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

by John Legg

  “Jack,” Kinchloe said with a grin.

  “Pete,” Guthrie responded, managing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “What’re you aimin’ to do with this trash, Marshal?” Kinchloe asked, emphasizing the last word. He tapped Lem Tyrell on one shoulder with his Burgess repeating rifle.

  Guthrie grinned. Kinchloe always had gone in for offbeat rifles. “Reckon I’ll lock ’em all up in the calaboose for a spell.”

  “On what charge?” Tyrell asked, sneering.

  “I’ll come up with something,” Guthrie allowed. “I can start off chargin’ you with creatin’ a nuisance of yourself. And leavin’ garbage in the street.” He pointed the shotgun at Barnet. “More’ll come to me as time goes on.” His face hardened. “Now, you and your boys best drop your weapons to the ground and then dismount. Peaceably, if you please.” Guthrie was somewhat nervous. There were too many people — including women and children— standing around watching. He hoped that Tyrell and his men would cause no more trouble, lest someone get hurt. Making matters worse, Guthrie could see Mayor Eakins shoving through the crowd, heading toward him.

  Tyrell nodded tightly, holding his wounded hand. His men eased out their pistols and dropped them on the ground. One of the men carried two pistols outside his coat. He also dropped the second. Then they started pulling rifles from scabbards and dropping those to the ground, too.

  About the time Tyrell’s men began to dismount, Eakins stomped to a halt directly in front of Guthrie. “What’s the meaning of this, Guthrie?” the mayor demanded. He felt brave with a crowd watching. He figured that under such circumstances, Guthrie would not pull anything foolish.

  “Get out of the way, Mayor,” Guthrie snarled. He did not look at the official, aiming to keep his eyes on Tyrell’s men. It was difficult with the mayor standing in his line of sight.

  “What?” Eakins asked, surprised.

  “Unless you want to get locked up, too.”

  “But…I…You can’t…”

  “The hell I can’t. You’re interfering with me in the performance of my duties. Now move it, unless…” Suddenly he shoved Eakins out of the way. “Tomas!” he roared.

  But it was too late. Tyrell’s man had kicked Tomas Arguello as he was dismounting. Kinchloe’s ranch hand fell off his horse, landing hard in the mud. He lost his pistol in the process. The gunman dropped down on the far side of his horse, ducked under the animal, and snatched up his revolver from the ground. The man snapped the Colt up in Guthrie’s direction and fired several times.

  Bystanders screamed, horses whinnied and bucked, filling the air with flying, iron-shod hooves. Gunfire erupted, and bullets flew. Women and children either ran or fell to the muddy ground. Townsmen tried to shield them. Or they ran, too.

  Eakins slammed into Guthrie’s left side, throwing off the blast from his scattergun.

  “Damnit, Mayor,” Guthrie shouted, pushing Eakins away. He was only dimly aware of the blood on the back of Eakins’ shirt as the mayor fell to the side. “What the hell,” Guthrie yelled. He raised the shotgun again and fired at the man who had shot Eakins.

  The man jerked several times, and Guthrie knew that Isaac Crump had also hit the man at least once. Guthrie dropped the shotgun and ducked, yanking out the Remington as he did so.

  Tyrell’s three other men had moved when they saw their companion act. One started to run, but Crump wheeled his horse into the man’s path. The man slammed into the animal, bounced off and fell, groaning from a broken collarbone. Crump grinned down at him, the sparkling teeth very white in his shining black face.

  The man lay there, moaning from the pain, hoping the rest of the melee would distract Crump. He inched his hand inside his jacket, as if trying to hold the broken bone in place. Suddenly he yanked out a derringer. He aimed the two-shot weapon up at Crump, who calmly shot the man through the heart. Crump turned his attention to his companions.

  One of Tyrell’s men had not been covered by Kinchloe’s men. He had jumped off his horse but had trouble getting a grip on his mud-covered pistol. Because of that, Guthrie had ignored him momentarily. Now that the man had cleared his pistol, Guthrie swung toward him and drilled him twice.

  Tyrell’s other hired gun had dived straight for his own pistol laying in the mud. Dominguez fired three times, missing the man each time. “Maldito sea!” he cursed. “Damnit.” He had never considered himself much of a pistoleer, but he was angry at having missed a target so close, even if the man was moving.

