by Chuck Tyrell
****
Laura Donovan reached the splintered door to Havelock's room about the time Donovan got to the roulette wheel in the saloon. The hotel manager was right behind her.
"Mr. Havelock," he called as they reached the second story landing. "Mr. Havelock!"
Garet Havelock opened the shattered door as they arrived. "He'd have got me if he'd sneaked up instead of walking down the hall making all that noise. I just had time to roll off the bed before he shot.
"Sorry, Mr. Mendelssohn," he said to the manager. "I'm afraid your good feather tick is full of holes."
"Don't you worry, marshal. Marshal Meade is paying your bills so I reckon he'll be good for the tick as well. Do you have any idea who it was?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing." Havelock drooped as the adrenalin in his system depleted. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked. "Got to get off these feet."
Laura Donovan had not spoken.
"Miss Donovan saw no one on the way downstairs, did you Miss Donovan?"
Laura's answer came through colorless lips. "Someone was there and I didn't even notice. The hall lamp was out. The whole end of the hall was dark. Anyone could have been there. But why? Not that many people even know Marshal Havelock is here."
"Somebody does. And they wish I wasn't. Permanently." Havelock hobbled to the commode, poured a glass of water from the porcelain pitcher sitting on it, and drank thirstily. He turned to the manager. "Now, if you'll be getting me some kind of weapon, I'll be more able to take care of myself."
The manager scurried out. Havelock sat on the edge of the bed. Feathers from the holes in the tick floated about. He studied the palms of his hands, looking for the words he needed to speak to Laura. He didn't find them.
Shouts came from the saloon across the street. Then a pistol barked. Once. Twice. A horse thundered off into the night. Then, a dozen or so more. All was confusion and shouting. But one thing was sure, an instant posse was chasing someone.
The manager reappeared in the open door, his face full of shock and disbelief. Behind him stood Marshal Meade. The marshal spoke, first to Laura.
"I'm sorry, miss. Your little brother was just shot down. It doesn't look like he's going to make it. He's asking for you. I know it's not fitting for a lady to go into a saloon, but I figured he was better off not moving. Would you come?"
Without answering, Laura fled down the stairs. Moments later, Havelock watched her slim form push through the swinging doors across the street from the window he'd moved to.
"It was a put-up, Garet," Marshal Meade said gravely. "Someone wanted that boy dead. A posse's took off after the ranny that done it. Maybe the boys'll catch him."
"They won't. They're chasing Buzz Donovan, unless I miss my guess. They'll come back empty handed. One man will have to do it. And he'd have to go careful. A whole bunch riding around in the desert raising a lot of dust won't get the job done."
"But why'd he shoot his own brother?"
"Half-brother. And the only other person in the world that knew where the gold from Vulture City's hid. Now Donovan figures he's got that hundred thousand all to himself. Someone ought to go out and catch him. Bring him in for murder. On second thought, maybe not bring him in."
In his mind, Havelock was already on Donovan's trail. This was the fifth day since he'd run from the Apaches. The wound in his arm had scabbed over. The sunburn wasn't as painful. And his head had finally quit throbbing all the time.
His feet were a different problem. Bits of desert rock and sand had worked their way into the cuts on their soles. Laura had dug out most of the debris only a few hours ago. It was all he could do to stand on them. Already blood spotted the places he'd stepped in the last few minutes. He left a few more bloody prints as he returned to the bed he'd left when Laura fled to the saloon. It felt good to get the weight off them again.
There would be no forcing those feet into boots for some time yet, but Havelock had no time to waste. If he didn't stay on Donovan's trail, the outlaw would run for the gold, get it out of the state, and sit around on his backside thumbing his nose at the law in Arizona. So all Havelock could do at the moment was keep the pressure on Donovan. Let him know that Arizona law was on his trail. No, not Arizona law, United States law.
"Marshal, I can't go down there to help Laura out. I'd be obliged if you would." Then, as Meade was going out the door, Havelock added, "And keep an ear and an eye open for anything that might help us find out what Donovan's up to." Havelock held up a hand to stop the marshal's retort. "Yeah, I know that you were lawmanning before I was housebroke, I just wanted to jog your memory a little."
