Close But No Cigar
It had been raining for days, and mist shrouded the white hacienda. Most of the windows were dark, but lights still glowed downstairs in the book-lined great room, where a tall man stared blindly into the fire, lost in the past.
His younger son had played on the rug in front of the fire. Murdoch could still conjure up that tousled dark head, the sparkling blue eyes, the infectious smile. He smiled at his memories. Johnny had kept them busy. When he was awake, he was full of energy. When he finally wore out, the little boy could fall asleep anywhere, within seconds. Murdoch remembered scooping up a drowsy child from the rug, carrying him upstairs, and tucking him into his bed.
His beloved little boy had grown up to be a killer.
Murdoch picked up the Pinkerton report again. After all these years, years when he hadn't known if the boy was alive or dead, the detectives had finally located his younger son.
Johnny Madrid. His son was Johnny Madrid. Even in California, far from the border, Murdoch had heard of the deadly young gunfighter, although he hadn't realized that Madrid was so young. His son wouldn't turn 17 until December, a week before Christmas.
Murdoch stared at the report. He couldn't bear to read it all the way through. He got up and dropped it in the bottom drawer of his desk, turning the key. He'd dreamed of this day for nearly 15 years, since the morning he woke to find that his wife had left the ranch and taken their young son with her. He'd searched desperately through the border towns and spent more than he could afford to hire Pinkertons to try to pick up their trail. Four years ago, when they reported that Maria was dead and there was no trace of her young son, he'd finally given up, even though he told the detectives to keep looking. He knew it wasn't likely a 10-year-old had survived on his own in the rough border towns. Especially a blue-eyed 10-year-old, Murdoch thought.
Maybe it would be better if he hadn't survived, Murdoch thought, dropping his face into his hands.
"Murdoch?" The ranch foreman appeared in the doorway. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Murdoch said. "Want a drink?"
Paul O'Brien shook his head. "I'm turning in," he said. "You should too. It's going to be a long drive."
Murdoch looked down. "I will, soon," he said.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Paul said.
"Talk about what?" Murdoch said.
Paul sighed. "Murdoch, I picked up the mail in town today," he said. "I saw the envelope from the Pinkertons. Is there any news about Johnny?"
Murdoch's fingers tightened around his glass. "Johnny's gone," he said.
Paul was very still. "Damn," he said at last. "Murdoch, I'm sorry."
Murdoch didn't look at him.
"It's not like it's a surprise, Paul," he said. "We both figured it, years ago."
"Yeah," Paul said. "But that's not the same as knowing, is it?"
Murdoch shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "It's not the same as knowing."
Murdoch was in the saddle by six, watching while the hands got the herd together. They'd be on the trail for at least three weeks, driving the cattle to market.
Paul stopped to speak to a new hand, and then looked across the herd at his longtime friend and employer. Murdoch signaled him to start, and Paul waved his hat.
Three nights later, Murdoch was sitting off by himself. He could hear the hands laughing and talking around the campfires. Someone strummed on a guitar.
Paul sat down next to him and handed him a mug of hot coffee. "Long day," he said.
"Yeah," Murdoch agreed.
"He'd be 16 now," Paul said. "Old enough to talk us into letting him come along on the drive."
Murdoch shook his head. "Don't, Paul."
"Murdoch, you been brooding for days now. You need to talk about it," Paul said. "And I'd like to know. You weren't the only one on the ranch who cared about that little boy. Just like I'm not the only one who loves Teresa. If something ever happened to Teresa, I reckon you'd expect me to tell you about it. Wouldn't you?"
"Damn right I would," Murdoch said, thinking of the little girl. Paul's 13-year-old daughter couldn't have been dearer to him if she was one of his own. "But it's not the same."
"No?" Paul said.
Murdoch sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right."
"So, tell me," Paul said. "What happened to Johnny?"
Murdoch stared into his coffee. "He ended up in a mission orphanage a few months after Maria died," he said slowly. "He ran away not quite a year later. The Pinkertons couldn't trace everything he did for the next few years. When he was 14, he killed four men in a gunfight in a cantina, near Nogales."
"What?" Paul said.
"He goes by another name," Murdoch said. "Not Lancer. Johnny Madrid."
Paul's eyes widened. "Johnny Madrid? The gunfighter?"
"Yes," Murdoch said.
