Vulture Gold

by Chuck Tyrell

  The sun burned its way to the edge of the Big Horns.

  The limping lawman and his game horse struggled toward home. Havelock swallowed, though his throat held no moisture.

  The buckskin horse stumbled often, but moved doggedly onward. Havelock sat listless in the saddle, his head bobbing and his tongue swelling.

  Man and horse plodded on, relieved somewhat by the evening cool.

  Havelock's head snapped up at the unmistakable twin-throated roar of the 10-gauge Greener. Was he that close to town? Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He snatched the saddle gun and slid from the saddle. Sparks of pain lanced through his left knee. He clenched his teeth and ran toward the sound of the shotgun.

  A pistol barked: one, two, three, four shots. Havelock counted them without thought as he plunged onward, rifle at the ready. The back wall of the jail loomed, and Havelock dropped. He lay still, gasping for breath.

  A spark sputtered from the dark shadows to his right. It chased itself in a zigzag line down the jailhouse wall.

  "Giant powder!" Havelock roared. "Pappy. Hunter. Down!" The dry tissues of his throat cracked and tore, and he choked on the welling blood. He spat crimson and dived behind a jutting ledge of desert shale. He pressed his face into the gritty dirt.

  The explosion threw dust, rocks, and bits of plaster into the air. The stone wall of the jail threw most of the force of the explosion outward. As the dust cleared, a hole big enough for a man to crawl through appeared in the back wall.

  A lithe figure in black darted to the hole and hissed: "Donovan."

  Havelock drew bead on the figure, but before he could call for the man to surrender, a shotgun blast knocked the dark figure back, arms wide. The man spread-eagled on the ground, twitched, and lay still.

  The marshal struggled up and limped to the corpse.

  The dead eyes of Francisco Valenzuela were open to the stars, his chest a mass of torn flesh, bloody froth, and strips of black. Now only one robber of the Vulture's gold remained—Barnabas Donovan.

  Chapter Four

  The front door to Havelock's office hung awry. A shotgun blast from inside had nearly torn the door from its hinges. Pappy Holmes lay on the floor in a widening pool of blood. He cradled the 10-gauge to his chest. His bleary eyes met Havelock's.

  "G-g-garet." Pappy struggled to speak, his voice old and weak. "Glad... you're back. Couldn't a... Couldn't a held off that damn Mex much...much longer... A-a-ahh."

  The old man laid his head on his folded arms and died. Garet Havelock stood very still. From deep in his soul, a bitter smoldering anger arose. With an incoherent roar, he started for the cell block.

  At the sound of Havelock's footsteps, Hunter yelled: "Whoever you are, sing out and sing out now. Elsewise you'll be singing in hell!" Twin clicks of cocking shotgun hammers punctuated the big man's challenge.

  Havelock shouted "Damn it, Hunter. It's me." He kicked the door open and strode to Donovan's cell. The smell of burnt gunpowder overpowered the odor of unwashed prisoner.

  "Mark this, Barnabas Donovan, and mark it well. At least three good men are dead on your account. I swear to God in Heaven I'll see you pay for those lives, in full."

  The redheaded outlaw's voice held a taunt. "Marshal, you have not one piece of evidence against me for murder. I have killed no one. Besides, what judge or jury's going to take the word of a half-breed Cherokee against that of a white man?"

  Havelock frowned. The rage still burned deep inside, but Donovan's smirk and cool attitude helped bank the fire. Havelock took a deep breath. "Donovan, I owe you. Don't get set on spending any Vulture gold. Because even if you figure a way out of this jail—and I don't think you will—you keep a sharp eye on your back trail because this Cherokee lawman will track you to hell and gone."

  Donovan smiled again.

  Damn his confidence. Damn his Irish gall.

  "Thank you for your concern and undivided attention, Marshal." Donovan turned to face the wall.

  Hunter's cell had a hole blasted in it. Dust covered the bunk and the floor. Hunter's hair and beard were white. His red-rimmed eyes peered from a plaster-dusted face. Two empty cartridges lay on the floor, and he held the shotgun ready. Valenzuela had blown the wrong cell.

  "Francisco Valenzuela's dead," Havelock said. "And so's Pappy. We come out on the short end of that bargain."

  "I done the best I could, Marshal. But I couldn't get out of this cell."

