for "The Kid" and "Blue Skies"
"A Stall-Mate"
Scott's shadowy impressions of his brother's past had come into much sharper focus when he'd stood and watched that young gun challenge Kansas Bill up in Onyx. Scott had been greatly disturbed by the idea that a youthful up-and-coming gunslinger would try to make his reputation by killing an aged, drunken has-been, unsettled enough that he'd even mentioned it to Johnny upon returning to Lancer. His brother hadn't seemed at all surprised. "Oh, there's those who don't much care how they come by their reputations," he'd said darkly, with a knowing smile, "or even what kind, long's they got one." Scott had nodded soberly at that, and had started to walk away, his question asked and answered.
"So what happened?" the younger man had tossed out before Scott could effect a retreat to his own room. Scott certainly had not intended to mention his own role in the event-standing behind Bill Sharpe in the shadow of the Onyx stable, cradling his carbine. "He backed down, fortunately," Scott had replied from the doorway, intending to let it go at that, but Johnny's curiosity had been piqued. "Backed down? From an old man, with people watchin'? . .Now why'd he go and do that, Boston?" Knowing from the gleam in his brother's eye that Johnny had pretty much guessed why, Scott had come clean. "I suppose it may have had something to do with where I was standing . . . . or the gun I was holding," he'd said lightly, confirming Johnny's suspicions before making his departure.
At the time, Scott hadn't stopped to analyze his actions, his sole focus being on introducing young Willie to the grandfather of whom he was so proud. Since the well known gunman had never responded to the letter the lawyer had sent him about his grandson, leaving the boy in the shack outside of town and going on ahead to find Kansas Bill on his own had simply seemed to Scott a prudent course of action. But when Willie had asked the hauntingly familiar question "What if he doesn't want me?" Scott had known then and there that he would do anything and everything to see to it that the calm assurances he had offered to the tow-headed youngster were justified. Of course, he had had no way of knowing that he would have to spend days sobering up ----and cleaning up---the former "town tamer", let alone back him up in a gunfight.
Later on, when Kansas Bill had "called out" Col. Andrews, Scott remembered feeling certain that one of the men wouldn't be walking away from the fight and he'd feared that it would be the veteran gunman-- that young Willie Sharpe was about to witness his recently met grandfather's bloody demise. Scott had been more than ready to back up Kansas again, if any of Andrews' men had intervened, but when that seemed unlikely, he had very reluctantly stepped back to watch the event unfold. It had all turned out well, but after hearing Johnny's assessment that "when a red-eyed old timer goes and shoots a gun out of a man's hand it's nothin' but pure damn luck," Scott had felt some regret over his decision to acquiesce. Scott realized now that if he were to ever witness his brother facing down a man in the street, his greater confidence in Johnny's ability would still be more than offset by his intensely personal interest in the outcome. And now Johnny was suggesting that such a situation could very well arise.
When Johnny's soft drawl interrupted his thoughts, Scott was startled to hear a reference to those events up in Onyx. "You remember you told me 'bout that young gun backin' down, after he'd called out Kansas Bill?" Johnny asked, without looking at Scott.
"I remember."
Johnny stopped his work and thoughtfully studied the brush in his hand, before turning and looking over at Scott with his deceptively casual grin in place. "Well, I figure you musta had some cold eyed look on your face, to scare him off like that." Scott's own carefully neutral expression did not change. "You're gonna hafta show that t' me sometime, maybe I can add it to my . . t' my . ."
"Repertoire?"
"What's that?" Johnny asked quickly.
Scott hesitated, mildly surprised that he had to think about it. Repertoire meant . . . well, repertoire. "It's a list," he said finally. "Of your skills and abilities."
"Not sure I got a list. I can read a gun hand. I'm fast-real fast." Scott nodded briefly in the intensity of his brother's gaze. "I pretty much always hit what I'm aimin' at." Johnny recited these attributes in a matter of fact voice, his tone indicating that the list was complete. Scott was about to protest that the younger man's abilities were not limited to that one area of expertise, but, thinking that it might be time to lighten the mood, he first wracked his brain for some suitably facetious examples of "other skills" to point out. Before the Easterner could come up with what he considered suitable additions to the list, Johnny added his own appendix.
