by John Legg
Because of that, she wanted to be out of Apache Springs. And she wanted to be on the road as fast as possible. Only when she was settled down somewhere in California—where no one knew her—would she feel really comfortable.
“No, let’s not wait, Jack,” she said quietly. She stared into his eyes.
Guthrie nodded and grinned. He knew what Addie was feeling, and why she was so eager to get out of Apache Springs. He would feel far more comfortable out of this town, too. “All right. But I still wish I could find somebody to go with us. It’d offer protection from outlaws and Indians. If there was some women with us, they could help care for you when the time came.”
“We’ll be in California when my time comes,” Addie said with a grin. She was by no means certain of that, but she hoped to set his mind at ease. "
They sat quietly, each thinking in their own way of what the traveling would be like.
Addie, who had lived a hard life but never gave up her optimism, saw it as a trip of renewal and hope.
Guthrie, much more practical in many ways, saw only the hardships they would face—mountains, plains, deserts, snakes, animals, Indians, outlaws, and Lord knew what else. That the end result would be desirable in no way lessened Guthrie’s concern for what they would face.
Suddenly Addie said, shyly, as if she feared Guthrie might think her nothing but a fool, “If you want some travelin’ companions, how about that old friend from Texas you told me about?”
“Who? Pete Kinchloe?” Guthrie said, surprised. “He’d never want to go.” But even as he said it, he began to consider it feasible.
“He might. You said that the last time you saw him you mentioned it and he was interested.”
“Some,” Guthrie admitted. He rolled and lit another cigarette. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Pete Kinchloe was—or at least had been—the foreman of the Lazy Y Ranch. He had been trying to get up a herd of cattle of his own, with the help of Jonah Tyrell, who owned the ranch. Guthrie had last seen Kinchloe about a year ago, not long before he had ridden into Apache Springs. “But he’s got family now and all.”
“Havin’ a woman along’d be a pleasure,” Addie said helpfully.
“I expect it would.” Guthrie finished the cigarette and stubbed it out on the table. “By Christ, I think I’ll ask him.” He looked worried again. “It’ll take a spell, though, for me to get a letter to him and get an answer back. It means not leavin’ here for a little while yet.”
“As long as we get out by summer,” Addie said firmly. Her mind was made up now, and there would be no swaying her.
Guthrie grinned. He stood and padded naked over to a bureau along the wall that fronted the alley. He rummaged about until he found some paper and a stub of pencil. He sat and wet the tip of the pencil. “No,” Addie said, sounding almost horrified, “What?” Guthrie asked with a jerk, surprised. “Not in pencil,” Addie insisted. She was in awe of letters—real letters. They were always somehow special, and deserved better than just a dirty old pencil.
“It’s all I got,” Guthrie said defensively, wondering what was really wrong now.
“No. This letter should have ink.”
“Where’m I…?”
Addie stood and walked over to the bureau. From one of the drawers in which she kept her things, she pulled a small, full inkwell, and a long-nibbed pen. “Here,” she said, coming back to stand in front of him, holding out the items with something approaching reverence.
Guthrie could see that it meant a lot to her, so he took them with a solemn nod. “Best do this at the table,” he said firmly. He walked to the larger table in front of the windows overlooking Main Street and he sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. Painstakingly, he scratched his words carefully on the paper, trying hard not to make mistakes that would mean crossing out. Since Addie was putting so much stock in the importance of all this, he wanted to do it right. There was no telling what sort of wrath she would bring down on him in her condition.
It was not a long letter, so it was but a short time before he was finished, even with the care he was taking. He picked the sheet of paper up and blew on it to dry the ink as he was reading it. Addie stood behind him, her pregnant, nude belly brushing his naked back as she rested her small hands on his broad shoulders. She read the letter, too, while she stood there, heedless of anyone who might look up from the street and see her.
“It’s a good letter,” she said firmly. She was convinced it would have the desired result.
