Glorious (28 page)

McLendon felt overwhelmed by grief and guilt. He stood beside his mule while the sheriff and Sydney examined the corpse. A vaquero tried to pull out one of the arrows and Sydney stopped him. She whispered to Saint and he looked up at Duke.

“Could you have someone from the ranch send over a wagon?” Saint asked. “We'd like to transport our friend back to town.” When the wagon arrived, the vaqueros lifted Pugh into it and covered his body with a blanket. They had to lay him on his side because of the arrows in front and back. The ends of the shafts poked out from under the cover.

“We'll escort you back to town,” Duke said. “Can't take the chance that the Apaches are still nearby.”

They made a solemn procession. No one spoke. A few tears trickled down McLendon's face. Even in his sorrow, he was struck by Sydney's expression. She seemed puzzled. He noticed that Joe Saint did too.

When they arrived back in town, Saint told the vaqueros to bring Pugh's blanket-covered body into the jail and lay it on the floor. Word had reached town and there was a crowd of people waiting. Saint asked them to disperse: “There's nothing good to see here.” Mulkins, Rogers, and Mary Somebody lingered, and Saint told them that if they'd wait back at the hotel or the saloon, he'd come talk to them as soon as he could.

“Bob will need a proper funeral service,” Rogers said. “Find Preacher Sheridan and ask if he'll hold off prospecting to handle it.”

Saint and McLendon joined Sydney inside the jail. She had pulled the blanket off the corpse and was bent over it, using the embedded arrows to tug the body this way and that. Saint squatted beside her. McLendon couldn't bring himself to look at his dead friend. The sheriff noticed his reticence and suggested, “Why don't you join Major and the mayor while Doc Chau and I study on this?”

“No, I'll stay.” McLendon swallowed hard. “What are you looking at?”

“These wounds make no sense,” Sydney said. “The arrows, and the slashed throat.”

“I don't understand.”

“Two of these arrows—the one to the chest and one of them in the back—would have killed Bob,” Sydney explained. “So if the Apaches surprised him and shot him with their bows, he would drop dead on the ground.”

“I'm sick at the thought of it, but still fail to grasp your meaning.”

“Then why cut his throat if he was dead already?” Sydney asked.
“Or, if his throat was cut first, why shoot him afterward with arrows?”

“Whoever slit Bob's throat did a masterful job of it,” Saint added. “It's a long, clean cut accomplished with a strong arm and razor-sharp blade. Apaches frequently mutilate the bodies of their victims, but why would they shoot their arrows into a dead man? They'd cut him up instead, like they did that prospector Tom Gaumer. They weren't chased away from Bob's body. It was all night and some daylight hours before we found it. Why waste the arrows, if that's what they did?”

“It's the mule that bothers me,” McLendon said. “The way it showed up at the corral without Bob.”

“Mules have a good sense of direction,” Saint said. “Sometimes when they lose their riders they have the sense to return to where they're stabled.”

“Well, a while ago when I tried to rent a mule from Bob and ride it back to Florence—this was before the daily stage, of course—Bob said that he wouldn't do it because the Apaches would not only get me, they'd eat the mule too. He said they loved mule meat.”

“I believe that's correct.”

“So, if Apaches killed Bob, why would they let his mule run off?” McLendon asked. “That and the arrows—
Jesus. I see it.
”

He told the sheriff and Sydney about his visit to MacPherson and the offer he turned down, MacPherson's threats of what would happen if he didn't keep quiet, Ike Clanton's recruitment by MacPherson to serve as a spy in town, and Bob Pugh's subsequent invitation to Culloden Ranch.

“Bob wouldn't sell, so MacPherson had him killed,” McLendon said. “The way you say his throat was cut—Angel Misterio did it. He carries that long knife, and we've all seen how quick he can move. Bob
didn't stand a chance. Then they shot some arrows in Bob and tossed him someplace where he'd eventually be found.”

“That can't be right,” Saint said. “The arrows are Apache for sure, with turkey-feather fletching like they use. You're thinking someone at Culloden made Apache arrows?”

McLendon thought for a moment. “Didn't you wonder where the bows and arrows were when they brought in those two dead Apaches? MacPherson was planning something like this, and he had his people keep them to use later.”

