ECLIPSE
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Mister Shamus O'Riley to see you, sir," Yves Tremblay announced succinctly, his French accent fading with the years, but Harlan Garrett appreciated the pretentiousness his House Steward projected. From the moment anyone stepped into his Beacon Hill residence, he expected an image of grandeur and sophistication associated with the Garrett name. What he did not expect was this visitor to enter his home. Reading his master's perturbed expression, Tremblay qualified by adding, "The civil title was used loosely, sir. O'Riley entered through the servant's quarters so as not to disturb the tranquilly of the environs." Yves then sniffed loudly. "He waits in the small breakfast nook. It will be aired once he departs."
Harlan nodded his approval even as his fingers tightened on his brandy snifter. He twirled the brown Armagnac in the glass letting his eyes settle on the dancing flames upon the hearth near his wide wingback chair. The lout could wait.
The recent news O'Riley had gathered for him was useful but not disruptive enough to be crippling to his adversaries, business or otherwise, and he had not required his other talents of late. Harlan's conniving heart skipped a beat. The man knew to rendezvous with him monthly in The Boston Common where packets of information could be handed off with little conversation thus avoiding the man's unsavory taint. The elderly man stiffened in his seat. O'Riley wouldn't dare to change their system without cause.
He set his brandy aside, rising from his chair with a rigidity brought about by increasingly painful joints. Harlan brushed his wrinkled hand down the body of his smoking jacket, the dark blue velvet soft beneath his fingers. He hesitated to receive the man in his current state of dress, but neither did he want his informant lingering in his presence. He assumed what O'Riley had to say was compelling—it better be. Garrett straightened his shoulders and left his private study to cross the house to the common dining wing.
"Sorry to be disturbin' ya, Mr. Garrett, sir," O'Riley spoke the moment Harlan entered the small dining room without waiting for the proper civil exchanges. Harlan tightened his jaw when he recognized he preferred to avoid proper civility with this man. Their clandestine relationship suited his purposes, and the invasion of his home should not warrant a change to that association. The strong odor of tobacco announced the man without the need to see the brown stains on his chipped teeth and beefy fingers. At least Shamus knew enough to keep his hand to himself without extending it for a handshake. Instead, the Irishman indicated the papers he held. "Knew ya'd be wantin' ta see these afore da next crossin' of our paths. Der's a story carryin' da byline of a M.C. de Young from California."
"Lancer?" Harlan felt the anger erupt and knew it flashed in his face before he tampered it down in front of the hired help.
"Lancer da elder but yer grandson be mentioned by name along wid'im."
"I suppose an obituary is too much to hope for."
"A trial, sir. Scott Lancer being one of da witnesses. Drew quite a crowd if da colorful words of Mr. de Young be any indication. Da article be written in his own paper but picked up and carried locally." O'Riley handed Garrett the newspaper folded opened to the third page and gestured toward the headline 'Madrid Bushwhacked! Warns Don't Mess With Me!'
"The Boston Post? No one of stature reads that rag." Harlan scowled as he quickly scanned the article.
"None dat admit to it, dat be da truth, sir, but dey certainly sell enough to be keepin' da presses churnin'."
Harlan sniffed and immediately regretted it as the musky smell of O'Riley's tweed jacket assaulted his nose. The article spanned a full column; however, Harlan focused on the brief paragraph noting his grandson's involvement. Garrett was once again relieved that Scotty hadn't taken the Lancer name until he joined the army against Harlan's wishes and most of the societal elite knew him only as a Garrett. Their name should be safe. Still, it was an unwelcome development. Harlan tossed the paper on the table. Best to let O'Riley think this news was irrelevant to Garrett's operations.
"It seems Murdoch's half-breed caused quite a stir." Harlan felt the burn rising up his neck into his cheeks, cursing his inability to hide the reddening skin he knew that projected his darkening mood.
"Oh, indeed he did, sir. Word a'da trial has been makin' its way across da continent an' da publishin' house be takin' advantage. You'll be wantin' ta see this, sir." Shamus laid a book on the dining table next to the newspaper.
"What is this drivel?" Garrett asked, noting the yellow cover with the Beadle name proudly displayed in black ink.
