A Stuart Brannon Novel

 

Standoff At Sunrise Creek

 

Stephen Bly

 

 

Smashwords Edition

 

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BLY BOOKS, WINCHESTER, ID

 

Copyright © 1993, 2012, 2020 by Janet Chester Bly

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Bly Books

P.O. Box 157

Winchester, ID 83555

Visit our Website at www.blybooks.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Ken Raney

For

Mark and Jayne

living on the frontier

 

 

“And now shall mine head be

lifted up above mine enemies

round about me…”

Psalm 27:6a KJV

 

 

One

 

 

It sounded like the echo of a distant rifle. Just a single shot. Then the howl of the wind.

Brannon wasn’t sure. He hated to pull his Winchester out of the scabbard. He hoped to protect it from the sandstorm. But in this case, precaution outweighed a clean barrel.

Stuart Brannon had no idea where Ute country ended and Navajo country began. He didn’t know whether he was in Utah, Arizona, or even still in New Mexico Territory. Somewhere up to the north he expected to find the San Juan River, and somewhere down below should be Mexican Water.

A bitter, hot wind raged out of the canyons to the west and swirled across the fat, parched desert floor. There was no clean air to breathe. No peaceful vistas to view. His black hat was tied on and pulled down, his red bandanna yanked up over his nose.

His eyes reduced to narrow slits, horizontal gun slots in a fortress wall. Fine dust sucked his tongue dry and ground like four on a millstone between his teeth. He could feel the rough cotton shirt grit the dirt into his shoulders. The heat of the sand inside his boots pained his raw feet.

When he could see anything at all, only small, scattered, gray sagebrush came into view.

Again, sounding even more distant, came the report of a rifle. He jerked the reins tight and stood in the stirrups.

No horizon.

No signs of life.

Brannon had known when he started the trip this wasn’t the main road to Arizona. “It’s the Old Spanish Trail,” friends at Tres Casas advised. “It will cut three days of the trip… if you survive.”

He had every intention of surviving, but now he doubted the cost of saving those three days. He had spent the winter as sheriff in New Mexico… shot his way out of Paradise Meadow, and lingered one last week in Tres Casas.

On Monday Brannon had said good-bye to the Shepherds, Mulroneys, and Rose Creek and headed southwest. It was now Friday… or maybe Saturday. He wasn’t sure.

He glanced down at El Viento. The horse’s eyes were shut.

Oh, sure, you can keep ’em closed. As long as one of us knows where we’re going. That Old Spanish Trail is around here someplace. Probably over by that rifle fire.

Brannon figured there were three things a man could do when he heard the sound of shooting. He could ride away from it… he could ride straight into it… or he could keep on the trail and try to ignore it. He’d have chosen the last, but since he was not at all sure where the trail was, he turned the big black gelding directly into the wind and trotted in the direction of the gunfire.

Approaching what looked through the dust to be the head of a wash, Brannon dismounted and led El Viento towards the precipice. As he expected, the wind galed at the crest. Yet vision improved.

A mesa? We’ve been up on a mesa? Well, old boy, it’s a good thing we didn’t plow on over the side.

As the dust and sand circled around him, he thought he could see a ribbon of green on the desert floor below. He believed he could observe several horses at a bend in the greenery.

Or perhaps they were dark boulders…

He heard two more shots.

There was no quick way down of the mesa. To plummet off the edge would be suicide—either by the fall or perhaps the guns that waited below.

It will take me half an hour to work my way around to the south and hack up that river.

Knowing it was his only reasonable choice, Brannon turned El Viento south and loped the horse through the roaring sandstorm. As he worked his way off the south end of the mesa, the wind decreased the more he descended.

Vision improved on the valley floor, which allowed him to see a row of brush sheltering a stream or, at least, a streambed. Brannon held El Viento back against the base of the mesa and waited for another gunshot to reveal position.

He pulled his canteen off the saddle, sloshed some water into his cupped hand, and let the horse slobber up the moisture. He took a swig out of the canteen and pulled off his bandanna. Soaking the red rag, he wiped his face, wrung it out, and retied it around his neck.

Maybe just some target practice… or shooting at game, but I can’t imagine what game there would be out here. If those were horses I sighted, and if they are the only ones out here, and if they haven’t moved, and if they are pilgrims passing through, then…

Brannon shoved a few more shells into the breech of the Winchester. He dug his extra Colt out of the bedroll tied to the cantle, spun the chamber, and jammed the gun into his belt.

I’ve been wrong before.

He adjusted the cinch on El Viento, remounted, and rode out away from the mesa toward what he supposed to be a river. The green ribbon he had spotted from on top turned out to be brush, not trees, and what he hoped was a river was only a meager creek, already starting to sink back into its underground summer resting place.

As El Viento drank his fill, Brannon slipped down out of the saddle and filled his canteen, never releasing his grip on the Winchester nor taking his eyes of the north. He spied a rough trail on the far side of the creek.

No reason to be too obvious. Come on, boy. We’ll stay in this brush.

The wind was so mild, the dust storm now looked merely like clouds on the mesa.

As Brannon rode straight into the breeze, he noticed El Viento twitch his ears. He pulled up on the reins and turned his head. “What do you hear, boy?” he whispered.

In the hum of the breeze, the whinny of a horse.

“Someone’s up there.”

Afraid of making too high a profile above the brush, Brannon dismounted and led El Viento towards the sound of the horse. Sauntering quietly, he edged his way closer until he heard jumbled voices shouting.

Someone’s unhappy.

Brannon caught sight of a wagon and team. Four saddled horses milled around near the wagon, but no one was in sight. Tying of El Viento, he crept through the head-high brush until he could see into a slight clearing next to the creek.

Still unable to distinguish the voices, he could see several men with guns pointed towards a dark-haired twosome huddled in the middle of a circle.

The dirty gunmen… rough… hard… the kind that drifted into most every western town—men who would end up as early residents of Boot Hill or the guests of honor at a necktie party.

How can I take sides when I don’t know the argument? Looks like a man’s down… maybe two. Mexicans… and a woman.

Glancing at the man and woman, he recognized the dark satin and lace, the waist-length jacket, and the tall stovetop boots of Mexican aristocracy.

He cocked the lever on his Winchester as slowly as possible and inched his way closer. Now he distinguished the voices.

“Sure hope you folks enjoy your new place. Right, Lacey?” a fat man in a brown vest sneered.

“Are we gonna leave ’em out here, Case?”

“Why, certainly. They wanted to see their rancho, and we showed it to them.”

“Even the woman? We could take her with us, couldn’t we?”

A younger man with a wispy beard stepped toward the couple.

Four horses… four men… four guns… maybe.

As Brannon assessed his strategy, the youngest gunman reached out and grabbed the woman by the arm. The man by her side threw a hard right into the jaw of the attacker, who staggered back and tripped, sprawling into the sand.

One of those holding rifles cracked the barrel against the chivalrous Mexican’s head. He crumpled to the ground near the feet of the woman, who screamed and bent down to cradle him.

Brannon froze as the man lifted the rifle as if to strike the woman. He stepped out into the clearing and shouted, “Drop it, Mister.”

Startled, the man spun towards Brannon and lowered his barrel to fire. Too late. The bullet from Brannon’s Winchester slammed into the man’s left shoulder, spun him around, and tumbled him into the middle of the creek.

“Holster those guns, boys, or you’ll be stacked up like cordwood.”

“You can’t fight all three of us.”

“That depends on how many friends I’ve got standing back in the brush.”

“I don’t see nobody.”

“If you think I’m fool enough to ride out in this country by myself, then make a play. I don’t know how good you are with those Colts, but you certainly know what I can do with this Winchester.”

All three men held their weapons. The wounded fat man named Case struggled to pull himself out of the creek.

“Now, Mister, there ain’t no reason for anyone else to get shot,” the dirtiest of them said. “These Mexicans jumped us on the trail and we was defending ourselves. You ain’t standin’ up for no thievin’ Mexicans, is ya?”

“What in the world did you have that they wanted?”

“Title to the property. From the New Mexico line to the Little Colorado.”

The three men began to spread themselves apart.

“You know, it’s funny you boys should start wandering away from each other. That’ll make me choose which one to shoot first. I believe your name is Lacey?” He motioned to the young man who had grabbed the woman. “You’ll be getting this .44 slug somewhere between the belt and the top of your head. Or you might convince these boys to stand still.”

“You ain’t got no help in the bushes or they’d have showed themselves by now,” Lacey taunted. Turning his back to Brannon, he waved his dirty hat at the bush, “Go ahead, hombres, shoot. Shoot!”

A rifle fired from deep in the brush. The man’s ripped hat flew into the creek. All three men dropped their revolvers and threw their hands into the air.

Brannon glanced back over his shoulder and thought he spotted a flash of red.

“Call ’em off! Call ’em off,” Lacy pleaded.

“I don’t tell another man how to shoot. If they want to kill you, I reckon they will.” Turning to the woman, he nodded. “¿Senora, como está este hombre? ¿Es su esposo?”

“Yes, he is my husband. I do not believe he is hurt very badly. Do you speak Spanish?”

“Not as well as you speak English.” Brannon never took his eyes off the gunmen. “What happened here?”

“It is a very long story.”

“They brought you out into the desert and tried to bushwhack you, I presume?”

“Yes, I believe that is correct.”

“Do you have any food in the wagon?”

“We have a few supplies. Why?”

“Would you be able to leave your husband for a minute? I’ll watch him if you could toss some food into a sack and bring it over here.” Turning to the men, he ordered, “You three sit down back to back. Drag your compadre in there too.”

“You ain’t going to shoot us, are ya?”

“Nope.”

The woman returned from the wagon with a few supplies.

“Can you hold this gun on them while I tie them up?”

“Yes… if I can control my anger long enough not to shoot them.”

“If you have to shoot one, shoot Lacey.”

“Mister, don’t give that lousy Mexican a gun. Why, she’ll—”

A doubled fist slammed into the man’s midsection. “Excuse me.” Brannon pulled the man back up to a standing position and doubled his fist again. “Exactly what did you call this lady?”

Choking out a response, the man mumbled, “Señorita… Señorita.”

“That’s close enough.”

Brannon tied the four men back to back, propping the wounded man with the others.

“What do we do now?” the woman asked.

“Is the other man dead?”

“Yes, I believe so. He is Enrique, our driver. A very courageous man.”

“We’ll load you folks in that wagon and roll on out of here. Where did you come from?”

“Prescott.”

“Good. That’s where I’m heading. Mind if I ride along?”

“I would be most grateful. Are you leaving the provisions for these hombres malo?”

“Nope. They don’t deserve a thing. The food is for the Indians in the brush.”

“Your assistants are Indians?” she quizzed.

“Not my assistants… friends.”

“Mister, you cain’t leave us to the Injuns.”

Brannon ignored his plea. “Red Shirt,” he called out. “I left some grub here. Will you see that these men do not leave for three days?”

“And after that?” a deep, slow voice shouted back.

“Let them go… or,” he glanced at the men, “eat them.”

“That is good,” the voice called back. “Is the Brannon going to Arizona?”

“Yep.”

“Brannon?” one of the men choked. “We were going up against Stuart Brannon?”

“Chalco asks when will you be coming back to our camp?” the still unseen Red Shirt called.

“Whenever I need your help. How is Chalco’s leg?”

“It is well… and ugly like the rest of him,” Red Shirt added.

“Hey, Mr. Brannon,” one of the bound men shouted. “We didn’t know it was you.”

“And when will you and the others be coming to my camp in Arizona?” Brannon hollered to Red Shirt.

“When we need your help,” came the reply.

“It is well,” Brannon called.

Brannon helped the Mexican, now conscious, to the wagon. He retrieved the dead man.

“Brannon, you’re not playing square,” one of the men called.

“If I hadn’t rode into camp, you would have killed these folks, mounted up, rode about ten feet, and been shot in the head by these Indians. Now they happen to owe me a favor, and they can’t shoot you… unless you try to run away. I figure I saved your lives. At least for three days.”

“What kind of Injuns are they? They ain’t ’Paches, are they?”

“They’re Ute. And quite friendly as long as they have plenty to eat. Look at it this way. You have at least three days to settle up with the Almighty.”

Brannon hoisted the body across his shoulders and tramped back to the wagon. The Mexican woman tried to tie a white bandage around her husband’s head while holding the reins of the team in one hand. Brannon laid the body in the far back of the wagon and wrapped it with a canvas tarp that had been covering an ornate wooden trunk.

He tied off El Viento to the tailgate of the wagon and climbed up next to the couple. “You look like you need to rest, amigo. I can drive this thing if you’d like.”

“Gracias, Señor, gracias.” The man glanced over at his wife.

“Es bueno, Don Rinaldo… es bueno!”

The man crawled into the back of the wagon to lie down.

Brannon slapped the reins, and the team bolted forward. He turned to the woman. “Who are you folks and how did you get in such a bind?” He studied her.

Although slightly dusty and crumpled from her recent ordeal, she presented a fine portrait of a Mexican lady. Twenty-eight to thirty. Thin. Maybe a little too thin. Long black dress with delicate embroidery work and beautiful lace… black hair pulled back behind her head with tortoise shell comb still in place… fiery brown eyes that controlled destinies with a glance.

He abruptly realized she had begun to speak.

“… and I know quite a little about you, Mr. Stuart Brannon.”

“You do? What have you heard?”

“Some say you are a vicious, reckless gunman who hates Mexicans.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you that?”

“This was told to me by a young man named Ramon Fuente-Delgado.”

“Delgado? You mean the kid with the silver saddle and a bad choice of friends over in Tres Casas?”

“Yes, he said you did not treat him well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He helped spring two men from my jail, broke into a saloon, tore up half the furnishings in the place, and cut me in the back with his knife. I believe I treated him square.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I believe you did.”

“Where did you run across Delgado?”

“Just outside the MacGruder ranch a few days ago.”

“So he’s in Arizona?”

“He’s probably back in Mexico by now. He did not like your welcome.”

“I presume he told you the other three I chased out of town were white?”

“You do not need to apologize to me,” she continued. “Ramon is a very headstrong young man. I think he goes home wiser now.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Oh, yes, he’s my brother.”

Brannon sighed. “I guess you did hear an earful.”

“Yes, I did. And I also heard about you from—”

Her husband sat up in the back of the wagon, spoke to her in Spanish, and laid back down.

“Don Rinaldo says we must thank you twice—first for spanking Ramon and now for saving us from the thieves.”

“So, you know something about me, but I still haven’t heard your story.”

Brannon turned the team onto wagon ruts running due west into the breeze. The wind continued stiff, but the sand no longer blowing, visibility remained good.

“My name is Victoria Maria Alezon Fuentes-Delgado Pacifica, and this is my husband, Don Rinaldo. We live on our family estate at the base of the Sierra Madres, southeast of Magdalena. Originally, I came from Monterrey.”

“Where your father is the Alcalde?”

“The Vice-Generale,” she corrected. “Last fall after the, how do you say it, roundup—”

“You raise cattle?”

“Oh, yes. In the fall an American lawyer came to visit us at the rancho. His name was William Gitt and he—”

“Spanish Land Grant Gitt? Last I heard he got run out of the country.”

“Ah… you know Mr. Gitt?”

“Nope. Just heard a few things about him, that’s all.”

“It doesn’t sound encouraging,” she said sighing.

“Continue, please.”

“Mr. Gitt, who speaks quite fluent Spanish, was returning to the States after doing extensive research in Guadalajara and Mexico City. He had purchased a Spanish land grant in St. Louis and was trying to verify it from old colonial records.

“After several weeks of investigation, he could not find the papers that proved the grant, but he did discover many old documents supporting an Alezon land grant made to my great-grandfather by the governor of New Mexico at that time. As you probably know, those grants were upheld by the 1847 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.”

“If they can be proved,” Brannon added.

“Correct. Gitt had a trunk load--that is it in the wagon--of documents and certified copies proving our claim.”

“Why did he take them?”

“He told us that if he could not locate an heir, he was going to make a claim to the grant himself, the evidence being so strong. But since he located me, he wanted to sell us the documents so that he might pay for his expenses for all the research.”

“So Gitt sold you a trunk load of documents?”

“Yes, but the price was not exorbitant, and we felt it would be worth investigation since we knew that Great-Grandfather Alezon spent much time in New Mexico—or Arizona as it is now called—digging for gold.”

