Chapter 5
The Old Hometown
A quiet day and an early night left the Lancer boys ready for their day on the town. Used to a different tempo of life, the ranchers were up before the rest of the household. A prolonged raid on the pantry still allowed them to leave the house at the first light of dawn. Birds were beginning to chirp sleepily as Scott led Johnny along the manicured path to the stable.
At the stable they got their first hint that they weren't the only people awake in the city. From a pool of lantern light, which had yet to be absorbed by the light of day, the wiry stableman rose to greet them.
The New Englander didn't match Johnny's meager inches but had forearms thick with ropes of muscle. He removed a clay pipe from his mouth. With the care of someone who spent his life in a world of dry straw, he extinguished the pipe and disposed of the ashes.
"Mr. Lancer," he greeted Scott laconically, as if Scott had been gone for three days instead of three years. He added a nod of greeting for Johnny.
"Mr. Random." Scott matched the stableman's grave manner.
Random acknowledged the introduction of Johnny with a handshake. Johnny recognized a difference in attitude. Random was an employee of the house, not a servant.
"Mr. Hodges said you'd be down early. Jeff'll have Bess and Dancer saddled in a minute."
"Hello, Bess, old girl," Scott said to the sleek black mare the stable boy led out. He stroked her neck fondly and she nuzzled his chest. "Civilian life agrees with you, girl."
He gave her a final pat and entered the stable.
The men strolled through the stalls discussing the animals. Scott greeted old friends, telling Johnny about their exploits, and questioned Random about the newcomers.
The stomp and jingle of the horses, the warm scents and casual conversation, all made Johnny feel at home. More relaxed than he'd felt since he boarded the train, Johnny left the stable, and the familiar feelings vanished.
"What is that?" he exclaimed. He walked around the bay gelding, past the bewildered stable boy. He ducked under Dancer's barrel and looked at Scott over the horse's back. "What is it?"
Startled into presumption, the stableboy replied, "It's a riding saddle!"
"Son, I've spent half my life in the saddle, and none of them looked anything like that! That's no saddle, that's a … a postage stamp! I'd rather ride bareback!"
Random tilted back his cap and scratched his head.
"Well, sir, I should have thought of that. But I don't know what I could have done about if I had. We don't have a Western-style saddle on the place."
"Maybe we can find a compromise," Scott said. "Tell me, do you still have my cavalry gear around?"
A sudden grin creased Random's leathery face.
"You must be joking, Mr. Lancer. Do you suppose your grandfather would allow anything of yours to be thrown away? Don't I still have the pony saddle you first learned to ride on?"
Scott shook his head at his grandfather's predictability.
Random and his grandson removed the offending English saddles and went to exchange them.
As he got to know the leggy gelding, Johnny asked Scott why Random called him "Mr. Lancer," when everyone else called him, "Mr. Scott."
"I don't know, Johnny," Scott replied. "He's called me 'Mr. Lancer' with grave formality ever since I turned six. I never thought to ask him why."
Random returned, carrying a shiny black and silver saddle. At a nod from Scott, he threw it over Bess' back. As he adjusted the cinch, Johnny asked him just that.
The stableman shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. Scott looked surprised.
"Mr. Random?" Scott came around the horse to face the older man.
"It wasn't my place to say so, but I didn't approve of the way your grandfather was raising you," Random said slowly. "Didn't think it was right to keep a boy from his father, if you'll excuse me for saying so."
"Go ahead, please," Scott urged.
"See, I met your father once or twice when he was courting Miss Katherine. Nice man. Horses like him." It was Random's highest praise. "It was more than six years later, on your fifth birthday, when he came to claim you. Mr. Garrett sent him packing. I never saw, never want to see, such hurt on a man's face again. But when he came out of the house, with all that on his mind, he thanked me by name for taking care of his horse."
"Sounds like Murdoch," Johnny commented.
