Glorious (29 page)

“What about him wanting to take over all the businesses in town, driving the founders out?”

“I asked, and he didn't exactly deny it. He said that was the way successful men did business, trying to acquire companies and property with potential. He made his fortune through such deals. Sure, he wanted you to provide him with inside information, and when you wouldn't, he turned to Ike Clanton. Mr. MacPherson said that's the
way business works. He claims he told you that he would offer fair prices to everyone. True?”

“It is, but did he neglect telling you what he said he'd do if his offers weren't accepted?”

Saint sighed. “That part he denies. He says he doesn't know why you hold a grudge against him, but you clearly do. According to him, all he's ever tried to do was be a good neighbor to everyone in Glorious, spending a good deal of his own money on the town's protection. He suggested that I should investigate your background. He feels that a deliberately deceptive man like you must have dark secrets in his past that are likely of a criminal nature.”

McLendon tried not to flinch. He sipped some water to conceal his discomfort. “So you're leaving it at that?”

“What else can I do? All I've got is some suspicions and his word against yours.”

McLendon set down his cup. “But what do you
think
?”

“I think that Collin MacPherson is an evil man, and people have died by his order. But he's been too clever and we'll never prove it. Now it's necessary to protect those who are left.”

McLendon said skeptically, “And how do you propose to do that? You against MacPherson and Misterio and the rest? You're a schoolteacher, not a gunman, and you recoil from violence besides.”

“I'm the sheriff, and so I accept the responsibility. You, on the other hand, have none. You've shared with me what you know, so you should feel free to board the stage tomorrow and save yourself from whatever MacPherson intends next. This is our trouble and none of yours.”

McLendon thought of Gabrielle and his Glorious friends and, most of all, Bob Pugh. “It's my trouble too. No, don't shake your head. Just tell me what you intend to do.”

Saint drank some water and set his cup on the desk. “The
others—George and Mary, Major Mulkins, Mayor Rogers and Rose, the Tirritos—deserve to know the situation as we see it. I'll summon them to a meeting tonight.”

“MacPherson has eyes everywhere, Ike Clanton chief among them,” McLendon said. “Word of any such meeting would surely reach MacPherson and might incite him to immediate action.”

“You're correct. I'll be discreet. I'll set the meeting time late, and in a place that should escape notice. Not the saloon or the hotel. I think the living quarters in the dry goods shop. There's sufficient room for us there.”

As you well know,
McLendon thought bitterly. He reminded himself that any jealousy he felt toward Saint was insignificant compared to the current threat posed by Collin MacPherson.

“I'll attend to chores at the livery, then,” he said. “The mules should be fed and stabled, and there are Bob's things to get together. I don't know if he has any family to send them to. I'll look through what there is and see what I can find. What time will we meet at the Tirritos' store?”

“Eleven should suffice. That's late enough that most of the prospectors will be in their tents.” Saint paused, then said grudgingly, “It's good of you to stay.”

McLendon shrugged and left for the livery.

•   •   •

A
FTER THE MULES
were fed and in their stalls, McLendon went into the livery office that doubled as living quarters. When he had shared the place with Bob Pugh he always felt cramped. Now the room seemed too large.

Though he wasn't hungry, McLendon thought he ought to have supper. With the late meeting in the dry goods store, it would be a
long night, and he hadn't slept at all during the previous one. There was kindling for the woodstove if he wanted a hot meal, but lighting a fire and cooking seemed like too much trouble. He had peaches instead, stuffing the fruit in his mouth with his fingers and drinking the juice from the can. That took only a few minutes. Then McLendon opened Pugh's trunk and began looking through his personal effects. There wasn't much, just some clothes and two belts, one of them fancy, and a battered book about sailboats. McLendon wondered why Bob had it—he'd never mentioned living near a lake or the ocean, let alone an interest in sailing. Then, near the bottom of the chest, tucked underneath a flannel shirt, McLendon found a photograph of a young woman. It was a formal studio portrait; she posed sitting on a chair, resting a parasol on her shoulder. She was very pretty. Written on the back of the photograph in a flowing, feminine hand, was “All of my love forever, Sophie.” McLendon tried to imagine Sophie with a younger Bob Pugh and couldn't because it made his heart hurt too much. What had happened to keep them apart?

Nowhere in the chest or the office was a letter or anything else from Pugh's family that included an address. McLendon felt at a loss about what to do with his friend's things. Perhaps the clothes could be given to prospectors clearly down on their luck. But what about the photograph of the girl named Sophie? She'd clearly meant a great deal to Bob, because he'd kept the picture. McLendon didn't want to keep it himself; that felt somehow like an invasion of Bob's privacy. But he didn't want to throw it away, either. He put it in his pocket, then sat on the bed and thought about what he should do.

