by Stephen Bly
“I couldn’t sleep. I heard all about what happened at the Lucky Dollar. How is she?”
“Still out. They won’t know much until tomorrow or the next day. It’s good to see you, Miss Reed. I’ve thought of you often.”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Brannon, I’ve been wondering for three months what it would be like to see you again.”
“And this isn’t exactly the way you had it figured?”
“Hardly.” She held the lamp high and glanced at Brannon. “You’re a mess. Are you injured?”
“No, I don’t get hurt. It seems I just cause pain to others.”
“May I sit down?”
“Certainly.” He motioned and they sat on the bench. “Miss Harriet, are you sure you want to be out here this time of the night… or morning? I’ll walk you back home. I mean, some folks would talk about—”
“Mr. Brannon, I’m quite capable of looking after my own reputation without your help or the community’s.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you are.”
“I brought your letters. I thought you might like to read them.”
Brannon stood and hung the lantern on a bent nail in the beam above their heads.
“This one’s from Velvet Shepherd in Tres Casas. I believe I heard that she married the mayor.”
“Yep. He’s a fine doctor, too.” Brannon quickly scanned Vel’s letter. “This is good, this is good,” he muttered. “Rose is teaching school there. She got the job.”
“Rose?”
“Rose Creek from up at Paradise Meadow. She was—”
“Then the stories about you are true.”
“What stories?”
“That you and a schoolteacher stood against the whole town.”
“Well, that’s close.”
“And here’s one from San Francisco. Tell me, Mr. Brannon, why do people keep sending your mail to me?”
“Because I don’t know many folks who sit still long enough to have an address. And, well… because I guess I wanted an excuse to stop by for a visit.”
“In that case,” she said, “please continue to have your mail sent here. Now who’s that one from?”
“Fletcher! You met Edwin, didn’t you?”
“Briefly. English, isn’t he?”
“Quite!” Brannon laughed. “Let’s see… he settled matters at the consulate, picked up his papers and all… and will meet me at the ranch by the first week in June.” Brannon held the letter closer to the light. “What? I don’t believe it. Deedra and Darrlyn?”
“Who?”
“The Lazzard twins.”
“Oh? How old are they?”
“Eh… maybe twenty or so. From Boston? Listen to this:
Iincredible as it seems, they now claim they are not helpless pilgrims but proper Bostonians who traveled across the country on a lark. Both seem quite well educated and Dristina (Deedra) is engaged to a British attaché here in the city. Darlena (Darrlyn) is the talk of the town, seen lately with none other than Count DuVaul. They send you greetings. The dinner offer is still valid.
My greetings to the charming Miss Reed.
“That’s the wildest story I’ve ever heard. You should have met these girls. They—”
“At twenty they were ladies, not girls,” she corrected. “Here’s one more letter. From the Indian Territory.”
“Elizabeth?” Brannon tore open the letter to find a sealed envelope inside. “It’s my letter, returned. She didn’t get it.”
“What does it say on the outside?”
“‘Cannot locate addressee.’ Can’t locate her? What do they mean? She just sent me a letter. Of course she’s there.”
“The other letter was mailed months ago. Perhaps her situation changed.”
“But she’s somewhere. I mean, the government shipped her back there. They surely keep track of her.”
“Now, this Elizabeth is Indian, correct?”
“Yeah… Nez Perce.”
“Mr. Brannon, have you ever noticed how your life seems to revolve around women?”
“What?”
“Velvet, Rose, Deedra, Darrlyn, Elizabeth… and now you’re sitting here because of some girl named Julie.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t mention Harriet Reed.”
“Nor Lisa.”
“How do you know about my Lisa?”
“From Mr. and Mrs. Nash.”
“You know Lisa’s parents?”
“Yes, we often run into each other at church.”
“Then you know about her death?”
“Not really. That seems to be a topic they would rather not discuss.”
“Would you like me to tell you about Lisa… and the others?”
“Only if you want to.”
Four
Can you imagine doing something like that back home? All night long, until sunlight began to reflect from the tips of the tallest pines. It was cold, and my scanty lavender shawl hardly warmed my shoulders, but I couldn’t leave. I must say I didn’t want to leave.
And it wasn’t just a schoolgirl’s infatuation. I am (and so are you!) much too old for that. There is something of almost epic proportions about the West. Everything is big, vast, towering. The mountains, the plains, the rivers, the valleys… my, we have cacti that stand twenty feet or more. Most people seem so dwarfed—lives so small—you get a feeling that you’re viewing all of life, even your own, from a distance.
But then, a few people come along, and they aren’t small. They ride or walk or run through this country as if given a special sense to experience all of its grandeur. Mr. Brannon, I should say Stuart (he asked me to please call him Stuart!), is such a man.
Here’s this man—about thirty, brown hair (it could use a trim), blue-gray eyes, strong shoulders, and rugged handsome face—sitting on a bench in front of a doctor’s office. He’s covered from boot to hat with the blood of a wounded cafe girl, and he’s telling me the story of his life.
