by Stephen Bly
“Brannon, I didn’t know it was you. I had no idea them boys were friends of yours. I wouldn’t have taken a gun to them under no circumstances whatever if I hadda knowed. There ain’t a durn fool in the Territory—or in old Mexico—who’d try to cross ya, ’lessin he was drunk… and I ain’t drunk. ’Course, I do drink some now and then. Don’t we all? But I ain’t drunk, no, sir. Though I once heard Brannon never touched likker. Is that right, or was that jist a nasty rumor?”
“Mister, I’m going to stick that little barrel cactus in your mouth if you don’t swallow those words and keep still for a minute.” Brannon turned to Filippe. “Are you boys headin’ out with us, or are you going on your own?”
“We do not need anyone’s help.”
“Then you two scoot out of here. We’ll keep this coyote roped up a while. Cerdo, quit singing so loud.” Brannon looked down at the sparkling eyes of the filthy boy.
He dug in his saddlebag and pulled out two pieces of beef jerky and tossed them to the boys.
“Now go find your grandfather—and stay away from hombres like this.”
The boys disappeared from sight.
“I say, Brannon, isn’t this the place you were to deliver the letter from that chap Read Reynolds in Tucson?”
“You know Read Reynolds?” the roped man said.
“Somehow I get the feeling you’re Rube Woolsey.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Brannon, I’m Rube. Where’s Read?”
“In a hotel in Tucson with a bad gunshot wound.”
“Did he lose the letter?”
“Nope, I brought it for him.”
“You got the letter then?”
“Yep.”
“Is Read goin’ to live?”
“That’s what the doctors say.”
“That’s good, mighty good. I’ve knowed Read since the beginning of the war. Ain’t seen him in years though. We been fightin’ in different locations.”
“War?” said Fletcher. “There’s a war on down here? I haven’t read of any Mexican war.”
“The war of freedom for the Confederacy,” Woolsey said.
“That war’s been over for sixteen years,” Howland said.
“It ain’t over ’til we all give up, and we ain’t give up. You understand, don’t you, Brannon? I hear your sympathies were for the South.”
“My sympathies were for Texas.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to Sam Houston, it wasn’t.”
“Captain Porter says Houston was a traitor.”
“Mister, this is the second time today my trigger finger has wanted to put lead through you. I’m beginnin’ to run out of excuses why not to.”
“Look, I ain’t doin’ too good with all this palaver. So just cut me loose, give me my letter, and I’ll whip on out of here.”
“Mr. Brannon, you want us to noon it over by the well?” Howland asked.
“Yep.”
“How about this snake?”
“He can siesta ’til we’re ready to leave.”
Woolsey rolled over and glared at Brannon. “You cain’t do this. You got to feed me dinner.”
“Edwin,” Brannon said, “did you hear a squeaking sound?”
Fletcher smiled. “Didn’t hear a thing.”
]
They ate tortillas wrapped around salted meat and green peppers. Then they repacked the supplies. Brannon picked up a small shovel and returned to check on the bound man.
“These rocks is hard, Brannon. Cut me loose.”
“Afraid not, Woolsey. I want to make sure those boys get a good head start.”
“You ain’t going to dig me no grave, is ya?” Woolsey cried.
“Nope.”
Next to a sage, Brannon dug a hole in the ground about one foot wide and three feet deep. He tied a large, flat rock to one end of a short rope, dropped the rock into the hole, and then slowly refilled the hole with dirt, tamping it thoroughly.
“You going to rock-hobble him?” Howland asked as he led El Viento over to Brannon.
“Yep.”
“You cain’t do that. I ain’t done nothin’. There ain’t no law in Mexico against shootin’ Apaches.”
“I don’t know about that, Woolsey, but there are higher laws than what any government makes.” Brannon tied Woolsey’s bound hands to the free end of the short rope.
“Even the Almighty don’t come down here,” Woolsey said.
“This is the devil’s territory.”
