by Stephen Bly
“Not… Harriet…”
“Harriet? You mean Gwen Barton’s sister? My word, now there’s a woman who puts fear into every prospector and cowhand’s heart. They treat her like she was Athene herself. She keeps mainly to herself. But when she walks down the sidewalk, half the saloon empties into the street. No woman’s caught the town’s fancy like that since…” Roberts stopped and glanced down.
“It’s okay. Go ahead and say it.”
“Well… since your Lisa was here. You know, Stuart, you aren’t the only one who misses her. Maybe it’s good that Miss Harriet moved to town. Helps folks go on.”
“Well, I’m on my way back to the ranch. I don’t aim to leave Arizona again. Now who is the lucky Mrs. Roberts?”
“Mary Katherine Warner from Omaha, Nebraska. She’s needing to rest this evening or I’d be introducing you. A baby, you know. Doc says it should be here by December.”
“Congratulations again, Byron. That’s the kind of news that makes my day.”
“We got your room ready for you.”
“My room? I haven’t been here in two years.”
“I know, but it’s been buzzing around town for a couple of hours that you were headed to Prescott, so I knew you’d want the room on the corner, overlooking the sidewalk. They say you took a knife and sliced your way through two dozen Apaches to rescue those soldier boys.”
“Thanks, Byron. It’s nice to get back to where a few folks know your name and no one ever exaggerates the truth.”
“I can tell you one thing, Stuart. Everyone in Prescott knows your name. Your ranch might be miles away, but you’re a local boy to most folks here. So when those stories started filtering into the newspaper—”
“What stories?”
“About the shootout in that meadow… standing up to that railroad man… what’s his name?”
“Cheney?”
“Yeah, him. And Trevor, and sheriffing at Tres Casas. We had a note last week that you and a schoolteacher cleaned up some two-bit grubstake town.”
“That was in print?”
Roberts nodded. “Yep. You been out living our lives for us, Stuart. Ever’ shopkeeper, sod turner, soldier, and hard-rock miner came out to this country to live adventures like yours. We don’t have the skill or the courage. But you’re our man. The day will come when this desert will be a state, and it will be as tame as an Ohio farm. Then a few of us old-timers will sit out there on the porch and spin yarns about the early days… days when men like Stuart Brannon tamed the West. Yes, sir.”
“Roberts, I had no idea you were such a philosopher. That educated wife of yours must have really rubbed off on you.” Brannon headed for the stairs to the second floor. “Byron, thanks for the room. I’ll only need it a few days.”
“I’d offer to buy you supper, but the rumor is you’ve got some big doin’s planned at the Lucky Dollar.”
“That’s what I hear.” Brannon climbed the stairs to his room.
A basin of water, a change of shirts, and a comb through his hair, and Brannon was ready. It was still a little early, so he pulled off his boots and sprawled across the top of the bed.
He never cared much for staying in hotel rooms. But the mattress at the Hassayampa Hotel was softer than spring grass on the south slope.
Ten minutes and I’ll feel a whole lot better.
] ]
“Mr. Brannon.”
Dark room.
“Mr. Brannon.”
Someone beating on the door.
“Stuart?”
He staggered across the room, grabbed up his Winchester, and slung open the door. Byron Roberts and Sergeant Cloverdale stood outside.
“You feel like havin’ that supper now?” Cloverdale asked.
“What time is it?”
“A little past 9:30.” The sergeant apologized, “I’m sorry. If you’d rather wait, the boys will—”
“Nope, I’m plenty hungry. The old Hassayampa’s got the best mattress between Chicago and San Francisco. Guess my bones were more tired than I knew. Let me grab my boots.” Brannon tucked his trousers into his stovetop boots, splashed a little dirty water on his face, jammed his hat on his head, and headed out of the room.
“Byron, can you see that someone takes El Viento over to the livery? I’d appreciate it.”
“Two Fingers, I suppose,” Roberts replied.
“Yeah… how is that old man, anyway?”
“Sober… most of the time.”
