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The first in The Devil's Own series
WARNING: SOME BAD LANGUAGE
Set about two years before The High Riders
It had, he reflected, been a particularly successful cattle drive.
On reaching the stockyards he had given the men his usual pep talk about looking out for each other, bought the first round and then left them to whoop it up, get drunk, into brawls and, all too often, end up in jail.
Now, tired and dusty and smelling of sweat, they were almost home.
The stock had fetched top dollar and he had a hefty banker’s draft in his pocket to deposit in the bank so he should have been content. But, as always, gnawing away in his mind was the thought of why he bothered. The price of his success was too high.
Other men, well, they raised their sons and knew that the fruits of their labours would be handed on. But what had he got to show for his life? The beautiful, sprawling hacienda was just bricks and mortar. It wasn’t a home. A home needed the sound of children bickering and laughing, hustle and bustle, a wife, a heart. His house just felt cold and empty as it had for all too many years since the day he awoke and found she’d gone.
And he’d known the pain of losing a wife and a son all over again.
At least he’d always known Scott was safe even though he was on the other side of the country, although it seemed like the other side of the world. And knowing he hadn’t got the money to fight Garrett, damn him, he had given up hope of getting Scott back. But at least the boy was safe.
Safe, he thought bitterly as he spurred his horse into a lope. If only the other one was safe. If only he knew if he was even alive. But he could never quite bring himself to believe that the child had died, even if he and his mother appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth. Over the years he had poured so much money into searching for them, although the Pinkerton Agency had pointed out the difficulties of finding anyone in those border towns.
Damn Maria, damn her for stealing away in the night with the boy. He was only too aware of the prejudices that a child of mixed blood would encounter in those border towns. He would be rejected by both sides, never fitting in. If indeed he was still alive.
Surely he’d have heard if the boy had died, surely Maria would have let him know. But then again, she was too thoughtless and selfish for that, she probably never spared him a thought. God, where the hell was the boy? Not that he was much of a boy now, he would be almost 18, almost a man. If he was still alive.
And that was it, that doubt that ate away at the very core of his being. If only he knew one way or the other, life would be a little more bearable.
“Murdoch, I’ll ride into Green River with you to the bank. Buy you a drink, we never do that anymore.”
The sudden comment broke into his reverie, startling him a little. He looked at Paul O’Brien, aware that his old friend was looking at him with some compassion. They’d known each other for so long, Paul could probably read his mind. Paul certainly knew his old friend well enough to hazard a guess as to what was weighing so heavily on his mind.
Murdoch gave him a tired smile, “Why not? I could use a drink. Send the men on to the ranch.”
They chatted idly on the way into town. Small talk, as always, steering away from painful subjects. He knew that Paul believed he should give up, accept the inevitable, the boy was dead. And yet, and yet, somewhere deep inside he was sure the boy was alive. Surely, he’d sense it if he was dead.
They made it into town just in time to catch the bank before it closed for the day. Paul smiled. “You go to the bank and I’ll go and get the drinks in. I might even go and give Sam a knock, see if he’ll join us. The three of us never get together any more, it’d be like old times.”
Murdoch laughed. “You may have a hard time persuading him, he’s always complaining how busy he is. According to him, he’s overworked and underpaid.”
“Underpaid,” snorted Paul. “I don’t think old Sam does too badly. I’ll drag him to the saloon if I have to, I’m sure he could spare time for a drink with his oldest friends.”
“God, and don’t I feel old,” said Murdoch.
They went their separate ways and Murdoch paid in his draft before walking over to the saloon. It was busy, noisy and smoky. A game of poker was being played in one corner and a saloon girl was leaning provocatively over the shoulder of the player with the largest pile of money. Murdoch spotted Paul and Sam sitting at a table to one side, with a bottle of rye whiskey and three glasses.
“Well Sam, this is a rare treat, I thought you were too busy these days to squander time in saloons.”
“Paul talked me into it and I must say I could do with a drink. We’ve had a busy time while you were away. I’ve delivered three babies, treated old Otto Fry who managed to fall off his own roof and coped with all the other ailments that people seem to save up so they can all go sick together. Heck, we even had a gunfight here earlier this week. That livened the town up I can tell you.”
Murdoch raised an eyebrow in surprise. “We certainly don’t see many up here, thank God. What happened?”
