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CHAPTER 8 - THE DISTRACTION
Johnny remained quiet all morning, sleeping most of the time. He was roused by Murdoch after midday and coerced into taking some nourishment.
"I guess I can eat something." Johnny touched the bandage wrapped around his head. "This is scratchy. Get it off, will ya?"
Even though he was sure the doctor would frown on it, Murdoch agreed to remove the bandage. "Just be careful how you lay your head down. You have quite a dent on the back of your skull."
Johnny instinctively reached up and touched the back of his head, finding it very tender. "My brains are still in there?"
"Time will tell," Murdoch replied, keeping a straight face. He was relieved to see his son had regained some color and appeared to be somewhat stronger than expected. Nevertheless, Johnny seemed disinterested in what was going on, not even asking about Scott and the pursuit of the men who had attacked him.
With his father's assistance, Johnny was slowly raised in bed to a half-sitting position. When the wounded man made an incautious move that brought forth a gasp, Murdoch winced in sympathy. Between clenched teeth Johnny grunted, "Gimme a minute." With closed eyes he slowly regained control as Murdoch supported his rigid body. "Get me another pillow and I'll be fine."
Finally propped up against the pillows, Johnny held a bowl of weak-looking beef soup on his lap and used his left hand to eat. It was a slow process but he managed on his own.
Instead of hovering, Murdoch went to the kitchen for some bread. He took his time, aware that Johnny wouldn't want to be watched while eating, especially with his clumsy left-handed use of the spoon. He returned and shared a soft roll with his son, sitting on a window seat to eat his portion.
When Johnny had eaten as much as he could handle, Murdoch perched on the edge of the bed. He asked, "You feel up to telling me about what happened last night?" Johnny just stared at the empty bowl still sitting on his lap, so Murdoch removed it and said firmly, "We need to get to the bottom of this, son."
"I just played poker." Johnny leaned back carefully against his pillows, exhausted. "Didn't expect to get broadsided over some card game."
"Were these men you were playing with regulars?"
"Some were. A couple of guys, the ones I told you about, Macon and, uh Flanagan. . . we went over to the dance hall for a spell. Then back to the saloon for some more cards."
"Did you win all of their money? Anything to cause them to come after you?"
"No, no, nothing like that. They weren't sore losers. . . they seemed. . . okay." Johnny looked uncomfortable. "They sure had me fooled. You know me, always keepin' one eye open in the back of my head. . . but I just didn't see it comin'."
Teresa entered, bearing a small brown medicine bottle. She had overheard what Johnny had just related. Taking up a spoon, she poured a dose and pushed it into Johnny's mouth before he had a chance to resist. "One of the cowards hit you from behind with a chunk of wood." She scowled. "I'm just sorry I'm not with the posse, running those men to ground. I'd show them they can't get away with hurting anyone in my family."
Johnny smiled for the first time that morning. "You'd be out in front, I'll lay a wager." At her adamant nod, he chuckled fondly, but as his thoughts turned to Scott and the danger his brother would be facing when leading the posse, Johnny grew serious again.
Murdoch pointed out, "You know, it's odd, but you still had cash in your pocket."
Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, I've been shot at for a lot less." He started to raise his right arm and thought better of it. With his left, he reached over to explore his right side, grimacing when he touched the heavily bandaged wound. "I got no idea why they did this, but the sheriff scared them away before they got a chance to finish me off. I'm lucky." He settled further down on his pillows with a sigh.
Murdoch got up and wandered idly around the room until Johnny told his father to get on with the running of the ranch. "I don't need no wet nurse," he insisted.
"You sure?" Murdoch asked even as he looked longingly at the world outside the open patio doors.
"I'll stay close," Teresa said. She smiled as she applied a cool, damp cloth to Johnny's bruised eye.
Johnny took the cloth from Teresa's hand and held it in place himself. He said, in an offhand way, "Watchin' me heal is sorta like watchin' sap run on a cold day."
