The First Night/ First Impressions
by Sharon
Is
There Anyone Home?
Is
there anyone home, in this house made of stone?
Anyone
in there who might care?
I’ve
grown weary and wise and I feel much amazed, got a few good tales to unwind.
Turn
around, don’t look down, there’s a man behind you with a gun.
--Gordon
Lightfoot
“Is
There Anyone Home?”
from
the Sundown album
Part
I.
Is
There Anyone Home?
THE
FIRST NIGHT/FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Based on the episode “The High Riders”
Scott
Having
unpacked only the essential items needed for the next morning, Scott Lancer
stood at one of the windows of the large guest room which he’d been assigned
and surveyed the view.In the twilight
he could see the distant towering mountains,rugged
peaks which would easily dwarf the older slopes found back East.He
folded his arms and leaned against the casement, gazing at the scenery
as he considered the day’s surprising events . . .
En
route from town, Miss O’Brien had reined in the horses and paused for a
quite spectacular view of the Lancer ranch--a place which she had termed
the most beautiful in “the whole wide world.“And
he had to admit, he’d been favorably impressed.This
was beautiful country, no question, though it was certainly strange
to hear of a place called “Lancer“. The girl had confided that a few months
ago her father, the ranch foreman, had been murdered, and that “Mr. Lancer”
had also been shot, but she had not revealed any additional details.She’d
also asserted that it meant a great deal to Murdoch Lancer that his two
sons had come to the ranch.
His
two sons . . . Standing at the window, Scott shook his head
at that.It had certainly been a
surprise to hear another man respond when the young woman had asked for
“Mr. Lancer”.It had to be the very
first time that Scott had ever encountered another person with the same
surname. He certainly would never have expected it to be the rumpled cowboy
who had crowded onto the stage ten miles outside of town.The
young woman, who had identified herself as Teresa, had quickly explained
that his father ----their father---had had two wives and
two sons.And she referred
to the cowboy as “Johnny Lancer”.All
in all, a truly amazing turn of events--the younger brother that Scott
had once wished for, even fantasized about, did in fact exist, although
the reality was far different from what he had ever imagined.Scott
only hoped that he had somehow managed to disguise his dismay.Of
course, Johnny had not tried to hide his reaction at all, he had looked
right at Scott and. . . laughed.
Well,
that development had certainly altered the scenario he’d been contemplating
for the past several weeks.He’d
imagined numerous variations ofhis
initial encounter with his father, and only to discover that the experience
was now tobe shared with a stranger.
Since Johnny clearly had not been aware of the existence of another Lancer
son, Scott had wondered how well his “brother“ knew Murdoch Lancer.
Over
the past few years, Scott had occasionally toyed with the thought of traveling
to California and confronting the man.But
he was quite certain that he would never have done so, for the same reason
that the letters he’d written in his head had never been put on paper----the
potential for humiliation was just too great. Even though he was now anadult,
an army veteran, a college graduate, it had still seemed an impossible
task to phrase an inquiry in such a manner as to make it sound other than
what it was: a child sadly pleading with his father to answer the questions,
“Why didn’t you want me?Why didn‘t
youcare?”
All
of his life, Scott had wished for some contact from his absent father.But
when his twenty-first birthday had passed without any communication from
California, Scott had finally resigned himself to the fact that he would
never hear from the man and had been determined not to care. Consequently,
one month ago, when the Pinkerton agent had spoken with him, Scott’s first
impulse had been to reject the extended invitation: “I haven‘t
lost anybody ..” he’d said.There
had been no personal message, no note of any kind, just a third party offer
of travel expenses to California and a payment of one thousand dollars
for one hour of his time. It was really rather insulting.Still,
Scott had accepted the agent’s card, and the next day, he had gotten in
touch with him. At that point, he’d really had very little to keep him
in Boston; no real occupation, a broken engagement and tensions with his
grandfather.He’d decided that if
he didn’t respond to the offer, he would always wonder about his father
. . . Scott had rejected the one thousand dollars, agreed to the travel
expenses, and then left for California a few days later---over his grandfather’s
strenuous objections.
