by Jeff Guinn
It was Brautigan’s turn to ponder. “All right, five hundred. Two-fifty now. Two-fifty when I bring my man back here, you deliver me the documents I’ll need, and you put us on the stage back East.”
“I make nearly that much each month from the whores alone. I’d appreciate sweetening.”
Brautigan stood. This was the critical moment. He’d been taught by his boss that every deal, legitimate or otherwise, was never an equal partnership. One party was always in control. Once on his feet, Brautigan didn’t lean in toward the sheriff or demonstrate any other sign of aggression. Yet he knew that Wolfe, a dangerous man in his own right, felt the threat. Brautigan observed the sheriff’s elbows jerk back a fraction of an inch on the arms of his chair. That flinch tilted the balance between them.
“Like you, I don’t care for bargaining,” he told the sheriff. “There’s no risk involved on your end, unless you play me false.” Brautigan counted greenbacks onto the desktop. “Put the money in your pocket, Sheriff. We’re partners now.”
Wolfe took the bills. “You still got to get up to Mountain View, apprehend your man without undue commotion, and return here with him. It won’t be easy.”
Brautigan flashed his square-toothed smile. “I’ll manage.”
3
On Wednesday afternoon, McLendon went to the office of The Mountain View Herald to be interviewed by Mac Fielding. It was a typical print shop filled with the sharp, somewhat pleasant smell of ink. Until his ears adjusted to the constant clamor, McLendon had trouble hearing Fielding’s questions above the rattles and thuds of small handpresses operated by a man and two women in the next room.
“Sorry about the noise,” Fielding said, his voice raised above the din. “Until newspaper circulation is sufficient, we pay the rent by printing posters, public notices, and so forth. Still, I’m sure it’s an improvement over war whoops. It must be a great relief to find yourself back in civilization.”
“It’s certainly a change,” McLendon said. He then spent the next forty-five minutes trying to answer the newspaperman’s questions colorfully enough to please him without completely sacrificing fact. Yes, at Adobe Walls there was a great horde of attacking Indians; no one afterward was certain how many. The fight lasted all day, with the Indians trying to get at the vastly outnumbered white defenders in three small sod-and-log structures.
“Satanta the great Kiowa chief, I’ve heard he was there,” Fielding said. “Did you personally see him, shoot at him, maybe?”
“I’m not sure I know that name,” McLendon said. “I was told that there were Kiowa, and Cheyenne and Comanche as well. Most of the men fighting beside me were buffalo hunters and their crews. They’d been in lots of Indian fights and knew the differences in the way the warriors of those tribes look. But to me they all seemed the same—frightening.”
“But you overcame any fear and fought courageously,” Fielding said.
“If you say so.”
“Be certain that I will.”
When Fielding finally ran out of leading questions about the battle at Adobe Walls, he wanted to know more about McLendon’s arrival in Mountain View. He’d mentioned visiting old friends—who were they?
“Major Mulkins of the White Horse Hotel, an exceptional establishment. You’ll quote me on that?”
Fielding cleared his throat. “I’ve heard it’s really someone other than the Major. A lady, perhaps?”
“Miss Gabrielle Tirrito is an acquaintance of long standing. As is her father, Mr. Salvatore Tirrito. Both fine people, and it’s a privilege to once again be in their company.” Gabrielle might be pleased if that comment made it into print.
“Your relationship with Miss Tirrito—is it of a courtship nature? I’m informed that she already has someone who might be termed a beau.”
“I agreed to discuss my battle experience,” McLendon said. “My personal life is private.”
“Major Mulkins promised me—”
“Even so.”
“I’ll see if Miss Tirrito would perhaps care to comment.”
McLendon said, “She would not. And you won’t approach her.”
There was sufficient steel in McLendon’s tone to give Fielding pause. “Well,” he said, drumming his pencil on his notebook and taking a moment to regain composure. “Then let’s talk about your visit here in Mountain View. An extended stay? What’s the possibility of permanence?”
