Scott concentrated on trying to walk without favoring his injured right leg. After a few passes across the small cabin floor, both his pacing and his thoughts about what the immediate future might hold were unexpectedly interrupted by a question about his past.
"So . .which unit were you in?"
Scott halted in surprise. Jones was standing near the cook stove with his back to him, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"It was a cavalry unit. The 83rd."
Jones nodded thoughtfully, stirring the hot liquid in his cup, the metal spoon making a soft clinking sound against the enameled edges. Scott went back to the chair in which he'd been seated, lowered his head and began to try to remove his right boot.
"That gonna work for you?"
"Yes," Scott replied with a nod, looking up at Jones from beneath uplifted brows. "And thank you." As the younger man returned his attention to his footwear once more, his host threw out another question.
"Where was it you were held?" Jones asked. Eying his guest closely, the grey haired man noted that Scott Lancer paused momentarily at that, then continued to use his one good arm to tug at the tightly clinging leather on his right foot.
"At Libby," was the terse reply.
"How long?"
Scott paused more noticeably at that one, lifting his head, but still presenting a profile to his interrogator. "A little over a year," he answered, then grunted softly as the right boot finally came free.
A year. Jones exhaled audibly in response, then set his blue enamelware cup down on the table and went over to toss another log into the fireplace. It wasn't particularly cold in the cabin, but he liked to sit and watch the flames. He drew the second chair into position near the fire before settling into it, blue mug clasped tightly in two hands, the ankle of one leg resting on the other knee. Staring into the hearth, he responded to Scott Lancer's unasked question. "You said a few things, while you were sick."
Suddenly, Scott felt . . . exposed. He'd answered Jones' queries about Boston-the man had recognized his northeastern accent. He'd even volunteered more information than he typically would have revealed about his recently formed relationships with his father and brother. But the former cavalry officer had made no mention at all of his military service. Thus far, he had scrupulously respected Jones' apparent need for privacy, assuming that the man had good reasons for wishing to keep his own identity a secret. Scott was more than grateful for Jones' assistance and recognized refraining from probing questions might be some small form of partial repayment.
Now, however, he stared hard at Jones' grey curls, at the suspenders criss-crossing the man's blue shirted back. As if in retaliation, Scott fired his own questions. "What about you?" he asked, rather more harshly than he'd intended. "Were you a doctor?"
The grey head bowed over the cup he held in his hands. Jones expelled another audible breath. "Hhhh. I suppose some would say so." The head lifted again, and, keeping his eyes fixed on the burning logs in front of him, he took a long sip of his coffee. When he spoke, it was with deliberate emphasis. "Some might say 'butcher'. . . . Amputations became my specialty." Silence filled the small cabin, until Scott's second boot fell to the floor with a soft thump.
Rising to stand in his stockinged feet, Scott lifted his chair with one hand and turned it to face the hearth, still remaining somewhat behind Jones. Resuming his seat, he struggled to adjust the knot of the black sling, trying to place it in a more comfortable position against his neck. He watched as the pile of wood shifted, setting sparks dancing in the open fireplace. "I have a friend .." Scott said finally. "The doctors took his arm, to save his life."
"And I'm sure he was eternally grateful."
Scott looked down at the cabin floor, then back into the flickering flames, remembering. "No, he wasn't, not for long while . . . but there were others who were. And I was one of them."
For a few moments, Scott's thoughts shifted back in time to the end of the War and his return to Boston, a time when he had wanted to forget everything about his role in the conflict, and especially his time in Libby Prison. Despite an awkward reunion, his youthful friendship with Will Hayford had been renewed and then strengthened. Although the two men had had quite dissimilar wartime experiences, they had found themselves connected by the difficulties that both of them were having in attempting to gather up the threads of a former life. What they had also had in common were the painful memories of a recent history that stood in dark contrast to the pleasant routine of everyday events in Boston. Each of them had been willing, even grateful, to share a portion of that story with an old friend, one who was capable of imagining the nightmare.
"He's doing very well, now," Scott concluded softly. Jones nodded his head and stared into the fire. No more words passed between them and a short while later they bid each other good night.
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The next morning, the two men set out before dawn in the small cart to which Jones had hitched his draft horse. They had decided that Scott would ride up front beside the driver until they neared the ranch, then climb into the back and hide beneath a few old army blankets. Scott glanced at Jones and then looked doubtfully over his shoulder at the bed of the wagon. It had seen better days; a few of the boards were splintered, a few had pieces missing.
Perhaps from a reluctance to resume the previous evening's conversation, neither man had very much to say, other than to offer brief comments about the route that they were traveling. Now that they were finally on their way, Scott could no longer avoid worrisome thoughts about what might have befallen his family and the other people at Lancer. Of course, there was no way of knowing what they would find when they arrived at the hacienda. He hoped to discover that the ranch remained immersed in its ordinary routine, and that only his sudden disappearance, and now fortunate return, had been the sole departures from the usual round events. Scott was still very concerned that his brother might also have been attacked by the unknown assailant and …. Scott shook his head and tried not to dwell on the worst that could have happened.
As they had expected, it was late in the morning when Scott announced that they were getting quite close to the ranch.
"Then it's time for you to get in the back."
Scott looked at Jones for a moment. "I do hate the thought of hiding in the back of the wagon," he admitted, more to himself than to his companion.
"I'm sure you do," the older man replied. "But it's best to err on the side of caution. You might not be able to do your family or anyone else any good if you're spotted before we can assess the situation."
"I know," Scott agreed, with a sigh. "You're right, . . John."
"It's Elijah," the older man stated quietly, without looking at Scott. "Name's Elijah Morse." With a gentle "whoa, now" to the horse, he reined the animal to a halt.
About to jump down from the cart, Scott paused for a moment, surprised by the man's revelation, but also struck by a vague sense that there was something familiar about that name. Unable to place it, he simply extended his hand towards his benefactor. "Thank you, Elijah," Scott said sincerely. "I- I wouldn't be here without your help."
Elijah nodded and accepted Scott's handshake. "You just be careful, now," Morse urged him. "And remember, don't rule anyone out. Someone wanted you dead, and they could still be here."
"I hope we meet again."
"Maybe we will," Elijah replied gruffly. "You do know where I live."
Scott smiled at that, and then carefully climbed down from the cart. He entered the wagon bed from the rear, lay down and covered himself with the blankets. He was still in possession of Morse's army revolver, at least until they reached the stable. The plan was for Scott to exit the cart when they passed the stable doors. He knew that there would be a few shotguns or carbines hanging inside. Once armed with his own weapon, he would be able to leave the borrowed pistol with his friend. Scott planned to circle around and enter the hacienda from the rear.
Shortly before they reached the Lancer arch, Morse softly informed his hidden passenger that there were two men approaching on horseback. Lying on his back against the rough boards, shielded from view by the blankets, Scott kept a firm grasp on the handgun. He knew that Morse had a shotgun close beside him, but the younger man also realized that he would be the one with the advantage of surprise, if gunplay were to become necessary. Scott listened intently to the sound of hoof beats that were much lighter and quicker than the plodding steps of the now weary draft horse. The riders neared them, then evidently continued on past, one voice bidding Morse a friendly "Good mornin'."
