by Chuck Tyrell
"Ride!" Horn Stalker's shout registered dimly on Havelock's consciousness. He sent another bullet after a shadowy desert form but couldn't tell if it did any damage. Then the two riders burst through the line of Apaches and thundered toward Eagle Eye Mountain.
From behind them came the whoop of pursuing warriors. No longer any need for silence, and the desert guerrillas liked a good chase.
"I know of a cave on the side of Eagle Eye Mountain," shouted Horn Stalker. "We could make a stand there."
Havelock nodded. He also noticed a red stain spreading from beneath Horn Stalker's left arm, and the gray cast of the Yavapai's face. But he was a hard man. He'd do what had to be done. And Havelock would stick with him.
"How far?"
"Near. If we can hold the pace." Horn Stalker didn't look like he could go ten paces, much less miles. Yips from the pursuing Apaches sounded closer.
Shots began to buzz by the fleeing horsemen. Random shots they were, but a lucky random shot could kill a man as dead as a well-aimed one.
Horn Stalker's hand lifted. He made sign language for "Not far. Hurry," and pointed to a scar on the side of the mountain.
Havelock signaled "Understood."
The grulla grunted and broke stride. Then he settled back to his old rhythm for a few moments.
Fifty long strides the grulla took, putting all the effort left in his dying heart to carrying Havelock up the slopes of Eagle Eye Mountain. Fifty long strides, and the grulla collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Havelock had time only to slip his feet from the stirrups and snatch the Winchester from the saddle boot. Upon impact he rolled, frantically seeking shelter behind the dead horse before the Apaches caught up. He came to a stop with the rifle pointed back the way he had come. He took a deep breath and waited for death to come sneaking in from the desert.
Chapter Six
Horn Stalker's horse carried him up and over the lip of the rise that fronted the cave.
Likely he'll make it. Havelock focused on the desert. Only the sound of his harsh breathing broke the sun-baked silence. A bluetail blowfly buzzed at the blood oozing from a hole low in the dead grulla's abdomen. More bluetails joined the first. A big yellow-jacket arrived, but no Apaches came.
Havelock remained motionless. Sweat formed under his hatband and stung in the furrow from the redhead's bullet. It rolled down his brow, and it trickled along the valley between his shoulder blades. He now breathed shallow and soundless. His black eyes stared straight down the trail, though he knew the Apaches would come from the sides. Long ago, when he was a lad in Oklahoma, his Cherokee grandfather had taught him a man can spot small movements better with peripheral vision.
Let 'em come. Today's as good a day to die as any. He gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain in his head. He fought the urge to move, to lessen the pressure on his bum knee, to find a more comfortable position.
He wondered if he should compose a death song. A rifle cracked from the lip of the rise about twenty feet from where Horn Stalker's horse had disappeared. An Apache brave arched from behind a creosote bush, clawing at his torn throat. Sounds of the warrior's thrashing faded. The desert turned silent again.
A flicker of buckskin against the desert caught the corner of Havelock's eye. He didn't turn his head, only his eyes. He saw nothing, but he knew an Apache hunkered there. He coiled his muscles, ready to meet the Jicarilla attack.
They came from three directions. Havelock had already aimed at the warrior who rose from behind a clump of tumbleweed. The Winchester seemed to move of its own accord, lining up on the Indian's broad naked chest. Havelock squeezed the trigger. The 200-grain slug dusted the Apache front and back. He flopped to the desert floor, dead.
Havelock didn't watch the body fall. He swung the rifle to meet the rush from straight ahead. Two warriors came, one big and burly, the other wiry and dried, as if his muscles were made of jerky. He picked the smaller target and pulled the trigger. The thin warrior spun about and went down as he jacked another shell into the Winchester's chamber. He heard firing from the lip of the rise, from more than one rifle. He shifted his aim toward the big brave, but the Apache had disappeared.
Again silence fell on the slopes of Eagle Eye Mountain. Havelock didn't move. The Apaches might have gone, but then again they might be just lying low. Apache netdahe braves have the same aversion to lead poisoning as any man.
"Iron Knee," called a voice from beyond the lip.
