Halfbreed Law: A Havelock Novel

by Chuck Tyrell

  "I'll be ready," Havelock said calmly. "You know where to find me."

  "Let's get outta here." The thick-set leader reined his horse around.

  Havelock's quiet voice stopped the mob once more.

  "Phil. If I ever hear of you bothering Sally Mae again, I'll come looking for you. And when I find you, you'll wish you'da been caught by Apaches, cause they'd go a whole lot gentler with you than I will.

  "One more thing. I hear you've got a new rider. I don't know what he calls himself now, but where I come from, he's known as Buzz Donovan. I want him. I'll ride to Hell to get him, too. He shot his own brother, a youngster trying to go straight, probably to death. I won't ask you to turn him over to me, Phil. Just you don't be hiding him when I come looking, understand?"

  Again, there was a long silence. Then, Big Phil walked his horse down the grade with his mob of toughs following meekly behind. Buzz Donovan tried to keep to the far side of the pack, but Havelock picked him out anyway. I'll chase him a little farther, Havelock thought, and then I'll spring the trap.

  Sally Mae joined Havelock on the front porch. "I don't think there'll be any more trouble from that bunch," she said.

  "There shouldn't be. But if there is, you just get word to me. I'll be here sooner than later." He pointed to the sprawled body. "You might want to get your hired men to bury him. Wish he'd not gone for that gun. Anyway, he was luckless, and his partners seem to have left him be." Havelock looked at the dead man one last time, shook his head as if to say the man should have let well enough alone, shrugged and went back into Sally Mae's cabin.

  It took the four of them nearly an hour to scratch a hole in the rocky soil of Crown King's boot hill and bury the dead raider.

  "I don't know his name," Havelock said, "But his horse was wearing a JC brand." Havelock built a small fire and put one end of a pickaxe into it. When it was hot, he used it to write on a headboard.

  J.C.

  HE GUESSED WRONG

  1882

  "What now, Garet?"

  "I've got to keep after Donovan. Specially now he knows it. He'll either run scared or try to kill me. Either way, I've got to come out on top. Least, that's what I figure to do." Havelock's face tightened down at the prospect.

  "The least you can do is come up for a bite of supper," Sally Mae said.

  Havelock smiled, and his face softened, making him as close to handsome as he ever was. He didn't smile often. There wasn't a whole lot in his life to smile about.

  "I'd take that kindly, Sally Mae. I've heard stories about your cooking. All lies, no doubt."

  "Lies! Just you set yourself down at my table and see for yourself if you can come away calling them rightful comments from an appreciating public 'lies.'"

  Havelock held up his hands in surrender. "I'm a believer, Sally Mae, a tried and true believer. Now get in that buckboard and I'll drive you home. I'm starving."

  The meal lived up to every rumor. Swiss steaks stewed in their own juices, baked potatoes smothered in butter that Sally Mae had shipped in from Verde Valley, fresh greens of what some folks called "pig weed," lots of crispy fresh sourdough bread, and tall glasses of milk, kept cold in the deepest reaches of the Consolation mine. And at seven thousand feet high, everything in Crown King was lots cooler than down on the desert floor.

  15

  Havelock sat back, stuffed, and sipped at his third cup of good coffee. He felt a whole man again, for the first time since the Vulture City robbery. But there was still a man to bring in and a hundred thousand dollars in gold to get back. Don't let yourself go soft, Havelock told himself. Donovan's no pushover.

  At the same time, Buzz Donovan clutched a bottle and glass in a canvas-and-slab dive called Hank's Place. He poured a healthy four fingers in the glass and downed it in great, hungry gulps. His eyes took on a sly glint. This time, Havelock would fall, no mistake.

  Donovan got up and made his way through the miners to a card game under way on the other side of the room. When the hand was finished, he said, "Blake, could I have a word with you?"

  "Deal me outta this hand, boys. I'll be back shortly."

  The two men talked a couple of minutes out behind Hank's. Blake returned to his game in high spirits. Donovan crossed the street to a flophouse. He slept soundly and left town the next morning, headed north.

