by Jeff Guinn
Hope Camp was equally sorry to lose McLendon’s services.
“Bowling income will be reduced by half in your absence,” he predicted. “It was quite profitable to employ a person of such renown.”
There was considerable discussion about when Gabrielle and McLendon would be on their way to California. Doc Vance, Mountain View’s Harvard-trained physician, thought Salvatore Tirrito could endure the journey if he was allowed to rest as needed.
“Common sense is the best medicine for your father,” Doc Vance told Gabrielle. “Whenever he seems especially tired, stop for a while. You say you’re aiming for San Francisco? That’s fine—I think the ocean breezes will do him good.”
When she and McLendon mentioned their intent to leave within a few months, both Marie and Major Mulkins objected.
“That’s just too soon,” Marie said. “With all you have to do, the planning and everything else. Six months at least are required, probably more.”
“Oh, it won’t be that long,” Gabrielle said. “As soon as we’ve saved sufficient funds, we hope to be on our way.”
“But you must be practical. Build up your father’s strength—”
“Doc Vance assures me he’ll be fine.”
“I want to give you a formal engagement dinner, and those arrangements will take time.”
“For heaven’s sake, Marie. Don’t go to any such trouble. I love you for the thought, but truly Cash and I are just anxious to begin our lives together.”
Major Mulkins, on the other hand, urged them to leave at once.
“After all you’ve been through, all the time you’ve lost, you don’t want to put this off. Get your tickets on the stage, pack your bags, and get going west,” he said as everyone crowded around a table at the Ritz. It was Saturday night and the room was packed.
“We’d like to, Major, but it’s impossible,” McLendon explained, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the general commotion. “Even with Gabrielle’s and my current savings combined, we’re still several hundred dollars short of what we need for fares plus expenses while I look for work in San Francisco.”
Mulkins exchanged quick grins with Mayor Camp. “Hope and I want to speak to that.” He leaned forward and motioned for the others to do the same. “We think a lot of the two of you. So we propose this—we’ll front you the money you need to leave just as soon as the arrangements can be made. You can repay us at your leisure.”
Gabrielle gasped, and McLendon had to catch his breath. “Major, Mayor Camp—that’s too generous. We couldn’t possibly—”
“You could, and will,” Mayor Camp said. “McLendon, in the past weeks I’ve made considerable money thanks to you. I’m thinking of christening my store’s game area the Cash McLendon Memorial Bowling Emporium so I can keep profiting from your reputation, if not your actual presence. So you and your lady work out the amount you need and inform the Major and me. Why, you can be on your way by midweek, and honeymooning in California by month’s end.”
“You’re too generous. Thank you,” McLendon said, and Gabrielle leaped up from her chair to give the mayor and Mulkins huge hugs. Rebecca Moore proposed a toast to the happy couple, and everyone raised their glasses.
It seemed to Gabrielle that Marie Silva was downcast. For some people, it’s especially hard to say good-bye to friends, she thought. I’ll make extra time for Marie before we leave.
The original plan had been for everyone to linger for just one or two drinks, but no one seemed to want the night to end. There was so much to talk about, including the clothes Gabrielle needed for the trip, and also for a wedding trousseau, as well as McLendon’s California job prospects. Sheriff Hove felt that Orville Hancock’s letter of recommendation was all he’d need. The Smead Company would surely hire him in a well-compensated capacity. Major Mulkins and Mayor Camp advised McLendon to expand any employment search beyond Smead. He had too much talent, they assured him, to confine himself to exploring jobs with only one company, no matter how established it might be.
Sheriff Hove eventually excused himself to make his regular ten p.m. rounds. “You stay and keep visiting with our friends, Mamie,” he told his wife. “I’ll be home in an hour’s time.” Just as Hove pushed his chair back from the table, a loud voice rose over the rest in the saloon.
“I don’t give a damn what you say about the charms of this place. It’s stinkweed, it’s horse shit, compared to the wonders of Clantonville. Climb on your horse and come see for yourself. You’ll never return to this shantytown.”
“He’s back again,” Hove said, and groaned. “How many times do I have to run him off before he finally stays gone?”
