Inside the line shack, Johnny Lancer had spent the afternoon lying on the too familiar lower bunk staring up at the rough underside of the bed above him, every knothole counted, the grain of every board memorized. His ankles were lashed together again, then tied to one of the support posts, his arms bound once more behind his back. He’d been pretty happy when Vic and Gil hadn’t bothered to replace the foul tasting gag, after he’d gone outside and said his piece to Scott. But right now, he’d take it back in a heartbeat, if he could just loosen the ropes on his wrists even a little bit.
He could barely feel his hands.
He’d been doing okay, when they’d taken him outside. Even though his hands had still been tied, he’d been upright, felt some blood moving down into his arms, been able to shake some feeling into his fingers. Sometime later, they’d even untied him for a while, all three of them standing watch, Howard and Roberson and the man he still thought of as “Day’s Indian,” for lack of any other name. He’d been given some water, though he’d almost dropped the canteen, then had a bite to eat and finally they’d escorted him outside, Gil cracking jokes, asking if he needed any “help”. Roberson had had a few other comments, like “Guess you won’t be doing any ‘fetching’ now, Madrid.” It had been an effort for Johnny to get his hands to move, but fortunately one had worked well enough.
That short trip outside had been the last glimpse he’d had of Scott, still blindfolded and tied to a tree, apparently asleep. Not that he figured Scott would’ve had much interest in passing the time of day anyway, not after their last conversation. It sure had been a pleasure to see Barranca again though, and hear his horse’s familiar nicker of greeting. Of course, Barranca had probably been taken just to add to the “evidence” against him. Since Pardee’s boys seemed so set on making Scott believe that Johnny was working with them, it stood to reason that they’d be trying to convince Murdoch of the same thing. It was with a heavy heart that Johnny wondered how difficult a task that would be. If Murdoch hadn’t known what to think of him before, would he know any better now?
Anyway, when it had been time to put the ropes back on, Howard had said something about not making them so tight, but of course Gil had yanked for all he was worth. Johnny knew that if he didn’t find a way to loosen the cords real soon, he was going to be in serious trouble.
Well, the fact was, he was going to be in some pretty serious trouble anyway, that is if you considered an unfriendly three man escort to execution to be serious trouble. It sounded as if they were going to be heading out tonight, under cover of darkness. The Indian had ridden off with Scott, and once he came back with Murdoch’s money, then most likely they’d be off to Mexico. Though Johnny couldn’t help remembering Gil’s comment about maybe not wanting to ride that far if he already had a thousand dollars to spend.
If Vic felt the same way, they’d use one bullet and it would be all over.
And if anyone got the notion of paying him back for Coley, then it might not be quite so quick.
But if they headed south to Mexico, then there would be some hope. It was a long way to the border and he’d just have to watch for his chance. It wouldn’t be easy, being outnumbered three to one.
Well, that just got him thinking again about how no one would be coming after him. He’d been going around and around on that all afternoon, worrying over it, gnawing on it, second guessing himself instead of just accepting that it was over and done.
<<”We’ve all done things we regret.”>>
Now wasn’t that the truth; and sometimes Johnny felt as if he had more than his fair share. The life he’d led before coming to Lancer pretty much guaranteed having a few regrets.
And ever since Teresa had told him that story about his mother, that she had been the one who had decided to leave the ranch, Johnny’d wondered what kind of regrets the Old Man might have, not just about his own mother, but about having lost two wives and two sons. But they’d never talked about it, not in any detail, not yet. While he was recovering, Johnny had let Murdoch know that he’d heard another version of his parents’ story, and Murdoch had looked pretty relieved. It hadn’t seemed like the time to mention that he still wasn’t sure what to believe.
But it hadn’t been Murdoch who had said that, about having regrets, it had been Scott. If he’d had to guess, when they’d first met, Johnny would have said that the most ol’Boston had to regret was not being dressed in the latest style or missing out on a prime opportunity to spend time with a pretty young lady. At the celebration they’d had at the ranch, the Easterner had kept himself busy, dancing with just about every female in sight and talking with just about everyone else. Whenever Scott had stepped off of the dance floor for a drink or to catch his breath, he’d been pulled into conversation with some of the older men, Murdoch’s rancher friends.
One of the things that had interested Johnny about the gathering had been the way that Scott’s eyes had darted around when Murdoch had made that remark about some of the guests having fought in the same war. It had been something Johnny had wanted to maybe ask Scott about, to find out if the man could pick out any other former soldiers in the crowd, but hadn’t been able to catch up with him.
There had been that one time that his brother had been alone by the punch bowl and Johnny had started to saunter over to join him. Then another man had slipped in beside
Scott and introduced himself. Scott was standing with his back to Johnny and hadn’t seen him approach; Johnny had been about to walk off in the opposite direction, when he’d caught part of the conversation. The stranger had a southern accent and was saying something about being one of those soldiers “your Daddy” had mentioned. “Though as you mahgt guess, Ah wore grey.”
The tone of Scott’s response had been friendly enough. “The War’s over, Mr. Butler, it ended five years ago.”
Then the Southerner, Butler, had said something about that not being true for everyone, that for some men it wasn’t over, might not ever be over. That’s when Scott had surprised Johnny by saying that, about having regrets.
“We’ve all done things we regret.”
