by Chuck Tyrell
"Buzz is my brother. I felt I had to free him. That's why I shot you. But I couldn't just kill you. Then he wouldn't leave you a gun. Or even a knife. He said the desert would take care of you, save him the trouble. Then he laughed that awful laugh. That's when I realized my brother is more than a thief. He's a killer."
Once more tears made their silent way down Laura's face. Her voice quavered. "He shot Arch, his own brother. And Arch may die. Buzz wants the Vulture gold. Arch told him where it's hidden and Buzz made him promise not to tell anyone else. Not even me. And he didn't. Arch always keeps his promises."
Laura crossed the room and sat beside Havelock on the bed. Slowly she lowered her head to his shoulder. Great sobs shook her body. Havelock awkwardly patted her shoulder as she cried.
* * * * *
The posse dragged back at dawn. The shooter had given them the slip in the wilderness near Cave Creek; no telling where he was headed, they said. Havelock figured Donovan's destination was a new gold town called Crown King. There was no law at Crown King, and that made the town a good place for someone on the run.
"I'd best go after Donovan, Marshal," Havelock said to M.K. Meade. "I'll be needing the best horse you can find and grub for three days."
"Your lineback dun's been resting for four days and eating the federal government out of house and home. Is he good enough?" Meade grinned.
"That dun sure beats walking, and I've done enough walking lately to last me the rest of my life." Havelock returned Meade's grin.
"Gimme a list of whatever you need," Meade said. "I'll make sure you get outta here well prepared."
Later, Havelock limped from the hotel to the livery stable on tender moccasined feet. Dressed as he was, he looked half-Indian. His breeches were tucked into knee-high Apache moccasins. He wore a new dark-maroon flannel shirt with the shirttail out and the bottom button undone so he could easily reach the brand new Colt model 1873 Frontier .44 pistol stuck in his waistband. He pulled the flat-rimmed, flat-crowned plainsman's hat low over his eyes. He could wear the hat straight now, as the furrow left by Laura's bullet was well scabbed over.
Besides the pistol, a .44-40 Winchester saddle gun swung easily in his left hand. A big Bowie knife rode his left hip. A slimmer knife fitted inside the leg of his left moccasin, and a third knife, carefully balanced for throwing, hung down the back of his neck on a leather thong.
Once again, he had sewn five loops in the crown of his hat to hold five extra rounds of .44 caliber ammunition.
Meade had gotten everything on Havelock's list.
The lineback seemed glad to see Havelock. The horse loved the trail. Born and bred in the desert, he was as good as one of Beale's camels at going without water. Havelock checked the dun's hoofs. Each was covered with iron-hard rawhide.
Havelock inspected the saddlebags – bacon, hardtack, coffee, flour, sugar, a frying-pan, lucifers, and fifty rounds of .44 caliber cartridges that fitted rifle and pistol. A slicker and blankets were rolled tightly and tied behind the cantle. A small coffeepot hung behind the saddlebags. A big four-quart canteen dangled on one side of the pommel and a sixty-foot rawhide lariat on the other.
Havelock fingered the new deputy US Marshal badge Meade had given him. Things were about as ready as they were going to get.
Wincing as his weight went on his tender right foot, Havelock heaved himself into the saddle. He turned the dun's head east down the long main street. Laura stood at the door of the hotel as he rode by, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. She was still there when he rode over the rise marking the edge of town, and he could see her in his mind long after that.
At last he shook himself free of her image. Lawmen trailing outlaws couldn't get the job done by mooning over a woman, he figured. Instead, he turned his mind to Arch's message—cottonwoods in the afternoon. Noodling that message took the better part of the day. Then he turned to thoughts of Donovan.
The outlaw was a gregarious type, no good at being alone. He'd seek company, but avoid the law. That combination had Crown King written all over it. Havelock rode straight for the gold-rush town.
Chapter Ten
Despite its auspicious name, Crown King offered only a collection of canvas tents and rough lumber structures.
Two buildings stood out among the hovels: Anderson's saloon and dance hall, and the assay office of the Crowned King mine. The livery was merely a shack and a pole corral.
Havelock left his dun at the livery and walked up the steep main street to Anderson's without a noticeable limp.
