Blue
Chapter One
He wasn't sure what he was looking for, he only knew he hadn't found it. The thought came to him on the rim of exhalation, that oof when the breath is gone and another is on its way.
"Scott? We've got time for one more."
A beer glass being tapped insistently on the wooden table brought him back to the present. Their eyes locked and Scott swallowed, mouthed the word okay, meant to say it out loud, but his mouth had gone dry. And he knew it wasn't from the lack of beer. He waved Johnny back down to his seat. "I'll get this one." Looking across the noisy saloon, he was glad they arrived early to grab a back table with shadows deep enough he could watch without anyone noticing.
The careworn sign on the bar counter proclaimed the establishment had Pickled Eggs!. Someone was exuberant, but it wasn't Eli Wallace. The bartender turned toward Scott and his eyes looked tired behind wire spectacles. With bits of straw sticking to his pants and sweat rings marring the cotton tic under his arms, he was a man who'd done a full days work already.
"What can I get for you, Scott?"
A world of weariness in that one question. "I can come back, Eli, if it's too much trouble."
Eli waved his bar rag back and forth like a white flag. "No. no. Mrs. Wallace needed the piano moved from the barn into the house—this morning. Couldn't wait until tonight or even this afternoon. It had to be this morning." He placed a hand on his waist and stretched backwards, an audible crack sounding across the counter. It sent chills through Scott's spine. "She just isn't normal when her sister comes to visit. And I'm gonna be stoved up for the rest of the day." He straightened and his glasses slid halfway down his nose. "So what'll it be?"
"Another two beers. Then we'll be out of your hair."
"Oh, it's not the two of you I'm worried about, it's them." Eli pointed past him and Scott turned around. His gaze skimmed the table of four boisterous cowboys the bartender was referring to, but lingered on two other men who'd taken up residence near their own table. "Those boys came in soused and are getting," Eli looked up to the saloon's ceiling and searched for a word, shrugging when he didn't find it, "soused-er."
He took the beers Eli handed to him and headed back to the table. Almost there, he felt Johnny looking at him.
"Shoulder still bothering you?"
He had folded his left arm inward, across his belt, carrying the two glasses in his right hand. The last of the bandages were taken off a week ago, but it had become a habit to shift weight. "Not so much," he lied, "only when I think about getting up in the barn rafters to repair the roof."
Johnny tcched. "Not likely you'll be up in the rafters anytime soon. I don't think Murdoch's ready for it yet. Not after the last time, and you didn't have a bullet hole in your shoulder then."
The last time entailed a healthy hank of rope tied between two beams, some free time and a bet—a substantial one—for walking across it. "I believe I still owe you for threatening to untie it when I was halfway there."
"You were just lucky Murdoch showed when he did. Man's voice fits his height, doesn't it? I think he was scared seeing you up on that jiggly piece of twine."
"Well, he wasn't the only one."
Laughing, Johnny ran a finger around the rim of his glass, wiping away some wayward foam. "Yeah, we'll have to figure out another bet once you're not so disabled."
Scott tapped the side of his temple and nodded. "My shoulder has nothing to do with it. Half of the battle is mental; you have to think your way across the rope."
Johnny flashed a crooked smile, pulled it all the way to his eyes. "Like I said…disabled."
"Why are you in such a good mood?"
"Molly was handin' out the mail today at the depot. Woman talks a mile a minute, but she's real tempting."
Scott grinned. "Refresh my memory, how far did you get last time?"
"Not so far I couldn't turn around and walk back, but my luck is due for a real change. Her father's out of town, just in time for Iverson's tonight."
"And her mother will allow you to take her to the social unescorted?"
"There are some upsides to bein' Murdoch Lancer's son." Something devilish crept into Johnny's eyes. "Not a lot, but some."
A niggling thought. "You did ask her mother, didn't you?"
"See? That's why you don't have a date tonight."
He shot a warning look to his brother's smirk and picked up his glass. "Well, good luck with Molly," he raised his voice over the din of the saloon, "and her mother." Luck—his brother wouldn't need it. Johnny always landed on two feet, at least in the woman department. It was the smile, Scott thought. Blinding them at twenty paces so when he got up close, they ignored the horse smell.
"So that story in the San Francisco Examiner said the wheat prices are gonna go high this season. And that means Lancer should plant another hundred acres?" Johnny bumped his glass back and forth between his hands, watching the beer slosh from one rim to the other.
"That's right."
"It means we'll have to add wagons and more men for the harvest. Maybe dig an irrigation system."
