by Jeff Guinn
“It gets even worse,” Marie said. She was a woman who relished sharing unwelcome news. “They’re leaving soon for California. I’ve been doing all I could to delay them, so it’s not my fault. You should have come sooner.”
Clanton expected Brautigan to make some intimidating response, but the big man’s reply was surprisingly conciliatory. “I regret that I didn’t. Still, we’ve a little time yet. What else can you tell me?”
“They’re taking her father with them to California. He’s quite ill.”
“Any idea where they’re going in California?”
“They’ve said San Francisco is most likely. Will you pursue them there?”
Though it would be harder finding McLendon in a major city than in a frontier town, Brautigan was certain he could. But the delay would anger Rupert Douglass, who was expecting immediate results.
“I want to take him here,” Brautigan said. “Think on this—has McLendon a daily routine, things he always does at the same time? Besides the job during the day, and the socializing at night?”
“Just what I’ve told you.”
“Anything. The smallest detail may help.”
“I don’t know. Give me a moment. I’m trying to think. Well, there’s the task about ten o’clock each night but Sunday.”
Sitting in the bottom of the wash next to Brautigan, Clanton felt the big man’s body tense.
“What task?” Brautigan asked.
“Hope Camp, Mayor Camp, who owns the store where McLendon works, has him return there after close of business, collect the money they’ve taken in that day, and put it in a safe on the second floor of the building. Every night at the Ritz, McLendon excuses himself to perform that chore.”
“Always at the same time?”
“Well, around ten. Perhaps a few minutes after.”
“Now tell me about the building itself.”
Marie explained how Camp Feed Store was an extended structure with the bowling alley to the rear of the first floor. The only entrance to the small second-floor office was an outside stairway around back. You couldn’t see it from the front of the building.
“You’re certain it’s not visible from that direction?”
“Of course not,” Marie said crossly. “It’s even hard to see when you go ’round back, since it’s in an alleyway that’s perpetually dim. The stairs are hardly more than a ladder. Mayor Camp’s up in years and would break a hip if he fell, but he’s too cheap to put in anything sturdier. I’m certain that’s why he’s had McLendon assume the nightly chore for him.”
“When he does this, is McLendon alone? Is anyone else ever involved?”
“No, just him.”
“This happens every night but Sunday? You’re certain?”
“It’s as I’ve said. I’ve been there when he talked about it, when he left by himself to go do it. Are we concluded? I have work in the morning, and thanks to you will have very little sleep to refresh me.”
“We’re almost done. I’d like to hear a bit more about the Tirrito girl.”
After initially feigning reluctance Marie had several things to say, beginning with the opinion that Gabrielle was a spoiled little witch. She took shameless advantage of friends, sometimes asking them to help tend her sick father, Salvatore, when a busy woman like Marie had her own responsibilities. But Gabrielle never considered that. All she really cared about was herself. Well, Marie almost always put her off with excuses, though that simpleton Rebecca Moore, the one who owned the laundry, always did whatever Gabrielle wanted. Marie thought there was something a little strange about Rebecca’s friendship with Gabrielle. And there was the matter of Gabrielle and Joe Saint, the Mountain View schoolteacher who’d once been sheriff back in Glorious.
“Do you know about Joe Saint?” Marie asked.
“We’ve met,” Brautigan said. “What of him?”
“He and Gabrielle were together back in Glorious and afterward everyone in Mountain View expected them to marry, Joe himself above all. And she led him on and then broke his heart when she resumed with McLendon. Though, of course, she claims to me that she still cares for Joe deeply and hates to see him hurt in any way.” Marie heaved an exaggerated sigh. “As I’ve said, she’s a witch. Is that sufficient? I’m quite tired.”
Brautigan nodded. “Yes, we’re finished. Here’s an additional fifty dollars for your trouble tonight. Ike, here, will escort you back to town.” Brautigan’s tone shifted from courteous to the threatening timbre Clanton was used to hearing. “You’ll never speak of this meeting, or anything else involving McLendon. If you do, I’ll find you. All right, Ike. Get going, and make a prompt return.”
—
AFTER SUNRISE, Brautigan surprised Clanton by suggesting they take their horses and mule out of the wash in search of water.
“We’ll need them rested and ready tonight,” he said. Ike told him that Queen Creek ran just to their west and south.
“The same one that bordered Glorious,” Clanton said, but Brautigan was clearly uninterested.
They watered the animals and filled their wooden cask. On the way back some riders passed and waved, but didn’t stop.
“Any idea where they’re heading?” Brautigan asked.
Ike guessed they were on their way to Florence. “There, or maybe Phoenix are all there is directly west of here, and there’s not that much to Phoenix.”
“Just so long as they won’t remember us.”
“Two men and their animals. Nothing to remember.”
Back at the wash camp, Ike sweated and swatted flies. Brautigan ignored the insects and heat. Flies buzzed around him unnoticed as he explained what was about to take place.
“I know we’re perhaps a half hour’s ride from town in daylight. Will it take twice that in the dark?” Clanton nodded. “All right. We’ll leave here at eight, give ourselves time. When we get there, I want to be seen as little as possible, if at all. You know where this feed store is located?”
