by Stephen Bly
Everyone waited, perfectly still, staring at Brannon.
“Did you ask me to say a blessing?” he whispered.
“Yes, but if you are too uncomfortable, I could—”
“Ah… well, no… I’ll do it.”
“In Spanish, if you don’t mind.”
Brannon cleared his throat, searched for a friendly face, and found all—even Fletcher’s—bowed down.
“El Senor. La tierra en la frontera, en los Estados Unidos y aqui en Mexico es un lugar hermoso y espacioso… Thanks for allowing us the joy of living on it. But, Lord, You know it can be a harsh and unforgiving place as well. So help us to meet our trials with tolerance, our failures with confession and patience, and our enemies with justice and mercy. We ask Your strength from this wonderful food and Your blessing on those who have gathered here.
“May You continue to give Señora Pacifica wisdom as she oversees... esta hacienda. En el nombre de Jesus. Amén.”
At once the crowd swarmed to the patio behind the big house. Brannon, ready to be swept along, felt a woman’s warm hand clutching his and holding him back.
Victoria Pacifica smiled at the others who were leaving, but did not release Brannon. Not until the last guest was out of earshot did she ease her grasp.
“I owe you an apology, and I must make a confession.”
“About the prayer?”
“Yes. It was improper to ask you in front of the others. I had no right to do that, and I beg your forgiveness.”
“It’s all right. You just surprised me. Not many people have ever asked me to pray.”
“It is their loss. However, there is also a confession.” She sighed deeply and looked away. “I purposely manipulated you into that position. It is not something that I often do—and I deeply regret it. I wanted very much to hear you pray.”
“Why was that?”
“Because I believe prayer, especially prayer under pressure, quickly reveals more about a man than anything else he can do.”
“So you were testing me?”
“Yes. And you certainly would be justified to retaliate.”
“Did I pass the test?”
“Someday when we have more time, I will tell you how well you did.”
“That is a promise I will make you keep.” He took her arm and led her toward the tables of food.
“Many will want to talk to you now,” Victoria said, “so I will oversee the serving.” She slipped from his grasp. “Remember, the guest of honor is required to have the first dance with the hostess.”
Brannon groaned. “No, I can’t.”
She disappeared into the crowd.
“I say, Brannon,” Fletcher said merrily, “that was a lovely prayer. Mexico is a magical place where even famous gunmen pray.”
“Well, I hope there will be no more surprises tonight.”
“Do you want a real surprise? Do you see that tall fellow over there, the one with the narrow-brimmed hat? He is not Mexican, but in fact, a Hebrew. And he has a fascinating story about how some of his people are planning to reclaim Palestine for the Jews. Now wouldn’t that be an interesting idea?”
“I wonder if anyone has told the Turks?”
“My word, that’s a good point. Think I’ll go back and have another chat.”
Brannon determined to try a little of everything on the food tables, but one glance and he realized it would be impossible. He settled for a plate piled full of tortillas, roast pork, chili peppers, and fresh fruit.
To his relief, he found most of the guests enjoyed eating, even more than talking with El Brannon. He savored the meal with only occasional interruptions.
I knew this was going to happen. I’ve said it before—I am not a dancer. I’d do almost anything not to offend the Señora, but straight out… I will not dance. I’ll fall down, hurt myself, hurt her. There is absolutely no way.
“There you are. Still eating?”
He turned to Victoria. “About that dance…,” he began.
“Oh, yes, let me explain. You will put your right hand on my left shoulder. When the music begins, we will sidestep three times to your left. Then we will twirl around once, and repeat. That’s all there is to it: three steps, twirl, three steps, twirl, and so on. We’ll go around the outside of the front courtyard one time… and then you may sit down. Your chores will be over. At that time, you truly may decline, and I will not be offended.”
She gazed up to the stars. “It is a beautiful night for dancing.”
“Eh, yes… it’s a beautiful night.”
“Will you dance the first dance with me?”
