Guns of Arizona: A Land Where Legends Are Made (Arizona Territory Book 1)

by John Legg

  He wrestled with it for a while, but then put it aside. An answer would present itself in due time— he hoped. But worrying it over and over in his mind would not solve the riddle. He cleaned both Remingtons and the Henry. After oiling them well, he reloaded them. He took a last swig of whiskey, capped the bottle, and put it up on a shelf. Then he went into the bedroom, where Addie was sleeping quietly.

  He stood there looking down at his wife for a few minutes. It was still amazing to him that he was married. More amazing still that he would be a father soon. On the other hand, it seemed as if she had been pregnant forever. He wondered how she felt about it all. She seemed so tired lately, so sluggish, and she seemed to be in pain at times. He worried about her, but since he would not be welcome at the birth, he often did not think about such things. Senora Santiago, the midwife, had visited several times and had always pronounced Addie fit, so he tried not to worry about it too much.

  Guthrie unhooked his gun belt and hung it over the bedpost. He pulled off his shirt, grimacing as pain nipped his side. Then he used the crude wood boot jack to remove his boots. Finally he shucked his denim pants and crawled into bed, trying not to wake Addie.

  Mayor Eakins was furious the next morning when Guthrie finally strolled over to the Pine Log to see him. Guthrie sat patiently across the desk from Eakins in the small office for a few minutes as Eakins ranted and raved, growling about civic duty and the proper way to do his job. Then Guthrie had enough of such talk, and he fixed an icy stare on Eakins. “If you’d like to hear what happened,” he said coldly, “I’d advise you button your lips and listen for a change.”

  Eakins glared but shut up. Guthrie went over the short, fatal excursion quickly, using clipped sentences. Eakins grew more sympathetic as the words unfolded, but when it was over, he hardened himself again. It would not pay to feel too sorry for Guthrie. After all, he was the marshal, and would have to do something about the situation.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Eakins asked bluntly.

  “Go after them—eventually.”

  “What do you mean, eventually?”

  “I ain’t going alone. You get me a posse, I’ll leave in an hour. Since that ain’t likely, I’ll have to figure out somewhere to get some help.” He mentioned the Army—and the problems inherent in that. “Waitin’ till they show up again is probably my only choice.”

  “That could be a long time.”

  “Yep.” He paused, rolling his tongue over a molar. “But I’m still not operatin’ at full strength. I’ve got some recoverin’ to do. The longer I can do that, the better chance I’ll have against those goddamn Apaches.”

  “But, Marshal…”

  “You don’t like it, Mayor, you can go chasin’ after the savages. I’ll not stop you.” He stood up. “And I’m tellin’ you now, Mayor,” he added with a touch of ice, “I don’t want to be ridden about this. Not by you; not by anybody. People bust my ass about this and someone’s gonna get hurt. Comprendes?”

  He did not wait for an answer. He just stood, turned, and walked off. A few feet away, though, he stopped and looked back. “Just one more thing,” he said, gloating a little, “Addie would have shot you sure as hell if you hadn’t backed off.” He swaggered away.

  Guthrie strode toward his office, shoulders square, face tight. His posture let people know he did not want to be bothered. He waded through some paperwork he had on his desk, but his mind was not on the job. He kept an eye on the clock on the wall. Someone had come in while he was gone and had made sure the pendulum was still ticking back and forth.

  A few minutes before noon, he grabbed his hat and headed toward the cemetery behind the adobe church at the south end of Center Street. The church, modeled after old Spanish missions, had started out as a Catholic church. It was built by the first settlers, Mexicans all. As more Anglos began moving into Bonito, they started talking about building a Protestant church. Since funds were always in short supply, the Mexican people offered to share their church. The Anglos accepted. That had been some years ago, and so it remained.

  Father Fernando Sierra kept the services short, in deference to the rain that had started again. But he omitted nothing, and his eulogies for the two slain deputies were poignant.

  Guthrie felt a deep sadness creeping over him as the caskets were covered with dirt. He felt he should have been able to prevent both deaths. He didn’t know how—and his sensible side knew it was not possible—only that he should have done something. He turned away and walked slowly toward his office again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Guthrie felt like an outcast. It wasn’t so much that people were leaving him alone—he had let it be known that such was his preference. But people had gone further than that. They frequently ignored him; and, worse, they often seemed to actually hate him.

