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CHAPTER 6 - BAD MEDICINE

A disease known is half cured.
~ Thomas Fuller, M. D. 1732

Granger raised his revolver and took aim at the foolhardy man heading straight towards him. He didn't even have time to take it in when one of the man's hands dipped into the breast of his fancy coat and came out with a Colt. Granger fired his last bullet, all right, but it careened into the tin ceiling as he fell in a heap on the saloon floor, a bullet lodged in his heart. The last thing he ever saw was his dark-haired killer standing over him, re-holstering his gun somewhere under his arm as he spat contemptuously, "That's the last time you threaten any of my family, that's for damned sure."

"I don't see what's eatin' you, Scott. You won everyone's money at poker, didn't you?" In his own defense, Johnny was being flippant as a way of deflating the tension. Even though he knew it had been a righteous killing, he was dealing with the aftermath. He felt badly, just as he always did when he was the cause of any man's death. Experience had shown him it was something he had to ride out on his own.

"You don't seem to see much of anything," was all Scott would say. He fumed all the way home from Green River, glad of the cover of darkness that fitted his mood. Johnny had put himself in danger, as usual, with little thought for anyone else. If he'd only waited, Scott could have moved into a closer position with the bar for cover. With Val at the helm they could have taken the man out together. But no, Johnny had to step right out and blast Granger away.

Afterwards, back in the sheriff's office, Val had acknowledged that it didn't matter who had put an end to Granger. It was done, he said. He went back to the cells to inform the imprisoned Junior Granger of his father's death and then went off to break it to Deputy Hansen's family that he had died in the line of duty.

Scott, however, was not about to be so matter of fact. By the time they rode through the Lancer arch it was the dead of night, and he had worked himself up into a lather and found his voice again. As they approached the front of the almost-dark hacienda, Scott blurted, "You just had to go in there and do it your own way, didn't you?"

Johnny pulled Barranca up, slowing him to a walk. "I didn't know there was some plan I shoulda followed. Oh yeah, find the enemy, engage him, then destroy him. Isn't that it?"

Paying no heed to the sarcasm, Scott retorted, "It was up to the sheriff to make the first move, but you just went in and took over. Did it your own way, as always. No regard for others. Isn't that the Johnny Lancer way? Or maybe I should say the Madrid way."

"The way I look at it, all that matters is the way it ended, and as far as Val was concerned making Granger dead was the objective. That man threatened Val and his family - our family. Why are you all riled up over this?" Angry at being raked over the coals, Johnny tapped Barranca with his heels and headed for the corral. Although it was very late, one of the ranch hands was still up to take care of the horses. Johnny usually took care of his own mounts, but this time he handed Barranca over to the man with a curt word of thanks, then headed up to the house.

Scott caught up to Johnny on the front verandah. "You just stood there in plain sight, Johnny, asking for that man to shoot you."

Johnny halted with one hand on the front door handle and turned to respond. "I seem to recall you were runnin' faster than I was tryin' to get to the scene of the shootin'."

"But I was working with Val. You were there on your own agenda."

"I did what seemed best at the time," Johnny insisted. "So if it meant showing myself so Granger would poke his scrawny neck out, then that was an acceptable risk."

"Why would you set yourself up like that? I was. . ." Scott stared at his brother, his words trailing off. He bit his lip and pushed his way into the house without finishing his sentence.

Johnny caught up to Scott in the foyer. "Wait, will you wait a minute," he ordered tersely, trying to keep his voice down lest he awake the people sleeping upstairs. "You were what?" When Scott stopped and stood with one hand on the banister but didn't reply, Johnny said, "I give up. If you want to talk about this, you know where to find me." He started up the stairs, but hadn't taken two steps when Scott's voice came to him from behind.

"I was scared for you, Johnny! You're not even wearing your gun belt!"

