Standoff At Sunrise Creek Read online

  A Stuart Brannon Novel

  Standoff At Sunrise Creek

  Stephen Bly

  Smashwords Edition

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  BLY BOOKS, WINCHESTER, ID

  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.

  Cover design by Ken Raney

  For

  Mark and Jayne

  living on the frontier

  “And now shall mine head be

  lifted up above mine enemies

  round about me…”

  Psalm 27:6a KJV

  One

  It sounded like the echo of a distant rifle. Just a single shot. Then the howl of the wind.

  Brannon wasn’t sure. He hated to pull his Winchester out of the scabbard. He hoped to protect it from the sandstorm. But in this case, precaution outweighed a clean barrel.

  Stuart Brannon had no idea where Ute country ended and Navajo country began. He didn’t know whether he was in Utah, Arizona, or even still in New Mexico Territory. Somewhere up to the north he expected to find the San Juan River, and somewhere down below should be Mexican Water.

  A bitter, hot wind raged out of the canyons to the west and swirled across the fat, parched desert floor. There was no clean air to breathe. No peaceful vistas to view. His black hat was tied on and pulled down, his red bandanna yanked up over his nose.

  His eyes reduced to narrow slits, horizontal gun slots in a fortress wall. Fine dust sucked his tongue dry and ground like four on a millstone between his teeth. He could feel the rough cotton shirt grit the dirt into his shoulders. The heat of the sand inside his boots pained his raw feet.

  When he could see anything at all, only small, scattered, gray sagebrush came into view.

  Again, sounding even more distant, came the report of a rifle. He jerked the reins tight and stood in the stirrups.

  No horizon.

  No signs of life.

  Brannon had known when he started the trip this wasn’t the main road to Arizona. “It’s the Old Spanish Trail,” friends at Tres Casas advised. “It will cut three days of the trip… if you survive.”

  He had every intention of surviving, but now he doubted the cost of saving those three days. He had spent the winter as sheriff in New Mexico… shot his way out of Paradise Meadow, and lingered one last week in Tres Casas.

  On Monday Brannon had said good-bye to the Shepherds, Mulroneys, and Rose Creek and headed southwest. It was now Friday… or maybe Saturday. He wasn’t sure.

  He glanced down at El Viento. The horse’s eyes were shut.

  Oh, sure, you can keep ’em closed. As long as one of us knows where we’re going. That Old Spanish Trail is around here someplace. Probably over by that rifle fire.

  Brannon figured there were three things a man could do when he heard the sound of shooting. He could ride away from it… he could ride straight into it… or he could keep on the trail and try to ignore it. He’d have chosen the last, but since he was not at all sure where the trail was, he turned the big black gelding directly into the wind and trotted in the direction of the gunfire.

  Approaching what looked through the dust to be the head of a wash, Brannon dismounted and led El Viento towards the precipice. As he expected, the wind galed at the crest. Yet vision improved.

  A mesa? We’ve been up on a mesa? Well, old boy, it’s a good thing we didn’t plow on over the side.

  As the dust and sand circled around him, he thought he could see a ribbon of green on the desert floor below. He believed he could observe several horses at a bend in the greenery.

  Or perhaps they were dark boulders…

  He heard two more shots.

  There was no quick way down of the mesa. To plummet off the edge would be suicide—either by the fall or perhaps the guns that waited below.

  It will take me half an hour to work my way around to the south and hack up that river.

  Knowing it was his only reasonable choice, Brannon turned El Viento south and loped the horse through the roaring sandstorm. As he worked his way off the south end of the mesa, the wind decreased the more he descended.

  Vision improved on the valley floor, which allowed him to see a row of brush sheltering a stream or, at least, a streambed. Brannon held El Viento back against the base of the mesa and waited for another gunshot to reveal position.

  He pulled his canteen off the saddle, sloshed some water into his cupped hand, and let the horse slobber up the moisture. He took a swig out of the canteen and pulled off his bandanna. Soaking the red rag, he wiped his face, wrung it out, and retied it around his neck.

  Maybe just some target practice… or shooting at game, but I can’t imagine what game there would be out here. If those were horses I sighted, and if they are the only ones out here, and if they haven’t moved, and if they are pilgrims passing through, then…

  Brannon shoved a few more shells into the breech of the Winchester. He dug his extra Colt out of the bedroll tied to the cantle, spun the chamber, and jammed the gun into his belt.

  I’ve been wrong before.

  He adjusted the cinch on El Viento, remounted, and rode out away from the mesa toward what he supposed to be a river. The green ribbon he had spotted from on top turned out to be brush, not trees, and what he hoped was a river was only a meager creek, already starting to sink back into its underground summer resting place.

  As El Viento drank his fill, Brannon slipped down out of the saddle and filled his canteen, never releasing his grip on the Winchester nor taking his eyes of the north. He spied a rough trail on the far side of the creek.

