by John Legg
“A while back. Shot.” Guthrie felt some satisfaction in the stricken look on the lieutenant’s face. But he did not let it show.
“You impertinent…” The officer stopped and fought to regain his composure.
“Sir,” a big, broad-shouldered sergeant said, moving his horse up alongside the lieutenant’s.
“Yes, Sergeant?” the officer asked, his anger not lessened one whit.
“Perhaps you’d like to go to the restaurant, or maybe the saloon and refresh yourself, sir. I’ll stay here and have a wee little chat with this wise ass. I’ll find out what the hell’s going on.” His tone let it be known that he would use whatever force was necessary to achieve that goal. And that the more force needed, the more he would enjoy it.
“Very well, Sergeant,” the officer said after several tense moments. “I shall be dining. Dismiss the men.” He jerked the horse’s head around and headed across the street.
“You heard the lieutenant, boys,” the sergeant snarled. “Dismissed.” As the men started to head off, eyes eager with anticipation for liquor, food, women, or all three, the sergeant shouted, “And let’s not be gettin’ in trouble, boys.”
He watched as the men scrambled off. Then he dismounted. Guthrie was rather surprised to see a wide grin on the sergeant’s ruddy face. He hitched his horse, loosened the saddle, and then stepped up to Guthrie, holding out his hand.
“Howdy, Marshal,” he said in deep, booming, friendly tones, “Sergeant Seamus O’Malley.” Guthrie eyed him suspiciously a moment, then shook the soldier’s hand. “Marshal Jack Guthrie.” He was still not used to the title.
“Mind if we step inside? It’s too goddamn hot out here for me.”
Guthrie still watched him suspiciously. He was not afraid of the sergeant even though he was giving away two inches in height and close to twenty pounds in weight. But he did not trust the man’s motives. He shrugged. Flipping his cigarette away, he waved a hand toward the door. “After you, Sergeant.”
The soldier stepped into the room and pulled the straight-backed chair up close in front of the desk. He tossed his forage cap on the desk as Guthrie sat in his swivel chair. Guthrie had the hook unlatched from the hammer of the Remington, and the pistol was ready, if he needed it.
“Sorry about that goddamn nonsense out there, Marshal,” the sergeant said. “Lieutenant Percival Richards is—as you can easily tell—young and foolish. Thinks he’s got to be some kind of hard ass all the time just to prove he can lead men.” He grinned ruefully. “He’ll grow out of it—if the goddamn fool lives long enough.” He smiled for real this time.
Guthrie relaxed. He knew instinctively that O’Malley was a decent man. He would not be someone to cross, but he would be a fine man to have on your side in any kind of scrap. “I’ve met the type before,” Guthrie said with a grin. “Both in the Army and out.”
“And do I have the pleasure of addressin’ another sergeant of the United States Cavalry?” Guthrie laughed. “It’s still obvious after all these years?”
“Aye.” He paused, then asked seriously, “You fought in the war?”
“Yep. Then spent a couple years on the Texas frontier. Fort Concho for a while, and then Fort Davis. Had my fill after a while though and gave it up.”
“I’ve considered the same myself more often than not.” He paused to yawn. “You got a bottle stashed away somewhere? We been on the trail since the Good Lord was a sucklin’ babe and I got a heap of dry in my throat because of it.” Guthrie laughed. He brought a bottle out of a drawer and set it on the desk. “I got no glasses.” O’Malley reached for the bottle. “When in hell did two of Uncle Sam’s finest sergeants ever need glasses for a couple jolts of redeye?” He yanked the cork out and tilted the bottle back. He drained nearly a quarter of it. “Ah,” he said, drawing the single syllable out and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Guthrie grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swallow—though one not equal to that of O’Malley.
“What happened to Marshal Claver?” O’Malley finally asked.
“You knew him?”
“Worked with him several times. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” Guthrie took another pull at the whiskey bottle and then told O’Malley what had happened.
O’Malley nodded regularly during the story, accepting it but saddened at the death of a valiant man. When Guthrie was finished, the two men let the silence grow and sit in the air for a spell.
Finally O’Malley sighed and said, “So, the Apaches have been through here. Seen any since Claver bought it?”
