CHAPTER ONE
The large map of the ranch hung on the wall of the Great Room, above the table holding a crystal decanter of scotch. Murdoch Lancer stood proudly in front of the panel, gesturing with his half filled glass as he continued to describe the outlying areas of Lancer, pleased that his son was showing such an interest. Johnny, his own glass in hand, stood beside him, listening carefully, not asking any questions, until Murdoch mentioned the northeastern corner.
“So what’s out there?” the younger man asked casually.
“We have a line shack here,” his father replied, pointing to a small red “X”. “We’d just finished building it when the trouble started. It’s not even fully outfitted yet.”
“What’s that over there?”
Murdoch tapped at the small black dot some distance to the right of the symbol representing the new line shack. “There’s an old, abandoned cabin over here to the east,” he explained. “The roof’s falling in, not too much worth saving. I was planning to have the place burned down, prevent squatters from moving in.” Murdoch Lancer sipped at his drink and regarded his younger son appraisingly. Johnny had been doing some light work for a week now, after having received a clean bill of health from Murdoch’s old friend, Dr. Sam Jenkins. “Might be something you could take care of, Son.”
Just then the glass-paneled French doors opened and Scott Lancer entered.
“I sure wouldn’t mind a few days riding—“ Johnny was starting to say, as his half-brother pulled the door shut behind him with a soft click and then shot an inquisitive glance in the direction of the other two men. Murdoch set down his glass and poured a drink for his elder son. Meanwhile, Scott removed his hat and tucked it under his arm, working at peeling off his gloves as he stepped towards the main entrance and the hat rack standing in the foyer. As soon as Scott had disappeared from view, Johnny addressed Murdoch once more.
“I can head out early tomorrow. . .”
Murdoch absently nodded in agreement, his thoughts having shifted elsewhere. “Scott?”
That young man quickly reappeared, having shed his gun belt along with his hat and work gloves. Attired in plain dark trousers and a nondescript beige checked shirt, Scott Lancer was still easily distinguished from the “typical ranch hand” by his confident demeanor as well as by the burgundy colored scarf tucked deep into the collar of his tattersall work shirt. “Yes, Sir?” Scott inquired as he approached the other two men, smoothing his damp blond hair with one hand as he did so.
“Tomorrow I want you boys to head out towards the north east corner of the ranch,” Murdoch announced, as he handed Scott a glass of imported scotch. Scott nodded his thanks for the beverage and regarded his father attentively as the older man continued with his instructions. “You’ll need supplies for four days----five to be safe.”
“Won’t take that long to ride out there and back,” Johnny objected. “Don’t need both of us, Murdoch, I can handle it just fine.”
Concerned that he had walked into the middle of yet another uncomfortable conversation between his father and younger brother, Scott Lancer drew up his bottom lip and focused his attention on the drink in his hand.
“You’ll need to take a wagon,” Murdoch explained patiently. “A small one, but it’ll still be rough going. It’ll help if one of you rides on ahead, scouts out a trail.”
Looking somewhat perplexed now, as well as annoyed, Johnny didn’t respond. Gesturing towards the map with his glass, Scott asked a question. “And ah . . . where exactly are we going?”
“There’s an old run down cabin ---here,” Murdoch explained, tapping the spot on the map with one long index finger. “I want you to burn it down. But first pull out anything that won’t burn, and anything worth saving.”
Scott cocked an eyebrow at that, but waited for Johnny to ask the next obvious question. He didn’t need to as Murdoch responded to their questioning looks. “Keep anything we might be able to use in the line shack.”
“And a line shack would be?”
Johnny ducked his head towards his glass in order to hide a grin, a movement that, judging from Scott’s own expression, did not go unnoticed by his older brother.
“A line shack is an outlying cabin for the hands to use when working in a remote area of the ranch, or moving the herd from one pasture to another . . .” Scott nodded again, and recognizing that he was in for one of his father’s rather lengthy explanations, made himself comfortable on a nearby sofa, stretching out his long legs.
“Each one of these red “X”s is a line shack. We try to keep them stocked year round with basic supplies, canned goods, firewood,” the veteran rancher explained. “You might get some pots and pans out of that old cabin. And last I knew, there was a working woodstove inside---it’ll take both of you to lift it---and you’ll need the wagon to move it over to the new line shack-- here.” Murdoch tapped the “X” this time.
Johnny shook his head. <<It’s a wonder he ain’t erased them marks yet>> he thought with some degree of irritation. His movement passed unnoticed as Murdoch looked to Scott for a sign of comprehension.
“Yes, Sir,” Scott said with a nod of his blond head, indicating his acceptance of the next day’s assignment as well as his now thorough understanding of the purpose of a line shack.
On Murdoch’s other side, the darker haired son continued his disgruntled internal monologue, this time targeting his half-brother. <<He’ll probably stand up an’ salute next.>>
In the following moment, Scott Lancer did stand, drawing up to his full height as he drained his glass and then set it on the console table positioned behind the sofa.
“If you’ll excuse me, . . . I think I’ll go get cleaned up for supper.”
Johnny knew by now that in Scott’s case, “cleaned up” usually meant that in addition to a good scrubbing, the Eastern “dandy” would be changing into another shirt and maybe even a different pair of pants as well. Johnny shook his head again. Even though he found some of Scott’s habits to be rather strange, Johnny wasn’t really against spending time with the man. But the young gunfighter had his reasons for wanting to head up to that cabin on his own, and he wasn’t ready to give up on the idea just yet.
Moving over to the sofa, Johnny carefully eased himself into the seat that his brother had just vacated. He was still feeling an occasional twinge from the bullet wound he had taken in the back, though he tried very hard not to let it show. Feeling Murdoch’s searching gaze upon him now, Johnny quickly deflected the conversation to a safer topic.
“He don’t know too much about ranchin’,” Johnny offered with a grin, moving his head in the direction of Scott’s recent exit.
“As long as he’s willing to keep asking questions, Scott’ll be fine,” was Murdoch’s firm response.
“Yeah, he’s doing okay,” Johnny conceded. “Better’n I expected, anyway.”
“I take it you’ve done some ranch work?”
“I’ve worked for a few ranchers ---- now and again,” was Johnny’s ambiguous reply. The grin had disappeared, replaced by an expression that was unreadable to Murdoch Lancer.
Murdoch Lancer hid a sigh as he faced the large map once more, then reached down for the crystal decanter on the table in front of him. He’d been the one to decree that the past stay in the past, and, surprisingly, so far both of his sons had seemed willing to restrict their conversations to present events.
So why did he feel such dissatisfaction? After all, Murdoch wasn’t eager to talk about his own past, and especially not to discuss at length either of his two wives, to dredge up the painful memories along with the pleasant ones. But he did have a tremendous desire to learn more about each of these young strangers. Whenever Murdoch had ventured to question either one of them, however, he’d received a careful, oblique reply much like the one he had just gotten from Johnny. In each instance, the stern Scotsman had decided to simply leave it alone, concerned that he might not want to hear the real answer—or that the young man being questioned might flatly refuse to respond to a second query at all.
In the days since Johnny’s recovery, Murdoch had had his two sons working together. His own interactions with each of his boys felt stiff and awkward; he would see those two pairs of blue eyes—different shapes, differing shades of blue, but so similar in the way that they seemed to be studying him sometimes--- and wonder what they must think of him, wonder exactly what they’d been told. It was easier to avoid those eyes by sending the young men off together, telling himself that he was doing them a favor by arranging for the brothers to get to know each other better.
