“Wake up, Madrid. Let’s go.”
Groggy, his head pounding again, Johnny struggled, and failed, to place the voice. He could almost see brilliant sunlight through his closed eyelids, but he was reluctant to open them and inflict even one more measure of pain upon himself, no matter how small. Suddenly there was a hand snatching at his knees, pulling them forward and causing his feet to hit the floor. Johnny’s eyes flew open then and he looked up into Vic Howard’s less than friendly visage. Howard roughly grabbed Johnny’s upper arm and hauled him upright.
Once the dizziness brought on by the sudden change in position had subsided, Johnny realized that the ropes on his ankles had been cut. Howard, still attired in his black suit and tie, and wearing that fancy vest, backed away a few paces and stared silently at his prisoner.
As he squinted up at him, Johnny noted that Vic hadn’t put the sling back on. But even if the man did have a bad arm, Howard still had that gun in his good hand, while Johnny’s own hands remained firmly tied behind his back. Even though he didn’t know the man by reputation, let alone personal experience, Johnny knew it would be wise to assume that if Howard had been working for Day, then the man had to be pretty good.
From the amount of light streaming in through the windows of the line shack, Johnny figured it had to be at least mid-morning, and he wondered if he’d missed anything. It had been very early when Howard had untied Scott from the post and led him outside. Johnny had tried to move around then, determined to make some noise to attract his brother’s attention. It had been a sorry attempt, he’d been too well trussed up for his efforts to do any good, but Gil Roberson had clouted him over the head again anyway.
“Listen, Madrid, you’re gonna go out there and convince that brother of yours that you’re working with us.”
Johnny looked at the man with defiance blazing in his blue eyes, but the gag in his mouth prevented him from expressing his opinion of that idea. With a cruel smirk, Howard stepped back over to the bunk, and being careful to stay off to one side, he roughly grabbed the bandanna holding the gag in place, yanking until it dropped down around Johnny’s neck. With his head still swimming and the muzzle of Howard’s gun aimed at his midsection, the captive gunfighter pushed out the gag and then schooled himself to sit quietly and bide his time.
Howard backed away again, gesturing with his gun. “Get up.”
Johnny stood, slowly, testing his cramped leg muscles. Then he turned his back on the gunman.
“Oh no. No way, Madrid. The hands stay tied.”
Slowly, Johnny pivoted around again, on his shaky legs.
“Now, you’re just going to go out there and make Lancer think we’re all working together,” Howard informed him.
“And if I don’t?” Johnny coolly.
Howard laughed mirthlessly. “You really askin’ that?”
“You ain’t gonna kill him. You wanta send him back alive.”
Howard quickly masked his surprise with a cold smile. “Well, that’s right, Madrid. Your father gets him back, we figure he’ll be glad to let you take off ----and good riddance.”
“Well, Vic, I’d say that all depends on how convincin’ I am.”
Howard stared at Johnny for a long moment. “So . . . I guess you’ve been playin’ possum.”
Johnny merely shrugged and Howard continued. “Then you know you’re worth more to us alive too. But that don’t mean one or both of you might not get . . . damaged.”
Although through the window of the line shack he could clearly see Scott sitting against a tree, still blindfolded, and Roberson, holding a carbine, standing close by, Johnny feigned indifference.
Equally professional, Howard kept his tone even. “I guess you can decide for yourself if it’s worth it to be convincing. Just know that Gil wouldn’t at all mind blowing off a couple of kneecaps--- he’s waitin’ for you to give him a reason.”
Howard also looked out the window, in the opposite direction, and then nodded approvingly at something that Johnny couldn’t see. “Here comes the Indian riding in. Now you’re gonna go out there and pretend like you’re just getting back from bringing a message to your old man’s ranch. Let’s go.”
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“Mornin’ Boston. Any coffee left?’
Scott slowly lowered the tin cup that he was holding in his bound hands. He’d been listening intently ever since he’d heard what sounded like two horses approaching, wondering—truthfully, hoping---that his brother might be one of the riders. And if so, what, if anything, Johnny would have to say.
He’d been sitting here for a couple hours now, his back against a tree, waiting for something to happen.
Howard had led Scott out of the line shack very early that morning. His captor had permitted him to visit the bushes, a difficult task with one’s hands tied. But Scott had been allowed ample time to examine the ropes on his wrists, to see where the fibers had worn through. And he’d managed to keep the severed end of his belt, the part with the buckle still attached, wedged through one of the loops so that he’d still have it to use again.
Scott had had plenty of time to think about what had happened and everything that Gil and Howard had told him. In the dim world of the blindfold, and especially during the long hours of the night, he’d started to believe them, to actually consider that everything they’d suggested might be true. That Johnny had chosen to side with Pardee, that his brother had deliberately led him into a trap and that Johnny had left to deliver a ransom note to Murdoch. Now, in the bright light of day—or at least as much as could be discerned through a burgundy bandanna---Scott had remembered Johnny signing his name as “Lancer”, recalled how well the two of them had been working together, and their plan to spend an extra day here at the line shack. And he’d seen his mistake, the lesson he’d forgotten.
<<The Guards always lie.>>
Of course, the difficulty was that the most convincing lies were the more easily swallowed when they were served up on a platter with half-truths, or even seasoned with a few facts. How to tell the difference?
If everything was a lie, and Johnny hadn’t ridden back to the ranch, then where was he?
