by John Legg
“But ain’t that part of your duties?” the town gunsmith, Garth Orkley, asked. He was not angry, just rather bothered that the job of marshal was not being done to his satisfaction.
“Not to my knowledge,” Guthrie said harshly. “However,” he added before the crowd could get too restive, “if you want me to go out there chasin’ Apaches, I’ll be happy to do so—if you all cooperate. You’ll need to realize that while I’m out there runnin’ around, there’ll be no law here in town, since I ain’t goin’ out there by myself. Also, in order to do a proper job, I’d need some of you folks with me.”
That set a heap of people to squawking in protest, shouting out about how such things were his job, and that they shouldn’t have to do such things when they were paying him a lot of money to do them. Others tried to mask their fear with bravado, anger, and indignation, or all three.
Guthrie perched his buttocks on the edge of a table the Town Council was using. He sat, stony- faced, watching over the crowd. Finally, Rafe Butler, who owned the bank, stood up and waited for quiet. It was quick in coming.
“Marshal Guthrie,” he said in deep tones that commanded respect and befitted his wealth and position, “it seems that we are at odds here on just what your duties should entail.” He waited out the brief burst of assent from the crowd. “Perhaps Mayor Eakins and his associates did not fully explain just what was expected.” He looked around the room, sweeping it with his imperious gaze.
“But we—that is, the people of Bonito—are explaining now, that we expect you to fight Apaches when there is call for such.”
“And just who the hell is gonna determine when there’s such a call?” Guthrie demanded.
“Well,” Butler sniffed, “that should be obvious to most, I’d think.” He smiled indulgently as snickers sputtered around the room.
Guthrie, who hadn’t had enough sleep lately and who was worried about Addie’s health, fought back the fires of rages that burst forth in his belly. “If it’s so goddamn obvious, Mr. Butler,” he snarled, “maybe you’d be better suited for having this job.”
Before anyone could react, Guthrie pulled the tin star off his chest, tearing his shirt a little in the process. He flipped it at Butler. The badge hit the front of Butler’s suit and fell to the floor, where it rang dully.
“Adiós, boys,” Guthrie said nastily. He pushed up and headed for the door.
As he swept past his deputies, he noticed that both had already pulled off their badges. Each threw the cheap piece of metal lightly on the table where the council sat, Valencia first, then Espinoza. Then they fell into step behind Guthrie.
“What now?” Espinoza asked when they were outside.
Guthrie shrugged. He wanted to be shed of Bonito and everything connected with it. Even these two men who had remained so staunchly loyal to him. Then he calmed a little. “Hell if I know.” He smiled crookedly. “But I’d wager next month’s pay that sooner or later—most likely sooner—they’ll come tryin’ to get me to take the job again.”
“Will you?” Valencia asked softly.
Guthrie shrugged. “Might. Might not.” He was inclined to reject it—if the offer did, indeed, come. But Addie had not been all that well lately, and her pregnancy was so far advanced that he was unwilling to risk her health through his own pride or stupidity.
“Goddamn fools,” Espinoza snapped. “Madre de Dios.” He made the sign of the cross on his chest and with his eye beseeched God in heaven to give him the strength to overcome these trials.
“Well,” Valencia offered with a quiet, natural dignity that someone like Rafe Butler could never hope to achieve, “I’m ready to serve with you again whenever you call, Marshal Guthrie.”
“Gracias, amigo,” Guthrie said, patting the old Mexican on the shoulder. “It’s nice to know I got one good friend in this godforsaken hellhole.”
“Dos,” Espinoza snapped, not liking having been left out.
“Two,” Guthrie agreed. “Well, good night, boys.” He turned and headed for his small house. He was rather sad that things had turned out this way; and angry at the way he and his deputies had been treated. But he also felt relieved. An enormous pressure had been lifted from his shoulders.
Chapter Twenty
Guthrie knelt and stared at the ground. He had picked up more than a few things about tracking from scouts the Army had employed way back when. But it didn’t seem to be doing him a bit of good now. He couldn’t tell anything from the dusty ground in front of him.