Well,
it had certainly not been surprising that the elderly gentleman had attempted
to dissuade his grandson from undertaking the westward journey.Harlan
Garrett had never hidden from Scott his disapproval of Murdoch Lancer as
both a father and a husband.Catherine
Garrett had left her home and family in Boston to marry the man, and her
father blamed Murdoch Lancer for her death.His
grandfather had often commented unfavorably on Scott’s father’s absence
from his life, contrasting it with his own attentive presence, but he hadn’t
needed to. That had always been quite evident, what more was there to say?
Scott
had taken his time on the trip, stopping in various places along the way.He’d
had plenty of time to anticipate the initial meeting. Now that the long
awaited moment had arrived, it was the two of them walking in together
to meet their father. And at long last, there he was: Murdoch Lancer,
face to face.When the older man’s
first words had been to offer them a drink, Scott had quickly and politely
declined. When Murdoch had pressed the point with Johnny, his new found
brother had quietly stated that he only drank, “when he knew the man he
was drinking with“.Scott had truly
relished that response, although he’d been careful not to smile.The
remark had confirmed his suspicion that Johnny didn’t know any more about
Murdoch Lancer than he did.He’d
felt a heightened sense of curiosity--what sort of man had two sons, two
adult sons and had never bothered to get to know either one of them?
Their
father had addressed each of them in turn, making specific references to
their mothers. He stated that Johnny had his mother’s temper; he said that
Scott had his mother’s eyes. When he’d first entered the room, Scott had
carefully assumed the neutral expression which he had mastered during a
year in a Confederate prison camp, what he thought of now as his “Libby
mask”--- but he’d felt it slip then.Scott
felt certain that he’d reacted to the comment about his mother‘s eyes.He
hadn’t said anything in response, but what he’d wondered was<<“What
ever did she see in you?”>>
It
was Johnny who had issued a verbal challenge to their father:telling
him to say what he had to say, calling him “old man“.Although
Scott would never have addressed Murdoch Lancer in that manner, he’d still
felt a strange solidarity, standing there beside his half-brother. <<
A solidarity based upon what?Our
shared . . . resentment?. .. >>
But
then Johnny had been quite willing to scoop up the envelope with the thousand
dollars inside, had assured their father that he would indeed count it.And
he had, right then and there. Scott had already indicated, that he didn’t
want anything to do with the man’s money.But
he hadn’t wanted the one thousand dollars to become the focus of the discussion
either.When Murdoch had insistently
proffered him an envelope anyway,Scott
had reluctantly accepted it, rationalizing that it could be used to cover
the expenses of his return trip to Boston.
<<“What
do I call you?”>> . . Scott closed his eyes now as he remembered asking
that pointless question.It
just seemed to have slipped out.Not
that he’d received a satisfactory response. It seemed that there was no
point in asking any questions, since Murdoch Lancer obviously wasn’t a
man given to answers or explanations.He
had, in fact, disposed of Scott’s history with a few brief sentences.Scott
could clearly recall his father’s exact words as well as his tone: “Your
mother’s family thought she was daft to marry me, not a year off the boat
from Inverness . . . And maybe they were right.You
were born, she died, I left you in their hands.Period.”
<<“I left you in their hands“--like a package of some sort.Never
gave it another thought?>> His
grandfather had intimated often enough that Murdoch Lancer was not at all
concerned about his son, but now Scott had heard for himself his father’s
confirmation--he really hadn’t cared.What
had left him feeling stunned was that“period”,
as in “end of discussion“.<<Did
the man really think that I traveled all this way to be satisfied with
that?>>Murdoch Lancer made no
attempt to defend any of his actions, justify his inaction or to offer
an apology.Had they been alone,
Scott knew he wouldn’t have let it go at that, he would certainly have
pressed the point.
