Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

McLendon said eagerly, “Has she said something to you?”

  Saint sighed. “No, she hasn’t. Not yet. But she’s getting ready to. I know her and I can tell. You got her head filled with dreams about life in California and you being a changed man, which I know you’re not. I wish I was different. If I was, I’d kill you myself just to save her from what’s coming. They could hang me afterward, I wouldn’t care. Just so she’d be safe. I love her that much.”

  “I love her too.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really. If you did, you’d let her be. Now it’s too late. All I can do is hope she comes to her senses and sees you for what you are. Maybe she will someday. And if that day comes, I’ll be waiting. Count on it.”

  “Joe, you’re a fine man. I owe you my life, and I’m repaying you in the worst kind of way. All I can do is swear to you that I’ll be good to Gabrielle if I get the chance. I’ll never let anything bad happen to her again.”

  “You can swear all you want, and I’ll never believe you. Go to hell,” Saint said, and stalked away.

  —

  AFTER SUPPER THAT NIGHT, Gabrielle told McLendon she couldn’t spend the rest of the evening with him as planned. Her father, Salvatore, had developed a cough. Doc Vance, Mountain View’s Harvard-educated physician, was coming to the hotel to examine him.

  “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night,” she promised. “I’m supposed to do something with Joe, but I’ll explain to him why I missed tonight with you. I think he’ll understand.”

  “That’s all right,” McLendon said. “Go ahead and see Joe tomorrow. I had time with you today at supper. I know how hard you’re trying to be fair to both of us.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Gabrielle said. “I promise, it won’t be long now.”

  “Whatever’s best for you,” McLendon said. He didn’t mention his unpleasant experience earlier in the day with Saint because there was no need. McLendon felt bad for Saint who was, after all, a very decent fellow, even if he did wish McLendon dead.

  6

  The day before he headed out with Ike Clanton, Brautigan shopped in Silver City. With Ike in tow, he started at a dry-goods store, where he purchased trail clothes—denim pants, a broadcloth shirt, and a hat with a wide brim. When he worked in cities, Brautigan always wore dark suits. He felt comfortable wearing them. But out on the trail, such attire might attract notice. The shopkeeper made several bustling trips to his storeroom. It wasn’t easy finding items large enough to fit his towering customer.

  Brautigan also purchased a good length of rope, several canteens, and a Winchester rifle. The Winchester was Clanton’s suggestion. On previous assignments for Rupert Douglass, Brautigan never armed himself. It wasn’t necessary. His boots and fists were enough. He believed they would be all he needed to take Cash McLendon, who couldn’t fight worth a damn. But Ike argued that not openly carrying a gun might attract trouble.

  “We pass any bad fellows on our way north, why, if they see you aren’t heeled, even at your size they might take you for an easy mark,” Clanton said. “I don’t doubt you’d prevail, but you’ve also emphasized the need for stealth. So as a precaution, arm yourself.”

  “A fair point,” Brautigan conceded. He thought that perhaps Clanton wasn’t a complete fool. He purchased the Winchester and some ammunition. Ike wanted him to buy a handgun and holster, too, but Brautigan demurred.

  Brautigan and Clanton moved on to the same livery where Ike stabled his horse. There Brautigan bought two horses and a mule. For his own mount, Brautigan chose a rawboned sorrel that seemed capable of accommodating his heft. The second horse was smaller and more docile. Clanton complained, “That one appears slow-footed to me.”

  “Slow-footed suits my needs exactly,” Brautigan replied. “It’s for my companion on the return trip.”

  Ike thought about it a moment, then said, “Oh, yes. Now I see.”

  The mule was needed as a pack animal. Clanton explained that they had to take along a cask of water in addition to full canteens—“There’ll be waterless stretches, and we’ll not want to go thirsty”—as well as sacks of feed for the animals, since much of the area they’d be crossing had little to offer in the way of forage.

  Then, with Clanton’s help, Brautigan bought riding tack for the horses and extra saddlebags for the mule. After that, it was back to the dry-goods store to purchase canned fruit and tomatoes, which would provide both solid food and liquids. Clanton asked why he didn’t acquire a coffeepot, frying pan, and bacon.