He straightened, still holding the buckskin’s reins in his hand. He shook his head.
“Nothing, eh?” Valencia said.
Guthrie looked up at him. “Not a damn thing.” Guthrie was disgusted.
The Apaches had finally attacked close enough to Bonito to force his hand. The townsmen, finding a small reservoir of strength—and being encouraged by a fat wad of cash offered by a desperate rancher—decided to band together to cart several wagons of supplies to the ranch twelve miles south of Bonito. They figured that with their numbers, they would be safe.
They had gotten less than two miles when the Apaches swept down on them like an avenging horde. The townsmen had managed to get back to Bonito relatively unscathed—four were wounded, only one seriously—but they left the wagons full of supplies behind.
They raced back into town, panicked, and headed straight for the marshal’s office. Several days before, Mayor Eakins and his two fellow councilmen had come to Guthrie’s house and pleaded, cajoled and threatened until Guthrie had grandly acquiesced and taken back the tin star. So now the frightened townsmen ran to him.
“You have to do something,” Ignacio Verdugo said. Since he owned the general store and had supplied all the goods, he had the most to lose.
“I don’t have to do a damned thing,” Guthrie said calmly. “Huntin’ Apaches still ain’t my job.” He paused, watching with some glee as the eight men went from fright to anger. “But out of the goodness of my soul, I’ll go take a look-see.”
The men’s relief was palpable.
Guthrie gave a boy a dime to get Espinoza and Valencia. Then he went home and told Addie what he was up to. She paled and fretted over him. He was annoyed but took it stoically for a while. Finally, he said, “Addie, you know how these Apaches work. What do you think my chances are of actually finding ’em?”
“It ain’t so much whether you find them—it’s whether they find you.”
He had thought of that possibility, but had not wanted to mention it lest he frighten her. To calm her, now that she had brought it up, he told her the idea was foolish. Then he was out the door.
Guthrie met Espinoza and Valencia at Diaz’s Livery. The two deputies were waiting patiently outside the stable with three horses saddled. Both still wore their serapes and sombreros. But since becoming deputies, they had taken to wearing Levi trousers, cotton or calico shirts, and boots. Their old, baggy cotton pants, peasant shirts, and sandals would no longer do.
The lawman had found the wagons easy enough—it was impossible to miss them. They were still partially loaded. Guthrie figured that either the Apaches were in a hurry and passed up a lot of the merchandise, or else they had picked through just for the supplies they thought they might have a use for. Regardless, all the guns, ammunition, food, powder, and some other goods were gone.
Guthrie and his deputies followed the road south. The Apache trail was plain enough for a little while, but it began fading and then disappeared altogether. Guthrie always wondered how they could do that. After a short while, he stopped and dismounted. He knelt to scrutinize the ground and voiced his disgust when he saw no tracks, no sign at all.
Valencia looked down at him, amused.
“What the hell’re you grinnin’ at, old man?” Guthrie asked sourly, voicing his displeasure over his situation at the wrong person.
“It means we’re on their trail,” Valencia said, grin widening.
“Christ, Victorio, you’ve gone loco.”
“No,
I haven’t,” Valencia said with a shake of his head. “Think about eet. There should be some sign of something, correctamente?”
“Sí,” Guthrie said skeptically. He wondered what Valencia was getting at.
“Well, if there’s no sign of anything, then the Apaches must’ve come through and wiped out all their traces, correctamente?”
“Sí.” Guthrie nodded, as understanding dawned. It was true. There ought to be some sign of something or someone passing. He swung into the saddle. “Well, are we gonna keep lookin’? Or do we let them go on their merry way?”
“We didn’t come all the way out here just to turn tail for no good reason,” Espinoza said sharply. The light of eagerness for battle burned in his eyes.
“Victorio?”
The old man shrugged. He didn’t much care one way or the other.
“All right, then, boys. Let’s move.” Guthrie swung up into the saddle. Indecision had fled, and he was ready to go. Trouble was, he didn’t really know which way to go. So he just plunged on ahead, following what he thought might be a logical track.
