Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  Gabrielle hadn’t sobbed long when heavy footsteps approached and the door bolt shot open. Brautigan came inside. He had to duck because of the low roof. The immensity of his body emphasized the cramped dimensions of the shed’s interior. Gabrielle shrank as best she could against the wall.

  Brautigan sniffed. “I forgot to get you a slop jar. I’ll do that presently.” He stood over her, still slightly crouched. “First thing, the same rules apply. You are not to speak. Nod or shake your head. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re going to be here for a time. The rest of today and tonight. We leave not much after sunup tomorrow. Again, understood?”

  Another nod.

  “If someone other than me comes in here, you are not to speak to that person. You are not to attempt communication with anyone else but me. If you do, you will be hurt more than you already are.” He nudged her with the steel-tipped toe of a boot, and she flinched. “But you needn’t suffer any further injury. It’s your choice. Will you in any way disobey my instructions?”

  Gabrielle shook her head. Her entire body trembled.

  “Good. Tomorrow, if he does as I tell him—and he will—McLendon will exchange himself for you. You may be tempted to warn him off, or even attempt something so foolish as trying to save him. You can’t. Any such attempt, even the slightest, and I’ll kill you both on the spot. He can’t be saved. He’s dying, no matter what. But you can live. Do you want to?”

  A nod.

  “After McLendon hands himself over, I’ll let you ride away. Someone’s coming with him to bring you back home—I don’t know who.”

  Major Mulkins, Gabrielle thought.

  “Now I’ll explain something. Listen carefully. Once I’m out of sight, you may think you can tell it all, go back to Mountain View and set the sheriff on me,” Brautigan continued. “And you could, you or whoever is escorting you. But what you’ll say instead to anyone who asks is you took a short trip and now you’ve returned. Anything else, even a hint about me or anyone you see here in this place, and there will be consequences. No matter what you tell, I’ll end up in the clear. Maybe the law will catch up to me before I get McLendon back where we’re going. But I’ll kill him before anyone takes me, and I’ll still walk free after because the man I work for knows ways to buy any court. Then I’d find you in your turn, and you would die. But that would only be the beginning. Your father, Salvatore. I’d kill him too. Maybe you think he’s sick and soon to die anyway, so that wouldn’t matter. Don’t look shocked—I know all about you, your father and much more. Your father would only be the beginning. One by one I’d get your friends—the man you’re working for, that Mulkins, and also the woman who runs the laundry, Rebecca.” Brautigan sounded matter-of-fact. “I’d turn my attention to that schoolteacher who used to be sheriff in Glorious. Joe Saint annoyed me that night. I’d take my time with him. You can imagine his agony. Yes, cry. Cry hard. Believe that I mean every word, for I do. None of you could run anywhere that I couldn’t find you. And when I finished with that, I’d go back to St. Louis, and your aunt Lidia, uncle Mario. And soon they would be dead, all because Gabrielle tried to peach on me. You don’t want that, do you? Do you? Respond!” He kicked her shin.

  Gabrielle frantically shook her head. She thought her shinbone might be broken, but that agony was nothing compared to her fear for her friends and loved ones.

  Brautigan bent down. He took her chin in his massive hand and pulled her face close to his own.

  “There are times in life when no one can save you, when you’re beyond help. This is one. Accept it. You have my word on what I’ll do if you disobey in the slightest. I keep my word in all things. Don’t forget you also have my promise that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll live, you and everyone else. Except, of course, McLendon. But he’s a dead man anyway. So be a smart girl. I think you will.” He let go and Gabrielle sprawled on the dirt floor. “You’ll have your slop jar, and also some dinner directly. It might be that they’re fetched to you by someone other than myself. In that case, have no conversation. I’ll know if you do.”

  It was many minutes after he left, bolting the door behind him, before Gabrielle summoned the nerve to try to stand. He’d kicked her left shin. Though it hurt badly, the bone apparently wasn’t broken, because the leg supported her weight. But now she could walk only in an awkward lurch. Not that it mattered—there was little room to move in the shed. So Gabrielle slumped back down on the floor. Most of what she’d just heard was so overwhelmingly horrible that she focused on small things. Brautigan had promised a slop jar and dinner, and he always kept his word.

