Well, Boston, you've landed me in it. Ever since you wrote out your story for Murdo, the young 'uns have been at me to write my story. They won't be satisfied with just telling – no, nothing will do for your grandkids and mine but to have it all written out. For the family files, they say. So here it goes. I'll pass it over to Jack to fix up the spelling and so forth when he comes home from college. Imagine Johnny Madrid having a grandson at Harvard! But then, once I couldn't imagine Johnny Madrid being anyone or anything but Johnny Madrid. I sure didn't back on that February day, fifty-something years ago.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
"¡Viva la revolucion!" Fine words don't stop bullets and my friend crumpled under the hail from the firing squad. My turn next.
"¡Tu! ¡Tu, sigues! ¡Levantate!" The sargento was in a hurry but I didn't feel like obliging him.
"Lucien." I murmured my friend's name in goodbye as I dropped my hat to the ground with a dip of the head and slowly started to move. Slowly as I could. Slow can buy time. Time can buy chances.
"¡Levantes!"
"Hold up there!" The shout came from the road. The rurales paused. As they and I looked, a buggy came into view, bouncing around as the horses were put at top speed. It was the driver, the sole occupant of the buggy, who was yelling. "Wait up there! I'm looking for a man named Madrid – Johnny Madrid. Your captain back in the village said he might be one of your prisoners."
"I'm Madrid." Whatever this feller wanted me for, my chances with one fairly fat gringo were better than with a dozen gun-loving rurales. I made sure he knew I was there.
"Well, finally found you." He turned to the sargento. "Señor, es muy importante that you not kill el Señor Madrid. La vida of el Señor Madrid is worth muy dinero. Sabe?" The gringo's Spanish mightn't have been good but the American dollars he counted out did his translating for him.
"Con mucho gusto." The sargento was quite polite as he put out his hand for the money.
"That oughta do it," I heard the new arrival mutter. He came to me and started cutting the ropes my hands were tied with.
"Why you doin' this?" I asked him. Not that I wasn't grateful, you understand, but if this was just a switch from one trouble to another one, I wanted to know what the new one was.
"I'm a Pinkerton agent. Your father wants to see you."
"Lancer?" It took a moment to register. Partly, I guess, because I just didn't think of Murdoch Lancer as a father in my Johnny Madrid days. And he was the last person I was expecting to hear mentioned as I dodged out from a firing squad. But the Pinkerton guy answered smoothly:
"Willing to give you a thousand dollars for an hour of your time."
"Listos... ahora!" The sargento was shouting to his men and they opened fire. Even a wad of gringo dollars doesn't buy a lot of time. It had been enough, though. My hands were free to grab the Pinkerton's gun and take down the nearest rurale. I dropped and rolled, pulling the gringo down after me. A couple more shots kept the rurales busy enough for us to scramble away.
As the Pinkerton agent jumped into his buckboard I tossed the last of my fellow revolucionarios into the back of it and leaped onto the nearest horse.
"Shall I tell your father you're coming?" the agent yelled, as he whipped up his team. I took out one more rurale just before he fired at the retreating buckboard, and shouted back,
"For a thousand dollars, I'd even go to hell!"
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Everyone makes a mistake now and then, even Johnny Madrid, and joining up with the revolucionarios was probably the biggest one I ever made, considering how close it came to being my last. It wasn't the money that made me take on the job; I suspected from the start that they didn't have much. If they had, they would have been able to pay off the 'rent' the rurales were demanding for their land and besides, whenever the subject of my fee came up, they got cagey. They were promising me some land of my own in their village, once they were free of the rurales, and more than one hinted how fine a wife his daughter or sister would make. They'd welcome me, they said, and so they would have – they were nice people. But mention money and, well, "Have a little more cerveza, Señor Madrid, it's on the house."
So why did I do such a stupid thing as join a 'revolution' of one hired gun and a couple of dozen peons, who couldn't shoot straight and didn't have any ammunition to shoot with anyway, against a troop of trained, armed soldiers? Was it their cause? I guess I thought so at the time; they'd all worked hard for years to build their farms and now they were being run off it by these rurales and the men who'd hired them. That felt plain wrong to me. So, I went in to fight for them. But it takes more than being right to win a fight and as I rode off on the rurales' horse I hoped the luck of the last five minutes would hold long enough for me to get far enough to give them the slip. I hoped, as well, that the Pinkerton agent wouldn't throw Pedro out of his buckboard – strange how you get a loyalty to the men you work with, even when the job falls apart. (He didn't; he turned out a real decent guy and took Pedro safely over the border into New Mexico. I bumped into Pedro years later. He was working in a cantina and offered me a little more cerveza, on the house.)
I headed for Nogales. I had some clothes stored at Federico's – I sure wasn't going to turn up in front of Lancer in that poor-looking outfit I was wearing for my execution. I could do with a couple of good meals as well and Federico's wife made the best frijoles this side of Laredo. It was sort of fitting, too, to start out from Nogales. It was in Nogales that I had met Murdoch Lancer that one time – well, the one time that I could remember. I'd been not much more than a baby when he turned me and my mother out. I didn't know for sure what had brought him to Mexico then and I wondered what he wanted now. Still, at least Lancer was talking business this time. Not like that first time he'd come after me...
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Valenzuela was offering good money, real good, but when I heard what he wanted, I turned it down. A man who has it coming is one thing but his wife and children and sisters – that's something else. Valenzuela went ahead and did the job himself. Well, almost. There were still two alive when I heard the rumor of what I was being blamed for and went out to investigate. I don't know whether it was the misery in the woman's eyes when she said Valenzuela would be back for them or the whimpering that was the only sound the little girl could make that turned my gut to iron and sent me into Yuma.
Valenzuela was walking down the street when I rode into town. He was lying dead in it when I rode out. My pay for that job was the look on the woman's face when I told her that Valenzuela wouldn't be coming back.
I crossed the border and stayed quiet for a while. Even though American law couldn't touch me in Mexico, Valenzuela might have friends who didn't mind a ride south with revenge in mind. About a month after the shooting, I was in Nogales. Federico ran a nice cantina there. I'd done him some favors in the past and he knew how to be discreet. I did my drinking in the back room he reserved for special customers. One night Federico came to my table with a warning.
"There is a man looking for you, Juan, a gringo. He is asking about Johnny Madrid – and he mentioned that you were in Yuma last month."
"Did he give any name, Federico, or say where he was from?"
"No, but I will get Conchita to find out for you."
I grinned. Not many men could resist Conchita.
Half an hour later Federico came back, looking worried.
"He is from California, Juan, from the San Joaquin. Valenzuela had family there. His cousin, Joaquin Valenzuela, he was a famous bandido. You have heard of him?"
"Joaquin Valenzuela? Sure. He joined up with Murietta's gang, didn't he? But that was years ago – they're all long dead."
Federico gave a wry smile.
"To you, young man, it is a long time ago. For you, fifteen years is three-quarters of your lifetime. But for an old man like me, fifteen years is not long. And that gringo, he is old. He may have known the Valenzuela from the San Joaquin; he may have known the Valenzuela you killed. Tread carefully, Juan. I think you should leave Nogales tonight."
"Did Conchita find out this gringo's name?"
"Sí. His name is Murdoch Lancer."
"Let me get a look at him. Where's he sitting?"
"At the second table from the front. The big man in the dark brown shirt."
I slipped into the main room and walked across to the kitchen door, staying close to the wall and not turning my face fully towards the tables. I spotted the gringo easily enough. Federico was right about him being big. Big, gray-haired, way out of place in a Nogales cantina. I'd have no trouble recognizing him when I saw him again. And I intended to do just that. I went out the back door and waited.
From a corner of the building I watched the doorway of the cantina. When the gringo came out, I followed him a little way down the street, away from the traffic in and out of the cantina, then spoke.
"You're looking for Johnny Madrid?"
He whirled around. The light was dim in the street – there was no gas lighting in Nogales back in those days – and he peered at me.
"Yes, I am," he answered, then said, "Johnny?"
