by Chuck Tyrell
"Arch, here's the deal. You weren't in on the robbery at Vulture City, though, I wager you hid the gold. You promise to take Carrie into Wickenburg and I won't press charges against you. Marshal Meade is there, and you tell him I sent you with her. Now. Let her go back to her family. Go to see her as a beau ought to. Court her. Then if she wants to follow you through hell, get her old man's okay on it. And make it legal. If you quit the outlaw trail before you get started, you've got a chance to stay alive long enough to give her a good home and a fine family.
"Laura," Havelock continued, "I'd be obliged if you would go into Wickenburg with Arch and Carrie. I'm going to send Horn Stalker too, and you could sort of take care of him."
"Certainly, Garet," she said. She stepped around the fire to stand between the couple and the wounded Indian.
"What about me?"
Havelock skewered Donovan with his eyes. "Yeah, Captain Donovan. What about you? Ride to Wickenburg and M.K. Meade will have you in chains. Stay here and the Apaches will make you wish you had never left my jail. It's your choice, but if I were you, I'd forget about the Vulture gold and strike out for parts unknown. There may be someplace on the outlaw trail fit for you. Brown's Hole, Round Valley, maybe Hole-in-the-Wall. But the hideaways are getting fewer and fewer. Before long, there won't be any more."
"What gives you the idea that we can just ride out of here?"
"Chief Puma gave his word," Havelock said.
Disbelief filled Donovan's face.
"I killed Puma's grandson during the firefight Laura started," Havelock said. "He wants me bad enough to let you go free if I surrender."
"Garet! No!" Laura turned on her brothers. "You two may be willing to just ride out of here while Marshal Havelock turns himself over to those heathens, but I'm not. I'll fight. If we win, fine. If not, we save our last bullets for ourselves." With her mouth set in a firm line of resolve. Laura jacked open her Winchester, checked the mechanism, snapped the action shut, wiped off the ejected shell, and pushed it into the rifle's magazine.
"They won't kill me, Laura," Havelock said.
She stopped and looked at him, a question in her eyes.
"They're going to let me run. I get a head start and the warriors try to catch me. If I get away, I go free. If not, I'm dead. Thank you for the thought, but I gave my word."
Laura nodded. The tears on her cheeks glinted in the firelight.
"How many horses have you got?" asked Havelock.
"Six. And two pack-mules," Arch Donovan replied.
"Give Donovan two. He can go wherever he wants. The rest of you ride straight to Wickenburg. You can make town by late tomorrow if you start around midnight."
Havelock paused, then asked: "How's your water?"
Again Arch Donovan answered, "There's a spring way back in the cave. Not a heavy flow, but enough to fill the canteens and water the horses before we leave."
"Good." Havelock hunkered down beside the wounded Yavapai. The old Indian lay on his right side, his head cushioned on the crook of his arm. Havelock put a hand to Horn Stalker's forehead. "Can you ride, my brother?"
"I will do what I must, Iron Knee, as will you. The run against death is not pleasant. You may wish to die many times before it is over. Be sly as the coyote, my friend. And remember. He who runs swiftest does not always win. Apaches are a proud people. Sometimes pride blinds them. Remember the bighorn. The Apache hunt him. But often, he escapes the Apache arrow. You may too."
Havelock held out his hand, palm up. Horn Stalker clasped it wrist-to-palm in the way of the Yavapai. Havelock stood and turned back to the fire.
"Now, if you can spare me a chunk of that meat and a spot of that coffee..."
Laura cut a large piece of meat and handed it to him, knife, and all. Then she poured a cup full of scalding coffee.
Havelock sat on a boulder near the wall of the cave and attacked the meat. The taste of fire-roasted antelope brought bursts of saliva into his mouth, and as the meat filled his stomach, he felt his tired muscles reviving. I'll sleep until the middle of the night, and then eat a little more. Chances are I won't get the opportunity to sleep at the Apache camp.
"Laura," he said, automatically turning to her. "I'm going to catch a few winks. Would you wake me when you're ready to leave?"
"Surely, Garet."