"Another t'ing no one claims ta read yet sales are brisk. Dis be da newest edition. Second print already comin' out next week."
The title, Johnny Madrid Border Menace: Blind Fury screamed above a line drawing of a dark-haired man with a bandana tied over his eyes dressed in a serape and sombrero, his handgun spitting flames while two men lay dead at his feet. Harlan flipped it to the back cover but grunted seeing the list of titles pronouncing 'The Adventures of Johnny Madrid continued'.
"Seems common thought was dat Madrid was killed about a year ago. Da press has now corrected dat misconception. Me contacts dat be watchin' yer grandson tell me dat da news of Madrid livin' wid Lancer have brought a gunfight or two ta d'ere town. An' yer boy be d'ere on da street wid 'im."
Harlan's chest squeezed. "My grandson was in a gunfight?"
"Not so much in but certainly d'ere as Madrid's second. Da two be tagether more'n d'ey be apart when leavin' da ranch. Madrid handles da fightin', ya know, an' with impressive efficiency, I must say. Yer grandson not be injured…yet."
Harlan's mouth dried at the same time his forehead grew damp. His knees wavered as he pictured his Scotty in the dirt, his chest blown apart by a bullet that should have ended that damn half-breed's life.
Shamus grinned beneath his thick auburn beard seeing the fear creep into the old man's countenance. "Da other gunfighters not be so lucky. Da trial be sayin' Madrid be blind but his gun hand twern't slowed down it seems."
"Perhaps someone should be a bit more creative in their approach to Mr. Madrid," Garrett raised a thick white eyebrow in O'Riley's direction.
"Dat we can do but Madrid carries a name not many wish ta take upon themselves…," the suggestion was left hanging for Garrett's consideration.
"Double the standing fee," the older man announced after a pause. "But only half up front. They get the rest when the job is completed."
"Fair enough."
"You were right to bring this to my attention, O'Riley; however, next time, send a message and I will meet you at our usual location. I will adjust your compensation for this …conversation… accordingly. Tremblay will see you out." Garrett spun and departed leaving the deliveries on the table.
"G'day, sir," Shamus tipped his hat with a brown-toothed smile as his employer left. He enjoyed the anticipation of his increased paydays knowing that paying off cowboy gunmen was cheaper than the mobsters in Boston. He would pocket a nice bonus once the ordered hitmen were hired.
Back in his study, Harlan Garrett had moved away from the fireplace and the comfort of his easy chair to the focus of his desk. He made no attempt to temper his scowl when Tremblay knocked and entered, laying the newspaper and book within the Master's reach on Garrett's huge walnut desk.
"Will you require the services of the staff before I allow them to retire, sir?"
"Dismiss them all, Tremblay. Who else was privy to our visitor?"
"The cook's assistant opened the knock at the rear door."
"Can you vouch for her discretion?"
"You pay well Master Garrett. She knows that we had no visitors this evening."
"Dismissed Tremblay." Harlan waved his hand as he turned away from the Steward. When he heard the click of the closed door, he reached for a cigar and chewed the end with a vengeance before his shaking fingers struggled to light and hold the match to ignite the tip. His rigid fingers tapped the cover of the horrid yellow book, bringing a frown.
Harlan struggled to grasp the allure for the West his grandson adopted with such zeal. He was raised better than that and, in his mind, he couldn't forego the thoughts that the despised Murdoch Lancer or that Mexican killer held some godforsaken sway over the poor boy still recovering from his regrettable sojourn in the clutches of the army. His long-distance efforts had failed to force Scotty to recognize the folly of his continued insistence to remain in the barbaric wilds of California.
He manipulated a hidden latch on the undersurface of the desk until he heard a gentle click. Pulling at a thin, decorative piece, a hidden compartment slid open. Harlan removed a narrow, leather briefcase. Drawing a ring of keys from his smoking jacket, with surprisingly deft fingers, he opened the lock securing it and removed the contents: four files labeled Lancer, Dennison, Degan and Madrid.
Harlan settled back into his chair drawing a deep breath of the cigar smoke into his mouth before releasing it slowly into the air. He considered his resources and determined which pieces needed to be moved, calculating the sequence for maximum impact. The time had come for him to execute his plans. He had attempted to use intermediaries to achieve his goal and accepted that some objectives required his personal touch. He only hoped he had not delayed too long.
