by Stephen Bly
Brannon leaped off El Viento and bent down as if to assist the stunned Ace. He slammed the barrel of his revolver against the man’s head.
“What happened out here?” one of the men shouted.
“Ace got bucked off. Must have hit his head on something hard. You boys take him back to the bunk. Me and Ed will finish up with this other one.” He motioned toward Howland, once again limp on the saddle.
The men grabbed Ace off the ground and packed him back to the house. Brannon, Fletcher, and Howland rode toward the edge of the mesa.
Once out of earshot, Fletcher spoke up. “I say, Stuart, isn’t the trail more to the right?”
“Yep. But I figure those at the cabin are watching us right now. I don’t want to show our cards too soon.”
“Mr. Brannon, I’m gettin’ awful stiff,” Howland complained.
“Not nearly as stiff as they hoped.”
“Are they going to let us just ride off?” Fletcher asked.
“I doubt it, but we got a lot further than I thought we would.”
“Stuart, take a glance back,” Fletcher said. “Looks like they’re all heading for the ponies.”
“I suppose Ace woke up. All right, Earl, you can sit up. Let’s get down off this mesa. I don’t suppose there’s another trail?”
“Not that I know of. Mr. Brannon, have you got another revolver?”
Brannon dug in his saddlebag and handed a .45 to Howland. “Edwin, take the lead down. It’s gettin’ shadowy, so watch yourself. Earl, stay in the middle. I’ll drop back and slow them a bit. We’ll probably get a fight all the way down. Remember, he has two men on the side of the mesa and probably two at the bottom. They’ll try to pin us, so we’ll have to keep moving. Once we make it to the desert floor, we’ll have a better chance.”
“What will we do then?” Howland inquired.
"Don’t worry about that now.”
“My word, Earl,” Fletcher called back, “we probably won’t make it that far anyway,”
Brannon could hear gunshots coming his way as he plunged El Viento on the trail leading off the mesa. About twenty feet down the mountain, he reined the big black gelding and slid out of the saddle, clutching his Winchester.
Climbing across the boulders that ascended above the head of the trail, he shoved boulders down. But the riders already too close, he abandoned the avalanche and retreated to El Viento. He returned fire at the lead horse, still too distant to do any damage, but close enough to slow the pursuers.
When he reached the trail where he left El Viento, the big horse was gone. One glance at the tracks told Brannon the steed trotted down to Howland and Fletcher.
“Why me?” Brannon moaned. “I’m going to sell him and buy a horse that’s deaf.” He raced down the trail on foot.
As he whipped around a tight horseshoe corner of the trail, several shots rang out against the rocks above his head. Then he heard gunshots down the mountain.
Fletcher and Howland!
Meanwhile, the descending horsemen had gained on him. Gasping to relieve a cramp in his side, he peered above the trail. On the hillside he spotted a large, round boulder the size of a yearling steer, hanging over the trail.
Under the overhang was a stick of wood about a foot long that seemed to brace the rock, keeping it from falling.
“If I can hit that stick,” he said through clenched teeth, “that boulder ought to come right down.” Lifting the Winchester to his shoulder, he pulled off a quick shot.
The stick burst into splinters.
The bullet ricocheted off the rocks.
But the big boulder stayed.
A joke? Someone put that there for a prank?
Then the lead horse stumbled and collapsed at the turn of the narrow trail.
Who shot the horse? The ricochet? Shoot the horse… block the trail? Why didn’t I think of that?
Ahead he could see Fletcher and Howland pinned against the steep side of the mesa with two gunmen above them and two more blocking the trail below. He worked his way onto the rocks beyond where Porter’s men crouched.
Circling above them, he got in position to fire when two rapid shots from the trail sent him diving to the rocks.
Fletcher, it’s me up here.
The shots at Brannon alerted Porter’s men to his presence and they whipped around, firing more shots his way.
This is great. I should always go it alone. If I raise up to shoot Porter’s men, Fletcher and Howland will fire at me.
