The Brothers Penn

America is a country made of music. Most of us own an ipod, and all of us own a radio, some way we can listen to sounds that make us feel happy, sad, angry, or wistful. I've taken it upon myself to take some of the modern folk songs, the story songs, the ballads, and turn them in stories, hash out the details that made the story worth singing about. Here is the first installment.



The Brothers Penn



The year was 1876, the middle of a hot June. I was punching cattle across the panhandle and across New Mexico. The Indians were putting up a fair fight, the South was getting some of its pride back and carpetbaggers were green with money. The West was as quiet as it was going to get for a long time.

I happened to be settin’ in El Paso, laying down after a long cattle drive back from Kansas, and a bit hung over when he walked through the swinging doors of Jack Doyle’s place, all haggard and dusty.

There wasn’t much left of him. He’d stepped off the stage after a long ride and looked it. He wasn’t used to our country, as the sweat and tired look about him revealed. A body gets used to being hot and tired after a while.

He was set on having a drink so he made his way to the bar. I sat a few tables away, watching heads turn at this stranger. El Paso wasn’t the quiet town it had been at one time, so the locals and regulars were wary of newcomers.

“Whiskey and a big glass of water, sir,” he muttered as he set down on a stool and took a deep breath. He carried a northern accent and a northern manner. His clothes were dandy-like, the remainders of what was a suit, and not meant for riding as long as he had been. His face was fresh and youthful, not weathered by sun and sand like the other men sitting around. He seemed nervous at being watched like that, all of us sizing him up. We all figured that he wasn’t gonna be trouble, and everybody went back to their business, unconcerned by the green in his way of lookin’ about at us. ‘Cept me. I kept watching him from beneath my hat brim as he gulped his water and sipped his whiskey.

He had no business being in El Paso.

It was a border town and a place for both banditos and commerce. The place maintained a steady population of three hundred, but everyone of them folks was on their way to somewhere else, either on business or running from the law. This wasn’t a place for greenhorns, though. There were fights and gunplay going about as a matter of course.

I was playing cards, myself, though sluggishly. As I said I was hung over. It was for fun and relaxing, though, for I liked a good game of poker. I was out of work and need something to do. I fancied myself a good card player and thought to make some money at it while I was out of work. After a might, the newcomer looked over to us and noticed our little game, and he seemed interested. He then bought some chips from the tender and sat down at our table, asking if he could buy in. The other three fellas nodded and the game went on.

Now, I was figuring him to be easy money. He had a youth about him that seemed naive, and as I was sobering up a bit, I started to push him with some tall bets, him being the short stack at the table.

He seemed to take to it and wouldn’t give, folding when he didn’t have a good shot and letting me take the blinds. The other boys saw what I was doing and played on, but somehow it always came down to him and me, and after a while, he started winning, cards or no. Sometimes he’d bluff, but he always managed to make the good hands count, and by sundown our stacks had evened out a bit. Then he started moving, and I’ll tell you what, when it came down to it, he hardly showed his hand the rest of the night. I just couldn’t call, and if I managed to, he always had me beat.

Until the last hand. Me I was sitting on triple kings, but only one of those kings sat in my hand, and figured him to be bluffing with two kings on the table. I had an unpaired jack to boot and felt mighty confident that all he had was those kings and a low card for two pair, maybe. Sure enough, he kept raising and I kept following him, calling every time. I wasn’t going to let him go. I had him in a hole and he wasn’t going to bet himself out of it.

By this time, the other boys were out and irritated about it, but they were watching close, as what a lot of the room. There was nigh to two hundred dollars in the pot, drawing them in, building the tension.

After the river card came down, he looked almighty nervous, and then raised one more time, with the rest of his chips, about twenty dollars worth. That would put me all in, but I was positive I had him, and with a pot like that, there was no way I was giving up now. Maybe I could have folded and played my way back, but I was sure I had him.

“Alright, greenhorn,” I said. “You raised, you gotta show.”

