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CHAPTER 11 - WHISPERS

Teresa awoke before the light of dawn and helped Scott replace the bloodstained bandage around Johnny's middle. She moved sluggishly, hampered by her drowsiness. Even though she tried valiantly to stay awake, she couldn't keep her eyes open and finally admitted she had to go to bed, even if only for a few hours. "I'll be back to feed him breakfast, if he's awake," she said hopefully.

Scott sat in one of the comfortable chairs and read, though without much enthusiasm. Over the following couple of hours he looked up at Johnny too many times to count. Eventually he rose to stretch and checked Johnny's bandages to see if there was any more blood seeping through them. The stitches that held together the ragged flesh in the small of Johnny's back were encrusted with dried blood, and he was relieved to see that Dr. Mendez's repairs appeared to be holding.

Scott rinsed his face with clean water to rouse himself, then bathed Johnny's forehead with a damp cloth. His brother's breaths were deeper and seemed steady, which was a relief. Earlier, Scott had timed every inhalation by the gentle ticks of the clock, ever fearful that the next one would simply not come.

It was difficult to say in the early morning light, but Johnny's color seemed to have improved slightly. Although his eye sockets were dusky and the eyelid that had taken a blow was turning black, his lips had lost their bluish tint. His neck was dark with bruising, right up to the jaw line, and the pillowcase was stained with blood from the injury at the back of his skull.

Scott dabbed witch hazel and ointments on the affected areas, wondering if his efforts were doing any good. He finished up by gently placing Johnny's bandaged right arm on top of an extra pillow. After opening the curtains to let in the first rays of morning, he returned to his chair and angled his book towards the window to pick up some light on the pages.

He must have dozed off because he was startled awake by the loud thump of his book hitting the floor. There were sounds emanating from the kitchen; the muffled clang of pots, the grinding of the pump's handle as water was drawn into the sink. He could smell bacon and was reminded he hadn't eaten a decent meal since breakfast on the previous day. Scott drew out his pocket watch and focused his tired eyes on the small dial. It was near on five. He yawned and stretched out his arms, then suddenly realized he was looking straight into Johnny's open eyes.

Calling out to Maria to fetch Murdoch, Scott excitedly leaned over his brother. "Johnny! Johnny, can you hear me?"

Johnny blinked slowly a few times. Disoriented, his eyes wandered past Scott to look vaguely around the room. Raising his bandaged hand to grope at Scott's shirt, he moaned. With features screwed up in pain, Johnny's arms clutched around his belly as he let out a loud cry. Taking in deep breaths, he arched his back and moved his head from side to side on the pillow in distress.

Scott firmly placed both hands on Johnny's shoulders as he tried to calm him, but Johnny fought him off. "Take it easy, brother. Calm down, just calm down. I know it hurts, I know, I know. . . Oh, Jeez. . . "

The words of comfort fell on deaf ears; Johnny writhed, moaning through clenched teeth. The more he struggled against the hands that pinned him down, the more pain he experienced. His cries grew louder, becoming open-mouthed shouts of anguish, and when Scott adjusted his grip to avoid a flailing arm, Johnny let out a scream.

Desperately, Scott called out, "Murdoch!"

Murdoch, dressed only in his nightshirt, burst into the bedroom. "Where's the laudanum Dr. Mendez left?"

"Let me get it, you hold Johnny," Scott ordered. He traded places with his father in order to pour a dose of the medicine into a glass of water. "How are we going to get this in him?" he asked, "He'll never take it!"

"Just bring it here. We'll get in into him somehow." Murdoch held Johnny in a firm grip, handling him with the same tough authority he used on unruly animals. But this was his wounded son, and the wordless cries of pain and their own anxiety made the job at hand all the more torturous.

Between them, they raised the patient in order to give him the medicine. Johnny pushed away the hands that were trying to help him and turned his head away, but they were able to administer a quantity of the laudanum despite his resistance.

