To say that Scott Lancer had a competitive nature would be an understatement. In the beginning, he’d challenged himself to try to keep up with his younger brother------from what he’d read in Murdoch‘s Pinkerton files, Johnny had grown up in the border towns and become a hired gun at a very young age. So Scott had expected that Johnny would have just as much to learn. That hadn’t turned out to be the case. It seemed that his brother had not only the distinct advantage of having seen ranching techniques before, he’d evidently spent at least a little time actually doing such work. And unlike Scott, in those areas where he seemed lacking in expertise, Johnny had progressed very rapidly.
Scott shook his head ruefully. It probably also didn’t hurt that Johnny had a group of supporters to cheer him on. The vaqueros had immediately adopted him as their own; a few, like Cipriano, had even been at Lancer long enough to remember Johnny as a baby. His brother naturally gravitated towards the Mexicans and conversed easily with them in rapid, fluent Spanish. Scott couldn’t yet understand much of what they were saying, but he assumed that Johnny had the benefit of some additional encouragement and advice.
Scott on the other hand, faced a less friendly audience. The hands who were not Mexican, the “cowboys”, far from being supportive of Scott, seemed to take particular delight in the “college boy” learning some painful lessons. What he heard from them was shouts of laughter, not encouragement. Although the vaqueros did not join in the derision, Scott usually had to be the one to make the approach and then ask a direct question in order to obtain any helpful information from one of them. Hopefully some of the distance would disappear once he’d learned more of their language. When he had enlisted Cipriano’s help in laying the trap for Pardee, Scott had been respectful of the older man’s knowledge of the terrain, careful to act on his advice. Yet Cipriano had still seemed to want to defer to Scott, as if he regarded him as some sort of stand in for Murdoch himself.
Murdoch would sometimes remember to ask Scott how things were going, but, fortunately, he never pressed for many details. The only person who ever had anything heartening or reassuring to say to Scott was his new brother. Scott had been both surprised and grateful, even if he knew that he wasn’t always gracious. But Johnny still couldn’t resist making a few jokes, having a few grins. So even with him, Scott hadn’t let his guard down; he was quick with a self deprecating comment and carefully thanked his younger brother when he did offer advice.
One thing was certain. No one was ever going to get a glimpse of how frustrating it all really was. There were many things that he still needed to learn, things that they hadn’t taught him at Harvard. Scott might not be able to cut a steer from the herd and rope him cleanly-----not yet anyway. But one lesson that Scott Lancer had mastered very, very well, was how to mask his feelings. He’d earned an advanced degree in that at Libby Prison, under the tutelage of Professor Johnny Reb.
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“We had dinner . . . At the public-houses on this road, the front rank is composed of various kinds of “sweet cakes,“ in a continuous line from one end of the table to the other. I think I may safely say that there was a row of ten or a dozen plates of this kind set before us. They say that, when the lumberers come out of the woods, they have a craving for cakes and pies, and such sweet things, which there are almost unknown, and this is the supply to satisfy that demand. “
---Henry David Thoreau The Maine Woods
Dinner conversation that evening was filled with references to Boston, Boston, Boston as Melissa and Scott kept going back and forth about people, places and all the big doings in the Eastern city. It seemed that Boston had everything: dinners, dances, plays, performances in the Boston Music Hall-----Johnny wondered why he’d never noticed that California cities were “sadly lacking in most forms of entertainment.” <<Hell, from the sound of it, even San Francisco don’t come close to measurin’ up to Boston >>
Johnny noticed that Murdoch didn’t seem to have much appetite for the topic either; the Old Man kept trying to engage him or Teresa in an alternate conversation. In fact, the elder Lancer appeared to relish discussion of Boston about as much as he appreciated mention of “Madrid.” Johnny wondered with grim amusement which one would be Murdoch’s least favorite city: Boston or Madrid?
“When you do decide to return East, you might contact me,“ Scott suggested to Melissa. “I do intend to go back for a visit at some time; perhaps we could travel together.”
