Cash McLendon wasn’t certain how old he was. His mother died when he was an infant, and his father Caleb cared more about drinking than celebrating birthdays. In May 1872, when McLendon arrived in Glorious, his best guess was that he was about twenty-eight.
His early childhood consisted of getting his perpetually drunk or near terminally hungover father to work at a series of St. Louis factories. Sometimes Cash failed, and on those occasions it was the boy’s responsibility to convince the factory foreman that Caleb was sick again, another bout of the grippe or recurring neuralgia. All the foremen eventually got fed up with the excuses and fired Caleb, and then there were near-starving nights spent sleeping in alleys until the son heard of another factory that was hiring and talked a new foreman into giving his father a job there. When sober, Caleb McLendon was a good worker, particularly skilled at fitting small machinery parts. But he wasn’t sober very often. It was lucky that there were so many factories in town; St. Louis was the manufacturing capital of the American West. There was always another prospective employer Cash could cajole on his father’s behalf. The lies he learned to tell were effective ones, incorporating sufficient fact to allow him, in the moment of the telling, to believe them himself. This made him look and sound sincere, so he and Caleb usually had just enough money to afford a place to sleep and something to eat. Like many of the city’s poor children, he never attended school. It was a hard, insecure life, but it was all that the boy knew.
One night in 1855, Caleb McLendon disappeared. His son searched in taverns and brothels and hospitals, but found no trace of him. The police guessed that Caleb got drunk, fell in the Mississippi River, and drowned. Cash had no money for shelter or food. He ate what he could steal from markets and outdoor stands, and slept in the saddle tack factory where his father had last worked, sneaking in through a back window after the late shift left for the night, keeping warm under the large squares of leather set out to be cut and shaped the next day. A night watchman prowled the factory, and soon the boy was caught. In the morning the watchman hauled Cash into the foreman’s office and suggested that the police be summoned; ragged beggar boys like this one belonged in the poorhouse. But Mr. Hancock, the foreman, took pity on Cash. He knew him from the times when Cash came to explain that his poor father was once again sick in bed, very ill but surely able to work tomorrow. He asked if Cash wanted a job sweeping out the factory and picking up the leather scraps that piled up around the cutting tables. In return, he could sleep there at night under a real blanket and earn a few pennies a day for food. Cash gratefully accepted. He worked hard and soon became a favorite of the adult workers. Even though they made barely enough to feed and clothe their own families, they packed extra food for him in their lunch buckets, brought him their children’s hand-me-downs, and chatted with him during breaks. The boy was a sympathetic listener who seemed fascinated by everything he heard. Within a month they were sharing with him their complaints about how little they were paid while working under very hazardous responsibilities: a shift seldom went by without one or two of them cutting themselves badly, and occasionally someone lost a finger or even a whole hand to the blades.
There was talk of organizing a strike. The trick was to get all the employees to agree before the foreman found out. Then they could stage a mass walkout; the owner would have to pay them better or else close the factory down, losing production time and profits. Cash was terrified. If the plant shut down, he’d be back on the street. The other workers were his friends and he cared about them; their complaints about working conditions were valid. But his obsession with self-preservation won out. After considerable soul-searching, he warned Mr. Hancock. Four of the would-be union organizers were summarily fired. Afterward, Mr. Hancock showed his appreciation by giving Cash a dollar. The other employees didn’t know that Cash had been an informer. There was talk about a spy in their midst, but no one suspected the friendly young boy. They continued to give him food and secondhand clothes and talk unguardedly to him. So did the plant shift leaders and even Mr. Hancock. Cash never spent even an hour in a formal classroom, but he remembered and learned from everything he heard. He developed an extensive vocabulary, though he could neither read nor spell the words he understood and used in conversation. He learned arithmetic by looking over the shoulders of plant accountants as they kept daily ledgers. Over the next few years he occasionally had the opportunity to alert Mr. Hancock to other potential problems. Each time, he was praised and given a little money. Cash’s conscience sometimes bothered him, and when it did he told himself that he was actually helping rather than betraying people who trusted him. It was in everyone’s best interests that the plant operated at maximum profitability. That was the way to ensure that all the workers’ jobs were safe, and they could keep on supporting their families. He’d learned this from listening to Mr. Hancock himself.
• • •
IN 1859, ST. LOUIS was swept with talk of imminent civil war. Missouri was bitterly divided between supporters of the government in Washington, D.C., and militants favoring the slaveholding South. There was one issue on which everyone agreed: St. Louis would be a vital supplier of military supplies to one side or the other. Abraham Lincoln’s election to the presidency in 1860 precipitated a rush of seceding Southern states. Missouri wavered. Cash McLendon, now a teenager, had no interest in the plight of slaves or the question of states’ rights. His concern was that he would be drafted into the Army and forced to fight. Having struggled so hard to survive in peacetime, he had no desire to die in a war. Mr. Hancock offered Cash a way out. The federal government was determined to keep Missouri in the Union fold, he told the youngster. Its factories and textile mills were vital to the Northern cause. There would soon be rich Army contracts coming up for bid. As it happened, the saddle tack facility was just one of several factories and mills owned by Mr. Rupert Douglass. A great patriot, Mr. Douglass wanted to win those contract bids and supply the finest-quality saddles and blankets and uniforms for the Union Army. The problem was in knowing how much to bid. Mr. Hancock had long observed how good Cash was at gleaning information, how people naturally told him things.
“What would you think, youngster, of going around to rival factories and taking jobs there, staying long enough to hear talk about contract bids, and then quietly sharing what you learn with me?” Mr. Hancock asked Cash. “I can then inform Mr. Douglass, and he can adjust his bids accordingly. It would be a fine thing to do for your country. The products produced by Douglass companies are far superior to those of the competition. If Mr. Douglass wins most of these bids, the Union Army will be better served.”
“I could try, sir,” Cash said. He felt doubtful and it showed in his voice. It was one thing to be helpful to Mr. Hancock by listening and reporting in a factory where he already knew everyone. The boy’s hard life on the street had made him wary of strangers.
