Glorious (34 page)

Saint removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the spectacles back on again. “It's not really your fight, is it? No one will blame you.”

McLendon looked at Saint, then Gabrielle. He said, “You'll see. I'm coming back.”

O
n Thursday morning, McLendon put on his good suit and packed his other belongings in his valise. He thought about wearing his Navy Colt in its holster, but decided against it because going out openly armed might arouse suspicion among MacPherson's men. But he put the weapon on top of everything else in the valise.

Just before ten o'clock, he left the jail and walked across to where the Florence stage waited in front of the livery. Charlie and Rose Rogers were already there. They had a heavy trunk that the driver and shotgun guard were struggling to lift into the baggage bin at the back of the stage. Two Sears and Sons officials were traveling to Florence too. Like McLendon, they had valises that they handed to the driver to stow after the Rogerses' trunk was finally heaved up into the bin. McLendon shook his head when the driver asked if he wanted his valise stowed away as well. Even though he was certain he'd never hit anything he aimed at, there was still some comfort in knowing his gun was handy.

Ike Clanton lounged in front of the livery office, taking in the
scene. Across the way, Lemmy Duke perched on the front steps of the hotel. MacPherson's lookouts were in place. Crazy George, Mary Somebody, Girl, Major Mulkins, Salvatore and Gabrielle Tirrito, and Joe Saint were all outside the livery, there to say good-bye to the Rogerses and, McLendon knew, to carry out the charade that he was also leaving. Mulkins in particular proved to have skills as a thespian. He dramatically hugged Rose Rogers, pumped her husband's hand, and said, “Now, Charlie, you linger in Florence for a while. I suspect the rest of us might be joining you there soon, and then we can go out and found ourselves another town.”

“I suppose we could, for we're in no hurry,” Rogers replied. He seemed relieved that his friends weren't resentful of his selling out to MacPherson. “Rosie wants a few days of leisure before we contemplate our future.”

“You rest yourself well, Rose,” Gabrielle said. “I know you've been under considerable strain.” She handed the other woman a paper parcel. “Papa and I thought you might want these for the ride today.”

Rose twisted open the package and peered inside. “Hard candies! Bless you both!”

The stage driver called, “All on, time to depart,” and the mining company men climbed into the carriage. Everyone lined up to hug the Rogerses before they climbed aboard—Rose needed considerable help managing the high step up into the stage—and then it was McLendon's turn for farewells. Mary Somebody and Girl hugged him, and after she did, Girl began to sob. Mary patted her arm, and then Ike Clanton came over and led Girl away.

“Don't be mournful, lovey, because you've still got Ikey,” he said. Then, glancing back, he added, “Best board that stage, McLendon.”

“Well, C.M., it's been a pleasure,” Mulkins said. “I hope our paths cross again down the road.”

“I feel the same, Major,” McLendon said. “I hope everyone considers making those fresh starts out in San Francisco. Look me up when you get there.”

He shook hands with Crazy George and Joe Saint. Salvatore Tirrito hesitated, then held out a gnarled hand. McLendon briefly touched it, knowing the elderly Italian wouldn't want any extended contact. Then Gabrielle stood before him. One of the things McLendon had always loved about her was her complete openness of expression. It was always easy to tell what she was thinking. Now she was obviously torn. She limited herself to a handshake rather than a hug; he thought it was because Saint was there. But then she stepped close and whispered in his ear, “Once you alert the Army, don't come back. Go to California. Be safe.”

He held her hand a beat longer than strict propriety allowed. Looking over her shoulder, he saw Saint stiffen. Then he gently pushed her away and said, “You'll see.” He thought that he saw in her eyes faint glimmers of tears that she would never allow herself to shed, and then, in the next instant, her eyes were dry again. How did women do that?

“Everyone on,” the driver said again. Knowing Ike and Lemmy Duke were watching, McLendon took a long look around—at the tiny town and the cluster of prospectors' tents, the jagged Pinals and the intimidating sweep of Apache Leap.

