From Highlands to Homecoming by Margaret P

(With thanks to my betas, Anna Orr and Terri Derr.)

Chapter 50: Worsening Times (Words: 4,012)

Murdoch heaved. Standing up quickly he escaped through the French doors and emptied the remains of his lunch into a bush. He had never dreamed… my God, how old would Johnny have been…fifteen? It was bad enough he had been part of a posse and had shot a man in self-defence at fourteen, but to deliberately seek Cole out and gun him down in a one-on-one stand-off…fifteen!

Murdoch had heard the name Madrid a few times since discovering the gunfighter had killed Thurstan Cole in Santa Fe. Lancer had always employed some men more for their skill with a gun than anything else, and evidently their kind kept close track of the reputation of other pistoleros. The fact that Mr Beadle published dime novels about Madrid spoke of a degree of notoriety. Even though Murdoch was still quite certain the stories were exaggerated and full of inaccuracies, he knew there must be some basis in fact.

Fifteen!

When his stomach settled and his brain recovered from the shock enough to function again, he took a pen and paper and wrote back to the Pinkerton Agency. They were to find out as much as possible about Johnny Madrid. Track him down if they could within the set budget, but the agent was not to approach him without first contacting Murdoch.

"What am I to do, Aggie? My son kills men for a living."

"He's still your son and he is a free man so presumably he has never murdered anyone. Any killing must have been in a fight where he could claim self-defence."

"Or where there were no witnesses or law to say otherwise. You forget I've travelled through the border towns. Killing without consequence was common place. He was fifteen when he killed Cole. He is only eighteen now, but that was three years ago. What kind of man must he be?"

"You're imagining the worst, Murdoch. You know there are good and bad amongst gunmen just like any other group, and you know killing, or even shooting people, is only a very small part of what they do. We both employ men who are good with a gun to guard our herds; that doesn't mean we expect them to shoot anyone." Aggie took hold of his hands and looked him in the eye. "I know you'll never be satisfied until you meet him and draw your own conclusions."

Aggie was right of course; although a shootist with Johnny Madrid's reputation was somewhat different from the wrangler-gunhawks he and Aggie employed to protect cattle. What she did not say, probably out of consideration for his feelings, was what kind of life drives a boy to become a shootist? Murdoch's emotions were confused, but he felt partly to blame for Johnny's childhood so guilt underwrote every other sensation. Guilt and anger underwrote everything to do with both his sons.

His anger was not now only directed at those who had taken Scott and Johnny away from him, or at himself, but increasingly it was directed at the boys too. Murdoch had tried to bring Scott home and he had tried to keep in touch with him. He had searched for Johnny ever since his mother had taken him away. He had failed, but at least he had tried. His sons, however, had made no attempt to contact or find him. Both were now of an age to seek him out had they wanted to. They must know his name and where he lived. Murdoch was hurt more than he would admit by their lack of interest.

To take his mind off his sons Murdoch focused on the ranch and his extended family and friends, but they brought both happiness and sadness. In March, 1868 Godfrey Evans wrote to say his wife, Annabel, had died of scarlet fever. He and Penny Rose would continue on the road as entertainers, but it would never be the same. A month later, Murdoch received a letter from his brother. It included a tintype photograph of his family: Jock, his wife Elspeth, and their children Cam, Bella, Nell, Angus and Jinny, and Jock and Murdoch's mother, Ellen Lancer. The envelope also included a funeral card for Ellen Lancer. She had died in her sleep after a short illness. Murdoch had known when he had left Inverness that he was unlikely to see his mother again, but that knowledge did not alleviate the pain of losing her. Murdoch sat alone in the great room and wept.

