Glorious (13 page)

“Do you remember Mr. Haines, the prospector who requested lemon drops on credit?” Gabrielle said to McLendon. “He's found no silver since, but early this morning he shot a mule deer outside town and he brought a haunch to my father and me as payment in trade. I'm making a stew tonight, Sydney, so I suppose a cabbage, and perhaps some carrots?”

Gabrielle stowed the vegetables in her basket and told Sydney good-bye. Then she and McLendon made the short walk back into Glorious. Bob Pugh was still untangling bridles in front of his livery. Joe Saint was nowhere to be seen. McLendon joked, “I guess the sheriff's taking a nap. He needs rest after his exertions last night.”

“That's what I want to discuss,” Gabrielle said sharply. “You have the wrong impression of Joe Saint. Back east he was a schoolteacher, and I'm sure a fine one.”

“So I was told by the mayor. But the skills required to be a good teacher and an efficient sheriff aren't the same.”

“Joe is a very good man and doesn't deserve to be mocked, by you or anyone.”

“I'll grant you he's intelligent, but he plainly lacks nerve,” McLendon said. It was still very hot, and his sweaty clothes were
uncomfortable. “His voice shook last night when he tried to intervene between the prospector and the vaquero. In times of crisis, it's important to at least sound authoritative. As I told your mayor this morning, this town would be better served by a sheriff with more backbone.”

Gabrielle frowned. “And what was the mayor's response?”

“Something about towns getting reputations, and how businessmen are put off by mercenary lawmen. Mayor Rogers thinks that Joe Saint is exactly the kind of sheriff that Glorious needs. I say that he lacks courage, but it's really no business of mine. As you mentioned to your friend Sydney Chau, I'm leaving soon.”

“You have an incorrect interpretation of courage,” Gabrielle said. “Courage doesn't mean never experiencing fear. Being courageous means trying to do the right thing even when you're afraid. Of course the sheriff was afraid last night. What sensible man wouldn't be? The vaquero had a gun and the prospector waved a knife. But Joe—Sheriff Saint—stepped between them anyway. And while it was you who received all the praise, did you fail to notice that while you diverted the Mexican, it was the sheriff who quietly removed the prospector from the scene? It was only because his rival was gone that the vaquero let go of his gun. So the sheriff was every bit as responsible as you for the satisfactory conclusion.”

McLendon dragged a shirtsleeve across his sweaty forehead. “For someone who wasn't even there, you're very well informed.”

For a fleeting moment he thought Gabrielle looked uncomfortable. “I had the story from several people this morning, and from Sheriff Saint last night, though he was typically modest regarding his own crucial role. As a favor to me, please don't disparage him further to anyone. And now I must get back to the store.”

McLendon had a sudden thought. “Wait a minute,” he said, doing
rapid mental calculations. Stage fare to California would be about sixty dollars, and then he'd need some money to live on while he looked for work. Still . . .

“I want to buy you a piano,” he said to Gabrielle.

“Why would you do that?”

McLendon sighed. “I know how much you loved the one you had. When you left St. Louis, you had to sell it. That was my fault. I've got some money, enough to order a piano from somewhere and get it shipped here. I know it won't make you forgive me, and it shouldn't, but let me do this, at least.”

“You'd do that?” Gabrielle said in a wondering tone, and then, much more firmly, “No, I couldn't let you.”

McLendon massaged his aching temples with his fingertips and squinted against the sun's glare. He badly wanted to find some shade.

“Why not? There's no strings attached, no obligation on your part.”

“Thank you, but no. Think of the cost.”

“That would be my concern, not yours.” Ever since fleeing St. Louis, McLendon felt guilty about stealing from his father-in-law's safe. Ellen's death was burden enough on his conscience. This would, at least, be a positive way to use some, maybe most, of the remaining money. “Knowing your love of it, I don't see how you live now without playing music.”

Gabrielle smiled. “Well, I still do, after a fashion, but that would be of no interest to you. Thank you for your offer, though I must refuse it. You'd better go rest. You look ready to topple over.”

