Chapter 10

"I'm telling you, we had all those killers right here, big as life, playin' cards just the other week."

"Aw, go on, that's a bunch of horse shit, Bill."

The bartender shook his head stubbornly and took another swipe at the oaken top with the sodden towel. He glowered at the hapless drunk. "I tell ya, I think it was them."

"What happened then?" an eager voice asked.

"One of'em drew his guns-the other was cheatin' at cards-and everyone dove under the tables, waitin' for the lead to fly."

"Hey Bill, and I suppose you were just standin' here watching the whole thing go down."

"Well, yeah, I was," he said and stared down the speaker. "As I was sayin', neither one fired but they both smiled at each other real cold like. Then they looked over to me. Fellas, I gotta tell ya, the world just about stood still. Then they both put their guns back away, like it was some kind of joke or whatnot. Damn, if I'd a known then what I know now…I'd be halfway to 'Frisco, four thousand dollars richer."

Heads nodded

"It's still a load of horse shit." The drunk tiredly waved him off and lurched into a waiting chair.

Johnny and Murdoch finally caught the bartender's eye and ordered two beers as the crowd slowly dispersed back to their seats. The Number Eight was hopping, even for a Friday night.

"We're looking for the deputy. Is he around here?" asked Murdoch.

"Who, Lionel? He's probably over to his office. Hasn't been in tonight, but he's due soon."

The bartender was looking intently at them now, speculation written across his thin face. "You got somethin' you need to take up with him?"

Johnny leaned on the counter and wrapped a hand around his beer glass. "Yeah, somethin'."

"We're looking for my son," Murdoch began, "Scott Lancer. He's twenty-five, has blond hair and blue eyes."

The bartender started wiping down the counter with vigorous strokes. "Nope, haven't seen or heard about him around here."

"You'd remember if you heard him talk," offered Johnny, "he's from back east."

"Like I said, I haven't heard of the man, but who you're sort of describin' sounds like…"

"Like the man Marshal Conklin is looking for." The words were uttered quietly, but the click of a hammer being pulled back was obscenely loud, made even more so since the Number Eight had suddenly gone silent.

The bartender backed away to the side as Johnny and Murdoch glanced at each other and slowly turned around.

"Keep your hands up!" the man growled.

Lionel Hamilton, Johnny thought. His clothes weren't much, but that tin star was nice and big, stuck up there over his left breast pocket, shining like a beacon. He was a couple inches shorter than Murdoch and weighed a good fifty pounds more, swaggering it around now as he walked towards them, as if he was mighty impressed with himself. His bushy black eyebrows clamped together in a straight line, looking like a single hash mark across his forehead.

A movement by the swinging doors of the saloon caught his eye. It was Harley, the man from the boarding house, just peeking out over the top. He must have high-tailed right to the deputy after seeing them.

Hamilton edged closer, his gun looking dangerous. Murdoch shifted his weight then froze when the weapon swung his way.

"What's this about, Deputy?" Murdoch asked.

"It's all about finding some wanted men, Mister. And this one," he tipped the gun to Johnny, "fits the bill. Besides which, you're looking for the other man, too."

"Look, we're just trying to find my brother," said Johnny.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that. So unless you can prove who you are and what you're doing in Woodville, I figure its going to be a few long days for you fellas until the marshal gets back in town." He grinned widely. "You're lucky, I promised the marshal I'd hold any prisoners until he got back. Now take those weapons out and lay 'em on the counter, real easy. I'm sure the bartender here doesn't want to clean up a big mess on his floor so late at night."

They placed their weapons down as the deputy jerked his head towards the door. "We'll be going over to the jail now. Bill, I'd be much obliged if you were to send over those guns as soon as you get the chance. Harley! Get over here and help me with these two. If you want part of that reward, you'd best be earning it."

The bar sounds rose steadily as they left the establishment, the patrons murmuring amongst themselves, sounding like so many bees in a hive. They'd have something to talk about at home tonight.

Johnny looked around at the nondescript room from his slouch against the wall. The jail-not a year old-still looked as damn depressing as any other jail he had seen or had the misfortune to be in. His hand snaked upwards to his neck, kneading the knotted muscles found there. Scott was tied up in all of this mess he was sure of it, but where the hell was he?

Murdoch was still leaning over the desk, butting heads with Hamilton, as he'd been doing for the last ten minutes. The old man could be loud when he wanted to be, and right now he was on point. He winced when the flat of Murdoch's large hand hit the desk top once more. If the redness in Hamilton's face was any indication, he wasn't going to stand for much more of it.

"I'll ask you again, what's the meaning of all this?" thundered Murdoch.