"Yeah, it's me," I said. "What do you want?"
"My name's Murdoch Lancer," he said. "I saw you in Yuma and realized who you were. As soon as I was sure, I came to find you."
"Why?"
"I'm your father, Johnny."
"Yeah, I know," I answered. "So what do you want? You're wasting my time."
He seemed stunned.
"I have a ranch in California, near Morro Coyo..."
"I know where your ranch is," I interrupted him. Lancer looked a little surprised at that, but continued.
"I want you to come home, Johnny, back to Lancer with me."
"What for?" He didn't answer, just stood there sort of staring at me, so I went on, "You got a job that needs doin'? Tell me the details and we'll talk price."
He shook his head a little, bewildered-like, then said again,
"I'm your father, Johnny. I want you to come home. You're my son."
"That don't mean you get any favors," I told him. "Nothing for nothing. You want Johnny Madrid's gun working for you, you pay Johnny Madrid's price."
"No, Johnny, that's not what I want..."
"We got nothin' more to say, then." I walked off, not heading towards the cantina – I didn't want to give him any clues about where I was staying. But I didn't go far; I slipped into the shadows as quick as I could, then chose a spot to watch him from. He stayed standing there for a minute or so, perfectly still, then turned and walked in the opposite direction to the one I'd taken. His head was down and his shoulders were sort of bent. He looked old.
I kept him in sight until he reached the hotel and went in. I waited ten minutes or so, to be sure he wasn't coming back out right away, then slipped across the street to Gomez's barn. Old Gomez wouldn't mind me sleeping there and it had a nice little window, perfect for keeping an eye on folk going in and out of the hotel. I was going to play safe and watch out until Lancer left Nogales.
Gomez's cow and mules kept the little barn warm and there was a comfy pile of hay but I didn't sleep much. I kept getting angry. This Murdoch Lancer – he just sails in and starts claiming a father's rights. Nineteen years after turning me and my mother out, he marches up and expects me to act like a long-lost son! Was he a friend of the Valenzuelas, and trying to use the connection to get at me? Or had he taken a fancy to the idea of having a son, after all, and think all he had to do was make an appearance and I'd take his hand and skip along beside him? Either way, his nerve was something incredible. He could go to the devil.
"No, Johnny, that's not what I want..." I kept hearing that when I tried to get to sleep. He'd sounded sort of sad. I rolled over in the hay and thought about Mama and those years alone. I got angry again. That old man could go to the devil.
Finally I dozed off.
"No, Johnny, that's not what I want..." I blinked out of the dream-sound of Lancer's voice. It was quiet in the barn; the animals were sleeping and outside, the town was still. Everything quiet and peaceful, except for those words of Lancer's jumping back into my mind. I closed my eyes and let the anger swell up. My would-be father could go to the devil.
I was awake at dawn and watched through the window until I saw the old man ride out of town. Murdoch Lancer could go to the devil.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
The half-starved crow bait I was riding – the cayuse I'd liberated from the rurales – lay down and died one night when I was still more than ten miles from Morro Coyo. Daylight, and I was tramping along beside the road carrying a mighty light saddlebag and a mighty heavy saddle; by noon I was getting mighty footsore. When a stagecoach came into view, I decided to take a chance. I scrambled up the bank onto the road and put out my hand. The coach came to a standstill and I put on my friendliest smile to speak to the driver.
"You going to Morro Coyo?"
"Unless I'm lost," the driver said.
"Mind if I get a lift?"
"Sure thing," he said, then added, "We'll take care of that gun of yours."
"Sure." It was only to be expected.
I handed up the saddle and gun and climbed into the coach, nodding to the other passengers as I moved to the one empty seat, between a padre and a dude in a fancy suit and derby hat. The stage started off with a jerk before I'd sat down and I half fell against the fancy dude as I landed on the seat.
"Didn't mean to mess up your outfit," I apologized. Well, it was an apology. I just happened to be laughing when I made it.
"Can't be helped." My, he was a gentleman.
He stared out the window for the rest of the trip to Morro Coyo.
The stage pulled to a dusty halt in the dusty plaza of the dusty little town of Morro Coyo. I collected my gun from the driver and was hauling my saddle down when I heard a voice from behind me.
"Ah, Mr Lancer?" It was a young woman speaking.
"Yeah," I answered.
"That's me," said the dude at the same moment.
"I'm sorry, which one of you said..." The young woman – well, girl really, she couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen – looked from one of us to the other.
" I did," we both replied. The dude turned and looked at me and I looked back at him. He was answering to Lancer? My mind ran through the possibilities. Was he some other relative of Murdoch Lancer – a nephew maybe, or a cousin? I'd always had the idea that there was only one Lancer in America. "Escosés" my mother had said my father was: Scottish, an immigrant. No relatives here. So what was this guy playing at? The girl's face was clearing, like she'd figured something out.
"You're Johnny?" She pointed at me.
"That's right."
"Then you're Scott Lancer," she said to the dude.
"No, ma'am, he's no Lancer. My mother only had one kid – me," I told her – and him.
"Likewise," he stated. He was glaring at me as if I was the imposter.
"Oh, well, we didn't expect you both at the same time but actually you're right. It was Mr Lancer who had two," said the girl, as if that explained everything. It didn't explain anything to me, nor to the dude, apparently, because he asked in a kind of impatient but trying to stay polite voice,
"Two what?"
"Wives," the girl answered. "And sons. You two."
The dude and I stared at each other. Two? Two.
"Tell me, Teresa, do you work for my father ... our father?" The fancy dude asked the question as we drove out of Morro Coyo. The girl, who was accompanied by two ranch hands, had introduced herself as Teresa O'Brien and was efficiently driving the buckboard that Murdoch Lancer had sent to meet us.
"I was born on Lancer," she replied. "My father was the foreman here for fifteen years."
"Was?"
"Well, he was murdered last November, at the same time that Mr Lancer was shot."
"Murdered by who?" I asked. This sounded like something I needed to know.
"Mr Lancer will tell you that," she said. "What he won't tell you is how much it means to him that, well, that you've both come here."
How much it meant to him? When he'd turned me out in the first place?
We were driving along a ridge running above a wide valley. Teresa drew the buckboard to a halt. Instinctively I stood as I looked out over the valley, across to a range of mountains. So this was it, the place my mother had told me so much about, once her ancestors' home, Estancia Madrid. Once, but now...
Words from Teresa almost completed my thought:
"There it is. As far as the eye can see. The most beautiful place in the whole wide world – Lancer!"
We drove on down the road and through a white entrance arch. I heard shouts as we approached the ranch, mostly in Spanish. Seemed Lancer had plenty of Californios working for him. Teresa drew the buckboard to a halt outside the main door of the hacienda. A middle-aged Mexican woman met us in the hallway as we went in.
"Where is Mr Lancer, Maria?"
"In the Great Room, Señorita Teresa."
Teresa started leading us toward a double door but the dude marched forward and overrode Teresa's gentle tap at the door with a resounding knock.
"It's open." A man's voice came from inside the room. The dude opened the doors, he and I walked in and the two of us stood facing Murdoch Lancer. He was leaning on a cane but somehow didn't appear weak. Not as weak and old as when he'd walked away down the street in Nogales...
"Drink?" Lancer's voice snapped me back into the present.
"No, thank you." The dude's voice was cold. I didn't blame him. Lancer wasn't exactly being welcoming.
He pointed his cane at me.
"You drink, don't you?"
"When I know the man I'm drinkin' with, yeah."
"You've got your mother's temper!" He turned to the dude. "You've got your mother's eyes." The dude drew back a moment, but Lancer went on, "Well, I want a drink." He started for the tray but stopped as I said,
"You got somethin' to say, old man, say it."
He went to the desk, pulled two envelopes out of a folder and threw them onto the desktop.
"A thousand dollars apiece," he said, sitting down at the desk. I went over and picked up one of the envelopes.
"Maybe you'd better count it," Lancer suggested.
"I plan to," I assured him.
"Come and get your money." This was to the dude.