Scott peered out from under the blanket, and realized that the departing ranch hands were the Johnsons, young Walt and Walt Senior. "You recognize 'em?" Morse asked. Lifting the blanket away from his face, Scott identified the two men and expressed his certainty that all must be well at the ranch, since the father and son had so casually greeted a stranger. But Elijah insisted that Scott stay under cover until they arrived at the stable as planned, stressing to the younger man that he had most certainly been attacked, even if the ranch had not. He urged Scott once again not to be too quick to trust anyone until he found out who it was who had tried to kill him.
Reluctantly, Scott agreed to remain out of sight in the rear of the wagon. Of course he had invited his friend to stay on for a time, if all was well at the ranch, but Morse had declined. "In that case, I'd just leave you to your family reunion," the man had said, implying that he would have remained to help, had there had been clear signs of trouble. The reclusive Morse was unlikely to have changed his mind, Scott decided, and would most likely depart as soon as possible.
As expected, there was very little activity immediately outside the hacienda, and no one exited the house to offer a greeting as they drove past the front entrance. Elijah pulled the wagon up close beside the stable doors. He looked around and gave Scott the signal that all was clear---- that he could get out of the cart unseen. Surveying the area as he walked the length of the wagon bed, Scott was relieved that he did not see anything that seemed out of the ordinary. It appeared that all of their precautions had been unnecessary, after all. "Hello?" he asked of the dim interior of the stable. Hearing no reply, and after a cursory examination from the entrance, Scott deposited the Army revolver on the seat of the cart and tried to thank Morse once again. The older man waved the words away. "You know where I live," he repeated.
With that, Elijah Morse flicked the reins and the big draft horse moved off. Standing in the shadow of the stable doors, Scott watched him for a few moments, then entered the empty building to retrieve a weapon, although he now believed it to be quite unnecessary. He quickly moved towards the tack room where he expected to find a selection of long guns, but was halted by a familiar nicker. Greatly pleased to see Brunswick, he immediately went over to him, returning the horse's greeting by stroking the white blazed face and speaking softly to the animal. It was with a frown of concern that he noticed that Barranca was standing in the stall next to Brunswick. At this time of day, Johnny should be out working. . . . this did not look good. Scott hurried into the tack room and, grabbed a carbine. In order to load it, he had to withdraw his injured arm from the sling; although his movements were stiff, he decided to forego the sling for the time being. Bunching up the piece of black fabric and stuffing it into the right pocket of his borrowed shirt, he placed additional ammunition for the gun in the pocket on the left side. Slipping out the back door of the stable, Scott headed for the rear of the hacienda, planning to enter through the kitchen door.
He neither saw nor heard anyone en route. Once he reached the door of the Lancer kitchen, Scott found it slightly ajar, allowing the aroma of baking bread to escape. He slowly pushed the door with his right shoulder, keeping the weapon ready. Through the narrow opening, he glimpsed Maria, dressed all in black, except for a large light blue apron. She was seated on a kitchen chair with some embroidery work in her ample lap. The Mexican woman was busily winding a small skein of brightly colored silk thread into a tight ball.
Quickly easing his way into the room, Scott turned to lean the carbine against the wall before softly shutting the door. When he faced Maria once more, he was greeted by an expression of shocked, open-mouthed surprise on the woman's face. She rose swiftly to her feet, frantically murmuring in Spanish and crossing herself as the embroidery materials that had been in her lap cascaded to the stone floor of the kitchen. The tiny ball of red silk that she had been holding rolled under the table, leaving a long tail of scarlet thread in its wake.
His concern evident, Scott approached her, motioning with his right hand in an effort to calm the obviously startled woman. "¿Cómo . . usted Maria?"
Maria clutched at Scott's extended hand, "It is really you?" she asked, as her tears began to flow freely down her round cheeks.
"Yes," he replied, nodding reassuringly down at her, "it's really me. . .. Maria, where is everyone? Is Johnny all right?"
Still weeping, Maria released Scott's hand and shook her head. At this negative response, he felt an empty feeling starting in the pit of his stomach, but rather than pressing her for more information, Scott urgently posed another question. "Where's Murdoch?"
"He is in Sacramento. Senorita Teresa too."
Although disconcerted by this information, Scott instantly decided that there had to be a story there. "Here, sit down," he urged the woman. After helping Maria settle heavily into her seat once more, Scott crouched before her. "Now, just tell me what's been happening, why are they in Sacramento? . . . . And what happened to Johnny?" Using his good arm, he started to pick up the embroidery hoop and skeins of silk thread scattered at the woman's feet, and place them on the table beside her.
"They are there with your brother. At the court. For the trial, Juanito's trial!"
Pausing in his task, Scott's initial relief at learning that his brother was still alive was immediately replaced by confusion as to why Johnny would be on trial. His troubled blue eyes searching her face, Scott took Maria's hand in his once more. "Senora, you need to calm down and tell me," he said forcefully. "I need to understand what's happened."
Maria nodded and took a shaky breath. In rapid, accented English, she explained that when Scott had not returned for supper, a group of Lancer men had ridden out to the dam site. Scott nodded in acknowledgement; it was to be expected that the search would have started there. In response to the woman's concerned questions as to what had happened to him, Scott quickly explained that he had been waiting for Johnny to return; his brother's tracks had indicated that he had reached the spot ahead of him. He told Maria that while he was at the water's edge, he had heard someone behind him; he'd said his brother's name, but had heard no reply, then been struck from behind and gone into the water, without ever seeing his assailant.
"It was not Juanito!"
"No, I'm sure it wasn't, " Scott agreed, looking up at her from his crouching position.
"Your friend, that Senor Hayford, he says that it was your brother who struck you!"
Scott slid his glance to the floor, and then slowly rose to his feet. He was extremely dismayed by this news, though he could hardly claim to be completely surprised, given Will's repeatedly expressed concerns about Johnny and his past. Maria continued speaking in an aggrieved tone, explaining that it was Will who had seen to it that Johnny was placed under arrest, and insured that there would be a trial.
The fact that it had come to that, to a trial, gave Scott pause. He had always had a great respect for the law, faith in the legal system. As confident as he was that his brother could not possibly have been the assailant, Scott couldn't help but wonder about the sort of evidence that could have brought all this about. "Why? Do you know what reasons he gave?"
"He says that Juanito killed you for your money!"
Scott stared down at Maria, shaking his head, in total disbelief. Then, because that was not quite the question that he had meant to ask, he tried a second time. "What I meant was, what proof did he think he had against Johnny, that was enough to bring about a trial?"
Maria said something about arguments, about tracks, something about a button, mixing Spanish in with her English and speaking so quickly that Scott couldn't decipher it all. But he understood exactly what she meant when she said that if he was found guilty by the jury in Sacramento, Johnny could hang. He felt a flash of cold fear for his brother, followed by one of hot anger towards Will, both quickly tempered by his compelling need for more information.
"Senora Maria, have you had any news from Murdoch? Do you know what's happening in Sacramento? Tell me, please, and slowly . . ."
Maria drew a deep shaky breath. "Senor Lancer, he promised to send word as soon as the jury decides. Senor Johnson's son, he was there, he came back, he says that the trial, it will end on Thursday-that is in two days!"
Scott gave a quick nod and turned to exit the kitchen, heading towards the main part of the hacienda.
"Senor Scott, where are you going?"
"To Sacramento," he answered in a matter of fact tone. "I'll need to get a few things together. But I'll come back down here before I go."
