by Stephen Bly
“I know that. Everyone will know it. Don’t you see? That’s the attraction. The old time cowboy accepts a new challenge.”
“You mean people will donate to the orphanage to watch me make a fool of myself.”
“Yes, they will,” Fleming assured him.
“And you won’t be the only one,” Lady Fletcher concurred. “Bill Cody and Wyatt Earp will be here. I had a cordial conversation with Mr. Earp already. He is traveling with his wife and will also visit his niece and her family in the Portland area whom he’s never met before. I believe her name’s Nellie Jane and she’s the daughter of Wyatt’s brother Virgil. In addition, the Portland outgoing mayor, a state senator, Oregon’s governor and some vaudeville folks have agreed to come…”
“Any trained or wild animals?” Brannon interrupted.
“Of course not. But we will have a few top amateur and professional golfers. Harry Vardon, the famous English golfer, is a friend of Edwin’s, you know. He helped Edwin make the contacts. This is going to be a first class tournament.”
Ted Fleming’s face got as speckly as his hair. “You mean, Harry Vardon the Stylist? Harry Vardon of the Vardon Flyer ball? Harry Vardon of the Vardon grip?”
“Yes, that’s who I mean, but he won’t be in Gearhart. He’s in London to attend a wedding.” She picked up a club, swatted it hard and Fleming’s hat went flying towards a tree. “Stuart, give it a try. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“What if it’s worse?”
The loud, brash voice drew Brannon into his confidence. “I’ve never failed to make a golfer out of anyone yet… don’t guarantee tournament-winning status, but you won’t be put to shame.”
“Hear that, Stuart? Besides, no one’s watching you now and you’ve got one of the best teachers in the West. Why not take a few swings and get a feel for the game?”
“Or why not climb a sharp cliff barefoot?”
“I cannot fathom that a tiny, white ball can stymie the man who backed down the King of Arizona all by himself.”
“And I cannot believe the queen of sophistication, Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher, would use such manipulation.”
“My goodness, Stuart, when have you ever known me not to manipulate? Which reminds me, what would it take to convince you to carve your name on the big tree at the Willamette Orphan Farm?”
Brannon forced a grin at Lady Fletcher, then picked out a club from the bag Ted Fleming gave him and used it to clean off the bottom of his boots.
With patience, much bravado, step-by-step instructions and many puffs on his pipe, Ted Fleming opened up to Stuart Brannon the world of golf… at least the concept of the goal to swing a club and connect to a ball. His first attempt at the driving range missed the ball. So did the second. The third shot shattered a window at a small storage building on the far side of the street.
“I do better hunting squirrels with my Winchester,” Brannon muttered and swung again. The ball skipped a dozen short bounces and landed a few feet away.
Lady Fletcher convulsed in laughter. “You won’t have trouble finding that one.”
Brannon began his list of excuses. I got a contagious disease from a train passenger. I broke my arms, both of them, and need to keep them in slings. Tom’s been found… in Portland… and he insists I join him for a grizzly hunt in the Coast Range… now.
Brannon sighed. I can’t make things up… and I can’t play golf. What a bind. Any suggestions, Lord?
Soon after, he tossed the mashie club all the way to a nearby corral and stampeded some donkeys. The Indian youth helped him settle the angry burros with shouts and stern glares.
Hope began to glimmer when one of his shots soared, then bounced off an ash tree. Mr. Fleming told him to aim for a practice green in the middle of the range. The next few shots sprayed to the right, but then he glided one straight and high towards the center of his target. Brannon yee-hawed. “That little ball rolled up on the green near the mug,” he boasted to Lady Fletcher and Ted Fleming.
Mr. Fleming beamed with pride too. “It’s not a mug. Each hole has a number. You hit the ball into a cup. It’s a simple game, really.”
“Then why do they have a two hundred page rule book?” Brannon asked.
“Scotsmen can get picky.”
Ted Fleming got out a club of his own and made the same shot, not once or twice, but three times and each ball arced much lower than the previous one, though they all landed within feet of each other.
“You’ll have to admit, Mr. Fleming is quite good at it,” Lady Fletcher said. “Now you should go play nine holes.”
“Nine?” He looked over at the first fairway. “I’ll never last that long.” Brannon wiped his brow. “So, I go out next Saturday… make an idiot out of myself… and all the professionals get a trophy.”
“And you raise hundreds of dollars for the Willamette Orphan Farm, a refuge for orphaned and friendless children anywhere in the state,” Lady Fletcher reminded Brannon.
“You’re confident there will be plenty of paying customers who will want to view this game?”
“You’ve already proved that. When you started, how many watched you?”
“None. I liked it that way.”
“And when you finished just now, how many gathered for a peek?”
“Eh, maybe twenty?”
“Thirty-two.”
“But they all laughed.”
“You entertained them. That’s the point, Stuart. Think of how fun it is to witness legends like Brannon, Cody, Earp, as well as stage stars, out there on the links.”
“I told you, Harriet, I came here to find Tom Wiseman. I will not let this golf event interfere with that. Besides, we three are past our prime. I’m bent over, Cody’s broke, and Earp can’t stay out of the poker parlor.”
