Final Justice at Adobe Wells Read online

  A Stuart Brannon Novel

  Book #5

  Final Justice

  At Adobe Wells

  Stephen Bly

  Smashwords Edition

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  Final Justice at Adobe Wells

  Copyright © 1993, 2012, 2020 by Janet Chester Bly

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Bly Books, P.O. Box 157

  Winchester, ID 83555

  Visit our Website at www.blybooks.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Bly Books Trade-Book Print Edition: January 2020

  Cover design by Ken Raney

  DEDICATION:

  For Lila Bishop

  who rode with me

  down many a dusty

  editorial trail

  “For as the heavens are higher

  than the earth,

  so are my ways higher

  than your ways,

  and my thoughts

  than your thoughts.”

  Isaiah 55:9 KJV

  ONE

  “Mr. Brannon, I feel like I’ve know’d you for years, what with all them stories about ya in the books and papers and all.”

  Stuart Brannon didn’t bother to sit up, but continued to recline, glancing with one eye at the speaker.

  “The way you handled them Reynoso brothers.”

  “Rutherford?”

  “Yep, them’s the ones. I read in Hawthorne Miller how you had all seven of them cornered at one time and—”

  “There were only three of them.”

  “But they was the biggest, baddest gang in Wyoming.”

  “Colorado and New Mexico.”

  “Yep. I know’d that. That there Hawthorne Miller is a fine writer. A mighty fine writer, yes, sir. Why, one of my very favorites is the one about how you stopped Slippery Ed Bennett up in Boise City.”

  “I’ve never been to Boise City.”

  “Like I said, I feel like I know’d ya like a brother.”

  “Have we met?” Brannon’s dusty, broad-brimmed, black hat pulled low over his eyes blocked the sun glaring through the rail car window.

  “No, sir, we ain’t never met. No, sir. But it’s my pleasure… indeed it is. Mind if I sit here?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the small man with the gleaming new holster-gun belted to his hip, sat down next to Brannon. “Folks call me Read Reynolds.” He stuck out a soft hand with dirty fingernails.

  “Well, Mr. Reynolds, if I’m not—”

  “Read. Call me Read.”

  “Well, Read,” Brannon pushed his hat back, eyes now boldly studying the man, “if I’m not too sociable, please excuse me. It’s been a long trip and I’m nearly worn out from bouncing on stages and trains.”

  “Yes, sir, I imagine it has. I hear you been back in Washington tellin’ them senators a thing or two.”

  Brannon tried to scrunch back down in the seat. “How’d you hear about that?”

  “I’ll tell you how, yes, sir, I will. Listen to this.” A newspaper rustled in Brannon’s face. “‘Mr. Stuart Brannon, famed gunman of the Great Southwest and recent victor in the Yavapai County War in Arizona Territory, completed his testimony yesterday before the United States Senate Committee reviewing the government’s policy of settling land grant claims still unresolved from the Mexican War. Mr. Brannon insisted the government act quickly to process legitimate claims before more undue hardship and violence erupt.’”

  “‘Brannon stated, “There are legitimate claims, and those folks need clear title to their property immediately. All the others should be dismissed, tried, or shot.”’ End of quote.”

  “I never said anything about shooting people.”

  Reynolds began again, “From the Fort Worth Daily Leader... The President of the United States interrupted his short vacation to return to the White House and meet with Arizona rancher and shootist, Stuart Brannon. Insiders speculate the President asked the now-famous gunman to be U.S. Marshal in charge of the whole Territory.’”

  Brannon knew what the next question would be.

  “W-well, sir,” Reynolds stammered, “did he ask you?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  Reynolds sat straight up. “It’s what?” Then he slumped back down. “You’re just stretchin’ me, ain’t ya? Probably it was too tame—paperwork and office jobs and the like, I suppose. Yes, sir, it wouldn’t be right for a man of your skill to be pushin’ no pencil.”

  Brannon poked his head out from under his hat. “Read, where do you hail from?”

  “South Carolina. And you?”

  “Texas. How long have you been out West?”

  “About two weeks now, I’d guess.”

  “Well, don’t believe everything about the West you read in those eastern books and papers.”

  “No, sir, I won’t. Now listen to this—and it comes from the New York City Observer, so you know it’s true. ‘Mr. Stuart Brannon, legendary hero of Hawthorne Miller’s novels, arrived in this city yesterday and single-handedly disarmed two ruffians who accosted him outside the train depot. In a daring daylight display of…”’

  Brannon stopped listening. He thought he heard a shout from the vicinity of the dining car to the rear and definitely could feel the train beginning to slow. Reaching to the floor, he pulled a small blanket up over his shoulders, covering his waist and chest.

  A lady’s scream, several shouts, and a gunshot sent Reynolds right up out of his seat and then to the floorboards. But Brannon didn’t finch.