McLendon's reverie was interrupted by someone pulling open the door. Ike Clanton barged in, lugging blankets and some pans.

“What do you want, Ike?” McLendon asked sharply. “What have you got there?”

Ike dropped his armload on the floor. The pans clanged together. “It's my gear. I'm moving in here.”

“Why would you be doing that?”

“Just prior to his unfortunate demise, Bob Pugh sold this livery to Mr. MacPherson, who's been kind enough to ask me to take over and run it. So I'm living here now and you need to leave. I want to arrange my new quarters and then get some sleep. The prospectors will be wanting to rent mules early tomorrow morning.”

McLendon shook his head. “That can't be true. Bob told me before he left to meet with Mr. MacPherson that he had no intention of selling.”

“I guess he changed his mind. Get up off the bed. I want to see if the blanket on it's thicker than mine. If it is, that's the one I'll use.”

“Leave the blanket alone and get out. Bob never sold this place and we both know it.”

Ike reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Not according to this.”

McLendon snatched the paper from Ike's hand and read it. Written at the top in dark ink was
BILL OF SALE
and then came a short description of transactional details. For the sum of $7,500, in the form of a draft to be drawn from a company in Tucson, Bob Pugh sold Pugh Livery and all its property and contents to Collin MacPherson, possession by new owner to take place immediately. The document was signed by Pugh and MacPherson and witnessed by Lemmy Duke and Ike Clanton.

McLendon was stunned. “There's something wrong with this. Bob would never sell. He said so.”

“Ain't that his signature there?”

“I'm sure it's not. It's a forgery.”

Ike looked stern. “That's a harsh accusation, and might bring down
trouble upon the one making it. Mr. MacPherson, Lemmy Duke, and myself, all good men and true, were present when ol' Bob signed the paper. It'll hold up in any court. Your friend being dead at the hands of the Apaches and all, Mr. MacPherson stands ready to send the money to Bob's relations if someone knows how to contact them. It's a very fair price. Bob did right by himself when he made the deal.”

“When MacPherson talked to the sheriff today, he never mentioned this.”

“Did he not? It must have slipped his mind on account of his grief concerning Bob's passing. That's understandable. But now you've seen the bill of sale, and it's time you were on your way. Pack up all of your things, but be careful not to include any of Bob's. As I read that agreement, Mr. MacPherson now owns everything of Bob's on this property, up to and including the bed, the cookstove, and that chest I see there, including all of its contents. You won't object if I watch you closely while you pack, I hope. There are so many who would take advantage of this unfortunate situation.”

McLendon felt as though a tight band were constricting around his skull. “You won't get away with this, Ike.”

“Get away with what? I'm merely taking possession of my employer's property. Now get to packing up.”

McLendon began jamming clothes in his valise. As he did, there was the sound of hammering outside.

Ike grinned. “That'll be some of the ranch hands at work. Got your bag packed? Then I'll just escort you from the premises.”

They went outside and McLendon saw two Culloden hands working by torchlight. One held a large sign in place while the other attached it with nails to the top of the building's wooden doorframe:
M
AC
PHERSON LIVERY
. “The boss had that one prepared in advance of his negotiation with Bob,” Ike said, chuckling. “Mr. MacPherson likes to
think ahead. As I understand it, he's got some more signs already made up for other places here in town.”

“God-d-d-damn you, Ike,” McLendon snarled, so agitated that he stammered. “You're taking pleasure in this, you sick bastard.”

“Just doing my job,” Ike said pleasantly. “Nothing personal in it. Say, I hope you don't have to sleep in the street tonight. I hear the hotel's absolutely full up. And Mr. MacPherson asked me to pass along a message to you. He says he knows that you've told all you have to tell, and you see it makes no difference. Out of generosity, he's willing to pay your stage fare out of town anywhere you want to go, so long as you leave right away. The offer's withdrawn if you stick around. So, simply put, if you go, Mr. MacPherson pays. Stay, and you'll pay. You'll certainly pay.”

“Fuck you, Ike.”

Ike dropped his genial pose. “I'm not the one who's fucked, McLendon. I personally hope you're foolish enough to stay. I'll enjoy seeing what happens to you then, maybe even be part of it. Now, get away from Mr. MacPherson's livery.”

F
uming and more than a little shaken, McLendon trudged away from the livery, carrying his valise. His immediate concern was where he would sleep that night. He walked toward the hotel. As he passed the Owaysis, he saw that most of the customers were leaving. There was enough light from the kerosene lamps inside for him to check his pocket watch: the time was just after ten. Then, looking through Major Mulkins's prized glass window into the lobby of the Elite, he saw that the place was jammed with men curled up on the floor. Sleeping space was at a premium in Glorious. Maybe he would have to spend the night on the ground. There were still some campfires flickering among the prospectors' tents. Perhaps he could sleep there. Preacher Sheridan would probably be willing to share his tent. For the time being, he leaned against the wall of the Chinese laundry and thought about the ways Collin MacPherson might find to kill him if he remained in Glorious.

