Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  Mulkins sipped bourbon. “Ike and the rest of the Clantons are trying to get their own town started somewhere south of here. It may be that you get reacquainted. He shows up here from time to time, trying to peddle individual property lots. To date he’s had no success. People in this town know better than to throw away their money with fly-by-nighters like Ike.”

  “Somehow, the Ikes of this world always survive,” McLendon said. “Well, let’s figure out what I can tell your newspaper friend that’ll be at least somewhat true, yet still satisfy him.” McLendon shared some stories about Adobe Walls: how he’d panicked during the first attack by the Indians, the terror of subsequent onslaughts, and how, finally, the Indians essentially defeated themselves by wasting ammunition.

  “I believe Mac Fielding is going to want something more colorful than that,” Mulkins said, so McLendon told him about how buffalo hunter Billy Dixon shot an Indian off the top of a bluff at the distance of nearly a mile. “That one’ll please Fielding considerably,” the Major assured McLendon, and insisted on buying the next round. To get even for the newspaper interview, McLendon ordered Jim Beam instead of beer.

  The atmosphere in the elegant saloon was congenial until ten p.m., when a rat-faced man in trail-stained buckskins elbowed his way into a prime spot at the bar and shouted for whiskey. He had a pistol stuck in his belt; as he drank, he made coarse remarks to the Ritz’s hostesses.

  “That fellow acts like one of the Silver City bunch,” Mulkins said. “Though we generally discourage it, sometimes they drift up this way. Silver City’s a week’s ride southeast of here in New Mexico, where they’ve had some pretty good strikes. In every other way it’s the opposite of Mountain View—lots of rough types, and mostly tents and whorehouses. Thing about mining towns is they either turn out fine or nasty. Silver City’s one of the nasty ones. I passed through there some months ago on business and the town was a sty, and dangerous in every way. They don’t care about laws and decency in Silver City, just money.”

  The newcomer at the bar finished his initial drink and called for another. When a second, then a third, were consumed just as quickly, the bartender said politely, “Friend, you might want to slow down.”

  “You might shut your goddamned mouth,” the drinker snarled. “My name’s Will Antrim, and I’m no friend of yours. Now get me another—be quick about it.”

  The bartender nodded to a guard seated in the corner of the saloon. The guard stood, flexed his shoulders, folded back his shirt cuffs, and walked up to the bar. He put his hand on the belligerent’s back and said, “Time to be leaving.” Antrim whirled, grabbed the guard by the shirtfront, and punched him in the face. Stunned, the guard fell to the floor and his assailant leaped on top of him, still swinging while the guard tried to block the blows with his arms.

  “We’ve got to stop this,” McLendon said to Mulkins, but the Major gestured for him to remain seated.

  “No need,” he said. “Someone’s gone for the sheriff.”

  Moments later, a rangy man perhaps forty years old walked briskly through the swinging doors. The gleaming badge pinned to his coat identified him as the Mountain View sheriff. He didn’t draw the Colt holstered on his hip. He stood over the men struggling on the floor, reached down to grasp Antrim’s shoulder, and jerked him to his feet.

  “You’re under arrest, mister,” the sheriff said.

  “The hell I am,” Antrim growled. He pulled back his fist to throw another punch, this time at the lawman. Now the sheriff drew his gun, but instead of firing, he spun the weapon so he grasped the barrel like the handle of a hammer. Then he coolly cracked the gun butt against Antrim’s temple; the man dropped back onto the saloon floor, holding his hands to his head.

  The sheriff leaned over the fallen guard and helped him to his feet. “You all right, Paul? Go get cleaned up. He only marked you a little, I’d guess twenty dollars’ worth when the fine’s assessed.” The bartender helped the guard away and the sheriff hauled Antrim to his feet. “Don’t even think about running,” he warned. “If I have to cold-cock you again, your skull might split.”

  McLendon was impressed by the sheriff’s efficiency. “Nicely done,” he said as the lawman pulled Antrim along.

  “Appreciate it,” the sheriff said. “Don’t believe I’ve met you. Jack Hove—welcome to town.”

