Glorious (25 page)

Pugh snapped, “C.M., why the hell would they? The cost of salting horn silver—who could afford it?”

“Collin MacPherson. Glorious was about to die, and he didn't want it to. Isn't it obvious? I've suspected it since I heard Turner's story. MacPherson has his men salt a spot, then somebody has to be lured there. Turner was perfect; he was the only prospector who went out alone. It's easier to persuade one man than several. Lemmy Duke gets him there, knowing Turner will find the silver. Then he urges him to rush to Florence to file right away—a Culloden vaquero will guard his claim so nobody jumps it. This, when the vaqueros were on alert for increased Indian threat.”

“We've known all along there's silver in the Pinals,” Pugh said. “Somebody finally found some. That's all there is to it.”

“Consider the timing and the circumstances. Remember when you doubted there were Apaches lurking? There's been something off about this all along. Think, Bob, please.”

The livery owner fell silent. For a mile or more, the only sound was the hooves of the mule team clopping on the ground. Finally Pugh said, “I'm not saying that you're right, but why would Mr. MacPherson do such a thing?”

McLendon pondered how much to tell. “He owns his big ranch. Maybe he wants to own a town too.”

Pugh sighed, and suddenly he wasn't perpetually jolly Bob Pugh anymore. He seemed to McLendon to turn into a bent, worn-out man whose exhaustion was evident in his voice as well as his posture.

“It don't matter,” Pugh mumbled.

“What?”

“I said it don't matter. It don't matter if Turner made an honest strike or if him or Collin MacPherson or Satan hisself faked it. A few of us put all we had left into starting a town, and we did and it was
dying. Now it's becoming ever'thing we hoped for, and as far as I'm concerned, it don't matter how or why. I'm fifty-one years old and I been scraping along on the frontier since I was fifteen. I can't count the places where I tried to set up and it didn't take. Now I got a chance to make my pile and I'm done scrambling. I'm gonna stay in Glorious and run my livery and ain't anybody gonna discourage me or run me off. All of us feel the same—Mulkins, the mayor, Crazy George and Mary. Life's pushed us all this far and we ain't gonna be pushed farther. So shut up about salting. Nobody wants to hear it.”

“Bob, there's more that I can tell you. Things that will help you understand what's happening.”

“I said shut up.”

•   •   •

A
FTER A WHILE,
when they'd passed Picket Post Mountain and Glorious was just a few miles ahead, Pugh started talking again: about the good time they'd just had in Florence, and how over the next week or so they'd have to enlarge the corral and build stalls for the new mules. He sounded just as cheerful as always.

B
y early July, Turner's was still the only significant strike near Glorious. There were three much smaller finds, where prospectors offering marginal samples were each paid $2,500 for their claims by mining companies willing to invest small sums—there was always the possibility that limited traces of ore in surface rock signified larger underground deposits. Some of the prospectors who'd rushed to town immediately following the Turner news decided that the Glorious pickings weren't promising after all. They packed up and left. But for each one departing, two or three more arrived. Word of Turner's horn silver discovery was still spreading, and some of the newcomers came from Nevada or California or even as far away as the Dakota Territory.

The Californians included Newman Clanton, his wife, and two grown sons, Phin and Ike. There were also some younger offspring, the first children to live in Glorious. The Clantons arrived late one morning in a wagon overflowing with household goods and prospecting tools. For their first few nights in town they stayed in tents. Then
they moved to Turner's old wooden shack on the hill beyond where the other prospectors camped. It had stood empty since Turner left, and no one complained when the Clantons took possession. Mrs. Clanton bought a broom and bucket from the Tirritos and spent several days cleaning the place. Gabrielle and Rose Rogers, making a joint social call a week later, reported that the shack was now spick-and-span. The Clanton children, they said, were well mannered and quiet, particularly the little boy named Billy. Mrs. Clanton, who never told them her first name, gave her guests coffee but, much to Rose's dismay, failed to offer snacks. After that first encounter, Mrs. Clanton never socialized with the other two women again, except for innocuous chat with Gabrielle while she made purchases at the dry goods store.

Newman, Phin, and Ike Clanton went out prospecting by day and drank in the Owaysis at night. The Clanton patriarch was a heavyset man who never drank to excess and gave the impression of knowing a great deal that he had no intention of revealing. Mayor Rogers and Bob Pugh found him intriguing. They did their best to draw Newman out, but failed.

“He makes occasional reference to land investments,” Rogers told McLendon and Mulkins over breakfast biscuits at the Elite. “I suspect he and his grown sons are prospecting just on the off chance that they might find something. But in the long run they must have some sort of entrepreneurial plans.”