Brannon cleared his throat. “I’d be delighted.”
“Thank you for consenting,” she grinned, “but you do not lie very well.”
“I do not dance well either.”
Brannon found the pace and confusion of the dancing so hectic, it was over before he had much time to worry. Fortunately for him, the men wanted to talk to El Brannon more than the women wanted to dance. He spent most of the evening discussing the finer points of the cattle business, gold mines in Colorado, and the best people to talk to in Washington, DC— if one had a legitimate land grant claim in the territories.
As he expected, at midnight the band members began to gather their things. The party was winding down. Then to Brannon’s amazement, another band entered and began to play livelier music, and more loudly, than the first.
Close to dawn the last guest’s carriage rolled out of the yard and the staff cleaned up. The cool night had never been cold. Brannon sat on the large leather couch in the living room with a cup of coffee in a thick pottery mug.
“You toss a fine party, ma’am.” He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes as Señora Pacifica sat down in a chair across from him.
“Why, thank you, sir. And you make a very delightful guest of honor.”
“Oh?”
“Six different ladies asked me if you were married. Two of them are engaged and one already married.”
He chuckled. “It must be the shirt.”
She tucked her feet under her with a laugh. She looked at Brannon and started to say something, then laughed again.
“No, no,” she blurted out. “It was not the shirt. I believe it was the poor lighting.”
Brannon felt laughter burst loose from deep within himself. Rolling, uncontrollable, long-suppressed amusement and joy. Finally, when they settled down a bit, she continued.
“You are not nearly as somber a man as you would like others to believe.”
He took a deep sigh. “It feels good to laugh, doesn’t it?”
“The death of a mate teaches one much about crying, but very little about gaiety.”
The sound of hoof beats and shouts from the front gate of the hacienda propelled them both out of their chairs and into the yard.
Jumping from his horse, Estaban ran to them. “Señora, it is bad, very bad in Magdalena. They shot them.”
“Who got shot?” Brannon asked.
“Miguel y Señor Howland.”
“Are they dead?”
“Miguel was wounded in the side and was taken to the house of his tia.”
“And what about Earl?”
“They shot him in the leg and then took him away.”
“Who shot him? Who took him?”
“Captain Porter himself.”
“Where did they take him?”
“I do not know. I raced back here as fast as the horse would run.”
“Estaban, grab something to eat. Then throw your saddle on another mount. I’ll need you to ride back with us. Victoria, have your cook make several grub sacks… we’ll need to borrow some supplies. I’ll roust out Edwin, Jaime, and Mateo.”
“You must leave immediately?”
“Yep.”
“Ramon will be here soon. I can send him and some others.”
“We’d appreciate the help. I don’t know what we’re facing. They can catch up with us in Magdalena. But please, keep enough men he
re to keep the hacienda safe.”
“Remember, we have many long conversations to finish,” she said.
“I won’t forget.”
“Nor will I. May God be with you, Stuart Brannon.”
“And with you, Victoria Pacifica.”
FIVE
El Viento sweated white foam and labored for each breath as the party finally entered Magdalena. Brannon was tired.
Tired from no sleep.
Tired from a hard ride.
And especially tired from the mental thrashing he’d given himself during three long hours in the saddle.
Sure, go to the fiesta… eat the fine meal… listen to the music… dance with the women… visit with Victoria… while Earl’s in town doing your job.
Lord, I can’t believe I did this! How do I explain this to Miss Julie? How do I explain this to myself ? If Earl dies… I’ll… I’ll marry Miss Julie myself.
“I say, Brannon, what is this, a festival? I’ve never seen a city so packed with people—except in India, of course,” Fletcher said as they wound their way through the crowded streets.
“I presume it’s market day, right, Estaban?” Brannon kept El Viento moving through the throngs of people.
“Yes, Señor… the Saturday before the first Sunday of every month. For many, it is their only trip to town.”