What Murdoch did not fully realize was that his two very different sons were not easily finding common ground. Talk tended to center upon the task at hand, whatever it might be, since each one was reluctant to provide details of his recent past. Scott had ventured a bit about his college studies and intimated numerous romantic liaisons, but he was not particularly proud of the more dissolute aspects of his recent life in Boston and even more reluctant to elaborate upon his experiences during the War. On his side, Johnny had dropped a few hints here and there of his life as a drifting gun for hire, hoping to shock the reserved Easterner, but he wasn’t especially eager to go into much detail about a life that he had already been trying to leave behind.
As to the more distant past, the brothers had yet to swap stories of their respective childhoods and were unlikely to do so anytime soon, certainly not over a beer at the saloon on a Saturday night with the Lancer vaqueros listening in. Murdoch Lancer had yet to volunteer to relate any family history; and neither of his sons desired a repetition of the rebuffs that they had received during the initial meeting with their estranged father.
Thanks to Teresa, however, Johnny did have good reason to wonder about the things that his mother had told him about Murdoch Lancer. Scott, having overheard the exchange between Miss O’Brien and his half-brother, had immediately recognized that he too had only been privy to one side of the story, the version provided by his maternal grandfather. But despite a myriad of questions, each of them had, for now at least, reluctantly decided to bide his time.
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Once the family had assembled at the supper table, Johnny sat at his place beside Teresa and waited patiently until the discussion of the day’s events had been completed and the Lancers’ attention turned to the tasks scheduled for the next several days. His brother’s chair was opposite Teresa’s and sure enough, Scott had changed into a lighter colored shirt and had even put on a string tie. Well, he was a bit of a dandy, no question, and he had some fancy manners all right, though Johnny had been more than happy to follow Scott’s lead when it came to things like sorting out the different utensils on the table. Johnny had heard Teresa scold Scott more than once for getting up every time that she walked in or out of the room. He’d stopped doing that, though it was kind of funny to watch him sometimes, how the city boy seemed to have to make an effort to stay seated. But Teresa sure did seem to like it that Scott held her chair for her when they all sat down, she’d let him walk all the way around the table to do it. So after a couple of nights, Johnny had taken over, told Boston to sit himself down and relax. Scott hadn’t seemed to mind.
Johnny had always thought that people that put on manners that way, well, that it was just that, put on. He’d even been guilty of wondering whether or not the Easterner was maybe taking it up a step, just to make him look bad. Now, upon closer observation, he’d seen that holding a lady’s chair, using the right fork, shaking hands and making conversation were things that came pretty natural to Scott. He didn’t mean anything by it, it was just something he did, like Johnny scanning a room when he entered, like always sitting with his back to a wall.
When Murdoch turned to his young ward and mentioned that he would have her company all to himself for the next several evenings, Johnny seized the opportunity to once more attempt to make his case.
“I don’t see that there’s any sense taking a wagon all the way up there ‘til we’re sure that stove’s worth movin’. I can ride up there on my own, pull things out and burn the place.”
At the head of the table, Murdoch Lancer set his fork down and studied his younger son.
“And if you come back and tell us it’s worthwhile, we’ll have to send two men right back up there.” Murdoch shook his large grey head. “No, Johnny. And besides, I don’t want you even trying to move that wood stove alone. It’s too soon . . .”
Johnny knew he was pushing too hard, he could see Scott looking at him curiously. Murdoch’s gaze was still fastened intently upon him as well, but Johnny just couldn’t let it go.
“I can handle it,” he said insistently.
“You haven’t seen the place. I have.” Murdoch’s flat statement indicated that he would not welcome any further argument.
Johnny let an exasperated sigh escape. As he reached for his glass of milk, he could feel Scott studying him. He thought he could guess what the other man must be thinking, but told himself that he really didn’t care. Nonetheless, Johnny tensed a bit, waiting for Scott to make some dry comment about “feeling left out.”
Instead, Scott took a sip of wine, carefully replaced the stemmed glass on the table and then turned to Murdoch with a grin.
“I’m beginning to wonder if Johnny might not have some sort of rendez-vous planned,” he announced to his father in a conspiratorial tone.
Murdoch smiled back, but Teresa was puzzled. “What’s that?” she asked. Johnny was glad, because he didn’t know either.
“It’s a French phrase,” Scott explained. “It means ‘a secret meeting.’”
“And just who is it that you think I’m gonna be meetin’ up there?” Johnny demanded coldly.
Scott relaxed back in his chair, his eyebrows raised. “I’m sure I don’t know, Brother,” he said disarmingly. “I just hope she’s pretty.”
Murdoch and Teresa both laughed, and even Johnny had to smile and shake his head at that. Damn, but Boston sure seemed to know the right thing to say most of the time. The momentary tension disappeared and they concluded the meal with more conversation about what the next few weeks on the ranch might bring.
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CHAPTER TWO
Once they’d all finished eating, Teresa O’Brien shooed the men away from the table and set about stacking the plates and utensils in order to cut down on the number of trips she would have to make to the kitchen clearing things away. Each evening, after the meal had been served, Maria and Juanita would quickly clean up the kitchen and then depart for their own homes, only remaining longer if there was company. Teresa could easily recall a time when both of the women would routinely stay later, but back when the troubles had started Murdoch had insisted on sending them on their way before nightfall. Teresa had then taken on the task of clearing the table and putting away the left over food, but she had usually simply stacked the dirty dishes in the kitchen, leaving them to be washed by the women in the morning, so that she could sit for a while in the Great Room with her father and Murdoch.
After her father had been murdered and Murdoch had recovered sufficiently from his own wounds to take his meals downstairs, Teresa had sometimes announced that there was really no need to leave so few dishes cluttering up the kitchen, that it would only take a moment to wash them. It had been the evenings when she had found herself missing Daddy the most—the empty place at the supper table, the conspicuously vacant chair in the sitting area. Rather than stay and attempt to make conversation with Murdoch, who was also still grieving for his dead friend as well as grimly worrying about the future of his ranch, it been a welcome escape for the young girl to find a moment’s quiet refuge in the kitchen. Teresa would heat the water on the stove and then immerse her hands—and her thoughts--- in the warm suds. There had been were many evenings when the orphan’s overwhelming sadness had mingled lonely tears with the soapy water in the large dishpan.
Teresa had been born on Lancer. She knew that her father had become the ranch foreman around the same time that her mother had died; now her parents rested side by side in the small cemetery just a short distance from the hacienda. She and Daddy had had their own quarters when Teresa was younger, but somewhere along the way they had started to dine with Mr. Lancer and then spend the evening with him. Then Mr. Lancer had suggested they use some of his rooms.
When Daddy was killed, Mr. Lancer had become her guardian and on the day that she and a few ranch hands had buried her father, Murdoch had solemnly promised Teresa that she would always have a home with him here at the ranch. Weak and still bed-ridden, he’d asked her to call him “Murdoch”, but it had been difficult at first. It was easier now that Scott and Johnny were here and they addressed him by his first name too.
Before they’d arrived, Teresa had wondered if Murdoch Lancer’s grown sons might be envious that she’d always lived at Lancer when they had not, worried that they might be resentful that she knew their father so well, when he was a stranger to them. But so far, both young men had seemed willing to accept her as a sister, and had been unfailingly polite and considerate. In fact, when he’d realized that Teresa was left on her own to clear the table, Scott had offered to assist her, though of course she hadn’t let him do that! And on his second night of eating downstairs, Johnny had tried to do the same thing, making no effort to hide his disapproval when his father and brother had gotten up and simply walked away, leaving the chore to her. She’d smiled and thanked him and sent him on his way, just as she had with Scott. She laughed softly now, remembering how each of them had hesitated, then departed quite willingly enough. Men! But at least Scott and Johnny had offered, she reminded herself. Daddy and Murdoch never had.