"I don't need any back up," Scott heard him add quietly. Johnny's meaning was unmistakable.
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Backing Barranca up so that he could pass in front of the horse, Johnny exited the stall. Scott remained motionless for a few beats, then straightened up, pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning and turned to face Johnny, recrossing his arms on his chest. Standing at the door of the stall, Johnny studied Scott's now closed off expression and hooded eyes and waited.
"So what do you expect me to do, Brother?" Where another man might have sliced off the question with an angry or defensive edge to it, Boston just set it out there, like he simply wanted to know.
"Stay outta it."
Scott expelled a breath, allowed a wry smile to touch his lips, but made no other response.
"I mean it, Scott. If it comes to it, you just let things work the way they're s'posed to."
Scott fastened his best ironic look on his brother. "Right. Of course," he said, gesturing with one hand. "There are rules of gun fighting and everyone follows them."
"There's rules. I follow 'em."
There was a long pause, as they stood regarding each other. Even Barranca remained motionless. Scott considered that for duelists, there were in fact written rules, many men actually followed them as it was a matter of honor to do so. He was far less certain that the same was true of participants in a gunfight, at least based on his own scant observation.
"Well," he offered carefully, "I'm not from around here, so perhaps I can't be expected to know the rules."
Johnny sighed. "It ain't like I'm gonna go lookin' for a fight," he pointed out, with just the slightest hint of exasperation in his voice. After a beat, he added, "If I can avoid it, Scott, . . . I will."
Somewhat reassured by the quiet sincerity in his brother's tone, Scott nodded. "That shouldn't be too difficult."
Abruptly, Johnny's gaze changed from liquid blue to solid sapphire. "Well, like you just said, you're not from around here." His head tilted and his chin jutted out slightly, but he still tried to keep his voice slow and easy.
Scott pressed his lips together, held Johnny's gaze for a moment and then abruptly broke it off. Apparently there was more to it than simply accepting or rejecting a challenge; Johnny seemed almost to be suggesting that he would feel forced to comply, if he were in fact, "called out". Why? Reputation? Pride . . or perhaps Honor? As much as Scott's affinity and affection for his younger brother had grown steadily once the awkwardness of their initial meeting was behind them, he had to acknowledge that he still knew relatively little about the gunfighter known as "Madrid".
Slowly, Scott reached around his back with his right hand to pull his gloves out from where they were tucked beneath his belt. Appearing to devote his attention to pulling them on, Scott continued to ponder the subject at hand. If Johnny was one day unable to avoid a confrontation, his elder brother knew that he would be hard pressed to simply "stay out of it". Duelists, as Scott understood it, typically had "seconds"-- friends to carry out the preliminary negotiations for the combatants, and to act as witnesses to insure that the proper procedures were followed. Ideally, the seconds would prevent the duel from ever taking place. Now that he thought of it, Scott realized that perhaps he had served in that capacity for Kansas Bill, though the veteran gunman was no doubt entirely unfamiliar with the concept, just as he had been unaware of Scott's protective position, stationed in the shadows well behind him. And the Easterner was reasonably sure that even Mr. Sharpe would have vehemently insisted that he "didn't need any back up", despite all evidence to the contrary. He may not have "followed the rules" up in Onyx, but Scott knew without a doubt that he had prevented the first gunfight from taking place; based on his subsequent conversation with Johnny, he was now convinced that he should have done more to prevent the second one as well.
For Johnny, the uncertainty in his older brother's eyes did not go unnoticed; in fact it prompted his own look of concern, an expression that Scott, his concentration focused elsewhere, failed to see. It was true that just because some man with a gunhand thought he might want to take you on, you didn't have to go along with it. But sometimes, well, sometimes you couldn't exactly walk away, either. As Johnny wondered how to explain this to Boston in a way that his Eastern-bred brother would understand, he found himself automatically studying those hands that were being eased into the tan leather work gloves. Large hands, with long fingers and those big oval nails---just like Murdoch's. Steady, as usual. Not usually too many signs there.
