Guns of Arizona: A Land Where Legends Are Made (Arizona Territory Book 1)

by John Legg

  In addition, Guthrie was as used to battle and death as the Apaches were. He was not a common settler caught outside his element and likely to be so scared he couldn’t function. He thought maybe he could use that. He figured the Apaches might be a little overconfident. Guthrie figured he could discourage such a notion, and gain some respect in the bargain.

  Guthrie set the Sharps across a boulder almost as tall as he was. He carefully scanned the rocks, brush, and trees. He saw nothing, but he did not cease the constant scanning. Finally he was rewarded by the slightest of movements. With a grim nod, Guthrie rested his cheek on the stock of the Sharps and waited some more.

  He was never quite sure how he knew when to fire. He never saw anything definite; he just knew someone was there. He fired. The thunderous boom of the heavy buffalo gun slammed back at him, ricocheted off the mountain behind him, and washed over him again, taking with it the powder smoke.

  But from out in the distance came a howl, and Guthrie smiled in satisfaction as he extracted the spent shell and reloaded the rifle. He did it all by instinct, never taking his eyes off the field before him.

  It became a game of waiting. There was no movement from the Apaches, but Guthrie knew they were still out there. He was not fooled.

  Several hours later, Addie got tired. She had been patient and quiet, knowing that to ask foolish questions would not accomplish anything. So she had sat, terrified at first, then bored, then full of busy work—lunch had to be made, which she did with a minimum of fuss, and then she sat behind a boulder, facing away from where the Indians awaited, and she knitted. But tiredness soon overcame her, as it did so often these days. And even knowing Apaches were waiting out there, not far away, she set aside the blanket she was making for her new child, stretched out her legs, and drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke some hours later, slowly, as if drugged. It was just one of the many annoyances of life these days. She had always been so full of energy, so full of wanting to do things. But these days she was often able to do little more than just sit and let the new life grow inside her. It was an odd, annoying, strange, and wonderful feeling. All at the same time. She hoped she could handle herself well throughout the rest of the ordeal.

  “Afternoon,” Guthrie said with a grin.

  Addie smiled up at him, embarrassed. “Sorry, Jack,” she said softly, still abashed.

  “Nothin’ to be sorry for, Addie. You were sleepin’ for two.”

  She nodded, yawning, thinking how unladylike she must look. She hoped Guthrie still loved her. It was something that filled her with doubts these days. “Think it’d be all right if I was to start a fire?”

  Guthrie thought for a moment, working over the tooth with his tongue. Then he nodded. “Reckon it can’t do any harm. You aim to get some dinner goin’?”

  “Yep.”

  He took a quick glance around. There seemed to be enough small wood available which Addie would be able to carry without hurting herself. “Over there’d be best.” Guthrie pointed to where two boulders had slammed together, their curved sides forming the miniature cave.

  “Help me up.” Addie grinned, trying to mask her embarrassment.

  Guthrie took no notice of it. He just held out his hands, grabbed her small ones, and tugged her lightly up. He kept pulling, until she was pressed as closely to him as she could get in her condition. “I reckon those Apaches’ll leave us alone long enough for one kiss,” he said huskily.

  Addie tilted her head back in expectation. And when they had broken apart and Addie had clumsily waddled off to gather wood, she knew that Guthrie still loved her. She was happy again.

  Guthrie still stood by the rock, patiently. He had rarely moved other than to shift his weight from one leg to the other every once in a while. Twice, he had sighted down the thirty-inch barrel of the Sharps, waiting for something to shoot at. But nothing materialized, and he was not the kind of man to waste ammunition blasting away at thin air.

  Long years in the army had not only taught him patience, it had also imparted to him the blessing of blankness. He could go for hours, his mind focused solely on what was ahead of him. He seldom was distracted by stray or wasted thoughts.

  He was, however, aware of the smell of pinewood smoke, bacon frying in the pan, and coffee bubbling in the pot. His stomach grumbled, making rude noises from hunger. He ate standing at the rock, shoveling food into his mouth while he kept his eyes scanning.