As Teresa stood now at Scott’s place and stacked Murdoch’s plate on top of Scott’s, she thought about that new word. “Ron-day-voo”. . she liked the sound of it. She wondered if one reason why Scott seemed to know so much about so many different things was because he was such a good listener. At least he had been so attentive every time she’d gone on and on about the ranch and growing up here, describing the way things had been before. Before Pardee.
Of course, Scott had seemed much less willing to talk about himself. Oh, he had a nice, polite way about him, so he’d answered all of her questions, but the responses had been characteristically brief. Scott Lancer wasn’t the most talkative man she’d ever met, but he did seem to have a knack for knowing the right thing to say, when to make a suggestion, when to offer a light remark. Scott had done that at supper this evening and he’d stepped in at the party as well . . . Teresa carried the last of the dishes into the kitchen and decided to wash them, something she hadn’t done lately. There were twice as many now, compared to when she and Murdoch had dined alone, and besides, during the past few weeks, she’d been eager to join the Lancers in the Great Room. But last night they’d finished reading aloud from Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe and she expected that this evening the three men would discuss the trek that Scott and Johnny would be setting off on the next morning, riding out to the farthest corner of the ranch. Rather than listening to them, Teresa decided to do up the dishes instead, and reminisce about the party.
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The rather impromptu gathering a few days before had been organized both to commemorate the defeat of the land pirates and to introduce Murdoch Lancer’s two sons to some of their neighbors. Scott seemed to be settling in, Johnny was back on his feet, and the ranch was slowly recovering. After the long months of fear and uncertainty, it had been a much-needed respite for the community. Despite the short notice, the hastily arranged celebration had been very well attended and families from the neighboring ranches had been joined by those of the Morro Coyo merchants. Teresa, Maria and Juanita had produced dozens of biscuits and pastries in the Lancer kitchen and the makeshift tables had groaned with additional desserts provided by the local women. Cipriano and several of the vaqueros had taken charge of the barbecue.
The group of young women who were Teresa’s lifelong friends had donned their Sunday best in eager anticipation of the promised music and dancing. Since each one had been intensely curious about Mr. Lancer’s mysterious and unknown grown sons, Teresa had found herself the center of attention, plied with impatient questions. Several of the girls had immediately spied Johnny, standing and talking with a few of the Lancer hands. Of course, as a newcomer to the community, he had quickly attracted the notice of the young ladies, but they would surely have paid him less attention had he not been so darkly handsome, with his black bolero jacket and brightly colored shirt complementing his coloring.
That Alondra Zamora and Nellie Hilldenbrand found Johnny to be especially fascinating came as no surprise to Teresa; the two couldn’t stop staring at him and whispering to each other. Meanwhile Corinna Cushman and Leah Anderson peppered Teresa with inquiries about the “the Boston gentleman, the one from back East”. It was clear that, based on what little they’d heard or the brief glimpses they’d caught, the young ladies had already developed an intense interest in one Lancer brother or the other. When dark haired Alondra had openly expressed her envy of Teresa’s new proximity to two very handsome young men—a sentiment echoed by the rest of the girls, even those who had yet to lay eyes on Scott—Teresa had said something about being happy that Murdoch’s two sons seemed willing to accept her as a sister.
“But you’re not their sister, Teresa!” hazel eyed Corinna was quick to point out. “And that’s a very good thing!” Corinna, whose own family was from “back East” was most curious about Scott, but that didn’t stop her from avidly studying Johnny right along with the other girls.
Murdoch and Scott had exited the hacienda just about then, carrying several bottles to place on a table near the side door. Although there were large bowls of lemonade and punch available, Murdoch Lancer was also setting out some of his best scotch, sherry and wine for the occasion. To the somewhat flustered delight of her friends, Teresa beckoned Scott over to the group and began to make introductions. She was pleased to note that even Nellie was impressed enough with the blond-haired Lancer brother to tear her eyes away from Johnny, who had left the circle of ranch hands and had taken up a solitary lounging position against a far wall. The two Baldemerro sisters had just hurried over to join the group of females gathered around Teresa and Scott when Murdoch Lancer, positioned near the refreshment tables with a drink in one hand, called for the attention of everyone assembled.
“I want to thank all of you for coming together on such short notice—particularly you ladies who have contributed to this magnificent spread,” he started with a smile, gesturing at the heavily laden tables. “We’ve all been through some tough times—some very tough times---and many of us have suffered losses . . . very painful losses.”
The sudden stab of sorrow as she thought of her own loss caused Teresa to bow her dark head, grasping at the folds of her rose colored skirt with each hand. Tears filled her eyes at Murdoch’s words, quickened by the certainty that he too was remembering her father, his best friend. As she fiercely bit her lip, trying hard not to cry, Teresa felt Scott’s hand ease onto her shoulder, just as her friend Leah, on her left, slipped a comforting arm around her waist.
“Good men, . .. we’ll never forget them,” Murdoch continued with obvious emotion. Some of the ranchers in the crowd responded with “Hear! Hear!” and Murdoch joined them in solemnly raising his glass.
After a brief pause, Murdoch began to speak again. “But we do have something to celebrate,” he stated forcefully. “Our land has been defended, Pardee and his men have been defeated. They won’t threaten us or anyone else again!” Cheers and applause greeted this last. Out of the corner of her eye, Teresa slid a glance at Scott, standing to her right and slightly behind, his hand still resting lightly on her left shoulder. Pardee, the man who had murdered her father, was dead, and it had been Scott who had killed him. She was fiercely glad of that.
“And, as you probably all know by now, I have something very special to cel . . . to give thanks for. .. . my sons are . . . home.” Murdoch looked out over the crowd, spied Scott and gestured for him to approach. “Scott, . . Scott--- come on up here.”
Scott gave Teresa’s shoulder a small squeeze and smiled reassuringly down at her, then politely murmured his excuses to the young ladies before striding up to stand beside Murdoch.
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“Everyone, this is my elder son, Scott . . .from . . . Boston.”
From his position next to his father, Scott Lancer glanced around pleasantly at the assemblage and seemed about to say something when Murdoch put his hand on his son’s shoulder and continued speaking.
From their different vantage points, both Teresa and Johnny watched Scott quite carefully. Teresa was pleased to see that the Bostonian had followed her advice; Scott had asked what would be appropriate to wear for the occasion and she had been only too happy to steer him away from his more formal Eastern attire. Scott looked very handsome in his caramel colored jacket, white shirt and black string tie; glancing at her friends, Teresa could tell that they most likely shared her opinion. Teresa did note, with some surprise, that the young man seemed slightly uncomfortable standing up there next to his father; she would have expected he’d be quite at ease in almost any social situation.
Still leaning against a wall at the rear of the gathering, Johnny smiled sardonically as he watched Scott’s guarded reaction to Murdoch’s large hand clasping his shoulder. He saw Scott start to say something, then bow his head a little bit when the Old Man kept right on talking.
“Scott studied at Harvard College . . . . And like some of you, he served in the War that almost tore our country apart . . .”
Johnny watched with interest as Scott’s head came up at that, although Boston’s expression didn’t change much, except for maybe a little something around his eyes. Then his half-brother swiftly scanned the crowd-----looking for those other soldiers, Johnny guessed. Johnny let his own eyes ease around too, but he didn’t pick out any veterans right off. He didn’t notice any fellow gunslingers either. In fact, half the men there weren’t even wearing guns—Murdoch and Scott included.