  "You done right, Hunter. Donovan's still here." He paused, then nodded, his decision made.

  "You've got Pappy's job if you want it. He don't have much use for it now," he said. Havelock didn't wait for Hunter's answer, but he heard the big man say: "I'll do that job, Marshal, good enough for Pappy and me both."

  The edges of the clotted blood that spread from under the old man had blackened. Havelock turned Pappy over and pried the shotgun from his cold hands. A little smile had frozen on the old man's face. Blood seeped from ragged wounds—one low over the left hip, another through the breastbone. Townspeople gathered outside the ruined door, but Havelock ignored them.

  At last, Doc Withers spoke. "Garet," he said gently. "Garet. Let us take Pappy away. We'll lay him to rest tomorrow. Let us get him down to Westerly's parlor."

  Havelock looked at the doctor without expression, pain written in his black eyes and across the furrows in his brow. "Send someone out back to get my buckskin," he said. "He carried me far and fast, but we didn't get back in time. Pappy's dead, Doc. Pappy never hurt nothing in his life, Doc, and now he's dead."

  "We're going to take him, Garet. Okay with you?"

  "Sure, Doc. Take him. We'll bury him in the morning."

  Four men answered Doc Withers' signal. They tiptoed in, picked up the frail old body, and left. Doc Withers stood for a moment longer. Havelock looked up, but said nothing. The doctor stepped toward the battered door.

  "You'll find Francisco Valenzuela around back," Havelock said to the doctor's back. "He oughta be planted tonight."

  "I'll see to it, Garet," Doc said. "You rest."

  Havelock spent the night with his feet propped up on his desk, nodding off and waking, guarding the ruined front door. With a hole in the wall of his cell, Hunter didn't rest much better than Havelock. Donovan slept like a baby.

  A long line of rough men trudged through the streets behind the black buckboard that carried Pappy's casket. The procession started at Westerly's funeral parlor and wound through the plaza and up the hill to the town graveyard.

  Pappy's final resting-place was a hole hacked in the desert floor with picks and crowbars. Four men lowered the pine box with two ropes. The rest stood by with their hats off, staring at the open grave.

  At last, Havelock broke the silence.

  "John Frederick Holmes was a good man. He never let a prisoner get away, but he never mistreated one neither. When I get to hell, I hope Pappy Holmes is the jailer."

  Havelock grabbed a shovel and began fiercely scooping clods into the grave. Others joined, trading off with the shoveling until earth mounded above Pappy's meager bones. Someone pounded a wooden marker into the head of the grave. The letters burnt into the slab said:

  John Frederick Holmes

  1808–1882

  Gunned down on the job

  The men left, but Havelock stayed on, looking at the grave and seeing the good years he'd spent with Pappy Holmes. Vulture gold put a man in jail, wounded men, killed two mine-workers, two outlaws, and one jailer, and Tom Morgan was missing. Where is this going to end? Somewhere out there, there's got to be another man. Donovan and the Valenzuela brothers didn't do it alone. Otherwise, Donovan wouldn't be so cocksure. Bet Donovan figures no Indian boy could ever get the best of him.

  Havelock opened his new front door to find Timothy Hunter sitting in the marshal's chair with his wounded leg propped up on the desk.

  "Just because a man's got a scratch or two don't mean he has a right to my chair," Havelock growled.

  "Yes, sir. No, sir." Hunter grinne
d, but didn't move. "I figured if I've gotta do the work of two men, I'd better start getting around. This here's as far as I got."

  "Good. You just keep up and moving. First thing you know, you'll be worth your salt," Havelock said.

  Hunter's reply was drowned by the rumble of the incoming Wickenburg stage.

  Havelock walked to the door to watch.

  Dust settled around the red-and-black-lacquered Concord. Wil Jacks started changing the teams. Four passengers clambered from the coach. Garet recognized the blocky body of M.K. Meade, US marshal, but he didn't know any of the others. His gaze lingered for a moment on the figure of a tall, slim, redheaded woman.

  The US marshal walked straight toward the jailhouse, head down, body leaning forward. Meade always looked belligerent, even though he was a soft-spoken man. With his bowed legs and blocky build, he reminded Havelock of a bulldog. He was just as tenacious, too.

  The job of US marshal was a political plum, and many US marshals sat on their duffs. But not M.K. Meade. He did the unpleasant jobs politicos shoved on him, without flash or fanfare.

