Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  Gabrielle put down her coffee cup, reached across the small table, and took McLendon’s hand. She leaned forward and, quite daringly in such a public place, rested her forehead against his. He felt his pulse quicken. Was this the moment when she decided?

  “Tell me again,” Gabrielle murmured. “At Adobe Walls, how many hundreds of Indians did you shoot?” Then she laughed and told him, “It’s been a wonderful evening, but my father needs his medicine. Please escort me back to the White Horse.” On the way, she walked close enough to McLendon so that their shoulders brushed.

  4

  The next day, Brautigan prowled the streets and in the bars of Silver City. From a garrulous old man outside a seedy general store, he learned it would certainly take an experienced rider on a good horse perhaps six days to travel the one hundred eighty miles from there to Mountain View, or as many as ten if a dust storm blew over. Some of the terrain was rugged, but there was nothing impassible to a man who sat a good saddle. Brautigan knew himself to be only an adequate horseman. Maybe a week for him, then. Returning with McLendon in tow, the whiny shite howling and complaining every mile of the way, might take ten days. That length of time would require more supplies than saddlebags could handle. A wagon would provide needed cargo space, but wagons were so much slower—two weeks to Mountain View, perhaps as many as three on the way back to Silver City. That was too long to be out in the open with a captive. He needed a base of operations in between, a place to resupply. But where?

  The sun still blazed even though it was low in the sky. Brautigan felt parched. He went into a saloon called Painted Lady, which took its name from the crude portrait of a naked, splay-legged woman prominently displayed above its plank-and-crate bar. Painted Lady was crowded, but Brautigan easily made a place for himself at the bar. Even on the frontier, most other men automatically stepped aside for him. He ordered a beer and, as he took his first sip, became aware of a man on his right who loudly harangued listeners about some property he wanted to sell them.

  “I speak of a garden in the desert, a veritable Eden,” the fellow proclaimed. He had longish hair and an elegant mustache and Vandyke beard. “It’s only a fool who won’t jump in now while the best lots are still available. Plenty of water, fine soil, grass for grazing.”

  “Bullshit,” someone said. “I been by there and seen for myself. You and your daddy and your brothers dug a trench or two off the Gila River and did some planting. Nothing much took. Now you want to sell lots sight unseen so you can make some money and get the hell away.”

  “How long ago was this? Six months? Well, then. We were just getting started. Now the land’s transformed—my word as a gentleman on it. And besides its new abundance, I urge you to consider the location, just a few days’ ride from Mountain View on a direct line between here and Silver City. A year from now, no more than two, there’ll surely be a stage line passing through. That means more business opportunities. A lunch stand, perhaps. A blacksmith shop. There’s simply no limit.”

  The described location caught Brautigan’s attention. He looked at the salesman and realized there was something familiar about him. Brautigan had an excellent memory for faces and knew he’d seen the man somewhere before, perhaps only fleetingly. Where and when?

  “Clantonville is the future,” the fellow insisted. “It’s not someplace that appears in the territory one day and disappears the next, like Beacon to Tucson’s south or Glorious just west of Mountain View,” and with those words Brautigan had it, he knew him. In Glorious on the night when he’d caught and lost Cash McLendon, this man with the Vandyke had jumped astride a mule and fled from the firefight. In his panic, he surely would not have noticed Brautigan. Here was opportunity.

  Brautigan drank beer and waited. The man raved on about Clantonville for another ten minutes. His listeners gradually lost interest and turned away. Finally he was left standing alone, eyes glancing about for other potential customers. No one would look directly at him. “It’s your loss,” he said loudly. “You’ll never have another chance like this.” There was no response. He walked out into the street. Brautigan set his beer mug on the bar and followed.

  “Hold on there,” he said. The man stopped, turned, and flinched. His hands instinctively came up in front of his face. Brautigan always elicited defensive reactions, though not to this extent. “I heard you back in the saloon.”

  The man relaxed. “Fools is what they are. Are you looking for property? Ready to invest in the future?”