Guthrie explained—briefly and without frills— what had followed.
O’Malley looked at Guthrie with a new respect. This was one tough hombre, he thought. “Any problems since?”
“Not in town. We’ve been gettin’ regular reports from freighters, ranchers, other folks. Nothing real close by, but those bastards ain’t gone very far either. Just far enough to keep out of our hair directly, but still close enough to keep us on tenterhooks. You chasin’ ’em?”
“Chasin’, aye. But we ain’t catchin’ shit.” He laughed harshly and poured some whiskey down his throat.
“That’s usually the way of it,” Guthrie commiserated. “Can’t find hide nor hair of the sons of bitches when you’re lookin’ for ’em. As soon as you think you’re shed of ’em, though, goddamn if they don’t just pop up out of nowhere and cause some damned deviltry. They’re some spooky bastards.”
“That’s a fact.” He scratched the rough stubble on his red neck. “Where was the latest trouble?” “Twenty miles south. Or so. A freight wagon from Salt River was hit, from what one man said. Two killed. He said they knocked off half a dozen of the ’Paches, but I think he’s full of shit. It’s more likely there was only a half-dozen of ’em attackin’.”
O’Malley nodded. “I expect you’re right,” he agreed. “I take it they didn’t hang around?”
“The freighter said they chased them all off.” Guthrie shrugged. “Hell, knowin’ Apaches the little I do, there could’ve been a hundred of ’em in spittin’ distance and those damn fools would’ve never known. But I don’t think so, or they wouldn’t have broken off the attack. Most likely they hit hard and fast, ran off a couple horses, maybe stole some food, killed a couple boys, and hightailed it back into the rocks to divvy up the loot.” He sighed. “I’m the only law in these parts, I guess, but I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ that far out of Bonito to check on such crap. It happens a few miles from town here, I’ll go have a look-see.” O’Malley nodded again. He held the bottle up. There was not much left in it. Guthrie waved for him to have it. O’Malley finished it. Then he stood, reluctantly. “Reckon I’d best get on. Anything I can do for you?”
“No.” Inspiration suddenly struck. “Wait, maybe there is.” Guthrie explained about Kinchloe. “I ain’t been able to get ahold of him. You ever have patrols headin’ down there?”
O’Malley sat back down, thinking. “Not real patrols,” he finally said. “But plenty of dispatches, usually with a small escort, go down to Fort Lowell, near the Old Pueblo—Tucson. That’s still a fair piece from Santa Cruz, but I expect if we could get a letter to there, it’d be little trouble to have it posted up the road to Santa Cruz.”
“I’d be obliged if you could do that for me,” Guthrie said earnestly.
“Well, it ain’t strictly on the up and up,” O’Malley said with a wink. “But I reckon for an old sergeant, I could see my way clear. How much time you need to write your letter?”
“Quarter of an hour or so.”
O’Malley nodded. “Take half an hour. I’m hungrier than hell. Think I’ll hit the restaurant. I’ll report to the lieutenant and have myself a bite. You ought to be done by the time I get back.”
“I will.” He paused. Thanking people was never easy for Jack Guthrie. “And I’m mighty obliged.”
“It’s nothin’.” O’Malley scooped up his hat and stalked out, heading across the street toward
the restaurant.
Guthrie rummaged in the desk until he found some paper, a pen, and a small bottle of ink. Hurriedly he scratched out his story, telling Kinchloe that he and Addie were staying in Bonito until spring, when they would be on their way again. He offered Kinchloe the choice of staying in Santa Cruz until Guthrie and Addie got there, or of heading on to California on his own. Guthrie promised to follow if that was Kinchloe’s choice.
He blotted the letter and folded it before sealing it with a bit of candle wax. He thought for a moment of how to address the letter before scratching on the front: Pete Kinchloe. Somewhere in or near Santa Cruz, Arizona Territory. He hoped the letter made it to its destination. Then he sat and waited.
It was not long before O’Malley returned. He was in a bit of a hurry since the lieutenant was ready to leave. O’Malley grabbed the letter and stuffed it in his shirt, under the heavy wool Army blouse. He shook Guthrie’s hand and headed outside. Within minutes he had tightened his saddle and the troop trotted out of Bonito.
