by John Legg
“You gonna sit here all day, Mayor?” Guthrie asked sarcastically. He was annoyed. He had been enjoying himself just sitting around watching the world go by for a change. Now this intrusion.
“Just gathering my thoughts, Mr. Guthrie.” He paused. Eakins was, for the most part, a direct person. He could see no reason for changing his ways now. “The reason I’m here is to…Well, I have the honor of appointing you the new town marshal of Bonito.” He fairly beamed at the “honor.”
“Mighty goddamn presumptuous, ain’t you, Mayor?” Guthrie asked, half angry, half amused.
Eakins’ eyes widened in surprise. Though he didn’t necessarily agree with what he was doing here, he had assumed it would be easy. He would walk in, make his announcement, and Guthrie would gratefully accept. But now uncertainty crept into him. “And what do you mean, Mr. Guthrie?” “Where in hell did you ever get the notion that I might want to be a marshal?” He shook his head.
“And to think I’d be appreciative.” He snorted in derision.
Eakins gulped. He realized with a sinking feeling that he had made a dreadful mistake. He had read Guthrie all wrong. He had assumed that because Guthrie had helped the citizens of Bonito—had, in fact, taken the lead in fighting the Apaches when no one else would—that the gunman would also be pleased at being named marshal. And now, when Guthrie had greeted the news with scorn, Eakins was at a loss.
But Guthrie was not quite done with the mayor yet. “Why don’t you just go to one of your brave citizens and name him marshal?” he demanded, not too harshly. “They’re the ones got a stake here, not me and Addie.” He smiled at his wife. “We just got here—and we have no plans on lingering beyond what’s necessary.” He leaned back in his chair, hands rested on his hard, flat stomach, the fingers laced.
“Well, I…” Eakins shut up. He didn’t know what it was about this man that flummoxed him so. But he could not seem to get his mouth working properly, nor could he manage to send the proper signals from his brain to his voice box. He paused and sucked at his lip a moment.
“Well,” he said, trying again, “there’s no one else in Bonito who’s really qualified.” He smiled sadly. “Marshal Claver was a good man. I hated to see…” He had to pause again to collect himself.
“Damn, it’s a pity what those savages did to Fred.” He shook his head. Then he composed himself. “But now there is no one else we think could do the job. Except you, Mr. Guthrie. You have shown yourself to be tough, resourceful, and quite handy with the shooting irons. I don’t expect those Apaches will be back to give us more trouble, but if they choose to, I think you’d be the man to handle them. As well as any other troubles that might come along.”
“A touching testimonial,” Guthrie said drolly. Addie, sitting on the bed, barely managed to suppress her giggle.
“I feel I should tell you, Mr. Guthrie,” Eakins said tightly, “that I was not in favor of this from the beginning. I still think it would be a mistake. But the people of Bonito had made up their minds.” He lifted his hands and shrugged, showing his helplessness in this matter.
Guthrie was surprised at the mayor’s candor. He had always thought Eakins a man with little or no backbone. To make such an admission under such circumstances took some real guts. “If you felt that way, why didn’t you just send someone else to ask me?”
Eakins shrugged. “Not all the duties of my position as mayor are pleasant, Mr. Guthrie.”
Guthrie laughed, the first real belly laugh he had had in a long time. He nodded. “Well put, Mayor.” Eakins grinned, looking like he actually meant it. “I must confess, too,” he said, a surprising note of enjoyment in his voice, “that this is turning out to be far less of a chore than I had imagined.”
“But you ain’t changed your mind about what you’re askin’, have you?” Guthrie asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“No,” Eakins said truthfully, grinning. “But I no longer reject the possibility of that happening.” Guthrie sat, rolling his tongue over a molar, which helped him think. He decided, and a grin began spreading over his face. “Since you’re all so fired up about havin’ me as the marshal, I reckon I might have to consider it.”