But
Murdoch had immediately turned to address his younger son.He’d
claimed that a few years after he’d married Johnny’s mother he had woken
up to find the woman gone, and that she had taken Johnny with her. When
Johnny had immediately replied that that wasn’t what he had been told,
Murdoch’s retort had been, “I don’t care what you heard“. <<Anotherwonderfully
touching response.>>
Scott
leaned forward, placing his hands on the window ledge scanning the area
outside his window.<<What,
if anything,does the man
care about? >> he wondered. <<This ranch.What
was it he‘d said? That he loved it more than “anything God ever created“?Not
surprising that his second wife left him, with that attitude . . . .>>
It
had finally been revealed why Murdoch Lancer had, at long last, sent for
his estranged sons---he wanted their help because his ranch was in danger.There
were men who were trying to take it from him. “Land pirates” was what he’d
called them, and apparently there were no law enforcement authorities to
stop them.It was unbelievable that
someone could just come in and run a man off of his land.
Scott
squinted up at the stars which were now appearing in the night sky.They
were the same stars that you could see on the other side of the country,
in Boston. Well, there was a much wider expanse visible here, everything
was so open.It was almost like looking
up at the sky from a battlefield.He
shook his head.Now why had that
image come to mind? He’d seen stars like this from the shores of one of
the big northern lakes, many times.But,
here, he had, after all, enlisted for a battle, hadn’t he?It
sounded as if the ranch was being invaded, as if it was under attack.
And
Johnny appeared to be well acquainted with the enemy, this gunman, Day
Pardee. He also had seemed quite pleased to hear that their father was
having trouble.His “brother” had
indicated that if he were to do anything to help the man he’d expect, <<What
was the term he used?. ..
“gun money”?>>. Scott
had his doubts that Johnny would actually stay; it seemed much more likely
that he’d take his one thousand dollars and be gone, rather than actually
help Murdoch Lancer protect his property.
Murdoch
Lancer had said that he wanted more than just their guns--“guts if you
got any.“And in response to Johnny’s
query as to what Murdoch would come up with as part of the bargain,
their father had extended a truly amazing offer:one
third of the ranch for each of them if they were able to help him defend
it.Incredible.What
did he think that Scott Lancer would want with a one-third ownership of
a ranch in California? The man didn’t really believe that he would just
decide to . . . live here did he?Scott
shook his head again. They’d certainly be a happy little family, the father
and his two sons.
Whenever
he had contemplated the various scenarios for this encounter,one
constant for Scott had been that no matter how the initial interview proceeded,
he had no intention of leaving after only one brief hour to begin the long
trip back to Boston.Once Murdoch
had started talking about the troubles he was facing, Scott had immediately
surmised that if he did not
express concerned interest in
the ranch, well, then the “family reunion” would effectively be over.Scott
could easily imagine being summarily dismissed by the man, the one hour
run out, no questions asked or answered, no information exchanged, no discussion,
nothing . . .So he had accepted
the offer.Scott had enlisted in
the present conflict, and he would see it through. But he certainly did
not believe that ownership meant that he was obliged to stay on permanently.Although
he had no pressing reasons for a hasty return trip East, how long he would
actually stay, well, that remained to be seen.
The
conversation about the perils threatening the ranch had been interrupted
by the fire bell---the “land pirates” had set one of the fields aflame.The
attempt to combat the fire had been unsuccessful and the field had been
left to burn itself out.Returning
to the house, Scott had been shown to this sizeable room: it had two separate
entrances,two large windows and
his suitcases had already been deposited inside. Johnny was in a similar
space across the hall.Someone had
collected Scott’s smoky clothes while he’d taken a bath.
