CHAPTER ONE

 

“I never could do this,” Stuart Brannon fumed as he stared into the mirror. “Couldn’t I just wear a bandana? Oh, no, that wasn’t good enough for Miss Velvet Wendell. ‘You simply must wear a tie.’ Look at that! Half of it hanging down like a horse’s tail, and the other looks like a fag blowin’ in the breeze. Stiff shirt. Clean fingernails. Why do weddings have to be so perfect, anyway?”

Brannon stomped across his twelve-foot by twelve-foot bedroom at the Davis & Wendell Hotel. These quarters, with a window overlooking the main street of Tres Casas, New Mexico Territory, had been his home for more than five months. His spurs jingled as his boots thudded on the floorboards.

He returned to the mirror. “She didn’t say anything about spurs. Well, Miss Wendell, I’m wearing spurs to the wedding, and that’s that.”

He wiped a smudge on the mirror with his white linen shirtsleeve and leaned closer to examine his image.

A man turns thirty, and suddenly there’s gray at the temples.

It’s these cold winters, that’s what it is. I ought to be in that Arizona sun. I don’t belong here.

Brannon picked up the Chinese silk vest with rounded, notched lapels and an embroidered gold design. He fumbled with the brass buttons.

Only faro dealers and tonic salesmen would wear something like this on purpose.

He gave a yank at the cinch at the back of the vest and drew it up so tight the buttons puckered. “Now what?” he grumbled. “How do I loosen it?” Adjusting the vest, he pulled on the new wool suit coat.

At least the coat fits. The sleeves are long enough.

He promised Velvet he wouldn’t walk down the aisle with a Colt on his hip. He’d have to wear his gun high on the left side until he reached the church.

Finally, he lifted the beaver felt, wide-brimmed hat lying crown down on the dresser. He slipped his old, sweaty horsehair hatband over the hat and placed it on his head.

This was the silliest thing he ever heard of. His hat he bought at Conchita wasn’t broke in yet. Yet Miss Wendell insisted he wear a brand-new hat..

Then she tells me I can’t even wear it in the church building.

Yet this wasn’t Boston or San Francisco, not even Denver or Virginia City.

Brannon took one more look at himself in the mirror. Then he took a gold locket off the dresser and slipped it into his vest pocket, then pulled it back out. He flipped it open and glanced at Lisa’s picture.

“Well, darlin’, here I am with white shirt and slicked-down hair. I haven’t felt this uncomfortable since the day you and I got married. I never counted on needing to spruce up like this again.” He jammed the locket back in his vest and picked up a badge. “I’m still sheriff of Tres Casas. At least, until Monday morning. And no sweet-talkin’ lady is going keep me from wearin’ this badge.”

Brannon barged downstairs to the hotel lobby, mostly vacant, which doubled as a dining room. Not the normal late Saturday afternoon crowd. The big wedding of two of the town’s prominent citizens emptied most businesses and filled the church to overflowing.

Tres Casas never seemed like home to Brannon. Now, as he stepped out on the wooden sidewalk, he felt again a sense of unease. Tucked in the hills of northern New Mexico near the Colorado border, Tres Casas was a town trying to decide if it wanted to be a sleepy Spanish village or a rip-roaring mining supply camp. Brannon didn’t know the answer, but he knew it was time for him to change the direction of his life.

The wedding would mark the end—and the beginning.

April rains still puddled the main street, and Brannon chose his steps carefully as he crossed and turned towards the church. He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. He stopped and flipped open the watch again. “3:00? It can’t be—”

“Sheriff !”

He jerked around.

Harvey Lloyd Sanger and his wife Loretta scurried to his side. “Sheriff,” Mrs. Sanger said, “it’s 3:30 P.M.. You’ll have Velvet worried sick if you don’t get down to the church.”

“Yes, ma’am, 3:30 you say? I guess my watch stopped. Tell her I’m on my way. I’ll just check on the jail.” He tipped his hat.

“They can’t get started without you.” Mrs. Sanger jabbed him with her elbow.

Brannon reset his watch and glanced up and down the street as he passed in front of the Mercantile. By nightfall this town would be crowded with cowboys, miners, and drifters. The wedding would be nothing but a memory.

Up the street buggies and people crowded around the church. They hadn’t had this much excitement since a politician passed out free watermelons. Brannon pushed the unlocked office door open with his right boot and glanced across the darkened room towards the two jail cells.