She nodded, rising from her seat and waving her hands at him to leave. "You go, I will prepare some food."
At the doorway, Scott turned back towards her. "Maria?"
"Si, Senor Scott?"
"Please don't tell anyone I'm here."
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Scott went directly to the Great Room and opened the cash box to retrieve some money. He frowned at the small amount that remained, then realized Murdoch would have had to pretty much deplete the house funds for his own trip to Sacramento. As he headed upstairs, Scott wondered how much cash he had available in his room.
Once in his bedroom, he went to the armoire, quickly removed clothes for the trip, and laid them on his bed. Scott limped over to his dresser, opening the top drawer and found his money pouch. He sighed in relief, remembering that he had received a gift of money from his grandfather for his birthday and that he had put it aside for a rainy day. Clothes, money, . . . . Scott paused for a moment, remembering what Elijah's warnings. There might be someone out there who still wanted him dead; he needed a gun.
He crossed the hall and entered Johnny's room. Looking around, he was first surprised, then dismayed to see his brother's gun belt hanging on the bedpost. Scott thought about taking the gun from the holster, but hesitated at using the one that Johnny typically carried. He walked over to Johnny's armoire. He opened the left door and saw a couple of clean shirts, neatly folded; opening the right door revealed several intricately tooled leather belts. One in black leather caught his eye, as it had a matching gun belt, both with silver buckles similar to what he was wearing, and both were devoid of design. His own belt was scuffed and torn from his trip down stream; his gun belt with its empty holster had been left behind at Elijah Morse's cabin. And, of course, his gun was somewhere on the bottom of the creek bed. He frowned as he remembered that that gun had been his first gift from Murdoch.
Scott decided to borrow the matching black leather belts; although the holster was empty, the gun belt was already supplied with a row of bullets. As he removed them from the cabinet, he noticed that there were in fact some designs incised in the leather, small stars and a good sized Lancer "L" on the left hip. He smiled thinking that he'd have to ask Johnny if he'd done that so he could keep track of his left and right.
The smile quickly faded from the elder Lancer's face when he thought of where his younger sibling was. Although certain that his brother would have several other weapons secreted about his room, Scott decided not to waste any more time in a search. Seizing Johnny's gun from the belt hanging on the bedpost, Scott hurried back into his own room.
Once there, the young man stripped out off his borrowed shirt and, moving carefully so as not to aggravate his injured arm, he put on a dark blue one of his own. It took a few moments of concerted effort to remove his boots, but finally Scott tossed the cracked and slitted leather aside and selected another pair from his wardrobe. Next, the mended black pants he was wearing were exchanged for a pair of dark brown ones, with the new black leather belt slipping easily through the waistband loops. It was quickly joined by the matching gun belt, with Johnny's six gun secure in the holster. After pulling his boots on with one hand, Scott then crossed to the armoire once more and removed his caramel colored jacket. As he slipped it on, he winced in pain at the twinge in his left arm. He decided that perhaps he should keep his arm in the sling until he reached Sacramento. Thinking that he would ask Maria to help him readjust it, he grabbed the square of black fabric from the pocket of Morse's plaid shirt. He quickly packed a few additional items and then headed towards the kitchen.
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When Scott entered the room, carrying a pair of saddle bags, he was surprised to find Cipriano Sanchez waiting there in the kitchen with Maria. "Senor Scott," the Lancer Segundo greeted him, relief flooding his features as he extended a hand towards the younger man. "Dios mio. It is true." Scott dropped the saddlebags on the kitchen table in order to grasp the older man's hand, but shot a questioning glance towards Maria. She hastily moved forward to reassure him. "Senor Sanchez was with those who were searching . . he can tell you more what happened…"
Scott nodded and withdrew the black sling from the pocket of his jacket. "Por favor . ," he murmured, handing the fabric to Maria and then holding his left arm in position. As the older woman hastened to comply with his unspoken request, her eyes filled with concern, Scott looked expectantly at Cipriano.
Rather than supplying Scott with information, it was Cipriano who quickly posed several questions. "Senora Alvarez says that you were hit from behind, that you did not see anyone?"
"That's right."
"And that you were carried down with the Creek, a great distance?"
"Yes."
Cipriano shook his head sadly. "We searched on foot for a very long way, Senor, we could not believe that you would still be alive. The men, they have still been looking for . .for your body."
Scott nodded soberly as Maria reached up to fasten a knot at his neck. He had certainly considered that possibility back at the cabin, that his family and friends would most likely assume that he had perished. But the Segundo's next words sent a chill through him.
"Everyone thought that you were dead; Senor Lancer even sent word to Bos-ton to . . . su abuelo-to your grandfather."
"My grandfather was informed?" Scott asked with considerable dismay.
"Si, a telegram. I myself carried the message to town."
Scott had only a few moments to consider this information and the impact that such news would likely have had upon the elderly man. Since his grandfather's disastrous visit to the ranch, and the stunning betrayal of his blackmail attempt, the two men had communicated in a few short, stiffly worded letters. But Scott still knew that despite the rift between them---or perhaps because of it---his grandfather would have surely taken the news very hard indeed.
But Cipriano was intent upon discussing a matter of more immediate concern-the accusations against Johnny and the trial taking place in Sacramento. "The trial will end on Thursday, that is in two days," he informed Scott, repeating the same information that Maria had shared.
"You're certain of that?"
"Yes," the Segundo replied. He explained that young Walt had been in Sacramento to testify and that the ranch hand had returned with the news. Scott raised an eyebrow at the angry tone that the older man used to impart this information.
"I assume that Walt testified on Johnny's behalf?"
Cipriano nodded in affirmation. "But there was another one, Stovall, he goes to the court to speak against your brother."
"Andy? Is he here now?"
The big foreman shook his head quickly. "No, Senor, that one, he did not return." After a short silence, it was once more Cipriano's turn to ask a question. "And you, you did not see who it was?" he asked again.
"No, I didn't," Scott confirmed. "What more can you tell me?" he asked, again regarding Cipriano expectantly.
"Juanito did not do this thing! He did not!"
Scott was aware of Maria, standing on his other side, nodding emphatically. <<Do they really believe it is necessary to persuade me of that?>> he wondered. Aloud, he posed a question to his father's Segundo.
"Cipriano, do you suppose that it might have been a robbery, perhaps some one just passing through?"
The foreman shook his head, explaining that there had been no sign that any of Scott's possessions, including his carbine, had been tampered with. Scott nodded in quick comprehension; he had seen Brunswick safely in his stall and surely a thief would have taken the horse. While he was considering this, however, he almost missed something else that Sanchez was saying: "we could find no other tracks . . "
Scott regarded the older man intently. "There were no other tracks?"
"None, Senor. Your footprints only, and Juanito's . . and the tracks of your two horses."
"Cipriano, there had to have been some sign that someone else was there."
"No, Senor," the big Mexican repeated, shaking his head. "There was nothing that we could find." "It was not su hermano who did this!" he hastened to add, disturbed by the troubled expression on Scott Lancer's face.
"But someone did," was the quiet response.
"Juanito, he thinks that he knows who it was who struck you."
Scott's head lifted at that, a hopeful expression on his face, as he waited for Cipriano to elaborate upon Johnny's theory, an expression that disappeared quickly when he heard the Segundo's reply. "He fears that it was your friend, Senor Hayford. Right away, he makes sure that Juanito is put in jail, it is Juanito that he says did this thing."
