The next day, Johnny Lancer was sworn in and took the stand. He knew that everyone in the courtroom was staring at him, that most of them were assuming that he was guilty of murdering his brother, and he was determined to face them all down.
Jarrod Barkley was pleased to note that as Johnny raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth, his voice conveyed a quiet conviction. Taking one last glance at his notes, Jarrod rose to approach the witness stand. At the prosecutor’s table, Marcus Webster reacted with mild surprise to the revelation that it would be Jarrod Barkley, rather than Nicholas Reed, interrogating the Defendant.
"Johnny, before you came to Lancer, what did you do for a living?" Jarrod walked over, resting his hand on the rail of the witness box.
"I was a gunfighter," Johnny answered calmly.
"Do you still consider yourself to be a gunfighter?"
"No, I put that part of my life behind me when I decided to stay at Lancer," Johnny replied quietly.
Marcus Webster, scribbling notes on the pad of paper before him, paused briefly in appreciation of what he recognized as a solid defense strategy—to confront Johnny Madrid Lancer’s past head on.
Jarrod Barkley went on to lead Johnny Lancer through a series of questions concerning the facts about his arrival at Lancer and his initial encounter with his previously unknown brother. Johnny’s replies were brief and to the point, all uttered in the same calm, quiet voice. In response to Jarrod’s queries, Johnny acknowledged that he had known and worked with Day Pardee in the past and that he had not intended to kill his former associate when he’d shot him.
“But later on, Scott shot and killed Day Pardee?”
“Yeah, that’s right. After I told’im to look out.”
“Johnny, were you angry at your brother for killing your old friend?”
“I couldn’t be, seein’ as how Day was about to kill one or both of us, if Scott hadn’t shot him first.”
“So the prosecution’s suggestion that you might have killed Scott Lancer in order to avenge the death of this Day Pardee is . . “
“Pretty damn stupid.”
“Language, Mr. Lancer,” Judge Blackwell admonished him.
“Sorry, Judge.” Johnny looked at Jarrod. “Let’s just say that idea ain’t too smart.”
Jarrod turned his face towards the floor, in order to hide a smile. From the corner of his eye, he could see a few members of the jury smiling as well. Buoyed by the hope that Johnny was making a favorable impression upon the jurymen, Jarrod tackled the next difficult topic.
“Johnny, Mr. Reed and I both warned you that if you testified in court, you would no doubt be asked about the time that you shot your brother.”
Johnny nodded. “That’s right, you did.” He turned to look directly at the twelve men seated in the jury box. “I’d do it again,” he stated firmly.
“Tell us what happened,” Jarrod suggested. Johnny outlined the essential elements of the story involving the Velasquez brothers and their desire for revenge on Johnny Madrid. He carefully explained that it had been his intention to wound Scott, that he had been convinced that if he hadn’t dropped him, that Gordon—the Velasquez’ brothers’ accomplice on the roof--- would have put a bullet in his brother’s back. Jarrod’s follow up questions required Johnny to give some hint of the depth of his concern in the aftermath of the event, his fear that his brother might not have survived.
"Johnny, let’s turn to some more recent events," Jarrod began. "You were supposed to meet your brother the day he disappeared, is that correct?"
"Yes," Johnny replied.
"Could you explain to the court what happened that day, starting with when you arrived at Grand Creek?”
"Well, when I got to the dam I saw that Scott hadn't been there yet," Johnny began, his voice low and quiet, yet it easily carried in the courtroom which had become so still that one could have heard the proverbial pin drop. "I tethered my horse and looked around at the dam while I was waitin’ for Scott...." He paused. "Only he.....Scott....never showed up."
"How long did you wait?" Jarrod asked.
"’Bout forty minutes," Johnny responded. He looked over at his father and then back at Jarrod. "I thought he must have gotten held up workin’ somewhere else so I left."
"And where did you go?"
"I went for a ride," Johnny explained, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "I wasn’t too happy. I wanted ta' talk to Scott and I wasn’t too happy when he didn’t show up."
"Did you see your brother at any time during the day?"
"No."
Jarrod nodded. Shifting topics, he tackled another of the points raised by the prosecution. "Johnny, tell us about the conversation you had with your brother about his will."
"We were out workin’ on the fenceline and Scott mentioned somethin' about havin’ his will done while he was visitin' his lawyer friend here in Sacramento. So I asked him what he was leavin’ me."
"And what did he say?"
"Well, first he said he’d left me a picture of himself...." Johnny said with a slight smile.. "I figured it was the one of him all fancied up in his army uniform.” He paused, recalling that conversation. “He mentioned a coupla other things and then he said somethin’ bout his trust fund. I asked him what that was and he told me.”
“Was that the end of the conversation, Johnny?”
“No,” Johnny said with a sigh. “I asked him if there was a lot of money and he said there was enough." Johnny stared at his hands as he continued on, willing himself to stay under control. "Scott said that the only problem was he'd have to die for me ta collect anythin’.
