by Chuck Tyrell
Outside the store, he cut the top off a can of peaches with his Bowie and forked the sweet fruit into his mouth with the point of the blade. His thoughts went to Laura Donovan and he wondered what she was doing. Taking care of her wounded brother, no doubt. Lots of woman, he thought, and turned his mind back to the duty at hand.
If he could keep the pressure on Donovan, sometime he'd have to make a move. The cottonwoods at five o'clock, he thought, whatever that meant. He drank the remaining peachy syrup from the can and discarded it on the trash heap. The dun was ready to go.
Up and over the Mogollon Rim Havelock rode, passing Stott's ranch and heading toward Cottonwood Wash. He spied a low, well-built cabin of stone tucked in under a bluff. Smoke curled from the chimney and the smell of frying meat wafted on the gentle breeze.
On the far side of the clearing in front of the cabin, Havelock hailed. "Hello the house."
The door opened on a smallish man with a big smile and pleasant open features. He held his rifle casually, but Havelock knew it was ready for instant use.
"Light and set," the man said. "No man ever been turned away from the house of Zach Decker."
Havelock's head snapped up. "So you're Zach Decker, the Mormon gunman. I've heard tell of you. They say when the Utes took your horses over in the San Juans that time, you just naturally went after them and took those horses right back."
Decker laughed. "That, I did. And without killing ary a Ute. Step down, stranger. Step down."
Havelock did, and Decker's eyes tightened at the fact the marshal did it from the off side. "You'll be Garet Havelock, then. Never heard tell of another man good with a gun that used the off side of his horse."
"That's me." Havelock found himself grinning, reflecting the merry look on the gunman's face.
Inside, the cabin was neat and clean, everything in its proper place. When the flagstone walls were built, some of the flat rocks had been left wide to form shelves. These were lined with provisions, tools, and range gear.
"Will you be carrying a badge this time?"
"I am."
"Wasn't you the town marshal of Vulture City?"
"Was. Now, I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal." Havelock showed the badge pinned to the underside of his shirt pocket flap.
"Looking for anyone in particular?"
"Barnabas Donovan."
The small man's eyebrows rose. "I know him. He don't seem like the type that'd get mixed up in outlawry. He's always been well-liked around these parts."
"So was Jesse James. People out in Missouri figured he was second-cousin to God. Had him acting like old Robin Hood. Only that English owlhoot used to give his loot to poor people. I never heard of the James boys doing that."
Decker's visage darkened at Havelock's easy use of Holy names. But he didn't withdraw his welcome. "Nothing here but beef and beans, and a little sourdough bread. That good enough?"
The Mormon gunman placed a plate full of steaming food in front of Havelock.
"What's in those beans," Havelock asked. "They don't taste like the ordinary kind."
Decker chuckled. "Yeah. I put molasses in 'em before I bake 'em."
Havelock sipped at the mug in his hand.
"What's this?"
"Well, us Mormons don't drink coffee, nor strong spirits."
"Never did think whisky was good for a man."
"Anyway, you're drinking what we call Brigham Tea. It's a desert plant. Looks a bit like sage, only smaller. Brother Brigham said it was good for the likes of us to drink. And it is right bracing."
"That it is. No coffee, eh? Well, far be it from me to tell a man how to live, but I sure put store in a good cup of coffee. Takes the chill out of the morning."
The good food lent appetite, and Havelock put away three plates of beef and beans. He even had another cup of Brigham Tea.
"Obliged, Decker. That was top grub. You ever tire of packing a gun for a living, I'll get you a job as the old woman for some wrangling outfit."
Havelock's tone was jocular, but he noticed a cold look jump into the smaller man's eyes.
18
Zach Decker squinted at Havelock. "I think you're a good man, marshal. But you gotta get one thing straight. I am a rancher. Not a gunman. Now there's not too many who can pull a gun faster'n me. None who can shoot straighter. You've probably heard that. I killed my first catamount when I was five. And I've done lots of varmints in. But never the two-legged kind. I've drawn on men, yes, sir. But so far, I ain't killed one."
