ECLIPSE
CHAPTER TWO
Scott followed the gunfire. He kept Remington, his large blue roan gelding, at a consistent canter. The shots were steady, rhythmic. He knew what he would find when he reached the glen tucked near the river. He took the time to put his thoughts in order.
Sam had cleared Johnny to move about the hacienda and ride in a surrey for distance travel a few days before. His cough remained persistent but was improving daily. The gunshot wound at his temple was healing well, a scab that would fall away but likely leave yet another scar. As for his vision, only Johnny knew, and he wasn't saying.
Johnny had joined them for breakfast but turned down the offer to ride with the family into Green River. His brother seldom joined them in town on Sundays, never attended church, and he had been surly at best during his recovery so leaving him at the hacienda was a sense of relief for the rest of the family. When they returned, Johnny and Barranca were gone. None of the few hands who remained on the ranch had seen him go.
They shared a sedate lunch with Aggie Conway along with Reverend Elijah Lawson and his wife, Hester. Aggie had asked about Johnny. The Reverend and his wife notably quiet about his absence. Scott would have called it relieved, but he recognized he was in a foul mood. And worried. Once again, his brother did whatever he wanted, disregarding the risk to himself and the impact on those who cared. And worried.
A pause in the gunfire followed by a resumption after a few minutes confirmed what Scott suspected. He stopped atop the hill that dropped into the glen and watched two cans skitter off the fallen tree trunk. Johnny reholstered his gun and dropped his eyes to his feet. The toe of his boot drew some marks in the dirt.
"Are you plannin' on sittin' there all day or just passin' by?" Johnny finally broke the silence between them, his voice carrying up the hill despite the soft tones used.
"When we returned from town and discovered you went out, I thought I'd join you, Brother. It's a fine day to be out of doors," Scott called back. Johnny turned, thrust his hands into his waistband, cocked his head and with one eye squinted closed, stared up at him, saying nothing. Ignoring the definite absence of an invitation, Scott announced, "I'm coming down." Barranca and Remington nickered a greeting between them as Scott dismounted.
"Are you supposed to be out on a horse?" the elder brother asked. He loosened the cinch of his saddle and released the reins allowing the pair to graze on the lush grass growing in the sheltered glen.
"Nope."
"Didn't think so. Did you have some lunch?"
"Nope."
"I brought you something in case you were hungry."
"Maybe in a little bit. Gotta finish." Johnny spun back to the log, pulled a mix of five targets using cans, bottles and pinecones either from the ground or a sack he had sitting nearby and spread them out. Scott noticed he placed them at different distances and heights including creating one challenge by stacking three cans in a triangle on the ground.
"Practicing?"
"Yep."
"Expecting trouble?" Scott walked to where Johnny had been standing and waited for him to return.
"Fool not to."
"Things loo..going smoother?" Scott caught himself. "You're feeling better?"
Of course, Johnny didn't miss his slip. His shoulder jerked slightly when Scott reworded his inquiry. His brother never missed anything. "Better enough."
"The district prosecutor came into town yesterday. Name of Uriah Banks. Murdoch and I spoke with him after church. He wants to talk to us tomorrow. The Circuit Judge is expected on the morning stage in two days. They plan to clear out the misdemeanor and civil cases on Tuesday afternoon. The Meeks' trial starts first thing Wednesday."
"Why do you think I'm practicin'?"
"Slate and Harrison are in jail, Johnny. They won't have guns."
His younger brother was headed back in his direction. A familiar smirk tugged at his lips. He had a sheen of sweat on his face and his eyes were sunken with dark circles visible even with his hat pulled down low. Scott thought he was blinking more than usual but didn't ask about his sight. He had learned that question was off limits as far as his brother was concerned.
"It's not them I'm thinkin' about. I got…what's that dictionary word of yours?…complazy?
Scott tugged at his lower lip, thinking for a moment before suggesting, "Complacent?"
"If that means getting soft, that's the one."
"You can hardly work a ranch like Lancer and claim you've become soft."
"Different kind of soft, Scott. I forgot who I was. That was a mistake. Nobody else ever does."
"Letting go of your past is not getting soft, Johnny. Not a mistake," Scott chided gently.