“’The only problem’?” Jarrod asked. “Scott did tend to have a dry sense of humor, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Johnny agreed softly.
Jarrod prompted him. “So, how did you respond to Scott’s remark about there only being one problem?”
Johnny looked directly at Jarrod. In the same calm, quiet voice, he forthrightly answered his attorney’s question. “I told him that all I'd have ta do was stop keepin’ him outta trouble. Walt and Andy heard me say it. Then Scott said somethin ta' Walt and Andy 'bout bein’ witnesses and . . and then we all went back to work."
"Did you and Scott joke like that a lot?"
"Yeah, ....well, I mean not about his will, but other things."
"Is it true that lately you and Scott had been having some disagreements?"
"Yes," Johnny replied, reluctantly. Even though Jarrod had prepared him for all of the questions he had posed so far, Johnny still was not eager to address their arguments and especially that last exchange that he had had with his brother.
"Were they due to typical sibling rivalry, normal competition between brothers or was there more to it than that?"
Johnny looked down for a moment. "Me and Scott.....well, we had our share of disagreements. But he wasn’t all that hard ta get along with most of the time.”
“Did he sometimes do things that made you angry with him?”
“Sure. Nothin’ big. He brought up a mistake I made in the books in front of his friend over there....." Johnny looked straight at Will Hayford. "and I didn’t like that, got pretty mad at ‘im."
"What about the argument which took place between the two of you the day before Scott disappeared?" Jarrod asked.
"That was a bigger one,” Johnny admitted reluctantly. "But, like Jelly would say, it was mostly just horns and rattles . . words. It seemed like lately Scott was makin' all the decisions and expectin’ me ta follow orders.” Johnny lifted his head and looked directly at the jurors again. “I admit I blew up at ‘im, and said some things I’d like ta take back, but I didn't mean anythin' by it. I would never have hurt Scott......." He paused, and looked out over the courtroom. "And I would never have let anyone else hurt him, either."
Jarrod walked away from the witness stand for a moment, then turned to face Johnny once more. After a brief pause, he fired one last question across the courtroom. "Johnny, did you kill your brother?"
"No," Johnny responded, a sad look on his face, he looked at Will Hayford, then at Harlan Garrett and finally toward the jury. "I did not kill Scott.”
"Thank you, Johnny. No further questions, your Honor."
The prosecutor casually leafed through his papers, slowly standing.
"Mr. Madrid....ah....excuse me, Lancer. You used to go by the name of Johnny Madrid, didn't you?"
"Yes," Johnny answered, keeping his face expressionless.
Marcus Webster fired more questions at him. "Is it true that you worked as a hired gun? Is it true that you killed for money?"
"I guess you--"
"A simple yes or no," Webster interjected quickly. "Did you kill for pay?"
"Yes," Johnny replied firmly.
"Was the reason that you initially came to the ranch solely because your father, Murdoch Lancer, paid you to come? He offered you one thousand dollars for one hour of your time?"
"Yes, that’s right...but..." Johnny began.
"You were aware that your brother had signed a will which left you as his principal heir, is that correct?"
"I already said I knew that," Johnny retorted. Nicholas Reed’s head came up at the slight note of irritation in his client’s voice. Johnny noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye; he kept his gaze fixed upon the tall prosecuting attorney, and renewed his resolve not to allow the man to provoke him.
Webster addressed Judge Blackwell. "Your Honor," he requested, "A simple yes or no."
"Mr. Lancer, you will respond with a simple yes or no," Blackwell instructed him.
"Yes, sir," Johnny agreed with a nod, still keeping his gaze locked on Webster.
"You stated earlier that you waited forty minutes for your brother," the prosecutor said, glancing at his notes. "Are you certain that it wasn't more like twenty minutes---or an hour?"
"It was forty minutes," Johnny replied, pulling out the pocket watch his father had given him. "I had this watch with me."
"And after waiting for him, you just went riding?"
"That’s right."
"And never went back to check on him . . . . . Now, Mr. Ma—Lancer, we've had testimony that a button from the shirt you were wearing the day Scott Lancer disappeared was found at the dam site," Webster continued. "But you denied that it could have fallen off while you were there—waiting for your brother.”
"The button was missin' when I got dressed in the morning," Johnny answered firmly.
"I see. And why would you wear a shirt with a missing button?"
"It was the only clean shirt I had," Johnny explained. "The rest of my clothes were in the wash.”
"I see," Webster murmured thoughtfully. “And of course you have no idea how the button could have gotten to that clearing beside the Creek . . .” he added ironically.
“Well actually, Mr. Webster, I do have an idea ‘bo---“
Marcus Webster interrupted the witness, smoothly changing topics. "Mr. Lancer, do you believe that Scott Lancer could sometimes be too trusting?"
"Yes, he could be," Johnny agreed, with obvious reluctance.
Webster then proceeded to ask Johnny questions in about Polly Foley, the McGloin family and, finally, about the Cassidys, Dan and Sarah. Johnny was forced to admit that he himself would not have helped those individuals, that, in fact, he had at the time disagreed with his brother’s decision to aid them. No matter how hard Johnny tried, the prosecutor still made it sound as if he was saying that Scott had been an extremely poor judge of character and that he was very often far too forgiving.