Scott nodded, a lump in his throat. It was only a year since he'd found out about this visit, found out his grandfather had threatened to drag out a custody battle that would make Scott's childhood a nightmare. Murdoch had surrendered his son rather than make the child's life a battleground of hatred.
"So when they brought you out for your first riding lesson, I called you 'Mr. Lancer'," Random continued. "I suppose I didn't want you to forget your name."
Scott cleared away the lump.
"Thank you, Mr. Random," he said with grave courtesy.
"You're welcome, Mr. Lancer," Random replied, then busied himself with the mare who grew excited feeling the weight of cavalry gear again.
As Scott soothed Bess, he considered a side of Random he would never have seen except for Johnny's inquisitiveness. He decided it was going to be interesting to see Boston through his brother's eyes.
Johnny was thinking the same thing.
Eager to start exploring the city where Scott grew up, Johnny reached for the saddle Jeff brought out; but Random intercepted him politely. Saddling the Garret horses was his job.
Johnny rubbed the worn, brown leather in approval as the stableman cinched it up.
Neither the cantle nor the pommel was as high as the Western gear he was used to, but they formed a satisfactory seat. Like a cowboy's saddle, cavalry tack was designed for a man who had to spend days at a time in the saddle.
The saddle Random was checking was faded and battered, its leather discolored by spots. It was much more shabby than the shiny black parade gear Scott had appropriated. But Johnny could tell at a touch the old saddle was well broken in and more likely to be comfortable than Scott's. Another example of his brother's good manners, Johnny thought.
The younger Lancer rubbed thoughtfully at one of the darker stains, one that wasn't made by rain or sweat, but by blood spilled in the heat of battle. A movement from Bess made him half-turn.
Sitting tall and straight on the proud mare, Scott divined Johnny's thoughts.
"That one's not mine, brother," he said softly. Before Johnny could become embarrassed at seeming to pry, Scott kicked the mare into a fast walk. "Are you coming, or do I have to paint the town red all by myself?"
Johnny vaulted into the war-worn saddle and lit out after Scott.
##
Scott pointed out his first school in passing, but their first stop was at a tall, white church where the minister's wife accused Scott of deliberately coming by at breakfast. All the time she scolded, she was hustling the brothers off their horses and into the kitchen.
The minister, as delighted as his wife, proposed an even swap of stories with Johnny. Throughout the lavish meal, they traded stories about Scott to his amusement and discomfiture.
Scott took a small revenge on the reverend, though. He complimented Mrs. Dalkin on her cooking and her appearance, piling on the pretty phrases until her plump face was as flushed as a schoolgirl's.
Her husband only laughed comfortably.
"They're shameless flirts, the both of them," he confided to Johnny. "You can see why I don't dare leave them alone."
By the time they resumed their expedition into the heart of the city, with the Dalkins waving a happy good-bye, the city had come alive.
Hucksters cried their wares in the teeming markets. Cranes clattered and goods clunked to the ground near dockside warehouses while the wind trilled through the rigging of steep-masted sailing ships. An occasional steamer bustled upstream importantly, puffing clouds of smoke.
It was still early morning, but business was well underway in this national center of commerce.
Content to follow Scott's lead without question, Johnny drank in the flavor of Boston, enjoying the new taste. It reminded him of San Francisco, but Boston was an older, more sophisticated woman than wanton Frisco.
Gradually Johnny came to an uncomfortable awareness. He urged Dancer forward to ride knee-to-knee with Scott.
"People are staring at me," Johnny said.
"What did you expect, cowboy?" Scott replied.
Teresa had carefully packed Johnny's best suit into the saddlebags, but the dark suit with its conchoed belt, short jacket and white-beaded shirt was very Mexican in style. It pointed up the black hair he'd inherited from his mother. In the proper confines of Boston, Johnny looked positively exotic.
On the other hand, Scott fit right in. He had dressed in finery that he had left stored in his wardrobe in the Garrett mansion. The fashions smelled slightly of mothballs and were three years out of date, but styles didn't change very quickly in staid Boston.
