Halfbreed Law: A Havelock Novel

by Chuck Tyrell

  "May I ask your name, Captain?" said Garet. "I'd like to know who killed me."

  "As the frontiersmen say, you have sand, boy." The captain’s smile failed to reach his eyes. He lifted the muzzle of the Dragoon to the brim of his campaign hat in a mocking salute. "My name is Donovan. Barnabas Donovan. My friends call me Buzz."

  The captain lowered the Dragoon, took careful aim, and shot Garet in the left knee.

  ****

  Now, pain woke Havelock. His ruined left knee throbbed as it always did when he went too long and too hard without enough rest. Dimly, the clanking of the old piano at the Carrion Saloon penetrated Havelock's murky mind. The inside of his mouth tasted of old brass. The backs of his eyeballs burned. The sockets felt full of grit. The odor of sweat and dust reminded him he had not washed before going to sleep.

  Havelock straightened his leg. The brace squeaked. Have to tallow that, he thought. With the leg straightened out, the throbbing dulled. Havelock released his pent-up breath and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, and slipped on a pair of soft elk-hide moccasins. He put one hand on the wall to steady himself and lunged to his feet.

  He lit a coal oil lamp with a lucifer. A basin and porcelain pitcher of water stood on the commode at the end of the room. Havelock limped over, poured the basin full, and plunged his face into it, splashing the water up around his neck as well. The water was lukewarm, but it cut the dust he'd not washed away before going to sleep.

  Havelock picked up the steel razor on the shelf above the commode and stropped it on the leather strip that hung by the cracked mirror. Critically, he examined the growth on his dark face. His hair was black with just a hint of curl and just a touch of gray at the temples. The desert sun had scored crow's feet in the corners of his eyes, and pain borne had slashed deep furrows from the corners of his nose to the edges of his wide, firmly set mouth. Swift strokes of the razor cleaned his sparse whiskers from his square, tight jaw, and a couple more removed them from the flat plains of his cheeks. Havelock laid down the razor and picked up a pair of small sharp scissors. He carefully trimmed his full moustache. It, too, was black, with a sprinkling of gray.

  He untied the red bandanna from his throat and took off his shirt. With a towel, dipped in the basin and wrung out, he wiped the dust and grime from his muscular torso, pausing once at the puckered scar just below his right collarbone and again at the long one that ran from his left nipple a good twelve inches down toward the point of his left hip. Sherman's boys hadn't gone lightly with either bayonet or musket ball.

  Havelock continued his toilet, his movements reminiscent of a lithe puma, except for the brace of leather and steel that served him in lieu of a left kneecap. It was his own design and skillfully made. It supported his joint, allowing it to bend forward but preventing it from buckling backward, just as a real kneecap would do. The brace did a lot to compensate for Havelock's bum knee, but as many an outlaw could vouch, Garet Havelock with a bum knee was as good a lawman as any other marshal in Arizona. People spoke of Garet Havelock in the same breath as they spoke of Commodore Perry Owens, Texas John Slaughter, and Billy Breckenridge.

  The marshal pulled on his dark brown trousers, donned a shield-front shirt, tied a black silk kerchief around his neck, and strode through the thick door into the office. It was empty.

  He buckled his gun belt on, then trimmed the smoking lamp. As he straightened up, he heard Pappy's clumping steps approaching the door. The latch lifted and the old man thrust himself into the room. Immediately the smell of beef and beans filled the jailhouse.

  "Is that provender I smell?" Donovan's hearty shout came through the thick oak door.

  "It's coming. Just hold your horses." Pappy cast a baleful eye at Havelock and took the prisoner's supper to his cell.

  When he came back into the office, Pappy said, "Jase over to the Carrion said to tell you that Hunter's awake and talking."

  "I was just going to eat anyway. I'll drop by on my way." Havelock plucked his Stetson from the hat rack, picked up the sawed-off shotgun, and walked out into the desert night.

  The marshal opened the door only wide enough to let his lithe six-foot frame through. He quietly took a long step back and to his right, into the shadow thrown by the eaves. There he paused, silently, until his eyes completely adjusted to the night.

