The Trigger - Chapter 6

Trigger Guard ~ A loop surrounding the trigger of a firearm and protecting it from accidental discharge.

Johnny shaved himself using an old shaving kit that must have belonged to the Weatherby's son. The process took him longer than usual and if he missed some stubble, he didn't much care. When he was more or less done, Johnny removed his nightshirt then washed his chest and armpits. While he dried off he thought that although Esther was a real nice lady, he really didn't want to talk about his mission, especially as he'd messed up by not completing his part. At a knock on the door he called, "Yeah?" and when the it opened, the Doc peered in.

Smiling broadly, Doc Weatherby said jovially, "Good news, my boy. Can I come in?"

Johnny pulled the nightshirt over his head again and sat on the bed. "Sure. How about finding me somethin' else to wear, Doc? You still have my clothes?"

"Of course, of course. They're in here." The Doc pulled open a drawer, withdrew Johnny's garments but laid them on top of the bureau instead of handing them to his patient. He located Johnny's boots behind the door and pulled them out.

"So what's the good news?" Any news would be good compared to what he'd read in the newspaper the Doc had saved to show him.

Rubbing his hands together, Weatherby said, "Your doctor friend, Jenkins, has sent a message that he's coming up here tomorrow."

"He is?" Johnny didn't want to appear ungrateful to Weatherby and his wife, but he yearned to see Sam, or any familiar face. It felt like it had been a very long time since he'd been with his own people. "Can I see the telegram?"

The Doc stood still for a couple of seconds, then pulled the chair over so he could sit at Johnny's bedside. "Well, he didn't wire me back. He sent a message through a mutual friend, you see."

"Your nephew?" Johnny glanced towards the window, remembering the quarrel of the previous night. He wondered what it had been about.

"My nephew? Oh, yes, word of mouth is still a good means of communication. Better than those telegrams. I'm an old-fashioned fellow at heart," Doc said with a laugh. He lightly patted Johnny on the knee. "Now you have something to look forward to, Johnny."

"You think maybe your nephew could ride over to Green River and tell Val I need to see him?"

Weatherby raised his eyebrows, leaned back and said slowly, "The sheriff, you mean? Yes, I suppose he could. I will ask him but I did send a wire. It could be that the sheriff is occupied with his duties and can't get away."

He sounded like he was rebuking Johnny for taking the sheriff away from his job. Johnny thought that Weatherby didn't understand Val Crawford at all. He was a friend like no other. "He'd come right off," Johnny insisted. He was getting anxious and wondered what was keeping Val. The sheriff should have either replied by telegram or ridden right over by now. "I can pay your nephew," Johnny suggested, but then he wondered if he still had any of the cash on him he'd had back in Atwater. He should have had plenty left over once he'd paid the hotel bill.

Johnny rose and went over to his pile of clothing on the bureau. He found his wallet on top of his folded pants, and inside was about the right amount of cash he expected. With his back to the Doc, he stood there for a minute, touching his clothing, feeling more than just the familiar cloth. Funny how something so simple took him right back home. He pulled on his pants and hiked the nightshirt in order to do them up. They were a bit loose, but felt familiar, which was just what he needed right then.

Then, without warning, the hairs on the back of Johnny's neck raised. His shoulders tensed. He was being watched, and his instinct was to pivot and go for his gun. But his holster was not on the bureau, and nowhere in sight. He peered out of the corner of his eye at the Doc then slowly turned to face him. The older man was sitting in the straight-back chair, his hands resting on his knees, a quizzical expression on his face. There was nothing there to cause alarm and Johnny felt heat rising up his neck. Whatever had come over him to feel like he was being studied? Johnny cleared his throat. "My gun and saddlebags? You got them somewhere?"

"Your gun is downstairs, safe." The Doc frowned with concern. "Are you all right? You look like you need to sit down, my boy."

After a moment Johnny returned to the bed and sat facing the doctor. "Can I ask how you've been paid for keeping me, takin' care of me, all this time?"

"Of course. There was a lawyer assigned to keep an eye on your finances, as I understand, and he sends me money to cover my fees every month. A Mr. Trumbull out of San Francisco."