"I'll settle for this drink," the dude answered him, moving toward the tray. I have to admit, I admired him for a moment. By the look of him, he didn't need Murdoch Lancer's money, and he wasn't going to take being pushed around. But Lancer was as tough as his son.
"You'll do as you're told!" he barked.
"Will I?" Scott Lancer was as tough as his father.
They stared at each other for a moment, then Lancer said,
"I want no favors from either one of you."
Scott took the compromise. He walked to the desk and picked up the money.
"Far be it from me to spoil a family reunion. Thanks." He put the unopened envelope in his coat pocket, then asked Lancer,
"What do I call you? Under the circumstances 'father' hardly seems... "
"Call me anything you like," Lancer snapped. "We're strangers to each other; maybe that's my fault and maybe it isn't."
"No apology necessary." The dude's response was very gentlemanly. Murdoch Lancer's wasn't.
"You'll get no apology from me!" He pulled himself out of the chair. "If the air needs clearing, then let's clear it." He limped around the desk to come face to face with Scott.
"Your mother's family thought she was daft to marry me, not a year off the boat from Inverness – and maybe they were right. You were born; she died; I left you in their hands. Period." He turned to me. "A couple of years later I met your mother down at Matamoros. She... We got married. Two years after that, I woke one morning, found her gone, you along with her."
I felt the anger surge up, just like back in Nogales.
"That ain't the way I heard it!"
"I don't care what you heard," Lancer came back at me. "It's past. Bad or good, right or wrong, it's past and gone." He looked out of the window. "We're talking about now, what's happening out there, to this ranch."
"The girl Teresa said you were having some trouble," Scott said, sitting down on the edge of the desk. The old man turned back toward us and started filling us in.
"Last fall, somebody made off with one of our horses. My segundo and I trailed him to a place called Morro Coyo. We walked right into it. O'Brien was killed and I ended up with this leg that's gone sour on me. Since then, my fences have been cut, beef stolen, workers frightened off, burned out. Three months ago I had a hundred and fifty vaqueros; now I've got eighteen."
I saw what this was all for now, why he wanted Johnny Madrid.
"Well then, that's the, uh, ranch you're worried about, huh?" I didn't know why the knowledge cut the way it did.
He turned towards the window again and looked out over the land.
"I love this ground more than anything God ever created. I've got a gray hair for every good blade of grass that you see out there. They're trying to drive me off this place."
"Who?" I wanted to know.
"You'll hear them called land pirates. That's close enough."
Scott looked astonished.
"You mean to tell me that men can just come along and drive you off your land?" he queried.
"They're doing it. Since I was hit, they've taken three other estancias."
"What about the law?"
"There isn't any. They killed two good men: Joe Carbajal from Modesto, Petersen from San Jose. The others quit, found business elsewhere. The only law we've got here is pack law, the big dog gets the meat. By summer, they'll own half of this state."
"Has 'big dog' got a name?" I asked.
"Pardee."
"Day, Day Pardee."
"You know him?"
"Oh yes, I know 'im. He's a gunfighter, and he's pretty good. Yeah, I'd say you have some kinda trouble." I couldn't help almost laughing. Murdoch Lancer was the one being pushed around now, and with someone like Day Pardee doing the pushing, Lancer just might find out what it was like to be pushed off the edge.
"Just how many men does he have, this Pardee?" Scott was asking.
"Twenty or twenty-five," Lancer told him.
"That doesn't exactly put him in a class with Attila the Hun!" Oh boy, this Eastern dude obviously had no idea how things worked out here, with men like Day Pardee. But Murdoch Lancer just said,
"You've got the floor."
Scott strode over to a map on the wall and started waving his hand over it.
"Well, it seems to me you have a very simple military problem here. One, find the enemy; two, engage him; three, destroy him."
I laughed right out this time.
"Something funny?" Scott looked down his distinguished Eastern nose at me.
"He's saying it's not that kind of a fight," responded Murdoch, then turning to face me he added, "but you could be wrong. I've got eighteen good men; only the best stayed. You two make twenty."
There he went again, thinking all he had to do was claim a father's entitlement to get his son's help. Well, two sons' help. Time to remind him that he wasn't talking to a son here – he was talking to Johnny Madrid.
"Now wait a minute, this is listenin' money. Now all of a sudden, you're talkin' 'bout gun money. Let me tell you something, that's extra, that don't come on no lunch."
"I want more than your guns," he came back at me.
"What more?"
"I want your arms and your legs and your guts, if you've got any." He looked at Scott as well as me as he said that but it was Johnny Madrid's guts – and, no matter what he said, gun – that he needed, and he knew it as well as I did. If he wanted my help, he'd have to make it worth my while and he might find that hard. In fact, I was almost looking forward to the fun of turning him down. So I put it to him straight.
"All right, say I come up with all these arms and legs and guts you're talkin' about. What do you come up with?"
"One third."
"Of what?"
"Everything you see out there. One hundred thousand acres, twenty thousand head of beef, the finest compañera de palominos in the San Joaquin."
I'll be honest; it floored me. I went to the window and looked out. I could see some of those beeves, and a herd of palomino mares, and green fields stretching out almost forever. There came into my mind the ten half-bare acres my revolucionario pals had offered me. Was the old man serious, or just flim-flamming? I'd find out before we went any further.
"One third, huh? You wouldn't mind puttin' that down on a piece of paper would you? No offence."
Lancer was prepared. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket.
"This do? An agreement of partnership. Equal shares to each of us but I call the tune. Agreed?"
The dude nodded but I wasn't going to buy in so quick.
"You didn't sign it," I challenged, but Lancer was prepared for that, too.
"Nothing for nothing. You'll get your share of this ranch when you prove to me you're man enough to hold it."
"When's that?" I asked.
"When you get the man that put the bullet in my back!"
"Pardee."
"That's the one."
"Well lemme tell you, old man, you want a lot." I was going to hold onto the aces.
"Take it or leave it," was his response.
The clanging of a bell from outside the hacienda interrupted the tug-of-war.
"Fire bell!"
Fire. I didn't question whether or not to go; neither did the dude. I guess fighting fire is an instinct that goes pretty deep. We dropped our coats in the hallway as we ran, the old man coming behind us as fast as his injured leg would allow him to move. A field about half a mile from the house was burning. Every hand on the place, including Teresa, was there, throwing water and beating at the flames but it was no good. The fire had taken too strong a hold. At last Murdoch gave the order to quit.
"Let it go. It's already got too much of a head start on us. Let it burn up to the ridge."
"Isn't there something we can do?" asked Teresa.
"No, the field's gone, honey. It'll burn itself out by nightfall." He turned to the dude and me.
"Take a good look at it. This is the third field that Pardee has destroyed. I told you, you would have to fight to hold onto this place. What do you say?"
Scott didn't hesitate.
"I've already given you my answer."
Murdoch looked at me.
"What about you, boy?"
I looked out over the charred grass and ruined field. I remembered the rurales doing the same to Pedro's farm.
"Hate to see my property go up in flames."
"Our property," the dude corrected.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Supper that evening was at the dining table in the main room, with china plates, silver cutlery and crystal glasses. We had all cleaned up and changed. I had only one extra shirt and it was, well, downright crumpled after three days in a small saddlebag but the dude must have had some neatly folded in his valise; he had appeared in another shirt as smart as his earlier one, frills and all. All that fuss and finery – it looked right for dinner off fine china and silver, but did Murdoch Lancer really think a fashion plate like that would be a man to fight Day Pardee? Scott was making conversation with the old man about the ranch.
"Are all the cattle on the ranch Longhorns, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, they grow well in this country. The Central Valley produces some of the finest beef in America. They're wild though, hard to handle. Can't transport them any great distance by rail – they thrash about inside the cars and injure themselves, sometimes even break the cars apart. That's why we have the cattle drives."
"I've heard about them."
"They're quite a sight. The next big one will be in a couple of months. You'll see it then – if you're still here."
"I intend to be here," Scott assured him. Lancer smiled a strange sort of smile, more on one side of his mouth than the other. Scott looked at him, then asked kind of abruptly,
"Did you come to Boston once, when I was very young?"
