Glorious (20 page)

“I expect that's true enough,” Mulkins said, and the meeting broke up. Just outside the saloon, the Florence stage driver stopped McLendon.

“We leave tomorrow morning at ten sharp if you're of a mind to come with us,” he cautioned. “I ain't intending to wait around and play target for Apaches. My mules are going to
fly
.”

“What's your decision, C.M.?” asked Pugh, who'd overheard the driver.

“I'm going to sleep on it,” McLendon said, and went back to his room at the Elite. But he didn't sleep much. As he had on his first night in Glorious, he lay awake for hours pondering possibilities. He dozed a little, and in the morning packed his valise. Though he remained undecided, he knew it was his last night in Mulkins's room with a window.

•   •   •

H
E ATE BREAKFAST
in the dining room, a very good meal of biscuits and two hard-fried hen's eggs, which Mulkins had bought fresh before dawn from a Chinese who kept chickens in a pen by the creek.

“Even if I stay in town, I'm going to miss your fine coffee, Major,” he said. “Bob Pugh's is poor by comparison.”

“If you stay, you're welcome to drop in for a cup at your convenience,” Mulkins said. “No charge.” McLendon settled his hotel bill and went outside.

It was just before ten. The Florence stage was in front of the livery,
its mule team already in harness. Bob Pugh talked with the driver; the guard, seated up on the cab, checked the load in his shotgun. Charlie Rogers hammered at a horseshoe in his forge. There was little other activity in town. McLendon glanced toward the dry goods store, hoping that Gabrielle would be outside, waiting to see what he did, but she wasn't. As he picked up his valise and walked toward the livery, though, Joe Saint emerged from the jail and watched him. McLendon called out, “Morning, Mayor,” to Rogers, who waved red-hot tongs in reply, and then said, “Hello, Sheriff,” to Saint. Even at this last minute he still hadn't made up his mind.

“Help you with your bag?” Saint said. The offer wasn't made in a particularly unfriendly or sarcastic tone, but it tipped the balance for McLendon.

“There's actually no need,” he said, and walked past the stage to where Pugh stood outside the livery office. “Bob, can I pitch this in here? Then let's get the mules curried and fed. I've decided to stay on for a
while.”

B
ob Pugh snored, constantly and loudly. At least twice a night his thunderous blattings woke McLendon. Other than that, living and working with Pugh in Glorious was pleasant. The livery owner was generally in a good mood, the job itself wasn't onerous, and whenever he felt like it McLendon was welcome to take lengthy breaks sipping beer at the Owaysis or playing checkers with Mulkins at the Elite Hotel. At night he and Pugh ate simple suppers in the livery office, then usually repaired to the saloon for more extended social drinking. Pugh always went there, but sometimes McLendon varied his routine by dropping into the prospectors' camp to talk with Preacher Sheridan.

McLendon was pleased that his dance with Doc Chau was soon either forgotten or at least forgiven by the Glorious locals. Even Mayor Rogers returned to his old, friendly ways. Everyone seemed to think that his stay would now be permanent. Whenever he mentioned eventually leaving on the Florence stage, Pugh laughed and said, “No, now
you're one of us, C.M., a territory man to the bone.” He wasn't, but he was glad that they wanted him to be.

There were irritants. Gabrielle acted friendly but distant. When they encountered each other at the dry goods store or laundry, she greeted McLendon and asked how he was doing that day, but didn't encourage more intimate conversation. It was obvious that Joe Saint resented McLendon's presence and wanted him gone from Glorious. At night in the Owaysis, joining Pugh, Rogers, Mulkins, and McLendon at a table, he would pointedly announce that he could stay for just one beer, since Gabrielle was expecting him. The sheriff frequently asked McLendon when he was leaving town. Though he privately planned to stay no longer than a few months, McLendon never let on to Saint.

“I'm having a good time here,” he told the sheriff. “No reason yet to be going.” When he noticed that Saint liked to drop in at the dry goods store every day around noon, McLendon began stopping by at the same time, interrupting Saint's tête-à-têtes with Gabrielle with requests for small purchases, like a needle and thread or buttons for a shirt. Saint was always visibly annoyed, Gabrielle professionally polite as she fetched his items. After the first few times McLendon felt that she might be secretly amused. He couldn't be certain, but the possibility was encouraging.

•   •   •

F
OUR DAYS INTO
McLendon's employment by Pugh, his raking of stalls was interrupted by hammering on both ends of town. Work crews from Florence were building wooden guardhouses. They were small but solid-looking, boxy one-room structures, each with a water trough and hitching post outside. When they were completed a day later, they were manned by vaqueros from the Culloden Ranch, two or
three at each post. The vaquero crews worked in shifts, beginning just before dawn and leaving at dusk. Mayor Rogers explained to McLendon that the guards weren't needed after dark because Apaches traditionally didn't attack at night: “I think that it's against their pagan religion.” Almost everyone seemed to welcome their new in-town protectors.

Bob Pugh was an exception. “I don't like Charlie Rogers accepting Mr. MacPherson's offer on behalf of the town without consulting the rest of us,” he complained to McLendon. “I know we told Charlie that he could be mayor, but it ain't like he had to stand for election. His ain't the only opinion that counts around here, and he shouldn't give permission all on his own.”

