La Muerte de Johnny Madrid

“Hey, Gage, will you quit woolgathering and pass the pepper like I asked?” Chet Kelly said impatiently.

The A-shift was sitting at the large rectangular table in Station Fifty-one’s dayroom, wolfing down a late supper after returning from the involved rescue of a hiker in one of the wilderness areas that populated the City of Los Angeles.

John Gage looked up from his plate and stared blankly at his shift mate.

“Oh, never mind,” Chet said, leaning forward and grabbing the pepper. “What’s with you anyway?” He sat down and shook pepper onto his food. The short, stocky brown-haired fireman eyed the paramedic as he returned the peppershaker to the tabletop. Used to razzing Johnny, normally he wouldn’t think twice about his friend’s odd behavior, but something didn’t seem right.

The dark-haired wiry paramedic idly followed Chet’s movements, feeling as if he were becoming detached from his body and he could care less. A sharp pain jabbed the back of his neck and he raised his hand to massage the affected area, only to discover that it hurt to move. He stared at his hand then reached for his fork, the pain in his neck forgotten. Something’s wrong, his brain tried to convey as he speared a bite of fried chicken and placed it in his mouth, but the thought danced away without taking hold.

“Junior, you okay?” Roy asked. “Chet asked you a question.” The light-haired medium built senior paramedic gazed worriedly at his partner. He’d never seen Johnny so ‘absent’ before. And for just a second, the look on his face when he’d moved his hand… had it been fear? Roy quickly dismissed the notion, even though Johnny had been acting increasingly different since treating the hiker, and concentrated on his best friend in hopes of learning what was going on.

Johnny grimaced slightly at the unusually bland taste of the chicken and decided he wouldn’t eat any more, especially since it even hurt to chew. At the sound of a cough, he glanced around the table, thinking someone else had discovered the bad-tasting meat. Everyone was staring at him with various expressions of puzzlement on their faces. He had no idea why they were looking at him like that. What did he do? Trying to cover his lack of understanding, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Lancer’s on tonight.”

“That explains it,” Chet said, relieved. “You’re obsessing again. Wishing you were Johnny Madrid, gunfighter.”

“Don’t be ridiculous…” Johnny began, about to do something he’d never contemplate doing had he been feeling better: explain the similarities he saw between Johnny Madrid and himself, when a spasm of pain wracked his body. Moaning, he closed his eyes.

“Johnny?” Mike asked, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He felt the paramedic shudder. “What’s wrong?” The light-haired lean engineer glanced at Roy, silently conveying the need to get help.

The pain subsided to a dull ache, enabling Johnny to push back his chair. “I’m okay, Mike. Just a headache is all.” Very true, he thought, realizing his head was throbbing. Rising to his feet, he said, “I’m going to go get some aspirin.” He turned away from the chair to head for the apparatus bay and staggered as his sense of equilibrium faltered.

“Easy there, Johnny,” Marco said, more lightheartedly than he felt. The dark-haired average built fireman placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders to steady him.

“I’m… okay… just a bit… dizzy,” Johnny said as Mike appeared on his other side. “Really…” Suddenly he felt as if he were in a long tunnel going backwards. He watched Roy enter the dayroom carrying the biophone and drug box, but it seemed as if he wasn’t coming closer. He swayed. “You know, I don’t feel… so good.” Pain seized him and he felt himself falling…

+++++++++++++++++

“What’s wrong with him, Doc?” Roy asked, rising from a chair in Emergency’s waiting area at Rampart General Hospital. He glanced around him as his shift mates also stood then switched his attention back to Dr. Kelly Brackett, the ruggedly handsome Chief of Emergency Medicine, as he stopped before them. Roy swallowed with trepidation at the composed look on the doctor’s face.

The paramedic had seen that look, indicating bad news, a hundred times or more for rescue victims and even though Johnny had often been in difficult situations, he’d never warranted Brackett’s ‘composed’ expression until now. Roy swallowed again. “Doc?” he choked out.

“Gentlemen,” Kel greeted the group of men. His face softened as his gaze fell on Johnny’s partner. “Roy.”

“You don’t know what’s wrong with John,” Hank Stanley stated matter-of-factly in a soft voice. Standing beside Roy, the tall dark-haired captain could feel the tension emanating from the paramedic.

Things had happened so suddenly that Hank still couldn’t quite believe they had occurred at all: one minute Gage had been only acting slightly off kilter; the next he had collapsed onto the dayroom floor semi-conscious in terrible pain with the beginnings of a fever. While waiting for news, Hank had watched Roy sitting quietly without moving, knowing that his ever-present composure was the only thing keeping him in control.

