High Riders"
Well, if he was a target, at least he was no longer an unarmed one. Scott had a loaded six gun strapped to his side--but it had been quite a while since he'd worn a sidearm. The former cavalry officer was actually much more comfortable with longer weapons-- rifles, carbines, shotguns-- but he recognized that the pistol afforded the important advantage of concealment. His goal in visiting the clothier had been along the same lines. He had packed a variety of attire in the suitcases that he hoped had already been delivered to the Lancer ranch, including some casual wear and riding outfits. However, his observations of the people that he had seen over the course of the past few days, and most particularly those in Morro Coyo, had convinced Scott that he would be very noticeable while dressed in any of his Eastern clothes. He had asked the storeowner--Senor Baldemarro-- for a typical work outfit, such as a ranch employee might wear. He hoped that his newly purchased items would afford him the opportunity to blend in if he ever returned to town. A couple of beige checked shirts, two pairs of work pants: one black and one brown, a western style hat and light jacket----only the essentials, yet it had clearly been a windfall sale for the happy store owner. Scott was sure that the man would be talking about it for days; fortunately he had been careful to again identify himself as Garrett, rather than Lancer.
Garrett was Scott's middle name--and his mother's maiden name. He had been raised in Boston by his maternal grandfather, a wealthy businessman. His grandfather had told him that his mother, Harlan Garrett's only child, had died shortly after Scott had been born, and that he had been brought to Boston as an infant because his father's ranch in California was no place to raise a young child. Thanks to his attentive grandfather, Scott had enjoyed a privileged boyhood and adolescence. He'd attended private schools, had the opportunity to travel. Eager to fight in support of the Union cause, Scott had enlisted and served in the cavalry, spent a horrendous year in a Confederate prison camp and then returned to Boston at the War's end. He'd completed his Harvard degree, and had been somewhat at loose ends. Then he had been contacted by the Pinkerton agent. "Your father wants to see you", the man had informed him, and Scott's initial response had been that the feeling was far from mutual.
He'd been offered money if he was willing to travel to California---expenses paid, plus a fee of $1000 for "one hour of your time". A bribe? There had been no letter or note from Murdoch Lancer, no personal message of any kind. Scott had long ago given up any hope of ever hearing from the man, and now, when he had, at age twenty-four, finally received a communication from his father, it was in the guise of a Pinkerton man.
He'd told the agent that he wasn't interested, but had accepted the proffered card. As Scott had walked the darkened city streets on his way back to his grandfather's house, the question he had asked for most of his life: "Why hadn't he ever heard from his father?" was replaced by a different one: "Why now?" He had easily surmised that it had nothing to do with his own life--- Scott had not recently celebrated a significant birthday or experienced an important event. It had been four and a half years since he'd returned from the War, he'd completed his degree six months ago, about the same time that Julie Dennison had broken off their engagement. The logical assumption was that the communication was due to some change in circumstances for Murdoch Lancer. Scott had had to consider the possibility that the man might be very ill or dying, and hoping to ease his conscience by finally meeting with his estranged son. Whether or not that supposition was correct, Scott had come to believe that, if he failed to accept the current invitation, there would never be another.
Now, he had not quite reached his father's ranch, but perhaps some of his many questions had already been answered. At least it seemed unlikely that Murdoch Lancer was actually on his deathbed; Madrid, or Pardee, perhaps even the barkeeper, some one would have commented on that. Murdoch Lancer was in danger of being run off of his land, and he needed help. The "land pirates" certainly seemed to be a rough crew, and apparently the Law and its enforcement, simply did not exist out here. Madrid's words repeated themselves inside Scott's head. << "Well, that sure explains it." . . ."Why he sent for ya." >> Of course, despite the stranger's assumption, there was no way of knowing for certain whether or not his father was even aware of Scott's military service. Scott wondered again why Madrid had kept that piece of information from his leader, Pardee. And why had the dark haired young gunman asked him to relay his "regards" to Murdoch Lancer?
Scott reminded himself that he couldn't afford to be lost in thought--he needed to stay alert to his surroundings. It was also too easy to appreciate the scenery when he was out in it, rather than peering through the small square opening offered to a passenger seated on a noisy train or a jostling stagecoach. The distant mountains loomed large against the still blue sky as he rode along the road that he had been told would lead to the Lancer ranch. Not a road, exactly, but two wheel ruts, separated by a wagon's width, winding through the hills.
From the crest of one of those hills, Scott could see in the distance, a very large white structure, with numerous outbuildings. Even from this remote vantage point he noted the bustle of activity. One hundred thousand acres, Madrid had said. It would stand to reason that such a large enterprise would employ a significant number of men.
Understandably, Scott had thought a great deal about this long awaited meeting with his father. But he had always imagined the encounter, and the subsequent visit, as a rather private affair. Now he considered that the actual scenario might in fact be quite different. There would be many inhabitants on a land holding of such great size. Scott wondered again whether there might be a Mrs. Lancer in residence, whether he was about to be introduced to any half siblings.
As he approached an archway with the name Lancer prominently displayed, Scott slowed his horse to a walk and then, just before he passed beneath it, he reined to a halt. Boston, and everything familiar, seemed very far away. He'd been a stranger in this Western land for well over a week now, easily identified as such by his clothing, his manners, his accent. Lancer--that was his name. Yet as he was about to pass under the arch, he felt more of an outsider here than he had ever felt in his entire life.
<<I am a guest>> he reminded himself. Yes, that was true, he had been invited here--for one hour.