"I'm sure you won't unless you're pushed into it."
"I don't never want to shoot any man. The good Lord above gave them life, it ain't up to me to be the judge and jury to take it. Don't think they's anything that could push me that far."
Decker grinned. "Get right down to it, I sure can get that gun out fast. And most people have either seen me shoot or heard about it. Come outside with me a minute."
Havelock was only one step behind Decker and he still didn't see the slight Mormon draw his Colt. Five shots erupted in a continuous roar. Five cones disintegrated on a pine tree a good fifty feet from the cabin. The Colt was back in the soft leather holster as quickly as it came out.
"I see your point," Havelock said. For all Decker said about never wanting to shoot a man, Havelock knew he'd never want to go up against him.
"You might as well bunk here, Havelock. Less you’re in some all-fired hurry."
Havelock would get plenty of chances to sleep on the trail later. Tonight, he'd just as soon be inside. "I'll do it, Zach. Obliged."
****
The triple stack of pancakes Havelock had for breakfast was long gone by the time he cleared Silver Creek, headed for the divide that ran down the spine of Apache County, Territory of Arizona. He stopped along the headwaters at the place he'd chosen long ago as his future home.
The dun stood just below the crest of the ridge so Havelock was not skylined. The marshal surveyed his claim. The cabin stood silent just over the ridge. The man Havelock had proving up was not around. Probably over to Show Low for supplies.
The stream meandered across the big meadow in front of him. Green stretched out on either side. Havelock could see a half-dozen places where spreader dams had been built to make the most of the meager rainfall.
Off to the right the ridge flattened out into a bench, where Havelock planned to build his house. He thought of Laura and how she'd look in the home he imagined.
There was plenty of room for corrals, and the stream flowed clear and deep. Once in a while the sun would catch the flashing silver body of a trout surfacing to take some insect.
Havelock sat there atop the dun for a long time. He felt at home. A long way from the Territory, but home. It was hard to turn away. But his duty called. And he had given his word. He had a date to keep...with the mayor of Dead End, Arizona.
The cottonwoods at five o'clock—that's the message Arch had given Laura. Havelock wrestled with it. Gnawed and worried at it, trying to figure out what it meant. But it didn't make sense. There were a bunch of cottonwood groves within sight of Eagle Eye Mountain. And it would take a bunch of days to visit each one at five o'clock. Even if a man were at the right grove at the right time, how would he go about finding the gold? What good was it to show up at five o'clock? It had to mean something. Else, why would Arch send that kind of message to him?
The dun picked his way carefully through stands of jack pine and blue spruce. In the clearings, the grass stood more than knee high on the long-legged lineback. He snatched mouthfuls as he walked, but Havelock could not let him stop to graze. The horse would have time enough for that at night.
Here in the Arizona high country, in the White Mountains at the foot of Old Baldy, the nights were cold. The temperature dropped with the setting sun. Havelock pulled the tough canvas coat he'd bought at Becker's store in Springerville closer and kept an eye out for a good place to camp.
Another day to Dead End, he figured, no need to rush. Then he found the campsite he wanted.
A small fire, water from a nearby stream, a handful of coffee grounds in the pot—there was a lot to recommend this high country to a man. Havelock sat with his back against the cutaway bank, the fallen spruce above his head. He'd woven cut spruce boughs in the deadfall's limbs to form a rough canopy. The fire was warm and the coffee bracing. Still, Havelock took his Winchester saddle gun out for a last look around before going to sleep. As he left, he threw a few more sticks on the fire, which immediately licked at them hungrily.
Havelock took his time, making a wide circle around his campsite, stopping often to listen to the night. The sounds he heard were supposed to be there: the shirr of owl's wings and the short, dying cry of its rodent victim; the sound of the dun cropping grass; and the snap of a stick succumbing to the greediness of the campfire. Silent, yet not silent, was this night in high country. But Havelock had long since learned to sort the natural sounds from others. At the moment, there were none but the natural.