Kel shook his head. “His fever’s worse. I can’t get anything intelligible out of him except two words: ‘Lancer’ and ‘watch’.”

“It’s a western TV show. Johnny’s favorite,” Chet said softly. “I was… teasing him about it before…”

“I see.” Kel nodded briefly, aware of the two men’s volatile friendship and how much of it was show when push came to shove. “His mind is still on that topic then. It happens with delirium.” Kel grimaced. “I’d hoped though, that it would be a clue as to what’s going on.”

“Delirious? How high is his fever?” Roy asked in a strained voice.

“104—” Kel began, realizing at a look from Captain Stanley that Roy couldn’t take much more.

“That’s impossible!” Roy erupted; his control vanished. “It was only 100 when we brought him in! I’ve got to see…” He started forward, his only thought that his best friend could be dying and he had to do something.

“Roy, don’t.” Hank’s soft voice held command as he placed a hand on the paramedic’s shoulder. For a second he thought that Roy might disobey him. Then exhaling slowly, Roy faced him, calm once more. Hank breathed an inward sigh of relief and patted his friend’s shoulder.

Kel watched the scene, knowing Roy’s resolve hung by a tenuous thread and didn’t mince words. “Johnny’s only chance is for you to tell me about your day today.” His voice deepened with intensity. “Give me a clue as to what happened, Roy.”

Roy ran a hand through his hair and concentrated. “He was fine this morning.” He looked at his shift mates, who nodded. “Bantering with Chet as usual… We had some runs, nothing major, and he was on top of things. Lunch was at a hamburger stand, then we had a couple more calls and we just got back to the barn when the station was called out to find the hiker.” He looked at Kel.

Dr. Brackett nodded. “I remember. It took you awhile to find him.” An idea was beginning to form. “Roy, did anything happen to Johnny on that run?”

Roy shook his head. “We split up to search for the hiker, but he didn’t say anything when we hooked back up. He was fine while we were treating him, but I noticed he seemed different when we left Rampart and headed for the station.”

“He was that way during chow, Doc,” Marco said. “Acting like he was in a fog or something.”

“Then he moaned,” Mike continued. “And said he had a headache and…” Dr. Brackett was nodding his head. “What?”

Kel smiled. “That has to be it.”

“Something bit him?” Hank asked, reaching the same conclusion.

“Or stung,” Kel agreed.

“Toxic reaction,” Roy said, his face brightening that the cause of his partner’s malady was known at last and was treatable.

Kel nodded. “Thanks, men. Now I have some options.” He turned to go and stopped. “Why don’t you go into the lounge and watch this Lancer show? It’s on in a few minutes. It’ll be awhile yet before we’re sure…” He grinned, downplaying his doubtful words. “If I know Johnny, once he’s better he’ll be a lot easier to live with if he knows what happened on the show than if you tell him you didn’t catch it.”

Hank laughed. “I had the feeling you didn’t know what Lancer was.”

Kel shrugged. “I like westerns,” he said, winking, then left the A-shift to see to Johnny.

Roy looked at his watch. “It’ll be starting in about 5 minutes,” he said as the group of men headed for the staff lounge.

“Refresh my memory,” Hank said to his men. “What’s the show about?”

“Well, as I recall it’s about a father, his two sons, and his female ward,” Chet began as the group entered the staff lounge. The men gathered extra chairs and arranged them facing the TV set while Chet explained the background of the show.

“The father, Murdoch Lancer, marries a lady from Boston, Catherine…” Chet paused, trying to remember. “I think her last name’s Garrett. She gives Murdoch a son, Scott, but dies in childbirth while visiting her father, Harlan, who hates the marriage. Harlan refuses to return baby Scott to Murdoch. Meanwhile, Murdoch marries a Mexican lady, but Maria flees Murdoch’s ranch with their son, Johnny, when he was 2. As the boy grows up, she lies to him that they’d been kicked off the ranch. She dies and Johnny becomes an expert gunfighter known as Johnny Madrid, vowing to kill his father to avenge his mother.”

“Sounds like one of those soap operas,” Marco said, laughing.

“Doesn’t it?” Chet agreed with a chuckle. “Anyhow, while the boys are growing up Murdoch concentrates on building his ranch in California. Then he gets shot in the back and his foreman is killed by land grabbers, leaving his daughter…”

“Teresa O’Brien,” Mike supplied, smiling. “You seem to have some trouble with names.”

“In Murdoch’s care,” Chet completed, glaring at Mike. “Murdoch hires Pinkerton agents to find his sons and convince them to return to the ranch by offering them 1,000 dollars each. Pinkerton’s men find Johnny as he’s about to be shot by a firing squad for participating in a peasant revolution.”

