Final Justice at Adobe Wells

by Stephen Bly

  As Porter shot wildly, Brannon knew he was running low on bullets, courage, and blood. He waited and then moved in with caution.

  “Brannon, I’m bleedin’ to death. I surrender! Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, but you can’t surrender.”

  “Look, here are my guns,” Porter cried. “I’ve thrown ’em all out on the desert.”

  “How about your sneak gun?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Brannon chipped away at the pile of rocks with bullets from the Winchester.

  “Brannon, look, here's my sneak gun. I surrender. I’m dying, Brannon. Pull this arrow out of me.”

  Brannon moved in slowly until he could see Porter propped against the rocks, mouth open, breathing hard.

  “Give me some water. You wouldn’t deny a dying man a drink, would ya?”

  Brannon pulled the canteen off Porter’s motionless, nearby horse and tossed the container to the wounded man. “You’ve got a shattered wrist and a little arrow in your leg. They won’t be the cause of your death.” Brannon cocked the Winchester and laid it beside Porter’s head.

  Howland rode up, leading the wayward El Viento.

  “You can’t shoot me,” Porter whimpered. “I’m unarmed. I surrendered. I demand a jury trial.”

  “They don’t have juries in Mexico for swine like you.” Brannon shoved the barrel so hard against Porter’s head, the man fell over on the sand.

  “We ain’t in Mexico. These rocks… they’re the boundary. This is Arizona. You can’t try me in Arizona for crimes committed in Mexico.”

  Brannon grabbed Porter by the boot and dragged him south of the rock marker. “Now you’re in Mexico.”

  “You can’t do that. It’s illegal. You got to get me to a doctor.” Porter began to crawl to the U.S. side of the monument. “You can’t shoot me. If you're really Stuart Brannon, you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed, dyin’ man.”

  “Maybe not, but I can,” Howland declared and raised his rifle.

  “Wait, Earl. He’s not worth the regret. How’s the Señora?”

  “She came to. I think she’s all right.”

  Brannon yanked the canteen away from Porter and collected the discarded weapons. Securing them on Porter’s horse, he gave the reins to Howland. “Take his stuff back to Adobe Wells.”

  “You cain’t do that. It’s stealin’.”

  “You’re in no position to tell me what I can and can’t do. Besides, I’m not stealing anything, Porter. We’re just holding them for your arrival.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ me back into Mexico.”

  “Suit yourself, but it’s a long crawl to Tucson. Remember, there’s a band of Apaches over the draw, and you just shot one of their children.”

  “Pull that arrow out, Brannon. You got to do that for me.”

  “It’ll hurt.”

  “It’s killing me already.”

  Brannon placed one boot against Porter’s hip and gripped the shaft of the arrow with both hands. A quick hard tug and a yelp from Porter, and the arrow was out.

  So was Porter.

  “He fainted?” Earl asked.

  “Yep. Lucky for him it was one of Filippe’s little arrows, a sharp stick with no arrowhead.”

  Brannon dug through the saddlebags on the back of El Viento and extracted a ripped flour sack he used to wrap his spare revolver. He tied the sack around Porter’s leg wound and mounted El Viento.

  “We going to just leave him?” Howland quizzed. “We could take him back into Mexico.”

  Brannon studied the eyes of the man on the ground. “We’ll leave him here for now. He can’t go very far, and we need to check on the others. If he goes north, he dies in the desert. His only hope is to crawl back to the wells.”

  “And re-enter Mexico alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “But how do we know that’s the border?”

  “How do we know it’s not?”

  “You really think he’d crawl back?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Brannon rode hard back to Adobe Wells.

  Several of Ramon’s men scratched out graves for the dead, while he, Howland, and two others attended to the Señora and Filippe.

  “Señora,” Brannon called as he dismounted, “did you break any bones?”

  “I have a headache. It is this brave warrior who is injured most severely.” She had ripped a piece from her brown dress to hold against Filippe’s wounds.

