Glorious (8 page)

When he came home and rushed up the stairs to his father-in-law's study, Ellen's body was sprawled on the carpet, blood pooled around her and bits of broken glass vial scattered by her side. McLendon understood in an instant that she'd wanted more laudanum, was enraged when there wasn't enough to satisfy her, and in her fury smashed the vial and used one of the shards to slash her own wrists.

McLendon's knees buckled and he dropped to the floor beside
Ellen's body. The magnitude of the tragedy overwhelmed him. His wife was dead and he was responsible, though unintentionally. He leaned away from Ellen, vomited, and then began to sob. It hadn't been Ellen's fault that she was sick. Why had he left the bottle out where she could get at it? The vial was just as potentially deadly as the drug—he'd never considered that. He'd seen how, in some of her fits, Ellen tried to harm herself. This time she'd succeeded all too well. God, what a shock this news would be to her parents when he wired them in Philadelphia. Mrs. Douglass would be devastated. And Mr. Douglass—

The harsh circumstances of his childhood imbued self-preservation as Cash McLendon's primary motivation, and as much as he was devastated by Ellen's death, in this awful moment he reverted to form. He would have done anything, made any sacrifice, to undo his fatal mistake and bring Ellen back. But there was nothing he could do for his dead wife, so he had to think of himself. Rupert Douglass, McLendon realized, would have no mercy on someone whose carelessness had resulted in his daughter's demise. To him, it would be the same as deliberate murder. Mr. Douglass believed in immediate retribution; he'd call on Killer Boots. Quite soon, McLendon's battered corpse would be found in some St. Louis alley, his features mashed into jelly by repeated thundering kicks.

He tried to calm himself and think. He didn't have to wire the Douglasses. Ellen often slept late. The servants were told to stay away from her room unless summoned by McLendon or one of Ellen's parents. If Mrs. Reynolds was still too sick to come to the Douglass mansion in the morning, Ellen's body might not even be discovered until late afternoon or possibly the evening. After that, it would take time to contact her father in Philadelphia, and most of another day for Mr. Douglass to return to St. Louis, learn what had happened,
and set Killer Boots on McLendon's trail. By then he had to be well clear of the city.

McLendon crammed some clothing into a valise, along with
The Last of the Mohicans
. Besides Ellen's laudanum, Mr. Douglass always kept a few thousand dollars in the safe. McLendon stuffed the bills into his pocket. Then, after a last, sorrowful glance at where his wife's body lay, he locked the door behind him and crept down the stairs, trying not to alert the servants.

McLendon hurried to the river and bribed his way aboard a flatboat leaving at dawn for New Orleans. He stayed there for a while, working day jobs on the docks. Ellen was much on his mind; if, during their brief time together, he'd found some way to reassure her of his love, perhaps she would have been less self-destructive. He considered more than once returning to St. Louis and accepting Mr. Douglass's inevitable vengeance. Perhaps he deserved a horrible death from the feet of Killer Boots. But in mid-March, when the landlady of the transient hotel where he'd taken a room mentioned that a big man with steel-toed boots was asking for him around the neighborhood, McLendon ran again, and not back to St. Louis. In the time that he'd been in hiding, he had also found himself obsessing about Gabrielle and how much better it would have been to marry her rather than Ellen. He couldn't make up for what he'd done to Ellen, but perhaps he could make things right with Gabrielle. Both of their lives didn't have to be ruined. New Orleans was an obvious place for Killer Boots to hunt McLendon, since it was linked to St. Louis by the Mississippi. But surely Mr. Douglass had never heard of Glorious in Arizona Territory. McLendon would go to there, reclaim Gabrielle if he could, and with her travel to one of the big western cities—San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego—where he'd make them a new life by using all the business wiles he'd acquired in St. Louis. Though he couldn't ever
completely absolve himself for Ellen's death, at least he could in some sense atone for it by giving Gabrielle the happiness she deserved.

