Glorious (37 page)

“Thanks to the generosity of MacPherson Livery, we also have some riding mules available,” Stowers said. “There's not enough room for all on the wagons and there aren't enough mules for everyone else, but able-bodied men can take turns riding and going on foot. We'll keep a steady pace, but slow enough for brisk walking. I know many of you walked here from far-off places, anyway.” The men who wanted to ride first rather than walk hurried to the mules. McLendon noticed that Newman and Phin Clanton claimed the best ones. He saw Ike standing nearby and called, “Aren't you going with the rest of your family?”

Ike tried to smile, but it seemed to McLendon that the resulting expression was a nervous grimace. “If others are staying, I will too.”

Besides Saint, McLendon, Mulkins, Crazy George, Mary Somebody, and now Girl, not many others besides Ike chose to remain. About ten prospectors besides Bossman refused to go, and many others left their tents intact as a sign that they planned to return soon. Preacher Sheridan was leaving. Just before he mounted a mule, he
called to McLendon, “I've said a prayer for all of you who decided to stay. Place your trust in the Lord, and he may protect you in unexpected ways.”

“Thanks for the thought,” McLendon replied. “I'm surprised to see you evacuating. Is it God's will that you do?”

Preacher said solemnly, “Martyrdom is for worthier prophets than me. Given my poor record at soul saving, at present I'd be ashamed to stand before my maker. And I can't spread the Good Word if I'm dead.”

Just as everyone was ready to depart, Sydney Chau and the rest of the Chinese arrived from their river camp.

Sydney walked directly to Stowers and asked, “Are we to be evacuated under Army protection as well? We just learned of it. Why did no one inform us earlier?”

Before the corporal could respond, Saint said apologetically, “I'm sorry, Doc. I truly meant to. I guess there was so much going on that I forgot.”

“Chinese are used to being forgotten,” Sydney said. “Yet here we are. Are we allowed to join you?”

“I don't know,” Stowers said. “Nobody mentioned Chinks to me. There's no more room in the wagons or available mules. I've only made arrangements for white people.”

“Most of us can walk,” Sydney said. “A few of our older people, though, will need to ride.”

“I don't think I can do it,” Stowers said. “Space is too limited.” Then Gabrielle approached, and the corporal tipped his hat. “Good morning, ma'am. I see you're with an elderly man, perhaps your father? You two should get in that last wagon. One of my men will assist you if required. We need to be going.”

“I agree that we do, and my father could, in fact, use some
assistance getting up in the wagon. I myself will walk alongside with my friend Sydney Chau. After the soldier helps my father, please ask him to aid Sydney's mother, who must ride in the wagon as well.”

Stowers looked uncomfortable and said, “The wagons are for whites only.”

“Is this a military regulation?” Gabrielle asked. McLendon, listening, couldn't help but grin. Corporal Stowers was about to be stampeded.

“No, ma'am, I guess not officially,” Stowers said. “But it's understood.”

“Understood by whom?”

“Well, by everyone.”

“Not by me. If Mrs. Chau, who is elderly and in delicate health, is forced to walk the whole way to Florence, then I'll ask my father to walk, and everyone else of good character and conscience in the evacuation party. Some won't make it all the way to Florence. They'll collapse. Won't the territorial legislature and the newspapers be interested to learn the details of how—excuse me, are you a corporal? All right—of how a corporal was responsible for this tragedy? Your superiors will be called upon to act. Not being in the military, I have no specific knowledge of the process of a court-martial. I'm sure it's unpleasant in the extreme for the accused. But no one wants that. Allow Mrs. Chau and whatever other older Chinese require it to ride in the wagons.”

Stowers, thoroughly flummoxed, said shakily, “Yes, ma'am. Fine. Get them up there.”

Sydney embraced Gabrielle and led her mother and a few other Chinese to the wagons. Gabrielle watched as her father, Salvatore, was helped in by a soldier. Mr. Tirrito waved at his daughter, gesturing for her to join him, but she didn't.

“Well,” said Gabrielle. She turned to McLendon and Saint. “You're both fools.” She hugged Saint. “Don't die,” she told him. She looked at McLendon for a moment, walked toward the wagon, then abruptly turned, walked back, and hugged him, too, though she didn't tell him not to die. It was a hard rather than a tender embrace. His ribs hurt a little from the force of it. Still, he wanted badly to extend the contact, the feeling of Gabrielle's body pressed against his, but as soon as his arms tightened around her in response, she pulled away.

