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CHAPTER 13 - THE GIFT

Murdoch was not gentle when questioning his younger son. He'd already been over to talk to Garrett that morning, accompanied by the sheriff, and he'd been unduly frustrated by the lack of results. Garrett had flatly refused to talk to them and had slammed the bunkhouse door in their faces.

"I'm telling you now, Johnny, my patience is wearing thin," Murdoch said with raised voice as he paced Johnny's bedroom floor. He paused only long enough to utter gruffly, "You'd better tell me what occurred in here yesterday."

Johnny levered himself up and shifted his hips on the mattress. It hurt a lot, but he knew from experience that making a series of smaller movements was better than one bigger one. He was getting antsy and wanted to be moved upstairs to his own bedroom, but so far nobody had suggested it. Even if it meant it inconvenienced the folks taking care of him, he knew he'd feel more secure in his own room. His gun was a table out of reach and he didn't think Murdoch was likely to hand it over to him any time soon. He was still too weak to do much for himself and his progress felt as slow as molasses, even if the family seemed to think his being alive was a miracle. He realized Murdoch was still awaiting a reply, so he responded, "What happened yesterday? You mean. . .Garrett?"

Johnny cleared his throat but before he could continue, his father interrupted. "Harlan Garrett came into my house and harmed my sons," Murdoch shouted, stabbing a finger in the general direction of Garrett's temporary quarters. "That. . . that man has injured you and now Scott is feeling guilty. I can't get it across to him that he didn't bring trouble upon this house, that he isn't accountable for Garrett's behavior. And you lie here suffering yet you won't condemn the man for what you damned well know he did!"

Johnny lay back and watched his father move around the room like a caged animal as he ranted about Garrett. He admired him for wanting to kick the old bastard out on his ass, but so far all they'd done was confine Garrett, as far as he knew. When Murdoch paused to take a breath, Johnny asked, "If you let him go. . . will Scott go. . . back to Boston with him?" It was still difficult to speak and he sounded like he'd eaten sand, but if he concentrated, he could get a few words out at a time.

Murdoch turned on his heel. "What? Where'd you hear that? Scott most certainly will not go anywhere with Garrett! I won't allow it!"

Johnny smiled. "Scott ain't some kid."

"Then tell me what went on. Tell me that Harlan Garrett is responsible!" When Johnny said nothing, but lowered his gaze, Murdoch grasped the footboard of the bed and gave it a small shake. "Johnny, you've faced many men down, so you can't expect me to believe that you're afraid of Garrett."

Johnny glared at his father. "It don't take a smart man to know when to back off. I been knifed before and by far better men than him."

Murdoch retorted, "Well, I'm not about to back off. Are you reluctant because he's kin to Scott? At least now he can see that Garrett is our prime suspect. Your brother may not have liked hearing that Garrett was under suspicion, but he isn't one to shirk either the truth or his responsibility."

Johnny's fingers clenched his bedding as he demanded angrily, "You ever know me to shirk my duty?" He took a ragged breath. "I might not do things your way. . . but I get them done." He coughed and desperately tried to refrain from wrapping his arms around his stomach. He was so angry his knees were shaking. "I was taught a long time ago that the only pain that matters is the pain you inflict," he spat.

Scrutinizing his son's livid face, Murdoch wondered who had taught Johnny such a terrible lesson about life. He composed himself before he spoke again. "I hope you don't still think that's the way to live, son. And no, you've never avoided facing what's right. Not before."

Johnny grew rigid with barely-contained resentment. "If you think that of me, then there ain't no reason for any more talking, is there?"

Seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with his son, Murdoch said decisively, "I think it's time we got Garrett to talk." Johnny's only response was a harsh look, so Murdoch went in search of Scott.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

The sound of raised voices could be heard several feet from the Gunderson's front door. When Scott hesitantly raised his hand to knock, the door opened to reveal all six-feet-six inches of Gus Gunderson. The wounded man's arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, his features etched with lines of stress and pain.

"Gus, you come away from that door and set right down," Ilsa scolded as she firmly pulled her husband back to an upholstered chair by the fire. She smoothed down her skirts and patted her hair, then turned to Scott. "Come in," she offered with a tentative smile. "I was just telling my husband he should be in bed."

Removing his hat, but stepping only just over the threshold, Scott nodded greetings to the couple. "I don't want to bother you folks, just thought I'd see how you're faring," he said.

