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  Havelock turned the horses toward a spiny ridge west of them. The lineback dun he now rode picked its way through the cholla, yucca, and prickly pear with ease. A gully in the face of the ridge kept the riders and horses off the skyline. They stopped short of the crest. Havelock walked the dun forward until he could just see over the ridge. There he reined the horse in.

  Only Havelock's eyes moved as he searched the way ahead. Nothing moved. Heat waves shimmered over the desert floor, creating mirages—vast lakes of silvery phantom water—in the distance.

  Something moved in the corner of Havelock's vision.

  He inched his head around until he faced the place where he'd seen the movement. At first, nothing. Then a lithe brown form emerged from a clump of mesquite. Two braves followed the first Apache. Then a fourth. They moved on a straight course, not the zigzag of hunters, or the intense caution of those on the warpath. They were homebound. Two of the dusky men had fresh scalps hanging from their belts. From the hair color, the scalps had once belonged to whites. All four Apaches carried US Army issue Springfield carbines.

  Their swift dogtrot raised no dust. The braves were spread wide apart, not single file as white men supposed Indians traveled. The four worked as smoothly as trained army scouts, leapfrogging each other, the lead man squatting and searching the terrain while the others passed.

  Take a mighty good man to surprise that bunch. Havelock watched them out of sight.

  He stayed at his lookout long after the Apaches disappeared. Then he backed his horse down to where Donovan waited with the extra mounts—even the outlaw wasn't foolhardy enough to try to escape into the desert. Havelock quickly made the Indian sign for warriors, the sign for Apache, held up four fingers, and then pointed southwest.

  Donovan nodded. He held up his manacled hands with a question on his face. Havelock shook his head. He took up the lead rope to Donovan's horse, gathered in the loose end of the lariat attached to Donovan's neck, and moved north-west at a slow walk.

  Havelock felt uneasy. Four Apaches meant more Apaches, and any Apache meant trouble. He didn't like it, and the tenderfoot up ahead would draw the Jicarilla like a dead man draws flies.

  The heavy roar of a Springfield signaled the start of a fracas. Two more shots followed close behind, then the feisty bark of a Winchester saddle gun.

  By the sound, the fight lay dead ahead, no more than a half mile away.

  Havelock turned west toward high ground. Desultory firing continued as he led Donovan and the extra mounts in a wide circle. He stopped when the shots sounded due east. A hogback hid the fight from him.

  "I'm going over there for a look-see," Havelock whispered. "You'll be here when I get back if you're smart."

  "You go right ahead, Marshal. Pay me no mind," Donovan's words carried bravado, but he kept his voice low.

  "On second thought, I think I'll play it safe." Havelock walked around to the side of Donovan's horse, taking up the slack in the rope around Donovan's neck as he went. He cocked his Winchester and shoved the muzzle under Donovan's chin. The outlaw strained away from the deadly gun.

  Keeping up the pressure, Havelock unlocked the shackle on Donovan's right hand. "Step down slow and easy."

  Donovan dismounted.

  "Sit down with your back to that mesquite."

  Donovan sat.

  Havelock took the chain around the slim tree, pulling Donovan's left arm behind his back and around the tree trunk. Then he pulled the chain over the outlaw's stomach to fasten the manacle to his right wrist. Now he'd stay put.

  "Thanks for leaving me to the fowls of the air, boy."

  "You stay real still and the buzzards won't even notice you're around."

  Havelock led the horses almost to the top of the hogback, where he tied them in a clump of scrub oak. They'd keep to the shade, out of sight.

  The thought of crawling brought a twinge to Havelock's game knee, but had to be done, so he crawled.

  Sporadic firing continued. The Springfields seemed to change position, but the shots from the Winchester always came from the same place.

  At last, Havelock looked down on the battlefield. A chestnut sorrel horse lay down and dead. A flicker of movement behind it said the rider was still alive.

  With the flicker, a Springfield spoke. Havelock spotted the Apache by the smoke from his carbine, an older man, black hair liberally streaked with gray. A calico headband kept his long hair in place.

  One.

  Movement off to the left showed Havelock the second Indian. A youngster on his first sortie, perhaps. The boy sneaked around to flank the dead sorrel. The boy was good, but not good enough to escape the notice of a Cherokee.

