Vulture Gold

by Chuck Tyrell

  Then, through the clear Arizona dawn, Havelock heard the bell-notes of the Camp Verde bugler blowing reveille. Sound carries a far piece in the silence of dawn, but the camp couldn't be more than five miles away. He was almost out of danger.

  Havelock lengthened his stride, his left knee protesting at each step. With luck, he'd noon with Al Seiber.

  Havelock topped a rise and looked down on white tents lined up straight and fair. Old Glory flew from an aspen flagpole and figures in Army blue bustled about on Army-knows-what business. It sure was a pretty sight.

  Barnabas Donovan. Mayor of Dead End. That's who had signed the wanted poster. No doubt he counted on bounty hunters like Mountain to get rid of Havelock for him.

  A young sentry stopped Havelock with an imperative "Halt!" Havelock showed his badge.

  "Garet Havelock, Deputy US Marshal. Like to see Al Seiber."

  "Corporal of the Guard!" The young private went by the book. The corporal came at a trot. "This man wants to talk to the Chief of Scouts. Says he's Garet Havelock, a US Marshal."

  Havelock waited in the increasing heat of the morning sun. He saw Seiber's big brindle mule coming down the line of tents. The scout had a game leg, too, and he didn't walk when he could ride. And he didn't let that leg keep him from being the best scout in the Army of the West.

  "Howdy, Garet. Looks like you're down on your luck."

  "My outfit should be showing up any minute. I just need a little help taking it back," Havelock said. "You got an extra handgun?"

  "Should be able to scare one up. Use a scattergun?"

  Havelock grinned. "Good idea."

  With a .44 Smith & Wesson Russian stuck in his belt and a double-barreled 12-gauge Remington shotgun over his arm, Havelock walked three-quarters of a mile to the hogtown bar where he'd drunk beer the day before. Havelock took a place in front, pulled his hat low over his eyes, and flipped the ends of the Mexican poncho Seiber had given him over the twin barrels of the scattergun to hide it.

  He waited in the hot sun.

  Sooner or later that mountain of a man had to ride in with the lineback dun on a lead rope, Havelock figured, but he didn't.

  Mountain Ebson came in alone, and he didn't come down the street.

  "I reckon you're on the look-out for me."

  Havelock started at the sound of Mountain's quiet voice. The big man leaned casually against the corner of the building. He rolled a smoke with both hands, but Havelock knew if he tried anything Mountain would kill him. Havelock felt helpless, and didn't like the feeling at all.

  The giant spoke again. "Suppose you tell me what's going on. That boy of mine figures you're straight. If your story rings true to me, I'll give your outfit back. And I'll stand out of your way."

  "Let's do it over a beer, then."

  "You're on."

  Two tough men went through the door into the maw of the hogtown bar – one tall, painfully thin, and dark; one a giant, six foot eight and more in his bare feet, and weighing around 300 pounds, all muscle.

  "You know Barnabas Donovan, Mountain?" Havelock asked.

  "Can't say as I do."

  "You make a living bringing in men with a price on their heads, but this time you're after the wrong one. Three days ago, Barnabas...Buzz Donovan shot his own brother in a gunfight at Wickenburg. When I left to track Donovan down, folks didn't know if the boy would live. There're more dead people on Donovan's back trail, too. Two Mexicans, an old man who never hurt a soul in his life, the superintendent of the Vulture Mine's bullion room and his assistant, and at least a dozen Jicarilla Apaches.

  "You know of me, Mountain. You've heard the stories. Yes, I've killed men. And I've let some go that needed killing. But surely you've heard that Garet Havelock does nothing if not by law or good common sense. My Cherokee grandpappy taught me that."

  Mountain nodded. "I've heard the stories, Havelock. Though, some don't cotton to your being half-Indian and all. Tell you what. You take your lineback and your stuff, and you go after Donovan. If it turns out that you're pulling my leg, I'll be after you. That you can count on."

  The huge man turned abruptly and went out ahead of Havelock, moving with the smooth natural gait of one born and raised in the woods. His shoulders nearly brushed the door on either side as he ducked through.

  The lineback dun snorted his pleasure at seeing Havelock again. All his gear was there, including the food.

