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The Trigger - Chapter 5

Grip
~ the act of grasping; a seizing and holding fast; firm grasp.
~ a grasp, hold, or control.
~ mental or intellectual hold: to have a good grip on a problem.
~ a handle or hilt
~ a sudden, sharp pain; spasm of pain.

Although the Doc made several attempts to talk to Johnny the next day, the young man refused to recognize his presence. The meals that Esther brought up, enticing though they may have been, were left untouched. She sighed and cajoled, but Johnny just told the pair of them to leave him alone.

Eventually Johnny slowly got out of bed and moved aimlessly around the room, his bare feet padding on the wooden floor. At some point he realized his body was recovering fast, and although he was a little weak, he could walk just fine. Johnny considered going downstairs, but he wasn't up to facing the Doc's scrutiny and his wife's small talk. He settled in the upholstered chair by the window and dozed off now and then; the small, warm bedroom under the eaves had become his sanctuary.

During the long hours he was awake, Johnny re-read the newspaper article several times, trying hard to fight the inevitable tears that welled up every time he thought about his family members dying. He went over the whole thing in his mind, again and again, wondering what he could have done to change the outcome.

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It was near dark when Johnny begrudgingly agreed to speak to the doctor. When the older man came in, Johnny was standing with his elbows on the windowsill, looking vacantly out the small window. There wasn't much to see, just a lot of leaves and a bit of the stable roof below. It was all very quiet and peaceful, with no hint that there was an unfair, cruel world beyond.

The Doc appeared surprised to see his patient up and about, but he didn't scold him. Good thing, because Johnny was in a fighting mood. For starters, he wanted his own clothes to wear, not some drafty gown. But first he had questions to ask. Johnny cleared his dry throat, picked up the newspaper scrap from the bureau and held it aloft. "You know any more about this fanatical faction that attacked Grant, or this. . .this Vernal Ward they mention?"

"I read that this fellow Ward was the head conspirator. He and his people are said to have acted violently against the government on many issues. This time they wanted to stop a bill that would have driven up the cost of feed sky high and the price of beef to drop," Weatherby offered tentatively. "I don't know much about that kind of thing as I'm not a rancher."

"It says Vernal Ward was killed," Johnny said, with a nod of satisfaction. It wasn't clear who had killed the fanatic, but he hoped the fatal shot came from Murdoch or Scott's gun. It would be a small revenge, but at least the man had not gotten away with his crimes. "What about the attack itself?" Johnny looked from the scrap of newspaper to the Doc's face.

"It was a terrible time," Waetherby uttered.

The older man was downcast, and Johnny was reminded that the whole country was still mourning the loss of their leader. Johnny didn't want to think about how the President's death affected the country, not now. His only concern was about what had happened to his own family. "It doesn't say how many there were or if they were all killed out at the ranch. Did any escape?"

"The sheriff. . ."

"Crawford," Johnny prompted.

"Yes, Crawford. He said there were survivors from the gang who attacked the President. They were secured in the jailhouse, but an angry mob broke them out. Lynched them all right there in town that very night."

So the townspeople had finished them off; there was nobody left to take revenge on. That was a pity. "Didn't the Secret Service know about these men and what they were capable of?" Johnny asked angrily.

"The government must have known of their existence, don't you think? It was a large group of political fanatics, a well-trained unit, so I heard. But there have been so many theories and rumors batted about it's hard to tell which are true, Johnny. There was even mention of someone inside the Lancer ranch giving information to them-." The Doc stopped in mid-sentence when Johnny threw a warning look his way.

Johnny lit the oil lamp on the bureau, took a seat in the comfortable chair and read aloud from the newspaper. "Rumors of conspiracy are rampant, among them the concern that the team of heartless killers who attacked the Lancer homestead were assisted by an unidentified person inside the ranch." Johnny sneered at the inference that anyone at Lancer would have given up such information, voluntarily or otherwise. "Someone's sure sniffin' up the wrong tree."

