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CHAPTER 15 - NIGHT SOUNDS
Teresa tiptoed past Johnny as he lay peacefully asleep in the darkened bedroom. She dropped down on her knees and groped around beneath the chair where she had been seated earlier in the evening.
A loud voice questioned, "What the heck are you doin' down there?"
She jumped to her feet and spun around to find Johnny awake, rubbing his eyes drowsily. "Johnny! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I'm just looking for my bag. My knitting's in it." She gave up her task and turned up the wick on the lamp, giving a cozy glow to the curtained room. "Maybe I left it out on the patio."
She stroked a gentle hand down the side of Johnny's face. "You need some more witch hazel on your jaw and neck, but it looks better. Do you want some soup? It's warming on the stove."
"Later," Johnny replied, his attention focused on some point past Teresa. He propped himself up on his elbow. "You hear that?"
"No, I don't hear anything. . . wait, yes, now I do." She moved to the patio door, swept the long drape aside and pulled down the bolt. Opening the glass-paned door a few inches, letting the cool night air in, Teresa cocked her head to listen. The sound of several raised voices could be heard. "I think there's something going on out front. You want me to go and see?"
Alarmed, Johnny warned, "No! Don't go that way, Teresa!" Even as he called out, struggling to sit up in his bed, the girl slipped out the door, unheeding. "Wait! Get me my gun-Damn it," he cried. His gut told him that there was something seriously wrong and his sense of unease grew when Teresa didn't return.
Concerned, he felt a strong need to have his gun in hand. It was sitting on a table across the room; it might as well have been across the yard for all his inability to get hold of it.
Cursing both the girl and his incapacity, Johnny rolled onto his side with some difficulty. He sat upright, one hand gripping his back. His weakened muscles protested, but despite the twinges and worse, he managed to get his feet firmly planted on the floor. With caution, Johnny put his weight on his legs and when his knees didn't give way, he was relieved.
Leaning over like an old man crippled with rheumatism, Johnny slowly shuffled to the end of his bed. He gripped the baseboard for a minute, caught his breath, and then staggered across the room towards the washbasin. As he crashed into it, grabbing the marble top in desperation, he clung to it and miraculously remained on his feet. Despite his weak legs, he was able to stand on his own.
Breathing heavily from the exertion of walking the few feet across the room, he gathered his remaining strength and grabbed his gun belt. Steadying his body with his good arm gripping the washstand, he clumsily pulled his gun from the belt with his wounded hand. Unable to properly hold onto the gun, he leaned on the sturdy furniture long enough to tuck it into the waistband of his long johns. With great care, Johnny worked his way around the room until he got to the patio door. The sounds he'd heard earlier were no longer audible, and the whole house seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the night birds seemed to be holding their breath.
He leaned on the doorjamb, pulled out his gun, and holding it with his left hand, he pulled back the hammer. Taking a big breath, he muttered, "Guess it's gonna be Lefty Lancer, after all," and opened the door to let in the dark night.
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"Leave Rinaldo in here until he comes to," Murdoch ordered the men gathered around the outer room of the old Spanish guardhouse. Although Rinaldo didn't appear to be seriously injured, and most of the blood on his face had come from his nose, he was insensible. They'd deposited him in one of the two small cells, and as far as Murdoch was concerned, he could stay there indefinitely. This is where Garrett should have been locked up, right from the start, he thought.
Murdoch took possession of the knife, seeing not just an ugly-looking blade, but also the mental image of Johnny as he had been when he'd been brought home: ripped apart and close to bleeding to death. "Last thing we need is anyone else getting hurt."
"That the one that he used on Johnny?" Jelly asked in a hushed voice.
"We won't know until this man recovers consciousness. Let's not be overzealous again, men." He looked past the few Lancer ranch hands, who seemed pleased with their capture and not a bit embarrassed about their roughness. Murdoch realized that someone was missing. "Where's Scott?" He saw Juan at the back of the crowd and even as the young man returned his gaze, they both had the same thought: nobody was watching Harlan Garrett. Juan turned on his heel and ran for the bunkhouse.
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Harlan Garrett knew he'd made a grave mistake.
He panicked and ran from the scene when he saw Scott lying in a crumpled heap on the new pine flooring of the bunkhouse. As soon as he got outside he took in gulping breaths of the night air, but it did nothing to calm his shattered nerves.
His mind in turmoil, he couldn't decide how to proceed. He had struck down the one person he could call family, and even if Scott forgave him for doing such an untenable thing, the boy would never absolve him for killing his half-breed brother. Not that Scott would ever know for sure that he'd been behind the initial attack, now that the two men he'd hired were dead in the ground.
