The Trigger - Chapter 11

Russian roulette
1. A stunt in which one spins the cylinder of a revolver loaded with only one bullet, aims the muzzle at one's head, and pulls the trigger.
2. An act of reckless bravado.

"None of this would have happened," Fox accused, "if Johnny Lancer hadn't revealed our plans."

Everyone in the room stopped and seemed to hold their breath. Johnny very slowly picked up his gun from the floor but he didn't holster it. Before Johnny could face the accusation, Scott moved swiftly up to Agent Fox and dealt a hard blow right to his smug face. Fox went down hard and immediately clamped his hands to his nose, moaning that it was broken. The other Secret Service men started to move forward to aid their boss, but when they were met with Johnny and Scott's angry looks, they both halted. The agents dropped their gaze and did nothing to help the injured man who was rolling on the floor in agony.

"If there's anyone to blame it's you because of the secrets you kept, Fox," Scott fumed. "You should have told us everything you knew right at the start. You've put us all in danger!"

With his hands still clamped to his bleeding nose, Fox spluttered, "He was missing for three days! Probably in league with the insurrectionists. How else would he know they were mounting an attack?"

Johnny holstered his Colt and gave a scathing look down at Fox. "Then why would I come back here and warn you that Grant's life was in danger?" He leaned forward until he was only inches from Fox's face, causing the man to cower. "Trouble with you, Fox, is you're always looking under the wrong bushel."

Johnny straightened and slung an arm over Scott's shoulder. "C'mon, brother. Let's get outta here." President Grant stepped up and offered Johnny a clean handkerchief. Johnny accepted it and dabbed at the warm blood he could feel running down his forehead. "Thanks."

Grant replied, "No, I must thank you."

Johnny let his arm drop away from around his brother's shoulder. He hung his head for a moment, but all that did was encourage the cut in his scalp to bleed faster, so with the once-white handkerchief held to his head he looked up at the President. "Sir, what he said. . .about me telling secrets. . . I didn't. . ."

But Grant would hear none of it, shaking his head and saying, "No, no, your family has been more than protective of me and my son. We should be asking you good people to forgive us. Why, just look at all the trouble we brought down upon you. I'll hear no more about this, Johnny."

"It's time we went downstairs," Murdoch said firmly.

Scott nodded in agreement. "The doctor will be here soon. Sam probably has a special alarm bell that goes off to tell him when there's trouble at Lancer."

Johnny's lips twitched. "I'll bet when his horse comes through our archway he thinks he's heading home, he's been here so many times."

President Grant insisted that the wounded go first, so Johnny and Scott walked around the still-groaning Agent Fox and headed down the tower stairs. Murdoch followed his sons without looking back.

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Most of the Lancer ranch hands returned by the time everything was under control. They stood around wide-eyed, peering at the hacienda and waiting for a chance to catch sight of President Grant. They never got the opportunity because Grant was inside with his son, guarded by a couple of agents even though there was no immediate danger.

At Murdoch's direction the ranch hands lit all the lanterns on the verandah and stuck some torches in the ground to light up the yard. The bodies of ten dead men were laid out in a row out front, draped with tarpaulins. Three Secret Service agents stood guard over them. Murdoch was relieved that his men, as well as a couple of Fox's agents, had suffered only slight injuries. The only people killed during the siege had been the members of the gang of assassins.

The neighboring ranchers Hoffsteader and Rockwell, took their leave, and although Murdoch invited them to stay the night, they declared they'd rather go home, which he understood. They had both been roughed up when they initially encountered Walt up in the tower room, but Maria had bandaged up Hoffsteader's head and put some salve on Rockwell's bruised jaw.

"I hafta say, Murdoch," said Hoffsteader as he touched the white bandage wrapped around his forehead, "You sure put on one hell of a party. Grant has invited me and Rockwell, and our wives, of course, to go hunting at his lodge up North. I told him we would accept but we would bring our own armed cavalry unit. . .if he didn't mind. " Hoffsteader chuckled, mounted his horse, and he and Rockwell set off down the drive.

