Glorious (2 page)

As soon as he did, his lone fellow passenger struck up a conversation. William Clark LeMond identified himself as a salesman of “luxury sundries, scented soaps and lotions, and the like.” He explained that he currently lived in Tucson but made regular trips around the rest of the territory, attempting to place his wares in dry goods stores “mostly in the larger towns like Florence and Prescott and Arizona City out on the California border, but also in the smaller places that could one day prove significant. That's not to say I linger in any that clearly have little promise. Phoenix, in the Salt River Valley, for example, is nothing but farmers, none of them men of ambition, and so it's destined for well-deserved oblivion. On the other hand Glorious, where we're currently bound, has considerable potential.”

“Mr. Billings back at the Florence depot would disagree,” McLendon said.

LeMond straightened his bowler hat, which had just been knocked askew by a particularly violent bump. “Yes, well, that's Dick Billings. He's a failed prospector, you know, wandered the territories for years and never found any color to speak of. Men like Dick just plain give up after a while, settle in wherever they happen to be and spend the rest of their days pissing on the ambitions of others. Dick's not a bad fellow, just a disappointed one. Glorious is all right. There's silver in the mountains around it, that's common knowledge since two years ago, when one of General Stoneman's men found considerable rich rock specimens practically lying on the ground. Up to now fear of the
Apaches has kept most people away, and they do pick off a poor soul every now and then, but that won't last much longer. Someone's going to make a grand find, word will spread, and so many prospectors will come flooding in that the damned Indians will get brushed aside like flies. The businesspeople and lawyers and whores and the like will be right on their heels, ready to suck up every cent of the money that the prospectors all of a sudden have to spend. Practically overnight, humble little Glorious will have gourmet restaurants and gambling casinos and theaters with shows put on by the finest traveling troupes—high-class civilization. And when it arrives—when folks want to end the workday by cleaning up and going out to enjoy an elegant time—they'll wash off the dust with my fancy soaps, which will by then be stocked everywhere in town, thanks to the diligence that I currently exercise.”

“You're a hopeful man,” McLendon said.

“That's what you've got to be, out here in the territories. Hope is what makes the present discomfort tolerable.”

Having told something of himself, LeMond tried to draw out McLendon, who said that he was going to Glorious to see an old friend and didn't expect an extended stay.

“I hardly blame you for that,” LeMond said. “As much as I'm optimistic for the future of Glorious, at present there's little in the way of leisure comfort to be found there, only a cramped saloon and a hotel of sorts. Tomorrow morning I'll call at the town dry goods store, leave some further items for sale if they'll have them, and then it's right back to Florence on the stage.”

“Tell me about this store,” McLendon said, trying not to sound too eager. “Does it carry a good variety of wares? Are you familiar with the owners?”

“Like the rest of the town except for the hotel, it's an adobe
structure,” LeMond said. “A man named Tirrito and his daughter Gabrielle are proprietors. He's Eye-talian with limited English, but pleasant nonetheless. She's quite delightful, and I might add very sensible for a woman. When I explained how stocking fine soaps would ensure the business of future customers more civilized than your typical hardscrabble prospector, she was forward-thinking enough to take some bars on consignment. I'm hoping they've since sold a few and want more. Even if they don't, I'll share some conversation and continue building a relationship for future business, so the time spent on this trip won't be wasted. Now, what friend do you seek in Glorious?”

“I intend to call on a lady,” McLendon said.

“Miss Gabrielle, then,” LeMond observed.

“What makes you so certain?” McLendon asked. “I specified no name.”

LeMond grinned. “If the location is Glorious, the term ‘lady' can't as yet be widely applied.” McLendon wasn't sure how to respond, so he pulled the window curtain aside and stared out at the nondescript countryside. LeMond didn't seem offended, and they rode in companionable silence.

About three hours into the trip, McLendon felt the stage tip slightly upward. Since he was seated on the inside bench facing forward, by peering out the window he could see that they'd reached a long, gradual incline.

