by Chuck Tyrell
"A side of bacon," Havelock said. "And cut it into half-pound chunks, if you would. A tin of crackers, and one of hardtack. A pound of coffee, ground. Four cans of peaches. I'll eat one right now. Do you stock jerky? Good. I'll take a couple of pounds of that. Five pounds of flour, and a package of baking powder."
"That do it?"
"When you can get around to it, get me 400 rounds of .44-40 shells."
The sutler's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "Planning to start a war, are ye?"
"Nope. But I aim to be ready if anyone else gets the notion."
Havelock took one can of peaches, opened it with his Bowie and gulped down the syrupy fruit. He'd sharpen the knife later.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder as he went out the door. No one came into town on the corduroy road.
The dun stood patiently at the hitching rail. Making a sudden decision, Havelock mounted and rode him back to the livery stable. He'd decided a good bait of grain could make the difference in the tough dun's staying power, even if it did take extra time.
A young roustabout came from the direction of the stable with a pitchfork in his hand. From the looks of the material on the tines, he'd been mucking stalls.
"Rub this horse down and give him a quart of good oats." Havelock flipped a five-dollar gold piece to the youngster. "See it's done right quick, okay? And put five quarts of oats in a gunnysack for me to take along. Rest the dun for half an hour, saddle him up, and bring him up to the hitching rail at the sutler's. Got that?"
"Yes, sir!"
The walk back to the store seemed much longer than it really was. And Havelock half expected Donovan's men to come riding in at any moment. He breathed easier once he was back inside the dark store.
"Going far?" The sutler wanted to make conversation. Havelock grunted. He stood by the murky window, watching the road.
"Name's McFadden," the oldster volunteered. "Came into this country with Marion Clark and them. Clark, he never could settle down. Cory Cooley even beat him out of his share of that ranch they had. 'Show low and win the ranch,' ole Marian said. And Cooley showed up a deuce of clubs. Won hands down. After that, he called it the Show Low Ranch. Jim Flake and them Mormons bought it back in '76. Show Low's a right growing town now."
"How's the Apache situation?"
"Well, Geronimo, Juh, and them took off from the reservation earlier this year after that shootout down to Cibicue. They got three supply wagons about a month ago, but that was down in the Dragoons. They ain't been up here since General Crook got back."
The provisions were in sacks, ready to go. Havelock tied their ends together so he could just toss them over the bedroll tied behind the cantle of his saddle.
The sound of running horses took him back to the window. At the sight of the riders, he pulled the pistol from his waistband. The dun was still in the livery stable and Donovan's riders were in town, the black-clad Indian in the lead.
Now, there was no doubt in Havelock's mind who the man in black was. The green eyes peering from that Indian-dark face told him the man was Juanito O'Rourke, outlaw son of an outlaw Irish father and his half-Yaqui, half-Mexican woman. There was no better man on the trail than Juanito. Indian sharp, Yaqui tough, Irish smart. A hell of a combination.
Juanito had three companions, none of whom Havelock recognized, except for the type. They were men who lived by the gun and would probably die by the gun.
In town, they slowed down, riding slowly by the store with eyes flicking in all directions. Only the dark interior kept them from spotting Havelock. That, and the fact that the dun was still at the livery stable.
The four horsemen rode to the saloon and dismounted, looping the reins of their horses over the hitching rail. Had Havelock been looking for a man, he would have done the same. A good barkeep was worth his weight in information.
As Donovan's men went through the batwing doors, Havelock saw the youngster from the livery stable leading the dun toward the store. He came from the opposite direction and would not pass the saloon. From his vantage point at the window, Havelock could see no shadow that spoke of a watching man. Maybe they hadn't posted a lookout.
"Mister, your dun's outside."
"Thanks, son. You'd be smart to stay here with Mr. McFadden until I get out of town. Those jaspers that just rode in are after me."
Wide-eyed, the youngster nodded. Havelock turned to the sutler. "McFadden, I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal." He showed the badge. "I'm going to hooraw your town a bit. I'd like for you to explain to the citizens after. Especially to the general."
