It was a delightful surprise when Scott Lancer came into the Hotel Carlton. I was sitting in the lobby, flicking through that day's newspapers for any interesting items, when a party came in. They looked like a family: an older man with a girl on his arm, probably father and daughter, and two young men. When I recognized one of the young men as Scott Lancer, I was about to jump to my feet and go to greet him. Then I stopped. I had recognized the other young man.

This was not a family of four. A family of three perhaps – accompanied by a hired gunfighter. I wouldn't greet Scott Lancer just yet. First I would find out, if I could, why he and his friends, or family, were being escorted by Johnny Madrid.

LLLLLLLLL

It was during the war that I had met Lieutenant Scott Lancer. Convalescing from a leg wound, I had been assigned to special training of newly recruited officers until I was fit to return to the field. They were the usual mix: some scared and trying desperately not to show it, some scared and showing it but going ahead anyway, a few stupid ones not scared at all. My task, simply, was to teach them to shoot. Not how to fire a gun, they could all do that, but how to shoot fast and accurately. Plenty of men can do one or the other but very few can do both. In a battle, it's a skill that can mean the difference between life and death. I wanted to give every one of those young recruits the best chance of coming out of that war alive.

Not many of them were willing to learn, or rather, not many of them were willing to do what it took to learn. Three times perfect, was what I asked of them: hit scattered targets three times in a row – fast. It sounds easier than it is. Most of the trainees got discouraged, gave up. They could hit the target once, that was enough for them.

Not Lieutenant Lancer. While the other new recruits were sitting in the mess drinking whatever they could get and assuring each other that 'three times perfect' was impossible, Lancer was out on the firing range, practising. And practising. And practising. For sheer stubborn determination, I'd never met his like before and I've only met his equal once since then. By the time he went to join the 2nd Michigan, he was hitting the target three times in a row with a pistol almost as fast as me, and four with a rifle – faster.

Johnny Madrid I met after the war. I was spending some time in Albuquerque. There was a lady living there who … well, never mind about that. There were a half-dozen pistoleros hanging around the town. Apparently there'd been a range war and they'd worked for the winning side. Now they were engaged in the serious business of spending the money they'd made. Well, most of them were. One of them seemed to be spending a lot of time just wandering about, whether looking for something or just brooding was hard to tell. He seemed to be a half-breed – looked Mexican at first glance but his skin was fairer than most Mexicans and he had blue eyes. Maybe that accounted for him being alone – mestizos generally aren't welcome on either side.

I watched him for a couple of days. It was easy enough, because his wanderings always seemed to bring him close to where I was; then I realized that he was watching me. I wondered if it was me he was looking for. It was.

"Paladin?" The pistolero had finally come up and spoken to me. He was a young boy, maybe about eighteen.

"That's me," I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"My name's Madrid, Johnny Madrid. I'm a gunfighter." He said it as a firm declaration.

"There seem to be a few gunfighters in Albuquerque at the moment," I remarked.

"You're a gunfighter," he said. I nodded an acknowledgment and he went on. "You're the best gunfighter in the south-west."

"Some might dispute that," I smiled. He shook his head.

"No, nobody disputes it. I want you to teach me," he stated abruptly. I suppose I looked surprised because he rushed on. "I'll pay. I'll pay you whatever you want."

"Why do you want me to teach you?" I asked him. I was a little intrigued. Most young pistoleros spent their time bragging about how good they were. Not many would admit that they had anything to learn.

"Because I want to be the best," was his reply.

"So, better than me, then?" I asked quizzically. He gave a grin.

"Well, make that second best, maybe," he said.

I think it was that sudden grin that made me like him. That, and his simple statement that he wanted to be the best. Not be the best so he could charge the highest fee, or kill some particular enemy, but just to be the best. I thought what a tragedy it was, though, that such determination, such a pure ambition, was thrown away on such a poor object as gunfighting.

"Let's get a drink and have a talk," I invited him. "I need to know a little about the man I might be teaching, so I can decide on my tuition fee." Johnny nodded, and I led the way towards one of the better saloons.

On the way I stopped for a moment to read a poster on the wall of the depot. Johnny stood and waited. I noticed he didn't look at the poster himself. I had the germ of an idea.

"What do you think about him?" I asked Johnny, gesturing towards the poster.

"Who?" he asked.

"This Luke Brinnington," I replied.

Johnny looked puzzled. "Don't know nothin' about 'im. Never heard of 'im."

"It tells you about him here," I said, indicating the poster again.

"I never learnt all that readin' stuff," Johnny said defensively.

"It can be useful," I remarked. "A poster like this can tell you whether a man is running for office or running from the law. It lets you know whether shooting him will get you a reward or get you hanged." Johnny shrugged. I said nothing more for the moment and we continued on to the saloon.

I found out a little more about Johnny over a couple of drinks. I didn't pry too deeply, didn't want to push too hard, but he seemed to trust me enough to talk a little. That pleased me. He was, as I'd surmised, half-breed; Mexican mother, Anglo father. The father had turned the mother and son out when Johnny was not much more than a baby. His mother was dead now. No family, few friends and a heartbreaking pride in the profession he'd chosen – that was what Johnny Madrid had for a life. I made up my mind.

"I'll teach you," I told him. His eyes lit up. I added, "… if you pay the fee."

"I'll pay it," he stated.