  Havelock respected the federal lawman. He figured Arizona was the better for the likes of M.K. Meade.

  He shoved his hand out. "Morning, Marshal. What brings you to the gates of hell?"

  Meade grasped Havelock's hand. "Garet, m'boy, you really know how to stir things up. Sometimes I think you lie awake nights thinking up ways to make trouble for me." The tone was jocular, but Meade's face was serious.

  Havelock stepped back so Meade could enter the dim office. The heavy door banged shut behind them. Havelock shot a glance toward the cell block. The three-inch-thick door was closed.

  Meade looked at Hunter, who sat with his bandaged leg propped up on the roll-top desk, then raised an eyebrow at Havelock.

  "Marshal Meade, this here's Timothy Hunter. He's the new jailer."

  "New jailer? Where's Pappy Holmes?"

  "Dead. Francisco Valenzuela killed him trying to break Barnabas Donovan out of jail early last night."

  "Make it?"

  "No. Valenzuela blew a hole in the wall of the wrong cell a'trying to bust Donovan out. Hunter damn near cut him in half with a sawed-off 10-gauge."

  "Mighta been better if Donovan had of got out," Meade said.

  "Three good men are dead already because of that man," Havelock barked. "And the Vulture's out a hundred thousand in gold. If I have anything to say about it, Donovan is going nowhere."

  "Sorry, Marshal Havelock. You'll have to let him go."

  "What!" Havelock's face tightened down. Politics. Gotta be politics. Then he noticed the distaste on Meade' s face. There was more to the robbery of Vulture's gold than met the eye.

  "Garet, the governor's daughter has been kidnapped." Meade held out a scrap of paper.

  Havelock took it.

  I GOT YUR DOTTER. HAPPEN YU WANT

  HER LIVING YU GET BARNIBUS DONOVAN

  TO EAGLE EYE MOUNTAIN IN ONE PIECE.

  YU GOT THREE DAYS.

  Havelock handed the note back.

  The two men stood in silence.

  Then Meade spoke. "Garet, you deliver Donovan to Eagle Eye Mountain. As of now, you're my deputy. I need you to do three things, in this order: One, get the governor's daughter out safe; two, bring Donovan and the kidnapper to justice; and three, recover the bullion. No questions asked."

  The squat marshal held out his hand. In it lay the simple silver star of a deputy US marshal.

  Havelock took a deep breath, letting it whistle out slowly between his big, even teeth. He took the badge. "How much time?" he asked.

  "This is the second day. You gotta be at Eagle Eye Mountain by sundown tomorrow."

  "Okay. I'll have the girl in Wickenburg by dawn, day after tomorrow. Then I'll go after Donovan and his partner, and get the gold. That suit you?"

  "Be a big help."

  The two marshals had forgotten big, Timothy Hunter. He sat silent, moving only his eyes, watching first one lawman, then the other. They stood close together, almost like conspirators. Havelock towered over Meade by six inches, but the disparity didn't affect their attitudes. Their voices were pitched low, their tone conversational. Still, the awestruck expression on Hunter's face said he watched two deadly men, and knew it.

  "Hunter," Havelock said. "You heard what Marshal Meade said. I'll be gone however long it takes to do the job. You're in charge while I'm away. As of now, you're Deputy Marshal Timothy Hunter. I'll put it in writing before I leave."

  "Don't worry none, Marshal. This town will still be here when you get back. I'll see to it."

  Havelock grinned. "Come on, Marshal Meade. I'll walk as far as the hotel with you. You can get some rest while I get this ballyhoo on the road."

  The two men parted in front of the hotel with a firm handshake. Havelock's attention went momentarily to a striking redhead coming out of the Gold Skillet. She was the same woman that had gotten off the stage with Marshal Meade. He automatically tipped his hat and kept his eyes averted as she swept by with a smile on her face that said she knew who the marshal was even if he didn't know her.

  That smile stuck in Havelock's mind as he strode down the street toward Horn Stalker's shack.

  The wizened Indian squatted in the meager shade of a mesquite arbor. His face was a relief map of the Big Horn Mountains he loved to hunt. Horn Stalker, a Yavapai of indeterminate age, kept the Gold Skillet stocked with fresh bighorn meat. The desert was his home. Even his clothes took on the flat, faded look of the desert at midday—brown, dusty, and entirely utilitarian. Horn Stalker was another of the few men Havelock respected.

