One Good Deed…
Chapter 1
Between mouthfuls of potato Johnny repeated the disturbing conversation he had had earlier with Ethan Morgan, a neighbouring rancher. The young mans father and brother listened intently; the elder Lancer's countenance soon darkening in anger.
"Rustlers!" Murdoch spat the word with heartfelt contempt. He considered such thieves a pestilence on the land, a scourge almost on a par with drought and disease. Mother Nature was a worthy friend and a mightier foe. Working with or defeating such a force gave a man a sense of achievement but vying with the unscrupulous? No! That was something Murdoch Lancer deeply resented.
The rancher would never begrudge a hungry man meat but in his experience it was rarely done to fill an empty belly, rather to line some idlers pocket. Lancer had been built with blood, sweat and tears and he'd be damned if he was going to let anyone brazenly take something they had no right to.
"We'd best bring the herd down from the north pasture, double the watch. I'm not prepared to lose even one beef." The rancher growled leaving his sons in no doubt of his resolve.
"I don't think they'll hit us." Scott reasoned "From what Johnny said they seem to be concentrating on the smaller spreads, deliberately targeting the most vulnerable stock."
Murdoch contemplated his son's words "Yes, the easy pickings! The smaller outfits just don't have the manpower needed and they certainly lack the financial security to cover any losses incurred."
Johnny nodded in agreement "Ethan said any major loss this close to the drive would cripple him financially…"
A loud rap at the front door brought the suppertime conversation to an abrupt halt. Setting down his fork Johnny rose to his feet, the dark haired Lancer's gait quickening a little as the knock came again. The apparent urgency in the callers demand had all eyes focused on the doorway, widening in alarm when the younger Lancer son took a step backwards and raised his hands asking "What's this about?"
Murdoch and his elder son watched with bated breath as a stout middle aged man stepped into view, piercing blue eyes stared out from his tanned, rugged face. The stranger held a rifle, the business end just inches from Johnny's chest.
"What do you want?" The rancher's voice cut through the tense silence, drawing the attention of the older man.
"A little of your hospitality" the intruder replied sarcastically before gesturing to the youngest Lancer to join the other two men.
As Johnny edged backwards the French doors swung open and from the kitchen came the sound of hurried and unknown footsteps, soon three more men had entered the great room, two with guns drawn the third carrying a limp form in his arms.
The first man barked out a string of instructions all of which were followed instantly. The seemingly injured member of the group carefully positioned on the couch while the Lancers' hands were bound and they then instructed to sit on the floor, backs to the empty hearth. Although Murdoch had insisted no one else was home, the hacienda was quickly searched by two of the men.
All three Lancers stared over at the couch, surprised by the age of the figure lying there and dismayed at his physical condition. The youth had obviously been shot and the shoulder wound continued to seep life, staining his blue shirt a harrowing crimson. Pain filled blue eyes flickered open and struggled to focus on the three strangers.
"That boy needs a doctor." Murdoch addressed his captor, genuine concern ringing in his voice.
A questioning gaze met his. "There one in these parts?"
"About an hours ride…" Murdoch began silenced by the shake of the other mans head.
"Can't wait that long."
The patriarch directed the older man to the medical supplies in the kitchen then along with his sons silently watched the drama unfolding before them.
The supper table was unceremoniously cleared, its contents swept ruthlessly onto the floor. The injured boy was then moved to the table groaning pitifully as pain washed over him in sickening waves. The tall flaxen haired man, who'd gently eased him onto the table, gripped his hand and whispered something in his ear while another one of the gang, another blond, pressed a bottle of Murdoch's finest malt to his lips.
As the fiery liquid stung the back of the youth's dry throat he began to cough violently, finally clamping his mouth shut he refused to take any more. Impatiently the leader snatched the bottle and poured a liberal amount over the knife he was holding, then after ordering the boy be held down he trickled the liquor over the now exposed wound. Without hesitation he began cutting into the already torn and bruised flesh, digging ever deeper for the bullet imbedded there. The boy struggled and bucked against the torture, his efforts futile against the strength and determination of the two men restraining him.
"Please pa, please. Please stop!" The boy begged weakly.
Several long tortuous minutes passed then the boy fell silent. The fifth stranger, tall and dark haired, his gun trained on the Lancers looked desperately over at the table. "Pa?"
Through gritted teeth came the reply "He's passed out!"
