Final Justice at Adobe Wells

by Stephen Bly

  “I explained yesterday. There are no cattle to steal, and we will keep the gates bolted. We will ask God’s protection and accept His provision. To deprive people of their freedom to worship God is to cast them in the deepest of dungeons. Besides, I enjoy the stillness. It reminds me of happier times.”

  “Do you think about him often?”

  “I suppose I never have him off my mind. You know, we met when I was only six years old.”

  “Mr. Brannon?”

  “What? No, no, I mean Don Rinaldo. Do you mean you were asking me if I think of Stuart Brannon?”

  “Yes,” Felicia replied. “You mentioned happier times, and I remember how much the two of you laughed the other night.”

  “You heard us laughing?”

  “Yes… but I was trying to sleep.”

  “Did you hear us talking, too?”

  Felicia blushed. “Yes, but I do not remember anything. You were telling me about being six and meeting Don Rinaldo.”

  “I really must be more discreet in my conversations with Mr. Brannon.”

  “I am very sorry, Señora. Please go on.”

  “At six years old, we lived in Monterrey in a very lovely home. My father wanted to buy cattle to ship to Mexico City. Don Mecedo came to the city to make a deal with my father, and he brought his son, Rinaldo.”

  “How old was he at that time?”

  “Twelve.”

  “An older man?”

  “Oh, yes, but he had never been to the city. I had to show him how to do everything. He could not walk two blocks without getting lost. You must remember those were the days when the city streets were safe. Not like today.”

  “He got lost?”

  “More than once. I took him to the market and circus. He had never seen an elephant. Then one day we walked along the river, throwing rocks and making them skip. We came across two big boys beating a very ugly, little dog. They hit it with sticks as it cowered and tried to hide near a bench. And it cried pitifully.

  “Rinaldo ran to the boys and demanded they quit. One boy said it was his dog, and he could beat it if he chose. Rinaldo pushed the boy back, and the little dog ran away. Then the boys said they would beat him with the sticks instead.

  “They were both much taller than he. One boy struck him with a stick, so Rinaldo knocked the boy to the ground and pounded him. The other boy began to kick Rinaldo viciously. One blow caught him above the eye, and he bled.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, I was quite mature. I screamed and shouted for them to stop and fell down and cried. I should have run for help, but I was too scared.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They held him down and beat him until he stopped struggling. Then they rose to leave. Rinaldo jumped to his feet and started pounding on them again. They could hardly believe it. They were big boys… heavy boys, fat boys… and they began to tire. He took all their punches and kept hitting back. Soon their faces, like Don Rinaldo’s, were bloody.

  “One of them ran away. Then the other one pulled loose and ran also. I looked up through my shameful tears as he came over to me. Besides the cut above his eye, his nose and mouth bled, and his shirt was torn. His leg was so bruised that he limped. But when he got to me he said, ‘Victoria, are you well? If they have hurt you, I will fight them some more.’”

  She looked away from Felicia, wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. “I remember asking him, after we washed his face in the river and were walking to my home, ‘Why did you get into a fight over such an ugly dog?’

  “‘Because,’ he said, ‘what they were doing was wrong.’ I looked at his swollen face. ‘Why should you be the one to make the world right?’ He answered, ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  “That was the first day I loved Don Rinaldo. I went to bed praying he would one day be my husband. We saw each other only once every year when his father came to sell the cattle. Every year we would walk and talk and visit the city.

  “The year he turned eighteen, he said he would not be back the next year. He was going to Mexico City to serve in the army. He promised to return in four years. He said, ‘I will come back on your wedding day.’

  “I protested I would surely not get married by then. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you will marry on the day I return… and you will marry me.”‘

  “You didn’t see him for four years?”

  “Four years, two months, and ten days. I was sent to St. Louis to live with my aunt and study in an American school because my father hated the French rule. He felt it would be better for Mexico to become part of the United States than to give in to the French. We wrote as often as we could find someone to take a letter. And Don Rinaldo returned to Monterrey two months before I returned from school.”

