CHAPTER 16 - THE FALLEN

Woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.
~ Bible, Ecclesiastes 4:10

Unfortunately, Johnny found that when he buckled his old gun belt around his hips that morning, in preparation to go to town with Scott, the belt chafed at the scarred area on his hip. He was disappointed, but figured a few more days of putting up with the newer rig wouldn't kill him.

Before he put the gun belt away, Johnny fingered the gouge in the leather caused by the bullet his wife had shot at him. It had been close call and just the thought of Natalie firing a bullet in his direction still made him very angry.

He hadn't received any reply to his stilted letter to Natalie, the one he'd dictated to Teresa right after he'd been sidelined by the operation on his back, but it made little difference. Soon enough he'd be facing his wife once again, and this time, he hoped, they would be able to talk without trying to kill each other. Their discord had gone on long enough.

The Lancer brothers drove the buckboard into Green River, bought and loaded their supplies and did a few errands. Johnny made a trip to the telegraph office to send instructions to a supplier and then sauntered over to the gunsmith's shop to have an adjustment made to his Colt. He was wearing his now broken-in ranching clothes, and his old, familiar deerskin jacket. Underneath it he wore his shoulder holster.

When he was finished at the gunsmith's, Johnny met up with Scott in the large cantina across from the sheriff's office. By unspoken, mutual consent, they avoided the Moralto Hotel, the scene of the killings of Deputy Hansen and his murderer, Hal Granger. The shootout seemed a lifetime ago.

Scott bought a couple of beers at the cantina bar and told Johnny, "I stopped at the sheriff's office, but they said Val won't be in for another hour as far as they know. Let's eat and maybe by the time we're finished, he'll be back in town."

The brothers took a table at the back of the dining room and ordered a late lunch. The place wasn't busy as it was nearly siesta time, and although Scott nodded in recognition to a couple of the customers, he and Johnny kept to themselves. A few men drifted in and out of the cantina, but the whole town seemed to be almost asleep. After they were served their food, the only waitress in the place disappeared from sight, so Johnny had to go to the bar in the front room to purchase a bottle of tequila.

Johnny leaned against the bar with the tequila bottle before him, one boot on the foot rail, and waited for his change. He suddenly became aware of tension in the place. Without moving his head, from out of the corner of his eye, he saw the customer to his right back cautiously away from the bar, then hurriedly scuttle out the swing doors.

The bartender slapped some change on the countertop, then looked up and fixed his gaze on a point somewhere past Johnny's shoulder. Scowling, the man wiped his hands on his dirty apron and barked, "Salga de mi cantina! No quiero apuro adentro aquí. You take your trouble somewhere else, Junior!"

With a sinking feeling, Johnny knew two things for sure. One was that whoever was behind him was serious trouble. And two, he must be getting way too secure in his old age not to have kept his guard up. It looked like he may have just made his final mistake. Stupid, stupid, Johnny thought. Estúpido, usted debe haber estado más enterado.

Johnny could tell that Junior, whoever he might be, was close behind him, but the thought of spinning around and shooting was quickly dismissed as both dangerous and ill advised. Instead, Johnny very slowly reached out for the bottle of tequila with his right hand, surreptitiously pulled back the left breast of his jacket with the other and turned to face the unknown man.

Junior, it appeared, was Junior Granger. He so closely resembled the man who Johnny had shot to death in the Moralto Hotel's bar only a few weeks back that there was no mistaking the relationship. With his close-cropped light hair, heavy shoulders, and fresh face, Junior looked like a farm boy of no more than eighteen. But there was a mean look about his eyes that put Johnny's back up. Another bully. Just like Hal Granger. Great.

Junior stood no more than eight feet away, his legs braced as if expecting to be rushed, with one hand clenching and unclenching near his tied-down pistol. "You killed my Pa," he said in a menacing tone.

It took Johnny a second to decide which approach to take, and when he replied, he hoped fervently his choice of his line of attack was the right one. He slowly raised his hands, his right one clasped around the neck of the bottle of tequila, his left hand open. "He was your father? I'm sorry about that," Johnny said sincerely. "But Hal Granger had just murdered a deputy. A good fellow, I hear, who will be sorely missed. And your father was about to hurt some more innocent folks, son."

The young man's eyes widened a little, confused as much by Johnny's calm tone as by his frank words. "I don't care why you killed my Pa. I aim to make you pay for doin' it."