Brannon and the sergeant walked the three blocks to the Lucky Dollar.
“Looks like payday at the mines,” Brannon remarked. “Street’s crowded. It’s not Saturday night, is it?”
“No, sir.”
Glancing at the soldiers loitering on the front steps, Brannon turned to the sergeant. “Who’s minding the store at the barracks?”
“To tell you the truth, most of the men wanted to come to town tonight. I think it’s mainly the officers that are left out there.”
“The Lucky Dollar must have a new cook or some dancing girls to draw a crowd like this.”
One of the uniformed men approached him. “Mr. Brannon… My name’s Jenner, sir. Eli Taylor was my closest friend.”
“Taylor? Out on the trail? Sure am sorry about it, Jenner. I hoped we could make it to the doctor.”
“Well, sir, when me and him signed on, we knew we’d be fightin’ hostiles. Thanks to you, he could die in the saddle, singing a song after a brave fight. No torture, no mutilations, no shame. Mr. Brannon, that means a whole lot to me.”
“Will you be burying him tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir, we will.”
“Jenner, you find the best baritone in the barracks and have him sing ‘Annie Laurie’ at the grave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Several more men came up to shake hands with Brannon, including some in civilian clothes.
“Mr. Brannon.”
“Barton? Nelson Barton, good to see you again.”
“Welcome back to Prescott, Mr. Brannon. Harriet will be extremely jealous I saw you before she did.”
“Please tell her she was certainly the first one I thought about visiting, but I didn’t think it proper to go calling at this hour without a formal invite.”
Barton smiled and tipped his hat. “I will certainly tell her that. I say sincerely, you have an open invitation to our home.”
“Might I impose then for supper tomorrow? I would like to come calling.”
“We would be insulted if you didn’t. She’s holding several letters and telegrams that came for you. Come early. I’d like to discuss this land grant business with you. Things have been quite confusing lately.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Shall I tell the ladies you’ll arrive at 5:00 P.M.?”
“My pleasure, but give me a little slack on the time. Last minute delays have a way of ambushing me.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. It looks like you’re having quite a party at the Lucky Dollar.”
“Oh no,” Brannon explained, “I think this is payday or something—right, Sergeant?”
“Actually… it’s for you, Mr. Brannon.”
Inside the Lucky Dollar, over fifty men crammed the tables and the bar. A big U.S. flag draped the back wall. As Brannon and Cloverdale worked their way through the crowd, the uniformed soldiers stood and saluted.
“I think this is getting a little blown out of proportion,” he whispered to the sergeant.
“These men need an excuse to relax. There haven’t been many success stories lately. You just rode in at the right time,” Cloverdale replied under his breath.
A place of honor waited for Brannon. It wouldn’t have been his choice, but he sat down and visited with several men.
My back to the door… crowded room… rifle on the floor. Maybe in Prescott. But never in Tres Casas, or Tombstone, or Silver City.
Food rolled out the second he sat down. Boiled potatoes by the bowl, fresh corn, beans and salsa, grits, a whole pl
atter of sizzling steaks, stewed tomatoes, pickled eggs, baskets of biscuits, slabs of fresh butter, cherry preserves, pitchers of milk, and coffee, coffee, and more coffee. After an hour, an apple pie and huge peach cobbler, still warm, arrived at the table.
During the meal Brannon figured every man in the room had spent time at his table, some helping him eat, most wanting to talk.
Lord, it feels good, real good, not to have to shoot my way in and out of a town. Thanks for the homecoming!
He was talking with a short, blond corporal from El Paso who knew his sister, when a faint click in the noisy room sent chills down his back. A Colt hammer cocked not more than six inches behind his head. “You ain’t no hero to me, Stuart Brannon,” a man sneered. “You move those hands below the table and you’re dead.”
Brannon tried to glance behind him, but he met the barrel of a .45. Others in the room saw what happened. Dozens of guns pointed at the man.
“Drop the gun, Mister,” Cloverdale shouted.
“I ain’t… you boys open up and bullets will go flying everywhere.
