Stuart Brannon's Final Shot

by Stephen Bly

  The door of the house had opened and three men scooted out on the front porch.

  Forty-one

  “Who are those guys with Lanigan?” Fletcher craned his neck to get a closer look.

  “Slash Barranca, the one with round face and greasy, long hair under that ten-gallon hat, is the robber on the train to Portland I took earlier in the week. The short guy with sharp, long nose and beady eyes wearing a black duster is none other than the infamous former Argentiferous Jones, now known as Tiff.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  They scooted closer and caught parts of a conversation.

  Tiff Jones was speaking. “I don’t know. The liquor’s wearin’ off. I didn’t count on involvin’ kids. This doesn’t sound as good as it did before.”

  “You’re up to your gizzard,” Lanigan said. “All of you are. You can’t back out now.”

  “Yes, I can. So can you. We both have weapons, but you will have to draw yours and I will shoot first. You know I’m faster.” Brannon examined the man’s gaping grin that revealed bad teeth. He even noticed a quiver. Why can’t I see this well when things are up close and personal-like?

  “I recognize my mistake now,” Lanigan replied as Jones whipped out his gun and jabbed him back with the barrel. “Now don’t get nasty. I am going to pull out my gun too, real slow. Don’t get jumpy on me. We’re all friends here. Slash, you get your weapon out too. That way we’re all even up.”

  “I’ll watch my back,” Jones retorted.

  “And I’ll watch mine,” Lanigan said.

  The three walked side by side towards the house. They all turned at the sound of a distant chug-a-chug of an engine. Lanigan swung his revolver straight at Barranca.

  “Shoot Jones,” Lanigan ordered.

  Barranca stared down the barrel. “I can’t.”

  “You won’t get a dime,” Lanigan said.

  Barranca raised his gun.

  “Put it down, Slash.” Jones lowered his weapon. “I got no quarrel with you. You’re my friend.”

  At that instant a gunshot rang out. Jones teetered forward, then tumbled with a whomp to the ground. Barranca cursed at Lanigan, whose revolver still smoked, then fell down at his friend’s side.

  “He was messing up the whole deal.” Lanigan tried to drag Jones off the road. “Help me,” he yelled at Barranca.

  “My word,” exclaimed Fletcher. “Now we know what happened to Rebozo.”

  “Only I don’t believe he had even that much of a fighting chance,” Brannon commented.

  Sylvia clamped both hands over her mouth as she quivered.

  Brannon cautioned them to stay put. “Let’s see how this plays out.”

  Two men puttered onto the scene in a Ford Model C, the men in the brown suits.

  “That’s the Rincon brothers,” Sylvia said. “I don’t know which is who, but their first names are Francis and Ditson. They’re railroad agents or used to be. They visited Papa at the ranch a few times and were pleasant enough. However, Papa had to evict some farmer families for them. He hated that part of his job.”

  “We have got to get closer,” Brannon said in hushed tones.

  “You first,” Fletcher urged.

  Brannon crouched on his stomach and crawled across the muddy bog ground. Tanglewood, then Fletcher and Sylvia followed.

  A man on a horse trotted up the road to the house and passed the motorcar.

  “It’s the deputy from the golf tournament,” Fletcher whispered.

  “Good. In the old days, we’d take care of the murderer ourselves,” Brannon said. “Now, we wait for the law to show up.” He propped himself up on elbows and sank an inch or two in the spongy ground.

  “We’ve got the evidence from the bay. It can be collected and done right, for a court trial,” Fletcher added.

  “But there’s just one guy. If he tries to take them all in, he’s got plenty of guts and pride,” Brannon replied. “Or stupidity.”

  Deputy Kliever greeted the other men, swung out of his saddle and walked over to Lanigan.

  “Get ready,” Brannon whispered, “to protect this fool of a lawman.”

  Lanigan reached out and shook the deputy’s hand. Then each of the men, including the deputy, handed over to Lanigan either leather valises or canvas bags and they tramped into the house.

  “The deuce, a payoff,” Fletcher exclaimed.

  “Well, that’s it for waiting on law and order to come to the rescue. I thought you said the deputy was a preacher’s son, a brother in the faith,” Sylvia said.

