Stuart Brannon's Final Shot

by Stephen Bly

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there was no lightning or fireworks this time.”

  “What was that clanging noise before you got here?”

  “We alert the volunteers by our bell for town fires and the special alarm for out of town. We’ve installed locomotive rims at strategic places and we hit them with sledge hammers. All our equipment’s stored under the train station platform.”

  “Sure works good,” Brannon noted.

  “At least for now.

  “You camping out here? A fire like this could be started by an untended campfire. Or a tossed quirly from a hobo. I heard of a town that got burnt by a passing freight train that threw cinders onto buildings as it passed through. Destroyed two entire blocks. We wouldn’t be much of a match against that. We keep thinking we need to reassess our system.”

  “I saw some nice horse-drawn ladder wagons over in Portland at the Lewis and Clark Exposition.”

  “Yeah… speaking of horses, saw one big black speed down the beach and try to kick the hotel barn door down.”

  As the early morning twilight streaked shafts of natural light, Brannon trudged to the hotel barn, covered with soot. He noticed one of his boots didn’t jingle. What a way to start the day of the big golf tournament. Even lost a spur. What else can go wrong? Brannon, don’t be so pessimistic. It’s going to be all uphill from here.

  He found Tres Vientos in his stall with Bueno.

  “He wanted in,” the boy remarked, “real bad.”

  “Glad you didn’t get kicked.” Brannon filled a leather bag with barley and maize.

  “He’s missing a shoe.”

  With care and caution, Brannon picked up the right front hoof.

  “I will replace it for you,” Bueno offered.

  Brannon could read the postcard this time because it was printed in large letters:

  “PAPA PACKED US ALL IN THE CARRIAGE AND WE WENT TO PRESCOTT TO LOOK AT AUTO CARS. WE LOOKED AT A HUMBER AND A LIMOUSINE. WE DROVE THE HUMBER HOME. NOW I HAVE THE RASH TOO.”

  Brannon tucked the postcard in his golf bag and showed up at the golf course for the Willamette Orphan Farm Tournament in the suit that Lady Fletcher requested, plus his cowboy boots and black felt hat.

  He was glad to note that Wyatt Earp and William Cody dressed in similar style, except that Cody, always the dapper dresser, added a diamond-studded buffalo head stickpin. Earp had on his infamous long coat. Cody still cut a grand figure with his flow of white hair, beard and mustache and was almost as tall as Brannon. He could still end any fracas of rowdies with a scowl.

  About the same age, Earp, Cody and Brannon stood apart in this gathered group as the symbol of the Old West. Brannon admired Cody’s trick riders and sharp shooters and appreciated his stance on the rights of Indians and women in general. So much controversy swirled around Earp, he didn’t know for sure what was true or false, but he liked the man. He reached out a hand to each of them.

  “We all three have worn the badge,” Earp commented.

  “And I’m sure we’d rather do something else than play golf,” Brannon said.

  Cody bubbled with laughter. “Shooting glass balls from horseback comes to mind.”

  The lavender lady squeezed in. She touched Cody on the cheek. “My friends dared me to come ask you for your secret,” she gushed.

  Cody didn’t balk, as if he were used to such familiarity. “Which secret did you want to know?”

  “Any that you’d be willing to share, but mainly how come you still have your baby skin? What kind of product do you use?”

  “I wash my face. That’s it. This was what I was born with.”

  “But, I insist,” the lady stood firm in front of him, “on behalf of womankind in the twentieth century. What else do you do to keep your complexion from turning to sandpaper and prickly pebbles?”

  “Be born with it. Live outdoors. Don’t overeat.”

  “Oh. I was sure you were going to say use Pears’ soap. All the advertisements do.”

  What have we come to? Truly, the frontier is over.

  Brannon grabbed Lady Fletcher’s arm and walked away from the spectacle. “I have to admit. No woman’s ever asked me that question.”

  “No woman ever will,” Lady Fletcher responded.

  Brannon studied the attire of the rest of the participants. They wore laced, polished leather shoes, a variety of full suits, many with vests and loosely knotted cravats or ties.

  “I can’t play well if there’s no comfort,” he countered to Lady Fletcher. He had been pleased to discover that he could hang his canvas cover with the takedown rifle on his golf bag with a leather thong tied to the satchel handle.