And this bullet is going through Brannon’s head.”
“You can’t make it out of here alive,” someone shouted.
“Neither can Stuart Brannon. Which of you wants to be the one that caused his death? Stand up, Brannon. We’re going for a walk. Keep those hands up.”
Brannon stood and faced the man with the gun. Eyes bloodshot, he had a nervous twitch in his left eye. The Colt was old, well worn. “I don’t know you,” he told the man.
“Nope. But you shot down my brother in Colorado.”
“Where did I do that?”
“On the Denver road, north of Conchita.”
“He was robbing a stage and trying to kill me—”
“He was my only brother. ‘An eye for an eye,’ the Good Book states, and I aim to collect.”
“A U.S. Marshal was murdered by your brother and the others. Now that settles the score.”
“Back out of this room, Brannon.”
“No… I think I’ll stay right here.”
“I’ll shoot ya.”
“So what?”
“You’ll die, that’s what.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I’m dead, lying on the floor, what happens then?”
“I’d say about a hundred bullets will pass through various parts of his body.” Cloverdale never took his gun off the man.
“Mister, why don’t you holster that pistol and walk back out that door?” Brannon insisted. “Don’t let your whiskey and the dark make you do something you wouldn’t try in daylight.”
“It ain’t right. You don’t deserve to live. Besides, if I back out now, they’ll shoot me down.”
“Nobody’s going to get shot.” Brannon spoke in a soft, slow whisper. “Go get yourself some black coffee and ride out of town. Your mama doesn’t want to lose two boys…”
The young man froze, then started to shoot, but by then it was too late. Brannon’s raised right hand yanked the man’s hat down over his eyes. At the same moment with his left hand Brannon grabbed the gun hand and shoved it straight up. A hurried shot exploded through the ceiling. Then a left jab in the chin followed by a right cross brought the man to his knees.
He toppled on his face. Several strong arms pinned him there.
“Take his gun, boys, and toss him out of here. Whiskey brave doesn’t win many battles.”
They carried the man into the street.
“He’s not very happy,” Cloverdale warned.
“He’ll wake up smarter,” Brannon offered. “Sorry to dampen this party. But to tell you the truth, I’m worn out. How about calling it a day? I sure do want to thank you all for the meal. I spent six months in the mountains of Colorado dreaming about a supper like this.”
“Do you need an escort?” Cloverdale offered.
“Gentlemen, save your escort for tomorrow’s funeral. I’ll be fine. It’s just that—”
A scream from the second story of the Lucky Dollar silenced everyone in the room. A young lady in a long green dress ran down the stairs. “Julie’s been shot! She’s bleeding bad. A bullet came through the floor. Get a doctor. Hurry!”
An ice cold chill rolled up Brannon’s back and into his neck. “No… no… no….” He ran to the stairs and leaped three at a time to make it to the top before the others. The door swung open to the little dark room that sported only a worn-out settee, a wall shelf, and a bed. Lying on the floor in a faded gold satin dress, a young lady bled profusely from the side.
He ripped a sheet off the bed and folded it, pressing it against the wound. He propped up her head on a pillow and stared into her eyes. “Miss, we’ve got a doctor coming… we’ll get you fixed up real soon.”
“Why?” she cried. “Why would anyone want to shoot me? I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Don’t try to talk, Miss. It was… an accident. Just a scuffle downstairs and a stray bullet. No one was gunning for you.”
“Did you shoot me?”
Brannon took a deep breath and pushed his hat back. By now several others crowded in the door. Her long, black curls matted her face. Her dark eyes peered out in terror.
“No, Miss… I didn’t shoot.”
“Is she dead?” someone from the hall shouted.
“Get the doc. Quick!” Brannon hollered back.
“I can’t move my legs,” she sobbed.
“Miss…Julie, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Julie Cancino.”
“Miss Cancino, it might be the bullet’s lodged in there keeping you from moving. The doc may have to dig it out.”
“I don’t have any money to pay a doctor.”
