Standoff At Sunrise Creek Page 3

  It’s a standoff… or one side is pinned down and the others are waiting. They’re saving bullets for something. If I keep to the trees, then down the row of oaks… maybe I’ll be able to sight them.

  Brannon didn’t locate a trail that would bypass the confrontation. He didn’t even think to look for one.

  As he drew closer to the occasional rifle shots, he spotted unshod pony tracks in the reddish-brown, grassless soil.

  Okay, one side is Indian… but against whom? And why?

  He tied El Viento to a stubby tree. Shoving all his extra cartridges into his coat pockets, he slipped his knife into his boot. Stalking from one tree to another, he approached the gunfire.

  Apaches! They’ve got someone pinned down, but they sure aren’t taking any chances. A man couldn’t shoot them from even this angle.

  He could spot Indian movement, but he wasn’t close enough to count numbers. They scurried from location to location, firing few shots.

  They’re closing in! Whoever’s pinned down is getting desperate. They’re wasting their shells… scared to death, no doubt.

  Brannon knew how they felt.

  Apaches don’t quit. Ever. Either you kill them or they kill you. Or they capture you and… He refused to even think about what would happen then.

  I can’t fight them single-handed—not that many. I’ll have to scare them off… make them think I’m greater in number… or power… or by sheer terror.

  “Lord, this would be a good time to have about a hundred soldiers from Whipple Barracks ride up the road.”

  He turned quickly to the right to glance at the western horizon. A blur, a shadow, a movement only steps behind him caused him to jerk his head back. A rifle barrel crashed into his right arm. He dropped the Winchester. Stumbling backward, falling to the ground, he tugged at his Colt with his left hand and turned.

  The butt of a rifle jammed into his stomach. He gasped for breath as the Colt fell to the ground. Doubled over with his shoulder almost on his knees, he yanked his knife from his boot and flailed wildly at the sound of a hammer cocking on the rifle.

  Slicing through the attacker’s arm caused the Indian to drop the weapon and scream. Brannon thought he heard gunfire in the distance.

  Either they’re shooting at me… or they’re too busy to notice what’s happening up here.

  The Indian, clutching his bleeding arm against his chest, yanked a knife from his belt. He lunged at Brannon, who jumped back and sliced at the man as he tumbled forward. This time he gashed the other arm.

  As the Indian clutched his new wound, Brannon landed a jaw-crunching roundhouse right. The Indian toppled to the ground, banged his head against a boulder and didn’t move.

  Brannon lunged for his weapons and searched the landscape for other attackers. The Indians all seemed to be occupied at the standoff down below.

  They’re moving in now. It’s about over. Where did this old boy come from? He must have been back with the horses. What horses?

  Brannon ran to the crest of the hill to the east and spotted a dozen horses in the draw. Trotting, he dragged the unconscious Indian over to the little clearing and approached a tall paint pony.

  If I were the chief, this would be my horse.

  He shoved the Indian backwards into the saddle of the paint, and then lashed his wounded arms behind him, tied to the saddle horn. Brannon gagged the Indian with his bandanna and used the saddle strings to tie the man’s legs to the stirrup. The Indian began to come to and labored to free his hands and feet.

  Pulling down the reata that served as a barrier for the horses, Brannon led the paint down the hill towards the gunfire. He expected all the other horses to follow.

  He stopped a couple hundred feet above the shooting and slapped the paint on the rump with his hat. The horses sprinted towards the Indians, who, still keeping their position, turned their guns toward the herd. They froze when they saw their wounded friend lashed backwards to the lead horse.

  It was the split second Brannon needed.

  In six rapid, booming shots, he brought down six horses including the big paint. The Indians seized the remaining horses and fled to the east without firing a shot in Brannon’s direction. One Indian pulled the wounded man free and urged him on foot down the wagon road.

  “Ho! You in the rocks,” Brannon shouted. “I’m coming down.”

  “You’re a welcome sight,” a man hollered back. “How many of ya are there?”

  “Just me.”

  “One?”

  “And how many are in the rocks?” Brannon called back.

  “Six of us—but three are wounded real bad.”

  Brannon approached the rocks as a tall, gray-haired man in a sergeant’s uniform walked towards him.

  “Army?” Brannon questioned.

  “From Whipple Barracks. I’m Sergeant Cloverdale. Where in the world did you learn that trick?”

  “Backward in the saddle and shooting the horses?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From the Chiricahua Apache south of Camp Bowie about four years ago. Only the poor man they strapped to the saddle had his face burnt off.”

  “Savages!”

  “Yeah, and it’s effective. I still have nightmares about it,” Brannon added. “You got your horses?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think the men can ride.”

  “They don’t have any choice. Load ’em up. I’ll grab my pony and we’ll head back to the barracks as fast as we dare.”

  “I didn’t catch your name, Mister,” the sergeant yelled.

  “Brannon,” he replied as he ran up the hill.

  At best a ten-minute lead… they’ll be back… back to gather their gear off these dead horses… back to retaliate… back to make someone pay.

  He spurred El Viento towards the roadway and the soldiers who were trying to pack their wounded colleagues into the saddles.