  “After four years you must be quite different.”

  “Only on the outside. On the day I arrived home to Monterrey, we were married. The next morning we left for Rancho Pacifica. And this has been home ever since.”

  “It is a very romantic story.”

  “Marriage can be very romantic. But why am I telling you this? There’s the chapel bell. It must be Estaban. Come, we must not be late.”

  The chapel at the hacienda was a favorite of Señora Pacifica. Rectangular, thirty feet long, and twelve feet wide, a slight center aisle separated two lines of wooden benches. Every four feet, along the sides where a window might be, stood tall doorways with two narrow doors. In the warm weather, the doors could all be opened to admit whatever breeze and aroma the hacienda allowed.

  Señora Pacifica and Felicia were the only ones in the building when they retrieved hymnbooks on a table at the rear. They walked down the aisle and seated themselves in the front row, on the right, as always.

  Señora Pacifica surveyed the front of the chapel.

  Pristine beneath a clean white cloth stood an oak table bearing a chalice and a loaf of bread. Behind the table was a narrow pulpit, silent in its authority, supporting a large, open Bible. In front of the table, a polished oak kneeling bench, its leather cushions scuffled and wrinkled.

  The focal point of the room centered on the cross-shaped stained-glass window, imbedded high in the wall behind the pulpit.

  Señora Pacifica stopped at the chapel daily to pray for the needs of those at the hacienda. And on rare occasions, a teacher or preacher passing through spoke at the tiny church. But most Sundays, it had been she, Felicia, Don Rinaldo, and one or two others.

  After her husband’s death, the Señora assumed the responsibility of reading the Scripture texts.

  Today she and Felicia read, sang a hymn, and knelt for prayer. They repeated this procedure several times. A slight breeze blew through the open door, and sun radiated a stained-glass blue across the table with the chalice.

  Finally, Felicia rose and whispered, “I’ll prepare lunch.”

  “Please, take something to Estaban and Franco Grande. I will stay here for a few more moments.”

  With the room empty, she spoke aloud. “Don Rinaldo, this Brannon is a fine man. He will not let them beat the dog. We are very different in culture, but united in sorrow. He is a man of integrity in his prayers and in his faith.

  “If I could have anything in this world, it would be to have you back in my arms. But that will never be. I believe I would like to have Mr. Brannon as a friend. Not to take your place, but to help me when I need assistance. I think, perhaps, I might be of help to him also…”

  “Señora, Señora! Come to the gate quickly. They are back,” Felicia called.

  “The fiesta is over?”

  “No, Porter and his men have returned.”

  “Why? They took all the cattle last time.”

  “Come quickly. Estaban is talking to them.”

  She raised her skirt above her ankles and scurried beneath the olive trees. The massive oak doors were bolted shut. Estaban stood on the right side of the gate, shouting through a narrow vertical gun slot in the thick adobe wall.

  “Estaba
n, ¿quien es?”

  “Son los bandidos… Les hablaré,” he cautioned.

  “I told you I want to speak to Brannon,” a voice shouted over the gate.

  “Señor, I am very sorry. It is siesta time. I cannot disturb anyone at this time of the day.”

  “Then I will speak with the Señora.”

  “I’m sorry,” Estaban continued, “that is impossible. Perhaps you would like to leave a note?”

  “A note? Do you realize who’s out here?”

  “Oh, yes, Señor. You are the one who steals cattle and shoots people.”

  “And I’m about to shoot you. Open the door, you stupid—”

  “Franco Grande, ¡no¡ ¡No bora! Excuse me, Señor, I must ask you to stand away from the gate when you speak that way.”

  “That’s it, boys,” Porter snarled. “Bust the door down.”

