The Trigger - Chapter 4

Recoil
~ to draw back; start or shrink back, as in alarm, horror, or disgust.
~ to spring back, as in consequence of force of impact or the force of the discharge, as a firearm.
~ to spring or come back; react (on or upon)

"I'm glad to see you're up and feeling better," Doc Weatherby said from where he was standing in the doorway. "But we can't afford any setbacks just now, so how about you lie back down?"

Johnny was not about to admit his physical limits to anyone, even to a doctor as kind and concerned as this one, but he knew that trying to walk across the room was not a wise idea on such wobbly legs. "Doc, did you get hold of my folks?" he asked, returning to his bed.

"I sent some wires but it may take a while to get a response. My nephew, he works for me and does the heavy work, he'll be riding over from town later. He'll bring back any telegraph that comes in today. And if one comes in later, the boy in the telegraph office promised me he'd hasten right out here and deliver it." Doc Weatherby held Johnny's wrist and checked his pulse, then nodded his approval. "You'll be as good as new soon enough. Just don't press too hard. Now, have you recalled the events leading up to the accident?"

Johnny pulled the sheet up to his chest and fiddled with the edge of it a bit. "I don't know. I think I remember, but. . . you say I was on a stagecoach when it happened?"

"Oh yes, and you were lucky to survive. The driver was thrown and killed instantly, and several of the passengers were badly hurt. Apart from some bruises, your head wound - and the unconsciousness resulting from it - was the only serious damage you incurred. You got on the morning stage out of Atwater, remember?" The Doc looked expectantly at his patient.

Johnny felt strange that he couldn't remember getting on the stage, though he knew he must have. He'd been told to return to Green River the same way he'd come, and even if he'd made light of following the instructions, he had taken the whole mission very seriously.

The doctor took a seat and suggested, "How about you tell me what you do remember, Johnny? You know, there is a connection between the physical and mental parts of what makes us human, and it's very important to fix whichever component is out of sorts. I'll bet your recovery will go all the faster if you recall those events you've lost. You were in Atwater at the Cattlemen's Association meeting, weren't you?"

"How'd you know?" Johnny asked. He was sure that nobody had seen him going into the Cattlemen's Association hall to meet Fox and his associates, but he hadn't paid much attention to who was around when he'd left.

"Oh, the deputy in town had to collect your belongings from the hotel, and he told me why you were in Atwater. Wasn't he correct?"

"Sort of. I was there to meet someone." Even if it was in the past, he had been told not to talk about it with anyone. Johnny shrugged a little. "Just ranching business."

Doc Weatherby looked at him over his spectacles, then said, "Cattle business? I've never liked the creatures, though they be all equal in the eyes of the Lord." He let out a small laugh. "My dislike can probably be traced back to my childhood, when a bull ran after me. Luckily, my mother rescued me by flapping her apron at the brute. Do you like working with cattle?"

With a grimace, Johnny admitted, "Not much."

"But you weren't always a rancher," the doctor stated.

Surprised at the Doc's assessment, Johnny was about to ask how he knew that, but before he had the chance the doctor said, "You sure were wearing a fancy gun belt. At first they had trouble identifying you and thought maybe you were some kind of trouble blowing though town."

Johnny shifted in the bed. "I used to be. Don't take the stage usually. I left my horse back in. . ." Again, he wondered what had happened to Barranca when he hadn't returned on schedule. The liveryman in Green River knew him well. He would have sent word out to the Lancer ranch and they'd have picked up Barranca, if they hadn't already done so as soon as they'd discovered he'd been hurt. "My horse-."

The Doc prompted, "He was stabled back in Green River. You were in a hurry to return there for some reason?"

Johnny interrupted, "Doc, you said there was more to tell me."

"I'm not sure you're up to hearing what I have to relate, son."

There was something about the way the doctor averted his gaze that alarmed Johnny. He sat up a bit and said, "This is as good a time as any, Doc. Get it said." His tone left no room for negotiation.

Weatherby's head turned and he gazed at his patient calculatingly. "Yes, I suppose there is no good time for you to hear this." Even though he appeared to have finally made the decision to speak up, the doctor shifted uneasily in his chair. With an abrupt move he stood and paced around the small room, touching things without really looking at them.

"C'mon, Doc," Johnny said impatiently as he watched the big man nervously stroke back his thinning hair. "Whatever it is, I can take it." He figured that Mr. Fox had brought charges against him for something like dereliction of duty or some such malarkey. Johnny snorted, "What? Did the President get assassinated or something?"

Doc Weatherby turned in alarm to face Johnny. "My God, how did you know?"

Aghast, Johnny struggled to sit up in bed, shoved the sheet aside and swung his legs over. His feet hit the floor but he must have moved too fast because the whole room tilted and he swayed.

The Doc was there in a second, his strong hands steadying his patient and easing him down until he was safely seated on the bed. "Take it easy, my boy!"

Johnny had trouble getting his next question past his lips. "Doc. . .my family? What happened?" Despite the doctor's hands still on his shoulders, Johnny tried to stand. He couldn't face whatever the Doc was going to tell him in a prone position, not even from sitting on his bed. Johnny made it to his feet, but his knees gave way and he immediately sank back down onto the mattress. He grabbed the doctor's arm. "What the hell is going on? Damn it! Just tell me!"