  Two spotted. There should be another.

  But Havelock couldn't spot him. Besides, the youngster was getting too close. The boy jumped up to make his dash, a netdahe war whoop on his lips. Havelock killed him. Instantly he shifted his aim toward the older man, but the Apache was no longer there.

  The third man's bullet kicked dirt and bits of desert rock into Havelock's face. Havelock rolled frantically, disregarding the sharp prickles of cacti. Two full turns and he was up on his elbows, rifle at his cheek, aiming at where the shot had come from.

  At first he saw nothing. Then a small bird, about to land on a patch of cholla, suddenly veered and flew to another landing place further on. Havelock put seven shots into the clump as fast as he could work the lever, spacing the shots evenly across its width. A moccasined foot pushed its way into sight, digging a furrow in the desert dust. It arched stiffly, quivered, and went limp. The warrior had not made a sound.

  Havelock waited. The foot did not move. He lifted his gaze to the place where the boy went down. The body was gone!

  The sound of hoofbeats came from a gully on the far side. The old Apache boiled over the edge, going away. The old man held the body of the boy in front of him across the withers of his pinto pony. Perhaps his son, or his grandson.

  Havelock let the old man go.

  A red-headed woman stood up from behind the downed sorrel. Havelock stared. He'd seen her near the Gold Skillet, where she'd given him that knowing smile.

  Havelock struggled to his feet, and nearly met his Maker. When he looked at the redhead again, she had her rifle to her cheek, aimed at him.

  His head split into a million pieces of blinding light, and dimly he heard the report of the rifle. As he fell he wondered: Why? Why would she shoot me?

  * * * * *

  The first thing Havelock heard after the rifle shot was the agonized death squeak of a packrat, followed by the near-silent flurry of beating wings as a night predator bore its prey away. He started at the sound, and pain seared through his head. He lay motionless. The pain dulled.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. He remembered. The redhead from the Gold Skillet had shot him.

  Late afternoon.

  Now night.

  Donovan.

  He'd left Donovan shackled to a tree.

  Havelock turned over. He lay motionless until the pain dulled again. He fell back three times while trying to get up on all fours. Then the pain in his left knee told him crawling was not an option.

  Twice he attempted to stand. Both times he awoke stretched full length on the ground. Pain flashed through his brain. He started inching his way to where he'd left Donovan, dragging his left leg straight out behind.

  Havelock found the tree, but Donovan was gone.

  Then he realized the horses were gone, too.

  He'd struggled past the scrub-oak thicket without noticing. His predicament hit him full force.

  No horses.

  He checked his holster.

  No gun, though the belt held bullets.

  The snub-nosed pistol he usually carried in the small of his back was still cached near Burnt Wells, along with his big Bowie knife.

  The woman had taken his guns, but not his boots.

  Fighting the red mist of pain that seared his brain, Havelock managed to extract the thin, razor-sha
rp stiletto from his boot—his only weapon and his only tool.

  With the knife, he cut a branch from the mesquite tree, trimmed it to about six feet long, so one end was about the thickness of his wrist and the other slightly larger than the base of his thumb. The branch was crooked, but it would have to do.

  Grasping his new staff as high as he could reach, Havelock pulled himself to his feet. For a long moment he stood still, panting, as his head reeled and his stomach heaved.

  Cautiously, he raised a hand to his head. His fingers explored hair matted with dried blood. Then he found a furrow the redhead's bullet had plowed across his head, starting about two inches above his left ear. If he'd not been falling away...

  The woman had not killed him. Her big mistake. She must not know the stubborn nature of an Oklahoma Cherokee.

  He'd promised to free the governor's daughter. He'd promised to bring in Donovan, dead or alive. And he'd promised to get the gold back. Even half-breed Cherokees kept their promises.

  Havelock took a tentative step. The insides of his head rattled, but didn't get any worse. Gingerly, he walked to where he'd tied the horses. Even in the moonlight, he could read the sign. Donovan and the redhead had ridden the horses northwest toward Eagle Eye Mountain.

