by Chuck Tyrell
Havelock focused on the stage road. The hot sun sucked at his pores and scorched his body. A dry wind sprang up, cracked his lips, and blotted moisture from his body.
He struggled on.
The Ehrenburg-bound stage raised a rooster tail of dust as it barreled along the rutted stage road. Havelock didn't notice the Concord until it was almost abreast of him, a mile away. He broke into a shambling run, and hoped the driver or the shotgun rider would see him.
The stage rumbled by. Its dust settled. Havelock staggered into the rutted road, stumbled, and sprawled face down. He lay panting, his breath raising tiny spurts of dust. The stage was gone. It was no use. And he was so tired.
So very tired.
* * * * *
Santa Fe Sims drowned an errant stink bug with a stream of tobacco juice. He rarely missed, with tobacco-induced saliva or with the eighteen-foot bullwhip that hung in a coil from his left shoulder. He could snap a fly from the ear of any horse in the team without touching a hair.
Some thought Santa Fe colorful, with his long white hair, buckskins, walrus moustache, and greasy slouch hat, its brim pinned up against the crown with the crossed sabers of the Confederate cavalry. But Wells Fargo hired Santa Fe Sims because he was the best man on the ribbons west of St Louis. Before the war, he drove Murphy freight wagons down the trail to Santa Fe. Under Southern arms, he kept supplies flowing to Lee right up to Appomattox.
When the fighting was over, Santa Fe Sims went back to the trail from which he took his name—who'd want to own up to a first name like Bartholomew anyway—and started cracking whips and singeing mules' ears with epithets.
"Stage leaving!" Santa Fe shouted.
"Should be a smooth run," said Haycock, the Ehrenburg Wells Fargo agent. "One sack of mail and two passengers. That can't be worth enough for robbers."
"A man cain't be too careful. Wouldn't want to get bullet holes in this here brand-spanking-new Concord." Santa Fe was nonchalant, but proud of his new coach. He clambered up on the box and gathered up the reins.
"Barny," he called to a youth whose guileless face belied his age and his skill with a shotgun. "Get them laydees 'n gennulmun into the coach. We got a ways to go afore sunset."
The youth shooed the passengers, a drummer and a portly woman with a kindly face, into the Concord.
"Okay, Santa Fe," Barny said as he climbed up to the box, "Let 'er rip."
The whip crack sounded like a rifle shot. The popper at the end came up short of the ear of the offside lead mare by no more than a fine hair. The two spans of horses went from a standstill to a flat-out run in three strides. Santa Fe always liked a dramatic exit.
Out of Ehrenburg, the old Jehu pulled the four-horse team back to a ground-eating gallop. Six hours and two way-stations from now he'd pull into Wickenburg, with flair.
Santa Fe was on his second team when young Barny Ellsworth put a hand on his arm. The shotgun rider pointed at a prone figure in the road ahead.
"Looks like a dead Injun," he shouted.
"You keep your eyes peeled for owlhoots," Santa Fe said, "I'll have Sally Mae look that gent over."
The team stopped not ten feet from the naked figure sprawled in the dust.
"Sally Mae!"
"What do you want, Santa Fe?"
"They's an hombre in the road ahead what looks either dead or pert near so. Hate to ask a lady, but would you do me a favor and take a look-see?" Santa Fe spat off the downwind side of the Concord.
Sally Mae Peebles opened the Concord's door. "You know I'm no lady, Santa Fe Sims, and I can take care of myself well enough to examine any man's body, in the road or elsewhere."
"We just don't want this to be some kind of bushwhacking job, Sally Mae. I know you can care for yourself, which is more than I can say for that drummer man in there, which is why I ast you to have a look-see. Me and Barny will stay up here where we can see." Santa Fe punctuated his request by jacking a shell into the chamber of his Winchester.
The portly woman stepped down from the stagecoach with a big Dragoon Colt pistol held capably in her right hand with the hammer cocked. She marched into the road and bent over the prostrate form.
"Santa Fe, this man's badly hurt. Looks like he ran all the way from Phoenix on his bare feet. Got some kind of contraption on his leg, too. Get yourself down here with some water." Sally Mae put her pistol in its specially made skirt pocket and turned the man over. Santa Fe arrived with a canteen.