“Scott was an officer in the United States cavalry . . . .”
Now Scott turned his head to look the Old Man in the eye. “I think,” he began, then faced away from Murdoch to address the company, “that the point of this . . . lengthy introduction is most likely to let you all know that I am not a rancher.” Scott smiled when he emphasized the “not” and there were lots of folks smiling right back at him. Then some men over near the table holding the collection of liquor bottles, rancher types who looked to be about Murdoch’s age, started laughing and shouting a few things up at Murdoch and Scott.
“What’re you sayin’ Scott?? Ol’ Murdoch hasn’t taught you everything he knows yet?”
Still smiling, Scott started to reply, “Well, I have learned a little . . . .”
“A little!”
“Well, Hell, that’s all Murdoch knows!!!”
“What’s he taught ya?”
“Well. . . . I think I might be able to recognize a steer,” Scott offered with mock hesitation, playing along with Murdoch’s friends.
“Now, Scott, you just come on over here!”
“Right, come lift a glass with some ‘real’ cattlemen!”
“We’ll tell ya all ya need to know!!”
Rubbing his hands together and responding that a drink did sound like a very good idea, Scott left Murdoch to head over to the cluster of ranch owners and was soon exchanging handshakes and being introduced to the laughing older men. Since they had all heard about Scott’s successful decoy plan, and also knew that it had been Scott’s bullet that had actually killed Pardee, they were more than ready to welcome Murdoch Lancer’s boy, and it didn’t really matter where he was from. Murdoch shook his head in amusement at the gibes that had been directed at him, and smiled to see his elder son surrounded by these men who were his own long time friends and neighbors.
The tall rancher looked around until he finally spied Johnny standing back in the shadows, still leaning against the hacienda wall. Hearing his name, Johnny pushed himself upright, then strolled over to stand on Murdoch’s right, the spot opposite from the one that Scott had so recently occupied. During Scott’s introduction, Johnny couldn’t help but wonder what the Old Man would say about him. . now it looked like he was about to find out.
Other people must have been wondering the same thing, since they quieted down some, just watching Johnny walk over to Murdoch. Even the raucous group of ranchers standing around Scott stopped talking and turned to look.
“Everyone, this is my younger son, John . . .Johnny.”
Johnny felt the Old Man’s hand on his shoulder now. He made sure to keep his head up—if there was going to be a reaction to anything his father had to say, Johnny didn’t want to miss any of it. For a long moment, Murdoch paused, as if maybe that was going to be it.
“Johnny’s been living down around the border, near Mexico. . .,” Murdoch started again, then faltered.
“That’s right,” Johnny said agreeably, a bemused smile playing about his lips as he realized that ol’ Murdoch wasn’t really sure what to say next.
Suddenly, Scott was there on the other side of Murdoch, holding a glass of scotch in each hand. A look passed between Scott and the Old Man and then Murdoch continued on in a noticeably stronger voice, his grip on Johnny’s shoulder tightening as he did so. “He used to go by the name ‘Madrid’, but it’s going to be ‘Lancer’ from now on . . .”
Johnny had to admit to himself he was a bit surprised—and impressed. The Old Man had actually said it. That might have been a good place to stop, but, of course, Murdoch didn’t.
“Johnny’s got a good gunhand—“
“--- And he’s also . . . ‘not a rancher’,” Scott interjected smoothly, netting grins and some chuckles from the crowd. Smiling and catching Johnny’s eye, Scott handed his brother a glass.
Johnny accepted the drink, looked down at it briefly. “Well, Boston,” he said slowly, his voice soft and drawling, “Least I know what a cow looks like.” Loud and appreciative laughter greeted this remark, Scott joining in amicably and raising his whiskey. The two brothers touched rims and drank, then Scott lifted his half-empty glass towards the assembly. “To cattle,” he said dryly, and many in the group echoed his toast. Then as Murdoch stood proudly, holding his own drink in one large hand, the other still firmly grasping Johnny’s shoulder, Cleve Anderson proposed yet another pledge, which was enthusiastically repeated by those present: “To Lancer!”
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As she continued drying the dishes, Teresa thought about the music and dancing which had lasted well into the night. She had felt so thoroughly pleased when Scott had claimed her for the very first dance, setting her companions all atwitter by asking “Teh-RAY-sa” if she would “do him the honor”. When the handsome blond had escorted her back to her friends, the envy in their eyes had been evident. To their great disappointment, rather than choosing a new partner from the group of eager young girls in their brightly colored dresses, Scott had instead crossed the yard to begin methodically working his way through the ranks of older women, the ranchers’ wives. Later, when she’d asked him about it, he’d explained with a tired smile that it was his duty as host, since Murdoch’s lingering ailments prevented him from taking the dance floor and Johnny had seemed reluctant to do so. Duty or not, the local ladies had pronounced the “Boston gentleman” to be completely charming--- both Senora Zamora and Mrs. Cleve Anderson had made it a point to tell Teresa so. As did their daughters when it was finally their turn to take the floor in the arms of the well-mannered Easterner.
Johnny had seemed content to linger on the edges of the celebration; Teresa had caught glimpses of him from time to time, engaging in brief conversations with various guests, but more often on the sidelines joking with a few of the Lancer hands who had become his friends. At one point Teresa had brought Johnny a plate with a slice of one of the pies she had made, asking if he was enjoying the music and resisting the urge to demand to know why he wasn’t dancing. Alondra and Nellie had instantly appeared, one on either side of Teresa, and they had been much less reticent. Teresa had introduced her two friends to Johnny, and Alondra, trading on what she believed to be an ‘edge’ had made a point of batting her long dark lashes and greeting Johnny in her native Spanish, effusively welcoming him to the community. Not to be outdone, Nellie had gotten right to the heart of matter with a direct question.
“So, Mr. Ma---Lancer, you do dance, don’t you?”
“It’s Johnny,” he’d said evenly, giving her an unfathomable look. “And yeah . . . . I dance.” He’d turned to Alondra and asked her—in Spanish—if she would please hold his dessert, and then he’d taken Teresa out onto the dance floor. Teresa had to admit to herself now that seeing Alondra’s unconcealed dismay had added to her own delight. The tune had been a lively one and despite her initial concern that Johnny might be overdoing, she’d been laughing and out of breath by the time the music had stopped. Knowing that her friends would be horribly disappointed if they were not afforded the same opportunity, Teresa had asked Johnny if he would please dance with them as well, and he’d agreed, though he’d made it clear it was only because she’d asked, and not because she’d promised to make him a pie.
Putting away the last of the plates, Teresa smiled at the memory of how infatuated Nellie and Alondra had been—still were, in fact. Johnny had apparently said very little to either of them, but both of the girls had repeated his words over and over to their friends.
Everyone had enjoyed the festivities and there had been no question that the community had welcomed Murdoch’s two sons. She knew that meant a great deal to Murdoch; her guardian had seemed almost content as they sat alone together in the Great Room after the party had ended and the guests had all departed. Perhaps it was true, what the minister had told her when Daddy died, that God never gives you more trouble than you can handle, that He always gives you what you need to get through the most difficult times; when something is taken from you, something more is given. Teresa missed her father terribly and thought about him almost daily, but she did still have Murdoch and now Scott and Johnny too. So maybe it was also true that something good could come from even the worst event. Teresa knew that Murdoch had had agents trying to track Johnny down for a long time. But Murdoch had never attempted to contact Scott. Although Daddy had often urged him to, Murdoch had never sent a message to Scott in Boston, not until after her father had been killed and Murdoch himself had almost died. Without the threat to the ranch, perhaps he might never have done so.
