by Stephen Bly
Howland and the other men pulled themselves to their feet as Brannon dashed for the door.
“What did they shoot at?” he yelled at Fletcher, who was leading El Viento out of the corral. “What are you doing with my horse? Where’s the spyglass? What did they hit?”
“It’s just Jedel. I guess the others left in the night,” Fletcher replied.
“What are you doing with my saddle?”
“Take a look for yourself.” Fletcher handed him the spyglass.
“What am I looking for?”
“Your piñon pines.”
The pines? He blew up the pines? Lord, no, not Lisa and the baby!
Brannon frantically searched the hillside. Only one pine tree remained, leaning at a forty-five degree angle. The other was a gnarled pile of limbs and roots. For a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. He couldn’t speak. Fletcher tightened the cinch, and Brannon yanked himself into the saddle.
Fletcher handed up his Winchester. “I don’t suppose you want me to ride along?”
Brannon kicked El Viento hard, and the horse bolted out of the yard and up the hill.
“No… I didn’t think so.” Fletcher sighed.
Reed ran to his side. “What is it, Edwin?”
“I think—I think Jedel just pushed Brannon over the line.”
It’s hard to describe all the feelings at that moment. You realize I had just spent thirty-six hours in that same dress, Lisa’s dress, only slept maybe five hours in two days, and then had spent most of the time waiting to get shot or some equally horrid fate.
Hearing the explosion, I pulled myself together and ran to the front of the house. I noticed Mr. Brannon was on horseback and talking with Edwin Fletcher. Since I couldn’t find my shoes, I ran barefoot (yes, Harriet Reed—barefoot!) towards them, but Mr. Brannon had sprinted up the hill before I got there.
That’s when Mr. Fletcher, a really charming Englishman, told me about Jedel blowing up the trees and graves. I couldn’t believe it. Some acts are so vile they stagger and stun one’s senses, and that’s how I felt. I must admit I tore the spyglass right out of Mr. Fletcher’s hand.
You must get a sense of the scene. It is barely dawn—the mountains are still fairly green, the creek splits the valley, the empty sky is grayish-blue, a gentle but cool breeze floats across the yard. There’s the smell of horses, and ashes, and sweaty men.
In the scope I see a black horse—a big, very fast black horse galloping up the distant hill. Mr. Brannon’s hat is flapping on his back, held on by the stampede string. His rifle is in his right hand, and he is wildly spurring the horse. Then I move the spyglass up the hill and see the cannon and a man furiously working to reload. I almost fainted when it dawned on me the cannon was now pointed right at Mr. Brannon. He would literally be blown right out of this world!
From that distance, an interesting phenomenon occurs. You see the smoke from the cannon firing long before you hear the report of the explosion. Well, the smoke flew. Then came the horrible sound of the explosion. My heart sank, but I looked back, and Mr. Brannon was still galloping up the mountain.
As we learned later, the old cannon, still hot from the first shot, misfired and literally blew up. All I could see was Brannon riding into a cloud of smoke.
Then we heard three shots being fired, and finally I saw him, still mounted, race across the hill to the little cemetery. I was informed by Mr. Howland that what we heard were shots from a handgun, and Mr. Brannon had only carried his rifle with him.
Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Howland, and I mounted up as soon as we could (no, I did not ride sidesaddle) and made our way up the hill. The cannon was split on one side, and Mr. Jedel lay about twelve feet away. Mr. Howland and Mr. Fletcher dismounted and proclaimed Mr. Jedel dead. It seems a piece of the cannon hit him in the stomach, but he had time to fire three bullets at Mr. Brannon, who, as it turned out, escaped with only a hole in his hat.
I started to ride on over to the grave sites, but Mr. Fletcher wouldn’t let me. I was as angry as a schoolgirl at the time, but looking back, I know he, as usual, was quite correct.
It was early afternoon before Mr. Brannon returned to the house. Most of the crowd at the creek began their journey home. Julie left with Judge and Mrs. Quilici about midmorning. We had our carriages ready to depart and only waited to say good-bye to our host.
He didn’t speak to a soul until after he put the horse in the corral. I ran to him in the middle of the yard, and he put his calloused hands on my shoulders, touching the rose dress that had once been his Lisa’s. I don’t know if I can do justice to this scene, but his eyes told the whole story.
They were old. Red. Tired. Sad. And they belonged only to her.
I wanted to hold him in my arms and rock his deep hurts away, but the best I could do was drop my head and cry. We stood there in silence for a few minutes. Then the others were loaded and ready to leave. There was nothing more we could think of to say.
He looked up at me in the carriage and sighed. “Harriet, I didn’t shoot Jedel. I am not a violent man.”
I truly want to believe him.
To say the past several days since the Yavapai County War have been uneventful would be an understatement. After being around Mr. Brannon, I have a distinct feeling that all of life will be rather dull. I would be bored silly if I didn’t have my novel to work on and you to write to.
Mr. Fletcher did send word that he and Mr. Howland will be coming to Prescott next week to purchase a load of lumber. It will be like a wonderful little reunion to see them again. I did tell you Mr. Fletcher is an Earl or Lord or something like that, didn’t I?
Give my best to Rachel.
Affectionately yours, Miss Harriet Reed
~~THE END~~
About Stephen Bly (1944-2011)
An award-winning western author, he published more than 100 inspirational novels and nonfiction books, plus hundreds of short stories, cowboy poetry, devotionals, and articles for writers. He co-authored dozens of books with wife, Janet Chester Bly.
His historical western novel, The Long Trail Home, (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series), won the prestigious Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction.
Three other historical novels–Picture Rock (The Skinners of Goldfield Series, Crossway Books), The Outlaw’s Twin Sister (The Belles of Lordsburg Series), and Last of the Texas Camp (The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series) were Christy Award finalists.
His most well-known character is cowboy, lawman and rancher, Stuart Brannon. Brannon receives at least a mention or cameo appearance in every Bly novel. He was working on Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot, Book #7 of The Stuart Brannon Series, at the time he passed away. Janet and sons, Russell, Michael, and Aaron, finished the novel for him. He left them 10% of the story, a 1-page summary, 2-pages of character names and a 4-month deadline. Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot was a Selah Award Finalist.
Read the story of their writing adventure here: DAD’S FINAL NOVEL
Discover Books by Author Stephen Bly at Smashwords.com
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Also By Stephen Bly
The Stuart Brannon Novels
Hard Winter at Broken Arrow Crossing
False Claims at the Little Stephen Mine
Last Hanging at Paradise Meadow
Standoff at Sunrise Creek
Final Justice at Adobe Wells
Son of an Arizona Legend
Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot
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