“Don’t forget that everyone employed by Mr. Douglass will also benefit,” Hancock said. “Perhaps you will most of all, since Mr. Douglass has ways of rewarding helpful young men. And, should you agree, I’ll personally write a letter to the Army saying you shouldn’t be forced to enlist, since you’re providing vital services to the war effort. And that will be the truth.”
Cash said he’d try. He infiltrated competitors’ factories, and when he learned something useful, he passed it on to Mr. Hancock. He found that he enjoyed the challenge of discovering key information, and that now he didn’t need to feel troubled about informing on friends. Soon, in most contract competitions, the Douglass bids were a few pennies per unit lower than anyone else’s. The war made Mr. Douglass fabulously wealthy. And, as Mr. Hancock had promised, he showed his appreciation.
One summer night in 1864, Cash McLendon met Mr. Hancock in a dark saloon well away from the St. Louis factory district. He told Mr. Hancock about plans at a competing button factory to add fifty workers, increasing output and enabling them to promise delivery to the Army faster than rival bidders. Armed with this knowledge, Mr. Douglass could add more workers at his own button plant and beat the competition at their own game.
“This is very useful,” Mr. Hancock said. “Now I have something for you. Tomorrow night, clean up and put a shine on your shoes. Mr. Rupert Douglass himself requests your presence at nine in the evening in his home.”
“Why would Mr. Douglass want to see me?” Cash asked.
“I couldn’t say, but be at your best tomorrow. This may be your opportunity. Go to the back door, of course. The front is for the society callers.”
The next night McLendon cautiously rapped on the back door of a mansion that far surpassed any private home he’d ever seen. He was admitted by a forbidding-looking butler who didn’t bother giving a name or asking McLendon for his. The butler escorted McLendon up a winding staircase and into a study lined with bookcases and paintings. McLendon was instructed to sit in a chair and wait: “Mr. Douglass will be with you shortly.” Five nervous minutes stretched into ten. McLendon felt completely out of his element. Though there were stairs in the factories where he worked, he’d never been in a house with a staircase before. Even the chairs in the room were intimidating, with their great wide armrests and plush cushioned seats. The bookcases were dark oak. The titles on the spines of the books seemed like mysterious code. Having never set foot in a classroom, McLendon couldn’t read. But the sheer number of books on the shelves astounded him. They were one more indication of unimaginable wealth. It amazed him that anyone could be rich enough to live in a house like this.
The door finally opened and Rupert Douglass stepped in. A tall, regal-looking man, he was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket. McLendon had never seen such a garment before, and found it hard not to stare.
“I’m having a brandy,” Mr. Douglass said. “Join me?”
“I don’t drink much, sir,” McLendon said politely. “But thank you for the offer.”
Mr. Douglass regarded him curiously. “Hancock says your father was a drunk. Is that why you abstain?”
“No, sir, and I don’t entirely abstain. If the situation or the company requires, I’ll sip a beer or wet my lips with hard liquor. But most often it’s my job to listen, and for that I need a clear head.”
“Then listen well,” Mr. Douglass said. “You’re a young man of some potential. I believe you can be of further assistance to me.”
The war would be over soon, Mr. Douglass said. The South was licked; it was only a matter of time until they accepted it. Then the wartime bidding would be done with, so it was time to look ahead. It was Mr. Douglass’s intention to control St. Louis manufacturing. Competition was for lesser men. He sought total domination. And that would be best for everyone all the way down, from factory foremen to the lowliest line workers, because he was an honorable man who paid fair wages and provided sanitary workplace conditions. That was all any honest workingmen should expect. In return, he wanted no obstruction from unions, no grumblers hindering production. Did his young friend McLendon understand? If so, he could play a key role in all this.
“Go on being a sociable fellow in the factories I already own and the ones I contemplate acquiring,” Mr. Douglass said, draining his brandy and lighting a dark, fragrant cigar. “Find out things that I need to know. Beyond whatever salary you earn at your day jobs, some additional pay from me will be involved. Nothing excessive to begin, but there will be more to come if you prove yourself worthy in this special duty. So long as you’re efficient and loyal, you can always rely on Rupert Douglass—although in that regard, any form of betrayal would result in unpleasant rather than happy consequences. I’m a generous man, but not a foolish one. Never fail me. Have I your word?”
“You do, sir,” McLendon said. His heart was pounding. It seemed too good to be true.
Mr. Douglass shook his hand and rose, indicating that McLendon should do the same. “Don’t disappoint me. Do well and you’ll be rewarded.” Though McLendon hadn’t seen or heard Mr. Douglass make any sort of signal, the door opened and the dour butler appeared to escort McLendon out. He followed him downstairs in a daze. Somewhere in the house a young girl was laughing, sustained euphoric peals. McLendon was too stunned to laugh himself, but he felt the same sense of euphoria. He’d been presented with a tremendous opportunity. He intended to make the most of it, and did.
• • •
MCLENDON INFILTRATED over a dozen St. Louis factories. Sometimes he identified irreplaceable supervisors and workers so that they could be hired away by Douglass, simultaneously improving his boss’s business operations and hindering his competitors’. If some new procedure improved product quality or production time, McLendon studied it carefully and then taught it to Douglass’s workers. Because he was so ordinary-looking, average in height and build, he blended in at will. In conversations he always encouraged the other person to keep talking, to tell more. Cash was careful not to allow himself to form genuine friendships. Sometimes it was hard, but his loyalty to his real employer won out. He never indulged in casual chat; he spoke to others not for any social purpose but to glean information, anything to gain an advantage for Rupert Douglass.
One evening in the midsummer of 1866, Mr. Douglass summoned Cash to his home. “I’m about to acquire two new factories, and I need your help in a different way,” he said. “This assignment will test your powers of persuasion rather than observation.”
The two plants stood on adjacent lots near the river, Mr. Douglass explained. Together, they employed nearly three hundred workers, who would all benefit from the new ownership. But he had a concern: a half-dozen privately owned shops operated directly across the street from the main factory entrances—a boot maker, a milliner, a pharmacy, two groceries, and a dry goods store. After receiving their weekly pay packets on Fridays, the employees promptly spent most of their wages at these very convenient stores. McLendon’s new assignment was to befriend the shop owners and convince them to sell their businesses to Mr. Douglass.