The old man didn't answer. "You'd better pay me the four dollars and seventy-three cents you owe me for the grub and another four bucks for the cat'ridges."
Havelock dug sheepishly for the expense money he'd gotten from Marshal Meade back in Wickenburg. How long ago? Seemed like a year and a half.
"Sorry," he said. "I purely forgot."
"Lawmen often do. More so than outlaws. Can't understand why, neither."
"Guess we got a lot on our minds." The excuse was mighty weak. Havelock peered out the window again. No sign of the four men. Maybe they were cutting the dust from the long ride with some of the saloon's rattlesnake whisky.
"You two sit tight," Havelock ordered as he went out the door. He threw the provisions across the saddle and mounted swiftly. Drawing his pistol, he rode toward his pursuers' four horses. They turned to face him. Suddenly, Havelock let rip with a wild rebel yell. He spurred the dun into a run and fired his pistol into the door of the saloon, high enough so that no one inside would be hit.
The four horses bolted. One of Donovan's men came charging through the batwing doors. Havelock snapped a shot in his direction and saw him go down, clutching a leg. One man less to chase after him.
The horses fanned out across the flat, running with heads held high to keep from stepping on the trailing reins. Havelock kept after them until they were well past the old Indian ruins at Kinishba.
Half a day later, there was still no one on his back trail. Havelock was beginning to feel the lack of sleep. If he didn't hole up tonight, he'd be no good when and if Donovan's three men caught up with him.
He traveled due west. The country got rougher. Gullies and canyons cropped up with increasing frequency, slowing his progress. Far to the north, on a malapai-strewn mesa, he could see a herd of pronghorns. They made fine eating and were an easy hunt. Right now, though, Havelock had other things on his mind.
He ticked off possible campsites in his head. Becker's Butte. Good cover. Big cave in the cliff. But no way to get the dun up there.
Carrizo. Good water. Level land. But not enough cover. Or too much, depending on the point of view. If a man stayed where there was a good field of fire, there wasn't enough cover. If he kept to the cover, he got no field of fire. Cross off Carrizo.
Havelock decided to camp as he'd done many times before. Water up at Carrizo. Let the dun rest. Then go out on the mesa for a dry camp. Bed down in a good big clump of manzanita where nothing could get at him without making a hell of a racket.
The Carrizo ran clear and fast, winding its way from springs under the Mollogon Rim to meet the Salt River between cliffs of malapai towering three or four hundred feet high. The best crossing was south of Flying V Mountain where the creek made a sweeping turn and a horse could pick its way down the south bank and onto a broad expanse of sand. Havelock walked the dun into the water while he was still on malapai rock. Then went up and around the bend before reining the tired horse out on the northeast bank of the stream.
Far behind him came three men. One of them, a straight figure in black, rode at full speed with his eyes glued to the ground. Havelock's trail was a winding one. Never in a straight line. Soon, the trio would have to stop for the night. Even Juanito O'Rourke couldn't read sign in the dark.
Havelock cooked a meal on the banks of the Carrizo. His horse rolled in the grass in lieu of a rubdown, and fell to cropping at the thick grass.
Ba
con fried on a hatful of fire. Coffee frothed in the lard can at the fire's side, sending up a delicious aroma.
"Glad I ain't no Mormon," Havelock said aloud. "Sure do cotton to a good cup of coffee."
When the bacon was done, Havelock added half a dozen hardtack biscuits that he'd broken up with the back of his knife against a flat rock, and then a cupful of water. The water softened the hardtack and the bacon added flavor. The result was a good hot trail meal, backed by a half-gallon of black coffee fit to take the hair off the back of a man's tongue.
Two hours later, the sun was down and Havelock was bedded down in a thicket of manzanita. He'd picketed the dun in a stand of juniper close by. He was asleep almost before the stars were out.
****
A good thirty-five miles south, Barnabas "Buzz" Donovan stepped down from a stagecoach as it arrived in Globe. A big man met him there.
"Ike Clanton," Donovan said, offering a hand. "Good to see you again. Still up to your old tricks?"
