CHAPTER TWO

 

El Viento pranced as Brannon and Fletcher rode up the trail towards Brighton Pass. The big black horse wanted to race, but the road contained a series of mudslides and slick rocks.

Brannon was in no hurry. Creeks were high. Trees budded out. Clouds scattered, harmless. A warm sun in a pure, clean blue sky. Cool wind. Birds singing. Except for the constant sting of a knife scratch on his back, a bruised wrist, and a swollen left eye, Brannon considered this a perfect day.

The two men rode their horses at a walk, side by side along the trail. Brannon’s Winchester lay across his lap, his coat unbuttoned, as he scanned the trail ahead.

Fletcher read a newspaper as he rode, wearing a light jacket with only the top button fastened, clean-shaven except for a small mustache, and his broad-rimmed hat pushed far back on his head. “I say, Stuart, have you read the news?”

“What? You never let the paper out of your sight until the ink’s worn.”

“A man needs to keep current. Even you might be interested in this:

‘Tres Casas celebrated its largest wedding in recent memory last Saturday afternoon when Miss Velvet Wendell, proprietor of the Davis & Wendell Hotel in this city, married Dr. Nelson Shepherd, our beloved doctor and mayor.’

“Now comes the good part …

 

‘The wedding was delayed by Sheriff Brannon who was distracted by official business moments before the hour when nuptial commitments were slated to commence. Our sheriff, in one of his last days in office, did appear in time to present the bride. This paper has learned, through reliable sources, that Sheriff Brannon and Miss Wendell’s father have been close friends for a number of years. Miss Wendell wore—‘”

Brannon groaned. “Her father. She’s a year or two older than I am. Who told them that? Her father’s been dead for years.”

“I thought that might amuse you. I liked the part about your being distracted on official business. Shall I read the rest?”

“No need.”

“Oh, my word,” Fletcher said, “how tragic.”

“The wedding?”

“No.” Fletcher pointed to the paper he was holding. “There’s trouble over in Lincoln County. An English chap by the name of John Turnstall was shot down near his ranch. Did you know him?”

“Afraid not. He a relative of yours?”

“No, poor fellow. It’s some kind of a land feud, so they say. Several of Turnstall’s friends have sworn revenge.”

“Who are his friends? Maybe I know them.”

“It says here, Alexander McSween, John Chisum, and William Bonney.”

“I know old John Chisum. He’s got a big spread right along the Pecos,” Brannon replied. “Never heard of the other two.”

“Do you think we should ride down there after we finish our business in the mountains? After all, the death of an Englishman should be investigated.”

“They’ve got a sheriff in Lincoln County. Bradley, or Brady, something like that. I met him once down at Santa Fe. He can take care of it without our meddling.”

“Yes. Quite right,” Fletcher replied. “Here’s another note:

‘Feeling the present name much too negative, the residents of Massacre Meadow voted to change the name of their town. Mayor Dixon Rutherford campaigned for the name Rutherford City to honor his brothers slain in the meadow the previous winter. After a vigorous debate at a town meeting where insults and threats were delivered by all present, the townspeople selected the name Paradise Meadow .’”

“An official town and Rutherford is mayor?” Brannon said.

“Are you planning an impeachment campaign?”

