The Trigger - Chapter 7

Ammunition
1. the material fired, scattered, dropped, or detonated from any weapon, as bombs or rockets, and esp. shot, shrapnel, bullets, or shells fired by guns.
2. the means of igniting or exploding such material, as primers, fuzes, and gunpowder.
3. any material, means, weapons, etc., used in any conflict: a crude ammunition of stones.
4. information, advice, or supplies to help defend or attack a viewpoint, argument, or claim.

Johnny frowned but didn't open his eyes. Boy, the Doc was being persistent. He sounded excited, but sorta brusque at the same time. "He's bringing one of his sons, the Harvard kid." Johnny smiled, his eyes still closed. "Harvard, just like Scott."

Doc Weatherby's breath whistled between his teeth. "His son Ulysses? And how will Grant's men know you're who you say you are? How do you identify yourself, Johnny?"

"Gotta say the right word."

"Tell me the word to use, Johnny, or else I can't save your father and brother."

Johnny slowly shook his head from side to side. "I can't. It's a secret."

"But if you don't tell me, your brother Scott is going to die."

Johnny moaned. "No. . . "

"You have to tell me, Johnny, or he'll be all alone, slowly dying, in so much pain. . ."

"No! Trigger," Johnny mumbled. "The word is trigger."

Doc Weatherby let out a satisfied sound. He patted Johnny on the leg. "Good boy. You rest now, and soon Esther will bring you up a drink of cool lemonade. And she'll have some medicine for you to take. Just something to make you strong so that tomorrow, when your friend comes for you, you'll be ready to go home with him. You want to go home, don't you? I want you to cooperate with Esther, all right? We don't want to hurt her feelings, do we?"

"Okay." With great effort, Johnny tried to raise his head but it lolled back on the chair. He was able to open his eyes just enough to watch the Doc leave the bedroom. The older man stood in the open doorway for a moment, just taking a long look at him, like it was for the last time, then he was gone.

Everything was quiet for some time. A fly flew around the stuffy room, repeatedly striking a windowpane and buzzing angrily. Down below in the stable a horse nickered, then the sound of men's voices drifted up. Johnny couldn't make out much of what was being said, but the tone was angry.

A man's voice suddenly asked loudly, "Did you get it?"

"Yes," said Doc. "Let's go. We're not going to make it!" His voice was deeper than the other man's and his words were clear.

The man's reply was muffled, and all Johnny could understand was, "—take care of him? I tell you I don't trust Esther."

"It won't be done until we know the information is correct. I told Esther not to do anything rash." There was a low reply from the other man, then Doc said angrily, "I told you my way was best. Let's go. We're going to miss the rendezvous."

Within minutes, two horses had ridden out. As soon as they were out of the yard, the tempo of their hoof beats increased then faded into the distance. Everything was quiet once again. Johnny tried to make sense of what he'd heard but in the end he succumbed to an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of sitting in the dining table at Lancer with the family. They were eating a feast and although he was trying to tell them something urgent, nobody would listen.

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Johnny awoke suddenly. He was parched and couldn't wait any longer for Esther to bring him the lemonade, as promised. Despite telling himself to get up, his body didn't seem to want to respond. Knowing he had to rise and find something to drink, Johnny took several deep breaths and after a while the heavy feeling that anchored him to the chair melted away. When he stood and took the several steps over to water jug sitting on bedside table, he staggered, then got a grip on himself.

There was only a little water remaining in the jug, but Johnny poured it into a glass and drank it down greedily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the table, wondering what had come over him. There was a bitter taste on his tongue and suddenly he was suspicious. His head was like cotton wool yet Johnny knew that something wrong had been going on.

He knew the Doc had been asking him questions – questions whose answers were no longer secret. But even so, he had a bad feeling that he shouldn't have responded. Hell, at this point what did any of it matter, anyway? It wasn't like there were any beans to spill so long after the whole thing was over.