Johnny was used to noticing little details --- and looking for "tells". When he'd mentioned that he'd been recognized down in McCall's Crossing, he'd seen, out of the corner of his eye, his brother press his lips together then, his fleeting concern quickly masked. That had been one of those things that had intrigued Johnny when he'd first met Scott: he'd been surprised that his new found brother had been so difficult to read, puzzled that a city fella was able to conceal things so well. When he'd finally learned about the year that the former Union officer had spent in a Confederate prison camp, well, then it had made some sense. Seemed like the college boy must have learned a few hard lessons of his own there, gotten himself a different kind of "education" from what they taught him at . . . that school, Harvard.
Scott kept his gaze fixed on his gloved hands, methodically pushing the material down between the fingers, but Johnny doubted he'd be able to see much in his brother's eyes anyway. The former gunfighter was less accustomed to looking there-facing a man in the street, his expression shaded by the brim of his hat, it wasn't the eyes you watched, but always the hands, waiting for the tell-tale twitch of the fingers that would warn you that he was going to make his move. But inside, close up, if you were watching, you often could see something hidden deep in a man's eyes.
His brother's eyes, now, typically had that sad look to 'em. It was something about the slant of the eyelids, the left one angled more than the right, which gave him a squinting aspect. . . . . Details again. With Scott, mostly what Johnny'd noticed were those times when he told the man something that most people would have reacted to, times there hadn't been so much as a flicker in those eyelids.
Unwilling to let the subject go, Johnny stood and waited until Scott looked up at him, then tossed him the brush. Scott deftly caught it in his gloved hands. As he turned away to return the implement to its place on a nearby shelf, Johnny addressed his brother from behind.
"I figure I can still get the drop on most men, 'specially if I stay in practice."
Scott glanced over his shoulder briefly at that, wondering exactly what "practicing" might entail.
To the Bostonian's surprise, Johnny's next words sounded almost -----apologetic? "Look, it ain't like I don't 'preciate you watching my back, Brother, . . . I do." He softly repeated the last two words, before he continued. "Other times. But if it comes to a gunfight, there's just a particular way it has t' be."
There was no response from Scott, who was rearranging a few of the items on the small shelf. The set of brushes and currycombs had actually been his gift to Johnny, in honor of his first birthday since his return to the ranch.
"'Course, you might do a better job watchin' my back if you were carryin' a gun."
Scott turned at that, not making any effort at all to hide his annoyance, which, with his hat still set back on the crown of his head, was clearly on view. The blue-grey eyes narrowed and his gaze hardened when Johnny added "Jelly must be slipping," with a friendly grin, trying to lighten his previous remarks. Scott just looked at him for a moment, then moved to the doorway of the tack room. The older man very deliberately reached inside the entry way with one blue sleeved arm and lifted his gun belt down from a nail just inside the door. He looped the buckled circle of leather over his left shoulder, the holstered weapon dangling beneath his elbow.
"Yeah, that's better."
Gripping the belt on his shoulder with his gloved left hand, Scott sighed softly and glanced down at the hay-strewn planks of the stable floor. It was true that he had forgotten to don the belt on a few occasions, simply hadn't thought of it. In truth, the Easterner failed to see the need to put it on each and every time that he stepped through the front door. Johnny, on the other hand, well, Scott suspected that his brother slept with his gun under his pillow, if not actually in his hand. Out on the trail at least, that probably wasn't really much of an exaggeration.
"It's time for lunch. Are you coming?"
Johnny shook his head, murmuring that Maria has just fed him and announcing with a pleased expression that she was planning something special for supper. His own face still serious, Scott nodded and turned to leave.
"I didn't say anythin' to Murdoch yet."
Realizing that Johnny might have a bit more to say to him, Scott halted en route to the bright square of the open stable doors. The damp, darker streak dividing the back of his blue shirt was plainly visible as he stood and waited with his head slightly bowed in the warm gloom.
"Not likely anyone would come out here, more like it'd happen in some town."
Scott half-turned at that. "I didn't realize sheriffs allowed gunfights in their towns."