"I know that," Scott said unhappily, "Maria told me. But Johnny actually thinks that it was Will who tried to kill me?"
"Si."
Scott shook his head. "I can't believe it was Will . . I've known him for a very long time . . . he stopped in mid sentence, stunned by the fierce expression on Cipriano's face. The big man actually spit on the stone floor of the kitchen before he unleashed an angry stream of Spanish-something about a "gringo" being believed before a Mexicano.
Scott could only stare at the older man in silence, quickly arranging his own face into a carefully neutral expression, while on his other side, Maria launched into her own a torrent of rapid espanol, apparently demanding to know, amongst other things, how Cipriano could speak in such a manner to Senor Scott?
"It's all right, Maria, " Scott said quietly, placing his right hand upon her shoulder. Looking Sanchez directly in the eye, he slowly explained that his doubt that Will Hayford was the assailant did not mean that he believed Johnny to be the guilty party. "Johnny is my brother. I trust him," he stated firmly. "But you need to understand that Will and I . . we grew up together, and . . .and I trust him as well." Only then did Scott remove his hand from Maria's shoulder and allow his gaze to glide away from the foreman's face. "Now it seems that they've accused each other."
Maria in turn placed her hand on Scott's arm. Looking up at Scott, she spoke quickly, earnestly. "Even though you did not share your boyhood, you and Juanito, you are . . ." she stopped and sighed, searching for the right words. "Usted son de verda hermanos del corazón." Seeing his puzzled expression, she translated slowly. "You are true brothers . . .brothers of the heart."
His expression brightened momentarily at the phrase, and she could see that the small smile reached his eyes before he lowered his gaze to the floor. Thus encouraged, Maria continued, in a motherly tone. "I cannot speak for your . . for your friend; that is for you to say. But, for Juanito . . . you go, you will see." Then, more insistently, she added, "You go and see your brother, you will know that he could not have done such a thing. Go to Sacramento."
"Maria," he replied slowly, meeting her eyes once more. "I intend to do just that." Still stung by Cipriano's accusation, Scott gave the Segundo another long look. "I plan to pick up the stage in Morada-no one will recognize me there," he informed him. "I'll leave my horse in a stable. Perhaps, Cipriano, you can send one of the men after him."
While Scott was addressing the foreman, Maria retrieved from the sideboard the food that she had packed for the young man's journey. Now she pressed the package into his free hand. Placing her own hand on his chest, where it was crossed by the black sling, she spoke reassuringly once more. "Hermanos del corazón," she repeated. "You will know, when you see him, you will know in your heart."
Scott looked down at her and, although he nodded his agreement, she was dismayed to glimpse an immeasurable sadness in the light blue eyes.
"I'm sure you're right, Senora, I know you're right. Its just that . . ." Scott turned away, and started towards the door, burdened with worry about Johnny, Will and his grandfather. His mind was filled with troubling thoughts: of his brother's anger and the heated words that had passed between them, of his friend's distrust and the persistent questions he'd been asked, of his grandfather, sitting alone in the big house in Boston, holding that telegram.
Maria's concern followed him. "What? What is it?"
Scott stopped, but did not look at her. "It's just that . . . . . . he said, then sighed. "My heart's been wrong before," he finished softly. Picking up the carbine, he walked out through the kitchen door towards the stable. Maria watched him for a long moment, holding her apron and sadly noting both his slight limp and the weary slump of the young man's normally erect shoulders. She turned to Cipriano, handing him the forgotten saddlebags and fiercely instructed him to go and help Senor Scott.
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CHAPTER 18
Carrying the saddlebags, Cipriano Sanchez obeyed Maria's instructions and followed the patron's eldest son into the stable. The usually stolid Mexican already regretted his uncharacteristic outburst. It was simply a miracle that Senor Scott had survived being carried so far downstream--- un milagro verdadero!-- and he in no way could be blamed for any of the events that had taken place after his disappearance: the hours of fruitless searching, and then the bewildering speed with which Johnny had been arrested and turned over for trial. If he was found guilty, Johnny's life could very well be forfeit, so the big foreman had wanted very much to travel to Sacramento to speak on Juanito's behalf. He had swallowed his anger in the face of Senor Barkley's reluctant explanation that the Segundo's testimony would not be likely to be as helpful as that of others who would be perceived as having more in common with the members of the Sacramento jury. Cipriano had understood exactly what the lawyer from Stockton was trying so very hard not to say directly, and it had only fueled his conviction that Juanito himself would not fare well in the trial, if he was to be judged by such men.
But there was no reason to be angry with Senor Scott, who had, after all, been the one who had nearly been killed. Not only had the blond Senor Lancer never been known to distinguish in any way between Mexicans and Anglos, but he had also, despite Johnny's notorious past, always seemed supportive of his younger brother. Even today, after he had learned that there was no evidence that anyone else had been at the clearing, Senor Scott had still repeatedly expressed his conviction that Juanito could not have been the one who had struck him. But the lack of other signs had concerned Cipriano, who had come to believe that the elder Lancer had not been attacked at all, but had somehow simply slipped and fallen into the current.
Now Senor Scott was here, and he had clearly stated that he had been attacked, hit from behind. Something that only a coward would have done! If only he had seen something which would help to identify the true criminal. The young man was doing the right thing, Cipriano thought with approval, going immediately to Sacramento, to try to stop this trial. Cipriano did question Scott's plan to meet the stage in Morada, when there were several closer stops, but, as he stepped into the dim interior of the stable, the grim realization flashed. "No one will recognize me there," that was what Senor Scott had said. Cipriano berated himself that in his joy that the elder Lancer son had returned home alive, and his fear that the life of the younger son remained in jeopardy, he had overlooked the very real possibility that Senor Scott himself could still be in danger. Whoever had attacked him might very well do so again, once it became known that he had survived.
"Haré eso, I will do that," Cipriano said gruffly. Scott was standing just outside Brunswick's stall, about to remove his left arm from the black sling. Their eyes met briefly as Cipriano handed over the saddlebags, but neither man uttered another word. Removing the horse's bridle from its place on the wall, Cipriano approached the animal and set to work. Scott stood by quietly and watched while the Lancer foreman efficiently saddled the chestnut horse. When the time came, Scott slipped the carbine into the boot; Cipriano then fastened the saddlebags in place. It was only when the Segundo began to attach a bedroll that Scott finally spoke.
"I won't be needing that. I plan to ride through the night, sleep on the stage."
Cipriano nodded and tossed the bedroll aside. Scott grasped the bridle and began to lead Brunswick out of the stable. "Thank you," he said sincerely, looking back over his shoulder.
"Senor Scott, . . .I should not have spoken as I did."
Scott nodded in turn, but made no other reply. Even in the dim light, Cipriano could see from the expression on his face that the younger man was still puzzled by that forceful reaction.
Once they were out in the daylight, Scott turned to his father's Segundo and finally asked the question that he had been so reluctant to pose. "Tell me, Cipriano, did anyone see my friend Mr. Hayford riding out towards the dam that day?"
"No Senor, I have asked the men and there is no one who says that he has seen him."
Scott nodded. Glancing around the yard, he commented on how quiet it seemed. "Where's Jelly?" he asked.
"He is in Sacramento, to speak in the Court."
Something in Cipriano's tone gave Scott an inkling of what might be bothering the foreman. "You didn't go," he observed mildly.