Johnny was still walking around in his bare feet. He found his socks tucked inside his boots and sat on the bed to put them on. When he tugged on a sock over his left foot, there was a sudden, sharp needle of pain in the sole.

He dropped the sock and pulled his left foot up to inspect it. There was a slight cut near his toes, hardly visible. For several moments, Johnny just sat there, looking at his foot. How could he get a cut when he'd been lying in bed most of the time? Well, he had been walking around barefoot and the old floorboards in the bedroom were sort of rough. Maybe he just hadn't realized he'd stepped on something. Johnny rubbed around the small wound with his finger. It looked a lot like it had started to heal. It was barely visible, but when he'd just put his weight on it, the edges must have parted a little. He shrugged it off, thinking he'd live.

Out of the blue, Johnny remembered Scott saying, "There, I think you'll live," after he'd brought over some salve for the small cut. For a split second, Johnny was taken back to the kitchen at Lancer. His brother had dropped a mug of hot milk. He'd cut his bare foot on a shard of broken pottery. But. . .but that was four months ago.

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He must have sat there for several minutes, staring blankly at the floor before something told him to get a move on. Finally Johnny pulled on his socks, then his boots. His own clothes made him feel more like himself. Now all he needed was his gun, his hat and he'd be more than ready for the long-delayed visit of Dr. Sam Jenkins. When Johnny stood, something crunched under one boot heel. He glanced down and saw he'd stepped on a large black bug. It was one of the big suckers that had been hitting the walls the previous night after the lamp had been doused. He leaned over to look at it more closely. That's funny. No, it can't be. . .but. . .No mistake, it was a June bug.

But this was October. It was real late for a June bug to be around, but then it was uncommonly warm, Johnny reasoned. He looked up at the tree outside the window, its leaves rustling dryly in the slight breeze. There were still leaves on the tree. In October.

Things weren't adding up. Esther had fed him strawberries on his flapjacks. Strawberries weren't in season this time of year. She could have canned them, maybe. But they seemed fresh. Fresh as they'd be in mid-June.

June? No, it wasn't possible. He'd been unconscious for four long months. He'd seen the newspaper, heard about his family being cut down by the assassins who had targeted President Grant. His fingers touched the brass conchos on his pants. Doc said they'd brought his belongings from his hotel room - how was that possible when he'd been on the stage, on the road home? That couldn't be right - Doc must have been mistaken.

Johnny looked around the small bedroom. He'd been lying here for a long time and the Doc and his wife had taken care of him, like he was their own son. Sam Jenkins had come out and so had Val, back when he was unconscious. Hadn't they? Johnny ran a hand over his face. That's what Doc Weatherby had said. Doc wouldn't lie. Not about something like that. Why would he lie? No, the Doc was a good man. He had to be.

Johnny looked out the window, but he didn't see the view. His mind was racing, going over everything he remembered. The stagecoach accident. He remembered it, sure he did. It crashed in a ravine. . . there were screams. . .he'd hurt his head. Unconsciously, Johnny raised one hand to his head, then it dropped back to his side.

But Doc had shown him the newspaper. It said, right there, in black and white in the Sacramento Clarion that President Ulysses S. Grant had been murdered by a group of fanatical assassins. Murdoch and Scott, and Teresa, along with others, were killed when the Lancer ranch was attacked. Johnny grabbed the scrap of newspaper off the bureau and looked for the date.

It was torn off, but he had assumed it was published a short time after the killings on Friday the thirteenth because Doc Weatherby had told him so. Johnny skimmed over the small type again, even though he knew it by heart from repeated readings. There wasn't anything in the article itself that mentioned the date or anything specific or, more importantly, that President Grant's son was among the visitors to Lancer. Maybe the young man hadn't come with his father on the trip after all, he reasoned. Maybe. . .