"It will never be in the past whether it's starin' me in the face or sneakin' up behind my back. Whispers when I walk by, folks turnin' away, the hard looks tellin' me to keep my distance or just plain callin' me out. It's all the same. I made the name Madrid. Now I gotta live with it. And if I wanna keep livin', I gotta be ready an' accept all the shit that comes with it. This damn trial is gonna provide a lot of entertainment for folks givin' 'em something new to chaw on."
"The Meek brothers are on trial. Not you."
"I'm always being judged, Brother. Thought you knew that by now."
Without another word, Johnny spun and fired. Scott never tired of seeing the grace and speed with which Johnny drew his Colt. He had never witnessed anyone faster—and prayed he never would. His targets flew up including the two bottom cans of the triangle stack, Johnny purposefully leaving the top one intact, as his gun moved to the next objects in the array.
Except for one.
Johnny's right hand, weighted by his emptied gun, dropped to his side. His eyes appeared to be fixed on the unbroken bottle left on the log.
"Everybody misses sometimes," Scott offered weakly.
"Not. Me," Johnny managed to emphasize each word while keeping his tone flat, unfeeling, factual. "Missing my shot means he got his." He opened the box of shells at his feet and reloaded his gun.
.
xXxXx
.
Although he refused to admit it out loud—he barely admitted it to himself—Johnny was relieved that Murdoch had taken Barranca's reins from his hands and handed his spirited horse back to the nearest vaquero and insisted that he ride next to him in the surrey. Scott rode near them on Remington but to Scott's credit, he avoided teasing his brother about the situation. In his current mood, Johnny wouldn't have handled it very well. Given the pensive look on his older brother's face, he suspected Scott knew now was not the time for jokes. Those times ended the day Mattie walked out the door.
Johnny crossed his arms against his chest and pulled his hat over his eyes feigning sleep. Another thing he refused to admit was the lingering effect changes in light, shadows and darkness had on his vision and the related pain that started behind his eyes and ate right into his brain. Murdoch wanted Johnny to see Sam while they were in town. Johnny trusted Sam, but he wasn't sure if he trusted him with that information. What was Sam going to do about it anyway?
Even with his lids closed, the gray moved like fog inside his eyes. He didn't want to test what he would see if he opened them. Shaking his head, rubbing, blinking sometimes changed the disturbance causing swirls in a glass bottle filled with muddy water, but the mud never seemed to drop to the bottom to leave something clear he could see through. The light didn't burn the fog off either but made it move, grow thick or sometimes thin, and other times caused colors to dance inside it like the fairy lights Murdoch talked about in his stories of the moors of Scotland. Oh, he could see—faces, objects, landscapes moved across his field of vision—but the details taunted him. Everything might be clear when he turned his head just the right way then in the next moment, the fog drifted across to blur the particulars making him vulnerable and unsure. He didn't know how to respond when he couldn't discriminate between a caring smile and a deceptive smirk.
From the time Doc Jenkins had cut away his bandages over ten days ago now, his peripheral vision, which he depended on to know everything and everyone that moved near him, was lost in a ring of shadow. He took some comfort that it appeared to have diminished although he couldn't say the same about the pain. It ranged from an incessant throb to a dagger sharp thrust that nearly drove a scream from his throat. Of course, that would never do. No one, not even his family, could know that level of weakness swirled around him. It wasn't that he didn't trust his family, but people talked, and others listened. There was a reason men of his trade stayed to themselves. It was a weapon he would have used against another man if he needed it, and he had no intentions of leaving knowledge of his troubles lying about for anyone to exploit.
It was bad enough that Scott had found him practicing with his pistol. And saw him miss. Not once but twice more before he adjusted his aim to his eyes. And he missed even more than Scott realized. Hitting the wide bottom of a bottle was not the same as breaking the thin neck he was aiming for. But that was the problem, wasn't it? If his eyes would settle and set, maybe he could get used to the way things looked but the picture danced like a flurry of dead leaves tossed in the wind and dropped in a riptide of surging water. Everything changed too fast for him to follow. His draw remained better than most but a gun in his hand that couldn't hit the man shooting at him just meant he was another has been. And has beens in his trade didn't just settle into retirement.
Maybe the Man Upstairs found a joke he could split a gut over. Fast draw Johnny Madrid dead in the dirt because he couldn't see the barn wall to hit it. He was pretty sure that the man's wife would try to bar the way to keep him out of the building, but maybe he'd go listen to what Reverend Lawson had to say about knocking on heaven's door. Or maybe not. The good reverend's wife would sweep him out with a broom if he tried. The church was for godly folks, not his kind of trash. Johnny sighed.