  The man had reached his gun and had grabbed it. He shook it several times, trying to knock off the clinging, gooey mud. He started to swing it around toward Guthrie. He thought the marshal was the most dangerous man here. He discounted Dominguez completely. After all, Dominguez was nothing more than a ranch hand, and a Mexican one at that. As he thumbed back the hammer, Dominguez took careful aim and put a bullet square in the man’s back. As the man jerked from the impact, Dominguez fired again, hitting the gunman in the back of the neck.

  Frantically Dominguez began ejecting shells from his Colt, as he cast worried looks about. Crump had just finished off one of Tyrell’s gunmen who was on the ground. Arguello was still down. As was Kinchloe, Dominguez saw. “Madre de Dios!” he gasped, hurrying all the more to fill his Colt with new cartridges.

  Tyrell had been moving slowly, favoring his right hand. He looked like he was in some pain. As soon as he saw his man kick Tomas Arguello, he moved. Tyrell started to dismount, and had only his left foot in the stirrup. But his hands—left mainly, with the sore right hand barely resting on it—were still on the saddle horn. He pulled with his arms and jerked his right foot up onto the saddle. He pushed off with his right foot and went flying at Kinchloe.

  He knocked Kinchloe off the horse, and the two tumbled to the ground. Kinchloe’s rifle went flying away, landing with a plop in the mud. The two were separated by the landing.

  Kinchloe got up first, but as he moved toward Tyrell, his foot slipped in the mud. He went down to one knee and caught himself on his arms. At the same time, Tyrell arose. He spun and kicked Kinchloe in the face. Kinchloe had seen it coming and had managed to move his head a little to the side, and the blow just glanced off the side of his forehead. It stunned him momentarily.

  Tyrell viciously slugged Kinchloe on the side of the head, almost knocking him down. Then he kicked Kinchloe in the stomach. Kinchloe gasped, choked, and then threw up, hanging his head as he still braced himself on hands and knees.

  “Blow up my goddamn house and ranch, will you, you son of a bitch,” Tyrell snarled. He was breathing heavily from the exertion and the pain in his hand. “Goddamn son of a bitch. Drive me off my ranch, huh. Bastard.” He tore open his heavy wool coat and brought out a .38-caliber British Bulldog.

  As Tyrell aimed the snubby-looking pistol at the stunned Pete Kinchloe, Guthrie bellowed, “Don’t, Tyrell!”

  “Piss off, Guthrie!”

  Guthrie could not wait. In another moment Kinchloe would be dead. He fired. At the same instant, Ramon Dominguez and Isaac Crump also fired.

  Bullets plowed into Tyrell’s back. He jerked from the impact of each one, doing a little dance before crumpling to the ground. He lay there twitching.

  “Ramon, check on Tomas.” He did not need to tell Isaac Crump to keep an eye on things in general. Guthrie glanced at Eakins, who was still lying on the ground, bleeding. But Guthrie’s allegiance was with Kinchloe. He ran to his friend. “You all right, Pete?” he asked worriedly.

  “Hell, yes,” Kinchloe growled. He pushed off his arms and twisted, landing on his behind with a loud, watery splat. He shook his head. “Goddamn, that was humiliatin’.”

  Guthrie grinned. If Kinchloe was talking that way, he would be all right. “Hell, you ain’t the first man ever lost his breakfast after takin’ such a shot to the brisket.”

  “Still don’t make me feel no better,” he growled. He shook his head, which was starting to throb.

  “Reckon it don’t,” Guthrie said
sympathetically. “You just sit here while I go check on the others.” He stood and turned. Tomas Arguello had gotten up and was leaning his back against his horse, talking quietly with Dominguez. “He all right, Ramon?” Guthrie called.

  “Sí.”

  Guthrie hurried over to Eakins. He knelt at the mayor’s side just as Dr. Gretsch arrived. Guthrie knew better than to ask questions, so he bit his lip while he waited for Gretsch to make a hasty examination of Eakins.

  Finally Gretsch arose, wincing as his knees protested. He called for some help, and four men hastened up. “Take him to my office, boys. Pronto,” Gretsch said.

  “Well, how is he, Doc?” Guthrie asked.

  “Hurt,” Gretsch said dryly. Then he grinned. “I think he’ll be all right. Took two bullets in the back, but both were off to the side a little bit, and I don’t think any vital organs were hit.” He paused. “Any of these others need help?”

