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CHAPTER 10 - THE TORMENT

Scott placed his hand, palm down, on the blanket covering Johnny's chest. "He's always been a fighter," he said under his breath, afraid to speak loudly in case he disturbed the delicate rhythm of Johnny's breaths. He looked sharply at the doctor. "What makes you so sure he won't regain consciousness?"

"Scott!" Murdoch remonstrated.

But the doctor waved aside Murdoch's concern over his son's brusque tone. "Johnny has lost more blood, you see, and he is very weak. Coupled with the lack of oxygen to his brain, well, even if he does awake, there is little hope that he will have all of his faculties." Dr. Mendez motioned towards Johnny's stomach and added, "And there may be some internal injuries due to the cruel assault he received, on top of his earlier wounds."

Scott absorbed the information without exhibiting any emotion, then pulled back Johnny's coverings. A large hot cloth, stinking of medication, was draped over his belly. Scott gently peeled it away. Johnny's flesh bore a waxy pallor, but in contrast, the skin from his breastbone down to his abdomen was dark red and swollen - the early stages of trauma would develop into a massive bruise. /Should he live long enough,/ thought Scott. There were also marks running straight across his belly and over the inside of both elbows, indicating that something had been pressed down with considerable force.

With an unsteady hand, Scott covered his brother's torso with the blanket again, and asked, with intense calm, "Who could do such a barbaric thing?"

~ • ~ ~ • ~

When Scott returned to Johnny's room, the doctor had already left. Murdoch sat in an armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he watched over Johnny's unconscious body.

Quietly, Scott closed the door behind him and stood at attention. "You were right. He denied everything." When Murdoch only nodded, he added evenly, "I heard Teresa's side of it, of course, to be fair." He turned away, fists clenched, and raising one hand he slammed it against the doorframe as his anger threatened to spill over.

In a second, Murdoch was standing at his side. "Son, I didn't want you to–"

"To choose sides?"

"I'd never say that. Come and sit down, tell me what he said." He indicated for Scott to take one of the chairs flanking the foot of the bed.

Scott just looked at the armchair for moment, then slowly sank onto it, opposite his father. "But that's what it has come down to, hasn't it? Do I accept what my grandfather has sworn? That Johnny just went into some kind of downward spiral, the natural result of a wound that, by the way, was not inflicted by either of the two men I killed today. Did I tell you that I killed a man today, Father? Or maybe it was two. Isidro and I both shot one man off his horse at the same time, so it's hard to be certain." Scott laughed humorlessly. "The other one, Macon. . . I had my hands on him . . ."

"Isidro told me what happened." Murdoch looked at his son with concern. "Scott–"

"No, no, I'm all right. We did what was necessary. I'm angry with myself for missing the opportunity to get to the bottom of this whole thing. Now I have no doubt that the two men were hired only to get close to Johnny and take him unawares. They weren't the ones to knife him, but what they did, taking the lamb to the slaughter, was unconscionable." He viewed the motionless figure of his brother stretched out like a body on display the night before a burial. "It's a pity the man I was questioning died before he could say anything of value."

"This man gave no indication who hired them? Isidro said the knives he found on them were too small to have been the weapon used against Johnny."

"Macon and Flanagan had small blade clip-point knives, not a serrated-edged weapon like the one that was used on Johnny." He sighed deeply and settled back into his chair. "As far as the vague description that Macon gave me, it could be said to resemble half the men in this county." Scott kept his voice low even though Johnny still showed no sign of consciousness. "The man who hired them wore an old, stained duster, but Macon figured the man was rich. Of course, anyone with a five-dollar gold piece would have looked wealthy to those men. I plan on going to Morro Coyo to question anyone who may have been a witness last night."

"The sheriff has done that," Murdoch pointed out. "He sent a message saying he'd tracked down the trail boss to the stockyard in Porter Junction, and was going out there first thing in the morning to talk to the man. He'll let us know anything he discovers about this Macon and Flanagan. You don't have to go," he insisted. "I'd like you to stay close."

