The Trigger - Chapter 2

Caliber
~ the diameter of something of circular section, esp. that of the inside of a tube
~ degree of capacity or competence; ability: a mathematician of high caliber.
~ degree of merit or excellence; quality: the high moral caliber of the era.

Scott and Murdoch stood out front in the cool dawn and waited until Johnny finished tightening the girth on Barranca's saddle to have a final word with him. "We'll see you back here late tomorrow," Murdoch said.

Johnny mounted his palomino and, gathering up the reins, smiled down at his family. "Don't worry. I won't mess this up."

"Of course not, son," Murdoch replied. "You keep an eye open at all times, though."

Scott raised a hand. "See you back here tomorrow night."

Johnny touched the brim of his hat and called goodbye as he wheeled Barranca around and headed for Green River. He left his horse at the livery stable there and caught the stage for Atwater. It was on time, for a change. He sighed and settled back on the cushioned seat, thinking that whoever had come up with the cockamamie requirement that he had to take the stage should be shot. Johnny disliked stagecoaches and avoided the uncomfortable, dusty mode of travel whenever he could. While on the journey he conversed a bit with the other passengers, who came and went as they stopped at several towns along the way, but for the most part he kept to himself and tried to catch up on his sleep. The journey was uneventful, and by late afternoon the stage swept into Atwater in a cloud of dust.

Slinging his saddlebag over his shoulder, Johnny sought out the Atwater Hotel. It was on a side street, an older establishment, and from the looks of things, not a very popular one. He had no trouble getting a room at the back, as he'd been instructed to do, and after washing some of the dust off, he strolled down to the lobby. A glance at the clock on the wall over the desk confirmed it was nearing suppertime, but he was thirsty as well as hungry. Deciding Mr. Fox could wait, Johnny went into the hotel's saloon and had a beer and a couple of boiled eggs before heading out to locate the Cattlemen's Association.

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Johnny gave two sharp raps on the side door, then two more, feeling self-conscious. After several minutes, during which time Johnny had the feeling he was being watched, the door opened cautiously to reveal a man wearing the prescribed red cravat.

The man looked Johnny over from head to toe. "I need a password," he snapped.

Johnny dutifully replied, "Trigger."

"You're late. Follow me." The man opened the door only wide enough for Johnny to slip in and said, "I'm Fox." He motioned with a hand that Johnny should follow down the dark corridor and into the dimly lit Cattlemen's Association club room.

The curtains were drawn so it was too dark to see much more than two other men standing under an ugly painting of a prize steer. The place smelled of stale beer and most of the furniture was shrouded with dust covers. There appeared to be a second room beyond, just as poorly lit, but Johnny perked up when he caught sight of a bar.

Fox turned to Johnny and asked, "Murdoch Lancer sent you instead of coming himself?"

"My father is working on the preparations." When it was obvious that Fox wasn't about to introduce him to the other men, Johnny looked at them and said, "I'm John Lancer."

One of the men was an older, gentlemanly fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard and a pleasant smile, and the second had the appearance of a mild bank teller, though Johnny didn't underestimate any of them. They shook hands with Johnny but didn't offer their names. It didn't matter. Johnny could tell that Fox was the only one with any authority in the room.

Even so, Mr. Fox's colorful neck cloth stuck out like a sore thumb and Johnny wondered if he always wore it, or if he saved it for special occasions such as this. Murdoch, who had met the man only once, when he'd been approached about the possibility of being host to their special visitor, had described him well: short, with wiry brown hair and the palest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Johnny mentally added 'self-important bastard' to the description.

Johnny nodded politely. "Gentlemen, my father, Murdoch Lancer, considered several spreads for the visit, but after some consideration, he chose our ranch as the best location." He looked at each of the men's faces but they didn't seem particularly surprised that Murdoch had chosen his own ranch. "Lancer is a prime cattle ranch." Johnny continued. "It fits the bill and we believe we can offer the security needed."