The marketplace stretching out in front of the gigantic church was packed with buyers and sellers. The scene spilled into every street, alley, corner, and vacant lot. Animals, milk products, bread, fresh fruit, vegetables, meat, tortillas, cloth, dresses, hats, shoes, leather products, and packaged goods from the States. Guns, knives, liquor, and religious statues piled the stands. Everyone seemed to shout and threaten their way through every transaction.
As Brannon imagined, La Serpiente Dorada was located in the worst part of the city, on a street lined with broken-down cantinas sporting names such as La Cabeza de Vaca, El Cubo de Sangre, Santa Anna’s Venganza, and Tia Maria Gorda.
Leaving Jaime in the street to watch the horses, Brannon, Fletcher, Estaban, and Mateo entered La Serpiente Dorada.
The saloon reeked with stale smoke, shouts and curses. And drunk, sober, male, female, Mexican and Anglo patrons—each carried a drink and a grudge. Six bartenders manned the long bar. The one least busy looked American.
Brannon approached him. “I hear there was a shooting in here last night.”
The man shrugged and answered in English, “There are shootin’s in here every night.”
“Well, a friend of mine might have gotten shot. I’m trying to find him to make sure he’s all right.”
“I ain’t got no idea who got shot or where they are now.”
“Perhaps someone else knows,” Fletcher suggested.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Brannon shifted weight from one foot to the other and tugged his hat down. “He might be with a Captain Porter or his men. Can you tell me where I might find them?”
The man glanced around the bar and back at Brannon. “You want to buy a drink or not?”
“All I want is a simple answer, and I’ll get out of your fine establishment. Where did they take my friend?”
The bartender whipped a short-barrel scattergun from behind the bar and laid it on the counter with the barrel aimed at Brannon’s stomach.
“Look, Mister, order a drink, or beat it. I wouldn’t tell any man in this town…” He turned and launched a spurt of tobacco juice toward a spittoon. “Shoot, I wouldn’t even tell old Stuart Brannon himself where Porter is. I ain’t that stupid. Now get out of here or there’ll be another shootin’.”
Estaban crowded in and glared at the bartender. “You just might get that chance to face El Brannon.”
“What?”
Brannon nodded toward the far end of the bar. “See that man at the end?”
The bartender glanced away. “Is he Brannon?”
Brannon grabbed the barrel of the scattergun, slammed the butt of the stock into the big man’s stomach, seized the lapel of his vest and thrust the man’s head into the whiskey-stained bar.
He whipped his Colt from its holster and laid it aside the man’s temple, leaned to the man’s ear and whispered, “He’s not Brannon—I am.”
“Y-y-you ain’t Brannon,” the man stammered. “H-h-he’s taller and bigger.”
The hammer on Brannon’s revolver clicked back.
“Look, Mister, whoever you are… I cain’t tell where Porter is. I don’t know… honest. They don’t tell nobody.”
“You know,” Brannon said, “it’s sort of sad when a man’s last words on earth are a lie.” He exaggerated the movement of his trigger finger.
“Wait!” The big man sweated out an answer. “It’s out west of town, toward the desert… up on a mesa. That’s all I know.”
“Why did they haul my friend off?”
“Porter’s been tryin’ to hire hands to drive some cattle, but no one wants to sign on.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause he’s crazy, that’s why. Once you hitch up with Porter you either stay with him or you disappear.”
“Disappear?”
“Yeah. He’s a tough guy to walk away from… if you get the drift.”
“So he’s shooting and kidnapping hired hands?”
“I guess your friend refused to volunteer.”
Brannon released the man and lowered the Colt.
The bartender rubbed his jaw and glanced down the bar again. "Say, is that really Brannon down there?”
“Good heavens, no,” Fletcher said. “Stuart Brannon is seven feet tall.”
“I knew that. Exactly what I tried to tell ya.”