“Johnny agrees to come back and meets Scott on the stagecoach to Morro Coyo, but they don’t know they’re half brothers until Teresa calls out ‘Lancer’ when she meets the stage and they both answer,” Roy jumped in. “They see Murdoch and decide to help him save the ranch.”

“I remember now,” Hank said. “Johnny gets shot doing so, but in the end the land pirates are stopped and Johnny and Scott each become one-third owners of Murdoch’s ranch.” He glanced at his watch. “Show time,” he said, sitting beside Roy on the couch.

The men watched the TV screen as the episode of Lancer began…

It was late in the day and the sun was close to the zenith, throwing off shades of pinks, oranges, and reds. The mountains in the far distance were shrouded in purples and mist. His horse topped the ridge and, as was his habit, he did a 360-degree look at the 100,000 acres of range he shared with his father, Murdoch Lancer and older brother, Scott. The two-story estancia down in the San Joaquin Valley was outlined in darkness with the warm beckoning glow of light peeking from the windows. He had been gone ten days delivering the contracts for his father, but it felt like a month and he was tired and hungry. He was almost home. Home. Just a year earlier there had been no place he could call home, living the drifting life of a gunfighter for seven years since fighting his first gunfight at the tender age of fifteen.

It was late June and Johnny was feeling the effects of the heat. While up in the mountains he had been comfortable, but when he came down into the valley he felt bathed in hot humidity. Sitting on Barranca, his golden Palomino, he gazed across the land and pushed his hat off to lie on his back. His hat's storm strings bit gently into the front of his neck. Reaching up with his arm, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He looked down expecting wetness. Frowning, he found a dry shirtsleeve.

With a wry grin, he realized that the cougar scratches were going to be a problem. He had made good time going to Hollister with no problems delivering and negotiating the contracts for the cattle Murdoch was selling to the Army for the reservations, but he had run into trouble on the way back.

Topping the ridge of the narrow pass, Johnny had startled a cougar with her fresh kill. Snarling, the cat had bunched her haunches and launched herself at him from the rocks at the side. Barranca, in a panic, had reared and spoiled his shot. His second shot had been true and caught the cat square in the chest. The energy of her jump had carried the cat through the air and her extended claws had hit him on the left side on her way to the ground, knocking him off his horse and onto the rocks on the other side of the pass.

He had awakened thirty minutes later to his horse nuzzling his dangling hand. Murmuring in Spanish, Johnny had calmed his horse and got to his feet then pulled himself into the saddle. Barranca had picked his way down the pathway while Johnny had steered his mount toward the first line shack of many on Lancer land by the pressure of his legs. Then he’d cleaned and bandaged the long gashes with items in the shack’s medical kit.

Now he was close enough to see the estancia and the tug of longing pulled him closer to home and his family. He slowed his horse to a walk when he passed under the Lancer arch entrance. In the distance by the glow of a lantern, he saw his brother and foster sister making their way from the barn to the house. Scott had his long arm draped over Teresa's shoulder as she leaned her head over to his chest. Hearing the sound of the golden palomino's hoof beats, they stopped and turned to greet Johnny.

“Hey little brother, it's about time you got back.”

“Had a delay, Boston, T'resa.”

Johnny dismounted and hid a grimace of pain as his arm felt the jolt of his foot hitting the dirt. A vaquero came up and took Barranca from him. He led the animal to the barn, but not before Johnny stripped his saddlebags from the horse. Throwing them over his right shoulder and grabbing his rifle with his right hand, he stalked toward the house.

His brother and sister brought up the rear. Scott wore a puzzled frown as he followed his dark-haired lithe sibling. His instincts ragged at him. Something was wrong and he couldn't put his finger on it.

As they entered the front door Jelly, their cantankerous handyman, went into the barn. Barranca was being put into his stall. He thought he would help Johnny by brushing and feeding the golden steed. Johnny’s horse loved only one man, but Jelly was a familiar scent and he was allowed to touch the palomino. Reaching to take off the saddle and blanket, he was stopped by a ranch hand requesting help on a problem in the bunkhouse.

Patting the horse, Jelly apologized for the interruption and promised Barranca that he would return. Turning away, he glimpsed a brown streak on the saddle and vowed he would come back for a closer examination.

When the three siblings walked into the great room, they found Murdoch Lancer sitting behind his large desk. Quickly rising, he focused his full attention on his youngest son.

“Where have you been?”

Tensing at the tone of voice, Johnny went on the defensive. “Where I was sent, Old Man. Out to get your contracts signed.” He pulled the papers from the saddlebags and tossed them down on the desk. “I'm tired and I'm going to my room.” Johnny turned away and started striding toward the stairs. His spurs jangled as he moved over the terra cotta tiles.

