High Riders"
One of the things that we love about the pilot episode is the concept of the two Lancer brothers being entirely unaware of each other until they arrive on the same stage. Quite a coincidence!! And very plausible right??
WHI
Seated on the uncomfortably rumbling stage, Scott Lancer looked out the window to see a sign that read "Morro Coyo 10 Miles". This was the town closest to his father's ranch. He had wired ahead, to let Murdoch Lancer know the day of his expected arrival, but since he was actually early, Scott knew that there wouldn't be anyone be waiting to greet him at the stage depot. After several weeks of mostly bad connections and time-consuming delays, Scott had expected to arrive a day later; once he had realized that he was actually ahead of schedule, the young man had opted not to correct the information with another wire. Scott had decided that it might be interesting to look around the town, and ask a few questions about Murdoch Lancer, before proceeding to the ranch.
Slowly, and rather stiffly, easing his lean, well-dressed body out of the stage, Scott turned to assist the middle-aged woman who had been one of his fellow passengers for the last stretch of the journey. She had identified herself as "Mrs. Anderson," and had said that she had been visiting with her sister in Stockton. She had been more than willing to answer Scott's questions about the surrounding countryside, but he had hesitated to reveal his real name--identifying himself as "Scott Garrett"-- or his true reason for traveling in the area. Not that Mrs. Anderson hadn't seemed pleasant enough, but early in his westward journey he had learned how awkward it could be to respond the questions that fellow travelers would inevitably ask once they had learned of his "situation": an adult en route to meet his father for the very first time. Seeing that Mr. Anderson was there waiting to greet her, the woman wished Scott "good bye" and "good luck", after first pointing out the saloon which she had previously told him also rented rooms for the night. She had assured the Easterner that despite its appearance, this was the best that Morro Coyo had to offer, and had urged him to stay away from the northern end of town.
The other passengers--an older couple, the Hughes' and a Jesuit priest, Brother Tomas, quickly departed the area, leaving Scott alone. Having accepted the valises being lifted down to him by the stage driver, he stood in the dusty street and surveyed the "town"--he could see most of it from his current vantage point, and was not especially eager to spend the night there. His initial impression was that Morro Coyo was even less developed than the last several stagecoach stops. Scott decided that it was still early enough in the day to hire a cart to carry his bags out to the Lancer ranch and alert his father to his impending arrival. He estimated that he could devote an hour or so to investigating the town, such as it was, talk to a few of the inhabitants and still have ample time to ride out to the ranch before sunset. After several weeks of traveling across the country on sooty trains and in dusty coaches, the prospect of riding a horse in the open air was very appealing.
Scott carried his heavy cases to the wooden sidewalk in front of the establishment labeled "Saloon", set them down and then went inside. He paused just beyond the swinging doors to allow his eyes to adjust to the interior, which was very dim in comparison to the bright sunshine in the dusty street. There was a man behind the bar, who nodded at him, and a few scattered tables, each with several chairs around it. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, there were a few men seated alone at different tables, each nursing a mug of beer. One grizzled older man, sitting near by, looked up disinterestedly at Scott and then went back to his beer. The other patron was a younger, dark haired man, seated at the farthest table, with his back to the wall, watching the door.
Scott tucked his hat under his arm and began removing his gloves as he approached the bar, responding to the barman's "Howdy" with his own "Hello."
Johnny Madrid watched with some curiosity as the stranger entered. From what he could tell, Morro Coyo didn't draw many travelers, especially not all dressed up like this blonde gringo. The "dude" looked like a city fella, maybe even from somewhere back East, judging from the suit he was wearing. Johnny grinned to himself and shook his head--he'd only been in Morro Coyo for a few weeks himself, and he never would have expected to end up here.
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Almost exactly three weeks earlier, Johnny Madrid had been kneeling on the ground waiting to face a Mexican firing squad. One of his comrades had just been executed, and Johnny had been next---it had really been that close. He'd actually murmured one of the few Spanish prayers that he still remembered learning as a child. The night before, he'd been thinking of some of the stories he'd heard, about guardian angels, visits from the saints, tales of miracles, but he'd known in his heart that those were just stories the padres told small boys, and had no bearing on the life of a gunhawk like himself. Well, what had he expected??? He'd tried to do something good--help out some people who really needed it, even after he'd learned that they had no money--and look where it had gotten him. <<Never again,>> he'd thought to himself, then remembered with grim finality that it didn't really matter . . . . . .
