Chapter 1

“You may kiss the bride,” intoned the minister.  Johnny Lancer tugged at his uncomfortably tight collar and winced as the throng around him erupted into cheers.  He felt uncomfortable and out of place in this elegant setting, especially in his tight black suit, specially made for the occasion, and the silk cravat that was choking him.  They had come east to Virginia to see the wedding of the daughter of Murdoch’s oldest friend.

The old man had somehow talked both sons into accompanying him. Scott had not been a hard sell but Johnny had been unenthused about “going so far for a circus!” 

They had teased him into it, however, and delayed by a damaged section of track in Kansas, they had arrived horribly late for the wedding, slipping into reserved aisle chairs placed on the plantation’s rolling green lawn just in time to hear the wedding pair say their “I Dos.” 

Watching the tall, blonde groom gently lift his bride’s veil, he felt something strange, very like a pang of regret as the bride’s beautiful face came into view.  Vivid turquoise eyes framed by long, dark lashes smiled into those of her groom and pink lips lifted in an enchanting smile as he put a finger under her chin and lifted her face up.  He gathered her small form close and placed a passionate kiss upon her lips, lingering until the minister whispered “that’s enough, son!”  The couple broke apart and laughed, the bride’s cheeks pinkening prettily, as, arm-in-arm, they turned to face their guests, laughing.  Framed by the flower-covered arch above them, they made a handsome couple, the groom, tall and lean with a short gold beard, dressed in a fine black broadcloth suit and the petite beauty in the full-skirted dress of ivory silk, her hair pulled back to reveal every detail of the small, exquisite face under the frothy veil. Heirloom pearls graced her tiny ears and the fine Alencon lace veil had been made for her by Worth of Paris himself.

Murdoch, seated next to him, glanced over and wondered at the strange expression on the young man’s face.  In the next instant, it was gone, and he thought, “I must have imagined it,” as his son joined in the applause.  Laughing at a remark from Scott on his left, his vivid blue eyes crinkled at the corners and his white teeth flashed against his tanned skin. Several of the bridesmaids, pretty as long-stemmed irises in their elegant lavender velvet gowns, fanned their cheeks with their free hands and put their heads together, whispering.  The bride’s mother dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief, and the fathers shook hands and slapped each other on the back as the nuptials concluded. 

The groom tucked the bride’s hand in the crook of his arm and paused as she adjusted her full skirts with the help of her bridesmaids and accepted her full bouquet of white and yellow roses, baby’s breath, and delicate greenery back from the maid of honor.  Descending the few steps of the gazebo, they passed back down the aisle in a rustle of silk, borne along by a wave of laughter and good wishes.

When the bride passed Johnny, their eyes met and he felt again that curious pang, as of an unknown door closing.  Then she was gone, trailing the scent of roses, and the bridesmaids, arm-in-arm with the groomsmen, were also passing by.  The crowd rose and prepared to return to the ballroom, where the wedding feast was being laid out.    The bride’s father disengaged himself from a crowd of well-wishers and made his way through the crowd to the Lancers.

“Murdoch,” he boomed, “So glad you made it--finally!”  Murdoch grinned and gripped his old friend by the hand, pumping it up and down. “I was getting worried.”

“Me, too, James, me, too,” Murdoch said, “Glad we made the ceremony!  She’s a beautiful bride, James!”

The girl’s father nodded, graciously accepting the compliment. “And these must be your boys!” he said, turning slightly to acknowledge the younger Lancers.

Murdoch nodded.  “Scott,” he said, introducing his oldest son, “and Johnny.”

James gripped the hand of each of his old friend’s sons.  “Nice to meet you both!  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I best go support my wife,” indicating the small, blonde woman in fine violet silk making her way through the throng, graciously acknowledging her guests as she slowly made her way toward them.

From the ballroom, the musicians could be heard tuning up their instruments.  Taking a good look around the magnificent plantation, Johnny whistled as he turned in a slow circle. “Some spread, Murdoch!” The other Lancers nodded in agreement.  Scott commented jokingly, “Did he get away with the Confederate gold?” referring to the popular theory that millions from the now-defunct Confederate Treasury had somehow made its way into private hands.

Murdoch shook his head.  “Old money.  James also had a lot of business interests, many of them safely offshore. He was very, very lucky.  Rosehill looks much like it always has, thank God.”

A war veteran, Scott thought privately that Murdoch didn’t know how lucky.  Having seen the devastation firsthand, Scott knew well the odds Rosehill had beaten to escape virtually unscathed.  Happy to let the topic drop, he flagged a passing waiter and they all took a crystal glass of champagne, sipping as they continued toward the manse.

James’ ancestors had been among the first to arrive on these shores and with hard work and determination, they had wrested thousands of acres from the wilderness generations before. With its acres of paddocks, large stables, and most of all, the huge brick mansion looming behind its manicured lawns, the graceful fountains and well-tended flower beds, Rosehill was indeed impressive. There was even a maze of boxwood hedges, a touch that his forbears had brought from England.  In addition to its outward beauty, the mansion possessed a warm and welcoming air.  The inside, richly decorated, full of lovely antiques, and with a gallery of fine paintings, matched the outside perfectly.  

Across the wide lawns, the James River glinted in the distance.  Hundreds of rosesbushes, planted by some long-ago ancestor, and from which Rosehill took its name, graced the grounds.   Thick with heirloom roses in shades of pink, yellow, and white, the lush old bushes twined up trellises, around fence posts, and graced beds. The effect was both unusual and charming, causing visitors to exclaim at their beauty, as the flowers nodded in the slight breeze from the river.

Towering oaks cast dense shade on the lawn where more chairs and tables were set up.  Children dodged among the revelers, old ladies fanned themselves and wondered how much the ceremony had cost,  married women gossiped about the unattached belles, and the belles eyed the available pool of men with the air of hawks eyeing tender chickens.  Men joked and passed silver flasks of smooth Kentucky bourbon and the bridesmaids fluttered to the house for repairs to coiffeurs and discreet applications of makeup.

Murdoch grinned at his sons.  Scott, dapper in a dark gray coat, and a gray and white striped cravat, appeared quite comfortable in the gracious setting.  Fine heirloom silver cufflinks, a childhood gift from his grandfather Harlan, gleamed at the cuffs of his impeccably-tailored white shirt and his long body was graceful and at ease.  Johnny, on the other hand, looked as if he’d rather be stuck full of arrows than endure the evening’s entertainment, and he was yanking again at his collar, as if he couldn’t breathe.  He kept running a hand through his hair as if looking for his hat.  Murdoch smothered a grin as he reached out and adjusted Johnny’s cravat, askew from being yanked on so much and straightened his lapels. His younger son, who had objected mightily to being “stuffed into a monkey suit,” had nonetheless “cleaned up well.”

Knowing Johnny had never been subjected to high starched collars, silk shirts, and tight coats, much less had his inseam measured by a tailor, he appreciated the effort his youngest had made to please him.  They had traveled by train from Sacramento to Richmond and Johnny had been antsy at the confinement long before they reached the Mississippi.

Reading Murdoch’s mind, Johnny grinned suddenly.  The nearby knot of giggling young women, eagle-eyed as Confederate sharpshooters, fluttered and sighed, causing their escorts to frown slightly.  “You don’t look half-bad, either,” he said, taking in his father’s own attire, “for an old man.”  Scott grinned as Murdoch rolled his eyes. 

A crowd surrounded them as old friends from Murdoch’s early days in America recognized the tall rancher.  Johnny’s head was soon rattling with names and long-ago recollections.  Taking a mock swing at his brother, who dodged, grinning, he said, “Well, I’m thirsty and the ladies are waiting, let’s go!”  Scott promptly made their excuses, and both headed with relieved sighs toward the grand ballroom.

“Nice-looking boys,” said Horace Walton, who had rented Murdoch a hotel room when he first arrived from Inverness. 

“Thank you,” he replied, following them with his eyes as they disappeared into the crowd. “And what have you been doing all these years, you old dog?” he asked Walton. “Not quite the size you were when I got here!” 

Walton laughed, patted his considerable formally-attired girth and quipped, “And you don’t have nearly as much hair!”

Arriving in the ballroom, the younger Lancers made a beeline for the refreshment table where rows of bottles gleamed and an English butler stood, ready to serve. “Sirs?” he inquired, “what can I get you?”

“A shot of tequila with lime!” blurted Johnny, ordering his favorite drink.  At the butler’s blank look, he hastily amended, “make it Scotch, a double!” Scott laughed.  Scotch was what Johnny typically ordered after a rough day.

“Make it two,” he told the butler.  “Here’s to us!” toasted Scott.

 “Yeah, here’s to us monkeys!” muttered his brother as both drinks swiftly disappeared.

Somewhat renewed, they turned back toward the room and were immediately surrounded by a small crowd of local belles, including the bride’s sister, Savannah. Their beaux, some from as far away as Georgia, were jostled aside as the women angled for a spot beside the handsome newcomers.  Scott slipped easily into the repartee of a young gallant and much feminine giggling was soon issuing from the group, causing married ladies to sniff and make disapproving remarks behind their fans. 

Bows twanged and horns tooted as the musicians tuned up. When they were done, the bride’s father took the floor and offered a toast to the couple, causing his wife to begin weeping again while her table companions patted her on the hand.

All present raised their glasses and wished them long life and happiness, glasses clinking, then the orchestra leader began the married couple’s first waltz.  The groom’s deep chuckle was heard as he as the bride tilted her head back to see into his eyes and whispered something.  Small white teeth flashed in a warm smile as the groom whirled her away on the strains of the gorgeous Viennese waltz. Johnny felt again that strange pang, almost a sense of loss, at the sight of her glowing eyes and shook his head quickly to clear it.  Frowning, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. 

Scott was soon swept away to dance by a tall blonde, the reigning belle from Yorktown, but his brother hung back and ordered another double Scotch.  For a moment, he desperately wished he could disappear but relaxing as the liquor warmed him, he began responding to the excited questions of the ladies nearest him.  His head swam for a minute as he wondered what Johnny Madrid was doing in this overheated hothouse atmosphere but the fun-loving side of him asserted itself and he was soon responding to the blandishments of the ladies, his slow drawl and easy smile making devastating inroads upon the territory of the local swains, many of whom frowned inwardly as this newcomer encroached on their turf, although they hid their irritation as best they could.

Despite his discomfort, Johnny couldn’t help grinning at some of the remarks.  White teeth flashing in his dark face, sapphire eyes crinkling at the corners, he had another drink and loosened up still more.  Never, he thought bemusedly, had he dreamed that women could be so pretty or smell so good.  Such an opportunity might never come again and he decided to make the most of it.  The girls seemed determined to help as they crowded close, each seeking the handsome stranger’s notice.

Carrying a full champagne flute and elbowing the competition aside, Savannah used her position as the bride’s sister to claim a spot next to Johnny, ousting a black-haired Carolina belle as she did so, as well as the Simpson twins from Williamsburg, all of whom pouted, whirled on their high-heeled dancing shoes in a huff and set off for less-competitive pastures.

Like the other young women, she was attracted to the slightly dangerous air that clung to him. Grabbing Johnny’s arm, she hugged it to her ample bosom and leaned into his shoulder, offering him an unobstructed view of her cleavage.  From across the room, her mother frowned and, catching sight of her beginning to make her way toward them, Savannah tugged Johnny toward the dance floor.  He wasn’t feeling much pain at that point, although he wasn’t drunk. His quick gunfighter’s brain had stood him in good stead; always observant, he had been covertly watching the dancers and he followed her readily enough onto the gleaming floor.

Across the room, Scott paused in the act of taking a sip of the champagne that he’d just snagged from a passing butler and choked as he saw his brother stride onto the floor. While the girl he’d been dancing with pounded him on the back, he watched with stunned disbelief the sight of his brother taking his first-ever waltz steps.   Moving with the easy confidence and lithe grace that characterized him, Johnny swung into the waltz, whirling Savannah in graceful turns.  The girl’s full skirt belled out and she smiled up into his dark face, so handsomely framed by the high white collar, enjoying the envious glances of her friends. 

From the outdoor patio, Murdoch paused in his smoke-filled conversation with old friends, gripping a Cuba cigar between his teeth.  His eyes widened and one hand went out, seeking the support of a chairback.  His eyes met Scott’s and each knew what the other was thinking: “What the hell is going on here?”

Murdoch, completely flabbergasted, thought he knew.  Far from home, in a completely new environment, they were seeing the Johnny that could have been had not Maria stolen him all those years ago.  Murdoch’s heart twisted as he watched the landed young rancher who had temporarily replaced Johnny Madrid, leaving in his place someone that Murdoch had never seen before.  He realized that in spite of the experiences that had hardened him, Johnny was still very young.  The realization tore at his heart as he realized what Johnny had missed, what they had all missed during those lost years.

Watery-eyed and out of breath, Scott stood stock-still, mouth slightly agape as he watched, waiting for his brother to make a misstep but Johnny never faltered, expertly guiding Savannah, her full skirt billowing between his legs and out again in a swirl of lavender velvet and  frothy white  petticoats.

He glanced again at his father, but Murdoch, eyes squinted slightly against the cigar smoke, was still watching Johnny as the dance ended.  Scott knew that Johnny was good at whatever he attempted and when the musicians swung into “Dixie,” he didn’t hesitate then, either. 

The floor filled rapidly as the rest of the crowd, Southern and Northern alike, joined the exuberant dance.  Many of them were James’ West Point classmates, friends long before the war had called them; the rest were family or neighbors from up and down the river and the length of the eastern seaboard.   Many had suffered grievous losses in the States’ War, losing everything from property to fortunes, as well as loved ones who were buried in shallow graves beside unnamed creeks; still others had been lost to deprivation or in some cases, had fallen victim to the horrors of Reconstruction.  But with typical grace and courage, these gentlemen planters had already commenced rebuilding and the area was swiftly being transformed.

Today’s reunion had been bittersweet for many of them, as opposite sides had been taken during “the Tribulation.” However, friendship had won out over any lingering bitterness.  Life went on, and differences were put aside as they celebrated the marriage of two of their own.  Many of them had known the bride and groom since childhood and they welcomed the chance to celebrate life’s continuity.

The day was winding down when the formal dinner was finally announced. The sun was low in the sky and the shadows of the oaks were long when they all took their places at tables set up in the back half of the enormous ballroom, which occupied an entire wing of the house.  Candles burned brightly in wall sconces and on the tables; gleaming off bright eyes, glowing silks, and creamy shoulders bared in low-cut gowns, illuminating glassware and sparkling off the heavy silver.  Feminine voices mingled with the deeper ones of their escorts and laughter swirled as toasts were offered and the clinking of glassware filled the room.  Coy glances were tossed over outspread fans which were wafted swiftly as the room heated up.

The younger Lancers managed to disengage from their admirers and regrouped with their father and his friends at a back table, laughing, and slaking the thirst caused by all the dancing.  Johnny tried to keep his eyes from the head table where the bride and groom sat, the picture of newly-wed bliss. The groom kissed the slender fingers entwined with his and leaned close to whisper in his bride’s ear.  He puzzled briefly over his earlier reaction to the bride and then deliberately disregarded it.   Déjà vu, he decided.

Waiters began arriving from the cookhouse, bearing tray after heirloom silver tray,  whose contents were set up on the sideboards.  Sweet Virginia hams, thick steaks, roasted chickens, platters of venison and fresh trout were arranged, as were bowls of green beans, butterbeans, and fresh corn.  Delicate salads sparkled under their vinaigrette dressings, roasted new potatoes glistened under a light coating of butter, and desserts of every kind graced their own sideboard.  Tiny omelettes, stuffed with fresh shrimp sat in chafing dishes.  Fresh oysters on the half-shell, rushed in that morning from the Chesapeake Bay, waited on ice.  The dessert table groaned under the delights piled upon it. Succulent strawberries with clotted cream, delicately flavored sorbets, cream pies, juicy cobblers, and delicate cookies awaited diners at the meal’s end.  Dwarfing them all, a majestic wedding cake decorated with yellow rosebuds awaiting cutting.

The moon was beginning its downward arc in the sky when the dancing and toasting stopped.  The young couple had long since made their getaway in a shower of rice.  Those with children slipped away, bearing sleepy burdens and saying their muffled good-byes as carriages were brought around.

Neither Johnny nor Scott had danced again, which caused much consternation among the ladies.  Instead, they’d stayed at the table drinking and talking with their father’s friends.  Hearing about some of their youthful exploits gave both sons insight into the stranger who was their father. They enjoyed watching his embarrassment as his old pals ribbed him; it made him more human, somehow, and much more accessible than usual.

It was already the wee hours when someone brought out a poker deck.  When Johnny finally made it upstairs, he correctly identified one of the two spinning beds, and fell onto it, not bothering to undress.   He was awakened a short time later by a muffled shriek, the murmuring of a deep voice, and the sound of a hastily-shut door.  His face pressed into the pillow, he opened one bloodshot eye; when quiet resumed, he went back to sleep.

When he awoke the next day, he was inclined to think he had dreamed it all.

The house was still quiet when the clock chimed ten as everyone slept off the day before.  Murdoch rose before his sons and quietly making his way downstairs, discovered his old friend alone on the veranda, enjoying a leisurely breakfast.  A maid poured coffee and brought him a plate and they ate in companionable silence, broken only by “pass the jam,”  “more coffee?” and “are you done with that?” as they traded sections of the newspaper.

The screech of the male peacock stalking about the lawn penetrated Scott’s hangover.  Wincing, he levered himself carefully upright, clutching his aching head.  Still in the clothes he’d worn the night before, he grabbed for the bedside carafe and had a long drink of water, shuddering at the lukewarm taste.  Marginally re-hydrated, he wandered down the hall to his brother’s room.  He discovered Johnny in a brass bathtub full of bubbles, head on the rim, eyes closed.   He had a washcloth draped over his eyes as further insurance against the sun streaming in from the French doors behind him.

“Damn, brother, be careful will ya?” he said as Scott closed the door.  “Do you have to make so much noise?”  he grumbled, putting his head back and closing his eyes again

“Where’d you get that?” questioned Scott, eyeing the glass of red liquid in the hand resting on the rim of the tub.  It had a stalk of celery protruding from it.

Without opening his eyes, Johnny replied, “The butler brought it—don’t ring the bell!” he implored as his brother reached for the small brass bell on the dresser.  Scott grinned devilishly, despite his own discomfort, as the tinny sound summoned the English butler.  “Like a damn bull in a china shop!” Johnny grumbled.  Scott was amused by his brother’s uncharacteristic peevishness and took care to speak slowly and distinctly to the butler.

“Very good, sir” said the man, “Right away, sir,” backing out of the room.

His brother’s black brows drew together in a frown.  “Go away,” he muttered. “Quietly.”  Scott would have laughed if his own head hadn’t been pounding so; he settled for snickering at his brother’s discomfort.

The manservant, whose name turned out to be Morris, brought Scott his own glass of “hangover cure” and went off to prepare a bath for him.  “See you,” said Scott to Johnny, who still had not moved.  He received only a grunt in reply, which turned into a muffled curse as Scott shut the door harder than necessary.  Scott smothered a grin and went off down the hall, drinking deeply from his glass as he went.

Johnny lingered in the hot bath, sweat rolling down his forehead.  Relaxed and relieved that the pounding in his head had let up, he didn’t open his eyes when the door opened again, assuming it was Scott. “Go away,” he muttered, still irritable. A small hand placed in the soft black hair of his chest startled him and he jerked upright, snatching the cloth from his eyes, and making a grab for the gun resting on the nearby stool, quick as a striking rattlesnake.

“I’m s-sorry,” his visitor stammered, eyes wide and taking a hasty step back as she found herself staring into a pair of cold blue eyes above the muzzle of a cocked gun.

“Jesus!” he muttered.  “I could have killed you!”  He uncocked the gun and put it back down, turning again to face her.

He was not the least concerned with his state of undress, Savannah noticed, merely looking at her appraisingly.   Droplets of water were caught in the black hair on his chest and reflected off his muscled arms and back.  He was outlined clearly in the light from the French doors behind him and she caught her breath.  “Greek god,” was the thought that came to her, “Michelangelo’s David,” her mind yammered, trying to find a good description for the handsome stranger in front of her, naked as the day he was born.  She followed the thin line of black hair that traced down from his chest and over his hard flat belly with her eyes.  The tip of a small pink tongue came out and licked her lips. 

Recovering, she passed a hand down her body, covered only by a thin silk wrapper, and came forward, swinging her hips seductively. “Did I scare you?” she asked teasingly.  “I’m sorry.”

Johnny sank back into the tub.  She didn’t sound—or look—a bit sorry as she came closer, flicking her fingers in the bubbles covering him and splashing water in his face.  Her eyes gleamed as she took him in.  “I’ll wash your back,” she offered, taking up a nearby sponge and holding it up. 

He narrowed his eyes at her.  “Go away!” he snapped.    She dipped the sponge into the water and leaned forward, letting her pink wrapper gap open.  Pink crests winked at him as she squeezed the sponge slowly, causing water to run down his chest.  Letting go the sponge, she leaned closer, blonde hair tickling his face.  She followed the path of the droplets with her tongue, then traced a path around his nipples.  Ignoring his body’s reaction, he removed her hands from his chest and forced her back a step.  Undeterred, she slipped out his grasp by shedding her wrapper.  She knelt there, naked in the morning light.  His eyes flicked over her quickly.  He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen; they felt like a burning brand against her skin.

Conscious that the door could open any minute, he fought off the urge that was taking hold of him--the last thing he wanted to do was be found naked with the squire’s daughter.  She smiled, taunting him, as one hand slipped beneath the bubbles and closed around him.  The sensation was exquisitely erotic in the warm water and he closed his eyes for a second, fighting for control.  Finding it, he stepped over the rim of the tub, still soapy and wet, dragging her to her feet as he did so.  Giving her a slight push, he tossed her wrapper to her.  “Go!” he ordered. She might have continued to resist him had not a discreet tap on the door sounded and the pale, smooth face of the English butler appeared in the opening.

Shrugging into her wrap and looking into the butler’s impassive face, she said coldly, “We won’t say a word about this, will we, Morris?”

Staring straight ahead, he replied, “No mum. Of course not, mum.” as she left.

On the other side, she leaned against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes and trying to still the trembling in her legs.  Hearing a slight sound, she hastily gathered her wet robe to her bosom and headed for her own room.  Down the hall, Scott watched from his partially open door as her indignant backside walked away, bottom making little circles of indignation.  He withdrew into his room, whistling softly between his teeth, and feeling suddenly grave.  His head began pounding again and he leaned against the wall, rubbing it with one hand.  His brother was used to taking what he wanted and answering to nobody but surely he wouldn’t bed one of their host’s daughters?    “Of course not,” he said aloud, straightening up with sudden decision.  “Johnny would never do that.”  His heart suddenly felt lighter and he put his hand on the knob again.  His brother was wild but he was a gentleman at heart.  Whistling, he headed downstairs, rapping on his brother’s door as he passed.  “Johnny!  Get a move on!”

When Johnny appeared downstairs a few minutes later, he was uncharacteristically pale  under his tan and moving slowly, as though his head might fall off if he wasn’t careful.  Selecting a chair that let him sit facing the house and not the bright sun, he declined food and reached instead for coffee.  Murdoch looked at both of his queasy sons and laughed, making them wince.

James looked over, pushing his spectacles down on his nose.  “What’s the matter, boys?  Too much of a good thing?” he laughed. Praise God, he’d never know how exactly how close one of his guests had come to having far too much of a good thing this morning,” thought Scott.  His brother summoned up the ghost of a smile and merely nodded.

After each had finished almost a pot of coffee and some toast, they began to feel as though they might live after all and consented to join their host on a tour of the grounds, flinching at the darts of sunlight pouring through the trees.  Scott was relieved to enter the dark stable, although the normal smells made his stomach lurch.  Johnny, he noticed resentfully, appeared to be recovering nicely.  They passed down the double rows of huge stalls, each paneled in cherry wood and listened as James explained his plans for a breeding stable.  Pausing before the stall of a dainty, white Arabian mare, he smoothed her silky nose as she regarded them with dark, expressive eyes.  “Morgane,” he introduced her, before continuing out the door.  Alone in a paddock was a magnificent stallion, black as sin, and kicking up his heels before breaking into a canter around the enclosure.  Lifting his head, he neighed a challenge to the men, rearing onto his hind legs.  A second later, they heard an answering whinny from the barn.  “Eclipse,” James said, as the stallion neared.  “Shelby’s horse,” referring to his just-married daughter.

The Lancers lifted their eyebrows in surprise.  Shelby? He’s surely not a horse for a lady, James,” said Murdoch.

“You’d be surprised,” the man replied.  “Shelby’s got a way with animals.”

Next they went down to the pier, as James called for his boatmen.  Appearing swiftly,  they uncoiled the lines and cast off.  Easing the barge into the current, James explained that the plantation owners and their families frequently traveled this way.  Settling back into his chair, Johnny closed his eyes and let the breeze ruffle the hair back from his forehead. The broad-leafed trees lining the bank made a cool canopy over their heads that made the trip pleasant.  This place was so….green, he thought.  Accustomed to desert and border towns, this riot of greenery everywhere was almost overwhelming in its unchecked profusion. 

They made their way down to the next plantation.  “Briarhall,” explained their host.  “Michael’s home,” indicating his new son-in-law.  From a distance, the plantation appeared in reasonably good repair but as they drew abreast, the Lancers could see that the woods were reclaiming the grounds and shutters hung askew, as if no one loved the property enough to take care of it.  Murdoch said as much and James replied, “Michael’s the only one left and he’s been away fighting the war.  He’ll get it back up to snuff soon.  And I’m pleased my daughter will be living so close by.” 

Murdoch nodded, thinking of Theresa and how glad he was that the girl had not gone far.  She had married the scion of a prominent Sacramento family and was home awaiting the birth of her first child.  After a leisurely tour, they changed direction and let the boatmen propel them back up the river.  Disembarking, they went into the house where dinner was waiting.  “Morris, they’re here,” Isabel called to the butler, receiving her husband’s light kiss of greeting on her forehead, and smiling at the Lancers.  “Are you hungry? We’re just having a potluck dinner.”

The younger Lancers wouldn’t have believed it possible but they developed an appetite when they smelled the food being served on the family’s fine “Virginia Rose” china.  Johnny couldn’t help but notice that Savannah, seated across from the Lancers, was doing her best to avoid meeting their eyes.  Contrasted with her bold behavior of the morning, he was surprised, but relieved.  Scott, observing quietly, noticed that she was particularly careful to avoid meeting Murdoch’s eyes and that his father appeared to be doing the same.  When she spoke, which wasn’t often, he gazed carefully at a spot some six inches over her head instead of her face.  No one else appeared to notice and the meal passed uneventfully.  Although wedding leftovers, it was still delicious.  After dinner, the men went into the library to play pool and the ladies withdrew for the evening.

A short time later, Murdoch put down his pool cue.  “I’m calling it a day,” he said.  “Long trip tomorrow.”

“I wish you could stay longer,” James replied.  “This was such a flying visit.”

“Got to get back to Lancer, “ Murdoch said.  “Been gone too long already.”

“Ah, Murdoch, you love that old ranch,” James grinned.  “More than any woman.”

That was true enough, thought his sons, who had paused, cues in hand, to listen.  Murdoch smiled in return.  “And it’s a demanding mistress,” he said. “Goodnight, boys.”  Shortly after Murdoch left, James himself pleaded tiredness, bade them goodnight and started up the stairs.

After another game which Scott won handily, they put their cues down. Scott said, “I’m kinda tired myself.”

His brother snorted.  “Kinda hungover is more like it.” 

They sat down in the fine leather chairs that faced the cold fireplace, now sporting only a fern and helped themselves to two of the fine Cuban cigars in the humidor on the table. Wreathed in fragrant smoke, the said little as they looked around the handsomely appointed room with its comfortable leather chairs and huge couch, perfect for a rainy day’s reading.  The floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with rare and out-of –print volumes whose bindings glowed in the soft light.  The red velvet curtains were still pulled back and they smoked and looked out at the night sky without saying much.

“A man could get used to this, “ Scott observed. “Glad you came?” he asked.

Johnny nodded.  He had been surprised at his own reaction to Rosehill.  Accustomed to the stark beauty of the Southwest and Mexico, he was nonetheless drawn to the lush and beautiful plantation.  Although he loved Lancer, he realized he still had a lot of places left to see.

“I’m kinda hungry, “ Johnny said when they finished their cigars. “Where do you think the kitchen is?”

“No idea,” said Scott.  “But I’ll come with you.”  After several wrong turns in the silent household, they stumbled upon it.  After a lightning raid, they seated themselves at the table for their snack of cold fried chicken.   Knowing Johnny’s sweet tooth, Scott passed him a large slice of the wedding cake.  Johnny nodded, his mouth too full to speak.

“Meow,” a small, indignant voice broke the silence.  Looking down, Scott saw a long-haired tortoiseshell cat stropping herself around his brother’s ankles, plumed tail held high.

“That’s Valentine,” said the corpulent cook, materializing in a mob cap and plaid robe, “I forgot to give her her dinner.”  “She’s Miss Shelby’s cat.”  The cook went back to bed and they finished their cake, the cat nibbling daintily from her own bowl.  When they went back upstairs, she followed.  Tiptoeing past Savannah’s door, Johnny noticed that she laid her ears back and slunk quickly past.  Tail returning to full mast, she slipped inside as he opened the door to his room.

“Female cat,” quipped his brother, continuing past. “G’night, Johnny.”

Once inside, Johnny locked the door, unwilling to chance a repeat visit from Savannah.  Dropping his clothes on the floor, he climbed into the cool sheets, enjoying the breeze  from the open French doors.  The cat leaped into the crook of his arm and he cuddled her awhile, stroking the soft fur and enjoying her low purring.  Although he didn’t think he was tired, he was soon sound asleep.

Ch. 2

Johnny woke the next morning to a weight on his chest and cat breath in his face.  Opening his eyes, he looked directly into the pale green eyes of the longhaired beast lying on his chest, staring at him.  Valentine blinked, yawned once and sat up, licking a front paw and swiping it over her face.  He laughed and sat up, stroking the silky head.  She dangled from his arm, purring, as he crossed to the door and put her out into the hall.  Her ears pinned back briefly as she pranced past Savannah’s door and then shot down the stairs in a blur of white light.