In retrospect, Murdoch realized he had underestimated the danger that accompanied the President's visit. Having more men on hand certainly would have helped, but even better would have been foreknowledge of the subversives and their plans. Seeing so many men dead was shocking. Murdoch took a deep breath, acknowledging that once again his sons had barely escaped a violent death. He prayed their good luck would never run out.

News traveled fast, and before Murdoch could step back inside a couple of neighbors rode up despite the late hour. They said they had heard about the attack on the ranch and offered to help. Murdoch's patience had worn thin and he soon got rid of them. "Go on home. There's nothing to see." He knew he sounded curt but all he wanted to do was to get inside to make sure that his sons were all right and their wounds were tended to.

As the neighbors left, Brewer, the blacksmith, drove up in a flatbed wagon. He commandeered the reluctant Secret Service men to help him load the dead. Murdoch told them to put the bodies in the meat house out behind the corral until the following day when the government agents would deal with their removal.

Fox appeared, took note of the situation and escorted the wagon off to the meat house without a word to Murdoch. He'd cleaned himself up, and despite his bloodied and swollen nose, he bustled about instructing his men to prop the bodies up against the meat house wall. One of the agents assembled a camera and tripod they'd brought with them. Soon there was a brilliant flash, a great deal of smoke, and the image of Special Agent Fox standing over the gang of assassins he had killed in order to save President Grant from certain death was forever immortalized.

Turning away, Murdoch found Brewer shaking his head at the scene. Lancer thanked him and asked the blacksmith to locate Pedro, who had gone out with Walt earlier that day to Black Mesa but had never come back. Brewer and another of the Lancer men were dispatched to the line camp where Pedro supposedly had remained due to being too sick to travel. Murdoch hoped that Walt had told the truth about Pedro being sick and that nothing worse had befallen his vaquero. Once they had gone on their mission, Murdoch ordered the rest of the wranglers to the bunkhouse and had platters of the leftover food sent over to them.

When there was nothing more he could do, Murdoch went into the great room to sit with his feet up, a drink in his hand. He studiously avoided looking at the floor. Even though the bodies had been removed, the old Persian rug bore the stains of their lifeblood. For some reason a thought popped into Murdoch's head - that Catherine would be mighty displeased that her precious rug was ruined. "Getting old," he muttered.

Johnny chuckled. "Talkin' to yourself, Murdoch?" He was lying out on the big couch with a cool cloth, provided by Maria, on his forehead. She and Teresa had long since gone upstairs, overwhelmed by the evening's events.

"As soon as the doctor has finished with Ulysses and your brother," Murdoch said testily to Johnny, "you get in the kitchen and get that head of yours stitched up."

Johnny groaned. There was a large lump on the back of his head that was hurting like the dickens, and the cut on is scalp still oozing. He knew he couldn't put off getting stitched up any longer. "All right." Murdoch was gazing at him with something between assessment and curiosity, and Johnny knew it wouldn't be long before he'd have to explain his part in the whole assassination plot.

But how could he explain to them that he'd let an old man and woman snooker him so good? That they'd made him believe all his family was dead. Even now, just thinking about it, he got choked up. He swallowed convulsively and avoided his father's eyes. Closing his own, he reined in the emotions that had been threatening to burst out into the open. Now that the danger had passed, he had nothing else to keep them at bay. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for having let this happen. He'd let them all down, he knew.

The door to the kitchen opened and Scott joined them. He held up his hands, both neatly bandaged. "The Doc picked the glass out of my palms." In response to his father's look of concern, Scott shrugged. "It just stings. I don't know why he insisted on taking care of me before Ulysses. Anyway, Grant is in there, hovering over his son." He sighed tiredly, pushed Johnny's feet aside and sat down on the couch.