"Yes, Scott, I did," the old man said quietly.
"It was my birthday…" Lancer nodded. Scott drew a deep breath and seemed to be thinking a moment.
"Well, that solves one problem," he said.
"Which one?" asked his father.
"What to call you. You were introduced to me as Murdoch, so that's the name I'll call you by."
"Yes, I think that will work well," Lancer said. He looked over at me. "And you, Johnny? What do you want to call me? Will Murdoch do, or do you want to stick with 'Old Man'?"
"Murdoch sounds about right. I'm sure not gonna call you Mr Lancer every second breath and the time for callin' you Pa is long gone." I could hear some of the anger that was never far away coming through in my voice as I said that last part, so I grinned and added, "but I might save 'Old Man' to use sometimes."
My father turned to Teresa. "And what about you, Teresa? You're a daughter of the house, now. My sons will be calling me Murdoch; I'd like you to call me that, too. "
"Well," she hesitated, "if you don't think it sounds too disrespectful…"
"I think 'Mr Lancer' sounds too distant." His smile was tender as he looked at her. It was like Teresa was as much his daughter as Scott and I were his sons. I thought so even more as I watched her smile back at him.
"Well, then, yes, I would like to."
"That's settled, then," said Murdoch.
"You know," said Teresa after a few moments, "it's a very sensible idea as well. I mean, with three Mr Lancers in the house, things could get confusing."
"Two!" I corrected.
"What?" said Teresa.
"There are only two Mr Lancers in the house. My name's not Lancer, it's Madrid."
"You answered to Lancer this morning," Scott pointed out wryly.
"Yeah, because Teresa was obviously lookin' for me. Make no mistake, though," I went on, "I got no reason to want to be a Lancer. My name's Madrid; that's the name I'll give when anyone asks me and Madrid is the name that will go on that agreement when I've taken care of Day Pardee."
Murdoch nodded acceptance, his expression closed. It was Teresa who spoke, sounding more worried than anything else.
"But, Johnny, mightn't that be dangerous? I mean, people might think you're that Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico."
I gave Murdoch an amused look.
"Didn't you warn her, old man?"
"No, Johnny, I didn't think it necessary to mention it," he replied.
"Mention what?" Scott asked.
"That I am Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico," I told him.
Teresa was staring open-mouthed. "You're…you're Johnny Madrid?" she exclaimed.
"At your service, ma'am."
"Enlighten me, please," said Scott. "Who is Johnny Madrid?"
Teresa stared at him now, in amazement. "You've never heard of Johnny Madrid?"
"His fame hasn't reached Boston yet, apparently," remarked Murdoch.
"Why, he's the most notorious, most wanted, most bloodthirsty…" She stopped suddenly, realizing she was talking about the man seated opposite her.
"… most ruthless, most vicious killer in all of Mexico and the border towns," I finished for her, but grinning.
"Oh, that's who he is, is he? For a minute there I was worried," Scott responded drily. "It wouldn't be a case of fame outstripping fact, now would it?"
"Well, maybe," I said, "or maybe not."
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
I didn't sleep so well that night – too many thoughts running round and round in my mind. It wasn't like that night in Gomez's barn; I wasn't hearing Lancer say "No, Johnny, that's not what I want..." He'd said right out what he wanted this time: arms and legs and guts. That's what he'd get. Any man who hired Johnny Madrid got that. When I hire on, I'm loyal to my employer and give everything to the job. This job was no different, even though the man doing the hiring was Murdoch Lancer.
The pay was the one really different thing about this job. I'll admit, I didn't put a lot of faith in that unsigned paper. A man who would turn a woman and child out of his home without a thought would have no qualms about going back on his word. But if he did keep to the bargain, it would be a kind of poetic justice. Some of that land had been Mama's dowry, a part of the Estancia Madrid that her grandfather had founded. Gringos like Murdoch Lancer had taken over all the California land from the old hidalgos, by one means or another. It would be good to have the name Madrid attached to the estancia again, even if only on a partnership agreement. And it would be a sort of revenge on Murdoch Lancer for turning out the woman who had brought him some of that land.
Of course, it was supposed to be a three-way partnership. The dude, Scott, had been quick to take up Murdoch's offer. He was a puzzle, that Boston boy. Why had he come to California? By the sound of it, he knew no more of Murdoch Lancer as a father than I did. And it wasn't the money that had brought him; he'd outright refused the thousand dollars at first. As for cattle and ranching, he knew nothing about them, that was clear. At least I'd been on a couple of cattle drives. The dude had "heard about them." And he wanted a share in a cattle ranch? Maybe he'd been reading Beadle dime novels and wanted to play cowboy. It didn't matter, so long as he kept out of the way while I dealt with Pardee. Tomorrow I'd spell that out for him, make him understand what was likely to happen to him if he charged in like a hero. I wondered if he'd ever fired a gun.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
"Come right in." Scott was just finishing shaving as I went into his room; I hadn't bothered knocking. "Sleep well?"
"I always sleep well." It wasn't a lie. I do sleep well, when I sleep. I just don't always sleep. I wandered around the room a little, keeping my eyes open for anything that might be useful for dealing with this guy.
"Well now, will ya look at this." I picked up a gold coin from the table. "They're all over the place."
"What?" he asked.
"This, this twenty dollar gold piece. Found one in my room too. It's like guest money, you know, saves you from askin' for a loan."
"Nice custom," he remarked.
"Teaches ya somethin'. Teaches ya: never pass up a twenty dollar gold piece." I waited to see what he'd say; I was remembering how he'd acted with that thousand dollars.
"Help yourself, it's yours."
"Well, thank you." I tucked the money in my pocket as he added, "A third of it anyway."
There was a suitcase open on the bed; Scott was unpacking his clothes. He had a lot of them. A hat on the top of the clothing pile caught my eye. It was sort of greenish with a leopard-skin hatband and a cockade at the front – well, I guessed it was the front. I turned it around in my hands as I said,
"Talkin' 'bout that piece of paper he showed us?" I moved over to the mirror and tried the hat on. It was the ugliest hat I'd ever seen. He said nothing and I went on, "Let me tell ya somethin' 'bout paper, touch a match to it and it burns right up."
He gave me a quizzical look and said,
"You don't give the old man too much credit, do you?"
He thought either of us should give Murdoch Lancer any credit? I guess someone who could afford to pass up a double eagle without a thought could be easy-going when it came to a business deal but as I took that awful hat off, I couldn't help a comment, albeit indirectly, on how naive he was.
"Well, I tell ya, I don't give anybody too much credit; saves a lot of disappointment."
There was a photograph on the dresser and I picked it up.
"Well, will you look at that? Hey, who's this other officer all smarted up?"
"It's General Phil Sheridan. I was in his unit during the war," Scott tossed the explanation over his shoulder as he kept on stowing his clothes in the chest of drawers.
"Very pretty."
"I photograph well."
"Yeah, you are kind of a snappy dresser at that." So he'd been in the war – that explained his 'military problem' view of Pardee yesterday. "What kind of a unit you say that was?"
We were interrupted by Teresa bouncing into the room, without knocking, with a cheerful "Good morning!" Scott dropped his boot onto the floor – loud – and said,
"Does anyone around here ever knock when they enter a room?"
Teresa waved a hand.
"Oh, think of me like a sister." She went on, "Hey, Cipriano's cut out two horses for you. He's waiting in the corral."
"You tell him, I'll be right down." I said.
She picked up the derby Scott had worn the day before, gave it an odd look and declared as she left, "We're going to have to buy you some new clothes for living around here."
"What's wrong with my clothes?" Scott glared at me. He didn't know? This guy wasn't cut out for life in the West, that was for sure. I thought I'd better try to get it across to him.
"Well, I mean, if you're plannin' on stayin' in these parts," I paused, "well, that just ain't the style."
"Of course I'm planning to stay." He couldn't take a hint.
"Well look, I tell ya," I started again.
"Get it said, brother!"
