CHAPTER TWELVE
Brannon doubted El Viento would ever make much of a cow pony. But no question the big black gelding galloped the fastest and smoothest Brannon had ever owned. And El Viento ran best at night.
Dark shadows of tents, buildings, and trees streaked by Brannon and disappeared. He pulled up only for a moment at the clearing on the far side of the hanging log where Gilmore held the prisoners. In the dark, there was no trace of their departure.
Brannon presumed Rutherford probably took the wagon down this road. He couldn’t unhitch the team and ride one of the horses because of the shackles on his feet. But he wouldn’t stay on the main road. He’d pull off and blaze a new road if he had to.
The vigilantes from Paradise Meadow only moments behind him, Brannon wanted to find Rutherford before they did. It was personal.
My error. I should never have put that young man in that bind. It doesn’t seem fair for him to carry that bullet. Pull him through, Lord.
An easy pursuit in daylight with wagon tracks, high visibility, and little opportunity for Rutherford to hide something as large as Miller’s photographic wagon. But there was not even moonlight.
Brannon slowed El Viento to carefully check every possibility of a turnoff. If Rutherford got lower down the mountain, the arroyos and barrancas provided cover for two hundred miles. He could make it to Utah before Brannon found him.
Well, he won’t take the fork back to Brighton Pass. And I doubt if he’ll head towards the Arizona line.
Somewhere a trail led back to the canyons.
Red Shirt knew the way.
Brannon jerked the reins so hard El Viento skidded to a stop. He slid up to the horn. “That a boy.” He patted the horse’s neck. “Let’s go back there and look.”
About fifty feet up the mountain, Brannon found the resemblance of a wagon trail winding through the trees. Scooping up a small pine branch covered with dry needles, he lit them. They flared a moment, revealing fresh wagon tracks headed down the trail.
Brannon walked El Viento for a while, following the tracks until the pine torch died out. “Well, boy, I don’t know how far he is, or if he’s waiting for us in these trees.”
He remounted and leaned low in the saddle with his sternum on the horn. His face bounced in the mane as he peered between the horse’s ears. “No reason to give him an easy target,” he whispered.
Even in the blackness, with only stars providing light, he could see tall tree shadows break away in the sky and reveal what had to be a wagon trail below. After several minutes of this style of tracking, Brannon dismounted and struck a match, again finding fresh wagon tracks.
As the match faded, he noticed El Viento cock his head and point his ears straight forward.
“What is it, boy?”
Standing still, Brannon heard wind whip through the treetops. The eerie whine of a dead tree screeched and moaned while being supported by a live one. He was just about to remount when a distant sound like a hammer banging on metal caught his attention.
The shackles! He’s trying to bust the shackles!
Continuing on foot, he led El Viento as quietly as possible. He kept stopping to readjust his direction toward the sound of the hammering. He had to get there before he busted out and mounted one of the horses.
Brannon hoped Rutherford felt so secure and hidden that he built a fire or dug out one of Miller’s lanterns. That would provide a beacon to guide him to the fugitive. But, strain as he would, he could see no light and could only guess the route by the sporadic hammering.
He spied an opening in the trees ahead and knew he approached a small meadow, a good spot to pull across the clearing and park in the far trees. He could at least hear anyone approaching, maybe even see them. But instead, he began a slow and deliberate walk through the woods to the right.
Stopping.
Listening.
Beginning again.
At first, the sound grew more distant, but as he swung around the bottom edge of the clearing, he got closer. Seeing nothing, he was forced to stop every few steps to listen. Finally, the hammering stopped.
So did Brannon.
Then, several more blows.
Brannon again stepped forward.
A horse whinnied about fifty feet in front of him. He froze and grabbed El Viento’s muzzle to keep him from revealing their position. A small, round, red glow about head high gleamed straight ahead of him.
A cigar?
The glow fell to the ground.
He’s going for his gun.
