Stuart Brannon's Final Shot

by Stephen Bly

  “Who did?” Brannon prodded. “The engineers?”

  “Oh, no. DeVache and his friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “I don’t know their names.”

  “Did Tom attend too?” Brannon asked.

  “Only that last one… because there had been a threat against the group. That’s the only time he sat at the same table with everyone. I dressed as an Indian in the hopes that if anything happened to the rest of them, it might be blamed on someone in the tribe.”

  “Whose bright idea was that?” Brannon huffed.

  “Mine. But before that night, I wondered why they would let me in on their plots. Then it dawned on me… I would be expendable to them. So, I devised a plan to make myself more important, so they couldn’t get rid of me. I informed them that Marshal Wiseman is onto them and I will divulge further details of what he knows and when he knows it.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Sylvia pressed.

  He looked over at her, then out across the lawns. “Because I want you to know that Marshal Wiseman trusted me. Imagine that. He thought he had me in the palm of his hand. But I wiggled right out.” He chortled with glee. “I outsmarted a U.S. Marshal.” He peered back at Sylvia. “At least, I thought I did.”

  “Careful, Carbón,” Brannon said. “You’re talking about this woman’s father.”

  He jumped up and slapped his legs and arms, as though he landed in a pile of red ants. “Eiyiyi… why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Who did you think she was?” Brannon asked.

  “Your woman.”

  “And you just confessed to setting up her father for an ambush.”

  Carbón’s forehead leaked sweat. He pulled off his hat and wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. He stepped closer to the bicycle as though ready to make a quick getaway.

  “Why didn’t you go with the Frenchman and my father that night?” Sylvia clearly despised the man.

  Carbón wiped his mustache and sniffed a couple times. “I had another engagement.”

  “You were soused,” Brannon guessed.

  “So sloshed I could pee an ocean,” he admitted. “I couldn’t help him. But also, I couldn’t hurt him. I did nothing.” He emphasized that last word. “Nothing.”

  “Watch out,” Sylvia whispered to Brannon. “There’s a man sneaking up on you from behind.”

  Brannon whirled around and grabbed the man’s arm. “Slash Barranca, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in jail?”

  “The town marshal at Seaside let me go as soon as those men from the train showed up.”

  “The men in brown suits?”

  Barranca pulled off his ten-gallon hat. “Yes, those are the ones. They paid my bail money.”

  “Who are those guys?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. If you’ll put in a good word for me with Mr. Hawthorne Miller, I will tell you. If he will write my story, I will confess to all my crimes, and they are many and very entertaining.”

  “What? Do you think he will buy your stories? That you will get rich off your criminal activity?”

  “Why not? You are doing that.”

  Brannon raised his fist to slug the man, then lowered it. I am not a violent man. “I get no money for those novels and they are greatly exaggerated. They bear little resemblance to the actual events.”

  “So? You are very famous, no? That is my ambition too.”

  “I have nothing to do with Hawthorne Miller and his novels.”

  “But you know who he is and where I can find him?”

  “The men in brown suits. Tell me what you know and I’ll put in a good word with Miller.”

  “You can read all about it when my story gets told. I’ll even include an episode about the time I got tossed in a loony bin. That should excite extra interest.”

  Chuy Carbón kicked the bent spokes and straddled the bicycle. “I think I will see this Hawthorne Miller myself. I have many of my own stories.” He rode off with a clank, on a crooked course.

  Sylvia and Brannon strolled back to the hotel.

  Brannon looked behind them a time or two. “Why do you think those men in brown suits keep stalking me?”

  “You’re a legend. Legends make modern folks nervous. Do you think Carbón is telling the truth?”

  “It’s devious enough to be honest, especially since he didn’t put himself in a very good light.”

  “Uncle Stuart.” Laira Fletcher rushed up to them, her face flushed. Sweat streamed from her brow and neck. “Mr. Brannon, I can’t find Bueno anywhere. I think he ran away. Please, will you try to find him?”

  “Where have you looked?”

  “I’ve called out to him all over the hotel and out in the barn.”

  “Did you check your horse?”

  “Amble? Why, no.”