“I have no idea how long I’ll remain. My intention is to move on to California. I’ve already stayed longer than intended, but for now I suppose my time here is open-ended. In fact, I’m thinking of seeking employment, though of transitory rather than long-term nature.”
Fielding scribbled in his notebook. “I think that’ll do for the moment. I’m going to ask a few people for comments—no, not Miss Tirrito, you’ve made your wishes quite clear in that regard. I’ll write the story, and we’ll go to print day after tomorrow, with distribution beginning Saturday and copies available during the next week in all our town’s finest establishments. It’s been a pleasure. I hope you’ll enjoy what I write.”
Beyond hoping the finished story wouldn’t be too florid, McLendon thought that was the end of it. But that evening, Hope Camp sought him out in the White Horse lobby.
“Have you a moment, Mr. McLendon?” he asked.
McLendon hesitated. He was on his way to join Gabrielle for dinner at the staff table in the hotel kitchen. But it seemed impolite to refuse the town mayor.
“I spoke earlier with Mac Fielding,” said Camp, an older man with wispy white hair and kind eyes. “It was in regard to the story about you for Saturday’s newspaper.”
“I hope it won’t exaggerate my role at Adobe Walls,” McLendon said. “That would be embarrassing.”
Camp led McLendon off to a corner. “I’m sure your heroism in that fight can’t be exaggerated. But my interest is in your comment that you’d like to find work here in Mountain View.”
“In fact, I would. My stay has become extended, and I don’t wish to impose any longer on the generosity of friends.”
“Certainly you don’t. As it happens, I have need of some assistance with an aspect of my store business. I understand from Major Mulkins that you have some management experience.”
McLendon chuckled. “In a sense. Back East, mostly, and a little a few years ago at a livery here in Arizona Territory. If you require details—”
Camp shook his head. “No further explanation needed. The fact is, I’m almost ashamed to suggest this employment to a hero such as yourself. Though the income would, I think, be more than adequate, it’s possible you might find the job itself to be beneath your dignity.”
“I doubt my dignity will be an issue. What’s the job?”
“As more men come to town to work in the mines and get their pay, they look for recreation beyond ladies and whiskey,” Camp said. “You know of the bowling alley in the back of my feed store? I had it built there some months ago on a whim. Bowling has become popular in the big, established cities, and I suspected that it might catch on here if enough of our residents had sufficient income and inclination. Now it’s surpassed my expectations. My employees and I have all we can do to serve regular customers and keep these so-called bowlers happy at the same time. What I’d like is, you come in and run the bowling games for me. There’s always a long line awaiting turns. Many of them come after quaffing a drink or two and so are impatient. Having a man of your reputation for, shall we say, a certain readiness for action if required, would be helpful in maintaining order.”
“I have that reputation?”
“You already do, and it will only increase after Saturday’s story in the Herald. Oh, don’t worry. You would never have to dirty your own hands if someone becomes too obstreperous. Sheriff Hove and his deputies would be called.”
“I do like keeping my hands clean,” McLendon said. “The job so
unds fine. Now, as to pay?”
They came to a quick bargain. Bowlers were charged two bits a game. McLendon would keep a dime, with another two cents a game going to the boy who picked up and reset the wooden pins between rolls of the bowling ball. Since most of the bowlers played quickly, McLendon could likely earn at least a dollar every two hours. On any days that he failed to make at least four dollars, Camp would make up the difference. They shook hands and agreed McLendon would start the next morning at nine a.m. and work until six in the evening. Sundays off, since the feed store was closed.
—
AFTER HIS FIRST few hours on the job, McLendon felt bored. Little thought was required. He took players’ money, explained the rules of bowling if they didn’t know them, and let them play. With some, he had to deliver constant reminders to roll rather than throw the ball. The miners had the most aggressive approaches. They were less interested in proper form than in knocking things down. The pin boy was sometimes as much of a target as the pins themselves. But a word from McLendon was always sufficient to rein in such tomfoolery. The constant rumble of wooden ball on wooden lane and then the clatter of the ball scattering wooden pins sometimes irritated him, but it felt good to have a job and be generating income. He earned nearly five dollars on Thursday, and five-fifty on Friday. That was more than Joe Saint made teaching; McLendon didn’t share with Gabrielle the satisfaction that this gave him. She, in turn, was pleased to see him gainfully employed: “It demonstrates a welcome work ethic.” McLendon insisted on paying Major Mulkins two dollars daily for room and board at the White Horse. Gabrielle still hadn’t made up her mind, but at least he was no longer subsisting on charity while he waited. Things in Mountain View were looking up.
