Chapter 14

Ironton had exactly three saloons, two banks, one railroad and too many other stores to count. There was even a whoop-de-do library he'd visited, located next to a school in the better part of town. Johnny walked outside and leaned against the railing in front of the mercantile. It was like trailing a gnat in a windstorm. Where was Scott? Maybe he'd gone about this the wrong way…he'd been thinking like his brother, looking for him in the places Scott would go. Only Scott didn't know who he was. He glanced to his left; Murdoch should be riding in any time now. And he wouldn't have any news for him-good or bad. He squinted at the afternoon sun, for a big city with a lot of people it seemed awful lonely.

Johnny looked across the street and saw the glow of a cigarette in a man's cupped hand amidst the bustle of cowboys and vendors. The cold breeze was making it hard to keep lit. He watched the man struggle with it for a few moments then go into the saloon. Soon after Johnny turned away and walked down the boardwalk.

He was just about to step inside the livery again when a flash of color in the crowd caught his eye. He sucked in a breath. The man was hatless and wore a plaid coat, but even at a distance Johnny could see the straight carriage and comfortable movement of shoulders and arms. Scott was a man who was easy to pick out of a crowd.

He started forward, winding his way around men and women of all types, keeping his eye on Scott. So intent on getting to his brother, he didn't see a man stepping into his way from the street, loaded with packages. They collided and tumbled down together. He popped up, shoving a bowler hat off his lap and back onto the stranger's head. Running now, his boots made quick thuds on the boardwalk, spurs accompanying in tune.

"Scott! Hey, Scott!"

His brother jerked his head around. His eyes were searching, narrowed against the glint of the sun, then opened widely upon seeing him. Johnny raised his hand in greeting and couldn't help the smile sliding onto his face.

Scott spun and ran.

Shock. Panic. It was all written across Scott's face. Those thoughts flashed through his mind as he pounded down the street in hot pursuit.

Johnny made a quick turn down an alley between a dress shop and the granary. It was only when he had gotten halfway down that he realized his brother had disappeared. He trotted to the rear, the area behind the granary was littered with barrels and sacking materials. A dustbin hugged the back of the other shop. He glanced to the woods beyond the stores, wondering if Scott had made it to them, but a scraping noise from behind told him otherwise.

Aside from the odd coat, his clothes were stained and wrinkled, like they'd been slept in several times. The scruffy beard, the shadowed eyes of someone hunted-he didn't wear it well-but the fear that had shone there before was gone. Scott held a Colt waist high, the hammer making a dull sound as a round was chambered.

Johnny swallowed against a rising tide of anguish. "Hey, brother. We've been trying to find you for the longest time," he said in a low, desperate voice.

Scott's eyes flicked to him at the words, then he moved closer, shortening the space between them. "I know you," he said, hot anger singeing his words, "you were there, in my camp, along with the other man."

He was near enough that Johnny could almost reach out and touch the pistol pointed at his gut. "That wasn't me; you have to believe it, Scott. I'm your brother. It's me, Johnny." He saw a brief flicker of indecision cross the troubled face. He wasn't sure if Scott would believe him, but if he didn't the gun had to be taken away. His muscles tensed and his raised hands curled into loose fists.

A female outcry from the back of the dress shop surprised them both. Johnny lunged for the pistol, the impact drawing them against stacked crates. His arms went around Scott and bore him against the wood, splintering the side and top. Gun wavering, Scott rolled slightly, putting some space between them.

Johnny reasoned his brother wouldn't give up the fight easily, and as he looked into Scott's eyes, he knew he was right. He saw a balled fist coming and ducked, but not fast enough. The side clip to the jaw jolted him back, sending a shower of white lights through his vision. He twisted aside and reached out to grab Scott's leg, heaving hard, throwing them both off balance. He stepped back in, grappling for the gun.

It bounced against his ribs; those big hands of Scott's seemed to be everywhere-pounding, pushing and pulling. He grunted as the barrel jutted into him a second time.

Then his ears rocked with the sudden explosion.

Immediate pain dropped him to the ground and he tasted dirt in his mouth. His brain began to spin queerly, voices floated to him from the both ends of the alley, closing in tightly. A woman cried out again and a man shouted. He heard thumps and thuds of fists against flesh and cloth ripping.

People had gathered around, staring in puzzlement and confusion. Well-meaning though they were, he pushed at them, but they crowded him anyway, eager to see what happened. Before his view was completely cut off, he saw Scott-hunched over in the green and blue plaid coat-bulling his way out of the clutching throng and into the woods.

He struggled to stand. "Stop!" he yelled, more to the men who were giving chase than to his brother. He put a hand to his side and it came away bloodied. "Just stop," he said wearily, "it's all right." Thankful for the alley wall-his energy seemed to have fled in the past few minutes-he leaned in, staring at the patch of trees.