“And you came to investigate the land?”

“Yes, we waited until spring and then traveled north. We stopped in Tucson and showed our papers to the Surveyor-General and in Prescott to the Superintendent of Lands.”

Brannon cradled his Winchester in his lap with his right hand and kept glancing behind the wagon. “And what was their conclusion?”

“They were quite pleasant, but they could tell us nothing. They had never heard of the Alezon grant, and they were not allowed to comment on the documents until these were officially presented to the Surveyor-General. But several of the documents stated that an Initial Monument marked the boundary of the grant, and people at the Land Office said that our claim would be much substantiated if we located that original marker.”

Brannon glanced down at the dust and dirt caked to his duckings and wished for a broom. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Correct. We brought three men with us from the rancho. Two of them decided they would abandon us for the gold diggings of Prescott. Enrique encouraged us to come on out here on our own. We had no idea exactly where to search. But we determined to find the marker for ourselves. However, yesterday at Aqua Amargo, we met Mr. Case and his friends, who assured us they had seen the monument and would lead us to it.”

“For a price, no doubt.” Brannon popped the reins on the lead horse’s rump as they started up an incline.

“Yes… for one hundred dollars.”

“Let me guess the rest. So you rode two days out here only to find your guides now wanted to rob you. Your driver got shot in the scuffle that followed, and I drifted down in the middle of the confrontation.”

“Mas o menos, that is correct.”

“If this doesn’t sound too personal, why does some rich hacienda owner come all the way up to this wild country anyway?”

“I have been asking my Don Rinaldo that question for several weeks.”

“And what does he say?”

“Things are not stable in our country. Generale Diaz rules harshly, and no one can stop him. My husband fears the day will come when the military confiscates all that we have worked for.”

“So a place in the States could be an escape?”

“We thought it was worth the investigation.”

“What do you think now?”

“It is not worth the life of another person.” She glanced back at her husband. “I believe we should return home and forget about the land grant. But I will await Don Rinaldo’s decision.”

A dust devil slammed into the rig, and for a moment they stopped talking.

“Do you sell cows… or just your steers?” Brannon quizzed.

“We have many of both. Are you a cattleman as well as a gunman?”

“I am only a cattleman—with a ranch and no cattle. I’d like to buy five hundred to a thousand head sometime during the next year. Could you supply that many?”

“It is my husband who operates the business,” she replied. “But it would be an amount that we could supply. Where is your ranch?”

“Down towards the middle of Arizona, on a little stream we call Sunrise Creek.”

For most of the afternoon, they rolled along parallel to the brush, climbing uphill towards western mountains. At times the wind made all conversation impossible. But when the sun began to set, they climbed out of the desert floor, and the wind died.

The old trail followed a small tributary of the creek into the hills, and about halfway up the slope they discovered a tiny grassy meadow. A spring supplied a constant trickle of water.

Brannon pulled the wagon over and they made camp for the night. By now Señor Pacifica had regained his strength and rode up front with his wife.

“You folks may certainly do whatever you’d like, but I suggest we bury your friend here. This desert heat is going to decay that body before we make it to Prescott. And if I were you two, I would sleep in the wagon tonight. What with snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas, this country doesn’t make a real great bed.”

“And you, Mr. Brannon, where will you camp?”

“By the fire. That should be safe enough.”

Señor Pacifica spoke to his wife in Spanish, who turned to Brannon. “My husband says he does not wish to insult you, but he thinks it best if we all sleep with loaded guns.”

“Tell him I would be insulted only if you didn’t.”

“Do you expect the evil men to return?”

“No, but this must be Navajo country… perhaps even Apache. Besides you don’t know for sure what kind of man I am.”

“Oh, I know.” Señora Pacifica smiled.

“I could have fooled you. Your brother may be right.”

“We know more about you than I have revealed,” she advised.

“Your brother told you more?”

“No. I believe you know Mr. Barton at the Land Office in Prescott?”

“I met him on the trail up in Colorado.”

“We had dinner with him, his wife, and a sister-in-law named Harriet Reed. She seems to know quite a bit about the legendary Stuart Brannon.”

“Yes… well…” Brannon stammered. “I’ll tend the horses and dig a grave for this brave compadre.”

Close to dark, Brannon laid the tarp-wrapped body in the hole. He looked down one last time, and glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Pacifica. “Say,” he began, “I’m sorry there’s no priest around, but if you... “

Señor Pacifica began to pray in Spanish, and as he did, the Señora translated in English. His long, fervent prayer concerned the unfailing mercy of God and the eternal saving power of the blood of Christ.

Brannon stared at them long after they finished the prayer.

“Mr. Brannon?” the woman called.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You look a little surprised.”

“I haven’t heard many prayers in Spanish. That was... beautiful.”

“Did you assume we must have a priest to say our prayers?”

“I guess I never thought about it much.”

“Mr. Brannon, you would be quite shocked if you knew the whole story of Victoria Maria Alezon Fuentes Delgado Pacifica.”

 

 

 

 

Two

 

 

 

If one sits for tea with her back to the window, facing the fireplace, it is easy to imagine being in Boston or Philadelphia. Provided, of course, you don’t hear horrid curses or sporadic gunfire coming from the street.

 

Harriet Reed glanced up from the letter she was writing and noticed the lid tilted crooked on the green and white Chinese vase. She padded across the soft Oriental rug to the mantle and seated the lid properly.

The ladies’ drawing room near the street on the second floor of the Barton home was almost her exclusive domain. Every morning her sister Gwen would pop in for a quick visit, but the rest of the day the room was hers. In the six months since they moved to Prescott, Harriet perfected her regimen of reading, writing, and serving as hostess at the countless dinners Gwen and Nelson gave.

She spent most of her time indoors and only on occasion ventured down the hill to the shops and stores. Her work as chairman of the Library Organizing Committee brought her into contact with a few of the more prominent citizens, yet she still did not feel completely settled.

Sitting back down at the small cherry wood and leather writing table with brass lion paw feet, she continued to write.

 

It is a beautiful, wild, primitive country. It begs to be settled, tamed, broken. But it can be a lonely place. Gwendolyn has Nelson and, so she says, by Christmas their first child. If you would only move out, we could—oh, there I go. Of course you must stay, I know, I know. You will write back and say if only I had married Curtis Terrington. As you know, Mr. Terrington bores me to tears, and I certainly refuse to sentence myself to such a life.

 

As I suspected, the Territory of Arizona is anything but boring. Yet I’ve had ample time to work on my novel. No, you cannot read any of it yet, but of course, I’ll send you a copy when it’s finished.

 

Did I tell you even the church services are quite different out here? Not nearly so rigid and formal. Respectful, mind you, but highly reflective of the casual lifestyle. The choir does quite well for being so small. All except Lilian DuShey. She is simply horrid. A screeching soprano that reminds me of Esther. (Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that!)

 

You asked about Mr. Brannon. I hadn’t realized that his name was being mentioned in the eastern newspapers. I didn’t mean to sound as if I know him well, but I do expect him to come through soon. Several telegrams came to him at this address indicating we should hold them for his arrival, so I presume he is on his way. I do hope it’s not today, for it’s almost 11:00 A.M. and I haven’t gone downstairs yet.

 

Tell your father you need some healthy western air and come see us. We have plenty of room, and it would be just like our school days.

 

Give my best to Rachel.

Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed

 

A light breeze rippled across her room from the half-open window. White lace curtains fluttered like a swan starting to take fight, then settled neatly back into place, just like everything else in the room.

From her earliest memory Harriet Reed knew she would be a writer. She could not remember a day when the thought didn’t dominate her mind. She would not write books of sugary poetry, but solid, vivid, powerful statements in prose. Schooled on everything from The Iliad and The Odyssey, to Dickens and Dumas, she intended to compete with the best.

On her own terms.

She would not use a man’s name.

She would never consent to any nom de plume.

And they would not ignore her.

Her work would demand recognition.

That required sacrifice. As she dressed for the warm spring day, she wondered how high a price she was willing to pay.

“Harriet, you’re obsessed with your writing,” they all scolded her.

She took that as a compliment.

It would be the only way to succeed.

But today, for a few minutes, she glanced at the pine-covered mountains surrounding town and thought about taking a long buggy ride. She could feel the breeze in her face, the jostle of the carriage, see the wild flowers and green hills, and sense the presence of a strong, rugged man at the reins riding next to her.

Not just any man, of course.

She had one in mind.

As she walked down the stairs, she carried a cloth carefully dusting a dustless bannister. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she retreated to the kitchen just as a knock sounded at the door.

The opaque leaded glass in the front door prevented her from seeing who was on the front steps. Out of habit, she glanced at her refection in the hall mirror, brushed her dark brown hair behind her ears, and opened the door.

A medium-built man with waistcoat buttoned at the top and a soiled black hat-greeted her. “Excuse me, ma’am, I need to see the Superintendent of Lands.”

“Oh… yes, Mr. Barton is at the office today. It’s located—”

“Madam,” the man sighed, “if he were at the Land Office, I wouldn’t be here. I was told he would be here for dinner, and it is of utmost importance that I talk to him.”

“Forgive me. I had forgotten it was so late. Yes, well… I believe that he and Mrs. Barton are dining with the mayor. I’m sure he’ll be back to his—”

“Where are they eating?” the man demanded.

“I’m not sure of that. All I know is—”

“This is extremely important,” he insisted.

She noticed what looked like a smear of dirt above the man’s left eyebrow, and she wondered how long it had been since he last washed his shirt. “Sir, I have given you all the information I have. Would you care to leave your name? I will inform Mr. Barton of your call.”

“The name’s Willing. Dr. Willing.”

“Oh, my, is this a medical emergency?”

“It’s more important than that, lady. It’s a land claim emergency.” He turned on his heels and began to descend the front steps.

“I’m sorry you missed Mr. Barton,” she called.

“I assure you, I will not miss him,” he replied. “It would have been helpful if he had let the hired help know where he is.” The man dashed down the wooden sidewalk and crossed the wide, dirty street.

She walked out on the porch and glanced at the dust rag she still held in her hand.

Hired help? Mistaken for a cleaning lady?

She looked down at her pale hands and long, thin, ringless fingers. Peering into the street and the bright sunlit noonday, she thought she saw a man riding north on a tall, black horse.

Ducking back inside the house, she glanced out the front window with intentions to trace the movement of the black horse. Instead, she noticed a small cobweb in the upper right-hand corner of the window. She scurried towards the hall closet to look for the feather duster.

 

] ]

 

It took four hard days for Brannon and Señor and Señora Pacifica to reach the base of the San Francisco peaks. They camped near McMillan’s old corrals, next to Flagpole Springs. The next day, south of the Springs they came across a rough wagon road that had been hacked out by General George Crook and men a few years before. It led down the mountain to Camp Verde and on south across the desert to Tucson.

The Pacificas decided to bypass Prescott and return home through Camp Verde, Tucson, and Magdalena.

“Señor Brannon, we both have greatly appreciated your assistance through this beautiful and frightening land. Our home will always be open to you,” the woman said.

“And I’m serious about buying those cattle. I’ll write to you this summer and make arrangements.”

“Yes, we will look forward to it. Please give our regards to Mr. and Mrs. Barton… and also Miss Reed.” The woman studied his face one last time.

Brannon tipped his hat and turned west towards Prescott. As he loped down the rutted trail, he became increasingly aware of absolutely no other travelers.

No freight wagons.

No military contingents.

No drifters.

No pilgrims.

No prospectors.

No one.

Either a bridge is out… or Prescott is under siege… or the Apaches have left the reservation. Why did they send the general north? George Crook’s the only man in the country that can tame them. Too successful, I guess… send him up for Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. Everyone in the Territory knows they should have made him governor… everyone except whiskey drummers and crooked Indian agents.

Brannon rode El Viento of the trail and into the trees that lined the north side of the road. The vegetation changed from forest to chaparral.

’Course I could be wrong. Maybe nobody’s traveling today. Sure, Brannon, they decided to stay home and plant potatoes and corn.

He rode to the top of a knoll and surveyed the horizon. Straight west he could see some smoke among the greasewood and scrub oaks. With the wind at his back, he stayed of the wagon road and circled north of the smoke. Brannon figured he was three or four miles north of the smoke when he finally made it downwind enough to distinguish sporadic gunfire. He sat and listened.

It’s a standoff… or one side is pinned down and the others are waiting. They’re saving bullets for something. If I keep to the trees, then down the row of oaks… maybe I’ll be able to sight them.

Brannon didn’t locate a trail that would bypass the confrontation. He didn’t even think to look for one.

As he drew closer to the occasional rifle shots, he spotted unshod pony tracks in the reddish-brown, grassless soil.

Okay, one side is Indian… but against whom? And why?

He tied El Viento to a stubby tree. Shoving all his extra cartridges into his coat pockets, he slipped his knife into his boot. Stalking from one tree to another, he approached the gunfire.

Apaches! They’ve got someone pinned down, but they sure aren’t taking any chances. A man couldn’t shoot them from even this angle.

He could spot Indian movement, but he wasn’t close enough to count numbers. They scurried from location to location, firing few shots.

They’re closing in! Whoever’s pinned down is getting desperate. They’re wasting their shells… scared to death, no doubt.

Brannon knew how they felt.

Apaches don’t quit. Ever. Either you kill them or they kill you. Or they capture you and… He refused to even think about what would happen then.

I can’t fight them single-handed—not that many. I’ll have to scare them off… make them think I’m greater in number… or power… or by sheer terror.

“Lord, this would be a good time to have about a hundred soldiers from Whipple Barracks ride up the road.”

He turned quickly to the right to glance at the western horizon. A blur, a shadow, a movement only steps behind him caused him to jerk his head back. A rifle barrel crashed into his right arm. He dropped the Winchester. Stumbling backward, falling to the ground, he tugged at his Colt with his left hand and turned.

The butt of a rifle jammed into his stomach. He gasped for breath as the Colt fell to the ground. Doubled over with his shoulder almost on his knees, he yanked his knife from his boot and flailed wildly at the sound of a hammer cocking on the rifle.

Slicing through the attacker’s arm caused the Indian to drop the weapon and scream. Brannon thought he heard gunfire in the distance.

Either they’re shooting at me… or they’re too busy to notice what’s happening up here.

The Indian, clutching his bleeding arm against his chest, yanked a knife from his belt. He lunged at Brannon, who jumped back and sliced at the man as he tumbled forward. This time he gashed the other arm.

As the Indian clutched his new wound, Brannon landed a jaw-crunching roundhouse right. The Indian toppled to the ground, banged his head against a boulder and didn’t move.

Brannon lunged for his weapons and searched the landscape for other attackers. The Indians all seemed to be occupied at the standoff down below.

They’re moving in now. It’s about over. Where did this old boy come from? He must have been back with the horses. What horses?

Brannon ran to the crest of the hill to the east and spotted a dozen horses in the draw. Trotting, he dragged the unconscious Indian over to the little clearing and approached a tall paint pony.

If I were the chief, this would be my horse.

He shoved the Indian backwards into the saddle of the paint, and then lashed his wounded arms behind him, tied to the saddle horn. Brannon gagged the Indian with his bandanna and used the saddle strings to tie the man’s legs to the stirrup. The Indian began to come to and labored to free his hands and feet.

Pulling down the reata that served as a barrier for the horses, Brannon led the paint down the hill towards the gunfire. He expected all the other horses to follow.

He stopped a couple hundred feet above the shooting and slapped the paint on the rump with his hat. The horses sprinted towards the Indians, who, still keeping their position, turned their guns toward the herd. They froze when they saw their wounded friend lashed backwards to the lead horse.

It was the split second Brannon needed.

In six rapid, booming shots, he brought down six horses including the big paint. The Indians seized the remaining horses and fled to the east without firing a shot in Brannon’s direction. One Indian pulled the wounded man free and urged him on foot down the wagon road.

“Ho! You in the rocks,” Brannon shouted. “I’m coming down.”

“You’re a welcome sight,” a man hollered back. “How many of ya are there?”

“Just me.”

“One?”

“And how many are in the rocks?” Brannon called back.

“Six of us—but three are wounded real bad.”

Brannon approached the rocks as a tall, gray-haired man in a sergeant’s uniform walked towards him.

“Army?” Brannon questioned.

“From Whipple Barracks. I’m Sergeant Cloverdale. Where in the world did you learn that trick?”

