Chapter 35: SEARCHERS
Enroute to Osprey Camp... On the trip up from Los Angeles the trio of searchers had refined their cover story—the journalist and his aide seeking interviews with cowboys on the job. It'd been agreed that the less communication Cat had with anyone else, the better. Murdoch insisted he wanted to put off having to explain Jody to his family or anyone else until he had a warm body to present. But so far they hadn't come up with an idea of how Murdoch could make direct inquiries about a specific individual without implying that he had a personal interest in the matter.
Breakfast that morning had been a chatty affair with most of the attention centered on Paul—they'd never had an honest-to-goodness professional writer as a guest before. Teresa was in awe—but curious. Maria Elena, still in shock at having a man of the cloth at her table, had outdone herself in turning out an array of traditional ethnic dishes. Murdoch held a subscription to the quarterly journals of the Royal Geographic Society and Teresa was thrilled to bits when Paul autographed several pages containing his articles.
In answer to Teresa's query and Maria Elena's confusion as to his placement in the convoluted hierarchy of those who served the Church, Paul explained as simply as he could the differences between priests and other, unordained adherents. Although his life wasn't strictly regimented by vows and he wasn't he wasn't empowered to say the Mass or perform rites, as a 'brother' he was committed to following Christ in keeping with the tenets of Mother Church... and his service was in a ministry commensurate with his talents and abilities. Journalism happened to be his... but he might as easily have been a doctor... or an artist... or a plumber. This seemed to allay the Mexican woman's qualms about his non-religious, professional activities. (Paul—nominally Catholic—privately apologized to his Higher Power for this deception and promised to bring it up at his next confession.)
Cat had been anxious that in the clear light of day her disguise might not pass muster with the family, but she needn't have worried. Teresa was wholly absorbed with the handsome professor and Jelly was nattering on to Murdoch about every little thing that had occurred during his absence. Johnny wasn't feeling well enough to come downstairs so Maria Elena had steamed up there with a loaded tray, determined to hand-feed him if necessary.
There was some paperwork to attend to before Murdoch, Paul and Cat got on the road. At Murdoch's request Teresa had produced the all-important master payroll lists—one for the permanent employees and a second one for the one hundred seventy-five temps. Each name was annotated with camp assignment.
Murdoch culled the temps down to eighty-seven names he didn't know, informing the other two that these rosters weren't static. Even in just a few days some men would've quit and replacements hired on-site. There was always some measure of conflict requiring individuals to be separated, often involving trades to other camps. And there was a constant back-and-forth flow as hands were temporily seconded from one camp experiencing a lull to another having an excess of cattle to handle. They'd work a few days then go back to their original camps. Revised payroll lists only arrived with the returning supply wagons, but they had to start somewhere. Any discussion concerning their quarry had to be tabled as they couldn't very well that air that subject with Jelly and Teresa constantly popping in and out of the dining room where they were seated.
By mid-morning they had their gear assembled by the front door when the horses were brought up. Shortly afterward they headed toward Osprey camp some eight miles northwest. Murdoch said it would take two to two and a half hours at a walk to get there, including the lunch break he hadn't planned on... but Maria Elena and Teresa sure had, judging by the enticing aroma of fried chicken seeping from a canvas tote slung on the pack mule.
Paul was up on Major and Cat on Toby, who'd been no trouble at all. The wagon track they were following started out on wide grassy flats, so at first they were able to ride three abreast and converse freely. Wherever it narrowed, they fell back to single file. Halfway to their destination, they stopped for lunch at a scenic outlook on the banks of Little Fork Creek with a view toward the entrance to Cedar Canyon.
"I was admiring the portraits over the sideboard in the dining room," Paul commented. "Nice grouping. I like the way you've got that one big portrait of you and the boys in the middle with their mothers on either side... at least I assume those are their mothers."
"Yes... Maria's on the left and Catherine's on the right. I commissioned a local artist to replicate them from miniatures. Did the same for Teresa's folks—that's them on either side of her portrait."
"Your sons don't look alike, do they?"
"Not in the least." Murdoch said. "They have completely different personalities as well."
"I imagine Jody favors Johnny somewhat."
"Wouldn't know, as I've never seen him."
They both looked at Cat.
"Wellllll..." Cat drawled, licking chicken grease from her fingers. "They're about the same build and coloring. Jody's maybe an inch shorter and a little thinner. His hair's straighter than Johnny's and much lighter... I'd call it potato brown..." She grinned. "His eyes are green... sometimes greenish-gold, depending on the light."
"Go on... this is very helpful," Murdoch encouraged.
"He's got a scar right here under the eye." She pointed to her face. "And three long scars that go all the way across his back. I guess you heard about that...?"
"I heard," Murdoch grimaced.
"Yeah. Ed had this flushing whip he'd modified with lead sinkers. I still don't really know what he and Jody argued about. I'd stayed home with the baby and didn't go to Pilar's funeral. Jody came home with Mama and Eli, still bleeding. I swear... when I saw what that bastard had done to him, I could've beaten him to death with his own whip..." She stopped talking then and looked away. Murdoch suspected it was because she didn't want him to see her eyes welling. Presently she sniffed loudly and went on with her narrative.
