by Stephen Bly
“Private property? You’re mighty right about that. I own this place. What are you doing here?”
“Mister,” the voice replied, “this valley is owned by the Casa Verde Land Corporation.”
“They might own some land, but not this land,” Brannon shouted back, keeping well concealed. Pushing his black hat back he shoved a couple more shells into the Winchester. “Now, just walk out of there peaceful like, and I’ll show you the patent deed.”
“Can’t do that. I’ve been hired by Mr. Warren G. Burlingame of San Francisco to protect this property in the name of the C.V.L.”
“I don’t care who hired you. You’ve got the wrong place. This is my ranch.”
“Mister, I’ve been here four months. I’ve fought off Apaches, Yavapais, prospectors, outlaws, and malaria, but I ain’t never seen you. Git on yore horse and ride right back out of here.”
“Look, I’ve got papers on this place. If you don’t come out, I’ll have to shoot you for trespassing.”
“C.V.L. has got papers, too, and you’ll be the one shot for trespassing. If you want to discuss a legal claim, go down to the Surveyor-General’s office in Tucson. But until I’m instructed differently, you’re not coming on this place.”
“Sorry you feel that way. Now I presume you got some identification papers on you. You know—your name, your mama’s name, address of where you would like the body shipped, and all that.”
This time shots fired right at him. Only the thick beams at the corner of the barn protected him.
I’ve got to shoot up my own place in order to get home?
Brannon noticed the house still boarded up. He pulled the saddle off El Viento and walked the horse to the barn.
“What are you doing out there?”
“Putting my horse away,” Brannon shouted.
“You cain’t do that.” Several shots banged harmlessly at the top of the barn.
“I can do it and I’m going to shoot that horse in the corral.”
“You cain’t do that.”
“Well, you’re right. I hate to harm good horseflesh. So I’ll turn him loose and chase him off.”
“You move towards that corral and I’ll kill ya, Mister.”
“In that case, I don’t have any choice. I’ll just shoot the horse.”
“Wait,” the man screamed again. “Put down your rifle and let’s talk this out. I can see you don’t understand the situation.”
“You leave that Winchester against the door, and I’ll prop mine on the barn. Then walk out to the courtyard,” Brannon called.
“Move away from that barn.”
The bunkhouse door slowly swung open. A man appeared and set his rifle against the outside of the building and took one step towards Brannon.
He’s got nerve.
Brannon leaned his Winchester against the barn and took several slow steps towards the yard. The two men stopped about thirty feet apart. Both packed Colts on their hips and held their hands close to their sides.
“You’re just a kid,” Brannon complained.
“Mister, the bullet leaves the gun at the same speed, no matter how old you are.”
Sounds like me, age eighteen.
“Look, son, I—”
“Don’t call me son. Chances are one of us will be dead in the next few minutes. It’ll be man-to-man. There ain’t no boys here.”
“Fair enough, Mister. But I can’t see why you want to die for the sake of a San Francisco company.”
“I hired on to do a job. I won’t back out of it.”
“Would you be interested at all in seeing my papers to the place before you grab for that gun?”
“Whatever papers you have are no longer valid. This is part of the De Palma-Revera Land Grant which was purchased by Mr. Warren G. Burlingame and the Casa Verde Land Corporation.”
“No such grant has been approved by Congress.”
“Maybe not, but the papers are filed, and they have possession.”
“Why don’t you get on that horse, ride to San Francisco, and tell Mr. Burlingame that there has been a slight mistake in the survey and that the Triple B Ranch is not part of the grant?”
“Mister, I don’t know who you are. You just rode in here and demanded this valley. I don’t bluff that easy. If you’re itchin’ to pull out that revolver, just go ahead.”
Brannon studied the young man’s eyes.
He means it. He will give it his best. He won’t bluff down.
“Who do you think built that house?”
“Some Mexicans, I guess.”
“I built it.”
“Any fool can say that.”
Lord, I’m going to have to shoot him!
Brannon glanced around the ranch house. “If you’ve been here that long, then you’ve hiked up to those two piñon pines?”
“Yep.”
“Well, did you notice among those weeds two stone grave markers? One reads, ‘Lisa B., always in my heart, 12-25-75,’ and the other, ‘Baby B., went home with mama, 12-25-75.’”
The young man stared a moment. “Anyone can read a marker.”
“You saw me ride down off that north mountain.”
“It still don’t prove anything. Even if this was your place, it ain’t now. That’s a fact.”
“Mister, I told you that because I want you to know why I’m going to shoot you down. That’s my wife and my baby buried up there. I’m not going to leave them to you, to Burlingame, or to a corporation. I believe you can understand my position.”
“And you understand mine. I signed on for a job, and I’m going to do it.”
“Yep, I was eighteen once.”
“I’m twenty.”
“Okay, what’s your name? I do promise to send you home.”
About my height. A little thin in the shoulders. Probably the kind that can ride eighteen hours a day.
“Earl Howland.”
“Well, Earl, if you want to change your mind about this shooting stuff, this would be a good time.”
