Glorious (10 page)

McLendon sipped his own beer. It was warm and bitter. “Is that because you don't consider it any of your business?”

“No, it's because I already know as much of the answer as I require. So does everybody else in town. You came from St. Louis to try and win Miss Gabrielle, who sent you packing. Now all you can do is lick your wounds until the Florence stage next week.”

“That bastard LeMond,” McLendon grumbled. “What, did he spend last night telling everyone in town? I swore him to secrecy.”

“As he explained it, you requested that he keep mum to Miss Gabrielle but didn't specify anyone else,” Pugh said. “So the case can be made that he didn't betray his promise. He did not mention you to her. But by the time you were walking into the Tirritos' store this morning, the rest of us in town were all peeking out windows and around corners to observe the result.”

“You had nothing better to do?” McLendon said, drinking more beer.

“Here in Glorious, we welcome whatever show presents itself,” Pugh said. “We're all so familiar with each other that any newcomer provides entertainment of some sort. It's harmless fun. For the rest of your stay, no one will jeer you for the failure of your suit.”

“I'll still be embarrassed for the duration.” McLendon drained his
beer mug and gestured for Mitchell to bring him another. He took a sip of the fresh drink and thought that it was better than the first; perhaps it came from a different barrel. “Even if you don't mock me to my face, everyone will laugh behind my back.”

“Not true,” Pugh said. “In fact, you're only the second outsider who's failed in a recent attempt to rekindle romance. Three months ago, our mayor suffered quite the love embarrassment.”

“Mayor Rogers? I thought he was married to what's her name, Rose.”

“He is, or so he says,” Pugh said, polishing off his own first beer. “One Monday evening, the stage pulls in from Florence and this short woman hops out. She starts screaming that she's come to find her husband. Says her name is Sweet, and she married Charlie Rogers back in San Angelo, Texas. Claimed he deserted her to come west and she tracked him to Glorious.”

“What did Mayor Rogers say to that?”

Pugh accepted a second beer from Mitchell. “Not a word. He bolts from his farrier's shop and closets himself in the little house beside it that he and Rose live in. Sweet sees him run, follows him, and stands outside hammering on the door. I don't know where Rose was—I guess inside with Charlie. Anyhoo, Sweet pulls an over-and-under derringer from the front of her dress—the dress damn nears falls off, now
that
would have been a sight—and swears she'll shoot Charlie whenever he comes out. That's when somebody sends for Sheriff Saint. We don't hold for shooting here in Glorious. The sheriff tries to calm her, she keeps yelling and waving the gun, and finally a bunch of us, me and Major Mulkins and Crazy George and the sheriff, grab her and take the gun and lock her in jail. We have a jail with two cells across from the livery. A very good jail for a place this size. Anyway, the next morning some prospectors with a wagon are moving on from
town, and they say they'll take Sweet and drop her off somewhere on the other side of the mountains. We had to toss her in that wagon all tied up and yelling, but we haven't seen her since. If it weren't for the trouble it would cause Charlie, some of us wouldn't mind if Sweet turned up again. It was exciting.”

“Afterward, did the mayor ever confirm or deny her claim?”

“We never inquired further. It don't matter whether Charlie's married legal or joined otherwise to Sweet or to Rose or to neither one or to both. He's a good man and Rose herself is all right. They say they're man and wife and that's enough for us. See, there's the lesson. Nobody leaves the states for the territories because they were happy with where or what they were. We've all got mistakes in our past or at least things we'd rather forget. So we keep our secrets and respect those of others.” Pugh cleared his throat and slapped his hand on the table. “I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. How about some lunch?”

“At the dining room in the hotel?”

“No, the Major doesn't offer a noon spread. But we can get something here.” He looked over at Mary Somebody, who was leaning on the bar, whispering to Mitchell. “What's on hand for a midday meal?”

“I hard-boiled some eggs bought fresh yesterday from the Chinks,” she said. “There's pickles in the crock. I can put some of each on plates if you want.”

Pugh said that would do. The food cost two cents a plate. McLendon learned that hard-boiled eggs and pickles made a fine lunch if they were washed down with enough beer, which tasted better the more that he drank.

