Vulture Gold

by Chuck Tyrell

  After shaving, Havelock carefully trimmed his full moustache. It, too, showed a sprinkling of gray.

  He stripped the red bandanna from his neck and took off his shirt. With a hand towel dipped in the basin and wrung out, he wiped the dust and grime from his muscular torso, pausing once at the puckered scar just below his right collarbone and again at the long one that ran from his left nipple a good twelve inches down toward the point of his left hip. Both were compliments of Will Sherman's troops.

  Havelock continued his toilet, his movements reminiscent of a lithe puma. The brace on his knee was Havelock's design and skillfully made. It supported his joint and worked the same as a real kneecap, allowing the knee to bend forward, but prevented it from buckling backward.

  He pulled on dark brown trousers, donned a shield-front shirt, tied a black silk kerchief around his neck, and strode into the office. As he buckled on his gunbelt, he heard Pappy's clumping footsteps. The latch lifted and the down-home aroma of beef and beans followed the old man into the room.

  "Is that provender I smell?" Donovan's shout came through the thick, oak door.

  "It's coming. Just hold your horses." Pappy cast a baleful look at Havelock and took the prisoner's supper to his cell.

  "Jase over to the Carrion said to tell you that Hunter's awake and talking," Pappy said when he returned.

  "I was just going to eat. I'll drop by on my way."

  Havelock plucked his Stetson from the hat rack and picked up the sawed-off shotgun. He opened the door only wide enough to let his lithe six-foot frame through. He took a long step back and to his right, into the shadow thrown by the eaves. There he paused until his eyes completely adjusted to the night.

  The full desert moon bathed the scene in soft silver-blue, concealing the harshness in which the fittest survived by day. To the west, the Big Horn Mountains loomed, a dark shadow against the indigo sky. The stars glittered just out of reach, and the acrid scent of hardy desert growth—mesquite, ironwood, octillo, yucca, and prickly pear—wafted, as tempting as incense.

  Havelock took a deep breath and stepped into the street, shotgun in the crook of his arm. Three paces out, he paused. His eyes searched the shadows of the plaza to his left. He looked for anything out of place, any flicker of movement that didn't fit the familiar pattern of Vulture City's night. Before Marshal Melgrade had caught that Jicarilla arrow, he and Havelock had often surveyed the dusty streets together. But now Melgrade was gone, and Havelock, half-Cherokee, wore Vulture City's badge.

  Havelock' s sharp gaze took in the other side of the plaza. The reveling inside the Carrion saloon registered faintly on his consciousness, as did the pool of light in front of the Gold Skillet. His relentless eyes flicked from lighted window to shadowed door to dark alley, all the way to the entrance of the Vulture Mine. On this night, all was normal in Vulture City.

  A smile played across Havelock's sharp-planed face. Tough and wild as this town was, it was his. Though, half-Cherokee and a lawman, he belonged. Water had to be wrestled forty miles across the desert from the Hassayampa, but to Havelock, that dollar-a-gallon mud tasted better than sparkling water from a mountain spring.

  Inside the Carrion, Jase Bachman led the marshal to a room at the back. Hunter lay on a bed too small for his great body. His trousers were missing a leg and the protruding trunklike limb wore bandages from shin to crotch. The antiseptic odor of carbolic acid lingered.

  The big miner grinned. "Howdy, Marshal."

  "How ya feeling, Hunter?"

  "Think I'm gonna live. I wasn't too sure earlier on today. Doc Withers says it'll take a while to get back on my feet. Says you'd know something about that."

  "Yeah, I know," he muttered. A hell of a lot more than I want to tell. Havelock'd spent a year and a half on crutches. "I didn't come over here to swap yarns," he said. "I came to offer you a job."

  A twenty-mule team would have fit in Hunter's open mouth. At last he stuttered: "J-j-job? How? I mean, er, what? I can't do nothing stove up like this."

  "Thing about wounds," Havelock said, "the more you use your body, the faster they heal. I want you to guard Donovan. I'll set you up in the other cell and you can sleep there. I'll even provide a shotgun to keep you company. Anyone comes in without singing out, you shoot first and find out who it is later."

  The bearded miner stared at Havelock. Then he threw back his massive head and laughed.

  "By God! I'll do it, you heartless Cherokee, and damn me if I don't."