“Backward in the saddle and shooting the horses?”

“Yeah.”

“From the Chiricahua Apache south of Camp Bowie about four years ago. Only the poor man they strapped to the saddle had his face burnt off.”

“Savages!”

“Yeah, and it’s effective. I still have nightmares about it,” Brannon added. “You got your horses?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think the men can ride.”

“They don’t have any choice. Load ’em up. I’ll grab my pony and we’ll head back to the barracks as fast as we dare.”

“I didn’t catch your name, Mister,” the sergeant yelled.

“Brannon,” he replied as he ran up the hill.

At best a ten-minute lead… they’ll be back… back to gather their gear off these dead horses… back to retaliate… back to make someone pay.

He spurred El Viento towards the roadway and the soldiers who were trying to pack their wounded colleagues into the saddles.

“Ain’t no use…” the one with the severe stomach wound gasped. “I cain’t ride.”

“Mister,” Brannon shouted, “in ten minutes those Apaches will return, and God help the man they find alive. The only chance you’ve got is to make it back to a doc.”

“The ride will kill me,” the man groaned.

“It’s not the worst thing that can happen,” Brannon barked.

“And I say we hole up here and fight ‘em. There ain’t no more than a dozen of ‘em.”

Sergeant Cloverdale grabbed the man by the hips and shoved him on up into the saddle. “Taylor, that’s Stuart Brannon you’re talkin’ to.”

“Brannon? You’re Stuart Brannon?”

“Have we met before?”

“Eh… no sir. I just heard… you know how folks talk. People have said, well, I never thought I’d meet you. I should have known no one else would take ‘em on single-handed like that.”

Brannon turned to the mounted Cloverdale. “Sergeant, you’re in command of these troops, and if it seems correct, you take one healthy man with you up front. Me and the other man will bring up the drag, and we’ll put the wounded men in the middle.”

“You’ve got no argument from me, Mr. Brannon. Line up, men. Let’s move out. We’ll have to keep her at a trot as long as we can.”

Two of the wounded men had lost a considerable amount of blood and were extremely weak as they bounced along. They clutched tightly to the horns of the McClellans and bounced in and out of consciousness.

Taylor broke out in a cold sweat and began singing.

 

Maxwelton’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the dew, And ‘twas there that Annie Laurie gave me her promise true; Gave me her promise true, which ne’er forgot will be. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die.

 

Cloverdale brought the men to a halt, but the wounded man sang on. “Taylor,” he shouted.

Brannon pulled up, stood in the stirrups to glance back down the road, pulled off his hat, and ran a gloveless hand through his dark brown hair. “Sergeant… let him sing.”

“The fever’s making him delirious.”

“I know, but every man’s got a right to a death song.”

The sergeant stared at him. “You’re right, Brannon. Even the Apaches have that right. I was with Major Brown in 72.”

“At the cave in the Superstitions?”

“Yeah… I heard ‘em singin’. Any man that doesn’t stand in fear of Apache bravery is a fool.”

Brannon rode up alongside the singing man and managed to pull off Taylor’s bandanna. He soaked it with water and tied the wet rag around the fevered man’s forehead. “Sing it, Private. Sing it all.”

The man sang, cried, cursed, and hollered for the next fifteen minutes as they rode hard to the west. “General Sheridan,” he cried. “I won’t ride for Custer. He’s a dog. Give me Crook, or at least Miles… but I won’t ride for Custer.”

 

Her brow is like the snowdrift; her throat is like the swan; Her face, it is the fairest that e’er the sun shone on; That e’er…

 

The singing stopped.

The man slumped forward across the horse’s neck and tumbled to the road. All the riders reined up. The sergeant hit the ground first to check on the downed man. Brannon knew the verdict before Cloverdale nodded to the others and hoisted the dead man across the saddle. Once the body was laced on, they resumed their journey.

Brannon sang now, but soon all the men joined him.

 

That e’er the sun shone on; and dark blue is her eye, And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die.

 

The trip proved quiet and uneventful for the rest of the day and on into the night. They didn’t even consider stopping. The wounded men held on, and the others spoke little. At dawn they came to a creek crossing in a small valley, and they stopped to rest the horses.

“Brannon, I’m sending Houghton on into Whipple to get an ambulance wagon headed this way. I’m gambling that twelve Indians on six horses won’t follow us now.”

Brannon took a fat stick and began to rub the sweat off El Viento. “I believe you’re right, Sergeant. How are your men?”

“Looks like we’ll get them home, thanks to you.”

“I’m mighty glad it worked. I really didn’t have a backup plan.”

“Well, it was our luck.”

“Or Providence,” Brannon added.

“You saying that it was the Almighty’s doin’s?”

Brannon resat his saddle. “What I’m saying is that everything is the Lord’s doin’s.”

Late that day when he caught sight of a column of troops and an ambulance wagon, Brannon began to relax. He waited for Sergeant Cloverdale to finish loading the wounded men in the wagon.

“Mr. Brannon, you in a hurry to go into Prescott?”

“Yep.”

“Hate to imposition you, but I’d appreciate if you could stop by the barracks and give your account of the attack to the captain. It might help us to identify which band that was.”

“That sounds reasonable. Can you check and see if a civilian can use your wire to send a telegraph?”

“That’s a guarantee. Say, Brannon,” the sergeant continued, “the men and I would be honored to buy you a round of the best whiskey in Prescott.”

Brannon pushed back his black hat and grinned. “Sergeant, you make that a big, thick steak dinner and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Don’t drink, huh? Just like ol’ man Crook.”

Brannon laughed. “But I don’t ride a mule.”

“You’re right about that. You got one of the finest looking ponies in the Territory. You weren’t planning on running him in the Fourth of July races, were ya?”

“Not likely.” Brannon remounted and spurred El Viento down the road.

 

] ]

 

Men sprinting to the corrals and hurried shouts of command greeted Brannon and the others as they entered Whipple Barracks. A contingent of about one hundred men prepared hurriedly to leave. Brannon started to question the sergeant about the advisability of beginning pursuit only a hour or so before sunset, but he held back. Instead, he followed the sergeant up to the headquarters.

“Mr. Brannon, let the private take your horse and rub him down.”

“Thank ya. I appreciate it.” Turning to the private, he asked, “If you could… do you mind graining him? Not too much now. If he gets really wound up, he won’t stop running until we get to Florence. I’ll pay for the grain.”

“Oh, no, sir,” the private replied. “No cost.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Brannon,” the young man continued, “I heard about what you did down on San Simon Creek… and I heard about what you did over in New Mexico and Colorado… and, well, I just never thought I’d get to meet you. Yes, sir, I’m mighty proud to make your acquaintance.” He vigorously shook Brannon’s hand.

It wasn’t the last hand he shook.

After giving his report to Captain Wells and politely declining an offer to ride out as a scout with the departing battalion, Brannon followed Cloverdale to the telegraph office. A group of soldiers huddled on the porch as they approached.

“That’s him right there.” One of them pointed.

“That ain’t him… Brannon’s an old man.”

“Maybe that’s his son. I heard Stuart Brannon died years ago.”

The sergeant cleared his throat. “Men, you look like schoolgirls waiting to go to the dance. Now shake hands with my friend, Stuart Brannon, and then get back to your barracks.”

Inside the office, Brannon spoke briefly to the telegraph operator. “I want you to send a message to Camp Verde. Tell them that a dozen Apaches will be drifting back down that way. One of them has a deep slash on each arm. They won’t attack the camp, but they will steal some horses and shoot up some settlers if they can. Also, ask them if a Mexican couple, Senor and Senora Pacifica, have passed through. I’d hate to have those Apaches catch up with them.”

When he stepped back outside the office, the private was returning El Viento.

Brannon nodded. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

“If you ever wanted to sell that horse… I’d sell my soul to buy him.”

“That soul of yours has already been bought, son,” Brannon corrected.

“What?”

“Next time you’re sitting in the barracks killin’ time, take a look at the Bible story. It cost God a lot more than a good horse for that soul of yours. So don’t go selling it out too cheap.”

“Yes, sir….” the young man stammered.

“Mr. Brannon,” the sergeant interrupted, “the men who came in with us said they wanted to meet you in Prescott at the Lucky Dollar and buy you that steak dinner.”

“Sounds fair enough. What time?”

“Nine o’clock. Will that work?”

“I’ll be there.” Brannon mounted and tipped his hat to the sergeant and the private.

The private saluted back.

Son? Did you hear that, Lisa? Am I getting that old?

At the thought of her name, he reached back into his maleta, dug to the bottom of the bag, and clutched a small gold locket. He flipped open the lid with his thumb and held it so the evening light reflected on the small, smiling face.

I’m on my way home, babe. I’m on my way home.

 

 

 

 

Three

 

 

 

Prescott always reminded Brannon of a New England oasis—white clapboard Victorian houses with tall rows of steps and big front porches. The old Spanish southwest design had been purposely avoided.

Kind of makes a man feel like he’s back in the States. Lisa always loved coming home to Prescott. Especially in the spring! I should stop in on the Nashes… maybe they’ve…

He left Arizona Territory to help him forget the past, but it was the past that called him back. Two years taught him he would never outlive or outrun what happened on that Christmas day. He didn’t like thinking about it… but it was always there, like priceless nuggets lying on the surface of his memory.

He thought about trying to find the Barton home. Mail would be waiting for him. But the sun had already set behind the western hills.

If I were out on the prairie someplace, I wouldn’t hesitate to barge in and have supper with total strangers. But in town… in a town like this it probably wouldn’t be proper. And I’ve got a feeling Miss Harriet does things real proper.

Instead Brannon rode down Second Street and pulled up at the Hassayampa Hotel. He tied El Viento to the rail, unfastened his bedroll, and clomped across the wooden sidewalk to the entrance.

His clothes were caked thick with road dust.

His spurs sang wildly as he walked.

His Winchester swung from his right hand.

His bedroll was tucked under his left arm.

His crusty black hat was pushed back just a tad.

“Stuart, welcome back to the Hassayampa.”

Brannon turned to a well-dressed man in a gray-frocked coat and wire-framed eyeglasses. “Roberts? You still here? I figured you’d be rich and moved to San Francisco by now.”

“Rich? On hotel manager’s wages? You’re the one who wandered up to the San Juans and struck gold… we heard about your mine.”

“Yeah, well, as you can see I spent it all on clothes.”

“You know, Stuart, the only easy money I ever made in this town was the night I bet you could whip all four of the Boswells.”

“What did you do with all that money?”

“Saved it until this year. Then I got married. Didn’t you hear?”

“Married?” Brannon stepped back and surveyed the large Scottish innkeeper. “Congratulations! Who’s the bride?”

Roberts smiled and shook his head. “You wouldn’t know her… she just moved to town last fall. An eastern girl. And smart. Wait until you meet her, Stuart. She thinks we ought to start a college out here. Can you imagine that? A college?”

“Not… Harriet…”

“Harriet? You mean Gwen Barton’s sister? My word, now there’s a woman who puts fear into every prospector and cowhand’s heart. They treat her like she was Athene herself. She keeps mainly to herself. But when she walks down the sidewalk, half the saloon empties into the street. No woman’s caught the town’s fancy like that since…” Roberts stopped and glanced down.

“It’s okay. Go ahead and say it.”

“Well… since your Lisa was here. You know, Stuart, you aren’t the only one who misses her. Maybe it’s good that Miss Harriet moved to town. Helps folks go on.”

“Well, I’m on my way back to the ranch. I don’t aim to leave Arizona again. Now who is the lucky Mrs. Roberts?”

“Mary Katherine Warner from Omaha, Nebraska. She’s needing to rest this evening or I’d be introducing you. A baby, you know. Doc says it should be here by December.”

“Congratulations again, Byron. That’s the kind of news that makes my day.”

“We got your room ready for you.”

“My room? I haven’t been here in two years.”

“I know, but it’s been buzzing around town for a couple of hours that you were headed to Prescott, so I knew you’d want the room on the corner, overlooking the sidewalk. They say you took a knife and sliced your way through two dozen Apaches to rescue those soldier boys.”

“Thanks, Byron. It’s nice to get back to where a few folks know your name and no one ever exaggerates the truth.”

“I can tell you one thing, Stuart. Everyone in Prescott knows your name. Your ranch might be miles away, but you’re a local boy to most folks here. So when those stories started filtering into the newspaper—”

“What stories?”

“About the shootout in that meadow… standing up to that railroad man… what’s his name?”

“Cheney?”

“Yeah, him. And Trevor, and sheriffing at Tres Casas. We had a note last week that you and a schoolteacher cleaned up some two-bit grubstake town.”

“That was in print?”

Roberts nodded. “Yep. You been out living our lives for us, Stuart. Ever’ shopkeeper, sod turner, soldier, and hard-rock miner came out to this country to live adventures like yours. We don’t have the skill or the courage. But you’re our man. The day will come when this desert will be a state, and it will be as tame as an Ohio farm. Then a few of us old-timers will sit out there on the porch and spin yarns about the early days… days when men like Stuart Brannon tamed the West. Yes, sir.”

“Roberts, I had no idea you were such a philosopher. That educated wife of yours must have really rubbed off on you.” Brannon headed for the stairs to the second floor. “Byron, thanks for the room. I’ll only need it a few days.”

“I’d offer to buy you supper, but the rumor is you’ve got some big doin’s planned at the Lucky Dollar.”

“That’s what I hear.” Brannon climbed the stairs to his room.

A basin of water, a change of shirts, and a comb through his hair, and Brannon was ready. It was still a little early, so he pulled off his boots and sprawled across the top of the bed.

He never cared much for staying in hotel rooms. But the mattress at the Hassayampa Hotel was softer than spring grass on the south slope.

Ten minutes and I’ll feel a whole lot better.

 

] ]

 

“Mr. Brannon.”

Dark room.

“Mr. Brannon.”

Someone beating on the door.

“Stuart?”

He staggered across the room, grabbed up his Winchester, and slung open the door. Byron Roberts and Sergeant Cloverdale stood outside.

“You feel like havin’ that supper now?” Cloverdale asked.

“What time is it?”

“A little past 9:30.” The sergeant apologized, “I’m sorry. If you’d rather wait, the boys will—”

“Nope, I’m plenty hungry. The old Hassayampa’s got the best mattress between Chicago and San Francisco. Guess my bones were more tired than I knew. Let me grab my boots.” Brannon tucked his trousers into his stovetop boots, splashed a little dirty water on his face, jammed his hat on his head, and headed out of the room.

“Byron, can you see that someone takes El Viento over to the livery? I’d appreciate it.”

“Two Fingers, I suppose,” Roberts replied.

“Yeah… how is that old man, anyway?”

“Sober… most of the time.”

Brannon and the sergeant walked the three blocks to the Lucky Dollar.

“Looks like payday at the mines,” Brannon remarked. “Street’s crowded. It’s not Saturday night, is it?”

“No, sir.”

Glancing at the soldiers loitering on the front steps, Brannon turned to the sergeant. “Who’s minding the store at the barracks?”

“To tell you the truth, most of the men wanted to come to town tonight. I think it’s mainly the officers that are left out there.”

“The Lucky Dollar must have a new cook or some dancing girls to draw a crowd like this.”

One of the uniformed men approached him. “Mr. Brannon… My name’s Jenner, sir. Eli Taylor was my closest friend.”

“Taylor? Out on the trail? Sure am sorry about it, Jenner. I hoped we could make it to the doctor.”

“Well, sir, when me and him signed on, we knew we’d be fightin’ hostiles. Thanks to you, he could die in the saddle, singing a song after a brave fight. No torture, no mutilations, no shame. Mr. Brannon, that means a whole lot to me.”

“Will you be burying him tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir, we will.”

“Jenner, you find the best baritone in the barracks and have him sing ‘Annie Laurie’ at the grave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Several more men came up to shake hands with Brannon, including some in civilian clothes.

“Mr. Brannon.”

“Barton? Nelson Barton, good to see you again.”

“Welcome back to Prescott, Mr. Brannon. Harriet will be extremely jealous I saw you before she did.”

“Please tell her she was certainly the first one I thought about visiting, but I didn’t think it proper to go calling at this hour without a formal invite.”

Barton smiled and tipped his hat. “I will certainly tell her that. I say sincerely, you have an open invitation to our home.”

“Might I impose then for supper tomorrow? I would like to come calling.”

