Intervention by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)
Chapter Fourteen (Words: 4,046)
They arrived in El Paso del Norte at dusk, trailing two horses with four bodies draped over their backs. Johnny had ridden back to recover his hat and the fourth bandit. It was hard to tell if the bullet had killed the man or he had just broken his neck when he fell. Either way, his horse was long gone, and Johnny didn't have time to look for it.
The weary travellers went straight to the office of the Guardia Rural. Johnny accompanied Señor Mendoza inside, but he left most of the explaining to him. Only Señor Mendoza gave a written statement, and afterwards the sergeant on duty sent a guard out to deal with the bodies.
"Oh, I nearly forgot. I was asked to give you this." Mendoza extracted a letter from his inside pocket.
The sergeant opened the envelope and checked the signature. "From Capitán Flores. Is he well?"
"Sí, last I saw of him."
"Hmm, so the prisoners Gonzalez, Rodriguez and Leon are dead. No great loss." The sergeant finished reading the first page and turned it over. "And Manuel Ruiz has enlisted." Dropping the letter onto the blotter on his desk, he pulled a file from the cabinet behind him before looking over at Johnny. "You Madrid?"
"Sí." Johnny straightened.
"I want you out of town by tomorrow evening."
What was it with sergeants? Were they all jerks? "You have my things."
The sergeant smiled. "I don't think so. You just get on your way."
"I ain't going nowhere without my guns and clothes." Johnny stepped forward ready to fight for what was his, but Señor Mendoza got between him and the desk.
He held up a hand. "Leave this to me." And then turned towards the sergeant. "Capitán Flores asked me to make sure Madrid's belongings were returned to him. He said they would be here."
The sergeant cut the end of a panatela and lit it. Leaning back in his chair, he put his feet up on an open drawer, and blew smoke into the air. "Well, maybe el capitán was mistaken."
Señor Mendoza removed his wallet. Taking out some money, he placed it down on the desk. "Perhaps you could check."
The sergeant sat up. He glanced at the banknote and then looked calmly at Mendoza. "Perhaps." The merchant placed another note next to the first. The sergeant picked up the money and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. "Wait here." He disappeared through the door to the cells and storage areas.
Cabrón! Hands on hips, Johnny scowled at his boots.
"It is the way of the world, Madrid." Mendoza took out his cigar case and snipped the end of a fresh cigar while they waited. He didn't offer Johnny one, but Johnny gave him a small smile to acknowledge his help. He was grateful even though he was pretty sure the money would come out of his wages.
"You're in luck, gringo." The sergeant came back into the office, holding a calico bag high.
Johnny snatched it from him and emptied the contents onto the desk. His rig and the clothes he had worn to the bath house were there, even his boots and spurs. The few reales he'd had left were gone. "Where's my rifle and saddle bags?"
"Where did you leave them?" The sergeant sneered and pulled open the door to the street. "That's all we have here. Now get out." Johnny and Mendoza moved towards the door. "Remember, Madrid, you're gone from this town by dusk tomorrow or I throw you back in jail." He locked the door behind them.
"I think the sargento is overdue for his supper, and it's making him fractious, Madrid. Either that or he doesn't like you very much. Shame; I was hoping to keep you around for a little longer." Señor Mendoza reached for the carriage door. "Never mind, you can see us to our hotel and stay in my employ until morning."
Johnny touched his hat. Well, it could be worse.
He and Julio unloaded what the Mendozas wanted for their evening in town at the Hotel Rio Grande while Señor Mendoza sent a message to his relatives at the Estancia Vargas. "I have asked my wife's brother to send men to escort us out to the rancho in the morning. Bring the carriage back here at eleven o'clock."
Johnny and Julio drove down the street to the livery and then found a boarding house nearby. The housekeeper offered them supper, and Johnny went to bed tired but happy, a large serving of cabrito en salsa inside him.
In the morning, he woke to the sound of the bedroom door opening.
"I didn't mean to wake you, muchacho." Julio stood in his stocking feet, holding his boots. "Go back to sleep. I will clean the carriage on my own this morning. I'll see you at breakfast." He closed the door behind him.
Never turn down a good offer; Johnny shut his eyes again, but the sun was streaming through the thin cotton curtains, and his limbs ached from hanging off the side of the coach the day before. With a grunt, he gave up and swung his legs out of bed.
After brushing his calzoneras and boots he squeezed into them. Shoot, they were tight. Shifting the Derringer to his jacket pocket helped, but he'd have to buy new pants before he split a seam. His belt and gun belt had to be let out a notch. He sniffed the shirt he'd washed at the bath house. Crumpled, but the best of a bad lot; he put it on and stuffed the others back into the calico bag. Boy, it felt good to be dressed in his own clothes again, even if his hat was the only thing that still fit like it did before.
