This story was written for the fic-a-thon challenge on the Yahoo group LancerFanFiction. Readers submitted plot ideas to the list, and writers chose among them. I tackled Plot #7: Johnny and Harlan getting to know each other over a bottle of tequila and having a grand ole time with it.
At first, I thought slapstick - but it just didn't go that way. It seemed to me the most likely time for this to happen was during Harlan's visit to the ranch in Legacy. I suppose I should note I haven't seen the episode in years - decades, even - and so it may stray from canon. For the purposes of the story, I chose to assume that Harlan carried a derringer.
Thanks to the reader who contributed Plot #7; I enjoyed playing with it. And, yeah, this gave me an idea for another story, which is still in progress.
***
Out of the Bottle
"He's asleep." The big rancher stood squarely in the door, blocking it. His mouth was set in a straight line, and a muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. Harlan Garrett knew he was walking a fine line, a very fine line, and it would not be wise to argue with his former son-in-law. He didn't protest when the door closed in his face.
He didn't really know what he was going to say to his grandson anyway. He had crossed over a line there, and he knew it. He could still see Scott's set face, not unlike Murdoch's stubborn expression, as the two of them drove away from Lancer. He had won, but hadn't enjoyed his triumph for long. Scott responded tersely to his overtures. Harlan knew his strong-minded grandson well. This wasn't going to be a case of Scott coming to his senses and realizing his grandfather had his best interests at heart. The boy was returning to Boston with him, but Harlan realized he had lost him, perhaps irretrievably, even before that earth-shattering moment when the Degan brothers fired and Scott fell off the buckboard.
He thought Scotty was dead when the buckboard careened down the road, and he snatched at the reins. He thought he would be dead soon too, and didn't particularly care as long as he could take the Degans with him. His rage surprised him. He didn't think he was capable of shooting another man, but he would have given anything in the world to empty his derringer into the worthless louts who had slaughtered his only grandson. It popped ineffectively, a futile noisemaker. He thought he was going to die without any satisfaction when Murdoch, of all people, charged into the fight. And then Murdoch's other son arrived, and the Degans were on their way to jail. Scotty was safe. He was injured, but safe.
Harlan moved slowly down the hall, his shoulders sagging, and went down the stairs. The great room was in shadows, lit only by the fire. It was late, and he thought everyone else was in bed, everyone but Murdoch, who was sitting at his son's bedside.
The voice nearly startled him out of his skin. He stared into the shadows, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"I said, you looking for something?" The voice was a soft drawl, cold as ice. Johnny rose from a chair by the fire in one sure, graceful motion. He struck a match and lit one of the lamps. His blue eyes were cold too. Harlan thought of a cat, attentively watching its prey.
He waved a hand shakily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."
One corner of the boy's mouth turned up in a mocking, crooked smile. "I ain't the one who's disturbed."
Harlan bowed his head, unable to meet that merciless blue gaze. He moved blindly to a chair and sank into it. Johnny strolled across the room, barely making a sound. Harlan heard the chink of glass, and a liquid gurgle. He wondered if the boy would offer him any.
"Drink?"
"Yes," Harlan agreed with alacrity. "Whatever you're having is fine."
"I'm drinking tequila." Johnny's voice held a clear challenge.
"That's fine." Harlan wasn't quite sure what tequila was, and didn't want to ask. He just hoped it was strong.
Johnny returned to the fire with two glasses, a bottle tucked casually under his arm. Harlan watched as he tossed down his shot in one swallow. The older man took a cautious sip, and his eyes began to water. It was strong.
"That's not how you drink tequila." The small, lopsided smile was still evident.
Harlan hesitated, and swallowed the drink in one gulp, as Johnny had. It burned going down, but he had a gut trained on baked beans and salt cod, a gut that sternly refused to waste food or drink. Johnny filled the glasses again without asking, and Harlan gulped a second shot.
By the third or fourth shot, the tequila was beginning to slide down easily and unfamiliar warmth was creeping through the older man's veins. His face felt flushed, although he wasn't sure if it was the drink or the fire.
Johnny had put another log on the hearth and stirred the flames. He seemed unaffected by the tequila. Harlan stared at him, wondering what it could be about this young man that had so enthralled Scott. The half-brothers were nothing alike, had absolutely nothing in common except for Murdoch Lancer's absent fathering.