“We would be insulted if you didn’t. She’s holding several letters and telegrams that came for you. Come early. I’d like to discuss this land grant business with you. Things have been quite confusing lately.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Shall I tell the ladies you’ll arrive at 5:00 P.M.?”

“My pleasure, but give me a little slack on the time. Last minute delays have a way of ambushing me.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. It looks like you’re having quite a party at the Lucky Dollar.”

“Oh no,” Brannon explained, “I think this is payday or something—right, Sergeant?”

“Actually… it’s for you, Mr. Brannon.”

Inside the Lucky Dollar, over fifty men crammed the tables and the bar. A big U.S. flag draped the back wall. As Brannon and Cloverdale worked their way through the crowd, the uniformed soldiers stood and saluted.

“I think this is getting a little blown out of proportion,” he whispered to the sergeant.

“These men need an excuse to relax. There haven’t been many success stories lately. You just rode in at the right time,” Cloverdale replied under his breath.

A place of honor waited for Brannon. It wouldn’t have been his choice, but he sat down and visited with several men.

My back to the door… crowded room… rifle on the floor. Maybe in Prescott. But never in Tres Casas, or Tombstone, or Silver City.

Food rolled out the second he sat down. Boiled potatoes by the bowl, fresh corn, beans and salsa, grits, a whole platter of sizzling steaks, stewed tomatoes, pickled eggs, baskets of biscuits, slabs of fresh butter, cherry preserves, pitchers of milk, and coffee, coffee, and more coffee. After an hour, an apple pie and huge peach cobbler, still warm, arrived at the table.

During the meal Brannon figured every man in the room had spent time at his table, some helping him eat, most wanting to talk.

Lord, it feels good, real good, not to have to shoot my way in and out of a town. Thanks for the homecoming!

He was talking with a short, blond corporal from El Paso who knew his sister, when a faint click in the noisy room sent chills down his back. A Colt hammer cocked not more than six inches behind his head. “You ain’t no hero to me, Stuart Brannon,” a man sneered. “You move those hands below the table and you’re dead.”

Brannon tried to glance behind him, but he met the barrel of a .45. Others in the room saw what happened. Dozens of guns pointed at the man.

“Drop the gun, Mister,” Cloverdale shouted.

“I ain’t… you boys open up and bullets will go flying everywhere.

And this bullet is going through Brannon’s head.”

“You can’t make it out of here alive,” someone shouted.

“Neither can Stuart Brannon. Which of you wants to be the one that caused his death? Stand up, Brannon. We’re going for a walk. Keep those hands up.”

Brannon stood and faced the man with the gun. Eyes bloodshot, he had a nervous twitch in his left eye. The Colt was old, well worn. “I don’t know you,” he told the man.

“Nope. But you shot down my brother in Colorado.”

“Where did I do that?”

“On the Denver road, north of Conchita.”

“He was robbing a stage and trying to kill me—”

“He was my only brother. ‘An eye for an eye,’ the Good Book states, and I aim to collect.”

“A U.S. Marshal was murdered by your brother and the others. Now that settles the score.”

“Back out of this room, Brannon.”

“No… I think I’ll stay right here.”

“I’ll shoot ya.”

“So what?”

“You’ll die, that’s what.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I’m dead, lying on the floor, what happens then?”

“I’d say about a hundred bullets will pass through various parts of his body.” Cloverdale never took his gun off the man.

“Mister, why don’t you holster that pistol and walk back out that door?” Brannon insisted. “Don’t let your whiskey and the dark make you do something you wouldn’t try in daylight.”

“It ain’t right. You don’t deserve to live. Besides, if I back out now, they’ll shoot me down.”

“Nobody’s going to get shot.” Brannon spoke in a soft, slow whisper. “Go get yourself some black coffee and ride out of town. Your mama doesn’t want to lose two boys…”

The young man froze, then started to shoot, but by then it was too late. Brannon’s raised right hand yanked the man’s hat down over his eyes. At the same moment with his left hand Brannon grabbed the gun hand and shoved it straight up. A hurried shot exploded through the ceiling. Then a left jab in the chin followed by a right cross brought the man to his knees.

He toppled on his face. Several strong arms pinned him there.

“Take his gun, boys, and toss him out of here. Whiskey brave doesn’t win many battles.”

They carried the man into the street.

“He’s not very happy,” Cloverdale warned.

“He’ll wake up smarter,” Brannon offered. “Sorry to dampen this party. But to tell you the truth, I’m worn out. How about calling it a day? I sure do want to thank you all for the meal. I spent six months in the mountains of Colorado dreaming about a supper like this.”

“Do you need an escort?” Cloverdale offered.

“Gentlemen, save your escort for tomorrow’s funeral. I’ll be fine. It’s just that—”

A scream from the second story of the Lucky Dollar silenced everyone in the room. A young lady in a long green dress ran down the stairs. “Julie’s been shot! She’s bleeding bad. A bullet came through the floor. Get a doctor. Hurry!”

An ice cold chill rolled up Brannon’s back and into his neck. “No… no… no….” He ran to the stairs and leaped three at a time to make it to the top before the others. The door swung open to the little dark room that sported only a worn-out settee, a wall shelf, and a bed. Lying on the floor in a faded gold satin dress, a young lady bled profusely from the side.

He ripped a sheet off the bed and folded it, pressing it against the wound. He propped up her head on a pillow and stared into her eyes. “Miss, we’ve got a doctor coming… we’ll get you fixed up real soon.”

“Why?” she cried. “Why would anyone want to shoot me? I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Don’t try to talk, Miss. It was… an accident. Just a scuffle downstairs and a stray bullet. No one was gunning for you.”

“Did you shoot me?”

Brannon took a deep breath and pushed his hat back. By now several others crowded in the door. Her long, black curls matted her face. Her dark eyes peered out in terror.

“No, Miss… I didn’t shoot.”

“Is she dead?” someone from the hall shouted.

“Get the doc. Quick!” Brannon hollered back.

“I can’t move my legs,” she sobbed.

“Miss…Julie, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Julie Cancino.”

“Miss Cancino, it might be the bullet’s lodged in there keeping you from moving. The doc may have to dig it out.”

“I don’t have any money to pay a doctor.”

“That’s the least of your worries. I’ll take care of the cost.”

“Why?” She sucked air, trying to get another breath into her lungs. Tears rolled across her smooth, clean cheeks.

“‘Cause I was the one he was shooting at.”

“Who are you, Mister?”

“Stuart Brannon.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, “and I’m the Queen of Sheba.” She closed her eyes.

For several hours, confusion reigned. The doctor ordered the girl brought to his office. Brannon carried her down the stairs, along the wooden sidewalk, across the darkened street, and into the doctor’s office. A trail of blood marked the course. His shirt, trousers, arms, and hands splattered red.

Another doctor was quickly summoned. With help from the other girl from the Lucky Dollar, they probed for the bullet. Brannon pushed the spectators out of the office and waited on the sidewalk for the report.

Most of the soldiers headed back out to the barracks. One by one the townspeople slipped back home through the shadows.

“It’s taking them a long time,” Sergeant Cloverdale remarked.

“It was bad,” Brannon mumbled, “real bad.”

“Nothing you could have done about it. Just one of those accidents.”

“I could have stayed out of Prescott. She’d never have gotten shot.”

“That ain’t your fault.”

“Cloverdale, I don’t understand. I’ll never understand it. Five days ago I faced down four bushwhackers and rode off without a scratch. Then I stumbled into a dozen Apaches on the prod and rode away unscathed. Now this girl is just sitting in her room, and she gets shot. It’s crazy… not right.”

“Brannon, you did all you could. When she hired on at the Lucky Dollar, she knew the kind of place it was. It’s not like she’s from the other side of town… I mean, she’s just a—” The sergeant was almost lifted off the bench by Brannon’s bloody right hand around his neck.

“I don’t care who she is or isn’t. She deserves better than this,” he snapped. Then he released his grip. “Sergeant… I’m sorry… I’m just mightily upset by all of this.”

“Brannon, that’s about the first normal human reaction I’ve seen out of you. Don’t apologize for hurtin’. I’m going on out to the barracks. You know if you need anything, just…”

“Thanks. I know you mean it. Tell the boys I really appreciated the dinner. Sometime, about fall, you’re all invited down to the ranch for a cookout at my place.”

“I’ll tell ’em.” The sergeant stood to leave. “I hear the sheriff’s searching town to arrest that bushwhacker.”

“He’s probably ten miles down the road already.”

“Yeah… I suppose. Well, good night, Brannon.”

Brannon sat alone for a long time.

Lord, this thing about providence is mighty hard to understand. I talked about it so easy… but please don’t let her die. Give her a chance to do something more in life.

“Mr. Brannon?”

He jumped to his feet as one of the doctors came out of the office. “Yes, sir,” he blurted out, “how is she?”

“I’m Dr. Levine. Miss Cancino is extremely serious, as you could see. We don’t know if she’ll pull through the night. We got the bullet out, but there was damage to the spine.”

“Spine? Can she use her legs?”

“Time will tell. The next twenty-four hours are critical. There’s a threat of pneumonia, infection, and even a heart stoppage. The shock on her body has been critical.”

“What can I do?”

“Just wait… and pray. Dr. Matthewson will stay with her the first shift. Then I’ll come back and relieve him.”

“Do you mind if I wait out here?”

“Help yourself. I’ll see you later.”

“Look, Doc, thanks. I mentioned to the other doctor that I’d cover the costs. If you need some funds up front, I could—”

“We’ll settle up later. I can assure you, Mr. Brannon, she’ll receive the best care that we know how to give.”

Brannon tipped his hat. “I appreciate it.”

After about an hour, one of the men from the Lucky Dollar stopped by with Brannon’s jacket and his Winchester from the cafe. Far into the night Brannon spied someone carrying a lantern coming closer—a slow, deliberate advance through the dark.

A woman? At this hour?

With dark hair tied behind her head and wearing an off-white dress, she floated down the street like a swan on a pond.

“Miss Harriet?” Brannon stood to his feet and yanked off his hat. “What in the world are you doing—?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I heard all about what happened at the Lucky Dollar. How is she?”

“Still out. They won’t know much until tomorrow or the next day. It’s good to see you, Miss Reed. I’ve thought of you often.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Brannon, I’ve been wondering for three months what it would be like to see you again.”

“And this isn’t exactly the way you had it figured?”

“Hardly.” She held the lamp high and glanced at Brannon. “You’re a mess. Are you injured?”

“No, I don’t get hurt. It seems I just cause pain to others.”

“May I sit down?”

“Certainly.” He motioned and they sat on the bench. “Miss Harriet, are you sure you want to be out here this time of the night… or morning? I’ll walk you back home. I mean, some folks would talk about—”

“Mr. Brannon, I’m quite capable of looking after my own reputation without your help or the community’s.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you are.”

“I brought your letters. I thought you might like to read them.”

Brannon stood and hung the lantern on a bent nail in the beam above their heads.

“This one’s from Velvet Shepherd in Tres Casas. I believe I heard that she married the mayor.”

“Yep. He’s a fine doctor, too.” Brannon quickly scanned Vel’s letter. “This is good, this is good,” he muttered. “Rose is teaching school there. She got the job.”

“Rose?”

“Rose Creek from up at Paradise Meadow. She was—”

“Then the stories about you are true.”

“What stories?”

“That you and a schoolteacher stood against the whole town.”

“Well, that’s close.”

“And here’s one from San Francisco. Tell me, Mr. Brannon, why do people keep sending your mail to me?”

“Because I don’t know many folks who sit still long enough to have an address. And, well… because I guess I wanted an excuse to stop by for a visit.”

“In that case,” she said, “please continue to have your mail sent here. Now who’s that one from?”

“Fletcher! You met Edwin, didn’t you?”

“Briefly. English, isn’t he?”

“Quite!” Brannon laughed. “Let’s see… he settled matters at the consulate, picked up his papers and all… and will meet me at the ranch by the first week in June.” Brannon held the letter closer to the light. “What? I don’t believe it. Deedra and Darrlyn?”

“Who?”

“The Lazzard twins.”

“Oh? How old are they?”

“Eh… maybe twenty or so. From Boston? Listen to this:

 

Iincredible as it seems, they now claim they are not helpless pilgrims but proper Bostonians who traveled across the country on a lark. Both seem quite well educated and Dristina (Deedra) is engaged to a British attaché here in the city. Darlena (Darrlyn) is the talk of the town, seen lately with none other than Count DuVaul. They send you greetings. The dinner offer is still valid.

My greetings to the charming Miss Reed.

 

“That’s the wildest story I’ve ever heard. You should have met these girls. They—”

“At twenty they were ladies, not girls,” she corrected. “Here’s one more letter. From the Indian Territory.”

“Elizabeth?” Brannon tore open the letter to find a sealed envelope inside. “It’s my letter, returned. She didn’t get it.”

“What does it say on the outside?”

“‘Cannot locate addressee.’ Can’t locate her? What do they mean? She just sent me a letter. Of course she’s there.”

“The other letter was mailed months ago. Perhaps her situation changed.”

“But she’s somewhere. I mean, the government shipped her back there. They surely keep track of her.”

“Now, this Elizabeth is Indian, correct?”

“Yeah… Nez Perce.”

“Mr. Brannon, have you ever noticed how your life seems to revolve around women?”

“What?”

“Velvet, Rose, Deedra, Darrlyn, Elizabeth… and now you’re sitting here because of some girl named Julie.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t mention Harriet Reed.”

“Nor Lisa.”

“How do you know about my Lisa?”

“From Mr. and Mrs. Nash.”

“You know Lisa’s parents?”

“Yes, we often run into each other at church.”

“Then you know about her death?”

“Not really. That seems to be a topic they would rather not discuss.”

“Would you like me to tell you about Lisa… and the others?”

“Only if you want to.”

 

 

 

 

Four

 

 

 

Can you imagine doing something like that back home? All night long, until sunlight began to reflect from the tips of the tallest pines. It was cold, and my scanty lavender shawl hardly warmed my shoulders, but I couldn’t leave. I must say I didn’t want to leave.

 

And it wasn’t just a schoolgirl’s infatuation. I am (and so are you!) much too old for that. There is something of almost epic proportions about the West. Everything is big, vast, towering. The mountains, the plains, the rivers, the valleys… my, we have cacti that stand twenty feet or more. Most people seem so dwarfed—lives so small—you get a feeling that you’re viewing all of life, even your own, from a distance.

 

But then, a few people come along, and they aren’t small. They ride or walk or run through this country as if given a special sense to experience all of its grandeur. Mr. Brannon, I should say Stuart (he asked me to please call him Stuart!), is such a man.

Here’s this man—about thirty, brown hair (it could use a trim), blue-gray eyes, strong shoulders, and rugged handsome face—sitting on a bench in front of a doctor’s office. He’s covered from boot to hat with the blood of a wounded cafe girl, and he’s telling me the story of his life.

 

I kept looking around half expecting to see a historian with note pad and pen jotting down scenes for his next book. Out here there isn’t always an opportunity to read history because one is too busy making it.

 

Yes, he is quite the man I expected. Only don’t believe all those newspaper accounts of shootings. I’ll let you know what is really happening. I do believe we have established a relationship that will grow. You simply must come out and meet him! I can tell he’s a God-fearing man, just by his casual references. He will be coming over to the house for supper tonight, and then he asked if he could escort me to church on Sunday.

 

Well, he walked me home around 6:00 A.M. No, we didn’t touch (girl, I know what you are thinking!). Will try to write to you on Monday—if I can find the time.

 

Give my best to Rachel.

Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed

 

At noon, Brannon woke up and rolled out of bed at the Hassayampa Hotel. He pulled back the curtains and allowed the bright Arizona sun to ease him awake. The streets of Prescott hummed with activity. Folks buying supplies. Cowboys loitering on street corners. Miners and prospectors huddled on the steps of their favorite saloon.

Opening the door of his room a tad, he found a stack of neatly folded clothes waiting for him.

Once dressed, he tied a new bandanna around his neck, combed his hair, and slipped on his hat. Strapping on his handgun, he glanced over at the rifle propped up against the corner. He started out the door, then turned back, picked up the Winchester, and headed down to the lobby.

“Mornin’, Stuart. Kind of a rough night?” Byron Roberts greeted him.

“I suppose you heard all about it?”

“Yep. Plus I read it in the paper this morning.”

“In the paper already?”

