by John Legg
Valencia did not seem so happy. “That is not good, señor. Maybe.” He looked concerned. “Why?”
“The Apaches don’t easily—or quickly—forget such things.”
“So?” Guthrie figured he knew where this was heading. And he didn’t like it, especially since he had already thought of the possibility.
“They might get even more troubling. The Apaches are great ones at avenging such theengs. And they might not be so choosy as to who they dish it out to.”
“You think they’ll come against the town here?” Valencia shrugged. “Who knows what’s in an Apache’s mind, señor. But any travelers’ll be in danger.”
“So were we,” Guthrie snapped. “I’ve dealt a little with Apaches before, Senor Valencia. And they’re always on the prod. My little encounter with ’em ain’t gonna make things no worse for anyone. ’Cept maybe me.”
“Oh?” Valencia asked, raising his eyebrows. Guthrie was aware that Addie was also looking at him questioningly—and with more than a little alarm. He had not wanted to say anything, but he could not just bluff his way out of this one. “After we fought off those Apaches, we headed back here. We took shelter in a cave during the storm. When we got back on the trail, I had the feelin’ we were being followed—just like when we had left here.”
“And?” Valencia asked, almost eagerly.
“And, I think it was those goddamn Apaches again,” Guthrie snapped angrily. “I ain’t sure, but I expect they were watchin’ us.”
“You must be wrong, señor.”
“Why?”
“If Apaches were following you, they would’ve attacked you again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I reckon they’ve got a healthy respect for me after I dusted several of ’em. And I did that after waitin’ ’em out a couple days. They ain’t used to that, I’d say.” He smiled crookedly. “And I suppose they might be waitin’ for some reinforcements.”
“That makes sense, señor,” Valencia said, nodding. “They’d be afraid of such a mighty warrior as you.” He smiled, showing that he was not mocking Guthrie, but was, in fact, paying him tribute.
“Bah,” Guthrie muttered.
“And what’ll you and the pretty señora do now?” Valencia asked, eyes flashing interest.
“Reckon we’ll spend a little time here in Bonito,” Guthrie said grudgingly. “At least till this trouble’s passed us by.” He paused and glared at Valencia. “Unless you think we’ll attract unwelcome visitors.” It was a question.
Valencia stared blandly back at Guthrie. “It’s possible,” he said mildly. Then he grinned. “But I suppose those maldito — damned—Apaches would attack Bonito anyway, if they took it into their minds to do so.”
“I expect,” Guthrie said. “You have any problem with me and my wife stayin’ on here a spell?”
“No, señor.” He grinned. He did not want to tell Guthrie that he hoped the Anglo would stay. The town of Bonito would need a hardcase like this one for when the Apaches did attack. And he was certain they would, whether Guthrie was here or not.
“Gracias,” Guthrie said, not quite sarcastically. He stood. “Now, señor, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve had a long day, and Señora Guthrie is tired.”
Chapter Twelve
Guthrie chafed at his uselessness. But he knew he could not go anywhere. Reports came in almost daily from surrounding farms and ranches, from travelers and even an occasional Army patrol of Apache raids and atrocities. Guthrie knew that to leave now would be virtually certain death for him and Addie.
Still, he was anxious about being holed up for so long. Not that he disliked Bonito. Or even that he disliked being in a town. It was being forced to stick inside the town’s limits that irritated and angered him. That and knowing that Kinchloe should be arriving in Santa Cruz soon and would be expecting him. It all conspired to make him irritable.
After a week, he was ready to spit nails from the frustration of being cooped up. His money was running low, Addie was irritable, and it had rained twice more. His annoyance was growing daily.
He was standing at the window of his hotel room looking out at the street and brooding about his predicament when he spotted a rider racing hell-bent into the town. The rider stopped in the plaza and jumped off the horse. He ran up into the gazebo and began shouting for attention.
Figuring this was at least something to break up the monotony of the day, Guthrie opened the window, heedless that he was naked. He figured no one would be looking up his way anyway, not with this shouting going on in the center of the town. Addie was behind him on the bed, still sleeping, unaware.