To McLendon, the voice was all too familiar, though it had been more than two years since he’d heard it. He stood along with Sheriff Hove and saw Ike Clanton not a dozen yards away, holding court with his back to the Ritz’s black walnut bar. Ike looked exactly the same, from the pointy Vandyke beard to his wide, insincere smile.
“You’ll find it difficult to believe, but prime lots are available for one dollar,” Clanton assured his audience, which seemed less interested in his sales pitch than in calling drink orders to the bartender behind him. “Prime farming, grazing, plenty of water, in the best location in the territory. Who’ll be the first tonight to avail himself of this opportunity?”
Sheriff Hove wove his way to the bar. McLendon was right behind him.
“Ike Clanton, cease your bellowing,” the sheriff commanded. “You want to tout your place, do it outside in the street.”
“Jack Hove, we’re well met,” Clanton said. “How about I buy you a drink and tell you in some detail why you need to be moving out Clantonville way?”
Ike extended his hand in friendly fashion and Hove brushed it aside. “Outside, Clanton. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Clanton drew back, assuming a look of mock hurt. “Sheriff, I just want to enjoy some refreshment and talk a little business to anyone interested.”
“Look around you. No one’s interested. Out.”
“Of course they’re interested. They just want to get their drinks first, is all. Your discourtesy pains me, Sheriff, and—wait! Right there behind you—can it be Cash McLendon, late of Glorious?”
“It is,” McLendon said. The sight of Ike Clanton angered him so much that his head ached. “I ought to shoot you. I swear I’m considering it.”
Ike said beseechingly to Hove, “There, now, Sheriff. I’m being threatened for no reason. Do your job. Step in and protect me.”
Hove glanced at McLendon. “Even with Ike Clanton, that’s a hard reaction, C.M. What’s your quarrel with him?”
McLendon glared at Clanton. “Two years ago in Glorious, Clanton threw in with a rich man named MacPherson who was willing to kill to have his way. Some good people died because of it. Do everyone a favor, Jack, and run him right out of town.”
Ike said to Hove, “Don’t let’s be precipitous. Tell you what—I’ll suspend further talk of Clantonville for the present. I’ll just have myself a quiet drink or two like any other patron of this fine establishment. You can’t expel me from the premises for that, now, can you?”
Hove frowned. “Just one word or gesture out of place, Ike. Provide any excuse and you’ll sleep in a cell tonight. C.M., step away. Go on back to the table and resume celebrating.”
“A celebration?” Clanton said. “McLendon, what’s the occasion? Why, looka-there. I believe it’s Major Mulkins, and Miss Gabrielle Tirrito. A reunion from our days together in Glorious! Might I join you?”
“Hell no,” McLendon said. “Jack, can’t you at least throw the bastard out of this saloon?”
“Not if he abides by my warning,” Hove said. “Ike, cease further conversation with Mr. McLendon. He clearly disdains your company.”
“I’ll regretfully do so,” Clanton said. “McLendon? May I at least buy you and yo
ur party drinks? No? Well, then, I’ll treat myself.” He waved over the bartender and called for whiskey. McLendon glared at Ike’s back until Sheriff Hove said firmly, “Go back to the table. I’ll not tolerate trouble made by anyone, including a friend.”
After that, conversation at the table was subdued. McLendon, Gabrielle, and Major Mulkins were all distracted by Clanton’s presence in the saloon, though he stayed at the bar drinking and did not make any further approach. Mayor Camp, Mamie Hove, Rebecca Moore, and Marie Silva all picked up on the new mood and spoke quietly of inconsequential things until McLendon glanced at a wall clock and said, “It’s well after ten. I’d best go collect the day’s receipts at the store and move them to the upstairs safe.”
“I can do that,” Mayor Camp said. “You stay and enjoy the company of Miss Gabrielle and these other lovely ladies.”
“No,” McLendon said. “It’s part of my job, and thanks to your generosity, it’s a chore you’ll have to resume soon enough. Major, will you see Gabrielle back to the White Horse? I’ll return there as soon as I’m done.”
