by Stephen Bly
“I’ll figure out something.” Brannon swung open the barn door and entered the stables.
]
Within an hour of the train’s arrival, Brannon, Fletcher, and Howland had horses packed, clothes changed, ready to leave Tucson, but the stop at the sheriff’s office took two hours. Fletcher and Howland stretched out on the bench in front of the office when Brannon finally exited.
“We thought perhaps you’d been arrested,” Fletcher said as they cinched up their horses and mounted.
“For a while it was a real possibility. That railroad man, Gravette, told them the shooting was all my fault.”
“Since when is self-defense a crime?” Fletcher asked.
“It boils down to the fact the sheriff would prefer I stay out of Tucson.”
“Did he boot ya out of town, Mr. Brannon?”
“No, but he’d be mighty happy never to see me again.”
“Well, I’ll be… that just ain’t—”
“Don’t worry about it. Sheriffs come and go. Besides, I won’t be coming this far south very often. Just let me get a herd back to the ranch, and I can sit there for a long time.”
“Did you get that letter?” Fletcher asked.
“Yep. But I still don’t know where Adobe Wells is. The sheriff had never heard of it, and it wasn’t on any of his maps. I figure Señor y Señora Pacifica probably will know the place.”
“How far will we ride tonight?” Fletcher asked.
“I’m thinking we’ll head as far as La Paloma Blanca.”
“The what?”
“The White Dove of the Desert—Mission San Xavier.”
“How come they call that the White Dove?”
“You’ll understand when you see it, Earl.”
]
To Brannon, Arizona often felt close to Heaven. Especially in April and May. Groves of saguaro lifted limbs in praise. Sprinkled patches of cholla drooped in humble servitude. Greasewood laughed at the hot, dry winds. Of course, flash foods, Indian raids, and drought could turn it into El Infierno, but not this day.
Brannon felt comfortable for the first time in months. El Viento pranced beneath his saddle. His spurs jingled on his boots. His old hat screwed down tight, his bandanna hung loosely around his neck.
Lord, it’s a beautiful land. Stark, tough, made to last through the worst of conditions… and excellent in its simplicity. Kind of the way I’d like to be… but I’m not. I know it doesn’t seem like I’m much good except for shootin’ people. Surely You’ve got more for me to do in life than that.
The evening sun cast long shadows east. The three men and four horses climbed the banks of a dry arroyo when Howland gave a shout. “Would you look at that? Ain’t that a sight? One giant buildin’ standin’ out in the desert all by itself.”
“La Paloma Blanca, I presume,” Fletcher said. “My word, Brannon, I’ve seen smaller cathedrals in Europe. A person could see that white-washed building for fifty miles in any direction.”
“Many men have been startled by that church. Just when a man thinks he’s miles beyond any law, the sight of La Paloma Blanca reminds him he’s accountable to a Higher Authority.”
Brannon rode El Viento to the east of the mission, tipped his hat to several shawl-covered ladies hurrying barefooted to answer the church bell’s evening call, and stopped on a small bluff south of the building. The last streaks of sunlight reflected off the whitewashed bell towers, one of which remained unfinished. The air chilled as the travelers made camp for the night.
All three men quietly sat around a small fire. The smoke spiraled straight up into the star-filled night.
“What made them do it, Mr. Brannon? Hike out to this desert a hundred years ago and build a church like that?”
“Two hundred years ago. That building is one hundred years old, but another church existed before that.”
Fletcher stretched around for another look. “My word, you don’t say.”
“Father Kino came in 1692. Not many New England churches can trace themselves back much further than that. So why did they do it? Missionary zeal, I suppose.”
Fletcher swirled boiled coffee in a tin cup. “Or the lust for power and profit.”
“Well, there might’ve been a rattlesnake among them,” Brannon said, “but I’ve never met one.”
“¡Hola, Campamento! ¡Podemos entrar?”