Johnny took a step forward and there came a slight pain on the sole of his foot - a reminder that the old cut on his foot still felt fresh. His gaze dropped to his booted feet. When he wiggled his toes of his left foot, he could feel the sharp pain of the cut . . .the cut that was in the same location as the wound he'd suffered from stepping on that piece of broken mug, four months ago.

His heart missed a beat. It wasn't possible. It couldn't all be one big lie!

But if it was all a lie - that meant the stagecoach accident had never happened, it wasn't October now, and Grant had never been assassinated! Maybe his father and Scott weren't dead after all! Or maybe he was just stark raving mad, and the blow to his head had caused hallucinations. But he didn't think he was crazy. If there was even a chance they were still alive. . . Johnny's heart jumped at the thought that his family could be alive, but he sat down heavily in the chair when he finally accepted that he had been duped. Thoroughly duped. "Oh shit! Dios!" He'd told Doc everything. Everything!

Torn between joy that his family could still be alive and anger that Doc Weatherby had taken him for a sucker, and fear over what the Doc and his nephew were planning, Johnny shoved the newspaper scrap in his pocket and headed for the door. His hand was on the latch when he heard Esther coming slowly up the stairs.

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When Esther entered the small bedroom under the eaves she was surprised to find Johnny dressed and standing in the middle of the room with his back to her. "I brought you some nice, cool lemonade, my dear. Gus said you and he had such a nice talk."

Johnny pivoted slowly once he was sure his face was unreadable.

Esther held out the glass and asked cautiously, "Are you upset about something, Johnny?"

Johnny looked at her for a moment without expression, but then slowly smiled. "I'm fine, Ma'am. That drink's for me?"

Relieved, she returned the smile with a small one of her own, and indicated he should be seated. Esther offered Johnny the glass in one hand, and opened her other hand to show two small white tablets nestling in her palm. "Now, you must take these. I made them special for you. They're to make you strong."

Johnny hesitated for a second, then sat in the comfortable chair and accepted both the drink and the pills. He grinned, then popped the pills into his mouth and took a drink of the lemonade. "That's good. Thanks, ma'am."

Esther peered at him for a moment, then nodded to herself and wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll just leave you for a bit. I have some things to finish up downstairs, but I'll be back to check on you shortly. Just to see how you're getting on, son."

Johnny replied, "Mmmm," and rested his head on the high back of the chair. She hovered indecisively for a few moments, but when Johnny closed his eyes the woman retreated and quietly pulled the door shut behind her.

The minute the sound of Esther's footsteps informed Johnny that she had reached the bottom of the stairs he leaned forward and spat out the pills. He took a big mouthful of the lemonade and ran it around his mouth then spat it out on the floor. He even picked up the towel and scrubbed his tongue and rinsed his mouth out again, damning Esther and Gus Weatherby with ever fiber of his being.

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The old stairs creaked a bit but Esther was making enough noise in the kitchen that she never heard Johnny come up behind her. The older woman happened to turn just as he reached out to grab her. She jumped and gave a small scream of fright.

"Tell me what day this is," Johnny demanded as his hands clamped on her upper arms.

Esther squirmed and ordered, "Let me go, young man! This instant! How dare you-."

Johnny gripped her even tighter and scowled into her face. "Damn it, tell me what day it is!" He shook Esther roughly enough to cause her hair to come loose from its bun.

"Please, Johnny, think what you're doing, and me an old lady!" The only reaction she got out of Johnny was a tightening of his lips. Realizing she wasn't going to be able to cajole the angry man to release her, Esther cowered. "I can't! He will kill me!"

"He ain't gonna get a chance, old woman, cause I aim to do the job myself if you don't tell me what I need to know!" Johnny had such a firm hold on Esther that when she sagged with defeat, he ended up supporting most of her weight in his hands.

"It's Friday! Friday the thirteenth," she blurted.

"What month? Tell me, lady!"

"June. It's June!" She burst into tears and Johnny finally let her go.