  Sylvia and Brannon followed the girl as she rushed outside and over to the barn and down to stall #34. Amble opened her eyes and offered a sleepy gaze at her owner. But Brannon looked over at stall #35.

  Tres Vientos is gone.

  Twenty-four

  “Check with your father if we can borrow the Buick,” Brannon said.

  Laira ran out of the park down the street towards the hotel.

  Soon Lady Fletcher drove up in the Touring Car, black seats shining, yellow wheels with black rims gleaming, chrome spotless. “Of course you can use our Buick. Do you have a driver? I’m not too sure of myself with this thing yet.”

  Sylvia volunteered. “Daddy’s friend, Charles Howard, drove one of these to Goldfield, to entice the mine owners into buying one. He let me ride it all over the desert until I thought I had to have it. Then, he told me the price: twelve hundred dollars.”

  Brannon whistled. But I’m not surprised. What a vehicle.

  “Are you talking about ‘Rough Rider Charley’? The one who charged with Teddy up San Juan Hill?”

  “That’s him. And now we’ll do our own charging. Which way first?”

  Lady Fletcher handed Sylvia the keys, then slipped in the back seat with Laira. “I feel very responsible for Bueno,” she explained. “Sure do hope and pray he’s safe.”

  Sylvia pulled on a bonnet, big wrap-around coat, gloves and a pair of goggles, all borrowed from Lady Fletcher, who wore the same. Brannon sat in the front with Sylvia.

  Sylvia ran her hand over the steering wheel in admiration. “This two-cylinder engine produces twenty-two horsepower at twelve hundred thirty rpm. It can climb hills, if we need to. On a flat desert road this vehicle can do a minute a mile or a little over six minutes in five miles.” Sylvia cranked the auto car in quick reverse, then shifted to first and gunned it forward.

  Brannon grabbed onto the side of the seat to keep from lunging into the windshield. “We’re not in a race.”

  “How do we know speed doesn’t mean Bueno’s survival?”

  Brannon tried to relax and not mind the bumps. I’m more comfortable on a horse. A horse provides a bouncy ride, but it’s a different kind of bumps. I’m more in control. Most of the time, that is.

  They drove all over town, starting with around the park and asking tenants if they’d seen him, through the small business district and residential areas, alongside the tracks, then headed for the beach.

  The wheels of the auto left definite tracks in the sand, both dry and wet. Sylvia drove as close to the edge of the tide as she could for a firmer route. The passengers strained to survey the landscape as far as their sight could stretch, while they called out the boy’s name.

  “This travel by the beach makes a much better ride,” Lady Fletcher commented. “All those roads that wind around bone-jarring tree roots and torture trails are just liver vibrators.”

  “Oh, Mum, I shouldn’t have bossed Bueno around so much,” Laira wailed.

  “Maybe he ran back to the orphan farm,” Lady Fletcher suggested.

  “How far north shall we drive this beach?” Sylvia asked.

  Oh Lord, help us find Bueno, Brannon prayed. “K
eep going,” he instructed.

  Brannon spotted Tres Vientos first and the precious cargo on his back, far down the coastline. They trotted south, their way. Sylvia sped the Buick to full throttle with sand shooting out behind them.

  Thank you, Lord, for helping us find the boy.

  Brannon noted that the black horse didn’t rear or run at the sight and sound of the motorcar. He hopped out of the auto first. “Bueno, what are you doing?”

  “I’m calming your horse.” The boy’s eyes darted away, then his head lowered.

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “I am sorry, El Brannon. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Are those bruises on your arm?”

  “Oh these? Nothing. I got kicked by a horse. Not yours,” he added quickly. “It was… uh, Amble. She was upset when I got in her stall.”

  “Here’s Lady Laira. Let her know what her horse did to you.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t her horse. Did I say that? I meant it was another horse.”

  The boy eased off the gelding and Laira hugged him, but she couldn’t resist a scold. “Bueno, you are a bad boy. You scared me and caused me much trouble.”

  “I am sorry, Lady Laira.”

  “Oh, twee, what a really pernickety thing to do. You worried me to death.”

