by John Legg
Claver looked at him in surprise. “Eh?” he muttered.
“You heard me.” He paused a heartbeat. “Mrs. Guthrie and I are having our supper. Mixing it with such talk as you want doesn’t set well with me. You want to talk about the Apaches, you can damn well wait till I’ve done and Mrs. Guthrie has retired to her room.” He picked up his fork and stuffed the food on it in his mouth and chewed slowly, not taking his eyes off the marshal.
Claver stared at Guthrie for some moments. He thought he should say something; to somehow assert his authority. But there was something cold and deadly in Guthrie’s eyes, and it kept him mum. Finally he muttered, “I’ll be waitin’ over there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. He stood and walked off, the other people making way for him. Claver sat at a table nearby, where he could keep an eye on Guthrie. He ordered a cup of coffee but showed little interest in drinking it—until Guthrie pulled out his big Remington and set it gently on his table, within easy reach.
Claver gulped down the coffee, though it was scalding hot. Then he stood and stomped outside, followed by the crowd, which seemed as if it were attached to him by a string. He waited outside near the window.
“Idiot,” Guthrie mumbled. Perversely, he took an extraordinary amount of time to finish his meal, letting the lawman stew. He was angry, but that quickly dissipated as he looked at Addie, who knew what he was doing and joined in enthusiastically.
But they could not stall forever. Guthrie kissed Addie goodbye. “You want me to walk you upstairs?” Guthrie asked.
Addie smiled. “Naw.” She waved a hand at the mob crowding around the window. “I don’t expect anything’ll happen to me.”
Guthrie nodded, and Addie strolled out. The men outside politely moved out of the way, most of them doffing their hats as Addie passed by. But as soon as she had turned into the doorway of the hotel next door, Claver led the mob back inside. He took the seat he had left before. The mayor, Paul Eakins, took the seat Addie had occupied.
“Well, Guthrie, what’re we gonna do about those ’Paches?” Eakins asked bluntly.
“What in hell’re you askin’ me for?” Guthrie snapped harshly. “You’re the mayor. And this clod is the marshal.” Guthrie’s original low opinion of Claver had risen quite a bit after Claver’s performance earlier in the day. The lawman had done a lot to keep calm in the town. But his opinion of Claver had fallen again in the past half hour.
“Well…” Eakins started. But he couldn’t finish, since he had nothing to say. He shrugged.
“Well,” Claver said, “you sure took the lead in fightin’ back against those damn savages.” There was a chorus of assent from behind him.
Guthrie shrugged. “Still ain’t my place to do anything.”
“You showed me somethin’ today, Mr. Guthrie,” Claver said quietly. “Oh, hell, a lot of men could handle a gun that well. But there was more to it than that. Somethin’ in the way you handled yourself. You’ve fought Indians before, ain’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I could tell that right off.”
“So?” Guthrie said, feeling himself being sucked into something with which he did not want to get involved.
“So,” Claver said with dignity, “I’m askin’ for your help.” He stared at Guthrie. There was no pleading in his eyes, but it was evident he would be thankful for some help.
Guthrie sat, thinking, giving the molar quite a workout. He did not want to get mixed up in all this. On the other hand, he already was mixed up in it, and there was no getting away from that. He sighed. “Best thing we could do is take the fight to the Apaches,” he said.
“What?” Eakins exploded, shocked at the suggestion. .
“Take the fight to them,” Guthrie repeated. “Get us up a posse and go on out there and attack ’em.”
“When?” Claver asked, interested.
“Tonight. No Indians I know of attack at night, and so most don’t expect an attack at night. We come at ’em hard and fast in the dead of night, it’ll scare the hell out of ’em. They’ll be conjurin’ up all kinds of nasty spirits and such.”
“Sounds good to me,” Claver said, nodding at the wisdom of it. He still looked at Guthrie, but he said over his shoulder, “You boys hear that? What say we head on out there and scare those ’Paches away?”
There was a rumbling of discontent from the assembled men, and then individual arguments or agreements as the men discussed this ploy. As the men Spoke, Claver said levelly, “I don’t expect you’re gonna get much support, Mister Guthrie.” He seemed sad. Guthrie’s opinion of the man rose again.