"Just this: what I got in mind is pretty much of a one man deal." That was plain enough, wasn't it? Nope.
"Now, you're going to make me feel left out of things if you're not careful," he said.
"Better left out, than in a ditch, with ants crawlin' across your eyeballs. That don't photograph too well." Yeah, alright, it was mean, but hey, I didn't have anything against the guy, and I didn't want him to end up with ants crawling across his eyeballs – and that's just what was gonna happen if he didn't show some sense. But he just couldn't take the hint.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Cipriano did have a horse cut out and ready for me, and a fine horse it was too, but I wanted to make the most of being on a ranch that bred horses, as well as cattle.
"Are there any horses not broken yet, Cipriano? I'd like to break one and train it myself, from scratch."
"Sí, Señor, there are some in the small corral." He pointed to where a bunch of four young horses had been penned. "They are ready to be broken. If you wish to try... " he paused but I knew what he was politely trying to ask.
"Yeah, I've broken horses before," I told him with a grin. I walked across to look the colts over. Three of them just kept prancing around the corral but one, a dappled palomino, stood and watched as I leaned over the fence and I had the impression he was looking me over as well. Horses do, you know. My old pinto could return stare for stare. The palomino seemed to like what he saw, so with some help from one of the vaqueros, I got a saddle on him and got on his back for our first lively ride together.
"Hey, good, Johnny, you broke him. That was wonderful." Teresa had been watching from the fence; Scott was standing beside her. I slid off the horse's back.
"Ah, that's a good animal." I pointed to a nice placid brown horse that Cipriano had standing ready for the Eastern guest. "See that one over there? That's yours, Boston."
"Yeah, I saw it. Saw this one as well." He had hold of the palomino's reins and a foot in the stirrup before I realized it.
"Hey, whadya think you're doin'? I wouldn't do that if I were you."
I saw the vaqueros gasp in alarm and duck out of harm's way as Scott jumped on the barely broken horse and went galloping down the length of the corral. He put the horse over the corral fence then made a wide circle to approach a wagon standing in the stable yard. I couldn't help a "Wow", and I heard one the vaqueros say, "¡Muy bien!" as Scott took the palomino over the wagon then swept around again to bring him over the fence once more and back into the corral. He swung down off the horse and said,
"You're right, he is a fine animal," then added, "In answer to your question earlier, it was a cavalry unit I was in."
He'd won that one, and I gave it to him.
"Well, I'll say one thing, Boston, you sure do know how to ride. You scared the pants off of those cowhands. Didn't he?" I looked across at Teresa, who was laughing as she nodded, and then back at Scott. "But that don't make you ready for Day Pardee. You're gonna end up with a bullet in your back."
"There's an awful lot of back shooting going around here. What happened to the code of the West?" The Code of the West? He had been reading Beadles. I did a little more setting straight.
"Well, you see, that's it. Ya gotta do it to them before they do it to you." I jumped back onto the horse.
"See ya," I said.
"Where shall I tell Mr. Lancer you're going?" Teresa called out as I turned away.
"Tell him I've gone into town to break up one of them gold pieces."
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
I didn't hurry into town; I made use of the ride to start schooling the palomino. By the time we got to Morro Coyo, we understood each other pretty well. On the way I decided to call him Barranca because... well, that's a story I'll tell you another time.
It was easy to find Day Pardee. As I rode into the town, I could hear gunshots and unhappy wailing. The wailing came from an old peon carrying two buckets of water across the plaza. The gunshots came from the veranda of a saloon, where a bunch of roughnecks were enjoying what they called fun. I dismounted and went over to the old peon.
"¡He perdido todo mi agua!" he appealed to me as I came up. "Por favor, Señor, los peden que no tiren más."
I took one of the buckets from him and told him,
"Vaya a la casa."
"Muy bien. Gracias, gracias." He trotted off and I walked towards the saloon. As I approached, another bullet went through the bucket I was carrying. There was a roar of laughter from the bunch on the veranda and I heard the voice of the old peon from somewhere behind me say, "Son malos, estos hombres." I kept walking until I was face to face with the roughs. I stood looking them over for a moment; a brawny fellow was lazing back in a chair; the others were sitting or standing around. The one who had been doing the shooting was the first to speak.
"Just what do you want?" he asked.
"You got bad manners," I told him.
"You gonna teach us some good ones?" another of them challenged.
"Maybe," I answered.
"Well, well, well, I do believe we got us a hard one here, huh?" said the brawny guy in the chair. The first one took over again.
"Let's see how long it takes to make a good dog outta you."
"Okay." I was curious to see what game he was going to try to play.
"That's my water. Bring it here." I stood still. The roughneck gave a bad laugh.
"Dog won't fetch, he's gotta be taught." He stepped down off the veranda and walked up to me. "Now hand me that water, mister. I mean to have that for my tub."
"I doubt it," was my answer.
"Oh, do you, now?"
"Unless they got bathtubs in hell."
"What's that?" he yelped in fury. I threw the bucket at him and drew.
"You're dead." My gun was in my hand but the brawny one had his pistol out in the same instant.
"So are you, son." He held the gun in a steady line with my chest. I squinted up at the bright early afternoon sun.
"Well, I picked a good day for it."
"You better believe me, sonny boy." The brawny guy's glare backed up the menace he was putting in his voice.
"Oh, I do, I do," I said running my gaze over the faces in front of me. "Only question now being, how many are going with me?"
"Take him down, Coley!" Brawny was just about squeezing the trigger when a voice came from behind him.
"I wouldn't."
I nodded a greeting to the man standing in the saloon doorway.
"Day."
"Long time, Johnny Madrid."
"Yeah, a long time."
"Care for a drink?"
"Yeah, sure." I followed Pardee into the saloon while his buddies glared after us. As we went through the door, Day asked, "Madrid... are you lookin' for me?"
"No, but I had a feelin' I'd find you."
We sat down at a table where a bottle of tequila stood ready. One of Day's men, an Indian in a hat almost as peculiar as Scott's, followed us in and stood by the bar, not very unobtrusively watching me. Pardee seemed to expect it. He poured a couple of drinks and opened the conversation, or more accurately, started fishing for information.
"I heard you got yourself killed down in Mexico."
"Almost."
"Some kind of revolution?"
"Yeah, something like that." No need for Day to hear details.
"Do any good?"
"I met some nice people."
"No money?" he kept on probing.
"No, turned out they didn't have any. That's why the revolution."
"Plenty money here, Johnny."
"Yeah, that's what I hear." Pardee lost a little patience and went for a direct question.
"What is your business here?"
"Day, I'm just lookin'." I pretty much knew how Pardee would interpret that.
"For your best shot?"
"Something like that, yeah."
"Well, you found it. I can use you, Johnny." He sounded sure of himself, and of me, but I surprised him.
"You let me think about it," I said. He leaned forward, worried, with just a touch of threatening.
"Hey, you ain't already tied up with somebody else, are ya?"
"No, I said I'd think about it, and I will."
"Take your time, John." He jerked his head at the saloon owner. "Tequila por mi amigo. ¡Pronto!"
"Sí, Señor."
The brawny fellow, Coley, came in with news for Pardee.
"Hey, that girl from Lancer just drove in. Got a fancy dan with her, too." Day looked thoughtful.
"Go lean on him a little; find out who he is," he instructed.
"Yeah." Coley liked the idea. He went out, two others along with him. Day pushed back his chair and stood up.
"Don't take too long, John. You might miss all the fun. See ya round?"
"Yeah, yeah.," I said. Pardee left the saloon and I heard the sound of a horse being ridden away.
Money, Day had said, not land. That wasn't surprising; Day Pardee would have no use for land. He'd have plans for turning all this territory he was getting hold of into cash. Either he was working for somebody or else he had some sort of deal lined up.
It was a mean bunch he'd assembled to help him, and none of them I knew, even by sight – strange in itself. In my line of work, you usually got to know who was who. Like being members of a church, as a lady I knew once said, you got to know the rest of the congregation. But these were outsiders, even in the trade. Had Pardee deliberately hunted out gunhawks who didn't have friends? That's to say, friends who might come looking for revenge if anything happened to their pals once Day had collected on the job and wanted to avoid having to share too much. He was suspicious of me, that was obvious. He wanted to know why I'd turned up so pat. Maybe I'd let him find out later; for now, I'd watch.