“That’s a fact.”
“But, it’s over.”
Then Scott had walked away, just like that, without taking the man’s leave or anything. In fact, Boston had been downright rude. Butler had looked up and met Johnny’s eyes, and known that he’d overheard the conversation. And that they’d both heard the same thing in Scott’s voice. The Southerner had smiled sadly, shrugged his shoulders. “Sayin’ it don’t always make it true.”
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After carefully reconnoitering the area, Scott had established a vantage point and now had the enemy in sight. But there was still one man unaccounted for, and until he could ascertain that last key piece of information, it would be difficult to formulate a plan. So Scott waited, watching and listening. . ..
“He should be back with the money any time.”
That one was “Gil”; Scott recognized the voice immediately. The man in the dirty white vest was standing near the campfire in front of the line shack. Gil was talking about Micajah. Crouching in the brush, clutching the Spencer carbine, Scott strained to hear “Howard’s” response.
“We can wait a while. Lancer might’ve been late. Or there could’ve been some trouble—that is why we sent Micajah out in the first place.”
Gil laughed. He flung aside what liquid was left in his coffee cup, and reached up with the other hand to adjust the hat on his head—Scott’s hat. “Hey, I offered to go along with ‘im.”
Howard was busy with a pot, getting ready to put something over the fire. “Guess I trust the Indian more than I trust you,” he said harshly.
“That’s a lotta trust, thinkin’ he won’t just take off with our money.”
Howard rose slowly and turned to face the other man. “He knows the plan is to go to Mexico,” Howard explained with exaggerated patience. “I figure if he comes back here with that palomino and whatever Old Man Lancer’s riding, leaves the two of them on foot, then we really don’t have to worry about anyone coming after us,” he added smugly.
“He does what I told ‘im, we don’t have to worry any either.”
“Yeah? And what did you tell him?”
Gil folded his arms across his chest, and his tone mirrored his challenging stance. “Opposite of you. Put a bullet in both of ‘em.”
There was a long pause. Then Howard put his hands on his hips and laughed. “You know Roberson, that’ll work just fine too.”
Gil laughed in reply, a bit uneasily, Scott thought. The former soldier continued to scan the area for any sign of his brother. Barranca had been left back in the woods and Scott had approached the line shack on foot. The other horses, he knew, were around off to the far side of the cabin: Rambler and the nameless Lancer draft horse, as well as a third, unfamiliar animal. The forgotten stove still sat with the rest of the gear in the small buckboard wagon, except for the wannigan that had been positioned near the campfire. Johnny wasn’t beside the fire, nor could he be seen sitting anywhere off to the side, not even hidden in the lengthening shadows. The line shack porch was empty and the two windows in the front of the building were dark, even though the sun was low enough in the sky to make it nearly time to be lighting a lantern, if there was anyone inside.
Scott adjusted the gun belt that stretched across his chest. Cipriano’s belt was too wide for him to wear on his hips. Rather than taking the time to notch a new hole in the leather, Scott had fastened the buckle at the widest circumference, slipping it over his head and one arm. He had Murdoch’s carbine in hand, ready for use. Although it would be hours before any help could arrive from the ranch, a prudent man would wait for them. Scott needed to decide what, if anything to do next.
Then Howard helped him out.
“C’mon Gil, let’s go get those horses ready.”
“We leavin’ even if he ain’t back yet?”
“The plan was to leave short after sunset. He could have had trouble. We’ll just take Madrid and go.”
Gil started moving off in the direction of the waiting animals. “Sure, I s’pose he can ride that cart horse bareback all the way to Mexico. Less the Indian follows us with those saddle horses.”
“You think he knows how to track?”
“He’s an Indian, ain’t he?”
Laughing, the two walked away, disappearing from view around the far corner of the building. Staying low and in the shadows, Scott Lancer made his move.
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Johnny’s eyes popped open and he realized that he’d dozed off again. Well, it was pretty tiring, lying here unable to move and thinking about all the things that he wished he’d done differently.
<<We’ve all done things we regret.>>
Johnny closed his eyes again and tried not to think about when he’d announced that Scott could see under that blindfold. He really didn’t want to picture the expression on his brother’s face; if Boston had set his jaw any tighter it would have broken. Johnny had walked right over to Scott, close enough for his brother to maybe notice the condition of his pants, all creased from the ropes that had bound his ankles. But Gil had challenged him and then silently lowered the barrel of the carbine he was holding until it was positioned only inches above Scott’s knee.
And then, for good measure, Johnny had told Gil to check the ropes, to take away that belt buckle. He could imagine how much Scott had hated him them, having stayed up all night and worked so hard. Every time that Johnny had roused from his fitful sleep, Scott had still been at it, rubbing those ropes against the edge of his belt buckle and freezing in position every time he’d heard the slightest sound of anyone shifting in a bunk. Scott’s lack of progress after hours of effort hadn’t noticeably decreased his dogged determination.
Now Johnny could think about it all more clearly, since the throbbing in his head had finally stopped. But before, there just hadn’t been much time at all to consider what he was going to say. What had been uppermost in his mind was to give Scott a warning, tell him not to try to escape or anything. The plan was to send Scott back safely, once he thought that Johnny was working with Pardee’s boys, and then no one at Lancer would have any reason to come after them. Boston didn’t have a chance against three guns, anyone with sense would have to realize that, but Johnny couldn’t be certain that the man might not be stubborn enough to try it anyway.