"I hear you, Horn Stalker."
"The Apaches have gone, my friend. Come."
"All right." Havelock stood up, gingerly flexing his left knee. He limped around the dead horse to where he could loosen the girth and strip the saddle from the grulla's back. With a toneless curse, he started up the slope with the heavy saddle slung over his shoulder and the cocked Winchester in his right fist. Horn Stalker had used Havelock's Indian name to warn him all was not as it seemed, and he'd heard more than one rifle firing.
The muzzle of the Winchester came over the edge of the rim first, topped by Havelock's watchful black eyes.
"Come on up, Cherokee boy. Join our little party." Donovan's cold blue eyes didn't match his jovial tone. "Everyone is present and accounted for. Let me make introductions.
Donovan waved a hand. "That old Red Indian lying on the blankets is Horn Stalker, sometime employee of the marshal of Vulture City and hunter for the owner of the Gold Skillet of the same metropolis. The woman tending him is my sister, Laura Donovan."
"Half-sister," the woman said.
"We've met," Havelock said, deadpan.
The woman ignored Havelock and continued working on Horn Stalker's wound with a sure but gentle touch.
She's seen and treated wounds before. She'll do.
The smile on Donovan's face came close to a sneer as he said, "Yes. I see by the rake of your hat that you have met. Laura is an excellent shot. I'm surprised you are still with us."
"Cherokee luck."
Neither Havelock nor Donovan mentioned the Winchester held fully cocked and casually pointing in the outlaw's direction. A shooting here would only help the Apaches come out on top.
A young cowboy with gold-red hair emerged from the shadows of the cavern. His wide blue eyes gave him a look of youthful innocence, furthered by the grin on his face. The freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose made him look young, but he wore a man-sized Colt that showed signs of frequent use. Havelock decided the youngster was someone to steer clear of in a scrap.
Donovan took the younger man by the arm. "This is my baby brother, Archibald Donovan," he said. "Finally got my whole family together. First time in more than ten years. I suppose I've got you to thank for that, Cherokee boy."
"Me, I'm his half-brother, like Laura's his half-sister," the youngster said, still grinning. "We got the same pa, but different mas."
"Where's the girl?" Havelock wanted to know, his voice cold and sharp.
"She's all right. Don't you worry none. May be a problem, though. Seems she don't want to go back to that stodgy pa of hers. She likes it right here, with the likes of us." Archibald Donovan turned toward the mouth of the cavern. "Come on out, Carrie, honey. He won't hurt ya."
Marshal Meade had called her a kid. The girl who came out of the cave might have been no more than fifteen years old, but in every other way she was a woman. She wore men's clothes that were a little large. Still, her well-formed breasts pushed at the shirt fabric, and her full hips filled the jeans. The outfit probably came from the younger Donovan's warbag. She twined her arms about his waist and lifted her face to him.
He kissed her.
"The deal was the girl for Donovan," Havelock reminded him.
"Arch, let go of that child," Donovan ordered.
The young man reluctantly complied. He turned to Havelock.
"Marshal, I'm more than willing to keep my word. In fact, I make a point of doing that. Only thing is, I don't like to force folks to do what they don't want to." He faced the girl and
continued; "Carrie don't wanna go back to Prescott, do you, honey?"
The girl shook her chestnut curls negative. She had not spoken a word, and that bothered Havelock. But before he could question her, a shot from the desert sent everyone scrambling for cover. From the corner of his eye, Havelock noticed the girl had not moved at the sound of the shot. She followed a second later, reacting to Arch Donovan. The delay troubled Havelock for a moment, then staying alive took priority.
The height advantage of the small clearing in front of the cave kept the group alive. For the first five minutes, the roar of gunfire sounded more like a war than a battle. Havelock glimpsed Laura Donovan down on one knee, using her long-barreled saddle gun with quiet efficiency. He realized that back in the desert her shot had not left him alive by accident. If she'd wanted, he'd be fodder for the buzzards. He couldn't help but wonder why she'd pulled up.