"Of course, you won't be able to see the scars on his back unless he takes his shirt off... or the latest one..." Martha said her brother'd been shot in the upper hip, below the beltline.
"They have the same low, soft voice that sort of ripples over you, you know what I mean?" Cat continued, "And your Johnny's about the most handsome man I've ever seen! I'll bet women leap right out of their drawers to throw themselves at him!"
"You don't know the half of it!" Murdoch laughed. A week ago he might've been mortified to hear a married woman saying something like that. He was really getting to like this straight-shooter of a gal who wasn't afraid to tell it like it is.
"Don't get me wrong... Jody's good-looking... but he sure isn't in that category."
Gathering up the remains of their open-air luncheon, they remounted and traveled another half mile before Murdoch spoke again.
"Cat... what do you think he wants, what's he planning to do?"
"Oh... I'm sure he intends to meet you... all of you... in person. He said as much. But he's cautious—he'll want to know ahead of time what he's getting into. This whole deal with Ed has nothing to do with you. Unfortunately, that's what we have to resolve first. I've heard about Johnny Madrid... surely he's wanted in more than one locale—how've you gotten around that?"
"Not easily, I'm afraid. He's probably safe as long as he stays inside California... but if he goes elsewhere... Mexico, for instance... there's always the possibility of extradition."
"Must be nerve-wracking to have to live like that... and I don't want that to happen to Jody. I have to say, Johnny didn't impress me as having a violent nature, back there at the house."
"That's just because you caught him in a downtime... he'd been injured and sleeping all day. The violence is still there, seething just beneath the surface like magma under a volcano. Doesn't take much to set him off."
"You know..." Paul interposed thoughtfully as they jogged along. "This gives me an idea for another article... a companion piece to cultural diversity among cowboys..."
"You mean you're actually going to write about... this?"
"Sure. Why not? Oh... not about the real reason we're here. The Society doesn't do exposés, after all." Paul gave a wry grin. "But those Europeans are mad keen, as they say, on anything having to do with the Wild West. Yes... a story about gunfighters would do nicely—legend of... ethos of... something along those lines. Not like one of those penny dreadfuls, glorifying gore in the Old West, but a scholarly article on the psychology of gunfighters. What draws them to that line of work. Do you think Johnny would talk to me about it? About his experiences... other men he knows... knew... when he was still... uh... doing that...?"
"John rarely brings any of that up. I think, maybe... he's not proud of it, of the things he's done... though he doesn't disclaim any of it. And it's not completely behind him, not by a long shot... no pun intended. Even though he's been with us for almost a year and I've been trying my damnedest to keep him occupied, physically and mentally, with ranch work... there've still been... incidents."
"You mean gunfights... people killed...?"
"Yes. Granted, some of it's been necessary... defending our ranch, in which case he's used his gun right alongside me and Scott and our workers. But sometimes it has nothing to do with the ranch... it's his reputation, someone from his past looking to score big and make a name. He won't—can't—back away from that kind of challenge. That's what's going to get him killed young, Paul. It breaks my heart to think about it, so I try not to."
"Is it okay with you if I approach him on the subject? It just might help lay to rest some of his demons..."
"I don't see how."
"In my work for the Pinkertons, I've interviewed literally hundreds of men in prisons... and a few women. This where we profilers get our material... and according to prison doctors I've followed up with, being able to talk about the past seems to have a cathartic effect on those convicted of violent crimes. By understanding what compels these people to do what they do—and their backgrounds—we're able to formulate a psychiatric or psychologic picture of someone for whom we're searching and can make predictions as to that person's directions with some pretty astonishing accuracy."
"My son... sons... aren't convicted criminals," Murdoch bristled.
"I know that," Paul soothed, "but they don't have to be. I would venture to say that most violent people have never been and never will be convicted of anything... that doesn't make them any less destructive. Not saying Johnny is one of them, understand. But look at what we've learned about Eduardo Montero, pillar of society... yet gets away with assault and battery and rape because no one inside the family speaks up, no one outside the family knows. My point about Johnny, if I may get back to it... is that being induced to talk openly about his childhood and the factors that led to his becoming a gunman may have that cathartic effect I mentioned... might purge it from his system once and for all."
"Or not," Murdoch said glumly.
"Or not... but do you object to my giving it a try... even if I don't come up with anything publishable? I promise you and Johnny both will get to read everything before I submit it. Of course, that means I'd have to hang around a while and you know what the Chinese say about guests and fish..."
Murdoch had to laugh. "I like you. I suspect Teresa and Maria Elena like you even better. It's a big house with plenty of room. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'm pretty sure Scott would enjoy having a fellow scholar around. And if you can do anything with that other son of mine to improve his temperament, well... you'll have my undying gratitude. Look... there's smoke and I smell food... Osprey's just over the next rise."