Of course now Johnny was questioning the fact that he’d believed them, even though Gil and Vic hadn’t known at the time that he was listening. No matter what the two men said, they were more than capable of killing both Scott and Murdoch without giving it a second thought. And still achieve the same end result—no one following them.
He should have just told his brother to “stay out of trouble” and kept quiet about the blindfold and the ropes. That would have left Scott with some kind of chance to do something for himself if need be.
No question, his brother had to be feeling pretty angry and betrayed. Johnny had only heard some of what Scott had been told but he’d been glad to know that Scott hadn’t believed it all. But that had been before their ‘talk.’ Vic and Gil had claimed that Johnny had ridden back to the ranch with a ransom note—and since Johnny himself had confirmed the ‘fact’, he really couldn’t hold out much hope that his brother would suddenly decide that Johnny had really been lying there in the bunk the whole time. Even if Scott had noticed that his pants were wrinkled, that was still asking an awful lot.
No, Johnny figured his best hope lay in something that Scott had asked him—“Where are you going?” Johnny had given him the honest answer: Mexico. And maybe, just maybe, Scott would realize that something about that wasn’t quite right.
Back when Scott had told him about having read Murdoch’s Pinkerton reports on “Johnny Madrid”, the gunfighter had had mixed feelings. It hadn’t felt right, knowing that his father and this new brother of his both thought they knew so much about him, and since Johnny hadn’t gotten around to looking at those reports himself, he had no idea just what they knew or how accurate it might be. But, the reports belonged to Murdoch, so the Old Man could do with them whatever he wanted, really, and it was done. Scott had read them and there was no point in wishing otherwise.
Now he was hoping that the college boy had actually made it all the way to the last page. That agent, Thomas, must have written something about arriving barely in time to prevent Johnny from being executed, must have mentioned the rurales who had been killed when they made their escape. Even if Scott had missed the wrinkled pants and Johnny’s “friendly warnings,” maybe if his brother could figure out that Mexico was one place that Johnny wouldn’t really want to be visiting any time soon, then Scott would realize that Johnny was not working with Roberson and Howard. Of course, that was asking Scott to overlook a lot of other things. If he was even still alive.
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The door to the line shack eased open. Johnny couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Scott slip inside. He was holding a carbine, had some kind of belt strapped across his chest. It only took Scott a moment to reach the bunk, with a knife in his hand.
“Oh Brother, am I ever glad to see you.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” Scott said as he worked at the ropes tying Johnny’s ankles together. “I missed it the first time,” he added as he helped the younger man to his feet. Then he looked Johnny squarely in the eyes. “I missed a lot of things.”
Johnny shrugged, offered a lopsided grin. “Guess maybe you had something else on your mind.”
“Turn around.” Scott started to slice at the cords wrapped around Johnny’s wrists, then paused. “Looks like you’ve been tied up a long time.”
“Ever since I got here.”
Scott exhaled audibly as he finished cutting through the cords; when Johnny turned around, his brother was wearing a grim expression. Swinging his lifeless hands about, Johnny inclined his head towards the gun looped around Scott’s shoulder. “That for me?”
“It depends. Can you feel your hands?”
“Just gimme a few minutes.”
“Right.” Scott’s dry, drawn out response made his skepticism evident.
Crossing to the window, Scott stood beside it and peered out into the gathering dusk.
“We may not have a few minutes. They were talking about leaving soon, the horses are already saddled.” Scott looked at his brother. “They’re waiting for Micajah to get back with the money. But I don’t think they’ll wait too much longer.”
“Micajah—that the Indian?”
Scott nodded in the affirmative.
“If you’re here, then I guess he ain’t comin’ back.”
“No.” Scott crouched down below the level of the window, still watching the two men, one standing, one sitting near the campfire. He glanced back, studying Johnny’s limp hands.
Johnny saw the look. He had to admit there was no way he was going to be able to handle a gun. “Well, Boston, looks like you’re in charge of this escape.”
Scott’s only response was a long hard stare; the expression on his face was unfathomable. Then he returned his attention to the view from the window. Johnny decided it was time to get down to business.
He fired a question at the back of Scott’s head. “So . . how many shots do you have?”
Scott kept looking out the window at Gil and Howard. “It’s a Spencer—seven shots.”
“Scott,” Johnny stepped closer, his voice more insistent this time, “where’d you get the gun?”
“From Murdoch.”
“So--- how many shots do you have?”
Finally, Scott understood, raising his eyebrows and half turning to give Johnny a sideways glance over his shoulder. “Seven,” he said evenly. “I took the cartridges out and reloaded.”
“Okay.” Johnny nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t possible to tell by looking inside the gun. You could see that there was one cartridge, maybe glimpse a second one, but it was impossible to know how many more rimshots there were inside without doing exactly what Scott had done, empty out the weapon and reload.
Ducking below the level of the window, Johnny moved to a position opposite Scott. His numb hands were starting to tingle; resting them on his thighs, he slid down the wall into a sitting position. “Look, they come in here after me, it’ll be the two of them together.”