  Hobbling to the place where he'd been shot, Havelock found his hat off to the right. The five .44 bullets he habitually carried in the crown were still there. His spirits picked up. There might be a way out of this mess yet.

  Still leaning heavily on his mesquite staff, Havelock made his way to where the second Indian had fallen. The brave was still there, stiff in rigor mortis. No one had come back for him yet. Havelock knew he had to get away quickly and stay out of sight, or his hair would festoon an Apache war shirt.

  The dead Apache clutched an old Springfield. Havelock broke the hammer. He took the long knife from the Indian's belt. It wasn't a Bowie, but it was good and sharp.

  Using more strength than he knew he had, Havelock turned the stiff corpse over, and the handle of a Colt revolver protruded from under the dead brave's vest. He seized it and pulled it out. Even in the starlight, Havelock recognized an old cap-and-ball Dragoon that had been converted to cartridges. It was fully loaded. Havelock removed one cartridge, rotated the cylinder so that the empty chamber lay beneath the hammer, and thrust it into his holster. He shoved the bullet into an empty loop on his gunbelt. The familiar weight of a weapon at his hip made him feel better.

  Now, if that blasted thirst turning his throat to sandpaper would just go away, he'd be all right. But it won't. The thirst will get worse. Much worse. My tongue will turn black. I'll scorch. I'll go crazy and chase after mirages.

  He knew that living hell would come over the horizon with the rising sun.

  A thought hit Havelock. She'd shot him late in the afternoon. Likely the woman and Donovan would not have gone far before camping for the night. Especially if they thought Havelock was dead. Maybe he could spot their campfire from the hill behind him.

  Havelock got up the hogback quicker than he'd imagined he could, and when he got there, his head throbbed less, though nausea still twisted his innards.

  Despite the tough climb, Havelock didn't sweat. The dry desert air and loss of blood from his wound had robbed his body of moisture for perspiration.

  Taking his bearings from the waning moon, Havelock first located the dark bulk of Eagle Eye Mountain in the distance. He searched the desert floor with careful eyes.

  There! Fire. Reflected off a sandstone face among the foothills on the left.

  That's smart. Don't make a beeline for the mountain. Keep to the foothills where you can stay out of sight.

  The fire had to be Donovan's. Had to be. He'd go there, he decided. And with luck and enough strength, he'd get there before sunrise. Before leaving, Havelock went back to the dead Indian and removed the brave's knee-high moccasins. He sat down, took off his boots, and tried the moccasins on. They were a bit loose, but much better than cowman's boots for hiking across the desert. Havelock tied the leggings over his trousers, left his boots by the dead Indian in exchange, and struck out toward the dim reflection of camp-fire.

  * * * * *

  Back in Vulture City, Timothy Hunter, deputy marshal's badge pinned to his vest, made the rounds. His progress was slow, he leaned heavily on a knotted cane, but no one thought of arguing with the sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm, or with the set look of determination on his bearded face.

  * * * * *

  In a Jicarilla Apache rancheria deep in the Big Horn Mountains, a huge black man with a missing right hand rested quietly, his fever broken at last.

  * * * * *

  The moon set, leaving the land flat and black. A red haze burned behind Havelock's eyes as he plodded toward the flicker of light.

  The light edged closer. The reflection waned as the fire died, but now Havelock was close enough to catch even the faint glow of coals giving up their last glimmer of life.

  The need for caution invaded his numbed and throbbing brain. He stopped, shoulders hunched, swaying back and forth like a grizzly scenting the wind. His eyes sunk deep into the dark sockets of his face. His lips were thin, raw edges to the wound that was his mouth.

  Weariness sucked at every cell in his body. Every scrap of tissue cried for moisture. With infinite care, he lifted the heavy old Dragoon Colt from his holster. The left hand followed the right to the grips of the old gun, for Havelock needed two hands just to raise the pistol. With both thumbs, he cocked the hammer. The click sounded like a rifle shot in the ink-black silence.

  Havelock stood for a long moment, listening. No flurry of movement, no unnatural sound, followed the cocking of the pistol. Off to his left he heard the patter of packrat feet. Further on a beetle clicked. Havelock worked closer to the edge of the clearing.

