Sin Recurso

by S

Fandom: Lancer

Summary: This story is an AR for "High Riders."

Sin Recurso

by S

"Your name Scott Preston?"

The lean young man standing at the bar turned to look at the man with the menacing voice. In a cool tone, the blond admitted, "Yes, I am. Is there a problem?"

The shorter man with the sapphire eyes stared back, his jaw clenched in an unyielding manner before he opened his taut lips just enough to speak two words, "Yeah, you."

Scott straightened his tipped-back hat as he smoothed the camel-colored jacket he wore over a blue shirt, which came very close to matching his eyes. "I see. Perhaps I could buy you a drink and we could. . .discuss this?"

"Don't drink with land grabbers. Why don't you and me go outside 'n. . .talk?"

The patrons at the tables in the saloon broke the silence that filled the room when the dark-haired gunfighter had entered. Quiet whispers were heard with the name "Johnny Madrid" emerging in awe and fear.

Ignoring the rising tide of noise, the young man with the cultured voice of the East simply replied, "I don't believe it is necessary for us to go outside. Might I suggest we take a table in the corner and discuss this like. . .civilized men?"

Before Preston could blink, he felt the uncomfortable jab of a six-shooter stuck in his gut. In a rasping voice, the gunfighter hissed, "Don't want to talk. We're goin' outside 'n you'd better not

try anything or you'll have a hole in ya your ma never 'tended ta be there."

While the blond was a brave man, he certainly was not stupid. He decided to go along with the demand, hoping to find an opportunity to reverse his fortune. "Very well. Shall we go?"

The eyes of the men at the tables practically popped out of their heads. Johnny Madrid's reputation and the number of men he had killed made this must-see entertainment so there was a mad dash for ring side places for the shoot out. To their dismay, by the time they managed

to fight their way out the door, there was nothing to be seen. The two men had vanished. Grumbling with disappointment, the patrons and barkeep made their way back into the saloon, keeping their ears cocked for the possible gunshots that would signal another notch for Madrid's gun.

Down the street and in an alley, there were no gunshots, only the sound of fist meeting jaw, gut and ribs. As soon as the dark-haired man had found the lonely alley he had marked out earlier, he had holstered his gun and set to beating the blond with a will.

Naturally, Preston had not easily submitted, but he had been caught by surprise since he had assumed that Madrid meant to end this charade with a bullet in the back. Landing a few punches of his own, Scott had briefly felt a flicker of hope that he might prevail, but the clout from a board aimed at his midsection rapidly put paid to that hope. From then on, it was a matter of trying to protect his head and vital organs from being stomped on.

As his senses began to reel, Scott slid to the ground trying not to cry out with the pain. He didn't want to give his attacker the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Through half-swollen eyes, Scott looked up at the sweating, angry face staring down at him. Despite the tang of blood in his mouth, he had to know the reason for this travesty. The whispered, "Why?" had seemed not to even reach the other young man whose scratched knuckles hovered just above Scott's face.

Finally, the gunfighter backed off slightly, pulling himself up to his full height. "You know why! You try 'n grab a man's land, whattya expect's gonna happen? Now listen up good 'cause this is your last chance. Go back to that fancy place you come from and forget whatever brought you out here. I been paid good money by somebody who don't want you around and Johnny Madrid ain't the type to take a man's money and not do the job." The dark-haired man withdrew his gun and pointed it at the exact spot between Scott's blue eyes. "Understand?"

The fallen man nodded.

"Good. Maybe you'll live a bit longer that way." On that note Johnny turned and walked off, heading to the hitching rail where he mounted his palomino and rode off.

Struggling to sit up, Scott felt pain in every part of his body. Trying to breathe as lightly as possible to ease his aching ribs, he forced himself to stand up, brushed himself off and slowly moved out of the alley. To his relief there seemed to be no one in the street to see his ripped jacket and dust-covered form. Walking carefully over to his own horse, he managed to mount with a minimum of discomfort before settling into the saddle. Fortunately, there was nothing to

keep him in this town and right then, he had only one destination in mind.

At first, it hurt too much to go at more than a walk, but after a time his body numbed itself to the gait of the horse as he picked up the pace. Willing himself to ignore the pain, he concentrated on his thoughts. This Johnny Madrid had been hired to scare him away from his father's ranch, that was obvious, but why was Murdoch Lancer so desperate to keep him away?

Scott had never seen his father. He only knew of him because his grandfather, Harlan Garrett, had sat him down at the age of nine and explained that his mother had died in childbirth, and as a result Garrett had taken the boy to live in Boston with him. The only other thing that he had told his grandson was that his father's name was Murdoch Lancer.

Over the years that had followed, the young Bostonian never received one letter, a wire or any other communication from his father. On his eighteenth birthday, Scott had informed his grandfather that he intended to drop the name of Lancer and go by his middle name, Preston and so it had been.