  Howland dismounted and gave the boy water.

  Brannon glanced up at Ramon. “We need to tell his people.”

  “The Apache warrior wearing your chaps has ridden ahead to tell them.”

  “El Brannon,” Filippe called weakly.

  Brannon bent down by the pale boy. “Filippe, I didn’t know you were in the rocks. It was not a good place for even a brave boy to be.”

  “I wanted to see the fight.”

  Brannon was surprised there were no tears. “You were a part of the fight.”

  “El Brannon Apache and Filippe Apache… we defeated them, didn’t we?”

  “Yep. We sure did.”

  “Filippe and El Brannon… we are brothers. We fight on the same side.” He breathed deep gulps.

  Brannon held his hand, as dirty as his own.

  “When my people come… you will not tell them I was scared?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hurt real bad?” Brannon asked.

  “Yes… very bad. I was shot twice. Once in the stomach and once in the back. The one in the stomach hurts the most.”

  “You lie still… get some rest,” Brannon said softly, trying to comfort the youth.

  Lord, you’ve got to help little Filippe!

  "Tell me about the angels,” Filippe asked.

  “I don’t know much about angels, Filippe. Maybe we should ask Jesus to tell you about the angels. He knows all about them. Have you ever heard of Jesus?”

  “Yes, I have read some of His book. The lady who taught us English… she taught us to read the black book.”

  After a short prayer, Brannon glanced down at Filippe.

  “May I have some more water?”

  Brannon reached for the canteen, but when he put it to the boy’s lips, he did not respond.

  “Filippe?” He lowered his ear to the boy’s chest and listened for a heartbeat.

  “Is he... ?” Señora Pacifica whispered.

  “No, he must have passed out. He’s lost a lot of blood… too much blood.”

  “It wasn’t two bullets, was it?”

  Brannon pulled off his Apache shirt and rolled it up, placing it under Filippe’s head. “No, it was one bullet that ripped clear through.” He walked over to El Viento and pulled his own shirt from the bedroll. He buttoned the cuffs as he returned to the Señora.

  “He will die?”

  “Maybe in the city with a good doctor by his side, he could live. But not here.”

  “Why did he do that? Why did he try to save me?”

  “He was caught up in the battle. If you are a born warrior, it’s very hard to watch a battle closely and not take sides. He picked our side. Señora, were you harmed by these men… in any way? You look—”

  “I know, I look terrible. Ramon has already told me.”

  “You have been through rough treatment.”

  “Yes, they treated me harshly, but they did not take liberties with me.”

  “I’m glad. It would have made me angry enough to sin. Where did you get the gun to shoot the snake?”

  “I have carried a small weapon since the day Don Rinaldo was murdered.”

  “So you had two shots all the time they held you captive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t you tempted to shoot Porter?”

  “Many times.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “Every time I thought about it, I couldn’t do it. It is not an easy matter to kill someone. Even if the person is d
espicable. Do you find killing easy, Mr. Brannon?”

  “Never. But most times, I’m not given a chance to think about it.”

  “You killed Mr. Porter?”

  “No… not yet.”

  “Did he get away?”

  “No. I would say he’s crawling across the desert, trying to reach Adobe Wells.”

  “Coming to us? Why?”

  “He will be very thirsty.”

  “Will you give him a drink or kill him?” she asked.

  “I don’t know the answer to that yet.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We wait for Filippe’s people to return for him.”

  “And then?”

  “We will get you home to your people. Many are extremely worried. I also thought about you often over the past several days.”

  “Yes, and I have thought about you as well. What have you been thinking?”

  “That we should figure a way to visit each other more often. I very much enjoy your company, Señora Victoria Pacifica. How about you?”

  “I was thinking it is time you call me only Victoria.”

  “Mr. Brannon,” Howland shouted, “you were right. Here comes Porter.”

  “Is he walking?”

  “Sort of like draggin’ along. Should I help him, or shoot him?”