He was aware that they had entered Green River although he maintained his position as if he were dozing. There was truth in what they said about your other senses sharpening when one wasn't in use. Not only could he hear the bustle of the town, but he could sense the change in mood as the Lancers rode by. Johnny knew what it felt like to draw the eyes of the streets; in fact, once he relished riding into a town to announce that Johnny Madrid had arrived.
When he was small, he survived by hiding in the shadows. As he got older and the abuse found him even in the dark, especially in the dark, he stepped into the light and challenged the cabróns who thought they could beat him down. And when he decided he was a man grown by proving himself with a gun in his hand, he wanted that light pointed at him full on. He needed them to know he wasn't taking anybody's shit anymore. He enjoyed watching them duck into the shadows to hide.
That need had disappeared when Johnny Lancer came into town. He discovered he liked being greeted by name at the bank and mercantile, his favorite foods placed in front of him with a hug and a large serving of dessert in the cantina, and having his drink poured up as soon as he walked into the saloon. Johnny wasn't a fool. He knew some of the welcome was only because he was Murdoch Lancer's son but there were others with warm smiles happy to see him. Made him forget about the ones who scowled and crossed the street when they saw him coming.
As the surrey crept through town around the passing wagons, nicker of horses, and barking of stray dogs, he could hear snatches of words. 'Them two Lancer boys always finding trouble, 'specially that Mex one. Gittin' hisself shot up like that.' 'Those Meek brothers might hang.' 'Wonder if they found old Lem's hidden gold.' 'Heard Lem had 'im a girl hidden up there. Said she was a dummy.' 'Gotta get to the trial early to get a seat.' 'Think I'll wear my blue dress.' 'Them Meeks don't stand a chance against them Lancers.' 'Damn trial means the saloon'll be shut down.' 'The way I heard it, everything's shutting down fer this trial.' 'There's a reporter from San Fran in town asking questions. He was eating at the diner.' 'Did ya see that picture taker contraption? Do ya think them pictures it takes really steals your soul?' 'Gonna go git ma boots shined up fer court. Wanna come?' 'What the hell was Slate thinkin? Leavin' Madrid alive ain't a mistake anybody makes twice!'
Johnny lurched in his seat when the surrey came to a stop. Murdoch's large hand jostled his leg. "We're here, son."
Sitting up but keeping his hat low to avoid the sunlight, Johnny glanced around seeing smudges that moved, some with stilted steps taking a long look at the three men. Scott greeted young Jeremy King slipping him a coin and instructing him to take the surrey and Remington to the livery. Murdoch had rounded the back of the carriage and was now holding Johnny's elbow. Johnny squinted as he looked up and for a moment, his father's face was clearly visible. He didn't like the worry lines on the man's forehead.
"Come on, Johnny. Let's get inside."
So, the old man heard the street chatter, too.
"I'm not feeble, Murdoch," Johny growled as he tugged his arm free and dropped to the ground. Straight in front of him, Johnny had a good view of the steps as if someone had wiped away the dirt from the center part of a window. He commanded the lead, swaggering up the steps to the wide boardwalk. He was glad he wore his spurs. The confident jingle rang loud enough to turn heads. At that moment he didn't care who they saw—Lancer or Madrid—as long as he stood tall in the light. They needed to know he wasn't taking anybody's shit. They didn't need to know he damn sure couldn't see them coming.
"Hey Johnny," a friendly voice greeted as he entered the hotel. The change in lighting blew dust over the spot that was clear. "Hello Mr. Lancer. Scott."
"Hello Tucker," Scott answered the greetings of the owner of the hotel for the family.
"Mr. Banks is expecting you," the middle-aged man advised them. "He's in the private poker room."
"I've had some good fortune in that room, Tuck," Johnny said with a nod as he passed the long front desk toward the hall. He only saw a silhouette of the man pointing in the direction of the meeting rooms. "Ya got the Ace of Spades set up for me?"
"I stuck it under the seat in your favorite chair, Johnny."
"You're a good man, Tuck."
Johnny grinned along with Scott's chuckle then he slowed to let his father and brother pass in front of him. "You've met the man so you can go first," he offered then locked on to Scott's white shirt to guide him. The rest of the hall was in swirling fog. He knew this section of the hotel well but didn't want to be seen fumbling for a door. Murdoch knocked and pushed open a decorative wooden door standing slightly ajar.
