Goldfield, Nevada mining town, 1905
Finding Stuart Brannon in Stephen Bly Books
Every novel author Stephen Bly wrote includes a mention or cameo appearance by his favorite character, Stuart Brannon. This habit proved to be very helpful when I and my three sons started research for completing his last novel, Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot.
Besides listening to the audio versions of the original Stuart Brannon Series, we scoured for all the references in the other books that would reveal the full background of who Stuart Brannon was and what he did through the years.
The historical novels, The Skinners of Goldfield Series, provided plenty of material of how Brannon was perceived through the eyes of others, especially the members of this family life saga. Also set in 1905, but in Goldfield, Nevada, Brannon knew the Skinners. Mama Dola Mae Skinner was a niece of his early partner in Hard Winter At Broken Arrow Crossing, the English adventurer and prospector Everett Davis.
From Fool’s Gold, pg. 21,22 …
“Well, I have Stuart Brannon’s autograph!” Tommy-Blue boasted. “Don’t I, Mama?”
Fool’s Gold by Stephen Bly
“We all have Stuart Brannon’s autograph,” Rita Ann sighed.
“You folks know Pop Brannon?” Gately pressed.
Dola Skinner turned back so she could look at Gately’s square chin and gray eyes. “My uncle, Everett Davis, was a very good friend of Mr. Brannon’s. We met him in Gallup, New Mexico.”
And we knew that Brannon would go to see the Skinners after his adventures of searching for Tom Wiseman, his missing U.S. Marshal friend along the Oregon coast in Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot. This helped set up one of the scenes in the book we were writing. All three books in the Skinners of Goldfield Series are available at the Bly Books bookstore.
Full excerpts of Stuart Brannon scene from Hidden Treasure . . . .
Tommy-Blue ran in. “Mama, he’s here, and I seen him!”
“Who’s here?”
“Mr. Brannon. Mr. Stuart Brannon. I seen him in front of the stock exchange.”
Dola pulled off her white cotton apron. “Stuart Brannon is here in Goldfield?”
“Danny said it was Wyatt Earp, but it was Mr. Brannon. I ought to know. We met him that one time in Gallup, New Mexico Territory.”
“Did you invite him over for breakfast?”
“I didn’t talk to him.”
Hidden Treasure by Stephen Bly
Dola walked him back to the open front double doors. “Where did you say he was?”
“At the stock exchange, but he was walkin’ south.”
“Tommy-Blue, where is Corrie?”
“I ain’t seen her, Mama. Are you goin’ to come talk to Mr. Brannon?”
“I’d like to, but I can’t go barging all over town looking for a man.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not proper.”
“You mean, we got to do things proper?”
Finding Corrie
“Right now I need to find Corrie. Would you run over to the hotel and ask Mrs. Marsh if she’s seen her?”
The nine-year-old shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But, Mama, what about Mr. Stuart Brannon?”
“I only have attention for one emergency at a time. Go see if your sister is at Mrs. Marsh’s. And if you see Mr. Brannon, tell him you are Dola Mae Davis Skinner’s son, that we met him once in Gallup, and that my uncle was his friend Everett Davis. Then tell him that your mother would love to have a visit but is tied up at the restaurant right now.”
“Mama, I couldn’t tell him all that. What if he’s packin’ a gun?”
“What difference would that make?” Dola neatly folded her apron.
“What if he’s chasin’ outlaws?”
“He’s not a lawman anymore.”
“What if there’s outlaws chasin’ him? Remember the book Stuart Brannon Ambush at Outlaw Cave?”
“I seem to have forgotten that one.” Dola shoved him out the door. “Go find your sister and get her back here. She’s in real trouble.”
Tommy-Blue stalled on the boardwalk, calling back into the restaurant. “That’s the one where Stuart Brannon hides in the back of the cave down in Mexico while Trevor and them highwaymen are squattin’ in the front of the cave talkin’ about a plot to hold up the bank. Brannon pounces on them, and there’s a big gunfight inside the cave. He kills ever’ one of them and only has a slight wound to his non-shootin’ arm. Then he discovers that the ricocheting bullets uncovered a gold vein in the side of the cave. He tells that poor Mexican family about the gold ‘cause him bein’ a foreigner, he can’t have it. They go mine the gold and become quite wealthy and buy a large hacienda just across the border from Douglas and decide to raise white-faced Herefords.”
