by Chuck Tyrell
"I'll make sure you can." Havelock read the disbelief on Donovan's face. "I killed the grandson of old Puma, the Jicarilla Apache chief. They want me bad enough to let you all go free if I surrender."
"Garet! No!" Laura's cry was involuntary. She turned on her half-brothers. "You two may be willing to ride out of here while Marshal Havelock goes over to those heathens, but I'm not. I say we fight. If we last out, fine. If not, we save our last bullets for ourselves." She accented her words by jacking open her Winchester, checking the mechanism, snapping the action shut, wiping off the ejected shell, and reinserting it into the magazine. Without another word, Laura Donovan returned to the mouth of the cave to stand watch, her mouth set in a firm line of resolve.
"They're not going to kill me, Laura," said Havelock.
She stopped, a question in her eyes.
"They are going to let me run. I get a head start and the warriors try to catch me. If I can get away, I am free. If I can't, I'm dead. There is nothing you can do now. I gave my word. But thank you for the thought."
Laura nodded. Something in her eye caught a glint of firelight. It might have been a tear.
"How many horses have you got?"
"Six. And two pack mules." Arch Donovan answered the marshal's question.
"Give Donovan two. He can go wherever he wants. The rest of you go straight to Wickenburg. It's the closest town. You can make it by late tomorrow if you start around midnight.
"How's your water?"
Again, Arch Donovan answered. "There's a spring way back in the cave. Not a heavy flow, but enough to fill the canteens and water the horses before we leave."
"Good." Havelock left preparations to the younger Donovans, brother and sister. He stepped over and hunkered down beside the wounded Yavapai. The Indian lay on his right side, his head cushioned on the crook of his arm. Havelock put a hand to his forehead. It was not as hot as he had feared it would be. The bullet had entered just above the hip and passed out just below the rib cage. If nothing inside was punctured, Horn Stalker would live.
"Can you ride, my brother?"
"I will do what I must, Iron Knee, just as you will. The run against death is no pleasant thing. You may wish to die many times before it is over. Be sly like the desert fox, my friend. And remember. He who runs swiftest does not always win the race. Apaches are a proud people. Sometimes that pride makes them blind. Remember the bighorn. Often, the Apache hunts him. Just as often, he escapes the Apache arrow. You may, too."
Havelock held out his hand, palm up. Horn Stalker clasped it wrist-to-palm in the way of the Yavapai. Havelock stood and turned back to the fire.
"Now. If you'll spare me a chunk of that meat and a spot of that coffee, I'll be in a lot better shape when it comes time to run tomorrow."
Without a word, Donovan cut a large piece of meat from the spitted hunk broiling over the fire and handed it to Havelock, knife and all. He poured a cup of the scalding coffee and handed that to Havelock, too.
Havelock sat on a boulder lying near the wall of the cave and attacked the meat. It tasted good. And as it filled his stomach, he felt his tired muscles reviving. Between bites, he pulled out his big silver watch. Five minutes to eight. I'll sleep 'til midnight, he thought, then eat a little more. Chances are, I won't get a chance to sleep much at the Apache camp.
"Laura," he said, automatically turning to her when he needed something. Somehow, a trust had built up between the two. "I'm going to catch a few winks," he continued. "Would you wake me at midnight, just before you all take off?"
"Surely, Garet."
She'd used his first name again, and it sounded completely natural. As he drifted off, Havelock found himself thinking again…now that there's a woman who'd always be at a man's side, not following along behind.
As he dreamed, he was back in Indian Territory again, tied to a tree with a Yankee captain in blue uniform and knee-high red boots taking careful aim at his left knee. He heard the voice again and again, over and over. It mocked him, saying, "I'm Donovan. Barnabas Donovan. Buzz to my friends." Again, he felt himself cringing as the black powder-propelled pistol ball shattered his left kneecap. In his sleep, he sweated large cold drops of moisture his body could ill afford.