“You stated earlier, Mr. Lancer that you only shot your brother to keep him from being killed."
"That's right."
"And the only other person who could corroborate this is the man you claim was on the roof, is this correct?"
"Yes," Johnny agreed once more.
"Is it true that you were friends with this..." He paused leafing through his papers. "This Gordon, the man who you say was going to kill your brother if you didn't shoot him?"
"Yes, we---"
"Just answer, yes or no, Mr. Lancer," The prosecutor reminded him. "Isn't it also true that even after you were forced to shoot your brother, you remained friendly with this Gordon? That you let him get away?"
"Yes," Johnny admitted grudgingly.
"The truth is," Marcus fired back. "that you wanted Scott dead even then."
"No," Johnny insisted angrily. "I was a gunfighter, remember. If I’d wanted him dead, he woulda been.”
Webster paused dramatically, his eyebrows raised. “Please try to control your temper, Mr. Madrid,” he said mildly.
Johnny glared at him. “It’s Lancer,” he ground out. He knew, because he could feel their eyes on him, that Nicholas Reed and Jarrod Barkley were watching him very closely from the defense table.
“Try to remain calm, Mr. Lancer,” came the admonishment from Judge Blackwell.
Johnny half turned to look up at the Judge. “It’s kinda hard ta sit here and be accused of doing something I wouldn’t ever have done.”
The Judge looked over his glasses at Johnny. “Just answer the questions, Mr. Lancer,” he said sternly. “You’re doing fine. Proceed, Mr. Webster.”
The prosecutor tried a different tactic. “Tell, me, Mr. Lancer, didn’t you always resent your brother--- his education, his privileged upbringing?”
“No, I never held any of that against ‘im.”
“Once you found out about his will, you wanted his money didn't you?"
"No. I----"
"The button off your shirt was found at the river wasn't it, Mr. Lancer?" Marcus Webster asked, again abruptly shifting the direction of his interrogation.
"Yes. But I----"
"Do you really expect this jury to believe your button was missing in the morning?" the prosecutor asked, his face the image of disbelief. "And then it somehow mysteriously appeared at the river!"
"That's what happened!" Johnny retorted.
"The truth is you lost that button in a struggle with your brother," Webster stated theatrically. "You hit him over the head with that piece of wood and threw him in the river didn't you?"
"No! I didn’t kill him,” Johnny insisted. Then looking down, he swallowed, hard. “I didn’t kill Scott," he repeated softly.
"Regrets, Mr. Madrid? After all, what’s one more victim to a killer for hire?”
“Objection!” Jarrod Barkley shouted angrily. Behind him, Jelly shook his head in frustration while Teresa choked back a sob. Grim-faced, Murdoch Lancer could only pat her hand. Chad clenched his big hands into fists as he continued to study his cousin intently.
“Sustained.”
“No further questions, your Honor." The prosecutor quietly took his seat.
Jarrod cautiously approached the witness stand, where his client sat with bowed head. He knew that he had to try to undo the damage that the prosecution had done.
“Johnny, what was your impression of Scott, when you first met him?”
Johnny slowly raised his head, a weak, lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Well, I thought he was some just Easterner dandy, that he wouldn’t amount ta very much.”
“And?”
“And, I was wrong.”
"Johnny, did you come to respect your brother?"
"Yeah, I sure did," Johnny replied softly.
"Johnny, would you say that you admire Scott Lancer?"
"Yes," Johnny agreed once more with conviction.
"Why?" Jarrod asked simply.
Johnny started slowly: "Scott was a hard worker, and never afraid to try anything." Then he looked at Will Hayford and Harlan Garrett, seated side by side in the first row behind Marcus Webster and thought about what he wanted to say to the two men who had been privileged to know his brother for so many years. “Scott wasn’t that easy to get to know, but . . .Johnny stopped, then started again. “The thing was, almost right from the beginnin’, he accepted me as his brother.”
The dark head bowed again, as Johnny Lancer struggled to maintain his composure. Jarrod Barkley was giving him the chance to tell the court how he felt about his brother and damn if he wasn’t going to get it out, so everyone could hear. “Scott always tried ta do the right thing. It wasn’t that he was too trusting, just that he was . . . honorable . . . and expected other men to be the same. He was willing to give anyone a chance. And sometimes more’n just one, if they needed it." At that, Harlan Garrett looked up and met Johnny’s gaze, holding it for a long moment.
"Did you wish him any harm?" Jarrod asked.
"No," Johnny stated emphatically.
"One last question, Johnny," Jarrod said gravely. He eyed his friend speculatively, wondering how he would react to the unexpected query. "Did you love your brother?"
Johnny looked at Jarrod, and an expression of great sadness washed over his features, but he did not look away. "Yes," he said softly.