"You haven't heard what it is yet," I warned him.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Whatever it is I'll pay it. Whatever it takes to get it, I'll do." It was a firm declaration. For a moment I was reminded of Scott Lancer – I had a glimpse of that same stubborn determination in Johnny's face. But I would find out in a moment if he really was determined enough.

"Alright," I said, "here's my fee: reading lessons."

"What?"

"Reading lessons," I repeated. "You take lessons in how to read and write. When you complete one reading lesson satisfactorily, you get one shooting lesson." Johnny pushed back his chair angrily and stood glaring at me in disappointment, and in fury at being made fun of. I looked steadily back at him.

"I'm serious," I told him. In astonishment, he saw that I was.

"So who gives me these writin' and readin' lessons," he asked.

"I do," I replied. "One reading lesson equals one shooting lesson. You said you'd do whatever it takes," I challenged him. "Do we have a deal?"

Slowly Johnny sat down again. His thoughts were easy to guess, the main one probably being that I was crazy, but…

"We got a deal," he said, "When do we start?"

I tried to keep the smile on my face from being too big, but I don't know if I succeeded.

"Right now," I answered.

I gave Johnny his first lesson then and there – got pen, ink and paper and taught him to write his name. It wasn't easy. There was a lot of blotted paper and plenty of words from Johnny that he would probably never learn to read because they weren't in any dictionary, but when finally he produced a legible 'John Madrid', we went outside and I gave him the promised gun lesson. Over the next few weeks, both streams of lessons continued. Johnny still thought I was a little crazy, I was sure of it, but another thing I was sure of: there was no way that I was going to teach this boy simply how to kill faster and better, and nothing more.

Came the day when we were shooting at the targets – bottles suspended by string, and it was the string we were shooting – and Johnny not only hit the three in a row, but hit them faster than I could. I shook his hand and told him the lessons were over. About gunfighting, there was nothing more that I could teach him. We walked back to the saloon for a final drink. On the way, Johnny stopped to read a poster on the wall of the depot.

"I better not shoot this feller," he grinned. "He's runnin' for office. If I shoot 'im, I'll likely get hanged."

I had done what I could for Johnny Madrid. He was a gunfighter still, but he was the best and that might help keep him alive for longer. And he could read, and perhaps – just perhaps – that might help to give him a life.

LLLLLLLLL

And now, astonishingly, here were my two pupils together in the Hotel Carlton, San Francisco. I had to get to the bottom of this. When the party had disappeared upstairs to their rooms, I called to Hey Boy.

"Who are our new guests, Hey Boy?" I asked.

"That Mister Murdoch Lancer, big rancher from San Joaquin Valley. His family with him," Hey Boy replied with his broad smile that I've never seen anyone, Chinese or other nationality, match.

"His family?" I queried.

"That's right, Mister Paladin," Hey Boy was never slow in coming forth with information – to me, anyway. "Mister Lancer's sons, Mister Scott Lancer and Mister Johnny Lancer, and his ward, Miss Teresa O'Brien. She very pretty," he added.

"Yes, Hey Boy, I'd noticed." I slipped a note out of my pocket-book. "Will you give my compliments to Mr Lancer, please, and invite him and his family to join me for dinner this evening?" I requested.

"Yes, Mister Paladin," Hey Boy beamed again, bowed and scurried off to deliver the invitation.

Johnny Lancer? I thought. Johnny Lancer?

I rose from my chair and went forward to meet my guests as they came down the stairs that evening.

"Mr Lancer," I approached the older man first and extended my hand. "My name's Paladin. Thank you for joining me this evening."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Paladin," he responded, shaking my hand. He was courteous but clearly puzzled. "This is my ward, Miss Teresa O'Brien."

"Delighted to meet you, Miss O'Brien," I said, taking the opportunity to kiss her hand.

"And this… " Murdoch Lancer began, but Scott's face was already wreathed in smiles.

"Colonel! How are you?" he greeted me. Quick on the uptake, is Scott Lancer, and shrewd with it. He hadn't known me as Paladin, of course, but he had sense enough not to go blurting out my other name. He'd find out the story later. Meantime, his handshake was firm and I was sure he was as pleased to see me as I was to see him once again.

Murdoch Lancer was smiling in comprehension now. "You know Scott from the army, I take it, Mr Paladin?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr Lancer, he was one of my star pupils." I looked over at Johnny. He was looking back at me with that same grin I'd got to know back in Albuquerque but it seemed to come from deeper down now, as though from happiness, not just bravado.

Scott saw me looking at Johnny and swiftly made what he thought was a needed introduction: "Colonel, I'd like you to meet my brother, Johnny Lancer."

"Mr Paladin and I know each other," Johnny told him. "At least, he knew Johnny Madrid."

"And I'm pleased to know Johnny Lancer," I said as I shook his hand, "More pleased than I can say."

"You knew both my sons?" Murdoch Lancer's voice held an astonishment that was close to my own.

"Yes, in fact I would say that they were my two star pupils," I smiled.

"What did you teach them, Mr Paladin?" Miss O'Brien asked.

"The Colonel – as he was then – taught me to shoot when I first went into the army," Scott told her and his father. "What he taught me saved my life more than once," he added.

"What about you, Johnny," Miss O'Brien turned to him, "did Mr Paladin teach you to shoot, too?"

"Oh, better than that," Johnny answered, "he taught me to read."

Murdoch Lancer looked at both his sons, then turned to me. He shook my hand once more.

"Thank you, Mr Paladin," he said.