Lancer’s Sons 2/17

Chapter Two

 

San Diego Stage Depot

All of Scott’s head-shaking and tight-lipped warnings didn’t count for much. Once the stage rolled to a stop, Johnny had to get off.

 

He needed his rig, and had to get it from Gus. Manners wouldn’t count for much if one of them took a bullet.

 

Back in Morro Coyo, Gus had held his hand out for their guns and holsters as soon as they boarded. “Sorry, fellers, no weapons in the coach—company policy.”

 

And once again, there was no choice for him. “Johnny.” Scott had already unbuckled and put his belt and pistol in Gus’s hands.

 

He had hesitated. They didn’t even give him time to think about it. As soon as he let his gun go, Johnny felt exposed, naked as a newborn, and twice as twitchy.

 

That helpless feeling—it was what he hated most about traveling by stage.

 

Johnny barely breathed at the change stops. Kept his hat low and prayed nobody recognized him. Maybe staying out of the game for the past year helped. No one looked twice. Still, every moment reminded him of how he’d felt growing up.

 

Gus must have figured Johnny needed his pistol. He already had it in his lap when Johnny went to ask for his belongings and handed it down before he could get the words out.

 

“Thanks, Gus.”

 

“I’d not have took it, Johnny, not from you, ‘cept it’s policy.” Gus hurried to unbuckle the straps holding the luggage on top.

 

“I know.” Johnny cinched his belt tight and kept scanning the town. “Scott will get our gear. See you around, Gus.”

 

Johnny threw his hand up and crossed the street, saw the nearest alley, and made sure he was alone. First order of business—check the Colt.

 

Of course, Scott had followed him.

 

“What is the matter with you? There were two ladies on that coach.” His voice was all Boston-proper; Scott was fit to be roped and tied. “Johnny? I ask you a question.”

 

“What do you want me to say?” Johnny holstered the gun one last time and gave him a look.

 

“For starters, why did you tear out of that stagecoach like it was on fire?” Scott tossed Johnny’s saddlebags and bedroll to land at his boots. “And there’s your gear.” His back was stiff with that military edge. Lieutenant Lancer wanted answers.

 

“I’m not safe, not unarmed, and not if I’m recognized. Okay?”

 

Scott’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have rented horses at the last stop.”

 

“Riding in here together? Hell, that would have brought out every gun hawk in town and put you in their sights, too. ‘Madrid and—.’ Dios, might as well wave a red flag.”

 

He grinned and tapped Scott on the belly. “Come on, let’s see if Whittaker’s around to haul us to that ranch of his. Us greenhorns have a lot to learn.”

 

Scott sighed. “We should wait at the station. Murdoch sent a wire.”

 

The depot wasn’t much more than a shack, but carpenters were sawing and hammering, framing up a room that would more than double the place’s size.

 

San Diego—a few years sure changed a town. Johnny wouldn’t even know the merchandise shop. The boarding house had a new coat of paint. Fancy storefronts with fresh signs and clean-swept sidewalks filled the town’s center.

 

Only the farrier’s place looked like before—the sagging roof, same old rusty wagon wheels nailed on either side of the door.

 

“We could leave word and wait over there.” Johnny pointed at a saloon a block down the street.

 

Before Scott could answer, a spring wagon rolled to a stop beside them. The driver looked them over, his gaze landing on Johnny the longest.

 

Johnny shifted. Lots of folks stared at him, but this fella—was he someone who remembered him? Or was this Whittaker sizing him up?

 

The man tied off his reins and climbed down between him and Scott.

 

“You’re the Lancers?”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Scott stepped forward. “I’m Scott Lancer. This is my brother, Johnny.”

 

Johnny moved up beside him; he’d bide his time about talking for now.

 

“Glad you boys came. Your father told me all about you two.” The fella’s smile came easy enough. He was younger than Murdoch, with some graying at the temples and enough lines to show signs of hard living.

 

“I’m Harold Whittaker.” He wasn’t as tall as his old man, but who was?

 

He clapped Scott’s shoulder, then offered Johnny his hand. “And John—you’re younger than I expected.”

 

 

“It’s Johnny.” He pushed his hat back and shook; at least Whittaker’s grin reached his eyes.

 

“Call me Harold. You boys hungry? There’s a little cantina, I know. Best tamales in town.”

 

Scott nodded. “We didn’t have anything substantial to eat on our way here. Lunch sounds good, Johnny?”

 

“Sure. Why not?”

 

Whittaker chuckled. “Dos Amigos. I tried to hire the cooks; they turned me down flat.”

 

Johnny tossed his saddlebags in the back of the wagon.

 

“Leave your gear, Scott. No one messes with a Whittaker wagon.” Whittaker seemed amused by Scott’s checking around.

 

Scott shot Johnny a look, but spread his arm toward the cantina.

 

Another place Johnny remembered, but the restaurant didn’t even have a name three years ago. Beer and tequila were the menu items back then. And when they did serve food, no one would want to hire Antonio as a cook. Hell, he’d throw whatever in a pot with frijoles and peppers. It filled the belly, cleared a stuffy nose, and it cleaned out other things, too.

 

Johnny snorted, imagining Scott’s reaction to a bowl of Tony’s stew.

 

“You’ve eaten here before?” Scott waited until Johnny caught up with him and Whittaker.