“I guess they worked all night over there. Both the Apache raid and the shooting at the Lucky Dollar.”

“Say, these clothes cleaned up real fine. What did you do to get out those stains?”

I used an ancient family method.”

“What’s that?”

“I took them to a Chinese laundry. Look, I stopped by the doc’s.”

“How’s Julie?”

“She’s burning up. Doc fears gangrene. But she wants to see you real bad.”

“I was planning to stop by on my way to the Barton’s. Say, did the sheriff catch that old boy who fired the gun?”

“Rumor is he lit out on his pony, heading south.”

“Just as well, I suppose. I’ll be staying on until Sunday at least. Promised Harriet I’d go to church with them.”

“If you keep being seen around town with Miss Harriet, all sorts of rumors will fly,” Roberts chuckled.

“If anyone starts casting disparaging remarks about her, they’ll have to answer directly to me.”

“Brannon, there’s not a sober man in this town that would think of getting you riled. We’re all hoping Miss Harriet will settle you down.”

Brannon laughed and angled out into the street. He slowed down behind a man, woman, and several small children who dawdled along behind. The smallest stood staring in a window, smiling at his reflection. Brannon waited for them to move on.

“Lawrence, hurry along now,” the mother called.

The youngster whipped around towards Brannon and shouted, “Daddy…” Then he realized he was addressing the wrong man. Flushed a deep red, he ran to his parents.

“Say, aren’t you Stuart Brannon?” the husband called.

“Yes, sir, I am. Have we met?”

“Oh, no. I, eh… have a little place south of town. We heard about you, that’s all. I’m William Torvell, and this is my wife Emmy Mae, and Lorenda, Lucinda, Lalanda, and Lawrence.”

Brannon shook hands with each one. All three girls curtsied nicely, but Lawrence hid behind his mother’s skirt. “How old is Lawrence, ma’am? About two, two and a half?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “He was born on the day after Christmas, two and a half years ago.”

Brannon took a deep breath. “The Lord bless you, son. I was mighty proud even for a minute to be reckoned as your father.” He tipped his hat to the woman and scooted on past.

He heard one of the girls say, “Is that the real Stuart Brannon, Daddy?”

Sweetheart, the real Stuart Brannon has to fight like a cougar to hold back the tears every time he sees a little two-year-old boy. Somehow they never put that part in the newspaper.

He waited for a couple of wagons to pass on the road. Then he crossed the street and hiked up the sidewalk to the doctor’s office. It was the older physician, Dr. Levine, who greeted him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brannon.”

“How’s the patient?”

He flung his hands in the air and shrugged. “What can I say? She’s conscious… the bullet’s been removed… the external bleeding has stopped…”

“But?”

“I would not say her chances are real positive. The human body, as a man like yourself knows, is not meant to survive the impact of gunfire.”

“Look, Doc, isn’t there anything else you can do? I’m not criticizing, mind you, but if there’s some medicine or procedure, I’m prepared to wire San Francisco and have them send the—”

“Mr. Brannon, I will accept the sincerity of your concern, but you will have to accept the accuracy of mine. There is nothing doctors at Harvard, or anywhere else could do for her. If that body can heal itself, it will… if it cannot, it will give up. There is nothing we can do but wait. I know that is frustrating. I have spent my career being frustrated.”

“You don’t mind if I pray for her, do you, Doc?”

“Divine intervention is always welcome. But please step in there and talk to her. You seem to be the only one she is interested in seeing.”

Brannon entered a small room. Julie Cancino lay still in a bed encased in white sheets and covered with a heavy quilt. Her eyes were closed, and her head faced the door.

She’d be the first one every cowboy would pick at the dance. She’s beautiful.

His spurs jingled as he stepped lightly across the wooden floor.

Lord, I don’t have any pious words left in me. I want this girl healed. I want her strong enough to laugh and sing and run down the road. And I don’t want it just to make me feel better. Give her another chance, please. Give her one of my chances if You can—

A weak voice interrupted his prayer. “You just gonna stand there?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What were you doing? Staring at me? I look a fright. One of the girls is coming over to comb my hair later on.”

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t staring. I was praying.”

“Prayin’? But I ain’t dead… yet.”

“I kind of figure prayers do some good before we die.”

“You really are Brannon, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll be… you know what Sylvia says?”

“Sylvia?”

“Over at the Lucky Dollar. She said, ‘Julie, you’ll be in the history books. Shot down by a bullet meant for Stuart Brannon.’”

“I’m counting on you pullin’ through all this and creating your own history.”

“Did the doctor tell you how bad it is? It’s bad. I know it’s bad.”

“Yep. He told me.”

“You know, I always figured I could take a lot of pain. But not this much. The lower part of my body won’t move. It torments me somethin’ fierce.”

“I’ve heard of cases where the movement returns after a few days.”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen some that was dead within two days. Mr. Stuart Brannon, do you know what I was doing when I got shot?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I was up in my room getting ready to put on my blue party dress because me and Sylvia had a bet on which one of us could be the first to get a kiss from Mr. Stuart Brannon.”

“You what?”

“Yep. We heard you were coming to the Lucky Dollar, so we made this bet. And not on the cheek neither. It had to be a kiss on the lips.”

Brannon stared into her frightened brown eyes.

“Anyway,” she murmured, “I hear the man who shot me escaped.”

“That’s what I understand.”

“You’ll hunt him down, won’t you, Mr. Brannon?”

“I’m not sure the sheriff needs my help.”

“Mr. Brannon…”

“Call me Stuart.”

“I’m Julie.” She looked like she was trying to smile. “Are you afraid of dying, Mr.…. I mean, Stuart?”

“Julie, some days I’m afraid of livin’ and some days afraid of dyin’, and some days I’m afraid of both.”

“Well, if I’m going to die, I’d like it to be soon. I’m tired, real tired.”

“Julie, I expect to see you up and dancing in a few weeks.”

“Would you dance with me?”

“You are looking at the world’s worst dancer. I’m afraid I would embarrass you.”

“Would you dance with me… Stuart?”

“Miss Julie… I’ll dance with you. Someday you’ll be the only woman in this town who danced with Stuart Brannon. Believe me, it’s not much of an honor.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“I got things arranged with the doctors to cover your expenses, so if you need anything—anything at all—you tell them. I’ve got to go have some supper, but I’ll be checking up on you every day until I leave.”

“You’re going out of town?”

“In a few days. I’ve got a ranch to go visit.”

“How will I get that dance?”

“You let me know. I’ll be here. It’s a guarantee.”

“What about Miss Reed?”

“Miss Reed?”

“Some folks say Miss Reed has her eyes on you.”

“She’ll have to wait in line,” Brannon replied.

For a moment the pain eased in her eyes. “Why, I’m so sorry, Miss Reed,” she mocked, “Stuart and I have this dance. You’ll have to wait over there with the old maids.”

I’ll bet she can really dance.

He leaned over and brushed her hair back behind her ear. Leaving his hand there, he bent low and gently kissed her on the lips. “You win the bet, Miss Julie.”

“I sure did, didn’t I. Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s the one thing I did have to do. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

“I’ll be counting on it.”

Brannon placed his black hat back on his head and quietly closed the door behind him. He picked up his Winchester in the corner of the office and nodded at the doctor busy with another patient. Nothing about the busy Prescott street hinted at such a life-and-death struggle nearby.

Death happens.

Every day.

But only to other people.

At least, that’s what we all hope.

He walked the rest of the way to the Barton home without having to speak to anyone.

 

] ]

 

Brannon felt rough, awkward, and out of place in the Barton dining room. Silver forks. China plates. Crystal glasses. He kept a close eye on Gwendolyn Barton, making sure he used the right utensil at the right time.

The food, on the other hand, was delicious and the conversation, warm and interesting.

“I apologize, Mrs. Barton, for dressing so casually. I’ve spent most of my life eating on the ground or in some crowded cafe.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Brannon, no apologies are needed. One thing I enjoy about the West is the freedom for everyone to be himself. This is the stuffy, formal Bartons. I suppose we will always be. But don’t let that change you.”

“And if you can’t stomach any of this cuisine,” Nelson Barton added, “please, just leave it.”

“The food is excellent.”

“Harriet is our meal planner, so you’ll have to give her the credit.”

As he continued to eat, he glanced over at Harriet Reed. Her light yellow dress stood in contrast to Gwendolyn Barton’s dark blue. The multicolored scarf was not draped like a shawl, as was the fashion, but tied more like a bandanna.

Almost perfect.

A little tilt to the scarf.

One strand of hair, a little reckless, not quite pulled back.

Her ring slipped on the smallest finger. The sleeves ever so slightly rolled up.

Could there be a casual streak in Miss Reed after all?

 

] ]

 

When he wasn’t looking at her, Harriet quietly examined Brannon.

How silly. Girlish. I can’t believe I did this. A bandanna? Mussed hair? Turned-up sleeves? And that gaudy ring? Harriet, if you giggle… if you giggle just once, I promise I will throw you off the highest cliff in Arizona. You are not now nor will ever be ranch-raised. On the other hand, I do believe Mr. Stuart Brannon would look quite handsome with a long coat and—

“I say, Stuart, what are your plans for the coming week?” Nelson Barton asked.

“I need to send a few letters back to the Indian Territory. Elizabeth is there someplace, and I’ve got to track her down. Then I’ll buy a pair of driving horses and a few supplies for the ranch. I feel obligated to hang around and see how Miss Cancino is progressing.”

“Stuart says he will be leaving fairly soon. He must return to his cherished Ithaca,” Harriet broke in.

“I’ve only been gone two years, not twenty… so I don’t feel much like Odysseus.”

“And you’re not the type to succumb to Calypso’s imprisonment?”

“When I see you weaving cloth on a golden spool, I know I’ll be in trouble.”

“You have read well, Mr. Brannon,” Mrs. Barton said.

“It was a long time ago, ma’am. But if I remember the story, Telemachus and his beautiful mother Penelope were waiting for him at home. All I’ve got are an adobe ranch house and title to the hillside.”

Harriet blushed. “Oh, yes. I’m terribly sorry. It was a thoughtless analogy, and I had no business making the comparison. Forgive me.”

“No cause for concern,” Brannon reassured her. “Except for those last hours, all my memories of Lisa are good. It’s not a pain to stir up those thoughts.”

“Speaking of your ranch…” Mr. Barton slid his chair back. “Would you like to join me on the front porch? It’s too nice a day to lounge inside.”

The men took their places in two white Chinese wicker chairs on the porch.

“A cigar?” Barton offered.

Brannon leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. “No thanks, Nelson… relaxin’ here in this comfortable chair is about all the pleasure I can soak in at once.”

“As I began inside,” Barton continued, “I retrieved your ranch papers from our vault as you requested. We would be happy to keep them here as long as you want. But I don’t blame you for taking them with you. Land titles have been quite bizarre for the past several months.”

“What do you mean?”

“We seem to have an abundance of people in Arizona who need a quick dollar. There are schemes all over the Territory for selling real estate that doesn’t belong to them. Not to mention the problem of Spanish land grants.”

“Yeah, I heard about that—selling phony papers and all.”

“I don’t know how long this land grant business will be tying things up. Every resident of Spanish heritage seems to have a grant and is willing to sell his share for $200. The stories are incredible. Just yesterday, a man named Willing, Dr. Willing, a patent medicine salesman from St Louis, or somewhere… anyway he barges into my office and demands we give our approval to his so-called land grant before he takes it to the Surveyor-General.

“Well, I’m not in the habit of giving my opinion of any land grant documents before they are filed, but in this case I made an exception. Listen to this—he claimed to have purchased from a Mexican man named Miquel Peralta a grant for over 18,000 square miles.”

“That sounds like half the state. What would that be—ten, maybe twelve million acres?”

“Precisely. I tried to hint that it was ludicrous. They tell me they’re about to make purposely fling false claims a crime. That should slow some of them down.”

“Hopefully, more folks won’t get suckered in.”

“Yet, with the influx of gullible people, I would imagine you’ll be able to buy a ‘genuine’ land grant on any corner.”

“I suppose it makes your job more interesting.”

“It’s not boring. Most folks get pretty excited when the matter turns to land ownership. I hear you’re planning to return to ranching.”

“That’s about all I know. I guess I’ll keep at it until I go broke again. Then I’ll head to the gold fields and raise me another stake.”

“What if you succeed in ranching?”

Brannon laughed. “Now that, Nelson, is a possibility I’ve never considered.”

“May we join you?” Miss Reed broke in.

“Certainly.” Brannon and Barton stood as the women sat together on a porch swing.

“Men’s talk, I presume?”

“Yes, Brannon and I were debating whether the dancing girls in Virginia City are as skillful as those in Abilene.”

“As you can see, Nelson has a very wicked sense of humor,” Miss Reed scolded.

“But an effective way of changing the subject.” Brannon smiled.

For three hours the four of them talked of politics, religion, Arizona weather, the plight of world affairs, classic literature, and the need for a clear national policy for handling Indian affairs.

By the time Brannon walked back to the Hassayampa Hotel, he realized it was the first relaxing, thoughtfully stimulating evening he’d spent in three years.

He shoved the bed to the far side of the room, leaned the Winchester against the nightstand, draped the holster over the bedstead, blew out the light, and crawled under the covers.

He went to sleep without worrying about ambushes, flying bullets, or attacking Indians. He was not pushing cattle down the trail, breaking horses, or feeding sick calves. Rather he was drafting a telegram in his mind to the Secretary of War, soliciting the reinstatement of General Crook to lead the troops in Arizona.

Morning sun swept the street by the time he swung out of bed. The deep sleep fell away quickly and he felt refreshed. No aches and pains from sprawling on the ground. No tired bones from spending the previous day in the saddle. No vigilantes to subdue, no outlaws to apprehend, no drunks to arrest. As he stared out on the quiet street, for the first time in his life Brannon briefly considered running for political office. It would be the last time he entertained such a thought.

For four days he repeated the same routine.

Mornings with Miss Julie.

Afternoons buying supplies.

Evenings with the Bartons.

Only Sunday was different.

 

] ]

 

Having borrowed a rather ill-fitting long coat and tie from Nelson Barton, Brannon slipped into the fourth pew back, next to Harriet. In some ways the church looked the same as on the day he and Lisa married. Polished wooden floor. Gleaming brass candlesticks. Rich oak wood as solid as the faith of the pioneers who built the church. The tall, narrow side windows cast beams of light that drew his attention to the pulpit.

The singing was robust. The prayers fervent. The preaching pointed. Too pointed.

“Violent men create a violent society. Godly men create a godly society.”

He shook the preacher’s hand, but thought it best not to linger.

Recognizing an older face in the crowd, he scooted over to visit. “Mr. Nash, I wanted to say hello.”

“Stuart! Why, I knew you were in town, of course, but was afraid our trails wouldn’t cross.”

“How have you been?”

“Well, you know how my back is. Some days I could wrestle a bear, and other times I can’t stand up. I’ve been keeping up with you through the papers. Quite a little jaunt up in Colorado, I hear.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s good to be home. How is Mrs. Nash? I didn’t see her with you. Perhaps I could stop by later and—”

“Stuart, I’ll be straight up with you because I know that’s the way you want it. Emily… Mrs. Nash has had a relapse this week. She’s deeply sad. Can’t control her crying. Won’t eat. Can’t sleep.”

“I thought maybe by this time she…”

“You know, Stuart, it was just so hard on her. Her only daughter, all her dreams.”

“All of mine, too, sir.”

“I know, son, I know. It’s just that Emily can’t seem to fight it like you and me. It eats away at her. She’ll stare at that picture for hours at a time.”

“Does she still blame me?”

Mr. Nash wrinkled his bushy gray eyebrows. “Yes, I guess she does.”

“Do you?”

“Stuart, you made my Lisa the happiest girl in this Territory. There was nothing on the face of this earth she ever wanted more than to be the wife of Stuart Brannon. You loved her good. You provided for her. What else could I ask? I believe she was bound to die at the birth of her first child no matter where she lived or who she married. I don’t understand that. I never will. Like you, son, I’ll carry that pain until the day I die. But I will never blame you.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

Clearing his throat, Nash continued. “I see you with Miss Reed. Isn’t she a dandy? Wouldn’t she and Lisa make a pair?”

“If they didn’t fight, they would probably redecorate the entire city in a week.”

