Glorious (15 page)

S
aturday was hard for McLendon. He woke from a series of troubling dreams, one particularly vivid: he was in a California city, being chased through its streets by Killer Boots. He ducked inside a doorway to escape, only to find Ellen Douglass, alive and dead at the same time, waiting for him there.

When he got out of bed, McLendon discovered that every part of his body ached: his back from swinging a pick, his shoulder from the recoil of the shotgun, his hips and knees from the long hike and climbing. The ubiquitous thorn scratches on his legs had bled onto the sheets. Major Mulkins would probably charge him extra for that. Hard-to-reach places itched; apparently he'd suffered insect bites that he hadn't noticed at the time because of all his other physical discomfort. How could prospectors endure such suffering on a daily basis?

Because it was almost noon when he got up, there was no breakfast to be had in the Elite dining room besides stale coffee and some tasteless tortillas. When McLendon went outside, he discovered that it was another blazing hot day. Perspiration trickled down his face and chest,
soaking his shirt before he'd taken more than a few steps. What a god-awful hellhole this town had turned out to be.

He did his best to mop his face dry before entering the dry goods store, but the sleeve he used was saturated with sweat. McLendon wanted to buy a new pair of denim jeans and, hopefully, enjoy more conversation with Gabrielle. But her father, Salvatore, was behind the counter instead. When McLendon asked where his daughter was, the old man either didn't understand the question or chose not to answer it. “What you want?” he barked.

“Denim jeans, Mr. Tirrito.”

“Don't got.”

McLendon gestured toward a pile of them on a table in a corner of the shop. “Then what are those?” He wanted to try some on to ensure a reasonable fit, but Tirrito kept grumbling at him and it stung; McLendon didn't blame Gabrielle's father for loathing him. He ended up buying a pair that was too loose in the waist and short in the legs.

As he handed over the three dollars to purchase them, McLendon said hopefully, “Will you tell Gabrielle I send my warmest regards?”

“No. Get out.”

McLendon went back to his room at the Elite and put on the jeans, which he cinched around his waist with the belt he normally wore with his suit. Then he wondered what to do next. For the moment, at least, the Owaysis held little appeal. He'd had more to drink since he'd arrived in town than he'd consumed in all the rest of his life. He could sit in the hotel lobby and leaf through
The Last of the Mohicans
, but it was broiling inside the Elite too. A walk down to the Chinese camp was a possibility; perhaps he could buy a tomato or some radishes for a healthy snack. But as he gazed out the window of his room he saw that the early afternoon wind was full of blowing dust, which he knew would sting his eyes and work its way into every crevice of his
body, including the folds of his ears. Then he'd need another bath, and that meant having Major Mulkins haul out the tin tub and fetch buckets of hot water. The simplest conveniences in civilized places were complicated in Glorious. McLendon reflected that, here, even relieving himself was a struggle with the high-desert elements. By their very natures, outhouses anywhere were inhospitable, but the privies in Glorious were torture chambers. Besides the smells, heightened by the heat, and ubiquitous buzzing flies, users had to be wary of spiders, ants, and scorpions, all of which scuttled around the feet and, too often, up the legs of anyone seated for more than a few moments. It usually required all of McLendon's self-control not to bolt the privy with his pants bunched around his ankles.

And there were still three days to go before he could escape on the Florence stage. Reflecting on that, he wondered if there had ever been any chance that Gabrielle might leave with him. He'd once thought that he understood her completely, but now in Glorious he had no idea of what was going on in her mind. Surely she couldn't be happy in this crude, uncomfortable place, and yet she insisted that she was. What was this business about her suggesting a Sunday dance to Mayor Rogers? The Gabrielle who McLendon remembered from St. Louis had never mentioned dancing at all.

McLendon took off his boots, stretched out on the bed, and tried imagining what it would be like the next day in the Owaysis, with everyone packed inside and Gabrielle perhaps sitting off in a corner somewhere, since he recalled that she was a somewhat clumsy girl and probably not any good at dancing—if anyone asked her to dance. Perhaps that would be McLendon's opportunity. He imagined himself coming over to where she sat, asking her to dance, and then the two of them close in each other's arms and lost to the rest of the world. . . .