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“So, John, this isn’t your first visit to San Diego?” Whittaker threw his hand up at an older gent, who slowed his carriage as they crossed the street.

 

“Long time ago—the town has changed.”

 

Inside, the smell hit him—beans, chilis, and smoke. His belly growled.

 

Johnny let his eyes adjust. The place was cleaner than it used to be. Better lit, but shadows were still there, in the back.

 

Scott eyed him and checked around the room. Yeah, like he would know one of Madrid’s enemies if he saw one. “Johnny?”

 

Most customers lowered their eyes when Johnny glanced their way. But two older guys playing checkers—one stopped mid-move. He squinted at Johnny as if trying to make sure. His whispering to his partner destroyed Johnny’s hopes of not being recognized. They practically stumbled over each other, scrambling to get out the door. Who else would know Madrid was in town before the day was over?

 

Scott raised a brow. “What was that about?”

 

Johnny shrugged. “Reckon they got tired of checkers.” If only.

 

Whittaker waved over the cook, a man with dark eyes and a wide smile.

 

“Roberto. These are Murdoch Lancer’s sons. Remember him?”

 

Roberto set down a steaming pot of beans. “The tall one?” He raised a hand above his head. Then he shook hands with Scott, but when he looked at Johnny, he paused.

 

“You? You, el hijo—no…”

 

“Johnny Lancer.” Johnny held out his hand.

 

Roberto took it, but something wasn’t right with the cook.

 

The sooner Johnny could eat and leave town, the better. A chill of worry crawled down his back.

 

Whittaker insisted on sitting up front where it was better lit. It meant more than he could say when Scott angled his chair to cover Johnny’s back, his blind spots.

 

“Hola,” A young woman, pretty, had approached the table.

 

“Rosa, these are Lancer’s sons. You remember Murdoch? Meet John and Scott. They are visiting my ranch.”

 

Johnny smiled at her. “Mucho gusto.”

 

“Hola, John. Hola Scott.” Her smile stayed with him as she took their orders. When she touched his arm, Johnny heard Scott clear his throat. He ignored it.

 

Whittaker’s smile didn’t reach his eyes now.

 

“You like charming the ladies, John?”

 

“Meaning Rosa? Is she married?”

 

“Rosa’s father has plans for her.”

 

Johnny didn’t look away. “I ain’t planning on courting the girl.”

 

Whittaker nodded, but his eyes said something else.

 

If Whittaker had eyes for the girl, well, he ought to say so. Johnny returned his stare. “Exactly what’s the —”

 

“Murdoch mentioned your breeding program…” Scott cut in and his knee knocked against his beneath the table.

 

Whittaker kept his eyes on Johnny, but he warmed to the subject. Then lunch arrived. Rosa served Johnny first. Whittaker watched them like a buzzard, wanting to get in a first peck. He hadn’t meant to put a burr under the man’s saddle before they even got to his place.

 

As Rosa walked away, Whittaker leaned in. “Might I offer you some advice, John?”

 

“It’s Johnny.” He used his soft voice, figuring it was one of those times he ought to keep a tight control on his anger. “Go on.” But Johnny dropped his fork, let it clatter.

 

Scott touched his leg again. Hell, another warning.

 

Whittaker continued, lowering his voice. “You might get away with wearing that gun belt low up north. But I’ve seen too many kids here, die in the street, trying to prove something.”

 

The rancher took a bite and pointed at him with his fork. “You really could get yourself killed. I’m surprised Murdoch didn’t warn you.”

 

Whittaker held up his hand before Johnny or Scott could speak. “My brother, Horton, thought he was fast. Called out a gunman. Died before he hit the ground.” The man’s voice broke. His eyes were near to filling. He picked up his napkin and ran it under his nose.

 

 

 

Johnny’s appetite vanished. He looked down at his plate. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t think of what else to say to the man. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

 

The grief on Whittaker’s face was plain. He cleared his throat. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Still, my advice stands on how you wear that rig. That’s all I’ll say.”

 

Whittaker started back eating. “Anyway, we should talk about the longhorns you’ll be herding.”

 

Johnny felt the disapproval hanging in the air as Whittaker explained they had the cattle rounded up and ready to go.

 

“Once we get to the ranch, you’ll meet the trail boss, Wiley Jackson. He will help you with some of the finer points of driving cattle.”

 

Johnny wondered what the man could tell him about herding cattle. “That right?”

 

Scott leaned forward. “Ah, I’m not sure what our father told you, but…”

 

Johnny cut him off. “We’re eager to learn all we can. Ain’t that right, Scott?”

 

“You’ll learn alright.” Whittaker stood. “I need to see a man about a business proposal and the payroll. Meet you across the street at Amanda’s place?” Whittaker checked his pocket watch. “In what? Half an hour?”

 

“Sure. See you then.” Johnny pulled his timepiece out.

 

Whittaker left some money on the table and headed out the door.

 

Scott raised a brow. “Sounds like we’re dismissed, brother. How about that drink? I’m buying.”

 

“Let’s go.”

 

He hadn’t made it two steps outside before something shifted

 

A sound—fast footsteps, too heavy. A hand brushing leather.

 

Johnny shoved Scott back with one arm; the other dropped to his Colt.

 

The street fell silent in his ears.

 

Then, one word split the air like a curse.

 

“Madrid.”

--

Sherry Dancy