Stuart Brannon's Final Shot

by Stephen Bly

  “Thank you, I’ll go check it out.”

  “He’s been grilling the poor lady, absolutely grilling her. He imagines that she has access to information about a crime. Such nonsense. He’ll use any excuse to play with a woman’s affections. But why her, I can’t imagine.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Rebozo? Or a Mrs. Andale? I’m confused about this man’s identity.”

  “I’m not privy to his marital status. The man of many names belongs to everyone… and no one.”

  While Mrs. Gillespie kept mumbling to herself, Brannon hiked over to the park.

  Children ran through the trees playing various forms of “hide and seek.”

  A band marched out of the auditorium with a reprise of “The Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore. Down the trail their instruments blasted, along with four husky timpanists in leather aprons, while dogs barked and trailed behind. The sparse weekday audience dragged out of the doors and arched overhang to disperse to their temporary homes on the grounds or beyond.

  The Chautauqua movement, what Theodore Roosevelt called, “The most American thing in America,” had become a traveling circuit of culture. Started in New York, over four hundred auditoriums sprang up across the country.

  The Gearhart posters and billboards advertised the summer’s speakers and programs… a magician, Carter the great; William J. Bryan “A Potent Human Factor in Molding the Mind of the Nation”; Kate Douglas Wiggin, author of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; and John Philip Sousa and his band… “A dollar show for ten cents.”

  Brannon sauntered under the belfry and arched entrance, took a peek inside the building and was surprised to see Rebozo up on the stage alone, silently acting out some scene or discourse, like a charade or pantomime. When he looked up and viewed Brannon, he ushered him to come forward.

  As Brannon scooted down the aisle towards the front row of seats, Rebozo thundered: “Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other. Justice and judgment are the habitation of thy throne: mercy and truth shall go before thy face.”

  Like a great orator, with an expansive sweep of his arms, he projected to every corner of the auditorium, “Throw the sand against the wind, and the wind blows it back again. Is there justice in God? Can His justice be called truth? Doth God have mercy? Can justice and mercy work together for truth?”

  Silence roared through the echoes over the great room. Brannon waited on the edge of his seat to hear what answer this man might give to these critical questions. But they didn’t come from Rebozo’s lips.

  “What’s on your mind, Brannon?” Rebozo began to rearrange the stage. He picked up chairs, scooted some over, stacked them, then removed the podiums. “An old habit,” he explained. “Used to work the theaters, you know.” The words edged with reverberation.

  Brannon observed his ritual, then blurted out, “Are you married?”

  Rebozo didn’t respond except to keep at his volunteer job.

  After a decent pause of waiting, Brannon pushed on. “Either way, a young girl like Laira should be off limits.” He then opened the canvas case to his Winchester take-down rifle.

  “Off limits for what? I’m being friendly to the girl in a brotherly way.”

  Rebozo kept clearing the stage as Brannon put together his take-down. “Should be fatherly way. How old are you?”

  “Not that old. What’s eating you, Brannon? The girl’s virtue is intact, at least as far as I’m concerned.”

  Brannon opened the action to his rifle. “Let’s start with glib charm.”

  “Sounds like jealousy on your part to me.”

  “Playing with the vanities of women is no light manner. They deserve respect and honor.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Brannon turned the lever on the end of the magazine tube, then began to unscrew it like a handle. When it loosened, he turned the two pieces of the rifle to a ninety degree angle and clamped them together with a twist. “I can’t tell… do you love ’em or hate ’em?”

  “Each woman is her own person. She earns her treatment.”

  “Hmmm… if I hadn’t been told that you were a government agent, I’d suspect you of being a woman abuser.” He watched Rebozo’s face for a response. He seemed amused, in a spirited kind of way that confused Brannon.

  “I assure you, I’ve never laid a hurtful hand on any female, but I have felt a sting or two from them.”

  Brannon sensed sincerity in that statement. “I’m curious. Why did you take this assignment, to come alongside me?”

