Warburton’s Edge – Solving the Riddle WHN by Buckskin

Word Count 3,226

Solving the Riddle

Written for the Lancer Writer ‘55^th Anniversary Episode Tag Celebration’

Thanks to Cat and Chris for the beta

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Much had happened in the last day and a half — Johnny watched Isham fall with his bullet lodged in his chest, Warburton’s life ebbed from his body, dying as he worried over his daughter’s welfare, and Murdoch had almost been killed by mercenaries. It all seemed days ago, then, as if it had just happened. It was a long night and a longer day that held him in a constricted in a spider’s web. Muscles taut, ready to spring and release the tension, made him ache.

He’d pushed himself as he worked through the day, into an exhausted state of mind and body; anything to keep his brain from returning to that cauldron of recollections of the night before, boiling with the toxic fumes that invaded his senses. But it did no good. The incident was branded on his memory and burned forever into his conscience. He regretted the decision to shun company, work alone, and deal with his demons as they did their best to tear him apart. Scott’s companionship might have eased his conflict as he tried to sort through everything that happened.

He looked around him — the ranch and the hands were the same, but he felt so different. Isham was gone, and Johnny felt like shit. His bullet, Isham’s death.

Time distorted, then became real again. And another part of Madrid’s soul was ripped away; another man dead by his hand. Another guilt lay at his feet. Why didn’t Isham agree to let it go? There was nothing to be gained by the challenge to see who was the faster gun… except ‘pride in their trade’. Dammit, Isham!

Sexton Joe Hughes declared that Warburton bought himself an edge. Helluvan edge, Warburton. It had done nothing but put Johnny Madrid Lancer in an impossible position, wedged between standing with Warburton or siding with Lancer and the rest of the cattlemen. A very fine line. Fine line, hell! It was a no-win situation, no matter how one looked at it.

Whichever side a man stood, back shooting was wrong. But a man had the right to sell his cattle at a low price if he wanted out of the business, even though it would hurt those in the valley who relied on their cattle to keep their ranches running. Dammit all! Why was this so hard? In his heart, he knew Murdoch had a legitimate complaint; and he also knew his father had nothing to do with pulling the trigger that put the bullet in Warburton’s back.

Johnny blew out a frustrated breath as the deepening darkness enveloped all around him and shaded his thoughts, pulling them further down into that pit of desolation. He leaned back against the adobe wall; warmth from the daytime sun seeped into his body, soothing and comforting. Too bad that comfort didn’t reach his mind, his soul. He needed that support, that strength.

Troubling thoughts swirled over and over, no beginning, no end — a deadly tornado bent on destroying everything in its path. No one had the right to dictate what the man could or couldn’t do with his property. Warburton was right. But so were Murdoch and the rest of the cattlemen. They couldn’t be expected to let this go and risk their ranches, not without a fight. Who was right, and who was wrong? Or would there be no definite answer?

And there it was. Johnny was caught right in the middle of that fight. Warburton had been ambushed, murdered by one of the ranchers in the name of justice. Justice, alright. That was justice Madrid could do without. The slump of his shoulders increased as the two sides of this fight warred in his mind. What else could he have done to avoid the tragic outcome? Frustration, ragged and raw, tore through him like a dull knife, a tortured cut, tearing muscles, causing the most damage. He closed his eyes, but the images remained, seared in his brain. The heavy sigh did nothing to release the pent-up emotions that were tearing him apart.

And now he looked at the place where it happened — where Isham fell and drew his last breath. The blood was gone, no longer blackening the soil with evidence of death, but the image was there, scalded on Johnny’s brain. The broken pot and dirt it held were gone from the stone tiles; Isham’s diversion to lure Johnny out into the open and blow his head in two. Broken shards of clay — Isham bleeding out. Death.

Had they ever really been friends? A frustrated groan tore from his throat as embittered, agitated thoughts did their best to torture his mind.  

Mierda! How’d this happen? And now, Warburton rested for all Eternity on Lancer land, buried today, the plot a gift from an enemy, Tally had said. After packing her things, she was going back East where she belonged and Isham… Isham was dead. He, too, buried in the hills on Lancer. Ya picked the wrong side this time, amigo.

Tally… Johnny wondered if she would take her father’s memoirs with her, finish what she could with them, or leave them to scatter in the wind like an abandoned spirit to wander the earth in search of excitement in far-away places as Warburton, himself, had. All that was left now were the words she’d written of his thoughts. Dead words from a dead man. Incomplete and left unfinished.

Mulling over the events of the last several days did nothing but send him in dizzying circles. He’d told Murdoch he’d be there, on the other side, watching to keep the pot from boiling over. Well, it boiled over regardless of his efforts to keep it from happening. Johnny’s internal battle raged. He hired on as another gun for Warburton; it was second nature, a familiar place — Johnny Madrid, good at his trade. What would that ever get him? He snorted in disgust. All it would get him was dead… just like Isham.

Sexton Joe Hughes was a walking corpse before he signed on with Warburton. The fuse of his life burned quickly, recklessly, despite that Bible he was always reading and quoting. Sexton was bound for Hell anyway. That Bible wouldn’t protect him, not with his murdering ways. What was it he’d told Murdoch? They were ‘fallen angels’. Johnny agreed with the fallen part of it, but Sexton was in no way an angel.

