When Harlan Garrett took my first-born son to his home as a baby, I let him keep Scott because it was the best thing for the little boy, then. His mother was dead; there was no woman here to look after a baby, only hired help and they would come and go. I was working day and night to build up the ranch. Scott was better off in his grandfather's home. I still believe that, at the time, it was the right decision.
But four years later, things were different. I was married again; the ranch was doing well. I could give Scott a home, a mother, a good education, all the things he should have, and it was time to bring my elder son home. As soon as I felt I could leave the ranch for the length of time it would take to travel to Boston and back, I put Lancer in Paul O'Brien's hands, and Maria and Johnny in his care, and started East. I arrived at the Garrett mansion on Scott's fifth birthday but Harlan Garrett refused to let me take him. He intended to raise Scotty, as he called him, as his own son and would fight me in court for custody. I intended to contest him, of course; I knew that any court would put a father's rights over a grandfather's if that father was providing a good home, which by then I was, but when I got back to California, I found Maria had gone, taking Johnny with her.
That made things completely different, as far as reclaiming Scott went. As a married man with a family, any court would give my son to me. But as a man whose wife had left him, I could be facing years of court battles and worst of all, creating misery for Scott. At first I thought I would be able to find Maria and bring her back, then bring Scott home. It just meant a little more delay. But she disappeared so completely that it was years before I could trace her. I decided to wait until Scott could make up his own mind where he wanted to live.
I wrote to my son, of course, a letter every month, and sent his Christmas and birthday presents to Boston. I told him all about Lancer: about the horse I was raising for him, the room in the hacienda that was kept ready for him, the vaqueros eager to meet him. Paul would put in a note from time to time and, when she got old enough, Paul's little girl Teresa sent him Christmas and birthday cards that she made herself. And I subscribed to every Boston newspaper, scanning every edition for any mention of Harlan Garrett's grandson. Now and then there was a snippet: he was enrolled at Harvard, he had attended this or that social event, his engagement to Miss Dennison was announced.
But I never heard a word from Scott. In nineteen years, I never once had a letter from my son, not even a thank-you for the birthday and Christmas gifts. I'll admit, I always suspected that the silence might have been Harlan's doing. He may have poisoned the boy's mind against me or even just plain forbidden him to write. It wouldn't have been beyond him. But in 1863, when Scott was serving in the army, I wrote to him, care of his regiment. He wasn't a little boy under his grandfather's control by then; he was a man grown, a sergeant in the Union Army who would make his own decisions.
I got no answer. I didn't write again.
I would send to Scott to offer him a partnership in the Lancer ranch, but I doubted that there would even be a reply. No matter, it would serve the purpose; I could truthfully tell Johnny Madrid that one third of the ranch was a fair and equal share.
No matter, I told myself again.
I sent my instructions to Pinkerton's the next day. I'd thought long and hard about what message they should give to Johnny. Something told me it would be better not to give him the whole offer right away; he might arrive ready to haggle for a higher price. More, I didn't want him to know who he would be fighting against. Giving him the chance to get in touch with Day Pardee before coming to Lancer was a risk I didn't want to take. Finally I decided to have Pinkerton's simply tell him I wanted to see him. One thousand dollars for one hour of his time was the inducement I put out, enough to tempt even Johnny Madrid, surely. A high price, true, but this was no time for economy. Too much depended on getting Madrid here, and on my side.
I wrote the letter to Scott that same evening. I put in no mention of the outlaws threatening Lancer; it would have been irrelevant anyway, in what was, after all, just a token effort. It was a nice, polite letter, offering him an immediate equal share in the ranch with his brother and me. I sealed it and sat looking at it as it lay on my bedside table. What would come of it? I knew what: at best a courtesy response, declining the opportunity with proper thanks but more likely, no response at all. There was a sick feeling in my stomach as I thought of the next few weeks: hoping every day for a letter, hoping where I knew I shouldn't hope, hoping as I had so many times over the years and facing the same disappointment again. At least when Pinkerton's made the offer to Johnny, they would come back to me with a yes or no ... the idea came to me. Why not have Pinkerton's take a message to Scott? After all, the purpose was to be able to tell Johnny Madrid that the same offer had been made to his brother as I was making to him. Why not make it exactly the same offer, sent exactly the same way? One thousand dollars plus expenses for one hour of his time. For a moment I hesitated. It seemed harsh, more abrupt than it needed to be. Then I thought of all those unanswered letters and – I'm ashamed to admit – I suddenly was angry. My elder son had never had the good manners or courtesy to reply to me; why should I worry about being considerate to him. I threw the letter in the fire and wrote out further instructions to Pinkerton's.
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
The two telegrams arrived the same day. The one from the Pinkerton agent in Mexico simply said that Johnny Madrid would come to the Lancer ranch. Relief washed through me; the first hurdle was passed. Johnny – no, Madrid the gunfighter – was willing to talk business. I opened the second telegram, the one that would tell me Scott had declined my offer. It said Scott was coming.
So this was what it took to get a Boston gentleman to visit his father – not invitations, not letters, not gifts chosen with care, but an offer of cash payment. It seemed Harlan Garrett, master accountant first and last, had brought up my son to be as money-focused as himself. Well, it made no difference to the business at hand. So long as I could tell Johnny that an identical offer of one-third share had been made to Scott, it didn't matter whether the offer had been made by letter or face to face. And – I would see Scott. I would hear his voice, be able to picture his face, have another memory of him to add to that single, long-ago meeting. The dark cloud of these last few months had brought at least this one tiny silver lining.