Chapter 3
A Man's Home …
Railroad Station, Boston, Massachusetts
"You stay put. I'll take a look around and see if Caroline and Jerry are here. Don't go away," Scott said.
He left his brother holding the valise and saddlebags, still gawking at the enormous train station.
"Hey, Scott, wait!" Johnny protested in sudden panic, but he'd already lost sight of his brother in the stampede of humanity.
He was used to the plains of the California-Mexico border and the broad flatlands of the San Joaquin Valley. He'd never seen so many people in one place at one time — not in San Francisco, not in any of the towns he'd passed through en route to Boston.
The train had reached the biggest of those cities, Chicago, in the middle of the night; and Johnny had not had any time to look around. He would later regret missing his chance to see the city before it was devastated by the great fire. At the moment, he was too nervous to remember where Chicago was.
With two trains arriving and one departing, the crowded Boston railroad station reminded Johnny of a corral crammed with a milling herd of horses. He backed against a pillar to avoid being trampled and waited nervously for Scott.
The youngest Lancer was aware his western garb was drawing stares from the passersby. He tried to ignore the attention, but one man wearing a three-piece, pinstripe suit and a dark derby hat approached. The stranger touched his hat politely.
"Excuse me, friend. I see you just came in on the train. Mind if I ask where you come from?" he said.
Johnny raised his eyebrows.
"Mind if I ask who's asking?" he replied, though truthfully, he didn't mind the distraction at all.
By way of answer, the stranger opened his coat and showed the badge pinned to his vest.
"Boston Constabulary," he said sternly. "You look like a man who knows how to handle a gun, and we have laws about that sort of thing here. Now you can answer a few questions now, or you can come along to the station and do it. Which will it be?"
"I'm not looking for any trouble, constable," Johnny said peaceably. "You can see I'm not wearing a gun."
"True, but you might have anything in that bag there," the constable said, reasonably. "And if you don't mind my saying so, you have the look of a man who's more than a little familiar with guns."
The callouses on Johnny's thumb and trigger finger, and the crease in his right pants leg where a holster was habitually tied down, were certain signs of trouble to the constable's eye. He was ready for almost any reaction, from protests of innocence to violent action; but he wasn't prepared for Johnny's sudden, engaging grin.
Johnny always appreciated professionalism. He could see all the good lawmen weren't located west of the Mississippi. This constable had to be good to single Johnny out of the milling crowd, to recognize the wolf-cautious watchfulness that was the hallmark of Johnny Madrid, gunfighter.
Johnny Lancer, rancher, was glad his brother had persuaded him to not wear his gun. He'd have hated to get into a ruckus with the constable.
When Johnny didn't answer, the constable pressed.
"You in town on business or pleasure?"
"Just visitin', constable. Just visitin'."
Johnny might have enjoyed himself if he hadn't felt out of his element in the cavernous Boston train station.
"Where are you going to be staying?" the constable asked.
Johnny was tempted to throw out the name of the prestigious Garrett family, just to see the man's response. But he was afraid the response would be to lock him up.
The younger Lancer was saved by the interruption of a familiar voice.
"Sergeant Wesley! Atten-shun!" the voice bawled as if on a parade ground. "Haven't you got anything better to do, mister, than harass innocent travelers?"
The constable spun around so fast that Scott had to grab his shoulders to keep him from falling over.
"Scott Lancer! By all that's holy!"
Wesley engulfed Scott in a bear hug that lifted the slender young man clear off his feet. Johnny leaned against his pillar and enjoyed the spectacle.
"Ah, Wes, it's good to see you again," Scott said, thumping his old friend on the back. "You said you sometimes had this detail, but I didn't really expect to run into you so soon."
"Scott! I can't believe it! It seems like ages since you went West. Listen, I heard about your grandfather. Is that why you're here?"
Worry shadowed Scott's face as he answered in the affirmative. Wesley hurried to erase it.