“You’re wrong, Woolsey. The Lord must be here, or I would
have shot you dead long before now.”
“I’ll starve to death out here,” he protested.
“Nope. You’ve got water, food, guns, ammunition, a bear knife sixteen inches long, and transportation at that horse.”
“But the rope’s too short. I cain’t get to my horse tied up like this.”
“You’re right. I’d suggest you dig out that rock first, then pack it over to your saddle, pull that blade, and cut yourself free.”
“Dig out that rock? You goin’ to leave me that shovel?”
“Nope.”
“I cain’t dig out that rock with my bare hands. It would take me all afternoon.”
“No, it’ll take you about two hours, depending on how tough your hands are. By that time we’ll be down the road… and so will those boys.”
“You cain’t do that,” Woolsey cried as they turned to ride away.
“Mr. Fletcher, is there a law against rock-hobbling polecats in Mexico?” Brannon inquired.
Fletcher shook his head, grinned, and spurred the mahogany bay. “I don’t suppose I should ask how you know it takes only two hours to dig out that rock.”
“Nope.” Brannon trotted El Viento to the lead.
]
The next two days turned out routine.
Hot, dusty, meager landscape.
No towns.
Very few travelers.
Miguel knew all the springs and creeks.
Howland cooked and complained about the flies.
Fletcher discussed the superiority of the American political system, the escape of Billy the Kid from the Lincoln County Jail, the morality of the Chinese Exclusion Treaty, and Miss Harriet Reed.
Brannon argued the benefits of dehorning range steers.
But no one listened.
And every night about sunset, Filippe and Cerdo wandered into camp in time to eat beans and biscuits.
“I say, Stuart, how is it that we ride horseback all day and never see any sign of those lads, yet they pop out of the desert every evening in time for supper?”
“Relays.”
“What?”
“You see,” Brannon teased, “every Apache boy in Mexico looks like Filippe and Cerdo. So they station them every twenty-five or thirty miles. We’re dining with a new pair every evening and don’t know it.”
“That’s a pathetic response,” Fletcher said.
“We got two very tough kids there.”
“You wouldn’t be thinking of hiring them, would you?”
“If they show up at the door in about ten years, they have got a guaranteed Triple B ranch job.”
]
As they turned into the foothills, the desert receded and grassland increased. Brannon noticed most of the northern slopes were still lush and green.
Filippe and Cerdo no longer sat at their fire for mealtime.
We’ll have to bring the cattle along by the mountains… then push out to Adobe Wells… up to the Santa Cruz… then on to Tucson… maybe we can find a box canyon full of grass and fatten them up before the desert.
“El Viejo,” Miguel called. “El Rancho Pacifica.”
“¿Donde?”
“On the mesa verde, see? It is a beautiful rancho.”
“Is that it?” Howland asked.
“Yep,” Brannon replied.
“Where’s the cattle?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself. Maybe they have other ranges. Miguel, wher
e do they keep the vacas?”
“¿Quien sabe? Perhaps they sold them.”
“That’s encouraging.”
Brannon took the lead once more and trotted El Viento up the long drive to the walled, tree-lined hacienda. The sun gleamed low in the west, and the breeze felt softly cool after many days in the desert.
A man can look fifty miles in every direction from here. The cattle will be mountain tough and meadow fat.
Lord, you must enjoy slipping down here in the evenin’s. Beautiful… refreshing… peaceful.
At the first crack of rifle fire, Brannon dove to the dirt, dragging his Winchester with him. Three more shots and a shout convinced him it had been a warning.
El Viento and all the men retreated to safety, but Brannon continued to cower in the dirt.
“Amigo, ¿porqué nos dispara a nosotros? ¿Habla Inglés?”
“Go away.”
“May I please speak to Señora Pacifica?” Brannon shouted.
“She does not want to talk to you. You must leave or we will shoot you.”
“I have traveled far in order to buy her cattle.”
“You have traveled far in order to steal her cattle.”
“I do not see any cattle. Are they on other ranges?”