“Keo? Keo! Is that you in there?” he shouted at the older man roped and gagged in the first cell. He stomped to the iron gate, fumbled to open it with his key, and knelt down to untie his part-time deputy, Keo Tane.

“They snuck up on me, Stuart, they did. Two of ‘em. One short and skinny, the other maybe a Mexican, you know, sort of dark? They pulled Skinner and Eureka out of the cell, tied me up, and ran out the back door like they was being chased.”

“How long ago?” Brannon finished untying his deputy’s feet.

“Not more than ten minutes, I expect.”

“Why would anyone want to bust out Skinner and Eureka? They were only in here until tomorrow anyway.”

“What do you want me to do? Shall I go get Fletcher?”

Brannon tugged at his tie and stepped back into the office. “No, no, he’s down at the church. I’m sure they’ve already drifted out of town. They’re not worth following. Busting the mirror at the Lavender Slipper isn’t cause to form a posse.”

He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Scoot down to the church and tell Fletcher what happened. I’m going to make one round to see that everything’s quiet. I’ll be there before four o’clock. Weddings never start on time anyway. Tell Fletcher to calm the bride down. That’s what a best man is supposed to do, isn’t it?”

Keo snorted. “You’re the one in the wedding, not me. Do you mind if I stay down there and watch the proceedings myself ? It ain’t ever’ day that the sheriff of Tres Casas goes parading around all slicked up like that.”

“Fine. I’ll be right there.” Brannon unlocked the gun case and grabbed his Winchester and decided he wasn’t going to carry a rifle to the wedding. He replaced the gun, turned on his heel, and left the office.

Brannon gazed at the street once more.

The trouble with this job. Never any time off.

He hustled to the corner and turned down Trotter’s Gulch Road. One by one he pushed open the front doors and gazed inside dark, smoke-filled saloons and gaming rooms. Most were quiet, almost empty. Waiting until dark to really break loose.

He crossed the street, this time having little regard for the mud clinging to his boots.

The Cat’s Claw had only one chuck-a-luck game going.

At Jim Boy’s, a sleepy poker game yawned away in the corner.

The girls at Paris Pierre’s hung laundry from the balcony.

O’Neil’s Cowboy Tavern’s bartender slept out front.

Brannon decided to check the Lavender Slipper and then go to the wedding. He glanced at his watch. It was 3:40.

Before he shoved the door open, the declining sunlight bounced over one of the horses tied in front. He turned to see what was causing the reflection. A series of silver conchos laced to the skirts of a high-horned, deep-seated, hand-carved leather saddle.

A nice piece of work. High silver horn? Long, engraved tapaderas? Sixty-foot maguey coiled? Keo said one was a Mexican.

He noticed the four horses were tied to the rail rather loosely.

“Looks like someone is planning on a quick exit,” he said to the paint stallion sporting the fancy saddle.

If he busted in the back door, they’d run out and ride off. Better to barge right in?

Stepping lightly across the worn wooden sidewalk, Brannon placed his hand on the door handle, wishing he left the spurs in his room. As quietly as he could, he cracked the door and slid inside a hot, stuffy, smoky, and dark Lavender Slipper.

Three men stood at the long, carved wooden bar. The one in the middle waved his arms while telling a story. The man on his right glanced up and saw Brannon.

“Why, there’s the sheriff. Come on over here, Brannon. We’ll buy you a drink.”

“Eureka,” Brannon replied as he slipped his hand to grip the handle of his pistol, “why did you and Skinner want to leave home without telling Daddy goodbye?”

Skinner faced Brannon. “Well, you see, Sheriff, we thought for sure you’d be down at the weddin’.”

“Don’t he look fine, all slicked up like that,” Eureka said.

Skinner nodded. “Purty enough to be a New York lawyer. We just didn’t want to interfere with the celebration, so we decided to let ourselves out and cause you no more concern.”

“That’s right, Sheriff.” Eureka eased away from the others. “These friends come by for a visit, and we didn’t think it was hospitable to let them pass through town without buying ‘em a drink.”

Skinner scanned the room as he moved down the bar a couple steps. “Yes, sir, we stopped by here to pay back La Verne for busting up his mirror.”