“It’s been over two years, hasn’t it? About time you started thinking of remarrying?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe it’s time. It was good to visit. I want you and Mrs. Nash to know that you are still in my prayers.”

“She’ll get over it, Stuart. Give her more time. Whenever you’re in Prescott, stop by the office and see me.”

“I’ll do that.”

 

] ]

 

It was a quiet Sunday dinner. What with the sermon and the conversation with Mr. Nash, Brannon didn’t feel very talkative.

“Mrs. Barton, it was another lovely meal. Please forgive me for being so silent. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Stuart. Next time you come to town, we insist you eat with us.”

“That’s a bargain. Now you have to promise that one of these days, you’ll get a buggy and ride down to the ranch. I’d love to have the three of you stay with me awhile. Just give me a few weeks to clean up and settle in.”

“Yes, well, Harriet has already made some plans. Will you be coming up on the Fourth of July?”

“I’m not sure. It depends on how quickly I can get everything patched up.”

Harriet walked him to the door. “I will miss our evening talks.”

“Not nearly as much as I will, Miss Reed. You are very easy to talk to. For a few moments this week it seemed’ like my life was truly beginning to settle down. It felt peaceful and natural. But…”

“But what?”

“The preacher and Mr. Nash reminded me that my life isn’t that way. I hope we have more times to talk, but I want to be honest. I’m not a very good investment. Don’t wait for me to get my life settled. You are much too exciting a lady to waste much time with me.”

“Mr. Brannon, there is no one on this earth who will tell me how I may or may not waste my time.”

“No, I don’t suppose there is.” He didn’t know whether to hug her, shake her hand, or kiss her. So he tipped his hat, turned, and walked down the street toward the livery.

Retrieving El Viento, he spent the early afternoon packing his supplies on the driving horses. Finally, Brannon made one last stop at the doctor’s office on his way out of town.

A housekeeper whom he had never seen before came to the door.

“Sorry to bother you today. Is the doctor in?”

“Nope. Come back tomorrow.”

“I need to visit Miss Cancino for just a—”

“No visitors today—doctor’s orders.”

“But I—”

“Are you Brannon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place. Of course you can come in.”

Julie was asleep when he entered the room. Sylvia from the Lucky Dollar sat in a chair, half dozing herself.

“Oh, Mr. Brannon,” Sylvia blurted out. “We thought you left town.”

“Not without seeing Miss Julie.”

“She’s been like this nearly all day. In and out of sleep… burning still with fever. Say, did you really kiss her on the lips?”

“I most certainly did.”

“I told ya so,” Julie rasped, barely opening her eyes.

“I wanted to see you before I rode out to the ranch.”

“Have we still got that dance?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a steak dinner at the nicest place in town?”

“Nope. I laid here all night thinking what a silly sight it will be for some old cowboy like you to go strutting around the dance floor. You can’t weasel out of it. You have to dance.”

“And you have to get well.”

“Yes, sir. I know I do.”

 

] ]

 

The fresh air of the trail felt good in his face as he rode southeast out of Prescott. When the road eased out of the chaparral and hit the upper levels of the desert, Brannon turned straight east and followed a wagon rut that led into the mountains.

 

 

 

 

Five

 

 

 

Ten people traveling the same road see ten different scenes. The trail Brannon took to his ranch would have looked bleak to many a New Englander. No majestic deciduous trees. No lush undergrowth. No frolicking streams.

The old forty-niner would see the granite outcroppings and the promise of color. Native Indians would have been drawn towards the saguaro blooms perched high in the air, ready for picking with a long pole. A romanticist might gaze at the blue and orange wildflowers sprinkled artistically across the hillsides.

Others would complain of the blazing sun and cloudless sky. Or search for animal signs along the trail, hoping to put meat on the table.

Brannon spied only the grass. Green. One foot tall. In some places bunched, thick, vigorous. And in other spots, thin, wispy, yellowing. For a cattleman, grass and water mattered.

He rode two hard days out of Prescott.

He tipped his hat to a lady or two and stopped to jaw with a few men, but mostly he studied the grass and water. For him, everything else was an accessory.

Must have had a good wet spring. And most folks in the States think Arizona is just sand and cactus. If they ever find out what’s down here… No wonder the Indians want to keep it all. One of these days they’ll load trains full in Chicago and roll down here like a flood.

’Course they’ll have to take a jog around Sunrise Creek. There won’t be any roads through the Triple B Ranch. Not now. Not then. Not ever.

At several places along the road Brannon noticed faded handbills that read, “Private Property: Casa Verde Land Corporation.”

Now there you go. The companies are beginning to move in. Maybe they’ll put in a railroad, and we could link up with the S.R. Then we could ship cows all over the country. If the rail runs fairly close to the ranch, it might be a good place to put in feed pens. Ranchers could drive their herds in. We’d hold them in the pens and fatten them up before shipping them out.

The road had been no more than two wagon ruts in the grass. But now, as he turned due east to his place, even the ruts stopped.

“Well, El Viento, we’re going home. You’ve never been there, but it will be home for a long, long time.”

Riding up a long sloping draw, Brannon kept a close eye on the driving horses who seemed to adapt well to packing a full load. Reaching the top of the pass, he rested the horses and climbed out of the saddle. He tied them of to a scrubby cottonwood and pulled one of the handbills off the trunk of the tree.

“Well, you company boys missed it this time. This is private property all right. It’s part of the Triple B. Next time I’m in Tucson I’ll have to hurrah those surveyors.”

Brannon hiked to a large boulder and climbed to the top. It had always been one of his favorite spots on the ranch. Straight across to the south was Despoblado Pass. Between where he sat and that distant pass was all Triple B. It stretched from the fats all along Sunrise Creek up to Jinete Springs.

From where he sat, Brannon could view seventy-five percent of the ranch. At this location he proposed to Lisa. Here she announced her pregnancy. On this spot he viewed the herd dead and dying from some unknown disease. And it was at this point he last looked at the ranch.

No cattle roamed his range now. But with the good spring grass, he could not even see the bones of the previous herd. But he could see the house, sheds, and barn.

“Plenty of weeds, but everything more or less standing. With two-foot-thick adobe walls, that house will last a hundred years. Of course, the roof might cave in before that. Maybe a week or two of repairs. Then Fletcher shows up and we… what?”

Brannon jumped to his feet. Someone left the bunkhouse and walked towards the barn.

“Squatters!”

He galloped the big black horse down the trail towards the ranch, stirring up dust as he rode.

I’m not sneaking up on my own house. I’ve got my papers in the bag. Probably he’s just passing through. I’d do the same thing if I found a deserted place at the end of a long day. I could let him stay until mornin’.

As he rode up to the yard, he noticed more of the “Private Property” signs posted on the outbuildings. He stopped and jerked several of the signs down. He had just reached the barn when a rifle shot ripped into the wood behind him. He slid out of the saddle, his Winchester cocked and ready to fire by the time he hit the ground.

“Ho! In the bunkhouse,” he yelled.

“This is private property. You’ll have to turn around and leave,” someone shouted.

“Private property? You’re mighty right about that. I own this place. What are you doing here?”

“Mister,” the voice replied, “this valley is owned by the Casa Verde Land Corporation.”

“They might own some land, but not this land,” Brannon shouted back, keeping well concealed. Pushing his black hat back he shoved a couple more shells into the Winchester. “Now, just walk out of there peaceful like, and I’ll show you the patent deed.”

“Can’t do that. I’ve been hired by Mr. Warren G. Burlingame of San Francisco to protect this property in the name of the C.V.L.”

“I don’t care who hired you. You’ve got the wrong place. This is my ranch.”

“Mister, I’ve been here four months. I’ve fought off Apaches, Yavapais, prospectors, outlaws, and malaria, but I ain’t never seen you. Git on yore horse and ride right back out of here.”

“Look, I’ve got papers on this place. If you don’t come out, I’ll have to shoot you for trespassing.”

“C.V.L. has got papers, too, and you’ll be the one shot for trespassing. If you want to discuss a legal claim, go down to the Surveyor-General’s office in Tucson. But until I’m instructed differently, you’re not coming on this place.”

“Sorry you feel that way. Now I presume you got some identification papers on you. You know—your name, your mama’s name, address of where you would like the body shipped, and all that.”

This time shots fired right at him. Only the thick beams at the corner of the barn protected him.

I’ve got to shoot up my own place in order to get home?

Brannon noticed the house still boarded up. He pulled the saddle off El Viento and walked the horse to the barn.

“What are you doing out there?”

“Putting my horse away,” Brannon shouted.

“You cain’t do that.” Several shots banged harmlessly at the top of the barn.

“I can do it and I’m going to shoot that horse in the corral.”

“You cain’t do that.”

“Well, you’re right. I hate to harm good horseflesh. So I’ll turn him loose and chase him off.”

“You move towards that corral and I’ll kill ya, Mister.”

“In that case, I don’t have any choice. I’ll just shoot the horse.”

“Wait,” the man screamed again. “Put down your rifle and let’s talk this out. I can see you don’t understand the situation.”

“You leave that Winchester against the door, and I’ll prop mine on the barn. Then walk out to the courtyard,” Brannon called.

“Move away from that barn.”

The bunkhouse door slowly swung open. A man appeared and set his rifle against the outside of the building and took one step towards Brannon.

He’s got nerve.

Brannon leaned his Winchester against the barn and took several slow steps towards the yard. The two men stopped about thirty feet apart. Both packed Colts on their hips and held their hands close to their sides.

“You’re just a kid,” Brannon complained.

“Mister, the bullet leaves the gun at the same speed, no matter how old you are.”

Sounds like me, age eighteen.

“Look, son, I—”

“Don’t call me son. Chances are one of us will be dead in the next few minutes. It’ll be man-to-man. There ain’t no boys here.”

“Fair enough, Mister. But I can’t see why you want to die for the sake of a San Francisco company.”

“I hired on to do a job. I won’t back out of it.”

“Would you be interested at all in seeing my papers to the place before you grab for that gun?”

“Whatever papers you have are no longer valid. This is part of the De Palma-Revera Land Grant which was purchased by Mr. Warren G. Burlingame and the Casa Verde Land Corporation.”

“No such grant has been approved by Congress.”

“Maybe not, but the papers are filed, and they have possession.”

“Why don’t you get on that horse, ride to San Francisco, and tell Mr. Burlingame that there has been a slight mistake in the survey and that the Triple B Ranch is not part of the grant?”

“Mister, I don’t know who you are. You just rode in here and demanded this valley. I don’t bluff that easy. If you’re itchin’ to pull out that revolver, just go ahead.”

Brannon studied the young man’s eyes.

He means it. He will give it his best. He won’t bluff down.

“Who do you think built that house?”

“Some Mexicans, I guess.”

“I built it.”

“Any fool can say that.”

Lord, I’m going to have to shoot him!

Brannon glanced around the ranch house. “If you’ve been here that long, then you’ve hiked up to those two piñon pines?”

“Yep.”

“Well, did you notice among those weeds two stone grave markers? One reads, ‘Lisa B., always in my heart, 12-25-75,’ and the other, ‘Baby B., went home with mama, 12-25-75.’”

The young man stared a moment. “Anyone can read a marker.”

“You saw me ride down off that north mountain.”

“It still don’t prove anything. Even if this was your place, it ain’t now. That’s a fact.”

“Mister, I told you that because I want you to know why I’m going to shoot you down. That’s my wife and my baby buried up there. I’m not going to leave them to you, to Burlingame, or to a corporation. I believe you can understand my position.”

“And you understand mine. I signed on for a job, and I’m going to do it.”

“Yep, I was eighteen once.”

“I’m twenty.”

“Okay, what’s your name? I do promise to send you home.”

About my height. A little thin in the shoulders. Probably the kind that can ride eighteen hours a day.

“Earl Howland.”

“Well, Earl, if you want to change your mind about this shooting stuff, this would be a good time.”

Strong arms, tanned face. He’s put in more than one hard day’s work.

“You’ll be the one who’s planted today,” Howland insisted. “And I’ll stick you up there in those piñons if you like. Just what name do you want on that stone?”

“Oh, it will be there someday, Earl. But you won’t be the one doing it.”

Probably hasn’t shaved twice in his life, but he’s tough enough to stick it out here by himself.

“And the name?” Howland insisted.

“Brannon. Stuart Brannon.”

A pause. “You’re Stuart Brannon?”

“Yep.”

“From Apache Wells? Massacre Meadow? And all of that?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, great. No one told me this place once belonged to Stuart Brannon.”

“I’m telling you.”

“Yes, sir… well, I’ve still got a job to do, and I can’t back away. I wouldn’t be no good to myself if I done that.”

“I know exactly what you mean. How much are they paying you for this job?”

“Thirty a month plus grub, and a thousand dollar bonus when the claim is settled.”

“When did they pay you last?”

“Two months ago.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little lax?”

“Someone will be along soon.”

“You know, if a man failed to live up to an agreement with me, I’d quit him. Especially if I had a better offer.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you have no obligation to work for free. And I’ll offer you forty a month, room and board, and when we drive a herd up from Mexico, I’ll give you twenty cows of your own and a bull.”

“My own herd?”

“It will be the makin’s of one.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why should you believe Casa Verde Land Corporation?”

“It’s either that or draw, ain’t it?”

“Those are the only choices I know of.”

“You know that they’ll just come in here with more men?”

“That’s why I need a good man like you on my side.”

“How do I know you won’t shoot me down anyway?”

“Earl, if I wanted to shoot you, I certainly would have done it before now.” Brannon went for his gun.

Startled, Howland reached to draw his own, but he hadn’t raised it up before Brannon’s hammer clicked.

Earl froze, his gun half-drawn.

Brannon resat the hammer and shoved the revolver into the holster. “You see, Earl, I’m not going to shoot you.”

Howland took a big, deep breath and put his gun back. “I ain’t working for a man who don’t pay me. You still hirin’?”

“Yep.”

“I’d like the job.”

“You got it.”

A smile broke over Howland’s face. “What’s the first thing you want me to do?”

“Ride around the ranch and rip down those signs.”

“Yes, sir… yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

 

] ]

 

For two weeks, Brannon and Howland repaired the barn, corrals, and the roof on the house. They pulled weeds out of the yard, cleaned up the buildings, and repaired broken cupboards and furniture.

Following instructions, Howland had lived in the bunkhouse, leaving the big house for Mr. Burlingame, who as yet hadn’t visited his newly acquired “estate.” For the first several days, Brannon tried to get Howland to call him Stuart. On the fourth day he gave up trying.

A pattern developed.

They sat on the front porch after supper and watched the sun disappear and the stars come out. Most of the conversation centered around Howland pumping Brannon for every detail of every gunfight and exploit.

“Mr. Brannon, this place is looking downright livable,” he commented one evening.

“It’s a start. I don’t know what the future’s going to be, but a friend of mine’s going to ride in here in a few days—an Englishman by the name of Fletcher—Edwin Fletcher. He’ll take one of those rooms in the big house. You’re welcome to take the little room at the back of the house, or you can have that bunkhouse all to yourself. Sort of like a place of your own. Which do you want?”

“I’d kind of like to stay in the bunkhouse… if it ain’t insultin’.”

“Nope. I hope to get a cook out here one of these days. Then we’ll enjoy mealtimes better.”

“When are we going to go get the cows?”

“Well, I’ve still got some things to settle here, and I need to write to some folks in Mexico. Then I’m thinking of digging out some catch ponds up at the Jinete Springs and putting in some dams along Sunrise Creek. Maybe that will slow down the flash floods and the disease. Wouldn’t hurt to put up some of that new wire fencing across the upper end. Once the cows wander up past the springs, the Apaches will get them for sure.”

“Where’s the wire for the fence?”

“At the store, I suppose.”

“Are you going to town?”

“You’re going to town. You need to buy a wagon, plus the

supplies on this list. You can drive a team, can’t you?”

“Yes, sir. You want me to go to town by myself ?”

“Here’s the list. Can you read?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Read through this list and see if you can figure everything out.”

For several minutes Howland studied the list. “Well, sir… I think I got it all… except this here last item. Is that something ya eat?”

Brannon laughed. “The Iliad and the Odyssey? It’s a book. I read it years ago, but I need to study up on it. Go see Tom Weedin over at The Enterprise. He’ll know if there’s a copy of it in town. You can head out first thing in the morning. I’ll give you some money to get the goods.”