"That's Garet Havelock, marshal over to Vulture City," he said. "Looks like he's been handled a bit rough." The tough old Jehu lifted Havelock's head with gentle hands.
He tipped the canteen and poured a few drops of water into the slack mouth. At first the water just trickled down the dusty chin. Then Havelock's throat contracted and a tiny bit of muddy Colorado River water slid down his throat. Desperate, Havelock knocked away Sally Mae's arm. He grabbed for the canteen, but Santa Fe held him back.
"Easy now, marshal. You come some way. You just settle back and let Sally Mae here take care of you 'til we get to town."
"Meade," Havelock croaked. "Gotta get to Wickenburg. Gotta see Meade."
"All righty. We'll getcha there. Jest you take 'er easy."
The stage was back on the road in minutes, heading through the gap toward Wickenburg. The Harcuvar Mountains towered more than 5,000 feet on the left, the Harquahalas soared almost 6,000 on the right.
Chapter Nine
The delay put the stage into Wickenburg just after dark. The rocking Concord released Havelock from fear and anxiety, and he slept so soundly he was unaware when Santa Fe and Barny Ellsworth carried him to a room on the second floor of the hotel. There he sprawled on clean sheets while Laura Donovan salved his cuts and scratches and sunburned skin. Wickenburg had no doctor.
Across the street, a big red-headed man bought Santa Fe Sims a drink. "I always admired a good man with the ribbons," the big man said. "I hear you're one of the best."
"Son, I cut my teeth on rein leather behind a team of mules. I know every rock between Saint Lou and Santy Fe, an' I've hit 'em all." Santa Fe slurred his words.
"I saw you come in tonight," said the man. "Sure was a pretty sight. But I wondered about you carrying a wounded Indian. Isn't that dangerous?"
" 'T'wan't no Injun. 'Twas Marshal Havelock of Vulture City. Oh, he's half-Cherokee, but a man would think he was all white." Santa Fe twisted his moustache and tossed back the whiskey remaining in his glass. "Havelock was purty beat up, he was. Bottoms of his feet looked like chopped steak. Had a hole in his arm, too. Don't reckon he'll be too spry for a spell."
"Nice talking to you, old-timer. Just wanted to say I enjoyed the show." The big stranger put a finger to the brim of his hat, saluting Santa Fe Sims, and made his way out of the saloon.
The old Jehu's practiced eye noticed the Smith & Wesson in a fancy rig of intricately tooled and carefully oiled leather. It didn't seem to match the big man's rough clothes. That rig belonged to a man who used his gun, but it belonged with fancier duds. Something didn't fit.
The old muleskinner stared after the retreating form for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to the bar.
"Know that feller?" he asked the barkeep.
The barkeeper stopped polishing a glass. "He's been hanging around for, oh, three, four days," he said, then breathed on the glass and started polishing again. "Seems to be a right enough jasper, though. Everyone's been pretty excited about the governor's daughter being brought in by young Donovan. Don't s'pose anyone paid much attention to this feller. Why?"
"Ah, nothing. He just hit me as a bit strange. Fill 'er up, wouldja?"
The 'keep poured Santa Fe two fingers of the house's best.
Outside the saloon, Donovan slid into the shadows of the overhanging roof and stood for a long moment. He didn't want to risk someone recognizing him. True, he'd grown a stubble and slouched to hide his true height, but now, after Vulture City, too many people hereabouts might know him by sight. And Garet Havelock was sti
ll alive. He cursed. Should've killed that 'breed boy when I had him tied to a cottonwood back in the Nations. He ground his teeth. Should've done more than just shoot him in the knee. Always was too sentimental for my own good.
The desert breeze brought a whiff of sage. Out there, a lot of gold lay buried. Arch had shoveled it under and he'd told his elder brother how to find it. Two men knew, and that was one too many. If Arch hadn't gone pie-eyed over that girl, if he'd not started listening to that 'breed lawman, well then, maybe he could have been trusted. Not now, though. Not now. Donovan smirked and reached for the makings in his vest pocket. He'd silence Arch. He turned to the wall, struck a lucifer, lit his smoke, and sucked in a lungful of rank Bull Durham.