“Oh, they were neither of them good shots and I ended up patching them both up and sending them on their way. Whether they learned a lesson from it, well I doubt it. I’ve see hens with bigger brains than those two. But, as you can imagine, it’s got people all stirred up, the first bit of excitement in a long time and now all they can talk about is gunfights.”
Murdoch snorted. He hated gunfighters. He’d seen a few when he’d worked as a deputy marshall and he had felt nothing but contempt for the men who were prepared to sell their gun for a few dollars and deal in death and misery.
He couldn’t understand the fascination people had for hired guns or why they wanted to read about them. As far as he was concerned they were scum, the lowest of the low. Men who lived without principles and died without principles.
The men at the next table were raucous, their banter heard by everyone as they swapped stories about gunfights they had seen and commenting on the speed of the participants. One of them said: “Tell you who I seen, I seen that Johnny Madrid once in Sonora .”
A hush fell, and then they broke into an excited clamour. “Is he really as fast as everyone says?”
“Hell, I’ve heard tales of Johnny Madrid from here to the other side of the border. I’ve heard he’s real mean.”
“Well, dammit, what was he like? You see him draw?”
The man was silent for a minute as he considered his answer, and then he said slowly: “I tell you what, he scared the shit outta me. He faced down two men and just stood there all casual like, sorta smiling but it was like he was playing with ’em. It was like watchin’ a cat with a mouse. Told ’em to get a move on, he wanted a drink. And the next second they were dead. Jesus, I never seen anyone draw so fast. Then he tossed down a couple of dimes to pay for the buryin’ he said. I bumped into him on the sidewalk later, comin’ round the corner. His hand kinda hovered near his gun and he looked at me with this real hard expression, found myself ‘pologising and even called him sir....almost shit myself, his eyes was so cold,” the man shook his head. “I tell you, the rest of ’em is just amateurs but that Madrid ....” He shook his head again and then looked across at a ranch hand sitting at the bar. “You saw him some time didn’t you, Buck?”
The man nodded, “He ain’t a man to tangle with that’s for sure. Spends most of his time around those border towns from what I heard. I saw him down in Santa Fe and people were shit scared to cross him.
“He was facing two when I saw him. He told the one man to get the hell out ’cos it wasn’t his fight, but the man stayed, that was a big mistake. Madrid killed him outright with a clean shot but the other man, Madrid gut shot him, like on purpose, and then just stood by him, sorta smiling, watchin’ him die. And the guy was trying to get his hand to his gun and Madrid, instead of finishing him off, just shot him in the hand. I tell you, it was something awful to see. And the whole time Madrid just stood watchin’ and still with this strange sorta smile. And when the guy was dead, Madrid tossed a coin down for buryin’ the first man but said the second wasn’t worth a dime.
“God knows what was goin’ on between them. People in the town said Madrid normally killed outright but I thought it just seemed plain evil.”
Sam shook his head sadly: “What possesses men like that? What is it that turns someone into a killer?”
Murdoch shuddered, he hated to think of what his young son might witness growing up around the border towns. God forbid he should see men like this killer, Madrid, in action. A man who could stand unmoved and watch another die.
Paul said, “I don’t know, Sam, maybe people like this Madrid are just born bad, who knows. Just count ourselves lucky that we don’t get the likes of him around here. Let him stay down south.”
Murdoch wasn’t listening to their conversation. He was busy remembering a small blue eyed boy with a winning smile who tottered around on chubby legs causing mayhem. And he knew with a sudden sense of urgency that he had to find him if he was still alive and get him away from places where men like Madrid held sway. Murdoch thought of the very large sum of money he had just deposited in the bank, what good was it doing there.
He stood up, “Will you both excuse me? I’ve just remembered an important message I have to send at the telegraph office. I’ll catch up with you on the way back, Paul.”
Five minutes later he was riding back out of town, thinking of the message he had just sent. “Find my son, no expense spared.”
God willing, if he was alive, he could keep him safe from men like Madrid.
Part Two
Several Months Later
There was still no news.
It was months since he had sent his message to the Pinkertons. They were quick enough to send him bills. They’d charged him enough for a report on his elder son and that had been easy for them. No secret as to where he was.
It seemed the boy had joined up during the war. Although he was surprised Harlan had let him do it. Then the boy had gone to Harvard. That was something a father could be proud of – he’d been an officer and was now getting a good education. He could probably hold his own in any company. It seemed a long way from the little boy he’d seen all those years ago in Boston.