“Tell Sydney that I sent my regards,” he said to Gabrielle, and then he jumped up into the carriage and pulled the door shut behind him. The driver cracked his whip over the heads of the mule team and the stage lurched forward. Even though he fully expected to return, McLendon still felt sad. He kept the window curtain open so he could see Queen Creek, and then Picket Post Mountain looming ahead.

•   •   •

B
ECAUSE OF THE
increased passenger traffic between the towns, the stage was a nine-seater rather than the smaller six-seat model that initially brought McLendon from Florence to Glorious. The two mining company executives took one bench. They spread papers between themselves and pored over them, ignoring their fellow passengers. Rose and Charlie Rogers occupied the middle bench, with McLendon facing them on the third. Because of his wife's bulk, the former Glorious mayor was squashed against the side of the carriage. McLendon almost suggested that he join him on the third bench, but realized just before he did that Rogers would never want to separate himself from his beloved jelly bunny. So he and Rogers talked, mostly about Florence and the various amenities there. Rose Rogers said very little, contenting herself with eating the candy that Gabrielle had given her. Rose consumed the candy one piece at a time, crunching it between her teeth, swallowing, and immediately inserting another piece in her mouth. There was a certain rhythm to it.

As he and Rogers chatted, McLendon maintained the fiction that he was on his way to California. Rogers probably wouldn't have any means of informing MacPherson otherwise, but there was no sense taking chances.

“California's the place to be,” McLendon said. “Unlimited opportunity. Lots of room to grow. No Apaches to speak of.”

“You're a man who'll be happier in the city, C.M.,” Rogers said. “I never thought you well suited for the high desert and Glorious.”

They discussed McLendon's route to the West Coast. Rogers helpfully noted that he'd have to take the stage from Florence to Maricopa Wells, because all Florence stages went north and south. Longer
east–west lines were routed through Maricopa Wells, which had a larger depot than Florence.

“But the road between Florence and the Wells is a good one, so that trip will only take you four hours, at most five,” Rogers said. “So after you spend tonight in Florence, you can depart for the Wells in the morning, and if your timing's right, you might be on a California stage by mid-afternoon.”

“That's a pleasant thought,” McLendon said, but his mind was on something much different. He spent much of the long day remembering that Gabrielle had almost cried when he left that morning. Maybe Joe Saint hadn't won yet.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON SPENT
the night in a small, smelly Florence hotel. He still had almost seven hundred dollars, but he didn't want to spend any more of it than necessary. When he was done in Glorious, stage fare on to California would be almost a hundred dollars, and maybe, just maybe, there'd be Gabrielle's fare too. They'd need money to live on in California while they got settled, and what if she insisted that her father come with them? The addition of the old man's stage fare and other travel expenses would just about deplete McLendon's money. But the Tirritos would undoubtedly have some money of their own. Salvatore could pay his own way.

The Maricopa Wells stage was scheduled to depart at eight a.m., so McLendon turned in early. He'd declined Charlie Rogers's invitation to dine with him and Rose, choosing instead to eat a bowl of greasy chili at a café near the stage depot. During the unsatisfactory meal, he was overcome by a sensation he recognized from the early weeks after he'd fled St. Louis, the feeling of being stalked. Surely MacPherson
wouldn't have sent anyone to Florence after him with orders to kill. Yet on the short walk to the café from his hotel, and again on the way back, McLendon sensed someone lurking. There was an unwelcome but familiar prickling on the back of his neck. But when he stopped and nervously peered into the shadows, no one was there. He shook his head and reminded himself to keep his imagination under control.

By the time McLendon crawled into the lumpy hotel bed, the chili was rolling uncomfortably in his stomach. He spent too much of the night squatting over a chamber pot. It was, he thought, an inelegant posture for a man engaged on a heroic mission. Then the rest of the night he lay awake wondering what was happening back in Glorious. How long could the founders put off MacPherson? What if he returned with the Army, only to find they'd given up and sold out, or something worse? MacPherson was capable of anything.

•   •   •

I
N THE MORNING
McLendon walked to the Florence stage depot and purchased a ticket to Maricopa Wells. He bought the ticket, which cost five dollars, from Mr. Billings, the depot manager who'd tried to discourage him from going to Glorious three months earlier. Mr. Billings apparently didn't recognize him. He took McLendon's money, handed him a paper ticket, and said, “Maricopa Wells stage is boarding outside to the left. Step lively.”

