Chapter Eleven

Sam heard his name being called from the front room. When he walked out, he was met by Sheriff Val Crawford, battered and dusty hat in hand.

"Val," Sam greeted with surprise. "I thought you were out of town until tomorrow."

"That was the plan, but I came back early. The whole trip was a dang waste of time."

Hesitating only slightly, Val switched subjects, his expression changing from frustration over his apparently failed trip to sadness at what he had returned to find. "Ron told me there was a shootout in town, and the Lancers were involved. He also said Scott was injured. How is he?"

"Not good, Val. Not good at all," the doctor replied quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

Val nodded, understanding the reason for Sam's softer voice. "Sorry to hear that. Johnny in there with 'im?" He really knew the answer to that question before he asked it, even if he hadn't heard the sound of his friend's spurs moving up and down the room. Johnny wouldn't be anywhere else.

"Yes. He's pacing around the room like a caged animal."

"I hate to bother 'im at a time like this, but I got three dead bodies at Mosley's, and I need answers before I can put things in order," Val declared to a sad-faced Sam Jenkins.

"I'll send him out, though I'm not sure he'll leave Scott. You may have to go in there, if you expect to question him," Sam advised the sheriff. "Not that he'll be in the mood to do much talking."

Val hoped that Johnny would agree to come out and talk to him here. He didn't want to question his young friend while staring at Scott, who he inferred from Sam could possibly be dying. Val closed his eyes. God, he hoped that didn't happen. Scott was a good man, a good friend, and his death would devastate Johnny, who had finally found the brother he had once told Val he had longed for since he was a child.

Sam disappeared inside, leaving the sheriff to do some pacing of his own in the waiting room.

"Johnny, Val's here to talk to you about the gunfight."

"I heard him. Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

When Sam left to deliver the message, Johnny placed his hand on Scott's good shoulder. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Scott." With a steely-eye glare, he said, "Don't you dare leave me while I'm gone." With that heartfelt command, he slowly walked out of the room.

When Val heard Johnny approach, he turned to face the young ex-gunfighter. "Sorry 'bout Scott," he stated sympathetically.

"Thanks, Val," Johnny replied. His eyes strayed toward the room where his brother lay fighting for his life.

"Not a good time, I know," Val declared before plunging on, "but I need to know what happened out there. Been talk all over town, different versions of events, as you might expect. For some strange reason, folks don't ever agree on what they see, even when they're lookin' at the same thing. I need ta hear the story straight, and I know you'll give it that way."

Johnny wasn't in the mood to retell the events that ended with his brother in such a dire condition, but he knew Val had to do his job. Like ranching, you couldn't put things off just because they were inconvenient.

He sat down on the edge of one of the cushioned chairs Sam had in the room for people waiting to hear about their friends or loved ones being treated. However, Johnny couldn't stay still long enough to even begin the story. He stood up and paced to the end of the room, turned and came back again, stopping in front of the Green River sheriff.

Ten minutes later, the youngest Lancer had finished the detailed story from the time when the Flemings first approached him and Scott at their wagon to the point where they had brought Scott here. Johnny couldn't bring himself to talk about the surgery, not that it really had anything to do with what Val required, but his emotions on that subject were just too raw.

Val listened without saying a word. He would let his distraught young friend get through the narration and then ask whatever questions still needed answering.

When it became clear that Johnny had finished his story, Val said, "I know you knew Pony Deal. I did, too. Sneaky son-of-a-bitch, as I recall. But, those brothers, the Flemings. Neither you nor Scott knew either of 'em, right?" Johnny had said as much, but, knowing Johnny's past, Val wanted to be sure he got that part right.

Johnny nodded. "Never saw them before they came up to us while we were loadin' the wagon."

He looked at Val forlornly. "They wanted to be known as the men who killed Johnny Madrid. Then, once they were dead, Pony decided now was the time to get it for himself. He's dead, too, Scott's hurt bad and me? Well, I'm just fine."

There was so much bitterness in Johnny's voice, that Val decided not to even try to give the not-your-fault lecture he had given on more than one occasion, when Johnny had been called out. Later maybe he'd talk to him like a Dutch Uncle. Still, considering the way Johnny was talking, he couldn't just not say anything. His friend was miserable. "So you think all this is your fault."

"Well hell, Val, wouldn't you, in my place?"

"You told Scott to stay out of it." Val knew he was taking a chance saying those words, because it sounded like he was blaming Scott for getting hurt.

When Johnny rounded on him, mouth open to protest just that, Val held both hands up in surrender. "I meant no offense, John. I'm not saying Scott is at fault, either, only that he made his choice to help you."

"Sam said the same thing," Johnny muttered.

"Then best you listen to your elders. Me 'n' Sam both understand that he wanted to protect you, even though you never want that. It's part of havin' a big brother that loves you. Best you understand that, 'cause he ain't gonna be changin' in that regard."

"You know, Val, I'll take all the protectin' he wants to give me. I wouldn't say a word, if he just lives, so he can keep on doin' it."

By now, Johnny was staring down, studying his dusty, bloodstained boots. Seeing his brother's blood on them, as well as his clothes, made him groan.