Scott looked like he belonged, Johnny thought with envy.
"I feel like there's a wanted poster out with my name on it and everyone's wondering how soon they can collect," Johnny complained.
Unconsciously, his hand rubbed the thigh where the familiar weight of holster and revolver were missing.
"Fear not, brother. I have planned for this contingency," Scott pronounced grandly.
"What have you planned?" Johnny asked suspiciously.
"We are going to the finest tailor in the city and get you kitted out from your head to your toes."
"And what am I supposed to pay this tailor with? I don't suppose my pocket change is going to go far in this fancy town."
"Johnny, while you're in Boston, you're my guest. An uninvited guest, it's true, but still a guest. You leave the bills to me," Scott answered.
Johnny halted his horse in the middle of the street.
"Boston, I know to the penny how much money you make," said his equal partner. "So you tell me how you're going to afford it. If this is a handout from Harlan, I'm turning right around," Johnny threatened.
"Don't get your back up, Johnny. I'm grandfather's heir, but I don't look to him for my daily bread. When my mother died, she had some property that was held in trust for her, property that came from her mother's family. Now grandfather holds the property for me, in trust until my 30th birthday. Essentially, though, I've had control of it since I turned 18. Grandfather trusts me to use the funds with discretion, and I haven't managed to spend it all, yet."
Scott paused and looked west, as if he could see all the way to California.
"Still, there have been times when money got tight at Lancer, when I wished I had full control. Oh, I know grandfather would have sent me the money if I'd asked, but I couldn't."
"No, not while the Great Lancer-Garrett Feud was going on," Johnny said.
Scott snorted in amused and rueful agreement.
"Besides Murdoch wouldn't have taken it," Johnny continued. "He wouldn't touch anything that came from Harlan."
"That's what I thought." Scott started his horse moving again. "But I've been thinking, brother. He wouldn't dare turn it down if I say it came from my mother."
"It doesn't matter," Johnny laughed. "When the time comes, if you want to put your money into the ranch fund, it's all right with me. And between us, we outvote Murdoch."
Chuckling, Scott dismounted in front of a discreet sign that read: "Goldberg and Katz, tailors."
Returned to the cause of the conversation, Johnny again looked uneasy.
"I'm not sure about this, Scott."
Scott looked up at his brother and remembered their first conversation at Lancer, when his own Eastern clothes had been the topic.
"Brother, if you're going to stay around here, 'those just ain't the style'," Scott quoted.
Johnny remembered. "'Of course I'm going to stay'," he quoted in response.
He tied his horse to the rail and followed his brother into the shop.
##
"Mr. Lancer!"
The proprietor came to greet Scott with a cry of joy. "When I heard you were in town, I knew you would come to see me. Abe …" He turned to his partner without releasing his grip on Scott's hand. "… didn't I tell you Mr. Lancer would be in?"
His partner nodded vigorously from the other side of the room where he was pinning some alterations in a suit. He waved at Scott cheerfully and mumbled a greeting through a mouthful of pins.
Not allowing Scott a chance to say hello or introduce Johnny, Samuel Goldberg dashed into the next room still talking.
"In fact, I was so sure you would come …" He returned carrying a navy blue suit. "… that I sat up last night making this for you."
Scott fingered the fine material, the finest in the shop, he suspected. He was touched and said so.
"No, don't thank me," the elderly tailor said. "In truth, I don't know why I did it." His eyes twinkling, he appealed to Johnny. "My best customer runs off to California taking half my business with him. So I wonder to myself, why do I do him favors? But then I say to myself, Samuel, you must be charitable. Here is Mr. Lancer. He's been out in the wilderness for three years, fighting Indians, eating cactus. Nowhere could he find such a suit as I could make him. Nowhere, for I have no equals …"
Across the room, Katz nearly choked on his pins. Goldberg quelled his outburst with a grimace of mock ferocity.