  "Figured you would. Now I can rest easy." At the door, Havelock turned. "I'll expect you on the job in the morning," he said. 'Your pay's thirty a month and found."

  Hunter grinned. "I'll be there if I have to crawl."

  Chapter Three

  The stage from Prescott to Phoenix came through Vulture City twice a week. Still, letters were better off sent on the stagecoach than by rider. A lone rider tempted wandering Apaches. Most of the time, Indians left the coaches alone. On the other hand, white men robbed the stages every other week or so. Wells Fargo even talked about refusing to carry Vulture's gold.

  Pappy and Havelock had just readied Hunter's cell when the stage rumbled in.

  "Straighten up a bit in here, Pappy. I'll go see if the judge is on the stage. It's that time of the month."

  Pappy's retort scorched the air.

  Havelock stepped into the blazing morning. His squinting black eyes swept the plaza. The stage stood in front of Vulture Mine headquarters. Wil Jacks backed a new team of four powerful horses into the traces.

  A shrill rebel yell split the air and the batwing doors of the Carrion saloon burst outward. Hunter stood there with his arms over the shoulders of Reb Carson and Vernon Mills. Sweat rolled down his pale face and into his beard, which was split by a huge smile.

  "Marshal Garet Havelock," he roared. "Here I come."

  "I see you, Timothy Hunter," Havelock roared back. "And you're late." The marshal held open the door.

  Hunter gave his human crutches a nudge. With his injured leg held off the ground, he hopped across the plaza. The effort drove perspiration from his body in streams, but at last he stood before Havelock, straight and proud, though gasping for breath. He thrust out a huge hand. "Marshal, I'm reporting for duty," he said.

  Havelock gripped the hand. "Come on, then. Start earning your pay." He took Mills's place at Hunter's left and helped Reb Carson get the big man into the second cell. They settled him on the bed where he sank back for a long moment. Then he heaved his massive torso up and leaned his bulk against the wall.

  "Marshal! Where's that shotgun?"

  "Right here, you rowdy scoundrel. They's something you'd better learn and learn good. They's only one boss in this here jail, and that's me. John Frederick Holmes, also known as Pappy." The old man's voice sounded stern, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth beneath the white whiskers. "Take your weapon," Pappy commanded, and tossed the shotgun at Hunter.

  "Hey!" The big man barely managed to catch the deadly gun. "Be careful with shotguns, will you?"

  Pappy ignored him. "Now, if you'll tell me what kinda cat'ridge you want, you can get that thing loaded and start doing some good around here."

  Hunter cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment. "Give me half slugs and half BB shot," he said.

  Pappy brought Hunter a handful of each.

  Havelock interrupted the banter. "Hunter, Donovan's got to stay here until the circuit judge comes around. Skunks out there want him—some to stretch his neck, some to break him loose. You shoot any skunks you happen to see."

  "You can count on me, Marshal."

  "I know I can. Like I said before, if anyone besides me or Pappy comes through door or window, you cut loose with the shotgun. We'll ask questions after we clean up the mess."

  "And Hunter," Havelock said, "exercise is good for a wound. So is sleep. You exercise as much as you can. Pull yourself up by the bars. Walk around. But don't you sleep a wink unless you've told Pappy or me first. Y' hear?"

/>   "Marshal, I've been called a lot of things, but I ain't never been called lazy. I'm a man of my word. My old man always said a man's name is only as good as his word. You'll not find a better name than Timothy Hunter. Now you mother hens get out of here and let a man do his job!"

  In the next cell, Donovan chuckled at Hunter's speech, but said nothing. Havelock gave Donovan a hard look and left the cell block.

  In the office, Havelock spoke to Carson and Mills. "Boys. I thank you for getting Hunter over here," he said. "You showed him he can count on you, and it does a man good to know he's got friends to count on."

  "Marshal," Reb Carson said, his long hatchet-face dead serious, "after that boy got lynched, I didn't think much of you and your ways. Seemed to me you leaned on that badge too much. But let me tell you, givin' Hunter a job after he led us crazies across the plaza... Man, that shines."

  Reb blushed under his desert-tanned skin. "Anyway," he mumbled, "if you ever need a hand, just holler. I'm pretty fair with a horse and a gun. I'll ride out again anytime."