“That’s more like it,” Eakins said, warming to the task. “The pay’s thirty dollars a month, and…” “Now, I only said I’d consider it,” Guthrie interjected, with another grin. “I didn’t say I’d do it.” Eakins froze, damning himself silently for having made a fool of himself. But after a good look at Guthrie, he relaxed. “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, what can I do to induce you to consider it a little more seriously?”
Guthrie looked at Addie. She was huge in her pregnancy now. It was what had made his mind up for him. She would be having the baby in a month or so. Maybe less. It was almost September. Within that month, there would be snow in some of these mountains. If he could leave now and get on the trail, he might make Santa Cruz before the weather turned. Down in the desert, it would make no difference that it was winter. But just because the Apaches had left the immediate vicinity of Bonito did not mean they had left all of Arizona Territory. And after the events of the past few days, he had a feeling the Apaches would be keeping an eye on the trails for him. He did not like that thought.
It might be months before he could get back on the trail and he certainly would not leave in the midst of winter. He was low on cash—though he had a small amount saved up. He would need money to live on. He also would need something to do with himself. He could not spend six or seven months sitting in the chair watching the exciting tide of civilization in Bonito passing him by.
Now that Guthrie knew, though, that he was wanted—or maybe just needed; it didn’t really matter—he intended to get as much as he could out of the good citizens of Bonito. He glanced at Eakins, who was waiting for his answer.
“Well,” Guthrie said slowly, “thirty dollars a month ain’t much money for a family to live on.” He let the sentence sort of hang there as he smiled at Eakins and rolled his eyes in Addie’s direction. Eakins nodded seriously. It was a reasonable thought. He did some figuring in his head, trying to decide how much more the town treasury could afford. “I suppose we could make it thirty-five dollars a month,” he said. The town could afford more, but he didn’t want to let on.
“Food is pretty dear out in these parts,” Guthrie said, almost as if talking to himself.
“Forty.” Eakins figured that still wasn’t too bad. “And well need some warmer clothes what with winter comin’ on soon...”
“Forty-five.” Things were getting tight.
“And, of course, there’ll be a passel of baby things that we’ll be needin’ soon…”
“Fifty,” Eakins said with a sigh. He doubted the treasury could afford any more than that; the town might be stretched with that.
Guthrie could see in Eakins’ face that the limit had been reached. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “And we’ll be needin’ a place to live. We can’t stay in this fleabag place forever.”
“There are several nice houses I’m sure you could rent.”
“I reckon the city ought to provide it.”
Eakins winced but then thought for a while. “Well, there’s an old place over on Mountain Street down near the ridge. It isn’t much, but with some work…”
“We’ll look at it,” Guthrie said agreeably.
“That it?” Eakins looked pained. This was far more costly than he had planned. And he was beginning to have his doubts again.
“Almost.” Guthrie grinned at the look that crossed the mayor’s face. “I want two deputies—of my own choosin’. No questions asked. Just let me pick ’em and you pay ’em twenty-five a month.” “That’s a considerable sum of money, Mr. Guthrie,” Eakins said solemnly. “What with the fifty we’re paying you, plus the house, and now two deputies at twenty-five each. The city coffers are not endless, Mr. Guthrie.” His voice had taken on something of a chiding tone.
“Then find somebody else to do your dirty work,” Guthrie
said coldly.
Eakins considered that possibility—for about two seconds. He knew he could never find anyone else who could handle the job. “All right,” he said wearily. He was disgusted with it all. But then he glanced up and saw Addie’s pale, pretty face full of excitement and relief. And Guthrie’s competent looks. Eakins began to feel better. Besides, when the council members and the citizens squawked at the price, he could always tell them that they had insisted.
The mayor reached into a suit jacket pocket and pulled out a tin star inside a circle. The star had town marshal engraved in the center. He set the badge on the table and slid it with an index finger across the rough surface toward Guthrie.
