Stuart Brannon's Final Shot

by Stephen Bly

  Lord Fletcher glanced at Mayor Williams with a hesitant look, but the mayor shrugged his approval.

  This time Lady Fletcher hit a solid shot that sliced into a bank of trees. She turned with a bow to her husband.

  Lord Fletcher hit hard at the ball’s center. The long drive landed well down the fairway, and just a short distance from the green. “Oh, Edwin, that was so good,” Lady Fletcher gushed. Her effusive praise flustered him.

  “Quite, quite,” he said as though such a shot was expected.

  Next came Deedra Lazzard and Hawthorne Miller. Deedra’s shot came low off the club, but it rolled a long way so she declined it as a “practice.” Miller placed his ball with great care and fanfare on the tee. Then he set and reset his stance and club position several times with exaggerated movements until he settled into a stiff, statuesque pose.

  Brannon watched with great curiosity, as did the other players. I’ve seen peacocks preen less. But can he play?

  Miller had a slow and deliberate backswing, but brought the club through the ball at lightning speed. The crash sent the ball sailing so high, so far that not many watching were able to detect where it landed.

  Hack Howard cried out, “On the left, just past that big bush,” as he pointed with excitement. The ball passed Lord Fletcher’s. The crowd clapped in approval.

  Lord Fletcher, who had shown nonchalant interest in his drive before, blustered with an excuse when he heard the report about Miller. “Maybe my brassie isn’t enough anymore. Time to upgrade to a play club.”

  An intense competition brewed.

  I can’t allow Hawthorne Miller to beat me at golf. That just can’t happen. He tried to remember everything Ted Fleming and Tanglewood taught him, but only bits and pieces came to him now.

  To Brannon’s great surprise and relief, Mama Darrlyn proved to be an able contender. She landed a smooth, straight shot midway down the field. “Darcy’s father built golf courses as a hobby,” she answered his quizzical look, “although his main occupation was in oil fields. He and I played a lot.”

  The pressure was off to produce every good shot. Brannon’s ball veered a little left but stayed in the fairway. He considered that a success even though it did not match the distance of Mama Darrlyn’s.

  As the players and crowd moved up the fairway, Brannon noticed a lad boosted on his father’s shoulders. The boy’s eyes bored into Brannon’s. He chuckled as he heard the boy say to his father, “Is that really Stuart Brannon? He’s an old man.”

  The father tried to shush him. Brannon gave him a wink and a smile.

  The next shots for each team left them on the green. Mama Darrlyn had hit hers smartly and a little long. Brannon topped his. The ball bumped straight but short, yet closer than his teammate’s.

  Miller hit his ball clean and right up to the cup. Fletcher also hit a nice arching shot that stopped abruptly near the hole.

  Not sure we stand a chance. His putt sailed past Mama Darrlyn’s short attempt and rolled to the other side of the green. I’ve got to pull it together to beat Miller.

  Mama Darrlyn’s next putt was successful.

  Lady Fletcher hit her putt way too hard, but it was straight and it hit the back of the cup, bounced up, and landed in the hole. The crowd loved that and clapped, as Lord Fletcher tried to hide a scoff.

  Deedra easily tapped her ball in.

  Pars are not going to win this. The other teams made birdies seem normal.

  The next hole pounded away the same, except this time it was Mama Darrlyn who took a “practice” off the tee. Again, all three teams hit the green on their second shot, but this time Mama Darrlyn’s ball rolled right next to the hole. The Fletchers both missed their putts, as did Miller and Deedra.

  Darrlyn did not.

  A birdie. We’re tied back up. Stuart Brannon hated to lose, whether tracking a stray calf or trading blows with an outlaw. He found golf to be no different. Once challenged, he wouldn’t back down. I’ve got to find a way, even if my arm’s aching.

  The third hole ranged much shorter, but Brannon wasn’t sure if that was to his advantage or not. There was a pond on the right, a large sand trap on the left.

  The Fletchers were on the green from the tee, though Lord Fletcher’s ball rolled back down to the front of the sloping green.

  Deedra hit hers straight into the pond, called out “practice,” and hit her second tee shot straight into the pond also. The crowd chuckled quietly, but when Deedra declared, “Oh my, I’m not properly dressed for a swim,” the crowd roared. Deedra preened.

