Chapter 6

Hometown Boy

The Sabbatinos were as glad to see Scott as everyone else seemed to be. Giorgio Sabbatino had been a customer of Harlan's, buying spices from the merchant for a loose organization of Italian restaurateurs. He'd headed the purchasing organization by the simple virtue of speaking the most English.

Scott and Giorgio's youngest son, Lou — never Luigi — had become playmates when Harlan took his grandson along on business visits.

Maria Sabbatino was frankly delighted that Scott thought enough of her cooking to visit their restaurant on his first day home. And she was pleased to know he thought enough of her family to visit during slack time when they could all talk.

When she found out Johnny had never tasted Italian food, she brought a sample of everything on the stove.

It was quite a party by the time the Lancers were finished. Word went around the neighborhood about Scott's visit. Other men and women he'd played with as children dropped in to say hello, often bringing their entire families for display. Many were curious about Scott's long lost brother. A genuine cowboy, imagine! But only the children showed their curiosity and it was an eager, inoffensive variety.

After the Lancers broke away, they made a quick tour of the docks so Scott could greet some of the sea captains who carried goods for his grandfather.

With the south end of the old city pretty well accounted for, Scott headed back toward the South Bay, where he knew the plans for dinner would be well underway.

Johnny wasn't thinking about meeting the rest of Scott's relatives. In his mind, he was turning over the events of the day and finding something underneath that he'd never wondered about until his visit to Boston.

He already knew that Scott treated everyone alike. He'd seen his brother treat down-on-their-luck saloon girls and dowdy farmer's wives with the same unfailing, friendly courtesy he used with high society ladies. Scott gave every man the benefit of the doubt. Never prejudging by the fact that the man was a Mexican vaquero, an Irish bricklayer or a New England banker. A man's background, nationality and social status never seemed to make any difference to Scott who valued honesty and courtesy far above those other matters.

Seeing Scott visit with all his "low" friends reminded Johnny of this democratic manner, which he'd always simply accepted as part of his brother's personality. Now that Johnny had a nodding acquaintance with Boston society, he couldn't understand why Scott was so nice.

Why wasn't Scott as stuck up, as stubbornly prideful, as condescending as his peers? As his family! Johnny wondered what had broken him out of the Garrett mold.

"Penny for your thoughts," Scott's voice broke into his reverie.

Johnny started and looked around. Without realizing it, he had followed his brother into a spacious park where picnickers relaxed and children frolicked.

With his usual embarrassment, Johnny shied from revealing his thoughts. Scott saw the withdrawal. A hint of sadness for the things Johnny didn't trust him to share sparked in the elder brother's eyes, but rueful laughter replaced it quickly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry," he said.

No, the Lancers never did pry into the scars that marked Johnny Madrid's life, and Johnny wouldn't normally have pried into Scott's. But the quick hurt in his brother's eyes made Johnny speak.

"You're not prying, but I would be if I told you what I was thinking."

Scott studied him curiously.

"Ask away, brother," he said lightly. "My life holds no secrets."

All Johnny's musings resolved themselves into their most personal essence, so the question that came out was, "Scott, how come it never bothered you that I was a half breed?"

The shock on Scott's face was as plain as the palm print of a slap.

Johnny plunged on, "I mean, it was a surprise to find out you had a brother at all. I know. But I spent a lifetime being kicked by both sides because I was half greaser, half gringo. But it never bothered you, even from the very beginning. I just wanted to know why …" Johnny let his voice trail off, already sorry he'd spoken.

White-faced, Scott stared at the peaceful park but the bitter set of his jaw showed that he saw something quite different.

Finally, remotely, he answered, "Why should you being a half breed bother me, when I'm one myself."

Bess snorted and danced, moved by the emotion Scott transmitted to her. The elder Lancer soothed his steed, dismounted and sat next to a tree. He pulled his knees to his face, breathing deeply. Gradually the tension within him relaxed. He looked up at Johnny who had joined him on the grass.

"Sorry," Johnny apologized. He remembered contritely that he was supposed to be cheering Scott up.

"I just wish you wouldn't sneak up with these questions and pounce on me," Scott replied, with a trace of his normal good humor. "I don't know why it hit me so hard, anyway. It's all long past, dead and basically forgotten. I suppose it's because I've done so much reminiscing today. It's brought my childhood back — too vividly."

He eyed his brother quizzically. "Are you sure you want to hear this. It amounts to my entire life story."

Johnny did want to hear the story. The Lancers had 20 years of catching up to do and never seemed to have the time. Yet, Johnny didn't want to hear the story if Scott didn't want to tell it. Privacy was one of the family's unspoken, but unbroken, rules.

The youngest Lancer didn't know how to answer his brother. Fortunately, Scott didn't seem to expect an answer. He had only used his question to gain a little time to gather his thoughts.