Because the “welcoming committee” had mentioned Johnny by name, and the brothers’ arrivals here at the line shack had not been heralded by the sound of gunfire, Scott hadn’t immediately feared for his brother’s life. But since then, many more hours had passed and Johnny had still not been heard from, so Scott’s initial reaction to his too friendly greeting was a combination of wariness and . . . . relief.
Now, below the edges of the bandanna blindfold, Scott could see the coffee cup, his own hands, the ground around him. Johnny’s voice seemed to come from the right, from where Scott thought the line shack should be.
“Not real talkative this mornin’,” Johnny observed in a pleasant tone.
His footsteps continued to approach, spurs jingling, finally so close that Scott could actually see his brother’s booted feet stirring up dust. Scott pressed his lips together and fought the impulse to send the remains of his coffee in the direction of what he imagined to be his brother’s grinning face.
“What’dya think yer doin’!?”
That was Gil, on Scott’s left, and he didn’t sound happy. It took a moment to register that it was Johnny that Gil was speaking to.
“Just getting’ close enough so he can see my feet, know it’s me. He can see under that blindfold, ya know.”
Scott angrily snapped his head away from where his brother was standing and waited. He was surprised when Gil didn’t immediately say or do anything.
Johnny just kept on talking, with what sounded like a patronizing smile in his voice.
“See, you don’t wanta be tryin’ anything fancy now, Boston. Murdoch’s gonna show up with that money and then you’ll go back in one piece----so long as you stay out of trouble.”
Scott rubbed the rim of his coffee cup with the thumb of his right hand. He looked at Johnny again, at his feet anyway. He considered kicking out with his right foot and trying to bring his brother down, then smash his bound hands into that smiling face. He wondered briefly if he could get enough satisfaction before they pulled him off.
Instead he asked a question, carefully keeping his voice level. “And where will you be going?”
“Me? Oh. . .. . . .back to Mexico. Looks like these boys are goin’ with me.. . . . but hey, it was real nice meetin’ ya, Brother.”
Scott said nothing. Then Johnny yawned, loudly.
“You know, Boston, I’m pretty tired from ridin’ all night, guess I’ll go take a little . . . siesta.”
Scott didn’t miss the mocking mispronunciation of the Spanish word --‘see-es-TAH’—any more than he’d failed to notice the deliberate emphasis upon “real nice”. As he listened to Johnny’s departing footsteps, Scott could only regret that he hadn’t lashed out at him when he’d had the chance.
Suddenly the footsteps paused. In a studiedly casual voice, Johnny spoke again.
“Oh, and Gil—when you fix that blindfold, you better check those ropes. You might wanta take that belt buckle away from ‘im too.”
Instantly, Gil was on him, roughly shoving the blindfold down, the movement causing warm coffee to splash over Scott’s trouser leg. The prisoner lost his grip on the cup completely when Gil grabbed his bound hands and lifted them up to examine the cords. Angrily releasing them, Gil ripped the belt buckle away from Scott’s waist and then snarled at someone to “Get some more rope.”
While waiting for whoever it was to comply with the “request”, Scott was able to catch the sound of Johnny’s departing footsteps and then listened as his brother— joined by another man--—stepped onto the line shack porch. As the door of the cabin slammed shut, Gil rapidly wound another piece of rope around the existing layers on Scott’s wrists and then yanked it tight. A second line wrapped around his torso bound the prisoner to the tree.
Then Gil stomped away; his heavy wooden footfalls could be heard as he too crossed the planking of the porch. Scott heard the door bang open and slam shut a second time. It seemed that Johnny was going to have plenty of company for his ‘see-es-TAH’.
Gritting his teeth in angry frustration, Scott leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree. It was then that he realized that someone was moving about very quietly somewhere in front of him, near where he guessed the campfire was located. Deliberately opening his tight fists and forcing out a breath to relax his clenched jaw, Scott took a chance.
“So .. Micajah, it seems your “friends” sent you riding all the way to the ranch and back---- while they stayed here and got a good night’s sleep.”
To Scott’s surprise, a soft grunt of a response came from an area just off to the left. He wasn’t certain whether that was a confirmation that the Indian had made the ride or not, but the fact that the man wasn’t where Scott had guessed reminded the Easterner of how silent Micajah could be. Scott couldn’t be absolutely sure of the length of the Indian’s absence, but didn’t remember hearing anything more from him after being shoved inside the line shack the evening before. And since this had been the first word from Johnny, perhaps his brother and Micajah had actually gone to the ranch together. After all, Scott had thought that he’d heard two horses returning.
“As you can tell . . . I didn’t have a chance to use that knife.”
Silence greeted this announcement. After he’d been blindfolded, Scott had realized that he’d still had his knife in a sheath attached to his belt, and had tried to shield it from view with his arm. But surely Micajah, who had tied Scott’s hands, would have noticed it.
Either Scott’s hope had been a false one, or Micajah had changed his mind about offering any help. The prisoner considered saying more, but something inside rebelled at the idea of even sounding as if he might be pleading with one of his captors.
Besides, if Micajah had been inclined to do anything more to assist the man who had hired him, the Indian ranch hand probably would have done so by now.
Scott also had to admit to himself that there was no real hope of Johnny’s assistance, if their recent conversation was any indication. Apparently the plan was to go to Mexico with “the boys”---after first collecting some additional spending money.