That afternoon, McLendon boarded a steamship that took him from New Orleans to Galveston, Texas. To throw Killer Boots off the scent, he traveled under the name H. F. Sills, a railroad employee he'd known back in St. Louis. Once in Galveston, McLendon inquired at the stage depot about passage to Arizona Territory, then took the stage from Galveston to Houston and on across Texas and New Mexico into Arizona Territory, finally fetching up almost two weary weeks later in the Mexican-influenced town of Tucson. From there it was a short trip north to Florence, and finally the last thirty dusty, jarring miles to Glorious. Now it was only a matter of waiting until morning to surprise Gabrielle, attempt to win her back, and hopefully put his St. Louis past and appallingly primitive Arizona Territory behind him forever. How he'd convince her to forgive him, and what if anything he'd tell Gabrielle about Ellen's death, he still wasn't certain. If she refused him, as she had every right to do, he'd have to go on to California by himself.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON LAY BACK
on his bed in the Elite Hotel, willing himself to ignore the noises of the cat in his room and get at least a little sleep. He finally fell into a fitful doze, only to jerk awake periodically, wondering if he had dreamed or really heard the scrape of heavy boots outside his door.

S
ometime after dawn, McLendon dragged himself out of bed, feeling groggy after such a fitful night's rest. He splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, washed his face, used his finger to scrub his teeth with his final bit of tooth powder, and dressed in his good suit. He checked his pocket watch: it was nearly eight. Yawning, he made his way to the hotel lobby, where Major Mulkins was waiting.

“Will you take breakfast, Mr. McLendon?” he asked. “May I offer you oatmeal this morning, or perhaps you'd prefer bacon and biscuits with your coffee?”

“Oatmeal would be agreeable,” McLendon said. Mulkins led him into the dining room, which was deserted.

“Most everybody in town is previously breakfasted and gone,” Mulkins said. “The prospectors like an early start, before the sun gets too high and hot.”

McLendon was perspiring under the fastened collar of his shirt. “It's already uncomfortably warm. Surely the heat can't get much worse.”

Mulkins chuckled. “You're in for an unpleasant surprise. I'll bring your oatmeal. May I sweeten it with a bit of juice from a can of peaches? It's a nickel unsweetened, seven cents with the juice.”

“I'll live recklessly this morning. Pour on the juice.”

As he ate, McLendon looked out the window. His view was frequently obscured by clouds of dust blown by a strong wind, but there was very little to see anyway. A few prospectors fussed with tents or loaded saddlebags on mules. The stage was standing outside Bob Pugh's livery, but there was no sign of the driver or guard. Perhaps they were still asleep in the stalls.

McLendon dawdled over his last spoonful of oatmeal. Shortly before nine he watched William Clark LeMond make his way from the livery to Tirrito Dry Goods. The soap salesman held the handle of his sample case in his left hand and clamped his bowler hat on his head with his right. The wind was blowing very hard. McLendon accepted Mulkins's offer of more coffee and began thinking through what he would say to Gabrielle. He hadn't seen her for two years. He hoped the gift of the “Shoo Fly, Don't Bother Me!” sheet music he had tucked inside a coat pocket would remind her that he understood her heart.

Lost in imagining a joyous reunion, McLendon was startled when Mulkins reappeared at the table and asked if there would be anything else. He dug in his pocket and handed seven cents to the hotel proprietor, who asked, “Will you be wanting to retain your room for tonight, sir?”

“I'll inform you shortly,” McLendon said. He went back to the room, fetched his hat, and waited out of the wind in the hotel lobby for LeMond to finish his business and leave the dry goods store. It took longer than McLendon anticipated. It was nearly nine-thirty when the salesman emerged and walked back toward the livery. McLendon went outside. His hat immediately blew off, landing almost
directly at LeMond's feet. The salesman snatched it up and held it out to McLendon.

“Miss Gabrielle is behind the store counter,” he said. “Don't be concerned—I didn't mention your presence.”

“Obliged,” McLendon said. He took his hat and banged it against his leg, trying to knock off the dust from the street.

“Remember that the stage back to Florence leaves at ten,” LeMond said. “You see it just in front of the livery. They're hitching up the mules now.”