  They decided to give away the phony award at the end of the tournament. Lord Fletcher took charge by beginning with a story of how the game of golf originated, according to folklore. He swung his walking stick in jabs and circles for emphasis.

  “Some Scottish shepherds were hitting round stones with the crooks in their hands. On the bye, one of them happened to get their stone in a rabbit scrape. Of course, he had to try again to see if it were luck or skill. When, after several attempts, the stone glanced into the hole once more, he searched for a witness. For what man wants to accomplish anything without he can brag to a fellow?”

  The crowd guffawed and he continued. “The friends tried too and made it after a while. So, they increased the difficulty by backing further away. One invention led to another. Soon they had to ‘go off’ to get the ball a distance and that’s where the word ‘golf’ came from.”

  Everyone clapped and Lord Fletcher welcomed the large crowd to the event, thanked them for their sponsorship. Then he introduced Sam Smythe and his wife, Eloise, and their staff and the board members. However, Wax Lanigan didn’t appear.

  “Mr. Smythe says Mr. Lanigan has been called out on some important union business. He’ll return as soon as he can,” Lord Fletcher replied to Brannon’s query.

  Most all the orphans attended too, hauled in by hay wagon and four bay horses. Henrietta Ober stayed at the farm with several sick ones.

  Each child had been scrubbed and dressed in the finest of their clothing issues. The girls wore large, droopy hats with their pinafores. The boys had on knickerbockers or sailor suits. Only Bueno and Hack hopped off the hay wagon to hang out close to Brannon. He finally scooted them back to the wagon.

  Lord Fletcher presented each of the celebrity participants and their foursome partners, chosen mostly by coin toss. Brannon teamed with Ted Fleming, Willie Anderson, U.S. Open Champion, and William “Buffalo Bill” Cody.

  “Do you each have your caddies?” Lord Fletcher asked.

  “Caddie? What’s that?” Brannon asked Lady Fletcher.

  “The one who carries your bag around the course. Didn’t Mr. Fleming appoint you one yet?”

  “Must I have one?”

  “It’s customary.”

  He looked around and noticed Tanglewood peering through from the back of the crowd. Brannon pointed his way.

  “I want him.”

  Lord Fletcher craned his neck around and spotted the tall young man. “The Indian lad, you say?”

  “Yes, I want to choose Keaton Tanglewood to carry my bag.”

  “But he’s not on the list. There are plenty of others. You can have Nicholas Yancy, for instance. He’ll do quite fine.”

  “Edwin,” Brannon challenged, “are you saying I can’t have an Indian for my caddie?”

  The crowd rustled with murmurs.

  “Not exactly… well, yes… I mean, no,” Lord Fletcher blustered. “It’s just that he’s not… he’s not official.”

  “Well, I’m making him official. Any objections?”

  After a moment’s pause and a poke in the side by Lady Fletcher’s parasol, Lord Fletcher cleared his throat, shook his head, and said, “Not from here.”

  Brannon motioned to Tanglewood and the Indian youth sauntered his way, glancing to the left and to the right with worried eyes.

 
“It’s okay,” Brannon assured him. “I’m on your side.”

  Tanglewood picked up Brannon’s bag. “Thank you. I have always wanted to be a caddie and it is the greatest honor that my first time is with Stuart Brannon.”

  Thirty-seven

  Lanigan pushed through the crowd for a front row view. His wardrobe was impeccable, but he looked fatigued and he jerked around in a nervous twitch as though he expected to see someone or something.

  The participants were introduced one by one. Brannon shook all their hands, including William Frederick Cody and Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp. He wished them well with their golfing.

  They both chortled.

  “I hope I can get through without hitting one of the spectators,” Cody said.

  “I already did that at my last practice,” Earp admitted. “A gal behind me. Now I hope I can get some forward motion going.”

  Mr. Smythe asked the celebrities if they’d take a photograph with the orphans. Buffalo Bill and Brannon jumped up on the wagon with the children, while the others stayed on the ground in a semi-circle. Lord and Lady Fletcher joined them too.

  A young vaudeville comedy juggler, named W. C. Fields, refused to be part of the picture.

  “Any of those urchins get close to me, I’ll hit them with a club,” he snarled.

