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

by John Legg

  He made a sour face as he belched. The foul beans and bad coffee were not sitting well in his stomach. He painfully pulled himself into the saddle and rode off, aware that a pack of eight wolves was following his trail, and an undetermined number of coyotes followed the wolves. An hour later, he pulled the Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, stopped the horse, and whirled. He had planned to shoot as many scavengers as he could. But he had momentarily forgotten about his side, and he winced as pain lanced through him. The animals skulked back into the shadows.

  “I’ll get some of you sons of bitches yet,” he muttered, clucking to the buckskin to get him moving. He kept the Henry in hand, waiting for an opportunity.

  Before long they were on his trail in full view. He stopped the horse and turned, slowly and evenly this time, instead of in a herky-jerky motion. He raised the rifle even as the animals skulked, baring their fangs and growling fiercely. He shot two wolves and a coyote. “That ought to keep you busy for a spell,” he muttered as he slid the rifle away and rode on.

  The pain in his side lessened as the hours rolled on, and he didn’t feel too bad—as long as he sat ramrod straight. Even slumping a little seemed to put an undue strain on the rib. The day grew hot and muggy. The clouds never left, but it didn’t rain, either. The gloom just hung around.

  Guthrie arrived back in Bonito well after dark. The lanterns in town did little to dispel the darkness, or the gloominess of his feelings. He stopped at Penniman’s place first. He rapped at the door. When he got no response, he pounded harder. Finally he saw the dim flame of a coal-oil lantern coming toward him from the darkness inside.

  “Who’s there?” the mortician called. His voice sounded frightened.

  “Marshal Guthrie. Open the goddamn door.”

  The door creaked open. He looked out at Guthrie, who stood, holding his painful left side with his right hand. “You’re hurt?” Lamar Penniman asked.

  “Yep. But…”

  “You need Dr. Gretsch.” .

  Guthrie just glared at the mortician. Then he asked, “You got your boys handy?”

  “Yes,” Penniman said cautiously. This did not bode well. Penniman might not like Marshal Guthrie very much, but he respected him. And he knew the lawman would not be knocking at his door in the middle of the night without good cause. And, considering his line of work, Penniman could figure out just what that “good” cause was.

  “Apaches got Arturo and Victorio,” Guthrie said. An exhaustion born of despair swept over him.

  “Good Lord,” Penniman breathed. “Come in, Marshal,” he added. “Come, sit and rest. I’ll be back directly.” Penniman lighted a lantern in the spacious front room and then rushed toward his rooms in back, the tail of his nightshirt slapping.

  Guthrie limped inside and eased himself gingerly into a straight-back chair. His fingers fumbled as he tried to roll a cigarette, but he finally managed to accomplish the feat. Just as he was lighting it, Penniman hurried back in. He was dressed now, sloppily but fully, except for tie. Following him were two young Mexican men, large strapping youths. Guthrie pointed outside. “On their horses,” he croaked.

  Penniman stopped in front of Guthrie. The mortician was short and round, with a florid face and gray side whiskers. He was partly bald but usually fastidious. He looked more like a banker than he did a mortician. “You better go have the doctor look at you, Marshal,” he said quietly.

  “My deputies?” Guthrie asked through the veil of cigarette smoke.

  “Hernando and Raoul are bringing them around back. They’ll go into my workroom that way. The young men will take the horses down to Diaz’s in the morning.”

  Guthrie nodded, but he continued to stare dully up at Penniman.

  “Don’t worry, Marshal,” Penniman said quietly. His voice was cultivated from many years in his chosen profession, and it was designed to convey sympathy and concern. “I will see that Deputy Valencia and Deputy Espinoza will have the best.” He was not, by nature, a prejudiced man, but even if he had been, he had learned long ago that all men should be equal in his eyes—considering his work.

  Guthrie nodded again. He stood, wincing. “Send the bill to the council. They’ll take care of it.”

  Penniman believed him, considering the look of death that hung on Guthrie’s face. “I will,” he said soothingly.

  Guthrie headed out, grateful for the raised sidewalk in front of Penniman’s. It made it easier for him to get into the saddle. He rode up to the plaza and turned left on Bonito Street. A short way up, he turned into an alley and stopped in front of a door. The front of the building was Dr. Gretsch’s tonsorial parlor. He also did dental work there. His medical offices were around the side, where Guthrie had stopped.

