Chapter Twenty Six
Murdoch's heart stopped beating. The silence that followed the gunshot was deafening. Dear God, what had he done? How different would it have been if he had trusted Scott, if he had known in his heart that Scott was his boy and disregarded the Pinkerton's report? But in the deepest part of his soul he had known the truth. That is where he had failed as a man…as a father.
He saw Latchford recover then raise his derringer, aiming it at Scott's head. "I had hoped to have more time to spend with you, Scotty. I know you never liked me much, Evan either. In many ways, you were a better judge of character than old Harlan."
Murdoch saw Latchford's finger tighten on the trigger. He would not let his son die. With a Herculean effort, born of fear and the love for his son, he drove every ounce of strength into his legs and lunged forward. Latchford turned in his direction and he felt the searing pain of a bullet slam into his chest. Dear God, he had made so many mistakes…but this…this last act was not one of them.
Scott saw the wisp of smoke rise from the derringer, smelled the cordite mixed with the stronger smoke from the hallway. Latchford stood motionless, the gun still aimed at Murdoch. The chair lay on its side, his father still tied to it. A swatch of blood appeared on Murdoch's chest.
Scott pushed past the shock, choked back the hot bile rising in his throat. Murdoch had made the ultimate sacrifice to give him a minute more time. He had to use it. He had to make his father's last act mean something.
Latchford was rattled. Scott was pretty sure the man had never seen anyone die, and certainly never at his own hands. "How does it feel?" Scott asked, his voice hiding the painful loss. He looked toward Murdoch. Whatever had happened between him and his father, whatever had torn them apart, was banished to a far corner of his mind. He looked back at Latchford, his voice cold and steady. "To watch a man die at your hands. It makes you sick to your stomach, doesn't it?"
"Shut up!" Latchford yelled.
"Doesn't feel so bad when you hire someone to do your dirty work. But it's another thing when you have to pull the trigger yourself. When you have a man's blood on your hands."
Latchford spun around, his derringer pointed at Scott. "I said shut up!"
"It's all falling apart, isn't it? You think that gunshot out there was one of your men getting Johnny? You don't know Johnny. You turn your nose up at him because he was a gunslinger, but you forgot he was the best. Johnny Madrid. You think your men can take out Johnny Madrid?"
Scott saw the hesitation in Latchford's eyes.
Johnny crawled awkwardly down the smoke - filled hallway, the heavy cast on his left arm dragging noisily across the hardwood floor. Jessup was dead. But that still left Walt and the fourth man who was undoubtedly guarding the outside of the mansion. He had to get back to the parlor. He had heard enough, lying there on the parlor floor, to know that both Scott and Murdoch had been set up.
Anger and fear that he could lose his family kept him going when pain and fatigue tried to overwhelm him. He had always been a fighter, had always found a way to survive. This was different. It wasn't just his life that was in danger, it was Scott and Murdoch and Sam, the people who meant the most to him in his life. Johnny would not return to the lonely existence he had endured for most of his life. He had tasted happiness and he wasn't about to give it up without one hell of a fight. He kept low to the ground where the smoke was the thinnest. His ribs grated against each other with every move he made. The smoke irritated his lungs and he began hacking. Dios, Latchford was going to pay for this. And Walt, damn him, he was the cause of the searing pain in his back.
He froze at the sound of a floorboard creaking somewhere ahead of him. He pulled himself into a sitting position,his legs folded against his chest, his back pressed against a closed door. He watched as the smoke billowed around a figure walking cautiously down the hall. There was just enough hazy light shining through the beveled glass front door, illuminating figure in the smoke, for Johnny to recognize Walt. He lifted Jessup's gun. The sound of the cylinder slowly turning as he cocked the gun made Walt freeze. Squeezing the trigger, Johnny heard a startled gasp, then Walt corkscrewed to the floor. Johnny closed his eyes against the pain, tears running down his cheeks from the smoke. Two down. Now there was just Latchford and the man on the outside.