  “No,” Guthrie said flatly. Tyrell’s men were dead and couldn’t be helped. Kinchloe and his men were hurt, but they could get to the doctor’s under their own power. “A couple of ’em might mosey on over to your place later for you to have a look-see at ’em.”

  Gretsch nodded. “How’re you?” He tapped Guthrie’s ribs lightly.

  “I’ll live.” All the activity had set his side to hurting again, but it wasn’t all that bad. The others were worse off than he was, at the moment.

  Gretsch nodded again and hurried off after the men carrying Eakins.

  Guthrie walked back to where Kinchloe was still sitting in the mud. “Think you can haul your lazy ass off to the doctor’s on your own? I got to start cleanin’ up around here.”

  “I can make it,” Kinchloe growled. “Ike’ll help me, should the need arise.”

  “All right. The mayor’s been shot by these fools, and the doc’ll be tendin’ him first. But you wander over there and wait. He’ll get to you directly.” He told Kinchloe where the office was.

  Kinchloe nodded. Lamar Penniman was approaching. “You’re good for business, Marshal,” Penniman said without humor. He expected—and got—no answer. “Who’s going to pay for the burials?”

  Guthrie shrugged. “Check their pockets. If they got any cash, take what’s fair for the buryin’. Then give the rest to the city. Maybe it’ll help cover Doc Gretsch’s bill for patchin’ up the mayor.” He glared at the mortician. “And you best make sure that if any’s left over that you turn it in. Comprendes?”

  “I’m insulted,” Penniman said. He didn’t look it— or sound it—though. He turned and began issuing orders to his Mexican helpers.

  Guthrie set about picking up muddy guns. There’d be a lot of cleaning to be done, he thought, not looking forward to the prospect. It had been, he had to admit, one hell of a morning.

  * * *

  Kinchloe and his three men had managed to cram chairs into Guthrie’s office. The marshal himself sat behind his desk. Kinchloe’s face was discolored on the chin and one side. But he had taken some headache cure that Gretsch had given him, and he didn’t feel too badly. Neither did Dominguez.

  The five men were holding tin cups of beer. Guthrie had gotten the Pine Log Saloon to send over a large pail of beer. It sat on the floor next to the desk. The men would dip their tin cups in the pail whenever they needed a refill. It was warm and close in the small room. The day had heated up considerably by the afternoon, and with so many bodies in such a confined space, it was hot. None of them seemed to mind, though.

  Guthrie finally asked the question that had floated around in his brain since he had heard Kinchloe’s voice that morning, “Just what in hell are you doin’ here, Pete?”

  “Sorry to see us?” Kinchloe asked with a grin. “Didn’t say that,” Guthrie said, also grinning. “Just wonderin’ how you come to be here.”

  “We hadn’t made it to Santa Cruz. We were all trail weary—especially Flo and the young’uns—by the time we hit Rillito. We decided to spend a couple days there to refresh ourselves some. 'Rimed into a couple weeks, since we found out Flo was with child again, and she was feelin’ poorly. We were there long enough for folks to get to know us some. One day a letter come through from Tucson. It was supposed to be posted on up to Santa Cruz. The postmaster saw my name and gave it to me.” Kinchloe paused to roll a cigarette and sip some beer. “Anyway, I figured we’d just wait down there in Rillito, instead of heading on to Santa Cruz. Figured we could make it to Santa Cruz in no time, come spring, and wait for you there. I was gonna write to you and tell you that. Even had the letter started a couple times. But Flo told me to come up here and talk to you myself.” He shook his head, still wondering. “Flo’s got some odd ways about her. Seems she can tell when things are gonna happen or something. She said you was in some kind of trouble up here...”

  “Of course I was in trouble up here,” Guthrie said with a laugh. “I was up to my ass in hostile Apaches. Hell, I told you that in my letter.” Kinchloe looked embarrassed. “I told that to Flo. Also said that the Army had confirmed the Apache trouble was bad up in these parts and that it wouldn’t be safe for me to go anyway.” He sighed. “But she insisted.” He smiled, not quite gloating, but close. “And, by Christ, she was right.”

  “Yes, she was,” Guthrie said seriously. “It still seems a miracle of sorts that you showed up at the same time as Tyrell.” He had long ago given up trying to figure out such mysteries of life. He just accepted them.

