Final Justice at Adobe Wells

by Stephen Bly

  After supper the men had a two-hour rest. Then back to the saddle. Even though the moon was only a slim crescent, it offered adequate light. Brannon’s party was back on the trail before midnight.

  After another rest before daylight, Brannon and Howland rode ahead of the herd. They stopped near the last clump of oaks before the trail dropped toward the desert and the final march to Adobe Wells.

  “Earl, once we get out in the desert, they can watch our every move. They can sit at the water and wait… or they can perch up in those eastern hills.”

  “Which do you think they’ll try?”

  “I think they’ll be in the hills. That way they can count the men… keep an eye on our movement.”

  “So what’s our plan?”

  “Our first concern is the Señora. We’ll trade them straight across and plan on recapturing the herd on down the trail. But I really don’t think that’s the goal.”

  “They want to shoot ya, don’t they?”

  “Yep. What we need is a surprise…”

  “How about that surprise?” Howland pointed to a caravan of travelers coming into view from the south.

  “Cholla’s people? They should be in Arizona by now.”

  “They must have rested up before taking on the desert. You figure they’ll stop for water at Adobe Wells?”

  “Without doubt… and you’re right. They just might be the surprise we need.”

  “Will they fight for us?”

  “I wouldn’t ask them to. But they just might help.”

  Brannon rode El Viento out from the oaks where he would be visible to the Apaches, but not to anyone in the eastern mountains. He raised the barrel of his Winchester high in the air and circled it about his head. After several moments of doing this, he returned to the oaks.

  “Did they see you?”

  “If you can see an Indian, he’s already seen you first.”

  “Looks as if several are riding this way.”

  “Go back to the herd and hold them on that side of the mountain. I don’t want Porter to stop us yet. Then you and Ramon ride back up here for a powwow.”

  Brannon was pleased to see Cholla, as well as two others, riding for the oak grove. By the time they arrived, Ramon and Howland also joined him.

  “My friend the Brannon wishes to see me? Why does he hide in the trees?”

  “Cholla, we are trying to save Señora Pacifica. Captain Porter and his men have kidnapped her.”

  “I presume the men with the Señora are back in the eastern mountains.” Cholla’s deep voice spoke each word slowly.

  “I need my friend Cholla’s help to conceal my movements from the bad men. I need to reach Adobe Wells without Porter knowing I am there.”

  “How can that happen?”

  “I would like to disguise myself as one of your warriors and ride back with you now. Then I will trail with you to the well. When you are ready to leave, I will hide and stay behind.”

  “But they must have seen three of us ride to the grove. Will they not be suspicious if four return?”

  “I want your warrior to ride with the cattle. He can catch up with you later—I will give him a fine horse for his work.”

  “You do not look Apache.” Cholla spoke straight-faced.

  “We will trade clothing.”

  Cholla spoke in Apache to the two men who rode with him. Both volunteered to trade with Brannon.

  “Now, Earl, I have a very big job for you. I need you to wear my hat and ride El Viento.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Porter will be looking for me. The risk is, he’ll try to kill me first.”

  “And he will think Earl is El Brannon,” Ramon added.

  “I can do it, Mr. Brannon.” Earl grinned. “Maybe I’ll have those angels watching me now.”

  In moments, Howland mounted El Viento, wearing Brannon’s bandanna and black felt hat with eagle feather.

  Brannon clothed himself in the simple shirt, pants, and sash of the Apache, and the warrior pulled on Brannon’s chaps and Howland’s vest and hat.

  “You got plenty of cartridges, Mr. Brannon?”

  “Yeah, enough to shoot them through about five times each.”

  “You don’t look much like an Apache.”

  Cholla grunted. “He looks sick, like a worm under a rock that turns white.” He scooped up dirt from around the oak trees, walked over, and rubbed it on Brannon’s forehead and cheeks.

  “The reflection from the sun would blind us. Now you look more better.”

  Brannon mounted the Indian pony and carefully put his holster and revolver out of sight. He carried the Winchester across his shoulder, as the warrior had. He stayed on the western side of Cholla and the other brave, so as not to attract attention.

