by Jeff Guinn
“I’d say so.”
“And no one would be surprised if you came again, talking up Clantonville, seeking investors, making your way about town?”
“Not a bit.”
Brautigan smiled, square teeth gleaming in the smoky light of an oil lamp by the bedside. “What would your family say if you brought a new acquaintance to Clantonville for a visit, just for a while? Not to stay permanent, but willing to pay what we’ll call rent for the temporary privilege of a roof and meals?”
“You’d be welcome.”
“And if this person had someone with him, someone reluctant to be there?”
“That’d be no concern if the money was sufficient.”
“Would they ask many questions, your family? Will they let a man tend to business without interference? Perhaps even lend a hand if needed, for additional recompense, of course.”
“If you’re a friend of the Clantons, we can be trusted in all things. We’re businesspeople and stick to our agreements.”
Brautigan took a small pouch from his pocket and spilled some gold coins onto the bedspread. They glittered in the lamplight. He picked them up and let them trickle through his thick fingers. Ike licked his lips as he stared at the gold.
“And you, Ike. If I paid you well, would you undertake a task for me? Work of a nature that must remain discreet, never to be discussed then or afterward?”
“Yes,” Ike said. “I’m a man of considerable discretion.”
“All right, then. We’ll start with this—here’s seventy dollars. Tomorrow, seek out those bruised debtors of yours and pay them in full. After all, we don’t want you having to watch over your shoulder for them the next time you’re in Silver City. The seventy’s just a down payment to you. There should be much more to come.”
“Much more for doing what?”
“Helping me nab a man, and then get him from Mountain View back here to Silver City with a minimum of notice. I’ll do the heavy work. Your task is to make some arrangements, do some guiding through the agency land and some seeking out in Mountain View. After that, perhaps another day of guide work. Nothing beyond your abilities and intellect.”
“Sounds promising.”
Brautigan gestured for Clanton to lean forward. He said, “Tell me, Ike. Have you any knowledge of a man named Cash McLendon?”
Ike stiffened. “You say Cash McLendon? Who used to be in Glorious? He’s the one you’re after?”
“That’s right.”
Clanton grinned so wide it seemed his face might split. “If you have bad intentions toward Cash McLendon, then I’m surely your man.”
5
Ten days after the Herald published its story about McLendon and the battle of Adobe Walls, he could walk the streets of Mountain View and not be constantly accosted by admirers. But the effect of the publicity still lingered. Business at the feed store bowling alley remained brisk, with some patrons clearly there not for sport but the opportunity to spend time near a hero. When McLendon visited the barber for a haircut and beard trim, he was ushered to the front of the line. Now that he had money, there was often no need of it. In saloons, people vied to buy his drinks; in restaurants, at least coffee, and sometimes full meals, were on the house. In return, McLendon favored those treating him with a colorful tale or two about the battle. He was always careful to praise the heroism of his fellow fighters and not exaggerate his own exploits.
Several community leaders took McLendon aside to question him about future plans. If he did stay in Mountain View, he surely didn’t want to keep on working at the feed store bowling alley. That was beneath a man of his stature. The president of the town bank offered twenty dollars a month just for the privilege of listing McLendon on its board of directors—“That will surely attract significant new accounts.” Mayor Camp, clearly unwilling to lose his prominent employee, described potential partnerships—“Stay with me a year or two, and who knows? Maybe there’ll be Camp and McLendon Feed Stores Inc. locations all over the territory. We can work out the details as we move forward.” Two members of the town council strongly suggested that McLendon settle in Mountain View, stand for council election himself, and then, after a term or two, run for territorial office.