“Many have been stolen by gringos such as yourself. If you will not leave, we must shoot you.”
“Please tell La Señora that Mr. Stuart Brannon of Yavapai County, Arizona, would like to speak with her.”
“El Brannon? Which of you is El Brannon?”
“I am Stuart Brannon.”
“Yes, and I am Simon Bolivar. Last week in Magdalena there was a gunfight. Two gringos, both claiming to be El Brannon, shot each other in the street.”
“I know nothing of Magdalena. I want to speak to Victoria Maria Alezon Fuentes-Delgado Pacifica. Tell her I sorrow for her on the death of Don Rinaldo—and ask her how is the health of her father, the Vice-General of Monterrey? Tell her I am the man who buried Enrique, and I hope I will not have to bury any more of her faithful workers.”
After a long span of silence, sounds of people scurrying behind the wall filtered down to Brannon.
“Stuart, what’s going on?” Fletcher yelled.
“Apparently something happened to scare them, Edwin. They’re being awfully cautious.”
Fletcher slowly rode his horse toward Brannon with El Viento in tow. “I trust it is not a revolution or a land grant claim.”
Finally two heavy oak doors, each about eight feet wide, swung open, and a woman with flowing black hair, wearing a long black dress, swooped out of the yard.
“Señor Brannon, this lack of hospitality is inexcusable. Please, please arise—you are welcome always at this ranch. Our caution is well-founded, but sad.”
“Señora Pacifica,” Brannon replied with a grin, “this is Edwin Fletcher, my partner in the cattle business; Earl
Howland, my foreman; and Miguel, Jaime, and Mateo who also work for me.”
“You will be guests in the big house,” she told him.
“Mr. Brannon, me and the boys will find us a cot in the bunkhouse,” Howland said. “We’ll take care of the horses.”
Señora Pacifica began to issue orders.
“Felicia, please bring fruit and cheese to the table by the oak— these men will rest there. Roberto, prepare the pit for a roast. We will have pork. And tell Bustado to prepare a fine meal for everyone. Tonight will be fiesta. And please have Juan close the gates immediately.
“Mr. Brannon, despite such an unpleasant reception, we are delighted to have you at our rancho.” She turned with a frown to the servants who had not left for their assignments. “¿Que pasa?”
One of the men spoke. “Is this man really El Brannon?”
“Yes, I have told you many times of our friendship.”
“I think… some did not always believe you.”
“Mr. Brannon, it is embarrassing for me to ask, but would you mind shaking hands with my people, so they can go back to work? They would like to officially meet El Brannon.”
Brannon hemmed and hawed. “I think maybe someone is tryin’ to play a little prank here.”
“Perhaps you are unaware that Hawthorne Miller’s books have been translated into Spanish? Felicia reads them every Sunday evening.”
“How many books are there?”
“Twelve, of course.”
“Twelve!” Fletcher whistled. “My word, Brannon, you simply must read them and find out what you are going to do next.”
Brannon greeted each of the workers and then turned back to Victoria. “Señora, if I might be so bold, I was deeply saddened to hear of your husband’s death. May I ask how it happened?” He found himself drawn to her magnetic eyes.
“It occurred last summer. A dozen of Captain Porter’s men showed up wanting to buy some cattle.”
“The renegade Confederate? He wanted to buy cattle?”
“Yes, they said they had money.”
“And your husband refused?”
“Don Rinaldo was a very principled man—much like you, I suspect, Mr. Brannon. He told them he did not support their cause and demanded that they leave the ranch. “They left. But the next morning, as we came out of the chapel, two shots were fired from the top of the wall near the carpenter’s shop. One bullet hit Don Rinaldo in the chest, the other in the neck.”
Her head bent down as Brannon searched in vain for some comforting word.
She gave a deep sigh. “He died in my arms as I sat under that oak tree.” She looked again at Brannon, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Last year in the creek bed in southern Utah, I thought I would lose him to the ambushers. But you came along and saved us. However, this year… this year there was no Brannon to protect… only angels to take him home. Please forgive my tears. It is most difficult to feel so helpless.”