"But our Johnny is still just a kid. Madrid has to be older than our Johnny."
"I guess he grew up quick," Murdoch said.
Paul's eyes narrowed. "Murdoch, from what you said, I thought John was dead. I haven't heard anything about Madrid getting killed."
"He might as well be dead," Murdoch said. "You think I'm going to bring him home? Do you want him anywhere near Lancer? Do you want him near your daughter? I don't."
"He's a kid."
"He's a killer," Murdoch said bleakly.
Paul shook his head. "Murdoch, he's your son."
"No," Murdoch said. "My son is dead. Johnny Madrid killed him too."
They were still arguing about it, a few weeks later, when they finally delivered the cattle. They got rooms in a hotel, cleaned off the trail dust and went downstairs for dinner.
They polished off steaks and the waiter put large slices of pie in front of them and poured coffee.
"I told you, mister, I'm not interested in your job," a soft voice said behind them.
"How much?" another man insisted. "Name your price."
"There isn't enough money for what you want," the first voice said.
"Listen, kid, nobody turns me down."
"I just did. There any part of no that you don't understand?"
"A snot-nosed half-breed isn't going to make a fool of me," the man snarled. "Teach this brat a lesson, boys."
A chair fell, and there was an unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
"Don't think I can't take all of you, or that I won't. Put your hands in the air and back out of here, all of you," the soft voice drawled.
Murdoch and Paul had both taken cover, along with everyone else in the room. A burly, gray-haired man, flanked by two other men, was standing up at a table, facing a thin, dark-haired young man who was still seated. The boy's Colt had appeared in his hand and he pointed it coolly at the older man, who was clenching his fists.
"I said, get out," the boy said.
"Look, Madrid, be reasonable," the older man said. "I'm offering you a lot of money."
"And I told you I'm not interested. I'm not going to tell you again," the boy said, his voice cold.
"Trouble, gentlemen?" the sheriff asked, appearing in the doorway, holding a shotgun.
Johnny looked at him, the corner of his mouth turning up, and holstered his gun.
"No trouble, Henry," the older man said stiffly. "We were just leaving."
"Looks like a good idea, Roy," the sheriff said.
Johnny picked up his fork and went back to his supper as the three men left.
"You got business in this town, boy?" the sheriff asked, sitting down at the table.
"Nope," Johnny said, taking a drink from a tall glass of milk.
"Good," the sheriff said. "Supposing you move right along then, after you finish your meal."
Johnny shook his head. "I figured on spending the night," he said.
"Figure again," the sheriff said. "I don't want trouble in my town."
"I'm not planning on trouble," the boy said. "I'm just ready for it if it comes."
The sheriff snorted. "When it comes, you mean."
Johnny smiled suddenly, a dazzling smile that lit up his face. "When it comes," he agreed.
The sheriff sat down with him while he finished his supper. The dining room had cleared out except for Murdoch and Paul, who were still drinking coffee.
"I already paid for a room, Sheriff, and I'd like to use it," Johnny said when he'd finished.
The sheriff looked at him sharply. "Fair enough," he said reluctantly. "But you go straight upstairs, son, not to the saloons. You're not old enough anyway."
One corner of Johnny's mouth tilted up. "I been old enough for a long time," he said. "But not tonight." He got up and headed for the stairs without a backwards look.
The sheriff looked over at Murdoch. "Something wrong, Mister?" he asked sharply.
Murdoch shook his head, dragging his eyes away from the boy.
"Johnny Madrid," the sheriff said, shaking his head. "I suppose I should have run him out of town. But he didn't start this, from what I could see."
"No," Paul said. "He didn't."
There was no sign of the boy at breakfast. Murdoch and Paul ate quickly and went down to the stockyard to finish their business. Johnny was just coming down the stairs when they returned to the hotel before lunch. He went out onto the porch, saddlebags slung casually over his shoulder. There was a burst of rifle shots, and glass shattered. Murdoch and Paul dived for the floor, drawing their guns, and looked outside cautiously.
Johnny was crouched on the porch, his gun out. A rifle sounded again, and Johnny spun, fanning his pistol. A man stood up suddenly on the roof of the building opposite the hotel and fell two stories to the ground. Another rifle sounded.
"Murdoch," Paul said, his eyes on Johnny, who was down on the porch, blood spreading across his shirt.
