Vulture Gold Page 13

  Green eyes in the Indian-dark face of that lead rider told Havelock the man in black was Juanito O'Rourke, outlaw son of an outlaw Irish father and his half-Yaqui, half-Mexican woman. There was no better tracker than Juanito. Indian-sharp, Yaqui-tough, Irish-clever – a hell of a combination.

  Juanito had three companions. Havelock recognized their type; men who lived by the gun and would probably die by the gun.

  In town they slowed, riding by the store at a walk with eyes flicking in all directions. Only the dark interior and the fact that the dun was still at the livery stable kept the outlaws from spotting Havelock.

  The four horsemen dismounted at the saloon and looped the reins of their horses over the hitching rail. As Donovan's men went through the batwing doors, the youngster from the livery stable led the dun toward the store. He came from the opposite direction and would not pass the saloon. Havelock could see no shadow of a man watching. Maybe they hadn't posted a lookout.

  "Mister, your dun's outside," the boy said.

  "Thanks, son. You'd be smart to stay here with Mr. McFadden until I get out of town. Those jaspers that just rode in are after me."

  Wide-eyed, the youngster nodded.

  "McFadden," Havelock said, "I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal, name of Garet Havelock." He showed the badge. "I'm going to hooraw your town a little. I'd like for you to explain to the citizens after. Especially to General Crook."

  The old man raised a white eyebrow.

  "You'd better pay me the four dollars and seventy-three cents you owe me for the grub and another two bucks for the cat'ridges," he said.

  Havelock dug sheepishly for the expense money he'd gotten from Marshal Meade back in Wickenburg.

  "Sorry," he said. "I purely forgot."

  "Lawmen forgit more often than outlaws do," the old man said. "Can't understand why."

  "Guess we got a lot on our minds." Havelock peered out the window. No sign of the four men. Maybe they were cutting trail dust with the saloon's rattlesnake whiskey.

  "You two sit tight," Havelock ordered. Outside, he threw the provisions across the saddle and mounted. Drawing his Colt, he rode toward the outlaws' horses. They turned to face him. Suddenly Havelock let rip with a wild Rebel yell. He spurred the dun into a run and fired his pistol into the door of the saloon, high enough for no one inside to be hit.

  The horses bolted. One of Donovan's men came charging through the batwings. Havelock snapped a shot in his direction and saw him go down, clutching a leg. One man less.

  The horses fanned out across the flat, running with heads held high to keep from stepping on the trailing reins. Havelock kept after them until they were well past the old Indian ruins at Kinishba.

  Havelock traveled due west into rough country. Gullies and canyons cropped up with increasing frequency, slowing his progress. He ticked off possible campsites in his head. Becker's Butte. Good cover. Big cave in the cliff. But no way to get the dun up there. Carrizo. Good water. Level land. But not enough cover, or too much. If a man had a good field of fire, there wasn't enough cover. If he kept to cover, he got no field of fire. Cross off Carrizo.

  Havelock decided to water up at Carrizo, let the dun rest, and feed him some grain. Then they'd go out on the mesa and dry camp. He'd bed down in a good big clump of manzanita where nothing could get at him without making a hell of a racket.

  The Carrizo ran clear and fast, winding its way from springs under the Mollogon Rim to meet Salt River between cliffs of malapai towering three hundred or four hundred feet.

  The best crossing was south of Flying V Mountain where the creek made a sweeping turn and a horse could pick its way down the south bank and onto a broad expanse of sand. Havelock walked the dun into the water while he was still on malapai rock, then rode him around the bend before reining the tired horse out on the northeast bank of the stream.

  Far behind him came three men. One of them, a straight-backed figure in black, rode at full speed with his eyes glued to the ground. Havelock's trail wound. He never rode far in a straight line. Soon the trio must stop for the night. Even Juanito O'Rourke couldn't read sign in the dark.

