Glorious (4 page)

McLendon was only halfway through his own meal when Mulkins ushered in three additional diners, escorting them to an adjacent table. Their clothes were much cleaner than the miners'. As Mulkins took their orders—all three ordered the stew—McLendon studied them out of the corner of his eye, aware as he did that they were surreptitiously inspecting him too. The trio consisted of two men and a woman. One of the men was pouch-eyed and dressed in overalls; the other was slightly built to the point of appearing skeletal. He wore dungarees and had something pinned to his checkered shirt. McLendon couldn't tell what it was because the light in the room was so smoky from the kerosene lamps. The woman was stout and wore a tentlike dress. It was hard to tell where her several chins ended and her neck began.

McLendon ate slowly; there was no reason to hurry through his meal. The men and woman at the next table talked quietly and tucked into their stew when Mulkins brought it to their table. Moments after McLendon finished his last tasty bite, the man in overalls stood up and came over. He extended his hand and said, “Charlie Rogers, mayor of this town. We're always glad to greet new arrivals. Has Major Mulkins made you feel welcome? Was your dinner satisfactory?”

“Yes, and yes, though haggling over price seemed obligatory,” McLendon said, and told Mayor Rogers his name.

Rogers chuckled. “Well, that's the Major for you. Will you take a cup of coffee with us? Pleasant conversation is the best aid to digestion.” Waving McLendon to an empty chair between the thin man and the obese woman, he said, “Cash McLendon, meet my wife, Rose,
and also Joe Saint, our town sheriff.” McLendon saw that the object on Saint's shirt was a metal star, though the badge was badly battered. One of its five points was bent at an odd angle, and another was broken off completely.

“Saint is a curious name for a sheriff,” McLendon said. “I expect you take some ribbing about it.”

Sheriff Saint had lank blond hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles; his beard was sparse and there were several bare patches on his cheeks where whiskers refused to grow. McLendon estimated Saint's age to be in the early thirties. “It's no more an unusual name than Cash,” the sheriff replied. “Because of it, do people take you for a gambler? Have you come to teach our citizens the treacherous arts of cards and dice?”

“Not at all,” McLendon replied. To divert the inevitable queries about why he'd come to Glorious—if he admitted he was there to see Gabrielle, these people might alert her and spoil his opportunity to surprise her in the morning—he added, “Tell me about your town.” It was McLendon's experience that people proud of their titles usually couldn't resist invitations to talk.

Mayor Rogers launched into a rambling account of how, just about eighteen months earlier, he and Major Mulkins and Bob Pugh met in Tucson, where all the talk was about some silver-laden rock found up in the Pinals by a soldier. Even before that, Rogers said, everybody in Arizona Territory knew that there were vast seams of silver—and probably copper, too—all through the Pinals, but dread of the Apaches kept everyone away. He and the Major and Bob decided that, to hell with it, they'd accept the risk in anticipation of great reward; a town had to be established in this rich region so that when the inevitable first strike was made, there'd be local services available. Rogers was a farrier by trade, and Bob Pugh had a great deal of experience
working with mules. Major—that was Mulkins—had a little money and was willing to invest it in a hotel; well, he at least had enough capital on hand to start building one.

“That's why Major fights now for every extra cent,” Rogers explained. “He needs to buy additional materials and hire work crews from Florence to come out and finish the Elite.”

The new friends rode up into the Pinals and discovered a promising spot, a valley in the shadow of the mountains so prospectors would have proximity to the areas where silver was likely to be found. A site adjacent to Queen Creek meant that water wouldn't be a problem. When they returned to Tucson they were lucky enough to make the acquaintance of Sal Tirrito and his daughter, folks experienced in the dry goods trade who'd come west from St. Louis, and with them on board they had the makings of a small but select business community. They loaded up, came back to this far end of the valley, and picked a town name, and so Glorious was founded.

“The prospectors come and go for now,” Rogers said. “That's the way they naturally are. They poke about in one place and if they don't find color after a few weeks they wander on somewhere else. But someday soon one of them will hit it big here, and when that happens, word will spread and you'll see hundreds more pouring into town every day. And some of them will make additional strikes, and then will come the crews to build the mines and the miners to dig the ore and the workers to process it, and Glorious will grow and in time rival places like Virginia City. And here we founders will be, doing great business and making our own fortunes. You may call it a dream, but it's going to come true.”

