The Return of Accused Killer Sally Brand

FICTION

The center of his mouth caught the sun every time he smiled, which was more of a grimace. The wider it got, the madder he was. Jesep, on the left end, had a Sharp's carbine resting on his thigh. He was quite a shot I did recall.

Nate tugged at the dusty brim of his hat. "Well now, if it ain't Miss Sally Brand, in her drugstore clothes. I sure wasn't expectin' you. Or should I call you Lila?"

"Turn 'round and ride, Nate. There'll be no transaction today."

"I was fixin' to do this easy," he said.

My second shot PEELED OFF Nate's hat . . . But I didn't figure on him hardly noticing. No sooner did I see his bald head than he commenced shooting.

"I'll die before I turn over Six Springs.' He showed his tooth, then nodded at the guns on my hips. "I see you're heeled."

My Texas-loop holsters packed two .45caliber Colts. I wore a fringed buckskin coat, the top unbuttoned to show my white scarf, and my light-green skirt with red stitching along the hem. I had on black lace-up boots, and my blond hair, the whole damnable lot of it, hung long down my back. I looked just like the way that Wesley Sharp described me in his Sally Brand dime novels.

'Cepting the scarf. That was my idea. Under my coat, I'd tied two small sacks of hog's blood that would come undone when I yanked a rawhide tether. The blood would show up good on the white silk and make its way down to the skirt. Anybody looking 'Cepting the scarf. That was my idea. Under my coat, I'd tied two small sacks of hog's blood that would come undone when I yanked a rawhide tether. The blood would show up good on the white silk and make its way down to the skirt. Anybody looking at me would figure I was shot up bad. Maybe even dead.

Nate blew a long breath and asked, "You sure ain't pretending that writer fella was truthin' about you, now are you, Miss Lila?"

Jesep's horse danced, but the rifle stayed on his leg.

"What was it he wrote about you? Best lady gunman west of Abilene?" Nate threw back his head and roared. "Just a hellcat, you are."

"I'll say it one more time, Nate-ride on. And take them circus clowns with you."

The grimace spread across Nate's whole face as the moment crawled by. Both of us knew blood was coming. The world got real small in a hurry, shrinking down to what was basic and forever.

Jesep went first, like I knew he would. But I put a bullet through his arm before he could level his rifle. The weapon hit the ground just as he leaned back and hollered at the sky. My second shot peeled off Nate's hat, which was my honest-to-goodness purpose. But I didn't figure on him hardly noticing. No sooner did I see his bald head than he commenced shooting. I ran toward a hay wagon, 20 feet off.

Halfway there a bullet hit my left calf. As I fell, I tugged on the tether. Lying on the ground, I felt the hog's blood running, along with some of my own. I drew my second Colt and worked both triggers. The Wallaces fired right back, the bullets popping into the ground around me like rain. My plan was to provoke a fight and make sure the Wallaces shot back, or else how would I be dead? But after a few shots, they were supposed to yield to my superiority with a sidearm and flee for their skins.

But they sure were taking their time. When it looked like my luck had played out, I heard a boom coming from the porch. Emma had let go with her 12-gauge, and the sound split the sky. With the shot still echoing, she Rebel-yelled, then fired the second barrel. That so startled the Wallaces, they turned their horses and skedaddled. I yanked off the bloody scarf and dropped it in the dust. Then I hobbled into the barn and hauled myself up onto Cinnamon. My calf hurt bad, but the wound wasn't dangerous. I rode out and stopped beside Emma, who was glaring at the dust on the horizon.

"You buzzards!" she cackled. "Ain't seen a Yankee yet that won't run if you give 'em cause."

"Wish me luck," I said. "Be sure to tell the girls Katie left on the first stage before all the shooting. And remember what you're gonna tell the law, just like we practiced."

"I know. I'll tell 'em you was shot up worser'n I ever seen."

"Goodbye, Emma."

"Sure wish you could set a spell, Miss Lila. I could put a pot on."

"I'm grateful, Emma. More'n I can say."

I spurred Cinnamon north toward the Whetstone Mountains. A mile out, I turned her loose, saddle and all. Then I hiked the ridgeline to the cave, careful to keep my feet on the rocks to avoid leaving tracks. Mary had left a box inside with the supplies I needed.

Working fast, I cut off most of my hair and tucked the rest up under a floppy hat. I pulled on the new clothes and left "Sally's" on the cave floor, with my holsters and pis-tols. I put on some makeup, even painting a nasty scar under my left eye. No one likes to look close at a pretty face wearing a brand. With a pair of horrible-looking spec-tacles thrown in, I reckon it was enough of a disguise that no one would spot me as Sally on the way to New Mexico.

With sincere apologies to Jack, Emma's long-dead husband whose skeleton she'd carted with her in a cedar trunk since Appo-mattox, I scattered his bones about. 'Cept the pelvis, which any fool could tell belonged to a man. At first Emma couldn't bring herself to part with Jack. But when Mary told her that we needed him to help rout the Wallaces, who were Illinois Yankees, she practically sprinted to her trunk.

Police Chief Nelson Bing didn't hear of the fight 'til next afternoon when Jesep went to Tombstone for doctoring. I knew Bing still would want to hunt me down for shoot-ing his woman-beatin' brother four years ago. He got to Six Springs the next day. By then I'd walked to the railhead at Fairbank, jumped a train and was back in Silver City. Bing and his boys searched all over for me, but 'cept for the scarf and Cinnamon, both stained with a goodly amount of blood, they didn't find so much as a bent twig.

"I make a vow to the voters of Cochise County," Nelson boasted to the Tombstone Epitaph. "I'll have Sally Brand's pistols hang-ing on my office wall within the week."

It didn't work out that way. That cave was hid so good, nobody could find it.

Six months later-plenty of time for a body to become nothing but bones - Mary Peel rode a lathered horse into Tombstone to tell Bing about the remains she'd found while hunting a stray. "It's Miss Sally!" Mary yelled, making sure the whole town heard her. "I found her body! In a cave! Come quick!"

Bing corralled a reporter from the Epitaph and one from the Nugget, then put together a coroner's jury consisting of his saloon pals. They looked over the bones and figured they'd been chawed clean by wolves. Why, them bloodthirsty devils even carried off the pelvis, they said. With the other evidence laying about, and those newspaper hacks gobbling Bing's every word, there was no chance the jury would declare anything other than what it did.

One thing I know, honey, is a man's ego. The jury concluded the remains probably were those of Lila Randall, aka Sally Brand, who came to her death by gunfire from Nate Wallace and sons.

Which is how, on a bone-cold January morning in 1888, I returned to Six Springs all made up as Katie Peel with a new look to attend the funeral of Sally Brand. What a nice affair it was, if I do say. I even cried a bit and so did Mary. Emma wept real Rebel tears at seeing her beloved Jack finally laid to rest.

Parson Handy, whose hairline was going yonder and his belly heading in a different direction altogether, got more than he expected when he tried to comfort Emma. She fell against his preaching coat and blubbered out a bucketful of tobacco juice. But I don't believe the parson was put out in the least. Last I saw, the two of them were sipping cider under a willow tree.

"Sally" was buried on the riverbank, and Bing got to hang my pistols on his wall after all. That was just fine with me as long as Nate Wallace was scared off permanent - after all, I finally had my girls, Nell and Jane, back.

That night, when everyone had gone on home, Mary told the girls that her sister, Katie, would be permanent at the farm. To them, all the emotion of the funeral showed itself more in excitement than sadness. They'd heard 'bout me, their mother, holding up stages and Such, and thought it sounded real adventurous-the way youngsters would.

"They say that our mama was the toughest gal around," Nell assured me confidently.

Jane echoed, "Mama could out-shoot Jesse James. And she was pretty as a picture with that long blond hair, just like yours was, Miss Katie. How come you cut it all off anyhow?"

"Oh, I guess you could say it was too much trouble."

We'd gathered by the fireplace for tea, me, Mary, Emma and the girls. Everyone but me wore a shawl for warmth. I couldn't feel anything except that I was finally home, and I do believe the thought made me just plain numb.

"No, girls," I said, "I'm betting your mama wasn't even halfway tough." Nell just stared, wide-eyed. Jane poked the fire with a stick.

"I bet most days she was scared, sad and wishing she had her life back," I said. "I bet all she could think about was getting back to Six Springs and holding you tight, telling you bedtime stories and making sure you growed up right, teaching you what's true and what ain't, and then how to tell the difference."

By the time I was done, tears ran down my face. I tried to stop 'em, but they busted out of me, and you can only hide so much behind a teacup.

"How come you're crying, Miss Katie?" asked Nell.

"I'm thinking about your mama and how much she loved you."

Jane turned from the fire and looked at me. "She loved us? No foolin'?"

"You really think so?" Nell asked, her face alive with a child's hope.

"I know it, darlin'. And someday you'll know it, too."

So that was how I came home. As for this here story, I'll put it in my keepsake cedar, and in five years, maybe 10, I'll show it to the girls. They need to know the truth about their mama. But until then, you can call me Katie Peel. AH

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Two backpackers experience the mountain differently