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Passing beneath the archway, Scott Lancer urged his mount to a quicker pace, and headed in the direction of the largest structure, which he took to be the main house. It certainly was impressive in size. As he began to encounter some of the workers, most of them apparently Mexican, the men waved and smiled and a few on horseback even accompanied him, following a short distance behind. Although he didn't understand what they were shouting in Spanish, it seemed friendly enough, so he nodded in response.
Reaching what he took to be the front door of the house, Scott smoothly dismounted, and several men hastened to take possession of his horse. Gesturing for them to wait a moment, he moved to untie the bundle of clothing that he had fastened on behind the saddle, when the large carved wooden double doors opened and a young dark haired girl in a blue dress emerged.
"Miguel will take that, and put it in your room with the rest of your things," she said with a smile. "You must be Scott," she added. "I'm Teresa, Teresa O'Brien."
"Miss O'Brien."
"Just Teresa," she corrected, coming closer and looking earnestly up at him. "We're so glad you're here, though we weren't expecting you for a few more days, but we've been looking forward to meeting you. Mr. Lancer is out with a work crew, checking a fence line, but I've sent someone for him and he should be back very soon."Realizing that she was rattling on nervously, Teresa stopped, her face a rosy hue.
"Since my father isn't here, is there a Mrs. Lancer to whom I should introduce myself?"
Already flustered, Teresa didn't immediately register what it was that this very tall, very handsome and very overdressed stranger was asking her.
"Oh, no," she finally replied with a nervous laugh. "Mr. Lancer isn't married."
"I see," was the serious reply. "It's just that this seems to be a rather large house."
"Oh it is, much too big for just the two of us," was the girl's cheerful reply.
Now it was Scott's turn to be puzzled. "So Teresa," (he pronounced it Ta-ray-sa; she liked how that sounded), "Do you work for my father?"
"Oh, no. I was born here on Lancer. My father was the foreman."
"Was?"
A pained expression crossed the young girl's face, and then she kept her eyes lowered as she explained. "He was murdered three months ago--the same time that Mr. Lancer was shot. He's my guardian now."
"My condolences, Miss O'Brien."
Despite the soft tone in which they were uttered, Teresa was startled by the cool formality of the words. She looked up and found herself gazing into a pair of what had to be the kindest, gentlest, blue eyes that she had ever seen. A long moment passed. "Shall we go inside?" he asked, finally.
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Alone in the large guest room to which he had been escorted, Scott Lancer removed his newly purchased gun belt and placed it in the empty top drawer of the dresser. He recognized that there was no point in unpacking anything until after his meeting with Murdoch Lancer. When he'd first decided to undertake the trip, Scott had resolved that he would be staying longer than the requested one hour, but now he was not quite so certain that he would elect to remain very much beyond the indicated time period. In any event, it seemed prudent to wait until to unpack after the initial interview with his father had taken place.
Teresa had pointed out a large room downstairs, one with a wall of shelves lined with books, indicating that he might be comfortable waiting there for Murdoch Lancer's return. Before exiting the guest bedroom, Scott glanced at himself in the mirror and saw that the bruise on his face was becoming quite visible.
He descended the stairs and reached the designated waiting room without encountering anyone. Once he began idly perusing the bookshelves, Scott was pleasantly surprised to find quite a variety of works in the array, including a number of the "classics". The Easterner selected a slim volume of California history and was soon engrossed in its pages.
When Murdoch Lancer finally reached the arched doorway to the Great Room, he paused to visually examine the young stranger leaning against the far wall, his head bent over the book that he held in both hands. Relying heavily upon the cane that he had used ever since being shot in the back by Day Pardee, Murdoch Lancer carefully studied his son. The young man was fairly tall, though not as tall as Murdoch himself, with blonde hair, though it was not as pale as Catherine's had been. <<Catherine.>> The name echoed through his mind. During the past weeks, Murdoch had found himself dwelling upon thoughts of his first love, staring at the one picture that he had of her. Now he was eager to discover some resemblance between the young woman who had died much too soon and the young man who was her grown son. Instead, Murdoch noted with some displeasure the Eastern "city style" attire, the well cut suit, the ruffles at the collar and sleeves of the white shirt, the fancy cravat. His heart sinking, he couldn't help but wonder whether this might not have been a mistake.
<<"He's come a very long way to see you.">> That's what his darling girl had said to him just before he'd entered the hacienda. Teresa had hurried out to greet him with the news of his son's arrival, smiling happily as Murdoch had slowly eased himself out of the buckboard. "He's here then?" Murdoch had asked, his tone gruff even to his own ears. Was he nervous? Damn right.
Teresa had been visibly disconcerted by Murdoch's tone, then apprehensive, no doubt fearful that her guardian would say something which would cause the young man to leave.
When they had been awaiting word from the Pinkerton agency as to whether or not the invitation extended to his son had been accepted, Murdoch Lancer had made it clear that he expected a refusal; that, in fact, he thought it quite likely that there would be no response at all. In Teresa's estimation, Murdoch had acted almost as if he rather hoped that that would be the case. But the girl had also seen the expression on her beloved guardian's face when he had received word that Scott Lancer was indeed en route from Boston. She was convinced that it meant a great deal to Murdoch Lancer that his son was here; she was even more certain that the stern rancher would never reveal that to the visitor awaiting him inside. Seeing him now about to enter the house for their first meeting, Teresa was terribly apprehensive about the sort of welcome that Murdoch would offer his son--- but all she dared venture was a gentle reminder of how far their guest had traveled.