  Everyone ogled him in disbelief, then a few nervous laughs skittered around the audience. Brannon also did a mental double take. Surely he jests. What a rude, nasty young man. He won’t get far in the entertainment business.

  “Buffalo Bill’s only son died at age five from scarlet fever,” Lady Fletcher told Brannon. “Kids are important to him. He gave free tickets to his Wild West show for everyone at the orphanage.”

  The foursome of Wyatt Earp, W. C. Fields, and John Mitchell, state senator, plus Alex Smith, another U.S. Open Champion, approached hole number one.

  After a black bird dive-bombed him several times and threatened chaos and disorder to the game of decorum, Fields finally managed a swing that dug a deep divot, ricocheting the ball off a tree and into a water hazard. Fields placed swim fins on his feet and wobbled down to the hazard, to the delight of the audience.

  Mitchell hit a solid hundred seventy-five yard shot.

  Ted Fleming’s blast flew straight down the fairway about two hundred yards.

  The crowd roared.

  Now, Wyatt Earp approached the tee. His brassie hit the ball in a bounce for about twenty yards, but at least it went in front of him. However, Brannon didn’t have his attention on Earp’s game. He stared at Earp’s golf bag. Hanging by a leather tag was a compass, the one he had given Rebozo the day before.

  Brannon charged up to Earp. “Where did you get that compass?”

  Protests rang out from all around.

  “At a poker game.” Earp’s caddie picked up his bag and Earp slung the club into it. Brannon stood toe to toe before him. “If you’d like to know, I also won a brand new pack of Murad Turkish cigarettes. This guy was playing his last dime.”

  “Who was? Was Tally Rebozo there?” Brannon felt the tug of arms attempting to pull him away. He pushed back.

  “No, Rebozo wasn’t there. He got himself shot, I heard.”

  The crowd gathered closer. Several shouted, “Get on with the game.”

  “Not cricket,” he could hear Lord Fletcher say very near. “Not good etiquette at all.”

  “How did you get the compass?” Brannon pressed. He pushed his hand on his Colt revolver, just in case the fiery gunman took offense at his mode of questioning. Lord Fletcher kept trying to tell him something, but he was beyond paying attention to anyone but Wyatt Earp.

  “It was in the last pot of the night… or should I say morning? We played until three o’clock.”

  Brannon spit out each word with force. “Who put it in the pot?”

  “Well, there were only four of us left… me, Argentiferous Jones, one of the Rincon brothers and…” Earp searched the people gathered around the first hole. He reached out his arm and pointed at one of them: Wax Lanigan.

  Lanigan blanched almost white. A range of emotions melded his expression from one to another. He made his decision in that one split second.

  A shrill cry penetrated the tension as Lanigan jumped up on the hay wagon and shoved a gun against Penelope Tagg’s head. “Drop your weapons.” He waved the gun over the heads of the orphans. “Don’t any of you come close or these kids will get hurt.”

  “He was the fourth man,” Earp said.

  “No, he was the third one.” Brannon had his Colt .44 revolver cocked and ready.

  Thirty-eight

  No one moved. In the hush Brannon’s mind clicked in rapid fire, sorting the options. Rush him? Talk to him? Shoot him? Nothing seemed viable at the moment.

  One of the boys close to Lanigan kicked him in the shins. Lanigan swung his Smith and Wesson revolver against the boy’s side. He screamed and crumpled down next to Miss Tagg. One of the horses lunged forward. The other three whinnied and shuffled their hooves.

  Lanigan grabbed one of the older kids and pushed the revolver into his ear. “Brannon, Earp, Bill Cody… that means all of you.” He swung the weeping boy around, gun cocked.

  Brannon knelt down and scooted his Colt .44 revolver towards the wagon. Earp followed with his ten-inch-barreled Colt, then Buffalo Bill laid down his Colt .36 pistol. Other revolvers filled the pile. Brannon didn’t include his takedown rifle with the leather thong still strapped to his golf bag.

  “Bueno, Hack, grab a blanket. Go get the guns,” Lanigan ordered.

