Glorious (26 page)

•   •   •

I
KE
C
LANTON
drank so much one night in the Owaysis that he was still staggering the next morning. His father and Phin went prospecting without him. Ike made a nuisance of himself at the livery, wandering in and babbling to Pugh and McLendon as they worked on the corral expansion and sweated in the brutal summer heat. He jabbered suggestions about which logs to place where until Pugh lost patience
and told him to get his sorry drunk ass lost. That infuriated Ike, who challenged Pugh to fight. The livery owner was much older and smaller than Ike, but he was still ready to fight. McLendon pushed Pugh back and walked toward Ike himself, swinging a heavy mallet. Ike backed away, muttering threats about taking the mallet and bashing McLendon's head in. Then he stumbled off.

“A goddamn yellabelly is all he is,” Pugh grumbled. “I'da taken him easy.”

“Sure you would,” McLendon soothed. “I intervened to keep you from hurting him. Now let's get back to work.”

It was a difficult day for Ike. Soon after leaving the livery he was chased from the Owaysis by Crazy George in full blind, lead-pipe-waving fury after Ike tried to pull Abigail's top down. Ike's excuse was that he wanted to “inspect the goods before paying for them.” Abigail screamed and Crazy George charged. Then Joe Saint escorted Ike from the Tirritos' store after Gabrielle complained that he was harassing her. The sheriff walked Ike to the jail and told him to go sleep awhile in one of the cells.

“He's snoring there now,” Saint told Pugh and McLendon as the three men ate lunch at the Owaysis. Mary Somebody served them tomatoes and beef jerky. The jerky was too stringy, but the tomatoes were perfectly ripe.

“We ought to run Ike Clanton out of town,” Pugh suggested. “He's a boil on our backsides.”

“Oh, men like Ike are mostly all talk and no action,” Saint said. “I'll let him sleep it off and see where we are after that.”

Pugh and McLendon worked on the corral until late afternoon, at which point Pugh announced he was going to treat himself to a bath at the Elite. McLendon said he'd take their sweaty work clothes to the
Chinese laundry. They changed in Pugh's office, and McLendon scooped up the dirty garments. As he stepped in front of the livery, he heard Joe Saint speaking to Ike Clanton outside the jail.

“I won't allow any more rude, drunken behavior, Ike,” Saint said. “One more incident and I'll lock you up, then send for Hunky-Dory Holmes to take you off to trial in Tucson.”

Even after his long nap, Clanton still looked the worse for wear. He propped himself up against the adobe wall and nodded feebly.

“My word as a gentleman, Sheriff. I just got on the outside of too much whiskey.”

“Then on your way,” Saint said, and went inside. Ike shook his head as though to clear it and began walking slowly west, past the livery and saloon and farrier's shop. McLendon followed with his arms full of smelly, wet clothes. He thought Ike must be going back to the Clanton shack, but instead he looped behind the Elite Hotel and walked into the laundry. McLendon, fearing trouble, hurried after him, and saw that Ike had Sydney Chau pinned to a wall while her horrified mother cowered in a corner.

“Gimme a kiss,” Ike snorted, pushing his face toward Sydney's. McLendon dropped the clothes and leaped at Ike. He grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away from the young Chinese woman.

“What the hell?” Ike screeched. “Lemme alone, she's just a Chink.” He cocked a fist and McLendon crouched, ready to defend himself. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sydney adjusting her dress and comforting her mother. Then she straightened and turned around.

“You can stand down, Mr. McLendon,” Sydney said. “I'm capable of dealing with this myself. Mr. Clanton, leave this place immediately and never come back.”

“I respect no commands from Chinks,” Ike said. He snatched at Sydney again. Small but quick, Sydney ducked under his arm, kicked
the back of his knee to knock him off balance, then pulled a thin-bladed knife from her belt and held it to Ike's throat.

“I'm sure you don't want to die, Mr. Clanton. Now, be on your way.”

Ike's eyes widened. He clearly was trying to decide what to do next. Fully sober, he could easily have broken free of Sydney before she could use the knife, but in his present muddled condition it was doubtful.

“Best be going, Ike,” McLendon suggested. “Doc Chau will slit your gullet like a chicken's, and since you've so offended her, she won't sew it up afterwards.”