  Only the desert could give a man nights like this. The full moon bathed everything in soft silver, concealing the harshness by which the fittest survived by day. Off to the west, the Big Horn Mountains were a dark shadow against the indigo of the sky. Above, stars glittered just out of reach of the outstretched hand. On the air wafted the acrid scent of hardy desert growth: mesquite, ironwood, ocotillo, yucca, and prickly pear.

  Havelock took a deep breath. He stepped into the street, shotgun in the crook of his right arm. Three paces out, he paused. Slowly his eyes searched the shadows down the plaza to his left—carefully, patiently, looking for anything out of place, any flicker of movement that didn't fit the familiar pattern of Vulture City's slumber.

  Down the other side of the plaza went Havelock's sharp gaze. The reveling inside the Carrion registered only faintly on his consciousness. The same was true with the pool of light in front of the Golden Skillet. His relentless eyes switched from lighted window to shadowed door to dark alley, all the way to the entrance of the Vulture Mine. Every feature of the town was engraved on his brain. Anything out of place set his nerves on edge. This night, all was normal, at least for Vulture City.

  A smile played across Havelock's sharp-planed face. Tough and wild as this town was, it was his. He belonged. Water might be wrestled forty miles across the desert from the Hassayampa River, but when you were part of the town, that dollar-a-gallon mud was better than the sparkling water from any artesian well in the world.

  Havelock settled his flat-crowned hat on his head and strode toward the Carrion.

  Inside, Jase Bachman led the marshal to a room at the back of the saloon. Hunter lay there on a bed too small for his great body. His trousers were missing a leg and the trunk-like appendage that protruded was swathed in bandages from shin to crotch.

  "Howdy, Garet." The big miner grinned sheepishly.

  "How ya feeling, Hunter?"

  "Looks like I'm gonna live. Something I wasn't too sure of earlier on today. Doc Withers says it'll take a long time to get back on my feet. Says you'd know something about that."

  Know a hell of a lot more than I want to tell. Havelock thought back over the year and a half he’d had to use crutches to get around. "Yeah, I know," he muttered. "But I didn't come over here to swap yarns with you. I came to offer you a job."

  A man could have driven a twenty-mule team into Hunter's open mouth. Here a man he'd set out to run over not twelve house ago was offering him a job. Finally he managed to stutter, "J-j-job? How? I mean, er, what? I can't do nothing stove up like this."

  "One thing about wounds, the more you use your body, the faster they heal. I want you to guard Donovan. I'll set up a bed in the other cell and you can sleep there. With a shotgun for company. Someone comes in without singing out, you shoot first and find out who it is later."

  The bearded miner stared at Havelock for a full minute. Then he threw back his massive head and laughed. "By God! I'll do it, Garet Havelock. And damn me if I don't."

  "Figured you would. Now I can rest easy with you and Pappy on the job." Havelock walked to the door. "I'll expect you at the jail in the morning," he said as he went out. "Your pay's thirty a month and found."

  Hunter grinned. "I'll be there, even if I have to crawl."

  3

  The stage connecting Prescott and Phoenix came through Vulture City only twice a week. Still, letters were better off on the mail stage than sent by rider. A lone rider was often too tempting to wandering Apaches. Most of the time, they left the stages alone. White men were the ones who gave the stages trouble. Seemed like there was a holdup every other week. Wells Fargo even talked about refusing to carry Vulture City's gol
d at all.

  Pappy and Havelock had just gotten Hunter's cell-home set up when the stage rumbled into the plaza.

  "Straighten things up a bit, Pappy. I'll go see if the judge is on the stage. It's that time of the month."

  Pappy's retort scorched Havelock's ears as he walked through the door into the office.

  The marshal stepped into the blazing morning. His squinting black eyes automatically swept the plaza. The stage was pulled up in front of Vulture City Mine headquarters. Wil Jacks was leading a new team of four powerful horses toward the stage. Twenty miles across scorching dry desert was all one team could take.

  A shrill rebel yell split the air and the batwing doors of the Carrion burst outward. Hunter stood there with his arms over the shoulders of Reb Carson and Vernon Mills. Sweat rolled down his pale face, but there was a huge smile on his lips. "Garet Havelock," he roared. "Here I come."