Crossing to the handsome mahogany dresser, he poured water into the bowl.  He washed and shaved quickly, pulled on his boots, and ran a brush over his thick black hair.  Dressing once again in his accustomed gear, he felt suddenly relieved and light-hearted, anxious to be heading home.  Closing the door quietly behind him, he rapped gently on Scott’s door, then stuck his head in.  His brother was standing shirtless, dressed only in his pants and socks, towel over his shoulder.  His face obscured by white lather, he was shaving, peering into the dresser mirror as he did so.  He glanced up as Johnny looked in and motioned him to enter.

His brother walked in, tightening his concho belt around his lean hips.  He was wearing his favorite shirt, the color of a faded rose, with embroidery at the throat, black pants, and carrying a short black jacket.  Out of deference to his hosts, he’d refrained from buckling on his gunbelt but Scott was sure he missed the familiar weight of it.  

Scott grinned, relieved to see Johnny Madrid back again.  While they were guests, both had dressed in the approved “fancy” manner.  But even Scott, who had grown up in Boston, had longed for his own clothes and they had decided the night before to be comfortable on the long trip home to Lancer.

They could hear the household coming to life around them and Murdoch’s deep voice murmured from the floor below.  “C’mon, Scott, hurry up,” Johnny told his brother.  “I want to eat before we go.”   Scott swatted him in the midsection as he passed on his way to the wardrobe to take out a shirt, saying “There’s food on the train.”  “I know,” said his brother.  “But it ain’t nearly as good as the spread they put on here.”  Scott pulled on his shirt and they hurried down the stairs, Johnny’s spurs clanking with every step.

The eyes of their hostess widened as they came into the dining room. Isabel looked at them, speechless, as they crossed the rich Aubusson carpet patterned in soothing shades of green and cream with touches of deep burgundy.  White lace curtains billowed gently in the breeze wafting from the open French doors, carrying with it the scent of roses. Sunlight streamed in the windows and shone brightly beyond the wide veranda. Purebred horses frisked about in the white-fenced paddocks.  Everything looked exactly as it always did, but her young guests had undergone a major transformation.

During their visit, it had been easy to forget that Scott and Johnny came from California, which her friends had assured her was a lawless place. Blending in perfectly, they had seemed like typical Southern gentlemen, well-mannered, neatly dressed, appearing just like everyone else she knew in her orderly existence.  Now they looked like complete strangers, older, harder.  Isabel was especially shocked by Johnny’s changed appearance.  His roseate shirt and concho belt gave him an exotic air as though he could shoot a man as easily as buy him a drink. Isabel retired behind a chair back and a hand went to the neck of her dress as he came closer, suddenly at a loss for words. 

Her husband James covered her confusion by inviting the boys to sit down and calling for the maid to bring them a plate and coffee.  Murdoch, already seated, had done serious damage to his own well-filled plate and greeted them with a nod. 

Savannah was nowhere in sight, however.  Noticing both the boys’ glances at her empty chair, James elaborated.  “It’s too early for Savannah.  She has to get her beauty sleep.”  Although Savannah was a beautiful girl, neither of the young Lancers missed her.  Johnny had been uncomfortable around her, fearing a repeat of her earlier brazen behavior, and Scott had been equally wary after seeing her exit his brother’s room dressed only in a robe two days ago.  In his proper Boston heart, he disapproved of her attempt to seduce his brother under her parent’s roof.

The young Lancers slid into high-backed cane chairs behind the table with its snowy damask cloth and the conversation resumed, everyone laughing and talking over the low centerpiece of fresh roses.   Putting their starched white linen napkins in their lap, both boys eyed the delicious repast before them.  Bypassing the fresh fruit, hominy, bacon, and Sally Lunn bread, they chose instead fluffy scrambled eggs, sweet Virginia ham, and delicious buttermilk biscuits, all washed down with imported French coffee.

Their meal done, they stood up to go, thanking their hosts again for their hospitality.  The carriage had been loaded with their cases while they breakfasted and the coachman sat waiting,  holding the team of spirited bay horses in with a firm hand.

“Good-bye, Murdoch,” James said, pumping his old friend’s hand.  “Don’t go so long between visits the next time.”

Murdoch grinned.  “Next one’s yours,” he said.  “Come and visit us at Lancer any time.” 

“You must come back soon, boys,” said Isabel in her sweet voice. “We loved having you.”

The boys shook hands with James and leaned down to kiss Isabel’s cheek.  The three of them climbed into the stylish carriage, the driver cracked the whip, and they moved smartly off down the long oak-lined drive.  At its end, all of the Lancer men looked back and waved.

Isabel and James, standing on the porch, smiled and waved in return, watching until they were out of sight before turning to go back into the house.

From her upstairs window, Savannah looked out at the carriage retreating in a puff of dust,  snapping the white organdie curtains closed as it disappeared.  She’d been awake the whole time, just hadn’t wanted to deal with the man who’d rejected her this early in the morning.  Her eyes narrowed as she flounced back to her canopied bed with its pale pink eiderdown quilt and Battenburg lace bedskirt.  Punching up her pillows with unnecessary force, she threw herself face down into the lofty featherbed.  “Damn that Johnny Lancer, anyhow,” she thought, pounding her fists.  Her mouth twisted down at the corners as she thought of how he’d spurned her advances.  She rolled over on her back, clutching the pillow to her chest as she gazed at the snowy canopy above her.

She had been astounded at his refusal to be seduced, something that had never happened to her before. Men were only too happy to have her take notice of them, in her experience. She was doubly angry now that she’d seen him in his regular clothes.  “Like a damned saddle tramp,” she thought, ignoring the other thought that came hard on its heels.  “He’s the best-looking saddle tramp I’ve ever seen.”  That idea made her angrier still and she knew she’d never get back to sleep now.  Flouncing out of bed, she thrust her arms angrily through the sleeves of her fuchsia velvet robe, drawing the belt tightly about her slim waist.  Snatching up her silver-backed hairbrush, she hurled it at the wall when it caught in a sleep-tousled curl.  It clattered to the rose-patterned Aubusson carpet and she left it there.

Scowling at her reflection in the oval pier glass as she passed, she gave the bellpull a vicious yank to summon the maid.

Seated at the kitchen table while she helped the cook peel potatoes, the young maid, Lizzie, started at the jangling bell, spilling tea over herself.  “Oh, dear,” said the corpulent cook, wiping her hands on her apron.  “Quick, before it stains,” she said, thrusting a cloth at the girl. 

Dismayed, Lizzie looked from the bellboard to her stained uniform, unable to decide which was the lesser evil, being late to answer the summons or appearing in a stained uniform.  The imperious bell made up her mind. The Delftware teacup rattled in its saucer as she put it down. Touching her cap with both hands and patting stray strands of hair hurriedly into place, she fled up the stairs.

Watching her go, the cook frowned.  It wasn’t unheard of for Miss Savannah to box Lizzie’s ears when she was in a temper.  Although the girl never said anything, the cook, whose name was Alma, had seen her return to the kitchen with a red handprint on her cheek more than once after waiting on the young woman.

Heaving herself angrily to her feet, Alma waddled toward the ice box, intending to put the potatoes in it.  She almost fell as Valentine materialized between her ankles but far from being angry, she put the bowl down and picked up the cat.  “You poor little thing, you,” she cooed to the purring creature held to her cheek.  “You miss Miss Shelby, don’t you?”

The cat purred louder in agreement, butting her head against Alma’s nose.  Alma, who believed firmly that food cured all ills, put her down again and took up the bit of chicken breast she’d been saving.  “You’re a pretty thing,” she told the cat, “with your little pink nose and all that pretty hair.” 

Valentine wound herself around Alma’s ankles a few times in agreement, urging her to get a move on.  Laughing, the cook put the shredded chicken in a bowl and placed it on the floor.  “There you are, then,” she told the cat, who dove headfirst into her treat. The cook put the potatoes away and washed her hands in the scullery sink.  Returning, she seated herself again at the table and began breaking eggs into a bowl of flour for a piecrust.

Picking up her earlier train of thought, she mentally contrasted the spoiled, selfish Savannah with her younger sister.  “Now Miss Shelby is a fine one,” she told the cat approvingly. Both of her chins shook as she nodded at the animal.  “A real lady, nothing like that one at all.” The sad fact of it was, Alma thought, so few people realized the truth about Savannah. As in any large plantation, the walls had ears, and Savannah would have been livid had she realized how much the staff really knew about her.  She may have fooled the rest of the world, but they, at least, had no illusions.

“Missed her calling, that one,” frowned the cook.  “Shoulda trod the boards on Drury Lane.”

Boarding the train, Scott and Murdoch sank into their deep brown leather chairs as the steam engine began belching smoke.  They’d taken a private car for their return to Lancer because they wanted to discuss their trip without being overheard.  In addition to the overstuffed chairs and  matching sofa, the sleeper car also  boasted curtains of rust-colored velvet at the windows and a richly-hued carpet in soothing shades of rust and brown, with touches of ochre and yellow.  The fold-out beds were tucked safely out of the way, and the overhead chandelier swayed with the train’s vibration as it departed the station.

Johnny flopped into the one facing them, stretching out his legs. All were in high spirits, happy to be returning to Lancer.

Leaning his head back, Murdoch grinned at his sons.  “Well, boys, did you have a good time?”

“I did,” said Scott.  “And you saw this one!” he said, punching Johnny on the arm. “Who knew you were such a lady-killer?  Dancing with all those women?”

Johnny squirmed in his chair.  “Aw, Scott, don’t be bringing that up!”

“Even got an unannounced visit from a young lady,” Scott bantered. Catching Johnny’s glare, he belatedly recalled what he was saying and shut his mouth with a snap.  It wasn’t like him to be tactless but this time, he’d really put his foot in it, he thought ruefully.

Glancing at their father, both boys were surprised to see a dark blush suffusing his cheeks as he hastily tried to change the subject.  “How ‘bout that stallion, hey boys?” he asked.

“Wait a minute, Murdoch,” Johnny said, sitting up. “What’s goin’ on here?  Are you blushing?”

“Of course not!” Murdoch snapped as he turned to face the window. “Don’t be silly!”

Scott peered closely at his father, who was looking fixedly out the window as he did his best to ignore both his sons.

“You ARE!” he said gleefully, elbowing Johnny.  “Look at him!”

Johnny grinned at his father’s discomfort but the smile swiftly faded. “Wait a minute,” he said.  “A woman paid you a visit during the night?”

At his incredulous tone, Murdoch glared at him, stung. “I don’t know what you’re talking about but I don’t see why you’re so surprised! Let me remind you, young man, I don’t have one foot in the grave just yet!”  His deepening blush gave the lie to his words.

Scott realized instantly who Johnny was speaking of and the grin faded from his face as well.

Realizing his brother didn’t know he’d seen Savannah leaving his room, he brought him up to speed. “I saw her leaving your room the morning after the wedding,” he said.  Comprehension dawned instantly on his brother’s dark face and he settled back in his chair with a low whistle.  “Damn!”

Murdoch whipped round again, furious, and thundered: “Did you SEDUCE her?”

Scott tried to rectify his mistake.  “Calm down, Murdoch! Johnny put her out!”

Murdoch mopped his brow. “Put her out? When? After she spent the night with him?”

“He MEANS,” said Johnny, with heavy emphasis, “that I didn’t invite her to come and I didn’t let her stay, either!”  His black brows drew together in a furious scowl and he looked out the window, fighting for control.  The old man could always get to him and he was annoyed, and more than a little hurt, at the assumption he’d seduce one of their host’s daughters without a second thought.

Murdoch softened instantly.  Leaning forward, he put a hand on Johnny’s knee.  “I’m sorry, son.”  Johnny looked at him coldly, still annoyed.

Scott hurried to defuse the situation. “You were still loaded from the night before, weren’t you Johnny?  Not up for it.  No pun intended,” he added hastily as both of them turned to glare at him.

“Stop helping already, will you, Scott?” Johnny growled.

Murdoch continued, ignoring the interruption. “I know you would never do such a thing, Johnny.”

Johnny looked at him, hard.  “Do you?”

“Yes, son, I do.” Murdoch said gently.

Never one to hold a grudge, Johnny smiled.  “OK, then.”

“OK,” said Murdoch.  “We won’t talk about this any more.  Will we, Scott?”

“Never!” agreed his eldest, relieved to see the storm pass.  “My lips are sealed!”

Turning the topic into safer channels, they began to speculate as to how the ranch had fared under Jelly’s supervision.  The talk turned next to Theresa, struggling with the nausea of her fist pregnancy when they had left her in Sacramento.  “Poor girl was green,” Johnny commented. 

“How sympathetic, brother!” Scott said.

“Nothin’ but the truth,” replied his brother.  “As green as that ugly shirt you’re wearing!”

Scott threw a mock punch at him and Johnny dodged, grinning.  Murdoch flapped a hand at them.  “Why don’t you two go down to the dining car and bring me back a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing, Murdoch.” Johnny replied, and they piled out the door, trailing laughter behind them.

With his sons safely out of the way, Murdoch’s thoughts turned back to the night of the wedding and the nocturnal visit Savannah had paid him.  He frowned blackly, deeply disturbed at the thought of his old friend’s daughter acting like a strumpet.  James and Isabel would, he knew, be crushed if they ever learned of their daughter’s conduct.  He had been shocked to be awakened from a sound sleep by someone crawling into bed with him; flabbergasted when he realized it was Savannah.  She had been equally horrified, blushing crimson at her mistake and stammering all sorts of lame excuses.  Brushing them aside, Murdoch had hastily put her out of his room. 

Much, he realized now, as his son had done.  He sincerely regretted his earlier remarks to the boy and resolved to guard his tongue better in the future.  He and Johnny had been getting along so well and then he’d had to go and ruin it. Johnny wasn’t just like Maria, he realized.  He was much like his father, too.  It was one reason they butted heads so much. Both tempers flared quickly and each could bring out the worst in the other without trying.

He realized now that the girl had most likely been looking for Johnny that night, not knowing  they had exchanged rooms because he’d wanted Johnny to have the best view of the glorious plantation.

The boys returned, bearing coffee and fresh doughnuts, still laughing about something.  He grinned up at them and took his coffee from Johnny while accepting a doughnut from the plate Scott was carrying.

Settling back into their chairs, the three Lancers talked and laughed as the verdant Virginia countryside rolled gently by.

Safely back at the ranch, life resumed its familiar patterns.  They tended the stock, repaired fences, cleared streams, planted graze, did the bookkeeping, and performed all the other tasks involved in running a large ranch.

The months rolled quickly by and their trip to Virginia became a memory, supplanted by the myriad details of their lives. Theresa, now beginning to show her pregnancy, was brought to the ranch by her new husband.  Since he had to go to San Francisco on business, it was a good time for her to visit, she explained, before she got too far along.

“Besides,” she smiled at them.  “I was homesick.”

In late September, Cipriano, the head vaquero, came to them, concerned about the old Hereford bull, patriarch of the herd.  He was off his feed, the vaquero explained.  Concerned, they all trooped down to the pasture to where the cows were grazing.

Worried, Murdoch had to admit that Samson didn’t look took well.  Turning to his sons, he asked if one of them would ride to town for the vet, Martin Grainger.

“I’ll go,” volunteered Johnny, turning to go saddle Barranca.  By the time he and Martin returned, however, Samson was dead.  One minute he had been standing there, wheezing slightly, in the next, he had crashed to the ground, dead in the space of a heartbeat.

“That’s probably exactly what it was, too,” said Grainger.  “A heart attack.  I can autopsy him if you want, though.”

“No,” Murdoch replied. “Poor old Samson was ancient. Let him rest in peace. Leaves us in a hell of a spot, though, with all these cows to cover.  Guess we better be on the lookout for another bull.”

After a series of telegrams to other ranchers, they finally located one with the bloodlines Murdoch sought in northern New Mexico. Unwilling to buy such an expensive animal sight unseen, even though they knew and trusted the seller, Murdoch asked if one of his sons would go see the animal before he wired the money.  Although smart and learning fast, neither of them had yet handled a major livestock purchase and he wanted them to have the experience.

“I’ll go.” Johnny volunteered instantly.

Murdoch looked at him and nodded.  “That’s settled then.  You can leave in the morning.”

Johnny began preparing for the trip after dinner.  “Want me to go with you?” Scott offered.

“Naah,” replied his brother.  “Why should both of us make such a long trip?”  “Besides,” he grinned, “aren’t you sparking that little gal from Morro Coyo?”

In truth, Scott had been paying serious attention to one young lady from town, and was actually most reluctant to leave her to the attentions of her other admirers, although he denied it stoutly.

Undeterred, his brother grinned at him.  “You leave it to me, Boston,” he said.  They bickered amiably for awhile, then Scott left Johnny to his packing and joined Murdoch in the great room.

Murdoch was somewhat quiet, prompting Scott to inquire if everything was OK. 

“You worried about Johnny making that trip alone?” he prompted Murdoch.

“No, Scott, that’s not it,” his father replied. “It’s just that he seems to need to get away from us periodically.”

“And that worries you?” Scott questioned.

“Sometimes,” his father admitted. 

“Don’t know why, Murdoch,” Scott told him.  “He’ll be back. He loves this place.”

Murdoch nodded, but in his heart, a nagging question remained. 

He was up early the next day to bid them both goodbye as Scott had decided to accompany Johnny as far as the train station in Sacramento.

“Good-bye, old man,” said his youngest by way of farewell.

“Have a good trip, boys.  Be careful.”

They turned their horses’ heads toward the road and touched them lightly with their spurs.  Barranca and Charlie obediently picked up speed, and soon, both his sons were out of sight.

Ch. 3

The first spits of sleet were skating down from a leaden sky when Johnny Lancer left the Dos Gatos cantina and went outside to untie Barranca.  The big Palomino exhaled and stamped his feet, his breath a white cloud in the frosty air.  Seasonably warm fall weather had been abruptly replaced by the first blast of winter while he had been drinking and settling the terms of the Hereford bull’s purchase from his friend, Ted Bradford.  Shivering, Johnny turned up his collar and pulled his coat tighter around him.

“We best be on our way, don’t you think?” he murmured as he rubbed Barranca’s warm muzzle.  The horse nudged him in return, tail switching.  “Looks like a helluva storm.”

Ted had accompanied him out.  “You sure you want to chance it?” he asked, casting a practiced eye at the mountains ringing the valley.  The golden aspens that had lined the hills earlier were now hidden behind the white haze obscuring the mountaintops and a cold wind was blowing.  “It’s already snowing in the high country.  You’re welcome to stay, you know.  You don’t want to get caught up in this, blew in outta nowhere but looks like trouble.”

“Thanks, Ted,” Johnny said, extending his hand.  “I’m anxious to get home. I think I can outrun it.” 

The other man shook his hand in farewell.  “Just in case, you remember that old line shack just outside of Santa Fe?  It’s all stocked up.  Use it if you have to.”

“I will, and thanks. When I get home, I’ll send you a letter with the details; we’ll pick the bull up in the spring.” 

The other man slapped him on the back as he swung lightly into the saddle.  “Take care.”

“You, too.”  Johnny touched his heels lightly to the Palomino’s sides and Barranca took off at an easy canter, happy to be moving.  His tossing mane was a pale fire in the gathering gloom as they headed south.

The sun became a faint coin behind layers of clouds and the day took on the peculiar silence that always presaged a snowstorm as they pressed on through the desert. The north wind began to pick up and on it rode the pungent smells of wet sage and juniper.

The storm overtook them as they traveled south and the spits of sleet increased in number and intensity.  Johnny hunched his shoulders and lowered his chin into his chest to avoid the ice crystals sandblasting his face.  Pulling Barranca to a halt, he took his blue neckerchief out of his shirt and tied it over his face, grateful for the small protection it afforded.   The sleet gave way to big snowflakes as they left the higher altitude.  They were coming down hard and fast by the time he reached the outskirts of Santa Fe. He decided to head for the shack rather than push Barranca any harder. Even though it was only about two o clock, he knew that the mountain dusk would close in swiftly and both he and the horse were tired.

Johnny’s hat and shoulders were covered with snow when he came around the last bend of the curving trail that led to the shack.  He reined Barranca in suddenly, pulling the horse back on his haunches just in time to keep him from treading on an object in the road.  Obscured by snow, it was hard to make out the outline of a man.

Looking right, he discovered an overturned stagecoach in the ditch.  Jumping down, he touched his hand to the man’s throat, seeking a pulse.  The neck was at a curious angle, and the head rolled loosely at his touch.  There was no pulse.  Shielding his eyes against the blowing snow, he spotted another outline and went over to it.  He knelt and touched his fingers to the throat pulse.

The corpse suddenly opened its eyes, startling him so much he almost fell over.  He brushed the snow out of the man’s face, revealing a bushy white mustache and pale cheeks.  A trickle of dried blood ran from one corner of his lips to his chin.  An ugly maroon stain marred the front of his coat and Johnny saw the broken collarbone protruding through the skin.  “Easy, mister,” he said, putting a supportive arm under him.  The snow-covered man moved his lips, trying to speak.  Johnny leaned closer. “What is it?”  The man coughed and a fresh rivulet coursed from his mouth, the bright blood the only color in the gloomy day.

Johnny had seen that before; the end was almost here.  The man’s unfocused eyes took on a sudden intensity and he turned his head on Johnny’s shoulder. His broken lips formed a word.  “Allie,” he breathed.  “Allie…my daughter.  She was on the stage, too.” 

Johnny nodded.  “I’ll find her.”

The man gave a slight nod. ”Save her.”

“I will,” Johnny promised.  Satisfied, the man let his head fall back.  His shallow breathing stilled.  It was over.

But Johnny had no time for sadness.  He had to find the girl and quickly, too, before she froze to death or died of her injuries.  He laid the man back down and stood up, shading his eyes as he scanned the area.  It was hard to see; the snow was falling ever-harder and the howling wind was driving the flakes sideways. Rocks, hillocks, and scrub juniper bushes were all disguised under a layer of white, making it hard to distinguish shapes.  It was Barranca’s pricked ears and turned head that alerted Johnny.  Leading the horse, he went further up the hill.  Again, it was the horse who gave the alarm by dropping his head and snuffling at a snow-covered mound.

Dropping the reins, Johnny knelt and ran his hands over the velvet skirts of the woman who was sprawled there, unconscious.  He ran his hands up to the bodice, letting his hand rest there while he waited for a movement.  Faint, but unmistakable, the bodice rose slowly and sank quickly.  Johnny slipped an arm under her shoulders and scooped her up quickly.  Her loose hair fell over his arm; he could see the blood in her hair.  Cradling her close, he turned to look for the shack.  The sun had reached its nadir now and there was only the faintest line of light on the horizon, about to disappear.  He turned in a circle, squinting, and finally, he saw it, a small line shack outlined in snow against the dark pine trees behind it.  Clutching the woman close to him and holding Barranca’s reins in one hand, he stumbled up the hill and kicked in the door to the shack.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside and then he made out the outline of the bed, covered by a patchwork quilt.  A trunk stood at its foot and a small table was in the corner.  A leather chair stood near the fireplace, the pine floor sported a woven rug of Zuni design in shades of ochre, gold, and brown.  A huge pair of elk antlers was mounted over the fireplace and there was even an old brass tub in the far corner, gleaming softly in the fading light.  A small potbellied stove occupied the opposite corner.

To his relief, the cabin had not been looted or broken into by hungry wolverines or bears. Crossing the room quickly, he laid the girl gently down on the bed and turned to make a light.  Fumbling in his coat pocket, he found matches and quickly touched one to the lantern standing nearby.  Crossing to the girl, his blue eyes traveled over her.  He shook his head at the sight of the ugly gash on one temple. Setting the lantern on the bedside table, he sat her up in his arms and began to undress her.  Her clothes were wet and even unconscious, she was shivering.  Her cloak came off easily enough but the tiny buttons down the back of her dress defeated him.  His own fingers were clumsy with cold and he blew on them to warm them.

He knew that he had to get her warmed up, and quickly. He worked all the buttons on her dainty, high-topped boots and slipped them off before turning his attention to the problem of her dress, frowning slightly at the tightly buttoned wrists and at the long row of tiny buttons down the back.  He debated for a moment and then took the knife out of his boot.

Shifting her slightly, he slashed all the tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons off her dress in one stroke and eased the green velvet down.  Her shivering increased as she felt the cold cabin air on her exposed shoulders and he quickly slid the garment off and then began undoing her voluminous petticoats.  Intent on his task, he was nonetheless taken back for a moment when her slender body, clad only in a sheer chemise was revealed to him.  The pink tips of her nipples, hard from the cold, and the dark triangle at the base of her legs were displayed under the sheer lawn of the garment.  Averting his eyes, he slid his hands up her slender thighs to the knees and removed her lacy, ribboned garters. 

Stripping off her wet stockings, he tossed them aside, taking her small, arched feet into his hands for a moment to warm them.  Then he undid the ribbon that held her chemise up. Removing it,  he rubbed her pale skin vigorously to increase her circulation before slipping her into one of his shirts, sliding her under the covers and drawing them up to her chin.

Then he turned to the fireplace.  As he had hoped, it had been left ready with a supply of well-seasoned wood and a basket of kindling lay nearby.  Moving with the catlike quickness that had made Johnny Madrid a legend, he took more matches from his coat pocket and touched one to the kindling, watching as it blazed into life.  Taking a burning pine knot and holding it aloft, he located a heavy steel pot that he filled with snow and set it on the fireplace hook to melt.  He piled more wood on the fire and soon it was blazing merrily, casting a dancing light in the dark cabin.  Placing candles at strategic intervals, he tore through the trunk at the foot of the bed and located an old cotton towel.  He began gently to dry her hair, squeezing moisture from its lustrous length and fluffing it gently.

Taking the warm water from the hook, he picked up a smaller cloth and examined her face more closely.  Her hair was matted with blood from the cut on her temple and an ugly bruise lay against one delicate cheekbone.  He began gently to clean the cut.  When the blood was gone, he was relieved to see that it was not as bad as he had feared.  He knew scalp lacerations usually bled profusely; still it was a relief to see that the wound was not life-threatening, although the large bump promised a bad headache.  He let out his breath, not realizing that he’d been holding it.

Mentally crossing his fingers, he gently pulled the covers down to examine her body.  His long, sunbrowned fingers moved gently and exploring over her slender arms and legs.  They lay at normal angles and no bones appeared broken.  “Madre de Dios,” he muttered.  “Gracias.”  Slipping her into one of his shirts, he pulled the covers back up.  Taking more blankets from the trunk at the foot of the bed, he piled them all but one upon her.

Building the fire higher, he went outside to look for Barranca.  He found the golden horse standing with his tail to the wind under the small lean-to next to the cabin.  Stripping off the saddle, he put the tack inside the cabin.  He went back out into the silent white world beyond the door and rubbed the horse down.  When he was done, he put the last blanket around Barranca, securing it around the horse’s neck with a saddle blanket pin.

Thanking his lucky stars, he discovered a covered barrel of corn and a pile of dry hay at the back of the lean-to. He put some of both in the hayrack and the horse began to munch contentedly.  Patting the animal’s sleek side in farewell, he returned to the cabin.

It was much warmer inside as he approached the bed.  The girl appeared to be resting easily, eyes still closed, so he finally gave some thought to his own situation.  Dropping his wet shirt on the floor, he peeled off his tight black pants.  Standing naked in the firelight, he stretched like a sleek cat, enjoying the warmth.  He shook his head vigorously, then raked his fingers through his thick black hair to get the water out.  Droplets of water cascaded from his hair and danced on his warm brown skin and sinewy muscles, gleaming like diamonds in the firelight.  Casually wrapping a towel around his lean hips, he crossed the room to his saddlebags.  Digging out a change of clothes and some of the dried beef jerky he used on the trail, he dressed and returned to the fire, shredding the jerky as he went.  The water was reaching a simmer and it hissed and bubbled softly as he added the jerky to it.

Looking in the cupboards, he was relieved to find them well-stocked.  The Flying W certainly treated its hands well, he decided.  He thought briefly about the two bodies down the trail but decided against trying to bury them.  He didn’t want to leave the girl and it would take hours and a pickaxe to break the frozen earth.  He was sorry but he knew the bodies would be gone by morning.

After checking the girl once more, he began looking for provisions. He had to keep his strength up if he was going to get them out of this situation and at this altitude, in this weather, survival could be tricky.

He found numerous jars of canned goods and preserves in the cupboards as well as some tinned beef and laid a plate and fork on the table.  It was now extremely warm in the cabin and he opened his shirt.  Returning to his saddle bag, he dug out a silver flask and took a gulp of the contents.  Warm fire spread through him, then coiled like a snake in his belly.

Returning to his work, he slung a rope over the rafters near the bed and fashioned a hammock.  Testing it, he found it sturdy, and decided it would make a good place enough for him to sleep.  He didn’t want to sleep too deeply lest the girl wake and he not hear her.

Checking the simmering jerky on the fire, he saw that it cooking down to a rich beef broth he intended to give the girl when she woke.  He melted a little more snow on the fire and put it aside.  Returning to the girl’s side, he laid a gentle hand on her forehead.  No sign of fever, although he was disturbed she hadn’t woken up yet.  He put uneasy thoughts of coma out of his mind and sat down at the table.  As soon as he did so, he realized how tired he was.  He ate a few of the canned peaches, head nodding slightly.  His eyes were growing heavy.  The long ride and too-warm room were taking a toll.  Settling into his makeshift hammock, he tried mightily to stay awake.  But the slight hiss of the fire was soothing and his eyes soon closed.

A chilling scream wakened him and he shot of the hammock and hurried to the bed.  The dim glow of the falling snow filled the cabin and he quickly realized that, although her eyes were open, she didn’t see him.  His heart sank as he laid his hand on her forehead and found it burning hot.  “Papa,” she cried again, “Papa!”   Climbing onto the bed, he braced his back against the headboard and wrapped his arms around her, stilling her struggles.  “Sshhh,” he soothed, “It’s all right.”  She turned her cheek into his neck, like a child seeking comfort.  “Sshhhh,” he whispered, beginning to rock her back and forth, “It’s all right.  Go to sleep.”