She'd used his first name again, and he liked the sound of it. He wondered if a woman like Laura would ever consider... Nah, not with a half-breed Cherokee.
His dreams put him back in Oklahoma again, tied to a cottonwood with a Yankee captain in red knee-high boots taking aim at his left knee. He heard the voice again and again, over and over, mocking him. I'm Donovan. Barnabas Donovan. Buzz to my friends. Again he felt himself cringing as black powder propelled the pistol ball into his knee.
Havelock muttered and groaned as he slept. His tossing brought Laura to his side. She put a hand to his forehead. No fever, but the moisture there felt oily. She got a tin of water and a scrap of cloth and began bathing Havelock's face and neck. The cooling effect quieted him and he slept, with a frown of concentration on his dark face.
Chapter Seven
Havelock woke before the others left for Wickenburg.
Slowly, he surveyed the cave. Three forms lay in blankets around the feeble fire. The light but steady flow of the spring cooled the cave. The breath of moving air told Havelock of another opening in the back. Whether big enough for a man to get through, he had no way of knowing.
Laura turned over. "I see you're awake," she said. "I was just going to rouse you."
"Thanks. I feel better." Havelock rubbed a hand across his face. Though, he wore a moustache, he didn't like stubble. "Would you have shaving gear?" he asked Laura.
"Arch does. I'll get it for you."
Laura rose and moved back into the darkness. She wore men's clothing again, ready for the ride to Wickenburg.
Havelock placed a few sticks of wood on the dying fire. It smoked angrily for a few moments, but by the time Laura returned, flames greedily devoured the wood. A tin can of water sat next to the fire, heating.
"Buzz left," she said as she handed him a razor, strop, a bit of soap, and a trade mirror.
Havelock was silent for a time. "Where did he go?" he finally asked.
"Knowing my older half-brother," she said, emphasizing the half, "he'll want to get out of Apache territory quickly. I'd guess Ehrenburg."
"What about the gold?"
"Arch told him. I think you talked my little brother off the outlaw trail. Perhaps he really is in love with Carrie."
"If he's gonna do the right thing, he should turn the gold over to Marshal Meade."
"He says he just packed it around. Says it was Buzz's operation, start to finish."
Havelock chewed on the end of a thin stick. Then he threw it into the fire and turned on his heel. "All right. But take my word, things'll end up different. Different from what Donovan wants. Different from what he figures. I'll see to it, so help me God."
Laura didn't move. Havelock's fierce words brought tears to her eyes, and he felt her watch him as he walked toward the rear of the cave.
The horses snorted at Havelock. He spoke to them softly, and set about preparing them for the run to Wickenburg. He kept busy, working to help keep his mind off the dawn, off his coming run. Then, on the spur of the moment, he took a few things from his saddlebag, wrapped them in a spare shirt, and stood on tiptoe to push the bundle onto an outcropping ledge. The air coming in through the cavern's mouth brought the smell of wood smoke from the fire.
"Marshal Havelock?" Arch Donovan spoke from a few yards away.
"I'm here."
The young man felt his way to where Havelock saddled a tall bay mare. "I'm some kind of fool," he offered.
"How's that?"
"Well, I started out figuring to get rich and buy me a spread, somewheres. Picking up the governor's daughter was insurance, just in case. But I never thought I'd snatch a girl like Carrie. Why, she trusts me.
Not many grown folks would do that. And, right now, I kinda feel like any spread I got wouldn't be quite right without her."
"You'll have to wait a while. She's not quite of age."
"I can do that."
"She'll be some pack for you to carry. You'd have to be ears and mouth for the both of you."
"I know that."
They worked in silence, neither wanting to say more. Soon the canteens were full, the gear stowed, and the horses watered. Havelock led the first horse toward the cave opening.
"Being needed's not a bad feeling, Marshal. I don't think I'll mind being ears and mouth for her." Arch spoke softly, but the sound of his determination rang loud.
Havelock had never felt that way. Trusted, yes; feared, yes; needed, no. In a way, he envied the young man. He wondered if half-breeds really were different.
