Silver City

by Jeff Guinn

  “Some things can’t be made up for,” she said. “Like Joe’s foot.”

  “I’m sorry for Joe, but now I’m speaking of us. Has that changed?”

  “Everything’s changed. For now I want to deal with one day at a time, and not think about anything more than that. At some point I will, again.”

  “I sympathize. All you’ve been through, of course you have much to consider. But what should I do in the meantime?”

  “It’s for you to decide. Though you’ve not said so, I know what’s really bothering you is the time I’m spending with Joe. What happened to him was because he loves me. He didn’t deserve being crippled. My hair is coming back, the Major’s nose is healed, and you’re fine to go on as you please. We’ve got bad memories, but that’s all they are. His disfigurement is permanent. He needs encouragement to go on. It’s really the rest of Joe’s life that’s in the balance.”

  “The rest of Joe’s life,” McLendon repeated.

  “Exactly. And now he’s expecting me. It’s difficult for him to change the dressings on his foot by himself.” For six more weeks, McLendon waited. When he saw Gabrielle she was friendly but never anything more. Saint recovered to the point that he could sit in front of his house in the evenings. Gabrielle was often with him, getting him cups of water and resettling his maimed foot on a stool. Major Mulkins advised further patience, but McLendon finally couldn’t wait any longer. He went to the stage office, where he still had credit for two passages from Mountain View to San Francisco, and told the manager there that at least one would be used in three days. It was Tuesday, so he would leave on Friday morning. McLendon needed the time in between to tend to things in Mountain View. He quit his job at Flanagan’s Livery and used a little of the money he’d saved for new shirts, trousers, and an inexpensive valise in which to pack them. At McLendon’s request, Orville Hancock wrote him a glowing letter of recommendation to the Smead Company in San Francisco.

  “They’ll set you up right,” he promised.

  Wednesday evening, McLendon found Gabrielle again. He told her that he was leaving for California on Friday morning. He loved her and still wanted her to come with him.

  “You’re pressing me,” she said. “I’ve never liked that.”

  “I know.”

  Gabrielle reached under her kerchief and scratched her head. The hair sprouting there itched. “And now will you deliver me a fine speech full of promises about the wonderful life we’d have in San Francisco?”

  McLendon shook his head. “No more speeches. I can’t guarantee our lives there would be wonderful at all. Unexpected things happen. Who knows? But I’d try my best. That, I can promise.”

  She looked stricken. “If you’d give me more time . . . There’s my father, and you know I have to think of Joe.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said. It’s the rest of Joe’s life.”

  “Please understand,” Gabrielle said, and rushed away.

  —

  ON THURSDAY, MCLENDON WAITED. He sat in the White Horse lobby for a while, ate a lingering breakfast at Erin’s House, and strolled along the wooden sidewalks of Mountain View. He wanted to be easy for Gabrielle to find without being too obvious about it. But she stayed behind her desk at the hotel. At noon he glimpsed her hurrying to Saint’s house. Most days she brought him lunch.

  Many people greeted him as he walked. Word was around town that he was leaving the next day, and everyone said they were sorry he was going and wished him well. There was some consolation in this. It was the first time in years that he wasn’t leaving somewhere on the run.

  He also had a conversation with Mac Fielding, editor of The Mountain View Herald. Fielding came up to him and asked, “Will you grant a farewell interview?”

  “To what purpose? If it’s to announce I’m leaving, from the farewells I’m receiving, it appears your readers already know.”

  Fielding produced a pencil and notebook from his pocket. “It’s also well known that you disappeared for a while with Major Mulkins, Joe Saint, and Gabrielle Tirrito. Now you’re all back, and Joe is a cripple. It’s a story that needs to be told.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” McLendon said. “I’d take it badly, should you place one in print.”

  “You’re leaving anyway,” Fielding said. “And if you won’t talk to me, it’s the privilege of the press to speculate.”

  Cash McLendon had fought and survived at Adobe Walls, and fought and defeated Patrick Brautigan, if only by luck. These experiences had provided him a certain resolution, which now made itself evident in his voice and gaze.

  “Don’t do it,” he said, and Fielding retreated a step.

  “People have the right to know,” he said plaintively.

  “Not in this case,” McLendon said. “You won’t write about it, now or ever. Do we understand each other?”

  Fielding stuffed the notepad and pencil back in his pocket and said huffily, “Men like you will be the death of a free press.”

  McLendon said, “Or men like you will be. Good-bye, Mr. Fielding.”

  —

  AFTER DINNER on Thursday night, McLendon went back to the room he shared with Major Mulkins at the White Horse. He sat on the corner of the bed, resting his chin on his hands and trying very hard not to wonder where Gabrielle was, and whether she would knock on his door.

  She never did.

  —

  THE STAGE LEFT Mountain View for Florence and points west at ten on Friday morning. Just after nine-thirty, McLendon and Major Mulkins began walking from the hotel to the station. It was several blocks. The Major insisted on carrying McLendon’s valise.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see Gabrielle and at least bid her farewell?” he asked. “You know that she’s upstairs in her room.” Earlier, Gabrielle had sent the Major a note, informing him that she was indisposed and unable to come down to work that day.

  “It would be too hard for both of us,” McLendon said.

  “Will you at least send word to me of how to reach you, once you’re in California and situated? I believe that it’s possible, even likely, Gabrielle will reconsider at some point and want to send you word.”

