by Chuck Tyrell
Havelock made his move.
Without a word, he snaked his Colt from his waistband, half-turned toward Juanito O'Rourke, and shot the outlaw through the surprised look on his face. The roar of Donovan's Smith & Wesson came an instant after Havelock's shot. Juanito's face dissolved into a mask of blood as Donovan's slug smashed into Havelock's torso, ripping and tearing and flinging him to the ground.
Havelock instinctively rolled. Donovan's second shot caught him in the fleshy part of his left calf. Why does he always have to shoot me in the left leg?
He felt detached, almost as if his mind floated, separate, above his body. Every movement seemed an interminable crawl. He rolled over onto his belly, brought his right fist up with the elbow supporting it, and pointed his Colt at Donovan like an index finger, not taking precise aim. The gun spat flame, but Havelock was unaware he had pulled the trigger.
Donovan went to his knees, red wetness spreading across the white of his fine ruffled shirt. "You worthless son of..." He started to curse Havelock, but another bullet from the Colt tore away half Donovan's jaw and left the curse gurgling in a froth of blood.
Havelock peered through the darkness that clouded his eyes. Donovan toppled face down, twitched, and lay still.
Paralysis crept over Havelock's body. I'm never going to get this gold back to Vulture City, he thought. I'll never see Laura... All thought winked out.
Five men sprawled on the desert, and the dry land sucked at their blood.
Chapter Fourteen
When all sound and movement ceased, when the billowing gunsmoke drifted away, a shadow moved toward the still figures. Then Mountain Ebson materialized from among the cottonwoods. A glance told him the two men in the pit were dead.
Donovan lay with his ruined face to the sky. Blood no longer flowed. He too was dead.
Juanito O'Rourke lay face down where he had fallen. Mountain nudged the outlaw with a foot, then held his rifle at the base of O' Rourke's skull as he felt for a pulse.
There was none.
Havelock groaned and struggled to all fours. Blood dripped from his ripped side. A large pool had collected on the ground beneath him. He squinted, tried to focus, and tried to raise the heavy Colt. He couldn't find the strength. Once more, he collapsed, blood pouring from the hole Donovan's bullet tore in his side.
Mountain moved quickly. He kicked the Colt away from Havelock's hand, strode to the pit, used his Bowie to cut the shirts from the two dead men, and brought the cloth back. He sliced Havelock's shirt to uncover the wound. The bullet had entered about two inches above the hipbone in front and plowed its way across and out Havelock's back. Mountain could glimpse Havelock's intestine through the hole.
"Boy," he called.
"Yeah, Pa." Josie was only a few yards away.
"You bring me that clean shirt from my saddlebags, quick." When Josie brought the shirt, Mountain took it, folded it into a square several layers thick, and slapped it directly on the wound.
"Hold this," he said to the boy.
Josie held the rude compress on Havelock's wound while Mountain tore strips from the dead men's shirts to bind the compress in place.
"Pa," Josie said, "horse a comin'."
"I hear it."
When Laura rode into the clearing, she faced two long Winchesters. Her hand went to her mouth as she viewed the carnage.
"My name's Mountain Ebson," the big man said. "An' this is my boy Josiah. Miss, if it ain't too forward of us, who might you be?"
"Laura Donovan. Are they all dead. Is Garet dead?"
Mountain raised an eyebrow. "Garet? And you with the name of Donovan?"
She nodded.
"No, the marshal's not dead. But he needs more help than I know how to give."
Laura took charge. She sent Josie ahead to Vulture City for Doc Withers. She directed Mountain to lay Havelock in the buckboard on a bed of dead men's saddle blankets.
"I'll drive the buckboard toward Vulture City," she told Mountain. "You bury the bodies and come after."
Havelock moaned and tried to raise his head. Laura felt his forehead. Fever. She wet a cloth at the spigot of the water barrel, wiped his face, and left the damp cloth folded on his forehead. His eyes flickered open, bloodshot and staring. He tried to focus. His lips moved. Laura put her ear to his mouth.
"The gold," he whispered. "Gotta get the gold...back. Gotta..."