He would be making a long overdue trip to see his only grandson and bring him home.
.
xXxXx
.
"Hi Johnny." The pretty blonde smiled a greeting, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she passed.
"Who is that?" Scott half twisted to follow the girl with an appreciative lift of one eyebrow as she made her way along the boardwalk of Green River.
"Huh? Oh, that's Lucy. Her folks run the dress shop Teresa's so partial to."
"Why haven't I seen her before?" The older brother had to jog a step to catch up with the younger who hadn't joined him in admiring the departing, well, the parts that were departing.
"She's been in Denver at one of those fancy finishin' schools proper girls go to. Just got back."
"Didn't take long for you to make her acquaintance, Brother."
"Yeah, she's aw'right," Johnny shrugged as his eyes darted along the street and the roof lines as they walked.
"I would say so. She certainly has her eye on you." Scott rested his hand on Johnny's shoulder as they walked side by side. "You know there's a church social coming up."
"Don't think so."
"You don't think so what? You don't think that you're interested in her, or you don't think that you're interested in the church social?"
"Both. You know I don't care for those community let's drag everybody together so we can talk about 'em things. As for Lucy, even if I was lookin', an' I ain't, it wouldn't take long for her Pa to straighten her out. Or her Ma. They sure don't want her spendin' time with the likes a'me."
"Johnny, I've had about enough," Scott stopped and pulled up his brother by his left arm. He'd been around Johnny enough to know to never interfere with his right. "Nobody talks bad about my little brother, not even my little brother. Are you about done feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Nah, Scott. I don't feel sorry for myself. I just remembered who I am. Forgot for a spell."
"Oh, and who are you, pray tell?"
"The man who the good girls of Green River…or any other place …don't spend time with." Johnny patted at his brother's dusty shirt, smoothing out a few wrinkles. "You're the one they have their hearts set on. Now are we gonna get these chores done so you can buy me that beer or we standin' in the street all day gossipin' like old women?"
"Who said I was buying you a beer?"
"How 'bout you go take care a'the bank and the post office. I need to run into the gunsmith and see Sam. Think I'll drop in on Val an' we can meet up at the saloon. The bad girls still like me jus' fine."
"You're still using those eye drops Sam makes for you?"
"Yeah. Not as much as before but seems to help an' I don't need you to help me stick it in anymore."
"You always need me, Little Brother, even when you don't think you do. We can stay together."
"Forget it, Scott. I ain't seen no one around to worry about an' I don't need yer cluckin' around me even though I know that's why Murdoch sent us both inta town. We split up. Get done faster an' ya can buy me that beer." Johnny tapped Scott in the stomach and took off at a fast pace, his eyes always moving.
"It's my prerogative to worry about you. And who said I was buying you a beer?" the blond called after him. Scott shook his head and turned back the way they came. The older, wiser brother decided he would have to tackle Johnny's issues one at a time and winning over the parents of potential girlfriends wasn't a priority. Thinking of the items that he stuck in his saddlebags, he was reminded that he, too, wanted to speak to Val. Murdoch had another reason for sending Scott into town.
He was worried, too.
.
xXxXx
.
"Mayor Higgs still worryin' ya 'bout the gunfight last week?" Johnny asked, glancing over his shoulder at Val sorting through papers while he foolishly poured himself a cup of awful coffee. Picking up his saddlebags, heavy with several new boxes of bullets and another bottle of eyedrops, from the seat of the chair where he had dropped it when he entered, he carefully set the bundle on the floor next to him before he slid into the seat.
"Don't pay him no mind, Johnny. I don't. E'eryone saw ya tried ta walk away from it. When them braggards don't got no more sense than ta draw on Johnny Madrid, Johnny Madrid has ta meet 'em in tha street."
"I don't think everyone sees things how you do, Val. Then again, more than a few prolly want the fight to happen so they can see me go down an' be done with me for good."
"Callin' bullshit on ya, amigo. Maybe when ya first got here it was like that, but now that folks know you, well…most of 'em understand. And ya'd think ol' Higgs would be happy. All tha press from tha trial has brought a lotta business inta town."