Difficult as it was to comprehend why the gunfighter would so readily give up his barely started new life at Lancer, it was only reasonable to assume that Johnny had wanted to come up to the line shack alone because he’d known, or at least suspected, that Howard and Gil were here.
Even though Scott had never seen Johnny and Micajah together, the Indian ranch hand still could easily have been a messenger between them. Scott exhaled audibly in frustration at the thought that he had played right into their hands by persuading Cipriano to hire the man.
There was no way of knowing exactly how well Johnny had known Day Pardee or any of his men. Despite what Howard and Gil had said about Pardee sending Johnny off on his headlong rush towards the hacienda, Scott, like Teresa, had been certain that Johnny was “coming back” to them that day. Now Gil and Howard were claiming other wise and implying that Johnny had always been working with them.
<<But guards always lie to their prisoners. The guards always lie.>>
And the most persuasive lies always included some truth. So what was the truth here? Scott had never closely questioned his brother about his dramatic return, or even as to exactly what his plan had been. Part of the reason for avoiding the topic was Scott’s supposition that Johnny had been trying to keep his options open for as long as possible. That his brother had eventually decided to side with Lancer was not something that Scott had questioned, though exactly when Johnny had made that decision was more difficult to determine. Scott simply wasn’t sure.
On that first day, Scott, who had had no intention of being “dismissed” after Murdoch’s proposed one-hour audience was ended, had readily indicated his willingness to aid in the defense of the ranch against the lawless “Land Pirates”. But Johnny’s response to Murdoch’s direct question had been more enigmatic, expressing displeasure at seeing damage done to “my property”. Scott had corrected the pronoun, amending it to “our property”--- but if Johnny had agreed, he hadn’t said so. Later, there had been other ambiguous statements, such as that puzzling reference to a “one man operation.”
The next day, at the riverbank, at first Scott had simply been overwhelmed by anger at his brother’s failure to assist him in town—and the patronizing reminder of having been told to “stay out of it.” Then later he’d felt so. . well, . . disappointed. . . by Johnny’s assertion that he had only come to Lancer for the money.
But it had been the younger man’s angry description of how he and his mother had been cruelly disowned--- handed “the keys to the road,”--- which had made the strongest impression. Given what Johnny’s own mother had told him, Scott had understood that his brother had every right to hate Murdoch Lancer, to take pleasure in seeing their father lose his precious ranch to Pardee and his men, and even to be willing to assist in Murdoch’s defeat.
Everything had happened so quickly after that. There hadn’t been time to gauge Johnny’s reaction to Teresa’s version of events, her story casting Murdoch in a far more sympathetic light while supporting the rancher’s terse account of his second wife’s disappearance. But even a partial acceptance of Teresa’s version of the events meant that Johnny’s mother had lied to him. Before Johnny could respond, the sound of the alarm had sent the three of them hurrying back to the ranch.
The young gunfighter had seemed to be as affected as everyone else who witnessed the results of the Land Pirates’ attack on the neighboring farmhouse. But of course, even disapproval of Pardee’s tactics didn’t necessarily translate into support for his ultimate target, Murdoch Lancer.
The fact was, that neither of them had really had much reason to wish to help the embattled rancher who was their father, and Johnny had good cause to wish to see him harmed. If Johnny and Murdoch had since had a conversation about Maria Lancer’s departure from the ranch, Scott hadn’t been privy to it. He didn’t feel it was his place to push the subject; however during Johnny’s convalescence, Scott, based upon the reports which he had read, had ventured to make one gentle suggestion that his brother perhaps ought to listen to Teresa, to what she’d about his mother and Murdoch.
In the aftermath of the final battle, Scott had told himself that it didn’t matter exactly
when Johnny had made his choice, it was only important that he had made it. In Scott’s experience, it was the men who made promises easily who were not to be trusted. That a man was reluctant to give his word too readily was an indication that it truly meant something, and that once given, he could be trusted.
<<You are far too trusting, Scotty.>>
Scott sighed and bowed his head as his grandfather’s voice interrupted his thoughts. How often had Grandfather said that to him? And, how often had the older man been right?
There was no question that at this moment, Scott would much rather be resting comfortably in a Boston drawing room, even if it meant listening to advice from his grandfather, than sitting here tied to a California tree, a helpless prisoner. Possibly betrayed by his newly discovered brother, needing to be ransomed by his recently met father.
Indications were that Grandfather hadn’t been wrong in warning Scott about how “dangerous” life was out West. Of course Boston too, like any other place, had its share of dangerous men---and women---though they didn’t tend to have guns strapped to their hips, guns they were all too eager to use. Although the elderly man could not have foreseen Scott’s particular danger, Harlan Garrett had strongly urged his grandson to firmly reject what he had termed Murdoch Lancer’s “offensive” offer to purchase an hour of his son’s time.
Which reminded Scott of the money. How did these men, Pardee’s men, know so much about Murdoch’s money? The simplest answer was that Johnny had told them.
Still trying to think of reasons to believe that his brother was not a willing participant, Scott reminded himself that Johnny could have been forced to tell about the thousand dollars. Or perhaps his brother have chosen to do so in an effort to try to get the two of them out of this. . . . Scott shook his head. He was grasping at straws. He didn’t want to believe that the young man he had been starting to get to know was actually involved, despite the fact that Johnny had just said that he’d been gone all night, taking the ransom note to the ranch. But then how did he know about the blindfold and the belt buckle?
And if his brother wasn’t allied with these men, then why had he told them?