Johnny felt Teresa grow tense beside him; when he looked at Murdoch for his reaction, the older man’s expression indicated that he had a very bad taste in his mouth. Melissa gave Scott one of her big smiles and said that that would be “just wonderful.”
“Well," Johnny drawled at Melissa, “sounds like you’re thinking’ of goin’ back to be ‘buried in Boston.’”
Scott put his lips tightly together, while Melissa smiled sweetly at Johnny: “Oh, only for a visit. And not right away. There’s still so much to see and do in so many other places.” “Why, I’d much rather stay here than be stuck in Boston permanently,” she added. From the expression on Scott’s face, Johnny supposed that his brother didn’t altogether share Melissa Harper’s negative opinion of their home city.
After the meal was over, Teresa took Melissa off somewhere and Murdoch went to talk to Jelly. Johnny stepped outside, still thinking about Boston---and Scott and Murdoch. He knew that on numerous occasions, his older brother had attempted to be a peacemaker, smoothing over disagreements between Murdoch and himself. << And then there’s all the times I don’t know ’bout.>> Scott hadn’t always been successful, but Johnny recognized that he’d made the effort.
Johnny leaned against the pillar and looked up at the evening sky. He didn’t especially enjoy thinking about being here at the ranch alone with Murdoch-----even for the number of weeks that would be required for Scott to make a short visit back East. And once there, would he ever return?? Johnny thought about all those packages and letters that arrived every so often from Boston. Scott had his grandfather there, other family, friends-----people he’d known all his life, not a bunch of strangers---- people who would surely want him to stay.
He hadn’t thrown himself on top of an explosive or taken a bullet for his brother, but Johnny had helped Scott out more than once. He’d figured out pretty early on that Boston could use a little looking after--- he’d already seen the man take some chances, especially when he set out to help somebody else. Since Johnny had decided that Scott was worth gettin’ to know, he wanted to keep him alive and in one piece. Though if his brother was just gonna head back East, it seemed as if maybe he’d gone to a lot of trouble for nothin’.
If anyone had told Johnny when he’d first met Scott that the thought of the Eastern dandy leaving some day would bother him, well, he sure would have laughed right in that man’s face. But almost from the start, Scott had simply accepted Johnny as his brother----Madrid and all. Sure, he’d looked pretty dismayed when Teresa had introduced them at the stage, probably had been a whole lot less than happy, just too polite to show it. Johnny hadn’t been altogether friendly to Scott at first, but when he’d been shot, Scott had come on out after him. Since then, Scott had continued to be much more relaxed about Johnny’s past than Murdoch seemed to be. Ol’Boston wasn’t afraid to discuss gunfights and he didn’t get all uncomfortable when the name Madrid was mentioned. Hell, not too long ago, when good ol’Charlie Wainwright had been building the jail in Green River, Scott had even joked about how Johnny was lucky to have a chance to see exactly how the jail was built----so he could learn how to break out before they locked him in. Come to think of it, even Murdoch had managed a chuckle at that. Anyway, Johnny felt pretty comfortable around Scott, even made some comments of his own, like how he might be able to turn his brother into a “professional” some day. Murdoch wasn’t around for that one; he probably wouldn’t have laughed much at the idea of havin’ TWO gunslingers for sons. Come to think of it though, since he’d arrived in California, Scott had already ended up behind bars once or twice himself. << Scott “Jailbird” Lancer--now don’t that have a ring to it. Wonder what the folks back in Boston would think ‘bout that? >>
Of course, ever since that episode with the Velasquez brothers, Scott didn’t make quite so many comments about Johnny Madrid. << Guess it’s a little different now. . . makes it more real for ‘im. >>
Johnny stood with his hands on his hips, as he considered this looking at the ground and scuffing it up with one foot. Maybe Scott just wasn’t all that happy out here. He seemed to get along well enough with Murdoch-----or at least better than Johnny did, but it still wasn’t a real close relationship. Scott sure had to have some serious questions about the past, but he and Murdoch weren’t havin’ any long talks. Scott didn’t have a steady girl and he didn’t have any friends-- <<Hell, >> Johnny thought,
<< I don’t neither, more like drinkin’ buddies, guys to ride around with, trade the whole bunch of ‘em for Scott. >> He figured his brother was starting to really miss all those Boston ladies he’d been sweet on and craving all those entertainments that he and Melissa had been talking about. Well, if Scott was unhappy, Johnny would just have to see if there was anything to be done about that-----see what could be done to prevent him from getting any ideas about heading back East.
