Glorious (21 page)

“Profound apologies, Sheriff,” Misterio said. “My
muchachos
sometimes lack manners. We will now dispose of these bodies.”

“Well, Bob, I hope you feel satisfied that there is, indeed, increased Apache threat,” Mayor Rogers said to Pugh. “Your bellyaching was misguided. Now, how about making up for it by buying me a drink?”

“It's possible that I was mistaken,” Pugh admitted. “Everybody over to the saloon for a round on me.”

“I'll pass on this one, Bob,” Saint said. He looked and sounded troubled. “I'm heading back to the jail. Doc, could you come with me? I need to think through things some more.”

“What's the sheriff's problem?” McLendon asked Sydney.

“Come along with us,” she said. “Your opinion might be helpful.” Saint was so preoccupied that he didn't seem to notice McLendon walking along with them.

Though McLendon had seen the adobe jail before, he had never been inside. Much like Bob Pugh's livery office, it had a desk, three chairs, a woodstove, and a chest to hold Saint's personal items. Two cells took up the back of the room. Their barred doors looked rusty but stout. Each had a bed. The blankets on one were rumpled; the sheriff apparently slept there.

Saint dropped into one chair and gestured for Sydney and McLendon to take the others. “Doc, are you sure about what you told me?”

Sydney nodded. “That one Apache was shot in the chest, from the front. The other was shot from the front and the right. There's no doubt.”

“Misterio said they were shot while trying to run,” Saint mused. “So it seems like they should have been hit from the back.”

“Maybe they were twisting around to return fire,” McLendon suggested.

Saint glanced over, apparently surprised to see him there. “Well, that's possible,” he said. “But there are other things. No war paint, for one. When Apaches are out on a raid, they generally paint up their faces. It's a ritual, and important to them. But I looked closely at those bodies, and there wasn't a trace of paint on either. If they were part of a war party, they surely would have been painted up.”

“You seem to know a lot about Apaches,” McLendon observed.

“When I first was out here in the territory, I spent time at Camp Grant,” Saint said. “They had a considerable number of Apaches there who'd turned themselves in. So I talked to some of the ones who
spoke English, and also a few of the Army vets. That's how I learned some things about Apache traditions and culture.”

“Maybe you could ask some of those Camp Grant Apaches about the war paint thing,” McLendon suggested. “There might be a reason that these two were in a war party but weren't wearing any.”

“I can't do that. About a year ago, some hotheads in Tucson got the notion that the Camp Grant Apaches were raiding, then running back to the Army post and pretending to be tame. They got up a bunch of vigilantes, rode up to Camp Grant, and wiped the Apaches there out. Not many escaped. Those calico shirts our two dead ones were wearing, they might have come from the Camp Grant sutler. They might have been two massacre survivors. The ones that got away, some of them are still out in the Pinals. They try to avoid whites as much as they can.”

McLendon was intrigued. “If they wanted to avoid us, what were they doing so close to town?”

“That's another thing,” Saint said. “Misterio claimed that they took them in the mountains just north of the creek. Saw 'em, chased 'em, shot 'em. You remember how loud your shotgun sounded when you blasted away at that jackrabbit?”

“Jackrabbit?” Sydney asked.

“I thought it was an Apache,” McLendon said. “Go on, Sheriff.”

“Did you notice that when the prospectors came back in and looked at the bodies, none of them said they'd heard shots? Sound carries out there. That close to town, somebody should have heard the shooting. And then there's the weapons, or the lack of them. Apaches setting out to fight carry lances and quivers. They may have guns, too, but they can't use them much because they have trouble getting ammunition. Misterio said these two each had a knife and one had a
shotgun. They weren't going to attack this town by running up at us waving knives. Even if they were just out hunting, they'd have had bows and arrows. So where are those?”

“They might have dropped them as they ran from the vaqueros,” Sydney said.

“Maybe so,” Saint mused. “Maybe it all happened the way Misterio says. Say, McLendon, don't I recall Bob Pugh telling me he got drunk the other night and might have wondered out loud in the Owaysis whether there really were Apache war parties about? And that Misterio swore to him that there were?”

“That's what happened.”

Saint shook his head and tilted back in his chair. “There's no way to be sure, but here's what I think. Misterio and his bunch went out Apache hunting. They didn't scare up any near here, so they rode way out until they found a couple of Indians hunting game, not people. They ambushed them and brought the bodies all the way back to town to shut up doubters like Bob.”

“Even if that's true, it still doesn't mean there aren't Apaches lurking nearby, waiting for a chance to attack,” McLendon said.