  Brannon studied the boy’s nervous search all around and his confused state of mind. “What’s the real reason you are out here?” he prodded. “Don’t be afraid. Tell me, so we can help you.”

  The boy’s eyes watered. “I mustn’t say a word or I will get whipped.”

  Brannon pulled up one of the boy’s arms. “Looks like that already happened. Who did this and why?”

  Bueno began to whimper. Brannon slid up on Tres Vientos and motioned for the boy to climb up with him. They rode back to the barn, the Buick trailing behind.

  “I came back to get Hack,” Bueno said. “I shouldn’t have left him. I shouldn’t have left the orphan farm without him.” The boy collapsed in a fresh vent of tears.

  As he calmed down a little bit, Brannon tried to encourage him. “What did you do with Tres Vientos? He seems so much better.”

  “I followed your example and gave him some apple slices. I also promised him that he can go out next time with Amble.”

  “But you weren’t planning to come back, were you?”

  The boy teared up again.

  “Who is hurting you? Please tell me. We won’t let them do that again.”

  “That day I helped Hack, so he wouldn’t drown, we saw something bad.”

  “Bueno, what did you see? Tell me everything.”

  “Some mean men came to Hack’s Hideaway, up on the big mountain.” He pointed towards Tillamook Head. “We couldn’t see them very well. But later, we think we heard a shot.”

  “Is that why you are being hurt? So you won’t tell?”

  The boy’s body began to shake. They approached the barn and he jumped when a man hailed them. “Brannon, been looking for you.”

  Rebozo’s back. Is he the one who has been threatening Bueno?

  “Have you ever been kicked by a mule?” Rebozo asked as he rubbed his leg.

  Brannon kept assuring Bueno that he and Hack would stay safe, but the boy remained adamant in his refusal to divulge a name. He was more forthcoming with Brannon’s request, “Tell me where it happened.”

  Bueno guided Brannon in pencil sketches as to the position of Hack’s Hideaway on Tillamook Head, how to get to it, then the overlook where they viewed the big bay and the three men. When Brannon was satisfied he could find the places himself, he asked Lady Fletcher to keep a close watch on the boy. “We still don’t know who is threatening him.”

  “Maybe he’ll confide in me.”

  With Bueno in Lady Fletcher’s secure care, Brannon hunted for Tanglewood and found him tending the golf course. “How soon can you take us on a boating excursion to Tillamook Head?”

  “Can’t you hike on the trail right out of Seaside?” Tanglewood asked.

  “I’m following the tracks of two boys who may have seen Tom Wiseman. I’d rather go where they went. One of them found a path up the cliff side at a small bay.”

  “I will get a canoe. It’s a good thing we’re in the long days of summer, but we must watch the tide and the weather and be careful of rocks.” He searched the sky. “I’ve done it before, but we must go soon.”

  Within an hour, Tanglewood garnered a cedar log canoe—huge, heavy, bright red.

  Sylvia insisted on going with them, a sweater over her blouse, a shawl tied to her waist. “This is my corps of discovery too.”

  “A big raft might have been better, but this canoe’s fully equipped for emergencies.” He didn’t elaborate as to what emergencies they might expect, but he did point to a canvas covering the front third of the large canoe where the supplies were stored.

  “Where did you get it?” Brannon asked.

  “Borrowed it from a family in our tribe. But I had to talk fast. They complained that the last time the white men Lewis and Clark borrowed a canoe, we never got it back.”

  “Oh,” was all that Brannon could think to say.

  Twenty-five

  Barely offshore, the canvas tarp burst open and two seasick stowaways heaved over the sides of the canoe.

  “Laira, Darcy,” Brannon shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  Each tried their best to protect their dresses as they upchucked. Both wore shirtwaists with tall, stiff collars and narrow neckties, Laira’s in powder blue, Darcy in pea green.

  Laira grabbed a picnic basket. “You forgot this… from Mum. It’s full of cheese, cherries and pemmican. And we won’t bother you at all. We only want to look at whales. Live ones.” Laira leaned over the canoe again.

  “But does Mum know you came with us?” Brannon quizzed when she recovered.

  “Oh, twee, I sent her a note by way of Bueno.”