  For the rest of that day, through the night and all the next day, Guthrie stood there, waiting and watching. Addie kept herself as busy as she could while making sure she remained behind the protection of the rocks. Three times, Guthrie snapped up the Henry and fired off several rounds, as the Apaches crept forward a bit, testing to see if he were still awake.

  As dusk began to fall, Guthrie grew more concerned. He knew the Apaches would not wait forever before attacking. And he knew he could not stay awake forever. They would keep up their slight probing feints until they were fairly certain he had fallen asleep. Then, with the dawn, they would attack. Guthrie could not wait for that.

  “Addie,” Guthrie suddenly ordered, having made up his mind, “fetch the dynamite. Carefully.”

  Addie said nothing. She just got the small box and carted it over to Guthrie and set it on a smaller boulder at his side. .

  He nodded. “Now, go on and get behind those rocks over there,” he commanded. He pointed to the spot.

  Addie simply nodded. She knew Guthrie better than he might like to admit, and she had a pretty good idea of what he was thinking. She didn’t know what he might have up his sleeve, but she knew he had a plan to get them out of here. That was good enough for her. She was a little angry at herself as she scrunched her bulk behind some boulders, where she would be as far out of the range of fire—and, hopefully, ricocheting bullets—as possible. What made her so angry was knowing she was pregnant and, as such, virtually useless to Guthrie. Had she not been pregnant, she would have been standing there beside him, her small, .32-caliber Colt in her hand. Those Apaches would learn a thing or two then, she figured. But she could not do that—Guthrie would not allow her to anyway, since he would be interested in protecting the baby growing inside her. So she crawled into her haven, dispirited.

  Guthrie rolled and lighted a cigarette. Once it was going, he opened the box of dynamite and took out a stick. He made sure there was a short fuse firmly imbedded in one end. “All right, you sons of bitches,” he muttered, “time to fandango.”

  Holding the dynamite in his right hand, he touched the smoldering end of the cigarette to the end of the fuse. Then he flung the stick toward a spot he thought likely sheltered several Apaches.

  Before it had landed, he snatched up another, lighted the fuse and threw that. The first exploded, eliciting several screams. Then the second went off, bringing forth more yells. He grinned and dropped the cigarette on the big boulder in front of him. He grabbed the Henry and waited.

  A withering fire burst forth from several spots. Guthrie ducked behind the boulder as bullets whined off the stone, sending chips of rock flying. He rolled several times to his left, stopping behind a rock that was maybe three feet tall and about the same around. He came up into a kneeling position, slid the rifle around the side of the boulder and snapped off half a dozen shots in a matter of seconds. He knew for sure he had killed two Indians; he was fairly certain he had wounded three more.

  Apache gunfire swung toward his new position, and he flattened and squiggled back to where he had started all this. He sprang up, grabbed his cigarette and a stick of dynamite. He set the fuse alight, jumped up once more, and tossed the stick. He crouched behind the boulder again, breathing heavily. That had been too close, he thought, since a bullet had torn a hole in his shirt and another had sent his hat flying.

  As the echo of the blast faded, he spun to the side of the boulder and fired off several more shots. There was some return fire, but it was desultory. Then he thought he could see the Apaches snaking through the tr
ees, brush, and rocks away from him.

  Silence fell, with even the birds afraid to chirp after all the disturbance. There was just the wind soughing through the treetops. And then a small, lonely voice, “They gone, Jack?”

  “Ain’t certain. I think so, though.”

  “Can I come out of this hole?”

  “Reckon so.”

  Within moments, Addie was standing next to Guthrie. The two peered into the rapidly descending darkness.

  “What do we do now, Jack?”

  “I’ve got to go out there and make sure they’re really gone,” Guthrie said. He did not relish the thought. “But what about…?”

  “It’s got to be done, Addie,” Guthrie said curtly. “You know that.” He paused. “You got your little Colt?”

  “In my handbag.”

