Glorious (35 page)

“Just push those barrels off a little if they're squeezing you,” Blackman, a hefty, jolly man, advised McLendon. “You don't need your balls mashed.”

“My balls are better here than they would be riding a mule,” McLendon said. “Are we really to travel all night?”

“It's the best way,” Blackman said. “The Apache tend toward quiet at night. It's an easy trail. We ought to make good time, get to McDowell in the morning.”

“But how will you find your way in the dark?”

“Easy. You just sight on the North Star. Don't you worry, I'll get you to McDowell.”

McLendon felt certain that he could never sleep in the cramped wagon bed, but after a brief rest stop where they relieved themselves and then Blackman cooked biscuits in a Dutch oven, he felt himself nodding off. The next thing he knew, the first thin pink rays of daylight peeped above the horizon to the east.

“Two hours more and we're at McDowell,” Corporal Stowers told him.

“Have you been riding that mule all night?” McLendon asked. “Didn't you want some sleep?”

“Oh, I can sleep comfortably as I ride,” Stowers said. “All that matters is, the mule needs to stay awake.”

They stopped one more time to water the animals—Blackman had brought a cask of water for the mule team and the corporal's mount—and once Stowers thought he'd detected suspicious movement ahead. He drew his Army handgun and clucked to his mule to advance, while Blackman pulled up his team and rummaged in the wagon bed for a shotgun. McLendon took the Navy Colt out of his valise and nervously scanned the land in every direction until Stowers returned.

“Just some ground birds, maybe turkey,” he reported. “But it's always better to be careful. Apaches will sound turkey calls to fool you, but I found claw scratchings and some droppings, so we're all right.”

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON'S FIRST IMPRESSION
of Camp McDowell was disappointing.

The camp consisted of some dozen buildings surrounded by a fence so low that any able-bodied man, let alone an Apache warrior, could easily clamber over it. The buildings themselves seemed well constructed of chinked wood and stone, but several lacked roofs. Soldiers lounged about the grounds, many of them only in partial uniform or completely in civilian clothes. Clumsy-looking Morgan horses cropped yellow grass inside a rickety corral.

Corporal Stowers noticed McLendon's expression of dismay. “Yessir, we're the nation's finest,” he said. “This is the army that stands between you and the Apaches. Which, I suppose, is a matter of considerable merriment to the Indians. You say you want to see the commander?”

“I do.”

“Headquarters is that building there to the left, the one with the flagpole in front. Captain Smyth is the man you're seeking.”

“A captain is the camp commander?”

“At least he's usually sober. You should have seen some of the daisies that came before him. Thanks for the tobacco, and best of luck.”

McLendon walked over to the headquarters building. His legs and back were stiff from riding in the sutler's wagon for so long. The door to the building was ajar, but he wasn't certain that he could simply walk in. He stood on the porch and rapped his knuckles against the doorjamb. There was no response. He poked his head inside and saw a small man in uniform slumped over a desk, his head resting on his arms. “Hello?” McLendon called tentatively. “May I come in?”

The soldier raised his head wearily and said, “You woke me up, so you might as well. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”

McLendon went inside. There was sufficient light from several window openings—no glass—for him to see that the man was sweating profusely, with a gray pallor to his skin. “I'm looking for Captain Smyth,” McLendon said.

“You're looking at him. I repeat, what the hell do you want? If you're another liquor salesman, I'll inform you that it's my intention to ban bottled spirits among the enlisted men, and the officers have suppliers of their own. Does that conclude our business? If so, remove your sorry ass from this camp.”

“You mistake me. My name is Cash McLendon, and I've come from Glorious on urgent business.”

Smyth dragged a stained handkerchief from his pants pocket and mopped his dripping face. “Where the fuck is Glorious? Never heard of it.”

“Glorious is a small town east of Florence, right at the base of the Pinal Mountains.”

“Oh, near old Camp Picket Post. Never should have closed down that camp. Some civilian convinced the brass that his ranch hands could fight the Apache in that region better than the Army. Hell, he might be right. But it was a good camp, well situated. Made no sense to close it, not that the Army ever makes much sense.”