But the next morning, the morning that was scheduled to be his last one on this earth, a miracle had taken place. His savior had turned out to be a small round man dressed in city clothes who had arrived not on angel wings but in a rattling buckboard wagon drawn by a team of strong horses. The Anglo drove up, loudly yelling "Stop" in badly accented Spanish, and the rurales had paused, waited to see what the stranger wanted. And what he had wanted was him--he had asked for "Senor Madrid". In a halting mixture of Spanish and English, the "angel" had promised the officers money--"mucho dinero" for the life of "el Senor Madrid". His hands untied, Johnny had climbed into the wagon and watched as the money changed hands.
The stranger smiled at Johnny as he clambered up onto the buckboard seat, saying that he had: "Finally found you . . " Johnny noted that the officers had started talking amongst themselves in Spanish, then his ears had pricked up as he realized that they were avidly discussing the rest of the cash that they had glimpsed in the man's wallet. Johnny swiftly pulled his new friend up into the buckboard, reaching across the stranger's slightly rotund body and removing his gun from the holster. "Drive!" Johnny yelled and his rescuer obediently whipped the team into motion. The startled Mexican officers began to put their weapons to use and Johnny reached over the back of the buckboard seat to return their fire, very effectively dispatching four of the six.
The other two paused to assist their fallen comrades, or perhaps they simply thought better of the idea of abandoning them, as well as the remaining prisoners, in order to pursue the rapidly departing wagon. As Johnny turned to face forward, his companion slumped towards him, the reins falling from his grasp. Realizing that the man had been hit, Johnny took up the reins with one hand and supported his wounded friend with the other, even though this required him to lay down the pistol for the moment. It appeared that his savior had been shot in the upper chest or shoulder, but there was no time to stop and investigate. The first priority was to put as much distance between themselves and the angry Mexican officers as possible.
Three weeks later, as he sat alone in this Morro Coyo saloon, Johnny wondered about that man, the Pinkerton agent--hoped that he had pulled through okay. Once they had traveled a suitable distance, with no pursuit in sight, Johnny had reined in the team and investigated the stranger's wound. The gunfighter had seen much worse, but his companion had been in considerable pain, drifting in and out of consciousness. And he hadn't been saying much that made sense, even when he was awake. Rifling through his pockets netted Johnny nothing of interest, but the man's billfold contained a significant amount of money and a handful of cards identifying him as Randolph Thomas, an employee of the Pinkerton Agency. Johnny had tried to ask him why he'd been searching for Johnny Madrid, and who had hired him, but Thomas' "responses" to those questions had been seemingly random thoughts that had made no sense at all. Johnny had borrowed a few small bills from the wallet--he needed to purchase some clothes to replace those he was wearing since they so clearly identified him as a prisoner--but he left the rest of the money untouched.
He'd located a sawbones in the next town, and left Thomas and his fat wallet in the doctor's care. After buying a simple shirt and pair of pants, Johnny had driven the buckboard northward through the night. Eventually he'd arrived in a place where he had a female acquaintance, a young woman who had previously been willing to allow him to stash a change of clothes, and, most importantly, a spare gun and ammunition in her room. Although he had held onto the agent's weapon, it had been with a sigh of relief that he strapped on his own gun belt and once again felt the familiar weight resting on his hip. He'd spent a few days in the town, enjoying his lady friend's company and conversing with some other inhabitants. From one older man, a fellow gunhawk, he had heard about Day Pardee's activities up north; Day and his boys had quite a "business" going it seemed--they were "Land Pirates" running a few wealthy ranchers off of their spreads. It had sounded as if there could be some very big money in it, and north seemed a good direction in which to travel after his recent experiences south of the border. Johnny had quickly decided to seek out his old friend. He'd managed to trade the team and buckboard for a pretty suitable saddle horse and gear and then had set out.
He'd arrived in town two weeks ago and Day Pardee had been pleased to see him; he could always use another good gun. Coley and some of Pardee's other old hands had been less enthused to learn that someone of Johnny Madrid's stature was joining up with them, since they anticipated--correctly--that Johnny would expect a sizeable cut of any profits that he helped them to acquire.
The promise of a percentage of the profits had paled in significance to the unexpected bonus: learning that one of the ranches targeted belonged to Murdoch Lancer. When the name had been mentioned, Johnny hadn't let on that it meant anything at all to him. But of course he'd immediately identified the man as his 'father'--the cold-hearted gringo who had tossed out his wife and child twenty years before.