  “Ain’t no use…” the one with the severe stomach wound gasped. “I cain’t ride.”

  “Mister,” Brannon shouted, “in ten minutes those Apaches will return, and God help the man they find alive. The only chance you’ve got is to make it back to a doc.”

  “The ride will kill me,” the man groaned.

  “It’s not the worst thing that can happen,” Brannon barked.

  “And I say we hole up here and fight ‘em. There ain’t no more than a dozen of ‘em.”

  Sergeant Cloverdale grabbed the man by the hips and shoved him on up into the saddle. “Taylor, that’s Stuart Brannon you’re talkin’ to.”

  “Brannon? You’re Stuart Brannon?”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Eh… no sir. I just heard… you know how folks talk. People have said, well, I never thought I’d meet you. I should have known no one else would take ‘em on single-handed like that.”

  Brannon turned to the mounted Cloverdale. “Sergeant, you’re in command of these troops, and if it seems correct, you take one healthy man with you up front. Me and the other man will bring up the drag, and we’ll put the wounded men in the middle.”

  “You’ve got no argument from me, Mr. Brannon. Line up, men. Let’s move out. We’ll have to keep her at a trot as long as we can.”

  Two of the wounded men had lost a considerable amount of blood and were extremely weak as they bounced along. They clutched tightly to the horns of the McClellans and bounced in and out of consciousness.

  Taylor broke out in a cold sweat and began singing.

  Maxwelton’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the dew, And ‘twas there that Annie Laurie gave me her promise true; Gave me her promise true, which ne’er forgot will be. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die.

  Cloverdale brought the men to a halt, but the wounded man sang on. “Taylor,” he shouted.

  Brannon pulled up, stood in the stirrups to glance back down the road, pulled off his hat, and ran a gloveless hand through his dark brown hair. “Sergeant… let him sing.”

  “The fever’s making
him delirious.”

  “I know, but every man’s got a right to a death song.”

  The sergeant stared at him. “You’re right, Brannon. Even the Apaches have that right. I was with Major Brown in 72.”

  “At the cave in the Superstitions?”

  “Yeah… I heard ‘em singin’. Any man that doesn’t stand in fear of Apache bravery is a fool.”

  Brannon rode up alongside the singing man and managed to pull off Taylor’s bandanna. He soaked it with water and tied the wet rag around the fevered man’s forehead. “Sing it, Private. Sing it all.”

  The man sang, cried, cursed, and hollered for the next fifteen minutes as they rode hard to the west. “General Sheridan,” he cried. “I won’t ride for Custer. He’s a dog. Give me Crook, or at least Miles… but I won’t ride for Custer.”

  Her brow is like the snowdrift; her throat is like the swan; Her face, it is the fairest that e’er the sun shone on; That e’er…

  The singing stopped.

  The man slumped forward across the horse’s neck and tumbled to the road. All the riders reined up. The sergeant hit the ground first to check on the downed man. Brannon knew the verdict before Cloverdale nodded to the others and hoisted the dead man across the saddle. Once the body was laced on, they resumed their journey.

  Brannon sang now, but soon all the men joined him.

  That e’er the sun shone on; and dark blue is her eye, And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die.

  The trip proved quiet and uneventful for the rest of the day and on into the night. They didn’t even consider stopping. The wounded men held on, and the others spoke little. At dawn they came to a creek crossing in a small valley, and they stopped to rest the horses.

  “Brannon, I’m sending Houghton on into Whipple to get an ambulance wagon headed this way. I’m gambling that twelve Indians on six horses won’t follow us now.”

  Brannon took a fat stick and began to rub the sweat off El Viento. “I believe you’re right, Sergeant. How are your men?”

  “Looks like we’ll get them home, thanks to you.”

  “I’m mighty glad it worked. I really didn’t have a backup plan.”

  “Well, it was our luck.”

  “Or Providence,” Brannon added.

  “You saying that it was the Almighty’s doin’s?”

  Brannon resat his saddle. “What I’m saying is that everything is the Lord’s doin’s.”

  Late that day when he caught sight of a column of troops and an ambulance wagon, Brannon began to relax. He waited for Sergeant Cloverdale to finish loading the wounded men in the wagon.

  “Mr. Brannon, you in a hurry to go into Prescott?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hate to imposition you, but I’d appreciate if you could stop by the barracks and give your account of the attack to the captain. It might help us to identify which band that was.”

  “That sounds reasonable. Can you check and see if a civilian can use your wire to send a telegraph?”

  “That’s a guarantee. Say, Brannon,” the sergeant continued, “the men and I would be honored to buy you a round of the best whiskey in Prescott.”

  Brannon pushed back his black hat and grinned. “Sergeant, you make that a big, thick steak dinner and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Don’t drink, huh? Just like ol’ man Crook.”

  Brannon laughed. “But I don’t ride a mule.”

  “You’re right about that. You got one of the finest looking ponies in the Territory. You weren’t planning on running him in the Fourth of July races, were ya?”

  “Not likely.” Brannon remounted and spurred El Viento down the road.