  "I borrowed these from Al Seiber," Havelock said, holding out the pistol and shotgun.

  Mountain covered them with a huge hand. "I'll see he gets 'em back," he said.

  Havelock mounted and sat on the dun for a moment, looking down at the craggy face of the mountain man.

  "I'd forget Winslow, was I you," Mountain said. "Like as not a feller like this Donovan you was talking about feels a whole lot safer in his own town, Dead End. Most people ain't never heard of it, much less know its whereabouts. How 'bout you?"

  "Haven't the slightest idea."

  "Not many do. It's a far piece. Up in the Blues out of Round Valley. Once you get to Springerville, you just get yourself pointed toward Blue Lake. Dead End is a skip and a holler up the canyon from there. But watch yourself. The canyon's blind. They say there's no way out except the way you got in."

  "I'll keep an eye peeled. Obliged." Havelock reined his dun toward Pleasant Valley. He stopped over at the Tewksbury place for a chat with Ed Tewksbury. He hadn't seen Donovan. Further on up the valley, he bought supplies at Perkins' store. There he heard Donovan had gone through two days before.

  Outside the store, he cut the top off a can of peaches with his Bowie and forked the sweet fruit into his mouth with the point of the blade. He thought of Laura. No doubt she was taking care of her wounded brother. Lots of woman, he thought, and turned his mind back to the duty at hand. Soon Donovan would have to make a move.

  Cottonwoods in the afternoon, whatever that meant. He drank the peachy syrup from the can and discarded it on the trash heap. The dun was ready to go.

  Up and over the Mogollon Rim, Havelock rode, passing Stott's ranch and heading toward Cottonwood Wash.

  From there, he went to Silver Creek, the place he'd chosen long ago as his future home.

  The dun stood just below the crest of the ridge so Havelock was not skylined. The cabin stood silent. The man Havelock had proving up was not around, probably gone to Show Low for supplies. The stream meandered across a big meadow, green stretched out on either side. Havelock saw half a dozen new spreader dams to help make the most of the meager rainfall.

  Off to the right the ridge flattened out into a bench; the place Havelock planned to build his house. He thought of Laura and how she'd look in the home he imagined.

  Plenty of room for corrals and the stream flowed clear and deep. Once in a while the sun would catch the silver flash of a trout rising for an insect.

  Havelock sat there for a long time. He felt at home. A long way from the Nations, but home. It was hard to turn away, but duty called. He had given his word. He had a date to keep with the mayor of Dead End, Arizona.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cottonwoods in the afternoon – that's what Arch said to Laura. Havelock wrestled with the words as he rode. He gnawed and worried at them, trying to figure out what they meant. But they didn't make sense. There must be lots of cottonwood groves within sight of Eagle Eye mountain.

  Here in the White Mountains at the foot of Old Baldy, the nights were cold. The temperature dropped with the setting sun. Havelock hunched his shoulders into the tough canvas coat he'd bought at Becker's store in Springerville and kept an eye out for a good place to camp.

  Dead End in another day, he figured. Then he found the campsite he wanted.

  An old spruce had fallen and now lay partly across a hollow. Beneath it, the bank was cut away by run-off. On the far side, the horse could be picketed away from casual eyes. An Apache on the hunt, of course, could find it, or a mountain lion.

  A small fire, water from a nearby stream, a hand
ful of coffee-grounds in the pot – this high country had a lot to recommend it. Havelock sat with his back against the cutaway bank, the fallen spruce above his head. He'd woven spruce boughs in the deadfall's limbs to form a rough canopy. The fire was warm and the coffee bracing.

  Still, Havelock took his Winchester saddle gun out for a last look around before going to sleep. As he left, he threw a few more sticks on the fire.

  Havelock circled his campsite at some distance, and stopped often to listen to the night. The sounds he heard were supposed to be there: the shirr of an owl's wings and the short, dying cry of its rodent victim; the sound of the dun cropping grass; and the snap of a stick succumbing to the greediness of the campfire. Silent, yet not silent – this high-country night.

  Havelock went full circle, taking his time about doing the job and mulling Arch's message over and over in his mind. He picked his way back through a stand of aspen. Deep inside the grove, he stopped and listened again to the night while thinking about Donovan and the gold.