Jarrod Barkley waited a few beats, until the echo of that reply had faded entirely in the silent courtroom. Then, finally, "No further questions your Honor," he said. Jarrod walked back to the defense table, looking at his co-counsel, both of them knowing this had not gone quite as well as they might have hoped, but also not as badly as they might have feared. Jelly and Chad exchanged a worried look of their own, while on the other side of the courtroom, Harlan Garrett looked meaningfully and Will Hayford, who slowly nodded.
Judge Blackwell adjourned for the day, instructing them that court would reconvene the next morning, promptly at 9:00 a.m. Reed and Jarrod quietly pulled Johnny into the familiar conference room and Murdoch followed them in.
“That didn’t go as well as we could have hoped,” Jarrod observed with a sigh.
"It doesn't matter," Johnny said quietly. "I wanted the jury, my family and friends to hear me say under oath that I didn't kill Scott."
"We already knew you didn't kill him," Murdoch protested vehemently.
Johnny turned to his father, smiling sadly. "Thanks, Murdoch."
The four men seated themselves around the small table. Jarrod and Nicholas Reed began to explain what they expected to happen the next day during the closing arguments.
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Jelly Hoskins walked slowly from the Court House back towards the hotel in which he and the other members of the family were staying. The grey bearded man was sharing a room with Chad Lancer; Chad, Murdoch and Teresa had already gone on ahead to get ready to meet the Camerons for supper. Jelly shook his head; it was sure beyond him how anybody could be thinkin’ of eatin’ much of anything with this blasted court case about ta come ta an end the next day. Jarrod and that Reed fella was workin’ hard on their . . . .’closing argumints’ was what they’d called ‘em. Johnny had done a real fine job testifyin’, real fine, but Jelly was worried sick that it weren’t gonna be near good enough ta convince them city slickers on the jury.
Jelly had just about reached a small park opposite a few of the other hotels, when he recognized two men seated on a bench a short ways up ahead. It was Mr. Garrett, Scott’s grandfather and that damned Hayford fella, lookin’ pretty deep in conversation. Jelly stopped, looked around and then headed over to another bench nearby and took a seat. He wasn’t sure if the two men woulda noticed him if he’d just walked on past, they seemed like they was in the middle of some kinda serious discussion, but he wasn’t about ta take any chances. The last thing he wanted was ta have ta say anything to the likes of them.
Suddenly, one of the clerks came out of the hotel opposite, and hurried down the stairs, calling out “Mr. Garrett! Mr. Garrett!”
Jelly watched with some curiosity as Scott’s grandfather slowly rose to his feet and turned in the direction of the approaching clerk. "Yes, yes," the elderly man barked. "I'm Harlan Garrett."
"I have a telegram from Boston for you, sir." The young man handed him the telegram, which Garrett accepted. The white haired gentleman pulled a coin purse out of an interior pocket of his jacket, extracted a coin and sent the clerk on his way. Then Scott’s grandfather resumed his seat next to Will Hayford and opened the telegram. Even from his distance, Jelly could see that as the Bostonian read the message, a big smile spread across his lined face. He watched as Garrett showed the contents of the telegram to his companion. Jelly’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head in disbelief as he saw the joy on Hayford's face---the man almost threw his one arm around Harlan Garrett’s shoulders. Here Scott was dead, his brother Johnny was on trial for killin’ ‘im, and Scott’s grandfather and his so-called friend still seemed ta have somethin’ ta celebrate. Jelly was so anxious to find the Boss and fill him in, that it was all he could do to stay on his bench until the two Easterners had hurried off down the street.
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Back in his cell for the evening, while his family ate supper at their hotel and his attorneys, Barkley and Reed prepared for the next day’s closing arguments, Johnny was relieved to finally be alone. After the full day of questioning, he felt emotionally drained. Uncertain as to whether or not the men on the jury had believed him, he reminded himself that it wasn’t what was most important. What was most important was that along with the jurors, his family and friends had heard him say, under oath, that he hadn’t hurt his brother. Oh, he knew that they’d all been nothing but supportive right from the start, but it still mattered. It meant something, that he’d had his say.
Head aching, heart aching, arms folded across his chest, Johnny leaned against the bars of the cell. He thought about some of the things that had been said in the courtroom since the trial began. The prosecutor had described, repeatedly, how Scott had been waiting at the river to meet his brother. “The unsuspecting Scott Lancer” was how the attorney had referred to him, over and over. Webster had speculated that there had perhaps been some sort of struggle before Scott had ended up in the water. Scott was lean, but he was strong----the man could pack a punch, Johnny knew that first hand. Anyone who had tried to go after him would have had a fight on his hands.
