by Stephen Bly
“The Great One, who assigns each man to a people, also assigns each people to a home. We must go home. To die in defense of one’s home is a noble death. To die of starvation in a foreign land is the fate of cowards. Do you believe a home is worth fighting for, El Brannon?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I still do not see the angels, Grandfather,” Filippe complained.
“Only when in battle, little one,” Cholla explained.
The warrior soon returned and handed a black hat to Cholla. Brannon eyed the felt hat with the rounded crown.
“This hat was given to me by General Crook himself. The turquoise band was made by the Navajo. I stole it.” Cholla grinned. “And the eagle feather I pulled from the tail of an eagle with my own hands when I was much younger. Now I want you to have such a hat.”
“It is a treasure beyond counting, my friend. I cannot take such a fine gift. ”
“You will take it because it is a gift,” the chief demanded. “And you will take it because it is two sizes too large for me, and it makes me look like a fool.”
Brannon accepted the hat, rolled the brim, creased the crown, and placed it on his head. “I thank my friend Cholla for the gift. Now I have something for you.” He reached into his boot and pulled out his knife, along with the sheath.
“This knife was pulled from my back at the battle of Apache Wells many years ago. It has never lost a battle since that day. The previous owner of this knife is the only one to count coup against Stuart Brannon.”
The old man beamed as he took the knife and turned it over slowly in his hand. “The gift is much too generous.”
“When we all get back to Arizona, Cholla and his grandsons are welcome to eat at the fire of my ranch.”
“Yes, and in the mountains of our homeland, you will always be a guest among Cholla’s people.”
“Have you seen many head of cattle and many bad men with guns guarding them?”
“My scouts say they are now at the mouth of Palo Verde Canyon.”
“Are there some Mexicans from Rancho Pacifica there as well? They are my friends.”
“Yes, but there was a battle yesterday.”
“Do I continue on the lower trail then?”
“That is not the quickest way. If you will ride over the mountain of rocks, you will be able to catch them more quickly.”
“Is there a horse trail over the top?”
“There is an Apache horse trail. Perhaps only our people can so ride.”
“Tell me, are the Mexicans pinned down?”
"Yes. They are in the ruins of the old ones. The Mogollon.”
“I must go to them now and help.”
“There are two who guard the trail and many who shoot at your friends. Do you need help in your battle?”
“I will not include my friend Cholla in my battles. But someday we may fight side by side. There are some battles we must fight on our own. However, there is one thing you can do. Please give me two very old arrows. Perhaps ones not good for use anymore.”
One of the men sitting across from Brannon jumped up, stepped to his horse, and retrieved two new arrows, handing them to him.
Brannon stepped to his horse and reached into the saddlebag for six rifle cartridges. He handed them to the warrior who gave him the arrows. “May each of these find as its target food for your family.”
The man nodded acceptance with no smile.
“These arrows will help me. We must go now. May God look after and protect your people.”
“And may the angels continue to watch after the Brannon.”
The Apaches remounted and rode down the hill to their people.
“Nice hat,” Howland said.
“Yeah, try not to shoot this one,” Brannon sniped.
He and Howland headed toward the rocky mountainside.
“What was all that about the arrows?”
“They might be our secret weapon.”
“What?”
“Give me some time to figure it out.”
The Apache trail over the rocky mountain rock was a foot trail, used only occasionally for horses. Brannon was relieved the blue roan took well to the rock. El Viento would have had trouble.
The sun on its way down, they began the descent. In the waning light they sighted the herd of cattle several miles up the valley. The animals appeared to be in a canyon that followed a creek east. At the base of the canyon stood red rock cliffs, and scattered along them, various ruins of the Mogollon people. Somewhere in those ruins, Ramon and the others were trapped.
“Earl, those scouts are right down there in those rocks.”
“How do you know? I can’t see them.”
“’Cause that’s where I’d be if I were them. Now I’d rather not have any gunfire and draw the others into it, but we have to face them first. So we’ll leave the horses here. Then you sneak through those rocks until you’re right at that point… see it?”
“Yep.”
“When I bluff them back, you cut them off.”
“But don’t shoot them?”
“No gunfire… if possible.”
“How you going to bluff them back?”
“A little Apache scare. Look, there they are.” Brannon pointed as one hat, then another, emerged from behind the rocks.
Brannon took a good ten minutes to get a position in front of Porter’s scouts. He carried his Winchester and the two Apache arrows. As he crouched among the rocks, he estimated he was no more than twenty feet from the men.
“This is about as boring as mud drying along the Mississippi,” one of the men grumbled.
“Relax. They’ll relieve us at supper time. At least we ain’t gettin’ shot at.”
“I could shoot them Mexicans. They cain’t hit nothin’.”
“Yeah, that’s what Woolsey thought, and he’s dead.”
“You watch the road for a while. I’m going to take a little siesta.”
Brannon counted to five, let out a blood-curdling scream, and tossed the arrow as hard as he could in the direction of where he figured the man stood.
“Apaches! Bill, there’s Apaches.”