“Perhaps you're right,” McLendon said. “I sincerely hope so. But the Apache threat must remain a deterrent. As I understand it, around here a man risks his life straying even a few yards on his own. Perhaps
you feel safe here in town, but what about the prospectors as they make their way across the valley or up in the mountains?”

Sheriff Saint, who had been polishing his glasses with one of the hotel's cloth napkins, said, “We're fortunate in that Mr. MacPherson, owner of nearby Culloden Ranch, employs some of his men to patrol the area. They have some experience fighting Indians, and their presence seems to generally discourage the Apaches, though of course we have occasional incidents.”

“I saw two of those riders on my way into town,” McLendon said. “That's quite generous of this Mr. MacPherson.”

“He's a true benefactor,” said Mayor Rogers. “Ah! Here's Major Mulkins to offer dessert.”

The three men declined Mulkins's suggestion of canned peaches or pears but accepted more coffee. Rose Rogers, who'd been silent while the men at the table conversed, asked Mulkins in a surprisingly high, girlish voice to bring her “the usual.” Mulkins nodded and returned in a few moments with a jar of jelly and a spoon. McLendon thought she would spread the treat on biscuits, and tried hard not to look astonished when Mrs. Rogers ate the jelly straight from the jar. She emptied it in moments, sighing with satisfaction as she gobbled each spoonful. When the last delectable blob was consumed, she delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin. Her husband said it was time for them to go.

“We have a small place just behind my shop,” he told McLendon. “Should your stay here extend, feel free to call. It's always pleasant to see a fresh face.”

McLendon pushed back his chair, too, but Sheriff Saint signaled Mulkins for another coffee refill and nodded for the captain to also pour more for McLendon. Well-versed himself in the arts of indirect manipulation, McLendon guessed what was going on. Major Mulkins
undoubtedly told Mayor Rogers that a stranger had arrived in town, obviously not a prospector, but someone well heeled enough to afford a hotel room with a window, and a bath besides. At this early, critical juncture in Glorious's existence, the mayor would want to meet such an intriguing visitor. Having done so, Rogers now left it to the town sheriff to take McLendon's measure. Saint's first words after Rogers and his wife left the dining room confirmed that conjecture.

“You've failed to mention your reason for coming to Glorious,” the sheriff said, studying McLendon through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. The magnification made his blue eyes look enormous.

“That's correct,” McLendon said. “Don't worry, it's an errand of no concern to the law. Just personal business.”

“The territories draw all kinds, and confidence men are always attracted to mining towns. I'm glad to hear you say that your purpose is law-abiding.”

“But you'll be watching me,” McLendon said, enjoying the verbal sparring.

Saint nodded and said, “I will, but now that we've talked, I'm sure that I won't see anything troubling.”

“It must be stressful to keep constant lookout for miscreants,” McLendon said. Joe Saint was impressive. For all his physical frailness, the sheriff packed sufficient intellectual muscle for sharp conversational counterpunches.

For the first time Saint smiled. “For now, my job is more ceremonial than anything else. Most newcomers are prospectors, and they rise before dawn and are out until dark. When they return at night they're too worn-out to do much beyond cook some beans on their campfires and fall asleep in their tents. Sometimes one of them takes a glass too many at the Owaysis and I lock him up until he's sober. As the town grows, so will my responsibilities.”

“What qualities recommended you as sheriff?”

“Someone had to take the job. We're looking to the territorial legislature for official town status, and that requires local law enforcement. I was passing through, liked what I saw, and wanted to stay. So I'm the sheriff. Perhaps you'll want to stay too.”

“Perhaps,” McLendon said noncommittally. “Well, Major Mulkins is charging me dearly for my room, so I think I'll turn in and get my money's worth. It was a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Saint.”

“Likewise.” The men stood and shook hands. McLendon walked back through the hotel lobby and was stopped there by Major Mulkins.

“Off to bed?” Mulkins asked. “Could I interest you in a cat for your room?”

“Why would I want a cat?”