  They caught up with the rest of the band as the group entered Adobe Wells. Brannon dismounted and stayed out of the line of sight of the eastern mountains.

  Filippe and Cerdo soon discovered him.

  “You have become an Apache, El Brannon?”

  “Only for a very short time, Filippe.”

  “You are a funny-looking Apache,” Cerdo said, with a snicker.

  “There will be some shooting here soon, and I want to hide among the ruins.”

  “You hide from the shooting?”

  “Oh, no. I will hide so I might surprise them.”

  “Maybe we will stay and watch,” Filippe suggested.

  “No, you will go with your grandfather.”

  “But I have not yet seen the angels,” Filippe complained.

  “The angels might be busy some other place today.”

  Filippe and Cerdo sat next to Brannon while they ate and rested. The women filled many containers with water. Brannon reviewed the layout of Adobe Wells.

  If I were in Porter’s shoes, I’d wait until the herd is strung out on the prairie. Then I’d move quickly to the Wells… wait until the cattle began to smell the water. Once the cattle started running toward the water, the cowboys would drop back and send the Señora out… no… that’s only if he wanted the cattle. If he wants me, then he’ll hold Victoria at gun point in clear sight.

  A trap… there’ll be a trap. There has to be a trap. In clear sight… on the top of the boulders. If I could hide in the boulders, perhaps.

  “Filippe, the other day, when the mean man was shooting at you out in those rocks, how were you able to hide from the bullets?”

  “Out in the rocks… there is a ditch.”

  “A ditch? Where?”

  “Out in the jagged rock. It makes a little ditch almost like a cave.”

  “How little?”

  “Oh, it is easy for Cerdo and me to hide in, but not you, El Brannon.”

  “How about a woman? Could she find safety there?”

  “Perhaps, if she lay flat.”

  Cholla signaled for the people to prepare to move on. The women soon loaded everything and the throng was on its way. Brannon decided to lie flat behind the only three-foot wall left in town. He could view the herd, though Porter’s approach would be out of sight.

  As the Indians left, Cerdo walked by. “El Brannon, until we sit together at a campfire, good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Cerdo. Where’s Filippe?”

  “Probably begging Grandfather to let us all stay and watch.”

  Brannon lay on the ground as they left. The hot sand warmed him through the light Apache clothing. He positioned his gun belt to make his revolver more accessible and cocked the Winchester.

  They may come down quickly… or late… or not at all. Lord, make it quick!

  He spotted Howland, riding El Viento and wearing his hat, starting the cattle off the mountain and down to the desert.

  Under the clear sky, bright sun baked Brannon’s hatless head. Sweat dripped across the dirt Cholla smeared on his face. With his shirt, he wiped the sweat from his brows and waited for the sound of horses.

  Howland and the others drove the cattle about a third of the way to the wells when h
e heard hoof beats from the east. His body suddenly relaxed as he caught a glimpse of Señora Pacifica among the riders.

  She’s alive! Ragged, perhaps… but alive!

  As he expected, they stopped at the front of the wells. One man stood close to the Señora and held a gun at her side. Porter stood behind them, also facing the oncoming herd. The other men spread out in the rocks and adobe rubble. Brannon knew he could shoot either the man with the gun on the Señora… or Porter… but he would not have time to shoot them both.

  Whoever’s left will shoot Victoria.

  With the herd still a good distance away, Porter began to yell. “Brannon!”

  “Is that you, Porter?” Howland yelled back. “Send the Señora out, and we’ll turn the cattle loose.”

  “There has been a change of plans,” Porter bellowed. “You have done such a magnificent job of driving the herd this far, I will have you drive them to Yuma.”

  “I ain’t taking them farther. Turn the Señora loose.”

  “We are going to Yuma. If you want to see her alive, you will drive the herd there.”

  “We’re makin’ our stand right here,” Howland yelled back from under the shadows of Brannon’s hat. “You’ll die at Adobe Wells, Porter.”

