by Stephen Bly
Lanigan shoved down the board with his shoe, then stacked the blanketed pile of guns on top. “You know what I see for my future, Brannon? I see a change in my fortunes, both social and financial.”
Brannon twisted his arms, hands and legs again. “And you’ll do anything to make that happen.”
He chuckled, deep and low. “You see that stack of papers over there? You think you’re the only one who can be a hero in novels? I’m going to be the main character in my own series, a sophisticated, refined and inspiring character. I’ll use a pen name for the author. In fact, until Hawthorne Miller showed up, I thought you wrote all those stories yourself.”
He’s so far gone, he talks like he thinks he has a chance for a normal life.
“That’s not my style. You don’t know how much I’ve disliked Miller for what he’s made of me, because of all those pack of lies.”
“So, you and I can agree on something. I hate what he’s made of you too. Everywhere I go, it’s Stuart Brannon this and Stuart Brannon that. I’m going to obliterate your existence off the face of the earth. I’ll be doing the world and you a favor. No more Brannon of the Wild West Series dime novels. I think I’ll burn them all. Yes, that’s my next project.”
“Won’t hurt me none. Suits me fine.” Brannon searched for another topic. “Quite an honor to be a Rough Rider, don’t you think?”
He clenched his teeth and almost stammered in a sudden rage. “You poisoned Tom Wiseman against me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He fired me on the first important mission. He wouldn’t believe my explanation for why I didn’t show.”
News to me. Never heard this story. “Is that why you had a grudge against him?”
“I had witnesses. Didn’t make any difference to him.” Lanigan ground out each word. Some infected nerve had been touched. “I had been hit on the head by two different women. Lay unconscious on a street in Phoenix for two days.”
“The same old Wax Lanigan, seems to me.”
Lanigan’s face turned a splotchy red. The veins in his neck protruded. Every ounce of energy he possessed exploded in his words. “That’s… a… lie. Are you so dumb and blind? I’m a changed man. You refuse to recognize that fact. You and Tom Wiseman, all your ilk. You’re the fools.”
Brannon regretted riling his captor. He watched for that possible split second in every deadly confrontation that might open a pinhole of opportunity. It’s been ten minutes. Where are Sylvia and the guys? “So you’ve changed. I’d like to hear about that.”
Lanigan’s eyes narrowed in contempt. “Look at these clothes. The way I can talk to a crowd. The smiles I get from the ladies. That’s all different, all new.”
Brannon tried to keep calm, almost monotone. “But inside, how you think and feel, how has that improved?”
“Sylvia will find out. I’m going to treat her right, do good things for her. She’ll be the most loved and cherished woman who ever lived… right after I kill you.”
I hear bells. The clop, clop-clop of hooves paced the rhythm of the dings. Miller’s back.
Lanigan stormed to the door, glowered into the distance, then raised his gun. Ecstasy penetrated the glare. A perfect show of madness.
The mules trotted into view through the open door. “Miller,” Brannon shouted. “Duck down.”
Miller hopped off the wagon and sprinted to the woods.
Lanigan squeezed off a shot then rushed towards Hawthorne Miller’s wagon. He climbed into the seat, fussed to untangle the reins and slapped the leather to the teams of mules.
Someone grabbed the tailgate and ran along behind. Hair flying. Long skirt swaying. Sylvia grabbed a fallen pine branch and jammed it into the spokes of the right rear wheel.
The wagon braked, jerked left and right, then teetered over. Four mules toppled in a scramble and chorus of pitiful brays that faded into whimpers and whines.
“You ruined my wagon,” Miller screamed. A hole pierced one jacket sleeve and a stream of blood rolled down.
Lord Fletcher and Tanglewood scurried from out of the trees to tackle Lanigan who came up swinging. Fletcher’s right uppercut sprawled him to the ground. Lanigan went for his holstered revolver, but the toe of Tanglewood’s boot caught his hand and sent the gun flying. Fletcher shoved a fist hard underneath his chin.
Sylvia grabbed Lanigan’s revolver, got it aimed and cocked.
