by Stephen Bly
Not exactly a crawl. Certainly not a walk. By dragging his right foot, Brannon scooted along in the dirt behind the corrals and across the rutted path that served as a road into the ranch.
Stars cleared overhead. No sign of a moon.
He got to the foot-high grass at the base of the hill and struck out diagonally towards the two piñon pines and the grave sites. Surely nobody would sit at those graves on a dark night.
Lord, You know I’ve got to hold onto this ranch. I don’t have it in me to let go. There’s got to be a way… some way to do it without killing half the people on the place.
His right hand was raw and his trousers dirty by the time he reached the piñons and the graves. Even though the night was beginning to cool, sweat plowed through the dirt on his face and neck. His right foot throbbed. So far, he had seen no one and heard nothing.
Within a few minutes of his arrival, he saw the flickering lanterns go out back at the ranch. Immediately, all the campfires of the Collectors snuffed out as well. Brannon crawled towards their camp.
He soon developed a pattern of dragging himself about five feet, then stopping to listen for sounds of a night guard. He was beginning to have doubts as to whether he had the strength to crawl all the way back to the barn.
Footsteps!
He threw himself flat into the grass.
“Smiley?” a voice whispered about twenty feet to the left of him.
“Yeah?” came a reply in front of him.
“You’re supposed to move closer to camp. We’ll be going down in less than an hour. You seen anything?”
“Yeah, over by those graves.”
“Did you check it out?”
“I ain’t going over there. It was probably just a coyote.”
“Yeah… the women are in the house. Howland and the Englishman are in the bunk. Brannon and the other two are in the barn.”
They’ve been scoping us!
“I don’t know how I got stuck drawing guard,” one man complained.
“You can trade tomorrow night.”
“You mean, you boys are goin’ to leave something until tomorrow?”
“Yeah, they said we’re aiming for the house tonight. Ain’t even going to try to torch the other buildings.”
The house! Lord, protect the women!
“The boys should have the roads blocked by now. They even sent six men around by the crick. They ain’t going to run away from this.”
“Is Jedel still jumpy?”
“You’d think it was Robert E. Lee himself down there. Brannon can’t be all that good.”
“Don’t tell that to Hank Jedel.”
If he possessed two good legs, Brannon would hurry down the hill to give a warning. The only thing he could do was act quickly on the chuck wagon and hope this would bring some of the attackers back to their own camp.
When the men moved on, he swung around the camp to the high side and scooted towards the campsite. He searched the dark horizon for the profile of the chuck wagon. A slight outline against the starlit night gave him some direction. He moved quickly forward.
He got within fifty feet from where the campfire had been earlier. The core of the camp was empty. Maybe three guards, but all on the perimeter. A wrangler with the horses.
The cook’s around here somewhere.
Scooting flat on the ground, Brannon figured thirty feet to the chuck wagon.
I’ve got to get this dynamite into the wagon. If it bounces to the ground, it will make more noise than damage.
He heard footsteps near him. Brannon pulled his revolver from the holster. He didn’t dare click back the hammer. Whoever it was stepped a few feet from his head and sneaked towards the chuck wagon. Then he heard a rattling of pots and pans.
No, don’t start cooking now.
“Hey,” a voice shouted from the other side of camp. “Who’s gettin’ in my wagon?”
The rattling stopped.
“I said, who’s over there?”
No reply.
“I’ve got two barrels of a shotgun pointed across the camp. Identify yourself or you’ll get both barrels.”
“Cookie, wait! It’s me—Felix. I’m just digging for a little sugar for my coffee.”
“Get away from that wagon or I’ll bust open your worthless skull. There ain’t no old boy on this green earth that’s digging in my wagon. You got that?”
“Relax, you cranky old man, I—”
Brannon heard a thud and yelp.
“Hey… you almost hit me with that knife.”
“A mistake I won’t make again.”
“I have half a mind to lead you down right now.”
“I doubt if you even have half a mind,” the cook spat out. “Get on out of here.”
The man stomped east.
Brannon waited.
A lantern lit at the far side of the chuck wagon and Brannon rolled back into the shadows. The bearded face of an older man appeared in the reflected light as he shuffled toward the wagon.
They must be born that way. All chuck wagon cooks look exactly the same.
After a quick inspection of his cupboards, the cook walked to the front of the wagon, opened the canvas flap, and pulled out another lantern. He filled the second lantern with kerosene and stuck the jug back into the wagon. He turned the one lantern off, and made his way back across the campsite.
The front door’s open and kerosene’s inside. Couldn’t ask for anything better than that.
Brannon now worked quickly in the dark. He pulled out the two sticks of dynamite. Lying on his back, he poked a deep hole in the end of the dynamite with his knife. Cutting the fuse to a foot and a half in length, he gingerly crimped the blasting cap to the fuse by biting it with his teeth. Finally, he shoved the cap and fuse into the hole in the dynamite and gently tamped it in place.
With both sticks prepared, he slowly inched closer to the front of the wagon. At about ten feet, he sat up, stuck his gun back into his belt, and practiced the throw towards the wagon. He was tempted to light the dynamite and get the action started.