"Damn gawkers. Get in the way." Johnny threw his feet on the desk over some of Val's spread of wanted posters until the sheriff leaned over and shoved them off.
"Better'n tha ones watchin' from behind their curtains an' then complainin' about it."
"Sure don't help that the damn papers been tellin' every damn wanna-be gunhawk exactly where to find me. I kinda like it though," Johnny was wistful, "not being on the move all the time. Always looking around every corner."
"Ya still look 'round every corner, amigo. I seen ya do it e'erytime ya come inta town."
"Well, the past just keeps nudgin' me, Val. I'd be a fool to let it shoot me in the back. Damn reporter. Turned it into a goddamn hammer poundin' at me. Scott said his abuelo's last letter demanded he come back to Boston when the story showed up in their papers."
"Harlan Garrett? Isn't that his name? Consider tha source then. Ya said he's always haranguin' Scott to come back there. Nobody's gonna come from Boston ta call ya out. Ya ain't that special. Give it some time. Won't be long 'til folks forget about Madrid an' only see Johnny Lancer ridin' in again."
Johnny shrugged as he dropped his head back and looked around the office. "Any hombres in town I should know about?"
"A couple of drifters came through a few days ago. Both looked like they had seen better days. Don't think they was lookin' fer trouble though. Jus' looked like they'd seen better days."
Johnny squinted up at the ceiling unsure if the lines he was seeing were stains or creases in his vision. Although both the distortion in his eyes and the headaches were better, neither were gone completely. He didn't tell anyone. Not even Val. He was done with their fussing.
"I sometimes wonder what she looked like," the words slipped out before Johnny realized he was thinking it.
"Mattie?" Val glanced at Johnny without stopping his work. He knew better than to give too much attention to a subject when Johnny was ready to talk about it. How had Scott described it? Patient listening. "I met her. Ya want me to tell you?"
"Nah, don't need to know." The former gunfighter set the coffee cup on the edge of the desk and stood to stretch his back.
"Gotta letter."
"What'd it say?" Val surreptitiously glanced at his friend but kept his hands moving through the papers on his desk.
"Don't know. Got it a while back. Never opened it." Johnny wandered behind his friend's desk as his fingers brushed along the border of the bulletin board.
"Are ya gonna?"
"Don't know. She coulda said it to my face. Well, you know what I mean." Johnny's shoulders drooped.
"Mebbe she didn't know how ta say it then."
"Mebbe."
"Mebbe she just needed ta think on it an' now she wants ya ta understand why," Val offered.
"A wise man once said, 'leave 'em in your shadow when you walk away so if you ever get tempted to look back, you won't see a thing.'"
"You said that, Johnny."
"Right!" He slapped his friend's shoulder. "An' you are finally acceptin' just how wise I am!" The sad tones were replaced with playfulness, but Val knew Johnny well enough to know there was nothing lighthearted in his words.
"Hmmph. Wise ain't 'xactly tha first word tha'comes ta mind when thinkin'a ya, pardner."
"Mattie, she was smart though." Johnny walked to the window and pulled the blinds aside to peer out and study the street. "Mebbe she couldn't say nothin' but she had the eyes to see there'd be nothing but trouble if she stayed with me. Got out while she could. Can't even be mad at her."
"Johnny…."
"I'm serious here, Val. I got nothin' but bad news trailin' me. She needs to find something better. Look," Johnny spun around with a smile, taking quick steps back to the chair to snatch his saddlebags, and threw them over his left shoulder, "I'm gonna jump inta a game a'poker so you can get back to sheriffin'. Tell Scott to come find me if ya see 'im. He's buyin' me a beer."
His amigo hadn't been gone for ten minutes when the door swung open again and his brother poked his head in.
"Hey, Val. Is Johnny here?"
"Ya jus' missed 'im."
Scott came in and closed the door. "That's for the best," he muttered when he headed for the coffee pot. "I wanted to talk to you about Johnny privately. I'm worried about him."
"Worried how?" The sheriff raised an eyebrow as he held his empty cup in Scott's direction for a refill.
"Have you seen this?" Scott pulled a book with a bright yellow cover from the saddlebag he had draped on the back of the chair and dropped it on top of Val's papers.