When she quieted, he got out of bed and fetched cool water and a cloth.  Gently, he sponged her face and arms and hands, over and over. Worried, he wished he could call a doctor.  Then the part of him that was Madrid took over, operating with calm efficiency, doing all of the things that could be done.

He slept no more that night.  Stoking the fire, he made himself a cup of coffee, then pulled the chair close to the bed and wrapped a blanket around himself, settling in to keep watch.

The girl began mumbling with delirium, scaring him by shrieking suddenly at something her fevered brain conjured up. Suddenly, a voice penetrated her delirium.  Low and soothing, it made the terror recede.  She opened her eyes and saw a pair of sapphire blue eyes fringed by long dark lashes looking down at her.  Then something cool was sliding across her face and neck, a strong arm was holding her, and the soothing voice lulled her back into restless sleep.

Breaking out in a cold sweat, she tried to kick the covers off.  Johnny was getting scared.  “She’s delirious,” he thought.  “I’m just a gunfighter, what do I know?  She needs a doc.  Bad.” He felt an absurd twinge as he looked at her.  He didn’t want her to die, and he wasn’t going to let her die, either. He looked down at her small, piquant face and smoothed the hair back from her forehead

The endless night wore on.  He got up at intervals to tend the fire and to look out the window.  Around midnight, he heard the distant, silvery howl of a coyote pack and opened the door.  The snow was falling so hard now that it was a whiteout.  Snow piled up against the windows and still the blizzard raged on. 

By daybreak, he was exhausted. His bloodshot eyes itched and his head ached.  Rubbing a hand over his unshaven face, he grimaced at the stubble.  He glanced back at the bed.  The girl was quiet for the moment and he let his mind wander. 

He thought of Murdoch and the family waiting at home for him.  The old man would be worried but trying to hide it.   Scott would hide his concern under pretend nonchalance.  “Johnny can take care of himself,” he‘d be telling the old man.  “Don’t you worry about him.”  Both of them would put on a good show for Theresa and she would pretend to accept their reassurances.   Then she would go into the kitchen and make his favorite seven-layer chocolate cake and a lemon meringue pie for good measure, to keep her own fears at bay.

Back at Lancer, Murdoch was pacing the floor of his study, drink in hand.  He took a sip of the fine old Scotch, then tossed it down like water.  He looked down at the glass, turning it slowly in the firelight.  Every time one of the boys was overdue, he worried, but in his innermost heart, he knew he worried the most about Johnny.  What troubled him was the gnawing suspicion that someday Johnny’s past as Madrid would somehow catch up with him.  Gunfighters rarely died in bed--anything could happen to the boy. It could be a bullet in the back, a knife in some dark alley, a blow to the head.  And the worst part is,” he thought to himself, “I’ll never know.”

Following that thought to still deeper depths, he admitted to himself that even now, he still doubted the strength of Johnny’s attachment to them all, still worried that his wild side would take over and he’d go off looking for excitement one fine day and never come back. 

With an oath, he turned and hurled the glass into the fireplace.  Slamming the study door, he stomped off up the stairs.

In the great room, Scott and Theresa looked up from their chess game.  They knew what was in Murdoch’s heart.  The unspoken words lay between them like a knife on the chessboard.   “What if,” Theresa whispered, “What if something’s happened to him?”

Scott reached across the table and laid his hand gently on hers.  “Stop it,” he said.  “He’ll be back.” In the fireplace, a pine knot snapped. They settled back in their chairs, looking at each other, the same fear in both their hearts. 

Back at the cabin, Johnny continued the numbing routine, stoking the fire, caring for the girl, and tending to Barranca. It was impossible to tell night from day in the howling blizzard.   He lost track of how long it raged as the hours ran together.  Sleeping only in snatches, hurrying to her side at the slightest sound, he did everything that he could think of but the girl was growing worse.  Her breathing had taken on an ominous, labored sound that he didn’t like.  He knew they were nearing a turning point; she would either live or she would die, and she would do it in the next few hours.

He wracked his brain, trying to recall the things that had been done for him when he’d been hurt or ill.  With sudden decision, he filled more pots with snow and put them on the stove.  Building the fire as high as possible, the room soon filled with steam as they boiled.  Hoping that the steam would loosen the congestion in her lungs, he put Allie into the leather chair and moved both closer to the stove, propping her up with pillows behind her back.  He re-filled the pots and tended the fire for hours, moving robot-like from task to task.  He was so tired that his flesh felt like it was dragging from his bones when he noticed a change.  The awful rasping had stopped and in its place were normal breath sounds.  He kept it up awhile longer, until assured that the improvement continued, and then slipped her back into bed, elevating her slightly with the pillows.

Shoving the chair back into place, he sank into it and was soon sound asleep.

Hearing her movements, Johnny woke and hurried to the bed, his steps only slowing when she looked up at him.  Her eyes were clear and she was rational again.  He grinned, then laughed out loud, his teeth flashing white against his beard.  He sat beside her and touched her cheek to confirm the evidence of his eyes.  It was cool.  “Dios mio” he muttered. 

She lay looking at him, puzzled.  She didn’t know him but his voice was somehow familiar.  “Where am I?” she asked.  “What am I doing here?”

“You’ve been sick,” he replied.  “But you’re all right now.”  He quickly brewed her some tea and propped her up while she drank it. “In a little while, I’ll get you some soup,” he promised.  The effort of drinking tired her and she drifted back off to sleep. 

Johnny checked again on Barranca, tightening the blanket and giving him more corn and some water from the stove.  The horse drank thirstily, then nuzzled his face. “I love you, too,” Johnny told him, smoothing the silky nose before going back inside.  He climbed into his hammock and was soon asleep, a deep restful sleep such as he hadn’t had in days.

Sometime during the night, she awoke. Exhausted, Johnny slept on and she studied his face in the faint glow from the fireplace.  Frowning slightly, her eyes traced each feature.  She knew she ought to be scared of this strange man but somehow she wasn’t.  She vaguely remembered being held against someone’s hard chest while he fed her liquids from a spoon, warm hands, and a gentle voice.  Her eyes roamed over the stranger’s face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the heavy growth of beard, and the shaggy black hair, which looked as if he’d run his hands through it in distraction.

By the next morning, the blizzard that had howled out of the Colorado Rockies finally played out.  Johnny awoke to bright sunshine and the sound of water running rapidly from the roof into the rain gutters and dripping from the pine trees.  Going outside, Barranca gave him a whinny of greeting, tossing his head.  Johnny laughed and went to remove the blanket. “Getting itchy, are ya?” he asked the horse who whickered in reply and stamped his feet softly.  “We’ll go for a ride later,” Johnny promised him.  The horse turned his head, listening, and a moment later, Johnny heard the sound of a bell tinkling. With a last stroke of the sleek hide, Johnny stepped out of the lean-to, heading for the source of the sound.

A moment later, a herd of goats appeared, driven by a tiny old woman dressed all in black, with a black rebozo on her head.  She was wearing a stack of thin silver bracelets on one scrawny arm and they clinked as she waved her stick, herding the goats toward the creek.  Her face was so wrinkled, her eyes were all but invisible but when she smiled in response to his “Hola, abuela!” he saw that they were merry and kind, accompanied by a gap-toothed grin.  Raising his hand in greeting, he spoke to her in rapid Spanish.

“Pobrecita,” she clucked, surrendering her staff to him and gathering her heavy black skirts in both hands as she ascended the slight rise to the cabin.

Watching the goats as they drank, Johnny thanked heaven for this unexpected boon.  When the old woman returned a short time later, her eyes were suspiciously moist and she was honking noisily into her handkerchief.  She replaced it in the pocket of her voluminous broomstick skirt and accepted the staff back from him.

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm as she turned to go, slipping a coin into her palm.  She grinned brightly up at him, then bit down on the coin, testing its authenticity.  Finding it good, she smiled still more widely, her eyes disappearing into slits.  Promising to return, she waved her stick at the goats, prodding them back up the hill and humming to herself in Spanish as she went.

Mentally bracing himself, he went back into the cabin.  Allie was calm, although he could see that she had been crying.  Telling her Barranca needed exercise, he received her nod in return and the assurance that she would try and sleep a little.  Saddling the horse quickly, he swung up onto his back and gathered up the reins. The outlines of the road were visible in the rapidly-melting snow and as Barranca slipped and slid in the gluey mud, he urged the horse back down the hill.

As he had suspected, the bodies were gone but the cases were still there.  Making a hasty travois from a blanket from the cabin and some downed tree branches, he harnessed the contraption to Barranca and began hauling them back up.

He put them on the porch, identifying Allie’s by the initials on the handsome leather.  Moving quietly, he put them in the cabin and then took Barranca on a short ride.  Down by the river, the snow was already melted and the water was rushing faster and higher as snowmelt added to its volume.  A pair of golden eagles floated overhead and squirrels chattered at him from the cottonwoods lining the creek.  Catching a glimpse of his reflection, he grimaced at the heavy beard and ran a hand over his chin, not liking the prickle.

He rode Barranca downstream for a mile or so, then stopped, feeling that he ought to get back.  He’d have to give it a few days, let the girl recover some more and the road dry out again, before taking her down to the railroad station in Lamy and putting her on a train bound for the east coast.

They had talked a little during one of her waking periods and she had mentioned an aunt in White Plains, New York.  She hadn’t asked about her father, as though preferring not to know and he hadn’t pressed the issue.

Turning Barranca around, he returned to the cabin.  Entering, he found her still asleep and quietly set about making dinner, waking her when it was ready.  She was much better this time, the circles under her eyes not so dark or harshly-cut, her voice stronger.  She mentioned her longing for a bath.  “Soon,” he promised. 

To distract her, he began telling her the tale of “La Loba,” or Wolf Woman, a magical being who inhabited these regions.  Able to materialize in the most unexpected places, she usually took the form of a poor, ugly old woman with a wart on her nose.  A shapeshifter, La Loba could also appear as a wolf when it suited her.

La Loba’s job was to travel the deserts of the Southwest and Mexico, collecting bones.  Every night after dusk, she crept through canyons and arroyos, scouring the desert floor. It was important, Johnny told her, to always be kind to passing strangers in this region, for one might be entertaining La Loba unawares and no one knew what awful curse she might damn you with if treated with disrespect. 

Wolf Woman’s special pleasure, he told the girl, was to find and put aside wolf bones.  For those, she had a special purpose.

“What does she do with the wolf bones?” Allie asked.

“When she’s gathered all of them, she returns to her cave,” he told her.  “And lays them all out on the floor. When she’s done, she begins to sing over them.  And little by little, as she sings, the bones begin to knit themselves together.”  He noticed Allie’s head nodding and deliberately made his voice softer as he continued.  “As she sings, her voice grows more powerful until it rocks her cave.  The bones form the skeleton of the wolf.  Then they begin to cover over with skin and hair.  Bit by bit, the animal takes shape.  First the long snout, the yellow eyes, the ears and the sturdy legs.  Then the furry coat, last, the curly tail...”

By then, she was asleep.  Tucking her in tightly, he went back outside.  The night sky was clear, the air, cold.  Almost two miles above sea level, the stars were sharp and somehow cruel, like objects punched out with tinsnips and laid against black velvet.

As promised, the old woman showed up again several days later.  In anticipation of her visit, he had put water to boil on the stove and laid out clothes from Allie’s case.   They soon shooed him out and he rode Barranca into Santa Fe, grateful for the diversion.  He headed straight for the La Fonda Hotel, where he had a bath and a shave before going to the telegraph office.  Happy at the idea of being home soon, he dictated a brief message to Murdoch, paid, and went back to the hotel for breakfast.  Then he got into the soft, warm bed, pulled the covers up under his chin, and slept dreamlessly for four hours. When he woke up, he rented a buckboard from the livery stable and hitched Barranca to the back.

Arriving at the cabin, he knocked before entering, although they had surely heard the wagon approaching.  The abuela opened the door, smiling her gap-toothed grin, and he pecked her on the cheek, slipping an arm about her thin shoulders in a quick hug.  She laughed and flapped her hand at him, as if shooing chickens.  From behind the makeshift curtain, Allie emerged, suddenly shy and avoiding his eyes.  Striding forward, he gave a low whistle and caught her hand, whirling her around in a froth of green velvet and flying petticoats.

Letting her go, his eyes traveled over her, widening in surprise.  She was completely transformed.  The bedraggled waif he had been caring for was gone, and in her place was an elegant young lady.

Allie pressed a hand to her heart, to still its fluttering.  Johnny’s transformation had been equally dramatic.  The shaggy saddle tramp had disappeared and the man looking at her now was handsome, devastatingly so.  She blushed and stammered, suddenly nervous, and from her place at the door, the abuela smiled to herself. “Maria, Madre de Dios,” she thought.  “If I were only forty years younger!”

Assuring Allie he’d be back quickly, Johnny helped the vieja into the buckboard and gave her a ride back to her adobe hut further up the mountain.  The goats milled about in their pen as the wagon neared and her esposo appeared, nodding and smiling.  Every bit as wizened as his wife but with the same merry grin, he came forward to help her down.  Before she descended, Johnny slipped a small purse into her hand as her eyes filled with tears.  “Now, none of that,” he warned her.  They stood in the doorway of their hut as he turned the buckboard around, waving until he disappeared from sight.

Allie was waiting for him when he arrived, tapping her foot with nervous anticipation.  The vieja had cleaned the cabin and every surface gleamed.  The firewood had been replaced, ready for the next person, and everything had been neatly put away. 

When they reached the top step, he swung her up in his arms so she wouldn’t dirty her shoes and hem in the mud as her cheeks pinkened.  “We’ve got to hurry,” he said as he placed her on the front seat.  “Don’t want to miss the train.”  She was pensive on the way to Lamy, glancing at his profile from time to time.  He looked over at her and grinned, placing his hand on hers.  “It’ll be all right,” he told her, reading her mind.  “I’m sure sorry about your pa, though.”

Tears threatened and to change the subject, she mentioned the stagecoach for the first time.  “It was no accident,” she told him.  “It was a holdup.” 

He glanced sharply at her. “A holdup?  Do you remember any of them?”

“Three robbers,” she told him.

“Any details?” he asked. “I’d like to recognize those people if I ever see them.”

Haltingly, pressing her fingers to her forehead in the effort to remember, she described their leader.  “He was tall…very tall.  He had a deep voice.  But they wore kerchiefs over their faces.”

Distant memory rang a bell in his mind but now they were rattling up to the depot where the departing train was belching steam and he had to let the thought go.

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.  Johnny hurried to swing her down from the high seat while a porter took her cases.

He let her slip down his body until her feet met the ground.  Her arms still around his neck, she looked at him.  “Johnny,” she whispered.  He leaned down and touched her lips with his.  Her arms went about his neck in a strong grip as she kissed him back.

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.  “Last call!” and the sound of the steam engine increased in intensity with a sound like a dragon’s breath.

“I’ll write to you, Johnny!” she said as the conductor helped her up the steps.  “Good-bye!”  The train began to move as he stood on the platform, waving to her.  “Good-bye!”  Ignoring the stares of the other passengers, she ran down the aisle for the length of the car, trying to keep him in view while the train picked up speed.  Soon, he was gone.

Alone on the platform, Johnny shook his head.  Then he untied Barranca and tossed a coin to the waiting liveryman who would return the buckboard to Santa Fe for him.  Pulling out the pocket watch Murdoch had given him, he noticed the time.  “Four o’clock,” he told Barranca.  “We’ll just make it.”  Climbing into the saddle, he rode to the rail office and made plans to stable Barranca in one of the livestock cars.  Paying the bill, he got his own ticket and loaded the horse himself, making sure he was carefully tethered and had everything he needed, including a deep bed of straw to cushion him if he decided to sleep.  That done, he made his way to the dining car, where he had a shot of tequila as he waited for the train to start.

He made his way to his seat just as the train lurched forward.  Seating himself comfortably in the leather armchair, he leaned his head back and grinned as he pictured his homecoming, wondering at the transformation in himself.   Johnny Madrid had always been a rolling stone, gathering no moss as he moved from wild border town to wild border town, always ready for a fight, traveling light as a tumbleweed with no one to care about and no one to care about him.  Times sure had changed.

He pictured Lancer as it looked from his bedroom window in the early morning, with dawn pinkening the sky and the smell of sagebrush and eucalyptus in the air.  The horses in the corral would be stirring as the vaqueros rubbed sleep from their eyes and pots would begin clattering in the kitchen as Maria commenced breakfast. The smell of coffee would percolate up to his room and Theresa’s light step would go by in the hall.  He’d hear Murdoch’s deep voice offering her a morning greeting and listen to Scott whistling as he shaved.

Smiling to himself, he watched the barren landscape roll by, counting the hours until he could see it all again.

At the rap on the door, all of the Lancers had sprung up, glancing at each other in consternation.  Johnny was long overdue and all of them had begun to fear the worst.

Murdoch snatched the telegram from the delivery boy, scanning it hurriedly, then sank into a chair.  At their worried looks, he handed it to Scott, who read it aloud.  “Coming Home” was all it said.

Three days later, the train rolled into Sacramento in the late afternoon.  A stranger watching might have wondered about the anxious cowboy who offloaded his horse, saddled quickly, and was in the saddle in one leap, thinking he was being pursued by the law. 

When he was sure Barranca was up to it, Johnny dropped his hands, giving the signal for more speed.  The golden horse stretched out in a ground-eating run, hooves thundering.  After an hour’s hard ride, they rounded the last curve in the road. He pulled Barranca up and the horse skidded to a stop, sides heaving, as his rider surveyed the scene below.

The ranch lay spread out before them in serene beauty in the dusk.  And there was a light in every window of the hacienda as his family waited for Johnny Lancer to come home.

Ch. 4

The cloudburst ended as evening arrived, washing away some of the smells from the piles of garbage in back alleys and some of the dust from the grimy adobes that formed this shabby rabbit warren of a town. Puddles reflected lights from the windows undisturbed. Water dripped slowly from the eaves and the potholed, muddy streets were empty, the rain having chased everyone inside.  A stray dog, every rib showing, and tail tucked between its legs, foraged dispiritedly in the corners of buildings, hoping some stray bit of edible trash had escaped.  Stray papers blew in the wind and an occasional tumbleweed rolled by. Chimney smoke began rising into the purple twilight as women cooked the evening meal.

Eyes peered from windows and cracks in walls, following the progress of a lone man on a golden horse as he made his way slowly along the narrow camino. Men licked their lips as they eyed the expensive horse with the silver conchos on his saddle; he would surely bring a pretty penny, even without papers.  “Por todos los santos,” they thought, it would be so easy to knock that man on the head, steal the costly horse and make off with the expensive saddle. Maybe he even had whiskey money in the pocket of his black jacket with the silver trim on the collar.

Such larcenous thoughts left them, however, when they looked more closely.  Second glances  made them decide that perhaps this man would not be such an easy target, after all. Maybe it was his relaxed, yet confident seat on the horse.  Maybe it was the six-shooter, tied low on his right leg, the way a gunfighter would wear it. Maybe it was the hat pulled low over the eyes, hiding his expression.  Whatever the reason, potential robbers shrugged and turned away, calling for more tortillas, more beans, and agave to wash it all down with.

The man on the horse, negligent though his attitude appeared, was nonetheless fully alert, all of his senses attuned to his surroundings.  This was a dangerous place for a man alone, with no one watching his back but he’d come a long way and his quarry was almost in sight.

Inside the local cantina, a tall man shifted the strumpet in his lap, calling loudly for more cerveza with lime.  The woman in his lap giggled as he turned his bearded face into her neck and pressed his lips against the pulse beating there.  Her brightly colored cotton bodice, printed in vertical stripes of red and green, contrasted unflatteringly with her olive skin even as it pressed her breasts upward, perilously close to overflowing.  Her black tulle skirt clung tightly to her narrow waist and in her hair were narrow ribbons of red and green. The tall man put his glass on the table and wrapped both arms about her, shoving his face into her breasts.  His tongue traced its way down her cleavage as she giggled, tossing her head back.  He put one big hand on her breast, pressing it upward and exposing the dark nipple.  He lowered his head and began sucking on it.  His other hand grasped the hem of her skirt, pushing it out of the way as he moved his hand up her leg.

The other patrons, many dressed in the loose camisas and pants of the working class in Mexico, watched, agog, convinced that they’d be witnessing a sex act on the table any second.

“Hey, you two, get a room!” yelled the sourfaced bartender.  “This is a respectable house!”

The tall man ignored him for another minute or two before finally raising his face and grinning at the girl, who was named Lupe.

Panting, she shoved her wet breast back into her bodice and pushed her skirt down. Taking off his hat, the man swiped his shirtsleeve over his face and removed his hat.  His hair shone in the dim light and as always, she had to touch it, raising a finger and twining a blonde strand around it.  The man stood up abruptly, grabbing her by the wrist.  “Let’s go,” he said. “Back to your room.”  The bulge of his desire was very evident beneath his pants.

She nodded eagerly and he threw some coins onto the bar before they disappeared down the dark corridor.

It was dark when Johnny finally arrived at his destination, a flea-bitten cantina on the far side of town, a dive he remembered from his days as Johnny Madrid.  The bartender could be bribed, if the price was right and his information was good.  Tying Barranca securely to the hitching post outside, he went up the rickety steps and shoved both of the batwing doors out of his way.  Conversation in the room halted and the music of the tinny piano trailed off as the pianist became aware of the silence and turned to look.  Tables overturned and poker chips scattered as patrons dove for cover.  The piano player rose and hurried behind his instrument, crouching there with eyes the size of silver dollars.  The girl who had been singing atop the piano quickly joined him there, crawling on hands and knees and squeezing into the corner behind him.

The man in black stood just inside the door, hand hovering over his gun.  The bartender held a sawed-off shotgun aimed directly at his chest as they stared at each other.

“Go on,” said the gunfighter, his voice soft, yet menacing.  “If you think you’re man enough.”

The bartender looked down the gun barrel that was starting to waver.  A smile played around his lips and he began to chuckle, then laugh, lowering the gun to the floor behind the bar.

“Well, if it ain’t Johnny Madrid!” he cried.  “How the hell are you, boy?”

Johnny shoved the gun back into its holster, striding forward to grasp the man’s hand.  A smile broke out on his dark face, lighting it up.  “Bob Hoskins!

The patrons of the bar, peering from behind overturned tables and out of corners, began gathering up the poker chips and dusting themselves off.  The singer stood up and readjusted her dress and hair.

Johnny grabbed his hand and the two shook, pumping each other’s hands up and down.

“Is that the way you greet patrons these days?” Johnny asked.  “Must be hard on business!”

“Sorry about that, Johnny. There’s bad folks in town these days.  Gotta be prepared. Thought I was seeing a ghost when you walked in!  Heard you’d been shot in Oaxaca.”

Johnny grinned.  “Not my day to die, I guess.  Pretty close, though.”

Bob grinned.  “Reckon your guardian angel is going to collapse from overwork one of these days!”

The bartender elaborated on his problems as he set Johnny up with a shot of tequila and lime. A whole new breed of criminal had taken over the town these days, he said.  Former soldiers, refuse from the Civil War, were finding their way across the border.  Accustomed to fighting, they had no taste for farming or ranching, preferring to make easier money as soldiers of fortune.

“This place ain’t never been a Sunday picnic, Bob,” Johnny prodded him. “What’s the difference?”

According to Bob, it was a big one.  In the good old days, business had been gun-running, a little smuggling, the occasional bank robbery, men on the run from murder raps. Silent and shadowy figures, these men came and went, not sticking around long enough to draw the attention of the federales. Business in the cantina had been brisk.

Now this new breed was driving the old-timers out. Trained in warfare, better-armed, and more willing to take chances, they had turned from robbing stagecoaches to robbing trains, bringing their ill-gotten gains south of the border, away from the long arm  of the U.S. government.

According to Bob, after the Civil War, as the U.S. government continued opening up the west by building miles of new tracks, train robbery was fast becoming the crime of choice because the risks were low and the rewards lucrative.

“I see that,” Johnny agreed, leaning forward.  “But what’s that got to do with you?”

Bob dropped his voice, looking furtively over his shoulder. “One of  ‘em’s got something on me, Johnny.  Something bad.”

Johnny looked hard at him, raising the chair back on two legs as he considered his friend. “Somethin’ tells me there’s more to the story, Bob.”

“He’s taken over m’ business, Johnny.  Calls himself a ‘silent partner.’  Taking most of the money right off the top.  He’s mixed up in all kinds of things.  If the feds get him, I’m going down, too.”

Johnny nodded, letting the chair drop back to the floor. “That’s too bad, Bob. What you going to do about it?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Bob.  “This here place is all I got, you know that, Johnny.”

“I do,” he said quietly.

One of the other patrons yelled for a drink, causing Bob to snap, “Hold yer horses!  I’m coming!” as he got up.

“We’ll talk more later,” Johnny assured him. Raising his voice, he said loudly, “The next round’s on me!”

Cheers erupted at his words.  Grinning, the skinny pianist began pounding the keys again 

The couple in the back room was oblivious to the excitement taking place in the bar.  Embracing tightly, they rolled on the sweaty sheets, oblivious to everything but their approaching climaxes.  She cried out as he thrust deeply within her, followed a second later, by his deep groan of pleasure.  He lay atop her for a moment, his long blonde hair falling over her face, their bodies sticky with sweat.

Enjoying his weight, she wrapped her arms about him, pulling him closer still.  They lay that way for a minute until their breathing returned to normal.   He raised his head and pressed a kiss on her lips before he rolled off.  “Don’t move,” she breathed, “I’ll be right back.”  Fetching a wet cloth, she cleaned him up, then returned to the washbowl and washed her armpits and groin.  Her companion was already half-asleep when she returned, and she slipped quietly under the covers and tucked her body against his side, as closely as she could get. Raising one knee, she rested it across his thighs and pressed her cheek into his chest.

She picked up a lock of his shoulder-length hair, idly wrapping it around one index finger as she admired the golden blonde color, shot through with streaks from the sun.  It was so different from her own black curls and that of everyone she knew, that she was endlessly fascinated by it, touching it at every opportunity.  He was somewhat vain about it, she had noticed, brushing and tending it with more care than she was used to in a man, but like everything about him, even that  pleased her.  The moment she had seen the tall gringo, she had known she had to have him.

She had been so happy when he selected her from all the other girls, happier still when he had proven to be a passionate and considerate lover. He had asked her when they met if she used birth control and she assured him she did.

“Is it effective?” he had asked. 

“Oh, very good, very effective,” she answered and he nodded, satisfied.

Over the last weeks, however, a plan had formed in her mind, and she had stopped drinking the tea her abuela had always told her to use to prevent pregnancy.  She placed a hand on her stomach, hoping even now that his seed had struck fertile ground.  Smiling happily to herself, she fell asleep.

Finishing his drink, Johnny nodded to Bob.  Picking up his hat, he headed for the door.  The party was in full swing now but the singer came over to him, placing a hand on his arm to halt him.  “Leaving already?” she asked.

He looked at her squarely and she was jolted by the impact of his blue eyes.  His eyelashes were ridiculously long and thick, far too nice for any man to possess, she thought inanely.

He smiled, the slow, charming smile that lit up his dark face, making her feel that the sun had suddenly come out.  He spoke, and it was all over.  Her knees went weak as she heard his soft voice explaining that his horse was tired and so was he.  He had to find a place to rest for the night.

“You can come with me,” she suggested, surprising herself even as the words emerged from her mouth.

He smiled down at her.  “I can?  How’s that?”

“I’m about to get off, and I’m going home.  It’s late.  All the places in town are closed,” she replied breathlessly, cursing herself for sounding like a schoolgirl.

“You’re sure I won’t be puttin’ you out none?” he asked gently.  “How’s your man gonna feel about that?”

“Don’t have a man, not anymore.  My husband took off with another woman three months ago.  I’ll make you some dinner, too.”

He appeared to consider the matter.  “I can’t pass that up,” he said after what was only a few seconds but felt like a year to her.

She smiled happily, feeling better than she had in weeks.  “Let’s go, then!” 

Watching them leave, Bob shook his head.  That Johnny, always a favorite of the ladies. The girl had been awfully quiet lately.  Customers, usually drawn to her effervescent friendliness, had commenting on it. Something was clearly wrong and Bob was sure she could use some cheering up.  Having heard the girls’ complimentary banter about the gunfighter’s prowess in the past, Madrid sounded like just the man to do it.

They walked out into the cool, clean air, breathing deeply.  She waited on the rickety sidewalk while Johnny untied Barranca , who was half-asleep.  “Which way?” he asked the girl.

She indicated the end of the street.  “Mind if we walk a bit?” he asked.  “My horse is tired.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied.  “It’s a beautiful night.”

They strolled companionably along, although Johnny never dropped his guard.  Arriving at her small, neat house on the outskirts, he put Barranca into the shed that served as a stall, watching as the horse turned to regard him through the half-door. “I’ll be right in,” he told her.  “Soon  as I see to my horse.”

She nodded and he watched her disappear into the house.  Lights began to appear in the windows as she lit candles and fired up the gas lamp in the kitchen.  She heard the pump in the yard clank as he drew water for the horse.  Setting her shawl aside, she set quickly about starting dinner.

After about twenty minutes, during which she had dished up some posole, refried beans, and tortillas, she opened the back door and called him.  “Dinner’s ready.”

His voice floated back to her. “Be right in.”

When he entered her small, neat kitchen with its snowy curtains at the windows and the tiny cactus plant in a pot on the sill, he felt immediately at home.  She was a beautiful woman, he saw that now.  Divested of her saloon garb and makeup, wearing a long blue skirt, a white blouse tucked in tightly beneath a black velvet sash, and with her hair released from its bun and streaming over her shoulders, she seemed ten years younger.

He grinned at her.  “This sure smells good.”

She smiled in return.  “Let’s eat.”

They talked little as they ate.  Although Johnny was starved, he tried not to eat much, unsure of how much she could afford to give away.  Reading his mind, she smiled and refilled his plate. “I have plenty.  And I like to see a man eat.”