Brannon dove forward, pushing El Viento to the side as a bullet tore through the night. A flaming barrel revealed the man’s position. Brannon raised to fire at the target and at the last moment failed to squeeze his finger.
How do I know for sure it’s Rutherford?
He rolled behind the trunk of a tree.
One more shot blasted his direction.
He waited.
After a couple minutes that seemed an hour, each man waited for the other to move.
Lying flat on the ground, Brannon tossed a branch in the opposite direction and shouted, “Dixon, it’s me!”
A shot rang out.
A rough, startled voice, “Cleve? Is that you, Cleve?”
From his ground position Brannon caught a glimpse of Rutherford’s outstretched gun hand silhouette. Using his Colt so he wouldn’t have to raise up, Brannon fired two shots at the shadowy arm.
A scream, a crash, and a curse shattered the windblown stillness. “Cleve!”
“You’re yelling at the wrong man, Rutherford. I didn’t say it was Cleve. I said it was me.”
“Brannon?”
“Back away from that gun, Dixon.”
Wild shots pierced the night.
Hoping to avoid a ricochet, Brannon waited for the guns to empty. With the clicking of empty chambers, he heard movement. Was he trying to get back on the wagon and make a run for it?
With his Winchester and his Colt, he rushed toward the sounds. He reached the back of the wagon as Rutherford slapped leather to the team. The wagon jolted and jerked on its way. Brannon tossed his Winchester into the rear of the wagon, grabbed the tailgate, and ran along behind.
Finally gaining a step, he leaped for the back of the wagon and pulled himself inside. Plunging toward the front, he discovered the photographer’s storage and dark room had only a rear entrance.
He couldn’t reach Rutherford.
Stumbling over Hawthorne Miller’s cooking gear, Brannon hoisted an iron bar used to hold pots over the fire. Leaning over the back of the wagon, he jammed the bar into the spokes of the left rear wheel and jumped from the wagon. The wheel locked up.
Several spokes snapped like toothpicks, and the horses yanked left. The wagon pitched onto its side, tumbling Rutherford in front of Brannon. He sprang towards the downed fugitive, but as he closed in, he saw an axe in Rutherford’s right hand.
Brannon couldn’t avoid contact, but he protected his head with his hands and ducked. Rutherford’s panicked swing missed its mark, but the axe handle slammed into Brannon’s left arm. The old knife wound tore open. Brannon lost grip on the Colt, but immediately squeezed of one round from the Winchester.
He heard a thump.
He waited several moments for any sign of movement, then lit a match. The rifle bullet punctured Rutherford below the chin, snapped his head back, and exited behind his right ear. Rutherford was dead on impact.
Brannon rolled to his knees and grabbed his bleeding arm. Pulling off his bandana, he wrapped the wound the best he could.
He looked down at Rutherford. “If I’d shot you a week ago, it sure would have saved everyone a lot of anguish,” he said.
They wanted Rutherford. They could come get him—and the wagon.
He lit another match and found a cloth in the back of the overturned wagon. Holding one end in his teeth, he managed to tie a crude bandage around his reopened wound. Gathering up his hat and guns, he hiked back up the wagon trail to find El Viento.
Unlike his previous horse, Sage, El Viento was not calm under fire. In fact, the horse bolted up the mountain at Rutherford’s first shot. Mama Grande’s gift to him, the big black’s one redeeming feature was he always ran away the same direction he came. El Viento would be somewhere up the trail towards the main western road out of Paradise Meadow. The more scared, the further he went.
Maybe I should sell him and buy a cayuse that will stand and fight.
A half-hour later, he neared where the trail forked with the road. Then he heard hoof beats of several horses and distant voices.
The vigilantes? Highsmith? It couldn’t be Rose. She was supposed to be in a wagon.
Approaching the riders, Brannon sneaked in close enough to hear their conversation.
“My word, it’s El Viento. Brannon’s down.”
