by John Legg
He was getting hungry, and walked inside. Guthrie tapped lightly on the bedroom door, afraid to disturb whatever was going on in that room.
“Go away,” Serafina called out.
“Can I go get myself some supper?” Guthrie asked. He felt like a fool.
“Sí. Now go away.”
He met Kinchloe, Crump, Dominguez, and Arguello at the marshal’s office. His four friends were leaning against or squatting near the office door, staring blandly up at the twinkling flames of the Apache fires up on the ridge. They had finished off the pail of beer and were hungry and bored.
Together the five strolled to the restaurant. Guthrie ate heartily despite having a nugget of worry deep in his gut. He had never been through this before, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.
“She’ll be all right, Jack,” Kinchloe said sympathetically. “Women go through this all the time.” He shook his head. “They scream and holler and make all kinds of fuss, but they come though it in fine fettle most times.”
“But what do you do when that time comes, Pete?” Guthrie was perplexed. “You’ve been through it three times already.”
“Same thing you’re doin’.” Kinchloe laughed. “Disappear and let the women handle it.”
Guthrie wasn’t satisfied.
“The more important question here, Jack, is what you’re gonna do about all those goddamn Apaches sittin’ up there on that ridge.”
“I can’t think about that when Addie’s…”
“You’re gonna have to. Those savages ain’t gonna go away just cause Addie’s havin’ a baby.”
“I know,” Guthrie sighed. “Goddamn.” Too many things had happened in too short a time. “I don’t know what the hell I can do about ’em.”
“Chase they asses away,” Crump said with a grin. Guthrie snorted. “The five of us got more balls than all the rest of this goddamn town put together. There ain’t a man in Bonito that’d volunteer to pull such a thing.”
“There’s four,” Kinchloe said quietly.
“I ain’t gonna risk your necks for…”
“They our necks to risk, Mr. Guthrie,” Crump said. He was still smiling, but his words were hard.
“I reckon they are,” Guthrie agreed. He rubbed a hand over his face, and worked the molar with the tip of his tongue. “Let’s just let it ride for the night, though. We’ll see what the mornin’ brings.”
They strolled back to Guthrie’s house. “You boys want a room at the hotel?” Guthrie asked as they walked.
“We’d as soon stay at your place, if you don’t mind,” Kinchloe said.
Guthrie looked at him in surprise.
“He too cheap to pay fo’ a hotel room,” Crump said with a laugh. He knew Kinchloe was doing it— at least in part—because of him. Not too many hotels would be fond of housing a black cowpoke.
“If I was that cheap, you wouldn’t be gettin’ paid every month, Ike,” Kinchloe said, also laughing. Isaac Crump was the best cowboy Kinchloe had ever seen—and he had seen plenty. Crump could outride and outrope anybody. He was fearless in the face of man or beast. And he was one hell of a man to stand beside in a fight, despite that he barely topped five feet in height and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds. Kinchloe liked him, though it had taken some doing to get past the fact of the man’s skin color. But he had managed that some years ago, and he no longer even noticed.
“Shoot, you ain’t paid me—none of us—since we left Texas.” He was not concerned in the least about his money. If he needed cash for something, all he had to do was ask for it. He and the others knew that. Pete Kinchloe had promised that they’d get all the wages coming to them when they got to California. And Kinchloe had never lied to him.
“I’m of a mind not to, either, you keep sassin’ me.” But he was still chuckling. “Actually, Jack, I thought it might be best to stick close to you tonight. ’Cause of Addie.”
Guthrie nodded, not fully believing him.
Crump, Dominguez, and Arguello curled up on the floor soon after they were back at Guthrie’s house. They were used to being up long hours. But they also had enough sense to grab sleep whenever they could. Guthrie and Kinchloe sat talking for a while.
Just before midnight, Serafina came out of the bedroom. Guthrie looked up alarmed. Serafina’s face was creased with worry. “If you would be so kind, Señor Guthrie, to get my nieces, Dolores and Concepción. They help me sometimes when…” She did not want to complete the sentence.
Guthrie’s worry grew. “Addie all right?” he asked, mouth dry.
“Sí. But I might need help. Get my nieces, por favor. Pronto.”