  Around him, aspen leaves rustled a reassuring sound. He looked toward the campfire. He saw its flicker through the leaves as the foliage moved in the breath of a breeze. The flashes of camp-firelight looked like little round dots. They jogged his memory and he recalled another round spot of light he'd seen on the desert floor – the sun through the eye of the Eagle. Now he knew the meaning of Arch's message. Now he would bait a trap that Buzz Donovan could not resist.

  That night Havelock slept soundly.

  He took most of the next day to find Dead End. The entire town consisted of six buildings. The saloon also served as a store. A large house stood back from the rest, up against the sheer wall of stone that cut through the green of the little valley. The mayor's house, surely. The blacksmith shop showed few signs of recent use, and three more nondescript dwellings probably housed townspeople.

  The single corral held some twenty horses, all excellent stock. Whoever lived in Dead End liked to be well mounted.

  Havelock went straight to the saloon, where he planned to drop his bombshell; one that only Donovan would understand.

  Three pairs of watchful, wary eyes set in hard faces watched Havelock enter. All three men sat at the same table, a pack of greasy cards before them. Behind them, the stove crackled, cutting the cold of the highland valley.

  Havelock bellied up to the bar. One of the trio shoved back his chair and came around behind the bar.

  "We got whiskey," he said. "You can have one shot. Then git. Dead End ain't your kinda place."

  Havelock's left hand shot out, grabbing the bartender by a handful of shirt and apron front. A jerk of his powerful left shoulder brought the barkeep hard into the backside of the bar. Havelock's right hand held a cocked .44 Frontier Colt. Its barrel gouged at the soft underside of the man's chin.

  "Just stay where you are," Havelock growled, shooting a hard glance at the other two men. They froze half-standing. Then both slowly settled back down in their chairs.

  "Now, barkeep," Havelock snarled, "you ain't man enough to tell me when, or how fast, to get out of any town. And I don't want any of your rotgut whiskey. I came here to leave a message for your mayor, Mister Donovan."

  Havelock screwed the barrel of the Colt a little deeper into the man's chin. "Buzz Donovan is the mayor of this armpit of the earth, ain't he?"

  The man nodded, his eyes wide and white. The rancid smell of fear filled the room.

  "Then you tell him that Cherokee half-breed Garet Havelock was here. Tell him I'll meet him at the cottonwoods below Eagle Eye Mountain in the afternoon. He'll know what I mean. Got that?"

  The man could barely nod.

  "Be a good boy and give me the shotgun from behind the bar," Havelock commanded. The wicked weapon was sawed off at both ends, 10-gauge, and polished to a high shine. Havelock released his left-handed hold on the barman and picked up the shotgun. Deftly, he broke it open and checked the loads. He snapped the scattergun shut and shoved the Colt back in his waistband. The sawed-off cannon now covered everyone in the bar.

  Havelock backed slowly to the door. All he had to do now was get out of this robber's roost and back to Eagle Eye Mountain alive. He went through the door and up on the lineback in one swift fluid motion. From the saddle, he gave the saloon door both barrels. The spreading buckshot nearly tore the swinging doors off their hinges, and certainly gave those inside second thoughts about following him.

  The thunder of hoofs echoed the thunder of the shotgun. Riders rushed up the valley at a flat-out run. The group of galloping riders blocked the way into the valley, so Havelock rode off at an angle. He and the lineback climbed fast, and Havelock hoped he could find a way through or around the stone precipices that formed the dead end of the valley. Mountain Ebson's words rang in his ears: 'There's no way out 'ceptin' the way you came in.'

  Shouts came from town. Toy-size figures milled around the front of the saloon. A man in black knelt where the dun's hoofprints started out of town. He raised his face toward the mountains towering above town, and seemed to look straight at Havelock.

  That man's an Indian, Havelock decided. A renegade turned to the white man's ways of murder and pillage. In his mind, Havelock searched the wanted flyers in the drawer of his desk. Nothing matched the man in black. But Havelock knew that man stood between him and the cottonwoods below Eagle Eye Mountain.

  Havelock found the way over the top almost by accident.