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Scott settled in a comfortable chair with the intention of trying to read another chapter of The Maine Woods:
“I was deep within the hostile ranks of clouds, and all objects were obscured by them. Now the wind would blow me out a yard of clear sunlight, wherein I stood; then a gray, dawning light was all it could accomplish, the cloud-line ever rising and falling with the wind's intensity. Sometimes it seemed as if the summit would be cleared in a few moments, and smile in sunshine: but what was gained on one side was lost on another. It was like sitting in a chimney and waiting for the smoke to blow away. It was, in fact, a cloud-factory, - these were the cloud-works, and the wind turned them off done from the cool, bare rocks. “
He had actually made it through an entire page when Johnny came in and just stood there looking at him. Wanting to avoid another uncomfortable conversation with his younger brother, Scott uncharacteristically pretended not to see him, then decided that he couldn’t ignore him any longer. Placing one finger between the pages, he closed the book and looked up at Johnny.
“It would appear that you have something to say.”
“Yeah.” Pause. “Just that its okay by me if you fancy Melissa . . .”
The blond eyebrows shot up. “You’re giving me permission?”
“Well, you ain’t exactly been spending much time with the local ladies . . ," Johnny stopped then started again.
"So I just figured as long as she’s here . . “
Scott just stared at him. Finally, he spoke with a voice which had turned several degrees colder: “So, if I understand you correctly, you’ve decided to let me 'have' Melissa??”
Johnny smiled. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
Scott stood. He looked blue icicles at Johnny while he organized his thoughts. “First,” he said slowly, gesturing with the book in his hand, “let me point out that Miss Harper is not an object to be handed between us. I’m certain that she’s more than capable of making her own choices.”
“That so?,” asked Johnny with exaggerated innocence--“even though she ain’t twenty- one yet?”
Scott set his jaw--hard. <<It’s a wonder it don’t break>> thought Johnny.
“Secondly, I resent the implication that if there were a competition between us for her attentions, you would surely win.”
Johnny stood defiantly in Scott’s icy blue eyed glare. He stared back for a moment, then, finally, he just shrugged: “Okay, Boston, if you really want me to say it . . Yeah. If it was between you and me, I’d end up winnin’. But then, whatever it is, I usually do.” He smiled tightly.
Rather than saying anything, Scott deliberately turned his head, looking at the chess board standing on the table awaiting the next game. Johnny followed his gaze. His smile widened. “When it matters, I win”, he said in a rough voice.
Scott’s own voice heated up, rising in volume: “And, of course, you think it would be easy. You are such an arrogant, . . "--Johnny held up one hand: “Hold it.” He turned his back on Scott and sauntered away. Scott came close to shouting: “Where- -are-- you- -going?” Johnny stopped in front of a chair, turned back to face his brother, sat down, and said: “I ain’t goin’ too far.“ He leaned back, placed his left foot on his right knee, and rested his hands on his belt buckle, fingers interlaced. Then, in a mocking tone, he continued: “‘Cause if this is you explodin‘, I don’t wanna miss any of it.”