  “Maybe… maybe not,” he hollered. “But the Señora will surely die right on this rock.” He, the other man, and the Señora climbed up on the rocks. Again Porter stood behind the Señora.

  Suddenly, Brannon stood up from behind the short wall and shouted, “Salte a las rocas, Victoria!”

  He forgot he now looked Apache, but the reaction was as expected. The man at the Señora’s side whirled and fired his gun wildly.

  Brannon’s blast from the Winchester lifted the man off the rocks and tumbled him into the sage beside the well. Porter whirled and dove for cover when he no longer had anyone in front of him. The Señora, as he hoped, jumped into the rocks where Filippe claimed to be a ditch.

  “Ponga su cabeza abajo, Señora.”

  The other four men fired at Brannon, who dove behind more broken adobe. One bullet ricocheted off the rocks, ripped through his loose-fitting shirt, and grazed across his side leaving a streak of blood.

  “I thought them ’Paches left,” one of Porter’s men shouted.

  “How many is there?”

  “I cain’t tell.”

  “There’s only one. Circle him, boys. Circle him!” Porter roared.

  Brannon rolled several yards to the right and waited for a shot from among the rocks. When it came, he rose to take aim at the outlaw about to fire at Brannon’s former position.

  But a shot from back in the herd brought the man down before Brannon squeezed the trigger. Now Porter’s men took cover in both directions as Howland moved in slowly.

  “Brannon, I’ll kill her!”

  “You kill the Señora and you are a dead man. Let her walk to us and I’ll let you ride off,” Howland shouted.

  Brannon crept to the west along volcanic rocks. He hoped to find the shallow ditch that would lead to the Señora.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Have you ever heard of Stuart Brannon lying?” Howland continued.

  Earl, don’t promise him too much!

  “All right, I will let her go. Go on, Señora, go to your lover.”

  “Señora, ¡no avancer¡ ¡No hable! ¡Solamente quiero hallarla! ¡Arrátrese al oeste si puede!” Brannon yelled, but most of his words drowned in another round of bullets.

  He moved further west to a new position, on coarse lava rock that scraped through his thin clothing.

  “Captain Porter, let’s run for the horses. It ain’t worth it. We’re caught between Apaches and Brannon.”

  “We’re not leavin’ without the Señora,” Porter cried.

  “Well, I am.” The man broke for the horses.

  Suddenly Porter’s arm appeared above the rocks as he squeezed a round, shooting his own man in the back. Raising his Colt, Brannon fired two quick shots, the first striking Porter’s hand above the wrist.

  Bullets again rained down on Brannon’s position. He crawled further out on the lava rocks. His cover now scant, shots repeatedly surrounded him from behind one of the crumbled adobe walls.

  He turned from Porter and watched for a chance to shoot at the man behind the wall. The next shot sent rock splinters flying near his head. He buried his face against rough lava. When he lifted his head, blood trickled into his left eye.

  Brazenly, the man behind the wall raised his head, probably to catch sight of the damage he caused. He caught Brannon’s bullet instead.

  “Bill,” Porter yelled. “I’m shot in my shooting hand. You got to help me.”

  “Bill’s dead, Captain, it’s just you and me. Forget the woman. Let’s get out of here. I’ll bring the horses around.”

  “You won’t leave me, will ya? Don’t desert me with this Apache.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to leave ya, Captain. Now, you ain’t goin’ to shoot me in the back, are ya?”

  Brannon watched Howland and the others take up positions surrounding Adobe Wells.

  “I ain’t going to shoot ya in the back. Get the horses.”

  “You promise on old Jeb Stuart’s grave that you won’t shoot me?”

  “You’re going to leave me, ain’t ya? Ya yellow dog, you’re going to leave me.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ ya.”

  If we can wait it out, they’ll shoot each other.

  Suddenly, he heard Señora Pacifica scream. From her hiding place came the pop pop of two light-caliber shots.

  TEN

  Brannon fired three quick shots toward Porter and lunged for what he supposed to be Filippe’s ditch. A flurry of bullets crackled around him. He flattened his back against the cruel volcanic rocks. He had not found the small trench work in the ancient lava flow, only a runty indention.

