Glorious (39 page)

Brautigan walked up the hill. McLendon, Saint, Mulkins, Crazy George, and Mary stood and watched him come, all of them working through what they'd just seen, stunned to the point of immobility by the unexpected sensation of still being alive. Before McLendon could
even think of fleeing, Brautigan clamped a meaty hand on his shoulder, his thick fingers crushing McLendon's collarbone. With his other hand, he yanked the Navy Colt from McLendon's grasp and tossed the gun aside.

“Got you,” Brautigan said in the flat, emotionless tone McLendon remembered too well.

Joe Saint, struggling to regain control of himself, wheezed, “Who are you?”

Without relinquishing his tight grip on McLendon, Brautigan said, “This man's wanted for murdering his wife in St. Louis.”

Saint, Mulkins, Crazy George, and Mary all looked startled. Saint said, “McLendon? What's this?”

“Not true,” McLendon gasped, and grunted in agony as Brautigan tightened his grip. “I didn't kill anyone. I was never accused of murder.”

“It's no concern of yours,” Brautigan said to Saint. “I've got horses ground-hitched just down the way, and I'm taking him now.”

“Don't let him take me, Joe,” McLendon pleaded. “He'll kill me.”

“I'm the sheriff here,” Saint said to Brautigan. His quaver was back, and McLendon couldn't blame him. Saint had just narrowly escaped certain death, and now he was face-to-face with Killer Boots. “What's your name, and under what authority do you make this arrest? Can you show me a warrant?”

Brautigan peered down at Saint. “I'm Patrick Brautigan, representing the St. Louis law, and I have no truck with paperwork.” With his free hand he gestured at the bent, broken star pinned to Saint's shirt. “I wear no fine badge such as your own. But this man McLendon has crimes to answer for in St. Louis, and I'm going to take him there.”

“Don't listen, Joe. He's going to kill me as soon as we're out of sight.”

“He'll make it back to St. Louis alive, Sheriff,” Brautigan said, then bent and whispered in McLendon's ear, “And you will, because Mr. Douglass wants to watch you die.” McLendon panicked and tried to twist out of Brautigan's grip. The giant swatted his open hand against his captive's head, and McLendon, stunned, dropped to the ground. Brautigan reached down, grasped McLendon's shoulder again, and hauled him back to his feet. McLendon swayed on unsteady legs.

“I've got to think about this, Mr. Brautigan,” Saint said. “Are you telling me that you're an officer of the law?”

“He isn't a lawman,” McLendon mumbled, trying to focus his eyes and concentrate. “He's a goon working for a man who was my father-in-law.” Brautigan raised his hand to strike McLendon again, but Saint reached up to stop him. The sheriff's fingers weren't long enough to wrap around the giant's massive wrist, but the contact was enough. Brautigan put down his hand and looked at Saint curiously.

“What do you require of me?” he asked. “Is it a matter of money?”

“Show me a badge or some other proof of your official capacity.”

“I've been deputized by St. Louis chief of police Kelly Welsh. If you wire him, he'll confirm this.”

McLendon said desperately, “Welsh has been bought off. You heard how Brautigan just offered you a bribe.” Brautigan shook him and McLendon's teeth rattled.

“Wire Chief Welsh,” Brautigan repeated. “Let his word settle it.”

Saint said, “The problem is, the nearest telegraph service is down in Tucson. So that's not an option. Meanwhile, I have a strong suspicion that you're impersonating a lawman, and that's a crime. Release that man. Until I get proof otherwise, I'm placing you under arrest.”

“You're going to try to arrest me? That would be a mistake.”

McLendon said quickly, “Careful, Brautigan. Remember your boss's
rule? Never openly break the law. What are you going to do, kill us all? All those vaqueros saw you before they ran away. Murder a sheriff and there'll be a manhunt, and they'll have those vaqueros to identify you. Does Rupert Douglass want that kind of notice?”