All those years. Lonely, empty years. Years knowing that the one boy was denied to him and the other boy, well, God only knew where the other boy was. There were times when he felt as though he really could kill Maria. He could imagine his fingers around her throat, throttling the life from her. He dreamed about killing her too. Vivid dreams in which her beautiful face was turned blue as he squeezed the life from her.
After she’d first gone, he’d followed. Trying to track her through stinking border towns. Becoming more bitter each day. How dare she steal what was rightfully his! His son, his heir. When he’d first seen her he knew he had to have her. The first woman he’d really desired since Catherine. Maria had been so beautiful, with those dark flashing eyes tempting him. He’d been obsessed with the thought of possessing her. The thought of marriage hadn’t come into it. He just wanted to fuck her. Again and again.
But then he’d made her pregnant – his child. And so he’d taken her back to Lancer to show her off, knowing men would envy him. He had it all. An impressive hacienda, land, cattle, a beautiful wife who other men desired and a baby on the way – hopefully a boy. He’d show Harlan Garrett that he wasn’t just some rough Scottish immigrant. He would have it all, nothing would stand in his way.
And of course it had been a boy. The child had gotten to him. Broken through his armour and delighted him. He would set the boy on his horse in front of him and show him the estate that he would one day inherit. The boy could be wilful at times, but he had a smile that could melt the sternest of hearts.
And then one morning he had woken and they were gone. His wife, his child. He’d thought then how it would amuse some of the smaller ranchers to see him brought down. But he wasn’t going to be beaten by her. He would find them and claim what was his.
But the trawl through the border towns had been dispiriting. The towns were full of tight lipped people with closed faces, no one was going to help the big gringo. In the end he returned home. He instructed Pinkertons to look for his family. And they had, on and off for years. Always drawing a blank. The trail had gone cold.
But after hearing that chat in the saloon after the cattle drive, he had become even more determined that the boy should be found. Just the boy, he didn’t care about Maria. She’d made her choice.
Since that day in the saloon, he’d all too often read in the papers about trouble in the border towns. Gunfights, the names of gunfighters. Including that Madrid who had been the catalyst for him reviving the search. He sounded an evil bastard. Newspaper reports always referred to him as cold, remote or hard. And fast, very fast.
He shook himself out of his reverie. He should be out working. He heard Paul’s daughter calling to her father. Such a sweet girl. Her mother was no better than Maria, but at least she’d left the girl behind when she went.
It had been good over the years to have the girl around. She brought a softer, feminine touch to the place even though she was so very young. Stopped him and Paul from sinking into too many whiskey induced stupours.
He blinked as he stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed over to supervise the vaqueros who were cutting out some horses.
One of the horses was particularly difficult, a palomino that had been brought in before but they always let it go. They always had to let it go. It was too wild and would rear up continually or kick out at anyone or anything. Even as he walked over to the men, Murdoch saw the horse kick out viciously, its legs making contact with one of his men who fell to the ground in agony.
“Let the damn thing go!” he roared as he hurried over. He was joined by Paul. They bent over the injured man.
“I’ll go to town for Sam,” said Paul. “I’ll send him here and come back when I’ve been to the store.”
The hands carried the injured man to the bunkhouse as the palomino, wild and spirited, tossing its head, galloped back towards the hills and freedom. A horse like that could never be tamed, he thought as he turned his attention to the wounded man.
He was back in his study when he saw Sam heading towards the bunkhouse to tend his new patient. Paul followed shortly after, heading towards the house with supplies.
Paul came into the study with some letters he had collected in town. One, a formal looking one, he held out to Murdoch. “A new one from Pinkerton by the looks of it, boss.”
“It’ll be the same as usual. A large bill and a polite note telling me there’s no news.”
He knew that Paul privately felt he should give up and just accept the inevitable. That he thought it was obvious the boy was dead, probably had been for a long time. There would have been some sign otherwise, no one could just disappear the way Maria and the boy had done. They were probably both dead. He was also all too well aware that Paul thought he was better off without Maria. She had been trouble from the first. Flirting outrageously with his friends. She didn’t care if they were married or not.