"Details, Johnny. Minor details." He remembered the article from breakfast, thought he'd been discussing it with himself since their father had left for the barn and Johnny was head down over his coffee cup.
"Uh-huh. You know, Scott, sometimes you get on a tear after reading those newspapers. Murdoch is gonna cut you off one of these days."
"He doesn't seem to mind the challenge," he said, distracted by the voices behind him. A baritone and a tenor. The deeper voice was spoken with an eastern accent, like his own, but harder on the "r's". Perhaps Maine.
The baritone spoke again; his voice was a little quieter in conversation and Scott had to lean a bit back to catch what they were saying.
"…did it right at…quite the hul-a-baloo…"
The tenor answered. "Ben, remember…push towards…Richmond? Hancock called…when the sun came out? Rained so much…webbed feet…"
One sucked in breath. He was shaky and he marked that up to being fresh out of bed and slugging down a beer and a half, but it was nothing like that and he knew it. Scott slipped out of his chair and swiveled to stand.
They weren't cowboys. One of the men wore heeled boots, had a ruddy complexion above his black beard, but he was no more a cowboy than Scott was when he first arrived in California. The brown fabric of his jacket had grayed out in a few areas, and was frayed around the cuffs. Underneath was Union blue, so faded it was shiny. The shirt bore two eagle buttons, an "I" in the middle of each tagged him—infantry. Polished bright, they caught some of the sun coming in through the window and threw spots of light against the far wall.
The other had a smiling face burned brown by the sun. He slouched against the table on two elbows and a thick shock of black hair worked its way out from under his felt hat. Nothing military about him.
Ignoring the puzzled look of his brother, he stepped forward. "Have you gentlemen been in town long?"
The man with the beard looked up, wary. "Not long. Although I can't see what business it is of yours." He nudged his companion. "Are you the welcoming committee?"
"No, not generally. My name is Scott…Lancer." He paused, but there wasn't recognition of his name. "I couldn't help but overhear you talking about Richmond. Who were you with?"
Eyebrows quirked together and he bristled like a back alley dog going after scraps. "Fifth Maine Regiment, Infantry. We were part of the finest kind hometown Bangor boys, and proud of it." His hand fiddled with the second eagle button, twisting it one way then the other. "Our regiment was a thousand strong. Almost halved by the time we reached Richmond, though"
A sore point, the tenor tried to ease whatever the man was thinking. "Let it be, Ben. We caught them in the end, didn't we?"
"Not soon enough. We started losing them over at Orange Turnpike in Wilderness on the way." Scott watched the transformation come over the man as he remembered. There was still wariness, but now sadness had crept in and tinged his words. "Tally and I were closer to Plank Road, then went on to Spotsylvania. Most of those boys caught at Turnpike ended up at Libby or Bell Isle or dead, didn't they? Poor bastards." He raked his fingers through his beard. "You take part?"
Scott's mouth compressed into a thin line without him trying. "I was with the Fifth Cavalry for the Wilderness campaign."
Ben stared at him, appraising. "Sheridan's bunch, eh? I expect if you were with the Dandy Fifth, your days weren't all roses and whiskey with Lincoln on the White House lawn." Then he grinned. "Wanted to go cavalry myself, but couldn't make the weight." He patted the bulge squeezed tight by his belt. "Rather, I like to think I met the weight and exceeded the standard." A quick bark of laughter and the man splayed his beefy hand across his chest, grasped the lapel of his coat. "Benjamin Franklin Smith, Maine Volunteers, '62. This is Tally Roberts, the same."
Roberts pinked around his open collar. "Oh say, that's just a name Ben came up with; one of my jobs was as the band treasurer. My given name is Adelbert..."
Ben stared in mock horror. "Adelbert? My God, if I'd known your name was Adelbert, I never would have let you near the horn section." He shuddered and fluttered his hand. "Too German for me. All that heavy oom pah-pah."
"…but I go by Bert. Like I have since the day I was born. Even through the infantry, until Ben decided it wouldn't do."
Ben's mouth twitched. "You aren't German are you?"
His alarm bells momentarily silent, Scott felt a smile break loose. "Nary a tuba in the family tree."
"Trouble?" Johnny asked behind him, surprising Scott, but not realizing it.
He shook his head. "Gentlemen, this is my brother, Johnny."
Johnny's eyes lingered on Ben. The look on his face—it eloquently showed everything that had happened during the last few weeks.
"Actually, Tally and I need work. The fellow at the mercantile said Lancer may be hiring, any truth or just rumor?"