“Something had to be done fast because of the Apaches,” McLendon said. “A couple of guard posts are better than dead townspeople, don't you think?”

“So if Apaches presently abound, where
are
the rascals?” Pugh asked. “In the time since Lemmy Duke delivered that warning, have you seen any? Has anyone? It could be that all the sign, the beads and such, came from the whole caboodle of 'em heading southeast to join up with Cochise in the Dragoon Mountains a hundred miles from here. There might not be an Apache left in our vicinity. Meanwhile, we got strutting Mexicans with guns on either side of town. I don't see that as an improvement.”

That night in the Owaysis, Pugh slammed down red-eye instead of beer and shared his thoughts on the MacPherson guard posts with everyone in the saloon who wanted to listen and all of the others who didn't. Mayor Rogers joked, “Bob, you're around shit so much in your mule stalls that I believe you've gotten full of it.” Lemmy Duke joined in the derisive chorus, but McLendon noticed that soon afterward he slipped away. An hour later Angel Misterio came in, as usual seeming
to glide rather than walk. He politely asked if he could join Pugh, Rogers, Mulkins, and McLendon at their table, and ordered a beer from Mary Somebody.

“Gentlemen, I hope that our new arrangement is proving satisfactory,” he said. “Have my vaqueros conducted themselves appropriately? It is Señor MacPherson's wish that we look to your safety without in any way causing you inconvenience or concern.”

“Everything is fine, Angel,” Mayor Rogers said. “Couldn't be better, and we're grateful.”

“Oh, I don't know, Charlie,” Pugh said, exhaling boozy breath. “The boys renting mules from me this week, when they bring 'em back to the livery, they say they ain't seen a single damn Apache or even the slightest sign. I find myself beginning to wonder—maybe this Culloden bunch got it wrong.”

Misterio smiled. “The sign my vaqueros found was quite clear,
señor
. There are Apaches all around. They are clever and know how to conceal themselves, that's all. Besides our people protecting your town, I have riders out searching. Whatever the
indios
intend, I believe we'll have more signs soon. In the meantime I request your patience.” He took a swallow of beer, put down a mug that was still mostly full, bowed to the table, and left.

“That set your mind at ease, Bob?” Rogers asked. “I believe you ought to finish your drink and go off to bed. A good night's sleep is what you need.”

“Less Mexican guards is what I need,” Pugh grumbled. “If you'll notice, there's getting to be as many of them as there is of us, and yet not an Apache's to be found. I don't like it.”

“Bob gets morose when he drinks too much,” Mulkins said to McLendon. “For a brief period his usual sweet nature turns sour. He'll be himself in the morning, won't you, Bob?”

Pugh responded with an inconclusive grunt.

“At least confine your doubting remarks to your friends, Bob,” Rogers added. “We don't need Angel Misterio reporting to Mr. MacPherson that this town is unappreciative of his protection.”

“Protection, my ass,” Pugh said. He tossed off the last of his drink and got unsteadily to his feet. McLendon and Mulkins each took one of his elbows so he wouldn't fall. “If those Mexicans want me to believe, they damn well better show me some Apaches.”

•   •   •

T
WO DAYS LATER
Joe Saint was at the livery, idly talking to Pugh and pointedly ignoring McLendon, when Ella came running in.

“Miss Mary needs you at the saloon, Sheriff,” she said. “The cruel-looking Mexican gentleman and some of his people have arrived with something in a wagon, and you're wanted at once.”

Saint, Pugh, and McLendon hurried to the Owaysis. Misterio, Duke, and two vaqueros McLendon didn't recognize stood outside with Mayor Rogers, Crazy George, Mary Somebody, Girl, and Ella. Everyone was staring at the wagon bed, which was covered with a dark green canvas tarpaulin. Misterio looked up and said solemnly, “
Hola
, Sheriff. This morning some of my men patrolled the mountains just north of the creek, and there they encountered an Apache war band. The Apaches meant to surprise some of your prospectors, but the vaqueros surprised them instead. After an exchange of shots the
indios
broke and ran. Two were unsuccessful in their flight, as you may now see.” He grasped a corner of the canvas and pulled it back, revealing the bodies of two Apaches. Girl shrieked and clapped her hands over her eyes. Mary gestured for Ella to take her inside the saloon. The English girl did so reluctantly, staring back at the Apache corpses in the wagon as she pulled Girl through the door.

McLendon, looking at the bodies, felt mildly disappointed. In his mind, Apaches were fearsome copper-skinned giants. These dead Indians were surprisingly small. One had part of his skull blown away. Bits of brain matter oozed out the gaping hole. The other had several bullet wounds to his chest. Both wore calico shirts exactly like the ones the Tirritos sold in their dry goods store. The Apaches' lower bodies were clad in cloth breechclouts and deerskin leggings. They wore deerskin boots on their feet and their long black hair was tied back with leather thongs.

“They appear to be unarmed,” Joe Saint said.