Scott eyes widened, his mouth opened, he looked as if he’d been thunderstruck. Then he pressed his lips firmly together as a succession of emotions played across his fine features: anger, frustration and finally dismay. Johnny smiled--- he was rather enjoying the display. He only felt the barest twinge of misgiving when his brother turned away, standing in profile with head slightly bowed and his eyes closed as if in physical pain. Scott seemed to be fighting as hard for emotional control as he’d fought to stay on Brunswick’s back. This time he hung on. When his older brother turned to face Johnny once more, his face had assumed its usual impassive expression; when he spoke it was with a chilling calm. Johnny had heard that there was a lot of ice and cold in Boston; it sure seemed as if Scott had managed to bring a fair amount of it along with him.
“It should be clearly evident that Miss Harper and I are much more suited to each other than the two of you would be.”
Johnny’s smile evaporated. “How’d ya figure that?”
“If you’re unable to see it, then it merely lends credence to my assertion.”
<<What the hell was that supposed to mean?>> Not that it mattered to Johnny if he couldn’t define each one of the words----he got the point, all right.
Scott belatedly recognized that with his vocabulary and tone he had just slipped into what he referred to as “Hahvahd-ese”, something that he had consciously tried hard to avoid ever since he’d arrived at the ranch. Now it seemed as if there were just too many horses here for him to handle. Scott felt as if he had managed to gather up one set of reins only to have yet another slip from his grasp. “What I meant to say was . . .”
“I get it.” Johnny said coldly, standing up to face him. “I’m not good enough for a girl like Melissa. In your opinion.”
Scott sighed and dropped into the seat behind him. With his left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, he absently stroked his brow. “I did not say that,“ he replied, in a tired voice. He felt as if he’d been caught up in that cloud bank, and now he’d stepped right off of Ktaadn. Scott continued speaking in a mechanical fashion, fairly certain that nothing he said now would make any difference. “Melissa and I being “suited” doesn’t mean that I think that you aren’t good enough for her--- or for anyone else.” Scott wondered why Johnny was still standing there above him, why he hadn’t stalked off. When he raised his eyes, he saw that his brother was staring at him, or, more to the point, at a spot somewhere on Scott’s forehead. <<Probably contemplating the best placement for the bullet -----and it’s not because he wants to put me out of my misery. >> “We are both from Boston, after all,” Scott added, and, although his face didn’t show it, he was immediately disgusted to hear himself make such an inane remark. <<Boston, why don’t you just shut up? >> he asked himself dismally.
. . . That damn scar. The faint mark on his brother’s brow reminded Johnny of the last time he had overreacted to something Scott had said. Lashed out at him in anger. Well, ol’Boston wasn’t the only one who could exercise self-control. Now Johnny was looking at a spot somewhere towards the ceiling. He expelled an audible breath. “So . . . you’re both from Boston . . . well, you know, I just hadn’t noticed,” he muttered. Even though he knew it might be unwise, Scott couldn’t resist a small smile at that. He looked up quickly, and in his usual dry tone, offered: “My mistake-----I was fairly certain that you’d picked up on it.” When Johnny looked down at his brother’s eyes, he saw that there was a hopeful expression there, rather than the bland look which usually accompanied such remarks. Scott was visibly relieved when Johnny responded with “Boston . . . now that’s somewhere back East, ain’t it?”
A long silence. Scott sat staring at the cover of the book that he was still holding. Finally setting it aside, he sighed again. Scott fixed Johnny with a direct look and without further preamble quietly said: “Our relationship is important to me. I don’t intend to see anyone or anything come between us.”
Johnny nodded, evidently in agreement with that. Crossing his arms, he looked at the floor and said: “Listen, Scott . . . Since its soul barin’ time . . I oughta say I was nappin’ in the hayloft today. Guess I heard you and Melissa talkin’.” Johnny looked up to see a slight flush on Scott’s face. “Didn’t hear nothing’ ‘cept talk.” Johnny had intended that as a gentle gibe, but Scott’s blush only deepened. Had he missed something, Johnny wondered? Anyway, looking at his brother, it seemed that there were some real disadvantages to having blond hair and a fair complexion.
“I was wonderin’ ‘bout you and Murdoch.”
