Glorious (16 page)

“What brought you to Glorious?”

“I was in Tucson and heard tell that a new silver town was being formed. Such start-ups generally attract some of the prospecting crowd, so here I came. If nothing happens and the other prospectors drift off, I will too. I can't recruit for the Lord if there's no one around.”

McLendon swallowed the last of his coffee. “But what about you? What if tomorrow you go out here in the Pinals or along the creek and you find yourself a colossal lot of silver? And you're all of a sudden a rich man, the one in a hundred—what would you do then?”

“Why, I'd let God decide. I expect He'd make it clear to me. Come to our service tomorrow morning, Mr. McLendon. It'll be a short one, what with everyone there needing to prepare for the afternoon dance. And it won't cost you a penny. We don't pass a collection plate.”

“I'll think about it,” McLendon said. “Thank you for the coffee and for the delicious beans.”

Sheridan shook McLendon's hand. “You're always welcome here at my tent. By the by, if you come tomorrow, you'll hear some fine music. The mayor's wife will sing a solo, and of course Miss Gabrielle will play.”

“Play what? She told me that she had sold her piano.”

“Well, the Lord provides. You should come and see how He did for Miss Gabrielle. Ten o'clock sharp.”

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON DIDN'T PLAN
to attend, but after his conversation with Preacher Sheridan he returned to the Elite and went to bed sober. As a result he was wide-awake at dawn on Sunday. It was too stuffy
in his room to lie around in bed, so he got up, dressed, and went to the dining room before he remembered that no breakfast was being served. He sat in the lobby reading his book until ten, hearing people come and go through the hotel's rear entrance, presumably setting up the dining room for the service. McLendon thought he heard Gabrielle's voice and remembered Sheridan's comment that all the women in town would be at the dance. Since it was a chance to be with her, he decided to go after all.

Just before ten, people began coming into the lobby and walking down the hall to the dining room. Mayor Charlie Rogers and his wife, Rose, came first, then some prospectors, no more than ten, Bossman Wright and Oafie among them. Salvatore Tirrito, in a high-collared dress shirt, was next, accompanied by Sheriff Joe Saint, then Mary Somebody, Ella, and Girl. When McLendon made his own way back to the dining room, most of the seats were taken. The prospectors took up two tables, the Rogerses another, and the Owaysis bunch had the fourth. But Major Mulkins, resplendent in a chalk-stripe suit and seated with Mr. Tirrito and the sheriff, waved McLendon to an empty chair at their table. Saint nodded to McLendon; Tirrito ignored him.

“I hadn't realized that you were a fellow of such faith,” McLendon said to Mulkins as he sat down. “By lending your dining room out on Sunday mornings, you're cutting into your precious profits.”

“Well, hardly anyone turned up for Sunday breakfast anyway, what with Saturday night carousing,” Mulkins said.

There was a table covered with a plain white cloth in front, with a Bible on it. Just to the left of the table, Gabrielle sat on a bench before a boxy-looking contraption. It had a keyboard, and underneath it a foot pedal connected to a bellows.

“What's that thing?” McLendon asked.

“It's called a melodeon,” Saint explained. “It's sturdier than your usual piano and works the same way as an accordion. When Preacher started holding these services a few months back, we thought it would be fine to have music with our worship. Gabrielle said she used to have a piano back east, and somehow word got back to Mr. MacPherson out at the Culloden. He sent all the way to Buffalo, New York, for that fine instrument you see there. During the rest of the week it's at the ranch for safekeeping, and on Sunday morning a couple of his vaqueros tote it in on a wagon for the service. They take it back to the ranch right afterward. Here's Preacher, so we'd better hush.”

Sheridan appeared out of the kitchen and stood behind the cloth-covered table. He smiled and said, “Let's stand and sing ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.' Miss Gabrielle?”

Gabrielle's fingers struck the keyboard, her foot pumped the bellows pedal, and the melodeon emitted rich, organ-like notes. As she played, Preacher Sheridan called out each line of the hymn. After he recited it, the congregation sang the words and then paused while he told them the next line.

“What a friend we have in Jesus,

all our sins and griefs to bear!

What a privilege to carry

everything to God in prayer!