On her own, with a young child to care for, his mother had had a very difficult life. And a short one--Johnny had been on his own every since she'd died. Over the years, he had considered that he maybe ought to look Murdoch Lancer up and even the score. Johnny certainly believed that he had plenty of reason for calling Lancer out.
That was what a gunfighter did . . . you didn't ever shoot a man down in cold blood, however much he might deserve it. You called him out, gave him a chance to defend himself, if he could. Better yet, you worked it so that he had no choice but to call you out. Once you were standing there, facing each other, if you were good and if you were fast--and Johnny Madrid was both--well, then you allowed your opponent to make the first move. Once he made that slight motion that told you he was going for his gun, then you drew on him, and finished him. And the law couldn't touch you, it was self-defense.
If it was business, you collected your pay for doing the job. If it was personal, you collected your satisfaction. Still, it would be a hard thing, meeting your old man for the first time and then drawing down on him, no matter what it was he had done. But this would be better; a more fitting punishment, actually. Take away his ranch, turn Murdoch Lancer out, leave him penniless, homeless, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help. And make damn sure he knew exactly who had been in on it when the time came.
According to Day, of all the ranchers in the area, it had been Lancer, right from the start, who had put up the most resistance. No surprise the old man was tough; he'd have to be, to do what he'd done. Day had asked Johnny point blank exactly what sum he'd be expecting for his share but Johnny had held off on telling him that it was satisfaction more than the money that he wanted this time . . .
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Now Johnny watched idly as the tall stranger with the short blond hair walked across the room. He was carrying an Eastern style hat, wearing a fancy tie, had a shirt with ruffled cuffs showing underneath his jacket. His suit was made of a material that looked like it was too heavy for the temperatures here out West. It was a habit, born of necessity, noticing such details about a person. You started with appearances, then moved on to behaviors. The newcomer walked with a long stride and a confident air about him. When he'd entered the saloon, the man had barely glanced around, just looked over at Gus and headed directly towards the bar. Johnny had a hard time understanding that sometimes, why people weren't more careful, more observant. As he contemplated the beer remaining in the bottom of his mug, he considered that maybe you could just go through life being that unaware if you knew that there wasn't anyone gunning for you . . .not that Johnny Madrid was likely to ever find out what that felt like.
It was quiet here; it was the bars at the other end of town that drew most of the activity. This place lacked entertainment--no piano player, no saloon girls, and no owner either, as far as Johnny had seen. Just Gus, and his boy, Tommy, who helped out in the back. Gus pretty much ran the saloon for the man that actually owned the place. Glad to have something to do, Gus asked the stranger what he could get for him, and the blond man replied "Nothing, thank you--- it's information that I'd like actually. I understand that the Lancer ranch is near here."
Johnny's ears pricked up at that. What did this Easterner, who looked to be a city boy, what did he want with Lancer???
Gus had to be wondering the same thing. "Yeah," he said slowly, "It's not far from here. Ain't too hard ta find."
"I'm glad to hear that," was the stranger's reply. "Now perhaps you might tell me where I might hire a horse?"
Johnny snorted softly at that. "You ride?" he asked in a voice that was just barely loud enough to be heard by the men at the bar.
Surprised by the derisive question, Scott Lancer partially turned towards that voice. As he glanced over his shoulder at the speaker, he noted that it was the dark-haired man in the corner-- who was now looking back at him with a rather mocking expression. Scott eyed the young man coolly, before deciding not to respond. Facing the bartender once more, he continued, "I have some luggage outside. If someone could transport those cases to out the ranch, then the people there will know that I've arrived. I'll ride out a bit later." Johnny grinned to himself, picturing the dude on horseback, then finished off his beer.
Instead of responding specifically to the Easterner's comments, Gus looked towards the rear of the building and called for his son: "Tommy!" A young boy of about ten ran through the door, saying "Yes, Pa!" The youngster had brown curly hair and a freckled face. He listened attentively as his father gave him his instructions. "Tommy, I want you to run down to the livery, tell 'em there's a gentleman here wants ta hire a wagon --has some things to go out to the Lancer ranch, right away. Tell Owen he'll be wanting a saddle horse later on too."