The girl had gone back to the governor in Prescott. Sooner or later, Arch would come down for a drink, and die. But before that, Donovan gave himself another job—get rid of the half-breed kid from the Indian Nations.
Donovan kept to the shadows until he was at the back door of the hotel. The door was unlocked, but then, nobody locked doors. He cat-footed up the back stairs.
A wall lamp lit the hallway so Donovan snuffed it out, retreated into the gloom, and settled back to wait.
Moments later, Laura came out of the second room on the left with a pan in her hand. She hurried downstairs without looking around. Donovan scowled. He'd found Havelock's room, but he cursed Laura—his own flesh and blood—for siding with the half-breed lawman.
Rage pounded in Donovan's chest, and a red mist came up before his eyes. As he took gigantic steps down the hall, the echo of his pounding boots rang in the narrow confines.
He tested the door with a big fist. It would not open.
Even in his anger, Donovan knew he didn't have time to break it down. But every room in the hotel was the same.
Angling the Smith & Wesson so the bullets would smash into the bed, Donovan fired five shots in a single roll of sound. Gunmoke billowed and the hall filled with the acrid odor of burnt black powder.
Immediately he stepped into the adjoining room and strode to the window, ejecting spent shells and reloading the pistol as he walked. He shoved the gun back into its holster, wrenched open the window, climbed out on the ledge, lowered himself until he hung by his fingers, and dropped into the dark alley below.
Donovan casually walked from the alley onto the boardwalk and down the street to the saloon. He pushed his way through the batwings and joined the rowdy bunch bucking the tiger far in the rear.
Just as Donovan joined the revelers in the saloon, Laura reached the hotel's second-story landing, with the manager a step behind.
"Mr. Havelock," the manager called as they ran. "Mr. Havelock!"
Havelock opened the shattered door as they arrived.
"Oh, Garet," Laura cried. "Are you all right?"
"I had time to roll off the bed before he shot," Havelock said. "Whoever did it would have got me for sure if he'd have sneaked up instead of pounding down the hall making all that racket. "Sorry, Mr. Mendelssohn," he said to the manager. "I'm afraid your good feather tick is full of holes."
"Not to worry, Mr. Havelock. Marshal Meade said he'd pay your bills so I reckon he'll be good for the tick as well." The manager adjusted his glasses and peered at the bullet-wrecked door. "Have you any idea who did this?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing." Havelock drooped as the adrenaline in his system depleted. He put a hand on the wall for support. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked. "Got to get off these feet." He limped to the bed and sat.
Laura had not spoken.
"Miss Donovan saw no one on the way downstairs, did you ma'am?" Mendelssohn said.
Laura's answer came through colorless lips. "Someone was there and I didn't even notice. The hall lamp was out. The whole end of the hall was dark. Anyone could have been there. But why? Who knows Marshal Havelock is here?"
"Obviously somebody knows I'm here, and wishes I weren't. Permanently." Havelock hobbled to the commode, poured a glass of water from the porcelain pitcher, and gulped the fluid down. He turned to the manager. "Now, if you'll get me a weapon, I'll take care of myself."
The manager scurried out. Havelock sat back down on the edge of the bed. Feathers from the holes in the tick floated about. He studied the palms of his hands, looking for words. He didn't find any.
Angry shouts came from the saloon. Then a pistol barked. Once. Twice. A horse thundered off into the night. Then a dozen or so more. Confusion and shouting reigned.
The manager reappeared in the open door, his face full of shock and disbelief. Behind him stood Marshal Meade.
The marshal spoke first to Laura. "I'm sorry, miss. Your brother was just shot down. It doesn't look like he's going to make it. He's asking for you. I know it's not fitting for a lady to go into a saloon, but I figured it was better not to move him. Would you come?"
Laura fled down the stairs. Havelock moved to the window. Moments later, he watched her slim form push through the swinging doors. Moments ago, someone had shot at him through the door of his room. Now a saloon shooting had put Arch down. A strong odor of Buzz Donovan filled Havelock's nostrils—a ruthless smell, tinged with blood. He licked his lips. Wish my damn feet didn't hurt so much.
"It was a put-up, Garet," Meade said. "That pistolero wanted the boy dead. A posse's took off after him. Maybe the boys'll catch up."