  “We’ve got the best lawman anywhere in the territory right here in Mountain View,” Mulkins told McLendon as the sheriff led his groaning prisoner through the swinging doors. “Jack Hove’s a hell of a man, honest and tough besides. Never seen him have to fire a shot. When force becomes necessary, he smacks ’em alongside the head with a gun instead. Jack calls it buffaloing. Says he learned it from some lawman in the Dakotas, I believe it was.”

  “He seems to be a good man,” McLendon agreed. “The town’s lucky to have him.”

  “Jack’s got four deputies, and they’re all top-notch, too,” Mulkins said, tipping his glass for the last dregs of Jim Beam bourbon. “I’ll tell you this, you couldn’t be safer anywhere else in the territories. Long as Jack and his boys are on the job, nobody’s going to get you in Mountain View.”

  2

  When stalking hometown targets specified by his boss, Patrick Brautigan never needed to plan in advance. It was a simple process: corner the quarry, make appropriate threats, and, if the target didn’t submit, kill him. With the St. Louis police chief complicit in Rupert Douglass’s violent schemes, there was no danger of legal repercussion. Douglass once ordered Brautigan to perform a chore in Albany, New York, and on another occasion sent him to Washington, D.C. In these cases somewhat more discretion was required, but still intimidation (and, in Washington, a kill) came easily. Brautigan was comfortable in big cities. He operated instinctively in their alleys and shadows.

  But that instinct was less effective on the frontier. There, practically everyone lived with so much daily menace—Indians, outlaws, dust storms, flash floods, and other dangers unique to their still mostly untamed region—that they were constantly on their guard. Two years earlier in Glorious, Brautigan had employed the same basic approach he always used back East. He caught McLendon by surprise, overpowered him, and prepared to haul his quarry home to die according to the boss’s wishes. The small town’s sheriff intervened, so Brautigan claimed he’d been deputized to arrest McLendon for murder and return him there for trial. With anyone but this most amateurish lawman, the bluff almost certainly would have worked. Lawmen everywhere routinely deputized civilians to undertake out-of-town arrests. But that custom apparently was unfamiliar to the sheriff of primitive Glorious. He’d insisted on wiring St. Louis chief Kelly Welsh for confirmation. Brautigan could, of course, have killed the local lawman on the spot, but it was Douglass’s rule that his enforcer should never openly break the law. So Brautigan, arrested on suspicion of impersonating an officer, cooled his heels in a cell for days while Cash McLendon escaped. Though Chief Welsh eventually wired that Brautigan was indeed a deputy and charges against him were subsequently dropped, it was too late. Brautigan swore that if he ever again tracked McLendon down to some isolated hellhole on the frontier, he’d first learn more about the location and have a plan in place before making his move.

  And so he found himself in Silver City.

  The obvious route to Mountain View from St. Louis was by train to Denver, then stagecoach to Tucson, Florence, and finally Mountain View itself. But Tucson was where Brautigan was held following his arrest in Glorious; if he returned, he might be recognized by someone who would wire ahead and warn McLendon that he was coming. This was unlikely, but he couldn’t risk it. Rupert Douglass would never tolerate a second failure. So Brautigan took an even more circuitous route, leaving the train in Wichita and taking the stage from there to Santa Fe, then Albuquerque and finally to Silver City.

  As he stepped down from the stage carriage into a dirt street fouled with horse shit, Brautigan felt as though he had rea
ched the end of the world. To begin with, it was ugly—rickety buildings of wooden planks without paint or varnish, some cabins of crookedly nailed logs, vast expanses of patched canvas tents in assorted sun-faded colors. The cabins apparently had mud roofs, which would surely melt when it rained. But the swirling dust indicated that it didn’t rain that often, in itself a shame, because a cloudburst might have washed a bit of stink off the grimy people teeming everywhere. Above all, there was the noise, an eardrum-rending cacophony of clanking mine equipment, barking dogs, human shouts and screams and, most painfully, shrieking steam whistles that Brautigan guessed signaled the end of some work shift or other. Yet this ongoing chaos pleased him. Silver City was a bustling Western mining town. If Mountain View was similar, then it might be a simple thing to get in unnoticed and take McLendon away without anyone the wiser. Brautigan knew Mountain View lay somewhere to the north—he wasn’t certain how far, or the best way to reach it. These were only a few of the things he needed to learn. For that, he’d have to rely on some of these disreputable locals. Time to get started.