Quite a crowd had gathered, looking expectantly up at the man. Guthrie recognized him now as ’Nando Ortega, a middle-aged, slightly built fellow who worked for the stage line, doing all sorts of odd jobs.
Someone shouted at Ortega, telling him to say what he had to say.
“Apaches,” Ortega said simply. The single word sent a buzz of excited fear through the crowd. When the people quieted, Ortega said, “They’re all around us.”
“Tell us sumpin we don’t know,” someone yelled. There was general agreement from the crowd.
“They’ve got us blocked off,” Ortega shouted in agitation. “We can’t get out—and nobody can get in.”
“How far away are they?” someone yelled.
Ortega pointed. The crowd turned en masse. Guthrie stepped to the side, thinking that perhaps Ortega had been pointing at him. He peeked around the window jamb and saw that the people were looking in his general direction but not at him. He wondered what it was. Then he remembered the flat-topped ridge on the southeast edge of town. The Apaches were, Guthrie figured, up there. The ridge was only about one hundred fifty yards from the plaza. Anyone in town would be within rifle range. And even if Indians couldn’t shoot all that well—a common belief out here, though Guthrie knew it was erroneous—they were bound to get lucky sooner or later.
“There’s more of them out past each end of Center Street,” Ortega yelled, getting the attention of the crowd again. The townsfolk kept throwing nervous glances over their shoulders, as if expecting Apache bullets to rain down on them at any moment.
“And, I theenk those savages’re also crawleeng all over Corrizo Hill.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder at the mountain behind him.
Marshal Fred Claver moseyed up and climbed onto the gazebo, where he surveyed the crowd. Guthrie remembered the first time he had seen Claver; he had almost burst out laughing at the marshal. Claver was a bland, medium-size man of indeterminate age and intelligence. He was also a man who had delusions of greatness, as well as an air of pomposity about him. No one else apparently saw him in the same light, except perhaps Round Martha, a rotund, swarthy woman who was one of the few prostitutes who plied their trade behind the three saloons in Bonito.
“Listen up, folks,” Claver shouted in reassuring tones. “We have nothing to fear from these Indians. The savages’re afraid to mount an assault on the town itself. And they ain’t got the patience to wait us out. We’ve got plenty of food in town, enough to last weeks. We won’t want for anything. Long before we run out of supplies, those savages’ll get tired of sittin’ around and they’ll take off. So don’t you go frettin’ over such nonsense.”
Guthrie had to admit the man made at least a little sense. And Guthrie’s opinion of the man rose considerably—not so much that the man might be right, but because the marshal had done quite a bit with his little speech to reassure the townspeople. It kept down the panic that threatened to explode, and that, Guthrie figured, was a worthwhile accomplishment.
“What’s going on?” Addie asked sleepily, coming up alongside Guthrie. She rubbed her eyes as she looked out over the crowd. “You showin’ off for the folks, sweetheart?” she asked with a hearty giggle.
“And why not?” he demanded in mock severity. He grew serious then, and explained what he had just heard.
“Is it that bad?” Addie asked when Guthrie had finished.
“Reckon not. I
doubt they’ll actually attack. And, while the ’Paches have a heap more patience than most other Indians, they’ll most likely get tired of doin’ nothing. Especially if there’s little point to it.” He shrugged. “So let’s just forget about it for now and go get us something to eat.”
The restaurant was crowded, and all the talk was about the Apaches. Guthrie listened with only half an ear. He knew most of what was being said was rumor and conjecture—words of fear and worry. But he did listen in a little, just in case someone had something accurate or important to say about the problem.
As the days passed, though, the people seemed to worry less and less about the Apaches, who still showed up every day on the ridge. Often the Indians would shout taunts down at the town. But nothing happened for five days.
By that time, the Apaches had become almost a fixture on the skyline. So much so that they were not even seen as a threat any longer. The lack of concern was fatal.