Clanton shook the hand. "Naw, I'm thinking about going to New Mexico, Mister Donovan. Pa's gone. Billy got his in Tombstone. You know, the Earps...Phin and me, we're figuring to homestead over west of Quemado. The way things look with the Hashknife and 24 outfits, we should do all right."
Donovan's face clouded over at the mention of the OK Corral fight. "Lawmen," he hissed. "Seems a person just can't get rid of them. One of them has been following me for weeks now. He just won't let well enough alone."
"Who's that?"
"Garet Havelock." The way Donovan said the name made it sound like an epithet.
Clanton looked up sharply. "Havelock? You'd do good to stay outta his way. That man's part Cherokee and all rawhide. Them's on the Trail say steer clear a him."
Donovan face turned a shade darker. "I'll deal with him. Juanito O'Rourke's after him right now. Come along. I could use a drink, and I'll buy you one, too."
Back on the mesa, Juanito made a decision. Turning to the two men following, he said, "We'll keep riding. That marshal'll turn up in the desert east of Eagle Eye Mountain. When he does, we'll be waiting. Let's head for Cave Creek."
Havelock slept well, if lightly. Two hours before dawn, he was back on the dun, cutting across the mesa toward the Tonto Basin.
20
Havelock passed through the Tonto Basin and was well on his way to Cave Creek by the end of his second day out of Fort Apache. Still, he detected no one on his back trail, and it gave him an uncomfortable feeling.
"I told them 'the cottonwoods at five o'clock,'" Havelock said to himself, mulling the lack of pursuit. I'll bet they don't even try to catch me, he thought. Juanito O'Rourke would not come riding up behind him. When he came, he'd be coming from the front. Havelock decided the Donovan riders would strike directly for Eagle Eye Mountain and had probably already passed him.
He rested well that night, taking the precautions a man naturally took in wild country. His dreams spoke of Laura Donovan, but by dawn, he was far down the trail, the canned peaches gone and but one quart of grain left in the gunnysack for the lineback dun.
He passed south of Cave Creek around noon. But even if he'd gone into the little mining town, he'd not have found Juanito and his two compadres. They were still half a day ahead, almost to the banks of the Hassayampa.
****
After a night in Globe, Donovan rode the stage to Phoenix, where he hired a light buckboard and a good team of horses. He was now driving into Wickenburg, a wooden barrel of water strapped to the buckboard bed and two canvas water bags hanging from its sides. There was desert ahead and behind, and he had a far piece to go yet.
Donovan counted on his fancy clothes and clean-shaven face to keep people from recognizing him. But he didn't reckon on Laura. She kept a sharp watch on the roads coming into Wickenburg as she waited for Garet Havelock to return. She saw Donovan enter town, but she said nothing.
Juanito and his men camped near the Hassayampa. And Garet Havelock came up on them in the night. He was pushing on in the dark, getting some extra miles when he spotted the outlaws' fire not far from the banks of the river.
He was at least a hundred yards away when he dismounted the dun. The brace on his left leg groaned lightly. Needs a bit of tallow, he thought. His moccasins were noiseless on the desert floor.
Slowly, he circled the camp. Three horses. But tied where they would be too risky to get to. Let them go, he decided. Concentrate on the men.
Havelock saw two men hunkered down by the fire, staring into the coals and talking quietly. His lips turned up in a hard smile as he watched them. Looking into the fire meant they'd be momentarily night-blind when they looked up.
The third man lay asleep in his blankets on the far side of the fire. That would be Juanito. Trust him to get sleep when he could. Like water, a man gets sleep in the wilderness whenever he has the chance.
Havelock catfooted closer. Neither man moved. They were lost in their musings. And now, Havelock could hear what they were saying.
"Ten thousand dollars!" said the larger man. "What kind of man is this Havelock for the boss to put that kind of price on him?"
"Guess he kind of cramps the boss. John Ringo figures Havelock to be all right. Said that marshal let sleeping snakes lie, so long as they stayed to sleep. Ringo was in Vulture City one time when a bunch a miners strung up a kid for killing an honest man in a fight over cards. Havelock, he tried to stop 'em. But they was too many and he wouldn't open up on 'em. But I hear that's the last lynching they's ever been in Vulture. After that, Havelock, he’s a halfbreed, and he got downright mean."