Murdoch rose, poured Scott a brandy and handed it to him before settling back into his chair. "You boys are both damned lucky. Even so, this whole thing is unsettling. I trusted Walt, thought I knew him." He shook his head. "Damn it, we all did! How could he turn against us? He's been living here, working with us, side by side, been like a member of our family. I know he never fully recovered the use of his arm after being shot, but he was. . ."

"He's dead," Johnny said bluntly, as if that was the end of the matter. He couldn't figure out how Bradley had recruited Walt, but he'd look into that later on, once he got his energy back. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, as he closed his eyes. He'd send Val out to let Esther out of the locked pantry tomorrow. She'd be as mean as a hornet by then, he thought. Better warn Val. "The traitor is dead and gone," he said sharply, thinking of Walt but meaning Bradley as well. There was something he'd forgotten. . .what was it. . .his head hurt too much to think. "He's plain dead and gone," he mumbled.

Murdoch said aloud what Johnny already knew, "It's never that clean cut, son. When a man dies, the consequences of his actions are felt for a long time. Ripples in a pond."

Scott let out a huff of breath and rested his head on the back of the couch. He gingerly held the glass in his bandaged hands. "Funny. . . "

"Funny what?" Johnny prompted when Scott didn't finish his sentence.

"Oh, it's just that. . . well, that's what the Doc said."

"What's that?" Johnny asked without much interest.

After swallowing a mouthful of brandy, Scott explained, "He was just saying that a man's criminal actions have longstanding repercussions. That the victims suffer for many years."

Johnny removed the cloth from his head and slowly sat up. He frowned at his brother. "Doc said that?"

Scott nodded and looked at him curiously, as did Murdoch.

Johnny looked towards the kitchen. "Doc Jenkins said that?"

Scott leaned back and took another sip. "No, not Sam. Fox's doctor." He shrugged. "At least I think he came with Fox. Doctor Weatherby, that's his name."

Like a shot Johnny was up and running for the kitchen, his gun drawn.

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The situation did not look good.

There was a man lying in the middle of the kitchen floor - dead. One of the Secret Service agents.

Grant stood only a couple of feet from Ulysses, his eyes fixed on his seated son, but neither was moving a muscle. Behind Ulysses' chair stood Doc Weatherby, his hair and clothing rumpled as if he'd had a busy night out tending sick patients. One of the doctor's big, capable hands was forcing the young man's head back against his chest. His other hand held a scalpel against Ulysses' throat.

The young man, petrified, stared at Johnny. His eyes held a desperate, silent plea.

For Johnny, everything seemed to move in slow motion; all sound was muted. In the couple of moments it took for him to swing his gun around and take aim, the Doc's eyes widened in recognition. For a fraction of a second there was a glimmer of some emotion in the older man's face - something like pleasure in meeting an old friend once again.

Johnny pulled the trigger and shot Doc Weatherby in the head.

Still grasping the scalpel, the Doc's head snapped back and he fell, the weight of his arm causing the well-honed blade to slice across his young victim's neck. Ulysses' chair teetered for a moment and then, with arms flailing, he fell back along with his mortally wounded captor. They hit the floor with a resounding crash.

The President jumped forward and snatched Ulysses away from the fallen doctor. He pulled his boy to his chest and called out his son's name. In a panic he tried to staunch the flow of blood from the cut to Ulysses' neck with his hand. The boy's face was paper-white, his eyes open and staring in shock up at his father.

Johnny straddled Doc Weatherby, prepared to put more lead into him, but it was obvious the old man was never going to get to his feet again. Johnny barely noticed when Scott and Murdoch and then more men entered the kitchen, alarmed by the shooting.

Murdoch helped Grant move his frightened son to the far side of the kitchen, away from the Doc, while Scott grabbed some towels. They quickly assessed the damage to Ulysses' neck. "It isn't too deep," Murdoch assured the President. "He'll recover. Keep some pressure on it and we'll get Dr. Jenkins out here right away."