Stowers called for everyone to mount up. The motley procession moved west out of town, passing the guard post. The last McLendon saw of Gabrielle, she was walking beside Sydney Chau and not looking back.

Ike Clanton rode past on a mule. For a moment McLendon thought he was trying to catch up to the wagons, but he turned left across Queen Creek, heading for Culloden. Led by Bossman, the remaining prospectors drifted back to their tents. Major Mulkins, Crazy George, Mary Somebody, and Girl stood watching McLendon and Saint, waiting to be told what to do. McLendon didn't say anything. It was Saint's place to take charge.

For another long moment, the sheriff watched the evacuees recede farther in the distance. Then he said, “Well, I guess we better get ready for whatever's coming.”

M
cLendon took the Navy Colt and its holster from his valise. He'd spent the night at the jail and had left his belongings there. He attached the holster to his belt; the weight of the gun was comforting. He took the box of cartridges from the valise and tried to wedge the box into his pants pocket, but it wouldn't fit.

“Take the shells out of the box and put them in your pockets,” Joe Saint advised. He was checking his handgun too.

McLendon jammed a handful of cartridges into his pocket. There were still some left in the box. “Would you like these?” he asked Saint.

“No, you've got that Colt, and I have a Smith & Wesson. The ammunition isn't compatible.”

“I suppose I'll leave the rest of my things here,” McLendon said. But he pulled a roll of bills from the bottom of the bag. His stay in Glorious hadn't been expensive. Almost seven hundred dollars was still left from the original two thousand he'd had when he left St. Louis. McLendon tucked the money into his pants pocket with
the cartridges. He wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to spend it.

Major Mulkins came into the jail carrying his rifle. “Forty-four Henry repeater,” he said. “Might be handy if we have to do any distance shooting, though I'm the farthest thing from a marksman. Have you a rifle, Joe?”

Saint shook his head. “Never had any need for one before now. I guess I'll have to make do with a handgun.”

The three men walked from the jail to the Owaysis. Some prospectors who'd stayed, including Bossman Wright, were out in the mountains, defiantly looking for silver sign despite the supposed Apache threat. The others lingered around their tents. They had guns, too—Henrys like Mulkins's, and shotguns. McLendon didn't see any pistols. No vaqueros were manning the guard posts on either end of town. MacPherson had apparently withdrawn them.

The office door to the livery swung open in the wind. “Ike Clanton seems conspicuous by his absence,” Saint observed.

“He's probably still at the Culloden, plotting with MacPherson,” McLendon said. “They're deciding what they're going to do, how they're going to do it.”

Inside the Owaysis, Crazy George was washing plates and beer mugs. Mary Somebody tried to soothe Girl, who was clinging to her and softly whimpering.

“She senses our discomfort,” Mary said. “Let loose, child. I've things to do.” But Girl wouldn't let Mary go, and finally the older woman sat down with her at one of the tables, holding her hand and talking to her quietly.

“You got those items good and clean, George?” Mulkins asked. “It hadn't occurred to me that crockery was of such paramount importance in time of trouble.”

The saloon owner peered nearsightedly in Mulkins's direction. “Well, Major, on the off chance we get past this, there might be some who want a drink or food afterward. What time is it, anyway?”

McLendon checked his pocket watch. “Nearly noon. MacPherson's had time to think. We need to work out our own plan.”

“I thought we'd each set up in our proper places,” Mulkins said. “Me at the hotel, George and Mary here, maybe you at the dry goods store, since the Tirritos aren't present. The sheriff to work in wherever he thinks best.”

“What I think is, we'd be wise to stay together,” Saint said. “If we separate, that makes it easier to pick us off one or two at a time. Let's choose a place and make our stand there.”

“Can it be my hotel?” Mulkins asked. “I'd like to protect my windows, try to keep them intact.”

“The hotel's too big, Major,” Saint said. “We'd have to spread out inside too much defending it. MacPherson's men could shoot right through those windows. The dry goods store won't work, either. There's just the one door and one window opening out in the shop area. They could charge us from the other directions and we'd never see them coming. But there's the jail, maybe. Windows cut in all the walls, good vantage points.”