Guthrie nodded. He had known it all along.
“Well,” Eakins said, “you can’t expect such things of these men. They have homes, families. To go out and look for a fight with the Apaches is quite unreasonable to think of them.”
Guthrie turned a baleful gaze on Eakins. The mayor was less than medium height and reedy, with a head of thin gray hair. A fancy handlebar mustache of gray was waxed. Eakins had a prissy way of moving, talking, and dressing. Guthrie had never dealt with Eakins before, and decided now that he did not much like the mayor.
“Gettin’ your ass dusted when you’re walkin’ down the street ain’t such fun either,” Guthrie said dryly. “Nor is being starved out ’cause your townsmen ain’t got the balls to do what’s necessary to save themselves—and their families.”
He stood. “I’ll be in my room next door with Mrs. Guthrie. You boys make up your mind, you come let me know what’s been decided. Good night, gentlemen.” He walked off.
Guthrie stopped abruptly just outside the restaurant. He smiled and turned to walk across Center Street to the Pine Log Saloon. He bought a small bottle of whiskey, and then headed to the hotel. As he crossed the street, he could see the townsmen still sitting inside debating their future. He spit in disgust before heading upstairs.
An hour later, there was a knock on the door. Claver and Eakins entered when Guthrie opened the door. They stood, Eakins looking as pompous as ever, Claver seemingly embarrassed.
“Well?” Guthrie demanded.
“Only three takers,” Claver said.
“You and who else?” Guthrie asked.
“Arturo Espinoza and Victorio Valencia.” The marshal’s voice was tight with embarrassment.
“Great, an old man and a boy.” Guthrie shook his head. “It’s gonna take a couple more killings before these people get off their asses and try to save themselves.” He shrugged. “Well, it ain’t my doin’s to fix. I’ll be up on the roof again tomorrow. You get enough men to change their minds, you know where to find me.”
The creaking of the door woke Guthrie. The only light in the room came from the three-quarter moon outside and the barely flickering lantern on the wall near the bed.
Guthrie hesitated only an instant—until he saw a dark, foreboding figure edging into the room. The figure moved a little faster, and moved in a seemingly awkward motion. Another figure crowded in behind the first.
Guthrie shoved Addie with his left hand as hard as he could, pushing her off the bed. She yelped in pain as she hit the floor hard, and Guthrie felt an instant’s fear for her and the baby.
But he was already moving, rolling out of the bed, still naked, and snatching out the big Remington as he did. He came to a stop in a kneeling position, pistol at arm’s length. The gun bucked heavily, comfortably in his hand. The first figure jerked like a marionette as two bullets plowed into his body. Then he fell in a twisted heap.
The other figure spun and ran out the door. Disregarding his nudity, Guthrie charged after him. As he passed the figure on the floor, Guthrie noted subconsciously that it was an Apache. “Damn,” he muttered as he roared out the door and down the hall.
A few people came out of their rooms as Guthrie chased the Apache into the storeroom. A couple of women screeched and slammed their doors at the sight of Guthrie’s nudity. The men were a bit more venturesome.
The Apache, who was moving faster than anyone Guthrie had eve
r seen before, was halfway up the ladder. Guthrie grabbed one of the Indian’s ankles, but he could not keep a grip on it. He even received a kick in the jaw for good measure.
Angry, Guthrie snapped the pistol up and shot the Apache in the back of the leg, just above the knee. The Apache grunted softly and lost his footing, tumbling down onto the floor. Guthrie, who had skipped out of the way, was on the Apache like a flash, knee on the Indian’s chest, his Remington stuck up under the Apache’s chin.
Men squeezed into the room, one holding a lantern.
“An Apache!” someone gasped.
“Speak English, boy?” Guthrie demanded.
The Apache said nothing.
“Why’d you come here in the night? Why were you lookin’ for me in particular?”
The Apache still said nothing, only gazed with hate-filled eyes at Guthrie.