"Cover me," Murdoch said suddenly. "I'm going to get him."
He dragged Johnny inside the door, while Paul fired at the remaining sniper. There was a boom from a shotgun and the gunfire stopped. Murdoch turned the boy over and pressed his hand against the hole in his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.
"How bad is it?" the sheriff asked from the doorway, still facing the street.
"It's not good," Murdoch said. "Is there a doctor in town?"
"I'll get him," the sheriff said. "Take him upstairs."
Paul and Murdoch carried Johnny upstairs to Murdoch's room and put him down on the bed. Paul grabbed a towel from the washstand and handed it to Murdoch. Johnny's face was white, and there was a blue tinge to his mouth.
"He's losing too much blood," he said. "He's going into shock."
"Where's the doctor?" Murdoch asked, pushing harder.
"Doc is out on rounds," the sheriff said, coming in. "Won't be back until tonight, maybe not even until tomorrow."
"That bullet shouldn't wait that long," Murdoch said.
"Reckon not," the sheriff said. "Either of you know what to do?"
Murdoch looked down at the boy, then over at the sheriff.
"Yes," he said reluctantly.
"Mister, that kid doesn't have a chance otherwise," the sheriff said. "Maybe he don't deserve one, but I don't feel like any of us should be the one to judge that. Let's get going."
Nearly an hour later, Murdoch dropped the bullet into a basin and stretched his back. It was deep, but it had missed Johnny's lung and he didn't think any bones were broken. Johnny had stirred briefly once, while Murdoch probed the wound, but he'd quickly passed out again, to Murdoch's relief.
He stitched the wound carefully, and bandaged it tightly. They lifted the boy up to change the sheets, and put him back down. Paul pulled the blankets up. Johnny looked impossibly young, and the sheriff shook his head.
"He looks like a little kid," he said.
"He's 16," Paul said.
"Sixteen!" the sheriff said.
"That's right," Murdoch confirmed, his eyes on Johnny's still face.
"Do you two know him?"
Murdoch sighed. "A long time ago," he said. "When he was a little boy."
"That couldn't have been all that long ago if he's only 16," the sheriff said.
"We'll keep an eye on him, Sheriff," Paul said. "Can you send that doctor over here as soon as he gets back?"
"Sure," the sheriff said.
The doctor didn't turn up until well past suppertime. He looked at Murdoch's neat stitches approvingly and propped the boy up to make him swallow a dose of laudanum.
"Give him some more, every six hours," he said. "You need to keep him quiet."
"Is he going to be all right?" Murdoch asked.
"Too soon to tell," the doctor said. "He's lost a lot of blood and there's always the risk of infection. You did the right thing, getting that bullet out."
Johnny's temperature was soaring by the time Murdoch spelled Paul. He soaked a cloth in cool water, and gently wiped the boy's face. "Shhh," he said. "Just go to sleep, John. It's okay."
Johnny stared at him, his eyes blurred by fever, and said something in rapid Spanish.
"No," Murdoch said, holding him down firmly as he struggled to get up. "Johnny, listen to me. You're safe."
Johnny looked lost, and Murdoch reached for his hand. "It's okay," he said again.
"Papa?" Johnny said uncertainly. Murdoch was stunned.
"You can't remember me," he said softly. "You were _ you were too little when your mother took you away from the ranch."
"Don't!" Johnny begged, and broke into Spanish again. Murdoch realized he was delirious. He listened, horrified, as the boy begged someone not to hit his mother again, and tightened his grip on Johnny's hand.
"John," he said. "Johnny, listen to me. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you, son."
"Mama, don't," Johnny said, looking at something that Murdoch couldn't see. The blue eyes were scared and full of pain, and Murdoch's heart broke. "Please, don't."
"Johnny!" Murdoch said. "Listen to me. I won't let anyone hurt you. It's okay to go to sleep."
"I'm sorry," Johnny said. "Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make him mad. Don't let him, please, Mama."
Panic filled his voice. "If you come any closer, I'll shoot you. Mama, get up, Mama. Please, don't leave me. Mama, please don't be dead. Stay away from me! Don't think I won't shoot."
Murdoch pulled the boy close, cradling him in his arms. "Shhh, Johnny, it's okay," he said. "Shhh. I've got you now."