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When Teresa entered the Great Room, the Lancer men, as she had expected, were still discussing the next day’s expedition. At least, Murdoch was; Johnny half reclined on one of the sofas, looking bored and Scott was only half listening as he jotted down a list of the things they would need to bring.
“I’ll ask Maria to help me pack a chuck box first thing in the morning,” Teresa volunteered.
“Thank you, darling.” Murdoch rose stiffly from his big leather armchair. “Here, boys, let me show you the best route.”
As Scott stood to follow their father over to the large map of the ranch on the far wall, Johnny also got to his feet and seized his opportunity to escape.
“I looked at the map already, I know where I’m going.” Feeling Scott and Murdoch watching him as he headed for the front door, Johnny turned when he reached the hat rack in the entryway. “I’m going out to see the boys in the bunkhouse for a while.”
Despite his announcement, Johnny still paused to don his gun belt, then looked up at the other two men. “I guess I’ll see you at sunup---- that is, if you’re still coming with me, Boston,” he added, before grabbing his hat and heading out.
Murdoch turned his attention to the wall map, then noticed that Scott was staring at the now closed door.
“Something wrong, Scott?”
Despite his troubled expression, Scott responded in the negative. “No, Sir . . . nothing,” he said slowly, then joined Murdoch in studying the outlines of Lancer.
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CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Scott was out very early overseeing the packing of supplies in the cart that the brothers would be taking on their excursion to the northeast corner of the ranch. One of the hands had harnessed a single draft horse to what looked like a much smaller version of the buckboard typically used to pick up supplies in town. There were already quite a few items in the bed of the wagon, including a two-man saw fastened along the inside wall and a large wooden box that Scott recognized as a wannigan. He deposited two filled canteens on the driver’s seat and two bedrolls in the back, then lifted the lid of the wannigan to survey the contents. <<Chuck box,>> he reminded himself, <<that’s what Teresa called it, a chuck box.>> Once again, the Easterner wondered just how long it would take before he got used to the idea that even things that seemed familiar were still somehow ‘different’ out here. Scott did note with satisfaction that in addition to a coffee pot and skillet, there was also what he would identify as a cast-iron “dutch oven”. He was still examining some of the foodstuff packed inside the box when, hearing footsteps behind him, he dropped the lid back into place and turned to greet his father.
Scott was pleasantly surprised when he saw the items that Murdoch Lancer was carrying, --a fishing pole and a well-worn wicker creel. The previous evening, as they had once more examined the large wall map of the ranch, the two of them had discussed the route that the brothers would be taking. When Murdoch had pointed out that for the majority of the trip water would be in good supply since the proposed route followed the beds of various streams, Scott had wondered aloud about the likelihood of camping near a choice fishing spot. Murdoch had been surprised by the inquiry, but had quickly volunteered to provide the necessary equipment for such an undertaking. Although Scott had accepted the offer, he hadn’t been at all certain that the older man would remember.
Just as Murdoch was showing Scott the small box of hooks, lures and flies which had been stored inside the old creel, Cipriano and Miguel approached with a few more things to add to the collection in the wagon bed. Cipriano Sanchez had been the Lancer foreman since shortly after Paul O’Brien’s murder. Ever since their foray into the mountains to decoy Pardee and his men, Scott had been working closely with Senor Cipriano and had greatly benefited from the older man’s tutelage. Miguel was the Segundo’s nephew. Although the young vaquero often dined with his aunt and uncle in their small home, he bunked with the rest of the Lancer hands and was part of a small group that had quickly become quite friendly with Johnny. Once the additional supplies-- including several lengths of rope, a couple of buckets and an ax-- had been safely stowed, Cipriano addressed Murdoch.
“Senor Lancer, I have sent out the crews for today. Did you still wish me to go to town tomorrow?”
“Yes, Cipriano, I’ll need you to go to the bank or I’m afraid we won’t have enough money to meet payroll on Saturday.” Murdoch considered this briefly, then added, “It’s probably best if you don’t go alone—take Miguel with you.”
Scott flashed his father a furrowed glance, and then raised a detaining hand towards the Segundo, who had nodded soberly and was about to depart toward the stables.
“Just a minute.” Turning to face Murdoch, Scott expressed his concern. “Murdoch, we’re already short handed; Johnny and I will be away and Jose still isn’t fully recovered yet. Now. . . I still have the money you gave me . . . And I say we use that to meet the payroll rather than having Cipriano and Miguel spend most of a day riding to Morro Coyo and back.”
At the mention of “the money that you gave me,” the elder Sanchez exchanged a look with his nephew; Cipriano’s wife Juanita had told them about the unbelievable sum of money--$1000 !!—that Murdoch Lancer had promised to each of his sons. .
Murdoch was clearly not pleased with the proposal. “That’s yours, Scott—and I have more than enough money in the bank to meet the payroll.”
“And that’s good to hear,” Scott assured him. “It’ll still be there when Johnny and I get back—we can settle up then.”
Once Senor Scott had finished speaking, Cipriano ventured to lend his support to the young man’s suggestion before “el jefe” could voice another objection. “There is still very much work to be done, Senor Lancer.”
Absorbed in studying the rough exterior of the weathered creel, Scott felt rather than saw his father bite back his first reply. While the Sanchezes eyed Murdoch expectantly, the older man considered his son thoughtfully. Deciding that this might not be the time to insist upon “calling the tune”, the veteran rancher slowly nodded, grimly accepting the logic of keeping the foreman on site while Lancer was still undermanned and his sons would be absent. Abruptly changing the subject, Murdoch asked a question about how the two newest hands were working out.
During Johnny’s recuperation, Murdoch had spent much of his time at his injured son’s bedside and it had been left to Cipriano and Scott to organize the surviving Lancer hands to repair the damage done by the Land Pirates and resume the operation of the ranch. During that time, two new men had been signed on, Micajah, a taciturn Indian, and a loquacious Anglo drifter named Wes. Murdoch and Johnny had yet to meet the new hires; currently both men were assigned to a small crew working in a distant pasture during the day.
“The Indian, he is a hard worker,” Cipriano assured his patron; Miguel, standing beside his uncle, nodded his agreement. Scott was left to fill the brief pause that followed this assessment.
“From what I understand,” he said carefully, “Wes manages to pull his weight—with a bit of prodding.”
The expression on the Segundo’s face made it more than clear that the stolid Mexican held a rather negative opinion of this Wes. Murdoch heaved a sigh; he would need to meet the young man, but he knew that since Lancer had too few workers and far too much work, he wouldn’t be able to turn away any able-bodied hands, however unambitious. Elevating an eyebrow at his father’s audible expulsion of breath, Scott refrained from further comment, instead carefully placing the fishing pole and creel in the wagon bed and then excusing himself to go back inside the hacienda. Cipriano and his nephew touched the brims of their hats in Murdoch’s direction and departed for the stables.
The tall grey-haired cattleman leaned on the side of the wagon and surveyed the yard and the clusters of adobe buildings, taking a moment to appreciate how fortunate he was that they were still standing and still bore his name. Murdoch had not had much time to himself before Johnny appeared, exiting another of the barns leading the sorrel that Scott had dubbed “Rambler”. The horse was saddled for the trip, with two bulging saddlebags and a carbine stowed in the attached boot. Neither man spoke as Johnny approached, and then leaned against the wagon in a stance mirroring that of his father. Glancing down, Johnny noticed the fishing pole.
“What’s this?”
Murdoch allowed himself a small smile. “It may be your supper,” he replied. “It seems Scott plans to do some fishing.”