“Adelante, amigos. Solamente hagan cierto que guardan sus manos lejos de sus cañones,” Brannon called back.
“I say, Stuart, is this wise?”
Three men leading horses entered the glow of the campfire, caked with trail dust. One limped so severely he needed to prop himself on his friend’s shoulder.
Brannon waved toward the fire. “No tenemos mas tazas y platos, pero si tienen utensilios, pueden servirse cafe y frijoles.”
“What’d you tell them, Mr. Brannon?”
“To help themselves to some grub.”
“¡Gracias, Señor, muchas gracias!”
“¿Donde van ustedes?”
“A Colorado.”
“¿Porque?”
“Esperantos hallar mucho oro allí.”
Brannon interpreted. “They’re heading to Colorado to try their hand at prospecting. He turned back to the visitors. ¿Como que distancia ban viajado?”
“Hemos viajado por once dias. Pero hace dos dias nuestras provisiones fueron robadas. Es verdad, fuimos afortunados de escapar con vida.”
“Apaches?” Brannon asked.
“No, eran—¿cómo se dice bandidos gringos?”
“They got bushwhacked by American outlaws who stole all their supplies.”
The men scraped up the remaining food.
“What are they going to do without supplies?” Fletcher asked.
“Maybe they’ve got relatives up in Tucson,” Howland offered.
“Compadres,” Brannon began, “¿cómo van a explorar en busca de miner ales sin, ah… las herramientas correctas?”
“Tendremos que hallar trabajo primero, en Tucson.”
“¿Que género de trabajo hacen ustedes?”
“Somos vaqueros.”
“¿Son buenos vaqueros?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Earl, do you feel we’re being left out of this conversation?” Fletcher said.
Brannon glanced at his friends. “They’re cowboys looking for work until they replenish their food and gear.”
“You thinking about putting them on?” Fletcher asked.
“Perhaps.” Brannon looked at each one with a studied gaze. “¿Habla Inglés?”
The main spokesman smiled wide. “Yes, a little.”
“Why on earth didn’t you say so?”
“You did not ask, Señor.”
“Where have you worked as cowboys?”
“We work all our lives on the big ranchos around Magdalena.”
“Do you know Señor y Señora Pacifica?”
“Oh, yes, he was a very fine man, although we did not work for him. He will surely be missed.”
“What do you mean, ‘missed’?”
“Do you not know? Señor Pacifica was murdered early last summer.”
“Oh, no,” Brannon moaned.
Fletcher rose to his feet. “My word.”
Howland stepped over to Brannon. “Does this mean there won’t be any cattle for us to buy?”
“How is Señora Pacifica? Does she still run the ranch?” Brannon inquired.
“Yes, she is a very strong lady.”
“¡Y muy hermosa!” one of the other men grinned.
“We are going to Magdalena to purchase many head of cattle from the Pacifica ranch and drive them north to my ranch. I’d like to hire you three for thirty dollars each. You’ll get food and spare horses to ride. Are you at all interested?”
The three men conversed in hushed tones with each other.
Fletcher nudged him. “Good heavens, Stuart, do you think you can trust them?”
“We will find out. Right now they are wonde
ring whether they can trust us.”
The spokesman turned to Brannon. “Si, Señor, we would like to help Señora Pacifica and you.” He held out his rough, calloused hand to shake on it.
“What are your names?”
“Miguel.”
“ Jaime.”
“Mateo.”
“Well, boys, this hombre is Earl Howland, the Englishman is Edwin Fletcher, and I’m Stuart Brannon.”
“Brannon? Do you mean we will be working for El Brannon?”
“¡Proveerá balas extras?” Miguel asked.
“Yeah, I’ll furnish extra bullets.”
TWO
On the third evening south of Tucson, Miguel and Jaime brought to camp six canteens filled with fresh water. They also escorted two Apache boys.
“Stuart, we’ve got company,” Fletcher announced.