It was all very confusing, and Scott’s long, sleepless night working the belt buckle wasn’t helping his thinking at all. What was painfully evident was that he had no longer had any real hope of escape, since he was once again outnumbered by three . . . or four. . . . to one.
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CHAPTER 6B
“Wake up, Lancer. Let’s go.”
Groggy, his head pounding again, Scott struggled, and failed, to place the voice. He could see brilliant sunlight filtered through the folded burgundy neckerchief covering his eyes, but nothing else. Then he felt hands on either side of him grabbing his arms and hauling him to his feet.
Once both the pain of the rough handling and the dizziness from the sudden change in position had subsided somewhat, Scott remembered that these were his “old friends” Howard and Gil. He walked between them on shaky legs, cramped from too many hours of sitting upright, tied first to a post, then to a tree.
He wondered how much time had passed, and if he’d missed anything. Scott had tried very hard to stay alert, listening for anything his captors might do or say which could prove useful. But fatigue from prolonged lack of sleep had made that impossible.
After a few harsh reminders that there were several loaded weapons pointed in his direction, Scott waited while his hands were untied, and then retied with some sort of extra cord attached. He felt slightly unbalanced again as he mounted the horse he’d been directed to, managing to recover himself while his hands were lashed to the pommel of the saddle and the lead rope handed off to someone on horseback beside him. At first he had attributed his light-headedness to the disorienting effects of being deprived of sight, but now, as the horses moved away from the line shack, Scott realized that it had also been quite some time since he’d had anything much to eat or drink.
Then again, it hadn’t really been so very long at all. Not compared to the limited rations to which he had once been accustomed.
But he was definitely hungry, as well as quite thirsty. Very sore. And, above all, tired.
How long had it been since he’d really slept? Of course, he’d stayed awake the previous night, in his futile effort to wear through the ropes binding his wrists. Before that, while en route to the cabin with Johnny, Scott had found that he was well out of the habit of being able to easily fall asleep lying on the ground and he’d spent too many hours staring up at the stars—or, one night, at the underside of the supply wagon. And the first night on the trail, his sleep, and Johnny’s, had been embarrassingly interrupted by that nightmare. However long his nap had been, it hadn’t been enough, and it had left Scott feeling more fatigued rather than refreshed.
Now, his captors had indicated that they were taking him to his father. <<Another “family reunion”, a rendez-vous>> he thought wryly.
Well, not “they”, but rather “he”, for apparently Micajah, the ever-silent Indian, was to act as the prisoner’s sole escort. Scott hoped that having only one guard might somehow afford him an opportunity for escape.
Unfortunately, the horse beneath him did not feel familiar. It wasn’t Rambler, so it was impossible to know how quick or responsive the animal might be. Scott did note that the stirrups were not correctly positioned, the shortened length exacerbating the cramping in his legs. As the horse started forward, Scott grimly told himself that he had to stay alert and focused, and try to pay attention to his surroundings.
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Oblivious to his surroundings, channeling his concerns by impatiently urging his big bay horse forward, Murdoch Lancer once more patted the thick envelope of cash that he had stuffed into the pocket of his leather vest. Inside was almost three thousand dollars, along with the ransom note demanding the money.
In the wee hours of the morning, Murdoch had been roused from sleep by the sound of pounding on the front door of the hacienda. Since his first floor bedroom was close to the entrance, he had been able to get there fairly quickly. Flinging open the heavy wooden door, he’d been in time to glimpse a shadowy rider departing in the distance, leading a second horse, saddled but riderless, behind him.
He’d bent down stiffly to pick up the objects lying at his feet, a small square of paper and a yellow leather work glove. Unfolding the single page, he struggled to make out the cramped handwriting in the moonlight . . . . .
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<<Murdock--
We want $3000. Bring my money + Scot’s + $1000 more to the line shack by sundown tomorow. Come alone + you wil get Scot back + be rid of me.>>
Murdoch’s heart dropped to the level of his bare feet as he read the signature: “Johnny Madrid.” Not Lancer, but “Madrid.” In angry disbelief, he crumpled the note in one large hand.
Two of the hands came running up, shouting “Mr. Lancer! Mr. Lancer!,” calling out that a horse had been stolen. They asked if he’d seen which way the rider had gone and if they should take off after him.
Murdoch woodenly shook his head “no.” “It’s okay, boys,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it, just go on back to bed now.”
Without waiting for the men to head back towards the bunkhouse, Murdoch slowly withdrew, dejectedly closing the front door. Once inside the foyer, he examined the glove. It was just an ordinary work glove, probably accidentally left behind by whoever had delivered the note. He flung it to the floor and then read the message again.
Murdoch had no idea who “we” were, but he certainly recalled Johnny’s insistent desire to go to the line shack alone. Had he been planning to meet someone there after all? Now it sounded as if Scott was in danger and Murdoch himself had been the one who had decreed that the two young men go off together.
Hurrying to his room to get dressed, Murdoch wondered how he could possibly come up with an additional one thousand dollars. He suspected that the reason he had been awakened from his sound sleep was to give him additional time to solve that very problem.
After hastily throwing on a shirt and pair of trousers, Murdoch limped into the Great Room, leaning heavily upon his cane. Sitting wearily behind his desk, he opened the large lower drawer and removed the cash box. He knew that there was very little inside other than the envelope that Scott had given him three days before; he also knew that in addition to the promised one thousand dollars payment, that envelope also contained the money that had been given to Scott as reimbursement for his traveling expenses.