"I believe it was a well-planned attack, Johnny. I'm so sorry about your family, son. The whole thing is tragic. Killing innocent folks, all to assassinate one man. . ." Doc Weatherby's voice trailed off and he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.

Johnny wondered why Fox and his men hadn't kept a sharp eye out for Ward and his fellow fanatics. The Secret Service must have known about their intention to murder the President or else they wouldn't have insisted on such strict safeguards, such as the secrecy over the route and other travel plans. But he had asked Fox, back at the meeting, if there was any cause to expect trouble, and the reply had been. . .that Johnny did not need to know. Anger surged up but he suppressed it as best he could. He asked, "Do you know if an agent called Fox was out at Lancer during this raid? Was he killed?"

Doc Weatherby shook his head. "I don't believe I have heard that name mentioned."

"If he ain't dead, he's sure gonna wish he was," Johnny growled. "I wonder if Ward and his men followed them to the ranch," he said in a low tone, really speaking to himself. The team of assassins couldn't have know that Grant was coming in by rail or they would have intercepted the President and his party on the road, where they were the most vulnerable. Johnny rubbed his forehead then glanced up to catch the Doc looking at him intently. He probably wonders why I'm asking such questions and what I intend to do. Bet he expected me to crawl into a hole and weep.

Doc Weatherby pulled up the hard, armless chair, sat down and mopped his brow with a large handkerchief. "If I was a betting man, I'd say these fanaticals kept an eye on the railways and roads. Though that would depend on whether they had enough men to do so."

"Or the Secret Service agents let the rattler outta the bag." Johnny pointed to the article. "Says here, 'John Lancer, a known pistoleer is still missing at the present time and is being sought for questioning.'" Johnny shook his head. He guessed they would have been looking for some scapegoat. "Did anyone come looking for me? Any of the government men?"

Weatherby thought for a minute. "The other doctor, Jenkins, he said a couple of men came around and asked him questions. But by then we had identified you and it was obvious you were out cold at the time of the attack on the President, and it was concluded that you certainly were not involved in any conspiracy." Almost as an afterthought, the Doc added, "Everyone vouches for your character, young man. Otherwise Esther and I wouldn't have taken you in and tended to you like you were our own son."

"Like your son?" Johnny prompted.

But Dr. Weatherby, unlike his wife, was not willing to talk about his son, who had died for his country, fighting and dying in a faraway prison. The older man said brusquely, "My boy died a long time ago." He leaned forward and said urgently, "I think that you need to remember what you did before the stage accident, Johnny, and to place the events in a sequence that makes sense to you. If you don't, all of this information won't have any meaning for you. It will never be real and you won't be able to process your grief."

"We all grieve in our own way, Doc."

"But I'm still concerned that you can't remember stepping on the stage and heading for home. Loss of memory can harm its victim in insidious ways. It's as serious as a physical ailment and must be cured."

Johnny tried hard to remember but he couldn't envision anything he'd done since he'd collapsed in the hotel room. Suddenly, he was overcome by weariness, and his head had started throbbing fiercely again. The bedroom was stuffy and he'd had enough of talk. Johnny moved over to his bed and plopped down on it. Turning his face away from the watchful gaze of the doctor, he said in a subdued voice, "I can't think. I need to sleep now."

"Johnny, we need to talk this over now, while it's still fresh." But after a few moments, when it was obvious there was to be no reply Weatherby said, "All right. We can talk more tomorrow. I didn't realize how late it was. Esther will bring you up some supper. Don't worry, we'll sort this all out." He left quietly.

Once he was alone, some of Johnny's emotions fought their way to surface. He felt trapped in a nightmare, one that was playing itself backwards, in which he was supposed to know what was going on. With a huge chunk of time and some of his memory missing, he was caught in a limbo where nothing seemed quite real. He was lucky the old Doc and his wife had taken him in, and he was grateful for their consideration, but it wasn't the same as having his own family around him.