  Once more Guthrie pounded on the door until he got some response. A grumbling Dr. Rudolph Gretsch yanked the door open. Holding his lantern high, he growled, “Who the hell’s there?” He usually wasn’t in such a bad mood, but he had been up a long time, having been called out several times the night before on emergencies. He was tired and it made him irritable. “Oh, you, Marshal,” he said, not too contritely. “You aren’t hurt, are you?” he asked, suddenly coming alert.

  “Some, Doc. Can you take a look?”

  “Of course, son. Of course. Come in.” He stepped back, holding the door wide for Guthrie to enter. He, too, was wearing a nightshirt and had stuffed his feet into old boots, which were unlaced.

  Guthrie hobbled in and rested his buttocks against the examining table as he stood, once more holding his side.

  Gretsch set the lantern down on his desk and put on his spectacles. He lighted two coal-oil lamps on the wall. Then he turned to Guthrie. “Now, Marshal, what’s the trouble?”

  “Stove up ribs, Doc.”

  “They paining you?”

  “They hurt like all hellfire.”

  “To be expected,” Gretsch said, almost to himself. “All right, Marshal, we’ll have to get your shirt off. Think you can do that?”

  “Yep. But I ain’t so certain about the long johns.” He tried to grin and half succeeded. He unbuttoned his shirt and with the doctor’s help, worked it over his broad shoulders, letting it hang from where it was tucked inside his trousers. The two of them managed to get the top part of his long johns undone and down the same way as the shirt.

  Gretsch gently probed the affected area. Guthrie winced several times as a shard of pain darted out. But, for the most part, the examination was nowhere as painful as he had expected. Either that or he was too dulled by sorrow, lack of sleep, and the earlier pain to notice.

  Finally Gretsch stepped back. “You got two cracked rib bones, son.” He sounded almost cheery. “Neither’s broke bad enough to damage any vital organs, but they’ll hurt like the devil for a while.” “Can you do anything?”

  “I’ll bind ’em up. That’ll keep you from jostling them too much. Give ’em time to set proper. I can give you something for the pain, too, if you’d like.” He raised his eyebrows in question. He would be surprised if Guthrie took him up on the offer.

  “I reckon a little snakebite medicine’ll take care of that, Doc,” he said, smiling wanly.

  “About as well as anything I could give you,” Gretsch agreed. “How’d you come to do this?” he asked.

  Guthrie explained it all—including the deaths of Valencia and Espinoza.

  Gretsch listened, shaking his head in sympathy. While he listened, he filled and lighted an old pipe. When Guthrie was finished, Gretsch said sadly, “It’s a poor world when a man’s got to worry about such things. Sure is. Damned savages.” He set his pipe down on the desk and began wrapping Guthrie’s torso tightly in bandaging. He stepped back when he was finished and relighted his pipe. “Now, mind you don’t do too much. A few weeks and you ought to be right as rain.”

  Guthrie took a deep breath. It hurt, but not too badly. He felt, in fact, somewhat better already. But he shook his head at Gretsch’s suggestion. “Can’t guarantee that, Doc. Too much to be done.” �
�There’s time enough for chasing Apaches once your ribs have mended,” Gretsch said sternly, punctuating his words with the stem of his pipe jabbing the air.

  “I reckon.” Guthrie smiled ruefully. “But there’s gonna be a passel of folks after my ass for what’s happened of late.”

  “I never took you for the kind to be scared of such a thing.”

  Guthrie glowered a moment, then grinned. “I ain’t.” There was no one in town he need fear—except perhaps himself. He sighed. “All right, I’ll take it easy a while. I want to try to get word to the Army anyway. I ain’t gonna go out after those Apaches by myself, and I don’t expect too many folks in town are gonna jump at the chance to go with me.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Gretsch said with a chuckle, his nondescript middle-aged face serene.

  “Now, help me back into my shirts,” Guthrie ordered in friendly tones. He was tired again, but now it was the tiredness of too many hours awake. In a few minutes, he had his shirts on. “How much I owe you, Doc?” he asked.