Saint nodded. “But the deception bothers me. That's a lot of trouble to go to, if the story's made up. And where are the bows and arrows?”

No other townspeople seemed to share Saint's doubts. The consensus was that Glorious had been saved from an Apache raid by the Culloden Ranch vaqueros. Mayor Rogers had made a visit to thank the reclusive Collin MacPherson on behalf of the town, and reported back that the rancher had been gracious though abrupt.

“He said that he's doing whatever he must to ensure that everyone here is safe,” Rogers said. “He was too busy to talk longer, having letters to write to the legislature in Tucson. It's Mr. MacPherson's expectation that we'll be granted official town status very soon.”

For a few days everyone was especially wary when venturing outside of town. Though no other Apaches were sighted, the memory of the two killed by the vaqueros was enough to keep prospectors working closer in than usual. They gradually began to range farther into the mountains again, but by the end of June there were still no silver strikes beyond occasional discoveries of promising float. One or two prospectors began drifting away with each successive week until fewer than twenty remained. Archie and Old Ben left, following a rumor of silver strikes in southwest New Mexico. Bossman Wright said that he and Oafie would stay only a week or two longer “if we don't find any color,” and even Preacher Sheridan talked about going somewhere else.

“I can't sow seeds for God on barren ground,” he told McLendon. “It seems increasingly likely that silver and souls to save are both too scarce here in Glorious. I'm praying on whether to stay or leave, just waiting for the good Lord to send me a sign.”

Though his friends among the town founders continued expressing optimism that someone would find silver any day, McLendon now knew them well enough to realize that they, too, were quickly losing faith. At the current rate of prospector attrition, the population of Glorious would be reduced to its founders, Sheriff Saint, and the Chinese by the end of the summer.

The decreasing numbers were most obvious at night in the Owaysis. Now there were always tables available. Ella was particularly disheartened. She redoubled her efforts to coax McLendon into taking a paid turn with her.

“Most days now I earn no more than a dollar or two,” she complained to him. “Fare back to Britain is very dear, several hundred dollars alone for stage and rail to New York City, and of course the cost of ocean passage from there. If you're willing, I'll express my
gratitude in a very energetic and pleasing manner. In fact, if no one else is waiting, as is most often the current case, we can ignore the fifteen-minute limit and be together longer. With business so depleted, Miss Mary won't be watching the clock.”

McLendon said that he sympathized but couldn't comply. “I've told you that I can't. It's no reflection on you, Ella. You're charming. In another place or under other circumstances, I'd be a regular customer.”

“Pining for your fine lady is futile,” Ella said, toying with her hair and leaning close. McLendon caught the sweet scent of rosewater. The girl had been using the fancy soaps peddled by William Clark LeMond, the traveling salesman he'd met on the stage from Florence to Glorious. “Come to bed with me and you'll forget all about her.”

“But I don't want to forget,” McLendon said, and was surprised by his honesty.

“Well, then,” Ella said, “if you won't lay with me, perhaps you could loan me some money? I so desperately want to go home, and I promise to pay you back someday.”

“I'm sorry, but no. I may be leaving myself soon, and I need what I have to make my own fresh start.”

Ella nodded. “If you won't pay for pleasure with me and you won't loan me money, will you at least buy me a beer? It's fearfully hot, and a girl does get thirsty amid all the dust.”

After she drank her beer, Ella left McLendon and circulated among the half-dozen prospectors scattered around the saloon. McLendon watched as she perched on laps and cooed in ears, trying to attract business. She had no luck. Most of the remaining prospectors were down to their last few dollars. After a while she gave up and sat sullenly beside Girl, who as usual was smiling but silent in a corner of the room.

In a bit Bob Pugh came in with Major Mulkins, and later Mayor Rogers arrived. They joined McLendon at his table and talked about the heat, the purple tie Mulkins was wearing, the mule that kicked Pugh in the dangles that afternoon as he tried to pull burrs out of its tail—anything but the looming demise of Glorious. Later Joe Saint arrived. McLendon guessed that he had just finished eating supper with the Tirritos. Since listening to the sheriff express his doubts about the dead Apaches, McLendon found himself grudgingly liking the man. He was with Gabrielle, which was hard to forgive, but he was also smart and honest. Gabrielle may have even been right when she claimed that Saint was brave. Maybe his voice sometimes shook, but he stood up for what he believed.

“You're lately having a quiet time of it, Sheriff,” Pugh said joshingly. “I don't recall that there's been a drunken fight in town for weeks.”

“People are being quiet,” Saint agreed. “You may soon decide that you don't need a sheriff at all.”