People were still trying to cram into the room, and the pressure sent someone bumping into Guthrie, who lost his grip on the Indian’s right arm. The Apache seized the opportunity and jerked the arm free, then slammed the callused heel of the hand against Guthrie’s jaw.
Guthrie grunted and reacted instinctively, jerking the Remington’s trigger. The blast was loud in the small, packed room, and the bullet, traveling upward from the chin, tore off half of the top of the Indian’s head. The Apache stopped struggling immediately.
Guthrie stood heavily. To him this was another useless, unnecessary killing. They might have eventually learned something from the Indian—like how they knew where to look for him, since Guthrie was sure they had come for him. Or why the warriors had attacked at night. The town might have even traded him back to his people for another captive, or safe passage for some wagons to come into town. He sighed. That was all water under the bridge now. He turned and snarled, “All of you get the hell out of here. Now!”
The people drifted off—and then a tired Marshal Fred Claver arrived. He smiled wanly as he handed Guthrie his Levi pants. “Had a little excitement, eh, Mr. Guthrie?” He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to stare at Guthrie while the man dressed.
“Some.”
“What happened?”
Guthrie explained it quickly.
“You got any ideas why they’d do that? I thought Indians didn’t attack at night.”
“It ain’t usual. Apaches are different in a lot of other ways from most Indians. Maybe they’re different this way, too.” He shrugged. “Only thing I can think of as the reason they came for me—which is sure as hell what it seemed like—is that I’ve been a pest to ’em lately. Killed several of ’em on the trail there a ways back, then several more yesterday.” He shrugged again. He didn’t like the implications of this.
Claver rubbed a hand wearily over his face. He didn’t like it either. “Well, I’ll send a couple of them nigra boys over here to drag this riffraff away. We can dump ’em out on that garbage pile the town’s been buildin’.”
“No,” Guthrie said slowly. “Let’s wait till dawn and bury ’em.”
“What?” Claver asked incredulously. “Bury these savages? In our cemetery? Christ, Guthrie, the mayor’ll have my ass.”
“Not in the cemetery. Out back of the hotel somewhere. In full view of the ridge—and the mountain, too, if that’s possible.”
“What in hell for?”
Guthrie shrugged. “The Apaches’re mighty fearful of their dead. Don’t like messin’ with ’em much. They bury ’em fast and never mention ’em again. I figure that if we show these two some respect, those other Apaches might feel a little more kindly toward us.”
“And if they don’t?” Claver asked skeptically.
“Then we ain’t lost much, have we?”
“Reckon not.” He shrugged.
“Good. Then if that’s settled, I’d best go check on Addie.” A sudden sense of dread swept over him as he remembered just how hard he had shoved her out of the bed. He hurried down the hallway. He nodded as he saw two black youths carting the body of the Apache from his room down the stairs.
The first thing he noticed when he entered his room was the two arrows sticking out of the bed. So that was that Apache’s awkward movement, he thought. The bastard was shootin’ arrows at us.
He hurried to where Addie sat in the chair by the window, legs up as high as she could get them toward her belly. She had her arms wrapped around her shins and was rocking back and forth, crying and moaning.
“Addie?” Guthrie asked, his mouth dry and seemingly clogged by his heart. “What’s wrong, Addie? Are you painin’?”
“It hurts,” she moaned. “It hurts.”
“Your belly?” he asked, his own stomach twisting into a painful knot.
“Yes.” It was a sound of infinite pain.
His mind was frantic, wondering what to do. They really knew no one here, and Guthrie was fairly certain he did not want Dr. Gretsch to examine her—even if Gretsch would consent to do so. Most doctors wouldn’t. Guthrie had seen Gretsch and was not sure of the physician’s reliability in any case. But he needed some kind of help.
“I’ll be right back,” he said worriedly, leaping up. He raced outside the room, almost running into Claver. The marshal was just following the two black youths—who were carting away the second Apache body. “There a midwife in town, Marshal?” Guthrie asked urgently.
“Of course. You need her?”
“Yes. And fast.”
Claver nodded. “I’ll send a boy around to fetch Señora Santiago pronto.”