  —

  BRAUTIGAN WAS also in pain as he walked from the shed back toward Clantonville’s main house. The chafing damage to his inner thighs was considerable, and there were at least another half-dozen days of saddle time over rough terrain to come. But at present there were also things to attend to, starting with finding out what was going on past the main house, over by the corral. Brautigan suspected they were plotting how to get rid of him—he’d expected something of the sort. Newman Clanton considered himself the master of a considerable kingdom and wouldn’t take kindly to orders from any interloper. Now the old man had gathered four other men, probably the sons and sons-in-law he’d referred to. They watched Brautigan as he approached the corral.

  “I’ll just join your discussion,” Brautigan said.

  The four men with Old Man Clanton sized him up. One said, “We don’t tolerate disrespect for Pa.”

  Brautigan liked that. Direct challenge was always best. Things got understood quicker.

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “John Wesley Clanton. I guess you scare most people. It won’t work here.”

  Brautigan sized John Wesley up. He had Ike’s wide facial features but not his shifty expression. This one was action rather than bluff. Since he’d spoken first, he was the leader among the younger men. Brautigan dropped his gaze to John Wesley’s waist—no gunbelt. He checked young Clanton’s boots, but there were no bulges, no sign of a knife or pistol tucked there. A quick glance around confirmed that none of the other Clantons were armed. They hadn’t had time yet to fetch their guns.

  John Wesley knew what Brautigan was doing. “We’re not heeled. Don’t need to be. How about you get this girl you brought and clear out?”

  Brautigan shifted his feet slightly, distributing body weight evenly so he could move quickly in any direction. “I can’t take that suggestion.”

  John Wesley moved, too, leaning straight ahead, looking to establish primacy, making the typical barroom brawler mistake of getting all his weight in front, which meant he could only lunge forward. “It’s not a suggestion.”

  “Easy, Wes,” his father cautioned. “Let’s give Brautigan a moment to think.”

  “All I’ll give him is some help on his way,” John Wesley said, and made his move. Brautigan nimbly stepped aside and John Wesley stumbled past, flailing his arms and trying not to fall on his face. Brautigan reached out as he lurched by, catching John Wesley by the belt. He swung him around and effortlessly tossed John Wesley into the rails of the corral. He bounced off the thick, unforgiving wood as horses whinnied in alarm. Then Brautigan took John Wesley by the throat and lifted and dangled him in front of his shocked family.

  “I could kill him before you blinked,” he said. “I could lay out all of you. But I want to be a good guest.”

  “Don’t hurt my boy,” Old Man Clanton said, not quite pleading but close.

  Brautigan dropped John Wesley, who fell to his knees, coughing hard.

  “All I want is for you to hold up our bargain,” Brautigan said. One of the other younger men moved and he snapped, “Stop where you are!”

  “Phin means no harm,” his father said. “He just wants to help Wes up. Brautigan, we’ll do as promised. You were the one who altered the arrangement. Are you s
ure the girl will keep quiet?”

  Brautigan rubbed his forehead. He still had a terrible headache. “I’ve seen to it. Now I’d like some rest. Is there a place I can lay down?”

  Clanton gestured toward a building to the left. “There’s a corner of the barn where blankets can be spread. Smell of horses is a little strong, but it’s out of the sun and blowing dust.”

  “That’ll do.” Brautigan remembered what Gabrielle needed. To be entirely safe, he should bring her a slop jar and food himself, but he was weary. The Clantons were suitably intimidated, Brautigan felt certain. “There are some things that should be taken to the girl. Food, and also something to piss in. Don’t worry, she’ll mind her manners. She’s not to speak to anyone. Keep her locked up. I can be summoned if needed.” He looked at each of the Clantons in turn and added, “I’m an exceptionally light sleeper.”

