Final Justice at Adobe Wells

by Stephen Bly

  “We better eat out here,” Brannon insisted. “No reason—”

  “No, the ladies insisted we wake them the minute you arrived. You are to meet them in the main room.”

  “How did the Señora know we would be coming in?”

  “She is very wise. She understands much. Here, you take this lantern. I’ll get another.”

  As the three sauntered toward the big house, Brannon smelled orange blossoms. The men opened the wide doors to the main room and let the night air drift in. He reached up to remove his hat… and remembered it was back on the mountain.

  Brannon stepped to the big fireplace, but it was cold and dark. He felt too dirty to sit down on the leather furniture.

  Pablo padded about the room lighting lanterns. Soon the room glowed.

  “Now there’s the Brannon we’re familiar with,” Fletcher said. “I hope Señora Pacifica and Felicia don’t frighten easily.”

  “I washed off at the fountain in Magdalena.”

  “I would suggest you dig through Don Rinaldo’s trunk and find some new attire.”

  “Remind me to dig more cartridges out of our pack.”

  Maria entered with a large platter of cold meat, cheese, and huge tortillas. “Ay, yi yi, El Brannon. ¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasó?” She disappeared in the shadows.

  “Okay, I look bad. I’ll go see what I can do.” Before he left the room, Brannon grabbed a fist-sized wedge of cheese and stuffed it in his mouth.

  Leather shoes scuffled across the red tile floor. Lanterns swayed and two women appeared, walking into the main room.

  Howland spoke first. “Miss Reed?”

  “My word, Harriet, what on earth are you doing here?” Fletcher said.

  “Msppt yedx frm,” was all Brannon could mumble through the cheese.

  “Mr. Howland, Mr. Fletcher, and…” Harriet stared at Brannon. She surveyed him up and down. “And I presume you’re Stuart Brannon. You haven’t changed a bit. I would guess a herd of wild buffalo stampeded over the top of you.”

  “Harriet, why aren’t you in Prescott?”

  “Felicia!” Victoria Pacifica called down the hallway. “Bring your medicine box.”

  “There’s an emergency,” Harriet explained. “As soon as I got the wire, I took the coach to Tucson and hired a driver to bring me here.”

  Brannon’s heart raced. “Is it about the land grant? Elizabeth? Is it from Elizabeth?”

  Reed reached into the sleeve of her dress and pulled out a telegram. “Oh, no, it’s not for you, Stuart. It’s for Mr. Fletcher.”

  Fletcher took the telegram near a lantern to read it. “Good heavens, no! Oh, my word,” he moaned. “Oh, dear lady… and I’m so far away.”

  Tears coursed down Fletcher’s cheeks. “He was only sixty-one. Much too young. I should have… I mean, there was no way to know. But I should have been there.”

  “Your father?” Brannon guessed.

  “Heart attack. Just like that, in the lobby of the Foreign Office.”

  Brannon looked Fletcher in the eye and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Edwin. Deeply sorry.”

  “But we must hurry on with this cattle thing, I probably should—”

  “You should get in the carriage with Miss Reed, drive to Tucson, and catch the train east. You’ve got to get home, Lord Fletcher.”

  “My word, it is finally true... Lord Fletcher. Well," he straightened his back and shoulders, "I’m not walking away from my partner.”

  “You leave your money and we’re still partners. But you’re going to board that train in Tucson. Right, Miss Reed?”

  “Yes, I completely agree.”

  “Edwin, we’ve been through it all together, from Broken Arrow Crossing on. You happen to be one of only two or three good friends I have left alive. So I’m telling you as a friend, get home. Cattle ranches come and go, but family… they’re worth more than everything. Harriet, drag him over there and talk some sense into him.”

  Fletcher and Reed sat down on the leather couch and spoke in hushed tones. Felicia entered the room and set the box of medicines next to Brannon.

  “No, no,” he protested, “Earl needs the help first. See what you can do for his leg.”

  Felicia turned her attention to Howland while Señora Pacifica slipped to Brannon’s side. “Stuart, what happened to you?”