  Havelock was fresh and considerably rested after a good night's sleep at Sally Mae's cabin. The wound in his arm was no longer a problem. And his feet were quickly losing their tenderness. He could walk naturally now, hampered only by the slight limp forced on him by a Yankee captain's bullet in his knee.

  "You see a big Irishman on a sorrel horse leave here lately?" Havelock directed his question at the livery stable boy.

  "Yeah, I saw him."

  Havelock continued saddling his horse, waiting for the boy to continue. He said nothing so Havelock prompted. "Happen to mention where he was going?"

  "He headed north out of town, but I heard him say something about Prescott."

  Havelock looked at the boy sharply. Prescott. What if Donovan were after Carrie again, blaming her for Arch's defection or some such? Havelock flipped the boy a coin as he mounted the dun and clattered down the steep road toward Prescott. If he got there fast, maybe he could prevent Donovan from doing more harm. Even if he had to kill the outlaw before he could put his plan for the gold into action.

  Havelock pushed hard. He got to Prescott just as the sun was coming up. He'd made it in less than twenty-four hours, good time in any man's language. Fast enough, he hoped, to have passed Donovan's camp in the dark to reach the territorial capital ahead of him.

  The livery was his first stop. No one fitting Donovan's description had stabled a horse there in the last two days. So Donovan probably had not yet arrived. Havelock spread his blanket on the hay in the loft and went to sleep, leaving instructions with the owner to wake him at noon—or earlier, if Donovan rode in.

  But Donovan didn't come. Havelock ate his noon meal at the Nugget, and then made the rounds of Prescott saloons. No Donovan. He returned to the livery stable, saddled his dun and rode out to scout around the governor's mansion. He was stopped twice by army patrols out of Fort Whipple that let him pass only after he flashed his badge at them. It looked as if the governor's daughter had the army on her side.

  Havelock turned his horse back to the livery with instructions to give him a good rubdown and a quart of oats.

  "Name me a good restaurant," he said to the owner.

  "If I was to have my druthers," the man drawled, "I'd go over to the Bon Appetit. The cook over there is a Frenchy. He do make good grub."

  The white tablecloths and candles were a bit out of place in frontier Arizona. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was subdued and genteel. Even though some of the customers were dressed in the rough clothes it took to live in this rough country.

  In Arizona, you could never tell where a man came from. He might have been a soldier with Chinese Gordon, a count from Ireland, a Cajun gambler, or a scholar from the halls of Yale. But it was a good idea to blend in, no matter where you hailed from. Trouble tended to gravitate toward them that stuck out.

  Havelock took a table near the rear of the room and sat with his back to the wall. "Coq au vin," he said to the waiter, "and bring me a bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape to go with it, the white."

  Pierre Martin, the French chef and owner, served Havelock personally. "Monsieur, it is good to serve a man who appreciates good food and wine. We do not get many here who are aware of the niceties of gracious eating. You have perhaps visited Paris?"

  "No. But I spent quite a bit of time in New Orleans. Liked the French cuisine there."

  "Ah. I see. Bon appetit, monsieur, and please visit us again."

  Havelock appreciated the food all right. It was the best he'd tasted in a restaurant west of San Francisco and north of New Orleans. He'd not yet tried the Bird Cage in Tombstone. It was supposed to be some theater and restaurant. Have to drop in on Tombstone one of these d
ays, he thought, after Donovan's behind bars.

  Night had fallen outside by the time Havelock had finished his wine and the coffee that followed. The warmth of the wine had not cost him his caution, though. So after retrieving his guns at the door, he took one step forward through the opening and a quick step to the right, which saved his life.

  A rifle roared from an upstairs window across the street. The bullet made an angry gash in the frame of the door to Bon Appetit. Crouching, Havelock returned the fire with three fast shots from the pistol he had been holding in his right hand as he stepped out. At the third shot, a body tumbled from the window, bounced on the overhang covering the boardwalk, and flopped to the street. Onlookers had gathered by the time Havelock reached the bushwhacker. He was still alive. Barely.

  "Havelock. Donovan's compliments. He's gone. Camp Verde. On over the rim. Hashknife outfit." The man's lips showed bloody foam. He smiled. "Said you'd be a sitting duck. Ha. You old wolf." He dug in his pocket for something he gave to Havelock. "Give this back to Donovan. I ain't gonna need..." The man was dead. Havelock looked at his hand. It held a bar of gold. Vulture City's gold.