“I pay the workers’ salaries, so they should spend the money in stores that I own,” he said between puffs on one of his fine cigars. “You see the rightness of that, I’m certain. Win the trust of these shop owners, then identify yourself as my agent and help them understand it’s in their own best interests that they do as I wish. Make it politely but definitely clear that if they don’t, I’ll build rival shops on the factory grounds and undersell them right out of business. That’s extra trouble and expense I prefer to avoid, of course. And I’m really doing these people a favor. I’ll pay them a fair price, so if they wish to try again, they’ll have a stake to do so somewhere else.”
Over the next four months, McLendon made friends with all of the shop owners. It wasn’t hard. He began by dropping in on a regular basis, buying small items, and chatting companionably. Then he began to talk of the business opportunities in other parts of St. Louis, away from the airborne grit and choking smoke of the factory district. When, eventually, McLendon revealed that he worked for Mr. Rupert Douglass, and that Mr. Douglass was prepared to make very generous offers for their shops, five of the six shop owners soon agreed. New signs proclaimed DOUGLASS BOOTS, DOUGLASS MILLINERY, DOUGLASS PHARMACY, and DOUGLASS MARKET; the two small groceries were merged into one.
But Salvatore Tirrito, owner of the dry goods store, refused to sell. He and his nineteen-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, told McLendon that there was no reason to discuss it further.
“Perhaps you misunderstand,” McLendon said. “Mr. Douglass is prepared to be quite generous. This is an excellent opportunity for you.”
“We’re not interested in your so-called opportunity,” Gabrielle said. She spoke on her father’s behalf because, thirty years after immigrating to America, he still had a limited grasp of English. “We’re happy with what we already have, and with where we are.”
“Be reasonable,” McLendon said. “You’re in business to make money. This sale will bring you a considerable amount, so much that you can go somewhere else and open a bigger, better shop that will bring you better profits than you can make at this location.”
“For some people, though I suppose not for you and Mr. Douglass, there are other things more important than money,” Gabrielle said. “My father and mother and uncle and aunt come from Naples. Papa worked on the docks here by day and patched sails for extra money at night. He and my mother saved every cent for almost twenty-five years to start their own business. When they did, it was the proudest moment of their lives. They spent more than they could afford for that carved ‘Tirrito Dry Goods’ sign hanging over the door. Mamma died of a fever right afterward. We honor her memory with every day that this store is in business. It doesn’t matter how much Mr. Douglass offers. We’re not going to sell.”
“Mr. Douglass is a proud man, and won’t react well to a negative response,” McLendon cautioned. “Once he’s chosen a course of action, he never gives up. He’ll very likely open a better dry goods store than yours right across the street on the grounds of the factories, and sell products cheaper than you ever could. Then you’ll have no business at all, nor the wherewithal to start another.”
“We’ll take our chances, Mr. McLendon. I’m sorry if we offend Mr. Douglass’s precious pride, but my father and I are proud too.”
Mr. Douglass took the news better than McLendon anticipated. He said that five out of six wasn’t a bad beginning. McLendon should keep talking to the Italian and his daughter when he had a spare moment. They’d eventually come around. Meanwhile, St. Louis was booming and Mr. Douglass felt that the time was right to get into the construction business. McLendon was instructed to identify the best companies currently in local operation so that Mr. Douglass could acquire them. That took up much of McLendon’s attention, but he didn’t forget Salvatore and Gabrielle Tirrito. Three weeks after their refusal to sell, he dropped back by their shop. Gabrielle stood behind the counter, chatting animatedly in Italian with an older woman, who hugged her and left the store.
“Do you embrace all of your customers?” McLendon asked.
“Only if they shop here regularly,” Gabrielle said.
McLendon thought she was a pretty girl. Gabrielle’s complexion was olive, and her eyes and hair were dark and lustrous. “Then you’re assured of my constant business.”
“Well, you’re not assured of ever being hugged. Anyway, that was my aunt Lidia, who lives next door with Uncle Mario, my father’s brother. Not that it’s any of your business. Can I help you with something?”
“You and your father could sell this store to Mr. Douglass. That would help me.”
Gabrielle laughed, and McLendon found the sound delightful. “Sorry, no.”
To prolong the conversation, he asked her to show him their selection of scissors: “I want to trim my beard.”
Gabrielle showed him several pairs and suggested one in particular “because the blades are strong and suited for cutting thick tangles. Beards look best when they’re close-trimmed and not bushy.”
“Do you think mine is bushy?”
“I don’t think about your beard at all. Do you want the scissors? They’re fifty cents.”
McLendon put the coins in her hand. “Perhaps, when I’ve trimmed my beard, I’ll return to see if it meets with your approval.”
Gabrielle raised her eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Come back anytime you like, so long as you don’t pester us about selling our shop.”
He began dropping by the store once a week, then every few days. He was careful not to mention Mr. Douglass or his offer. Instead, he and Gabrielle chatted and often sparred verbally on topics ranging from politics to the best brand of tooth powder. She was a young woman of firm opinions. McLendon wasn’t a man of any particular convictions, but he liked pretending to be against whatever Gabrielle was for, just to engage in witty give-and-take. He’d never realized that talking for pleasure could be so enjoyable. McLendon began occasionally visiting in the evening, on his way back to his boardinghouse. One night Gabrielle invited him to have dinner with her and her father. Salvatore went to bed early, but McLendon stayed late and the talk between him and Gabrielle bubbled on until nearly midnight.
The next week Gabrielle suggested that McLendon accompany her to a free concert in a city park. The band played a selection of popular tunes. McLendon enjoyed the music, and when he took Gabrielle home he was astounded when she sat down at a small piano and played some of the same songs. “Sing with me,” she urged as she began to play “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” When he did, his horribly off-key warbling reduced them both to teary-eyed laughter. The piano was the centerpiece of the Tirritos’ social life. Every Sunday they hosted relatives and friends for a boisterous dinner prepared by Gabrielle and her aunt Lidia, and afterward everyone gathered around the piano and sang while Gabrielle played. McLendon came and enjoyed the sense of warm camaraderie that was so different from the false relationships that were part of his working life.