Standing in the doorway, Murdoch recalled Teresa's words, <<"He's come a very long way to see you.">>, but on the heels of that thought came another, <<I wonder why?>> He was certain that his son would have questions for him, questions that he dreaded because there simply were no easy answers. Relieved that the young man still seemed unaware that he was being observed, Murdoch shook his head, drew a deep and somewhat shaky breath and finally addressed his son by name: "Scott?"
The blonde head snapped up. Instantly Murdoch recognized that in his facial features, Scott did indeed bear a certain resemblance to his mother, but it was the eyes . . . they were absolutely Catherine's eyes---, staring at him, examining him, challenging him, taking his measure. Thus it was Murdoch Lancer who looked away first. The tall rancher entered the room, and, still relying heavily upon his cane, crossed to his desk. Scott Lancer slowly closed the book he'd been reading and carefully replaced it on the shelf. He turned to face his father, an expectant look upon his face.
Murdoch limped around the large desk and opened a drawer, withdrawing an envelope which he placed on the desktop. "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to a comfortable chair quite near the desk. Despite the polite phrasing, the words were more a command than a request. Scott gave the briefest of nods, then moved towards the suggested seat, continuing to openly study Murdoch Lancer.
"Drink?"
"No, thank you," Scott replied in a level voice.
"Well, I need a drink."
The blonde eyebrows lifted at that, but the younger Lancer made no comment. He settled into the chair and silently watched as his father went to a nearby cabinet, extracted a bottle and a glass and then poured himself a drink. Turning back to face Scott once more, Murdoch gestured inquiringly with his glass. Scott again declined, shaking his head in refusal. Setting both the bottle and the glass down on his desk, Murdoch picked up the envelope and extended it towards his son. "Here's your money."
Scott was taken aback by that. Ever since he'd first heard his father's voice, he'd been staring at the man. He'd never seen a portrait, had never even heard a detailed verbal description of Murdoch Lancer's appearance. Scott had immediately searched for some physical resemblance between his father and himself; failing that, he was now examining the exterior for some indications of the man inside. Scott had also been wondering just how Murdoch Lancer would go about opening the conversation between them; an abrupt mention of money was not what he had been expecting. Eyes narrowed, Scott instantly surmised that the envelope contained the $1000 payment that he had already summarily rejected. But before he could respond, Murdoch Lancer offered an explanation: "Travel expenses." Still looking the man directly in the eyes, Scott simply said "Thank you," and, remaining seated, he accepted the envelope, tucking it inside his jacket without further comment.
Murdoch lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. "Well, I'm sure that you have some questions." It was abundantly clear from the older man's tone that he did not relish the prospect.
"I do."
"So, then . . Go ahead. Ask."
Murdoch waited. The question came, after only the briefest hesitation. It was not the one which he had been anticipating for the past several weeks, the one to which he knew there was no good answer. Rather than a variation on a question beginning with the phrase "Why didn't you . .?" it was:
"Why did you send for me?"
In the lengthy pause that followed, Murdoch stared at the edge of his desk, uncomfortably aware that those blue eyes were fixed upon him, waiting. He knew that he couldn't bring himself to say anything about how much he had longed to communicate with his son, or explain how certain he had been that any such attempt would have been thwarted by the boy's grandfather. To reveal any of that would mean that he would also have to admit that he had given up. That he'd stopped trying--if truth be told, had never really tried very hard at all. He also refused to admit that it had been a fear of rejection that had prevented him from attempting to contact Scott once his son had attained adulthood. Murdoch Lancer was painfully aware that the invitation which he had so recently extended was far too little and far too late. Despite the fact that Scott had been willing to travel across the country, Murdoch remained firmly convinced that any expression of paternal sentiment would be met with swift rejection from the young man seated before him. Under the scrutiny of those hauntingly familiar blue eyes, he could only present the stark, honest truth.
"Because of what's happening out there, right now," he said finally, gesturing at the large window behind him. "This ranch is under attack. They shot me in the back, left me with this bum leg. Killed my segundo, Teresa's father. People call them "Land Pirates"; their leader is a gunfighter named Pardee. They're trying to run me off of this place."
There, he'd said it.
Scott's expression was unreadable. Murdoch Lancer received no indication that he had, in fact, actually passed the first "test". Scott accepted that, if nothing else, the man's response was an honest one. The tone in which the words had been uttered had been defensive, almost angry, but the information matched what he had learned in town. Still, Scott couldn't keep himself from hoping that there just might possibly be more to it.
"This ranch must mean a great deal to you," was his only response, the observation, accompanied by a searching look.
"I love this ground more than anything God ever created," was Murdoch Lancer's quietly impassioned reply. "I have a grey hair for every good blade of grass that you see out there."
"And now it's all at risk."
"That's right."
"Well, . . . I met your friend Pardee, in town," Scott said slowly. "He wanted me to give you a message. Apparently, he's getting tired of waiting and intends to make your men his next targets." Murdoch looked concerned, then belatedly noticed the bruise on his son's face. But before the older man could form a question, Scott posed another one of his own: "What is it that you want from me?"
Murdoch Lancer did not immediately respond. He stood slowly and turned to gaze out at the view behind him. The embattled rancher was well aware that he had no right to ask his son for anything, no right at all, yet here he was, about to request his help. Steeling himself, he faced Scott once more. "It's not just your gun--though I understand you can use one," he said, looking unflinchingly into those blue eyes. "I want more than that, I want your legs, your arms," noting once more the ruffles at his son's wrists, he couldn't refrain from adding, "And your guts---- if you have any." Scott's eyes blazed at that, but Murdoch continued: "I don't want any favors from you; I'm offering you a share in this ranch, if you can help me hang onto it."