  “In a way. I’m Brautigan.”

  “Ike Clanton.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ike. Let me buy you a drink somewhere better than where we just were. A gentleman like yourself must prefer good whiskey.”

  Clanton shaped the point of his beard with his fingers. “That’s my fondness.”

  Brautigan took him to the Gilded Cage, and ordered them both Jim Beam bourbon. He occasionally wet his lips with his drink while Ike tossed down two before slowing on the third. In between gulps he prattled about Clantonville. A year earlier, just about the time that silver strikes resulted in Mountain View’s first explosive growth, Ike, his brothers, and their father, Newman, acquired land some fifty miles to the southeast near the Gila River. Their intention was to establish a town where they could sell off lots to investors and still retain overall economic control.

  “We’ve seen it done in other places, though of course we’ll do it better,” Clanton said. “We combine both wisdom and experience.”

  “You mentioned Glorious?” Brautigan asked, mostly to ascertain whether Clanton might remember him too.

  “If me and my family had been running Glorious, it’d still be around,” Clanton said. “Thing is, the big man there hired on a bunch of Meskins and so it all went to hell. Only white men in Clantonville, that’s going to be my family’s rule.”

  “Tell me more about Clantonville,” Brautigan urged. “Not what you think it will be, but how it is right now.”

  Clantonville was already a little bit of paradise, Clanton claimed. There were just a handful of houses so far, put up by him and his daddy and his brothers, adobe and wood for now.

  “When the money starts coming in we’ll replace what we currently live in with fine stone mansions, bring the stone up from Mexico,” he bragged. “The territorial governor himself won’t enjoy such a fine abode.”

  Because of the river, water was no problem. They’d done some irrigation and planted experimental patches of cotton and tobacco. These had grown in well. Next they’d try corn. Even a fool could make a fine living as a Clantonville farmer.

  “Do you get many people coming through?” Brautigan asked. “It would seem to me that passersby would be charmed by your place and you’d be overwhelmed with arrivals.”

  “Now, that’s the ass end of it,” Clanton said. “The location’s pretty much perfect except for the damned reservation.”

  “Reservation?”

  “The San Carlos agency. It’s where they put Geronimo and most of the other Apache. It’s somewhat between Clantonville and Mountain View, not directly, but the southern part sort of pushes down betwixt. So from Mountain View to us, you got to make a detour, adds I guess ten miles, half a day.” Brautigan looked into Clanton’s eyes, and Ike blinked. “Well, maybe twenty miles, a full day. Depends on your horse and the weather.”

  If there was pursuit, Brautigan knew, delays could be critical. “If the Indians are at peace, can’t a man just ride through part of the agency? Save time that way?”

  Clanton swallowed the last dregs of whiskey in his glass and looked hopefully at Brautigan. He was slightly drunk already and some of his words were slurred. Brautigan nodded at the bartender and decided this was Clanton’s last drink. He wanted him talkative, but not incoherent.

  “Two reasons,” Clanton said. “’Paches, for one. Once in a while, some of the braves get frisky. But the main thing is, they got a ne
w agent at San Carlos. Name’s John Clum. Damned stickler for rules, puts me in mind of the hard-ass sheriff in Mountain View. Treaty says no white man crosses agency land without special permission from the agent himself, and Clum’s not generally tolerant of violators. Sics the damn Indians on them, is what I’ve heard. ’Cause of that, we don’t get the people we should coming our way from Mountain View. Clum wasn’t such a sumbitch, Clantonville’d already be full of people. What will happen is, like all the other agents Clum won’t last there long. We’ll get someone more sensible in his place. Then anyone can just ride through San Carlos as they please and things will improve for us.”

  “Just now, though. If someone was careful, maybe riding through the agency after dark, are the odds good he’d escape detection?”

  Clanton’s throat convulsed; he emitted a loud, wet belch and grinned slyly. “Might could, if he knew his way or had a guide who did.”

  “Someone such as you?”

  Clanton belched again, softer this time. “I been there enough. You thinking of giving it a try?”