  Miller’s tee shot hit near the hole. The back- spin sent it to the front of the green, past the Fletchers’.

  “This is our chance, Darrlyn,” Brannon encouraged his partner.

  Mama Darrlyn’s first swing off the tee looked wrong from the beginning, and netted a ball sliced violently to the right and out of play. She teed up a second shot, took deep breaths, then clobbered it. The ball pulled to the left. It rolled off the green, into the sand.

  Well, it’s up to me. His first swing felt great, but the ball sliced into the water. C’mon, Brannon, you can do this. He focused on his stance, kept his swing slow and steady and hit through the ball. This time the ball sliced so far to the right that it was in some trees and unplayable. How can that be? I swung the same as last time. Must be my left arm.

  “Just relax,” Keaton Tanglefoot said.

  “What I need is more patience.” More something.

  The crowd murmured as the whole group walked to the final green. Brannon stole a look behind him and took a quick count of the crowd. The herd certainly hadn’t dwindled, and in fact it looked to have a gained a few head. These will not be fruitless deeds in the dark, but they’ll be done for all to see. Brannon heard a few people making side bets. None wagered on him to win.

  At the green, Darrlyn was up first. She lightly stepped into the trap and, careful not to let her club scrape the sand in advance, hit a nice spraying shot up onto the green about eight feet from the hole. The audience applauded and, with grace defying her years, she curtsied daintily.

  Keaton spoke low to Brannon as he handed him an odd-looking club. “Use this rake iron. Remember, don’t touch the sand before you hit the ball.”

  Brannon inspected the club head. It looked more like an iron grate for cooking over a fire. Brannon frowned at Keaton, unconvinced.

  “Trust me, it’s the latest thing from England. It will help you in the sand.”

  The horizontal fingers did make sense for gliding.

  Brannon made himself relax as he stepped up to the ball. Reminds me of the Arizona desert, minus the scorpions. He set up for his shot. If I can improve on Deedra’s shot, at least I won’t embarrass myself.

  The crowd was silent as Brannon raised the club back and struck the ball with a sandy thwack. The ball shot forward in a low trajectory, much lower than he intended. Heading straight towards the flag at a pace way brisker than it ought to have been, the ball made a loud whack, directly against the pole, stopped in its path, then fell straight down into the hole.

  Brannon didn’t know a couple hundred people could make so much noise. The crowd hooped and hollered as the other teams shook their heads in disbelief. Mama Darrlyn rushed to his side, gave him a big kiss on the cheek.

  “You always come through, Stuart Brannon,” she purred in his ear.

  Brannon gave a quick wave to the crowd. Mayor Williams waved his hands in the air and shouted, “It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet.”

  Forty-nine

  As the crowd quieted down, the mayor reminded the onlookers, “the other teams can still tie by making their next putt and force a playoff.”

  Miller and Deedra had been eyeing their putt line, but the read was made difficult by the slope of the green and the drop-off to the left. Both teams remaining had very long, snaking putts to make.

  Deedra’s putt missed to the left by over two feet. Miller, sweat now beaded on his forehead, stroked the ball smoothly an
d at a solid speed, but he had overcompensated for the leftward lean. The ball stopped to the right of the hole. Some in the crowd sighed in relief. Others groaned. Miller cursed. Brannon tensed up.

  The Fletchers’ balls landed in front of where Deedra’s and Miller’s halted, so their putts would be on the same line. Lady Fletcher’s ball followed much the same path as Deedra’s and stopped even further from the hole. This was not a putt for the inexperienced.

  Lord Fletcher squinted in deep concentration. He strolled to the spot, gently put the ball on the green, lined up his stance. Brannon could hear his heart beat. Nothing else.

  Lord Fletcher hoisted the club in a slow loft, moved it forward through the ball. A perfect pendulum swing. The ball rolled up the green, angled down the slope towards the hole. The crowd gasped. The ball rolled closer and closer. Two turns away. One turn away. Two inches. One inch. It stopped.

  The crowd presented a collective moan, then burst into applause with chants of “Brannon, Brannon” and shouts of “great match.”