  “Shoot,” Gretsch said, shocked at the suggestion. “This happened in the performance of your duties. Mayor Eakins will be glad to pay your bill.” He winked.

  Guthrie laughed a little, but he stopped when that caused some pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he said. He stepped outside. Dawn was nigh, and Guthrie savored the cool, sweet, pine-scented air.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Guthrie lay in his bed at his house and listened to the pounding on the door for a moment. The pounding stopped and he could hear Mayor Eakins and Addie arguing. His head pounded from the lack of sleep, and his side still hurt tremendously. I’ve had bullet wounds that hurt less than this damn thing, he thought sourly.

  He tossed off the covers and struggled up and out of the bed. He grabbed the Remington from the holster hanging on the bedpost. In his long johns, he padded to the bedroom door. He cracked it open and peered out.

  Guthrie smiled as he saw Addie firmly planted in front of the front door, blocking Eakins from entering. “He’s hurt and he’s asleep, Mayor,” Addie said adamantly. She was irate. Guthrie could tell that by the set line of her shoulders and back. But she kept her voice down to an angry hiss, trying not to waken Guthrie.

  “Now, Mrs. Guthrie,” Eakins said in oily tones, “I’m here on official business. After all, your husband is the marshal. At least for the time being.” He thought perhaps the veiled threat might gain him entrance. He, too, was angry, and was growing more so with every second he was put off by this presumptuous woman.

  “I don’t care why you’re here,” Addie said. Though she was nearing rage, her voice was that of calm reason. Guthrie was quite proud of her. “My husband has been hurt. He was up most of twenty- four hours, and he has lost two friends. He needs his rest. Dr. Gretsch said so.”

  “But I need to talk to him about these things, Mrs. Guthrie.” Eakins tried not to wheedle, but he didn’t want to use force either. He knew that would bring trouble from Guthrie.

  “There’ll be time for that later.”

  “But the Apaches…”

  “They’ll either come here, or they won’t, Mayor,” Addie said, exasperated. “Waking Jack now won’t change that. If they show up, I’ll get him and he’ll join the defense of the town. Until they show up, though—if they do—he’s going to take his rest. Good day to you, sir.”

  She started to close the door, but Eakins slapped a hand against it, preventing it from being closed. “A moment more, Mrs. Guthrie,” he said, voice threatening a little.

  Addie glared at him. In the bedroom, Guthrie tensed, and he hefted the Remington.

  “Perhaps you don’t realize the importance of what’s happened in and around Bonito lately, Mrs. Guthrie,” Eakins went on. “A woman would not be expected to know such things. But I must say that my speaking to Marshal Guthrie is of the utmost importance. Lives are at stake.” That was sure to get her, he thought.

  “Hogwash, Mr. Eakins,” Addie snapped, shocking the mayor more than a little. She pointed at the buckskin standing outside. “You see that?”

  “The marshal’s horse. So?”

  “Have you ever known Jack to ride his horse nigh onto a full day and then not tend to him?”

  “Well, no…”

  “Of course not. He doesn’t do such things. But looking at that horse and seeing its condition should tell you something about my husband’s condition. Now, sir, I’ve got work to do, as I suppose you do.” Once more Eakins stopped her from closing the door. As Guthrie started to yank the bedroom door open, Addie said in cold tones, “This is my house, Mayor Eakins, and I’ll thank you to leave it. Now!” “And if I don’t, I suppose you’ll get your husband?” Eakins asked in a voice that reeked of impending triumph. “If such is the case, I’ll take the chance to talk to him.”

  “Was I to do that, you’d find yourself far more occupied just trying to keep your miserable hide alive,” Addie said.

  “I don’t think that’d be necessary,” Eakins said with complete self-assurance. “I can talk some sense into your husband.” His face and tone hardened. “Now, little lady, I’d advise you to quit stickin’ your nose into business you know nothing about and go fetch your husband.”

  “I think not.” Addie’s tone was every bit as tough as Eakins’. “Now, get out of here.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you’ll be buried along with Deputy Valencia and Deputy Espinoza.” Suddenly she had a small-caliber Colt in her hand. The weapon was pointed at the mayor’s midsection.

