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

by John Legg

  “There’s lots of…”

  “Bah.” Guthrie grunted agreeably. “Ain’t no other woman so foolish to fall for a man like me.” Though he was joking, he half believed that.

  She started to argue, but he cut it off by jamming his lips onto hers. She shut up and reciprocated.

  When they were in their room, Guthrie asked, “You gonna be all right here by yourself all the day?” He was concerned.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He seemed skeptical, but there was little he could do. They knew no one in town. She would have to get by as best she could. “All right,” he said, picking up his rifles and ammunition. He gave her a cursory kiss goodbye, since his mind was already elsewhere, and then he left.

  Espinoza was already on the roof waiting for him. This time the young man had a rifle—a fairly new Winchester. It looked little used. “Buenos días, Señor Guthrie,” Espinoza said pleasantly.

  “Buenos días, Arturo.” Guthrie took his position, sitting on the already hot roof and stretching out his legs.

  The streets of Bonito were almost back to normal, with people wandering into and out of shops, talking in doorways, calling out greetings. Guthrie could see some subtle changes, though. Whenever the people stopped, they seemed to make an effort to do so with a building between them and the Apaches up on the mountain and the ridge. It was not always easy.

  About an hour after Guthrie and Espinoza took up their positions on the roof, a burst of gunfire sparked out from the ridge. People ran for buildings. Another burst of gunfire erupted from the hill. After that, the streets were practically deserted. Only an occasional person moved about, and then usually at a run or a furtive scuttle from one protected spot to the next.

  Guthrie had snapped the Sharps up at the first sound of gunfire, but the Apaches were smarter today, and they kept themselves hidden. None seemed willing to challenge Guthrie’s marksmanship. Guthrie decided to waste a shot or two, firing at a spot where he thought an Apache would be, judging by the cloud of powder smoke. He heard nothing, and was not sure he had hit anyone. He did notice, though, that after his second shot no more gunfire came from the spot he had shot at. He didn’t know if he had hit someone or whether the Indian had simply moved.

  The day dragged on, broken only by an occasional visit. Marshal Claver popped up once in a while to check on the two men. Brocius, feeling a newfound sort of kinship with the two guards, showed up one time with a pitcher of water. He even brought Guthrie some lunch.

  The long, hot, monotonous day made Guthrie sleepy, and he had a hard time fighting off the urge to nap. He was successful, mainly because of the periodic fusillades that came from the Apache camps. At each, Guthrie snapped into full alertness and scanned one or the other side of town looking for a target. But he rarely saw any on this day.

  Until late afternoon. Guthrie had seen Claver walking boldly up and down Center Street, looking in stores, talking with people who steadfastly remained inside. Guthrie figured the marshal was trying to show the rest of the townsfolk that the Apaches were not that much of a danger.

  It was a brave—and foolish—move, Guthrie thought, but one that might work. Once again his opinion of the lawman went up a couple of notches.

  Claver was making another one of his slow rounds through town in the late afternoon. He was strolling nonchalantly across the plaza when he suddenly keeled over.

  “Señor Guthrie,” Espinoza shouted.

  Before the youth finished the sentence, Guthrie heard the crack of a rifle. He snapped up into a kneel, Sharps at the ready. His eyes scanned the ridge. An Apache with a smoking rifle was behind a fair-sized boulder, rifle laying across it: Guthrie laid the Sharps atop the bale of furs. “What’s happening over there, Arturo?” he asked urgently.

  “Señor Claver is down.”

  “Dead?” Rage clotted his vocal cords.

  “He’s still moving.”

  The Apache fired again. Guthrie didn’t wait to see what the effect was. He fired the Sharps, though he had little more than several square inches of the Apache’s head to aim at, and at a distance of more than one hundred fifty yards. He felt a rush of excitement as he saw the Apache jerk and then roll off the side of the boulder. Guthrie jammed another shell into the Sharps. “How’s the marshal?” he asked, more worried than ever.

  “Not moving.” The young man sounded shocked. '

  “Hell,” Guthrie breathed. He was enraged. All the troubles of the past year, and especially the past month or so came boiling to the surface. “I’ll show these savage sons of bitches,” he muttered. He set the Sharps down and snatched up the Henry. Then he fired rapidly, randomly, shooting at any spot he thought likely to be hiding an Apache.