Scott fell silent, weighing the two soldiers against the pain in his shoulder, tried to figure out the odds of it happening again. Two expectant faces met his look, begged him without knowing they were doing it, just had it in their eyes.
Johnny stepped forward, stood hip to hip. "No, we have all the men we need this season."
Smith hesitated like he didn't want to believe the bad news, but he put on a smile. "So rumor, eh? Then we keep trying, we'll make our way to San Francisco sooner or later." He turned to Bert. "And if I was a betting man, it'd be sure money on the later."
"Wait." Scott wavered then plowed ahead. "The Conway ranch may be hiring. They're out east of town. Tell the foreman that I sent you. It shouldn't be a problem."
Ben's smile was wide and genuine, practically glowed with relief. "Thanks, thanks for helping out a couple of fellow soldiers." He captured Scott's hand and pumped. "Even if we are infantry."
He watched the two men wave to Eli on their way out of the saloon and slid back into his chair, not looking at Johnny.
"You wanna tell me what just happened, Scott?" His name came out like a jab.
"What?"
Johnny swung into his chair. "Picking fights in the saloon isn't exactly your style. Thought you were gonna jump' em before they finished their beer."
He huffed out a breath. "That bad?"
Johnny shrugged and tipped his head to the departing Ben and Bert. "I've seen better starts that ended worse. Just surprising is all, coming from you, Scott. You've been like this ever since Cassidy and his wife left."
"Lewis and Hardy…"
"Are gone. Besides the truth is on the table now and Murdoch was right…next time there'll be a hanging. Lewis isn't real smart, but even he could figure that out."
"You heard Sarah mention the letters Dan sent to other people. I won't sit idle and wait for Lancer to be attacked again."
"You can't keep waiting for something that probably won't ever happen. Murdoch'll think you're…" He made a waving motion in the air.
"Loony? And what do you think?"
"I'd just say you're being careful. But why'd you send them over to Aggie's? You know she'll snap those men up, short as she is this time of year. And if they're gonna work at Conway's they might as well work at Lancer. I thought the point was to get them on their way."
"It was…it is. But they're not connected to Cassidy."
"How long are you gonna keep this up? You've been on high point ever since Murdoch called off the perimeter guards. Let it go."
Scott raised an eyebrow, his best "are we going to argue about this?" expression. It worked because Johnny held up his hand like he was hailing the nine-ten to Modesto.
"I guess I don't need any explanation, but it sure would be good to know what direction you're goin' in sometime. Come on, let's finish up and get home."
Thank God he didn't have to explain. How could he when he really didn't understand it himself?
Chapter 2
"Scott, are you in there?"
Wonder of wonders, Johnny knocked—a quick tap, tap—before barging in. It was obvious from the start he was trying to write the story as he went along.
Fingers danced along the bureau top. "You want to come with me and Molly to the social?"
"And be a fifth wheel at the Iverson's? No thank-you."
Johnny's hand snaked behind his neck and rubbed. "Thought maybe you could peel off when the dancin' started." His eyes went starboard towards the window. "I, uh, think Molly's cousin'll be there."
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the sentiment, but he couldn't stifle a groan. Didn't even try. "I'm quite capable of getting my own dates for socials or anything else you might have in mind."
"You kinda hit a dry spell. Been thinkin' maybe you should try and fix that."
"Now you're giving me advice? Just. Go."
Johnny's eyes softened and Scott knew he had something to share. "Frank just got back from town, happened to run into the foreman from the Conway ranch. Told Frank he wanted to thank Lancer for sendin' some men their way this afternoon. Looks like Ben and Bert got those jobs."
"Well, that's good." Somehow the thought of two down-on-their-luck soldiers getting ranch jobs didn't bother him. Different than soldiering or bivouacking with a regiment of men, Aggie would be lucky if they didn't run yelling from the place within the week—he almost did. But maybe they'd take to it.
A spasm went across Johnny's forehead, an effort to keep from saying something that would land him in brotherly hot water. But he had his magnifying glass in hand, one big eye looming in and out of the lens.
"Is it? After all that went on, I'm not so sure I would've set them up right next door."
One more warning, one last poke, and Johnny would quit. The fraternal rules were set and Scott knew them by heart. So did his brother. Johnny's grin returned, however the smile was tenuous. He's humoring me.
"But, okay. I'll be back late. Hopefully." And he was gone.
The lantern spread a soft fan of light throughout his bedroom. Scott placed his glass of scotch on the table beside the bed and reached behind his head for the pillow. But he didn't feel like sleep, wasn't needing it.