There was a slight movement to Johnny's right, and he sent a glance in that direction. In the doorway to the back room stood Scott, his hand dangerously near his gun. Johnny sent what he hoped was a look telling his brother to back off, and risked a slight jerk of his head to enforce his command. The last thing they needed was for this youth to think he was being crowded and begin shooting at everyone. Having a second chance at life, Johnny did not want to become this farm boy's victim. At this close a range, Junior was not likely to miss.

"All right," Johnny said agreeably. "Let's say you shoot me down. Then what?"

"Then what?" Junior was nonplussed.

"Then what? Are you going to take up the life of a pistolero?"

"No, I'm just gonna kill you." Junior blinked several times, perplexed. He couldn't figure out what the man was getting at. He aimed to kill the black-haired fellow with the big mustache and then go home to feed the hogs and do the rest of his chores before sundown.

Johnny shook his head as if disappointed. "Kill me and go home? I'm real sorry to say it doesn't work like that Junior. Besides, I'm not wearing a gun belt." He held his hands a little higher and when one of the front panels of his jacket swung aside, he hoped his holster wasn't showing.

Junior pointed his finger at Johnny's chest. "I heard about you. You got a hidden one in there. You used to be a gunfighter, but now you're a coward, that's what!"

Johnny stiffened and he could see out of the corner of his eye that the couple of men remaining in the cantina were running for the exit. Scott stood sideways in the doorway so as not to be too big a target, and slowly pulled his revolver from its holster. He held it out of sight, alongside his leg and kept a close eye on Junior.

With an effort, Johnny said offhandedly, "I'm going to overlook what you just said, Junior. Can I call you Junior?" Junior glowered at him and didn't reply, but he didn't make a move for his pistol, either, so Johnny continued. "I've been known to be proficient with my gun, and used it often. I'll admit that, but those times are long gone." Johnny raised the bottle of tequila in invitation. "How about you join me for a couple of drinks and we can talk about this, son? I know you don't really want to kill me. You're not that kind of man. Not like your old man, I can tell."

But Junior took exception to some or all of Johnny's words and his hand came down and pulled his revolver out of his holster surprisingly fast. At the same time, Johnny threw himself to one side, dropped the tequila and grabbed for his own gun. He had barely practiced during the past week, and had only been using the shoulder holster for a month or so. Later on Johnny deemed it miraculous that he not only drew his gun with respectable speed, but that his aim was pretty accurate.

Three deafening gunshots resounded throughout the cantina even before the tequila bottle smashed to the ground. Junior's bullet went wild and took out a whole shelf of bottles behind the bar, but Johnny's found its mark. So did Scott's. He'd aimed low and shot Junior through his calf. Junior fell to the barroom floor like a sack of potatoes, clutching at his shoulder and his leg at the same time, bellowing in pain.

Johnny promptly took a couple of paces forward and stepped hard on the fallen man's wrist, then bent down to relieve him of his gun. Scott checked out the fallen man, searching for other weapons, but found only a small knife. He tossed it aside. The brothers stood over Junior Granger, ignoring him as they exchanged glances. Johnny nodded his thanks and Scott replied as he holstered his revolver, "I'd say any time, brother, but I don't want to make a habit of this."

Johnny nodded. "It's enough to make a man avoid goin' in any cantina."

A couple of minutes later, Val appeared at the door, gun drawn. A look of relief swept over his face. "Can't you boys just come into town and then leave without causing a ruckus? You know, like regular folks do?"

Scott took a hold of Junior and heaved him to his feet, saying without guile to Val, "But we're not regular folks, Val." He grinned and slung one of Junior's arms around his neck. "We're Lancers, and since you're part of our family I'd think you'd be used to it by now. I think there's a jail cell with this fellow's name on it, don't you?"

"Whoa!" Johnny stopped his brother and Val from dragging Junior Granger out of the cantina. "Not so fast. I want a word with him. Sit him over there." He pointed towards the far corner of the dining room.

Scott looked skeptical. "Johnny. . ."

Val shouldered his way between Johnny and the injured man, who was moaning loudly. "Now, Johnny, I don't want to see you doin' nothing too stupid over this piece of garbage."

"I only want to talk with him," Johnny protested, but the way that Val cocked his eyebrow told him the sheriff didn't believe him.

Still held in Scott's firm grip, and obviously in a lot of pain, Junior rasped, "I don't wanna go with him! You can't let him take me! I need a doctor."

Val ignored the wounded man. "If you don't bring Junior over to the jail in five minutes, tops, I'm coming gunning for you, Lancer." Johnny grinned in response, so Val poked his chest with a finger and added, "And make sure he still has all his parts intact."