  “Well, we shot our way off the mesa with Porter’s men, and I… I slipped and fell down the side of the mountain and landed in some brush.”

  “That accounts for the scratches and the dirt from head to toe, but what about all that blood?”

  “I sort of cracked my lower lip on my rifle as I tumbled down the hill.”

  “I presume that is the white shirt I gave you.”

  “Sorry, I’ll be glad to replace it.”

  “Why?” She cracked a wide grin. “It’s obviously not durable.”

  Felicia finished dressing Howland’s wound and began working on Brannon with white, sticky, cool ointment.

  “Mr. Brannon, your face will be very puffy for a few days, but it should heal. You seem to have a rash wherever you were scratched.”

  Victoria Pacifica brought food to a low table by the couch and offered some to the others.

  Fletcher walked over to Brannon. “I’m afraid you and Harriet have convinced me. I really must go home for a while.”

  “I know. we both knew this day was coming.”

  “It’s been quite an adventure riding down the trail with the legendary Stuart Brannon.”

  “If you say ‘legendary’ one more time, you’ll never make it home.” Brannon fisted his friend’s shoulder. “But you’ve got to come back and help me with spring branding.”

  “Oh, you’ll see him before next spring,” Harriet said. “Edwin promised you would come up in the fall and escort me to England.”

  “England? You’re going to England?”

  “We are going to England. You and I.”

  “But—”

  “Edwin asked if our wedding could be at his family’s country estate, and I said ‘yes.’ You’ll be the best man, of course, so you’ll have a good reason to escort me.”

  “Wedding? England? You decided all of this in five minutes? What about… I mean, you can’t decide things that important so soon.” He glanced around the room. “Victoria, tell them.”

  She grinned. “It sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  “Sure sounds swell to me,” Howland chimed in, “but don’t tell Miss Julie about a garden weddin’ in England. No reason to give her more ideas.”

  “Earl, I want you to pack up your gear and ride with Edwin and Harriet to Tucson. You ought to have that leg checked by a doctor.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to do it, Mr. Brannon.”

  “Look, I didn’t ask if—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brannon, but I’m not quittin’ this.”

  “It isn’t quitting if I send you back.”

  “I appreciate your concern for my leg, but I’m seeing this through. I promised Miss Julie I was going to bring home thirty cows and a bull… then we would get married.”

  “The deal still holds. You’ll get the stock. It’s just—”

  “No, sir, I’m staying right here. I made an agreement. And I’d live the rest of my life with deep regrets if I backed away now. Those thirty cows and that bull ain’t a gift. I’m going to earn them. If I can’t earn them, I don’t deserve the likes of Miss Julie. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’ve got to be the most stubborn man on earth,” Brannon fumed.

  “The second most stubborn man on earth,” Fletcher corrected. “Earl walks like you, shoots like you, rides like you, punches cattle like you, fights like you… and now, the supreme compliment… thinks like you. Of all people, you should understand his viewpoint. It’s exactly what a young Stuart would do.”

  Brannon ran his fingers through his grimy brown hair and sighed. “Everything’s swimming around. Harriet’s here in Mexico. Edwin’s going home. Ea
rl won’t listen to reason. I don’t know…”

  Reed tugged at Brannon’s sleeve. “You will escort me to England, won’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Providing I outlive Captain Porter’s men, bad water, Apache arrows, and—”

  “That would be frightfully slack of you, avoiding the wedding for a mere mortal wound,” Fletcher teased. “I’ll expect a better excuse than that.”

  “But things were about to settle down. It was going to be a peaceful rancher’s life.”

  “Are we talking about the same Stuart Brannon?” Reed stepped back and stood next to Fletcher. “When has your life ever been peaceful and settled down? We love you, Stuart, just the way you are. I do believe you’d disappoint every one of us if you ever changed. But we can’t all be you. We can’t keep up your pace. Not even Earl. Things change. Life goes on.”

  Victoria Pacifica entwined her fingers into Brannon's. He glanced at her dark, tear-filled eyes.

