Boston himself stopped by at the end of the day. He certainly didn’t have that same dandified air about him, now that he was tanned, wearing regular work clothes and kind of dusty looking.
“Well, you seem to be doing quite a bit better.”
“Teresa here might even let me get up out of bed someday . . . But you’re lookin’ a bit dog-eared yourself.”
“Its a big place, there’s quite a bit of work to be done. Anytime you feel like getting up out of bed and lending a hand around here would be fine with me.”
Scott’s expression when he said this was pleasant enough, but Johnny resented the implication that he wasn’t doing his part. He managed to keep his response easy, “Well, on second thought, if there’s all that much work, then I might just stay right where I am a while longer. But don’t you worry, you might be gettin’ a head start, but I’ll catch up with you pretty quick once I’m back on my feet.”
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The sun shone brightly and there was a slight breeze rippling the water. This time when Scott’s fist met Johnny’s taunting face with a satisfying impact, his ‘brother’ didn’t roll quite as far down the slope. Instead of getting up and charging at him, with dark fury, Johnny remained on the ground and simply raised himself up on his side. Scott looked down at Johnny as he slowly drew his gun, and casually aimed it in Scott’s direction. He stood motionless as Johnny fired, point-blank, at his chest.
Scott opened his eyes. Looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling--not in itself an unfamiliar occurrence---except that the other side of the bed was empty. Then it came to him. <California. Lancer. >
As far back as he could remember, Scott had had vivid dreams. They were less frequent in adulthood, probably because he really didn’t sleep all that much--he stayed up late, but was still an early riser---no ‘slug-a-beds' allowed in Harlan Garrett’s house. At least this “Johnny Madrid” sequence was less disturbing than some of his wartime images. Scott rubbed his eyes, erasing vague memories of having been shot more than once during the night.
He thought about the stack of Pinkerton reports he’d read the previous evening as he carefully shaved and dressed. Scott could well imagine that the information that they’d contained about his brother had been disturbing reading material for Murdoch Lancer. Although some parts had been pretty sketchy, even without reading between the lines. . . .Scott shook his head. <Rough life. >
Scott joined Teresa and Maria in the kitchen for some breakfast. Teresa greeted him cheerfully, while Maria had a smile and full plate for “Senor Scott.” But she also quizzed the young blond man on the food and utensils before him. Because so many of the people at the Lancer ranch were Mexican, Scott had immediately decided to try to learn as much Spanish as possible. He had studied Latin, of course, and knew a bit of French, which at times both helped and hindered his efforts. He could memorize the words, but his accent sounded alternately either too French or too “Bawston”. Still he had picked up quite a bit of Spanish vocabulary from the vaqueros, ranching terms mostly, as well as a few more colorful phrases which they had been more than happy to translate, at his request. He, Teresa and Maria ate comfortably together in the kitchen, something that would never have occurred in his grandfather’s home.
Noticing Maria preparing a tray, Scott scooped it up, and, before the two women could object, he was on his way. <Let’s see if the famous gunslinger is ready for his breakfast. >
“The famous gunslinger”, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, was just sitting up in bed when Scott knocked and entered. <Well, he’s not looking particularly dangerous at the moment. >
“Good morning--breakfast is served."
“Hey.” <Well, lookee who’s here. > “Seems like they found somethin’ for you to do.”
Scott handed over the tray. “Rumor has it that you were actually out of bed yesterday.”
Johnny was more than pleased to acknowledge the truth of that statement, “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, looking over the food in front of him. Scott murmured “Mind if I have a seat?” and without waiting for a reply, eased himself into the big chair beside the bed, leaned back, crossed his arms and stretched out his long legs. He fastened his customary direct gaze on Johnny and said, “Murdoch tells me you’ve decided to stay.”
“Yeah, that’s right."
“Good to hear it." Scott continued to recline in the big chair, regarding Johnny with a neutral expression.
Johnny chewed and considered several possible retorts. <Relax, Madrid, > he thought, and settled on a change of subject--“So what else they got you doin’ around here--’sides kitchen chores?”
Although amused by the phrasing of the question, Scott elected to give a serious response. “Well, I have seen quite a bit of the ranch, although I can’t begin to guess how long it would take to see all of it. . . .Gotten to know some of the men--their names at least. . . .Spent some time with Murdoch going over the accounts . . .”
“Murdoch, huh? that what you’re gonna call him?”
“’Mr. Lancer’ seemed a bit formal.”
“I guess. So all our accounts in order?”
“They seem to be, yes.”
“Well, you’re welcome to that. Never had too much schoolin’ myself.” Johnny sounded as if that were a very good thing.
“I’m don’t know that mine will be of much use out here.”