"I'm still mean," Havelock said in a conversational tone, stepping into the ring of light thrown by the campfire. "Either of you boys wanna try me, you can find out just how mean I really am. Oh, and I’m still a halfbreed, and I’m still the law."
Havelock caught the big man trying to sneak his right hand toward the pistol on his hip. "Try it and you're dead," he said, and meant it.
The big man raised his hands high. "Don't reckon I'm quite ready to die," he said, throwing a look at the smaller man.
Havelock's instincts screamed. Where was Juanito? He'd not jumped from his blankets when Havelock sounded his warning. The pile of bedding lay motionless. And the two outlaws were all too willing to cooperate.
Havelock snaked their guns from their holsters. He stuck the first in his waistband. He threw the second at the pile of blankets. It rebounded with a thud. Nothing moved. So there was no one in the blankets.
That's why these two jaspers were so unperturbed. They figured Juanito would pull their irons out of the fire.
"O'Rourke," Havelock said, still in a conversational tone. He knew the half-breed had to be close. "Listen. I hear you're a reasonable man. Commodore Perry Owens told me how you helped him out of a jam over to Navajo Springs that time. He cottons to you. That means you've got good sense."
No sound came from beyond the ring of light laid by the fire. Havelock got the feeling that Juanito was waiting, wondering what he was going to say next.
"Look, Juanito. If you come in here, one of us will die. And the other one will like as not be packing lead. I know you're not the kind to shoot a man down from behind. So why don't you let it ride? There'll be another day, if you're looking for it, but I've no quarrel with you and I don't think you have any particular one with me. None big enough to get shot over, anyway."
Havelock shut up and listened. At first, there was only silence, broken occasionally by the snapping of the fire. Then he heard protesting leather as someone swung aboard a horse. It was followed by the faint sound of a walking horse, which soon faded. Juanito had even kept his horse saddled.
The two men under Havelock's gun were stunned.
"Why that no-good halfbreed son of satan. He's rode off an' left us." The tone was more of wonder than of anger.
"He's a better man than both of you put together. You wouldn't catch him sitting by the side of a fire with his britches down," Havelock chided. The two outlaws di
dn't think it was funny.
Havelock's next words were edged with steel.
"I don't know what you boys have done, but I imagine there's a wanted flyer out on you. I could take you in, but I don't have time. Right now, I don't think Arizona air agrees with either of you. Now, if you'd like a change of scenery, I could suggest Hole-in-the-Wall up Wyoming way, or maybe you could bluff your way into Brown's Hole in Utah. Whichever, I don't want to see hide nor hair of you in Arizona. If I do, I'll shoot first and find out what you're up to later. That clear?"
"You can't send us out there without no guns. Geronimo's still loose and Old Puma's warriors could be anywhere," the big man said.
"You got a choice. You can ride out on a horse. Or, you can stay right here, tied hand and foot.”
The smaller man twitched nervously. "We'll ride, mister, if it's all the same with you."
Havelock walked them out to their horses. He'd shucked the saddle guns from their scabbards, leaving their ropes and canteens. He watched without expression as they saddled up. "I'm counting on not seeing you boys again," he said.
"You won't," the smaller one answered. The big man said nothing. They reined their horses around and headed north along the Hassayampa. And Havelock wondered for a moment if he'd really seen the last of them.
Back at the fire, he drank two cups of scalding coffee from the pot left at the fire. Then, he used the remainder to drown the coals. He didn't want to waste a good coffeepot, so he carried it back to the dun and tied it behind his saddle.
He rode another ten or twelve miles into the desert before making a dry camp for the night. This time, he was almighty careful. With Juanito O'Rourke in the somewhere out there, he'd better be extra cautious or he'd be caught sleeping. He finally found a great patch of cholla, the feared jumping cactus. Deep in the center of the patch was a clearing just big enough for a man to stretch out in. Havelock picketed the dun in a gully amidst the mesquites. He could make a meal of mesquite beans that way.
