by Chuck Tyrell
Taking his canvas jacket and bedroll, Havelock forced his way into the cholla patch, using the jacket and bedroll for protection. Still, he slept fitfully and roused with the false dawn.
****
Eagle Eye Mountain was blue in the distance, and pink with the first rays of the morning sun. Its single eye glared balefully out at the desert.
Havelock searched his mind for places where cottonwood trees grew, scribing the arc of the Eagle's Eye on the desert floor in his mind's eye. The only place he could think of was along a creek—a dry wash most of the year, which eventually flowed into the Hassayampa just below Wickenburg. The grove was at least twenty-five miles away. Havelock hoped the oats would give the dun enough stamina. It would be a stiff ride today.
The long-legged lineback settled down into a distance-eating single-foot, a pace he could keep up for hours.
At noon, Havelock was walking. The dun came along behind, head up and ears pricked. A hawk spread his feathered fingers to the sky and screeched his defiance to the world. Off to the right, a gray packrat hopped toward home, a bit of glittering mica clasped tight in its paws.
Havelock stopped. He emptied half the water in the big canteen into his hat for the dun. The horse got two good swallows. It had to be enough. But he was uncomfortable, with a feeling he'd had too many times to ignore. Someone was watching him. He'd kept a wary eye on the back trail. No one was there. And there was no telltale dust in the desert other than his own and a flurry up near the stage road, moving too fast for a freight wagon. Probably some rancher on a buckboard.
One swallow from the canteen and Havelock swung up on the dun. From atop the lineback, he could see the cottonwoods, standing out dark green against the brown of the desert. The grove was at least three hours away.
The dun's step still had plenty of spring. He loved to travel and he was showing Havelock the best he could do. The hair on the back of Havelock's neck continued to tell him that someone, somewhere, had an eye on him. It wasn't a feeling he particularly liked. Still, he was closer to getting Vulture City's gold back now than he'd ever been. He had a job to do, and he'd keep at it as long as there was a spark of life in his lanky frame.
About two o'clock, Havelock noticed a dust spiral south and west of Wickenburg. It traveled on a course that would intercept his own. Mentally he gauged the intersecting point—the grove of cottonwoods.
Donovan. If it was, he was moving fast. Whoever was making that dust was going at a good clip.
The second sign of dust came by smell, not sight. It was faint. Havelock pulled the dun up just to make sure. The taint of dust in the air said someone had crossed Havelock's trail right in front of him. Havelock rode on, cutting the pace, choosing to risk the chance that he might not make the grove by five o'clock. A dead man was no use at the grove no matter what time he arrived.
The shadow of Eagle Eye Mountain swung around and gradually lengthened out toward the desert. It was still far short of the grove, but Havelock was sure the round eye of the eagle would pinpoint the place where Arch had hid the gold. He held the dun to a walk, keeping a sharp eye out for trouble. He knew it was going to come...just not when, or where.
Donovan's rented buckboard stood in the shade of the cottonwoods. The big man lolled in the seat, waiting for the sun to move further down toward the horizon, waiting for five o'clock. He, too, saw the dust raised on the road from Wickenburg. He also felt he knew who it was. Coming that fast, the news must be good.
The closer Havelock got to the cottonwoods, the more he had to detour around gullies slashed in the desert floor by rainstorm runoff from Eagle Eye Mountain. They were deep and treacherous, and they made the going slow.
It would be close. He might not make the grove by five.
Havelock held the dun just under the top of the rise. Only his head could be seen from the other side. He was in the shadow cast by Eagle Eye Mountain now, and from where he sat, it made the figure of the head of an eagle with its shadow, flaming eye and all.
Now, Havelock was certain he could ride to the exact spot Arch Donovan had buried the Vulture City gold, for at five o'clock, the eye of the eagle would hit the spot like a beacon.
21
Horse and rider skirted the hill and headed toward the spot of sunlight that shone through the great hole in Eagle Eye Mountain. If he could make the eye by five o'clock, there, he'd find the gold. The dun picked up his pace a bit, responding to the excitement that ran down Havelock's spine.