Even with the addition of what little cash there was on hand, the amount inside the envelope would not total two thousand dollars. But since Scott had shown such reluctance to accept Murdoch’s money, it seemed likely that the Bostonian had funds of his own. Murdoch grimly considered that in order to avoid a time-consuming trip to the bank in town, it would be wise to conduct a search of Scott’s room in hopes of finding enough money to make up the difference. But first, he needed to find Johnny’s one thousand dollars.
<<“You’d better count it.” “I intend to.” >>
Stung by the memory, Murdoch pushed himself forcefully away from the desk. Was that all Johnny really cared about, after all . . . money? Not the land, and not his family? They’d all been so happy when the boy had decided to sign the name “Lancer” to the deed to the ranch. . . . Murdoch shook his head in angry denial. No! It simply couldn’t be.
He carefully unfolded the crumpled note, smoothing it out on the surface of the desk, studying the signature, then rereading the short message. It occurred to him that he didn’t have a sample of his younger son’s handwriting. He couldn’t even try to compare the signature to the one on the deed to the ranch, since the papers were still in Randolph’s office, awaiting some legal action.
The truth was that Murdoch had been prepared for rejection from each of his sons, and now, if Johnny had changed his mind, decided to leave, well . . . well, then so be it. The boy should have said so; Murdoch wouldn’t have begged him to stay. But it should have stayed between the two of them, Scott should have been left well out of it. For Johnny to even threaten harm to his brother . . . That made no sense at all-----the two young men had seemed to be getting along so well. Murdoch simply couldn’t understand what kind of man would . . . . damn it, he just didn’t know what to think. Best to simply focus upon his present task.
As he labored up the steep staircase and made his way to Johnny’s room, Murdoch tried to dam the flow of his angry stream of thought. But his pent up emotion broke through as he tugged open the first dresser drawer and completely pulled it from the cabinet, spilling two shirts to the floor. Since he was unprepared to be holding its full weight, the heavy wooden drawer followed its meager contents, and landed with a loud crash on the floor. Inhaling slowly, Murdoch tried to calm himself, realizing that a methodical search was more likely to bring results than a hasty or haphazard one.
He had searched the dresser and moved on to the standing wardrobe by the time that Teresa, in her pink robe, appeared in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and concerned. Murdoch tersely explained that he had received a ransom note, the boys were in danger and that he needed to find an envelope of money which he believed that Johnny had somewhere in his room. His darling girl ran to embrace him, then wiped away her tears and set to work, checking first the bedside table and then searching beneath the bed.
Of course, Teresa couldn’t help but punctuate her efforts with questions; Murdoch provided a few more details of the ransom demand, but stopped short of telling her who had signed the note. Murdoch stood staring blankly at the few items on the shelves in front of him, until Teresa found the envelope, containing the full one thousand dollars, lodged beneath the mattress of Johnny’s bed . . . .
Now Murdoch was riding towards the line shack, accompanied by his Segundo, Cipriano Sanchez. Teresa had insisted that he not go alone, and the rancher had been reluctant to do so anyway. On the other hand, he had no intention of jeopardizing his son by disobeying the instructions and bringing along a large number of men. Murdoch would ride up to the line shack itself alone, and, if Johnny was actually involved in this, try to reason with him. If anything went wrong, at least Cipriano would be close at hand.
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Scott was riding along slowly beside Micajah. He was still completely sightless, as he’d been ever since Johnny had betrayed his limited ability to see, prompting Gil to “readjust” the blindfold. At first Scott had concentrated only on trying to keep track of the direction in which they were moving. But it seemed as if they had been traveling in a straight line now for quite some time.
“Seems they’re still letting you take all the risks.”
There was no answer from his silent escort. Scott still had no idea what his brother’s intentions had been in coming up to the line shack, but since Johnny had so clearly not wanted him along, Scott had to believe that exchanging a captive for money had not been a part of the original plan . . . and perhaps he might be able to use that to his advantage. One thing was certain—once the money had been delivered, there would no longer be any reason to keep a prisoner alive. Or the man paying the ransom.
Scott had to assume that they were en route to meet whoever was bringing the money, most likely Murdoch himself. His humiliation at his current state of helplessness had been replaced by concern for his father, fearing what the older man might be riding into. As much as he hated to bargain with his captor, Scott had come to the conclusion that he had no alternative, and, in truth, that he might have nothing left to lose.
“My father may have had a hard time locating the money. In fact . . . ” Scott paused. “We haven’t known each other very long. He may not . . . come at all.”
More silence. Scott tested the ropes yet again, and tried to avoid thinking too hard about what he’d just said.
“He will come. And if he does as he was told, I will not shoot him.”
Scott almost failed to register the meaning of the words, in his surprise that the Indian had answered him at all. After a momentary consideration, the captive chose not to argue either point, instead opting to try a different tack.
“Well, if it’s money you want, money you won’t have to share with your . . ‘friends’, then take me back to the ranch. You can still have what you’re asking for, the one thousand dollars---“
“Three.”
Scott sighed. “Three then. Your friends told me that they’d asked for one.”
“They think I cannot read. They asked for three.”
Scott pondered this new piece of information. If Johnny had his own money with him, then there was a certain logic to demanding an additional three thousand dollars, in order to obtain an equivalent amount for each of the other men. But three thousand dollars was a very large sum of cash to expect Murdoch Lancer to be able to come up with, especially as no one else knew how much of Scott’s own money Murdoch already had in hand, not even Johnny. But why would Gil and Howard have lied about the ransom amount?