On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Gabrielle was never home. For a while she wouldn’t tell him why. He suspected she was seeing another man, and felt jealous. One Tuesday night he waited across the street from the dry goods store and, when she left, followed her at a distance. Gabrielle walked a dozen blocks to the Catholic church that she and her father attended on Sundays. She entered the church through a side door. McLendon stood outside for a while. Then, overcome by curiosity, he went inside and found Gabrielle sitting on the floor surrounded by children. She looked up at McLendon and said, “I’m helping my small friends here learn to read. Come be my assistant.” He excused himself because he didn’t want to admit that he was illiterate. The next day she told him that she’d been giving lessons for years: “Reading opens up whole new worlds for poor children, who otherwise have difficult lives and little or no schooling. Most of their parents work in factories and have very little money to buy their children food, let alone books.” Gabrielle used a small blackboard to display letters of the alphabet. Her late mother, Tina, had used the chalkboard as an aid in teaching her to read, Gabrielle said. “I’m doing this in part to honor her memory.” But reading materials were necessary, too, so Gabrielle bought used copies of McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader for Young Children for a few pennies apiece. Because her funds were limited, she could afford only a few at a time, and her students had to share.
“How much do their parents pay you to teach them?” McLendon asked. “Couldn’t you use some of that money for the books?”
“I don’t charge for these lessons,” Gabrielle said. “Haven’t you heard the saying that good deeds are their own reward?” He had, but considered it a foolish notion. She suggested again that McLendon help with the classes, and when he declined, she insisted. So he came, ostensibly to remind the children to listen to their instructor, and found himself listening too. As a naturally quick learner, McLendon soon recognized letters of the alphabet and then printed words. When Gabrielle began lending him books and encouraging him to read them, he thought she must have guessed that he was unlettered but was considerate enough not to say so. Instead, she’d made him her helper, and in doing so taught him to read too. That Christmas she gave him The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper, the first book that he’d ever owned. He read it over and over; she was so pleased that she continued to give him books—other novels by Cooper, The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and collections of verse by the oddly named poets Longfellow and Tennyson. He gave her sheet music, more songs that she could play on her beloved piano, the single luxury in the Tirrito household. She told him that she loved him giving her sheet music because it showed that he understood her heart.
Free reading classes for poor children struck McLendon as such a good idea that he mentioned them to Rupert Douglass. He suggested that they be arranged for the offspring of Douglass factory workers; he knew someone very capable who would be glad to help get them organized. The cost would be negligible compared to the goodwill gained with employees. But Douglass refused.
“If too many of the lower classes learn to read, it will give them ideas above their station,” he said. “My businesses need workers who are grateful for steady employment and have no ambition to be more than they already are.”
For the first time McLendon dared to disagree with his patron. “Even working people need hope of opportunity, sir, or at least the belief that their children’s lives may prove better than their own.”
Douglass snorted. “The reality of the world is that most are born into the working lives that they deserve, which is servitude to their betters. There are infrequent exceptions, you’re one of them. But don’t go softheaded on me. I raised you out of the gutter and could return you there anytime. I’ll hear no more about these reading classes.”
McLendon never mentioned them to Mr. Douglass again. But he quietly arranged for some of the children of Douglass factory workers to attend Gabrielle’s Tuesday and Thursday night classes, and he used his own money to purchase additional McGuffey readers. He knew that Mr. Douglass would be angry if he found out, but the pleasure he took in watching the little ones learn made it seem worth the risk. Besides, he was already tempting fate by his ongoing, evolving relationship with Gabrielle.
They understood themselves now to be a couple, and sometimes discussed a future together. On Sundays, Aunt Lidia took every opportunity to hint to McLendon that her niece would make a wonderful wife. Salvatore Tirrito warmed sufficiently to McLendon to offer him occasional glasses of homemade wine, which he’d previously shared only with blood relations. Gabrielle knew, of course, that McLendon worked for Rupert Douglass in a capacity he never clearly described for fear of disgusting her so much that she would have nothing more to do with him. Based on her own first encounter with McLendon, she was still able to guess the nature if not the extent of his questionable activities. Gabrielle began mentioning the satisfaction he might find in helping to operate a dry goods store. McLendon felt sure, though he didn’t say so to her, that if he ever left Rupert Douglass for Tirrito Dry Goods, his former boss would stop at nothing to put his smaller competitor out of business, just to teach his former employee a lesson. Besides, for all his certainty that he loved Gabrielle, McLendon still couldn’t help relishing the sense of power, of importance, that he felt working for Mr. Douglass. So he tried as best he could to live in both worlds.
• • •
ONE FALL NIGHT, Mr. Douglass summoned McLendon. They met in the book-lined study, and this time Mr. Douglass insisted that McLendon take some brandy.
“You’ve worked for me almost six years,” Mr. Douglass said. “I’ve gotten a good sense of your talent, and I mean to make fuller use of it.”
McLendon had been his eyes and ears in the factory district of St. Louis. Now, Mr. Douglass said, it was time for him to become something more. There were other aspects to conducting successful business. It was critical to pick out the important elected officials and the key power brokers and gain their support, through campaign contributions and gifts to their favored charities and occasionally with what the unenlightened termed “bribes.” Mr. Douglass preferred the term “considerations,” which sounded more civilized.
“Self-interest drives our great land,” he said. “Why would anyone ever willingly do something for someone else if he himself doesn’t benefit?”
As Mr. Douglass’s holdings continued to grow, he needed the constant assistance of someone able to comfortably mix on all levels of business and politics—“Not only my eyes and ears, but sometimes my voice. My right-hand man will be you, McLendon. You’ll extend my reach and have your fair share of all that you bring me. You’ll have to work harder than ever before. I’ll expect only the best results. Fail me and I’ll discard you. Betray me and I’ll destroy you. But serve me well and I’ll raise you high.”