Johnny stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother. He said earnestly, "I knew what I was doing." He could see that Scott wasn't buying it; his face was etched with lines of deep concern. "Look, Scott, I've practiced drawing with from shoulder holster 'til my elbow was sore. I got the jump on that man because he never expected me to reach under my coat. Simple as that."

"Simple as that." Scott ran a hand over his mouth and breathed deeply. "Sometimes," he said in a low, intense voice, "I think that you believe you're indestructible." Johnny made a motion to dismiss the notion, but Scott overrode him, saying, "You take risks, Johnny, when there's no need to. Is it just bravado, or egotism?"

Far from being insulted, Johnny was curious as to why Scott was getting so worked up. "I do what comes natural. I can't change what's inside, Scott. Believe me, I've tried. Anyway, it's not like I've never faced a man down before."

"Don't you see that every time you put yourself at risk you're hurting us? If I lost you in some damned shootout. . ." Scott took a moment to collect himself then said fervently, "Teresa says you don't belong to us any more, but she's wrong. She's wrong! You'll always be an important part of Lancer, no matter where you are, and everything you do has an impact on us. Don't we matter to you at all any more?"

Astounded, Johnny he replied, "Of course you matter. And I'm still part of the family."

"Well, you don't act like it, Johnny."

"The hell I don't! And what about you? You're mopin' around here wallowing in your own misery. Where's all those guts you brought with you when you came to Lancer for the first time? You're lettin' the old man ride over you, Scott. You should be running this place, not bowing to his decisions like you ain't got no say in it at all."

Scott stood stock still, frozen, his eyes burning with an intensity Johnny hadn't seen in him for some time. Glaring back at his brother, Johnny waited for a sign Scott was going to strike out, but it never came. Johnny relented and said, "I might not come home very often, but I want to be here, I do, but. . . I miss Lancer and I miss you and Murdoch. Damn it, you know how I feel, Scott."

"I don't know anything for sure any more." Scott was suddenly tired. "I have to get to bed."

Troubled when Scott gave in so easily, Johnny slung his arm around his older brother's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Darn right we need to get some sleep. We have to be up at the crack of dawn to cut out those cattle Murdoch wants to send to market. You want me to wake you, old man?"

In spite of still being angry at Johnny for putting himself in jeopardy, and confounded by all the emotions boiling inside himself, Scott eased up. "Who are you calling old? You're almost thirty, as I recall. Your knees'll be creaking in no time at all, then your hairline will recede-."

"Then I'll put springs in my boots and wear my hat to bed," Johnny replied lightly. He whispered, "C'mon upstairs, before we wake up the really old folk in this house."

They crept up the stairs and made it to their bedrooms without raising the women or children who were safely tucked in their beds. But neither of the Lancer brothers realized that their father was not in his bedroom. Murdoch was sitting in front of the dying embers of the fire in the great room, and he had heard most of what his sons had said.

The next morning Teresa was feeding the children in the kitchen when Scott came down. When she said she hadn't seen any sign of Johnny yet, he went back upstairs to see if his brother was still asleep. He hadn't been able to get much sleep, but Scott laid a bet Johnny had enjoyed a good sleep. Knocking heavily on Johnny's door, he called out, "C'mon, Johnny, you said you'd be ready to ride up to-." Scott opened the bedroom door but halted when he saw that Johnny was not only out of bed, but that he was standing near the washstand without any clothes on.

Scott backed out with a murmured apology, but Johnny turned around and called, "Scott, wait!"

Surprised at the hint of desperation in Johnny's voice, Scott re-entered the bedroom. "What's wrong?"

Johnny turned his back on Scott, but after a deep breath, mumbled, "I've got this. . . this place on my leg where I got banged up and . . . " He turned again, sending an appeal with his eyes. "I can't get the bandage to stick. I guess I need your help." He added, "And shut that door."