"Mr. Banks? May we come in?"
"Mr. Lancer," an equally deep voice responded. Johnny heard the man stand as he and Scott followed their father. "I have been expecting you. Excuse my prodigious claim on a table better served with a different kind of paper stacks, but I found this room quite useful for my purposes." The two elder men shook hands. Johnny saw enough detail to know the man was in his 50's with thick gray hair wearing a dark shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. He began to roll one sleeve down before reaching a hand toward his brother. They shook firmly. "Scott, nice to see you again. And you must be Mr. Lancer, the younger." Johnny blinked unconsciously fast, but it cleared enough mist from his eyes to see the hand held in his direction. He took it and was met with a strong grip.
"Johnny," he corrected.
"Johnny. Feel free to call me Uriah or Uri in this room but we must be more formal once we get into the courtroom. Please find a seat. We will be here for some time, I'm afraid." Uri resumed his seat and began gathering his papers into neat stacks before opening a notebook. He tossed a squared off wood pencil on the surface that landed across the center but left his ink well uncapped. Banks had taken Johnny's preferred seat next to the wall at the vertex of the large oval table covered with a green velveteen felt. A wood rim about five inches wide bordered the edge with ring stains visible despite Tucker's efforts to keep his premiere room pristine—a difficult task even if only the more financially endowed players able to meet the room minimums made their way to this poker table. Seating eight, Johnny didn't want to crowd the attorney and settled on the center seat on the long side facing the door.
"There's coffee, water, fresh fruit, cheese, and crackers on the sidebar. Scott, if you would pull that door closed. This case has drawn more interest than one would expect, and our privacy should not be compromised."
"The gentleman in the lobby?" Scott asked as he glanced both ways in the hallway before ensuring the door clicked shut.
"Young fellow, brown hair?"
"Yes. He started writing in a notebook as soon as we walked in," Scott noted.
"That's one of them," Uri nodded as he gestured toward the seats. Murdoch brought Johnny a cup of coffee along with his own while Scott filled a cup. Murdoch selected the end seat on the opposite side of Banks. Scott settled between them at Johnny's right.
"Who is he?" Johnny asked as he nodded thanks for the coffee before tilting his head down. His cheeks burned from the realization that he had crossed the open lobby without even noticing the man. Damn he was complazy and it was going to get him or someone he loved killed.
"M.H. de Young of the Daily Dramatic Chronicle out of San Francisco."
A grunt from Murdoch raised Johnny's eyebrow. "A bit of a rag," the large man explained.
"No argument here," Banks concurred, "but it has a huge circulation, and they are attempting to go more upmarket. They advertise themselves as a daily instead of a tabloid now; however, the content remains more dramatic than news. M.H. certainly has a knack for titillating public interest. Don't expect objectivity when the man has papers to sell.
"Of greater concern is the defense attorney who has made himself available to the surviving Meek brothers. Unless they had hidden wealth being augmented by their attack on Lem Cable's supposed gold, I presume they could never have afforded a man of his caliber on their own. My guess is that he made himself available when he heard the name Lancer was involved."
"What does that have to do with it?" Murdoch leaned forward, a touch of the bear in his voice as well as demeanor.
"The same reason young Mr. de Young has staked out a claim in the lobby. You are news Mr. Lancer."
"I'm just a rancher. And call me Murdoch, please. As long as we are being informal." He grinned but held his position with both elbows on the table.
"You own one of the largest ranches in the state and are the driving force behind the California Cattle Growers Association. Your name wields power, Murdoch, and some men want to try their hand at bringing powerful men down. Yancy Jakes has built his growing reputation as an attorney for the everyman. A representative for the Average Joe who feel like justice is only designed for the rich and powerful."
"This is a criminal trial," Scott joined his father bending forward at the table. "Lancer has no sway over guilt or innocence as determined by a jury. My brother was a victim here along with Dr. Poovy, Lem and his niece. They are the ones who deserve justice."
