The Lesson

Frank Daniels was almost done with his beer and shot at the Chrystal in Moro Coyyo when he felt a shadow loom behind his back. He'd been too eager for a drink and too pissed to ride home. Now he had one more reason to kick himself.

He hunched and pulled his chin in tight to his chest, trying for a casual glance over his shoulder. It had been a while since he'd last set eyes on him, but the outline Murdoch Lancer cut in a room was unmistakable. Frank swallowed hard and swung around, a tentative greeting on his lips. "Murdoch. It's been a while."

"Frank," Murdoch nodded, a grim smile plastered on his face. The man was all bluff. He extended his hand, and Frank shook it. Both handshakes were rock-firm—a mock courtesy if anything.

Frank nodded to the empty spot at his left. "I heard you were cleaning up after the week's rains caused a flood on your place."

Murdoch swung into place beside him and settled his elbows on the bar. "Where did you hear that?"

"A man hears things. Town talk," Frank answered with a slur and a shrug.

"That he does," said Murdoch, and held up a finger to get the attention of the bartender. He ordered a double whiskey, when the barkeep noticed, then continued with Frank, not missing a beat. "Let me tell you something I heard."

Frank's shoulders stiffened, and a little bit of heat flicked around in his stomach. It was only a few hours since he and his men waylaid Scott in the road, and while Frank had left at the beginning of the lesson to the young whelp, it was instantly clear he hadn't moved fast enough or far enough along. "'I'm all ears," he said, slow fingers curling around the shot glass next to his beer.

Murdoch tapped his knuckles against the wooden bar. "I heard you met my son Scott." The bartender delivered the whiskey, and Murdoch took a slow sip, kept his eyes forward.

The darkness in the bar hid the red flush that tipped Frank's cheeks and ears, but the raucous sound of My Darling Clementine coming from the piano in the corner couldn't cover the trepidation in his reply. "Fine horseflesh at the auction this afternoon. Real fine." He watched the tumbler of amber whiskey slide smoothly across the bar between Murdoch's large hands. "Seems we both bid on the same horse."

Murdoch nodded, took another sip. "How did that work out for you?"

Frank shrugged, shoulders settling defensively around his ears. "He's a good kid. Good instincts. Knows his horses…"

The breath of huffed air through Murdoch's nostrils didn't even pretend at being a laugh.

"Look, Murdoch," Frank said with a sad shake of his head.

"What I know," Murdoch rumbled, index finger planting on point next to his glass, "was that the last time my youngest saw his brother, he was perfectly fine at the auction, then Aggie Conway brought him home beaten and bloody in the back of her wagon. Do you know anything about that?" he growled, and for the first time since he walked into the bar, he looked Frank square in the eyes.

New to the valley, Frank had met Murdoch Lancer about seven years earlier. They'd both been running wild horses. When he found out he had competition, Frank had gotten Murdoch's name and fed it through the ranchers and farmers. Word had shot back quickly; Murdoch Lancer was a tough, no-nonsense sonuvabitch best left to himself, or those who knew how to handle bears. Frank made it a point to frequent the mercantile and granary until they'd met up. In the first year or two, he was on a relatively friendly accord with the man, but a dispute over a classy mare had soured their relationship. Frank had seen him angry, and he knew better than to tangle.

Unfortunately, he was in the middle of the briar patch this time around.

Frank tipped his shot glass against his lips, swallowed the contents and cleared his throat. "I didn't know Lancer was even in the game at the auction. Scott sort of slinked up and took the bid away." He shrugged again and scooted an inch or two away from Murdoch's side. "Could be his horse threw him on the way home. It happens."

Murdoch sloshed the tail end of his drink in the tumbler, gave it a gaze that might have frozen the warm liquor. "Do you know what else happens? You learn something about a man when you ride with him." He tipped a bit of whiskey into his mouth and set the glass down with exquisite care. "Do you know what I learned when I rode with you Frank?"

Frank stilled, stayed quiet.

"I learned you're a liar. And a coward."

Murdoch's hand shot out so fast and so hard, Frank barely got in a breath before a fist cracked against his forehead then another against his mouth. He fell backward, crashed to the filthy floor with a holler, and Murdoch was on his chest before Frank's slow eyes could focus on the ceiling. Murdoch's hands wound themselves in Frank's shirt and lifted far enough off the hardwood to make a thunk when they jerked him back down.

"You don't put your hands on my son, Frank."

Frank blinked at the blood crowding the shallow of his eye socket, wondered absently why no one was coming over to drag the man off him. Murdoch gave him another knock against the floor, then leaned in close.

"This could be the end of you right now, and not a person in this whole bar would care. But you're not worth the time or trouble, do you understand?"

There wasn't a whole lot of understanding going on in Frank Daniels' head just then, but he nodded anyway.

"Stay down, Frank," Murdoch pushed himself up heavily off the man's red-splattered chest, "it's where you belong." He stepped to the bar and finished his drink. Tipped the bartender generously.

Daniels was still on the floor when Murdoch walked out the door.

The End