The older man shook his head. "Senor Barkley, he says that the others, they are enough to speak for Juanito."
"I see," was all that Scott said in reply, but the look that passed between them led the Segundo to believe that perhaps he did.
"It's good that you're here, to keep an eye on things."
"Your brother, he needs you. You must go now."
At that reminder, a cloud settled over Scott's fine features once more. He shook the foreman's hand, then climbed aboard Brunswick; encumbered by the sling and his other injuried, his mount sadly lacked its usual fluid grace. Once astride his horse, Scott Lancer gave Cipriano a final nod, then cantered off, riding purposefully away from the hacienda and beneath the Lancer arch. Cipriano watched him for a moment, turning when he heard the footsteps behind him. It was Senora Alvarez, holding another package of food. "You are going?" she asked him in Spanish. "Si," he responded as he accepted the small sack and headed off to saddle his own horse.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott Lancer was true to his word; he did ride through the night, keeping Brunswick at a moderate, mile-eating pace, as he unknowingly traveled under the watchful eye of Cipriano Sanchez. The Lancer foreman maintained enough distance to avoid detection, yet remained close enough to be of assistance should Senor Scott encounter any trouble. Once in Morada, he watched as the young blond man dismounted at the stage depot and went inside to pay for his trip to Sacramento. Apparently, he also made arrangements to stable the weary Brunswick, as an unknown man soon appeared to collect the horse and lead the animal off down the street. Sanchez noted with interest that Scott also visited the telegraph office before heading over to the nearby saloon. Cipriano had wondered whether or not he himself should send a wire on to Senor Lancer in Sacramento, but apparently now Scott had done so. The foreman could not specifically recall telling the young man where his father was staying, but perhaps the son knew of a preferred hotel. Cipriano continued to wait patiently for half an hour or more, until the stage finally rumbled in, and he could be assured that Senor Scott was safely inside. Once the coach had departed, leaving a cloud of dust swirling down the main street of Morada, Cipriano rode off in search of the stables.
Inside the stage, Scott nodded a weary greeting to his three fellow passengers and then leaned his head against the inside wall of the coach and closed his eyes. He was all too well aware of the multitude of aches and pains that were souvenirs of his journey down Grand Creek, now exacerbated by the long night in the saddle. Somewhat fortified by the bit of breakfast which he had purchased at the saloon in Morada, he saved the remainder of the biscuits and other staples which Maria had packed for later in the day. Scott knew that his chances of being able to sleep while being jounced around inside the noisy vehicle were small, but he was more than tired enough to try. Just as they had throughout the night, the same questions plagued him; he'd only been able to escape his troubling thoughts during the early morning hours, when the mind numbing rhythm of Brunswick's movement had finally lulled him into a dull trance. Now the same questions were again bouncing around inside his skull. How could Will-or anyone else-have believed that Johnny would actually try to kill him? Did Johnny truly believe that Will had been the assailant? How could there have been enough evidence against his brother to warrant a jury trial? And why hadn't there been any signs of anyone else having been at the dam site? Just as they had throughout the night, the same questions remained maddeningly unanswered, until Scott Lancer finally drifted off to a fitfully light sleep.
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Later that afternoon, just as Scott was nearing the Sacramento city limits, Jelly Hoskins was shaking his head as he watched Harlan Garrett and Will Hayford walk down the street away from him, still deep in animated conversation. The Lancer handyman hurried off towards the hotel at the far end of the street, thinking that he might as well join the Boss, Teresa and Chad in the dining room with the Camerons. Perhaps the company would somehow manage to distract him from his worries about the next day in court and those "closin' argumints".
Around the corner and down a side street, Jarrod Barkley exited the jail after having spent some time visiting with his client. The lawyer from Stockton had great faith in the abilities of his mentor, Nicholas Reed, and was actually feeling quite optimistic about the closing argument that would be presented in court the next day. But he was disturbed that during their visit just now, Johnny had seemed so downcast. The younger man had been quite pensive and had said some rather surprising things.
Jarrod was even more surprised to look up and see Scott Lancer's grandfather approaching him. He was more than a little displeased to see that the elderly gentleman was accompanied by Will Hayford.
"Mr. Barkley!"
Jarrod stopped and politely returned the man's greeting. "Hello, Mr. Garrett," he said, sparing Hayford only the briefest of nods.
"Mr. Barkley, it is imperative that I speak with Johnny Lancer immediately!"
Jarrod was taken aback. While it was true that both he and Reed believed that Garrett's testimony had helped rather than hurt Johnny's case, Scott's grandfather was still a witness and it would be highly irregular for him to engage in conversation with the defendant while the trial was still ongoing. "Well, Mr. Garrett," he said slowly, "I'm afraid that . ."
Will Hayford interrupted him. "Mr. Barkley, I have already explained to Mr. Garrett that, as prosecution witnesses, we would not be allowed to visit with Johnny Lancer---unless he requested to see us and unless, of course, one of his attorneys was present."
"That's true," Jarrod said, addressing Harlan Garrett.
"Yes, yes, I understand; as he said, William explained all that."
The defense attorney was still more than a little perplexed and made no effort to hide it. "What exactly was it that you wished to talk to Johnny about, Mr. Garrett?"
"I have important information about my grandson-" Garrett began forcefully.
"And Mr. Garrett would really like to speak with Johnny in person," Hayford interjected, placing his hand on the older man's arm.
"I would be most appreciative, Mr. Barkley, if you might see your way to assist me in this," Harlan Garrett concluded in a dignified tone.
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Back inside the jail, Jarrod relayed the startling request to Johnny. "I have a feeling that Nicholas would not be in favor, Johnny, but since you just finished telling me that you would like a chance to speak with Scott's grandfather, . . .
"I 'preciate that, Jarrod," Johnny said softly. He leaned against the bars of the cell, his arms folded across his chest. "Ever since he testified, I've been . . I've felt like I maybe might like ta talk with the man . . about Scott."
Jarrod nodded in understanding.
"So now he's here and he says he has somethin' to tell me, I guess I'm willin' t' hear what he has ta say."
"Well, Johnny, you realize that I will have to be present while the two of you talk."
Johnny indicated his acceptance. "If that's the way it has to be."
"I don't mind telling you I'm concerned about what this 'information' that he has for you might be."
"From where I'm sittin' I don't see that there can be much harm in it."
Jarrod sighed. He felt pretty certain that Nicholas Reed, who was even now hard at work polishing the final draft of his summation, would greatly disapprove of the meeting that his co-counsel was about to arrange between Johnny Lancer and his late brother's grandfather. Murdoch Lancer had been a close friend of Jarrod's own late father and, after Tom Barkley's death, the tall rancher had remained in contact with the family. Once his own sons had arrived, Murdoch had been more than proud to introduce them to the Barkleys and Jarrod had hit it off particularly well with Scott. While he knew that it could not begin to approach the degree of pain that Johnny must be feeling, Jarrod Barkley was keenly aware of a personal sense of loss. He also couldn't help but think of the close relationships which he enjoyed with his own three siblings, and he had therefore been sympathetic to Johnny's wish to have the opportunity to talk about his older brother with the man who had known Scott longer than anyone else, his grandfather.
"It's just that they . . well, they just didn't seem to want to tell me anything about what this information is. I have a feeling that what they really want is to witness your reaction to it."
"They?"
