The Thoreau quote mentioned is:
“I say beware of all enterprises that require new clothes,
and not rather a new wearer of clothes. “
-- Henry David Thoreau, Walden
“QUESTIONS OF BROTHERHOOD“
“germanitas” : Latin noun: brotherhood;
affinity between things deriving from the same source
Scott, Teresa and Maria were in the Lancer kitchen about to have breakfast together, as usual, when Scott suddenly asked “Maria, what does ‘Diablo’ mean?” Maria stopped in place, a plate in each hand. “Oh Senor Scott, surely no one of the men has said this to you?”
“No, Maria,” he replied seriously, “I believe that it was directed towards a horse.”
Maria was visibly relieved. “‘El Diablo‘, it means ‘the devil’,” she said, setting the plates on the table.
“Quite appropriate,” he said, “in the case of this particular horse.“ Maria nonetheless resolved to remind Jose, Miguel and the others that the blond Senor Lancer was perhaps understanding more of their language than they realized.
“Maria,“ Teresa said, “I’ve been trying to figure out what Scott’s name would be in Spanish. Mr. Lancer is from Scotland, so he’s Scottish--but how would you say that?”
The older woman sat down, thinking as she took a sip of her coffee. “I have heard this said, about Senor Lancer, that he is from . . . . Escocia. So he is ‘escoces’."
“’Senor Escoces'," smiled Teresa, “I like that.”
Seeing his sleepy-eyed younger brother about to enter the kitchen, Scott posed another question: “And what about Johnny?”
“Juanito!”, both women responded in unison, startling Johnny slightly. He looked questioningly at the three amused faces as he took the unoccupied chair opposite Scott. Trying not to show his displeasure at the use of the Spanish diminutive, Johnny concentrated on pouring himself some coffee.
“Jua-ni-to.” Scott said musingly. Then he gave Johnny an arch look. “I can well understand, Brother, why you didn’t choose to go that route. ’Juanito Madrid’ “, he said, attempting the Spanish “R“-----“doesn’t exactly have a menacing air to it.”
Johnny didn’t reply, other than to give his brother a look that said “real funny.“ But he noticed that Teresa and Maria got all quiet and uncomfortable--a typical reaction whenever reference was made to his gun fighting past. Scott was the only one who seemed matter-of-fact about it-----not that he went out of his way to mention it, he just didn’t try as hard as everyone else to avoid it.
Now Boston was on to something else. “So ‘Brother’ in Spanish----no, Teresa, don‘t tell me,“ he said, stopping her with a gesture and a smile, for she was eager to supply the term, “allow me to me to figure this out.” Looking at Johnny, Scott said speculatively, “It‘s ‘frere’ in French, so perhaps ‘frerro’ in Spanish?”
“Nope. ‘Hermano‘.”
Scott sighed, held his white mug in two hands and squinted up his eyes, thinking this over.
“But its ‘frater’ in Latin--’fraternity’ means ‘brotherhood.’”
“It’s still ‘hermano,’” Johnny informed him.
As the others conversed, Scott sampled his breakfast and continued to ponder the problem. Then he took a sip of coffee, and, as he replaced his cup, he announced, in a very pleased tone of voice, “There is another Latin term--for brotherhood--’germanitas’.“ He pronounced the hard ‘g’. “That must be the root--’hermano’--‘germanitas’.”
“’Germanitas’”, Johnny said agreeably. His brother sure did like to puzzle things out. And he certainly didn’t stick to the usual topics of conversation, like the weather or the food. Today it was Latin words, a while back he’d been rattling off quotes from some man named Thoreau----one was something to do with new clothes. Last week, he’d been going on about what the ‘Sons of Liberty’ had done way back in Boston-----Johnny had kind of enjoyed hearing about Paul Revere‘s ride. Not that Scott talked all that much, but when he did, it was likely to be something out of some book. And if Johnny wasn’t particularly interested, he’d found that it wasn’t very difficult to get Scott onto some other topic----just mention something that he didn’t know much about----like branding the herd, for example. He grinned to himself, recalling how the city boy had been pretty skeptical about the idea of burning a symbol into all the animals’ hides. ”And they’ll let you do that”, he’d said in that mild tone of his, kind of doubtful until Johnny finally explained---”Well, it’s only the calves and you gotta hold‘em down.”
Maria was busy serving Johnny’s breakfast and Teresa was starting to clear off her own things, but Scott caught Johnny’s grin. “So what do you have planned for today, Juanito?”
Quickly, the butter knife in Johnny’s hand was pointed in Scott’s direction, “That’s enough . . . Scotty.”
Scott, with a serious expression, then brandished his own utensil: “Only my grandfather calls me Scotty.”
