Standoff At Sunrise Creek

by Stephen Bly

  Almost perfect.

  A little tilt to the scarf.

  One strand of hair, a little reckless, not quite pulled back.

  Her ring slipped on the smallest finger. The sleeves ever so slightly rolled up.

  Could there be a casual streak in Miss Reed after all?

  ] ]

  When he wasn’t looking at her, Harriet quietly examined Brannon.

  How silly. Girlish. I can’t believe I did this. A bandanna? Mussed hair? Turned-up sleeves? And that gaudy ring? Harriet, if you giggle… if you giggle just once, I promise I will throw you off the highest cliff in Arizona. You are not now nor will ever be ranch-raised. On the other hand, I do believe Mr. Stuart Brannon would look quite handsome with a long coat and—

  “I say, Stuart, what are your plans for the coming week?” Nelson Barton asked.

  “I need to send a few letters back to the Indian Territory. Elizabeth is there someplace, and I’ve got to track her down. Then I’ll buy a pair of driving horses and a few supplies for the ranch. I feel obligated to hang around and see how Miss Cancino is progressing.”

  “Stuart says he will be leaving fairly soon. He must return to his cherished Ithaca,” Harriet broke in.

  “I’ve only been gone two years, not twenty… so I don’t feel much like Odysseus.”

  “And you’re not the type to succumb to Calypso’s imprisonment?”

  “When I see you weaving cloth on a golden spool, I know I’ll be in trouble.”

  “You have read well, Mr. Brannon,” Mrs. Barton said.

  “It was a long time ago, ma’am. But if I remember the story, Telemachus and his beautiful mother Penelope were waiting for him at home. All I’ve got are an adobe ranch house and title to the hillside.”

  Harriet blushed. “Oh, yes. I’m terribly sorry. It was a thoughtless analogy, and I had no business making the comparison. Forgive me.”

  “No cause for concern,” Brannon reassured her. “Except for those last hours, all my memories of Lisa are good. It’s not a pain to stir up those thoughts.”

  “Speaking of your ranch…” Mr. Barton slid his chair back. “Would you like to join me on the front porch? It’s too nice a day to lounge inside.”

  The men took their places in two white Chinese wicker chairs on the porch.

  “A cigar?” Barton offered.

  Brannon leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. “No thanks, Nelson… relaxin’ here in this comfortable chair is about all the pleasure I can soak in at once.”

  “As I began inside,” Barton continued, “I retrieved your ranch papers from our vault as you requested. We would be happy to keep them here as long as you want. But I don’t blame you for taking them with you. Land titles have been quite bizarre for the past several months.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We seem to have an abundance of people in Arizona who need a quick dollar. There are schemes all over the Territory for selling real estate that doesn’t belong to them. Not to mention the problem of Spanish land grants.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that—selling phony papers and all.”

  “I don’t know how long this land grant business will be tying things up. Every resident of Spanish heritage seems to have a grant and is willing to sell his share for $200. The stories are incredible. Just yesterday, a man named Willing, Dr. Willing, a patent medicine salesman from St Louis, or somewhere… anyway he barges into my office and demands we give our approval to his so-called land grant before he takes it to the Surveyor-General.

  “Well, I’m not in the habit of giving my opinion of any land grant documents before they are filed, but in this case I made an exception. Listen to this—he claimed to have purchased from a Mexican man named Miquel Peralta a grant for over 18,000 square miles.”

  “That sounds like half the state. What would that be—ten, maybe twelve million acres?”

  “Precisely. I tried to hint that it was ludicrous. They tell me they’re about to make purposely fling false claims a crime. That should slow some of them down.”

  “Hopefully, more folks won’t get suckered in.”

  “Yet, with the influx of gullible people, I would imagine you’ll be able to buy a ‘genuine’ land grant on any corner.”

  “I suppose it makes your job more interesting.”

  “It’s not boring. Most folks get pretty excited when the matter turns to land ownership. I hear you’re planning to return to ranching.”

  “That’s about all I know. I guess I’ll keep at it until I go broke again. Then I’ll head to the gold fields and raise me another stake.”

  “What if you succeed in ranching?”

  Brannon laughed. “Now that, Nelson, is a possibility I’ve never considered.”

  “May we join you?” Miss Reed broke in.

  “Certainly.” Brannon and Barton stood as the women sat together on a porch swing.

  “Men’s talk, I presume?”

  “Yes, Brannon and I were debating whether the dancing girls in Virginia City are as skillful as those in Abilene.”

  “As you can see, Nelson has a very wicked sense of humor,” Miss Reed scolded.

  “But an effective way of changing the subject.” Brannon smiled.

  For three hours the four of them talked of politics, religion, Arizona weather, the plight of world affairs, classic literature, and the need for a clear national policy for handling Indian affairs.

  By the time Brannon walked back to the Hassayampa Hotel, he realized it was the first relaxing, thoughtfully stimulating evening he’d spent in three years.

  He shoved the bed to the far side of the room, leaned the Winchester against the nightstand, draped the holster over the bedstead, blew out the light, and crawled under the covers.