The odor of strong coffee greeted Havelock in the main part of the cave. He handed the reins of the horse to Laura and reached for the steaming cup she held out.
Horn Stalker was up, sitting cross-legged by the fire. His face was still flushed, but he seemed to have more strength. He sniffed at the breeze coming in the mouth of the cave. "I smell wetness on the wind," he said. "There will be rain before the sun sets."
"That means a fifty-fifty chance," Havelock said, "but I hope you're right."
The Yavapai did not reply. He merely looked long and deep into Havelock's black eyes. Then he smiled. "Here. Take some of this singed meat. It will give you strength. A man cannot run well with only coffee in his belly."
Havelock gnawed at the meat Horn Stalker gave him. Laura dumped a handful of sliced bacon into a skillet and soon the smell of sizzling food filled the cave. Biscuits baked in a covered dutch oven by the side of the fire. Before the others left, Havelock ate the good part of a pound of bacon, two large chunks of broiled antelope, and half a dozen hot biscuits dipped in bacon fat. He had one thing to do before returning to the Apaches.
Havelock got a can of tallow from his saddlebags. Back at the fire, he rolled the left leg of his pants up to expose the brace and ruination of his knee. He heard Laura's gasp as she saw the exploded scar where his kneecap had been.
He removed the brace of leather and iron, hinged in the center to work with his leg, shafted on each side, and wrapped tightly about the leg with six-inch leather bands and a system of laces and buckles.
"Have to grease this thing now and again or it squeaks," Havelock told her. "I can't walk far without it, and I certainly need it to run." He dipped his finger into the tallow and began working the grease into the leather on the outside, along the iron shafts, and into the hinges.
"Garet. You can't run with that knee!" Laura's voice was tight with concern. "Come with us. We can be halfway to Wickenburg before the Apaches know you've left."
"No, Laura. I will run. I've been in tight spots before. As Horn Stalker said, the man who runs swiftest does not always win the race. With a little luck, I'll be able to come calling on you... Except, I don't know if you cotton to half-breeds, or where to find you. Where would I look, anyway?"
Laura colored slightly. "I'll stay at the hotel in Wickenburg until I hear what's happened to you."
"Fine. That's where I'll look first." Havelock smiled.
"Garet?" The name was almost a whisper.
Havelock continued strapping the brace back in place. He didn't look up.
Laura knelt beside him and put her cool fingers on the scar of his knee. "Was it an accident?"
"No, Laura. It was war. I was tied to a tree. A Yankee captain very carefully shot me in that knee. His powder must have been a bit wet because the ball only shattered the kneecap without damaging the joint."
"Did you ever find out who it was?"
"He told me. He said his name was Donovan. Barnabas Donovan. And that his friends called him Buzz."
Laura stood up, her face white, one hand to her lips.
Tears streaked her cheeks, but she made no sound.
Havelock finished fastening the brace.
As he stood up, she said, "I'm sorry, Garet. So sorry."
Havelock said nothing.
Horn Stalker was mounted, hunched over his pony's withers. Arch Donovan helped Carrie into the saddle and made ready to swing up himself. Havelock took the sobbing woman by the elbow and guided her to the offside of his lineback dun.
"Don't worry about me," he said. "You have your work cut out getting this bunch to Wickenburg. Chin up. I'm counting on you."
Though her eyes were full of tears, Laura smiled. She mounted and sat straight in the saddle.
"We'll make it, Garet, so help me." She kicked the horse forward, and the group followed; four dark forms in their saddles, the last leading the two pack-mules. Within minutes, the hoofbeats faded into the night.
Havelock banked the fire and walked down the slope toward the Apache camp. With the dawn, he would run for his life.
Less than a quarter-mile from the cave, two Apaches appeared behind Havelock. They kept their distance, watchful, apparently satisfied to wait for the run.
The old chief sat at the fire when Havelock arrived. He motioned the marshal over.
"Sit, Iron Knee. We talk."
"Yes, Father," Havelock said with respect.
"Do you know the run?"
"I have heard."
"I tell you." The old man peered at Havelock. "You start first. After a time, my warriors run after you. At dawn, I decide how far you start. It is justice to do so. You will run as your mother bore you, with only a cover for your loins. And your iron knee."