He glanced at her covertly as he ate.  She had an exceptionally pretty face, he noticed, with high cheekbones and light blue eyes fringed by long dark-brown lashes.  Winged brows set off the lovely eyes that went appealingly with her light hair and fair complexion. 

“Go ahead, say it,” she teased him.

“Say what?” he asked.

“Ask me what a girl like me is doing in a place like that.”

“Well,” he said.  “I don’t want to pry, but if you want to tell me, I’d be interested.”

Without a single trace of self-pity, she told him her tale.  She had come to Mexico with her husband, a mining company representative who was examining a claim registered with his company.  He had become enchanted with a dark-haired, dark-eyed senorita and one day, both he and the senorita had simply disappeared.  He had left a one-line note on the table.  “Good luck.”

She had sat awhile in the empty parlor, listening to the grandfather clock tick.  Then she had risen, put on her bonnet and shawl, and gone to the bank.  Their account was empty.  He had left not a dime. Desperate for work, she had gone down to the saloon, responding to an ad in the local paper.

This house, she told him, belonged to the company.  She would have to leave it before long to make room for the new representative who was arriving soon.

“Where will you go?” he questioned quietly, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his.  “Do you have any family?”

“Yes,” she replied.  “My family is in Minnesota.”  She made a face.  “I hate that climate! Too cold!”

He had to smile at her emphatic reply.  She was a spunky thing, he had to give her that.  Withdrawing her hand from beneath his, she jumped up and began to clear the table.

He got up and came around to her side, taking the dishes from her hands.  “Let me help you with that.”  She looked at him, suddenly wordless, as he removed the plates and set them on the sink.

“Thank you for dinner, ma’am,” he said.

“Call me Meredith,” she replied.

“Thank you, Meredith.”   He was so close, she could feel the body heat rising off him and smell the masculine scent of horses and leather.   She looked at him, mute, and then put her arms around his neck, lips parting slightly as she kissed him. He drew back a little.  “Meredith,” he whispered.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

By way of answer, she put her arms around him, drawing his dark head down, and covering his lips with hers.  His arms went around her and her knees went weak.  Tugging him by the hand, she led him down the hall to her bedroom.

He awoke the next morning to find a rose on the pillow next to him. Women leaving him flowers was a novel experience and smiling, he picked it up and held it to his nose, breathing in the sweet fragrance. 

She’d left washwater, too, and he scrubbed off the traildust and wet his hair, slicking it back with his hands.  She was in the kitchen when he came out, drawn by the smell of coffee.

“Morning!” she greeted him brightly.  “Hungry?”

“As a bear,” he replied, crossing the kitchen to slip his arms about her waist from behind.  She turned in his arms, kissing him deeply.  He let go of her suddenly.

“Bacon’s burnin,’” he told her. 

“Oh,” she cried, reaching for it with the spatula, “not quite.”

When he came back from feeding and watering Barranca, she had piled the rescued bacon on his plate and put biscuits and jam on the table.  Pouring him a cup of coffee and putting it on the table, she passed him a napkin and took her place on the opposite side, beaming at him.

“What are you doing today?” she asked.

“I’m looking for somebody,” he told her.  “Best you don’t know too much about that. How ‘bout you?” he asked.

“I’ve got to work at noon,” she replied. “Who are you looking for,” she inquired.  “Maybe I can help.”

“I’m not dragging you into it,” he replied and there was a note of finality in his voice that made her drop the subject.

Brushing a quick kiss on his cheek, she gathered up a parcel containing her work clothes.  Seeing his glance, she explained “I get changed there.  Don’t like to walk down the street dressed like that.”

He nodded.  “I’ll see you there later.”

After she was gone, he saddled Barranca and rode back to the saloon. A small boy darted up.  “Can I water your horse, senor?”

“No, muchacho,” Johnny replied.  As the boy’s face fell, he tossed him a coin. “But you can have this.”

The boy’s face lit up, wreathed in smiles.  “Thank you, senor! Gracias!"

Johnny nodded.  “See you around, kid,” and the boy took off down the street.

He went around to the back alley and rapped on the door.   Bob opened it a crack and peered out. “Oh, it’s you, Johnny.  Come on in.  We can talk in here” he said, indicating the storeroom, which he locked behind them.

In the room on the opposite side of the hall, the blonde man withdrew from the window and put down the gun he’d been pointing at the man outside.  He prodded the sleeping girl with it.  “Go find out what’s going on.” When she didn’t wake up fast enough, he gave her a push, sending her sprawling to the floor. She looked up at him, shocked. “Oh, stop sniveling!” he snarled at the sight of her quivering chin and the tears coursing down her cheeks. “Get a move on!”

Dressing hastily in a long red skirt and white, off-the shoulder blouse, she slipped into a pair of leather sandals and pressed the heels of both hands to her eyes.  The man watched from the bed, his face cold and inscrutable. Something in his expression made her stomach turn.  Leaving her hair tumbled on her shoulders, she hurried down the hall and pressed her ear to the storeroom door.

She recognized Bob’s voice and heard a new one speaking in reply.  Soft and unhurried, it was difficult to make out but it sounded like he was asking Bob to look at something.  Peering through the keyhole, she saw a man dressed in black and wearing a distinctive concho and turquoise belt.  He was handing Bob a piece of paper.  In her anxiety to hear, she pressed too close and the door rattled the tiniest bit in its frame.  The next second, she was sprawled on the floor of the storeroom, looking with frightened eyes at the stranger who had thrown open the door and was now pointing a cocked gun at her.  He had moved so quickly she hadn’t even heard him coming.

Bob was looking at her, annoyed.  “What’s going on, Lupe?”

Thinking quickly, she replied, “I was just going to take some cerveza to the bar to save you the trouble.”

Bob’s face softened.  Stealing a glance at the narrowed eyes of the stranger, who was slipping his gun back into the holster, she could see he was unconvinced.  He extended his hand and hauled her unceremoniously to her feet.  The paper had fluttered to the floor and she stole a glance at it as she crossed to where the beer was stacked.

“Never mind that, Lupe, I’ll do it.” Bob told her.

Nodding silently, she scurried off.  The blue eyes of the stranger followed her.  “I’d get rid of that one, Bob.  She was spying on you.”

“Lupe? Nonsense,” Bob retorted.  “She’s been with me forever.”

Back in her room, her lover’s eyes narrowed as she told him what had just happened. Lounging on the bed, his gray eyes narrowed speculatively and she looked at him, frightened.  Seeing her expression, he laughed and slipped an arm around her, pulling her down on top of him. Conscious of what had just passed between them, she stiffened and tried to pull away.  His grip on her arm became steely and he yanked her onto his chest, one hand behind her head, forcing her to face him.

“Kiss me,” he demanded.  She fought to turn her head away.  His voice roughened as he forced her head lower. “Kiss me, I said!” Shoving his mouth into hers, he forced her lips open roughly,  jamming his tongue down her throat.  Tears started to her eyes but he didn’t stop, tearing her clothes from her body, brutal fingers leaving bruises on her breasts and scratches on her arms and legs as she tried frantically to escape.  Laughing at her struggles, he flipped her over and positioned himself behind her.  Desperately pleading, she half-climbed the headboard to get away from him.  Her struggles only excited him more, and she heard his belt buckle clink as he undid his pants.  Naked and bleeding, she whispered, “Please!” but it was too late.  Taking his member into his hand, he battered his way into her, ripping and tearing delicate tissues and causing her to shriek in pain against the hand clamped over her mouth.

When he was done, he rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily. She had curled up into a ball, weeping softly.  A look of disgust crossed his face as he got up, adjusting his clothing as he went.  Grabbing her ripped blouse and skirt, he threw them into her face.  “Get out of here,” he snarled through clenched teeth.  “Get out of my sight.”

 Ch. 5

Meredith’s long blonde hair half-hid her face as she gazed down at Johnny.  They were still abed, although the ratty-looking rooster in the back yard had crowed hours ago.  Her voice shook slightly as she asked, “Do you have to go?”

He brushed the hair back so he could see her eyes.  “I wish I didn’t,” he replied gently.  “But the trail’s gone cold.  I have to see if I can pick it up again.”

She nodded, chin quivering.  Suddenly, she flung herself atop him, covering his face with kisses.  She felt his body shaking as he began to laugh and she flung the covers back, kissing her way down his throat and chest to the thin line of black hair that traced over his belly.  His strong hands moved in her hair and she looked up, tossing her hair back.

“Say you’ll come back, Johnny, say it!”

He smiled at her.  “I will come back,” he promised.

She slid back up his body to kiss his lips and with a suddenness that startled her, he rolled over and pinned her body with his, lowering his head to nuzzle her breasts.  Her breath came faster as he moved lower and her hands caught in his hair, body arching.

They passed the day making leisurely love, falling asleep in mid-afternoon.   When they awoke, the sun was descending in the sky and both of them were starved.  Pressing a last kiss upon his lips, she sat up and glanced at the bedside clock.  “My goodness, will you look at the time!  Bob’s going to kill me, I’m late for work!”

“Bob’ll understand,” he said dryly, watching her skin turn pink as she washed her face and scrubbed herself with the washcloth she’d dipped into the bowl.  “I’ll be by the saloon, get something to eat.  Then I really have to go.”

Her smile faded as she looked at him, still holding the washcloth, then her chin came up and she nodded bravely, summoning a weak smile. “I’ll watch for you, then.”

He nodded back, admiring her spirit.  When she had gone, he stayed in bed awhile longer, one arm over his eyes.  He was reluctant to leave this tiny house and this woman, wondering what would become of her when he was gone.  Sighing, he rolled out of bed.  Washing up quickly, he dressed and went out to saddle Barranca.  The horse whickered softly when he saw Johnny and snorted, tossing his head.  Johnny rubbed his ears and scratched his chest for a minute, then picked up the bridle, slipping the bit between Barranca’s teeth.  Putting the blanket on his back, he carefully smoothed out any wrinkles and laid the saddle gently down before cinching it up.

Leading Barranca, he stopped in the front yard, looking at the small house with its neat picket fence and carefully tended vegetable garden. Vines with large purple flowers twined up the gateposts and red geraniums in boxes on the porch railing bloomed valiantly.  The evening sun cast it all in a golden light.

With a last look, he turned away and swung up into the saddle.  Gathering up the reins, he touched Barranca lightly with his heels and they headed into town.

Taking a break, Meredith left the warm cantina and walked out onto the splintery sidewalk, opening the top buttons of her dress to allow the breeze to touch her skin. Spotting Johnny’s horse cantering toward her, she smiled and started to descend the steps.  As she did so, the setting sun flashed off an object in an upstairs window of the building across the street.

Glancing up briefly, she realized the shiny object was a gun barrel pointed straight at Johnny. “Johnny,” she cried, running forward. “No!”

He paused in the act of tying up the horse just as she flung herself forward.  A rifle crack split the air and she stumbled against his chest, then sagged to the ground.  Glancing up, he, too, caught the glint of sun off a gunsight and threw himself on the ground, rolling right and firing his gun. Shots rang out in rapid succession. With a crash of breaking glass, a heavyset man fell through the third-story window and to the street below.  The hard thud of his landing caused women passers-by to avert their heads, hands flying to their mouths.   A few leaned against walls, trying not to be sick.

Johnny scrambled to his feet, rushing forward and throwing himself to his knees in the street beside Meredith.

She glanced up as he took her into his arms.  A trickle of blood ran from her mouth and she coughed, trying to speak.  An ugly stain covered her chest and blood was pumping  from it in time with her heartbeat.

“Ssshhh,” he warned her, “Don’t try to talk.”

She smiled weakly, one hand reaching to touch his cheek and failing.  Her hand fell back and lay limply, palm-up in the dirt.

“I…” she stammered, trying to speak. “I…” her voice trailed off.

He looked wildly at the assembled crowd on the cantina steps. “Don’t just stand there!  Somebody get a doctor!”

As if a spell had broken, the crowd broke apart and scattered as someone rushed off to rouse the old drunk who served as the town sawbones.  Others walked over to the dead man lying facedown in the street.  One rolled him over with the toe of his boot.  His fat face, half-covered with a bushy brown mustache, stared sightlessly at the sky. Seeing it, they looked at each other solemnly, shaking their heads as they looked back at the man on his knees in the street, still cradling the woman’s limp body.

In his arms, Meredith summoned up all her strength.  Her voice was a fading whisper as she looked at him, smiling with bloody lips at the face she had grown to love so dearly.

“I love you, Johnny,” she whispered.  Her eyes rolled back, and her head drooped limply against his arm.  She was gone.

“Meredith!” he shook her.  “Meredith!”

Someone took him by the shoulder.  “Venida, senor.  Ella es muerta.”  He remained where he was, clutching her body to his chest.  The unshaven, bleary-eyed doctor came rushing up, clutching his bag.  The crowd parted to let his reach the woman but even from a distance, he knew he was too late.

The blood-red rays of the setting sun illuminated the silent tableau in the dusty street.  Then it slipped behind the mountains, leaving them in shadow.

Ch. 6

Crossing the mountain range east of town, Johnny camped that night in the foothills on the far side, too tired and dispirited to go further.  Building a small fire, he tied Barranca nearby.  Checking to be sure no rattlesnakes were in residence, he put his saddle near a large boulder and spread his bedroll on the ground.  Propping his back against the sun-warmed rock, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and stared morosely into the fire.  In the distance, a lone wolf howled, answered a moment later by the silvery howls of his pack.  Their eerie, wavering song rose on the chilly air, increasing his loneliness tenfold.  He drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them.  Nearby, Barranca shifted position nervously, agitated by the howling.

Over his shoulder, Johnny spoke to the horse.  “It’s all right, boy, settle down.”

Attuned to the gentle voice, the horse stopped fidgeting.  A wave of homesickness suddenly swept over Johnny, making him wish he’d never left Lancer.  He’d have given everything he had at that moment to be back in the great room with his family around him.  They didn’t even have to talk, he thought, just having them nearby would be enough.

Crossing his arms on his drawn-up knees, Johnny rested his head on them, feeling drained and depressed by the events of the last two days.  Following Meredith’s death, he had arranged for her funeral with the Catholic priest who maintained the small adobe church.

News of their brief relationship had already spread like wildfire. Women had stopped him on the street, telling him gently that they would prepare the body for burial and he had only nodded, mute. 

Returning to her small house on the outskirts of town, he spent the night alone in her bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.  The bed seemed lonely and cold without the vibrant woman he had known in it, he thought, running his fingers lightly over the spindles that made up the headboard.

The next day dawned gray and overcast, with the scent of the rain.  A keening wind moaned off the desert floor as he rode to the tiny cemetery behind the small adobe church.  He had expected to be the only mourner present so he was surprised when most of the town turned out to say good-bye to the lovely singer.  Young and old, rich and poor, many of them had been on the receiving end of her kindness and bountiful generosity at one time or another and the churchyard was filled.  More mourners stood outside the low fence.

He saw the boy he’d given the coin to a day earlier.  A young woman, clutching her rebozo tightly under her chin, had one arm about his thin chest as she held him in front of her protectively.  They stood off a little way by themselves and no one in the crowd spoke to them.  The girl kept her head lowered and her gaze mostly on the ground throughout the service.  When it was over, the plain pine box resting atop two ropes had been slowly and carefully lowered into the grave by two burly men.   His hat in one hand, Johnny filled the other with a handful of the excavated earth, then tossed it onto the plain pine box. It landed with a hollow thump, making him close his eyes at the loneliness of it.

Bob Hoskins was next, honking into his handkerchief as he did so. One by one, other mourners filed past, each taking a handful of dirt and tossing it into the grave.  Crossing themselves, many muttered a brief prayer before turning to go. Finally, Johnny, the boy and the young woman were the only ones left.  The burly sexton stood at a discreet distance, waiting.

The boy came up and spoke.  “Hola, senor.”

“Hola, muchacho.  Como estas?”

The boy shrugged, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers in one small hand.  The hem of his ragged camisa fluttered in the breeze.   The woman glanced up, her eyes meeting Johnny’s briefly before she quickly looked away.  In that split second, he recognized Lupe, the girl he had told Bob to get rid of.

She had bruises on her face and a split lip.  The wrist of the hand clutching the rebozo had red rings around it as someone had restrained her roughly. She crossed herself with quick movements, lips moving in a short prayer.  At her gentle push, the boy did the same, bowing his head and laying the bouquet on the ground beside the grave when he had finished.  He gave Johnny a small wave of farewell, which he returned.  Hat in hand, Johnny stood awhile by the open grave, listening to the moaning wind.  He was so damn sick of death, he thought.  Death followed Johnny Madrid everywhere he went.  How long would it be, he wondered, before it came for him?

A discreet cough from the sexton interrupted his bleak thoughts.  Putting his hat back on, he put some coins in the man’s hands as he passed.  Anxious to be out of this godforsaken place, he mounted Barranca.  The golden horse danced, picking up his rider’s agitation.  Receiving the signal for speed, the big Palomino had galloped swiftly out of town.

Shaking his head to interrupt the dismal flow of his thoughts, Johnny dragged his mind back to his current situation.  He’d done his best but the trail of the man he sought was stone-cold. It was time to go home.  Just the thought of seeing Lancer again made him feel better.

Sliding downward, he rested his head against the saddle, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

Waking before dawn the next day, he drank some water from his canteen.  Pouring more into his palm, he washed his face and used his wet hands to slick his hair back.

Putting his hat back on, he saddled the horse.  Dawn began pinkening the sky as he swung up into the saddle.  Knowing it was best to move during the early morning and at night, to conserve energy, he planned to stop riding before it got too hot.

By 10:00 a.m., the sun was already fat and powerful and he decided to quit riding.  Finding a rocky outcrop, he checked for rattlesnakes, knowing they often slept in the shade.  Finding none, he led the horse into the welcome coolness and pulled off his saddle and bridle, tethering him to a scrub juniper tree that was bent and twisted by the desert wind.  Laying down his bedroll, he fell into a troubled sleep.

Johnny began to dream, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids as his mind replayed the events of three days ago. They played themselves out in slow motion as he watched again from his previous vantage point. He saw Meredith fling herself into his chest, straight into the bullet’s path.  He heard the crack of the rifle, the sound drawing out interminably.  Johnny moaned in his sleep as he saw her body flung backward by the shot, a red stain spreading on her chest.  He heard his own gun fire rapidly as he tumbled into the dirt of the street, aiming at the source of the enemy fire. Breaking glass rattled and the shards fell like rain as the unknown assailant plummeted through the window into the dusty street, landing a mere yard from where Johnny lay.

Heart pounding rapidly and his face wet with sweat, he sat up with a jerk, looking around wildly.  His sudden movement startled Barranca, who had been standing, head drooping as he dozed, his muzzle almost touching Johnny’s head. The horse half-reared, snorting, as Johnny got up and put one hand on his muzzle, murmuring gently.  The Palomino calmed immediately and they leaned against each other for a moment, each comforted by the other’s presence.

Two days later, he arrived in Perspectiva, or Prospect, depending on which side of the border you were on.  Once a thriving mining town, its popularity had waned when the ore played out and now it was now nothing more than a pissant little outpost squatting in the desert near the California border.   Dismounting in front of the cantina, he went in and had a warm beer, washing the trail dust from his throat. 

His conversation with the cadaverously thin bartender in a pin-striped shirt and several shifty-eyed patrons was interrupted by a commotion in the street outside. Angry shouts and a horse’s furious whinnying filled the air.  A bullwhip cracked.  Glasses slammed onto the bar as everyone ran to see what was happening.

Outside, four Mexicans were clinging for dear life to ropes attached to the halter and neck of the huge black stallion that was dragging them down the street, squealing with rage as it tried to get at the fifth who was beating him savagely with a whip.  It was clear that the Mexican intended to beat the animal to death. “Freza madecida del caballo! Del Diablo le matare’” he screamed. “Spawn of the devil! I’ll kill you!”

Bloody welts crisscrossed the animal’s sides as the furious Mexican struck him with all his might.  Eyes red, and nostrils flaring, the maddened animal struck out furiously with his forelegs, tossing his head as he tried to avoid the brutal whip opening ugly gashes on his sensitive nose.  Breathing heavily, sides heaving, and foam flying from his muzzle, the stallion strove mightily to stomp his enemy into the ground.

Gunshots fired into the air halted the ugly scene.  The horse shuddered to a stop, snorting and trembling.  Looking coldly at the man clutching the bloody whip, Johnny trained his Colt on him. His finger tightened on the trigger as he looked at the Mexican who had wielded the bullwhip.  It itched to fire the gun. “Cuanto usted desea?” His voice was soft but menacing.

“I’ll kill him!” screamed the furious Mexican.  “Worthless animal! Won’t pull a plow! Can’t be ridden! Mean as a rattler!”

The gun’s hammer drew back. “Pregunte cuanto?” 

Something in the blue eyes looking coldly into his made the Mexican stop and draw a deep breath.  “Cincuenta dolares en oro.”

The gun stayed cocked as Johnny agreed to pay fifty gold dollars for the animal. The other four Mexicans sucked in their breath as they looked at him.  “Enferma en la cabeza,” they decided. This man must be a fool!  Or not, looking at his cold face and the gun snugged low on his right leg.  They eased up on the ropes while they gaped at the stranger.

Eying the crowd that had gathered, Johnny put his back to the wall and reached into his pocket.  They watched him closely, licking their lip as their eyes shone with avarice.  He flipped the fifty-dollar gold piece to the man, cursing his luck.  He’d hoped to get in and out of town unobtrusively and now everybody in the place was staring at him. Gun at the ready, he backed up to the stallion and quickly slid all but one rope off him.  Holding the rope, he leaped into Barranca’s saddle, keeping an eye behind him for attackers and spurred the Palomino swiftly out of town.

The black stallion lagged further and further behind as they went. He was soon almost a dead weight, practically pulling Johnny’s arm out of its socket as they crossed the desert floor.  Spotting a large plant with long succulent leaves, he leaned from his saddle, and grabbed it up, its long taproot trailing.

He urged both horses high into the foothills before stopping in a small stand of sycamores and mesquite.  Head hung low, sides bloody and heaving, with foam covering his muzzle and chest, the black stallion looked half-dead.  Johnny’s heart twisted with pity as he looked at the wounded animal.

His reins loosened, Barranca made his way to where more sycamores lined the bed of a tiny creek. Lowering his head, he drank thirstily.  The sound of the water made the other stallion lift his head slightly but he immediately dropped it again.  He stood there, legs spraddled, breathing heavily, too weak to move. Tethering Barranca to a tree, Johnny took off his hat and filled it with water, offering it to the horse. The animal took only a few slips before dropping his head again tiredly.

Unsaddling Barranca quickly, Johnny turned his attention back to the exhausted beast.  Taking his blue neckerchief from his pocket, he began rubbing the animal down, trying to make him comfortable while avoiding the myriad cuts that marred the black hide. The muscles in his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed with anger as he looked at the grievous wounds. His hand itched for his gun as he wished he’d shot the abusive owner first and asked questions later.

Unmoving, the animal allowed his ministrations although Johnny sensed he preferred not to.  Tethering him a few steps from the Palomino, Johnny went to a nearby mesquite tree and stripped off a small quantity of bark.  Returning to the horses, he built a small fire.  Taking a pot from his saddlebag, he added a little water and placed it on the fire, adding the bark.  A pungent antiseptic smell filled the air as it boiled.

Rinsing his neckerchief in the stream, he removed the bark and set the pot down on a rock near the black horse. Running a practiced hand down the animal’s legs, he detected unusual warmth, a sure sign of fever.

Moving slowly and speaking gently, he dipped the neckerchief in the decoction and began cleaning the cuts.  The horse snorted at the acrid smell and slight sting but was too sick to fight.

Finishing, Johnny picked up the aloe plant he’d grabbed earlier. Splitting a spear open, he put some of the gelatinous ooze on his fingers.  Returning to the horse, he dabbed it carefully on his many wounds, paying particular attention to the delicate nose.

Satisfied, he stepped back and appraised the animal, which appeared to be sleeping.    It was the best thing he could do, Johnny knew, continuing his careful appraisal.  The animal was huge, well over eighteen hands, and black as the inside of a mineshaft.  His long, finely boned legs bespoke a Thoroughbred, as did the deep chest and long back.  His eyes, Johnny remembered, were large and intelligent, fringed by long black lashes.  He had proven that he had plenty of heart.   The animal would make a fine addition to the breeding stock at Lancer, if he survived.

Johnny stayed put for a few days, letting the horse recover.  Sponging off the animal’s cuts daily and carefully applying the aloe vera gel afterward, he was pleased to see the wounds healing quickly.  The stallion’s spirit was another matter.  The animal appeared depressed, with little interest in his surroundings.  Almost, Johnny thought, as if he was pining for someone or something.  It sure as hell couldn’t be for the man who’d owned him, Johnny speculated.  Knowing he’d never have the answer, he decided to give the animal time.

Three days later, the stallion was physically much improved and Johnny began making his way back toward the coast.  Arriving in Vera Cruz, he stabled both horses, cabled Murdoch and went to the shipping offices of the Star Clipper Line, booking passage for the three of them on the Flying Cloud, departing for San Francisco the next day.  He would make his way home from there.

Arriving at the wharf early the next morning, he looked up at the heavily-sparred ship, built to catch every breath of prevailing wind.  Canvas snapped in the wind, and the sea breeze blew his hat off, leaving it hanging down his back by the cord, and ruffled the manes and tails of the two horses.  Gulls wheeled overhead as both pricked their ears, looking wide-eyed at their unfamiliar surroundings.  Their nostrils flared, sampling the sea breeze.  The bright sunlight glanced off their hides and male passengers entering the ship turned to regard the handsome animals. 

The women passengers had far more interest in the man loading them.  Black hair blowing in the wind, sapphire eyes squinted against the sun, Johnny was urging the horses forward with the help of several burly stevedores.  Reluctant to enter the dark hold, they required coaxing. Trusting Johnny, Barranca went first, followed quickly by the other stallion.

Their trip was uneventful and they arrived home in the twilight a week later.  Hearing hoofbeats, all the Lancers had left the dinner table and come out to greet him, Theresa waddling slightly behind the two men.

“Johnny!” boomed Murdoch.  “Good to see you!”

“Yeah,” Scott seconded, punching him lightly on the arm. “How was your trip?”

“Long,” Johnny replied.  “Good to see you, too.  And would you look at you!” he said, turning to Theresa and giving her a peck on the forehead.  “How many you got in there, anyway?”

Looking down, she placed a hand on her burgeoning belly. “I think I’m going to be the size of the hacienda before I’m through,” she said, smiling ruefully.

Murdoch, came up, slipping an arm around her from behind.  “Nonsense!” he said firmly.  “That’s my first grandchild!  He’s going to look just like me!”

Scott rolled his eyes.  “God help him!”

They all laughed, then turned to regard the new horse.  Murdoch whistled softly as he put a hand out as if to touch the scars on the horse’s withers.  “What happened here?”  Throwing up a hand, he stepped back, startled, as the animal pinned its ears back and lunged, trying to bite him.

Johnny stepped forward quickly, putting himself between Murdoch and the horse.  “Whoa now, none of that.”  Ears still pinned back, tail swishing, the horse turned away.

Scott came forward, concerned.  “Where’d you get him, Johnny?”

“Found him,” his brother replied.  “Being beaten to death in Mexico.”

They nodded understandingly.  “Of course, you couldn’t leave him,” Theresa said. “We know that.”

“He’s a fine animal,” said Scott, looking at him appraisingly. 

Murdoch agreed.  “Thoroughbreds are high-strung,” he said.  “Maybe he’ll settle down.”

“I’ll be right back,” Johnny said, “Soon as I stable the horses.”

“I’ll help you,” Scott offered, and they set off for the barn while Murdoch gave Theresa his arm to support her back into the house.

The brothers chatted about inconsequential things while they worked, Scott pitching straw into two stalls and laying out oats for both animals, while Johnny unsaddled Barranca.  They put the black horse into the stud stall, the one used to confine the occasionally intractable stallion or bull.  Specially reinforced, with extra-high railings, it would contain the animal until they figured out what to do with him.

The black horse went in readily, tail switching, and stood in the far corner of the stall.  He turned his tail on them, ignoring both the food and the men. Further down, Barranca regarded them over the half-door of his stall, mouth moving as he chewed steadily on a mouthful of oats. “There’s a good fella,” Johnny told him, giving him a pat as they passed by on their way out. “See you tomorrow.”

“Never seen a horse act like that,” Scott said, indicating the black stallion.  “Is he sick?”

“No,” Johnny replied.  “Unless you count sick at heart.  He got a terrible beating and that was just the one I saw.  Who knows what else happened to him?”

They returned to house and sat down at the table where Theresa had laid another setting. The lamp over the large, heavy dining room table cast a warm pool of light, gleaming off the heavy silverware and illuminating the glasses.  The mingled aromas of pot roast, hot biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes, and a few vegetable dishes rose into the air, making Johnny’s mouth water.

He grinned at them.  “I’m starving!”  he said, grabbing for a biscuit and tossing it quickly from hand to hand as it burned his fingers, “Let’s eat!”

They began passing platters and filling plates and laughter and clinking silverware soon filled the room.

Theresa went to bed shortly after dinner, pleading tiredness.  Coming to where Johnny and Scott sat playing chess, she placed a kiss on his cheek, giving one to Scott and Murdoch also.  Murdoch rose, offering his arm.  “C’mon honey,” he said, “Let me see you to your room.”  They went off up the stairs, their laughter trailing back down to the brothers.

“Sure is good to be home,” Johnny said, putting his knight down and picking up his glass on the table. He regarded Scott over the rim.

“And how’s that little gal in Morro Coyo?” he asked.

“Eloped with Buck Miller last week,” Scott replied ruefully. “Guess his charms outweighed mine!”

“I’m sorry,” said his brother.  “I know you was sweet on her.”

His brother laughed. “Not that sweet.  Anyway, you win some, you lose some.”

“Sure do,” said his brother.  “Sure do.”

Murdoch had not come back downstairs and the hour was growing late, so they decided to call it a day.  Bidding each other goodnight, they went into their respective rooms.  Soon the hacienda was quiet.

They were jolted awake the next morning by angry whinnying, hooves crashing on wood, and shouts from the vaqueros as the new stallion tried to buck down its stall.  “Jesus!” Johnny said to Scott, who had just burst into his room.  “We forgot to warn the vaqueros not to go near him!”