Strong arms, tanned face. He’s put in more than one hard day’s work.
“You’ll be the one who’s planted today,” Howland insisted. “And I’ll stick you up there in those piñons if you like. Just what name do you want on that stone?”
“Oh, it will be there someday, Earl. But you won’t be the one doing it.”
Probably hasn’t shaved twice in his life, but he’s tough enough to stick it out here by himself.
“And the name?” Howland insisted.
“Brannon. Stuart Brannon.”
A pause. “You’re Stuart Brannon?”
“Yep.”
“From Apache Wells? Massacre Meadow? And all of that?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, great. No one told me this place once belonged to Stuart Brannon.”
“I’m telling you.”
“Yes, sir… well, I’ve still got a job to do, and I can’t back away. I wouldn’t be no good to myself if I done that.”
“I know exactly what you mean. How much are they paying you for this job?”
“Thirty a month plus grub, and a thousand dollar bonus when the claim is settled.”
“When did they pay you last?”
“Two months ago.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little lax?”
“Someone will be along soon.”
“You know, if a man failed to live up to an agreement with me, I’d quit him. Especially if I had a better offer.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you have no obligation to work for free. And I’ll offer you forty a month, room and board, and when we drive a herd up from Mexico, I’ll give you twenty cows of your own and a bull.”
“My own herd?”
“It will be the makin’s of one.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why should you believe Casa Verde Land Corporation?”
“It’s either that or draw, ain’t it?”
“Those
are the only choices I know of.”
“You know that they’ll just come in here with more men?”
“That’s why I need a good man like you on my side.”
“How do I know you won’t shoot me down anyway?”
“Earl, if I wanted to shoot you, I certainly would have done it before now.” Brannon went for his gun.
Startled, Howland reached to draw his own, but he hadn’t raised it up before Brannon’s hammer clicked.
Earl froze, his gun half-drawn.
Brannon resat the hammer and shoved the revolver into the holster. “You see, Earl, I’m not going to shoot you.”
Howland took a big, deep breath and put his gun back. “I ain’t working for a man who don’t pay me. You still hirin’?”
“Yep.”
“I’d like the job.”
“You got it.”
A smile broke over Howland’s face. “What’s the first thing you want me to do?”
“Ride around the ranch and rip down those signs.”
“Yes, sir… yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
] ]
For two weeks, Brannon and Howland repaired the barn, corrals, and the roof on the house. They pulled weeds out of the yard, cleaned up the buildings, and repaired broken cupboards and furniture.
Following instructions, Howland had lived in the bunkhouse, leaving the big house for Mr. Burlingame, who as yet hadn’t visited his newly acquired “estate.” For the first several days, Brannon tried to get Howland to call him Stuart. On the fourth day he gave up trying.
A pattern developed.
They sat on the front porch after supper and watched the sun disappear and the stars come out. Most of the conversation centered around Howland pumping Brannon for every detail of every gunfight and exploit.
“Mr. Brannon, this place is looking downright livable,” he commented one evening.
“It’s a start. I don’t know what the future’s going to be, but a friend of mine’s going to ride in here in a few days—an Englishman by the name of Fletcher—Edwin Fletcher. He’ll take one of those rooms in the big house. You’re welcome to take the little room at the back of the house, or you can have that bunkhouse all to yourself. Sort of like a place of your own. Which do you want?”
“I’d kind of like to stay in the bunkhouse… if it ain’t insultin’.”
“Nope. I hope to get a cook out here one of these days. Then we’ll enjoy mealtimes better.”
“When are we going to go get the cows?”
“Well, I’ve still got some things to settle here, and I need to write to some folks in Mexico. Then I’m thinking of digging out some catch ponds up at the Jinete Springs and putting in some dams along Sunrise Creek. Maybe that will slow down the flash floods and the disease. Wouldn’t hurt to put up some of that new wire fencing across the upper end. Once the cows wander up past the springs, the Apaches will get them for sure.”
“Where’s the wire for the fence?”
“At the store, I suppose.”
“Are you going to town?”
“You’re going to town. You need to buy a wagon, plus the
supplies on this list. You can drive a team, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir. You want me to go to town by myself ?”
“Here’s the list. Can you read?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Read through this list and see if you can figure everything out.”
For several minutes Howland studied the list. “Well, sir… I think I got it all… except this here last item. Is that something ya eat?”
Brannon laughed. “The Iliad and the Odyssey? It’s a book. I read it years ago, but I need to study up on it. Go see Tom Weedin over at The Enterprise. He’ll know if there’s a copy of it in town. You can head out first thing in the morning. I’ll give you some money to get the goods.”
Howland pulled of his dusty brown hat and spun it around on his finger. Then he jammed it back on his sandy colored hair and stood to his feet. “Mr. Brannon, how do you know I won’t ride on out of here with your money and never come back?”
“’Cause you would die of shame within two days.”
A big wide grin broke across Howland’s face. “Yeah. But how did you know that?”
