Losing Innocence
The pain comes from knowing that we have never been safe,
And therefore will never be safe again.
It comes from knowing we can never be ignorant again.
It comes from knowing we can never be children again.
Losing innocence.
John Jakes
Matthew Brinson had been sheriff in Castle Bluff for nearly fifteen years, give or take a month or two. What he had witnessed today was beyond anything his old eyes had ever seen.
The chair he was sitting in behind the old wooden desk squeaked as he pulled his bulk forward and placed both hands on top of the desk.
Eyeing the dark haired youth before him he shook his grey haired head, "Boy, I don't know what ta make of you."
The boy looked up; tilting his head until the deep blue of his eyes locked onto the grey eyes of the town sheriff, "listen, all I need ta know, are you gonna charge me with anything. It ain't safe for me ta hang around after tha dance."
Matt gave the boy a good once over with his own set of grey eyes, "just how old are you boy?"
The youths eyes turned cold, his youthful face a blank his voice empty of emotion, "I don't seen how that's any of your never mind."
Drawing his thin lips into a straight line Matt resisted the urge to take the boy up and smack him one, "I know you ain't reached yer majority yet. Where's yer family, Ma, Pa?"
The boy's lips turned up into a smile, which never reached the cold eyes, "Gone, if it's any of your concern. My mother 's dead and my Ol' Man didn't want his mestizo kid."
Leaning towards the old sheriff, "now you gonna throw me in jail or you gonna let me go? Cause I got places ta go an' people ta see."
Matt leaned back in his chair making the well-used piece of furniture scream with the unexpected push back, "you got a smart mouth for a kid".
The 'kid' looked hard at the older man before him and Matt could see this was no 'kid' but for some reason the hard-edged sheriff wanted to take the kid home and let his wife feed him and comfort him… ah hell, the kid would probly shoot 'em.
"No yer good ta go," the dark-haired pistolero shoved up and stood and Matt locked onto the blue eyes of the half-breed", my advice, not that you'd take it, put the gun down get an' go back ta bein' a kid."
The boy's face softened and the blue eyes looked down at the desktop, "much too late for that lawman. My fate was written the day my Daddy tossed me an' my Momma out," then as fast as a whip the mask was firmly in place and the blue eyes danced with mischief as the kid's eyes once more locked onto the pale blue of the man with the badge.
"OK then sheriff, much as I liked this little fly speck of a town I gotta go," tossing a handful of coins on the desk top", here that'll help bury Texas Bob. Word of advice don't bury 'im near good folk… he don't deserve it."
With a smart turn and the tingling of his spurs the boy walked the short distance to the door.
"Hey kid, what do they call ya?" Matt watched as the long fingered hand turned the knob of the door and stopped, turning back to face the sheriff a grin on his young face, "Madrid, Johnny Madrid. Keep yer eyes on tha papers, you're gonna be hearing a lot about me."
As the door closed, Matt sat staring remembering the cocky kid, his blue eyes and his youthfulness, "damn shame kid. Johnny Madrid, yeah probly read about yer death in a month or so. Good luck kid."
Turning a Page
He was tired, the horse under him just able to stumble his way to stand, nose nearly touching the dirt at his feet, Johnny patted the older animal on his neck, " 'sokay fella, I'll get ya settled with some grain and water. You done good, gracias amigo."
The stable man stood watching the young man and the pitiful excuse for a horse, "help ya there young fella?"
Ike Gentry had seen plenty of gun fighters in his day but this one had him stare and take stock. This boy was younger than most, but it was the light brown skin and the brilliant blue eyes that had him nearly swallow his chaw, ' damn,' he said to himself, 'Johnny Madrid, here in my livery.'
Turning his head to the man standing in front of the livery door Johnny grinned, "Not me, but mi amigo can sure use a good rest and feed".
"Well, Mister Madrid I can sure help 'im out there. Ya came to tha right place. I can take 'im and get 'im settled if'n ya wanna wash that trail dust outta yer throat over ta tha Black Diamond Saloon."
The grin turned into a soft smile, which in turn softened the face of the pistolero into a young kid, "Gracias, mind now you take good care of my friend here. That saloon got good food?"
Spitting tobacco juice off to the side, the older man grinned and wiped his chin with his hand, "sure 'nough, tha Diamond's got tha best cook in town, Miz Harley will fill both yer hollow legs up. Ya look like ya done missed a few meals long tha way."
Johnny liked this old man, knew who and what he was and treated him like tha next man, "'preciate it Old Timer, I recon I have missed a few meals lately."
Johnny patted his flat stomach over the buckle of his gun belt as the beast inside growled its displeasure at having gone too long without sustenance.