At times in the past when Johnny had been wounded and lying prone in his own bed at Lancer, he'd told Murdoch or Scott he was fine and could handle it. He'd always been secretly glad that they hadn't taken him at his word. Their quiet presence had meant the world to him.

But how had he repaid that loyalty and trust? By messing up. He hadn't done what he'd said he'd do, hadn't finished the job and taken confirmation of the plans back to Lancer. Johnny swore at himself for drinking with Brad and making himself sick on pulque. He must have had one hell of a headache the next morning. Sick to his stomach, too, after drinking the pulque. If he'd been alert he might have had some warning of the impending accident. Nobody would ever convince him otherwise.

But how was he going to get past this? How was he going to face that big, empty house? And he'd be living there all alone. . .that thought scared him more than anything. What was he going to do, he wondered, squeezing back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He mouthed a prayer, for all the good it would do, and wished fervently he could turn back time, just long enough to make things right.

Esther brought up a bowl of soup and convinced Johnny to drink some of it, but he couldn't stomach much of it and pushed it away. She pursed her lips and said, "You'll do yourself no good if you go on like this. You'd best do what the doctor says. That's the only way to get better."

Johnny lay back and didn't reply, so the woman moved over to the lamp and said, "I'll turn this off or there'll be more bugs in here than we'll know what to do with." She said good night and left.

He rolled onto his side and listened to the bugs searching for the light they'd been deprived of, hitting the walls blindly. Stupid, pointless, looking for something that isn't even there. Johnny pictured going back to Lancer, stepping across the tiled verandah, opening the big front door and walking into the hacienda's great room.

He called out a greeting but the only response was the echo of his own voice. Murdoch was not sitting behind his desk doing his papers, nor was Scott reclining on the settee in front of the fire, with his nose buried in a book. They were gone. . . gone and never coming back. Johnny's heart hurt so much his hands went to his chest in a futile effort to stop the pain. Despite his best efforts, tears spilled out of his squeezed-shut eyes. Eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Sometime in the night he heard voices quarreling, but they stopped before he fully awoke. Just the Doc and his nephew, Johnny thought, as he fell asleep once more.

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In that second between sleep and wakefulness, man becomes aware of his surroundings. Imperceptible shifts in light and sound determine time and sound triggers memories. Within that excruciatingly short amount of time something shifts and man goes from being a vulnerable, mindless creature to a human with the power of thought and choice and comprehension of the world around him. But not so with Johnny Lancer. Not on that bright, warm morning. Something was so terribly out of kilter in his life - in his immediate sphere - that it set everything else askew.

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Johnny was stiff when he first woke up, but as he moved and eventually sat upright, he felt a lot better than on the previous day. There was hardly any pain in his head, which was a big relief. Johnny marveled at the resilience of his body, and when Esther came in bearing a breakfast tray, he told her he was famished.

For some reason, the older lady looked a bit out of sorts. Her hair was straggling out of her normally neat bun, and the apron tied around her waist looked like it could do with a wash. Johnny wondered how the little woman, for she was quite slight, had managed to care for him while he was unconscious. He turned his attention to the food, flapjacks and strawberries, with bacon strips on the side, and ate so quickly he was scolded for it.

"You'll just make yourself sick," Esther said with a smile. She left but came back within minutes lugging a bucket half full of water. "Time you had a good wash, young man."

"I can do it myself, Ma'am."

"Hmm. And do you think you can shave yourself, too?" She placed a shaving kit on the table by Johnny's bed and pulled a basin out of the bottom drawer.

"Been doing it all on my own for some years now, Mrs. Weatherby," Johnny said with a slight smile. "I want to get dressed. You've got my clothes? And my gun?"

She reached over and chucked him under the chin. "It's good to see you smile, Johnny. And you call me Esther. We're like old friends by now, aren't we? We'll ask Doc if you can get dressed today."