  “Señor,” Estaban shouted, “please move back. Do you see the gun barrel, about belt-high, sticking through the adobe? I will wiggle it… see? And over on the other wall… meneo los cañones. You see, these walls were built for defense. We are not very good shots, so we put shotguns through those holes. Then we pull the triggers at the same time. The barrels, as you can see, aim to hit everything standing within ten to fifteen feet of the gate. They tell me the cross-fire separates a man in half about at his belt. Of course, I have never seen it myself, so it could be a slight exaggeration.”

  The men with Porter stepped back quickly.

  “You’re bluffing,” Porter hollered.

  “There is one way to find out. Send one of your men here to try and break down the door. Perhaps a skinny one would be less messy.”

  Porter backed away from the gate. “Look, we don’t want to shoot any of you folks. I just want Brannon to come out here. If he’s not here, and I don’t think he is, I must speak to the Señora. If you don’t open, we’ll have to climb over the wall and shoot our way in. Think about it. Do you want the women and children to get hurt?”

  “Oh, no, Señor, please, if you are going to crawl over the wall, let me know so I may first chain up the wolves.”

  “What wolves?”

  “They are pets of the Señora, but they are very ungracious hosts who hide in the bushes or leap from a building. They will not harm a flea, once they get to know you.”

  “You ain’t got no wolves.”

  “Franco Grande, permitanos oir su grito del lobo.” Big Franco unleashed a howl that sent chills down her back.

  “Brannon ain’t there, is he?”

  “Which Brannon do you wish to see?”

  “There’s only one. I’m going to—”

  “Captain Porter, there’s folks coming up the road,” one of the men announced.

  Porter whirled and pointed his gun down the long drive to the hacienda. The Señora stepped to the gun slot and peered out. Tomas and his family walked behind the donkey cart, returning from Magdalena.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Porter exulted. “Sure looks like a nice family. I’d hate to see anything happen to them. Especially, the children.”

  “Señora, ¿qué hacemos ahora?” Estaban asked.

  “Pray, Estaban, pray.”

  “Mr. Porter, this is Señora Pacifica. Why are you threatening my friends?”

  “Open the gates! Or some sweet little children will be orphans.”

  Porter’s men surrounded Tomas and family. One of the girls began to cry.

  “Mr. Porter, do not torment the children.”

  “You’re the one forcing me to it, Señora.” He grabbed a frightened Tomas by the front of his white cotton shirt. “Papa here gets the first bullet.”

  “Wait! Do not harm them.”

  “Estaban,” she whispered, “take Felicia and Franco Grande and run through the chapel gate. Send them to Magdalena and let them warn the others to stay there. Then go find Brannon and Ramon.”

  “No, Señora…”

  “Go quickly with God. I am about to open the door.”

  “I cannot leave you.”

  “You cannot help me if you are dead. These men will kill you. I need you to find El Brannon.”

  “Señora, do you have your gun?” Estaban asked.

  “Yes… with two bullets. One to save my honor, and one to send me to glory. You must find them quickly.”

  By the time the Señora swung open the big front gates, the others were on their way out the concealed door at the back of the chapel.

  Porter’s men burst through the gates, guns drawn.

  “You three men go up the north side buildings, and you others take the south side and watch out for them wolves,” Porter commanded. “Me and the Señora will search the big house.”

  As he bellowed, Señora Pacifica waved off Tomas and his family, who quickly retreated down the drive. Porter shoved her toward the big house. The Señora stumbled, then regained her balance.

  I will walk proudly and graciously. I will not lose my composure. Lord, help me… I will not cry.

  “You got a fine place here, Señora. But you hacienda people are too stuck up. I’ve been around for almost sixteen years, and you ain’t never asked me to your fiestas.”

  “I believe that is because you are a thief and murderer.”

  “Yeah, I know your type. We had ’em in the south too. Big old plantation houses. And slaves all over the place. But they wouldn’t give me no mind. They treated them slaves better than me, and me a white man. That’s all you are, a slave owner.”

  “I do not own these people. I pay them a salary, and they are free to move wherever they wish. They are my friends.”