O what peace we often forfeit,

O what needless pain we bear,

All because we do not carry

everything to God in prayer.”

McLendon did not even remotely believe in God. Back in St. Louis he had always refused Gabrielle's requests to accompany her and her
father to church. But now, as he heard the people around him raise their voices in song, he was moved, thinking about how true it was that they all had sins and griefs to bear, himself especially. He'd come to the service to be with Gabrielle, but now he found himself thinking of Ellen, and the guilt about her death that he knew he'd carry with him for the rest of his life. Almost in spite of himself, he began to sing too. As always, he was terribly off-key, by far the worst in a room of mostly unskilled singers. Gabrielle twisted on her bench in front of the melodeon and, just for a moment, seemed stunned to see him there. Then she turned back to the keyboard, never missing a note.

When the song was over, Preacher read a little from the Bible, a psalm about the Valley of the Shadow of Death. The people gathered in the dining room that morning knew something about valleys of death, he said, since they lived in one themselves. They had so much to be afraid of: the Apaches above all, but also wild animals and falling off cliffs and many other threats to life. But the man in the psalm wasn't afraid because he had faith that God was with him, and everybody here in the room had that same protection if they shared the psalmist's faith.

“It's tough, I know,” Preacher said. “We work hard without many rewards, if there are any at all to speak of, and we see friends die in tragic ways and wonder why God lets such things happen. That's when we feel the temptation not to believe anymore. I know you all want to get ready for the dance—have that chance to enjoy yourselves and put aside your troubles for a little while. When you're done dancing, those troubles will still be with you. But the good news is God will be too. After one final song I'm going to bless you and send you on your way, but take this thought with you. When those times come where you find it hard to believe that God exists, never doubt this. Even when you don't believe in him, God always believes in you. And
now let's all take pleasure in a magnificent hymn sung by our very own Sister Rose.”

The mayor's stout wife got up from her chair with some difficulty. Her husband had to stand and pull on her arm to finally get her on her feet. Then, with great dignity, Rose Rogers walked to where Gabrielle sat at the keyboard. Facing the small congregation, Rose said, “This is a favorite of mine, and, I'm sure, of yours.” She nodded at Gabrielle, who coaxed great, soaring notes from the melodeon, and as the music swirled, Rose began to sing in scintillating soprano:

“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see. . . .”

Afterward, Major Mulkins served everyone coffee and biscuits. McLendon told Preacher Sheridan that he'd enjoyed the service, and Sheridan said he hoped to see McLendon again the following Sunday.

“I'll be long gone by then,” McLendon said.

“Well, when you leave, I hope you'll take some of the Lord's spirit with you,” Sheridan said.

“And if he does, maybe the Lord will finally grant him the ability to sing on key,” Gabrielle added. McLendon hadn't realized that she was standing just behind him. “Right now, he remains the worst singer my ears have ever endured.” To McLendon's immense pleasure, her tone was more affectionate than mocking. “It was a surprise to see you here,” she continued. “You were never a churchgoer in St. Louis, no matter how much I asked you to accompany me.”

“Given the opportunity, I'd continue demonstrating how much I've changed by surprising you in welcome ways.”

Gabrielle studied his face. “So you say.” After a long moment she said, “Well, I must get home to prepare for the dance. It will be great fun. Will I see you there too?”

“Of course,” McLendon said. “You know, in recollecting old times in St. Louis, if I never went to church, I can't recall that you ever mentioned an affinity for dancing.”

“Perhaps you're not the only one who's changed,” Gabrielle said, arching her eyebrows. “Self-improvement should be everyone's goal.” She seemed about to say more, but Salvatore Tirrito, exiting the dining room with Sheriff Saint, grasped her arm and tugged Gabrielle away.

T
he Sunday dance didn't begin until three that afternoon. Major Mulkins explained to McLendon that most of the prospectors who hadn't attended Preacher Sheridan's service wanted to get a half day's work in before returning to town. “Then they'll bathe in the creek, put on their nicest clothes, and head to the Owaysis. These dances are real dress-up occasions.”

McLendon helped Crazy George and Mary Somebody move the tables back against the saloon walls. Mary asked McLendon to arrange a line of chairs along the farthest wall.