Guthrie nodded. “Where are they?”
When they got directions, Guthrie and Kinchloe strode quickly along darkened streets. A few snowflakes were falling again, but they were not sticking. Guthrie had some explaining to do to the girls’ father—Serafina’s brother—but he soon convinced him. And before long the girls were scurrying through the night in the protection of Guthrie and Kinchloe.
Kinchloe joined his ranch hands in sleep soon after returning to the house. Eventually Guthrie did so, too, though his sleep was not comfortable, worried as he was about Addie.
The rest refreshed him somewhat, but what really made him feel better was having made up his mind about the Apaches.
After he finished breakfast—a tasty meal of chili rellenos and huevos rancheros prepared by Concepción—he leaned back in his chair. He fired up a cigarette. “I’m goin’ up there,” he said bluntly. “Where?” Kinchloe asked, not quite catching on.
“There.” He pointed with the cigarette in his hand to the ridge which would have been visible beyond the window had daylight broken.
“You’re loco.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Reckon not,” Kinchloe admitted. “When?”
“Now.”
“You ain’t gonna wait for Addie?”
“She’s been at it all night and nothin’s happened. Like you said, she’ll have it and be fine. Hell, she’s hardly let out a whimper for hours. She must be doing better.” He sighed, blowing out smoke. “And I can’t wait on those Apaches. Last time I did that, several people died.”
“You got a plan?”
“Not much of one,” Guthrie said. He shrugged. “Just ride on up there and hope I can talk some sense into ’em.”
Crump snorted in derision. “Ain’t possible,” he snapped. ,
“Maybe not. But I’ve heard they admire bravery. I reckon if I ride up there alone, they might be willin’ to hear me out.” He shrugged again. It was the best he could think of. He could not sit here and wait, sitting on his hands, for the Apaches to do whatever it was they were planning. Not even the imminent birth of his child could keep him here now.
“I agree with Ike,” Kinchloe said with a smile. “But if you’re bound and set on goin’, I ain’t lettin’ you go alone.”
“Well I ain’t stayin’ here,” Crump said.
“Hell, I must as well come, too,” Arguello added.
“And me,” from Dominguez.
“You boys’re even more loco than I am,” Guthrie said with a laugh. He stood and tossed his cigarette butt into the stove. Turning to face the others, he said, “Well, what’re y’all waitin’ for?”
They waited only long enough to sketchily explain to Dolores what he was up to. Then they left. Guthrie and Kinchloe stopped at Verdugo’s store to pick up some ammunition. Guthrie hoped to be able to talk the Apaches into a peaceable solution, but he planned to be prepared to fight, which seemed more likely.
At the same time, the three other men headed to Diaz’s Livery to saddle the horses. It was light as they made their way, Guthrie at the lead, up the trail to the ridge.
As soon as the five hit the flat top of the ridge, they were surrounded by armed, angry Apaches. The ridge was bare of trees for perhaps fifty yards at its densest. Then the pines, piñion, alders, aspens, and willows, ran on and on into the mountains.
Scattered along the tree line and dotting the open top of the ridge were hastily made wickiups. Guthrie was surprised to see women moving about.
An Apache about the same age as Guthrie issued some orders and several warriors moved toward the five newcomers.
Guthrie pulled his big Remington and thumbed back the hammer. The warriors stopped, glaring. Guthrie looked at the one who had spoken. “You the chief?” he asked.
The Apache said nothing, only gazed with flat, black eyes at the white man.
“You speak English?” Guthrie asked. He had not thought of the possibility that no one in the Indian village spoke his language. He gulped. “I’m lookin’ for the chief. I wish to talk about our differences. See if we can’t work out a peaceable solution to our troubles.” He paused, but there was still no reaction. He began to sweat, despite the cool breeze that ruffled his longish hair over his shirt collar.
He decided to give it one more try. “Too many folks on both sides have died. Such a thing makes me sad. I wish to live in peace with my Apache brothers.”
“We, too, have lost many,” the warrior who had spoken before said. His voice was deep, his accent thick.