"Hayford is with Garrett. Of course, he isn't going to be coming in."
Johnny thought about that for a moment. "Why not?" he asked, his voice taking on a hard edge. Because I sure can think of a few things I'd like ta say to him."
"No," his attorney said firmly. Johnny sighed, knowing that he really shouldn't try to change Jarrod's mind.
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When he finally disembarked from the stage in Sacramento, Scott Lancer realized that it was too late for Court to still be in session, and immediately asked for directions to the jail. Fortunately, it sounded as if it wouldn't be that far on foot, but Scott still arranged to leave his things at the depot for the time being. He hurried down the city streets, through the shadows of buildings cast by the declining sun, until, at long last, he came upon the city jail. Once inside, he informed the young man at the desk that he wished to see one of the prisoners, Johnny Lancer. The jailer replied that visiting hours were be over in another half hour and gestured to the log book lying open on his desk, indicating that Scott should sign his name at the top of the freshly turned page. It was the thought of seeing his name written so prominently on the new page that prompted Scott to identify himself as "Scott Garrett." While the visitor slowly unfastened his gun belt with one hand, the guard glanced down at the name on the register, commenting that there was a relative already inside, visiting with Johnny Lancer. <<Murdoch?>> Scott wondered hopefully.
Once Scott had relinquished his weapon, the man opened the door to the cellblock. Inside another guard, a pleasant faced older man with greying hair stood to greet Scott and in response to his query for "Lancer?" pointed to the left, adding "He's all the way at the end." Immediately, Scott heard the unmistakable sound of his brother's voice, speaking to someone with low intensity. Intent upon his goal, Scott did not realize that the guard had followed partway, not until he heard the man's voice cheerfully announcing, "Right there, there you are."
Johnny turned and looked in the direction of the newcomer, and then very slowly reached out to grasp the bars of his cell with both hands. Scott felt that there were other pairs of eyes in the room, he could feel that they were locked upon him, but for the moment he saw only his brother's eyes-startlingly blue and gazing at him in wonder. Scott Lancer stared back. And he saw at once that Maria had been right. <<Hermanos del corazón.You are true brothers of the heart>> As soon as he looked at Johnny, Scott did know the truth; his eyes confirmed what he had, in his heart, already believed. And with a heartfelt smile, he offered up a mild greeting. "It's good to see you, Brother."
"Scott," Johnny breathed, his voice barely a whisper, his knuckles white as his grip on the bars tightened. "Is it really you, Boston?" Scott simply nodded wordlessly; when he did open his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by the sound of his own name.
"Scotty!" and then suddenly, improbably, it was his grandfather walking towards him, hands out stretched. Startled to see the elderly man here, Scott nonetheless hastened to approach him. "Grandfather, it's good to see you, Sir," he said as the two of them shook hands affectionately. "I never expected you to be in California; I sent a wire home, so that you wouldn't worry," Scott added with concern. "Yes, yes, it was forwarded to me here from Boston," his grandfather assured him. "As soon as I received it, I came straightaway to tell your brother."
Now Jarrod Barkley stepped forward, the look of wonder on his face giving way to a welcoming smile as he offered his own handshake. "Scott, it's . . it's good to see you. Welcome back! Are you all right?"
"Jarrod," Scott greeted the attorney warmly. "Yes, yes, I'm all right."
Johnny had never in his life been so happy to see anyone-not even that Pinkerton agent, the one who had rescued him from the Mexican firing squad. Johnny had spent plenty of time thinking about Scott over the past few weeks, imagining him showing up, walking in . . now that he was here, Boston sure was a sight for sore eyes. Didn't seem too much the worse for wear, either. Had one arm in a sling, but other than that . . . Studying Scott a bit more closely, Johnny could not only see a fading bruise on the older man's cheek, almost hidden by a day's growth of dark stubble, but also a weariness in his brother's eyes, greater than any he had ever seen there before.
Even his voice sounded tired. Scott approached the bars, reaching through them to lightly touch Johnny's forearm. "The first thing that we need to do," he said, "is get you out of there."
"What happened?" Johnny demanded. "Why couldn't we find you?"
Harlan Garrett and Jarrod Barkley joined Johnny in regarding Scott with eager curiosity. Scott stood near the bars of his brother's cell, one hand resting lightly on his hip, his other arm still cradled in the black sling. "Well," he began, "I was carried downstream, quite a ways . . . ..
"Did you fall, Scott, or were you attacked," Jarrod asked.
Scott looked directly at Jarrod. "I didn't fall."
"Then did you see who it was?"
"No."
"Wasn't me," Johnny said firmly, eyeing Scott carefully.
"I know," Scott replied quietly. Gripping the bars with his right hand, Scott addressed the attorney. "Jarrod, I assume that since I'm here, and since I haven't been murdered, the charges against Johnny will be dropped."
Jarrod sighed. "Well, Scott, the charge is actually attempted murder," Jarrod explained slowly. "So your being alive does not close the case. The final arguments are scheduled for tomorrow. Nicholas Reed is the lead attorney on the case, and he had hopes of creating a reasonable doubt by suggesting that you simply . . had an accident and fell into the creek."
"Perhaps I should have stayed away a few days." Scott commented dryly.
"Not at all, I didn't mean that," Jarrod quickly replied. "But the surest means of getting the charges dropped would be if you could identify your true assailant."
Scott shook his head ruefully. "As I told you, I didn't see anyone; in fact, I never saw it coming."
"Then we need to figure it out, Scotty!" his grandfather declared. "Who could have hated you enough to try to kill you?" The other three men regarded Scott speculatively; until Harlan Garrett ventured another question. "Do you think that it could possibly have been related to that escape attempt?"
Scott shook his head. "No, Sir. Dan Cassidy wrote to the families of the men, he explained to them what really happened. He took full responsibility and cleared my name."
Johnny was surprised to hear that Cassidy had done that; he hadn't been all that impressed with the man. But he had a question of his own, for Scott's grandfather. "Something I was wondrin' about, Mr. Garrett." The dark haired young man paused momentarily, then forged ahead. "How come you're so certain I didn't do it?"
As Scott watched somewhat apprehensively, the elderly gentlemen drew himself up. "You heard my testimony, did you not?" he asked Johnny severely. "It has been made quite . . .clear to me that Scotty holds you in high regard. And he has often mentioned how clever you are." Seeing that Johnny was not altogether satisfied with this answer, Garrett continued. "Johnny, if you were going to kill your brother, how would you go about it?"
"I wouldn't."
"But if you were going to do so?" Harlan asked again.
"I suppose you want me to say that I'd shoot 'im," Johnny said coldly.
Scott thought that he sensed where his grandfather was going with this. "Somewhere remote, out on the trail," he suggested lightly. "When we were alone, far from home."
"Yeah," Johnny conceded, his dark eyes unreadable. "That would be easy enough, say it was someone else---"
"Somehow, I don't think that explaining how you would go about killing your brother would be a good defense strategy," Jarrod couldn't help commenting.
"My point is," Garrett said with a dignified air, "that Scotty has several times described Johnny as being rather intelligent. Leaving evidence behind certainly is not."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Will Hayford had told Mr.Garrett that he would take a walk around the jail to "try to clear his head" while the older man was inside visiting with his grandson's half-brother. Eager to resume his conversation with the elderly gentleman, Hayford now entered the jailhouse to see if there was any sign of Harlan.