“Not me, I’m not on the peck. I really don’t care what they decide up there. All we need to do is pay our respects to the Mulroneys and leave them Stephen’s share of the mine. We’ll be pulling out for Arizona by the first of next week. Besides, there can’t be more than a couple dozen folks up there anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

~~~~

Rose Creek blinked her eyes open and stared at the cobwebs in the corner of her canvas ceiling.

They will not defeat me again.

They couldn’t defeat her at Park Hill, Indian Territory.

They couldn’t defeat her in San Bernardino, California.

They cannot defeat me in Paradise Meadow, Colorado.

Her self-lecture completed, Rose raised out of the small cot that served as her bed, pulled up the wool blankets, and neatly folded back flannel sheets.

Her morning ritual reflected years of training at the Cherokee National Female Seminary. She learned arithmetic, philosophy, chemistry, Latin, physical culture, housekeeping, and, of course, Biblical studies. She felt adequately trained to be a schoolteacher.

But Fem Sem did not train her how to face an entire community that considered her half-breed Indian heritage a disqualification for teaching their children, even though most of the parents didn’t even read or write.

Rose stoked her wood stove that served to cook her meals and warm the room.

On the first day of classes last September, Rose counted nineteen students in her class. On December first, she publicly humiliated Mayor Dixon Rutherford by showing up at a town meeting and complaining to the citizenry she did not appreciate his inappropriate advances.

“Mayor Rutherford’s moral example is appalling and a negative influence on the children of this community,” she announced.

In response Rutherford, after checking into Creek’s Cherokee background, began a drive to have her removed as teacher. In a drunken but impassioned Christmas Eve speech he declared, “This very meadow, this very town is built on the slaughter of brave men by treacherous savages and half-breeds. We cannot slander the memory of our town’s pioneers with such an intolerable situation as this.”

Adding threats of retaliation by those who failed to comply, brought the number of Rose’s students down to three—Sean, Stephen, and Sarah Mulroney. La Plata County officials refused to reassign Miss Creek because they had no one who wanted to serve the rough mining supply camp at Paradise Meadow. they had no alternate position to offer her.

So for months Rose taught the three Mulroney children and suffered growing resentment against her. Only the Mulroneys and freight company owner Wishy Boswick gave her more than a two-word conversation. In fact, Boswick kept her in supplies throughout the long, snowbound winter.

Now she jeopardized losing even her three students.

Six days previous, Janie Mulroney was run down and killed by a stampeding freight wagon. Accusations flew whether the accident could have been avoided. Some said an incensed Mrs. Mulroney screamed at Mayor Rutherford up and down Del Oro Street prior to her accident. Others said Mrs. Mulroney, who at times was noted for erratic behavior, ran in front of the runaway wagon on purpose.

After dressing and pulling her long, black hair behind her head, Rose heard shouts from the front of the canvas-topped building that doubled as living quarters and schoolroom.

“Miss Rose,” a young voice cried. “Come quick! They put daddy in jail.”

Sticking her head outside the tent flap door, she glanced at six-year-old Sarah Mulroney, still in nightgown and barefoot, standing in mud.

“Miss Rose, some men came this morning and arrested Daddy. They might hang him. You’ve got to stop them.”

She opened the door and scooted Sarah inside. “Who arrested him?”

“Mr. Rutherford and Mr. Hughes and some others.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“They said he shot a man.”

“Where are Sean and Stephen?”

“Waiting at the jail. Miss Rose, you’ve got to help us.”

The Paradise Meadow jail occupied one of the few log buildings in the town. The original stage stop until the barn, attached to one end of the cabin, caught fire and partially burned, the stage line moved to another location. Iron bars bolted into the interior of the cabin created two cells about the size of a small pantry. In between, like a narrow hall, was the town marshal’s office. Few residents knew the marshal because Rutherford seemed to appoint a different one each week.

With one hand, Rose held her long dress high above the mud as she stormed across the rutted meadow street. In her other hand, she carried an unopened parasol on her shoulder. An armed man stopped her in front of the jail.

“You cain’t go in there,” he told her.

“I need to talk to Mr. Mulroney.”

“Don’t get no talkin’,” the man replied. “He done shot Loredo. Besides, this ain’t no Injun jail.”

Fire built within her. “Your inane vocabulary and prejudice concern me very little, but I am going to talk to Mr. Mulroney about his children.”