Pain and fear at the sight of so much blood gushing from his throat put Ulysses in a panic and he struggled in his father's arms. Grant held on tightly and tried to calm him, but he couldn't quell Ulysses' fear.

Cipriano came into the kitchen in a hurry with his gun drawn. He stopped by Johnny's side and looked down at the Doc. "He won't cause no more trouble, eh?"

"Nope," was all Johnny replied.

The segundo told Murdoch that the doctor, the real doctor, had been summoned and should arrive at the ranch shortly. Ulysses was wide-eyed and breathing heavily, still trying to escape from his father's arms, so Cipriano took hold of the wounded young man's shoulders in a firm grip and looked him in the eye. "You will be fine, Ulises. Look at me. Look at me! This is the time for anger, not for fear." His calm, deliberate words did a lot to help calm Ulysses. Eventually Ulysses blinked and moved his lips to indicate he understood and Cipriano nodded his approval.

Johnny didn't take his eyes off the Doc. He wasn't dead. Not yet. There was an entry wound in his cheek. It was no more than a small dark hole, but a river of blood flowed from the back of the older man's head. An ever-widening pool slowly spread across the kitchen floor.

Fox arrived, having heard the gunshot, and he and the Secret Service agents tried to remove the President from the scene. But Grant and his son hovered, watching the last of the assassins die. Although Ulysses' shirtfront was red with his own blood and his face was blanched white, he stood on his own, holding a kitchen towel to his neck wound. He had managed to swallow his fear with Cipriano's help and he wanted to stay until the end. Neither he nor his father could tear their eyes away from the scene that played out before them.

Dr. Weatherby lay dying on the tiled floor, the scalpel in his limp hand. Johnny stood over him, gun drawn. He kicked the Doc's weapon away, then suddenly sank to his knees and laid his left hand on the Doc's chest. "Why, Doc? Why'd you do all this?" He had to ask, "How could you lie like that to me? About my family bein' dead?"

Weatherby coughed, then whispered through bloody lips, "My son. . ." Johnny leaned forward to catch what the Doc was saying. His eyes closed, his breath labored, Doc Weatherby spoke his last words on Earth to the young man he'd lied to, coerced, and even planned to murder. "My son. . . prisoner. He was coming home. . . but Grant said no more exchanges. . ." Weatherby coughed again, drew in a ragged, gurgling breath and grabbed at Johnny's shirt. "Booth. . .we were supposed to kill Grant, too. Failed. All these years I've waited. . .planned."

The Doc eyes suddenly opened widely, but Johnny knew the dying man wasn't really seeing him when he cried out, "My boy!" Gus Weatherby's body grew rigid and then he collapsed, finally relinquishing his hold on Johnny.

Johnny slowly stood and holstered his weapon. Scott was by his side, reaching out with a bandaged hand, trying to draw Johnny away from the body of the dead man lying on the kitchen floor. Suddenly, Johnny felt all his strength drain out of his body. His knees started to buckle, but he leaned heavily on the kitchen table and managed to stay upright. Scott's hand was on his elbow, but Johnny shook him off. When he took a deep breath and looked around Johnny saw that everyone in the room was staring in his direction. His father, Scott, Grant and his son, several agents whose names he couldn't recall, even Cipriano - they looked at him with the blank-eyed shock of people who have survived a horrific, bloody, and senseless wartime battle.

Fox started to open his mouth to say something cutting, but the hard-faced look he got from Johnny stopped him cold. Instead the government agent simply nodded his head and said, "Good shootin'."

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That evening when Sam Jenkins turned up at Lancer, he was faced with a scene that brought back memories of the aftermath of a long-ago battle in which he'd been a reluctant participant. The ranch hands had removed the bodies of the dead agent as well as Doc Weatherby, but the tiled floor was still wet from a quick cleanup.

