Vulture Gold
Chuck Tyrell

CHAPTER ONE

The stench of death clung to the dry earth of Vulture City, a patch of hell on the Mojave Desert. The town's burgeoning jumble of dugouts, tarpaper shacks, and batten-on-plank houses fanned out from a plaza bordered by Garth's Mercantile and Vulture Mine headquarters, the Carrion saloon, the Vulture Hotel, and the marshal's office and jail. One street from the plaza ended at the Vulture Mine.

Gold sweetened the smell of death; pretty, plentiful gold from the Vulture Mine — richest in Arizona, maybe richest in the West.

The stamp-mill crushed the ore sweated from the mother lode and separated the gold from the quartz. Men with greed etched on their faces melted down the gold and poured it into forms for ingots an inch thick, three inches wide, and ten long. Each weighed about twenty-two ounces at fineness of just over 900.

Six boxes of twenty bars each stood stacked against the sides of the bullion-room pit at Vulture Mine headquarters. The iron grate that secured the pit leaned against the far wall, open for inventory. Ralph Judd carefully laid another ingot in a new box. Superintendent Harry Chambers sat in the back room at a table made of dynamite crates and jotted entries in the ledger.

The instant an explosion rocked the face of the mine, half a mile away, three men barged into the bullion room with six-guns in their hands and bandannas covering their faces.

'Don't move!'

The order came from a tall white man with commanding ice-blue eyes beneath the rim of his dirty felt hat. The other two were Mexicans.

Judd's hands shot up and he froze, but Harry Chambers stepped from the back room and slammed the iron grate down on the bullion pit. Judd leaped for the padlock. His shaking fingers fumbled to fit it through the hasp.

'Gringo hijo de puta!' Two pistols spat flame almost as one.

One bullet threw Judd across the iron grate in a sprawl. The padlock slipped from his dying fingers to splat in the blood on the pit's dirt floor.

The other bullet drilled Chambers' left shirt-pocket, punctured his heart, and slammed him wide-armed against the back wall. His dying spasms tipped him over to lie face down in his own gore. The bullion room filled with the coppery scent of ripped and bloody flesh and the offal odor of bowels voided in death.

The big man holstered his gun. 'Let's get that gold out of here,' he said sharply. The Mexicans ignored his unspoken disapproval of the shootings. The trio quickly hauled the bullion from the pit and loaded it onto two pack-mules tethered outside. Four boxes went in canvas pouches strapped to the packsaddles. They lashed the remaining two bullion boxes to the forks.

'Move!' shouted the leader.

The Mexicans roweled their horses and lunged away, jerking the gold-laden mules after them. The bandit leader rushed back into the bullion room for the ingots on Judd's desk.

The leader ran from the bullion room, threw a pair of saddlebags across the skirt of his rig, and leaped into the saddle.

'Halt!' Marshal Garet Havelock roared. He'd hustled back from investigating the mine explosion but was still 200 yards away. He went down on one knee and jacked a shell into his Winchester.

The outlaw reined his horse around. He stared at Havelock, unafraid, then tilted back his head and laughed. The sound echoed from the stone walls of the buildings around the plaza. Havelock had heard that mocking laugh before, during darker times, and it brought unpleasant memories. The bandit lunged his horse toward the mountain trail out of town.

Havelock squeezed off a shot.

The horse reared wildly, almost going over. The big rider clung for a moment, then dropped off, arms and legs flailing. He landed head first, bounced, and lay face down. The startled mount raced for the trail, saddlebags jouncing.

Havelock levered a new cartridge into the chamber and waited, rifle to cheek. The downed outlaw lay still. Slowly the marshal stood, rifle held ready. By the time he reached the prone man, citizens of Vulture City began to appear in the plaza.

'Know who it is, Marshal?' Solomon Garth stood on the steps of his store.

'Yeah. It's Barnabas Donovan.'

Havelock knelt by the fallen man. Blood spread from under his right shoulder, mixing with the dust. The marshal put the muzzle of his rifle to the base of Donovan's head, then laid a finger to the artery in his neck — strong, steady pulse.

'Pappy!'

At Havelock's shout, jailer Pappy Holmes stuck his head out the door of the marshal's office.

'Get that 10-gauge Greener and get out here.'

A moment later, the old man stood by Havelock. He peered at the unconscious outlaw. Both hammers of the wicked sawed-off double-barreled shotgun were cocked.

'Hey!' A cry came from the bullion room. 'Judd and the super are dead!'