  He went to sleep without worrying about ambushes, flying bullets, or attacking Indians. He was not pushing cattle down the trail, breaking horses, or feeding sick calves. Rather he was drafting a telegram in his mind to the Secretary of War, soliciting the reinstatement of General Crook to lead the troops in Arizona.

  Morning sun swept the street by the time he swung out of bed. The deep sleep fell away quickly and he felt refreshed. No aches and pains from sprawling on the ground. No tired bones from spending the previous day in the saddle. No vigilantes to subdue, no outlaws to apprehend, no drunks to arrest. As he stared out on the quiet street, for the first time in his life Brannon briefly considered running for political office. It would be the last time he entertained such a thought.

  For four days he repeated the same routine.

  Mornings with Miss Julie.

  Afternoons buying supplies.

  Evenings with the Bartons.

  Only Sunday was different.

  ] ]

  Having borrowed a rather ill-fitting long coat and tie from Nelson Barton, Brannon slipped into the fourth pew back, next to Harriet. In some ways the church looked the same as on the day he and Lisa married. Polished wooden floor. Gleaming brass candlesticks. Rich oak wood as solid as the faith of the pioneers who built the church. The tall, narrow side windows cast beams of light that drew his attention to the pulpit.

  The singing was robust. The prayers fervent. The preaching pointed. Too pointed.

  “Violent men create a violent society. Godly men create a godly society.”

  He shook the preacher’s hand, but thought it best not to linger.

  Recognizing an older face in the crowd, he scooted over to visit. “Mr. Nash, I wanted to say hello.”

  “Stuart! Why, I knew you were in town, of course, but was afraid our trails wouldn’t cross.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Well, you know how my back is. Some days I could wrestle a bear, and other times I can’t stand up. I’ve been keeping up with you through the papers. Quite a little jaunt up in Colorado, I hear.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s good to be home. How is Mrs. Nash? I didn’t see her with you. Perhaps I could stop by later and—”

  “St
uart, I’ll be straight up with you because I know that’s the way you want it. Emily… Mrs. Nash has had a relapse this week. She’s deeply sad. Can’t control her crying. Won’t eat. Can’t sleep.”

  “I thought maybe by this time she…”

  “You know, Stuart, it was just so hard on her. Her only daughter, all her dreams.”

  “All of mine, too, sir.”

  “I know, son, I know. It’s just that Emily can’t seem to fight it like you and me. It eats away at her. She’ll stare at that picture for hours at a time.”

  “Does she still blame me?”

  Mr. Nash wrinkled his bushy gray eyebrows. “Yes, I guess she does.”

  “Do you?”

  “Stuart, you made my Lisa the happiest girl in this Territory. There was nothing on the face of this earth she ever wanted more than to be the wife of Stuart Brannon. You loved her good. You provided for her. What else could I ask? I believe she was bound to die at the birth of her first child no matter where she lived or who she married. I don’t understand that. I never will. Like you, son, I’ll carry that pain until the day I die. But I will never blame you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  Clearing his throat, Nash continued. “I see you with Miss Reed. Isn’t she a dandy? Wouldn’t she and Lisa make a pair?”

  “If they didn’t fight, they would probably redecorate the entire city in a week.”

  “It’s been over two years, hasn’t it? About time you started thinking of remarrying?”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe it’s time. It was good to visit. I want you and Mrs. Nash to know that you are still in my prayers.”

  “She’ll get over it, Stuart. Give her more time. Whenever you’re in Prescott, stop by the office and see me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  ] ]

  It was a quiet Sunday dinner. What with the sermon and the conversation with Mr. Nash, Brannon didn’t feel very talkative.

  “Mrs. Barton, it was another lovely meal. Please forgive me for being so silent. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Stuart. Next time you come to town, we insist you eat with us.”

  “That’s a bargain. Now you have to promise that one of these days, you’ll get a buggy and ride down to the ranch. I’d love to have the three of you stay with me awhile. Just give me a few weeks to clean up and settle in.”

  “Yes, well, Harriet has already made some plans. Will you be coming up on the Fourth of July?”

  “I’m not sure. It depends on how quickly I can get everything patched up.”

  Harriet walked him to the door. “I will miss our evening talks.”

  “Not nearly as much as I will, Miss Reed. You are very easy to talk to. For a few moments this week it seemed’ like my life was truly beginning to settle down. It felt peaceful and natural. But…”

  “But what?”

  “The preacher and Mr. Nash reminded me that my life isn’t that way. I hope we have more times to talk, but I want to be honest. I’m not a very good investment. Don’t wait for me to get my life settled. You are much too exciting a lady to waste much time with me.”

  “Mr. Brannon, there is no one on this earth who will tell me how I may or may not waste my time.”

  “No, I don’t suppose there is.” He didn’t know whether to hug her, shake her hand, or kiss her. So he tipped his hat, turned, and walked down the street toward the livery.

  Retrieving El Viento, he spent the early afternoon packing his supplies on the driving horses. Finally, Brannon made one last stop at the doctor’s office on his way out of town.

  A housekeeper whom he had never seen before came to the door.

  “Sorry to bother you today. Is the doctor in?”

  “Nope. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I need to visit Miss Cancino for just a—”

  “No visitors today—doctor’s orders.”

