A Look Inside 2
July 3, Lancer Ranch
I am quite sure I have fallen into another world. I pride myself on not being over squeamish as to how people conduct themselves.
Perhaps if I had not been in the war and seen first hand what war entails and instead have come straight from the comfort of the privileged few, I am quite sure I would have turned around and run screaming back to Boston.
One-day dear journal I may delve into that part of my so-called initiation into life.
War, I discovered, is what a man can endure and what it does to the very soul of man, but as I stated later for that.
I awoke this morning feeling... different. I heard the cattle in the pastures close to the house; 'hacienda' must make an effort to understand the local language, and the pastoral sounds.
Pastoral, brings me back to the 1808 Pastoral Symphony of Ludwig Van Beethoven. His Symphony No. 6 in F major, OP.68 was one of my favorites as I hum a favorite snatch from... I really must keep on course.
It is not like me to drift off like this, I feel exuberant perhaps the food last night or the company, I could walk on air today, I want to see this Lancer, this land I will defend with my Bostonian blood.
Bostonian blood, what flows through me is Lancer blood. Some how that makes me feel proud that I belong here if only for the blood flowing in my veins.
I had known about Murdoch Lancer as soon as I discovered that Harlan Garrett was my grandfather. The man could not keep it a secret after I also learned Catherine Garrett was my mother.
I recollect I was very young and stared up at the portrait of the woman, 'who is she,' I asked quietly.
Grandfather took my hand and led me into his study where he told me of my birth, my mothers' death and the abandonment by my father, Murdoch Lancer.
Of course, I was too young to understand much of what grandfather told me. The one thing I kept close to my heart was I had a father, a living breathing man who had a part in making me. It sparked my curiosity and I wanted more.
Again, journal, I drift on memories I will expound upon later within your pages.
I awoke, was it just yesterday, invigorated, and infused with the newness and incongruity of where I found myself. Wanting to get started I set about my morning ritual only to be interrupted by a disheveled younger brother.
I turned with razor inches from my face, 'come in', I had said and the rascal entered still cocky and so sure of his place in the world.
I found my brother does not convey much about himself, but in the few uttered sentences he strung together gave me an insight into the internal musings of the young man.
One, he does not trust easily whether it be a written word or verbal confirmation. Two, he is wary of strangers and hides his fears behind a mask of indifference.
Three, he is an independent cuss I give him that as he told me, 'it's a one man job,' as he sauntered out of my bedroom and warned me about being, 'dead in a ditch with ants crawlin' over your eyeballs'.
Was he crude in the way he was warning me, yes very much so. Was he giving me this warning to keep me in my place, perhaps?
On the other hand, and this I can say implicitly, did he want to protect me.
Well, later that day I had found out just how protective my little brother is. I still hurt where the three ruffians gave me a sound thrashing, but I hurt so much more from the indifference to my plight from a supposed brother.
The confrontation at the watering hole found me shaking with fury and in a burst of anger struck out at him. As he tumbled down the bank towards the water, I felt vindicated. It was as the boy rushed up the incline I felt remorse at my unbridled anger. From the first day as a shave-tail junior officer, I deduced it was survival of the fittest and strongest or be eaten alive and left as so much carrion.
I showed my brother with the strength of my fist I needed no assistance, I was capable of taking care of myself.
My anger overwhelmed me to see the boy so concerned. His teasing light comment had incensed my already damaged pride and I burned for retribution.
His fist in my diaphragm had me take a step back; stunned by the strength of the well-placed punch I was briefly distracted with trying to force air into my lungs.
All semblance of protocol dashed aside I took the stance of a seasoned brawler.
Fists raised we were ready to mix it up, all holds barred until the girl, Teresa, our 'sister' stepped between us, hands out not a shred of fear in her face or her voice had us both refrained from becoming common brawlers.
'Brothers fighting...' she had me feeling like a child reprimanded for conduct unbecoming.
Johnny turned, bent to pick up his hat and walked away. Not before I had seen the hurt in his eyes, then he closed himself off. 'Look I'm sorry,' I tried to apologize but knew it would not penetrate the wall behind which my brother hid.
I followed him towards the palomino the boy had just broken to the saddle earlier in the morning.
'We outta be able to work together, we both came for the same reason,' my brother turned on me and pulled out a new minted twenty dollar gold piece, 'this is why I came.'
How could I have been so wrong about a person? Lancer, a dream come true for someone who had no roots. For him to admit he had come only for the money I was confused... what was wrong with the boy?
Our father was offering him a place in life a springboard to launch him into a lucrative business endeavor.
Then he vehemently told me Murdoch Lancer had thrown out his second wife, Johnny's mother and told her, 'an' don't forget Buster'.
I did not know Murdoch Lancer very well, first impressions aside; I could not see the man doing such a thing to a woman and a child.
Teresa, the dear girl, tried to tell the impetuous and angry young man that Murdoch Lancer was not to blame for Maria Lancer leaving and taking her small son.
That the woman left with a 'gambler' when Johnny did not want to listen to her declaration he tried to pull away, the little whirlwind grabbed the horses bridle, lay a small hand on Johnny's leg.
Looking him square in in the eye she told him that on Murdoch's sick bed he had, 'called her name' .
I know a man near death will call for someone he dearly loves be it a mother, wife or sweetheart. If Murdoch called for Maria, then Johnny had damning and tainted information from an obviously dissatisfied woman.
It seemed like the boy was listening, confusion, disbelief, pain on his face, then we all three heard the shouts of the cowboy, vaquero, I am trying dear journal, and the milieu was broken.
I must halt briefly dear journal, the dinner bell has rung and Murdoch Lancer has an unbreakable rule about everyone attending the main meal together.
I will miss the antics and aggressive nature of my little brother at the table tonight. The boy is laid up in his bed with a bullet to the back, complements of Day Pardee.
More on that later senor, I am learning, senor journal. I have one hell of a tale to tell.
(Apologies to any discrepancies in timing, it all happened
so fast days, hours...was it only two days?) solista 2014