  “God has no grandchildren. Each man must choose for himself,” Brannon said.

  Sylvia got up, shook out her soiled suit and stomped over to Geode. She yanked out her father’s Remington bolt-action rifle.

  “Wait,” Brannon cautioned. “It might not be what it seems. Or if it is, we need to know more about what’s going on.”

  Within minutes the clomping sound of hooves and a jingle of bells could be heard down the road. Soon, two teams of gray mules and a wagon came in view. Hawthorne Miller parked behind the Ford Model C, climbed out of the wagon, stepped over Jones’ body, hiked around to the side lawn and set up his photography equipment on a leather tarp in the overgrown yard.

  “He’s going to get himself killed,” Fletcher sputtered.

  “Nah,” Brannon said. “You watch. This guy’s indestructible.”

  “Or he’s in on the deal,” Fletcher replied.

  The front door of the house banged open and Lanigan, Jones, Barranca, the deputy and the Rincon brothers marched out. Lanigan waved at the photographer and novel writer. “Any trouble on the way in here?”

  “No, the trail was empty the whole way.”

  Lanigan carried out a bench from inside the house, directed three of the men to sit on it, then the rest to stand behind.

  “I can’t be pictured with the likes of you,” Deputy Kliever protested.

  Lanigan pulled him in. “Tell the authorities we forced you or that you didn’t know at this point what was going on, that you thought all this crew were upstanding citizens. Either way, you’ll be famous like us.”

  After the poof and flash, Lanigan handed Miller his Kodak. “Take one with my personal camera too,” they heard him say.

  Miller fussed about that, then gave in. It took him a couple minutes of fiddling to figure out how to use the modern invention.

  “C’mon, Miller.” Lanigan turned to the others. “We’ve got to be out of here pretty soon. They’re gonna figure out where I went eventually.”

  “When do we make our grand entrance?” Fletcher said. “This is getting more ridiculous by the minute.”

  “Our objectives are the safety of those boys and to capture Lanigan so he can pay for his crimes. The other business is for honest lawmen to investigate.”

  “But we can round up the whole gang right now while the boys are safe in the house,” Sylvia suggested.

  “That’s right,” Fletcher remarked. “Why catch one outlaw when you get the entire lot of them?”

  “Maybe. But we don’t want to shoot them all,” Brannon asserted. “Once the first shot’s fired, there’s no control. And, we’re not sure there’s not someone left inside guarding the boys.”

  Tanglewood crept near them. “The back of the house and windows are all boarded up. No way to sneak in, unless we crawl on the roof and try the chimney.”

  “I know this sounds strange, but wish I’d kept that Spanish War dagger of Papa’s,” Sylvia said. “The one the old Indian forced me to bury. I wanted so bad to volunteer myself, when Papa helped pioneer the Rough Riders in Prescott. Of course he wouldn’t let me. I never told Papa about Wills Bennett. It ran too deep.”

  “One day your father showed me the list from Yavapai County. I noticed Lanigan’s name and asked him about it,” Brannon said.

  Sylvia spit out a gasp. “What? Lanigan a Rough Rider, part of Troop A?”

  “Tom claimed he had several high placed references.”

 
“Another reason I wish I had that dagger. It would be sweet justice to confront him with it now.”

  Forty-two

  Something popped out in the forest, like a pinecone falling. The men posed in the clearing jumped to attention. “Are you sure it’s safe out in the open like this?” one of the Rincon brothers asked.

  “No one could track me,” Lanigan said. “But what about you?” Lanigan pointed to Miller. “Or any of you? Hurry up, Miller.”

  Brannon watched a shimmer of light illuminate the trees and around them.

  “Do you notice how unnatural the atmosphere seems?” Tanglewood shivered.

  “Perhaps there is something awful ahead of us,” Sylvia whispered.

  “Or something glorious,” Brannon remarked.

  After the shutter on the camera snapped closed, each of the men scurried around to leave. Barranca and the deputy slung Jones over a blood bay horse. Barranca rose up into the saddle of a sandy bay and led the two horses down the road. Miller got his wagon turned around with some help from the Rincons.