“But,” Eureka continued, “LaVerne closed shop and went down there to the wedding, too, so we’re pirooting away the time, waiting for his return.”

“Where’s the Mexican?” Brannon asked.

“Who?”

“The Mexican who helped you escape.”

“Surely you don’t think we needed help to go set down old Keo, do ya?”

“I think you two would need help walking up a fight of stairs. Now, where’s the Mexican that owns that flashy outfit hitched to the rail?” Brannon felt a knife blade press against the back of his new suit coat.

“Leave the pistol in the holster, Señor,” a voice instructed. “You like my horse?”

“I like the saddle better.” Brannon didn’t move. “Put down that pig sticker, or I’ll have to mail that saddle to your next of kin.”

“Don’t threaten me. I can run this blade clear through you,” he threatened.

“You better do a good job of it. The last man to stick me back there got eaten by the buzzards on the Arizona desert.”

“You do not know who you are talking to, Señor.”

“You’re definitely not the ghost of Joaquin Murrieta.” Brannon slammed his left elbow straight back into what he hoped to be the pit of the man’s stomach.

On impact, the startled man jerked his hands up, raking the tip of the knife blade along Brannon’s back, ripping his suit coat and shirt and scratching into his skin. Brannon whipped around and hammered through the black, flat-brimmed hat with the barrel of his pistol. The man crumpled to the floor, dropping a thin-bladed, bloody-tipped knife.

Before he could turn around, a whiskey bottle crashed across his wrist causing him to drop the pistol. A chair caught him at the back of the knees, tumbling him to the floor. Skinner kicked at his head, but Brannon caught the boot and twisted it violently. Skinner dropped to the floor. Brannon rolled over to his knees and dove under a table as another chair crashed to the floor where he’d been.

He struggled to his feet in time to see the three men charge towards him. Jumping on a chair, Brannon dove for the men, tackling two to the ground with him. He rolled over on Skinner and cracked his fist into the man’s jaw twice before he took a bruising blow to the back of the head. Glass fragments mixed with whiskey flowed down the back of his shirt.

The shorter man kicked him in the ribs. Brannon rolled halfway across the room, escaped the blows, and regained his stance. Blood and sweat and whiskey trickled down his forehead and blurred his vision. He jerked his tie from his neck.

Spread apart, the men charged toward Brannon.

“That did it,” Brannon said. “I’m tired of being nice.”

He dove into them and yanked Eureka by the coat lapel. He swung him around twice before the others could get close and slammed Eureka, head first, into a twelve-by-twelve rough-sawn post that supported the middle of the long, narrow room. Eureka crumpled to the floor and didn’t move.

Skinner caught Brannon with a wild roundhouse right hook, and the little man leaped on Brannon’s back while Skinner landed several hard punches to the midsection. Staggering back with the weight of the little man on his shoulders, Brannon shoved him against the wood stove against the wall, hoping for a hot fire.

The impact against the cast iron and stovepipe caused the man to lose grip and tumble, head first behind the stove. The man’s flailing legs kicked the stovepipes loose, spraying Brannon and Skinner with soot.

Seizing the moment, Brannon plunged into Skinner with a powerful left jab, right jab, left jab, right jab. Scrambling back to avoid the punches, Skinner tripped over Eureka. Brannon’s knee caught the man under the chin. He fell to his back gasping for breath.

The shorter man pulled himself free from the stove. Brannon could see the Mexican wiping blood from his forehead as he struggled to his feet.

“Don’t touch the knife,” Brannon shouted.

“You are a dead man, Señor. I am Ramon Fuente-Delgado. My father happens to be the Vice-General in Monterrey.”

“And my Father is the King of Kings in Heaven,” Brannon said. “You pick up that knife again and you’ll see my Father long before you’ll ever see yours.” Brannon tried to smear some of the soot, whiskey, and blood from his face by rubbing his suit sleeve across his face.

“Your bluff is weak without a weapon in your hand,” Fuente-Delgado said.

“It’s not a bluff.”

“Neither is this, Sheriff.” The short man held a gun on him from across the room.

“Well, well,” Fuente-Delgado said. “Look who’s going to visit El Señor. Shoot him, Dade.”

“Dade won’t shoot me.” Brannon searched the floor for his dropped pistol as he stalled. “And I’ll tell you why. Dade, did you ever know a man who shot an unarmed sheriff in the back and lived to talk about it?”