Mrs. Gunderson waved any thought of his being trouble away and went to the stove to pour out some coffee. "Here, you sit with Mr. Gunderson and talk business. I must go and get the washing in," she said.

Scott went to join the large farmer, who looked more comfortable now he was sitting. Spread out on a table in front of him were large pieces of leather and a variety of tools. "You do good work, Sir," Scott said, indicating the pieces of leather decorated with carvings of scrolls and flowers.

"This is for a saddle that Mr. Rinaldo ordered." Gunderson picked up a sharp-looking chisel and pointed to some half-finished carving on what appeared to be the skirt of the saddle. "It is good money, but I am clumsy with only one hand," he said with a shrug. "I cannot sit here and do nothing." He indicated his damaged arm. "It hurts like hell, but at least my wife and family are safe now, thanks to you."

Scott waved away any credit for being part of the posse. "Healing takes time, so don't you overdo it. Rinaldo came over, did he?"

"Ya, he and other neighbors, they bring food, help with the stock. My little ones can do many chores," Gunderson said proudly, "but they are only little ones." He winced and clasped a hand to his injured shoulder, then looked intensely at Scott from under his brows. "My wife, she told me what those men did to her. She did not want to, but I could see there was something wrong. If they were not dead, I would wring their necks, ik wil hun ballen afsnijden for what they did to Ilsa. And also to your brother - I hear about Johnny Lancer. He is not doing so good as me?"

"Johnny had a set-back, but I believe he will recover fully." Scott was uncomfortably aware that the man was studying him keenly and he wasn't sure what Rinaldo had told the farmer.

Leaning close to Scott, with a glance to make sure his wife was out of earshot, Gunderson said, "I hear things that I do not want to believe." He waited but when he got no response, he continued, "Your brother, he was attacked with a knife. By your mother's father's own hand? This is true?"

When he raised his eyes to meet the pale blue ones of the farmer, Scott expected to see a curious, prying look. Instead, he found that Gunderson appeared mournful, as if he had experienced the death of a relative. Despite his better instincts, Scott solemnly nodded his head.

Gunderson patted Scott's knee with one large hand. "I was taught that children bear the guilt of the father, but in this country we start out fresh, like we are new men. I know. My own father, he did things no son would forgive, back in the old country, or so I thought. Now my pater is dead and the world is better for it, and I can raise my family without the. . . I don't know the word. What is it when there is a black mark on your good name?"

"Stigma?" Scott suggested.

"Ya, stigma. Now if he was here I wonder if I would make things good between us again." He shook his head sadly and wiped his eyes. "But then I say vervloek the old man for what he did."

Mrs. Gunderson stepped back into the front room, bearing a basket laden with clean clothing. She asked with some confusion, "You brought your children, Mr. Lancer?"

Rising from his seat, Scott joined her in the doorway.

Out in the field were three small children, their pale blond hair marking them as the Gunderson's offspring. Helping them back a large workhorse into the traces of a plow were two older boys. Their dark heads were bent as they aided the smaller children to buckle up the harness.

"No, Ma'am," Scott said with a sideways grin. "I don't have any children." Mrs. Gunderson raised her brows, awaiting an explanation, and Scott turned to include Gus in his reply. "I brought them for you."

Gunderson said, "We need no more children."

"Oh no, no, they're not here for you to take in. You see, I went by town and found these two boys in need of work. They come from Santo Monterro."

Mrs. Gunderson exclaimed, "Ah, they are orphans! Poor things."

"We need no orphans to feed," Mr. Gunderson said adamantly.

Scott held up his hands. "Wait! The Brothers have trained these boys to farm, and they're eager to work. They'll be happy to sleep out in the barn for a couple of weeks. They rode over on their mule, so he can help, too. It's only until you're back on your feet, Mr. Gunderson. It's all arranged."

The Gundersons looked at each other, silently questioning whether or not to accept the help they knew they needed. It was Mrs. Gunderson who pivoted back to Scott. "We can't pay much-"

"There is no cost to you, Mrs. Gunderson. Now, don't protest, because I won't hear it. The Brothers loan out their pupils as a sort of final test, to make sure they are ready to go out into the world. And the children will gain a great deal from the experience."

Gus slowly stood, hooked his injured arm into the front of his overalls and watched the children working together. They eventually got the Belgian horse moving along the furrows, with the two older boys using their combined weight to work the plow. "I was a carpenter's apprentice when I was a boy." He nodded. "Ya, goot way to learn. How long do they stay?"