He let his gun hand fall to the floor. He was nearing that wall of exhaustion when a man either broke through or lost the fight. It seemed he had been standing in front of that wall since the afternoon by the creek. It hadn't been an accident, nothing that had happened since that afternoon had been an accident or a turn of fate. It had been planned and executed like a game of chess. Scott was the king and everyone else around him were just expendable pawns.
Walt lay a few feet from him. The same light that had made him a target now caught the slow, ever widening pool of blood staining the floor. Johnny tried to close his mind to the sight, to the smell. His life as Johnny Madrid was supposed to be in the past. But Madrid was the only one who could save them. Suddenly he heard the front door open. He raised his gun and cocked the hammer, then eased it back down. It was most likely the fourth gunman, but what if it wasn't? What if it was someone off the street checking the house because of the smoke? He couldn't take the chance of killing an innocent man. Reaching blindly above him, his ribs screaming as he stretched his arm high above his head, he searched for the door handle then turned it. He fell backwards into the room with a loud groan. For a moment, the room was smoke free and he took a deep breath of fresh air, despite his ribs. The air cleared his head and he spun on his butt, lying flat on his back, sticking his head into the hallway just enough to see a short, heavyset man fan the smoke from his face as he walked in. Dressed in a dark brown suit, he carried a walking stick which he didn't seem to need. Johnny decided this must be Evan Moore.
"Good God!" the man exclaimed as he tripped over one of Walt's splayed out legs. Johnny watched the man pull a derringer from a hidden holster beneath his expensive suit and head for the parlor. Johnny hurriedly took count. He had Jessup's Colt. Walt's gun was still nestled in his dead fingers. Johnny's own gun was wedged behind Walt's belt. Latchford had Zachary's derringer and his own. Now they had Moore's derringer. A derringer was no match against a Colt. But a bullet was a bullet and would kill him just as dead as a bullet from a six gun. He had to find another diversion, one that would distract Latchford and Moore long enough for him to get back into the parlor. A plan came to mind and he crawled over to Walt, pulledthe gun from the man's hand, and stuffedit in his belt before grabbing his own Colt. Climbing to his feet, he stumbled toward Garrett's office, knowing he had very little time left before his body could handle no more.
Scott stared into the barrel of the derringer. Had he pushed Latchford too far? He looked toward Murdoch and felt a numbing loss in his stomach. No matter what had happened, he knew now that his father loved him. Looking beyond Murdoch, he saw Sam looking wide eyed at him. Why had they come here? Why had they let Johnny come here? In the end, they might all die. And for what? The answer was simple. For love.
The parlor door burst open and he recognized Evan Moore as he stepped into the room, derringer in hand.
"What the hell is going on here?" Moore demanded. "There's a dead man in the hall and where the hell is all this smoke coming from?"
Latchford spun on Moore. "Who's dead?"
"How the hell do I know? The hallway is full of smoke. I think he was blond. Couldn't tell for sure. Where's the fire?"
Scott forced himself not to react. But it sounded like Walt had met Johnny Madrid.
"I don't know. And I don't care." Latchford looked back toward Scott and a smile crawled across his face. "Besides, it will take care of our problems here. Is Scott Garrett Lancer officially dead?"
When no answer came immediately, Scott saw the smile flicker and die, and Latchford looked back at Moore.
"The death certificate wasn't in Garrett's office. What did you do with it?" Moore demanded.
"I left it in the file on the desk. Are you sure you didn't just overlook it?"
"If you're talking about the file on Harlan and Scott, it's gone."
Latchford swung back and charged toward Scott. "You have it!" he yelled, backhanding Scott. "Where is it?"
Scott tasted blood and his cheek pounded, but he forced himself not to let it show. "Your plans falling apart?" he asked, ridicule riding each word. "Johnny's out there. Walt's dead. Jessup is probably dead too. You and Evan will be next."
"Your brother is hurt. Walt saw to that."
Scott shrugged. "You think that will stop Johnny Madrid? Who do you think started that fire?"