Fletcher? Mulroney? Who else?
“I should have never let him take on a whole town.”
“I’d say the town is paying a bit itself.”
“Well, don’t put flowers on my grave yet,” Brannon called out.
Fletcher nearly jumped out of his saddle. “Stuart? Good heavens, you could cause a man to have heart failure.”
“Doc?” Brannon grabbed El Viento’s reins. “What are you doing with this pair?” He pulled himself into the saddle, leaving his left arm limp.
“Vel sent me along. She insisted if you rode back into Paradise Meadows, there would be lots of folks needing medical attention,” replied Doc Shepherd of Tres Casas.
“She’s right about that. Got a knife wound in my arm that just busted open again.”
“I did bring along my bag. I should look at that arm,” Doc Shepherd said.
“What are you doing out here on the road without your horse?” Fletcher asked.
Mulroney added, “And why is the sky lit up in the direction of Paradise Meadow?”
Brannon looked east. Even over the pine-covered crest, he could see a red-orange glow in the dark sky. He sighed. “They’re burning the town down.”
“Who’s burning it?” Fletcher asked.
“Everyone. They set Fetterson’s on fire and tried to burn me out.”
Mulroney groaned. “Fetterson’s? Why?”
“A lynch mob was after Rutherford and Cleve. I was holding them prisoner until the U.S. Marshal gets here.”
“He isn’t coming,” Fletcher announced. “Cheyenne trouble on the eastern slope. They won’t have a man this way until June, at the earliest.”
“Well, it’s too late now anyway.”
“Why were you out here?” Fletcher again asked.
“Chasing Rutherford.”
“Did you get him?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s Miss Rose?” Mulroney said.
“She should be rolling down this road in a wagon with Gilmore. He got shot up pretty bad trying to help me guard Rutherford.”
“Do you want me to dress that wound now?” Doc Shepherd asked.
“After we find Gilmore. You can tend me later.”
~~~~
The owner of the livery stable was busy on the bucket brigade, but Rose found that talk of hard money for a team and wagon quickly engaged him.
Brannon never asked her if she knew how to drive a team. He assumed she wanted to leave Paradise Meadow now. And she was willing to help Jeremiah Gilmore. He presumed she’d throw her belongings in a box and trail him down to a New Mexico town she’d never seen.
Well, he was right.
And that’s what made her so mad.
The man who sold her the wagon and team helped her load Gilmore into the back.
“Miss Rose,” Jeremy spoke slowly and softly. “Do you ever pray?”
She tried to make him comfortable by wrapping him in an old quilt. “Of course, Jeremy. Everyone has prayed sometime in their life.”
“I don’t pray much,” he admitted. “But tonight I prayed I wouldn’t die until I reached Mr. Brannon. I guess my prayers were answered.”
“I believe they were. Now, it won’t be a very smooth ride, but we must get you to a doctor.”
“Do you think Mr. Brannon ever prays?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He don’t seem like he ever needs God’s help.” Gilmore grimaced as he tried to move to a more comfortable position. “Why pray if you don’t need help?”
“You might be surprised about Stuart. Some folks pray to get help. Others, like Brannon, talk to God the way a person consults his father.”
“Guess it depends on how well you know the Almighty,” Gilmore said.
Rose felt uneasy about the direction of the conversation. “I’m going to drive this rig over and pick up some of my supplies. Then we have to get on the road toward Tres Casas.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After loading what was worth saving of her belonging, Rose sat on the bench.
Gilmore spoke again. “Miss Rose, am I going to die?”
“I certainly don’t think so. Why?”
“If I’m cashin’ in, I was thinkin’ maybe I ought to settle things up with the Almighty.”
“Jeremiah, whether you live or die, it would be good for you to settle things up. Don’t you agree?”
“I reckon you’re right.”
Physician, heal thyself. Who am I to lecture this young man about getting right with God?
