by John Legg
A few minutes later, the skies opened up, sending down thunderous, driving sheets of rain. Addie was glad that Guthrie had insisted on getting her the slicker—and the hat. They kept her mostly dry and rather warm, as the temperature plunged.
Guthrie fought to keep control of the grays. The horses were spooked by the thunder and the lightning. And the heavy rain quickly turned the trail into a river of slippery mud sprinkled with slick rocks that rolled and skittered away under the horses’ hooves.
They worked across the long, low flat—now a sea of muck—where Guthrie had first become aware that the Indians were watching him three days ago. He wanted to stop and find a place to wait out the storm. But there was nothing that would offer them haven, so he pressed on.
As they came off the flat back into a land of rocky cliffs and steep mountain walls, Guthrie knew he had to find a place soon. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and he was certain the grays would never be able to get the wagon up the steep grade Guthrie knew was coming up in little more than two miles.
Guthrie finally stopped the wagon. While the gloom of the day kept him from seeing too much, the wagon’s jolting made it almost impossible to make out anything. He glanced from left to right, looking for something—anything—that would provide some shelter. “Damnit!” he muttered. He had seen nothing. He clucked and got the horses moving again.
But he kept stopping the wagon every few yards and looked around some more. Nearly a mile farther on, he spotted what looked to be a trail leading off to the east. With a shrug, he turned the wagon down it. He knew there was nothing between here and the sloping mountain a mile ahead. He just hoped he could find something down this track.
The shallow ruts, filled with mud, were hard to follow, so Guthrie proceeded slowly. He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief when—more than an hour and two miles later—he found a cave. It was in the northern side of the trail. Across from it were thick stands of pine—so thick that it would’ve been impossible for Guthrie to get through them on a horse.
The mouth of the cave was partially covered by brush, but within minutes he had managed to clear it away. Guthrie untied the buckskin horse from the wagon, hobbled him off to the side, and gave him some oats in a feed bag. Then, as he directed her, Addie backed the wagon as far into the forty- foot-deep cave as she could.
It was quiet in the cave, after having the rain hammering down on them for so long. Still, the rain poured outside loudly, and the booming of thunder echoed around the cave.
After Guthrie helped Addie down from the wagon, he said, “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Where’re you going?” Addie asked, taking off the slouch hat and slapping the water from it.
He jerked his head in the direction of the pines across the way. “I’m hopin’ I can find some dry wood. I ain’t aimin’ to ride out this storm on hardtack and beef jerky—and no coffee.”
He had a sudden thought. “Give me your slicker. You won’t need it in here.”
Addie looked at him questioningly for a moment, then shrugged the long coat off and handed it to Guthrie.
Much to Guthrie’s relief, he found plenty of dry wood under the thick canopy of tight pines. He spread out Addie’s slicker and piled some wood— including kindling—on it before wrapping the slicker up around the wood. It made a heavy load, but one he could manage for the short distance he had to go. He dumped it out on the floor of the cave near the front. He did not need to tell Addie to get a fire going. He left and got some more wood.
In all, he made five trips for wood before he figured they had enough to last them a while should the rain continue. Then he took off his own slicker and hung both his and Addie’s coats on the back of the wagon. He lighted one of their lanterns and set it on a rock nearby so he would have light to work by.
He unhitched the two grays and took one to each side of the wagon. He put a full feed bag over each horse’s muzzle and hobbled the animals so they would not wander.
Guthrie strolled back to where Addie had built a fire in a small niche at the base of the wall. He was still tired from the Apache siege. He was made all the more so by the heavy gloom of the day, the rain, fighting to keep the wagon on track through the mud, and then the work he had done. He wanted nothing more than to collapse and sleep for several days. But more had to be done yet.
He glanced at Addie, who squatted awkwardly at the fire, cooking up a mess of bacon and beans. He felt sorry for her. She had had it as tough as he had. Worse, considering she was doing it all while carrying a child in her womb. Yet she had not complained once through it all. He was proud of her, and wished he had been able to have given her a softer life. However, he was pragmatic enough to know that wishing would not make it so. Once they got to California though, he thought, her life would be much easier.