His arm across his face, he pulled his boot off with the toe of the other and let them drop to the floor, trying to push thoughts from his head. He closed his eyes shutting out everything, but it held back nothing.
Rolling over, he came to a stand beside the bureau, uncertain of what he wanted to do, but *something*. He spied the trunk at the end of his bed and approached it as one would an unknown and unrestrained dog. But this wasn't going to bite, not really. He knelt down on one knee to open the heavy lid.
A particularly dreary work of Dickens, Barnaby Rudge, was nestled in white ruffles. The last time the shirt saw the light of day, he was in Murdoch's study half listening to him talk about blades of grass and surreptitiously spying on his new brother. How far he'd come. In fashion, and otherwise.
A knitted red sweater complete with cap and scarf, were next. His maiden aunt couldn't comprehend a place where it didn't snow, nor could she get over the fact he'd aged past twelve, and sized the garments accordingly. The scent of lilac drifted up from the yarn bringing to mind soft hands, stale shortbread and walks in the woods.
A packet of letters tied with string and a pair of dove grey kid-gloves. Then a brown-paper wrapped box met his fingers. It had come a week ago, arriving the day after his bandages removed. Ironic. But then his entire life seemed built on a series of ironies. Never opened, the scrawl on the front declared it was from Mr. Daniel Cassidy, Esquire, sent by way of St. Louis. Not ready yet, he pushed it aside to get to the item underneath.
The trunk was a hodgepodge of things that described his life and what he had made of it, but this was a talisman of sorts. He had thrown his dreams into it and in turn, it had seen him through the worst of times.
Stained tissue paper crinkled when he tugged it apart. The fabric within was fuzzy, smelling faintly of naphthalene. Just like the last time he saw it. Had it really been that many years ago?
The shell jacket was mostly patches, black threads tying each moment of their history together. A few were sewn by his own hand, including the elbow where his first mount had taken quite a bite when denied his carrot. A quick study, he never forgot to carry the damn vegetable again as Mortimer was a most unforgiving horse.
The hospital nurse—a wizard—had wielded one of her finest sewing needles to fix the rest. Among them, a deep rent stitched with a jagged line at the shoulder: Spring, Spotsylvania, 1864. Two smaller ones near the collar: sometime in early '65. Or was it late in '64?
He reached into the left inside pocket. If he remembered correctly, the shoulder strap should be there. It was. The only one left of two; the yellow had gone brown with age. One edge was faded and grooved, the gold bar signifying rank almost worn away. A declaration of service. First Lieutenant, Cavalryman. And with it came a large amount of pride.
He should be happy. And he was, in spite of the sixteen men whose memories he still carried. With the Cassidy business over, he was freed forever from the stigma of betrayal. He wiggled the few remaining tarnished silver buttons, outlined the bold eagle and capital "C" with his fingertip. But there was always a question in his mind.
Pride was considered a sin. God and he both knew it because Parson Williams had preached it ad nauseum from the pulpit almost every Sunday at St. Mark's Episcopal. So it came as a surprise to him the taste of it didn't seem sinful at all. Not when it meant you worked together toward a single cause, helping each other as necessary—for the greater good.
The lantern light took a sudden dip and shadows spotted the bureau drawers. He passed his hand lightly over the blue wool, then rubbed the strap, his thumb taking a path over the worn rank as sure as it did for the last year he wore it when there was too much time to spare.
The could-have-beens came tripping back with each stroke. Surprised at the yearning still there, his mind balked. The good Parson had pounded at the lectern that pride goeth before a fall. Well, he fell all right, perhaps not by his own hand, but he took the trip anyway. And he never looked back, not once. He jilted the Army like a bride left at the alter, unsure of who he was or what he was meant to do.
Cassidy coming to Lancer had brought it all to the surface again.
He tucked the strap back into the pocket and folded the tissue paper around the jacket, stuffing it deep into the trunk before closing the lid and going downstairs.
~0~0~0~
Scott was sitting in the great room, watching the dying fire and drinking the rest of his scotch when Murdoch came in and took the chair opposite. It was early spring, yet it seemed to Scott that the air had taken on a colder feel, almost damp, that belied the oncoming summer heat. His book lay open, draped over one thigh. Even Mr. Thoreau was no match for his foul mood tonight.
He closed the slim volume of Long Walks and Ruminations and laid it on the side table.
"It's a quiet evening," Scott said, "since Johnny's gone out."