“Fair enough about looking for the U.S. Marshal. But the public doesn’t see their heroes that way. Now I need to get back to Edwin and send his guests home.”
And I’m going to go dive into a pool of sharks.
Before Lady Fletcher and Ted Fleming strolled back to the hotel, Fleming tendered a warning, “Don’t overdo swinging the club too much as a beginner. You can wear a lot of blisters on your hands.”
“Not with all these calluses,” Brannon replied.
“But you’ll rub a different kind of way,” was Fleming’s parting retort.
Brannon contemplated whether to take his clubs to his room or practice some more.
He pulled a mashie and swiped the air a few times.
Watch foot movement and arm swing.
Keep the head down.
Don’t follow the ball.
Replace the divots.
Stay out of trees, water and sand traps.
Not so hard. I can remember all of that.
The Indian youth approached him, timid and hunched at first, then by some hidden, inner cue, raised to full stature. He held a wooden club in his hand. “I can help you aim your shots better,” he said. “Even your putts.”
Brannon looked him over. Strong body. Almost the same height. The lighter skin made him think of his own son, L.F. But I can’t tell what tribe. “You’ve played the game before?” Brannon wondered about protocol at the course for Indians, but also was surprised that the game interested him.
“Not in a tournament, not even when someone’s watching. I play at night. I have for years.”
“At night? How can you see where your ball goes?”
“I listen, like a blind man. And you play like a crippled man. Think about how you reset the sight of your rifle. You in much pain?”
Brannon snorted. “I’ve had every bone, muscle and extremity of my body beat, shot and broken. I don’t know what it’s like to live a day without pain. Not one appendage on me is in its original condition.”
“Yes, I can see that. You also walk with a limp. My grandfather told me that a brave warrior can separate pain in his body from the thoughts of his mind. Grandfather practiced doing that all his life. Instead of torm
enting himself over the fire in his feet, he meditated on the fresh taste of the sweet, high mountain or ocean breeze.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Keaton Tanglewood. My grandmother is the last full-blooded Clatsop Indian. As she often told me, she lived in the seasons before the earth lay pocked by the urgency of men with picks and gold pans, when the great buffalo still swarmed the tall grass plains.”
Brannon studied the young man, looking through him to his past, his heritage, his proud culture. He wished his adopted son, Littlefoot, could exchange stories with this young man. Littlefoot’s late mother, Elizabeth, would call him “another brave warrior.”
“And you are The-One-Who-Does-Not-Turn-Back,” Tanglewood stated.
Brannon shook himself to the present. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time. Glad to meet you.” Brannon reached out to shake the young man’s hand and received a bear hug.
“You looking for the U.S. Marshal who disappeared?” Tanglewood blurted out.
“Why, yes, I am. Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I can take you to the man who dressed Indian for his last meeting.” He picked up one of the golf clubs. “But not until I give you a few more lessons… and later I must finish my mowing job. Mr. Fleming is a good teacher, but you noticed that he is left-handed.”
“What difference does that make?”
“The warriors of my tribe say a mystery surrounds those who shoot from the left side. Some say they learn that trick from the angels of heaven. Others say, ‘The demons of hell teach such things.’ In your case, you have taken on his stance, an awkward one for you.”
Brannon stared at the young Indian as he swung at a dozen balls and each sailed straight and smooth and far down the slope.
“You must learn a lot in a short space,” Tanglewood continued. “But I can tell you a couple secrets that will speed up the process.”
“And what is that?”
“The first I will make a present for you of this club. Some call it a baffing spoon. See the special curve. It will do two things. One, it will give you a high loft. The other, it will be good for getting out of tough situations when you still have a long way to the cup. Get in the longer grass? Use the spoon. Need to get over some trees? Use the spoon.”
Brannon studied the smooth surface. “Nice work.”
“There is more. My grandfather was one of the best archers of our tribe and he told me what to do when competing with body pain or a troubled heart. When that happened, he would miss his target one thumb to the left. So, he learned in those times to aim his arrow one thumb to the right.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a wise man, but I’m not sure what that has to do with a golf club.”
“It is the same with a club or bow or rifle. Find your normal shot. Determine when it veers wrong and by how much. Then, adjust your aim.”
“I’m not sure in my case it will make any difference, but I appreciate the advice all the same.”
Tanglewood pushed off with his mower and Brannon picked up his newly acquired baffing spoon club and tried to copy Tanglewood’s swing.
There was no one else on the practice range now and no spectators. Brannon set his grip, widened his stance a couple inches, and took a practice swing to check the squareness of the clubface.
His wrists cocked on the back swing. He concentrated on pulling down with his left arm. The clubface struck the grass about an inch behind the ball and bounced along about thirty yards. Frustrated, he rolled another ball towards him and swung harder. This time, he topped the ball so bad it hopped up and rolled behind him.
Okay, Brannon, remember what you’ve learned. Slow, steady swings.
This time the ball cracked off the clubface and soared maybe ninety yards.
Not far, but straight.
He pulled another ball towards him and hit a duplicate shot.
Yeah, Brannon, now you’re getting the rhythm.