Besides even longer work hours and frequent trips—sometimes all the way to Washington or Philadelphia or New York—the biggest change in McLendon’s life resulted from Mr. Douglass’s insistence that he move into the mansion: “I want you at hand for discussion or action at any hour, but it’s not just that. If you’re going to represent me at the higher levels, then you must learn proper manners: which fork to use, how to act like a proper gentleman around the better people.” McLendon was given a room on the second story just over the kitchen, and woke in the morning to the delicious smells of brewing coffee and fresh-baked bread. Servants changed his bed linen daily, and he wore fine clothes handmade for him by Mr. Douglass’s personal tailor. On most evenings he took dinner in the main dining room with Mr. Douglass and his wife and daughter. Mrs. Matilda Douglass was an elegant, mostly silent woman who wore jeweled necklaces and dangling earrings. Seventeen-year-old Ellen was given to sudden fits of uncontrollable giggling; it had certainly been her laughter that he heard on his first visit to the Douglass mansion six years earlier. She was blond and strikingly lovely, with prominent cheekbones and long, elegant fingers. Beyond her looks and laughter, McLendon learned very little about her. They were never alone together. Her mother or a stout black woman named Mrs. Reynolds was always with her. Mrs. Reynolds didn’t live with the Douglasses but came whenever they couldn’t be with Ellen. McLendon, who’d never encountered a very rich girl before, supposed that they were always closely chaperoned. Whenever Ellen talked to him, it was in a teasing tone, and he could never feel certain what she really meant.
“Do you like living here in our house?” she asked him one night at dinner. “How long do you think that you’ll stay?”
“I like it very much,” McLendon said, trying not to drip a spoonful of soup on the fine white linen tablecloth. “I’m grateful for your parents’ hospitality.”
“It’s my hospitality too,” Ellen said. “Are you grateful to me?”
“Of course, Miss Douglass.”
Ellen giggled. “Then perhaps I’ll allow you to remain.”
Matilda Douglass spoke for the first time since the meal began. “Ellen, don’t torment Mr. McLendon. Eat your dinner.”
Ellen didn’t say anything further to McLendon, but a few times during the rest of the four-course meal he caught her staring at him curiously, as though he were an exhibit in a zoo.
• • •
MCLENDON’S NEW DUTIES limited his time with Gabrielle. He was expected to meet with Mr. Douglass every evening for an hour or so to discuss the business of the day; sometimes the meetings lasted much longer, causing him to miss Sunday dinners with the Tirritos and helping with Gabrielle’s reading classes. She never complained, which made him feel guilty. He knew she was waiting for him to formally propose marriage, but that wasn’t something he currently had time to think about. There was too much to do for Mr. Douglass. In particular, there was a problem with the owner of a metal foundry. Mr. Douglass had learned from a contact in the War Department that the government would soon call for bids on new munitions contracts. The Indians on the frontier were proving stubborn. President Grant was being urged by his confidants to blast them into extinction. The St. Louis foundry could be quickly converted to manufacture ammunition for cannons. Mr. Douglass wanted to acquire it, but owner Arthur Cory refused to sell. McLendon spent hours with Cory, pointing out the splendid profit he would make, but the man was adamant: He had worked hard to build his company, and he meant to keep it. After a week of nonstop effort, McLendon reluctantly reported to Mr. Douglass that Cory would not budge.
“Don’t blame yourself; some men simply will not reason,” Mr. Douglass said. “I think we must take another approach.”
Two days later, Mr. Douglass welcomed a mysterious visitor to his home. The towering, thick-shouldered fellow was ushered into the book-lined study at the same time that McLendon routinely met there with his employer. Now he was kept waiting while Mr. Douglass and the newcomer met privately. McLendon paced restlessly in the vast backyard, poking at shrubs and croquet goals. Once, when he looked up, he spied Ellen gazing at him from an upstairs window. When she saw him looking back, she moved out of sight. Finally, a servant came to say that Mr. Douglass now required him.
“Meet Patrick Brautigan,” Mr. Douglass said. “He’s lately from Boston, and highly recommended.”
Brautigan’s hand was much wider than McLendon’s; Cash flinched as they shook, as it was clear that Brautigan could have easily crushed his knuckles. But he exerted only enough pressure for a firm shake and then dropped back into his chair.
“A pleasure,” he said to McLendon. There was a complete absence of emotion in his voice and in his deep-set, opaque eyes.
“Brautigan is a man of certain persuasive skills,” Mr. Douglass said. “He joins us on a permanent basis. Initially, he will assist with this man Cory, who Brautigan will call on in the very near future.”
“Arthur Cory is a decent man, but stubborn,” McLendon said to Brautigan. “I’ll come along with you, of course, though I doubt we can persuade him to be smart and sell.”
“No need,” Brautigan said. “I’ll manage on my own.” He stood and made a slight bow to Mr. Douglass.
“I want that foundry,” Mr. Douglass said.
“I expect to soon report satisfactory results,” Brautigan replied. He nodded to McLendon and turned to leave. Even though the floor was carpeted, Brautigan’s heavy boots thudded as he walked. McLendon noticed that the toes of the boots were reinforced with polished steel plates.
Mr. Douglass handed a thick sealed envelope to McLendon. “Tomorrow, take this to police chief Kelly Welsh at City Hall. Be discreet when you do. We must always demonstrate respect for public officials.”
Three days later, the St. Louis newspapers reported that Arthur Cory, the fifty-six-year-old owner of a local metal foundry, had been found dead behind a riverfront saloon. His head was so damaged by repeated strikes from some hard, blunt-tipped object that he had to be identified by the rings on his fingers rather than his pulped facial features. When he saw Brautigan that night, McLendon looked again at the plating on the toes of his boots. It seemed to him that the steel toe on the right boot was freshly scraped. Chief Welsh announced a full investigation, but nothing came of it. Not much later, Cory’s widow sold the foundry to Rupert Douglass.
McLendon was so shaken that he confronted Mr. Douglass.