•   •   •

S
OMETIME LATER
Pugh said that he had to be getting back to the livery. He'd rented a few pack mules out to prospectors and they'd be
returning them soon. McLendon gulped some last swallows of beer and stood up. His legs felt rubbery. He wasn't exactly drunk, but he was definitely off-kilter.

“A nap might be in order for you back at the Elite,” Pugh suggested. “Have some dinner after, and then get yourself back here. There'll be more folks then, and we'll have some social time.”

“Would Gabrielle be among them?” McLendon asked. “Due to our conversation this morning, I don't relish another encounter.”

“Someone of Miss Gabrielle's character don't frequent saloons,” Pugh said, sounding offended at the thought. “Where there's drinking and use being made of the whores, it's not appropriate for a fine lady to be present.”

“Yes, she's a fine lady,” McLendon mumbled. He tried and failed to choke back a beery belch. “What the hell. See you later.” He made his way to his room, which was airless and stifling. McLendon was too tired to care. He lay down on the bed and almost instantly fell asleep. When he woke, it was nearly sunset. He looked out the window and saw people moving about, mostly prospectors but also a few diminutive individuals with long braids of dark hair dangling down their backs. In St. Louis McLendon had heard of the Chinese, but he had never seen any. He supposed they must have come into Glorious from their camp by the creek. He couldn't see the dry goods store from his room, which was a comfort, but then Gabrielle appeared, carrying a tray covered with a cloth. She looked very pretty.

Gabrielle walked past the Owaysis and toward the livery, smiling and exchanging words with everyone she encountered, seeming, to McLendon, somewhat like a queen graciously greeting her subjects. The dusty, ragged men all touched the brims of their hats with their fingers as they replied. Gabrielle stopped at an adobe structure across from the livery and went inside. McLendon wondered for a moment,
then recalled Bob Pugh mentioning the town jail. What was she doing there? It was almost fifteen minutes before she emerged without the tray and walked back in the direction of the dry goods store. McLendon watched until Gabrielle, still smiling and briefly chatting with others, finally passed from his line of sight.

Though his stomach was unsettled by the lunchtime combination of hard-boiled eggs, pickles, and beer, McLendon thought he'd get something to eat in the hotel dining room before returning to the Owaysis. His options were spending the evening in the saloon or in his hotel room, and if he was alone in the room he knew that he would think too much and become more depressed than he already was. There were a few people in the dining room, all prospectors digging into bacon and biscuits. Major Mulkins told McLendon there was still some stew available, along with lettuce and cucumber salad he'd fixed with vegetables from the Chinese camp garden. McLendon said that he'd just have the salad, hold the stew. He ate his light supper—the cucumber was surprisingly crunchy—and left the hotel for the saloon.

Because there was little besides Picket Post Mountain to break the long western horizon. The upper rim of the sun was still barely visible. There was a violet twilight glow on the little town; McLendon found the effect disconcerting. Though the wind had lessened, it remained very hot. He was still wearing his good suit. The other clothes in his valise were too soiled to put on. A suit wasn't the right thing to wear in such broiling weather. McLendon had left his tie in his room and had his collar unbuttoned, but he still sweated profusely. There were some people out and about and everyone nodded or murmured a greeting as they passed. He thought everyone he saw must be prospectors, with two exceptions. A pair of Mexicans on horseback, obviously Culloden Ranch vaqueros, had reined their mounts in in front of the tent city on the west end of town. The horses looked wiry and
much smaller than the plodding Morgans ridden by the cavalry escort for the Florence stage. Their riders calmly surveyed Glorious's limited evening bustle. They had rifles in saddle scabbards and pistols in holsters slung on their hips. Bandoliers stuffed with cartridges hung from their shoulders. It seemed to McLendon that there was an ominous air about the mounted men, a disturbing sense of barely suppressed brutality that reminded him, just a little, of Killer Boots, though these fellows obviously didn't compare in terms of potential menace. Besides, none of the townspeople seemed intimidated by their presence.