Scott started perceptibly at the mention of their father’s name. He hadn’t had any clear ideas what his younger brother had been about to ask, but had not expected it to have anything to do with Murdoch.
“What about Murdoch and me?”
“Why you never asked him any questions--- ‘bout leavin’ you in Boston.”
On the long trip west, Scott had had ample opportunity to contemplate his first meeting with his father. He had anticipated various things that might be said, considered how he would respond. He certainly had had plenty of time to imagine virtually every possible scenario-----except the introduction of his younger brother. It had been because of this audience of one, a stranger, that Scott had refrained from pressing his questions and demanding answers, as he had intended to do. Now that Johnny had asked for an explanation, Scott carefully considered his reply. “I suspect its for many of the same reasons why you haven’t questioned him about your mother and his relationship with her.”
“Yeah. I haven’t. . . . . But I know some things----from Teresa, . . .and from you. “ Johnny had also gleaned some information from Maria and Cipriano, as well, but he kept that to himself. “Ya know, when I was a kid, I sure hated him, ‘cause of what she told me.”
“When I was a child, I hated him also. And when I got older, that didn’t change.”
“So it seems like that’s one thing we got in common.”
Scott smiled wanly. “Forgive me, Johnny, if I say that in your case, you now know that you were at least somewhat . . . misled.”
<<Lied to is what ya mean.>> “ Yeah, I know he was lookin’ for me. You told me that. Said it was in the files.” He didn’t add that he had quickly turned to Cipriano and Maria for confirmation of the fact.
Scott stood and, with his hands in his pockets, moved around the room. He seemed to be talking to the walls as much as to his brother as he continued musingly: “I have nothing to gain by questioning Murdoch. He’s likely to place the blame on my grandfather, and possibly with some justification. . . “ He was clearly saddened by that thought. “But,“ Scott faced Johnny once more--”Murdoch can’t possibly exonerate himself completely. So you see, its most likely best left in the past . . . Which is just the way that he wants it.”
“If it was me, I’d still be wantin’ to know.” Scott did not respond.
“Ya know, something else I noticed . . . “
“What’s that?’
“The Old Man don’t seem to like hearing the word “Boston” in relation to you any more than he enjoys hearing the name “Madrid” attached to me.”
A shadow crossed Scott’s face. Murdoch’s difficulty in dealing with his younger son’s past had caused many problems between the two of them, problems which, despite his best efforts, Scott had not always been able to mediate. Scott strongly suspected that Johnny’s conviction that his father was ashamed of him had caused his brother considerable pain, although he’d never admit it.
Johnny shrugged: “Guess maybe that’s somethin’ else he ain’t too proud of.“
Scott crossed the room and, for a change it was he who initiated a one-armed neck hold. “In that case, Little Brother,” he grinned, “I’d say it’s appropriate that you selected “Boston” as my . . . alias.”
Johnny spun out of Scott’s grasp, grinned back at him, and briefly clasped his older brother’s shoulder. But he didn’t intend to let go of the topic at hand. Serious once more, he added: ‘You know, I always wondered why you came out here. Weren’t for the money, weren’t for him. Wondered why you stayed too, ‘stead of goin’ back home to Boston.”
“Sometimes I wonder that myself,” was the honest reply. Scott shook his blond head. “Well, all this 'soul-baring' is exhausting. I think I’ll turn in.” Before Johnny could say another word, in a few long strides, Scott was gone.