Pulling on his pant and boots and not stopping for a shirt, he rushed down to the barn, Scott hard on his heels.  Bursting into the barn, they heard the other horses snorting and rearing as the agitated scene affected them.

Startled Mexicans surrounded the stall as the black horse went crazy.  One of them, Vasquez, was clutching a bleeding shoulder where the stallion had bitten him. Another was on the ground nursing a broken arm. Hooves crashed repeatedly against hardwood as the stallion tried to kick his way out of the stall.

Rushing past Barranca, Johnny elbowed vaqueros out of his way as he spoke to the horse.  “Whoa now, easy now,” dragging the syllables out as he made to enter the stall.

“Don’t go in there! Are you crazy?” Scott yelled, grabbing his arm.

“All of you get out of here!” Johnny yelled, trying to shake him off.  “Everybody!”

Murdoch’s deep voice rumbled behind them. “You heard him! Move before he kicks the place down!”

Gathering up their fallen comrades, the vaqueros helped them out the door into the corral, where they all leaned against fenceposts and waited to see what happened next.

“Take him with you,” Johnny hissed, indicating Scott.

“But,” Scott stammered, “He can’t go in there!”

Murdoch, ignoring his protests, dragged him out.  By now, all of the other horses, including even-tempered Barranca, were upset, and the sound of agitated snorting and stamping hooves filled the air.

Johnny put his hand on the latch.  Moving slowly, he opened the door and entered the stall. Making no move to touch the animal, he leaned his back against the door, his voice low and soothing.   Hearing the latch, the animal stopped bucking and lunged for the door, head down, eyes red.

Scott’s abortive movement was stilled as Murdoch put a hand on his arm. “Just watch,” he said, his eyes fixed on his youngest son.

Scott flinched as the animal reared, flinging his front hooves perilously close to Johnny’s face but his brother didn’t move a muscle.  His body, leaning against the door, remained relaxed as he spoke softly to the animal.

The black horse lunged at Johnny, mouth open as if to bite, ears pinned back.  The sight of that explosive fury contained in the same stall as his foolhardy brother made Scott flinch, expecting any second to see his brother trampled into a bloody pulp by the maddened horse.

Murdoch kept his eyes on Johnny, the same thoughts running through his own head.  But there was nothing either of them could do now.

Johnny remained as he was, continuing to speak softly as over a thousand pounds of horseflesh raged mere inches from him.  He knew about abuse, he thought, having been on his own, alone in Mexico, since he was ten.  Sometimes all anybody could do to help was be there.

He realized that it was the sight of the vaqueros that had upset the horse.  Many of them were Mexican, like the man who had beaten him.  Some were of other ethnicities and from other places, but all were dressed similarly.  The frightened animal had just been pushed over the edge.

He waited until the storm played itself out.  The black horse was soon standing, head down and shivering, as Johnny continued to speak to him comfortingly.  He advanced toward the horse, holding a hand out low.    Snuffling, the horse took one step forward to meet him.

By the door, Scott and Murdoch sagged with relief and the vaqueros in the corral looked at each other, relieved and astonished, having expected Senor Johnny to meet his Maker at any second. The other horses slowly quieted down and the tension went out of the morning. 

Johnny stayed with the black horse awhile longer, waving at Murdoch and Scott to go help the injured vaqueros.  Catching the buggy horse in the corral, they began harnessing him to the wagon.  Loading the injured men in carefully, Scott took up the reins and they headed into town to find the doctor.

Emerging quietly, Johnny shut the stall door softly behind him.  He came over to Murdoch, looking sheepish.  “It was all my fault, Murdoch.  I forgot to warn the men not to go near him.”

Murdoch patted him on the shoulder. “The men will be fine, Johnny.  They weren’t hurt that badly.”

“I’ll pay for the doctor, though,” Johnny volunteered, “and for their lost wages.”

“No need for that, son,” Murdoch replied.  “Come on, let’s go finish breakfast.”

They were met on the patio by an anxious Theresa, bubbling over with questions.

“It’s all right, honey,” Murdoch assured her.  “Everything’s fine, now.”

Looping his arms around her shoulders and Johnny’s, the three of them went inside to finish their interrupted meal.

Ch. 7

Scott returned from town a few hours later, stopping the buckboard near the bunkhouse to let the injured vaqueros out, reeling slightly as they did so.  Sandoval had his arm in a black sling, while Vasquez had a bandage protruding from his collar.  Both men were somewhat the worse for drink, Scott having taken them to the saloon in Morro Coyo to help ease their pain.  Each clutching a full bottle of tequila to their chests, they staggered unsteadily into the bunkhouse.

“What’d the doc have to say?” Johnny greeted him upon his entry into the hacienda.

Murdoch looked up from his desk in the great room where he’d been making entries into a ledger.  Theresa was nowhere in sight, having made her apologies and gone upstairs for a nap earlier, explaining that she tired easily these days.

“Vasquez will be good as new in a few days,” Scott told them.  “Sandoval will be in a sling for a month but that’s all.”

Johnny nodded, relieved.  “Sorry you had to miss breakfast.”

“I am kinda hungry, now that you mention it,” replied his brother.  “Think I’ll go out into the kitchen and see what Maria’s got left.”

Returning with a full plate, he set it on the massive dining room table and took a huge bite of the overstuffed burrito Maria had fixed for him. Filled to overflowing with potatoes, scrambled eggs, chorizo, cheese, and green chile sauce, the aroma made Johnny wish he’d asked for one, too.

Murdoch looked back up from his desk and spoke to his youngest son. “You never told us about your trip.  What did you find out?”

Stealing a bit of potato from his brother’s plate, his youngest replied. “Nothing.  Zip, zero, nada.”

As Scott’s mouth was too full for him to speak, Murdoch asked the question for him.  “Nothing at all?”

Chewing, Johnny replied, “Trail went cold in Mexico.  That’s when I decided to come home.”

Swallowing hard, Scott looked at him.  “So they got away clean, huh?”

“Looks like it.” replied his brother.

“Damn,” said Murdoch.  “That was a big haul.”

“Any word from the Pinkertons?” asked Johnny.

Murdoch shook his head.  “Not a word.  The thieves vanished off the face of the earth.  I’m sure it’s too late to recover any of the money.  We took a big hit there.”

The three Lancers looked at each other, concerned.  They had lost a lot of money following a stock sale in Abilene the summer before when the train their agent had been riding in had been held up outside of Stockton.  The robbers had forced everyone off the train, then rigged the safe with explosives.  Their leader, a tall man with a kerchief pulled over the lower half of his face, had done the job himself, long fingers moving expertly as he set the charge, while the rest of the gang kept the passengers at bay.

Using the agent’s description of the outlaws, Johnny had followed them as far as a little town in Mexico, where the trail had dried up.

“And we paid so much for that bull not long ago, too.” Scott commented, referring to the young Hereford they had picked up last spring in New Mexico.

“Worth it, though,” said his father.  “He’s every bit as fine an animal as Samson was,” referring to the herd’s previous patriarch who had died unexpectedly.  “It just left us cash poor and we have a lot of bills to pay.”

At their worried looks, he assured them.  “Don’t worry, we’ll make it.  Such is the life of the rancher, full of ups and downs.”

His words were interrupted by a piercing shriek from upstairs.  Johnny shot out of his chair and took the stairs three at a time, Scott hard on his heels with Murdoch right behind them.  They ran down the long hall and burst unceremoniously into Theresa’s room.  Maria was there before them, having rushed up the back stairs which were closer to Theresa’s room. Smoothing Theresa’s hair back while the girl clutched her hand, she looked at the breathless men.  “I think one of you should go back into town for the doctor,” she said.

The three men looked from Theresa’s belly to her contorted face.  “She can’t be having the baby,” Scott said, “It’s too early.”

The contraction passed and Theresa lay her head back on the pillow, a look of concern on her face.

“I’m only eight months along,” she said nervously.  “He can’t be coming yet.”

They had all fallen into the habit of referring to her unborn child as “he” since Murdoch was so convinced his first ‘grandchild’ would be a boy. 

Murdoch came into the room and sat on the bed next to her, taking her hand into both of his.  “Babies make their own schedule,” he told her soothingly.  “He’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Another contraction gripped her and Scott and Johnny looked at each other helplessly.

Tears started to her eyes.  “Mark’s not here!” she said, referring to her husband, off doing business in San Francisco.  “And I wanted him to be!”

Maria got off the bed and started toward the two boys, making shooing motions toward the door.  Murdoch removed his hands from Theresa’s and stood up as she herded the boys out, smiling down at the girl.

“We’ll be right downstairs,” he said. “Waiting to see my grandson!”  Turning to Maria, he said, “I’ll send Rosita up.”

Bustling forward, she nodded, smiling.  Scott and Johnny stood in the hall, peering over Murdoch’s shoulders.  Johnny blew Theresa a kiss.

“We’ll see you both soon,” he said, smiling.  He received a wan smile in return before Maria shut the door firmly in their faces.

Standing in the hall, the three men looked at each other bemusedly.  Murdoch broke the silence as he led the way down the stairs. “Someone should go tell Sam the baby’s coming,” he said, referring to the town doctor.

Johnny looked at his brother.  “You’ve already been to town once today,” he said, “I’ll go.”

Scott nodded his thanks and Johnny grabbed his hat and jacket, calling for the ranch hands to saddle Barranca as he ran for the barn.

Seated in the great room, Scott and Murdoch strained their ears for any sound from upstairs but the hacienda’s adobe walls were thick.  Rosita bustled up the stairs, carrying towels.  Making a second trip for hot water, she smiled at the two men.

“How’s she doing?” Scott asked, “How much longer?”

The girl only shrugged and smiled again. “Quien sabe?”

“She’s right, you know,” Murdoch said.  “It’s the first, and they take their own sweet time.

His eyes became distant as he recalled the night that he had paced up and down the floor of his study, sweating, before making the decision to send Catherine back to Boston.  It had been for her own safety and that of her unborn child but he’d regretted it a million times over in the last twenty-five years. . How different things would have been, he thought, if Scott had been born upstairs in their own big bed instead of by the side of the road in a rickety wagon while his grandfather Harlan waited to abscond with him.

Scott looked at him, suddenly curious to know more about the night of his own birth.  Questions started to his lips but he refused to ask, deciding it was better not to bring it all up.

Conversation dwindled as both men drifted back into their own thoughts, Scott occasionally rising and going to the window to check for Johnny and the doctor.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve done that,” Murdoch admonished him. “It’s going to be awhile yet.”

“I know,” Scott replied.  “Just checking.”

Murdoch rose and went to the sideboard.  “Well, stop.  You’re making me nervous.”

Pouring Scotch into two glasses, he handed one to his son.  “Johnny will get Sam here no matter what he has to do.  Relax.”

At the sound of a door opening upstairs, they both turned and looked up.  But it was only Rosita, coming down again for some ice for Miss Theresa.

A short time later, they heard rapid hoofbeats approaching and looked out of the great room’s  huge main window to see Johnny riding Barranca at a dead run toward the house.  Skidding to a stop, he tossed the reins to a waiting vaquero and rushed into the house.

“Is he here yet?” he asked breathlessly, as he sailed his hat at the rack and yanked off his coat.

Murdoch had to laugh. “No, son, not yet.”

Grabbing himself a Scotch of his own, Johnny flung himself into one of the chairs facing the desk, stretching out his legs.

“Did you find Sam?” his father questioned.

“Yeah,” his son replied.  “I helped him harness his horse to the buckboard.  He’s right behind me.”

True to his word, a half-hour later, they heard the doctor’s ancient buckboard rattling up to the house.

Flinging open the door, they greeted the old country doctor, who rushed in, clutching his bag and out of breath.

Just then, they heard the first sound from Theresa’s room as a piercing shriek tore through the thick walls.  Elbowing the Lancers aside, Sam rushed up the stairs and they heard Theresa’s door opening, and Maria’s voice calling for the doctor, before it slammed shut again.

Downstairs, all of the Lancer men had risen to their feet, glancing at each other in consternation.  Grabbing up his drink, Johnny drained his glass while Scott and Murdoch looked worriedly at each other.

All three men trod circles in the rug as they paced, turning aside to make room as they passed each other.

Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs and Rosita stood on the landing, smiling at them.  “Come,” she beckoned, “Come and see!”

All three men rushed for the stairs, causing her to shrink back against the wall, laughing. Johnny’s spurs clanked as he raced up the carpeted stairs, the other two hard on his heels. Arriving at the doorway, they all struggled to get through, arms and legs filling the opening and flailing as each strove to get in first.

“Boys!” thundered Murdoch, and his sons stopped fighting to enter the room and stepped back, glaring at each other, as he entered first.

His voice softened as he looked at Theresa, pale but smiling as she lay propped up with pillows, holding her newborn in one arm.  The baby’s face was obscured by the blanket. Sam stood to one side of the bed, snapping his doctor’s bag closed and Maria was off to the other side, smiling widely.

“May I?” Murdoch asked, approaching the bed.  Giving Scott a final elbow in the ribs, Johnny tiptoed in behind him.  Rubbing his ribs and glaring at the back of his brother’s head, Scott brought up the rear.

They crowded close as Murdoch took the baby.  Settling the blanket-wrapped bundle in the crook of one arm, he lifted the blanket.  The baby waved one tiny fist, making bird-like noises as they looked down at the new arrival.

Murdoch beamed.  “My first grandson!  He’s beautiful, Theresa, just beautiful!”

Johnny nodded.  “He sure is, Theresa! Looks just like you!” although privately he didn’t see anything beautiful about the red, crumpled face. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?” he whispered to Scott, who ignored him as he reached out a finger to touch the baby’s fist.  A tiny hand grasped his finger and held it tight.  Smiling with pleasure, he allowed the baby’s grasp and turned to the new mother.

“What’re you going to name him, Theresa?” he asked, “Have you decided yet?”

“His name’s Catherine,” she replied.

Scott looked at her, astonished.  Murdoch glanced at them, frowning slightly, while Johnny laughed outright.

“Catherine!” he said, “That’s no name for a boy…unless…unless it’s a girl,” he added, as comprehension broke over his dark face, followed quickly by the lightning grin that lit his face up like the sun after a storm.

“Hear that, Murdoch? Your first grandson’s a girl!” he laughed.

Scott, grinned, incredulous.  “Is it really?” he asked.

Sam spoke up.  “A fine baby girl,” he said firmly.

They all glanced at Murdoch, who was still looking at the baby, dumbfounded.  “A  girl?”

Theresa nodded.

“Catherine,” he said slowly.  He said the name again, as if he enjoyed the sound of it.  “Catherine.”  Scott thought he saw the sheen of tears in Murdoch’s eyes as he looked tenderly down at the infant in his arms.

Johnny looked from one to other, smiling, as he realized how touched the old man was.  His brow clouded briefly as he wondered about the circumstances of his own birth but it cleared as he put the thought aside.  The past was the past and he knew Murdoch much better now.  Seeing him with the baby, he believed that the old man had been just as pleased at the birth of his second son years ago as he was with little Catherine right now.

Theresa nodded.  “If that’s all right?” she questioned Murdoch.

“All right?” he said, “All right?  It’s more than all right, it’s wonderful!”

Theresa smiled lovingly at her surrogate father, who had been so good to her after her own father’s death.  “Mark and I talked about it, when we first learned I was pregnant.  He agrees.”

Murdoch passed the baby to the boys and they each took a turn holding their new niece, smiling widely as they did so. 

Noticing Theresa’s eyes closing, Maria took the baby from Johnny, turning to place her in the cradle by the bed as Sam shooed the men out.

Back in the great room, Murdoch indicated the crystal decanters on the mahogany sideboard.  “What’ll you have, Sam?  We have to toast my new grandbaby!”

Sam set his bag on a chair and came forward, craggy face creasing into a smile. “Don’t mind if I do, Murdoch,” he smiled, indicating the fine old Scotch.  “Don’t mind if I do!”

Murdoch slapped him on the back and began to pour, still beaming.  “Good job, Sam!”

“I didn’t do much, believe me,” said the doctor, accepting his drink.  “She was almost here when I arrived.”

Sloshing more scotch into three crystal glasses and passing two to each of his sons, Murdoch raised his glass.  Following his example, the other men held up theirs, waiting for him to speak.

Beaming, Murdoch looked at them. “I wish my new grand-daughter two things,” he said, invoking an ancient blessing.  “I wish her roots and I wish her wings.  A lifetime of health and happiness! To Catherine!”

“Hear, hear,” his sons and the doctor replied, clinking their glasses with his.  “To Catherine!”

The toast ended in backslapping and excited conversation about the newest addition to the family.  A few more toasts later, none of them were feeling much pain.

Maria came back downstairs, leaving Rosita to sit with Theresa and the baby and they shoved a glass into her hand, inviting her to toast with them.  Too shy to do so, she covered her mouth with her hand, and ran back into the kitchen, smiling.  A short time later, they heard pots and pans clinking as she began making dinner.

They invited Sam to dine with them and he accepted gladly, knowing what an excellent cook Maria was.  With typical flair, she pulled together a quick dinner for the men, and they were soon seated at the table, suddenly ravenous.

After a hearty meal, Sam sat back and patted his stomach. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the baby.”

“Come anytime,” Murdoch said as he walked the old doctor to the door.  “We’re always glad to see you.”

Tired from the events of the long day, the Lancer men turned in.  The hacienda was soon quiet as its inhabitants slept deeply.

Sometime during the night, Johnny was awakened by the baby’s cry. Pulling on his pants and a shirt, which he left unbuttoned, he tiptoed down the hall and rapped gently on the door.  At Theresa’s “come in,” he entered, finding her handing the baby back to Rosita.

He sat on the bed beside Theresa, one arm going around her as they watched the baby being rocked by the girl. She leaned against his chest as they sat in companionable silence for awhile, fascinated by the new being who had so swiftly taken over their lives.  At Theresa’s yawn, Johnny got up to go, tapping her gently on the nose as he did so.  “I’ll wire Mark in the morning,” he promised, and the girl nodded.

She looked up at him, suddenly wistful, and he knew what she was thinking. “You wish your father were here, don’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.  “And my mother.”

He took her hands in his.  “Well, I wish they were, too.  We’re poor substitutes, but she’ll never want for anything while we’re around.”

She nodded at him, smiling.  “I couldn’t ask for anything more. Good night, Johnny.”

He tiptoed back down the hall and got into his own bed, smiling to himself.  That baby sure was cute, he thought, already losing her red, crumpled look.  He thought of the telegram he’d write to Theresa’s husband in a few hours.  Punching up his pillow, he turned on his side.  In a few minutes, he was sound asleep.

 Ch. 8

At six weeks of age, Catherine had everyone in the hacienda wrapped around her tiny fingers.  Her father had arrived hurriedly a few days after her birth, summoned home from San Francisco by Johnny’s telegram, beaming as he flung himself out of the wagon and rushed up the stairs to find Theresa and his new daughter. 

Johnny had grinned at his departing figure.  “Nice to see you, too, Mark!”

Scott laughed.  “He’s just excited, wouldn’t you be?”

Johnny looked at his brother, as the implications of the question sank in.  Considering, he replied, “Yes, yes, I would. You?”

“Yes,” Scott replied with finality.  “I sure would.”

Murdoch grinned.  “Well, let’s finish planning the fiesta to celebrate the new arrival!”

They were blowing it out, this time, he thought.  And damn the expense, even if they were somewhat crunched for money.  His astounded sons, unused to seeing frugal Murdoch spending money like water, had agreed the occasion called for a party and invitations had gone out to all of their neighbors and the townspeople of Morro Coyo as well as to Mark’s family and friends in Sacramento.  It was going to be the biggest celebration the area had ever seen.   They were even hiring more house staff for the event.  Maria, of course, would be in charge and, on her mettle, had already begun preparations.

As the big day drew near, the hacienda became a whirlwind of activity. Staff cleaned the hacienda from top to bottom, putting new sheets on the beds, oiling the furniture, unwrapping additional china, cutlery, and glassware,  taking down the heavy curtains and beating them to get the dust out, and doing the same for all the rugs. Windows were washed with vinegar and dried with newspaper to ensure they wouldn’t streak. Bars of hand-milled soaps were placed in the guest rooms, along with carafes and drinking glasses and new towels.  Extra blankets were placed in guestroom armoires and every detail that could add to the comfort of Lancer’s guests was attended to. 

Maria and Rosita and their cousins, mothers, abuelas, aunts, and sisters had been cooking for days, everything from tiny Mexican wedding cookies and time-consuming mole sauce to tamales, gallons of fresh salsa, refried beans, hundreds of fresh tortillas, and more.

Already, whole sides of beef and pork were marinating in Maria’s secret sauce before being barbequed slowly in the long firepits that the hands had dug well away from the house.  Gaily colored paper lanterns were bought to decorate the outdoor patio where musicians would play and the dancing would take place and delivery wagons from Morro Coyo and Spanish Wells pulled up daily, disgorging bottles of wine and liquor and food items.

The vaqueros looked at the preparations and at each other wide-eyed, never having seen the notoriously thrifty Murdoch spend so liberally for a party.  They, too, had been invited and were looking forward to attending such a big event, along with their friends and family.

Preparations reached fever pitch as the fiesta neared. The out-of-town guests began to arrive, adding to the general hubbub.  The cows were moved to higher pastures and all the horses were groomed to within an inch of their lives, as Murdoch loved to show off his prize-winning livestock. Even Dewdrop, Jelly’s pet goose, had a fancy new pen from which to observe the proceedings and to keep him from being underfoot.

The big day finally dawned. Leaving Murdoch to stage-direct, and Theresa and Mark to show off the baby, both Scott and Johnny escaped into town around noon, happy to get away from the beehive the hacienda had become.  Arriving at the saloon, they tossed their hats onto the bar and settled onto stools with sighs of relief.  Johnny instructed the barkeep to set them both up with shots of tequila, salt, and a bowl of quartered lemons.

“About time you learned to drink like a native, Boston,” he told Scott, as he poured a little of the salt onto his own wrist and licked it.  “Like so,” he said, tossing back the shot and biting into a lemon slice.  He grinned at his brother.  “Now you try it.”

Scott laughed.  “Hardly seems civilized, but here goes,” he said, duplicating his brother’s actions, and pulling a face as he bit into the sour lemon.

His brother laughed. “Let’s try it again,” Johnny suggested.  “Work on your technique a little.”  Taking up another shot, he bolted the contents, wrist stiff, with the ease of long practice.

Always a fast learner, Scott imitated him perfectly.  They wiled away the afternoon, drinking and talking until Johnny remembered to look at the watch Murdoch had given him.  Whistling softly, he said, “Would you look at that! We better get out of here before Murdoch has our heads, don’t want to be late for the fiesta!"

Rising to their feet and grabbing their hats from the table, they made their way to the batwing doors, weaving slightly as they went.

The ride home cleared their heads and entering via the back way, they snuck in through the kitchen door on their way to the rear staircase.  Johnny paused to filch a couple of cookies from an artfully arranged platter, earning a swat on the hand from Maria, and causing all of the assembled women to follow him with their eyes as he  headed up the stairs. 

One of them, eighteen-year old Conchita, commented admiringly about his black pants with the conchos up the legs, earning her a box on the ear from her mother. “¡Ouch mama! ¡Ese daño! ¡Es la verdad!” she complained, rubbing her smarting ear.  “Well, it is the truth! He’s the best-looking cowboy in California!” she sulked.

“It may be true,” her mother replied, giving her arm a pinch for good measure, “but nice young ladies don’t comment on the fit of a man’s pants!” to the accompaniment of gales of laughter from the onlookers. Rubbing her arm, Conchita sulked and subsided, muttering, into the corner, while resolving privately to dance with the handsome youngest Lancer at least once that night.

Dusk fell while the younger men bathed and changed.  Shaving in their rooms, they heard wagons and carriages pulling up and their occupants tossing happy greetings to the receiving line of Murdoch, Theresa, and Mark, beaming proudly as he displayed his new daughter.  Footsteps passed in the corridor as houseguests made their way downstairs and the sounds of laughter and excited conversation swirled up the stairs and in the open windows. 

“C’mon, Scott!  Hurry up!” Johnny urged, banging open the adjoining door to his brother’s room. “I’m hungry!”

Scott turned, still wiping lather from his chin.  “When aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

“Well,” his brother replied, “You saw the spread Maria’s puttin’ on, all of my favorites!”

Scott grinned, buttoning his shirt.  “Almost  ready.”

Arriving downstairs, both thought that the ranch had never looked more festive.  The estancia had taken on a magical quality, brought to glowing life by the dozens of lights which had been set up everywhere. The gaily colored paper lanterns adorning the patio glowed warmly in the dark and added spots of color. Luminarias lined both sides of the driveway down to the adobe arch and more gleamed atop patio walls and illuminated pathways.  Candles glowed on the long trestle tables covered by checked cloths and flickered in wall sconces. Tall torches had also been set up around the patio and grounds, highlighting foliage and adding shifting patterns of light and shadow to the scene.

A mariachi band on the patio began to play, further enlivening the gathering, and causing guests to sway and clap their hands.  The large crowd was a colorful, moving mosaic by the time the brothers made their way to the patio.  Many guests had glasses in their hands or were filling plates with tapas from the loaded tables. Excited talk and laughter sounded as guests greeted friends and joked with one another.  Some began to dance, adding to the frolicsome feeling.

Conchita paused in the act of setting a platter full of tiny, sugar-dusted cookies down on the buffet.  She inhaled sharply as she saw Johnny join the crowd, laughing as he greeted guests.  He looked exceptionally handsome, she thought, in a new white shirt with embroidery on the collar and the black pants she had admired earlier.  His dark hair gleamed in the torchlight and his white teeth flashed in his tanned face as he laughed at a joke one of the guests had just made. 

She glanced furtively around, making sure her mama and abuela were not in sight, then gave her pink off-the-shoulder blouse with the tiny puffed sleeves a sharp yank downward, leaving her full young breasts perilously close to overflowing.  Smoothing her full skirts and passing a hand over her mane of lustrous dark hair, she pinched her rosy cheeks and bit her lips to give them even more color.

Taking up the platter of cookies again, she began making her way toward the younger Lancer, swaying her hips sinuously as she walked.  It was Conchita’s complete misfortune that her mother, hands on hips, and foot tapping ominously, had observed all of her preparations from the dining room, and now Mama Velez surged forward, just as Conchita reached her quarry. Grabbing her daughter by the elbow, she spun Conchita around and dragged her off, landing another stinging cuff on the unhappy girl’s ear as they reached the shadows of the veranda, chattering in Spanish all the while.

The party grew louder as it picked up.  More couples took to the dance floor, enjoying the lively music, while seated guests swayed and tapped their feet.   It was in full swing by the time the firepits were uncovered and the barbeque brought up.  Whole sides of beef and pork, which had cooked for days, basted often by the ranch hands, were placed on tables and sliced carefully as a wonderful aroma filled the air.  Platters and deep bowls of side dishes were placed on more tables laid end to end to form a buffet, making a mouth-watering display.  Huge kegs of beer were tapped and gleaming bottles arrayed on a table awaited those who preferred something stronger.

Maria banged a steel rod around the rusted sides of the triangle hanging near the kitchen, making the same sound that she used to call the vaqueros in for meals. Hearing it, the guests grabbed plates and lined up, eagerly presenting them for slices of the succulent meats, smothered in rich sauce. 

The mariachi band, by pre-arranged signal, was replaced by a young man carrying a fine guitar.  Seating himself in the center of the patio on a high stool, he began to play a  flamenco, whose beautiful strains were more conducive to dinner-table conversation. Conversation slowed as guests sat at the long tables, devouring the delicious food.

Carrying a heaping plate and a mug of beer, Johnny crowded onto one of the long benches.  Scott slid down to make room, moving his own well-filled plate, and Theresa and Mark looked up and smiled.  Murdoch was at another of the long tables, busily talking shop with his neighbors.  He glanced over at his family and smiled, noticing how much a part of the group Johnny was. 

His youngest, who had often said he “didn’t like his fun organized” was regaling his table with an anecdote as everyone roared.  He’d loosened up quite a bit, thought Murdoch, losing some of that watchful gunfighter edginess that was so much a part of him, and turning more and more into a member of the family and community around him with the passage of time.  He hoped that someday Madrid would be only a distant memory to all of them.

When everyone was seated, Murdoch stood and raised his glass, offering a toast to his ‘new grandbaby’ as Theresa and Mark smiled.  Glasses clinked wildly as everyone toasted the new arrival.

The dancing and partying continued after dinner.  Conchita, aggrieved, was kept too busy in the kitchen to put her plan to dance with Johnny into effect.

“Oops!” said neighbor Hal Weaver, as the crowd jostled him into Johnny, who’d just risen to get more food, “Sorry, Johnny!” as his plate tipped, smearing barbeque sauce on Johnny’s white shirt.

“It’s nothing, Hal,” Johnny replied, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Guess I’ll go change my shirt, though,” he told Scott, putting his plate down on the table.  “Be right back.” 

On his way to his room, he noticed Suzette Dupre, the Cajun dressmaker from Morro Coyo, helping a tiny, bent woman down the stairs.  Dressed all in black, clutching a lace shawl around her shoulders, and bedecked in onyx jewelry, she wasn’t much bigger than one of the style dolls in the window of Suzette’s shop,  he thought. 

“Bonne nuit, Johnny,” Suzette said, as he offered his arm to help the tiny old lady into a chair.  “Grandmere is feeling a leetle out of breath.  She has just come to live with me and she is still tired from the long trip here from New Orleans.”

He maneuvered the old lady careful into one of the blue velvet armchairs as Suzette hovered nearby.  Grandmere arrived in the chair with a reedy sigh of relief, stamping her cane on the floor as she sank into its well-cushioned depths.  When Johnny went to withdraw his hands from hers, she clung to them with surprising force for one so frail, looking into his face with two snapping black eyes.

“Grandmere,” stammered Suzette, “What are you doing? Let Johnny go now.”

The old lady hung on, staring hard into his eyes.  Johnny felt an unpleasant tingle run up his arms as she grasped his hands tightly.  The candles in the wall sconces overhead guttered and went out, leaving the corner in semi-darkness.