The old livery man took hold of the reins as Johnny passed them over, "you go on then, tell Miz Harley ol' Ike sent ya over an' I'll be by in a bit ta take partake of some of that pie she always bakes up."
Johnny slapped the horses' neck one last time as he turned to tend to his own feeding. He was tired, but the old timer made him feel better, least the ol' man didn't show fear and disgust at what or who Johnny Madrid was.
The short trek to the Black Diamond gave Johnny a chance to dust himself of the ten days of trail grime. A wet, cool beer, some decent food and a roof over his head would make his day.
Pausing at the open door of the saloon his eyes took in the interior of the well-established business. To his left through another set of doors was obviously the dining room, while ahead of him was a highly polished oak bar. Brass bar running along the bottom to rest a man's boot- heels, a wide mirror behind the bar to reflect the room.
The smell of beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat confronted the young pistoleros olfactory senses, and he smiled. Usually a lone wolf, Johnny did like the company of other people, but only for a short time.
His chosen profession did not encourage close relationships, he was constantly on the move, constantly looking at his back-trail, and sleeping with one eye opened.
Trust was something earned and there was not very many people the young man trusted, not and kept from getting a bullet in his back, but there were a few he allowed under his guard, a very few.
Johnny had forgone the bar and entered the dining room. Taking a table and chair in the back of the room, back against the wall Johnny Madrid had full view of anyone coming and going from the dining room, the bar, and the stairs case leading to a second floor as well as a second entrance.
He had made his way across the floor with just the sound of his spurs jingling his confident walk, as the early patrons of the bar had fallen silent at his entrance.
With a small grin the young pistolero pulled out his chair and lazily sat, and waited. The buzz of excited lowered voices became louder as the patrons accepted the young man in their midst.
A round robust older woman approached his table, her face held determination and just a little fear, but not much as she stopped beside him, "Well ya made yer entrance and got everyone excited what'll ya have?"
Johnny wanted to be sassy to this fearless woman, but felt if he wanted his food clean and not contaminated by anything unsavory he should be nice to the cook.
He looked directly into the woman's eyes, his head tilted to one side as he gave her one of his charming smiles used only for children and women.
His eyes dancing in mischief, "well then ma'am you must be Miz Harley, Ike said you was tha best cook around, made mention of comin' in directly for a piece of pie."
Margaret Harley had never been a fool for a handsome face, and sweet talkn' but this boy had something about him that made her melt. It was his sapphire blue eyes and the lost innocence behind them.
She had heard the talk about this pistolero; Lord knew the men could gossip worse than a bunch of old women when it came to something to spark their interest.
And Johnny Madrid sparked such an interest, "you hold that honey tongue for some wayward young woman. And Ike is just a crazy old fool, but thank you for tha compliment a woman my age gotta take 'em where they come from."
Johnny knew he had her and the way she said 'Ike' knew she had a hankerin' for tha old liveryman, as the old man had for her.
"Well don't know 'bout these men here in this town, but someone would snatch you right up faster than a cat on a mouse. Recon I'll let you decide what I'm needin' ta fill this empty in my belly."
Maggie felt the stirrings of motherhood and sniffed, this boy had a way about him. She wanted to feed him till he popped like a tick, hug him till he nearly succumbed to her fierce embrace, and clock his ears for even picking up a gun.
"I got somethin' that'll fill ya right up an' stick to yer ribs", looking at the young man with a critical eye, "an' a nice cool mug of milk".
Johnny grinned and dipped his head all the more showing Maggie he was still just a kid, his tanned skin made it impossible to see the red blush but when he turned those blue eyes back up to her her heart melted even more.
"Thank you Miz Harley, 'preciate that. Ah think I could get a glass of water too?"
His smile was all it took to blush herself, 'if I were still a young girl…' "'Course son, you relax I'll be back in a second."
Johnny tipped back his chair to balance on the two back legs, there were only a few people in the dining hall, looked to him to be stage coach passengers getting their meal before cramming themselves into a too small space on wheels that shook every bone in a person's body.
He would not ride in one unless he was on foot and desperate.
Good Company
Old Ike was right, Johnny conceded, the food was good, the pie made his mouth water for more and Ol' Ike was pretty good company.
At least with the old man sitting at his table the other patrons kept their eyes and mouth to themselves.
Ike chuckled at the way Madrid's eyes rolled back as he enjoyed the second dish of pie and cream, "didn't I tell ya Ol' Maggie 'sgot a way with cookin'?"
Johnny lay his fork down in the empty dish and wiped a hand over his chin, grinning up at the man the dark- haired pistolero nodded, "that ya did Ol' Man. How's my horse doin'?"