"I don't know that name. A lawyer, you say?" It hit Johnny that he was the sole owner of Lancer now, and the realization had a very bitter taste to it. Just because no boss was present didn't mean everything at the Lancer spread ground to a halt. There was still stock to care for and a hundred everyday jobs to do, even if only to keep it functioning at the bare minimum. Was Cipriano alive to run things? Were any of the hands still working or had the cattle been rustled with nobody watching over them, he wondered. There was too much to think about and he didn't want to deal with any of it right now. He couldn't get the picture of his father and Scott being shot down out of his mind, even when he closed his eyes.

"Mr. Trumbull is acting as a sort of overseer of your property, but of course now all that will change, as you'll be able to handle your own affairs." After a moment, Doc Weatherby said gently, "I know it will be very hard for you to go back to your family's ranch, Johnny. I believe I should accompany you, for moral support."

Johnny bowed his head and looked at his hands. "I have to get back there as soon as I can, but I. . .I don't think I'm ready."

"Of course you're not ready, my boy. You have only been awake for a couple of days, and you haven't processed your family's tragic deaths yet. It will all take time, but as I said, you need to talk this through in order to face it."

Johnny's head came up and he sent a hard look at the doctor. "I've faced worse, Doc. I know all about death, believe me."

"But not the senseless killing of people so close to you, surely? As well as the deaths of so many people you knew, all at the same time. Men working for you have been killed as well as your father and brother, and Mr. Lancer's ward. My blood boils to think of a girl getting cut down in such a way. It's criminal, that's what it is." The Doc briefly laid a hand on Johnny's arm. "You were close to your brother." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. We were close. Like the best of friends." Johnny raised his hand to his mouth but shook off the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. "Scott is a. . .was a good man."

"You owe it to his memory to make sure that these miscreants don't ruin your life as well, Johnny. Some men's criminal actions have longstanding repercussions. Even if they're killed, their victims suffer for many years."

"Like you still being upset over your son's death?" Johnny asked tentatively.

The Doc's face crumpled, but he rubbed a hand over his mouth and said gruffly, "My son died in the hands of strangers." He then looked sharply at the young man sitting across from him. "But you, my boy, you need to face your past if you're to move ahead."

"I just can't. . .can't seem to get myself on even ground." Johnny leaned forward, his arms wrapped around his stomach. "It's like one of those games where you're blindfolded and turned in circles, and when you're released you've got no sense of which way to go. Do you have any idea what it's like waking up and finding everything's been stolen from you? My family is gone! I lost four months, Doc. Four months! I need to get that time back."

"Then start right here, at the beginning." Doc Weatherby laid one of his big hands on top of Johnny's. "I'll work through this with you. By the time your doctor arrives tomorrow you'll be better prepared to hear whatever he has to say. And maybe you'll be well enough to leave a day or so after that."

Johnny's head came up. "Maybe go back with Sam? Yeah, I can do that." But then he thought of how he'd messed up, somehow getting caught in an accident and never making it back to Lancer. He'd intended to ride home on horseback, he was sure. So why had he traveled by stage?

Deep in thought, Johnny ran his hands slowly along his thighs and touched the familiar brass conchos on his pants. A feeling of deep remorse swept over him and cast him into such melancholy he couldn't raise his head when Doc Weatherby tried to elicit a response from him.

The Doc touched his shoulder, just to give him comfort, to let Johnny know that there was someone left in the world who cared about him. But Johnny couldn't bear the touch of another human being and he shrugged off the hand. He closed his eyes and wished the man would just go away. The Doc meant well, but his presence was suffocating.

"Johnny, you need to talk about this."

"I thought I could, but I can't. I can't," Johnny said in a quavering voice. "Go away." He lay back on the bed and refused to say anything else.

Doc Weatherby said with lightly disguised censure, "I am only trying to help you, son. I'll check on you later." He quietly left the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

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It took Johnny all day to pull himself out of his black mood. When he rose at one point he finished dressing in his worn red shirt and cast the nightshirt aside. He didn't think that talking about anything would do him any good, but apparently the Doc thought different. Esther brought him up some lunch, which he didn't touch, but when she tentatively offered him some stew late in the afternoon, Johnny forced himself to eat it under her watchful eye.