If we ever make to California, he thought disgustedly. It seemed the fates were constantly conspiring to keep him from his goal.
With a sigh, he got his Sharps and his Henry. Addie, having heard him, looked at him in alarm, thinking he had seen or heard something she had not. He smiled a little. “Got to clean ’em,” he said. He should have done so long ago, but could not take the time while the Apaches were still around, and then he had slept.
He sat back against a small rock and cleaned, oiled, and reloaded the two rifles. By the time he finished, supper was ready. He put the rifles away and took the tin plate from Addie. He nodded his thanks and dug in, thinking how sick he was of bacon and beans.
“What’re you doin’?” he asked around a mouthful of food. He had thought Addie would sit with him and eat. But she had her back to him and was working at something.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Makin’ us somethin’ special.”
“What?” Guthrie asked with growing eagerness.
“Just never you mind,” she said. Her voice was more cheery than it had been in a long time.
He nodded and finished his meal. Addie finally turned and set a small Dutch oven in the fire. Then she sat next to him and ate. Guthrie sipped coffee and smoked a cigarette, feeling drowsy. He snapped out of that when Addie indicated she needed a hand getting up.
Addie waddled to the fire. Using a rag so as not to burn her hands, she pulled the Dutch oven out of the fire and set it in the dirt. She gingerly took the top off and dropped it alongside.
Guthrie perked up as the delicious aroma of apple compote wafted up over him. “Well?” he said, licking his lips in anticipation.
“It’s got to cool some,” Addie said in mock sternness.
He was impatient and stuck it out only a few minutes before he said, “I expect that compote’s cool enough.”
Addie grinned and dished some up for each of them. Guthrie attacked it, savoring its thick, gooey sweetness. It made him forget about the repetitious days of bacon and beans. It seemed as if his body craved the sweetness. However, he did not question it; he just enjoyed.
Afterward, Guthrie and Addie joined, and later they lay together listening to the crashing thunder and hissing roar of the rain. It was almost comforting now that they were in the shelter of the cave.
Chapter Eleven
Guthrie kept his head high as he wheeled the wagon into Bonito, though he felt like crawling in a hole. He suspected that everyone in the town was watching him and laughing at him. On the other hand, he had Addie with him. Her safety— and that of his unborn child—had to come first. He just hoped the townspeople could see that.
Bonito was a small town, but seemed to have most of the amenities. It had a hotel, three saloons, small general store, livery, blacksmith shop, butcher shop, restaurant, small jail and marshal’s office, bank, gunsmith’s, even a newspaper.
Most of the buildings were of dull, reddish-brown adobe fronted with pinewood facades. Only a few buildings had raised wood sidewalks in front, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the town’s few back streets and alleys. Two main streets, Center running roughly northwest and southeast, and Bonito at rig
ht angles to it, came together at a small plaza. The plaza was dominated by a gazebo and a town well, which sat next to each other in the center of a patch of browning grass. In turn, the grass was surrounded by an ocean of mud, the legacy of the recent rainstorms.
Guthrie had learned the last time he was here that the town was divided almost equally between Anglos and people of Mexican descent. They all seemed to get along, for the most part, avoiding the tensions that usually were prevalent in towns that had such large proportions of differing races.
Guthrie pulled the wagon up alongside the hotel. It had no name on it, just a sign painted in big red letters proclaiming its function. Guthrie and Addie had stayed there the last time they were in Bonito and had found it more than adequate, if not very fancy. It was one of the places in town with a sidewalk.
Guthrie lifted Addie down and set her on the wood planks. They entered the hotel lobby. Hiram Brocius, the owner, was sweeping up clots of dry, hardened mud. He stopped and looked up at the sound of the door. He smiled when he saw who it was. “Welcome back, Mr. Guthrie. Ma’am,” he said pleasantly.