For an instant, Havelock saw a blackened body swinging from the ironwood hanging-tree and a death smell cloyed in his nostrils. He'd tried to stop the last lynching — a young drifter — but either the mob had been too much, or Havelock had not been enough. The boy hung there for three days while Havelock nursed his pride in the jail and the miners laughed at the half-breed marshal who couldn't stand up to their mobs.

Unless Havelock moved fast, Donovan too would swing from the hanging-tree. Havelock's tongue licked over thin, dry lips, but didn't leave much moisture behind. He scanned the crowd for someone he could trust. Tom Morgan, huge and black, stood near Garth's store. He owed Havelock for Santa Fe.

'Tom Morgan,' Havelock called.

Morgan moved through the crowd, his face impassive.

'Help Pappy get this body into the jailhouse, if you would.'

Morgan nodded. He shifted his Ballard .50 so it hung beneath his left armpit, muzzle down. Havelock took the Greener shotgun from Pappy, who moved to grab the outlaw's knees. Morgan motioned him away and picked up the unconscious body in his great arms as if it were a child, and carried Donovan into the jailhouse.

'Wil Jacks.'

'Right here, Marshal.'

'We're going to need nine good horses, Wilford. Make one of them my grulla. And saddle Tom Morgan's mule, if you please.'

Jacks hurried off and Havelock turned to the angry crowd. He took a deep breath, and scowled to hide his unease.

'OK. I want those killers worse than you do. We've got one, and we'll get the others. I want eight men to go with me and Tom Morgan.'

Almost everyone clamored to go, but a few hung back, not willing to ride out with a 'breed and a black. God. It seemed like every time he proved himself, he had to turn around and do it all over again. Havelock raised his hand, and the crowd quieted.

'Benson, Dailey, Decker, Smythe, Foggarty, Swenson, Carson, Mills. Hold up your right hands. Do you swear to uphold the law? OK, you're deputies. Meet me in front of the jail in five minutes. We'll probably be gone for a couple of days. Be ready.'

The men broke and ran to prepare.

'What's this about a dead man?'

Havelock didn't answer. He just started for the jail across the plaza. Though his left knee was stiff, his pace was swift. Doc Withers had to trot to keep up.

'What's your hurry? The jail isn't afire, and that man's dead, isn't he?'

'No.'

Doc Withers stuttered, but didn't stop. Havelock slammed the door after them as they entered the marshal's office. Pappy held the Greener dead center on Havelock's chest, and Morgan stood with his Ballard .50 rifle halfway to his shoulder.

'Most folks knock afore they come a-bustin' in,' Pappy said. He released the hammers on the shotgun and leaned it against Havelock's scarred wooden desk.

'Where's Donovan?' Havelock asked.

Pappy waved a hand toward the cells in the rear. 'Still out. First cell.'

'Come on, Doc.'

Donovan stirred as Havelock and Doc Withers entered the cell. The doctor felt his pulse and nodded. 'No problem with this man,' he said. 'Heartbeat like a horse's.' The doc continued his examination. 'Got a fair-sized knot on his head. But he's just unconscious. Now, let's have a look at that wound.'

Havelock's bullet had ripped a deep gash beneath Donovan's right arm. It had bled a lot, but wasn't life-threatening. Doc Withers stitched the wound and dressed it. As he straightened up, Donovan mumbled, 'Whass goin' on?'

The doctor cast a caustic look in Donovan's direction. 'Let me see. You're dead, and I'm Saint Peter. God and I have been discussing whether to send you to Hell now or put it off a while so the Devil can get some rest.' Doc snapped his black bag closed. 'Havelock, let me out of here.'

Havelock opened the cell door. Donovan's eyes followed the doctor out.

'Donovan.'

The outlaw turned his gaze on the marshal.

'Two men are dead in the bullion room across the way. I'm gonna see you swing for that.'

Donovan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before replying.'I've killed no one,' he said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if talking made his head hurt.

'The hell you say.'

'Look at my gun. I've not fired it.'

'Pappy. Bring me Donovan's rig.'

The Greener appeared first, hammers cocked, followed by Pappy's relief-map face. He held out Donovan's fancy tooled-leather rig. Havelock pulled the bone-handled Smith & Wesson from the holster. He broke the gun open. The cylinder held five live bullets. The hammer had rested on an empty chamber.

Some of the sarcastic edge returned to Donovan's voice. 'Well, boy. Tell me. How did I kill anyone without firing my gun?' he said.

'Don't push it, Donovan. When I get through with you, you'll wish you were up for murder.' Havelock's ears burned at Donovan's calling him 'boy,' but he wheeled on his good leg and strode back into the office.