I kept looking around half expecting to see a historian with note pad and pen jotting down scenes for his next book. Out here there isn’t always an opportunity to read history because one is too busy making it.
Yes, he is quite the man I expected. Only don’t believe all those newspaper accounts of shootings. I’ll let you know what is really happening. I do believe we have established a relationship that will grow. You simply must come out and meet him! I can tell he’s a God-fearing man, just by his casual references. He will be coming over to the house for supper tonight, and then he asked if he could escort me to church on Sunday.
Well, he walked me home around 6:00 A.M. No, we didn’t touch (girl, I know what you are thinking!). Will try to write to you on Monday—if I can find the time.
Give my best to Rachel.
Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed
At noon, Brannon woke up and rolled out of bed at the Hassayampa Hotel. He pulled back the curtains and allowed the bright Arizona sun to ease him awake. The streets of Prescott hummed with activity. Folks buying supplies. Cowboys loitering on street corners. Miners and prospectors huddled on the steps of their favorite saloon.
Opening the door of his room a tad, he found a stack of neatly folded clothes waiting for him.
Once dressed, he tied a new bandanna around his neck, combed his hair, and slipped on his hat. Strapping on his handgun, he glanced over at the rifle propped up against the corner. He started out the door, then turned back, picked up the Winchester, and headed down to the lobby.
“Mornin’, Stuart. Kind of a rough night?” Byron Roberts greeted him.
“I suppose you heard all about it?”
“Yep. Plus I read it in the paper this morning.”
“In the paper already?”
“I guess they worked all night over there. Both the Apache raid and the shooting at the Lucky Dollar.”
“Say, these clothes cleaned up real fine. What did you do to get out those stains?”
I used an ancient family method.”
�
��What’s that?”
“I took them to a Chinese laundry. Look, I stopped by the doc’s.”
“How’s Julie?”
“She’s burning up. Doc fears gangrene. But she wants to see you real bad.”
“I was planning to stop by on my way to the Barton’s. Say, did the sheriff catch that old boy who fired the gun?”
“Rumor is he lit out on his pony, heading south.”
“Just as well, I suppose. I’ll be staying on until Sunday at least. Promised Harriet I’d go to church with them.”
“If you keep being seen around town with Miss Harriet, all sorts of rumors will fly,” Roberts chuckled.
“If anyone starts casting disparaging remarks about her, they’ll have to answer directly to me.”
“Brannon, there’s not a sober man in this town that would think of getting you riled. We’re all hoping Miss Harriet will settle you down.”
Brannon laughed and angled out into the street. He slowed down behind a man, woman, and several small children who dawdled along behind. The smallest stood staring in a window, smiling at his reflection. Brannon waited for them to move on.
“Lawrence, hurry along now,” the mother called.
The youngster whipped around towards Brannon and shouted, “Daddy…” Then he realized he was addressing the wrong man. Flushed a deep red, he ran to his parents.
“Say, aren’t you Stuart Brannon?” the husband called.
“Yes, sir, I am. Have we met?”
“Oh, no. I, eh… have a little place south of town. We heard about you, that’s all. I’m William Torvell, and this is my wife Emmy Mae, and Lorenda, Lucinda, Lalanda, and Lawrence.”
Brannon shook hands with each one. All three girls curtsied nicely, but Lawrence hid behind his mother’s skirt. “How old is Lawrence, ma’am? About two, two and a half?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “He was born on the day after Christmas, two and a half years ago.”
Brannon took a deep breath. “The Lord bless you, son. I was mighty proud even for a minute to be reckoned as your father.” He tipped his hat to the woman and scooted on past.
He heard one of the girls say, “Is that the real Stuart Brannon, Daddy?”
Sweetheart, the real Stuart Brannon has to fight like a cougar to hold back the tears every time he sees a little two-year-old boy. Somehow they never put that part in the newspaper.
He waited for a couple of wagons to pass on the road. Then he crossed the street and hiked up the sidewalk to the doctor’s office. It was the older physician, Dr. Levine, who greeted him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brannon.”
“How’s the patient?”
He flung his hands in the air and shrugged. “What can I say? She’s conscious… the bullet’s been removed… the external bleeding has stopped…”
“But?”
“I would not say her chances are real positive. The human body, as a man like yourself knows, is not meant to survive the impact of gunfire.”
“Look, Doc, isn’t there anything else you can do? I’m not criticizing, mind you, but if there’s some medicine or procedure, I’m prepared to wire San Francisco and have them send the—”
“Mr. Brannon, I will accept the sincerity of your concern, but you will have to accept the accuracy of mine. There is nothing doctors at Harvard, or anywhere else could do for her. If that body can heal itself, it will… if it cannot, it will give up. There is nothing we can do but wait. I know that is frustrating. I have spent my career being frustrated.”
“You don’t mind if I pray for her, do you, Doc?”
“Divine intervention is always welcome. But please step in there and talk to her. You seem to be the only one she is interested in seeing.”
Brannon entered a small room. Julie Cancino lay still in a bed encased in white sheets and covered with a heavy quilt. Her eyes were closed, and her head faced the door.