“Don't talk that way,” Mayor Rogers said. “Before you know it, we'll be a boomtown with lots of fights, and Joe here will have to hire deputies to help him subdue the combatants. Let's drink to that happy day.”

“To more brawls than a sober man can count,” Pugh said, and raised his beer mug.

After they drank, Mulkins said, “Bob, I believe that's the most foolish toast ever.”

Pugh smiled ruefully. “Well, we needed to drink to something. C.M., what say we get back to the livery and take some rest? For all we know, we might be knee-deep tomorrow in prospectors wanting to rent mules, and need all our strength.”

•   •   •

O
NLY THREE PROSPECTORS
rented mules in the morning, but that evening Angel Misterio came by. Pugh was already at the Owaysis. McLendon was slouched behind the desk in the livery office, writing up an order for oats to be sent into Florence on the next stage. He was startled when Misterio came in—whenever the head Culloden vaquero came to town, he invariably visited Saint in the sheriff's office or Mayor Rogers in his farrier's shop or the saloon.

McLendon asked, “Señor Misterio, how can I help you? Are you here to rent one of Mr. Pugh's fine mules?”

“Thank you, but at the Culloden we already have sufficient mules,” Misterio said. “I come to extend an invitation. My employer wonders if you might be free to come to his home for a conversation.”

“Now?” McLendon asked, surprised by the request.

“I have another horse with mine in front of this building. We could ride back to the ranch at once, if you find it convenient.”

“How does Mr. MacPherson even know my name?”

“Señor MacPherson is always well informed. Will you ride with me to see him now?”

McLendon was too curious about what MacPherson might want to refuse. “I'll just change my clothes.”

The Mexican waved his hand. “There is no need. Mr. MacPherson understands the wardrobe of a workingman. He also looks forward to your arrival. Shall we be on our way?”

“I suppose,” McLendon said. He went outside, washed his hands in the trough, and then walked with Misterio to where the horses were tethered in front of the livery.

M
cLendon had always assumed that riding horses was easy, but it wasn't, starting with the unexpected complications of getting onto the saddle. Back in St. Louis he'd ridden in horse-drawn carriages but never on a horse's back. The mount Misterio brought for him was one of the small, agile Mexican breeds, and it wouldn't stand still while McLendon tried to get his foot into the stirrup and hoist himself up. He kept missing the stirrup, kicking it away in the process, and then he had to wait until it swung back from under the horse's midriff to try again. Misterio, who seemed to vault onto his horse, watched impatiently as McLendon failed several times to get seated.

“Grasp the pommel and step into the stirrup,
señor
,” he said. “It should be one smooth movement.”

When McLendon was finally in the saddle, Misterio wheeled his own mount around the back of the corral, away from the few main buildings in Glorious. He apparently wanted them to make their way to the ranch unobserved. In the purple glow of the high desert
twilight, they trotted behind the farrier's shop, the mayor's small house, and the Tirritos' dry goods store. No vaqueros were posted at the guard hut because it was getting dark. They were almost to Turner's small, isolated shack when Misterio made a sharp turn south. McLendon almost didn't follow, because his horse seemed determined to keep going west. He yanked on the reins and finally the horse turned and started trotting faster, which made McLendon bounce uncomfortably on the hard saddle. Night was falling fast and he could barely discern Misterio only a few yards ahead.

“How far?” McLendon called.

“Another mile and a little more after we ford the creek,” Misterio said, and then they were briefly in the water. McLendon's legs were splashed. The ground leveled out and he did a better job keeping his seat. That allowed him to wonder again what Mr. MacPherson wanted to see him about.

With only the light of a quarter moon in otherwise pitch-blackness, McLendon had no sense of direction. Peering ahead, he thought after a while that he saw pinpoints of light. These gradually grew larger, and he realized that they were torches flickering behind a high stone wall. There was a wooden gate built into the wall, and Misterio rode up to it. He called out something in Spanish; there was the sound of metal bolts being pulled, and the gate swung open.

“Come along,
señor
,” said Misterio, and he and McLendon rode into the compound. There was sufficient light from the torches for McLendon to see that the nearly head-high wall surrounded several adobe buildings and a large, sprawling main house also made of stone. A woman carrying a basket piled with laundry crossed from one of the adobe structures to another. Guards with rifles lined the interior wall.

“Señor MacPherson awaits you in here,” Misterio said, pointing at
the stone house. He dismounted and gestured for McLendon to do the same. It wasn't easy. When he tried to swing his leg over the horse, he discovered that his crotch and thighs were cramped and aching. As McLendon awkwardly clambered down, he almost fell. He took a few moments to stretch; he didn't want to limp when he met Mr. MacPherson. When he was finally able to stand up straight, Misterio ushered him inside.