Gus addressed the stranger--"The boy'll be needin' ta give the stableman a name." The blonde man paused momentarily, the hesitation long enough to draw Johnny's complete attention. He watched intently as the stranger glanced briefly down at the floor before he looked up at Gus and quietly introduced himself. "It's Lancer. Scott Lancer."
Gus was somewhat startled to hear that name, and it showed. Johnny Madrid quickly rose from his seat, and then with a studied casualness, sauntered over towards the bar, nodding to Gus to indicate that he shouldn't feel the need to say anything more to the newcomer. Lancer placed his hat and gloves on the bar, then slipped a leather wallet out of his jacket and extracted a few bills, which he handed to Tommy. "Please give this to the livery man, and let him know that I'll take care of the difference, if it's not enough."
"Should be more than enough," said Gus, noting the denominations of the two bills. Lancer didn't seem too concerned about that, as he returned his billfold to the inside pocket of his jacket. He smiled down at Tommy, who stood there wide-eyed at being entrusted with such a sum. "Perhaps you'd better put that in your pocket," Lancer suggested mildly. Tommy quickly stuffed the money into the front pocket of his dusty brown pants. "And I'll have something for you, Tommy, when you come back and let me know that those two suitcases are on their way." Tommy nodded his head, said "Yessir, Mr. Lancer!" and ran out the door.
Gus eyed Johnny warily as the gunfighter stepped up to the bar: "How 'bout a bottle, Gus, and two glasses. I figure I can handle givin' our friend here directions out to the Lancer place." Gus turned to comply and Johnny faced Scott Lancer's inquiring gaze. "So where ya from?" he asked, in a conversational tone.
"Boston . . . have you heard of it?"
Johnny collected the bottle and the glasses that Gus had set on the counter. He tilted his head at the question, then said softly, "Yeah. I heard of Boston."
The blonde man emitted a small sigh and then regarded him with a serious expression. "No offense intended. It's just that not everyone out here has . . ."
"Well, I ain't sayin' I know where it is."
Lancer gathered up his gloves and hat and smiled at the comment. "Well, . . let's just say that it's about as far East as you can go," he said lightly.
"Yeah, I figured you were from back East . . . . so do ya drink?"
Lancer hesitated. When his answer came, the tone was pleasant enough, but the words were reserved: "When I know the man I'm drinking with."
Even without looking at the bartender, Johnny could feel Gus watching him intently. By now, everyone else in Morro Coyo knew who Johnny was. "Name's Madrid. Johnny Madrid."
Lancer nodded. "Madrid, " he said, repeating the name in acknowledgement, but clearly unaware that he was in the presence of a well-known gunslinger. "I'm Scott Lancer."
"I heard," was Johnny's response as he turned and headed back to his corner table. Listening for footsteps, he could tell that the Easterner paused for a moment before finally deciding to follow him. Scott studied Madrid as he walked towards his corner table. From what Scott had observed during the past week, the man's attire was somewhat unusual: the dark pants had a line of silver buttons down the side of each leg, and his embroidered shirt was a very bright rose color. Madrid's hat hung down his back and his gun was slung very low on his right hip. He seemed to have a very confident air about him, extending even to his complete certainty that Scott would simply follow him. Which he did.
Once Johnny Madrid had resettled himself in his corner chair, facing the door, with Scott Lancer seated opposite, he opened the bottle and filled one of the glasses. Only then did he initiate a conversation. "Murdoch Lancer's got a pretty big spread," he observed. "I hear it's over one hundred thousand acres." When Scott Lancer failed to comment, Johnny finally posed a direct question: "So what's he like?" he asked, as he slid the glass over to Scott.
"I've never met him," Scott Lancer replied, and watched carefully for Johnny's reaction. Then Scott leaned forward and picked up the filled glass nearest to him, nodding at Johnny as he did so. Johnny covered his surprise by concentrating on filling his own glass, then set the bottle down on the table. "Figured you was related."
Lancer took a drink, then stared at the glass in his hand. "Oh, but we are," he said, looking away from Johnny, with a slight smile playing about his lips. Johnny noticed that the man had an unusual manner of speaking; there was something about the emphasis that he placed upon certain words, the rhythm of his speech, which was just a bit different. Then the Easterner looked directly at Johnny, and with a completely neutral expression, he announced: "He's my father."
Johnny knew that he hadn't been able to mask the fact that he had been purely startled by this piece of information, so he simply voiced his disbelief. "That right?" he asked in a surprised tone, then tossed back his drink. "So how many kids has the old man got?"