It was about an hour after his meal that Johnny felt like he would be able to talk to Doc Weatherby. His anger and self-condemnation had eased somewhat; all the fight had gone out of him.

When Weatherby cautiously came upstairs, Johnny made a slight motion to bid him to enter. He didn't want to be a disappointment to Doc after everything he'd done for him.

"Are you feeling more agreeable?" Weatherby asked.

Johnny just felt worn out and wanted to get it over with. He gave a half-smile. "Sure."

"We can set this right, son. How about you sit over here where it's comfortable?" Doc guided Johnny over to the chair by the window and pulled his own seat over until he was facing his patient. "Now start from the beginning."

Johnny took a deep breath and began.

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"So this Mr. Fox and the two men with him questioned me about the route," Johnny said in explanation. "The thing is, I thought that was the best way to take them in the first place, but my father and brother thought that riding the longer, more open road was safer. You have to understand that the Chamisal Pass ain't for the faint-hearted, plus it would only take half the time to get from the railhead to the hacienda. If there were a few good men posted up high, they'd have the whole trail in their sights. So when Fox said that was the way we'd be taking the President and his party, I had no quarrel with it."

"It seems as if this Mr. Fox took your hard-earned plans and simply swept them aside. He sounds like the perfect man to represent Ulysses Grant. Did you know that back in '64, when General Grant suspended the exchange of prisoners-of-war, Booth concocted a plot to kidnap him? It never came about, but it shows you what lengths some men will go to. Missed Grant again at Ford's Theatre when he assassinated our President Lincoln, though. It's common knowledge that Grant protects his own and ignores the corruption amongst his top aides. Yes, this Fox sounds like he and Grant are alike. They're men in positions of power who just plow ahead and ensure they get their own way, regardless of the cost to innocent lives. And were there other changes to your plans?"

Johnny gave a huff of breath and shook his head. "Yeah, Fox seemed like the kind of man used to getting his own way, no matter who stood in it."

Weatherby leaned back casually. "So when Grant came in by train," he prompted, "it must have caused quite a stir in town."

"It wasn't at the main station. They rigged up a special railway car for him and ran it down a side spur to the railhead. The end of the line," Johnny explained. "We use it for loading cattle to get them to market. I drew up a map for Fox and after I burned it, the meeting ended and I left." It seemed such a long time ago now. "Did they mention the railway in the newspaper reports?"

"There were very few details about how Grant came to California. They keep things like that close to their chest, especially when someone blunders and the President gets killed." Weatherby leaned back and crossed his arms. "So you left the meeting and returned to the hotel. You said you went down to the saloon?"

"Yeah, I met a young fellow, a rancher from. . ." He pictured shaking hands with the man who had rescued his supper from the overworked waitress. The man had introduced himself. /'Name's Bradley Trader. Out of Sacramento.'/ "He said he was from Sacramento. We ate, talked about Texas and Mexico some, and we drank a jug of pulque the bartender had on hand."

"What is this pull-kay?"

"Pool-keh," Johnny corrected. "It's fermented agave. Most folks who haven't been brought up with it don't like it. Real sour. It's called 'milk of our Mother.' You drink it at wakes and on the Day of the Dead. It's used in ceremonies to tie the dead to the living." Johnny wondered about the significance of that. He wasn't overly superstitious but it was enough to make a man wonder.

The Doc was looking closely at him so Johnny said offhandedly, "If you believe that kinda thing, like Friday the thirteenth being an unlucky day. I don't know who brewed it, but it was bad, 'cause I got drunk on it and my head felt like it was this big." He held his hands out wide. "I remember Brad giving me a hand up to my room, but then. . .he left and I fell asleep." Johnny met the Doc's eyes apologetically. "That's the last thing I can remember."

"Hmmm. Often, with a blow to the head such as you had, a period of time prior to the accident is obliterated from the memory. The trick is giving your memory the jog it needs to recover it. Try picturing yourself going down to the desk the next morning to pay your bill."