The party broke up in friendly fashion. Mayor Camp offered to escort Rebecca Moore to her home and Mamie Hove to hers, where she would wait for her husband to complete his rounds. Marie Silva said she could walk home herself—she had a room in a hotel on the opposite side of town from the White Horse. McLendon gave Gabrielle a brief, warm kiss. She now permitted modest public displays of affection. Then he left the saloon and walked across the street to the Camp Feed Store, where he visited briefly with the late-night staff, bid them good night, and, after counting the day’s receipts, put the coins and greenbacks in a cloth sack and carried the money behind the building and then upstairs to the store office. He unlocked the door, went inside, lit an oil lantern, and opened the boxy safe, using the combination that Mayor Camp had shared with him. McLendon locked the sack in the safe. The store would be closed Sunday, and on Monday morning Mayor Camp would collect the money sack from the safe and take it to the bank for deposit. After closing the safe, McLendon blew out the oil lamp, locked the office door, and walked back to the White Horse.
—
ON SUNDAY MORNINGS, Gabrielle went to Catholic church services in the barn behind Flanagan’s Livery. Mountain View had no official priest, but a traveling padre who spent weekdays in the area ministering to tame Indians was always there to preside. He heard no confessions and did not offer Communion, but did lead prayers and hymns. That was enough for Gabrielle—Father Daniel in St. Louis had cured her of any need for ostentatious church ceremony. She was pleased that on this Sunday, McLendon accompanied her without being asked.
“In California, we can be married as Catholics,” he said as they walked from the hotel to the livery barn. “And I’ll take instruction from a priest beforehand, or whatever else I’m needed to do.”
Gabrielle was touched, and told him so. “We’ll see once we get there,” she said.
McLendon found the Sunday service in the barn to be tolerable, though not interesting. He himself had no particular belief in God—a hard childhood scrambling for food and shelter had taught him to depend on himself rather than on anything spiritual. But he sat patiently beside Gabrielle while she recited incomprehensible Latin phrases and sang in her lilting voice. Afterward he shook the padre’s callused hand. As he and Gabrielle walked out of the barn into the bright noon sunlight, McLendon noticed Ike Clanton leaning against Scarcello Dry Goods Store down the street.
“He’s still in town,” McLendon muttered to Gabrielle.
“Ignore him,” she said. “He’ll be gone soon, or at least we will.”
They went back to the White Horse and brought lunch up to share with Salvatore Tirrito in his room. The old man felt well enough to sit in a chair as he spooned soup and ate crackers. He talked easily to Gabrielle in Italian, and in grudging, halting English to McLendon on the few occasions he bothered responding to something he said. Afterward Gabrielle settled her father back in bed for a nap.
“How much English does your father really understand?” McLendon asked Gabrielle. “I’d like to think at least some of his hesitation is because he’s trying to think of the right words, and not because he hates me.”
“It’s mostly hate, I’m afraid,” she said. “He understands much more English than he lets on. I promise, he’ll come around in time.”
Gabrielle had to spend some of her afternoon teaching another hotel staffer how to run the front desk. She felt obligated to train a replacement before giving up her job at the White Horse. Major Mulkins suggested to McLendon that they join Mayor Camp while Gabrielle was otherwise occupied: “We need to be figuring out the necessary finances for your California trip,” he explained.
McLendon and Mulkins walked across town to the mayor’s home and spent a few hours there. Afterward they returned to the hotel. After Sunday dinner at the staff table, McLendon and Gabrielle sat in the lobby and made plans for the trip. She thought she’d wait to buy any new clothes until they were in California: “Styles there will certainly be different than here in the territory.” McLendon said that Major Mulkins and Mayor Camp suggested loaning them $1,000. It was a great deal of money to repay, but he expected to find a well-compensated job, and Gabrielle said she would work too. They decided that in the morning, they’d buy tickets to leave Mountain View for California on the Friday stage. Thanks to the generous loan from their friends, they could afford four seats instead of three, so, if necessary, Salvatore Tirrito could have more room to stretch out and sleep on the way.