  Then the Henry was snapping, empty. He had no idea if he had hit anyone or not. He hoped he had, though. Guthrie raised the rifle in his one fist and shook it at the Apaches. “Bastards,” he snarled. He began shoving shells into the tubular magazine, still standing there in plain view. He seemed oblivious to the bullets that suddenly started whining off the adobe or plunking into the thick bales of furs.

  He grinned, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Go on,” he muttered low in his throat, “shoot all you want, you bastards.” He snapped the Henry up to his shoulder and fired off seven quick rounds, certain he had hit at least three Indians.

  Then he whirled and fired off seven more shots at the Apaches on Corrizo Hill. He was satisfied with the certainty that he had gotten at least two more on that side. He sank down and reloaded the Henry again. “That ought to show them fractious bastards,” he snarled to no one in particular.

  Espinoza looked at him like Guthrie had gone loco. Guthrie did not care.

  Claver lay in the plaza for another half hour, since no one was brave enough to go out and get him. But then Guthrie could no longer bear sitting there knowing that. Claver had proved to be a brave and decent man; Guthrie was not about to let him die out there if he could help it. Or have the body suffer the indignities of scavengers.

  “You know how to use that Winchester, boy?” Guthrie asked.

  “Sí.” Espinoza didn’t sound so certain.

  “Bueno. I’m going down there and see about the marshal. I expect you to keep me covered.”

  “Sí." Espinoza looked both excited and frightened.

  “Don’t worry too much about hittin’ anything,” Guthrie said reassuringly. “Just set up a steady, smooth fire at them if they start up. Aim roughly for the gunsmoke. That’ll make ’em keep their heads down. Think you can do that, boy?”

  “Sí.” He sounded much more certain.

  “I’ll leave my rifles here. You run out of shells in your Winchester, you can use the Henry. But leave the Sharps alone, unless you want a broken shoulder.”

  “Sí,” Espinoza said solemnly.

  Guthrie could think of nothing more to say. So he headed down the ladder. He stopped at the room for a few minutes to explain to Addie what he was going to do. She was afraid for his life, but knew better than to try to talk him out of it. “Just take care, Jack,” she said quietly. “I love you and…” Tears stopped the words.

  Guthrie patted her soft auburn hair. “Don’t you fret,” he said, and left. He paused on the front steps of the hotel, checking the lay of things. He could see Claver lying unmoving about halfway across the plaza. “Arturo?” he called. When the youth answered, Guthrie shouted, “You ready, boy?”

  “Sí.”

  “I’m going now.” He took a deep breath and then ran at a good lope, boots kicking up little dust clouds. Several bullets hit dirt around him, and then he heard Espinoza firing back, patiently.

  In moments, Guthrie was kneeling at Claver’s side. One quick look was enough to let him know that the lawman was dead. It took a bit of work to throw the marshal’s body across his shoulders. Then he ran as fast as he could, southwest, past the Pine Log Saloon. He burst through the door of the mortuary next door. He set Claver’s body down on a table, and then he stood with hands on knees,
sucking in breath for all he was worth.

  Lamar Penniman, the mortician, stepped out from his back room. Under his usual pallor, his face was colored by fear. “You can’t leave him here,” Penniman said.

  Guthrie stood, still trying to get his breath. “Why?”

  “Because…” He wrung his hands.

  “Those goddamn Apaches ain’t gonna come down here and attack your place ’cause you’ve got a body in here. Apaches don’t like bodies and won’t mess with ’em more than they have to.”

  “But I...”

  “You’ll fix Marshal Claver up the best you’ve ever done anyone!” Guthrie roared in anger. “And you’ll give him the finest goddamn burial Bonito’s ever seen, or as Christ lives in heaven, you’ll go in the hole with him!”

  Penniman gulped. “Yes, sir,” he said. He looked like he was about ready to wet his trousers.

  Guthrie spun on his heel and yanked the front door open. He was beyond fear now. He stepped outside. It was quiet. “How’re you doin’, Arturo?” he yelled.