The longer he rode, the more worried he became. They had wandered off onto a small track that slinked and skidded through pines, into valleys and up hills, around brush and cliff. He had no idea where it led, but he was aware that his two companions were tensing. Besides, it was an area that would be perfect for an Apache ambush. Only the birds chirping normally kept him serene.
Eventually that, too, changed. There came a dead silence, and then the sounds of scavenger birds squawking a little way off. Guthrie glanced back at his deputies. The two Mexicans were whispering to each other in Spanish.
Guthrie reined in. “What’s out there?” he asked. He found that he was whispering.
“What do you think?” Espinoza responded, trying to mask his growing fear. But his fear was mixed with resentment, anger, and apprehension.
“I don’t know. I expect Apaches. But it seems like you boys know somethin’ I don’t.”
“There’s a farm down there,” Valencia said, pointing. “Friends.” He looked sad.
Guthrie nodded, understanding. “Maybe the Apaches ain’t been through this way,” he said with false hope.
“Maybe.” Valencia knew what Guthrie was doing. They rode on.
A few minutes later, Guthrie reined to a stop. He could see just ahead of him that the screen of trees opened to a clearing. Guthrie dismounted and stalked up carefully, until he was leaning against a tree, looking over the clearing.
The meadow sloped gently down from where he stood, flattening a little at the lowest point and then rose gently across from him until it faded into the trees once more. Through the small, flat bottom ran a small stream. Along it, just to Guthrie’s right, on the far side was a rickety looking wood barn with a corral. On the near side of the stream stood a small log house with a roof of sod. A thick spiral of black smoke coiled up from the house. It did not come from the chimney.
Still Guthrie stood where he was. He retrieved his telescope, opened it, and then scanned every tree, bush, and rock within his sight. Only when he was as certain as he could be that no Apaches loitered in the area did he snap the telescope shut, stow it, and then edge the buckskin out past the trees.
The three rode down the grassy slope, past the rows of corn, cabbage, tomatoes, peppers, and other truck crops. Chickens squawked and fluttered, their feeble wings creating a flurry of activity but no flight. The smell of stale smoke, smoldering wood and grass, and the stench of death floated in the breeze.
They spotted a man’s body. It was covered with blood, and there was no telling how many wounds it had received.
“Esai Ruberio,” Valencia said sadly.
Guthrie nodded, knowing that they would find other bodies, and knowing that none of it would be pleasant.
They buried the farmer, Ruberio, along with his wife and six children. Most of the bodies were mutilated to a lesser or greater degree. The afternoon’s work left Guthrie feeling drained—and sickened. From the looks pasted on the faces of his companions, they felt about the same.
Guthrie and Espinoza dug one long grave. After they placed the bodies, wrapped in cheap blankets found in the smoldering house, in the grave, Valencia spoke some words in Spanish over the corpses. Then Guthrie and Espinoza tossed dirt into the hole. The two brought up several wheelbarrows full of rocks and tossed them on the grave. Finally all three men rode their horses over the stones and dirt of the grave to trample it into oblivion.
The two younger men cleaned up a little in the small, sluggish stream. Then the three rode out, leaving the house burning behind them. Guthrie headed blindly in a generally southwestern direction. Dark was falling, and cloud cover had moved in. “We’d best find us a place to stay the night,” Guthrie finally said, raising himself out of his malaise.
Valencia shrugged inside his serape. He looked older than he ever had, and he seemed worn and haggard.
“Not much place to go,” Espinoza said. He had been fighting off the anger building inside of him all afternoon. He had known Esai Ruberio well, and he was enraged at what the Apaches had done to his friend’s family. Even more so, he was disgusted at his inability to do anything to counter this. The Apaches seemed to be able to attack with impunity anywhere and anytime they wanted. And he could do nothing to stop it. Nor even anything to avenge it.
Guthrie felt much the same. But he had encountered such things before. Too many times. And he knew he would adjust to it and be able to live with it eventually. But for now, he wanted some cover. Rain had started and was falling with increasing strength. It was cold, too. It was September, and this high up, the leaves on the aspens, cottonwoods, and willows were already changing.