When he felt enough time had passed, McLendon walked to the dry goods store. The town was dark. A coyote howled somewhere out
in the valley. McLendon stumbled over a rock and nearly dropped his valise. He regained his balance and tapped on the shop door.

Gabrielle opened the door and whispered, “Come in.” It was dark in the store and he bumped into the counter. “We've got candles in the back room,” Gabrielle said, and held aside a blanket in the doorway separating the shop from the living quarters. There was enough light there to see Mulkins, Crazy George, Mayor Rogers, and Salvatore Tirrito sitting in chairs by a table. Mary Somebody sat on the edge of a bed. Gabrielle pulled out another chair and gestured for McLendon to sit down. Then she joined Mary on the bed.

“Joe should be here any moment,” Gabrielle said.

McLendon blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “All right,” he said. “Something's just happened.”

“Let's wait for Joe,” Gabrielle said. “We don't want you having to say everything twice.” Everyone sat silently until there was soft knocking on the front door and Gabrielle let in the sheriff.

Saint stood by the table rather than sitting down. “We needed everyone together because Cash McLendon and I need to tell you what we believe is happening. I realize that they're only suspicions, but they're well grounded in fact. When you hear what we have to say, I think you'll agree.”

“Can you get on with it, Sheriff?” Rogers asked. “What with Bob Pugh's death and burial, we've all had a terrible day, and I dislike leaving Rosie alone. She's prone to bad imagining and nightmares.”

“I believe that we've got our own real-life nightmare, Charlie,” Saint said. “As McLendon and I see things, here's the way of it. I'm going to let him speak first.”

McLendon told about his belief that Turner had discovered a salted claim, his meeting with Collin MacPherson and MacPherson's frank description of his intentions, and how, when Bob Pugh left for his
own visit to Culloden, he swore that he had no intention of selling his livery. Saint explained how he and Doc Chau were puzzled by Pugh's wounds, and that the two dead Apaches brought into town earlier by Culloden vaqueros were missing the bows and arrows that they should have had.

“As McLendon pointed out to me, it's certainly possible that MacPherson's men tried to make it appear that not only was Bob killed by Apaches, but Tommy Gaumer also,” Saint said. “There's a pattern to it.”

McLendon recounted Ike Clanton's appearance at the livery and the bill of sale that Ike claimed proved Pugh had sold the livery to MacPherson prior to his death. When he described the new sign nailed up over the livery door by Culloden ranch hands, Mulkins cursed under his breath.

“Taken together, all this indicates that Collin MacPherson intends to take your businesses whether you wish to sell to him or not,” Saint said. “He's killed to get to this point and will kill again if anyone doesn't let him have his way. By my count, because of his greed, at least four people are dead, maybe five.”

Mayor Rogers cleared his throat. “Come now, four? Who are they?”

“Tommy Gaumer, Bob Pugh, and the two Apaches. Possibly a fifth—that vaquero killed in what Lemmy Duke claimed was an Apache attack.”

“Then really only two. Apaches don't count, nor a Mexican. And besides, Joe, you admit that this is just something you think and not anything that you can prove. Up to now we've all had ample cause to feel grateful to Mr. MacPherson. He's protected our town—you can't deny that.”

“We don't know that he actually protected us. He wanted us to believe that he did.”

“Everyone knows that there are Apaches all through this region. Are you telling me that there aren't?”

“Yes, there are Apaches,” Saint said. “No one knows how many. But MacPherson has used that fact as the basis for his plan to trick us.”

“That's your opinion, Sheriff.”

“Yes.”

McLendon said, “It's my opinion too. I've worked for a rich man like Collin MacPherson. They think that because they have wealth and power, whatever they do is all right, no matter who else suffers in the process.”

“It's true,” said Gabrielle. “I can personally attest Mr. McLendon knows all about that.”

“He wants the hotel, and the Owaysis, and the dry goods store and the farrier shop,” McLendon said. “He'll do whatever he must to get them.”

“Come now, it may not be as dramatic as that,” Rogers said. “You make it sound as if we don't sell, then he'll murder us.”

“He murdered Bob Pugh,” Mulkins said. “The son of a bitch killed our friend. I believe the sheriff and C.M.”

“Same here,” Crazy George said, and Salvatore Tirrito grunted in what seemed to be agreement, although McLendon guessed that, because of his very limited English, Gabrielle's father hadn't been able to completely follow the conversation.

