Glorious (14 page)

“Major, C.M. and I aren't having a bit of luck,” Pugh declared. “Why don't you and Joe take point, C.M. can haul on the mule, and I'll keep watch.” It sounded good to McLendon until he had the mule's halter in his hand. The animal had followed Mulkins docilely enough, but now it yanked against the bridle and McLendon had to tug hard.

“He just wants to crop at some brush,” Mulkins said. “Keep a steady pull, show him who's boss.” McLendon thought it was the mule.

Just after one o'clock they took another break. The jagged summits on their left threw down wide blocks of shade, so they were able to enjoy welcome relief from the sun. They slumped on the ground, McLendon looking long and hard for snakes before he dropped down. The mule munched on some spiny-looking plants, and the four men shared another can of fruit, this time peaches. They had several canteens and drained two. Trying to be helpful, McLendon gathered all of the canteens, stood up, and began walking toward the Queen Creek about fifty yards away.

“Get back here!” Saint barked.

Seeing McLendon's startled, slightly hurt expression, Mulkins explained, “You never want to wander away from the group. Apaches could be anywhere, and if you stray they could pick you off before the rest of us could blink. You always have to presume that they're lurking nearby. When we're ready, all four of us will go to the creek and fill canteens. And we'll do it with our weapons handy.”

“C.M., hand me the empty fruit can,” Pugh said. “We can't leave anything that the Indians might make use of. They'd cut up that can and use pieces for arrowheads. Apaches can turn almost anything to a bloody purpose. They've been known to wield discarded hammers as war clubs.” Pugh tucked the empty tin into the mule's pack. “All right, then. Let's fill canteens and go find ourselves some silver.”

They continued prospecting along the canyon basin. Though he was determined not to say so, McLendon was ready to quit. His legs ached, and his eyes stung from the dust and glare. It was very hot now, and though the brim of his hat mostly shaded his face, the back of his neck was bare to the merciless sun. He tried to pull up the collar of his shirt, but it wouldn't stay in place. He could feel the exposed skin blistering.

They paused again when Bob Pugh thought he'd discovered interesting float. Pugh and Mulkins scrabbled among bits of rock, holding some up for closer inspection. McLendon held the mule's bridle and tried not to think about his considerable discomfort. He was surprised when Saint sidled up and said, “You need to tie a bandanna around your neck to block the worst of the sun. See, we all have one.”

“I don't,” McLendon said. “Like a holster, it's a key accoutrement that I foolishly neglected.”

Saint dragged a bandanna out of his hip pocket. “I have an extra. Soak it with whatever water is left in your canteen and tie it on. That'll be of some help.” McLendon did as Saint suggested and felt better.
He hoped that the sheriff's attitude toward him might be improving, but afterward Saint continued to avoid speaking, unless it was to correct him.

Mulkins and Pugh decided that the float wasn't worth further inspection, and the group moved on. They crossed the creek and, to McLendon's immense, unspoken pleasure, began slowly wending their way back in the general direction of town. Then Major Mulkins, peering at a rock outcrop, summoned the others to come take a look.

“There's clear discoloration and some lines here,” he said. Pugh and Saint agreed. Even McLendon could see the markings. Pugh tethered the mule to some scrub brush and took the picks and shovels from the pack on its back.

“We'll work this awhile, C.M.,” he told McLendon. “Here, take this shotgun and keep watch. Look for any sudden movement. Call it out clear if you detect menace.” Then he, Saint, and Mulkins began hacking at the outcrop. The sound of the picks striking rock rang out in the canyon. McLendon hefted the shotgun; it was very heavy. He scanned the canyon and the cliff face, half expecting to glimpse an Apache behind every cactus. The wind had picked up considerably, and clouds of dust rolled along the canyon floor.

The three men hammered at the outcrop for almost an hour before deciding there wasn't enough discoloration to warrant additional work. McLendon expected them to say they'd had enough for one day, but Pugh announced that they needed to “poke around” more. “Just because that one spot petered out, there may very well be another better one nearby. That outcrop is just too promising.”

“Getting a little late, Bob,” Mulkins said. “It's a couple of hours back to town. Maybe we should be going.” Saint said the same, and McLendon was in wholehearted agreement, but Pugh said they ought to work just a bit longer.