  ] ]

  Men sprinting to the corrals and hurried shouts of command greeted Brannon and the others as they entered Whipple Barracks. A contingent of about one hundred men prepared hurriedly to leave. Brannon started to question the sergeant about the advisability of beginning pursuit only a hour or so before sunset, but he held back. Instead, he followed the sergeant up to the headquarters.

  “Mr. Brannon, let the private take your horse and rub him down.”

  “Thank ya. I appreciate it.” Turning to the private, he asked, “If you could… do you mind graining him? Not too much now. If he gets really wound up, he won’t stop running until we get to Florence. I’ll pay for the grain.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” the private replied. “No cost.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Brannon,” the young man continued, “I heard about what you did down on San Simon Creek… and I heard about what you did over in New Mexico and Colorado… and, well, I just never thought I’d get to meet you. Yes, sir, I’m mighty proud to make your acquaintance.” He vigorously shook Brannon’s hand.

  It wasn’t the last hand he shook.

  After giving his report to Captain Wells and politely declining an offer to ride out as a scout with the departing battalion, Brannon followed Cloverdale to the telegraph office. A group of soldiers huddled on the porch as they approached.

  “That’s him right there.” One of them pointed.

  “That ain’t him… Brannon’s an old man.”

  “Maybe that’s his son. I heard Stuart Brannon died years ago.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “Men, you look like schoolgirls waiting to go to the dance. Now shake hands with my friend, Stuart Brannon, and then get back to your barracks.”

  Inside the office, Brannon spoke briefly to the telegraph operator. “I want you to send a message to Camp Verde. Tell them that a dozen Apaches will be drifting back down that way. One of them has a deep slash on each arm. They won’t attack the camp, but they will steal some horses and shoot up some settlers if they can. Also, ask them if a Mexican couple, Senor and Senora Pacifica, have passed through. I’d hate to have those Apaches catch up with them.”

  When he stepped back outside the office, the private was returning El Viento.

  Brannon nodded. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

  “If you ever wanted to sell that horse… I’d sell my soul to buy him.”

  “That soul of yours has already been bought, son,” Brannon corrected.

  “What?”

  “Next time you’re sitting in the barracks killin’ time, take a look at the Bible story. It cost God a lot more than a good horse for that soul of yours. So don’t go selling it out too cheap.”

  “Yes, sir….” the young man stammered.

  “Mr. Brannon,” the sergeant interrupted, “the men who came in with us said they wanted to meet you in Prescott at the Lucky Dollar and buy you that steak dinner.”

  “Sounds fair enough. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock. Will that work?”

  “I’ll be there.” Brannon mounted and tipped his hat to the sergeant and the private.

  The private saluted back.

  Son? Did you hear that, Lisa? Am I getting that old?

  At the thought of her name, he reached back into his maleta, dug to the bottom of the bag, and clutched a small gold locket. He flipped open the lid with his thumb and held it so the evening light reflected on the small, smiling face.

  I’m on my way home, babe. I’m on my way home.

  Three

  Prescott always reminded Brannon of a New England oasis—white clapboard Victorian houses with tall rows of steps and big front porches. The old Spanish southwest design had been purposely avoided.

  Kind of makes a man feel like he’s back in the States. Lisa always loved coming home to Prescott. Especially in the spring! I should stop in on the Nashes… maybe they’ve…

  He left Arizona Territory to help him forget the past, but it was the past that called him back. Two years taught him he would never outlive or outrun what happened on that Christmas day. He didn’t like thinking about it… but it was always there, like priceless nuggets lying on the surface of his memory.

  He thought about trying to find the Barton home. Mail
would be waiting for him. But the sun had already set behind the western hills.

  If I were out on the prairie someplace, I wouldn’t hesitate to barge in and have supper with total strangers. But in town… in a town like this it probably wouldn’t be proper. And I’ve got a feeling Miss Harriet does things real proper.

  Instead Brannon rode down Second Street and pulled up at the Hassayampa Hotel. He tied El Viento to the rail, unfastened his bedroll, and clomped across the wooden sidewalk to the entrance.

  His clothes were caked thick with road dust.

  His spurs sang wildly as he walked.

  His Winchester swung from his right hand.

  His bedroll was tucked under his left arm.

  His crusty black hat was pushed back just a tad.

  “Stuart, welcome back to the Hassayampa.”

  Brannon turned to a well-dressed man in a gray-frocked coat and wire-framed eyeglasses. “Roberts? You still here? I figured you’d be rich and moved to San Francisco by now.”

  “Rich? On hotel manager’s wages? You’re the one who wandered up to the San Juans and struck gold… we heard about your mine.”

  “Yeah, well, as you can see I spent it all on clothes.”

  “You know, Stuart, the only easy money I ever made in this town was the night I bet you could whip all four of the Boswells.”

  “What did you do with all that money?”

  “Saved it until this year. Then I got married. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Married?” Brannon stepped back and surveyed the large Scottish innkeeper. “Congratulations! Who’s the bride?”

  Roberts smiled and shook his head. “You wouldn’t know her… she just moved to town last fall. An eastern girl. And smart. Wait until you meet her, Stuart. She thinks we ought to start a college out here. Can you imagine that? A college?”