Meade grinned and left, closing the bullet-riddled door behind him. Havelock lay back and swung his legs up onto the bed. A tiny cloud of white feathers flew from the bullet holes in the tick. But they didn't keep him from a good night's sleep. He took up where he'd left off in Santa Fe Sims's Concord coach.
Laura was in the room when he woke up. Her face was a mirror of pain, but there were no tears. She'd locked them up inside.
Havelock looked a question at her.
"No. He's still hanging on. Barely."
"Did he leave any word for Carrie?"
"He's called her name a lot. He had a riddle for you, too. He even smiled when he said to tell you 'the cottonwoods at five o'clock.'"
Havelock turned the words over in his mind. They meant nothing.
Laura turned her back to Havelock and watched the traffic move up and down the dusty main street of Wickenburg: tall freight wagons with three spans of mules moved south to Vulture City; two itinerant cowboys in shotgun chaps probably headed for Verde Valley; a buckboard driven by a pert black-haired lass, obviously of some means; a gaggle of miners, rough in their canvas trousers and heavy boots, bound for a liquid breakfast at the saloon.
Old Henry Wickenburg—the same man who found and named the Vulture Mine—had chosen a good site for his town. Roads from three major Arizona settlements met there. The rutted track leading south through Vulture City went to Phoenix. The way north went to Prescott, the territorial capital, and to Camp Verde, the largest army post in the area. And the westward stage road struck a line to Ehrenburg, the last stop for the Colorado River steamboats and vital supply center for the entire territory. Wickenburg bustled as Laura Donovan watched.
"Garet, you have never asked me why I shot you back there in the desert."
"I'd be dead if you'd a wanted it that way. I figured I'd rather not push my luck."
"Buzz told us, Arch and me, that you ran Vulture City like a dictator. He said more than a dozen men had been hanged on that ironwood tree in the plaza. He said you took justice into your own hands ... no trials, just hangings."
Havelock knew now was the time to sit and listen. He said nothing.
"Buzz said I'd have to kill you. That if I didn't, you'd kill us all. After you got Carrie back, that is."
She turned to face Havelock.
"But you came to help me. And you didn't even know who I was."
"I'd have done the same for anyone up against three-to-one odds. I just evened things up somewhat."
"I couldn't just kill you. But Buzz is my brother. I felt I had to free him. That's why I shot you. Then, he wouldn't leave you a gun. Or even a knife. And he laughed when he said that the desert would take care of you for him. I think that's when I realized he was more than just a thief. He's a killer." Once more, tears made their silent way down Laura's face. Her voice quavered slightly. "Now he's shot Arch, his own brother. And he may die. Buzz just wanted the gold for himself. Arch told him where it's hidden and Buzz made him promise not to tell anyone else. Not even me. And he didn't. Arch always keeps his promises."
Laura crossed the room to sit by Havelock on the bed. Slowly she lowered her head to his shoulder. At last, great sobs shook her body. All Havelock could do was pat her shoulder awkwardly as she cried.
14
The posse came dragging back with the dawn. The shooter had slipped them in th
e wilderness near Cave Creek. No telling where he was headed, they said, but Havelock had an idea Donovan's destination was a new gold town called Crown King. There was no law there yet. It was a good place for anyone on the run.
"Marshal," Havelock said to M.K. Meade, "I'll be needing the best horse you can find and grub for three days. And if you’ll give me another badge, I'll be off after Donovan now."
"I brought your lineback dun with me from Vulture City. Is he good enough?" Meade dug into his vest pocket and produced a Deputy US Marshal badge for Havelock.
"Sure beats walking. I've done enough of that lately to last me the rest of my life, I get my druthers." He took the badge and put it in his own pocket, then walked from the hotel to the livery stable on tender moccasined feet. Laura was with her brother, who fought for his life in a room on the ground floor. And she'd promised to look in on Horn Stalker, though he'd probably soon be riding back into the mountains. Havelock knew he had to keep the pressure on Donovan. So he had to ride even though his feet were still tender.