McLendon sensed that Smyth was prepared to rail indefinitely about the Army's incompetence. “I'm sure you're correct, but I have information to report. It can't wait. Lives are in the balance.”

“They often are.” Smyth gestured at a chair on the other side of his desk. “Take a pew and tell me about the problem in Glorious.”

McLendon sat down. “For several weeks—actually, several months—signs have indicated that substantial numbers of Apache are gathering to attack. Two of our people have been slaughtered in an appalling manner just outside town. A few days ago, prospectors saw a full-blown war party. We're still a small town and would be unable to defend against any substantial onslaught.”

Smyth sighed and leaned back in his chair. “And why, exactly, have you come to tell me this?”

“I would think it's obvious. We need the Army to come out to protect us, to drive off or at least discourage the Indians.”

“I see.” Smyth mopped his sweaty face again. “You'd like me to dispatch a significant number of soldiers to keep your people safe. Open-ended as to time, of course. They'd stay as long as you felt they were needed.”

“That sums up my request.”

“And do you suppose that yours is the only such request I've received in recent days? That Glorious is the only town in Arizona Territory that feels threatened by the Apaches?”

McLendon didn't like the turn that the conversation had taken. “Perhaps not, but I'm certain the urgency of our plight trumps any
other pleas you've heard. The Indians are poised to swarm down upon us. You can't let helpless people die. You're the Army—it's what you're here in Arizona Territory to prevent.”

Smyth sighed again. “Let me ask you: How many troops do you suppose I have here at my disposal?”

“I have no idea.”

“Currently, Camp McDowell serves as the headquarters of the Fifth Cavalry. I'm sure that sounds impressive. But if I include cooks and other support staff as well as full-fledged soldiers, my garrison numbers just under one hundered seventy men. We're called cavalry, but we have fewer than seventy-five horses fit to ride. Another fifty or more are too broken-down to be saddled, let alone ridden off after Indians.”

“That's appalling,” McLendon said, and meant it.

“There are, Lord, a dozen or more other Army camps in the territory, but McDowell is the one the brass dips into for foolish fucking assignments and wild-goose chases. The president has a peace commissioner visiting such Apache chiefs as can be found. Twenty McDowell cavalrymen ride with him. Some legislator down in Tucson has his ranch raided and some of his cattle run off by Indians. Nothing will do but thirty McDowell cavalry must ride down in an attempt to recover beeves that were butchered and eaten by the Apaches long before the first word even reached me. And not three days ago, an Apache war party was sighted less than four miles from here. They may be plotting to attack this camp. And if they do, they'll likely find much of the garrison drunk on their asses, too boozed up to fight back. I've got a camp full of fucking alcoholics is what I've got. I'm trying to tamp down the drinking. One of the more recent commanders before me got falling-down drunk every single day. The men took it as encouragement to do the same. So I'm probably down to a few dozen effectives, and here you are asking me to send troops to some
goddamned place in the middle of nowhere. What troops, mounted on what horses? I can't conjure help for you out of fucking thin air. This civilian with all his men, the one that got Camp Picket Post shut down last year by promising to defend the area himself. Turn to him. He'd seem your best hope.” Smyth's diatribe was cut off as he began coughing. They were deep, wet coughs. Coupled with the man's ghastly pallor, McLendon thought that the captain must be very sick.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you some water?”

“No, just give me a moment,” Smyth choked. “The desert doesn't agree with me.”

They sat silently for a few moments. McLendon racked his brain. What could he say to persuade Smyth to send troops when he apparently had none to spare? He remembered from former negotiations that when facts couldn't prevail, empathy sometimes did.

“It must be hard being stationed here, even for someone in the best of health,” McLendon said. “All the dust, and the tedium. The mess left behind by former commanders. The brass and its outrageous demands.”

Smyth coughed again, but the spasms were milder. “That's the truth of it. I hate this place.”