  She took a deep breath, then sighed. “But for some of us,” she whispered, “life stands still for a very, very long time.”

  SEVEN

  With two hours sleep, a shave, and clean shirt, Brannon left the Pacifica hacienda. Howland rode beside him.

  “Mr. Brannon, how many men do you figure we’ll have to fight to get that herd back?”

  “Well, Captain Porter didn’t have more than eight to ten on the mesa… and some of them are wounded or maybe dead. He probably has about the same with the herd. So I figure twenty hands, tops.”

  “With Ramon, the others, and us, they still got us outnumbered pretty good.”

  “Yep. It will all depend on how many of them really want to fight. If the cowboys were all shanghaied like you, they might not feel much loyalty to Porter. But, either way, I expect they won’t lay down and give us the herd.”

  They had no difficulty locating the trail of 850 head of cattle. Although a week old, the prints remained clear.

  Brannon counted tracks of at least a dozen men. How many of those stayed with the herd, and how many ended up on the mesa, he didn’t know.

  The trail crossed a wide creek bed, dry except for a tiny dribble of water. The riders swung into the desert south, then straight east into the foothills.

  Going north along this lateral canyon, they must have looped out to see who might be following them. Then they cut back for the grass on the mountains… and up this valley to head north. They’ve got to be expecting someone to follow… they’ll have a couple boys dropping back for scouts.

  They ate what they could from their grub sacks, and Brannon dozed in the saddle of the short, blue roan he borrowed from the hacienda. Estaban called it the best cow pony on the ranch. A lively stallion with black mane and tail, Brannon wasn’t sure he’d be able to cut cows with it.

  About sundown, Howland rode alongside. “Mr. Brannon, we going to make camp here?”

  “We’ll keep riding until we catch up.”

  “How will we find Ramon and his men in the dark?”

  “Gunfire.”

  “You think they’ll already be shooting?”

  “Yep.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ramon’s got a lot of pride. He’ll take those cows back on his own, if he thinks he can.”

  “He could get himself killed.”

  “So could we.”

  In the foothills they traced a creek up a side canyon to find clean water. There they ate a cold supper. While the horses grazed, Brannon flopped on the grass and watched the evening twilight fade.

  “Mr. Brannon, don’t you ever get nervous before a gunfight?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aren’t you afraid, just a tad?”

  “Sure I’m afraid. But I’m not nervous. I’m still in control of my senses… still able to think clearly… still able to do what needs to be done when the time comes.”

  “But you’re afraid, too?”

  “Sometimes more afraid than others. Depends on what I got to lose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t too scared in New Mexico or up in Colorado. I had no future and nothing worth holding on to.”

  “How about last year with the Collector’s army at the ranch?”

  “I wasn’t too scared then either because I knew I was right, and ’cause there was nothing else to live for if I lost the ranch.”

  “But you’re scared now… I mean, a little scared?”

  “Yep. And it’s a definite weakness.”

  “What are you scared of ?”

  “Same thing you are, Earl.”

  “Well, I’m scared if I took a bad bullet… I’m scared I wouldn’t be around to marry Miss Julie, and we wouldn’t be able to do all the things we’ve been plannin’, and what a disappointment it would be to her.”

  Brannon nodded. “That’s it. For the first time in a long while, I’ve got some things I don’t want to miss out on.”

  “You mean, getting the herd back.”

  “Nope. I mean being with Señora Pacifica.”

  “It makes a difference, don’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  Thoughts of a woman in a yellow dress gave way to longhorns and cattle rustlers. The men remounted and set out back down the trail before the first stars appeared. The night dragged on, long and silent. They rode, walked, rested… rode, walked, rested. At daylight, Brannon’s mind turned again to Howland’s comments.

  Lord, I would like to live through this one. I got a lot more talking to do with Victoria and maybe even ask her to consider—

  “Mr. Brannon, we’ve got visitors. Up on the right.”

  “Apaches. Don’t raise your rifle and keep riding slow. I see six on the crest of the hill. How many do you see?”

