Final Justice at Adobe Wells Page 15

  “He’s dead.”

  “What happens now?”

  “They will march into the hills to perform their final ceremony for him, then they return to the Wells. They want Porter.”

  “They know he’s out there?”

  “Yep.”

  “What will they do to him?”

  “I suppose torture him a while and then kill him.”

  “Are you going to let them do it?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing all evening.”

  “Stuart, you believe in divine providence, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well,” she continued, “I believe it would be fitting for God to appoint a snake to bite Mr. Porter tonight. By morning there would be no decision left for anyone to make.”

  “Yeah, that would simplify things. But my life has never been simple. There will be no snake or lightning to strike him dead… nor will he die of those wounds. There is a battle left to be fought in the spirit and the mind, and I must be the one who fights it.”

  ELEVEN

  Brannon came off night guard at daybreak and roused Howland with a gentle shove of the boot. “Earl, time to move ’em out.”

  Howland sat straight up, letting his bedroll drop to his waist. “We’re movin’ the herd?”

  “I think you should get them into Arizona as quickly as possible.”

  “Me? What about you, Mr. Brannon? Is Porter still in the rocks?”

  “Alive and cussing. I want you to take Jaime, Mateo, and Ramon’s vaqueros and push the herd north today. They’ve had time enough on the grass, and you can hit Creosote Springs by

  nightfall… remember the draw that still showed green grass?”

  “Yes, sir, I can do it. But what’s goin’ to happen here?”

  “I’m going to send Ramon and the Señora home. They’re needed at the hacienda.”

  “And you, Porter, and the Apaches?”

  “Jehovah Jireh.”

  “What?”

  “The Lord will provide.”

  After a hasty breakfast, Howland and the vaqueros returned to the herd and began to move them north.

  Brannon found the Señora more difficult to convince. “You are going to face the Apaches alone?”

  “Some things are better done alone.”

  “Such as what? Being a hero? Or dying?”

  “Hopefully, neither.” Brannon glanced down at the brown toes protruding from beneath her tattered dress. Then he turned to Ramon. “You and your sister must go back to the hacienda. The people are very worried about her. You both will be needed to rebuild.”

  “I believe,” the Señora replied, “I will stay at Adobe Wells and see the outcome of this conflict.”

  “You need to go. Felicia is beside herself. Estaban will be—”

  “Stuart, I will stay here.”

  “Ramon,” Brannon pleaded, “perhaps if you spoke to her—”

  Ramon smiled. ”The Señora does not listen to her little brother.”

  “This is not a game,” Brannon said. “You have to leave, and that’s that! Nothing is likely to happen here anyway. You will waste time by staying.”

  “If you thought nothing is going to happen, you would not be sending us away. No, Stuart, you are sending us away because you are not sure what you will do when Cholla and his people return. In your mind you cannot justify giving up even one as worthless as Porter. And you cannot rationalize risking your life for him either. I will stay.”

  “It’s out of the question. Now pack up your things.”

  “Mr. Stuart Brannon of Arizona,” she declared, “if you were my husband, then I would, under strong protest, do as you command. However, you are not my husband.” A grin brightened her face. “Not yet, anyway. I will do what I decide is necessary.”

  “Look, this is getting out of hand—”

  “Ramon, Mr. Brannon is correct. The people at the hacienda need encouragement. You must begin riding home immediately. Tell them I am fine … for a barefoot, disheveled, dirty-faced Señora. I will be one day behind you.”

  “I will not leave you here with—”

  “Ramon, God alone knows why I must stay. I am asking you to go and give leadership to the hacienda.”

  “This is crazy. You two are crazy. Sister, just mount your horse and ride away. Leave that hombre malo out there to defend himself with rocks. It is more than he deserves.”

  “Will you go?”

  “How can I? Shall I tell the people I deserted my sister with a madman and band of Apaches?”

  Brannon studied the Señora. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Tell them she is with Stuart Brannon, and he will safely see her home.”