“Not so,” replied Angel Misterio. “We took these from them after they were dead.” He handed the sheriff two wide-bladed butcher knives and an ancient, battered shotgun. He gestured at the body on the left and said, “This one has five shells for the shotgun in that pouch you see at his waist.”

Saint glanced briefly at the weapons and asked, “Was that all? Two knives and a shotgun? That's not much in the way of weapons for members of a war party.”

“Apaches don't require many weapons when they kill,” Misterio said. “They doubtless expected to arm themselves with the rifles of their victims. And these are only two of a larger group. I believe my men counted nine or ten in all. The others escaped and undoubtedly remain in the area. We hope to find them soon. Perhaps they are well armed enough to impress you, Sheriff, should you have the bad luck to encounter them.”

“No bows or arrows on these two, though,” Saint said. “No lances or war clubs?”

“No, just as you see. Shall we take the bodies away now, Sheriff? The flies are already descending upon them.”

“We'll wait just a bit,” Saint said. “I'd like Doc Chau to look them over first.”

Misterio grimaced. “These
indios
are dead. Why is further examination necessary?”

“Since Apaches are the enemy, we need to know everything about them that we can. If you would, Señor Misterio, please pull the canvas back over the bodies. That'll discourage the flies until Doc gets here. Could somebody go and get her?”

McLendon volunteered. He went to the laundry, but Sydney wasn't there. Her mother still held a grudge from the dance. She glowered at McLendon as he kept repeating, “Sydney—where's Sydney?” Finally the old woman heaved an extravagant sigh and gestured in the direction of the river camp. McLendon set out, passing the wagon with the bodies of the Apaches. A few prospectors, having heard the news, were attempting to pull off the tarpaulin to gawk at the corpses. Saint was trying to keep them away. Misterio and his vaqueros stood nearby, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

McLendon found Sydney weeding a vegetable patch. When he told her why she was needed in town, she asked him to wait while she washed dirt off her hands. Then they hurried back to Glorious.

“Doc, can you look these bodies over?” Saint asked. “Maybe we can take them into the saloon so you can do it in some privacy.”

“Keep those goddamn things out of my place,” Crazy George snapped. “You think people will want to drink where dead Apaches were?”

Mulkins volunteered a room at his hotel: “I've got no guests right now, and Mrs. Mendoza can clean up afterwards.”

Misterio grudgingly ordered the vaqueros to take the bodies out of the wagon and carry them into the hotel. The vaqueros weren't big
men, but they hefted the canvas-wrapped Apaches over their shoulders without much effort. They carried them through the lobby and dumped them on the floor of the room that Mulkins indicated. Sydney and the sheriff went in and closed the door. Everyone else waited in the lobby. Mulkins brought them coffee. In a while Sydney and Saint emerged. The sheriff asked the vaqueros to bring the bodies outside. By then about a dozen prospectors were gathered there. They yelled for the dead Apaches to be displayed.

“Most of these boys are scared of Apaches but probably never seen a wild one,” Mulkins whispered to McLendon. “You got your tame 'Paches lingering around the Army camps, offering to sell their squaws for a drink, but it's not the same thing.”

The prospectors kept demanding to see the bodies. Saint consulted with Mayor Rogers, then said, “Okay, boys, you can have a look, but make it quick.” He and Bob Pugh pulled off the canvas cover and the prospectors pushed forward. McLendon heard remarks about how scrawny the corpses were. Then a prospector tried to yank down one of the Apaches' breechclouts.

Saint grabbed the man's arm. “What are you doing?”

The prospector grinned. “I'm gonna cut me off an Apache whanger and keep it for a souvenir.”

“No you're not,” Saint said. “Respect the dead.”

“Fuck that—the Indians don't respect who they kill. You recall Tommy Gaumer, how they carved him up so terrible?”

“Step away,” the sheriff said, and once again McLendon noticed that his voice trembled a bit. “We're better than that.”

The prospector stepped toward Saint. He dwarfed the skinny sheriff. Pugh and Mulkins moved to Saint's side, and McLendon was surprised to find himself doing the same. The prospector looked at them, paused, and spit on the ground near the Apache bodies.

“Goddamn Apaches,” he snarled, and walked away.

“All right,” Saint said, his voice still shaking. “Señor Misterio, will you please have your men take these bodies away and bury them?”

“We don't bury Apaches, Sheriff,” Misterio said. “We leave their bodies out for the buzzards.”

“As you please, but at least take them well out of sight before you do.”

Misterio barked out orders in Spanish, and the vaqueros went over to the bodies. One, just as eager as the tall prospector for a grisly momento, took a knife and severed one of the corpse's ears. Misterio looked at the vaquero, glanced back at an obviously disgusted Sheriff Saint, then moved forward so fast that his body seemed to blur. In what appeared to be a single motion he snatched the ear from the vaquero's hand, pulled his pistol from its holster, and smashed the gun into the side of the man's head. The vaquero groaned and crumpled. Then Misterio delicately tucked the ear inside the dead Apache's calico shirt and muttered orders in Spanish to the other vaqueros. They picked up the Indian bodies and tossed them back into the bed of the wagon. The dazed vaquero was dragged off to his horse and helped into the saddle.