by John Legg
With a shrug, Guthrie began to strip down, conscious that the women and children were watching him with interest. He ignored them. He had long ago lost his embarrassment at such things. The cool wind nipped at his pale flesh. Soon he was standing naked—he had even removed the bandages that had bound his cracked ribs. He hoped they could withstand whatever would be asked of him. He faced an equally unclad Esparto. Both men noted the scars on the other, realizing that all came from hard fought—and won—battles.
Guthrie felt calm, as he usually did when battle was near. It was only afterward that he showed any outward effects of it. He watched as Esparto crouched, rolling the blocky muscles in his back and shoulders. Not to be outdone, Guthrie stretched his back, arms, and legs, getting the blood moving— and putting on his own little display in the bargain.
Esparto suddenly charged, shoulders and head down, like a bull. Guthrie was caught unprepared to some extent, and could not sidestep the rushing Apache. Esparto’s shoulder plowed into Guthrie’s hard midsection, inches from the still-mending ribs. Guthrie winced, but he thought there was no damage done to the ribs. The move drove the white man back. Guthrie fell, gasping as his back slid along some rocks, flaying off a small layer of skin.
Just after landing, with Esparto half atop him, Guthrie brought his hands wide and then snapped them inward. The cupped hands popped on Esparto’s ears. Esparto grunted and lost the grip he had taken around Guthrie’s middle. Guthrie bucked, tossing the Apache off to the side. Both scrambled up and took a moment to catch their breath.
Guthrie realized that a ring of chanting, cheering, hooting Apaches had formed around him and Esparto. Guthrie charged this time, and was slammed to the ground for his trouble. He spun onto his already sore and flayed back and used his heel to kick Esparto behind the left knee. The Indian grunted softly and sank to his knees.
Guthrie jumped up and slammed a fist against the side of the Indian’s head. It seemed as if Esparto hardly noticed. He twirled on his knees and launched an uppercut. Guthrie blanched as the hammerlike fist just missed his testes. He managed to twist, and the hard knuckles slammed into his thigh. Guthrie gasped and staggered back a step. He stood, trying to control the pain, keeping a wary eye on Esparto.
The Apache stood slowly, hoping to lull Guthrie into thinking he was more seriously hurt than he was. He also wanted to conserve his strength.
The two moved warily, Guthrie limping a bit as a knot began to rise on the thigh. They charged each other this time, crashing into each other with the sound of a thunderclap. Guthrie managed to wrap his long, strong arms around the Apache, and he squeezed, trying to crush Esparto’s massive chest.
But Ghost was having none of it. He kicked and tried to bite. He never managed to connect with teeth or feet, but his struggle forced Guthrie to let him go. Guthrie was immensely strong, but so was Esparto and trying to hold the wildly struggling Indian was too much for Guthrie, especially with his ribs still weak.
They clung together, wrestling and grappling. The day was still cool, but the sun was rising hotly, and both men were slick with sweat. They kicked and scratched and punched, each trying to gain a slight advantage. For nearly half an hour they fought under the increasingly hot sun, neither gaining—nor losing—much headway. Periodically, they would break apart and stand, sucking in breath. Both were bloody, bruised, dirty, sore, and tired.
After one such break, Guthrie charged again, bent low. His head rammed into Esparto’s stomach. The Apache slammed powerful punches on Guthrie’s back. The white man reached down and managed to grab the back of Esparto’s thighs in his hand. It was a tenuous hold, but it would have to do. He surged upward, dragging Esparto’s legs up with him. The Apache toppled over backward and grunted as his back hit a partially buried, sharp stone.
Guthrie came down atop him, just missing Esparto’s groin with his knee. The knee gouged into the Indian’s thigh. Esparto jammed a thumb at Guthrie’s eye. It hit the side of his nose and slipped off, sliding across the eye. Sweat and dirt from the Apache’s thumb burned Guthrie’s eye and he clamped that eye shut as he smashed a fist into Esparto’s face. He felt the force of it landing on the Apache’s forehead all the way up his arm. “Damn,” he breathed.