  “Now, folks, that shot was through the ceiling. The next one will be straight into the heart of the first fool that goes for his gun,” a man shouted. “Faro’s at the back with a shotgun, and Scully’s totin’ a satchel. We expect you to toss in your pokes and purses nice and peaceful.”

  In the noise and confusion, Brannon had difficulty locating each of the three outlaws by sound alone. “When he gets to our row, you stand up in the aisle,” he growled under his breath to Reynolds.

  “What? Stand? Sure.”

  There was a scuffle, gasp, and slap. Then the sound of boot heels and jingling spurs. “Well, if it ain’t a brand new Colt. Put it in the bag, or you’ll never see your mama again,” a man said.

  “I’ll have to stand to take it off,” Reynolds replied.

  “Then stand! And your friend there—roust him out. Is he tryin’ to hide under that blanket?”

  “I wouldn’t bother him if I were you.”

  No… don’t say it, Reynolds. Don’t tell them who I am.

  “And why not?” the gunman said.

  “’Cause that’s none other than Mr. Stuart Brannon.”

  The revolver’s hammer clicked back as the outlaw started to fire. The blast from Brannon’s .45 tore through the blanket and slammed into Scully’s chest, causing his gun to
discharge into the seat cushion as he collapsed in the aisle.

  Passengers screamed and dove for protection. Brannon fired a second shot at Faro at the rear of the car as he raised his shotgun to his shoulder. The bullet caught the man at the base of the neck and tumbled him onto his back. The blast from the shotgun opened a two-foot hole in the ceiling of the Pullman car.

  The gunman at the front of the car fired at the only man standing. Read Reynolds tumbled into the aisle.

  The jolt of the rapidly slowing train caused the remaining outlaw to stumble back against the train car door. Enough time for Brannon to take aim and shout, “Drop it or I shoot!”

  Kaboom!

  Babies cried.

  Women screamed.

  Men hollered.

  And the train shuddered to a halt.

  For thirty minutes the westbound Southern Pacific stalled forty-six miles southeast of Tucson as two dead gunmen and two wounded transferred to the baggage car. Brannon, Dr. Devin Dalemead, and train agent Norman Gravette rode with the wounded.

  “Mr. Brannon,” Gravette began, “I do hope you understand that Southern Pacific policy is to try to prevent situations like this from occurring. It’s very difficult to build customers’ confidence, with shooting incidents.”

  “When a man begins to pull the trigger on a loaded weapon pointed at me from only a few feet away, I intend to stop him.”

  “Yes, well, I understand,” Gravette replied. “What I mean to say is, perhaps you’d be happier with some other mode of transportation.”

  “Are you kicking me off the railroad?”

  “Heavens, no. I merely… well, I did wire a message about the shooting on ahead to the sheriff in Tucson.”

  “That ought to bring a crowd out.”

  “To see the famous Stuart Brannon?”

  “No, to see these bodies. Dead outlaws always draw a crowd.”

  Dr. Dalemead interrupted, “Brannon, your friend Reynolds wants to talk to you.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Nasty, but survivable.”

  “And the other one?”

  “He’ll live to spend many a day in Yuma.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Says his name is Miles Matee, head of the Matee gang. Ever heard of him?”

  “Nope.”

  Brannon walked over to the blanketed Reynolds. “Well, Read, we stopped them, didn’t we?”

  The pale faced man smiled. “Yes, sir, I believe we did. Do you think this will get wrote up in one of those books?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Surely the newspaper will make mention of it. You’ll tell the paper, won’t ya?”

  “I tell you what, Reynolds. I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “Ya will? You mean they’ll want to talk to me?”

  “I reckon so. But tell them the truth. No stretchers.”

  “No, sir, no stretchers. Just the truth.”

  “Doc says you’ll pull through just fine.”

  “Problem is, he says I can’t go nowhere fer two weeks.”

  “Tucson’s a nice town. You’ll enjoy the stay.”

  “Well, now, that ain’t the point. Ya see, I’ve got to get down to Mexico—to a place called Adobe Wells.”

  “What’s so important?”

  “I got a letter to deliver all the way from South Carolina. And I’m suppose to meet a man within the week.”

  “Gettin’ shot up is a fairly good excuse for being late.”

  “I can’t be late with this. It’s my solemn duty.”

  “Duty to whom?”

  “It’s a personal matter. I’ve just got to get there.”

  “Where’s this Adobe Wells?”

  “Somewhere northeast of Magdalena, close to the Sierra Madres. It can’t be all that hard to find.”

  “Have you ever been to Mexico?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Brannon, I ain’t. But I got these friends down there, and I need to get the letter to them.”

  “Reynolds, you aren’t carrying a bunch of those phony land grant papers, are you?”

  “No, sir. Actually, I don’t rightly know what’s in the letter. It’s all sealed up tight and my instructions were not to open it. I was to deliver it to Rube Woolsey at Adobe Wells. He would give me a letter to take back to South Carolina.”

  “So you’re playing like the pony express?”