Lancer gestured with his glass; "Now that's a very good question. Perhaps you might tell me."
"Why would I know?" Madrid asked with an edge to his voice. The Bostonian raised his eyebrows at the tone, but replied in a mild voice: "I only assumed that since you are from around here, that you might know something about him."
Johnny sniffed at that. "Nope. Only been here a coupla weeks myself."
Scott sighed again and contemplated the liquor remaining in his glass, as he reconsidered his situation. Now that he was finally about to have the long awaited first meeting with Murdoch Lancer, he was once more confronted with how very little he actually knew about the man. Here he'd been reduced to asking a total stranger for information about his father.
Scott knew that a grey haired older man was still seated at a table somewhere behind him; for all that he knew, that man could actually be Murdoch Lancer. And if his father did in fact have a wife and other children, of course Scott would never recognize them either; it was actually a bit unsettling to think that he could walk past them en route to the stable, ride by them on his way to the ranch, without ever realizing it. Scott finished his drink, set the glass on the table and looked across at his companion. Somehow the Bostonian had the feeling that the man's interest was more than just a casual one, although he couldn't imagine what the basis for that interest might be. Johnny Madrid just didn't seem to be the type to simply wish to be welcoming to a newcomer and pass some time in friendly conversation.
On his side, Johnny eyed the Easterner appraisingly; figuring him to be two or three years older than himself. He watched as Lancer slowly lifted up his legs and placed his feet on the seat of the chair that was positioned to his left. The blonde haired man leaned back, looking, in Johnny's opinion, much more relaxed than anybody had a right to look dressed up in those clothes he was wearing. Scott reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
<<Murdoch Lancer's kid?>> Johnny thought. <<Mama never said a thing 'bout the old man having another son.>> "So you ain't never met him?" he asked aloud.
"He contacted me for the first time, about a month ago," Scott replied, and then shook his head slightly, asking himself why he was sharing so much of his story with this stranger. During his trip across the country Scott had become quite guarded in discussing the reasons for the journey, having found that even the briefest version of the truth led to multiple questions from incredulous listeners.
"So now ya just gonna ride on out to his ranch?"
Hearing the emphasis on the word "ride", Scott smiled. "I think I can manage." Then he offered an explanation: "In answer to your question earlier, I served in a cavalry unit during the War."
"Horse soldier, huh?" <<Officer, most likely. >> "Well, that sure explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Why he sent for ya."
The blonde man waited silently. Although his expression was carefully guarded, Johnny could feel how much he wanted to hear more. Lancer didn't look up at him, though, he just stared at the rim of the glass he was holding with the fingertips of his right hand and slowly rotated it.
"If you can ride and handle a gun, he can use ya. He's got some trouble. Some men trying to run him off of his land."
The blonde head snapped up at that. "Who?"
"Gunfighter, name of Pardee. Day Pardee. He's got about nineteen," Johnny grinned, and corrected himself. "Well, make that twenty, guns. They've taken over quite a few places round here. I guess Lancer's puttin' up one hell of a fight though."
"What about the law?"
Madrid's grin widened at that question. "Ain't any," he said with finality. "Just pack law. And Day's the Big Dog."
Lancer considered this information. When he failed to comment, Madrid added: "I was you, I'd go meet the old man, then head back home. You'd be real smart ta stay outta it."
In one fluid motion, the Easterner lowered his legs to the floor and stood. "Well, thank you for the advice . . . and for the drink," he said. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Mr. Madrid." And then Scott Lancer extended his right hand. Johnny hesitated. Maybe a handshake wasn't a big deal back East, but in Johnny's world, you gave a man your hand, it meant something. And he knew that he and Scott Lancer might very well find themselves on opposite sides of this fight.
Scott Lancer was surprised to note that the dark haired man was staring at his hand without making a move to accept it. Just as he was about to withdraw the proffered handshake, Scott heard a drawling voice behind him. "Hey, John Madrid. Who's your fancy friend?" Scott turned to look at the newcomer, a man with a mustache, wearing a hat with a fairly low crown. Like Madrid, the speaker wore a gun belt, slung low on his hip.
Johnny rose to his feet. "Day, this here's Scott Lancer, ol'Murdoch's son." Scott looked across at Johnny as soon as he heard the name "Day". When he returned his gaze to the man standing at his left, he found himself facing the muzzle of Pardee's gun.