Scott considered this. “That’ll be close quarters, it might be best to take them by surprise, outside.” Scott started to rise from his crouch, but Johnny gestured for him to stay.
Johnny couldn’t help recalling that back when Murdoch had told them about Pardee and his men, Scott’s first question had been “What about the Law?” He figured that his brother might even now have some notion of taking Gil and Vic prisoner.
“Now, Boston, they ain’t going to surrender just cause you go out there and point a loaded gun at ‘em.”
Scott gave Johnny another long look, without comment, then returned his attention to the men outside. Johnny kept talking.
“It won’t work to try to take the two of them with a carbine-- you can’t cover both of ‘em and you can’t cock and shoot faster than the second man can draw on ya.”
It took a moment before Scott responded. “And I can’t beat them with a six gun,” he said finally.
“They’re professionals.”
“And I’m not.”
Johnny was relieved that his brother didn’t seem the least inclined to argue with his assessment. Instead, Scott asked a question. “So, Brother, what do you suggest?”
Johnny hesitated, not at all sure how his suggestion was going to sit. It was going to be hard to gauge Scott’s reaction, since his brother was still turned away, staring out the window. Johnny studied Scott’s profile for a moment, then decided to just get it said.
“Well, I usually like ta give a man a fair chance. I know it might not feel right to pick off a hombre who’s just sittin’ around a campfire—“
“I’ve done it before.”
Scott’s tone was completely flat. Johnny knew he didn’t need to ask when Boston would have done something like that; it had to have been during that War of his. The one that was supposed to be over.
It took a bit of effort, since his hands were still largely useless, but Johnny pushed himself up off the floor and then headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” Scott hissed at him, without taking his eyes off of the two men outside.
“Get ready.”
Hearing the sound of the carbine being shouldered, Johnny lifted the latch with his elbow and swung the door open.
He stepped out onto the plank porch and said, “Hi Boys.”
Maybe the first shot was fired before he spoke, he couldn’t be sure.
Roberson didn’t even make a move for his gun before he dropped dead.
Howard scrambled to his feet and started to draw, was hit and actually got off a shot towards the line shack before Scott finished him off.
Sounds of gunfire and breaking glass, and then it was all over.
That fast.
Relieved, Johnny leaned against the doorframe, jiggling his limp hands. Scott was beside him in an instant, weapon ready as he stared through the doorway at the two bodies on the ground.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded angrily.
“Oh,” Johnny grinned up at him, “I think it’s what they call a . . .diversion. . .”
Scott just glared back, then headed over to make sure that the two men were dead.
Johnny followed. “That was some good shooting, Boston.”
Scott stood silently looking down at the bodies for a long moment, clutching that carbine in one hand at his side. Without acknowledging Johnny’s comment, he carefully set the gun down.
“I need to go get a horse.”
Scott disappeared into the woods, while Johnny waited by the campfire, encouraged by the fact that more sensation was starting to come back into his hands. When Scott finally returned, leading Barranca, Johnny followed his brother around to the side of the building, and watched as he unsaddled first the palomino, then Rambler and finally the horse belonging to the late land pirates. Scott didn’t say a word the whole time, other than to ask how Johnny’s hands were feeling.
“They hurt like hell.”
“That’s good. . . that’s a good sign.”
Once the horses had been tended to, Scott grabbed his leather haversack from the back of the wagon and announced that he was going inside. Even though Gil and Vic didn’t make for great company, Johnny wasn’t overly eager to go back inside the line shack. He walked around, trying to distract himself from the pain in his hands. He noticed the hat that Gil had been wearing lying on the ground—for the first time it hit him that it actually belonged to Scott. He wondered if Boston would want it back after this.
On further inspection, Gil’s still holstered weapon was Johnny’s own gun, but neither man was sporting the rest of Johnny’s rig. Johnny kept moving around, looking inside the wagon bed, checking to see what was left in the chuck box. The campfire had just about burned itself out, and a pot off to the side held what looked like some still uncooked beans. Needing more distraction, Johnny stretched his legs by jogging over towards Barranca, and worked his hands by running them over the palomino’s hide.
A little while later, Johnny finally decided to see what Scott was up to. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, still moving his hands, clasping and unclasping them together. His brother was seated at the small table in the center of the room, slumped forward, his elbows resting on the table surface. A kerosene lamp hung from the rafters above. The top of Scott’s blond head shown in the lamplight, while his face was in shadows. He glanced up, barely, when the door swung open, then went back to idly scratching at the pattern of the wood grain with one finger. Scott didn’t react when the door slammed shut.
Rubbing at his stubbled chin with one hand, Johnny stepped further into the room. He folded his arms across his chest and studied his brother for a moment. It struck him that this was the first time he’d ever seen Scott looking so downcast or uncertain. The man looked almost . . . lost.
When those blue-grey eyes finally looked up at him once more, the haunted expression there made it impossible for Johnny to hide his concern.
“Hey---- you okay?”
Scott’s eyes widened at that, then instantly his expression closed off. He nodded, a barely perceptible nod, but Johnny was so certain that his brother was going to say he was “fine,” that he dropped his arms to his sides and started to turn away. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d expected the man to admit otherwise.
“No, I’m not, exactly.”