McLendon walked around the saloon, looking through window openings, and then peered into the back corner where Crazy George stored his casks and barrels. He asked, “George, you got any water in those?”

“One keg, for those who prefer water or coffee to beer and whiskey. It's fairly fresh water, drawn yesterday from a town well.”

“Good. Mary, what food is on hand?”

Mary extricated herself from Girl's grasp, thought a moment, and said, “Not much. Some jerky and a jar of pickles.”

“All right, that's better than nothing,” McLendon said. “I propose that we hole up right here. It's just one big room, really, but there are windows and the front entrance and the back door. There are just enough of us to keep those covered. And if there's a siege, we've got water and food to hold out for a while. Corporal Stowers planned to take everyone to Florence, then ride on to Camp McDowell to get help sent here. Maybe we could hold out until the Army comes to relieve us.”

“In terms of a siege, remember the Alamo,” Saint said. “As I recall, all those defenders died waiting for relief. We're on our own.” The tremor in the sheriff's voice that emerged in moments of stress was back. McLendon was first annoyed, then sympathetic. Saint was afraid, but he had good reason to be.

“Well, Joe, we've still got to try,” McLendon said. “I think our best option is staying here. George, have you a weapon? Major's got his rifle, and the sheriff and I have pistols.”

Crazy George reached under the makeshift bar and pulled out a shotgun. “I've got this, and a box of shells.”

“I'm heeled too,” Mary Somebody said. She reached into the bodice of her dress and extracted a derringer. “Over-and-under, two shots. It's not good at any distance, but effective at close range, should it come to that.”

“All right, then,” Saint said. His voice still quavered, but McLendon could see that the sheriff was attempting to reexert his authority. “We've got arms, we've got supplies. Let's station ourselves appropriately and be prepared. The attack can come anytime.”

“Now that we know what we're doing, Joe, don't you think we might as well drink a little water and take a bite or two?” McLendon said, making a point of asking permission rather than correcting. “Whatever MacPherson's going to do, he's likely to wait until dark. Besides
us, there's the prospectors, some of them outside of town. That's too many potential witnesses in daylight. He could try to kill everyone, but all it would take is one man getting away. Don't you think he'll wait 'til nighttime?”

“That's true,” Saint said. “All right, I guess we should eat.”

Nobody felt hungry, but to keep their strength up they all nibbled jerky and sipped water, not taking too much of either in case they needed their limited supplies to last for several days. Crazy George offered beer or whiskey instead of water, but Saint said sharply that everyone needed to keep their wits fully about them. McLendon was pleased that the sheriff's voice sounded steadier.

After the meal they took up defensive positions: the sheriff at the front door, Mulkins at the back entrance, McLendon at one side window, and Crazy George at the other.

“I can't see anything clear even in daylight, but I believe I'll detect movement,” the saloon owner said.

“Just hold your place for a few minutes, George,” Mary Somebody said. “I'll get Girl settled and then I'll add my eyes to yours.” Mary sat Girl at a table and placed a deck of playing cards in front of her. “Lookie here, darlin'. The cards with the pictures. You study them real careful. I'll be right over here.” Girl began shuffling the cards, her hands in quick, precise motion. Then she began placing the cards faceup on the table, stopping each time she set out a face card, bending over to study the visage of the jack, queen, or king.

“She can occupy herself that way for the longest time,” Mary said. “Make room for me, George. I'll look out that window for you.”

•   •   •

F
OR SEVERAL HOURS
there was no movement outside the saloon and little inside it except for Girl shuffling her cards and placing them
down on the table in front of her. The snapping sounds of the shuffling and the slaps of the cards on the table were distracting, but not as much as Girl's nervous whimpering would have been without her attention otherwise occupied. The others spoke very little; each was wrapped up in personal thoughts. McLendon found himself trying to remember St. Louis, the Douglass mansion that he'd lived in, the details of Ellen's face. He found that he couldn't. Everything that had happened since took precedence. He pictured Gabrielle earlier that day, facing down Corporal Stowers so that Sydney Chau's mother could ride to Florence instead of walk. Gabrielle. What might have been—what would have been—if Cash McLendon had been a better man? He glanced over at Joe Saint. The sheriff had pulled a chair up to the front door of the saloon. He had the door cracked open and seemed to be intently keeping watch. McLendon felt certain that Saint, too, was thinking about Gabrielle.