Guthrie nodded solemnly. “Then I think we need to have us a parley and try to settle our differences. Or are you afraid?” Guthrie knew he was taking a terrible risk in challenging the man like this.
“Afraid?” the man asked, laughing, as if such a thought was ridiculous to him. “Do you think we’d be afraid of five men? Do you think we’d be so afraid of you that we’d tremble and plead for mercy?”
“No,” Guthrie said, fighting back anger. “But I did think that by comin’ here in such a small number might convince you that we were not afraid. That we wanted to show that we were putting ourselves at your mercy because of our small number. I had heard that Apaches respected bravery.”
“A brave man is to be honored,” the Apache acknowledged. “But a brave man would have come to our camp alone—and unarmed.”
“It never occurred to me that a man had to have his brains up his ass to be brave,” Guthrie retorted, a smile tugging at his lips.
The Apache burst into laughter. “Well said, hombre. We will talk. I am Esparto—Ghost—war chief of this band of Coyoteros.”
“I am Jack Guthrie, marshal of the town of Bonito.”
“Come into our camp,” Esparto said, turning his back and walking toward where a fire blazed in the center of the ridge.
Guthrie uncocked the Remington and slid it away. He was still worried about being attacked, but he knew he had to put on a show of bravery. As he and his friends stopped their horses and began to dismount, they were seized by a hooting band of Apaches.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Guthrie was furious as he felt himself shoved roughly to the ground and his weapons stripped away. He was jerked roughly to his feet. He spit out a mouthful of dirt and grass. He calmed himself before saying coldly, trying not to show the fear he felt, “So, this is how the Apaches treat brave men, eh?”
He spit to show his disgust. “It’s about what I expected from a bunch of chickenshits like you. Bah!”
Kinchloe blanched, but knew Guthrie was doing the right thing. There was a good chance all five men would die. Guthrie might not be able to stop that, but there was a chance he could. If challenged enough, the Apaches might yield and listen. If not, the challenge might cause them to kill the five visitors quickly, as befitted brave men. Still, it sent a chill up his back.
Guthrie glared at Esparto. The Apache war leader was a vicious-looking man, with a thick scar on his face. The scar ran from just over his left eyebrow, across the corner of the eye socket, curling around the bottom of the prominent cheekbone and ending just at the top of the upper lip. Esparto was short and barrel chested, with a mean, cruel face. He looked to have no redeeming features about him. Guthrie began to think there was no hope of ever escaping here.
Esparto glared at Guthrie. His rumpled face looked like the side of Corrizo Hill.
“Hell, what’s the use of talkin’ to you,” Guthrie sneered. “You’ve got no honor. No courage. You’re a yellow dog. Worse, you’re like a goddamn snake, slinkin’ from rock to rock, always hidin’ away, afraid to come out.”
Esparto stepped up and cuffed Guthrie on the side of the head. The blow had not been that hard, but the man’s hand was like rock. It left Guthrie’s head ringing.
“Hell, I’m impressed,” Guthrie said, sarcasm thick. He shook his head to clear it. “Real goddamn brave. Likes to beat up on folks—if they’re bein’ held by a couple of his pards.” He spit in the dirt at Esparto’s feet. It was no mean trick with his dry mouth. “And that’s only ’cause he caught us through trickery. Deceitful son of a bitch.”
Esparto grinned harshly. “Something I learned from the pinda-lick-o-ye—the white-eyes,” he gloated.
“Are you that goddamn stupid?” Guthrie demanded. He wondered how far he could carry this. Sooner or later, Esparto was going to decide to kill them—or maybe free them. “Sinkin’ to the level of the average white-eye.”
He paused, worried. But he decided he should press on as hard as he could. He could see no other way. “Or maybe you just really don’t have no cajones. Eh? That it? Got nothin’ to make you a man so you got to pretend to be tough by beatin’ up on trussed up white-eyes who were caught through yellow trickery.” He shook his head, showing Ghost his disappointment in him.
“Goddamn, dumb bastard won’t even sit and parley. Probably figures he’ll crap his breechcloth because my words are so tough and angry.”
Guthrie decided it was time to shut up. At least for now. He had gone pretty far.