•   •   •

T
HAT EVENING,
McLendon went back to the Owaysis. He was bored and couldn't think of anything else to do. With the remnants of
hangover still lingering, he was determined to stick to coffee. But he found himself at a table with the mayor and Bob Pugh, and Major Mulkins came over to join them. Talk at the table soon bubbled over. McLendon realized that he liked these people and their innate hopefulness, though he believed that there was nothing about Glorious to encourage the slightest optimism. He kept that opinion to himself, and loudly agreed that the town's future was bright. The others wanted to toast to that, and McLendon felt that it was only polite to raise a glass of whiskey rather than a cup of coffee. He was careful to sip rather than gulp the red-eye.

It was a convivial evening. At one point McLendon endured joshing about his name. Bob Pugh suggested that since he was their friend, it made no sense for them to continue addressing him as Mr. McLendon, “and ‘Cash' is a silly name.” McLendon suggested that ‘Pugh' was, too: “And since you're with mules all day, perhaps you ought to spell it P-E-W.” Everyone had a good laugh about that, and Major Mulkins suggested that they call McLendon by his initials: “Let's drink to our new friend, C.M.” McLendon asked how much extra Mulkins wanted to charge him for the new name, and the Major said he thought a thousand dollars or a fresh round of drinks would do. Pugh bawled for Mary Somebody to bring them four more shots of red-eye, and the men giggled like schoolgirls when she asked who this goddamn C.M. was that Pugh said would pay for them.

“Charlie, why don't the town give C.M. a reward for his heroism last night?” Pugh asked. “It might encourage other civic-minded folk to step up as required.”

“It's a fine thought, but the town coffers aren't currently flush,” Rogers said. “He'll have to settle for our thanks instead of money.”

“I hadn't a financial reward in mind,” Pugh said. “Ella's looking especially pert tonight, and if each of us other three puts up a dollar
apiece, we could treat ol' C.M. to a little of love's delight.” Mulkins and the mayor immediately agreed.

McLendon peered at Ella across the smoky saloon. She did look enticing with her long, thick hair and sassy smile. It wasn't like he hadn't sometimes gone with whores back in St. Louis, before Gabrielle and Ellen. But he still hesitated. Everyone in Glorious knew everyone else's business. If he went with Ella, Gabrielle would surely hear about it. “No, I better not,” he told the others at his table. “My head's still banging from all the drinking last night.” Bob Pugh made a joke about another kind of banging being likely to get rid of McLendon's headache, but no one insisted that he change his mind.

“You're missing a good time, though,” Major Mulkins said. “Ella's always a source of considerable pleasure.”

“As you know from experience?” McLendon asked.

“Well,” Mulkins said, “I believe just about every man in town would concur, with the exception of our noble mayor, who's faithful to his missus. Of course, the rest of us have no spouse as an option.”

“My jelly bunny,” Mayor Rogers mumbled, and signaled Mary Somebody to fetch another round of drinks.

McLendon was just thinking about saying good night when the sheriff came into the Owaysis. McLendon couldn't remember seeing Saint in the saloon before. Saint paused, looking around, and when he saw the table with McLendon, Rogers, Pugh, and Mulkins, he came over and joined them.

“Things are quiet, so I thought I'd have a short break,” he said. The table wasn't large. The others had to scrunch to make room. The limited light from the kerosene lamps glittered on the thick lenses of the sheriff's eyeglasses. McLendon noticed again the pink fleshy gaps in Saint's beard.

“Is all well in our world, Joe?” Pugh asked heartily.

“It is. Just coffee, Mary,” the sheriff said, and she brought him a steaming cup. No one at the table spoke for a few moments. The others sipped their whiskey while Saint drank coffee. Finally the sheriff said to McLendon in a grudging tone, “Last night I appreciated your assistance.”

That's it,
McLendon thought.
The mayor must have told him he had to publicly thank me
. “Glad to be of some small help, Sheriff. I thought you acted wisely in taking away the prospector. That defused the situation.”

“Maybe so,” Saint said. He drank more coffee.

“Well,” said Major Mulkins, “are you fellows ready for the dance on Sunday night?”

“What dance?” McLendon asked.