Brannon scrambled with all his might to free any part of his limbs from the ropes. Lanigan spit a stream of curses and threats. Sylvia fired three quick shots at Lanigan’s position. Hawthorne Miller scrambled into his wagon, pulled out his photography equipment and began the setup.
“Come help me,” Brannon yelled.
Lord Fletcher motioned to Tanglewood who ran into the house and had Brannon and the two boys untied in two minutes flat. Bueno and Hack grabbed up boards from the floor and dashed towards Lanigan and beat him until Brannon held their arms back.
Then shots were fired. The first cracked over their heads. The second hit Sylvia. She fell in a heap.
“Run to the house,” Brannon ordered as he hauled Sylvia away by the arms.
The third splattered into Miller’s camera and tripod which collapsed around him.
Brannon tucked Sylvia into the house, checked her for pulse and injury. “It’s my leg.” She pulled up her skirt. Brannon noticed a gash above the tattoo. “Where are the boys?” she asked.
Brannon took a quick glance at the room. He yanked up the blanket full of guns and scooted them over to Sylvia. “Pass these out,” he said as he crouched at the door.
The gunfire kept up a steady pop, ping, pop as Tanglewood and Fletcher tried a scatter chase towards the fallen mules. The boys had cowered underneath the over-turned wagon. What are they doing there? Why didn’t they flee to the house like I said?
Then he spied Lanigan underneath the wagon with them, an elbow hold on Bueno’s neck, a gun in the other hand. “Don’t think I won’t shoot them. I have nothing to lose,” he hissed at Brannon.
Then he leaned out and called towards the woods. “It’s me, Lanigan. I’ve got some orphans with me. Hold your fire.”
He positioned them as a shield. He held them both with one arm and had his gun to Bueno’s head.
Tanglewood and Lord Fletcher ducked behind some trees. Brannon pulled a table out of the house to scoot in front of him as he eased forward. He pushed the table down the trail as far as he could, then assembled his takedown rifle and readied his revolver. Lanigan crawled out from under the wagon, both the boys squeezed tight against him and hiked forward. He raised his gun into the air.
“Get rid of the kids,” a man ordered.
Lanigan slammed the two boys to the ground, trekked across the dirt trail and towards the trees. A shot rang out, from the woods. Lanigan staggered and fell.
The boys raised up and ran. Tanglewood and Lord Fletcher rushed towards them as Lanigan aimed his gun in their direction. Another shot rang out, this time from behind the table.
As gunfire followed from the woods, Lanigan crawled back to the wagon, mouth open, breathing hard. Brannon provided a steady stream of cover for Tanglewood and Lord Fletcher as they scurried the boys to the house. Brannon scooted the splintered table behind Miller’s wagon. He inched towards Lanigan as bullets splayed around them.
“What are you doing?” Lanigan rasped.
As Brannon got closer, he could hear Lanigan’s labored breathing, a wheeze like the chug of a slow train. “I’m hurt bad. I guess you win.”
“No one’s won anything,” Brannon said. “Can you crawl to this table?”
“I can’t move at all.”
“Just like Tom Wiseman.”
“You going to leave me here?”
“Nope. Not unless I’m forced.”
“I would leave you.” Lanigan gasped for air. “You know I would.”
“Yep, but that’s your way, not mine.”
The shooting stopped. The scene echoed with silen
ce. Could be a reload. Can’t tell if there’s two shooters or just one. All I know is whatever I do, I must do quickly.
He slammed the table against the wagon and stretched as far as he could near Lanigan, his guns on the ground. Lanigan slowly raised his revolver, hand shaking, and aimed at Brannon.
“You goin’ to shoot me?” Brannon asked. “Don’t make much sense. I’m tryin’ to get you back to the house. Might save your undeservin’ hide.”
His words came in spurts. “I can shoot you… if I want. I can kill you… right here… right now. I’m the author… of your story… this time… Stuart Brannon.”
“No, God’s the author of my story. If you shoot me dead, it’s only because He allows you to.”
“You’re gone.” Lanigan strained to squeeze the trigger. It clicked on an empty chamber as he passed out.