"It doesn't matter. You and your doctor friend will be just as dead." There was an ill concealed desperation in Latchford's demeanor. Something more than the threat of Johnny Madrid.
"Why do you need the certificate if my grandfather wrote me out of his will?" Scott asked, the truth suddenly dawning on him. "He didn't write me out of the will, did he? No matter how mad or disappointed he was, he wouldn't do that. He would, however, make it so my father and brother couldn't inherit in the case of my death. You take over only if I am legally dead."
Latchford was silent.
"You can't prove I'm dead without that certificate. You need it. If you shoot me there will be questions. If I die here in the fire, then there will be no proof of my death. Either way, you lose, Latchford. Until you can prove I'm dead, I inherit Garrett Enterprises. You can carry on the business but you will still own only fifteen percent each."
Latchford turned the derringer toward Sam. "I'll kill him right now if you don't tell me where that death certificate is."
Scott looked at Sam and saw the old man's eyes flash in defiance. "You will kill him anyway." If Johnny was too hurt to help, or Jessup had found him, there was nothing he could do to stop the slaughter. Sam knew it.
"You want his blood on your hands?" Moore asked, for the first time addressing Scott.
"It won't be on my hands. You and your partner are the killers."
Moore pushed Latchford out of the way, aiming his gun at Scott, his anger turning his pudgy face red. "I'll shoot one kneecap and then the other if you don't tell us where that certificate is."
"Then as soon as you have what you want I'm dead anyway."
Moore cocked the gun and Scott steeled himself for the pain. But there was not just one gunshot. There were a dozen or more coming from down the hall. Scott struggled at the cord that bound his wrists but couldn't loosen it. More smoke billowed into the room from the hallway. Latchford whirled around to look at the door as it flew open.
Johnny ran as fast as he could down the hallway to Garrett's office, squinting in the thick smoke still billowing from the fireplace. He could barely see Jessup's body lying on the floor. He grabbed the letter opener off Garrett's desk, thinking for one silly moment that he should start carrying it instead of his knife, and then the empty throw pillow he had pulled the feathers from and quickly ripped the casing into ten ragged squares. The cast was a burden he didn't need right now, but he didn't have time to try to cut it off. He quickly emptied all the bullets from Jessup and Walt's guns. Awkwardly, he wrapped two bullets into each square of pillow casing and carefully placed each packet into the fire then added more kindling atop them. He hoped the extra time it would take for the fire to eat through the cloth would give him time to get back to the parlor. Throwing Jessup's useless gun away, he grabbed his own gun that he had stowed behind his belt. Checking, he found five rounds left.
Hacking from the smoke and holdinghis arm around his chest to cushion his ribs, he made his way out of the room, careful not to trip over Jessup's body. He had to get back to the parlor before all hell broke loose.
The first two bullets exploded just as he reached the door. He kicked it open as more bullets exploded. He saw Moore with his derringer pointed at Scott's knee then whirlaround at the sound of the door opening. Johnny fired once and Moore dropped the gun, falling to his knees andcrying out as he held his right hand.
He aimed his gun at Latchford and ordered, "Drop your gun."
The gun dropped to the floor just as Scott yelled out. "Johnny! Behind you!"
Johnny spun around. The fourth gunman was raising his gun to fire. Johnny shot first and the man died instantly with a bullet to the heart. Johnny turned back to Latchford. When he saw Murdoch slumped in his seat, with the stain of blood on his shirt, he nearly pumped the rest of his bullets into Latchford. Damn him to hell! He forced himself to pull his eyes away from his father and look toward Scott. He saw the fear and anger in his brother's eyes. "Untie them all," he ordered Latchford. The man could barely walk,his legs were shaking so badly. One by one the men were untied. First Weatherly, then Sam. Sam shook his hands to get the circulation back in his fingers then knelt in front of Murdoch. He quickly checked for a pulse.
"He's alive," Sam sighed with relief. "We need to get him untied quickly."
Latchford freed Scott, the venom in his eyes searing a hole in Scott's back. Scott reached the chair his father was tied to. With Weatherly's help, they untied Murdoch and then laid him on his back.