The stars were bright, the moon a sliver of silver, brilliant and usually magical, consolatory, but not tonight. Tonight, as Johnny Madrid Lancer contemplated the near-range war, he felt the sorrow of profound loss. Not the loss of his former life but the loss of those lost to him. Isham died from Johnny’s bullet, and as he sat looking at the bright sliver in the velvet sky, it flickered just as the light in Isham’s eyes flickered, then went out with his last breath. Dammit, Isham! You were good at your trade, but ya never did know which side ta fight for…

Johnny leaned forward; he placed his elbows on his knees, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Thinking back over the years, Madrid lost count of the men he’d seen die; he’d been the cause of death and had come near death a few times in his fighting days. It was part of that life — a part that couldn’t be avoided. In that line of work, one did not expect to live very long, and no gunfighter he’d ever heard of lived to a ripe old age sitting in a rocking chair on some porch. It was a short, violent way to live and a worse way to die. There was no worry about having money for the future. There was no future. It was here and now.

But Johnny Madrid had also helped men to live. Would that count when his time came and he reached that fork in the road? The road to Hell was wide, easily marked; the other branch, well, it was a rough path to follow, but it wasn’t impossible.

He leaned against the wall, not finding comfort as his back began to pull, maybe strained from his day of clearing streams and digging post holes as he pushed himself more than he should have.

His thoughts traveled back a few years, and remembered a conversation with amigo Joe Bravo. In their line of work, it didn’t pay to get close to anyone; the two exceptions in Madrid’s life were Val Crawford and Joe Bravo. There were acquaintances, not friends. Until Val and Joe.

Joe related the sad tale of Emmett Lloyd, a likable fella… who had a penchant for trouble. And Emmett found trouble one too many times and left Joe in much the same way as Isham left Johnny. Isham was a lot like Emmett in almost every way — at times, neither one had a lick of sense, and now both were dead because of it. The difference was that Isham was dead by Johnny’s hand. And as Johnny agonized over what happened, he could hear Joe’s words as clearly as if he were sitting beside him, “It was his call; there was no talkin’ him out of it.”

Joe was right, but it was so hard to believe.

Johnny’s aim was true, and if he hadn’t killed Isham, it would be Johnny’s body that rotted in the earth. That thought made him wonder if Isham would have mourned his death as he was mourning Isham’s. For some reason, he doubted it.

Shit. Johnny blew out his breath as a soft groan escaped his throat. Dammit all ta Hell! Why’d Isham push so hard ta die? Another boulder was added to the mountain that crushed Madrid’s heart; another death heaped at his door and on his conscience. Would it ever end? Was ‘pride in their trade’ worth dying for? Johnny blew out his breath, then hung his head and closed his eyes. He leaned his elbows on his knees again and laced his fingers together, then straightened, restless as he fought to come to terms with what had happened.

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Murdoch watched from the French doors as Johnny struggled with his thoughts. Should he go to him — try to ease the trouble he saw smothering his son as it held him in a suffocating grip? Johnny was a private man, not wanting to show any weakness, but Murdoch knew it was not weakness; it was grief and guilt, plain and simple; throw in some frustration, and it was spelled out in no uncertain terms. Johnny Madrid had been forced to kill his friend, but Murdoch doubted Isham had been Johnny’s friend, not a true friend. However, Murdoch was aware that he knew little of Johnny’s gunfighter ways or the life his son had lived. Not all of it, and he never would. Certain things needed to remain buried; Murdoch had the unsettling feeling that Johnny had a belly full of those memories that refused to stay buried… and nightmares he tried desperately to forget.

Murdoch’s feet moved of their own accord, propelling him out the door, as he quietly crossed the distance toward the defeated figure of his son. The father in him wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Johnny and pull him to his chest, to ease the turmoil, the guilt that lay in a smothering shroud, constricting and debilitating. Like breathing through hot sand. Should he make a noise, alert Johnny he was there? He cleared his throat, although it was not needed.

Though soft, the footfalls told Johnny he was not alone, but at that moment, he didn’t care, knowing it was Murdoch who came up behind him and smiled when the man felt he had to clear that blockage in his throat that was not there. He’d been expecting Scott, but for a reason he couldn’t name, he was glad it was the old man. He needed Murdoch to understand why he chose to support Warburton. To explain.

There had barely been time for Johnny to register the strong arms that came around him last night while trying to reason with Isham as Murdoch held him close to his chest, and at the moment, Johnny would give anything he owned to feel them again, to experience that touch — the touch of a father holding on to him for dear life. And Johnny had never felt that love as he did in those precious few seconds. But they ended too soon when Isham made the move that would spell the end of his life.

He told Murdoch to get used to the fact he had sons to worry about him — and it now hit Johnny like a punch to his face to know he had a father to worry over him. It went both ways — sons to worry for their father, and father to worry for his sons. Johnny’s life had changed, and he no longer had to struggle alone. But it was hard to open up, to talk about the demons that plagued him. He’d killed a friend. ‘Truth between friends, Isham…’ he said that night. He thought Isham would understand, but he didn’t. Or, most likely, he did and didn’t care. Was Isham his friend? Maybe, maybe not, but he was dead by Johnny’s hand, and it weighed in his heart.