“Well, no one calls me Juanito,” Johnny said with a menacing smile, “--- least not more than once.”
Scott put both hands up in mock surrender. As he did so, the knife fell from his grasp, clattering to the table, startling Maria. “I’m frightened,” he said with a grin. Then, reaching for his coffee once more, he asked, “So what are you doing today?”
“Got some supplies to go up to one of the line shacks. I’ll be gone all day. You?”
“I’m heading to Morro Coyo, to pick up a few things-- Teresa gave me her list. There’s a package I’m expecting, hopefully its arrived.” Then, turning to the older woman, “And Maria, you said that there was something that you needed?”
“Just a few things, Senor Scott”, she said, handing Scott a piece of paper. “Gracias”. He headed towards the door. Then he turned back to Johnny, “Remember that tomorrow we were going to tackle that corral fence.”
“Bye, Scott,“ smiled Teresa.
“You stay out of trouble now, Boston.”
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By mid morning, Scott had picked up all of the items that the women had had on their lists. He’d also purchased a small surprise for Teresa in addition to a few work shirts and a new pair of yellow leather gloves for himself. While in Don Valmo’s clothing store, Scott had briefly considered buying a shirt for his brother as well; Johnny’s wardrobe appeared to be quite limited. He’d reluctantly decided against it, unsure of what the younger man’s reaction would be to a spontaneous gift of clothing.
Scott Lancer had some money of his own; he’d inherited a sum from his late mother and maternal grandmother, prudently invested for him by his grandfather. Upon his arrival at the Lancer ranch, Scott had been less than enthused about accepting the $1000 which Murdoch Lancer had promised to each of his sons. Scott hadn’t wanted the money, nor, to be honest, had he needed it. Most of all, he hadn’t appreciated feeling as if he were being “bought” by his long absent father. Johnny had been quite happy that the man had scattered twenty dollar gold pieces in his sons’ rooms, but Scott had let Murdoch know that it wasn’t necessary. Murdoch had not been pleased. The older man had gruffly informed Scott that even though he had his own funds, he would still receive “a day’s pay for a day’s work, just like everyone else”. Murdoch had placed the emphasis, quite unnecessarily, on “a day’s work”. Scott had decided to refrain from broaching the topic of returning the $1000. At least the gold coins had ceased to appear in his room.
While he certainly wasn’t extravagant, Scott tried to make the most of any excursion to one of the neighboring towns. Consequently, the local shopkeepers had reason beyond simple curiosity to be pleased to see Scott Lancer coming through their doors. It wasn’t surprising that people were interested in Murdoch Lancer’s two long-lost sons. However, although he was unfailingly polite, Scott was certainly not a ready source of information. It did seem to him that most of the questions were about his mysterious younger brother, especially as a few of the local inhabitants had heard of the gunfighter Johnny Madrid. As for himself, the Bostonian suspected that most people assumed that they knew everything that they needed to know, once they’d learned that Scott was from “back East.“
Exiting Senor Valdemerro‘s store, Scott strode to the buckboard and deposited the last of his purchases. The trip to Morro Coyo had proven worthwhile. He was pleased that the books he’d been expecting had arrived. There was also some mail for Murdoch, and a letter for Scott from his former lieutenant, Dan Cassidy. Scott knew better than to open his package of reading material before he’d gotten back to the ranch, but he settled on the buckboard seat to read Dan‘s letter before setting off for home.
Opening the envelope, he removed the two pages that he found inside. Scott read that Dan and his wife Sarah had settled back East and that things seemed to be going well for them. Dan expressed his regret that he had misjudged Scott so badly. “I should have trusted that I knew you and not been so easily influenced by appearances. When you know someone to be honorable,“ he wrote, “you should realize that they just don’t change that readily. Of course, the truly bad seeds always stay the way they are. And those in between, in which category I hope to be included, well, we can only ask forgiveness and try to learn from our mistakes.” Dan went on to say some surprising and rather complimentary things about Johnny, Murdoch and Teresa. He ended by expressing the hope that everyone was well and reiterating his promise to send a picture of the regiment to Scott. <<That couldn’t have been an easy letter to write.>> Scott thought as he carefully folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He put on his gloves, pushed his hat back on the crown of his head, and set off.
It was such a pleasant day that Scott was considering stopping along the river and taking at look at one of the books in his package. He’d almost convinced himself that he could take a short break, when a rather large, bearded man leading a horse stepped out into his path. Scott halted the buckboard, setting the brake as the stranger approached.
“Are you Scott Lancer?”
“And if I am?”
“John Madrid‘s brother?”
“So I’m told. I know him as Johnny Lancer.”
“We know Madrid---- old friends of his. We go way back.”
“We . . ?“, asked Scott, looking around as two men who looked Mexican approached from the other side.