"Commendable words, sir, but the common man doesn't necessarily see things that way," Uri stated as he ran his finger along the lip of his coffee cup. "Especially those that may have run afoul of the law even if it was as simple as a drunk and disorderly. Men like the Meeks don't typically even have an attorney and the charges would be filed, litigated and judgement rendered with them having little understanding of the process and even less of how to defend themselves other than their claim of 'I didn't do it.' Only a defendant with money retains their own attorney. The rest are at the mercy of the court. For all of our strides toward civility and propriety, California remains a lawless state with vigilantism as acceptable as a judge's gavel in some districts. There is an allure to taking out the knees of a big man. And Murdoch, you are a big man in every sense of the word, sir. Yancy Jakes wants to be a champion to the common man. I suspect he has designs for greater things including political office."
"The knight valiant who derides wealth and power until he obtains it for himself," Scott shook his head. Surrounded by the sycophants who chased the coattails of his grandfather, he was all too familiar with the type.
"Quite. He accomplishes this by smashing the pedestals of men of power. Jakes couldn't pack his hammer fast enough when he heard this case involved Lancer. He will be attacking tooth and claw to prove the Meek brothers are merely scapegoats and the true victims of an unbalanced legal system.
"Although I decry the man's courtroom decorum and object to turning a man of means into a mob boss, I cannot take issue with Jakes's intentions. Every defendant deserves a fair hearing. With that being said, as a prosecutor, I only bring charges that have evidentiary support. I know this will not sit well with any of you, but as I reviewed the cases before me, I will not be pursuing the murder charges for Lem Cable's death."
Both Murdoch and Scott reacted with shocked exclamations, but Johnny remained still. He was all too familiar with the law and justice Uriah Banks had described. He had spent many a night in jails for no other reason than the combined color of his skin and eyes. He did stints for stealing bread when he was as young as ten or avoided arrest to have the so-called law simply beat the shit out of him for wandering into a place that didn't want his kind around. Lem Cable was not an important man. His death didn't amount to much. Johnny tensed when he suddenly felt the quiet in the room and realized all eyes were on him.
"Sorry," he pushed his hat back and glanced first at Murdoch and then Uri. Under the lamplight in a room free of windows, Johnny discovered the dust over his eyes had settled and he could see the concern of his father and expectation of the prosecutor.
"Johnny, Lem was alive when you found him. That is my understanding. Did Lem make any kind of statement about who beat him? Did he identify his attackers?"
"Nah. He was only just hangin' on. Wanted me to get to his house. That's what he kept sayin' til he took his last breath."
"Confirming what I was told and that makes anything I have on Slate and Harrison Meek circumstantial. I truly believe in the concept of beyond reasonable doubt and no man should hang no matter how probable their guilt might be."
"Does that mean they get away with nearly killing me, too?"
Uri raised his hand forestalling the arguments of the other two Lancers. "I will be keeping the attempted murder charge for Slate with Harrison as an accessory. Did you see them when you were shot?"
"No. Bushwhacked from the git-go. I was on their trail but didn't see or hear them nearby."
"As I thought, but we have Harrison's confession made to Sheriff Crawford and Deputy Sharpton that Slate pulled the trigger that struck you, Johnny. They all thought you were dead. Mattie Cable's testimony attests that the brothers came to find your body in the river, and she heard Slate admitting to shooting you."
"Mattie?" Johnny tried to keep his voice neutral, but he saw Murdoch's head swivel and continued to watch him. Scott's hand snuck a pat on his knee under the table and rested there as Banks continued.
"She gave a sworn deposition that I will be using. She won't be here. Nor will Dr. Poovy. The injuries caused by Slate Meek have festered and left him unable to travel. They remain in Connecticut. Truthfully, I wouldn't want Mattie on the stand against Yancy Jakes. He can be ruthless and would use Mattie's disability against her. He would treat her as an imbecile not competent to give testimony."
"I spent time with the girl as Johnny was recovering," Scott came to her defense as he squeezed Johnny's knee then brought his hand to drum against the table. The set line of his jaw matched the growing irritation on Murdoch's face. "She is quite intelligent hampered only by a lack of education. Her inability to speak has no impact on her competence, only her communication."
"Then we can be pleased that she is receiving one," the attorney nodded in agreement. "I wouldn't have put her on the stand even if she was not a thousand miles away. Jakes would not attack her outright and draw the ire of the jury or the disfavor of the gallery. For all I know, he alerted M.H. de Young about this trial in the hopes the reporter would take the bait and help spread his name further across the state. Demeaning a helpless girl hardly fits the image he wants to curry, but he would flay her, nonetheless. All of her testimony would have been brought into doubt if not discounted outright. Using her witnessed affidavit, I can present her account while championing her strength and bravery.