Scott couldn't hide his surprise. He looked down, a bemused expression on his face. This was . . . . unbelievable. Had the man really just offered him part ownership in this ranch? Did he honestly expect that Scott would have any desire to stay here? Why should he? There had been no effort made to converse on anything approaching a personal level; on the face of it, this was nothing more than a simple business proposition. And that realization made Scott very angry. First there had been the offer of $1000 for one hour of his time, and now Murdoch Lancer was apparently attempting to hire him on as a mercenary soldier.
Quelling his anger, Scott endeavored to remain polite. "I'm sorry, but you really haven't given me any reason."
"One hundred thousand acres. Twenty thousand head of beef. . . "
Unexpectedly saddened by this response, Scott shook his head in disbelief and slowly stood up. "I came here expecting some answers." Then he added, in a tired voice, tinged with regret, "I . . I don't even know what to call you."
"Call me anything you like," was Murdoch's angry reply. "We're strangers to each other. Maybe that's my fault, maybe it isn't."
A stony silence followed this last comment. It really was no great surprise to Scott that his failure to express adequate interest in the ranch had engendered his father's wrath. He resolved to leave on his own, before he could be summarily dismissed. As to who was "at fault"--- as far as Scott was concerned, there certainly could be no doubt as to which of the two of them was responsible for the estrangement between father and son. He shook his head again. "If that's meant to be an apology . . ."
Murdoch Lancer cut him off with an indignant assertion. "You'll get no apology from me! If the air needs clearing, then let's clear it." Leaning once more on his cane, the older man moved awkwardly about the room in an agitated manner. "Your mother's family thought that she was daft to marry me, not a year off the boat from Inverness . . And maybe they were right." Then looking across the room at his son, he added: "You were born, she died, I left you in their hands." "Period," he concluded emphatically.
"Period?" Scott asked tightly, and then before he could say anything more, a door opened and Teresa entered the room. Her bright smile faded as she took in the positions and expressions of the two Lancer men. "I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be ready in about a half hour . . if that's all right . . ." she finished doubtfully, her voice trailing off. "We've planned a special meal," she said, sending Scott a pleading look, "to welcome you."
Scott reluctantly removed his gaze from his father. As he met Teresa's eyes, his grim expression slipped away and he managed a polite smile. "That's very kind of you, Miss O'Brien."
"It's Teresa," she reminded him hopefully.
"I'm sorry, . . . Teresa," Scott said apologetically. The girl gave her guardian a worried look, then backed out of the room, softly closing the door.
Scott glanced at Murdoch. "I will stay for dinner, if you don't mind." When Murdoch looked questioningly at him, Scott continued. "That does means that I'll be here beyond our agreed upon one hour. But I will leave directly after the meal."
That comment goaded Murdoch into speech. "Scott, some things just happen. Some questions don't have answers," he said. Seeing no sign that the younger man might relent, Murdoch nonetheless forged on, "What's in the past is past. Good or bad, right or wrong, it's past and gone. What's important is now."
"You mean, of course, what's happening out there, to your ranch."
Feeling defeated, Murdoch could only say, "We'll talk more at dinner." He moved to the sofa and sat down heavily upon it.
"Then if you'll excuse me." Scott strode to the door, but, as he reached the entryway, he stopped and turned. "I almost forgot, Sir," he added, in a coolly polite tone. "In addition to your "land pirate", Pardee, I also met a young man in town. He seems to be working with Pardee, but he asked me to give you his regards."
"Oh?"
"His name is Madrid, Johnny Madrid."
"Johnny?" Murdoch asked, with an expression that Scott could only describe as stunned. Clearly his father knew the man, but at the moment Scott was frankly uninterested in hearing any of the details. He wanted nothing more than a few moments alone so that he could attempt to sort out this initial conversation and formulate his impressions of Murdoch Lancer.
"I see that you recognize the name," Scott observed mildly. "He wasn't certain that you would."
Murdoch Lancer stood and walked hurriedly over to his desk. Scott silently watched the flurry of activity as the big man opened a large lower drawer of his desk and removed a series of files, stacking them on the desk surface. "I've only learned that name recently, but I've been looking for him for a very long time." Murdoch noted Scott's questioning look and then made a startling announcement: "He's my son."
His interest piqued, Scott very slowly approached the desk, staring at the collection of file folders, as Murdoch settled into the desk chair once more. "Here, this is the most recent one," he said, offering one of the files to Scott. "Two years after your mother died, I met Maria, Johnny's mother, down at Matamorros. She . . . We got married. Two years after that, I awoke one morning and found her gone, Johnny along with her."
Scott looked at the folder in his hands, then back at his father. "This is a Pinkerton report."
"That's right. Off and on, for twenty years I've had agents trying to track them down. We learned that Maria died about ten years ago. Johnny . . was on his own . . . Later he took on another name and . . . . he became a gunfighter. . . "
Scott sat down in the chair that he had occupied earlier and quickly read through the report. When he reached the last page, he sat looking down at it for a moment, making an effort to collect his scattered thoughts, <<"He's my son.">> Murdoch Lancer had said. Even before Scott had picked up the folder, the personal significance of that statement had been clear. <<Then he's my . . . brother >> This had been followed immediately by the realization that "Johnny Madrid" must have been aware of their relationship from the very moment that he had heard Scott claim Murdoch Lancer as his father.