Johnny completed the introductions in the same friendly tone. "Scott, this here's Day Pardee. I believe you've heard of 'im." Johnny grinned reassuringly over at Gus, who was watching from behind the bar. Gus was wearing a concerned expression that became significantly more worried when Tommy dashed in the door and ran over to Scott. "Mr. Lancer! They jist now went an' took your bags and Owen down at the stable . . . ." the boy stopped in his tracks, open mouthed when he recognized Day Pardee and realized that the man had a gun trained on Mr. Lancer.
Scott Lancer smiled calmly down at the boy. "Thank you, Tommy. I see you recognize Mr. Pardee. . . . We were talking about guns and he's showing me his." Assuming a serious expression, he crouched down to the boy's level and asked, "Now what were you going to tell me about Owen?"
Tommy was still looking uncertainly from the man with the gun to Mr. Lancer and back. But Mr. Madrid was standing there too, and he was nodding and giving Tommy his usual friendly grin, so the boy decided that maybe everything was all right after all. "Just that he's saddling' up a real fine horse for ya."
"And I have something for you," Lancer replied, standing up to his full height once more and --very slowly, for Day's benefit--reaching into his pocket and pulling out a coin. From Johnny's vantage point, it looked to be a silver dollar and Tommy's eyes got about as big when he took it.
"Gee! Thanks, Mr. Lancer!"
"You're welcome Tommy," was the serious reply. "Now perhaps you might run on back to the stable and tell . . Owen . . that I may be delayed. But . ." and now the Bostonian looked directly at Day Pardee--- "I do still intend to use that horse."
The boy nodded his head. "I will!". Then, "Is everything really okay?" Tommy asked, looking directly at Johnny.
Scott Lancer started to answer, but Johnny cut him off. "It's gonna be fine, Tommy. Don't you worry. You just go along now." Scott nodded in agreement and, to Gus' visible relief, Tommy scampered back out the door.
"Whaddya say we go somewhere private and have us a little talk?" Pardee gestured with his gun, and Johnny was pleased to see that Lancer didn't seem to have any ideas about arguing, he just picked up his hat and gloves and put them on as he calmly headed for the door.
<<So he ain't stupid. Took good care of the kid, too. >> Johnny thought approvingly.
"Left," ordered Pardee as Scott reached the doorway. "And keep walkin'"
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When the threesome entered the establishment that Pardee and his "boys" had essentially claimed as their own, several of the "land pirates" were there seated at the haphazardly arranged tables. Each man was immediately curious about the well-dressed stranger entering in front of Day, but knew better than to ask questions of their leader when he had business to do--serious business, as indicated by the drawn weapon in his hand. Pardee signaled to Coley and the stocky, bearded man fell into line behind the other three as they proceeded towards an empty room at the rear of the building. Pardee gestured for Scott to continue through that doorway alone, while he paused to speak briefly with Coley and Johnny Madrid.
When he had first entered the building, Scott Lancer had, through force of habit, removed his hat, tucked it under his arm and taken off his gloves. Now, momentarily alone in a small stock room, he surveyed the interior as he set the hat and gloves down on a dusty table. Next he removed his jacket. The Easterner had been feeling uncomfortably warm in the medium weight material, and although uncertain of what might come next, he considered that it was quite likely that he might prefer to have more freedom of movement than his suit jacket allowed. When the three men finally entered, Scott looked expectantly at Pardee, who still had his weapon drawn. "Tie 'im up, Johnny," Day ordered and Scott noticed that Coley quickly handed the younger man a length of rope.
As Johnny accepted the cord, he wondered whether or not Lancer would put up some resistance, but the taller man merely glanced briefly in his direction, then refocused his attention upon Pardee and the drawn gun. As Johnny approached their prisoner, he noticed that Lancer brought his hands up in front of him, right wrist crossed over left, holding them in loose fists. Johnny's eyes narrowed in recognition of what seemed to be an incongruously reflexive movement from the Bostonian. Then, when he began to loop the rope around the blonde man's wrists, Johnny saw the scar on the inside of the right one and knew that at some point in time, cords had bitten deeply into the flesh there. The scar was an old one; it was hard to tell how old, and it hadn't healed particularly well. Johnny also noticed that the captive was trying to hold his hands so that there would be a bit of space left between them. With a grin, he pulled the rope tight, bringing the man's wrists close together, and watched with grim satisfaction as the flicker of pain and annoyance flashed across Scott Lancer's face.
