Lancer’s Sons Chapter Ten

 Lancer’s Sons

Thanks to Chris Petrone for the Beta

 

Chapter Ten

 

Harold Whittaker was packing iron. 

 

The damn fool had strapped on a six-shooter, then lost his head before finishing breakfast—must be Lancer-Luck—ever since Johnny signed his name that way—not that his Madrid-Luck…

 

Whittaker backed up a step.

 

Johnny didn’t dare look at Scott—couldn’t miss it if Whittaker’s fingers twitched closer to his gun.

 

The man’s face had gone from red to gooseberry purple, anger coiled as tight as a rattlesnake. They’d sure enough had their warning—it was the strike he and Scott had to watch for.

 

Silence pressed down on the dining room, heavy and thick. Too quiet for comfort. Johnny’s hand brushed the grip of his Colt, familiar and solid. He almost smiled at the feel of it.

 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

 

The pounding on the kitchen door broke the stillness.

 

Damn.

 

Talk about timing. If Johnny had been a nervous man, he might have pulled.

 

Ayla’s voice snapped in Spanish, followed by Jackson’s deeper drawl.

 

Whittaker blinked, his fury snuffed like a candle. With a sharp breath and a stiff back, he turned and marched into the kitchen without a word. No excuse, no nod, nothing but the stomp of his boots.

 

Johnny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Nice manners, huh?” he snorted, grabbed another churro, and took a bite. “You sure know how to rile a man, brother.”

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Johnny.”

 

He snorted. “Then don’t start a fracas while I’m eating.”

 

Scott gave him one of his disapproving looks. Johnny popped the last bit of the treat into his mouth, stood, and tapped his brother on the shoulder. “Come on. The faster we get those longhorns headed to Lancer, the quicker we’re outta this mess.”

 

Scott nodded toward the front door. “Shall we exit this way? No reason to encounter Whittaker in the kitchen.”

 

“Now that fancy education’s paying off.”

 

“I’m learning your way today, brother, in that ‘School of Life’ you brag about.”

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Outside, Fireball and Lightning stood saddled and ready at the rail. Johnny crossed to the corral and counted six haltered horses.

 

“Some real fine bloodlines here.” He nodded toward Scott. “Come on, we’ll put ‘em on a string line.”

 

Whittaker had kept his word—at least about the remuda.

 

Scott moved to a roan with bright eyes and a smooth gait. “Murdoch could do worse than this one. If he wants good breeding stock.”

 

“Not that he’s interested.” Johnny rubbed a hand down the horse’s flank. “Not since Pardee stole his stallion and got T’resa’s daddy killed.”

 

“Maybe it’s time he tried again.”

 

Johnny clicked to a sleek black, bumping his shoulder. “Easy, boy.”

 

“These ponies don’t look like they’ll give us any trouble.” He tied the lead ropes. “Fireball and Lightning must be the only green ones in the lot.”

 

“Think about the future, Johnny.” Scott stroked the roan’s neck. “These bloodlines with the ones from Black Mesa?”

 

Johnny nodded slowly. “Could build a real stable—state’s finest.”

 

“Murdoch always said some of them had Andalusian blood.”

 

“Sure beats chasing dumb cows.”

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The men came out of the bunkhouse and rambled over to the fence. 

 

Johnny stiffened. It was time. 

 

The slam of the kitchen door cut the morning air. Whittaker and Jackson emerged, and the air turned. The same shift he felt in his bones before a storm.

 

The yard went still. Everyone knew something was coming.

 

Johnny scanned the crew. Tense faces, cold stares. Tuck and the others had their guns slung low and tied tight. Gun hawks—every damn one of them.

 

“Johnny?” Scott’s voice was low, and Johnny heard the worry in it.

 

Johnny plucked a straw from a bale and chewed on it. “Whittaker’s got a plan. Don’t know what or when, but I’d bet every dollar I’ve got he doesn’t want us—or these horses—making it to Lancer.”

 

Scott followed his gaze, his expression hardening. “Do you recognize any of them?”

 

“No. But I don’t need to know ‘em to know what they are. Hell, Harley Grover could cover his good eye and tell these boys are hired guns, every one of ‘em, dressed to dance.”

 

Scott nodded, his face grim. “Then we take charge of the party before Whittaker does.”

 

“Right. Just keep your head down if any bullets start flying,” Johnny made sure Scott heard him. “No heroics, Brother, not with this bunch.”