“Tommy-Blue!” she glared down her narrow nose at him.
“I know, I know, go find Corrie Lou.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll tell Mr. Brannon that my mama wants to see him real, real bad.”
“You don’t have to put it. . . “
Tommy-Blue raced out of sight.
Is It Wyatt Earp?
Tommy-Blue tugged on the porch and watched him drive away. “You didn’t guess who’s inside?”
“It’s Wyatt Earp!” Danny shouted.
“No,” Tommy-Blue corrected. “It’s Stuart Brannon!”
“That’s what I meant,” Danny mumbled.
Dola peeked through the open restaurant door. “Mr. Brannon is here?”
“He’s been waitin’ almost an hour to see you,” Tommy-Blue explained.
She hurried to the door. “I trust you’ve entertained him.”
“He’s been listenin’ to Mama tell all about our house bein’ swallowed up,” Danny reported.
Although there was still plenty of light from the descending sun, electric lights were on when Dola entered the cafe. An aroma of roast, soapy water, and alkali dust hung in the air. At the biggest table near the kitchen door sat an older gray-haired man in an ill-fitting three-piece wool suit. White shirt buttoned at the neck, he wore no tie. Battered Stetson shoved back on his head. Clean-shaven face square-jawed, deeply tanned, and highly wrinkled. His eyebrows were a thick, bushy gray.
Sitting around the table were Nellie, Jared, and Caitlynn Rokker, plus Rita Ann. She had a notebook and pencil in front of her. Omega LaPorte and Haylee Cox lingered at the kitchen doorway. Punky sat on the old man’s knee, still clutching his wadded ball of paper.
“Mama-Mama-Mama-Mama!” Punky shouted as he squirmed to the floor and shot across the room.
The old man with slightly stooped shoulders stood and pulled of his hat. His gray hair was almost white but still thick. “Mrs. Skinner, it’s nice to see you again.”
She held out her hand. “Mr. Stuart Brannon, it’s indeed a pleasure to have you here.” She was surprised at his strong grip. “Please call me Dola Mae. Uncle Everett always did.”
Brannon nodded and grinned, cracking the wrinkles on his face. “Only if all of you call me Pop. That’s what ever’one in Arizona calls me.”
“He ain’t even totin’ a .44, Mama,” Tommy-Blue reported.
“You know,” the Arizona legend replied, “Tommy-Blue is a mighty fine name. Your great-uncle Everett was a true partner of mine, one of the best I ever had. He would have liked that name too.” Brannon stared across the room as if looking across the decades.
Stuart Brannon and His Six-Gun Story
“How come you don’t wear a six-gun anymore, Mr. Brannon?” Tommy-Blue pressed.
Stuart Brannon motioned for the boy to come over and then put his arm on Tommy-Blue’s shoulder. “A few years back I started readin’ all those dime novels that Mr. Hawthorne Miller’s been writin’ about me. I guess I got to believin’ them so much, I realized that I had personally shot and killed ever’ bad man, sneak thief, footpad, highwayman, train robber and piggy bank snatcher in North and South America and parts of Europe. Then I finally figured it out. There just isn’t anyone left to shoot! So I don’t have any reason to pack a revolver anymore. Course I do carry one in my satchel–for emergencies.”
Tommy-Blue’s eyes widened. “Wow, really? Did you really shoot them all?”
Rita Ann sat up and adjusted her glasses. “He was using a hyperbole.”
“Is that better than a Colt .44?” Tommy-Blue pressed.
“Sometimes.” Brannon grinned as his arm dropped off the boy’s shoulder.
“Mr. Brannon has been listening to the ordeal of our house,” Nellie Rokker reported.
“Yep. That isn’t right, Dola Mae. The July Extension Mine is liable for that house. I don’t know what kind of courts you got down here. I wish my good friend, Judge Kingston from Carson City, was still alive. Good man. He wouldn’t let this kind of thing happen,” Brannon declared.
Dola glanced over at Nellie Rokker and was surprised how collected and at ease the frail woman looked. “I take it you didn’t have much luck with the July Extension people?” she asked.
Nellie Rokker’s hands folded together on the table in front of her. “We sat in that office for six hours, and no one would talk to us.”
Dola could feel the dampness of the back of her dress pressing against her. “They didn’t even talk to you? I can’t believe that.”
“I can,” Omega called out from the doorway. “They wouldn’t speak to Lucian neither. They don’t think they have to listen to anyone.”