Señora Serafina Santiago arrived quickly and shooed Guthrie out of the room. After what to Guthrie seemed to be an interminable amount of time, Serafina called him back into the room.
“Señora Guthrie took a hard fall,” she pronounced sternly. She had virtually no accent. Then she smiled a little. “But it was better than the alternative.” She waved a hand at the two arrows still imbedded in the straw mattress.
“She will have a little pain, but I think that with some rest, both will be all right. The baby was not harmed.” She nodded firmly.
And then she swept out of the room.
Guthrie pulled the arrows from the bed and helped Addie into it. He sat in the chair, staring out the window, smoking cigarettes, and worrying.
Addie awoke as sunlight began to filter into the room. She smiled, and Guthrie was mighty relieved. He figured she would be all right.
Chapter Fourteen
Guthrie studiously avoided looking at people when he and Addie sat to breakfast in the restaurant that morning, though he knew people were staring at him and his wife in wonder. Addie looked good, dressed in her bright red calico dress and bonnet. Her face was flushed a little, but she walked steadily and surely.
Guthrie had just come from the burial of the two Apaches—under the apparently interested watch of the Apaches up on the ridge. Half a dozen boys had been drafted to dig the two graves, and then the Apache bodies were placed gently in the holes. The graves were filled in and covered over with rocks, brought up in a wagon from the base of the cliff.
The Apaches were not the only ones watching the rites. Most of the people in town had turned out for it, watching angrily as Guthrie and Claver made sure none of them disturbed the proceedings. There was some talk about a lynching, but Guthrie ignored it. Guthrie was surprised to see all the people, since there had been no one on the streets the day before. Everyone was afraid of getting shot down by the Apaches. He supposed the majority figured that the Apaches would not shoot while two of their own were being buried.
Apparently they were right.
After the ceremony—if it could be called that— Guthrie strolled away, seemingly unconcerned. But he could hear Claver shouting over the noise of the crowd, explaining the thinking behind the burial of the two Apaches. Guthrie sort of hoped Claver could calm the people down some, but on the Other hand, he wasn’t all that concerned. He did not think the people would do anything anyway.
Guthrie had gone up to his room and washed off the sweat and all. He wished he
had another clean shirt, but he didn’t so he put on the one he had been wearing. Then he escorted Addie down to the restaurant.
As Guthrie was finishing the last of his coffee, Espinoza came up and stood humbly at the table.
“Speak, boy,” Guthrie said quietly.
“I’ll keep watch with you again today, señor, if you wish.” His speech was heavily accented.
“I’d be honored, Arturo.”
The youth beamed.
“I understand you were one of those who volunteered to go against the Apaches.” It was a question.
“Sí.”
Guthrie smiled. “Damnfool thing to do, boy,” he said still smiling.
“Sí.” Espinoza grinned.
Guthrie nodded. “Go on and have your ma or somebody make you up something you can eat durin’ the day. Then meet me on the roof. I’ll be there directly.”
“Sí.” The grinning young man hurried off, serape flapping in the rush.
“You sure you want to sit up there again all day, Jack?” Addie asked as they walked slowly, favoring the woman’s added bulk, toward their room.
He shrugged.
“These people here don’t give a damn, Jack,” she said seriously, stopping so she could stare up at him. “They’re as bad as the folks in Apache Springs.” She was close to tears. “I thought things’d be different out…where nobody knows us…where…”
“It’s all right, Addie,” Guthrie said soothingly. “These folks ain’t so bad, I guess.” He was used to such things. Such people always expected others to do for them, especially when there was danger involved. “Besides, I ain’t sittin’ up there for the people of Bonito. I’m sittin’ up there to make sure nothin’ happens to you.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes made dazzling by the tears that swam in them. “You sure you just don’t want to get rid of me instead? I’ve been a trial to you of late.”
“Get rid of you?” Guthrie said in mock surprise and horror. “Why would I go and do that? After all the trouble I’ve been through to get you? Shoot, I’d have to be plumb loco. Besides, where would I find me another woman who’d be so foolish as to give her heart to me?” He shook his head at the lunacy of it.