Esparto stood scowling at Guthrie. His arms were folded across his big chest. But Guthrie thought he saw something in the Indian’s cruel eyes. A note of doubt, he hoped.
“Talking don’t do no good,” Esparto said in his gravelly, heavily accented voice. “All pinda-lick-o-ye speak with a snake’s tongue.”
“Bull,” Guthrie snarled. “There’s some of us got honor, just like there’s some Apaches who got honor. And some who don’t.” His harsh stare let Esparto know who he meant with the latter statement.
“There has been too much talk,” Esparto growled. Guthrie detected a note of pain in the man’s voice.
“If you’d just own up to bein’ too goddamn cowardly to set down and parley with me, you’d be a heap better for it. Ghost,” Guthrie said.
“No,” Esparto insisted angrily. “No more talk.” “You been tricked before by some white-eyes who said they want to parley?” Guthrie asked, his voice softening considerably. He thought that proper, though he hoped the Apaches would not see it as a weakness on his part.
Esparto said nothing, but Guthrie could see the answer in the Apache’s dark eyes. “I can understand that. Had it happen to me a couple times—includin’ now. But you can’t treat all white-eyes poorly because of the actions of a few.” Guthrie licked his lips, trying to work up a little moisture. “If I wanted to kill Apaches, I would’ve stayed in Bonito and done it from down there.” He saw the light of recognition in more than one pair of Apache eyes. He nodded, “Yep, I’m the one who brought death to you with the long gun. I didn’t need to risk my ass to come up here and take on a whole passel of you boys.”
An angry buzzing flickered through the Apaches. “Enough!” Esparto barked. He looked at Guthrie. “My people want to kill you, pinda-lick-o-ye. Now. For the many of our people you killed with your long gun—and your other guns. I feel that way myself.”
“Then kill me.” Guthrie pulled himself straighter, feeling hard Apache hands tighten on his arms. “But let these others go. They’ve done nothin’ to you, or any of your people.”
“You are a brave man—for a pinda-lick-o-ye,” Esparto said after a few moments.
“Is that why you’re afraid of me?”
“I am afraid of no one,” Esparto said in a soft rumble.
“You’re afraid of sittin’ down and talkin’.”
“No more talk,” Esparto said again. He made a sharp chopping motion with his right hand, as if cutting off the very suggestion.
“Then fight me, if you won’t parley with me,” Guthrie said calmly. He noticed the sudden interest in Esparto’s eyes. “Then you can show your bravery—and I can show mine.”
“And so? What would we fight for?”
“Hell, we all know what’s at stake here. I best you, and you take your people away from here and leave Bonito alone. As well as all the trails into and out of it. You also let me and my amigos go. You win…” He shrugged. There would be nothing anyone could do to stop the Apaches from doing whatever they wished.
Esparto stood in thought. It sounded reasonable. Bonito meant nothing to him. Neither did keeping it under siege. But he was suspicious, expecting trickery at every turn. He could not see how the trickery could be accomplished—his people had the town under surveillance, and other warriors were standing guard in other directions. No one could sneak up on them.
Still, he remembered the last time, not so long ago, when soldiers and townsfolk had set up a meeting. Once seated around the fire, the Apaches had been plied with liquor and hot, strange, heavy foods. When the Apaches were complacent, sated with food and drink, lulled by the apparent good intentions of their hosts, the white-eyes had opened fire.
Esparto pushed the thought away. That could not happen here. And this pinda-lick-o-ye facing him had a streak of bravery and honesty in him. Esparto could see that.
“I accept, white-eyes,” he said gravely, drawing a gasp of surprise and anticipation from his people. He almost smiled. He turned to his people and announced, “I will fight this skinny pinda-lick-o-ye.” The words brought growls of assent and anticipation.
Esparto turned back to face Guthrie. “We will fight with no weapons. And clothes,” he said. “Then there will be no trickery.”
Guthrie nodded solemnly. The Apaches dragged Kinchloe, Crump, Dominguez, and Arguello off a little ways toward the trees. The two holding Guthrie released him. Guthrie rubbed his biceps, where the warriors had kept their ironlike grip on him. He watched as Esparto dropped his odd Apache cap and began to tug off his buckskin hunting shirt.