Letters from the Johnsons and Eliots were more cheerful. Catherine Johnson was working as a nurse and her brother, Christopher, now commonly known as Kit, was doing well at the school for the deaf. The Eliot brood were also happy and busy. Bob was soon to graduate from the naval academy. Katie and her mother were both active in the women's suffrage movement, and Jamie, who had decided to follow in his father's footsteps, would join the school of medicine at Harvard in the fall. Their younger siblings were all enjoying life and working hard at their studies. Beth reported she had bumped into Scott briefly at Harvard when they had visited the campus with Jamie. They did not have much time to chat as he was on his way to class, but he looked happy and well.

Amongst the letters that arrived in September was another report from the Pinkerton Agency. This time Murdoch did not open it with hopeful anticipation.

Our investigations confirm that Thurstan Cole was gambling in the Silver Dollar saloon in Santa Fe on August 3rd, 1864. A pistolero identifying himself as Johnny Madrid challenged Cole to a gunfight. No one our agent spoke to knew what was between the two men, but witnesses reported that Cole seemed to recognise Madrid. He initially laughed at the young man and told him to come back when he was older, but as Cole made to gather up his winnings, he went for his gun. By all accounts, Thurstan Cole was fast, but Johnny Madrid was faster.

Madrid had been working for a cattle baron ten miles west of Santa Fe. A few days before the shooting, he had disappeared. He reappeared in Sonora two months later, then New Mexico, then Chihuahua, Texas, Arizona, southern California and elsewhere, moving about the border territories working as a hired gun. He was known to have guarded herds being driven up the Chisholm Trail to the railhead, but more usually he hired out to cattle barons involved in range wars. His reputation was such that at least two wealthy men had sought him out in the last year for more specialist extortion and intimidation work, paying top dollar for the privilege. Some of the range wars involved more than just rustling and damage to property. Some involved killings and rape. There was no absolute proof that Madrid was involved personally in any of the worst atrocities, but he was part of the pack of wolves that were operating in the area at the time. There was also the occasional incident—the type of occurrence that built a pistolero's reputation. Men would draw on the gunfighter in a saloon or openly where others would see—sometimes more than one man at a time. So far only Madrid had walked away.

As if to make the news more palatable, the Pinkerton agent wrote that Johnny Madrid was popular in Mexico.

He has reached almost Robin Hood status as a result of a few instances where he is rumoured to have protected villagers from outlaws or corrupt Rurales. Mostly he hires out north of the border and once a job is done he disappears into Mexico for a few weeks to lie low before reappearing hundreds of miles away. We do not know his current location, but our agents will continue to track him within the agreed budget.

What was he to think? Murdoch prayed that his son was not involved with rapes and torture, but he forced himself to accept that he must have played an active part in almost everything else. Should he continue the search? Was there any point, if his son had gone so far down that road? Nate Benedict believed that with support young men could turn their lives around. George Cameron had liked the Johnny he had taught. He had seen potential, a desire to please, to learn. He had told Murdoch that the boy had a moral compass; he was not a bully, but in the schoolyard at least, a defender of the weak and innocent. Maybe the Mexican view of Johnny Madrid was more accurate than the American view. Maybe the child he remembered was still alive deep inside a young man, who had been dealt a poor hand in life. Maybe Murdoch would go mad thinking about maybes.

Closer to home, there were worrying signs that rustling was turning to land piracy. Most of the corporations seeking to buy land accepted no for an answer, at least for a year or two and then many would ask again. Some, however, were more persistent and their tactics less ethical. Several businessmen, who were major shareholders in the corporations, also served on the boards of finance companies and banks. Loans could be denied for no obvious reason or called in before the agreed term was up, forcing landholders to sell quickly for less than the true value or risk foreclosure. Rustling was one thing, but not since the days of Jud Haney had line shacks been burnt down, streams dammed, crops destroyed and lawmen intimidated. Not one town within fifty miles of Lancer now boasted a sheriff. No one wanted the job. Murdoch could not prove the connection between any of the corporations seeking land and the gangs causing mayhem throughout the Central Valley, but he suspected there was one.

