Chapter Fourteen
More bullets plowed through the back of the carriage, whizzing by him. Johnny felt the red hot pain creasing his right side. The coach teetered on two wheels again as it careened around another sharp turn, throwing him against the door. The impact of his weight was too much for the lock and the door swung open. Acold blast of rain whipped air shocked him as he was flung from the carriage, weightless for just a moment, before he slammed into the ground. His arm and chest exploded in pain before his head hit the ground and he knew no more.
Sam cursed silently as he read the note Johnny had left behind. The boy was in no condition to be off on his own. He had already overdone it as it was today. And this note smelled of a trap. Grabbing his coat, he headed down to the lobby.
"I am not in the habit of reading 'guest's' messages," the desk clerk said a little too indignantly, the word guest said a little too loudly.
Sam leaned forward and whispered, "You may not know my name here in Boston, but they do in San Francisco. It's Dr. Samuel Jenkins. And some of my patients travel several times a year to Boston and New York. In fact they recommended this hotel very highly. I guess they will be surprised to find that the son of one of the largest cattle ranchers in the San Joaquin Valley was treated so abysmally just because his skin was a little darker than yours."
Sam enjoyed the play of emotions crossing the clerk's face. "I'm sorry, Sir, I mean Dr. Jenkins."
Sam leaned over the counter a little further. "Now, who delivered the note?"
"One of the boys who used to work at the Garrett house before Mr. Garrett had his accident."
"Do you know where I can find this boy if I need to talk to him?"
"On the street somewhere, I suspect. At least that's the way he looked. Most of the 'Good' homes in Boston have afull, loyal staff. There is hardly ever a need for extra help. If the boy didn't have family or friends to take him in then…"
Sam had heard all he could stand. "If Johnny returns before I get back, tell him to stay put."
"Yes, Sir. I will do that."
Sam nodded and turned toward the door. Even in the lobby he could hear the rain pelting the buildings outside. If Johnny was out in that his cast would be ruined. His arm had not been stabilized long enough to go without the cast. Why couldn't the boy wait?
Once outside, he hailed a cab and ordered the driver to head toward The Long Wharf. It wasn't long before he saw the old dilapidated warehouses and beyond them ships anchored at the pier. Where was Johnny? Had he met the person who sent the message? Had he learned any answers to the puzzle?
The driver slowed to a stop. "Where to now, Mister?"
Sam squinted, trying to see through the sheet of rain. "I was to meet a friend here, but I don't see him."
"That's no surprise. The constables cleared this whole dock out an hour ago. Some lady got shot in the back. Bullet went clean through her carriage. They're looking for a man who was seen running from the carriage after she was shot. Riff raff down here, nothing butriff raff."
Sam felt a chill run down his spine. "Who was the lady? Not the best place for a lady to be."
"You telling me? She must have been daft being down here."
"Does anyone know who she is?"
"Sure. One of the constables recognized her right away. She used to work as the head cook at Harlan Garrett's house until he died and the staff was dismissed."
Sam sighed. Now what,Johnny?
Scott vacillated between anger and heart numbing despair. In a matter of moments he had lost two of the most important people in his life - his father and his grandfather.
He pulled his horse to a slower trot. He didn't want to get to town too fast. There was nothing there for him but a lonely hotel room and his thoughts.
He tried to make sense of it all. His grandfather dead for two months; his own identity stolen. Who would have done this? Who was behind this conspiracy to destroy everything he had worked so hard for here at Lancer? If Harlan Garrett were not dead, then Scott would have no qualms about laying the blame right at his grandfather's feet. It was the type of psychological warfare the old man used in his business dealings. Hit hard and hit fast, his grandfather always said. Get them off balance, keep them off balance. Make them question every move they made. Make them afraid to make a decision. Then strike. Harlan Garrett had toppled companies like they were dominos.
Had he now toppled Murdoch Lancer's world? What if Murdoch was the target and he and Johnny were just collateral damage?
Scott reached Green River just as dusk overtook the town. Stores were closing and lamps were lit inside homes. The smell of food cooking drifted on the smoke from stovepipes. He headed for the saloon for a room and a drink, maybe two. It felt funny walking through the swinging doors without Johnny by his side. They had made it a Saturday night ritual to ride into town to play poker and drink. Johnny's preference was tequila. Scott had yet to acquire a taste for the stuff. He still preferred whiskey. Though at times it was questionable if what they served in the saloon was really whiskey
He paid for his room and dropped his saddles bags and valise on the sagging, but clean bed, before returning to the saloon for something to eat and drink. He automatically headed for a back table, realizing that he had adopted Johnny's habit of always sitting with his back to the wall. He couldn't imagine living a life where he could never let his guard down, knowing that the next man through the door could be the man who was just a split second faster.