“Alright,” he said, in a confident tone that started to worry me, but all too late. Sure enough, he flopped down a King and matching low card for a full house. The small crowd gasped and swore, thinking that I had him dead to rights, for he’d been playing the part of the bluffer the whole time.

“You gotta know when to hold ‘em…” he smirked. I said nothing and just threw my cards away. He’d beaten me fair and square and I was out half a month’s pay.

“You’re Lefty the Gambler, ain’t you?” Will asked from behind the bar. “I’ve heard tell of you, playing in St. Louis and up and down the Mississippi. There’s a few boys been in here that said you was a fright with cards, and that you didn’t cheat neither.”

“I guess my reputation precedes me, gentlemen,” He admitted. “Now, since I have a good sight of money here, how about you all get yourselves a drink. It’s on me.” I was still sitting as the whole room rushed the bar, taking my time to study him. He stood up and started gathering his chips. He extended his hand “No hard feelings, mister…”

“Clyde. Clyde Anderson. Nope. You beat me fair as God almighty. I can take a lickin’ when I deserve it.” I gave his hand a shake and noticed a six gun underneath his unbuttoned suit coat. He wore it hidden enough and on his right side set for a cross draw.

“Will you take dinner then? I’m famished.” Come to think of it, neither of us had eaten since he’d walked in around four in the afternoon. It was nearly ten now and I was a sight hungry, and seeings how he had my money, I didn’t feel bad about it a ‘tall.

“I’ll take you up on that, but now that you know my name, what’s yours?”

“Jackson Penn, or just Lefty. Whatever you prefer.”

So we set down for a meal and some more drinks.


We talked while we ate about growing up and how we gotten to where we were. I was raised in rough hill country near the Mississippi and Tennessee border, farming in a little hollow where a crick kept the land fertile enough for crops. The cattle we owned had a short leg on one side though because of the steep hills, but they fed good on that bottom land hay and grass we gave them. I stayed at the farm, keeping it with my ma till I was about twenty-two, when the war came near. I joined up under Johnston at Shiloh when the Federals were pushing toward Corinth. We gave ‘em hell but to no avail. I took some canister in the left shoulder and I showed him the scars and how my shoulder clicked from the metal embedded in it. He seemed impressed.

“Well, I’m from Wisconsin,” he started. “My daddy owned an orchard and when I he passed my brother and I tried to run it but proved poor hands at it. We had a friend in St. Louis, though, that said he could get us work on the river boats, so we sold the stead and left. My brother and I worked with that friend for some time, but neither of us liked it much. I learned to gamble there, however, and that’s proved mighty well for making money. My brother took to the range and cattle, but then to things of disrepute. I haven’t seen him in nigh to ten years.”

“What brings you to El Paso, then?” I asked him between mouthfuls. He wiped his lips with a napkin and took another sip of whiskey before he spoke with a deep breath.

“Gambling, unfortunately. I’m afraid I’ve run up some debt and I have come to make a payment, of sorts. Believe me, if I didn’t have to be in this part of the country, I wouldn’t be. I prefer the city. There was so much empty wilderness on the way here that it was hard to conceive.”

“You seem awful good at what you do,” I stated. “How did you wind up in a bind like that, having to work it off so.”

“I was cheated,” he paused for a moment, holding back a bit of anger. “There was three of them and they were in collusion, working with signal and marked cards to know what was where. Any way, I got took while I was tilting. I was a little drunk too, so I didn’t want to be beat like that. I borrowed some money from the wrong guy and lost it all again.”

It was right about then that I noticed a younger feller sitting at the bar taking notice of our conversation. He had looked our way when Jackson spoke of being cheated, though he was trying to be discreet it seemed. He had come off the stage with Jackson, and I remember him watching the game pretty intently. He had a fresh face and lean muscles, though dressed as a cowboy like m’self. His hands belied such work though. I could see they were soft from where I was sitting, but that tied down holster didn’t belie anything except trouble. I wondered if Jackson knew him or even that the young gunslinger had taken interest.