“That's where the Chinks will sit,” she explained. “We let them come as a courtesy. Then put the rest of the chairs by the bar and over near the door. The prospectors will perch there while they wait their turns to dance.”

“People have to take turns?” McLendon asked.

“You men do. We women can dance at every tune, there being so few compared to your numbers. Girl's too shy, but Ella will be in
demand and even Oafie and Rose Rogers and me as well. There'll be a long line for Miss Gabrielle. She's the great prize, of course.”

“Gabrielle? Explain that.”

Mary set a chair near the door and crossed the saloon to fetch another. “Ella is a whore. I used to be, and I'm old. Ophelia, the one called Oafie, looks mostly like a man. Rose Rogers is fat and married to the mayor besides. Miss Gabrielle is the only decent, pretty, unmarried young white woman from here to Florence. Of course, every man who comes to town goes head over heels for her. I'll wager she turns down a marriage proposal a week, if not more. All the men dancing with her today will be hoping that something they say or do will win her love.”

“Gabrielle,” McLendon said again, trying to fit his mind around what he'd just heard. “I didn't realize.”

“Then you ain't as smart as you clearly think yourself to be,” Mary said disdainfully. “There's a great deal to notice about her. Pay attention at this dance. Maybe your eyes'll be opened.”

By two p.m. there was considerable activity around the prospectors' tents. McLendon returned to the Elite to trim his hair and beard. When he came back outside he saw a half-dozen mounted MacPherson vaqueros led by Angel Misterio trotting into town. They struck McLendon as a solemn procession, observing the bustle without seeming in any way amused. Misterio nodded to McLendon as he rode past. He reined in his horse in front of the small jail and gestured for his men to wait while he went inside. In a few moments he and Joe Saint emerged. They talked briefly, and then Misterio began dispatching riders to various positions on the perimeter of town. They hobbled their horses, pulled rifles from saddle scabbards, and stood guard.

“That's another of Mr. MacPherson's courtesies,” said Mayor Rogers, who walked up beside McLendon. “Everyone in town wants to be
at the dance, but the Apaches have no respect for our recreation. So he sends some of his men to keep watch. That way, the rest of us can relax for the duration of the festivities. They'll ride off when we're done, which should be right around early evening. As a rule, Apaches don't attack at night. Meanwhile, thanks to these vaqueros, all's secure.”

Just before three, McLendon returned to the Owaysis. Mary Somebody was good-naturedly telling the prospectors outside that they had to wait a few more minutes, but she let McLendon in. Ella and Girl, both wearing pretty, conservative dresses, were sweeping the floor. Crazy George arranged pitchers on the bar counter. Mary said they were filled with punch, water sweetened with honey, and the juice of oranges brought in by last week's Florence stage.

“There's not a lot, but everybody can have at least a sip,” she said. “When it's gone we'll wet our whistles with plain well water. But no red-eye or beer until the dance is over. We want everyone to keep their wits and mind their manners. Ah! Here's the band.”

The band consisted of three prospectors, two with guitars and one with a fiddle. Mary introduced them to McLendon: “Lynn Bailey, Arnie Collier, and Bruce Dinges. Bruce here's the one who calls the tunes.”

McLendon took in the trio's battered instruments and asked dubiously, “Do you have much of a repertoire?” They looked puzzled. “Do you know many songs?”

“Oh, we're adept at any number,” Dinges, the fiddler, assured him. “We'll commence with ‘Oh! Susanna' to get all the feet to tapping, and we'll just go on from there. Popular ones like ‘The Lone Fish-Ball' and ‘Mollie Darling,' we play them all.”

“Be sure and include some slow tunes,” Mary said. “I want to dance close with my sweetie.” Behind the bar, Crazy George beamed.

Charlie and Rose Rogers came in. The mayor wore a suit and string
tie. Rose's billowing dress was bright blue, and starched petticoats peeked from underneath. “I think you better let 'em in, Mary,” the mayor said. “If they get any more impatient, they may start jumping in through the windows.”

“I suppose it is time,” Mary said. “Ella, remember, you're not to do business. Don't let me catch you sneaking off with someone. This is strictly a social occasion. All right, open the door.”

