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

by John Legg

  Guns of Arizona

  By

  John Legg

  Copyright © 1992, 2015 John Patrick Legg (as revised)

  Wolfpack Publishing

  48 Rock Creek Road

  Clinton, Montana 59825

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  A new adventure for my favorite cowpoke, my son,

  James Edward Legg.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One

  August 1879

  Jack Guthrie was tying the tarpaulin down over his—and Addie’s—belongings in the back of the small wagon. He turned slowly when he heard, “I wouldn’t be moving on if I was you, señor.”

  “Oh?” Guthrie asked, not really all that interested but trying to be polite. Being polite came naturally to him, and he considered it something of a failing. “Why’s that?”

  “Apaches.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “They’re on the prod.”

  “Ain’t they always?” Guthrie was annoyed at people trying to tell him what to do all the time. That wasn’t really true, but with all the heat and traveling and all, Guthrie was irritable.

  “True. But it’s worse than usual.” The man—short, swarthy, with long tendrils of greasy, graying black hair sticking out from under his mousy brown sombrero—shrugged. “Nobody knows why; it just is.” He shrugged again, the serape shifting slightly.

  Guthrie wondered how the man could wear a blanket serape in this heat. His own red cotton shirt was soaked through with sweat though it was still early in the day. “Besides,” he said in growing irritation, “how do you know which way we’re headin’?”

  “Doesn’t matter which way you go, señor.”

  Guthrie was surprised that the man had almost no accent, despite being of Mexican heritage. “Well, I’m obliged to you for your concern, señor,” he said, still politely, but now with a slight edge of sarcasm. He doffed his once snappy gray Stetson—now worn, sweat-stained, and covered with dust—slightly.

  “Damn fool,” the concerned man muttered. “You’ll get yourself—and that pretty señora of yours—killed, you will.” He pointed a grimy finger in Addie’s direction.

  Addie Guthrie—the former Addie Heller—sat rather primly on the hard seat of the wagon. She was an attractive young woman of twenty-five, with violet eyes and a soft, full-lipped mouth that held much promise. Her curled auburn hair was covered by a blue bonnet that matched her simple calico dress and the soft-sided, drawstring purse she clutched in her lap. Her belly rose out high and hard with pregnancy. Looking at her, one never would have known that a scant ten months ago she was still working in a brothel back in Apache Springs, New Mexico Territory.

  Despite her new, more-sedate life, and the child growing inside her, she was still proud and absolutely certain of her man’s abilities. “My husband can handle any situation, sir,” she said with dignity to the man, whose name neither she nor Guthrie knew. “Why, not so long ago he...”

  Addie clamped her lips shut when she saw the look of warning on Guthrie’s face. Guthrie did not want it known where they had come from, and what they had done there. Once she thought about it, neither did Addie, but she was just so proud of Guthrie. She shut her mouth and smiled enigmatically at the stranger.

  The Mexican looked at Addie for a few moments, thinking of the possibilities her lush figure—not ruined at all by the pregnancy—would afford. She would be something, he thought.

  Both the pregnancy and her marriage were still rather new, and Addie felt strange about it. She had been afraid to tell Guthrie at first that she was pregnant. She was worried that he might leave her. And because of her former profession, she was afraid he might not believe that the baby was his. However, she knew for absolute certain that it was Guthrie’s, and she had finally worked up the courage to tell him.

  Guthrie had only asked simply, “Is it mine?”

  “Yes,” she had whispered, her heart bursting with a combination of shame and excitement.

  Guthrie whooped and hollered in joy, much to Addie’s relief—and amusement. He never did ask how she knew it was his; never questioned her about anything on it. He just accepted her—and her statement. And the next morning he had dragged her over to the preacher’s. With Sheriff Roy Hobbs and old Ma Snow standing by, Jack Guthrie and Addie Heller became husband and wife.

  With summer, they had left Apache Springs, bent on making it to California. They had been in the town of Bonito—in Arizona Territory now—for two days. Addie had been tired from all the traveling, and Guthrie suggested they stop a couple of days to let her rest—and to get some minor work done to the wagon. Addie had gratefully agreed.

  But Guthrie was itchy to leave; Addie knew that. And after two days, she said, “I’m full rested, Jack. Let’s go.” She suspected her husband was thinking that his trip to California had been sidetracked—joyfully, as it turned out—the last time he had stopped in a town for a day or two.

  He looked happy about the prospect of moving on again, and early the next morning, began packing their belongings in the wagon. As Guthrie was finishing, the small, grizzled, wizened Mexican man had come alongside their wagon and issued his respectful, heartfelt warning.

  Addie realized the man was still staring at her, as if waiting for her to say something else. She nodded and said in her soft voice, “Well, sir, just let’s say I reckon my husband can handle anything that comes along.”

  “Even a bunch of bloodthirsty Apaches?” the man queried, surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” Addie said firmly.

  “He mus’ be very good,” the man said in his lightly accented English. He stared at her.

  “He is,” Addie said unabashedly, not taking her eyes from the man’s. She understood the double meaning of the Mexican’s words, and she answered appropriately, she thought.