Two days in the saddle had gone a long way toward healing his feet. He pinned the new Deputy US Marshal badge Meade had given him out of sight on the backside of his shirt-pocket flap.
Anderson's offered a free lunch and Havelock ate heartily. Then, nursing a beer, he bellied against the bar.
The bartender liked to talk. Havelock listened.
"I'll tell you, mister. It's been pure hell around here lately. Ever since Big Phil Jackson and his rowdies showed up."
"Got everybody pretty well hoorawed, have they?"
"That they do. And for good reason. Four miners have turned up dead. With Big Phil carryin' papers saying they signed their claims over to him before their unfortunate demises. Now Big Phil's pushing Miss Sally Mae Peebles to sell her claim."
Havelock straightened at the name.
"Sally Mae? Would she be a big woman? Fortyish and tough as four-penny nails? Blond hair, what you can see of it, and baby-pink skin?"
"That's Sally Mae all right. Everyone in these parts takes kindly to her. She's usually the one who tends anyone what happens to get hurt...mining accidents, shootings, knifings, the like. And there being no doctor around here—
"Havelock cut in. "Where's she at?"
"Her claim's up on the hill to the left, past the Crowned King. She calls it the Consolation. You can't miss it."
Havelock reached for his Winchester and walked away without another word, leaving the half-full beer-glass on the bar. He didn't go straight to Sally Mae's claim. He took a good look around first. He saw how the town of Crown King was essentially a huge gully formed by the Hassayampa. Most of the mining claims were in smaller gullies that carried the run-off of the infrequent rains into the main creek.
The Crowned King mine was in the largest gully. The Consolation was in the next offshoot on the opposite side of the creek. Main Street led up the Crowned King side of the creek. Nobody could approach the Consolation except from the front, unless they were half-mountain goat.
After he'd gotten the local geography firmly in mind, Havelock started up the broad, steep path to the Consolation. He was met by the crack of a rifle and a shower of rock chips at his feet.
"One more step and the hole will be in your head, mister." Sally Mae's voice was mellow, but she meant business.
"Garet Havelock," he announced, holding his rifle above his head with both hands.
"Walk slow, mister. And keep those hands up there. They make a good rack for that rifle."
Havelock did as he was told.
Sally Mae recognized him as his face came out of the shadows.
"You should be in bed," she said. "What brings you to Crown King?"
"Heard you was having trouble with Big Phil Jackson. I know him, and I've handled his type. Thought I could help."
"You can. I think he'll be over tonight. You're more than welcome. I only got two men on the place and neither one is much with a gun."
Sally Mae was more than right about the men. One was an old prospector she'd saved from the deadly clutches of a whiskey bottle. The other was a young Mormon lad, the eldest of thirteen children in a family that had settled in Sunset, up north near Winslow.
Havelock waited in Sally Mae's snug cabin, nursing a cup of steaming coffee, strong enough to float hammer and tongs.
"Here they come!" The kid's voice cracked as he shouted the warning. Havelock heard him scurry to the mouth of the mine where he'd wait with a 12-gauge shotgun.
/> Now the sound of shod hoofs rang loud in the early evening as horses scrambled up the steep trail and onto the flat in front of Sally Mae's cabin.
"Sally Mae," bellowed the burly leader. "I sure hope you're ready to talk business about this here claim. You know I'm not a man to take 'no' too kindly."
Havelock stepped from the front door of the cabin. "Hello, Phil," he said. "Seems Sally Mae doesn't want to sell her claim. She's sent me out to talk business with you."
"Howdy, Havelock. This here ain't none of your business. It's between me and her."
"No, Phil. It's between you and me. Sally Mae saved my life, but you're welcome to try to take it, if you think you're man enough." Havelock held his Winchester cradled in his arms, right hand on the action and the barrel pointed at the space between Jackson and the scrawny, bucktoothed rider on his left. "Just you and me, Phil." Havelock spoke quietly, but his voice carried steel. "Come on. How 'bout it?"
Big Phil Jackson knew Havelock, and he wasn't about to go one-on-one. The scrawny rider wasn't that smart.
"Come on, Phil," he shouted. "We can take him."