#-#-#-#-#

The sheriff's breath, a fetid mix of tobacco and chilies, wafted over to Johnny. "Lemme see where he got plugged, Doc."

Dr. Powell turned a stern eye to the lawman, his glasses making a slide down his thin nose. "Harold, I told you to stay out of my exam room until I get finished, then you can talk to the young man."

Sheriff Marks looked supremely disappointed. "All right, but then I want the full story of why we aren't gonna press charges," he said, clumping his way out to the waiting room.

Powell yelled over his shoulder, "And close the door!"

The doctor eyed him somewhat dubiously from his stance near his bandage drawer. "So why aren't you going to press charges? Someone shot you; I think the uppermost thing to do would be to find the man that did it."

Johnny stretched out his side and grimaced. "I already know the man that did it."

"That should make it quite a bit easier to find him then, wouldn't it?"

He hunched over again, clasping the dressing against his ribs. "Not really…he's my brother."

A bushy white eyebrow was raised at his confession, but no more questions were asked. The doctor clucked appreciatively over his discomfort, then slapped cold salve over the few stitches he had placed.

He gasped from the fire erupting in his side.

A voice echoed in from the anteroom. "Where's my son?"

The doctor turned to his patient sitting on the exam table. "You're a popular man, Mr. Lancer."

Johnny smiled through gritted teeth. "I can be Doc, I can be."

There was a strident rap and moments later the door burst open. Murdoch stood in the doorway. "Johnny! The man from the hotel said you'd been shot."

The physician, despite the disadvantage of being a foot shorter than his father, glared at Murdoch before he had a chance to step over the threshold. "I'm trying to take care of this man, if you would please?"

Murdoch looked over the doctor's head, worry lines etched across his forehead.

Johnny nodded. "I'm all right." His father took a step in but the doctor pointedly blocked it.

"Wait outside," the physician said, jabbing a finger for emphasis at the sheriff who was sitting beside the outer door.

Murdoch glared back and stood his ground.

The doctor muttered something under his breath and moved to the side.

"It's just a crease, Murdoch."

"How did it happen?" His long fingers were already hooking under the pad to see the damage.

Johnny pushed his hands away and looked at him through dark bangs that had fallen across his eyes. "I saw Scott."

Murdoch's eyebrows came together in dismay.

"Aw, Murdoch, Scott didn't know who I was. He thought I was the man who robbed him."

"And he…shot you?"

"We were in an alley, he was holding a gun and I tried to take it away. We fought, it went off…" His head dipped down. "I guess this answers my question."

"What?"

"I was wondering if maybe Scott would recognize me. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought if he could just see me, it would be all right." Johnny shook his head. "He doesn't know me."

The doctor finished wrapping the bandage around Johnny's torso. "Your brother has a problem with his memory?"

Murdoch spoke up. "Scott was badly injured a few weeks ago-a head wound-now he can't remember who he is."

The doctor was thoughtful. "Amnesia can take a lot of forms, generally the longer it lasts, the harder it is to get the memory back again. And you have to understand; sometimes the memory doesn't come back at all."

"We have to find him and try. And the one man he does know is here in Ironton."

"Eli came with you?" Johnny asked.

Murdoch nodded.

Johnny edged off the table and reached for his shirt. "There's two ways I figure this could go, either Scott will take off-thinking he killed me-and the law is after him, or he'll go underground and try to find the men who hurt him in the first place."

Murdoch was silent for a few moments. "I think Scott came here for something and he won't stop until he finds it."

Johnny captured Murdoch's look. "Yeah," he said, "or until it finds him."

The doctor washed and dried his hands then reached into a cabinet and pulled out a jar. "Rub some of this onto the wound for the next few days; the bandage can come off tomorrow. Those stitches will need to come out in five days or so." He looked up at Murdoch. "And when you find your other son, bring him in and I'll see what I can do."

They'd finished up with the sheriff quickly, once Marks determined that there would be no charges filed. The lawman strode back to his office, promising to send out a deputy to look around town. Johnny didn't have much faith in the law finding his brother. Scott had been able to keep hidden this long, and it was a sure bet he wouldn't be advertising where he was now-not after the shooting. He glanced down the boardwalk.

The coolness of the day brushed against his face while he stood outside the doctor's office. "We'll find him again," his father said, in a voice not yet sure. Murdoch reached out to touch his shoulder, the warmth of his fingers settling down through the rough fabric of his coat to his arm. "In the meantime, we'd better get you back to the hotel to rest."

He was shaking his head before the sentence was finished, but was saved from a potentially embarrassing epithet by a loud voice from the street.