Havelock muttered and groaned as he slept. His tossing brought Laura Donovan to his side. She put a cool hand to his forehead. There was no fever, but the moisture on it had the oily feel of fear. She got a tin of water and a scrap of cloth and began bathing Havelock's face and neck. The cooling effect soon quieted him and he slept peacefully, except for the frown of concentration on his dark face.
While caring for the sleeping marshal, Laura couldn't help but notice the development of his shoulders and arms. Although Havelock was lean, his torso was thick and powerful, thanks in part to Laura's half-brother. More than a year of using his arms and shoulders to propel himself around while limbering up his leg and learning to use it again had given Havelock a strength in his upper body that few men could match.
Havelock woke half an hour before midnight. One moment he was asleep; the next, he was fully awake. No foggy half-sleep in between. In a country like this, a man had to come awake instantly or he might be put to sleep forever.
Slowly, he turned his head to survey the cave. Three forms lay in blankets around the fire, which was flickering its last feeble flames. The inside of the cave was cool, because of the capillary effect of the spring in its inner recesses. From the breath of air stirring, Havelock knew that somewhere far to the rear, a hole led out of the cave. Whether it was big enough for a man to get through, he had no way to tell. Laura Donovan turned over and looked at the marshal. "I see you are awake," she said. "I was just going to rouse you."
"Thanks. I feel a lot better." Havelock rubbed a hand across the sparse stubble on his chin. Except for a trimmed mustache, he was clean-shaven. He didn't like to have a stubble. It made him feel like it was somehow not completely prepared to meet the world.
"You wouldn't have the wherewithal I could shave with, would you?"
"Arch does. I'll get it for you." Laura got up and moved back into the darkness. She had changed back into men's clothes, ready for the ride the Wickenburg. Havelock thought she looked fine. He rose and threw a few sticks of wood on the dying fire. It smoked angrily for a few moments before little tongues of flame started licking at the undersides of the sticks. By the time Laura returned, it was a merry dancing fire, eating greedily at the blackening wood. Havelock had put a tin can of water next to the fire to heat.
"Buzz left," she said softly as she handed him a razor, strop, a bit of soap, and a pocket mirror of the kind often traded to Indians.
Havelock was silent for a time.
"Where did he go?"
"Knowing my older half-brother," she emphasized the "half," "he's headed for California. He'll want to get out of Apache territory before they get his scalp. I'd guess he'll head for Ehrenburg."
"What about the gold?"
"Arch gave him a map. I think you talked that boy into going straight. I think he really is in love with Carrie."
"If he's going straight, he should turn the gold over to Marshal Meade."
"He feels he did nothing but carry it around. The whole thing was Buzz's plan from start to finish."
Again, Havelock was silent for a while. Then he turned on his heel. "Okay. But take my word. It'll come out different in the end. Different than Donovan wants. Different from what he figures. I'll see to that."
Laura didn't move. The sting of Havelock's fierce words was plain on her face. She watched him walk back toward the horses. Only when he was out of sight did she wake the others.
The horses snorted softly at Havelock's approach. He spoke to them softly, reassuring them, and set about preparing them for the journey to Wickenburg. He kept busy, working to help keep his mind off the dawn, Off his coming run. Then, on the spur of the moment, he took a few things from his saddlebag, wrapped them in a spare shirt, and stood on tiptoe to push the bundle up on an o
utcropping ledge. He could still feel the breath of air coming in through the cavern's mouth, bringing the smell of wood smoke with it from the fire.
"Marshal Havelock?" It was Arch Donovan's voice.
"I'm here."
The young man felt his way through the darkness to where Havelock worked at saddling a tall bay mare.
"I'm some kind of fool," he said glumly.
"How's that?"
"Well, I started off on this jaunt figuring to come out rich and get me a spread somewheres. Picking up the governor's daughter was just insurance in case something happened. 'Course, something did happen. You got Buzz. But I never thought I'd be getting a girl like Carrie. Why, she trusts me. Not too many folks full grown would do that. And right now, I kinda feel like any spread I got wouldn't be quite right without that girl."
"You'll have to wait a while. She's not quite of age."
"I can do that."