He counted aloud every swing.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
When he got to twelve, he sauntered back to the bag Ted Fleming had loaned him.
Not all of them straight. Not all of them far. But consistent. Felt good. Maybe I won’t make a fool of myself. If only I could hit like that in front of other people. Somehow I can’t concentrate the same. I’ve got to think that the club is my rifle.
He yanked out another wood club and returned to the overturned bucket of balls. This time the ball shot off the club’s head, slicing sharply to the right.
What did Fleming say about fixing that? Too much. I’m starting to enjoy this game, but I don’t understand why I should even bother. It’s not my thing. I’ll never play golf in Arizona.
The next shot hooked a little to the left. No…
Keep your eye on the ball and your eye on the prize… money for the orphans.
Another shot straightened and rolled well past the one hundred fifty yard marker. That’s better. But I shouldn’t spend all this time trying to learn this game. I’ve got to find Tom.
He again shot straight, but with a little less roll. If I hit a shot like that on a short hole, I could be putting for an eagle. He stopped, pleased with himself. I even picked up some of the lingo already.
The next shot came up no more than thirty feet off the ground.
Another shot blasted high and long. It hung in the air, then descended like a diving gull.
If I could hit every one like that, I could be an equal partner with guys like Ted Fleming.
He allowed himself a sheepish smile. In the middle of his next back swing he heard a woman call his name. He chugged the ball short and right, then scurried to his golf bag. He tried to make a quick exit through the trees.
Eight
His attempted clean escape did not succeed. A young woman stood in his path. “Mr. Brannon, where have you been? Surely not on the golf course.”
He pulled a wry face.
“I need your help. Aren’t you a cowboy?”
“I make my living on a ranch. Is that what you mean?”
“No, I meant your attire. It seems strange to see you carrying a golf bag.”
“Well, ma’am,” Brannon glanced over at the empty ninth green, then back at the lady. “You might say it’s a new hobby.”
Her smile was wide and she seemed to know its charms. He studied her straight, white teeth. He decided she was in her late teens. Something about the dark hair and pixie face stirred a memory. “Have we met?”
She stuck out her small hand. He was surprised at the strength of her grip. “I don’t think so, not properly anyway. My name’s Darcy. I need your assessment of my animal.”
“Your horse?”
“No.”
“Your cow?”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “My llama. And she is in great distress. Please, could you help?”
“I’m not sure.” I don’t have time for this, but something about this girl seems familiar. She reminds me of someone. Brannon grabbed up his bag and followed her several blocks away to a large spruce forest park of several hundred acres.
Tents were scattered everywhere, as well as elegant homes, cottages and log cabins. There seemed to be no restrictions on the types of structures that could be built.
“We live here,” she said, “at least for now. There’s entertainment almost every night… musical soirees, dance concerts and lots of famous speakers do events here. Some of it’s good. Lots of it’s boring, but my mother and aunt like it.”
They passed an imposing building that appeared to be an auditorium, with arched entrance, belfry and double roof design. Windows provided opportunity for light, in spite of the shade of the surrounding trees.
“My mother would love to meet you. Let me introduce you to her first.” He walked around the flap of the tent and dropped into blackness as a heavy thud pounded his skull.
Brannon peered out at a blurred scene and almost drowned in a sweet, sickly scent. He fe
lt like he’d been drug through a meadow of lupine and skunk cabbage. Though he couldn’t view the women in front of him, the girl at a distance looked double, then focused clear. He studied the face.
I’ve heard those voices before, but where and when?
“You hit him too hard.”
He heard a male voice. “No, not for a grown man. Besides, he has an exceptionally tough skull. Many have butted heads with Stuart Brannon and he never lost.”
Sounds like Hawthorne H. Miller. But he’s in Portland.
“But he’s an old man now. Look at all that gray hair. You could have killed him. Why did you hit him at all? Get out of here, you big ape.”
It sounded like the man brushed through the tent flap.
“Mama Darrlyn, now Mr. Brannon won’t hear us out or do anything for us.”
“So sorry, but he would not have stayed otherwise. You’ve got to let him know you mean business.”
Brannon tried to pry open a slit of one eye. He was in a large tent full of flowers and a few pieces of furniture… several small chairs and a rack that held a number of dresses.
“Aunt Dee, you’d better think of something quick. We don’t have much time.”
“Water. I’ll get a pail of water.”
Darrlyn. Dee. Deedra. Surely not the Lazzard twins. Brannon strained to see, with eyelids barely apart. Hair still blonde, but not matted or dirty, like the last time he saw them in a Paradise Meadow jail cell.
“You got any knives on you?” Brannon tried to rise, although he felt as dizzy as a mouse that got churned in the butter.
One of the twins spoke. “Brannon, you’re awake.”
“And we take it you recognize us,” the other twin said.
Brannon still couldn’t tell them apart even with the maturing years. He knew them in their early twenties. Now, they looked in their forties, but they must be pushing fifty. The years had been kind to them. Was it money? He guessed there must be some rich, big-city San Francisco men in their story.
“Stuart, we’re sorry about the hit on the head. That was not our original intent. We’ve got some important requests of you. We weren’t sure you’d give us time to explain.”