"Murdoch? What are you doing here?" Sorensen asked. "I sent a telegram to you just a couple of days ago. Your son Scott is here in Ironton."

"You've seen him?"

"He finally showed up, a little worse for wear, out at the ranch. Said his horse threw a shoe and he had to wait on the blacksmith."

"Mr. Sorensen, did Scott have a vaquero with him?" Johnny asked.

Sorensen looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"Dan, this is Johnny," said Murdoch.

The man's face brightened. "Oh, your other son…I should have realized," he offered up a hand to shake, "your father talked quite a bit at the Cattlemen's Association about the both of you." The rancher pushed his hat back from his forehead. "I have to tell you though, Murdoch, from the way you described Scott in San Francisco, I was expecting someone a bit different."

"As to your question, Scott didn't have anyone else with him. I was just bringing the money over to him; the bank draft came in early."

"What money?" Murdoch asked.

"The earnest money, Scott said he needed two thousand dollars up front, before the contracts were signed."

Johnny and Murdoch shared a look. "Dan, the man who showed up here in Ironton with the contract papers is passing himself off as my son, looking to extort money from you."

"He had the papers, signed by you."

Murdoch nodded. "They were stolen. The man you know as Scott is most likely a murderer named Pearson. He might be traveling with another man, a Mexican, named Martinez. They almost killed my son on the trail."

Sorensen shook his head. "What? We were to meet later this afternoon, but since the draft came in, I was taking it to him at his hotel."

Johnny spoke up. "Pearson isn't there anymore-he was thrown out a day or so ago," he turned to look at his father, "but if he's expectin' money then he's still around somewhere. And his friend, too."

Murdoch scowled. "I think we'd better talk to the sheriff again and do some searching of our own."

#-#-#-#-#

Pearson looked into the dim saloon and scanned its customers. Evening was coming on and things were just starting to come alive. He knew Martinez was here somewhere-cards were a pull for him-but where, he didn't exactly know. For that matter Rojelio could even be upstairs, visiting the social end of the bar's business. Martinez liked nothing better than a good whore and a good game of cards, not necessarily in that order. He gnawed on his lip, the thought of leaving him here and getting the hell out of Ironton had crossed his mind more than once. If he didn't think-nix that-know Martinez would follow him and put that pig-sticker in his gut, he'd of left Ironton the very minute he laid eyes on Lancer. It was too dicey, this being out in the open trying to pass himself off as someone else.

He sucked his teeth and rocked back on his heels, Lancer was alive after all…could this day get any worse? He'd seen him in the alley scuffling with that mestizo. Lancer even shot the bastard-he had nerve, he'd concede that much. He'd sized up the man wrong, taking him for some stupid rancher. He shook his head. Rojelio and him sure knew how to pick' em. First Sam, then Scott Lancer, at least he knew Martin was for sure dead, the body hid up near Woodville.

Something didn't sit right with the whole situation, though. He could have sworn Lancer looked him straight in the eye when he was trying to break free from the crowd in the alley. It looked like the man recognized him...but something was still wrong. He had to wonder about that.

The sound of a bottle crashing to the floor took his attention to a small table in the back. Martinez-the man didn't know how to play nice. He followed the sound of curses, in Spanish and English, as they rent the air.

The cowboy at the table leaped to his feet, shouting, "You sonofabitch! You're cheatin'."

Pearson hot-footed it over to Martinez and laid a hand on the Mexican's arm. "C'mon, you know this ain't worth it and we got trouble."

The glower dropped off Martinez's face to be replaced by something much more dangerous-a gleaming smile. He got up and nodded to the hapless cowboy across the table. "We will meet again, when I have more time."

Pearson leaned over the table and separated the money out, glancing at the cowboy-who nodded and picked up his portion.

They moved out of the saloon and walked to the corner of the boardwalk. Rojelio stopped. "Don't interrupt my business-ever again."

"Martinez, would you get your back down? We got problems and you're here pissin' about twenty dollars."

"What problem is more important than money?"

"The problem is that Lancer is alive, and here-in Ironton."

The Mexican's face darkened. "Where?"

"I don't know where. I tried following him but there were too many people around. It was him, though. And I don't know if he got to Sorensen…but I wouldn't bet my last dollar on it. He's got a little problem of his own. Saw him shoot down a man in an alley."

Rojelio's eyes widened a bit. "So the lion has teeth, eh?" He shrugged. "No matter, we'll find him and finish him off, then get the money from Sorensen." He pushed off the boardwalk to cross the street.

Pearson stared at Martinez's back. It was all well and good prattling on about killing Lancer, but somehow he didn't think it would be that easy trying to kill him a second time.

tbc