Scott and Johnny took Junior Granger into the back room and tossed him into a heavy wooden chair. Scott pulled up a second chair, placed a foot on the seat and leaned on his raised knee. "You better listen to what Johnny has to say, Mister, because I can't hold him back when he gets frustrated." He glanced over his shoulder at Johnny, who downed a glass of beer and slammed it on the table.

"I wanted a glass of tequila, that's all," Johnny complained to nobody in particular.

"Oh, I think my little brother's already frustrated," Scott warned. He pointed to blood leaking from Junior's leg and pooling on the barroom floor. "Besides, if you don't co-operate, he'll keep you here and from the way that leg is bleeding, well, I'd say you don't have much time."

Junior's right arm hung limply at his side. His left hand was pressing on his shoulder wound, and blood welled between his fingers. He looked at his injured leg, then from one of the Lancer men to the other, his eyes wide with apprehension.

Johnny took his time, but eventually sat on the edge of the table, close to the cowering young man. He pulled out his gun, which made Junior jerk back, but Johnny only held his weapon in his hand and inspected it. "You know what this is, Junior?"

"A gun," Junior replied, even though the moment the words were out of his mouth he knew that his response was incorrect. The dark man seated on the table leaned forward and the look in the cold, blue eyes made Junior shrink away.

Junior's father had been a harsh man, and had thrown his weight around with disregard for everyone. Hell, he had been just plain mean, but this Johnny Lancer was somehow worse than the old man. There was something in his eyes that showed he knew exactly what Junior was thinking, and that he meant business.

"No," Johnny said in a harsh voice. "This is not a gun. This is not only your future, but the future of every living being who you'll ever know. This gun, and how you use it, determines whether people live or die, and every piece of lead that comes out this barrel sets off a whole set of circumstances that are way beyond your control. The only thing you have any control over is whether or not you pull the trigger. Once you've done that. . ." Johnny's fingers ran across the cooling metal of his Colt. "If you'd killed me, and you'd gotten away with it, next thing you know, men would start to appear in town. They'd hear you're the fastest man with a gun in these parts and come to challenge you. You might be able to beat one or more of them if you're real lucky, but eventually one is gonna be faster than you, that's for sure. There's always someone out there who is faster than you are. These are men who'd have no compunction in shooting you down like a dog and letting you die with your guts spilling out all over the street. Do you understand that?"

From somewhere down deep, Junior did understand what Lancer was saying, but he didn't believe that anything like that would happen to him. He'd only intended to kill the bastard who had shot his father, who had also been a bastard, but even so, that didn't make killing the old man all right. "That won't happen to me. And even if they come after me, I'll face them down. I ain't scared! I'm a pretty good shot-."

Johnny grabbed a handful of Junior Granger's shirt and hauled the hefty young man out of the chair, ignoring the twinge in his back. Blood was soaking the wounded man's arm and it was dripping on the floor, but Johnny paid it no heed at all. "You listen to me, and you listen good. Once you start down that slippery slope, shooting one man out of revenge and the next out of self-defense, how long before you kill for no reason at all? You'll never be able to sleep the night through, ever again, never have friends, never have a wife, never have a family. Your home will be wherever you can hide out for one night, and you'll always be on the move. And when you get hurt, and believe me you will get hurt, again and again, there won't be anyone you can trust to dig lead out of you."

Releasing Junior, who slumped back in his chair, Johnny stood over him and sneered, "If you're unlucky enough to live as long as I have, every old bullet or knife wound in your body is gonna haunt you. If you live long enough, your body's gonna stiffen up so you feel like you're seventy when you've only lived thirty years. If you live to be thirty, that is."

Johnny returned his gun to its holster under his jacket. "Take my advice, boy, and straighten up now, otherwise it'll be the last advice you ever get." Johnny turned his back on the wounded man. "C'mon, Scott, let the sheriff clean up this mess."

Things went back to normal at Lancer, or as normal as they could be with Johnny's visit drawing to a close. In order to get some free time so he could spend it with his brother, Scott had to assign his own chores and even some responsibility to the ranch hands, which was not quite as terrible a sacrifice as he had expected it to be. This left him free to accompany Johnny on a picnic with Val and Teresa and the children along the Morro River as well as to spend one afternoon fishing together. Afterwards, Scott felt more relaxed and happier than he had for a long time.

On their way back from fishing, Scott stopped at the cabin that had been his and Jenny's hideaway. "Just a short detour," was all he told Johnny.