As for joining up with him, that was out. 'Plenty of money here,' he'd said. I already had a thousand in my pocket and I reckoned that was more than the share Day would let any member of his troop have, even if he didn't do the dirty on them altogether. Even if Lancer reneged on the one-third offer, my best route was fighting on his side. Better to be on the losing side and still ride off with a thousand dollars than be on the winning side but end up – what had I said to the eager dude this morning? – in a ditch, with ants crawling across your eyeballs. Day Pardee had left more than one man like that, including men on his own side.
And if I did finish off Pardee, and Lancer did stick to his word – land of my own. Yeah, in partnership with Murdoch Lancer and maybe Scott Lancer, if he stayed around, but nonetheless the right to say, "This is my land." Nothing Day Pardee could offer, now or ever, could match that. You know, it was only then that I realized why I'd thrown in with the revolucionarios. Even those pathetic few acres that they would have given me would have been my own and no-one could have turned me off them.
I finished off the glass of tequila – I wasn't going to fog up my brain drinking the whole bottle – and strolled outside. The chair Coley had been sitting in was unoccupied and in a good position to see whatever show might play out across the street. That something was happening over in the general store was obvious. I heard Teresa yelling, "Stop it!" and someone, the storekeeper I guessed, lamenting in the background but I stayed where I was. Teresa came running out of the store, saw my horse and then me, and came straight over.
"Johnny, Johnny, it's Scott!"
"That figures," I said.
"Well, aren't you going to help him?" she demanded.
"Nope." I wasn't going to lose my edge, halfway into Pardee's confidence, just to bust up a general store fracas. Besides, I doubted the roughnecks would murder Scott outright, not with witnesses around, and a few bruises might get through to him better than my advice had. Staying right where I was might save his life in the end.
Scott landed in the street. Teresa bent over him, putting her hand under his elbow as he hauled himself to his feet.
"Scott, are you all right? Here, let me help you to the buckboard."
Coley and his two helpers came out of the store and walked past Scott and Teresa without a glance. I noticed they all looked a mess and one was staggering a little. The soldier boy must have given a good account of himself. Scott ignored them in his turn, straightening up and focusing on the doorway he'd just rolled out of.
"I came to buy some clothes, and some clothes I'll buy!" He limped back into the store with Teresa hovering anxiously. He had guts, I had to give him that. Or maybe plain stubbornness. Trouble was, with someone like Day Pardee stubbornness and guts were just the things that could get you killed.
As I rode back toward the ranch, I saw the buckboard parked near the river. Scott and Teresa were standing beside it. The girl gave me a dirty look and stalked off. I dismounted and walked over to Scott. I hoped maybe he'd learned his lesson after all.
"I told ya to stay out of it, didn't I?"
"Well you did, anyway," he answered.
"Well, if you wanna get yourself killed, that's your business," I said. He made no reply although I could see his jaw clenching, so for good measure I added,
"That's quite a bruise ya got."
The punch sent me rolling down the bank, almost into the river.
"I just couldn't resist thanking you for your help," he called down, and added "...brother!"
"Don't you call me brother because we share that old man's blood," I shouted as I scrambled back up.
"Stop it!" I heard Teresa's voice but all my attention was on this man who kept calling me 'brother'.
Back when I was starting out in the trade, a top gunfighter advised me, "Never draw in anger; it slows the hand," and I always try to keep that in mind; be it with guns or fists, I make it a rule not to move in when I'm boiling angry, but this time I couldn't hold in. It was more than anger, somehow. It was like I was trying to change something I just couldn't take. If I owed this Scott Lancer a brother's duty because I had Murdoch Lancer's blood in my veins, then I would owe a son's duty to Murdoch Lancer. It would be the same as saying I was a Lancer. But I was Johnny Madrid; I was here on a job. And these Lancers...
"You mean nothin' ta me!" I shouted. I landed him a punch that sent him against the tree and we lit into each other.
Teresa jumped off the wagon seat and ran over yelling "Stop it! Stop it! You hear me!" She ran between the two of us. "You ought to be ashamed, brothers fighting."
Scott and I stared at each other for a moment. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. I walked away.
"Wait a minute," he called, "we ought to be able to get along. After all, we both came here for the same reason."
I pulled out some notes from my pocket and held them up.
"That's why I came," I told him.
"The money?"
"What else?"
"My mistake." There was disgust in his voice.
He turned away as I mounted up but I couldn't help giving him the truth.
"Why do you think I came? Loyalty and love for Murdoch Lancer? You wanna know what he did to my mother? He gave her the keys to the road one day and said, 'What's keeping you? And just a minute, don't forget buster, here.'"
I turned the horse and started to ride away but heard Teresa shouting after me, "That's not true, that's not true about Mr. Lancer and your mother. He never made her leave. She left of her own free will."
I turned in the saddle.
"Now listen, you don't know what... "
"She ran off with somebody. He was some kind of a gambler or something. She just packed up and left with him."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, my father told me, and it's true. If anybody was done a wrong, Johnny, well, it was Murdoch Lancer. And there's something else you ought to know... "
"All right!" I started to ride off but she came after me and grabbed my boot and the palomino's rein.
"No, no, listen. When your father wasn't sure whether he'd live or die, I sat with him. And he kept saying your mother's name, Johnny, asking for her. So if you want to hate him because he's – he's stubborn or wrong headed lots of the time, or proud, well, they're – they're faults, but don't hate him for your mother Johnny, because he loved her." She stared up at me fiercely and I knew she meant what she said. But I knew she was wrong.
At that moment we heard someone yelling "Señor Murdoch! Isidro!" It was a Lancer vaquero, galloping towards the ranch and shouting at the top of his voice, "Señor Murdoch! Señor Murdoch! Es terrible!" Something was badly wrong. Scott jumped into the buckboard and whipped up the horse, pausing for a moment to swing Teresa in as she ran up, then heading at top speed to the ranch. I rode ahead of them. For the moment, our argument was forgotten.
"What is it, man? What's the matter," demanded Murdoch as the vaquero jumped off his horse and ran up to him.
"I ride, I see smoke, at Caspar's place, I ride over there, I see... patrón!" The vaquero burst into tears, collapsing against Murdoch, torn up at the thought of what he'd found.
What we saw at the neighboring ranch was almost beyond words. I'd seen some pretty bad things down around the border towns but this outdid even the rurales' work. The place was destroyed, the remains of fences standing blackened, one wagon still burning. The rancher's body was strung up by its feet above the barn door. We all just stood and stared for a moment, appalled beyond any words. It was Murdoch who found the rancher's wife in the house, raped and murdered, the butchered bodies of her children beside her. I was reminded of Valenzuela.
Cipriano had been checking the ground for clues.
"The trail is clear," he reported to Murdoch. "They rode to the San Benitos." Murdoch gave his orders.
"Isidro!"
"Sí, Patrón"
"You keep a man here. Take care of them."
"Muy bien, Patrón."
"I'll send the others back – armed."
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
"Don't you think we oughta talk about this?" I was at the door of Scott's room. He was tucking a plain shirt into his new work pants – he'd at least seen sense about his clothes.
"We can talk on the way, while we're after them." He was showing sense about his clothes, but not about anything else.
Stepping into the room, I asked, "Did you ever think that that's exactly what they want us to do?"
"The thought did cross my mind," there was irony in his voice, "but that trail could also lead us to their camp."
"Unless they double back through Morro Coyo, that way they can hit the ranch while we're miles away somewhere chasin' tracks." I was getting really annoyed. If he couldn't see something that obvious, what chance did he have?
Murdoch strode into the room, followed by Cipriano.
"The men are all mounted and waiting. Cipriano!" He turned to Scott. "You said you wanted to talk to him."
Scott spoke to the vaquero.