“They got my ma…” Jackson stated flatly, still holding in anger. He took a shot of whiskey real fast then poured himself another.

“They killed her?” I asked.

“No, they just got her. Took her in the night from our house and they still have her. I tried to fight them off, but I got slugged a good one by somebody I didn’t see. They drug me down to the river and a man in a derby and an expensive suit told me he’d make me a deal.”

“A deal? Whose they?”

“They’re an operation. They do this, cheating at cards, making money. They work for a dark fellow named Guerra. Pablo Guerra. He has his hands in everything from rustling to prostitution, and apparently fixed poker games.”
I knew the name and he was no kitty cat. He was from Matamoros and poison on feet, making a name for himself as a killer in Texas before ducking to Missouri. He’d gone quiet for while, and had played it smart. He and his toughs were hated in these parts, having pillaged their way about the southwest thieving trains, pilgrims in their wagons, and whatever else they could find. They were a cold blooded lot and wanted by the Rangers, the Federales, and Mr. Pinkerton himself, though none had yet put their hands on any of them.

“Anyway, the deal was that I fetch somebody for him. A fellow named Pancho. I gotta take him back to St. Louis.”

“Pancho?”

I was dumbfounded. Pancho and his gang were the most famous train robbers in these parts, and furthermore the meanest bunch of killers next Pablo Guerra. They’d been thieving ever since the war ended, and were known to shoot anyone who dared stop them. Jesse James and his bunch couldn’t shake a stick at these fellers. He and Pablo were known to have disagreements, and were enemies of sorts. How Jackson had gotten between two of the more nefarious characters of the south west was beyond me.

Apparently Jackson was talking too loud, ‘cause the room got almighty quiet when he said that name. It wasn’t as if people were scared, but one always listened to conversation around him in the saloons. A saloon was where one learned of trails, trade, and what the Indian was up to. It was the way information was disseminated in those days, their being few newspapers and no maps of the territory. Jackson might not have noticed, but I did, and I knew that ears were taking in our conversation now. That young feller kept drinking, and a rough-shod looking gent further down the bar gave Jackson a stare that would take the fur off of a polecat. At that moment, I thought Jackson a fool for not sitting where he could see the bar. He may have been good at cards, but he was acting like a real tenderfoot.

“That’s a tall drink of water, Mr. Penn. You do know who you’re talking about, this Pancho feller, right?”

“I know,” was his all of his rebuttal after another swig of whiskey

“He’s not catchable.” I stated flatly

“He is.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I just am.”

“You’re loco.”

“He’s my brother.”

The room grew quieter still. Even Will has stopped to listen. Now that changed things. I’d a never saw that coming in a month of Sundays, this tenderfoot being the brother of one the saltiest characters in the Southwest. Pancho was cold and one doesn’t think of a man like that having family and a mother. He’s just bad and needs to be hung.

“What makes you think he’ll go?”

“He’ll go.” He was short with me for a reason. He knew that what he was saying no one would believe. Yet there was a confidence about him, like he had an Ace in the hole.

We were silent for a moment, him fumbling with is shot glass, me thinking he was out of his mind.

“I’m tired,” he piped up. “Where can I stay in a warm bed?”

“Maggie’s is just down the street. That’s the homiest place around. There’s another cheaper place, though, if you like waking up stiff and irritated.”

“Take me there, to Maggie’s.”

We stood and made our way out to the street. I noticed a man leaning on a post opposite from us, smoking and watching. He was one of the boys that had lost his money in the poker game.

We entered the hotel where he picked a room and paid Maggie then walked upstairs alone. Me, I sat down at her bar.

I needed a drink. Maggie kept a bar downstairs that was open late. It was mostly locals that came by, not wanting to get involved over to Will’s and his rougher customers. They knew me though, as this town was one of the places I frequented between stages and drives, so no one minded me hanging around, and Maggie was always pleasant to talk to.