Harlan had raised Scott carefully, given him the best of everything. He was a fine young man, well educated and well mannered, with firm principles. He moved with confidence in the best company, other cultured, educated people of his own class who could talk intelligently about literature and politics, art and music. If anything, Harlan had worried at times that Scott was too interested in intellectual pursuits, and not interested enough in business. And he had deplored the high principles that made the boy insist on volunteering to fight in the war, instead of paying a substitute to take his place in the line of fire. He admitted to himself, not to Scott, that he was proud of the dashing young cavalry officer, but he was terrified too.
What in the world could Scott possibly see in his uneducated, outlaw half-brother? This boy had literally grown up on the streets. Harlan had hired his own detectives to keep a cautious eye on Murdoch, just in case the rancher ever tried again to claim Scott. He knew quite a bit about Johnny Madrid, long before Scott traveled to California. His detectives hadn't taken so long as Murdoch's to find the rancher's younger son.
Harlan wasn't sure what he would have done if his detectives had located Johnny when the boy was even younger. He might have notified Murdoch, and he might not. At fourteen, it seemed clear that Johnny was well beyond any foolish hope of reclamation. He was already a killer, hiring out his gun. Harlan was unwilling to take any chance the gunfighter would ever discover his relationship to Scott. Johnny was dangerous, and became even more so as he grew older. The periodic reports from the detectives fascinated Harlan. He read them through many times, while taking care to keep them locked up where his grandson would never find them.
He was angry when Murdoch sent for Scott, and alarmed when he learned the rancher had sent for the gunfighter too. He didn't want Scott anywhere near Madrid. It stunned him when Scott's letters made it clear that he was developing an unlikely friendship with his half-brother, and the connection between them was a big part of what kept him in California.
It wasn't as if anyone could even be sure that Johnny was really Scott's half-brother. His Mexican mother was just as wild as her son. She had been a common whore when one of her men broke her neck. Who knew if Murdoch was really the boy's father, or if she had been carrying on with other men long before she ran away from Lancer? Harlan was surprised Murdoch bothered to claim the boy. He didn't care for his son-in-law, but didn't think the rancher was a complete fool.
He realized Johnny was studying him just as intently, with the sea blue eyes that so clearly signaled his mixed heritage. Those eyes were remarkable. They were also amused, Harlan realized blankly. What was he amused about?
Johnny gestured with the bottle. "Thank you," Harlan said, holding out his glass. His voice was slightly slurred. It was fatigue, of course, just fatigue. It had been a long day.
Johnny emptied his glass as if it were his first drink, not his fourth or fifth. Harlan followed suit, and hiccupped loudly.
"Pardon me."
Johnny shook his head slightly. "Reckon that's up to Scott to decide."
Harlan sat up abruptly. "I wasn't asking for your forgiveness. It's merely a courtesy."
A grin flashed across Johnny's face, and the older man knew he'd been had. "Didn't learn too many courtesies, down on the border," Johnny drawled. "Boston's still working on that."
"His name is Scott, and you're not fit to wipe his boots." Harlan froze, appalled at what had just come out of his mouth. He meant every word, but he didn't mean to say them aloud to the gunfighter's face.
Johnny seemed undisturbed. "I know," he agreed, to Harlan's surprise. He was perfectly relaxed, his body slouched in the leather chair. "He's kind of special, ain't he? I never met anyone like him before."
Scott had never met anyone like Johnny before either. Harlan was far too responsible a guardian to allow it.
"He sure was excited about your visit," Johnny observed. "He misses you."
"Not enough to come home," Harlan said tartly.
Johnny leaned forward and reached for the bottle, moving a little more carefully than usual. He filled the glasses again. "Reckon Scott figures that Lancer is home."
"That's ridiculous. Boston is his home, and always has been. I didn't bring him up to spend his life chasing cows."
"He's doing good at it anyway." Johnny swallowed his drink. "He's still a little green, but I bet he'll make a top hand yet if he keeps working on it."
Harlan was speechless. He swallowed his tequila too, barely noticing the burn this time. "My grandson is perfectly capable of doing anything he wishes, and doing it well."