He dismounted about a quarter of a mile from the cottonwoods. He tied the dun to a mesquite tree, pulled the Winchester saddle gun from its scabbard, checked its loads and the ones in his Colt, and walked silently toward the grove. A buckboard was parked beneath the trees, two saddle horses tied to it and its team still in the traces. As he got closer, Havelock heard metal clang against stone and sand. Someone was digging. He altered his course to make a wide sweep around the source of the sound. He still had a weird feeling he was being watched.
Gradually, he tightened the circle he stalked. He moved with Indian-like stealth from scrub to cactus to spindly mesquite to gully to boulder.
Two men dug into the dirt beneath a large flat stone they'd obviously pried out of the way. Sun from the eye of the eagle threw their long shadows on the ground. Sand and chunks of desert earth were piling up beside the growing pit. The diggers were the same pair he'd sent packing the night before. Apparently the lure of gold was stronger than their fear of Havelock, him being just a human.
Havelock hunkered down to watch.
A shovel ground on something solid.
"Found it!"
"Come on, Bradley. Help me get this wonderful, shiny bull-i-yon outta this hole."
The smaller man moved to lend a hand. When they had six small boxes stacked up on the rim of the hole, Havelock stepped into the open, rifle leveled.
"Looks like you boys didn't take me serious. You should be out of the state by now. Guess I'll just have to take you in, after all."
The two bewildered diggers looked at Havelock, blinked, then looked at the buckboard like they were expecting someone to come to their aid. No one did.
"This will teach you gentlemen to listen to an officer of the law when he gives you advice. If you had listened to him, I tell you, you would be much better off." It was Buzz Donovan's voice. A moment later he appeared from the direction of Eagle Eye Mountain, a Smith & Wesson Schofield in his hand.
"Get rid of the rifle, halfbreed boy."
Havelock threw the Winchester off to the side, butt first so it would not be damaged.
Donovan turned to the two men who had dug the Vulture City Gold from its hiding place. "Let me show why you men should have listened to the marshal," Donovan said, punctuating the sentence with two shots from the Smith & Wesson. A black hole appeared over the left shirt pocket of each man. Then, a spreading of their life's blood. The shock was too great for either of them to make so much as a sound as they died. They simply lay in the hole where the .45 caliber slugs had flung them, eyes open to the evening sky.
"Don't do it, señor." The voice behind Havelock was soft, hardly more than a whisper, but it carried a steel-hard warning. Havelock relaxed his right hand, which had been inching toward the butt of the pistol jammed in his waistband, and brought it back into plain sight.
Havelock looked over his left shoulder. Juanito O'Rourke, dressed, as always, in black, stood about thirty feet away and slightly behind Havelock. Donovan was also to his left, but twenty feet away and to the front. There was not a lot he could do, but Havelock knew he had to be ready for the slightest break, if one ever came.
Donovan pulled back the hammer of his pistol. "Havelock, you rode from pillar to post. I hardly even had time to take a good bath. And a gentleman should not be odoriferous. Every time I thought I was rid of you, you turned up again. It became very tiresome. I certainly should have shot you through the heart back in Indian Territory. Now, I will rectify that error."
Havelock could see t
he color of death. It came creeping in cold and blue from Eagle Eye Mountain was the sun went down. Then deep down in his bowels anger grew. If he had to die doing his job, so be it, but he didn't need to hear bitching from the likes of Barnabas Donovan. Fury built behind his eyes, hot and red. There was no reasoning with it. No one was about to put Garet Havelock into a hard hole in the desert without him doing something about it. Silently, he apologized to Laura. He'd probably not be around to enjoy her company any more.
Havelock took his eyes off Donovan for a second, flicking a glance at Juanito O'Rourke. The halfbreed outlaw had lowered his gun. He watched Donovan with an amused half-smile on his dark face.
There was no way out. But Havelock had once heard there was no stopping a man who is in the right and knows it. He made his move.
Without a word, he simply snaked his Colt revolver out of his waistband, half-turned toward Juanito O'Rourke, and shot him through the surprised look on his face. The roar of Donovan's gun matched his own. Havelock felt the big slug smash into his torso, ripping and tearing and flinging him to the ground even as he saw Juanito's face dissolve into a mask of blood.
