Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
Chapter 3 (Words: 2,808)
Johnny grabbed his things and slipped unseen through the side gate into the alley. With his saddle bags and rifle over his left shoulder and his right hand hanging casually near his Colt, he sauntered onto the street. There were a few people out and about now, and a wagon parked in front of Emilio and Luisa's general store.
"Hey, kid, you seen Señor Flores?" A soldier leaning against the side of the empty wagon stood upright and stubbed out his cigarette. "He promised he would have our supplies ready."
"Dunno Flores. I just cut through the alley." Johnny pulled his hat down to shade his face and kept walking towards the centre of town. The soldier started banging on the shop door, shouting for Emilio to open up.
The street was busier than Johnny remembered it. Once upon a time businesses and houses were separated by empty lots along this end, but now the Flores place was one of the few houses not turned over to other purposes, and there was no unused land. The general store had expanded into what Johnny thought had once been a basket maker's, and an extension with double doors had been built on at that end—probably storage. The gap between the carpenter and the blacksmith was filled by a saddlery shop, and another new building had an assayer's shingle swinging outside.
Once he was clear of the general store no one took much notice of him, and he didn't feel he had to try so hard. So what if people in town already knew about Johnny Madrid's gunfight with Cole? No one knew his name. He looked like a hundred other saddle bums, and he hadn't been to El Paso del Norte for what—four years at least? He'd get a few things and move on. Who needed family anyway? He'd done all right since Mama died. And he didn't need Luisa to tell him his father's first name either. There couldn't be too many ranchers called Lancer.
"Madrid!"
Johnny turned swiftly with gun in hand. Maldita sea. So much for no one knowing his name.
"Whoa there. It's only me." Alberto raised his arms and waited for Johnny to holster his Colt.
Johnny shrugged. "Sorry." The news about his reputation was making him a little edgy.
"You're fast, amigo." Alberto fell into step beside him.
"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to have anything to do with me, remember?" Damn, that sounded like he cared.
"That's why I called you Madrid. I can't admit you're a blood relative or someone I know well. But a man can have a drink with a stranger who asks directions, sí?"
Johnny ducked his head and smiled. He had always liked Alberto. He was the afterthought of Luisa and Emilio's family, only two years older than Johnny, and they had had some good times together. "Sí. Gracias."
Alberto took him to a cantina at the south end of the main street. "You are less likely to bump into my brother or sister here."
It was still early and the cantina was almost deserted. The tabernero was washing glasses behind a bar made from barrels and planks. It was time he changed the water.
"Hola, dos cervezas, amigo." Alberto tossed a coin on the bar and the barkeeper began to pour beer from a large keg. "This fella here is new in town. He needs a cheap bed for tonight. Do you have anything?"
"Cuatro reales if he doesn't mind sharing, and Manuel is willing to share with him."
"Who's Manuel?" Johnny looked about the room.
Alberto nodded towards a large youth sitting in the far corner fixing a stool. "He's all right. We were at school together."
"Fine by me." Johnny took his beer to a table. As he sat down, he glanced over at the corner again and Manuel stood up. Hell, he was a big son of a bitch. Wasn't wearing a gun though, and Alberto said he was harmless. "You ask him."
Alberto set his beer down opposite Johnny and headed across the room. "Hola, Manuel. Long time —you're doing a good job." He slapped his friend on the back.
"Alberto!" Manuel stopped checking his repairs and grabbed Alberto in a bear hug, lifting him clear off the floor.
"Put me down, amigo. I have something for you." Once his feet touched the ground, Alberto pulled a candy from his pocket. "Here."
Manuel popped the barley sugar straight into his mouth. "Gracias, Alberto."
Then Alberto ushered Manuel over to Johnny. "Manuel, this is Johnny Madrid. Are you okay if he shares your room tonight?"
"Si, Alberto. I will look after him." Manuel grinned broadly and offered a meaty hand, nearly shaking Johnny's arm out of its socket. He showed him where to dump his stuff and then went back to work.
Johnny went back to his beer. "So is it Alejandro or Tomás getting married?"
"Alejandro. He is now part-owner and manager of a big, fancy hotel near the river. With my parents support he has gone up in the world. Even the great and powerful Don Ricardo Ortega thinks so."
Ortega was the largest landowner in the area. Alejandro had achieved a lot for the son of a shopkeeper. Johnny tried to recall what his cousin was like, but Alejandro had been so much older, and when Johnny had visited as a child he had been out working most of the time. He was just a shadowy figure who wore a suit and smelled kind of flowery.
"Is she pretty?" Johnny grinned as his eyes followed a saloon girl to the bar. Damn, he wished he had more dinero.
Alberto laughed. "As pretty as respectable money can buy. She's pleasant enough. Alejandro could do worse. Estefania married a fat businessman twice her age."