"To Boston society, there isn't much difference between the son of a Mexican and an American, or the son of a society lady and an immigrant Scot. Both affairs are scandalous. I wasn't made fully aware of this until I started school — an exclusive, private school. I was an outcast — Scotty the Scot. Every day, for weeks, I went home fighting back the tears so grandfather wouldn't see. I discovered the few friends I had were out of pity for grandfather and me. I overheard the mother of one of my playmates tell a friend, 'Of course he only married her for her money. When she died and left a baby instead of a fortune, why, he packed the child off to live with Harlan, poor lamb."

Scott gazed at the long past, staring straight ahead. Johnny lay back, chewing a stalk of grass, trying to visualize the scene.

"I hated Murdoch in those days, Johnny. I hated him for making me different. I hated him for not coming for me. I suppose I should have hated my schoolmates for tormenting me, but they were all in agreement, so I figured they must be right. But when grandfather heard about it, he told me it was nonsense. My blood was as good as any of theirs. I felt better after that, because grandfather was always right."

Scott quirked a faint smile for his childhood devotion.

"Then it became a matter of forcing the other boys to like me. I learned to fight for my rights, and to talk myself out of trouble when I was overmatched. Things never seemed as bad after that.

"It was about the same time I got to know all my 'low' friends. Grandfather had always taken me along on his 'rounds,' when he visited his customers to check on the honesty of his clerks. For a long time, I was too shy to get out of the carriage. Once I felt I'd mastered the talent of making friends, I practiced it in the Italian section, and the Irish section, on the docks, and in the city."

Scott laughed, a real smile filling his face.

"When grandfather found out, he had a fit," the elder Lancer said. "He forbade me to have anything more to do with those 'low-lifes.' I told him their blood was as good as mine. We had the biggest argument of my youth then. Lancer pride and Garrett stubbornness — or is it the other way around?"

Johnny chuckled. "The other way around," he said with certainty.

"You ought to know, brother," Scott said sardonically, which only made Johnny laugh more. The dark-haired ex-gunfighter rolled over on his stomach and regarded his brother.

"So what happened then?"

Scott laughed aloud.

"So then I grew up, brother. I made friends with the people of whom grandfather approved. It wasn't hard once Boston society came to realize 'Scott the Scot' was the heir to Harlan Garrett's fortune. But I also kept my own friends, and if grandfather didn't approve, at least he was happy I wasn't going behind his back. He sent me to Harvard to break me of my 'foolish' notions; but I already knew I didn't want to live off money earned by my grandparents and great-grandparents. I wanted to make some contribution. I wanted to work with my hands, but people of my class didn't do such things. It would have broken my grandfather's heart if I had sunk so low.

"Then the war started. Is it terrible to say that it was the best thing that happened to me before I met you and Murdoch? And it was also the worst thing I ever faced."

Scott stopped, brooding on the darkling past.

"Grandfather paid someone to take my place in the army, but I took Bess, rode straight to General Sheridan, and volunteered. He was glad to have me, at least I could ride. Half the recruits couldn't. I worshiped that little man. We all did. I would have gladly followed Little Phil into hell, and I did. Well, you know about the prison camp."

Johnny knew. That was a piece of Scott's past which had followed him clear to California and had almost gotten him killed before the truth came out.

"After I escaped from the prison camp, I was home for awhile, recuperating; but I had rejoined my outfit by the time the war ended," Scott continued. "I stayed with the Seventh Cavalry, and we were sent to Kansas to guard the settlers. Fighting for the Union had been important; but in Kansas it was nothing but slaughter. The Indians massacred the settlers; we massacred the Indians. The day I found out we had wiped out a village where the oldest brave was nine was the day I resigned my commission. Besides, Custer was in command by then. I never did see eye to eye with that pompous jackass."

When Scott stopped, Johnny demanded, "What then?"

"You want it all, huh? Then I went back home to Boston where I was at loose ends until Murdoch sent his Pinkertons after me. The rest you know, brother."

Johnny lay back, contemplating the cloud-dotted sky, letting Scott's confidences sink in. Scott watched children play on the green, remembering games of his own. Finally he shook himself awake.

"Are you finished asking embarrassing questions?"

"Uh huh."

"Then I think I deserve a drink."

Johnny brightened and bounced to his feet. "Now you're talking!" he said enthusiastically.

"I know a place just the other side of the park," Scott said. He brushed grass off his protesting brother and, with a tsk tsk, straightened the new suit before it could rumple further.

Finally satisfied with Johnny's appearance, Scott set off. As he led Bess down the path, he said, "You know, brother, you owe me for this."

"Owe you what, brother?" Johnny said, grinning.

"A story, Johnny Madrid. You owe me one heck of a story!"

##

When they left the park, Johnny panted obviously and asked, "Well, where is this place?"