"Well," said Murdoch, "I'm just glad you're safe here at home and on the road to recovery. If you need anything, just holler, or better yet, let Teresa holler." He patted Johnny's knee, gently, and left him to rest.
Teresa sat on a bench on the patio, able to keep an eye on the patient through the open French doors as she worked at her knitting. Late that afternoon, she took a break from watching over Johnny. First she quietly entered his bedroom and tucked in the stiff wool blanket in the hope it would stop him from rolling over in his sleep. He moved his head on the pillow but did not awaken.
A trip to the water closet, and then to the kitchen to get a fresh pitcher of water and to make up a tray of food took longer than she anticipated. When she returned to the guest room, the door was not only closed, but it was locked.
Placing the tray on a hall table, Teresa jiggled the door handle then peered through the keyhole. She could see very little of the room itself; it was dimly lit because she had drawn the curtains to help Johnny sleep. She knocked lightly and called out to Johnny, but there was no reply, no sound at all.
There wasn't anyone around to call for assistance, with Murdoch and Jelly out working somewhere beyond the barn, and Maria not yet returned from her siesta. Harlan Garrett had said he was going to take a nap upstairs, but Teresa was very reluctant to call him in any case.
Even if Johnny had been able to rise from his bed, there was no reason she could think of that he would lock the door. Concerned, Teresa walked the length of the hall and had to take a circuitous route through the kitchen's back door in order to gain entry from the patio. Her steps gained speed as worry consumed her.
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With Scott riding Barranca, he and Isidro urged their horses in the direction of Lancer. Scott had decided it would be best if they returned home for fresh mounts before setting out again. There would still be time to ride into Morro Coyo to question the locals about the previous night before it got late. He was anxious to see how Johnny was doing and wanted to relate the latest news to his father.
As they came down the rocky trail that the two desperados had died upon, Scott and Isidro met the sheriff and some members of the posse on their way up. Scott gave the sheriff only the barest of details about the pursuit and capture of the now-deceased quarry. Sheriff Stillwater didn't press him for any more information, and the other men exchanged knowing glances among themselves, accepting that Scott had done what was necessary.
"We'll go help Rinaldo with the carcasses of those men, then," the sheriff said. He touched the brim of his hat and passed Scott, the posse trailing along.
Scott and his father's segundo stopped at the Gunderson's farmhouse only long enough to make sure that was everything under control. Mrs. Gunderson appeared to have recovered from the shock of the assault on her home and family and was busy taking care of her husband. The big Scandinavian farmer looked like he had a shattered arm from one of the attacker's bullets. The two Lancer vaqueros who had stayed with the Gundersons informed Scott that the doctor had been sent for.
The children were all safe, even if traumatized, as their mother had hidden them in the root cellar before the men had forced their way into the house. Mrs. Gunderson left her husband's side to talk to Scott on the porch before he rode out. "I was hanging out washing. Out back, you see," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "I saw two men come across the field. Don't ask me how I knew, but I could see they were up to no good." She raised her eyes to meet Scott's squarely. "I rang the bell. It is our sign for trouble. The children, they know what to do. They went to the cellar right away, and Gus, he came in from the barn." Her eyes teared up. "They just shot him, no warning," she cried. "What will we do now? My man cannot plow with one arm." She folded her arms across her chest and sobbed.
Scott reached out to lightly touch her shoulder. "We will help you, Mrs. Gunderson. Don't you worry about anything. We'll send men over from Lancer to help with the chores and I'll arrange for some neighbors to help bear your workload."
"Oh no, no, Mr. Lancer, they have their own ranches to work. We could not ask-."
"We all help each other out here, ma'am. You don't have to ask."
"What if those men. . .? They might come back." Her lips quivered.
Scott looked at her work-worn hands as they wrung the cloth of her apron, stained with her husband's blood. "They won't be hurting anyone again," he assured her.
Her eyes searched Scott's. "You killed them?"
Scott looked down for a moment, then nodded.