"… So when he comes begging to you for a suit, you should have one ready. It is simple charity for one who has been so long deprived, don't you think?"
He seemed to expect a reply from Johnny, but the ex-gunfighter was at a loss for words. Scott came to his rescue by elaborately begging Goldberg's pardon for all the inconvenience he'd caused.
The old man waved the apologies away with a smile.
"We survive," he said, gesturing around the obviously prosperous shop. "Though it is true my wife must wear cotton instead of silk since you left."
Johnny found his voice.
"Even in California, Scott's considered a snappy dresser," he teased.
"But we didn't come to buy clothes for me," Scott interjected. "We came to get something for my brother. There's a dinner party tonight at my grandfather's home. Is there any chance of getting something on such short notice?"
Goldberg walked around Johnny, assessing him professionally. Murmuring appreciative comments about the workmanship, he touched the studs that ran up the trouser seam. Finally he called his partner over to confer. Reaching agreement, Katz went into the back room.
"We have a suit, newly made but never worn, which I think will fit you with some alteration."
"Don't tell me you were expecting Johnny, too," Scott said from behind the screen where he was trying on his suit.
"No sir. In fact, we made it for Mr. Desmond. But when he returned for it, he said he'd decided he didn't like the color and wouldn't pay for it."
"That sounds like Desmond," Scott said with a sour grimace. "He probably 'wouldn't' pay for it, because he was broke again."
He emerged from behind the screen as Katz entered from the back room carrying the other suit. The three-piece suits went well together. Scott's showed a faint check pattern in two scarcely different shades of navy. The one meant for Johnny was a restrained plaid in light blue and pale gray.
Goldberg checked the fit of Scott's suit as Katz hustled Johnny behind the screen.
"Such a memory I have," Goldberg complimented himself when he checked the length, the waist and the set of the shoulders. But he frowned at the tightness of the arms and legs.
"Ranch life puts on muscle," Scott apologized, though he was secretly pleased.
"No matter," Goldberg said manfully. "We can let out the seams to give you more room."
When Johnny emerged, the two tailors buzzed around him like mosquitoes. To the younger Lancer's embarrassment, they tugged at seams, prodded his shoulders and discussed his build as if he were a calf up for auction.
"We'll have to let out the shoulders and the upper arms, here," Katz said, poking.
"Yes, and take in the waist." Goldberg tugged at the pants.
Katz studied Johnny with approval. "Mr. Lancer will wear this suit better than Mr. Desmond ever could," he said stoutly.
"Be careful, Abe. You'll have him blushing in a minute," Scott teased, ignoring his brother's hot protests.
##
While the tailors made the necessary alterations, the Lancers prowled up and down the street, hunting accessories. They returned with new derbies, shoes, shirts and other paraphernalia, which they donned along with the new suits.
With boxes packed full of old clothes and profuse thanks on both sides, the Lancers continued their tour of the city. They headed back in the direction they had come.
"The city's too big to cover in one day," Scott explained. "So we'll stick to the south end, if you don't mind."
"Lead on, brother."
##
Scott seemed to have a specific destination in mind for he sent Bess along at a brisk walk. He pointed out the Old South meeting House as they passed, but didn't offer to stop.
Johnny didn't mind. Something else had attracted his attention.
"Scott, people are still staring at me," he complained.
Scott looked around in surprise, then chuckled.
"Look again, brother. It's only the ladies who are staring now."
Johnny looked again. A pretty little thing with a baby blue parasol fluttered her fingers at him from a passing open carriage. Johnny stared. Scott brought Bess back to bump Johnny's leg.
"In Boston, you tip your hat to a lady," he said.
Johnny hurriedly touched his hat as he turned to watch the carriage pass.
The girl giggled and blew him a playful kiss, then her parasol swung around to cut off Johnny's view. But he watched for a long time, anyway. His horse blocking the road drew some notice from the surrounding neighborhood. Before Scott could urge Johnny onward, a surprised voice hailed him from a nearby construction project.