Dark, shaggy-haired Phin Clanton was secretive like his father. But Ike, about twenty-five, was Newman Clanton's polar opposite. Ike wore an elegant Vandyke beard and mustache and, in Bob Pugh's words, was “overfond of his own voice.” He spouted opinions about politics, bragged about his prowess as a lover, bare-knuckle brawler, and gunfighter, and laughed uproariously at his own mostly humorless
jokes. When he drank too much, which was almost every night, Ike got into arguments that invariably ended with him challenging someone to fight. But before verbal insults escalated into physical violence, Newman and Phin Clanton would grab Ike and drag him back to the family cabin. The next night Ike would be back in the saloon, acting for all the world like no previous unpleasantness had occurred.

“We were bound to get a jackass in town sometime,” Pugh said to McLendon. “And the real problem with Ike is that he don't know he's a jackass. He truly believes that he's a fine fellow and everybody admires him. He's like trying to scrape off stubborn cow flop that's stuck on your boots—you just can't rid yourself of someone like Ike.”

McLendon was preoccupied sketching the proposed corral expansion. Pugh was going to buy cottonwood logs from the Chinese camp and they had to determine how many were needed. “Oh, Ike just enjoys the sound of his own voice too much, that's all,” McLendon said. “The same could be said of others around here.”

“Don't be comparing me to Ike Clanton. At least my talk entertains rather than annoys.”

•   •   •

T
HE BIG NEWS
in Glorious that week concerned whores rather than silver. Mary Somebody returned from Tucson with two new girls in tow. Sally was skinny, but with a pleasantly sassy way about her. Abigail's stupendous bosom more than compensated for a missing front tooth. Both were new enough to the game to seem fresh rather than shopworn, and most of the men in town were eager to try them out. That led Ella to announce that, despite her eagerness to earn passage home to England, she would treat herself to a short vacation. According to Mary Somebody, she wanted relief of discomfort “from
overuse,” and Mary agreed to Ella's break. The English girl took the stage to Florence and was gone for several days. When Ella returned, she seemed happy to let Sally and Abigail take most of the evening turns with prospectors. McLendon thought that was odd: If Ella wanted to get home so badly, why wasn't she taking advantage of the constant demand to earn the necessary money as quickly as possible? But after all, it was her business and not his.

•   •   •

W
ILLIAM
C
LARK
L
E
M
OND
returned to Glorious on the same Tuesday stage as Ella. The soap salesman, dressed in another loud checked suit, was surprised to see McLendon when he dropped his bags off at the livery.

“You stayed after all! Does that mean you won the heart of Miss Gabrielle?”

“Hardly,” McLendon admitted. “But it turns out that you were right about the potential of this town.”

Around sundown, LeMond had a beer in the Owaysis and passed along territorial news. President Grant's peace commission had signed treaties with some minor Apache chiefs, but warriors led by Cochise continued to terrorize towns and ranches southeast of Tucson.

“We continue to be told of substantial Apache presence in this area, but there have been no incidents lately,” Mayor Rogers said.

“That's surprising, given the number of prospectors who must be out daily in the Pinals,” LeMond said. “Perhaps the Indians from this area have moved down to join Cochise.”

Lemmy Duke, drinking at the next table, overheard. “Wish it was true, but it ain't. Our Culloden vaqueros keep finding sign. Apaches are all around here.”

“Then they must be more cautious than the rest of their
quarrelsome tribe,” LeMond said. “That, or else you're running in incredible luck. I'd best be on my way. I've an errand tonight, a sales call in the morning, and then I'm off on the stage back to Florence.” He gathered up a small, square package wrapped in brown paper and nodded to everyone.

“I think I'll have an early night too,” McLendon said. “I'll walk out with you, LeMond.”

When they were outside, McLendon asked, “What's your errand?”

“I have to drop something off to Miss Gabrielle. I'm sorry to hear that things with her didn't work out to your satisfaction. She's a fine young woman.”

“She is. Are you going to the dry goods store? I'll come with you.”

Gabrielle was still behind the counter, selling sundries to some prospectors. “Mr. LeMond!” she said cheerfully. “Just in time! Were you able to find it?”

LeMond handed her the package. “I was. They had a few in one of the Tucson general stores.”

“How much do I owe you?” she asked.

“We can settle up in the morning, when I'll show you some samples of a fine new lemon-scented soap. You'll want a dozen, at least.”

Gabrielle looked over LeMond's shoulder and said to McLendon, “I'm going to close up now. Was there something you needed before I do?” Her tone was friendly, but no more than that.

McLendon shook his head. “I was just keeping LeMond, here, company. We'll be on our way.”

When they were outside, McLendon said, “If you don't mind me asking, what did you bring Gabrielle?”

“Just a book that she wanted,
Roughing It
, by some journalist calling himself Mark Twain. It's about his adventures here in the territories. I've read some of it—very funny stuff.”

“Well, that's Gabrielle for you,” McLendon said. “She always did love to read.”

LeMond yawned. “I'm tuckered from the stage ride. I don't think Miss Gabrielle wanted the book for herself. She wants to use it for the other thing—the class.”

“What class?”

“The one she has for the prospectors who want to learn to read. I understand that she hosts it a couple of nights each week.”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” McLendon mumbled.

“You know, I think that's right.”