“Let loose of McLendon,” Saint ordered. Behind the sheriff, Major Mulkins stepped up with his Henry. Crazy George raised his shotgun, and even Mary Soames had her derringer. Brautigan released McLendon, who dropped to his knees and kneaded his throbbing shoulder. “Now take a step back,” Saint told the giant. “I'm going to hold you in the town jail. Deputy U.S. Marshal Hunky-Dory Holmes is due here soon. When he arrives I'm going to place you in his custody. He'll take you back to Tucson and you can wire your St. Louis police chief from there. If he vouches for you, you'll be released at once. I expect that in all it will be a matter of four or five days.”

Brautigan said, “This is a mistake, Sheriff, one you'll regret.”

“That may be, sir. Please stand where you are.” Brautigan folded his arms and waited.

Saint said to McLendon, who was being helped to his feet by Mulkins and Crazy George, “Did you hear what I told him? You've got four or five days, and that's probably all. Get as far away as you can.”

“Wait,” McLendon said. He asked Brautigan, “How did you find me?”

“It was the English girl. She wrote to Mr. Douglass in St. Louis, offering your whereabouts in exchange for first-class passage back to Britain. You always talked too much, McLendon. I thought I saw you the other night in Florence, but I couldn't be sure. Go on, run. I'll find you again, and next time no one will save you from me.”

“Major, would you bring up one of those Culloden mounts?” Saint asked. Mulkins hurried down the hill to where some of the lithe
Mexican ponies were tied. “Mary, can you find McLendon's gun? It got thrown somewhere over there.” Mary retrieved the Navy Colt and handed it to McLendon, who slipped it into his holster.

“I don't know that it's right to leave you,” he said to Saint. “MacPherson won't take what's happened well. He'll lie his way out of tonight somehow and then he'll try again.”

Saint said, “It's no longer your problem. Whatever he does, we'll deal with it. You've got your own life to save.”

“I can't just set off in the dark. I have no idea which way to go.”

“For now, any direction will do, but you can't delay. This man Brautigan clearly means business, and you need all the head start on him that you can get.”

Mulkins led over the Culloden horse. McLendon said, “You know that I have no talent for riding.”

“Acquire it,” Mulkins said, smiling. “It's mostly a matter of keeping your feet in the stirrups and your ass in the saddle.”

Mary Soames asked for a hug, and she and McLendon embraced. Crazy George and Mulkins shook his hand. After Mulkins helped him climb up into the saddle, McLendon hesitated.

“Joe,” he said. “Sheriff Saint. Thank you.”

Saint looked hard at him, the flames from the cabin reflecting on the lenses of his glasses. “I'll tell Gabrielle that you said good-bye.”

“All right, then,” McLendon said. He tugged on the reins and, already jouncing painfully, rode down the hill, past the burning tents and into the night.

Thanks above all to Ivan Held, who called to ask if I might be interested in writing some western fiction. (I was.) Jim Donovan, as usual, was a great literary agent and friend. This was my first chance to work with editor Christine Pepe at Putnam, and she's every bit as good as Robert B. Parker once told me.

I'm grateful for all of my friends at Putnam, past and present.

Jim Turner and Sara Tirrito provided solid research, and I received plenty of moral support from Major Kevin “Cap” Mulkins, Bob Pugh, Bob Palmquist, Bruce Dinges, Tom Gaumer, and Anne Collier. Mike Blackman, James Ward Lee, and Carlton Stowers read the chapters as I wrote them, and offered constructive criticism as needed.

Settings in real life are identical to those described in this story. Fictional Glorious is in about the same spot as the actual town of Superior, just a little distance west down the road from Globe. If you take Highway 60, you'll see Queen Creek, Apache Leap, and Picket Post Mountain. The scenery is gorgeous and well worth even a long drive.

Cash McLendon will be back soon.

Everything I write is always for Nora, Adam, and
Grant.