  “We don’t need such fripperies,” Brautigan said. “Water and canned food will do us fine.”

  “I like my coffee and bacon,” Ike groused. “Well, I’ve got a pot and pan in my own saddlebag. Being a gentleman of considerable generosity, I’ll share with you at mealtime if you go ahead and purchase the fixings.”

  Brautigan also bought a blanket, and Clanton reminded him to buy some packets of matches—Lucifers, he called them.

  “Even in late August it can get frosty at night in the open,” Ike said. “At least a small campfire is a necessity.”

  They carried their purchases back to the livery and loaded the saddlebags. “Now we’re almost outfitted,” Clanton said. “A stop by the saloon and the task will be complete.”

  “Saloon?” Brautigan asked.

  “Yes, for a bottle or two. Something to take the edge off after a hard day along the trail.”

  “No more whiskey for you, Ike, once we head out.”

  “I believe I must insist.”

  “Must you?” Brautigan looked calmly at Clanton, who tried and failed to stare back.

  “All right,” Ike grumbled. “But it’s a hard thing not to allow a man a drink when he’s proving to be a loyal friend.”

  “When it’s over you can drink all you please.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, especially if it’s at your expense.”

  Brautigan rummaged in his pocket and extracted a few coins. He handed them to Clanton and said, “Here’s two dollars. Go have yourself some final refreshment, but not so much that you’re muzzy in the morning. I mean to depart early, get in some distance before the worst heat. Are you certain it’s no more than five days to your family’s outpost?”

  “Most likely. Might be four if we ride especially hard.”

  “We’ll see. Go have your libations, Ike. I’ll meet you at the livery tomorrow morning, six o’clock prompt.”

  After Clanton scuttled off to the Painted Lady, Brautigan went to the telegraph office. He sent a terse message to his boss: “MOVING ON TARGET NOW. YOU WILL HEAR FROM ME APPROX TWO WEEKS.” He thought a moment and added, “GOOD RESULT ANTICIPATED.”

  Then Brautigan searched for Sheriff Wolfe. He found him in the Gilded Cage, counting receipts outside the whores’ workrooms.

  “I leave tomorrow and expect to return in about two weeks,” Brautigan told him. “I’ll need you to have the papers ready. It’s my intention to get clear of this region as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll have what you need,” Wolfe said. “Just you be certain to hand over the remainder of my fee in return for the documents. If you attempt to cheat me, then big as you are, I’ve got some boys to lay you low.”

  Brautigan shrugged. “I keep my bargains. Be certain that you do the same. Two weeks, or a day or so either side of that.”

  After a good dinner, Brautigan returned to the Estes Hotel, where he informed Emily Estes that he’d be leaving in the morning.

  “It will be quite early,” he said. “Before six, I’m sure. Shall I leave my key here at the desk for you?”

  “I rise much earlier, Mr. Brautigan. If you like, I’ll prepare some breakfast for you before you depart.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll leave the key.”

  Estes said hopefully, “Will you be returning to town? Perhaps I should keep a room available?”

  �
��No, if I return to Silver City, it will be of a very brief nature. I have a short journey ahead, and then business calls me home.”

  “To Boston, you mean?”

  “Certainly. Boston.”

  Up in his room, Brautigan sat on the edge of his bed and thought through his plan, trying to discern any omissions or inconsistencies. After an hour, he turned in and fell asleep immediately.

  —

  IKE CLANTON WAS badly hungover in the morning. Brautigan had expected it, and didn’t mind. It would keep the voluble fellow quiet during the first few hours of their ride. They headed north out of town at first light. Brautigan led the extra horse and Ike tied the mule’s reins to his saddle horn. They made steady progress. Brautigan had occasionally ridden horses in St. Louis, but never for an extended period. His current lanky mount had a somewhat uneven stride and it took him some time to become accustomed to it. He soon felt discomfort in his seat and crotch, but, as always, Brautigan simply ignored the pain. He carefully studied the terrain. There were low mountains looming ahead, but Clanton promised there were passes through them. Of greater concern were the crevices, eight- or ten-foot drop-offs seemingly out of nowhere, apparently level ground that abruptly dropped precipitously down. There weren’t many of these, but the two riders had to be constantly on the lookout for them, Brautigan more than Clanton until Ike’s hangover finally receded. By the time they stopped to rest the animals and share some tinned peaches, Clanton was recovered enough to start conversing, and his chosen topic was Cash McLendon. To Brautigan’s surprise, Ike showed no interest in why Brautigan was pursuing the man. Instead, Clanton launched into a litany of McLendon’s sins against him. Apparently, back in Glorious, McLendon tried to cheat Ike out of some livery business, and also grossly insulted Ike’s honor as a gentleman in front of the whole town.

