by Stephen Bly
“Yes, I certainly will.”
For the next two hours they sat in what shade they could find and talked about cattle, fiestas, politics, sourdough bread, gold mines, buffalo rifles, and mates who died in their arms.
The sun was past halfway when Cholla’s people appeared in the distance.
Brannon saddled the three horses and brought them around to the well. He loaded up the gear on the third horse.
“Is that horse for Porter?”
“Yep. Are you ready for this?” Brannon asked.
“Yes. Have you decided what you will do?”
“Nope.”
“Is it not a good time to decide?” she asked.
“Which would you rather carry, a rifle or a revolver?”
“I am more confident with a revolver.”
He pulled out his spare revolver from the saddlebag, checked the chambers, and handed it to her. “You’ve got five shots loaded. Do you want another cartridge?”
“No, I’m sure this will be enough. It takes me only two shots to kill a snake. Are you going to bring that snake Porter out?”
“Nope. Not yet. Let’s walk out and meet them. It will be better to keep them away from the rocks.”
Brannon and the Señora walked the horses straight out to the approaching band of Apaches. Cholla rode in the lead, resting a rifle on his lap, with Cerdo seated behind him.
When they halted, Cerdo slipped off the back of the horse and ran to Brannon’s side. “El Brannon, Filippe went to be with the angels.”
“You might be right, son.” He put his hand on Cerdo’s shoulder as the boy stood beside Brannon and Señora Pacifica.
“The Brannon has a nice shirt,” Cholla greeted. “And your woman has a very nice dress.”
“Thank you,” Brannon replied.
“I could see it for two miles in the desert air,” the old man asserted.
“Yeah… I know. “ Brannon scowled at Señora Pacifica.
“We will take the man in the rocks now,” Cholla announced.
Brannon lifted his hand off Cerdo and raised his Winchester to waist height. “I think it would be better for your people to go to Arizona without the blood of an American on your knives. Word will spread to the reservation, and it will not go well for your people. Let me bring this man to justice.”
Cerdo backed away from Brannon. The Señora held her revolver out in front of her.
“If you were going to take him away, why did you not do it before we returned?” Cholla asked.
“Because Brannon and Cholla are friends. I do not hide my actions from my friends.”
“Yes, that is good. But you must understand, we would be ashamed to leave Filippe in Mexico unavenged. It would make our spirits sick.”
“I understand that, but I, too, am controlled by regrets. His crime is in Mexico, and it is for that government to punish.”
“What government punishes those who kill Apaches? But do not fear, even as we speak, your worry is being solved.”
Brannon whirled to discover Cerdo had not slipped back to the other Apaches, but had gone behind him and worked his way across the rocks carrying his bow and arrow.
“Cerdo, no!” Brannon yelled.
“He will avenge his brother’s death,” Cholla said.
Brannon, the Señora, and the band of Indians scrambled to the edge of the rock. Cerdo already stood over the trench.
“He is not here, Grandfather,” Cerdo shouted. “No, here he is—”
A hand reached out of the jagged rocks and jerked the boy into the trench.
“Cerdo!” Brannon called.
Porter yelled, “I’ve got a gun on this boy. You let me out, or I’ll kill him too. You know I will.”
“Let him go. You don’t have a gun.”
A wild shot ricocheted off the adobe near Brannon. Everyone jumped.
“What do you call that?” Porter bellowed.
“My gun,” the Señora said. “I had forgotten… I threw it among the rocks when I shot the snake. But where did he get bullets?”
“He probably had some in his belt.”
Cholla signaled for his men to spread out around the lava flow.
Brannon yelled again. “Porter, you fool, these Apaches will never let you out… you know that.”
“You’ve got to convince them, Brannon. You’ve got to talk to them.”
“We must act quickly,” Cholla told Brannon.
“Yep, you’re right.” He turned back toward the rocks. “Porter, there is a gray horse right here. You leave the boy unharmed, and I won’t shoot you.”
“What about the Apaches?”
“I don’t control their actions.”
“I’m telling you right now, Brannon. One shot and the boy dies.”
“Victoria, how many bullets does that gun hold?”
“Two. But he has shot one.”
“Yes, but he can reload.”
“I’m comin’ out, Brannon.”
With great effort, Porter struggled to the top of the lava rocks, grasping Cerdo around the neck.
As a lithograph drawing on the cover of a dime novel, the scene might have been humorous—a big man trying to hide behind such a little boy. But to Brannon, it looked only pathetic.
Porter, weakened from his wound, started to stumble and loosened his grip on Cerdo. The Apache boy leaped for the trench. Porter raised the small handgun to shoot him.
Three shots rang out in the desert.
All three struck Porter between the neck and the stomach. He slumped motionless to the rock. Brannon, Cholla, and the Señora lowered their guns. She dropped the revolver to the dirt and rubbed her hands.