Tom Morgan waited, ready to ride. Sounds outside said the posse was restless. Havelock tucked a trap-door Springfield rifle under his arm and picked up a box of .45- 70 cartridges. He stepped out of the jail with Morgan a half-pace behind. He stuffed the Springfield into the saddle scabbard and the shells into his off-side saddlebag. Then he mounted his slate-gray grulla mustang from that same off-side. With a game knee, he couldn't mount a horse in the usual way.

'Listen up,' Havelock shouted. 'Two good men died today. And the mine's out a sight of gold. Now those thieves have a fifteen-minute start on us, but we can catch them. Morgan, lead out.'

The posse moved into the unforgiving desert that surrounded Vulture City. Morgan tracked as well as any Apache. And the outlaws, with their two mules, had left a trail even a tenderfoot could follow. The hoofprints led south toward the juncture of the Hassayampa and Gila rivers.

The posse rode under the brassy sky for two hours before Havelock called a halt to rest and water the horses. The men sipped sparingly from their canteens and swabbed the horses' mouths with wet bandannas. The posse was silent, waiting for Havelock to say something. He sensed their trust, and vowed not to let them down. Wasn't often a Cherokee half-breed got respect.

'Where d'ya think they're headed, Tom?'

The black man shrugged. He hunkered down, picked up a dry mesquite twig, and sketched a rough map. 'This here's the Hassayampa. If they keep on going like this, they'll hit the big bend of the Gila, right here.' Morgan's twig struck a rough S for the Gila River, and drew the crooked line of the Hassayampa joining it at the top left-hand curve. 'Them rowdies could be headed for Dixie, but I can't see that town giving them much of a welcome. They could be going to Surprise Well, east and south of Woolsey Butte. And they could strike out for the Bosque Wood camp over across the Hassayampa. Now, that's what I figure they'll do, cross that ford just above the old Richards place.' Morgan paused and chewed on the twig. 'Havelock, I don't like the way them Mexes shuffled they trail here. They up to no good. Count on it.'

Havelock nodded. 'You're probably right. We'd better cover our bets. You know where Surprise Well is. Take four men, I'll take the rest. I'll cover Richards Crossing. You hit Surprise. Either way, we're bound to get them. But keep your eyes peeled.'

'I'll do it.'

The posse mounted up.

'Benson. Decker. Mills. Swenson. You four go with Morgan to Surprise Well. Benson, you're in charge. If they go that way, you get 'em.' Havelock made it look like the white man was the leader. Morgan understood.

'Rest of you ride with me. Let's cut those killers off at Richards Crossing. Move out!'

Havelock and his men pushed their mounts hard, and when they topped the rise on the west bank of the Hassayampa, they saw that the Mexicans led two pack mules up the far side of Richards Crossing.

The marshal piled off his grulla with the trap-door Springfield already in his hand. He'd sighted in the rifle for 500 yards, and the outlaws were at least that far, and moving away. Havelock bellied down, using his forearms to brace the heavy rifle. He held high, led his target, and gently touched off the big .45-70 slug.

He'd reloaded by the time the report had died away. As he turned the sights on the second outlaw, the first threw his arms wide and tumbled from his mount.

The Springfield roared again. A moment later, the second outlaw's horse stumbled and went down. The rider lit on his feet and ran toward a brush-filled arroyo.

'Now that's shooting,' Reb Carson declared.

'Get that man!' Havelock roared.

The four possemen plunged their mounts down the embankment, splashed through the shallow Hassayampa, and struck out after the fleeing outlaw. The mules stopped and began cropping grass along the riverbank. They ignored the shooting and the shouting. Havelock shoved the Springfield into its scabbard, mounted the grulla, and walked him across the river. The Mexican lay face up, one eye open and staring. The other half of his face had exploded as the Springfield's big slug exited through his right cheekbone. Still, Havelock recognized Innocente Valenzuela from the wanted posters. The one in the arroyo would be Francisco. The brothers stuck together, the dodgers said.

Havelock reined the mouse-colored grulla gelding toward the grazing mules. He wrestled a bullion-box from the first mule and laid it on the waist-high riverbank. He used the steel-plated butt of the Springfield to bang the lock off the bullion-box, hasp and all. He lifted the lid. The box was full of slim golden bars.

A tired, dusty posse rode in just past noon, twenty-four hours after the Vulture Mine robbery.

When the riders turned the corner, a new hangman's noose dangled from the biggest branch of the tough old ironwood. Pappy Holmes stood by the jailhouse door with the Greener in the crook of his arm. Havelock smelled trouble, and his stomach tightened.