"Going to be some pack you'll have to carry. You'd have to be ears and mouth for the both of you."
"I know that."
The two men worked in silence after that, neither wanting to say more. Too soon, the canteens were full, the gear stowed, and the horses watered. Havelock started off with the first horse.
"It's not a bad feeling, marshal, being needed. I think I will like being ears and mouth for her." Arch spoke in a low voice, but the sound of determination rang loud in Havelock's ears. It was a feeling he had never tasted. Trusted, yes; needed, no. In a way, the marshal envied the young man.
10
The smell of coffee was strong as he walked back into the main part of the cave. He handed the reins of the horse to Laura and reached for the steaming cup she held out to him.
Horn Stalker was up, sitting cross-legged by the fire. His face was still flushed with fever, but obviously he had more strength. His ageless face was turned toward the mouth of the cave.
"I smell wetness upon the wind," he said. "There will be rain before the sun sets."
"With your predictions, that means a fifty-fifty chance," Havelock said, "but I hope you're right."
The Yavapai did not reply. He merely looked long and deep into Havelock's black eyes. Then he smiled. "Here. Take some of this singed meat. It will give you strength. You cannot run well with only coffee in your belly."
Havelock gnawed at the meat, suddenly finding himself hungry again. Laura dumped a big handful of sliced bacon into a skillet and soon the smell of sizzling food filled the cave. She had also stirred up some biscuits, setting them to roast in a covered Dutch oven. Good thing for the pack mules, Havelock thought, or I'd not be eating so royally this midnight. Only when a man had a pack animal could he carry luxuries like cast-iron Dutch ovens.
Somewhere, Havelock had read that a condemned man eats a hearty meal. He had. The good part of a pound of bacon, two large chunks of broiled antelope, and half a dozen hot biscuits dipped in bacon fat.
There was only one thing left to do before he went back to the Apaches. Havelock walked purposefully over to the horse that carried his saddle and gear. From his saddlebags he took a jar of tallow. Back at the fire, he rolled the left leg of his pants up to expose the brace and ruination of his knee. He heard Laura's gasp as she saw the exploded scar where his kneecap had once been.
Casually, he removed the brace. It was leather and steel, hinged in the center to work with his leg, shafted on each side and wrapped tightly about the leg with six-inch leather bands and a system of laces and buckles.
"Have to grease this thing every now and then or it doesn't move freely," Havelock said. "But I can't walk very well without it, and I certainly can't run that way." He dipped his finger into the tallow and began working it into the leather on the outside, along the steel shafts, and into the hinges.
"Garet. You can't run with that!" Laura's voice was tight with concern. "Come with us. We can be halfway to Wickenburg before they find out you've left."
"No, Laura. I can run. And I've been in tight spots before. As Horn Stalker said, the man who runs swiftest does not always win the race. With a little luck, I'll be able to come calling on you...except I don't know where to find you. Where would I look, anyway?"
Laura colored slightly. "I'll stay at the hotel in Wickenburg until I hear what's happened to you."
"Fine. That's where I'll go calling." Havelock smiled at her.
"Garet?" The name was almost a whisper.
Havelock was strapping his brace back in place. He didn't look up.
Laura knelt beside him and put her cool fingers on the scar of his knee. "Garet. Was it an accident?"
"No, Laura. It was war. At least, done in the name of war. I was tied to a tree at the time. A Yankee captain was very careful to shoot me there. His powder must have been a bit wet because the ball just shattered my kneecap without entering the joint itself."
"Did you ever find out who it was?"
"He told me. He said his name was Donovan. Barnabas Donovan. And that his friends called him Buzz."
Laura stood up, her face white, one hand to her lips. Tears streaked down her cheeks but she made no sound. Havelock finished fastening the brace. As he stood up, she said, "I'm sorry, Garet. So sorry."
Havelock said nothing.
Horn Stalker was mounted, hunched over his pony. Arch Donovan was helping Carrie into the saddle and would soon be swinging up himself. Havelock took the sobbing woman by the elbow and guided her to the off side of his horse.