I took a seat toward the end of the bar where I could see the door in the mirror that every tender kept up behind the bar for just that purpose. Maggie asked and I told her rum. She gave me a shot and set the bottle down, leaning in a bit.

“So, what’s the deal with that dandy you’re keeping up there?” she asked, speaking low to keep from prying ears. “He seems eager from what I hear.”

“He is. He thinks he can get to Pancho and keep his whiskers…”

“What of them he has,” she quipped.

“Sure. Part of me thinks he’s crazy, but he’s too confident. He has a good poker face, that’s for sure.”

“You seemed like he tetched ya a bit.” She looked at me with a smile, and you know what? I hadn’t quite realized just how pretty she was. Green eyes were hard to come by, and I guess I spent more time thinking about that scatter gun she had ‘neath the bar more than I thought about her eyes. Her face was fair with the sun and she had freckles around her nose. I hadn’t given ladies too much thought, but it would be a lie to say that I didn’t at all. Most men thought themselves above a woman, that in the end they didn’t need one, but there was always this yearning, something in me not set quite right, not having a home and a woman of my own. I would have to grow up eventually and need a place to raise a family with a pretty girl like Maggie. Or maybe it was just the rum.

There was a crash upstairs then a few shots. A window broke and then no more noise, but I was halfway up the stairs by then. I rushed into the room and saw that Jackson wasn’t in bed where had been before. His gun lay smoking on the floor and next to it blood.

I ran downstairs and untied my horse, whom I had left standing outside for such a case like the one I found myself in. I hopped up and began ran over to where Jackson’s window looked out over a small street. I continued to circle the building looking for any track at all. A horse was hitched behind the building, but it stood uneasy, moving about, though tied and unable to run. I heard some ruckus nearby, and then a fist land on hard bone. I jumped from my horse and shucked my pistol, running down a small alleyway to my right. And there I saw the two engaged in a nasty fist fight, just slugging at each other. Jackson stood on cat feet, hands readied in a left handed stance, his right brow a little bloody. His attacker was flat on his heels, wavering a little, but game enough. Jackson threw a quick jab to his face followed by a hard left to his gut. As the man bent over a tad, Jackson came with an upper cut that sent the man mans heels into the air and his back flat on the ground. Sure enough, it was one of the cowboys he’d out-played.

Just then the slightest glint of light caught my peripheral and from across the street beyond the alley and saw a dark figure standing atop the saloon, just behind the false front. I moved quick with my pistol and laid him out in two shots. He tumbled with a loud whap to the gravel.

Jackson turned very surprised to me then, looked to where the man lay not twenty yards away. “Thank you,” he said to me, wiping sweat and blood from his forehead. “I never saw that coming.”

I help him back inside to the bar while the sheriff came by dragged the would-be thief to the jail house. Maggie whipped out some first aid and took to stitching out that cut above his brow. The broken glass had laid some cuts in his arms to, and she dressed those accordingly. He took a shot to dull the pain.

“That was quick of you, Mr. Anderson.”

“One has to be,” I replied.

“I’ve never seen a person that quick, nor heard tell of it.”

“Well, I…” He stopped me.

“It seems I’m a little green to this country. I don’t know either the people or the land. As irony would have it, before I laid to sleep, I was thinking I would need a guide around here, along with some protection. You seem to fit the bill. I’ll pay eighty dollars.”

That was a fair piece of money in those days, and I was in need of it, especially after that poker game earlier. But for Pancho?

“How long should this take?” I asked.

“Just a few days.”

“You seem almighty confident for a man trying to wrestle a grizzly bear. Why? How can you be so sure that Pancho, even though he is your brother, will not shoot you outright? He’s done it before, even to his so-called friends.”

“He knows I’m coming. I have a telegraph that proves it. I thought it would be prudent to tell him I’m coming and what was happening, knowing of his reputation. He wired back that upon my arrival to El Paso I should mention I was looking for him. He said he would make sure we met. As of yet, I’ve heard nothing from him.”

I was reminded of the men who had been watching us at the saloon. They had something to do with this, no doubt.

