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CHAPTER 3 - THE DELIVERY
Scott couldn't get to sleep. Johnny still hadn't returned by the time they'd all turned in and although it wasn't unusual, it was unsettling. Troubled by his grandfather's words, Scott couldn't stop turning them over in his mind. Harlan had never before been so boldly opinionated, almost desperate, in an attempt to make Scott see his way.
Scott turned over and pulled the blanket over his shoulder, thinking about his inheritance. Returning to Boston permanently was not an option he would even consider, but he knew that the responsibility inherent in the legacy meant he would have to go back at some point.
The money was such a large amount it was hard to picture. His gut reaction was to refuse it, but as he started to think of things he could do to improve the lives of the people around him. A new school in Morro Coyo, complete with skilled teachers, would be a good start. He could provide the salary of another doctor, and set up a small hospital. Invest in top notch breeding stock for the spread, lay a spur of railroad so they could get the cattle to market with ease, repair the crumbling roof of the older part of the hacienda, and maybe even get indoor plumbing. The possibilities were endless.
He was eager for Johnny to get home so he could tell him all about it.
~ • ~
Before he had gone to bed, Scott had located Murdoch seated at his desk in the great room, tidying some papers.
His father had listened to his concerns about Harlan Garrett and then had calmly said, "He'll be gone before you know it, Son, then we can all get back to normal. Just tonight Harlan confirmed he was planning on leaving by the week's end. I suspect that Johnny was glad of an excuse to get out of sitting through another meal with him."
"I don't know. Grandfather was being offensive to Johnny, I heard. I only caught the tale end of it, but Teresa told me what was said."
Murdoch frowned. "Hmm. Yes, she told me just now, but I'm sure your brother's perfectly happy drinking with his pals in town, as we speak." He was angry enough to consider tossing Harlan out immediately, but he was more concerned that Scott's grandfather may coerce him in some way. "At least Johnny's out of harm's way in town. I'll find your brother a job that'll keep him away from the house as much as possible for the next few days."
"It isn't Johnny who should be sent away."
"No, but that's the best solution I can think of right now. I say we just ride this visit out." Murdoch had indicated the paperwork that Scott had, crushed in his hand. "You have something to show me?"
"Oh, yes. Can you look this over?" Unfolding the heavy document, he handed it to his father. Scott then explained about the terms of the inheritance in a neutral tone.
Murdoch had taken his time replying, emitting an occasional grunt as he read through the dense legalese. Finally he had asked, "You said that Harlan has been keeping an eye on this fortune? One thing he's good at and that's holding onto money, even if he has no claim to a penny of it."
"It doesn't seem real," Scott had said. "It would have made such a difference if my mother had inherited her share of it, and brought it with her into her marriage with you." There was no denying that such an enormous amount of money would cause change and Scott just hoped it wasn't going to drastically alter his own life. He had felt settled here, had known his place and felt content, but this was upsetting his perspective of his world and somehow it didn't feel right to him.
"If it is real, and this document does look valid, then by accepting such a large amount of money," Murdoch had said evenly, "you'll also be shouldering a great deal of responsibility. There are several businesses mentioned here; holdings in ironworks, shipping, even a stake in a railroad. Hmm. It looks like a lot of employees as well as other family members will be relying on you. Catherine may have been an only child, but she had a large extended family. Her uncle had seven girls, I believe, and they must have families of their own by now. They all need to be treated fairly, even if this will's objective is to assure that the next male in line is the sole successor."
"It should have been divided equally between the family members, and my mother's share should have become yours."
Surprisingly, Murdoch had smiled. "Wills are rarely fair, my boy, yet we have to respect the intent. Catherine told me how the estate was to go to the next male when you were due to be born. I was happy that your future was to be secure. Besides, my life has been full, knowing your mother and Johnny's, and then building this ranch by myself. My reward lies in knowing I did it on my own."
"I didn't comprehend the scope of this inheritance," Scott had explained. "I knew that my grandmother's family had their hands in several large industries, but their fortune never meant much to me. My grandmother died when I was very young and we rarely encountered my cousins, so I've only known my grandfather as family." He had looked up quickly at Murdoch. "Until I met you and Johnny, of course. It says this is only a notification and that there will be more documents, and more attorneys involved, after I turn twenty-seven."
"Then I suggest that until then you go about your business here and don't worry about it too much. Take it one step at a time." Murdoch had clasped a hand to Scott's shoulder and said, "I know you'll handle it well, son. You have no obligation to Harlan Garrett. Go to bed now."
Scott had said good night, but as he approached the door he hesitated then turned back to face his father. "Grandfather doesn't seem willing to acknowledge how much Johnny means to me," Scott had said, aggrieved that there was conflict between his own kin.
Murdoch had looked at his son with understanding in his eyes. "Yes, Scott. He does understand how much your brother means to you. He knows exactly how much." He had turned the wick low on the lamp on his desk. "I'll leave a light on for Johnny."
~ • ~
Not sure what had awoken him, Scott propped himself up on one elbow. He listened to the night sounds, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Just as he was about to lie down again he heard a faint sound coming from outside, seemingly from the front of the house. It was too dark to see his pocket watch on the bedside table but he thought it must be around four in the morning. The faintest bit of light was creeping over the inky-black hills, barely enough to see by. He quietly padded across his room and opened the door to the hallway. It was pitch black, all the doors were shut, and the sound of muffled snores was emanating from more than one bedroom.