“We're now almost halfway to Glorious,” LeMond said. “But from here the going gets more difficult, with steeper slopes and finally the mountains. Keep the window curtains drawn from now on if you would, since the higher we go, the stronger the winds, and so more dust will be blown. I prefer to make my sales calls in a clean suit rather than a filthy one.” McLendon initially obliged him, but with the
curtains closed the carriage quickly became stifling and he began oozing sweat. Along with perspiration came waves of nausea. LeMond didn't seem as affected; clearly he was more used to the furnace-like heat. McLendon stood the discomfort as long as he could, then yanked the window curtain open. When he did, the resulting gush of molten air carried with it a thick cloud of dust. McLendon coughed; LeMond covered his nose with a handkerchief, then reached over and tugged the curtain shut.

“The mule team and the cavalry riders in front kick up most of the dust,” LeMond explained. “Our choices are to bake or to choke, and baking is the lesser of these evils. Buck up if you can, for I'm sure they'll soon call a stop. Then we can eat our lunches and have a pee.”

“Mr. Billings told me there would likely be no rest stop,” McLendon said. “He spoke of near-certain Apache assault.”

“Counting the soldiers and the stage crew and the wagon drivers and ourselves, in all we number ten,” LeMond said. “That should be sufficient to discourage any lurking Indians. They generally attack lone travelers, or those who wander off from a main body. Just make sure that when you relieve yourself, you do your business close and in plain sight. Don't act modest.”

McLendon's bowels were rumbling. “I won't,” he said, and made sure when he bolted from the stage a few minutes later to stop only a few feet away, his urgency such that he truly didn't care who could see. When he was finished, everyone else took a turn, one at a time, while the others stood guard. Afterward the drivers watered the mules from casks brought for that purpose, and all the men ate lunches. Grateful to be out of the boxy stage carriage and refreshed by the warm breeze in his face, McLendon found that his nausea eased and he had an unexpected appetite for his cold bacon and thick-crusted bread. LeMond produced several tins of sardines and shared the tiny
olive-oil-drenched fish among the group. That encouraged one of the wagon drivers to pass around a canteen he promised was full of “
special
water,” and when McLendon took his swallow he discovered it was wine instead. Despite the heat and dust they passed a friendly half hour before the stage driver announced it was time to be moving on. He added to McLendon, “Prepare for some bumps,” and pointed east. McLendon saw what appeared to be a gigantic lump of something purplish-brown. “Picket Post Mountain,” the driver said. “Monstrous big thing. Then rough ground for some time and the Pintos and the Pinals beyond that.”

As the way grew steeper and more rugged, the stage rocked harder. Inside the passenger carriage, McLendon and LeMond held on as best they could. With the window curtains still pulled tight, McLendon could only imagine the terrain outside. His nausea resumed, more intense this time; the rancid tang of greasy bacon and sardines was thick in his throat, and he particularly regretted the lunchtime gulp of wine. “Are we going up a mountain?” he finally gasped, and LeMond laughed and replied that they were still in the foothills. He suggested that McLendon take slow, deep breaths: “That'll help settle your belly.” Then the stage came to a lurching halt and they hopped outside. A rear wheel was caught between two rocks; while the stage and wagon drivers struggled to pry it free with metal crowbars, McLendon looked ahead and was astonished to see Picket Post Mountain looming less than a mile away, craggy and intimidating. The huge hunk of rock seemed to have exploded out of the desert floor. Even more amazing was a sprawling mountain range farther east that LeMond identified as the Pinals; compared to them, massive Picket Post was an isolated pebble. It was another two miles from Picket Post to Glorious just before the Pinals, the salesman said.

“The Army had a small camp near the Picket Post lower base
before they closed it last year,” LeMond told McLendon. “Sometimes they climbed up near the summit and signaled with mirrors to other camps and patrols many miles away; the heights commanded a wide view.”

“I suppose the residents of Glorious depended on the Army at Picket Post to protect them from the Apaches,” McLendon said. “They must have resented the closing of the camp, even if its soldiers were all as disreputable as those cavalrymen who've ridden with us today.”