In late afternoon Crazy George declared, “I need a piss break.” He walked toward the back of the saloon and Mulkins asked, “George, where you going?”

“To the outhouse, of course.”

Mulkins looked at Saint and McLendon, who shook their heads.

“You can't risk it, George,” the sheriff said. “MacPherson might have men with rifles waiting to pick us off if we go outside.”

“Damn it, I got to piss,” George growled. “I can't hold it and I don't mean to soak my pants.”

“Go in the corner and use a glass or one of the serving bowls,” Mary told him. “Nobody'll look. When you're done, I need to go. If any of the gentlemen are squeamish, they can avert their eyes.”

“It'll smell,” George said. “I can't abide piss smell.”

“Then we'll pour it out one of the windows. Is that all right, Sheriff?” Mary asked. When Saint nodded, Crazy George took a wide
bowl and retreated to a far wall. “He's modest,” Mary whispered to the others. “It's so sweet.”

When Crazy George was done, everyone else took turns and felt better for it. Afterward they had small sips of water. Girl went back to her cards, content to play with them for as long as Mary allowed. Mulkins mused about how much it would cost to complete the second story of his hotel, adding that he'd wait awhile longer before adding a third. Then he said, “Well, if I even have a hotel after today.” They were quiet again after that.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON HAD
just checked his watch and seen that it was half past six when someone in front of the saloon began shouting, “Hello, the town! Hello, the town!” It was Ike Clanton.

“Come out with me, McLendon,” Saint said. “Everyone else, keep watching. This may be to distract us so they can storm in from the other sides.” The sheriff and McLendon went slowly out the door, looking carefully around them as they did. They didn't see anyone except Ike, who stood in front of the farrier's shop. He was holding the reins to his mule.

“All of you shut up in the Owaysis?” Ike asked. “Going to fight off the Apaches from there?”

“We're ready for anything, Ike,” Saint said. McLendon was annoyed because the sheriff's voice was shaky again. He knew that Ike noticed it too.

“Apparently so,” Ike said. “Let me put up my mule and I'll join you.”

McLendon hissed to Saint, “Don't let him. He means to survey our defenses and count our guns.”

“What's that, McLendon?” Ike inquired. “Don't whisper. There need be no secrets among pals.”

“Where've you been, Ike?” McLendon asked. “Run out of things to tell MacPherson at the Culloden?”

“Now, that accusation hurts. Since there's no stock at the livery to guard—as a good citizen, I lent all but this one mule to the evacuation—I've been out scouting around, on the lookout for the Indians. I'm sorry to say there's sign, considerable sign—more footprints and so forth than I could count. Let me inside the saloon with you. I'll reinforce you with another gun.”

“A new Winchester, just like the rest of the Culloden mob,” McLendon observed. “We know whose side you're on, Ike. Stop pretending.”

Ike shook his head. “Sheriff, I appeal to you,” he said. “Let me inside. McLendon has always opposed me. I don't know why. But I've friends in there. Don't I observe my slow-witted sweetheart at the door, just delighted to see me?”

The sheriff and McLendon turned to look. It was true. Girl was trying to wedge past Mary Somebody, who stood in the saloon door, blocking her way.

“Ike,” Girl shrilled.

“Right here, lovey,” Ike called back. “Give me leave to join you, Sheriff.”

“Get away, Ike,” Saint said. “Go back to your boss and tell him to leave us alone. We'll fight if we're forced to.”

McLendon sensed movement to the right, past the jail in the direction of Queen Creek and the Chinese camp. He saw Angel Misterio, mounted on one of the nimble Culloden ponies, ride briskly past the jail and around the livery corral before he disappeared behind the farrier's.

“Misterio watching out for Apaches too?” McLendon asked. “Just do your dirty work and be damned, Ike.”

Ike smiled unpleasantly. “I'm not the one who's about to be damned, McLendon. Well, Sheriff, if you won't have me, I'll resume my scouting.” He got back on his mule and rode west out of town.

“We'd better get back inside,” Saint said to McLendon. “You were right to predict they'd wait until tonight, but it's getting on to dusk now.”

•   •   •

T
HEY WATCHED
through the saloon's front door and side windows as the prospectors who'd gone out for the day returned to their tents. McLendon cautiously went over and invited all of them to join the group in the saloon, but they refused.