“Oh, dear,” said Suzette.  “Are you getting one of your feelings?  You must excuse Grandmama,” she said over her shoulder to Johnny. “She’s the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and sometimes…she sees things.”

“What kind of things?” he asked, momentarily nonplussed.

“The future, what is about to happen, perhaps.  She is not always right!” she added hastily, seeing his forbidding expression.

His brow had clouded as he recalled Jelly’s experience with Anna Burrell, a seer who had once lived in town.   She’d had powers of a sort, he recalled uneasily, but that had been largely obscured by the fact she’d been involved in a hoax that had caused everyone at Lancer a great deal of trouble.  Aah, hell, he decided, what were the odds he’d meet another such seer in this lifetime?  This old lady was probably senile and nothing more.

“Be quiet!” the old lady hissed at Suzette.  “Do not interrupt!”  Suzette subsided, wide-eyed.

Johnny decided to humor the old lady.  Blocking out the sounds of the crowd outside, he knelt in front of her chair, allowing his hands to remain in hers.  “What’s my future, then?” he asked gently.

The old lady’s eyes became distant and he felt a shiver go up his spine.  In a faraway voice, she said, “You are traveling through this life with a divided soul.  There is you, and there is a man who lives by the gun.  You are halves of the same whole.  But both of you are wanderers upon the face of the earth.”

Johnny’s eyes narrowed as he recalled Anna Burrell saying much the same thing once.  Sensing his withdrawal, the old woman clung harder to his hands.  Her own, tiny and blue-veined, were surprisingly warm for such a wizened old thing and they were becoming hotter by the second, he thought uneasily.  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  Involuntarily, he leaned closer to hear.

“This other part of you, this man, he will help you when the time comes.  Call on him.”

“And I see travel.  Much travel.  Alone, always alone.  Searching.”

Distinctly uneasy, Johnny tried again to withdraw but she clung to him, still speaking.  “You have a….nemesis.  This man is truly evil and he will destroy you if he can. He will stop at nothing. You must be careful.  The outcome is not fixed; it could go either way.”

As far as he knew, there were no bounties on his head, he thought ruefully. And he couldn’t think of one particular nemesis, although there were plenty who would like to make their reputations by gunning down Johnny Madrid.  Maybe that was what she meant.

The old lady still wasn’t done although her hands were burning hot by now, he thought uncomfortably, wishing she would stop.

“You will have one true love in this life, one woman you love above all others.  You will have to fight to keep her.  She will either mean your salvation…or your death.”

Murdoch’s voice boomed behind them. “Is everything OK?” It broke the spell.  The old lady relinquished Johnny’s hands and he almost fell over when he tried to stand, one leg having gone to sleep.

He glanced at his father, grateful for the interruption.  The old lady gave him one last piercing glance, and then turned, suddenly querulous, to her granddaughter. “I’m tired.  I must go to bed now.”

She suddenly appeared debilitated, a far cry from the intent seer scrying the future.  Now she was just a frail, old woman, fretful for her warm toddy and pillows propped behind her as she rested between clean sheets.

Murdoch spoke.  “We have a free guestroom.  You’re welcome to spend the night.”

Suzette accepted gladly and together, she and Murdoch carefully maneuvered the old woman up the stairs, like she was some fragile vase they had to be careful not to break.

Johnny sat back on his heels for a minute, thinking. Rising, he worked the kink out of his thigh.  Maria bustled in and re-lit the candles in the overhead sconce.  Looking at his shirt, she shook her head and spoke rapidly.

“I know it’s new,” he soothed her.  “I’ll bring it right down, let you work on the stain.”  Suddenly aware of the music and revelry again, he bounded up the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, anxious to return to the party.

The fiesta was a huge success, continuing until dawn pinkened the hills.  Although most guests had returned home, and the rest had long since retired to their rooms,  a small crowd of rowdy partiers remained when Maria got up to light the kitchen fires the next morning, accompanied by her posse of helpers.  One leftover guest was being sick into the bushes; several were passed out on the patio, and two more were discovered in compromising positions on the back stairway as they all fanned out to start the cleanup.

Staff hauled the passed-out revelers to their feet and helped them into the great room, where they were deposited into armchairs to sleep it off.  Others began the unenviable task of cleaning up, collecting glassware, plates and cutlery and bringing them back to the kitchen and stripping the stained cloths and napkins from the tables and bundling them up for laundry.

Enveloped in clouds of steam, some of the army of helpers began washing dishes while others helped Maria prepare breakfast.  Scott and Johnny were among the last men standing, although both had bloodshot eyes and were weaving slightly when they joined the crowd in the kitchen, waiting for breakfast.

Half-asleep and yawning, Conchita joined her mother and tias as they prepared breakfast burritos, heuvos rancheros, sopapillas, and huge pots of steaming coffee.  She hadn’t managed to steal a dance with the son of the patron last night but she had been able to slip off behind the barn with one of the hands from the Miller ranch, a young man recently come from Mexico.  With his snapping black eyes, white teeth, and thick black hair, he had proven quite a satisfactory substitute for an exciting half-hour.

Carlos was quickly forgotten, however, when she spotted Senor Johnny at the massive kitchen table. If anything, she thought, he looked even better now, with his hair rumpled, beard stubble, and his shirt hanging untucked and half-open to show the mat of black hair on his chest.  Realizing the direction of her thoughts, she caught herself up and glanced guiltily around for her mother, then quickly went back to peeling potatoes.

By the next day, all of the guests had departed, including Theresa, Mark, and Catherine, leaving the hacienda strangely quiet.  The Lancer men, still recuperating from the onslaught, spent the day quietly, talking or working on the books.

There had been one uneasy moment before all of the guests had gone and it had come from Suzette Dupre’s grandmother.  As she was being supported out the door to the waiting carriage, she had beckoned imperiously for Johnny to approach, slipping a heavy gold medallion on a chain into his hand and closing his fingers around it.

“Wear it,” she commanded, waiting until he had slipped it over his head, before turning to climb into the carriage, assisted by two burly vaqueros.

When she had gone, he slipped the medallion out of his shirt and turned it around so the others could see it. 

“A Saint Christopher’s medal,” Murdoch had commented.  “The patron saint of travelers.”

“Why’d she give you that?” Scott wondered.

“Dunno,” Johnny replied, watching the departing carriage.  “Just an idea of hers, I guess.”  He forbore to tell Scott about his strange encounter with the old woman and Murdoch never mentioned it.  He dropped the medallion, already warm from his skin, back inside his shirt and forgot about it.

Life resumed its familiar patterns. Finances improved somewhat as the new bull began bringing in stud fees, the first of his impressive progeny having arrived. The nights became cool and then cold.  Cows were brought down from the high pastures and straw was piled deep in the stalls to protect the horses from the rainy winter nights.

Through it all, Theresa kept them updated on the baby’s progress and the young men laughed as Murdoch read each of her letters aloud.  When Christmas came, they went to Sacramento to spend the holidays with the young family.  Arriving on Christmas Eve, the front door opened with a blast of cold air, and then all the Lancer men were piling in, arms full of gifts, clamoring to see the baby.  Theresa ran to greet them, holding Catherine, and followed closely by her husband.

Catherine looked, wide-eyed, at the strange men who had invaded her home, then held out her arms to her grandfather, giggling.  Delighted, Murdoch swung her up in his arms, cuddling the small face close to his.

“Looks just like you,” Scott commented.

“There is a certain resemblance around the eyes,” his brother agreed.

“I think so, too,” Mark said, “Favors the Lancer half of the family!”

They spent a wonderful holiday season together and the men journeyed back to the ranch after the New Year.  The Lancers were especially pleased to have been there when the baby took her first steps.  She’d been crawling for quite some time, Theresa had told them, pulling herself up on chair arms and coffee tables, and weaving as she tried to stand alone.  Usually, such attempts ended with the baby sitting down heavily as gravity overtook her, sometimes wailing as her bottom struck the hard floor.

One night, after an especially fine dinner, with Scott and Johnny sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, playing chess,  Mark working in a corner, Theresa sewing, and Murdoch reading a book, Catherine had pulled herself unsteadily to her feet.  Murdoch put the book aside, smiling as he watched.  Both the younger Lancers had looked up, expecting the baby to fall backwards on her bottom as she usually did, but this time, she toddled unsteadily forward, straight into her grandfather’s arms.

They had all begun talking and laughing at once, coaxing the baby to do it again as Murdoch put her back onto the floor.  She had toddled to each one of them in turn, giggling at the applause her efforts produced, before being swept off to bed by her proud mother.

Far to the south, in a mean adobe hut in small border town, the holidays were not nearly so merry.  Looking at her reflection in the wavy glass of the cheap mirror purchased for her by a former lover, a young woman turned sideways and pulled her skirts tight against her abdomen, outlining the noticeable bulge.  A sob caught in her throat as she thought of how she’d once wanted this baby, dreamed of it, planned for it, only to have it all turn to bitter ashes when her lover rejected her.

She hated the baby now, it was a constant, bitter reminder of her lover’s perfidy and her own shame.  On this Neuvo Ano, when everyone else in the tiny hamlet was out celebrating, she knew what she had to do.

The girl had wept bitterly when she realized she was pregnant and had tried by every means that she knew to get rid of the baby.  Gallons of pennyroyal tea had not helped, nor had hot baths, or dancing wildly.  Long horseback rides on rough terrain had not ended the pregnancy.  Like a monstrous parasite, the fetus had refused to be dislodged.  Weeping, knowing her soul would be damned for all eternity, the girl had finally made a decision.  Sending her younger brother away and positioning herself carefully on a sheet she had spread earlier on the cold dirt floor, she lay down on her back and pulled her skirts up to her waist.  Reaching out, she picked up a long thin piece of bailing wire.

Spreading her legs, she began to work it into her body, wincing as it scraped against  delicate inner tissues. Tears started to her eyes and she grimaced with the pain as she worked it up to the opening of her uterus and paused for a second.  Drawing a deep breath, she clutched the wire with both hands and rammed it upward.

A shriek tore from her throat and her open legs sagged as consciousness swam away.  But her efforts were rewarded by a gush of blood from between her bare thighs.  It saturated the sheet, puddled on the dirt floor, and still, the blood kept pumping out.

Her younger brother, arriving home unexpectedly, screamed at the sight before him and fled into the night, calling for help.

When the neighbor women arrived, they shook their heads at the sight of the foolish girl, lying gray-faced in a pool of her own blood just as the town’s old drunk of a sawbones rushed up, followed by the trembling boy.

Clutching the boy against her ample bosom to shield him from the sight, Rosa, the next-door neighbor, rushed him outside.  Taking him a little way down the street, she instructed him to wait, saying she would come back with any news.  The neighbor, a large matronly woman, gathered the sobbing boy against her ample bosom and rocked him, crooning soothingly.  Her own brood of five stood trembling and wide-eyed on the other side of the room while her husband, Pablo, spat a wad of tobacco into the fire, making it hiss.

Foolish girl, he thought disapprovingly.  Served her right.  No good could ever have come from such a liaison and a half-breed child would not have fared well in this poor border town.  Better if both of them died now and put an end to it.

Back in the hut, the doctor scrambled through his bag, yanking out rolls of bandages and barking for the women to find towels.  Moving quickly, he put gauze over her mouth and dribbled a few drops of a bitter-smelling liquid onto it. Already three-quarters unconscious, the girl was quickly in an ether-induced sleep.

Yanking her blood-soaked skirts aside, he positioned himself to her right. Taking a scalpel out of his bag, he made several quick incisions, lifting the fetus from her body.

The women turned their heads, trying not to be sick but not before one of them glimpsed what the doctor had just delivered. 

Ch. 9

That Christmas sure was a good memory, Johnny thought as he trudged wearily along, his saddle over his shoulder, and the desert sun beating down on him.  Thirsty and half-glareblind, he raised his eyes, noticing the lone buzzard circling overhead.  He grinned slightly at the sight of it, causing his blistered lips to crack and bleed.  Trouble was, it didn’t look like he’d be around for any more of them. 

Weak and dehydrated, he thought longingly of that Christmas season, the cool air, sharp with the spicy scent of pine garlands on the doors, and redolent of the boughs Theresa had used for centerpieces.  He wished he could feel it on his face now. His empty stomach rumbled as he recalled the wonderful dinner they’d had, so delicious in every way, on the night the baby had taken her first steps.

For dessert, Theresa had surprised them by bringing out a platter full of tiny, edible figures she’d made out of marzipan.  There’d been holly wreaths, Johnny remembered, Christmas balls, angels, even a tiny Papa Noel.  He’d picked his up, marveling at all the work that had gone into it as he turned it around, examining it from all sides before biting Pere Noel’s head off.  He had grinned, surprised, as the sweetness flooded his mouth, delighted at the delicate almond taste.  Marzipan had instantly become his new favorite thing and he badgered Theresa to make more before they left. She had pressed a tin of the confections into his hand just before they boarded the train, smiling.

The family had laughed at his reaction that night. Like a rare bird plunked into their midst, Johnny was a never-ending surprise to them.  Murdoch often thought his love of sweets was a reaction to the deprivation he’d endured as a child, as was his fondness for the excellent meals the rest of them took for granted.  Johnny, he had noticed, never did.  He had a childlike enjoyment of meals, savoring each one as though it could be his last.  He was always the first to compliment Maria and she pampered him shamelessly, making his favorite treats at every opportunity.

He’d a hell of a sight rather be back in that Christmas Eve, Johnny thought, than trudging through the Sonoran desert, afoot because his horse had stepped in a prairie dog hole and broken his leg.  Johnny had had no choice but to put him out of his misery.  It was no one’s fault, not even the horse’s, just the kind of plain bad luck that occasionally overtook a man.

He thanked God the horse he’d been riding wasn’t Barranca.  He wasn’t sure he could have shot his Palomino.  But Barranca was gone, he thought. Dead after a savage fight with the black stallion he’d rescued in Mexico.

It had happened while Johnny was away on a trip to Abilene.  He’d gone along to protect the Lancer’s livestock agent, the one who’d been robbed when the train he was riding on had been held up right after the sale of the herd last year.   Lancer had barely scraped by after losing that money and he wanted to lend Madrid’s gun just in case anyone got any ideas.

The original plan had been for Scott to go, but Scott had come down with a terrible cold after falling into a stream while clearing debris.  Red-nosed and hacking, he’d looked pretty pitiable when his brother had come in.  He clearly wasn’t up to it, and Johnny decided to take his place.

He’d returned a week later, taking the train back with the agent.  But the trip had been uneventful.  No robbers appeared and he’d arrived back in Morro Coyo in record time without having cabled his family in advance as to the exact hour of his arrival.

Going straight to the livery stable, he had expected to see Barranca there, dropped off to await his arrival, and was surprised to see another of the estancia’s horses, a sorrel with a white blaze, instead.  A handsome animal, and sturdy enough, he knew, the first worry niggling at his mind.  Something, he thought, must be wrong.    He put the thought aside.  It didn’t have to be something serious.  Could be something as small as a stone in Barranca’s shoe that had caused irritation, a little lameness easily cured with rest.

Flipping a coin to Fred, the heavyset blacksmith, he saddled the other horse.  Arriving home in the twilight, his family and Jelly came out to greet him.  They looked noticeably somber, he thought uneasily, and their welcome was more subdued than he was used to getting.

All of them, including Murdoch, began talking rapidly, as if to deflect the question they knew was coming and he finally broke into the inane chatter when they were all seated in the great room.

“What happened to my horse?  Where’s Barranca?” he asked.

Scott and Jelly looked away, not meeting his eyes.  Murdoch sighed, then looked him squarely in the face.  “He’s dead, Johnny.  Killed in a fight with Diablo,” which was the name he’d given the rescued black stallion.

“Dead?” he’d questioned, stunned.

Scott swung around to face him.  “They fought, Johnny.  Over a mare.  That black horse went crazy.”

Murdoch chimed in.  “It must have been the mare that set him off, Johnny.”

A new mare had come in, he explained, captured as part of a wild horse roundup on Lancer property. Light gray in color, dainty and beautiful, she had Arab blood and was clearly in season. They had decided to put her in with Barranca in the breeding corral.

Johnny interrupted.  “But wasn’t Diablo in his own corral?”  Immediately after the horse’s arrival, the vaqueros had built a new corral, with reinforced posts, adding additional rails to accommodate the horse’s height and uncertain temperament.  The new corral had been much higher than normal and they’d been confident the stallion couldn’t escape.

On this day, Scott continued, the black horse had spotted the mare and lifted his head up, looking closely.  Something about her had shaken the horse from his normal ennui and he had begun pacing as he watched Barranca courting the mare.

He’d become increasingly agitated but the watching men had remained unworried, secure in the knowledge Diablo was safely contained, right up until the minute he escaped.  Gathering his legs beneath him, he had made the mightiest leap that any of them had ever seen, soaring over the top rail like a beautiful and evil bird.

The vaqueros who witnessed the incredible leap had gaped, dumbfounded, as the huge stallion immediately made for the breeding corral, leaping in as if the six-foot fence were nothing. Possessive and bad tempered, Barranca had immediately challenged the newcomer and the squealing and thudding of hooves pounding hides filled the air.  The stallions had fought savagely, each determined to vanquish his rival while the mare backed away to the far side of the corral, wide-eyed and snorting.

The vaqueros had rushed, yelling, for ropes and pitchforks with which to separate the two, knowing in advance it was useless.  The whole scene played out with horrifying suddenness.

Drawn by the nightmarish squealing, Murdoch had run out, knowing it was impossible to separate two animals mad with blood lust in time to save one of them.

Much bigger and heavier than Barranca, the black horse fought with a savagery they would not have believed possible, inexorably beating the smaller stallion back. Refusing to give ground, the smaller horse had put up a valiant fight but Diablo, true to his name, had fought like one possessed.

On their hind legs, each struggling to tear out the other’s jugular vein, the horses had been locked in mortal combat when they crashed through the fence.  Released from paralysis, the vaqueros seized the chance to rush in, arms flailing and shouting, jabbing pitchforks at the black horse to drive him back.

With a crack of thunder, the skies had opened, releasing a deluge while they struggled to contain the savage animal. Dragging the mare into the barn, they quickly put her in the stud stall, where the stallion immediately followed.

When the vaqueros looked up, Barranca was gone.  It was the way of the world, the vaqueros knew, for injured animals to go off to die alone and Barranca had looked mortally wounded, covered in blood, and limping badly.  Sandoval and Vasquez had quickly saddled up and gone looking for him but the downpour made it impossible to see more than a foot in front of their faces and washed away tracks as well.  Grave and silent, the soaked vaqueros soon gave up, returning to the bunkhouse in defeat.

In the great room, Murdoch’s face was like stone. The click of a gun’s chamber being loaded made him look up to see Scott putting bullets into his gun.

“What’re you doing?” he asked Scott, restraining him with one hand on his arm as he prepared to leave the house.

“What somebody should have done a long time ago!” Scott snarled.  “Killing that horse!”

“That’s for Johnny to decide!” thundered Murdoch.  “It isn’t up to us, Scott!

Scott shook him off and went onto the patio.  Murdoch followed him, undeterred. Oblivious to the pounding rain, anger writhing on each face, they stood toe to toe, shouting, as water drenched them.

“It’s the way of the world, Scott!  It isn’t the horse’s fault!”  Murdoch yelled.

“Johnny loves…loved…Barranca, Murdoch!  He won’t be able to stand the sight of that black demon when he gets back…he’ll want him gone!  I’ll spare him the trouble!”

Looming over Scott, head and shoulders bent against the rain pounding his back, Murdoch made an effort to lower his voice and defuse the situation.

“He does love Barranca, Scott, but it has to be his choice.  He’s worked so hard with Diablo.”

“Yeah,” Scott snarled.  “For all the good it’s done!”

Murdoch’s shoulders slumped.  The black horse was still moody and impossible to handle. Most of the vaqueros refused to go near him.  Because of his temperament, he’d had secret doubts about breeding him, not wanting to pass on such an undesirable characteristic.  Johnny was the only one who could deal with Diablo, even slightly.

When no reply was forthcoming, the anger went out of Scott, too.  Hair plastered to his skull and rain dripping into his eyes, he dropped his angry gaze from Murdoch’s face, still clutching the gun.

“Johnny loves both of them, doesn’t he?” he asked his father.

“Yes, Scott,” the old man replied simply.  “He does.  That’s why it has to be up to him.”

They had returned to the house, dried off, and changed clothes. They’d sat at the dinner table, grim-faced and silent, getting up with most of the meal untouched and gone into the great room.  Jelly, claiming an incipient cold, had honked loudly into his handkerchief and left, saying he was going to bed early.

Maria had clucked sadly when she came to clear the table, eyes filling with tears as she looked at Johnny’s empty place.  His heart would be broken at the loss of his stallion, she knew, although he would hide it as best he could.

Rosita, in the kitchen, had been sniffling all afternoon.  “So sad, “ she thought, having a soft spot in her heart for animals in general, so sad never to see Senor Johnny galloping up on the golden horse again, and sad for poor Barranca, too.  She wondered if even now, he was engaged in dying alone in the pounding rain out on the lonely mesa.  For his sake, she hoped it was already over.

Arriving home the next day, Johnny had sat in stunned silence, listening to the tale.  At its end, he had sprung up and taken his Colt out of its holster.

“Johnny!” Murdoch had said, laying a hand on his arm.  “Don’t do this!”

Johnny had shaken him off and strode rapidly for the barn, Murdoch and Scott right behind him.  Reaching the barn, he’d gone directly to Diablo’s stall.  The horse looked at him quietly as he entered.  Extending his arm, Johnny had pointed the Colt directly between the animal’s eyes and drawn the hammer back.

Behind him, Murdoch and Scott had braced themselves, waiting for the shot.

Ears pricked, the animal had regarded Johnny intently, without fear, and suddenly Johnny’s shoulders had slumped.

Scott’s body was full of tension as he watched. Diablo was completely unpredictable.  He had no love for anyone, not even Johnny, and even the seasoned vaqueros feared and distrusted the animal, with good reason.  But the horse only regarded his brother quietly, his large, intelligent eyes fixed on Johnny’s face.

Lowering the gun to his side, Johnny’s dark head drooped, and sadness was evident in every line of his body. He spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper.  “It won’t bring Barranca back.”

Scott held his breath but Murdoch replied.  “No, son, it won’t.  I’m sorry.”

Johnny had left the stall and swiped his arm over his eyes, the gun still in his hand.

Murdoch wanted to put his arms around the boy but knew the gesture would be met with resistance.  Scott had no such reticence.

His own heart breaking, he went swiftly to Johnny and put his arms around him.  “I’m so sorry, brother.” he whispered.

Johnny leaned his head on Scott’s shoulder for an instant, the merest whisper of time.  Then he straightened up, shaking off the embrace.  “I’m all right.” he had said.

They had returned to the house in silence.  Johnny had excused himself and gone to his room, pleading tiredness. 

Although the vaqueros and Scott searched in secret, the horse’s body was never found.  But, as Scott thought to himself, that was no cause for hope.  A wolfpack could drag even a horse carcass off and bears and other predators could disperse the bones.

They had never mentioned Barranca again.

Johnny had taken to riding whatever horse he caught out of the remuda, partial to none, although he took the same care to attend to their needs and keep them well-cared for that he had shown his Palomino.

A month or so later, at a meeting of the Cattleman’s Association, they had gotten wind of another Pacific and Western train being robbed outside of Sacramento.  The gang had forced everyone off the train and their leader, kerchief pulled over his face, had rigged the charge that blew the safe open himself.  This gang had struck with increasing frequency, Vick Roberts had told them, and increasing boldness, although there was still very little to identify them.  Their leader, besides being tall, was unremarkable, his hair and features well-hidden under a hat and neckerchief.

Pacific and Western had put Pinkertons on it but the gang had eluded capture with an ease that caused some to whisper that they had accomplices in high places.

It might be time, the cattlemen had speculated, to put federal marshals on the trains.

While they lobbied in Sacramento, four more trains had been robbed.  The Lancer men had looked at each other, concerned, when news of the last robbery reached them.

“It’s becoming unsafe to do business,” said Murdoch.  “We can’t afford another hit like we took last year, we’ll lose the ranch for sure.” 

All of the ranchers in the area had become edgy.  Finally, they had come to Murdoch with a proposal.  The feds weren’t doing anything, they had pointed out. Even the Pinkertons, famous for getting their man, hadn’t had any luck.  The reason, they had figured, was because the robbers were hitting the trains and then fading back into Mexico.  The Mexicans, always suspicious of northern authority, were silent, refusing to offer any information that could lead to their capture.  Not only that, the cattlemen told Murdoch, they were probably afraid of reprisal.  They had reached a stalemate.  Then they had thought of Johnny.  Or more accurately, they had thought of Johnny Madrid.

Johnny, they had told Murdoch privately, was their last hope.  The Miller ranch had just gone into foreclosure and two more were being taken by the bank after train robberies siphoned off their operating funds.

Referring uneasily to Johnny’s parentage, they had pointed out that he’d grown up in Mexico, spoke the language, and could fade into the background, whereas the Pinkertons and the feds stood out like sore thumbs.  Johnny, they said, had a good chance of succeeding where the others had failed.

Murdoch had listened quietly, then refuted the idea in no uncertain terms.  “I won’t put my son in that kind of danger!” he had shouted at Vick Roberts, the president of the Rancher’s Association.  “And anybody that puts that idea to Johnny will have to answer to me!  The answer is no!”

Johnny had walked in at that moment, tossing his hat on the table and looking at them all.  “I could hear you all yelling way out in the yard.  Ask me what?”

The cattlemen had shuffled their feet and picked up their hats, not looking at him.  They exited hastily, none of them willing to cross Murdoch on the issue.

When they had gone, Johnny again asked Murdoch again what had been going on.  They had gotten into a fight when Murdoch had cut him off sharply and Johnny had gone into town to cool off.

In the intervening months, he had picked up a smattering of the Cattleman’s Association’s plan and had discussed the idea of going with Scott, who was also roundly against it.

“You don’t owe them a damn thing,” he’d told Johnny angrily.  “They wouldn’t do it for you.  Don’t go putting your butt on the line.”

Johnny had nodded, recalling the reluctance of many of the cattlemen to accept him when they’d found out he was Maria’s son, and half Mexican.  There had been a certain coolness shown him that they had not shown to Scott.  As the ranchers had gotten to know him, the issue of his parentage had faded for many of them as they learned to accept Johnny on his own merits.  But others had not been so forgiving.  Privately, they called him a half-breed, and a gunfighter, even though he’d given up the profession.  Now there, the cattlemen said, there was a combination for you.  Johnny Madrid Lancer was not to be trusted.

He knew what they said behind his back and he knew who said it.  In his heart, he agreed with Scott.  Those ranchers had no love for him and no one would shed a tear if Madrid got himself killed down in Mexico.  Just one more half-breed out of the way, they’d say, and most likely, they’d celebrate his passing with a drink.

Johnny trudged wearily on.  At some point, he dropped the saddle.  It was just too damn heavy, he thought.  He was running out of time, and he knew it.  A man could last a month without food, less than two days without water.  They didn’t call these the badlands for nothing, he thought.  Empty and arid, the trackless wastes barely supported stunted cacti.  He’d tried getting fluid out of one but it had made him sick, causing him to lose more precious bodily fluids.  There was no shade for miles in any direction.

He glanced up again.  One buzzard had become four.  His blistered lips curved into a ghost of his usual devil-may-care grin. His head ached and his leg muscles, starved of nutrients, began cramping up.

His foot struck an object, knocking it aside and causing him to glance down.  The tiny white object rolled a little way before coming to a stop. He barely registered it as a baby’s skull before he sprawled, face down and unmoving in the sand.

Ch. 10

One of the buzzards spiraled down, the shadow of its wings falling like a dark crucifix over the prostrate man.  It plopped into the sand, thrusting its ugly bald head forward, beady black eyes gleaming, as it hopped toward him.  Its hooked, yellow beak, made for rending flesh from bones, opened eagerly as it neared.

Drawing its head back, it was poised to drive the cruel beak into the man’s flesh, stripping off a hunk, when a shout rang out.

“Hey, get outta there!” a boy cried, running forward.

A rock whizzed forward, striking the bird in the breast, and driving it back.  Beak opening with a hiss of anger, it took three running steps forward and was airborne, the downdraft from its long wings disturbing a loose tumbleweed.  Winging strongly away from the unwelcome interruption, its nonplussed companions quickly followed in its wake.

The boy ran up and rolled the unconscious stranger over, eyes widening as they fell on the distinctive silver and turquoise belt.  Laying his fingers to the pulse in the throat, he determined the man was still alive, but barely. Rushing back to his faithful burro, Herman, he urged the creature forward. 

Using all his strength, he slipped his hands under the man’s armpits and pulled him to a sitting position.  Breath whistling between his teeth, he heaved again with a strength borne of determination.  By dint of much pushing and pulling, he managed to drape the unconscious man over Herman’s back.  He led the burro away, holding the reins with one hand, and steadying his burden with the other.

Crossing the desert floor at a trot, he arrived at a small adobe hut, calling for his uncle, who flung aside the blanket nailed over the opening and rushed out. 

“Quién es éste? ” he asked the boy, frowning at the unconscious man. 

“I found him in the desert! We have to help him!” the boy blurted, all in one rush.

“Why should we help a stranger…and a gunfighter at that?” Tio Julio replied, his thick black mustache bristling as he observed the tied-down gun.  He shook his iron gray head, still flecked with black, at his nephew.

“I know him,” the boy replied.  “He was kind to me once.”

Uncle Julio’s brow cleared.  Dragging the man off the burro, he carried him over his shoulder and propped him in the shade of the hut.  He felt for the man’s wrist, noting the pale, clammy skin and rapid pulse.

Recognizing the signs of heatstroke, he spoke quickly to the boy.  “Get me fresh water, quickly.  We have to cool him off.” 

The boy nodded and rushed off.  Almost immediately, he was back.  His uncle had opened the man’s shirt and was fanning him with a bit of broken board from the steps.

“Gracias.” he muttered to the boy.   Moving quickly, Julio dipped a rag into the bucket and began sponging the man’s face and wrists.  He remained unconscious, occasionally mumbling something unintelligible.