“Stop right there, young man. I expect a straight answer from you!” Murdoch yelled.

Scott watched in anger and fascination as a transformation took place in his younger brother. Johnny was still and then a shudder went through his body. Starting at his head and traveling toward his feet, his body totally relaxed.

With feline grace, Johnny slowly turned to face his father. His startling sapphire blue eyes were cold. His lips twitched with a slight smile and when he spoke, words came out in a soft menacing drawl. There was sheen to his tanned complexion as he loosely drummed his fingers on his right thigh. “You got a straight answer. I went, did and came back with only one delay and I'm early returning. What's your problem, Murdoch?”

Murdoch ignored the question and struggled to contain his temper. “Where did you go on your delay? Answer me that, Johnny,” he loudly inquired.

“I went nowhere but to where you sent me and then came here. Why all the questions?”

“Because I've heard you've returned to your Johnny Madrid gun fighting ways. I won't have you lying to me,” Murdoch bellowed like a maddened bull.

Scott saw the momentary look of pain cross his brother's face before the Madrid mask slammed down again.

Johnny tried to live down his gun fighting reputation because he knew that his father was ashamed of that part of his personality and his temper exploded. “Where did you get such a stupid idea, Old Man? I haven't gone back to my gun fighting life!”

Murdoch's temper was equal to his son's as he yelled, “You were seen in Modesto two days ago in a gunfight outside the cantina. The other man never cleared his gun from his holster. I won't have you taking up your old habits, Johnny Lancer!”

“Since you have so little trust in me after a year,” Johnny gave his sire a long icy stare and hissed, “the name is Madrid. At least it will be when I reclaim it. I'm leaving!” He turned and took the stairs two at a time, ignoring his father's yells.

Teresa stared in shock at how fast the argument spiraled down into Johnny's decision to leave.

Scott shot a look of disgust at his father as he bolted to follow his brother up the stairs. “That went well, didn't it, SIR?”

Within minutes, the brothers came downstairs. “Johnny, this is stupid to run away. Murdoch didn't mean it the way it came out.”

Looking over at his stone-faced father, Johnny shot back, “His actions speak as loud as his words, Scott.”

Teresa came up and placed her hands on Johnny's chest, blocking his way to the door. “Stay, please. We all need you.”

An anguished look crossed his face as he stared down at his foster sister. “Querida, I understand how you feel, but it's not working out with me here. You have to let me go.” Slipping by her, Johnny fled out the front door into the night.

Teresa ran after him, grabbing at his saddlebags draped over his right shoulder. All she managed to snatch was the corner of his salmon shirt that was peeking out from the side. He felt the movement and tugged the bags. The shirt slithered out and was crushed in her hands as he turned back to her. She reached up to his face, dropping the shirt behind her. As her fingers touched him he jerked back, but not before she felt the heat radiating from him.

He hissed, “Stop it T'resa. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it.” With that, he turned back and marched to the barn, only to meet Ciaprino standing in the doorway.
“What has happened, Juanito?”

“No es nada, tio.”

“Juanito, there is dried blood on your saddle.”

Johnny slipped by Ciaprino and went over to his horse, his spurs musically singing as his boots hit the packed dirt of the stall. “No es nada. I ran into a problem.” He gave a toothy grin. “And I won.” He fastened his saddlebags onto Barranca with difficulty as the horse caught his mood and began dancing out of the way.

“Where are you going, Juanito? You just got back from your long trip.”

“I'm leaving on another trip. I won't be returning. Take care of yourself, tio. Adios.” Johnny swung up into the saddle, pulled his hat onto his head and turned his horse out of the barn. His face darkened as he saw his brother and foster sister coming toward him. Murdoch was nowhere to be seen. In defiance of his father's rules, Johnny kicked his legs and his mount took off in a gallop toward the Lancer archway.

Scott yelled, “Johnny, Johnny! Don't go! I need you! We need you!”

Without looking back, his brother kept at a fast speed, feeling relief to be in motion and cooler from the breeze of his passing. Several miles outside Morro Coyo he pulled over to a stand of trees by a running creek. Barranca was breathing deeply, and Johnny knew he needed to get his temper under control and give his horse a rest before they went into town.

Dismounting, he led his horse to the water, but only allowed him a short drink before he ground-tied him to a field of grass by the trees. He took his canteen down to the creek and dipped it in upstream of where Barranca had waded into the water. Taking a long pull of cool water, he looked up into the night sky and stared at the twinkling stars. They soothed his agitated soul, but did nothing for the heat he was experiencing. He was running a low-grade fever and knew he should go see Doc Jenkins, but he only wanted to get to town for a hotel room, a hot bath, and a good meal. Then he would decide where to go.