“Ever' once in a while we have a little dance here in the Owaysis,” Pugh explained. “We move back the tables and some of the prospectors who play instruments provide music. It's a nice departure from the usual routine. I'm glad you'll be here for it, C.M.”

“‘C.M.'?” the sheriff asked.

“Ol' Cash McLendon here. We could hardly keep calling him
Mister
.”

“You're making friends, C.M.,” Saint said to McLendon. “You make quite the good impression, I find.”

“I try my best,” McLendon said mildly. “Are these dances regular events?”

“No,” Mayor Rogers said. “Usually someone proposes them, says it's been a while and the town could use some fun. In this instance Miss Gabrielle made the suggestion to me this afternoon. I asked George and Mary, and they said they'd make the saloon available. It's a financial sacrifice on their part, since for the duration of the festivities they won't serve liquor and Ella has to shut down whore
operations. That's so the fine ladies of town can attend. Modesty wouldn't allow Rosie and Miss Gabrielle to set foot inside otherwise. Tomorrow we'll spread the word. On Sunday everyone in town will attend.”

“Including that fellow Turner?” McLendon asked. “I had the impression that he never mingled.”

“He won't talk to anyone, and he sure won't dance,” Pugh said. “But he'll come listen to the music all the same. Even the pigtails from the creek camp will come, though of course they can't dance with white people. Will you dance, C.M.?”

McLendon imagined twirling Gabrielle across a dance floor, her eyes sparkling as they swayed in time to good music. “I will,” he said.

“It might do to have a bit of adventure prior to Sunday,” Sheriff Saint interjected. “Perhaps we should give C.M. a taste of prospecting, of the real life here in Glorious. Bob, Major, it's been weeks since we tried finding color. What about tomorrow? I'm sure C.M. would find it diverting, and he might bring us luck.”

“Are all of you prospectors too?” McLendon asked. “I thought you provided services and stayed in town.”

“It's impossible to be out here and not occasionally feel tempted to seek out silver ourselves,” Mulkins said. “We figure on making our fortunes with a hotel and a livery and blacksmithing, but that would be nothing compared to the riches resulting from a big strike. So we go out once in a while. Charlie, will you watch the hotel? And Bob's livery? Same share promise as always. If we hit, Charlie will get a share for his trouble,” he explained to McLendon.

Pugh said, “If we're going out tomorrow, we best call it a night. A long, hard day looms ahead.”

“A lot of hot walking and work, not to mention the snakes,” Saint
said, grinning at McLendon. “Then there's the constant threat of the Apaches.”

“Don't fail to mention the bears, Joe,” Pugh interjected. “There's some of them out there too. C.M., should you happen to find yourself faced with the unwelcome choice of taking on either a bear or an Apache, my advice would be to fight the Indian. The Apache's still going to kill you, but he's not likely to eat you afterwards unless he's especially peckish.”

“With four of us we ought to be all right, but you never know,” said the sheriff. “Maybe C.M. would prefer not to come. He's a city gentleman, after all.”

“I'll try to keep up,” McLendon said. “What time and where will we meet?”

“Let's say my livery a bit after five,” Pugh suggested. “We want to be starting at sunup and that's just before six. Major, you pack the food necessaries. C.M., bring along that Navy Colt you've mentioned. We'll all need arms. I've got the picks and shovels, and of course the mule.”

“Any special dress?” McLendon asked. “My wardrobe is limited.”

“Denim pants rather than those fancy trousers,” Mulkins said. “There are considerable cactus stickers out there, and they tear right through flimsy material. Long-sleeved shirt to avoid the sunburn. I expect we'll work some by the creek and also up in the shadows of the mountains, but even so, it's going to be toasty.”

Pugh raised his shot glass. McLendon, Mulkins, and Rogers followed suit. Saint hoisted his coffee cup.

“Here's to good fortune tomorrow,” Pugh said. “Somebody's going to find silver around here. It might as well be us.”

M
ajor Mulkins pounded on McLendon's hotel room door at four-thirty, calling, “Up and at 'em, C.M. See you at the livery in half an hour.” Thickheaded with sleep, McLendon pulled on clothes and rummaged in his valise for the Navy Colt. He couldn't decide how to carry it. The weapon was too big to put in the pocket of his denim jeans, but he surely couldn't hold it in his hand all day. He finally stuck it in his front waistband. He stuffed some cartridges in a pocket, sighed, and walked to the livery, the barrel of the Navy Colt jabbing the soft flesh of his lower abdomen with every step.