"But I heard he's doing much better. Bet he heard you were coming home and it perked him right up," he said playfully, punching Scott's chest.
Scott smiled at the sally, but the exuberant mood was broken. Seeing that, Johnny coughed loudly to remind everyone of his presence.
Scott put one arm around the shoulders of the burly constable.
"Johnny, this is Sgt. Jeremiah Wesley — don't ever call him Jeremiah — of the Boston Constabulary. He was my sergeant during the war and he helped keep a green lieutenant alive while he learned the ways of war. Wes, this is my brother, Johnny. He's been keeping a greenhorn Easterner alive long enough to learn the ways of the West."
The two men shook hands. Their eyes acknowledged the bond Scott had suggested.
"I'm pleased to meet you, constable," Johnny said with teasing politeness.
"Better make it 'Wes'," the constable said, somewhat absently. He appraised Johnny in the light of the letters Scott had written, a little surprised that this dark-haired, under-sized man with the charming smile was the big, bad gunfighter, Johnny Madrid. And yet there was something about Johnny that had set off the constable's internal trouble alarm. Scott hadn't been exaggerating, Wes realized.
Scott broke into the constable's reverie before Johnny could become nervous, or amused.
"My cousins are supposed to pick us up, but they aren't here yet, Wes. Do you have time for a beer, or are you on duty?"
"Well, the next train I'm supposed to meet isn't due for several hours, and t looks like I already checked out the only dangerous character on this one …"
Johnny laughed.
"… So I guess I can spare a few minutes to have a drink with an old friend," Wes finished.
"So you're Scott's brother," he said speculatively, as they walked toward the station's restaurant-saloon. "Guess I wasn't wrong when I said you were familiar with guns."
He sounded like a constable.
"Most people are where I come from," Johnny said, shrugging.
"That's all in Johnny's past, Wes," Scott said firmly. "He was a pretty wild colt, but Murdoch and I have got him gentled down now. Why he'll even lead, if you tug on the halter real easy. We haven't quite got him saddle broke, though."
He slapped his brother's shoulder. Johnny put on a mock serious expression.
"What do you call that — what you just said? That wasn't one of those smiley things, right?" Johnny asked Scott.
"No, you're right. It wasn't a simile," Scott said gravely, referring to their discussion on the train.
"'Cause a simile …" Johnny concentrated on getting the pronunciation right, "… That's where you use 'like' or 'as'."
"Right," Scott agreed. "But if you just talk about a person as if he was a fox or a wild horse, then that's called a metaphor."
Johnny was concentrating.
"So if I say 'Wes is eying me like a hound dog eyes a puma,' then that's a simile. But if I say 'Wes is sniffing suspiciously at my back-trail,' then that's a metaphor."
"Correct," Scott said, maintaining, with effort, a scholarly deadpan.
"All right, you two, I surrender," Wes said, laying Constable Wesley firmly aside, for the moment. "I know. You're both as innocent as babes in the woods."
"Simile!" crowed Scott and Johnny together.
##
In a corner of the crowded station saloon, the three men relaxed over cold beers.
When Johnny innocently asked how Scott and Wesley met, he set off a spate of war stories and "do you remembers." The two former soldiers left their beers practically untouched. Johnny just sat back, sipping his beer, learning more about the brother he'd only known for three years.
But Scott wouldn't allow his brother to be excluded from the conversation. Soon the two Yankees had Johnny comparing notes about the tactics he'd used when fighting with Juarez against the French.
Finally Wes protested he was only hearing stories he already knew the ends of; so the boys obliged with a few "war" stories from the West.
"Tell me about Lancer," Wes said.
The brothers both started to say something, then stopped simultaneously to let the other speak. They laughed, embarrassed.
"Come on, speak up," Wes prodded.
"Go ahead, Scott. You're the sweet talker," said Johnny, whose education had been sporadic at best.