“Why has this happened, sir?” McLendon demanded. “Is the ownership of one factory among so many worth the cost of a human life?”
“It’s not just the factory,” Mr. Douglass said. “Word was around town that I wanted to buy it and Arthur Cory refused. If one man so publicly defied me, more might find the gumption to attempt the same. This act was necessary to send a message, and the blame for it is all on Mr. Cory. He would not let reason prevail.”
“I thought that we respected the law,” McLendon said.
“We do, lad, we do. It’s a rule of mine that my people must never openly break or defy the law. It’s just that as practical men we must sometimes circumvent it.”
After that, McLendon rarely encountered Patrick Brautigan and was glad of it. He privately nicknamed the man “Killer Boots.” For a while he was panic-stricken at the possibility that Salvatore Tirrito would be the hulking monster’s next victim, and thought about warning him. But he eventually decided that Mr. Douglass wouldn’t consider an obscure dry goods store worth killing for, if in fact he remembered Tirrito Dry Goods at all. Brautigan mostly kept busy discouraging union organizers at Mr. Douglass’s factories. McLendon tried hard not to think about how Killer Boots served their mutual employer. He told himself that it had nothing to do with him.
• • •
THAT WINTER, McLendon accompanied Mr. Douglass on a train trip to Washington. They met with a highly placed official who coordinated government dealings with the railroads. A plan to place additional tracks in St. Louis included the annexation of some factory property owned by Mr. Douglass, who didn’t want to give it up. During the meeting the official argued that Mr. Douglass couldn’t always get his way. Several of President Grant’s closest friends were involved in the railroad plan. Friends of the president got what they wanted. Mr. Douglass would just have to be a good loser this time.
McLendon made a suggestion. Mr. Douglass owned additional property not a mile from the disputed site. There was room on it not only for the new track but also for a fine new public park that could be named in honor of the president. Wasn’t President Grant planning to seek reelection? In that eventuality, such positive publicity in a major city like St. Louis would surely be helpful. Mr. Douglass would, of course, need to be appropriately compensated by the railroad for the land used for the track, but perhaps the park property could be donated. The railroad would have its track, and the people of St. Louis would enjoy a new park. Everyone would benefit, the president most of all. The official took the offer to the White House. He informed Mr. Douglass the next day that President Grant accepted and was personally grateful.
“The president now considers you, Mr. Douglass, to be his friend,” he added. “If he can ever be of help to you, send word to him through me.”
On the return trip to St. Louis, Mr. Douglass suggested to McLendon that they repair to the train’s dining car. It was late at night, and no one else was there.
“That was a most impressive performance,” Mr. Douglass said. “There is even more to you than I thought, and you’ve earned the most significant of rewards. I propose that soon Mrs. Douglass and I announce your engagement to our daughter.”
Mr. Douglass said that he wasn’t going to live forever. He’d worked every waking hour to establish and expand his business empire, and he was damned if he’d allow it to be frittered away after his death. On the contrary, he meant for it to flourish and grow further, securing comfortable futures for his daughter and the grandchildren that he hoped would come. What he needed—what he had to have—was the right husband for Ellen, and McLendon had just convinced Mr. Douglass that he was the one.
“In many ways, you and I are very much alike,” Mr. Douglass said. “I myself started with nothing but my wits. There’s one critical difference. You’ve got no stomach for the hard action that’s sometimes required, and I doubt that you ever will. But when I’m gone you’ll have Patrick Brautigan, who understands the need for a hammer when a smile’s not enough.”
For once, McLendon was at a loss for words. He finally managed, “But about Ellen, sir. Would she even have me?”
“She likes you well enough.” Mr. Douglass lit a cigar and pointed the glowing tip at McLendon. “Take time to consider my offer, though not too much. I’m confident you’ll have the sense to marry Ellen and give up your Italian girl.”
In his confusion, McLendon hadn’t thought about Gabrielle. He blurted, “You know about her?”
“You’re not my only watcher. Put the Eye-tie aside.”
McLendon’s initial, private reaction was that he couldn’t even consider marrying Ellen Douglass. He loved Gabrielle. He’d refuse Mr. Douglass’s offer, leave his employment, marry Gabrielle, and help run the dry goods store. But then he considered Mr. Douglass’s reaction if he refused. By whatever means necessary, Mr. Douglass would have revenge, at least by opening a rival shop and putting the Tirritos out of business—or even, if he were outraged enough, setting Killer Boots on Salvatore and Gabrielle and perhaps McLendon himself. By being noble and choosing Ellen, whom he didn’t love, he might be saving the life of the woman he really loved, and her father’s, to say nothing of his own.
He sent word to Gabrielle that he was ill and lay anguishing in his room at the imposing Douglass mansion. At first he thought mostly of how Gabrielle’s entire face glowed when she smiled, but then he pictured Ellen, beautiful and mysterious. He contrasted the Tirritos’ small house behind their shop with the imposing Douglass habitation, and the small family shop to the Douglass business empire. McLendon remembered being a panicked little boy whose mother was dead and whose father had disappeared, and the terrible feeling of being poor and helpless. Gabrielle was wonderful, but Ellen was so beautiful, and so very, very rich. . . .
Cash McLendon, who was so good at convincing others, convinced himself that it wasn’t the Douglass fortune that was the deciding factor in his decision. He was sacrificing his own happiness to save Gabrielle and her father from the wrath of Rupert Douglass.
“I’ll be a good husband to your daughter,” McLendon told his employer.
Mr. Douglass looked hard at McLendon. “From this moment forward, have no contact with the Italian girl. I want your word on this.”
McLendon took a deep breath, then said quietly, “You have it.”
• • •
THE ST. LOUIS newspapers made much of the engagement, noting that Rupert Douglass, father of the prospective bride, was a leading businessman and philanthropist. McLendon wondered if Gabrielle would read the stories. Because of his promise to Mr. Douglass, he couldn’t tell her in person.
Cash McLendon married Ellen Douglass on a glorious spring day in 1870. Shortly before the ceremony, Mr. Douglass said there was something he needed to know about Ellen’s health.