"Yes, but I want to question them myself. I need to." Scott glanced at a clock on the bureau. "It's too late to go now, and I don't want to leave while Johnny is like this. . ." Scott suddenly lost all of his energy and slumped with his head buried in his hands. As he tried to gather his strength, knowing he had to, for Johnny's sake, a hand was laid on his back. It was his father, yet he hadn't even heard the big man walk around the foot of the bed. "I must be more tired than I thought," Scott admitted. "It's just that. . . it's all so senseless. Those two men rode to Gunderson's and terrorized those innocent folks. They just walked in and shot Gunderson. It was obvious the family didn't have two pennies to rub together and had only a couple of workhorses in the corral." He paused, then said hoarsely, "They assaulted his wife. Did Isidro tell you that? Even though she said she wasn't harmed, I could see how badly it had affected her. If you'd seen the faces of their children–"

"Some men, if we can elevate them to that height by calling them men," Murdoch said, "perform cruel acts for no reason other than they can. It's up to us to balance such mindlessness with acts of reason." He stood and stretched, and when Scott didn't reply, he added, "I'm going to get us a pot of coffee. You'll be wanting some supper."

Scott waved the thought of food away, but Murdoch plowed on. "And don't refuse. Teresa wants to be woken at midnight and Maria will sit with her. We'll take shifts." When Murdoch got a slight nod of agreement from his son, he made for the door. He turned back to say, "It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it? I'll bet Johnny will be awake and wishing you many happy returns, son. I'll lay a bet on that."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Cipriano found Murdoch in the corral, checking on Barranca by the light of an oil lamp he raised up high. "Señor?"

"Just checking Barranca's condition. I was heading for the kitchen but thought I'd look him over first." The palomino did not appear to have suffered from being stolen, although there were spurs welts marking his golden flanks.

"Scott asked me where you'd gone," Cipriano said casually.

Murdoch turned quickly, alarmed. "Is Johnny-?"

Hands raised to reassure his boss, Cipriano explained, "He's the same, no change. Miss Teresa is with him now." He stood at Murdoch's side and watched Barranca shake his head as he snorted. "He looks good, but the cabron used a whip on him as well as spurs," he pointed out. "Isidro tells me Barranca threw his rider off, and broke the lowlife's back." He nodded with approval. "Señor Scott, he finished what the horse started. Lo que se siembra se cosecha."

Murdoch hadn't asked his son outright if he had killed Macon. Unsure if he should be as glad as he was that the men were both dead, and concerned that Scott had taken revenge and might regret his actions later, he said nothing in reply.

"Let Barranca loose in the pasture," Murdoch said. Cipriano tied a lead to the stallion's halter but as he escorted him out of the gate, Murdoch detained him. He surveyed the horses milling around the corral in the dark and asked, "José, have you noticed if any of the horses have been ridden hard? Maybe one of the gentler animals?"

The big wrangler looked thoughtful. "There is the small mare, Palomita, out in the pasture, she was not rubbed down, Señor. Someone rode her late yesterday, perhaps. None of the men use her for work, and I wasn't going to say anything, but I thought maybe the Señorita. . ." Cipriano left the sentence unfinished when Murdoch shook his head.

"No, Teresa wouldn't put an animal out there without taking care of it first. She didn't ride anywhere last night." Looking in the direction of the pasture, Murdoch asked, "Has anyone else ridden that mare recently?"

"Yes. I told Juan to saddle her for Señor Garrett, when he rode to town with Señor Scott maybe two days ago. She is gentle, good for a rider with little skill. Did I do wrong?"

The small mare would have been easy for Harlan Garrett to saddle, and he had ridden her before. He could have ridden to Morro Coyo last night, met the men he hired, attacked Johnny and returned. It might not have been easy returning on the dark road in the small hours, but it was possible. They hadn't seen Garrett since he had retired after dinner and he could have gone to town and back well before dawn. It was possible. Garrett would have to have been highly motivated to plan such a campaign and Murdoch didn't know if he was capable of carrying it out.

Murdoch realized the wrangler was patiently waiting and replied, "No, no, you did nothing wrong. Thank you, Cipriano. You turn in now."