  The boys hopped from the wagon and tossed the blanket down. Bueno grabbed Brannon’s Colt first, then looked Brannon in the eye, as though to apologize for not fingering Lanigan sooner. Brannon tried to signal him to be careful. Fear kept him silent. Now I hope guilty fear won’t force him to do something stupid.

  Brannon noticed there were no sneak guns in the pile.

  The two boys hauled the weapons on board and Lanigan barked demands. “Wrap the guns in that blanket and bring them here. All you kids cram in the center. Bunch together.” His head erect, his shoulders back, he commanded like the captain of a war ship, the victor of a sea battle.

  “My word, shoot him, Stuart,” Lord Fletcher rasped from behind.

  “Can’t take that chance. Can’t even try it, if I wanted to.”

  And here’s where the take-down is mighty unhandy.

  In desperation, Brannon tried to figure out how to storm through Lanigan’s effective barricade of human shields.

  Lanigan stayed tight with the boy he held and scooted to a makeshift seat for a driver. “We’re headed down the road,” he announced. “No one is to follow us or I hurt the kids, one by one. Leave me be or the kids suffer.”

  “You need only one or two,” Brannon called out. “Let the rest go.”

  The crowd muttered affirmation.

  Sam Smythe stepped forward. “I’ll be a hostage in the children’s place. Take me instead.”

  Lanigan smirked at the director. “Won’t work. Each one of these kiddos provides me a ticket out of here and Brannon instigated it. Remember that, all of you. This wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for the interference of the one and only, Stuart Brannon.”

  “Well then, take both of us,” Brannon suggested. “Me and the director. You’ll have two bargaining chips and we’re both unarmed.”

  “Shut up, Brannon. Shut up, all of you. If I see anyone on the trail, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  Lanigan forced the boy into the seat as he bent down in tandem beside him. He untied the reins with one hand and aimed the gun with the other.

  “I need volunteers… go ahead of us, clear the way of people. I don’t want to see anyone, anywhere.”

  A half dozen men in the tense horde raised their hands, including Deputy Kliever whom he hadn’t noticed there before. The deputy hopped on a buckskin dun horse that he had tied to a cottonwood not far away.

  Good. At least law enforce
ment will be part of this crazy operation.

  The others climbed into motorcars and a carriage. Another man joined them on foot.

  “Go,” Lanigan yelled. “Get moving.”

  The volunteer trailblazers zoomed down the street shouting alerts. The man on foot repeated the message and pointed back at the hay wagon. Everyone scurried into houses or cabins.

  After a minute, Lanigan shouted and slapped the horses. They moved forward as the children in the wagon whimpered. Penelope Tagg calmly talked to each one, hugging as many as she could.

  A crowd of people gathered around Brannon. Earp and Cody lounged on the side as Brannon turned to them. “You got any ideas?”

  “This is your fight, not ours,” Earp replied, “except that I sure-fire want my gun back.”

  Cody nodded assent. “This is your story, Brannon. We’ll only get in the way, make things more dangerous. However, if you do need our help, send up a smoke signal. We’ll come running.”

  Lady Fletcher scurried over to her husband’s side. “Such a desperate move to protect himself for evil deeds. In one flash of a moment he has lost everything he wanted.”

  “No,” Brannon replied. “He’s traveled this journey a long time. Many choices. Twisted thinking. Ignoring God.”

  Brannon turned to Fletcher. “Come on, it’s your turn to ride.” Brannon pulled off his rifle from the golf bag and made a dash towards the barn.

  Lord Fletcher clambered behind Brannon, along with Sylvia Wiseman. Brannon rushed to stall #35. Lord Fletcher got Laira’s Amble in stall #34. Sylvia grabbed the flaxen Geode.

  When Brannon turned to object, Sylvia growled, “There’s no way I’m not going.”

  “Shall I get the auto car instead?” Lord Fletcher hollered.

  “No,” Brannon ordered. “Let’s stay together. Besides, we can’t get too close to that wagon until we’ve got a plan.”

  They mounted up and galloped out of the barn and almost crashed into Tanglewood, riding up on his mustang.

  “Go back,” Brannon shouted.

  “I know the terrain,” Tanglewood yelled.

  They spurred their horses forward. As Tres Vientos sped up, Brannon listened to the measured three beats of the hooves, like a drummer’s cadence over and over. The horse had conquered his fright, at least for now.