Hamilton stood and jabbed a finger. "And I told you-we're looking for some wanted men, killers, as a matter of fact. And your boy over there fits the description. Or at least he did. Goddamned Harley got it all mixed up. And then you coughed up that telegram from Ironton."

Johnny shifted in his lean. Even if he was expecting an apology over the mix-up-and he wasn't-he sure as hell wasn't going to get it from the deputy.

"And you were asking about the other one, Sam Martin. What was I supposed to think?"

Exasperated, Murdoch rocked back a little on his heels and stared at the lawman. "Scott Lancer, I was asking about Scott Lancer, not Sam Martin. Let me see that wanted poster." He snatched the piece of paper out of Hamilton's grasp and read it over quickly.

He flicked at the paper with two fingers. "This doesn't even match my son, Deputy. It could be anybody."

Hamilton shrugged. "It doesn't matter anyhow; Marshal Conklin is out with a posse after Martin right now. He was bringing the boy to trial when he escaped, so the marshal deputized a few of the men in town. Haven't heard back from them so they must still be on the trail, rain probably held them up some."

He finally spoke up from the wall. "All this doesn't get us any closer to findin' Scott."

Murdoch ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Johnny's right. If he wasn't here in town then maybe someone has seen him around the area. Are there any ranches nearby we can check on?"

The deputy looked around his desk for a bit then pulled out a map. He pointed out several spots, naming each one. "There's a couple out west of here, too. Mathias' farm and the Walkers. Kind of off the beaten path, though."

"It'll do for a start. We'll canvass the ranches tomorrow." Murdoch and Hamilton eyed each other across the desk.

Johnny touched his father's sleeve. "C'mon, Murdoch. Let's find that boarding house."

They stepped off the wooden walk outside the jail and into the night. Johnny shook his head. "Taken for someone else twice in one night, must be some kinda record, huh?"

Murdoch somberly agreed. "I hope Hamilton knows enough to spread the word or we may find a lot more people looking to cash in on your looks. Here's hoping that tomorrow will bring some better news."

#-#-#-#-#

The day had dawned, cold and dreary, the sun barely making a dent in the sky. Thoughtfully, Johnny walked outside the boarding house. A silence had started between him and Murdoch last night, and it still held sway this morning. The tussle at the jail last night kind of wore on his father. And on him, too. He had a bad feeling about those wanted men he couldn't shake loose.

He untied the horses and handed the reins to Murdoch as he stepped off the boardwalk. A solitary man, sitting slumped on a big bay roan, passed them, his face wide and taut underneath his hat. He caught the man's eye and nodded to him.

The rider pulled up sharply and stared. He shook himself a bit then urged his horse to a trot.

Murdoch stepped up beside him. "Johnny, is that someone you know?"

"Not me, Murdoch, he didn't look familiar anyway. He's headin' to the deputy's office, though, maybe he'll get what he needs there."

They turned to mount up and heard the loud rumble of a wagon quickly approaching, its cargo in the back bumping up and down with each pull of the horses. As they watched it lumber past, the tarp flipped up and an arm flopped out from underneath. Clad in a white, stained sleeve, it bounced with each rut in the road, eerily waving at them. The driver pulled up in front of the jail and ran into the deputy's office.

Murdoch stared at the macabre sight, the profound frown on his face drew down his eyes and etched in lines that hadn't been there a few weeks ago.

"Are you ready?" Johnny asked, obviously interrupting the older man's thoughts.

His father breathed in deeply then let go with a heavy sigh. "More trouble for someone. Let's get going, son, we have a large area to cover today."

They mounted up and walked their horses past the boarding house, getting as far as the now-quiet Number Eight saloon, when they heard someone yelling for them.

"Lancer! Mr. Lancer!"

Johnny twisted in the saddle. It was Harley, puffing after them on thick legs, one overall strap loose and jumping.

The man bent forward with the exertion, hands on knees, and huffed out his message. "Deputy…says to come quick …found your son."

He skimmed a look at Murdoch. His father's rugged features had gone starkly pale. It was only a moment before the big man pulled his horse around and sent it flying past Harley, kicking up dust.

They reined in and dismounted at the wagon beside Hamilton, who nodded to them. "It looks like Amos here found your boy. He was out scouting game and came across the body."

A feeling of dread overwhelmed him. He watched Murdoch as his face tightened and grayed at the deputy's blunt comments.

"The body's been out there for at least a couple of days. Animals got to it, but I'm hoping you can recognize it. Man was shot through the temple, up close like. Not much of a face left." His gut churned while Murdoch visibly flinched at the words, his big hand turning into a fist.

Hamilton jerked up the leather covering, revealing the body underneath.

He stared down at the grisly mess that was once the man's head. Then realization struck home.