The words were so softly spoken that they took a moment to register. Taken by surprise, Johnny turned back and considered Scott’s profile. Instead of the tabletop, Boston seemed to be staring at the far corner of the cabin now, the look on his face one of a man who was regretting what he’d just said.
“Might help if you took a little siesta.”
Johnny could tell right away that Scott hadn’t taken that suggestion very well at all. Scott’s response was to drop his glance back to the tabletop; the bowed head not enough to hide the set of his jaw.
“I know you didn’t get any sleep last night,” Johnny explained quietly.
It took a moment, but then, although his head barely moved, Scott’s gaze shifted, he looked up and over at the empty bunk on the wall opposite him. Johnny could tell the exact moment when he figured it out, that someone had been watching him the whole time. Those sad, tired-looking eyes closed briefly, then Scott managed a little smile, shaking his head and looking up at Johnny with a rueful expression.
“So . . why don’t you take a nap and I’ll see if I can rustle up something to eat?”
“I could eat,” Scott said slowly.
The appreciation showed in the eyes, if not in the words. Johnny grinned. “I ain’t making any promises,” he assured the older man, “but I’ll see what I can do.” He moved towards the door, had just reached out for it when he heard his name.
“Johnny?”
“Yeah?” Johnny paused at the door without turning, his own dark head bowed.
“Thanks.”
Acknowledging that with a brief nod, Johnny exited the cabin. Once the door had closed, Scott pushed back the chair and rose slowly to his feet, an action typically taken for granted that was suddenly a challenge to perform. The surge of energy that had carried him through had expired once Howard and Gil had been eliminated. He’d woodenly forced himself to tend to the horses, knowing that if he stopped, he might never be able to set himself in motion again.
Even the bunk seemed very far away. As he loosened his shirt by pulling it out of the waistband of his trousers, the envelope of money dropped to the plank floor, with some of the bills spilling out. Wearily, he scooped them up, stuffed them back inside and tossed the package onto the table, then dropped gratefully into the nearest bunk.
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Scott hadn’t been sleeping very long when Johnny’s voice nudged him awake.
“Hey—ya oughta eat somethin’.”
“Okay,” Scott mumbled, unwilling to open his eyes. Once he sat up and finally did pry them open, he saw that Johnny was extending a plate of beans towards him.
“Thanks,” he managed, while accepting the food.
Holding the plate in one hand, Scott used the other to rub first at his eyes, then at his bruised and bristled chin. Johnny sauntered over to the table, where his own plate was waiting. Lips parted, Scott looked rather vaguely around the interior of the cabin, provoking a friendly laugh from his brother.
“Don’t worry, Boston. Good night’s sleep, a shave in the mornin’, you’ll be feelin’ like yourself again.”
The blond eyebrows rose at that. “You think so?” Then he tried a forkful of beans. “These aren’t bad.”
Johnny laughed again. “Yeah, I’m hungry enough to eat anything too.”
With a genuine smile, Scott eased up off of the bunk and took his place at the table opposite his brother. The two ate in silence, until Johnny tapped at the envelope with his fork.
“So what’s this?”
“There’s three thousand dollars in that envelope. The ransom money.”
Johnny’s eyes hardened. “In case you needed to pay me off,” he guessed flatly.
Scott didn’t flinch; those blue-grey eyes didn’t blink. “Or to buy you back. From them,” he added, nodding his head towards the front of the cabin.
Johnny accepted that answer with a nod of his own. Scott resumed eating, but Johnny put his fork down and looked inside the envelope. He could see that there was a folded piece of paper inside, and he fished it out. It was pretty crumpled, much the worse for wear. As he flattened it out on the tabletop to read, Scott paused, empty fork in mid air, and waited.
It took a moment. “So the Old Man thinks I’m in on this.” Again, it was a statement, not a question.
Scott set his fork down. “He wasn’t sure.”
“That ain’t my writin’.”
Scott sighed. “Murdoch didn’t know that. He couldn’t tell . . . . and neither could I.”
There was a long moment, during which neither man spoke.
“But you came back. So what was it tipped you off?”
Scott rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together in the air over his plate. “Mexico.”
Johnny nodded again, smiling this time. “I thought maybe you’d figure that out.”
Scott shook his head. “Oh, but I didn’t. It was Murdoch who saw it, that you wouldn’t be going back there, not willingly. It was a good clue, Johnny. But I missed it.”
“Well, Boston, don’t go beatin’ yourself up about that, ‘bout missin’ it, cause it wasn’t a clue.”
Scott looked puzzled.
“You asked me where I was goin’,” Johnny explained, “and I told ya.” “It weren’t til later that I started hoping you might think something was wrong.”
“I’m not sure I was thinking very clearly,” Scott offered in an apologetic tone.
Johnny snorted. “Yeah, well I imagine you were probably mad enough to want ta hit me or somethin’.”
“Or something,” Scott agreed.
Johnny folded the note and started to put it back into the envelope, then stopped and opened it again. “Is this the way you spell ‘Murdoch’?” he asked, turning the note towards his brother in response to Scott’s questioning look.
“No, it’s with an ‘h’—but I always thought it was a ‘k’.” Scott reached over and took the note, examined it and shook his head. Something about the expression on his brother’s face raised Johnny’s suspicions, but he decided to bite anyway.
“What?”
“Oh. . . just that the next time I’m held for ransom, I’ll have to make sure that they actually know how to spell ‘Scott’.”