After Scott's return from wartime service, he had spent some time in college, but had never seemed to be able to find something to focus his energy on. Harlan Garrett had urged him to travel, thinking the educated man might enjoy seeing Europe and its great cities.

But in an impulsive decision, so uncharacteristic of his usually cautious nature, he had instead opted to head west to see the sprawling land that had nearly split itself apart in its growing pains. Although Garrett had been surprised, he had not objected. Truthfully, he hoped that his grandson would then return to Boston, content to settle down and marry.

The white-haired Bostonian might have been more worried had he known that Scott had sent a letter to Murdoch Lancer informing him that it was possible that he might pay a visit to the ranch at some future time. The slender young man had then purchased a rail ticket with the satisfaction of knowing that it would be his father who would be left in limbo this time. Scott would visit Lancer when and if he wanted to.

As his aching head reminded him of his recent encounter with the fists of Johnny Madrid, the former cavalryman had to admit that it seemed that his father was none too pleased with the possible visit of his only son, but why would he be so. . .aggressive about keeping him away? Scott certainly did not intend to live at Lancer!

Riding along in the heat of the afternoon, Scott realized that he would have to stop and sit in the shade for awhile. He could not deny his body's plea for rest--if he didn't want to end up face down in the dust. Rounding the curve , he halted abruptly. Up ahead, stopped in the middle of the road, Johnny Madrid was waiting.

The palomino approached slowly. For one instant, Scott regretted that he had not purchased a gun. He knew how to use one, but he had wanted to leave killing behind on the battlefields of war.

"Mr. Preston, you just ain't too smart are ya? I told you to go back east 'n now I'll have to do somethin' about it!"

Scott gulped, but didn't back off. "Mr. Madrid, I think you have been. . .misinformed. I am not a land grabber. All I want to do is visit Lancer."

"And why would a man like you want ta do that? Ain't no wine, women 'n all that on a workin' cattle ranch," Johnny remarked skeptically.

"Because Murdoch Lancer is my father."

Johnny schooled his face well. A gunfighter who let his emotions show was a dead man, but he couldn't keep the flicker of surprise out of his sapphire eyes. "That so? Then how come your name is Preston?"

"It's my middle name, my grandmother's family name. I started using it sometime ago because. . .well because if my father didn't want me, I wanted no part of him."

The man with the dark jingly pants slowly lifted one leg over the saddle and dismounted. Squinting up into the sun, he stared up at the other man on the bay. "Kinda hot out here. There's a creek over in them trees. Why don't you come on over and we'll talk 'bout this."

Scott's uncertainty reflected in his face, but he knew that if he didn't get out of the sun soon, he'd be in trouble. Grimacing, he carefully climbed down and followed the other man. The creek was only a few yards away and the shade of the trees felt wonderful.

Slipping to the ground, Scott could move his sore body no farther as he allowed the horse reins to slip from his hand so that the animal could go to the water on its own.

To his shock, Madrid offered him a canteen of water so that he didn't have to move. After a sip of the tepid liquid, Scott smiled a thanks and closed his eyes.

"Why would your pa not want you, if you don't mind me askin'?

The exhausted blond opened his eyes, trying to see Johnny's face in the dimness of the shade. "You. . .you believe me?"

"Mebbe. Can't say I thought much of this Murdoch Lancer, but he was willin' ta pay top dollar. So you gonna tell me?"

In a halting voice, Scott gave him the bare outlines of his story. Madrid watched him intently as the words were spoken, as if he could tell the veracity of the tale, just by listening.

"Don't. . .don't know why he doesn't want me there. I just want. . .."

"You just want want what, Preston?"

"Not sure, I guess," Scott breathed. "Maybe just to ask him why he didn't want me."

"D'ya ever think it might be better not to know?"

"What?"

"When I was agrowin' up, I used to ask my ma about my pa a lot. She never would tell me. Said someday she would, but then she died. All she left me was what's in this envelope." The gunfighter held it up for Scott to see. "I been carryin' it so long it's gettin' kinda dog-eared."

"You mean you never opened it?" Scott inquired.

"No point, can't read much more'n a few words. Moved around too much ta go ta school. After awhile, I wasn't sure I wanted ta know."

"I. . .I could read it to you if you'd like?"

"Why would you wanta do that after what I done to you?"

"Dumb I guess, but let's just say I think a man should know who his father is."

"Mebbe it don't say nothin' 'bout him."

"Perhaps, but at least you'll know."

Madrid sat there for some time before he slowly handed over the battered envelope.

Scott cautiously ripped off one end. Inside were two pieces of paper. One was a letter, written in Spanish, but the other seemed to be a document. "I don't read Spanish," the blond informed Johnny, "but the other seems to be a baptismal record."

"What's it say?"

"The name of the baby is John Murdoch Lancer and the parents are listed as Murdoch Ian Lancer and Maria M. Lancer.

Only silence filled the air as a shudder of revelation passed between the two young men.

END PART 1

TBC