by John Legg
Kinchloe was curious, but he kept quiet. He knew Guthrie would reveal his plan in good time. The two men finished their meal in silence, then Kinchloe asked, “Just how’re we gonna go about this trek, Jack?”
“I stopped at the land office in Sweetwater and picked up some maps,” Guthrie said. He stood and got the papers and unfolded them, one atop the other, on the table after Florence had cleared it. “I looked at these one night out on the trail. I think the best thing to do is head almost due west from here.” As he talked, he traced the trail in the maps. “Somewhere after crossin’ the Pecos—just before we hit the Sacramento Mountains, we cut southwest, between the Sacramentos and the Guadalupe Mountains. We sort of skip by the Huerto Mountains by going west before heading south again. Almost at El Paso, we cross the Rio Grande—that ought to be an adventure. Then north along the Rio Grande to Las Cruces. Then you head west.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be along with you till the Rio Grande. I’ll head north from there, up the Rio Grande and then east a bit to Apache Springs. You, your family, and your cowhands will head on west after getting to Las Cruces. Tomas, Ramon, and Isaac are plannin’ on going along, ain’t they?”
“They’ve said so. They have no reason to stay here. Ain’t too many others in this area are gonna hire ’em on anyway.”
Guthrie nodded. He bent back to the maps. “Once you hit Lordsburg, you got to head northwest some, into Arizona Territory. It gets kind of tricky there, if the folks I talked to in Sweetwater are tellin’ the truth. But by weaving northwest and southwest, all along, you can keep out of the mountains and stick to the flats where the cattle won’t be overworked. And, though most of it’s desert, you ought to be able to find enough feed for ’em.”
Kinchloe nodded, skeptical but knowing no other way. “Where do we meet up again? In California?” he asked.
Guthrie pointed to a speck on the map. “Here,” he said. “A place called Santa Cruz. Looks to be maybe sixty miles northwest of Tucson.”
“You gonna be able to make it that fast?” Kinchloe asked, still skeptical.
“Yep,” Guthrie said firmly. “Addie’ll be ready to go just about as soon as I get there. We can head west— it’s mostly high plains and such, so travelin’ ought to be easy. We’ll hit some hard mountains in Arizona, from what I’m told, but nothin’ we shouldn’t be able to handle. And, though we’ll be travelin’ by wagon, we won’t have that damn herd of cattle. I expect me and Addie’ll be in Santa Cruz waitin’ on you.”
Kinchloe stood there, gazing at the maps and thinking. But the decision had been made. Though Florence would be leaving all she had known, the Kinchloe ranch was out in the middle of nowhere. Florence had no family in the area—the nearest being in Sweetwater—and no real friends. She had no real reason to stay here, and she had been infected with the hope offered by California. Kinchloe would not—could not—deny her that.
Besides, there was little to hold him here either. When Jonah Tyrell had been alive, he had had a purpose here. But with the old man’s passing, he had had nothing but trouble.
Kinchloe grinned across the table at Guthrie. “It’s gonna be a hell of a trek, ain’t it?” he said.
“Yessir.” Guthrie grinned, too. Then he grew serious. “And time’s a-wastin’. Me and Addie’ll have some mountains to conquer, and I’d hate like hell to get caught in ’em with winter comin’ on. Once we get to Santa Cruz, we’ll be all right. In fact, since from there on to California it’s almost all desert, I hear, it’ll be best if we’re travelin’ it in fall or winter.”
Kinchloe nodded.
“When do we leave?” Guthrie asked. He was eager to be on the trail—and even more eager to see Addie again.
“Three days too soon?” Kinchloe said with a laugh, knowing exactly what Guthrie was thinking.
Chapter Eight
“You were right, Pete,” Guthrie said with a grin. “It was one hell of a trek.”
He and his friend were sitting on the high eastern bank of the Rio Grande, watching as Tomas Arguello, Ramon Dominguez, and Isaac Crump moved some of the cattle onto a log ferry for the trip across the river. Florence and the baby, Flora May, sat in the wagon nearby, while the two boys— Pete Jr. and Moses—played around it.