A sense of relief reverberated around the great room; all present thankful the boy's suffering was for now at least over. As a desperate silence replaced the anguished moans and pleas of the boy the Lancers digested the words that had so far been exchanged between the intruders. It seemed they were a family, a father and four sons. Worryingly they were on the run; a posse hot on their tail.
Despite the intrusion and hostility shown he and his family, Murdoch's heart went out to his captor. The patriarch shuddered as a memory eclipsed all other thoughts, that of removing a bullet from his own sons back. It had been an agonizing ordeal for the young man, he'd been too stubborn to pass out a second time, clinging tenaciously to consciousness as his father had cut into his raw and tender flesh. It had been almost as much of an ordeal for Murdoch himself, inflicting pain on a loved one, and fearing for their life at the very same time.
Day Pardee's bullet had almost killed Johnny; he'd hovered between life and death for two endless fever filled days. The wounded boy looked to have lost a lot of blood, and appeared much weaker than Johnny had been. Murdoch couldn't help but fear the worst. As that unspeakable thought took hold another nudged for acknowledgment. How would this father cope with such a loss?
A triumphant grunt jolted Murdoch out of his reverie and he watched as a misshapen ball of lead was hurled to the floor. With the removal of the bullet the atmosphere in the room lightened a little more and Murdoch found himself studying his contemporary. The grim set features showed no trace of emotion, no evidence of concern or fear but the elder Lancer knew they had to be there, hidden somewhere deep inside. Murdoch hadn't been so in control, his hands had trembled and he'd had to stop and compose himself. He had offered up a silent prayer and taking strength from that and the presence of his elder son he had managed to stop the bleeding and close the wound. Turning his head to the side the eldest Lancer let his gaze rest briefly on his younger son, suddenly needing some confirmation that he'd done all he could for his boy that day.
"Thanks Old Man!" Johnny had whispered weakly before closing his eyes and succumbing to sleep. The words had held no warmth back then; the boy had simply been thanking a stranger for doing what was necessary to save his life. The young man had been unaware of his father's anguish, didn't…couldn't understand it was love for his son that had fortified him in his actions that day.
The injured boy's plight once again drew his attention; his siblings were now hurriedly bandaging the wound as their father made his way back into the kitchen to wash his hands of blood.
Gun still trained on the Lancers the dark haired man sidled over to his brothers, gently touching the unconscious boy's face, concern clouding his handsome features. Casting a wary eye in the direction his father had left the room he voiced his concerns to the other men. "Jesse ain't up ta sittin' a horse!"
"Try tellin' Pa that Joe!" The smaller of the two blond men snapped back as he carefully eased the boy into his arms, to then deposit his burden just as carefully back down onto the couch.
The gunmen turned to the other blond "You talk to him Sam, he'll listen ta you!"
The taller man grasped hold of the discarded whisky bottle and gulped down some of its contents before answering "He ain't gonna want to hold up here, we'd be sittin ducks and you know it."
"You could leave the boy here!" Murdoch interjected, voicing the offer without a second thought. The intruders' eyes all settled on him.
"No!" A deep voice boomed from the doorway.
Murdoch craned his head around staring into the anger filled eyes of the older man "We'll take good care of your son. I give you my word. My word as a father."
The stranger strode further into the room eyeing the patriarch suspiciously "And when the law comes knockin' on ya door…"
"The law can be reasoned with. What wrong has the boy done?" Murdoch asked keeping his tone even.
"He's done nothin' wrong…" The boy's dark haired brother replied adding a hesitant "ceptin ride with us!"
"Then he has nothing to fear from the law. The law is fair and just in these parts. The Sheriff's a good, decent man…"
"I don't like it…" the boy's father began dismissively. "I ain't leavin'Jesse with strangers…"
"Think about it." Scott insisted but before he could continue his argument his brother voiced what they were all thinking "The boy either rests up here till he's well or he bleeds ta death in the saddle." Pausing briefly Johnny added softly "I know what I'd do if he were my brother."
An uncomfortable silence descended around the room. The stranger moved towards the couch and stared down at his unconscious son, reason now battling with mistrust. Decision made he turned towards Murdoch "Alright. He's got more of a chance here but if you…"
"I gave you my word." Murdoch insisted holding the other mans gaze. Eager to get the intruders on their way he continued "Help yourself to fresh horses, supplies, take whatever you need."
Without another word to Murdoch the older man delegated the necessary tasks to his sons, and as they hastily prepared to leave, he sat down on the arm of the couch. Tousling his sons hair he whispered "I'll send for ya boy. I promise."
TBC
Molly