The other theory was that “the unsuspecting Scott Lancer” had been taken by surprise, struck from behind. Johnny went over to the cot and flung himself down on it. He tended to lean towards that second theory himself, that Scott was much more likely to have ended up in Grand Creek if he hadn’t ever seen it coming. Which meant that Johnny had to wonder what might have been going through Scott’s mind as he fell into the current. It was bad enough to know that the last words he had exchanged with his brother were angry ones, to be worrying about how Scott might have interpreted the things that Johnny had said to him, but what was most disturbing was the knowledge that Scott had been there waiting for him and therefore it was likely that Scott had, in his last moments, believed that it was his brother who had . . . Johnny sighed and threw his arm over his face. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that Scott could have gone into the creek believing that it had been Johnny who had attacked him. More than anything, Johnny wanted to slip into a deep sleep, to escape for a while the aching in his heart and in his head, to avoid those painful thoughts.
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Suddenly, he was enveloped by the cool darkness, the throbbing in his head almost unbearable. Slipping from consciousness would have been a relief. Yet, somehow he still managed to struggle to maintain his awareness. It helped that there was an urgent voice inside his head. “Put yah feet down rivah. Always remembah, if yah fall outtah th’ canoe, put yah feet down rivah.”
He knew that he had to somehow obey that command. The words of the crusty Maine guide had been firmly imprinted upon the mind of a small boy awed by the white water of the mighty Kennebec. As his face broke the surface momentarily, he gasped for breath, pulling desperately needed air into his lungs before being drawn under once more.
Feet properly positioned, Scott Lancer ordered himself to relax, tried to hold his arms in close to his body, and waited for the next time that he felt air on his face to take another breath.
He had always been a strong swimmer, but there was no fighting this current, especially when still dazed from what had to have been a blow to the head. Bumping, scraping, tumbling, struggling to keep his feet pointed downstream and his face turned in what he thought was the direction of the sky, he could only wait for the next opportunity to breathe. All he could do was try to ride it out. It was a swift, wild, ride.
When the current finally slowed, it was some time before he realized it, lying on his back in the cool water, heart pounding ferociously, taking in gasping, achingly deep breaths. Floating down stream, looking up into the blue sky at puffy white clouds, Scott felt drained. He lay there as if suspended in time, lacking the strength to move, hearing only the beating of his heart and his own raspy breathing. The current continued to carry him gently along until he finally summoned the energy to turn over into a swimming position, to lift up his head in an attempt to survey his surroundings. <<You need to get to shore, get to shore, Boston.>> he told himself. Although it had been a few years since Scott had done any serious swimming, he found himself automatically striking out for shore, albeit with shaky, painful strokes. Only the “shore” seemed to be a sandbar in the middle of the river. But it would do. He used his aching right arm to pull his bruised and battered body up onto the soft sand . . . .halfway was the best he could do before his strength gave out. Lying with his face resting on the sand and his feet still in the current, he concentrated on trying to slow his still labored breathing. And then blessedly slipped from consciousness.
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CHAPTER 16A
Sometime later, Scott finally woke up, shaken into awareness once more by the tremors wracking his body. He was cold and damp and shivering violently. He tried to lift himself up off of the sand, but his left arm didn't seem to be working properly, didn't seem to be working at all, actually, so instead he simply rolled over onto his back. Looking up at the sky through half closed eyes, he realized that the sun was setting; he must have been lying here for hours. The sand under his back felt warm, but not warm enough to quell the trembling. Slowly, and with great effort, he bent his knees, bringing his booted feet up out of the water.
Scott leaned on his right arm and pulled himself into a reclining position. He looked up stream; the current was moderate up to the next bend, which was as far as he could see. As he stared at the flowing water of Grand Creek, impressions of being swept along by the rushing water flashed through his mind, images that he put aside with a shudder caused by more than just the chill from his wet clothing.
Still shaking with the cold, Scott heaved himself upright, until he was sitting cradling his impaired left arm in his right hand. He recognized that he was still wearing a glove on that left hand; it seemed so very long ago that he'd taken the right one off up at the damsite, tucking it under his belt so that he could more easily remove the lid from his canteen. That right glove was long gone. Now the drying leather clung tightly to his left hand, but when he tried to remove it, the first tug caused a sharp pain to shoot up his arm, leaving him gasping.
He felt numerous other pains as well, but it was the throbbing in his head of which he was most conscious-he'd been struck from behind, he was sure of it. That's what must have sent him into the creek. But by whom? And why? More dark thoughts to be pushed aside. Now was not the time to try to figure out the answers to those questions . . . . .. right now, what he needed was a fire, warmth. Some food. Perhaps a shelter of some sort. Scott dully forced himself to take inventory and recognized that he had precious little besides the damp clothes he was wearing, and even those seemed to be quite tattered. There were visible rents in several places along his black trouser legs and his beige shirt was also torn in several places that he could see, as well as having precious few buttons remaining. For now he simply refused to investigate the condition of the skin beneath those tears. He had the one glove, a now empty holster, no jacket, no hat. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, wavering a bit once he was standing upright, gritting his teeth as he realized how much it hurt to place any weight at all on his right leg. Walking any distance was clearly going to be difficult, if not impossible.
Not that there really was anywhere to walk to . . . This is a sandbar, he decided, looking around. He was not on shore, but rather on a sandbar in the middle of the stream.