<<Because they always lie.>>
But apparently Scott was not the only person who had been lied to. Definitely something which he should be able to turn to his advantage. But how? He rapidly considered and rejected several possibilities, then was startled when the horses came to an abrupt halt.
“He is not alone.”
<<Murdoch.>>
Everything went still, as Scott strained to listen for the sound of approaching riders. Instead he heard a gun being removed from a sheath, cocked and readied for use. Despite the energy that surged through him at the sound, Scott forced himself to remain still.
“Who does he have with him?”
“Cipriano.”
Although the Lancer foreman had come to have a high opinion of the Indian as a hard worker, Cipriano had initially been rather reluctant to hire the man on. From Micajah’s tone, it seemed that he had not forgotten.
Scott tested the ropes yet again—no give. He eased his cramping right leg from the too short stirrup, stretched the tight calf muscle. He licked his too dry lips, exhaled slowly . . . and waited.
Finally, the men on horseback were within earshot. Scott could picture his father, astride his big white-faced bay, moving steadily towards them, his stolid Mexican Segundo riding alongside.
Somehow, despite the blindfold, Scott was aware of the exact moment when Micajah pointed the muzzle of his weapon directly towards his own head. He heard the Indian shift in the saddle. He heard the riders hastily rein in their mounts.
“We have your money!” That was Murdoch, his voice still authoritative even now.
“Your guns—throw them on the ground.” That was Micajah, speaking very slowly and clearly, each word clearly enunciated. Perhaps his careful speech was due to being unaccustomed to speaking English, or perhaps it was simply that he wasn’t used to speaking very much at all.
Two soft thuds indicated that both Murdoch and Cipriano had complied with the command.
“Now the rifles.”
Two different sounds this time.
“Keep your hands up.”
“I have the money—here in my vest pocket.”
“Give it to him.”
Scott guessed that Murdoch was being asked to hand the money to Cipriano, but had little time to wonder why before the Indian issued his next directive.
“Get down from your horse. Bring it to me.”
Cipriano was a large man and the creak of leather signaled the segundo’s careful dismount. Then his slow, measured footsteps could be heard. The dour expression on the foreman’s face easily could be imagined. Scott tensed, thinking that perhaps when Micajah reached to accept the money, it might offer an opportunity. . .
“Do not move,” the guard said quietly. “Remember that I have three targets.”
Frozen in place, the blood pounding in his ears, Scott tried to discern the moment when the transaction took place. He listened with mounting concern as the Lancer foreman cursed the Indian vehemently, in Spanish, harsh sounding words that Scott had yet to learn. Then with palpable relief, he heard Cipriano’s slow, retreating steps. <<One, two, three, four, five, six, seven----->>
Then there it was, the movement of the gun, the sound of the weapon being shouldered.
Murdoch shouted, “No!”
Scott kicked out hard with his right leg, making contact with something an instant before the gun fired, his bound hands holding him in the saddle. With the booming blast of gunfire, the horse beneath him startled, the one beside him erupted into motion, wheeled and galloped away.
Scott hastily dismounted, dropping to the ground on the left side of the horse. He stood, still tethered to the animal by the ropes on his wrists, shouting his father’s name. “Murdoch!?”
The only answer was a gunshot. Then another.
“Cipriano?! Murdoch?! Are you all right!?”
“Yes, Scott! But Cipriano . . Cipriano is down!”
Pulling at the ropes once more, he could hear his father hurrying to the foreman’s side. Having no success in freeing his hands, Scott pushed hard at the blindfold, rubbing the folded cloth against his forearm, trying to move the material up and away from his eyes. Finally, the fabric yielded to his efforts, shifting enough to allow him to partially open his eyes. Squinting in the sunlight, he looked first to the right, over Barranca’s back, to see Micajah lying on the ground a considerable distance away. The Indian’s calico print shirt was a bright pattern on the grass, his be-feathered hat a darker spot. The horse the Indian had been riding could be seen moving restlessly several yards off; the man on the ground did not move.
Quickly looking towards the left, Scott tried to locate Murdoch and Cipriano, but his view was blocked by the palomino’s neck and flowing white mane.
“Murdoch, how is he?” Scott asked, as he tried to shift the animal.
“It’s his shoulder. I think the bullet went right through.”
“Cut me loose. I can help.”
It took a moment, but then Murdoch was standing there on the other side of the horse, reaching across with one hand to pull the blindfold off of his son’s head before setting to work on the ropes with a sizeable knife.
Scott nodded towards the fallen Indian. “He hasn’t moved.”
“Good,” Murdoch said grimly, his attention on his task. “He was going to shoot Cipriano in the back----a point blank shot—it’s a good thing you kicked out at him when you did.”
“It was a reflex, Sir. The bullet could have gone anywhere.” Scott looked meaningfully up at his father.
“I’m fine, Scott. It’s Cipriano we have to worry about.”
His hands free, Scott immediately set to rummaging through Johnny’s saddlebags, searching until he found the bandaging materials he was looking for. Then he hurried to join Murdoch at Cipriano’s side. The Lancer foreman lay very still, his eyes closed, grimacing in pain, but roused enough to offer a greeting to his patron’s eldest son.
“Senor Scott—you are well?”
“Yes, very well, Cipriano. And you will be too. Now . . . how would I say that en español?”