The information on the pages that Scott now held in his hands merely sketched a confusingly drawn portrait: a notorious gunfighter, a peasant revolution, a last minute rescue from a firing squad. And now, added to that, an apparent alliance with the land pirates who were threatening the Lancer ranch. Scott's efforts to make some sense of it all were interrupted by a sudden tocsin. The Pinkerton file fell to the floor as he hastened to follow his father from the room.
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Another field ruined. Murdoch Lancer sat behind his desk brooding. The loss of another patch of land was bad enough, but as soon as he had entered the room, his eyes had fallen upon the stack of files on his desk, and then he had remembered. <<Johnny is in Morro Coyo. Johnny is working with Pardee.>> The thought was chilling; it made his blood run just as cold as it had when he'd read that last report, the part about the Mexican firing squad. Now it appeared that the son for whom he had been searching for so long had joined in the alliance against him. The idea that the happy toddler that he recalled so vividly even after all these years was now lost to him entirely, that thought was almost physically painful. He had been waiting for so long, worrying for so long. Learning that Johnny Lancer had become Johnny Madrid, that had been painful as well, but with that pain there had also been the hope that, once armed with a name, the Pinkerton agents would finally be able to locate his son, and convince Johnny to come back home. It had been quite a shock to learn that the young man was in town. The weary rancher sat with bowed head and wondered what that woman must have said to him, what lies his mother had told Johnny which now prompted him to come seeking revenge . . . .
And Scott had unwittingly encountered Johnny in town. Murdoch had not yet had the opportunity to ask Scott about that meeting. <<Questions . . >> he thought in dismay. Desperate as he was to know more about Johnny, Murdoch realized that he could hardly ask Scott questions about his half-brother-- or anything else--- when he had yet to provide the young man with any of the answers which he had come here seeking.
And he had to admit that the Bostonian had been a pleasant surprise. Murdoch had only had one brief glimpse of Scott, a little boy with blond hair and a very serious expression. That had been almost twenty years ago now. He had not requested a report from the Pinkerton agency, but had been grateful for the scant information provided by the agent's short summary. Now, after weeks of agonized anticipation and then the initial negative impression created by Scott's attire and stiff manner, Murdoch had to acknowledge that he was favorably impressed. Once they had gotten outside and had seen the rapidly spreading flames, the jacket and fancy tie had quickly disappeared and Scott had worked steadily alongside the hands. And when Murdoch had finally voiced his decision to allow the fire to burn itself out, Scott had even started to object; he hadn't been ready to give up yet. But he had yielded to Murdoch's prerogative, had nodded his acceptance and helped relay the word to the men.
Murdoch had noticed that Scott had spoken privately with Teresa, both of them sending concerned looks in Murdoch's direction. The older man was fairly certain that his son had urged the girl to escort him inside. The increasing pain in his back and leg had left Murdoch Lancer more than willing to leave the organization of the clean up in the hands of his Segundo, Cipriano and . . . his son, Scott. Before returning to the hacienda, Murdoch had introduced Scott to the foreman. It had felt strange to say those words, "My son."
"Do you think he'll stay?" Teresa had asked once they were inside. "I don't know," had been Murdoch's discouraged response, adding that he hoped that Scott might be persuaded to at least spend the night. Teresa had made no attempt to hide her dismay before she hurried off to get cleaned up. Murdoch was now at his desk, staring at those damn Pinkerton files on Johnny and waiting for Scott. Sitting alone in the Great Room, Murdoch Lancer realized that, more than anything, he did not want Scott to leave.
When Scott finally appeared in the doorway, he paused and knocked politely on the doorframe, waiting for Murdoch's acknowledging nod before entering. His sleeves were rolled up, his clothes covered with dirt and soot, his hair was in disarray. There was a dark smudge on the right side of Scott's face and the bruise on his left cheek was quite plainly visible; Murdoch was pretty well convinced that he had been struck. By Pardee, or one of his men, most likely. The young man looked tired; he walked directly from the doorway to the liquor cabinet and proceeded to pour himself a drink. He then filled a second glass as well, and wordlessly set it on the desk.
Reluctant to sit on one of the upholstered chairs in his damp, dirty, clothes, Scott perched on the corner of his father's desk and looked down at the man seated across from him. He took a sip of whiskey and then stared at his glass for a moment before he broke the silence with a question: "How many fields have you lost?"
"That's the third one. Thank God, so far it's only been fields. Though that's about to change, according to what Pardee said to you . ." Murdoch shook his head wearily. "I'm just not sure that I can continue to put my men at risk. Some of them have families here . . . ."
Scott nodded soberly. He was glad to hear his father express concern for his men; having just witnessed the effort which some of them were willing to expend to save land which was not their own. His brief observation indicated that Murdoch Lancer had earned the respect and loyalty of those who worked for him. "And just how many men do you have?" Scott asked.
Murdoch picked up his glass and took a drink before he responded to that question. "Eighteen," he said.
Scott's dismay was evident. "That's not very many, not to try to defend a property of this size."
Scott knew that Pardee had twenty men. Since it had been Johnny Madrid who had provided him with that information, Scott elected not to share it with Murdoch Lancer. The ex-cavalry officer knew that it only took a handful of men to launch this type of devastating attack, but that many more would be required to mount a creditable defense.