Johnny laughed out loud at his brother’s mock disapproval. “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that Boston, but if I were you I’d make sure they come down a little on the askin’ price.”
Then he ducked as the crumpled ransom note flew past his head.
Once the meager meal over, Johnny picked up the dishes and Scott walked over to pick up the leather work glove that he spied lying on the floor near the back wall. Absently slapping the glove against his thigh, Scott was scanning the floor unsuccessfully for its missing mate when his brother spoke again.
“Listen, Scott, the reason I wanted to come up here alone--”
Scott stood listening, his head bowed, staring at that one glove.
“It wasn’t because I knew they were up here—I didn’t.”
Scott finally looked up at that, his expression serious, still waiting.
“I guess I just wanted some time on my own, maybe practice some shooting.”
“Well, Brother,” Scott intoned slowly, standing with his hands on his hips. “While it seems I’ve been wrong about a number of things, . . . that just may be the one that I most regret. That you didn’t have an entirely different kind of rendez-vous planned.”
”A. . .?”
“Rendez-vous—“
“You mean with a woman? Who?!”
“I take it you weren’t impressed with Teresa’s friends? Some of them were certainly enamored of you.”
Johnny grinned. “Some of ‘em weren’t bad. But I prefer my women a little older.”
Scott returned his grin with a devilish one of his own. “So do I, Brother, so do I.”
The two spent some time discussing the relative merits of each of Miss O’Brien’s friends. Scott considered Alondra Zamora to be the most intriguing while Johnny was very interested in Corinna Cushman. Since the Cushman family hailed from “Back East”, Scott considered it his brotherly duty to impart some rather risqué words of advice to his younger sibling. Johnny reciprocated by teaching Boston some ‘necessary’ Spanish phrases he was not likely to acquire from Senora Maria.
When Scott finally admitted that he could no longer keep his eyes open, he crawled back into the lower bunk. Johnny, understandably reluctant to follow suit, announced his intention to sleep under the stars and then set up his bedroll outside.
Where he was the first to be awakened by the approaching riders.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Awakened by the sound of stealthily approaching riders, Johnny crouched in the shadows, his gun ready, waiting until finally two men crept out of the brush. From the noises he’d detected, it seemed likely there might be a few more, so he kept an eye out for any other movements.
The dark figures first approached the bodies lying on the ground beside the dead campfire. Gil’s lifeless eyes were still staring up at the night sky, but Howard was face down and together the two strangers turned him over. Then one of the men looked back in the direction from which they’d come.
“Ees not them,” he whispered.
Johnny relaxed. He easily identified the form, once he recognized the voice.
“¿Hola Miguel, cómo usted es?”
“Senor Johnny! ¿Usted está bien?”
“Si.” Johnny kept walking towards them, nodding at the second man, a young Anglo whom he did not recognize. Miguel’s companion was staring at the gun in Johnny’s hand; the gunfighter figured he could make the man feel a lot better by holstering it, but since he wasn’t wearing a rig that was going to be hard to do.
Several other men entered the clearing and Johnny recognized a couple of them as Lancer ranch hands: there was José, a big Mexican, and another, older Anglo, a stocky man named Walt. There were two others whose faces Johnny still couldn’t see. All of them had their guns drawn, six shooters, except for José who was clutching a shotgun of some type. They were ready for trouble. Making certain to keep his own weapon lowered, Johnny tried to reassure them.
“Everything’s okay Boys.”
“Hey there Johnny!”
The last two men stepped out of the shadows, a Negro ranch hand who went by “Frank” and a tall skinny man that Johnny recognized as . . .Wes? He’d never known a last name, but he’d come across the drifter some where . . .
“Hi, Wes.”
Walt stepped forward, he seemed to be the one in charge. “Mr. Lancer sent us up here to—“
The younger cowboy, the one standing beside Miguel, interrupted him. “Where’s your brother?” he demanded.
“I’m right here, Walt.” All heads turned as Scott stepped out onto the line shack porch, wearing the knit shirt he usually slept in and holding a Spencer.
Once certain that both of their employer’s sons were safe and that the only danger had been posed by the two men now lying dead on the ground, the men from Lancer put up their weapons. Frank and José went after the horses and led them into the clearing. Scott greeted the other men by name and explained to a puzzled Johnny that there were two Walts, father and son. Wes clapped Johnny on the shoulder and happily announced that the two of them “went way back.”
After some discussion, it was decided that Wes’ reunion with Johnny would be short-lived, as he and Frank would ride directly back to the ranch to let Murdoch Lancer know that all was well. Since his chronic back and leg injuries had been aggravated by the long ride back to the hacienda with Cipriano, the Lancer patriarch had reluctantly decided to remain behind, unwilling to slow the other men down.
Scott inquired after the wounded Segundo. The Lancer brothers were given the sobering news that the ranch foreman had been much weakened by the time spent in the saddle, but were reassured that the local doctor had immediately been summoned.
Once Frank and Wes had departed, the other men decided to try to catch a few hours of sleep. Knowing that the typical line shack only held four bunks, Miguel volunteered to bed down outside with Johnny; José and the two Walts therefore gathered up their gear and headed towards the cabin.
