Standoff At Sunrise Creek

by Stephen Bly

  “You do not need to apologize to me,” she continued. “Ramon is a very headstrong young man. I think he goes home wiser now.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s my brother.”

  Brannon sighed. “I guess you did hear an earful.”

  “Yes, I did. And I also heard about you from—”

  Her husband sat up in the back of the wagon, spoke to her in Spanish, and laid back down.

  “Don Rinaldo says we must thank you twice—first for spanking Ramon and now for saving us from the thieves.”

  “So, you know something about me, but I still haven’t heard your story.”

  Brannon turned the team onto wagon ruts running due west into the breeze. The wind continued stiff, but the sand no longer blowing, visibility remained good.

  “My name is Victoria Maria Alezon Fuentes-Delgado Pacifica, and this is my husband, Don Rinaldo. We live on our family estate at the base of the Sierra Madres, southeast of Magdalena. Originally, I came from Monterrey.”

  “Where your father is the Alcalde?”

  “The Vice-Generale,” she corrected. “Last fall after the, how do you say it, roundup—”

  “You raise cattle?”

  “Oh, yes. In the fall an American lawyer came to visit us at the rancho. His name was William Gitt and he—”

  “Spanish Land Grant Gitt? Last I heard he got run out of the country.”

  “Ah… you know Mr. Gitt?”

  “Nope. Just heard a few things about him, that’s all.”

  “It doesn’t sound encouraging,” she said sighing.

  “Continue, please.”

  “Mr. Gitt, who speaks quite fluent Spanish, was returning to the States after doing extensive research in Guadalajara and Mexico City. He had purchased a Spanish land grant in St. Louis and was trying to verify it from old colonial records.

  “After several weeks of investigation, he could not find the papers that proved the grant, but he did discover many old documents supporting an Alezon land grant made to my great-grandfather by the governor of New Mexico at that time. As you probably know, those grants were upheld by the 1847 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.”

  “If they can be proved,” Brannon added.

  “Correct. Gitt had a trunk load--that is it in the wagon--of documents and certified copies proving our claim.”

  “Why did he take them?”

  “He told us that if he could not locate an heir, he was going to make a claim to the grant himself, the evidence being so strong. But since he located me, he wanted to sell us the documents so that he might pay for his expenses for all the research.”

  “So Gitt sold you a trunk load of documents?”

  “Yes, but the price was not exorbitant, and we felt it would be worth investigation since we knew that Great-Grandfather Alezon spent much time in New Mexico—or Arizona as it is now called—digging for gold.”

  “And you came to investigate the land?”

  “Yes, we waited until spring and then traveled north. We stopped in Tucson and showed our papers to the Surveyor-General and in Prescott to the Superintendent of Lands.”

  Brannon cradled his Winchester in his lap with his right hand and kept glancing behind the wagon. “And what was their conclusion?”

  “They were quite pleasant, but they could tell us nothing. They had never heard of the Alezon grant, and they were not allowed to comment on the documents until these were officially presented to the Surveyor-General. But several of the documents stated that an Initial Monument marked the boundary of the grant, and people at the Land Office said that our claim would be much substantiated if we located that original marker.”

  Brannon glanced down at the dust and dirt caked to his duckings and wished for a broom. “That’s why you’re here?”

  “Correct. We brought three men with us from the rancho. Two of them decided they would abandon us for the gold diggings of Prescott. Enrique encouraged us to come on out here on our own. We had no idea exactly where to search. But we determined to find the marker for ourselves. However, yesterday at Aqua Amargo, we met Mr. Case and his friends, who assured us they had seen the monument and would lead us to it.”

  “For a price, no doubt.” Brannon popped the reins on the lead horse’s rump as they started up an incline.

  “Yes… for one hundred dollars.”

  “Let me guess the rest. So you rode two days out here only to find your guides now wanted to rob you. Your driver got shot in the scuffle that followed, and I drifted down in the middle of the confrontation.”

  “Mas o menos, that is correct.”

  “If this doesn’t sound too personal, why does some rich hacienda owner come all the way up to this wild country anyway?”

  “I have been asking my Don Rinaldo that question for several weeks.”

  “And what does he say?”

  “Things are not stable in our country. Generale Diaz rules harshly, and no one can stop him. My husband fears the day will come when the military confiscates all that we have worked for.”

  “So a place in the States could be an escape?”

  “We thought it was worth the investigation.”

  “What do you think now?”

  “It is not worth the life of another person.” She glanced back at her husband. “I believe we should return home and forget about the land grant. But I will await Don Rinaldo’s decision.”

  A dust devil slammed into the rig, and for a moment they stopped talking.

  “Do you sell cows… or just your steers?” Brannon quizzed.

  “We have many of both. Are you a cattleman as well as a gunman?”

  “I am only a cattleman—with a ranch and no cattle. I’d like to buy five hundred to a thousand head sometime during the next year. Could you supply that many?”

  “It is my husband who operates the business,” she replied. “But it would be an amount that we could supply. Where is your ranch?”

  “Down towards the middle of Arizona, on a little stream we call Sunrise Creek.”