She would run her hands over them in a provocative fashion, even when their wives were there. He had felt mortified at times. Had wanted to strike her. Hell, she’d even come on to Paul. They’d never discussed it but he’d seen Maria flouncing out of Paul’s room one night. He could guess that Paul would have been embarrassed. Murdoch was a good friend and the man’s employer. But God, he’d be prepared to bet Paul had been tempted. What man wouldn’t? He’d seen desire flare in so many men’s eyes when they’d looked at Maria. God, she was so beautiful. A fiery, voluptuous, sultry temptress. And however angry he had been with her, she would then run her hands over him and he would succumb again.
Murdoch used a letter opener to slit open the envelope, then cautiously took out the contents to read.
The words seemed to merge in front of his eyes, and as he read on he started to feel sick and dizzy. He heard a strangled gasp and realised the noise had come from himself. Paul rushed to his side as he tried to stagger to a chair. He tried to control the bile he felt rising in his throat. God no, please no. It couldn’t be. He clutched the letter in his hand. And he raised his face to Paul.
He could almost see the thought flash across Paul’s face. That the news had finally come. The news Paul had always expected. Paul looked sadly at him. “The boy’s dead, isn’t he?”
He felt as though a cloak of tragedy and horror was enveloping him. He stared at the letter again, and then he whispered the word. He could hardly bring himself to say it. “Madrid.”
Paul stared back, puzzled. “Madrid ? The gunfighter? Are you telling me he killed the boy?”
Murdoch just shook his head in despair and repeated the name Madrid, more to himself than Paul.
“Murdoch, what the hell happened?”
The bile was coming up again. Oh God he was going to puke. Keep it down. Try and put the news into words. He didn’t know if he could even own to it. He felt ashamed. So ashamed. How could he even say it?
He stared at Paul. “No. You don’t understand. They’ve found him, but. . . . But, my boy, my little John. It says, it says he, he IS Madrid. They say there’s no doubt.”
He heard his own voice breaking and he buried his head in his hands.
God knows what Paul was thinking, as the man stayed silent at first. “No, Murdoch. It makes no sense. We’ve been hearing tales of Madrid for years. He’s a much older man. Your boy, well, he’d be way too young. Just doesn’t add up. He’d have to be a gunfighter by the time he was 14.”
Wordlessly, he handed Paul the letter to read.
He couldn’t get that damning final paragraph out of his mind. The one warning him that Madrid was “a very dangerous man” and should be viewed with “extreme caution.” The Pinkerton Agency strongly advised against any form of contact.
Paul broke into his daze. “No, Murdoch, it just doesn’t make sense. They’ve got it wrong. It can’t be your John. He couldn’t be missing all these years and then suddenly surface like this. And I’ll bet my life Madrid is older. Besides, I’ve never heard tell of Madrid being of mixed race.”
At least he didn’t say that awful word halfbreed, Paul would know how much he would hate it.
Murdoch was trying to remember that evening in the saloon. It was after the cattle drive. Damn it, who the hell was it who said he’d seen Madrid? Then he remembered. “Buck Carter. Remember that night in the saloon? He’s the one who was bragging about seeing Madrid in action. Go ask him, Paul. He’s down in the barn, was bringing the hay in. Ask him what Madrid looked like. That would settle it.” He heard himself pleading. Could imagine how desperate he must look.
Paul nodded. “I’ll go now.” He left the room and Murdoch heard him speaking to his daughter. Something about sending Sam in when he finished in the bunkhouse. Something about Murdoch having a shock. God, he could say that again.
He sat for what felt like an eternity reading the words again and again. He felt sick again. Dizzy. He couldn’t keep it down any longer. The vomit came up spraying the letter. The smell made him feel even more sick.
He hated gunfighters. Dammit, he hated anyone who broke the law or didn’t conform. His upbringing had been strict. His parents were religious and demanded high standards. What would they have thought? Their grandson. A cold hearted killer. Perhaps if the boy had been with him things might have been different. Or was the boy just bad?
The door opened. He looked up and met Sam’s eyes.
He wondered what Sam must be thinking at the sight of him sitting there covered in puke. He knew he was trembling. The letter was shaking in his hand.
He watched Sam go to the drinks cabinet and pour them each a sizeable measure of his best Scotch.
Sam passed a glass to him, waited for him to take a sip before quietly asking, “Murdoch?”
“I heard from them. The Pinkerton Agency.”
“About John? They’ve finally sent word?”
Murdoch looked at Sam and nodded.
“He’s dead?”
Murdoch said softly, “Maybe it would be better that way. Better than this.” He passed the letter to Sam.
Sam sat and read the letter, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “But it’s not possible Murdoch, they must be wrong.”
