The Gamble

Part one: WHN The High Riders

Just how was he supposed to feel? Johnny wasn't sure. The one thing he was sure of was he couldn't go back to that house, not right now, not today, and not tonight.

The four of them, Murdoch and Teresa in the buckboard, Scott and Johnny riding along behind, were headed home from the lawyer's office. The papers were signed and the ranch was carved up into three equal pieces, well maybe not quite so equal, the old man was the only one calling the tune, as he put it. But, it was all square and legal, he, Johnny Madrid Lancer, was one third owner of a hundred thousand acres, payment for a job done.

Only thing was, this job was different. This time he was expected to stick around. Become part of a family. That sure had never been the case before. No, those fine upstanding gentlemen were always more than anxious to see him on his way. But, not this time. The old man actually made good on his promise. And now he was expected to... hell, he really didn't know what he was expected to do.

Johnny stretched in his saddle, the closer they got to the ranch the more uncomfortable he became. Things just didn't fit. Everything felt too small and too tight, like a new pair of boots. Had a new pair of boots once, bought legal, but they never did feel right. Pinched in all the wrong places, rubbed his heel raw, never been one to have patience with those kinda things. So how exactly was he expected break this in, just how was he to go from roamin' free to livin' in a cage? No matter how pretty or how big, hundred thousand acres big, it still felt like a cage and it still pinched.

Sleepin' in a proper bed every night, now ain't that a kick in the pants. But, then again, a bed just ain't proper unless there's something soft and sweet smelling beside you, or beneath you. Well that sure ain't gonna happen any time soon in that proper bed, nope, not at Lancer. There were rules against that sorta' thing.

Eatin' proper meals every day was another of them fancy rules. Dinner at sundown, don't be late. Late? What kinds of people use a clock to tell them when to eat? Seems kinda strange. You eat when you're hungry or, if you're long past hungry, you eat when you got food. Guess eating by the clock's what you call normal. Well, Johnny Madrid ain't never been normal.

Talkin' proper, now that's a tricky one. Hate sitting around sipping from fancy cups talking all sweet, no cussing, no belching, and no talk of whoring or drinking, not with Teresa smiling at everyone and nodding her head. What you could talk about was the fine weather or the delicious meal. But the worst talking came when they wanted to know stuff. Like where you went to school or what it was like where you grew up. Scott was good at that kind of talking but Madrid doesn't talk of those things, ain't nobody's business, besides no one really wants to hear the real answers to those questions.

Doin' proper work, now most times that wasn't so bad, the work anyway. But what crawled under your skin was the deadline. Do this by ten then go over there and do that by three, it's enough to make you want to lie down under a big tree and do anything but what your supposed to be doing. A man could get used to eatin' and sleepin' on a deadline. But work? Nope, that's not ever gonna happen. Not against work. Don't mind workin' up a sweat, but there's a limit and once that limit's reached it's time for a little fun. Besides, never much cared for stayin in one place too long, tend to get in trouble and since my shadow's named trouble, I kinda' carry it with me. Have found it's usually best to back away from trouble, unless of course you plan to finish it.

As bad some of those things are none of those proper things was the worst; nope the worst is the way everyone just looks at you, waiting. Looks that told ya to say the right thing or stop sayin' the wrong thing, looks that said eat the right way, or sit without putting your feet on the furniture, looks that meant sit down and still others that told ya stand up. But there's always one look, when their eyes travelled to his hip, that one look that said so much, the questions, the disappointment, and the fear. That's the worst of it. That's what he hated the most.

Murdoch snapped the reins, moving the buckboard on a bit faster. He was anxious to return home. He had his family back what, more could a man ask for? He knew perfectly well this wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it.

The day's greatest joy came when Johnny said 'Let it stand'. Murdoch felt the smile start in his heart and journey to his lips, deeply touched by the gesture. If only the transition would be that simple, but he knew, in that very same heart, it wouldn't, it couldn't.

He learned that, sitting by Johnny's bed, as he watched his son fight another battle, the battle against lead and all its inherent dangers. During those days, Murdoch was forced to realize just how entrenched Madrid was in his young son, through his delirious rants and drugged conversations. More than once they were certain this battle would be his last and more than once Murdoch convinced himself maybe it was for the better. At least he'd found his way home. Murdoch searched for any sign of the little boy he once loved but instead met a hard and dangerous man, disinclined to accept the help offered and angered when he was unable to survive without it. His heart ached for this solitary stranger.

Once he was able to move about, things, unbelievably, went from bad to worse. He'd pace the house setting everyone's nerves on edge, the incessant tapping of fingers on anything within reach, tables, glassware, and if nothing else were available his thigh. There was not an object in the entire hacienda he didn't touch, move, poke or question. But the most infuriating thing of all, he refused to remove that blasted gun.