McLendon slept for a while, this time without dreaming, and when
he woke it was dusk. He stood up tentatively and was relieved that he didn't hurt as much, although there were still dull aches in his joints and the bug bites itched. He pulled on his boots and went down to the dining room, where he ate biscuits and bacon, because that was all Major Mulkins had on the evening menu.

“I'm saving up most of my larder for tomorrow night,” the Major explained. “After the dance, lots of folks will decide to conclude the big event by dining here. Dance days are especially good for business.”

“Will you be serving anything especially good for breakfast?”

“No, the dining room is closed on Sunday mornings.”

•   •   •

A
FTER HIS UNSATISFACTORY MEAL,
McLendon went outside. It seemed to him that the night temperature had dropped lower than usual, the most welcome relief of his day so far. He walked toward the Owaysis, hearing the laughter and raised voices inside, and then, on impulse, turned around and walked west instead, past the Elite and the Chinese laundry and Tirrito Dry Goods. It was quieter in that direction. He could hear his boots crunch in the dirt, and the calls of night birds. Just a sliver of moon was visible in the black sky, but there seemed to be an endless blanket of stars. Up the hill and to the right, light seeped through the slats of the shack where Turner, the unsociable prospector, lived, and straight ahead of McLendon was the cluster of tents where the other prospectors camped. He'd never been there and was curious to see how the men lived. A few of the tents were stout canvas, more were made of thinner material, and nearly all of them were patched. Some were supported by thick poles; others sagged and seemed in danger of imminent collapse. A few prospectors were in the camp instead of the saloon, squatting beside small campfires and
mending clothes, scribbling what McLendon guessed were letters home, or cleaning tools. He walked among the tents, greeting by name the men he recognized and nodding to those he didn't. One of these, seated in front of a particularly ragged tent, said cheerfully, “Sit and talk awhile. I've got coffee on the fire and beans if you're hungry.”

McLendon peered at the man; all he could tell, by the light of the small blaze, was that he was older, with a seamed face and snow-white hair.

“The coffee is fresh,” the man said pleasantly. “My name is Martin Sheridan, and I'd be glad if you joined me.”

There was no reason not to. McLendon stuck out his hand, introduced himself, and sat down. Sheridan gave him coffee in a tin cup and said, “I believe you're the fellow who came here to call on the young lady at the dry goods store. You tried your hand at a bit of prospecting yesterday, didn't you? Then I expect you're feeling a little bit achy.”

McLendon sipped some of the coffee, which was strong and very good. “That's a fact. I don't see how you fellows do it day after day.”

Sheridan had very white teeth for a frontiersman. They reflected in the firelight when he smiled. “For many, it's an obsession. They're so determined to be one of the very few to strike it rich that they'll endure all sorts of pain in pursuit of the dream. Maybe one in a hundred does it, but that's enough to make all the others believe that they will too.”

“Is that true of you?”

“Oh, I leave that up to God.” Sheridan rummaged in a pack and produced a tin plate and spoon. “Let me serve you some of these beans.”

McLendon held up his hand. “Thank you, no. I've eaten more than enough beans on my trip west.”

Sheridan said, “What I suspect you're familiar with is stage depot
beans, which are wretched fare. They just throw them in a pot of water and boil them into mush. Though pride is a sin, I have some confidence that you'll find my beans much tastier.” He spooned some onto the plate.

McLendon couldn't think of a polite way to refuse. He took a tiny bite, chewed tentatively, and his eyes widened. He scooped several more spoonsful into his mouth before pausing to say, “You're right. These are delicious.”

“Well, I cook them slowly so as to retain some firmness, and I season them with dried Mexican chiles. That gives them a little tang. There's no secret to it, nor skill. There are so many simple pleasures in this world to enjoy. We get caught up in bigger things and fail to notice them.”