In the New Year, one name began to predominate amongst the highriders. Day Pardee was a shootist reputed to have brains as well as skill with a gun. Attacks on ranches became more organised. The land pirates began targeting ranches one or two at a time. The estancias near Modesto and San José were the first affected. Two lawmen were killed. Fences were pulled down and fires were set. Cattle were stampeded and both animals and men were shot where there were no witnesses.

By the spring of 1869 the San Joaquin Valley had clearly become Pardee's playground of choice. It was only a matter of time before Lancer became his main target. Wranglers fearful for their lives collected their wages and left—it was just a trickle at the moment, but Murdoch knew from experience that if nothing was done it would soon become a flood. The Cattle Growers Association sent telegrams asking for a U.S. marshal to be sent, but there was apparently none to spare. This time it was the American government that told the ranchers of the San Joaquin, they would need to fend for themselves.

Murdoch reluctantly came to the conclusion he would need to offer more than wages to attract men equally good with a gun to fight for Lancer. As his sons were not interested, he decided to offer his old friend, Joe Barker, a share of the ranch if he would come and fight to protect it. Barker was now a sheriff further south in California. He had no family so the choice would be solely his own, and with luck other gunmen known to Barker on the right side of the law would follow. Writing the letter that promised to give away some of his ranch was one of the hardest things Murdoch had ever done, but as it turned out, Barker never replied.

"Still no word?" Paul stood in front of Murdoch's desk as his boss sorted through the mail just collected from Morro Coyo.

"No, but we aren't beaten yet. How's the stallion coming along?"

"Saddle broke, but still a bit skittish. Come and see for yourself." Paul led the way outside to the yard. The buckskin stallion had been caught in the hills two weeks before and was already sold subject to being fully broken in.

Teresa was perched on the corral toprail watching Gaspar put the animal through its paces. "Isn't he beautiful? What a pity we can't keep him."

"Sorry, darling, but a stallion's no good as a ranch horse and you wouldn't want us to geld a magnificent animal like that." Murdoch helped Teresa down and he and Paul climbed into the corral for a closer look.

A week later Murdoch was heading for bed when the guard on the rooftop shouted the alarm. Murdoch grabbed his rifle and ran out through the French doors in time to see two men on horseback galloping away with the stallion between them. Murdoch got a couple of shots off, but the rustlers were already out of range.

Cursing, Murdoch rushed to saddle up. "Paul!" He ran passed his foreman's living quarters as Paul dashed out, Teresa hot on his heels, barefoot and dressed in her nightgown. Murdoch scarcely glanced at them as he ran to the barn. There was no time to lose. "Horse thieves—they've got the stallion. Come on."

"Teresa, get back in the house!" Paul hurried after Murdoch.

Murdoch and Paul tracked the thieves to Morro Coyo and entered the town guns at the ready. The first rays of sunlight painted shadows on dust and adobe. Doors and shutters were closed; curtains drawn tight. It was too early for the sun to emit much heat, but Murdoch's hand felt slick on the cold metal of his gun. He and Paul rode slowly down deserted streets, the clopping of their horse's hooves magnified by the emptiness. When they reached the general store they paused, an unnatural quietness surrounding them. The amiable, bustling proprietor was nowhere to be seen. Murdoch turned in his saddle. "Don Baldermero! Anybody!"

He sensed eyes upon them, but no one appeared. Pulling their horses around, they rode further on towards the livery. Frightened neighing broke the silence. Dismounting, Murdoch opened the double doors, wary of a panicked beast and perhaps a gunman inside. Untethered, the stallion backed nervously, snorting and stamping its hooves. "Easy boy. We've come to take you—"

Crack!

The rifle bullet knocked Paul from his horse.

Murdoch swung round. A shadow in the chapel tower fired again. Murdoch shot back. The church bell clanged as his bullet ricocheted off, and the rifle blasted for a third time. The bullet smacked into Murdoch's lower ribs. Strange, he felt only winded and numb as he buckled. Then another ball of lead seared through the muscles of his leg and his whole body exploded with pain. His surroundings spun. Falling forward into dirt and straw, Murdoch felt a flurry of air as the terrified stallion escaped into the street and he knew no more.