"Guess that means my head hasn't got any bigger." He leaned back and pulled the hat over his eyes to shut out the sun as Julio drove the carriage back to the hotel. "Mind you, some folks might disagree."
Julio laughed and hopped down from the box. He went to tell the desk clerk they were there.
Johnny waited outside, leaning against a post near the rear of the carriage, turning his hat in his hands, trying to get it back into shape. It had been soaked and flattened at the bath house during the fight, but even battered and water stained, it was better than the straw sombrero he'd been wearing. Maybe he'd replace it after his next job. He couldn't afford to do it now even if Señor Mendoza paid up in full, and thanks to the Rurales sergeant that wasn't likely.
Within a few minutes of this not-so-happy thought, Mendoza emerged from the hotel lobby, followed by Julio, and dropped a small pouch into Johnny's hand. "Your money, Madrid." He'd paid him in coin; that was a bonus. "Thank you for your service. You turned out to be all right in the end."
Johnny tipped the money into his hand—a twenty dollar American gold piece and as much again in Mexican coins. Not a lot for three weeks riding shotgun, but exactly what Tomás had written down. "Gracias."
"My wife wishes me to extend her thanks for saving her jewels. I thank you for saving our lives." Mendoza offered his hand. "If you are in Culiacán again look me up. I'm sure I could find a use for your skills."
Astounded, Johnny gripped the man's hand. "I'll do that."
"Good luck." Señor Mendoza nodded and went back into the hotel.
"Whooee, I didn't expect that."
"Señor Mendoza can be a stiff shirt, but he is a fair employer." Julio smiled and shook hands with Johnny too. Then the escort from the Estancia Vargas arrived, and he went inside to fetch the Mendozas.
Johnny strolled south along the main street, relieved that he hadn't bumped into 'Sr. A. Flores, Manager'. He'd seen the name written in fancy gold lettering on a polished wooden plaque on a door off the lobby when he and Julio unloaded the luggage the night before. Chances were his cousin wouldn't recognize him after so many years, but it was better not to test the theory. Johnny stayed on the boardwalk away from the entrance until he got paid, and fortunately, Alejandro didn't come out.
Johnny didn't want to risk trouble at the cantina where he had left his gear either. It looked peaceful, but he stood in the shadows of the alleyway opposite and watched the comings and goings for a good half an hour. Then he entered with caution, sidestepping as soon as he got through the door. Keeping his back to the wall, he looked around the room, and only went up to the bar when he was sure there was no danger of another fracas with the likes of Vicente Montero and friends.
"Remember me?"
"Sí." The tabernero put down the cloth he was using to polish glasses and glanced between Johnny and the door.
"Manuel says you can keep anything he left here—he's stayin' with the army—but I left a rifle and saddle bags, and I want them back."
"I do not have them. Alberto Flores said he would look after them for you until you returned. I let him take them."
"Fair enough. In that case I'll just have a beer." Johnny tossed a coin onto the counter. The barkeeper hesitated, and Johnny raised an eyebrow. The man moistened his lips, his eyes flickering to Johnny's guns before he turned a glass upright, uncorked a bottle, and began to pour.
Amused, Johnny took his drink and some food from the other end of the counter and sat down. He needed to weigh up what to do next. He had always intended to go back to his cousins, but there was something else he wanted to do before he left town. He was too early though so he decided to check on Pícaro and his other belongings first.
An hour later he strode along the street feeling much more his old self, but passers-by seemed to be giving him a wide berth. Maybe it was the LeMat stuck into his belt as well as the Colt on his hip, or maybe his reputation had grown in his absence. Clearly the townsfolk knew what he was, even if they weren't sure who he was.
"Señorita." He touched his hat politely as he gave way to a young woman, who walked straight out of a drapery store without looking.
"Oh" The young woman backed away. The draper opened the door behind her, and she escaped into the shop again.
Dang, Johnny scratched his head as the door shut; he didn't want to be that scary.
He carried on to the general store, not feeling quite as cheerful. He slipped inside and pretended to examine peaches in a basket near the door until his eyes got used to the dimmer light. Alberto was serving a vaquero at the counter. Emilio was refilling shelves with cookware along the back wall. Both stopped what they were doing as soon as they saw him. Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, the customer snatched up his tobacco and left.
"Johnny, you're back." Alberto grinned broadly. He went first to lock the door and then came to greet him. "How is my big brother? Did he treat you well?"
"Sí, gracias. You would both be very proud." Johnny let Alberto embrace him, but kept his eyes on Emilio.
"Your horse and gear are in the stable. Some supplies too." Emilio turned his back and continued restocking.
"I owe you for Pícaro's keep. And I'd like to speak with Luisa again."
"No."