“That’s what Paul says. He’s gone to see Buck Carter. Remember that night in the saloon? When he claimed to have seen him?”
He knew Sam would remember. Sam had said that the story Carter had told had made his blood run cold. He’d said that the man they’d described had sounded evil and sadistic. Murdoch remembered now Sam’s condemnation of Madrid.
Sam passed the letter back. “Well, I don’t believe it. Madrid ’s obviously an older man. The Pinkerton people are mistaken. John is too young for it to be him. Let’s just wait for Paul to come back and I’m sure he’ll put your mind at rest. Have a drink and let’s just calm down and look at this rationally.”
“I hope to God you’re right, Sam. I mean it. I would rather John dead than this.”
They sat in an awkward silence. All Murdoch could feel was shame and horror.
It seemed like hours before Paul returned, and when he did the man went and poured himself a drink and turned to face them. He hesitated, as if uncertain how to start. “Ok, these are his words, not mine. He told me, what really struck him about Madrid was how young he was. Just 17 or 18. A half breed with crazy blue eyes.” Paul trailed off, unable to look his friend in the eye.
Murdoch felt his gut clench again and heard himself give an almost primeval roar. He hurled his glass at the fireplace. “Damn her, damn her to hell! This is all her doing. How could my boy end up like that? My God! This is all her doing, the bitch! It’s bad blood, Sam, it’s bad blood from her. To think I’ve wasted all these years looking for him. A gunfighter! My God! We've heard what Madrid is like. A killer, nothing more!”
Sam shook his head sadly. “Who knows, Murdoch. Pinkertons could still be wrong.”
“And if they’re right? And it is my John?”
“Then I suggest you have nothing to do with him. He’ll just bring trouble.”
Paul interrupted. “Sam, that’s pretty damn harsh. We don’t really know anything about him. It's all just saloon gossip. Things get exaggerated.”
“We know enough, Paul, to know that we wouldn’t want a man like that anywhere near someone as sweet and innocent as your Teresa,” said Murdoch softly.
Paul stood silently reflecting on that. But then he said, “Murdoch, he’s your son. He's just a boy. We all remember him. He wasn’t born bad. He was a good kid. Yeah, he was always into everything, but it wasn’t ‘cos he was bad, just adventurous. Cute little bugger, too, couldn’t stay mad at him the way he was always laughing.”
“Maybe, Paul, he was still too young to show his true nature. Even if the tales are exaggerated, it doesn’t alter the fact that he may be a boy in years but he’s a hardened gunfighter. Dammit, he's the most infamous gunfighter of them all!” Murdoch sighed, staring into the fire before continuing. “I know one thing for certain. I don’t want him anywhere near Lancer.”
Several Months Later
Teresa closed the door quietly as she left Murdoch’s room. Lord, she felt tired. She’d devoted herself to caring for him after he was felled by Pardee’s bullet. It helped a little to distract her from her grief over her father.
She knew Sam worried for her as she grew thinner and more drawn, the result of exhaustion and grief from what felt like endless days and nights caring for the rancher as he tossed and turned and called out in his fevered dreams.
Sitting by him, day after day, she brooded on partly overheard conversations between the rancher and her father during the lead up to his death. Remembering things her father had said.
Pardee’s raids on the surrounding ranches had become more daring and more brutal. The owners of the smaller ranches were running scared. And she had frequently heard her father urge Murdoch to send for his sons. She knew nothing about the two boys, except that they had been traced by the Pinkerton Agency.
She recalled her father saying “You need their help. Offer them a thousand dollars and they’ll be curious enough to come. We’re losing too many men, we need your boys.”
And she hadn’t understood Murdoch’s reply. Something about perhaps sending for the elder of the two. That maybe he’d be useful, he’d been in the army or something. But Murdoch had also said something about not having worked so hard for all these years to have the younger one come and ruin it all. And her father had said that if they didn’t act soon there would be nothing left to ruin.
She didn’t see why Murdoch wouldn’t want both his sons. She must have misheard that bit. She had been aware of him searching for one or both while she was growing up. He must have wanted them. He’d spent a lot of money searching for the one in Mexico so he must care about him very much. She was rather hazy about the details. In fact, she thought as she sat there, Murdoch had known where one of them was. With family in Boston, that was it!
Murdoch stirred again, muttering deliriously. He struggled to sit up, calling out, “Maria, Maria.”