The bartender appeared at his table with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"I'm guessing Johnny will be along any minute. I ran out of tequila a few days ago and a new shipment won't be here for another week."
Scott pushed one glass back toward the bartender and filled the one sitting in front of him. "Johnny's out of town for a few weeks. You'll have plenty of time to get the shipment in."
The bartender sighed with relief. "Good. I like to take special care of my good customers. I can always count on you and Johnny to treat the ladies right. Wish there were more like you boys around."
Scott threw back the whiskey and felt it burn down his throat and land with a thud in his stomach. He had not eaten since breakfast and drinking on an empty stomach was not a good idea. But the bartender's words had hit hard. The life he had here was no longer his. The weekends playing poker with Johnny were in the past. Boardroom meetings and stuffy Men's Clubs would be his form of entertainment. He hadn't known until he came here just how much he detested that life.
He had been truly happy here. After the initial settling in, finding a common ground with both Murdoch and Johnny, he had been happier than he could ever remember. At last he was part of a family, not just a member of a family.
He poured another drink and threw it back. Damn it. Murdoch's sudden attack had hurt more than a gang beating in some back alley. It was so sudden. He had known there was something wrong. And now he could see all the signs: Murdoch's sudden coldness, his abrupt temper. If only his father had said something.
And what about Johnny? Scott threw back another drink, the whiskey going down easier with each pass. He suspected Johnny hadn't known about it for long. His brother had seemed as confused as he was. Then why didn't he wait? Damn it, when would his brother learn that he didn't have to protect him from all the hurts in the world?
Exactly what did Johnny know that he didn't? The two telegrams Murdoch had bushwhacked him with had very little information. It must have been damning if he traveled all the way to Boston. The sudden realization that it was Johnny who discovered that his grandfather had died sent a shiver down his spine. Whatever conspiracy was afoot, Johnny may have landed right in the middle of it.
Damn it to hell! He should have been on that train with Johnny, not Sam. He should have known about Grandfather's death weeks ago. Murdoch should have come to him and confronted him with the facts, the facts he was fed so easily. He grabbed the bottle and poured another drink, throwing it back. Damn, he shouldn't be sitting in a saloon alone drinking cheap whiskey. He should be home, his home, with his father and his brother. Scott suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. That was never to be again. The good days at Lancer were in the past now. The good times…
"Not like you to drink alone."
Scott looked up, surprised to see Val pulling out a chair and sitting down.
"Sheriff. Shouldn't you be out checking the town for ne'er–do–wells?" he asked sarcastically.
Val either didn't notice the sarcasm or he ignored it. "Ne'er do who's?" Val slipped his hat off and tossed it on the empty table next to them. "No wonder Johnny complains about you using them fancy back east words."
"Well, he won't be complaining anymore." Scott raised his empty glass for the bartender to see. "Another glass for the sheriff, it appears he's staying awhile."
Val scratched at his whiskered chin. "What's got your tail all in a knot? That brother of yours taking off for Chicago? Never thought Johnny would make it past the Mississippi. Hates traveling ya know."
"Of course I know," Scott snapped. "Only he isn't in Chicago. He and Sam are in Boston." Scott heard the bitterness in his voice and wished he could take the words back. He wasn't madat Johnny. He was hurt that he was left in the dark.
"What the hell are they doin' in Boston. And without you?"
Scott grabbed the bottle and poured Val a glass before turning the bottle to refill his glass.
"I'd go easy on that stuff, Scott. Before ya know it, it'll turn around and bite ya in the ass."
Scott just snorted and grinned. "Salute"
"Look, Scott, I know it ain't none of my business," Val ventured. "But what the hell is going on back at Lancer? I saw Johnny a couple a times after he was hurt and he seemed fine…not that being hurt is fine, you know what I mean. But Murdoch…now I know he don't like me all that much, but he was down right rude. He nearly took my head off, for nothing."
Scott nodded. Everyone seemed to get a taste of Murdoch's temper. Except Johnny. He still felt too guilty over Johnny's accident to show his temper around his youngest son. Scottsat forward, his elbows on the table. "It seems that trust is a high commodity and Murdoch is too cheap to pay the price."
"Sounds like you and the old man had a falling out. Anything to do with Johnny going to Boston?"
"That's none of your business, Sheriff."
Val shrugged. "I saw ya come in here with your saddle bags. You planning on going somewhere -like Bostonmaybe?"
Scott felt the floor lurch beneath him and knew that last glass of whiskey had gone straight to his head. "Not that it's any business of yours. But yes. I'm taking the stage to Sacramento in the morning then catching the train."
"Good idea. I can just see ole Johnny trying to fit in with them proper eastern folk. I'd pay anything to be a fly on the wall listening to him trying ta talk to your granddaddy."