“But why pretend it was Apaches?” the sheriff persisted. “If they killed Bob, they could have buried him somewhere out there and no one ever would have found him.”

“Keeping the rest of us scared of Apaches is the way MacPherson's been taking control of the town,” McLendon said. “That prospector who got killed, well, the vaqueros could have done it and made it out to look like Apaches, just like they did with Bob. All this Apache sign we've been hearing about—only MacPherson's men ever saw any of it. But as a result, we've got guard posts on either end of town with armed Culloden hands in them. When Bossman and Oafie and Preacher came running into town thinking Indians were after them, only Lemmy Duke claimed to have actually seen Apaches. Long as people here believe MacPherson's all we've got between us and an Apache massacre, that makes us beholden to him, more likely to do whatever he wants. And that horn silver Turner found that started all the current commotion, MacPherson had it planted. It's been his plan all along, from the time the town founders first came here and met him. He's let them establish the town, and when he had to, he stepped in to bring attention to it with the salted claim. Because he believes that real silver strikes will happen anytime, he means to have Glorious all to himself.”

“That's too much,” Sydney protested. “No one could be that terrible.”

“Some are,” McLendon said. “They take what they want by whatever means necessary. Sheriff, you know it makes sense, don't you?”

“This is all just guesswork,” Saint said. “There's not a lick of proof. We can't go accusing someone of murder without any.”

“So you're going to let this go?” McLendon demanded. “You're going to allow Bob Pugh to be murdered and not lift a finger?”

Saint didn't immediately react. He sat at his desk and stared out a window cut into the adobe wall. Finally he said, “I'm going to ride back out to Culloden and ask Mr. MacPherson some questions. Doc, while I'm gone, will you and Mr. McLendon assist Mayor Rogers with burial arrangements for Bob? We haven't a cemetery here in town, so something will have to be figured out.”

McLendon said, “I'll go back to the ranch with you.”

“No, your presence wouldn't be helpful.”

“MacPherson may refuse to see you. Misterio wouldn't let us talk to him last night.”

“I'm an officer of the law investigating a death. He'll see me.”

“Don't pussyfoot. Put him on the spot.”

Saint looked at McLendon, not glaring, but regarding him carefully. “Just as you did, agreeing not to inform us of his plans out of concern for your own safety?”

McLendon looked away. “I'll help with Bob's burial.”

•   •   •

J
OE
S
AINT
rode out toward Culloden on the same livery mule he'd used on the initial search for Bob Pugh. Sydney Chau removed the arrows from Pugh's corpse and washed the body while McLendon
sat with Rogers and Mulkins in the Owaysis and discussed where Pugh might be buried.

“One of the prospectors found some wood and is making a casket,” the mayor said. “Many of those boys were fond of Bob. He drank with them here in the evenings, and sometimes if they didn't have the coin to spare he let them use a pack mule for free. Just a fine, generous man.”

“We can't lay him to rest outside of town,” Mulkins said. “If coyotes get a scent of him they'll dig right down. But if we locate him in too close, then we have to worry about all the new construction. We wouldn't want some shop built right over Bob.”

They were drinking coffee, not beer or whiskey, and Mary Somebody brought over a pot to replenish their cups. “Put him in the ground right behind here,” she suggested. “Between the hotel and the whores' cribs. We won't expand much in that direction because of the creek.”

“Bob would like lying near whores and a saloon,” Mulkins said, and in spite of their grief everyone smiled, because it was true. McLendon and Rogers dug the grave. Mulkins went back to the hotel to fetch one of his suits so Pugh could be buried in appropriate finery as soon as his coffin was ready.

Around mid-afternoon, the prospector lugged the coffin over to the jail, and Mulkins and Rogers lifted Pugh's blanket-covered body in.

“Last look,” the mayor said, and many of Pugh's friends leaned over to peer at his face. Sydney had thoughtfully secured the blanket above the gaping throat wound. McLendon couldn't bring himself to look. The mayor nailed the coffin lid down and suggested that they proceed with the funeral.

“We should wait for the sheriff, who has gone to Culloden Ranch,” Preacher Sheridan said. “He would want to be here.”

“We can't wait too long,” Rogers cautioned. “The heat's effect on the body won't allow it.”