  He tried to go about his job as best he could, but he was turning bitter. In addition, his side continued to ache more than he thought it should, and that only added to his irritability.

  The problem of how to get in contact with the Army also continued to plague him. Several times he considered riding toward Fort Apache himself. But then he would think about Addie and how close to her due time she was. Or some damnfool cowpoke with a snootful of bug juice would start raising a ruckus and Guthrie would have to drag the man off to the jail to cool his heels a while. Such incidents made Guthrie realize that even if the townsfolk didn’t understand it, his duty was in Bonito, not out looking for soldiers—or Apaches.

  He thought that if he had a deputy or two, he could leave them in Bonito to enforce the law in town. Then he could ride to Fort Apache. But no one was willing to take on the job. Not after what had happened to Valencia and Espinoza. It all frustrated him.

  The rumors bothered him most of all, though. There was no way he could fight them, and so they were hardest to take. They kept cropping up, too, usually variations on the same thing: that he was somehow in cahoots with a band of outlaws who were working with the Apaches. Just how such a thing could come about, since the Apaches were well known to distrust and hate everyone not of their own people, never was addressed.

  The rumors also usually had it that Guthrie had killed his own deputies for some vague personal reason. No one could come up with a reason, except that Valencia and Espinoza had gotten wind of Guthrie’s involvement with this gang of Apache-loving outlaws, and so they had to be killed.

  Guthrie shut out the rumors as best he could whenever he heard them. And he tried hard to keep his temper in check. It was not easy, and it left him in such an angry state all the time that he was not very good company even for Addie.

  His wife was about the only real friend he had in Bonito these days, too. Some folks—like Dr. Gretsch and Juan Diaz—were friendly enough, but even they kept their distance from him to some extent. He was alone. It was not the first time he had been in such a situation, but he was finding as he got older that he relished friends and the companionship of others more than he had when he was younger. It was one of the few reasons he had liked being a bounty hunter—he was usually alone, beholden to no one, answerable to no one. He had liked that. But he had changed over the years, and solitude was no longer so enjoyable.

  Eleven days after he had returned to Bonito, he awoke feeling better than he had in a long time. The pain in his side had subsided to a mere twinge. He looked out the bedroom window and saw that it was snowing. It wasn’t much, just large, fluffy flakes that drifted down like goose feathers after a pillow fight. But it was a sign that winter was not far off. He hoped it meant the end to the Apache siege of the area. With winter coming on, he thought the Apaches might head for Mexico, or into the desert areas, where the weather was warmer. The thought of relief from the constant Apache pressure was pleasant. The briskness of the air as Guthrie walked toward his office invigorated him even more. He was almost cheerful as he started building a fire in the small potbellied stove at the office. After a cup of coffee and a cigarette, he donned his fringed, wool-line
d leather coat and his heavy leather gloves—the ones with the fingers of the right one cut out. Then he strolled down Center Street to the end, crossed to the other side and headed back toward the plaza.

  As he neared the town center, he saw six mounted men. One was leaning over the side of his horse a little, talking with a townsman, who was pointing down Center Street. The horseman nodded and straightened. Then all six rode off in that direction.

  Guthrie moved swiftly across the street to his office. Something had struck him as familiar about some of the men, and he had a hunch they meant trouble. He wanted to be ready for it, if it came. He stepped inside and grabbed a scattergun from the gun rack on the wall. He pulled a box of shells from a desk drawer, opened it, loaded the shotgun, and then stuck several extra shells into his coat pocket. He rested the shotgun on the desk for just a moment, while he added a sixth cartridge to the big Remington and a fifth to the smaller one at his back.

  Then he waited at the window. Almost immediately the six horsemen rode into view. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he muttered. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He opened the door and stepped outside. “You!” Lem Tyrell gasped in shock.

  “Yep.” Guthrie grinned harshly. “You got business here in Bonito, Tyrell?”

  “I…Hell. You’re the marshal?” He sat in wonder.