Scott peered out at the boys, now struggling to turn the horse and almost losing control of the plow as they came about. He'd only met them a few hours earlier, but on the ride over he'd been able to talk with them enough to feel confident that they were willing and able to do the job. The older of the two brothers was fifteen and big for his age. His brother, two years his junior, was good-natured and conscientious. The Gundersons were fortunate to have them to help with the farm. "They're on loan for thirty, er, sixty days," Scott said.

Gunderson reached out to shake Scott's hand. "Goot neighbors, all goot neighbors."

~ • ~ ~ • ~

Cipriano and Isidro relished their assignment. They brought Harlan Garrett across the patio and jerked him to a halt just outside the open doors to Johnny's room.

Garrett wrenched his arms out of the none-too-gentle grasp of his guards and took one step forward into the bedroom. He was faced with Johnny, sitting up in bed, looking pallid but not quite the invalid he had expected to see. The half-breed's expression was unreadable. The blue eyes, one with the lid swollen half-shut, looked at him impassively, but Garrett felt like he was being scrutinized by a lion sure of his next meal. He broke out into a cold sweat.

Murdoch and Scott's feelings, however, were more blatant. They stood on either side of the bed like sentries, their anger barely concealed. The girl, Teresa, was present, arm-in-arm with the Mexican woman who had refused to cook his meals. They were both frowning at him, their feelings ill-disguised.

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Murdoch wasn't going to waste any time. The sheriff had suggested this face-to-face, thinking that it would cast fear into Harlan Garrett and that he would confess when confronted by all the Lancer men at once. Scott, who had only just returned from the Gunderson's place, had readily agreed to the plan. Even so, Murdoch considered it unlikely that Garrett would admit to any wrongdoing, even if caught red-handed. So it was up to Johnny to speak up and they could get on with pressing charges against their Boston visitor.

"Johnny," Murdoch asked firmly, as if in a court of law, "did this man, Harlan Garrett, at any time, either in Morro Coyo, or in this house, hurt you?"

For the first time since they had dragged Garrett over to the main house from his temporary jail, Johnny looked away from the man. Blood pounded in his ears and his mouth went dry. He certainly wasn't afraid, as his father had suggested earlier, but the time had come for him to make a decision that would impact everyone's lives. He needed a moment to consider his reply. Even as he thought about it, Johnny knew that he'd made his choice already - hours ago - and there was no changing it.

"Johnny?" prompted Scott, his voice loud in the suddenly quiet room.

Johnny's first attempt to speak resulted in a croak. Annoyed, he cleared his throat and met the eyes of the old man who stood accused. Leaning forward slightly he said clearly, and with conviction, "No. No he didn't hurt me." Even as he absolved Garrett from blame, Johnny let Scott's grandfather know with one look, and with absolutely no doubt, that he should consider himself a marked man.

Startled that Johnny hadn't pointed an accusatory finger at him, Garrett took a few seconds to digest the news. Regaining his composure, Garrett started to complain about the way the Lancers had treated him by keeping him a veritable prisoner, but with one look at Murdoch's grim scowl, he backed away and fled the room.

Stunned that Johnny had released his attacker from any responsibility, his guards stood in place until Murdoch indicated they should keep an eye on Garrett.

"Are you sure?" asked Murdoch, trying to catch Johnny's lowered gaze.

"I'm sure," Johnny replied as he slipped down in the bed. He could feel Scott's stare boring into him as Teresa protested that Harlan was getting away with it, and he feared he hadn't fooled any of them.

~ • ~ ~ • ~

It was evening when Scott returned to his brother's side. Maria was finishing an application of ointment on the stitched wound on Johnny's back. Stepping up, Scott offered to help her. They spoke only to give each other instructions as they re-bandaged Johnny's torso.

With a pat on Johnny's shoulder, Maria smiled and said, "Les veré mas tarde. . ." Picking up a tray bearing an empty soup bowl and a plate with only a few crumbs of Scott's birthday cake remaining on it, she returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the family.

Once she was gone, Scott helped his brother don a set of under-drawers. "I see you ate some real food," Scott said as he settled into a chair and picked up a newspaper. "That's a sure sign you're feeling better."

Johnny grunted. "Cake was good. Better than the slop the doctor ordered."

"Soon enough you'll be up and about. Perhaps you can go over and entertain my grandfather. Maybe take a slice of cake over to him."