While the wounded man was prompted to murmur a succession of Spanish translations, which Scott dutifully repeated, father and son worked to cut away Cipriano’s shirt and apply pressure to the holes in his shoulder. It took some time before the bleeding began to slow. Once they had managed to pack the wound, Murdoch moved Cipriano into an upright position in order to enable Scott to wind the bandaging in place. The injury tended to, Murdoch was ready with questions.
“How many men?”
“There are two more up at the line shack . . . . Pardee’s men.”
Two epithets greeted this news, one in English and one in Spanish.
Murdoch shook his large white head. “I should have considered that some of them might still be around.. . .” Cipriano nodded his agreement.
“At least one of them was injured, his arm was in a sling. That may be why they didn’t go very far.”
“Here, Scott, we need to immobilize his arm.” Murdoch held the foreman in an upright position, while Scott crouched beside him and bound his arm in place.
“There, that should take care of it.” Scott cast a worried eye at the segundo’s pained expression. “Murdoch, he needs a doctor . . . I don’t like the angle of that bullet.”
“Scott, the ransom note . . . your brother’s name was on it.”
Scott was dismayed, but not surprised. “What did it say?”
“That I was to bring your money---and his----plus an additional one thousand dollars to the line shack by sunset. The note is in the envelope along with the money.”
Scott glanced over his shoulder at Micajah’s body, then slowly stood. “I’ll be right back,” he said. Gesturing towards Cipriano, he added, “And then we need to get him on a horse.”
Smoothly boarding Barranca, Scott cantered away. Cipriano, weak from pain and loss of blood, closed his eyes. Murdoch kept watch, supporting his injured friend, unable to take his eyes off of his son.
Dismounting near the Indian’s body, Scott bent to retrieve the envelope, then moved off to collect the horse that Micajah had been riding. Murdoch watched him struggle to lift the corpse up onto the animal’s back, then lash the man’s hands and feet together. By the time that Scott had returned on Barranca, the horse bearing the dead man trailing behind, Murdoch had eased Cipriano into a prone position, with a bedroll under his head. The tall rancher stiffly rose to his feet and waited, ready with more questions.
Scott was quicker. Striding towards his father, he handed the older man the envelope of money, accompanied by a question of his own. “Sir, do you know how Barranca got here?”
“The horse was taken last night . . . by whoever brought the ransom note.”
“One man or two?”
“I only saw one, Scott.” Murdoch withdrew the note from the envelope and handed it to Scott. “Is this your brother’s handwriting?”
Scott swiftly scanned the brief message, then looked up at his father with an open expression. “I . .I don’t know, Sir.”
“I couldn’t tell either,” Murdoch said sadly.
“There are a lot of things that we still don’t know about each other.”
Murdoch sighed, nodding absently in agreement. Then his expression hardened and he fastened a piercing gaze upon Scott. “So tell me, do you know if this is why Johnny wanted to come up here alone, to meet these men?”
“No, I don’t. But even if he knew they were there, I’m sure that he wasn’t planning to go anywhere with them.” Scott gestured with the note in his hand. “If Johnny had intended to leave, he would have brought his money with him . . . as well as Barranca.”
“So. . . he changed his mind?”
“Or had it changed for him,” Scott countered.
“Well. . .did he say where he was going?”
Now it was Scott’s turn to sigh, as he recalled his last encounter with his brother. Reluctantly, he answered the question. “Mexico . . . Johnny said they were going to . . . Mexico.”
Murdoch reached out and grasped Scott’s arm. “Johnny said that?” he asked insistently, staring down at his elder son.
Scott looked up at his father, clearly puzzled as to why Johnny’s proposed return to his mother’s native country would be so surprising. “Yes Sir, that’s what he said.”
“Scott, you read those reports—your brother was about to be executed in Mexico.”
Scott’s lips parted in surprised recollection, then he turned away, head bowed as he considered this. Murdoch pushed on. “The Pinkerton agent wrote that several of the rurales were killed in the escape. No, Scott, Mexico is the one place that your brother can’t go. . . . at least not any time soon—and not willingly.”
Scott’s head came around swiftly at that. “You mean there might be a reward?”
Murdoch contemplated the question for a moment. “Certainly there could be . . . yes.”
Scott looked away again, staring in the direction of Micajah’s lifeless form without really seeing the Indian’s corpse. Johnny knew very well that Scott had read those reports, since Scott himself had told him so. If his brother had made a point of mentioning Mexico, then perhaps it had been an attempt to convey a message. He swore softly at the thought that he had missed it.
Now he tried hard to remember what else Johnny had said, not the tone but the words themselves.
<<“Don’t try anything.”>>
<<“Stay out of trouble. . . . ..”>>
<<Damn, what else? Something about it being “nice meeting you, Brother,” and needing a “siesta” .>>
But first Johnny had walked over, close enough that Scott could see his feet. He’d been so angry when his brother had revealed his ability to see beneath the blindfold, that he hadn’t paid attention to what could be seen. Scott closed his eyes. Beneath the folds of the bandanna, he’d seen . . . Johnny’s boots. And the bottom edge of his pants, the ones with the silver buttons, the lower edges accordioned with creases as if . . . . now a much stronger epithet echoed repeatedly in his thoughts.
Murdoch’s voice broke in, asking another question. “Scott, how did Johnny act when he . . . when he told you about Mexico?”