Rose turned the team away from town and circled the outskirts to avoid the burning buildings and those who fought the fire. Most of the residents just watched from the front of their tents or were packing their belongings. She stopped to wait for one family to scurry in front of her.
She recognized the small girl trailing her mother. “Emilia?”
“Miss Rose? Are you leaving too?”
“Yes,” she stammered, “I … I need to get a wounded man to the doctor. Is your family moving on?”
“Yes, Miss Rose. Papa says this ain’t no good place for children.”
“Isn’t … isn’t a good place,” Rose corrected. “Where are you going?”
“Garnerville. Papa says everyone is getting rich up there. We’re going to have a great big white house on a hill. Are you going to be our teacher in Garnerville, Miss Rose?”
“I don’t think so, honey. But keep working hard for whoever might be the teacher. And keep practicing your penmanship. You have very lovely penmanship.”
“I will.” Even in the fire-lit night, Emilia’s eyes sparkled at Rose’s sincere praise.
Lord, I know it’s been a long time, but could You give this half-breed a place to teach and a classroom of children like Emilia? Please, Lord.
The fire from Fetterson’s seemed to be spreading. The sky lit up like daytime. As they rolled along the edge of town to the start of the western road, several men stationed themselves by the hanging log. One man crawled atop the log and fussed with two rope nooses.
Emilia’s father was right. Time for women and children to leave Paradise Meadow. They determined to find someone to hang tonight, no matter what.
“Jeremy,” Rose called back, “we’re at the west road now. How are you doing?”
“I hurt real bad.”
“You hang on. Remember how you made up your mind to make it to Brannon? Work just as hard right now. Don’t you give up.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t. I’ll hang on. You can count on me.”
She brushed away tears and slapped the leads. The wagon lurched forward and soon they crested the mountain behind Paradise Meadow. She stopped to look back.
“Jeremiah? Do you need some water?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m catawampously thirsty.”
Suddenly a dozen riders thundered straight at her. She drove the team to the side to try to keep them from spooking.
Emerson Highsmith led the pack. “Miss Rose? Are you leaving Paradise Meadow?” he called as the men halted and tried to settle their prancing, snorting horses. “I didn’t think you’d ever quit.”
“Mr. Highsmith, I have been insulted, humiliated, and attacked. The school is destroyed and the only replacement building burnt to the ground. Now every family with any sense is leaving. I am not a quitter, but this place no longer resembles civilization. That’s a course I cannot reverse or tolerate.”
“Is Brannon with you?” Highsmith asked.
“I thought he was with you.”
“He hightailed it out of here, and we haven’t seen him. Or Rutherford.”
“Miss Rose!” A pathetic holler came from a form strapped across the saddle of a horse. She rolled the wagon up to see Cleve, still in shackles, draped across the saddle like a sack of flour.
Cleve coughed. “You’ve got to get Brannon. They is going to hang me. I ain’t never killed no one, ma’am. Brannon knows. Hurry and get him, Miss Rose.”
“Even Mr. Brannon can’t help you now,” she said.
“He’s the … he’s the only one I can count on,” Cleve said.
That’s him—the man everyone counts on.
“Cleve, you’re going to have to rely on a Higher Authority now.”
“They’re going to hang me, ain’t they?”
“Every man’s responsible for his own actions. Both you and they. You chose your own company.”
“God have mercy on my soul.”
“Fortunately for all of us, His mercy is greater than our failures,” Rose said.
“We don’t need no lecture from a breed,” a man shouted.
At once the whole pack spurred on towards Paradise Meadow. She pulled the rildy around Gilmore and drove the team down the mountain. For some reason she could not explain, she began singing “Amazing Grace” in English and then in Cherokee at the top of her voice.
~~~~
The words caught Brannon by surprise, but not the tune.
“I say,” Fletcher said, “is that an Indian chant?”
“Sounds more like an old hymn,” Brannon replied.
The voice faded as they approached a wagon coming down the road from Paradise Meadow.