McLendon said politely, “Safe travels.” Then he turned and walked toward the dry goods store. He passed the farrier's shop; town mayor Charlie Rogers stood over a forge, banging at a horseshoe. He nodded at McLendon, who nodded back. Except for the clank of Rogers's hammer and the keening of the wind, there was no other sound. In a few more steps McLendon was in front of the store. He noticed with some pleasure that the familiar hand-carved
TIRRITO DRY GOODS
sign was in place over a wooden door hung by crude latches. He went inside and there was Gabrielle, taking canned goods out of a packing case and placing them on a shelf. He thought that she was a bit thinner and her hair was longer. She turned, saw him, and calmly said, “Oh. Hello.”

Among all her possible reactions to his arrival, McLendon failed to anticipate no real reaction at all. “You're not surprised to see me?” he asked. “Did the soap salesman who was on the stage with me alert you, after promising me that he wouldn't?”

“Mr. LeMond didn't say a word,” Gabrielle said coolly. “Aunt Lidia wrote that you disappeared from St. Louis, and Mr. Pugh, the livery owner, mentioned last evening that a stranger had arrived from Florence. It crossed my mind that you might come this way. You're quite predictable to anyone who knows you.”

McLendon had imagined controlling the conversation from the outset, but she had him off balance. He said, “I've come because we have something to discuss,” but before he could continue, a raggedy prospector came in and inquired, “Miss Gabrielle, did the stage bring 'em yesterday?”

Gabrielle smiled the great warm smile that McLendon remembered so well and said, “Yes, Mr. Haines. Will you have a penny's worth?” When he nodded, she took a small box from the counter and shook some of the contents into a canvas sack.

“I haven't the penny this morning, Miss Gabrielle,” the man said. “Will you extend me credit? I'm sure to find some color any day now, and then I'll pay the debt promptly.”

“Of course you will, Mr. Haines,” she said. “I hope you have good luck today.” The prospector touched his finger to the brim of his hat in a courtly gesture, said, “Ma'am,” and left the store. Gabrielle's smile instantly vanished, replaced by her previous neutral expression. She arranged a few more cans on the shelf as McLendon gathered himself. After several long moments of awkward silence he said, “What did that fellow want?”

Gabrielle continued shelving cans. She said over her shoulder, “Lemon drops, the hard candies. The prospectors suck them to alleviate thirst in the heat of the day. If they don't have the candy, they must use pebbles, which don't taste as pleasing.”

“He can't afford a penny?”

“Many of the prospectors need occasional credit. We trust them to pay us when they can. They're for the most part decent men, seeking their fortunes through hard, honest work. I wouldn't have Mr. Haines sucking pebbles for the lack of a penny. I realize this isn't the way that you believe in doing business.” She put the last can in place, wiped her
hands on an apron worn over her long dress, and said, “You mentioned something to discuss. Perhaps the death of your wife? Aunt Lidia mentioned her demise in the same letter that informed me you'd vanished from St. Louis. Let me express my sympathy for your loss. Does that conclude our business? If so, I believe the stage back to Florence is ready for boarding.”

“No, we need to talk,” McLendon said. “Can we go somewhere, do this in private?”

“My father is busy in the back storeroom, unpacking some of the boxes that arrived yesterday. I must remain on duty at the counter. You can say what you need to here, but be quick. I've a great deal of work to do.”

McLendon reached for Gabrielle's hand, but she moved it away. “Then I'll begin by saying I'm sorry. I acted abominably. I've come all this way to make things right.”

Gabrielle began arranging open containers of small items—nails, buttons, needles, and spools of thread—on the other end of the counter, keeping distance between herself and McLendon. “Oh, there's no need. I've gotten on with my life just as you have with yours. No cause to feel guilty where I'm concerned.”

“But because of me, you're here.”

“I'm happy here.”

McLendon sensed an opening. “Of course you're not. No one with any sense could be. I'll take you away. This place is dirty and dangerous and the man who owns the hotel charges extra for bathwater—”

Gabrielle laughed. “Major Mulkins, that sweet man.”

“Yes, Mulkins. And not just him. The mayor's wife gobbles jelly straight from the jar and the sheriff is a scarecrow with a bent badge and patchwork beard.”

“I like the sheriff's beard. It has unique character, where ordinary beards such as yours do not. I appreciate the trouble you've gone to in making this long trip, and the effort I know that it takes you to sound so sincere. But I have no need or desire to be rescued. You can be on your way with a clear conscience.”