  The dun rolled in lieu of a rubdown, and fell to cropping at the thick grass. Bacon fried on a hatful of fire. Coffee frothed in the lard can at the fire's side, sending up an enticing aroma. When the bacon was done, Havelock added half a dozen hardtack biscuits that he'd broken up on a flat rock and a cupful of water. The water softened the hardtack and the bacon added flavor. The result was a good hot trail meal, backed by a half-gallon of black coffee strong enough to take the hair off a man's tongue. As the sun set, Havelock bedded down in a manzanita thicket. He picketed the dun in a stand of juniper close by. He was asleep almost before the stars came out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Some thirty-five miles south of Havelock, Donovan stepped down from a stagecoach in Globe. "Ike Clanton," Donovan said, offering a hand to the big man who met the stage. "Good to see you again. Still up to your old tricks?"

  Clanton shook the hand. "Naw, I'm thinking about going to New Mexico, Mr. Donovan. Pa's gone. Billy got his in Tombstone. You know, the Earps... Phin and me, we're figuring to homestead over west of Quemado. The way things look with the Hashknife and Twenty-Four outfits, we should do all right."

  Donovan' s face clouded over at the mention of the OK Corral fight. "Lawmen," he growled. "Seems a person just can't get rid of them. A marshal's been dogging me for weeks now. He won't let well enough alone."

  "Who's that?" Clanton asked.

  Donovan spat out his reply. "That son-of-a-bitch, Cherokee half-breed, Garet Havelock."

  Clanton looked up sharply. "Havelock? You'd do good to stay outta his way. That man may be part Cherokee but he's all rawhide. Riders on the trail say steer clear a him."

  Donovan's face flushed. "Juanito O'Rourke will take care of Havelock, for good. Come along. I could use a drink, and I'll buy you one, too."

  * * * * *

  Havelock passed through the Tonto Basin and was nearly to Cave Creek by his second day out of Fort Apache. But no one showed on his back trail, and that made him uncomfortable. He mulled over the lack of pursuit. I'll bet they don't even try to catch me. He decided Donovan's riders had gone straight to Eagle Eye Mountain and had already passed him. That night he dreamed of Laura, but when dawn came, he was already far down the trail, the canned fruit gone and one quart of grain left in the gunny sack for the lineback dun.

  After a night in Globe, Donovan rode the stage to Phoenix, where he hired a light buckboard and a good team of horses. He drove into Wickenburg with a wooden barrel of water strapped to the buckboard and two canvas water-bags hanging from its sides. Desert lay ahead and behind, and he had a far piece to go.

  The outlaw counted on his fancy clothes and clean-shaven face to keep people in Wickenburg from connecting him with the ruffian who'd shot Arch. But Laura waited for Havelock and kept watch on the roads into Wickenburg. She saw Donovan come into town and set about finding out what he was doing.

  That night, Havelock came upon Donovan's men camped near the Hassayampa river. He spotted their fire and dismounted the dun a hundred yards away. The brace on his left leg groaned slightly, but his moccasined feet made no sound on the desert floor.

  Two men hunkered down by the fire, staring into the coals and talking quietly. Havelock's lips formed a hard smile as he watched. Looking at the fire would make them momentarily night-blind when they raised their eyes. The third man lay asleep in his blankets on the far side of the fire. That would be Juanito. Havelock cat-footed closer. Neither man moved. They were lost in their musings, and now he could hear them.

  "Ten thousand dollars!" said the larger man. "Who is this Havelock that the boss would put that kind of money on him?"

  "Guess he kind of cramps the boss. John Ringo was in Vulture City when a bunch o' miners strung up a kid for killing a guy over cards. Havelock tried to stop the mob, but they was too many and he wouldn't shoot 'em down. But I hear that was the last lynching in
Vulture. After that, Havelock got downright mean. Just let the Cherokee in him come right out."

  "I'm still mean," Havelock said, stepping into the light of the camp-fire. "And I'm still Cherokee. Either of you boys wanna try me?"

  The big one raised his hands high. "Don't reckon I'm ready to die," he said, throwing a meaningful look at the smaller man.

  Havelock's instincts screamed. Where's Juanito? He'd not jumped from his blankets when Havelock spoke. And the two outlaws were too willing to co-operate. He snaked their guns from their holsters. One went into his waistband, the other he threw at the pile of blankets.

  Nothing moved.

  That's why they're unperturbed, Havelock thought. They figure Juanito'll pull their irons out of the fire.

  Havelock knew the half-breed was close by. "O'Rourke," he said. "Listen. Commodore Perry Owens says you helped him out of a jam over to Navajo Springs. He cottons to you. Says you've got judgment."