Forty-four
Lord Fletcher provided cover for Brannon from the porch while Tanglewood and Sylvia threw lead from the windows. He dragged and weaved Lanigan through the hail of bullets. Some zinged close. Others whizzed farther away. Finally, he lugged the unconscious Lanigan up a few steps and into the house, with Fletcher’s aid.
“I used Wyatt Earp’s and Buffalo Bill Cody’s guns,” Fletcher announced. “That’ll make quite a story in England.”
“That’s quite an event anywhere.” Brannon stretched Lanigan out on the floor.
Lanigan turned chalky, as if bleached out. His eyes deepened in his head, like the hollowed, sunken sockets of a malnourished or starving man. Brannon had never seen a living, breathing man look more like a corpse with the spirit sucked out.
As a man of action, Brannon despised indecision. He also dreaded to watch anyone suffer, even a man like Wax Lanigan. If he was a horse, he’d shoot him to put him out of his misery. As a man, he’d shoot him to gain vengeance for Tom Wiseman… and Tally Rebozo… and also for Argentiferous Jones.
The quality of mercy is not strain’d…
Sylvia’s leg had been bandaged with the torn hem of her skirt and she now leaned over Lanigan to study his wounds. “Why’d you do it? He may not survive anyway.”
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
“It’s who I am,” Brannon replied.
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
“My father would do the same.” She burst into tears as she dabbed at the wounds of the man who let Tom Wiseman suffer and die.
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
“I can help. I’ve had to cut out bullets, arrowheads and porcupine quills,” Brannon stated.
Sylvia heated a knife with some matches from Lord Fletcher, then tore the hem of her skirt into rags. Lanigan was still unconscious. “Did anybody happen to bring some liquor or morphine?”
“He’s got no struggles with pain,” Tanglewood observed.
She seared the wound to prevent infection. “If he gets a high fever, I’ll need more rags to help cool him down.”
Bueno and Hack Howard turned away. Tanglewood started tearing the sleeves and hem of his shirt.
“Where’s Miller?” Brannon asked.
“Out there.” Lord Fletcher pointed out the window.
Hawthorne Miller had reset his camera and tripod on a grassy area in front of some trees to the right. He waited for the next action.
“You can’t say the man doesn’t have bravado,” Fletcher surmised.
“You going to go get him too?” Hack Howard asked Brannon.
Brannon considered the absurdity. Miller risked his life to record this event for posterity, but Brannon jeopardized his for the man responsible for the danger. Would he do the same for Hawthorne Miller? Yep.
It felt good to retrieve his Colt revolver again and hold his new rifle.
I value the ability to protect the innocent, provide a fair shake for those attacked. Injustice must have penalties.
But words from the good book assailed him.
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay,” saith the Lord.
But that doesn’t mean we do nothing, that we don’t fight for what’s right.
The laws of the twentieth century and the principles of scripture coincided. He wrapped his fingers around the grip, pulled back the hammer with his thumb then held it back as he pulled the trigger. He slowly let the hammer fall. It still fit his hand well, after all these years. Great investment for seventeen dollars.
“Is the shooter still out there?” Brannon asked.
“There are two,” Fletcher reported. “One of them’s the deputy. The other’s the one you called Slash.”
“The thief on the train? What do they want? They could have ridden away with their loot scot-free.”
“We’ll know soon enough. The deputy is rummaging through Miller’s wagon,” Fletcher said.
Brannon got to the window just as two shots rang out in rapid succession. Brannon ducked down. In a moment, Miller crashed through the door and into the room.
“I do believe they wanted him in here,” Fletcher observed. “They shot over his head.”
“Barely missed me,” Miller huffed. “And as anyone can see, I’m an impartial spectator.”
“If you’re going to fight, grab a weapon and stay in the front,” Brannon advised. “But if you’re a witness only, stand back there with the boys.”
Several bullets hit the door and windows. Miller hunkered down in the corner with Bueno and Hack.
“My word,” Fletcher exclaimed. “They’re throwing something burning at the front.”