Then as Scott stood there, holding his left arm and facing downstream, still shaking and dazed, he saw it-a light glowing not too far away. Someone making camp? Or was it perhaps a cabin? A fire meant much needed warmth, but how to get there? The thoughts had barely formed in his mind, when he knew the answer: that the quickest means of traveling down stream would be to float in the current once more. With grim resolve, he hobbled painfully to the water's edge.
Scott returned once more to the creek, floating on his back downstream, trying to stay close to the shoreline until he reached the vicinity of the cabin. Grasping at roots emerging from the banking, Scott hauled himself out of the current and limped slowly onto the shore. Dripping creek water, he forced himself to make his way towards the cabin, following the beckoning light. Fortunately, the log structure was only a very short distance from the creek's edge, albeit up a slight incline which left the agonized young man gasping for breath. The final step up onto the low plank porch required a tremendous effort, his concentration so focused that it never occurred to Scott to call out to whoever might be inside. Using his right hand as a guide, he edged past the front wall, bumping his way along until he reached the door. Utterly drained, he paused there for a moment, his weight resting on his right shoulder against the logs of the cabin, unable to move his left arm, barely able to stand. He noted dispassionately that at some point his body had started shivering violently once more.
Inside, the cabin's sole inhabitant had just finished his solitary supper and was about to rise from the rough hewn table in the center of the one room. Alerted to the possibility of a visitor by the scraping of a stool against the planking of the platform stoop, he grasped his shotgun and quickly stepped over to the door.
On the other side of that door, Scott Lancer thought vaguely that he should try, somehow, to knock. The young man was not sure how much longer he could stay on his feet. Placing his right hand against the smooth bark of the logs, he struggled to push himself upright, the weight causing the muscles in his arm to quiver uncontrollably. Then suddenly the door opened and light streamed out into the rapidly descending darkness. Scott weakly lifted his head, and a feeling of stunned surprise came over him as he stared at the curly-haired silhouette of the person who emerged from the cabin. Barely able to form the name through his chattering teeth and blued lips, Scott attempted to speak to the man standing in the doorway.
"John---?" he murmured, but before he could finish the thought, he slipped once more towards the black void .
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CHAPTER 16B
The man in the doorway had lived in this cabin along the edge of Grand Creek for some years now, and valued his solitude. Although surprised by the name on the stranger's lips, the cabin's occupant still reacted quickly enough to catch the blond man as he started to slump towards the porch floor, in the process allowing the shotgun to clatter to the planks at their feet. Grasping his soaking wet and shivering visitor around the waist while pulling the blond stranger's right arm over his own shoulder, he managed to maneuver the barely conscious man inside.
Scott was only vaguely aware of being eased to the floor and just felt the blessed warmth of the fire before losing consciousness altogether. The log cabin's sole inhabitant, a tall man with iron grey curly hair and a large mustache of the same color, hastily tossed a few additional logs on the fire, then returned to the still open door to retrieve his shotgun. He paused for a moment to quickly scan the looming darkness, before withdrawing to the interior, pulling the door closed behind him.
A rapid assessment showed him that the first order of business was to remove the stranger's wet clothing. He made quick work of what was left of the beige checked work shirt, noticing the multitude of scrapes and bruises which covered the lean torso. Some of the injuries would require treatment-later. He noted with interest as well the older scars that the young man bore, marks whose significance the grey haired man recognized all too readily.
Removal of the sodden leather boots proved much more difficult; when the right one finally came free, it revealed an ankle swollen to impressive size. Stripping the pants away showed that the right knee was badly bruised as well, but the heavier fabric of the stranger's dark trousers had afforded his skin much more protection from the rocks of the creek bed than had the thin cotton of the shirt. Once the young blond man was rolled into a blanket before the fire, his host readied a kettle of water. He knew that he needed to get something warming inside of his unconscious visitor. Next, he pulled some extra blankets and quilts to the floor with the intention of forming a makeshift bed. Finally, he rummaged through his trunk until he located a woolen union suit.
Noting with approval that the tremors which had convulsed the young man's body were already easing a bit, he removed the damp blanket and cast it aside; he set about forcing first one, then the other of his unexpected guest's legs into the long underwear. Just as he was about to grasp one arm, he recognized that the left shoulder was dislocated. Calling upon his past training, he efficiently popped the shoulder back into place and then methodically finished dressing the young stranger. Once the buttons were fastened, a dry wool blanket was placed over the unconscious man.
Periodically throughout the night, he arose from his bed to tend to this person who had washed up on his doorstep, so abruptly invading his solitude. He crouched beside the young man lying on his floor, keeping the fire stoked and trying to force sips of warm tea or broth between his patient's lips. Listening to the torment in the stranger's voice, trying to understand the slurred words, the grey haired man was able to discern several names, names which would be repeated often over the next several days as the blond stranger lay consumed by fever, reliving unknown struggles in a fitful sleep. Johnny. Drago. Grandfather. Carter. Murdoch. Those were the names that were mentioned most frequently. There were others: Will, Julie, Cassidy. But most often, the name that he heard was Johnny.