Today, to everyone's relief and joy, was the first day he'd been allowed out. But, even that brought on a tension all its own. What Murdoch wanted was for Johnny to take Teresa in the buckboard but that was not going to happen. Grudgingly Murdoch relented, partly resulting from the fact, that as difficult as it was for him to admit, there was a small part of him that was afraid of his own son. But, maybe claiming the name of Lancer was a new beginning, a fresh start for all. Maybe this would be good.

Johnny pulled up beside the buckboard. He looked at his father with that penetrating stare, the stare that caused most men to back down, men who weren't fools anyway. "I'm taking off for a while. Need some time."

"Now, Johnny, I'm not sure that's a good idea. What you need is to come home, rest. It's your first day out. Don't push."

"That wasn't a question. Don't need your permission, Old Man. I'm takin' off for a while." He turned his palomino towards the south and kneed him into a gallop.

Murdoch reined the horses to a stop, unsure of what just happened. Teresa looked at him, her eyes full of questions. All he could do was shake his head.

Scott quickly moved into the position just vacated by his brother. "What's that all about? "Where's he going?" Scott looked from his father to his brother's rapidly moving horse.

"Don't know."

"Well, I'm going after him."

"I'd like that, Scott, thank you." Murdoch's eyes followed Johnny as he raced toward a stand of trees. "Remember, Maria is preparing a celebration dinner tonight." His voice trailed off, suddenly not feeling very much like celebrating.

"Wouldn't miss it, Sir." Scot grinned. "We'll be home." Spurring his mount, he followed in pursuit of his brother.

He pulled up when he spotted Johnny just beyond the trees, waiting.

Johnny pushed his hat back allowing it to dangle from its stampede strings and squinted. "Go back, Brother. Not looking for company."

"But…"

"I said, go back." He returned his hat to his head and pressed it firmly in place. "Had enough of you people, for a spell. No offense, but this just ain't the way I live."

Scott's horse pranced about, anxious to continue at the faster pace. "What about Murdoch and Teresa? You're expected for dinner, big celebration you know. You own one third of a ranch now."

"Ya, I know, Scott." Johnny dropped his head, then looked up, smiling. "It'll just take some getting' used to. Just can't think straight right now, feel all boxed in what with all the fussin' over me and those drugs, just need some time is all. I'll be back."

"For dinner? Can I tell him you'll be back for dinner?"

"Ain't making no promises, Boston. Nope, never make promises.

Champagne was opened, dinner eaten, dishes cleared but the celebratory air was nowhere to be seen and neither was Johnny. Murdoch climbed the stairs early not sure what to make of this son of his. Johnny was well aware of the significance of this night, how important it was to the family, and his no show was a hurtful slap in the face of each and every member of the family.

A few days later Murdoch sat at his desk, chair turned toward the window, lost in thought. He saw Johnny ride in. At first sight Murdoch allowed relief to unclench his belly. By the time he'd strode across the large room and flung open the door anger replaced relief. He looked dirty and exhausted, but, for the most part, unharmed. Murdoch grabbed him by the arms, squeezing with his large hands. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Devil's got nothing to do with it." Johnny's voice was calm and steely. "Just needed some time's all. Case you need an education, I'm pretty much of a one man deal, don't make a secret of it and don't plan on changing it for you or anybody."

"You look like hell." The anger in Murdoch's voice faded as a father's concern took over. He released his grip.

Arms free, Johnny stepped deeper into the room, his back to Murdoch. He dipped his head removing his hat then, with a sigh, looked through the large window behind his father's desk. "Ya, well, thanks," he clipped. "It comes with the lunch."

Neither man faced the other.

Murdoch's thunderous voice was subdued "Thought when you agreed to the Lancer name you agreed to be a part of this family. Was I wrong?"

Johnny walked to the desk. He tossed his hat so it landed dead center and placed his hands on the polished wood. He followed the grain with his fingers at first then, as if bearing the weight of all the world, he leaned heavily on the desk. His head dropped. "You don't get it. You don't get how hard this is for me."

"No, Johnny I don't. Just seems like you hate this, hate me. Is that it? Do you hate me that much?"

Pushing off from the desk Johnny stood, picked up a paperweight and spun on his heels. "Don't hate you any more than I hate anyone else. Don't trust ya any more either." He tossed the carved stone from hand to hand, but looked into his old man's eyes. "We share blood and up till a few weeks ago that would have got you dead. But, look, you're still breathing." A thin smile slipped across his face and then was gone. "I call that progress and if you don't, then we'll be buttin' heads for a long time, Old Man." He set the paperweight down, picked up his hat and walked out the French doors.