  One of the Rincon brothers sat in the Ford Model C and fussed with the controls while the other waited out front. At a signal from the driver, the other man cranked the engine and it roared to life. The second Rincon brother hopped in the Ford and after a few jerky lunges, they putted down the road.

  The deputy followed in a gallop on his buckskin dun.

  “I’m going to bust in there,” Brannon said. “But not shooting. I don’t know where the boys are.”

  “You’re crazy, Stuart,” Fletcher protested.

  “So is Lanigan, but maybe he’ll appreciate that I gave him a fighting chance, better than what he’s given his victims.”

  “I don’t think he will notice,” Fletcher remarked.

  “If it will help,” Sylvia said, “tell him I’ve changed my mind, that he’s the man for me, that I don’t blame him for my father’s death. He’ll believe you. His ego’s that strong and delusional.”

  “Here I go.” Brannon crept forward.

  “If you’re not out of there in five minutes, I’m coming in,” Sylvia called out, “and I’ll be shooting.”

  “Give me ten.”

  Brannon counted on the presumption that Lanigan hadn’t detected their presence nor expected it. He rushed to the south side of the boarded house and crouched low, in case there was a peek hole in any of the windows.

  A soft breeze bristled through the pines. In the grasses he rubbed with his boots, a minty scent almost choked him. Brannon scraped his hands across the rough lumber of the old house walls to cling as close as possible.

  As he rounded the corner to the front and full window openings, he stopped. The smallest sound might bring Lanigan charging out the door or flinging his gun hand through the window.

  He kicked open the door and lunged in. Lanigan spun around and raised his gun. Brannon dove and tackled him to the floor. Lanigan kicked and flailed. Brannon grabbed his arm with the gun. Lanigan landed a punch on Brannon’s face. They rolled together. Lanigan’s gun shook loose as Brannon got kicked twice in the side. With clenched hands together, Brannon slammed into Lanigan’s face. He tried to sit up. He had wrenched his left leg and had trouble standing on it.

  Brannon tried to crawl to the gun. Lanigan whipped out a knife from his boot and threw it. Cold steel ripped skin in Brannon’s left arm. His shirt sleeve ripped and blood streaked from below the elbow down to his wrist. He gasped for air as Lanigan’s knee shoved into his chest. Lanigan locked his hands together and drove them into the wound in Brannon’s arm. Brannon kicked hard at Lanigan’s shin. Knuckles crashed into his cheekbone like the sound of a bullwhip.

  Brannon’s eyes met Lanigan’s, full of chill hatred. Brannon tried to rise, swung wildly at Lanigan’s bleeding face once more, and passed out.

  When Brannon became conscious of sounds and smells, he couldn’t move and could barely see.

  Bueno and Hack sat hunched in the corner of the room, bound and gagged. Hack’s eyes were edged with fear. Bueno looked like he’d been crying.

  Brannon suddenly longed to be riding across a desert trail with cactus in bloom, calves all around kicking up their heels.

  Nothing wrong with the coast. It just isn’t home. And right now it looks a speck like hell.

  “Who’s out there with you?” Lanigan’s face tensed like taut leather.

  When Brannon didn’t answer right away, Lanigan dragged a shaking Bueno across the loose-board floor, gun shoved in his cheek. “I’ll kill this boy, if you don’t tell me. Now, who… is… out… there?”

  Brannon concentrated in desperation for words to stop the insanity, as he took a quick scan of the layout of the house, to find a possible escape. A partition, a stairway to a landing and perhaps several rooms. He was in a living room with a fireplace. There was a side parlour and bedroom. A hallway led to a long pantry and kitchen. He could see a stove with a pipe outlet to the roof.

  He started to list the trio who waited in the trees, when Lanigan shoved the boy away and suddenly switched to a different train of thought. “Brannon, I am puzzled about one thing. It gnaws at me.”

  “What’s that, Lanigan?”

  “How come it was even noticed? And so quickly too. How come you got here so fast?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The disappearance of Tom Wiseman, that’s what.”