The trip to the Rio Grande had been long, slow, and tedious. But mercifully, it had been mostly uneventful. Crossing the Pecos had been the biggest problem, but they had made it, only losing one steer. Still, the scorching heat, lack of water, dull miles, had left them tired, aching, and irritable, for the most part. As had the snakes, occasional bouts with insects, scorpions, alkali water, two stampedes, and a general lack of sleep.
“Yep,” Kinchloe said with a laugh. “And I still get me a feelin’ of worth and accomplishment when I think about the shambles we left behind.”
Guthrie joined him in laughing. “I reckon Tyrell ain’t gonna bother you no more. Nor nobody else for a spell. It’s gonna take him years to get everything back in order.”
* * *
Kinchloe had sent his family and his wranglers— with the wagons and cattle—off that morning. Then he and Guthrie, trailing a pack horse loaded with dynamite, rode on over to the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos, stopping about a half-mile upstream from Tyrell’s ranch house.
While Kinchloe kept a watch out for Tyrell’s men, Guthrie set out dynamite. Then they moved downstream about a quarter of a mile, laid more dynamite, and then repeated it almost within eyesight of the Tyrell house.
“You ready, Pete?” Guthrie asked, with a wicked gleam in his eyes and grin on his face.
Kinchloe was beginning to have doubts, but he couldn’t back off now. He didn’t want to back off now. “You bet,” he said, regaining some of his enthusiasm.
Guthrie grinned and knelt. He used the cigar he had been puffing on to light the long fuse. Then he leaped into the saddle and the two men kicked their horses. They galloped off. They were almost to the second spot they had placed the dynamite when the first blast went off with a roar.
Guthrie whooped as the blast washed over him and Kinchloe. He slid off the horse, bent, lit the next fuse, and the race was on again. Once more it was repeated and the two men, still trailing their pack horse, galloped off. They stopped on a rise half a mile to the west and looked back.
Water from Double Mountain Fork was going in several directions, forming new, small streams and rivulets where before there had been an actual river. Smoke still hung in the air and dirt was still falling. Far off in the distance, they could see people running around crazily, trying to figure out what was going on.
“That ought to hold those bastards for a spell,” Guthrie said with a chuckle.
“I suppose.”
They trotted back to Kinchloe’s place. Kinchloe sat a minute looking over the shabby, dilapidated buildings. It was a sad looking place, made eerie by the emptiness. The wind blew dust through the place, creating odd sounds.
“You ain’t gonna miss this mess of a place, are you, Pete?” Guthrie asked, only half in jest. He had some idea of what Kinchloe was going through. No matter what the dilapidated ranch looked like, it was still home.
“Some,” Kinchloe admitted solemnly. Then he grinned, “But not too much, I reckon.”
“What do you think’s gonna happen to this place?”
“I expect,” Kinchloe said after a moment’s thought, “that Tyrell will come take it over as soon as he gets himself settled over at his place.” He suddenly looked sour. “Damnit, it still feels like I’m runnin’.”
“Even after what we did?” Guthrie grinned mildly.
“Yep.” He paused, sighed, and said, “He’s still here; still owns everything he always did. And now he’ll own my place, too. Goddamnit, it ain’t right, I tell ya. It’s gonna seem to everyone like I turned tail and ran.”
“I could fix Tyrell for you, Pete,” Guthrie said quietly. He had no desire to go kill Lem Tyrell in cold blood. But he would do so, if it would salve his friend’
s conscience. He owed too much to Pete Kinchloe to worry overly much about such a thing.
Kinchloe smiled, looking at his friend. He pulled out two cheroots and handed one to Guthrie. “It sure as hell is a temptin’ thought,” he allowed. He would not admit that it would make him feel quite a bit relieved, too. “But I reckon it just wouldn’t be right.” He sighed out a stream of smoke. “Still, it’s temptin’…” he repeated, almost dreamily.
A grin spread slowly across Guthrie’s face. “How’s about we depart from these parts with a real flourish?”
“I thought we’d done that already,” Kinchloe said with a short, low chuckle.
“I mean an even bigger send-off.” He paused, feeling the molar out with his tongue a moment. “Leave it so’s our old pal Mr. Lem Tyrell doesn’t have no more left than you do.”
“Eh?” Kinchloe asked, cocking his eyebrows at Guthrie. His interest was piqued.