Dressed as he was, Havelock looked half Indian. He wore leather breeches tucked into knee-high Apache moccasins. His new flannel shirt was dark maroon, and he wore the shirttail out. The bottom button was undone so he could reach the brand new Colt's model 1873 Frontier .44 pistol stuck in his waistband fast. A flat-rimmed, flat-crowned plainsman's hat was pulled low over his eyes. He could wear the hat straight now, as the scar left by Laura's bullet was well scabbed over.
Besides the pistol, a .44-40 Winchester saddle gun swung easily in his left hand. A big Bowie knife hung from his left hip. Another slimmer knife fit inside the leg of his left moccasin. Yet a third knife, carefully balanced for throwing, hung down the back of his neck on a leather thong. Once more, he had sewn five loops in the crown of his hat to hold five extra rounds of .44 caliber ammunition.
The lineback seemed glad to see Havelock. He loved the trail. Born and bred in the desert, he was good as one of Beale's camels when it came to going long stretches without water. Havelock checked the dun's hooves. Each was covered with iron-hard rawhide.
He inspected the saddlebags—bacon, hardtack, coffee, flour, sugar, a frying pan, lucifers, and fifty rounds of .44 caliber cartridges that would fit either rifle or pistol. A slicker and blankets were rolled tightly and tied behind the cantle. A coffee pot hung over the saddlebags behind them. A big four-quart canteen dangled from one side of the pommel and a sixty-foot rawhide lariat from the other. Looked like things were about as ready as they were going to get.
Havelock stepped into the saddle, wincing a bit as his weight went on his tender right foot. He turned the dun's head east down the long main street. Laura stood at the door of the hotel as he rode by, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. She was still there when Havelock rode out of sight beyond the rise that marked the edge of town. But he could see her in his mind for a long time after that.
At last, he shook himself free of her image. A lawman on the trail of an outlaw had no business mooning over a woman. He should be considering the meaning of her message from Arch—the cottonwoods at five o'clock.
The more Havelock thought about it, the more he felt Donovan would make for Crown King. Donovan was a gregarious type, no good at being alone. He needed company, people to laugh at his jokes, folks awed at his strength and sophistication and afraid of his power. In a word, he needed somebody to lord it over.
Crown King lay at the headwaters of the Hassayampa River, two days' ride east and north. Donovan's wild ride out of Wickenburg had taken him due east toward Cave Creek, probably with the idea of ditching the posse among the Indian caves in the cliff walls. Now, with the posse gone back, he'd turn north toward Crown King. With luck, Havelock figured to catch up with Donovan there. But he had no intention of bringing him in, not just yet.
Despite its auspicious name, Crown King was no more than a collection of canvas tents and rough lumber buildings. Two buildings stood out from the collection of hovels surrounding them. One was Anderson's Saloon and Dance Hall, the other, the assay office of the Crowned King mine. The livery was merely a shack and a pole corral.
Havelock left his dun there and walked up the steep main street toward Anderson's. Two days in the saddle had gone a long way toward healing his feet. Now there was hardly a limp, just a sense that Garet Havelock was walking careful ... which he was, in several ways.
Anderson's offered a free lunch and Havelock ate heartily. Then, nursing a beer, he bellied against the bar. The bartender, like most, liked to talk. Havelock listened. The new Deputy U.S. Marshal's star Meade had given him was pinned out of sight on the reverse of his shirt pocket flap.
"I'll tell you, mister. It's been pure hell around here lately. Ever since Big Phil Jackson and his rowdies showed up in town."
"Got everybody pretty well hoorawed, have they?"
"That they do. And for good reason. Four miners have turned up dead. With Big Phil carryin' papers saying they signed their claims over to him before their 'unfortunate' deaths. Now, he's pushing Miss Sally Mae Peebles to sell her claim."
Havelock straightened at that name. "Sally Mae? Would she be a big woman? Fortyish and tough as four-penny nails? Blonde hair, what you can see of it, and baby-pink skin?"
"That's Sally Mae all right. Everyone in these parts takes kindly to her. She's usually the one who tends anyone what happens to get hurt...mining mishaps, shootings, knifings, the like. And there being no doctor around here..."