"And Tomás?" Estefania was another face that was blurry, but Johnny remembered Tomás. Most clearly, he remembered him out the back of the livery. His cousin had just come home on leave. He dumped his knapsack on the ground, stood and watched for a while, and then hauled two bigger boys off Johnny's back. Shoot, no one else Johnny knew at the time could fight like that; one kid probably couldn't piss straight for a week. Tomás had shown Johnny some of his moves later—and taught him a few new words into the bargain.
"He is still in the army."
"Which one?"
"Very funny, cousin. Don't even joke about such things here. You must know El Paso del Norte supports the republic and Juárez."
Johnny nodded, enjoying his beer and the conversation. "I remember how proud your father was when Tomás joined up."
"Papa will always be a soldier at heart. You should have seen him earlier this year when Tomás made captain. He strutted around town like a rooster."
Johnny smiled. It must be nice to have someone care so much. "And you help your parents?"
"Si. I will take over the shop one day if I do not follow Tomás into the army."
"Is Emperor Maximilian that bad? I heard he'd done some good things."
"He could be worse, but the Mexican people don't want to be ruled by European aristocrats anymore."
Johnny shrugged. "Well, I'm not much for politics. Whoever's in charge, I wish the Flores family good fortune."
"I will drink to that, amigo." Grinning, Alberto raised his glass, and then in a quieter voice he added, "I'm sorry my parents will not let you stay."
"I'll do fine. I'm not used to being cooped up in one place too long anyways. You know that." Johnny sipped at his beer. A chance one day to find out what it was like would be nice, but hey, he'd half expected he wouldn't be welcome now Mama was gone. Luisa's first words and embrace had meant a lot. "I don't suppose you know my father's name?"
Alberto shook his head. It had been worth a try.
His cousin drained his glass and banged it down on the table. "I'm off. Take care of yourself."
Johnny leaned back on his chair, lifting the front legs slightly off the floor as he watched Alberto bid the tabernero a casual goodbye and stroll out the door. What would it be like?
Shoot, he must be going soft in the head. He rocked forward again and got to his feet. He would never get a chance to find out, and who gave a shit anyway? He'd be bored to tears working in a shop. Downing his beer, he headed for his room to fetch his spare shirt.
He'd spotted a laundry on the way to the cantina. It was tucked down one of the side alleys. A young woman with shiny black hair tied tight back in a bun was scrubbing wet clothes against a washboard when he arrived. A girl no more than twelve stirred a steaming cauldron with a poss-stick, and an old woman hurled orders in Chinese as she pressed a nightdress with a flat iron. Her squawking stopped when she saw Johnny at the entrance to the shack.
The younger woman came to greet him, bowing low like he was someone important. "Can I help you, señor?"
"Ma'am." Johnny tipped his hat and held out his shirt. "I've sewn up the hole, but I couldn't get all the blood out. Can you do it?" He couldn't afford the price of a new one. "I need it done today."
"Honourable gentleman leave shirt with Huan two hour." She took the garment and bowed again.
Johnny bent awkwardly in reply, and then carried on to visit the gunsmith. He would need ammunition soon enough. Not to face Lancer; that was a long way off. The memory of how he'd felt after shooting Cole was still fresh; it hadn't been what he'd expected, and it was too soon to feel like that again. He'd told Luisa the truth; for now, he just wanted to know more about the man he hated. But his reputation was growing. He needed to prepare for the idiots, and he needed to hire out his gun while people were still whispering his name. Not every job would provide bullets.
His belt refilled, and boxes of ammunition for the Colt and rifle in a brown paper bag under his arm, he crossed the street and waited while the cobbler repaired a hole in his boot. He'd have to buy a new pair soon; his toes were touching the ends.
When he got back to the cantina the aroma of tamales and beans drew him to the bar. After he offloaded his purchases, he slid a coin towards the barkeeper and started piling food onto a tin plate as another beer was poured. "Is there a bath house near here?" Two weeks in the saddle and sleeping rough could make a man ripe, and thanks to Emilio pointing it out, even Johnny was catching the odd whiff.
"Second left as you head towards the river." The tabernero placed the beer down in front of him and picked up the coin. He bit it and then swapped it for two smaller ones from a box behind him.
"Gracias." Johnny slipped the change into his pocket and sat down at the same table as before.
There were a lot more customers now. He dug into his meal and watched four young men play cards by the window. From their clothes and the snippets of conversation he overheard, Johnny guessed they didn't do a lot of work for a living. They were the layabout sons of wealthy men; it was all right for some.
At the end of a round Manuel went to clear the empty glasses from the card table. Something was said that Johnny didn't hear, and then a man referred to by the others earlier as Silva grabbed at Manuel's apron string. The garment fell to the floor.