Missing Daughter
“I hear you have a missing daughter,” Brannon commented.
Dola rubbed her forehead. “I’m beginning to think she ran off with a lady friend of ours to San Francisco. I don’t know. I’m worried sick over it.”
“Sometimes the Lord can surprise us,” Brannon encouraged.
Dola studied the kind eyes of the old man. “I know, Pop. But at the moment I have a tough time trusting Him.”
“O. T. is out of town, I hear,” Brannon continued.
“Yes, and he’ll be quite disappointed at missing you. Are you going to be here long?”
Pop Brannon
Pop Brannon slowly pulled off his wool suit coat. “No, I’m headed on up to Tonopah to catch the train to Carson City. I’m goin’ antelope huntin’ up in the Black Desert with an old friend of mine.” He folded the coat and laid it across his knee. “He’s givin’ a speech in Carson City tomorrow. Then we’ll go huntin’ for a few days. He’s been kind of busy recently, and it’s our first huntin’ trip in a few years.”
“Where’s your friend from, Mr. Brannon?” Rita Ann asked.
“He’s originally from New York, but he lives in Washington, D.C., right now. Doesn’t get out west too often anymore.”
“What’s his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him. I try to read up on current news,” Rita Ann inquired. “I read every newspaper we get hold of. Don’t I, Mama?”
“She’s a very good reader, all right,” Dola said.
A sly smile crept across the old man’s face. “His name is Theodore, but I call him Teddy.” Stuart Brannon winked.
“Theodore?” Rita Ann gasped. “You mean. . .you mean, you’re going hunting with President Roosevelt?”
The old man chuckled and rocked back in his chair. “Like I said, I just call him Teddy. And he calls me Brannon.”
Rita Ann’s face turned red. She pointed across the table. “He–he–he knows the President of the United States!”
“Take some deep breaths, darlin’. You’ll be fine,” Dola said.
“But–but. . .’Oh, how I faint when I of you do write,’” Rita Ann blurted out. Then she covered her face with her hands.
“Number 80 or 81?” Brannon inquired.
Rita Ann peeked around her fingers. “What?”
“Was that Shakespeare’s 80th or 81st sonnet?” Brannon pressed.
Rita Ann dropped her hands. “It was the 80th.”
Stuart Brannon winked at her. “Even an old man likes to read somethin’ in addition to his Bible.”
“Can you stay for supper?” Dola asked.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got a stage to catch in an hour and a couple more people to talk to,” he reported.
“Well, thank you for stopping by.”
“Dola Mae, you uncle was one of the best partners I ever had in my life. I’ve grieved his death for almost thirty years now. You folks feel like family to me. I was serious about you stoppin’ down at the Triple-B Ranch sometime.”
“This is my ball.” Punky toddled over to Stuart Brannon and held up the now-frayed paper wad.
Brannon held out his hand. “Shall we play catch?”
Punky threw the ball high over Pop’s head. Dola was amazed at the old man’s quick hands. He reached up and snatched the ball out of the air. Then he examined the paper wad. “Where did you get this fine ball, Punky?”
The toddler’s eyes lit up. “Corrie gave it to me this morning’!”
“What?” Dola exclaimed.
“My ball.” Punky held out his hands. “Throw!”
Brannon tossed the round wad of paper underhanded to the two-year-old. But it was Dola’s long fingers that reached over and plucked it out of the air. “Let me see Corrie’s ball,” she murmured.
She slowly unwrapped the white paper and recognized the familiar uneven scrawl. Her heart raced as words and then a sentence came into view: “Dear Mama, forgive me. I went with my daddy. My heart would break if he left without me. Don’t hate me forever. I love you. Your less-than-perfect daughter, Corrie Lou Skinner.”
Tears clouded Dola’s eyes so quickly the final words blurred. She sat down hard on the bench behind her, hands holding her cheeks.
“Mama, what is it?” Tommy-blue asked.
Corrie’s With Daddy
“It’s okay,” she sobbed. “It’s okay now. Corrie’s with Daddy. Everything is okay.”
“Mr. Skinner…I understand the Rokkers are staying with you. I’m Kelsey McDonald from the July Extension Mine.”
“Mr. Rokker is out of town, and Mrs. Rokker is over at the hotel.”
“Which hotel is that?”
“The one where you rented a room for her family.”
“We didn’t do that,” McDonald repeated.