At first, Scott thought that one of Granger's bullets had grazed Johnny, but as soon as he saw the location of Johnny's wound he knew it was the reason his brother had given up his hip-hugging gun belt. Johnny held a patch of white gauze over an area on his hip, several inches below his waist - right where the belt of his holster would normally lie. "Move that aside and let me see it, Johnny." When Johnny wouldn't remove his hand from the bandage, Scott raised his eyebrows. "I've seen plenty of holes in you before, in case you don't recall."

Johnny's eyes flickered and then he moved his hand away to expose a raw and seeping wound. It was a purplish gouge, a couple of inches long, with rough ends. The trough had been caused, by the looks of it, by a bullet plowing through his flesh. No wonder he'd doubled up with pain when Scott had playfully swatted at him a few days earlier.

"How'd you manage to ride a horse with this?" Scott asked in exasperation.

Johnny twisted and peered at his hip. "It was fine until I got up this morning. I covered it up with lots of padding, but I guess all that riding and getting sweaty rubbed at it some."

"Give me that gauze," Scott ordered, all business. There was a bottle of carbolic and some bandages sitting near the washbasin; apparently Johnny had come well equipped. Scott said, "It looks like you knew exactly which medical supplies to bring along with you."

"Practice makes perfect," Johnny retorted lightly.

Scott dabbed at the wound with some of the liquid and patted it dry, ignoring Johnny's winces and the way he muttered under his breath. "If you ask me," Scott said, "and I know you aren't asking me, this needs more than a change of bandage. You should see a doctor. Either Jenkins or Dr. Beauregard should be in their clinic today." He glanced up at Johnny, but the inflexible look on his brother's face told him it was futile to make any further attempt to convince him to see a physician.

There was some ointment to apply, which caused more flinching, then a fresh square of heavy gauze and some very sticky tape that Johnny helped him to adhere.

When they were done, Johnny slowly dressed, pulling his long-john bottoms and then his trousers on with exaggerated care. He put on a pale blue shirt, then a dark gray silken vest and took his time about knotting a string tie around his neck.

Scott tossed Johnny his boots, then leaned back on the bed. He'd seen his brother perform various rituals over the years, usually before some big event, such as the precise way he cleaned his gun before a fight. It seemed to him that Johnny's preoccupation with his clothing had something of a ritual about it. He had never been very concerned with his attire in the past, so Scott wondered where it stemmed from. It was probably the wife's influence, he thought. It was surprising how much sway women had on a man. Natalie had always wanted the best of everything, and it appeared to have rubbed off on Johnny.

Scott saw changes in Johnny's physique. He was heavier with muscle, his chest bore more hair, and there appeared to be a couple of scars that hadn't been on his arm and lower back a few years earlier. He'd probably never know the full story of their origins, but he sure was going to find out about the gouge on Johnny's hip. "You want to tell me how this happened?"

"Long story. You probably don't want to know."

"You want to try me?"

Johnny buckled up his shoulder holster and squinted sideways at him. He tried to sound light, but the words came out bitter. "Got shot by a whore."

Scott stood. "You're right. I probably don't want to know." He awaited further explanation, anyway.

"There was a bit too much drinking, I guess," Johnny said nonchalantly.

"And whoring."

"Yeah, some of that, too."

"You're married, Johnny."

The dark-haired man formed a retort, but he put it aside and instead said, "Look, I need to go into town to get some more. . ." He waved at the mess of soiled gauze, near-empty roll of tape and bottle of carbolic.

"There's an apothecary in Spanish Wells now." Scott stalked to the door, but stopped at the threshold. "Maybe you should stock up on supplies if you're expecting to make a habit of standing out in the open and inviting people to shoot you."

"I'll take the buggy after breakfast." Johnny shrugged on his suit jacket and checked he had his money clip in the pocket. Knowing he shouldn't leave any evidence of having been wounded around, Johnny put the medical supplies in one of his valises and kicked it under his bed.

Scott said firmly, "I'll drive." Johnny shot him a startled look, so Scott explained, "I need to speak to Dr. Beauregard and he's usually at the clinic on Fridays. If we go now, I'll buy you breakfast in town."