“It’s on Main Street, about the middle of a block.”
“To reach it, must I walk in the open?”
Ike thought a little. “Perhaps not. The town’s laid out long but narrow, on account of all the mountains to the side. You ground-hitch your mount just to the east, work in that way, you could stick to a couple alleys and come up behind the store.”
“And that’s where the only stairs to the second-floor office are.”
“So that woman said. Say, did you hear her revile me? There was no call for that.”
“And it’s dark in the alley. Well, there’ll be time to take a look, find the best place to wait.” Brautigan looked at Clanton. “Tonight it’s especially important that you do just what I tell you. There’ll be consequences if you fail me in the smallest way.”
“I won’t.”
“There’ll be no tethering. You’ll wait just outside town with the horses and mule. I’ll go in alone. When I return, I’ll have McLendon. We’ll put him on the small horse and ride for Clantonville.”
Clanton said, “I’ve some experience with McLendon, and he’ll be howling his head off. I don’t expect he’ll mount up and ride out quietly.”
“He’ll be quiet,” Brautigan said. “His behavior is my concern and none of yours. Just have the animals ready.”
“You thinking of crossing the San Carlos agency at night? Those Apache sleep light.”
“We’ll divert around the agency to the south. Do you know the way?”
“I do, but it’s harder in the dark.”
Brautigan looked at Clanton. “Ike, can you guide us or not? Because if you can’t, then you’re of no further use to me.”
Clanton recoiled; Brautigan’s stare was almost as hard as a blow. “I can do it. I can. South around the agency, and then on to Clantonville. It’ll take longer, though, with the added distance as well as the
dark. I can’t be blamed for that.”
“Just get us where we’re going as efficiently as possible. And understand this—if we’re spotted and it appears we’re to be apprehended, I’ll kill McLendon on the spot and then you. Do you doubt that I will?”
“No,” Ike muttered.
“But if we reach Clantonville safely and your father is as good as his word, after perhaps one night I’ll ride on south with McLendon and your part in this is over. Not much longer.”
“What’s to become of McLendon?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“If you’re just going to kill him anyway, I want to watch.”
“No. Now get some rest. Tonight I’ll need you at your best.”
That night they lit a fire and cooked—bacon and canned beans. Clanton said they had only a few cans of peaches and peas left. Brautigan said that would last them until they were back in Clantonville.
Just before eight they saddled the horses and loaded up the mule. Ike made a show of checking his Peacemaker, twirling the cylinder and repositioning the gun in his holster for easy extraction.
“Might be we’ll have to shoot our way clear,” he said. “Best check your rifle.”
“Gunplay won’t be required,” Brautigan said.
They picked their way across the valley floor in pitch darkness. The half-moon was obscured by clouds. Brautigan asked Clanton if there was any possibility of rain, but Ike assured him it was probably too late in the season. Brautigan’s saddle sores had healed somewhat, but soon after he was mounted the scabs covering the rash on the inside of his thighs broke open. He hardly noticed; his thoughts were elsewhere.
Even on Tuesday night, the streets of Mountain View were bustling. Some mining shifts ended at six p.m., and once workers had cleaned up, they stepped out for dinner and carousing. Just outside town, Brautigan and Clanton heard hoots and, from the saloons, the sounds of a rinky-tink piano.
“Some boys having fun,” Clanton said enviously. “I wouldn’t mind being among them.”
“Not tonight,” Brautigan said. “All right, Ike. I’ll leave you here. Be certain I’ll find you on this spot when I return.” He dismounted, handed his reins to Clanton, and walked through ankle-deep brush toward the backs of some buildings perhaps two hundred yards ahead. Clanton, watching, was reminded of a mountain lion he’d once seen stalking a deer. Like the big cat, Brautigan moved swiftly without seeming to hurry. After a few steps, he disappeared into the darkness.
“Wonder if I could quick hustle in and get a beer?” Clanton asked the night. But then he remembered Brautigan’s glare, and, even more, his threats, and decided his thirst could be slaked another time.
—
BRAUTIGAN KEPT TO the shadows. Mountain View’s alleys were narrow and mostly uncluttered compared to those of big cities. As he worked his way through the areas between streets he passed one vomiting drunk and three entangled couples. The drunk was too sick to notice him and the couples were too preoccupied.
He recognized the back of the feed store from Marie Silva’s description. It was longer than the other buildings on the block. Lights flickered from first-story windows—the store was still open. Brautigan took a watch from his pocket, snapped open the case, and studied its face in the dim light from the windows: just after nine-thirty. They’d undoubtedly close at ten. There was no other movement in the area behind the store. He studied the structure. There was a loading dock, and then to the left the staircase to the second-story office that the woman had told him about. He examined the staircase, which was no more than a rickety ramp with plank steps. A man starting to climb the steps, holding a container of some sort filled with money, would have to move slowly and carefully. That perfectly suited Brautigan’s purpose. All he needed was a moment’s hesitation. The noise on the street around the front of the store was helpful too. Nothing short of a full-lunged scream from the alley would be audible there, and McLendon wouldn’t have time to scream.
