Chapter Text
Johnny dismounted in San Andres just before dusk as the mission bell rang for vespers. The final stage of his journey had felt strangely lonesome with no one following him, but he’d made good time.
The air no longer rippled with heat and everything was quiet; even the cicadas had ceased chirping. He tied Pícaro to a mesquite tree by the mission gate and looked around him. The olive tree he remembered still twisted its trunk up through the broken stone wall on the northern boundary, its silvery green leaves softening the dried brownness of everything around it. Crunching over stony ground between rows of sandstone and marble, he stopped just outside its shade and stared down. The soil had settled level with its surroundings, and a bare wooden cross leaned drunkenly to one side.
He wedged it upright with a rock, adding to the long shadows striping the sun-baked earth. Then he hunted around for more stones and small rocks.
He’d made a pile almost as high as the arms of the cross when his boot hit something metallic in front of a crudely-carved cherub. Bending down, he picked up a spent cartridge and pressed the sharp edge into his thumb. Some men had no decency; there were better places to settle arguments. He pressed harder until the thin white line spiked red. He had no room to talk, not after calling out Cole. If he had to...
He was a gunfighter.
A real one: not a hack who could shoot straight or a boy relying more on luck than skill. He wasn’t a kid with no idea of what it meant to kill a man—not anymore. He’d just proved that twice over, and it was kind of scary that it was getting easier. Shooting Harris would likely add most to his reputation—Old Lucifer was known to be a dangerous gun—but Johnny had barely given him a thought since. It was killing Cole that mattered.
He snorted and glanced toward the hills. The gambler had taught him to shoot. If the bastard had only known at the time…Well, Johnny had taken his revenge in Santa Fe so Cole was past knowing anything.
Turning the empty cartridge between his fingers, he looked east; then tossed it high and long into the orange grove beyond the graveyard. It flashed in the sunlight on its way down. If he’d seen a flash like that a few days ago, he’d have dived for cover with gun in hand. He’d have fired before the cartridge hit the ground.
Hell, when he was a kid his hate for Cole had made him practise his draw for hours on end. He’d dreamed of being as fast as he was now. People looked up to top gunmen—or were scared of them. Lucifer Harris was a cruel bastard like Cole. Johnny didn’t want to be like him, but in time he could be one of the gunfighters feared and admired for better reasons. Maybe one day Mr Beadle would write a dime novel about him: The Legend of Johnny Madrid. Shoot, he’d buy one—if he had any money. In the meantime, Santa Fe folks were likely whispering and spreading his name already. It didn’t take long. He’d seen it done. Soon even those he’d never met would give him respect.
It was what he’d always wanted, right?
Johnny dropped another armful of rocks by the wooden cross. He was damned if he knew what he wanted anymore.
He went back to his horse and took a swig from his water bottle, sluicing his mouth before swallowing. The water was warm and tasted leathery, but at least it was wet.
“Like some?” He poured a little into his hand for Pícaro and then went back to work.
His stepfather would have approved of Pícaro—smart and quick off the mark.
Cole had taught him to ride too. It didn’t mean nothing. Someone had to, but…Dios, why was his mind digging up dumb memories? All of a sudden he could see himself atop a big bay horse. His feet barely touched the stirrups, even though they were raised up as high as they would go. Cole was laughing—with him, not at him, for a change. They were having fun.
Johnny stooped to pick up a fist-size stone. He tossed it into the air a couple of times. It was strange to think he’d once joked with a man he hated so much; a man he’d just killed. He must have been very young when he learned how to ride, four or five maybe. It was back when Mama smelled of cinnamon and orange blossom. Back when she was happy—most of the time. There were good days and bad days even then.
He couldn’t put his finger on exactly when the balance changed, but by the time he found his first gun Mama only smelled of two things: tequila and Cole.
Bastard! Johnny spat into the dust. So what if there were a few good times. The bad times took over, and that evil bastard Thurstan Cole was to blame.
He picked up another rock. This one was flattish with ridges like a pack of cards.