"That isn't Scott." He shook his head vehemently, "Murdoch, that isn't Scott."

"I know, Johnny." The words were barely more than a whisper.

The deputy crowded past him and looked up at Murdoch. "You sure, Lancer? I mean it's kind of hard to tell."

Murdoch spun to the man, his lips thinning out to a long line. "I know my own son!"

"All right, all right. But if that ain't your boy then who is it?"

As one they looked back down at the tarp-covered body. Hamilton suddenly yelled out. "Eli, that prisoner Conklin picked up at your place-Sam Martin-think you can identify him?"

The man Hamilton had called out to was standing off to the side, his face grave. He nodded once and came off the boardwalk to the wagon. Hesitating for a bit, he took a firm hold of the canvas then lifted upwards. He looked searchingly at the body for long moments, then dropped it back down again, relief evident in his face. He shook his head. "That's not the man who was at my house, Lionel. I'm sure."

Hamilton scratched the back of his head. "So if he isn't yours," he pointed at Murdoch, "and he isn't Martin, then who the hell is he?"

Eli looked at Murdoch. "Your son, what does he look like?"

"He's tall, blond hair, blue eyes. Twenty-five years old," replied Murdoch.

"What was he doing around here?" asked Eli.

"What are you gettin' at, Mister?" countered Johnny.

"I'm just asking what your brother was doing here, it's important."

Murdoch jammed a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving the crumpled telegram. "He was traveling, to Ironton, to offer a contract on some of our stock."

"Was he going to see a 'Daniel Sorensen' in Ironton?"

Murdoch swung his head up to look at the man, eyes narrowing. "How did you know?"

Eli turned away and gripped the wagon's sideboard. "He wasn't Martin after all."

"Who wasn't Martin?" Murdoch asked, puzzled.

"I had an injured man at my farm and I think he was your son."

Johnny and Murdoch exchanged a look. "Where is he now?" asked Johnny.

"That's just the thing; I didn't know he was your son. I thought he was this Martin. Marshal Conklin showed up at the farm and had the wanted poster. It fit your son, most ways."

"And you just let the marshal take him." He took a full step towards the farmer, only to be stopped by Murdoch's hand on his arm. He'd have to be a blind man not to see it. Eli had sold his brother out to the lawman. After all, wasn't there a cash reward for the killers?

The farmer nodded miserably. "Conklin arrested him for the murders in Monteray and Modesto."

He tried to take another step, but Murdoch's arm was suddenly across his chest preventing it. Eli blanched a little and looked funny, a mixture of guilt and sorrow crossing his broad face. That look-and Murdoch-had just saved him.

His father turned to Hamilton. "I thought you said that the marshal's prisoner had escaped."

"I did," the deputy said, "and the posse is out there right now, looking for him."

"So Scott's out there somewhere running for his life. Murdoch, we need to get goin' and find him."

"Scott? Is that his name?" interrupted Eli.

They both turned to look at him.

Eli backed up a step. "I never knew his name. He'd been badly injured, like I said. He was shot in the arm…and the head. When he woke up, he couldn't remember who he was."

"What?" Murdoch exclaimed, his voice halfway to a shout.

Eli was shaking his head. "It's a long story."

"We ain't got a lot of time, Mister. And neither does my brother." Johnny said.

The telling of it was hurriedly done in the deputy's office. Unbridled energy roiled up within him. He kicked off from his spot on the wall, the same one he had occupied last night, to pace the small space. Scott had barely survived the vicious attack, only to be hunted again, this time by the law, for something he didn't do. Time wasn't on their side, they needed to leave.

Eli stumbled over quiet words. "I was trying to find out exactly where the marshal was taking him…thinking I could testify on his behalf."

Murdoch looked hard at him for a few moments then finally stood. "Thank you for helping him when he needed it." He stretched out his hand. Mathias was taken by surprise and wavered before standing to shake.

They walked out of the office to gather their horses, when Eli stopped them once more. "Mr. Lancer, your son…he had some scars on his back. They were what made me think he'd been a prisoner at one time, someone with a criminal record."

It was a slim excuse in Johnny's mind. Empty words at best. They dredged up a name from Scott's past-Dan Cassidy-and a time when Scott had barely survived another betrayal…and a second escape. His palm settled reflexively on the butt of his gun, fingers dancing on the holster's edge. The same feelings from back then when he'd been looking, without success, for his brother, simmered to the top again. Impotence and frustration. It made him want to hit something-or someone.

Murdoch looked at Eli with sadness banked in his eyes, then said curtly, "My son was a prisoner, Mr. Mathias. For one year-in a confederate prison camp."

That same sadness was now echoed in Eli's grey eyes.

Good, thought Johnny. Let him hurt a little, it was fitting.

tbc