He called for Maria a lot. He must still love his wife a great deal.
And as Teresa laid cool cloths on his brow yet again to try and soothe him, she finally reached a decision. She had been turning the idea over and over in her head, wondering what her father would advise. But really, she knew what her father would say. After all, she had actually heard him say it.
The next day, she persuaded one of the men to drive her into town and take her to the telegraph office. She was sure that her father would be pleased with her. And so she sent a telegraph message in Murdoch’s name to the Pinkerton Agency: Please contact both my sons. Offer them a thousand dollars for an hour of their time.
She returned to the ranch with a lighter heart. She was sure Murdoch would be pleased.
Part Three
He had lost all track of time. Days and nights just blurred together. He couldn’t make sense of anything, sometimes he was convinced it was daytime but then there would be lamps lit, glowing softly in the corner. And yet surely he had just seen the sunlight casting shadows across the wall.
And always she seemed to be sitting there. He could hear her voice sometimes, snatches of words. Words of everyday, mundane things as he fell back into a restless sleep.
But sleep brought no peace. His dreams were confused and sometimes everything was coloured blood red. If Catherine was there, calm and serene, he felt safe. But then he would see Maria and it was almost as though she was taunting him. Beckoning him to follow her as she retreated out of sight. Always out of reach. He called to her, begging her to stay, please tell him, where was their son? And he would hear her laughter. Then he would catch a glimpse of a small dark haired boy, laughing and running away from him. But when he went to follow the child, the boy turned with cold, hard eyes and fired a gun straight into him. He could feel the bullet’s heat as it seared into his flesh and he would awaken crying out and soaked in sweat.
And then he would fall back again and see Paul riding beside him into town, looking for the stolen stallion. Paul lying in a pool of blood and as he looked, the bell tower turned blood red, but it wasn’t a man standing up there in the shadows, it was a boy with blue eyes and a crimson gun.
He could feel her hands holding his head as she helped him to drink. Always so tender and gentle. But she looked sad, why was she sad? He was aware of her fragrance wafting about him on the air. She smelled of. . . . lavender and rosemary, that was it. And he would feel calm for a while and would pray to stay awake. Or die. Anything was better than the dreams.
He was sometimes aware of Sam there. And he would try and focus on his old friend and frame a question, but the words wouldn’t come. And God, he felt so very tired. It would be good to talk to Sam. It would be good to talk to Paul too, where was he, why didn’t he come?
But gradually he found he was able to stay awake longer and to respond to some of Teresa’s questions. “Murdoch, would you like some of this broth? It’ll help make you better.” And he could hear himself reply. He seemed to have found his voice again.
And despite the pain, he could feel himself growing stronger again. He could focus better, and start to follow conversations. He found he could distinguish between day and night. And Sam came to sit with him and finally answered his question. “Paul’s dead. Pardee killed him.”
But it wasn’t really a surprise. He could remember crawling towards Paul before darkness had descended on him. And he’d known Paul would have come to see him while he was ill, if he could have come. Sam was just confirming what he had known in his heart.
Well, he would look after Teresa. She would be the daughter he never had. He owed Paul so much. Paul had been a rock while he had struggled to build Lancer into the most powerful and prestigious ranch in the San Joaquin. And he had been a lifeline when Maria had gone. And he, in turn, had supported Paul when Angel walked out leaving the man to bring up their baby daughter alone.
Other men, he supposed, would have looked to remarry. But their experiences had left them both soured against romance. Women. Dear Catherine had been the exception, but she was a lady. Maria and Angel were no ladies. Sometimes it felt as though Maria had bewitched him, cast a spell or woven an intricate but tangled web in which he found himself trapped. God, Maria had been so different from Catherine. He had always seen himself growing old with Catherine. She seemed delicate but dammit, she had stood up to Harlan. Been determined nothing would stand in her way. Catherine would marry who she chose. She had been so different to the other women he met in Boston. Boston! Full of dandies with Sunday manners, men who wore frills and ruffles and carried canes, dammit.
Well, his Scott wouldn’t be like that. Doubtless he had a real military bearing, he would be a man’s man. No ruffles or canes for him.
But now he had Teresa to care for, and he wouldn’t let Paul down.
They’d only ever had one real falling out and that was just before his death. Paul had wanted him to send for his sons.