By instinct, Havelock rolled. Donovan's second shot caught him in the fleshy part of his left calf. Why does he always have to shoot me in the left leg? Havelock felt detached. Almost as if his mind was already floating out there somewhere above his body. Every movement seemed to have slowed to an interminable crawl.
Rolling onto his belly, Havelock brought his right fist up, elbow supporting it, and pointed his Colt at Donovan like it was his index finger, not bothering to take precise aim. The gun spat flame, but Havelock was unaware that he had pulled the trigger.
Donovan went to his knees, red wetness spreading across the whiteness of his fine ruffled shirt.
"You worthless halfbreed son of..." Donovan started to curse Havelock, but another bullet from Havelock's Colt tore away half of his jaw and left the curse gurgling in a froth of blood.
Havelock peered through the growing darkness that clouded his eyes. Donovan toppled face down, twitching. Then he was still.
Paralysis crept over Havelock's body. I'm never going to get this gold back to Vulture City. I'll never see Laura...Then, all thought winked out.
Five men sprawled on the desert. And the dry hungry land sucked at their blood.
When all sound and movement had ceased, a shadow moved toward the still figures—a cautious gray packrat, looking for a bit of glitter.
Another gray shadow moved toward the still forms. Silently the huge form of Mountain Ebson materialized from among the cottonwoods. A glance told him the two men in the pit were dead. Donovan lay with his ruined face to the sky. Blood no longer flowed. He, too, was dead.
Juanito O'Rourke lay face down where he had fallen. Mountain nudged him with a foot, then holding his rifle at the base of O'Rourke's skull, felt for a pulse in the outlaw's neck. There was none.
Havelock groaned and struggled to all fours. Blood dripped from his ripped side. A large pool had already collected where he'd lain. He squinted, trying to focus his eyes, and tried to raise the heavy Colt. He didn't have the strength. Once more, he collapsed on the desert, blood pouring from the large hole Donovan's bullet had gouged in his side.
Mountain moved quickly, kicking the pistol away from Havelock's hand. He strode to the pit and cut the shirts from the backs of the two dead men with his Bowie. "Sorry, gents, but you-all won't be needin' these," he muttered, carrying the cloth back to Havelock's side. He cut Havelock's shirt away to uncover the wound. The bullet had entered about two inches above the hipbone in front and plowed its way across and out Havelock's back. Mountain could see glimpses of Havelock's intestine through the hole.
"Boy," he called.
"Yeah, Pa." Josie was only a few yards away.
"You bring me that clean shirt from my saddlebags, and hurry up about it."
Taking the shirt from the boy, Mountain folded it into a square several layers thick and slapped it directly on the wound. "Hold this," he said to the boy.
Josie held the rude compress on Havelock's wound until Mountain could tear strips from the dead men's shirts to bind the compress in place.
"Pa," Josie said. "Horse a comin'."
"I hear it."
When Laura Donovan rode into the clearing, she looked into the barrels of two long Winchesters. She paid them no mind, but her hand went to her mouth as she viewed the carnage.
"My name's Mountain Ebson," the big man said. "An' this is my boy Josiah. Miss, if it ain't too forward of us, who might you be?"
"Laura Donovan. Are they all dead. Is Garet dead?"
Mountain raised an eyebrow. "Garet? And you with the name of Donovan? No, the marshal's not dead yet. But he needs more help than I know how to give him."
In moments, Laura had taken charge. She sent Josie ahead to Vulture City to tell Doc Withers what had happened. She had Mountain lay Havelock in the buckboard on a rough bed made of the dead men’s saddle blankets. "I'll drive the buckboard," she told Mountain. "You bury these bodies and come after."
Havelock moaned and tried to raise his head. Laura felt his head. It was hot. She wet a cloth at the spigot of the water barrel and wiped his face, leaving the cloth folded on his forehead.
Havelock's eyes flickered open, blood-shot and staring. He tried to focus. His lips moved. Laura put her ear to his mouth.
"The gold," he whispered. "Gotta get the gold. Take it back. Gotta ..."