Johnny stood lost in thought, looking at the spot where his brother had been standing. Coming to a decision, he strolled over to Murdoch’s desk, sat down in the chair and started opening drawers. Having resolved to find and read the Pinkerton file on Scott, he did not bother to close the door or waste time in looking over his shoulder. While he didn’t slam the drawers, neither was Johnny particularly concerned about opening them quietly. He finally found what he was looking for in the bottom drawer on the left side. First, various documents dealing with the ranch. Then a very thick collection of paper with his names on it: Johnny Madrid was listed first, then below it, Johnny Lancer. He placed some of those papers on the desk, opened one folder in the middle and the details of an almost forgotten gunfight leapt out at him from the page. <<Later>>, he thought, closing the file. <<Not now. >> Wedged in between his own thick dossier and more papers dealing with ancient sales of land and cattle, so thin that he’d almost missed it, was a binder labeled: “Scott Lancer“. He placed it on the desk, the slim folder dwarfed by the stack of ”Johnny Madrid” paperwork. He carefully returned the thick folder to the drawer and quickly extracted the pages from Scott‘s, placing the cover back in in its place, behind his own file. Taking the pages with him--- having rolled them into a tube-- Johnny headed towards his room . . . .
Stretched out on his bed, Johnny looked over the small amount of information which the Pinkerton agents had compiled on his brother. It was hardly worth reading----certainly not worth stealing-----and he wondered idly how much money Murdoch had paid for nothing. He tossed the few sheets to the floor in disgust.
What Murdoch had indicated was true--there was no mention of Scott’s year-long imprisonment and few details of his military service. None of it said much that was important about Scott at all. Well, he’d promised himself once that he’d find Scott’s file and read it, and that he’d be sure to let his brother know if it wasn’t purely fascinatin‘. Now, as he pictured Scott looking at the disparity between the two stacks of information that Murdoch Lancer had collected on his sons-----well, that didn’t make Johnny feel like ribbing his brother much at all.
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Very early the next morning, Johnny headed to the kitchen and found Maria there alone, just as he’d hoped. Feeling somewhat like a Pinkerton agent <<Imagine that Madrid. >>, he made some friendly conversation before getting around to asking her what he wanted to know.
“Maria, were you here when Murdoch was married to Scott’s mother?“
Maria looked at Johnny in surprise, uncertain as to why he would ask such a question. “Senora Catherine? Si, but el patron, he sent her away just after we came.”
“Haney’s raids?” asked Johnny.
“Si,” Maria nodded in assent. “It was a muy bad time, Juanito. So sad, when Senor Lancer returned, to say that the senora had died.”
“D’ya remember what he said about her baby--’bout Scott?”
Maria’s face assumed a troubled expression. It was a long moment before she answered. ”He said. . . that el nino had died too.”
Johnny was startled. Quickly recovering, he narrowed his eyes: “He said that?”
“Si, this is what he told us, Juanito.”
His mother had always called Johnny “Juanito”. The name conjured up memories of her, some of them painful, but he had never wanted to say anything to discourage Maria. Now a thought occurred to him: “So my mother didn’t know ‘bout Scott.”
<< Seems like she would a been more ‘n happy to tell me that Murdoch had another son. ‘Specially one that was older ‘n me and had blond hair. >>
Maria shook her head, “No, no, we all believed him, that there was no el nino. Of course, your Mama, she knew that Senor Lancer had been married. But it was only later, after she took you away, that el patron left, he went far away to . . .”
When the name of the unfamiliar city escaped her, Johnny supplied it: “to Boston?”
“Si--and he says he goes there to bring back su hijo! Oh, Juanito! We were so surprised! But this is what he says. And again---- he returns alone. And this is when he started to look for you and for your Mama. But it was too late. . “
“Trail was cold,” Johnny said.
“Si,” Maria said sadly.
“That the only time Murdoch went East?”
She shook her head. “I do not know this . . .”
Johnny knew that Maria had been helping Scott to learn Spanish. The woman seemed to dote on the young blond man--she was always plying him with products from her kitchen, getting him to sample items which she knew were unfamiliar to him. “Scott ever ask you ‘bout any of this?”
“Senor Scott? Oh, no. Madre de Dios,“ she said, crossing herself. “What would I say? It is not my place to tell such things.”
“You told me,” Johnny said simply. “Told me ‘bout my mother.”
“Oh, Juanito,” the older woman said, patting his cheek affectionately. “That is different. You are one of us.”