"I had over one hundred hands before this all began," Murdoch explained. "Eighteen may not seem like very many, but only the best stayed." He was not able to keep the pride and defiance from his voice.
Scott glanced down at the glass in his hand, then looked up and met Murdoch Lancer's eyes. "The two of us make twenty," he said softly.
The older man gave his son a searching look. "So you'll stay?" And then, "Why?"
Scott dropped his eyes again, smiling ruefully to himself. "I'm not sure I can explain, exactly. . .I'm not sure you'd understand, exactly." When he looked up at Murdoch once more, his expression was completely serious. "But I will stay, for now."
Murdoch reached to his right and slid open a drawer of the desk. Withdrawing a single folded sheet of paper, Murdoch handed it to Scott, then picked up his glass and drained the remaining liquid.
Scott carefully unfolded the document and swiftly scanned it. He saw his own name, and Johnny's as well. Each of them was to receive a one-third ownership in the ranch. At the bottom of the paper were spaces where they could sign. Scott noted that Murdoch Lancer had not yet affixed his own signature. He looked up at his father, questions in his eyes.
"I'll change it, of course. One-half, rather than one third, if you decide to stay."
"I've already given you my answer. But . . ."
"But what?"
Scott hesitated. "I've read that report. The Pinkerton agent never relayed your offer. . . Johnny never even knew who sent the man who rescued him from --"
"What difference? He's made his choice."
"An uninformed one."
"He's in Morro Coyo. He could have come here, asked me some questions."
Scott briefly wondered whether Johnny would have garnered any more answers than he himself had received. Rather than voicing that thought, he simply handed the paper back across the desk to Murdoch Lancer. "We can take care of this later---."
"Once we see if we can hang onto this place, " Murdoch finished his son's thought. The gruff rancher nodded in agreement. He replaced the document in the drawer and slowly closed it. Then, reluctantly but resolutely he looked up at his son. "I owe you some answers."
Scott stood, picking Murdoch's empty glass as he did so, and carrying it along with his own over to the liquor cabinet. With his back turned to his father, he said, "There's time for that." Scott refilled the glasses. Murdoch waited until Scott turned to face him once more. He regarded his son, "You still have questions," he stated flatly. "Go ahead and ask one."
Scott set Murdoch's glass down upon the desktop once more, then, heedless of his still sooty and damp clothing, he sank slowly into the upholstered chair facing the desk.
Scott's glance dropped downwards, and then back up to give his father another direct look. Murdoch waited, as Catherine's eyes seemed to bore into him. Then, "Tell me about Johnny," Scott said softly.
Caught off guard, as Scott yet again failed to pose one of the anticipated questions, Murdoch reacted with some irritation. He gestured at the files before him. "Everything that I know is here, in these reports. You're welcome to read them."
Scott nodded thoughtfully. "I will. That is, if you're certain you don't mind." Murdoch got up from his chair, gesturing to the vacated seat. As he circled the desk, and moved towards one of the sofas, Scott rose to his feet and then took possession of the curved- backed wooden chair. The young man sat for a moment, transfixed, seemingly lost in thought and gazing at the folders. Then he gave a small shake of his head and reached to take the first one off the stack. At that moment, the door opened and Teresa entered. Instantly, the Boston gentleman was on his feet.
"Oh, good, you're here," she said with a delighted smile in Scott's direction. "We're getting a bath ready for you--- in your room. If you want to go there now, while the water's still hot, someone will come and collect your clothes for the laundry. And bring you some supper."
Scott wearily nodded his assent. The prospect of a hot bath and some food was very enticing. But he still couldn't help glancing again at those reports. Noting this, Murdoch instructed the young man to go along to his room. "I'll have someone bring those to you. You can read some of them tonight if you want."
Scott nodded again. "Thank you, sir. . . I'll see you in the morning then," he said, and then exited the room.
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Seated in a tub of pleasantly hot water, shielded from the rest of his large room by a freestanding screen, Scott Lancer closed his eyes and contemplated the day's events. So much had happened since he'd stepped off of the stage in Morro Coyo; chief among them the introduction to his father and then learning that he had unknowingly encountered his half-brother.
His initial impression of Murdoch Lancer was of a brusque, almost angry man, and certainly a very tall one. At least now Scott knew the derivation of his own height. Harlan Garrett was a man of average stature; Scott had heard both his mother and grandmother referred to as "petite". Murdoch Lancer must certainly have towered over Catherine Garrett.
It was difficult to believe that she had traveled all this ways with that man. Stretching his arms and resting them along the rim of the bathtub, Scott pictured in his mind's eye the delicate features of the young woman in the painting that hung in the front parlor of his grandfather's home. One of several on display in the Garrett household, it was the largest portrait of Catherine, and Scott's favorite. His mother had been younger than Scott was now, when she'd made her journey west. Scott had often been told that he resembled her, and based upon that portrait, there was certainly ample truth to the assertion. Most particularly, Scott had been told that he had his mother's eyes. Sitting there with his own eyes closed, picturing his parents, he wondered what his mother had ever seen in Murdoch Lancer.
If Scott was hard pressed to see much of a resemblance between Murdoch and himself, he thought that he could detect some similarities between Murdoch and the young man that he had met in town, now that their relationship had been revealed. Although Johnny most likely resembled his own mother in his coloring and lack of stature, his half brother did have Murdoch Lancer's piercing blue eyes, the same angry glint.
The startling discovery that he had a brother named Johnny had been especially disquieting, since as a boy, Scott had actually created for himself an imaginary brother with that very name. Of course, "John", or "Johnny" was a common first name. One of Scott's closest boyhood friends, Will Hayford had had an older brother named John, and young Scott had greatly envied the bond between the two.