"What's this horseshit?" The sheriff picked it up with a scowl. "Johnny Madrid Border Menace: Blind Fury. Don't even look like somethin' Johnny'd ever wear."
"I said the same but look inside," Scott gestured with his chin. Val thumbed through the pages and stopped, staring up at Scott with both eyebrows raised. "Exactly. There're one or two pictures inside with an excellent likeness. That reporter had a photographer with him. He must have sold a print to the publishing house. It's so good, I'm tempted to tear it out and frame it."
"Bastards," Val slammed the book down. "Those that come…they'll know what he looks like. They wouldn't have ta face him. They could pick 'im off. Damn."
"They could never claim they outdrew him then. They would have no witnesses. Surely that gives Johnny a little protection."
"Mebbe," Val acknowledged. "Johnny said your abuelo even saw tha stories in Boston. Who knew anyone in Boston would give a shit 'bout tha trial'a those pissants."
"I think we both know it wasn't the Meek brothers anyone cared about. Madrid sells, and as my grandfather taught me from an early age, profits drive any number of sins. According to my grandfather's missives, the story appeared in the tabloid press rather than the respectable publications. I think he hoped I would join him in condemning Johnny for what others wrote. His letter once again extols the safe harbor of Boston and the need to distance myself from the savagery of the west and the ignominy of this family branch."
Val dropped back into his chair, loudly crunching the toothpick in his mouth. The sheriff knew that gunhawks would start circling since the newspaper articles went public. Who would have thought it was even picked up in Boston! Beadle's dime novels were as popular there as in the west; he never realized the Johnny Madrid stories sat on shelves that far away. He certainly never guessed that Madrid captured the interest of the smaller newspaper "rags". And Val realized with some foreboding, that it was those kinds of papers most likely to be read by the men who would come looking for Johnny. He ducked his head and kept those thoughts to himself.
"Ya know they get out in another month or so. The Meeks. The prison sends out notices." Val began to swivel his chair back and forth, welcoming the squeak to change the subject.
"Do you think they will be back?"
"Who knows. Slate made some noise 'bout Clint's death not bein' treated like murder an' getting' even, but he sure didn't think twice 'bout settin' Lem's cabin on fire with Harrison in it. Oscar an' I know ta be on tha lookout. Hank over at tha saloon, too. He's lettin' me know whenever someone tha' looks like trouble rolls in. Johnny knows we're watchin' his back."
"Johnny may know, but he doesn't let us know." Scott leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Since his injury, he's been distant. He's keeping us…me…out. I don't know how to reach him, Val." The sheriff looked away from the worry in the pale blue eyes staring at the cup twirling in the man's hands. He figured his eyes had the same kind of look.
"He knows they're comin', Scott. He's bringin' Madrid back an' keepin' tha family outta tha way.
"He's talking to you, then?" Scott sounded both hopeful and hurt. Val moved the toothpick he'd been chewing to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.
"Nah, he ain't talkin' ta nobody. He don't see tha need. He's takin' hisself back ta tha border where he was in control—in his way'a thinkin', Scott," Val lifted both hands to calm his visitor when the blond man almost bolted from his chair. "He ain't thinkin' 'bout leavin', jus' thinkin' 'bout shuttin' out everyone around 'im. Goin' it alone. Back in tha Madrid days, Johnny ghosted tha border towns where he had very few friends an' even those moved in an' outta his life as he followed whatever trail struck him. He never stayed too long in one place, only long enough ta finish tha job he was workin' an' even then, he moved along pretty regular. Scott, you and Mr. Lancer need ta understand…."
"I understand that Johnny acts like he carries the burden of Atlas on his shoulders and…."
"Stuff that there book learnin' deep in tha leather valise with tha fancy engraved initials you carry around, drop it behind yer chair, an' shut tha hell up an' listen afore I stuff it your ears."
"That would make my ability to do as you ask anatomically challenging, I would think."
The glare that settled on Scott made him suspect, not for the first time, that men who wore their gun belts low on their hips gathered around in the back room of a saloon with a working girl's mirror and practiced who could stare the other down before they took it to the streets to share. Scott settled back in the hard wood chair and waved his hand at the sheriff who released the grip of his Colt and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.