“But I have plans—”

“Of course you do,” she interrupted, and even though there was sarcasm in her tone, he welcomed it, felt glad for any reaction at all. “You always have plans. But they change in an instant, don't they, depending on your own best interests. I decline further involvement in your plans now or ever.”

“That's too harsh. I'm a changed man from the one that you remember.”

“Really?” Gabrielle asked, arching her eyebrows in mock astonishment. “You seem exactly the same to me.”

A wizened man emerged from the storeroom. McLendon extended his hand to Salvatore Tirrito, but the old fellow ignored it.

“I'm just visiting with Gabrielle, Mr. Tirrito,” McLendon said. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

Tirrito's English vocabulary was sufficient to spit out,
“Bastard!”

Gabrielle said something to her father in Italian—McLendon had no idea what, because he'd never bothered to learn any of the language during his time with her in St. Louis. She apparently assured the old man that things were fine and he could return to his work in the storeroom. Tirrito fixed McLendon with a baleful glare and stalked away.

“Let me be clear,” Gabrielle said to McLendon. “This current plan you have for me—for us—is that you swoop into Glorious, rescue me from this hideous place, and carry me away to some great city where we're to live happily ever after. Is that correct?”

“Though you're mocking me, yes, that's the concept in general. California is my preferred destination. I'm sincere in this intention.”

“And does any aspect of this plan include my father?” Gabrielle asked. “How would he fit in?”

“I suppose he would stay on here, operating his store,” McLendon said.

“You think that I would abandon my father to go with you? That I would leave him all alone? You plainly have a low opinion of me.”

“On the contrary, I have tremendous respect for you,” McLendon said, marveling at how Gabrielle had seized and held the upper hand. “Come with me now and after we're settled somewhere we'll send for your father, or do whatever you want concerning him.”

“What I want,” Gabrielle said briskly, “is for you to get back on the stage to Florence, and from there go on to California or wherever you like. Your ultimate destination is of no consequence to me. Leave my father and me alone. We don't in any way require your attentions or concern. I find your attitude to be offensive.”

“Don't be offended,” McLendon pleaded. “What I want to do is correct my errors of the past. Far from intending any insult, my being here is a compliment to you. I believe you're so special that you're worth my coming all this way to be reunited. This is the sum of my thoughts and my entire intention.”

Gabrielle came out from behind the counter. She was a tall woman and McLendon a man of average height, so their eyes were level. Hers stared hard and unblinking into his.

“I'll tell you what you thought and what you intended. You thought I was a lowly Italian who would never get over the pain of losing her man to a rich white girl. You intended to come here to Glorious and sweep me off to California because that was what you wanted, never considering whether it was best for me. Well, I'm happy here; I'm
staying. If you need forgiveness, then fine, I forgive you. And now I have work to do.” She opened another box and resumed putting cans on shelves, pointedly turning her back on McLendon.

He remembered the gift he'd brought. “I have something for you: sheet music.” He took the pages out of his coat pocket and smoothed them out on the counter. “This song ‘Shoo Fly, Don't Bother Me!' has become quite popular. It's a sprightly tune, and will sound well when played on your piano.”

Gabrielle continued unpacking cans. “Thank you for the gift, but it's of no use to me. I no longer have my piano.”

“Why not? I can't imagine you giving it up.”

She glanced briefly at the sheet music, gently touching the pages with her finger. “Oh, it was too unwieldy to bring west. We sold it to help pay our way here. I really must get back to work.” She took more cans from the box and put them on the shelf, turning each carefully so that its label faced out.

McLendon blurted, “Your aunt Lidia told me that I broke your heart.”

Without turning around, Gabrielle said, “Hearts mend.” A burst of wind gusted through the open doorway and blew the sheets of music off the counter.

McLendon stared at Gabrielle's back for a few moments, and then, not knowing what else to say or do, he left the shop. He thought he would return to the Elite Hotel, retrieve his valise, and get out of Glorious, but then he looked west, past the cluster of prospectors' tents, and saw the Florence stage disappearing over the horizon toward Picket Post Mountain.