Mulkins and Sheriff Saint were already there, helping Bob Pugh load supplies on a mule. Besides canteens and cans of food, they tied three picks and two shovels to packs slung over the beast's back. Handles stuck out in all directions. It was hard to see the mule underneath.

“Where are the mules we're going to ride?” McLendon asked. “Maybe we could share some of that load among them.”

The other men laughed. “Nobody's riding today,” Pugh said. “On
foot's the way to properly inspect the ground we plan to cover. And we're only walking about four miles out—why would we need riding mules for that short distance?” He gestured at the gun in McLendon's waistband. “Take that thing out of there right now. You trip, maybe even stumble wrong, and you'll blow off your pecker.”

“I didn't know how else to carry it,” McLendon said.

“In a holster, of course, like the sheriff's got.”

“I don't have one of those,” McLendon said. “I see you and the Major have shotguns, and the sheriff's got his pistol. I could just put my gun in with the supplies on the mule.”

“We need all our arms handy,” Mulkins said. “If the Apaches show up, you won't have time to fumble in a pack for your weapon. Let's stop by the dry goods store. The Tirritos will have some holsters for sale.”

“Are they open?” McLendon asked. “It's not even six yet.”

“They've been open an hour or more,” Pugh said. “Some of the prospectors wanting the earliest of starts are on the move before five, and Salvatore and Miss Gabrielle need to be available to sell them necessaries. Let's get over there. We're about to be wasting daylight.”

Salvatore Tirrito was behind the store counter. He greeted Mulkins, Pugh, and Saint, and ignored McLendon. “What you need?” he asked, and Pugh said that they wanted a holster. Tirrito rummaged in a box behind the counter and produced several. Pugh chose one that snugly fit the Navy Colt. “Two-fifty,” Tirrito said. The store owner still wouldn't look directly at McLendon when McLendon handed him the money.

Pugh showed McLendon how to attach the holster to his belt. The weight of the gun against his hip was annoying, but still a considerable relief from the discomfort of the barrel stuck in his waistband. He and his companions were just leaving the store when Gabrielle
emerged from a back room. “Joe,” she said to Saint, and she smiled at Pugh and Mulkins. Her smile froze when she saw McLendon, who was still fiddling with his new holster.

“Are you taking him out?” she demanded, glowering at the sheriff. “Is this your idea?”

Saint didn't respond, but Bob Pugh said gaily, “C.M.'s about to make his fortune, Miss Gabrielle. A sharp-eyed fellow like him, why, he'll spot silver sign where the rest of us would miss it, and soon enough he'll return to town all safe and sound and rich besides.”

“Idiot,” Gabrielle snapped. McLendon wasn't sure who she meant. She stalked into the back room.

“Well,” Mulkins said, “I guess we better be on our way.” McLendon was smiling as he left the store. Gabrielle clearly cared about his well-being. Maybe there was still a chance.

They went back to the livery to get the mule. Pugh led the animal by its halter as they walked northeast of town. The sky was lightening, and it was pleasantly cool. “We'll follow the river for a while toward where it cuts into the canyon,” Pugh said. “Major, maybe you go first, then C.M. I'll have the mule, and Joe guards the rear. It's early for Apaches, but you never know. Ever'body stay alert.”

“What am I being alert for?” McLendon asked.

“Anything out of the ordinary, something moving where it shouldn't be. Apaches. The occasional mountain lion. And mind your step, there's scorpions and rattlers all over the place.”

“You mentioned bears last night,” McLendon said.

“Oh, yes, and they're big ones. You'd think they'd claw or bite, but what they like to do is grab hold and shake you to death, like a dog with a rat.”

“Oh, stop exaggerating, Bob,” Mulkins said. “We're bent now to serious business. Where you have in mind for today?”

“Some ridges on the other side of the canyon seem promising,” Pugh said. “There's climbing involved, but not much. We want to break C.M. in gradual. When we get a mile or two along we'll hopefully see some quality float and go from there.”