"Mountain, one more thing, if you would. Please stack those boxes on the buckboard and tie them. Garet wants to take them to Vulture City."
Mountain grinned. "He don't know when to give up, do he?"
With the boxes of bullion tied to the buckboard, Laura was ready to leave.
"Mountain, I'll go ahead," Laura said. "You come as quick as you can."
"The sun'll be down afore long, Miss Laura. I'll catch up to you before dark."
****
Laura didn't want to think of the sun going down. She just wanted to get Havelock to Vulture City. She clucked to the team, turned the horses, and let them pick their way a little bit south of east.
She'd got hardly a mile when a huge black figure stepped into her path to halt her horses. "I'm Tom Morgan," he said. Laura said nothing.
"I'll drive," Morgan said. "You look after Havelock. Puma's warriors will make sure we make Vulture City all right."
Laura nodded.
Morgan took it slow and easy, making the ride as comfortable as he could for the wounded man. He muttered and tossed and sweated, but the compress kept his wound from bleeding too much.
With the dawn, they could see cooking fire smoke rising from Vulture City. The old Jicarilla Apache chief appeared out of the brush and said a few words to Morgan, handing him a small bag. Then he disappeared into the desert.
"Puma's taking his men home now," Morgan said. "He left some herbs his medicine woman says are good for open wounds."
In her fatigue, Laura could do little more than mumble her thanks.
Three riders came to meet them as they approached Vulture City—Mountain Ebson, the young boy, Josie, and a swarthy man. Laura was sure she'd never seen him before, yet somehow, he seemed familiar.
"With Tom and them with you, I figured I'd just ride on ahead," Mountain said.
Laura smiled faintly.
"How is he?" the swarthy man asked.
"Hanging on," she said. "But he seems to have a fever now."
"Doc Withers is waiting. Let's get him in there."
Minutes later, Doc Withers went to work.
22
The first thing Havelock saw when he came to was Laura Donovan standing by the window. He spoke, but it was hardly more than a raspy whisper. "Where am I? Heaven?"
At the sound of Havelock's voice, she whirled to look at him, concern etching deep lines between her eyebrows. Havelock tried to grin.
"Where'd you pick me up?"
"Out on the desert east of Eagle Eye Mountain."
Havelock wrestled with her statement. He couldn't make sense of it.
"How'd you know where to look?" he asked.
"I didn't, exactly. I just saw Buzz go through Wickenburg and knew you could not be far behind. He changed teams at the livery stable and the man said he was headed into the desert to hunt bighorn sheep. But I knew he was looking for the gold. You found him before I did. The shots helped, though. Mountain Ebson said he'd never seen anything like it."
"Mountain?"
"He was there. He said he just topped the ridge when the shooting started." Laura glared at him. "Mountain said you drew on two men who already had pistols in their hands!"
Havelock tried to shrug, but he was bandaged too tightly for his shoulders to move much. Besides, moving hurt.
"I was just doing my job," he said. "Hardcases like them don't belong in this country."
Laura scolded him. "So you're going to rid Arizona of bad men all by yourself, are you?" Then her face grew grave. "Mountain had your bleeding stopped by the time I got there. But you've still lost a lot of blood. Mountain laid you on Buzz's buckboard, and then Tom Morgan and I drove you to Vulture City."
"Tom?"
"Tom. And an escort of Jicarilla Apaches. Chief Puma likes you."
"But why Vulture City?"
"Doc Withers is here. Wickenburg has no doctor."
Havelock had to know. "What about the others?" he asked.
"Dead. Mountain Ebson buried them under the cottonwoods."
Havelock half-lifted a hand. His usually expressionless face said he'd rather have not shot her brother.
"Yes, he was my brother," she said in a low voice. "But he was also a thief and a murderer. He shot Arch, tried to kill him. And he shot you."
"Arch's okay, then?"
"Arch's coming along fine. But he could be dead. And Buzz...I know, Garet, you only did your duty the best way you knew how. And Garet..." Tears sprang to Laura's eyes. She turned from him to dab at them for a moment. Then she faced him again. As she spoke, her voice broke. "And Garet, it could have been you that Mountain buried out there in the desert. Then what would I do? What could I do?"