The sun was a little higher in the sky when he blinked grit from his lashes and tried to find a way through muddled thoughts. Every heartbeat sent blood pounding. The torn tissue on his left side was on fire. Paul? His friend lay beside him, a greyish tinge to his lips. Not breathing—dead. What happened? The stallion. Pardee—or one of his men. With each second a puzzle piece slipped back into place. Sick at heart, Murdoch tried to crawl forward. Spasms, hot shards of glass, sliced through his leg and side. The world around him kaleidoscoped and was gone.

When a bayonet-like pain woke him a second time, Doc Mort was removing the lead from his leg. The bone had shattered and so had the bullet. The first lump clinked against the enamel bowl at the doctor's elbow. Then Murdoch jerked violently as the knife went in to retrieve the rest.

"Hold him down, damn you!" Doc Mort's voice echoed in Murdoch's head and strong arms pressed him to a smooth-scrubbed table. "The bullet in your side was not too deep, but this one has done some damage. It will be awhile before you're up and about." Did that mean he would live? Good. He would like to live. He needed to live—for Teresa's sake—and to…. Blackness overcame him again.

Although it was dark, Murdoch felt the sun burn and his mouth craved moisture. Then in the distance he saw Maria, dancing and laughing, holding out a colourful skirt, swaying in time to music he could not hear. "Maria!"

Did she look his way? He ached to feel her arms around him. Melting brown eyes welcomed him. His ear lobe tingled where she used to nip and lick and his body rose to meet hers. Then a shadow passed between them. Her eyes turned black. Her image dimmed. Maria sashayed out of reach, merging with faceless crowds. Where was she? Murdoch was desperate to find her again, to hear her voice; just once before she left him—just once. "Maria, don't go—please—answer me. Maria!"

Sights and sounds swirled, then ebbed and flowed. He heard child-like laughter. "Giddy up, Papa!" "Catch me!" Two small boys—building blocks and bloomers. Time was timeless, but in the background a quiet ticking, steady and sustaining, guiding him home.

And then the faint scent of wild cherry blossom brought him peace. A soft touch from long slim fingers, the sparkle of grey-blue eyes, and he knew for an instant Catherine held him in her arms. He slept.

A cool breeze played on Murdoch's skin. It skipped across the hairs on his chin and tickled his nose with the faint smell of grass and manure. He sensed sunlight, warm and inviting. Crisp linen lay beneath his fingers. He flexed them, feeling the embroidered edge of the top sheet. Eventually the familiar lowing of cattle tempted his eyes open. Teresa was watching him with tears in her eyes, her knitting set aside as she leaned forward. She smiled. Murdoch smiled back. He was in his own bed. He had been unconscious for three days.

L A N C E R

Paul had been buried in the small ranch cemetery on the hill next to Angel's grave the day before Murdoch awoke. His will named Murdoch as Teresa's guardian, and there were some savings and investments for Murdoch to manage until she came of age. The seventeen year old moved into the hacienda properly soon after Murdoch was declared out of danger. They were a comfort to each other in their grief; losing Paul left a gigantic hole in both their lives.

As Murdoch had feared Lancer now became Pardee's main target. With his segundo dead and him crippled, perhaps for months, the highriders ramped up their activities: fences were cut and crops were burned, cattle stampeded or stolen. Every day more hands asked for their wages. The situation was dire. Murdoch re-read the latest Pinkerton report. Johnny had been part of a range war for most of the year, but had disappeared into Mexico once again in early August. By September, however, his name was heard in connection with a peasant revolt in Sonora and the Pinkerton agency asked for instruction.

"I've made up my mind." Murdoch eased himself back onto the mattress and allowed Aggie to pull the covers over him. Her visit was unexpected. She had caught him out of bed against the doctor's orders, trying to exercise his injured leg. "If Lancer is to survive, if my sons want their birthright, they need to fight to protect it."