  “¡Señora!” he screamed. “¿Que pasa?”

  “¡Una serpiente! ¡Tiene que dispararle a una serpiente!”

  “¿Tiene mas balas?”

  “No.”

  Bullets, rocks, dust, and smoke flew in all directions, and Brannon felt thoroughly helpless.

  If I go to her, they’ll kill me. If I lie here, they’ll find her. Howland and the others can’t help. If they move closer, they have no protection at all. If they shoot from there, they might ricochet and hit anyone. Lord… it is time for a miracle.

  The shooting stopped.

  He lay perfectly still.

  Maybe they’ve run out of bullets.

  He rolled onto his stomach and began to crawl across the rocks. Several shots forced him back.

  Maybe they haven’t run out of bullets.

  Brannon withstood the temptation to raise his head. He heard a scuffle. The Señora cried out. A man grunted. Then he heard Porter shout, "I've got her, Brannon. I’m ridin’ out of here. Don’t think I won’t shoot her. I got nothin’ to lose.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Howland called back.

  “I mean it, Brannon. You better call off that Apache, or the lady dies.”

  “That Apache does what he wants,” Howland replied.

  “Then tell her goodbye ’cause she’s dead.”

  “Don’t harm her,” Brannon shouted.

  “Who said that?” Porter cried out.

  “It’s me, Brannon.”

  “Brannon’s on that black horse—”

  “I’m no Apache. Don’t harm the lady, and we’ll let you ride away.”

  "Are you really Brannon?”

  “I’ll do ‘til the real one comes along.”

  “Listen,” Porter shouted. “Me and Hank is going to go for the horses. If you raise up, Apache Brannon, Hank will lead you down. You out there on the horses. I’m going to ride out of here with the lady. The second you pull the trigger, I’ll kill her. You hear me?”

  “Earl,” Brannon hollered, “Let him make his move.”

  “¡Senor Brannon… ¡No puedo permitir que se lleve a mi hermana una vez ma
s!” Ramon called.

  “¡La matará!” Brannon yelled back. “¡Debemos hacer algo rápidamente! Permita hacer un traslado. ¡No disparsen por equivocation!”

  “Hank, keep your gun on that Apache.”

  Brannon could not risk peering at Porter, but stayed low. The outlaw’s bloody right hand wrapped in a bandanna still held a revolver, while his left hand clamped the back collar of the Señora’s dress. He positioned her as a shield between Howland and the others, then fired several rounds Brannon’s direction.

  Ducking the spray of lead, Brannon lost sight of the action. When he finally regained position, everything went crazy. Porter mounted his horse by the well, grasping the Señora behind him in the saddle to ensure no one could shoot him in the back. Realizing Porter meant to escape without him, Hank aimed his rifle toward Porter and the Señora. Ramon and men immediately gunned him down.

  Brannon rose to his feet, but he found the volcanic lava flow nearly impossible for walking. He stumbled and fell as he tried to run across it.

  All of a sudden, Filippe appeared on the broad granite rock by the well. He lifted his bow and fired an arrow, puncturing Porter’s left leg in the thick part of the thigh.

  The horse reared.

  The Señora tumbled off and thudded against the rock to lie motionless.

  Porter spurred the horse among a wave of bullets from Howland and fired at Filippe. The boy plunged to the ground with a scream.

  Brannon stumbled and fell again, gashing his arms and hands as he fought his way over the lava. By the time he reached the well, Ramon knelt at his sister’s side.

  Brannon shouted at Howland, “Give me that horse.”

  Howland vaulted from the saddle, and Brannon hurled up on El Viento. “Is she dead?” he yelled at Ramon.

  “No, she is not shot.”

  “Earl, take care of Filippe.” Brannon spurred El Viento after Porter.

  The outlaw rode two hundred yards beyond Adobe Wells and dove from his horse behind a stack of rocks to shoot at Brannon.

  Without even a sagebrush to hide behind, Brannon reined up and plunged to the desert sand. El Viento drifted back toward Adobe Wells.