Val stepped forward and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and gave it a little shake. "He'll be all right, Johnny. Sam'll see to that."

"Sam don't know what's gonna happen. He said so, Val. He just don't know if Scott will make it through this."

Val couldn't argue that point, so he just kept quiet, feeling somewhat helpless. It wasn't a feeling he liked having, no matter the reason for it.

After a few minutes of silence, Val finally said, "I guess I got enough information to get started on the paperwork. I'll talk to you again, if I need more. And, I'll sure check on Scott." Seeing the solemn look on Johnny's face get even more morose, he asked, "Can I do anything for ya?"

Johnny started to shake his head and then remembered. "Yeah, Val. Can you send someone to Lancer and tell Murdoch about Scott? I'll face him myself with whose fault it was when the time comes. No need to let someone else get the full force of the old man's fury at me."

Val shook his head at Johnny's continued determination to take the blame. Nothing to be done about that now. "Sure, Johnny. I'll send Matt."

Johnny looked up. "No. Not Matt. He saw the whole thing, and there's no way he can withstand Murdoch when he's bound and determined to to know somethin'. Send someone who didn't actually see what happened. You'll know what to tell them to say."

"All right, Johnny. I'll do it your way. I don't envy Murdoch the trip into town he'll be makin', no matter how little he'll be told."

"Yeah," Johnny agreed. "I wish I could take that away from him. He's gonna be miserable, worryin' about Scott. Gettin' here and findin' out the truth of what happened. And, Scott's condition ain't gonna make it any easier, either."

Vall turned and left Sam's office. He knew dark times were ahead for the Lancers, and there was nothing he could do about it. Seeking justice from the law was not possible. Planting the culprits on Boot Hill might give them a measure of satisfaction but only if Scott survived.

As Val left, Johnny turned and went back into the room where Scott lay. Sam had cleaned up the blood and taken Scott's bloody clothes off of him. Johnny shivered at the pale skin of his brother. It had barely more color in it than the clean sheet he was lying on. A small pillow rested under Scott's head.

The dark-haired young man pulled up the only chair in the room and sat down. His face was devoid of emotion, but inside his stomach was churning, and his heart was twisting. He leaned back, his eyes glued on his brother. His only consolation was that Scott's face showed no signs of pain. However, it also showed no signs of life.

x x x x x

Murdoch Lancer sat at his huge desk. He had been working on the ledgers ever since his sons had left for Green River with the supply wagon that morning.

Now, he sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He knew better than to keep going once the numbers began to blur enough to run together. Pushing through only meant mistakes would be made, and he would have to go back and make corrections, a frustrating task at the best of times, an anger-inducing one at the worst.

A ranch this size depended on accurate and meticulous bookkeeping. He was very conscientious about it. So was Scott. His oldest son's ability with the books had made itself clear the first time he had put his hand to it. Murdoch knew that as Harlan Garrett's grandson, Scott would have learned the accounting business. Still, that hadn't guaranteed he would be good at it.

It had been a pleasant surprise to learn that Scott was not only good with numbers but excelled at managing every aspect of the ranch's records. He had even come up with some time-saving, not to mention hair- saving, ways of doing the more tedious parts of keeping records.

Murdoch smiled. His firstborn had turned out to be a surprise in other ways, as well. He may have inherited Harlan's business sense and work ethic, but thank God, not his ruthless, win-at-all-costs attitude. Catherine may not have been able to give their son the hands-on love of a mother, but she still had given Scott a thoughtful nature and a generous heart, not to mention intelligence, stubbornness and strength of character. Murdoch wasn't sure how much of any of those things Scott had inherited from him.

Murdoch took a long breath and let it out slowly. Despite the heartache of years of separation, Murdoch loved thinking about his sons. He had now had them home for two years, almost to the day. He was still learning to be a father, and he guessed he would be doing so until the day he died.

Suddenly, he became aware of a strange feeling, as it began to creep over him. It was almost as if a cold hand had placed itself over his heart. He shook himself at the chill it gave him. He wasn't one to have visions or dreams that predicted events about to occur. He didn't believe in such things. Well, there was the eerily accurate things that the Widow Blanchard sometimes offered up, but there had to be some logical explanation for that, though he couldn't for the life of him think of what that could possibly be.

Murdoch got up and went over to the sideboard and poured himself a shot of whiskey. Maybe the bracing liquor would banish these crazy thoughts. Why had a sudden feeling of doom come over him? It was ridiculous. He must have been listening too much to Jelly and his talk of aching elbows or something. But, even Jelly's elbows were often more right than not.

The Lancer patriarch shook his head. Well, neither Jelly nor the Widow Blanchard had made any gloomy predictions for the near future that he knew of. He must be getting daft in his old age. Yet, the feeling of impending disaster continued to trouble him. He needed to get his mind back on the more mundane task of balancing the books. That usually sorted him out in short order.

He downed his whiskey in one gulp and went back to his desk. He picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink well and had it poised over the page he had been working on.

That's when he heard the urgent knocking at the door.

TBC