Brannon fired two quick shots at the rocks next to Fletcher and Howland. They both ducked for cover as he fired two more shots at Porter’s men. One of them tumbled back. The other dropped his rifle and clutched his right arm.
Then two more shots splintered granite near Brannon.
He set his black hat on the end of the rifle barrel and raised it.
Maybe Earl and Edwin will recognize my hat.
A half-dozen shots spun the hat like a top.
Fletcher and Howland scrambled on down the trail, El Viento trotting behind.
I’ll have to work my way back to the trail, unseen. If my enemies don’t shoot me, my friends will!
His crawl among the rocks slow and tedious, Brannon banged his shins and skinned his knuckles as he listened to Fletcher and Howland shooting to keep from being pinned down from both directions.
Sounds like they got that horse drug off.
Suddenly the side of the mesa ahead of Brannon broke out of the rocks with a steep red dirt decline in front of him. In the distance, the sun glowed against the Sierra Madres. Magdalena was only a dark blotch on the horizon.
Brannon took a quick glance at the steep descent, then plunged feet first down the mountain. A few steps later he lost his balance and tumbled into red clay. Tightly clutching his Winchester, he somersaulted helplessly off the mesa wall. Everything blurred except for the barrel of the rifle, which crashed into his face. It split his lower lip, spraying blood over his chin and down on his shirt.
Toward the bottom of the mesa, Brannon jammed the heel of his boot into the soft dirt and abruptly halted his fall. The jolt of the sudden stop sent a sharp pain up his left leg. When he pushed himself to his feet, the leg collapsed, and he slid another twenty feet down the mountain, crashing through several sagebrush and cactus. Finally he lodged in a large sage. Blood oozed from gashes in his arms, face, neck. His right sleeve hung in shreds.
Struggling for breath, he rolled to his knees and gingerly stood, trying to keep weight off his left leg.
Somewhere up there is about a pound of my hide and a black hat shot full of holes. Like Shylock… they ought to call that mountain Shylock.
Shots rang out a couple hundred yards to the right. He limped toward the base of the trail. The two Porter gunmen who held down Fletcher and Howland waited for the others to work their way down the trail. As sunlight faded, Brannon could only see two shadowy silhouettes.
He was within twenty feet of the pair when one of them glanced back at him and exclaimed, “Good night, you’re one of those new Carolina boys, ain’t ya? What happened to your mouth?”
“It’s Brannon,” Brannon said.
“Stuart Brannon—from Arizona?”
“Yep,” Brannon replied, “I seen him with my own eyes.”
“We got a gunslinger like Brannon pinned down,” the other man cheered between shots at Fletcher and Howland. “Well, I’ll be. We’ll be the ones that finally lead down old Brannon. That’ll make us famous.”
“We won’t get to do it,” Brannon said. “These two here you’re shootin’ at ain’t nothin’. Brannon was up above them and them boys ridin’ down will get him first… unless we just step back and let these two through. Then we’ll close the gap on the next horse down. And bango, we’ll have ourselves a gunslinger.”
“Stuart Brannon is really up there? We didn’t see him go up the trail. Nobody new, ’cept you Matee boys.”
“He’s a tricky one.”
“Let’s do it. Let’s let ’em by
.”
“What will Porter say?” the other argued.
“We gun down Brannon, and he’ll probably give us a raise. Stuart Brannon right up there… still cain’t believe it.”
“Back over in them rocks and let them through,” Brannon said.
“Here they come. We could jist plug ’em from here.”
“No, don’t pull away from these rocks, boys. Brannon will be right behind, and he don’t miss. You don’t want to give that killer a chance to plug ya.”
“They got another horse with ’em?”
“That’s my horse,” Brannon cried. “They cain’t steal him. I’m goin’ to get him, boys. You take care of things here. Brannon should be the next man down. Watch out for him, boys. He’s a killer.”
Darkness covered the desert as Brannon limped away from the guards and down the road to Magdalena. He hoped somewhere ahead Fletcher and Howland stopped to wait for him. But with El Viento riderless, he feared they likely assumed the worst.