"Cipriano, you said the tracks lead to the San Benito Mountains. You know them well?"
"Like my hand, Señor."
"Is there a pass up there?"
Cipriano nodded. "A steep one. And narrow."
"Can you find it?"
"With my eyes shut, Señor."
"Good."
Scott looked over at me.
"Ready?"
I stared at him for an unbelieving moment then turned to Murdoch. "You know what's gonna happen up there with a couple of cowhands and a tin soldier?" I turned back to Scott. "That sun'll be coming down in about half an hour, and you're gonna be stumblin' around up there in the dark blowin' each others heads off."
Scott looked over at Murdoch. "You call the tune, what do you say?"
"I say you go." The old man didn't hesitate. Scott headed for the door.
"Cipriano, tell the men we'll be right there." He stopped in the doorway and turned back to me.
"Coming?"
I said nothing. He followed Cipriano out.
Murdoch stood leaning on his cane, looking at me.
"Are you going or not?"
"Is that an order?" I wanted to know, although I already did.
"There's only one man that's going to run this ranch," he answered. I tried to get through to him.
"Pardee is sucking you out in the open! He'll either cut your cowboys to shreds up in that pass or go for you in this house while there's nobody here. Now, you've got one chance – fold up here and wait."
"For what?"
"Till I've found Pardee."
"Maybe you've found him already." There was half an accusation in the way he said it.
"Well, go on?" I waited.
"What were you doing in Morro Coyo?" he demanded. I felt something like a dead weight in my stomach.
"Is that what you think of me?" I asked him.
"I don't know what to think of you." What sort of an answer was that? Couldn't he even be bothered to give a straight answer? Well, if it didn't matter to him, it didn't matter to me.
"Think what you like," I said to him as I turned away.
"Where you going?" he demanded.
"I never was much good at takin' orders." I left the room.
So Murdoch Lancer didn't know what to think of me? Ha! It was pretty clear what he thought. Well, it was no use bandying more words with him. Results were the best argument. I re-saddled the palomino and set off down the road to Morro Coyo. If Day and his crew had left, there would likely be someone around who knew which way they'd gone. If Pardee was still in town, I'd get in with them and find a way to put a spoke in the wheel. I had to keep them from wiping out Lancer tonight; that was the immediate chore. I couldn't straight shoot it out with them – not one gun against twenty, even Johnny Madrid wasn't that good – but I'd find a way to disrupt them and buy some extra time. Once Murdoch and the Boston soldier boy realized that they'd barely escaped Pardee's trap, maybe they'd listen to me and we'd have a chance. Meanwhile, I'd find out all I could about Day's plans, and about the men he'd hired. There would be a weak spot somewhere – there always is.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Some of the Pardee gang were still in town. They'd taken over the saloon, to all intents and purposes, and were making free with the food and the drink. I got a beer and drank it slow.
One thing I was curious about – and thought it might be useful to know – was who Pardee was working for, or planning to do a land deal with.
"The boss must want Lancer's land pretty bad, huh?" I said to one of the gang who'd had enough tequila to be amiable.
"The land, yeah, but I think it's not just the land Pardee wants now. He's mad at old man Lancer for holding out so long. He's out for revenge now, too."
Interesting: I'd said 'the boss' and the guy took that as Pardee. I sat back just listening and looking for a few minutes, then when the chance came up, I tossed a remark to another rough.
"Think the boss will take us all on as cowboys once he's got hold of all the ranch land he wants?" The fellow gave a hoot of laughter.
"Cowboys! That'll be the day, when I go chasing after cows! Pardee can offer the job if he likes; I won't be taking it, that's for sure."
There it was again. Seemed like all the men thought it was Pardee who wanted the land. If someone else was behind Pardee, they didn't know, and probably didn't care. That could be the key. It was Day the men were working for, no-one and nothing else. If he was out of the picture, one way or the other, then none of them would have any reason for sticking around, and I suspected most of them would have reasons for leaving.
The sound of hoof beats drew the men outside. I followed them onto the veranda as Pardee and the remainder of his crew rode up. Day dismounted and came over to where I stood.
"Johnny, you made up your mind yet?"
"Yeah, I made up my mind." I'd made up my mind long since, but Day took my words the way I knew he would.
"We'll be movin' out soon," he told his men. "We'll get breakfast at the Lancer ranch."
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
As we rode out from Morro Coyo I ran the possibilities through my mind. Seems Day and his men had set Scott and the Lancer vaqueros on a false trail, then come back to town to pick up the rest of the gang. The plan was, as I'd suspected – and had warned Murdoch – to attack the ranch while it was almost undefended. By my calculation, there was not much chance of Scott and the vaqueros getting back in time to help. He wouldn't turn back until he was absolutely sure the trail was false and by that time, they'd be well into the mountain range. Even knowing the trails, as Cipriano did, riding through hill country was slow. The best way that I could see was to make Day change his mind about moving against Lancer, for now at least. I'd wait until the last minute, then catch him off his guard.
We reached the top of a hill overlooking the ranch and Pardee gave out his orders.
"Bob, when we get down there, you go through this pass and take them from the front. I'll take the rest of them and go to the rear. Johnson, you get 'em ready and spread 'em out."
As Johnson led four or five others off, Day dismounted and went to a spot where he could watch his men get into position. This was the moment. I dismounted too and followed Pardee. Coley stood a little way off and I kept alert for any move he might make but it was Pardee I going to work on.
"Day!"
Pardee half turned to look at me, his mind still focused on getting his men lined up.
"Whatcha want, Madrid?"
"It's not Madrid." I'd decided how to hit him.
"What?"
"This is my land and I want you to get off."
He stared at me, trying to figure it out.
"It's your land?" I nodded. "You another Lancer?"
The words were barely out of his mouth when a bullet from Coley's gun flew past me. My gun was out the same instant and Coley fell. I spun round and fired at Pardee then grabbed my horse. Coley's body was rolling down the hillside as I jumped into the saddle and spurred Barranca into a gallop, but Pardee was on his feet and yelling to his men:
"Get him!"
The whole gang, including Pardee, were coming after me. Their careful organization had disintegrated; the well-planned attack had become a wild charge not nearly as dangerous – to the ranch, anyhow. The shots Pardee's men were firing at me and the shots I was firing back at them should alert whoever was still in the hacienda and a few bullets from behind the walls, plus the collapse of his plan of action, might with luck convince Pardee to pull out for now. It would just be nice if I could make it into the hacienda alive, as a little bonus, you know.
I saw a few of the gang fall from their saddles as I fired and I could only hope they were out of action for good. I spurred Barranca on and was well ahead as I leaped the fence into what was normally a pretty garden in front of the hacienda. I caught a glimpse of men – a lot of men – lined up on the hacienda walls with rifles at the ready. I was turning in the saddle for another shot at my pursuers when I felt a bullet strike me from behind. I guess it was because I was partly out of the saddle – and maybe Barranca jumped around; he was only broken the day before, remember – but for whatever reason, I fell from the horse. As I landed, my head struck the ground, hard, and I was knocked out.
When I came to, there was a full-scale gunfight going on around me. The bullet in my shoulder made moving painful and my head was spinning too bad for me to stand up anyhow, but I still had my gun in my hand. I knew that Pardee or one of his gang would probably put another bullet through me once they saw I was still alive, so my best chance was to show them I was still dangerous. As one ran past me, I took careful aim – had to concentrate real hard 'cause I was so dizzy – and brought him down. A couple more came in range and I took them out too but then my head started whirling real bad and everything went dim again. Next thing I knew, Scott was in front of me, firing his rifle at any Pardee man who tried to close in. He and someone else – Isidro, I found out later – grabbed me and pulled me behind a tree that gave some cover.
"Stay down!" he ordered. I couldn't do anything else, anyhow. He kept firing and I saw a couple more of the gang go down. Then Pardee himself came in sight.
"Look out!" I called to Scott, but he already had his rifle to his shoulder. Day had barely raised his gun when Scott fired, and with good aim. Day staggered; Scott fired once more; Day collapsed and fell to the ground, dead.