“He do a lot of fishin’ in Boston?” Johnny asked, his skepticism evident.
Giving Johnny a look of mild surprise, Murdoch considered the question. Like Johnny, he too thought of Scott as being largely unaccustomed to life outside of the city, and had been suitably impressed with how well his elder son had thus far seemed to adapt to his new surroundings.
“Well,” he said slowly, “Boston is located on a harbor. And there are several rivers running through or near the city. The Charles is one; I can’t seem to recall the names of the others . . .”
Scott, of course, could have easily identified the waterways of his home city, but he exited the hacienda too late to catch the reference to the River Charles. He was holding the envelope of cash that he had reluctantly accepted from Murdoch at their first meeting, but instead of immediately handing it to Murdoch, he was momentarily distracted by the fact that Johnny had saddled Rambler rather than Barranca. He had expected that Johnny would much prefer being on horseback to driving the small buckboard.
Rambler was the dependable horse that Scott was accustomed to riding; Cipriano had chosen the animal for him when they had taken the Lancer vaqueros up into the mountains. The very sedate-looking saddle horse that had originally been selected for the Easterner that first morning at the ranch had disappeared immediately after Scott had demonstrated his equestrian prowess on Barranca.
Although he certainly would not have minded another opportunity to mount the golden palomino, the former cavalry officer assumed that Johnny, like many horsemen, would prefer that no one else rode his steed. Having recently selected a lively stockinged chestnut as his primary mount, Scott knew he would likely have the same proprietary feelings towards the horse once Brunswick had been properly broken in. Although his trained eye noted that Johnny had already adjusted the stirrups to his own length, the fact that his brother had elected to saddle the sorrel for the journey signaled to Scott that the younger man did not intend to completely preempt the role of advance scout.
Approaching the two men leaning on the wagon, Scott handed the envelope without comment to Murdoch and then immediately turned his attention to Johnny.
“Are you ready, Brother?”
“Whenever you are, Boston.”
After a last careful inventory of the contents of the wagon, the two set out. Scott drove the wagonload of tools and provisions, with Johnny riding alongside. The sun had made its ascent from its resting place behind the distant mountains, slowly mounting into a sky of the clearest blue as the half-brothers headed for a distant corner of the large ranch of which they had so recently become part-owners. They understood that their father had painstakingly built up his holdings, essentially alone, over the past several decades. Having helped Murdoch avert the threat from Pardee and the “land pirates”, his sons had been rewarded with partnerships, though they had yet to see the farthest reaches of the land that they had acquired.
The two young men rode in silence for a time; neither one could have said with certainty if it was “companionable” or merely a silence. As with so very many other things here at Lancer, having a sibling was a new experience for each of them and they were nowhere near adept at reading each other. Whether the two novice ranchers were wondering what their joint future might hold, or if both men were contemplating the past—either distant or recent—each one kept his own counsel. Although perhaps focused upon inner thoughts with a blind disregard for the view, they both appeared for a time to be absorbed in considering their surroundings. Whether the scenery attracted an eye for an aesthetic appreciation of its magnificence, or drew a purely proprietary gaze, neither brother could have ventured to answer for the other with any degree of confidence.
In truth, each was giving some consideration to the novelty of spending the next several days completely alone except for the company of this man --- his recently discovered half-brother ---- who was still more stranger than acquaintance.
To be honest, Scott had to admit that he had somewhat of an advantage, since while Johnny had been recovering, Murdoch had allowed his elder son to read through a collection of Pinkerton reports, all but one thin folder having to do with the career of one “Johnny Madrid”. As the subject of that slender file, Scott was fairly certain that even if Johnny had read the small amount of information which the agent had collected, the younger man would not readily be able to conjure up anything like an accurate image of Boston, or of Scott Lancer’s life there. However, having visited the towns nearest the ranch, the Easterner could at least begin to imagine the places where his younger brother might have grown up. Additionally, in his own youth, Scott had read books about “Life in the West,” albeit surreptitiously, to avoid having to account to his grandfather for his interest in the topic. He now realized that a good deal of what he had read about cowboys ---and gunfighters---was inaccurate. As far as Scott knew, Johnny had not read that one scanty report that the Pinkerton man had filed from Boston, and it seemed unlikely that his brother, who by his own admission had not had much schooling, had ever eagerly devoured tales of “Massachusetts Life.”
There also was little indication that Johnny knew much about the War. For many reasons, it wasn’t a topic that Scott was eager to discuss, but he’d found that once they became aware of his military service, most people would pose a few questions about the conflict still referred to in the North as the War of the Rebellion. This had certainly not been the case with his family here at Lancer. It was perhaps less of a surprise that Murdoch had not inquired about Scott’s participation in the United States’ civil war, given that the older man had emphatically expressed his desire to concentrate upon the present and leave the past behind. It stood to reason that Murdoch would recognize that if he were to ask questions about his sons’ pasts, then he would have to expect them to respond in kind.
But Johnny also hadn’t asked him much, and Scott couldn’t help but wonder if it might be for the same reasons as Murdoch. It had, however, been all too apparent that his newly met brother had underestimated him in the beginning. Johnny had evidently allowed his judgment to be influenced by Scott’s attire, which back East would have been termed ‘fashionable’ but out here earned a man the derogatory labels of ‘city slicker’, ‘dandy’, and ‘fancy dan’. Still, Scott wasn’t certain if he would have made a point of mentioning his stint in the Army if Johnny hadn’t strolled uninvited into his room that morning, hadn’t picked up that photograph of the General. Not that the gunfighter had seemed particularly impressed; even after Scott’s demonstration of his horsemanship and his announcement that he had served in a cavalry unit during the War, Johnny had still deemed him nothing more than a “tin soldier”.
Unlike the appellation “Boston”, the initially deprecating moniker that had become a friendly nickname, that other insult—“tin soldier”-- had never been repeated, and Scott had even joked about it with his brother. Forgiven perhaps, but not yet completely forgotten. Scott was justifiably proud of his service to his country, despite the fact that he fervently wished that he could have avoided much of what he had experienced during the War.
Having attained the rank of Lieutenant in the Army, performed well as a student at Harvard and enjoyed the entrée into Boston society that came from being linked to his grandfather, a prominent businessman, Scott Lancer was not accustomed to feeling that he needed to “prove” himself to anyone. He resented that a bit, yet he couldn’t deny that he still desired to somehow measure up to his new sibling’s as yet undefined standard.
Despite a lifetime of training in the art of conversing with strangers, Scott still felt singularly unprepared to forge a relationship with this brother of his. In many ways, Johnny was different from anyone that Scott had ever met, and so far the facts on paper hadn’t provided much insight into the man—he knew little of his brother’s opinions, likes and dislikes. Johnny Madrid Lancer was nothing like the younger sibling that Scott had imagined for himself when he was growing up alone in his grandfather’s house. He’d been amused to note that there had already been times when he’d assumed—or attempted to assume—the “big brother” role with this dark haired stranger, with very mixed results. Johnny could shift so quickly from a warm, relaxed smile to a cold and stiff rebuff.
<<Don’t try too hard>> Scott had frequently advised himself, <<or expect too much. It’s going to take time>>”
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Hearing a heavy sigh from the seat of the small buckboard wagon, Johnny, riding ahead a bit on Rambler, flicked a glance over his shoulder and back at Scott, but didn’t say anything. Seemed like he mostly didn’t know quite what to say to Boston. Johnny considered himself to be a pretty good judge of people—there’d been plenty of times his life had depended upon it. He still felt guilty ---embarrassed really-- that he’d underestimated the Easterner so badly at first.