  “Just fine, señor.” Espinoza waved a hand.

  Guthrie nodded and strolled across the street. A few bullets hit around him, but none touched him. Then the firing stopped.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a grim-visaged Jack Guthrie who strode into the Pine Log Saloon. Just after dark he had climbed down from the roof, making sure the trap door had a lock on it this time, and paid a visit to the mayor. He was blunt when he said, “You’ll have every fightin’-age man in Bonito at the Pine Log in one hour.”

  Eakins considered arguing, until he took a close look at Guthrie. He thought better of it. He just nodded.

  Guthrie had stalked out, went back to the hotel, cleaned and reloaded his rifles, and then took Addie to supper. After supper, he left Addie in the room and then he stormed to the Pine Log.

  Without preliminary, he walked behind the bar, grabbed the bartender’s shotgun, climbed atop the bar, and fired a blast from the scattergun at the ceiling. The noise quieted.

  “I’d like to welcome y’all here tonight,” he said drolly, “since I know you all are just bustin’ your seams awaitin’ word on how you can be of service to your town.” He hung the scattergun in the crook of his arm and rolled a cigarette. It gave the men some time to think.

  “Look here, Mr. Guthrie,” Eakins said officiously, “what’s this all about?”

  Guthrie gave him a withering look. “And just what the hell do you think it’s all about, Mayor?” Scorn painted every word. He looked around the assembled knots of men, glaring at them with no attempt to disguise his contempt for them. “Because all of you were too goddamned chickenshit to help out, your marshal’s layin’ dead over at Penniman’s. And any one of you—or your family members—could be next.”

  He paused, letting that sink in.

  “What do you want us to do?” one man asked from the anonymity of the crowd.

  “I told you that last night. Had you listened to me, Marshal Claver’d still be alive and you’d all be sittin’ in here celebratin’ instead of holdin’ a wake.” His words were icy. “But there’s a way to set things to right, boys,” he shouted. “And y’all know what that is. Now who’s with me?”

  The silence roared back at Guthrie. He looked with contempt at each man. Then came a high, reedy, though strong voice: “I’m in.”

  “And me, Señor Guthrie.”

  Guthrie looked from Arturo Espinoza to Victorio Valencia, and nodded. “I’m glad to see at least a couple of you got some balls.” He hated the men in this room like he had never hated anyone before. He scanned the crowd again. With a sneer, he said, “I don’t reckon I got any reason to help you people. But I will.” He could hear the sighs of relief scattered throughout the room. “For the sake of your wives and children. They need someone to look after ’em.”

  He flicked his smoldering cigarette butt disgustedly into the crowd. Someone jumped when it hit his shirt and then fell to the floor. “Now go on to your homes and hide.”

  Guthrie jumped down from the bar, slammed the shotgun against the bartender’s chest, and stalked out. He was followed by Espinoza, Valencia—and Eakins.

  “A word with you, Mr. Guthrie,” Eakins called after him.

  Guthrie stopped and glared at the mayor. Eakins swallowed his fear and said, “You were pretty harsh on those men in there just now, sir. There was no call for such a thing.”

  “You parsimonious little snot,” Guthrie said harshly. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot a half-dozen of those bastards. Then they would’ve had no reason to be afraid of dying because of the Apaches.”

  “Not all men,” Eakins said sadly, in a moment of true solemnity, “are as used to living by the gun as you are, Mr. Guthrie. Many here have never used a weapon. For those who have, it has been years since they faced another man with a gun. And the Apaches are the worst of the savages.” Guthrie nodded, softening just a little. What Eakins had said was true. But he still could not understand how a man—any man—under this much danger, with his family in peril, could not do whatever was called for. Many a man had been called upon to give more than he thought he could. He sighed. “I suppose that’s true, Mayor. But it don’t help the situation.”

  “I know.” Eakins seemed truly regretful. “I wish there was a way I could help.”

  Guthrie thought for a moment, then he spoke quietly with Espinoza and Valencia. He turned back to the mayor and said, “There is. Get Verdugo out here and tell him to open his store. We’ll need some things.”

