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CHAPTER 20 - PIECE OF THE PIE

Isidro sat solidly on his large bay gelding with his arms crossed, frowning at Murdoch.

Murdoch tried again. "Who gave you the pie? Maria didn't bake it. We know that much."

Scott rested his forearms on his saddle's pommel to watch the battle of the two men's wills. If Johnny had been here, he would have placed a bet with him that Murdoch wouldn't get anything out of the Segundo.

Johnny had been frustrated that he hadn't been able to ride with them out to the upper mesa in search of Isidro and the answer to the origin of the pie that had been Harlan Garrett's last supper. He'd been ready to accompany his father and brother, and even suggested they could tie him to his saddle if it would help. But Murdoch had threatened to tie Johnny to the bed instead, or dose him with a substantial amount of laudanum if he didn't remain at home. Finally acknowledging that a ride on horseback was beyond his present capabilities, Johnny had yielded, even if it pained him to be left out.

Murdoch urged his horse close to Isidro's until their legs bumped each other. Between gritted teeth, he said, "You want to tell me if you've got some reason for keeping this to yourself, Isidro?"

Isidro's horse backed off and stamped, but he spurred his mount forward again. With one hand gripping his quirt, Isidro leaned toward his boss until his face was only inches away from him. "How many years have I worked for you, Jefe? You want me to count the times we have fought our enemies together? You think I would ever take sides against your house?"

Not giving the man any sign he was going to back off, Murdoch replied, "Your loyalty to me and my family, to Lancer, has never been in question. But there was a death on my doorstep and I won't have my people keeping information from me. I've had enough of secrecy."

For emphasis, Isidro stabbed at Murdoch with his finger. "If I thought you questioned my code of honor, yo me moriría más bien. I'd rather die."

Scott exerted just enough pressure on his horse's sides to move a step closer to the two older men. They both swiveled to look at him as if startled by his presence. With a no-nonsense stare at the reluctant ranch hand, Scott said, "I know you well enough to know you didn't bake that pie, Isidro, but we need to know who did. What if there are more of them around and innocent folks eat them for dinner? Time's getting on."

"I was told to give it to your grandfather, to Señor Garrett. It was made only for him." In order to save face, Isidro made a show of making a decision, but in the end he told them who gave him the pie.

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Murdoch and Scott stood in the warm, inviting kitchen as Mrs. Gunderson put on some coffee to heat. One of the fair-haired daughters ran out to the fields to locate Mr. Gunderson, and when he arrived they all sat at the worn farmhouse table in front of the hearth. After some small talk and asking how Gunderson's wounded arm was healing, Murdoch prepared to inquire about the deadly pie that had been served to Harlan Garrett. "We came here about something important," he started, then cleared his throat.

Mrs. Gunderson took advantage of the lapse in Murdoch's speech and blurted, "This is about the boys, isn't it?"

"The boys?" asked Scott. He glanced out the window to see the two boys he'd found in the orphanage and brought to help the Gundersons out.

Mrs. Gunderson followed his gaze and beamed. "They are good boys. Always helpful, just like this is their own home. They do the heavy lifting for my husband, and even got those big bales in the loft. And with no complaints at all."

Murdoch looked at the couple and saw no sign that they were hiding anything. He met Scott's eyes and silently asked if he should proceed with the questioning.

"We are fond of the boys." The furrows between Mr. Gunderson's brows indicated he was still in considerable pain and he held his injured arm close to his body. He said gruffly, "They have been here for only a few days but me and the missus want to give them a permanent home. What is a couple of extra mouths to feed? It would be good for them, being part of our family, no?"

"I'm sure they would be very happy," Scott said with a big smile. His joy at pairing the needy children from the Santo Monterro Orphanage with a family was tempered by their present problem. "But I have to ask you something." He looked up at Mrs. Gunderson as she refilled his coffee cup and asked her plainly, "Did you bake a pie and give it to Isidro, by any chance?"

Her smile faded and worried a look appeared. "Oh, you found out. It was my husband's idea. We know your grandfather did bad things, to Johnny and all. Mr. Rinaldo told us some of what happened. And Isidro, too, he came by to help out more than once."

Looking uncomfortable, Gunderson said, "We turn the other cheek. We are fortunate people to have such friends and neighbors, and this was a good deed." He shrugged. "Nothing more. We didn't want to make any trouble. Isidro said he would carry the meal to the grandfather. Was there something wrong with it? He didn't like. . . the taste?"

"It is said," Mrs. Gunderson added with a nod, "that only people who grow up eating them can stomach the taste later in life."

"Yes." Her husband agreed. "Mr. Rinaldo told us about the grandfather's fondness for it. He gave us the idea." He smiled broadly. "Mrs. Gunderson, she bakes a good meat pie, doesn't she?"

Murdoch leaned forward intently. "What, exactly, was in this pie?"

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Johnny couldn't help laughing aloud. He had to wrap his arms around his belly because the movement of his guffaws hurt him so bad. He sat in the great room in the company of his brother since everyone else had gone to bed early. The fire was burning down now that it was late and they were enjoying their second glass of brandy.