Back at the livery, McLendon tried to concentrate on mending a bridle, but he couldn't. After an hour he tossed the bridle on a table and walked back to the dry goods store. A half-dozen prospectors, including Bossman Wright and Oafie, were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Gabrielle stood in front of the counter with Joe Saint at her side. A small chalkboard McLendon remembered from St. Louis was propped on the counter. Gabrielle was reading to her scruffy pupils from
Roughing It
.

“‘I had already learned how hard and long and dismal a task it is to burrow down into the bowels of the earth and get out the coveted ore,'” she read, “‘and now I learned that the burrowing was only half the work; and that to get the silver out of the ore was the dreary and laborious other half of it.'”

“That's the truth,” one of the prospectors called out, and everyone laughed.

“Let's consider the letters in ‘dreary'—how the
e
sounds out, but the
a
is silent,” Gabrielle said. “Sheriff Saint is going to write the word out on the chalkboard so that we can study it. Sheriff, would you take over for a moment? I need to talk to Mr. McLendon.” She took McLendon's arm and guided him outside.

“What do you want?” Gabrielle asked. “I need to return to the class.”

McLendon thought he'd experienced every possible terrible feeling since Ellen died and he fled St. Louis, but now he hurt in a new way. “So the sheriff is your helper,” he said.

“Yes. He was once a teacher himself, and he's still a good one. These men, and of course Oafie, too, have their pride. They want to learn to read but couldn't abide feeling demeaned in the process. Joe treats them with respect and courtesy. I think we make an effective team.”

That was exactly what McLendon didn't want to hear. “Why the Twain book?” he asked, trying not to show how devastated he felt. “It's thick with pages and, from what I heard you read, has long, difficult words. It may be too advanced for these pupils.”

“Possibly, but the tales Mr. Twain relates about prospecting and mining and towns in the territories are all familiar to them,” Gabrielle said. “They relax when they hear the stories, and when they're relaxed, they're better able to learn.”

“And now the sheriff helps you,” McLendon said again. “Back in St. Louis, weren't we an effective team?”

“Yes. For a while we truly were. Despite all that happened later, I treasure the memory. And now I really must get back inside.”

•   •   •

T
HERE WAS
new construction in Glorious. The stage line built a formal depot, and Sears and Sons, the San Francisco mining company that bought Turner's claim, put up an office. Both structures were wood rather than adobe. The companies had the planks freighted in from Tucson and hired builders from Florence. Sears and Sons had a plate-glass window in front that was big enough to make Major
Mulkins jealous. Walking past, the prospectors could see assayers sitting at desks, waiting to evaluate rock samples. Mayor Rogers met with Don Jesse, the Sears and Sons manager, and Jesse said the company intended to start blasting tunnels at the Turner site soon, possibly in another month. This was exciting news, Rogers reported at the Owaysis that night.

“They've got to bring in experienced dynamiters to set the charges, and then specialists to dig the tunnels,” Rogers said, his face flushed with excitement as well as red-eye. “Then they need carpenters to build wood supports, and engineers to place the supports properly in the tunnels, and others to build a waterworks down by the creek for a smelter and a stamp mill. A couple of months after that, they'll bring in miners. Come late fall, this town will really be a-bustle.”

McLendon had no idea what a stamp mill was, and wasn't interested enough to ask. But the news excited Major Mulkins enough to call in another work crew from Florence to finish off the second floor of the hotel.

“I'm going to start leasing rooms by the month,” Mulkins said. “Eighty dollars with a window, seventy without. With all that's required to get a mine up and running, those engineers are going to have to stay awhile.”

•   •   •

T
HE NEWS THAT
miners would soon be arriving in Glorious encouraged a builder named Merrill to come from Florence with a dozen workers in tow. Merrill announced in the Owaysis that he was building homes to rent to the miners. He and his men began constructing small adobe huts on the low hill just west of town, across from the prospectors' tents and between the Tirritos' store and the shack now occupied by the Clantons. Two were in place and a third
was almost completed when Lemmy Duke rode up and talked with the builder. Then Duke rode off and Merrill hurriedly called together his crew. They loaded their tools in wagons and left town immediately without speaking to anyone. After a day or two, Bossman Wright and Oafie moved into one of the huts. With so much else going on, no one paid much attention except McLendon. A prominent company like Sears and Sons of San Francisco was one thing, McLendon knew, because they were bringing money into Glorious. But Collin MacPherson wouldn't tolerate an interloper like Merrill taking money out of
his
town.

•   •   •

M
AJOR
M
ULKINS
continued to lend his dining room to Preacher Sheridan for Sunday worship. With the influx of new citizens, Mulkins was concerned that now there wouldn't be enough room, but it wasn't a problem. Many of the Sears and Sons employees came to the service, but there was plenty of space to accommodate them because, with the exception of Preacher himself, no prospectors came anymore. Being far more concerned with finding silver than God, even on Sunday mornings they were out in the mountains. As soon as each service was concluded, Preacher rushed to join them.