“Rose?” Brannon called out.
“Stuart?”
He dismounted and walked over to the wagon. “Was that Cherokee? I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s been a long time for me, too.”
“Miss Rose, are you all right?” Peter Mulroney approached the wagon.
“Why, yes. Where are the children?”
“They’re safe in Tres Casas with Velvet, but they miss you.”
“Velvet?”
“Mr. Brannon’s friend.”
“Excuse me,” Brannon said. “Dr. Shepherd, this is Rose Creek. Velvet is married to him.”
“You’re a doctor? Jeremy needs immediate attention.”
Brannon unlashed the doctor’s bag from his horse and handed it to the physician. He hurried to the wagon. “We’ve got to have some light,” Shepherd called out.
“Peter, build a fire by the side of the road.” Brannon turned to Rose. “Speaking of fire, what’s happening in Paradise Meadow?”
“I think they’ll let it burn to the ground, in order to have a hanging. Stuart, you’re hurt.”
“Same old wound.”
“You found Rutherford?”
“ Yeah. He’s dead.”
“I passed Highsmith and vigilantes back up the road. They had Cleve hogtied and threatened to hang him. He begged me to find you so you could stop them.”
Brannon rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I can’t stop them. A week ago we stopped them, but now they’ll do it no matter what. It’s like a taste of poison.”
“I know. I just wish …”
“Peter, help the doc with some light. Rose, you pitch in too. Fletcher and I will ride to town. Maybe an outbreak of common sense will strike the region.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“No. Look, there are some things a woman shouldn’t have to see. I’m asking you, please don’t ride with us.”
She stared at Brannon a moment before she nodded agreement.
Brannon and Fletcher galloped up the trail.
~~~~
The scene at the hanging log struck Brannon as bizarre. A nightmare.
Fletcher gasped, “It’s Dante’s inferno.”
In the background, tents and buildings burned, some unchecked. At others, the owners desperately tried to extinguish the flames. Around the hanging log itself, several dozen men sat horseback. Another twenty or so scattered the ground, staring as flickering firelight highlighted the lifeless body hanging from a rope.
Brannon rode past the riders without looking at them. None offered resistance. He untied the end of the rope and lowered Cleve’s body to the ground.
Then he turned El Viento towards the vigilantes. “Which of you men would like to make ten hard dollars?”
“I would,” a man said.
Brannon tossed a coin at him through the shadows. “You know where that little clearing is on the other side of the creek by the aspens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You take him over there tonight and bury him. Bury him deep, you hear?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do it.” The man and another toted Cleve’s body away.
“Now look, Marshal…” Highsmith began.
“Don’t ‘Marshal’ me,” Brannon shouted. “I am not the marshal of Paradise Meadow. Not now, not ever. Not for one minute, not for one day. I don’t want anyone to ever say I was marshal of this town. There was no law when I rode into this place … and there is no law now.”
He dismounted and threw his rope over one end of the hanging log. Everyone watched as he latched the rope used as a noose around the same end of the log. Remounting, he tied his rope to the horn of the saddle. “Edwin, dally that noose rope.”
Side by side, they walked the horses to take the slack out of the ropes. Then they spurred the horses. On the third try, the hanging log crashed to the ground.
Brannon turned El Viento back towards the west road and recoiled his rope as he rode along. He never looked back.
Fletcher kept silent as they loped their horses over the mountain and down towards the others. Brannon wouldn’t have heard him if he had spoken. He was tied up with another conversation.
Lord, I can’t do anything with people like that. I can’t change ’em. I can’t control ’em. I can’t even contain ‘em. Maybe Rose was right. Maybe I’ve been trusting in my own strength. But not here.
Not any more.
I didn’t make Paradise Meadow a better place to live. In fact, if anything, it’s worse. It’s Yours.
Forgive ’em if You must.
Change ’em if You can.
Save ’em if You want.