“Nope. Rutherford said absolutely no visitors.”

“Then, if you insist, hand me your firearm, and I will guard the prisoner while you take these children home, bathe them, dress them, and cook them breakfast. Children, go with this man.”

“Now, wait jist a minute.”

“If you aren’t going to do that, I suggest you take these three Mulroney children to Rutherford and tell him they are his responsibility to raise.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“Okay, I’m going in.” Miss Rose swished past the guard.

He reached out to grab her arm, but felt the sharp metal point of the unopened parasol stick into his ribs. “You jist want to talk about them kids?”

“That is what I said.”

“That cain’t hurt nothin’, I suppose.” He stepped back and opened the door. “Now, listen here, breed, you jist talk to Mulroney. Don’t go sayin’ nothin’ to them twins, you understand?”

She barged into the jail.

“Miss Rose,” Peter Mulroney called as she stepped to the iron-barred door. “The children? What have they done with the children?”

“Nothing, apparently. But they’re worried sick about you. What happened?”

“Last night, I couldn’t take it anymore, what with my Janie gone. I went over to Rutherford to confront him about her death. I know he was in on it. He was in that place of his, shouting at some other man I’ve never seen. Anyway, I called him out.

“One of them fired a shot right through the canvas. I fired back and hit the lantern, which crashed to the floor. Several more shots went off, but I ran back to my place. I figured nothing came of it. Then they showed up this morning and said I shot some friend of Rutherford’s named Loredo, so they arrested me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I know I didn’t shoot anybody. But if he dies, they’ll go over there and get drunk and come back and hang me.” Mulroney moaned. “They want to kill us all.”

“All who?” Rose asked.

“All who know the truth about the hard winter.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “The children … they matter.”

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Get the children to Stuart Brannon. He’s got a mine up above us in the mountains northeast of here. If you can find him, he will know what to do.”

“This Brannon, is he a relative?”

“No, a partner… a friend. Just find Brannon.” Mulroney shook his head. “I should have listened to Janie. We should have gone home to Dublin.”

“Mr. Mulroney, where is this Brannon?”

“I told you ... a gold mine … in the mountains.”

“Where? How far away? Is it up on the Little Yellowjacket?”

“I don’t know for sure.” Mulroney paced the floor. “The photographer. You know Miller? His assistant said they had been to the mine.”

“Mr. Mulroney, if you like, I’ll take care of the children until we find this Brannon or until you are freed.”

“I’m much obliged, Miss Rose.” Tears rolled down the frightened Irishman’s face. “Brannon will know what to do.”

Miss Creek spun around and trooped out the door. The guard jumped back as she lowered her parasol. Scooping up the children, she marched back to the school. Sitting them at their benches, she began to explain. “Children, your father’s doing fine, but we must get him help. He seemed to think Mr. Stuart Brannon could assist in this matter. Do you know him?”

“Yes, Miss Rose,” Stephen replied. “We sure do.”

“Who is he?”

Sean smiled. “He shoots people.”

“Sean, he does not,” Sarah said.

“He does too. I saw him.”

Rose looked at Sean. “Is he a gunman?”

“No,” Sarah said. “He’s a very nice man who took care of us last winter when we were lost in the snow. He told us stories and let us ride his horse.”

“And he shot some bad men right out here in this meadow,” Sean added.

“Real bad men,” Stephen offered.

Rose gasped. “He was in on that massacre?”

“Daddy said there wasn’t any massacre. Those Rutherfords tried to kill us, and we shot back. That’s what our daddy says,” Sarah explained.

“So that’s what your father meant.” Miss Rose strolled to the back of the tent, opened a large trunk, and slammed it shut. “Sean?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I need you to try to find Mr. Boswick. He was going to Tres Casas, but he might still be in town. Tell him this is an emergency. Stephen, you and Sarah come with me. We need to look for that man who takes the photographs, Hawthorne Miller.”

“Miss Rose,” Stephen said. “I’m awful hungry.”

“I’m not dressed proper,” Sarah said.

“Yes, yes, of course. Let’s eat first. Sarah, you run home and get dressed. I’ll prepare breakfast. Wear some shoes today.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah darted from the tent.

“Is that man … the one that got shot, going to die?” Stephen asked.

“We should pray for him,” Sean said.

“I’m a little busy right now. So why don’t you two pray for him?” Rose replied.

Me pray? Like I prayed my father wouldn’t die of smallpox? Or that they wouldn’t kill all our cows? Like I prayed for a chance to study at Mount Holyoke? Or for Jimmy?