  “Because I admire a man with brass, because I’m jealous of you, because I want to draw from your glory. In fact, I felt the same about Tom Wiseman.”

  “Enough to kill him?”

  “Apparently, you suspect so.”

  “But I am surprised.”

  “About what?”

  “Your honesty. Few men would admit to such motives… unless you’re joking. I guess you could be playing me. Is that your style?”

  Rebozo offered a cheerless laugh. “I’ll go even further. I love to be part of grandiose schemes that have potential for pomp… and especially the receipt of personal praise.”

  “You won’t find any of that around me.”

  “But I might with Lord and Lady Fletcher. Or Wax Lanigan.”

  “Lanigan? He’s nothing but a dime store thief. A small time guy trying so hard to gain status.”

  “That’s where you and Tom Wiseman are wrong. I think you misjudge the man. He’s got a compassionate side that makes him willing to champion causes… and want to change. You as a man of God should understand that.”

  “I’m glad that you could tell I’m a believer. I haven’t been the best example lately. I hope more than anything that God is not ashamed to be called my God. But getting back to you, why try to corral ladies you don’t want to keep or snare some who are already fettered?”

  “Ah, I get it. You want Lady Fletcher for yourself.”

  Brannon balanced the Winchester over the arms of the seat. “That’s an insult to a woman who truly is a lady.”

  “Brannon, I admire you… your values, your courage, your discipline, even your faith. I wish I were more like you. But I am who I am.”

  “I still don’t know who you are.”

  “But everyone thinks they know Stuart Brannon. That could be deceiving. Who is the real Stuart Brannon?”

  “Sometimes suspicion can save a life.”

  Rebozo’s voice dripped with irony. His eyes twinkled with a store of private jokes. “That’s true. Tom Wiseman could have used that to his advantage. But these are modern times. We’re civilized now. This is the world your generation of citizen vigilantes fought for. We now have law and order. Civil discourse paves the means to ultimate justice.”

  A burst of doubt welled up like the first blow of air into a balloon. Are those telegrams that I and supposedly Rebozo received really from T.R.? Am I being set up for some ambush? If so, by whom? And why? And more puzzling, why here in Oregon? Why not on my own territory in Arizona?

  That I could handle.

  Maybe that’s the point.

  Brannon stood up, raised the Winchester and aimed the barrel at a lone cymbal still at center stage. Pulled the trigger. Click.

  “You need to load that contraption,” Rebozo remarked.

  Then both of them turned their attention to the back of the room as applause erupted. An audience had appeared. How long they might have been listening, Brannon didn’t know. Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Acorn and Lady Harriet Reed-Fletcher sat in the farthest row. Behind them stood the band.

  Thirty-two

  Brannon accompanied Lady Fletcher back to the hotel. She didn’t mention the spectacle at the auditorium, so he didn’t bring it up either. She invited him to the Fletchers’ suite for tea. When he declined, she insisted. “I have another matter of some importance to discuss with you.” Brannon exhaled slowly, took off his hat and tried his best t
o lounge comfortable in a settee.

  “I am not prejudiced against Indians,” she began. “I don’t mind my daughter having an Indian for a friend. But…”

  “But you wouldn’t want her to marry one,” Brannon finished, “even though Tanglewood has a mild disposition, very inquisitive and accomplished in whatever he undertakes to do.”

  “I know. He’s a fine boy.”

  “I thought you were so concerned about Tally Rebozo. Why the sudden shift?”

  “Because I can’t keep up with Laira. Why is life so hard sometimes, especially when it comes to our children? I know how I want to be, but certain situations come along and I am the opposite of who I imagine myself to be.”

  “Maybe life challenges help us recognize who we really are.”

  “I suppose. We live in a room of mirrors, at least we women do, and we’re constantly checking the reflection. Then, a test comes along and all our illusions crash.”

  Brannon chuckled. “It’s not just females. That happened to me only days ago, except I shot my own images into pieces.”

  They heard a soft cough. A boy stood at the door, hat in hand. White skin, hair short and plastered and combed.