"Sit down, Mr. Lancer, and give us the rest of the plans," Fox said bluntly. "We can't afford any mistakes." His tone of voice suggested that he fully expected Johnny to make mistakes.

The four men sat down at a round table and carefully went over the plans. On some paper provided, Johnny drew out a fairly detailed map of the route that he, Scott and Murdoch had decided was safest, and he did a quick diagram of the layout of the ranch and hacienda as well. Johnny was impressed by Fox's questions and observations, even if he didn't like his attitude. The other men occasionally interjected with a point or two of their own, but it was Mr. Fox who finally put an end to any niceties. "This road here," he said, pointing at the roughly drawn map. "Why didn't Mr. Lancer choose this way?"

Johnny was well aware that his appearance - his embroidered red shirt and vaquero pants, no jacket or tie, along with his low-slung holster - was enough to make the men question his authority, but he didn't like being treated like he was only a messenger. "My brother, me and Murdoch talked this over, Mr. Fox, and we agreed the trail was too rough and there were too many vantage points for someone with a rifle to-."

"And this one?" Fox interrupted, indicating another possible route. He squinted at Johnny with his pale eyes as if he wondered why they'd trusted the young man with such important information.

"It rained," Johnny said simply. There were raised eyebrows all around but Johnny met Fox's gaze head on. "Rivers rise. Can't cross 'em easy."

Fox looked at Johnny as if he was purposely giving him a hard time. "Tell me more about this railhead."

"My father has made arrangements for the railway line to be clear of all trains on Friday the thirteenth and your train should arrive no later than five that evening." Johnny laid out Murdoch's plans and described everything he thought they needed to know. Fox asked questions to the point of being quarrelsome and Johnny gave answers until he had endured about enough. His stomach was growling and he was annoyed that the plans Murdoch, along with he and Scott, had worked out were being debated at every turn. Finally Johnny said, "Look, we were told to come up with a safe plan, Mr. Fox, and we have. But if you don't think we know what we're talking about, I'll just head on out and you men can figure it out for yourselves."

The older gentleman appeared dismayed. He said to Johnny, "You understand that this is of the utmost importance, son." He then turned and cast an eye towards Fox and said, "Mr. Fox, you approached Murdoch Lancer because you knew him to be an honorable man, and may I add, one with some fighting experience under his belt. I know him personally and can verify that he is a man of great personal integrity."

The fellow who resembled a teller cleared his throat and asked Fox, "If we can't trust Lancer and his sons, who can we trust?"

Fox looked Johnny up and down and said, "Excuse us for a moment." He took the two other gentlemen aside and conferred with them in low tones. Meanwhile Johnny meandered to the bar in the next room and poured himself a glass of tequila. There wasn't any lemon or salt but it didn't matter to him at that point. When he sauntered back into the meeting room, the three men appeared to have finished their discussion. Johnny stood with his hands tucked in his belt and waited.

"We concur that your ranch is the best location for this meeting," Fox said begrudgingly. "However, there is more to this situation than meets the eye." He held his hands up when Johnny made a sound of protest. "Hear me out. I'm ultimately responsible for the safety of everyone involved, and there is another factor you are not aware of. Your guest's son will accompany his father on this trip. This young man is coming from Boston, where he's presently studying at Harvard."

"Great, another greenhorn to keep an eye on," Johnny muttered.

"I agree with you," Fox said, "that being escorted by soldiers from the fort will bring too much attention to our party. We will journey on horseback rather than by carriage to your ranch, and will provide a small corps of our own highly trained and well-armed men as guards. Not so many they'd attract attention, though."

Johnny looked from Fox to the other men. He could tell they weren't telling him something and he didn't like it. "Are you expecting some kind of trouble? 'Cause I need to know about it, Fox. Now."

"If there was anything you needed to know, Mr. Lancer, I would tell you."

Johnny weighed Fox up and could tell he wasn't going to pry anything out of the man. He took a deep breath. "All right, I'll post men up at the highest points and have plenty of ammo at the ready - my men." Johnny could see Fox was surprised that he was taking the lead.

