by Stephen Bly
“What are we going to do?”
“We’ll need some help.”
“You mean Jedel and the boys?”
“Yep. Hank Jedel is the only one in the Territory who says he can face down Stuart Brannon.”
“So we’re just going to ride out of here?”
“You want to go into this house and face Brannon? You heard what they was sayin’ about him in Prescott.”
“But he’s wounded, ain’t he?”
“I don’t want to face him even if he’s dead.”
“How are we going to get to the barn and the horses?”
“Maybe he’s covering the back door. He cain’t be both places at the same time.”
“Well… I’ll go straight to the barn for the saddles and you tear off for the corrals.”
“Now?”
“Now!”
Both men kept low and ran across the yard.
No gunfire.
Within moments they saddled up and sprinted to the trail.
Brannon managed to drag himself through the back door, across the pantry, and into the kitchen. His right boot full of blood, his face streamed red. He pulled to a corner of the room, behind the cook stove, where he could watch both doors at once.
He waited for an attack.
Moments later he thought he heard a couple of horses pull out for the north trail. Dragging himself into the living room, he reared up to look through the unshuttered window and saw dust already high on the trail.
Lord, this is bad—real bad.
Crawling back to the kitchen, he grabbed a carving knife and cut his boot off his foot. He wrapped the wound with several tea towels to stop the bleeding. The bullet had gone through his foot and lodged in the leather heel.
“I’ve got to clean up this mess.”
Finding another rag, he pulled himself up to the kitchen pump and cranked some water. Turning towards the table, he tried to put some weight on his wounded foot.
He collapsed to the wooden floor.
Six
When Brannon came to, the shooting pain in his right foot equaled the fire in his face and forehead. He struggled to his hands and knees, but could go no further in the now dark kitchen.
Lisa? She needs me. I can’t track mud across the floor. Where’s the bedroom? I need a lantern… hurry! Don’t let her down. If I don’t get there soon, she’ll… hang on, babe… hang on. I’ll be there.
Brannon stumbled across the wet rag he grabbed to clean the floor. He squeezed it to his forehead.
Everett? They shot Everett? No! They can’t do that. Where’s my Winchester? Still on Sage… Sage, old boy… no, no, they shot Sage. Why, Lord, why did they have to shoot Sage?
Julie’s dying. She’s dying. It’s crazy. They need me. Where’s my horse? Lisa, I’m here now. It’s okay. Everything will be all right, honey.
Mrs. Nash… I did everything I could… my God, I did everything I could!
Elizabeth is lost. The brave little warrior… where’s the little warrior? I can’t see anything.
Crawling on his hands and knees Brannon stumbled into the bedroom and pulled himself onto the bed. He wrapped the wet rag around his head. His hand brushed against the cactus thorns still embedded in his cheek.
Bees! Swarms of bees. Water. I need water. Where’s the river?
We’ll get you well, Lisa. You rest up.
I can’t tell her, Lord. I can’t tell her. I can’t… Lisa… honey, the baby’s… he’s dead… my, God, he’s dead!
Violent men build a violent society. I’m not a violent man. Do you hear me? I am not a violent man!
When Brannon woke again, someone was rubbing a wet rag across his forehead.
Yellow hair. Green eyes. Troubled eyes. Ribbon in her hair. Green dress. A good woman. A real good woman… and a man. Black vest. Gray hair.
Brannon tried to raise his head.
“So you are alive.” The woman brushed his hair out of his eyes.
“Judge Quilici? Sage? What’s…”
“Lay back down. Let’s start from the top.”
“Where’s Lisa? Where’s—”
“Stuart,” Sage Quilici interrupted. “You’ve been shot.”
Brannon sat straight up in bed. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.” Mrs. Quilici pushed him back down on the pillow. “When did you get shot?”
“Last night… I think… or maybe it was the night before. What are you two doing here?”
“Do you need a drink of water?”
“Yeah.”
Mrs. Quilici brought him a cup a water and helped him take a drink.
The judge said, “Last evening Earl Howland, one of the C.V.L. men, rode into our ranch and said he was now working for you. We let him bunk in the barn. So this morning after the services, we decided—”
“Services? A church? There’s a church here now?”
“Not yet,” Sage Quilici explained. “But several of the neighbors have been riding to our place when the weather’s good. We’re thinking of building a church by the cottonwood grove between your place and ours. We figure if we have a building, maybe we can get a circuit preacher from Prescott to come out.”
“Anyway,” the judge continued, “we wanted to welcome you back. When we got here, we found one horse in the corral, a big black saddled up and wandering around the yard, a dead man outside your back door, and you ranting and raving in the bed.”
“He was one of the C.V.L. Collectors, wasn’t he? she asked.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what you call them. They were in my house and jumped me when I rode back down out of the mountains. Judge, what’s this Burlingame Land Grant all about?”
“Besides owning half of San Francisco, he seems to be trying to get half of Arizona. Burlingame’s lawyers claim he purchased a valid Spanish land grant. He doesn’t want people to move in on the land until Congress settles the issue.”