“It's an unfortunate fact that we, like most isolated frontier towns, have a problem with pests and vermin,” Mulkins said. “There are scorpions. Be certain to shake out the bedclothes before you pull them over you, because scorpion stings are nasty. Rats are a particular nuisance. I set traps, of course, but there are too many to get them all. Many of my discerning guests like a cat in their rooms at night, to keep the rats under control. Just a dime will get you a fine feline, and thus assure a more peaceful night's slumber.”

“I believe that I'll pass on the cat,” McLendon said. “I've seen no rats in your hotel.”

“That's due to my efforts to keep them away, but I admit that during the dark of night too many elude me,” Mulkins said. “Even the finest hotels in Tucson offer cats. You'd be well advised to take one. Rats are well known to bite.”

McLendon sighed and said that he'd take the cat. Mulkins fetched a near-feral calico from a cage he kept behind the hotel. The animal's
occasional yowls and the constant sound of its sharp claws scrabbling on the floor kept McLendon awake for much of the night. He spent the sleepless hours remembering all that had happened back in St. Louis, and in particular the tragedy that had him on the run ever since.

C
ash McLendon wasn't certain how old he was. His mother died when he was an infant, and his father Caleb cared more about drinking than celebrating birthdays. In May 1872, when McLendon arrived in Glorious, his best guess was that he was about twenty-eight.

His early childhood consisted of getting his perpetually drunk or near terminally hungover father to work at a series of St. Louis factories. Sometimes Cash failed, and on those occasions it was the boy's responsibility to convince the factory foreman that Caleb was sick again, another bout of the grippe or recurring neuralgia. All the foremen eventually got fed up with the excuses and fired Caleb, and then there were near-starving nights spent sleeping in alleys until the son heard of another factory that was hiring and talked a new foreman into giving his father a job there. When sober, Caleb McLendon was a good worker, particularly skilled at fitting small machinery parts. But he wasn't sober very often. It was lucky that there were so many factories in town; St. Louis was the manufacturing capital of the American
West. There was always another prospective employer Cash could cajole on his father's behalf. The lies he learned to tell were effective ones, incorporating sufficient fact to allow him, in the moment of the telling, to believe them himself. This made him look and sound sincere, so he and Caleb usually had just enough money to afford a place to sleep and something to eat. Like many of the city's poor children, he never attended school. It was a hard, insecure life, but it was all that the boy knew.

One night in 1855, Caleb McLendon disappeared. His son searched in taverns and brothels and hospitals, but found no trace of him. The police guessed that Caleb got drunk, fell in the Mississippi River, and drowned. Cash had no money for shelter or food. He ate what he could steal from markets and outdoor stands, and slept in the saddle tack factory where his father had last worked, sneaking in through a back window after the late shift left for the night, keeping warm under the large squares of leather set out to be cut and shaped the next day. A night watchman prowled the factory, and soon the boy was caught. In the morning the watchman hauled Cash into the foreman's office and suggested that the police be summoned; ragged beggar boys like this one belonged in the poorhouse. But Mr. Hancock, the foreman, took pity on Cash. He knew him from the times when Cash came to explain that his poor father was once again sick in bed, very ill but surely able to work tomorrow. He asked if Cash wanted a job sweeping out the factory and picking up the leather scraps that piled up around the cutting tables. In return, he could sleep there at night under a real blanket and earn a few pennies a day for food. Cash gratefully accepted. He worked hard and soon became a favorite of the adult workers. Even though they made barely enough to feed and clothe their own families, they packed extra food for him in their lunch buckets, brought him their children's hand-me-downs, and
chatted with him during breaks. The boy was a sympathetic listener who seemed fascinated by everything he heard. Within a month they were sharing with him their complaints about how little they were paid while working under very hazardous responsibilities: a shift seldom went by without one or two of them cutting themselves badly, and occasionally someone lost a finger or even a whole hand to the blades.