  The effort of making such a long speech seemed too much for the Texan. He fled across the plaza and into the Carrion.

  "You done a right thing with Hunter, Garet," Pappy said.

  "He'll earn his pay." Havelock went to the window for the umpteenth time. "Tom Morgan's not back. Either Francisco Valenzuela was tougher than I thought, or Tom's dead. Maybe both. I don't like it. Not one bit."

  "Just you simmer down, Garet. Tom Morgan's as good as they come in the desert. It'd take a heap of hombre to kill him."

  Still, Havelock felt uneasy. His eyes kept going to the skyline, though he knew Morgan would never outline himself. Nothing stirred. No breeze. No animal. No bird. No telltale dust signaling an oncoming rider. No Tom Morgan.

  * * * * *

  Night brought no relief. Havelock paced his town with dogged strides, every sense strained toward the desert. But nothing came out of the darkness.

  Long after midnight, Havelock fell exhausted upon his bed without even removing his boots. His dreams were fitful, with a huge black form moving through them like an unwelcome ghost.

  Dawn came in delicate rose and coral, bathing the rough stone and adobe of Vulture City with a semblance of beauty. Havelock greeted the rising sun from the outer edge of the plaza. His gaze swept the craggy Big Horn Mountains. Faintly, at the far northern end of the range, he saw Eagle Eye Mountain and the huge hole that gave the mountain its name.

  Field glasses in hand, Havelock walked around the jailhouse and up the trail to the top of a low hogback. Methodically he searched the desert, but still almost missed the smoke that rose, pencil-thin, between Vulture City and Court House Butte on the far side of Centennial

  Wash.

  Havelock squinted at the smoke—could be ten miles away, could be thirty; could be a decoy, could be a signal. Didn't matter, Havelock had no choice but to go. He dashed for town and almost collided with Jacob Garth, the storekeeper's son, as he turned the corner into the plaza.

  "Jake," Havelock shouted. "Do me a favor. Run and tell Wil Jacks to saddle up my buckskin horse. Water him good and bring him over to the jail with grain for two days in a gunny sack. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, sir, Marshal! Be right back." The boy ran off and Havelock turned to more urgent matters.

  "Pappy," he called as he came through the doorway. "I'll be gone for a day or two. You and Hunter keep your eyes peeled."

  "Garet. Don't you go do nothing foolish."

  "There's a smoke down by Court House Butte. It's no campfire, and it's not Apache. Probably trouble, but I still gotta go."

  Havelock tucked a snub-nosed pistol into the small of his back where his vest covered it. He slipped a sheathed Bowie knife onto the left side of his gunbelt. It hung over his left hip-pocket. Another knife slid into a sheath sewn inside his right boot.

  He plucked a pair of saddlebags from a peg and went into his room. There, he stuffed two pair of moccasins—one soft and ankle-high, the other rawhide-soled and knee-length, Apache style—into the saddlebags, along with an extra Colt revolver.

  "Pappy!" Havelock shouted.

  "You don't have to yell. I'm right here."

  "Sorry. Would you walk down to Horn Stalker's place and see if you can get me a pound or so of his bighorn sheep jerky? And pick up some corn meal and chili at Jose Mendez's, would you?"

  "Sure, Marshal."

  Havelock threw the saddlebags on the desk. He unlocked the gun cabinet and took out a box of .44-40 shells. He filled the empty loops of his gunbelt from the box and dumped the rest in the saddlebag. He slipped five more shells into loops sewn into the crown of his hat. Then he cleaned and oiled his pistol and the long-barreled Winchester saddle gun.

  "Marshal?" Jake Garth stood in the open door. "I brung your horse," he said. "The buckskin, like you said, Marshal."

  "Let's have a look." Havelock let the boy through the door first. Havelock eyed the buckskin standing hipshot at the hitching post. He was as good as a desert-bred Apache horse, and almost as good as an Apache brave.

  "Come with me, Jake."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Who saddled the buckskin?"

  "I did," Jake said, pride in his voice. "Wil said I could."

  "This ol' buckskin is a little tough to saddle sometimes. So let me show you a trick or two."

  The boy was all big ears and bright eyes.

  Be good to have a son like this boy. Havelock slipped his hand beneath the girth, and the boy's eyes widened in surprise.

  "But. But..." He sputtered. "The surcingle was tight when I left the livery."