Johnny finally did drop into an exhausted sleep, but by then Murdoch had heard a lot more about his son's life than he wanted to know. He sat by the bed, watching the boy sleep.
"Murdoch?" Paul came in at sunrise, carrying a tray with coffee. "How's he doing?"
"Not so good," Murdoch said. "His fever is still too high."
Paul poured coffee and handed him a mug. "You thought about what happens next?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to tell him that you're his father?"
"I don't know," Murdoch said wearily. "You heard him too, Paul. He hates me."
"He doesn't know you," Paul said. "Or what happened."
Murdoch stared into his coffee cup. "Paul, I can't bring Johnny Madrid home to Lancer."
"What about Johnny Lancer?" Paul said.
"It won't work," Murdoch said, his head bowed. "Paul, you know it won't work."
"I know it won't be easy," Paul said. "I'm not so sure it won't work. And what's the alternative? You aren't really going to just let Johnny Madrid ride out of here, on his way to hell?"
"I don't know what to do," Murdoch said.
Paul looked over at Johnny. "From what I heard, that boy has been through enough hell already," he said.
"Paul, not now," Murdoch said. "Let's just concentrate on getting him well, okay. Then I'll deal with the rest of it."
Johnny opened his eyes a few days later, and closed them again immediately. He felt sick. "Take it easy, son," a deep voice said, and he looked up at a tall older man.
"Who are you?"
"Never mind that right now," the man said, lifting his head up and giving him a sip of water. Johnny tasted it cautiously, and the stranger smiled.
"It's just plain water this time," he said. "No medicine. Take another sip."
Johnny gulped down half a glass before he turned his head away. His eyes felt like they had weights on them, and he couldn't keep them open.
"It's okay," the older man said softly. "Just go to sleep. We'll watch out for you."
"Don't know you," Johnny said slowly, but he couldn't stay awake.
Another stranger was in the room when he woke again. This man helped him sit up a little and gave him some broth. "How are you feeling, son?" he asked.
"Fine," Johnny lied, holding the mug shakily with both hands. He took a few sips and lost interest. "Where's my gun?"
"If you can finish that broth, I'll get it," Paul said.
Johnny shook his head. "Can't," he said.
"Split the difference," Paul said. "Half."
Johnny sighed and took another swallow. "That's enough," he said. "Where's my gun?"
The man moved over to the dresser, returned with the belt and gun, which he draped over the bedpost. "It's right here," he said.
"No," Johnny said. "Want it in my hand."
Paul hesitated, but he drew the gun and wrapped Johnny's hand around it. The long fingers tightened on it weakly, and some of the tension went out of the boy.
"Thanks," Johnny said drowsily, pushing the gun under the pillow.
"Don't mention it," Paul said unhappily.
"Who are you?" Johnny asked.
"My name's O'Brien, Paul O'Brien. We were staying in the hotel too when you got ambushed."
"Who's the other old guy?" Johnny asked.
Paul smiled. "He's my boss," he said.
Johnny looked puzzled, but he was clearly exhausted.
"Get some rest," Paul advised him. "We can talk when you wake up again."
"Don't understand why you're doing this," Johnny said and drifted off.
"He's starting to ask questions," Paul told Murdoch later. "What are you going to tell him?"
"I don't know," Murdoch said. "I just don't know, Paul."
"Murdoch, you're not going to leave that kid on his own?"
"I don't want to," Murdoch said heavily. "But what do you suppose he's going to say if I tell him who I am? You heard him, when he was delirious. He thinks I kicked him and his mother out, and he hates me."
"Tell him the truth," Paul said.
"Do you think that's going to do any good?" Murdoch asked. "I don't think he's going to believe that his mother lied to him."
Johnny didn't believe it. He had slipped out of bed and was leaning against the wall in the connecting room, listening to the two older men talk through the half-open door.
He felt dizzy and pain was pulsing through his shoulder. He didn't want to talk to Murdoch Lancer, didn't want to hear whatever the man had to say. His mother had told him everything he needed to know about his gringo father. But he also didn't think he could manage to walk out of there without falling down. A chair scraped the floor in the other room. Johnny managed to get back across the room to the bed. He turned a little on his side and closed his eyes as footsteps crossed the room.
"He's still asleep," O'Brien said. "Think I should wake him to try to get some more broth into him?"