Mama had been at a card table in a saloon when he’d swiped the gun belt from dead meat; she’d been too busy helping his stepfather fleece saps to notice what he was doing. There’d been a brawl and two drifters had shot at each other. Johnny had helped the barkeep clean up.
Afterwards he scavenged bullets from drunks, but that proved risky. It was safer getting ammunition from other men who learned the hard way guns offered death not protection—yammerers and fools mostly.
Maybe Johnny was a fool too. He knew now what guns could and couldn’t do, but back then knowing he owned one had made him feel bigger and stronger somehow. One day the bullies in the schoolyard and the shopkeepers who watched him like a hawk every time he entered a store would be too scared to call him mestizo or half-breed. When he could handle a gun properly, he’d show every one of them—but most of all, he’d defend Mama.
He choked back a sob. Damn it, he was fifteen, a grown man and a gun-for-hire, not a child.
The fact was Mama needed him before he was ready. She’d tried to protect him and paid the price. Now he could demand a man’s wage to protect big bugs who weren’t worth pissing on, but back then he’d failed to defend her. He knew that. But she never looked back and neither would he.
“Learn from your mistakes, mi hijo, and move forward. You must never go back.”
Kneeling down, Johnny rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and began to stack the rocks one by one, larger ones on the bottom, making a wide base and forming a small cairn. He crafted a shelf about two thirds up. Then he reached into his pocket for Our Lady and placed the icon on the shelf, securing it around the bottom with a few pebbles. Getting to his feet, he held his hat in crossed hands and stared down at the image of Maria.
He meant to say a prayer, but the words wouldn’t come.
He could lie down right there on top of Mama’s grave and go to sleep, never needing to wake up, because the only person he loved was long dead, and he’d killed the man he hated in Santa Fe. He’d given Mama justice, and now he had no reason to keep going. He might as well let the next Lucifer Harris get a clear shot.
Johnny crimped the rim of his hat between his fingers. Nope, he couldn’t do that.
Besides, Thurstan Cole may have been the first man Johnny truly hated, but he wasn’t the first man to mistreat Mama.
The first man was Johnny’s real father.
That son-of-a-bitch might still be alive.
Mama should have told Johnny more about him.
She didn’t really tell him anything.
Cole was the one who did all the talking, and the older Johnny got the more the bastard seemed to twist the knife. “Face it, kid, your pa didn’t want a mongrel son. You were a mistake.”
Maybe, but Mama loved him. Johnny knew that. He knew it like he knew his own name. She’d shown him in all sorts of little ways, by singing to him or holding his hand and talking to him while he ate. Those were the moments he’d remember. Now he’d killed Cole, he’d blot out the other memories, the ones he preferred to forget. Like when Cole would barge in on them and start groping at her, staking his claim with Johnny powerless to stop him.
“You’re a worthless lump of shit, boy. No wonder the cattle baron kicked you out.”
Mama didn’t deny it. Usually she would turn away from him and kiss Cole full on the lips, letting her hands wander. Then she’d sashay into the bedroom like a whore, eyes inviting the randy prick to follow.
Johnny felt sick.
Why did you do that, Mama? Why didn’t you just tell him to shut up?
The painted eyes of Maria stared back at him. It was like they were speaking: isn’t it enough I stood in the way of his blows, mi hijo?
Rubbing his eyes again, Johnny bit his lip until he tasted blood. God help him, that wasn’t his fault. Once he’d thought it was, but it wasn’t.
Mama had made some mistakes.
And one of them was not telling him about his real father. She could have done it when Cole wasn’t around. Johnny still didn’t understand why she wouldn’t, but he’d learned not to ask.
“Your papá was a gringo.” That was pretty much all she said—a rancher with “laughing blue eyes”.
“Cabrón!” Johnny whipped around, surprised by the strength of his feelings. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he gritted his teeth. This was not the time or place.
But his father had cursed him with those eyes, cursed him and then tossed him out to face the consequences alone. The big white rancher left his only son to be treated like shit in every border town from Texas to Sonora—until Johnny got good with a gun.