 

“And you’ll take your own advice?”

 

“I plan to stay alive. But…” He hesitated, then looked Scott in the eye. “Whittaker’s not after me—not directly.”

 

“What?”

 

“Whittaker figures I killed his brother. Scott. That makes you his target. He wants to hurt me the same way he’s hurting.” Johnny dropped his voice. “And he’s planning to do it by going after you.”

 

Scott went still. “No. His anger’s aimed at you. He said it himself.”

 

“Sure. But not until... Listen, we gotta get going. Just be careful.”

 

Scott didn’t answer. Just stared at Johnny, gave Lightning a pat, and nodded.

 

Whittaker and Jackson had gathered the men. It was time to make a statement.

 

Johnny slapped his hat against his leg to get their attention, then moved forward, stepping in front of Wiley. Whittaker tried to follow, but Johnny stopped him with a look and a shake of his head.

 

“This drive runs under Lancer command.” He said it loud enough for every man to hear. “In case any of you’ve forgotten, Scott and I will give orders. It’s how we’re moving the herd north.”

 

He held up the paper he’d sketched. “Scott, give ‘em their assignments. I need a word with Harold.”

 

Scott nodded and stepped forward, slipping into his officer voice, sharp and clear as fresh honed knife. “Gather around men. Assignments are as follows: Point, flank, drag. You’ll ride as ordered.”

 

Johnny smiled. No way he’d survive under Scott’s command. Being told when to eat, sleep, and piss? Not his style.

 

He pulled Whittaker aside near the corral gate.

 

“You’ve got something to say?” Whittaker’s voice was tight, angry.

 

“I do.” Johnny tapped the Colt at his hip. “I get it—you hate this gun. You hate me. You’re grieving for your brother. Ain’t no doubt you loved him.” Whittaker stared at him as if he’d like to step on him like he would a bug. Johnny ignored his burning eyes. “You gonna listen to me? Your brother must have loved the trade, the game, even the danger that caused his death—but him dying, well, it wasn’t no one’s fault but his.”

 

“You don’t get to—”

 

Johnny held up a hand. “Just listen. Maybe your brother liked being a gun hawk—living on the edge. He chose it. And yeah, it got him killed. But he made his choices.”

 

Whittaker’s eyes narrowed.

 

“I’ve made choices, too,” Johnny stepped closer. “Ones that might bring grief to my family. Hell, life’s risky, even without a gun. But if Horton liked living on his own terms… don’t you think he’d want you to live, too—not just stew…in this revenge?”

 

Whittaker turned away, staring at the orchard. For a second, Johnny thought he’d walk off with his arms crossed, mad at the world.

 

Then he kicked the dirt hard enough to send the dust flying. He twisted back toward Johnny, closed his eyes for a beat, and shook his head.

 

“John…” Whittaker hesitated. “Johnny.” He held out a hand. “Give your father my regards.”

 

Johnny took it, wary. The shake was brief and firm.

 

Was that a surrender? Like a white flag? Or just another bluff?

 

Whittaker walked off and joined Jackson. No look back.

 

 

 

Scott waited by the horses. “What was that?”

 

“A last-ditch effort at peace.” Johnny nudged his arm. “Ain’t you always saying words are better than war?”

 

Scott clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re learning, brother.”

 

Johnny grunted. “Let’s hope we still have help coming from Ventura.” He swung onto Fireball, rubbed his neck to settle him, and whistled sharply. “Mount up, boys. Let’s ride.”

 

The crew moved slow, reluctant. Tuck mounted last, eyes fixed on Johnny like a man itching for a draw.

 

Scott rode back and came alongside him. “He wants to test you.”

 

“It’s not me so much; he’s wanting to make a name for himself.”

 

“He knows you’re Madrid?”

 

“No. Right now, I’m Johnny Lancer. Some rich rancher’s kid wearing his gun low.”

 

“You’re sure they don’t know?”

 

“No certainties.” Johnny looked over the crew. “But Scott… just leave it.” How did he explain that being ‘the best’ came with a particular fear and respect from others, especially men in the trade? Johnny didn’t feel that from this crew, and for now, that worked to his advantage.

 

He clicked Fireball into a trot.

 

Even if Whittaker had backed off, it wouldn’t change some things. These men were loaded pistols, and the safety was off.