Brannon popped his head up and fired a shot, clipping Barranca’s arm, just as the whole front porch exploded into flames. Brannon and Fletcher both fired off several rounds through the flames.
Miller jumped up and screamed at them. “That’s the collodion solution. It will give off poisonous gases.” He raced to the back of the house. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“The back doors and windows are all boarded up,” Sylvia reminded him.
A flare of fire sailed through one of the windows. They ran and shoved once, twice, three times at the back door. Not a splinter budged. Brannon grabbed up the floor boards and pounded the windows. The glass shattered, but the two-by-fours covering the outside wouldn’t give.
Brannon knew it was time to tend the herd. “Everyone cover their mouths,” he yelled as Fletcher and Miller coughed.
Brannon yanked up floorboards as the house sweltered with rising heat. The fire was spreading. Tanglewood, Fletcher and Sylvia followed suit. Brannon slung aside two dead snakes with his rifle. He dropped down, spread out on his stomach and crawled through the wide hole.
“Be careful, Stuart,” Fletcher warned.
“We’ve got no choice,” Brannon replied. “I can see an opening. Follow me.”
“What about Lanigan?” Sylvia called.
“Leave him. I’ll come back,” Brannon said.
“By Jove, he’ll melt before you ever reach him,” Fletcher cajoled.
Brannon pawed and scooted his way in the dark underside of the house through a muddy moat of pine needles, leaves and substances he couldn’t begin to name. He moved as steady and fast as he could towards the light and pushed through some rotting planks.
After the others inched out, Sylvia begged him not to go back for Lanigan. Brannon considered her pleas.
She’s being reasonable, not vindictive. No one can blame me or anyone if Lanigan burns up in that house. I don’t have to try to save every villain I come in contact with. He sighed. However, by God’s will, I am who I am.
Forty-five
Brannon scrambled back through the muck to the floor gap. Sparks showered the room. The roof smoldered. A thick, dark smoke hovered. Brannon covered his face with a muddy bandana and yanked off his shirt to cover Lanigan’s head. Brannon couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead, but he hauled him to the floor cavity, just as two arms reached out and yanked him through.
“Edwin, Harriet would never forgive me if…” Brannon said.
“
Come on, man. This is no time to exchange chitchat.”
With Brannon straining to shove from the back and Fletcher pulling from the forward position, they got Lanigan out from the house and over to their comrades before the whole structure burst into roiling ash and charred timber.
Bueno’s eyes reflected the fire as he stretched his arms towards the inferno. “We forgot the gold.”
Brannon swiped mud and gunk from his clothes and face. “What gold?”
“We saw Mr. Lanigan hide a box under the floor. He showed us the gold inside. He said it had been the Frenchman’s, but he didn’t need it anymore.”
“You mean this?” Sylvia cracked open a rectangular box filled with gold-colored nuggets and dust. “I bumped my head on it coming out.”
Lanigan’s eyes suddenly gaped wide open. He made a kind of screeching sound. “That’s mine.”
“That’s the same box Bois DeVache showed us at the Lewis and Clark Exposition in Portland,” Hawthorne Miller reported.
Brannon wheeled around. “When?”
“On opening day. He was trying to find investors for a gold mine in Panama. I didn’t fall for it, no sirree, but those Lazzard women sure took him under their wings. They introduced him to all sorts of men. I even saw him talking to Tom Wiseman.”
“Stuart,” Fletcher interrupted. “I’ve been watching those two men who started the fire. They haven’t moved or raised up from the ground.”
“We must have hit them with our bullets.” Brannon and Fletcher marched over to the sprawled deputy and Slash Barranca.
They turned the bodies over. “They’re dead, all right.” Brannon searched them all over with care. “But not a bullet hole anywhere, except for a possible graze or two. I’m real sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk more than business with the deputy… for his father’s sake… for his sake. Sure hope he made his peace with God.”
Miller had tied a large bandana around his nose and mouth. “We’d all better be careful. There are still many toxic fumes.”
A woman screamed behind him. As Fletcher and Brannon covered their faces, they rushed to the grove where the others huddled.
