Warburton Scene-Murdoch’s POV by Sprite

Word Count 459

Scott was due back from Sacramento today and the other local ranchers had come to hear what he had to say. We sat around in dining room as Scott dropped his news and the denial of our injunction on the table at the same time. There was nothing we could do legally.  I was doing my best to think of something while the others were voicing their frustration and Scott was doing his best to cool things down.

Driscoll was trying to advocate more violence and all I could see was Johnny’s pot was well and truly boiling over now. We had a whole room full of people, with Scott at one end of the table and me at the other and we were doing our best to cool the fires, but it was a waste of air.

I couldn’t believe it when Johnny came in like that. I was just thinking of him and there he was. The room was already filled with anger and he comes in bringing a bucketful more. I hoped he was doing a better job of keeping the lid on at Warburton’s camp then he was doing here.

At first a cold silence hung over the room at Johnny’s news that Warburton had been shot, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with respect for the dead. And Johnny just had to unload that anger, using both hands to add fuel to the fire. He threw some shell casings down the length of the table and the resulting clatter sent sparks into the room.

Johnny accused those of us at the table of ambushing Warburton and Driscoll wouldn’t keep his mouth shut and Johnny’s pot finally boiled over once and for all. The two of them were at it in a flash and it was all I could do to keep them separate.  Scott was next to me and somehow we dragged that struggling, fighting piece of dynamite from the room. I would never have been able to do it myself. It was like holding onto a wet bobcat.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I remember telling him to calm down and quit blaming us all for something when we weren’t even positive of what had happened. And I saw a fire flash in his eyes that made me step back. Anger and righteous indignation and fury were painted on his face.

I wanted to stop him, but to some extent I knew he was right and it took the wind right out of my sails. He mounted and road off and in a cloud of dust and I prayed he wasn’t turning his back on me literally.

If they found out now that he was my son….

End
December 2001

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