Glorious, page 21
“Your invitation was unexpected,” McLendon said. “I know from conversations with Mayor Rogers how little time you have to socialize.”
MacPherson drank some coffee. As he raised the cup to his lips, McLendon saw that the back of his hand was thick with coarse dark hair. “I always enjoy making the right new acquaintances. You come to us from somewhere back east, I understand. And now you’ve decided to stay?”
“You’re well informed, sir. I can’t say that I’m permanently in Glorious. All I know is that I’m staying on longer than I originally anticipated.”
“It’s an interesting little town with great possibilities,” MacPherson said. “Its founders are good people. Major Mulkins, the mayor and Mrs. Rogers, the people running the saloon, and the Italians with the dry goods store.”
“Don’t forget Bob Pugh, who operates the livery.”
MacPherson set his cup on the table. “Yes, him too. He wondered whether there were really Apaches near town.”
McLendon put down his cup as well. “After the two bodies that your vaqueros brought in, I believe that he’s convinced.”
“He’d better be,” MacPherson said. “And now you work for Mr. Pugh.”
“He was kind enough to offer me a job when I needed one.”
MacPherson stopped smiling. He fixed McLendon with a particularly penetrating gaze. “I prefer that our conversation this evening remain private. Would you oblige me in this?” It was a command rather than a request.
“Certainly,” McLendon said. “I admit I’m curious as to this meeting’s purpose.”
“We’ll come to that in a moment. I’ll begin by telling you something of myself. I’m descended from an ancient Scottish clan. In 1746 my forebears aligned with Bonnie Prince Charlie against King George II, a German claiming the throne of England. They believed the prince when he promised them great wealth and power in return for their support. But instead the scoundrel abandoned them, fleeing Britain after losing a disastrous battle to the Royalists. He left his loyal followers to suffer at the vengeful hands of the English bastards. Do you know where that battle took place?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“It was on the plains of Culloden. I’ve named my ranch for it, as a reminder never to place faith in any authority other than myself. After Culloden, the MacPhersons were brought low as England made Scotland part of its empire. We were hunted like animals. Those who survived eventually escaped to the New World, many settling around Boston. It takes generations to recover from such defeat. My father, a good man, was a cabinetmaker. Cabinets! I swore I’d regain our previous good fortune. I made my way west, and three years ago I came to Arizona Territory and found this place and bespoke the 160 acres allowed me by the American government. That’s the way their so-called Homestead Act is written. Everyone receives the same piddling amount. But now I have over a thousand acres, and there will be much, much more.”
McLendon knew what he was expected to ask. “How did you increase your holdings?”
MacPherson rose and paced as he continued telling his story. There were already four other ranchers in the valley, he said, each with his allotted 160 acres, and also a few Mexican homesteaders claiming bits of land as their own. Everyone was under constant attack by the Indians. The Army was no help. The other white landowners soon gave up, and when they did, MacPherson bought their ranches “at a fair price, considering that they were so eager to be gone. And so the best grazing land in the valley became mine.”
“What about the Mexican homesteaders?”
“Oh, I soon convinced them that they should leave too. I have considerable respect for Mexicans if they keep their proper place. They make good servants, but most are intellectually suited to take orders rather than give them. And their superstitions—well, my vaqueros are all veteran Indian fighters, and they’ll charge any number of Apaches without the slightest hesitation. But almost to a man they also believe that the Devil walks the earth after dark, and they tremble at the thought of encountering him. Sometimes I need them working at night. That’s why it was necessary for me to hire the one Mexican who’s oblivious to that nonsense. I found Angel Misterio in Sonora. I think that the men have come to fear him more than Satan.”
Once he had his Indian fighters and Misterio to lead them, MacPherson said, he began raising a great herd of cattle: the beef shortage in Arizona Territory was acute. It was at this time that a small group of settlers hoping to found a town on the north side of the valley came to ask his blessing. He gave it gladly, and more, hiring additional vaqueros to sweep the nearby mountains for hostiles: “From the start, I wanted to make that town succeed. There’s silver in the mountains, and someone’s going to find it soon.”
“I’ve heard that since I arrived in Glorious,” McLendon said. “But in recent days I sense optimism is fading.”
MacPherson returned to his chair. “Is there talk of giving up among the businesspeople? What have you heard?”
“It’s obvious that the prospectors have begun to drift away,” McLendon said. “No new ones are arriving. If there’s no silver strike soon, the town will die. No one wants to give up. They just fear they may soon have no choice.”
MacPherson nodded. “A valid concern, of course. Let’s have more coffee, or would you prefer something stronger? I can offer an excellent brandy.”
“Coffee is fine.” MacPherson rang for the housekeeper, who replenished their cups. Then McLendon broached the subject of their meeting: “Mr. MacPherson, I continue to wonder why you invited me here tonight.”
MacPherson’s mouth stretched into its widest smile yet, though his eyes still lacked a corresponding glow. “Why, I wish to employ you, of course.”