  A sign over one of the sagging buildings advertised ESTES HOTEL. There were other equally unattractive structures whose signage proclaimed them hotels, but this was the closest. Brautigan walked there, carrying his valise and sweating hard. Even in mid-morning, the sun was scorching. He went inside, noting cobwebs everywhere, well positioned to trap at least some of the ubiquitous buzzing flies.

  He asked the thickset woman behind the counter, “Have you a room available?”

  Her eyes widened. A first sight of Brautigan was inevitably startling. He knew this and often used it to his advantage, but now was a time for information rather than intimidation, and so he smiled, though the effect was almost as disconcerting. Brautigan had large, square teeth. No matter how he stretched his lips, if the teeth behind them were exposed Brautigan gave the impression of a great beast about to bite.

  “A room to let?” he said. “I’m here from the East to do some business. A fine, bustling town, this seems to me.” Brautigan had grown up poor in Irish Boston. Now he let creep into his voice the accent that he muted in St. Louis.

  The woman’s face twitched as she tried not to stare. After a moment she said, “We have a few. How long will you be staying?”

  “It’s hard to say. Perhaps I’ll take one for a week to start.”

  “There’s no refund if you leave earlier.” From her tone, it was clear that many guests at the Estes Hotel left sooner than originally planned.

  “If my business concludes sooner, I’ll undoubtedly stay on to enjoy your town’s amenities. Now, what might be your rates?”

  “Fifteen dollars for the week. Fresh linens and towels on the first and fourth day only. You empty your own chamber pot in the buckets out back.”

  Brautigan reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar gold piece. “Well, then, take this.”

  The woman brightened. “Let me get your change.”

  “No need. In return, perhaps you’ll give me the best room you can. I like a good view of the street.”

  “We have oilcloth over the windows, but no glass. You can pull the curtain aside and have a street view if you don’t mind the additional dust.”

  “That’s fine,” Brautigan said. He didn’t expect to spend much time in the room, so dust be damned. He extended a hand. “Mr. Brautigan, from Boston.” There was no reason not to use his real name. If things went awry, they would look for him in Massachusetts.

  The woman’s hand barely fit around a few of Brautigan’s fingers, let alone his palm. “Emily Estes. This is my place. I guessed Boston from your accent, Mr. Brautigan. Are you possibly acquainted with my dear friend Lisa Bohrer? She hails from there, and perhaps recommended us.”

  “Pleased to meet you, and sorry to say I don’t know your friend. Boston is a sizable place. Now, as soon as I’ve visited my room and cleaned myself a bit, I’ll be off to find a meal and perhaps a sociable drink. Is there any spot of particular merit?”

  —

  THE BAR WAS named the Gilded Cage, but there was nothing gilded about the place. A long board anchored on either side by packing crates served as a bar. Drinkers leaned over shot glasses or mugs there or else perched on tottery chairs beside splintered tables. There were shabby cloths on the tables, but the material was thin and wood splinters poked through. Still, the Italian food on offer wasn’t bad, though the sauce and meatballs accompanying the pasta Brautigan ordered were spicier than he expected. He sat by himself as he ate, sipping beer from a chipped mug and observing the bar’s patrons. They were a rowdy bunch, speculating in loud voices which son of a bitch was going to offer one too many insults and get his balls blown off, or haranguing the whores working in four cubicles behind oilcloth curtains to get done with their current limp-peckered customers so real men could get serviced. A stoic middle-aged man cradling a shotgun sat at a table near the cubicles. The whores’ customers dropped money into a tin box on the table before they went behind the oilcloth for their fun. It always seemed to take only a matter of minutes, after which the men would emerge buttoning their pants and looking not a bit abashed at the ribald comments they attracted. The whores never came out at all. Every minute of rest for them was a minute of profit lost.