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed and took the bar of soap and a washcloth from Esther. He needed to remove the nightshirt in order to wash properly, but hesitated to do so in front of the woman. She was moving around on the other side of the small bedroom, opening the window wide, and asking, "Is your poor head a bit better now? I could see how sensitive you were to the light at first. Comes with having your eyes closed for so many days." She turned to look at him and said, "You know, if you want to tell me how you came to be in this stagecoach accident, well, I'm known to be a good listener, even if I talk a lot, too."

Johnny hung his head and shook it slightly. "I. . .I don't want to. . .there isn't anything to tell, Ma'am." He glanced up at the woman. With the sunlight behind her, he couldn't see her face clearly, but he had the impression she was scowling at him. Then Johnny blinked and Esther was standing close by, reaching one small hand out to ruffle his hair. It was odd, like time had jerked and something important had been obliterated.

"Come on, young man, you can tell Esther about it. It'll be our secret." Her hand dropped to the back of Johnny's neck and she rubbed it gently. "My boy used to tell me things he'd never tell his father. He was scared to go off to war, you see, but I helped him understand it was his duty. I sent him off to his death," she said with a thin smile that was more of a grimace. "Isn't that a terrible burden to bear? Now you know."

Johnny sensed a deep sadness in Esther and his heart went out to her. Taking her hand in his, he said sympathetically, "I'm sorry, Esther."

"Oh, don't worry your head over me. I can live with any burden God gives me. You know, when you were sleeping like a babe for so long, I took care of you like you were my own boy. Gus and I sure miss having our son around, and if you want to stay on here for a bit, we'll be sure glad of it, Johnny."

Johnny smiled. "I appreciate that, Ma'am. I guess I was lucky that you took me in."

"What brought you to Atwater in the first place?"

She smiled down at him and Johnny was encouraged to say, "I came to Atwater to talk to some men, to confirm some plans we'd made."

"Plans?"

"We were expecting an important guest. Murdoch was really looking forward to it." Johnny hesitated for a minute then drew in a deep breath. "I had to get back to Lancer but I never made it. I should've ridden my horse instead of takin' the stage. Maybe then everything would've been different."

"Oh," she exclaimed with a hand to her mouth. "You mean President Grant, don't you? He was visiting your home? Such a pity. A terrible tragedy. Your poor family. One thing is I'm glad that you weren't there, Johnny."

There was some noise outside, and although it had been going on for several minutes, it had taken a time for Johnny to realize he was hearing the doctor talking to another man out in the yard. He sat up straight and slung his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to rise. "Who's that?" he asked eagerly. "Is that Sam Jenkins?" He suddenly needed to see his old friend, or anyone with a connection to his past.

But Esther quickly moved to the window and peered out. "No, that's just Gus down there, talking to his nephew." She turned back to Johnny and said brightly, "He does some handyman work around the place. We can't do it all ourselves any more. Gettin' too old."

More disappointed than he could say, Johnny looked dejectedly down at his bare feet. "Maybe we'll get a telegram back today," he said hopefully. "I could sure do with a visitor."

"Oh, dear boy, of course you want to see your old friends. I'll ask my husband about the telegrams and he can get onto that boy at the telegraph office to make sure the wires went through. How would that be? But you were going to meet President Grant somewhere?"

"I was gonna go home first," Johnny responded absently. He wondered if Murdoch and Scott, along with their best vaqueros, had met Grant and his party on schedule at the train. They must have made it back to Lancer safely if the assassins attacked the hacienda. Or they might have been caught on the open road and ridden like hell for the safety of the ranch. But somehow those men had breached the security and mounted an assault on the Lancer hacienda. It looked like they had made a mistake using only a small number of guards. They should have enlisted the aid of the troops at the fort, like Scott had wanted.

"Johnny?"

Johnny looked up from his reverie. "Oh, yeah. Our job was to make sure our visitor was safe." He sat dejectedly, looking at the bar of soap in his hand. "Can you leave me alone now, Ma'am, so I can get cleaned up?"

"All right, if you say so," Esther said reluctantly. "We can talk more later."

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tbc