  He also took the time to roll a cigarette and drink some beer. “And you didn’t have any trouble with Apaches?”

  “Nope. Didn’t see nary a one. A little sign here and there. Saw some places they’d attacked. But never had a lick of trouble.”

  “Tyrell said he didn’t have any trouble with ’em either,” Guthrie said in wonder. “But it don’t make sense.” He explained all the troubles he had had with the Apaches, growing angry at the thought. “Hell, we ain’t been able to get a wagon or a rider or any damned thing through in a couple of months now because of those bastards. And here you and Tyrell just come waltzin’ in pretty as you please.” “There just ain’t no explainin’ things,” Kinchloe said quietly. He laughed. “Like you bein’ marshal.” Guthrie nodded and chuckled. He knew it to be true. Still, not being able to explain things bothered him. He finished off his beer and reached around the desk to scoop up another cupful from the pail. “You left Flo and the younkers down there in Rillito?”

  “Yep. Since she’s with child and there was the danger of meetin’ up with Apaches, we figured it best.” He grinned. “Met some nice folks down there, and she appears to be comfortable.”

  “What about your stock?”

  “Left them down there, too. Made arrangements with a rancher. He’s gonna let ’em graze his range for a while. In exchange, he gets the services of the bulls for as long as my stock’s on his range.” “Works out nice.”

  “Yep.” Kinchloe took a drink, then started, “Now, what’re we gonna do about those…?”

  An eleven-year-old boy ran into the office, breathless. “Miz Guthrie says to get Señora Santiago. It’s time.”

  Guthrie burst up and flew through the door. Kinchloe and the others lagged a little behind him, but not by much. Guthrie skidded to a stop in the street when one of the townsfolk stopped, pointed at the ridge, and shouted in a trembling voice, “Good Lord. Look!”

  Guthrie looked. A line of Apaches stood in the gathering dusk at the crest of the ridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Guthrie was at a loss for what to do. He had to keep an eye on the Apaches, but he wanted desperately to get to Addie, too. Suddenly he decided. “Pete, can you and your boys keep your eyes on those Apaches?”

  “Sure,” Kinchloe said, surprised. “Why?”

  “I’ve got to get the midwife and get to Addie.” When Kinchloe nodded, Guthrie said, “If the Apaches pull anything, send somebody for me. Everybody in town knows where my house is. Come on down there yourself, if nothin’s happening by full dark. Those Apaches won’
t attack at night—I hope.”

  “You go on,” Kinchloe ordered in friendly tones. “See to your woman. We’ll handle things here.” Guthrie nodded and ran off. He got five steps before he stopped sharply, slipping in the mud a little. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. He raced into his office and came out in a minute. “Here,” he said, handing Kinchloe and his three ranch hands each a badge. “That’ll make it official.”

  “But I don’t want…” Kinchloe started.

  “Don’t give me no guff, Pete. Now, do you boys promise to uphold the laws here?”

  The four men mumbled assent.

  “Good, you’re officially deputies.” He sped away. In minutes he was pounding on Serafina Santiago’s door. The old Mexican woman appeared at the door, unhappy to have been disturbed at her supper. “Addie’s time has come,” Guthrie gasped. “Come on, hurry.”

  “There is time yet,” Serafina said calmly. Men, she thought. They were so useless at such times. Of course, there was those other times when they did have their uses. She smiled enigmatically.

  Guthrie did not see the smile. He just stood and chafed as Serafina went about gathering the things she would need. Then she pulled a wool wrap around her shoulders. “I am ready,” she said. She had almost no accent at all.

  Serafina walked at her own slow pace. Guthrie matched it, fretting. But they were soon at Guthrie’s house. Serafina swept into the bedroom, saying over her shoulder, “Keep out of the way, señor.”

  Guthrie grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat at the table. He drank straight from the bottle. But within half an hour, Addie’s moaning, groaning, and occasional shrieks had driven him outside. He stood, leaning back against the house, smoking cigarettes and watching the Apaches up on the ridge. They were so close to his house, he realized, that they would be able to toss stones down on his roof. Fires began appearing up in the Apache camp as darkness fell. Guthrie thought he saw some women up on the ridge, though he could not be certain in the failing light. He didn’t think that likely, and would be surprised, if it were true.