  “But I—”

  “Are you Brannon?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place. Of course you can come in.”

  Julie was asleep when he entered the room. Sylvia from the Lucky Dollar sat in a chair, half dozing herself.

  “Oh, Mr. Brannon,” Sylvia blurted out. “We thought you left town.”

  “Not without seeing Miss Julie.”

  “She’s been like this nearly all day. In and out of sleep… burning still with fever. Say, did you really kiss her on the lips?”

  “I most certainly did.”

  “I told ya so,” Julie rasped, barely opening her eyes.

  “I wanted to see you before I rode out to the ranch.”

  “Have we still got that dance?”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a steak dinner at the nicest place in town?”

  “Nope. I laid here all night thinking what a silly sight it will be for some old cowboy like you to go strutting around the dance floor. You can’t weasel out of it. You have to dance.”

  “And you have to get well.”

  “Yes, sir. I know I do.”

  ] ]

  The fresh air of the trail felt good in his face as he rode southeast out of Prescott. When the road eased out of the chaparral and hit the upper levels of the desert, Brannon turned straight east and followed a wagon rut that led into the mountains.

  Five

  Ten people traveling the same road see ten different scenes. The trail Brannon took to his ranch would have looked bleak to many a New Englander. No majestic deciduous trees. No lush undergrowth. No frolicking streams.

  The old forty-niner would see the granite outcroppings and the promise of color. Native Indians would have been drawn towards the saguaro blooms perched high in the air, ready for picking with a long pole. A romanticist might gaze at the blue and orange wildflowers sprinkled artistically across the hillsides.

  Others would complain of the blazing sun and cloudless sky. Or search for animal signs along the trail, hoping to put meat on the table.

  Brannon spied only the grass. Green. One foot tall. In some places bunched, thick, vigorous. And in other spots, thin, wispy, yellowing. For a cattleman, grass and water mattered.

  He rode two hard days out of Prescott.

  He tipped his hat to a lady or two and stopped to jaw with a few men, but mostly he studied the grass and water. For him, everything else was an accessory.

  Must have had a good wet spring. And most folks in the States think Arizona is just sand and cactus. If they ever find out what’s down here… No wonder the Indians want to keep it all. One of these days they’ll load trains full in Chicago and roll down here like a flood.

  ’Course they’ll have to take a jog around Sunrise Creek. There won’t be any roads through the Triple B Ranch. Not now. Not then. Not ever.

  At several places along the road Brannon noticed faded handbills that read, “Private Property: Casa Verde Land Corporation.”

  Now there you go. The companies are beginning to move in. Maybe they’ll put in a railroad, and we could link up with the S.R. Then we could ship cows all over the country. If the rail runs fairly close to the ranch, it might be a good place to put in feed pens. Ranchers could drive their herds in. We’d hold them in the pens and fatten them up before shipping them out.

  The road had been no more than two wagon ruts in the grass. But now, as he turned due east to his place, even the ruts stopped.

  “Well, El Viento, we’re going home. You’ve never been there, but it will be home for a long, long time.”

  Riding up a long sloping draw, Brannon kept a close eye on the driving horses who seemed to adapt well to packing a full load. Reaching the top of the pass, he rested the horses and climbed out of the saddle. He tied them of to a scrubby cottonwood and pulled one of the handbills off the trunk of the tree.

  “Well, you company boys missed it this time. This is private property all right. It’s part of the Triple B. Next time I’m in Tucson I’ll hav
e to hurrah those surveyors.”

  Brannon hiked to a large boulder and climbed to the top. It had always been one of his favorite spots on the ranch. Straight across to the south was Despoblado Pass. Between where he sat and that distant pass was all Triple B. It stretched from the fats all along Sunrise Creek up to Jinete Springs.

  From where he sat, Brannon could view seventy-five percent of the ranch. At this location he proposed to Lisa. Here she announced her pregnancy. On this spot he viewed the herd dead and dying from some unknown disease. And it was at this point he last looked at the ranch.

  No cattle roamed his range now. But with the good spring grass, he could not even see the bones of the previous herd. But he could see the house, sheds, and barn.

  “Plenty of weeds, but everything more or less standing. With two-foot-thick adobe walls, that house will last a hundred years. Of course, the roof might cave in before that. Maybe a week or two of repairs. Then Fletcher shows up and we… what?”

  Brannon jumped to his feet. Someone left the bunkhouse and walked towards the barn.

  “Squatters!”

  He galloped the big black horse down the trail towards the ranch, stirring up dust as he rode.

  I’m not sneaking up on my own house. I’ve got my papers in the bag. Probably he’s just passing through. I’d do the same thing if I found a deserted place at the end of a long day. I could let him stay until mornin’.

  As he rode up to the yard, he noticed more of the “Private Property” signs posted on the outbuildings. He stopped and jerked several of the signs down. He had just reached the barn when a rifle shot ripped into the wood behind him. He slid out of the saddle, his Winchester cocked and ready to fire by the time he hit the ground.

  “Ho! In the bunkhouse,” he yelled.

  “This is private property. You’ll have to turn around and leave,” someone shouted.