Manuel bent to pick it up. Another man in the group winked at his friends and put his boot into Manuel's rear end, sending him staggering forward. The bastards slapped their knees and heehawed like mules.
"Hey, Manuel, watch you don't fall over your big feet. You nearly spilled slops on me."
"I am sorry, Señor Montero." Manuel tried to get away, but Silva jumped up and blocked his path.
Montero, the clear leader of the little gang, stood up too and knocked a near empty glass onto the floor. Broken glass and dregs of beer splattered the timber boards. "Oops, that was clumsy of you, Manuel. Better clean it up fast before you lose your job."
Chewing his last mouthful, Johnny looked towards the tabernero, but the barkeeper had turned his back. Gazing around, Johnny saw his fellow customers were also ignoring the ruckus. Who were these guys? They didn't look more than a group of loud-mouths to Johnny, about the same age as Alberto and Manuel, maybe a little older, but they obviously had some kind of clout.
Manuel got down on one knee and tried to pick up the larger shards, but Montero booted him again, and Manuel fell hard on his right hand.
Johnny wiped his knife on his napkin and stuck it back in his boot. He began to push his chair out from the table. Nope, keep your head down, you fool. He made do with moving it around a little so he was facing what was going on. Then he leaned back and slid his left hand up his glass, fingering the top edge. With luck the game was over.
But the mongrels wouldn't let up. Montero started throwing peanuts at Manuel as the others sniggered into their drinks. Dammit, don't get involved. But he couldn't walk away, and when Montero nearly took Manuel's eye out with a nut, he couldn't watch any longer either. "That's enough."
Montero turned. Stepping forward, he eyed Johnny as though he was something nasty on the bottom of his boot. Then he tossed a peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth, smirking as he chewed. "You got something to say, mestizo?"
Still on his knees behind Montero, Manuel shook his head and mouthed the word 'no'.
Johnny returned Montero's gaze. After a few seconds, he sighed, finished his beer and got to his feet. Slouching slightly, he rested his hand on his gun and gave Montero and friends time to take in his appearance. "You've had your fun. Let him go."
Montero grinned and adjusted his stance to match Johnny's. "Do you hear that? This bad hombre says we should let the dummy go."
The other men laughed, but one of them ambled around to whisper in Montero's ear.
"My amigo wants to know where you got that fancy rig, mestizo. I say you stole it."
Johnny didn't reply. He just smiled and kept on looking at Montero.
Sucking a cut on the side of his hand, Manuel started to get to his feet. "It's all right, Johnny."
Montero put his hand on Manuel's shoulder and forced him to stay down. Then he looked back at Johnny and spat into the sawdust. "You heard him. He's happy scrambling around on the floor."
"He's hurt. Let him up."
"I think it's time you learnt who's in charge here, muchacho." Montero went for his gun.
"And who might that be?" Johnny pointed his Colt at the Mexican's belly; he had hardly moved. To be fair, neither had Montero, but his Remington hadn't cleared its holster.
Montero stared down the barrel of Johnny's gun and moistened his lips.
Relaxed and even—if he was truthful —enjoying the game, Johnny waited for Montero to answer.
But he was too slow.
Johnny got bored. "Let him up."
Montero glanced left and right and then with a flick of his hand, backed off. He and his friends retreated, knocking over a few chairs on their way past. But when he got to the door Montero looked back. "I won't forget this, mestizo."
Johnny touched his hat.
"Cabrón!" Montero broke eye contact and left.
The tabernero came out from behind the bar to close the door, and the other customers began talking again as if nothing had happened.
Holstering his gun, Johnny offered Manuel a hand up. "You okay?"
"Si. Gracias, Johnny, but you shouldn't have done that. Vicente Montero's papá is a big man in El Paso del Norte. He owns this cantina."
"You worry too much, amigo." Johnny clapped his roommate on the shoulder, hoping he hadn't lost Manuel his job. If he had forfeited his own bed for the night, so be it; he'd sneak back and sleep in the straw again next to Pícaro. "What's Señor Montero going to do; run me out of town? I'm leaving tomorrow anyways."
Notes:
1. This story is the sequel to Hate. Like Hate, it has its roots in The Beginning and From Highlands to Homecoming. All of these stories are back stories for characters created by Samuel A. Peeples for the TV series Lancer.
2. El Paso del Norte is the old name for Ciudad Juarez, Mexico.
3. Several Spanish swear words appear in this story. You will recognize them from their context, but for those who want to know their precise meaning, here is a list in no particular order: cállate (shut up); pendejo (coward/dickhead/idiot); largarse (bugger off); mierda (fuck/shit); cabrón (bastard/asshole); maldita sea (damn).