Guthrie and Addie were sitting at their small table in their room at the hotel, sipping coffee. Their window was open, and they were watching life around the plaza of Bonito. A man Guthrie did not know was strolling up Center Street across and a little to the left of the hotel when he suddenly keeled over. Just about the time a woman screamed, the crack of a rifle drifted over the town. People scattered in panic.
“Damn,” Guthrie muttered, dropping his cup on the table. A smattering of gunfire erupted, the bullets peppering the street across from the hotel. Guthrie figured the Apaches had gone against all reason and were attacking the town.
He leaped up and raced for his clothes on the bed. He was dressed—sloppily but completely, including wearing his gun belt—in minutes. He jammed a box of Sharps cartridges into his shirt, and then a box of .44-caliber cartridges he could use for both his Henry and the big Remington.
Giving Addie a quick kiss, he raced out the door, a rifle in each hand. In the hallway, he ran for the rear window. Looking out it, he could see puffs of gunsmoke from up on the ridge, but he could pick out no one. He ran back toward the stairs, shouting for Brocius. When the hotel owner looked up at him, Guthrie asked, “There a way onto the roof?”
“Yes,” Brocius said nervously. He huffed and puffed up the stairs, then led Guthrie to a small room he used for storage. Inside, a ladder led up to a hole in the ceiling. The hole was covered by a wood door.
“The key?” Guthrie asked impatiently.
“Downstairs,” Brocius said. He did not carry a key ring with him. The bulkiness of it would have ruined his appearance, he often thought. “I’ll get it.”
“To hell with it.” Guthrie yanked the big Remington and fired twice, shattering the lock.
“Hold these,” he ordered, shoving the rifles at Brocius. When the hotel owner took them, Guthrie scrambled up the ladder and shoved the trap door open. Then he reached down for the rifles. He took them one at a time and shoved them through the hole. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled himself up and outside, throwing himself flat immediately, since he was totally exposed to the Apaches out here.
Grabbing his rifles, he scuttled toward the chimney in the center of the roof. Safely behind it, he took a few moments to calm his breathing. Then he edged around the side of the stone and adobe chimney with the Sharps.
The hotel was the only two-story building in Bonito. Being on its roof gave Guthrie an advantage he would have nowhere else in town. It was almost a flat shot from here to the ridge less than one hundred fifty yards away. He quickly set out the boxes—now opened—of cartridges.
Guthrie yanked back the hammer of the Sharps and aimed at one of the Indians. Another thing that had always bothered him about Apaches was the fact that one could never really tell which ones were chiefs and which were mere warriors. With Comanches or Kiowas, the war chiefs were readily identifiable—and as such, prime targets. But with these Apaches, one could never be sure who was who.
The Apaches were still firing at the town. They apparently felt immune to danger, since they did nothing to conceal themselves. Guthrie smiled grimly. That would be their downfall. He fired and a warrior was spun completely around as the bullet smashed high into the right side of his chest.
Even though it had been a while since he had hunted buffalo, Guthrie took mere seconds to extract the spent shell and insert a new one. He fired again, killing a second Apache. The others, knowing they were facing a deadly enemy now, dived for cover before Guthrie could reload and aim.
Suddenly Guthrie heard someone calling from back by the trap door, “Who’s out there on the roof?”
“Jack Guthrie. That you, Marshal?”
“Yeah. How’re you doin’?”
“Right as rain. I dusted two of those bastards. But the rest’ve headed for cover.”
“What can we do to help?”
“We?”
“Well, me.”
Guthrie smiled at that. He didn’t think the marshal would have gotten too much help from the townspeople. “Just keep everybody inside. I’ll set out here a while and keep an eye on those savages. I...” He slapped his mouth shut, then muttered, “Damn!” as a bullet whined past his head from behind him. He headed for the trap door in a hurry and slid down through it, almost landing on Claver.
“What the hell was that?” Claver asked, fear unmasked in his voice, as they stood on the floor.
“Ortega was right—there are Apaches up on Corrizo Hill. Sons of bitches just took a shot at me.”
“What’re we gonna do now?” Claver was almost trembling.