Scott pointed at a sedate building with a polished mahogany door and gleaming brass fittings. An imposing doorman with more ribbons and fancy decorations than a war hero, stood at attention beside the door.

Johnny came to a dead stop, but when Scott continued forward without looking back, Johnny tugged Dancer's reins and reluctantly followed.

"I might have known you couldn't find an ordinary-looking saloon in Boston," he confided to the horse in a voice to low for Scott to hear.

Scott answered his brother's complaint anyway. In some ways, he knew Johnny well enough to read his mind.

"It's not a saloon. It's a club. I used to be a member. Of course, I haven't paid any dues in two years, but perhaps Hargate will let us in for old times sake."

As they tethered their horses, Scott raised his voice in greeting. The doorman smiled politely, as if he'd seen Scott only yesterday.

"Welcome, Mr. Lancer. It's been too long." He opened the door wide for them to enter.

Scott raised his eyebrows. "I didn't expect such a warm welcome for a lapsed member," he said.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but your membership is paid in full," Hargate corrected.

Scott looked surprised, but Johnny began to laugh uncontrollably. When the other two looked at him, he gasped at Scott, "Don't you see? Everything just the way you left it …" He dissolved in laughter again.

Scott grimaced at him.

"Is he often like this, Mr. Lancer?" the doorman asked politely.

"Only when he's thirsty," Scott said pointedly, pushing his red-faced brother ahead of him.

Johnny straightened and gazed around in satisfaction. This was one high-class saloon, I mean club. The decor was tasteful, with top quality furnishings and fittings, but the furnishings included a long, curved bar, upholstered in dark, and dimpled leather. And the fittings included rows of polished glasses and gleaming bottles. That was the kind of decor even Johnny Madrid could appreciate.

As Scott and Johnny hung their hats on the rack provided, the manager of the club appeared. Wilson greeted Scott cordially and welcomed Johnny as an honored guest, before allowing them to proceed to the inviting bar.

The comfortable saloon room was about half full of young men chatting in quiet groups. Several raised their voices above the muted hum of conversation to call surprised greetings to Scott. The elder Lancer returned the greetings cheerfully, promising to come back as soon as he and Johnny slaked their thirsts.

"I don't suppose they have any tequila here," Johnny said wistfully, with a touch of homesickness.

"We can ask," Scott said kindly. "But you'll probably have to settle for their excellent beer."

Upon conversation with the bartender, they learned that, indeed, there was no tequila in the house. And the bartender was of the opinion that they would be hard put to find any in the entire city. Johnny settled for the beer, and found he agreed with Scott about its quality.

The brothers were leaning against the bar, savoring the first, thirst quenching swallows, when a belligerent voice cut loudly across the barroom.

"Lancer!"

At the sound of trouble, Johnny tensed. His right hand dropped in conditioned reflex to the hip where his gun should have rested. Finding it missing, Johnny felt a twinge of disorientation, which was quickly suppressed.

Since this was Scott's range, Johnny turned toward his brother to follow his lead. He found Scott had turned to lean, with exaggerated casualness, against the bar. The fair-haired Lancer smiled in amusement, measuring his opponent with cool, critical eyes and finding him sadly wanting.

Scott's manner made it appear that trouble was in the offing, but not serious trouble. Johnny relaxed a trifle, but only a trifle. He'd seen Scott look just as casual when facing a dozen guns.

The belligerent voice belonged to a man who was just Johnny's height, a few inches shorter than the norm. The man stood aggressively in a doorway that led from a card room. His eyes were narrowed over a beaky nose that reminded Johnny of someone he couldn't place. His mouth was twisted in a perpetual sneer.

Johnny's snap judgment was that the man was mean, but too soft to be physically dangerous. Then the younger Lancer saw the pack of hangers-on who gathered at the first man's heels. Johnny decided, without worrying about it, that a fight might prove to be dangerous after all. However, the disgusted looks some of the bar patrons threw at the newcomers led the Westerner to believe he and Scott wouldn't be fighting alone.

Scott's relaxed manner seemed to confirm that.

He sipped his beer as he studied the man who'd said his name with such venom. Scott carefully put down his mug before he spoke.

"Hello, Desmond," he said, with amusement in his voice, but no warmth. The polite words seemed to sting the man.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here!" Desmond snarled.

"But my dues are paid up," Scott said innocently. "Isn't that right, Mr. Wilson" he called to the manager who had appeared in the room at the first hint of trouble.

"Yes, Mr. Lancer. Paid in full, and on time — unlike some I could name," the manager said pointedly.

Desmond flushed as laughter washed around the room. It was well known that his wild business speculations and even wilder gambling wagers often left him short of cash. Desmond had expensive tastes, but his budget was limited, sadly limited from his point of view, though whole families could have lived comfortably on what he bet on one tardy racehorse.