Ike ran a hand over his face, "that cayuse got a lot of years an' miles on 'im. He's due a rest an' a rockin' chair, if'n' ya get my drift?"
Johnny nodded, "yeah, I know. You got anything better?"
The old liveryman shook his head, "nope. There's a few good ranches about that ya could probly find a good mount at a reasonable price, if ya short in tha pocket book."
Johnny had to admit to himself that the old geezer was adept at reading a man just by his looks, "I learned a long time ago ta always keep somethin' back for hard times, I'm good."
Ike stood and patted his belly, "Maggie's got a way with pies, now if yer a mind too," with a wink of his eye, "I'm buyin' tha first round".
Johnny chuckled, "Lead on Ol' Man", Johnny shoved his chair back and stood slowly his leg muscles sore after sitting for too long, 'gotta get me a bath an' a room,' he thought as he followed Ike from the dining room into the bar.
Several men greeted the liveryman and eyed the young pistolero trailing behind; someone chuckled out, "hey Ike got ya a young pup paddin' behind ya."
"Bert if ya had any sense a'tall you'd see this here's Johnny Madrid, now keep yer opinions to yerself, 'fore this pup bites ya in tha ass."
Bert looked away from the laughing blue eyes of Johnny Madrid and found something interesting with his mug of beer. The man sitting beside Bert slapped him on the back and hooted, "That ought'a curb yer tongue Bert."
Johnny took a stand at the end of the long bar, the wall to his back and leaned onto the top with his elbows. The mustached bar tender walked over wiping a glass with a clean towel, he eyed the young man and concluded he couldn't be much more than eighteen, "Ike, usual?"
The older man grinned, "You know it Timothy. An' set one up for my friend."
Timothy Dalton eyed the younger man, "Ike you know as long as I've been open I never serve kids beer and hard liquor, got some sarsaparilla, if he's a mind to."
Dalton had to give the kid accolades, the grin never leaving his young face and the blue of his eyes sparkled with mischief, he liked this kid from the start.
"Mr. Barkeep, I ain't never denied a man ta serve who or what in his own establishment, but I ain't a kid," smiling at the older man, "age don't come with no birthdays, hell I ain't had one since I was ten."
Dalton looked the kid up and down, seeing the gun tied low on the thigh he also noticed the worn leather on the gun rig, 'no this was no kid, no upstart showing off.
Ike didn't feel like seeing his old friend sprout any new holes in his body, "Tim this here's Johnny Madrid, he's just passin' thru. Need ta find 'im a new pony ta replace his old crow bait. You need ta just shut up, an' give us tha beer."
Ike hoped Tim would take the hint, "I'm sure tha fine church ladies wouldn't d'ny Johnny a mug ta slack his thirst".
Tim looked at his friend, "since when does anyone tell Timothy Dalton who he can or can't serve. It's just I seen young'uns' come here all sure of themselves and can't hold their liquor and begin bustin' up my furniture."
Johnny chuckled and snorted, "If that's all you're worried 'bout. I been drinkin' beer and tequila for years Ol' Man 'cides in my line of work it don't pay ta get so drunk ya forget which end of tha gun barrel tha bullet comes from…. Catch 'm drift?"
Dalton stared at the young gun then broke out into loud laughter, "gotta tell ya Mr. Madrid for someone with a fierce legend you're alright in my book. What'll it be gents?"
The patrons who had been watching and listening to the exchange between the barman and the gunfighter relaxed when the big bartender laughed and began serving the mugs of frothy beer.
After a while, it was as if Johnny Madrid was just one of the regulars, he partook of the company of the older men, played a little poker and made eyes at the saloon girls.
Ike raised his mug to Johnny as the gunfighter and the saloon girl made their way up the stairs, the young man turning a smile onto the old man as Ike sighed, "damn to be young again'."
Tim leaned on the bar and placed a fresh mug of beer in front of his friend, "too much trouble, and glad all that's behind me".
Ike took a long drink, set the mug down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "yeah, but one can always dream."
Lost
Murdoch Lancer lay the report down on his desk, turned his chair around, and stood. His eyes took in his ranch through the overly large window. He knew every inch of this land, sweated over much of it, even shed some blood in defense of it.
He said it was for his legacy, his sons. However, his sons were not here and may never be here. So why was he holding on so fiercely to everything called Lancer.
For his sons, Scott his eldest back East in Boston, Murdoch had only seen the boy once when he made the trip East to bring his boy home. Scott was having his fifth birthday party; on Garrett's whim, he had the privilege of shaking the hand of the quiet and polite boy, his first-born son stole his heart away.
