by John Legg
Tuerto was impatient as he snapped in poor English, “Come on, goddamnit, get ready.”
“You in a hurry to die?” Guthrie asked calmly. He was confident. He had been in more gunfights than he cared to admit. He might not be the fastest at clearing leather, but he had learned that the fastest usually were not the best.
“Just get ready, damnit.”
“Make your play, pard,” Guthrie said easily. Tuerto drew his pistol a split second before Guthrie. But his haste was his undoing. Tuerto fired before he had fully raised his one Colt, and the bullet kicked up a clod of earth halfway between the two men.
Guthrie had his Remington out fractionally slower than Tuerto, but he was far steadier of hand, and icy cold in performance. He fired twice. Both bullets hit Tuerto, one in the chest, the other in the stomach. The half-breed fell, dead as he hit the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Guthrie saw Esparto suddenly draw his own pistol and fire toward him. “Damn,” Guthrie muttered as he ducked. He whipped up his Remington, ready to shoot down the Apache war leader.
Two shots cracked almost simultaneously behind him. He spun, worried that he was being attacked from behind, too.
He saw a warrior named Necio—the great friend of Tuerto, he would learn later—falling dead. The warrior’s calico shirt was bloody in front from Esparto’s bullet. It was bloody in back, too, Guthrie saw when the Apache half spun with the shock of another bullet or two.
Behind Necio, Guthrie saw Kinchloe and Crump standing, their smoking pistols still at arm’s length.
“Sumbitch was sneakin’ up behind y’all, Jack,” Crump said. “Looked to be about ready to dust you off with a bullet to the back of the head.”
“Thanks, boys,” Guthrie said almost cheerily. He straightened up and faced Esparto as he put his Remington away. ‘Thanks to you, too, Esparto.”
The Apache nodded.
It was cool under the weak sun as Guthrie and Addie walked slowly up the hill toward the ridge. It was only two days since their son—James Jack Guthrie—was born, but Addie insisted she was fine. She wouldn’t dare tell Jack how scared she was, though.
The day before, Guthrie and Esparto had sealed a pact of friendship. The Apaches would be welcome in Bonito; the Guthries or any of their friends would be welcome in Esparto’s camp. The roads would be open; whites in Bonito would no longer call for Apache scalps. It was a fragile peace, both men knew. And it had force only in the camp of this band of Coyotero Apaches, and in this small, insignificant town. But both men thought it a start.
At the top of the ridge, Guthrie and Addie were greeted with much joy and deference by the Apaches. They were led to the fire, where they sat. The Apache women gathered around Addie, both to look her over and to see the baby.
Esparto’s wife—Cielo—sat next to Addie, and soon they were cooing over each other’s babies. Guthrie shook his head in wonder and sat next to Esparto. “I never thought I’d see such a thing, amigo.” Guthrie said. He chuckled and pointed at the two women—one white, one red—gabbing and laughing like they had known each other forever. He thought it must be the first time ever that a white woman had been a guest and not a prisoner in an Apache camp.
Addie looked up, fear crossing her face momentarily when she realized Guthrie was not at her side. Then she spotted him, and she winked.