  “I doubt it, but I do want you to know where I am. It’s pleasant to think that I can stay in touch with old friends again.”

  Mulkins smiled. “Then you believe we’ll have future meetings?”

  “Certainly, if you find yourself in California. I doubt I’ll return to Arizona Territory—there are too many memories here.”

  They reached the depot. A team was hitched to the Florence stage. Mulkins handed the valise to McLendon, who passed it along to the driver to be placed in the storage compartment at the rear of the stage.

  “There’s also this,” Mulkins said. He unbuckled the gunbelt around his waist and handed it to McLendon. “I’ve had the loan of your Colt long enough.”

  McLendon handed it back. “Keep it, Major. I’m done with guns.”

  They waited for the station manager to call passengers aboard the stage. Besides McLendon, there seemed to be only two others, itinerant salesmen by the look of their cheap suits and bowler hats. It was a three-bench, nine-passenger stage. McLendon thought that he’d have plenty of leg room, at least until they reached Florence late that afternoon.

  At ten o’clock precisely, the station manager bellowed, “Stage departing, Mountain View to Florence.” Mulkins extended his hand, and McLendon warmly shook it.

  “I hold our friendship dear,” he said. “I’ll never forget all you’ve done for me.”

  “Likewise,” Mulkins said. “Travel safe.” He stood and waved as the stage pulled out.

  The route to Florence passed all the way along Main Street in Mountain View. McLendon pulled back the cloth curtain and stared out one of the paneless window openings in the passenger cab, looking at Erin’s House and the Ritz, and reflecting that it
was impossible to escape the past. Poor decisions had more lasting effect than good ones. It was up to him now to salvage his life out in California.

  The White Horse loomed ahead, and after that it was the end of town and out into the country. McLendon was about to pull the window curtain closed when the driver shouted, “What? Whoa,” to his horses and brought the stage to a stop. There was muffled conversation, the driver leaning down to speak to someone.

  Gabrielle opened the passenger door and climbed in. She wore no bonnet or kerchief. Her hair had mostly grown back, and she once again adorned it with ribbons. She sat down on the bench next to McLendon and the stage lurched forward.

  “As soon as we’re settled, we must send for my father,” Gabrielle said briskly. “I would think in a month, if not sooner. Rebecca Moore can’t care for him indefinitely. If Mr. Hancock wrote a letter to his parent company as promised, that should gain you immediate employment. Even if not, I can find work. It would be agreeable if you could close your mouth.”

  McLendon’s jaw had dropped.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I neglected to pack and have only the clothes I stand in. As soon as our stage makes some civilized stop, I’ll need to get some things.”

  McLendon had to say it. “But what about Joe?”

  Gabrielle said defensively, “Well, it’s the rest of my life, too.”

  NOTES

  In fiction based at least partially on history, it’s always important for readers to know what’s true and what’s altered for storytelling purposes. In almost every way, I’ve tried to make Silver City an accurate representation of 1874 in Arizona Territory. The details—from fashion to guns to Mayor Camp’s bowling alley—are accurate. Mountain View itself is based on real-life Globe. The Clantons did set up Clantonville, but their efforts to establish it as a town failed and they moved southeast, where Ike and Billy Clanton eventually participated in momentous events in Tombstone. During the time in which this novel is set, future Tombstone mayor John Clum was the agent at San Carlos, and Goyathlay (Geronimo) was there.

  I took liberties with some geography. In general the descriptions of the land between Silver City and (mythical) Mountain View are correct, but I moved a mountain range or two and manipulated the boundaries of the San Carlos agency.

  I want to apologize to everyone who has lived, lives, or ever will live in Silver City, New Mexico. The Silver City in this book shares only its name and general location with the actual place. Everything else springs directly from my imagination. I’m sure real-life Silver City was and remains a fine place. I just love the name, and couldn’t resist using it.

  If you’ve enjoyed this novel and want to know more about the history of the region, I strongly suggest reading The “Unwashed Crowd”: Stockmen and Ranches of the San Simon and Sulphur Spring Valleys, Arizona Territory, 1878–1900 by Lynn R. Bailey (Westernlore Press, 2014). I relied on it for many of the facts and geographic descriptions presented in Silver City.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As usual, and above all, thanks to Ivan Held for suggesting that I write a fiction series based in the so-called Old West. I will always be grateful to all of my friends at Putnam, past and present. Maybe someday soon we can meet for a reunion lunch at The Ear. I’m buying.

  It was a privilege to work with Christine Pepe, a dedicated, caring editor.

  Jim Donovan, my agent, never lets me down.

  James Ward Lee and Carlton Stowers always read along as I write. Their comments and constructive criticisms make my books better. Doug Swanson helped with this one too.

  I’m grateful to Anne Collier, Chuck Smith, and Kevin (“Cap”) Mulkins for invaluable research assistance.

  Special thanks to the inspiration for Cash McLendon’s first name.

  Everything I write is always for Nora, Adam, Grant, and Harrison.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jeff Guinn is the bestselling author of numerous works of fiction and nonfiction including Buffalo Trail, Glorious, Manson, The Last Gunfight, and Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde. The former books editor at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and an award-winning investigative journalist, he is a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the Texas Literary Hall of Fame. He lives in Fort Worth.

  facebook.com/JeffGuinnAuthor

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