Scott looked up reluctantly into his father’s face. “I couldn’t see him, Sir.” His glance slipped away. “The blindfold . . .”
The blindfold. Since he had already had a good look at all three of his captors--in fact he could easily identify all three of them-- Micajah from his employment at the ranch and the other two men from his encounter with them in town—Scott had immediately assumed that the men were using the blindfold as a device to make their prisoner more biddable, more tractable. He was, after all, more than a little familiar with such tactics. But perhaps that hadn’t stopped them from working. Gil certainly hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of the situation to retaliate for each and every punch that Scott had landed back in Senor Baldemerro’s store.
He’d expected the abuse. And he’d known to be wary of believing what he was told, had tried so hard to sort out the half-truths from the lies. Now Scott understood that he had given Howard and Gil too much credit. They might be professional thieves or gunmen, but they were not professional guards. It had all been quite simple. Every thing that they had said had been a lie. And they had blindfolded him only because there was something -- someone ---that they didn’t want him to see. Johnny.
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Murdoch studied Scott’s profile carefully. He was dirty and disheveled, had a cut on his lip and the several days’ growth of blond beard did not mask the bruises clearly visible on the young man’s face. Despite Murdoch’s great relief that Scott was alive and unhurt, his son’s haggard appearance had not gone unnoticed. Nor did the slump to his shoulders, the bowed head and now the swift play of rapidly changing emotions flickering over the plains of Scott’s face.
It struck Murdoch that, despite the many new experiences that had been thrown his way over the course of the past few weeks, this was the first time in their too brief acquaintance that he had ever seen his elder son looking less than confident. Instead of exuding quiet self-assurance, Scott now appeared doubtful and looked almost . . . lost.
When those hauntingly familiar eyes finally looked up at him once more, the sorrowful expression there made it impossible for Murdoch to hide his concern.
“They never let me see—“ Scott started to say, but Murdoch’s large hand fell on his son’s shoulder, interrupting him with a question. “Scott, are you all right?”
Instantly, those eyes became a stranger’s eyes, unreadable. Murdoch could feel Scott’s shoulders straighten, see the jaw tighten. The shutters closed and that brief glimpse of an uncertain young man was gone, replaced by the self-possessed Easterner, the coolly competent military officer.
“I’m fine, Sir. But Johnny isn’t. I need to go back. Now.”
As he spoke, Scott picked up one of the Spencer carbines from the ground. “I’ll need extra cartridges for this,” he said as he started towards his father’s saddlebags. “And you need to get Cipriano to a doctor. The bleeding hasn’t completely stopped and the angle of that bullet wound—“
“I need to . . . ? No, Scott, you can’t go back up there alone.”
The two men locked eyes, Scott’s flashing light blue steel. “I know the situation. I can handle it, Sir. Now let’s get Cipriano up onto that horse.”
Together they helped the injured man to his feet and began moving slowly towards his waiting mount.
“I’ll send some men back. Try to wait for them, if you can.”
Scott didn’t answer right away. They all knew it would be hours before Murdoch and Cipriano would reach the ranch. “There’s no need to send an army, Murdoch. Three or four good men will do, with provisions and extra horses—just in case we need to go after them.”
Murdoch climbed aboard white-faced Toby, and drew up alongside Cipriano’s horse. With the senior Lancer helping from above, and Scott’s assistance from below, Cipriano was finally settled in his own saddle.
“Gracias, Senor Scott.” The big foreman used his right hand to fumble with the buckle of his gun belt. “Here, my gun--- por favor, you take it.”
Scott willingly accepted the Segundo’s gun belt, noting that it included an ample supply of bullets as well as a large knife in a sheath attached on the side opposite the holster. After he fastened the buckle, Scott hung the large leather loop over his shoulder. Stowing the Spencer in the boot attached to Barranca’s saddle, he received a box of cartridges from Murdoch, and then mounted the palomino.
“Scott, here, take this, use it if you have to.” Scott edged Barranca closer to the other horses. He took the envelope without comment, unfastening one of the buttons of his beige tattersall shirt in order to slip the money inside.
Scott studied his father’s face for a moment, then addressed a question to the Mexican foreman seated between them. “Cipriano. . . the money that my father promised to Johnny and I for coming here. . . .” Scott shot Murdoch a glance, before he continued. “The one thousand dollars for one hour—who knows about that?”
Seeing the Segundo’s discomfort, Scott quickly amended the question. “Does everyone know about that?”
“Si, Senor Scott.”
Having received the answer he expected, Scott turned Barranca’s head in the direction of the line shack.
“Scott, wait.” With a quick pat to Cipriano’s uninjured shoulder, Murdoch moved Toby alongside the palomino.
“Bring him back.”
“I intend to,” Scott assured him, his determination evident.
“But Scott . . . if---IF he really wants to leave with them . . . let him. Give him the money, give him the horse. Just tell him. . . ..tell him that he can always come back.”
Scott nodded. “I’ll do that, Sir,” he said, setting Barranca in motion once more.
“Scott! Scott . . . take care of yourself.”
Wheeling the horse around, Scott Lancer flashed his father a tired smile. “I’ll try to do that too.”
He set off at a canter across the open field. Scott realized that he would need to take to the woods, in order to approach the line shack without being seen. Once there, he would assess the situation and come up with a plan. At least now he believed that he could count upon his brother’s assistance—if Johnny was still capable of giving any. If not, then at least Scott knew his odds were improving. He was now only outnumbered by two to one.
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