on going the way they heading, they gonna hit the big bend of the Gila, right here." The twig struck a rough S for the Gila, and drew a crooked line for the Hassayampa that joined the Gila at the top lefthand curve.
"Them rowdies could be headed for Dixie, but I cain't see the miners in that town giving them much of a welcome. They could be going to Surprise Well, just east and south of Woolsey Butte. Pretty empty out there. Or, they could be headed for the Bosque wood camp over across the Hassayampa. That's what I'd do. They'll probably ford just above the old Richards place." Morgan paused and chewed on the twig. "Havelock I don’t like the way the Mexes shuffled they trail here. They up to no good. Count on it."
Havelock nodded. "You’re probably right, but we'd better cover our bets. You know right where Surprise Well is, so you take four men and I'll take four. I'll cover Richards Crossing. You hit Surprise Well. Either way, we’re bound to get them. But keep your eyes peeled."
"I will do that."
The posse mounted up.
"Benson. Decker. Mills. Carson. 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!"
The two groups rode off at right angles to each other.
****
Havelock and his men pushed their mounts hard for the better part of two hours, 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 Sharps already in his hand. He’d sighted in the long gun for 500 yards. The outlaws were at least that far away, and moving fast.
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 had died away. As he turned the sights on the second outlaw, the first threw his arms wide and tumbled from his mount.
The Sharps roared again. A moment later, the other 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 horses down the embankment, splashed through the shallow Hassayampa, and struck out after the fleeing outlaw. The mules stopped and began cropping grass along the east bank of the river. They ignored the shooting and the shouting.
Havelock shoved the Sharps back into its scabbard, mounted the grulla, and walked him across the river and up to the body of the first outlaw. The Mexican lay face up, one eye open and staring. The other half of his face had exploded as the big slug from the Sharps exited through his right cheekbone. Still, Havelock recognized Innocente Valenzuela from the wanted posters in his office. The one in the arroyo would
be Francisco. The brothers stuck together, the dodgers said.
Havelock reined the grulla gelding over toward the grazing mules. The bullion boxes weighed about thirty pounds apiece, so it was a two-handed job to get one off a mule and up on the waist-high bank of the Hassayampa. He pulled the Sharps from its saddle scabbard and used its steel-plated butt to bang the lock off the bullion box, hasp and all. He lifted the lid. It was full of slim golden bars.
****
A tired, dusty posse rode back just after noon, twenty-four hours after the robbery of Vulture City's gold. When the riders turned the corner, a hangman's noose dangled from the biggest branch of the tough old ironwood. Pappy Holmes stood by the jailhouse door with the Greener in the crook of his arm. Havelock smelled trouble. His stomach tightened.
"Where's Morgan?" Pappy's rough voice sounded as hot and dry as the desert itself.
"Sent him after the other Mexican. Francisco Valenzuela got away." Wearily, Havelock swung down from the grulla.
"Thanks, boys. Foggarty, take that gold over to the bullion room, would you?"
"Sure, Marshal."
"Benson, you and Smythe can help unload."
The three men rode across the plaza with the two pack mules and their six bullion boxes. The other five waited for Havelock to release them.
"That's all men. Thanks. Oh, Dailey. Can you take my horse 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 that did it."
"That's good to know, Dailey. Thanks." Havelock’s gratitude was real. How many half-breeds would get that kind of cooperation? 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?"
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' folks out there who wants to hang him 'ats giving me trouble."
"How'd they find out he's alive?"