“Who did?”
“I have no idea. But we do have rather good news. The board of directors has a two-story house over on Sixth Avenue. We have decided to provide it free of charge to the Rokkers for a year. We want to help them during their time of great need.”
“That’s suddenly generous of you,” O. T. said. “I’m glad to see it. But I didn’t know there was a house available in town.”
“It was, eh, built for one of our directors, but he decided just a short while ago to continue to live in Tonopah instead.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” O. T. called down.
“Mr. Skinner, I understand you know Mr. Stuart Brannon. Is that correct?”
“Yes, he’s a family friend.”
McDonald’s voice grew a little louder. “Do you know how I can contact him in Carson City?”
“No, sir, I don’t. I heard that he’s goin’ huntin’ with. . . “
“With President Roosevelt?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, if you hear from Stuart Brannon, would you tell him about the July Extension providing the house for the Rokkers?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand.”
“Any chance you can come down? This is quite confidential.”
The well-dressed man was sitting on a bench on the boardwalk in front of the restaurant when the stocking-clad O. T. Skinner reached the front door. He sat down on the other end of the bench.
“Let me be quite candid, Mr. Skinner. The July Extension is not in the business of supplying houses to people. We owned the ground the Rokker shack was on. We deemed the house uninhabitable and didn’t even know the Rokkers had moved in until the sinkhole opened up.”
“Then what made you change your mind?”
“Mr. Stuart Brannon,” McDonald declared.
“What did he have to do with this?”
“He strolled into my boss’s office unannounced late this afternoon, laid a six-gun on the desk, and sat down. He said something to the effect, ‘My name is Stuart Brannon from Arizona. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m on my way up to Carson City to hunt antelope with President Roosevelt. He asked me to bring him a report on how things were going in Goldfield. Now what is this rumor that you blew up some folks’ house and heartlessly refuse to replace it?”
“And how did your boss respond?”
“His eyes grew big. Sweat popped out on his forehead. And the Rokkers get the house. We want Mr. Stuart Brannon to know that before he meets with the President.”
“Perhaps a telegram sent to the governor’s office will reach him.”
“I certainly hope so. We don’t need a bad report on the Goldfield mines. There is difficulty enough now with the miners’ union.”
Mr. McDonald From July Extension Mine
O. T. watched the short man in the three-piece suit, white shirt, and black tie disappear into the night. An old, white-haired man with a Colt .44. Maybe the Old West hasn’t been completely tamed. Oh, my, I would have liked to have seen that mine director’s face. It would’ve had more chagrin than the devil’s when Jesus walked out of the tomb!
“Mrs. Skinner, I’m Mr. McDonald from the July Extension Mine. I talked to your husband on Friday…Tell him we did reach Mr. Stuart Brannon at the state capitol, and we let him know about the Rokkers’ new home…You might show it to Mr. Brannon if he’s ever back this way.”
“I’ll do that.”
“By the way, when Stuart Brannon telegraphed back, he said to check with you to see if you got the gift from Soto’s Nursery. Did he send you any tress or shrubs or flowers?”
“Oh. . .the roses!” she said.
McDonald pulled off his bowler and fanned his face. “He sent you a rosebush?”
“No, he sent vases and fresh roses for every table at the restaurant.”
“A thoughtful fellow. Well, good day, Mrs. Skinner.”
…Stuart “Pop” Brannon sent the roses! How did he know there are twenty-four tables? He goes hunting with the President, backs down the mine officials with a gun and a glance, and sends roses. You are a delightful man, Mr. Brannon. I can’t for the life of me understand how you could be a widower for the past thirty years!
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Links You Might Enjoy
Here’s some more info on the writing of Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot Book #7, Stuart Brannon Series …
A Christian Writer’s World ~ Characters Who Grip Your Heart, Lena Nelson Dooley’s blog: http://lenanelsondooley.blogspot.com/2012/03/stuart-brannons-final-shot-stephen-bly.html
Stuart Brannon and Stephen Bly Get ‘Final Shot’ – article in Lewiston Morning Tribune newspaper:
http://lmtribune.com/a_and_e/article_23d65bba-1eb2-533e-9c5d-57b909416bed.html
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YouTube video book trailer for The Stuart Brannon western novel series, Book #7 Stuart Brannon’s Final Shot:
[youtube]http://youtu.be/ZZqu6iaObhY[/youtube]
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