Noting that his brother seemed a bit reluctant to follow the other men, Johnny offered a suggestion.
“Hey, Miguel’s been ridin’ all night, why don’t ya give him the bunk and sleep out here with me, Boston?”
Seeing Scott move to retrieve a bedroll from the wagon, Miguel shrugged and willingly followed the others inside.
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The next morning, Walt senior detailed his son and the two vaqueros to dispose of the bodies while he himself set about making coffee and preparing a breakfast from the provisions that the ranch hands had brought along with them. Scott went inside the line shack for a moment, then returned with his leather haversack, attired once more in one of his familiar beige tattersall checked shirts, still untucked and only partially buttoned. He relieved Walt of some of the water he was heating and proceeded to set up his shaving things at the rear of the wagon, with the small circular mirror resting on the stove. Although Scott was not convinced of the truth of Johnny’s assertion that he would “feel more like himself” after a shave, the Easterner was willing to give it a try.
His younger brother was already feeling much more like himself, since he was once more wearing his low-slung gun belt. Apparently the Indian had been wearing it, and Johnny was very happy that Miguel had brought it along. After some scouting around, Johnny had also finally located his hat inside the cabin, where he had also noticed that the envelope of money was still lying on the table.
Standing in the doorway of the line shack, holding the envelope in one hand and tapping it against the other, Johnny took in the sight of the senior Walt, busy at the cook fire, while Scott was hard at work carefully scraping lather off of his face. Johnny started to saunter over, then made a detour to pick Scott’s abandoned hat up off of the ground, before continuing on towards his brother.
Scott watched Johnny’s approach in the small wood-framed mirror. He didn’t fail to notice the rolling gait, the familiar hat firmly in place, the gun belt riding low on his hips once more, and allowed himself a small smile.
“Found your hat.”
Scott turned, eyebrows raised. “Thanks,” he said dryly.
Johnny grinned. “Figured it might still be worth keepin’.”
Scott returned his attention to his shaving. “Should I leave the shaving things out?”
“Yeah, I might like a shave.”
Johnny looked down at the envelope in his hands.
“Here’s Murdoch’s money.”
Scott barely glanced up at that, just kept working his razor. “You can give it to him.”
Johnny shrugged and headed off towards the horses. He hadn’t gone very far before he stopped and turned back. There was something he needed to get said.
“Look, Scott, they wanted ta send you back thinkin’ I was workin’ with ‘em.”
Scott wiped off the razor on the towel over his shoulder without turning around. “I know.”
“I should’ve kept quiet about the blindfold . . .”
Scott examined his face in the small mirror. Although he didn’t agree with what his brother had done, Scott understood that Johnny hadn’t wanted him to take any foolish chances by trying to escape. <<“You don’t wanta be tryin’ anything fancy now, Boston.”>> And, even though the younger man wasn’t the type to offer excuses, Scott also realized that it was likely that Johnny had been given some pretty strong “encouragement” to play his assigned role.
“ . . . and about the ropes.”
Scott exhaled slowly. It was difficult knowing that Johnny had been watching that night, while he’d tried to wear through the cords binding his wrists by rubbing them for hours against the edge of a belt buckle. Johnny must have seen what looked like . . . desperation.
He delicately scraped at a few imaginary hairs along his bruised jaw line before finally answering. “I was captured during the War. And held prisoner for a while.”
That was it, as much explanation as he was willing to give for now. Without looking around, Scott could feel Johnny standing behind him, waiting to see if there was more. He carefully set the razor down, snatched the towel off of his shoulder and started patting his face dry, before finally facing his brother.
“That’s it. I’m finished.”
Very deliberately, Johnny waited a beat before responding.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Guess I’ll take care of this first,” he announced, holding up the envelope, before moving off towards the horses.
While Johnny put the ransom money safely in his saddlebags, and then spent a few minutes checking Barranca, Scott prepared the shaving things, including the second towel and a pan of clean water. He was thus occupied when Walt carried over a cup of coffee, which Scott gratefully accepted.
“Look, Mr. Lancer,” the older man said, “the boys and I can tend to things here, set that stove up and all, bring the wagon back. You and your brother can head on back to the ranch right after breakfast.”
“We’d appreciate that, Walt.” Scott thoughtfully sipped at the strong black brew. “And perhaps you can board up that window too,” he added, gesturing towards the missing panes that had been shot out the evening before.
“Sure thing, Mr. Lancer, we’ll take care of it.” Walt headed back over towards the campfire. “Food should be ready soon as the others get back.”
“Walt?”
“Yeah?”
“If you men should get back to the ranch before us, please tell my father not to worry.”
Walt looked puzzled, but he indicated his agreement with a nod and then set about locating plates and other utensils.
Scott had just finished buttoning up his shirt and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers when Johnny returned and positioned himself to make use of Scott’s shaving kit. As the younger man started to take up the circular bar of soap, Scott informed him of Walt’s offer to take care of things while the brothers returned to the ranch.
“Right after breakfast, huh? You see what he’s fixin’? Beans.”
“I noticed.”
As he soaped up his face, Johnny looked in the mirror and noticed that Scott was holding his hat in two hands, contemplating it.
“Sure be nice to get back. I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout Maria’s cookin’.”
“So have I. You know what else I was thinking about, Brother?”