McLendon couldn’t help laughing. “Honesty compels me to admit that I’d be of no use on your ranch. I had great difficulty even mounting the horse you sent, which suggests that I’d not be adept at herding cattle.”
“Oh, I’ve no need for you here on Culloden,” MacPherson said. “But you might prove of considerable value to me in town.”
“In what manner?”
“You’re a man of cool calculation. I was impressed to hear how you stepped into that foolish squabble between my vaquero and a prospector. You didn’t panic, you didn’t bluster. You made a quick, accurate assessment of the men involved and you acted accordingly. I’ve invested considerable effort into building a good relationship between myself and the town founders. Had that prospector been done in by my Mexican, as surely would have happened, that relationship would have been jeopardized. So you earned my gratitude that night.”
“If you seek someone to periodically intervene in brawls, I recommend you look elsewhere. I was astonished by my own actions that night, and doubt that they’ll ever be repeated.”
MacPherson shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I value your ability to accurately discern intentions, motivations, what to say to bring others around to your way of thinking. Your powers of persuasion, in sum. People naturally confide in you. You’re even making inroads with the sheriff, and he fears your intentions regarding that Italian girl.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Oh, I have people who go into town and see. What I want is someone there who listens.”
There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of McLendon’s stomach. “Would you elaborate?”
MacPherson leaned forward. Now there was a gleam in his eyes. “This is a critical time in little Glorious. Something must happen soon. Either silver will be discovered or the town is done for. One or the other, or so the people there think. I guarantee that Glorious is going to survive and, more than that, grow to impressive proportions. Its leaders hope for a silver strike. I promise you that there will be one. And when there is, I intend to benefit. Why should I not? Without me, the Apaches would have wiped the place out long ago. Even the most ambitious prospector could never have safely set foot in the Pinals. So when the grand moment comes, as the man most responsible, I should prosper from it. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s only right,” McLendon said, sick with memory. Rich, unscrupulous men in Arizona Territory were the same as in St. Louis, offering similar justification for insatiable greed. “You’ll have made their prosperity possible, so you deserve to share in it.”
“You understand!” MacPherson said exultantly. “When the discovery is made, mobs will flood into this valley—mobs. They’ll want shelter and food and entertainment. Money flows in mining boomtowns. Everyone will spend and spend. And I intend for them to spend it in my shops, my saloon, my hotel.”
“Which means the founders must sell their businesses to you.”
MacPherson pounded his fist on the table where the housekeeper had set the coffee tray. One of the china cups fell to the floor and broke. The ranch owner ignored it.
“Exactly! And they’ll benefit too. I’ll pay fair prices, enough so they can go somewhere else and start fresh.”
“Just not in your town.”
“Mr. McLendon, it’s a pleasure to talk to a man like you. I’m sure you see your role in all this. Go back into Glorious, be my ears, get a sense of who’s discouraged and wants to sell now, who’s decided to hold on and see what happens, who may prove too stubborn to be reasonable and so requires additional persuasion. Then, as the town grows, you’ll be my inside man on the scene, passing along helpful information. Of course, you’ll be handsomely compensated. If it’s your wish, I might even see my way clear to let you operate a business of your own, with a proper percentage accruing to me, of course.”
“Of course,” McLendon said. “All this depending on whether they discover silver.”
“And you’ve heard me guarantee it. They will. I won’t allow the town to die. I’ve invested too much in it.”
McLendon sighed. “I’m sure.”
“Have we an agreement, then? Shall we discuss immediate wages, something for your pocket tonight?” MacPherson stood over McLendon’s chair, ready to close the deal.
“That won’t be necessary,” McLendon said. Both his head and heart were aching.
“You prefer remuneration at a later date? Of course—for the moment there’s little worth buying in Glorious.”
“I decline your offer, Mr. MacPherson.”
“Do you doubt the generosity of my terms? The amount I had in mind—”
McLendon stood. “The amount doesn’t matter. I can’t do it. These people are my friends.”
“Ah, you’re a canny negotiator, playing the friendship angle. So let’s say two hundred in gold now where I might have intended to offer a hundred. Then, each time I acquire a business or key property with your assistance, two hundred more. That, plus a guarantee of well-compensated, permanent employment when the whole town is under my control. Are we agreed?”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. MacPherson,” McLendon said wearily. “I wasn’t trying to negotiate. The founders of Glorious really are my friends. I can’t act against them.”
MacPherson hunched his shoulders forward like a man ready to throw a punch. “If they’re really your friends, then on their behalf you ought to accept the inevitability of this. Whether you’re with me or not, I’ll have what I want.”
“I’m sure that you will, but I won’t be part of it.”
“Well,” MacPherson said, shaking his head. “You’re decided?” McLendon nodded. “Then let me remind you that you gave your word to keep this conversation confidential. If I find that you’ve slinked back to town and informed your precious friends of my intentions, I’ll be so displeased that no one could guarantee your personal safety. Am I clear?”