The Apaches dropped back with a warrior dead and perhaps two wounded. Five sets of eyes, two black and three blue, searched the desert for sign of Apaches. The hot sun reached the tops of the Big Horns and began to slide around the edge of Eagle Eye Mountain. Out on the flat, a spot of sunlight stood out in the sun-cast silhouette of the mountain: the eye of the eagle.
"Looks like they have gone," said Donovan, easing back from the edge of the rim.
"They'll be back." Havelock said.
"Once more before the sun leaves," said Horn Stalker.
Donovan's face darkened with anger. He seemed used to people agreeing with his opinions. "I am not unfamiliar with Indian warfare. I have fought Apaches in the past. And I say they will not come again today."
Maybe the Apaches themselves decided to make an ass of Barnabas Donovan. The first shot sent Donovan's Stetson flying and its owner diving for cover. The second showered sharp bits of sandstone into Havelock's face, narrowly missing his right eye and drawing tiny droplets of blood from his cheek.
"Marshal!" The warning cry came from Laura Donovan.
Havelock squeezed off a shot and rolled sharply to his left, knowing as he rolled that his shot missed. As he faced upward he saw what Laura warned of. A blocky Apache brave had come down the mountain from above the cavern. Havelock barely had time to take the chopping war axe on the wooden forearm of his rifle. The blade stopped inches from his face. Havelock put his right foot in the brave's belly and pulled on his rifle. The Indian went up and over his head, landed on the downhill side of the lip, and tumbled down the incline.
Havelock rolled another half-turn to the left. The brave he'd missed before was near the top of the slope. Havelock knew with cold certainty he didn't have time to shoot, but he still tried to bring the Winchester into play. The Apache's victory cry became a gurgle and he fell heavily, splashing the marshal with blood. Havelock shoved the body aside, not even looking to see who shot the warrior; he knew it was Laura Donovan.
"Buzz, I've only got three more rounds," Arch said.
"Laura?" Donovan asked.
"Two," she said.
"Red man?"
"Three," said Horn Stalker through clenched teeth.
"Cherokee?
"Two in the rifle and three in my pistol,' Havelock said, his voice scratchy from breathing gunsmoke. He kept the five cartridges in the crown of his hat as trumps.
"Havelock. Garet Havelock." A deep voice called from the desert.
"Tom Morgan! I hear you."
"Come down here. Let's parley."
Havelock stood up. He took a step forward but the loud click of a cocking hammer stopped him.
"You will not leave," Donovan said. "I do not trust that black Indian and I do not trust you, white Cherokee. You will stay."
Laura Donovan cocked her rifle and pointed it at her brother. "Let him go. He may be the only one who can get us out of this alive. If you so much as twitch, Buzz, I will personally blow the back of your head off. In Vulture City people said Marshal Havelock kept a mob from hanging you. He could have let them have you."
Donovan didn't like it. "He wanted the Vulture gold," Donovan rasped. "That's all."
"I don't think so, Buzz. I heard a lot of talk in town that said the marshal's honest. I believe it."
"There's no such thing as an honest Indian, especially half-breeds," Donovan growled.
The woman's eyes stayed on Donovan. "Marshal, if you go out there, will you come back?"
"Of course. I've got a job to do. I'm supposed to return the governor's daughter. I'll be back. If I can trust anyone, I can trust Tom Morgan."
"Then go."
Havelock looked at Laura for a long moment. Then he nodded, stepped off the rim, and carefully picked his way down the slope. His rifle drooped casually from the crook of his right arm.
Fifty yards from the lip, two warriors materialized in front of Havelock. He stopped, rifle ready. They signaled him to follow and walked away through head-high stands of cholla.
Havelock passed through the cacti as deftly as the Apaches. Two more painted men closed in behind him. He wasn't comfortable, but he didn't let it show. He held his face as expressionless as if he were out for a Sunday stroll.
The desert opened up into a large clearing. A huge, gaunt figure lay on a pallet, his right arm ending in a well-bound stump. The old Indian Havelock had seen riding away from the firefight stood at Morgan's side.
"Howdy, Tom," Havelock's voice was neutral but his eyes showed concern for his friend. He ignored the old man.