The sandy haired young man at the desk greeted him in a friendly manner. "Hi there, Captain Hayford!" Since Will had been in practice with a prominent firm in Sacramento for several months now, he was of course easily recognized by almost everyone who worked in the city's legal system. Ben Howell was another transplanted Easterner and had been employed at the jail for a little over a year. Howell had signed on as a very young Union private for the final months of the War and had been fascinated to learn that "Captain" Hayford--- as he insisted on calling him--- had actually been on the battlefield at Gettysburg. So far, however, Hayford had had very little to say about any of his experiences during the War, to Howell's great disappointment.
Returned the jailer's greeting politely. "Hello, Ben. How are you this evening?"
"Just fine, sir." Ben noticed that the one-armed ex-soldier seemed to look rather tired. "Long day in court, sir?" he asked sympathetically.
"You might say that," was Will's weary reply as he sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "There was a great deal of . . very . . enlightening . .testimony."
Ben Howell made some response, but Will Hayford did not hear him. As he glanced done at the visitor's register lying open on the desktop in front of him, he saw, in very familiar handwriting at the top of the page the name "Scott Garrett". He quickly stood up and reached for Howell's pen, hastily signing his own name below Scott's. "Well, I'd better get in there and see my client," he told the young guard with a smile. "Perhaps we can sit and exchange a few war stories when I'm through."
"Sure thing, Captain," Howell replied with a pleased grin. "Didn't know you had anybody back there tonight. You just go right on in."
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As Will hurriedly approached Johnny Lancer's cell, he could see that Scott was there, talking with his brother, his grandfather and Jarrod Barkley. Johnny noticed him first, his eyes narrowing as he took in Will Hayford's happy expression.
"Scott!" Will exclaimed jubilantly.
Scott acknowledged him coolly. "Hello, Will."
"It's good to see you!" Will said, coming up on Scott's right, between Scott and the bars of the cell, so that he could place his hand on Scott's shoulder, and see him clearly with his one good eye. "What happened? Were you attacked?" Hayford asked with evident concern. Accepting Scott's affirmative nod, he plied his friend with more questions. "Are you all right?"
"I'd be better, if this trial wasn't being held."
Johnny gripped the bars tightly. "Go ahead, Hayford," he ground out. "Go on and tell Scott all about how you railroaded me in here!"
Scott turned towards Will, leaned against the cell door and looked at his old friend expectantly. Johnny stood directly behind Scott, the only thing separating them the black vertical bars of the cell. Harlan Garrett watched and listened intently as well; behind him Jarrod Barkley was also taking in the scene. The Stockton attorney was accustomed to standing in silence as his clients conferred, commiserated or argued with their friends and family members; he anticipated that the discussion which was about to take place would rival any of those to which he had previously been a party.
Will Hayford met the united gaze of the Lancer brothers. "I was only doing what I'm trained to do, which is to look at the evidence." He looked from Scott to Johnny and back to Scott. "It pointed to your brother---though I do question that now. But you have to understand that there were parts of his story which . . . just didn't seem to ring true."
Scott met Will's gaze. "My brother doesn't lie."
His gratification at hearing his brother's quiet assertion went a long ways to helping Johnny keep his rising anger under control. "He suspected me right from the minute we got ta the dam!" he stated, giving Will a long cold look.
"Johnny said he'd been there waiting for you, and that you never showed," Will explained carefully. "But when we reached the clearing, your horse was the first thing that we saw. I was hoping that perhaps the Sheriff would be able to tell by looking at the tracks which one of you had been there first."
"It might be possible to read that from the signs out on the trail," Scott acknowledged. "But it would be virtually impossible even for Val to tell from the prints in a clearing."
"It wasn't Val," Johnny informed Scott, from his position behind his brother. The older man looked over his shoulder to regard his brother quizzically. "It was Sheriff Sam . . . .Sam Jayson."
At this announcement, Scott made a softly derisive sound, and Johnny couldn't help shooting his brother a knowing look.
"I certainly didn't realize at the time that the Sheriff was . . .less than competent," Will said defensively.
"Maybe ya should have asked me," Johnny retorted. "'Stead of pointin' at me from the start."
"Johnny---" Will replied, turning to the dark-haired Lancer.
"Once you figured out he wasn't all that smart, you sure made good use of it," Johnny charged, raising his voice. "You got him to get an arrest warrant for me real fast."
"Is this true?" Scott asked Will with a frown.
"Well, there was more than one cause for suspicion," Will explained. "There was other evidence, including a button from the shirt Johnny was wearing. I picked it up off the ground, I was standing there holding it in my hand and yet he claimed that it had been missing when he put the shirt on back at the house that morning. Your brother had the opportunity, and at the time I believed that he had the motive. . ."
"You were wrong," Scott said forcefully.
"I agree. I don't think he was the one who attacked you."
"But someone did," Johnny stated meaningfully.
Scott nodded, turning towards his brother Johnny. "Who do you think did it?"
"You might not like it but my first choice would be him," Johnny replied, gesturing at Will.
"Cipriano told me that you suspected Will," Scott revealed, casting a challenging look in Will's direction.. "What do you have to say?"
"Scott, you don't really expect him to just tell you he did it, now do you?" Johnny asked in an angry tone.
"Scott, it would be simple enough to find out if anyone saw me out riding that day," Will said calmly.
Scott addressed his reply to his brother. "Cipriano said that no one saw Will on horseback that day; he'd already asked the men."
"Besides," Will quickly pointed out, "I never was a great horseman and even less so now. Someone would have had to saddle a horse -or harness a team--- for me. They surely would have remembered that."
Scott looked down at his own arm in the sling, remembered the difficulties it had posed.
"He makes a good point," Scott observed, again addressing his brother.
At that, Will reached out to grasp Scott by the arm. "Scott, the point is, can you look me in the eye and tell me that you could believe for more than a moment that I might actually want you dead?"
"No, Will, I can't, no more than I could believe that of Johnny." Scott pushed himself away from the bars, standing erect between the two men. Looking from one to the other, he asked, "Now, do I need to spend any more time convincing the two of you or can we concentrate on other things, like figuring out what really happened?"
Will Hayford started to offer an apology. "Johnny, I was wrong and ---
Johnny glared at the one armed man, but his words were directed at Scott. "He set me up. He's got people believin' I wanted you dead. You're asking a lot if you expect me to forget about it."
"I understand that."
"Do you, Scott?" Johnny asked with dark intensity. Scott's eyes narrowed as he felt some of the heat of his brother's understandable pent-up anger now turned towards him. "That Cassidy came all this ways just to kill you," Johnny continued, "and then you turned around and helped him."
Blue eyes stared at blue eyes for a long moment before Scott finally responded. "That was different; Dan and I had a history. We were like-"
"Don't say it," Johnny warned harshly. "Don't say you were 'like brothers'. Just like you and Hayford here. I figure you'll be forgivin' him pretty quick. Seems like you're just a lot better at forgettin' than I am."
Scott took a deep breath. Johnny had no reason to feel anything other than hatred for Will. His old friend's efforts to explain his reasoning couldn't alter the fact that it had been his accusations that had put Johnny's life in jeopardy.
The pained expression on Scott's face took some of the heat from Johnny's voice as he finished saying his piece. "Seems like you can manage ta forget about what Murdoch did . .or didn't do. What he," here Johnny gestured towards Scott's grandfather, "tried to do to ya. Well, I ain't made that way, Scott."