"They're dead! They're all gone, Johnny," the doctor blurted. "Your family, they were killed, alongside President Grant."

"My family? No. . .no, that's not. . ." Johnny shook his head adamantly. How can he say such a terrible thing? He must be wrong! No, the Doc is wrong.

With a hand on Johnny's shoulder to steady him, Weatherby repeated the dreadful pronouncement once more. "They died, Johnny. Four months ago, soon after you were brought here." Johnny kept shaking his head in disbelief, but the Doc, driving the point home, insisted, "They died trying to protect the President. They put up a valiant fight. Your father died for his country-."

Johnny jerked away from the doctor's grip and struck out at the hands that reached out to help him. He mouthed the word of denial several times before it came out as a cry torn from his lips. "No! Not my father!" Then, sure that it was impossible that anything had happened to Scott, he whispered his brother's name. "Scott. Scott. . .?" He didn't need the doctor to say anything in response - Johnny could see it in his eyes.

"I'm so very sorry, son."

No. No! Scott can't be dead! Johnny collapsed sideways on the bed and lay with his arms wrapped around his head. The picture of his father and his brother dying, being shot down, murdered, rushed at him. It was so real he almost believed he was watching it happen before his very eyes.

The doctor picked up Johnny's legs and positioned them comfortably on the bed. A pillow was gently placed under his head, but the only thing Johnny Lancer could feel was a pain in his heart so great, an agony so devastating that he couldn't even breathe. Oh my God, Dios, Dios, what have I done?

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It was just getting dark when the woman came in and lit a small lamp. She drew the thin curtains over the window to keep the moths out, then stood silently looking down at Johnny. He lay flat out on the bed, his face turned away from her; he just stared at nothing, numb with grief.

Esther sat on the edge of Johnny's bed and reached out to very gently stroke his hair. When she spoke her voice was so wispy it almost wasn't there. "My son, my own boy Nathaniel, he went away you know. I acted brave, oh so brave, and watched him march off to fight in that dreadful war. I kept watching and waiting for him to come down that lane, but he never came back. He gave up his life for his country; the ultimate sacrifice. He was captured and sent to a prison camp, we heard. That's where they say he died."

Esther's hand continued its gentle stroking motion and for a while she was quiet, remembering her son. She sighed and said, "I don't even know how he died. Not that there is much comfort in knowing the details about such a heart-wrenching thing. But if I don't know how my son died, then I can imagine he just went to sleep under a tree somewhere, maybe by a stream, all very peaceful. He'd feel no pain at all that way, you see. I sometimes think if I can wish a serene death on him it really could be true." Esther tenderly wiped the wetness from Johnny's face. "You have a good cry, my boy. Cry while you're still able, before the bitterness eats away at you and steals away the good memories."

Johnny moved his head just a little towards the doctor's wife and she took it as a sign to hold him. He rolled towards Esther and immediately her thin arms hugged him with motherly love. "That's right, my dear boy," she said with compassion. "Esther's here to take care of you."

He allowed her that, maybe because it was dark and he felt so all alone, maybe because he desperately needed the feeling of human contact, if only for a little while. It was all right to let her hold him while he curled up and tried to get past the terrible pain. It was only for a little while. Tomorrow he would be up and, somehow, some way, he would get back on his feet and head home to Lancer. He'd discover for himself exactly what had happened, no matter how much he was to blame.

Johnny took in a ragged breath. He turned towards the wall and wiped his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt. Esther sat next to him and rubbed his back, understanding his reluctance to reveal his emotions. Doc Weatherby came up to check on his patient, but when Johnny didn't move or respond the man guided his wife out of the room and left him alone.

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As the clock downstairs chimed nine times, Esther Weatherby returned with a meal of stew and biscuits, a glass of lemonade and even a slice of strawberry pie. Although at first Johnny refused it, once he took a bite he realized how hungry he was. He would have preferred to be alone, but the woman stayed while he ate and she chatted, almost to herself, about people and places he didn't know. There was a kind of comfort in hearing her prattling, though.

When Johnny finished his food, he felt a little bit better. The pervasive headache had receded, but his head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Having a full belly made him sleepy so he lay back down and closed his eyes.

After tucking him in, Esther tidied up the room and put the dirty plates and glassware on the tray. There was a light knock on the door and the Doc came in, looking sheepish, as if he was interrupting something private. Esther cast a knowing look at her husband and carted the empty dishes down to the kitchen to leave the two men alone.

After a few moments of silence, Johnny said accusingly in a hoarse voice, "You shoulda told me right off."

Weatherby looked uncomfortable, but he said in his own defense, "You have just awoken from a comatose state, my boy, and are certainly not in any condition to hear the worst news a man could hear – that his family has been murdered. And in such a heinous way, too. I've been dreading this moment every day for four whole months, Johnny."