“Yeah. I’m Gordon. These here are the Velasquez brothers.”
<<None of them looking especially . . . friendly>> “Well, I’ll tell Johnny that I ran into you, and if you’re heading towards Morro Coyo, perhaps he’ll look . . . “ As he reached to release the brake, one of the Velasquez’ tried to pull Scott off of the buckboard, while Gordon came at him from the other side.
Scott landed solidly on the ground, and by the time that he picked himself up, the Velasquez brothers were more than ready for him. One hit him hard in the stomach, doubling him over, while the other punched him in the face. He went down again, got kicked a few times and didn’t remember much after that.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Johnny made good time getting up to the line shack. He unloaded the pack horse and carried everything inside, double checking to see if there were any essential items still lacking. Satisfied that the building was secure and well provisioned, he devoted himself to his real purpose in volunteering to ride to the remote location. Johnny spent the next hour practicing--drawing his gun and firing, drawing and firing. Not too many times----it was speed that counted, not repetition; after all, in a gunfight it was usually only the first shot that really mattered. He picked out a target and faced it. When he was satisfied with his speed and accuracy, he took a break, then turned sideways to the same target. Then back to it, drawing and firing as he turned. Each time that he fired, Johnny shifted his weight to the right. Against a right handed opponent, even a slight shift might get you a bullet in the left shoulder, rather than the heart. This had been a reflexive movement for Johnny Madrid. Johnny Lancer worried about losing his edge, but he didn’t feel that he could do this sort of practicing at the ranch.
Next, Johnny took some shots while actually falling to the right. If your opponent reacted to this, he’d still have to shoot at you while reaching across his own body. And, if it did come to a second shot, low and to the right was the place to put yourself. Since the recoil of the first shot would kick your adversary’s gun upwards, his second shot would more easily be to the left and high . . . Thinking about this brought back a memory, of trying to explain some of it to Scott.
Not long after Johnny had recuperated from Pardee’s bullet, Murdoch Lancer had sent his two sons out on the trail. Johnny couldn’t remember now what the reason was supposed to be, other than it hadn’t made much sense. Both brothers had learned pretty quickly that it was just easiest not to argue with Murdoch. But they hadn’t appreciated the forced togetherness and hadn’t had much of anything to say to each other, beyond what was purely necessary. That is, until the second evening out. Once they’d finished eating, Johnny had started working over his gun, cleaning it, and Scott had made one of those comments of his: “It’s seen a lot of use.”
Just like that, no real tone to it. Johnny hadn’t known whether to take offense or to consider it a compliment. Early on, he had had a habit of hearing something negative in those statements that Scott made, and responding in kind. Johnny must have been pretty tired, because all he’d said in reply that evening was something about it not being the first gun he’d ever used. Then Boston had come right back with a question: “When was the first time?”
“I’m guessin’ you mean on a man?”, Johnny had asked, without looking at him.
“Yes.”
Johnny turned then to look at his brother in the firelight; he wanted to see the city boy’s reaction when he heard how young Johnny had been. There was no reaction; Scott had just looked back at Johnny like he was expecting to hear more. Returning his attention to his gun, Johnny had supplied a few more facts: who, where, why. Not every detail, but most likely the longest speech he’d ever uttered in his brother’s presence. Johnny looked into the campfire as he spoke, but could still sense that Scott was intent upon every word. He had figured that would be enough, that Scott would let it go then, or change the subject. But : “How many?” Scott had asked.
“Ain’t kept track, “ had been Johnny’s terse response. Then he’d thought about it a bit, and offered a number. It was not a small one, but still there was no reaction from ol‘Boston. His brother had just asked another question in that same mild tone: “So tell me, what makes you so good?”
“Main thing,” Johnny’d replied, “is you’ve gotta be faster ‘n the other fella.” He’d gone on to say something about wearing the gun, how it had to be in just the right place, low on the hip where your hand would be. And he’d tried to explain about shifting to the right, didn‘t think he was doing very well. “Always move right,” Scott had said softly, “makes sense.”
Scott had gotten up to get some water or something, and as he’d walked back around the campfire, he’d stopped, looked down at his own gun belt and asked: “So should I be wearing this lower?”
“Nah, don’t do that Boston. Somebody might get the idea you know how to use it.”
Scott had managed a small smile at that, but he hadn’t said anything. As far as Johnny could remember, the two of them hadn’t said much of anything else to each other until they’d gotten back to the ranch . . . .