With one bare foot, Brannon stepped gingerly toward the boys, carrying his boot. The taller, clad in a dirty cotton shirt and trousers, looked about ten. The other, wearing only a man’s shirt that hung to his knees, seemed several years younger.
“Miguel, who are these boys?”
“They were at the river. They said they were lost and hungry.”
Brannon glanced at Fletcher and Howland.
“I ain’t never heard of an Apache being lost,” Earl chimed in. “Have you, Mr. Brannon?”
“Nope. But I’ve heard of many of ‘em being hungry. Give them something to eat, Earl. Edwin, get Miguel and the others to pull their rifles and set guard at the perimeters.”
“¿El Brannon? ¡Este señor es El Brannon!” one of the boys exclaimed.
Fletcher brushed his mustache with the back of his hand. “My word, Stuart, is there no end to your reputation?”
“¿Habla Inglés?”
“Yes,” the little boy replied.
“What is your name?”
“Filippe and my brother is Cerdo.”
“Pig?” Brannon asked.
“Yes, and it is a name that fits him well. Are you really El Brannon?”
“Filippe, I’ll make a deal. I’ll tell you the truth about who I am and you tell me the truth about where your people are.”
“But are you El Brannon?”
“Yes I am. Are you lost?”
“No. But we are alone, and we are hungry.”
“Then eat… and we’ll talk later.”
Brannon pulled on his boot and walked out to Miguel who stood with his Winchester leaning casually over his shoulder and a quirley drooping from his lip. “Did you find tracks of others at the creek?”
“These two came walking across the valley. If there are others, they are in those distant hills.”
“Or in a hidden barranca a few yards away?”
“That is always possible.”
“If they aren’t scouts, why are they here?”
Miguel’s hat slid off his head and hang between his shoulders by the stampede string. “They would not tell me… but they might tell El Brannon.”
“We’ll bring the horses inside the circle tonight.”
“And the boys?”
“I don’t expect we could keep them here unless we hogtied them. If they want to go, they can go.”
Howland sauntered to Brannon. “You going to let those boys stay in camp? They could steal us blind.”
“That would sure give the night guard something to do.”
As Brannon walked back to the fire, he noticed one of the boys curled up on the dirt in the twilight shade by a small sage. “Cerdo went to sleep?”
“He is very tired. His legs are not so long as mine.”
The first stars blinked into view. Brannon sat down cross-legged and leaned against his saddle. “Filippe, you told me you were not lost—so where are you going?”
“We are walking to the Sierra Madres.”
“To Mexico? Why?”
“We believe our grandfather, Cholla, is there.”
“Cholla? The chief?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you come from?”
“White Mountain.”
Brannon stared at the bronzed, dirty face and deep, dark eyes. “You two have walked all this way?”
“Yes. Our father was killed in a fight with the soldiers, so they made us go to White Mountain. But we are Chiricahua. Those are not our people. So we left.”
“You just walked off the reservation?”
“There was a battle at a spring with some gringos, and we hid in the brush. When the fight moved to the hills, we stayed behind.”
“When was that?”
“Six days ago, I think.”
“Have you had anything to eat for six days?”
“Yes, we are good hunters. We shot some rabbits and snakes.”
“Shot? With what?”
“Our bows and arrows. We hid them at the creek because we did not want you to think we came looking for a fight.”
Brannon nodded. “Well, a couple of warriors like yourselves can’t be too careful.”
“Yes, you are right.”
Filippe walked over to his sleeping brother and kicked him in the side. “Cerdo, get up! We must leave camp.”
“Where are you going?” Brannon asked.
“We will not spend the night at your fire.”
“Why not?”
“You might steal our things while we sleep.”
“Why would we do that?” Howland said.
“‘The heart is deceitful, who can understand it?’”
“Good heavens, Brannon, the lad is quoting the Bible,” Fletcher said.
“They might seem primitive, but they aren’t dumb.”
The boys started to walk out of camp.
“Filippe? How do we know you are not returning to your people to tell them how to attack us?” Fletcher called.