“What difference does that make?” Fuente-Delgado said. “Shoot him!”

“Maybe we act differently on this side of the border.” Brannon spotted his pistol and inched that direction. “You gun down an unarmed sheriff, and every lawman and posse and vigilante committee in the West will hunt you and shoot you on the spot. No trial. No jury. No jail time. No burial. No notifying next of kin. Oh, sure, any old boy can get a little stewed and throw a punch at a sheriff. You wake up the next day in the juzgado, make your apologies, and ride on back to the ranch. Everyone’s done that. But shootin’ in the back? That’s like committing suicide.”

“Shoot him,” Fuente-Delgado shouted.

“I ain’t no sheriff shooter,” Dade replied. “Get them boys up and let’s ride out of here.”

A gagging cough and gasp from Skinner caused Dade to glance down at the man struggling to his knees, trying to breathe.

Taking the break, Brannon dove to the floor, grabbed his pistol, and rolled to the bar pointing his gun at Dade, who bent down to help Skinner to his feet.

Ramon Fuente-Delgado stooped to grab his knife, but Brannon’s shot separated the handle from the blade and spun both pieces across the floor.

“Skinner’s choking to death, Sheriff. Do something,” Dade said. “He’s done turned blue.”

“Pull his tongue out,” Brannon replied.

“What?”

“You heard me. Reach into his mouth and pull up his tongue. He’s swallowed it. Pull it out or he’ll die.” Brannon motioned with the pistol for Fuente-Delgado to join the others by the wood stove.

Grabbing a bottle from the bar, he walked over to where Eureka lay passed out by the big beam. Pulling the cork with his teeth and keeping the gun pointed at the threesome, he emptied the contents of the bottle on Eureka. The man struggled to his feet, clutching his head.

Skinner started to regain color and breath, but he couldn’t speak.

“I figure you boys owe the Lavender Slipper a few dollars for damages,” Brannon said. “So put your pokes on the table there.”

“We ain’t got no money, Sheriff,” Dade said.

“I think you’re lying.” He cocked the hammer back on the Colt. “Put your pokes on the table.”

Dade and Skinner reached into their coat pockets and tossed small leather bags onto the table.

“It’s your turn, Eureka.”

“I ain’t got none.”

“Pull off those boots.” Brannon fired a shot into the floor near Eureka, who jumped back and yanked on his boots. A small leather pouch fell to the floor. “Isn’t that amazing? You’re richer than you thought. All right, Señor Fuente-Delgado, Junior, pull your boots too.”

He tugged off his boots, but there was no pouch.

“Now, undo that red sash that holds up your britches,” Brannon said.

“You can’t—” he protested.

Brannon fired a bullet that whizzed between the man’s legs and slammed into the wall behind him.

“You only got three shots left,” Fuente-Delgado said, “and there are four of us.”

“True. One of you will live. The other three will be dead. Only you don’t know which three I will select, do you? Pull off the sash.”

“Do what he says, Ramon,” Dade ordered.

Releasing the sash dropped the britches to the floor, revealing only white long Johns.

“Why, look there,” Brannon said. “A poke tumbled out.”

“You going to put us back in the jail?” Eureka asked.

“Nope. This is a wedding day, and I feel generous. I want you boys to walk out that front door, get on those horses, and ride south until you can’t remember where Tres Casas is. Understand?”

“You going to let us ride out of here?” Dade asked.

“Yep.”

“He’ll shoot us in the back and say we were escaping,” Fuente-Delgado charged.

Eureka rubbed his head. “Nope. Not Brannon. We’ll ride, Sheriff, but I need my boots.”

“Leave them. You tried to hold back, Eureka. That’ll cost you extra. Now, move slowly to the door.”

“Not without my trousers,” Fuente-Delgado shouted.

“Oh, yeah? You’ll do it. Might be a little embarrassing, but you’ll do it. When you get to Monterrey, I’m sure your daddy will buy you another pair.”

“I can’t!” Fuente-Delgado started to protest.

Dade and Skinner shoved him out the door.

A crowd gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Lavender Slipper. Most hooted and hollered insults as the men sheepishly made their exit. They mounted quickly and raced their horses down Trotter’s Gulch Road.

“Sheriff, how come you ain’t at that weddin’?” someone called out.

Brannon holstered his pistol and glanced at his watch.