"Passable, Garet. Passable. You should have told me those Valenzuela boys was half-Yaqui. I'da been a heap more careful. Us Apaches don't even cross a Yaqui's back trail without mighty good cause."
"Had I known, you'd a been told."
Morgan changed the subject. "Some pickle you've got yourself into. What's the deal?"
Havelock quickly filled him in. "Ordinarily, I would have sent you out to arrange safe passage through this territory," he said. "As it was, I had to bungle through on my own. There are six of us up there: three whole men, another wounded, and two women, one who can shoot better than most men."
Morgan listened to Havelock. His paper-thin skin pulled tight against his skull. His eyes peered from hollows under craggy brows. Dark crevices beneath his cheekbones spoke of the ordeal he had survived. But now, he was concerned for his friend.
"Too bad you killed that boy, Garet. He was the grandson of the old chief here."
"I figured something like that. Otherwise they wouldn't keep coming like they did. How do we get around it?"
"Don't know if you can."
"Iron Knee." The strong voice of the old man standing next to Morgan held authority. "Only you. You stay. Others go. Tomorrow, you run. My warriors will kill you. Your life for the son of my son."
"I guess that's it, Garet. If you surrender, they'll let the others go. I talked them into not killing you outright. You get to run. It's a thing Apaches do for brave enemies."
Havelock had no choice. His first duty was to get the governor's daughter safe to Wickenburg. If his surrender would free the others, fine. At least he'd have a running chance...even if he was a Cherokee half-breed with an iron knee.
"Thanks, Tom. A running chance is all a man can ask for." Garet turned to the chief. "Grandfather,' he said, "I would that your grandson had not died by my bullet. But he did, so I will run against death. I shall go to those in the cave and tell them to leave. I return in the middle of the night. Tomorrow, I run."
A flicker of something that might have been respect crossed the old man's face. He nodded curtly and turned his back on Havelock and Morgan.
Havelock grasped the left hand Morgan held out to him. "I'll be back shortly," he said. As he retraced his steps to the cave, he wished the throbbing in his head would go away.
* * * * *
At the cave, Laura Donovan kept watch, rifle in hand. Havelock caught a flicker of fire in the recesses of the cavern, and smelled cooking meat. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd not eaten since before noon the previous day.
Havelock held hi
s face expressionless, and then smiled at Laura, but not with his eyes. He walked toward the cave. He paused at the cave's mouth, but didn't look back. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped inside.
Arch and Carrie held hands, sitting on the far side of the fire. Donovan tended a large chunk of spitted meat that sizzled over the flames. A pot of coffee steamed in the coals at the edge of the fire, filling the cave with an aroma that complemented the smell of roasting meat. Horn Stalker lay on a saddle blanket against the cave wall.
Donovan looked up.
Havelock raised his eyebrows at the meat.
"Arch got an antelope yesterday morning," Donovan said.
From the darkness beyond the firelight came the restless stomp and rustle of horses picketed back in the cave where Apache horse stealers couldn't get at them.
Havelock heard Laura walk in behind him.
"What happened?" Donovan's voice showed his contempt for Havelock. "Did you sell us to that black Apache to save your hide? What kind of deal are you two working against us now?"
"Donovan, one of these days you'll jump to a conclusion that will get you killed. So shut up and listen." Havelock's Winchester pointed at Donovan's big hard stomach, and he thumbed back the hammer to emphasize his point.
"Don't be disturbed, Marshal. Hold your temper, now." Donovan said, holding up a placating hand.
Havelock let the silence hold a bit. Then he spoke. "Arch, it's time to quit funning. Do you think as much of Carrie as you've been saying?"
"Yes, sir, Marshal. I do."
Havelock then spoke to the girl, but kept his eyes on Arch. "What about you, Carrie? Do you want to stay with Arch?"
The girl said nothing.
"Marshal, she can't answer you. She can't hear and she can't talk, but she's more woman than all of those who can." Arch turned Carrie's face with one finger. "Don't worry, Carrie, I'll get you out of this," he said. As he spoke, the girl focused on his lips, then nodded vigorously, a wide smile on her lovely face.