"I want…"
"I know what you want, and she will not give it to you." Emilio put another pot on the shelf and faced Johnny again. "She made a promise to your mamá, and she is determined to keep it. I will not have you upset her."
"You tell me then."
Emilio's lips formed a thin, firm line. He stared back at Johnny—no give at all.
"I still need to pay you. I have money now."
"I don't want your money."
"I earned it honestly."
"You earned it by killing. I have eyes and ears in this town. Four bandidos against one pistolero, a lame driver and a man who wouldn't know one end of a gun from another. Your reputation again precedes you, Johnny Madrid, and I do not want my family tarnished by it."
"I must pay. I owe you money from before and for the supplies." Johnny dug in his toes. He felt sick inside to be arguing with Emilio again, but the old man was being unfair and pig-headed. "I won't try to see Luisa, but I have my pride. I'm not going anywhere until I pay my debts."
"I'll take the LeMat." Emilio nodded towards the weapon stuck in Johnny's belt.
"What? You've just bad-mouthed me, because I shot some bandidos, and now you want the gun I used to do it."
"It would be a useful weapon to have under the counter here in the shop. I know what it can do, so I will take the LeMat in payment for your debts."
Johnny had intended to keep the French firearm. "It's a pig to use. The sight keeps coming loose."
"I can remove the sight. I will not need it."
Johnny took the gun from his belt and weighed it in his hand. "I'm out of bullets."
"I can get ammunition."
Probably more easily than Johnny could and that was a fact.
"Okay, it's a deal." Johnny held out the LeMat, but Emilio didn't move or break eye contact. Eventually, Alberto took it.
"Now leave El Paso del Norte." Emilio picked up a pot from the crate at his feet.
"Soon. I have another job to do first."
"Make sure you are away before dusk. I do not want trouble with the Rurales again."
Johnny nodded and backed away. Emilio's grapevine was impressive.
Alberto followed him to the door. "I'm sorry, amigo. Good luck." They shook hands, and Johnny escaped into the sunshine.
He headed towards the bell tower, but it was still too early and he had to wait. At last, the heavy timber door in the side of the mission wall opened. School children came out laughing and chatting until some boys spotted Johnny leaning against a tree in the shade. With excited whispers and slightly scared eyes, they pointed and gawked and then ran away.
When the last one turned the corner, Johnny entered the school yard. He hovered on the threshold of the classroom, remembering its whitewashed walls, bench seats and slates. Very little had changed; there was still a carved wooden cross above the blackboard at the front and a big map of the world to one side. He took a closer look at the map. Curling at the edges now, it had always fascinated him; there were so many countries and places in the world. He touched the spot in the middle of Spain marked Madrid.
"Can I help you, young man?" A priest at the other end of the classroom rested his broom against a desk and came towards him.
Johnny blinked, unused to the sound of English. How had he known? "I hope so, padre. I want to see the school register."
The priest raised his eyebrows.
"I used to go to this school." Johnny hesitated. He felt a little embarrassed, but there seemed no way around admitting the truth. "I'm told the register would have my father's name in it."
The priest didn't seem surprised by the statement. "It may do. I am Padre Simón. Please, come with me."
He led Johnny into a room off the main classroom with walls lined with bookcases and cabinets, and a large timber table and chairs positioned in front of a glazed window. "Please sit down."
Padre Simón took a heavy leather-bound book from one of the shelves. "We recently started a new register, but looking at you, I think this will be the one you want."
Johnny turned immediately to the back where Manuel had said the admissions were recorded. It was divided up by years. "I came and went. Would there be an entry each time?"
"Yes, but one might be copied from another."
Johnny ran his eye down the page for 1859. He would have been ten for most of that year. He was sure he had attended the mission school when he was ten, because the priest who taught school at the time gave punishment according to age. Johnny always got ten strokes of the cane.
There. He put his finger on his name: Lancer, Juan Tomás. Well, that surprised him. He didn't know he had a second name let alone it being the same as his cousin's. He held his breath and ran his finger across the page. Apart from the names, everything was in Latin.
"You were baptised at the chapel of San Benito de Nursia on February 18th, 1849," Padre Simón said, looking over Johnny's shoulder.
"Where's that?" Mama had never wanted to go to California, and Johnny had always wondered if his father was the reason.
"I cannot say. There are several churches and missions by that name."
"Does it give my father's name? I can't see it."
Padre Simón examined the entry more closely. "Ah, this is Padre Rafael's writing. He writes so large. He has run out of room. See he has squeezed it in at the end 'Filii M. Lancer' or perhaps it is an 'N' or 'W'. It is definitely one of them."
Johnny's disappointment must have shown on his face.
"You said you came and went. There will be other entries."