I am not a violent man. I will not start this fight.
Brannon waited for what seemed like an hour. Then, torches flared up, completely surrounding the ranch house. Brannon counted about twenty.
He sat up and lit both sticks of dynamite. He heard the reports of gunfire echoing up from the ranch. When the fuses started to glow and sparkle, he tossed both sticks into the front of the wagon, turned, and dove for the weeds. With his face close to the dirt, he crawled back towards the piñons.
The explosions rocked the ground and banged hard against Brannon’s eardrums. He whipped around to see a double burst of flames. Supplies flew through the air in every direction. Bits and pieces of burning material littered the whole camp, dispatching scraps of flame and debris. What was left of the wagon, mainly the utensil box, wheels, and water barrels, now caught fire and crackled in the mountain breeze.
As he heard men rushing toward the burning wagon, he redoubled his efforts to reach the graves. Out of breath, his raw hand bleeding, his ducking worn clear through at the right knee, he finally reached the two piñons.
He collapsed against the base of a tree as he heard the shouts of men around the chuck wagon, but the sight that captured his attention—ten foot flames leaping from the top of his house.
I’ve got to get those women out of there and back to Prescott.
The Collectors near the campsite fought their own fire and occasionally shot at the shadows. Staying wide of the main route back to the house and keeping low in the weeds, Brannon crawled on his hands and knees back to the ranch. Amid shouts, men ran back up the hill towards camp. In the confusion, some of the Collectors shot at each other.
Again and again Brannon tumbled in the rocks and grass and rolled through the dirt. His right foot completely numb wouldn’t support any weight at all. He wrapped his bandanna around the palm of his bleeding hand and scurried the best he could down the hill.
L
ord, don’t let those ladies get hurt. It’s my fault. Don’t let them pay… I couldn’t live with that!
Halfway down the hill he rolled over in the grass and lay on his back, puffing. The gunfire continued in the Collectors’ camp, but he could no longed hear any from the ranch headquarters. He thought he could see people on the roof of the house, and the flames seemed to be dying back a little.
By the time he reached the barn, he could see no fames at all, but a thick cloud of smoke filled the yard. He yanked up the loose board and scooted into the barn.
“Harvey? Gonzales?” he called.
With no reply, he grabbed his hat and the crutch, and hopped, stumbled, and staggered towards the house.
“Stuart?” Miss Cancino called from the porch.
“Yeah… where’s everyone?”
Howland stepped out into the yard. “Around back.”
“How in the world did you get that fire out?”
“The soldiers formed a bucket brigade. Fortunately your diversion worked, and half of them tossed down their torches and ran back up to camp.”
“We kept them from coming into the yard, so they could only get close back there,” Julie added.
“Anyone get hurt?”
“Fletcher’s up on the roof somewhere.”
“Earl, post Harvey and Gonzales back at the outbuildings in case they get mad and rush back down here. Julie, are you safe on the porch?”
“Safe? No one’s safe being within ten miles of you, Stuart Brannon. But I’ll be all right.”
Hearing shouts in the back of the house, Brannon pushed through the smoky living room and into the back bedrooms. A lantern cast a dreamy look about the place as shadowy, coughing bodies staggered through the rooms.
“Brannon,” Sergeant Cloverdale shouted, “that was quite an explosion.”
“Edwin’s trapped on the roof,” Harriet yelled.
“Is he shot?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Burnt?”
“No… just stuck! He fell through. He crawled up there with a wet quilt to fight the flames, and the roof collapsed under him. His feet are dangling down in the bedroom.”
Several soldiers milled around the outside of the house, trying to decide how to rescue the Englishman.
“Edwin? Can you hear me?”
“Brannon? I say—I’d prefer not to stay in this position all night.”
“The rest of the roof collapsed, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to get over to you,” Brannon shouted.
“My word, think of something.”
“Are you straddling any timbers?”
“No, I’m holding on with my arms.”
“Listen, when I tug on your foot, you hold your hands straight above your head.”
Brannon went into the bedroom. Burnt timbers and shingles littered a wet bed. Fletcher’s feet swung about a foot above Brannon’s outstretched arms.
Brannon began to cough.
“Nelson, you and Mrs. Barton open all the windows in the house. Sergeant, bring a couple other men and come in here.”
The soldiers crowded into the small back bedroom.
“Hoist me up there.” He pointed to Fletcher’s legs.
They grabbed Brannon and lifted him straight up until he could lock his arms around Fletcher’s feet.
“Now drop me,” he shouted.
They did.
The weight of Brannon on his legs unwedged Fletcher, and the two men crashed onto the soaking wet bed, which promptly collapsed. They rolled to the floor. Brannon stared upward, completely exhausted.
“Drag us out of here, Sergeant,” he shouted.
Within moments, all of them, except for a guard or two, crowded the front porch.
Propped on the bench beside Miss Cancino, Brannon sucked up the fresh air and coughed his lungs clear. “Earl, at the first hint of dawn, I want you to hitch up those two carriages. Folks, this is the end of the line. I am grateful for your support, but sitting up there on that hillside tonight, watching the roof blaze up, I realized I would rather die than have to bury another woman in those piñons.