Now there was a reason to hate.
“Maldito sea!” Johnny kicked at the gravel under his boots, adding more dust and another scuff to the leather. He breathed deeply and straightened. Walking into the shade of the olive tree, he rested his back against the gnarled trunk and twisted his hat in his hands.
Lancer—Johnny didn’t even know his asshole father’s first name.
Mama refused to tell him. She said it wasn’t important. “You’re better off not knowing, Juanito.” And yet she always used ‘Lancer’ when she put him in school. “My son bears his father’s name. I was widowed and married again.”
The last part was a lie. His father was alive. Or he was at the time, if Cole was to be believed. Somewhere north, near a Misión San Benito where Mama claimed Johnny was baptised. It was in California—maybe. Least ways Mama never wanted to go there.
All she wanted from Johnny’s father was the respectability of his name, because Cole wouldn’t share his with another man’s brat.
“Gracias a Dios.”
Pushing up off the tree, Johnny went back to the foot of Mama’s grave. He stared at the cairn.
Why did she stay with Cole? He could have taken care of her. Or they could have gone to her cousin, Luisa.
When he was younger, Mama took him to El Paso del Norte whenever the gambler left them. Johnny enjoyed those visits. It was a shame Cole always came back. They could have survived without him. Anything would have been better than the life they led.
“Wouldn’t it, Mama?”
The small portrait of Maria stayed silent.
“I shot him, Mama. I killed him for you.”
A cold truth squeezed his heart as he stared at the grave. The Lady of Guadalupe looked like she was crying.
“Shit.” Johnny blinked up at the sky. Who was he trying to fool? Mama loved the bastard.
The gambler would buy her jewellery and silk dresses, and show her off to other men, and she adored him for it. He would turn her loose to flirt and lead easy marks to the card table; but he’d punish any dog that pawed her. Then after the last card had fallen, Mama would reward her champion.
Johnny ground the memories between his teeth, his eyes burning holes in the soil in front of him.
Hell, they stayed in bed until the next evening sometimes.
Was Lancer the same way? Probably—only he got tired of her early.
“Lancer gave your mamà the keys to the road when more white folks came west. A Mexican wife didn’t fit with his new hoity-toity friends. And as for you...”
Mama never disagreed.
So it must be true.
Johnny’s old man had chucked them away like a pair of old boots.
Lancer was the reason Johnny had never had a real home, the reason Mama had shacked up with the gambler in the first place. What choice did a woman on her own with a little kid have but to find another man for protection? And how many men would take in a half-breed?
Johnny’s knuckles turn white and his fingers wrung the rim of his hat. He owed Thurstan Cole nothing. Nothing.
And the other one was no better. Worse maybe, because he’d caused it all.
A familiar feeling flared in Johnny’s gut as a coyote howled in the distance. He looked up, confused for a moment; where was he? Breathe—in and out and in again. His jaw unclenched. The coyote howled a second time. It sounded lonely.
“Adios, Mama.”
With one last look at the picture of Maria, he replaced his hat and returned to his horse. He unhitched the pinto from the mesquite tree and swung up into his saddle. Mama was the only person he’d ever loved—or who’d ever loved him as far as he knew. He missed her, but the promises he’d made by the open grave three years before had been kept. It was time to do as she taught him and move forward.
He reined Pícaro to a standstill on the ridge above the Misión San Andres, lying peaceful and permanent beyond the orange grove. As the sun sank he squinted until the olive tree marking Mama’s resting place disappeared into darkness.
He would make camp by the creek in the next valley, and then in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, he’d head east, keeping on the Mexican side of the border. He wasn’t ready to face the reputation growing on the American side just yet.
Lancer was still alive. He felt it in his blood. And one day he’d go after him. One day, he’d make his son-of-a-bitch father stand trial, and Mama would be glad. Wouldn’t she? He wished he knew for sure. He wished she’d told him more, and he wished he didn’t feel so alone, but the emptiness had been driven back.
He’d found a reason to live.
Thanks to Mama.
Johnny still had someone to hate.
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