  Guthrie nodded. “I am. Now, I’ve asked you once. I’ll even ask again. I don’t plan to ask a third time. You have business here?”

  Tyrell was not sure how to answer. “Well, not directly,” he admitted. He paused, trying to think. This had all caught him off guard. “I left Texas lookin’ for you and that goddamn Pete Kinchloe.” “Why?” Guthrie asked in mock innocence.

  “To kill you, goddamnit.” He looked at Guthrie like he was a fool. “For what you did to me.” “What’d we do?” Guthrie asked blandly.

  “You son of a bitch,” Tyrell snarled. He reached for the pistol belted outside his heavy coat.

  Guthrie snapped the shotgun up from the crook of his arm, and leveled at Tyrell. “You’re gonna have a pot full of trouble you pull that piece, Tyrell,” he snapped. “You others, too.” He watched them at the same time. They were—or thought they were—professional gunmen. Guthrie figured most of them actually were aspiring professional gunmen, but they could still be dangerous. However, he figured that Tyrell was paying the men and that if Tyrell went down, they might not be so willing to fight.

  Tyrell eased his hand away from his pistol. “Nobody can destroy my house, my ranch, everything I own and get away with it. Nobody!” he said coldly. He was breathing harshly, his nostrils flared wide. “I worked too goddamn hard makin’ that place pay.” Guthrie sneered. “You never worked a goddamn day in your life, Tyrell. Had I been your old man, I would’ve worked your ass off when you were still a boy. Maybe then you’d know how to act around people; how to treat people.”

  The light snow had stopped, and the feeble sun hidden behind the thin clouds had spread some heat, melting the little snow that had collected, making the streets muddy. The day was still cool and refreshingly crisp. Guthrie was glad for that. It helped keep him alert.

  Tyrell stewed for a while. He was certain he and his men could take Guthrie here and now. After all, Guthrie was outnumbered six to one. But Tyrell had enough sense to know that he would be the first to fall. Guthrie would make sure of that. And the scattergun gave Tyrell pause. If Guthrie had been holding his pistol, Tyrell might have taken a chance, but there was no reason to think a scattergun blast would miss him at this range.

  There was also the matter of Guthrie being the marshal here. That had taken Tyrell completely by surprise. Even finding Guthrie here had been a real surprise. He had spent some time trying to rebuild the ranch, but it seemed unlikely, especially once the Sweetwater Commerce Bank had refused to lend him any money. It was then that he started thinking about revenge.

  He had learned that Guthrie and Kinchloe planned to head to California. He knew that Kinchloe was taking some cattle and would have to take the warmer, more southerly route. So he and his men had gone almost due west, through mountainous land. Tyrell figured that they could make better time that way, since it was a shorter route and they were unencumbered. They could intercept Kinchloe and Guthrie somewhere east of Yuma, he thought after looking at his maps. He had ridden into Bonito and decided he would talk with the marshal to see what to expect on the trail ahead. And here he had found Jack Guthrie—and him being the marshal, no less.

  “Why’d you stop here?” Guthrie asked.

  “Lookin’ for information.” He shook his head, still amazed at his good fortune.

  “You see any Apaches?” Guthrie asked. He thought it odd that these men had gotten through untouched.

  “No. Should we have?”

  “There’s been some trouble with them hereabouts,” Guthrie said. Maybe all the Apaches were south and west of here, he thought. Or maybe they had started drifting away to warmer places.

  “Probably they just decided we were too much to take on—if there was any about,” Tyrell said. He believed what he was saying, Guthrie could see.

  “Probably,” Guthrie said dryly, the sarcasm lost on Tyrell and the others. “Now, if you have no business here, Tyrell—and you don’t—best move on.”

  “What about the Apaches?” Tyrell asked with a smirk, letting Guthrie know he thought the lawman was a coward.

  “You made it this far, I expect you can make it to wherever you’re goin’. Which is gonna be hell if you hang around here.”

  “A mite touchy, ain’t you, Marshal Guthrie?” Tyrell asked sarcastically. When Guthrie did not respond, he said, “We could use some supplies, Guthrie. Maybe a meal, too. Soon’s we finish that, we’ll be on our way.” He thought maybe he could lull Guthrie into laxness.