I heard a shout: "They got Pardee! Come on, let's get out of here! Come on!" It was like I'd figured; once Day was out of the picture, the rest skedaddled. The Lancer vaqueros kept up the fire until the last of the gang were out of range, then it was over. I looked up at Scott standing beside me. Here was another one I had to give him.
"That was good shootin'."
"Thanks, brother," he said, then added, "We'd just about given up on you, boy."
"Well, you had your plan and I had mine," I told him. I pulled myself to my feet and Scott reached out a hand to help me.
"Take your time, take your time," he said.
"I can make it." I was determined I would. I could see Murdoch and Teresa standing near the door of the hacienda and started heading towards them but things were whirling around again. I felt myself falling – and felt someone catch me.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
The bullet wound did no real damage – Doc Jenkins took the bullet out while I was unconscious – but the knock on the head kept me out of things for a while. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness. I was aware when I was awake, or half awake, that one of the Lancers was always there, either Scott or Murdoch – but mostly Murdoch. At one point I heard Murdoch asking, "Are you sure he'll be all right?" and someone, the doc I guess, answering, "If he's as hard-headed as his father, he'll be fine."
It was morning of the next day before I came round properly. Murdoch was sitting by the bed and Scott was saying to him,
"Go get some breakfast, Murdoch, you've been here almost the whole night. I'll watch for a while."
"Hey, I'd like some breakfast, too," I said. Scott and Murdoch both looked at me, Scott with a smile spreading over his face, Murdoch looking – relieved? Thankful?
"Johnny, how do you feel?" said Murdoch.
"Like I've been shot in the back, and like I need some breakfast," I answered.
"That sounds like a man on the road to recovery, to me," said Scott. "Go downstairs, Murdoch, and tell Teresa our patient's hungry."
Murdoch got up out of the chair, stiffly, like he'd been sitting in it a long time, and went out of the room. Presently Teresa came in, carrying a tray with a glass of milk and a bowl of some kind of broth.
"Aw, I need more for breakfast than that!" I said.
"You've had nothing to eat for almost two days," Teresa replied, sounding like a bossy sister. "Your stomach won't handle much yet. Eat this and I'll bring you something more solid at dinner-time."
Scott helped me sit up – my back was still pretty painful – and Teresa arranged the pillows to keep the pressure off the healing-up wound. I have to admit, it was nice being taken care of. Almost like being part of a family.
Doc Jenkins insisted I should stay in bed another day. It gave me time to do some thinking. "You'll get your share of this ranch when you get the man that put the bullet in my back," Lancer had said. Well, he'd been talking to me but I hadn't been the one to get the man. Pardee had fallen to Scott's bullet; Scott had earned a share of the ranch and proved he was man enough to hold it but I'd had almost no part in the fight and there was no reason for Murdoch to give me that one-third. I felt a disappointment, a kind of loss – there'd be no land of my own, after all – but told myself I couldn't complain; I had a thousand dollars for my few days' work and that was good pay by most gunfighters' standards. I did hope, though, that I could maybe get the horse as well, as a sort of lagniappe. I'd gotten fond of that pony.
Murdoch kept coming in to check on me through the day, and on one visit I took the chance to ask him.
"Murdoch, can I keep the palomino?"
"Of course, Johnny. Cipriano's been giving him some rein exercise. Once you're fit again, you can keep working him. There's nothing like having your own horse that you've trained yourself, I know."
Murdoch was talking like he expected me to stay but that might just be casual words. Or could be, he was being nice to a wounded man, not wanting to sound like he was in a hurry for me to leave. I decided I'd ask Scott how things stood; I felt he'd give me a straight answer.
When Scott came in to check if I was comfortable for the night, I brought up the subject of the partnership.
"Has Murdoch signed that agreement with you yet?"
"No, not yet," he answered. "He wants to have it properly notarized. Once you're fit, the three of us will go into town and sign it in front of a lawyer."
"Three of us?" I said. My heart was pounding. I hadn't realized how deep the disappointment had gone until then, until I heard that chance that there might not be a disappointment after all.
"Of course." Scott sounded surprised. "It's a three-way partnership; it needs all our signatures on the agreement."
"I thought Murdoch would be leaving me out of it. He's not obliged to keep to the offer, you know. I didn't give him what he asked for – I didn't get Pardee."
"Maybe that's not what he wanted, Johnny."
"What do you mean? He said right out, that first day, that he wanted to get the man who put the bullet in his back. That's what the one-third share was for."
"Oh, he wanted to get Pardee, sure, but he could have just hired gunfighters to do that. How much do shootists get paid, Mr Madrid?"
"Usually ten dollars a day plus bullets – maybe a bonus at the end if the job goes right," I told him.
"Well, how many gunfighters could Murdoch have hired for the equivalent of two-thirds of the value of his ranch?" he grinned.
"More than enough," I laughed with him. "But why all the stuff about shares in the ranch, then?"
"I think it was pride, Johnny. He wanted us here but he was too proud to just ask, after all those years of ignoring both of us. This was an excuse, a way of getting his sons back."
There might be something in what Scott was saying, yeah, I could see that, but still, it had been a business deal I'd entered into with Murdoch Lancer and I hadn't filled my side of the bargain. Johnny Madrid didn't take pay he wasn't rightly entitled to. It was part of my pride in my trade.
"I don't feel like I've earned it," I said to Scott. "You and Murdoch would have got Pardee and his gang without me."
"I don't know about that," Scott replied. "When I went to Morro Coyo for the doctor, after the fight, I found three of Pardee's men dead beside the road. That was your work, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," I said.
"And I saw you take out at least four more here on the ranch. That made a difference, Johnny. That fight had come down to sheer numbers and Pardee losing so many might be what gave us the edge. If you hadn't been there, well, this ranch might not still be Lancer land. In my book, you've earned your share."
"I'll think about it. If Murdoch doesn't want to go through with the deal, I won't make a fuss."
"Still not giving the old man too much credit, are you?" Scott smiled as he rose to leave. "I think Murdoch Lancer will keep his word; whether or not you stay will be up to you." He headed towards the door but I called him back a moment.
"One thing you ought to be ready for. Pardee didn't want land – he was a gunfighter, not a rancher. He had no plans for settling down on a farm. He must have been working for somebody. Either that or he had a deal lined up, and someone was expecting to buy all this land from him. Whoever it was might not give up. There might be more like Pardee coming along."
"Well, there you have it, brother. If there are more land pirates out there, you'd better stick around."
"To take care of your property, huh?"
"Our property," my brother corrected.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
Scott was right; Murdoch had no intention of going back on the offer of partnership. Maybe the old man was just stubborn when it came to sticking to his word whether he was obliged to or not, or maybe Scott was right about the reasons behind that offer, too. Once I was able to ride, we went into Morro Coyo to sign the partnership agreement. Murdoch's lawyer, Mr Randolph, had been checking the document over and had it ready for us in his office.
"Sign, there." Scott signed the paper and the lawyer passed the pen to Murdoch, saying, "Just above your name." As Murdoch straightened up after putting his signature on the document, Scott looked across at him. Each had a smile on his face and you could see that, somewhere along the line, they'd become father and son. I felt a twinge of envy. No, it was more than that. It was like something was dangling in front of me, something I wanted for myself.
Mr Randolph held the pen towards me.
"And you, sir?"
Murdoch interrupted him.
"Oh Mr Randolph, I should have told you. That last name should read John Madrid, not Lancer."
"I'll fix it in a minute." The lawyer moved to alter the document. Murdoch was agreeing to what I'd said I wanted. Madrid was who I would be in the partnership; the Madrid name was coming back to the land.
But did I really want that now? Estancia Madrid was – what had Murdoch said that first day? – 'past and gone.' In this partnership agreement we were talking about now, what was happening here. Maybe Johnny Madrid should be past and gone, too...
"No," I said. "Let it stand." I signed the agreement; signed, for the first time, in the name I've gone by ever since.
And that was it. I had a ranch. I had a brother. I had a father.
I was a Lancer.