McLendon wondered what float was, but didn't want to keep asking questions. He was busy enough alternately looking around for bears and down for rattlesnakes. As soon as they moved away from the river he had a new problem. The ground didn't lend itself to easy walking. It was solid in some places, but in others it turned unexpectedly into loosely packed sand and his boots sank in. After only a few hundred yards his hamstrings were twanging, and soon after that the sockets of his hips began to ache. He couldn't help lurching as he walked. The others didn't seem bothered. Bob Pugh, leading the mule and walking behind McLendon, said, “Don't try to go too fast. Just take real easy steps,” but the advice didn't help. McLendon still lurched. “Don't fret,” Pugh said. “You'll get used to it.”

After an hour Pugh said, “Major, we ought to turn up here,” and in the broadening daylight McLendon saw steep heights copiously studded with towering saguaro cactus.

“We're going to
climb
that?” he asked.

“It's just foothills,” said Joe Saint, who hadn't spoken to McLendon since they left Glorious. “If it's too hard for you, I guess you can quit and go back to town on your own.”

“Don't be teasing C.M., Joe,” Pugh said, but McLendon thought that the sheriff wasn't teasing.

“I guess I can do it,” he said. “Maybe I better go last, so if I come skidding down I won't plow into anybody else.” Pugh and Mulkins chuckled, and Mulkins demonstrated how to clamber up sideways, making certain the back foot was solidly planted before pushing the front foot ahead. Cactus and ground plants thickened the higher they
went, and McLendon's pants legs were frequently snagged by thorns. Sometimes the thorns ripped into his skin. The scratches were deep enough to hurt but not severe enough to be debilitating. Pugh assured him, “Just about ever plant out here bites.”

By nine the sun was fully up, and it turned hot fast. Pugh called for a water break. They rested in the shadow of a particularly gargantuan saguaro. Pugh poured some water into his hat and held it for the mule to drink. “You always got to care for your animal first,” he told McLendon. “This mule is working just as hard as we are, plus he's carrying the heaviest load.”

“I still don't see why we aren't riding mules instead of walking,” McLendon said. “Maybe you three are fine, but my legs already feel like they're broken.”

“That's what you think now, but if we run into Apaches those legs of yours could still trot quite smartly,” Pugh said. “If we have to run for it, mules might not cooperate. No matter what's coming behind them, they're only going to be rushed along so far and then they'll stop in their tracks, even if a thousand Indians are howling in pursuit. This here mule, he's fine so long as we keep a nice steady pace and water him now and then. Should Apaches appear, we'll leave him to them and try to save ourselves. Besides, once we get up to the ridges I have in mind, we need to pay attention to the rock, not a mule herd.”

They climbed higher. McLendon, wondering how much farther it was to the top of the so-called foothill, looked up and saw mountain precipices high overhead. Mulkins saw him staring. “Don't be concerned,” he said. “We're almost to where we're going, I believe,” and in a few more minutes Pugh called, “Just over to the right, boys.” A ledge curled around out of sight. It was wide enough for two men to walk abreast.

“I don't believe I'll tether the mule,” Pugh said. “No sense leaving him as Apache bait. The ledge shouldn't narrow for a good bit. Let's take some refreshment and then get down to real work.”

Mulkins used a knife to open a can of pears. The men fished bits of fruit out with their fingers, then took turns drinking the juice left in the can. McLendon was surprised to find himself enjoying the thick, cloying taste. His legs ached badly and he hoped that the break would last awhile longer.

“You're quiet this morning, Joe,” Mulkins said to Sheriff Saint. “As a schoolteacher by former trade, why don't you teach C.M. what he needs to know about seeking color?”

Saint sat down next to McLendon. “There's a certain art to it,” he said. “It starts with knowing what you're looking for.”

“If it's silver, then I suppose I look for the gleam,” McLendon said.

“You're thinking of horn silver,” Saint said. “Very rarely there's a seam so pure that it's clean and shiny, and the silver's so soft that you can press your thumb down and leave an imprint. But it's hardly ever that way. What you want to look for is discoloration on rock, black patches and lines. That's a sign of possible minerals. The more discoloration, the more potentially rich the rock. If we find that, we use picks to break chunks off. We measure out and mark a claim, and then we take the samples to be assayed in Florence.”