The railhead and Lancer were half a day's hard ride to the south. It must be late afternoon, after five by now, and there wasn't much time; he'd never make it back to Lancer before midnight, even if he was able to get hold of a fast horse. When had Gus and the other man left? It must have been hours ago. Johnny swore at himself for having fallen asleep and wasted valuable time.

Esther rubbed her arms where Johnny had been gripping her. "Don't hurt me," she whimpered. "He made me do it. I never wanted to hurt you, Johnny, honest I didn't. It was the only way, he said. I had nothing to do with it!"

"You gave me those pills! What were you going to do, shoot me when I was unconscious?"

"No, no! I wouldn't harm a hair on your head, my dear. It was just a little something to make you sleep." Esther held out a shaky hand, asking for forgiveness, but it was ignored. "Gus wanted to keep you around in case he needed more information out of you. That's all. His nephew wanted to put you down yesterday, but Gus said he'd make you talk. He's good at making people tell him things. We'd never hurt you, Johnny."

So the nephew had wanted to put him down, shoot him like a rabid dog, had he? Johnny turned his head away from the sight of the cringing woman, trying to control the black anger that threatened to overcome him. Between gritted teeth, he demanded, "Do you have any idea, any idea what you people did to me? I thought-." He'd thought exactly what they had wanted him to think: that he had nobody else to turn to, that he could tell the kindly old Doc everything because it was all in the past, after all. What harm could possibly come from talking? My God!

Everything had been carefully orchestrated, and he had been a sucker, an almost willing victim. "Damn it, I trusted you people! I believed you!" Johnny knew he had to get out of the farmhouse and find his way to the nearest town, to Atwater. He'd locate the sheriff and tell him the story. But that would take time and he might not be believed. He hardly believed it himself. He'd have to send a telegraph to Val Crawford and he could ride out to Lancer to warn Murdoch that a team of assassins was on its way to kill President Grant. But what if Val wasn't in his office and didn't get the urgent wire?

Johnny ran a hand through his hair and walked up and down. "Where did the Doc go? He rode off with his nephew to rendezvous with some men?" Maybe he could intercept them if he hurried.

Esther shook her head, unwilling to co-operate any more, but when Johnny strode over to her, took hold of her arm and twisted it, she relented and squealed, "He didn't tell me!"

"Did he go to the ranch? To Lancer? Or to the railhead?"

"I don't know! I overheard him say something to Bradley about meeting the men a few miles from here and heading right to the ranch."

"Bradley? You mean. . .Bradley's his nephew?" For some reason that maddened Johnny more than almost anything else he'd discovered so far. The young man he'd befriended and had dinner and drinks with back in Atwater had been the one who'd started the whole damned mess in motion. "He put something in that pulque to knock me out, didn't he? Damn it!" Esther struggled until Johnny pinned her back against the kitchen counter. "This is your last chance to tell me the truth, lady." He demanded, "Who else is in on this? How many men are there? How do they plan to attack?"

Esther struck out at Johnny with her free hand. Her fist hit him on the nose, causing him to see stars. His eyes teared up, and the second he loosened his hold the small woman turned and came up with a revolver in her hand.

Johnny recognized the weapon as his own Colt and cautiously stepped back a pace. Where the heck did that come from? He saw Esther's large carpetbag was sitting on the kitchen counter behind her. He'd never considered she'd have a weapon, much less his own revolver.

Esther raised the gun to point at Johnny's chest. "It'll take a lot more than the likes of you to stop Bradley and my Gus," she snarled.

"It's just the two of them?" Maybe there was some hope.

"More like a dozen of the best fighting men from Bradley's old unit," she bragged. "You're a gullible fool, young man. You're nothing like the man we were told to expect - a gunhawk, tough and hard to break. Bradley has had his soldiers waiting for the right opportunity, and you've given us all the information we need." Her eyes narrowed. "I do believe you've outlived your usefulness, Johnny Lancer." Her finger tightened on the trigger.

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tbc