Strange
how he’d felt as if he was washing away much more than the smoke from that
burned field.Of course he’d had
deluxe accommodations during the trip--some more “luxe” than others, he
recalled-- but it was only now that he’d finally arrived at Lancer that
he really felt as if he was completely washing away the weeks of train
fumes and coatings of stagecoach dust, as well as the layers of anticipation,
the tension which he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.It
had finally happened, he had met his father, and the meeting had been nothing
like what he’d contemplated. What had he expected, really?A
Homecoming?<<Well, a somewhat
warmer welcome . . . Perhaps even “thanks for coming“? >>
When
they’d gathered for dinner, Murdoch Lancer had essentially kept the conversation
focused on the activities of the land pirates and the threat to the ranch.Scott
had listened carefully and asked questions, trying to learn as much as
he could about the situation.Murdoch
had not posed any questions in return.There
had been no polite inquiries about Scott’s trip West.No
personal questions asked of either son.Scott
wondered now how much Murdoch Lancer actually knew about him. Was he even
aware of Scott’s military service? His experiences during the war?His
“brother” across the table had continued to eye the Bostonian skeptically
each time that their father mentioned the fight which lay ahead.If
it was a war, then Scott felt that he was well prepared. He certainly had
war stories which he could tell, not that he was at all eager to relate
them.
As
he closed the window and turned back towards the interior of his room,Scott’s
glance fell upon his still unpacked case. He thought ruefully of the photographs
and the one or two other items he’d packed, thinking that he might show
them to his father. It appeared highly unlikely that that would happen
any time soon.It just didn‘t seem
that the man would be interested . . . .But Scott still didn’t feel uncomfortable
here.Perhaps
it was the openness, the warm, dry air, which somehow seemed inviting,
despite its contrast to the comforting closeness of the city and the familiar
cool dampness of Boston. Perhaps it was nothing more than the feeling of
having reached a journey’s end.
Scott
slid out of his shirt, tossed it on the bed and sat down in a chair to
remove his boots.He hadn’t come
all this way for money or for one third of a ranch.He’d
come here to meet Murdoch Lancer, to satisfy his curiosity.What
had he learned?Very little so far.
Murdoch Lancer was gruff, demanding, completely unapologetic and obviously
used to having things his own way.Uncaring--or
at least unwilling to show it.The
man had built up this ranch--one hundred thousand acres, an impressive
accomplishment. He had said that his best hands had remained with him.Loyalty--Scott
knew that that spoke volumes about a man, if those who served under him
were willing to stand by him, no matter what.And
the girl Teresa certainly seemed to be devoted to her guardian. But the
most amazing revelation of all, and the thought which had kept repeating
itself throughout the day, came back to Scott now as he drifted off to
sleep: << This is the man my mother gave up everything for . .This
is the man my mother fell in love with.>>
Murdoch
.
. .Catherine’s eyes.When he’d looked
at Scott, it had been Catherine’s eyes that he’d seen staring back at him.Although
he still possessed a photograph of Catherine,all
that Murdoch Lancer had ever had of his elder son was the now faded memory
of that one momentary glimpse---- almost twenty years ago.A
too quick impression of a small boy withblue
eyes and blond hair, who was well dressed, ever so polite, and had regarded
him with an expression that was far too serious.He
was amazed how well that description had fit the young man who had strode
into the room and stood before him.
Seated
in his darkened study, cradling yet another glass of bourbon, Murdcoh Lancer
sighed heavily. He knew so very little about Scott. Over the years, he
had steadfastly avoided thinking about him; tried hard not to care about
their separation.When he had thought
of Scott at all, it had most often been as <<“Harlan Garrett’s
grandson.”>>
It
had been asurprise to receive the
wire saying that Scott was on his way West.Murdoch
had reluctantly hired the Pinkerton agency to deliver a message to the
young man, making the same offer that they had been authorized for years
to make to Johnny, if they could ever track him down: $1000 for one hour
of his time. But even forgetting whatever story his grandfather must have
told the boy, after all the long years of silence, Murdoch couldn’t imagine
that his son would care to accept the invitation.In
fact, Murdoch had secretly believed that if the young man had any pride
at all, then he simply wouldn’t respond.
During
his long recuperation from the gunshot wound which he had received from
Day Pardee, Murdoch’s old friend, Sam Jenkins, the local doctor, had strongly
encouraged him to contact Scott-- something that his other good friend
and late foreman Paul O’Brien had been urging Murdoch to do for years.