~~~~

Paradise Meadow looked more like a shipwreck than a town.

White tent buildings rose out of the stacks and stacks of crates and cartons that made it through Brighton Pass, but not yet been shipped to the mines. With few organized streets, visible ground consisted of gummy clay mud.

Teams of mules, horses, and oxen struggled to haul freight from place to place. Along the edges of the meadow, crews worked felling trees and putting up cabins, stores, and saloons. Most of the best buildings had split-log floors, wooden walls, and canvas roofs.

Crusty old miners filtered in from their claims.

Storekeepers, barbers, lawyers, gamblers, and soiled doves streamed from Tres Casas to open up business.

To find someone required a search of the whole town, because often they would not be located in the same place as the previous day.

After scraping their breakfast plates clean, Miss Rose and two of the Mulroney children started out for the far side of town. With several inches of mud stuck to her high-top, lace-up black shoes, she made it to the construction site but could not find Hawthorne Miller.

“I think he’s by the creek,” said a member of the crew. “There’s been rumors of a party of Utes camped nearby and he headed that direction.”

Reaching the stream, they crossed a log footbridge and passed through a grove of aspen towards Mr. Miller’s wagon.

Miss Rose called out to him.

A grumbling noise slipped out from under the black shanty with canvas doors perched atop the wagon.

“Mr. Miller, may I have a word with you?” she said.

“I’m busy … too busy … come back later,” came his muffled reply.

“Mr. Miller, I really must speak with you.”

A head poked out of the canvas flaps. Covering his eyes with his hand, Miller squinted in the sunlight. “Miss Rose, did you change your mind about wearing buckskins and posing with the children?” he asked.

“I certainly did not.”

“Very well.” He disappeared back into the portable dark room.

“Mr. Miller, I need some information, please. Do you know a Mr. Stuart Brannon?”

Miller stuck his head out of the tent again. “Did you say Brannon?”

“Yes, I must get a message to Mr. Brannon.”

“Carry on, Gilmore.” Miller stepped out of the tent and climbed off the wagon. “Wouldn’t that be a picture? Legendary gunman Stuart Brannon with a half-breed in buckskins. My, yes.”

“All I need to know,” she said, “is the location of Mr. Brannon’s mine. The children’s father has been arrested, and I believe he can help. You know Brannon, I presume?”

“Know him? The uncultured ruffian! Ruthless, that’s what he is. We’ve had a confrontation. Of course, I lived through it. That’s more than many a man can say.”

“So, he’s a rough man?”

“A violent, unpredictable man, that’s what. One minute he asks you to dine, and the next he attempts to pistol-whip you. Take my advice, Miss Rose, do not get mixed up with this fellow.”

“Do you know where his claim is?”

“Of course I do. I’m one of the few in this town to ever be at the Brannon claim. The Little Stephen Mine, I believe he calls it.”

“That’s me,” Stephen shouted. “That’s my mine. I’m one of the partners.”

“You don’t say … Little Stephen of the Little Stephen. Now wouldn’t be grand, if he only let me photograph the mine.”

“Please, just tell us where the mine is,” Rose said.

“I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“What do you mean, persuaded?”

“You agree to pose in buckskins next to Brannon, and I’ll give you directions to the mine.”

Rose Creek’s gaze froze. The temples of her forehead tightened. She’d been in a similar squeeze before. Far too many times to let it pass. She shoved the pointed end of her parasol at Miller, then addressed Stephen and Sarah. “Children, take a good look at Mr. Miller. It’s not every day you see such a sorry excuse for a man. Perhaps the Almighty made a few errors in constructing him. You’ll notice his speech is incoherent and his brain seems to be made of buffalo dung.”

The children giggled.

“Well. I can see you half-breeds are no better than Brannon himself,” he said. He climbed back upon the wagon and into the dark room.

Miss Rose sighed.

Nice going, Rose Creek. You showed him. Of course, this won’t help the children in the least.

“Maybe Sean has found Mr. Boswick,” Sarah said.

“Perhaps.” She led them back to the footbridge.

“Miss Rose! Ma’am, wait up.” A young man ran after them from Miller’s wagon. Catching his breath, he glanced behind him. “I’m Jeremiah Gilmore, Mr. Miller’s assistant. I heard your conversation.”

