conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for a book with the title 'Silver City'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Silver City
  Inside the same issue, readers learned that Mr. McLendon was currently visiting friends in Mountain View and residing at the White Horse Hotel, which was acknowledged to offer the finest luxury lodging in central Arizona Territory. Mr. McLendon, known to intimates as "C.M.," had no idea how long he might remain in town, though he was enjoying himself immensely and felt in no hurry to leave. "Though Mr. McLendon has mentioned plans to travel on to California, everyone here who has encountered this champion prays that he will settle among us in Mountain View," Mac Fielding wrote. "There is reason for hope to flutter in our breasts: Mr. McLendon has entered into at least temporary partnership with Mayor Hope Camp, and can be found daily at Camp Feed Store in a managerial capacity." Mayor Camp, asked to comment, said that great men like Cash McLendon were always welcome in Mountain View.
  Eyes blinking as they adjusted to the light, McLendon began reading. His groans gradually increased in volume until, finally, he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.
  AN HOUR LATER at the table in the White Horse kitchen, everyone waited for McLendon to help himself from the platters of eggs and bacon. When he finished his first cup of coffee, a second was poured without him having to ask. Conversation was muted. It was as if they all felt obligated to let McLendon speak first about whatever he liked. When he ventured that it seemed like a pleasant morning, there was immediate agreement that a finer day might never have dawned. His remark that he'd better leave for work resulted in everyone pushing back from the table. Gabrielle didn't help; she reveled in his discomfort. As McLendon left the hotel she clasped his hand, whispered, "My hero," in his ear, fluttered her eyelids dramatically, and laughed.
  A crowd was gathered at the door of the feed store. As soon as McLendon walked up, it became obvious people had come to see him rather than shop. A young girl asked him to sign a copy of the paper "right over your picture." Several men requested handshakes. McLendon signed and shook, trying all the while to keep moving toward the door. He went inside and was greeted by a beaming Mayor Camp.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She pulled back. Even that movement brought agony from her ribs and shin. Her shoulders brushed the shed wall. There was very little room. "Go away."
  But this easier option seemed incomplete. The job was designed to let the boss watch McLendon die. If it didn't happen that way, Mr. Douglass might wonder if Brautigan couldn't really have gotten McLendon all the way back to St. Louis. And with that doubt fixed in his mind, the boss would no longer trust Brautigan completely. He might begin thinking Brautigan knew too many of his secrets, and that for safety's sake it was Brautigan's turn to be eliminated. Brautigan knew himself to be a hard man, but Mr. Douglass was even more so. He was the only man Patrick Brautigan feared. If at all possible, McLendon had to be brought to Mr. Douglass in St. Louis.
  Brautigan tossed on his blanket for a while. There were still hours before dawn. He decided that since he couldn't sleep, he'd check on the girl in the shed. Just a quick look, to make certain the door was still bolted.
  It was very dark in Clantonville. But as Brautigan neared the shed he thought he discerned a faint flicker of light from gaps in the upper, unchinked portion of the log wall. He hurried up; the door was closed but not bolted. There was movement inside. Brautigan pulled the door open and saw by dim candlelight two figures struggling on the dirt floor. A man was on top of the girl. His head jerked around as Brautigan entered—it was a Clanton son, the one called Phin. Brautigan wound his thick fingers in Phin's long hair and yanked him off and up. He struck a single punch to his temple, enough to stun but not kill. Phin went limp and Brautigan dropped him. Then he turned to the girl. She was curled on the floor, trying to hold the front of her shirt together with one hand and pull up her trousers with the other. Brautigan looked down at Phin, whose own trousers were unbuttoned halfway but no more.
  Gabrielle sat in the darkness and tried to adjust her clothes. All but two buttons were torn from her shirt. She fastened those. There were gaps, but at least she was somewhat covered. The trousers had been loose anyway. She pulled them up over her hips and they seemed secure enough. Phin had bitten her a few times on her neck and shoulders. She gently prodded the sore spots but didn't think there was blood; he hadn't broken the skin. Phin had gotten her pants completely down but not his own when Brautigan interrupted. So assault but not complete rape.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The White Horse loomed ahead, and after that it was the end of town and out into the country. McLendon was about to pull the window curtain closed when the driver shouted, "What? Whoa," to his horses and brought the stage to a stop. There was muffled conversation, the driver leaning down to speak to someone.
  Gabrielle opened the passenger door and climbed in. She wore no bonnet or kerchief. Her hair had mostly grown back, and she once again adorned it with ribbons. She sat down on the bench next to McLendon and the stage lurched forward.
  I took liberties with some geography. In general the descriptions of the land between and (mythical) Mountain View are correct, but I moved a mountain range or two and manipulated the boundaries of the San Carlos agency.
  As usual, and above all, thanks to Ivan Held for suggesting that I write a fiction series based in the so-called Old West. I will always be grateful to all of my friends at Putnam, past and present. Maybe someday soon we can meet for a reunion lunch at The Ear. I'm buying.
  I'm grateful to Anne Collier, Chuck Smith, and Kevin ("Cap") Mulkins for invaluable research assistance.