  “Do you mean that?” Ramon questioned.

  Brannon stared back, his tired eyes void of expression.

  Ramon shook his head. “Okay. I will go… I will tell them.”

  He saddled up and rode back to where Brannon and the Señora sat. “I think that it would be best… ,” he began. “No, it is useless. Vaya con Dios, Victoria.”

  “Vaya con Dios, Ramon. Remember, I will be only one day behind.” She stood and watched as Ramon trailed south through the desert.

  Brannon checked the horses. Then he returned and quietly kicked with his boot at the coals of the breakfast fire. He and the Señora moved to a spot of morning shade near the well. They settled down, seated on the sun-hardened dirt with their backs against a broken adobe wall.

  He nodded at her dusty feet. “I wish that old boy hadn’t thrown away your shoes.”

  “I have been barefoot before. I will survive. Once, when

  was a girl, we lived in a cave for three months hiding from the French troops.”

  “You lived in a cave?”

  “Yes. Do not think you know everything about me.”

  “No, it’s just that I figured—”

  “I always lived in a large house with servants and beautiful statues?”

  “Sort of.”

  “We do not know each other very well, do we?”

  Brannon pulled his hat off and propped it on his knee. “Nope. We don’t.”

  She blushed. “I owe you an apology. I am embarrassed that I blurted out those words about marriage. It was not appropriate, and you should not take offense at them.”

  He smiled. “It’s all right. Truth is, the same thought crossed my mind a time or two in the past few days.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know what I’m thinking? What I will do?”

  “You are not hard to read, Stuart. You show your emotion in your face, and your decisions are splendidly predictable.”

  He considered her eyes. “You are a very pretty girl,” he said softly.

  “I was a pretty girl,” she corrected. “Now I am the Señora.”

  “I’m telling you what I see,” Brannon insisted. “I am not telling you what you see.” After a long pause, he said, “Victoria, what would you do if you were in my place?”

  “With Porter?”

  He nodded.

  “I do not know. That is why I am staying. I cannot decide, and I am not the kind who lives easily with indecision.”

  A curse from among the rocks brought Brannon to his feet. “I’ll go check on the prisoner.”

  “He will want water.”

  “ I know.”

  When Porter saw Brannon, he yelled, “You’ve got to help me out of here. I can’t take any more of this.”

  Brannon handed him a canteen. “You won’t be here much longer. The Apaches will be back in the afternoon.”

  “You going to turn me over to them? Shoot me for God’s sake, but don’t do that.”

  “You were right yesterday. I can’t shoot an unarmed man who is absolutely no threat to me. Personally, I don’t think it will go a whole lot better with the Federales. They’ll form a firing squad and shoot you.”

  “At least give me a weapon to defend myself.”

  “What? You’d shoot me and the Seño
ra in the back. If I were you, I’d be piling up a good supply of rocks. Maybe you could hold them for a few minutes.”

  “You don’t really mean it…” Porter pleaded.

  “Put yourself in my place.”

  Brannon left him the canteen and returned to the Señora. Settling down next to her, he watched the dust cloud on the northern horizon as the cattle were driven out of sight.

  “Victoria, you have a magnificent ranch. You must come north and visit mine. It’s not nearly so grand… but I believe it is the most beautiful land in Arizona.”

  “I will look forward to the visit.”

  “There are some people I’d like you to meet. Perhaps you could come in June when the grass on the mountain is still green.”

  “Oh, I cannot come in June, it is festival time in Magdalena. Company comes from Monterrey… I have so much to do.”

  “How about July? You could come around the fourth… they put on quite a show in Prescott on the fourth.”

  “I have promised Felicia I would stay at the hacienda.

  She has a suitor, a second cousin of Don Rinaldo, coming to visit her from the coast that week. She insists I interview him.”

  “Interview?”

  “Yes. She refuses to marry anyone unless I approve.”

  “Well, I guess that leaves us August?”

  Señora Pacifica put her hand on Brannon’s. “I was thinking May would be a good time to come. It is all right if Felicia comes with me, is it not?”