Lord, folks down here on earth are a far cry from perfect, but we could’ve done better than this.
When they reached the camp made in a break in the trees off the wagon road, a campfire popped and snapped and a coffeepot hung over the flames. Doc Shepherd wrapped Jeremy’s waist while he sat propped against a couple saddles. Bedrolls scattered around the fire. Mulroney and Rose looked up from a deep conversation.
“Did they…?” Rose began.
Fletcher nodded.
Brannon pulled off his saddle, blanket, and bridle and hobbled El Viento near the other horses.
When he walked back to the campfire, Rose stumbled for words, then blurted out, “Stuart, you’ll never guess what Doctor Shepherd told me. First, he’s the mayor of Tres Casas. And the schoolteacher there just quit to get married. I was telling Peter that was an insufficient reason for abandoning one’s post. Meanwhile, Mayor Shepherd asked if I would like the position.”
As if waking from a dream, Brannon stopped and tried to remember what Rose just said. “Eh, that sounds great. Teach in Tres Casas? You can stay at Vel’s hotel. How about you, Peter?”
“Mr. Boswick asked me to make the Little Yellowjacket run for him, at least until he mends. He even talked about allowing me to buy in. The children would be delighted to have Miss Rose for a teacher, so I’m leaning towards Tres Casas myself.”
“I forgot about Wishy,” Brannon said. “Is he all right?”
Doc Shepherd joined them and answered the question. “Wishy is going to pull through fine. He had a concussion and will carry a permanent crease above his ear, but he should get his balance back in a few days.”
Brannon poured himself coffee and sat down next to Shepherd. “Doc, I think you better look at this arm. It was healing fine until I ran into that axe handle tonight.” He glanced at Rose. “With your permission, Rose, I’ll pull off my shirt and let the doctor bandage this wound.”
“Certainly.” She sipped out of a tin cup. “I suppose you will be going to Arizona now?”
“First, I have a promise to keep. To get those twins out of my hair, I told them to wait in Tres Casas, and I’d buy them supper. So, I suppose I’d better.”
“The twins?” Fletcher shot straight up. “My word, Brannon, I forgot to tell you.”
“Did they get arrested? Murdered?”
“Quite the contrary,” Fletcher reported. “They bathed, washed, and combed their hair—for the first time in months, I’m sure—and purchased new clothing. After that, they boarded the stage to San Francisco.”
“The twins in San Francisco? Is this some sort of British joke?”
“I’m serious. They took passage to San Francisco,” Fletcher insisted.
“Where did they get the funds?”
“Well, actually, you know what a nuisance they were.” Fletcher pulled a face.
“So, you shipped them to a lion’s den like San Francisco?”
Rose smiled as she gazed at the fire. “Don’t worry about Deedra and Darrlyn. They can take care of themselves wherever they are.”
“They chose the destination,” Fletcher added. “But they did mention telling you the dinner offer still holds, if you ever go to San Francisco.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind. In that case, Edwin, we might as well start down that trail to Arizona tomorrow.”
“My word, you don’t suppose Red Shirt and friends are still waiting for us?”
“It all depends on whether they got hungry or not.”
Doc Shepherd tied the bandage on Brannon’s arm. “Vel gave me a letter to deliver to you, and I almost forgot. It came to the hotel right after the wedding, but we didn’t have a way to get it to you.”
“A letter for me?” Brannon asked.
Shepherd looked at the name on the outside. “It’s from a Miss Harriet Reed in Prescott. When I mentioned that name, Vel raised her eyebrows and uttered a rather uppity, ‘Oh, her.’”
“Miss Reed?” Fletcher smiled. “Now this could be quite interesting. You will read it aloud, won’t you, Stuart?”
“What is it with you, Stuart? Do you have ladies waiting in every town?” Rose said.
“There’s another letter inside,” Brannon informed them. “From the Indian Territory.”
“Not from Fem Sem, I hope,” Rose put in.