Scott lowered Johnny back to the bed and held his shoulders steadfastly, waiting for the medicine to take effect. To him, the most disturbing thing of all was not the struggling, nor the intense pain Johnny was suffering, but the vacant look in his blue eyes. Even as the drug took effect and the moaning receded, Johnny just stared blankly at something beyond their field of vision, something very disturbing.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

"I will never forgive you for this, Scottie," said Harlan Garrett venomously. "I know that Murdoch Lancer put you up to this. He always had it in for me. Why, look how he took my daughter away from me, just for spite-"

"Stop it, Grandfather," Scott cut in, as he indicated the older man should proceed into the bunkhouse. "There is a bedroom with a fireplace in here, and there are plenty of books to read. If you need anything you will ask the man at the door-"

"I need my grandson to come to his senses," Garrett said as he disdainfully looked around the plain room. It had only the barest of furnishings, but they had come from the main house and were all of good quality: a bed, dresser, easy chair, tables and a commode. Wood was stacked near the fireplace and a tray of food and drink, including brandy, sat on the small dining table nearby.

Ignoring his surroundings, Garrett continued, "This is intolerable! You will regret this, all of you. Murdoch Lancer has poisoned you against me, made you act in this way, caused you to hate me," Garrett sputtered. "It's because of your inheritance, and you can't convince me otherwise. Today, as of today my boy, you are very wealthy and Lancer can see what's in it for him!"

"I need you to consider what has brought us to this point," Scott said tersely, ignoring the reference to his birthday. "And I want you to remember what my brother has suffered at the hands of an assailant and your name is at the top of the list of suspects. You will remain here until we get to the bottom of this. There will be someone on guard at all times. I am sorry for this, Grandfather, but I do not regret it."

Scott turned to leave, but Garrett caught his arm. "You cannot think I had anything to do with the harm those ruffians did to your half-brother. Think, Scottie, how I raised you like my own child, as a Garrett-"

Looking from the hand clutching at his sleeve to the pale gray eyes of Harlan Garrett, Scott replied coldly, "My name, sir, is Scott Lancer and I'll remind you that Johnny not only bears the same surname as me, but my brother is close to me in a way that you will never understand." He turned back to face Garrett when he reached the door. "If you had a hand in this, Grandfather, I will never forgive you, and if my brother dies, I will make sure you hang."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Dr. Mendez stood over his patient, considering what action to take. Murdoch and Scott watched the doctor's face for a sign that he was more optimistic than the last time he had been called to attend Johnny.

"We need to rouse him enough to confirm who did this to him," Murdoch said anxiously.

"I believe," said Mendez carefully, "that he should remain on medication until he is stronger. If he tears out those stitches again, they will be very difficult to repair, and he can't stand to lose any more blood. Next thing, infection will set in and he's far too weak to survive that."

Johnny's eyes were slightly open, but the laudanum that killed his pain also kept him in a stupor. When the doctor moved his fingers in front of Johnny's face, the eyelids flickered a little, but he was barely responsive.

"He was in terrible pain," Scott told the doctor, recalling the cries that his brother had emitted until the drug had taken effect. "We don't want him to suffer any more."

"It is likely," explained the doctor, "that any cries were from mental anguish, in part. He would have been very confused, coming out of a coma caused by asphyxiation."

Murdoch pointed out, "No matter, we don't want Johnny to be put through that again, even if it means we can't speak to him. It can wait."

Scott asked, "Doctor, is it possible that Johnny rolled onto his stomach, maybe face down into his pillow, and passed out? He could have been too weak to right himself."

"Yes," the doctor mused. "It's a possibility. But it doesn't account for the new bruising, especially the straight mark across his stomach, the one that appears to be from some kind of rod or stick."

"I think we all know that these wounds weren't self-inflicted." Murdoch tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He refrained from saying aloud that Harlan had been present in Johnny's bedroom while Johnny was being physically harmed yet had apparently seen nothing, and had done nothing to aid the injured man.

Scott met his father's angry gaze. "Do we wait to hear exactly what happened from Johnny himself before calling in the sheriff?" He was prepared to go over to the bunkhouse and strangle his own grandfather, he was so enraged.

Murdoch saw his son's anger and warned, "Scott, don't. Not yet. Garrett is confined and someone will be with Johnny at all times. We will wait for Johnny to regain consciousness."

The doctor looked from one Lancer to the other and pointed out, "That may be two or more days, so be patient. Also, be prepared that Johnny might not recall the events of the past few days. The blow to his head as well as the asphyxia could affect his memory. The good news is that there doesn't appear to be any serious new injury, although he will be exceedingly sore for some time from all those bruises. The new sutures I added to his back wound should hold and he will eventually regain his strength. What he needs now is care and rest, plus plenty of liquids, and broth if he will take it." Dr. Mendez shook the hands of the Lancer men. "You know the drill."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

By midday Sheriff Stillwater arrived with the latest news.