"Mr. Ebson, one more thing, if you would. Please stack those boxes on the buckboard and lash them. Garet wants to take them to Vulture City."
Mountain grinned. "He don't know when to give up, do he."
With the boxes of bullion secured to the buckboard, Laura could leave. "Mr Ebson," she said, "you come as quickly as you can. We need you."
"I'll catch up to you before dark, Miss Laura," the man-mountain promised.
Laura didn't want to think of the sun going down. She just wanted to get Havelock to Vulture City. She clucked to the team, turned the horses, and let them pick their way southeast. She'd driven hardly a mile when a huge black figure stepped into her path to halt the horses.
"I'm Tom Morgan," he said. "I'll drive, you look after Havelock. Puma's warriors will guard us to Vulture City."
Morgan drove slow and easy, making the ride as comfortable as he could for Havelock, who muttered and tossed and sweated. Mountain's compress staunched most of the bleeding.
With the dawn, the party could see smoke from the cooking-fires of Vulture City. The old Jicarilla Apache chief appeared out of the brush, said a few words to Morgan, handed him a small bag, and disappeared back into the desert.
"Puma's taking his men back now," Morgan said. "He left some herbs his medicine woman says are good for open wounds."
In her fatigue, Laura could do little more than mumble her thanks.
Three riders met them as they approached Vulture City: Mountain Ebson, young Josie, and a swarthy man.
Laura knew she'd never seen the swarthy man before, yet somehow he seemed familiar.
"With Tom and them Indians with you, I figured I'd just ride on ahead," Mountain said. 'Hope you don't mind."
Laura gave him a faint smile.
"How is he?" the swarthy man asked.
"Hanging on," she said. "But he's got a fever."
"Doc Withers is waiting. Let's get Garet to town."
Minutes later, Doc Withers went to work.
* * * * *
The first thing Havelock saw when he regained consciousness was Laura standing by the window. He spoke, hardly more than a raspy whisper. "Where am I? Heaven?"
At the sound of Havelock's voice, Laura whirled around. Concern etched deep lines between her eyebrows.
Havelock tried to grin. "Where'd you pick me up?"
"Out on the desert east of Eagle Eye Mountain," she said.
Havelock wrestled with the information and couldn't make sense of it.
"How'd you know where to look?" he asked.
"I didn't, exactly. I just saw Buzz drive through Wickenburg and knew you could not be far behind. He changed teams at the livery stable, and the man said he was going to hunt bighorn sheep. But I knew he was looking for the gold. You found him before I did. The shots helped, though. Mountain Ebson said he'd never seen anything like it."
"Mountain?"
"He was there. He said he just topped the ridge when the shooting started." Laura glared at him. "Mountain said you drew on two men who already had pistols in their hands!"
Havelock tried to shrug, but he was bandaged too tightly for his shoulders to move much. Besides, moving hurt.
"I was just doing my job," he said. "Hardcases like them don't belong in this country."
Laura scolded him. "So you're going to rid Arizona of bad men all by yourself, are you?" Then her face grew grave. "Mountain had your bleeding stopped by the time I got there. But you've still lost a lot of blood. Mountain laid you on Buzz's buckboard, and then Tom Morgan and I drove you to Vulture City."
"Tom?"
"Tom. And an
escort of Jicarilla Apaches. Chief Puma likes you." Laura bent over and smoothed Havelock's hair out of his eyes.
'But why Vulture City?' he asked. "Wickenburg was closer."
"Doc Withers is here. Wickenburg has no doctor."
Havelock lay silent for a while, staring out the window.
At last, he faced Laura again.
"What about the others?" he asked.
She found it didn't hurt her to say it.
"Dead. Mountain Ebson buried them under the cottonwoods."
Havelock half-lifted a hand. His usually expressionless face said he'd rather not have killed her brother.
"Yes, he was my brother," she said in a low voice. "But he was also a thief and a murderer. He shot Arch, tried to kill him. And he shot you."
"Arch's OK, then?"
"Arch's recovering, but he could be dead. And Buzz... I know, Garet, you only did your duty the best way you knew how. And Garet..."