  The Mexican looked at Addie silently for a few moments. Then he turned his peaceful gaze on Guthrie. He saw a big man, a shade under six feet tall, and well-built, with long, ropelike muscles. The angular face had a square jaw, and the calm blue eyes let everyone who looked into them know that this was a man well-versed in using the oiled, heavy, .44-caliber Remington Frontier with the polished walnut grip he wore in a cross-draw holster on his left hip. The Mexican had noticed earlier that the Gringo also carried a smaller, silver-plated, .36-caliber Police Remington in a special holster on his gun belt at the small of his back. He would be, the Mexican decided, a deadly man if pushed too far.

  Even the mundane, common clothes—bright shirt of red cotton over blue denim trousers, the wor
n Stetson, plain, high-heeled boots with pointed toes and black bandanna around his neck—could not hide the fact of the man’s menace. And this despite a look of almost serenity on the hard face.

  “A good attitude for a woman,” the Mexican man finally said, smiling, showing a gap where a tooth should have been in the upper left side of his teeth.

  Addie smiled back.

  “What’s your name?” Guthrie asked.

  “Victorio Valencia,” the old man said, taking off his old sombrero and sweeping it before him as he bowed.

  “What makes you so all-fired concerned about the Apaches, Señor Valencia?”

  “They’ve never attacked Bonita directly,” he said, grinning grimly, “but they’ve let us know they’re around. They’ve attacked some Army patrols, too, plus half a dozen wagon trains and every farm or ranch within a hundred miles of here.”

  “Any reason?” He grinned, too. “Other than the fact that they’re Apaches.”

  Valencia shrugged his stooped shoulders, as if to say, “Who is to know an Apache’s mind?”

  Guthrie finished his job. He sighed, and said, “Well, I’m—we’re—obliged for your concern, Senor Valencia. But we’ve come a far piece and I’ve taken care of us well enough so far. I reckon I can continue to do so—even against the damned Apaches.” His tongue rolled over one of his molars, a nervous habit he had had for years, and did not realize.

  “Besides,” Guthrie added, “we’re supposed to meet some friends down toward Santa Cruz. We’ve got to press on.”

  “As you wish,” Valencia said. He plopped his sombrero on and strolled away. “Vaya con Dios, señor, señora,” he said quietly. Somehow it sounded like a eulogy.

  “I hope he ain’t right,” Guthrie said as he climbed onto the wagon seat beside Addie. “I got no hankerin’ whatsoever to fend off a passel of Apaches.”

  “Me either,” Addie whispered.

  He grinned at her, self-confidence reasserting itself inside him. Any Apaches that attacked them would have their hands full. Guthrie was an excellent shot with the Remingtons, and with the Henry .44 repeater he had with him. He also had a Sharps Big Fifty, which he had used for hunting buffalo. It was only a single shot, but it was deadly against buffalo at several hundred yards. It would do an equally good job against Apaches, if need be.

  In addition, Addie was a fine shot in her own right, at least with a pistol. She had shown that several times back in Apache Springs. And she was cool under fire. Guthrie figured that they would fare well, unless they were attacked by a large party of Apaches. Or if it was in some kind of place where he could not keep them at bay with the rifles. Whatever, worrying about it wouldn’t help them any. They had to press on.

  He clucked at the grays and slapped the reins lightly on the horses’ rump. They clacked quickly out of town, following the road to the southwest. The road narrowed to a trail just outside of town, and soon began winding slowly, though continually, downward, through tall cottonwoods and towering, spindly pines.

  They found a small flat that night, where they made a decent camp, but the angle of downward movement became much more pronounced on their second day out.

  About the same time, Guthrie had the feeling that he and Addie were not alone. He had been friends with the Cherokees back in the Indian Nations when he was a bounty hunter, and had even gotten along with the remnants of the once proud Comanche tribe. Because of that, he knew a little about Indians. And he was sure that Indians were watching them now.

  He said nothing to Addie, not wanting to scare her. But he was beginning to wonder if perhaps they hadn’t made a serious mistake in leaving Bonita. He had been confident when they left, but now, seeing Addie’s drawn face, he was not so sure. She must be in considerable discomfort, being as pregnant as she was, bouncing around on the hard, wooden seat of the flared-side peddler’s wagon for all these miles.

  A few hours later, Guthrie was certain Indians were watching them. They entered a long, low, grass-covered flat. Across it, he could see that the trail became squeezed between massive cliffs. If they entered it, they would be trapped.

  Guthrie was moving the wagon slowly, and he now cast glances all around. To his left, the forest of ponderosa pines stretched out. He could not see far into it, and he was not sure if it went on for a hundred feet or a hundred miles. To his right was another cliff, several hundred yards off. There looked to be no escape that way, either. .

  He was about to turn the wagon and head back the way he had come, though he didn’t think that would do any good, when he spotted a jumble of church-size boulders under the massive outcropping from the stone cliff. He searched it as well as he could with his eyes as he rode straight on. Then he decided: It was their only chance.

  He tugged on the reins, pulling the grays to the right. “Giddap, there,” he yelled, smacking the reins down hard. “Hold on, Addie!” he roared, as the horses picked up speed.