Guthrie picked it up and stared at the shiny badge. He felt funny suddenly, and he didn’t know why. Addie came up silently and took the star from his hand. Her slim, delicate fingers worked surely as she pinned the badge on her husband’s shirt. She patted it lightly, a thrill of pride running through her fingers and up her arm. It meant more to her than it did to him. To her it represented a final, certain break with her sordid past. With a marshal for a husband, she was legitimately a wife and mother-to-be; she was no longer just a former whore with a past from which she constantly was trying to run. She kissed his forehead.
“Well,” Eakins said, standing, “I’d best be on my way.” He smiled, somewhat embarrassed by Addie’s outward show of affection for her husband. “I have to go break the news to my colleagues.”
Guthrie nodded.
“I expect to see you out in the street soon, performing your duties—Marshal.” Eakins grinned.
Guthrie nodded again. “In due time, Mayor.” His mind had already dismissed the mayor and had turned instead to the more pleasurable thoughts of his wife.
A little more than an hour later, Marshal Jack Guthrie stepped out of the hotel and onto Center Street. He didn’t know what to expect, but he half feared a reception like he and the two Mexicans had received when they rode into town after routing the Apaches. But there was no crowd. Not that people ignored him. Indeed, virtually everyone he passed on the slow, short walk to the marshal’s office greeted him warmly.
He spent some time poking through the mounds of paper, guns, ammunition, keys, tack, and other assorted junk that cluttered the office. He threw out several pounds of old wanted posters and other things. But he was already getting bored with being cooped up. He found two deputy badges and shoved them in a shirt pocket. Then he strolled out.
Twenty minutes later, he walked into the Pine Log Saloon with his two new deputies. “Where’s the mayor, Curly?” he asked.
“His office,” the bartender said, moving his head sideways, indicating the small room in the back that the owner of the Pine Log—Mayor Paul Eakins— used as an office. “The council’s with him.”
“Card game?” he asked with a grin.
Curly returned the grin. “Most likely just chuggin’ redeye.”
Guthrie nodded and headed toward the room, his deputies in tow. He entered without knocking, annoying Eakins. “What the hell…?” the mayor started. “Oh, hell, it’s just you, Guthrie. What’re you doin’ here?”
“Came to introduce my deputies.” He leaned back and looked out the door. “Come on in, gentlemen.” A beaming Arturo Espinoza and Victorio Valencia stepped inside, straining the small room’s confines.
Eakins had suspected something of the sort. But his two councilmen—Erasmus Wilkes and Porfirio Lugo—were caught unawares.
Wilkes almost choked on his mouthful of brandy. Lugo sat dumbfounded, though with the stirrings of pride inside him. Though Mexicans made up about half of Bonito’s population, they did not wield a proportionate amount of fiscal or political power. There were a few men—like Lugo and Ignacio Verdugo—who were important men in town. But there were far more successful businessmen who were Anglo. It was good to see men like Espinoza and Valencia were holding jobs of trust and importance.
“I believe you know them,” Guthrie said with a rather impish grin. He gave the three town officials a few minutes to get used to the idea, then said, “I’d like to take a look at that house now, Mayor.”
By the end of the day, Guthrie and Addie were moved into the small house on Mountain Street. It wasn’t much to look at, but Addie had plans for it. Guthrie smiled at her. “Don’t go makin’ this place too nice,” he chuckled. “We ain’t plannin’ on spendin’ the rest of our lives here.” But he was glad to see her so happy. It had been a while.
Guthrie’s only real concern now was trying to get in touch with Pete Kinchloe. His friend must be in—or mighty near—Santa Cruz by now.
Chapter Eighteen
Guthrie pondered his problem for several days, and could come up with no answer. He needed to get in touch with Kinchloe, but there seemed to be no way to do so. Bonito was too small a town to have a telegraph office. And the mountainous terrain that stretched in every direction would have made the installation of wires and poles nearly impossible anyway.
Though some wagons and supplies were getting through now, they were few and far between. The men who arrived brought tales of continuing raids by Apaches. It was unsafe to send out riders with mail or dispatches, and the regular stage run through Bonito—running between Tucson and Socorro—hadn’t been seen in more than two months.