"Si, Señor." He hesitated and when Murdoch looked at him with eyebrows raised in inquiry, Cipriano added, "Isidro, he told me he and Señor Scott shot at the men who were escaping."

"Yes, he told me."

"He just told me that Señor Rinaldo returned from taking the bodies to the undertaker's, and said there was only one hit on the first man we took down." Cipriano shifted uneasily. "The bullet, Señor, was a fifty-caliber. It did not come from my rifle."

"I see. Thank you. Did you tell Scott? No, then leave it to me."

"Good night, Patron."

When Cipriano had gone, Murdoch leaned against the corral gate for a few minutes. He absently stroked the soft noses of a couple of horses as he went over everything that had occurred, fact by fact. He tried to put his own animosity for Harlan Garrett aside long enough to be as impartial as possible, but even so, in the end he had no doubt that Harlan was behind the attacks on Johnny. The man was as guilty for the acts of his hired killers as if he'd committed them himself. The question now was what to do about it.

Bile rose in Murdoch's throat at the image of Garrett getting his henchmen to hold Johnny down while he twisted the blade in his back. Murdoch had to take a deep breath to calm himself, and as much as he wanted to rush upstairs to throttle the old bastard, he refrained. Instead, he trod purposefully back to the house to have a serious talk with Scott.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"Are you going to accuse my grandfather of attempted murder?" Scott demanded as he sat across from Murdoch at the kitchen table, cups of coffee sitting in front of them. By an unspoken agreement, they had moved into the kitchen sometime around midnight, as soon as Teresa had come down to sit with Johnny. They had not wanted to conduct what would be sure to turn into a heated conversation over Johnny's unconscious body.

When Scott had returned from hunting down Johnny's attackers, Murdoch had told him what had occurred to Johnny in his absence. Scott had been horrified - at both the monstrous harm done to his vulnerable brother - as well as at the implication that Harlan Garrett had committed the assault.

A terse interview with his grandfather had gained nothing but denials of any involvement in the crime. He had seemed sincere. Scott still balked at admitting that his grandfather was capable of hurting anyone on purpose. But after this latest attack, deep down he was afraid it was all too possible.

Murdoch said insistently, "There is no denying that Garrett was in that room, Scott, and his explanation is claptrap."

"You can't find him guilty on such thin evidence, Sir."

"I am telling you my suspicions, and I haven't allowed my dislike of Harlan to cloud my judgment. If you had seen him, the way he acted when I asked what he'd been doing in there, alone with Johnny. . . you would be looking at him with suspicion, too." Murdoch added, "He has a mark on his face, did you see it? Near his eye. Like someone had struck him."

"This is my grandfather you're talking about! How can you expect me to even consider he would commit such a heinous act? You're talking about premeditated murder. Murder! It's unthinkable. I just can't, can't see it. There has to be some other explanation." With elbows on the table, Scott's head sank into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked disconsolately into his cup of black coffee.

"I will not," Murdoch said firmly, "have Garrett in the same house as your brother."

Scott's head came up at that. "Where do you expect him to stay, then? Perhaps in the old Spanish guardhouse? Or would you prefer it if my grandfather was under lock and key in the Green River jail with the drunks and cattle rustlers?" He asked heatedly, "Maybe we should bypass the law altogether and string him up from the nearest tree?"

Murdoch didn't give an inch. "If it comes to it, yes, I believe he should be prosecuted for his assault on Johnny-"

His hands hitting the table, Scott shouted, "You're jumping to the conclusion that Grandfather hired those men, and that he stabbed Johnny himself. There is no proof! You sound like you've already found him guilty!"

"You didn't let me finish," Murdoch replied sternly.

Scott raised his hands. "Fine. Go ahead."

Murdoch nodded and continued, "I was going to say: He should be prosecuted if it proves that he is the culprit. You can go into town and search for any witnesses, as planned. Gabe may have discovered something new by the time you meet him. If anyone saw anything, the sheriff will wheedle information out of them."

"Macon could have been lying about this stranger hiring them," Scott pointed out. "He could have been trying to shift the blame away from himself. He said they were paid but we found less than fifty dollars between the two men."