  “That’s it, but how many are on the other side of the hill?”

  “Good question. Let’s find out.” Brannon turned his horse and rode toward the Indians.

  “What are you doing?” Howland followed close behind.

  Brannon kept his horse at a steady walk, his hand cradling the Winchester on his lap. The warm breeze ruffled his hatless head. “If we take off running, they’ll figure we’re scared. If we raise a gun, they’ll figure we want a fight. If we walk straight at them, they might think we’re neither afraid nor want to fight.”

  “You ever tried this before?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The six Apaches on horseback spread out on the top of the hill and waited for Brannon and Howland to approach.

  “Mr. Brannon, look down there.”

  As they reached the top of the hill, Brannon and Howland viewed other Apaches… men, women, and children… some mounted… one wagon… most walking in a loose line north.

  “Amigos, ¿hace habla Inglés?” Brannon called.

  “Do not come near our people,” a spokesman replied.

  “Where do the brave Apache go?”

  “We return to our Chiricahua home.”

  “The blue soldiers will make you go back to White Mountain.”

  “We will not go there. We will go home.”

  “Who is your chief man?”

  “Cholla is our war leader.”

  “Tell him I wish him well, but I fear for the lives of his people if he opposes the blue soldiers.”

  “Who shall we say gives such advice?”

  “A friend of his grandsons, Filippe and Cerdo.”

  A pause. "And what name do you go by?”

  “Stuart Brannon.”

  “The Brannon!” he shouted to the others. The spokesman pointed his rifle in the air and fired a shot.

  Howland started to raise his gun.

  “No, Earl,” shouted Brannon. “Wait!”

  The Apaches below stopped their journey and looked to the hill. Another half-dozen riders galloped toward them.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Brannon?”

  “They just want to go back home to Arizona. Don’t point that gun unle
ss I do.”

  “Yes, sir… but I’m a slight worried.”

  Among the new arrivals was a gray-haired man wearing an unshirted vest. Brannon noticed scars on his neck and his right arm.

  “This is the Brannon.” The spokesman motioned to the newcomers.

  The old man spoke in broken English. “What? He is not a giant? He is no bigger than you. Go and get Filippe and Cerdo. Brannon, we have fought before.”

  “Yes, I believe we have. Down along the San Pedro.”

  “And up in the mountains. You rode with General Crook.”

  "Yes, for a few months.”

  “The stories of your battles are told around our fires. Many say you must be part Apache.”

  “God in heaven assigns us to a people, and to be born an Apache was not a privilege he bestowed on me. But perhaps when I fight, there is some Apache in my heart.”

  The old man broke into a wide grin showing bright white, straight teeth in the midst of a very wrinkled face. “Let us sit in the shade of the tree.”

  Cholla sat cross-legged with his back against the tree trunk. Brannon sat beside him on his left and Howland next to Brannon. The others sat across from them, except for the one keeping the horses. Everyone clutched his weapon.

  “My grandsons told us of the kindness and protection you gave them on their journey. I am thankful for your concern.”

  At that moment, a rider returned, and Filippe and Cerdo slid off the horse.

  “El Brannon,” Cerdo cried. “You have come to see me?”

  “Yes, you and Filippe. When I saw the warriors on the hill, I thought I should ask about your health.”

  “You see, Grandfather? I told them… I told them all that El Brannon is our friend. And many did not believe.”

  “Where is your hat, El Brannon?” Cerdo asked.

  “My hat is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “It was shot so many times it died, and I had no time to buy another.”

  Cholla spoke quickly in Apache, and another rider rode down to the wagon.

  “It would be a high honor among our people to kill the Brannon.” The old man spoke slowly.

  Brannon kept his finger on the rifle trigger and looked for movement among the warriors.

  “But it is a greater honor to have the Brannon as a friend,” Cholla concluded with a smile. ”The Brannon is a friend of Cholla and his grandsons. I will not attack your camp. Not here or in the land of your home. But others will not treat you so.