  "Like I said, this ol' buckskin horse has a trick or two. He'll take a deep breath and blow up his stomach so you can't get that cinch tight. What I do is give him a good thump in the belly with my knee. That busts the air out of him." Havelock smiled. "But you're not quite big enough to do that, so you'd better lead the horse around in a tight circle, make him switch head and tail about three times, good and fast. Then take that surcingle up a notch or two, like this." Havelock tightened the cinch.

  "I been meaning to ask you, Marshal. I mean. Well. If you don't mind, sir. Your cinch buckle's on the off side, opposite to everyone else's. I been wondering. I mean.

  Well, how come, Marshal?"

  "You know I walk a bit stiff in one leg, right?"

  The boy nodded.

  "A man shot me in the left knee one time, and it hasn't worked too good since. I can't get into the saddle from the on side because that shot-up knee won't hold me up. So, to get horses used to me on the off side, I do everything on that side. Cinch up. Mount. Groom. It's kinda made this ol' horse a little odd, though. He thinks his off side is his on side. An ordinary cowpoke had better watch out. Ol' Buck comes unwound if someone tries to mount him from the on side."

  "You mind what the marshal tells you, boy. He ain't never talked nonsense in his whole life," Pappy said. "You listen to him good and you're liable to live past forty-'leven, like me." The old jailer chuckled and handed Havelock a bag of provisions and two full canteens.

  "That'll be fifty cents for the grub and a dollar for the water, Marshal. Yeah, I know," Pappy continued before Havelock could answer, "put it on the books as expenses."

  "That's right," said Havelock. He tied the sack of provisions over the saddlebags, slipped the Winchester into the saddle scabbard, and mounted the buckskin gelding.

  "Pappy. I'm counting on you and Hunter to mind the fort. I won't be gone more than two days. If I can't find out what's going on by then, I'll just turn around and head back."

  Havelock reined the buckskin around the hanging-tree and up the slight incline to the crest of the hogback from which he'd seen the smoke. He took his field glasses from the case that swung from the saddle horn. He focused them toward Court House Butte. The smoke was there. Morgan's not coming back, the thin smoke seemed to say. It grated on Havelock's mind like grit between the teeth.

  He pushed the buckskin into a ground-eating single-foot, n
ot caring about the dust that rose from its hoofs. The sun passed overhead and dropped toward the rim of the Big Horn Mountains. Three times Havelock stopped to rest the buckskin. Each time, he swabbed its mouth out with his bandanna, wetted from one of the canteens.

  He'd decided the smoke came from Burnt Well. At least the buckskin will be able to drink up before we head back, Havelock thought, but that's not how things turned out.

  The smoke guided Havelock to the well. He saw the fire when he crested the hill. A supply of greasewood sticks was stacked so they'd roll down on the fire as those ahead burned. A fire like that would burn for a good twenty-four hours. Havelock figured this one was set up and lit before dawn.

  As he got closer, Havelock noticed something spitted on a stick about a foot from the fire. He noticed a peculiar smell, too. Something he'd not had in his nostrils since the war—the odor of cooking human flesh.

  Havelock squinted against the tears that sprang to his eyes when he recognized the big black right hand of Thomas Jefferson Morgan spitted on a stick, roasting. He didn't stop to put out the fire, and he didn't water his horse, because he could see the stiff legs of Morgan's dead mule sticking out of the well. He just turned the big buckskin and lit out. The fire had turned out to be a decoy that showed Francisco Valenzuela had designs on Vulture City.

  The buckskin stumbled again, his hide lathered and rough with desert dust, his stride jerky. His great desert-toughened muscles began to fail. Havelock reined him to a stop and swung wearily from the saddle. One canteen was still half full. He poured the water into his hat and let the buckskin suck it dry. The horse's head raised. He nuzzled Havelock's shoulder.

  Havelock hauled the saddlebags and grub sack from behind the saddle, pulled the snub-nosed pistol from his belt, and removed the heavy Bowie knife from his gunbelt. They fitted into the saddlebag after he had removed the long-legged Apache moccasins. He took off his boots and put on the moccasins.

  He cached everything in a crevice, sighting landmarks in three directions so he could find them later. He'd make do with Colt and Winchester. He caught up the buckskin's reins and started walking toward Vulture City.