Brannon quickly turned his face away from her and tried to relieve the tightness in his chest.
“Now if you will excuse me for a moment, do make yourself at home.”
For a few minutes, neither of the men moved. Finally Fletcher stepped over and put his hand on Brannon’s shoulder. “Stuart, this is a rather lovely ranch, wouldn’t you say?”
Brannon glanced around at the spacious yard, the sprawling house, the corrals with waiting horses, the immense barn. “You know, Edwin, without the walls, this place would be a replica of what Lisa and I wanted to build on the Sunrise Creek Ranch. Garden, orchard, milk cows, chickens, tannery, blacksmith’s shop, chapel. Look at that chapel! It’s self-contained. It’s ideal.”
“Except,” Fletcher reminded him, “for the fact you need armed guards at the wall and you hardly dare venture outside.”
“Yeah. She hasn’t explained all that.”
“She is an extremely handsome woman.”
Brannon lifted his eyebrows. “You noticed?”
“My word, yes, I noticed. But the amazing thing is that Stuart Brannon noticed. Don’t tell me there is an ounce of warm blood still stirring in that cold heart of yours.”
]
Sometime after washing up, while Fletcher and Brannon relaxed in stretched, rawhide chairs and savored sweet oranges, Señora Pacifica rejoined the men.
“Please excuse my absence. There were arrangements to make. I have sent some men to notify Ramon.”
“How is your brother? Is he still angry about what I did to him in Tres Casas?”
She moves so quickly, so fluidly, like a Spanish Lisa.
“Perhaps, but face-to-face in a fight with El Brannon and survive... Ramon has made the story almost a legend.”
“Is he far?”
She is the queen in this domain, but a benevolent one. She rules with a glance of the eye, a sparkle in the voice, a tilt of the head.
“He and most of the vaqueros were driving cattle to summer pasture. I’m afraid we lost to Captain Porter’s thieves the herd we had saved for you, but we will bring them back.”
She can dance… oh, I’m sure she can d
ance.
“Have you heard much about your Captain Porter?”
Brannon jerked straight up. “My Captain Porter?”
“An American. He and the others came here after the war. They claimed to be building an army for the reconquest of the South.”
“Good heavens!” Fletcher flung his hands in the air. “I still can’t believe they refuse to give up.”
“Well, that was their excuse for banditry for years. Their group has dwindled to only a few men, and now they claim to be revolutionaries intending to ‘liberate’ Baja California. But even that effort has failed to gain support. About a dozen men showed up to collect a donation for the liberation of Baja.”
“They rustled your cattle?”
“Four days ago on Sunday. As I said, most of the men were in the high mountains. The others took their families into the village on Saturday night and stayed over for Sunday mass. Only a few remained here when the bandits arrived.”
“Why didn’t your workers stay here for church?” Brannon asked. “Are they not allowed to attend your chapel?”
“Oh, yes, they may all attend. But, of course, most are Roman Catholic.”
“And you?” Brannon asked.
“Protestant. I once told you my story would surprise you.”
“My word, a Protestant out in this country,” Fletcher said.
“Methodist, actually. But all of that is a very long story. We held them out of the hacienda, but could do nothing to keep them from stealing the cattle.”
“I think, with your permission, I would like to attempt to bring back your herd,” Brannon said.
“Oh, no, it would be dangerous. I could never let you.”
“Señora Pacifica,” Fletcher said. “I very much doubt if you could stop him from trying. Stuart, here, sees it as his divine destiny to champion difficult causes.”
“Your divine destiny, Mr. Brannon? Do you take your faith that seriously?”
Fletcher answered for him. “Most assuredly. Only please, don’t ask him any theological questions. We once spent six days debating the depravity of man.”
“How many men could you spare to ride with us?” Brannon asked.
“You are serious, aren’t you?”