  “For some time I’ve been hoping to square accounts with the sumbitch,” Clanton said. “He’s a lowlife for certain.”

  “But he’ll remember you, Ike?”

  “To be sure. My fear is he’ll run at the sight of me and so be lost to you.”

  “Then we’ll hope he won’t run.”

  “Never fear. If he does, I’ll prevent him. My word on that.”

  It grew terribly hot during the afternoon. Both men were soaked in sweat. It was necessary to make occasional stops so the horses and mule could briefly rest. When they rode they had to pick their way through clumps of cacti and other prickly plants. Occasional crevices forced detours, sometimes of as much as half a mile. They spooked a few rabbits, spotted some snakes, and once, in the distance, spied what appeared to be elk, but did not encounter any human beings.

  “Not much traveling between here and Mountain View,” Clanton observed. “Of course, that’ll change as Clantonville grows and somebody reasonable gets put in charge of the ’Pache reservation. A year from now, maybe two, and there’ll be a good trail from Silver City, with stages passing up and down ’round the clock.”

  “Perhaps. For now, I’m glad of scant company.”

  As dusk approached, they stopped and made camp. It was too dangerous to try to continue after dark. A fall into a crevice could cripple a mount or rider. They ground-tethered the horses and mule. There was some patchy grass where they’d stopped, so the animals could graze. The men gave the livestock sparing drinks from the cask, using their upside-down hats as buckets.

  “We’ll cross a small crick tomorrow and the beasts can drink their fill then,” Clanton said. For a moment Brautigan didn’t understand; then he translated “crick” as “creek.”

  Clanton built a fire. Brautigan watched him stack larger sticks around a small pile of twigs. Ike crumbled some cigarette papers around the twigs and lit the paper with a match. Flames curled up from the papers, then the twigs. Clanton blew softly on the twigs, and soon the sticks blazed.

  “Coffee and bacon for supper,” Ike announced. Afterward he scoured the frying pan with sand—“We don’t want to be wasting water”—and stored it back in his saddlebag. After gathering more sticks to feed the fire through the night, the two men wrapped themselves in their blankets. Clanton wanted to talk, something about the near-magical growth of crops along the river in Clantonville, but Brautigan said he wanted to sleep. Soon Ike was snoring. It took Brautigan longer than usual to drop off; his lower body ached from the long day in the saddle. He woke twice, once when Clanton rose to put more sticks on the fire and again when there was rustling a few dozen yards away in the dark.

  “Night varmint,” Clanton called from his blankets. “’Pache or bad man, we’d never have heard anything.”

  On the second day’s ride, the land flattened. There were no more crevices, so they made better time. It was still very hot, and Brautigan’s discomfort in the saddle increased. Clanton chattered constantly. In early afternoon they found the narrow creek. The shallow water looked dirty to Brautigan, but the horses and mule drank thirstily. So did Ike. Brautigan looked around, memorizing landmarks. Most of the area looked identical—a bluff here and there, scattered patches of sharp-tipped vegetation, low-slung cacti. But there were some variations—a lone towering saguaro, an oddly shaped boulder. With these committed to memory, Brautigan bent down and filled canteens.

  Late in the day they spied riders well to the north, four of them. “Whites and not ’Paches,” Clanton assured Brautigan. “Likely prospectors. Still, you might pull out that Winchester, have it obvious and handy, should they drift over for a word.” But the other riders kept going and were soon lost to sight. “Out in the open like this, long as it’s light, alert men are seldom taken by surprise,” Ike added. “It’s just a matter of keeping our eyes open.”