  Brautigan slapped his palm on the table, noting Clanton wince at the explosive thump. Good. He wanted to keep this fool off balance. “Tell me, Ike. Are you a man to be trusted?”

  “I am indeed. No man’s word is more solid.”

  “I see. And now I have some thinking to do. Will you perhaps join me for dinner and further conversation, then? At, say, eight? I’m staying at the Estes Hotel. Where may I call for you?”

  “Oh, I’m a man requiring little in the way of comforts. I’m bunking at the livery beside my horse.”

  Better and better. Clanton had no money for a room. “Come by the Estes at eight, then. I’ll stand you to a fine repast.”

  Brautigan spent the next few hours in his dingy hotel room, brushing away flies and thinking. The problem wasn’t subduing McLendon. The fellow was a talker, not a fighter. Capture and extraction were the initial issues. The Mountain View sheriff sounded like a sharp sort of man. The longer Brautigan had to spend in town spotting McLendon, then finding just the right place and time to lay hands on him with a minimum of notice, the more likely it was he’d come to the lawman’s attention, and that would make the job much harder. Brautigan was confident he could fight his way out of any situation, but that would bring the kind of attention he didn’t want. But if he knew exactly where to come in and quietly nab his man, then slip away . . . and now he might have met just the right man to help him do it. And if, afterward, Ike Clanton proved troublesome, he could be easily eliminated.

  Clanton appeared at the Estes Hotel a good ten minutes before eight. Some hay was stuck to the seat of his pants and the back of his hair—he’d been napping in his horse’s stall, sleeping off the effects of afternoon whiskey. Brautigan took him to a place offering thick beefsteaks. Ike ordered the biggest one on the menu and tore into it, chewing loudly with his mouth open. He talked while he chewed. Bits of beef spewed on the table and down the front of his shirt. Brautigan ate his own steak quietly. He let Ike yammer. Clanton bragged about personal prowess on many levels—as a gunman, hand-to-hand fighter, businessman, and lover. He and his family had suffered some bad financial luck, but Clantonville was going to make their fortunes, he was sure.

  “I’m a man of some destiny,” Clanton declared. “A hundred years from now, more, ever’body’ll recall Ike Clanton’s name.”

  Brautigan nodded. “Perhaps, Ike. Your steak is almost gone. Will you have another?”

  “No, though it’s tempting. What I would like, that cherry pie on the counter looks tasty. A slice of it, if you please, and perhaps a brandy to follow. You’re treating me to a slap-up meal. My ma has passed, but should you come see us in Clantonville, my sister Hettie’ll serve you one to rival it.”

  “I believe I may do that. I’d like to see Clantonville.”

  Ike finished his steak and dug into pie, piling crust and gummy filling high on his fork. “Clantonville, and then across the San Carlos agency? To Mountain View or somewhere near, and in secret? What’s your game, Brautigan?”

  “After you’ve finished your pie, let’s get a brandy bottle and go back to my room to talk. There are too many ears out in public.”

  Clanton winked. “I understand you. We’re men of mystery, you and me. Clever fellows. Make it good brandy.”

  Brautigan called the waitress over. She balked at selling him a bottle and two glasses, but was persuaded with a greenback that left plenty of change as a gratuity. She brought his purchases to him in a cloth sack. The bottle and glasses rattled together and made tinkling sounds as Brautigan carried them out of the restaurant.

  The hotel was a few blocks down the street. Brautigan and Clanton had walked only a few yards when three men stepped into their path. They were hard-looking and carried ax handles. Though their intentions were obviously malevolent, no one else on the street paid attention. Such goings-on were routine in Silver City.

  “Hold there, Ike Clanton,” the trio’s leader snarled. “We’ll have a word.”

  Clanton drew back. He was about to run, but one of the accosters moved behind him.

  Brautigan took a step forward, but the toughs didn’t quail. They were clearly experienced brawlers and confident in their prowess and superior numbers.