Howland pulled of his dusty brown hat and spun it around on his finger. Then he jammed it back on his sandy colored hair and stood to his feet. “Mr. Brannon, how do you know I won’t ride on out of here with your money and never come back?”

“’Cause you would die of shame within two days.”

A big wide grin broke across Howland’s face. “Yeah. But how did you know that?”

“Because honesty and integrity show on a man. You can only survive out here in this rough country if you learn to read folks well.”

“So you read me?”

“Well… let me guess.” Brannon leaned his chair back against the wall and tugged of his boots. “Your mama raised you on the Good Book, and your daddy taught you to work hard. They must have both died, or you’d be with them. You like being alone—riding the mountains… anything from the back of a horse… feel awkward around the ladies… and figure that keepin’ your word to God and man is just about the most important thing on earth.” Brannon dumped a little sand out of his boots and propped his feet up on the rail. “How am I doin’ so far?”

“You could read all of that?”

“All I got to do is remember when I was eighteen.”

“Twenty,” Howland corrected, “but you were wrong about my mama. She’s still alive. Lives with my older brother in Louisiana.” He walked over and leaned against a horse rail. “Mr. Brannon, I’d like to buy a new pair of trousers.”

“And a new shirt.”

“Yes, sir. You know, it will take me a while to drive a team back up here.”

“I’m not going anyplace. Remember, this is my home.”

“Yes, sir… well, you can count on me.”

“I do, Earl. I surely do.”

The next morning Howland saddled up and rode south, leading the team of horses. Brannon watched from the barn until he crested Despoblado Pass.

Lord, young Earl is a good working boy. Take care of him. This country needs a lot more Earls.

Brannon rode El Viento up the mountain to the Jinete Springs. Above them the rocks and trees alternated as barriers. No easy riding. He scouted a possible fence line. He figured that one hundred posts should make an effective barricade.

He took his time riding back to the ranch house, stopped at several places along Sunrise Creek to check out possible holding ponds. His nooner consisted of some jerky, creek water, and a short nap. Near sunset he rode back down toward the barn and house. He mentally engineered a ranch water supply. His rifle still in the scabbard, his Colt tucked into his belt.

It was a dumb stunt.

Brannon knew better.

He was within sight of the house when he finally looked up and discovered three extra horses turned out in his corral.

Visitors? Here I am in the clear already. They’ve surely spotted me. I can’t hide. Nice work, Brannon. Why not wear a “shoot me” sign around your neck? Did they come from the south or the north? What about Earl?

Brannon slipped his Colt from the holster and held it inside his jacket.

If they turned the horses out, they plan on stayin’.

He spotted one man with a rifle standing in the barn door. Another man, hand on his hip, stood in the open doorway of the house.

“Mister, are you lost?” the one at the barn called.

“Did you drift in from the high country? Maybe you seen Howland up there?” the other man hollered.

They haven’t seen Earl… and there’s another one somewhere.

He pulled up by the house and considered dismounting next to a post for protection from the man with the rifle.

“Keep riding, Mister. You ain’t stopping here.”

From the back of the house he heard a third voice shout, “Eeuu-wee, Todd, you ought to come look at this kitchen. Earl has it polished up like a widah lady’s.”

The voice was familiar, but Brannon couldn’t place it.

“We got a visitor out here, Riley.”

Then Brannon remembered. The man with the gun at the Lucky Dollar.

“Well, chase him off the… Brannon?” he shouted, dropping a biscuit and grabbing for his revolver.

Brannon dove from El Viento and shot at the same time.

A blast from the rifle slammed against the adobe wall of the house above his head, and the other man at the door shot wild. Brannon’s hurried shot missed both men at the door and ripped through the bottom hinge.

The two men bolted back inside the house, and El Viento sprinted up the road towards the high end of the ranch. Brannon rolled behind the side of the house to get out of range of the rifle, but his right foot caught a piercing burst of heat. He knew he’d been hit. Blood seeped through a hole ripped in his boot as he crawled out of the line of fire.

No cover around here. If they rush me, it’ll be tough to take all three.

Three chollas sprawled alongside the house, and Brannon rolled back among the drooping cactus, facing the barn. He spun his head around to the east as Riley, the man from the Lucky Dollar, stepped away from the back of the house and raised his gun.

Brannon’s first shot caught the man in the stomach. He fired back hitting the cholla near Brannon’s head. A piece of cholla propelled into his face like needles stuck in a pincushion.

Brannon screamed and grabbed at the cactus.

The man staggered back, and Brannon’s second shot dropped him to the ground. Brannon dragged himself to the back of the house and through the door. He shut it softly.

“Riley’s got him.”

“Cover me, Rawnie.”

The man with the rifle walked slowly across the yard with the gun still at his shoulder. “See anything?” he called.

With revolver cocked, the first man rounded the corner of the house.

“It’s Riley.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s that drifter? I know I shot him in the leg. Look at all this blood.”

“It leads towards the back door. Brannon must be in the house,” Todd replied.

“Brannon? Stuart Brannon?”

“That’s what Riley called out when he came out the front door.”

Rawnie dove low against the side of the house, pulling Todd with him. “Stay down. If that’s Brannon, we’re in for a fight.”

“But there’s two of us.”

“Yeah… there used to be three, remember?”

“He’s wounded.”

“He made it back into the house, didn’t he?”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’ll need some help.”

“You mean Jedel and the boys?”

“Yep. Hank Jedel is the only one in the Territory who says he can face down Stuart Brannon.”

“So we’re just going to ride out of here?”

“You want to go into this house and face Brannon? You heard what they was sayin’ about him in Prescott.”

“But he’s wounded, ain’t he?”

“I don’t want to face him even if he’s dead.”

“How are we going to get to the barn and the horses?”

“Maybe he’s covering the back door. He cain’t be both places at the same time.”

“Well… I’ll go straight to the barn for the saddles and you tear off for the corrals.”

“Now?”

“Now!”

Both men kept low and ran across the yard.

No gunfire.

Within moments they saddled up and sprinted to the trail.

Brannon managed to drag himself through the back door, across the pantry, and into the kitchen. His right boot full of blood, his face streamed red. He pulled to a corner of the room, behind the cook stove, where he could watch both doors at once.

He waited for an attack.

Moments later he thought he heard a couple of horses pull out for the north trail. Dragging himself into the living room, he reared up to look through the unshuttered window and saw dust already high on the trail.

Lord, this is bad—real bad.

Crawling back to the kitchen, he grabbed a carving knife and cut his boot off his foot. He wrapped the wound with several tea towels to stop the bleeding. The bullet had gone through his foot and lodged in the leather heel.

“I’ve got to clean up this mess.”

Finding another rag, he pulled himself up to the kitchen pump and cranked some water. Turning towards the table, he tried to put some weight on his wounded foot.

He collapsed to the wooden floor.

 

 

 

 

Six

 

 

 

When Brannon came to, the shooting pain in his right foot equaled the fire in his face and forehead. He struggled to his hands and knees, but could go no further in the now dark kitchen.

Lisa? She needs me. I can’t track mud across the floor. Where’s the bedroom? I need a lantern… hurry! Don’t let her down. If I don’t get there soon, she’ll… hang on, babe… hang on. I’ll be there.

Brannon stumbled across the wet rag he grabbed to clean the floor. He squeezed it to his forehead.

Everett? They shot Everett? No! They can’t do that. Where’s my Winchester? Still on Sage… Sage, old boy… no, no, they shot Sage. Why, Lord, why did they have to shoot Sage?

Julie’s dying. She’s dying. It’s crazy. They need me. Where’s my horse? Lisa, I’m here now. It’s okay. Everything will be all right, honey.

Mrs. Nash… I did everything I could… my God, I did everything I could!

Elizabeth is lost. The brave little warrior… where’s the little warrior? I can’t see anything.

Crawling on his hands and knees Brannon stumbled into the bedroom and pulled himself onto the bed. He wrapped the wet rag around his head. His hand brushed against the cactus thorns still embedded in his cheek.

Bees! Swarms of bees. Water. I need water. Where’s the river?

We’ll get you well, Lisa. You rest up.

I can’t tell her, Lord. I can’t tell her. I can’t… Lisa… honey, the baby’s… he’s dead… my, God, he’s dead!

Violent men build a violent society. I’m not a violent man. Do you hear me? I am not a violent man!

When Brannon woke again, someone was rubbing a wet rag across his forehead.

Yellow hair. Green eyes. Troubled eyes. Ribbon in her hair. Green dress. A good woman. A real good woman… and a man. Black vest. Gray hair.

Brannon tried to raise his head.

“So you are alive.” The woman brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Judge Quilici? Sage? What’s…”

“Lay back down. Let’s start from the top.”

“Where’s Lisa? Where’s—”

“Stuart,” Sage Quilici interrupted. “You’ve been shot.”

Brannon sat straight up in bed. “What day is it?”

“Sunday.” Mrs. Quilici pushed him back down on the pillow. “When did you get shot?”

“Last night… I think… or maybe it was the night before. What are you two doing here?”

“Do you need a drink of water?”

“Yeah.”

Mrs. Quilici brought him a cup a water and helped him take a drink.

The judge said, “Last evening Earl Howland, one of the C.V.L. men, rode into our ranch and said he was now working for you. We let him bunk in the barn. So this morning after the services, we decided—”

“Services? A church? There’s a church here now?”

“Not yet,” Sage Quilici explained. “But several of the neighbors have been riding to our place when the weather’s good. We’re thinking of building a church by the cottonwood grove between your place and ours. We figure if we have a building, maybe we can get a circuit preacher from Prescott to come out.”

“Anyway,” the judge continued, “we wanted to welcome you back. When we got here, we found one horse in the corral, a big black saddled up and wandering around the yard, a dead man outside your back door, and you ranting and raving in the bed.”

“He was one of the C.V.L. Collectors, wasn’t he? she asked.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what you call them. They were in my house and jumped me when I rode back down out of the mountains. Judge, what’s this Burlingame Land Grant all about?”

“Besides owning half of San Francisco, he seems to be trying to get half of Arizona. Burlingame’s lawyers claim he purchased a valid Spanish land grant. He doesn’t want people to move in on the land until Congress settles the issue.”

“He doesn’t have any grant on this property. Who believes this land grant stuff anyway?”

“Arizona Mining Corporation, for one.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they looked at his papers and gave him a $50,000 retainer for the right to continued exploration.”

“Arizona Mining?”

“Yes. So every few months Burlingame’s agents come by to collect rent. That’s why we call them the Collectors.”

“Before the matter’s settled?”

“He says he’ll issue long-term leases only to those who honor the grant now. He vows to evict everyone else.”

“And they’re falling for that?”

“Some are.”

“And you two?”

“So far they’ve been skipping over us.”

“That’s because the judge has some influential friends in San Francisco. But if Burlingame wins his case, we’ll all be out of here,” Mrs. Quilici reported.

“This De Palma-Revera Land Grant--we were all told that was an old legend.”

“It is,” the judge insisted. “That’s why this thing is a crock. De Palma-Revera was run out of Santa Fe by the governor over a hundred years ago. Now the C.V.L.’s claiming the same governor granted him 117,000 acres of Arizona land.”

“Well, they aren’t getting my ranch.”

Mrs. Quilici glared down at his injured foot. “It looks like they almost did.”

“Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Sage,” the judge added, “how about stirring Brannon up a little supper? I need to get things put up outside. Whose horse is in the corral?”

“The dead man’s.”

“And how about the big black?”

“That’s mine. If you can catch him, unsaddle him and put him in the corral.”

“What happened to my pony?” Mrs. Quilici called from the kitchen.

“I called him Sage after you. He took a bullet up in Colorado.”

“And the dead man?” the judge asked.

“Bury him… but not by Lisa and the baby. Anywhere behind the barn.”

Brannon lay on his back as the Quilicis straightened the house and yard. The first folks he befriended in Arizona, and although more than seven miles away, they were his nearest neighbors. They helped him stake off the ranch, file the papers, and build the house and barn. They stood beside him as he buried Lisa and the baby.

Brannon sat up in bed when Mrs. Quilici brought him apple flapjacks and beef-carrot stew. “Sage, you can outride, out-rope, and out cook any woman in Arizona.”

“You don’t have many supplies around here.”

“That’s what Howland’s going for.”

“Well, there should be enough of this stew for a couple days. After that, it’s pretty bleak. How’s your face?”

“Feels like a porcupine backed into me.”

“The judge and I pulled out the thorns while you were still ranting, but it does look puffy. I washed up that foot and bandaged it, but you better keep a close eye on it. The wound looks clean so far, but I’m not sure when you’ll be able to walk on it.”

The judge joined them for supper. His face as dark and tough as an old saddle, ragged gray hair poked out from under his hat. Though covered with road dust, to Brannon he always looked and acted like a judge.

“Stuart, I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me load you up on that pony to ride back to our place for a few days.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Yeah… well, we’ll have to pull out and make it back before dark, or the boys on the ranch will send a posse out after us. I’ll send a rider to check on you tomorrow.”

“He can bring some food,” Sage Quilici added.

“Much obliged. I think that fever broke, and I’ll be able to get around a little.”

“Not on that foot, you won’t,” she warned. “Don’t plan on it being very useful for a couple months.”

“I brought your Winchester and saddlebags in and laid them against the front door,” the judge reported. “If these were C.V.L. men, you will hear from them again. Hank Jedel is their leader.”

“Jedel? Me and Sheriff Rupert pinned him down in Black Canyon. Remember that? Didn’t he get a term in A.T.P. for killing a stagecoach driver?”

“That was about the time you lit out for Colorado. Jedel was never convicted. The main witness disappeared. So now he ramrods for C.V.L. and headquarters out of Tucson. You can imagine the kind of men he hires. Lots of folks change their mind in a hurry about paying that extortion money as rent on their own property. As soon as you’re up to it, you should ride down to the Surveyor-General’s office and file a complaint. It seems to help if you have a formal protest.”

“Thanks. I’ll wait for Howland and Fletcher to show and then try to do that. I’ll stop by your ranch on my way down.”

“Fletcher?” she asked.

“An Englishman. Friend of mine who’s going into the cattle business with me.”

“You sure you’re going to be all right?”

“For the first time in over two years I’m sitting in my own home. I’m going to be fine.”

He wanted to see them to the door, but didn’t bother trying.

 

] ]

 

Midway through the next day, Brannon decided he was not going to die. Not that he actually thought he was. He just reached his absolute limits for staying in bed.

He hopped about the house, first to the living room to look out at the barn and horses, then to the kitchen for fresh water and bandages. His face swelled, one eye almost shut, plus a one-week beard gave him the grizzled “old-prospector” look.

He tried washing his foot wound. The pain was just as great, but it looked better. He wrapped it as tight as his tolerance would allow. Then he pulled on his left boot and jabbed his hat on his head. No reason to comb his hair.

Brannon, you disguise your handsome features well. If I don’t shoot ‘em, I can scare ‘em off.

In the pantry he found a five-foot piece of shelving to use for a crutch. His Winchester made a cane. He staggered across the yard towards the barn. When he reached the door, he was so worn out he considered spending the night there.

Catching his breath, he hobbled over to the corral and checked the water trough. It held at least ten gallons. He pulled down hay for the two animals.

Again he hobbled back to the barn and rested a few minutes.

Voices startled him.

“Ho, in the house. Mr. Brannon? Judge Quilici sent us over with supplies.”

“Mr. Brannon, are you inside?”

Struggling to his feet, Brannon searched for his shelving crutch and shuffled out of the barn. “Over here, boys. I was feedin’ the horses.”

“That’s Stuart Brannon?” he heard one of Quilici’s cowhands mutter.

“Shhh,” the vaquero replied.

“But… but he’s an old man. I… I thought, you know… that Brannon was still in his prime.”

“Mister Brannon, I’m Ignacio Fernandez, and this talkative compadre is Floyd. Judge Quilici sent us over to see how you are doing. Missus sent some food too. Floyd, take that grub sack into the house.”

Floyd swung out of the saddle and began to untie the supplies. “Are you really Stuart Brannon?”

“I seem to get asked that a lot lately. Remember it’s not the years but the miles that age a man. And I want to tell you boys, I’ve just been down some mighty rough miles.”

“Judge said you gunned down one of the C.V.L. Collectors.”

“Some guy named Riley, I think.”

Floyd gasped. “You shot Riley?”