  Shortly after noon, the saloon’s doors swung open and the din lessened. Brautigan sized up the newcomer, taking in his relatively clean clothes, Peacemakers holstered on both hips, and the badge pinned to his vest. Though he was just under middle height, he stood straight enough to seem taller, and he kept his hands close to his gun butts. The crowd parted as he walked to the table by the whores’ cribs and spoke quietly to the guard there. Then the lawman nodded, reached into the tin box, and took some of the money. As he put the coins in his pocket, he looked carefully around the room. When his eyes met Brautigan’s, he studied the larger man carefully for a few moments without attempting to disguise his interest. Brautigan sat calmly. He realized that he was being scrutinized by another professional. That this Silver City constable, police chief, whatever the right title, was someone Brautigan could possibly work with was evident; helping himself so openly to a portion of the whores’ earnings was characteristic of an entrenched lawman on the take.

  The man walked over and said, “What’s your name?”

  “Brautigan. Will you sit?”

  “I’m Wolfe, the town sheriff. If you want to talk, the back office will do better. It’s loud out here.”

  Brautigan tossed back the last of his beer. “Won’t the owners be inconvenienced if we impose?”

  Wolfe’s mouth smiled and his eyes didn’t. “I’m sheriff, and also one of the owners. Fact is, I own a piece of quite a few places in town.”

  “Lead on,” Brautigan said. Now he was even more certain that Sheriff Wolfe was a man willing to do business without asking too many questions.

  —

  WHEN THEY WERE SEATED—Wolfe in a chair behind a desk, Brautigan on a sofa—the sheriff dispensed with small talk. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m deputized by the chief of police in a city back East, and in pursuit of a killer who needs to be returned there.”

  “And this killer’s in Silver City?”

  “I’ve reason to believe he can be found in a place called Mountain View.”

  Wolfe grimaced. “Then you’re still a far piece from where you need to be. Mountain View’s near two hundred miles, and the country’s hard going in between. We’ve got no stage service that direction. Best thing you can do, take the stage from here to Tucson, then again by stage north to Florence and finally east to Mountain View.”

  Brautigan shook his head. “Tucson won’t do. I might receive undue attention there.”

  “You consider attention unwelcome?” There was a new hint of avarice in Wolfe’s voice.

  “I have funds for discreet arrangements.”

  Wolfe took a
whiskey bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer. He poured drinks, then asked, “You got some kind of badge to show me, or a letter from this police chief back East?”

  Brautigan sipped his drink. It was decent liquor, undoubtedly better than the Gilded Cage bar brands. “I’m traveling without credentials.”

  “What can you offer instead? Make it your best price. I find bargaining to be tedious. If your pockets aren’t deep enough, you can get the hell out of my town.”

  Brautigan leaned back on the couch. “There are different amounts for different methods of assistance. Would you go to Mountain View, make the arrest yourself, and deliver the man back here to me?”

  “On a warrantless request from some nameless lawman back East? Not in Mountain View. They got a sheriff named Jack Hove who’s one of those strictly-by-the-rules types. His deputies are the same.”

  “No persuading them? With money or otherwise?”

  Wolfe took a thin cheroot from an inner coat pocket and lit it. He blew some smoke toward the ceiling and said, “It’s plain that you’re a hard man. But that bunch, you’d have to kill them, and you’ve already made it clear you don’t want to make noise. My advice, figure a way to get your man out of Mountain View and down here to Silver City. I’ll make sure you get him on a stage heading east with the documents needed to get past the law all the way back to wherever you want to take him.”

  “How about providing paperwork before I go to Mountain View? Something I could wave at this sheriff?”

  “Hell, no. Jack Hove’s the sort who’d wire every judge in Arizona Territory wanting to know if the warrant was valid. That’d cause problems I don’t need. If you get your man from Mountain View to Silver City with a minimum of fuss, I can provide what you need to finish the job from here.”

  “This is less than I’d hoped for.”

  “It’s all you’ll get. Now make me an offer.”