Suddenly, they heard shouts in the street in front of the saloon. Brannon ran for the door. Outside a man held a gun on Jaime. Brannon drew his own, but felt the hard steel of a pistol barrel shoved against his back.
“Well, well, well… if it isn’t Tres Casa’s most famous lawman. This time I have the upper hand.”
“Ramon?”
“You remember… I’m flattered. Do you also remember the humiliation of that day?”
“It was years ago. You were drunk and running with bad company.”
People drifted out of the cantinas to watch the confrontation.
“I recall every detail. And now I have the drop.”
“Ramon, I’m trying to find a friend so we can retrieve that herd of cattle for you and your sister. We’re on the same side this time.”
“I can find the cattle on my own.”
“Sure, anyone can find the trail of 850 head. But can you take them away from Porter and his army of outlaws?”
“We do not need you, Stuart Brannon. You will be riding back to Arizona.”
“I don’t think so. Ask Estaban. We are in this together.”
“He is correct, Señor Ramon. Mr. Brannon has been very helpful to the Señora.”
“Take your boots off, Brannon,” Ramon shouted as the crowd grew in size.
“Good heavens, Stuart. Do you want us to—”
“The man has the gun in my back so I had better do what he says.” Brannon bent down and lifted a leg of his trousers, but instead off tugging on the boot, he slipped his knife out of its sheath. He swung it up briskly, lightly slicing the back of Ramon’s hand.
Ramon dropped the revolver, and Brannon yanked Ramon’s hat, hanging by the stampede string on his back.
Brannon whipped his knife to the challenger’s neck and shouted to the accomplices in the street.
“¡Pistoleros los canones!”
Jaime retrieved his revolver and shouted to the crowd, “¡Este es El Brannon!”
The crowd murmured, “¿El Brannon? ¿En Magdalena?”
“You might as well slit my throat,” Ramon rasped under his breath. “You have humiliated me for the last time. This is my home. I will be laughed at forever.”
Brannon continued to pin Ramon with the knife, and whispered back, “Do exactly what I say and you can still b
e a hero. When I let you go, laugh your hardest and throw your arms around me.”
“¿Que?
Brannon released Ramon and grabbed him by the shoulder, shouting, “¡Ramon! ¡Mi buen amigo! ¡Siempre hace travesuras!”
At first startled, then with fresh brightness in his eyes, Ramon began to snicker. Brannon picked up Ramon’s gun, handed it to him, and threw his arm around the young man’s shoulder. “¡Digame, comó está su hermana hermosa, la Señora Pacifica?”
Ramon widened his smile toward the crowd.
“Ah, ella se lamenta por Don Rinaldo, y quiere ver al buen atnigo de nuestra familia, Señor Stuart Brannon.”
Brannon replied, “Amigos, ¿sabian que este hombre, Ramon, es el segundo luchador en Tres Casas, New Mexico? ¡Soy el mas superior, por supuesto!”
The cantina patrons laughed hard and finally dispersed, shaking their heads.
“¿Ramon y El Brannon?”
“No one but a good friend could play such a joke on El Brannon and live.”
“That is our Ramon. I have known him since he was a boy.”
Brannon and his partners ambled toward their horses.
“We have not completely settled the matter,” Ramon said. “But thank you for allowing me to preserve my honor.”
“Did the authorities send troops?”
“There are no authorities.”
“Your uncle in Monterrey?”
“He has been arrested and is bound for Mexico City.”
“And the Federales?”
“They are fighting a revolution of some sort.”
“So there’s no help?”
Ramon wrapped a black bandanna around his wounded hand. “Only us.”
“Look, Ramon. Let’s make a truce. I’ve got to find Earl Howland, and we’ve both got to retrieve a herd of cattle. How about working together for a while?”
Ramon squeezed his bleeding hand. “I’ll agree to that.”
“How many men did you bring with you?”
“Three. It’s all we have who can use a gun well.”
“Hopefully that will be enough.”
“Where are we going now?”
“To find a mesa west of town.”