  —

  ON THE THIRD DAY they eased through the mountain pass. Clanton said the mountains were called the Pinalenos. High cliffs towered over them; for a while, there were blessed shafts of shade. The air was cooler, and though the incline was gradual, Brautigan eventually felt his ears pop a little from the pressure. They didn’t encounter anyone else. Toward dark a rabbit rushed in front of their horses. Clanton yanked out his pistol, aimed, fired, and missed. The loud crack echoed off the stone walls to either side. That night they ate canned tomatoes along with the few bites of bacon that were left.

  “You want, tomorrow you could practice with that Winchester,” Clanton suggested. “Just to get your shooting eye in, and all. There’ll be plenty of room, no danger from ricochet.”

  “I see no need,” Brautigan said. “If all goes well, there’ll be no gunplay.”

  “You ought to take a few shots,” Clanton insisted. “I’m handy with a rifle myself, and could offer some valuable instruction.”

  “No need,” Brautigan repeated. In any fight, he trusted his steel-tipped boots more than a firearm.

  On the fourth day the land completely flattened, though a few peaks rose ahead. Ike predicted they’d reach Clantonville by noon the next day. He spent several hours rhapsodizing about the beauty of the settlement.

  “We got the Gila River bubbling right past, and me and Pa and my brothers have dug a good deep ditch for irrigation,” Clanton said. “When I call it paradise, that’s the correct term. When you see it, you might not want to leave.” When Brautigan didn’t reply, Ike went on. “When we arrive, how do you want me to describe your business? What manner of arrangement have you in mind?”

  Brautigan was hurting. The insides of his thighs were rubbed raw after days of riding. Some cactus needles were stuck deep in his left hand. They were too small to cut in after; he’d have to let them work their own way out. Wind blew dust into his eyes, nose, and mouth. He was very thirsty, but tired of the warm, brackish fluid left in their canteens and water cask. Still, he gave no outward appearance of discomfort. He never did.

  “We’ll keep things simple,” he told Clanton. “In exchange for a fee, your family will put me up for a night or two, and perhaps let me use a building to hold so
meone on a temporary basis.”

  “Cash McLendon, you mean. I can’t wait to spit in that bastard’s face.”

  “None of that. And after I’m gone with him, you and yours will forget we were ever among you. That’s no matter who comes asking—not that Mountain View sheriff, not other lawmen, not anyone. Your father, brothers, other family, they’ll all give their word on that and keep silent if needed?”

  “Here, now,” Ike said indignantly. “I’ve already assured you that all the Clantons are the soul of discretion.”

  Brautigan pulled off his hat and wiped a forearm across his sweaty brow. The gesture emphasized the enormity of his fist. “That had better be the case. If any of your family abuse my trust, it’ll go badly for all of you without exception. Should you and I negotiate further payment now?”

  Clanton looked abashed. “Pa speaks for the family. You need to work out Clantonville doings with him. No matter what, though, I’m your daisy for dealings in Mountain View, whatever you’re of a mind to be doing there. But in Clantonville it’s Pa.”

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING dawned somewhat dimmer; there were gray clouds overhead.

  “Hope the rain holds off,” Clanton said as they rode. “This part of the country, floods are a problem. There’s some dirt right underfoot, but beneath that’s rock and water can’t soak in. We get a bad storm, we might have to swim, though that’s been true ever since we left Silver City.”

  “Are you exaggerating?” Brautigan asked. “I’ve no time for delays, weather-induced or otherwise.”

  “Hand to my heart,” Clanton said. He studied the sky for a few more moments. “We’ll likely stay dry since we’re no more than ten miles or so out from home. Two hours at the most, and then some comfort after these days in the saddle. I can’t wait.”

  Not much later, Clanton raised up in his stirrups and pointed. “There it is. Clantonville.”

  Brautigan looked. He had especially keen eyesight. Six or seven miles ahead there were specks on the land, roughly built houses, and between them were patches of green, a startling contrast to the dull tan of the desert. He could see the Gila River curling into the natural basin where the town lay. Almost, he thought. I’m almost within reach of him. Not long now. He reflexively twitched the toes inside his steel-tipped boots.