“Assayed?”

“An expert pulverizes the rock and puts it in a chemical wash to measure what minerals are in there, and to what extent. He might estimate that, based on a certain sample, there's sufficient silver in a sample to recommend full mining operations to dig down into the rock it came from and see how much of a deposit there is. You can't ever be sure—some of the richest samples are misleading and there's
very little underneath. But if the assayer says a sample's poor, then you have to go back out and try again. That's by far the most common result.”

Pugh said, “The sun's getting higher and the day's passing. We ought to be moving on.”

McLendon had trouble getting to his feet. His back as well as his legs stiffened while he sat. Saint grabbed his arm and helped him up. “Try not to topple off the ledge,” the sheriff said.

They worked their way along the ledge, Saint leading the mule now as Pugh and Mulkins peered at the rock wall. McLendon stared at it, too, still not certain what he was looking for. All of the rock looked the same to him, the color of dried blood. There were faint striations but no black blotches or lines as far as he could tell.

“There's Old Ben and some others in the valley,” Mulkins said. “Bossman Wright and Oafie too. Don't recognize the rest.” He pointed, and McLendon looked down. Far away a half-dozen blurry black dots were moving parallel to Queen Creek. He was amazed that Mulkins could identify anyone at such a distance.

“What if we bump into other prospectors on this ledge?” McLendon asked. “Will there be some question concerning who has right of way?”

“There's a lot of potential ground to be covered around here,” Pugh said. He was squatting down, studying rock. “We all try to give each other room, and I suspect there's maybe five or six parties total out looking today, plus Turner, who always goes alone. There's little danger of encountering someone else, and if we did, we'd exchange greetings and go our separate ways.”

“That's unless somebody thinks somebody else seems hot on a find,” Saint said. “Then everybody tries to follow, and that's when
hard feelings result. But first somebody has to discover significant color, and that hasn't happened around here yet.”

They worked their way along the ledge. Twice Mulkins and once Saint thought a spot seemed promising enough to take a pick and break off some rock, but all three times they examined the resulting pieces and decided that there wasn't sufficient discoloration to warrant staking a claim and taking samples to Florence.

“It was close, though,” Pugh said after the third time. “A little bit more and tomorrow we'd have been Florence-bound.” McLendon nodded but wasn't really sure. He hadn't seen any difference between the broken bits and the rest of the rock wall. Pugh mistook his bewilderment for dejection. “Don't fall into a sulk, C.M.,” he said. “We're not skunked yet. I suggest we find our way down into the canyon basin and explore for float there.”

Before McLendon could ask, Saint explained that float was bits of rock worn from higher elevations by erosion or water runoff. If they found anything promising, they'd work their way back up in the direction that the float might have come from.

McLendon found going down almost as difficult as clambering up. Now he had to beware of losing his footing and sliding down the steep slope into the prickly embrace of saguaro and other cactus. His boots skidded and he almost toppled several times. By the time they reached the base, he was panting and sweaty. None of his companions was even breathing hard.

“Now we need to arrange ourselves a bit different,” Pugh told him. “Down here the Apaches can conceal themselves pretty much at will. So two of us will concentrate on float, one will hold the mule, and one will be on lookout. We'll switch off as we go. Why don't you start out on float patrol with me, the Major can take the mule, and the sheriff
will keep watch.” He untied a shotgun from the mule's load and handed it to Saint. With the river to their right, they moved along what McLendon initially thought was blessedly flat valley. But its appearance was deceptive. It was pocked with small hollows and dips, each just deep enough to obscure someone down in it. McLendon suddenly understood how Apaches could seem to appear out of nowhere. The chilling realization distracted him enough so that he barely noticed a sudden brisk buzzing. Pugh yanked him aside and said, “C.M., watch your feet. You damn near stepped on that rattler. Keep your head out of your behind.” Feeling doubly panicked, McLendon shuffled warily, hardly paying attention as Pugh picked up bits of rock, examined them, and tossed them aside.