“You are.”
“I hope that your friends in Glorious are more reasonable than you’ve proven to be, Mr. McLendon, for those who will not reason with me are fools.” MacPherson rang the bell again, and when the housekeeper came he whispered in her ear. She left, and MacPherson sat down in his chair. He picked up some papers and began reading them. McLendon still stood a few feet away, but MacPherson made no further acknowledgment of him. It was as though he’d ceased to exist.
Moments later Angel Misterio came in. He took McLendon’s arm, not gently, and said, “Come.” He led McLendon outside and motioned for the guards to open the gate in the stone wall. “Vamos,” Misterio said.
“Are you coming? Where are the horses?” McLendon asked.
Misterio laughed disdainfully. “There is no guide or horse for you. Make your way back to town if you can.” The head vaquero shoved McLendon forward; as soon as he was beyond the wall, the gate shut behind him and he heard bolts being slammed home.
The inky night enveloped McLendon. He knew that Glorious was somewhere in front of him, but he couldn’t see anything. He shuffled ahead, trying to stay positive. Two miles or so wasn’t that far. There weren’t any mountains between him and town, just the creek, which wasn’t deep. If he kept walking he’d be in Glorious soon enough.
He’d thought the valley was quiet at night, but he quickly became aware of noise all around him. McLendon recognized the low moan of the wind, but the other rustlings and creakings dismayed him. He remembered someone telling him that Apaches didn’t attack at night. He hoped that was right. He hadn’t thought to bring his gun when Angel Misterio summoned him to Culloden. McLendon knew that there were mountain lions and bears in the Pinals. Did any ever venture down this far? The threat of Indians and wild animals aside, it was difficult just to keep walking. He kept stumbling on soft spots in the ground, and several times he walked right into clumps of cactus. The spines dug into his shins. When he tried to blindly pick them out of his lower legs, they tore open his fingers. He’d never felt so miserable.
After a while McLendon felt certain that he must be nearing Queen Creek. Glorious wasn’t that far beyond it. He kept hoping to see the lights of the town, then remembered that there weren’t that many lights. It was possible, even probable, that if he didn’t walk in exactly the right direction he’d miss Glorious entirely. How could he know? All he could see for certain were the stars overhead, and while there were those who could tell directions from the stars, McLendon wasn’t one of them. He wondered how long he’d been walking. It seemed like an hour, but surely it wasn’t. Where was goddamn Queen Creek?
McLendon sensed movement to his left and panicked. Even though he couldn’t see anything, he knew it was human—Apache, or maybe Angel Misterio following along to kill him. He tried to shout, “Get away!” but he was so terrified that his voice squeaked rather than roared.
“No, no, it’s me,” a voice called softly, and then someone was right beside him. It was so dark that even then McLendon had trouble making out the newcomer’s features.
“It’s me,” the man said again. “Juan Luis. You know me from town, the night that I almost killed that man.”
“Yes,” McLendon said, sagging with relief. Then he reconsidered. This vaquero worked for Collin MacPherson. “What do you want?”
“Keep your voice down. Noise carries out here at night.”
“What do you want?” McLendon asked again, quietly this time.
“Careful, you’re going right into a cactus,” Juan Luis said. He gently guided McLendon to the right. “You’re walking the wrong direction if you’re going back to town. Here, this way.”
“I’ve been thinking I’m about to cross the creek,” McLendon said. “It’s got to be nearby.”
“No, it’s farther. You aren’t that distant yet from the rancho.”
McLendon peered back over his shoulder and saw the flickering torches. They seemed disgustingly close. “Can you help me get back to Glorious?”
Juan Luis tugged on McLendon’s sleeve. “Let’s go, it’s this way. But try to be quiet. I don’t want Angel Misterio to know I’m helping you. It would make him angry. After they closed the gate behind you, he told everyone that you were now an enemy of the jefe and no one was to have any more to do with you.”
“Then why risk this?”
“If, in my rage, I’d killed that drunken gringo prospector, Misterio would have killed me. So I’m in your debt. ¡Vámonos! Come on!”
They made steady progress, though McLendon still occasionally stumbled over plants and outcrops of rock. To his great relief, the water didn’t lap over the tops of his boots when they stepped into the shallow cut of Queen Creek. Then McLendon saw a few dots of light ahead, kerosene lamps or candles flickering behind oilcloth curtains. For once, he felt that Glorious lived up to its name.
“Can you go on your own from here?” Juan Luis asked. “If someone in town sees me and tells Misterio, it would be bad for me. He punishes anyone who disobeys.”
“I’ll be all right. Juan, thanks. I don’t think I would have made it back without you.”
“No, you would have been food for coyotes,” the vaquero said matter-of-factly. Then, in a more urgent tone, he added, “Amigo, you’ve got to get out of here. Go away, leave tomorrow. Bad things are going to happen.”