"Let him sleep awhile longer," Lancer said. "We'll get some supper downstairs and bring up some hot broth afterwards."
Johnny waited until the door had closed and he heard their footsteps go down the hall. Then he got out of bed again, and went looking for his clothes and boots. He managed to get his pants and shirt on, although he had trouble with the buttons. He almost passed out, putting on his boots, but that was finally done. He slung his gun belt over his shoulder. There was no way that he could buckle it.
He went down the back stairs, leaning heavily on the wall, and out through the kitchen. The cook, a large Mexican woman, raised her eyebrows when she saw him and started to scold him in Spanish.
"You should not be up, chico," she said. "Sit down before you fall down, and I will get your friends."
"No, please," he said, the blue eyes locking on hers pleadingly. "They're not my friends. Senora, I need your help."
Murdoch carried a tray upstairs an hour later. He opened the door and found an empty room.
"Paul!" he shouted.
"What's the matter?" O'Brien asked.
"He's gone," Murdoch said.
"What do you mean he's gone? That boy barely had enough strength to raise his head."
"He's gone," Murdoch repeated, putting the tray down. "I've lost him again, Paul."
"He can't have gone very far," O'Brien said.
But they found no trace of Johnny, anywhere in the hotel or the town. Murdoch talked to the Mexican cook himself, in Spanish. She had seen nothing, she said, her dark eyes blank. The sheriff tried too, but there was nothing.
Finally, after a week, they gave up and headed back to Lancer.
Johnny watched them go from a hill above the town, his face expressionless. He'd collapsed in the kitchen, and the cook had smuggled him out of the hotel to a house on the Mexican side of town, where he slept for the next few days until his fever finally broke. He'd told the cook that the cattlemen had tried to hire him to drive out some of the small farmers in the area, and they'd ambushed him when he turned them down. That was true, but his father and O'Brien weren't part of it, not as far as he knew, anyway.
Johnny's eyes lingered on his father's straight back. He'd still been pretty sick and didn't remember much about his brief conversation with the man, other than a deep, worried voice.
"Your father didn't want either of us," an angry voice said in his ear, "A Mexican wife and a mestizo son weren't good enough for the great Murdoch Lancer."
Johnny looked down, and turned away. He had a job waiting in Sonora. Lancer and O'Brien disappeared around a bend while Johnny mounted his pony and headed in the opposite direction.
"He's alive, anyway," Murdoch said a month later, in the great room at Lancer.
Paul nodded. "I saw the story in the paper too," he said. Johnny had been in a bloody gunfight in Sonora, had killed or wounded six men if the newspaper had its facts straight. "Have you thought about trying to get in touch with him?"
"I thought about it," Murdoch said, his face sad.
"You're not even going to try, are you?" Paul said. "Murdoch, why not?"
Murdoch looked down. "You wonder at all about why Johnny disappeared like that?" he asked.
"He was still feverish," Paul said. "He could have been thinking anything."
"I think he figured out who I was," Murdoch said. "Maybe he heard us talking before supper."
"I thought of that too," Paul admitted.
"If he had any interest in coming home, or talking to me, all he had to do was stay right where he was," Murdoch said. "Instead, he somehow managed to get dressed and to find a hiding place, as sick as he was. What does that tell you, Paul?"
"It doesn't tell me anything," Paul said. "He's not very old, he was sick and he wasn't in any shape to be making decisions. But you better tell me what it told you."
"He hates me," Murdoch said. "He's not coming home, Paul. Even if I could manage to get him here, he's not going to stay."
"Murdoch, I still think you should try to talk to him," Paul said.
Murdoch shook his head. "He's been hurt enough, Paul. He thinks his mother loved him, and I'm not going to take that away from him too."
Paul shook his head. He knew his old friend well enough to recognize the stubborn look on his face, but he figured he still had to try to talk some sense into him.
"You're wrong, Murdoch," he said. "Johnny needs a father who really does love him, a lot more than he needs a few happy memories of a mother who took him away from his home, let him grow up fending for himself on the street, and lied to him. You think about that for a while."
He got up and went out, slamming the door behind him. Murdoch looked into the fire again, sighing. He could still see a dark-haired boy in the flames, but it wasn't the happy toddler any more. Now he saw a young, wary face with haunted blue eyes.
And Murdoch wept.
THE END
Whistle, August 2004