“We still got us a few sticks of that dynamite left…” The grin broadened even more. “And I figure Tyrell’s gonna be mighty busy for a bit. Too busy, I’d say, to be payin’ too much attention to his house and barns.”
Kinchloe was silent, puffing on his slim cigar. But he, too, began to smile, liking the idea more and more with each passing second. He started nodding, slowly, then with more enthusiasm. “And,” he said enthusiastically, “we might as well finish makin’ this dump a pile of rubble.” He waved a long, thin arm around at the ranch. “Hell, it’s well on its way anyhow.” He was laughing now. “That ought to dampen any enthusiasm Tyrell might have for movin’ in here once we’re long gone.”
“It’d be a hell of a farewell.”
“That it would,” Kinchloe agreed.
They took care of Kinchloe’s place first, joyfully blowing up all the structures.
Then they rode east again, quickly, back to the Lazy Y. Once there, they found the ranch still in chaos. Guthrie placed dynamite in several spots alongside the house, two barns, three bunkhouses, and even the corral. As he got ready to light the first fuse, Guthrie hoped he had allowed enough length of fuse on all the dynamite to let them set off the charges and get away safely.
He had, and with the sound of explosions thundering in their ears, they rode like the dickens, heading west, whooping and hollering like two boys. And in less than an hour they were back with Florence, the children, and the drovers.
“Well, you take care of yourself, Pete,” Guthrie said, holding out his hand. “And your family.” Kinchloe shook the hand. “Y’all do the same.” He glanced down at the river and then looked back at his friend. “Y’all are certain you’ll be in Santa Cruz in a month?”
“Yes,” Guthrie said with certainty. “Most likely less. I’ll be holdin’ a place for you at the first saloon I can find there.”
“See you then,” Kinchloe said, convinced. He turned his horse and trotted down the hill toward his waiting ferry.
Guthrie watched for only a moment. Then he turned his horse north and hurried off. He wasted little time in traveling since he wanted to get back to Apache Springs. For one thing, it was far later in the summer than he had planned on, and he wanted to get on the trail with Addie. And he wanted to make sure he was in Santa Cruz to meet Pete Kinchloe. But more than that, he just plain missed Addie. He wanted to see her again in the worst way.
Less than a week later, he clattered across the bridge over Nieve Creek and into Apache Springs. He stopped at John Birdsell’s Livery and unsaddled the buckskin. But he would not spare the time to tend to the horse; he left that to Birdsell, whom Guthrie knew would take as good a care of the horse as if it were his own.
Guthrie hurried up Main Street, his saddlebags slung over his left shoulder, the Sharps in one hand, the Henry in the other. He burst into Widow Murphy’s, and shouted a greeting at the old woman as he charged up the stairs. -
Addie, showing vastly more pregnant than he had remembered, was waiting for him with open arms. They took their time in celebrating Guthrie’s return—once he became convinced that he would not harm her, despite her condition. It was a new and strange thing for him. Any other pregnant woman he had ever heard of wanted nothing to do with a man while she was this big. Indeed, most women wanted nothing to do with a man in bed even when not pregnant, it seemed. But Addie was not that way, and Guthrie appreciated that.
The next morning, they started preparing to leave. There wasn’t too much to do, but Guthrie wanted to make sure everything was just right. It took only three days, and then they said their farewells to their few friends. Addie wept as she hugged Widow Murphy and Ma Snow and a few of the latter’s working girls.
Guthrie gruffly said goodbye to bulky Sheriff Roy Hobbs, having already done so with John Birdsell, when he had picked up the flare-sided peddler’s wagon and team. Guthrie had looked at several kinds of wagons. He had finally decided on the peddler’s wagon. With its flared sides, it provided sufficient size for all the Guthries’ supplies and belongings. Yet it was smaller and much more manageable than a farm wagon.
With the buckskin tied behind the wagon, Guthrie finally slapped the reins on the team of two big grays, and they rattled out of town.
Three days later, they reached Abo Pass—where the blizzard had almost left them dead. Addie remembered it with a shudder: the howling, screeching wind; the snow that seemed as if it would never stop falling; the frigid temperatures; Guthrie heading out to try to see if they could make it through; and returning, weak, almost catatonic, and covered with ice.