Sam caught sight of Johnny as soon as he walked into the Lancer kitchen. Johnny's scalp wound had continued to bleed down his face and had colored the shoulder of his pink shirt a dark red. "Well, there's nothing like coming out to the Lancer ranch to make an old country doctor like me feel needed. Those dead folks out by the meat house all yours?"

Johnny gave a curt shake of his head. "You'd better see to him first."

Sam then saw Ulysses, who had been hidden behind the bulk of his protective father. It only took a quick assessment from the doctor to see that the boy was most in need, and one sharp look to make Grant step to one side.

Grant started to ask questions about his son's care and the doctor's credentials, but Sam brushed him aside. "Oh, don't fuss like an old woman. If you want a reference, take a gander at some of my handiwork on those two." He indicated the Lancer brothers who were standing off to the side. "I'm not sure which one of them I've stitched up more times."

Scott and Johnny immediately pointed at each other and both said, "Him," at the same time.

"Scott's been sewed up more than me."

"Johnny's had more lead dug out of him," Scott pointed out.

"I have not-."

Murdoch suppressed a grin. "Enough, boys."

"You'll want to avoid moving your head from side to side," was Dr. Jenkins' advice to Ulysses. "I have applied a liberal amount of sticky tape to the wound; you don't need stitches." He finished bandaging Ulysses' throat then cleaned and dressed the young man's wounded arm.

Sam patted Ulysses on the shoulder once he was done. "You're a trooper." The doctor's matter-of-fact, yet kind, care was just what Ulysses needed and soon he was bandaged up and sent off to bed with his father and Murdoch in attendance.

Sam, left alone with the two Lancer brothers, asked what had been going on. Scott gave the doctor as short an explanation of President Grant's visit and the attack on Lancer as he could manage. Sam made a non-committal noise then raised an eyebrow at the bandages on Scott's hands. He took hold of the young man's injured hands and briefly inspected them. "You'll live," the Doc said.

Johnny gave a choked laugh. "Seems I've heard that a time or two before."

"And let's hope," Sam reprimanded, "that you two boys hear those same words many more times."

"One thing, Doc," Johnny asked as he sat down at the kitchen table, "I was wonderin'. . ." He shifted in his chair under the doctor's scrutiny. "Was that doctorin' on Scott's hands done by a real doc, you think?"

Scott crossed his arms over his chest. "Good point. I'd really like to know if I've been tended to by an accredited doctor or just a deranged killer."

Sam went over to the sink and washed his hands. He said over his shoulder, "Even if he was deranged, Scott, it appears the man did a decent job on your hands. You'll be fine in no time at all. Try to keep them dry." Drying his hands on a towel, Sam returned to Johnny, side-stepping the dark stained patch on the floor where Gus Weatherby had died. "Now let's look at you, young man. Another fine mess." He reached out and prodded gently at the cut on Johnny's scalp. "It's above the hairline, so with any luck this won't show for a few more years. Let's see, where is my catgut?"

Johnny winced and sweated during the procedure, and felt washed out by the time it was done. There had been so much killing and he could smell nothing but blood, enough to be sickened by it. He was so tired, bodily and in his mind, too. This whole thing was so senseless. Plotting and telling so many lies it was impossible to tell who was telling the truth, who was to blame. And so many people dead. He regretted Walt's death the most - why had he turned on them like that?

But it was killing the Doc that had taken the spirit right out of Johnny. He'd known from the start it was going to be on his head and damned if he hadn't shot the old man with a deliberation that came so easily it scared him. After all those years of being around killing, you'd think a man'd get used to it. What good was it, Gus, to do something so stupid, to try to kill another man's son? It wasn't like it would bring your own, long-dead boy back.

Johnny wondered why it was so hot all of a sudden and he found he couldn't breathe. He was back in the bedroom under the eaves. There was a buzzing in his ears. He was so thirsty. . .there was Esther, bringing him some lemonade. . .just what he needed.

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tbc - only one more chapter to go!