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Later that afternoon, Johnny was in his room changing out of clothes which were grubby from the day’s work. He’d just slid his arms into a clean shirt when there was a knock on the door. “Yeah, come in,” he said, sure that it must be Scott-----his brother was the only member of the household who routinely knocked on closed doors and then actually waited for a response. Belatedly, Johnny remembered that Melissa was visiting, but when he turned he saw that it was, in fact, Scott. His brother was wearing his blue cropped jacket and was holding his hat. “You goin‘ somewhere?” Johnny asked. “Yes . .” Scott started to say, then noticed that his opening of the door had caused some papers to be dislodged from the collection of rumpled linen which Johnny called a bed. Stepping into the room, Scott picked up the pages and then hesitated, uncertain where to put them, reluctant to place anything on Johnny’s “bed.”
Something on the page caught Scott’s attention and when he looked up at Johnny, his younger brother’s blue eyes were fastened on him----- even while he was fastening the buttons of his shirt. Scott set the papers down without comment and then settled his hat squarely on his head.
“You ain’t gonna say nothin‘?”
“What is there to say? I read the files on you.”
“Yeah. But Murdoch gave ‘em to you to read.” Johnny said, looking down at the last button.
“He did.”
Johnny looked up at Scott. “Well, I took ‘em out of his desk.”
“I’m certain that he won’t notice.” Scott said evenly.
Scott pushed his hat back on the crown of his head, leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms and waited. After a moment, he addressed Johnny: “Well . . . I assume that you have something to say about the number of pages----or should I say the lack of them. So go ahead.”
Johnny was unpredictable----Scott wondered whether his brother would make a teasing remark or deliver a barbed comment.
“Don’t do ya justice,” Johnny said quietly.
Scott‘s eyebrows shot up. << He so often surprises me. >> Still apprehensive that he might be “setting himself up”, Scott nevertheless posed the question: “How so?”
For a long moment, Johnny considered his response. Finally, he offered: “Don’t say nothin’ ‘bout that prison camp.”
Scott’s face shuttered, “No, it doesn’t.”
“Says you got a few medals.”
“I did.”
“You bring ‘em with ya?”
Scott shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
Johnny shrugged. “I’d like to see ‘em sometime.”
Scott looked at him in mild surprise. “Well, I’m afraid you’d have to go to Boston for that.”
Johnny tilted his head: “I just might do that some day.”
Scott glanced down at the floor and smiled to himself. Looking up at Johnny once more, he simply said: “That might be interesting.”
“So----”, Johnny gestured towards the papers on the bed. “Guess I’d better get ‘em back in the drawer.”
“As I said, I doubt they’ll be missed.”
“Yeah, well, he sure ain’t reading mine every night either.” Johnny sat down on the edge of his bed, and began putting on one of his boots. “Speakin’ of Boston . . seems the Old Man always knew just where to find you.”
Scott just stood there, leaning on the doorjamb and regarding him with a neutral expression. <<Okay, >>, Johnny thought, << Guess you already had that figured. >>
While thoughtfully contemplating his second boot, Johnny continued: “What I still wanna know is . . .why’d you come out here?” He gave Scott a searching glance: “How come you didn’t go back home-----to Boston?”
Scott inclined his head toward the pages on the bed. “As you can see, I wasn’t exactly being . . . ‘Productive’ in Boston.”
Johnny just sat there looking at Scott, as if what he’d said hadn’t even begun to answer the question. Obviously that phrase in the file: “Present Occupation: NONE”, hadn’t jumped out at Johnny the way that it had for Scott.
Scott sighed and glanced down at the floor with a serious expression. Johnny narrowed his eyes at this behavior which was characteristic of his brother. He knew that in the next moment Scott would lift his head back up, look him right in the eyes and say something---- something significant. Johnny sat there, still holding the second boot in his hand, and waited.
“When I . . decided to come out here, I ah . . I thought that if things didn’t work out with Murdoch, well, then I’d do some traveling and perhaps I might look for you.”