  For most of the afternoon, they rolled along parallel to the brush, climbing uphill towards western mountains. At times the wind made all conversation impossible. But when the sun began to set, they climbed out of the desert floor, and the wind died.

  The old trail followed a small tributary of the creek into the hills, and about halfway up the slope they discovered a tiny grassy meadow. A spring supplied a constant trickle of water.

  Brannon pulled the wagon over and they made camp for the night. By now Señor Pacifica had regained his strength and rode up front with his wife.

  “You folks may certainly do whatever you’d like, but I suggest we bury your friend here. This desert heat is going to decay that body before we make it to Prescott. And if I were you two, I would sleep in the wagon tonight. What with snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas, this country doesn’t make a real great bed.”

  “And you, Mr. Brannon, where will you camp?”

  “By the fire. That should be safe enough.”

  Señor Pacifica spoke to his wife in Spanish, who turned to Brannon. “My husband says he does not wish to insult you, but he thinks it best if we all sleep with loaded guns.”

  “Tell him I would be insulted only if you didn’t.”

  “Do you expect the evil men to return?”

  “No, but this must be Navajo country… perhaps even Apache. Besides you don’t know for sure what kind of man I am.”

  “Oh, I know.” Señora Pacifica smiled.

  “I could have fooled you. Your brother may be right.”

  “We know more about you than I have revealed,” she advised.

  “Your brother told you more?”

  “No. I believe you know Mr. Barton at the Land Office in Prescott?”

  “I met him on the trail up in Colorado.”

  “We had dinner with him, his wife, and a sister-in-law named Harriet Reed. She seems to know quite a bit about the legendary Stuart Brannon.”


  “Yes… well…” Brannon stammered. “I’ll tend the horses and dig a grave for this brave compadre.”

  Close to dark, Brannon laid the tarp-wrapped body in the hole. He looked down one last time, and glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Pacifica. “Say,” he began, “I’m sorry there’s no priest around, but if you... “

  Señor Pacifica began to pray in Spanish, and as he did, the Señora translated in English. His long, fervent prayer concerned the unfailing mercy of God and the eternal saving power of the blood of Christ.

  Brannon stared at them long after they finished the prayer.

  “Mr. Brannon?” the woman called.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You look a little surprised.”

  “I haven’t heard many prayers in Spanish. That was... beautiful.”

  “Did you assume we must have a priest to say our prayers?”

  “I guess I never thought about it much.”

  “Mr. Brannon, you would be quite shocked if you knew the whole story of Victoria Maria Alezon Fuentes Delgado Pacifica.”

  Two

  If one sits for tea with her back to the window, facing the fireplace, it is easy to imagine being in Boston or Philadelphia. Provided, of course, you don’t hear horrid curses or sporadic gunfire coming from the street.

  Harriet Reed glanced up from the letter she was writing and noticed the lid tilted crooked on the green and white Chinese vase. She padded across the soft Oriental rug to the mantle and seated the lid properly.

  The ladies’ drawing room near the street on the second floor of the Barton home was almost her exclusive domain. Every morning her sister Gwen would pop in for a quick visit, but the rest of the day the room was hers. In the six months since they moved to Prescott, Harriet perfected her regimen of reading, writing, and serving as hostess at the countless dinners Gwen and Nelson gave.

  She spent most of her time indoors and only on occasion ventured down the hill to the shops and stores. Her work as chairman of the Library Organizing Committee brought her into contact with a few of the more prominent citizens, yet she still did not feel completely settled.

  Sitting back down at the small cherry wood and leather writing table with brass lion paw feet, she continued to write.

  It is a beautiful, wild, primitive country. It begs to be settled, tamed, broken. But it can be a lonely place. Gwendolyn has Nelson and, so she says, by Christmas their first child. If you would only move out, we could—oh, there I go. Of course you must stay, I know, I know. You will write back and say if only I had married Curtis Terrington. As you know, Mr. Terrington bores me to tears, and I certainly refuse to sentence myself to such a life.

  As I suspected, the Territory of Arizona is anything but boring. Yet I’ve had ample time to work on my novel. No, you cannot read any of it yet, but of course, I’ll send you a copy when it’s finished.

  Did I tell you even the church services are quite different out here? Not nearly so rigid and formal. Respectful, mind you, but highly reflective of the casual lifestyle. The choir does quite well for being so small. All except Lilian DuShey. She is simply horrid. A screeching soprano that reminds me of Esther. (Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that!)

  You asked about Mr. Brannon. I hadn’t realized that his name was being mentioned in the eastern newspapers. I didn’t mean to sound as if I know him well, but I do expect him to come through soon. Several telegrams came to him at this address indicating we should hold them for his arrival, so I presume he is on his way. I do hope it’s not today, for it’s almost 11:00 A.M. and I haven’t gone downstairs yet.

  Tell your father you need some healthy western air and come see us. We have plenty of room, and it would be just like our school days.

  Give my best to Rachel.

  Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed

  A light breeze rippled across her room from the half-open window. White lace curtains fluttered like a swan starting to take fight, then settled neatly back into place, just like everything else in the room.