"Don't worry about me," he said. "You have your work cut out for you getting this bunch through to Wickenburg. Chin up. I'm counting on you."
Though her eyes were full of tears, Laura smiled. She mounted and sat straight in the saddle, "We'll make it, Garet, so help me." She kicked the horse forward, and the group followed: three more dark forms in their saddles, the last leading the two pack mules.
Within minutes, the hoofbeats faded into the deadness of night.
Garet Havelock carefully banked the fire and then turned to walk away, down the slope toward the Apache camp. With the dawn, he would be running for his life.
****
Havelock hadn't walked two hundred yards before two Apaches stepped out of the desert behind him. They kept their distance, apparently satisfied to wait for the run. But their watchfulness told Havelock there was no chance of escaping.
The old chief was sitting at the fire when Havelock came into camp. He motioned the marshal over.
"Sit, Iron Knee. We will talk."
"Yes, father," Havelock said, for all old men who commanded respect were addressed as father.
"Do you know of the run?"
"I have heard."
"Let me tell you." The old man looked thoughtfully at Havelock before continuing.
"You will start your run first. After a time, my warriors will come after you. At dawn, I decide how far you run first. It is justice to do so. But you will run as your mother bore you. With only a cloth to cover your loins. And your iron knee."
"Tell me, father. Can a man run faster than death?"
The hint of a smile came to the old chief's face. "Yes," he said. "It has been done."
Havelock rolled a smoke and offered it to Puma. He took it, lighted it deftly with a burning twig and inhaled deeply.
"The white man's tabac is good. It has been a long time."
"I need this no more. Please, take it." Havelock held out the bag of Bull Durham. He didn't smoke himself, except on formal occasions with the Indians, but he always carried tobacco and could shape cigarettes as well as any smoker on the range.
"It is bad that fate made you kill my grandson."
"I did what I did."
"Run well, Iron Knee. I go. I must sleep before you run."
Puma, standing straight in defiance of his countless years, turned his back on Havelock and walked a short distance to a wickiup of brush. Inside, he would sleep until dawn.
The fire burned low, falling in upon itself until it was no more than a handful of glowing coals. Still Garet Havelock s
at, motionless as a stone. His mind raced, picking the route to run, and counting the odds of getting through the coming ordeal alive. He didn't like what his mind told him. But it was better than no chance at all.
Just before the dawn cracked the sky in the east, Tom Morgan came slowly up to the dying fire and squatted at Garet Havelock's side.
"How's the knee?"
"Good as can be expected. It'll hold up as long as I do."
"I have something that might help."
Havelock looked at his friend with one eyebrow raised in question.
Morgan held out five small pellets, flatish and about the size of peas.
"What's that?"
"I don't rightly know. The cliff dwellers make them from a plant they find in the desert. And they kill pain as well as laudanum. Take one at a time. They last an hour or so.
"Believe me. You'll be glad you have them. I would never have made it through this," continued Morgan, holding up the stump of his right arm, "if there had been nothing like this."
Havelock accepted the five pellets.
"Can I offer a bit of advice?"
"Anytime, Tom. You know that."
The black man picked up a stick somewhat awkwardly with his left hand and drew in the dust beside the fire.
"Eagle Eye Mountain is here," he said, drawing a circle. Havelock squinted in the darkness, but was able to make out the crude map Morgan was drawing.
"On the far side, you know, there's the Wickenburg-Ehrenburg stage road. That's about twenty-five miles away, just to the road. I don't think you'd better try."
Morgan drew a line due east from the mountain. "Over here is Nigger's Well. A friend of mine dug it about ten years ago, planning to set up a way station. Apaches got him first. Not many people know about it. That would give you a drink before hitting out for Wickenburg."
"I'll give it some thought," said Havelock, but he would not. He had already decided his course, and it was west, not east.
****
A line of fire touched the eastern sky. Feathers of clouds turned coral pink in the west. And far to the south, over the Sea of Cortez, a cloud bank formed, piling thunderhead over thunderhead until they had clawed their way almost seven miles above the level of the sea.