  “Get it and keep it handy.” As she went for it, Guthrie grabbed the box of dynamite and carted it toward the wagon. He set it next to an almost flat rock. “Sit here, Addie,” he ordered.

  When she did, Guthrie said, “There ain’t much dynamite left, but there’s enough to make a pretty good blast. Those Apaches are still out there, we’re gonna be up to our asses in trouble. If they get through to you here, take that Colt of yours and just fire a round or two into the dynamite.”

  “That’ll…’’ Addie started, eyes wide. Then she nodded understanding. Not only would it keep her out of the clutches of the Apaches, it would also take several of them with her in the explosion.

  “I expect to be back soon,” Guthrie said, grinning in an attempt to perk her spirits up, “so make sure it’s Apaches comin’ in before you set off that dynamite.”

  “All right.” Her voice was a whisper. Addie licked her lips in fear. Most things she had faced in Apache Springs—and earlier in her life—were things she knew and understood. She could handle them, no matter how bad or dangerous. But this was something new for her. Combined with the odd feelings brought on by her pregnancy, she was frightened beyond anything she had ever experienced.

  Guthrie got the Sharps and put it away. He would not need it on this excursion. He looked at the Henry for a few moments and then decided it, too, was better left behind. If there were any Apaches out there, he would be facing them in close quarters. For that he would rely on his Remingtons.

  Just before leaving, he stopped by Addie. He was worried. He had never seen her so worried and demoralized. And he did not know how to cope with it. He kissed her lips lightly. They were cold and barely responsive. “I’ll be back soon,” he said wearily.

  He went in a roughly northern direction, weaving through the rocks, before cutting eastward, out toward the trail. He curled back around, planning to come in from behind the Apaches, if they were still there. He succeeded—and found no one. No one living, that is. Six bodies had been left behind.

  Guthrie breathed a sigh of relief and headed back toward his camp. As he neared it, he called out, “I’m comin’ back in, Addie. They’re gone.”

  Addie ran cumbersomely out to greet him, and clung to him tightly for some minutes. Guthrie smiled over her head as he stroked her soft auburn hair.

  “You’re sure they’re gone?” she asked, her breath coming in short jerks.

  “Yep.” Fatigue washed over Guthrie like a gale through a wheat field. He breathed in heavily and blew it out, hoping it would invigorate him. But it did nothing.

  Addie looked at him in alarm. Sense returned to her, and she realized that he had been up without so much as a catnap for more than thirty-six hours. And in that time he had driven some miles in the wagon, cared for her, and waited out a passel of angry Apaches. She was appalled at her own lack of sensitivity in not having realized it before. She had been so wrapped up in her own fear that she could not see what he had been going through. She determined then and there to change her ways.

  “Come on,” she whispered, tugging on him. She led him to the rock on which she had been sitting and sat him down. She quickly got a bedroll and spread it out, then helped him into it. He was asleep instantly.

  Addie looked down at him and smiled. Then she set about straightening up.

  Chapter Ten

  Guthrie slept the night through, and then some. Addie had been loath to wake him, but she finally figured that they would need to get moving. So she had shaken him gently.

  He had snapped awake, hand reaching for the big Remington. He was afraid that the Apaches were back. When he realized it was Addie waking him and that she was not looking worried, he relaxed immediately. Then the grogginess overtook him, and he sank back, leaning his back against a rock. He was still feeling the effects of his long encounter with the Apaches.

  “Sun’s a couple of hours high already,” Addie said quietly, handing Guthrie a steaming cup of coffee. “I thought it best you were up and about.” She was still worried that the Apaches would return, and she did not want to be caught unawares.

  “Good idea,” Guthrie said, sipping some of the strong, black brew. As consciousness began to assert itself, he, too, began to worry about the Apaches coming back. Knowing the little he did about Apaches, he figured that if they did return, they would do so with reinforcements. Then he and Addie would really be in trouble. He thought it best that they go back to Bonito, at least for a while. But he did not want to mention that to Addie. She might think he was backing down. Besides, he didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily.