'Whereat's Morgan?' Pappy's rough voice sounded hot and dry as the desert.

'Sent him after Francisco Valenzuela. The Mexican got away.' Wearily, Havelock swung down from the slate grulla. 'Thanks, boys,' he said to the posse. 'Foggarty, take that gold over to the bullion room, would you?'

'Sure, Marshal.'

'Benson, you and Smythe can help him unload.'

The three men rode across the plaza with the two pack mules and their six bullion-boxes. The other five waited for Havelock to release them.

'That's all boys. Thanks. Oh, Dailey. Can you take my horse over to Wil at the livery? Much obliged.'

The burly rider leaned down for the grulla's reins. 'We're ready to go out again, Marshal, anytime you say. Judd and the super was good men. And we only got two of them what did it.'

'That's good to know, Dailey. Thanks.' Havelock's gratitude was real. How many half-breeds could get that kind of cooperation? And it had been a long time coming, too.

He limped into his office, slumped into the chair, and put his game left leg up on the desk. 'Donovan give you any trouble?' he asked.

Pappy squinted at Havelock. He held the 10-gauge Greener like he never wanted to put it down. 'No. Donovan ain't no trouble. It's them law-abidin' townsfolk as wants to hang him 'at's giving me trouble.'

'How'd they find out he's alive?'

'Well, I reckon they figured an old coot like me couldn't never eat enough for two men. Besides, no body ever turned up at the undertaker's.'

'Donovan's still here, ain't he?'

'You ever know Pappy Holmes to lose a prisoner? He's in there. Don't seem worried neither.'

'He'll change his tune when he finds out we got the gold back and one of the Valenzuelas to boot.'

'I'll have to see it.' Pappy turned to peer out the window at the Carrion saloon across the plaza.

Havelock heaved his foot off the battered desk and reached for the ring of keys on the wall. 'Let's go see the prisoner,' he growled.

Donovan lay stretched out on the bunk, hands behind his head. He whistled 'Sweet Betsy from Pike' through his teeth, and didn't look up when the marshal entered. 'How'd it go, 'breed boy?' The outlaw's voice was soft-toned and pleasant.

Havelock stiffened at being called 'breed boy. Donovan remembers me.

'Not bad for us, not good for you,' he said, but somehow his words sounded hollow.

'My, my. We seem very confident of ourselves, don't we?' Donovan peered up at Havelock. 'Or are we, 'breed boy?'

'Innocente Valenzuela is dead. Tom Morgan's on the trail of Francisco. And we've got the gold back. Good try, Donovan. You won't get another.' Anger tasted bitter in the back of Havelock's throat. He hacked and spat at the spittoon.

The outlaw's grin grew into a smug smile. 'We'll see, 'breed boy. We'll see.'

'Havelock!' Pappy's bellow came through the thick oak door between the jail and the marshal's office. 'We got trouble.'

'Donovan, people in this town want your hide. But they'll have to come over me to get it. You sit tight.'

'I'm not going anywhere.' Donovan's smile broadened. 'For now.'

Havelock went through the door with Donovan's laughter in his ears. He hated the sound. A twitch of pain shot through his left knee as he twisted around to slam the door. 'What's up, Pappy?'

A fist pounded on the door before Pappy could answer.

'Havelock. Marshal Havelock. It's Belton Phelps. Open up!'

A rumble of angry voices came through the thick door.

Havelock held out his hand and Pappy gave him the Greener. 'Back off a step, Phelps. I'm coming out.' The marshal opened the door just wide enough to edge through, shotgun cradled in his arms with the hammers cocked. Havelock raised his voice. 'I don't know what you men figure on doing here but the first one who even looks cross-eyed gets a gutful of BB shot.' He turned to the owner of the Vulture Mine. 'What do you want, Phelps?'

'One hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion.' The florid face of the mine-owner flushed brighter than usual, perhaps from the effort of hauling his 300 pounds and more across the plaza. 'And I want Donovan's neck. I mighta known a Cherokee 'breed didn't have what it took,' he snapped.

Havelock's voice took on an edge. 'You got your gold, Phelps. I saw it myself. Donovan will stand trial. If the judge hangs him, that's fine. But no more necktie parties while I'm marshal of Vulture City.'

'You saw gold, did you? Well, just look at this.' The mine owner thrust out a golden ingot.

Havelock turned the ingot over in his hand. There, beneath paper-thin gold, a long deep scratch gleamed silvery-gray.

The ingot was lead.

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