  "Anyone know this man?" Havelock asked.

  "I do," said a man with a badge, shouldering his way through the crowd. "That's Nat Blake. Gambler and killer for hire. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward for him, dead or alive. Come on down to the office. I'll give you a voucher for it."

  Havelock stared at him.

  "I'm Rodney Clayborne, marshal of Prescott." Clayborne waited for Havelock to speak, but he merely motioned for the lawman to lead the way.

  In the marshal's office, Havelock showed Clayborne his badge. "Right now, I'm a deputy U.S. Marshal. Ordinarily, I'm town marshal of Vulture City. My name's Garet Havelock."

  Clayborne chuckled. "Garet Havelock, eh? They tell stories about you, man. Some put you in the same corral with Longhair Jim Courtwright, Cullen Baker, and young Bill Bonney when it comes to using a gun. Anything I can do for you?"

  "Don't reckon. It's a long ride I've got ahead of me. Think I'll get some rest."

  Havelock left the marshal's office, voucher in hand. But he didn't rest. An hour later, he was well on his way toward Camp Verde, his dun stretching out and loving the run.

  ****

  Every military post had its hogtown, a squalid sprawl of tents and shacks where an off-duty trooper could find anything he desired in the way of entertainment, food, or drink, and lots of things he could do without—gamblers who were faster than the women, bartenders who knew the ins and outs of knockout drops, and whisky just slightly more venomous than the bite of a diamondback rattler.

  Camp Verde was no exception. And hogtown was where Havelock headed. He figured Donovan would be looking for places where he wouldn't stand out. And the outlaw knew Havelock would be coming after him if the bushwhacker failed.

  The trail had taken the new out of Havelock's clothes. His appearance would cause no comment in hogtown. He reined the lineback up in front of the first busy saloon he saw. Sharp, shifty eyes watched him dismount, noting he got off the wrong side of the horse. The same eyes followed him as he strode through the saloon doors. The owner of the eyes stood up from where he had been sunning himself in front of the hitching rack and followed Havelock into the gloomy bowels of the hogtown bar.

  Havelock walked straight to the far end of the bar where he stood with his right shoulder against the wall, his right foot up on the foot rail, his right hand not two inches from the butt of the Colt's .44 shoved in his belt, and his Winchester leaning against the wall.

  "Beer," he said to the bartender. When it came, it was warm and half suds. He paid his nickel. And with beer mug in hand, he surveyed the bar's clientele. Donovan was not among them. As he searched the bar, Havelock noticed the sidelong scrutiny of the man who had followed him in, a long lanky man with faded sandy hair. He'd also ordered a beer, and he held the mug in his left hand. His right was free and easy above the worn walnut grip of an Army Colt.

  Havelock could smell trouble. But he couldn't figure out why this man should be gunning for him. And there was no time to ponder, so he acted.

  The click of a hammer being eared back brought the sandy man's head snapping around. He looked down at unwavering barrel of Havelock's Colt.

  "I don't know why you're gunning for me, mister. Just get it through your head that it ain't worth it." Havelock's unblinking black eyes punctuated his warning.

  The sandy man said nothing. He just watched Havelock, motionless. He wanted to draw. He really did. But he knew it was not the right time or place.

  "Pull that pistol out with your thumb and forefinger. That's right. Lay it on the bar. No! Turn the barrel the other way ... with one finger.

  "Bartender. Scoot that iron over here." Havelock turned his attention back to the sandy man. "Now. Let's hear why you're gunning for me."

  "I know you." The man spit the words out. "You're Garet Havelock. No one else in the territory gets off his horse on the wrong side. You killed my best friend. You killed Willy Sydon."

  Havelock searched his memory. He could recall no Willy Sydon.

  "Son, I don't remember killing any Willy Sydon. If I did, he was either running from the law or breaking it. There's no other way I'd shoot a man."

  "I never said shot. Willy Sydon swung from the hanging tree in Vulture City."