Havelock went full circle, taking somewhat over an hour to do the job, all the time mulling Arch's message over and over in his mind. He picked his way back through a stand of aspen. Deep inside the grove, he stopped, listening to the night but thinking about Donovan and the gold. Around him, aspen leaves rustled, a reassuring sound. He looked toward the campfire. He could see its flicker of light through the leaves, flashing almost like a semaphore light as the foliage moved in the breath of a breeze. The flashes of campfire light registered in his mind as little round dots. And he suddenly remembered another round dot of light he'd seen on the desert floor—the sun shining through the eye of Eagle Eye Mountain. And he knew the meaning of Arch Donovan's message. Now, he could bait a trap that Buzz Donovan would be unable to resist.
That night, Garet Havelock slept soundly.
****
It took Havelock most of the next day to find Dead End. The whole town was six buildings. The saloon also served as a store. A large house stood back from the rest, up against the sheer wall of stone that cut through the green of the little valley. The mayor's house, surely. The blacksmith shop showed few signs of recent use, and three more nondescript dwellings that probably housed the rabble that inhabited the town. The single corral held some twenty head of horses, all excellent stock. Looked like whoever lived here liked to be well mounted.
Havelock went straight to the saloon, community center of any western town. There, he planned to drop a bombshell; one that no one but Donovan would understand.
Three pairs of eyes watched Havelock enter. They were watchful wary eyes, set in hard faces. All three men sat at the same table, a pack of greasy cards before them ready to be dealt. Behind them, the stove crackled, cutting the cold of the highland valley.
Havelock bellied up to the bar. One of the trio shoved back his chair and came around behind the bar.
"We got whisky. You can have one shot. Then git. Dead End ain't your kinda place."
Havelock's left hand shot out, grabbing the bartender by a handful of shirt and apron front. A jerk of his powerful left shoulder brought the barkeep hard into the backside of the bar. Havelock's right hand held a .44 Frontier Colt. Its barrel gouged at the soft underside of the man's chin. Its hammer was eared full back.
"Just you stay where you are," Havelock growled, shooting a hard glance at the other two men. They froze, half-standing. Then settled slowly back down in their chairs. They looked interested in finding out what was going to happen next.
Havelock snarled. "Now, barkeep. You ain't man enough to tell me when, or how fast, to get out of any town. And I don't want any of your rotgut whisky. I came here to leave a message for your mayor, Mister Donovan." Havelock screwed the barrel of the Colt a little deeper into the man's chin. "Buzz Donovan is the mayor of this armpit of the earth, ain't he?"
The man nodded, his eyes wide and white. The rancid smell of fear filled the room. The man didn't want to die.
"Then you tell him that Garet Havelock was here. Tell him that I'll meet him at the cottonwoods at five o'clock. He'll know what I mean. Got that?"
The man could barely nod.
"Now, be a good boy and give me the shotgun from behind the bar."
The wicked weapon was sawed off at both ends; 10 gauge, and polished to a high shine. Havelock released his left hand hold on the barman and picked up the shotgun. Deftly, he broke it open and checked the loads. He snapped the scattergun shut and shoved his pistol back in his waistband. The sawed-off cannon now covered everyone in the saloon. Havelock backed slowly to the door. All he had to do now was get out of this robber's roost and back to the foot of Eagle Eye Mountain…alive.
He went through the door and up on the lineback in one swift fluid motion. From the saddle, he let the saloon door have both barrels. The spreading buckshot nearly tore the swinging doors off their hinges, and certainly gave those inside second thoughts about following the marshal.
The thunder of the shotgun was followed by the thunder of hooves. Riders came up the valley at a flat-out run. Havelock could not escape the way he had come, so he headed off at an angle, climbing fast and hoping there was a way to skirt the wall of stone that formed the dead end of the valley. Mountain Ebson's words rang in his ears: "There's no way out 'ceptin' the way you came in."