  “Of course.”

  “And then we’ll need some horses from Diaz.”

  “Certainly.”

  “The city will pick up the tab, of course,” Guthrie said bluntly.

  “Certainly,” Eakins repeated, but with less enthusiasm. But he knew it was an inexpensive way to solve the Apache problem—if it could be solved. He looked up into Guthrie’s eyes, imploring him to do what needed to be done. He held out his hand. When Guthrie shook it tentatively, Eakins said, “God go with you, Mr. Guthrie. And with your two friends.” He nodded at Valencia and Espinoza.

  Guthrie grunted an acknowledgement.

  Ten minutes later, Guthrie, Valencia, and Espinoza walked out of Verdugo’s General Store with several boxes of supplies. They lugged them down to Diaz’s Livery, where Juan Diaz waited with Guthrie’s buckskin and two other horses saddled.

  “We’ll need a mule,” Guthrie said. “One that travels without causing a ruckus.”

  Diaz did not look happy, but he nodded and went toward the back of the stable. While Diaz did that, Valencia and Espinoza buckled on the gun belts they had just gotten at Verdugo’s store. They made sure the Colts were loaded and then stuffed their pockets with extra cartridges. They each were shoving shells into Winchesters when Diaz returned with a flat-faced, long-eared mule. But the beast seemed even tempered to Guthrie. He loaded the rest of the supplies on the mule while his two companions finished what they were doing.

  “Gracias, señor,” Guthrie said sarcastically as he pulled himself into the saddle. “Come on, boys.” He rode out, followed by Valencia, who held the rope to the mule, and then Espinoza.

  Just outside of town, Guthrie pulled over. It was fairly bright under the gleaming three-quarter moon. The temperature was still quite hot but there was no cloud cover and, mercifully, little humidity. It made it almost bearable.

  “You boys know what to do?” Guthrie asked.

  Both nodded. Valencia was unafraid. He had lived more than sixty years, too long already, he sometimes thought. Dying now, in such a way, would be something of a blessing. Espinoza was too excited to be frightened. He still, at seventeen, felt he was invincible. '

  “All right, then, let’s go get this over with.” He pulled out. Bonito was, indeed, surrounded by Apaches. The ones on the ridge and the ones on Corrizo Hill kept the townsfolk pinned down. But there were also camps of Apaches outside of town, where Center Street petered out into a road. Guthrie had decided to attack t
he one southwest of town first.

  From Ortega, he had gotten some idea of how far away that camp was, and he stopped while he and his companions were still a quarter of a mile away. They tied the horses off in the pines, got what they needed from the mule, and then worked their way through the pine forest.

  It was slow going, considering that with the thick branches overhead, they could barely see each other from two feet away. They cursed silently as they stumbled over roots or brush, or when brush and branches tore at the skin. Otherwise they were fairly silent.

  As they neared the Apache camp, Guthrie prayed that the Indians were overconfident and thus lax in providing security for their camp. He had counted on them being that way, since they had appeared to be quite arrogant. And they also apparently had a low opinion of the residents of Bonito and environs.

  The three slowed even more as they crept closer to the camp. But finally, after three hours, they were behind the last of the trees that overlooked the partial clearing in which the Apaches were camped. Guthrie was relieved to see that no guards had been posted, and that the horses were around on the other side of the camp. All the Apaches were asleep.

  Guthrie nodded. He tapped Valencia on the shoulder and then pointed to his left. The old man bobbed his head and slowly moved off in that direction. Guthrie pointed the other way, and Espinoza walked off.

  While he waited for his companions to get ready, Guthrie surveyed the camp. He counted ten Indians sleeping at varying distances from four small fires. Perhaps two dozen horses were hooked to a rope strung between two trees at the other side of the camp. Weapons were scattered all over, as were saddles, food, and other supplies.

  Guthrie looked to his left. Dimly he could see Valencia nod. He looked right and got the same from Espinoza. It was time. From inside his shirt, he pulled two sticks of dynamite. He tossed the one in his right hand lightly toward one of the fires. He cursed inwardly when he missed. He shrugged, transferred the other one to his right hand and threw that. It landed in the fire.