  “Excuse me, Lady Fletcher,” he said. “Could you give Laira a message for me?”

  Laira’s mother offered a warm smile, tugged him into the room. “And your name is?”

  “I’m Nicholas Yancy, ma’am. I work at the golf course with Keaton Tanglewood.”

  “I saw you recently pushing lawn mowers with Keaton,” Brannon said.

  “Yessir, we traded.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I told Keaton I could help you learn to play golf quicker, but he insisted he wanted you himself. So I get William ‘Wild Bill’ Cody.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You shouldn’t be. When it comes to golfing, you’re both a toss.”

  “So you have a message for Laira,” Lady Fletcher prompted.

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean, no ma’am. That is, the message is from Keaton. He says that…”

  “I’ll get Laira for you. You can tell her yourself.”

  Before she turned around, Laira appeared at the door with apple-blushed cheeks and a peach-colored dress. Pigtails hung on each side of her head, making her look almost fifteen.

  “Hello, Nicholas,” she said with a giggle. “I was expecting Keaton.”

  “Oh, he’s coming, but he’ll be a little late. So, I, uh… I thought… that is, we figured I could fill in for him until he gets here.”

  Lady Fletcher smiled. Laira clapped her hands. “That’s very thoughtful. Where shall we go?”

  Nicholas Yancy twisted his hat, then scratched his head. “We thought it would be good to wait here until Keaton arrived.”

  “Oh, posh and twee. Let’s take a walk to the ice cream shop.”

  “Oh, well, I’d like to, that is, I enjoy ice cream, and I’d enjoy your company, Laira, but I wasn’t expecting…”

  Brannon tossed him two bits. “Hey, you two go, but hurry back before Keaton gets here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brannon.” He beamed with delight.

  Laira grabbed his hand and pulled him out the front door.

  One romance strained… and another begun? Ah, young love.

  Within minutes, they heard a knock at the back door of their hotel suite.

  Lady Fletcher recoiled. There stood Keaton Tanglewood, a dead doe on his shoulders. Shot in the heart, Brannon surmised. He swung it down and laid the deer at Lady Fletcher’s feet. “This is for you… and Laira.” He offered a merry grin.

  “Laira’s not here,” Lady Fletcher informed him. “And you can’t leave that at our step. Pick it up. Get it away. Now.”

  Confusion played on his face. “But I sent Nicholas ahead…”

  “Yes, Nicholas came. She’s with him. At the ice cream shop. Please go.”

  “The youth is bringing you a gift,” Brannon explained. “It’s rude not to accept it.”

  “But what will I do with it?” Lady Fletcher shot him a desperate glance.

  “Get the hotel butcher. He’ll prepare it. You’ll have a wonderful feast for your guests.”

  Lady Fletcher studied the slain deer at her feet. She cleared her throat. Not once, but twice. “I see. This will be good for company. Quite a conversation piece, don’t you think?” A wan smile paled on her lips. “Thank you, Keaton.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. I must go.” Tanglewood ran down the street towards town, in the direction of the ice cream shop.

  That evening the banquet table was spread with razor clams and oysters, whole roasted chickens, a fruity punch and a dozen varieties of cake. An orchestra played background music.

  Brannon tried to stretch the coat and vest of dark-blue serge, borrowed from Lord Fletcher, to reach his wrists and waist. As he did, he bumped into Rebozo. “You’ve been out on your own investigations,” Brannon said.

  “I learned that Lanigan’s orphan background story is true. He lived on the streets and struggled to support himself and two younger siblings. That meant minor crimes. No medical help when they got sick, so both his siblings died. Perhaps he blames himself.”

  “But where is he from? Where did this happen?”

  “A New York City slum. He was transported to the Midwest on one of the orphan trains. On the way, there was a horrendous experience… a flood washed out some tracks and a bridge. They were stranded several days near the main torrent. No one knew if they would survive or not. A very traumatic event.”

  “Perhaps we should combine our information.”