4:15.

He tried running, but the whiskey and sweat running into the cut on his back only increased the pain. He settled for a fast walk, cutting down the alley to the back of the church. He found Edwin Fletcher pacing by the back door.

“My word, Stuart, is that you under all that?”

“Am I late? I mean, I know I’m late. Tell Velvet I’m here now.”

“You’re here? Just what part of you is here? You’re covered with soot. You smell to high heaven. And your head’s busted. Good grief, your back has a cut straight across. What happened ?”

“Bring Velvet out here so I can apologize. I’ll tell you about this later.”

Brannon bent over a horse trough when Velvet Wendell, holding up the train of her white wedding dress, burst through the back door.

“Well, if it isn’t the sheriff. I’m so glad you decided to attend.”

Fletcher stepped to the back door to watch.

“Look, Vel—”

“Don’t ‘look, Vel’ me. Look at you. You looked better covered with mud up at the mine.”

“There was a little trouble on the way to the church.”

“A little trouble? Stuart, every day of your life is a little trouble. You thrive on it. You can’t survive without it. Just one day, that’s all I wanted. One calm, normal day to get married. Is that so much to ask?”

“I’m sorry, Vel, sincerely sorry. But you knew I was this way. If you have second thoughts about me going through with this, just say so.”

Wendell let her dress fall to the ground and she broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

Brannon looked at her and Fletcher who shrugged.

She finally caught her breath. “Look at you. You are the worst smelling, dirtiest, bloodiest man who ever walked down a church aisle. The Reverend will have to charge you for cleaning bloodstains from the rug. But you know what?” She began to laugh again. “This is exactly what I expected.”

“The suit did look nice.” He tried to smile.

“I presume at one time you had a tie?”

“The tie? Where did that thing go?”

“And the shirt was white, correct?”

“Sure.”

“I suppose that black stuff all over your hair and coat was not intentional?”

“The stovepipe broke.”

“Do you need the doc to patch up your back?”

“It’s just a scrape.”

She shook her head. “It’s a bloody mess.”

The minister arrived at door. “Sheriff Brannon, are you able to carry on?”

“Eh, listen, Reverend. Do you happen to have another jacket I can borrow? I sort of ruined this one.”

“Well, certainly, yes, of course … not the same size, naturally, but nonetheless, we must get this service started.”

Brannon couldn’t get all the blood and soot off his face and hair, but he slipped on the pastor’s coat. The sleeves were three inches short and the top button wouldn’t stretch across his chest.

“It’s time to begin,” the minister insisted. “I’ll have them light the candles.”

“The gun, Stuart, you’re still packing the revolver,” Fletcher whispered.

“Leave it,” Wendell said. “I’ve never seen him without a gun of some sort. No reason for today to be different.”

“Wait.” Brannon sprinted to his ripped suit coat lying on the back step of the church.

“Get back here,” the bride said.

“Not without this.” He unfastened the sheriff ’s badge and clipped it on the ill-fitting coat.

“Come on, the organ’s playing,” she called.

They scooted to the front door of the church, where many people stood, peering in.

“Are you sure you’re not too embarrassed to go through with this?” Brannon asked.

She smiled. “There isn’t a man on the face of this earth I’d rather have by my side. Are you embarrassed?”

Brannon started to reach up and adjust his tie, then realized he didn’t have one. “Not me. I’m as proud as a heifer who’s dropped her first calf.”

“I’ll take that for a compliment. It’s about time for us to go down the aisle.”

They climbed the steps and waited for the woman at the curtain to signal.

“Are you nervous, Stuart?” Wendell whispered.

“Not really. Just a little lonesome.”

“For Lisa?”

“Does it show?”

“Every day of your life.” She smiled. “Thanks for everything, Stuart. You’ve been one of the greatest things that ever happened to me.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “There’s the signal. Are you ready?”

“Sure, but you might have to help me remember what to do.”

“You’ll remember. It’s not like this was your first wedding,” she said under her breath as they sauntered up the aisle.

He tried to smile at those who turned to gawk at the bride. “It’s the first time I’ve ever given the bride away.”

“Relax. You sound like a nervous father.”

“I can tell you one thing, you make a beautiful bride.”

Nodding at the guests, she continued to lead him down the aisle. “Why, Stuart, you’re five months late for flattery.”