In contrast to his earlier visit, this time the Owaysis was crowded. Every table was filled and there were more drinkers milling around the bar. The buzz of combined conversation and raucous male laughter was so loud that it took McLendon several moments to realize that someone was calling his name. Bob Pugh sat at a table with Mayor Rogers, and waved him over to join them.

“Things get to hopping here after dark,” Pugh said. “The prospectors have put in long, hot, dry days and feel thirsty and ready for fun. Crazy George about wears his arms out pouring drinks. Will you have one?”

McLendon still felt rocky from the lunchtime beer. “Is something nonalcoholic available?”

“Mary always has a pot of coffee going for the nondrinkers,” Mayor Rogers said. “Let's call her over and get you some.”

McLendon drank his coffee while the mayor and Pugh sipped whiskey. There were card games in progress at a few tables. In the far corner of the saloon, Ella took a man by the hand and led him off through a curtained exit.

“Crazy George and Mary got four little whores' cribs out behind this main building,” Pugh said. “They don't need 'em all right now,
but they put them up anyway in anticipation of increased future trade. Ella gives fifteen minutes for the three dollars and she gets as creative as you please. I consort with her myself on occasion and always consider my money well spent. You ought to take a turn.”

“She's a pretty girl for a whore,” McLendon said. “Why would she ply her trade all the way out here? I expect she'd make more money in a real city.”

“Some bastard brought her all the way to the territory from England and promised he'd marry her when he made his fortune,” Pugh said. “As I understand it, he threw her over for a Mexican girl in Tucson and there young Ella was, far from home and no one to turn to. Mary was in Tucson looking for a girl to work the Owaysis, so there was a natural fit. The city brothels often cheat their girls. Here, Ella's treated honest. She gets her room and board and a dollar for every man she does. Mary holds the money for her all proper. Ella thinks that in maybe another six months she'll have enough for passage back home.”

McLendon thought about that until Ella came back into the saloon and took her next customer's hand. “It's a hard way she's taking,” he said.

Mayor Rogers said, “Everything out here is hard,” and signaled for another drink. He spoke a little about what Glorious was going to become: not only a mining town but a good place to live, one where men were comfortable bringing families. “When we've got enough kids to open a school, that'll be when I know we're on our way,” he said. “At present we've not one child in our midst, but that's going to change. I wish you'd be here to see it.”

“Well, I won't,” McLendon said. “Soon as that Florence stage comes back, I'm off to California.”

“You'd do well to reconsider,” Rogers said. “Whatever you want out there, I believe that you'd stand a better chance of finding it with us. The territories are about the last places left where a man has a decent chance of
becoming
. Nothing's easy, but everything's possible.”

After a while Pugh took McLendon around the room, introducing him to some of the other customers. Most were prospectors—Archie, Old Ben, Radko, Doughty, all grizzled men with dust in their beards. Bossman Wright, whose brows were so thick it seemed that a long, fat caterpillar had nestled above his eyes and across the bridge of his nose, leaned against one end of the plank bar and explained without McLendon even asking that he had earned his nickname by insisting on basic rules in every prospectors' tent camp that he lived in: “No shouting near anyone trying to sleep if it's well after dark. No flaunting mail from back home if you're lucky enough to have some. Above all, no drunken pissing in the immediate vicinity of another person's tent.”

“These are sensible rules,” McLendon agreed.

“Such courtesies are what separate us from the savages,” Wright said.

A half-dozen latecomers surged through the saloon door. One, who Pugh introduced to McLendon as Oafie, joined Wright in leaning against the bar. McLendon was surprised by their body language. Though they did nothing overt, their shoulders bumped gently in what he recognized as a signal of physical intimacy. He looked closer at Oafie, the only beardless prospector he'd met so far, and wondered why Oafie had no whiskers, when he made out two barely discernible lumps under her filthy shirt.

“That's a woman,” he whispered to Pugh.

“Damn sure is. When she first came to town with Bossman, we thought they were what you might call funny boys until we got a closer
look at her. Women prospectors are rare. Oafie's our only one here. Works hard, drinks hard, so she fits right in.”