Murdoch noted that he looked worn out, but past experience had proved that Gabe was as tough as old leather and a dogged lawman. He wouldn't rest until he'd done everything possible to capture the man who had knifed Johnny.

Conversing in low tones just outside the door to Johnny's sickroom, the sheriff told Murdoch and Scott what he had discovered in his investigation. "It ain't much, I'm afraid. The trail boss over in Porter said the two good-for-nothings were lucky they'd lived as long as they had. They were nothin' but trouble and he said they were as connivin' as coyotes, but he never knew either man to fight with a blade. Could be they got in over their heads."

"They robbed the Gundersons, or tried to," Scott pointed out. "They certainly would have done a lot worse if the posse hadn't turned up when it did. Those men had a mean streak in them, and I'll bet they had wanted papers on them somewhere."

Gabe added, "The trail boss said the two men hired on a short while back. He thought they came from Jackson Hole or thereabouts."

"Jackson Hole?" asked Scott.

"Wyoming," Gabe explained.

"Rinaldo and I checked their gear and neither man had a knife with a serrated edge. They could have discarded it, though."

Watching Scott, Murdoch saw the soldier come out in his boy, in his straight-backed stance as well as the way he spoke to authority figures with the confidence of a leader. He also recognized his son's stiff bearing as his way of keeping a rein on his anger. Although Scott was attentive to the sheriff as they talked, his hand clenched and unclenched at his side.

"Could be," agreed the sheriff. "I'll check the wanteds in my office as soon I get a chance. Now they're dead, you might be due a reward, Scott." He saw Scott's startled look and added, "The Gunderson's could do with some seed money, I'd bet."

"If someone hired them," Scott said, "he must have recognized the two men as criminal material."

Murdoch pointed out, "You can't just pick out anyone in a small town and expect them to agree to lure a man out into the street and beat him up." He wondered how Garrett had chosen the men for his dirty job. He had no doubt that it had, indeed, been Garrett. Once before, Scott's grandfather had been able to find out a couple of low-down thieves, the Deegan brothers, to carry out his devious plans. He wondered if Garrett had some innate sense of who was approachable.

Gabe continued, "I interviewed everyone I could round up in Morro Coyo about the goings-on on the night Johnny was waylaid. The gals at the dance hall remembered the men and one admitted one fellow paid her to push a drink on Johnny that was laced with something. Her description fits Macon. I won't tolerate such goings-on in my town and I sent her packin'. Also, the fellows playing poker never saw Macon and Flanagan talking to nobody that fits the description of the third fellow. I also asked Amos Whipple, because he was on the scene around the same time as me, but he only saw the two men taking off, one riding your boy's palomino."

As he scratched his two-day-old bristles, Gabe added sheepishly, "I gotta tell you, when I came upon your Johnny lying in the street, I chased after them two fellers who were riding away from the scene. They got away from me in the dark, and I know that could happen to any lawman, but I never had no indication that there was a third man. I just want you to know I feel real bad about missing that, Lancer."

Murdoch and Scott assured the sheriff that they didn't think he was negligent in doing his duty. Even Johnny had not been able to identify that third man. "Johnny has never mentioned anyone except the two men who accompanied him to his horse," said Murdoch. "He hasn't been able to tell us anything about this latest assault on him, but as soon as he does we'll let you know, Sheriff."

"As it stands now," the sheriff said, "your boy didn't see his attacker, and neither did anyone else. So unless we find the knife in the person's possession. . ."

Scott cut in gruffly, "I searched my grandfather's belongings already."

Murdoch looked at his son with barely-disguised surprise.

"I packed his belongings to move them into the bunkhouse." Scott explained shortly. "I searched his bedroom upstairs as well. Thoroughly. There was no knife."

Gabe looked from one Lancer man to the other as they stood silently regarding each other. "Hmm. That's a dead end. On the other hand, your son has survived two attempts on his life and when he comes to we'll bring Mr. Garrett before him. Just ask Johnny if he's the man who harmed him. Face to face. Might shake things up a little." He waited for Murdoch and then Scott to nod in agreement.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Johnny lay in a half-asleep state, aware of the injuries to his body yet somehow disconnected from them. He had heard the low voices outside his door, even if they washed over him and their meaning didn't really sink in at first. But now he was waking up enough to take in their implication.