Brocius was a big, overweight man who nonetheless thought himself something of a dandy. He wore as fine clothes as he could find in Bonito, and always had his hair slicked back with grease. His curling mustache was waxed, as usual, and clouds of lime water drifted about his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Brocius,” Guthrie said. “You still got a room available?”
“Of course. Of course,” the innkeeper said expansively. He leaned his broom against a wall and hurried to his desk—nothing so common as a counter would do for Hiram Brocius, just a discreet desk in a back corner of the lobby.
The business formalities were completed in moments, and Guthrie led Addie upstairs to their room. A black youth followed a few minutes later with one of their small trunks.
“That all you need from the wagon?” the boy asked.
“Reckon that’ll do,” Guthrie said with a smile. He slipped the boy a coin, and then held his finger up to his lips. “I won’t tell no one, if you don’t,” he said, grinning.
The boy flashed him a grateful smile and then hurried out and down the stairs.
Guthrie left Addie resting on the creaky iron framed bed while he drove the wagon over to the livery, where he left it and the three horses. He strolled slowly through the mud to the hotel, which sat on the southeastern corner of the plaza. Directly across Center Street was the Pine Log Saloon. Guthrie battled the temptation to head to the liquor emporium and cut the trail dust in his throat. Such things were limited to him now, what with him being a married man and a father-to-be. He plodded up the steps. When he entered the room and saw Addie lying on the bed, only half awake, he decided that the things he had to give up because he was married meant little compared to the things he received from it.
Addie awoke and swung her legs over the side of the bed as Guthrie was putting his rifles against a wall in one corner. He glanced back at her and smiled, then turned and looked out the curtained window over Center Street. Addie came up and stood next to him, resting her right cheek on his left biceps.
“You feelin’ poorly that we couldn’t go on?” Addie asked quietly.
“Some,” he answered truthfully. “But I got you to think of now, Addie. You and the child growing inside you. That’s got to come first.” He turned and enveloped her in his big, strong arms. He was amazed again at how small she actually was. “And,” he said, smiling over the top of her head, “that ain’t such a bad thing at all.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” He paused. “The only thing that worries me is Pete sittin’ down there in Santa Cruz waitin’ on us, not knowin’ what’s goin’ on.” Guthrie sighed. “Well, maybe the danger’ll pass before long.” He had his doubts about that, though. “Hungry?”
“Yep.” Addie smiled up at Guthrie. “Since I’m eatin’ for two these days, I seem to be hungry most all the time.” Anger crossed her face a moment. “You don’t think I’m gettin’ too fat, do you?” she asked seriously, worried.
“No,” he answered mostly honestly. He liked the way she looked these days. The pregnancy seemed to enhance her beauty somehow. He was worried, though, that she might not be able to slim back to her old figure once the baby was born. But he wouldn’t let her know that. “So, come on, let’s hit that restaurant and have us a real meal,” he said with a grin.
The grin froze on his face when he saw her look. Oh, damn. I’ve done it again, he thought. Whatever it is. He had no idea.
“You sayin’ my cookin’s not very good?” she demanded, face flushed. “That what you’re sayin’?”
“No, Addie,” he wheedled. He hated himself for being this way; and he almost hated her for putting him in this position. “No, not at all. I’m just…well…I’m just...”
“I know what you’re just,” Addie snarled, eyes snapping angrily. “You just think this old cow can’t do nothin’ right no more. Can’t cook. Never could. Waddles around like some fat old goose. I need help gettin’ up and down and doin’ even the simplest chores. Ain’t even good at womanly things no more.”