Normally one stop would also be the saloon for a beer, but he wasn't feeling good. He went to the livery stables then to the hotel where he requested a room. For fifty cents more, a bath and some beef stew still warm from the stove were acquired. The clerk promised to come up to his room and get him when the bath water was hot. In the meantime, the stew was brought up to his room. Johnny spent a quiet time sitting on his bed, using the night table as a dining table. He stared out the window that overlooked the road to Lancer.

He felt remorse that his life would no longer be at Lancer. He had grown to love the lush green land and the people at the ranch. If only he could have controlled his temper with Murdoch, he thought, but they had butted heads like two mountain rams from the moment they had laid eyes on each other. He couldn't understand how he could control his emotions while he was Johnny Madrid, but not as Johnny Lancer. Well, it didn't matter now. He'd made the decision to leave because of his father's continual distrust, and he'd stick to it. Evidently, he reasoned, someone was using his Madrid name and reputation. As soon as it was daylight, he decided to visit the jail at Green River and have a chat with Sheriff Val Crawford to get a handle on the latest gossip that the sheriff read from the telegrams.

A timid knocking on his door interrupted his musings and the availability of his hot bath was announced. Grabbing his saddlebags and gun rig, Johnny followed the clerk down the stairs. The bathhouse was right off to the side of the back entrance to the hotel. He looked around, verified he was alone and entered the building.

Slowly he shrugged out of his shirt and unbuttoned his concho-clad pants. When he was down to his cut-off long johns, he turned his attention to the bandages. The cloths were stuck to his shoulder and side where the blood had dried. With a wry grin, he knew he'd have to soak off the padding. Shucking his long johns, he sighed as he sank into the hot water and kept sinking until his head was under. Coming up for air, he attacked his hair with soap and went under again to wash it away. Turning his attention to his wounds, he ducked down to soak the bandages and worked to loosen the cloth. He managed to wash away the dried crud that had crusted over his wounds and the cloth came away in a sodden mess. He leaned his head back against the wooden edge of the tub. The soothing moist heat was working its magic on his tight muscles. Slowly, he sank lower in the water and drifted off to sleep.

Scott stared as his brother's horse galloped off and his normal calmness snapped. He swiveled to make a straight line to the house and the great room, searching for his father. Teresa stooped to pick up Johnny's shirt. Wringing it between her fingers, she followed Scott, but hung back as she heard the shouting start. Looking down and seeing the shirt in the light flooding through the French doors of the great room, she gasped and shook the material out. Hearing footsteps behind her, she whirled. Jelly was hurrying up to the house from the corral.

“Was that Johnny that went tearing out of here?”

“Yes. He had words with Murdoch.”

“One of these days that man is going to push his sons too far until they leave.”

From within the house they heard Scott shout, “Wherever Johnny goes, I go. You've shown your bias and distrust for the last time!” The French doors were pushed open and quickly slammed by Murdoch's older son.

Teresa looked at Jelly and with a soft voice replied, “That day is now Jelly, but I'm worried about Johnny. Look what I found.” She held the shirt out, revealing bloody gashes on the left side.

“I came up to check on Johnny. I found dried blood on his saddle.”

“I'm going to catch and warn Scott before he leaves.” Teresa ran down the path that led to the barn. She skidded to a stop as Scott rode his horse out. The horse sidestepped and attempted to rear up. Scott was hard pressed to get the gelding under control, but his skills and soft talking brought the horse to a halt.

“Teresa, what are you doing?” he yelled.

“I had to stop you to show you this. It fell out of Johnny's saddlebag.” She lifted the shirt up to him. The light softly glowing from within the barn door opening was enough to illuminate the blood-tinted gashes.

Scott's face tightened and flushed dark. Leaning over, he handed the shirt back to her. Caressing her cheek with his fingers, he softly replied, “Honey, I'll find him.” Turning his horse, he put heels to his mount's sides and swiftly guided the horse away.

As she trudged back to the house, Jelly walked rapidly to the wooden doors and stormed inside. She heard his shouting and yelling and she stopped. Turning, she went to the back of the house and went up the back stairs to her room. Throwing herself onto her quilted bed, she gave into the sorrow of losing her foster brothers and cried herself to sleep, holding Johnny's shirt tightly in her hands.

The path was bathed in moonlight as Scott passed under the Lancer arch, pleased that the feathery light would help him trail his brother. He'd always wanted a brother and over the last year, the bond formed with his younger brother had strengthened. He wasn't about to chop that link.