Tears sprang to Laura's eyes. She turned from him for a moment to dab at them. She turned back to face him again. As she spoke, her voice broke. "And Garet, it could have been you Mountain buried out there in the desert. Then what would I do? What could I do?"
Havelock said nothing. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Laura's pain.
At last he changed the subject.
"What about the gold?"
"That gold. That gold! The only thing you could say out there was, 'Bring the gold'. It threatened to crush you all the way in, bouncing around in the back of that buckboard with you lying next to it, feverish and incoherent."
Laura drew a deep breath. When she spoke again, she was calmer. "The gold is in the Vulture bullion room. Except for six bars."
"One's in my saddlebags. The others are at the assay office in Camp Verde. Donovan got four thousand dollars for them."
A tap on the door broke into the conversation. Big Timothy Hunter walked in, limping slightly, but without a cane. The star rode well on his chest, and he had an air of authority. Behind Hunter came Doc Withers and a swarthy man Havelock had not seen for years – his brother, Johannes Havelock.
"Johnny," Havelock's voice was still little more than a whisper.
The younger Havelock grasped his brother's hand. "I was in Galveston when I heard you was havin' trouble," he said. "I come running, but you'd already taken care of things. As usual."
"Thanks, kid," Havelock said.
"Now, you just move away from there, young man. I've got to see to the patient." Doc Withers moved Johnny Havelock aside and folded down the bed covers. He checked the bandages that swathed Havelock's torso. "You're a lucky man, Garet Havelock. Lucky, I tell you. Mountain Ebson said you turned to shoot at O'Rourke and that's what saved your life. Donovan's bullet ripped through some muscle and penetrated your abdominal sac, but didn't puncture your intestines. Don't think we'll have any problem with peritonitis. Somehow that wound didn't seem like something a .45 caliber pistol should make."
"It felt like a cannonball," Havelock said, grinning weakly. "But that's why I prefer Colt revolvers."
"What? Why?"
"Donovan had a Smith and Wesson Schofield. Pretty guns. Big caliber. But only twenty-nine grains of powder. My .44-40 Colt has forty grains. Makes a difference. Maybe that's it."
"Good to see you in your right mind, Marshal," Hunter said. "Figuring stuff out like that. Well, Vulture City's been real quiet while you were gone. An' I made sure it stayed thataway. Guess you'll be back on your feet any day now. I'll clean out the office," he said.
Havelock had a good idea what the answer was, but he asked the question anyway. "Do you like lawing, Hunter?"
Hunter grinned. "I'll say one thing. It beats the hell out of... Oh, 'scuse me, miss..." Hunter's face turned red as he continued, " 'er, it's a lot better than working a single jack twelve hours a day in the mine."
"Just keep that badge then. I've got enough holes in me for one lifetime. I figure I'll mosey on up and over the Mogollon Rim. I've got me a little place on Silver Creek there. Think I'll finish proving up the homestead on it and raise good horses. And maybe boys. Johnny, what do you think?"
"Who? Me? I gotta get back to Texas. But I'll ride as far as Silver Creek with you," Johnny Havelock said.
Laura said nothing.
"This man still needs rest," Doc Withers said. "You men get out of here, and let the nurse do her job. Tom Morgan left some herbs for you to make into tea. You're supposed to drink one cup a day, he said. I don't know what's in those Indian medicines, but sometimes they work. Won't hurt to try."
Grumbling good-naturedly, the visitors left. Doc Withers shut the door quietly as he followed them out.
Havelock watched Laura as she poured hot water into a teapot.
"I was thinking," he said. "I sure would be proud if you'd come in partners with me on that Silver Creek homestead. If you don't mind partnering with a half-breed Cherokee, that is."
Laura tossed her hair and turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling.
"Of course, Garet Havelock. I don't mind, and I wouldn't have it any other way,' she said, handing him a mug.
"Now drink your tea."
The End
About the Author:
Chuck Tyrell is the pen name for Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only 19 miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since.
Raised on a ranch, Chuck brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, he maintains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction.
Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, and Tauranga Writers Inc.
To learn more about this author, visit him at:
http://www.chucktyrell.com
Be sure to read his latest release from Solstice Publishing:
Available at most online book retailers.