“Where are they? I cain’t see ’em. Where are they? How many?”
Brannon let out another scream and tossed the second arrow high. It fell into the rocks behind the men.
“That’s an Apache arrow. Maybe they’re above us.”
“I’m goin’ for help. You hold ’em off.”
“Hold ’em off? I cain’t see ’em! You ain’t goin’ to leave me stranded.”
Both men ran down the road toward Porter’s other gunmen.
Howland leaped in front of them and leveled his rifle.
“Hold up, boys,” he ordered. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
“Apaches! Run,” they screamed at him.
Then one of them seemed to recognize Howland. He started to raise his rifle, only to feel Brannon’s Winchester crashing down on his head. The second man swiveled his gun toward Brannon, and Howland grounded him with a blow to the head.
“Get a piece of rope, Earl.”
“Where did you learn that scream? You almost had me believin’.”
“Repetition. I’ve listened to it time and time again.”
"That takes care of the easy ones. How about those surrounding Ramon?”
“We’ll need those arrows again.” While Howland gathered the arrows, Brannon pulled an airtight of tomatoes from his grub sack. “Open this can. I forgot I gave my knife away.”
Howland handed Brannon the arrows and opened the can.
“Now grab a handful of those tomatoes and mash them through the fingers of your left hand.”
“What?”
“Like this.” Brannon demonstrated as the pulp trickled through his fingers. He then snapped about six inches of one arrow and tossed the arrowhead and its useless shank to the ground. He placed the broken end between the fingers of his left hand and wrapped his bandanna tightly around the fingers so that it held
the arrow in place.
He put his juice-stained hand to his chest. “What does that look like?”
“Like you just been shot with an arrow… sort of,” Howland replied.
“You do the same. We’re going to ride right into them.”
“Soon as they re-form along the road to fight Indians, we’ll turn and jump them.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Ramon and the others will come off the mountain and back us up.”
“Ride right at them?”
“And even fire a few shots backwards at our alleged pursuers.”
Spurring the blue roan to a gallop, Brannon and Howland fired several shots back at imaginary Indians and dashed toward Porter’s men.
Brannon screamed, “Apaches, Apaches! They gut-shot me, boys. Don’t let ’em scalp me.” He rode past the startled men, then collapsed off his horse, and sprawled flat on the ground, clutching the arrow against his side.
Howland raced in behind, his body slumped in the saddle. One of the gunmen grabbed the reins of the horse. Howland slipped off the saddle and fell to the ground.
“Those are Apache arrows,” Porter shouted. “Get everyone away from the cliffs and guard that road from the south. I told you Apaches were on the prowl.”
Men dashed about shouting. Some dove behind rocks, and others mounted up and rode off. Brannon crawled toward the base of the cliffs.
“I don’t see ’em. Do you see ’em?”
“Stay down! You never see ’em until it’s too late.”
“I think I see one.”
Several shots were fired up the road.
Brannon stood and signaled for Ramon and the others to come down the mountain. With a wave of his hand he positioned them and Howland behind the gunmen. He fired a shot that sparked granite next to one of Porter’s men.
“Throw them down, boys,” Brannon shouted.
One of the men turned to fire, but Mateo’s shotgun silenced both the man and the crowd. Two of Porter’s men spurred their horses wildly south.
“Let them go,” Brannon hollered.
“There’s Apaches comin’,” someone shouted.
“Nope,” Brannon called. “Just canned tomatoes. Now, walk out that roadway with your hands high. And pray you don’t have to scratch anything, ’cause Mateo is awful quick on the trigger with that scattergun.”
One by one, they came out.
“Jaime, take all their guns.”
“I knew that was you, Brannon,” Ramon announced. “You had the blue roan. How is the hacienda?”
“Your sister is well. How many men does Porter have with the herd?”
“There are none with the herd.”
“What?”
“There were eight men pushing the cattle. Two turned to fight as we rode up. They did not win.”
“And the other six?”
“They turned toward Arizona and rode hard.”
“The conscripts, no doubt. Then this is all of Porter’s men?”
“Yes. They caught us off guard at daylight, and we took cover in the ruins.”
“Where is Porter?”
“He didn’t ride in with the others. Perhaps he, too, has fled to the border.”
“Maybe…” Brannon paused. “But why—”
“¡El Brannon! ¡Tenemos visitantes!”
“Friends or enemies?”
“¿Quién sabe? ¡Federales!”
“Out here? Troops?” Ramon quickly mounted his horse and rode out to meet them.
Howland walked over to Brannon.
“Earl, hold my rifle while I try to wash the tomatoes off my hands.”
“Ya know, Mr. Brannon, I really didn’t think that would work. It did look sort of just like ya spilt your lunch or something.”
“If people get scared enough, they see things different. Just like those shadows on the wall at night when you were a kid.”
Brannon shook water off his hands when Ramon and two Mexican army officers rode up. They dismounted and strolled toward Brannon. He offered his hand and suddenly one of the officers pointed a revolver at his head.
“What?”
“Captain Porter, we meet again. Arrest him, Lieutenant, and throw him in with the others.”