“Can you believe it?” Gabrielle asked McLendon. He admitted that he couldn’t.
They went outside for a quick breath of evening air, and once again McLendon spotted Ike Clanton. This time he was walking slowly down the street in front of the White Horse. He didn’t appear to notice them. This second sighting of the day bothered McLendon. He wondered if Ike was spying on them, and almost immediately decided he wasn’t. If Clanton had any bad intentions, he wouldn’t have shown himself so openly at the Ritz.
Still, all day on Monday McLendon made periodic checks for Clanton lurking about, but didn’t see him anywhere. Then, preoccupied with preparations for leaving town, he forgot all about Ike.
10
Brautigan was unhappy with Clanton’s report after Ike returned to their camp Sunday night from Mountain View.
“All you can say for certain is that he’s in town. But nothing useful beyond that, no information that makes it easy for me to lay hands on him.”
“It’s not my fault,” Ike whined. “I handled McLendon just fine. It was the damned sheriff. After he run me off from the saloon, every time I turned around he was right there watching. He hates me for no good reason. You ought to see to him first, hurt him good, get him out of our way. Then McLendon’d be easy pickings.”
“Don’t blame your failure on the sheriff.”
“I did what you told me. McLendon saw me in the saloon and spoke hatefully. And like I said, this morning he and the girl came out of the White Horse Hotel to go to church. I told you, it seemed like they was living in the hotel. But there’s no back way in, so if you went for him there you’d need to go through the lobby.”
Brautigan shook his head. “I can’t do that. People congregate in hotel lobbies at all hours. Too many possible witnesses. And beyond that, you’re sure he stayed only in open places?”
“Just like I said. He stuck to the main streets, always in sight of many others. Even when he went calling in the afternoon, the house was right there in town.”
“All right. Tonight you’re going back to town again, Ike.”
“Don’t make me play the spy again,” Ike said. “Even if McLendon don’t sight me, the sheriff will for sure, and he’ll throw me in a cell.”
Brautigan flashed what passed as his grin. “No, this time you’re going to contact someone, fetch this person out here to me. I need another source of info
rmation. It’ll be easy work, Ike. Soon you’ll be on your way home with money weighing down your pockets. Now, soon as it’s dark, here’s what you’ll do.”
The rest of the day passed slowly for them. The heat was blistering, and the only shade available in the dry wash camp was a few thready patches behind scattered scrub brush. Flies were a bother too. Clanton wanted to move somewhere else, but Brautigan insisted that they stay put. “So far, no one’s ridden out of town this way. If we change location, we might be spotted.” So despite the heat, they covered themselves as best they could, blankets over their heads to discourage the flies.
When darkness blessedly arrived, Ike rode back to town, leading the small, slow extra mount by its reins. Brautigan rarely demonstrated any emotion, but while he waited for Ike’s return he paced restlessly. McLendon was so close. He couldn’t be allowed to escape this time. The boss’s wrath if that happened would be unimaginable.
Hours passed. Finally, near midnight, Bautigan detected the faint thud of hooves. Ike trotted into camp. Behind him, barely discernable in the pitch darkness, another figure straddled the spare horse.
“May I help you down?” Brautigan asked.
“I can dismount a horse myself,” said Marie Silva. “I thought my part in this business was concluded when I wired St. Louis that McLendon was in town. Why have I been brought all the way out here by this buffoon?”
“Hold, now,” Ike protested.
“This won’t take long, and there’ll be additional compensation,” Brautigan said. “There are things I need to know.”
At first, Marie said little that helped. Yes, she confirmed, McLendon was living in the White Horse Hotel. No, she didn’t think there was any way Brautigan could get up to his room without attracting notice: “Besides, he shares quarters with his friend Major Mulkins, who is always there.” During the day, McLendon worked at a bowling alley in a constantly crowded store. He was never alone, never isolated. When he wasn’t back in the hotel at night, McLendon and Gabrielle Tirrito, his intended—Marie enunciated the word in a particularly scornful manner—were joined by friends at the Ritz saloon, also crowded at all hours. Their circle of friends included the mayor and the sheriff.