  —

  GABRIELLE LAY on the floor of the shed for some time. She had no idea how long. Gradually the light between the gaps in the logs faded into dusk. She’d just begun wondering if Brautigan had forgotten her food and the slop jar when the outer bolt shifted and the door opened. A young woman came inside. In one hand she held the handle of a small pot covered by a cloth; in the other, a jug. Tucked under an arm was a wide-mouthed jar. She put the things down on the dirt floor and said, “Here’s some supper.” Gabrielle sat up, wincing from the pain in her ribs and shin. “Are you all right?” the woman asked.

  Gabrielle started to reply, then thought better of it. This might be a test; Brautigan could be just outside, listening. So she shrugged instead.

  “What? Oh, I forgot. You’re not to speak. Well, I’m Hettie, and I’ve brought you water and some stew. You’ll have to drink straight from the jug. There’s no plate for the stew, but I’ve got a spoon in my apron pocket. And here’s a jar for you-know-what.”

  Gabrielle nodded. She didn’t think she’d met Hettie before, but found it comforting to be in the presence of anyone other than Brautigan. It seemed as if she’d been his prisoner forever, and it was less than two days. The dimming light made it hard to see the girl’s features clearly, but she seemed kind, even friendly. Gabrielle thought that if she really did survive, if she ever was back among people again, safe and allowed to speak, she’d savor every moment. For now, she reached out and took the jug from Hettie. She drank in several long gulps, then put down the jug and picked up the pot of stew and spoon. The food was very hot and burned her mouth, but she gobbled it anyway.

  Hettie watched Gabrielle eat. When the spoon scraped the bottom of the empty pot, Hettie said, “I’ve got to take that pot in, but I’ll leave the jug so you’ll have more water if you want it. And the other jar, of course.”

  Gabrielle did her best to look thankful. A nod didn’t seem sufficient for the gift of food and brief, nonthreatening companionship, so she waved, a shaky motion of her hand that she hoped would convey gratitude.

  Hettie picked up the pot and moved to the door, then hesitated. “I don’t know anything of your situation,” she said. “We’ve been told not to inquire or tell anyone afterward that you were ever here. But I hope you come out of this all right.” She went out and bolted the door shut. It was only after Gabrielle heard the bolt slide home that she realized the door had been unlocked the whole time Hettie was with her. Should she have pushed past the woman, tried to escape? No, Brautigan was undoubtedly lurking. He would have caught and punished her. Maybe there was still some way she might get away, some way to save her own life and maybe Cash McLendon’s, too, but her brain felt muddled with fear and she couldn’t imagine any. Full dark came on. Small as the shed was, she couldn’t see the wall opposite. Gabrielle decided that she’d sleep a little, see if rest might revive her mind and spirits. It was a shameful thing, that she hadn’t even considered making a break through the unlocked door.

  16

  It took longer than anticipated for McLendon and the others to get out of Mountain View on Thursday afternoon. Packing took very little time. Mulkins and Saint each took an extra shirt. McLendon left his few possessions in the room he shared with Mulkins—he could foresee no future need of anything. He did jam the greenbacks he had on hand—almost $800 was left of the loan from Major Mulkins and Mayor Camp—into a pants pocket. There might be unexpected expenses before the exchange, or even during it.

  They had no difficulty getting provisions—canned goods were readily available in town shops, and Major Mulkins added biscuits, bacon, and coffee from the White Horse’s kitchen. But renting horses proved a problem. All four owners of the Mountain View liveries were attending Mayor Camp’s funeral, and only Tim Flanagan’s operation was big enough that he had assistants keeping the place open in the interim. But the available horses at Flanagan’s were wanting. The good ones were just returned after days of hard use and weren’t up to immediate rental for more of the same. Those left were clearly unsuited for the ride ahead. That left no option other than waiting for Camp’s service to conclude, which it did just after three. When Garth Gould’s livery reopened shortly afterward, McLendon, Mulkins, and Saint all picked suitable mounts. McLendon paid the rental fees, six dollars a day for each horse and saddle tack, four days’ expected rental before their return, seventy-two dollars total. They loaded provisions in saddlebags and, for the first time, addressed ordnance.

  “I’ve got a shotgun I sometimes use for hunting,” Mulkins said. “What about you, Joe?”