"Porter? I’m not Porter.”
They turned to Howland, holding Brannon’s rifle.
“Ah, El Brannon, we will take the prisoner now. I appreciate your help for apprehending this cattle thief.”
“He’s not Brannon. I’m Brannon. Earl, they think you’re me.”
“Oh no, sir. That there is Mr. Brannon,” Howland said.
“There will be a reward for your capture of Porter,” the officer urged.
“What did he say?”
“They want to give you a reward. Look, I’m Brannon.”
“A reward?”
“This impostor is trying to lie about his identity?” the Lieutenant probed.
“Ramon, tell him what’s going on.”
“Lieutenant, este hombre,” Ramon said solemnly, pointing at Howland, “es El Brannon.”
“Ramon!”
“¿Y este hombre?”
“Porter.”
“Ramon, you set me up.”
“So you claim to be El Brannon?”
“I don’t claim it. I am Stuart Brannon.”
“Very well, you will have a chance to prove it.” The lieutenant handed back Brannon’s rifle, the barrel pointed toward the sky. “If you start to lower that barrel, you will be shot. Now do the trick that Stuart Brannon is famous for.”
“Trick? What trick?”
“The one where you can shoot so straight you can fire a bullet directly up in the air and catch it in your teeth, as it returns to the earth.”
“What? You’re mad.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Of course not.”
“El Brannon can catch the bullet. You therefore must be an imposter. Arrest him.”
“Ramon,” Brannon growled as the officer shoved him toward Porter’s men. “I’ll tan your hide and tack it to the gate post.”
A wide grin broke over the lieutenant’s face.
“Now, Brannon,” Ramon said, “we are even.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Brannon.” The lieutenant smiled. “I owed Ramon a favor.”
Howland turned his head and squinted. “It was all a joke?”
Brannon burst out in laughter. “So, it’s a day for charades?”
“Yes. Let's start over. I’m Lieutenant Castillo.”
“You will take these cattle thieves for us?”
“Certainly.”
“Where will you be taking them?”
“From Hermosillo to Chihuahua.”
“What about Porter, wherever he is?”
“We will have to pick him up next time. But I believe you have greatly reduced his numbers.”
“There are two more tied up down the road in the rocks.”
“We will find them. May the rest of your journey go more peacefully.”
“And yours as well.”
The Mexican troops bound the prisoners and marched south.
“Ramon, shoot the bullet up and catch it in my teeth? How did you invent such a story?”
“Many have heard it about El Brannon.”
“Well, it’s time to round up the cattle and drive them back to the hacienda. I want to count them, stick a road brand on them, and buy a remuda before we throw them out on the trail north. How many men do you have?”
“Counting you and Howland, there are eight of us.”
“You and Earl take a man and ride point. Lead us back to the hacienda. Mateo and Jaime will each take a man and spread out on the flanks. Me and this hombre will bring up the drags… keep ’em together and don’t let them spread.”
They drove cattle for several hours until sundown and quieted the herd near a pool of water that would evaporate within a few weeks. Setting night guard, listening to the bellowing of the cows, and smelling meat cooking on th
e fire… for the first time, Brannon was doing exactly what he came to Mexico to do.
EIGHT
“Will you wear black today?” Felicia asked.
“No, but neither will I wear bright colors. Es Domingo, I will wear the brown.”
“Does this mean the days of mourning are over?”
“The days of mourning for Don Rinaldo will never end. I shall carry his love for me and my love for him in my soul until I reach Heaven’s gates. But I do not have to wear black.”
“Perhaps, Señora, but not all will understand.”
“For them I will pray.”
Both women hurried about the spacious room, completing their preparations. Victoria Pacifica stopped in front of a very large mirror. She straightened her belt, tugged at her sleeves, and brushed down the front of her dress. She studied her face.
Lines formed at the eyes.
A streak of gray foretold the future.
The neck no longer pencil thin.
The chin surrendering its firmness.
Don Rinaldo, you always will be a handsome, young vaquero. But the Señora… her youth will soon be forgotten.
She laced up her shoes and stepped across the tile toward the main room. “Felicia, are you ready?”
“Yes, Señora. Shall we eat breakfast before chapel?”
“Please, help yourself. I will have only an orange. Did Pablo leave last night or this morning?”
“This morning, I believe. He left fresh bread, some meat, and fruit.”
“Is everyone gone?”
“Franco Grande is not feeling well and said he would be at his house if he is needed.”
“And Estaban… what did he decide?”
“Señora, you know the answer. He is feeding the animals.”
“It is always so quiet when everyone is gone. No children laughing. No shouts of joy.”
“Or wails of despair.”
“Yes, that too makes this home.”
Carrying their food on a tray, Felicia and Señora Pacifica walked to a bench under the big oak and sat down.
“Señora, you should not have allowed all of them to leave the hacienda with so much trouble around.”
“It is Domingo, a day of rest and worship.”
“But with the cattle thieves out there and Ramon and the others gone… perhaps some of the men should have stayed behind.”