Scott could also easily recall that during summer visits with his aunt and uncle in Maine, he had spent afternoons fishing off of a wooden bridge over the Cathance River--- with his little brother Johnny at his side. And, back home in Boston, he had devoted hours to aligning tin soldiers in endless battle formations, and scolding Johnny if any of the men inadvertently toppled over. Scott had long assumed that his childhood fantasy of his absent father sending yet another blond-haired blue-eyed child to Boston had simply been the invention of an imaginative, as well as an occasionally lonely, little boy.
But, when Scott had moved to occupy the chair behind Murdoch Lancer's desk, another memory had come back to him, one of sitting at his grandfather's desk, many years ago. He must have been nine or ten years old, and well aware that Grandfather's study was "off limits". Little Scotty wasn't supposed to be in there, but on this day he was, and he'd spied a folder on top of the desk. It had the name "Lancer" on it. Curious, he'd started to read parts of the pages inside, information about California and a ranch. He knew that his father lived in that far off territory, but what had really captured his interest was the part that told about a baby being born, a baby named Johnny. But then, a page later, the baby was gone, and exactly where was apparently "UNKNOWN". Scott now recalled hoping that the baby was coming to Boston; he had been looking for another mention of the child when he'd heard the front door open. His Grandfather was returning home with some dinner guests. Scott had raced from the room, run to greet his Grandfather. He had never asked anyone any questions about what he had read.*
Murdoch Lancer had always been an awkward topic of conversation. Harlan Garrett had nothing good to say about the man. Scott was not at all surprised that his Grandfather had gathered information on his absent father; Harlan Garrett was a man who liked to be well-informed. It was also understandable that his grandfather had never told Scott about his half brother, given that the child had disappeared twenty years ago and could have been long dead. But now he knew that his "little brother Johnny" was "real" and he was certainly alive.
The sound of a door opening, and soft footsteps entering the room shook Scott out of his reverie. His view was obscured by the screen that shielded the area around the bathtub from the rest of the chamber. He heard a whispered exchange in Spanish and what sounded like plates and utensils being placed upon a wooden surface; then the two people quietly departed. Suddenly feeling hungry, Scott located the soap and set about scrubbing the smoke out of his close cropped blonde hair.
Coming around the screen, towel wrapped securely around his waist, Scott rolled his discarded damp and sooty clothing into a bundle and deposited the items on the floor next to a straight backed chair. Somewhere he had a suit jacket to match those pants, and a cravat as well, but he'd be hard pressed to recall where he had been when he'd removed them as he set to work helping to combat the flames ravaging the field. The smell of his smoke- infused clothes and the acrid air coming in through the open window combined to overwhelm the scent of the soap he had just used. Crossing to close the window, Scott noted the plate of cold supper that had been deposited on the dresser, along with the welcome addition of a wineglass and a newly opened bottle.
Scott poured himself a glass and savored it. It was very good. As he surveyed the room, he saw his unpacked suitcases on the floor beside the bed. The package of clothes he had purchased in town was on top of the bed, along with the stack of Pinkerton file folders.
Setting the glass down, Scott began first to open the package; clearly his recently purchased "Western" style clothes were what he would be wanting to wear in the morning. As he removed the items, he reflected ruefully that their newness would still give him away; perhaps he should drag them through the dirt, explain to the ranch hands that it was a quaint custom from "back East" . . .
His brand new gun belt and weapon were still in the top drawer of the dresser. There was a hall tree in the entryway to the hacienda; he'd noticed hats deposited on the uppermost branches and a few gun belts hanging on those below. In the morning, perhaps he would add his own to the collection.
He lifted the larger of his two valises and placed it on the bed. For the next several minutes, Scott moved methodically from the opened suitcase across the room to the dresser and the armoire, distributing his clothes and toiletries, pausing en route for a sip of wine or a bite of food. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably aware of slight protests from various muscles. Not that he was particularly muscle bound; he certainly no longer had the sinewy arms and legs that he'd developed during his days in the cavalry. Thankfully, he was also no longer as emaciated as he'd been when he'd first returned from Libby--though he certainly hadn't put on much weight in the intervening years. But, of late, Scott's "physical activity" had been primarily nocturnal, so it was not surprising that he might feel some aches and pains from this day's exertions. He was also still well aware of the bruise on his face and, as he readjusted the towel about his waist, he could still feel where Pardee's punch had caught him in the midsection. Scott was very sore and very tired and the bed was starting to look particularly inviting.
He decided not to tackle the smaller suitcase. As far as he could remember, it contained more clothes, some books--and he had ample reading material with the Pinker ton reports. With some embarrassment, Scott now recalled that the valise also contained a few items--photographs and other momentos--which he had packed with the thought that he might share them with his father.
<<Well,>> he thought, as he turned back to the wineglass and cold supper, << Murdoch Lancer is not on his deathbed, he is not desperately seeking forgiveness of his son . . . . Or sons. >> What the man wanted was help. And he was willing to pay for it. Scott certainly didn't feel as if he'd been welcomed with open arms; he couldn't actually say that he'd been welcomed at all. And still, he had committed himself to stay. Scott absently placed a piece of cold beef between two halves of a biscuit and chewed thoughtfully as he gazed out the large window. The view of the distant mountains was impressive. Perhaps in the morning he would have the opportunity to see more of the ranch, explore beyond the house and the seared field. . .