There was talk of organizing a strike. The trick was to get all the employees to agree before the foreman found out. Then they could stage a mass walkout; the owner would have to pay them better or else close the factory down, losing production time and profits. Cash was terrified. If the plant shut down, he'd be back on the street. The other workers were his friends and he cared about them; their complaints about working conditions were valid. But his obsession with self-preservation won out. After considerable soul-searching, he warned Mr. Hancock. Four of the would-be union organizers were summarily fired. Afterward, Mr. Hancock showed his appreciation by giving Cash a dollar. The other employees didn't know that Cash had been an informer. There was talk about a spy in their midst, but no one suspected the friendly young boy. They continued to give him food and secondhand clothes and talk unguardedly to him. So did the plant shift leaders and even Mr. Hancock. Cash never spent even an hour in a formal classroom, but he remembered and learned from everything he heard. He developed an extensive vocabulary, though he could neither read nor spell the words he understood and used in conversation. He learned arithmetic by looking over the shoulders of plant accountants as they kept daily ledgers. Over the next few years he occasionally had the opportunity to alert Mr. Hancock to other potential problems. Each time, he was praised and given a little money. Cash's conscience sometimes bothered him, and when it did
he told himself that he was actually helping rather than betraying people who trusted him. It was in everyone's best interests that the plant operated at maximum profitability. That was the way to ensure that all the workers' jobs were safe, and they could keep on supporting their families. He'd learned this from listening to Mr. Hancock himself.

•   •   •

I
N 1859,
S
T.
L
OUIS
was swept with talk of imminent civil war. Missouri was bitterly divided between supporters of the government in Washington, D.C., and militants favoring the slaveholding South. There was one issue on which everyone agreed: St. Louis would be a vital supplier of military supplies to one side or the other. Abraham Lincoln's election to the presidency in 1860 precipitated a rush of seceding Southern states. Missouri wavered. Cash McLendon, now a teenager, had no interest in the plight of slaves or the question of states' rights. His concern was that he would be drafted into the Army and forced to fight. Having struggled so hard to survive in peacetime, he had no desire to die in a war. Mr. Hancock offered Cash a way out. The federal government was determined to keep Missouri in the Union fold, he told the youngster. Its factories and textile mills were vital to the Northern cause. There would soon be rich Army contracts coming up for bid. As it happened, the saddle tack facility was just one of several factories and mills owned by Mr. Rupert Douglass. A great patriot, Mr. Douglass wanted to win those contract bids and supply the finest-quality saddles and blankets and uniforms for the Union Army. The problem was in knowing how much to bid. Mr. Hancock had long observed how good Cash was at gleaning information, how people naturally told him things.

“What would you think, youngster, of going around to rival factories and taking jobs there, staying long enough to hear talk about
contract bids, and then quietly sharing what you learn with me?” Mr. Hancock asked Cash. “I can then inform Mr. Douglass, and he can adjust his bids accordingly. It would be a fine thing to do for your country. The products produced by Douglass companies are far superior to those of the competition. If Mr. Douglass wins most of these bids, the Union Army will be better served.”

“I could try, sir,” Cash said. He felt doubtful and it showed in his voice. It was one thing to be helpful to Mr. Hancock by listening and reporting in a factory where he already knew everyone. The boy's hard life on the street had made him wary of strangers.

“Don't forget that everyone employed by Mr. Douglass will also benefit,” Hancock said. “Perhaps you will most of all, since Mr. Douglass has ways of rewarding helpful young men. And, should you agree, I'll personally write a letter to the Army saying you shouldn't be forced to enlist, since you're providing vital services to the war effort. And that will be the truth.”

Cash said he'd try. He infiltrated competitors' factories, and when he learned something useful, he passed it on to Mr. Hancock. He found that he enjoyed the challenge of discovering key information, and that now he didn't need to feel troubled about informing on friends. Soon, in most contract competitions, the Douglass bids were a few pennies per unit lower than anyone else's. The war made Mr. Douglass fabulously wealthy. And, as Mr. Hancock had promised, he showed his appreciation.

One summer night in 1864, Cash McLendon met Mr. Hancock in a dark saloon well away from the St. Louis factory district. He told Mr. Hancock about plans at a competing button factory to add fifty workers, increasing output and enabling them to promise delivery to the Army faster than rival bidders. Armed with this knowledge,
Mr. Douglass could add more workers at his own button plant and beat the competition at their own game.

“This is very useful,” Mr. Hancock said. “Now I have something for you. Tomorrow night, clean up and put a shine on your shoes. Mr. Rupert Douglass himself requests your presence at nine in the evening in his home.”

“Why would Mr. Douglass want to see me?” Cash asked.

“I couldn't say, but be at your best tomorrow. This may be your opportunity. Go to the back door, of course. The front is for the society callers.”

