Glorious (9 page)

M
cLendon stumbled back to the Elite Hotel. He passed Major Mulkins in the lobby without speaking, closed the door to his room, and sat on the bed with his head in his hands. He had to get out of Glorious immediately. McLendon thought that his head would explode if he saw Gabrielle again. He should have known that she'd be too proud to take him back. What had he been thinking of? He took a breath and tried to compose himself. All right, it was Tuesday. The Florence stage wouldn't return until the following Monday, and then there would be another interminable night before he could finally leave the town behind—much too long. He'd find another way back to Florence. Thirty miles wasn't that far. Glorious had a livery. He'd rent a mount and make the ride. He grabbed his valise and hurried to the lobby, where Major Mulkins busily rubbed a rag over his prized windows.

“I'm checking out,” he told Mulkins. “Let's settle my bill.”

“Won't you be needing the room for some time further?” Mulkins asked. “I believe the Florence stage has departed.”

“I don't need the stage to get out of this damnable place,” McLendon said. “Let's conclude our business.”

“Just as you please,” Mulkins said agreeably. “It's a dollar fifty for the room, two bits for the window, and a dime for the cat. Total of one eighty-five.” He took the coins McLendon handed him and added, “I'll hold the room for you anyway. You may be wanting it back.”

“Hardly,” McLendon said. He snatched up his valise and stalked back into the street. It was brutally hot. The wind intensified rather than tempered the searing heat. Without looking across at the Tirrito Dry Goods, McLendon marched past the Owaysis Saloon to the livery. Bob Pugh sat inside, picking at loose threads on a saddle blanket.

“I want to rent your fastest horse to ride to Florence,” McLendon said. “I won't be coming back, but I'm sure the animal can be tethered to next week's stage and so will be returned to you.”

Pugh glanced up from his work. “Let's consider that request for a moment. I believe you labor under certain misconceptions.”

“There's nothing to consider. I want to be on my way. Rent me the horse.”

Pugh grinned, a friendly smile. “Well, that's the first consideration. Come with me.” He led McLendon to a corral in back. “Do you observe any horses in there?”

McLendon didn't. Instead, there were perhaps a dozen mules, each bonier-looking than the last.

“Not much call for horses around here,” Pugh said, his smile still in place. “It's such rugged going in the high desert and the mountains. Only the real light, nimble mounts bred in Mexico are up to it over any significant distance, and they're too dear for me to afford. You may recall that your stage had a mule team. So the fact of it is, I have no horse to rent you.”

“I suppose a mule, then,” McLendon said, feeling dubious. He thought the mules had a contrary look. “Can you put a saddle on one of them?”

“I could, but let me ask this: Are you much of a rider? Have you some experience in the saddle?”

McLendon had never ridden a horse in his life, let alone a mule. “No, I haven't, but how hard can it be?”

Pugh chuckled. “Someone like you who's not especially saddle-broke, well, you might be able to climb aboard, and that's not guaranteed, since a mule may sense hesitation and buck. But after a short while, if you do get on, your behind and crotch will begin to ache from contact with the saddle, then they'll hurt powerful bad. And after you manage to either climb down or the mule pitches you off, you'll walk in considerable pain for some time to come. If I rent you a mule to ride, you won't make Picket Post Mountain, let alone Florence.”

“Is there no alternative transportation available?”

“I've got a buckboard. Mules can be hitched to a buckboard.”

“I'll rent the buckboard, then. I believe I can maintain my seat on that.”

Pugh shook his head. “I said I had a buckboard, not that I'd rent it to you. Buckboards are hard to come by out here. Mules too. I'd have to rent you a pair of 'em to pull the buckboard, and I can't afford to lose them, either.”

McLendon's impatience boiled to the point of near rage. He wanted desperately to get out of Glorious. The vast valley to the west and the towering cliff face to the east made him feel simultaneously marooned and claustrophobic. He said sharply, “I told you that I'd leave your property in Florence. Some arrangement could be made to return the buckboard and mule team to you. I have money. I'll pay any fair rental.”