  A sour taste came up in the back of Havelock's throat. He remembered Willy Sydon. A young cowboy drifting through town, he'd been unlucky enough to draw and kill a popular miner over a game of cards. A mob had hauled him out to the tree for hanging. Havelock, the new town marshal, had tried to stop them, threatening the crowd...but not shooting when the angry men called his bluff. From the bottom of a pile of tough miners, he'd had to watch young Willy hang. It was the first time he'd been bested by a mob, and so far, it had been the last.

  Havelock picked up the Army Colt. With a quick motion, he slid it back to the sandy-haired young man.

  "You're right. I good as killed Willy Sydon. I couldn't stop his lynching. I tried, but I wasn't good enough. Now, Willy died because he killed a man he thought was cheating at cards. Turned out the man wasn't. I'm going to walk out of here. If you want to shoot me, you can. But it'll have to be in the back. Then you'll be in the same fix Willy was in. Chances are you'd swing, even if this is hogtown."

  With that, Havelock returned his pistol to his waistband, picked up his rifle, and walked purposefully out the front door. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. He could almost feel the muzzle of that Colt lined up on his backbone.

  Click.

  As he reached the door, he heard the hammer being thumbed back. He kept walking. The door swung shut behind him.

  Havelock swung up on the dun. The sandy man was at the door of the saloon, his pistol still in his right hand, forgotten. For an instant, their eyes met, cold black ones holding faded blue. Then Havelock neckreined the lineback away and down the road toward Camp Verde. He had an idea.

  16

  Ten minutes later, Havelock stopped in front of a compact frame building that had “Assay Office” written in bold white letters across the false front. Havelock walked in carrying his rifle in one hand and a buckskin-wrapped object in the other.

  The assay clerk came to the counter.

  "Have you seen anything like this lately?" Havelock asked, unrolling the buckskin to reveal the bar of gold Nat Blake had given him.

  "Why, yes. There was a big, tall gentleman from the Hashknife Outfit in here yesterday. Ollins. Yes, that was his name. Bartley Ollins. Said he'd got paid with those gold bars for a bunch of critters he and his boys drove to Vulture City. He wanted currency, said it was easier to use. I gave him four thousand dollars for five bars."

  Havelock showed his deputy U.S. Marshal's badge. "That gold was stolen from the Vulture Mine bullion room. I'd appreciate it if you'd hold it in your safe until I send you notice. I may need it as evidence. If so, you'll get your money back."

  The
clerk was taken aback, but still promised. "Why, certainly."

  "One more thing. I'd like you to give me a letter saying you have five bars of Vulture City's gold in your safe, and describe the man you got it from. I don't need his name."

  The clerk complied, his quill making tiny scratching sounds in the silence as Havelock waited.

  The Hashknife Outfit. Aztec Land and Cattle Company. Drove into northern Arizona behind sixty thousand head of cattle a year or so ago. Already the name was widely known. Partly because of the size of the operation, partly because its hired hands swung a very wide loop. Those Texas cowboys just had to prove how tough they were. Headquarters were in Winslow, a railroad town on the banks of the Little Colorado River just north of the Mogollon Rim. The range of the Hashknife outfit spread from Pleasant Valley to the Navajo Reservation to the New Mexico border to the Fort Apache reservation, the home of the White Mountain Apaches. Apache County, Territory of Arizona, practically belonged to the Hashknife Outfit. Few cattle companies west of King's Ranch matched the Hashknife for sheer size. But Havelock didn't think the huge ranch had anything to do with the cottonwoods at five o'clock that Arch Donovan had spoken of.

  Havelock figured to go through Clear Creek and over the Rim. He'd hit Winslow first. But this time he'd not be looking in dives like the hogtown bar. With four thousand dollars in his pockets, Donovan would be riding high and wide, if Havelock had him pegged right.

  Havelock's plan depended on keeping a constant pressure on Donovan. So he rode out of Camp Verde at a lope, letter from the clerk in his pocket and nothing in his belly. Wouldn't be the first time he'd dined on hardtack and jerky in the saddle and slept on the trail. He didn't even take time to say hello to his old friend Al Seiber, the cranky old German head of scouts at the camp. He just rode.

  It was a good hour before Havelock realized someone was on his trail.