“You’re being watched,” I said. “There were two men in the saloon that took interest in our conversation. A younger looking cowboy and an older, rougher looking man.”

“I don’t doubt it. Pablo Guerra doesn’t take chances. He’s making sure I get the job done. That young cowboy rode here with me from Jefferson. He’s not as subtle as he thinks himself to be. I understand that there is great risk in protecting me, so you do what you like.”

I didn’t want to do it. There was too much at stake, trying to convince Pancho to leave and go back to his certain death in St. Louis. Eighty dollars was good money though.

“How do I know I won’t end up full of holes?”

“You don’t. But I don’t think you will. Blood runs thicker than water, and a friend of mine is a friend of Pancho’s. The only people you have to worry about are Pablo’s men, and they’re not that tough, at least not for you. So what do you say?”

I was quiet for a bit, thinking it over. His ma was in trouble, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to do this alone.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”



The rest of the night had passed without incident and without word from Jackson’s brother. We trolled town together, always keeping an eye out, both for Pancho and also from Pablo’s men. Around noon, we got into another poker game and played until we ran our opponents plumb broke. I won back what I’d lost the night before, and Jackson took more on top of what he had won from me. We shook hands and then went to the bar for a drink. Will came over.

“You’re gonna have quit playin here soon, or I’ll not have anybody willing to play,” he said in jest. “Anyway, the man at the end of the bar has been here all morning. He’s buying you your drinks and wants you to come sit with him.”

We were wary, unsure of the man’s intentions. A drink was normally on offer of good will, however. “He may be with my brother. We can at least see what he wants.”

On our way, I loosened the thong on my holster very discreetly and Jackson unbuttoned his coat. We sat next to him and William brought our drinks.

“No need to be nervous, boys,” the man said. He was shorter than Jackson, who was an impressive six feet four, but my height, around five ten. His hands showed long days on the saddle, and his clothes were dusty. His skin was hardened, more like iron than anything else, and I caught a whiff of his breath when he spoke to us. It was hard, like kerosene.

“Brother, it’s been a long time,” he said quietly. This was Pancho.

“Surely it has, Justice.” Jackson replied.

“Why don’t we drink and leave, then we can talk more,” Pancho suggested.

“Of course.”

“Who’s this man with you?”

“My personal guide and guard, Clyde Anderson.”

Pancho smiled a bit. “It’s been a long time Clyde. I thought I recognized you. That was some time ago, back there in Wichita, wasn’t it?”

Jackson cocked an eyebrow and looked back and forth at us. “You two know each other?”

“Yep,” Pancho said. “We rode for the same brand for a bit just after I left St. Louis. He’s a good man. We fought some Indians and bandits together.”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized him before. I certainly hadn’t pegged him for Pancho himself. “Funny how things go...” I said.

“Sure is,” Pancho remarked with a smirk.

We finished out drinks and headed off into the hot afternoon, south of town to the Rio Grande, crossing into Mexico, Juarez to our south, Sierra del Christo Rey looming close to our north. We stuck to low draws and dry creek beds until we came to the very foot of the mountain. We climbed a bit and came up over a small ridge and down into a tiny hollow, where sat Pancho’s camp and his men, five of them lazing around the fire in idle conversation. They looked mean and unkempt. Looking to us, I could see fire in their eyes and a question as to why I was with the two brothers. One of them mentioned this loudly.

Pancho cooled them. “Don’t worry boys, he’s with Jackson here. He’s good, an old friend from my honest days.”

“Light and set, then! We got fresh coffee and the grub’s still hot.” The man who spoke was tall and lean, with a handlebar mustache, the rougher looking man we’d seen at Will’s the day before. He lay with his head on his saddle in the shade of the few cottonwoods that stood here and there in their little hollow. A small crick ran down from a spring somewhere on the mountain, keeping the ground green with fresh grass. It was a nice spot and out of sight from any one who was looking. From the tracks and the small pen they’d built for their horses, it seemed they used this place a lot. Logs were placed around the fire for seats, and the fire sat in a pit that they’d made over time.