There wasn't time for McLendon to get breakfast at the depot, but he really didn't want any. The thick taste of the previous night's chili was still in his mouth. The stage to Maricopa Wells was another nine-seater. He was one of five passengers, all men. Three of the other four appeared to be business travelers. The other was a soldier. There were two stripes on his uniform sleeves and McLendon thought that meant he was a corporal, probably stationed at Camp McDowell and
returning after being away on leave. Nobody felt like talking. The carriage was quiet during the five-hour trip. The ride was smooth. Charlie Rogers had been right about the good road.

•   •   •

M
ARICOPA
W
ELLS
surprised McLendon. He'd expected a town like Florence, maybe a little bigger, with hotels and cafés and adobe houses. But Maricopa Wells was the equivalent of a civilian fort, one massive building spread over two acres, with individual businesses and residences built in. There was a stable with horses and mules for rent, a blacksmith, and several cafés and shops, all under the same roof and separated by wooden walls. Smells of manure, burning coals, and cooking food mingled, not unpleasantly. The stage pulled up outside the building and the occupants climbed down.

Now that he'd arrived in Maricopa Wells, McLendon faced the dilemma of how to go on to Camp McDowell. Mulkins had said it was about fifty miles northeast. McLendon looked and there were mountains in that direction. It was hard to tell how far away they were, but it seemed a considerable distance. There was no stage service. Probably he'd have to rent and ride a mule. The thought made him wince. He remembered how much it had hurt to ride a horse the two miles from Glorious to the Culloden Ranch. It was already almost three in the afternoon. He didn't want to wait to set out until morning. With MacPherson poised to strike back in Glorious, every hour counted. But McLendon couldn't see himself riding through the night. Even if he didn't collapse from pain, he was certain to get turned around in the dark. And how long would it take to ride fifty miles on a mule? He had no idea.

“You aiming for McDowell?”

McLendon, who'd been lost in his thought, was startled to find the
Army corporal standing beside him. “That's correct. I was wondering the best way to get there.”

The corporal was chewing tobacco. He spit a great blob of brown juice at the base of a cactus and held out his hand. “Name's Stowers. I'm stationed there. A rough go to McDowell is what it is, particularly if you ain't used to saddle travel.”

“I'm Cash McLendon. What little experience I've had riding has proven painful. Is there any other way?”

Stowers squinted at the mountains to the northeast, apparently lost in thought. McLendon noticed that the corporal had a great deal of gray in his beard. He seemed old to hold such a low rank.

“Thing is,” Stowers finally said, “there's a sutler here hauling some beer out to the camp, leaving this afternoon and going all night. We're friends. He knew I was to arrive today and could accompany him. Another gun in case the Apaches get feisty. Every one helps. Would you have a weapon in that bag of yours?”

“A Navy Colt,” McLendon said, feeling hopeful.

Stowers spit more tobacco juice. “I expect I could ask him if you could join us. He's got a wagon. The beer barrels'd take up much of the space, but there might be room for you to sit, even stretch out and sleep a bit during the night if you wished. We leave in another hour or so, and if we make steady progress all night, we'll fetch up at McDowell by mid-morning. What business have you there?”

“A message for the camp commander from the people of Glorious.”

“I've not heard of anyplace named Glorious, but then, I ain't heard of lots of places.”

“Will you ask your friend on my behalf?”

Stowers grinned. “You know, a man out here often runs short of tobacco. I'm down to my last chew. Now, if someone was to buy me a
few twists so I'd be well supplied for a while back out at my post, I'd feel kindly toward him.”

“Help me ride in a wagon rather than on a mule, and you can have all the tobacco that you want.”

“There ain't enough money in the world for that, but you can buy tobacco inside. Feel free to purchase with a lavish hand. I'll go talk to my friend.”

Ninety minutes later McLendon sat wedged against several heavy beer barrels in the bed of a wagon pulled northeast by a two-mule team. Corporal Stowers rode another mule alongside the wagon, which was driven by a sutler named Blackman.