Fierce gunfire erupted from back on the trail. Brannon wondered how long Porter’s men would keep shooting at each other. As the pain in his leg increased, he slowed his pace. He hobbled by the time he heard a shout from some bushes off the trail. Feeble light from the first stars provided the evening a dim light.
“I say, old man on the road, did you see anyone else coming behind you?”
“He’s a Mexican,” Howland cautioned. “He won’t speak no English.”
“If either one of you says, ‘Good heavens, Brannon, you look frightful,’ I’ll bust every tooth in your head.”
Fletcher and Howland rode out from the brush with El Viento in tow. Howland lit a match and held it near Brannon’s dark figure.
“My word, Brannon, what—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Mr. Brannon, you must’ve fought a dozen of ’em, hand to hand.”
“Stuart, did you get shot?”
“Look, I tumbled off that mesa, cracked myself in the lip with my rifle, and ripped my shirt and arms rolling into sage.” With great effort he pulled himself into the saddle.
“Where to now?” Howland asked.
“Magdalena. That city’s so crowded they couldn’t follow us through it.”
“What’s going on back there?”
“The ones at the bottom are shooting at the ones coming down.”
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“’Cause I told them Stuart Brannon was on that mountain.”
“What? They believed you?”
“For a minute anyway… let’s punch these cayuses and get out of here.”
The three rode hard for Magdalena, not stopping until they reached the center of town. There they rested at the plaza, dimly lit by the faint wash of light from surrounding buildings.
After the men watered the horses and loosed the cinches, Brannon studied Howland. “Earl, how’s the leg?”
“It ain’t serious as long as it don’t get swollen.”
“My word, Brannon, you’re the hard case,” Fletcher said. “Now precisely what happened back there?”
“It started when El Viento ran off.” He splashed water on his face. “And then—aah!” He shrieked as cold water hit the wounds. After catching his breath, he asked, “Earl, what happened to you last night?”
“We were in La Serpiente Dorada when Porter and about six of ’em entered. I guess he don’t like Mexicans ’cause he made some remarks about me sitting at the same table with Miguel and Estaban. The next thing I know one of them is drawin’.
“Miguel took a slug and everyone dove for cover. I downed that one, winged another, and hollered at Estaban to get Miguel out of there. Then I took a ricochet in the leg and busted a chair with the back of my head. When I came to, I was in a wagon with a couple drunks tied up next to me.
“Woolsey showed up about the time they was leavin’ town. He was cussin’ and hollerin’ about the evils of Stuart Brannon, but it was dark and he didn’t recognize me. Porter sent Woolsey on out with the herd, wherever that is.
“I figured they was goin’ to shoot me, but then Porter said to stick me on a horse and take me up to the mesa ‘cause I was fast with a gun, and he could use another hand.
“He stayed in town, but when he came ridin’ in early this morning, he rounded up the men saying that Stuart Brannon was at a fiesta at Rancho Pacifica, and he figured the Señora had hired you to retrieve the cattle. That’s why everyone was saddling up when you arrived. He wanted to get the cattle out on the desert as soon as possible.
“He tried to convince me to ride along and tried to threaten me, but I told him in simple terms where he could spend eternity.”
“So they were planning to ride out and get the cattle moving?”
“I think he might have sent Woolsey to get ’em going yesterday, and this bunch was to catch up with them. But now, with the Brannon around, who knows?”
“We’d better find Ramon before he gets caught between the herd and this new bunch coming in from the mesa,” Fletcher urged.
“The first thing we have to do is take it real slow on these ponies all the way back to the hacienda and get new mounts. Even El Viento can’t take much more of this pace.” Brannon saddled up and led the trio out of Magdalena.
A sky full of bright stars and a sliver of moon now offered a view of the desert as they rode east to the base of the mountains. The night cool breeze soothed Brannon’s torn face. His cheeks and the back of his hands felt almost sunburned.
His thoughts caromed from outlaws.
To cattle.
To haciendas.
To Señoritas.