McLendon thanked them all. He said, and meant, that it was gratifying to be held in such high esteem. But he still intended to go on to California. Everyone said that they hoped he’d change his mind, and McLendon let them think this was possible. It was intoxicating to feel wanted, especially since Gabrielle still had not chosen between him and Joe Saint. Still, he thought her decision would come soon, and McLendon was becoming increasingly certain what that decision would be. Despite her mocking response to the story in the Herald, public reaction to the story—the admiration, the fine job offers—demonstrated to Gabrielle the potential Cash McLendon had to become someone of position and respect in a community. There were immediate rewards for her too. A few nights after the Herald article, he and Gabrielle dined in the home of Orville and Pauline Hancock, the unquestioned social leaders among Mountain View citizenry. Orville Hancock managed the largest area silver mine for the San Francisco conglomerate that owned it. He controlled hundreds of local jobs and thus a significant share of the Mountain View economy. His wife, Pauline, oversaw the town’s most prestigious social functions—she organized every cotillion, fund-raising extravaganza, and holiday gala, and kept ironclad control over who was permitted to attend.
The Hancocks’ dinner invitation came in the form of a card delivered to the White Horse Hotel on Wednesday afternoon. Its envelope was addressed to “Mr. C. McLendon, late of Adobe Walls.” The card itself was embossed at the top with a simple “H.” The impeccably handwritten message read:
Dear Mr. McLendon:
Please forgive the presumption of an invitation from strangers. My husband Orville and I wonder if you might be free for dinner in our home tomorrow night at eight p.m. It would be our pleasure to host an American hero. Please bring the lovely young woman we saw you with the other evening at Erin’s House restaurant. No need for special dress, this will be an informal occasion. Do come. We would so love to make your acquaintance.
Yours sincerely,
Pauline Hancock
(Mrs. O. Hancock).
When McLendon showed the invitation to Gabrielle, she panicked.
“I can’t go to Pauline Hancock’s house,” she said. “I don’t have anything to wear. I wouldn’t know what to say to her. Go by yourself.”
“She specifically invited you,” McLendon said. “See? Right here. ‘The lovely young woman we saw you with.’ What’s the problem? You’re the one who’s always told me that everybody’s the same.”
“I believe it, but that doesn’t mean they do. I’m Italian. I work at a hotel. People like them call that ‘being in service.’ Once she finds out, she’ll probably ask me to leave.”
“Then I’ll leave with you. But it won’t happen. The Hancocks are going to love you. Everyone who meets you feels that way.”
Gabrielle chewed her lower lip. McLendon was shocked. In all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen Gabrielle act unsure of herself. His immediate inclination was to decline the Hancocks’ invitation—he’d had more than enough dinners with wealthy people in the past—but her reaction signaled a chance to demonstrate to Gabrielle just how much he loved her in a particularly meaningful way. McLendon walked over, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her cheek. “You’re an amazing woman, the most wonderful one in the world. Come with me. I’ll be proud to be seen with you, just as I always am. These people think they’re having dinner with somebody special, and they’re right. But the special one is you, not me.”
“You mean it?” Gabrielle asked. “I’ll try. But if it’s uncomfortable we’ll leave as soon as we politely can, do you promise?”
“I promise. Just keep a straight face if they start telling me what a hero I am.�
�
McLendon knew enough about society customs to send a return note to the Hancocks:
Mr. Cash McLendon and Miss Gabrielle Tirrito accept your generous invitation with pleazure, and will call tomorrow night at eight p.m. promptly. Your servant,
C. McLendon.
He wrote the note on White Horse stationery, and asked Gabrielle to check the spelling. She pointed out that pleasure was spelled with an s rather than a z, so he had to rewrite it.
“You never could spell,” she said. He thought he discerned a new, fonder tone to her voice.
Thursday afternoon McLendon left the bowling alley early. He went to Scarcello Dry Goods and bought a suit, a dress shirt, and a tie. His purchases totaled almost thirty dollars, but he reasoned that the nice clothes were worth it. He’d need them in California.
McLendon returned to the White Horse, bathed and shaved in a tub of steaming water, put on his new clothes, and went to the lobby to wait for Gabrielle. He caught his breath as she came down the stairs. Gabrielle wore a simple gray dress that accentuated her dark eyes. Tonight her hair was pulled back behind her head, and there were no ribbons woven in it. She looked lovely, just different.