  “Neither.” Brannon approached the wounded man.

  "Get me some water,” Porter whined.

  Taking the canteen off Porter’s horse, he handed it to Porter, who took two large gulps.

  “Brannon, you’re a disgrace to the South.”

  Brannon raised the butt of his rifle, intending to strike Porter across the head.

  But the Señora called out, “The man sounds delirious.”

  Brannon left the canteen with Porter who gulped the water down, much of it dripping to the parched desert floor.

  “Earl, you and Ramon pack Porter out to those lava rocks… there’s a good-sized trench out there. It should contain him. Make sure he hasn’t got any weapons.”

  They deposited Porter, spitting curses and threats, in the volcanic trench. “You can’t do this, Brannon.”

  Brannon checked again on the unconscious Filippe. He retrieved his hat from Earl, slumped on one of the broken adobe walls, and stared north. The Señora sat beside him.

  “Thinking about the Apaches?”

  “No. I was thinking about Liddon Segelke and Delbert Crowden.”

  “Who are they?”

  “A couple of friends of mine. We grew up seven miles apart, and sometimes we’d go rabbit hunting and pretend we were in the army, ridin’ with Sam Houston. We were all fourteen when the war broke out. We rode two days to Austin to volunteer to protect Texas. I was first in line, and they told me I was too young, so Delbert and Liddon lied about their age. They claimed they were sixteen, and the army took them in. So I went home to raise beef and they went to war.”

  “What happened?”

  “The army didn’t keep them around to protect Texas like they promised. Instead they were sent to the front lines of the war. Delbert died at Missionary Ridge and Liddon at Vicksburg.

  “They could ride… they could rope… they could shoot straight… and they could laugh… man, could they laugh. They were good ol’ boys. I’m still proud to have been their friend. But they died in the war—and some demon like Porter lives. It just doesn’t figure.”

  “Perhaps you are in too big a hurry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want a world that is perfect, now, where everyone is as self-disciplined as Stuart Brannon. Where people do only the correct things. Where honor and virtue and industry are always rewarded. Where each person will receive what he deserves. We’ll have a world like that someday. But only when the Lord returns.”

  “It sure didn’t happen for Filippe.”

  “No… I believe that will be Filippe’s people now.”

  Brannon looked up to see three warriors urging swift horses toward Adobe Wells. When they arrived, he spent several minutes explaining to Cholla what happened.

  “Cholla, Filippe is a very brave boy.”

  The old man tenderly stroked the young boy’s soft cheeks. “Perhaps it is better to die brave than to live in defeat.”

  ]

  Brannon and Howland rode out with their men and settled the herd toward the eastern mountains where they found a little grass. Ramon built a fire, and the Señora fixed supper. They waited for the Apaches to return.

  “Mr. Brannon, what are you going to do with Porter?”

  “Send him to the Mexican authorities, I guess.”

  “Where will you find them?”

  “Perhaps in Magdalena.”

  “We ought to hang him at the Wells,” Howland insisted.

  “There aren’t any trees.”

  “We could shoot him.”

  “Earl, it takes one kind of a person to shoot a man when he’s throwing lead your direction. It takes another kind altogether to shoot a man who’s no threat to you at all.”

  Brannon left two men on guard with the herd and led the other men back to Adobe Wells to eat. They arrived to find all of Cholla’s people encamped for the night on the north side of the wells. The Señora and Ramon were quartered on the east side toward the herd.

  “They took Filippe to their camp,” she said.

  “Was he still—?”

  “Yes, he's alive.”

  “Unconscious?”

  “Yes. He's burning up with fever also. I have said many prayers for him. Will it be safe for us to stay here tonight?”

  “Cholla is a friend. We’ll be safe.”

  “How about the rest of the tribe? Do you know them?”

  Brannon paced in front of the campfire, watching the stars fleck the desert sky and listening to Apache chants.

  “I had Ramon take Porter some water and a little food,” the Señora said softly.