Johnny hardened himself for fear he might make a spectacle of himself in front of the man, but then a thought struck him. His mind must be a right mess because he had assumed that, apart from Grant, only the Lancer men, Murdoch and Scott, had been killed during the attack on the President. But when the Doc said 'family', Johnny was afraid it included other people he knew. The vaqueros, the ranch hands, they were his family, too. They would have put up a hell of a fight. And what about Teresa and the womenfolk? Please God, not them, too! He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the Doc was hovering.

The doctor was in his shirtsleeves, his fingers holding onto the red suspenders that supported his trousers. He reached into his pants pocket and slowly withdrew a crumpled piece of newspaper. "I wasn't going to show this to you until later, when you were stronger. It's only a section I clipped out of the Sacramento Clarion. If you want to read more than this I might be able to locate something," he said vaguely. Weatherby held out the yellowing newsprint to Johnny, but seemed reluctant to give it up.

Johnny took the rumpled paper between his fingers, propped himself up a bit higher against the pillows and started to read it. The edges were torn and although he could make out it had come from a Sacramento paper, the date wasn't readable. When his eyes swept over it he was horrified to read the headline. Even though he knew that the President had been killed, it was still a shock to see it in print. His heart beat fast as he read through the article swiftly, taking in everything he could, hoping to find some little thing that would give him an ounce of hope. Johnny sought something, anything that would prove that the doctor was wrong, that Murdoch and Scott were not really dead and gone, that it was all a terrible mistake.

But when Johnny finished reading, reality settled upon him like a dark mantle. There was no doubt. His father and brother were dead. Murdered. Then, slowly and steadily, a tide of anger rose and overcame his wretchedness, choking Johnny with its very blackness.

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After a few minutes, Johnny read the article once again.

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THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
ATTACKED BY FANATICAL FACTION
ON THE EVE OF MAJOR CATTLE BILL

THE ENTIRE NATION HORRIFIED AND THE WHOLE CIVILIZED WORLD SHOCKED.

President Ulysses S. Grant was viciously attacked and murdered while on a visit to a California cattle ranch yesterday. Senator Beacham R. Stowe of California is quoted as saying, "It is a dark day in our country's calendar. Our chosen leader was stricken down by the foul hand of the cowardly assassin identified as Vernal Ward of Chicago.

This cowardly act upon our beloved President and these innocent citizens is deplorable. The assassins have met the bloody end they deserve for their part in this heinous attack."

The President, several members of the Secret Service, and California rancher Murdoch Lancer, and members of the President's party, were all killed outright. Scott H. Lancer, oldest son of Mr. Lancer, was gravely wounded in the gun battle that resulted in several deaths. He lingered, but succumbed to his wounds only this morning. Names of the brave men killed in the service of the President have not yet been released, but are believed to be the personal guard of our President. Among the dead were several employees of the Lancer ranch and a woman identified as Mr. Lancer's ward.

There has been an outpouring of grief from every citizen, young and old.

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There was another brief news article on the same page. It was incomplete; the rest of it appeared to be continued elsewhere. He turned the paper over but there were only advertisements for tonics and household products on the reverse side along with an editorial about the rising price of feed. It didn't matter – the partial news story was more than enough for him to get the picture.

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Scott Lancer, a War veteran, still robust with the hope of youth, has paid the ultimate sacrifice to his country and to his President by firing upon the murdering traitor Ward and his fellow conspirators during the height of the attack. Even so, Lancer's selfless act of national bravery came too late. The assassin's murderous shot pierced the heart of President Grant but the treasonous traitor was cut down in a hail of bullets from the very guns that had once served our illustrious country on the battlefield.

Rumors of conspiracy are rampant, among them the concern that the team of heartless killers who attacked the President's party were assisted by an unidentified person connected to the Lancer Ranch, near Green River, California.

The youngest son of Murdoch Lancer, John Lancer, a known pistoleer is still missing at the present time and is being sought for questioning.

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When Johnny finished reading, he bowed his head and slouched down in the bed. If only he had spoken up and convinced Murdoch that he thought that all the security Fox required for Grant's visit was an indication of impending trouble. If he had not stopped in the Atwater Hotel saloon that night and shared the foul, home-brewed pulque with that fellow Brad. If he had hired a horse and simply ridden home and had never taken the ill-fated journey on the stagecoach. . .if he had been by their side to employ his skill with a gun. If. . .

There was no end to the things he could have done to alter the future - the future that was now all in the past. There was no undoing it, and regret was tearing him apart. And Scott, it said that he didn't die immediately. Oh mi Dios, how much did he suffer? Did he call out for me? He must have wondered where the hell I was, and damned me for not being there. Oh, Scott, I am so sorry. . .so sorry I wasn't there for you. Murdoch. . . and Teresa. It said she died, too. Poor, poor girl. What a terrible end to her young life.

"Johnny," Doc Weatherby began.

But Johnny couldn't face talking to anyone; he turned away from the doctor's searching, sympathetic eyes. He was being torn apart by the images of his family being cut down by the assassins' bullets. Even with his eyes closed, there was no escape from the horror.

After a couple of minutes Doc Weatherby backed out with a quiet, "Good night, son."

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tbc