“We need ’em, Murdoch. We’ve lost so many hands now. They’re running scared of Pardee and we need help, dammit. We can’t fight this with so few men. There’s no law now, this is a fight for survival. Stop being so pig headed and bring the boys home.”
“No! They’re strangers now, and as for John, you know how I feel about him. I haven’t worked hard all these years to have someone like him ruin it. You need to trust the men around you when you’re faced with a fight like this. I wouldn’t give him the time of day. I don’t want his kind anywhere near here. God, Paul, he and Pardee are two of a kind.”
“That’s exactly why we need him, he’ll know how Pardee thinks. He’ll give us an edge. And Scott, well he’s been in the army, he fought in the war. He’d be useful too.”
“I don’t want the sort of ‘edge’, as you put it, that Madrid would give us. If I hold on to Lancer it will be because I’ve fought for it, but by God, it’ll be a clean fight. I’m not stooping to Pardee’s level by bringing in a man like Madrid.”
“For Christ’s sake, Murdoch, you talk of him as if he’s nothing to do with you. He’s your son, dammit, your flesh and blood.”
His gut wrenched at that. It was a kind of torture to even think about the boy, what he’d become. “He might be my flesh and blood, Paul, but I want nothing to do with him. God, the things I’ve heard about him. Disgusting things that . . .”
“What have you heard? Idle saloon gossip, I’ll bet.”
“I heard how he celebrates a kill by taking two or three women at a time, celebrates! He kills and then goes whoring, that’s my son.”
Paul just shook his head. “Idle gossip, Murdoch. You and I, well, we don’t know what he’s like. You’ve never even read the Pinkerton report have you?”
“I started it. It just sickened me, turned my stomach. I don’t need to read it. I just know I won’t have him here. I won’t have him near your Teresa. He will come here over my dead body.”
And now he remembered Paul’s reply. “You’re a stubborn man, Murdoch. But I never thought you were a fool. Until now. Send for Scott at least. As for John, well, you damn well should send for him. The way things are going, he will be coming home to claim his inheritance – over BOTH our dead bodies!” And Paul had stormed out.
Well, one of them was already dead, he reflected, and he was just lucky to have survived. He owed Paul. Perhaps he would send for Scott. That would be a help, perhaps. Even assuming that the boy had actually seen active service. Knowing Harlan, the boy had probably sat the war out in safety and comfort far from the fighting. That would be typical of Harlan, he’d protect his precious grandson at all costs. Still, he would know how to handle a rifle and would look a military man. That might intimidate a few people. And by all accounts he’s clever, been to Harvard. That was impressive. Yes, Paul was right. It could do no harm to send for him. Always supposing he’d come. Well, he’d get Teresa to send a message. Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day.
She was back now from a trip to Morro Coyo, he could hear her racing up the stairs. She burst into his room, her face glowing with excitement and pleasure. He couldn’t remember seeing her look so happy in a long time and couldn’t help smiling. “What’s got you so fired up, darling?”
“Good news! That’s what. Now I can finally tell you. I didn’t want to give you false hope before, what with you being so ill.”
“False hope over what, darling?”
“I made a big decision over something when you were so ill. I knew you’d be pleased because it was to do with an idea I’d heard Daddy suggesting to you. So I made the decision for you!”
He laughed. “So what exactly is it you’ve done, darling?”
“I sent a wire to the Pinkerton Agency and asked them to contact your sons. I remembered Daddy saying something about a thousand dollars so I told the Agency to offer that to each of them if they’d come for an hour. I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist! And they couldn’t! I heard today, they’re both coming! Isn’t it wonderful, you’ll have your boys back where they belong!”
The room seemed to swim in front of his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath. Oh God, no. Not Madrid, not him here. Not Madrid under the same roof as his darling girl. He felt as though his guts were being torn out. Someone was reaching in and wrenching them from him.
“Murdoch, what’s wrong? Oh Murdoch, I know it must be a wonderful surprise, I should have told you more gently when you’ve been so ill, but I’m so excited, I just couldn’t stop myself!”
He tried to find his voice, but it wouldn’t come. Oh God, what had she done? Such innocence and trust. It could bring their world crashing down around them, but she wasn’t to know. Perhaps Madrid wouldn’t come. It was a long way from his usual haunts. Hell, someone like Madrid would never have done a proper day’s work in his life. He’d be afraid that his father might want him to actually work for a living.
But a thousand dollars. That was sure to tempt him. It was a small fortune. That sort of man would even go to hell for a thousand dollars.