“She’s a high-strung girl, and always has been.” Mr. Douglass took McLendon to his study. “My wife and I have been obliged to be vigilant with her, and now you must too. She has wild moods, falls into them without warning. Then there are dreadful scenes, and on rare occasions she has even tried to do harm to herself if she feels thwarted in her wishes.” He opened a small safe and removed a stoppered glass vial filled with a light brown liquid. “To help keep her steady, the doctor prescribes laudanum, liquid essence of poppies. At breakfast and in mid-afternoon, Ellen takes three drops in a glass of water. The laudanum is kept in this safe because she likes it too much, and taking it in excess is very dangerous. Two doses daily, and never more. I’ll give you the combination of the safe. Usually her mother administers the medicine, but sometimes the responsibility may fall to you. Remember: Never leave the laudanum bottle where Ellen can get at it.” He shook his head and looked grim. “I adore my daughter, and expect you to cherish her, and to protect her from the slightest harm.”
McLendon hoped that his father-in-law might be exaggerating. There was no honeymoon because Ellen couldn’t be trusted to behave on a trip. Instead, Mr. Douglass took his wife away to New York for a week and the newlyweds stayed behind in the St. Louis mansion. Before leaving, Mr. Douglass reminded McLendon that Ellen could never be left alone.
“During this honeymoon, if you’re sent word of some emergency in one of the factories, contact Brautigan and send him to sort it out,” he instructed. “Be patient with her. When Ellen’s in a fit, she doesn’t know what she’s saying or doing.”
For most of the week, Ellen seemed happy, and McLendon did his best to feel the same. He still thought of Gabrielle sometimes, but his wife was beautiful, the suite of rooms they shared in the Douglass mansion was luxurious, and as Rupert Douglass’s son-in-law he was now a man of considerable standing. Ellen docilely took her laudanum doses, and they seemed to have the required effect. In the afternoons they played croquet on the wide green lawn. He let her win because it pleased her. At night she made love with a ferocious energy that surprised him. He wished their conversations were more rewarding. Unlike Gabrielle, who liked to talk about almost anything, Ellen seemed interested in very little beyond what her parents would bring her back from New York.
McLendon wanted to be a good husband, and to come to feel the same genuine affection for Ellen that he had had for Gabrielle. The night before the Douglasses were due back from New York, McLendon and Ellen enjoyed a delicious meal. They were served coffee with dessert, and McLendon wanted a second cup. He rang a small bell to summon a servant, but no one came.
“I’d better see what they’re doing in the kitchen,” he told Ellen, and left the dining room. It turned out that the cook had accidentally spilled a basin of gravy, and she and the other three live-in staff were mopping it up. McLendon retrieved the coffeepot and returned to the dining room. He hadn’t been gone more than two minutes, but in the interim Ellen had transformed from a happy bride to a screaming harridan.
“You’ve been with somebody else!” she shouted. Her eyes were wide and wild.
McLendon was caught off guard. “What? I just went for more coffee,” he said, and held up the pot. Ellen screeched and knocked the pot from his hand, drenching the tablecloth and some window drapes with coffee. Then she charged McLendon, trying to scratch his face with her long nails. He caught her wrists and tried to hold her back. “Stop, Ellen,” he said, trying to soothe her. “What’s all this? What’s made you so upset?”
Ellen clawed at him a moment more, then wrenched free. “You fucked her!” she screamed. “You fucked her!” McLendon was astonished that she knew the word. It had never occurred to him that a fine society girl would.
“Stop saying that,” he pleaded, but Ellen persisted, spitting out the same three words over and over again. Then, just when he thought she’d never stop, she did. She stood silently and stared at him for a moment, then began battering her head against the wall. Her forehead was bruised and her nose began to bleed. McLendon grabbed her again and wrestled her to the floor. She howled and fought him until McLendon suggested that she take some laudanum. Ellen stopped struggling at once and said, “Yes, please.”
She’d already had her two prescribed daily doses, but he felt that this was an emergency. Ellen watched greedily as he measured out the drops into a glass of water. She gulped down the drink and almost immediately became drowsy. McLendon washed her bloody face, put her to bed, then called the servants to clean up the dining room. When the Douglasses returned the next day, McLendon told them what had happened. They weren’t surprised.
“Ellen does these things,” her mother said wearily. “We’d hoped being married might calm her. If this happens again while we’re absent and you can’t restrain her, call for Mrs. Reynolds. She’ll help you.”
McLendon asked, “Aren’t there places where Ellen might go to be helped? With special doctors trained in this kind of thing?”
“You mean lunatic asylums,” Mr. Douglass snapped. “Not for my daughter—ever. Be a good husband to her. Maybe it will help. And next time, no extra laudanum. She could become addicted.”
• • •
MCLENDON REALIZED that he had made a bad bargain. He was important now, and could have virtually any material thing that he wanted. But it was impossible for him to relax at home, because he never knew when Ellen would suffer one of her fits. They usually involved loudly accusing him in the coarsest possible terms of being unfaithful. Sometimes her parents helped gently subdue her, but usually they left it to McLendon. After each episode, he found himself remembering the sense of peace he’d found with Gabrielle. At home at night, when he needed time away from Ellen’s tantrums, he closed himself inside a small room he used as a study and reread the books that Gabrielle had given him. Now, when he owned so many fine things, he realized that The Last of the Mohicans was his most prized possession. He thought how comforting it would be to see Gabrielle again, even as an old friend rather than a lover. But he’d promised Mr. Douglass that he’d have no further contact with her. It wasn’t worth the risk.
In late 1871, McLendon had to meet with a foreman at the factory directly across from Tirrito Dry Goods. He’d consciously avoided going anywhere near there, but now had no choice. Though he couldn’t talk to Gabrielle, perhaps he might catch a discreet glimpse of her. Surely Mr. Douglass couldn’t fault him for that. He felt impatient during the factory meeting, finally cutting it short, and left the building through a side entrance that offered a clear view of the dry goods shop. He was stunned to see that it was empty. The door sagged open toward the sidewalk. The hand-carved sign in front was gone.