He could go to Green River, Morro Coyo or Spanish Wells; Scott's instincts told him to go to Morro Coyo. Johnny had been tired, dirty, hungry, and ... probably running a fever. He could find solutions to all his problems there and it was close. Pointing the horse in the right direction, Scott allowed his mount to find a comfortable traveling pace.

Coming into town, Scott looked around and found that most of the town was dark. He went down to the livery stables and found Barranca sleeping in a stall. Putting his horse in a nearby stall, Scott tossed a couple of coins to the liveryman and requested a rubdown of the animal. He asked about his brother and was told to check out the hotel.

Soft snoring greeted him as he walked into the hotel lobby. Scott couldn't see anyone, but with some quick detective work, he found the night clerk. The man was curled up in the pantry between the front desk and the kitchen. The door was ajar and the soft glow of the hallway light outlined the man as he slept. With a quirky grin, Scott considered his options and went into action.

Going back to the desk, he looked at the registry. Finding Johnny's name and room number, he fished out a key from the drawer and went to his brother's room. Knowing Johnny had fast reflexes, he carefully opened the door, remembering the last time he’d faced his brother’s gun after Johnny had been startled. The room was empty.

Scott went downstairs, checked the registry again and found keys to another room. Walking quietly back upstairs, he transferred his saddlebags and his brother's rifle to the second room. Returning to the registry, he signed himself in, marked his brother out and returned the extra key to the original room. He would settle with the clerk when the guy was conscious again. He set off to find his brother.

Seeing the empty stew bowl, he knew Johnny had eaten and would either be in the bathhouse or the saloon, but it was a toss up as to which. Since he was in the same area, Scott went in search of the bathhouse and found it at the back entrance of the hotel. Quietly opening the door, he saw his brother snoozing in the tub. Noticing his gun rig on the bench by the tub, Scott slipped the gun from the holster and placed it out of Johnny’s reach. In the lamplight, he could see the gashes on Johnny's left shoulder and chest. Most of them had crusted over, but two were still seeping blood. It was time to get his little brother back to the room for doctoring. Reaching out, Scott gently touched Johnny's good shoulder and jumped back. Johnny uncoiled and lurched for his gun, splashing cool water over Scott's boots.

“Easy, brother. It's just me.”

“Dadburnit. If you don't drop that bad habit, I'm goin' shoot holes in you!”

“And what bad habit is that?”

“Are you daft? Stop sneaking up on me!”

“I took precautions. I moved your gun first.”

Johnny glanced over to the bench with a bleary eye and then looked up at his brother's smiling face. “Smart aleck. I must be getting soft. Gotta change that if I'm going back to my trade.”

“Well, that's what I came to talk to you about. Let's get you out of that cold water and dressed.”

Johnny pulled himself out, grimacing when he bore too much weight on his left hand, while Scott found the towels and threw one at his sibling. Johnny dried himself then finger-combed his unruly dark hair. After getting dressed, he threw his saddlebags and gun rig over his right shoulder and headed to his room.

Johnny's alert eyes didn't miss anything as he strolled by the front desk on his way to the stairs. His eyebrows lifted and so did his lips as he heard the snort and loud snoring from the pantry. Stopping at his room, he pulled out a key, only to have Scott replace it with another key then push him down the hallway to a room at the back of the building.

“This is now our room, Johnny.”

“Why do you want me to move to a different room? The one I was in took care of my needs.”

“But it didn't take care of mine, brother.”

“And what needs do you have?”

“To cover your back; and to do that I have to be with you.”

“Go home. Go home to your family. I've taken care of myself since I was ten. I can do it again,” Johnny grimly snapped out.

“Can we take this discussion inside?” Scott waved at the door, urging Johnny to go in.

Johnny turned the key and shoved the door open, throwing a scowl at his pushy brother. He stood in the doorway and, as was his habit, took a moment to allow his eyes to ferret out the secrets of the room. Finding nothing of interest, he strolled in, allowing Scott to enter and close the door behind them.

Swiftly turning, Johnny hissed angrily, “Let's get this over with so you can leave. I don't need you here. I don't want you here. Once I take care of a few things, I won't be here! GO HOME!”

“Not unless you come with me.”

“I was there for a year. I tried! I'll never be what the old man wants. I can't get past his distrust of my past and me. All he does is give me orders. He never listens to what I say, my suggestions, let alone how I feel. He just jumps down my throat, bellows out his orders, turns and walks away. I'm tired of it and I'm tired of you. I'm going to sleep.”

“Johnny. I'm not going home now. We want you back. We all do. We love you. Murdoch also.”

“He sure has a funny way to show he cares. The only way I'll return is when Johnny Madrid is dead,” he stated. “I'm exhausted, Scott and I don't want to fight with you. Do what you want. I'm going to sleep.” He suited his actions to his words and turned the covers back on the bed furthest from the door and window.