Havelock shook his head. Donovan was his job. His reputation rested on capturing that outlaw. If he didn't do the job, he'd go back to being just another ne'er-do-well half-breed as far as townspeople were concerned.
"They won't catch him," Havelock said. "Unless I'm mistaken, they're chasing Buzz Donovan. They'll come back empty-handed. A whole bunch riding around in the desert raising a lot of dust won't get the job done. It'll take one man. And he'll have to go careful."
Meade's brow creased. "Donovan? Why would he shoot his own brother?"
"Half-brother," Havelock corrected. "Arch hid the Vulture gold. With the boy dead, Donovan figures he'll have that hundred thousand all to himself. One man will have to catch him and bring him in for murder. Or maybe not bring him in."
In his mind, Havelock searched for Donovan's trail.
Five days ago, he'd run from the Apaches. Now, the wound in his arm had scabbed over. The sunburn no longer pained him, and his head had quit throbbing at last. The sleep he'd gotten on the stagecoach had done him good. Havelock's feet were a different problem. Bits of rock and sand had worked into the cuts on their soles. Laura had dug out most of the debris only a few hours ago. He could stand on his feet, but that was all. He left bloody prints as he returned to bed. His feet thanked him for getting his weight off them again, but Donovan could not be put off because of sore feet. Havelock knew if he didn't stay on Donovan's trail, the outlaw would get the gold, run out of the state, and sit around on his backside thumbing his nose at the law in Arizona. He had to keep up the pressure, had to let the outlaw know Arizona law was on his trail. Wait, not Arizona law, federal law. Havelock was a deputy US marshal.
"Marshal Meade, I can't go down there to help Laura. I'd be obliged if you would."
As Meade was going out through the door, Havelock added: "And keep an ear and an eye open for anything that might help us find out what Donovan's up to." Havelock held up a hand to stop the marshal's retort. "Yeah, I know that you were law-manning before I was housebroke, I just wanted to jog your memory somewhat."
Meade grinned and left, closing the bullet-riddled door behind him. Havelock lay back and swung his legs up onto the bed. A tiny cloud of white feathers flew from the bullet holes in the tick, but they didn't keep him from falling asleep.
When he woke, Laura was there. Her face was a mirror of pain, but there were no tears. She had them locked up inside.
Havelock looked a question at her.
"He's still hanging on. Barely." The tears threatened to break the lock.
"Did he leave any word for Carrie?"
"He's called her name a lot. He had a riddle for you, to
o. He even smiled when he said to tell you, 'cottonwoods in the afternoon'."
Havelock turned the words over in his mind, but found no special meaning. From the window, he watched the traffic on the dusty main street of Wickenburg: tall freight wagons with three spans of mules moved south to Vulture City; two itinerant cowboys in shotgun chaps rode away, probably headed for Verde Valley; a buckboard driven by a pert black-haired woman, obviously of some means; a gaggle of miners, rough in their canvas trousers and heavy boots, bound for a liquid breakfast at the saloon.
Old Henry Wickenburg—the same man who found and named the Vulture Mine—had chosen a good site for his town. Roads from three major Arizona settlements met there. The rutted track leading south through Vulture City went to Phoenix. The way north went to Prescott, the territorial capital, and to Camp Verde, the largest army post in the area. And the westward stage road struck a line to Ehrenburg, the last stop for the Colorado River steamboats and vital supply center for the territory. Wickenburg bustled.
Laura spoke to Havelock's back. "Garet, you have never asked me why I shot you out there in the desert."
He turned. "I'd be dead if you'd have wanted it that way. I decided not to push my luck."
"Buzz told us, Arch and me, that Vulture City had an Indian for a lawman. He said you used the badge to exact your own revenge on white men, that more than a dozen men had been hanged on that ironwood tree in the plaza. He said in your town there were no trials, only hangings."
Havelock knew better than to say anything.
"Buzz said I'd have to kill you. That if I didn't, you'd kill us all. He said Indians have no concept of mercy, that you were half-Indian and revenge was all you would think of once you got Carrie back."
She faced Havelock.
"But you came to help me when the Apaches had me pinned down. And you didn't even know who I was." A tear worked its way out of the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"I'd have done the same for anyone up against three-to-one odds," Havelock said. "I just evened things up somewhat."