Aggie settled herself in the armchair beside the bed. "But how will you get them here? They haven't come of their own accord. What makes you think they will come now just because you ask them—assuming you can locate them?"

"I've thought of that. I've written to the Pinkerton Agency." Murdoch stretched across the patchwork quilt and pulled his writing box closer. Removing a letter from the side drawer, he passed it to Aggie for her to read.

"Can you afford this? It's a lot of money, and even then there is no guarantee that they will stay for the promise of an inheritance when you die."

"Perhaps not, but now I not only want them by my side, I need them here. Pardee will think twice if he is facing younger men with an interest in the land rather than just an old cripple. My own men will feel more confident. I am going to offer Scott and Johnny a share of Lancer immediately if they stay and fight for it."

Aggie appeared dubious, but she agreed to post Murdoch's letter in Green River on her way back home. He had instructed the Pinkerton Agency to find his sons as quickly as possible—forget about the budget; just find them both and offer them each all expenses paid to Lancer and $1000 for an hour of their time. The money that had come to him after his mother's death would be used in a final attempt to get Scott and Johnny home. As he looked at the last photograph of Ellen Lancer, Murdoch knew she would approve. Nothing was more important to his mother than family. Nothing. She had mentioned her grandsons in some small way in every letter she had written to him since their birth. Now with luck she would be the means of bringing them back to Lancer. As the transcontinental railroad link was finally made, the letter would reach the agency in less than a week. Murdoch waited impatiently for a response.

The first came in January. As requested, Murdoch's message had been hand-delivered to Scott away from his grandfather's house. He had a few things to attend to before leaving Boston, but Scott would come. Murdoch closed his eyes and said a small prayer of thanks. Even though his son's letter was purely business, containing no expression of pleasure or hopeful anticipation of their expected reunion, Murdoch was optimistic. After nearly twenty years he would meet his first born again.

He had just about given up hope of his second son when the Pinkerton Agency wrote in February that after much effort they had tracked Johnny down and given him the message.

Our agent rescued John Lancer alias Johnny Madrid from a Rurales firing squad. He had been taken prisoner the month before, and it took some time to locate where he was incarcerated. There was some doubt whether he had already been shot and his body burned on the funeral pyre in the prison yard, but fortunately he was among those taken that day to be executed on the hillside. Our agent reached him just in time.

Johnny was coming. With white knuckles, Murdoch clung to the letter and tried to focus on that crucial point instead of the image of guns and death infecting his mind. Why had he not responded to the Pinkerton's last report immediately? Dear God, the boy had been in that hell-hole for how long? Murdoch had once ridden passed a Mexican prison. The stench had reached his nostrils long before he had laid eyes on the high adobe walls with the wicked spikes set into the top. Some of the inmates were being herded towards the main gate after a day working in the fields. Rags and skin-and-bone held together by shackles. And what if the Pinkerton agent had arrived a few minutes later? His son would have been one of the anonymous corpses incinerated without ceremony, without anyone present to mourn his death. For weeks Murdoch had argued with himself over what he should do about his gunfighter son. Only now after he had come so close to losing him forever did the answer seem crystal clear. At this moment, he knew whatever Johnny may have done in the past, he was still his son. Johnny would always be his son, and Murdoch wanted him home. The agency was not quite sure when Johnny would arrive at Lancer, but he had told the Pinkerton agent he would come.

At last both Murdoch's sons were coming home.

Notes:

Aggie Conway features in The Rivals, Series 2, Episode 24.

Learn more about the shooting of Thurstan Cole by Johnny Madrid in The Beginning, 2013.

Joe Barker featured in The Lawman, Series 1, Episode 5.

Don Baldermero, the later events of this chapter and some of the dialogue are taken from the pilot movie, The Homecoming and The Highriders, Series 1, Episode 1.