Now that Johnny thought about it, maybe Scott had already known the answers to some of the questions he’d asked that evening. His brother had once said that he’d read Murdoch’s Pinkerton files on Johnny Madrid. <<Maybe there’s some files on ol’Scott, >> Johnny thought. <<Might be real interestin’ too. ---‘course, if they ain‘t, I’ll just have to be sure to let him know ‘bout that.”>>
The sun was already sinking as Johnny Lancer started for home. He could have spent the night at the shack, and headed back in the morning, but Johnny Madrid didn’t mind riding in the dark. . . . When he slipped into the house through the library, Johnny woke Teresa, who was curled up asleep in Murdoch’s chair. “Oh Johnny, you’re getting back late.”
“You’re up pretty late yourself.”
“I was waiting for Scott.”
“Scott? You’re not tellin’ me he ain’t made it back from Morro Coyo?”
“No, he hasn‘t. When he wasn’t here for supper, I thought he was off reading somewhere-----that package he was expecting, I’m sure it was books. So I thought that he‘d be in later. But I haven’t seen him. And Murdoch already told me that I worry too much.”
“Maybe he went straight to his room. If not, he’ll be along--you heard what he said this morning,” Johnny added, “the two of us have a little chore planned for tomorrow.” Johnny yawned. “I‘m turning in. ‘Night, Teresa.” Johnny grinned to himself. <<Looks like Scott maybe found somewhere else to spend the night----and Teresa doesn’t need to hear that. But he’d better be back by daylight.>>
But Scott wasn’t back by morning, and now even Murdoch was concerned. After some grumbling comments about how difficult it was to keep track of the two of them, he grudgingly agreed that it might be a good idea for Johnny to ride towards Morro Coyo. Johnny headed out, glad to be on a horse instead of pulling some fence apart, certain that he’d encounter his wayward brother en route. However, he made it all the way to town without seeing any sign of Scott.
Although it was early, the saloon wasn’t entirely empty. Gus the barman said that Scott hadn’t been around at all. Then a man spoke from across the room--”Well, if it ain’t John Madrid.” Gus looked apprehensive at hearing the name Madrid, but Johnny just smiled and slowly turned.
“Gordon.” Johnny nodded in recognition of the curly haired Canadian. “I go by Lancer now.”
He strolled over to Gordon’s table. “What brings you to Morro Coyo? You still riding with the Velasquez brothers?”
“That’s right. “
“They in town?”
“They are.”
“They lookin’ for me?”
“No, they’re not gunning for you, Madrid,” the bearded man assured him.
“Now, Gordon, you say that like maybe they’re gunnin’ for somebody.”
“Well, you know, ‘Diablo’ and Gerardo, they‘re still missing their little brother.”
Johnny’s face assumed a grim expression. “It was Eduardo that called me out-----”
“Yeah, they know that. It was a fair fight. But, see, they heard that you’d got yourself a family now. They were real curious about your brother.”
“Now there’s a coincidence for you, Gordon. It just so happens, he’s turned up missin’. “
“It’s no coincidence, John.”
“I didn’t think so. Let’s go.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott Lancer had spent a long night, but not at the type of nocturnal activity that Johnny had imagined. He’d been on the floor when he’d first come around, and had worked hard to loosen the ropes around his wrists. The younger of the Velasquez brothers hadn’t appreciated that, and had rewarded his efforts with a few kicks to the ribs. The brown-haired, bearded man who’d said he was called ‘Gordon’ had come over and asked him if he was still breathing. Gordon untied the ropes and Scott had been able to relax his arms for a blessed few minutes. With the elder Velasquez brother’s gun trained on him, they’d given him some water and a little to eat, but refused to answer any more of his questions. Then Gordon had tied him up tighter than before and they’d left him for a very uncomfortable and sleepless night.
There were the three of them, the two Mexicans, brothers named Velasquez and ‘Gordon‘; Scott still wasn’t sure if that was his first or last name, but thought the man sounded ---Canadian? The brothers were the clean shaven Gerardo and the mustached Diego, who apparently was also called “Diablo”. <<Now there’s a coincidence for you.>> Scott had thought to himself. It seemed that a third Velasquez brother had died in a gunfight: Johnny had killed him, and now his siblings were here to take their revenge----on Johnny’s newfound brother. They’d been willing for him to know that much. It also sounded as if perhaps the younger brother---Eduardo--hadn’t died quickly or easily. <<And that probably doesn’t bode too well for me.>> Scott had tried to figure out if there was more to it, but when the Velasquez brothers spoke together, it was in very rapid Spanish. He’d heard Johnny’s name, recognized a few other words, including ‘hermano’, but couldn’t really make much sense of it.
The next morning, they’d hauled Scott to his feet, deposited him in a chair and then tied him to it. The younger one, Gerardo, made some comment in his heavily accented English, something about maybe his brother “Johnnee” would come looking for him today.
“And if he does?”
“He’s going to learn what it is to watch a brother die.”
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