She paused, sucked in a breath, and then launched into another tirade. “You don’t want a wife—a real wife. No, you don’t want that. Just want some darn maid. And maybe someone to be nothin’ more than a baby maker, so’s you can run around pointing out to all the boys just how he-manly you are. Well, I got somethin’ to tell you, Mister Jack Guthrie. You got the wrong woman for that here. I was doin’ fine before you ever showed up, and I can sure as all get-out do fine now, too…”
Guthrie was somewhat taken aback by the harangue. Not totally, since she was known to do this before, particularly since she had become pregnant. But this one seemed to be the worst. Guthrie wanted to counter it somehow, or at least smack her once to snap her back to reality. But he could not get a word into the constantly running stream issuing from Addie. And he would not smack her, no matter how much he might want to. So he stood, hanging his head sheepishly, while the torrent of words continued splattering over him.
Addie began to run out of steam after a few minutes. Guthrie took the chance and said, “Addie, listen to me. I…”
But that only set her off on a new spree. “Listen to you? I should listen to you? After what you said about me…” And she was off again.
Guthrie had had enough of this. He backed away from her a few steps and moved around her to the chair. He sat and began rolling a cigarette.
“Don’t you turn your back on me, Jack Guthrie,” Addie screeched. “I’ll not be taken so lightly. I don’t ever want to see you do that again.”
Guthrie scratched a match on the table, lighted the cigarette, and blew out the match. He dragged on the cigarette and blew out a column of smoke. Then he said, quietly but forcefully, “Shut up, Addie.”
Addie stumbled to a stop, then asked incredulously, “What?”
“I said,” Guthrie offered slowly, “for you to shut up.” He looked up at her, his anger tempered by his love for her. “You’ve been flappin’ your mouth long enough. I’ve listened to this nonsense all I’m gonna.”
“But…Well I…But…” She was almost speechless.
“If you had shut up at the beginning,” Guthrie added deliberately, “I would’ve explained it, and we could’ve avoided all this anger and such. All I meant by what I said was that I was sick of bacon and beans. It’s near all we’ve had for a month. I want a good beefsteak and maybe some taters, and corn and bread. A real meal. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with how good you cook.”
“Oh,” Addie said quietly. She felt like the biggest fool God had ever put on the Earth. She had known all along that her husband had meant nothing against her by the statement, but her system seemed to be so out of whack lately that she didn’t know what she was doing half the time. Added to the strain of carrying the baby was the trip and the stress of being under attack by Apaches. It all had left her a wreck.
“I’m sorry,” she whispere
d. A few tears leaked out, and that made her angry. She figured he would think she was crying simply to get his sympathy.
Guthrie tossed the cigarette butt into a cuspidor and rose. He took her in his arms again. “You all right?” he asked, concern coloring his voice. “Yeah,” Addie said, sniffling against his shirt. “All right,” he said, stroking her back. “What say you get yourself cleaned up and we’ll head next door to eat.”
She nodded. She blew her nose and then poured water in the basin. She washed her face off and fixed her hair a little. With a few swipes at the dust and wrinkles of her dress, she said, “Reckon I’m ready.”
Guthrie was grateful to see that the restaurant was mostly empty. Only three other customers, all townsmen by the look of them, were occupying tables. Guthrie led Addie to a table against the front window. He helped her into her chair and then sat across from her. He smiled.
Addie smiled back, relieved. She hated herself when she acted like she had. And each time it happened, she worried afterward if that would be the time Guthrie got his fill of her crankiness and would walk out on her. His smile told her plainly that this was not that time.
Guthrie got his beefsteak and everything else he had wanted. Addie stuck with fried chicken, peas, and yams. They had milk with the meal, and coffee afterward.
They were almost ready to leave when Victorio Valencia—the old man who had warned them about the Apaches—came up. Holding his sombrero in his hand, he said, “I see you’ve come back, senor. And you, señora.”
“Sí,” Guthrie said, torn between anger and disappointment. “Sit,” he said. When Valencia had pulled up a chair and sat down, Guthrie said, “You were right, señor. Those Apaches were on the war path.”
“They found you?”
Guthrie grew defiant. “Sí. But there’s at least a half a dozen of those heathen bastards gone to the Happy Huntin’ Ground.” He looked pleased with himself.