He’d assumed that his son was still in Boston, so the Pinkertons had been
hired to simply deliver a message.Murdoch
hadn’t asked them to collect any detailed information, but the agent assigned
to the task had written a summary report --- a brief outline, actually:
Scott had served in the army, a cavalry unit, then attended Harvard. So
in theory, his elder son could ride a horse and handle a gun, he was not
as much of a “Boston gentleman” as he appeared.During
their initial conversation, he’d certainly sounded as if he had some knowledge
of military strategy--he’d been what, a Lieutenant?Murdoch
wondered cynically whether the young man had actually earned his rank or
if his grandfather had simply purchased it for him. . ..
Word
had come back to him from Boston that his older son had been insulted by
the offer of the $1000, didn’t want the money.<<Well,
once he was here, he’d accepted the envelope after all, now hadn‘t he?>>
Murdoch thought with grim satisfaction.
Murdoch
swallowed the liquor left in his glass.With
difficulty, he rose from his chair and limped over to the table to pour
himself a refill.The embattled rancher
had had weeks to think about this meeting with Scott, to consider what
he would say to him.He’d decided
that he couldn’t explain the past, so he wouldn’t try.He
couldn’t change it, after all.The
only hope seemed to be to focus on the present, try to forget the rest.
Facing
the door, he relived the moment when the two young men had entered the
room.Side by side. So different
from each other in so many ways, yet so alike in their hatred for him.<<Well,
what did you expect?>>Murdoch
asked himself, then sighed, limped back acros the room and lowered his
aching body heavily into his large leather chair.
Although
he had been apprehensive about meeting Scott for the first time, it had
been his awareness of Johnny’s presence, standing slightly behind his brother,
that had caused the clenching in Murdoch Lancer’s gut.His
younger son, the infamous gunfighter. Murdoch had only been aware of his
identity as Johnny Madrid for a few years, but that had been long enough
for the Pinkertons to collect a detailed history on the gunman. Once they’d
known the name his son was using, it had still taken the agents far too
long to catch up with him, and it had almost been too late.As
Murdoch understood it, Johnny had literally been rescued from a firing
squad.Not that he’d appeared to
be grateful, not by any means . . . .
Maria’s
boy . . . Murdoch had loved her, she had left him, she had stolen his son.His
son, dammit. Who knew what stories she had told the boy. . .but
all that mattered was that he was here.Johnny.This
was where Johnny belonged, at Lancer, where he’d been born, where he’d
taken his first steps.His son should
have been here all this time. But his mother had stolen him away, after
she had taken up with another man.Murdoch
had searched for his missing wife and child, and periodically he had hired
the agents to do so, spending money that he could have put to good use
on the ranch.
Gazing
at Johnny,Murdoch had tried to see
the toddler he’d known. Rather than another stranger, he‘d wanted to see
the child for whom he’d been searching for so many years.Instead,
he’d been confronted by the gunfighter he’d been reading about in those
damn Pinkerton reports.He’d hoped
to view, in the angry young man before him, some vestige of the happy,
smiling baby with the dark hair and bright blue eyes. Well, his son had
smiled at him---a cynical smile as he observed that Murdoch “had some
trouble“.He’d been insolent, <<called
me “old man.”>>Challenged Murdoch
from the first moment he’d walked in.Stood
there and counted his money. Quite a contrast with his older brother who
seemed so restrained in comparison . . Well, so Johnny took after Maria,
all right.He certainly had some
fight.And he knew Pardee.Knew
he was a gunfighter, said he was a good one.<<
As good as Johnny Madrid?>> Murdoch couldn’t help but wonder.
To
Murdoch Lancer’samazement, Johnny
had also accepted his offer. Skeptical, he’d wanted to see the paper, demanded
to know why it wasn‘t signed. Murdoch swirled the amber liquid remaining
in his glass. Nothing for nothing. They needed to understand that he still
called the tune. He had no intention of turning over a single acre, not
one blade of grass, to either of his sons, unless he received the help
that was needed. The help that he so resented having to ask of them. He’d
meant it when he said he didn’t want any favors from either of them.But
he’d give them their due, if they earned it.