“We will sleep by the tall cactus. We want to see the angels.”
“Angels?” Fletcher quizzed.
“In the camps of the White River Apache, it is said angels watch over the Brannon. That is why he did not die at Apache Wells, or Prescott Road, or San Pedro River. We want to see the angels.”
“If you two warriors are still here in the morning, you’re welcome to eat at our fire.”
“Are you going to Mexico?” Filippe asked.
“It wouldn’t be wise to tell our plans.”
Filippe and Cerdo disappeared into the shadows.
Howland stirred the campfire. “Do you believe them boys, Mr. Brannon?”
“They’ve never lied to me before.”
“I don’t trust ’em.”
“We’ll keep two guards posted, and every man will sleep with his boots on and rifle in hand.”
“What else is new? Always someone taking potshots.”
Howland sighed. “Yeah. It does keep a fella from getting bored.”
]
Coffee in a tin cup is either too hot or too cold.
Brannon’s secret was to let the heat warm his hands and the steam soothe his face until the exact moment the brew cooled enough to drink. Then three quick gulps to empty the cup.
He sat cross-legged by the fire, debating whether the perfect moment for gulping had come, when Fletcher spoke. “Say, Earl, how are those wedding plans coming?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it. All Julie ever tells me is I have to show up in a clean shirt and tie and say, ‘I do.’”
“You really haven’t set the date?”
“No, sir. But it will be two weeks to the day after we drive the cattle home. Julie said her and Miss Reed had it all planned out.”
“So it seems. Harriet refuses to discuss anything but the wedding. I’ve heard you have someone lined up to give the bride away.”
Howland’s smile stretched across his face. “Yes, sir. Mr. Brannon agreed to walk her down the aisle.”
“That is music to my ears,” Brannon said. “It hardly seems possible Julie’s able to walk. I thought that bullet might cripple her for life.”
“Sh
e’s a very determined woman,” Howland replied.
“Spoken like a man about to be married,” Fletcher said.
“She still needs the cane,” Howland said. “But she’s determined to make it down the aisle with it. You know what else she told me, Mr. Brannon? She said you get the first dance after the wedding. How do you like that?”
“Which reminds me... I say, Brannon, when was the last time you went to Prescott? Harriet keeps asking about you. I’m afraid you’ve been terribly slack in your visitation.”
“I hear there’s an Englishman loitering about at the Barton’s with his tongue hanging out.”
“Yes, quite so. Trying to console another of the Brannon’s castaways. You could stop by once in a while. I’m not sure she understands your behavior.”
“You know, Edwin, I’ve got a feelin’ Harriet Reed understands me about as well as any woman ever did.”
Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “Save one?”
Thoughts of Lisa danced lightly across Brannon’s mind, and he gulped down cold coffee.
“Mr. Brannon, I ain’t one to stir up old hurts,” Earl began, “so if I’m out of place you jist sit me right down. But how did you know Lisa was the right one to marry? I mean… if you can recall back that far.”
“I’d say about now you are startin’ to get a little worried. You’re sayin’ to yourself, ‘Am I able to make Julie the kind of husband she needs? And do I want to spend the rest of my life with her?’”
“Yeah… somethin’ like that.”
“Well, Earl, I have no idea in the world how a man knows for sure who to marry. The way I figure it, you got to find a woman who wants to spend her life with you. Then you ask the Lord to help you be the kind of man she needs. Then you determine to stick it out no matter what it takes.”
“I sure been thinkin’ about it a lot lately.”
“Well, don’t over-think it. Like gold flakes in a pan… if you keep washin’ them around long enough, they’ll slop out with the sand.”
Fletcher poured himself another cup of coffee. “I do say, Howland, the days for deciding are past. Neither Julie nor Harriet would let you back out now.”
Brannon grabbed a biscuit from the pan and tossed it at Howland. “Edwin’s right. No reason for a hooked fish to debate whether to bite the bait.”