  "I see you, Timothy Hunter," Havelock roared back. "You're late." The marshal turned back toward the jail and opened the door.

  "Let's go." Hunter gave his human crutches a nudge. He kept his injured leg off the ground, walking across the plaza on his good foot. The effort drove perspiration from his body in streams. But he stood before Garet Havelock straight and proud.

  "Marshal, I'm reporting for duty." He thrust out his big right hand.

  Havelock gripped the proffered hand. "Come on, then. Start earning your pay." The marshal took Mills's place at Hunter's left and helped Reb Carson get the big man into his new barred abode.

  They settled him on the bed where he sank back for a long minute. Then he heaved his massive torso up and leaned his bulk against the wall.

  "Marshal! Where's that shotgun you promised me?"

  "Right here, you rowdy scoundrel. One thing you'd better learn and learn good. They's only one boss in this here jail, and that's me. John Frederick Holmes, also known as Pappy. Take your weapon." The old man's voice sounded stern, but his face wore a wide smile. He tossed the shotgun at Hunter.

  "Hey!" The big man barely managed to catch the deadly gun. "Be careful with that shotgun, will you?"

  Pappy ignored him. "Now, if you'll tell me what kinda cat'ridge you want, you can get that thing loaded and start doing some good around here."

  Hunter cleared his throat. "Give me half slugs and half BB shot," he said quietly.

  Pappy brought a handful of each.

  Havelock spoke. "Hunter, Donovan's got to stay here until the circuit judge comes around. Now there's certain types out there that want him. Some wants to stretch his neck, others want to get him outta this jail. You'll not let either happen."

  "You can count on me, marshal."

  "I know that. Thing is, if we're to get that hundred grand of bullion back, we gotta keep Donovan alive and behind bars. Like I said before, if anyone besides me or Pappy comes through that door or window, you let loose with the shotgun. We'll ask questions after we clean up the mess."

  Havelock added one more comment as he left the cell block. "Hunter, exercise is good for a wound. So is sleep. You exercise as much as you can. Pull yourself up by the bars. Walk around. But don't you sleep a wink unless you've told Pappy or me first. Hear?"

  "Marshal, I've been called a lot of things, but I ain't never been called lazy. And I'm a man of my word. My old man always told me that a man's name is only as good as his word. You'll not find a better name around here than Timothy Hunter. Now you old mother hens get out of here and let a man do his job!"

  In the far cell, Donovan watched the proceedings with a shadow of a smile on his face. At Hunter's last speech, he chuckled out loud. But he didn't say a word.

  As the two men who helped Hunter across the plaza started to leave, Havelock stopped them with a word. "Boys. I thank you for getting Hunter over here. Does a man good to know he's got friends he can count on."

  Reb Carson turned, his long hatchet face dead serious. "Garet Havelock, there was a time I didn't think much of you and your ways. Seemed to me you went all hard inside after that boy got lynched. You had no give a'tall. But let me tell you, givin' Hunter a job after he led us crazies across the plaza at you...man, that shines." Reb blushed under his desert-tanned skin. He'd already said more than he'd ordinarily say in a full month. "Anyway," he mumbled, "if you ever need a hand, just holler. I'm pretty fair with a horse and a gun. I'll ride out again anytime you say." The effort of making such a long speech was too much for the Texan. He fled across the plaza and into the Carrion, no doubt to bolster his courage with some liquid.

  "You done a right thing with Hunter, Garet," Pappy said.

  "He'll have to earn his pay, Pappy."

  Havelock changed the subject. "Tom Morgan's not back yet. That means Francisco Valenzuela is better that I thought, or Morgan's dead, or maybe both. I don't like it. Not one bit."

  "Just you simmer down, marshal. Tom Morgan's as good as they come on the trail. It would take a heap of hombre to kill him."

  Still, Havelock could not shake the uneasy feeling. All day it plagued him. His eyes kept going to the skyline, even though he knew Morgan would never outline himself against the sky. Nothing stirred. No breeze. No animal. No bird. No tell-tale dust sent skyward by an oncoming rider. No Tom Morgan.

  Night brought no relief. Havelock paced his town with dogged strides, but his every sense strained toward the desert.