  The fire now held hardly a glow. In the deep shadows next to a bluff rising behind the campsite, Havelock made out two prone forms. Got 'em. He gathered his strength for the encounter.

  With a deep breath, he took three long steps into the clearing and faced the forms.

  "All right, Donovan. You're covered."

  The prone forms remained motionless, mocking the half-breed Cherokee. Bitter bile rose in Havelock's throat, choking off his oaths. For the second time in three days, he'd followed a decoy fire.

  The shaking began deep down in his guts. It was like ague, only worse. A chill swept through his body. His teeth chattered out of control. He sank to his knees then toppled over on his side. Inside his head, the fires of hell raged. He blacked out.

  The sun was high when Havelock awoke; far into the day he was to deliver Donovan to Eagle Eye Mountain in exchange for the governor's daughter. He stared for a moment at the cobalt blue of the morning sky. Then he sensed a presence. He carefully turned his head to look across the dead ashes of the decoy campfire. An Indian squatted patiently in the shade of a clump of organ pipe.

  Havelock grimaced to notice that the circle of ashes from the campfire was a good six feet across, much too big for a campfire in hostile Indian territory. He hadn't noticed the night before.

  Havelock tried his voice. "You wouldn't have a drink on you, would you, Horn Stalker?" he said in a coarse cracked whisper.

  The Yavapai got up and padded over to the fallen lawman. Without expression, he stared down at Havelock. Then he smiled.

  "What would you do, lawman, if I were not around to get you out of these messes?"

  "Guess I'd have to locate another educated Yavapai to be my friend." Havelock's attempt to smile cracked his lower lip. A dark drop of blood oozed out. He was too dehydrated to bleed more than a drop.

  Horn Stalker knelt in the dust and uncapped his canteen. First he wet a bandanna and held it to Havelock's face. The marshal sucked greedily at the damp cloth. Tiny trickles of life worked their way down his throat. The water was brackish and lukewarm. Havelock had never tasted anything better in his life.

  He reached for the canteen. One sip. Two. A delicio
us coolness spread through his parched body. Layer upon layer of tissue revived with each swallow of water.

  Then Horn Stalker spoke again, this time seriously. "Apaches are not far away. They follow from the body of the brave you killed yesterday. It will be a close thing as to who gets to Donovan first; us, or the Apaches."

  The lithe old hunter disappeared into the desert flora surrounding the clearing. In a moment he reappeared, leading two horses. One was Havelock's grulla, saddle, Winchester, and all.

  "I found him headed back to Vulture City. There was no one around so I claimed him as a maverick. You happen to know who he belongs to? Damn fine horse." Horn Stalker's obsidian eyes sparkled.

  "Anyone who tries to get on that horse from the on side gets dumped, and quick," said Havelock. "I trained him that way myself. Glad I did, too." Havelock got to his feet with only two attempts. Horn Stalker did not offer to help, nor did Havelock ask. Both knew the unwritten law of the desert said a man either took care of himself, or died.

  Havelock limped to the grulla. He gathered the reins, lifted his right foot and pushed it into the off-side stirrup. Grasping the saddle horn with both hands he heaved himself aboard the patient horse. He sat a moment while his head cleared. Then he looked at his Indian friend. "I reckon Donovan's got the other horses. Let's ride." he said.

  Horn Stalker nodded, and led off on a trail toward Eagle Eye Mountain that no white man had followed before.

  A fast, single-foot pace soon brought the two desert riders to the foothills of the Big Horn range. Eagle Eye Mountain towered to the north, its baleful single eye—a hole that ran completely through the mountain, near the summit—just visible.

  The Yavapai picked his trail carefully. Even an Apache would have found the going slow. The signs were few. Both Horn Stalker and Havelock's horse had rawhide boots instead of iron shoes. They left precious little in the way of tracks. In fact, most white man would probably have sworn no horses had passed that way.

  The Apaches seemed to materialize right out of the ground. One moment the desert was quiet and peaceful, the next it was shattered by gunfire.

  Havelock palmed the old Dragoon by reflex. He stuck it in the nearest Apache's face and pulled the trigger. It seemed like an eternity between the click of the descending hammer, the roar of the old .44, and the destruction of that wild Apache face. Now, at least, he knew the old gun would actually fire.