by Chuck Tyrell
He had a habit of checking his back trail; anyone who wanted to stay alive in this rugged land did so. Havelock did it well. Rarely did a shadower know Havelock had found him out.
The dun horse was tired. There'd been no time to rest him back at Camp Verde. He had spunk. But he no longer had that spring in his big muscles that Havelock was used to. Havelock knew that if it came to a mad run for shelter, the dun might not make it.
Then, he saw an old trail.
Just a faint breath of a pathway through the trees. Something a less observant man would never notice. Havelock reined the dun up the trail.
Fifty yards into the trees, he dismounted and went back to wipe out the traces of his passing as best he could. Should confuse the follower for a while.
The trail wound up, climbing wooded slopes away from the stream, an offshoot of the Verde River, that Havelock had been following. Off to the right, he could see the heights of Baker Butte rising above the edge of the Mogollon Rim. Beyond that, he knew, lay Clint’s Well, the logical stop on the way to Winslow. Following the old trail wasn't the logical thing to do. But sometimes that was the only thing that kept a man alive. Just taking what chance threw at him.
The slopes gave way to rock-strewn cliffs and canyons. Sometimes the trail was no more than an eyebrow across the expanse of red rock. The desert-bred dun took the trail in stride like he was one-fourth bighorn sheep.
An hour-and-a-half of stiff climbing came and went before the old trail topped out five hundred feet above the stream. Far below, it sparkled in the sunlight, just a ribbon of silver winding through a patchwork carpet of green. In the center of the clearing, a large pool reflected sunlight.
Havelock found himself on solid rock. Here and there tufts of grass grew in the soil-filled cracks in the surface. Otherwise, it was bare. The growth started some ways back from the rim of the cliff, brushy cedars and high-country manzanita. Farther on, gramma grass waved feathered stalks in the slight breeze.
The trail turned sharply as it topped out on the cliff, carrying its follower back away from the edge, keeping anyone watching from below from skylining him. That trail was made by careful folk. Havelock walked the dun parallel to the trail, about ten yards farther from the edge of the precipice.
Midway along, the trail ended. Dropped into a large crevice in the top of that monolithic cliff. Havelock backed the dun into a stand of cedar and tied him there. From a few feet away, the horse was invisible if he stayed still.
Havelock stripped his saddle gun from its boot and picked a handful of cartridges from the saddlebags before leaving the dun. He stuffed the shells in his pocket as he walked to the crevice.
The crack was deep. Far below, something white caught the sunlight. And about ten feet below the lip of the crevice where Havelock lay belly down, there was a ledge. Small but adequate hand and foot holds were carved down the red rock of the cliff, beginning at the ledge. The remains of a ladder lay crumbled on the ledge. Looked like it had been centuries since anyone came this way.
Havelock returned to the dun for his lariat. A jutting rock served as an anchor and he was soon carefully making his way down the face of the crevice using those ancient hand and foot holds. The crevice ended at the top of a large cliff dwelling. The red rock of the cliff soared up and out from the top of the dwelling to the lip some five hundred feet above the level of the stream. The dwelling was at least four stories high, five in some places. Hundreds of people must have lived here at one time
The sheer size of the place awed Havelock. He found himself walking toward the edge of the dwelling, for the moment completely unaware of his surroundings.
The crack of the rifle reached him as he was falling. If he hadn't gone through the roof, he'd have died. As it was, he found himself flat on his back inside a kiva about twelve feet square, looking up at the hole he'd made in the roof.
There was a pit in the center of the room to hold hot stones so the ancients could pour water over them for steam baths. A woven reed basket lay in one corner, collapsed in upon itself.
Havelock took in these details without thinking. He picked up his Winchester, wiped it off, and started for the waist-high door of the kiva bathhouse.
He catfooted, putting each foot down carefully, testing it before putting his weight on it. No shots came. Perhaps the bushwhacker thought he was dead. Havelock found the stairway out to the roof and stopped dead still. Just to the left of the steps lay an old breastplate and helmet. Havelock had never seen the like, but he'd heard stories of the conquistadors and Coronado's search for El Dorado.