  But nothing came in out of the darkness.

  Long after midnight, the marshal slept. He'd fallen exhausted upon his bed without even removing his boots. His dreams were fitful. He didn't seem to be able to get a hold on them. But a huge black form ran through them all, like an unwelcome ghost.

  Dawn came in delicate rose and coral, bathing the rough stone and adobe of Vulture City with a semblance of beauty. Havelock greeted the rising sun from the outer edge of the plaza. His gaze was toward the craggy Big Horn Mountains. Faintly, at the far northern end of the range, he could see Eagle Eye Mountain. Near its crest, a huge hole looked like a round staring eye, whence the mountain's name.

  Carrying his field glasses, Havelock walked behind the jailhouse and up the trail a hundred yards or so to the top of a low hogback. He took the binoculars from their case and slowly and methodically searched the desert. He marked off sections of the land in his mind, then studied each section carefully—first near, then gradually farther and farther away. Then he moved on to the next section.

  Even with all the care he took, he almost missed the smoke. It was a pencil-thin vapor rising straight up into the air. No signal disturbed its ascent. It was on a direct line with Court House Butte on the far side of Centennial Wash. But that smoke could be ten miles away, or it could be thirty.

  Havelock headed back to town on the run. He almost collided with Jacob Garth, the storekeeper's ten-year-old son, as he turned the corner into the plaza.

  "Jake," Havelock shouted. "Do me a favor. Run and tell Wil Jacks to saddle up my buckskin horse. Water him good and bring him over to the jail with grain for three days in a gunnysack. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, sir, marshal! Be back in a jif." The boy ran off to do the marshal's errand. Havelock turned to more urgent matters. That smoke was no accident. It meant something. And Garet Havelock knew it was up to him to find out what that meaning was.

  "Pappy," he called as he walked through the doorway.

  A grunt answered him from the cellblock.

  "I'll be gone for a day or two. See that you and Hunter keep your eyes peeled."

  Concern sounded in the old man's voice. "Garet. Don't you go do nothing foolish."

  "There's a smoke going up between here and Court House Butte. It's no campfire. And it's not Apache. More than likely, it means trouble. I'll ride with both eyes wide open."

  Havelock tucked a snub-nosed pistol into the small of his back where his vest covered it. He slipped a sheathed Bowie knife onto the left side of his gun belt. It hung over his left hip pocket. Another knife slid into a sheath sewn inside his right boot.

  A pair of saddlebag
s hung over a peg at the back of the office. Havelock plucked them off and walked into his room. There, he took two pair of moccasins: one soft and ankle-high, the other rawhide-soled and knee-length, Apache in design. He stuffed them into the saddlebags. A change of linen also went in, along with an extra Colt's revolver and a two-shot Derringer, .41 caliber.

  Havelock shouted for Pappy again.

  "You don't have to yell. I'm right here in the office."

  "Sorry. Would you walk down to Horn Stalker's place and see if you can get me a couple of pounds of that bighorn sheep jerky he usually has around? Pick up some corn meal and chili at Jose Mendez's and hot-foot it back, would you?"

  "Sure, Garet." The old man was unusually subdued. Ordinarily he'd scream for a solid week at being asked to run an errand.

  Havelock threw the saddlebags on the desk. He unlocked the gun cabinet and took out a box of .44-40 shells. He filled the empty loops of his gun belt from the box and dumped the rest in the saddlebag that held his linen. He took off his hat and slipped five more shells into loops sewn into the crown. Insurance. Havelock was nothing if not careful. When he left to ride the desert, he wanted to be ready for whatever came.

  Waiting for Pappy to return, Havelock cleaned and oiled his pistol and the long-barreled Winchester saddle gun.

  "Marshal?"

  Havelock looked up to see Jake Garth standing in the open door.

  "I brung your horse," he said. "The buckskin, like you said, marshal." The boy grinned.

  "Let's have a look." Havelock heaved himself to his feet and let the boy lead him through the door. The buckskin stood hip-shot at the hitching rack. He didn't look happy about leaving his soft touch at the livery stable, but Havelock knew the horse was the best there was out in the desert. At least as good as most desert-bred Apache horses and almost as good as an Apache brave.