Johnny allowed his quick appraisal--noting the other man’s relaxed posture, confident tone and the faint hint of uncertainty in his words--to temper his response. “Well, Boston, seems like you can do what’s most important, you can ride and you can shoot-----
Scott was careful to maintain his same neutral expression--- he had resolved before he’d come up here that he was not going to allow himself to be provoked. But he still couldn’t help thinking---<‘Boston’!?--is he still calling me that? >---just as Johnny decided that he might be getting a bit too complimentary:
“---you can shoot a carbine, anyway. But I don’t know, with a six shooter, maybe you can’t even hit the broad side of a barn.”
Johnny grinned with that last, clearly intending a joke and looking for a reaction. Scott, although distracted by that “Boston” label, managed to come up with a measured reply--”You’ll be happy to know that with a sidearm, I have been known to hit the narrow side of a barn, upon occasion.” Johnny sipped his coffee to hide his appreciative grin at the wry comment.
Scott paused for a moment before he continued, “From what I understand, you can hit the latch and open the barn door.”
Johnny’s expression changed as he set down the coffee cup: “Where’d you hear that?”
Now it was Scott who tried for the light retort: “Well, Brother, it seems that you have a reputation.” <Careful-- he probably likes being called "Brother” as much as I enjoy “Boston”. > Sitting forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, he looked directly at Johnny. “Actually I did some reading last night--Murdoch’s Pinkerton files on Johnny Madrid.” Scott glanced away, started to speak again, stopped, and smiled slightly, amused at his own hesitation. Johnny impatiently demanded, “Well, you got something to say?--just spit it out.”
His face registering surprise at his brother’s sudden harsh tone, Scott said softly, “I . . . was just thinking that you perhaps ought to listen to Teresa, to what she said about your mother and Murdoch.”
Nettled, Johnny asked “So everything Murdoch Lancer says is true and my mother’s just some lyin’ Mexican?”
A small sigh escaped as Scott again glanced at the floor, then looked up at Johnny with an expression that the younger man finally translated aloud: “All right, so you didn’t say that.”
“No, I didn’t. What I will say is that the truth is most likely somewhere in between. The files go back seventeen, eighteen, years. Off and on, he was looking for the two of you. But obviously, she wasn’t happy here, or with him. And unfortunately, you can’t ask her any questions about what she told you.”
“No, she died ten, almost eleven years back.”
Scott sat back again. “Well, that’s where I have an advantage. What little I know about Murdoch Lancer, I learned from my grandfather. And he’s still alive. When I write, I just may have a few questions for him.”
“Why write a letter when you can just ask Murdoch?”
“He hasn’t seemed especially eager to volunteer information. You’ve heard the man; he says that we should “focus on the present, not the past.” And I’m willing to go along with that----for now.”
Ever since he had heard Johnny’s angry rendition of what had occurred between his mother and Murdoch, and Teresa’s equally vehement alternative account, Scott couldn’t help but reflect on his own too similar circumstance---that of having heard only one side of the story.
No longer a child and certainly not a fool, Scott felt that he knew his grandfather very well. He loved and respected him, but recognized Harlan Garrett as a man who was both extremely demanding and fiercely protective of his only grandchild. The man was simultaneously distant and doting. He was also very much accustomed to having things his own way. Scott was well aware that over the years his grandfather had done a great many things for “his own good”. For the most part, it had worked out---despite having had every advantage, Scott doubted that many people would consider him to be lazy or ‘spoiled'. Well--his mind flashed briefly on that “Present Occupation: None” that he’d read in the file the night before. That had been the cause of more than one argument with the elderly gentleman recently--he’d said that Scott was being “irresponsible” --always one of the old man’s harshest criticisms. Albeit reluctantly, Scott did have to admit that he could imagine Harlan Garrett intercepting a letter or package, even forestalling a visit, from his grandson’s detested father, “for Scotty’s own good”. Not, of course, that there was any indication that there had ever been a letter, a package or a visit . . .
Reconsidering, he knew that his next letter to his grandfather would be full of news but most likely avoid uncomfortable questions for the time being. Scott realized that if his own truth were, as he’d said to Johnny, “somewhere in between”, then any new information which he received was likely to taint his much loved and admired grandfather without any chance of exonerating Murdoch Lancer for his twenty four years of silence. For in giving him the files the previous evening, Murdoch, out of a desire to help the Bostonian better understand his very different younger sibling, had also unthinkingly provided him with tangible evidence of a significant disparity between the two brothers----the effort which had been expended to make contact with one of them.