"Are you a fighting man, Mr. Lancer? A soldier?" the gentlemanly man asked.

Johnny took a moment to reply, but when he did, it was with a slow smile. He patted his Colt. "I guess you could call me that, Sir."

Fox nodded briskly. "Fine. And the date is agreeable to everyone? We only have a small window of opportunity here."

"Murdoch says Friday the thirteenth is best. Train needs to arrive at five."

The men conferred briefly and agreed. Fox confirmed by saying, "Friday it is. Three days from now I will arrive with President Grant, his son Ulysses, and five Secret Service bodyguards. We will all be wearing clothing suitable for the area, so we'll fit in nicely."

Johnny tried hard not to roll his eyes at the image of the large group all decked out in spanking new Western duds and oversized Stetsons. He asked, "They can all ride, can't they?"

"Just meet us with enough mounts for everyone." Fox smiled for the first time, showing a set of even, white teeth. "Don't worry, everything will run smoothly, just as planned. . .so long as you keep this to yourself."

Johnny wished he was half as confident as the secret service man. "I always worry. Keeps me healthy." Johnny picked up the map he'd drawn and held it up. "I'll be heading back. Uh, any of you men have some matches on ya?"

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Johnny had never been so glad to get out of a meeting. He was even happy to return to the seedy hotel where he'd booked a room for the night. Hunger drove him to the hotel's saloon and he ordered a good steak dinner. As he sat at a corner table and waited for his meal to be served, he looked around at the clientele. He laid a bet with himself that bar patrons around the world looked much the same. A couple of women draped themselves around inebriated customers, and off to one side a man in shirtsleeves played a rundown piano with enthusiasm.

Just as Johnny was about to find out what was keeping his dinner, the waitress appeared from the kitchen bearing an overly laden tray. He watched as she struggled to skirt around some men at the end of the bar and he could tell she was going to drop the whole thing. As the tray began to tilt precariously, he jumped to his feet, intent on heading off the loss of his meal. At that moment a young man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and rescued the waitress. He insisted on carrying the heavy tray around the room for the overworked woman while she handed out the plates of food to her customers.

Johnny was the last one to be served. He said to the man, who looked like a ranch hand in his early twenties, "I think I owe you a drink for saving my supper."

"Well, I'll take you up on that, stranger. Turns out I can't get a stage until tomorrow so I'm stranded here in town." The man stuck out his hand and pumped Johnny's. "Name's Bradley Trader. Out of Sacramento."

After the waitress came back out with a plateful of hot food and a big smile for the young man, Bradley went up the bar and returned with a pottery jug and two glasses. "This is a favorite libation of mine and not easy to come by," he said with a broad smile as he poured out a couple of glassfuls of a dark liquid.

Johnny instantly liked the fellow, who was good looking with fair curly hair and a pleasant, weathered face. It only took one whiff of the beverage for Johnny to identify it as pulque, a fermented drink from the agave, which he hadn't tasted since he was back in Mexico. It usually gave him such a bad headache the next day he avoided it. He took a sip and refrained from pulling a face at its extremely sour taste. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and met Bradley's eye. "Uh, real good, Brad . . .for pulque."

Bradley threw his handsome head back and burst out laughing. "My uncle down in Pecos used to brew this stuff up once a month, like clockwork, so long as there was some agave handy." He downed a gulp of his drink, backhanded his mouth and grinned. "I guess it's an acquired taste, but I had a feeling you were familiar with it." While they ate their supper, the young man told Johnny about his small spread near Sacramento, then asked what Johnny was doing in Atwater. Johnny, mindful of his mission, only said he was on ranching business. Brad talked a bit about his childhood in Texas and Johnny loosened up enough to trade tales with him. Before they knew it, the jug of pulque was empty and most of the saloon's customers had gone home, or up to their rooms.