  “Oh… yeah. May is great. Eh, the place won’t be quite fixed up. I mean, I’ve been thinking about painting it and putting in some fruit trees and—”

  “Do you think you need to make improvements to impress me?”

  “I don’t?”

  “Look at you,” she insisted. “You haven’t had a bath or shave in a week. You’re covered with dirt and dried blood. Your face looks horse-whipped. And your clothing seems laundered in dirt. Do you truly think I am the type that needs to be impressed by outward appearances?”

  Brannon leaned his head on the adobe and chuckled. “Look at me? Look at you. With a cup in your hand, you could pass for a beggar on a city street. I would guess your hair has never been so messed up and dirty in your entire life.”

  “It is the new casual look,” she teased, as she pulled wayward strands across her upper lip and feigned a mustache. “Perhaps,” she giggled, “I shall be a matador.” Then she quickly stood to her feet. “Someone’s coming.”

  Brannon rose and lifted his Winchester. In the distant north a freight wagon, pulled by four oxen, slowly wended its way toward them.

  “What’s this, so far from anywhere?” Brannon asked.

  “Looking for water?”

  “There’s water on the road to Magdalena.”

  They watched a long time before the wagon team and the bull-whacker who walked alongside halted by the well. A young boy shouldering a shotgun rode in the front of the canvas-covered wagon.

  “Howdy, Mister.” The freighter nodded to Brannon. “Howdy, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Say, is she Apache?”

  Brannon tensed, but the Señora spoke first. “No, I am Señora Pacifica… but I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time.”

  “No offense, ma’am. I didn’t want to get this far off the road after I heard old Cholla was back on the warpath. I’ve been jumpy for two days.”

  “Cholla is nearby,” Brannon replied, “but he’s not looking for trouble.”

  “That ain’t the way they tell it up north. As soon as my passenger gets off, I’m going back to the main road.”

  “Passenger?”

  “Yeah, this fellow from Tucson. Insisted on going to Adobe Wells. Paid me good money. I tried to tell him there ain’t nothin’ here, but he insisted he had friends waitin’. You folks must know him.”

  “No, we’re not expecting anyone,” Brannon replied. “At least no one from Tucson.”

  “Wallace,” he called. “Kick that old boy. Tell him it’s time to get his satchel and get off.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied. “Do you want me to unhook the team?”

  “Nope, we’ll water them where they stand, then leave. I ain’t hanging around here two minutes longer than I have to. Too close to Injuns. No offense meant to you folks.”

  “Is that you, Mr. Brannon?”

  Brannon blinked at the man climbing out of the back of the wagon. “Reynolds? Read Reynolds? I thought you were laid up.”

  “Yes, sir, I was. I made an excellent recovery, indeed.”

  “Well, Read, this is Señora Pacifica.”

  “What happened to you two?”

  “I guess we’ve had a bit of trouble.”

  “No doubt Brannon once again proved victorious,” Reynolds boasted.

  “Read is an unusual name, Mr. Reynolds,” the Señora said.

  “Brannon, boy, am I glad to see you.” Reynolds reached into his coat pocket and slipped out a small book, opened it, and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “Listen to this. In the Tucson paper, no less. ‘Mr. Stuart Brannon of Yavapai County, returning from a successful trip to Washington, DC, foiled a holdup on the Southern Pacific railroad yesterday just forty-six miles southeast of this city.’ Then it goes on and on about how you did it.

  “But now listen to this. ‘Mr. Brannon was assisted in his exploits by one of the passengers, a Mr. Red Reynolds, believed to be from North Carolina.’”

  “Red?”

  “They got my name wrong.”

  “North Carolina? I thought you were from South Carolina.”

  “Well, Carolina is Carolina. That’s close enough for me. Yes, sir, that’s me, all right. I bought twelve copies of that paper, I did.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Coming to join the cause, of course. Did Captain Porter send you to meet me? Where’s town? Where do we camp?”