Already believing that his guest must have been carried downstream by the raging waters of Grand Creek, the grey haired man heard enough to begin to suspect that the fall had not been an accident. He could not help but wonder which of the people whose names had been murmured just might have played a role in initiating such a hazardous journey.
It was several days later that the two strangers came, calling out a greeting to the inhabitant of the isolated cabin. When its occupant appeared on his small plank porch, shotgun in hand, the two men in cowboy hats explained that they were looking for a friend who had been swept away by the current. They said that the missing man's name was Scott Lancer and that they had been sent by his family to search for his body. Perhaps they were telling the truth. Perhaps not. Refusing to take any chances with the young man's life, he told them he had not seen anyone for quite sometime, and sent them on their way. Turning back into the interior of the cabin once more, he addressed his unknowing guest. "So, Mr. Scott Lancer, who do you think sent them?" he asked the sleeping young man. "Well, at least now I've got a name for ya."
The man who lived alone in the cabin beside Grand Creek was not a man who trusted easily. He had seen things, especially during the War, things that had changed his life forever. He no longer felt comfortable living among a lot of people, which was why he had built this isolated cabin. Occasionally someone would pass by, but pretty much he was on his own, alone with a few animals that he kept. He liked it that way.
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Once the fever finally broke, it was still another day before Scott Lancer began to be aware of his surroundings. While still unconscious, he had been maneuvered with difficulty into the only bed in the small cabin. The owner of the cabin had also carefully bound and elevated Scott's badly swollen ankle and had partially immobilized Scott's injured left arm which would also ease his relocated shoulder.
Upon first regaining awareness, Scott blinked, once, then twice, and then slowly looking around the one room, taking in the table, the fireplace. His eyes narrowed in confusion at the unfamiliar surroundings. He was just struggling to ease himself into a sitting position when the door to the log cabin opened and he saw a man, a tall, grey-haired stranger, walking towards him. The man wore a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal another pair of grey sleeves beneath. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at Scott with his arms folded over his chest.
"Where…..where…am..I?" Scott croaked, his throat dry and scratchy.
"You're in my home, which sits alongside Grand Creek."
Squinting, Scott considered that piece of information.
"Do you remember how you got here?"
"No," he responded slowly, "not exactly."
"Well, I do believe you got here the hard way."
Scott shook his head-- he had no recollection of arriving at the cabin, didn't have any idea, in fact, as to how he had come to be here. "The hard way?" Not comprehending immediately, it was only another moment before snatches of memory began to return to him. Suddenly, it all came flooding back: the images of water, the flashes of sunlight, the sensation of being carried along helplessly in the rapid current of Grand Creek, the echo of the words of that long-ago guide, the advice about how to go "down rivah" reverberating in his head, then drowned out by the sound of water-- rushing, churning water.
The grey haired man pulled up a chair, took a seat, crossed his arms once more and waited. Leaning back against the pillows, Scott started slowly. "There's a dam up above, quite a ways, I'd guess. It's part of our ranch." The stranger nodded in comprehension.
"We'd heard it'd been breeched, my father wanted us to check on it, Johnny and I."
Scott explained that he was supposed to meet Johnny at the dam site, how when he'd arrived, he'd seen the tracks from Johnny's horse, but no sign of his brother. He told this stranger that he'd gone to fill his canteen at the water's edge and had heard a noise behind him. He'd started to turn, thinking it was his brother. The last thing Scott remembered was getting hit on the head from behind.
The grey haired man nodded thoughtfully, his suspicions confirmed. While treating some of the more serious cuts, scrapes and bruises, he had even found the large lump on the back of Scott Lancer's head. And the oft-mentioned "Johnny" was, apparently, Scott Lancer's brother
"So you didn't see who did it?"
"No, I didn't."
"Do you think it could've been your brother?"
"No," Scott said, shaking his head. He still felt somewhat confused about a lot of things but he was certain that Johnny would not have tried to kill him. Another concern came to mind, however, and he expressed it aloud, almost without realizing it. "Whoever attacked me might have . . . might have gotten to my brother first." Scott paused, his mind running through what had happened to him, trying to recall every detail of what he had seen and heard at the dam site.
"Could have."
The stranger's voice startled Scott, breaking his concentration. "Oh….ah, my name is Lancer….Scott Lancer."
"Oh, I know your name. There were two men who came here looking for you. They claimed your family sent 'em, said they were searching for a body. I didn't have any way of knowing if that was true, so I didn't let on to them that you were here. I figured it was possible that what they were looking for was to finish the job."
"Was one of the men a bit shorter than you?" Scott asked, regarding the man intently. "Young, with very dark hair and blue eyes?"
"Nope," the grey haired man replied. "One of 'em was a big, heavy set Mexican and the other one was an older man, about my age. I didn't see their hair or eyes too well though; they were both wearing hats."