“Because honesty and integrity show on a man. You can only survive out here in this rough country if you learn to read folks well.”
“So you read me?”
“Well… let me guess.” Brannon leaned his chair back against the wall and tugged of his boots. “Your mama raised you on the Good Book, and your daddy taught you to work hard. They must have both died, or you’d be with them. You like being alone—riding the mountains… anything from the back of a horse… feel awkward around the ladies… and figure that keepin’ your word to God and man is just about the most important thing on earth.” Brannon dumped a little sand out of his boots and propped his feet up on the rail. “How am I doin’ so far?”
“You could read all of that?”
“All I got to do is remember when I was eighteen.”
“Twenty,” Howland corrected, “but you were wrong about my mama. She’s still alive. Lives with my older brother in Louisiana.” He walked over and leaned against a horse rail. “Mr. Brannon, I’d like to buy a new pair of trousers.”
“And a new shirt.”
“Yes, sir. You know, it will take me a while to drive a team back up here.”
“I’m not going anyplace. Remember, this is my home.”
“Yes, sir… well, you can count on me.”
“I do, Earl. I surely do.”
The next morning Howland saddled up and rode south, leading the team of horses. Brannon watched from the barn until he crested Despoblado Pass.
Lord, young Earl is a good working boy. Take care of him. This country needs a lot more Earls.
Brannon rode El Viento up the mountain to the Jinete Springs. Above them the rocks and trees alternated as barriers. No easy riding. He scouted a possible fence line. He figured that one hundred posts should make an effective barricade.
He took his time riding back to the ranch house, stopped at several places along Sunrise Creek to check out possible holding ponds. His nooner consisted of some jerky, creek water, and a short nap. Near sunset he rode back down toward the barn and house. He mentally engineered a ranch water supply. His rifle still in the scabbard, his Colt tucked into his belt.
It was a dumb stunt.
Brannon knew better.
He was within sight of the house when he finally looked up and discovered three extra horses turned out in his corral.
Visitors? Here I am in the clear already. They’ve surely spotted me. I can’t hide. Nice work, Brannon. Why not wear a “shoot me” sign around your neck? Did they come from the south or the north? What about Earl?
Brannon slipped his Colt from the holster and held it inside his jacket.
If they turned the horses out, they plan on stayin’.
He spotted one man with a rifle standing in the barn door. Another man, hand on his hip, stood in the open doorway of the house.
“Mister, are you lost?” the one at the barn called.
“Did you drift in from the high country? Maybe you seen Howland up there?” the other man hollered.
They haven’t seen Earl… and there’s another one somewhere.
He pulled up by the house and considered dismounting next to a post for protection from the man with the rifle.
“Keep riding, Mister. You ain’t stopping here.”
From the back of the house he heard a third voice shout, “Eeuu-wee, Todd, you ought to come look at this kitchen. Earl has it polished up like a widah lady’s.”
The voice was familiar, but Brannon couldn’t place it.
“We got a visitor out here, Riley.”
Then Brannon remembered. The man with the gun at the Lucky Dollar.
“Well, chase him off the… Brannon?” he shouted, dropping a biscuit and grabbing for his revolver.
&nb
sp; Brannon dove from El Viento and shot at the same time.
A blast from the rifle slammed against the adobe wall of the house above his head, and the other man at the door shot wild. Brannon’s hurried shot missed both men at the door and ripped through the bottom hinge.
The two men bolted back inside the house, and El Viento sprinted up the road towards the high end of the ranch. Brannon rolled behind the side of the house to get out of range of the rifle, but his right foot caught a piercing burst of heat. He knew he’d been hit. Blood seeped through a hole ripped in his boot as he crawled out of the line of fire.
No cover around here. If they rush me, it’ll be tough to take all three.
Three chollas sprawled alongside the house, and Brannon rolled back among the drooping cactus, facing the barn. He spun his head around to the east as Riley, the man from the Lucky Dollar, stepped away from the back of the house and raised his gun.
Brannon’s first shot caught the man in the stomach. He fired back hitting the cholla near Brannon’s head. A piece of cholla propelled into his face like needles stuck in a pincushion.
Brannon screamed and grabbed at the cactus.
The man staggered back, and Brannon’s second shot dropped him to the ground. Brannon dragged himself to the back of the house and through the door. He shut it softly.
“Riley’s got him.”
“Cover me, Rawnie.”
The man with the rifle walked slowly across the yard with the gun still at his shoulder. “See anything?” he called.
With revolver cocked, the first man rounded the corner of the house.
“It’s Riley.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s that drifter? I know I shot him in the leg. Look at all this blood.”
“It leads towards the back door. Brannon must be in the house,” Todd replied.
“Brannon? Stuart Brannon?”
“That’s what Riley called out when he came out the front door.”
Rawnie dove low against the side of the house, pulling Todd with him. “Stay down. If that’s Brannon, we’re in for a fight.”
“But there’s two of us.”
“Yeah… there used to be three, remember?”
“He’s wounded.”
“He made it back into the house, didn’t he?”