Shouts came from the town. Havelock could see milling figures at the front of the saloon. A man in black knelt at the point where the dun's footprints started out of town. He raised his face toward the mountains towering above town. It seemed to Havelock that the man looked straight at him.
That man's an Indian, Havelock decided. A renegade that turned to the white man's ways of murder and pillage. In his mind, Havelock searched the wanted flyers in the drawer of his desk. Nothing matched the man in black. But Havelock knew he'd have to best that man if he were to make the rendezvous with Donovan at the foot of Eagle Eye Mountain.
It took two hours for Havelock to work his way to the top. Even then, he found the way by accident. He was riding along the base of the cliff when an odd shadow caught the corner of his eye. He'd noticed nothing when he rode by, but after getting past, he could see that one layer of rock overlapped another, and that there was a narrow strip of level ground between the vertical walls, just wide enough to lead the dun into but not wide enough for him to ride into.
In the soft sand of the floor of the crevice were rounded depressions. Footprints. Animals used this crack in the wall. It just might be a way to the top. Havelock had no choice. He got off the dun and led him into the crack.
A hundred feet in, the passage started leading upward. The bottom was strewn with broken stone now. Man and horse had to step carefully. This was not the time to get injured. Twice, Havelock stopped. Once, he retraced his steps to the mouth of the passage and obliterated the signs of his passing. Once, he reached back and hooked the stirrups on the saddle horn.
One time, he thought he heard the sound of hoof beats, horses pounding past the hidden passageway on a mad search for him. Havelock forced the black-clad figure of the renegade far back into the recesses of his mind. He knew it was only a matter of time until Donovan's hooligans would be on his trail. And when they came, the man in black would be at the head of the pack.
The last few feet of the passage were a scramble over tumbled and broken boulders. But the dun was mountain born and desert raised. He humped over the rubble like it was one of the smoothest paths he'd ever trod.
Out on top, the land slanted away swiftly toward Black River. Havelock drew a long breath and looked for a way to close the passageway. There was nothing. No boulder to roll into it. No tree to fell over it. Nothing. Getting away as fast as he could was the only thing to do.
Havelock swung up on the dun and pointed its nose toward Fort Apache. From there, he'd cut acr
oss Cibecue and Carrizo creeks, go straight over Black Mesa, and head for the Hassayampa. That's what he'd do if Donovan's men didn't catch him first, that is.
North and a little west stood Old Baldy, its treeless head stuck nearly twelve thousand feet in the air. From its slopes ran the East Fork of White River. That would lead straight to Fort Apache.
19
Blue spruce, Ponderosa pine, and thick stands of aspen and jack pine made the going tough. Havelock worked his way carefully around the foot of Old Baldy until he hit a trail that led a little north of west. It was just a whisper of a path, made partly by mule deer and partly by moccasined feet.
Havelock chewed on jerked meat as he rode. There would be no stopping this night. Not only would a fire be easy to spot, but he also had to get as many miles between himself and those coming after him as he could. About midnight, he came out on lower East Fork. He could hear the roar of White River not far away as it tumbled its frenzied rapids downhill to join the waters of the Salt. The corduroy logging road had to be close by. Mormon freighters hauled supplies from St. John’s over the top, through Bog Creek, and down a road surfaced with round logs. It ran from Colonel Corydon Cooley's ranch all the way to Fort Apache. Havelock found the road less than half-a-mile from where the trail ended. By daybreak, he was in Fort Apache.
East Fork ran through the middle of the fort, separating the post on the south bank from the settlement on the north. Havelock went straight to the sutler's store. He'd not stop again this side of Eagle Eye Mountain, so he needed more supplies.
Inside, the store was dark as an old cave. It smelled of rank butter, aging cheese, and well-oiled leather. Havelock stepped to the counter.
"What can I do for you?" The storekeeper's tone was jovial and his age indeterminate. Wire tufts of white stuck to his bald pate just above the ears, and his small blue eyes held an amused twinkle.