Scott's mind reeled at this information, that two unknown men, had been searching for his . . body. He had to consider the possibility that his family might very well believe that he was dead. He was now even more concerned that something might have happened to Johnny; otherwise his brother would certainly have come looking for him. As Scott felt these worries wash over him, he also felt a great need to be home. He struggled to sit upright, looking around for his clothes. "I've got to get back to the ranch, find out what happened."
"Take it easy," the stranger advised. "You're in no condition to go anywhere."
"Listen, I appreciate your taking me in, Mr. …..ah…who are you? What's your name?" Scott asked, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing about this man.
His benefactor leaned forward, with his elbows resting on his knees. "You called me John when you first showed up here the other night. Do I remind you of your brother?"
"No, not really." Scott stared at the man seated beside him. He really didn't see any similarities at all between this man and his younger brother. But, to his great surprise, he did recognize a slight resemblance to John Hayford, Will's late brother. All of the Hayfords had had brown curly hair, and perhaps in the darkness . . . "You…you remind me a little of a friend of mine, whose name was John. I may have mistaken you for him."
"He from around here?"
"No. No. He was . . killed at Gettysburg."
Something unreadable flickered across the older man's face. He rose abruptly to his feet. "Well, Scott, looks like you've found yourself another John. John Jones is the name." He extended his right hand. Scott grasped the hand, while carefully masking his skepticism. He didn't feel certain of very much at the moment, but he would have wagered a great deal that John Jones was not his host's true name.
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Several more days passed before Scott had regained enough strength to move about very well on his own, still favoring his tender right ankle and knee. It seemed likely that he had jammed his leg hard against a rock during his journey down stream. John Jones pointed out that Scott had been extremely fortunate that the water level was unusually high; that fact, added to the breech in the dam, had meant that the current had carried him over, rather than into, most of the many rocks and boulders which filled the bed of Grand Creek.
Although he did not learn anything more about the background of his reticent host, Scott found himself responding to the man's questions with rather detailed stories of his own life in Boston, his travels in Europe, his arrival at the Lancer ranch and newly formed relationships with his father and brother. Scott was typically reluctant to reveal so much of a personal nature, but as Jones appeared to be very interested, it seemed the least that he could do--to repay the man for all that he had done by providing him with some mild form of entertainment.
Another topic of conversation was, of course, the probable explanations for the event that had transpired at the dam site. At one end of the spectrum was the possibility that the attack on Scott had been part of a random act of robbery by a passing drifter; at the other, that there had been a conspiracy to eliminate both Lancer brothers in order to take control of the ranch itself.
As the two of them made plans to return Scott to the ranch, Jones emphasized that the younger man should keep in mind that some unknown person had most definitely tried to kill him.
"You can't just go riding back into the ranch as if nothing happened. I didn't spend all this time fixing you up just to have you go get yourself shot or something right on your front doorstep."
Scott nodded soberly. Although he wasn't eager to accept Jones advice that he "shouldn't rule out anyone", he certainly owed this man a great deal for "fixing him up". In addition to nursing him through a fever, tending to his various injuries, feeding him and even giving up his own bed, Jones had sewn up the tears in Scott's pants and loaned him a shirt to replace the one that he had been wearing on his ill-fated trip down stream. The remains of Scott's beige work shirt had in fact been torn into strips and used to bind up his injured ankle. Since Scott's left arm was still resting in a black fabric sling, it was Jones who was working on his boots with a knife. The soaked leather had tightened as it dried; it would be impossible for Scott to get his feet into them without strategically placed slits. Fortunately, he had several virtually identical pairs waiting for him back at the ranch.
"If I were you, I'd try to keep that arm in the sling for another few days at least," Jones said as he handed Scott the first boot. "Here, give this one a try." As Scott accepted the footgear, Jones started to work on the right one, opening up space around the ankle. "One thing about that sling," Jones added, gesturing towards Scott's arm with his knife, "It could be a good place to conceal a weapon."
"It could be," Scott agreed readily, "if I had a weapon." His own gun had, of course, been lost when he'd fallen into the Creek. Although he was wearing his black belt with the silver buckle, the leather of both it and his gun belt had been badly water-soaked, scuffed and split.
Jones only reply was a nod of his head. However, once the man had handed Scott the second boot, he crossed the room to rummage through a large trunk that was pushed against the far wall. Intent upon tugging at the resisting footwear with one hand, Scott was not aware of what the man was doing until he stood beside him, holding out a gun. Scott immediately recognized the weapon as a US Army issue sidearm; he accepted the gun without comment and then checked to see that the chambers were loaded. They were.
They intended to leave the cabin very early the next morning, long before first light, using Jones' draft horse and cart. The two men had roughly estimated the time that they expected it would take to travel to the Lancer ranch, and hoped to arrive mid-morning, a relatively quiet time under normal circumstances, since everyone would be about their daily tasks. Once they entered the grounds, the plan was for Scott to remain concealed in the rear of the cart until Jones could assess the situation.
As he paced back and forth across the cabin floor, breaking in his "remodeled" boots, Scott fervently hoped that the next day would bring a happy reunion with his family and tried very hard not to think about the worst that he might find when he returned to the ranch.
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