  Brannon frowned. “Read, I like you, so you listen carefully. This is Adobe Wells. There is nothing here but snakes and a little water. There is no army of the South. Porter is a petty outlaw who has lost what few men he had. Your best bet is to get on that wagon and ride on out of here.”

  “What? I don’t believe this. I’ve got the flyer. I’ve got it all written down right here.” He fumbled through the book.

  “Porter is down in a trench in that rock pile, hiding from Apaches who intend to hang him by his heels over a hot fire and peel his hide off in one-inch strips. He’s been shot in the arm with a Winchester and in the leg by an arrow.”

  “Who sh-shot him?” Reynolds asked.

  “I shot him in the arm, and a brave little Apache warrior shot him in the leg.”

  “But why?”

  “Cattle rustling, murder, and kidnapping to start with… but we could go on.”

  Reynolds gazed blankly at the rubble of Adobe Wells. “Do you mean I rode all the way from Tucson in that dry-goods wagon for this? Nothing?”

  “Afraid so.” Brannon stared at the wagon. “What did you say was in there?”

  “Dry goods. Ready-mades. Dresses, trousers, shirts, factory shoes, and things like that. Combs, brushes, mirrors for the Spanish ladies, you know… no offense, ma’am.” He tipped his hat at Señora Pacifica.

  Brannon quickly convinced the freighter to stay long enough for the Señora to select a few items for herself. As she rummaged through the supplies, Brannon led Reynolds among the rocks to Porter.

  In a brief but heated conversation, Porter told Reynolds to shoot Brannon or to toss him a gun. When Reynolds refused, Porter spewed a long diatribe about both men’s origin and gave his opinion of their worth.

  Reynolds climbed down from the rocks shaking his head. “That’s the great Captain Porter?”

  “It takes a wise man to know when to quit.”

  “Like General Lee?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, I’ll be. I jist didn’t expect… say, are the Apaches really coming here?”

  “They sure are.”

  “Well,
if you don’t mind,” Reynolds gulped, “I think I’ll go on with these boys to Magdalena.”

  “That would be a smart thing to do.”

  Brannon walked toward the other side of the wagon.

  “Do not come around yet,” the Señora said.

  Five minutes later, permission granted, she wore the brightest green dress he had ever seen. Almost turquoise. With black lace trim. Her hair neatly pulled back with a jeweled comb, she wore new black lace-up shoes.

  “How do I look? I could not find everything, of course, but I do feel much better.”

  Brannon grinned. “You make me feel like an old sagebrush next to a beautiful rose.”

  “Here, this is for you. He had a shirt of the same material as my dress. You will look good in this color.”

  “Thanks, Victoria, but I couldn’t wear anything that bright. Besides, a man could get shot from four hundred yards away wearing a shirt like that.”

  “Oh, then I will not buy the dress. I do not want to get shot either.”

  “What? No… I didn’t mean—”

  “Will you wear the shirt?”

  “Yeah, give me the shirt.”

  The freighter turned his wagon around and signaled for Reynolds and Wallace to load up. He turned his attention to Brannon.

  “Well, Mister, I don’t know why you folks is waitin’ for ’Paches, but good luck. What was your name?”

  “Brannon. Stuart Brannon.”

  “Bannon, you say?”

  “Brannon, not Bannon.”

  “I once knew a Bannon over at Stockton when I was freightin’ up in the mother lode in Californy. You related to those Bannons? No, I think it was Bancock. Anyway, are you related to them folks in Stockton?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just curious. That old boy still owes me five cash dollars. If you’re ever over that way and run across him, tell him I ain’t forgot it neither.” With that, he cracked the whip and the wagon lumbered westward out of Adobe Wells.

  “Well, Mr. Bannon, you really impressed him.”

  “I can tell you one thing—you’re the one who looks impressive.”

  “Thank you very much. This will do nicely until I get my… oh… they all burned, didn’t they?”

  “You’ll need to do some shopping.”