“He doesn’t have any grant on this property. Who believes this land grant stuff anyway?”
“Arizona Mining Corporation, for one.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they looked at his papers and gave him a $50,000 retainer for the right to continued exploration.”
“Arizona Mining?”
“Yes. So every few months Burlingame’s agents come by to collect rent. That’s why we call them the Collectors.”
“Before the matter’s settled?”
“He says he’ll issue long-term leases only to those who honor the grant now. He vows to evict everyone else.”
“And they’re falling for that?”
“Some are.”
“And you two?”
“So far they’ve been skipping over us.”
“That’s because the judge has some influential friends in San Francisco. But if Burlingame wins his case, we’ll all be out of here,” Mrs. Quilici reported.
“This De Palma-Revera Land Grant--we were all told that was an old legend.”
“It is,” the judge insisted. “That’s why this thing is a crock. De Palma-Revera was run out of Santa Fe by the governor over a hundred years ago. Now the C.V.L.’s claiming the same governor granted him 117,000 acres of Arizona land.”
“Well, they aren’t getting my ranch.”
Mrs. Quilici glared down at his injured foot. “It looks like they almost did.”
“Isn’t that beautiful?”
“Sage,” the judge added, “how about stirring Brannon up a little supper? I need to get things put up outside. Whose horse is in the corral?”
“The dead man’s.”
“And how about the big black?”
“That’s mine. If you can catch him, unsaddle him and put him in the corral.”
“What happened to my pony?” Mrs. Quilici called from the kitchen.
“I called him Sage after you. He took a bullet up in Colorado.”
“And the dead man?” the judge asked.
“Bury him… but not by Lisa and the baby. Anywhere behind the barn.
”
Brannon lay on his back as the Quilicis straightened the house and yard. The first folks he befriended in Arizona, and although more than seven miles away, they were his nearest neighbors. They helped him stake off the ranch, file the papers, and build the house and barn. They stood beside him as he buried Lisa and the baby.
Brannon sat up in bed when Mrs. Quilici brought him apple flapjacks and beef-carrot stew. “Sage, you can outride, out-rope, and out cook any woman in Arizona.”
“You don’t have many supplies around here.”
“That’s what Howland’s going for.”
“Well, there should be enough of this stew for a couple days. After that, it’s pretty bleak. How’s your face?”
“Feels like a porcupine backed into me.”
“The judge and I pulled out the thorns while you were still ranting, but it does look puffy. I washed up that foot and bandaged it, but you better keep a close eye on it. The wound looks clean so far, but I’m not sure when you’ll be able to walk on it.”
The judge joined them for supper. His face as dark and tough as an old saddle, ragged gray hair poked out from under his hat. Though covered with road dust, to Brannon he always looked and acted like a judge.
“Stuart, I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me load you up on that pony to ride back to our place for a few days.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Yeah… well, we’ll have to pull out and make it back before dark, or the boys on the ranch will send a posse out after us. I’ll send a rider to check on you tomorrow.”
“He can bring some food,” Sage Quilici added.
“Much obliged. I think that fever broke, and I’ll be able to get around a little.”
“Not on that foot, you won’t,” she warned. “Don’t plan on it being very useful for a couple months.”
“I brought your Winchester and saddlebags in and laid them against the front door,” the judge reported. “If these were C.V.L. men, you will hear from them again. Hank Jedel is their leader.”
“Jedel? Me and Sheriff Rupert pinned him down in Black Canyon. Remember that? Didn’t he get a term in A.T.P. for killing a stagecoach driver?”
“That was about the time you lit out for Colorado. Jedel was never convicted. The main witness disappeared. So now he ramrods for C.V.L. and headquarters out of Tucson. You can imagine the kind of men he hires. Lots of folks change their mind in a hurry about paying that extortion money as rent on their own property. As soon as you’re up to it, you should ride down to the Surveyor-General’s office and file a complaint. It seems to help if you have a formal protest.”
“Thanks. I’ll wait for Howland and Fletcher to show and then try to do that. I’ll stop by your ranch on my way down.”
“Fletcher?” she asked.
“An Englishman. Friend of mine who’s going into the cattle business with me.”
“You sure you’re going to be all right?”
“For the first time in over two years I’m sitting in my own home. I’m going to be fine.”
He wanted to see them to the door, but didn’t bother trying.
] ]
Midway through the next day, Brannon decided he was not going to die. Not that he actually thought he was. He just reached his absolute limits for staying in bed.
He hopped about the house, first to the living room to look out at the barn and horses, then to the kitchen for fresh water and bandages. His face swelled, one eye almost shut, plus a one-week beard gave him the grizzled “old-prospector” look.
He tried washing his foot wound. The pain was just as great, but it looked better. He wrapped it as tight as his tolerance would allow. Then he pulled on his left boot and jabbed his hat on his head. No reason to comb his hair.
Brannon, you disguise your handsome features well. If I don’t shoot ‘em, I can scare ‘em off.
In the pantry he found a five-foot piece of shelving to use for a crutch. His Winchester made a cane. He staggered across the yard towards the barn. When he reached the door, he was so worn out he considered spending the night there.