“Think how we'd kick ourselves if somebody else sashayed in to this spot and found silver enough to rival the Comstock Lode,” Pugh said. “What's another half hour or so of honest sweat? Do you want C.M. to think we give up so easily? Thirty minutes, no more, and then we'll start for home. C.M., can you stand watch just a little longer?”

McLendon did his best. The shotgun seemed heavier by the minute. He wanted to set it down but felt certain that the moment he did, Apaches would attack. He swept his eyes back and forth, trying to look in every direction. He was sweating hard now, and every muscle ached. Swinging picks pounded rock; the combination of noise and heat made his head hurt.

The others paused to examine the pieces of rock they'd broken loose, and in the sudden silence McLendon detected a scuffling sound. Heart pounding, he looked desperately for its source, and to his horror he saw slight but definite movement in a patch of brush less than ten yards away on the edge of a small arroyo.
“There,”
he croaked, and raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening, and the butt of the gun recoiled painfully against his shoulder. The bush exploded; a cloud of dirt kicked up, and the wind whipped it back into the faces of McLendon and his startled companions. Saint's gun was drawn, and Mulkins had moved very quickly to grab the second shotgun.
“There,”
McLendon said again, expecting a pack of Apaches to come boiling out of the arroyo. Instead there was only more brief, now frantic scuffling, and then a flashing glimpse of brown flattened ears and white fluffy tail streaking across the canyon.

After a long moment Bob Pugh observed, “Well, that is truly one scared jackrabbit. You put the fear of God into him, C.M.”

McLendon sagged. “I thought it was an Apache.”

“No, their ears are considerably shorter.” Pugh took the shotgun from McLendon and said, “Let's pack up prompt, boys. Got to be
moving. Ever' Apache within miles is on his way here to see what that shot was all about.”

McLendon continued muttering apologies as they started back west down the canyon. They moved faster than they had going out. After a mile the river cut south and the canyon ended. Looking ahead, McLendon could see the adobe buildings and tents that composed most of Glorious.

“About another hour, C.M.,” Mulkins said. He still held the shotgun, and McLendon noticed that the hotel owner looked around and behind as much as he did ahead. So did Pugh and Saint; Pugh had the other shotgun, and Saint held the mule's bridle with one hand and kept the other on the butt of his gun. The footing remained treacherous, but McLendon was getting used to it. Though his legs still hurt, he had no trouble keeping up.

The thump of hoofbeats came from behind them, and McLendon reached for his Navy Colt. His hand was shaking. Mulkins called to him, “Stand steady, Apaches generally aren't on horseback.” Two horsemen trotted into view.

“Why, one of them's Lemmy Duke,” Pugh said. “Holster your cannon, C.M., these men ride for MacPherson. I expect they were attracted by your blast.” He waved at the two riders, who rode up and reined in their mounts.

Lemmy Duke leaned down from his saddle and asked, “Bob, did one of your party fire the shot? We've seen Apache sign in that area.”

“We're responsible, Lemmy,” Pugh said. “C.M. here tried potting a jackrabbit. We've explained how it's wiser to hold fire this far out from town. He's new to the region and didn't realize.”

“You need to remember that, sir,” Duke said to McLendon. “The Apaches are trouble enough without giving them encouragement.
There are plenty of jacks right around town if you're hungry for some. Now, I think you'll all be wanting to get back. Domingo and I took a turn through the canyon, and there's no Apaches behind you. You can enjoy the rest of your walk home. Bob, Major, Sheriff. Mr. McLendon.” He and the Mexican vaquero wheeled their horses and rode away.

“He acted like he was our boss,” McLendon said. “I didn't appreciate his tone.”

“Oh, Lemmy's all right,” Pugh said. “He rode down in Mexico for quite a while and is mostly comfortable with its people, but it still can't be easy living on the Culloden amongst all those beaners. Important thing is, he and the other one didn't see any Apaches coming our way. Joe, haul on that mule. There's beer at the Owaysis and I don't like to keep brew waiting.”

It took another forty-five minutes to reach Glorious, time that Mulkins spent trying to lift McLendon's spirits. “So you fired a tick too quick, C.M.,” he said. “No real harm was done. You conducted yourself well for your first prospecting attempt. It'll go easier next time.”