Looks like you didn't make it home, old man, Havelock thought. Hope I have better luck.
Havelock bellied up onto the roof, worming his way toward the edge. It took him half an hour just to reach a place where he could see. It was another hour before he saw anyone move.
At first it was just a flicker in the corner of his eye. Then a horse and rider stepped into the sunny meadow below the cliff dwelling and headed for the large, clear pool the stream formed midway across the clearing.
"Now, Havelock, if you'd just let go of that rifle, I'd appreciate it." Havelock started at the sound, for he had heard no one come up behind him.
"Stretch your hands as far out in front of you as you can," the voice ordered.
Havelock complied. A blindfold was tied over his eyes and a rag stuffed in his mouth. Rough hands turned him over and tied his hands in front of him with piggin strings. That meant they were cattlemen. Or was there just one? Havelock had heard no more than one man. Still, he felt sure there were others.
Someone slipped a rope over his head and pulled it tight behind his ear.
"Just walk careful. Wouldn't want you to fall through the roof of Montezuma's Castle. Might be hard on the neck."
Only one voice so far. If only he could get a chance. A spare second would be enough. He'd take the man who had him tied. But his captor was not the least bit careless.
Havelock walked in the direction he was pointed until he ran into the stone wall of the great cavern.
"That's the end of the trail, Havelock. Even you can't walk through solid rock."
Someone guided him. Fourteen steps to the left he was led. Unconsciously, he counted them. He stood quietly, straining every sense to figure out what was going on. Then a rope was tied around him, going under his arms and around his chest. It was rawhide, by its feel.
"If you fall on the way up," the voice said, "you'll have yourself to blame. We're using your lariat."
We! There was more than one.
Havelock had time only for a fleeting thought before the lariat tightened and began to haul him up the face of the crevice. Every tiny outcropping of rock, every scrap of rock-loving vegetation, every rough spot on the crevice dug into his body.
Though the haul up the cliff gave Havelock a beating, it also scraped the blindfold off enough so he could see with one eye. And he was able to hold the piggin strings against the rough stone on the way up. But when he came to the upper edge of the crevice, he found himself staring down the barrel of an old Colt revolving shotgun.
At the other end of the shotgun was a kid. Couldn't be a day over fourteen. But he held the scattergun like he'd been born with it in his hands. No one was going to get the drop on that boy.
"Back." The boy commanded the blue gelding at the other end of the rope that was pulling Havelock over the edge. The horse dragged Havelock a good ten feet past the edge of the crevice.
"Josie," came a voice from the crack.
The boy didn't answer. He just untied the lariat and dropped the end of it down the crevice.
The mountain of a man that heaved himself out of that crack in the cliff looked like he'd never took no for an answer in his whole life. He walked over to Havelock, who stared up at him from one uncovered eye. With one hand, the man-mountain picked Havelock up effortlessly and put him on his feet. Then he removed the hangman's noose from around Havelock's neck.
"Sorry to be a bit rough wi
th you, Havelock, but I figured it was the only way a man could get you to come along."
At a motion from the giant, the boy untied Havelock's hands and removed the rag from his mouth.
"Now just you wait a minute," the huge man said as Havelock was clearly thinking about his chances of getting to his gun, which was still shoved in his waistband. "Let's pow-wow."
Havelock gave the giant a slow, appraising look. "All right," he said. "But let's get out of the open, first."
"Right here is fine. It ain't gonna take long. I'll talk, you listen."
The boy with the shotgun moved off out of earshot.
"Ebson is my name," the man said. "Most people just call me Mountain. That there's my boy, Josiah."
"What do you want with me?"
Mountain drew a folded piece of paper from the bib of his overalls. He held it out, still folded. Havelock grasped it a moment before spreading it out. It smelled of wet ink.
WANTED FOR MURDER
GARET HAVELOCK
$4000 REWARD
DEAD OR ALIVE
17
Havelock handed the poster back without reading the smaller print. Donovan must have had it printed up in Prescott. Wouldn't take long to set that much type.
"It's a fake."