“Mmm-hmm,” McLendon mumbled, eating fast and wondering if it would be bad manners to request a second helping if Sheridan failed to offer one.

A prospector came over to the fire and asked Sheridan, “Have you some thread to lend? I need to mend a shirt.”

Sheridan produced a spool from his pack. “There you are, Archie. Will you join me and Mr. McLendon here for coffee and beans?”

“No, I've had my supper. I'll return your thread when my mending's complete. Thank you, Preacher.”

As Archie returned to his own tent, McLendon put down his spoon and looked at Sheridan. “Preacher?”

“That's what most of them call me, because I share the Good Word. If I might ask, what's the state of your faith?”

One of those,
McLendon thought.
And now here it comes.
“I really have none to speak of. I'm sorry if that offends you. I'll pay for the meal if you like.”

“There's no need. And I'm not offended. I'll be glad to talk about
what the Lord can do in your life, but if you'd rather not, you're not obligated. The God that I serve is a gentleman and doesn't want to be forced on anyone.”

McLendon set down his plate by the fire. “That seems an odd attitude for someone called Preacher.”

“It's my experience that the fire-and-brimstone types drive away many more than they reel in. I go out prospecting during the day, and at night I sit by my tent with my coffee and beans and the Bible close to hand. Everyone in camp knows that I'm here if they want to share a little Christian fellowship. And on Sundays we hold services in the dining room of the hotel. Major Mulkins makes it available for that.”

“And do all the other prospectors come?”

Sheridan shook his head. “Not many. Mostly it's the women of the town, and a few others like the mayor. But it's important for everyone else to know that there's a Sunday place to worship if God puts it in their hearts. Perhaps you'll come tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” McLendon said noncommittally. “So you're a prospector by day and a minister by night? I mean no disrespect, and I understand it's the custom not to inquire too much into anyone's past, but was that always your intention?”

“I don't mind talking about it,” Sheridan said. “Like others, I first came west after hearing of the big California strike in 1848. My family in New York was reasonably well-to-do and I was working in my father's tailor shop. The idea of chunks of gold and silver laying out on the ground, waiting to be picked up, seemed intriguing. I wanted my life to be more exciting. So out I came, only to discover as everyone does that prospecting guarantees only backbreaking work, not wealth. After six months I was ready to give up, but I couldn't give my father the satisfaction—he'd predicted I'm come whining home, you see. And so I stayed, working in shops as a clerk to save up some money,
then going out as a prospector when I had enough of a stake. I did that in California and then in many of the territories. Nevada, Montana, the Dakotas, now here.”

“And have you ever hit anything significant?”

Sheridan chuckled. “In nearly twenty-five years, hardly a speck. But that's true of most of us.”

“Then if you know the odds are so much against you, why keep trying?”

“Because God wants me out here. He has ways of letting us know his will. I was in Nevada, down to my last cent, thinking it was finally time to go home to New York. I had a letter from my brother saying my father was sick, I should come back and help with the family business. I was ready. The thought of baths whenever I wanted them, food cooked on a stove and not a campfire, clean clothes and no Indians and a comfortable bed to sleep in every night. No more trudging across deserts and up and down mountains. But at night I'd been reading the Bible by my tent, and it came to me just as clear as your own voice this evening that it was the Lord's will for me to stay out in the wilderness, making His Word handy to those finally ready to hear it. I'm in a unique position to do this, you see. The usual preachers, they visit the tent camps in their fine clothes and with their holier-than-thou airs, telling men who've worked themselves into exhaustion that day that they're nothing but disgusting sinners who better change their ways entirely or get sent to hell. And then the fancy-pantsers leave with no converts but proud in the belief that they did God's good work and it was just that no one was smart enough to listen. Me, I'm out there with my friends, sweating in the hot sun and cracking rocks and walking back worn to nothing at day's end. I'm one of them. So when I ask if anyone wants to join me at my fire for food and maybe a word or two about the Lord, they're not insulted.”

“And have you brought many of them to God?”

“I haven't, but that's all the more reason to keep trying.”