"Isn't that what I just said?" Johnny's face was innocent.
Harlan scowled. "Was he truly glad that I was coming here?"
Johnny nodded. Another wicked grin flashed across his face. Harlan noticed idly that the smile made the boy look very young. John was, in fact, still quite young, now that he thought about it. And he had an engaging, contagious smile. "Can't say our old man felt the same way."
Harlan stiffened. "You should speak of your father with more respect, young man."
"Yeah?" Johnny glanced up. "Why?"
"He's your father, and you owe him that, at the least."
Johnny hooked his leg over the arm of the chair and swung his boot. "He's Scott's father too." The blue eyes watched Harlan. "I guess Scott knows what he owes Murdoch, seeing that he was brought up better than me."
"Than I," Harlan corrected after a slight pause.
Johnny shook his head. "Boston does that too," he complained. He gestured at the bottle again. Harlan shook his head.
"Not just now, thank you," he said, covering his glass. He was becoming intrigued with Johnny's conversational gambits. The boy had backed him into a corner several times now, and very neatly. It had to be sheer chance, possibly aided by too much tequila. The level in the bottle had dropped rapidly. "Tell me, Johnny, what do you and Scott find to talk about?"
Johnny shrugged. "Just stuff. Scott doesn't have much trouble finding something to talk about. He knows a lot."
"That's why I sent him to Harvard," Harlan said dryly. "Although I expected that he would put his education to a better use."
Johnny sank a little lower in the chair. "Did you go there too?"
"Where?"
"Harvard?"
"Oh. Yes, I did go there, as did my father before me. Those were some of the best years of my life."
"How come?"
Harlan folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back too. "I was on my own, for the first time, with other young men. I formed associations that continue to this day, highly profitable associations."
"What did you study?" Johnny asked. Harlan shot a suspicious look at him, but didn't see anything but curiosity.
"Latin and Greek, of course, and mathematics. We did some elocution and rhetoric."
"What's that?"
"Er, the art of speaking persuasively," Harlan said.
"You learn that in school?" Johnny looked amazed.
"Well, one polishes one's skills. Scotty was quite good at it. He was the best debater in his class."
"I can believe that." Johnny chuckled. "He sure does know how to sling fancy words around."
"It's important for a man to be able to express himself clearly at all times."
"Sure is," Johnny agreed. "Saw a man once, guiding a wagon over a narrow pass at night, who hollered for the driver to turn the wagon to the left. Only he didn't stop to think that he was facing him, and the driver would turn to his own left."
"What happened?"
"Wagon went over the edge of the cliff, and fell two hundred feet into a gorge," Johnny said. "We lost everything in it, and the team too. Driver jumped, just in time, and beat the hell out of the other man for being a damn fool. Busted his jaw, and he couldn't talk or eat. Course, there wasn't much of anything to eat anyway, since most of the supplies were on the wagon and the nearest town was thirty miles across the desert."
"What did you do?"
"Walked," Johnny said briefly.
"How old were you?"
Johnny shrugged. "I dunno. Eleven, maybe."
Harlan pointed to the bottle, and Johnny picked it up. His hand was still steady. He poured two measures. "Getting late," he said, looking thoughtfully at his glass.
"Yes. I don't think I could sleep, though." Harlan shuddered. "I keep thinking of those men, shooting Scotty. I thought he was dead."
"Another inch, and he would be," Johnny said. "Or he might not be hurt at all, if it was an inch the other way."
"We might still be on the way to Boston."
Johnny gave him a quick, dark look. "Doubt it. We would've caught up to you before you reached the train. And Murdoch would have straightened out Scott about the Degans, and that murder charge."
"Murdoch did kill their father, you know."
"He told me. That don't make it murder."
"I suppose you would know about that," Harlan said.
"Yep."
"I wanted to kill them," Harlan said abruptly. "Both of them. I thought they had killed my grandson."
"Next time, use a real gun," Johnny advised.
"Is that all you have to say about it?" Harlan was rapidly losing what remained of his natural reserve.
Johnny's eyes weren't quite as focused as usual. He blinked at the Bostonian. "It's none of my business."
"From what I've heard, it was your business. Shooting people, I mean."