  "Horn Stalker."

  The Yavapai showed no sign he'd heard, but Havelock knew he was listening. "I'm leaving for Eagle Eye Mountain soon with Barnabas Donovan. I must turn him loose. Someone on Eagle Eye Mountain has the Vulture gold and the governor's daughter. He'll trade the girl for Donovan.

  "I'll take the girl to Wickenburg. You keep an eye on Donovan and his partner 'til I get back to the mountain. Once the girl's safe, I can bring them in."

  The Indian nodded once, and Havelock knew Horn Stalker would be there when he was needed.

  A short time later, four horses stood hip-shot in front of the jailhouse. Havelock was ready, except for the weariness that dragged at his tough body. The hard ride back from Burnt Wells and the fitful sleep of the night before took their toll. Still, he had to ride. With Donovan riding with him, Havelock could afford nothing less than total vigilance.

  "Get up, Donovan. We're leaving." Havelock opened the iron-bar door to Donovan's cell.

  Donovan's smile broadened. "And where will we be going, boy?"

  "Eagle Eye Mountain."

  "Well that's just capital." Donovan smirked.

  Havelock pushed Donovan through the open door into the plaza. "Climb on that bay."

  The outlaw mounted. Havelock shackled one of Donovan's hands, ran the chain through the hole in the pommel, and shackled the other.

  "Breed boy, we will be going through Apache territory. I need a weapon."

  "The note said to deliver you in one piece, Donovan. I'll take care of whatever comes up. You just lie low if there's trouble. And if you need a weapon, you can use that mouth of yours."

  Havelock pulled a lariat from his saddle, built a hangman's noose, slipped it over Donovan's head, and drew it snug behind the outlaw's left ear.

  "Don't make any sudden moves. This necktie won't get too tight without you doing something foolish." Havelock's smile was not a nice thing to see.

  Donovan said nothing, but his face lost some of its daredevil look.

  Havelock checked the water in all eight canteens. He slipped a .44-40 carbine into the scabbard on his slate grulla. He put the .45-70 Springfield in the saddle boot of the spare horse. He took a deep breath and filled his nostrils with the tangy dust of Vulture City.

  Havelock looked at Hunter, who stood at the door to the marshal's office. 'Tell Marshal Meade when he comes over that I'll meet hi
m in Wickenburg day after tomorrow morning. He'll know what to do."

  "Ride careful, Marshal," Hunter said, sticking out a big hand.

  Havelock grasped it. "Thanks. I will."

  He mounted the grulla and picked up the lead lines. "Come on, Donovan. Time's awasting."

  When Vulture City fell out of sight, Havelock halted and sniffed the air.

  Nothing.

  He sat for some moments, then reined the grulla off at a walk. The whiff of dust that made him stop came again. Someone moved in the desert just ahead.

  The Mojave always sharpened Havelock's senses. Perhaps its primeval nature whetted his Cherokee senses so he noticed and cataloged the normal little goings-on around. Then, if anything upset that natural rhythm, he noticed it immediately.

  Havelock rode easy in the saddle, and his eyes inhaled his surroundings. A big horned toad sunned on a sandstone ledge. A cactus wren scolded him as he went by, leading Donovan's horse and the two spare mounts in single file.

  By now Havelock knew the rider ahead didn't know the desert. And a tenderfoot invited the entire Jicarilla Apache nation to gather for the kill. Vulture City lost citizens and visitors to Apaches almost daily. Havelock knew perhaps a hundred people who were dead by Apache lance, or worse.

  Donovan also noticed the rider's sign, and his smug smile widened.

  Havelock saw what Donovan saw. An overturned rock. A crushed mesquite twig. The faint smell of acrid desert dust. An outline of a horseshoe in the outer rim of an ant-hill. Sticks scattered from a pack-rat's nest.

  The sun crept across the cerulean sky, indifferent to the life or death in the desert.

  Twice Havelock stopped—once to water the horses from the canteens, once to switch mounts.

  Eagle Eye Mountain stood a day-and-a-half ride from Vulture City. The note's deadline offered no leeway.

  No time to waste.

  But who was the tenderfoot? Who knew the trail Havelock would choose? Or was Havelock subconsciously following the trail of the rider?

  Chapter Five