The interior of the house was brightly lit. The lamps and the kerosene burning in them were of better quality than in Glorious: there was no smoke coming from the flaming wicks. The furniture caught McLendon's eye. This was the first time he'd seen upholstered chairs and elegantly crafted tables since he'd fled from Rupert Douglass's mansion in St. Louis. Standing in the center of the room was a smiling man in a well-tailored suit.

“Come in, Mr. McLendon,” he said in a deep voice tinged with a faint New England accent. “I'm Collin MacPherson. Thank you for this visit; please sit down.”

Still feeling achy, McLendon made his slow way to a chair and dropped into it, luxuriating in the nearly forgotten pleasure of thick cushions. MacPherson sat in another and crossed one leg over the other. McLendon saw that he was wearing laced shoes buffed to a high shine.

“I've asked the housekeeper to prepare coffee and light refreshments,” MacPherson continued. “I hope they're to your liking.” He reached for a small bell on the table next to his chair and shook it. Before the sound of the chimes faded, a stately-looking Mexican woman in a black dress and white apron appeared with a tray. She served McLendon and her employer coffee in delicate china cups, offering milk from a silver pitcher and lumps of sugar. McLendon took plenty of both. MacPherson pressed him to sample the cookies on
the tray. “Carmen's gingersnap are delectable.” McLendon had one, though MacPherson did not. The crisp gingersnap tasted fine, and he couldn't resist helping himself to another. While he chewed, he studied his host. Collin MacPherson was not a large man, but even sitting he maintained ramrod-straight posture. His smile was unnerving because the warmth of the grin did not extend to his eyes. These remained cold and calculating; McLendon had the sense that MacPherson was trying to stare into his soul.

“Your invitation was unexpected,” McLendon said. “I know from conversations with Mayor Rogers how little time you have to socialize.”

MacPherson drank some coffee. As he raised the cup to his lips, McLendon saw that the back of his hand was thick with coarse dark hair. “I always enjoy making the right new acquaintances. You come to us from somewhere back east, I understand. And now you've decided to stay?”

“You're well informed, sir. I can't say that I'm permanently in Glorious. All I know is that I'm staying on longer than I originally anticipated.”

“It's an interesting little town with great possibilities,” MacPherson said. “Its founders are good people. Major Mulkins, the mayor and Mrs. Rogers, the people running the saloon, and the Italians with the dry goods store.”

“Don't forget Bob Pugh, who operates the livery.”

MacPherson set his cup on the table. “Yes, him too. He wondered whether there were really Apaches near town.”

McLendon put down his cup as well. “After the two bodies that your vaqueros brought in, I believe that he's convinced.”

“He'd better be,” MacPherson said. “And now you work for Mr. Pugh.”

“He was kind enough to offer me a job when I needed one.”

MacPherson stopped smiling. He fixed McLendon with a particularly penetrating gaze. “I prefer that our conversation this evening remain private. Would you oblige me in this?” It was a command rather than a request.

“Certainly,” McLendon said. “I admit I'm curious as to this meeting's purpose.”

“We'll come to that in a moment. I'll begin by telling you something of myself. I'm descended from an ancient Scottish clan. In 1746 my forebears aligned with Bonnie Prince Charlie against King George II, a German claiming the throne of England. They believed the prince when he promised them great wealth and power in return for their support. But instead the scoundrel abandoned them, fleeing Britain after losing a disastrous battle to the Royalists. He left his loyal followers to suffer at the vengeful hands of the English bastards. Do you know where that battle took place?”

“I'm sorry, I don't.”

“It was on the plains of Culloden. I've named my ranch for it, as a reminder never to place faith in any authority other than myself. After Culloden, the MacPhersons were brought low as England made Scotland part of its empire. We were hunted like animals. Those who survived eventually escaped to the New World, many settling around Boston. It takes generations to recover from such defeat. My father, a good man, was a cabinetmaker. Cabinets! I swore I'd regain our previous good fortune. I made my way west, and three years ago I came to Arizona Territory and found this place and bespoke the 160 acres allowed me by the American government. That's the way their so-called Homestead Act is written. Everyone receives the same piddling amount. But now I have over a thousand acres, and there will be much, much more.”

McLendon knew what he was expected to ask. “How did you increase your holdings?”