The next night McLendon cautiously rapped on the back door of a mansion that far surpassed any private home he'd ever seen. He was admitted by a forbidding-looking butler who didn't bother giving a name or asking McLendon for his. The butler escorted McLendon up a winding staircase and into a study lined with bookcases and paintings. McLendon was instructed to sit in a chair and wait: “Mr. Douglass will be with you shortly.” Five nervous minutes stretched into ten. McLendon felt completely out of his element. Though there were stairs in the factories where he worked, he'd never been in a house with a staircase before. Even the chairs in the room were intimidating, with their great wide armrests and plush cushioned seats. The bookcases were dark oak. The titles on the spines of the books seemed like mysterious code. Having never set foot in a classroom, McLendon couldn't read. But the sheer number of books on the shelves astounded him. They were one more indication of unimaginable wealth. It amazed him that anyone could be rich enough to live in a house like this.

The door finally opened and Rupert Douglass stepped in. A tall, regal-looking man, he was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket.
McLendon had never seen such a garment before, and found it hard not to stare.

“I'm having a brandy,” Mr. Douglass said. “Join me?”

“I don't drink much, sir,” McLendon said politely. “But thank you for the offer.”

Mr. Douglass regarded him curiously. “Hancock says your father was a drunk. Is that why you abstain?”

“No, sir, and I don't entirely abstain. If the situation or the company requires, I'll sip a beer or wet my lips with hard liquor. But most often it's my job to listen, and for that I need a clear head.”

“Then listen well,” Mr. Douglass said. “You're a young man of some potential. I believe you can be of further assistance to me.”

The war would be over soon, Mr. Douglass said. The South was licked; it was only a matter of time until they accepted it. Then the wartime bidding would be done with, so it was time to look ahead. It was Mr. Douglass's intention to control St. Louis manufacturing. Competition was for lesser men. He sought total domination. And that would be best for everyone all the way down, from factory foremen to the lowliest line workers, because he was an honorable man who paid fair wages and provided sanitary workplace conditions. That was all any honest workingmen should expect. In return, he wanted no obstruction from unions, no grumblers hindering production. Did his young friend McLendon understand? If so, he could play a key role in all this.

“Go on being a sociable fellow in the factories I already own and the ones I contemplate acquiring,” Mr. Douglass said, draining his brandy and lighting a dark, fragrant cigar. “Find out things that I need to know. Beyond whatever salary you earn at your day jobs, some additional pay from me will be involved. Nothing excessive to begin, but there will be more to come if you prove yourself worthy in this special
duty. So long as you're efficient and loyal, you can always rely on Rupert Douglass—although in that regard, any form of betrayal would result in unpleasant rather than happy consequences. I'm a generous man, but not a foolish one. Never fail me. Have I your word?”

“You do, sir,” McLendon said. His heart was pounding. It seemed too good to be true.

Mr. Douglass shook his hand and rose, indicating that McLendon should do the same. “Don't disappoint me. Do well and you'll be rewarded.” Though McLendon hadn't seen or heard Mr. Douglass make any sort of signal, the door opened and the dour butler appeared to escort McLendon out. He followed him downstairs in a daze. Somewhere in the house a young girl was laughing, sustained euphoric peals. McLendon was too stunned to laugh himself, but he felt the same sense of euphoria. He'd been presented with a tremendous opportunity. He intended to make the most of it, and did.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON INFILTRATED
over a dozen St. Louis factories. Sometimes he identified irreplaceable supervisors and workers so that they could be hired away by Douglass, simultaneously improving his boss's business operations and hindering his competitors'. If some new procedure improved product quality or production time, McLendon studied it carefully and then taught it to Douglass's workers. Because he was so ordinary-looking, average in height and build, he blended in at will. In conversations he always encouraged the other person to keep talking, to tell more. Cash was careful not to allow himself to form genuine friendships. Sometimes it was hard, but his loyalty to his real employer won out. He never indulged in casual chat; he spoke to others not for any social purpose but to glean information, anything to gain an advantage for Rupert Douglass.

One evening in the midsummer of 1866, Mr. Douglass summoned Cash to his home. “I'm about to acquire two new factories, and I need your help in a different way,” he said. “This assignment will test your powers of persuasion rather than observation.”