  “Yeah, they’re friends, all right. Where are they? Let’s take a look at this place.” Porter grabbed the neck of her dress at the back and held his revolver close to her head. “If you got friends in these rooms, you better tell them to come out now. ’Cause if they startle me, I’m likely to pull this trigger.”

  “There is no one in this house.” She measured each word and at the same time slid her fingers under her wide belt and clutched the small, wood-handled pistol.

  If he tears my dress, I will shoot him.

  Roughly, Porter pushed her into each room and closet as he searched. “This place is empty,” he growled.

  “I told you that.”

  He threw her down in a leather chair. She smoothed the collar of her dress and tucked her hair into place.

  I will not cry… I will not compromise… I will not plead… Lord, have mercy on me!

  One by one, Porter’s men came back to the big house.

  “Captain, they’re all gone… everyone. Ain’t no one here but the Señora.”

  “They can’t all be in town. How about the men who

  were at the gate?”

  “They ain’t nowhere.”

  “The back gate. There must be a back gate.”

  “No sir, there’s no way out. Unless they climbed over the wall.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Gather up plenty of food and change horses. And saddle one for the Señora.” Porter turned to her. “Which one are you riding?”

  “El Viento, the tall, black gelding,” she answered and then hesitated. “No, I forgot, he is lame. The copper dun mare will do.”

  “Get yourself some ink and pen. You’re writing Brannon a note. Tell him I’m taking you to Adobe Wells, and he’s to meet me there with the herd. I’ll be there one day after he arrives. I’ll trade you for the herd. If he fails, you’ll pay the penalty.”

  “Brannon has the herd?”

  “Yeah, he bushwhacked my men.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause Milford ran a horse dead to get me the news.”

  Señora Pacifica sat down at the desk and wrote hurriedly. Porter glanced over her shoulder and snatched the paper from beneath her hand. He tore it to shreds.

  “Now write it in English,” he charged.

  She finished the note and handed it to Porter. By now his men had the saddled horses under the oaks in front of
the big house.

  “Now pull off them lace-ups.”

  “I shall not.”

  “Señora, you’re going take them shoes off. I don’t want you trying to run across the desert. If you don’t take them off, I got a man who would be more than glad to help you.”

  She slumped on the chair to loosen her laces.

  Lord, is this where it should happen? I would rather die at my home than on a lonely desert.

  She slipped off her boots and stockings and stood barefoot on the tile. Porter guided her to the horses.

  “Milford, tack that note to the front gate. Then you and Bill hang back and take care of things proper.”

  “What are they going to do?” the Señora gasped.

  “Why, they’re going to close up your place, that’s all. Now climb up in the saddle. Look at that—isn’t that nice? A sidesaddle! ‘Course you won’t need the reins ’cause we’ll tug you along. In fact, you won’t need your hands at all.”

  He jerked her hands behind her back and tied them with rawhide before she had a chance to draw her handgun.

  I should have shot him in the main room.

  Lord, it would be a very good time for Stuart Brannon to arrive.

  Two men led the way. Porter and the Señora followed with a fourth man behind them. The final two still were in the big house.

  Señora Pacifica glanced back to watch the two men exit the house as smoke began to rise from the north wing. “No,” she cried helplessly. “No!”

  The two caught up with them. “Ain’t much to burn in there, Captain, what with that tile roof and floor and adobe walls. But beddin’, furniture, and pretty dresses went up right fast.”

  Señora Pacifica turned her distraught face away from the smoke and flames.

  Lord, do not let it spread to the people’s homes. Please, Lord, please!

  A tear streaked her cheek. She straightened herself in the saddle, held her head high, and forced all expression from her face. She twisted her wrists, trying to loosen the bite of the rawhide thong.

  Several times Porter and his henchmen stared back across the desert to view the flames at the hacienda.

  Victoria Pacifica fixed her eyes straight ahead.