Suddenly the heel of Esparto’s hand slammed against Guthrie’s forehead, knocking him back a little. Guthrie continued to fall, and did a backward somersault, coming back to his feet just in time to catch Esparto’s shoulder full in his hurt ribs.
A blinding flash of light crossed Guthrie’s eyes from the searing pain. Guthrie thought for a moment that he would pass out from it. But he pushed off the threatening blackness. By rote, he rained fists on the back of Esparto’s head.
In a reflexive action, he jerked his knee up, and the flat part of his leg just above the knee caught Esparto in the jaw. It snapped his head up, straightening him. Guthrie smashed the Apache’s flat nose with a fist, and then began pounding the Indian all about the face and body with thundering fists.
Esparto punched back, but his efforts grew more feeble. His kicks were halfhearted. He began to fade. Guthrie kicked him in the stomach. Esparto stood woozily. Guthrie laced his hands together and slammed the combined fist against Esparto’s temple.
How Esparto kept his feet, Guthrie did not know. Still, the Apache had no fight left in him. Guthrie became conscious of the quietness in the camp. The Apaches were no longer jeering and shouting. They were deadly silent. Guthrie supposed he was expected to kill Esparto, but he could not bring himself to do that. But he decided he would administer a final blow to knock Esparto out.
He positioned an unresisting Esparto, and then himself. Just as he was about to knock the Indian down to stay, Guthrie was stopped by a piercing scream from the town just down at the bottom of the short ridge.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Addie!” He spun and ran, scooping up what clothes he could grab on the fly. He leaped into the buckskin’s saddle and kicked the horse into a run, racing down the hill toward his house.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Guthrie was aware of most of the Apaches yelling at him as he raced down the hill. And he knew that some shots were fired in his direction. But he was not about to leave Addie down there in that house in her hour of need.
For the first time since he was a boy, Guthrie prayed—that the Apaches would leave Kinchloe and his three ranch hands alive for a while, and not torture them. Guthrie planned to get back up the ridge as soon as he could.
He jammed the horse to a stop in front of the house and charged into the room where Addie was in labor.
Dolores screeched, and Serafina and Concepci6n were shocked, not only at his state of undress, but also that he had entered the room at all. “Out!” Serafina screamed at him.
Guthrie backed out of the room hastily, face flaming with embarrassment. It was the first time he had been that embarrassed about such a thing since he was fifteen years old. He scrambled into his long johns, pants, and boots. Squaring his shoulders, he entered the bedroom again.
“Out!” Serafina snapped.
“What’s wrong with Addie?” Guthrie snarled.
“Nothing you need be concerned about, señor.”
Serafina thought the words sufficient to dismiss him.
“Like hell,” Guthrie snapped, not about to be put off. “If there’s nothin’ wrong, how come she’s screamin’ like a scalded cat?”
Serafina pushed some gray hairs back from her forehead with the heel of her hand. She spoke briefly with her nieces. Then she came to Guthrie and took his arm. She tugged lightly. “Come, señor,” she said soothingly.
Guthrie let himself be pulled out of the bedroom. “Señora Guthrie is having trouble,” Serafina started.
“That’s obvious.”
Serafina frowned. But she nodded, understanding his concern. Not too many men were like this Jack Guthrie and cared about their women in such circumstances. It was unusual. Serafina had seen it before, but not often, and she was always uncertain of how t
o act around such a man. It was easier for her when the man did not care what happened in the birthing room.
“The baby is…” she paused. Speaking of such things with a man went against all her teachings and instincts. She wanted to phrase it in such a way as to be inoffensive—for herself, for Guthrie, and for Addie, who would learn eventually that this discussion had taken place.
“The baby is,” she started again, “in the wrong position.”
“Is that dangerous?” Guthrie asked. It must be, he figured, but he had to know for sure.
“Sí. For both. But it can be overcome.”
“How?”
“That is for me to handle, señor,” Serafina said quietly but firmly.
“I can help.”
Serafina was shocked at such a notion, but she hid it. “The best way for you to help is to stay out here and let me tend to Señora Guthrie. That will create the best chance that madre and niño will be well.”