His sense of time was distorted, but Johnny knew that Harlan Garrett had been in this room at some point and the knowledge made his heart beat faster, without him knowing exactly why. As he slowly regained his senses, the events of the past two days unfolded, eventually laying themselves out in an order he could comprehend. It was like a pack of cards: as individuals they meant little, but when shuffled and spread out in the right order, they had an altogether different implication.

He knew that he had been beaten and knifed and that his horse had been stolen. That angered him more than anything they'd done to him personally. The two men who had knocked him senseless had held his arms in a vicious grip, waiting for someone to approach. His right arm had been twisted behind his back until the bone almost snapped, and the force had driven him to his knees.

Johnny now had a clear image of Macon and Flanagan standing on either side of him when a knife was shoved into his lower back. That meant there had been another man, someone behind him, someone unseen. . . just a dark figure in a shadowed street. He winced at the memory of the shock as well as the agony of the cold steel as it was rammed into his body.

Garrett had said something to him, right in this room, but what had it been? He struggled to recall the words; Garrett had said that he took pleasure in causing him pain, that Scott would leave with him for Boston, leave Lancer. . . and then the old man had pushed down - hard - on his damaged body and had pressed a pillow over his face.

Suddenly, Johnny couldn't get any air in his lungs, they were bursting, painful chest, getting weaker. . . That memory made Johnny wake up in a hurry. /My God, the old bastard tried to suffocate me!/

Garrett must have planned the attack in Morro Coyo. He had hired those two men to befriend him, to carouse and drink with him then take him unawares, to get hold of his gun and render him harmless. Well, the plan had worked; it was a sobering thought.

But Johnny had fought back enough to survive until the sheriff had interrupted the attack. The thing was, he thought, he'd had a genuinely good time - until he'd been sacked by those sidewinders.

When Johnny had initially regained consciousness, and had told his family what had transpired in Morro Coyo, he hadn't known that Garrett had orchestrated the whole thing. But he knew about it now. Johnny took a deep breath, felt a vicious stab in his back and shifted to ease the pain that was returning all too quickly. His stomach felt like someone had used it as a punching bag, his neck was swollen enough to make swallowing difficult, and his head was splitting. He groaned, more for his gullibility than because of the pain.

Scott had apparently returned from hunting down the fugitives, leaving one man at large, and Garrett had access to his room, neither thought being conducive to sleep.

The voices outside his door receded and Teresa came in. She must have thought he was still out cold because she tiptoed to his bedside. Before he knew what she was up to, she slipped another spoonful of an ill-tasting liquid into his mouth, then soothed him when he made a grunt of objection. He tried to ask for his gun, but darkness overtook him before he was able to mouth the plea.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The light was different in the bedroom when he woke again. His lids were too heavy to keep open, so he drifted into a twilight state, but he could hear Teresa talking softly to someone at the far side of the room.

"Scott is taking responsibility for his grandfather's actions," she said in a hushed voice. "He's talking about sending Mr. Garrett back to Boston and I'm afraid Scott might go with him. He's very upset about the whole thing. It's just not right. I knew that old man was going to bring trouble to this house even before he got here. He's as good as being a murderer. I just knew there was something awful about him. . ."

Jelly replied, his voice barely raised above a whisper, "Murdoch won't do nothin' until some evidence shows up, or if'n Johnny eyeballs the old geezer as his attacker. They say Garrett's gonna stay here until it's settled - one way or t'other. I tell you, a necktie party would settle it right quick."

"Shh! Don't say that, Jelly, don't even think that." There was silence except for the clicking of her knitting needles. After a while, Teresa sighed. "I don't think Scott even remembers it's his birthday, he's so worried about Johnny," she said. There was the rustling of her skirts as she put her handiwork away in her workbasket. "I'm going to remind Maria to bake a cake for Scott. We can surprise him," she whispered.

A chair creaked as Jelly stood. "I gotta get back to my work, can't watch over Johnny. The whole day'll be gone and someone'll be sure to blame me, sure enough, if things don't get done. Gotta tear out the old wood from the stall in the barn. Johnny'll be all right on his own?"

"Just leave the door ajar, Jelly, so I can listen from the kitchen. Scott will be here any minute to sit with him, anyway."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Scott entered Johnny's room carrying an armful of medical supplies and some reading material. He stopped in his tracks only a couple of feet in, staring at the bed. Johnny was not in it. "Hell!" He was about to turn around and raise the alarm, but he spotted Johnny standing near the open window, half obscured by the curtains. Except for the bandages that covered him from chest to navel he was buck-naked.

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