Johnny also felt a bit uncomfortable about the fact that when he’d been shot, it’d been his gringo half-brother who had come out after him. Made him feel as if he owed the man something. Not that he wouldn’t be more than glad to repay the debt and then some, it was just that Johnny Madrid hadn’t ever really been accustomed to being beholding to anyone. Scott hadn’t acted as if he’d expected anything in particular, not even thanks. In fact, the way Scott had explained it, he’d just acted on instinct, hadn’t really had time to think about it-- though the older man had admitted that the fact that they were brothers had “meant something” to him.
Well, Scott might be willing to accept him as a brother, but Johnny wasn’t sure he was quite ready to reciprocate. The man was different, that was for sure. As much as Johnny would have preferred to have been riding out to the northeast corner of the ranch on his own, maybe these next few days would give him a chance to try to figure Scott out. At least it would be interesting to see how the city boy did out here, sleeping on the ground, eating on the trail. Johnny shook his head a little bit as he remembered that fishing pole and Murdoch’s comment about Scott catching their supper. Even though he realized that it might be another mistake to assume that the Easterner wasn’t capable of doing just that, Johnny has still been more than pleased to see that the chuck box was well provisioned. If Boston thought that drowning a few worms would be an entertaining way to pass the time, well, that was fine with Johnny, just as long as his next meal didn’t depend upon it.
Johnny slowed Rambler a bit, so that he wasn’t so far out in front of the wagon. He figured that after they stopped for lunch, he’d offer to switch places, drive the cart while Scott rode on ahead. One thing for sure, Scott knew how to ride. And he’d shot well enough to finish off Pardee and a few others, but as to the extent of the man’s marksmanship, Johnny wanted to see a bit more evidence before he passed judgment.
One thing there was no question of was that Scott knew how to talk to people, young or old, male or female; Johnny had seen that over and over again at the big gathering they’d had at the ranch a few days before. If he had to guess, he would say that Scott had probably managed to engage everyone present in at least a brief conversation at some point during the evening.
Come to think of it, Scott had usually made the effort to initiate some discussion when the two of them had been working together, asked some mild question or made some joking remark, but today it looked like maybe Boston wasn’t in much of a talkative mood.
Just as Johnny was casting about for something to say, the horse plodding along beneath him tossed his head and snorted a bit, giving Johnny his topic. He half turned back towards Scott and fired off a comment.
“Rambler here ain’t a bad ride.”
“He’s a good horse,” Scott readily agreed. “Very steady.”
“That new one you picked out’s livelier I bet.”
“Yes, he is.”
The conversation stalled, but the two brothers continued on, Johnny moving at a leisurely pace on Rambler, while the wagon, behind the single draft horse, jounced around over the rough ground. The road leading from the main compound of the ranch had gradually deteriorated until it was now little more than two wheel ruts.
“So how’d you come up with the name Rambler?”
Scott took his time answering, so Johnny slowed the sorrel, bringing himself even with the wagon. Scott looked over at him, his bottom lip pulled up as he considered his reply.
“Well. . . ,” he said finally, “Even though they don’t look anything alike, I suppose I was thinking of General Lee’s war horse, a Tennessee walker named Traveller.”
“Lee? He another one of them generals you fought under?”
“No. . . . Robert E. Lee had charge of the . . . Confederate forces.”
“Yeah?”
Johnny reined in Rambler and reached for the canteen hanging off of the saddle. Although he’d tried not to let it show, Scott was concerned that his brother had heard the note of disbelief in his voice. He was amazed to think that there might be anyone living in this country who didn’t know General Lee by name, but then again, Johnny had grown up down around the border and in Mexico, and that’s where he would have been when the American war was taking place. It stood to reason that the remote events occurring on blood-soaked battlefields thousands of miles away would not have attracted the interest of an aspiring young gunslinger drifting through the southern border towns.
“Before the War, Robert E. Lee was an officer in the United States Army,” Scott explained quietly, reining the nameless draft horse to a halt. “When his home state of Virginia seceded from the Union, he was faced with a difficult choice.”
Johnny took a few swallows from the canteen, then regarded Scott’s profile attentively as he replaced the cap. Rambler had shifted a few steps sideways, bringing Johnny around to face his brother.
“Apparently it was with great reluctance that he finally resigned his commission, saying that he would not fight against his home and his family---- not even to preserve the Union.”
Scott reached for his own canteen as he recalled some of the events that were to him a very familiar and fascinating part of recent military history. “Lee’s forces stopped Hooker at Chancellorsville, but he was defeated at Gettysburg. Then the Confederates held onto Richmond for almost ten months before they retreated to Appomattox.”
Scott paused. As he took a drink, he considered that if his brother hadn’t recognized the name of the most famous of the Confederate generals, then he would certainly not have heard of Chancellorsville or of the Union’s General Joe Hooker. It was difficult for the Easterner to imagine, but even Gettysburg and Appomattox might be unfamiliar place names as well.
“So what happened at . . A-po-matticks?”
While seeming to contemplate the canteen that he now held in two gloved hands, Scott recalled the events of that fateful day which had finally brought a truce in the seemingly endless battles of brother against brother, the prolonged and bloody conflict between North and South.
“Well. . . there was another fierce battle. General Phil Sheridan’s cavalry was there . . and Chamberlain’s Fifth Army Corps . . and others. And, in the end, the Rebels offered a flag of truce. Lee himself met with General Grant to arrange the final terms of surrender. . . . He had on a new uniform for the meeting, but Grant received him mud-stained from the battlefield.”
“General Grant was the leader of the Union forces,” Scott added as an afterthought, glancing up at his brother. Seeing that the younger man appeared to be listening with some interest, Scott went on with his account. “The formal surrender took place a few days later. There were Union troops lined up at Appomattox Courthouse, waiting for the Confederate Army to march past and lay down their arms and their battle flags.”
With another quick look over at Johnny, Scott set his canteen down on the floorboards between his feet and then rested his forearms on his thighs, his gaze now on his lightly clasped hands as he continued speaking. “It was General Chamberlain who was in charge of the parade. He had regiments from Massachusetts and Maine, . . and Pennsylvania, as well, I believe, all lined up in battle formation.”
“And then, when the Rebels passed by, Chamberlain ordered his men to salute. He wanted to recognize the bravery of the defeated soldiers.”
“It wasn’t a ‘present arms’,” Scott clarified, “but a ‘carry arms’, with the weapon held in the right hand, perpendicular to the shoulder.”
Johnny wondered why the type of salute seemed to be so important, but watched in fascination as the former Union officer sat back a bit and unconsciously moved his hands in the air in imitation of the positions from the Army manual. “It became a mutual salute, when the word was sent back down the line of the Confederate troops, telling them to take the same position.”
“It took almost the entire day for the Rebel army to march past, to stack their weapons and lay down their colors.”
Rambler edged a step sideways again, and Johnny reined the animal in, then waited a few beats before he spoke, just in case there was more.
“So I guess you were there at the end, huh?”
While he had been describing the parade and the salute, Scott had appeared to be staring at a point somewhere along the cart horse’s broad back. He now looked up at Johnny with a startled expression, the face of a man who had momentarily lost all awareness of his present surroundings. His glance quickly slid away before he answered.
“No. . . I wasn’t.”
“I heard about it, . . . read about it,” Scott explained softly, pausing a moment before he gathered up the reins in a businesslike manner. Holding the lines in his left hand, he gestured with the right. “Looks as if we keep going this way,” Scott observed matter-of-factly, adding a forward motion with his chin and then slapping the reins on the draft horse’s rump, setting the wagon in motion once more.