Guthrie felt a sense of relief at having finally found a way to contact Kinchloe. He could breathe easier now that this particular problem was taken care of. And he had plenty of other problems to take its place.
Chapter Nineteen
Bonito had almost a month of relative peace, as far as the Apaches went. Granted, the sniping at stages, freight wagons, and the isolated residents in the area well outside the town continued. But there were no large attacks in or very near the town.
The residents of Bonito—including Marshal Jack Guthrie and his two deputies—began to relax. Guthrie still thought the Indians would be back with a vengeance sooner or later. But with each passing day of peace, even that likelihood seemed more and more remote.
Guthrie fought against the temptation to let his guard down. It would be so easy to do, he thought more than once. Since the day he was seventeen and gone off to the great war with the First Massachusetts, he had lived a life cluttered with violence, hate, bloodshed, and death. It would be so nice, he thought frequently, to just live life in peace and quiet for a while.
But he also knew that if he were to let his guard down even briefly, the violence that would inevitably follow might be worse than otherwise. By being alert, he hoped to minimize whatever bloodshed arose. And he knew that more of it would come.
Even the townsfolk conspired to lull him. His duties of marshaling had dwindled until he actually had little to do. He spent more time trying to get his small house fixed up than he did in enforcing the law most days.
Such a quiet had other implications, though, which were more annoying than anything else. Mayor Eakins had been hinting that since there had been little trouble in town—and since the Apaches had apparently gone off to God knows where—that perhaps two deputies, and high paid ones at that, might be somewhat excessive. After three weeks of quiet, he stopped hinting and came right out and suggested that Espinoza and Valencia be relieved of their duties.
“You fire ’em, then,” Guthrie snapped.
“But, Marshal,” Eakins wheedled.
“But nothin’,” Guthrie said angrily. “You came to me to take this job, remember. I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it. But since you did, I expect you to live up to the promises you made.”
“But when I made those promises,” Eakins said, hoping reason would get through to Guthrie, “the situation here was different. It’s been nearly a month since we’ve had any real kind of trouble. You can handle whatever’s come up lately.”
“A man ain’t no better than his word, Mayor,” Guthrie insisted adamantly.
Eakins’ back stiffened. “I must think of all the people, Marshal,” he sniffed. “Having two deputies—who don’t have a hell of a lot to do these days, I might add—is costing the city a pretty penny.”
“I reckon it is,” Guthrie said. He was unrepentant. “But as soon as we let them go, trouble will arise. You ever think that the reason things have been so quiet around here is because there’s three of us on the job?”
“Well, no, I…”
“Mayor, my mind’s made up,” Guthrie went on relentlessly. “You want to fire Victorio and Arturo, you go right on ahead. I reckon you have that right, seein’ as how you’re the mayor.”
Eakins brightened. Now Guthrie was getting somewhere, he thought. Finally the marshal was starting to realize who was in charge here.
Guthrie had noticed the smugness creeping across Eakins’ face. “However,” he added, “I’m warnin’ you—if you go and do that, you’ll have to get yourself a new marshal, too.” He leaned back in his old swivel chair, hoping it wouldn’t topple over backward.
Eakins looked stricken. “Now, just wait a minute, Marshal. I never said I was going to relieve you of your duties, too...”
“You won’t have to.” Guthrie’s voice was hard and his demeanor cold.
“That your last word?” Eakins asked, feeling defeated.
“Yes.”
“All right,” Eakins said. He stood. “I’ll tell the council. I guess I can convince them that three lawmen in town is still reasonable.”
“I’m sure you can do that,” Guthrie said dryly. He finally relented though, and added, “You won’t regret it, Mayor.” He paused. He knew things would not be peaceful forever. And he knew for certain the Apaches would cause more trouble. But no matter how certain he was of those probabilities, he had nothing solid to give to the mayor and council to prove it. They would just have to believe him, or not.
“To be sure,” Eakins said distractedly. He left. A little more than a week later, his prophecy seemed to be coming true. Half a dozen reports of Apache attacks south of town came in to his office, and each crept closer to Bonito.