Scott's grandfather, Harlan Garret had raised the boy with the best of everything. How could he drag this delicate looking child through the courts and nasty gossip of Boston society?
It would be best for the boy to stay here; at least until he was old enough to decide where it was he wanted to belong.
The still untamed California was no place for a child of such deportment. His heart broken Murdoch left his son and returned to the only thing that kept him alive, his land, Lancer.
Murdoch came out of his contemplations at the sound of his Segundo, Paul O'Brien and his daughter Teresa, chatting as they entered the great room of the hacienda.
Seeing the emotions in his friends' expression, he kissed his daughter on the forehead, "Darling, find Maria and have her fix us up a big pot of coffee".
Smiling up at her father, her big brown eyes full of love, "yes sir. Mr. Lancer", she queried, "anything else you might need?"
Murdoch glanced up and smiled at his friends' daughter, "No dear, but thank you".
Teresa turned but gave her father a lingering look; she knew Murdoch Lancer was upset about something, something they did not want her to hear about. With a fleeting smile to herself, leaving the room in search of the housekeeper, she would find out from her father tonight.
With Teresa gone, Murdoch looked at his friend and Segundo and sighed, "Please sit Paul, I… I received a report from the Pinkerton Agency."
Paul glanced at the thick envelope on Murdoch's desk, "Johnny?"
The man had seemed to age since this morning; what was in that written report had shocked his friend, "Murdoch?"
"Yes it is about Johnny, I need you to read it, and then I hope you can give me some of that good advice I rely on."
Murdoch picked up the envelope and handed it off to his friend as he himself turned to look out of the large window and lose his thoughts in the land stretching out in all directions... as he tried to remember his dark-haired, blue-eyed toddler.
Murdoch heard the ticking of the large clock in the foyer, as he heard the sharp intake of a breath from Paul, the pages placed on top of the desk a quiet rustling of paper.
"Well then", Paul cleared his voice as he sat the last page down to rest with the others, "what do you feel about this", pointing a finger at the quiet pages of the report.
"I don't know what to feel. When I read it earlier I lost my breath, I was sick on my stomach and I… it felt like a piece of me broke off and died", Murdoch sat in his chair and swiveled it around to face his friend and confidant.
"My God Paul, Johnny Madrid. I don't know what to think, how could Maria do that to my… our son?" Murdoch stood and began to pace, "how, how can I accept the fact my son is a hired killer, how can I even bring him home to Lancer."
Paul looked up at the rigid back of his friend, losing two wives and sons had hardened the man who he knew was a loving and giving friend, neighbor, and boss.
What could he say to his friend; to a man, fate had been unkind to.
He had seen the man put someone in need above himself, "Murdoch you are a fair man, I have never seen you judge a man by his cover. According to this report, Johnny had been on his own for some time after Maria died and we both know how those border towns are. It is either adapt or die, seems Johnny adapted."
Murdoch was silent, head bowed hands clutched behind his back solid, unmoving, "Paul how would you feel having a known gunfighter under the same roof as Teresa. We don't know what kind of… moral upbringing the boy has had, if any. From what the Pinkerton reports say he is willful, smart mouthed and a loner."
Paul stood and moved up beside his friend, placing a hand on the broad shoulders, "I can't tell you what to do, except to follow your heart and not some written word from a clinical view point. There are always two sides to a coin."
Murdoch felt the comforting hand drop away and the soft steps of his friend as he left the room. Left alone, Murdoch felt like someone was always leaving him alone.
"Oh Maria what did you do, you should have left Johnny here, now look at what you… we have done to that sweet little child," Murdoch spoke to no one, for no one was there, as always.
Glancing once more to the land spread out before him the disheartened father turned and took back his seat.
Reaching to pull his pen and ink to him and retrieving a sheet of paper from the drawer he sat to compose a reply to the agent.
A frown on his lips he put pen to paper and wrote, 'Dear sirs, in regards to Johnny Madrid…..'
Somewhere south of the border, in a small nondescript town a young dark-haired, blue-eyed pistolero sent a man to his maker.
The burn of the bullet meant for his heart found purchase in his left shoulder. The witnesses would say it was a fair fight and one the boy tried to dissuade the loud-mouthed bully.
The town bruja did her best at removing the lead from the soft flesh; there would always be a scar. A reminder to the young pistolero that thought he was invincible, death came to everyone.
One day it would be him lying in the dirt his life soaking into the warm sands, no one to mourn his passing.
Miles away in the green San Joaquin Valley a father signed his name to the bottom of the missive, sitting back and covering his eyes as the silent tears fell.
TBC