Johnny glared at Scott even though his brother has his nose deep in the newspaper. "'Fraid not."

"He's probably pretty lonely over in the bunkhouse and could use some company. God knows nobody else on this ranch will speak to him."

Johnny shook his head in exasperation.

Perusing the headlines, Scott asked, "Did you read about the men up in Carson City who got away with murder, and all because the witnesses were suddenly struck dumb and blind?" He looked over the top of the paper at Johnny.

Turning his head away, Johnny mumbled something inaudible.

"I'm sorry but I didn't hear you," Scott said acidly. "Was that some kind of confession, brother?"

Johnny's head whipped back towards his brother. Loudly, he shot, "I said, maybe they got a good reason."

Shaking his head, Scott let out a huff of breath. "Huh."

"Look, I don't need you sittin' there watching me sleep, thanks all the same."

"I'm not watching you, I'm reading. Maybe I can find something to read to you." He put the newspaper aside and picked up a book from a small pile of reading material on the table by his side. Scott realized it was one of his grandfather's books, left behind when he'd been ousted from the upstairs guest bedroom. "You might find this book amusing, Johnny: A Gentleman's Western Travel Companion. It says here that 'one should always be on the alert for disreputable fellow travelers.'. There's an illustration that goes with it of a Mexican wearing bandoleros of ammunition and pants that look suspiciously like the ones you wear." Scott held it up for him to see, but his brother feigned disinterest.

There was a long silence broken only by the sound of pages being turned.

Johnny looked out the window for a while, then said, "I might as well get used to being alone. You'll be goin' back to Boston with him, anyway." He turned his head on the pillow to face Scott's blue-gray eyes staring at him with a stern expression that would have crushed a lesser man.

"How dare you suggest," Scott said, "that I would accompany him anywhere, after all of this?"

Johnny tried to quell the hope that Scott's reaction raised in him. "I don't want you to have anything to do with him, is all. He'll always have a line tied to you, brother."

Scott took his time replying. "I plan to personally escort my grandfather to Green River and see that he gets on the Overland Stage, then heads due east. And that will be the end of it. He won't return. I won't ever see him again. Isn't that what you wanted? To cut him loose?"

"You're sure," Johnny asked cautiously, "you won't never see him again?"

"I think Grandfather has permanently worn out his welcome, don't you?" Scott laughed bitterly and raised the book to continue reading. He turned the pages without really looking at the content. "How about we talk about something else? Maybe when you're better we can plan that long-overdue trip to San Francisco?" When Johnny didn't reply, Scott glanced up.

Johnny laid very still, his hands folded over his stomach, deep in thought. "Scott?"

"Mmm?"

"You gonna be sore at me for a long time? For not pointing the finger at Harlan, I mean?"

Scott put the book aside and gave his full attention to Johnny. "I only want to know the truth. Even if it hurts, you owe it to all of us."

Johnny's eyes opened in surprise. "The truth'll hurt you a whole heck of a lot more than me."

"Look, Johnny, the moment I saw my grandfather's face this morning, when he was escorted in here to face you, it was obvious he was guilty. You didn't have to say a word." Scott hung his head for a few moments, then straightened up in his chair and pulled it closer to the bed. "Now all I want is for you to say it aloud. I want to hear it from your own lips that he's the one who attacked you, because there can't be any doubt when dealing with my grandfather." He searched for the right words for a minute, and when he spoke, his voice was low with restraint. "I'm deeply ashamed of what my grandfather has done. I know you try to hide it when you feel pain, Johnny, and I guess you think you're sparing me some kind of pain by keeping tight-lipped, but I didn't expect you to be dishonest."

Johnny slowly shook his head. "Honesty is one of those things folks ask for but don't really want."

"I want it. You seem to be under the misguided impression that I need to be protected. I don't. You're the only person around here who hasn't blamed my grandfather aloud so far."

"Even if we both know what that old man did, the cost of bringing charges against him would be as bad for you. . . for us. . . as they would for him. Best to let it go."

There was a light tapping on the door and Murdoch came in, cautiously smiling. "I didn't want you to think we'd forgotten your birthday, Scott." He held a small box, but instead of giving it to Scott, he handed it to Johnny.

Johnny's face lit up with recognition at the sight of the box. Covered in burgundy velvet, it fit into the palm of his hand. He turned it over, cast a swift look up at Murdoch, then offered it to his brother. "Sorry I ruined your birthday, Scott."

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