He edged the buckskin in between some trees and finally stopped. There was nothing that could be called a clearing, but at least the trees blocked some of the rain and the chill, biting wind. “Home, sweet home,” he muttered, grinning humorlessly though Espinoza and Valencia could not see it.
Guthrie unsaddled the buckskin and cared for it, keeping an eye on his two companions. Though the angry Espinoza was holding himself on a tight rein, and Valencia was dispirited, they both did what was needed.
They had brought little in the way of food, not expecting to be out more than a few hours. Still, Guthrie was always prepared when going out on a jaunt, no matter how short a duration he expected it to be. He had coffee and a pot, a couple handfuls of beans, a bag of flour, and several strips of beef jerky. Valencia and Espinoza had some corn- meal, coffee, and chunks of salted beef.
It was pitifully meager for three men, but it would have to do, Guthrie thought. Besides, there wasn’t much dry wood around to keep a fire going for any length of time. Guthrie managed to get enough of a fire going to make some lukewarm, weak coffee. He drank two cups of it while trying to gnaw down a slice of jerky.
Guthrie watched as Valencia, then Espinoza huddled in their serapes, their wide-brimmed sombreros protecting their faces, and slept. They should be warm and dry enough, Guthrie figured. Then he stretched out, grateful for the long slicker he wore, and fell asleep.
As they drank their barely warm, watered-down coffee and ate poorly made biscuits in the morning, the three argued over what they should do. Espinoza wanted to press on at all costs, trying to hunt down the Apaches. Guthrie argued for going back to Bonito and waiting for reinforcements before looking for the hostiles. Valencia seemed oblivious and didn’t much care either way.
Finally, Guthrie, growing angrier, said, “Do whatever the hell you want, Arturo. But I’m going back to Bonito. And I’m takin’ Victorio with me. He’s about done in. You’d see that if you weren’t so goddamned set on gettin’ yourself killed.” “Well, I’m going on,” Espinoza insisted. His face was red with anger and pent-up emotion.
“You ain’t gonna get far, boy.”
“I never took you for el cobarde.”
Guthrie’s eyes glittered with anger. “Any other time, and I’d knock your teeth out for ca
llin’ me a coward, boy,” he snarled, then added, “You know, boy, if you want to live a while, you got to use some sense. We’ve got next to no food. Victorio’s in poor shape. It’s rainin’ like hell, and there’s a potful of Apaches lurkin’ out there, against only three of us.”
“El gallina bastardo,” Espinoza snarled. “Chicken-hearted bastard.”
“Don’t push your luck with me, Arturo,” Guthrie said icily. “You want to go out there with no supplies, lookin’ for Apaches, you go on ahead. But don’t go draggin’ me and Victorio into your goddamn death ride.”
“I don’ need you, nor that useless old man,” Espinoza said savagely. “I’m going.”
“Then you’ll do it without your badge,” Guthrie said, equally heatedly. “You took it with the intention of doing a job. This need for revenge ain’t part of that job, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you try to make it so.”
“Take the damn thing, then,” Espinoza said, tearing the star off and flinging it at Guthrie. He shoved himself up angrily and stalked off. He grabbed his saddle and saddle blanket. With jerky motions, he saddled his horse.
Guthrie watched him with little interest. To him, Espinoza had become tedious. There was nothing he could do to keep the young man out of trouble, and he would no longer try. Still, Espinoza was basically a good man, and might have become a sure, steady hand at whatever he did. But the Mexican could not control his emotions.
Guthrie finally got up, too, and began to saddle Valencia’s horse. About the time he finished, Espinoza jumped onto his horse and rode out. Guthrie began to saddle the buckskin.
Five minutes later, Guthrie heard gunfire.
Chapter Twenty-One
Guthrie knew, even as he flung himself into his hastily tightened saddle, that he was going to be too late. He also suspected as he raced off that he was rushing right off into the teeth of danger. But he could not let Espinoza go under without at least trying to help. Not even their differences of minutes ago could detract from all the help Espinoza had given Guthrie since he had come to Bonito.