“Maybe so,” McLendon said, certain that there would be no next time. How, he wondered, did prospectors do it, go out and physically suffer and risk their lives day after day with so little possibility of success?

It was nearly five o'clock when they finally reached town. Saint went to the jail, where he evidently lived, and Pugh led the mule back to the livery. Mulkins and McLendon returned to the Elite.

“I've got dinnertime to prepare for, but first I'll boil you some water if you want a bath, C.M.,” Mulkins said. “You'll feel better when you're clean.”

“Don't you want a bath yourself?” McLendon asked. The usually dapper hotel owner was covered with dust.

“I'll make do with a quick washbasin scrub,” Mulkins said. “Don't want to keep hungry people waiting. You go on. I'll have the tub and hot water to you directly.”

McLendon went to his room and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and thorn-tattered denim jeans. The shirt could be washed, but the pants were beyond saving. He'd go to the dry goods store and buy a new pair. It would be a good excuse to see Gabrielle. He couldn't remember feeling more exhausted. After Mulkins dragged in the tin tub and filled it with several buckets of hot water, McLendon fell asleep in his bath and only woke up, prune-skinned, around nine. He climbed out gingerly; his legs still hurt.

When he felt able to leave his room, he wandered into the hotel lobby, where Major Mulkins sat reading his book. The proprietor now wore a suit, but McLendon noticed a rim of dirt still crusted behind Mulkins's ear. He'd missed a spot during his washbasin scrub.

“I hope you found your bath relaxing?” Mulkins asked.

“Too much so; I fell asleep. Let me pay you for it. I recall that your charge for a bath is thirty-six cents, including the firewood and soap?”

Mulkins waved his hand dismissively. “No charge.”

“You'll never complete the second floor if you don't make money from your guests.”

“That's so,” Mulkins said. “But you acquired the dirt to be washed off not as a guest but as my prospecting partner.”

A warm sensation spread in McLendon's chest. It was good to have friends. “Well, then, Major, let's go over to the Owaysis. Your prospecting partner wants to buy you a beer.”

“There may not be any beer left on the premises,” Mulkins said. “Bob Pugh might already have guzzled it all.” But he hadn't. Mulkins
and McLendon found the livery owner at a table, regaling Mary Somebody with tales about the day's adventures.

“Mary, these boys will confirm that we're hot on the track of a fortune in silver,” Pugh said. “I can't say where, but we located some no doubt rich float. Next time we'll make a bodacious strike. C.M. took to prospecting like a Mexican to tortillas. We'll be hard-pressed to keep him from running back out tonight.”

“Not true,” McLendon said. “My legs still hurt so much that I may never run again. I suppose Bob's been telling you about my encounter with the jackrabbit?”

“This is the first I've heard of it,” Mary said. “What about a rabbit?”

McLendon expected Pugh to launch into an outrageous description, but the livery owner said simply, “Oh, C.M. shot at a big jack. He wanted to bring home supper, but his aim was off. Nothing really to speak of. Now, how about some more beer? We've had ourselves a day of thirsty work.”

After Mary brought the beer, McLendon said to Pugh, “You omitted certain comic aspects of my blunder. I thought that by now everyone in town would be enjoying a laugh at my expense. You've mentioned their desire for entertainment.”

“You already provided your share of recent entertainment,” Pugh said. “There was your failed suit with Miss Gabrielle and your actions with the vaquero the other night. So you get a pass on the rabbit. Drink your beer and let's talk of other things.”

And they did, touching on several subjects. President Grant had recently dispatched one-armed General Oliver Otis Howard to the territory to attempt peace negotiations with the Apaches; Mulkins thought he had a chance to succeed, Pugh didn't. They wrangled a bit about whether Crazy George should stock and serve Mexican tequila
as well as red-eye whiskey. Pugh swore that tequila would soon ruin any white man's stomach. Mulkins mused about several new glass windows he hoped soon to install at the Elite: “I'm using your room charges toward that, C.M.” McLendon enjoyed the camaraderie. When he finally got to bed, just before falling asleep he thought that he'd miss Glorious after he left town on Tuesday.