“You misunderstand me, sir,” Pugh said. He grinned again and put a comforting hand on McLendon's arm. “I don't doubt you'd pay whatever I charged, or that, once you reached Florence, you'd make certain my mules and buckboard got back to me. But you wouldn't ever get to Florence. You wouldn't make it more than a mile or two out of town before the Apaches got you. They're always lying in wait for someone to venture out of town on his own.”

“Don't the prospectors go out all the time?”

Pugh nodded. “True, they do, but mostly in small groups. They've spent years in these sorts of dangerous places, so they know how to be properly watchful. Even the most experienced are at awful risk if they're on their own. Perhaps you've heard that just a little while back one of the prospectors went out alone and was captured. Tommy Gaumer's body when we found it was a horrible sight. The prospectors who came upon it puked on the spot. Tommy was an experienced man. He knew all the tricks and the Indians got him anyway. I mean no insult, but someone like you, why, the Apaches'd pull you off that buckboard and hack you up in the most painful and brutal of ways, and afterward they'd have the mules for dinner. Apaches are powerfully fond of mule meat.”

“I have a gun in my valise,” McLendon said. “A Navy Colt—the storekeeper I bought it from in Houston assured me that it was a dependable weapon. I could defend myself.”

“You wouldn't have a chance, because you wouldn't see the Apaches in time. So I won't rent you mules or a buckboard. You could try to walk it, but you'd soon wear out in the heat and the Indians would get you all the same. So I guess you've no option other than to stay in town for a week and wait for the next Florence stage.”

“I don't want that,” McLendon said. “There must be some other way.”

“There isn't,” Pugh said gently.

McLendon had never felt more helpless—or hopeless. He was completely out of his element. None of the manipulative talents that served him so well in St. Louis seemed of any use in Glorious. Smiling, weather-beaten Bob Pugh suddenly seemed to McLendon like the sole voice of reason in a vastly confusing new world.

“What should I do now?” he asked plaintively.

“First thing, you go back to Major Mulkins and tell him you need a room until next Tuesday,” Pugh said. “He'll give you a better rate if you request one. And then you'll meet me at the Owaysis and I'll buy you a drink to settle your nerves a bit. You'll feel better after that. Glorious ain't bad, really. You just have to get used to us, and now you've got a whole week to do it in.”

McLendon sighed. He picked up his valise and retraced his steps to the hotel. He passed Sheriff Saint, who walked by, nodded, and continued on to the Tirrito Dry Goods Store, then went inside. McLendon wondered what the sheriff was there to buy, and if Gabrielle was still at the counter to sell it to him. Thinking of her was painful and he made himself stop.

In the hotel lobby, Major Mulkins said that he'd kept McLendon's room for him as promised. “It's hard for people to find their way here to Glorious, and it's also hard for them to leave. I'm sure you'll continue enjoying your fine window view of our town.”

“I don't know that I can afford more nights in a room with a window,” McLendon said, remembering that his funds were limited. “It might be that I'll take one of your upstairs rooms with the canvas overhead. Six bits, is that the charge?”

“Ah, as a weeklong guest I'll let you have your current downstairs room for the unwindowed rate,” Mulkins said. “The room will be ready for you to reoccupy in an hour or so, after the Mexican woman
changes the linen and sweeps. And now, why don't I hold on to your valise while you head over to the Owaysis?”

“How did you know I was going there?”

“You already visited the dry goods; I saw you go in and then leave. You've been to the livery and talked to Bob Pugh. Saw you do that too. You don't have a mount to shoe or prospecting tools to mend, so there's no need for the farrier, and you ain't been in town long enough to break the law, so the jail is out as a destination. You clearly don't feel inclined to stay here and visit with me. That pretty much leaves the saloon.”

•   •   •

T
HE
O
WAYSIS WAS
a single wide, low adobe room. Oilcloth curtains were pulled over the window holes, and three widely spaced kerosene lanterns provided minimal light. McLendon stood inside and blinked rapidly while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. There were a dozen battered tables surrounded by rickety chairs. The tables had oilcloth covers similar to the curtains. A stooped man dipped shot glasses and beer mugs in a bucket of soapy water placed on a long plank, and the plank was balanced on top of two high stools; this evidently was the bar. There were three women in the saloon, and one came over to McLendon. Even in the poor light, he could tell that she was older than she appeared at first glance. Her bright lipstick and powdered cheeks couldn't conceal the lines of middle age on her face.