"Her statement includes the assault at the cabin, but I do want corroboration for the assault charge on Harrison to stick. Johnny, were you able to confirm his identity when he assaulted Mattie?"
"I recognized 'im," Johnny confirmed, his voice hard. "They had worked at the ranch for the last three months or so."
"You saw him?" Banks pressed. Johnny swallowed before lifting his eyes to stare at him. Uri held the gaze pleased that he had finally drawn a glimmer of a reaction from the young man. While his family had expressed their feelings through words as well as gestures, Johnny was a closed book. It would serve him well against Jakes, but he needed him to be approachable to the jury. They would discuss it in private. He suspected he would balk at having his father or brother be a part of an examination of his perceived behavior.
"I couldn't see then," the answer was given laconically. "The bullet to my head knocked my eyes out for a spell. I heard him well enough. Knew his voice."
Banks picked up his pencil and tapped it against his paper. "We'll use that. All right, gentlemen, let's order some more coffee, grab a plate, and roll up our sleeves. I need to review the rest of these charges and then I want to see you separately to discuss your testimony. It needs to sound unrehearsed and independent of one another."
"I need to handle some bank business while we're in town. Scott, I want you to arrange some rooms for us during the trial. Johnny, Sam Jenkins is expecting you." Both sons nodded at their father's orders.
"I wanna go talk with Val while we're here," Johnny added.
"Val Crawford? The sheriff?" Banks asked.
"Yeah. Why?" Johnny turned back to the attorney.
"I'm sorry, Johnny. You can't be seen talking to the sheriff until the trial is over. I came to town early to prepare for this trial for a reason. The jury will be pulled from your friends and neighbors here in Green River. Small town gossip can make or break a verdict especially when we're facing off against a man like Yancy Jakes. It is well known that you and Crawford are friends, and I will be fending off that relationship as it is. We don't need any further suggestion of Crawford's favoritism toward you. It would undercut his testimony as not being factual or objective."
"Val ain't gonna lie for anybody, me included. Ask your gossips how often he tosses me in jail on Saturday night."
"I think I would prefer to avoid you being depicted as a hell raiser, Johnny. Please. Stay clear of Sheriff Crawford."
"So, I'm not the one on trial, huh, Scott?" Johnny muttered under his breath.
"Unfortunately," Uriah Banks eyed each of the men at the table, "with Yancy Jakes at the defense table, all of Lancer is on trial."
.
xXxXx
.
Johnny stomped along the boardwalk, hat low, eyes down—not because he had anything to hide but the damn sun set his eyes on fire and his head throbbed reliving the day Slate Meek had put a bullet in it. His current claims of 'not guilty' to the contrary, Johnny knew Slate did it even before Harrison admitted it to Val. The man had bragged often enough about the globescope on his rifle claiming he could take out a buck or a bear or a puma or whatever the hell else he claimed to be shooting at from a thousand yards away when he told the story. He went on about it so often, the other hands started ribbing him about his claims bringing an angry scowl to his face, making him stalk off followed by his brothers.
And Johnny knew exactly who he was following that day. He had to admit it surprised him reading the sign as plain as if it were directions tacked up on a fence post. He never had much use for the Meek boys. Saw them as lazy loudmouths but not killers. Not back shooters. After what they did to Lem, he should have known better. Complazy.
He brushed his right hand against his Colt and felt better. He needed to practice before they came back into town though.
The boardwalk was busy for a Monday. Not that Johnny spent a lot of Mondays in Green River but there were a lot of people out. He almost went by to ask Val about it not caring what the prosecutor told him. He still didn't cotton to taking orders, although he liked Banks well enough. Just seemed to him that folks did know that he and Val were friends and him not talking to him was more suspicious than not.
Not seeing the Meeks. That made more sense. And he couldn't make any promises of what he might say or do if he heard them moving around in the cells.
Of course, it also helped that Scott walked with him as far as the mercantile in the opposite direction of the jail. Murdoch had sent them out together so their father could meet with Uri first. They had arranged hotel rooms with Tucker checking in late tomorrow and then Scott dragged Johnny out saying he needed a few things from the store.