“You seem an accomplished man. Why not resign and find a more tolerable situation?”

“It's not that easy. I've a wife and baby. They're here in camp with me, God help them. It's my heart that's giving out on me. If I stay in the military, when I'm gone, at least my widow gets a pension. But that's nothing to you.”

“It is. You're bearing up under a terrible burden. You have my compliments for that.”

Smyth studied McLendon, who tried to adopt a concerned expression. “What's the name of the civilian with the gunmen?” the captain asked.

“Collin MacPherson. But his men are otherwise occupied and currently not in a position to offer any protection,” McLendon said.

“Can't this MacPherson be persuaded?”

McLendon reminded himself to stick to the truth as much as possible. “He's a hard man to talk to—just sees things his own way.”

Smyth nodded. “Yes, the big shots are like that. There's no making them see what's really what.”

“He's been even worse since a recent visit by the governor. They've gone into business together, buying a local silver claim and planning to build a mine.”

“The governor? Fucking Safford himself?” Smyth said, eyes widening. “He's got business interests in your town?”

McLendon thought,
An opening!
“That's a fact.”

“Shit, the governor,” Smyth said. He'd begun sweating heavily again, but was too preoccupied now to use his handkerchief. Perspiration dripped down from his chin onto the desk. “The Apaches overrun the town, the governor's business is wiped out, he's the kind of powerful bastard who holds a grudge.”

“This is certainly so.”

“He'd blame the Army, of course, and the Army would blame me. I could be cashiered.”

“Your wife's pension gone, just like that. Hard times for her and your child.”

“Shit.” Smyth frowned. McLendon sat quietly, waiting. “All right,” Smyth finally said. “Here's what I can do. Though I've precious few men to share, I'll send down six, and there's a corporal just back from leave who's less of a drunkard than most of the rest. I'll place him in charge.”

“Just six? Against war parties of Apaches?”

“Seven, counting the corporal. Don't dispute me on this, for I
could change my mind. I'll call Stowers in, explain what he's to do, which is go to this Glorious, have a scout around, ascertain the situation. If the Apaches are in truth skulking about, he can send word back and I'll dispatch more men as soon as I get the troops back from that waste of time down Tucson way. It'll take an hour or so to get the expedition together. You might visit the stores here, get yourself some food. You've a long journey ahead. And if ever you're asked, testify that I looked out for the governor's interests as best I could.” Smyth stood and shouted for an orderly. He shook hands with McLendon. The captain's palm was slimy with sweat.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON BOUGHT
bread and bacon from the camp sutler. He fashioned a rudimentary sandwich and washed it down with brackish well water. Standing on the porch in front of the store, he watched as Smyth's orderly fetched Corporal Stowers. The corporal was inside with his commander for about ten minutes. When he emerged, he saw McLendon looking in his direction and shook his fist at him. Clearly, Stowers wasn't pleased to have to lead troops against the Apaches so soon after returning from leave.

Blackman, the Maricopa Wells sutler who'd brought McLendon to the camp on his beer wagon, came into the store. “Have you finished your business here?” he asked. “If you have, I mean to depart in short order. You're welcome to ride back to the Wells with me. You can pretty much catch a stage to anywhere from there.”

For a long moment McLendon was tempted. He'd done his duty by Glorious. Seven soldiers weren't much, but at least he'd tried. Gabrielle was probably going to marry Joe Saint anyway. McLendon could ride back to Maricopa Wells and, with a clear conscience, climb on a stage for California. Returning to Glorious with a handful of
drunken soldiers was probably the equivalent of signing his own death warrant.

“Well?” Blackman asked.

“No,” McLendon said. “I'm needed elsewhere, damn it.”

•   •   •

T
HE SMALL EXPEDITION
left Camp McDowell for Glorious just after four o'clock. Stowers said they had three or four hours of daylight remaining. He and five of the soldiers rode Morgan horses. The sixth soldier drove a small wagon pulled by a two-mule team. There were supplies in the bed of the wagon, and room for McLendon.