Johnny went ahead, and if Scott hadn't known about the wounded hip, he never would have noticed his brother's slight limp. On the way out, Scott stopped to inform Murdoch of their plans to go to Spanish Wells, but didn't go into any details about Johnny's injury.

Murdoch took his older son aside and said in a low voice, "Val came by early, before sunup, to make sure everyone was all right." Scott looked uncomfortable but the older man didn't give him any leeway. "Next time I expect to be told what's going on. Understand?"

"Yes."

In a kinder voice, Murdoch asked, "Is this little trip connected to last night's run-in with that man Granger?"

Scott wondered how much Val had told the old man. "No. Johnny needs some things from town. We'll be back at work soon as we can."

Murdoch made a dismissive gesture. "I don't care about the work, Scott. I care about my boys. You will tell me if there's something I need to know, won't you?"

Scott knew his father was referring to knowing what was going on with Johnny. It was up to his brother to impart any news about himself; it wasn't Scott's place to be the informant. "I think that Johnny is capable of talking to you if he feels the need."

"But it's you I'm trusting, son."

Scott nodded at the rebuke. His father was entrusting Johnny's care to him, even if he didn't want that responsibility. "Does Teresa know what occurred last night in Green River?"

"Val went up to talk to her, so I expect he told her what he thought she needed to know. He didn't stay long. He said he was going home to get some sleep because he's working the night shift again." Murdoch laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. "Is Johnny really all right? You two are getting along?"

His father had obviously caught on to the animosity between his two sons. Scott said simply, "He'll be fine."

Clamping a hand on his tall son's shoulder, Murdoch sighed. "You boys don't seem to realize that one way or another, I do find out everything that goes on around here." His grip softened, as did his expression. "Perhaps next time you'll tell me up front so I don't have to pretend I already know all about it when someone informs me that my sons were involved in a gun battle in a saloon."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, then we'll see you later." The sound of a child's screams came from somewhere upstairs. Murdoch smiled crookedly. "It looks like I'll have my hands full right here coping with the next generation of troublesome children."

Johnny tried not to squirm too much, but the bouncing around was causing his hip to hurt despite the buggy's cushioned seat, and his back was giving him some serious twinges, too. His back hadn't flared up for a while, but in the past few days it had been getting increasingly more painful. He nonchalantly reached back with his left hand to hold his lower back, but Scott looked at him sideways. There was no fooling Scott, that was for sure.

"You need to see the doctor."

"I don't need no doctor to tell me what I already know," Johnny replied sharply. After a few minutes he asked, "Who's this new doc you're meeting? You arranged for him to come out West?"

Scott snapped the reins on the back of the buggy horse to keep him moving along at a brisk pace. "There are two extra doctors now. Charles Irving, from New York, and George Beauregard. He's the one I hope to see this morning. I knew him back in Boston, when he was a student." He smiled to himself. "Nice fellow. He learned a great deal as a medic during the war. Anyway, last year when this district decided to actively recruit some new doctors and trained nurses, I helped with the process. The clinic in Spanish Wells serves this county. I'm on the county health committee now."

"Health committee, huh? What did Sam think about all this new blood?" Johnny watched Scott for his reaction and wasn't surprised to see his brother tense up. There was some residual animosity lurking there, without a doubt.

"He agreed that we were behind the times," Scott said stiffly. "He was appreciative of any help he could get. Not that he had a choice. The towns raised incentive money and we've all worked hard to make these folks feel welcome. The other doctor, Irving, has more experience with infectious diseases, and he goes out on house calls mostly. He shares the territory with Dr. Jenkins."

"And Sam doesn't mind sharing?"

"There are more than enough patients to go around, Johnny." Scott turned to look at Johnny and said with a straight face, "Of course now that you're here, Sam's work load will double."

Johnny chuckled. "Maybe you'd better get the county to recruit a second undertaker, too." A glance Scott's way showed he wasn't amused, but Johnny shrugged it off.

***–***TBC