“You gonna be all right, Addie?” Guthrie asked, worried, when he saw her face.
“Yes,” she whispered, her face pale.
But the journey through the pass was uneventful, and with each step, Addie relaxed a little more. By the time they were through the pass and making their camp on the bank of the Rio Grande, Addie was back to her usual chipper self, much to Guthrie’s relief.
The next morning, they lined up to catch the ferry across the river. Addie smiled, enjoying the dazzling sparkle of the dew on the leaves. The glitter did not last, though, as the sun rose hotly through the sky. By the time they were across the river, the day was sweltering.
The rest of the journey went as well as could be expected. As they crossed the lush San Augustin Plain, they found plenty of grass for the big grays that pulled their wagon, and for Guthrie’s longtime riding horse—the strong, responsive buckskin. The plain was covered as far as the eye could see with a glowing carpet of yellow flowers, which delighted Addie to no end. It helped her keep her mind off the hard, bumping ride, the blistering sun, the queasiness that so often was with her these days but which she tried to keep suppressed in front of Guthrie.
Eventually they skirted several small clumps of jagged mountains, and a number of stretches of lava beds before winding into the White Mountains in Arizona Territory two and a half weeks after leaving Apache Springs.
They followed a rugged, narrow trail through soaring pines, thin, noisy aspens, and thick cottonwoods, the wagon bouncing over the rocky land until Addie began to think the baby might be jolted out of her at any minute.
Guthrie could see how hard the trip was on Addie, and he went as slow as he reasonably could. He also made camp earlier in the day and took his time breaking camp in the mornings. It made him chafe; he was the type who wanted to be on the move as much as possible. Especially when he felt time slipping away. He was afraid he would be late for his rendezvous with Pete Kinchloe. But he knew that could not be helped and he forced himself to stay relaxed.
Finally, almost a month out from Apache Springs, they arrived in the small, dusty, adobe town of Bonito.
Addie was tired from all the traveling, and the strain of her pregnancy—she was further along than either wanted to admit. So Guthrie suggested they stay in the town a couple of days to let her rest— and to get some minor work done to the wagon. Addie gratefully agreed.
But after two days, they were eager to be on their way. Early the next morning, Guthrie began packing their belonging
s in the wagon. As Guthrie was finishing, the small, old Mexican—Victorio Valencia—had stopped near their wagon and offered his friendly warning that they should not leave Bonito, lest the Apaches find and scalp them.
But Guthrie, in his arrogance, chose not to listen, though he would have stayed in Bonito had Addie desired it. Addie, though, as she told Valencia, was confident that her husband could handle anything that life, the elements, Nature, or Apache Indians could throw at him. She knew how much he wanted to be on the trail, how much he wanted to get to Santa Cruz as quickly as possible. She would not make such a demand of him.
So they soon found themselves in a poor haven of clumped boulders, awaiting an Apache attack. Guthrie had his Henry repeater lying atop a boulder. He held the big Sharps in hand, aiming down the long, hexagonal barrel. It was the better weapon of the two for an accurate, deadly shot at long range. He waited.
Chapter Nine
Jack Guthrie had fought Indians before—plenty of them. After the war he had stayed in the army, and was shipped to Fort Davis in Texas. There he fought Comanches, Kiowas, Cheyennes a few times, the remnants of Wichitas, and a few other tribes. But never Apaches. Oh sure, he and the other men of his troop saw the work of Apaches, and even chased after them on occasion. But they had never fought the Apaches since they could never catch them. Those hardened warriors seemed to simply melt into the landscape whenever the troops closed in on them.
Much like they had now, Guthrie thought sourly. Apaches didn’t fight like other Indians. There were no headlong charges; no fanatical rushes on horseback, feathers fluttering. No, the Apaches preferred stealth and cunning. They would blend into the land, waiting with the patience of the rocks. And then they would pop up just as people were beginning to think they were safe again.
Well, Guthrie had plenty of patience, too. Maybe not as much as the Apaches, especially with Addie being pregnant and in such danger. But enough, he thought. Besides, he also had a Sharps Big Fifty, which should keep the Apaches at a respectable distance. And there was no cover that the Apaches could use to creep up too close.