"Have a seat," Day growled, once Johnny had finished tightening the last knot.
Lancer merely stood there, looking at him impassively, but made no move to comply.
"I said, sit down,", Day repeated, more harshly this time. "I prefer to stand," Scott responded in a soft voice. He had barely finished the sentence when a lightening quick punch from Day's left fist caught him full in the stomach, doubling him over far enough to knock him to his knees. Scott landed hard on the floor, catching himself with his bound hands. As he struggled to get his breath back, he felt Coley and Johnny, no doubt responding to some unseen signal from Pardee, each grab one of his arms and lift him backwards into a chair. Coley remained standing behind Scott, while Madrid moved off to the left.
Johnny made sure to stand where he would have a good view of both Pardee and his prisoner----Lancer seemed like he was gonna make this interesting, after all.
Day holstered his gun, and stared at Scott who was looking right back at him. "So Murdoch Lancer is your old man," he said, almost as if he was thinking aloud. "What are ya doing here? When'd he send for ya?"
Scott didn't respond. He was leaning forward a bit, instead of sitting up straight, resting his arms on his thighs, probably trying to ease the pain in his midsection. He looked right at Day, who from his expression was clearly growing impatient, but still the blond man said nothing. His breathing was about back to normal.
<<Oh yeah, >> Johnny thought, <<Seems like this is gonna be interesting>>.
Day spoke very quietly, but menacingly. "Mebbe you didn't hear me. I asked ya a question. And I ain't really a patient man." Johnny knew that that was the truth. And that there was no way that Day was going to allow this to go on in front of an audience. Coley was already smiling in anticipation of what might happen next, possibly assuming that he would even be called upon to "encourage" Lancer to start talking.
Day used his right hand this time, and cracked Scott Lancer across the face, whipping his head around. There was no sound from the Easterner except for a sharp intake of breath. Now he sat with his eyes closed and his head bowed.
Johnny crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. "Now this is kinda stupid." Day and Coley both looked sharply at Johnny, then realized that he was addressing their captive. "He ain't asked ya anything ya ain't already told me."
Lancer raised his head up at that, though he was staring at the right corner of the room, not looking at either Johnny Madrid or Day Pardee. Johnny could see that the man was gonna have a pretty good bruise, and his lip was bleeding a little. "Then you answer him," Scott said tightly.
Johnny pushed himself off of the wall and proceeded to do just that. "Lancer sent for 'im a few weeks back. Told me he was raised back East. He's here to see his old man. . . .Says he never met 'im."
While Scott Lancer continued to direct his gaze towards that right corner of the room, the other two men registered surprise at this information. "That's probably all there is to it," Johnny told Day. "I mean, look at im." As both Day and Coley intently regarded Scott's impassive profile, Johnny continued. "I figure if Lancer's lookin' for help, he ain't gonna get it from ol'Scott here. Ain't gonna be much a city fella can do for 'im. Probably can't even ride a horse or fire a gun," he added in a disparaging tone. Johnny was impressed to see that Scott Lancer didn't visibly react to anything he was hearing.
"So now, what do you think we oughta do with him, John?" Day asked, folding his own arms against his chest and continuing to stare at Scott.
"Way I figure it, Lancer might wantta see 'im, but he ain't likely ta give up anythin' much for someone he ain't never bothered with before."
"Hell," Day said with a grin, "maybe his son here'll get mad enough ta take care of the old man for us."
Johnny laughed at that suggestion, then, serious once more, he offered one of his own: "Day, you been wantin' ta get a message to ol' Murdoch. Seems like his boy 'Boston' here might be capable of deliverin' one."
"Yeah," Day nodded in agreement, and walked around to place himself in Lancer's line of vision. "So when you have your little reunion, you just be sure to tell your daddy that we're getting tired of waitin'. One of these days--real soon--- it's gonna be blood. Those vaqueros of his're gonna be the next targets. Ya got that?" The only acknowledgement that Pardee received was Lancer flicking his gaze over to meet Day's eyes. Evidently that was enough, as Pardee turned to leave the room, motioning for Coley to follow him. To Johnny, he said, "Yeah, he sure don't look like much ta worry about, John. Send him packin'."