"That would be rather hard,"Scott suddenly vented, exasperated with Val now. "Seeing that my grandfather has been dead for two months."
Val's mouth dropped open. "Sorry, Scott. I didn't know."
"Neither did I." Scott noticed he had begun slurring his words. This was not like him.
"Excuse me, Gentlemen." Arnie Haskell wove his way through the tables in the now crowded saloon. When had that happened, Scott wondered. He had been so wrapped up in his own miserable world that he hadn't noticed the time go by. "Mr. Lancer."
Arnie handed Scott a telegram. "This just came for your father. I was going to have my boy ride out to Lancer with it. But I hate sending the young'n all that way in the dark. Then Mary Evens said she saw you come in here. Maybe you could give it to him when you go home tonight. I'd be much obliged."
Arnie was gone before Scott could answer.
Scott took the note and opened it. To his surprise, he couldn't stop the letters from shifting.
Scott reluctantly handed the telegram to Val. "Would you mind?" he asked. "I seem to be a bit inebriated."
"Yer what?"
"Drunk," Scott slurred. "I'm drunk."
Val grinned. "You sure are."
Scott watched as two Val's opened the telegram and frowned at the message. "It don't make much sense," he said. "It's from Sam. Says…'We have proof. Scott is Scott.' That's all it says."
"It's enough." Scott swayed to his feet, holding on to the table for support. How could a few glasses of whiskey render him so incapacitated? But he was still cognizant enough to know that Murdoch needed to see that telegram as soon as possible. He only wished he had the time to deliver the message himself. To see his father's reaction when he realized what he had, so carelessly, thrown away.
"Val." Scott grabbed Val's sleeve. "Murdoch needs to see this tonight. Can you get it to him?"
Val nodded. "I'll ride out as soon as I get you up to your room."
Scott looked at the almost empty bottle of whisky and knew he would regret it in the morning. He let Val guide him up the stairs and into his room before collapsing on the bed, fully clothed. If Johnny ever found out about this…
Val made his way back downstairs. It was still a mystery what was going on with the Lancers. Johnny's trip to Boston was the biggest mystery of all. Maybe he'd get some answers from Murdoch when he delivered the telegram.
The sound of gunshots down near the livery suddenly grabbed Val's attention. He slipped the telegram into his pocket and drew his gun. It was not going to be the quiet night he had hoped for.
Scott woke with a pounding headache and a mouth that felt like it was filled with cotton. The bright sun streaming in the window hurt his eyes and he rolled over with a groan. Why did he think he could drown his troubles in whiskey? He knew better. Now he would spend half the day on a stagecoach and the rest on a train with a hangover.
Sighing heavily, he crawled out of bed and washed his face with water from a basin that sat on a washstand near the door. The water revived him somewhat and he quickly changed his clothes and went downstairs for a cup of hot coffee. He wanted to see Arthur before the stage came. Not only to take his name off the Lancer deed, but to ask questions. As Murdoch's lawyer he hoped Arthur could make some sense of it all.
The coffee was surprisingly good and helped the headache some, but only time would take care of his roiling stomach.
It was later than he thought as he headed across the street to Arthur's office, hoping the lawyer was in this morning. He knew he should have stayed and asked Murdoch more questions. But he was so angry and hurt he could not have spent another moment in that house. It was hard to reconcile with the thought that he would never be returning.
He opened the door, with its small plaque with the name and title Arthur Bell: Lawyer, written in gold lettering. The reception room was small with two chairs sitting on either side of a window. Agnes Stine sat behind her desk, watching as Scott walked in. She looked startled at first, then nervously smiled and looked back down at the file she was writing in. "Mr. Lancer. I didn't expect you this morning. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Bell?"
"No. But I'm sure he'll see me."
Mrs. Stine looked up, her thin lips drooping at the corners. "Mr. Bell is a very busy man. He only sees clients when they have an appointment. I could make one for you…" She pulled a calendar toward her and made a show of looking from page to page… "Say next Tuesday…"
"I'll see him now," Scott said, the softness in his voice more alarming than if he had shouted. Without another word he walked past Mrs. Stine and opened the door into Arthur Bell's office.
While the outer reception room was small, Arthur Bell's office was large and well furnished with a highly expensive maple wood desk. Paintings and diplomas hung from the walls.
"Scott!" Arthur jumped to his feet. "What…what are you doing here?"
Scott strolled over to a chair facing the desk and slowly sat down. One of the best moments in his life had happened here when he and Johnny had signedtheir names to the Lancer deed. Now he was having it removed.
Scott cleared his throat. "I had a talk with Murdoch yesterday," Scott said. "He told me some surprising things. Like I am not who I think I am."