  No sound came from the darkness beyond the fire.

  "Look, Juanito. If you come in here, one of us will die, and the other will likely pack lead. You're not the kind to ambush a man. So why don't you let it ride? I've no quarrel with you and I don't think you've got one with me. There'll be another day, if you're looking for it. How 'bout it?"

  Havelock listened. At first only silence, then the protest of leather as someone swung aboard a saddle, followed by the faint sound of a walking horse.

  Donovan's riders were stunned. "That no-good, half-breed, son of Satan. He's rode off an' left us."

  Havelock chided them. "He's a better man than the two of you together. Juanito O'Rourke ain't gonna get caught sitting by a fire with his britches down. I could take you in, and I reckon there's a wanted dodger out on you, but right now I don't think Arizona air agrees with you. You can go to Hole-in-the-Wall up Wyoming way, or try to bluff your way into Brown's Hole in Utah. Whichever, I don't want to see hide nor hair of you in Arizona. If I do, I'll shoot first and then ask what you're up to. That clear?"

  "You can't send us out there without no guns. Geronimo's still loose and old Puma's warriors could be anywhere," the big man said.

  "You've got a choice. You can ride out on a horse. Or, you can stay right here, tied hand and foot, by the fire you like so much."

  The smaller man twitched. "We'll ride."

  Havelock walked them to their horses. He shucked their saddle guns, but left ropes and canteens. "I'm counting on not seeing you boys again," he said.

  "You won't," the smaller one answered. They reined their horses north along the Hassayampa.

  Back in camp, Havelock drank two cups of scalding coffee from the pot at the fire and used the remainder to drown the coals. A shame to waste a good coffeepot, he tied it behind his cantle.

  He made a dry camp, slept fitfully, and roused with the false dawn. Eagle Eye Mountain was blue in the distance, touched with pink by the first rays of the morning sun. Its single eye glared at the desert.

  In his mind's eye, Havelock tried to remember where cottonwood trees grew, and scribed the arc the spot from the Eagle's Eye would make on the desert floor. The most likely grove was along a dry creek that flowed into the Hassayampa after a rain, some twenty-five miles away. He hoped the oats would give the dun enough stamina.

  The long-legged lineback settled down into a distance-eating single-foot, a pace he could keep up for hours. But at noon, Havelock was on foot. The dun came along behind, head up and ears pricked. A hawk spread feathered fingers to the sky and screeched defiance. Off to the right, a gray packrat hopped toward home, a bit of glittering mica clasped tight in its paws.

  Havelock stopped. He emptied half the water in the big canteen into his hat for the dun. The horse got two good swallows. Perhaps it would be enough.

  He felt uncomfortable. The hairs on the back of his neck crawled. He knew the feeling and could not ignore it. Someone was watching him. He'd kept a wary eye on the back trail, but there was no tell-tale dust in the desert except for a flurry near the stage road. It moved too fast for a freight wagon; probably a buckboard.

  After a swallow from the canteen, Havelock swung up on the dun. From atop the lineback, he could see the cottonwoods, their leaves dark green against the brown of the desert, still hours away.

  The dun's step still had spring. He loved to travel and he showed what he was made of. The hair on the back of Havelock's neck continued to tell him that someone had eyes on him. He didn't like the feeling.

  A dust spiral sprang up south and west of Wickenburg, moving on an intercepting course with Havelock's.

  Mentally he traced the intersecting point – the grove of cottonwoods.

  Donovan.

  Havelock urged the lineback to a faster pace.

  The second sign of dust came by smell, not sight.

  Havelock pulled up the dun just to make sure. The taint in the air said someone had crossed the trail in front of him.

  The shadow of Eagle Eye Mountain swung around and lengthened out toward the desert. Soon the round eye of the eagle would pinpoint where Arch had hid the gold.

  Havelock held the dun to a walk, keeping a sharp eye out for trouble, for sooner or later trouble would come.

  The closer Havelock got to the cottonwoods, the more he had to detour around deep gullies slashed in the desert floor by rainstorm run-off from Eagle Eye Mountain. They slowed him further.

  Havelock held the dun just under the top of the rise.