Tio Julio frowned, knowing he had to get the man’s temperature down before his brain fried in his head.  Picking up the bucket, he dashed its contents into the man’s face, motioning to the boy to get more from the tiny artisan well behind the hut. 

The shock made the man open his eyes.  Jolted by the vivid blueness, Julio backed quickly away.

“He’s a gringo!” he told the boy.

The youngster nodded, his English deserting him.  “Si, tio.  Pero él era un amigo a mí y al Lupe!”

The mention of the dead girl made his uncle pause.  Making up his mind, he hauled the stranger to his feet and dragged him onto the blanket-covered platform that served as a bed.   As the man showed signs of coming around.  Julio held a rusty tin cup to his lips, forcing him to take a sip.  Realizing what it was, the man gulped thirstily at the liquid.

Bewilderment showed in the blue eyes as the stranger rested his head back against the thin, grimy pillow.

“Va a dormir.” Uncle Julio told him. “Todo está bien.”  Obediently, the stranger closed his sapphire eyes.

When he awoke the next day, they fell immediately on the boy sitting beside the bed.  The stranger’s black brows knit together as he tried to recall where he’d seen the child before.

The boy smiled with pleasure.  “Senor Johnny.  Johnny Madrid.”

The stranger smiled back, putting a hand to his head.  “That’s me all right. But…”

The boy spoke quickly.  “Wait, let me get you some breakfast.”  Going to the small fireplace, he took the kettle off the hook and spooned some stew into a bowl, bringing it back to Johnny.

As Johnny sat up, the child propped the pillows behind him.  Resting his back against them, Johnny realized he was starved.  The food cleared his brain.

“Meredith’s funeral,” he said, gazing at the boy.  “You were there, with your sister, Lupe.  I remember now.”  He looked around.  He and the boy were the room’s only occupants.

A rectangle of light pierced the blackness of the room as Tio Julio pushed the blanket back from the opening.  Putting a hand up to shield his eyes, Johnny looked up at the man crossing the room.

Although his lips were puffy with sun blisters, the young man looked much better today, Julio thought.  And he’d sustained no brain damage, as his conversation with Manuel proved. 

“Here,” Julio said, filling the tin cup with water and thrusting it at Johnny. “You need to drink.”

Johnny sipped obediently as his mind whirled. 

Reading his thoughts, Julio spoke.  “I am the boy’s uncle.”

“He’s a long way from home, isn’t he?” Johnny questioned.

“This is his home now,” the man replied.  “Ever since his sister died.”

Johnny frowned, puzzled.

The boy spoke up.  “It was all that gringo’s fault!  I hate him! I’m going to kill him someday!”

Julio spoke quietly, jerking his head toward the door.  “Manuel, Herman needs tending.”

Casting a last glance at Johnny, the boy pulled back the blanket and left.

Picking up a pot of tallow from the table, Julio pulled the hut’s one chair close to the bed.  Handing it to Johnny, he indicated he should dab it on his cracked lips.  Sighing heavily, he began to explain.

“Lupe is dead.  And that town was no place for Manuel after the child was born. I took him away.”

“Dead?  How?”  Johnny asked, recalling the young woman he’d caught spying on him and Bob Hoskins in the storeroom of a cantina one day.

“Foolish girl.  She was pregnant…with a gringo’s baby.  And when she couldn’t get rid of it any other way, she…” he paused, swiping at his eyes, as he searched for the right words. “She got rid of the baby herself.”

At Johnny’s horrified look, he nodded.  “The man had been her lover and she hoped to marry him. She thought he loved her, but he did not.  He used her and then threw her aside.”

“How’d she work in a saloon?  If she was pregnant?” Johnny asked, not understanding. 

“She hid it for a long time. She still hoped the man would do right by her. Manuel said even he had no idea she was pregnant.”

Johnny shifted uncomfortably on the bed, knowing what was coming.

Julio explained. ”Everyone knew he was her lover.  It made her an outcast.  People did not approve.  No one wanted a half-breed child around except Lupe.”

His niece had finally given up hope when she had gone to the man and explained, hoping he would help her, Julio said.  “The gringo said Lupe was a slut, that girls like her were a dime a dozen, and that he already had a new woman.”

In despair, she had gone home and tried to get rid of the baby herself, alone on New Year’s Eve.  “She bled to death,” Julio said sadly.

Johnny rubbed his chin.  “And the baby?”

Julio looked away.  “Aahh, the baby,” he said sadly.  “The baby was…not normal.  The women screamed when they saw it.  One of them sent her husband to find me, before the townspeople turned on Manuel.”

Hurriedly harnessing his burro to his tiny cart, Julio had rushed to the adobe hut of his niece and nephew. A blanket-covered form rested on the hardpacked dirt floor, which was marred by a huge pool of drying blood.  The women stood in a circle, whispering, as the doctor took up the shawl-wrapped baby.  One of the women made the sign for protection against the evil eye.

Taking the bundle from the doctor, Julio had gasped at the sight of the newborn’s cleft palate and outsized head.  One eye was askew, bulging from the pressure inside the skull.  The baby was horribly deformed, he told Johnny sadly. There was no chance it could survive.  Julio had known immediately what he must do.

Townspeople were already gathering as he loaded Lupe’s blanket-shrouded body into the two-wheeled cart.  Returning to the hut, he had hidden the baby under his ragged serape and clutched Manuel against his side.  Boosting the boy into the cart, he had had already lifted his foot to step up, just as a stone bounced off his arm.

Julio had staggered as another one struck his head, opening a jagged cut and causing a trickle of blood to run from his temple.  Mutterings arose from the crowd.  “Mala suerte!” one of them had hissed.

“¡Monstruo! ¡consígalo ausente!”  The woman who had thrown the last rock looked at him, eyes narrowed in her pinched face. “¡Slut! ¡puta del gringo!”

The doctor had rushed out, shouting, he told Johnny.  In a commanding voice, he had cried that they were to be left alone, that Lupe’s sins were nothing to do with them.  He had been enough of an authority figure that the crowd had allowed them to pass.  Several of those with rocks in their hands had dropped them,  muttering.  Many crossed themselves. 

They had not gone back to his tiny house on the edge of town, lest the mob change its mind, Julio said.  Instead, they had struck out into the desert, making for this ancient shack, the former home of Marty, the old hermit, who had recently died.  Many had thought Marty loco.  Some had whispered that he was a brujo, a witch.  Either way, the townspeople had not come after them.

The night had been clear, the hut clearly visible against its backdrop of stars.  Stopping, Julio removed a bottle from his pocket and offered it to Manuel, instructing him to take a big drink.  The shaken boy had coughed as the liquid fire coursed down his throat.  His head had begun to nod as the events of the night caught up with him.

Pinning the blanket back against the crooked nail on the doorframe, he had led the boy inside by the stars’ glow and helped him into the bed.  Instructing him to take another drink, he had drawn the ragged covers up to the sleepy child’s chin.  When he heard the regular breathing of sleep, Julio had taken the baby, which still had made no sound, out of his serape and looked at it.

“Pobrecita,” he had thought, at the sight of the tiny, misshapen form.  Peering closely, he saw that the baby girl had blonde wisps covering her outsized head.

“A judgement of heaven,” he thought sadly.  “A judgement against my foolish niece and her reckless actions.”

He had taken the cart out into the desert, he told Johnny.  It had been a very long trip, with the dead body of his niece jolting in the back and the monstrous bundle on the floorboards at his feet.  Night blooming cacti had opened around him and bats had flicked overhead as he went.  The night was so clear, he could see his way easily.  When he was far enough away, Julio had laid Lupe’s body, still in its shroud, on the ground.  He placed the baby next to it.  Clasping his hands before him, he had whispered a brief, soundless prayer.  Then he had traced the sign of the cross and turned away.

When his nephew had awakened the next morning, Julio was already back, and had drawn water from the tiny artisan well.  A skinned jackrabbit lay on the table.

They had been here ever since, he had told Johnny sadly.  They didn’t dare go back to the village for supplies and had been barely scratching out a living from the harsh desert landscape.  Sometimes they ate rattlesnakes or managed to catch the occasional jackrabbit in a snare.  It was no life for the boy, he said, but they were trapped.

Johnny sighed.  He knew firsthand the misery a half-breed child would have endured growing up in Mexico, just as he himself had done.  Neither fish nor fowl, as the saying went, belonging nowhere and at everyone’s mercy.  Por Dios, he’d been able to blend in to an extent, at least until people saw his eyes.  A scrappy kid, he’d soon learned to demand respect, first with his fists, then with a gun.

But a girl child, especially one such as Julio had described, would have had no chance, even had she not been deformed.  Her blonde hair would have made her a perpetual target, her “otherness” as visible as a badge.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d been luckier than he knew, Johnny mused.

The talking had tired him and he fell asleep again after Julio and Manuel left to forage for food.

When he woke up, the first thing he saw was his saddle on the rickety table.  They had gone looking for it, they explained. His bedroll lay next to it.

“Yo tengo dinero,” he had said, slipping easily into Spanish.  “There has to be a way out of this mess, for all of us.”  Motioning for Manuel to bring his saddlebags, he rummaged inside for his wallet and lifted it out.  Its contents were intact.

“¡Somos todos los Oídos!” Julio had replied, “We’re all ears!”

The answer had come to Johnny while he slept and now he explained his plan.  They had to find the nearest town, Johnny said.  And they had to get a message to his father, Murdoch.  Once he wired money, Johnny would buy a new horse and continue his mission.  And he would buy both Julio and Manuel a ticket to Lancer.  There, he continued, they would be given jobs and a place to live.

Julio and Manuel looked at each other, astonished.

“It’s beautiful,” Johnny assured them.  “The most beautiful place in the world.”

They looked back at him, mute.  Julio found his voice.  “You would do this, for us?”

“Si,” Johnny assured him.  “Without you, I wouldn’t be here.  Now we just have to find a way to pull it off.”

Huge smiles illuminated their faces as hope replaced resignation.  Julio pulled the chair close to the bed.  “I have an idea.”

Leaving the boy with Johnny, Julio would take Herman and set out for Oaxaca.  It was a long trip, and dangerous, he explained to Johnny.  He had not wanted to put the boy through it and so they had remained in the hut.  Besides, what would they have done when they got there? There was no money for housing or food and Julio was too proud to beg.

Julio told Johnny that he expected to run into trouble when he arrived at the telegraph office.  Mexicans sending wires was unusual. It was entirely possible the clerks would wonder where he’d gotten the money and give him a hard time.

Johnny had thought of that and pulled a ten dollar gold piece from his saddle bag.  “Bribe them if you have to,” he told Julio.

They planned carefully and within the hour, it was settled.  Julio would leave that night, traveling while it was cool.

He packed the panniers the burro would carry with a few meager supplies.  When the moon rose, he hugged his nephew, then offered his hand to Johnny.  “Vaya con Dios,” Johnny told him.  “We’ll see you soon.”

Waking Herman, Julio took the burro’s lead rope and set off, turning often to wave.  In front of the hut, Johnny and Manuel returned his farewell.  Soon, he was out of sight.

Ch. 11

With his uncle gone, the boy turned to regard Johnny.  They looked at each other in the starlight as Johnny put an arm around his bony shoulders.  “C’mon, Manuel, let’s go back inside.”

Entering the rude hut, Johnny struck a match and lit a candle, seeing that the boy looked troubled.  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly, having divined what was on the child’s mind.

“Yes.  No.  I don’t know!” the boy burst out. “Uncle says I must forget it.  But I can’t forget it,” he added, looking at Johnny.

“It must’ve been horrible for you.” Johnny said soberly.

Manuel’s English deserted him. “Si! Y para mi hermana!  My poor sister! You are a gunfighter, no?”

“I was,” Johnny acknowledged.  “Not anymore.”

“Tio said you were, by the way you wore the gun.  Will you teach me how to use it?”

“Why?” Johnny asked gently, although he knew the answer.

“So I can kill that gringo if I ever see him again!” the boy burst out.  “He is the cause of Lupe’s death and all our troubles! I would like him to die, a painful death like my sister’s!”

Johnny sighed inwardly.  The boy’s attitude was certainly understandable.  He remembered another one who had felt much the same way.

To change the subject, he said, “Tell me about this gringo.”

The boy frowned, remembering.  “He used to come into the saloon where Lupe worked.”

“What was a gringo doing in Lajitas?” Johnny asked.  “How long was he there?” The reply startled him.

“He was a train robber.  He came and went all the time, for many months,” the boy said.

Johnny straightened a little, looking closely at the boy.  “A train robber? How do you know that?”

“He told Lupe once, when he was drunk.  They didn’t know I was there.  He said they were robbing trains all over, and then taking farms and ranchos when their owners became too poor to keep them.  He laughed about it.”

“Do you know where?” Johnny questioned.

“California, Tejas, Kansas.  Anywhere they got the chance.  I hated him!” the boy added fiercely.  “Lupe was a good girl before he came along!”

“What did he look like?” he asked the boy.

The child frowned with remembrance.  “He was tall. Very tall! Taller than Tio Julio, taller than the men in the village.”

Johnny leaned forward.  “What else?”

“Thin.  And his hair, it was the color of sunshine.”

“Rubio? Blond?” Johnny questioned.

“Si,” the boy said.  “And long.  Longer than most white men.  He pulled it back into a…a horse’s tail, I think it is called.”

Johnny hid his excitement.  Here for the first time was information he could use.  No one had ever gotten a good look at the man’s face or his hair during a robbery. He’d always kept his hat pulled low and his face covered.

“Do you remember his voice?” he asked the child.

“Si,” Manuel said.  “Deep.  He was not from around here.”

The boy would have no way to place the region, Johnny knew, but it was a good start.

“Gracias, muchacho.” He told the child. “You’ve been a big help.”

“Will you teach me how to shoot?” Manuel demanded.

His face fell at Johnny’s gentle reply.  “No, Manuel.  Not without your uncle’s permission.  But I’ll do the next best thing.”

Already far to the east, Julio walked beside the burro as it plodded through the desert.  He took a deep breath, looking up at the cold fire of the stars.  The full moon lit his way and he realized he actually felt happy.  Despite the difficult task ahead of him, he had something to look forward to and Madre de Dios, so did the boy.  He would not have to grow up alone and ignorant, without education and no companionship besides that of his uncle.

His mind turned to their plan as he walked along.  Turning it over in his mind, he examined it from all angles, trying to find a flaw or something they had forgotten but he found none.  All that remained was for him to play his part. 

Who would have thought, he chuckled to himself, that picking up a half-dead gunfighter would lead to this?  He recalled that he had heard wolves howling in the distance the night before. The desert was full of magia, magic, he knew.  La Loba had surely been nearby, watching.

He was suddenly glad he hadn’t left the stranger to die, as had been his impulse when he realized the man was a gringo.  Half gringo, he told himself. Julio was glad he had acted properly, set an example for the boy.

He slapped Herman on the flank.  “C’mon, Herman, get a move on!”  The sleepy animal picked up his pace and Julio strode beside him, smiling.

At the hut, Johnny and the boy had talked until the child began to nod. Johnny got up, spreading his bedroll outside the door.  He’d be right here, he told Manuel, looking up at the stars.

The boy climbed into the ragged bed, yawning.  Tucking the covers under his chin, Johnny told him, “Buenos noches” and went outside.   Building a small fire, he sat for awhile on the rickety steps, watching it.  Getting cold, he climbed into his bedroll.  Soon, he too, was fast asleep.

Julio walked all night, prodding Herman to keep up.   Growing hungry, he gnawed on a piece of jerky the cowboy had given him.  When he sensed that dawn was near, he began looking for a place to shelter.  Finding none, he erected a small tent, using one of the blankets in Herman’s pannier.  Ground-tying the faithful burro, he took a big drink of water from his canteen and crawled inside, wrapping himself in another blanket.  Soon, he was sound asleep.

Arriving on the outskirts of Oaxaca, Julio donned his serape and sombrero.  Going to the town square, he spread his blanket under the portico with the other vendors.  Upon it, he placed the hand-carved bone figurines he’d made during the lonely months in the hermit’s hut.  He stayed all day, nodding to the passersby, selling a few of his wares, and talking to the other vendors.

At night, he retired to the edge of town, setting up his tent.  The next day, he returned to the portico, following the same routine.  That evening, he made his way to the telegraph office just before closing.  His reasoning had been that the rushed clerk would be too eager to leave to give him a hard time.

Thankfully, he was right.  Although he could not read, he had memorized the information Johnny had given him and he dictated to the clerk while the message was tapped out.  Nodding his thanks, he had bowed his head and tucked his arms under his enveloping serape.

Safely outside, he bought some fresh tamales from a smiling girl with a basket on her arm.  Leading Herman back to the edge of town, he built a small fire.  Pleasantly full, he slept well, wrapped up tightly in his blanket.

The next day, he went into town to where he had heard that a local patron, Don Luis Carillo, would be selling some horses.  Some vaqueros were already there, herding the animals into place.  Eying them carefully, Julio made a selection.  Approaching the vaquero who seemed to be in charge, he jerked his head at the horse he had chosen, asking the price.

The vaquero looked at him doubtfully, but named a figure. 

“Done!” said Julio, counting out coin.  “I will take him with me.” 

He need not have worried, he realized.  Oaxaca was a cosmopolitan city and no one was interested in the likes of him.  If anyone asked, he would say he was taking the horse back to the estancia where he worked, its purchase authorized by the patron.

Leading the animal back to where Herman was tethered, Julio put the panniers back on the burro and started out, leading the horse and prodding Herman in front of him. The journey home was much quicker than the outward bound one had been.   He spotted the rude hut.  His nephew must have been watching because he was soon running to meet him, bubbling over with questions.

“Slow down,” he laughed, hugging the boy.  “Let me catch my breath!”

When he got closer, Senor Johnny also came out, extending a hand in greeting.

Johnny ran a practiced eye over the chestnut, noting the arched neck and sturdy body. Seeing Julio’s anxious look, he nodded.

“Bueno!  He’s a good horse, Julio.”

Julio relaxed again, pleased that he had chosen well.

Looking again at the horse, Johnny thought that he was nondescript.  Although he was well-formed and healthy, there was nothing to make him stand out.  His chestnut color was indistinct when compared to Barranca’s gold, and he was not exceptionally big and temperamental, like Diablo. And that, thought Johnny, was exactly what a man who wanted to blend in needed.

They had watered both animals and gone into the hut, where rabbit stew was simmering.  As they ate, Julio regaled them with his adventures.  For the first time since Julio and Manuel had arrived, laughter filled the little hut.  The telegram had been sent, he told Johnny, producing the receipt. 

“Bueno,” Johnny said, “Muy bueno!”

Harnessing the horse to the tiny cart, and tying Herman behind it, they had packed some meager supplies, and set out for Oaxaca at dusk the next day.  The boy was agog with excitement at the prospect of seeing the big city, asking so many questions that the men finally told him laughingly that he was wearing them out.  With the horse pulling the cart, they had arrived in Oaxaca much more quickly than Julio had.

On the outskirts of town, Johnny had unhitched the horse and put his saddle on him.  Then Julio had harnessed Herman to the cart.  Leaving Julio and Manuel in the town square, Johnny had gone straight to the telegraph office and collected the money Murdoch had wired.  Then he rode to the train depot and bought two tickets.

The town was wide-awake by the time he returned to the square. Vaqueros clattered over the cobblestoned streets, leading strings of handsome horses, country girls with baskets of fresh cheese and eggs wandered along, hawking their wares, and vendors were setting up stalls full of clothes, produce, jewelry, and leather goods.  Cooks and house servants seeking the freshest produce and the best bargains haggled with them, their voices rising and falling as they argued.

The massive stone cathedral, built by Spaniards two centuries ago, soared above the square, dwarfing it.  Old ladies in mantillas and shawls, clutching prayer books, straggled in for services, followed by young girls with their duennas, matrons and others in need of communion.

Manuel had been overwhelmed at all of the sights and sounds, speechless with excitement.  He had turned in circles, mouth open, taking it all in.  With Julio towing him firmly by the hand, they had gone to a clothing vendor, where Johnny had bought both of them new clothes.  They had changed in the vendor’s stall, coming out in new camisas and pants.  They had tossed their old, ragged items into a trash bin, a symbolic end to their old life. 

Spotting a family just in from the country, huddled nervous and lost on the street, Julio had given them both the cart and the burro.  The astonished family’s eyes lit up as they blessed him, thanking all the saints, for now they could hope to make their way.  The children had swarmed over Herman, lavishing him with affection.  Manuel had felt much better at having to leave the burro behind, knowing he would be well loved.

Leading his horse, Johnny had guided them to the train station. He had settled them at the back of one of the cars, pressing a small purse into Julio’s hands as he did so.  Guessing that they would be too shy to eat in the dining car, he had gone down and ordered a lavish box lunch, filling it with more than enough food to last them back to Lancer.  Thinking of Manuel, he had paid special attention to the dessert cart, wishing he could be there to see the boy’s reaction to the Boston cream pie.

Speechless with gratitude, they had thanked him over and over, the boy’s face alight with excitement at seeing his first train, much less riding on it.  The train jerked as the engine was fired up. 

Johnny repeated the instructions again. “Wait at the station when you get in.   Someone will meet you and take you to Lancer.  Adios, muchacho.  Adios, Julio.” 

“Tenga cuidado,” Julio had told him solemnly. “We will be thinking of you.”

Johnny laughed, his white teeth flashing against his tanned skin.  He’d recovered from his bout with heatstroke quickly, Julio thought, with no ill-effects.  He seemed different this morning, with an undercurrent of excitement running through him and his gunbelt back on, buckled low.  He realized that, for all his kindness, the gunfighter was a man to be reckoned with.

“Y tu,” he told the old man, “Y tu. 

He turned to Manuel.  “¡Tenga un buen viaje, muchacho!”

Manuel had looked up, eyes shining worshipfully.  “Vaya con Dios, Senor Johnny.”

The train jerked again, preparatory to departure, and Johnny had turned to go.  Manuel pressed his face to the glass as he went down the steps, watching him as the train began to move.

Soon, Johnny was out of sight and he and his uncle settled back into their seats, on their way to a new life.

Ch. 12

Leading the horse back toward the town square, Johnny paused for a moment, getting his bearings, then swung up into the saddle.  The motion caught the eye of one of the young women being hurried into the cathedral and she glanced up, turquoise eyes glowing behind her white lace mantilla.

Something about the lithe movement struck her but the man’s bearded face wasn’t familiar.  The rose-colored shirt and concho belt were also unfamiliar and she turned away, allowing her duenna to rush her up the steps to the cathedral.

Johnny rubbed his chin for a moment, wincing at the heavy beard.  Recalling where the hotel was, he picked up the reins, urging the horse forward.   He grinned, recalling that he’d almost been executed on the outskirts of Oaxaca once, as a political prisoner.  Now he was back, on a fine horse and with money in his pocket.  Talk about full circle, he thought soberly, knowing how many had perished during the revolution.

Locating the hotel, he stood aside to allow finely dressed ladies and gentlemen to come down the steps.  One of the ladies wrinkled her nose slightly as she passed. He lowered his head and sniffed, a grin tugging at his lips as he realized he did smell a bit ripe.

The desk clerk eyed him askance when he approached, asking for a room, but his mien changed markedly when he got a glimpse into the stranger’s wallet as he opened it to pay.

“Yes, sir,” he said, smiling brightly.  “Right away, sir! A bath and a barber will be right up!”

“Good,” the stranger said in his soft voice.  “And I want somebody to see to my horse, he’s tied outside.”

“Certainly, sir!  We’ll take good care of him!”  Snapping his fingers, he summoned a bellboy, who rushed up, almost skidding on the polished marble floor in his hurry.  Following the clerk’s pointing finger, his smile faded when he realized the baggage consisted of a horse he was supposed to deal with.

“Take him around back,” the desk clerk ordered.  “To the stable.”

The bearded man flipped the bellboy a coin.  “Take good care of him,” he told the young man, whose smile had miraculously reappeared at the sight of the gold piece.  Taking the reins gingerly, the bellboy led the horse toward the back.

Picking up his cup of tea, the clerk’s eyes followed Johnny as he strode, spurs clanking, across the gleaming marble floor.

After a long bath and a shave, Johnny climbed into the bed’s crisp white sheets.  He barely had time to punch up the pillow and roll onto his side before he was sound asleep. When he woke, it was dark and his inner sense told him the hour was late.  Pulling fresh pants out of his saddlebag and putting on the shirt he’d bought that morning, he ran a brush over his thick black hair, smoothing it into place.  Putting his wallet in a front pocket, he picked up his jacket and walked through the lobby, whistling.

He was in the mood for some fun, he realized.  Trying to decide what he wanted most, a drink or dinner, he made his way down the long flight of front steps. Turning left at the bottom, he made his way through the narrow, tree-lined streets back to the square.  Spotting the saloon he’d seen earlier, the desire for a drink won out.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked him, a burly man with his sleeves rolled up and a towel thrown over his shoulder. The nametag on his shirt read ‘Bill.”

“Tequila with lime,” he replied. 

“A popular drink around here,” the barkeep chuckled as he set him up.  “Anythin’ else?”

“Just keep ‘em  coming.” Johnny replied.

“Will do.  And you’re in luck, it’s almost time for the show.” Bill replied, flicking the towel toward the stage.  Its burgundy velvet curtains were currently pulled but the fringe at the bottom billowed occasionally as people milled around behind it.

“Show?” Johnny inquired, around the lime wedge in his mouth.

“It’s somethin’ new management is starting.  Live entertainment--dancing girls.  Be right there,” he replied to the man signaling from down the bar.

Taking his hat, drink, limes, and the salt with him, Johnny chose a table that let him sit with his back to the wall and still see the door.  Tossing his hat onto its polished surface, he sat down, tipping the chair back as he surveyed the room.

The place was a notch up over a typical saloon, by no means a dive, and he looked forward to a relaxing evening.  Tossing back another shot, which the smiling barmaid brought him, he surveyed the crowd.  Force of habit, he thought ruefully.  He saw no one he recognized and the men crowding in looked like a nice enough crowd.  The room began to fill up.  A small, weaselly-looking man with curly sheep’s hair and eyes too close together sat at the center table, where the view was best.  Nodding at Johnny, he beckoned the barmaid by snapping his fingers in the air in a pre-emptory manner.

The barmaid’s good humor began to slip as she was kept running from his table to the bar, neglecting the other patrons, while the weaselly man got more and more soused.

Promptly at ten, the curtain opened.  A line of young women in abbreviated outfits stood onstage, arms about each other’s shoulders.  As the musicians in the small pit struck up, they began an energetic can-can, to the cheers of the crowd.

The beady-eyed man at the next table hooted and catcalled loudly, annoying the other patrons, and Bill soon tapped him on the shoulder.

“Can you hold it down to a dull roar, Jeff?” he asked humorously.

Jeff grinned and ran a hair through his curly hair.  “Sure, Bill, sure,” he replied.

Within minutes, however, he was at it again.  The girls, clearly annoyed, shot him irritated glances from the stage.

Johnny leaned forward.  “Jeff,” he said quietly.  “The girls can’t hear the music.”

In the next instant, Jeff had stood up and overturned Johnny’s table, leaning threateningly over the young man.  Blowing Scotch fumes into Johnny’s face, he leaned an arm against the wall, lowering his head as he spoke.

Are you tellin’ me what to do?” he slurred.  His attitude irritated Johnny.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Bill looking at them and held up a restraining hand.

The second he took his eyes off Jeff’s face, the man punched him in jaw. The younger man retaliated instantly, driving his own hard fist into the man’s stomach, doubling him up and driving the air from his lungs.  Jeff slid to the floor with a whoof! of exhaled breath and the look of a man who was not going to be a problem any longer.

Bill rushed up.  “I’ll throw him out,” he told Johnny, grasping the drunk by one arm. 

“Not on my account,” Johnny said, “I was just leavin.’  Got a long ride tomorrow.”

Picking up his hat, he stood up, leaving a nice tip for the girl. Bill had tucked the small man under his arm and was making purposefully for the back door.

Enjoying the cool, clear evening, he decided to walk around a little before heading back to the hotel.  An odd feeling swept over him, stopping him in his tracks.  He felt suddenly edgy without knowing why.  He shook his head to clear it.

“Now what,” he thought bemusedly, “is that about?  Goose musta walked over my grave.”

He shook his head, laughing at himself, and continued on.  God knew he’d made enough fun of Jelly for believing in seers and looking for signs and portents where there were none.  Johnny Madrid believed in what he could see and what he could touch and nothing more.  Everything else was crazy talk.

Passing a high-walled estate on a dark, tree-lined street, he was startled by a sudden scraping sound from above.  He glanced up just in time to see a boy in jeans and a loose shirt, covered by an embroidered vest, slip from the wall high over his head. He landed directly on top of Johnny and drove him backward into the cobblestoned street, cursing as he struck his head. Johnny instinctively grabbed his assailant by one wrist, holding him as he struggled to free himself.

The boy fought wildly, but silently, as slippery as a rattlesnake and twice as desperate.

Still flat on his back in the street, Johnny realized that something was not quite right.  Giving the boy’s wrists a yank, he jerked him closer, trying to see into his face.

The sudden movement dislodged the cap and a waterfall of long, delicately scented hair swept into his face, just as the shouts of a crowd of drunks was heard up the street.

“Please,” his captive whispered.  “Oh, please, you must let me go!”  Johnny fought free of the luxuriant hair swirling around his face.  Surfacing, he sucked in air.

The warm voice was pleasing but the accent was not one he was used to hearing.

Suddenly, his captive stilled, turning her head toward the house she’d just escaped.  A new note entered her voice, the pleading becoming desperate.

“Please, please let me go!! They’ll hear!”

Johnny struggled to his feet, keeping hold of one slender wrist.

 “Who?  Never mind,” he corrected himself as the drunks from up the street came nearer.  A light went on in the upstairs window of the estate.

“Senor,” she cried, “Please!”

The urgency in her voice decided him. It was too dark to see her face but he felt the agitation in her body.   He grabbed the cap and handed it to her. 

“Here.  Put it on. And come with me.”  He waited as she wound her heavy hair atop her head and stuffed it into the cap.