"Tell me, Father. Can a man run faster than death?"
A smile touched the old chief's lips. "Yes," he said. "It has been done."
Havelock rolled a smoke and offered it to Puma. The chief took it, lit it deftly with a burning twig, and inhaled deeply.
"The white man's tabac is good," he said.
Havelock held out the bag of Bull Durham and pack of papers. He didn't smoke himself, except on formal occasions with the Indians, but he always carried tobacco and could shape cigarettes as well as any waddie.
The old man accepted Havelock's gift. "Too bad fate made you kill my grandson," he said.
"I did what I did."
"Run well, Iron Knee. I sleep." Puma, standing straight in defiance of his countless years, turned away from Havelock and ducked into a brush wickiup.
The fire burned low, becoming a handful of glowing coals. Still Havelock sat, motionless as a stone. Just before dawn cracked the sky, Tom Morgan squatted at Havelock's side.
"How's the knee?" Morgan asked.
"Good as can be expected. It'll hold up as long as I do."
"Here, this might help." Morgan held out five pellets about the size of peas.
"What's that?"
"I don't rightly know. The Pueblos make them from a desert plant. They kill pain, Havelock. Believe me. You'll be glad for them. I would never have made it through this," Morgan held up the stump of his right arm, "if it hadn't been for these."
Havelock accepted the pellets.
"Can I offer a bit of advice?" Morgan asked.
"Any time, Tom. You know that."
The black man picked up a stick with his left hand and drew awkwardly in the dust by the fire. "Eagle Eye Mountain is here," he said, drawing a circle. "The Wickenburg-Ehrenburg stage road runs on the far side. The road's about twenty-five miles off. I don't think you'd better try for it."
Morgan drew a line due east from Eagle Eye. "Here's Nigger's Well, dug by a friend of mine about ten years ago. He was gonna set up a way station, but the Apaches got him first. Not many people know the well. You could water up there before hitting out for Wickenburg."
"I'll give it some thought," said Havelock, not saying he'd already decided to run westward.
A line of fire touched the eastern sky. Feathers of clouds turned coral pink in the west. And far to the south, over the Sea of Cortez, a warm wet wind blew northward and thunderheads formed, piling up until they had
clawed their way almost seven miles above the level of the sea.
The storm front moved across the desert, over the Gila Mountains, and on toward the Big Horns with surprising speed. In the Big Horn Mountains, sheep and bears and desert cougars sought shelter.
The sun peeked over the rim of the world, and three strong warriors seized Havelock. He clenched his hands, but did not struggle. In moments they had stripped him and fitted him with a leather loincloth. His feet and head were bare; his brace showed dark against his leg. After they finished, he shoved one of the green pellets into his mouth. The other four went into a fold in the waistband of the loincloth. He'd surely need the pain deadened if he were to run barefoot in the desert.
Puma came from his wickiup. He waved fragrant smoke from special herbs up and down Havelock's body. "Iron Knee, slayer of my grandson, you run. The Great Spirit will decide if you live or die."
"Yes, Father," Havelock said.
The fourteen warriors Puma had chosen for Havelock's trial gathered in the clearing. They stared at Havelock, focusing on their prey. They held knives and war axes, bows and arrows were not allowed during the run of death.
"Look," said Puma. "See the stone with the white face."
A small boulder with a splash of white on it protruded from the desert about fifty paces away.
"I see it," Havelock said.
"When you reach that stone, Iron Knee, our warriors come. Go."
Havelock walked toward the stone, trying not to cringe. He stepped with care to minimize damage to his feet. His bare soles had to carry him far if he were to outrun Puma's braves.
Just before reaching the stone, Havelock stopped and threw a panic-stricken look over his shoulder.
The warriors screamed, and shook their weapons.
He set out at a ground-eating trot. He often ran in the desert outside Vulture City, to exercise his knee as much as to build stamina. He knew he could normally keep this pace for hours, except that the desert floor ate into the soles of his bare feet.
Havelock passed the stone.