Stunned, McLendon walked into the store. There was dust and cobwebs on the shelves. It had clearly been empty for some time. He went outside and circled to the small house in back. It was empty too. A woman was sweeping the porch of a nearby house, and McLendon recognized Gabrielle’s aunt Lidia. When he greeted her, she glared and said contemptuously, “You.”
“They’re gone?” McLendon asked, knowing that he sounded foolish and not caring that he did.
“You broke her heart, so they left. A letter I got says they’re in that Arizona Territory, someplace called Glorious. They got another store. After what you done to her, she couldn’t stay here.”
“I thought her father loved this store.”
“He loved the girl more, just like you should have. She’s a good one, the best. Now go away.”
• • •
FOR SEVERAL MONTHS after her wedding, Ellen continued having violent fits. McLendon wearily accepted them as a new fact in his life—and then they stopped. A week went by, then another, and Ellen remained calm. She was attentive to her husband, and talked in the evening about normal things like the weather and decorating the mansion for Christmas. She seemed so calm that one Sunday afternoon McLendon told Mr. Douglass that he thought he might take Ellen out for a short carriage ride. There had been snow during the week, and the countryside had taken on a festive white sparkle.
“That’s a bad idea,” Mr. Douglass said. “We generally try to keep her inside. If she’s away from home, she may get in a mood and try to run. It’s happened before.”
“She’s been doing very well,” McLendon said. “I think that perhaps doing an ordinary thing like having a ride in the snow would be good for her.”
Mr. Douglass stuck a warning finger in front of McLendon’s face. “You watch her every minute, and if she acts up in any way, bring her home immediately. I’ll not have Ellen making a spectacle of herself where the public can see.”
• • •
IT TOOK ALMOST AN HOUR for Ellen to get ready. She seemed pleased to be bundled in a heavy coat and fur hat as her husband helped her up into the carriage. McLendon tapped the horse with a whip and they rolled merrily out past the mansion gate. It was a lovely day, cold but sunny. He found himself enjoying the ride very much, being in such a fine gleaming carriage with his pretty, laughing young wife at his side. It was the first moment of complete contentment that he’d had since his marriage.
A few green sprigs of holly poked through the snow, and Ellen begged McLendon to stop for a moment so she could break them off from the bush. He did, and while Ellen fussed with the holly, McLendon idly looked back down the road. Several hundred yards behind them, sitting astride another horse from the mansion’s stable, he recognized the unmistakable hulking form of Patrick Brautigan, Killer Boots, who must have been summoned by Mr. Douglass to keep watch over Ellen on her special excursion. McLendon raised his hand and waved at Brautigan, who didn’t wave back or otherwise respond.
• • •
ELLEN CONTINUED to behave well, so much so that McLendon thought the time might come soon when she could be left in the care of the mansion staff or even completely alone for short periods, though her father was adamantly against it.
In February 1872, when Mr. Douglass went to Philadelphia for a meeting with potential investors in his St. Louis munitions factory, his wife went with him. She liked the city’s shops and museums. Patrick Brautigan went too. Mr. Douglass felt that a bodyguard would impress the men he was meeting. They expected to be away for five days. Mrs. Reynolds would stay with Ellen at the mansion while McLendon was at work.
On the third day after the Douglasses left, Mrs. Reynolds sent word that she was ill and would be unable to stay with Ellen, so McLendon worked from home. It was enjoyable. Ellen sat in the study with him while he read reports and wrote out orders to suppliers. In the early evening they played croquet. After dinner, McLendon and Ellen had settled down for a pleasant night in their sitting room when they were interrupted. A messenger sent by the foreman of the munitions plant reported that there had been a chemical spill, and noxious vapors were sickening the late-shift workers. The foreman thought it would be necessary to close the plant until the mess was cleaned up, but he couldn’t do so without permission. Was it okay with Mr. McLendon?
McLendon thought it over. He had no desire to risk the workers’ health, but he wasn’t certain that the foreman’s judgment was reliable. The work that would be interrupted was part of an important new contract, the plant’s first one from the Department of War. If the ammunition contracted for was delivered on time, it would probably lead to more lucrative business. A delay might very well have the opposite effect. There was always hot competition for government contracts. He decided he would go see for himself. But when he told Ellen that he had to go out for just a short while, she flew into a hysterical rage.
“You’re going off to meet a whore!” she shouted.
“Of course I’m not. I just have to see about an accident at one of your father’s factories. I’ll be home before you know it.”
“Your whore will have the pox, and you’ll give it to me. You’re not going, no, no, no!”
McLendon momentarily considered bringing Ellen with him, but she was so out of control that he decided he couldn’t. Sighing, he chose another option. She’d already had her two daily doses of laudanum. If he gave her a third, she would probably nap until he returned. Her father had ordered not to exceed her regular dosage again, but this was an emergency and Mr. Douglass wasn’t there.
“Would you like your special drink?” he asked. The question had the effect that he’d hoped. Ellen stopped screaming immediately and followed him eagerly to the safe in Ruppert Douglass’s study, where he dialed the combination and took out the vial of laudanum. It was almost empty. After he measured out three drops into a glass of water, only bare dregs remained in the vial, not enough for even one more full dose. In the morning he’d have to send one of the servants to get the prescription refilled. Ellen drank her glassful down, then docilely allowed McLendon to walk her to their bed, where he covered her with a comforter. He was impatient to get to the factory, and she seemed about to fall asleep.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said.
Ellen muttered, “Promise?”
McLendon hurried to the plant and ended up staying for several hours. First he summoned a cleanup crew and supervised as they worked. Then he gathered the plant workers who’d been milling outside and told them they could return to work. Some were reluctant, and he had to persuade them that the chemicals were cleaned up and the air inside was again safe to breathe. It was past midnight when he finally started home, and on the way he suddenly wondered if he’d locked the laudanum back in the safe before he left. He was relieved when he remembered that even if he hadn’t, there’d hardly been any left. If Ellen did get at the vial, there wasn’t enough to hurt her.
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.
• • •
MCLENDON 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.