  Addie shrieked in surprise but grabbed onto the side of the wagon and the seat back and held on for dear life as the wagon bounced over the rocky ground. She jammed her tiny feet against the floorboards, helping to hold her steady. She knew better than to ask questions.

  Addie didn’t know why she looked behind her, but she did, and saw perhaps a dozen Apaches riding hard after them, still half a mile behind. She looked back to the front. They were almost at the boulders.

  Chapter Two

  April 1879

  “Will we be leaving soon, Jack?” Addie asked.

  “You in a hurry?” Guthrie asked with a small chuckle. He patted Addie’s slightly bulging, naked belly, feeling like he never had before. Knowing that his child was growing inside Addie gave him no end of pleasure.

  “Well,” Addie said, drawing the word out. She smiled up at the ceiling. “We’ve put it off several times already.”

  Guthrie shoved himself up on his elbow. “I’m ready,” he said with a grin. Then he grew serious. “But are you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” She seemed surprised.

  Guthrie patted Addie’s stomach again, then let his hand linger on the small, tight mound.

  “That ain’t gonna make any difference,” Addie said brightly. She was nowhere near as confident as she sounded, but she didn’t want to hold Guthrie back. He had planned on heading to California when he had originally arrived ill Apache Springs. Then, after he and she had fallen in love, she wanted to get out of her profession—and Apache Springs. She had talked Guthrie into trying to head west in the dead of winter. But they had nearly died in a blizzard and they had returned to Apache Springs. So his trip had been put off twice already. She did not want her pregnancy to be the reason for another delay. She refused to let that be a possibility.

  “I don’t know,” Guthrie said doubtfully. He paused, rubbing his hand in a slow circle on Addie’s abdomen. His tongue swirled over the molar as he thought. “I’d be awful worried about you, Addie,” he said seriously. “If only we had someone to go with us. It’d ease the way considerable.” -

  “How about Ma Snow?” Addie giggled.

  “Hmm,” Guthrie said with a lecherous grin. “Maybe if she brought Effie and all the rest of the girls from over at the house.” He was stunned when tears sprang into her eyes. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded and shocked. “What is it?” Fear clutched at his heart.

  But Addie was blubbering now, and Guthrie could make no sense of what she was trying to say. He waited a few minutes, but the flood did not slow. With fallen heart, he rolled until he was sitting on the edge of the bed in Widow Murphy’s lodging house. He reached for his fixings, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it with a match scraped on the rough table next to the bed. He puffed quietly, wondering just what he had done to set her off.

  He finished the cigarette and still sat there glumly, trying to think of something he could do or say. He jumped when he felt Addie’s soft hand on his back. He half turned to look at Addie, who was sitting up, the sheet bunched around her waist.

  The woman’s fa
ce was blotchy with redness, her violet eyes rimmed with swollen blood vessels. But the tears had stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely.

  “What in hell did I do?” Guthrie asked in wonder, still worried about her.

  “Nothin’,” Addie mumbled.

  “But…” Sudden realization hit Guthrie. “Was it my joshin’ about Ma Snow’s girls?” he asked, almost sick to his stomach at having mentioned it.

  “It’s…” Addie started crying again, but she was smiling through the flow of tears. “It’s all right. It’s only me bein’ foolish. Bein’ pregnant does…strange things to…”

  Guthrie turned some more, until he could hold her. He let her weep on his shoulder. He sat there, rubbing her back, stroking her auburn ringlets, and wondering just what the hell he had gotten himself into here. It would be four or five more months before the baby would be born, and he knew for a fact that while he might have a lot more patience than the average man, he did not have enough to live through too many episodes like this one.

  But she calmed down before too much longer. She pulled away from him, used a hankie to mop up her face, then she leaned back. She smiled weakly. “Sorry you married me now?” she asked, worried that it might be true.

  Guthrie smiled gently at her. Even with her face all puffed up from the tears and the dark circles around her eyes, she was still the most desirable woman in the world to him. He decided he did have the patience to stick this out with the former Miss Addie Heller. “Naw, I ain’t sorry at all,” he said. “But I’m still worried about you, Addie. Makin’ it to California ain’t gonna be easy under the best of circumstances. Maybe we ought to wait another year. I can work for Adolph. Or maybe be a deputy for Roy. Let the baby get born, we’ll sit out the winter, and then head out next spring.”

  He kept a bright look on his face, but Addie could see he wanted to be away from Apache Springs. But she knew it was not nearly as much as she wanted to be away from this town. She still felt an overwhelming sense of shame when she walked down the street. She had been had by half the men in town, as well as the surrounding ranches and all, and she could not look them in the eye. She felt that to do so would be to shame not only herself, but her husband as well. She wondered how he could be so easygoing around men he must know had slept with her at some time. She knew that none of those men had the gumption to throw it up in Guthrie’s face—he was much too deadly for that. Anyone who pushed Jack Guthrie too far—verbally or physically—would wind up dead. But she knew that Guthrie must know that other men were thinking, “I had this man’s wife.” She didn’t know how he could live with that.