Johnny nearly dropped that second boot. He stared hard at his brother. “Whadya sayin’ . . . that you knew ‘bout me?”
Scott managed a slight smile. Then he sighed again. “Not exactly. But when I was about ten years old, I read something . . . . “
Staring at the corner of his brother’s room, Scott was actually envisioning a much more familiar space. “I was in my grandfather’s study. Which,” he said looking directly at Johnny, “was off limits, you understand.” Scott could easily picture the neatly organized top of the large desk, which, for once, had had some papers left lying on it. “I don’t know what possessed me to touch the file on Grandfather’s desk. I suppose that I recognized the name: ‘Murdoch Lancer‘.“ Looking down at the floor again, he added softly, very slowly, “We’d never spoken of him much. I knew that he lived in California, and that he had never . . .“ That sentence trailed off.
As he resumed his narrative, Scott started to remove his left glove, one finger at a time--but kept his eyes on Johnny. “I realize now that that folder was probably a Pinkerton file-----evidently Grandfather had gathered some information on Murdoch. Not much of what was in it seemed very interesting to me at the time, but there was one page that mentioned a baby boy--“, he smiled. “Named John.”
“No kiddin’,” said Johnny softly.
With a intent expression, Scott continued. “That got my attention. But . . on another page it said that the baby was gone----there were some big letters ‘something UNKNOWN‘--probably ‘WHEREABOUTS‘." After a short pause, he continued: “There were quite a few more pages, but nothing else about that baby.“
Johnny watched as his brother started working the fingers of the right glove.
“I never felt that I could ask Grandfather about it,” Scott continued, “--though I‘ve always wondered if he knew what I‘d done, since I was never able to find that file again. And I did look.”
“Of course,” he added, “when I got to be a little older, I realized that I might have been mistaken. So, I wasn’t entirely certain that you’d ever existed. But when I came here, I did intend to find out----and possibly even try to find you.” “Besides,” he concluded, with a self-deprecating smile, “I really wasn’t doing much of anything in Boston.”
Throughout this recitation, Johnny had remained seated on the edge of his bed, listening in fascination, oblivious to the boot dangling in his hand. “Guess that explains why you were maybe kinda . . . acceptin’ . . . of us bein’ brothers.”
Scott looked down at the gloves gathered in his hand and smiled again. “Oh,---- I used to have entire conversations with my ‘little brother’-- Johnny Lancer.”
“Yeah?”
“I can remember sitting for hours with a fishing pole, just talking away.”
“So what’d I look like?”
Scott reached up and put his hat back even further on the crown of his head. “Well, blue eyes,” he said with a grin. “And blond hair------in fact, you looked rather like me.”
“Guess you missed the part ‘bout my mother being Mexican.”
Scott shrugged. “I guess so. I was ten-----it wouldn’t have meant anything.”
“Does it now?”
Scott looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”
“Nothin’. “ Johnny finally pulled on his other boot. Strange that someone so smart--- well, seemed like there were still one or two things Boston hadn’t caught on to yet.
In the next moment, Johnny partly reconsidered that thought, as Scott quietly said, “I gather that your mother never mentioned anything about me.”
Johnny stood up, turned and reached for his gun belt. He wanted a moment to think about that one. As he fastened the leather around his waist, he looked over at Scott. “You already know she didn’t ‘xactly tell me everythin‘. . . . so where was it you were goin’?”
Scott looked mildly startled, then shook his head. “I’d almost forgotten . . . the reason that I came in was that Teresa and Melissa Harper took the buckboard into town------they were planning to pay a few calls.” Scott slid his hands back into his gloves. “They’re overdue and Murdoch wanted me to go out to meet them-----make sure they haven’t had any trouble with the wagon or the horses. Are you coming?”
Johnny picked his discarded shirt up from the floor and used it to cover up the pages from Scott’s file which were lying on his bed. “Let’s go.”
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