I took some coffee while they talked. They spoke of their lives up till then, how Lefty had been a gambler and was doing well at it. Pancho spoke very openly of how he got into train robbing and I found his justification for it interesting.

“So why’d you need to find me?” Pancho asked. “This is a long way to come just to see a long lost brother and chaw about old times.”

Jackson told him of the situation and Pancho nodded thoughtfully. “So they sent you to fetch me, huh? Well that Pablo’s had it comin’. He didn’t take kindly to me stealing his cattle that one time, even though they weren’t his t’ begin with. Anyway, he’s got himself a tiger by the tail now. I can respect a decent criminal, but any one who steals somebody’s ma has got it laid for them. We’ll ride out tomorrow and head for St. Louis.”

He looked around the fire to his men. “This here is personal business, boys, so I ain’t asking you to come along. If you do, you’ll be doin it of your own gumption.” No one volunteered.

“I didn’t think you boys would want to.” He said. “I understand. None of you bargained for tangling with Pablo himself, but I’ve bought my chips and I’m in to play. You boys head out for wherever you go when you’re bored. Spend some of that money you’ve earned so well.”

The night came amid more conversation and talk of old days. It turned out that those bandits were pretty likable fellows, if one got on their good side.

Something alerted me. Things sounded different. Everyplace has a certain sound, how the breeze moves and the crickets chirp, but things were quiet and out of place all of a sudden.

I saw a man stand up in the darkness not ten yards out, and he shouldered a Winchester. With him came ten uniformed Federales.

The gig was up.

He spoke. “Justice Penn! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. I’m a Texas Ranger and these here are the Federales. You’ve been caught.

Pancho shot Jackson a look like I had never seen. He and his men stood up slowly, but no one laid down their guns. Everyone of them had killed men in the process of making their living and all of them would hang for it. Nobody was going to go down without a fight, dragging anyone they could to hell with them as they went.

“You double crossing….” Pancho bit his words, facing Jackson who stood between him and the Federales. I had set my gun down by now, and was walking toward the Ranger and his men. I turned when Pancho spoke.

“I’m sorry, Pancho. You’re a criminal, even though you are my brother. The Rangers and the Federal Government said I was the only way to bring you in without killing you…”

“So I could hang! Hell, no…” Pancho went for his gun, but Jackson was fast with a sleeve derringer and beat him. At the same moment, taking advantage of the distraction, the outlaws came up with their rifles and pistols and the whole place erupted into a blaze of gunfire, lighting up the night. I ducked to the ground, unarmed and wanting to stay out of the way. In seconds the whole thing was over.

I lifted my head to look around. The Ranger was stumbling down to one knee, holding his side. All of the bandits were dead as were four of the Federales, two more were wounded bad it looked. Jackson stood as he had when he shot his brother, arm outstretched, the derringer still smoking a bit.

We rode back into El Paso, the Ranger with us, his side scratched bad by a bullet. We had Pancho in tow, stretched over his horse. Jackson was quiet. I didn’t speak with him until later that night at Maggie’s.

The Ranger had left with Pancho, heading back to Austin. Jackson had received the bounty, though unwillingly. He explained to me that he was to continue to St. Louis and lead Pinkerton men to capture Pablo. He paid me then through a low tone, “He was my brother, Clyde…”
I could hear the sorrow in his voice. I thought for second, then said. “It was him or you. You only did what you had to do.”

“Maybe…” was all he said. He went back to drinking and didn’t say anything else. After second, I walked out.

As I sat at the bar that night, I heard him singing to himself from downstairs. It was a sad, mournful song with a Negro beat. He coughed and his voice cracked a bit, then he didn’t sing anymore. Maggie and I just looked at each other.

“Blood runs thicker than water. Water is the source of life, or is blood?” she asked to no one in particular.












The Brothers Penn
an adaptation of “Pancho and Lefty” as sung by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard