Brennan's Vengeance

By Toni V. Sweeney

Rosarita was a sleepy little Texas border town until Lucas Brennan gunned down saloon owner Race Jago one morning. Because he refuses to give a motive or defend himself, the judge has no choice but to find him guilty of murder.

 

While Brennan awaits execution, Kip Wakefield tries to discover a motive for the killing and finally convinces the prisoner to tell why he shot Jago in cold blood. In the last hours before his sentence is carried out, Brennan reluctantly tells the young deputy his story. His tale is that of a man's love for his wife, a father's love for his son, and a hatred destroying two lives and affecting others. It is also the story of a man believing that once he's had his vengeance, there is nothing left for him but to die, only discovering almost too late there is always something to live for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordwooze Publishing
• Release date: May 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223715450

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was 1897, a warm spring evening at just about sunset, when the red-headed stranger rode into the little pueblo of Rosarita, Texas, tied his horse to the hitching post in front of the Little Nugget Saloon, then walked inside and shot the owner, Race Jago, dead.

While everyone was still startled into immobility, he calmly placed his pistola on the bar top, looked around, and asked, Well? Ain’t nobody gonna call th’ sheriff? He waited while someone did so.

It took a while for Walt Jessup to arrive, puffing with the exertion of running the two blocks from his office and buckling his gun belt around his big belly as he trotted into the saloon.

At sight of the sheriff, the stranger surrendered the gun, admitted he’d shot Jago in cold blood, and then fell silent. He went docilely with the sheriff to the jail, leaving the townspeople with Jago’s dead body and a thousand questions.

In the space of fifteen minutes more, some enterprising citizen with an eye to the publicity this would bring to the little town raced to the local newspaper office. Perhaps another ten after that, the same someone sent a messenger to the telegraph office, dispatching a notice to the Weekly Statesman, a key newspaper in the state capital at Austin.

Rosarita was the kind of place the dime novel writers described as a sleepy little border town. This was the most exciting, albeit disturbing, thing which happened there in nearly two dozen years; so exciting, in fact, that it gained the pueblo more than a little notoriety across the state.

While shoot-outs and violent deaths were still an expected occurrence in the smaller towns scattered throughout the remote reaches of the Panhandle, the gunning down of an unarmed citizen in front of so many witnesses was not. The Dallas Morning News sent a reporter to cover the story. Straight on his heels arrived another from the Statesman, complete with a photographer loaded with tripod, camera, and chemicals.

The Austin reporter, thinking he had the scoop of the decade, set to interviewing the prisoner. His expectations were dashed immediately.

The stranger was uncooperative.

Giving the newspaperman a stony look, he turned his back on his questioner, staring out the tiny jailhouse window as if something entirely fascinating lurked outside the bars.

Undaunted, the newspaper’s representative spoke to some of the witnesses to the murder. Surely, with so many available, he reasoned, there’d be numerous stories on which he could build a series of articles on the lawlessness still existing in the state in spite of the country’s nearing its emergence into the twentieth century. His editor might think his enterprise merited him an outstanding pay raise. To his surprise, they all told the same story with little variation and few details:

The stranger walked into the saloon, seeing the deceased standing at the bar talking to an acquaintance.

Jago! he called out so softly those standing around barely heard.

The saloon owner turned around.

Brennan? Jago spoke in complete surprise.

In answer, the stranger calmly pulled his Colt from his holster and fired. He couldn’t miss at that range, point-blank at six feet. There was a look of shock, some even added disbelief, on Race Jago’s face as he fell into the sawdust covering the saloon’s floor. He died without saying another word.

In the face of this setback, the reporter retired to his hotel room with a bottle of whisky and a freshly-sharpened lead pencil. The next day he telegraphed his editor the opening chapter of an exciting and wholly fabricated account of the dastardly act. Quoting eyewitness accounts of how the "grim-visaged stranger burst into the saloon, black death in his fiery eyes," he went on to recount how the killer drew his revolver, sending a spray of bullets around the walls, while crying out the owner’s name, wounding several innocent bystanders and totally destroying the entire inventory of liquor stacked behind the bar. All this before killing ‘the honest proprietor, Race Jago’ and finally being subdued by at least a dozen brave souls who responded to the sound of gunshots at the risk of their own lives.

During his trial, which was held with speed, if not downright haste, the stranger was equally taciturn, refusing to tell them little more than his name.

Lucas Brennan, Y’Honor. He gave no reason as to why he’d killed Jago, stating, Th’ bastard needed killin’, so I done it.

Rather than listen to twenty-seven recountings of the same story, the prosecutor called only three witnesses. Banker Albert Hardy was the first, as stiff and staid as his starched collar, and embarrassed at having to admit he was in the saloon at midday tossing down whiskey when he should have been protecting his depositors’ accounts.

Joe Grady, a wrangler from a nearby ranch, didn’t have much to add.

The third witness was Sadie Alvarez, one of Jago’s girls, dark-skinned with impossibly strawberry blonde hair belying her south-of-the-border name. Sadie sat uncomfortably in the witness chair in her respectable clothes, a long-skirted gabardine suit with a high collared, leg-o’-mutton sleeved jacket, both of which had seen better days and were obviously made for a younger, much slimmer Sadie.

She preened when the prosecutor called her "Miss Alvarez." Her account of the incident, told in a thick accent, held surprisingly little embellishment and a great deal of sincerity.

All the witnesses supplied the same details in almost the same words: the stranger walked into the saloon, called the owner’s name. Jago turned, apparently recognized him, and the stranger shot him.

No one had any idea why it happened, though many mulled over various reasons, offered, then rejected them all. The Little Nugget was the only saloon in town, so the stranger couldn’t be a gunslinger hired by a competitor. Jago was relatively honest in his dealings with the townspeople. His girls were clean and never gave a customer a dose of the clap, though the resident tinhorn regularly cheated the players who sat in on his poker games.

Jago did water down his whisky and charge too much for it, but a man didn’t shoot another man for a little thing like that. Did he?

When the stranger was called to the stand to testify in his own defense, the townsfolk thought finally they’d learn the wheretos and whyfors of the murder. At last.

A hush settled over the courtroom as he rose and walked toward the witness chair in a well-controlled and steady amble. As one, all leaned forward to catch his words. They were disappointed.

The stranger placed his hand upon the Bible thrust at him by the clerk. He muttered, I do in reply to the rapid-fire question, Do-you-swear-to-tell-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the truth? Then he eased himself into the chair next to the table where the judge, the Right Honorable Jason McIntyre, rapidly earning himself a reputation as a harsh magistrate and hanging judge, was seated.

He gave his name. Lucas Brennan.

Place of residence?

Nowhere in partic’lar.

To the prosecutor’s question he affirmed again that, yes, he shot Race Jago. After that, his cooperation ceased. He simply sat mute under the barrage of questions the lawyer asked. At last, Judge McIntyre, uncomfortable in his formal frockcoat, high collar, and tightly wrapped cravat, burst out in exasperation, Listen, Brennan, answer the questions, or I’ll…

What’ll ya do, Jedge?

When Brennan turned toward him, something in the stranger’s face stifled the rest of McIntyre’s words. He asked the question softly, almost sarcastically, with barely concealed contempt.

Throw me in th’ hoosegow? I think I’m already there.

For an instant the judge seemed unable to speak, startled by Brennan’s effrontery. His face reddened and he appeared to choke slightly. He made a sharp gesture. You’re dismissed. Get back to your seat.

Brennan stood. As calmly as he’d walked from the table, he returned to where his own lawyer sat.

By now, that worthy gentleman was tearing his hair in despair and dismay. He was Judge McIntyre’s brother. Having faced his honorable sibling many times in the courtroom, he usually enjoyed the legal battles they fought. Often he won, but in the face of the stranger’s stubborn silence, he had no defense and no plan of action. He saw no recourse but to throw his client and himself on the mercy of the court.

The jury didn’t even deliberate. As soon as both lawyers finished their final speeches—and Attorney McIntyre’s was frighteningly brief—the foreman jumped to his feet.

We got a verdict, Ya Honor, he told the judge. Turning, he looked at Luke Brennan and spoke the word they all expected to hear.

Guilty.

There was no way it could be otherwise. Twenty-seven witnesses in the Nugget saw him pull the trigger. Even with only three testifying, the stranger’s admission of the crime and refusal to give a defense, to tell them a reason why they shouldn’t condemn him, left them no choice. In spite of that, as he passed sentence, the judge was moved to ask, "Haven’t you anything you want to say?"

When the stranger looked up at him, Judge McIntyre would forever swear it was with the eyes of a man already dead, a man who’d lost all hope and life years before.

Jes’ don’t bury me near Jago, Ya Honor. I’d hate t’ think I’m gonna spend eternity next t’ thet sonofabitch.

The sound of the judge’s gavel was lost amid the uproar from the spectators as he pounded against the tabletop for order and silence.

The prisoner was taken back to the Rosarita jail to await execution, which the judge decreed would take place at dawn the next day.

It was there Kip Wakefield met Luke Brennan.

Kip was Walt Jessup’s newest deputy. He was twenty-two, a sandy-haired, fresh-faced youngster with his life as yet unsettled, which was why he’d taken that particular job. It gave him a chance to stay in Rosarita where he grew up as well as earning a little money while he decided the direction his future was heading.

Kip got a lot of ribbing from Jed Rance, Jessup’s other deputy, because of his youth, name, and a certain idealistic outlook he had concerning the hardcases passing through the Rosarita jail. It was on account of that view of life that he was intrigued by Luke Brennan.

The man probably hadn’t spoken more than two dozen words since his arrest, steadfastly not answering the sheriff’s questions. Telegraphs to various colleagues in surrounding states also elicited no information on him. As far as anyone could tell, Brennan wasn’t wanted anywhere for anything. He’d simply appeared from out of nowhere, committed a murder, and was now going to die for his crime.

Earlier that evening, Kip brought the prisoner his last meal. He hesitantly asked Brennan what he wanted, feeling an odd quivering in his gut as he spoke.

This was the first hanging in Rosarita in a dozen years. Kip had been a ten-year-old in knee britches when the last man had his horse driven out from under him. He certainly hadn’t been a witness to that one, but tomorrow he’d see his first man die and not very decently, if all he’d heard was true.

Now, he looked Brennan over as he asked the question.

He was a tall man, maybe six-foot-two to Will’s five-nine, slim and tough-looking, as if he’d been a hard worker most of his adult life. Not too old, still on the uphill side of fifty, the boy guessed. Leastways there wasn’t much white in the red hair that was a bright copper contrast to the sun-weathered darkness of his skin, with a little sprinkling at his temples mellowing the metallic sheen to a soft gold. And yet, somehow, Brennan seemed old.

It wasn’t time that had aged the man, Kip decided, but something else. Whatever it was had also taken the life out of the hazel eyes. There were lines around those eyes that once might’ve been laugh lines, little crow’s feet that crinkled when he smiled, making it seem as though at one time he’d laughed often. Now they were deeply grooved as were the lines around his mouth, chiseled by grief. It had been a long time since Luke Brennan laughed at anything, Kip was willing to bet.

Got no preference. He regarded the anxious boy solemnly a moment before answering. Whatever’s th’ fare. Don’t make no never mind t’me whether I meet m’maker on a full belly er not.

Later, Kip brought in the tray, evicting the pesky newspaper reporter and the photographer from the cell corridor once more.

They had determinedly dogged the prisoner’s steps to and from the jail, hoping to capture some desperate act on the photographic plate. The reporter planned to send it back to Austin, splashing it across the newspaper’s front page as accompaniment to more of his fabrications.

Squeezing the bulb and igniting the chemicals in the lighting tray, causing a sudden brilliance making both Kip and Brennan start, the photographer slipped the exposed plate into a black cloth bag and hastily gathered his equipment. At the newsman’s frantic urging, he made a fast exit through the back door while the reporter tipped his hat flippantly with the hand not holding his note pad and pencil, and followed.