Murdoch cocked his head, one side of his mouth pulled into a half-smile. His steel-gray hair topped a gray face perched in the open collar of a gray shirt and he looked like he wanted to say something. "There's some truth to that, it's Saturday after all. He was talking about the Iverson social." Each word was softly spoken, but so perfectly enunciated that it made Scott feel like he himself was talking with a mouth full of oatmeal. Or maybe it was only the end result of the second glass of whiskey.
Murdoch fumbled open the table drawer, and pulled out his pipe along with a small penknife. He began to remove the old residue at the bottom of the bowl, scraping with precise movements, then moved to the hearth to tap it out into the embers. "Your brother said you met two men in town looking for ranch work."
"What else did he say?"
"He said I should ask you."
He thought about saying something about the war not being over for everyone, but suspected he would have to explain what he meant, so he said nothing. Thought about Cassidy, holding on to his vengeance all these years, spewing lies he had no business telling, or any way of knowing they were lies in the first place. And in a roundabout way, tagging Ben and Bert as enemies, at least until the conversation turned to tubas.
Thought about the blue and its hold on him.
Blame was a hot potato to be passed around, apparently. He hadn't known, wouldn't have dreamed, it was Cassidy. In his mind, it had been a fluke: the guards catching wind of a few snatches of whispered plans, perhaps seeing an extra ounce of dirt where there shouldn't have been any. Instead, fever-addled talk had fueled the rebel guns.
So it was a happenstance after all. As were the men in the store today.
He would like to place all this resurrected shit—because that's what it was—at Cassidy's feet, but found he couldn't throw blame where it wasn't deserved. So where did that leave him now? Nursing a weakened shoulder, downing several glasses of good scotch, and interrogating strangers in the middle of the saloon.
Pulling an old jacket out of his trunk, and contemplating a different life.
His father was talking. "I have an acquaintance, a Frenchman named Ed Delacroix, who lives in San Diego County. He runs a string of Appaloosa's." Murdoch tamped tobacco from a pouch into his pipe. "His mareline has shown true."
He was expecting a few orders he could reasonably manage with his shoulder: planning the repair of the barn in the eastern meadow or more accountant work that Murdoch wanted to slough off. This, however, dropped out of the sky and landed with a soft plop at his feet.
"With all due respect, Sir, have you been to the corral lately? We're almost full at the inn with horses in every array of color."
Murdoch smiled and nodded to show he was aware of that very possibility. His match flamed and he sucked and puffed until he was satisfied the pipe was burning.
"There's more to it than color. Part of Ed's herd comes from an old Spanish line; the progeny are tall and rangy. They're excellent stock animals."
"And the horses are in San Diego?"
"I know, a long ways. Almost to the border."
"This must be some extraordinary horseflesh."
Murdoch showed his teeth and took a drag off the pipe. "From what I hear, they are. Some of the best in the state. Should take you about two weeks or so, roundtrip. Mind you, when you get back we'll need to start work on the barn repair."
There was a wrongness to the conversation. There was a wrongness to just about everything of late. "Johnny would be well-suited for this trip."
"He is and that's why he's going, too. I want both your opinions. And to bring back a mare, maybe two, if you can get the price down."
Scott lifted his glass, peering through the light amber of whiskey to the dancing fuzz of orange and yellow in the hearth. "Why now?"
Two choice words and a veritable elephant trundled into the room.
"It's all in the timing. Delacroix has the horses and they're for sale. You're injured and Johnny can break away." Murdoch took another puff. "And frankly…"
"By all means, let's be frank."
"I think it would be good for you to get away for a while. You're preoccupied…"
The elephant sat down between them and looked to be staying. The words were mindful of another time, if delivered a bit more sternly, and with a first-class ticket aboard the ocean liner Scotia. For all intents and purposes his grandfather had been right. Even the Champs-Élysées and flowing Bordeaux couldn't ease his sense of being adrift, though.
Maybe he did need to get away from Lancer. But Murdoch wasn't proposing a trip to Europe. Only to San Diego. With a brother in tow, yet.
"Murdoch, about those two men in the store."
"I'm not asking, Scott." His brow furrowed for a moment. "But I seem to recall that Johnny did say one thing about them."
"What?"
"He said the men weren't cowboys." Murdoch stood and tapped out his pipe into what was left of the fire. "I think Lancer should hire experienced men, don't you?"
His father stopped at the doorway. "I'll send the telegram to Delacroix in the morning."
The last of the fire sputtered in a shower of sparks and died. Scott wondered, as he often did, where he got his habit of thinking so much, was it paternal or maternal?
tbc