  “You got a choice, Tyrell,” Guthrie said coldly. “You and your boys either ride out of here now. Or you’ll be stayin’ here for eternity. We got more than enough room for you goddamn fools over at the cemetery.”

  “You know what your trouble is, Guthrie,” Tyrell said, face livid. “It’s you who don’t know how to treat folks. I never did nothing to you, and you go and attack my house, blow the damn thing sky high. Worse, you divert the river on me. Yet, you act like some nigger—like that bitch I had workin’, when she chose to work, in my house—is human. Goddamn.” He shook his head. “Now, you try to treat me and my boys like outlaws. It ain’t right.” Guthrie was aware that a crowd was growing. He didn’t much care. He assumed the whole town would be against him should a gunfight erupt. And he thought it likely one would occur. Tyrell was not going to back down, and neither was he. Guthrie just hoped no innocents got caught in the cross fire.

  Tyrell’s face distorted in a lecherous smile. “Now, ol’ Barnet there,” he said, pointing to a hulking, slovenly ox of a man, “knows how to treat folks. He pays his respect to me and the rest of the boys here. But now, that nigra…” He shook his head. “Well, she was gettin’ uppity there for a while, especially after your visit. So Barnet volunteered to give her some lessons in the social graces. Alas,” Tyrell finished, faking sympathy, “she didn’t quite finish them.” He held up his hands, signaling he had been helpless in the matter.

  Guthrie’s stomach turned. He knew what Tyrell was saying, but he wanted the man to say it out loud. “Oh?” he asked blandly.

  “Barnet gets a little carried away sometimes. His enthusiasm gets the better of him. Well,” he said, sighing in mock sorrow. “She didn’t make it. She was a bloody mess, too.” He grinned vacuously at Guthrie.

  Guthrie turned his glance on Barnet. The man sat with a stupid leer plastered on his pasty, flabby face.

  He was a primitive-looking man, with the countenance of a shaved ape. Apparently he had the mentality to match. He grabbed his crotch lewdly and said in a thickly slobbered voice, “She was good while she lasted.” He laughed, the sound like a drunken pig feeding at the trough.

  Without a second thought, Guthrie brought the shotgun
around and fired it once. The blast flayed Barnet’s jaw, neck, and upper chest. The big, obese man fell with a shuddering plop into the muddy street. The other riders strained to keep their mounts in line.

  Guthrie swung the scattergun back to bear on the rancher. “I won’t tell you again, Tyrell. Get out of Bonito. Now! Or I’ll plant you next to lard ass there.”

  “You ain’t seen the last of me, Guthrie,” Tyrell said in fury. He started backing his horse away. His four companions slowly followed suit.

  “I’m all a-tremble. Oh, one thing before you leave. Unless you want Barnet dumped into an old mine shaft, you’ll have to pay for the burial.”

  “Like hell, I…” He stopped, trying to keep the grin off his face. This was his chance. He pulled off his gloves and opened his coat. He began digging through his pockets with his left hand, looking for cash. His right inched toward his revolver. He made a great show of searching.

  His men also began reaching for their pistols, too.

  Without seeming to move much, Guthrie broke the shotgun, slid out the spent shell and jammed another one in before snapping the weapon shut again and cocking both hammers.

  “Ah, here it is,” Tyrell said. He held up a twenty-dollar gold piece. He flipped it with his thumb, in a high arc that would bring it close to Guthrie. He waited expectantly until the glittering coin had reached its apogee, and then he yelled, “Now, boys!” At the same time, he jerked out his Colt.

  Tyrell’s four companions went for their pistols at I the same time.

  A shot cracked in the chill morning air, and Tyrell howled as his Colt went flying out of his hand. His men froze, revolvers half out.

  “I’d ease my hands away from them pieces, boys, was I any of you,” Pete Kinchloe said in his rasping growl of a voice.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kinchloe walked his horse up next to Tyrell’s. His three ranch hands—Tomas Arguello, Ramon Dominguez, and Isaac Crump—also moved up. Each positioned himself behind and just to the side of one of Tyrell’s men.