But now, Scott just wanted to crawl into bed with a glass of wine. He moved the folders to the far edge of the bed and positioned the pillows against the headboard so that he could sit in a propped up for reading. It was much too warm to don the New England issue union suit he was accustomed to sleeping in-- unless, of course, he had company. He didn't own a nightshirt or pair of pajamas. Untucking the towel, Scott crossed to the dresser and pulled out some underwear. The towel was tossed to the chair beside his smoky clothes, the wine glass and bottle were positioned on the nightstand. Scott slipped into his drawers and then eased his tired body between the sheets.
Once he was settled comfortably against the pillows, he reached for the first file folder. Legs bent to provide a resting spot against his blanketed thighs, he saw with some dismay his own name on the cover. Apparently Agent Mawby had written a report of his own. Perusing the few pages inside, it became evident that the report had been perfunctory at best; written primarily to confirm that the message from Murdoch Lancer had been delivered. Various key pieces of information about Scott's past were not mentioned; he noted particularly the omission of any reference to his imprisonment at Libby or to his recently broken engagement to Julie Dennison. But at least, now he knew exactly what his father did and did not know about him. The report clearly stated that he had served in the cavalry, fought in the War. <<"Well, that sure explains it." "Why he sent for ya." >> But perhaps Murdoch Lancer had not received confirmation of those facts until after his invitation had been extended and accepted.
Scott tossed "his" file aside and reached for his wineglass before addressing the pile of paperwork devoted to his brother. Setting the empty glass back down on the bedside table, he picked up the next folder and recognized it as the most recent one, written by the Agent--Thomas--who had been wounded when he'd saved Johnny from having to face a Mexican firing squad. Holding the file in both hands, stretching his legs out flat on the bed, Scott quickly reviewed the contents. It was abundantly clear that Johnny Madrid could not possibly be aware that it had been Murdoch Lancer who had charged the agent with finding him; the agent wrote that he had not even had time to identify himself, much less relay to Johnny his father's offer of $1000 for one hour of his time.
As Scott recalled the conversation that he had had with Johnny Madrid in the saloon, the questions and comments that the dark haired man had addressed to him could now be seen in a very different light. Johnny evidently did know that Murdoch Lancer was his father. The gunfighter also must have realized that Scott was his half brother; that was the only explanation for the man's decision to urge Pardee to send Scott on his way. And Johnny had withheld information from Pardee; he had chosen not to inform the so-called "big dog" of Scott's military experience, and also refrained from mentioning his own connection to both Scott and Murdoch Lancer. Scott's distinct impression was that Day Pardee was not the type to relish being kept in the dark.
Thoughtfully, Scott set the file aside. It appeared that the remaining folders were organized by years. Murdoch Lancer had clearly had people searching for Johnny for a very long time. The next one on the stack was considerably thicker, so Scott drew his knees up once more to provide a resting place for the next set of reading material.
Suddenly, the door to his room flew open. Scott looked up and Miss O'Brien--Teresa--appeared, balancing a willow basket on her hip.
Glimpsing Scott's surprised expression over his raised knees, the dark haired young woman smiled engagingly and cheerfully said "Sorry, if I startled you," as she bustled into the room.
"Well, . .where I come from, people do tend to knock."
Teresa continued briskly towards the pile of soiled and rumpled clothing on the floor, set the basket down and placed the items in it. Reaching for the damp towel draped over the chair, she turned and started to say dismissively, "Oh, just think of me as . .". Her words faded away in rosy confusion as she caught sight of Scott's bare chest, and flat stomach.
"Just think of you as . . What?" he prompted her, as she quickly turned and stooped to pick up the laundry basket.
Her delicate features flushed pink, Teresa stammered out a reply of sorts. "Just think of me as someone . . . .who is very happy that you've come . . . Here. . . . .to Lancer."
"Thank you, Miss O'Brien. Teresa." Scott managed to keep a straight face, but could not hide the amusement in his eyes.
Basket braced on her hip, Teresa hurried from the room.
"Good night," Scott said politely, to her departing back.
She tossed a muffled reply over her shoulder and hastily shut the door behind her. Safely in the hallway, Teresa grasped the handles of the basket in each hand. She had meant to say "as a sister", she thought as she leaned against the door with her heart pounding.
A few moments later, Teresa had composed herself and went off to deliver their guest's sooty clothing to the laundry room. Alone in his room, Scott Lancer read Pinkerton reports on the gunfighter Johnny Madrid for several hours before finally falling asleep.
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Johnny Madrid sat in his accustomed place, a table in the back corner, sitting facing the door, a wall behind him. He was alone with his beer, thinking and staring down at the rim of the mug. Day Pardee strolled in, closely followed by his stocky, bearded henchman. Day walked directly over to Johnny., who greeted him with a careless smile; "Day."
"John Madrid." The "Big Dog" nodded, paused and then tilted his head. "Or should I say Lancer?"
The smile swiftly evaporated from Johnny's face, and he assumed a grim expression. "Where'd ya hear that?"' he asked. "
"Well, John, I sent a message with that brother of yours, jist like ya asked me to . . Got a real nice answer back."
"That right?" Johnny asked in a disinterested tone and then took a long drink of his beer. When he set the glass back down, he was looking into the drawn muzzle of Pardee's gun.
"I don't much like bein' kept in the dark, Johnny." As Johnny slowly got to his feet, the bearded man quickly relieved him of his weapon. Pardee gestured with his gun, "Now move."
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