Then, on Saturday, the latest edition of the Herald was published.
—
THE HEADLINE READ “Hero of Adobe Walls Battle Shares Tales of Exploits, Exclusive for Herald Readers.” According to the article, “Mr. Cash McLendon’s dead-eye shooting” took down “a minimum of two dozen red assailants, including three war chiefs, and several at distances up to a mile.” Following the battle, McLendon, frequently referred to throughout as “Our Hero,” turned down pleas from the Army and the governors of Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas to personally lead combined military and civilian troops in “teaching the red savages a firm and final lesson.” The Herald’s front page also featured a sketch, no doubt copied from a magazine, of a stern-visaged frontiersman shooting a spear-brandishing Indian from the saddle. The marksman looked nothing like Cash McLendon, but the caption still bore his name. The Indian was identified as “Kiowa war chief Satanta.”
Inside the same issue, readers learned that Mr. McLendon was currently visiting friends in Mountain View and residing at the White Horse Hotel, which was acknowledged to offer the finest luxury lodging in central Arizona Territory. Mr. McLendon, known to intimates as “C.M.,” had no idea how long he might remain in town, though he was enjoying himself immensely and felt in no hurry to leave. “Though Mr. McLendon has mentioned plans to travel on to California, everyone here who has encountered this champion prays that he will settle among us in Mountain View,” Mac Fielding wrote. “There is reason for hope to flutter in our breasts: Mr. McLendon has entered into at least temporary partnership with Mayor Hope Camp, and can be found daily at Camp Feed Store in a managerial capacity.” Mayor Camp, asked to comment, said that great men like Cash McLendon were always welcome in Mountain View.
McLendon was awakened at five a.m. by Major Mulkins, who lit the lamp in their room at the White Horse and handed him the Herald.
“Just a few minutes ago they placed some of these in the display box in the lobby,” Mulkins said. “I’ve read your story. It’s possibly not as bad as you feared.”
Eyes blinking as they adjusted to the light, McLendon began reading. His groans gradually increased in volume until, finally, he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.
“Jesus, Major, this is too much,” he said. “I might as well leave town today. After this I’ll be a laughingstock. Who could take such swill seriously?”
“It’s not a bad thing to be so highly praised,” Mulkins said. “Readers are more likely to respect than mock you.”
“The hell they’ll respect me. All I can hope is that nobody reads this tripe.”
—
AN HOUR LATER at the table in the White Horse kitchen, everyone waited for McLendon to help himself from the platters of eggs and bacon. When he finished his first cup of coffee, a second was poured without him having to ask. Conversation was muted. It was as if they all felt obligated to let McLendon speak first about whatever he liked. When he ventured that it seemed like a pleasant morning, there was immediate agreement that a finer day might never have dawned. His remark that he’d better leave for work resulted in everyone pushing back from the table. Gabrielle didn’t help; she reveled in his discomfort. As McLendon left the hotel she clasped his hand, whispered, “My hero,” in his ear, fluttered her eyelids dramatically, and laughed.
A crowd was gathered at the door of the feed store. As soon as McLendon walked up, it became obvious people had come to see him rather than shop. A young girl asked him to sign a copy of the paper “right over your picture.” Several men requested handshakes. McLendon signed and shook, trying all the while to keep moving toward the door. He went inside and was greeted by a beaming Mayor Camp.