  “Tom’s got friends who care about him, including the President of the United States.” Brannon strained to listen outside the room, to any possible movement near the door. If any- one tried to crash in, he wanted to be prepared, to do what he could, although tied up. He wiggled his toes, stretched his feet, his arms, his hands. Nothing eased.

  “What makes you tick, Brannon? How come you’re so predictable? A friend’s gone. You’ve got to save him. You’re wound up. Maybe Tom Wiseman deserted his duty. Or ran off with a woman. Or took a bribe and escaped to Argentina. Did you really want to risk your life to dig into another man’s dirty business?”

  “That’s slander. Tom’s a good friend of mine, one of the best. I know what he would or wouldn’t do.”

  “Slander? This is my court. I can say anything I want.”

  Brannon thought he might be able to twist and roll. Then what? At least it was movement. But he couldn’t try it out until the critical moment. “But wouldn’t you do the same for a friend? You do have one, don’t you? You surely haven’t shot them all. Wouldn’t you be there for them?”

  “I like to let life happen, to grab the next opportunity. I don’t pay attention to people much… except for gals like Sylvia.”

  “Without thought to the consequences?” Brannon strained his ears and tried hard not to look at the door. He thought he heard a scraping sound.

  Lanigan leered as he tried for a grin. “Did you notice how they like me? They respect me. They look up to me, those people in Gearhart. A lot in Portland too. I’m changed, Brannon. I’m not the same guy you knew in Arizona. And I think Sylvia Wiseman’s warming up to me. Lady Fletcher was going to talk to her. She knows the real me.”

  Sylvia Wiseman… one man’s dream, another man’s tornado. Lanigan’s stepped into a total delusion, a very dangerous state.

  Lanigan was wistful, almost boyish in his longing. “Does the President know my name?”

  “I’m sure he does. You want to feel important.” Brannon kept talking, just to say something, anything. “You’ve almost reached your goal. Let the kids go and you can be a hero.”

  Lanigan snapped to attention. “You’re desperate to be important yourself. You can’t deceive me. I know the tricks guys like you play. Pretend to be a champion and down deep inside you’re evil, watching for a chance to take advantage.” His eyes cleared. A filmy kind of peace mixed with power took over. He twisted around to the boys. “No heroes today with these two. No awards given. No speeches by the big man.”

  How in the world did Tom, then Rebozo and now me get caught by this guy? In Tom’s case, he trusted God
. Why did He let him die?

  We’ve always had the upper hand, kept control, managed to get free eventually in any tight situation. Sure, he appears to be one way, but is really another. No different than other scoundrels. Maybe it’s because he’s evil smart. Or lucky.

  Brannon felt like he teetered on a mountainside about to give way to an avalanche. Not knowing when the slide would come, he waited for an opening, a misstep by Lanigan. His only chance was to keep Lanigan talking… about himself. “But you don’t want to ruin that reputation you’ve developed. You add any more murders, that’s gone forever.”

  Lanigan roared until the tears came. He grabbed a kerchief. “I did not kill Tom Wiseman. He shot the Frenchman and then fell in those tree roots. It was an accident.”

  “So, you admit you were there and left Tom to die.”

  “I don’t admit anything.”

  Brannon tried a different track. “Sylvia’s out there. She’d sure like to know what happened to her father.”

  Lanigan rushed to the window and flung aside the tattered curtains. “Sylvia,” he shouted. “I’ve got to talk to you.” His head swirled back and forth.

  “I’m right here, Lanigan.” It was almost a whisper, yet Brannon heard it. A floorboard moved.

  She’s under the house.

  “Sylvia!” Lanigan yelled again from the window, then stomped over to creak open the front door.

  This would be a good time for some action from my crew.

  The floorboard moved again. Lanigan swivelled around and stalked over to the wooden floor. He kicked up one of the boards and shot twice.

  “Why did you shoot her?” Brannon bellowed.

  “I didn’t. There’s no one down there except the snakes.”

  But I heard her voice. Where is she?

  Forty-three

  Brannon forced himself to not shift or roll. He knew he’d be a helpless target. His main concern turned to what or who was under the boards. He strained for a sound, but heard nothing. If one of his friends had been wounded, he or she needed help. If they were dead, Lanigan had a growing list of victims… and he may be next.