MacPherson rose and paced as he continued telling his story. There were already four other ranchers in the valley, he said, each with his allotted 160 acres, and also a few Mexican homesteaders claiming bits of land as their own. Everyone was under constant attack by the Indians. The Army was no help. The other white landowners soon gave up, and when they did, MacPherson bought their ranches “at a fair price, considering that they were so eager to be gone. And so the best grazing land in the valley became mine.”

“What about the Mexican homesteaders?”

“Oh, I soon convinced them that they should leave too. I have considerable respect for Mexicans if they keep their proper place. They make good servants, but most are intellectually suited to take orders rather than give them. And their superstitions—well, my vaqueros are all veteran Indian fighters, and they'll charge any number of Apaches without the slightest hesitation. But almost to a man they also believe that the Devil walks the earth after dark, and they tremble at the thought of encountering him. Sometimes I need them working at night. That's why it was necessary for me to hire the one Mexican who's oblivious to that nonsense. I found Angel Misterio in Sonora. I think that the men have come to fear him more than Satan.”

Once he had his Indian fighters and Misterio to lead them, MacPherson said, he began raising a great herd of cattle: the beef shortage in Arizona Territory was acute. It was at this time that a small group of settlers hoping to found a town on the north side of the valley came to ask his blessing. He gave it gladly, and more, hiring additional vaqueros to sweep the nearby mountains for hostiles: “From the start, I wanted to make that town succeed. There's silver in the mountains, and someone's going to find it soon.”

“I've heard that since I arrived in Glorious,” McLendon said. “But in recent days I sense optimism is fading.”

MacPherson returned to his chair. “Is there talk of giving up among the businesspeople? What have you heard?”

“It's obvious that the prospectors have begun to drift away,” McLendon said. “No new ones are arriving. If there's no silver strike soon, the town will die. No one wants to give up. They just fear they may soon have no choice.”

MacPherson nodded. “A valid concern, of course. Let's have more coffee, or would you prefer something stronger? I can offer an excellent brandy.”

“Coffee is fine.” MacPherson rang for the housekeeper, who replenished their cups. Then McLendon broached the subject of their meeting: “Mr. MacPherson, I continue to wonder why you invited me here tonight.”

MacPherson's mouth stretched into its widest smile yet, though his eyes still lacked a corresponding glow. “Why, I wish to employ you, of course.”

McLendon couldn't help laughing. “Honesty compels me to admit that I'd be of no use on your ranch. I had great difficulty even mounting the horse you sent, which suggests that I'd not be adept at herding cattle.”

“Oh, I've no need for you here on Culloden,” MacPherson said. “But you might prove of considerable value to me in town.”

“In what manner?”

“You're a man of cool calculation. I was impressed to hear how you stepped into that foolish squabble between my vaquero and a prospector. You didn't panic, you didn't bluster. You made a quick, accurate assessment of the men involved and you acted accordingly. I've invested considerable effort into building a good relationship
between myself and the town founders. Had that prospector been done in by my Mexican, as surely would have happened, that relationship would have been jeopardized. So you earned my gratitude that night.”

“If you seek someone to periodically intervene in brawls, I recommend you look elsewhere. I was astonished by my own actions that night, and doubt that they'll ever be repeated.”

MacPherson shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I value your ability to accurately discern intentions, motivations, what to say to bring others around to your way of thinking. Your powers of persuasion, in sum. People naturally confide in you. You're even making inroads with the sheriff, and he fears your intentions regarding that Italian girl.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“Oh, I have people who go into town and
see
. What I want is someone there who
listens
.”

There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of McLendon's stomach. “Would you elaborate?”

MacPherson leaned forward. Now there was a gleam in his eyes. “This is a critical time in little Glorious. Something must happen soon. Either silver will be discovered or the town is done for. One or the other, or so the people there think. I guarantee that Glorious is going to survive and, more than that, grow to impressive proportions. Its leaders hope for a silver strike. I promise you that there will be one. And when there is, I intend to benefit. Why should I not? Without me, the Apaches would have wiped the place out long ago. Even the most ambitious prospector could never have safely set foot in the Pinals. So when the grand moment comes, as the man most responsible, I should prosper from it. Don't you agree?”

“It's only right,” McLendon said, sick with memory. Rich, unscrupulous men in Arizona Territory were the same as in St. Louis, offering similar justification for insatiable greed. “You'll have made their prosperity possible, so you deserve to share in it.”

“You understand!” MacPherson said exultantly. “When the discovery is made, mobs will flood into this valley—
mobs
. They'll want shelter and food and entertainment. Money flows in mining boomtowns. Everyone will spend and spend. And I intend for them to spend it in
my
shops,
my
saloon,
my
hotel.”

“Which means the founders must sell their businesses to you.”