"One in McCall's Crossing wasn't trying to put a stop t'anything. But, you're right . . . most lawmen wouldn't stand for it." There was a long pause, then a short exhale, before Johnny continued. "Fact is, I've had myself a little talk with the badges 'round here-Val, Gabe . . . Sam Jayson.
Scott's surprise was again evident. To Johnny at least, although Boston probably thought he'd covered it. Johnny shrugged his shoulders slightly, then offered an explanation. "I figure a man's just trying to do his job, oughta know what t'expect."
Scott immediately considered that it couldn't have been easy for Johnny to knock on the door to a sheriff's office and make his introduction, revealing a connection to a past he had been trying to leave behind. But then he smiled in spite of himself, giving his brother an arch look. "Sam was perhaps in need of a bit more . . . . explanation . . . . than the others."
Johnny grinned back at him. "You got that right."
Scott's own smile quickly faded. How often, he wondered, did the two of them resort to humor when a subject became too difficult. . . .too personal? Johnny's friendly grin had been much in evidence throughout the conversation. Not that he questioned their friendship at all; Scott had no doubt whatsoever that those feelings were mutual and genuine. Still, Johnny's disarming smile was frequently a tactic, one that Scott had to acknowledge was effective more often than not. Standing with his gloved hands on his hips, he contemplated his younger brother, wondering whether or not to pursue the discussion. Scott really didn't feel like ruining Johnny's homecoming by debating something that might not even happen. He decided that his first task as Madrid's self-appointed "second" was to educate himself; it would be impossible to formulate any sort of plan unless he first learned a bit more about the protocol involved in a gunfight. Reluctant to enlist Val Crawford's assistance, since the man was quite friendly with Johnny, Scott determined that Sheriff Gabe might prove to be his most likely source of information and resolved to have his own little talk with the lawman the next time that he was in Spanish Wells.
"I'll see you later, Brother," Scott offered in a conciliatory tone, then turned to leave, adjusting his hat so that it sat more squarely on his head as he walked away. Johnny watched until his brother's long strides had carried him out of the stable, then turned to face Barranca when the animal emitted a soft snort. "I know," Johnny said softly as he stroked the horse's broad face. "I know. He didn't ever say he'd stay out of it."
But, even though he hadn't made any promises, his brother now knew what Johnny expected of him. Johnny Lancer didn't really trust too many men, Madrid even fewer. Scott Lancer was positioned pretty high on a very short list. One thing Johnny was certain of, Boston would want to do the "right" thing; though the two of them had sometimes disagreed on what that was. . . . Even if the man didn't like what was being asked, Johnny hoped that Scott could be counted on not to cross him.
With a final pat to the palomino's neck, Johnny turned and strolled out of the stable, boot heels tapping a leisurely staccato rhythm on the wooden planks. He paused momentarily at the entrance, to stretch in the sunshine and smile in satisfaction as his eyes traveled around the yard, taking in some of the changes that had occurred during his absence. Someone had replaced the top rail on a section of the corral fence--- a task Johnny had been meaning to get to for some time. Maybe I'll get back to clearing out that stream this afternoon, he thought, that is if Murdoch hasn't already come up with a different plan. Deciding that he might as well join his family after all, Johnny sauntered with a rolling gait towards the front door of the hacienda.
He'd made it a few steps inside before he halted in his tracks, raised his hand and slipped off his hat. Head bowed, hat in hand, Johnny very slowly and deliberately paced backwards to the hall tree whose upper branches were now festooned with Murdoch's hat and Scott's, their gun belts dangling like tempting forbidden fruit down below. His own hat quickly joined the others. Even though he was alone in the entryway, Johnny couldn't stop his lips from curving into a small, self-conscious grin as he worked the silver buckle which would release the wide leather strap encircling his hips. Hanging up his own gun, Johnny paused for a moment to take in the display; then, without another backwards glance, he headed towards the kitchen, following the sound of murmuring voices.
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The End (for now)
Events to be "continued" in a future story
historical information from "Duel!" by Ross Drake, Smithsonian magazine, March 2004
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