“Want to walk with me to see about mailing it?” Guthrie asked, patting one of Addie’s hands on his shoulder.
“Sure,” She sounded almost excited.
They dressed and walked downstairs, greeting Widow Murphy on the way out. The old woman who owned the house in which the Guthries lived had become one of their dearest friends. And there were precious few, if any friends for the Guthries in Apache Springs: Sheriff Roy Hobbs, Fritz Schloeken, Ma Snow, Widow Murphy. That was about it. The Guthries would hate to leave those few, but it couldn’t be helped.
After posting the letter, Jack and Addie strolled down to Schloeken’s Restaurant to eat. They were served by Schloeken’s daughter, Greta, who once had more than a little crush on Guthrie. She seemed to have gotten over it after all the bloodshed in which Guthrie had become involved in Apache Springs. She was efficient in her duty, if not overly friendly.
It seemed to take forever for an answer to come from Pete Kinchloe. Guthrie put on a calm face, but underneath he fidgeted. After two weeks, he was itchy to be doing something. And he and Addie were getting low on money. So he talked to Schloeken, who could always use fresh meat.
Addie wasn’t happy about his going off for a couple of weeks, but she knew it was necessary. “You just be damned careful, Jack Guthrie,” she ordered as she helped him load some supplies in a big work wagon.
“I will,” Guthrie said, smiling at her. Several times in those two weeks she had burst into uncontrollable sobbing. He had become a little more used to it, but he still didn’t like it. And he thought he needed a break from such freakish behavior. He felt guilty about that, but he couldn’t help himself.
Guthrie kissed Addie tenderly. “You best be careful, too, woman. I’m gonna be one unhappy son of a bitch somethin’ happens to you while I’m gone.”
Addie nodded, fighting not to cry again. She didn’t want him leaving with his last view of her for a couple of weeks being one of tears.
“You need anything, I’ve made arrangements with R.C. over at his store. Mary or Ma Snow can help you out, if you have troubles with your health. And if you sense any kind of danger, you go see Roy.” Now that he was ready to go, Guthrie began to feel more guilty about leaving Addie. And more worried. These were still new feelings for him, and he was not quite sure how to deal with them. In some ways, all he wanted to do was mount his horse and ride away forever. But since he was not a man who ran from anything, he could not do that.
“All right,” Addie said, sounding meek.
That, too, bothered Guthrie. Addie Heller had not been a woman given to fright and meekness. But the pregnant Addie Guthrie was a quiet, almost mousy woman, totally unlike the woman Guthrie had married. He sighed. He knew that this would pass, as had the sickness that had come on Addie every morning for a spell, and some of the other strange things Addie had been up to of late.
Guthrie checked his saddle horse tied behind the wagon. Then he kissed Addie one more time and climbed onto the wagon. He snapped the reins and the two lumbering work horses lurched forward. Guthrie made a wide turn in the middle of the street and headed out of town through the sandstone sort of arch to the north.
He had planned to be gone about two weeks, but it was closer to three before he returned. He waved to Addie, who was watching from their window, as he rode down Main Street toward Schloeken’s. He unloaded a considerable amount of meat—deer and elk mostly, with some rabbits, turkeys, grouse, dove, and a bear—in Schloeken’s smokehouse.
&nb
sp; After returning the wagon and horses to the livery, he headed to R.C. Pierce’s Mercantile, where he bought some new clothes. At Doc Finn’s place, he had a hot bath, and had Josepha toss away his filthy, blood-soaked clothes. He dressed in his new things. On the way home, he stopped in the Springs Palace for a quick drink.
Addie flew into his arms as he walked in the door of their room. She smothered him with kisses, wetting his face with her tears. He felt bad again, knowing she had been worried sick about him since he had been gone longer than he had planned. She tore his clothes off and tugged him toward the bed. He went willingly.
Afterward, when he had finished a cigarette, and his breathing was back to normal, he asked, “An answer come from Pete yet?”