Even as he frowned at his brother, Scott tried not to smile in kind. "Johnny, it isn't humorous," he reprimanded.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Johnny managed to say once his laughter had somewhat subsided.

Scott reclined on the couch, his arms behind his head. "Jelly told me he'd seen Rinaldo being too friendly with my grandfather. Turns out they were talking about their favorite cuisine."

"Oh boy, imagine Harlan's favorite childhood dish being squirrel pie." Johnny settled back on the cushions, grinning to himself.

"I never sampled any, but I do recall the cook at home making squirrel pie. He was from the south somewhere and he'd been baking it every Thanksgiving ever since I remember. Grandfather just liked it, said his mother had made it - some kind of family tradition. The Chinese in Boston made some dish with it as a folk remedy for gout."

"So Rinaldo told the Gundersons and they thought they were doin' a good turn? Sent over some vittles for the old man?" Johnny chuckled.

"Well, I doubt that Martin Rinaldo envisioned the orphan boys going out under the barn and collecting the rats they'd poisoned and telling Mrs. Gunderson they were squirrels. The kids skinned them and cut the meat off for her, so by the time they were added to the pot, she had no idea they were rodents." Scott shook his head. "We decided not to tell the kids about my grandfather's death. They don't need to have that on their consciences all their lives. They've had it hard enough already."

Johnny turned his head to look straight at his brother. "You still going back there?" he asked cautiously. "To Boston, I mean," he added.

Scott took a moment to reply. "I want to escort my grandfather's body back to Boston, Johnny. I already telegrammed the lawyers and gave them instructions to get the family members together. As soon as the funeral is over, we'll get down to business and discuss my plan for breaking up the estate into equal portions." He indicated the mass of papers lying in an untidy heap on the coffee table. "I've jotted it all down there. Anyway, I can start the arrangements when I'm there, and once the estate is sorted out we'll divide it up."

"You sure that's the right thing to do?" Johnny asked.

"In my mind, it is. I'm sure I'll have advisors and there will be plenty of squabbling. After all, it's a sizable amount of money we're talking about." He grinned at Johnny. "It's funny how casually I can think about giving away most of twenty million dollars. But it's not really mine, or I don't think of it that way. It's best this way."

Johnny took a sip of his brandy then absently swilled the amber liquid around the glass. "You shouldn't go all that way alone. You know somethin' always happens to you if I ain't there to keep an eye on you."

Scott pointed to the bruise and cut on his own head. "You're usually the reason I get into trouble, brother." He reached out to slap Johnny on the arm.

"Hey, I'm wounded! Be careful, will ya?"

"I'm going most of the way by rail and it'll be a sight easier than the trip I had coming out here. That stage travel!" Scott pulled a face. "Besides, I have someone going with me, so you don't have to worry."

Casting a suspicious look at Scott, Johnny asked, "Who?"

"Murdoch suggested I should take Juan. He can assist me and he'll enjoy the trip, I'm sure. I'd like the company, anyway." At the sight of Johnny's solemn face, Scott pointed out, "I'll be back in six weeks, if all goes according to plan. Then I won't be going back East again."

"When you get back, can we check out the railroad we own? You're gonna be keeping that, aren't you?"

Scott rubbed his chin with his fingers. "Hmmm. You mean the Scott & Murdoch Rail Line?"

Johnny sat up. "Heck, no! You're gonna call it the Lancer line, remember?" He caught on that Scott had been pulling his leg and he grinned.

Scott laughed aloud for the first time in days. "Oh, by the way, I found something I think is yours." Out of his pocket, he pulled a necklace, an oval silver pendant on a fine chain. He dangled it in front of Johnny, who reached out a hand to accept it.

Johnny turned it over in his palm. "Where'd you find this?"

"In the fountain out there." Scott motioned in the direction of the patio.

Johnny held the charm aloft then handed it back to a surprised-looking Scott.

"Why are you giving it back?" Scott asked.

Johnny considered him for a minute, then said, "'Cause it ain't mine."

"I thought you lost it in the struggle with-." Scott sat up straight and put his brandy snifter safely on the table. Johnny, when he looked at him, was straight-faced and Scott couldn't quite figure out if this was one of his brother's pranks.

"It's not mine," Johnny insisted. "I wear St. Christopher, but my medallion is up in my bedroom as far as I know. I haven't seen it since I got hurt. Look, this one's St. Andrew. He's a Scottish saint." He said, affronted, "I wouldn't get caught dead wearing one of them."

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Scott tracked down Jelly in the kitchen the next morning and proffered the small medallion to him. The ranch hand just looked at the necklace as it dangled from Scott's fingers, and for a minute, Scott was sure that the man would deny it was his.

Then Jelly laid claim to it. "Murdoch gave that to me for some kind protection." He brusquely shoved it into his pocket with a vague, mumbled explanation and sat down to the generous breakfast Maria laid out for him. "Darned if I know how that got away from me. The chain musta busted. Maria, pass me some syrup for these dough-daddies you call pancakes!"