Ike glowered at him. “I'll take her down, and then you.” Sydney pressed the knife into his neck and he flinched. “Ah, fuck you both.” He stepped away from Sydney and picked up his hat, which had been knocked to the floor. He said to McLendon, “You better not spread lies about some Chink woman getting the best of me.”

“Wouldn't think of it,” McLendon promised, but that night at the Owaysis he told everyone, and acted it out besides. Bob Pugh proposed a toast to Doc Chau. Ike was nowhere to be seen.

But the next day he went out prospecting with his father and brother, and that night he was back in the Owaysis, swilling beer and telling stories about facing down three men at the same time in a San Bernardino saloon. A few prospectors jeered at Ike and asked him to tell about how Doc Chau whipped him at the laundry. Ike shot a quick glance at McLendon, then laughed and said that Chink women just had a stealthy way with a blade. That got the prospectors laughing, and they bought Ike his next mug of beer.

“Old Ike's a choice one,” Mulkins observed.

Mayor Rogers, seated at the table with the hotel owner, Pugh, and McLendon, agreed. “That's the one unfortunate thing about town growth. You're bound to get some Ike Clantons.”

“Joe Saint had dinner at the hotel,” Mulkins said. “He told me that a bit earlier today, Newman Clanton dropped by the jail. Said he'd heard his son had raised some hell and although Ike was mostly all right he sometimes acted up. Anyway, the old man promised that Ike would behave from now on. Told Joe that if he didn't, let him know and, full-grown though Ike might be, Newman'd beat the tar out of him.”

“You should have let me take Ike on, C.M.,” Pugh complained. “But you backed me off and let Doc Chau have all the fun.”

“I'm a spoilsport of the worst kind,” McLendon agreed, and excused himself to visit the outhouse. When he emerged, buttoning his pants, Ike Clanton was waiting. McLendon balled his fists, but Ike extended his hand.

“I apologize for my earlier shitheadedness,” he said. “I sometimes get foolish from drink. No hard feelings, then?”

“I suppose.” McLendon didn't want to shake Ike's hand, but the man was apologizing and he felt obligated. As they shook, Ike squeezed hard.

“I'll be seeing you around, McLendon. Indeed I will.” He winked. “For now, I wish you the pleasantest of good evenings.”

•   •   •

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
McLendon went to the laundry to see if Sydney was all right. She wasn't there. Her mother indicated that she was down in the creek camp. McLendon walked there and found Sydney helping several Chinese who had just come to town unload a wagon.

“We're growing just like the town is,” she told him. “There's more demand for our vegetables, and Mother and I need help at the laundry. So we've been in touch with relatives and friends, saying they should join us, that there are opportunities.”

“I'm sorry about Ike the other day,” McLendon said. “Your response was impressive.”

“I was able to take him by surprise, that's all. He thought a Chinese woman would be defenseless. And unnecessary as it was, thank you for preparing to defend me. It was chivalrous. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish here and go help Mother. Starting tomorrow, we'll have three more of our people working with us in the laundry. By the way, there'll be no charge for the clothes you dropped off.”

“There's no need for that. I'm glad to pay.”

“And every other time, you will. It's a onetime courtesy. Take advantage, because starting tomorrow we're raising our prices.”

On his walk back to town, McLendon found himself admiring the jagged-edged Pinals and towering Apache Leap. They still were predominantly blood red, but now he noticed subtle shadings of other colors—tan and gold and even purple where certain vegetation flourished in crevices and cracks in the rock. The various species of cactus on the slopes added a full palette of green, from pale olive to almost iridescent emerald. Above him, the sky was vivid blue, streaked with cotton-white threads of clouds. This far from the smells of town, the scent of sage perfumed the air. Though the morning was hot, the wind was brisk and refreshing.
I'm getting used to this place,
he thought.
I like it.

•   •   •

I
N ALL THE EXCITEMENT
about silver, the Apache threat had been mostly ignored in Glorious, though never entirely forgotten. One night in mid-July, Lemmy Duke called for everyone's attention in the Owaysis.

“While there's no cause for immediate alarm, our Culloden vaqueros are again finding Indian sign,” he announced. “Increased
vigilance is necessary. Remember there are always likely to be Apache about. Few are prospecting in groups just now, I know, but you might at least try to work in sight of some others. And should you happen upon any Apache sign, notify me or anyone else from Culloden or the sheriff.”