  “Whoever you are, fellow, step aside,” the leader said. “This business is between us and Clanton.”

  Brautigan said, “Oh?” in a reasonably cordial tone that would have panicked anyone who had previous dealings with him.

  “Our money, Ike Clanton. You lost seventy dollars in last night’s poker game and swore you’d go to the bank and get us our money today. Sun’s set, and we’ve not been paid what we’re due. So now seventy dollars on the spot, or we take it out of your hide.”

  “I promise I’ll pay,” Clanton said. His voice quavered. “I had business dealings today, long discussions, and the matter slipped my mind. I’ll go to the bank and pay you tomorrow without fail.”

  “The money, Clanton.”

  Ike whined to Brautigan, “The cards were marked.” Behind them, the third assailant stepped closer.

  “Marked cards cancel any debt,” Brautigan said conversationally. “So that’s the end of this.”

  “Then you’ll get it, too,” the lead tough declared. He raised his ax handle.

  Brautigan gently set down the cloth bag with the brandy bottle and glasses. Then he leaned back past Ike Clanton. His huge hand gripped the shoulder of the man behind them and in one motion yanked him forward and threw him into the other two. All three toughs staggered back off balance. Brautigan moved forward and delivered quick punches to two of their heads, sending them sprawling and unconscious. The third man, the ringleader, regained his composure, smashed his ax handle against Brautigan’s back, and stood back to watch the much bigger man fall. But Brautigan didn’t budge. It was as though he hadn’t felt the blow. Almost delicately, he grasped the remaining attacker by the collar, raising him up on his toes. He drew back his fist and hammered it into the man’s abdomen, targeting the area near the liver. The fellow gasped rather than screamed, his body paralyzed by the blow. Brautigan dropped him onto the street. Some passersby had stopped to watch. He said to them, “They’re only hurt a little. Give them air.” He stooped to pick up his bag of bottle and glasses, then took Clanton by the arm and led him on to the Estes Hotel.

  —

  IKE CLANTON SHOOK for several minutes after Brautigan seated him on one end of the bed. He poured him some brandy, but Ike’s hand trembled and he spilled as much as he got in his mouth. Brautigan sat on the other side of the bed and waited. Though he himself never felt fear—caution was a far different thing—he knew it took some time to subside in others.

  Finally Clanton stopped shaking. He looked wonderingly at Brautigan and asked, “Don’t your back hurt?”

  It did, a little, but Brautigan simply ignored pain. It was
an annoyance, but nothing of real concern, like too much cold or heat. “I’m all right,” he said.

  “What you did—”

  “Was nothing much.”

  Clanton held out his glass for a refill of brandy. He drank most of it down in long, loud gulps. Color returned to his face. “I could have taken those three myself, and was about to,” he said. “You beat me to it, is all. Though you did some fine work with your fists.”

  “Obliged.”

  “That one behind us, you didn’t even look when you snatched him.”

  Brautigan nodded.

  Clanton said, “I wish you’d killed them.”

  “There was no need,” Brautigan said. He drank a little brandy from his own glass and watched Clanton, waiting.

  After moments of awkward silence, Ike asked, “So what’s your game? With your questions about the San Carlos agency and all.”

  “If we speak of this, you’ll need to stay mum about it, Ike. I’m not a man who warns twice.”

  Clanton gulped air, then brandy. “My word as a gentleman.”

  “Then I’ll tell you straight. There’s someone in Mountain View I need to collect and take elsewhere, with no fuss as I do it. Discretion is the thing.”

  “There’s a grudge involved? Getting even?”

  “That need not concern you. More brandy?”

  Clanton held out his glass and Brautigan poured. Ike asked, “How do I play in this?”

  “Are you well known in Mountain View? Do you go there often to tout your Clantonville lots?”

  Clanton looked sour. “Very little. They think themselves high rollers there, that their shit don’t stink. A man goes in to talk a little business and the damned sheriff runs him right out.”

  “But you’ve been there?” Brautigan asked. “You know your way around at least a little?”