“No,” Addie said sadly.
Four days later, though, it arrived.
Chapter Three
The letter was short and to the point: “Ain’t nobody taking me off this land. Pete Kinchloe.”
Guthrie sat staring down at the paper and the one defiant sentence. Addie was looking over his shoulder as he sat at the table. She felt sick. She had thought that she was being helpful when she suggested that her husband write to his friend. She had heard Guthrie talk fondly—as fondly as he had ever talked about anyone—of Pete Kinchloe. She had never expected such a curt, snippish answer. She was afraid to say anything, lest Guthrie lash out at her, since this had all been her idea.
Guthrie set the paper down on the table. With deliberate care, he reached into his shirt pocket and fished out his fixings. He rolled a cigarette, and scratched a match along the windowsill and then lit the cigarette. Bluish smoke drifted up.
Something about the letter bothered him. It just wasn’t like Pete Kinchloe to do such a thing. He and Kinchloe had never really written to each other, but back in the old days, he had seen some of Pete Kinchloe’s handwriting. And this cramped, angry sprawl of letters was not normal for Kinchloe.
That was it! he suddenly thought. The handwriting was angry. “Somethin’s wrong, Addie,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Addie said meekly, awaiting the torrent of his anger.
“Nothin’ for you to be sorry for,” he said with a sigh.
Addie’s relief was palpable.
Guthrie half turned in the chair and looked up at Addie. “Somethin’s wrong with Pete. I can feel it. It just ain’t like him to write to me in such a way. Hell, if he didn’t want to go, he would’ve just said so nicely and let it go at that. I figure somethin’s got to be terrible wrong with him.” The more he thought about it, the more worried he became. It was an uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling.
“But what could be wrong?” Addie asked, her relief at not facing Guthrie’s wrath tempered by concern for her husband’s friend.
“Hell if I know,” Guthrie snapped. He shoved himself up and stalked about the room, trying to sort out his thoughts. Smoke puffed up from the cigarette in furious puffs that followed him around the room like thunderclouds. He finally tossed the cigarette butt into a cuspidor across the room.
“Damnit,” he swore. He did not know, of course, what was bothering Kinchloe, but he knew he had to find out. And that meant leaving Addie again. She would not be happy at that, and he was loathe to have to do it. But he had to; he could see no other way. Not being the kind of man he was.
He stopped and knelt in front of Addie, who had taken his old seat at the table. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he said, “I know Pete’s in some kind of trouble. And I got to go help him, Addie. Can you understand that?” He gazed earnestly into her violet eyes.
Addie was torn. She knew Guthrie wanted to help his friend; she even wanted him to. On the other hand, she wanted—no, she thought, needed—him here with her, especially now.
Guthrie was aware of her indecision and he felt for her. But this was something he had to do. “I ever tell you about Abilene?” he asked.
“No,” Addie said, trying not to cry.
“I got tangled up with the Taggarts while on a cattle drive up from Texas. Pete was trail boss, and kept the Taggarts and their cronies away from me on the trail. But once we got to Abilene, I was on my own. It finally came to a showdown between me, the Taggarts, and their friends. Seven against one.” He paused, remembered it like it was only yesterday, though it had been more than a decade. He sighed. “Anyway, Pete came to my rescue. It wasn’t for him, I’d have been occupyin’ the boneyard a long, long time ago.”
Addie nodded. She still felt like bursting into tears, or screaming, or doing something. But that would only hurt Guthrie, and she did not want to do that. She was surprised at how lucid she was, though, once she started thinking about what needed to be done. “I’ll be ready to leave in an hour, if that suits you,” she said, forcing a smile.
Guthrie stood, relieved. He had thought she would understand, but he was still reassured when she had voiced it. Then uncertainty cropped up again. “No,” he said firmly.
“What?” Addie asked, surprised. She had stood but now sat right back down again, wondering.
“I’ll be going myself.”