“Same as I’d planned to before. But I’ll need some protection.” He thought for a moment, rolling his tongue over a tooth. “Does Verdugo have any bales of fur over at his store?”
“Plenty.” Claver looked at him with questions in his eyes.
“Go get four or five of ’em. That ought to be enough.”
“What for?”
“Just go get ’em. Fast.”
While he waited for the marshal to return, Guthrie popped his head up out of the hole occasionally and checked. Nothing much seemed to have changed, either on the ridge the one way or the mountain the other. It seemed to take forever, but Claver finally returned, tugging a bale of wolf, bear, beaver, and mountain lion furs. Six other men followed him, each toting a bale.
Guthrie had built up a pile of trunks and such so that he could stand with one foot on a rung of the ladder and the other on the pile he had made. It gave him better footing. He reached down, took a bale and shoved it through the trap door opening. The others quickly followed.
“Thanks, boys,” he said almost cheerily when all of the bales were on the roof. “Hand my rifles up here.”
The others headed out of the room—except one. A Mexican youth, maybe seventeen years old. Arturo Espinoza was apprenticed to the wagon maker, but he had heroic visions for himself. “I’d like to help, Señor Guthrie,” he said quietly.
“It’s pretty dangerous, boy,” Guthrie said.
“I know, señor.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Not much.” The youth looked abashed.
“No matter,” Guthrie said, smiling at the young man. “I suppose you could help me keep watch, though. I can’t look in two directions at once.”
Espinoza grinned and nodded. “Sí, señor,” he said enthusiastically.
“Come on, then, boy. Mind you keep your head down, though. I don’t expect those ’Paches are the best shooters in the world, but no need to tempt them.”
The two built a small fort out of bales. Combined with the chimney, it would keep them safe enough if they didn’t get too daring. Twice while they worked, an Apache over on Corrizo Hill stood, taunted them, and then fired several shots in their direction.
Guthrie didn’t mind the first time, but the second time irritated him. When the Apache stood up the third time, Guthrie grabbed the Sharps. He, too, stood, so that the Indians could see him.
The Apache grabbed his crotch in a derisive gesture. Then he raised his rifle. Guthrie stood his
ground. The Indian fired and the bullet thumped into the wood facade of the hotel.
Guthrie smiled and raised the Sharps. It was not often that he fired the twelve-pound rifle from a standing position. The kick was enormous, especially with the heavy-duty loads he favored. But he did it occasionally, and he figured this was a good time for it.
He fired and then watched the Indian spin from the impact of the bullet, then fall, bouncing slowly off rocks, down the face of the mountain.
“That’ll teach your ass,” Guthrie muttered. He looked down at Espinoza and winked.
The young man was sitting, staring dumbly with mouth agape at Guthrie. “Jesucristo,” he finally breathed.
“Finish up, boy,” Guthrie said softly.
Guthrie reloaded the Sharps while Espinoza finished settling the bales into place.
Then they settled down to wait.
Chapter Thirteen
Once more during that long, hot day Guthrie took down an Apache who got a little too daring for his own good. That kept the Apaches quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
As dusk began to fall, Guthrie decided there was no point to staying where he was. He doubted the Apaches would attack at night. He had never known any Indians to attack at night. Guthrie sent Espinoza down through the trap door first, then followed. He shut the trap door but had no way to lock it. He was not concerned about that.
Guthrie stopped in his room and talked with an anxious Addie for a little. Then the couple went to supper at the restaurant next door to the hotel. While they were eating, Marshal Claver arrived. A number of the other men from town followed at as discreet a distance as they could manage in the small restaurant.
Claver grabbed a chair from another table and swung it backward up to Guthrie’s table. He sat in it, hooking his arms over the back. “We’ve got to talk about what we’re gonna do about these ’Paches, Mister Guthrie,” he said without preliminary.
Guthrie stopped with a forkful of pork chop halfway to his mouth and shot a venomous look at the lawman. With a deliberate movement, Guthrie set the food-laden fork down on his plate. “Was I you, Marshal,” Guthrie said very quietly, “I’d get my fancified ass out of here right goddamn now.”