“This doesn’t look good, Jack,” Espinoza said, tongue in cheek.
Guthrie grunted. He was sitting in his chair at the desk. Espinoza stood, leaning against the rock wall between the front door and window of the office. Valencia sat in the straight back chair, eating a tamale.
“The Apaches get any closer,” Guthrie said sadly, “and we’ll have to go out and take a look-see.” He sighed, thinking, And bury a passel of bodies. It was not a pleasant thought.
“I’m ready,” Espinoza said firmly. The young Mexican had changed considerably in the past month. He was no longer a shy, humble boy. He was now a man, one who had killed in battle, and fought bravely. But he had become a little arrogant, too, and Guthrie knew it would be the youth’s downfall if he continued it.
“Don’t be so eager, boy,” Guthrie said sourly. “Fightin’ Apaches ain’t always so easy as we had it last time.”
“Hell, they aren’t so tough.”
“One reason we had it so easy that time,” Guthrie said coldly, “is the Apaches were sufferin’ from what’s ailin’ you, boy—cockiness. They figured there was no one in Bonito who’d stand up to ’em, so they were lax. They won’t fall into that trap again. You better realize that, boy.” Espinoza’s face darkened. He muttered several strings of rapid Spanish before jerking the door open and stomping out.
“What’d he say, Victorio?” Guthrie asked, looking at the old man.
“Not too much.”
“Bullshit. What’d he say?”
“Well, he questioned your parentage. And there were some things in there about him working for a gelding.” He grinned again. “He’s young yet. Don’t take offense.”
“Ah, hell, I ain’t bothered by the name-callin’,” Guthrie said. He grimaced. “But if he don’t learn some-humility and common sense, he’s gonna die young.”
Valencia nodded, knowing Guthrie was right. He finished his tamale. “What’re we going to do, Jack? About the Apaches.”
Guthrie shrugged. “Let’s hope they’re just gettin’ a bit darin’ and will back off soon.” He did not sound hopeful. “If not, we’ll go see what we can do about discouragin’ them.” It was not something he looked forward to.
Valencia nodded. “You know they’re workeeng their way back here, don�
��t you?”
“Yes,” Guthrie said flatly.
The frequency and nearness of the attacks by the Apaches increased in the next two weeks. It even got to a point where the people of Bonito were afraid to leave the town for any reason. Lieutenant Richards and Sergeant O’Malley had passed through the town twice more, still fruitlessly trying to pin down some of the hostile Indians but to no avail. The Army visits did nothing other than to help an occasional supply train get through—if the patrol was lucky enough to come on it before the Apaches did.
The Apaches continued to harass the town. Once again supply wagons, mail, and stagecoaches were having trouble getting through the mountainous territory into Bonito. With supplies of many things running short, tensions began to mount in Bonito, as fear got its icy grip on more and more citizens.
The Apaches also were sniping at anyone who left the relatively safe confines of the town. The town grew more and more isolated, as the Apaches began to tighten the noose around Bonito.
Townspeople began to give Guthrie a hard time, expecting him to be a one-man army against the marauding Apaches. He put up with the snide comments and growing rebelliousness of the people for a week, and then he had had enough. He told—not asked, much to the mayor’s annoyance— Eakins to call a town meeting. It convened in the Pine Log Saloon.
Guthrie wasted no time once the people at the meeting quieted down. He stood, puffing on a smoke as he talked. “I know most of you folks have been grumblin’ ’cause me and my deputies ain’t solved the problem of these hostiles Apaches to your satisfaction.”
“You ain’t solved it at all,” someone shouted from the crowd.
“I ain’t gonna either,” Guthrie retorted bluntly. That caused a considerable stir. He waited until it had run its course. “I told Mayor Eakins a couple weeks ago that I didn’t ask for this job. I was asked to take it, and did so. What I was asked to do was become the town marshal. And there ain’t no place I know of where the town marshal is supposed to be out chasin’ Apaches.”
That brought forth another burst of grumbling protest and once more he waited it out. “Now,” he said calmly, “those Apaches come riding into the town limits, like they did last time, and I’ll see what I can do to take care of it. But while they’re out there beyond my reach, I’m gonna leave ’em be.”
