Four generations of the Lancer family were assembled in the Great Room of the Lancer hacienda as Murdoch Lancer's great-grandson and namesake proposed the birthday toast.
"I don't need to say what a special occasion this is," Murdo began. "The one hundredth birthday of the head of our family and the founder of the Lancer ranch. What we owe him is exceeded only by how much we love him. So let's raise our glasses to Murdoch Lancer, El Patrón del rancho."
"Murdoch!" "Grandpa!" "Grandpappy!" The three generations of Lancer descendents joined in the toast.

"Thank you, Murdo; thank you, everyone. It's good to see all of you here. I'm glad the whole family could make it." Murdoch looked around the room filled with Lancers and his thoughts went back to the time when he was the only one, his sons lost, and the emptiness of the hacienda made him long for a family. So different now!

A voice beside his chair brought him out of his reverie.
"Is it time to cut the cake, Grandpappy?" asked the youngest Lancer.
"Not just yet, Scotty." Murdoch smiled down at the little boy, so like another little boy at a birthday party many years before. "First, there's a story I want to tell."
"An old one or a new one?" asked Jack.
"Both. It's the story of how my sons came to Lancer."
"An old one, then. Granddad and Uncle Scott have both told us that."
"They've told you their stories; now I'm going to tell you mine. Cathy," Murdoch looked across at his eldest granddaughter who was seated near the desk by the window, "you'll find a folder in the top drawer there. Would you bring it over, please."
"Hey, maybe another envelope with a thousand dollars!" said Jack. His Aunt Maria clipped him over the ear.
"Hoping he'd made up a spare, Jack?" Cathy laughed as she took out the folder and gave it to Grandpa Murdoch.

Johnny looked at Scott in mock alarm.
"Boston, do you think we should let this go ahead?"
"Nothing we can do about it, Johnny," Scott answered as his daughter handed her grandfather his reading glasses and tucked a rug over his knees. "Murdoch calls the tune!" The brothers grinned at each other, the memories flooding back.

The Lancer patrón opened the folder and took out a sheaf of papers. Adjusting his spectacles, he leaned back in his armchair and began reading:

It was 2.00am. I was sitting up, going through the stock records and finalizing the accounts. The noise came from outside. I went to the balcony doors, opened them. Noise again – from the stables. A noise that sounded wrong. A noise, I realized later, that was too loud – deliberately loud. But to my cost, I didn't think of that then. I only thought of something wrong at the Lancer stables, and went for my rifle.

I stepped out of the house. Heard the stable door banging, agitated neighing, the sound of hoofbeats and saw two riders galloping off with the horse they were stealing. I fired at them but they were already too far ahead.
"Paul!" I shouted, but O'Brien was already there.
"What is it, Mr Lancer?"
"Horse thieves, they've got the stallion. Come on!" I ran for the stable. O'Brien followed, pausing for a moment as he realized his daughter had also woken and was dashing out.
"Teresa! Get back in the house!" I heard him call. Then he was behind me, as we saddled up and set off after the intruders.

We trailed them to Morro Coyo. That should have warned us; horse thieves don't retreat to a town. But we were too intent on catching up with them and getting the stallion back. We rode into Morro Coyo just at daybreak. It was still, eerily still, deserted.
"Don Valdomero?" I called as we rode past the store. "Anybody?" There was no answer, just that eerie stillness, then we heard a neigh from the livery stables. I dismounted, opened the door, saw the stallion.
"Easy, boy," I said, approaching him gently. "We've come to take you home."

A shot. I spun around. Paul was lying on the ground. More shots, from above, from the bell tower. I fired back. The stallion panicked and bolted past me, out of the stable. I felt a bullet strike me in the shoulder, then as I twisted around, another, this time in the back. I fell to the ground beside O'Brien. The shooting stopped. I raised my head to look at Paul, saw that he was dead. Pain shot through me, my head started spinning and I knew nothing more.

When I awoke, I was back on Lancer, lying face down on my bed. Dr Jenkins was beside me. The pain was still there, excruciating pain. It didn't need Sam Jenkins' grim face to tell me that the prognosis was bad. The doctor was pouring something into a glass.
"Here, drink this, it'll ease the pain, probably make you sleep. The quieter you keep, the more quickly you'll heal." He steadied me and held the glass so I could drink. It was laudanum. I drank it; I wasn't fool enough to refuse. The doc was right; it would either ease the pain so I could rest and heal or – as he carefully hadn't said – knock me out so I would have a painless death. But before my mind became fogged up by the drug, there was one thing I needed to know.
I looked up at Jenkins.
"Was it Pardee?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Now, get some rest if you can."

As I lay my head back down on the pillow and did my best to ignore the pain I started thinking back, back to the start of all the trouble.