As the distance between them narrowed, Murdoch regarded the slump of Johnny’s shoulders. His son was hurting; Murdoch ached for the chance to help, to be a father and take away the pain; Johnny had resisted past attempts, always insisting he was fine and, at times, pulled away from what was meant as a comforting hand. But Murdoch knew better; tonight was different. Johnny was not fine, no matter how hard he tried to convince them.

Johnny tilted his head with a half-turn at Murdoch’s approach, knowing that his self-imposed isolation was over.

Both knees popped as the father settled himself on the bench, but otherwise silent, hoping his presence could provide solace, a respite to the troubled soul. Would Johnny accept the comfort Murdoch so wanted to give, or would he rebuff the effort and claim the usual “I’m fine” defense?

How would he start the conversation? Murdoch wondered; commenting on the beauty of the night sky seemed shallow. Should he just begin without muttering those empty words? Maybe Madrid would appreciate it. There was nothing to do but start… to get it said.

“Son, I want to tell you that I’m proud of you, of what you did.” Did Johnny even hear him? Murdoch began to wonder at the silence, then Johnny spoke, his words soft, full of regret.

“I stood against ya, Murdoch.”

“No, son, you stood up for your convictions. Without that, Driscoll would have gotten away with murdering Warburton, and I would probably be dead after Isham and Sexton Joe Hughes came here to kill me.” Murdoch watched as Johnny’s eyes closed, remembering, again, the gunfight with Isham. It was plain that Isham meant more to Johnny than Johnny did to Isham, and it hit his son like a kick in the belly by an angry bull. Another soul was sent to Hell by a bullet from Madrid’s gun.

“I can’t say that I know what you are feeling, but what I can say is there are things that happen that you can’t control. Isham made his decision — you told him to call it off. He gave you no choice, Johnny. He left you to deal with the consequences of his poor judgment. It’s not your fault.”

“His last words ta me were wantin’ ta be good at his trade. Guess he never learned ta pick his battles. Not all of ‘em are worth fightin’.”

“No, son. No, they’re not, and that is something that Isham never figured out. But he mentioned last night, just before you got here, something that told me he knew better. The man dressed in black…”

“Sexton Joe Hughes. Fancied himself a preacher.”

Murdoch’s brows raised then remembered the offer of the Bible. “He said that you were all ‘fallen angels, brought down to Hell’, according to the Good Book. But Isham said something that made me believe he knew you were better. He said that you never ‘quite reached the bottom’. He knew the difference… and he pushed you into pulling the trigger. He goaded you into that fight, Johnny. He could have called it off like you wanted him to. But, he didn’t.”

Could he believe those words spoken by the Ol’ Man? Did Murdoch really see things that way? Doubt in the heavy sigh clouded his thoughts, and he wondered if this would be ‘the one’ that he couldn’t get over. Could he deal with it?

But the warm hand that closed over his shoulder, clasping strong fingers offering strength and support, encouragement as only a father could give, began to coarse through his veins and flood him with… what? Hope? Happiness? A future? And he leaned into that hand, that love, and let his head rest against Murdoch’s wrist, just as he did the night before when Murdoch came to Johnny’s side after Isham took his last breath. Those strong hands gripped him twice, and those bear-like arms held him more times in the last twenty-four hours than Johnny could ever remember. And they felt like Heaven.

Now it was Murdoch to close his eyes as the silky hair tickled his arm; his thoughts transported back to this man as a baby as he snuggled in Murdoch’s arms, fighting sleep, then drifting off in innocent slumber. And his eyes filled with tears, recalling times past. The hair had the same feel — soft as he remembered all those years ago.   

He cleared those thoughts away… for now, and Murdoch stood; his knees cracked again, but this time Johnny smirked.

“You’re gettin’ old, ol’ man.”

And the use of this ‘old man’ made Murdoch chuckle. He reached around as Johnny got to his feet and put his arm across the shoulders that were minutes ago slumped in defeat but now straight and square. He pulled Johnny close, pleased there was no resistance.

“Come on, son; it’s getting cold out here, and this ‘old man’ needs to be in by the fire.”

“Yeah, ya are gettin’ kinda creaky; better get cha inside before I hafta carry ya,” knowing in truth, he probably wouldn’t be able to support that weight himself.

But the question remained; Could Johnny let the turmoil inside him go? Murdoch might be right, and Johnny appreciated his father’s conviction, but ‘sayin’ it an’ gettin’ over it were two entirely different things’. Would Johnny Madrid find a way past his personal hell?

Bullets, gunfights, an’ dealin’ with the Devil. Would he ever live in peace? He doubted so, but he had a father and a brother to help him cope and put Isham’s soul to rest.

Murdoch cast a furtive eye on his son. Was there a riddle to be solved? The father in him paused that notion. Johnny Madrid Lancer was no riddle. The young man beside him was exactly what he appeared to be — and Murdoch Lancer couldn’t be more proud. 

August 2023

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