  “I gave up my guns when I quit being sheriff,” Saint said. “With luck, we’ll have no need of weapons. McLendon’s going to hand himself over, and you and I will bring Gabrielle home. If we arrive armed, Brautigan might suspect we mean to fight. It’s better for Gabrielle if we don’t.”

  “Once we’ve got her, we still have to see her safely back,” Mulkins said. “There could be Apache about, or some bad men besides Brautigan. Don’t you agree, C.M.?”

  McLendon did. “I’ve got my Peacemaker, and now that I think of it, a Winchester might prove useful.” Seeing Saint’s face contort, he hastily added, “Not to use against Brautigan, Joe. But if Gabrielle needs protection afterward, you and the Major might need more than a shotgun and Colt to fight long-range.”

  Saint admitted that he saw sense in that, so Mulkins bought a Winchester and shells. With that purchase, they felt they were finally ready to leave. Saint went to fetch Ike Clanton from a saloon; when they returned, Clanton was slightly tipsy, but not drunk to the point of impairment.

  “Let’s sally forth,” Ike said gaily. “We’re off on our adventure.”

  “Enough of that,” Major Mulkins said. “This is no joyful excursion.”

  They began riding around four. Clanton led them east. He set a brisk pace. Major Mulkins was a good rider and had no trouble keeping up, but Saint was adequate at best and McLendon was always challenged just to stay in the saddle. This time, he was less concerned about his tailbone jouncing up and slamming down with pistonlike concussion. That discomfort, McLendon knew, was nothing compared to his suffering to come.

  Just before seven, with darkness setting in, Clanton called a halt.

  “We’ll eat supper, let the horses rest, and get some sleep ourselves,” Ike said. “We get an early start tomorrow, we still ought to make Devil’s Valley by noon on Saturday.”

  Saint disagreed. “We could ride another hour at least.”

  “It’s all right, Joe,” McLendon said. “All that matters is, we’re there at the time appointed. Brautigan’s exact that way. He won’t do business even a minute earlier than planned.”

  “You would know,” Saint said bitterly. “Being as familiar with him as you are.”

  “And he’s going to be more so,” Clanton cracked, and despite the scowls from the others, he laughed at his own joke. “You people hitch the horses, and I’ll get a fire going. Coffee and bacon, coming right up.”

  Ike ate heartily. Mulkins and Saint picked at their food. McLen
don only drank coffee. Panic threatened to overcome him; he knew what a terrible death awaited. Would it come right there in Devil’s Valley? Probably not. Rupert Douglass would want to witness his vengeance. A trip back to St. Louis, then? That might provide some opportunity for escape. But after losing McLendon once in Glorious, Brautigan would be particularly vigilant. No, the odds greatly favored eventual death at the giant’s hands, or, rather, his boots.

  McLendon tried thinking of something else: Gabrielle’s return to safety. It was always possible Brautigan would kill her, might already have, figuring McLendon would show up in Devil’s Valley anyway. But it was an odd truth about Killer Boots and his employer that they kept their sides of unequal bargains, so long as the other side did exactly as instructed. Brautigan must have a plan in place, one that would allow Gabrielle to survive if McLendon willingly handed himself over. All right, McLendon silently commanded himself, for now think of that, and only that. Getting her back alive.

  After the pans and tin coffee cups were scoured clean with sand, Mulkins said, “Isn’t there a decision to be made? We’re close to the border of the San Carlos agency. Trespassing’s forbidden, but I believe that if we ask to see John Clum, the agent, he’d grant permission to cross. The distance involved isn’t that great, but it might save an hour.”

  Clanton said quickly, “It’s not to be risked. Clum’s a harsh one. If we so much as venture over an inch of agency land, he’ll likely clap us in irons and call the Army to take us to the stockade. Then we’ll miss the appointed hour in Devil’s Valley, and who knows what harm might come to the lady?”

  “Surely Agent Clum would be more reasonable,” Mulkins said. “We could just explain ourselves as businessmen in a hurry to a meeting, and that we offer no trouble to anyone.”