“I thought you’d wear your special green dress,” he said.
“Mrs. Hancock saw me in it at the restaurant. I won’t want her thinking I have only the one. This is my church dress. She’ll never have seen it because she’d never set foot in a Catholic service. You look handsome in your suit.”
They walked a few blocks to the Hancocks’ home, which was two-story brick. Orville Hancock himself opened the door and ushered them in. Pauline Hancock exclaimed over Gabrielle’s dress and said drinks would be served in the sitting room. There they sipped sherry, nibbled bits of cheese and fruit served by a Mexican woman in black dress and white apron, and engaged in the kind of ice-breaking conversation McLendon remembered from soirees in St. Louis. Orville Hancock observed that the usual heavy rains of late summer had never arrived, so workdays hadn’t been lost at the mine. Pauline said she wished the wind and blowing dust would stay away, too, and commiserated with Gabrielle about the difficulty of keeping hair and dresses clean under such conditions. By the time dinner was served—poached chicken with rice and vegetables—Gabrielle was at ease and McLendon felt proud as she suggested some books she hoped would soon be added to the town library.
“Longfellow of course, and Fenimore Cooper although he portrays women so badly,” she said. “Cooper was perhaps the first American author of widespread note. And I don’t think any library deserves the name if it lacks novels by Charles Dickens.”
“You’re fond of Dickens? So am I,” Pauline Hancock exclaimed. “Martin Chuzzlewit—now, there’s my favorite!”
“The Pecksniffs and the Spottletoes,” Gabrielle agreed. “And Dickens’s vision of America. Priceless.”
Orville Hancock suggested to McLendon that they leave the women to talk literature. “I’ve some reasonable port you might enjoy,” he said. “We’ll have that and burn a few cigars in my study.”
Once seated and served by the same Mexican woman, Hancock asked McLendon, “Are you certain you want to move on to California, which is what I’ve heard? There’s opportunity here.”
“I’m sure there is. But I believe California’s the right place for me. San Francisco, probably, or perhaps San Diego. Despite my misadventures at Adobe Walls, I’m more a man of the city than the frontier. So that’s where I mean to go.”
Hancock puffed his cigar and exuded a cloud of pleasant-smelling smoke. “With Miss Tirrito, I presume?”
“If she’ll have me.”
“Intelligent young woman, I can tell. She’s made quite the impression on my wife. Well, if you can’t be persuaded to stay here, let me say this: my mining operation here is under the auspices of the Smead Company out of San Francisco. Smead’s always on the lookout for men of experience and talent. If you don’t object, I’ll contact some people there, make them aware of you. Company’s involved in lots of things besides mining. I think you’d find employment there rewarding.”
“I’d be grateful, Mr. Hancock.”
“Call me Orville. Consider it done, and when you take your leave of town I’ll send a letter of introduction along with you. Now, I must know—what did old Satanta look like as he and his savages charged you at Adobe Walls?”
When McLendon and Gabrielle left an hour later, she and Pauline Hancock exchanged warm farewells. On the walk back to the White Horse, Gabrielle said, “Mrs. Hancock is forming a committee to raise funds for a permanent library building. She asked if, should they be successful, I might consider serving as librarian.”
“What was your response?”
Gabrielle stopped and turned to McLendon, looking hard into his eyes. He was medium height and she was tall, so she didn’t have to peer up. “Don’t take this to be any form of commitment.”
McLendon’s pulse galloped. “I won’t, but what?”
“A move to California—for three, not two, with my father included. In your current position, and with what I could contribute from my salary, how long would you estimate it would take to accumulate the necessary funds?”
“Stage and train fares would total a few hundred dollars. A place to live in the city, costs of setting up a household. Let’s say five or six hundred. So if I continue to earn what I currently do with Mayor Camp, maybe four months, possibly three if we economize.”