  From her earliest memory Harriet Reed knew she would be a writer. She could not remember a day when the thought didn’t dominate her mind. She would not write books of sugary poetry, but solid, vivid, powerful statements in prose. Schooled on everything from The Iliad and The Odyssey, to Dickens and Dumas, she intended to compete with the best.

  On her own terms.

  She would not use a man’s name.

  She would never consent to any nom de plume.

  And they would not ignore her.

  Her work would demand recognition.

  That required sacrifice. As she dressed for the warm spring day, she wondered how high a price she was willing to pay.

  “Harriet, you’re obsessed with your writing,” they all scolded her.

  She took that as a compliment.

  It would be the only way to succeed.

  But today, for a few minutes, she glanced at the pine-covered mountains surrounding town and thought about taking a long buggy ride. She could feel the breeze in her face, the jostle of the carriage, see the wild flowers and green hills, and sense the presence of a strong, rugged man at the reins riding next to her.

  Not just any man, of course.

  She had one in mind.

  As she walked down the stairs, she carried a cloth carefully dusting a dustless bannister. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she retreated to the kitchen just as a knock sounded at the door.

  The opaque leaded glass in the front door prevented her from seeing who was on the front steps. Out of habit, she glanced at her refection in the hall mirror, brushed her dark brown hair behind her ears, and opened the door.

  A medium-built man with waistcoat buttoned at the top and a soiled black hat-greeted her. “Excuse me, ma’am, I need to see the Superintendent of Lands.”

  “Oh… yes, Mr. Barton is at the office today. It’s located—”

  “Madam,” the man sighed, “if he were at the Land Office, I wouldn’t be here. I was told he would be here for dinner, and it is of utmost importance that I talk to him.”

  “Forgive me. I had forgotten it was so late. Yes, well… I believe that he and Mrs. Barton are dining with the mayor. I’m sure he’ll be back to his—”

  “Where are they eating?” the man demanded.

  “I’m not sure of that. All I know is—”

  “This is extremely important,” he insisted.

  She noticed what looked like a smear of dirt above the man’s left eyebrow, and she wondered how long it had been since he last washed his shirt. “Sir, I have given you all the information I have. Would you care to leave your name? I will inform Mr. Barton of your call.”

  “The name’s Willing. Dr. Willing.”

  “Oh, my, is this a medical emergency?”

  “It’s more important than that, lady. It’s a land claim emergency.” He turned on his heels and began to descend the front steps.

  “I’m sorry you missed Mr. Barton,” she called.

  “I assure you, I will not miss him,” he replied. “It would have been helpful if he had let the hired help know where he is.” The man dashed down the wooden sidewalk and crossed the wide, dirty street.

  She walked out on the porch and glanced at the dust rag she still held in her hand.

  Hired help? Mistaken for a cleaning lady?

  She looked down at her pale hands and long, thin, ringless fingers. Peering into the street and the bright sunlit noonday, she thought she saw a man riding north on a tall, black horse.

  Ducking back inside the house, she glanced out the front window with intentions to trace the movement of the black horse. Instead, she noticed a small cobweb in the upper right-hand corner of the window. She scurried towards the hall closet to look for the feather duster.

  ] ]

  It took four hard days for Brannon and Señor and Señora Pacifica to reach the base of the San Francisco peaks. They camped near McMillan’s old corrals, next to Flagpole Springs. The next day, south of the
Springs they came across a rough wagon road that had been hacked out by General George Crook and men a few years before. It led down the mountain to Camp Verde and on south across the desert to Tucson.

  The Pacificas decided to bypass Prescott and return home through Camp Verde, Tucson, and Magdalena.

  “Señor Brannon, we both have greatly appreciated your assistance through this beautiful and frightening land. Our home will always be open to you,” the woman said.

  “And I’m serious about buying those cattle. I’ll write to you this summer and make arrangements.”

  “Yes, we will look forward to it. Please give our regards to Mr. and Mrs. Barton… and also Miss Reed.” The woman studied his face one last time.

  Brannon tipped his hat and turned west towards Prescott. As he loped down the rutted trail, he became increasingly aware of absolutely no other travelers.

  No freight wagons.

  No military contingents.

  No drifters.

  No pilgrims.

  No prospectors.

  No one.

  Either a bridge is out… or Prescott is under siege… or the Apaches have left the reservation. Why did they send the general north? George Crook’s the only man in the country that can tame them. Too successful, I guess… send him up for Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. Everyone in the Territory knows they should have made him governor… everyone except whiskey drummers and crooked Indian agents.

  Brannon rode El Viento of the trail and into the trees that lined the north side of the road. The vegetation changed from forest to chaparral.

  ’Course I could be wrong. Maybe nobody’s traveling today. Sure, Brannon, they decided to stay home and plant potatoes and corn.

  He rode to the top of a knoll and surveyed the horizon. Straight west he could see some smoke among the greasewood and scrub oaks. With the wind at his back, he stayed of the wagon road and circled north of the smoke. Brannon figured he was three or four miles north of the smoke when he finally made it downwind enough to distinguish sporadic gunfire. He sat and listened.