To one special Señora.
Lord, there’s something different about her. All the others… all of them seem to be competing with Lisa. And none of them could ever measure up. But Victoria… she doesn’t compete. She allows Lisa to be Lisa. She comes as her own person… she understands. It wouldn’t break her heart for me to pull out the locket and glance at that picture. I wouldn’t feel embarrassed to mention something that Lisa and I did.
Maybe it’s the smile. Or the way she makes me laugh. Or the burdens we both carry. I enjoy being with her. ’Course, everyone enjoys being with her. But she doesn’t know anything about me. And when she does… maybe I’m just kiddin’ myself.
The horses’ slow trotting made the trip seem endless.
Mile after mile.
Shadow after shadow.
Bounce after bounce.
Brannon’s face burned. His thoughts flitted about and settled on a Señora in a yellow dress.
As the horses turned onto the three-mile drive that led to the hacienda, Fletcher and Howland rode up beside him.
“Mr. Brannon, I’ve been a thinkin’. Do you believe me and Miss Julie should wait awhile and get our place settled in before we commence having children, or should we get started right away?”
“What?”
“Well, Miss Julie wants to get right started with a family, and I think—”
“Earl, my opinion is that you won’t have a whole lot to say in the matter. It seems like whenever a woman sets her mind to having children, there’s no way to prevent it from happening. What in the world brought up this subject anyway?”
“I got to ponderin’ about the wedding and all, and the thoughts naturally turned to, you know, family matters.”
“Well, I, for one,” Fletcher said, “envy you and Brannon.”
“Envy?” Brannon slowed El Viento and gawked at Fletcher.
“Certainly. Here’s Earl, engaged to a beautiful young lady, planning out his future. On the other hand, here’s Brannon who’s decided to remain a monk all his life. It’s my dratted indecisiveness that bothers me.”
“I suppose you were thinking about a lady in Prescott?” Brannon said.
“Good heavens, yes. I’ve never run across a woman quite like her. All the charm and grace of a lady of the court and yet none of that pompous, insufferable snobbishness. My word, Bran
non, what a prize she is.”
“This is great, just great. We’ve got a dozen men somewhere behind us who would love to shoot us full of lead and another dozen up ahead just as anxious. We also need to round up 850 head of cattle and drive them several hundred miles north… and you two are pining away like a couple of schoolboys.”
“It was a terribly long ride,” Fletcher said.
“Kind of dumb, isn’t it?” Howland added. “Mr. Brannon, have you got some kind of plan to get the cattle back? I suppose you’ve been figurin’ out every move.”
“I think we’ll need… there’s the rancho.”
“We’ll need what?” Fletcher asked.
“I’m thinking on it. My mind kind of… I was preoccupied. Anyway, let’s get those new mounts.”
“Brannon, by any chance were you thinking about a certain widow?”
Brannon didn’t respond.
“She looked beautiful in that yellow dress, didn’t she?”
“She understands, Edwin. You can’t explain to just anyone the ache in your gut that won’t go away after a loved one dies in your arms. But she understands.”
“She makes you laugh,” Fletcher replied. “A few days ago you told me you needed to find someone who made you laugh.”
“It goes to show how tired we must be to let our minds carry on like that. Let’s take it easy riding up to the gate. We don’t want to draw any fire this time.”
They walked their horses to the huge oak doorway that served as a gate to the grounds of the hacienda. A few bangs on the door brought footsteps running.
“¿Quien es?”
“It’s Brannon. Is that you, Estaban?”
Slowly the heavy doors creaked open and Estaban appeared, holding a dim lantern. “Ay, yi yi! Señor Brannon, what happened to you? Did you wrestle with a cougar?”
“It’s a long story. We need to change horses. Do you have three solid mounts to lend us?”
“Certainly, Señor, I’ll tell Martinez.”
“And I guess we’ll need to change clothes and grab a bite to eat. You haven’t heard from Ramon, have you?”
“No, Señor. I will get Maria to bring some food to the main room in the big house.”