  Brannon finally exhaled and began to relax. Boy, I got way more intense than I thought I would. He congratulated his partner, then shook hands with the other players.

  “Well done,” Lord Fletcher declared. “Good show.”

  Miller shook Brannon’s hand cordially. “You’ve done it again. I’ll see you at the picture session.”

  The crowd gathered around to shake the hands of the winners, though many men seemed more interested in congratulating Mama Darrlyn than Brannon. She didn’t mind one bit.

  Lady Fletcher was pulling a man with a small canvas bag into the middle of the crowd. “May I have your attention please?” she shouted. “We’ll now have the drawing.”

  Lady Fletcher asked the mayor to pick the winner. Mayor Williams stuck his hand in the bag, rooted around for a few seconds, then pulled out a ticket. Squinting at the paper and moving it closer, then further in front of his face like a trombone player, he patted his pockets. From the left breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small pair of reading spectacles and focused again on the paper ticket.

  “And the winner is,” the mayor intoned, “Mrs. Jedediah Acorn.”

  Stuart Brannon had endured many difficult encounters… outlaws, uncooperative steers, droughts, and disease. At the moment, they seemed preferable to the task he now faced… allowing Hawthorne H. Miller to set up this photography shoot.

  Mrs. Jedediah Acorn, widowed, rich, bored with life, but an avid reader of dime novels, was to sprawl on Brannon’s lap. The worst of it was, she acted as though she’d won a husband. Effusive squeals of delight. Too-familiar hugs. Pokes in the rib. Pecks on the cheek.

  He began by signing every one of her Hawthorne Miller novels, but there was a line to be drawn and this was it. For the third time, Brannon nudged her to move off his scrunched legs and to scoot beside him on the bench.

  Meanwhile, Miller fussed with the Kodak camera, then called out, “As soon as you two hold still, we can forever memorialize this momentous occasion.”

  Snickers could be heard around them as Mrs. Acorn consented to cuddle close to Brannon. Her ample shoulder against his chest. Her husky hand on his. She beamed the joy of the starstruck. Brannon grimaced. The photo was snapped.

  He saw Lady Fletcher’s frown.

  “Mrs. Acorn,” Brannon began.

  “Patricia,” she corrected.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish you many blessings in the future.”

  The woman hugged him with a vise-like squeeze. He had to use a fair amount of force to break free.

  The Fletchers burst out in raucous laughter, as did most of the crowd.

  “Quite liberating, actually,” Lord Fletcher later told Brannon.

  Mrs. Acorn grabbed Brannon by the face and looked him square in the eyes. “You still owe me dinner. You’re not going to back out on the deal, are you?”

  A hundred excuses crossed Brannon’s mind, as did a hundred punishments for Lady Fletcher for roping him into this. But Brannon replied, “No, ma’am.”

  Fifty

  Later that evening, after a very public dinner with Mrs. Acorn at the Gearhart Hotel Café, in which he gently, but firmly assured the woman that he was not interested in pursuing a further relationship, Lady Fletcher sauntered with Brannon out to his beachside camp. “It was so sweet watching Hawthorne Miller walk Mrs. Acorn on the Ridge Path after your date.”

  “No date. Doin’ my duty.”

  “Laira and I will be staying in Gearhart and Portland through the summer. Edwin’s going to Turkestan, to be with young Stuart. I know he wants to be there and I have no compelling reason to make him stay.”

  “That’s great. He can be the interpreter for the expedition party.”

  “He so fits the role.”

  Brannon cleared his throat and plunged his hands into his pants’ pockets. “Harriet, I have a very special favor to ask of you.”

  Lady Fletcher stopped to look at him closer. The hush of stillness punctuated the whap of the waves, the squeal of fighting gulls. She folded her arms as she waited, her face pensive, as though she sensed the unveiling of a life-changing event.

  He slipped his hands out of the pants’ pockets, slid back his coat and wiggled the fingers of his left hand in the inside pouch. He snagged the end of a chain and slowly tugged it out until the locket dangled free and clear. A carefully inked letter, folded in half, came out of another pocket. He reached for one of Lady Fletcher’s arms, spread out her hand, dropped in the locket and spread out the note.