“Why?” Addie was befuddled.
“I can travel a hell of a lot faster on my own,” he said, gaining steam. “And, I won’t have to worry about you so much. We might not have too many friends here in Apache Springs, but we got a few. Mary or Ma Snow can watch over you. With you travelin’ in a buggy, it’d take a month or so just to get there. With me travelin’ on my own, I can be there and back in the same time.”
Guthrie paused, thinking. “And, if Pete’s in trouble like I figure he is, it might mean danger. I don’t want to expose you to that.”
“I’ve faced danger before,” Addie snapped. “As you should well know.”
“Not while you were carrying a baby you haven’t,” Guthrie said softly. He knelt in front of Addie again and rested a big, work-hardened hand on the cloth over her bulging belly. “I ain’t exposin’ you—or my child—to danger.”
Addie nodded, though her emotions were in turmoil. “But…but what if you…?” she asked, almost breathlessly, “What if you…?” She could not finish it.
Guthrie knew what she was trying to say. “Hell,” he said with a reassuring grin, “if all those Taggarts couldn’t kill me—either back in Abilene or here in Apache Springs—I reckon I’ll be safe enough no matter what I run up against at Pete’s.” He didn’t really expect too much danger, but he couldn’t see risking Addie’s life if there was even a remote possibility. What he figured was that Kinchloe was in some kind of money trouble or something and like any real man out here, would not want to mention it.
Addie felt little consolation in the words, though she knew what Guthrie had said made perfect sense. As much as she wanted to get out of Apache Springs, she would still be better off here under the circumstances than she would be on the trail with a husband whose mind was not fully on her. “All right,” she said in resignation, knowing it was futile to argue about it. She smiled wanly at Guthrie and reached out to stroke his sandy, slightly longish hair. “You ain’t gonna listen to me anyway. When’re you plannin’ to leave?”
“Soon’s I can get ready.” He stood, mind already on the task at hand. He paced a moment, then said, turning toward Addie, “I’ll need you to pack an extra shirt and pair of pants for me while I head on over to Pierce’s for some supplies. Shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”
Addie cast aside her fears and doubts. There was work to be done. She shoved herself up, already feeling the awkwardness of her expanding pregnancy, and moved close to him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her right cheek on Guthrie’s chest.
“You have time to say a proper goodbye to your wife?” she asked in a sultry whisper.
“Yes, ma’am, I most certainly do,” Guthrie said with a grin. He was still amazed at how little Addie was letting the pregnancy affect her wifely duties.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Guthrie was on the trail. He rode his big buckskin gelding, a strong, sturdy horse
. Behind him trailed a smaller, chestier sorrel, loaded with some supplies. Guthrie clattered across the bridge over Nieve Creek, which separated Apache Springs proper from the Mexican influenced part of town and then followed the trail south a ways.
Jack Guthrie was a man used to living on the trail. He had been a soldier, working his way up to sergeant, during the Civil War and for a few years afterward. After a short stint as a deputy for James Butler Hickok—the infamous Wild Bill—in Abilene, he turned to bounty hunting for some years and then buffalo hunting. He was not one to dally, either. He would put in long hours, stopping only when nightfall was nearly complete. A small fire, a quick meal and then he was in his bedroll. He usually slept under the open sky, unless he felt rain threatened, in which case he would rig up a piece of canvas to shelter him. So he made good time.
Guthrie traveled southwest, passing just by the northern edge of Gallinas Peak two days out. He was on the high desert plains that sloped gradually down toward Texas. Just after passing the peak, he picked up Gallo Arroyo and followed along it eastward and a little southward to the Pecos River. There was little to be seen—an occasional ranch house, an even rarer town—and so little to distract or delay him. There were no trees except in spots where water sometimes accumulated in the arroyo or a wash. With the little water available, Guthrie had to conserve what he had or found. The same with fuel, though buffalo and cow chips could be found in enough quantity that he never wanted for at least a small fire.