“Can you tell us where the mine is? Where is Stuart Brannon?”

He shrugged. “I can tell you where the mine was. But that won’t do you any good. The Ute hunters that came to town this week were trading mining gear. They said ‘the Brannon’ gave the mine to them when he left the mountains last fall.”

“Did they say where he went?”

“No.”

“Mr. Gilmore, we—”

“Jeremy, ma’am. Just call me Jeremy.” He pulled his hat off his head, brushed back his hair, and grinned.

“Jeremy,” she said, “it is extremely important to find Brannon. If you hear anything about him, could you let me know?”

“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.” He blushed.

“How old are you, Jeremy?”

“Almost eighteen, ma’am.”

Maybe sixteen. That a girl, Rose, you’re a real charmer to children.

“Jeremy, tell me about Brannon. Some people think he’s a murderer, and others think he’s a hero. What do you say?”

“Ma’am, all I know is he’s a very tough hombre. He won’t back down from no one, no ma’am. He told me the real story of the shootout at Paradise Meadow, and it sure ain’t what you hear around here.”

“Would he stand up against Rutherford and his kind?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe he would.”

“Thank you for your help. Let’s hope we find him in time.” She smiled and offered her hand.

He wiped his hand on his shirt and rapidly shook hers.

As they crossed the footbridge to return to town, Sarah spoke first. “I think Jeremiah Gilmore likes you, Miss Rose.”

“That’s nice. There don’t seem to be many in town that feel the same.”

“No,” Sarah said with a giggle. “I mean he really, really likes you.”

“That’s dumb,” Stephen said. “He’s young and Miss Rose is an old lady.”

Rose couldn’t help but laugh at Stephen’s innocent gaze. “You’re right about that, young man. Now let’s find Sean and see what he knows.”

~~~~

On their third day out, Brannon and Fletcher crested Brighton Pass about noon and slowly worked their way past others on the crowded trail. Freight wagons struggled through the muddy, snow-melt filled ruts. Brannon and Fletcher branched towards the creek to find a place to bed down for the night. A sudden downpour sent them scurrying for the cover of trees and pulling out yellow slickers.

“I say, Stuart, wouldn’t this be the place we found Mrs. Mulroney and the others?”

“Could be. It looks a lot different without the snow.”

Within moments, the thunderous downpour subsided, and the evening sun splayed through the rolling clouds.

Brannon gathered a few sticks and scratched out a fire circle. “Edwin, let’s pitch camp here. Are you sufficiently through with that newspaper?”

“My heavens, are you actually going to read it?”

“Why should I? You’ve read every word to me at least three times. I figured it would make starting a wet fire a little easier.”

“I suppose that would be a good use. Of course, I did tear out the mention of the wedding. And the part about Turnstall. And the bit about the Bland-Allison Act being passed over the veto of President Hayes.”

“Is there any newspaper left?”

“Oh, yes, quite.” Fletcher handed Brannon the tatters.

“At least the obituaries are intact. I don’t remember you reading those.”

“I never read obituaries.”

“Why?”

“Call it superstition, I suppose. I just choose not to read them. Old family tradition. Fletchers never read obituaries.”

Brannon squatted to build the fire and wadded up the paper. Suddenly, he stood up. “Edwin, listen.

‘Reports have reached Tres Casas concerning the accidental death of Jane Mulroney, residing in Paradise Meadow (formerly Massacre Meadow), La Plata County, Colorado. She was one of the few citizens to dwell in the region before last summer’s mining boom. According to Dr. C. Stover, Mrs. Mulroney suffered severe internal injury when run down by a runaway freight wagon and team. She is survived by her husband, Peter, and several children.’”

“My word, how horrid.”

“It has to be our Janie Mulroney.” Brannon gazed into the distance. An easily terrified woman meeting a horrifying death.

Lord, that doesn’t seem right.

“I say, how will Peter handle those children?” Fletcher said.

“I suppose we will find that out tomorrow.” Brannon squatted and continued to build a fire. But his mind traveled to deep snows of a winter past and a cabin crowded with people.