“No what?” Johnny asked, turning around in time to watch as Scott very deliberately settled his hat squarely upon his head. Then his older brother crossed his arms and uttered just one word.
“Rabbit.”
Johnny laughed, though from the way his blue eyes lit up, he wasn’t against the idea. He took up the razor, ready to attack his stubbled face.
“The Old Man will be waitin’ for us,” he reminded Scott.
“I’ve already told Walt that we might be delayed.”
“Well, Boston, then I guess it’s as good a time as any for you to learn about Western rabbits.”
While Johnny finished shaving, Scott selected a few cooking items which he thought might come in handy. After eating just enough to fortify themselves for the hunt, the brothers took their leave of the other men and set off in the general direction of the distant hacienda.
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The sun was well on its descent when the brothers finally approached the rise overlooking the estancia. They had had a successful day, measured by the fact that they had dined on rabbit stew at noon. While savoring the meal, the two young men had further compared their respective tastes in women, and Scott’s tales of romantic conquest had eventually led to some discussion of his recent life in Boston. As his brother answered his questions, Johnny began to better understand just how very different life here on the ranch must be for someone from “Back East” and ventured a comment to that effect.
“It is different,” Scott had conceded. “But I do think I’ll like it out here. . . even if I don’t know much about cattle.”
“Well, I’ve been around ‘em some. They ain’t that hard ta get t’know.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that Johnny, because I just may be needing a little help.”
With the spark in his blue eyes belying his earnest expression, Johnny had started to explain the anatomical differences between a cow and a steer. The next time the conversation ventured into serious territory, with Johnny’s observation that so far, life out West must be “seeming kinda dangerous”, it was Scott who shifted the discourse back onto a light hearted track, with a harrowing story of a very narrow escape from the angry father of a Boston belle.
Now the distant white hacienda beckoned a welcome. Scott was very much looking forward to a hot bath, a good meal, a generous glass of Murdoch’s imported scotch and a soft bed. He was leading the way on Rambler, thinking <<Four out of five isn’t bad>>, when Johnny reined up. Scott followed suit, and then turned, ready with a joking remark until he noted the serious expression on the younger man’s face.
“I heard what they were sayin’ to you, about how it was Day that sent me in,” Johnny said finally.
Scott shifted a bit in the saddle, but said nothing, waiting to see where his brother was going with this.
“They said that if you weren’t back yet, I was going to talk Murdoch into surrendering.”
In what Johnny had come to recognize as a characteristic motion, Scott glanced downwards, seeming to briefly study his ungloved hands, holding Rambler’s reins. Then he looked up, looked Johnny right in the eyes.
“If we hadn’t been back,” Scott said slowly, “that would have been a good idea.”
Johnny was stunned, though he tried hard not to show it, just stared back at Scott, at those serious light blue eyes, with the slant to the lids that gave him that concerned look so much of the time
“So . . you think I still hadn’t made up my mind yet, hadn’t ‘chosen Lancer’?”
Scott pursed his lips, looked uncomfortable with the question, and bought himself some time by moving his hat back a bit further onto the crown of his head.
“Johnny . . . I know what you thought, about your mother and Murdoch. I don’t know exactly when you made your decision. But it’s the fact that you did that matters, more than when.”
Johnny’s first thought was an angry one—that he didn’t owe Scott Lancer any explanations anyway. Not that he saw any condemnation or judgment in Scott’s eyes; it actually seemed that somehow this brother of his maybe wouldn’t even hold it against him if he had been working with Pardee right to the bitter end. But he hadn’t been.
“It matters. C’mon, I’m gonna show you something.”
Scott looked longingly towards the hacienda, the inviting soft glow from the windows indicating that the lamps had already been lit against the approaching twilight. The sun was just beginning to start its slide behind the distant mountains.
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. It can’t.”
Johnny wheeled Barranca and rode straight up the hill. With one last glance back at the house, Scott followed him. They had just reached some fallen trees near the top of the rise, when Scott abruptly reined Rambler to a halt. He’d caught a hint of something, very faint but sickeningly familiar.
“Johnny . . . there’s something dead up here. Dead for quite some time.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Johnny said softly. “That would be Coley.”
Scott stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Big guy, beard. One of your friends from the store.”
There was a silence. Then, “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
“He’s right over there if you wanta take a look. I shot him. Shot Day too.”
“That’s good to know,” Scott replied, with a look that said much more than the words.
Johnny looked away first. He hadn’t expected it to matter that much. Then Scott said his name, reclaiming his attention.
There was a tired smile in those blue-grey eyes.
“Let’s go Home, Brother.”
Johnny turned Barranca and headed back down the slope, Scott and Rambler right behind. All that remained of the setting sun were the patches of color reflected in the clouds of the night sky.
Suddenly, Johnny looked back over his shoulder, shouted “Let’s go, Boston!” and urged his horse to quicken its pace---- on a straight line back to the hacienda.
“Johnny!”
The palomino wheeled.
“I’m not taking him over that fence!” Scott shouted, indicating Rambler.
Johnny had to agree with that. The sorrel was strong and steady, but probably not much of a jumper. Instead, Scott kneed Rambler into motion, taking off towards the road. Johnny wasn’t far behind, Barranca easily making up the distance.
And they rode under the Lancer arch together.
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THE END
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