“Yeah, three of them jumped me and—”

“Three of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad you didn’t lead down Jedel. He’s the worst of them.”

“He wasn’t with them.”

“Yeah, I heard he was headed to Santa Fe. Mr. Brannon, the judge said we should do any chores you need,” Fernandez offered. “Can we pull down some hay, or anything?”

“Much obliged. The hay would help, and if you’d carry a few buckets of water for that trough. I don’t think I’ll be ready to dance on this foot for a while.”

The men finished the chores and approached Brannon sitting in front of the house. They mounted up.

Floyd rode a little closer. “Mr. Brannon… I’m sorry about them words I spoke. I should just keep my mouth shut.”

“No harm done, Floyd. I look a might frightful.”

“I was wondering if you had some advice you could give me, you know, you being a veteran gunman and me just starting out.”

Brannon fought to keep from laughing. “Floyd, don’t ever, ever lay in a patch of cholla when you’re in the midst of a gun battle.”

“Eh… no, sir, I won’t. Thank you, sir.”

Within three dusty minutes both men were out of sight.

 

] ]

 

Harriet stepped out on the front porch and glanced down the street towards the courthouse. She couldn’t see her brother-in-law, so she walked back inside, straightened the umbrellas near the hall closet, and ascended the staircase slowly, dragging her hanky slowly up the bannister.

 

Remember boarding school days of hiding under the comforter and giggling about a handsome knight on a white horse that carries us of? We set such high standards of character and bravery and handsomeness that no man could expect to live up to it. However, my dear, it just might be that my knight has arrived (riding a black horse, which is not a serious flaw in the scheme of things).

 

After several days visiting with him, I was able to write three chapters last week! Can you imagine? His life is like a novel, with a new adventure each day.

 

That does seem to validate all those years of prayers.

 

The point being, Mr. Barton mentioned yesterday evening that it looked as if he and several others would need to go to Phoenix (a hot, sticky little farm town on the Salt River). He suggested Gwen and I could come along and we should stop by and see Mr. Brannon, as long as we were going near there. I packed a few things this morning, just in case we needed to slip away quickly, but as it turned out, Nelson hasn’t returned since early this morning. If you do not hear from me for a while, it will be because I’m stranded on a ranch in the middle of Arizona Territory.

 

(Now if you think I said all of that just to make you jealous, you are absolutely right!)

 

Perhaps by the next letter I will have something truly momentous to write.

 

Give my best to Rachel.

Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed

 

She didn’t see her brother-in-law until they all gathered at the supper table.

“It has taken me all day to make the arrangements. We will be leaving in the morning for Phoenix.”

“Wonderful,” Harriet cried.

“Who will be going with us?” Gwendolyn probed.

“That’s the interesting part. It started out simply as a land matter. I was going to take two of the men from the office and a translator.”

“Five of us in one coach?” Gwendolyn asked.

“It’s more complicated than that. I saw Captain Wells at dinner, and he said the army wanted to send a small contingent of men down to that area and would be happy to ride along with us as escorts.”

“That does sound safe.”

“It gets even more complicated. I ran across Dr. Levine at the courthouse, and when I told him about our trip, he asked if we had room to transport one of his patients to Phoenix. They have opened a sanitarium in the mountains near there, and this young woman needs some rehabilitation.”

“The Cancino woman?”

“Yes, the one who got shot. Of course it’s our Christian duty to help out.”

Reed nodded politely. “Naturally. Is Miss Cancino well enough to make such an arduous journey?”

“Dr. Levine believes so. And I understand the young lady was quite delighted at the prospect of traveling to Phoenix.”

“Undoubtedly it has nothing to do with stopping at Brannon’s,” Harriet grumbled under her breath. “So we’re all descending upon Mr. Brannon?”

“Yes, but I have arranged supplies so that we won’t be a burden,” Barton said.

“How many people are going to be in our party?”

“Two carriages, twelve soldiers. Quite an adventure, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, indeed.” Harriet flashed her patented smile of agreement.

After supper Harriet helped clear the table and excused herself to retire to her room.

So young Miss Julie Cancino will be traveling with us?

She opened her trunk and began to rethink her wardrobe.

At 9:00 A.M. the next morning, two carriages rolled up to the two-story Victorian house. From her vantage point in the front window, Harriet watched Mr. Barton hop out of the front carriage and bound up the steps.

“All right, ladies, let’s load up. Mr. Gonzales is driving our carriage, Gwendolyn. And Mr. Harvey, the second. Harriet, I believe it might be helpful if you rode in that one with Miss Cancino. She might need some assistance from time to time.”

“Certainly.” Carrying an unopened parasol, she swooped down the steps and into the carriage. “You must be Miss Cancino.”

You would think that even a waitress in a cafe would wear something a bit more modest. Of course, she might not have anything else.

“And you must be Miss Reed. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve been wanting to ask you a question.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“Are you going to marry Stuart Brannon or not?”

Harriet Reed coughed and raised her gloved hand to cover her mouth. “What?”

“Oh, you know how people talk around town. They say you’re sweet on Brannon. Now I wouldn’t blame you if you were. He’s probably the most famous man I ever kissed.”

I suppose I could push her out of the wagon if we roll by a steep cliff.

“I tell you what, Miss Cancino—”

“Please call me Julie.”

“Yes, and you must call me Harriet. Well, young Julie… what’s it going to be? Shall be fight and snipe this whole trip, or try to be friends?”

“I had it all planned to fight and snipe, but… how about a little truce? You stop calling me ‘young Julie,’ and I won’t mention kissing Stuart. I’ve got a feeling we might as well be honest with each other. I know exactly what you think of me, and you undoubtedly know what I think of you.”

“Julie, you’re probably the most forward woman I’ve met in a long time.” Harriet paused a moment. “And I think I like that.”

Miss Cancino brushed her hair back. “Let’s start over.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Harriet, that is a beautiful dress.”

“Thank you, Julie, and might I add quite honestly that if I had the nerve, I’d love to wear a dress like yours.”

The carriage jolted forward, and the journey began.

Near the south side of Prescott, Sergeant Cloverdale and his platoon joined the carriages. The party rattled down the dusty road out of the mountains.

Lord, if I can’t keep him away from some dining hall waitress, I should find that out right now. I don’t want to be bitter, jealous, or vindictive.

By noon Miss Reed and Miss Cancino were visiting like old neighbors, and by the first evening, Harriet treated Julie like a younger sister.

“You look rather pale,” Harriet said.

“I haven’t been out much. I am more tired than I thought. May I stay in your tent? I might need some extra help, and I don’t know any of these others.”

“I insist. You should really lie down as soon as the cots are drawn up. I’ll bring you some supper.” She turned to the driver. “Mr. Harvey, you will need to assist Miss Cancino… and please be very careful.”

Buzzing around through camp, Harriet soon had most of it organized, especially the care and feeding of Miss Julie Cancino. That evening, after Harriet prayed for the two of them, Miss Cancino spoke up.

“This morning I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to shoot you or rip your eyes out. And tonight I want to hug you and say ‘thanks.’ How in the world am I ever going to compete with the likes of you? If Brannon is so stupid as to ignore you, I don’t think I want him.”

“Julie, don’t think too lightly of yourself. You’re a beautiful woman… who’s had to work hard. That’s exactly the kind of woman who fits out on a ranch. Look at these weak, pale hands of mine. Hardly the look of a rancher’s wife.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that, but I’m just kidding myself anyway. I wouldn’t be of no help on a ranch… or anywhere, what with me being like this.”

“Don’t you start feeling sorry for yourself. The doctor said the physical therapy and mineral baths should do you a world of good.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need a world of good,” Julie said with a sigh. “I need a miracle.”

“Then we shall ask the Lord for a miracle.”

Midway through the next morning, it was obvious to all that Miss Cancino’s strength was failing. They continually slowed the carriage to avoid jolting her. And when they turned off the main trail to circle back into the hills towards Brannon’s ranch, the pace slowed even more. Unable to sit up, she lay across Harriet’s lap for most of the afternoon.

After leading his troops up the mountains on an exploratory excursion, Sergeant Cloverdale rejoined the carriages by mid-afternoon. “The Triple B should be not more than ten or twelve miles up the road,” he said.

“I would hardly call this goat trail a road,” Gwendolyn replied.

“Should we try to press on tonight? Miss Cancino is having a rather rough time of it,” Nelson Barton asked.

The sergeant tipped his hat at the women. “I don’t think any of us are in such a hurry as to jeopardize her health. Let’s camp by the cottonwoods.”

Two of the men carried Julie to the tent, and Harriet helped her to bed.

“I think it’s because the medicine wore off,” Julie reported. “The doctor had been giving me some laudanum for the pain, but I told him I didn’t want to take it anymore. I don’t think I’m any worse. I can just feel the pain more.”

“Perhaps some sleep will help. I heard the men say we should be reaching Brannon’s before noon tomorrow.”

“You know what’s funny, Harriet? Yesterday morning I was ready to claw your eyes out to get Stuart Brannon for myself.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d trade him straight across for a painless night’s sleep.”

“And me?”

“That’s the trouble. You’re just too nice to hate.”

“Can I rub your shoulders?”

“Please.”

Lord, Julie is hurting so bad. This would be a very good time for a miracle of some sort.

Within fifteen minutes, the miracle came.

Julie fell sound asleep.

 

] ]

 

The whole party buzzed with excitement as they broke camp the next morning. Each of them had a reason for wanting to see Stuart Brannon, and the prospect of only a few hours’ ride left refreshed them all.

Miss Cancino seemed especially pert. “Harriet, you can’t believe what a difference a good night’s sleep made. I think that’s the first solid sleep I’ve had in two weeks.”

“I know.” Harriet settled down in the carriage next to Julie.

“How did you know?”

“You snored.”

“Oh, no… how embarrassing.”

“I will never tell a soul—except…”

“Except who?”

“Oh… except for a certain Mr. Brannon. It’s the kind of thing I think he should know.”

“What?” Julie shrieked. “You do that and I’ll… I’ll burn you at the stake.”

Both women laughed.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Reed said.

“Tell me the truth, Harriet, do I look frightful?”

“I doubt if there has ever been a day in your life that you didn’t look beautiful. I had to shout to keep those soldiers from fighting over who would assist you to the carriage.”

“Really?”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?”

They giggled their way down the road for the next two hours.

 

] ]

 

Brannon spent the morning trying to carry water to the horse trough.

I meant to set a pump by the barn. There’s no reason not to dig another well. It would save a lot of work, especially for cripples.

He left his Winchester leaning against the barn and hopped across the yard with a wooden bucket half full of water in one hand and his piece of shelving under the other armpit. It took him ten grueling trips to fill the trough.

By the time he finished, he was ringing wet with sweat. Finally, he perched himself on the side of the water trough and splashed water on his face. The water stung the infected places left by the cactus needles, but he splashed on more and more.

Then he tossed his hat to the ground and dunked his whole body from the waist up, shirt and all, into the water. As he raised up, he shook the water off his head like a dog.

The sound of hoof beats caused him to whip around to the north. The dust clouds of many riders so startled him that he jumped to his feet to retrieve the rifle. Pain shot through his right foot, and he collapsed into the dirt of the corral.

The dirt turned to mud as he dragged himself toward the barn. Pulling himself inside, he leaned against the barely open door and cocked his Winchester.

It took twenty minutes for the slow-moving procession to reach his house and roll into his yard.

Cloverdale? The Bartons? Harriet? Miss Julie?

His handy crutch board left by the trough, Brannon hopped into the yard using his rifle for a cane.

“Yo! You by the barn,” Nelson Barton called out, “have you seen Mr. Stuart Brannon around?”

Brannon glanced down at the water and mud still dripping. For a split second he thought about saying, No, you’ve got the wrong ranch.

 

 

 

 

Seven

 

 

 

Brannon hobbled a few steps forward and fell flat on his face. The sergeant rode over to him. “Don’t just sit there on your McClellan, Cloverdale. Get down here and help me up,” Brannon muttered.

The sergeant turned to the others and shouted, “It’s Stuart Brannon.”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“What happened?” the sergeant pressed.

“Are you going to get down here and help me, or do I have to shoot that horse out from under you?”

For the next half hour there was confusion as Brannon tried to clean up, explain his circumstances, and offer hospitality to the entire party. With Private Jenner supporting his right side, he finally emerged from the house, fairly clean and almost recognizable. Everyone stopped their unloading and huddled around him.

“I took a bullet in the foot and a piece of cholla in the face. I had to fight my way back onto my own ranch, was later jumped by three men, and spent a couple days delirious with fever. Other than that, it’s been pretty uneventful.”

After catching up on their news, he gave a few orders.

“Sergeant, you and your men can set up camp at the barn. Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Miss Reed, and Miss Cancino will take the house. And you drivers, you’ll be with me in the bunkhouse.”

“Oh, we couldn’t push you out of your home—” Mrs. Barton protested.

“You don’t have any choice, ma’am. Since this is my ranch, you’ll have to take my hospitality.”

Cancino still sat in the carriage. When he finished, he hobbled over to her.

“Miss Julie, I’m thrilled to see you out and around. I don’t think anything has cheered me up more than sighting you in that carriage. I still can’t believe it.”

“Now, Stuart, you didn’t think I was the kind of girl you could just kiss and leave, did you?”

“Well, I hope you don’t want that dance very soon. Hop and fall seem to be the only things I do well. Can I help you down?”

“I wish,” she peered into Brannon’s eyes, “I wish I could bounce out of here and be of some help to you. But I… I mean, I can’t yet… you see, there’s just no…” She took a deep breath and glanced helplessly at Harriet.

“Stuart,” Harriet replied, “Julie is unable to move either of her legs. That’s why she’s going to the sanitarium near Phoenix. There’s a good chance it will help.”

Brannon sighed. “Don’t we make a fine pair?”

Within an hour, Harriet had the whole party operating with efficiency. She and her sister settled their belongings in the house and began fixing dinner. Brannon was seated with his foot in the air on a chair on the front porch. Next to him sat Nelson Barton, and on the other side of the doorway, wrapped in a light quilt with her eyes closed, sat Julie.

Soon Sergeant Cloverdale approached.

“Now, Sergeant, exactly how did Mr. Barton rate a twelve-man escort?”

“We got a report that a band of Apaches raided a ranch east of here. One of the leaders was a man called Two Slash. He has two deep cuts in his forearms.”

“The same band that jumped you?”

“Perhaps… that’s why we rode down here. Have you seen any sign of Indians?”

“Only at the far end of the ranch, near Jinete Springs. They come out of the rocks and trees to borrow a little water from time to time.”

“Is that east of here?”

“Straight up the mountain slope. Just follow Sunrise Creek. About half a day’s ride.”

“Maybe we’ll ride up there tomorrow and scout around.”

“Good. Then the others can stay here until you return. You aren’t in a hurry to move on, are you?” he asked Barton.

“In a hurry? I think Harriet’s moved us in permanent.”

 

] ]

 

By early evening the Triple B looked more like a town than a ranch. The soldiers set up their tents across from the bunkhouse. Men milled around the barn, taking turns riding El Viento, who never grew tired of racing down the trail. Several worked at Brannon’s blacksmith shop where Barton’s drivers repaired one of the carriages.

Brannon managed to pull himself onto the top rail of the corral and watch all the action. The lantern cast shadows of the women at work in the house.

Well, babe, would you look at this? Our place packed with people. Someday, we said, there will be neighbors, and friends, and total strangers stopping by. Laughing, singing, working, playing… and little kids running through the yard.

But there are no kids.

I miss you, Lisa. I really miss you.

“Mr. Brannon?” Private Jenner stood near the corral. “Mr. Brannon, would you like some help getting back to the house?”

“Jenner, if you’ve got the time, I’d like your help getting up to those two piñon pines on that far rim.”

“I got time. What’s up there?”

“A couple of good friends.”

He and Jenner didn’t say much until they reached the trees. “It’s a grave.”

“Two of them. My wife and a son.”

“Sorry, sir. Did the Indians get them?”

“Nope. Childbirth. Jenner, would you mind giving me a half hour and then coming back?”

He turned on his heels and moseyed back down the sloping hill.

Brannon scooted over to the base of one of the trees and leaned his back against it. Picking up small pebbles, he tossed them towards the newly cleaned gravesites.

For over two years I’ve been chasing all over this country. I know I should have come back sooner. One thing led to another… and I was scared.