The noise occurred again, this time a little louder - a horse nickering, accompanied by a dull thud. Scott quickly stepped back into his bedroom and pulled his pants on over his long-john bottoms. Choosing to remain barefoot, he carried his boots in one hand and his revolver in the other as he headed to investigate. He hesitated at Murdoch's doorway but decided not to disturb him. He slipped along the hall and down the back stairs, then across the great room.
The lamp on Murdoch's desk, with its wick turned down low, cast strange shadows on the walls as Scott cautiously moved to the French doors. He slowly opened one glass-paned door and peered out. There, no more than a silhouette in the faint pre-dawn light, was a buckboard drawn up to the front of the house. A man was hauling at something heavy as he tried to unload it from the flat wagon bed.
Only a few quick steps across the flagstone patio and Scott was standing within a few yards of the wagon. "What's your business here?" Scott demanded loudly as he dropped his boots and raised his gun. "I've got you covered!" The click of the revolver's hammer was loud in the quiet night.
The man, startled, turned quickly, instinctively raising his hands defensively. "Don't … don't shoot! I don't mean no harm, honest!"
Scott cautiously approached the wagon that loomed darkly in front of the house. "Speak up," he ordered. "This is no time to be skulking around on private property,"
"I only did what the sheriff told me to do," a quavering voice called out. "I ain't done nothing wrong! He told me to come to the Lancer ranch."
Seeing that man was scared, Scott calmly assured him, "This is Lancer."
"You Scott Lancer?" the man asked hopefully.
Wondering what was so important that some stranger was making a delivery in the middle of the night, and somewhat annoyed, Scott replied, "Yes. Scott Lancer. State your business so I can get back to bed." He lowered his weapon to his side and let the hammer down carefully.
The man said unsurely, "He . . . he keeps asking for Scott." He gestured towards the wagon bed.
"Who keeps asking for me?" Scott peered at the jumble of dark, bulky objects that filled the back of the wagon. Feeling around, he touched what he realized was a man's inert body. When he instinctively jerked his hand away, he inadvertently touched a row of large buttons running down a trouser leg. He immediately knew who those studded pants belonged to. "Johnny!" he cried. Pushing the wagon driver aside, Scott ordered him to get a lamp from the patio. As the man scrambled to obey, Scott grabbed hold of Johnny, calling out his name again.
There was only a moan in reply.
The man returned with a newly lit lamp even as the large figure of Murdoch appeared right behind him.
Murdoch demanded, "What's going on?"
Scott tucked his gun into his waistband and grasped Johnny's waist, pulling his body towards the edge of the wagon bed. There was a rough blanket covering his brother and underneath it he felt warm. When Scott adjusted his grip, he realized his hand was wet with something sticky. "It's Johnny," was all he could say to his father.
The driver lifted the lamp high, illuminating the scene as Murdoch helped Scott ease the limp body to the edge the wagon. Scott didn't need the glow of the lamp to tell him what he already knew, that Johnny's body was covered in blood.
~ • ~
Lamps were lit throughout the house. Teresa and Maria appeared, then the ranch hands emerged from the bunkhouse. They came forward in various states of undress, slowly at first, then faster as they realized the gravity of the situation, the men hauling up their suspenders, the women clutching their shawls about their bosoms.
Murdoch tersely questioned the hapless driver, but it soon became apparent that he had been ordered by Sheriff Stillwater simply to bring Johnny home. The lawman was still out chasing down the culprits who had attacked Johnny.
"It were two men," the man explained eagerly. "I didn't see nothing, but the sheriff, he ran them fellers off afore they killed this boy here. They beat on him somethin' terrible, that's what the sheriff said. I was just happening by. I was on my way home . . . I live just up the canyon road there." He pointed somewhere in a direction beyond the Lancer gate.
Murdoch didn't question how anyone was 'just happening by' in the wee hours of the morning, as the man reeked of cheap perfume as well as whiskey. To Scott he said, "Johnny's out cold. We can share his weight and get him inside." As they lifted up Johnny's limp body, slinging his arms around their shoulders, Murdoch noticed his son's holster was empty. He wondered if Johnny had managed to defend himself before he'd lost his sidearm.
Once the men had carried Johnny into the great room, they laid him on the large settee. His feet dangled onto the floor but the bulk of his body was on the cushions, still wrapped in the driver's old blanket. Johnny's eyes were closed, one of the lids puffy and discolored from a blow. There were several cuts and bruises on his face and neck.
Teresa placed a fringed pillow under Johnny's head and gasped when her hand came away red with blood. Removing the shawl that covered her long white nightgown, she held it to Johnny's head wound. "Maria, we need some towels and–" She turned to find the housekeeper already coming to help, with a bowl of water and several towels in her arms.
The wagon's driver, who identified himself as Amos Whipple, assured them that the doctor had been sent for. He was at an outlying ranch tending to a woman giving birth, but he would come as soon as he was able. "We figgered since Doc was closer to your place than to town, it'd be best to bring your boy here." Now that Johnny was settled in his own home, Whipple was itching to take his leave. "I just knew this night was gonna end up bad for me," he complained, shaking his head regretfully.
Murdoch cast him a dangerous look, causing the man to back away quickly.
Scott aided Murdoch to carefully unwrap the blood-soaked blanket from Johnny's body, exposing his darkly wet shirt. They inspected the unconscious man's torso for the source of the bleeding and discovered a wide strip of burlap being used as a makeshift bandage around his waist. Rolling the wounded man onto his side, they cut it off and removed a sodden wad of none-too-clean fabric that was sticking to his flesh. There they discovered an ugly knife wound in his lower back, just above his waist, still oozing darkly.
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