Everyone milled in front of the hotel. McLendon was surprised to see that a number of prospectors had broken off their day's explorations to attend. The Owaysis whores were careful to keep a respectful distance between themselves and Gabrielle and Rose Rogers, who stood together in the Elite doorway. Salvatore Tirrito looked uncomfortable in a shirt with a high collar. It was a gloomy gathering. Everyone talked about Bob Pugh and the Apache threat and why it was always the best people who had to die.

In about an hour, just after the mayor suggested for the second time that they had to be getting on with it, Joe Saint rode in. He took in the situation with a glance, tethered his mule in front of the livery, and walked over to join the group.

“What did MacPherson say?” McLendon whispered.

“Later,” Saint said. McLendon thought that the sheriff seemed frustrated.

McLendon, Mulkins, Bossman Wright, and Crazy George Mitchell served as pallbearers, lifting the coffin up on their shoulders and following Mayor Rogers to the grave. They rested the casket on the ground while Sheridan officiated in a short ceremony. As Preacher described Bob Pugh's warm heart and sense of humor, a carriage rattled up. Collin MacPherson, dressed in a black mourning coat, jumped down and walked to the graveside. He was escorted by Angel Misterio and Lemmy Duke. There was some muttering among the crowd; no one had ever seen MacPherson in town before. McLendon couldn't help glowering at him. MacPherson stood silently, holding his hat respectfully over his heart.

“We must keep in mind that each day is a gift,” Preacher said. “As we commit our friend Bob Pugh to the Almighty, we also commit
to honoring his memory by building this town to the heights it deserves.” He nodded at the pallbearers, who lowered the casket into the grave.

“And now let's sing,” Preacher instructed. Dinges, the prospector who'd led the band at the Owaysis dance, said, “‘Rock of Ages.'” He lifted his fiddle and began to play while Sheridan called out the words. They sang “Nearer My God to Thee” next. When the song was over, Crazy George shouted, “In honor and memory of Bob Pugh, one free beer for all,” and the crowd trooped into the Owaysis. MacPherson shook hands with the mayor, climbed back into the carriage, and rattled off back to Culloden. Joe Saint walked back to the jail. McLendon and Mulkins stayed behind to shovel dirt over Pugh's coffin, and after that they piled small rocks high atop the grave.

“I'll fashion a cross tomorrow and commission a proper headstone in Florence,” Mulkins said. “Now let's show proper respect to Bob in the way he'd most prefer: by drinking beer.”

“I'll be along in a bit,” McLendon said, and went to the jail. Saint was sitting there behind his desk, polishing his glasses on his shirtsleeve.

“I expected you'd be coming,” he said.

“Did you see MacPherson? What did he say?”

Saint gestured at a chair. “Sit down. Yes, we talked. In terms of any confession, it was less than satisfactory.”

“How do you mean?”

“It went like this. I got there and asked to see him. Somebody called over Angel Misterio and he told me to wait, he'd check with the
jefe
. I stood out in the courtyard for a while and then Misterio said to come in. It's an impressive house.”

“I know,” McLendon said impatiently. “I've seen the inside myself. What did MacPherson do when you asked about Bob?”

Saint's lips compressed in a grimace. “He told me that he'd heard Bob might be interested in selling the livery, so he asked him to the ranch to learn what price Bob might be asking. He said they had a good long talk, ‘satisfactory' is how he termed it, and then Bob said he had to be getting back. Mr. MacPherson offered to have a vaquero or two escort him on account of Apaches, but Bob was real insistent on returning by himself. He said he felt bad when he heard what happened—that he wished he'd insisted Bob let a couple of his men take him back to town. He says that, in a way, he feels responsible.”

“He ought to, because he is. Tell me that you didn't let him off that easy.”

“No, I didn't. I repeated the story that you told me, about Mr. MacPherson planning to take over the town and asking your help—then, when you said no, threatening your life if you told anyone.”

“And he denied it?”

The sheriff picked up a canteen by the side of his desk. He pulled two pewter cups out of a drawer, filled them with water, and pushed one across to McLendon. “He said that you were twisting his words, trying to make him look bad. You seemed like someone with some smarts, so he offered you a job and you turned it down. He said that he didn't think offering a man employment was against the law.”