The only thing Harlan knew for a certainty was that he had to finish what he'd bungled, not once, but twice already. With Johnny gone, Scott would give up on the fool notion of being a rancher, a lifestyle not suited to him at all. He'd go into politics and be Governor of Massachusetts within five years. With his wealth and power, he'd soon forget all about this rustic life he'd irrationally thought of as a cure for whatever ailed him. Yes, it was up to him to get rid of all impediments to his grandson's success, and one day he'd come around and accept that it was all for the best. "Third time's a charm," he whispered.
Surveying the dark porch and yard, Harlan saw the young man who'd been guarding him had left his post. Suddenly he caught sight of movement as two figures skulked along the corral fence, apparently stalking another furtive figure.
With nobody around to stop him, Garrett took the opportunity to dash across the empty yard and headed straight for the walled patio, his walking stick clutched in his hand.
The hacienda had only a few lights on, and within the walls of the patio the shadows were deep. The only light that cast upon the patio came from the glass door in the far corner - the ground floor bedroom where he knew his quarry lay helpless. Opening the gate with caution, Harlan crept into the courtyard, his eye fixed on his goal.
All of a sudden a girl slipped out of the lit doorway and walked straight towards him. Harlan ducked down in the cover of some dense foliage growing near the trickling fountain, but it appeared she hadn't seen him. The girl, who he recognized as Teresa, walked rapidly past the place he was hiding, but just when he thought he was in the clear, she stopped just this side of the gate, one hand on the latch.
There were shouts from across the yard and several men burst from the old bunkhouse, running to join a scuffle that ensued.
Harlan heard the muffled voice of Johnny calling to the girl from his room, summoning her back, but either she hadn't heard him or she was more interested in the group of men who were now beating up their hapless prey in front of the house. She opened the chest-high gate and ran towards the front of the hacienda.
Harlan waited a couple of minutes to make sure that she had gone, then he bent over to scrape off some muck that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. When he stepped away from his place of leafy concealment, he tripped up on something soft. He felt around and discovered it was only a bag, full of yarn and knitting needles. He grumbled under his breath at the annoyance and when he straightened up, he was shaken to see there was someone standing right in front of him.
Harlan Garrett started to form a justification for his presence in the patio, but there was a dreadful, agonizing blow delivered to the side of his neck and all that spewed from his open mouth was his own life's blood.
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When Juan arrived at the new bunkhouse, he found nothing but a smear of blood on the floor. The lamps were lit but neither Scott nor Garrett was anywhere to be seen.
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Murdoch ordered the men to fan out and scour the outbuildings for any sign of Scott or of Harlan Garrett. "And when you find Garrett, bring him back here to the guardhouse. We'll lock him up where he belongs," he barked with a fury born of fear for his missing son as much as for his hatred for Garrett.
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A shout of discovery could be heard echoing through the house, and Murdoch hurried to the source.
Scott was sitting in the kitchen, his face and hands covered in blood.
A towel was held to his forehead by Jelly in an effort to staunch the flow. The old wrangler was grouching, "What in tarnation you're thinking of, scaring the bejeesus outta your folks is beyond me." He saw Murdoch and said in an aside, "It don't seem to be as serious as it looks."
Murdoch gently pulled the towel away from his son's scalp to assess the damage. There was a gash above the hairline, and it would require a stitch or two. Scott's gray-blue eyes blinked heavily, as if he wasn't quite aware of what was going on. "Jelly," Murdoch said, "Fetch me some cold water and another towel, then go and find Maria or Teresa. And get some bandages out of the pantry before you go." One look at Scott told him his son wasn't going to remain upright in the armless kitchen chair for long.
Murdoch pulled up a chair next to Scott's and took a seat. "Who did this to you?" he asked, once Jelly had left. Covering his son's hand with his own in order to ensure the towel was pressed hard on the gash, he said in a soothing tone, "Jelly's right. There's a lot of blood, but it's not too bad."
His voice slurring a little, Scott eyed his father and said, "Garrett."
"Your grandfather hit you?" Murdoch was incredulous.
"Not. . ." Scott swallowed and closed his eyes. He swayed in the chair, but caught himself and opened them again. "He's not my grandfather any more," he said between gritted teeth, his eyes displaying his anger in a way that mere words could not express.
With a supporting arm around his son's shoulders, Murdoch got him up on his feet just as Cipriano and Maria arrived. Together they assisted Scott to walk to the great room and settled him on a couch, his head supported by extra cushions. Maria made fast work of binding up Scott's head and was soon back in the kitchen, brewing some tea for him.
"Cipriano, you stay with Scott," Murdoch said. "I'm going to make sure that Johnny is secure. Good thing he can't get out of bed."
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When Murdoch entered Johnny's dimly lit bedroom, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Johnny's bed, empty, with the covers pulled back and stained with brilliant red, fresh blood.
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