"I need clean towels and warm water." Sam was already ripping Murdoch's shirt open.
Johnny felt his world tilt for a moment, then regained his balance. He needed a place to lie down. But not in here, not when his father needed all the help Sam and Scott could offer him. He turned to leave when he felt a hand on his right arm. Scott was by his side, leading him toward a sofa.
"I'm all right, take care of Murdoch," Johnny growled, trying to whip his arm free. The movement seared through his chest and Scott's arms were around him, guiding him to the sofa.
"You stay quiet so Sam can work on Murdoch. You hear me?"
Johnny nodded through a haze as thick as the smoke in the hallway. He lay back against the soft cushions of the sofa and watched the room through eyelids that were only at half mast. He heard Sam call out orders to get his medical bag from his room upstairs and collect as many candles and lampsas they could find. Latchford asked if he could tend to Moore's hand and Scott had nodded his head. Johnny would have let him bleed for everything he had put Scott and his family through.
Sounds ebbed and flowed like the tide. Johnny closed his eyes against the grating pain in his chest. Each inhalation brought more pain, and the hacking cough was nearly more than he could take now. But he wouldn't let himself slide into the black painless sanctuary of unconsciousness. Until Sam said Murdoch would make it, he couldn't let himself slip away.
Scott glanced over at Johnny. The pain and exhaustion was obvious on his brother's face. But he couldn't leave Murdoch yet. Why? After everything his father had done, after the things he had said. After the trust had been broken…why was he still huddled over the man, praying that he wouldn't die? The answer was simple: if Murdoch died, a large part of his heart would go with him. Despite everything, Murdoch loved him. He was willing to give his life up for his son. Would his grandfather have done the same?
Finally Sam stitched the wound in Murdoch's chest closed and applied a bandage. "He was a lucky man. The bullet missed his heart by just a few inches. He lost a lot of blood, but he's as stubborn as an ox. I'm sure he's going to live to holler at both of his sons again."
Scott helped Sam to his feet. Sam turned to Weatherly. "I'll need more medical supplies from the apothecary, and a nurse to help tend to Murdoch. Would you see to it after we have moved him upstairs to his room?"
There was a strange sadness to Weatherly's face. Scott felt his blood run cold in his veins.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. I can't do that."
"Weatherly?" Scott felt like the floor had sunk beneath him.
The old servant backed up toward the liquor cabinet and opened a drawer, pulling out a Colt. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Scott. Please join your brother on the sofa. You too, Dr. Jenkins."
Scott saw Latchford slowly stand up from his peripheral view, his hands coated with Moore's blood.
He obeyed the order, sitting down next to Johnny. Johnny's eyes were nearly closed, his breathing labored, but he saw what no one else saw, the almost imperceptible nod of his brother's head. Johnny was fully aware of everything that was happening in the room.
Sam joined them, sitting on the other side of Johnny.
"I don't understand," Scott said, his voice cracking from the last, the ultimate betrayal. Weatherly was like a father to him. He was the one who took him out to play in the snow when he was young, taught him to ride, showed him that there was more to life than business ledgers and teachers who knew nothing about the world outside their textbooks. He was the one who kept a spark of life in the Garrett mansion. Weatherly and Heddy. They were the ones who raised him, who made him the man he was today.
Tears formed in Weatherly's eyes. "Your grandfather left me with nothing. After thirty-five years of service, he didn't leave me a penny. What was I supposed to do? I am too old for another household to take me on. I have no money saved. Mr. Garrett always promised me that I would live out my last years in comfort. He lied. He left me with nothing."
"And you trust these two?"
"It was never supposed to go this far. You were to stay out west with your father. Your brother was never supposed to come here. Dr. Jenkins…I hated lying to him. But I was left with no choice. Harlan Garrett left me with nothing."
Scott shook his head sadly. "He didn't take your pride and honor, Weatherly. You gave that away yourself when you decided to work for Latchford and Moore.