“Read them one at a time. Surely you don’t have any secrets from us?” Fletcher asked.
Brannon scooted closer to the flames and held the letter down.
Dear Mr. Brannon,
This letter of yours came to my attention, and I held it for a few weeks awaiting your arrival. Hearing recently that you wintered in Tres Casas, I took the liberty to forward it on to you since it was marked ‘urgent.’
On a personal note, we have found a delightful home on a hill behind the courthouse. You are cordially invited (by my sister and her husband) to dine with us the next time you travel through Prescott.
Sincerely, Miss Harriet Reed
“By my sister and her husband,” Rose mimicked. “Sure. She could have been more subtle. It’s obvious she’s out to grab you, Stuart.”
He looked up with a blank stare. “Miss Reed? Oh no, not her. She’s not that type.”
“We’re all that type,” Rose said. “If the right man comes along.”
He opened up the letter marked I.T. “Fletcher,” Brannon shouted. “This is from Elizabeth.”
“Really? Can she write?”
“Listen!”
Dear Mr. Stuart Brannon of Arizona Territory,
How are you? I am not good. Mrs. Quincy writes these words for me. Littlefoot and I were with Chief Joseph at Bearpaw. The army captured us and brought us here, but this is not a good place to live. Many have become sick and died.
They will not let us return to our homes in Oregon and Idaho. But I was told if someone would write a letter promising me a job and send money for the trip, then they will let me leave. You are the only one who can help me and my brave warrior. I can cook and clean on your big ranch in Arizona. You know I will work hard. And Littlefoot is no burden.
Please write to me quickly. I am afraid of the sickness.
Your very good friend, Elizabeth
“Stuart,” Fletcher said, “what will you do now?”
“Send her the money and offer a job.”
“But you aren’t sure what’s left at the ranch.”
“Edwin, I’ll tell you what I am sure of. I’m sure Miss Rose is going to make one excellent teacher. I’m sure Sean, Sarah, and Stephen are going to finally get settled into a stable situation. I’m sure Edwin Fletcher has not heard the last of the Lazzard twins. I am sure I am going to retire from public life and spend the rest of my days doctoring sick cows, breakin’ frolicky horses, and watching sunsets. And I am most certainly sure that I can find Elizabeth steady employment in Arizona. She’s got a consuming desire to see that little one raised up right. I think she deserves a chance.”
Rose sat down next to Brannon. “Which tribe is Elizabeth?”
“Nez Perce … but it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.” She picked up a stick and stirred the fire.
“If this gets too dull, you certainly have my permission to go to sleep,” Brannon told her.
For the next three hours, Rose Creek didn’t even doze.
~~THE END~~
About Stephen Bly (1944-2011)
An award-winning western author, he published more than 100 inspirational novels and nonfiction books, plus hundreds of short stories, cowboy poetry, devotionals, and articles for writers. He co-authored dozens of books with wife, Janet Chester Bly.
His historical western novel, The Long Trail Home, (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series), won the prestigious Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction.
Three other historical novels–Picture Rock (The Skinners of Goldfield Series, Crossway Books), The Outlaw’s Twin Sister (The Belles of Lordsburg Series), and Last of the Texas Camp (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series) were Christy Award finalists.
His most well-known character is cowboy, lawman and rancher, Stuart Brannon. Brannon receives at least a mention or cameo appearance in every Bly novel. He was working on Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot, Book #7 of The Stuart Brannon Series, at the time he passed away. Janet and sons, Russell, Michael, and Aaron, finished the novel for him. He left them 10% of the story, a 1-page summary, 2-pages of character names and a 4-month deadline. Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot was a Selah Award Finalist.
Read the story of their writing adventure here: DAD’S FINAL NOVEL
Also By Stephen Bly
Hard Winter at Broken Arrow Crossing
False Claims at the Little Stephen Mine
Last Hanging at Paradise Meadow
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