  “I think we ought to go on back to Bonito, Jack,” Addie said carefully. She knew how much Guthrie wanted to get to Santa Cruz to meet Pete Kinchloe, especially since they were already running behind in time. And she knew he did not like to have people thinking he was running from danger. So she was somewhat apprehensive about even bringing it up. Still, she was afraid, and knew that going back to Bonito made sense.

  Guthrie breathed a sigh of relief that Addie had brought it up. “I expect that’d be best,” he allowed.

  “I’ve done as much as I could to get ready while you were sleeping, but there’s still some things to be done,” Addie said. She felt ashamed that she could not do more.

  “There ain’t much left.”

  Addie felt a little better at that. “You hungry?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  Addie pushed herself up, feeling ridiculous at her awkwardness. “Darn it!” she muttered. “I feel like a cow.”

  Guthrie grinned and snaked a hand out, grabbing her ankle. He snaked the hand up under her long calico dress, until it was gripping the stocking covering her calf. “You sure don’t feel like no cow to me,” he said, voice thick with desire.

  Addie giggled. “Whatever are you doin’, sir?” she asked in mock severity. But her voice had changed, too, deepening with her own need.

  “Just commentin’, ma’am.” His eyes sparkled.

  “You think those ’Paches’ll leave us be a little longer?” she asked huskily.

  “I expect they will.”

  Addie smiled and then sank down next to Guthrie. Once more she was disgusted with her lack of gracefulness. But that feeling fled as passion grew under Guthrie’s ministrations.

  Guthrie finished his bacon and biscuits, enjoying the sight of Addie moving about the camp. She was a pretty young woman in a plain sort of way. The splash of freckles across her short, straight nose usually emphasized the fairness of her skin, which now was pink from the amount of sun she had received on the trip. He knew she was bothered by her appearance now—thinking that her face was puffy, that she walked funny because of the child she was carrying; and that she must look a fright because of the swollen promontory of her belly.

  But Guthrie did not care about any of that. He thought she never looked more appealing. The pregnancy might have puffed up her face some, but at the same time, it gave it more definition. Her belly might be swollen, but being pregnant had enhanced Addie’s figure in other areas. He had to admit that in some ways he missed the small, lithe girl he had fallen in love with. But all in all, he was pleased with the former Addie Heller and the w
ay she looked now.

  He finished his breakfast and decided he had time for a smoke. He poured some tobacco in a paper, licked the edge, and rolled it into a ragged tube. He lighted it and puffed away, still enjoying watching Addie, who moved about the camp cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Finally he tossed the butt into the small fire and stood, brushing off the seat of his pants. It was time to go, and once he had made that decision the tiredness fell off him.

  Guthrie kicked dirt over the fire, and then turned to make sure everything was packed on the wagon and that the tarp covering the supplies was tied down securely. He glanced up and saw the dark clouds rolling in. That was all he needed, he thought, to have a rainstorm blow over them. He shrugged. It couldn’t be helped—or stopped—so he would not worry about it. He did make sure, though, that his slicker, and the one he had insisted that Addie bring, were near at hand.

  “Come on, Addie,” he called. “Time we were movin’ on.” He helped Addie up onto the wagon and then climbed up himself. He clucked to the horses and worked them back and forth until he could get the wagon out past the maze of rocks. Within minutes they were back on the trail again, heading toward Bonito.

  With each mile, the skies darkened even more. Just after noon, thunder started rumbling, rolling off the mountains and cracking sharply overhead. When the first darting tongues of lightning flicked out, Guthrie said, “Best get our slickers on.”

  Addie looked at him and wrinkled her nose in distaste. She hated the thing; thought it made her look ugly. But she was not in a mood to argue, and so she tugged the oiled coat on. She took off her bonnet and tucked it under the tarp behind her. With a sigh of resignation, she pulled on the slouch hat Guthrie had bought for her in Pierce’s store just before they left. She did not like it, either, but she knew he would insist that she wear it.