Of course, it wasn’t as if he had spent his entire childhood waiting by the door---though for some reason, he’d always had a notion that if he ever were to receive a communication from his unknown father, it would coincide with his birthday. And when he was twelve or thirteen, young Scott had settled in his own mind on his 21st birthday as the date upon which the long delayed invitation to California would most likely arrive. But Scott Lancer’s 21st birthday had passed by unnoticed . . . . and only now, three years later . . .
“Hey Boston--you still here?”
Johnny had finished his breakfast, while carefully watching and assessing this silent stranger seated before him. It’d really been something--- to find out that he had an older brother and have him turn out to be this blond Gringo. Most Easterners he’d encountered couldn’t hide their disdain for everything west of the Mississippi, let alone anything or anyone Mexican. <It sure wasn’t the money, so why’d you come all this ways, Boston? > Most city slickers acted so polite, smiling all the time--never meaning it. <This one has all the pretty manners all right, but he sure is serious. > Johnny was a very good judge of character-- he’d had to be. Now if he’d made a mistake, he’d like to think that he was man enough to admit it. To himself, anyway. <So, now maybe he’s not so much of a fancy dan as I first thought, have to give him that. The Soldier-boy here jumped right into it and came up with a passable plan. . . Hell, Madrid, he ain’t the one that ended up gettin’ shot . . . >
Johnny’s “Hey Boston--you still here?” broke through Scott’s reverie.
This time Scott looked directly at him and----keeping his voice level---said ”You keep calling me that---perhaps I need to remind you---my name is Scott.”
“Sorry, guess it just slipped out.”
Belatedly Scott registered that this time the word “Boston” had sounded friendly rather than mocking. Coolly regarding the younger man, he spoke with exaggerated emphasis. “Well, I suppose it is preferable to being called a . . . ‘Tin Soldier‘ ”. An amused expression entered his eyes, and then filtered into a grin, “or some of the other ones that haven’t ‘slipped out’ yet”.
Johnny grinned too, wondering if that was just a lucky guess. Then he said very seriously, “Even though you’re from Boston, Scott, it looks like you ‘ve showed that you can handle yourself out here.”
“Have I?” his blond brother asked skeptically. “Actually, I suspect that around here, I’m going to be a ‘grin-go‘, for quite some time.”
“‘It’s ‘gringo’, and in your case, it’s permanent. But when it comes to ranching, I guess we’re both gonna be ‘greenhorns’, for a while. . . .But look,“ Johnny took a breath and met Scott’s eyes--- “I know that you covered me out there. . . “ An acknowledgement was as far as he’d planned to go with that topic. But then, his voice taking on a slight edge, he couldn’t help adding--”I guess I’m wondering why.”
Scott made a questioning gesture with his hands, before he slowly replied, “I didn’t really have time to think about it. I suppose that its because we are brothers”--holding up one hand to ward off an objection--”and I know. That shouldn’t mean anything, since, after all, we’ve just met.”
“Means somethin’ to you--you expected me to back you up in town.”
“I did. But I managed to ‘handle myself‘, as you say." He added pointedly, “And--as I recall, I did land at least one solid punch,” and was pleased to see Johnny, deadpan, slowly rub his jaw.
Then Scott pinned Johnny with knowing look. “It wasn’t just me. You hadn’t made a decision yet. At the time, you weren’t ready for anyone to know that you were associated with Lancer.”
Johnny stared back. Finally, he nodded in acknowledgement of Scott’s candid observation. He said slowly, “No, I wasn’t ready then, but I guess I am now.”
Scott nodded his acceptance. “So, now, what do I call you---- is it Lancer or Madrid?”
”Looks like its gonna be Lancer from now on.” He tilted his head slightly as he looked at Scott. “If you got a problem with any of that, then I ought to know about it.”
“No, none.” Scott eased up out of the chair. Standing, he added, “In fact, it seems to me that we both may be here for the same reason after all.”
Johnny looked up. “And why’s that?”, he asked skeptically.
“Perhaps its time for a change.”
Johnny considered this. “Can’t change the past.”
“No, we can’t. And we wouldn’t be here without it.”
“So now you’re sayin’ ‘Focus on the present’.”
Blue eyes looked at blue eyes. Scott looked down at his brother, smiling just as he had in the courtyard. “And the future.”
He picked up the breakfast tray and turned towards the door.
Turning back, he added “And for future reference, I don’t especially enjoy being beaten up. The next time, I’d be willing to accept some assistance.”
“Well,” Johnny grinned, “in your case there’s probably gonna be a next time.” “But”, he added, turning serious once more, “I guess the same goes for me. . . . And Boston,---- so you know, I ain’t used to acceptin’ help from just anyone.”
“Careful, Brother, or I might start to think that I’m not just anyone.”
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THE END
SBC 2003