  No reason to be too obvious. Come on, boy. We’ll stay in this brush.

  The wind was so mild, the dust storm now looked merely like clouds on the mesa.

  As Brannon rode straight into the breeze, he noticed El Viento twitch his ears. He pulled up on the reins and turned his head. “What do you hear, boy?” he whispered.

  In the hum of the breeze, the whinny of a horse.

  “Someone’s up there.”

  Afraid of making too high a profile above the brush, Brannon dismounted and led El Viento towards the sound of the horse. Sauntering quietly, he edged his way closer until he heard jumbled voices shouting.

  Someone’s unhappy.

  Brannon caught sight of a wagon and team. Four saddled horses milled around near the wagon, but no one was in sight. Tying of El Viento, he crept through the head-high brush until he could see into a slight clearing next to the creek.

  Still unable to distinguish the voices, he could see several men with guns pointed towards a dark-haired twosome huddled in the middle of a circle.

  The dirty gunmen… rough… hard… the kind that drifted into most every western town—men who would end up as
early residents of Boot Hill or the guests of honor at a necktie party.

  How can I take sides when I don’t know the argument? Looks like a man’s down… maybe two. Mexicans… and a woman.

  Glancing at the man and woman, he recognized the dark satin and lace, the waist-length jacket, and the tall stovetop boots of Mexican aristocracy.

  He cocked the lever on his Winchester as slowly as possible and inched his way closer. Now he distinguished the voices.

  “Sure hope you folks enjoy your new place. Right, Lacey?” a fat man in a brown vest sneered.

  “Are we gonna leave ’em out here, Case?”

  “Why, certainly. They wanted to see their rancho, and we showed it to them.”

  “Even the woman? We could take her with us, couldn’t we?”

  A younger man with a wispy beard stepped toward the couple.

  Four horses… four men… four guns… maybe.

  As Brannon assessed his strategy, the youngest gunman reached out and grabbed the woman by the arm. The man by her side threw a hard right into the jaw of the attacker, who staggered back and tripped, sprawling into the sand.

  One of those holding rifles cracked the barrel against the chivalrous Mexican’s head. He crumpled to the ground near the feet of the woman, who screamed and bent down to cradle him.

  Brannon froze as the man lifted the rifle as if to strike the woman. He stepped out into the clearing and shouted, “Drop it, Mister.”

  Startled, the man spun towards Brannon and lowered his barrel to fire. Too late. The bullet from Brannon’s Winchester slammed into the man’s left shoulder, spun him around, and tumbled him into the middle of the creek.

  “Holster those guns, boys, or you’ll be stacked up like cordwood.”

  “You can’t fight all three of us.”

  “That depends on how many friends I’ve got standing back in the brush.”

  “I don’t see nobody.”

  “If you think I’m fool enough to ride out in this country by myself, then make a play. I don’t know how good you are with those Colts, but you certainly know what I can do with this Winchester.”

  All three men held their weapons. The wounded fat man named Case struggled to pull himself out of the creek.

  “Now, Mister, there ain’t no reason for anyone else to get shot,” the dirtiest of them said. “These Mexicans jumped us on the trail and we was defending ourselves. You ain’t standin’ up for no thievin’ Mexicans, is ya?”

  “What in the world did you have that they wanted?”

  “Title to the property. From the New Mexico line to the Little Colorado.”

  The three men began to spread themselves apart.

  “You know, it’s funny you boys should start wandering away from each other. That’ll make me choose which one to shoot first. I believe your name is Lacey?” He motioned to the young man who had grabbed the woman. “You’ll be getting this .44 slug somewhere between the belt and the top of your head. Or you might convince these boys to stand still.”

  “You ain’t got no help in the bushes or they’d have showed themselves by now,” Lacey taunted. Turning his back to Brannon, he waved his dirty hat at the bush, “Go ahead, hombres, shoot. Shoot!”

  A rifle fired from deep in the brush. The man’s ripped hat flew into the creek. All three men dropped their revolvers and threw their hands into the air.

  Brannon glanced back over his shoulder and thought he spotted a flash of red.

  “Call ’em off! Call ’em off,” Lacy pleaded.

  “I don’t tell another man how to shoot. If they want to kill you, I reckon they will.” Turning to the woman, he nodded. “¿Senora, como está este hombre? ¿Es su esposo?”

  “Yes, he is my husband. I do not believe he is hurt very badly. Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Not as well as you speak English.” Brannon never took his eyes off the gunmen. “What happened here?”

  “It is a very long story.”

  “They brought you out into the desert and tried to bushwhack you, I presume?”

  “Yes, I believe that is correct.”

  “Do you have any food in the wagon?”

  “We have a few supplies. Why?”

  “Would you be able to leave your husband for a minute? I’ll watch him if you could toss some food into a sack and bring it over here.” Turning to the men, he ordered, “You three sit down back to back. Drag your compadre in there too.”