Guthrie was torn. He wanted to be with Addie. He had no idea of what was going on in that room. He only knew that his woman was in trouble. And he was helpless. He was not comfortable with that feeling. But he realized the wisdom of what Serafina was saying.
The bedroom door popped open. Dolores, distraught and tired, stuck her head out. “Tía Serafina,” she called urgently. “Pronto.”
Serafina looked at Guthrie, a question in her eyes. He nodded, more frightened than he had ever been. He jerked his head toward the door. Serafina hurried into the bedroom. Guthrie closed his eyes and for the second time in five minutes, prayed.
Time dragged, each minute taking an eternity to pass. After fifteen minutes, Guthrie could no longer just stand there listening to the groans emanating from the bedroom. He stepped outside. Standing next to the buckskin, patting the animal’s neck, he shouted, “Pete! Pete, can you hear me?” He waited.
After what seemed to be an infinite passage of time, Kinchloe’s raspy voice floated down to him. “Yep.”
Guthrie was somewhat relieved. The voice held neither fear nor pain. “You and the boys all right?”
“Yep.”
“Esparto up there?”
“Yep.”
“Can he talk?”
“Ask him yourself.”
Esparto suddenly appeared on the edge of the ridge. He looked down. He held a rifle in his hands, and for a moment, Guthrie thought the Apache was going to shoot him. But he neither said nor did anything.
“I beat you fair and square, Ghost,” Guthrie shouted up the hill. “I could’ve killed you easy, but I didn’t. But I beat you. So let my friends go.”
“No.” The word sounded harsh even at the distance down the hill.
“I got business here.” Guthrie didn’t think he needed to explain what it was. “But if you ain’t satisfied with the thrashin’ I gave you before, I’ll be back up there soon’s things are done with here. That suit you?”
“Sí.” The voice had not softened in the least. Esparto turned to leave.
He faced back down the hill again, though, when Guthrie called up to him. “Just one thing, Ghost. My friends best be alive—and unhurt—when I come back.” He had no way to back up his threat, really, he just hoped Esparto would accept it as from one warrior to another.
Esparto said nothing. He just walked away from the edge of the hill. Guthrie went back into his kitchen. He poured some whiskey into a tin cup and jolted it down in two quick swallows. He refilled the mug and sat, sipping the liquor this time, while smoking a cigarette.
The minute hand on the clock ticking away on the kitchen wall seemed to have frozen. It seemed unmoving. There were a few screams from the bedroom, and Guthrie jumped testily at each one. But at the sound of a baby’s cry, he jerked his head up and looked at the door expectantly.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Serafina came out, a baby in her arms. She looked tired but happy. She walked over and peeled the small blanket away from the wrinkled little face. “El hijo,” she said. “A son.”
Guthrie was speechless. He felt like an idiot as he reached out a grimy, hard finger and touched the teeny chest.
Serafina smiled even more widely as she opened the blanket fully, letting Guthrie see that his son was complete in all ways.
He nodded, still too stunned by the enormity of all this to speak. Then a stab of fear lanced through his insides. “And the señora?” he asked urgently.
“Sleeping already.” Serafina fairly beamed. “But she is well. She will be weak for a little time, but she is a strong young woman.”
“That she is. Gracias, señora.”
“De nada.”
Another worry popped into Guthrie’s mind. “Can you watch the baby for a spell? Until Señora Guthrie is well?”
“Sí. Either I or my nieces will be here. The child will not be neglected.”
“Gracias. Muchas, muchas gracias,” Guthrie said. He meant it from the core of his being. Without Serafina Santiago, both Addie and the baby would have died. He was sure of that.
He stood, sighing. He could not delay going back to the Apache camp. Now that he knew Addie and his new son were all right, he had to go save his friends. He got one of his few extra pairs of socks and put them on, and then his one extra shirt. He felt better. All he needed now was his gun belt and his two familiar Remingtons. He sighed again. He hoped to have those back soon enough. “Adiós, señora.”