Frustrated, Johnny said testily, "I don't remember goin' down. I told you I can't recall anything." It was too warm in the small bedroom and he needed a drink of water. "Look Doc-."

"Please, sit back and relax, Johnny." He waited until Johnny complied to continue. "Tell me what you think you would have done. Step by step," the Doc suggested in a slow, even tone. "It might trigger those hidden memories."

Johnny sighed and played along. "All right. I guess I would have paid up at the front desk, then walked a coupla blocks down to the stage depot. Maybe picked up some food to take on the stage 'cause you never know when they're gonna stop." That particular stage had sure stopped unexpectedly, he thought wryly.

Weatherby prompted, "Close your eyes and let it flow over you. Relax. Picture it. You're on the stage, heading home."

Johnny closed his eyes. He imagined the stage heading down the road, taking him back towards Lancer.

The Doc asked quietly, "Just relax and think of the stage swaying back and forth, rocking gently, ever so gently. You're tired now. Your whole body is so heavy you can't move a muscle, no matter how hard you try. Just go to sleep. That's it. Now tell me, can see it happening?

Johnny felt very sleepy indeed. His arms were heavy, and his shoulders slumped as his body relaxed. It took great effort to speak, but he said in a low voice, "Yeah. Yeah, I can see it."

"And the stage's axle broke," Doc said evenly. "The stagecoach is out of control. It lurches to one side."

Johnny pictured the stagecoach barreling along, the passengers jostling elbows and hips in the uncomfortable conveyance. But the stage suddenly lurched to one side, and the passengers were thrown around when the vehicle careened off the road and into the ravine. "The stage sorta falls on its side, but it keeps going." He wanted to reach out to steady himself but he couldn't move his arms. Johnny was alarmed but there was nothing he could do.

"The driver is thrown off his seat. Everyone inside is scared. Tell me what you see, Johnny."

Johnny's heart accelerated at the thought of the out-of-control stage crashing. "It heads for the edge of the road. The people are falling all over me, screamin'. It drops down into the ravine. Crashes on its side. Someone's cryin'. My head hurts."

"That's right, Johnny. Your head hurts because you hit it when the stage crashed."

"When it crashed."

"People came and pulled you out, up to the road. They took care of you. They put you in a wagon and brought you here, to my house."

"A wagon. It was dark." Johnny swayed a little, frowning at the memory. He could see lights above him as he was carried along on a stretcher. "Carried me upstairs."

"That's what happened, Johnny. You were brought here. You have to get home, but you're hurt."

"Gotta get home." Worry coursed through Johnny but he couldn't move. "I'm gonna be late. What day is it?"

"It is Wednesday, June eleventh. There isn't much time."

"Have to get to Lancer."

"But you're hurt, Johnny. Your arms and legs are so heavy you can't possibly get home."

Johnny tried to raise his arms, but he couldn't even move his fingers. "No. . .I can't move."

"The President is coming. If you don't get home, people will be hurt . . killed. But I can take the message to them for you."

"I hafta do it myself. They're countin' on me," Johnny muttered.

"Your father and brother will be hurt, even die, if you don't tell me what to say."

"No, they can't die," he whispered. "It was all my fault."

"They haven't died yet, but there is so little time. It's urgent. Tell me and I will get the message to them. You're too weak to make it on your own. Trust me. You know you can trust me, Johnny."

Something told Johnny he had to trust the Doc. He was a good man. He'd cared for him, tended to him for four months now. He was a good man. "Tell my father. . . tell Scott. . . I'm comin' home."

"I'll tell them. What day are they arriving?"

"Same day we planned on."

"What is the date, Johnny?" the Doc asked.

"The train's coming in at five on the thirteenth."

"The thirteenth of June?" Weatherby questioned insistently.

"Yeah. Friday the thirteenth. Meeting Grant and. . ." He stopped. He couldn't say the name. Something was shouting at him not to speak aloud, but the thought of Scott being killed overrode his last remaining vestige of caution.

"Go ahead, meeting Grant and who else?"

Johnny swallowed. His head was so heavy it dropped down so his chin was touching his chest.

Doc Weatherby questioned, "President Grant and who else?"

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tbc