“Once there, you’ll have to find employment. That could take some time.”
McLendon told her of Orville Hancock’s offer to recommend him to the Smead Company in San Francisco. “I think San Francisco would be an exciting place. But if you didn’t like living there, Smead has branch offices all over the state. San Diego, San Bernardino. We could find somewhere suitable.”
“Well,” Gabrielle said. She thought a moment. “I’m sure San Francisco would appeal.”
They resumed walking. McLendon said, “You never told me your response to Mrs. Hancock regarding the librarian position.”
“Oh, yes. I told her I was flattered, but that I was uncertain how much longer I’d remain in Mountain View. I’ll say good night now and go upstairs. I have a great deal to think about—stop smiling! I told you, don’t assume anything.”
He tried not to, but his belief Gabrielle was about to decide in his favor was reinforced a few days later when a furious Joe Saint confronted him outside Camp’s Feed Store. It was just after six p.m. and McLendon had finished work for the day. He was anxious to see Gabrielle at the hotel staff supper in the kitchen. She’d been to dinner with Saint the night before. Now the scrawny schoolteacher with the thick glasses and thinning hair quivered with fury as he hissed at McLendon, “You’re a bastard. Despicable, low-life scum.”
“Hold on,” McLendon said. “Don’t do this here in the street.”
“I don’t care. Everybody else thinks you’re such a hero, but I know what you really are.”
“You’re a schoolteacher, Joe. You don’t want any of your students to see you like this.”
Saint made a visible effort to control himself. “All right. Behind the building, then.”
McLendon wondered if Saint meant to physically assault him. It seemed unthinkable; in the past the former sheriff of Glorious had always avoided violence, even seemed terrified of it. “Calm down, Joe. Let’s go and talk over a drink, like gentlemen.”
Saint glared; the thick lenses of his glasses magnified his eyes. “You’re no gentleman. Behind the building. Don’t worry, I won’t hit you. She’d hate me if I did that. But I’m going to speak my mind.”
Because the building itself was so long, with extensions for the bowling alley and grain bins, the area behind Camp Feed Store was largely out of sight to anyone passing on the street. There was a raised dock where shipments from Tucson and Florence were unloaded, and rising from the dock a narrow stairway lead
ing to a small second-story office where Hope Camp kept documents and cash in a safe. In recent days, Camp had asked McLendon to count receipts after the store closed, and lock them in the second-floor safe. That let the Mountain View mayor get home a little sooner. McLendon obliged, even though it extended his own workday. Now Saint walked up to the dock; McLendon followed.
“Twice,” Saint said. “First Glorious, now here. She and I could have been happy, would have been. You had your chance in St. Louis and threw it away. Why didn’t you let her alone after that?”
“I couldn’t,” McLendon said. “It’s that simple.”
“All you bring is trouble. In Glorious, that killer came after you. I saved you that night.”
“You did.”
“I wish I hadn’t. I should have let him have you. Gotten you away from her for good. Now you’re coming between us again. What a fool I was.”
“Look, Joe,” McLendon said. “I’m not claiming any of this has been fair to you. I’m sorry for that.”
Saint hawked and spit. The glob of saliva splattered between McLendon’s feet. “I don’t believe for a minute you’re sorry. You show up here claiming you’re a hero—”
“I never claimed that. A fool wrote it that way in his newspaper.”
“Were you even there at that place, Adobe Walls? Or are you making it all up?”
“I was there. I wish I hadn’t been.”
“The Indians should have killed you.” Tears began to well in Saint’s eyes. “Somewhere, sometime, you’re coming to a bad end. And you’ll drag her down with you, I know it. Don’t do it, McLendon, she deserves better. If you really care about her, go away and leave her be. That’d be the best thing.”
“If Gabrielle tells me to go, I will.”
Saint pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. He put the glasses back on and said in a sad voice, “She won’t. I know what she’s going to do.”