“Sergeant, the first thing in the morning, I want you and your men to escort these folks out of the valley. Earl, I’ll pay you a month’s wages, but you should ride with the soldiers. I think you can make it, too. Edwin, this is a good time for you to take another jaunt to San Francisco.”
“I say, Brannon—”
“Look, I don’t want to be dramatic or sound like Martin Luther, but everyone comes to a place in their life when they say, ‘This is it… here I stand. God help me.’ Well, this ranch is my place. I lost everything I ever valued right in this house. When I die, I’m going to die right here. But I’m not going to put you through another battle. You have already suffered more than enough.”
“Are you through with your speech, Mr. Brannon?” Howland said.
“I’m through.”
“Well, I ain’t leavin’,” Howland said. “You promised me twenty cows and a bull. I aim to make a ranch out of that, and I’ll build myself a house and a barn, and then if I can get the nerve, I’m going ask Miss Julie to marry me. And you and all your fancy talkin’ aren’t going to cheat me out of that.”
“Earl, the odds aren’t very good that I can deliver on that promise.”
“I’ll take my chance.”
“I’m not leaving either,” Miss Cancino added.
“Look,” Brannon huffed, “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to leave. I will not put ladies in danger again.”
“Oh, save it, Brannon,” she replied. “You try to throw me out off this ranch and I’ll shoot you in the other foot. If you get too dramatic, I’ll get out the violins and remind you how it is that my legs are paralyzed! I want to stay. A girl who can’t walk across the room isn’t going to get many better offers than I just had.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Brannon said. “You have to get out of here.”
“Stuart,” Harriet began, “I think you really should allow—”
“Miss Reed, don’t you begin on me. I have no intention of allowing—”
“Mr. Brannon,” she shouted, “in the past few days I have been shot at, roped, dragged through the dirt, nearly burnt alive, and soaked to the bone. I do not have with me one, not one, stitch of clothing that could be worn at any civilized function. I do not know what the future holds—whether I will be slaughtered by savage Indians, shot by marauders, burned alive in a barn, or die as an elderly, tottering rancher’s widow. But I am not going to go back and sit on the front porch of a Victorian home and crochet doilies. Is that understood?”
“This is insane… it’s not your battle,” he said to Barton.
“Gwen and I are not exactly the heroic type that you stir up in others.”
“I stir up?”
“But there is something heroic going on here. We came out to this country to contribute something that would help to settle this land. We wanted to be an active part in helping Arizona achieve statehood. We wanted to give our efforts to something that would make a difference. Well, a country ruled by armed bands of men will never be a settled land. We’d like to make our stand right here. It’s not for you… it’s for the whole Territory, for the next generation.”
“It does have a tinge of the historic, Mr. Brannon,” Gwendolyn added. “I don’t mean to be theatric, but we want to see what happens here.”
In desperation, Brannon glanced at Gonzales and Harvey. “Men, you get to—”
“Mr. Brannon,” Harvey said with a heavy Texas drawl, “my granddaddy rode with old Sam Houston at San Jacinto. He always said it changed his life something permanent. Well, this isn’t east Texas, and you’re not Mr. Houston, but it just might be as close as I get. Someday I want to look back and say, ‘I fought alongside Stuart Brannon at Sunrise Creek.’”
“I’m with Harvey,” Gonzales said. “If I ride out now, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I’d stayed.”
; “Listen… I’m not making myself clear… Edwin, explain—”
“Face it, man. You can’t chase them away. You can’t chase any of us off. Everyone here has his own motive for sticking it out. We aren’t doing it just for you. We’re doing it for ourselves. You, of all people, Stuart Brannon, know that life is seldom rational.”
“But they’ll come back and next time they’ll—”
“I say, we really must put Brannon to bed. He’s mumbling on and on in incoherent phrases.”
“Sergeant…?” Brannon said.
“We must stay until my messenger comes back from Prescott with orders. It’s strictly a military decision. Of course, several of the men figure if they stick it out, they might warrant a mention in the next dime novel.”
“They what?” Brannon shouted.
“Relax.” Cloverdale broke into a grin. “If your goal in life was to die a lonely martyr, you’re out of luck. It looks like we’re all staying.”
Within the hour they resumed their positions, with Brannon on the front porch sitting next to Cancino and Reed.
“You ladies should go inside. Try to get some sleep,” Brannon insisted.
“Our room is full of smoke, the roof caved in, and the bed is broken and soaked with water,” Harriet reminded him. “We’ll just sit out here if you don’t mind.” She stepped into the house and re-emerged with a quilt which she tucked around Miss Cancino and herself. “Stuart… is this a battle between good and evil?”
“You mean—in a spiritual sense?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I knew. There’s nothing evil about a valid land grant. But something is wrong with private armies that use threats and coercion to extort money.”
“I would like to think that we’ve made a stand for good.”
“It’s not always easy to discern, is it? Jedel and his type are simple to categorize, but when I’m honest, well… I wonder if I would ever let this place go, even if God Almighty told me to directly. Being on the side of ‘good,’ fighting so-called ‘evil’ has probably disguised a lot of selfish intentions.”