“That’s the least of your worries. I’ll take care of the cost.”
“Why?” She sucked air, trying to get another breath into her lungs. Tears rolled across her smooth, clean cheeks.
“‘Cause I was the one he was shooting at.”
“Who are you, Mister?”
“Stuart Brannon.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, “and I’m the Queen of Sheba.” She closed her eyes.
For several hours, confusion reigned. The doctor ordered the girl brought to his office. Brannon carried her down the stairs, along the wooden sidewalk, across the darkened street, and into the doctor’s office. A trail of blood marked the course. His shirt, trousers, arms, and hands splattered red.
Another doctor was quickly summoned. With help from the other girl from the Lucky Dollar, they probed for the bullet. Brannon pushed the spectators out of the office and waited on the sidewalk for the report.
Most of the soldiers headed back out to the barracks. One by one the townspeople slipped back home through the shadows.
“It’s taking them a long time,” Sergeant Cloverdale remarked.
“It was bad,” Brannon mumbled, “real bad.”
“Nothing you could have done about it. Just one of those accidents.”
“I could have stayed out of Prescott. She’d never have gotten shot.”
“That ain’t your fault.”
“Cloverdale, I don’t understand. I’ll never understand it. Five days ago I faced down four bushwhackers and rode off without a scratch. Then I stumbled into a dozen Apaches on the prod and rode away unscathed. Now this girl is just sitting in her room, and she gets shot. It’s crazy… not right.”
“Brannon, you did all you could. When she hired on at the Lucky Dollar, she knew the kind of place it was. It’s not like she’s from the other side of town… I mean, she’s just a—” The sergeant was almost lifted off the bench by Brannon’s bloody right hand around his neck.
“I don’t care who she is or isn’t. She deserves better than this,” he snapped. Then he released his grip. “Sergeant… I’m sorry… I’m just mightily upset by all of this.”
“Brannon, that’s about the first normal human reaction I’ve seen out of you. Don’t apologize for hurtin’. I’m going on
out to the barracks. You know if you need anything, just…”
“Thanks. I know you mean it. Tell the boys I really appreciated the dinner. Sometime, about fall, you’re all invited down to the ranch for a cookout at my place.”
“I’ll tell ’em.” The sergeant stood to leave. “I hear the sheriff’s searching town to arrest that bushwhacker.”
“He’s probably ten miles down the road already.”
“Yeah… I suppose. Well, good night, Brannon.”
Brannon sat alone for a long time.
Lord, this thing about providence is mighty hard to understand. I talked about it so easy… but please don’t let her die. Give her a chance to do something more in life.
“Mr. Brannon?”
He jumped to his feet as one of the doctors came out of the office. “Yes, sir,” he blurted out, “how is she?”
“I’m Dr. Levine. Miss Cancino is extremely serious, as you could see. We don’t know if she’ll pull through the night. We got the bullet out, but there was damage to the spine.”
“Spine? Can she use her legs?”
“Time will tell. The next twenty-four hours are critical. There’s a threat of pneumonia, infection, and even a heart stoppage. The shock on her body has been critical.”
“What can I do?”
“Just wait… and pray. Dr. Matthewson will stay with her the first shift. Then I’ll come back and relieve him.”
“Do you mind if I wait out here?”
“Help yourself. I’ll see you later.”
“Look, Doc, thanks. I mentioned to the other doctor that I’d cover the costs. If you need some funds up front, I could—”
“We’ll settle up later. I can assure you, Mr. Brannon, she’ll receive the best care that we know how to give.”
Brannon tipped his hat. “I appreciate it.”
After about an hour, one of the men from the Lucky Dollar stopped by with Brannon’s jacket and his Winchester from the cafe. Far into the night Brannon spied someone carrying a lantern coming closer—a slow, deliberate advance through the dark.
A woman? At this hour?
With dark hair tied behind her head and wearing an off-white dress, she floated down the street like a swan on a pond.
“Miss Harriet?” Brannon stood to his feet and yanked off his hat. “What in the world are you doing—?”