"I was taught not to hate anyone, but my heart is glad for that." Ilsa Gunderson raised her apron to dry her eyes and exposed the torn skirt underneath it as well as a smear of blood on her dress. When she saw a look of consternation on Scott Lancer's face she quickly smoothed down her apron with shaking hands. "I must go back to my husband now."
Scott reached out but didn't touch her. "When the doctor arrives, you have him look you over, too, ma'am. Just in case," he added, not unkindly.
She touched her fingers to her lips, then with a furtive glance back to the house, she whispered tersely, "You will not tell my husband." She ran inside and immediately started tending to Gunderson, whose large frame lay outstretched on the kitchen table. Two Lancer vaqueros ran bandages around Gunderson's shoulder and arm while Isidro related to them what had become of the men who had attacked the family.
As Scott mounted Barranca once again, he could see Gus Gunderson through the open front door. The farmer raised his head and managed to weakly lift his good hand in thanks.
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Macon hadn't given them much to go on, but Scott planned to be dogged in his pursuit of whoever had engineered the attack on Johnny. He'd ride to town later to join the sheriff in following up on their slim lead. Somewhere in the vicinity there was a man who harbored ill intent towards Johnny Lancer, a man who was last seen wearing an old duster and a black hat. Not much to go on but someone must have seen something, thought Scott.
They would talk to everyone who had been in Morro Coyo the night Johnny had been beaten and stabbed, and Scott determined he would personally interview the drovers in the outfit that had thrown Macon and his pal out on their ears. He wasn't about to rest until he got to the bottom of it; Johnny deserved justice for what they had put him through.
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Isidro and Scott rode back to Lancer, speaking very little. They halted for a few moments at a small roadside shrine for Isidro to offer a prayer to Saint Isadore, the patron saint of farmers.
When they rode over the last ridge, they spotted the lights of the hacienda down below, twinkling in the gathering dusk. Scott whipped up the lagging stallion, suddenly anxious to get home.
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Harlan Garrett stood over Johnny. The young man in the bed stared up at him with hatred spewing from his eyes. Such intense animosity might have been alarming, but Harlan wanted to see something else in the blue eyes. He wanted to see fear and submission before he finished what he had started.
With the length of his walking stick pressing across Johnny's arms, aided by the heavy blanket that Teresa had thoughtfully tucked in tightly around the wounded man, he was able to effectively pin him down.
Garrett leaned over, exerting his weight on the heavy oak stick with his gloved hands and was satisfied when Johnny's face revealed the pain he was feeling. "You don't like that very much, do you young man?" asked Garrett with a smile. "You're not used to being weak and dependent on others. I can see that. But," he said with a hiss, "you are a burden to Scott, and my grandson shall not be dragged down by south-of-the-border scum like you!"
Johnny gritted his teeth and spat, "Get your stinking hands. . . off me!"
Garrett could see sweat breaking out on Johnny's bruised face. He slid one hand across the blanket to where Johnny's waist appeared to be. Applying pressure, he was rewarded by a grunt and a wince from his victim. "Does that hurt?" Garrett asked with feigned sympathy.
Pain jolted through Johnny's entire body from the added abuse to his wound. He clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out. He struggled to get his hands free, but agonizing shafts of pain were shooting up his arm from his already damaged right wrist, his head was swimming badly and he was deathly afraid he was going to pass out.
Garrett relentlessly bore down. Blood welled from Johnny's wound, soaking the bandages, staining Garrett's white cuff. "My grandson is destined for far bigger things than being a cowpoke on this ranch. He's going to return with me to Boston and there, with his wealth and intelligence, the sky will be the limit. When he's rising to the top, becoming a senator or to a position even higher, you will not be there to distract him or to damage his good name. Do you hear me?"
"You're crazy, you…old…bastard," Johnny gasped as the cruel pressure was applied again. He heaved his body to throw his tormentor off, but despite Garrett's advanced age and slight body, he was wiry and a sight healthier than Johnny was at that moment. The action caused the wounded man more pain than he had thought possible, but he knew it was better to be hurting than dead.
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