"Then what about Johnny being smothered right here in his own bed? With Garrett standing over him!" Murdoch banged a fist on the kitchen table, causing the coffee cups to jump.

"Even if my grandfather resents Johnny, he wouldn't have hurt him when he was lying there defenseless. Harlan Garrett is not without morals, Murdoch."

Murdoch laid a hand on Scott's forearm. "We will be fair, Son, but we must be realistic. We know there is animosity between Garrett and your brother. If he caused harm to Johnny, we must know the truth. But right now I don't want Garrett in my house. We need to find secure accommodations for him."

Even as Scott protested his grandfather's innocence, he knew that Harlan Garrett could do such a thing - and worse. Accepting it caused a dreadful pain in his heart. It was his own fault, thought Scott, for allowing Garrett to set foot on Lancer again. How could he have been so naive as to believe that history wouldn't repeat itself? And the end result: attempted murder, Johnny's near-mortal wounds, innocent neighbors harmed, his own trust and family ties torn apart as if they were of no consequence. Did his grandfather think so little of him that he thought he'd just turn a blind eye?

Scott couldn't look up to meet his father's gaze for the shame he felt. He drank some coffee and finally said, "All right. Depending on Johnny's condition, in the morning I'll ride into Morro Coyo and work with Sheriff Stillwater. Before I go, I'll install my grandfather in some other quarters." He managed to raise his head and give a slight smile. "He's going to kick up one hell of a fuss."

Murdoch grunted. "How about putting him in the new bunkhouse?" The building, when finished, would accommodate six men, along with a private bedroom intended for the head wrangler. It was on the far side of the barn, not too close to the house. The finishing touches had not been added yet, but it was a temporary solution to their problem.

"Good idea. It will hold him for a day or two." Scott had given serious thought to instructing the sheriff to lock his grandfather in a secure cell, but something had prevented him from taking that step. Any feelings of familial loyalty and deference for Harlan Garrett had all but disappeared when he'd agreed that the old man could come on this visit, and now they were about to be permanently severed. "If, by some chance, when Johnny regains his senses, if he names someone other than my grandfather, we should make arrangements to have him on the first train out of Meyer's Junction."

Murdoch nodded. "We'll need to keep a guard on Garrett. He might even need protection from the hands. They are very troubled about what happened to Johnny and might do something rash."

Scott took a deep breath. "We can't put Johnny's life at risk. I'm sorry for bringing Grandfather here. If I'd had any idea––."

"There's only one man to blame, son, and it isn't you. I don't want to hear talk like that from you," Murdoch said sternly. "Frank is outside Garrett's bedroom door right now, so we will allow him to stay there for the remainder of the night. Now I need to go check on Johnny one more time before I try to get some sleep."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

From a distance, the clock in the great room chimed four times. Scott slumped in an easy chair, watching the immobile figure in the bed. In the several hours he'd been sitting there, trying without success to concentrate on his book, Johnny hadn't even moved.

Teresa had applied hot compresses to the wounded man's battered body, then they had re-bandaged him and turned him onto his side, but there was little else they could do. Murdoch was in bed, though he had gone reluctantly and only when Scott had gone up to his own bedroom at the same time. Three hours of sleep had taken enough of an edge off Scott's deep weariness to enable him able to return to Johnny's room. He probably should have slept longer, but he couldn't bear to be away from his brother's bedside. Teresa had worked on her knitting for a while, but was now fast asleep, curled up in an armchair.

Scott thought about how Johnny's troubles made him aware of the fragility of life. Even during the great war he hadn't felt this aware of the fickleness of death. Maybe that was because death was expected during warfare. But for a vital young man such as his brother to go out for a drink and a game of poker and to come back broken and near death was difficult to accept.

His immediate reaction had been to pursue the suspects, to hunt them down with a greed for revenge. He had reveled in the chase and that disturbed him almost as much as the lack of feeling he'd had over the deaths of the two men who had assaulted his brother. It would probably hit him later, at some inopportune moment, he thought glumly.

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