  “Harriet, would you please package these up and mail them to young Elizabeth, my granddaughter?”

  “Are you sure, Stuart?”

  “I’m as positive as the day I said, ‘I do.’ ”

  “I’m… so… greatly… honored, to accomplish that for you,” was all she could say.

  They stood in the calm, watching the incessant movement of the breakers, glowing in the bonds of friendship, drinking in the peace of the Pacific.

  Lord Fletcher joined them with a plate of razor clams in garlic sauce. “Taste these,” he stretched out a fork full. “They’re quite good.”

  Brannon shoved them away. “I’ve done my duty.”

  “You just don’t have a sense of adventure, Stuart,” Fletcher remarked. “You’ve got to get out and try things.”

  Brannon nudged his old friend with a kick from his boot. “I have been thinking about taking a vacation. A real one, with no agenda. Before I collapse on my Arizona porch. I’m off to Montana to throw a hoolihan to Tap and Pepper Andrews. Then down to Goldfield to meet up with Everett Davis’ niece and her family. I’ve also been invited on a huntin’ trip near Carson City with T.R. and Todd Fortune of the Black Hills.”

  He watched Lord Fletcher’s face as he teased, “And maybe I’ll take a little trip to Panama, to do some gold mining.”

  “My word, Stuart, without me? How beastly of you.”

  Brannon gave him another kick.

  “I wish you moments of true joy, Stuart,” Lady Fletcher said. “To make all the harsh memories of the past finally flee.”

  “As my schoolteacher friend Rose Creek once told me, I’m going to finally retire from public life and spend my days doctorin’ sick cows, breakin’ frolicky horses and watchin’ sunsets. And I anticipate all the seasons of my grandchildren’s growth.”

  He pushed down his black hat, grabbed up his satchels, and winked at Lady Fletcher. “And did I tell you? I asked Victoria to save a date for a very special dinner at our favorite restaurant in Prescott.”

  Lady Fletcher looked startled, but intrigued. “And what will be the topic of discussion, may I ask?”

  “It won’t be about guns or golf.”

  Lady Fletcher hugged him as though she’d never see him again. Lord Fletcher pushed up his hat with a cane and flipped around with a jaunty stroll beside his wife. Brannon watched them until they became two silhouette specks, a man and woman partnered together in an honest match of wits, a
fair and equal fondness.

  Was it real love? Yep.

  He pulled from his bedroll the mashie wooden club Tanglewood had crafted for him, with the carved boot at the top of the handle. He plucked out a ball, his last one, and balanced it on a plug of moss he’d taken from a tree.

  He took several practice swings. He imagined for a moment what it would be like to stretch in the Arizona desert, sun boiling down, wind whipping his gray hair.

  Then he smacked the ball, just below center, with the full force of a near perfect curve.

  It arched high and long, stretching over heaving whitewater, into the orange-drenched sunset.

  A Note From the Author

  I’m often asked, “Who’s your favorite character in all those many stories you’ve created?” Hard to say. They’re all part of me and I’ve gotten to know them so well. They’re friends, even family. But Stuart Brannon’s special.

  He’s not my first western protagonist… that distinction belongs to Sandy Thompson, the Confederate veteran in The Land Tamers. Nor is he the last. There’s Tap Andrews of The Code of the West series. There’s Brazos Fortune with his sons and grandchildren in the family saga of The Fortunes of the Black Hills series, which included Sam Fortune of The Long Trail Home and received a Christy Award. And I can’t forget the host of heroines in The Belles of Lordsburg series and The Heroines of the Golden West series, plus feisty Judith Kingston in The Carson City Chronicles. Or long-suffering Dola Mae Skinner in The Skinners of Goldfield series. There’s quite a slew of them.

  But Stuart Brannon’s my most well-known. He’s become a legend, in my mind and in the minds of my most faithful readers. My wife, Janet, claims he’s just like me, only different. “After all, look at his initials—same as yours.”

  Here’s a secret that many ardent fans have already discovered: most every Stephen Bly novel, whether historical or contemporary, has some sort of reference or cameo appearance by this hero of mine. Some propose that all my fiction is one huge revolving series. The main characters interrelate in one way or another.