"Wes, Lancer is …" Scott paused, seeking inspiration in his beer, then continued softly. "Lancer is big, Wes. Bigger than the whole of Boston. You can sit on South Mesa, and everywhere you look, everything you see, is Lancer. But it's more than land and horses and cattle. It's a dream. Our father's dream. He built it with his head and his hands and his heart — and now he's sharing it with us. It's …" He shook his head as words failed and looked to his brother for help.
"It's home," Johnny said with simple eloquence.
His chin resting on hands folded atop the table, Johnny spoke as if to himself.
"It's the only home I've ever known. Lancer means always having someone to back my play, even when, especially when, I get in over my head. Lancer means never being alone again."
Johnny looked suddenly embarrassed. He drained his glass to hide it, but when he put it down he found himself looking straight into his brother's eyes. Scott's clear gray eyes were full of understanding. Why Johnny had accompanied Scott was no longer a mystery.
Wes studiously looked elsewhere. Scott's eyes spoke more volubly than any of the reminiscences. They tore at battle-scarred wall that gunfighter Johnny Madrid had built around his feelings. Johnny had to look away, because it hurt to open himself up so wide. Then, bravely, he forced himself to look back, to say with his eyes the things he couldn't say aloud.
And Scott tipped Johnny's hat over his eyes.
He didn't need to rip down the wall in one painful moment. He already knew what lay behind it.
"We better get looking for those cousins of mine," Scott said.
Wes pulled out his pocket watch and winced.
"I'd better get back to work or I'll be a former constable," he said.
Wes shook hands with Scott.
"Will I see you again while you're here?" he asked.
"It depends on grandfather," Scott said somberly. "But I'll try, Wes."
"Do that, Scott. Another three years is too long to wait," Wes said, then bade Johnny good-bye as well.
Straining high to see over the crowd, Scott gave his brother a nudge and waved at the couple he'd spotted.
"Caroline! Gerald!" he shouted.
"Scott!" the woman caroled gaily, waving and dancing a little as she tried to see past the passersby.
Scott caught up his valise and pushed through the crowd, trailed by Johnny who had his saddlebags over his shoulder.
The woman ran to greet Scott who swung her high into the air in exuberance. The man with her was more restrained, but he gripped Scott's shoulder and wrung his hand when it was offered.
Johnny hung back a shy moment, using the time to study these people who might, through courtesy, be considered relatives of his.
The woman was a year or two older than Scott, about 28, Johnny guessed. She had a lithe, active figure and was quite beautiful. Her brown hair was curled in long ringlets that might have made her look like a young girl, but there were worry lines around her brown eyes that made her look more mature, but no less attractive. The shrewdness in her gaze when it passed over Johnny took her forever out of the "girl" category as far as he was concerned.
The man was very tall, as tall as Murdoch, with broad shoulders and big, heavy hands. He had a hard face marked with permanent lines of bitterness, but at the moment he looked relieved, as if he hadn't expected his cousin to make the trip safely.
In fact, both of them looked as much relieved as pleased to see Scott. Johnny could practically see tension oozing out of them as they greeted his brother, touching him as if to reassure themselves he was really there.
That's only natural, Johnny thought as he edged forward. It must have been worrying for them with Harlan so ill.
Johnny grinned to himself. And he'd bet the old buzzard was no easy patient. Harlan would be terrible, peevish, stubborn, argumentative. Why, those folks probably haven't had any rest for weeks, Johnny thought with amused sympathy.
"Caroline, Gerald, I'd like you to meet my brother, Johnny," Scott said. "Johnny, these are my cousins, Caroline and Gerald Garrett."
Johnny stepped forward, smiling genially, hand extended; then he froze as the atmosphere turned suddenly arctic.
Caroline and her husband exchanged a startled glance and hesitated, leaving Johnny with his hand awkwardly outstretched.
Damn! Scott cursed himself mentally for not mentioning Johnny's presence in his telegram, but he'd only had a few minutes to compose it. He should have thought ahead. He should have known it would be difficult, Scott told himself bitterly.