They looked and found five between 1855 and 1860, but only one had more than 'M'. It was definitely 'M', but the fates were against him. The one entry that had more than that was the first, but it had been badly smudged as though ink had been dropped on top of the finished writing and then carelessly blotted. All they could read was a possible 'a' or 'u' at the start and a possible 'h' or 'n' at the end.
"I'm sorry, my son."
"It's all right, padre. It's more than I had before."
Johnny wandered back towards his cousins' place. He'd discovered a middle name he didn't know he had, but as it didn't start with 'M' it wasn't a lot of use to him. He wondered whether he should risk sneaking up to the house to speak with Luisa, but the store was closed, and even if he didn't walk smack into Emilio, he didn't fancy his chances with Luisa. She was as stubborn as Mama.
In the end, he decided against it, and went down the side alley and through the gate to the stable instead. Pícaro was waiting for him as promised, well fed and exercised. His saddle, bedroll, rifle and saddle bags were in a pile on the straw where he had slept his first night in town. The bags had ammunition and food inside them.
Johnny picked up the saddle and hefted it onto the pinto's back. "I could go to California. See if there is a chapel of San Benito. Its records would tell me if I was in the right place."
Pícaro turned his head and studied Johnny with sad eyes.
"No, you're right. If I found it, and he was there, I could get myself into another fight before I'm ready. I know nothing about him. Best wait until I'm really good at my trade."
"That would be wise."
Johnny stood completely still. It was Emilio's voice. Why was he here?
"You went to the school." Emilio emerged from the shadows in a corner of the stable. He cradled a rifle in his arms.
"So?"
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"What do you think?" Johnny sparked. The old man knew damn well he hadn't; he could tell. What was Emilio up to? Did he get a kick out of twisting the knife? As soon as the idea struck him, Johnny heard Tomás' voice in his head. 'Grow up'. If it wasn't for Emilio, Johnny would have ended up in the state prison. "Emilio, I don't want to leave here on bad terms. I owe you a lot."
Emilio grunted and stepped forward, handing Johnny an old scroll of parchment, tied with a red ribbon. "This belongs to you."
"What is it?"
"Open it and find out."
Johnny slipped the scroll from the ribbon and unrolled it. The writing was real fancy and like the school register it was mostly in Latin. Testimonium Baptismi. It took Johnny a second to realize what he was holding, but there was the date he'd seen in the school register and the name of the church—it was in California—and his name, not Juan but John.
Johnny blinked and bit his bottom lip hard. At the very bottom of the page, clearly written, were the names of his parents.
"Mucho gracias, Emilio."
"Your mamá left it here for safe keeping. Luisa will not be happy that I have given it to you."
"Then why?"
"Because a man does have a right to know his father's name."
Emilio and Johnny studied each other. If he lived to be a hundred, Johnny would never understand how that old man's mind worked. Why now and not when he first asked four months ago?
"I want something in exchange."
"Anything, but I'll always be in your debt."
Emilio waved his words away. "If there is a debt, it is not to me." He transferred the rifle to one hand and let the barrel point down. "All men make mistakes, Johnny. All men must make hard choices. You've made a few of both, and now you must live with them. I owe your father nothing, but I am a father. I believe he is still alive, and I want you to hear him out before you decide whether he should live or die by his son's hand."
Johnny stared at Emilio. Whatever he had expected it wasn't this. "Ain't likely to make no difference."
Emilio didn't reply. He just locked eyes with Johnny and waited for the response he was after.
Johnny mulled the idea over; he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Guess it don't hurt to listen to him dig his own grave."
Emilio nodded and offered his hand. "Good luck, Johnny. I hope we meet again in better times."
Johnny shook hands. Maybe a man didn't need to understand everything. He watched Emilio leave the stable, pleased there were no longer any hard feelings between them.
Leading Pícaro outside and through the gate in the fence, he mounted in the alley and rode north along the main street of El Paso del Norte, across the bridge into the American town of El Paso, and then on towards Mesilla. There was at least an hour's riding before nightfall. He would make camp when dusk drew near.
A cowpuncher at the boarding house had told him a fella was hiring guns near Mesilla. He didn't know why, but it didn't much matter. It was work, and Johnny could practise his trade. He'd hire out for a year or two, maybe ask a few questions here and there—wherever the jobs took him. One day when he knew more and he was fast enough—when the time felt right—he'd track down the big time rancher who fathered him. Odds were he'd kill him, but he'd hear the bastard out first. Emilio would never know one way or the other, but a man wasn't worth shit if he didn't keep his word.
His father had a strange name—spelled funny—but somehow Johnny knew how to pronounce it. Did that mean he'd heard it before?
He settled down under the night sky, wondering as he gazed up at the North Star.
Then he gave in to temptation and spoke the words out loud. "Murdoch Lancer."
Johnny's father—the man he hated—had a name.