As the other two men exited the room, Johnny sauntered over to Scott with his knife drawn. As he severed the cords binding the man's wrists, he informed him that "The livery's back down the other end of the street. You'd better get that horse and ride on out of here." Scott made no response as he arose from his seat, slowly rubbing his wrists. With deliberate motions, he put his jacket back on and then picked up his hat and gloves, all the while holding Madrid in a cool regard. Johnny escorted Lancer back through the main room, past Pardee and his boys, several of whom had a few comments to make about the fancy attire of "Madrid's new friend."
Outside on the boardwalk, Lancer placed his hat on his head, then turned to study Madrid. His lips were pressed tightly together but his unasked question still hung in the air between them. While he pulled on his gloves, Scott continued to regard Madrid speculatively. Finally, Johnny shrugged. "Ya come this far, seems like ya oughta get ta meet the man." Scott nodded silently at that and turned to leave. He'd only gone a few paces before Johnny spoke again. "Hey Boston . . ." The Easterner paused, but didn't turn back. "Tell your old man that Johnny Madrid sends his regards." At those words, the blond man's head snapped around, but again it was only the light blue eyes that asked the question. The gunfighter's own blue eyes blazed with an intensity that was not evident in the studied casualness of his words and his tone. "Not sure if he knows the name . . . But you just tell him."
Lancer nodded curtly and then continued walking down the dusty, deserted street.
Johnny leaned against a post and watched, nodding to himself when he saw the man turn into one of the shops. The gunsmith. Johnny glanced back over his shoulder, but the boys inside were busy with their beer and boisterous conversation; Day was laughing loudly and saying something about "Murdoch Lancer's long lost son." Noticing a straight-backed chair on the boardwalk near the door, Johnny strolled over to it and sat himself down, tilting back on the rear legs and leaning against the building. Watching and waiting. Reviewing in his head what little he knew about Murdoch Lancer; the things that his mama had said about his "gringo" father.
When Scott Lancer emerged from the gunsmith shop, he was empty handed. He looked down the street, both right and left, his glance in the leftward direction lasting just long enough to let Johnny know that he'd been spotted, perched there on his straight backed chair. There was no other sign of recognition. As the Easterner turned to continue on down the street, Johnny could tell, from the movement of the man's jacket, that he was now wearing a weapon. Lancer still didn't seem to be in much of a hurry though; in fact, he headed across the street to another store, Baldemerro's. Johnny tried to remember; he thought that the Mexican merchant sold mostly . . . Clothing? Seemed like his "brother" was out to do some more shopping.
There it was--his "brother". If Scott Lancer was really Murdoch Lancer's son, then the two of them were brothers. Or half brothers, anyway. The word had been skimming around the edges of Johnny's thoughts, though he'd pretty much fended it off til now. But he figured that that had to be why he'd encouraged Pardee to let Scott go, why he'd kept quiet about the man being a former cavalry officer. Not that one more gun was going to do Murdoch Lancer much good. And who knew if the city boy had actually seen much fighting, anyway? Johnny figured that there was no need to lose any sleep over holding that piece of information back from Day, seeing as he'd already withheld something even more significant: his own relationship to Murdoch Lancer. <<But Mama, >> he thought again, << she never once said anything about 'im havin' any other kids . . .>> If Johnny's assumption was correct, that Scott must be a few years older, then Johnny's mother should've known about him---even if he was living back East.
Well, aside from sharing that old man's blood, the two of them didn't seem to have anything else in common. There sure wasn't any family resemblance. Folks had always told Johnny that he favored his mama; he wondered now whether Scott Lancer took after his own mother or if ol' Murdoch would turn out to be an older version of this young blonde gringo. As he reviewed the things that Scott Lancer had said and done, Johnny decided that he might have to amend his assessment. Perhaps, based on his brief observation, he and his "brother" did have a few things in common. The city "dude" clearly wasn't one to show fear. And he was also evidently a rather stubborn man. Growing up, Johnny'd been called "el mulo terco" often enough, and he still wasn't one for ever givin' in. And, of course, another thing that Murdoch Lancer's sons had in common was that neither one of them had ever laid eyes on their father. Well, Johnny sure hoped that Scott appreciated the chance to face the old man, cause it weren't likely he'd have time enough to get too attached. If "Boston" was smart, he'd head back East pretty quick. But as he watched the blonde man exit the clothier, package in hand, and head, finally, in the direction of the livery, Johnny had a feeling that this new found brother of his just might not be all that smart.
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