Johnny held Rambler back and watched for a moment, before urging the sorrel into a trot and moving to a position well ahead of his half-brother and the wagonload of supplies. This had been, by far, the longest string of words that he’d heard Boston put together. Listening to Scott’s voice, the Eastern accent and the unusual cadence of his speech, had almost been as interesting as the story itself. And although the man said he hadn’t been there, he’d still made it all sound quite real.
Well, it was pretty clear that Scott didn’t much want to talk about what he’d done during the War, and especially not at the end of it. Although at the social Johnny had chanced to overhear the tail end of a conversation between his half-brother and a man who was evidently another former soldier. From what Murdoch had said, there had likely been other War veterans among the guests as well.
<<So maybe>>, Johnny amended, <<he just don’t wanta talk about it with me.>>
Which was strange, since Boston sure hadn’t hesitated to let them all know he’d served in the cavalry--- but maybe that was just because he was feeling like everyone thought he was some kind of a greenhorn. Which he was, no doubt about it, being a city boy and all. Still, Scott had seemed plenty proud to say he’d served under that other general--- Sheridan--- and when he’d mentioned the name again just now, it had been clear that his brother thought the man was something special.
Though, come to think of it, Johnny hadn’t noticed that photograph of Scott and the General out anywhere in his brother’s room lately and, as far as he knew, Scott hadn’t shown it to anyone else.
The brothers rode along for a time in silence, each wrapped up in his own thoughts once more. They made good time until they reached the start of the forested area, stopping before entering the woods to share a cold meal, one that Teresa and Maria had packed for them, separate from the rest of their food supplies.
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With the afternoon, came rougher going, as they came up against numerous downed trees that impeded their progress. Some, mere saplings, were but a nuisance, easily moved out of the way. Another, larger trunk, they had been able to lift out of the way together. But dealing with two other massive trees had taken a sizeable portion of the afternoon. There hadn’t seemed to be any easy way around them, so they’d taken the two-man saw and had at it.
Once past those obstacles, Johnny, still astride Rambler, had begun to scout out a suitable place to camp for the night. Having identified a sheltered area alongside a widening of the stream whose rushing waters they had been listening to throughout the latter part of the afternoon, Johnny dismounted and waited for Scott and the small supply wagon to pull up beside him.
“I figure this is as good a spot as any to bed down for the night.”
From his perch on the wagon seat, Scott glanced around appraisingly before nodding his assent. Climbing down from the wagon, he shifted his hat back onto the crown of his close-cropped blond head and then paused for a moment to stretch the back muscles that were feeling the strain of the long ride over difficult terrain as well as the after effects of the unaccustomed effort of sawing through trees.
“I’ll tend to th’horses if you want to start settin’ up the camp, get a fire goin’.”
Scott pursed his lips together, nodded once more. Johnny wondered if the Easterner had any idea of how to set up a campsite, but told himself that if his brother had any questions, he could just ask, he wasn’t going to waste time standing around looking over the man’s shoulder. Despite having assured Murdoch that he was fine, even capable of making this journey alone, Johnny was definitely feeling discomfort in the area of his most recent bullet wound, as well as the general fatigue from the long day in the saddle.
The exertion involved in moving trees and branches in order to enable the supply cart to pass had taken its toll as well. Not to mention the unspoken competition that had suddenly developed when the brothers had found themselves at opposing ends of that long toothed saw. Of course, Scott hadn’t completely forgotten that his younger brother was only recently back on his feet; Johnny had been well aware of the concerned looks that Boston had been giving him, until the older man had finally suggested that Johnny might want to “take it easy”. Of course, that had simply spurred Johnny to push himself even harder. That was something that he regretted just a bit now, as he contemplated how hard the ground was going to feel when they bedded down for the night, but he’d been determined to cover up any signs that he was having difficulty.
The other thing that Johnny was having difficulty with was the forced togetherness. He wasn’t quite sure why; even though the gunfighter was used to traveling alone, he’d certainly had a compañero or two from time to time. It had only been one day and already he was finding Scott’s calm, quiet presence to be just a bit . . . wearing. Johnny shook his head and focused on the task at hand: unsaddling Rambler and depositing the tack on a cluster of boulders. Methodically brushing the horse down and then leading the animal to the edge of the stream for some water and grazing, were familiar tasks. Returning to unharness the draft horse, Johnny glanced around idly for his brother, but seeing no sign of Scott, he concentrated once more on his work.
After both animals were staked out within view of the campsite, Johnny came around the cart and was surprised to see that Scott had assembled a fire pit, lined with a circle of stones. Boston had also laid in a good supply of wood, he noticed, tinder and kindling as well as larger pieces of fuel, most of it good burning maple, if he wasn’t mistaken. Truth was, Johnny hadn’t expected a city fella to know how to build a decent fire; he’d figured officers hadn’t had to do such things in the Army. But the small amount of criss-crossed kindling and tinder inside the stone circle showed that Scott wasn’t going to make the greenhorn mistake of piling up some big chunks of wood and expecting them to burst into flame. Anyone could start a fire in a stove or fireplace, but a campfire could be a bit different. Obviously Scott knew that, he’d even dug down into the fire pit, so that the flames were more protected from the wind by the circle of stones. When Johnny walked up, Scott was working on a couple of Y shaped sticks to use to hold a cross piece which would enable them to hang a cooking pot over the fire. Despite himself, Johnny was impressed, but he didn’t think there was any reason for Scott to know that, especially since Boston hadn’t actually accomplished anything that Johnny himself wouldn’t have done as a matter of course.
“You know what we’re s’posed to be eatin’ tonight?’
“Yes, I do.”
Scott removed the ingredients for a stew from the wooden chuck box in the back of the wagon, while Johnny lit the fire. By unspoken mutual agreement, Johnny took charge of the cooking while Scott continued to assemble the items needed for the meal, including tin plates and utensils. While waiting for the meal to be ready, Scott kept busy with a few additional tasks, such as filling the canteens. The supper was accompanied by desultory conversation about the next day’s project, and speculation about how far they might be from the cabin. Since they planned to get an early start, the brothers bedded down for the night on opposite sides of the campfire almost as soon as the supper things had been cleaned and put away.
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“Don’t shoot!”
Although not a shout, the forceful directive was more than enough to bring Johnny Madrid to full wakefulness. Instantly alert, his hand was reflexively reaching for the gun lying holstered beside him, grasping it almost before his eyelids had snapped completely open. The rest of his body remained perfectly still, lest his own rustling movement mask the sound of approaching danger. Identifying the voice as Scott’s, Johnny peered through the darkness to make out his half-brother’s prone form, still lying in his bedroll, and he quickly realized that Scott must have spoken in his sleep.
Relieved that there was no actual threat, Johnny opened his mouth to fire a question across the small campsite when he heard Scott softly utter an obscenity, not a word he would have expected to pass from the lips of the “Boston gentleman”.
A smile of mingled relief and amusement touched Johnny’s own lips, but there was something about Scott’s tone of voice, the . . regret . . . with which the epithet had been uttered, which made him refrain from comment. It seemed that maybe Scott glanced in his direction; it was hard to tell in the dark. In any event, an audible sigh was heard. Although the man must have realized that Johnny was awake, Scott didn’t say anything either, he just rolled over like he was going to go back to sleep.
Crossing his hands behind his head, Johnny stared up at the night sky, crowded with bright stars. He was usually a very light sleeper, so if ol’Boston had any more bad dreams, he figured he’d be sure to know about them. Which was why Johnny was so surprised when he woke up the next morning to find that Scott was gone.
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