"You do know the rest of the way to Sam's office, don't you, Brother?" Scott had asked with a grin when Johnny made no move to enter the store. "I'm expecting a book I ordered, and I need a few things for our overnight stay in town. I'll even buy the peppermint sticks if you want to join me inside and then we can walk to Sam's together." Johnny snorted to himself. His family knew him too well.
"I'm going. Doc would tattle on me if I didn't show, and I don't need an earful from Murdoch right now. See ya back at the hotel."
"I can come down there when I'm through," Scott had offered.
"Nah," Johnny waved as he kept walking. He turned taking a few steps backwards before adding, "I want the candy though. Peppermint and cinnamon."
No jail, no Val today. No sense in causing commotion for his friend or his family. He stepped off the end of the boardwalk pausing at the open crossroad to let a wagon pass and made his way up the porch to Sam's combination office and house. A couple of horses, their tails switching at the flies buzzing in the noon heat, were hitched on the rail next to the Doctor sign that swung on chains by the fenced in yard. No rifle scabbards or lassoes attached so no one from one of the ranches then. Maybe a farmer? Didn't matter. Johnny reminded himself he wasn't here to socialize with his so-called neighbors.
The reluctant patient pushed open the door to the clinic causing the door blade to strike a bell hung from the ceiling. He blinked rapidly as his eyes slowly adjusted from the sunlight to the dimmer room. The fog within his eyes wavered from a thick blanket that thinned in the center enough for him to see a figure turn his way. His hand instinctively settled on his gun as he murmured, "G'afternoon," to the anonymous man.
"Oh, hey, Johnny," a young voice he recognized answered.
"Dex." The dark-haired man shifted his head to swing the hair off his forehead in an attempt to improve what he saw in the room. Fifteen-year-old Dexter Smith rose out of a chair against a wall in the lobby. Johnny could see well enough to note that the boy had one arm in a sling and a split lip to go along with a scrape across one cheek. "Some pretty little gal knock you off your feet, Dex?"
"Kinda," the teen blushed, the color vivid as it rose from his ears into his strawberry blond hair. "Our donkey Jezebel. She didn't feel like plowing but was more stubborn about it than I was. She dragged me along a bit to make her point."
"Those Lassiter boys from the Diamond L been leaving you alone?"
"Yeah. Ever since you set 'em straight, they don't bother me no more. Thanks."
"De nada. Some of them dumb rancher kids don't seem to understand they'd be going hungry if it weren't for farmers like you. Feel free to drop my name if they wanna stir things up. You ok?"
"Yeah. Nothing's broke. Just sprained. Hurts though."
"Next time someone asks, just tell 'em her name was Belle and leave out the donkey part," Johnny rested his hand on Dex's good shoulder. The boy grinned.
"Get your filthy hands offa my boy Madrid!" a screechy voice bellowed along with the sound of an opening door. A short man with matching reddish hair stormed out of Sam Jenkin's office. He attempted to slap at Johnny's arm, but he had dropped it and twisted back a step causing the man to miss, taking an awkward step forward. The man's cheeks blazed red as did his son's although their faces reflected entirely different reasons.
"Bertrum," Johnny stated the man's full given name knowing full well he hated it. "Me and Dex were just having a chat."
"We was jus' talkin' Pa." Dex glanced at Johnny, his eyes attempting to convey an unspoken apology, although his friend was unable to see the details of his expression.
"Bert, what are you hollering about?" Dr. Jenkins hurried out into his waiting area.
"Let's jus' say I'm particular 'bout the company I keep with me an' mine and we're done here." The farmer grabbed his son's uninjured arm and shoved him toward the door as Johnny stepped aside, his face a neutral mask.
"No farm work for a week Bert!" Sam called after the man just as the door slammed shut.
"Woo-wee, you should work on your bedside manner if that's how your patient's feel about you, Sam."
"Johnny," Sam started to argue then chuckled as he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I need to work on that. Eh, don't pay him any mind. You came at a good time. Let's take a look at you then we can run over to the café for some lunch."
"I'd love to but I'm not sure if I'm allowed to be seen in public with you. I might be taintin' your reputation."
"Johnny, I told you to ignore what Bert Smith said," Sam gestured for one of his favorite patients to enter the smaller of his exam rooms having no need for a long exam table today.
"It's not him, Sam. I'm used to people like Smith. Scott and Murdoch are in town with me. Meetin' with the prosecutor for the Meek boys' trial. He told me to stay away from Val since my talkin' to him might make people think any man who spends time with me can't be trusted. Not sure if it applies to you, too."