She took his hand in hers. “Murdoch, are you excited? Isn’t that just what you wanted?”
He tried to smile at her. “Your daddy would be very proud of you darling. What do the Pinkerton people say exactly?”
“They contacted Scott in Boston and he’s on his way already. I wonder how long that will take? Boston’s such a long way away, isn’t it? And they say that they contacted him first because he was easy to find. They said it took longer to contact John. They’re apparently sending you a letter with the details of that. But anyway, they found him and he said he’d come.” She beamed happily. “And I can’t wait to meet them both. I’m sure they’ll be lovely. It’ll be so nice to have two charming young gentlemen around the place! And I know they’ll be such a help to you.”
Gentlemen! God almighty. Well, Scott might be a gentlemen but John sure as hell wasn’t. What could he say to her? How could he tell her? It was hard enough to admit to himself that Madrid was his son.
“I’m sure you’re right, darling, that Scott will be a huge help here. He was an officer in the army during the war, so I know you’ll find him very interesting.”
“And John’ll be exciting because he grew up in Mexico didn’t he? Mind you, we might not be sophisticated enough for Scott, seeing as how he’ll be used to Boston society. But I’m sure John won’t mind will he?”
“Teresa, darling. There’s something you don’t know about John. Something I don’t want talked about. Sam and I both feel that perhaps it isn’t very wise to have him here. I know your daddy didn’t agree, so he’d say you’ve done the right thing.”
She beamed at him at that. “But why don’t you and Sam think it’s a good idea to have John here? Doesn’t he like cattle?”
He tried to smile at that. Johnny Madrid frightened of cattle! “It’s not quite like that. John, well, John. . . .” How the hell could he explain it? “It seems that John has chosen an unconventional lifestyle.” God almighty! An unconventional lifestyle! How ridiculous he must be sounding. And pompous! Just spit it out. Say it. Get it over with. “John’s a gunfighter.” There! It was said.
She looked puzzled, poor girl. He waited. “Well, he can’t be very good at it. We’d have heard of him if he was! I’ve never heard of a gunfighter called John Lancer.”
“He doesn’t use that name.” His voice sounded faint to his own ears.
“Well, what name does he use Murdoch?”
“Madrid. Johnny Madrid.”
He watched as the colour drained from her face. She looked, stricken, that was it, stricken.
“But he’s famous,” she whispered. “Even I’ve heard of him. And I’ve heard,” she paused, “that he’s very dangerous.”
“Yes, darling, I fear that he is. Very dangerous.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Your daddy would say you did the right thing. Anyway, he probably won’t even come. And I’m sure you’ll like Scott. John won’t want to come all the way up here.” His voice sounded false even to himself.
Those trusting doe eyes were looking at him again. “I bet he’ll come all this way for a thousand dollars.”
And that was how they had left it. He waited for the letter to come from the Pinkertons, wondering what the hell they had to say that couldn’t have been put in the telegraph message.
And then the letter had come, with all the dreadful details of how they had found him in front of a firing squad.
God, it hurt to read the letter. He felt sick, crushed, appalled. Hell, he didn’t know what he felt. He fought down the all too familiar feeling of vomit and bile rising from his gut. And again he cursed Maria. He even found himself cursing God, for letting such things happen. And he felt shame. For there was a small part of him that wished the Pinkerton man had got there five minutes later. And he knew he should be damned for thinking like that.
And now, here he was waiting, looking out of the window waiting for Teresa.
She had driven into town with two of the hands to collect his elder son. Well, at least he was thoughtful, he let them know which stage he expected to be on.
He found he was looking forward to meeting the young man. He could picture him. Fair, perhaps with a military moustache, businesslike. And hopefully the younger would never show up. But he was prepared. He’d made damn sure he had the money ready in case John did show. Not a man to tangle with. Hell, he’d even had an agreement drawn up making them equal partners. Well, that would get rid of Madrid quick enough. The thought of having to work for a living.
Ah, there was Teresa now with the buggy. A young man was seated next to her. He was right, he was still fair. Oh no. Not ruffles. And a ridiculous hat. God, he looked like a dandy.
But then he saw there was another passenger. Getting out of the back of the buggy. Not so tall and in showy trousers with conchos down the legs. He felt his gut clench again. No, God, please no. The dark young man wore his gun low, very low and there was no mistaking what he was or who he was.
“Shit!”
THE END