  Eakins’ eyes grew very wide, and anger flushed his face. “You would not dare!” he breathed. He did, however, move back two steps.

  “You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve shot,” Addie said calmly. “Now get away from here. And don’t come back. When Jack is rested, he’ll come callin’ on you.” Addie slammed the door shut. Then she giggled.

  Guthrie stepped out of the bedroom. Addie heard him. She turned and lumbered to him. “Did I do all right?” she asked, eyes expectant.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Guthrie said enthusiastically.

  “Good,” Addie said, pleased with herself. She kissed him on the lips. She wanted him, badly, but she was almost due now, and found that intimacy with her husband was almost impossible. “Now, go on and get some sleep.”

  It was almost dark when Guthrie finally awoke. He was still sore, but the pain was bearable. And he felt refreshed, despite the lingering feelings of despair at all that had occurred. He downed several cups of coffee and three helpings of flapjacks. Then he rode over to Verdugo’s store and bought a new pair of boots. Verdugo was curious and asked what had happened out there, but Guthrie was in no mood to talk about it. Verdugo got the hint.

  Finally Guthrie rode down to Diaz’s Livery. He felt guilty about not having cared for the horse. The buckskin was a good, reliable, steady mount, and deserved better treatment. He told Diaz he would take care of the horse himself.

  But Diaz shook his head. “No, Mariscal” he said adamantly. “I weel do eet. Eet is my pleasure.”

  Guthrie looked at him, thinking this behavior odd for Juan Diaz.

  Diaz looked around, as if he did not want anyone to overhear. “Señor Valencia was my old amigo. For many years we knew each other. And Arturo was my godson. They talked much of you, Señor Guthrie.” His head bobbed. “Sí. And I know that you reesked yourself to bring their bodies back here to have a Christian burial. Madre de Dios.” He made the sign of the cross several times.

  “So?” Guthrie asked. “It wasn’t much. Hell, I just couldn’t leave ’em out there for the buzzards and Apaches.”

  “Some Gringos would have,” Diaz said simply.

  Guthrie nodded. “I wouldn’t. Especially when I considered them amigos, too. They were good men. Muy hombruno.”

  “Sí,” Diaz said. There was pride in the single word. “You go on now,” he added. “I weel take care of your horse, Mariscal. He weel get the best.” Guthrie nodded. To refuse would hurt the man’s feelings. Besides, Diaz w
as an excellent man around horses. The buckskin would get royal treatment. “Muchas gracias, Juan.” He headed slowly back toward his house.

  Along the way, he stopped at the Corrizo Saloon—he wanted to avoid Mayor Eakins for the time being, so he did not want to go to the Pine Log Saloon—and bought a bottle of rotgut.

  At his house, he sat at the kitchen table—a simple thing made of several slabs of pine—and nipped at the bottle. Addie sat at right angles to him, sipping coffee, worried about him.

  “I’ve got to go after them, Addie,” he said after a little. “I’ve got to punish those savages.” He paused. “Not only for what they did to Arturo and Victorio, but also Marshal Claver and the whole damned town.”

  “I know,” Addie whispered. She understood that he had to do it, and why. She didn’t have to like it, but there was no way she could stop him from doing it. She wasn’t even sure she would want to stop him, even if it meant he got killed. If she succeeded in stopping him, it would mean he wasn’t the man she had married—or loved. “But you can’t go alone,” she added. “Who’re you gonna get to go with you?”

  “The Army, hopefully. Ain’t no one in town gonna be willin’ to go.” But he had a problem there. He could wait until Lieutenant Richards rode through town again. Trouble was, that could be tomorrow, or just as likely it could be a month from now.

  His other option would be to try to make contact with the Army up at Fort Apache. The problem with that was the same as he had had when he had wanted to get word to Pete Kinchloe. There was no telegraph; no mail was getting through; stages still were not running, and no one was willing to risk his neck.

  Guthrie thought he might have to make the ride himself. But there were problems inherent in that, too. For one, it was a good way to get killed. For another, it would leave the town with no protection. For all his dislike of the mayor, the councilmen, and even many of the townsfolk of Bonito, he had too strong a sense of duty to leave the place in the lurch like that.