"You an' Mr. Lancer need ta understand who yer facin'. That boy was stripped of his innocence afore he lost his baby teeth an' never had much reason ta trust. Every day of his life was a battle 'tween hisself an' everyone else who hated 'im jus' by lookin' at 'im. Not a Mexican. Not an Anglo. Mestizo. An' neither side wantin' 'im around. An' tha few people who touched his life that gave him a solid rock ta stand on got swept away by tha flood called Maria. This is full blown Johnny Madrid at fifteen all over again. He'd made his name an' he weren't goin' back. He'd scavenged in the border towns on his own for six years even before that…."
Scott leaned forward and the words blurted out before he could tuck them back in. "Johnny was living on his own when he was only nine years old? He told me that once in passing," Scott admitted. "I thought he was exaggerating."
Val shook his head. "Another thing you lot don't understand 'bout Johnny, he don't lie an' he don't exaggerate. He just says right out what he wants said."
"I will remember. And I'm sorry to interrupt. Please help me to understand what I need to know to help Johnny. I'm lost, Val."
"Hmph. I'm afraid that boy is out there in tha wilderness with ya right now. As I was sayin', at fifteen, Madrid had made enough of a name for hisself that the old guns were lookin' to put him aground before he turned his eyes on them an' tha up an' comers thought ta take 'im down an' take another step up the ladder. By that time, Johnny was fulla nothin' but hate an' fury that he buried so deep he was as cold and desolate as the Sierra Nevadas in a winter storm.
"He wasn't tryin' ta turn away from it in those days. He was seekin' them gunhawks out as hard as they was hopin' ta dance with him. Tha boy was fearless, takin' on any an' all comers. Goaded an' prodded 'em inta tha street ta face 'im. He wanted people ta walk in fear of 'im. Wanted those that had made his life hell ta duck their heads when he rode inta town.
"The only words he wanted on their lips was 'Mister' an' 'Sir' an' anyone who ever muttered 'mestizo' or 'breed' in 'is hearin' ended up splayed out in the dirt, sorry they ever heard tha name Johnny Madrid.
"Once he got ta tha top'a tha game, he relaxed some. Let some'a tha anger vent away. Stopped wantin' ta make a name an' started using it ta make things right what he saw wrong. But even then, Scott, even then, what none'a ya seem ta understand is Johnny wasn't lookin' ta make a life. He only wanted a livelihood. Enough money in 'is pocket ta make it ta tha next town, tha next job an' find some pleasures along tha ride. He didn't think his life had any meanin' so he didn't give any meanin' to 'is life.
"An' I see that again in my boy."
Scott knew he blanched at those words. The stab of jealousy—envy?—temporarily clouded the younger man's thoughts knowing that this man had something deeper with his brother that neither would reveal but meant something, something well beyond a shared bottle of tequila and hand of poker on Saturday night.
"You know yer brother," Val had gone on talking. "He's a whirlwind lookin' for a place ta land. He sees things, feels things so deep, there just don't seem ta be a place big enough ta hold it all, so he keeps it locked away in a dark cellar givin' tha rest of us only a peek'a what waits inside. An' just when he thinks maybe someone might have good feelin's for him in return, something slams him down an' it all shatters like a rock under a hammer. Tha boy can only be broken so many times afore he won't come outta tha dark anymore."
"You speak from experience?"
"Johnny's a tough hombre," Val refused to take the bait. "But he don't wanna be. Tha world just keeps pushin' 'im where he thinks he hasta be Madrid ta survive an' that means bein' alone."
"You think that's what's happening? He's pulling the mantle of Madrid around him?"
"That an' he's walkin' back ta tha place where he lives in tha moment an' don't much care whether tomorrow comes. We jus' gotta keep on tha boy ta remind 'im that tomorrow counts fer something. He counts fer something."
"I tell him Val. Every day."
"Well, ya jus' keep on tellin' 'im an' we'll all get through this. But, ya best get goin'. He was on 'is way ta tha saloon ta play some poker. Or maybe over at Tuck's private room. Johnny said you was buying tha beer."
Scott slammed his hat on the desk, his exasperation erupting. "Who said I was buying him a beer?"