  As he rode along the base of the cliff, an odd shadow caught the corner of his eye. He'd noticed nothing as he went by, but once past, he could see that one layer of rock overlapped another, and there was a narrow strip of level sand between the vertical walls, wide enough to lead the dun into, but not wide enough to ride into.

  Rounded depressions showed in the soft sand on the crevice floor. Footprints. Large animals used this crack in the wall. It might be a way to the top. Havelock had no choice but to get off the dun and lead him into the crack.

  A hundred feet in, the passage started leading upward. The bottom was strewn with broken stone now. Man and horse stepped carefully. Twice Havelock stopped: once he went back to the mouth of the passage and swept the floor clean; once he reached back and hooked the stirrups on the saddle horn. Havelock forced the black-clad figure of the renegade into the far recesses of his mind. Still, he knew the Indian would find the passage, and Donovan's hooligans would again be on his trail.

  Havelock and the dun scrambled the last few feet to the top over tumbled and broken boulders. The dun was mountain-born and desert-raised. He humped over the rubble as though it was just another trail.

  Out on top, the land slanted toward Black River. Havelock drew a long breath and looked for something to close the passageway. Nothing. No boulder to roll into it.

  No tree to fell over it. The best he could do was get away, fast.

  Havelock swung up on the dun and pointed its nose toward Fort Apache. From there he'd cut across Cibecue and Carrizo creeks, go straight over Black Mesa, and head for the Hassayampa.

  Blue spruce, Ponderosa pine, and thick stands of aspen and jack-pine made the going tough. Havelock worked his way around the foot of Old Baldy until he hit a whisper of a trail that led north-west, made partly by mule deer and partly by moccasined feet.

  Havelock chewed on jerked meat as he rode, and by daybreak he was in Fort Apache, where he rode straight to the sutler's store. He'd not stop again before the cottonwoods below Eagle Eye Mountain, so he needed supplies. Inside, the store was dark as an old cave. It smelled of rank butter, aging cheese, and well-oiled leather. Havelock stepped to the counter.

  "What can I do for you?" The storekeeper's tone was jovial and his age indeterminate. Wire tufts of white stuck to his bald pate just above the ears, and his small blue eyes held an amused twinkle.

  "A side of bacon," Havelock said. "And cut it into half-pound chunks if you would. A tin of crackers, and one of hardtack. A pound of coffee, ground. Four cans of fruit. I'll eat one right now. Do you stock jerky? Goo
d. I'll take a couple of pounds of that. Five pounds of flour and a package of baking powder."

  "That do it?"

  "When you can get around to it, get me four boxes of .44-40 shells."

  The sutler's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "Planning to start a war, are ye?"

  "Nope. But I aim to be ready if anyone else gets the notion."

  Havelock took a can of peaches, opened it with his Bowie, and gulped down the syrupy fruit. He'd sharpen the knife later.

  "I'll be back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder as he went out the door. He mounted the dun and rode him to the livery stable. A good bait of grain could make a difference in the tough dun's staying power, even if it took extra time.

  At the livery, Havelock flipped a five-dollar gold piece to the young roustabout. "Rub this horse down and give him a quart of good oats. See it's done right quick, okay? And put five quarts of oats in a gunny sack for me to take along. Rest the dun for half an hour, saddle him up, and bring him up to the hitching rail at the sutler's. Got that?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Back in the dark store, the sutler wanted to make conversation. "Going far?" he asked.

  Havelock grunted. He stood by the murky window, watching the road.

  "Name's McFadden," the oldster volunteered. "Came into this country with Marion Clark and them. Clark, he never could settle down. Cory Cooley even beat him out of his share of that ranch they had..."

  "How's the Apache situation?" Havelock asked.

  "Well, Geronimo, Juh, and them took off from San Carlos earlier this year after that shootout down to Cibecue. They got three supply wagons about a month ago, but that was down in the Dragoons. They ain't been up here since General Crook got back."

  The provisions were in sacks, ready to go. Havelock tied their ends together so he could toss them over the bedroll tied behind his cantle.

  The sound of running horses took him back to the window. At sight of the riders, he pulled the pistol from his waistband. Donovan's riders were in town, the black-clad Indian in the lead, and the dun was still in the livery stable.