The rider's hand snaked for his pistol as his spurs touched his horse. The horse was in mid-air when a bullet from Havelock's rifle smashed the scrawny man in the chest and tore him from the saddle. He fell broken and bleeding to the ground, dead when he hit. Havelock jacked a fresh shell into the Winchester.
"Now, is there anyone else who'd like to follow this gent to the happy hunting grounds?"
Big Phil glared and sputtered. But his hands stayed away from his guns. Eventually he managed to spit out: "There'll be another time, Havelock. A time and a place I'll choose, not you."
"I'll be ready," Havelock said. "You know where to find me."
"Let's get outta here." The thick-set leader reined his horse around.
Havelock's quiet voice stopped the mob once more.
"Phil. If I ever hear of you bothering Sally Mae again, I'll come looking for you. And when I find you, you'll wish you'd a been caught by Apaches, cause they're a whole lot gentler than us Cherokees.
"One more thing. I hear rumor Buzz Donovan's been in these parts. I want him. I'll ride to hell to get him. He shot his own brother. You don't have to turn him over to me, Phil. Just don't be hiding him when I come looking, understand?"
Big Phil stared at Havelock for a long moment. Then he nodded. He walked his horse down the grade with his toughs following meekly behind.
Sally Mae joined Havelock on the front porch. "I don't think there'll be any more trouble from that bunch," she said.
"Shouldn't be. But if there is, you just get word to me." Havelock pointed to the sprawled body. "Looks like his partners have left him behind. Wish he'd not gone for that gun. You might want to get your hired men to bury him."
After the raider was buried, Havelock sat down to another cup of coffee. He figured it'd be days before he'd get another as good as what Sally Mae brewed.
"So you're after Barnabas Donovan, are you?" Sally Mae asked.
"He stole the Vulture mine's gold and men are dead because of it. I've got to press Donovan so he'll either run scared or try to kill me." Havelock's face tightened down. "Either way, I figure to come out on top."
"The least you can do is stay for a bite of supper," Sally Mae said.
Havelock smiled, which softened his face and made him as close to handsome as he ever was. He didn't smile often. There wasn't a whole lot in his life to smile about. "I'd take that kindly, Sally Mae. I've heard stories about your cooking. Probably lies."
"Lies! Just you set yourself down at my table and see for yourself if you can come away calling them rightful comments from an appreciating public—lies," Sally Mae said in mock fury.
Havelock held up his hands in surrender. "I'm a believer, Sally Mae, a tried and true believer. All you have to do is get on into the kitchen and prove it."
The meal lived up to every rumor. Swiss steaks stewed in their own juices, baked potatoes smothered in butter that Sally Mae got from Verde Valley, fresh greens of what some folks called 'pig weed', lots of just-baked sourdough bread, and tall glasses of buttermilk, kept cold in the depths of the Consolation mine.
* * * * *
Barnabus Donovan clutched a bottle and glass in a canvas-and-slab dive called Hank's Place. He poured a healthy four fingers in the glass and downed it in great, hungry gulps. His eyes took on a sly glint. This time Havelock would fall, no mistake. No half-breed marshal could outsmart an Irishman, and with $100,000 to spend, Donovan saw his way clear to becoming county supervisor, then go to the territorial legislature, and maybe even be governor. He was already mayor of Dead End, and folks in the White Mountains thought him quite astute.
Donovan got up and made his way through the miners to a card-game under way on the other side of the room. When the hand was finished, he said, "Blake, a word with you?"
"Deal me outta this hand, boys. I'll be back shortly." Blake left the card-game and followed Donovan out of the saloon.
The two men talked a couple of minutes outside Hank's, and Blake returned to the game in high spirits.
Donovan crossed the street to a flophouse. He slept soundly, and left town the next morning, headed north. If Blake failed, he had another plan.
* * * * *
Havelock felt fresh and rested after a good night's sleep at Sally Mae's cabin. His feet had lost much of their tenderness. He could walk almost naturally now, except for the slight limp caused by a Yankee bullet in his knee.
"You see a big Irishman on a sorrel horse leave here lately?" Havelock asked the livery stable boy.
"Yeah, I saw him."
