Teresa set out the best china and glassware on the supper table that evening, to celebrate my sons' homecoming. It was no more than Scott was used to, of course, but I suspected Johnny wasn't quite comfortable. Perhaps that's why he started quizzing Scott on his fine clothes.
"Nice ruffles, Boston. Got them on all your shirts?"
"Not all," Scott replied. I think he felt it was best not to say more.
"I'm disappointed."
"Are all the cattle on the ranch Longhorns, sir?" Scott asked, turning to me.
"No, we've started bringing in Herefords the last couple of years, but Longhorns still make up the greater proportion of our stock. They grow well in this country; the Central Valley produces some of the finest beef in America. They're wild though, hard to handle. Can't transport them any great distance by rail – they thrash about inside the cars and injure themselves, sometimes even break the cars apart. That's why we have the cattle drives."
"I've heard about them."
"They're quite a sight. The next big one will be in a couple of months. You'll see it then – if you're still here."
"I intend to be here," he assured me.
I liked the answer. No grand declaration of what he was going to do, or how he was going to stay no matter what, just the simple statement, but delivered with an undramatic firmness that left no room for question. This young man's yea was yea and his nay was nay. People often said the same of me, as a matter of fact; perhaps that was why that same trait in Scott appealed to me.
I was startled at my thoughts. Was it surprising that we were alike? He was my son, mine and Catherine's; this grown man was the little boy I'd watched for those few wonderful, heartbreaking minutes nineteen years ago.
Something of what I was feeling must have shown on my face because Scott was looking at me oddly. Suddenly he spoke.
"Did you come to Boston once, when I was very young?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes, Scott, I did," I said quietly.
"It was my birthday…" I nodded. He paused for a moment, then said, "Well, that solves one problem."
"Which one?" I queried.
"What to call you. You were introduced to me as Murdoch, so that's the name I'll call you by."
Murdoch. That was all Harlan Garrett had let me be to my son all those years ago. But my own words came back to me: the past should be past and gone, so I said,
"Yes, I think that will work well. And you, Johnny? What do you want to call me? Will Murdoch do, or do you want to stick with 'Old Man'?"
"Murdoch sounds about right. I'm sure not gonna call you Mr Lancer every second breath and the time for callin' you Pa is long gone." There was no mistaking the touch of anger in his voice as he said that last part. But then he grinned and added, "but I might save 'Old Man' to use sometimes."
I turned to Teresa. "And what about you, Teresa? You're a daughter of the house, now. My sons will be calling me Murdoch; I'd like you to call me that, too. "
"Well," she hesitated, "if you don't think it sounds too disrespectful…"
"I think 'Mr Lancer' sounds too distant."
"Well, then, yes, I would like to." Simple words with a world of meaning.
"Settled, then," I said.
"You know," said Teresa after a few moments, "it's a very sensible idea as well. I mean, with three Mr Lancers in the house, things could get confusing."
"Two!" said Johnny sharply.
"What?" said Teresa.
"There are only two Mr Lancers in the house. My name's not Lancer, it's Madrid."
"You answered to Lancer this morning," Scott remarked wryly.
"Yeah, because Teresa was obviously lookin' for me." Actually, it was Scott she was looking for, but I let it pass. "Make no mistake, though," Johnny went on, "I got no reason to want to be a Lancer. My name's Madrid; that's the name I'll give when anyone asks me and Madrid is the name that will go on that agreement when I've taken care of Day Pardee."
Teresa responded, sounding more worried than anything else.
"But, Johnny, mightn't that be dangerous? I mean, people might think you're that Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico."
Johnny gave me an amused look. "Didn't you warn her, ol' man?"
"No, Johnny, I didn't think it necessary to mention it," I replied.
"Mention what?" Scott asked.
"That I am Johnny Madrid, the gunfighter from Mexico," Johnny said with a grin.
Teresa was staring open-mouthed. "You're… you're Johnny Madrid?" she gasped.
"At your service, ma'am."
"Enlighten me, please," Scott put in. "Who is Johnny Madrid?"
Teresa stared at Scott now, in amazement. "You've never heard of Johnny Madrid?"
"His fame hasn't reached Boston yet, apparently," I remarked, not really surprised that it hadn't.
"Why, he's the most notorious, most wanted, most bloodthirsty…" She stopped suddenly, realizing she was talking about the man seated opposite her.
"… most ruthless, most vicious killer in all of Mexico and the border towns," Johnny finished for her, still grinning.
"Oh, that's who he is, is he? For a minute there I was worried," Scott responded drily, obviously unimpressed. "It wouldn't be a case of fame outstripping fact, now would it?"
"Well, maybe," said Johnny, then added with a sudden narrowing of the eyes and disappearance of the grin, "or maybe not."
Scott didn't seem troubled, but Johnny's words and look made me think of the main street of Yuma.