Havelock cut in. "Where's she at?"
"Her claim's up on the hill to the left, past the Crowned King. She calls it the Consolation. You can't miss it."
Havelock reached for his Winchester, which he'd leaned against the bar, and walked away without another word, leaving the half-drunk beer.
He didn't go straight to Sally Mae's claim, though. He took a good look around first. He saw how Crown King was essentially a huge gully formed by the Hassayampa. Most of the mining claims were in smaller gullies that carried the runoff of the infrequent rains into the main creek. The Crowned King was in the largest of these gullies. The Consolation was in the next offshoot on the opposite side of the creek. Main Street led up the Crowned King side of the creek. No way to approach the Consolation except from the front, unless a man was half mountain goat.
Only after he'd gotten the local geography firmly in mind did Garet Havelock walk up the broad, steep path leading to the Consolation.
The crack of the rifle and the shower of rock chips at his feet came at the same instant.
"One more step and the hole will be in your head instead of at your feet." Sally Mae's voice was mellow, but it was plain she meant business. Havelock didn't doubt that she'd shoot him. But he also knew she didn't like being forced to do something like that.
"Garet Havelock," he announced, holding his rifle above his head with both hands.
"Walk slow, mister. And keep those hands up there. They make a good rack for that rifle."
Havelock did as he was told, slowly walking toward the front of Sally Mae's cabin.
Sally Mae recognized him as soon as his face was out of the shadows. "You should be in bed," she told him. "What brings you to Crown King?"
"Heard you was having trouble with Big Phil Jackson. I've met up with him before, and I've handled his type more'n once. Though I might could help."
"You can. I think he'll be over tonight. That makes you more than welcome. I only got two men on the place and neither one is much with a gun. Hell with a hammer and single jack, though. Come on. I'll show you around."
Sally Mae had said the two weren't much with guns. She was more than right. One was an old prospector she'd saved from the jaws of death in the form of whisky bottles. The other was a young Mormon lad, the oldest of thirteen children in a family that had settled in Sunset, up north near Winslow.
Sitting in Sally Mae's snug cabin, Havelock nursed a cup of steaming coffee of the type that could float hammer and tongs. Sally Mae knew what fighting men needed.
Now, the sound of shod hooves rang loud in the early evening as more than a dozen horses scrambled up the steep trail. The town was quiet. It was as if everyone held their breath to see what would happen at the Consolation.
"Sally Mae," bellowed the burly leader. "I sure hope you are ready to talk business about this here claim. You know that I'm not a man to take 'no' too kindly."
"Hello, Phil," Havelock said as he stepped from the front door of the cabin. "Seems Sally Mae doesn't want to sell her claim. She's sent me out to talk business with you."
Off to the right, a rider moved his horse back, putting another man between himself and Havelock.
"Howdy, Havelock. Didn't know you was in this neck of the woods. This here ain't none of your business. It's between me and her."
"No. That's not right, Phil. It's between you and me. That lady saved my life, but if you think you can, you're welcome to try to take it." Havelock held his Winchester cradled in his arms, right hand on the action and the barrel pointed at the space between the big man and the scrawny rider with buckteeth that sat to his left. "Just you and me, Phil." Havelock spoke quietly, but his voice carried steel. "Come on. How 'bout it?"
Big Phil Jackson wasn't happy. Not even a little bit. He knew Havelock. And he wasn't about to go one-on-one. But the scrawny rider wasn't that smart.
"Come on, Phil," the wiry man shouted, unconsciously echoing Havelock's words. "We can take him." The rider's hand snaked for his pistol as his spurs touched his horse. The horse was still in mid-air when a bullet from Garet Havelock's rifle smashed the rider in the chest and threw him from the saddle. He lay broken and bleeding on the ground, dead when he hit. Havelock jacked another shell into the Winchester.
"Now, is there anyone else who'd like to follow this gent to the happy hunting grounds?"
The silence thickened.
Big Phil glared and sputtered. But his hands stayed far from his guns. Finally, he managed to spit out, "There'll be another time, Havelock. A time and a place I'll choose—not you."