Scott didn't explain where he'd found the necklace or even ask Jelly how it got in the fountain where Harlan Garrett's body had been discovered. At this point Scott only knew that more than one person in the Lancer household had had a hand in the death of his grandfather. He wasn't even sure that Johnny had really been out on the patio, or had rescued Teresa by struggling with Garrett and knifing the man with his own swordstick.

Scott wasn't certain he wanted to know the truth, whatever it was. He had been driven to pursue the men who had held Johnny for Harlan's first attempt at murder but now that the urge for revenge had passed away, he felt weary of it all.

Scott was leaving later that morning to travel back East by railway, so Maria packed him a hamper of food to take on the journey. "Jelly can take it out to the carriage when he's finished eating," said Scott. "I won't be going for another hour." He gave Maria a kiss on the cheek and a big hug, said good-bye to Jelly then went off to bid farewell to the rest of the family.

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Jelly put his fork down as soon as Scott left the kitchen. He peered over his shoulder at Maria and whispered, "Let's get it done now, afore some other galoot comes a-snoopin' around." Maria promptly left her cooking and pulled a sturdy chair over to the pantry. Jelly reached under the sink, where a checkered cloth hid the drainpipe, and pulled out a canister the size of a five-pound bag of flour. Furtively looking around to make sure there was nobody coming, he hustled over to where Maria was waiting.

She took the canister from Jelly, held the chair firmly for him to clamber upon, then handed it up to him. He placed the container high on the top shelf and moved a box of string in front of it. "That'll do for a bit," Jelly said. "I'll take it out to the barn where it belongs after things have cooled off a bit." He jumped to the floor and dusted his hands off on his pants.

"We must wash our hands," Maria pointed out. "The two of us."

"Darned right," Jelly replied as he worked the kitchen pump. He grinned at the faithful Lancer worker. "You know what, Señora?"

"Qué es?" She handed him the soap.

"I'm darned glad I'm not your enemy, that's for darned sure. If'n you don't mind me sayin' so Ma'am."

Maria just smiled sweetly.

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The whole family and most of the Lancer workers were out at the front of the hacienda to say farewell to Scott. Juan was being hugged by his father, Cipriano, as well as by his five sisters, his girlfriend and his mother. He was breathless by the time he escaped their embrace and seemed relieved to get up in the buckboard with the luggage.

Murdoch clasped his tall, blond son to his chest and gave him a hard hug. "Don't let them talk you into doing anything you don't want to do, son. Remember who's the boss."

Scott grinned. "You are, sir," he quipped. Teresa clung to his waist for a minute, her eyes bright with tears. He said softly, "Hey, no more crying. Promise?"

"There isn't any reason to cry, is there?" she asked. "You come home safe."

Johnny made it to the verandah under his own power, even if he had to concentrate on every step he took and sweated like he was laboring out in the fields.

"Johnny, by the time I return," Scott said, eying him, "you'll be back in shape, all ready to cause some new ruckus."

"Scott, if you don't walk through that door in exactly six weeks," Johnny said seriously, "I'm gonna come after you. You know that?"

With a laugh that held more than a hint of affection in it, Scott replied, "Brother, I would expect no less from you." Johnny held out a piece of folded paper, and Scott took it, opening it curiously. "What's this?"

"I drew you a map." Johnny pointed to the diagram and the scribbled words he'd sketched out that morning. "So you've got no excuse not to find your way home again."

Scott held the paper, seeing not only the names of his destination and several prominent cities and landmarks in between Boston and California, but a drawing of a castle-like structure right where Lancer was located. "You drew this, Johnny?"

Johnny shuffled his feet a bit. "Yeah. It ain't much good, but you get the point."

"It's just fine, Johnny." Scott carefully folded the paper again and tucked it in the breast pocket of his traveling suit. He patted his jacket, right where the map was safely stored. "I'll keep it on me at all times, and when I'm done with this business, I'll head right for this fortress." He gave Johnny a quick hug and mounted the buckboard. Calling good-bye, Juan took up the reins and they were off.

As they drove through the Lancer gate, Scott looked back to take a last look at his family standing in front of the hacienda, and he knew that this would always be his home, no matter where he went in the world. He raised a hand high in farewell and didn't take his eyes off them until he could see them no more.

The end

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An end note: My idea for this story began when I read the first of the following quotes. They all tie into the ideas and feelings I've tried to express in this Lancer tale, so I've added them here for you to read. Thank you for reading my fanfic.

When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.
~Antisthenes 5th c. B.C.

Justice is an unassailable fortress, built on the brow of a mountain which cannot be overthrown by the violence of torrents, nor demolished by the force of armies. ~Joseph Addison 1672-1719

A mighty fortress is our God
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper he amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.
~Martin Luther (1483–1546)

United wills make a fortress.
~Chinese proverb

The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose.
~Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634)

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Comments and feedback are always appreciated!