So Guthrie fretted about what to do about contacting his friend. Still, he was occupied with other matters. Not only did he have all the marshaling duties in town, he was the only law anywhere in the area. That meant he had to check every report of outlaws, or worse, Indian attacks. Fortunately, there had been few of those since he, Espinoza, and Valencia had chased off the Apaches. At least there were few raids in what he considered his jurisdiction. It seemed that the Apaches were confining their raids to areas just out of his reach. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
He worried about it, though. Guthrie figured it was only a matter of time before they returned. And he was afraid that when they did so, it would be in force, and full of rage.
He had just come back from breaking up a fight in the Corrizo Saloon—a local ranch hand and a townsman had come to blows over the affections of one of the fallen women who worked the saloon. They had been on the brink of unlimbering their pistols when Guthrie arrived. His first inclination was to shoot them both; his second was to throw them both in jail until they came to their senses. He waited a few moments—until he settled himself—and then convinced them that the lady in question couldn’t prefer either, since she liked all her paramours equally.
He went back to his office and slumped in the creaky swivel chair, tired. The marshal’s job was turning out to be far more work than he had planned on. He sat, thinking of going to get Addie and hitting the restaurant, but he decided he was not fit company for someone he cared about. At least not for the time being.
So he sat with boots up on his desk, puffing on hand-rolled cigarettes and staring blankly out the small window of his small, oppressive office. The place was nothing to cheer about under the best of circumstances: A rock and adobe building without benefit of a wood front. The place was only ten feet wide and twenty-five deep. The first two-thirds of the building was the office, the back wall of which was bars, with a barred door. Behind that was a two-foot-deep buffer area and then two cells, each five feet wide by seven feet deep. The front of the office had a door in the right side, as viewed by someone inside facing the outside wall. A large part of the rest of the front wall was comprised of a window. Inside there was the desk, the swivel chair, a single straight-back chair, rifle rack, pine plank bulletin board, lantern, and a potbellied stove. '
Guthrie tossed another cigarette butt into the spittoon in the comer and rubbed a hand over his face. It had only been a week, but he already regretted having taken the job. But he could not—would not—back out of it now.
A low, distant rumble caught his attention, and his ears perked up. It sounded like thunder coming over the mountains, but there had not been a cloud in the sky when he had
come into the office forty minutes before. And the sun was still shining brightly through the window. He knew the weather sometimes acted strangely here in these massed hulks of mountains—mountains that had not the height of the high Rockies, but were thick and massed and rolled on in waves and waves, seemingly without end. But something, experience maybe, told him that this sound was not thunder.
Without much enthusiasm, he swung his legs off the desk, shoved wearily up, and headed for the door. He stepped outside into the dazzling sun. The heat was stifling, but Guthrie was aware of a touch of autumn in the air. It wasn’t so much a temperature or a look; just a feeling.
Guthrie looked to his left, up Center Street, from where the sound was coming. A few moments later an Army patrol hove into view, traveling at a good clip. The twenty soldiers trotted through the plaza and Guthrie thought they were going to ride right on through the town and out again. But they stopped in a swirling cloud of dust right in front of Guthrie.
“Where’s Claver?” a young, blond-haired man with a lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders asked roughly.
Guthrie stared up at the lieutenant. He was not impressed by—nor was he in the least afraid of— this pompous young officer. He said nothing.
“I asked you where Claver is, man,” the lieutenant said again, his agitation raised a notch.
Guthrie leaned back against the rock wall next to the door and stared up at the lieutenant. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his fixings. With deliberately slow movements, he rolled a cigarette. Just as Guthrie scratched a match along the wall, the lieutenant snapped, “Where the hell is Claver?” His agitation was in full flower.
Guthrie slowly lit his cigarette and flicked the match into the dirt. Blowing out a slim column of smoke, he said curtly, “Dead.”
“When? How?”