Scott pressed his lips together and cast a quick glance towards his grandfather, just in time to see the elderly man lower his own gaze in the face of Johnny's assertion. "Gr-," he started to say, then abruptly decided that he had to finish this with Johnny first. "Johnny, I'm not asking that of you, to forgive or forget. . . .And, for the record, even for me, this is different."
"How?" Johnny demanded.
"Well, this time, it wasn't just about me."
Scott stared at the floor, wondering what else, if anything, to say, to Johnny; what he should say to Will. He drew a long breath and then decided it would be better to direct the conversation to more practical matters. He turned to address Jarrod Barkley. The defense attorney had stood with Scott's grandfather as a silent witness to the exchange between the three young men. Jarrod knew that he should have protested Will Hayford's entrance to the cellblock; as a prosecution witness, in fact the chief prosecution witness, Hayford should not have been allowed to speak with Johnny Lancer, even though it now sounded as if the one-armed man was having second thoughts about his accusations.
"I assume that you'll want me to testify, " Scott said to Jarrod.
"I'm obligated to inform the Court that you're here," Jarrod replied, "and you'll have to confirm that you were, in fact, attacked. But it doesn't sound as if you have any evidence to present, since you didn't see the man who attacked you."
"No, I didn't," Scott agreed. "But I can testify about Johnny, tell the jury that he didn't do it."
"And how do you know that, Scott?" Johnny asked softly.
"I just know you. And I trust you."
Silence greeted this statement. Scott looked at each of the other men in turn, but he couldn't read what was in their eyes. Finally Johnny broke the stillness. "You sayin' you trust me might just put the last nail in my coffin."
"Why?" Scott asked him, puzzled, but Johnny glanced away. Scott looked searchingly at his grandfather, at Jarrod and finally at Will Hayford and decided that his friend seemed to be the most uncomfortauncomfortable. "What is it? Will? What aren't you telling me?"
"It's just that . . .," Will began uneasily, but Johnny interrupted him.
"It's just that the prosecution's been doing a damn fine job of making you look like a trustin' fool."
"I'm afraid my testimony has helped lead to that assumption."
"Is that what you think of me, Will?"
"It was more the prosecutor than him," Johnny explained quietly. "He just knows how ta twist things."
The other men looked at Johnny in disbelief, surprised that he seemed to be defending Hayford. Johnny shrugged his shoulders. "The man tried to get the rest of us to say the same thing, worked sometimes too, even though none of us believe it." Then, he added, looking meaningfully at Jarrod. "I've got a pretty damn good lawyer myself. . . but he's said some things you ain't going to like either, Boston."
Scott stood a minute looking from Will to Johnny and then turned his penetrating gaze back to Will Hayford. "We'll talk about this later." Johnny had to hide a small smile when he saw his older brother give his friend the look that Johnny himself knew so well. He had been the target of that look and that promise from Scott on more than one occasion; he knew that it most definitely would be kept. That hint of a smile disappeared rapidly when the focus of that look expanded to include him as well.
Realizing that Scott had many questions about the testimony, Jarrod asked the guard for a few chairs and urged Mr. Garrett to take a seat. After Scott explained that he had been on a stagecoach the entire day and preferred to remain standing, Jarrod settled in the second chair. Scott leaned against the bars of the cell and Johnny stood close beside him, while Will leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his left arm over his chest and tucking it under what remained of his damaged right arm. The defense attorney wondered again if he shouldn't ask Hayford to leave, but he realized that the damage, if any, had already been done. Both he and Will Hayford, as members of the bar, might have something to answer for, and if a mistrial was declared because of contact between prosecution witnesses and the defendant, then at least that kept Johnny safe from the noose. Jarrod proceeded to outline for Scott some of the key elements of both the prosecution's case and of Johnny's defense. He explained that the prosecuting attorney had emphasized the contents of Scott's will, had stressed the arguments that had been witnessed between the brothers, and made much of Johnny's past as a gunfighter. Scott was dismayed to learn that the incident with Gordon and the Velasquez brothers had been used against Johnny as well. The prosecutor, Marcus Webster, had tried to imply that there had not really been a man on the roof, that Johnny had made him up and had simply, willfully shot his brother.
Believing that Scott would be appreciative, Jarrod shared Johnny's response: "I was a gunfighter, remember. If I'd wanted him dead, he woulda been."
Johnny watched his brother carefully and saw the grey-blue eyes cloud over. Unlike other people, Scott had never been one to shy away from conversations about Johnny Madrid, but having to face the gunfighter had been a very disturbing incident. Their relationship might not have survived the shooting, if it had not been for Scott's trust, but Johnny knew that it couldn't have been easy.
Now Scott looked up at Johnny with a very serious expression. "Which bothers you more, little brother," Scott asked, a twinkle in his eye. "Being accused of inventing Gordon or of being a poor shot?"
Johnny looked back at Scott, startled for a moment, then he relaxed. All that worrying that Scott would think he had tried to kill him had been for nothing, he now knew for certain that everything was really all right between them.
Once Jarrod concluded his outline of the evidence, Scott sighed and then expressed his concerns. "Are you sure that this Reed is justified in being optimistic about the verdict?"
Scott shot his brother an apologetic look. "It certainly seems as if the prosecution has presented a great deal of evidence against Johnny."
From his spot against the wall, Will Hayford spoke. "That's because there IS a lot of evidence against him----perhaps too much. We're looking in the wrong direction." Will exclaimed. "We've been thinking all along that it was Scott who was the target, wondering who it was would tried to kill him." He paused for a moment, pushing himself away from the wall, fastening his one-eyed gaze upon the Lancer brothers. "Johnny is the real target," he stated with conviction. "Someone was trying to frame him." Will addressed the dark haired brother directly. "So who would have a grudge against you?"
Johnny snorted at that. "Ya want me ta make a list?" Johnny replied, shaking his head.
"No," Scott said, thinking about Will's theory. "No . . it would not be someone from your gun fighting days. They would call you out, not frame you for murder."
"And why would they choose Scotty?" Harlan asked. "They could have killed anyone."
"It had to be someone who hated Johnny enough to want him to go through this trial," Scott stated. "To hang for killing me.
"Well, whoever it was could be long gone by now," Johnny observed, as he paced in his cell.
"No, I don't think so," Jarrod responded. "If someone went to all that trouble, they would still be around."
"They'd want a front row seat," Will agreed.
"At the hangin'. Which could still happen if we don't figure out who did it." The silence in the room was deafening as Johnny finished speaking. "You sure did pick a helluva time to be late, Boston," Johnny informed his brother as he leaned his head against the bars.
"I wasn't late, I was actually early….though I was surprised to see that you'd been there before me."
"What're you talkin' about?" Johnny grumbled. "I was there at noon, waited forty minutes, you never showed."
"I never 'showed' because I was told that the time had been changed, that you wouldn't be there until two o'clock."
"Who?" Johnny asked, eyes narrowing. Suddenly he knew that the answer to that question would be crucial in solving the case. Harlan Garrett, Will Hayford and Jarrod Barkley all seemed to share that belief and each man joined Johnny in regarding Scott expectantly. "Who told ya that?"
One hand on his hip, Scott looked down at the floor, then up at Johnny again, with a perplexed expression on his face. "It was . . . Senora Maria."
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