Brautigan imagined, for a moment, how this would ultimately end. He’d get McLendon to St. Louis, he felt sure, and then the boss would pick just the right spot. A place down by the docks, probably, one of the boss’s own factories, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Then Brautigan would be given a sign and start to work. Too often, he had to kill quickly. With McLendon, he’d have all the time needed to truly demonstrate his art. A man could suffer almost innumerable injuries and unimaginable pain before he died, if the one meting out the punishment knew his business, which Patrick Brautigan did. McLendon had embarrassed Brautigan by his previous escape. In St. Louis he’d pay, and how satisfying that would be.
But these were idle thoughts when it was time now to focus on the task at hand. Brautigan checked his watch again. The store would close in minutes. There were some barrels on the loading dock a few yards from the bottom of the staircase. Brautigan eyed them, calculating distance and cover. Satisfied with his assessment, he rearranged a few barrels and stepped behind them, allowing room to move to either side if necessary. McLendon, walking around to the alley and the stairs behind the store, would never see him there. As McLendon paused at the base of the stairs and prepared to take his first step, Brautigan would take him instead, muffling any sound by clapping one huge hand over McLendon’s mouth and rendering his prey unconscious with a blow to the head from his other fist. Then he’d boost McLendon’s limp body over his shoulder, carry him out to where Clanton waited with the horses, and ride away. By the time McLendon came back to himself, they’d be far from town.
“Ready, then,” Brautigan murmured to himself. He settled back to wait. It wouldn’t be long now.
11
Mountain View mayor Hope Camp spent much of Tuesday thinking gloomily about failure and mortality. At age sixty-eight, he’d outlived three wives—the frontier was hard on women. Both his daughters were married and living back East, having fled the territories as soon as they’d found prospective husbands willing to take them away. He heard from them only at Christmas, when they sent cards but no gifts. Camp knew he had some grandchildren but was uncertain of how many, or of their ages and genders. His life centered on his political career and his business, and now both seemed to be in jeopardy. Lately, some of Mountain View’s other civic leaders had begun dropping hints about the desirability of a younger man to head town government. Camp resented it but couldn’t really blame them. He’d missed several council meetings in the last months because of aching joints and all-around weariness. Much of that exhaustion came from overwork at his feed store. As Mountain View’s growth exploded, so did Camp’s business. That was fine in terms of profit, but the additional demands took their toll on the elderly man. There was always more stock to order, more shipments to monitor. The bowling alley was a particular drain on him. On a whim, he’d installed the wooden lane in the back of his shop, thinking it might amuse youngsters while their parents shopped. Instead, it seemed every adult in Mountain View wanted to roll heavy wooden balls at pins. The resulting constant clatter gave the mayor headaches. He wished bowling had never been invented, but the alley was too popular with customers for him to remove.
Cash McLendon’s arrival in town, and the heroic Indian fighter’s willingness to run the alley for Camp, seemed like a gift from God. The mayor hadn’t been in church for decades, but he offered up a silent prayer of thanks anyway. It occurred to Camp that McLendon might, in fact, be a prospective partner in the feed store business. All the Mountain View profits could finance branch stores in other territorial towns—Florence, surely, and perhaps Phoenix. Even though McLendon initially declined Camp’s offer, insisting he planned to move on to California soon, the mayor had hope. McLendon seemed to be a young man of considerable energy and salesmanship. A chain of Camp and McLendon feed stores throughout the Southwest—that would be a considerable legacy.
But McLendon’s news that he had won the heart of Gabrielle Tirrito, and that they would depar
t for the West Coast as soon as possible, dashed the mayor’s plan. It wasn’t only the loss of his prospective business partner that stung. McLendon took the girl away from Joe Saint, the town schoolteacher who Camp had personally recruited. It was hard for territorial towns to find qualified educators; Saint was a daisy, a smart, kind man beloved by pupils and parents alike. Camp feared that Saint’s broken heart might cause him to pull up stakes and leave town, too—what would Mountain View do for a teacher then? As soon as McLendon and the girl were gone, the mayor planned to sit down with Joe and reaffirm his importance to the community.
Camp knew that Orville Hancock, the most influential man in Mountain View, was helping McLendon find employment in California. He and Mrs. Hancock had even had McLendon and the girl—what was her name? The mayor kept forgetting—over to their home for dinner. They’d never asked Camp to share a meal at their table. But if the mayor exhibited any animosity toward McLendon for leaving, Hancock might respond by supporting someone else for the town’s leading office.
So Mayor Camp publicly celebrated the happy couple. He decided that the sooner they were gone, the better the chances that he could convince Joe Saint to stay. Every day McLendon and—Gabrielle, yes, that was her name—walked about arm in arm, the more Joe’s suffering must increase. So when Major Mulkins approached Camp and suggested they lend McLendon enough money to leave town immediately, the mayor agreed.
—
ON TUESDAY, when McLendon arrived at work, he took Camp aside and said that Wednesday would be his last day supervising the bowling alley.
“Gabrielle and I want to leave Friday morning on the Florence stage with her father,” McLendon said. “I’ll need Thursday to pack and make last-minute preparations.”