  “Yes, sir, I suppose I am. But it did give me a chance to see the wild West.”

  “Was it as wild as you figured?”

  “Yep. Wait until I tell them back home I teamed up with Stuart Brannon. We did team up on that deal, didn’t we? I mean, I stood up jist like you told me to.”

  “Yep, we teamed up. As soon as we reach Tucson, I’ll be pullin’ out for Magdalena. I’m going south to buy cattle. I can stop by Adobe Wells and tell them you’ll be a little late.”

  “Mr. Brannon, I hate to ask you this, but could you—I know you got better things to do—but could you deliver my letter to Rube? That way I won’t be late at all.”

  Brannon pushed his hat back. “Well, if that letter of yours can slip into a saddlebag, and if I can find Adobe Wells, and if your friend happens to be there when I ride by… I’d consider taking it.”

  “Be much obliged, Mr. Brannon. It’s right there in my bag with the books and papers.”

  “Now hold on. I said I’d consider it. I’ve got to make arrangements in Tucson before I ride south. Then I’ll come look you up and see if you still want me to take the letter.”

  “Be much obliged. Say, were you serious about me bein’ the one to talk to the newspapers?”

  “Yep.”

  Soon the train started to slow at the Tucson station.

  “Mr. Gravette, I’d like to crack that door and hop down before we get to the crowd.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brannon, company policy prohibits—”

  Brannon drew his revolver and spun the chambers. “If these two dead outlaws have relatives waiting for them at the station, they might try to take revenge right there on the platform.”

  “Oh, I never... Well, of course, just this one instance, I suppose jumping off a little early won’t hurt anyone.”

  Brannon slid open the door, grabbed his satchel, and lunged for the platform. He hit the boards running, spurs jangling, while the train slid on down to a waiting crowd.

  As he expected, most saloons had emptied. People swarmed to the station to view what remained of the never-before-heard-of Matee Gang.

  Brannon filtered into the back side of the crowd, unrecognized.

  He sauntered to a familiar figure with black frock coat and stovepipe hat. “I say there, Lord Fletcher, it looks like a bloody mess.”

  Fletcher scowled. “I see you had to fight your way back into Arizona. My word, can’t you even take a train ride without a shoot-out?”

  Brannon shrugged. “That’s my last train ride. The S.P. thinks I’m bad for business.”

  “They may be right. A rumor floated through town you held off a dozen single-handedly.”

  “There were three of them, and one passenger got shot. Are you and Earl ready to pull out?”

  “Right on schedule.”

  “Hardly,” Brannon reminded the Englishman. “I was going to buy these cows last spring, remember?”

  “Well, rebuilding ranch buildings, Apache uprisings, and an unscheduled trip to Washington, DC, tend to clutter a man’s life.”

  “Did you and Earl bring everything from the ranch?” Brannon inquired.

  “I know he brought the letters from Señora Pacifica, El Viento, and a pack horse to carry supplies.”

  “Who did Judge Quilici send to tend the ranch?”

  “Fernandez, I believe.”

  “Ignacio’s a good hand. Things ought to stay quiet for a while. Where’s Earl?”

  “At the livery, diamond-hitching that pack horse, I presume. Are we actually riding south today?”

  “Just as soon as I get rid of these city clothes, check in with
the sheriff, and pick up a letter from Read Reynolds.”

  “Who?”

  “The old boy on the train who took a slug aimed for me. Told him I’d consider taking a letter to Mexico for him.”

  “Are you going through another ‘it-should-have-been-me’ bout, as you did with Miss Cancino?” Fletcher asked.

  “Nope. Me and the Lord’s come to terms with that.”

  “Brannon, have you noticed how you make everything in life appear more and more theological?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “My word, I can imagine the exciting conversation you had with the President. After a while, he turned to you and said, ‘Mr. Brannon, would you be willing to head up the U.S. Marshal’s office for Arizona Territory?’ To which you replied, ‘Nope.’ Is that how it went?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you have any luck at the Bureau of Indian Affairs? Could they locate Elizabeth?”

  “I walked in there trying to locate a Nez Perce named Elizabeth with a small, half-breed son carried off to Indian Territory with Chief Joseph. The first thing they asked was her last name.”

  Fletcher moaned. “She didn’t have a last name.”

  “Tell that to a bureaucrat. I did find out some are still in I.T., some were sent to Washington Territory at the Coleville Reservation, and others were shipped to Florida.”

  “Florida? Why, in heaven’s name, Florida?”

  “To die of malaria, I suppose.”

  “You jest.”

  “I sent a letter to all three places, asking them to inform local agents of my desire to find Elizabeth.”

  “You’ve really done all you could.”

  “It still doesn’t settle well with me. I’m going to find her. I won’t stop until I do.”

  “Brannon, I’ll tell you what your problem is. You figure Elizabeth is counting on you, and you somehow are letting her down. My word, there are times even the Brannon can’t help.”