"No. It's real enough. Signed by the mayor and all. Why it says right here that the mayor of Dead End, the town where you did that feller in, is a Right Honorable Barnabas Donovan, Esq. Description fits. Says you are an ex-U.S. Marshal and might still be carrying the badge."
"I am. But that's because I am a deputy U.S. marshal. You can check that out with Marshal Meade in Prescott."
"Prescott is a long ways off."
"You can cable from Camp Verde."
Mountain thought it over.
"We'll ride to Camp Verde. You'll have to give me your weapons, though. And promise not to try to run off. I'd hate to have to kill you and then find out you were telling the truth."
Havelock promised nothing. But he handed over his Colt. Mountain searched him and relieved him of his other weapons, as well.
****
The three riders didn't get far toward Camp Verde before nightfall. Mountain Ebson picked the campsite carefully. And the food he cooked was better than most. He also snored. The boy stood first guard.
It was nearly time for the boy to wake Mountain for the second watch when Havelock felt a knife cut the bindings that kept his arms bent uncomfortably behind his back. He was free.
Havelock didn't so much as twitch. He lay as if nothing had happened, as if unaware his bonds had been severed. He strained his ears, but heard no more than the slight sigh of leaves against woven cloth to tell him whoever cut him loose was wearing white man's clothes.
Moments later, the boy came into the firelight to wake Mountain Ebson. The huge man was instantly awake at the boy's touch. He sat on his blanket and shook out his boots, just in case something crawled in during the night. Could be anything—scorpions, black widow spiders, even diamondbacks have been known to crawl into boots because they're warm.
Once dressed, the big man said something to the boy in a voice so low that Havelock could hear only a murmur. He picked up the shotgun and walked out into the darkness. His departure made not a sound.
Josie walked over to peer down at Havelock. Apparently satisfied that the marshal was asleep, he went to his own soogans. Soon, he too, was snoring—unusual for a youngster.
Havelock moved in fractions of inches, keeping his eyes on the boy's still form. The rhythm of his light snores never faltered. Havelock was still clad in moccasins, as he'd not been allowed to take them off to sleep. He worked himself to his knees and found his own knife sticking upright in a log not two feet from his side. The marshal grinned in the night. When the shouting was over, that kid might amount to something after all.
The cuts and bruises Havelock suffered on the drag up the face of the crevice protested his movements. But they didn't make him careless. He knew where Mountain Ebson would be keeping watch. So he stood up silently and walked noiselessly in the opposite direction.
Fifteen steps away there was cover; the longest fifteen steps of his life. And at the edge of the trees, he stepped in a badger hole that caved softly from under him. He went to one knee and froze. There was no movement in the camp. And he could hear no movement from where Mountain kept watch. By morning, Havelock was fifteen miles away and still walking.
His limp was more pronounced now. He never could take long treks without favoring that blasted knee. Though he stepped careful by habit, he didn't try to hide his trail. Anyone who could sneak up on a man the way Mountain Ebson had snuck up on him could probably follow a trail by scent alone.
Then, through the clear Arizona dawn, Havelock heard the bell-notes of the Camp Verde bugler blowing reveille. He was almost out of danger. Sound carried a far piece in the silence of dawn, but the camp couldn't have been more than five miles away.
Havelock lengthened his stride, his left knee protesting each step. With luck, he'd noon with Al Seiber.
****
He topped a rise and looked down on white tents all lined up straight and fair. It sure was a pretty sight. Old Glory flew from an aspen flagpole and figures in Army blue bustled about on Army-knew-what business. One more step taken. Soon, he'd be able to track that wanted poster down.
Barnabas Donovan. Mayor of Dead End. That's who had signed that poster. Obviously, Donovan counted on bounty hunters like Mountain to do a job for him.
A young sentry stopped Havelock with an imperative "Halt!" Havelock showed his badge, still pinned under the flap of his shirt pocket. "Garet Havelock, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Like to see Al Seiber."
"Corporal of the Guard!" The young private went by the book. The corporal came at a trot. "This man wants to talk to the Chief of Scouts. Says he's Garet Havelock, a U.S. marshal."