Mary Somebody waved her hand for attention. “All right, let's get down to it: What do we do now? I'll tell you this, George and me ain't selling the saloon. We've worked too long and hard. We dreamed of a successful place of our own and no rich man's scaring us into giving it up. If he wants to try to kill us, let him come on. We've been in fights before.”

“Same goes for me, Mary,” Mulkins said. “I've got the hotel I always wanted, and it's going to have glass windows in every room.”

“Let's not forget the Chinese,” Gabrielle cautioned. “Are Sydney and her people also in danger from Mr. MacPherson?”

“Sydney is aware of the threat,” McLendon said. “Though I doubt MacPherson is concerned with the river camp and laundry now, eventually they'll come to his attention. For now they should be safe.”

“What about you and Salvatore, Gabrielle?” Saint asked. “Would you consider selling out to Mr. MacPherson?”

Gabrielle spoke to her father in Italian. He replied vigorously and at length, shaking his finger for emphasis.

“Papa says that we're here, this is our home now, and no rich bastard is going to take it away from us,” Gabrielle said. “He made some references to past incidents in St. Louis that I won't repeat. But the gist is that, no, we're not selling.”

“But what do
you
think?” Saint asked.

Gabrielle smiled at him. “This is where my heart is now.”

“Well,” Saint said, smiling back, “I'm gratified to hear it.”

“I feel obligated to mention something,” McLendon said. “Odd as it seems, men like Collin MacPherson believe themselves to be observing a code of honor. Prior to engaging in dubious acts to gain what they want, they make arguably fair financial offers—even, sometimes, generous ones. This allows them to feel that they've been reasonable and, if the offers are refused, then it is the other parties who are being unreasonable. Your lives are in jeopardy here. Each of you still has the option of calling on MacPherson and asking his terms for your business. There's no doubt he'll offer substantial sums, enough for any of you to leave Glorious and set up nicely somewhere else.”

Gabrielle said, “And that's your recommendation? What a surprise.”

“I'm not recommending it. But it's an option to be considered.”

“You might consider it,” Gabrielle said. “We won't.” She turned to Joe Saint. “What's to be done next?”

Saint lifted his glasses off the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. “The immediate thing, I think, is to stay together or in sight of each other as much as we can. Bob Pugh went out to Culloden alone. Here in town, at least, there are always some prospectors about, the people from the mining company—enough potential witnesses to prevent MacPherson from arranging Indian attacks or accidents involving us. Perhaps that will be enough to discourage him.”

McLendon felt certain that MacPherson couldn't be discouraged, but he knew there was nothing further to be accomplished that night. At least everyone had been warned.

“It's very late,” he said. “Let's all sleep on this.”

“Speaking of sleep, now that Ike's evicted you from the livery, where will you bed down?” Mary Somebody asked. “We've got the floor of the saloon if you don't mind some spit and spilled beer. We mop up in the mornings, not after we close for the night.”

“I could try to find someplace in the hotel, C.M.,” Mulkins offered. “Problem is, every inch is spoken for and everyone's asleep by now.”

“Maybe I can find a place out among the prospectors in their tents,” McLendon said. “Or I might sneak back into the livery stalls with the mules. Ike's not likely to be standing watch.”

Gabrielle whispered something to her father, who snarled an angry reply. She whispered again. Salvatore Tirrito, clearly unhappy, shrugged and glowered at McLendon.

“You can stay in the store for a few nights,” Gabrielle said. “Not back here with Papa and me, of course, but I'll get you some blankets
and you can sleep under the counter. It won't be perfect, but at least it will be clean and dry.”

“I couldn't,” McLendon said, thinking that of course he could. By far, it was preferable to sleeping on the slimy floor of the saloon or sharing a prospector's tent. “Well, if you really don't mind . . .”

“No,” Joe Saint said. “That won't do.”

McLendon said, “I promise that nothing—” He was interrupted by Gabrielle, who said sharply to Saint, “It's not your decision.”

Saint said, “But I have a better idea. McLendon can stay with me at the jail. If the cells are occupied, we'll sleep on the floor. But tonight, at least, there are no prisoners, so there's a bed available. All right?”

“I suppose,” McLendon said. “Thank you, Joe.”

Everyone stood up and pushed past the blanket into the dark outer room of the store.

“You go on ahead,” Saint said to McLendon. “There's a basin by my desk if you want to wash up. I'm just going to take a moment with Gabrielle.”

McLendon, valise in hand, trudged away. As he did, he heard Gabrielle ask Saint incredulously, “Are you his
friend
now?” and the beginning of what seemed to be a protracted denial by the sheriff. Saint didn't return to the jail for almost an hour, and when he did, McLendon pretended to be asleep on the bed in one of the cells.