Laughing, whooping, the prospectors hurried in. None of them had suits and a few were still in dusty denims, but most wore clean shirts, some sported string ties, and many had slicked-down hair still wet from the creek. Oafie, hanging on the arm of Bossman Wright, wore men's denim pants and a broadcloth shirt, but she wore her hair down instead of under a hat. Preacher Sheridan told Oafie, Mary, Ella, and Girl how lovely they looked, then leaned comfortably on the wall nearest the door. After almost everyone else was inside, a dozen Chinese filed in and quietly sat on the row of chairs along the far wall. McLendon watched Sydney Chau lead her mother to a seat. A few of the prospectors called “Hey, Doc” to Sydney. She was the only Chinese anyone acknowledged. Turner, the hook-nosed, unsociable prospector, came in too. He stood by himself in a corner.

The musical trio pulled up chairs and settled themselves. McLendon expected them to begin playing, but they didn't. Major Mulkins in a fine gray suit and Bob Pugh in a baggy checked one hurried into the saloon. Pugh asked if they'd missed anything, and Mulkins asked Ella politely if he could have the first dance. The British girl winked at him.

Five more minutes ticked by without music. “What are they waiting for?” McLendon whispered to Mary Somebody.

“Hold your water,” she said. “You're about to see.”

Then Gabrielle swept in with her father and Joe Saint trailing
behind. Many of the prospectors cheered, and Gabrielle smiled widely and waved. McLendon had never seen her look so radiant. She wore a crimson dress, and curled ribbons of the same color were threaded through her long, dark hair. There was stirring near the door where she entered; at least a dozen prospectors began forming a line. “Now,” said Mary, and the musicians launched into “Oh! Susanna.” The prospector at the front of the line bashfully approached Gabrielle and bowed. She curtsied and followed him onto the open area of the floor. Other couples joined them: Charlie and Rose Rogers, Oafie and Bossman, Ella with Major Mulkins, Mary Somebody with a prospector McLendon didn't know. Everyone else tried to clap in time to the music, but it wasn't easy. Each of the three performers played at a different tempo. The couples moving to the discordant sounds weren't dancing as McLendon understood the term. After becoming Rupert Douglass's right-hand man he'd attended several St. Louis balls, and dancers there followed carefully proscribed steps, moving smoothly and impressively in unison. The Glorious dancers bounded and twirled at random; their smiles indicated that they enjoyed every chaotic minute. Gabrielle in particular moved with more enthusiasm than grace, but the prospector dancing with her didn't mind. He grinned as though he couldn't believe his good luck in being her partner.

When the song concluded, everyone applauded. The prospector who'd danced with Gabrielle released her arm regretfully and hurried to the end of the ever-growing line. Her second partner approached her and bowed. Gabrielle curtsied again. Her face was glowing. Bob Pugh paired off with Ella, and Mary Somebody took a different partner too. Oafie joined Old Ben. Mayor Rogers smilingly handed Rose over to Crazy George, who nearsightedly poked his nose almost into hers.

“Folks, here's ‘The Lone Fish-Ball,'” Dinges announced as he
raised his fiddle to his chin. The guitarists blundered in, and to McLendon's ear there wasn't much difference between the new tune and the previous unwieldy rendition of “Oh! Susanna.” But the crowd clapped along anyway, and the dancers didn't seem to notice.

When the second number concluded, Pugh handed Ella off to a prospector and came over to McLendon. “You better move lively if you want a dance,” he urged. “The ladies will stay in considerable demand until the last number has been played.”

“I'd planned to dance with Gabrielle,” McLendon said. “I hadn't realized that I'd have to stand in line.”

“Not to be disrespectful concerning either lady, but you'll have a shorter wait for Mary or Rose,” Pugh said. “They both tend to become winded and need to sit awhile. Mary's getting up in years and Rose is, well, Rose. Catch one of them just as she recovers. That's the surest way to promptly get a partner.”

“No, I've got my sights on Gabrielle.” McLendon moved toward the saloon wall near the Chinese. Gabrielle's line stretched back that far. Sydney Chau and her mother were seated nearby, and he politely greeted them. “Are you enjoying yourselves?” he asked.