Arthur turned red first then a ghastly white. "I…I only passed on the information the Pinkerton Agency sent me. I have been Murdoch's lawyer for years, and a good friend for longer. What would you have me do?"
"Made sure the information was correct before you passed it on. A letter to the Pinkerton Agency."
Scott watched Arthur open a drawer in his desk, his hand shaking as he placed a file on top of the desk.
"I did write them. And sent them telegrams and also sent telegrams to your…ah…to Mr. Garrett. The telegrams from the Pinkerton Agency confirmed that their information was correct. I never got a response from Mr. Garrett."
Scott sat forward. "I don't know what is going on here. Or who is behind this. I am Scott Garrett Lancer. Murdoch Lancer is my father and Johnny Lancer is my brother. Nothing the Pinkerton Agency says can change that. If someone had come to me, had asked me…but no…"
"Murdoch didn't want to believe it. But in face of all the evidence…"
"What evidence?"
"Here." Arthur turned the file around so Scott could read along. "There were witnesses who saw you boarding the Cimbria merchant ship for England, a week before the Pinkertons delivered Murdoch's invitation to come out west to Lancer."
Scott's heart skipped a beat. "Someone made a mistake. Thought they saw me."
Arthur shook his head. "The Pinkertons found your name on the ship's passenger list. Someone by the name of Scott Lancer boarded that ship."
"Who would create such an elaborate ruse? I had made plans to sail toEngland then onto France, but that was before I received Murdoch's invitation. It was a hard invitation to ignore."
"When we couldn't get an answer from your grandfather..."
Scott stood up suddenly;the enormity of the subterfuge involved in discrediting him was mind boggling. Someone had planned this out very carefully.
"You didn't hear from my grandfather because he's been dead for two months."
"What?"
"He's been dead for two months and no one informed me. I don't know what is going on back east, only that Johnny and Sam are there. And…" he slapped the file closed. "They have proof that I am who I say I am."
"That's wonderful, Scott. Have you told your father?"
Scott shook his head. "I'm waiting for the stage to Sacramento then I'm going on to Boston by train. I didn't have time. But I gave the telegram to Val and he said he'd get it to Murdoch last night. To tell you the truth, I expected to see him here this morning."
Arthur raised his head and Scott knew he had heard the approaching stage. "There are a lot of reasons that could explain why your father didn't make it in time."
Scott snorted. "Name one."
Arthur obviously couldn't come up with an answer and Scott stood up. "When you see him tell him that I'm sorry things worked out the way they did. We had a real chance to become a family."
Arthur reached out and laid a gentle hand on Scott's arm. "Scott, don't judge your father too harshly. I had a hand in making him doubt your identity. He tried his best to wait until he had proof. He didn't want to believe he had been deceived. There was just so much evidence. Please, take that into consideration when you have solved this mystery. Murdoch waited a long time for you and Johnny to return. To lose you now would kill him."
"Some things can't be reversed, no matter how much you want them to be."
"Just try to keep an open mind, and an open heart."
"It's too late for that. I've made my decision. I want my name taken off the deed. I don't belong here. I should have known. I never did."
"But Scott, you have proof now."
"I would rather have had Murdoch's trust thansomeone else's proof. He should have stood by me."
"Take time to think…"
Scott walked toward the door. "Get the papers ready and send them to me in Boston. I'll give them to my attorney there. It was nice knowing you, Arthur. I'll send a telegram when I reach Boston."
"Be careful," Arthur cautioned. "Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to erase your identity, don't let them erase you."
Scott closed the door behind him and passed Mrs. Stine without a word. He was just able to collect his saddle bags and traveling bag from the hotel in time to board the stage. So many things were happening at once. He just hoped Johnny was safe in Boston.
Arthur Bell left his office soon after the stage departed. He couldn't help but believe Scott Lancer. There were too many things that just didn't add up. And he had pushed Murdoch into believing that Scott was indeed an imposter. He only hoped that one day Murdoch and his two sons would reunite so he could tell them how sorry he was.
For now there was nothing he could do. He spotted the sheriff coming out of his office. Even from across the street he could see the bruising on Val Crawford's face. He didn't live in town so he never knew what went on during the night.
"Sheriff," he called.
When Val heard his name called he reluctantly crossed the street. As the sheriff got closer, Arthur could see one eye swollen and a split lip.
"Rough night?" Arthur asked.
Val grinned. "You might have a client or two in my jail."
Arthur chuckled. "Just let me know. Tell me, how did Murdoch take the news? I would have thought he would be in town at first light this morning."
"What news?"
"The telegram Scott asked you to give Murdoch."
Val suddenly tapped his shirt pocket and Andrew knew immediately what had happened. When would luck be on the Lancer's side?