"I thought this was a high class establishment," he snapped at the manager. "I didn't realize you'd let in any sort of misbegotten mongrel." He looked deliberately at Johnny as he said it. Recognizing Johnny's suit as the one he had refused to pay for, he added, "And wearing hand-me-down clothes, at that."

Johnny just looked back blandly. This attitude from Bostonians had ceased to surprise him. In fact, it was refreshing to find someone who said it out loud instead of saying it with his eyes.

The rest of the room didn't find it refreshing, however. A murmur of censure was heard from Scott's friends.

"Mannerless boor," declared one club member in a soft, Virginia accent. "I don't suppose you know what he's been saying about you, Scott?"

Scott gestured for his friend to continue. The Virginian did, taking great pleasure in Desmond's angry countenance.

"He said he and his 'friends' made Boston too hot to hold you. That's why you 'fled' to California."

"Did anyone believe him?" Johnny asked curiously.

"Only his lap dogs," the man said, indicating Desmond's friends. "And as long as his purse strings remain loose, they'd believe him if he said Lee won at Appomatox."

"Now, Gary, were you spreading tales about me?"

Desmond sputtered. "You ruined my engagement to Helen."

"No, you ruined it," he said in icy tones. "You told Helen you were sick. You couldn't go with her to the cotillion, even though it was her sister's coming out and Helen had to be there. It was very important to her, so she asked me to escort her, just an old friend who was going to be out of town for awhile. It would give us a chance to say good-bye. Is it my fault that, as we drove down the street, we saw you staggering along with a … um … lady of questionable virtue on either arm. You know, it wasn't your appetites that offended Helen as much as your appalling lack of taste."

Desmond stalked forward angrily. His followers were less certain, but stayed at his heels.

"There was no reason for you to be on that street. You took that route on purpose!"

"Maybe," Scott said calmly. "Maybe I wanted Helen to know what kind of skunk she was engaged to. But, honestly, Gary, I never expected you to be so obliging."

With a wordless sound, a cross between a snarl and a whimper, Desmond launched himself at Scott; but since he was still halfway across the room, Scott had time to carry his beer to safety before Desmond crashed into the bar. Placing the mug out of harm's way, Scott turned back to his wheezing opponent. He poked his finger at Desmond's soft belly.

"Out of shape, Gary. You know, Mr. Goldberg had to take in the waist of Johnny's suit, or it would have fallen around his ankles," he said amiably.

He ducked the roundhouse swing that was Desmond's reply.

Scott Lancer and Gary Desmond had always rubbed each other the wrong way; but Scott wasn't in the mood to fight; yet he couldn't bring himself to placate Desmond either. Scott ducked and sidestepped as Desmond pressed the battle. His taunts kept the other man swinging while the spectators cheered and catcalled. Johnny sipped his beer and grinned.

"Give it up, Gary," Scott said cheerfully.

Face flushed, teeth bared, Desmond took another swing. Scott dodged backward, into the arms of Desmond's friends.

The grabbed the elder Lancer, holding him tight. Before he could even try to break away, Desmond was on him, pounding, punishing.

Spectators started to their feet, with cries of protest; but Johnny saved his breath. He cannoned into the battling group, carrying everyone to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms, crashing furniture and shattering glasses.

The former gunfighter rolled to his feet, lithe as a cat, and yanked at the first arm that presented itself. One of Desmond's friends, a fair-haired six-footer named Burstyn, flew to his feet and beyond, as Johnny's heave sent him sliding on the beer-slick floor. He got his arms up just in time to prevent his head from crashing into the sturdy bar.

##

The lanky Virginian untangled his long legs from the wreckage of his table and hauled up two of Desmond's supporters by their collars. He vigorously pushed them to the rear where his eager friends pounced upon them.

##

Other friends of Scott waded into the miniature war, freeing Scott from his imprisonment. Scott planted his feet in Desmond's chest and sent him flying into a table full of glassware.

Scott somersaulted to his feet and charged at Desmond who had just stood up. Desmond was knocked back on his seat, shards of glass stabbing through his pants. He roared and rolled away, carrying Scott with him.

Desmond was too soft for his blows to hurt the California rancher, but his treachery had angered Scott beyond words. All thoughts of peace vanished. Scott traded blows with Desmond as the two rolled between table legs and under the feet of the other brawlers.

A near trampling made it clear, even in the heat of battle, that the floor was no place to be. The two sprang to their feet as if by agreement, and were immediately separated by the swirling tide of battle.

Scott found himself facing Burstyn, a much more talented fighter than Desmond. The fair-haired Lancer soon had too much on his hands to look around for his original opponent.

The founder of the fight was propelled clear out of the melee. He stood, shaking with fury, holding onto a table for balance. His eyes searched the battle for a glimpse of Scott. In a blind rage, beyond logic, Desmond groped in his pocket and found the derringer he always carried.

He raised it toward Scott's undefended back.

To Be Continued