"He said that!?" The anger in the doctor's voice was immediate.
"Not in those words exactly. But I'm not allowed to be seen with him 'til the trial is over." Johnny plopped into the cushioned chair in the exam room as Sam took the stool across from him. "He's worried the jury won't believe he's telling the truth. Might think he'd lie for me."
"Anyone on the jury will know Val better than that. He may be unconventional, but he does his job well. And speaking of doing jobs, let me get to mine. No "I'm fine" answers allowed. How's the pain?"
Johnny absently rubbed at the nearly healed scar along his temple. "Still having the headaches especially in bright light. Sunshiny days ain't so welcome right now."
"Your vision? Truth, now. I saw you squinting at the Smiths."
The dark head bowed leaving Sam with a clear view of the top of his patient's head. "It still ain't right."
"Blurry?"
"Some, but more like I'm looking through a dust storm or, what is it Teresa calls it, sheer curtains. Or a veil. It's like there's something in the way but I can't push it all the way aside. And the edges are hard to see through at all, but they move. In and out." Johnny used his fingers curved in half circles to fluctuate back and forth.
"Does it seem better, worse or about the same?
Johnny paused for a long moment. Sam could almost feel him thinking as his hands dropped, his right fingers tapping at the edge of his holster next to his gun.
"Nothing's the same. Some days it's bad but mostly better, I guess, than it was when I couldn't see nothin' and that first day you took the blinders off."
It was Sam's turn to pause as he considered the wording of his next question. "Have you shared your condition with anyone? Murdoch or Scott? Val?"
"Nah, Doc. You know how they all fuss and nobody needs that kind of aggravation. 'Sides, I don't need anybody knowin' they might have an edge on me. I've gotten too soft as it is. Ya know, complazy about things."
Sam tilted his head. "Complacent?"
"Yeah, that's the word Scott said, too, but I think mine fits better."
The doctor tapped Johnny's thigh with a chuckle. "It might at that. Now, I want to try something, and I need you to do what I say."
"That don't sound like I'm gonna like it."
"You will if it works. I have been corresponding with ophthalmologists, eye doctors, back east where research has been successful helping some patients that have had eye trauma similar to yours. They sent the instructions for some drops that might help." Sam produced a brown, glass container with a corked lid. "They sent me detailed instructions and I was able to produce some for you. The ingredients were not hard to find." Johnny scowled.
"We're going to try this, Johnny." The young man's shoulders dropped. "Lean your head back against the chair." Sam stood with a grateful sigh as his willful patient followed instructions. "They warned it would sting."
"Let 'er buck."
Sam poured a small amount of the clear liquid into Johnny's eyes next to his nose quickly moving between the two. "Keep your eyes closed for about five minutes after I apply the drops.
"¡Chingada madre!" Johnny shouted leaning over his knees, one fist pressed into his eyes. "You said a sting, Sam. Not a goddamn red-hot knife!" His other hand pounded at the arm of the chair until the pain subsided.
"Keep your eyes closed!" Sam ordered.
"No shit! Couldn't open 'em if I wanted to!"
Johnny cussed for the next five minutes blithely flipping between Spanish, English and another language that the doctor didn't recognize as Sam resumed his seat in front of him, crossed his arms and ignored the boy's tirade. He studied his body movements with a practiced eye. As Johnny's breathing calmed, he opened his eyes with repeated fluttering of his lids. Sam raised his eyebrows and asked, "Well?"
A hint of a grin touched Johnny's lips. "Still feels like I got a glowing matchstick poked in there. And I ain't cured but I can see better in the middle part for sure. How long will this last?"
"You are still healing, Johnny. You will need to apply these drops twice a day for two weeks. Someone will have to help you. You can't do it by yourself."
"Scott." Johnny's answer was immediate. "But I think I better wait 'til after the trial. Starts day after tomorrow I can't have any distractions 'til it's done."
"Fine. That will give me time to make some more. Bring Scott here and he can practice putting the medicine in your eyes with me watching."
"As soon as the Meek boys are found guilty, we'll come see ya. Maybe then we can go eat out in public together."
"Since you said being with you might damage my good reputation, you can buy," Sam laughed. Johnny chuckled, too, but dropped his eyes. It stung as much as the burning in his eyes that there remained too much truth in those words.