  “You ain’t going to shoot us, are ya?”

  “Nope.”

  The woman returned from the wagon with a few supplies.

  “Can you hold this gun on them while I tie them up?”

  “Yes… if I can control my anger long enough not to shoot them.”

  “If you have to shoot one, shoot Lacey.”

  “Mister, don’t give that lousy Mexican a gun. Why, she’ll—”

  A doubled fist slammed into the man’s midsection. “Excuse me.” Brannon pulled the man back up to a standing position and doubled his fist again. “Exactly what did you call this lady?”

  Choking out a response, the man mumbled, “Señorita… Señorita.”

  “That’s close enough.”

  Brannon tied the four men back to back, propping the wounded man with the others.

  “What do we do now?” the woman asked.

  “Is the other man dead?”

  “Yes, I believe so. He is Enrique, our driver. A very courageous man.”

  “We’ll load you folks in that wagon and roll on out of here. Where did you come from?”

  “Prescott.”

  “Good. That’s where I’m heading. Mind if I ride along?”

  “I would be most grateful. Are you leaving the provisions for these hombres malo?”

  “Nope. They don’t deserve a thing. The food is for the Indians in the brush.”

  “Your assistants are Indians?” she quizzed.

  “Not my assistants… friends.”

  “Mister, you cain’t leave us to the Injuns.”

  Brannon ignored his plea. “Red Shirt,” he called out. “I left some grub here. Will you see that these men do not leave for three days?”

  “And after that?” a deep, slow voice shouted back.

  “Let them go… or,” he glanced at the men, “eat them.”

  “That is good,” the voice called back. “Is the Brannon going to Arizona?”

  “Yep.”

  “Brannon?” one of the men choked. “We were going up against Stuart Brannon?”

  “Chalco asks when will you be coming back to our camp?” the still unseen Red Shirt called.

  “Whenever I need your help. How is Chalco’s leg?”

  “It is well… and ugly like the rest of him,” Red Shirt added.

  “Hey, Mr. Brannon,” one of the bound men shouted. “We didn’t know it was you.”

  “And when will you and the others be coming to my camp in Arizona?” Brannon hollered to Red Shirt.

  “When we need your help,” came the reply.

  “It is well,” Brannon called.

  Brannon helped the Mexican, now conscious, to the wagon. He retrieved the dead man.

  “Brannon, you’re not playing square,” one of the men called.

  “If I hadn’t rode into camp, you would have killed these folks, mounted up, rode about ten feet, and been shot in the head by these Indians. Now they happen to owe me a favor, and they can’t shoot you… unless you try to run away. I figure I saved your lives. At least for three days.”

  “What kind of Injuns are they? They ain’t ’Paches, are they?”

  “They’re Ute. And quite friendly as long as they have plenty to eat. Look at it this way. You have at least three days to settle up with the Almighty.”

  Brannon hoisted the body across his shoulders and tramped back to the wagon. The Mexican woman tried to tie a white bandage around her husband’s head while holding the reins of the team in one hand. Brannon laid the body in the far back of the wagon and wrapped it with
a canvas tarp that had been covering an ornate wooden trunk.

  He tied off El Viento to the tailgate of the wagon and climbed up next to the couple. “You look like you need to rest, amigo. I can drive this thing if you’d like.”

  “Gracias, Señor, gracias.” The man glanced over at his wife.

  “Es bueno, Don Rinaldo… es bueno!”

  The man crawled into the back of the wagon to lie down.

  Brannon slapped the reins, and the team bolted forward. He turned to the woman. “Who are you folks and how did you get in such a bind?” He studied her.

  Although slightly dusty and crumpled from her recent ordeal, she presented a fine portrait of a Mexican lady. Twenty-eight to thirty. Thin. Maybe a little too thin. Long black dress with delicate embroidery work and beautiful lace… black hair pulled back behind her head with tortoise shell comb still in place… fiery brown eyes that controlled destinies with a glance.

  He abruptly realized she had begun to speak.

  “… and I know quite a little about you, Mr. Stuart Brannon.”

  “You do? What have you heard?”

  “Some say you are a vicious, reckless gunman who hates Mexicans.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “This was told to me by a young man named Ramon Fuente-Delgado.”

  “Delgado? You mean the kid with the silver saddle and a bad choice of friends over in Tres Casas?”

  “Yes, he said you did not treat him well.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He helped spring two men from my jail, broke into a saloon, tore up half the furnishings in the place, and cut me in the back with his knife. I believe I treated him square.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I believe you did.”

  “Where did you run across Delgado?”

  “Just outside the MacGruder ranch a few days ago.”

  “So he’s in Arizona?”

  “He’s probably back in Mexico by now. He did not like your welcome.”

  “I presume he told you the other three I chased out of town were white?”