They dismounted and Johnny looked around the place curiously. He hadn't been near the cabin in years but it appeared pretty well maintained. Scott led the way inside and Johnny followed. Although the furnishings were nothing special, they were far more comfortable than any he'd seen in their line shacks. It didn't take Johnny long to realize the significance the cabin held for Scott. "Nice little place." He looked sideways at his blond brother and asked, "Good memories?"

Scott ran a hand over the stone fireplace and slowly smiled. "Yes. Good memories."

Johnny nodded. "That's good. Hang onto those, brother, so they don't fade."

Bowing his head, Scott replied in a quiet voice, "I will."

When they had mounted their horses and were on their way back to the hacienda, Scott asked, "Johnny, did you really mean what you said to Junior Granger?"

Johnny looked puzzled. "What part are you talking about?"

"I know you were just trying to put the fear of God into him, but you said some things. . . like how a man who picks up the gun can never have family or friends." He looked Johnny in the eye. "That you can't sleep the night through or trust anyone."

Settling his hat on his head, Johnny took a moment to reply. "Well, big brother, you know I never have trouble sleeping." He flashed a grin and urged Barranca into a canter.

Although Scott never again spoke to his brother about the lecture he'd given to Junior Granger, he reflected on it for some time. Johnny had obviously spoken from the heart about things he knew about all too well: hate, distrust, killing.

In the end Scott came to the conclusion that because Johnny did have a family and people he could trust, the things he'd said must have been just for show. A long time ago Johnny had followed that road that he'd described to Junior. He had picked up a gun and used it against men, and they had returned violence in kind. But somewhere along the journey, Johnny had found a way to veer off that downward path; somehow he'd been able to stop before he became a man who killed for no reason at all. Scott hoped above all else that he had been a part of that significant change, and that when Johnny reunited with their father and found a safe haven in Lancer, that it enabled him to finally walk in peace.

Johnny found at times he had to concentrate in order to walk without a limp, especially when he was tired, or had just dismounted, but generally there was little evidence of the physical and mental trauma he had been through. Every day he felt more like his old self.

Scott had to spend time working around the ranch, and although he didn't press his brother to join him, Johnny pitched in. He assisted the vaqueros when they needed an extra man to herd some unbroken horses into a makeshift corral, and was recovered enough to work a winch alongside one of the hands to raise some heavy planking up to the loft of the barn.

Scott thought wryly that his brother would not have been so eager to help out if Murdoch had been out there telling his sons what to do. Johnny would have balked at taking orders, most likely falling into the old patterns. Scott knew how he felt. One thing his brother's visit had done was to open his eyes a bit. Once Johnny had left, Scott decided he'd sit down with Murdoch and talk out his problems, especially concerning the way the ranch was being run. If he didn't speak up soon, things could very well revert to the unhappy state in which Johnny had found them some weeks earlier, and he couldn't live like that again.

When Johnny and Scott returned to the hacienda at the end of each day and sat around in the great room with their father and sometimes Val, their talk was genial despite a couple of heated discussions over politics. But they managed to come out of them, if not with mutual understanding, at least with added respect for each other.

It seemed to be a good time in their lives, each finding some promise in the future, but to Scott it was bittersweet. He was painfully aware that once Johnny was gone, he was going to have an empty space in his heart.

And Johnny, although he never said anything about his feelings, knew in his gut that he longed to remain at Lancer. So much so that it hurt.

Neither man spoke up.

After another tough but satisfying morning working with some of the stock alongside Murdoch, Johnny returned to the house with his father for a bite to eat. They were no sooner inside than one of the hands called out, "Rider comin'!" Johnny stepped back out and stood beside Murdoch and waited to see who it was.

"Don't know him," said Murdoch.

Neither did Johnny, but once the rider came closer, it was clear that he was not bringing trouble. Plain in appearance and clothing, with no gun in sight, the man looked like some kind of clerical worker.

The fellow pulled his horse in and identified himself. "Franklin J. Pierson of Pierson, Handley and Dickerson. Attorneys." He looked enquiringly from one man to the other and asked, "Mr. John Vicente Lancer?"

Johnny stepped forward. "That's me." He knew full well why the lawyer had come all the way out to the ranch, and had been half-expecting him. "Step on down, Mr. Pierson, and come in." Johnny turned to his father. "We'll need to use your corner of the great room."

Murdoch nodded. Whatever the lawyer's business was with Johnny, it was of a private nature, so he excused himself and took off for the barn. He hoped that his son would seek him out once the lawyer was gone and fill him in on what was going on, but his expectation of becoming Johnny's confidante was not very high; Johnny was a private man. Murdoch chuckled to himself; like father, like son.

***–***TBC