Scott studied his brother and knew from his flushed face that Johnny had a fever. “Before you crash for the night, let me check those gashes.”

“Leave it, Scott. I just want to rest. I'm tired. They're okay.”

“Johnny, you'll get no sleep until they're doctored and bandaged. You're still seeping from them. How did you get them?”

Ignoring the last question, Johnny shot back, “You win. Just get it over with fast, so I can get you to shut up and leave me alone.”

Scott pulled some salve and bandages out of his saddlebags and dunked a towel into the water in the basin on the dresser. After Johnny peeled off his shirt, Scott pushed him back onto the pillow and pulled his brother’s boots off. He ignored Johnny's orders to stop fussing and rapidly cleaned, medicated and bandaged the wounds. Johnny was having a difficult time staying awake. Scott lowered the lamp wick to dim the room, pulled the covers over his younger brother and went to bed himself. He was worried. Some of the gashes were deep and one was infected. Johnny’s fever was low-grade for now, but Scott knew it could soar. He made a promise to drag his brother to see Doc Jenkins in the morning.

“Cat jumped me just past the pass. I killed it, but she still got me.”

Scott grinned as Johnny finally answered his question, turned over on his side and sighed. Turning himself, Scott followed his brother's example and drifted off to sleep.

Just at daybreak, he woke to sounds of distress coming from the next bed. Johnny was tossing and turning, wrapping himself tightly in the covers. Grabbing Johnny's hands, Scott endeavored to wake him.

“Johnny. Johnny. Wake up. You're gonna be okay. Come on, brother. I need you to wake up.” Fingers tightened in his hands and a bleary peek from sapphire blue eyes greeted Scott.

“You still here? I thought I told you to go away. I don't need or want you here.”

“Boy, I'm staying. Little brother, I'm going to get Doc Jenkins. That fever has gotten higher.” Scott reached over to put his hand on Johnny's forehead. Johnny swatted him away with a decidedly unfriendly stare. Backing off, he quickly washed and dressed. Getting ready to leave, he heard a quiet menacing voice drawl his nickname.

“Boston, when you go through that door keep going and stay away from the Doc.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Scott saw the barrel of a Colt Peacemaker steadily pointed at his back. He whirled around. “Johnny, why?”

In a flat tone, Johnny replied, “I'm on a fast ride to hell. You're not invited along.”

“But you're no longer Johnny Madrid, gunfighter! You're Johnny Lancer, rancher.”

“Not according to the Old Man. I'll always be Madrid.” A flicker of determination crossed his face and a grim tone crept into his voice. “Or I will be once I take my name back from that false gunfighter.”

“Okay, brother. I'm leaving for now, but I'll be back. It's time I talk some sense into our father.”

“Give it up. It's a lost cause to talk to the Old Man if I’m the subject. Don't come back. I won't be here. I'm moving on today.”

“Stay with me, Johnny. We have a partnership that works well. If you try to leave, I'll find you and bring you back.”
“Get out!” Johnny hissed.

Scott felt the breeze of a bullet as it passed by and buried itself in the doorframe. His ears rang from the sound of the gun firing. The smell of sulfur drifted through the room. His legendary calm exploding, he whirled, opened the door and slammed it on his way out. Cursing all the way down the hallway, he stomped through the lobby, tossed coins at the sleepy-eyed desk clerk and told him to hold Room 8.

Behind the closed door, Johnny dropped his head down; sad at what happened, but his hardheaded brother could not go on the gunfighter trail with him. Slipping the gun under his pillow, he turned onto his side and drifted back to sleep.

By the time Scott reached the Lancer archway, he had conceived a plan. His father would see reason; he would insist on it.

Scott rode his horse into the barn and called out to Jelly. The handyman was in the shed behind the barn and came running at Scott's yell.

“You taking lessons on bellowing from your pa, young Scott? I could hear you into the next county!”

“I need you to go into Spanish Wells and get Doc Jenkins.”

“What for? That's a piece to travel.”

“For Johnny. He’s got some cat scratches that are infected and he shot a hole in the doorframe to keep me from going to the Doc.”

“Well what keeps him from putting holes in me when I bring the Doc?”

“Your sunny disposition.”

“Humph.”

“Just do it, Jelly. You can get Johnny to see reason. I need you to work on him while I tackle Murdoch.”

“Don't know which of us has the tougher nut to crack. Both of them have thick skulls and the disposition of rabid wolves. Besides, I don't know what rock you found Johnny under.”

“He's in Room 8 at the hotel in Morro Coyo. He plans to move on, so get going before he leaves.”