“Welcome to the Owaysis,” she said, her voice pleasant but grainy. “What's your pleasure? A drink?” She gestured at the other two women, who stood out of the lantern light. “Some time with one of our pretty girls?”

“I'm meeting someone,” McLendon said. Bob Pugh came through the door and hugged the blowsy older woman.

“Mary, you just get more beautiful,” Pugh said. “I want you to meet Mr. Cash McLendon, who arrived from Florence yesterday and will be spending the week in our town. Don't look so concerned, Mr. McLendon. I got your name from the hotel register.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McLendon,” the woman said. “I'm Mary Somebody.”

McLendon thought he'd heard wrong. “Mary who?”

“Mary Somebody. We're all somebody here in Glorious.”

“Let's introduce our new friend around,” Pugh said. “Mr. McLendon, this fellow behind the bar is George Mitchell, known to most as Crazy George. He and Mary own the place as well as each other's hearts.” Mitchell gingerly extended a soapy hand. Bald, bespectacled, and with a long nose, he seemed to McLendon to exactly resemble a sunlight-shy mole interrupted in its subterranean digging.

“And here,” Pugh continued, “are the loveliest two ladies imaginable.” A strawberry-blond girl, perhaps eighteen, boldly held out her hand and said in a pronounced British accent, “I'm Ella, Mr.—?”

“McLendon.”

“Well met, Mr. McLendon. I certainly hope to know you better. All arrangements through Miss Mary, of course.” She saucily shrugged her shoulders forward; the low-cut, ruffled dress she wore showed off her bosom to great advantage.

McLendon was familiar with the ways of whores—St. Louis had innumerable bawdy houses—but he'd seldom encountered one so forward or pretty. He wondered what bad luck had brought Ella to a dive like the Owaysis.

“And hanging back a little because she's so shy, this here is Girl,” Pugh continued. He and Mary Somebody made coaxing noises until Girl finally took a hesitant step toward McLendon. Her face was void of any expression other than a childlike blankness.

“Girl don't talk too much, but she's sweet as can be,” Mary Somebody said. “If Ella's busy when you're in the mood and you decide to go for Girl instead, there's some special rules about things you can't do with her. But she's cheaper, just a dollar to three dollars for Ella.”

“Why is she called Girl?” McLendon asked.

“Because she is. So, what's it to be? Refreshment, or frolic?”

“Just libation, I think, at least for now,” Pugh said before McLendon could respond. “Our amigo here's had a hard morning and needs himself a bracer. Beer, Mr. McLendon, or something of a stronger nature? I'm buying the first one.”

McLendon saw no reason for caution. Gabrielle didn't want him, he was stuck in Glorious, and alcohol suddenly had great appeal.

“I'll commence with beer,” McLendon said. “Where my selection follows from there, I can't predict.”

“Sure you can,” said Mary Somebody. “We got beer and red-eye whiskey. None of that fancy shit like in Tucson bars, brandy smashes and the like. But at a nickel a beer and eight cents a shot, we've got the kind of prices that let you indulge without great expense.”

Pugh led McLendon to one of the tables and they sat down. “It'll be quiet in here until four or five or so,” he explained. “That's when the prospectors start drifting back into town. Then it'll get noisy and Ella will do some business. Maybe Girl, too, though most of the regulars think of her as more of a mascot.”

Mitchell brought two mugs of beer to the table and ambled back behind the bar. He peered into the pail, apparently trying to tell if any glasses remained in the soapy water.

“That man is near blind, even with his specs,” Pugh said. “I got no idea how he finds ol' Mary in their blankets at night, or even his own pecker when he needs to pee.”

“He seems meek, not crazy,” McLendon said. “Is his nickname deliberately inappropriate?”

Pugh took a long sip of his beer. “Since you'll be with us for a week, I expect that you'll discover the reason we've dubbed him Crazy George,” he said. “In the territories, it's not considered polite to ask too many questions. Keep that in mind. But if you pay attention, you generally learn whatever you really need to know. You'll notice that I haven't asked after your purpose in coming out this way.”