LeMond snorted. “In the event of an Indian attack, in the hour it would take for cavalry from Camp Picket Post to get word, saddle up, and ride to Glorious, everyone living there would already have been turned into food for buzzards. Apaches swarm in fast and lethal. I noticed you attempting to read that Fenimore Cooper book. I'm a reading man myself, and familiar with the Mohican yarn. Apaches are nothing like Cooper's made-up Indians, who make long speeches before they strike. The savages out here prefer attacking over talk. There's also the matter of the Army mounts. You see the cavalrymen with us on the dray draggers the government has issued them to ride. Those Morgans are probably left over from service in the war. It's cheaper for the Army to send the surviving steeds here to be ridden during the final days before they drop instead of paying for new, fresh stock. In this region, the cavalry presence is mostly for show only, to discourage bandits riding up from Mexico and to at least give the appearance that they're on the lookout for Apaches.”

“Then what prevents the Indians from falling on a town like Glorious?”

“There's a large ranch, the Culloden, across the valley, just on the other side of Queen Creek,” LeMond said. “Its owner employs a
number of seasoned vaqueros. I guess their presence discourages any full-scale Apache assault, though of course the savages still skulk in the area and present constant danger. To live out here is to accept their proximity. Some of them are certainly watching us now.”

“Mr. Billings at the Florence depot mentioned that a prospector was recently killed by the Indians just outside of Glorious.”

“That's true. They carved him up and played with the pieces. But he was careless and went out alone. Even the Culloden vaqueros can't be everywhere at once. Common sense is still the best defense against the Apaches.”

When the wagon wheel was finally freed the trip continued, with the mules maintaining a methodical pace as they skirted rocky inclines and eased through gaps between piles of boulders. McLendon no longer scorned their limited speed; the beasts were amazingly sure-footed. Just southwest of Picket Post, the cavalry and Army wagon veered off toward the southeast, leaving the stage and the remaining wagon to go on alone. There was less dust without the cavalry mounts plodding in front of the stage, so LeMond suggested that McLendon pull back the curtains and take in the view. He did, hopeful of taking his mind off his still-unsettled stomach, but what McLendon saw failed to cheer him. Unlike the rounded summits McLendon previously associated with mountains, the Pinals rose in a series of jagged, jutting peaks that seemed to him like serrated teeth. Menacing saguaro cactus dotted their slopes. The predominant color of the rock was rusty red, similar to dried blood. The Pinals seemed to go on forever; they were too much, too intimidating, and they were still some distance away.

“They do loom, don't they?” LeMond commented, and waited for McLendon to offer some praise of the scenery. When none was
forthcoming, the soap salesman took a watch from his vest pocket, checked the time, and added, “As soon as we top the next rise we come to a long valley, and Glorious will come into sight at the far end of it. If there are no further emergency stops, we'll arrive right around dinnertime.”

McLendon nodded and began pondering the specifics of his imminent reunion with Gabrielle. He alternated between thinking she'd be thrilled that he'd come and being certain she'd send him packing—which, when he was being honest with himself, he knew that he deserved. When and how should he surprise her for maximum odds of success? As soon as he arrived in Glorious, possibly interrupting the Tirritos' evening meal? That would be dramatic. But his clothes were saturated with sweat, he suspected both his breath and his body smelled awful, and every inch of his exposed skin was caked with dust. Far better to take a room at the hotel LeMond had mentioned, have a hot bath and a good dinner and a solid night's sleep between clean sheets, then in the morning don his fine suit and call on Gabrielle feeling and looking his best. McLendon would acknowledge the terrible mistake that he'd made, then point out that he'd come all the long, weary way to Glorious to get her back. He hoped that when he finally spoke to Gabrielle, he'd find the right words; the power of persuasion had always been his greatest gift.

After some time LeMond asked McLendon, “Where will you stay tonight in Glorious?”

“I thought I might take a room in the hotel you mentioned. Is that where you'll be too?”

“I didn't mention earlier that the hotel is unfinished,” LeMond said. “On my last trip to town I arranged other accommodations. The livery owner lets me to take my rest wrapped in blankets on soft straw
in his stalls. It's quite comfortable if you don't mind the rustling and snorting of his mules, which, as a heavy sleeper, I don't. The stage and wagon driver will sleep there too. I imagine that Bob Pugh, the owner, would let you join us. He's a friendly fellow.”