Sydney said, “The crowd keeps stepping on our toes.”

“Then why stay?”

“My mother likes the music, awful as it is, and she won't come to these things if I don't.”

“Maybe if you did some dancing you'd have a better time,” McLendon suggested.

“Whites don't dance with Chinese,” Sydney said. “And if Chinese danced with each other, the whites would think we were being impertinent.”

McLendon didn't know how to respond to that, so he mumbled a
good-bye and took his place in the line waiting to dance with Gabrielle. He counted; there were eight prospectors ahead of him. It would be a while. He passed the time by watching Gabrielle as she danced. For the duration of each song she focused completely on her partner, laughing if he told jokes, drawing him out if he seemed bashful. As his turn came closer—seven men ahead of him, now six, now five—McLendon began imagining what he would say to her. Acknowledge her popularity, of course, then praise for how pretty she looked. Then he'd suggest that after the dance they meet somewhere private to talk. . . .

McLendon was third in line when one of the guitarists snapped a string. There was a brief break while he replaced it. Gabrielle smiled and thanked the prospector she'd just danced with, then exchanged some words with Rose Rogers. She looked over Rose's shoulder and saw McLendon waiting in her dance line. He grinned at her. Gabrielle responded with a warning look and a subtle shake of her head:
Don't.
He thought about staying in the line anyway. She could hardly refuse to dance with him if he did. But she'd probably be angry—no, it wasn't worth the risk. He stepped out of the line. The prospectors behind him immediately surged forward and closed the gap. Gabrielle looked relieved.

Irked, McLendon stepped through the back entrance of the saloon to use the outhouse. There was a line there, too, but at least it moved faster than the one to dance with Gabrielle. Joe Saint stood just in front of McLendon, who told the sheriff, “I took the bandanna you lent me to be washed at the Chinese laundry. I don't have it with me now, but I'll return it to you tomorrow.”

“No need,” Saint said. “Keep it. I have several others.” He was silent for a moment. “You know, I didn't think you'd last long out
there on Friday, maybe give up before we'd even gone a mile. But you stuck it out.”

“Well, Sheriff, I'm stubborn.”

Saint nodded. “I've found that you are. But even stubborn men learn their limits. Are you enjoying the dance?”

“I'm finding it interesting. I haven't danced yet. Have you?”

“Not as of this moment,” Saint said. “But I expect to very soon.” McLendon, always alert to nuance in tone, thought the sheriff sounded self-satisfied, even cocky. It seemed out of character. But he was too preoccupied with thoughts of Gabrielle to dwell on it further.

McLendon and Saint reentered the Owaysis at the same time. As they did, band leader Dinges stood to make an announcement: “We're going to play a slow one, ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,' and for this number it will be ladies' choice of partners. Will they please make their selections?”

Mary Somebody went behind the bar and collected Crazy George. Rose Rogers tapped her husband, Charlie, on the arm. Oafie took Bossman's hand. Gabrielle looked at the back of the saloon toward McLendon and he beamed. So that was it—she hadn't wanted him standing in her line because she was about to choose him for this dance. She'd forgiven him. While they danced she might even say that she'd decided to go to California with him after all. Now Gabrielle came toward him, the prospectors respectfully parting to make way for her, and just as McLendon stepped forward to meet her, she reached out and took Joe Saint's hand. McLendon, stunned, watched as she led the sheriff back to the dance area, then moved into his arms as the trio began to play.

There was a tap on McLendon's shoulder. Ella said, “Will you dance with me?” He stumbled after her onto the dance floor. A few
feet away, Joe Saint whispered something in Gabrielle's ear; she smiled and whispered back.

“Is it too much to hope that you might look at me, Mr. McLendon?” Ella asked. “I realize you'd rather be dancing with the fine lady, but now you must settle for the likes of me.”

“You're fine too,” McLendon mumbled, suddenly remembering things: Gabrielle taking a dinner tray to the jail, the way Saint glared when McLendon and Gabrielle walked past him on their way to the Chinese camp. Obvious, so obvious. Saint didn't dislike him for defusing the showdown between the vaquero and the prospector outside the Owaysis. The sheriff detested having a rival for Gabrielle.