As
he finished his drink, Murdochwondered
again exactly what Johnny had heard, what that woman told him. . . . Well,
save the ranch first.Then there
would be time for talk.If they stayed
he could tell them stories, of how hard he’d struggled to build this place.The
sacrifices he had made.He wondered
if they’d ever care.
Johnny
Johnny
removed his boots and then stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head,
thinking to himself: <<Not too bad.>>.He
already had what he‘d come for; he had one thousand--one thousand
dollars in his pocket.An amazing
sum.But even more amazing was the
possibility of a part ownership of a 100,000 acre spread. He’d never pictured
himself as a landowner.Not that
he truly believed the old man would really part with any of it willingly;
what was it he’d said? That he loved it more than anything.
Johnny
had been curious enough to want to meet this Murdoch Lancer; after all,
he’d heard plenty about him over the years, all of it bad. Funny how his
mother had told Johnny repeatedly how his father didn’t care about him,
but she’d never said too much about this ranch, or ever mentioned that
the man had another son.It seemed
like he hadn’t cared any more about his other kid than he had about Johnny.
Well, by rights, the old man should be grateful that Johnny wasn’t planning
on calling him out, after what he’d done.It
was strange to think that he’d been born on this place; it sure didn’t
feel like coming home. Johnny had figured on staying for the one hour,
not one minute more, then he’d collect the money he’d been promised and
he’d be gone. But on his journey north, the gunfighter had spent considerable
time wondering why all of a sudden Lancer would want to see him.
<<Day
Pardee-- --oh yeah, the Old Man has some trouble all right.>> Day
was good and he always had a good crew.Johnny
hadn’t decided yet if he was going to try and hook up with Day or warn
him off.But he’d let the old man
think he was going to help protect the property, that he would come up
with all those “guts” Lancer’d said he was looking for. <<Oh,
I got guts, all right Old Man.You’ll
see>>. Johnny sure didn’t feel any sympathy for Murdoch Lancer, didn’t
much care about how much he loved this ranch . . . Hell, it would be real
fittin’ if he was kicked off of his precious land, the way he’d tossed
his mother and him out all those years back.
. . Course, that wasn’t the way the old man had told it, well, big surprise
he didn’t admit it--- ‘specially in front of an audience.
This
other son, now, he was something. Acted like he didn’t want Lancer’s money--well,
ol’ Scott could just hand it over to Johnny anytime. The city boy hadbeen
all dressed up fine and so serious. He did talk like maybe he knew something’
‘bout soldiering.Well, his “brother”
might be some kind of big deal back East, but if he thought it was gonna
be easy to take on Day Pardee and his boys, he was in for some surprise.And
why the hell had Scott been so quick to say he’d help the old man defend
the place?He’d pitched right in
to fight the fire too, ruined his outfit for sure.
‘Course,
at supper, he’d been dressed up in another set of fancy clothes.Johnny
had been pretty annoyed when Scott had taken the seat that he’d had in
mind--the old man was at the head of the table, the girl to his right.That
left two chairs facing each other, one beside the girl, one on the other
side---the one thatJohnny had wanted.But
while he was pouring himself a drink, the gringo had plopped down there,
where he had a fine view of the others at the table.Johnny,
seated beside Teresa, could watch the blond man across the table, but had
to look sideways at the girl and she was partially blocking his vision
of the old man.
The
girl--Teresa--- had announced that it was a special meal in honor of the
brothers’ arrival--well, of course she really meant in honor of ol’Scott,
since he was the one they’d been expectin’ . . .There was plenty of silverware
and the hired help kept bringin’ out platters--”courses” she‘d called ‘em--
of different foods.Deciding which
utensil to use didn’t seem to bother the Easterner at all, so Johnny had
just studied him. Scott seemed to be listening real carefully to Murdoch
goin’ on and on about the troubles at the ranch . .Tellin’
stories ‘bout all the evil deeds committed by Day and the boys…
Johnny
saw right away that even though Murdoch Lancer was doing most of the talking,
it was Scott that was pretty much controlling the conversation.First,
he’d talked to the girl, complimented her on the food and asked a few questions
about some of it.Johnny could tell
that the Easterner wasn’t liking the Mexican dishes too well; typical gringo.He
was drinking a pretty good amount ofwine
too, though it didn’t seem to be affectin’ him any.Anyway,Scott
just kept ol’ Man Lancer going on about the problems he’d been facing.