“Now, isn’t this a fine thing?” the mayor asked. “Let’s get these folks inside so they can demonstrate their respect for you by spending some money.” And they did. As soon as it became clear McLendon was running the bowling alley, a long line formed beside the wooden lane. Almost everyone was more interested in getting close to McLendon than in bowling. Mayor Camp assured a considerable day’s profits by having a clerk walk down the line collecting two bits a person before they reached McLendon where he stood beside the alley. Some paid and never bothered rolling a single ball. All they wanted was some words with the hero. McLendon did his best to keep the line moving, but it was hard. An extremely stout woman crushed him in a tight embrace and gushed, “I’d take you home, but my husband wouldn’t let me keep you. I’ve never met such a gallant gentleman before.”
“I promise there’s nothing gallant about me,” McLendon wheezed, trying to regain his breath. “Don’t believe that story.”
“If it’s in the newspaper, it must be true,” the woman said. “Will you take dinner with my family some night soon? I make an exquisite quince cobbler.”
Camp overheard the exchange. When the woman departed—she was one of those who declined to bowl—the mayor sidled over to McLendon and said, “You need to let people believe what they want. What does it hurt? When they praise you, just say ‘Thanks.’”
“I can’t thank them for embarrassing me.”
“Well, then, thank them for a rise in salary. You’re bringing in so much business, I’m upping you from a dime to fifteen cents a game.”
After that, McLendon was more patient. After a while, he began enjoying the compliments. The mayor was right—what did it hurt? The fact was, he’d nearly died at Adobe Walls, and now that he thought about it, he’d fought pretty damned bravely. He’d left the scene of battle with just the clothes on his back. It was only right that he received some recognition, and some money, from it afterward.
When his shift was over at six p.m., McLendon’s pay totaled twelve dollars. He nodded to well-wishers on his walk back to the White Horse. After washing up and rereading the story in the Herald—perhaps Mac Fielding wasn’t such a bad writer, after all—McLendon insisted on taking Gabrielle to dinner at Erin’s House, by reputation the finest restaurant in Mountain View. Gabrielle wore a dark green dress accented with hair ribbons of the same shade; McLendon told her she was the most beautiful woman in the place and meant it. Then he and Gabrielle studied the menus—they weren’t sure what poulet au vinaigre or tournedos were. They laughed at thei
r mutual confusion. It was a happy moment to share, one untainted by old memories.
The proprietor, a slender woman in an exquisite silk gown, came over to greet them. “Mr. McLendon, I’m Erin Rich. We’re honored to have you here tonight. I only hope that our fare meets the approval of you and your lady.”
“Let me introduce Miss Gabrielle Tirrito,” McLendon said. Gabrielle asked what their hostess would recommend, and they accepted Miss Rich’s suggestion of poulet au vinaigre, which turned out to be a very tasty dish of chicken and onions. Dessert was torte, which McLendon was pleased to learn meant cake. He insisted they have wine with dinner. Gabrielle drank two glasses and her cheeks flushed in a very fetching way. While they ate they chatted about inconsequential things, and for the first time since he’d arrived McLendon felt that Gabrielle was simply enjoying his company instead of judging him. For his part, he was careful to stick to inconsequential subjects rather than pressing her about the future. It was a memorable meal, capped by Miss Rich’s refusal to present McLendon with a check.
“This is my small acknowledgment of your heroism,” she said. “To me, you’re Washington at Valley Forge, or Davy Crockett at the Alamo.”
Afterward they stopped at the Ritz. McLendon had brandy. Gabrielle, claiming some dizziness from the wine, drank coffee. A number of Mountain View’s leading citizens came by their table to introduce themselves—livery operator Tim Flanagan, a member of the town council; Arthur and Amanda Scarcello, who owned a large dry-goods store; and Sheriff Jack Hove, who was enjoying an off-duty evening with his wife, Mamie.
“I’m glad to see that you’re thinking of staying on,” Hove said to McLendon. “We need your type of man to keep this town growing right.”
“You seem to be doing fine without me,” McLendon said. “But I thank you for the kind words.”
After the sheriff moved along, Gabrielle said, “That was nicely done. You accepted the compliment with grace.”
“This is strange for me,” McLendon said. “I’ve spent these last years trying to avoid notice. Being the object of so much attention is somehow making me feel, I suppose, free, like a bad time is ending.”