  “In good time,” Rebozo said. “Something stinketh here and it’s not the whale blubber and skunk cabbage. I’ve got a hunch about the third man on Tillamook Head. I’m going to go rough on one of them. Want to come along?”

  “You know I promised Harriet I’d stay here. And I want to be close by for Sylvia. Besides, I thought you might be that third man.”

  “Well, if I am, your problems are solved. And if I’m not, somebody needs to be on this case.”

  “I am on this case.”

  “I know you don’t trust me. But since you found out that compass does not belong to Lord Fletcher or Wax Lanigan, will you please loan it to me again? I think I can fish out who it belongs to.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “I’ll bring it back later tonight or in the morning. If I don’t, you can load your rifle this time and shoot me. You’ll know I’m your culprit.”

  Rebozo followed Brannon through the hotel to a storage closet where Brannon kept his belongings. He rummaged in his duffle, found the compass and handed it to Rebozo who said a quick “thanks” and rushed out.

  Brannon returned to the dining hall just as Sylvia entered. “Where’s Rebozo going in such a hurry?”

  “Chasing a cloud. He’s acting like he’s been thrown high off a horse.”

  “Or maybe he’s about to implicate someone. Do you still think he’s responsible for what happened to my father?”

  Brannon slammed a boot heel against the floor. “I don’t know. I should be following him right now.”

  “Well, I never made any promises to Lady Fletcher. I can do that.”

  “Wait. Let’s let him play another hand or two. If he’s our guy, we’ll get our chance.”

  Brannon sat rigid and awkward next to Sylvia at the head table after they filled their fine bone china plates. The empty places were reserved for the Fletchers, Bill Cody, Wyatt Earp and his wife, Josie, and Sam and Eloise Smythe of the orphan farm.

  Hawthorne Miller cozied between the Lazzard twins at the next table. Darcy clustered with Laira and two boys with stiff, starched collars he had seen before. He gazed around to find Wax Lanigan and realized he was at his shoulder.

  “Greetings to you and the lovely lady,” he said.

  Sylvia said nothing. She kept her head down and ate a bite of fried razor clams with nonchalance, no action of delight or disdain.

  “Evenin’, Lanig
an. This table’s reserved. I guess they all are. Do you know where you’re assigned?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m to host the governor, two senators and their wives.”

  Brannon buttered some sourdough rolls as Lanigan strolled away. “How are you doing?” he asked Sylvia.

  “Not well. I fully intended to stay in my room tonight, but my mind’s so busy, I can’t rest anyway.”

  “Are you uncomfortable with Lanigan here?”

  “Not really. He’s been the perfect gentleman. I can’t complain.”

  Brannon stared at large flower bouquets in tall wicker baskets and tried to avoid a bobbing Adam’s apple in the throat of an opera singer. She sang half a dozen aria duets with a tenor who looked like he could be Ted Fleming’s twin brother. Burly man with curly, salt and pepper hair, but a sour expression for every precise note. Not a trace of Fleming’s infectious grin. He smoked a pipe in between harmonizing, while the female singer ran through her long parts. He appeared anxious for her to get done.

  Applause rang out and Brannon relaxed in hopes of a finish to the program. No finale. However, a tumbling act was presented, which he found entertaining. Then, a series of monologues by both men and women in a wide range of pitches. This did not amuse him.

  He pulled a watch out of the pocket of the borrowed Lord Fletcher waistcoat. More than two hours. He was about to nod off again, when Lady Fletcher approached from behind and grabbed his arm. “There’s a frantic woman at the door. She says her name is Nina Carbón and that she must talk to you.”

  Thirty-three

  Brannon felt more relieved than alarmed. He met with Mrs. Carbón on the front deck of the hotel. “Gracias, señor. I can’t find my husband. I’m worried that he will do someone harm or get into trouble. We do not need that.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “A man who said he is Tally Rebozo came to our home. He hounded Chuy with many questions, like you did, but also beat on him. I believe he is an acquaintance of yours.”