Tomorrow he’d get a much better photograph. He’d already decided that. To make his story a salary-raising, prize-winning masterpiece. He had permission from the sheriff to set up his equipment directly in front of the scaffold.

Blinking rapidly, Kip stared at the door, trembling from the force with which it had been slammed shut. As his vision cleared, he slid the tray and the tin cup of coffee through the slit in the cell door. Brennan took the tray and returned to his cot. He sat there eating slowly, chewing the food but giving no indication he was tasting it at all.

At last, he looked up. Ain’tcha got somethin’ else t’ do, boy?

I…

Yeah?

Isn’t there anyone you’d like us to get in touch with? Kip repeated the question he asked earlier. Surely, there was someone who’d want to know what happened to him. After all, everyone had someone who worried about them. Didn’t they?

Nope.

He had a strange accent, Kip thought, sounding slightly Southern. Georgian, maybe, but like he’d been away from that state for a long, long time. At least that’s what Sheriff Jessup thought, though he appeared too young to be merely another Unreconstructed Rebel unable to live with defeat.

Brennan finished the meal, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and got up to pass back the tray and cup. After that, he lay down on the bunk and rolled over to face the wall.

Kip returned to the little office and seated himself at the desk, setting the tray on its corner. After a few minutes of staring at nothing, he opened one of the drawers and took out a book. He studied the maroon leather cover for a moment.

The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper. His ma had recommended it. Kip was fascinated by the story, of the relationships between the East Coast Indians and the British and Americans settling that section of the New World. Certainly different from the way things were between whites and the desert dwellers here in west Texas. He found his marker and began to read. That was another thing Jed Rance guyed him about, always having his nose stuck in a book. When a man has a ma who’d been a schoolmarm, he can’t help it.

Ma hoped he wouldn’t stay working for the sheriff long. She wanted him to get more education, make something of himself. That was the problem. Kip still hadn’t decided just what that something would be.

He tried to concentrate on the words before him, on the adventures of scout Hawkeye and the young Mohican brave, Uncas. He had been reading it faithfully for nearly a week now, keeping it in the drawer along with his favorite, The Sketch Book, by Washington Irving. That was one he really liked, in particular the story of Rip Van Winkle.

After a few moments, however, he shut the book and returned it to the drawer. There hadn’t been a sound from the cell, but he got up anyway and walked into the back. He stood at the door and looked in at Brennan who appeared asleep. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the keys off the peg on the wall and opened the cell, then went in.

He was taking a chance, he knew.

Brennan might be faking, might jump him and get away. There’d be hell to pay then, and certainly, he’d lose his job, but Kip didn’t care. At the moment all he knew was that he had to talk to the prisoner. He stopped by the cot, reaching out to seize Brennan’s shoulder and shake it.

Mr. Brennan? Wake up.

For a moment the prisoner didn’t move. Eventually he rolled onto his back, looked up at Kip, and muttered drowsily, What…? He sat up, glanced at the window and back at the boy, as he saw it was still dark. It ain’t dawn yet. Whaddaya want, boy?

Mr. Brennan… Was it his imagination, or was there a flicker of a smile as he said that, as if he were amused anyone would call him Mister? "Surely, there’s someone we should notify. Don’t you have anybody?" His voice held an unconscious plea as if he were begging Brennan to say yes.

Not no more. The man shook his head.

Then…please tell me. Why’d you do it?

D’ya have t’ know? The stubbornness was rising again as it had when the judge asked that question. "Look, kid, I killed Jago. I admit it, an’ I’m gonna die fer it. What does it matter why?"

"It does matter," Kip persisted.

The red head lifted then, looking at him sharply for so long Kip became uneasy, wondering if Brennan was going to try something. Slowly, his hand slid toward his holster. Not that he knew how to use the gun resting there. He’d never even fired it, in fact.

What’s your name, boy? Brennan saw the movement and smiled slightly.

Kip. Kipling Wakefield.

Kipling? One copper brow quirked slightly.

Kip waited for some jibe, like everyone did when they first heard his