Havelock continued saddling his horse, waiting for the boy to continue. After a while, Havelock prompted: "Happen to mention where he was going?"
The boy squinted at Havelock. "He headed north out of town, but I heard him say something about Prescott."
Havelock gave the boy a sharp look. Prescott. What if Donovan were after Carrie again, blaming her for Arch's defection or some such? Havelock flipped the boy a coin as he mounted the dun and clattered down the steep road toward Prescott.
Less than twenty-four hours later, he pushed the lineback past the hogtown at Fort Whipple and rounded the turn into Prescott just as the sun came up. He'd made good time in any man's language. Fast enough, he hoped, to pass Donovan and reach the territorial capital ahead of him.
No one fitting Donovan's description had stabled a horse at the livery lately, so the outlaw probably had not arrived. Havelock spread his blankets on the hay in the loft and went to sleep, leaving instructions to be wakened if Donovan rode in.
But Donovan didn't come.
Havelock ate his noon meal at the Nugget, and then visited Prescott's saloons. No Donovan. He returned to the livery stable, saddled his dun, and rode to scout the governor's mansion. Army patrols from Fort Whipple would not let him near the mansion, even when he showed his badge.
Cassie had army protection.
Havelock put the dun back in the livery barn.
"Got any oats?" he asked.
The livery's owner brought a quart of oats in a nosebag.
The dun munched while Havelock rubbed him down with a gunny sack.
"Name me a good restaurant," he said to the owner.
"If I had my druthers," the man drawled, "I'd pick the Bon Appetit. The cook's a Frenchy. He do make good grub."
White tablecloths and candles made a subdued and genteel atmosphere, although some of the customers dressed in rough clothes. Havelock took a table near the rear of the room and sat with his back to the wall.
"Coq au vin," he said to the waiter, "and bring me a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape to go with it."
Pierre Martin, the French chef and owner, served Havelock personally.
"Monsieur, it is good to serve a man who appreciates good food and wine. We do not get many here who are aware of the niceties of gracious eating. You have perhaps visited Paris?"
"No. But I spent time
in New Orleans. Liked the French food there." Havelock forked a bit of coq au vin into his mouth.
"Ah. I see. Bon appetit, monsieur, and please visit us again."
Havelock nodded, his mouth full. The food was the best he'd tasted east of San Francisco and north of New Orleans, although he'd not yet tried the Bird Cage in Tombstone.
Night had fallen outside by the time Havelock finished his coffee. The wine he'd drunk didn't damp his caution. After retrieving his guns at the door, he took a step forward through the door, followed immediately by a quick step to the right, which saved his life.
A rifle roared from an upstairs window across the street. The bullet made an angry gash in the frame of the door to Bon Appetit. Crouching, Havelock returned fire with three fast shots. At the third shot, a body tumbled from the window, bounced on the overhang covering the boardwalk, and flopped to the street. Havelock rushed to the bushwhacker. He was still alive, barely.
"Havelock. Donovan's compliments. He's gone. Camp Verde. On over the rim. Hashknife Outfit." The man's lips showed bloody foam. He smiled. "Said you'd be a sitting duck. Ha. You old wolf." He dug in his pocket for something he gave to Havelock. "For Donovan. I ain't gonna need..."
The man died.
Havelock looked at his hand, which now held a bar of Vulture gold.
"Anybody know who this is?" Havelock asked.
"I do," said a man with a badge, who shouldered his way through the crowd. "That's Nat Blake. Gambler and killer for hire. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward for him, dead or alive. Come on down to the office. I'll give you a voucher for it."
Havelock stared at him.
"I'm Rodney Clayborne, marshal of Prescott." Clayborne waited for Havelock to speak, but he merely motioned for the marshal to lead the way.
In the marshal's office, Havelock showed Clayborne his badge.
"I'm a Deputy US Marshal right now, but I'm usually town marshal of Vulture City. My name's Garet Havelock."
Clayborne chuckled. "Garet Havelock, eh? They tell stories about you, man. Some put you in the same corral as Longhair Jim Courtwright, Cullen Baker, and young Bill Bonney when it comes to using a gun. They say you're Cherokee. Staying long?"