  “How are his wounds?”

  “Ramon said he is weak… and frightened. He thinks you will turn him over to the Apaches… and he believes if he comes up out of the trench, they will attack him.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Then you will turn him over to them?”

  “He’s right about what will happen if they find him there.”

  “Then you will give him up?”

  “I don’t know… I just don’t know. There ought to be laws and lawmen, jails and judges, juries and gallows. But out here, there’s nothing. If I were here by myself, I would ride off and let the desert eat him.”

  “That is a grand speech, Stuart, but a poor lie.”

  “In what way?”

  “You wrestle now only with yourself and your belief in God’s judgment and justice. If no one else on earth were here but you and Porter, you still would be wrestling.”

  He stared at her through the laughing lights of the robust campfire. He watched as she tried using her fingers for a comb to smooth her hair, dirty and unkempt after three days on the trail. “You aren’t the first woman to see through me so quickly.”

  “And you are not difficult to understand. With you it is never a battle of guns and bullets and arrows and money and land. It is always a battle of morals, of philosophy, of faith, isn’t it? I once knew a man very much like that.”

  When Brannon returned from his shift on night guard at the herd, he settled down next to the fire embers. He heard the soft Apache drumbeat swell in intensity.

  Ramon sat straight up out of sleep. “The drums! What is happening?”

  Brannon whispered, “A change… it must be Filippe. Wake everyone. We’d better watch what they do next.”

  “El Brannon,” cried a young voice. “Come quickly. Grandfather needs you.” Cerdo appeared in the sage behind Brannon.

  He jumped to his feet and followed the boy to Filippe, lying limp in the arms of his grandfather. Most of their people sat at Cholla’s fire, expressionless, as though caught in time waiting for something to happen.

  The d
rums and chanting ceased when Brannon entered the circle. One glance at the boy and Brannon knew Filippe was dead. Brannon sat down, cross-legged, next to Cholla in silence.

  The old man stared at the coals in the fire rather than at his grandson’s body. Studying the chief, Brannon could detect neither sadness nor joy, relief nor anger. He waited for Cholla to speak.

  “Before Filippe died…” Cholla’s words were deep and slow. “Before he died, he said, ‘Go and tell the Brannon it is all right now. I have seen the angels. I have seen the angels!’”

  Brannon nodded.

  They all sat still by the small fire.

  Men with battle scars long forgotten.

  Women with babies at their breasts.

  Children sleepy with inactivity.

  Dogs with fleas.

  Wrinkled, toothless old women.

  Cholla with Filippe still in his arms.

  Cerdo grasping his small bow and arrows.

  No one spoke for a long, long time.

  Cholla finally broke the silence. “When an old man dies a slow death, he has many sorrows. He grieves he will not see his loved ones any more. He pains that he will not know if they grow to be wise and brave or cowardly and foolish. That is why most of the old die with regrets.

  “But with my Filippe… I have lived long enough to see he died a brave warrior. In the history of our people, he will be known as a warrior who died in battle.”

  After a pause, Brannon spoke. “In the history of my people, Filippe will be known as the friend of Stuart Brannon and hero of Adobe Wells.”

  The old man nodded. “Yes, that is right. That is right. At daylight we will go into the hills to say good-bye to Filippe. And by sunset tomorrow, we will be back at Adobe Wells to pick up the evil man you have hidden in the lava rocks. My grandson is dead. That man belongs to us now. The Brannon knows that is our custom.”

  All the people seemed intent on his response.

  Brannon weighed his words carefully. “And Cholla knows… it is not my custom. He should be turned over to the Federales.”

  “We will fight, even die, to satisfy revenge for Filippe. Will you fight to the death to save this evil man?”

  Brannon stood to leave their camp. “Only God knows whether I will fight, Cholla.”

  He returned to their own campfire with everyone awake, expectant.

  The Señora sat up with her blanket wrapped about her shoulders, only her head exposed. “Filippe?”