“Qué?" Serafina asked, surprised. “What?” Then she nodded. “The Apaches?”
“Sí. They’re holdin’ my friends.”
“God go with you, señor.”
“That’d be welcome,” Guthrie said dryly but honestly.
Guthrie felt a current of tension running through the Apache camp as he rode back to the top of the ridge. The Apaches seemed to be preparing for war, and Guthrie figured they were getting ready to attack the town.
He spotted Kinchloe, Crump, Arguello, and Dominguez pegged down, spread-eagled, face up near the central fire.
Apaches rushed to surround him again. Guthrie was sore, now that the excitement of his son’s birth was wearing off a little, and he was pleased to see that as Esparto walked toward him, the Apache was limping and looked to be in pain.
“No weapons this time,” Guthrie said as Esparto stopped in front of the buckskin. He grinned lopsidedly. He thought he saw a smile tug at Esparto’s craggy face.
Several Apaches grabbed him and dragged him from his horse. Esparto shouted something. in Apache, and the warriors let him go, much to Guthrie’s surprise.
“You are a brave man,” the Apache leader said, obviously impressed. “Why did you run off?”
Guthrie quickly explained.
Esparto laughed and spoke briefly in his own language. Most of the other warriors—and the women who could hear him from where they were several yards back—joined in the laughter.
“I say somethin’ funny?” Guthrie asked, confused.
Esparto waved his hand and a young woman walked up. She seemed to be having a little trouble walking, but other than that looked well. She was attractive, Guthrie thought, for an Apache. She was holding a papoose carrier. She stood next to Guthrie and let him see the baby.
“My son,” Esparto said proudly. “Blanco Esparto—White Ghost. He was born minutes before you came back.”
So? Guthrie thought. Then it struck him. “Same time as mine, eh?” he said with a huge grin.
“Sí.”
“Bueno.” Guthrie paused, waiting as Esparto’s wife shuffled back toward the other women. Then he looked the Apache leader square in the eye. “We gonna call this war quits now, Esparto?”
“Sí,” Ghost said solemnly. “The spirits have brought us together here to make peace. At least between us.” He turned his head. “Let the pinda-lick- o-ye go,” he ordered.
“No!” Another Apache warrior stepped forward. He and Esparto argued in their own language. The two became more heated with each word that was said.
Guthrie watched, wondering what was being s
aid, and worried about what would happen. He assumed they were arguing over him and his friends. But what was being said exactly, he had no idea.
Finally the argument stopped. Esparto looked incredibly angry, but he spoke calmly to Guthrie. “I’m sorry, my new friend,” he began. He waved a hand at the other warrior. “Tuerto—One-Eye—here is not satisfied that you beat me before. He questions my ability—and my bravery.” Esparto smiled tightly indicating that Tuerto would answer for those things later. “And he challenges you to a fight.”
Guthrie looked at Tuerto. What he saw was a mean-tempered, ugly, very scarred half-breed of Mexican and Apache parentage. He was dressed like an Apache, but he wore a two-gun rig, with matching .44-caliber Colts. It looked incongruous. “Tuerto thinks he’s a gunman,” Esparto said derisively. “He says that judging by your pistols, you’re a pistolero, too.” It came out as a question.
Guthrie shrugged. “I’ve used ’em before.”
Esparto nodded. “Do you accept his challenge to a gunfight?”
“Sí,” Guthrie said agreeably. He paused. “If you let my friends go now.”
Esparto nodded in agreement, over Tuerto’s objections.
Once Guthrie was certain the Apaches were working to undo the bonds that held his friends, he turned and walked to where his gun belt was. He picked it up and buckled it on, settling it. Then he checked both pistols and slid them back into their holsters without flourish. Tuerto was waiting for him. He glanced over, and saw Kinchloe and Crump standing already, rubbing their wrists. Moments later, Dominguez and Arguello had joined the two. Guthrie nodded and moved up to meet Tuerto. All four began buckling on their gun belts.
As he stood facing Tuerto, a distance of maybe thirty feet separating them, Guthrie thought of how odd it was to be in a showdown with an Indian.