  Only his head could be seen from the other side. Eagle Eye Mountain made the head of an eagle with its shadow, including a flaming eye. Now he knew he could ride to the exact place where Vulture gold lay buried, for the eye of the eagle would light the spot like a beacon. He dismounted about a quarter of a mile from the cottonwoods. He tied the dun to a mesquite tree, pulled the Winchester saddle gun from its scabbard, checked its loads and the ones in his Colt, and cat-footed toward the grove. A buckboard sat beneath the trees, two saddle horses tied to it and its team still in the traces. As he got closer, Havelock heard metal clang against stone and sand. He altered course to make a wide sweep around the sound. He still felt as if he were being watched. He moved with Cherokee stealth from scrub to cactus, to spindly mesquite, to gully, to boulder.

  Two men dug in the dirt beneath a large flat stone they'd pried out of the way. Sunlight through the eye of the eagle threw their shadows long upon the ground. They piled sand and chunks of desert earth beside the growing pit. The diggers were the same pair Havelock had sent packing the night before. The lure of gold was stronger than their fear. He hunkered down to watch.

  A shovel ground on something solid.

  "Found it!"

  "Come on, Bradley. Help me get this wonderful, shiny bull-yon outta this hole."

  The smaller man moved to lend a hand.

  When they had six small boxes stacked up on the rim of the hole, Havelock stepped into the open, rifle leveled.

  "Looks like you boys didn't take me serious. You should be out of the territory by now. Guess I'll just have to take you in after all."

  The two bewildered diggers looked at Havelock, blinked, and then looked at the buckboard as though they were expecting someone to come to their aid. No one did.

  "This will teach you gentlemen to listen to an officer of the law when he gives you advice. If you had harkened to him, I tell you, you would be much better off." Donovan's voice came from the direction of Eagle Eye Mountain. A moment later he appeared, with a Smith & Wesson Schofield in his hand.

  "Get rid of the rifle, Havelock," Donovan said.

  Havelock tossed the Winchester aside. The loose tails of his shirt hid the Colt from Donovan's view.

  Donovan turned to the two men who had dug the Vulture gold from its hiding place.

  "Let me show you men why you should have listened to the marshal," Donovan said, punctuating the sentence with two shots from the Smith & Wesson. A black hole in a star-splash of blood appeared over the left shirt pocket of each man. The shock kept each of them fr
om making a sound as he died. They simply lay in the hole where they dropped—eyes open to the desert sky.

  "Don't do it, señor." The voice behind Havelock was soft, hardly more than a whisper, but it carried steel-hard warning.

  Havelock relaxed his right hand, which had been inching toward the butt of the pistol jammed in his waistband, and brought it back into plain sight. He looked over his left shoulder.

  Juanito O'Rourke, dressed in black as always, stood about thirty feet away and slightly behind him. Donovan, who held the still-smoking Smith & Wesson, was on Havelock's left as well, twenty feet away and to the front. Havelock steeled his nerves, ready to take advantage of the slightest break.

  Donovan eared back the hammer of his pistol.

  "Havelock, you rode me from pillar to post. I hardly even had time to take a good bath. And a gentleman should not be odoriferous. Every time I thought I was rid of you, you turned up again. You've become very tiresome. I should have shot you through the heart back in the Indian Nations. I will now rectify that error, and make use of Vulture gold to obtain my rightful place. First county commissioner, then legislator, perhaps, and on to be appointed governor of this great territory." Donovan threw his head back and laughed—the same laughter Havelock had heard in the Nations, and in Vulture City.

  Havelock saw death come creeping from Eagle Eye Mountain, cold and blue, as the sun went down. Deep down in his bowels anger caught fire. Under his breath, he started singing his Cherokee death song. If he had to die doing his job, so be it, but he didn't have to listen to Barnabas Donovan. Fury built behind his eyes, hot and red, without reason or logic. No one had the right to put Garet Havelock into a hard hole in the desert without his doing something about it. Pausing in his death song, he silently apologized to Laura.

  He started the death song again, and glanced at Juanito O'Rourke. The half-breed outlaw had lowered his gun, and he watched Donovan with an amused half-smile on his dark face.

  No way out. But Rothwell Havelock had always told his eldest son that there was no stopping a man in the right who just kept on going.