The blond man’s face didn’t give much away, but while he was listening
to Murdoch there’d be just a flicker as Scott caught something, and then
sure enough, when the old man paused for breath, he’d ask a question.No,
not even a question most of the time.Scott
would just sort of repeat whatever Murdoch had said, get the man to say
some more about it . . .Johnny appreciated that Scott was finding out some
pretty useful details, could see he what kind of patterns the man was lookin’
for.
At
one point, the girl had managed to get in a question about Boston, the
city that Scott was from. Johnny hadn’t said too much, mostly just listened,
but now he heard himself ask, “So where’s Boston?”
His brother gave him a slight smile across the table and in a real mild
voice said:“It’s about as far East
as you can go.”
Then,
his glance including Teresa, he’d said, “I’ve found that not too many people
out here have ever heard of Boston“.Looking
back at Johnny again, he’d added, “It’s in Massachusetts.”
Johnny
snorted to himself now.Like that
had been any help at all.
<< Mass-a-chu-setts? Just from the name of it, it sure don’t sound
like anyplace anyone would ever want ta go. >>
But Teresa had had a few more questions for Scott; she’d seemed real interested
in city life. Johnnyrecalled now
that Teresa hadn’t asked him anything about Mexico, or life along the border.
. .no mention of gunfights or firing squads either..
.
When
the dessert came, it looked pretty good and they’d only given him the one
plate and one fork.<<And
that’s when ol’ Boston looked right at me ‘n caught me lookin’ at him.Let
me know it too. >>
Right after that little pause, Scott had addressed him from across the
table: “You said that you know this Pardee.” It
was a statement, not a question, like most of the things he‘d said.
Johnny shrugged. “Yeah we go back.”
“What kind of man is he?”
Johnny had smiled at that, even considered describing Day’s mustache, the
color of his hair.But he’d decided
to give a serious answer.“He’s out
for money.Don’t care who gets in
his way.”
“I assume that he has men that he can rely upon to help him.”
“Been with ‘im a long time, some of ‘em.He’s
one of those big dogs, like the old man said.” Johnny nodded towards Murdoch.
“But Day’s the kind of big dog even the middle sized ones don’t mind followin‘”.
“Out of fear or respect?”
“Have ta say both.”
“You also said he was a gunfighter, a good one.”
“That’s right.”
“Are there many of those around?”
“One or two”.Johnny had waited to
see if the old man would say anything, but he didn’t--- justsat
there watching and listeningJohnny
had wondered how much the girl knew about him.About
Johnny Madrid.So far the old man
hadn’t let on what he knew, but that agent he’d sent, well, he’d come lookin’
for Madrid . . .
<<What the hell.>>, he‘d
thought.“I’m one myself,”
Johnny had grinned at Scott, waiting for his reaction.There
wasn’t one. Scott was looking down at his slice of cake--“Is that right“,
he said glancing up.
“This isn’t about a gunfight,” Murdoch had interjected, “it’s a range war.”
Teresa had started talking about their rooms, hoping they’d both be comfortable.Then
she’d explained the plan for breakfast the next morning, all cheery like.
Well, if anyone ever decided that they were interested, Johnny figured
he had quite a few stories he could tell that would keep ‘em up at night.Bet
he could even get a reaction out of ol’ Boston.Stretched
out on his bed, Johnny kept thinking about Scott, why he was here, what
he was after. Whether or not he might get in the way of whatever Johnny
decided to do.<<Well, I’ll
be up long before that city boy opens his pretty little eyes.Seems
like I’ll just have to stroll on across the hall, see what I can find out..
. .>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
SBC
2003
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