Then she slipped her arm around Brannon and leaned her head on his chest.
“I didn’t know I would do that,” she whispered.
“There was nothing else we could do.” He touched the back of her hair.
Cerdo crawled out of the rocks.
“Are you unharmed?” Cholla asked him.
“Yes, but I did not get to avenge Filippe.”
“Maybe there will be no more need to avenge.” Cholla looked at Brannon. “We will leave now. It is a very nice shirt.”
Victoria Pacifica looked up at the Apache leader. “You have a very good eye for shirts.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied.
Brannon slipped off his vest and pulled the turquoise shirt over his head. “Cholla, it is a present to you. When you wear it, remember when we fought on the same side of the battle.”
The old man beamed. He cast aside his old shirt and pulled on the new one. “When I see it,” he added, “I will remember the lady who has a very good eye for shirts.”
Soon after, the band moved north up the trail.
Shirtless Brannon dug a grave in the sand next to the others, dragged Porter’s body over the rocks and buried him. The Señora stood alongside as he committed the body to the ground.
“What would you have done if Porter had not found my gun and made such a desperate move?”
“I suppose I would have fought.”
“The Lord has given us lives with many difficult decisions. And in the next several days, I believe we may both face a particularly demanding one.”
“I think the Señora’s probably right.”
She smiled. “Did I ever thank you properly for rescuing me from Porter and his men?”
“Oh… well, I, eh…”
She slipped her hand behind his neck, pulling his head lower. She kissed him delicately on the lips. As she pulled away, he blinked and straightened up.
“I think that maybe I should stick around. Just in case the Señora needs rescuing again.” He grinned as he returned to the horses and pulled on his old shirt.
“You did not like the green shirt?”
“It made me nervous… as if everyone was looking at me,” he explained as they mounted up. “I don’t like to attract attention.”
“You attract attention everywhere on earth you go. You just didn’t lik
e the shirt, did you?”
“Actually… no, I hated it.”
“You have absolutely no taste in clothes.”
“That’s what other women have told me.”
As they trotted south, she asked, “And what else have other women told you?”
Somewhere during the next sixteen hours on the trail, he answered that question. And many more.
They had walked the horses for several miles when they reached the long drive that led to the Rancho Pacifica hacienda about 10:00 A.M. When they remounted, Brannon insisted the Señora lead the way.
She checked the hand mirror and straightened her hair. Then she spread the skirt of the bright green dress over the withers and neck of the horse. The reins held lightly in her folded hands on her lap, she sat perfectly straight and rode unswerving toward the gate of the hacienda.
Before she came within a hundred yards, the gates flung open and children ran to her, laughing and cheering.
“Señora, we missed you.”
“Señora, I lost my front tooth. See?”
“Señora, we will have a fiesta tonight, no?”
“Señora, you are the most beautiful lady in the world.”
Once inside the hacienda all fifty inhabitants crowded around the Señora. Brannon led the horses to the barn. He turned as he heard a woman’s footsteps. He swung around to Felicia, hurrying to his side.
“Mr. Brannon, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing her back safely. I had two very great fears.”
“Two?”
“Yes, I feared you would find her dead.”
“And the other?”
“I feared you would take her away with you.”
Brannon stared for a moment at the anxiety in the girl’s eyes. “She is home now, Felicia. The Señora Pacifica has come home to stay.”
~~THE END~~
About Stephen Bly (1944-2011)
An award-winning western author, Stephen published more than 100 inspirational novels and nonfiction books, plus hundreds of short stories, cowboy poetry, devotionals, and articles for writers. He co-authored dozens of books with wife, Janet Chester Bly.
His historical western novel, The Long Trail Home, (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series), won the prestigious Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction.
Three other historical novels–Picture Rock (The Skinners of Goldfield Series, Crossway Books), The Outlaw’s Twin Sister (The Belles of Lordsburg Series), and Last of the Texas Camp (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series) were Christy Award finalists.
His most well-known character is cowboy, lawman and rancher, Stuart Brannon. Brannon receives at least a mention or cameo appearance in every Bly novel. He was working on Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot, Book #7 of The Stuart Brannon Series, at the time he passed away. Janet and sons, Russell, Michael, and Aaron, finished the novel for him. He left them 10% of the story, a 1-page summary, 2-pages of character names and a 4-month deadline. Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot was a Selah Award Finalist.
Read the story of their writing adventure here: DAD’S FINAL NOVEL
Discover eBooks by Author Stephen Bly at Smashwords.com
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Also By Stephen Bly
The Stuart Brannon Novels
Hard Winter at Broken Arrow Crossing
False Claims at the Little Stephen Mine
Last Hanging at Paradise Meadow
Standoff at Sunrise Creek
Final Justice at Adobe Wells
Son of an Arizona Legend
Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot
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