“Nice of him to include you,” Pugh said to Saint.

“Well, it never hurts to remind people about the Apaches,” Saint said. “We don't want to lose anyone else to them.”

The sheriff sat and drank a beer with Pugh and McLendon. They watched as Duke circulated, chatting briefly with various prospectors before settling at a back table with Newman, Phin, and Ike Clanton. Duke signaled to Mary Somebody, who brought them a full bottle of red-eye. Duke poured generous drinks for himself and the other three. Then they settled into intense conversation.

“I wonder what Lemmy has to say to that crew,” Pugh said. “Perhaps he thinks they've been extra careless in regard to Apaches and is pointing out the error of their ways.”

Saint finished his beer and excused himself to return to the jail, where he'd left two prospectors locked in separate cells. They'd gotten into a fistfight earlier in the evening, and the sheriff hoped that they'd calm down enough to be released. He usually slept on a cot in one of the cells and would have to settle for the floor that night if his prisoners weren't sufficiently calmed down. Pugh and McLendon stayed and drank beer awhile longer. When they finally left, Lemmy Duke and the Clantons were still talking.

•   •   •

T
WO DAYS LATER,
McLendon and Pugh sweated in the mid-afternoon sun as they nailed up trimmed cottonwood logs to expand
the livery's corral. Their heads snapped up at the sound of shots echoing out of the Queen Creek canyon into the valley.

“Running gunfight,” Pugh said. “Apaches attacking some of the prospectors, sure as hell. Get your pistol; I'll fetch my shotgun.”

Sheriff Saint hurried out of the jail, buckling on his gun belt as he came. Crazy George emerged from the saloon with a shotgun. Major Mulkins bolted from the hotel lobby; he carried a rifle. The gunfire continued, and the echoes of wild screams and shouts reached the town too.

“Let's get out that way—we've got to provide cover fire for anyone on the run here,” Mulkins said, and for the first time McLendon thought that “Major” might be a real military rank rather than an affectation. “All men with guns, follow me. Everyone else, take cover inside.”

The four vaqueros stationed at the two guardhouses leaped on their horses and galloped toward the canyon. Mulkins led everyone else with guns in the same direction on foot. Before they'd gone a hundred yards they saw three prospectors—Bossman Wright, Oafie, and Preacher Sheridan—running hard out of the canyon toward town. The quartet of mounted vaqueros raced past them, forming a protective line. The gunfire back in the canyon slowed to occasional, sporadic shots.

The prospectors, short of breath from physical exertion and fear, reached the armed townsmen. “What happened back there?” Mulkins demanded.

“We were all working on a ledge maybe a mile back in there and all of a sudden there was whooping and some gunshots,” Wright gasped. “One nearly hit Oafie, and Preacher got cut with some rock splinters from the ricochet. We ducked down but couldn't see any Indians,
couldn't tell for sure where the shots were coming from. Then Lemmy and a half-dozen vaqueros ride up, just hauling ass to reach us. Lemmy says, ‘Sounds like too many to take on, but we'll hold 'em off as long as we can. Run!' And we did.”

“We better go on and reinforce Lemmy,” Pugh said, but Mulkins disagreed.

“Shooting's done back there. I think the fight's over,” he said. Moments later Lemmy Duke and the Culloden vaqueros came trotting out of the canyon.

“They're gone,” Duke reported. “I guess there were enough of 'em to take on three prospectors, but not for a full fight after all.”

“How many, Lemmy?” Sheriff Saint asked.

Duke leaned back in the saddle and wiped his forehead with his hat brim. “Shit, I don't know. Five, six, something like that. Apaches, of course, with war paint on. Surprised they had guns. Maybe they took them off other white men they ambushed.”

“Kill any?” Bob Pugh asked.

“No, but they got one of ours, damn it.” Duke gestured toward a vaquero leading a horse with a body strapped across its saddle. McLendon recognized the bullet-riddled corpse of Juan Luis.

Duke saw McLendon staring at the body and said, “He went out where he shouldn't have been.”

•   •   •

A
FTER THAT,
everyone was on constant guard during daylight for another Apache attack. The prospectors once again went out into the mountains in groups. McLendon and Pugh continued work on the corral but kept their guns handy. They were in a hurry to finish. Every mule they had was rented daily, and Pugh talked of returning to Florence to buy some more.