"Only the ones who were too stupid to back off."
Harlan could take a hint. He changed the subject. "What will happen to the Degan brothers? Will they hang?"
"Probably not," Johnny said. 'Might spend a good long time breaking rocks at San Quentin if you and Scott press charges."
"Of course we shall press charges," Harlan said. "Why wouldn't we?"
"Trial could be kind of embarrassing," Johnny said. "They'll probably have something to say about what you paid them to do. Scott might not like dragging all that out."
Harlan didn't particularly care for the idea himself, now that Johnny had pointed out the possibility. "Hmmph. We will have to discuss it, Scotty and I."
Johnny nodded, and poured again. "How come you still call him Scotty?"
"You're still called Johnny." Harlan's voice came out slightly defensive.
"Yeah." Another smile lit up Johnny's face, a different smile. Harlan couldn't see any mockery in it. "Guess so. Only I don't care, and Scott does. It's not the same."
"I suppose not." They were both silent for a few minutes and Harlan sneaked another look at the boy. That dazzling, open smile had startled him. Johnny wasn't what he expected. Harlan wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He certainly hadn't ever expected to share a bottle of anything with him, or a conversation.
"What if Murdoch had found you and brought you home earlier?" he asked suddenly. "Say, when you were fourteen?"
Johnny studied his boots. "Probably would've put a bullet between his eyes. I nearly did anyway."
"What stopped you?"
"Scott." The blue eyes lifted. "No, he didn't do something stupid. At least, not the first day. I was just, well, surprised. I never thought I had a brother."
"A half-brother," Harlan corrected. "Your mother knew about Scott. She didn't tell you?"
Johnny shook his head. "You knew about me, and didn't tell him either."
"No, I didn't." Harlan fell silent for a few minutes.
Johnny divided the last of the tequila between their glasses. "Scott won't drink this."
"Really?" Harlan held his glass up to the light, looking at the clear liquid. "It - ah - hit the spot tonight."
"It hit him in the morning too," Johnny said, raising his glass.
Harlan sniffed. "I don't anticipate any problem. I have a hard head."
"Yeah," Johnny agreed. "I figured that."
His eyes danced. Harlan blinked owlishly. There was no mistake about that impish mischief. He wondered a little more about the fourteen-year-old he'd written off, and pushed the idea away. Johnny was not his responsibility.
Harlan gulped down his drink and set the glass on the table at his elbow. He rose to his feet and grabbed at the chair for balance. The room seemed to be spinning.
"Need a hand?" Johnny was on his feet too, not quite so gracefully as before.
"I'm quite all right." Harlan took a careful step forward, and then another. He was surprised when a hand clasped his shoulder.
"You want to go out to the kitchen?" Johnny asked.
"The kitchen? No, of course not."
"Stairs are that way." Johnny turned the older man around.
"Ah, yes, I see. Thank you, my boy."
The two of them stumbled up the stairs. Harlan realized he was humming. He clutched at Johnny when he ran out of railing, and they spun around in the hall.
"What the hell?"
Harlan looked at his son-in-law, looming in a doorway. Scott's room, he remembered. Scotty was hurt. No, Scott was hurt. And it was his fault. He had never meant to hurt his grandson. He took a step forward. Murdoch closed the door behind him.
"Damn it, Johnny, he's drunk. Both of you are." The rancher grabbed his son's arm.
"I'm OK. How's Scott doing?"
"He's still asleep." Murdoch stepped across the hall and opened the door to Johnny's room. He gave the boy a small push. "You better get to bed yourself. Sunrise is going to come too soon for you."
"Always does," Johnny grumbled. He disappeared into his room, but stuck his head out the door again as Murdoch began to move Harlan down the hall. "Night."
"Good night, John," Harlan said.
Murdoch stared at him, surprised, and turned his attention back to his younger son. "Bed, Johnny."
Johnny's door closed quietly, as Murdoch opened the door next to Scott's. Harlan stepped through it with as much dignity as he could muster, and it clicked shut. Murdoch's heavy tread moved back down the hall.
Harlan's wavering steps brought him up against the bed, and he sat heavily.
Tequila was a much stronger drink than he thought, but it had a certain rough-edged charm.
THE END
Whistle, January 2006