Johnny suddenly realized he was dog-tired and told Bradley he was calling it a night. Tomorrow he'd have to get on that damned stagecoach again. Maybe he'd just hire a horse and ride back. What harm could there be in it? No, he had been told not to deviate from the plans. Darn plans. Johnny rose and took a deep breath then found he was somewhat unsteady on his feet. Pulque didn't usually have too much effect on him, but one never knew what was in home-brewed booze.

"You okay there, Johnny? How about I make sure you get up to your room?" Brad dropped some coins on the table and took Johnny's arm. On the way out he winked at the waitress and told her he wouldn't be long.

They left the saloon and headed up the creaking back stairs, and although Johnny shook off the helping hand with, "I'm fine," he held onto the banister all the way to the second floor. Bradley followed him to make sure he didn't fall down or anything.

Johnny's head felt like it weighed a ton and the corridor was titling to one side. As for his feet, he had to look at them to make sure they were still there. Pulling out his key, Johnny fumbled to get it into the lock. After Johnny made several unsuccessful attempts to unlock the door, Bradley chuckled and took the key from him. Then the door was open and the narrow hotel bed suddenly looked very inviting. "I ain't drunk," Johnny protested. His head was aching and his tongue felt like it was on fire. He knew that come morning he'd regret sharing the pulque with Bradley. Johnny said, "We had a good time, din' we?"

"Well, there sure was something in that drink that didn't agree with you, Johnny." Bradley stood over Johnny and watched him collapse onto the bed, then pulled his boots off for him. When he reached for Johnny's gunbelt, however, he was met by a sixgun in his face. Bradley stepped back hurriedly with raised hands. "Hey, I don't mean no harm! I'm just trying to be helpful, Johnny."

Barely able to focus on his new friend, Johnny's gun didn't waver. "Out."

Bradley immediately backed out of Johnny's room and pulled the door closed behind him. The minute he was gone, Johnny's hand fell to his side, still gripping his gun. He took a deep breath and gathered his strength. Rolling off the bed, he got awkwardly to his feet, holstered his revolver, stumbled to the door and locked it. He didn't have anything against this fellow Bradley Trader but, under the influence or not, he could put himself to bed, thank you very much. With that thought, Johnny collapsed on top of his bed face down, still grasping his Colt, and immediately fell asleep.

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He was back at Lancer. In his own bed. The mattress was soft and the curtains were moving slightly in the breeze. Johnny blinked and tried to clear his blurry vision but it didn't help much. He was terribly thirsty, but that was his own damned fault for drinking that home-brewed pulque. It was painful to swallow and he tried to wet his lips but his mouth was as dry and as foul tasting as a barroom floor. He moved his head on the pillow and the pain almost cracked his skull in two. Slamming his eyes shut, Johnny raised his hands to block out the light. Dios, what had he done to deserve this?

Johnny was concentrating so hard on dealing with the spikes of pain jabbing right through his head that it took him a while to realize there was someone else in the room. He dropped his hands away from his face. His arms, suddenly too heavy to hold aloft, flopped down by his sides. Very slowly Johnny turned his head and squinted at the indistinct figure hovering near his bedside. He tried to speak but only a croak came out. After he swallowed he tried again, and managed to get out the name of Doc Jenkins, though in a raspy and barely audible voice. "Sam?"

"Take it easy, son," was the reassuring reply.

Johnny closed his eyes and whispered hoarsely, "Wha' happened?"

"Here, you need a drink."

A hand slid behind Johnny's neck and gently raised his head then a glass was guided to his lips. Once he tasted the water, Johnny drank greedily. After several gulps, he choked and spluttered. The water was taken away and his head was lowered to the pillow. Johnny rubbed at his eyes and sought the familiar face of Doc Jenkins, but he was startled to find that the man leaning over his bed was unknown to him. He immediately tried to sit up, a surge of fear urging him to get away, but no matter how strong his instinct was, the man was stronger. Johnny couldn't even summon the strength to fight the hands that kept him down on the bed. He asked wildly, "What? Who're you?"

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tbc