Catching his breath, he hobbled over to the corral and checked the water trough. It held at least ten gallons. He pulled down hay for the two animals.
Again he hobbled back to the barn and rested a few minutes.
Voices startled him.
“Ho, in the house. Mr. Brannon? Judge Quilici sent us over with supplies.”
“Mr. Brannon, are you inside?”
Struggling to his feet, Brannon searched for his shelving crutch and shuffled out of the barn. “Over here, boys. I was feedin’ the horses.”
“That’s Stuart Brannon?” he heard one of Quilici’s cowhands mutter.
“Shhh,” the vaquero replied.
“But… but he’s an old man. I… I thought, you know… that Brannon was still in his prime.”
“Mister Brannon, I’m Ignacio Fernandez, and this talkative compadre is Floyd. Judge Quilici sent us over to see how you are doing. Missus sent some food too. Floyd, take that grub sack into the house.”
Floyd swung out of the saddle and began to untie the supplies. “Are you really Stuart Brannon?”
“I seem to get asked that a lot lately. Remember it’s not the years but the miles that age a man. And I want to tell you boys, I’ve just been down some mighty rough miles.”
“Judge said you gunned down one of the C.V.L. Collectors.”
“Some guy named Riley, I think.”
Floyd gasped. “You shot Riley?”
“Yeah, three of them jumped me and—”
“Three of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad you didn’t lead down Jedel. He’s the worst of them.”
“He wasn’t with them.”
“Yeah, I heard he was headed to Santa Fe. Mr. Brannon, the judge said we should do any chores you need,” Fernandez offered. “Can we pull down some hay, or anything?”
“Much obliged. The hay would help, and if you’d carry a few buckets of water for that trough. I don’t think I’ll be ready to dance on this foot for a while.”
The men finished the chores and approached Brannon sitting in front of the house. They mounted up.
Floyd rode a little closer. “Mr. Brannon… I’m sorry about them words I spoke. I should just keep my mouth shut.”
“No harm done, Floyd. I look a might frightful.”
“I was wondering if you had some advice you could give me, you know, you being a veteran gunman and me just starting out.”
Brannon fought to keep from laughing. “Floyd, don’t ever, ever lay in a patch of cholla when you’re in the midst of a gun battle.”
“Eh… no, sir, I won’t. Thank you, sir.”
Within three dusty minutes both men were out of sight.
] ]
Harriet stepped out on the front porch and glanced down the street towards the courthouse. She couldn’t see her brother-in-law, so she walked back inside, straightened the umbrellas near the hall closet, and ascended the staircase slowly, dragging her hanky slowly up the bannister.
Remember boarding school days of hiding under the comforter and giggling about a handsome knight on a white horse that carries us of? We set such high standards of character and bravery and handsomeness that no man could expect to live up to it. However, my dear, it just might be that my knight has arrived (riding a black horse, which is not a serious flaw in the scheme of things).
After several days visiting with him, I was able to write three chapters last week! Can you imagine? His life is like a novel, with a new adventure each day.
That does seem to validate all those years of prayers.
The point being, Mr. Barton mentioned yesterday evening that it looked as if he and several others would need to go to Phoenix (a hot, sticky little farm town on the Salt River). He suggested Gwen and I could come along and we should stop by and see Mr. Brannon, as long as we were going near there. I packed a few things this morning, just in case
we needed to slip away quickly, but as it turned out, Nelson hasn’t returned since early this morning. If you do not hear from me for a while, it will be because I’m stranded on a ranch in the middle of Arizona Territory.
(Now if you think I said all of that just to make you jealous, you are absolutely right!)
Perhaps by the next letter I will have something truly momentous to write.
Give my best to Rachel.
Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed
She didn’t see her brother-in-law until they all gathered at the supper table.
“It has taken me all day to make the arrangements. We will be leaving in the morning for Phoenix.”
“Wonderful,” Harriet cried.
“Who will be going with us?” Gwendolyn probed.
“That’s the interesting part. It started out simply as a land matter. I was going to take two of the men from the office and a translator.”
“Five of us in one coach?” Gwendolyn asked.
“It’s more complicated than that. I saw Captain Wells at dinner, and he said the army wanted to send a small contingent of men down to that area and would be happy to ride along with us as escorts.”
“That does sound safe.”
“It gets even more complicated. I ran across Dr. Levine at the courthouse, and when I told him about our trip, he asked if we had room to transport one of his patients to Phoenix. They have opened a sanitarium in the mountains near there, and this young woman needs some rehabilitation.”
“The Cancino woman?”
“Yes, the one who got shot. Of course it’s our Christian duty to help out.”
Reed nodded politely. “Naturally. Is Miss Cancino well enough to make such an arduous journey?”
“Dr. Levine believes so. And I understand the young lady was quite delighted at the prospect of traveling to Phoenix.”
“Undoubtedly it has nothing to do with stopping at Brannon’s,” Harriet grumbled under her breath. “So we’re all descending upon Mr. Brannon?”