Havelock waited in the increasing heat of the morning sun. He saw Seiber's big brindle mule coming down the line of tents. The scout didn't walk when he could ride. He had a game leg too, but it didn't keep him from being the best scout in the Army of the West.
"Howdy, Garet. Looks like you're down on your luck."
"My outfit should be pulling in any minute. I just need a little help getting it back. You got an extra handgun?"
"Should be able to scare one up. Use a scatter gun?"
"Good idea."
With a .44 Smith and Wesson Russian stuck in his belt and a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun over his arm, Havelock walked the three-quarters of a mile to the hogtown were he'd drunk beer the day before. The sandy-haired man was not at his place in front of the building, so Havelock took it, pulling his hat low over his eyes and flipping the ends of the Mexican poncho Seiber had given him over the twin barrels of the scatter gun to hide it from view.
It was hot there in the sun, but Garet Havelock waited patiently. Sooner or later, that mountain of a man had to ride in with Havelock's lineback dun on a lead rope. But he didn't.
Mountain Ebson came in alone, but not down the street.
"I reckon you're on the lookout for me."
Havelock started at the sound of Mountain's quiet voice. The big man leaned casually against the corner of the saloon. He was rolling a smoke with both hands, but somehow, Havelock got the idea that if he tried anything, Mountain would kill him. Havelock did not like the helpless feeling the thought brought.
The giant spoke again.
"Suppose you tell me what's going on. That boy of mine figures you're on the up and up. If your story rings true, I'll give you your outfit back. And I'll stand out of your way."
"Let's do it over a beer, then."
"You're on."
Two tough men went through the door into the maw of the hogtown bar—one tall, painfully thin, and dark; one a giant, no less than six-foot-eight in his bare feet and weighing somewhere around three hundred pounds, all muscle.
"You know Barnabas Donovan, Mountain?"
"Can't say as I do."
> "You make a living bringing in men with a price on their heads. But this time you're after the wrong one. Three days ago, Barnabas...Buzz Donovan shot his own brother down in a rigged gunfight in Wickenburg. They didn't know if he'd live when I left to track Donovan down. There's dead people on Donovan's back trail. Two Mexicans, an old man who never hurt a soul in his life, the superintendent of the Vulture Mine's bullion room and his assistant, and at least a dozen Jicarilla Apaches.
"You know of me, Mountain. You've heard the stories. Yes, I've killed men. And I've let some go that needed killing. But you've surely heard that Garet Havelock does nothing if it ain't by the law or by good common sense."
Mountain nodded. "I have heard that. Tell you what. You take the horse and all and go after this Donovan feller. If it turns out that you're pulling my leg, I'll be coming after you. That, you can count on." The huge man turned abruptly and walked out of the door ahead of Havelock, moving with a smooth, natural gait of one born and raised in the woods. His shoulders nearly brushed the doorway on both sides as he went through.
The lineback dun snorted his pleasure at seeing Havelock again. Every item of his gear was there, food and all.
"I borrowed these from Al Seiber," Havelock said, holding out the pistol and shotgun.
Mountain covered them with a huge hand. "I'll see that they get back," he said.
Havelock mounted and sat on the dun for a moment, looking down at the craggy face of the mountain man.
"I'd forget Winslow, was I you," Mountain said. "Like as not a feller like this Donovan feels a whole lot safer in his own town. That’s Dead End. Most folks ain't never heard of it, much less know its whereabouts. How 'bout you?"
"Haven't the slightest idea."
"Like I said, not many do. It's a far piece from here. Up in the Blues out of Round Valley. Once you get to Springerville, you just get yourself pointed toward Blue Lake. Dead End is a skip and a holler up the canyon from there. But watch yourself. The canyon's blind. They say there's no way out, 'ceptin' the way you come in."
"I'll keep an eye peeled. Obliged." Havelock reined his dun toward Pleasant Valley. He stopped over at the Tewksbury place for a chat with Ed Tewksbury. He hadn't seen Donovan. Further on up the valley, he bought supplies at Perkins's store. There, he heard that Donovan had gone through two days before.