He saw the shutters fall in Johnny's eyes, not hot anger, just a blank, stoic acceptance that made Scott's blood burn in sympathy. Scott opened his mouth to say something, probably something he'd regret, but anything to break the tableau, when Caroline broke it for him.
"Oh!" she gasped, bringing up her hand to her mouth in a pretty gesture. "Oh, Johnny, I'm terribly sorry. You must think we're terribly rude …" With both hands, she grasped the hand Johnny was letting fall. "… but this is such a surprise! Scott's told us so much about you, but he didn't tell us you were coming." She directed a scolding look at Scott. "You naughty boy."
Scott relaxed a trifle while admitting his fault.
Caroline was laying it on a little thick, he judged, but at least she had Johnny smiling again, though only faintly. Scott wondered if Johnny was buying the act, and decided he wasn't. Johnny wouldn't expect Scott's "high-toned" relatives to love him at first sight. A little politeness would be enough. And Caroline was laying on the politeness with a shovel.
A manure shovel, Scott thought, hiding a grin. He wondered why she was so nervous. Probably his grandfather's illness, Scott judged. He loved his grandfather, but had no illusions about Harlan's temperament.
"Jerry, say 'hello' to Scott's brother," Caroline scolded. "Prove to him we really do have manners."
There was a bite in Caroline's words that made her husband flush. Hurriedly, awkwardly, he took the hand Johnny risked for a second time. Though he looked like a man with a firm grip, he barely touched Johnny's hand before dropping it again. Then he put his hand in his pocket as if to restrain himself from wiping it on his trousers.
Still, he mouthed all the correct welcoming phrases. He even managed to force his glum features into a semblance of a friendly smile, as he led the Lancers to a waiting carriage.
Caroline had apparently recovered from her first meeting jitters by the time the carriage was rolling through the Boston streets. She chatted with Johnny, pointed out the sights and generally dominated the conversation.
Even Gerald loosened up to make a few condescending remarks about the distinguished history and illustrious society of the Cradle of Liberty.
Johnny ignored the man's attitude. He plied the Boston couple with questions some of them naive but none of them stupid. He took a child's delight in seeing places he'd only heard about in infrequent school lessons.
Scott was content to leave the others to their sightseeing. The closer he got to the Garrett home, the quieter he got. Seeing again the city where he'd grown up brought out a strange jumble of emotions which he couldn't sort out. There was an echo of the powerful pleasure he'd felt upon returning from the war; but it was only an echo, because Boston wasn't his home any longer. Yet it had been his home most of his life, and he was fond of the city. Then worry about his grandfather mixed in, plus a touch of nervousness, after the trouble they'd had at the ranch. It was enough to make him nauseated.
When the matched team of hackneys clip-clopped over the cobblestones into the South Bay area, the rest of the carriage passengers fell silent, too.
Without the sights of the old town to inspire them, the Garretts couldn't maintain a conversation with Johnny. The Westerner hardly noticed. He was absorbing the sights of the South Bay with open-mouthed wonder. The crowded city with its tall buildings had given way to a residential district where graceful houses fronted on manicured lawns, where spring flowers sang a symphony of colors around park fountains whose dancing waters formed rainbows to match the flowers.
To the young man who'd lived his 25 years amidst the scrub and semi-desert of the arid southwest, the South Bay looked like a dream beyond dreaming.
The former gunfighter leaned across his brother to get a last look at a particularly spectacular garden. A slow, fond smile grew on Scott's face. The anxieties fluttering in his stomach died away.
"Well, what do you think, Johnny boy?" he asked softly.
"I'll tell you, Boston, I don't know how Murdoch got you to leave," Johnny said with a contented sigh. "It's … purty."
Scott leaned close to Johnny's ear. "But in January it's a muddy mess!"
Johnny burst out laughing, startling the Garretts who hadn't been able to hear the soft-spoken conversation. In the release of nervous tension, the paltry joke gave the Lancers a recurring fit of the giggles that lasted to the door of Harlan Garrett's home.