She’d be the first one every cowboy would pick at the dance. She’s beautiful.
His spurs jingled as he stepped lightly across the wooden floor.
Lord, I don’t have any pious words left in me. I want this girl healed. I want her strong enough to laugh and sing and run down the road. And I don’t want it just to make me feel better. Give her another chance, please. Give her one of my chances if You can—
A weak voice interrupted his prayer. “You just gonna stand there?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“What were you doing? Staring at me? I look a fright. One of the girls is coming over to comb my hair later on.”
“No, ma’am, I wasn’t staring. I was praying.”
“Prayin’? But I ain’t dead… yet.”
“I kind of figure prayers do some good before we die.”
“You really are Brannon, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be… you know what Sylvia says?”
“Sylvia?”
“Over at the Lucky Dollar. She said, ‘Julie, you’ll be in the history books. Shot down by a bullet meant for Stuart Brannon.’”
“I’m counting on you pullin’ through all this and creating your own history.”
“Did the doctor tell you how bad it is? It’s bad. I know it’s bad.”
“Yep. He told me.”
“You know, I always figured I could take a lot of pain. But not this much. The lower part of my body won’t move. It torments me somethin’ fierce.”
“I’ve heard of cases where the movement returns after a few days.”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen some that was dead within two days. Mr. Stuart Brannon, do you know what I was doing when I got shot?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I was up in my room getting ready to put on my blue party dress because me and Sylvia had a bet on which one of us could be the first to get a kiss from Mr. Stuart Brannon.”
“You what?”
“Yep. We heard you were coming to the Lucky Dollar, so we made this bet. And not on the cheek neither. It had to be a kiss on the lips.”
Brannon stared into her frightened brown eyes.
“Anyway,” she murmured, “I hear the man who shot me escaped.”
“That’s what I understand.”
“You’ll hunt him down, won’t you, Mr. Brannon?”
“I’m not sure the sheriff needs my help.”
“Mr. Brannon…”
“Call me Stuart.”
“I’m Julie.” She looked like she was trying to smile. “Are you afraid of dying, Mr.…. I mean, Stuart?”
“Julie, some days I’m afraid of livin’ and some days afraid of dyin’, and some days I’m afraid of both.”
“Well, if I’m going to die, I’d like it to be soon. I’m tired, real tired.”
“Julie, I expect to see you up and dancing in a few weeks.”
“Would you dance with me?”
“You are looking at the world’s worst dancer. I’m afraid I would embarrass you.”
“Would you dance with me… Stuart?”
“Miss Julie… I’ll dance with you. Someday you’ll be the only woman in this town who danced with Stuart Brannon. Believe me, it’s not much of an honor.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“I got things arranged with the doctors to cover your expenses, so if you need anything—anything at all—you tell them. I’ve got to go have some supper, but I’ll be checking up on you every day until I leave.”
“You’re going out of town?”
“In a few days. I’ve got a ranch to go visit.”
“How will I get that dance?”
“You let me know. I’ll be here. It’s a guarantee.”
“What about Miss Reed?”
“Miss Reed?”
“Some folks say Miss Reed has her eyes on you.”
“She’ll have to wait in line,” Brannon replied.
For a moment the pain eased in her eyes. “Why, I’m so sorry, Miss Reed,” she mocked, “Stuart and
I have this dance. You’ll have to wait over there with the old maids.”
I’ll bet she can really dance.
He leaned over and brushed her hair back behind her ear. Leaving his hand there, he bent low and gently kissed her on the lips. “You win the bet, Miss Julie.”
“I sure did, didn’t I. Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s the one thing I did have to do. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”
“I’ll be counting on it.”
Brannon placed his black hat back on his head and quietly closed the door behind him. He picked up his Winchester in the corner of the office and nodded at the doctor busy with another patient. Nothing about the busy Prescott street hinted at such a life-and-death struggle nearby.
Death happens.
Every day.
But only to other people.
At least, that’s what we all hope.
He walked the rest of the way to the Barton home without having to speak to anyone.
] ]
Brannon felt rough, awkward, and out of place in the Barton dining room. Silver forks. China plates. Crystal glasses. He kept a close eye on Gwendolyn Barton, making sure he used the right utensil at the right time.
The food, on the other hand, was delicious and the conversation, warm and interesting.
“I apologize, Mrs. Barton, for dressing so casually. I’ve spent most of my life eating on the ground or in some crowded cafe.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Brannon, no apologies are needed. One thing I enjoy about the West is the freedom for everyone to be himself. This is the stuffy, formal Bartons. I suppose we will always be. But don’t let that change you.”
“And if you can’t stomach any of this cuisine,” Nelson Barton added, “please, just leave it.”
“The food is excellent.”
“Harriet is our meal planner, so you’ll have to give her the credit.”
As he continued to eat, he glanced over at Harriet Reed. Her light yellow dress stood in contrast to Gwendolyn Barton’s dark blue. The multicolored scarf was not draped like a shawl, as was the fashion, but tied more like a bandanna.