“Alright. Alright. I'm goin'. Stop givin' me that look. I'm saddling up now.”

“Good. I've got to go talk some sense into Murdoch before we lose Johnny for good.” With that statement, Scott stomped off to confront his father.

Murdoch stood in the great room staring out the picture window at the land he loved. He kept thinking of his arguments with Scott and Jelly the night before. He knew the boys had forged a tight bond of friendship, but he had never thought that Scott would give up everything to follow Johnny on the gun-fighting trail. Scott had accused him of being biased and distrustful. Was he? No. Why couldn't Scott realize that there was danger for Johnny if he returned to his old life? He finally had his younger son home and healthy. He didn't want to risk losing Johnny again and yet, that was what had happened.

He heard the front door open and the steady steps he knew so well come toward him. Turning, Murdoch locked eyes with a determined Scott and braced himself for the blast he knew was coming. His temper started to boil and he quickly threw cold water on it – Scott was home and he intended to make him stay.

“So, Sir. Exactly what do you want from Johnny? And for that matter, from me?”

Murdoch heard the tension in Scott's voice and worked carefully to answer in a way to not set Scott off. “I want both of you happy, safe and at home.”

“Then how, pray tell, do you intend to achieve that when your words and actions do nothing but push us away?” Scott held up his glove-clad hand. “Hear me out, Murdoch, before you answer. I tracked down Johnny at Morro Coyo. He's physically hurt, mentally crushed, and has allowed Madrid to take over. So much so, that he said, and I quote, 'The only way I'll return home is when Johnny Madrid is dead.' Just before he buried a bullet in the doorframe as I was passing through, he told me that he was on a fast ride to hell and I wasn't invited along. I can't bring him back. You're the only one who can take back the words you said to him.”

“I meant what I told him.”

“What!”

“Johnny misunderstood my words.”

“Well in that case, so did I. If you had said the same to me in the same tone and circumstances, I would have bolted too. You stood there and accused Johnny of lying. He wasn't.”

“That's not what I heard.”

“From who?”

“I had gone into town for supplies and went into the saloon for a beer while waiting for the wagon to be loaded. There was talk going on about Johnny being in Modesto gun hawking. They described him exactly: black hair, blue eyes wearing dark pants, white shirt, and a dark jacket. They said his draw was a blur. They named him, Scott. I can't have him going back to that type of life. It's not safe.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“I don't know. A couple of cowboys talking that I've never seen before.”

“So you trusted two drifters that you've never seen before and came back to accuse your own son of dishonesty. How could you, Murdoch, after having Johnny in your house for a year? Johnny loves this land and he loves you. He's been trying to put his past behind him. Here's something else you need to know: a cougar attacking him caused his one delay. He's got the gashes and a fever to prove it. There is no way he could have been in Modesto. You've got to go to him. You're the only one who can bring him home.”

Murdoch strolled closer to the picture window, mulling Scott’s words over in his mind. He had to admit there was room for doubt. He had many confused feelings when it came to his lost son, but one feeling was crystal clear – he loved Johnny and he wanted him home. “Go saddle my horse, Scott.” Turning toward the kitchen he yelled, “Teresa, pack some food. We're going to bring Johnny home.”

Jelly muttered to himself as he rode to find Doc Jenkins. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why Murdoch had suddenly turned on his son. All his raging last night hadn't done anything to change Murdoch's tune. He just hoped Scott could get through to the old mule.

Noticing a cloud of dust coming from Spanish Wells, Jelly slowed to allow a buggy to pass by. A look of pleasure pasted itself on his face when he recognized Doc Jenkins flipping the reins of the buggy’s horse.

“Hey, Doc. I was just coming to get you.”

“I'm going into Morro Coyo for my rounds. Is there a problem out at Lancer?”

“No. It's Johnny. He's at the hotel in Morro Coyo. He got jumped by a cat and Scott sent me to get you to look at his wounds.”

“Well, let's get going!”

“Ahhh...Doc. There's something you need to know before we get there.”

“What is it, man?”

“Johnny's not himself what with the fever and all. He took a potshot at Scott when he said he was getting you.”

“I guess we'll just have to be careful, since Johnny still has his gun.”

“You can go first, Doc. I'll cover your back.” Jelly grinned at the incredulous look the Doc shot him then matched the buggy’s swift pace as the two men set off for Morro Coyo.

It was close to noon when they pulled up to the hotel. Jelly led the way to Room 8, but stepped aside to allow the doctor to knock on the door.

“Johnny? Johnny, let me in. It's Sam Jenkins.”

“Go away. I don't need you.”

“Johnny, open the door.”

“Doc, leave me alone, or I'll put a hole in you.”