  Because Sylvia refused to sit next to Rebozo, that left Brannon with Sylvia. So, Laira scooted next to Tanglewood. Darcy hunkered over by Rebozo in the crowded canoe. The three males and Sylvia rowed.

  “I hope no whales appear,” Tanglewood said. “They could capsize us.”

  Darcy put on a pout. “I can’t swim.”

  “Neither can I,” said Rebozo with great cheer. “We’ll go down together.”

  Darcy clutched the side of the canoe. “Does anyone here swim?”

  Sylvia and Laira raised their hands. Tanglewood made a face that suggested, “Of course I can.” And Brannon gave an “aye.”

  They had to pass the gory whale carcass being cut up by Tanglewood’s family to get to Tillamook Head.

  “I found out that there’s nothing in the whale’s stomach but algae, rope and a swimming suit,” Tanglewood explained.

  “A swimming suit?” Brannon repeated.

  “That’s what Uncle Grant told me.”

  As they passed the whale’s body, an over- powering smell made them almost ill. The air reeked with a rancid scent. When they neared the boiling pots, the odor worsened. Both Laira and Darcy leaned over the sides again, but there was nothing left to heave.

  The farther south they moved, the fresher the whiffs of air. A bank of low clouds hung over the great rocks and sea, making a mass of pearled mist out of jagged, haunting grayness. Tillamook Head loomed as a brooding backdrop to the lively beach scene below. Soon, sunrays sprayed and shimmered through, what Lisa called a “glory hole.” Brannon tore his eyes from the sight to search for the tiny trail up the side of Tillamook Head, marked by a boy’s shirt at the bottom.

  “That’s where you’ll find the easier trail, the one to climb up the cliff side to Hack’s Hideaway,” Bueno had told him.

  Now he was sorry they hadn’t brought the boy with them. The bays on the north side were small and rocky, the cliff walls formidable for amateur climbers.

  Finally, Brannon spotted the piece of raggedy cloth shirt on a branch. The rowers worked to keep them upright. The tide slammed them into the
shore. Brannon and Tanglewood scurried out to pull them in further before the tide sucked them back out to sea.

  They all climbed out. The two girls spread a blanket and the basket and themselves on the small bar of beach, then opened two umbrellas, glad to be back on land.

  They were greeted by a swarm of orange butterflies who flitted around as though a huge hand had flung them over their heads. A couple seals with a pup studied them from a distance. A bald eagle with a bright white head, rose up from the highest crag, a strong place from which to scout her prey and enemies.

  When a huge bee dived at Brannon, he swatted at it a few times. It attacked again. Brannon smashed it with his hands.

  Laira gasped. “How did you do that without getting stung?”

  “I didn’t.” He rubbed his hands together with frantic motions. “We need to climb up to the top, to explore where the boys had been.”

  “But we won’t be able to chaperone these two,” Rebozo said.

  Tanglewood’s face twisted with indecision. “I suppose I could stay. This small beach could flood. Or worse.”

  “I’ll guard Darcy and she’ll watch over me. We’ve got it all figured out,” Laira announced.

  “But who will protect Tanglewood from you two?” Brannon said.

  There was no way that Brannon or Sylvia would stay behind. And they couldn’t allow Rebozo to be alone with the girls.

  “And I have a feeling we’re going to need Tanglewood,” Brannon remarked.

  “Oh, twee, we’ll be fine,” Laira insisted. “We’re going to be looking for whales.”

  Why did we get saddled with these two? Such a complication. Lord, protect them.

  The four tackled the slope of the incline, much easier to ascend than they first imagined. They did tug on a few shrubs and at the top the ground was muddy and slippery.

  “Don’t step back without looking. You may need a rescue,” Tanglewood warned. They trudged through ferns, bushes and decomposing litterfall. Beds of leaves and twigs, needles and the droppings of fir, pine and spruce provided what some called “the poor man’s overcoat,” layers of canopy.

  Deep in the forest at the top of one of the tallest trees, Sylvia spied a huge bald eagle’s nest, seven to eight feet across, on a foundation of sticks and softened with a lining of moss, grass, feathers and pine needles.