Scott slid off his horse to meet the approaching man. The bricklayer wouldn't shake Scott's hand until he carefully wiped every grain of red brick dust off his weathered hands. And he kept well away from Scott even then.
"Wouldn't want to get dust all over that grand suit," the Irishman said.
A broad smile cracked his creased features. He had one of the ugliest faces Johnny had ever seen but he had a sweet baritone voice with a liquid Irish accent that sounded like music.
Scott introduced him as Peter Galway, the father of one of his Harvard classmates.
"My boy, Timmy," Galway told Johnny, who lounged in his saddle. "His pants are too short and his sleeves are frayed, but he's smart. He wins a scholarship to the best university in the country — he says. But when he goes there, no one speaks to him. No one shakes his hand, except this brother of yours."
"Believe me, Mr. Galway. The pleasure was all mine. How is Tim? Must be about ready to get his doctorate."
"That's right," the bricklayer said proudly. "At the end of the year he'll be Timothy Galway, Doctor of Medicine."
"Ah, it'll be a proud day," Scott said, imitating Galway's phrasing.
The Irishman laughed. "Aye, that it will," he said. "So I hear you've gone and taken up an honest profession," he teased. "My boy came home so surprised with that letter of yours. 'Father!' he says, 'Scott Lancer has moved to California to become a rancher! Can you believe it!' And I asked him why he was so surprised? Didn't he know there was a working man's heart under those fancy landlord's clothes?" He poked Scott in the spanking new vest.
Johnny laughed aloud. Scott shook his head in mock despair. Galway's foreman impatiently summoned the bricklayer back to work.
He apologized for going, but Scott explained he and Johnny were going to be late for lunch if they dawdled much longer. He gave the Irishman a farewell handshake and climbed aboard Bess.
The bricklayer backed toward his job. Cupping his hands into a trumpet he shouted after the riders.
"You're a grand man, Scott Lancer, and I'll fight the devil himself if he says otherwise!"
"You'll have to stand in line," Johnny muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, brother. I didn't say a thing. Where's this lunch you promised me?"
As the horses jogged south, Scott saw a familiar carriage pass. He waved at the young lady inside. She looked surprised to see him. Her intelligence system wasn't as efficient as Goldberg's. She started to wave back, but the man across from her peered out, saw Scott and angrily yanked the window curtain closed.
The coachman and footman tried to maintain an air of stately dignity, but the whole effect was spoiled by the sound of loud parental parental rebukes coming from inside.
"That makes me feel better," Johnny said, riding up next to Scott.
"Why's that?" Scott laughed.
"I was beginning to think everyone in Boston absolutely adored you," Johnny said, only half serious. "It was making me feel…" He searched for the right word.
"Inadequate?" Scott suggested.
Johnny nodded.
Scott looked him over with polite disbelief.
He could remember Johnny glued to the back of a viciously bucking bronc or wrestling a heavy steer to the ground. Most of all, he could picture Johnny whirling, drawing and firing with such speed the eye couldn't encompass it but registered only the gun holstered and then the smoking gun in hand. Johnny was one of the most frighteningly adequate people Scott had ever met; and the proof of that adequacy, of course, was the fact that Johnny Madrid was still alive.
However, Scott didn't scoff at Johnny's feelings. He himself had often felt out of place in the West.
All Scott said was, "So far I've only introduced you to my friends. If I'd known you wanted to meet my enemies as well, I would have tried to arrange something."
Johnny shook his head, acknowledging the ridiculousness of the idea.
"Anyway," Scott continued sardonically. "I hoped we could have a quiet day today. Heaven knows it will be exciting enough tonight."
Considering the Garretts he'd already met, Johnny shuddered in exaggeration. Scott agreed wholeheartedly.
"Now, come on. You're going to make us late. If I miss my first Italian meal in three years, I'll make you pay for it, brother."
Scott kicked Bess into a fast canter.
Johnny hurried to keep up. "You and what regiment?" he shouted back.