More lights went on in the house and he moved quickly away, back toward the hotel, leading the girl by the hand. 

With pursuit imminent, she followed silently behind him, taking two steps to each of his one as she struggled to keep up.  He took her around to the back of the hotel, entering through the kitchen, and ignoring the fat cook and a waiter on break.  Looking at the cowboy striding purposefully by, tugging a boy behind him, they raised their eyebrows at each other, then turned away, shrugging.  They would not have guessed he swung that way, but to each his own.

Checking carefully to ensure that no one saw them and walking slightly ahead to hide her, he yanked the girl down the dimly lit hall, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.  Johnny opened the door to his room, giving her a slight push inside.  He immediately turned and locked the door, feeling his way in the pitch blackness.

“What kinda game are you playin’?” he asked angrily, rubbing his head.  “You damn near split my head open.”  His eyes, adjusting to the dim light from the window, made out the girl’s outline in the center of the room.

She surveyed him warily, body poised for flight.

“I wouldn’t,” he said as her head turned to the window.  “We’re three stories up.”

Turning to light the gas lamp, he caught movement from the corner of his eye as she tried to brain him with an ashtray.

“Now, none of that,” he said warningly, taking it away from her and setting it down.

The tensing of her body warned him and he grabbed her just as she bolted for the door.

“Cut it out!” he snarled.  “I ain’t gonna hurt you!”

Grabbing her around the waist with one arm, he lugged her over to the bed like a sack of potatoes and dropped her on it.

“Just sit there,” he snapped. “And don’t move until I get this lamp lit!”

“I mean it,” he said, without turning around. “Or do you want me to paddle you?”

She sniffed.  “You wouldn’t dare!”

Still fumbling with the lamp, he grinned at the show of spirit.  “Try me!”

She struggled up from the depths of the bed, flouncing to a seat on its edge while he lit the gas lamp.  It flickered into uncertain life as Johnny turned to regard her.

A jolt ran down his spine as he looked into eyes of deep turquoise blue, fringed by long black lashes. It couldn’t be, he thought, frowning.  He stepped nearer, peering into her face.  Gunfighters didn’t survive by being unobservant and he knew instantly where he’d seen her before.

The intensity of his gaze scared her and she shrank back a little on the bed.

Such a beautiful face, he thought, even more so now that he could see it closely. She had the loveliest eyes he’d ever seen on a woman. Something seared his soul as he looked into them and he knew his world had just changed forever.  His eyes wandered over her, memorizing each feature. She had a delicate nose, high cheekbones and a jaw which was firm but entirely feminine.  Her lips were pink and full and her tiny ears were free from jewelry.

Her hair, he thought, was magnificent.  Hanging to her waist, it was a deep, glossy brown, shot through with natural highlights. Thick and luxuriant, it framed her beautiful face with a glorious living halo and swung about her as she moved.  His hand ached to touch it.

Her petite figure, bottom fetchingly outlined by the tight jeans, was slender and graceful.  Something appeared to be missing, however, and he realized that she must have bound her breasts as part of her masquerade.  Fine leather boots finished the disguise.

Small white teeth tugged at her lower lip as he studied her and he realized he was making her nervous.  Deciding not to startle her further with any revelations, he stepped back and looked away, sailing his hat at the rack.

Yanking one of the room’s two ladder-back chairs forward, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his chin on the back.

Suddenly he smiled, the glorious smile that lit up his face and made women go weak in the knees without a word being said.  He suddenly looked boyish and young.  “Tell me,” was all he said.

Unable to help herself, the girl eying him warily from the bed smiled in return.  Realizing she had nothing to fear, she began to speak, slowly at first and then faster as her story tumbled out.

She was leaving her husband, she said, and that was why he must let her go at once. 

Breathlessly, she pleaded her case.  She had planned for a long time, watching carefully for the opportunity to escape, and she must not lose it.

He interrupted her quietly.  “It’s not safe for you to be out there alone.”

“I know that!” she said indignantly. “That’s why I’m disguised as a boy!”

He forbore to tell her that her costume was an abject failure, since it accentuated curves that were entirely feminine.

“Why not just get a divorce?” he wondered.

She shot him a withering glare.  “It’s not that easy!  He says he’ll never let me go, that I belong to him.  He said he’d find me wherever I went.”

Johnny’s face hardened.  He hated men like that, who treated their women like chattel.

The drunken voices that Johnny had noticed earlier were suddenly much closer, as if their owners had turned onto the street the hotel was on.  They got louder quickly, as if their owners were making straight for the place.

Seeing the genuine panic in her face, he decided.  Throwing some money on the bed, he turned to her.  “Come on.”

The resolution in his face was comforting.  Besides, she had no other options.

Unmistakably belligerent, the loud voices were now in the hotel.

They slipped from the room and ran for the stable, the girl hugging herself nervously while he saddled his horse.  Mounting quickly, he extended a hand down to pull her up behind him. She hugged his waist tightly as he put spurs to the horse.

They shot out of the open stable door just as shouts rang out behind them.  Johnny flinched as a bullet whined past his ear.  He spurred the horse up the narrow street, its hooves ringing on the cobblestones.

Thanking God it was late and the streets were empty, he prayed that they would outrun pursuit and make it out of the city limits.

Behind him, the girl was praying no less fervently, if silently. 

He felt her cringe as another shot droned past.  Johnny pulled his own gun, looking over his shoulder as he aimed.

Hiding her face against his back, the girl almost strangled him as she clutched him tighter still.

Fury rose in him as he squeezed off a shot. What kind of man would risk killing a woman just to get her back? he thought angrily.

Another shot from behind went wide as he turned forward to guide the horse careening wildly through the streets.  His passenger looked back to see what happening while Johnny negotiated a hairpin turn.

A small man with curly hair plummeted into the street, lying unmoving.  The fat man next to him, realizing what a good target he was making, dove for cover.

The girl pressed her face into Johnny’s back with a shudder of relief.  More shouts rang out from behind but the chestnut had a good head start.  They reached the outskirts of town with the horse winded and blowing but satisfied they’d shaken off any pursuit.

“You can let go now,” he reminded her gently, looking over his shoulder.  He didn’t say it aloud but she could have wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his back forever for all he cared.  He grinned.  “I can’t breathe.”

She let go instantly.  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

“Anytime,” he said, teasing her.  Without the stranglehold around his ribs, he was finally able to draw a deep breath.

Lifting one leg over the saddle horn, he slid down, reaching up to grasp her around the waist.  Putting her gently on the ground, he told her, “Let’s walk a bit, the horse is winded.”

The quarter moon barely illuminated the landscape but it was enough for them to see. Saguaros cast long shadows in the moonlight and kangaroo rats rustled in the brush.  Bats in search of insects flicked by overhead and the flowers of the night-blooming cacti opened around them.  A half-grown kit fox regarded them warily from behind a juniper tree as they walked.

They strolled companionably for a few minutes before Johnny realized the girl was shaking.  He stopped instantly, turning to put a hand on her arm.

She tried to smile, saying, “It’s nothing.  I’m cold.”

Dropping the horse’s reins, he pulled his jacket off and put it around her shoulders, refusing her attempt to give it back.  Warm from his body, it was far too big. She huddled beneath it, one small hand clutching it closed but her trembling got worse.

It wasn’t just the cool night air, he realized.  It was a reaction to everything that had just happened.

Pulling the horse to a halt, he gathered her into his arms.  She made one abortive attempt to pull back and then she melted into his body, snuggling close.  The stranger’s arms were curiously comforting, she realized, for all that she’d known him barely an hour.  She rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes as she listened to the strong, steady beating of his heart.

She was so tiny, she barely reached his breastbone, Johnny realized, wrapping his arms more tightly about her to still the trembling.  He rocked her gently back and forth as they stood there.  The trembling soon stopped but she was reluctant to leave his arms, she discovered. Every bit as reluctant to let her go, Johnny lowered his head, breathing in the sweet fragrance of her hair.

The snorting of the horse and his pricked ears brought Johnny back to the real world.  Realizing that they were a long way from safe, he stepped back, listening.  Struck by his posture, she listened, too, craning her neck to the east.

“Time to go,” he told her. 

Mounting the horse, he again extended his hand.  Lifting her as if she were no more than a piece of thistledown, he gathered up the reins and urged the horse forward.

Ch. 13

The situation, Johnny realized, could not have been worse.  They were riding double on a winded horse, heading into the desert with no supplies, unless you counted the water in his canteen, and with murderous strangers in hot pursuit.

Somehow, he didn’t feel as worried as he should have, with the girl’s soft body resting against his, her cheek pressed against his back and her slender arms encircling his waist.

But he was responsible for her safety and the thought sobered him.  The increasing slowness of the horse made up his mind.  If he’d been alone, Johnny Madrid might well have pressed on, trusting to luck to carry him to the next town.  Johnny Lancer decided to take a different course.

The horse changed direction as Johnny reined to the right, turning him back in a parallel direction to the town. .  The girl, who had been quiet, spoke up. “What are you doing?”

“Heading back to Oaxaca,” he replied.

“But—why?  It isn’t safe!”

“It’s safer than setting out across the desert with no supplies,” he told her.  “Oaxaca is a big place.  It’ll be hard to find us in the crowd if we play our cards right. Besides, I have an idea.”

She said nothing more, merely resting her cheek against his back again as they headed back into the town they’d so recently escaped.

The sliver of a moon worked in their favor, he told her.  The night was dark and the hour was late.  Even the bars would be closed by the time they arrived back in town.

Trusting to memory, Johnny guided the horse to a large but unremarkable house alone on a cul-de-sac. All of its windows were dark.

Lifting his leg over the saddle horn, he slid down, bending to pick up a few pebbles.  With the girl still astride, he led the horse around to the back.  Screened by the tall hedge, he began tossing pebbles at a second-floor window.

The sash flew up and a large, red-haired woman leaned out, filling the opening.

“Tarnation!  Who is that?” she said, peering down.

The cloud that had obscured the moon passed.  She looked more closely at the man below, noticing the flashing grin.

“Johnny!” she cried. “Is that you?”

Putting a finger to his lips, he nodded.  “Sure is, Becks,” he told her. “Can we come in?”

She lifted her gaze to the horse, noting the slight figure, sagging with weariness, on its back.  Her brows lifted with surprise but her voice was light as she replied.

“I’ll be right there,” she told him.  “Just one minute.”

Shrugging into a tasseled dressing gown, she hurried downstairs, making no sound on the carpeted steps.  A second later, the two outside heard the key turning in the lock.

Johnny entered first, leading the girl by the hand. He was immediately gathered to Beck’s massive, velvet-covered bosom in a rib-cracking hug.  “Johnny!  I’m so glad to see you!”

He emerged from her enthusiastic embrace, rumpled and slightly out of breath.  Drawing in air, he said, “It’s good to see you, too, Becks.  And there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”

Turning to the boy, Becks extended a hand, saying warmly, “Any friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine!

The boy’s hand was surprisingly soft, causing Becks to look at her visitor curiously.   Gathering up the candle she’d set down on the table, she examined his face in the wavering light as Johnny pulled the curtains.

“Well,” she cried, arching an eyebrow, “What’s this?  An elopement?”

“Nothin’ like that, Becks,” Johnny said hurriedly.  “But I need to talk to you.  Do you have a room?  She’s tired out.”

Becks face softened instantly.  “Of course, of course, why didn’t you say so? Come on, honey,” she said.  “You look exhausted.”

Johnny turned to the girl.  “Go with Becks.  She’ll take care of you.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“I’ll be right here,” he told her.

Smothering a yawn, she nodded and was swept up the stairs ahead of the older woman. Arriving upstairs, Becks led the girl to a room at the back of the house and ushered her inside.

Keeping her voice low, Becks said, “I’ll bring you something to eat in just a minute.”  Like a tall ship leaving harbor, she billowed back out, closing the door softly behind her.

Left alone, the girl looked longingly at the canopied bed with the white organdie drapes but decided not to lie down.  If she did, she might never get up again.

True to her word, Becks was soon back with a tray bearing a sandwich and a glass of milk.  “Didn’t think you’d want beer,” she explained.

Placing the tray on the bureau, she pulled the curtains closed and indicated the velvet armchair by the window.  When the girl had seated herself, Becks spread a snowy white napkin over her lap and handed her the plate.  “Anything else, you call me, honey,” she said.  “I’ll be right downstairs, talking to Johnny.”

The girl nodded, and Becks hurried back downstairs to the gunfighter seated at her kitchen table.  She’d made him a sandwich, too, and his mouth was full.  A half-empty bottle of beer stood beside the plate.

“You go on,” she told him. “I like to see a man eat.”

He nodded, swallowing. “I’m famished.”

Waiting for him to finish, she studied his face the candle’s weak glow, smiling. She’d always had a fondness for the handsome gunfighter and she was glad to find out he wasn’t dead after all.

She remembered the first time she’d seen him.  It must have been five or six years ago by now, she thought.  He’d been standing in the town square, facing the older gunfighter who’d held sway over the town for months.  Johnny’s hand had rested loosely at his side, a half-smile playing around his lips as he waited for the more experienced man to make his move.

Jammed into a wall by the crowd seeking shelter, she’d been unable to take her eyes from the scene.  In the blink of an eye, it was over.  Lightning fast, the other man had gone for his gun.  Johnny’s hands had been a blur, drawing and firing the gun before she could take a breath.  When the smoke cleared, the older man had hit the street, dead before he fell.

With silent disbelief, the crowd had watched as the young gunfighter coolly holstered his gun.  Turning away, he had mounted his horse.  Open-mouthed, the crowd had parted to let him through.

He had been in her establishment a time or two after that when he was passing through town and the young ladies had always bandied his name about with the most complimentary of phrases, although Becks had never mentioned it.

She enjoyed talking to the young man and they had struck up a friendship of sorts.  She’d been shocked and horrified when she’d heard Johnny had been executed by a firing squad outside of town.

Yet, here he was, swallowing the last of his sandwich and smiling at her.  “Thanks, Becks.”

She waved his thanks aside.  “Any time.  You know that.”  She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table.  “I see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.”

He grinned. “You could say that.”

“So,” she said, raising one eyebrow.  “What’s going on here?”

“The lady was leaving her husband. I got in the way.”

The other eyebrow shot up as she looked at him and he laughed. “It’s nothing like that, Becks.  Don’t even know the girl.”

She frowned, confused, and he told her how they’d met earlier in the evening, leaving out any mention of having seen the girl before.

Becks laughed, slapping her knee.

“And I’ve got the goose egg to prove it,” he said ruefully, rubbing the back of his head.

“What can I do?” she questioned softly.

He leaned forward. “Can you put us up for a day or two? Until I can think of something?”

“So you’re taking her with you?” the older woman asked shrewdly. “Not your problem, you know.”

“I kinda feel responsible for her since I screwed up her escape.  And her husband sounds like bad news.”

Becks nodded, concerned.  “He does that.  Anybody who’d lock up a young girl that way.”  She twirled a finger beside her temple.  “Loco.”

“Can’t say I don’t agree,” he replied.  Catching himself, he said, “I’ll take her back to her family, if she has one.  I just want to know she’ll be safe.”

She smiled inwardly at the note in his voice.  Maybe there was more to the story than Johnny Madrid was telling himself.

“I best go check on her,” he said.  “Got a room for me?”

“Sorry, Johnny, but the answer’s no.  You know how this place gets on weekends.”

He nodded, smiling.  “I do.”

“But you can lay low here for a couple days, give you a chance to sort it all out.”

“Thanks Becks.  You always were a good friend.”  He stood up.  “I’ll go see how she’s doing.”

She nodded.  “Good night, Johnny. See you in the morning. I’ll take care of your horse.”

Nodding his thanks, he headed upstairs.  Arriving at the room Becks had mentioned, he tapped softly.  There was no answer and he pushed it open, leaning in to look for the girl.

As he had suspected, she was lying on top of the bed fully dressed, hair streaming over the pillow, sound asleep. 

He entered quietly, sighing at the prospect of a night alone on the floor or in the chair when more tempting places were available.  Locking the door behind him, he tiptoed to the bed, drawing the afghan at the foot of it up over the girl. 

Settling into the chair, he pulled his jacket over himself, and stretched out his legs.  Leaning his head back, he regarded the sleeping girl. 

He’d just killed a man, he had a maniac after him, he was a long way from home, and he’d never been happier in his life. Whatever happened tomorrow, tonight, Johnny Madrid was content. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth and he drifted peacefully to sleep.

On the far side of town, the shattering of glass and the crash of overturning furniture was contained within the thick adobe walls of the estate.  Exhausted, the tall man finally stood, chest heaving, in the center of the destroyed room.

His eyes fell on the dead body of his brother, brought to him by a couple of burly vaqueros.  His other brother, his fat face shiny with sweat, looked at him from the corner where he’d taken shelter.  The scimitar-shaped scar on his cheek glowed purple with agitation.

The tall man raised his head.  The fat man was suddenly grateful for the blood tie between them.  Otherwise, he thought, the tall man would have killed him when he discovered he’d let his wife get away.

“Who did it?” he asked, fixing a penetrating stare upon the rotund man, who was almost panting in his haste to leave the room.

Pursing his fleshy lips, the fat man’s mouth opened and closed silently, like an oversized fish out of water.

“Speak…UP!” the tall man gritted through clenched teeth.

“I…I…” the fat man mumbled, choking on the words.

“C’mon, Kurt! Spit it out!”

“I don’t know who he was!” he blurted.

The tall man turned to regard him, one hand stroking his chin where a short gold beard grew.  His gray eyes became steely.

“Well,” he whispered. “You’re going to find out.”

His voice grew stronger.  “And when you do…somebody is going to pay.”

Ch. 14

Saying she had some shopping to do, Teresa had left Catherine with Maria and her grandfather, knowing she was in good hands, and climbed into the buckboard with Scott.  He thought she was unusually quiet today and had been for most of her latest visit.  Murdoch had thought so, too. 

“See what you can find out,” he advised Scott.

Scott flapped the reins and Zanzibar trotted off down the long drive

Looking at her averted profile, Scott tossed out a deceptively mild question. 

“So, what are you going to pick up in town?  I need to pick up a new halter for Charlie, some dry goods for Maria….then I’m going to pick up some tobacco for Murdoch.”

Receiving no reply, he continued.  “Mail a letter, get a drink while I wait for you, pick up a new party dress for myself….some pink ribbons would go nicely with my complexion, don’t you think?”

Her head remained turned as she gazed out over the landscape rolling by on her right.

“Teresa…Teresa!” he said sharply.

Her head jerked around.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Scott, did you say something?”

He looked at her.  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

“Yes, yes, I have!”

“Repeat it, then,” he challenged her.

She was silent.  He pulled the buckboard to a stop and put a hand under her chin, forcing it up so he could see her downcast eyes.

“What is it, honey?” he said gently.  The endearment, said as only the Lancer men could, touched her. Tears welled in her big brown eyes.

Scott brushed aside a tendril of dark hair, blowing across her face in the breeze, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“C’mon, Teresa, you can tell me.”

Her defenses crumbling, she threw herself across the seat into his arms, sobbing.

“Oh, Scott….everything! Everything is wrong!”

Holding her quivering form close, he waited for the sobs to stop.  It was if a dam had burst, soaking the front of his shirt.  Never, he thought bemusedly, would he have guessed that one little body could hold so much water.

Choking words emerged from the small face pressed against his shirtfront.  “It’s….it’s….I…” she wailed before a fresh paroxysm engulfed her.

A thought struck him and he grabbed her by the shoulders, sitting her up.  “Nothing’s wrong with the baby!” he demanded.

She sniffed, horrified.  “No! Catherine is fine!”

He looked into her eyes, tipping her chin up.  “Are you all right?”

The raw concern in his face made her start crying again. She buried her face in his shirt again, sobbing as if her heart would break.

He shook her.  “Teresa!”

She looked up, eyes wide and tragic.  They swam with tears that rolled down her face and dripped off her chin.

“Teresa, you’re scaring me!  Tell me what’s wrong!”

She sat up, gulping the tears back.  Sniffling, she passed her sleeve over her eyes.

Scott produced his handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it to her.  “Blow.”

She honked mightily into it, wiping her eyes on an unused corner, and offered it back to him.

“You keep it,” he said dryly.

She nodded, still sniffling, and stuffed it into her pocket. Squaring her small shoulders, she nodded decisively, ready to talk.

Seeing it, Scott sat back.  “The whole story,” he warned her.

She nodded again and drew a big breath.  “It’s…it’s Mark.”

Scott nodded.  “And what about Mark?” he prodded.

“I think…I think he’s seeing another woman!” she wailed, tears starting to her eyes again.

Scott’s reaction startled her out of her tears.  He looked at her silently for a moment, then the corners of his mouth drew up slightly.  His mouth twitched as he looked at her tragic face.  Then he burst out laughing.

She looked at him, aggrieved. 

Unable to help himself, he laughed harder, clutching his sides with mirth.

Teresa looked at him, frowning.  “I don’t see what’s so funny, Scott Lancer!”

He sat up, wiping his streaming eyes.  His chuckles died down.  When he could speak, he looked at her.

“I’m sorry, Teresa.  I really am.  It’s just that the idea of Mark with another woman is just…” he searched for the word.  “It’s ludicrous!”

She looked at him, still indignant.  “And why is that?” she demanded.

Scott looked at her, suddenly serious. “Because in all my life, I’ve never seen a man more in love with a woman than Mark is with you,” he said simply.

She looked at him, struck.  Then she looked away, chin quivering.

He put a finger under it, turning her back to face him.

“Mark loves you,” he said with quiet emphasis.  “Why do you doubt it?”

She looked at him, taking his handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbing at her eyes again.  Pleating it nervously in her small fingers, she began to talk in a tiny, hesitant voice, not meeting his eyes.

“Because he’s gone so much.  He’s always going on trips to San Francisco.  He leaves me alone with the baby for days at a time…I love her, Scott…but I love my husband, too.  And I never see him any more.”

Carefully keeping all traces of his thoughts from his face, Scott replied, “And that’s why you think he’s seeing another woman?”

Her head drooped again.  “Yes.”

Scott rubbed his chin.  He’d cut his tongue out before he’d admit it to her, but both he and Murdoch had once wondered the same thing. 

“Why,” he’d asked Murdoch, after Mark’s fifth trip to San Francisco in six months, “Why would such a new husband leave his wife and baby alone so much?”

Murdoch had looked out the floor-to-ceiling window of the great room, sighing.

“I don’t know, Scott.  It doesn’t seem right.  But Mark does seem to love Teresa and he dotes on the baby.  That’s what I don’t understand.”

Scott spoke again.  “If he wants a mistress, why not keep one in Sacramento?  Be a lot closer to home!”

After much discussion, they had decided to give Mark the benefit of the doubt. “He’s one of the family now,” Murdoch had said.  “I’m going to trust him until he gives me a reason not to.”   “And besides,” he’d added.  “Every marriage has growing pains.”

Since then, they’d had more opportunities to observe Mark, which allayed their fears. Scott had become convinced that, whatever the reason for his frequent absences, lack of love for his wife wasn’t one of them.

But on her current visit, Teresa’s increasing quietness, coupled with her pale, drawn face and the shadows under her eyes, had worried them.

“I wonder if Johnny could get it out of her,” Scott told his father.  “If he were here.”

Murdoch shook his head.  “Somehow I doubt it.  Johnny could charm the birds out of the trees if he put his mind to it, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk.”

Respecting Teresa’s privacy, they had forborne to question her, resolving that one of them would always be available if she needed a shoulder to cry on.

Well, thought Scott ruefully, picking his wet shirtfront away from his body with thumb and forefinger, today had been the day.

“Teresa.”  He said it firmly.  “Look at me.”

She looked up, still pleating his handkerchief nervously.  Scott put his hand over hers, stilling the movement.

Looking her in the eye, he leaned forward, speaking with great seriousness. 

“I want you to put this out of your mind.  There’s no way Mark is seeing another woman, I’m sure of it.”

Her eyelashes stood out in wet spikes but she looked up at him, a spark of hope in her eyes.

“Do you really think so?” she questioned.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Whatever it is, I’m positive it’s not another woman.  Mark’s young, just coming up in the law firm.  He wants to make partner, doesn’t he?”

She nodded slowly.  “That’s what he says.  He says he hates going but it’s company business.  He’s got no choice.”

“Then I’d believe him,” Scott said.  “Young attorneys have to work hard and the company’s had some high-profile cases lately, hasn’t it?”

“Ye-e-s.  It has.  There’s the Peterson case, for one,” she said, referring to a well-publicized Congressman being accused of malfeasance.

Scott picked up the reins.  “I’m sure that’s all it is,” he said with conviction. “Now,” he said.  “Go down to the stream and wash your face.  Then we’ll go have a nice day.”

They had done just that.  Teresa had recovered enough to give Mr. Valdemero a smile and to let him draw her away to see some new dress goods.  Scott had hovered awhile, making sure she was all right, before calling to her.

“I’m going to go get that drink now,” he said, “I’ll be back in a little while.”

She’d nodded, smiling, as Mr. Valdemero threw out his usual effusive line, extolling the beauty of the cloth, the fine dress it would make, the welcome addition to any lady’s wardrobe.  She and Mr. Valdemero were old friends.  Teresa had known him since she was a child and she always enjoyed her visits with the expansive storekeeper.

Scott picked up his hat, slapping it against his leg before putting it on.  Striding down the street to the saloon, he slid into onto a barstool.  He ordered a tequila shot with lemon, thinking of the last time he’d been here with his brother. 

With his back to the room, he failed to see the blonde woman coming down the stairs, dressed in the red and black costume that the saloon girls wore.  Her tight black bodice exposed creamy shoulders and rounded arms, the abbreviated skirt, striped in red and black, revealed shapely legs in black stockings. Her black shoes had high red heels.  She wore a black ostrich feather in her high-piled hair and cheap, dangling earrings completed her outfit.

The woman stopped on the stairs as she heard the deep voice of the saloon’s newest customer.  Something about it was vaguely familiar.  She looked hard at his back, trying to identify him.

Attired in a khaki-colored shirt, his long legs in blue jeans with dusty brown boots showing beneath them, he didn’t look familiar.  His tanned forearms rested on the bar.  Most of his hair was hidden by his hat but she could see blond strands touching his collar in the back.

“How’ve you been?”  the bartender inquired.  “Haven’t seen you in quite awhile.”

“I know, Frank. Been too busy, with Johnny gone.”

The name struck her like a dart.  Her foot hovered over the next step as she clutched the railing with one hand.  The other went to her mouth in surprise.

“How’s he doing, anyway, Scott?” enquired Frank.  “He’s been gone quite awhile.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she heard the customer named.

“No, not a word.” Scott replied. “I wish he’d come home.”

“You all must miss him,” said Frank. “He sure is a live wire.”

“Oh,” thought the woman on the steps.  “I’ll just bet he is.”

The blonde woman’s foot remained poised in midair as she recalled the man’s black-haired brother.  It had been a long time since they’d met and she’d almost forgotten him. Too many other things had happened since them.

Scott sprinkled some salt on his wrist, licking it off before bolting the tequila shot. Biting into a lemon quarter, he grimaced slightly.  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to these,” he told the bartender.

“Sure ya will,” said Frank.  “Just takes awhile.”

A spiteful look appeared on the listening woman’s face.  Some things took a LOT of getting used to. Things like taking a huge downturn in your standard of living, for instance.

Scott stood up, tossing a few coins onto the bar. 

The girl turned her back, still clutching the rail.

“I’ve got to go get Teresa,” Scott said.  See you around, Frank.”

“Bye, Scott,” the man replied.

Putting on his hat, Scott strode out of the bar.

One of the cowboys playing poker in the corner glanced up.  About to call out to the new girl, the words died in his throat when he saw the look on her face.

A second later, it was gone.  Pasting on a bright smile, the girl let go of the railing.

The table of cowboys dropped their cards as she came downstairs and draped herself over one of them.

Painted red lips parting, she purred.  “Now, who wants to buy me a drink?” 

Ch. 15

Leaving the hotel after his shift ended, the desk clerk grabbed his coat and the remainder of his bag lunch. 

“Night, Hugh,” he said to his replacement.  “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Larry” Hugh replied.  “You have a good evening.”

“Will do,” Larry replied.

Boy, it was good to be off, he thought as he trotted down the hotel steps.  He’d spent the day smiling until he thought his face would crack and the top part of his head would topple off.  He’d given directions to guests, shown people to their rooms, run up and down the steps with fresh towels, plucked children off the counter all day long.  Now, he just wanted to go home, make a cup of tea, and read a book, alone with his cat.

The sun had set by the time he arrived at his tiny house on Sandoval Street.  The gas lamp on the sidewalk flickered on as he entered his black wrought-iron gate set into the encircling adobe wall.  Its glow caused the street look cozier and made the leaves of the bushes and trees cast shifting patterns on the walkway to his home.

Letting himself in the front door, Larry called for his cat, Lola Montez, named for the famous dancer, as he put his jacket in the closet.  The little black and white animal leaped from the windowsill where she’d been watching for him, and wound herself around his ankles, leaving cat hair on his black trousers.

“How’s my sweetie?” he murmured, picking her up and resting her, upside down, in the crook of his arm as he entered the kitchen.  Giving him a head-butt, Lola squirmed to get down, knowing dinner was coming.  “Whatever Lola wants,” he told her, “Lola gets.”  Knowing this was true, Lola winked suggestively at the chicken breast sandwich he was removing from his lunch bag.

“Ok, ok!” Larry laughed, as the cat began turning in circles and squeaking in her rusty voice for him to hurry.  “Give me a second!”

Shredding the chicken into her special bowl, he put it down on a placemat on the floor. Pumping  fresh water into another bowl, he put it down beside the first.  The cat taken care of, he washed his hands and filled the tea kettle. 

Touching a match to the small gas stove, Larry leaned against his kitchen table, happy to be home.  His house was small, but everything in it was perfect, he thought.  Each stick of furniture, every dish, every towel was the product of careful consideration.  The house was a pocket jewel, his refuge, and his heart lifted every time he turned the key in the lock.

Waiting for the water to boil, Larry took a loaf of crusty sourdough bread from the breadbox, slicing it on the diagonal, and put it on a plate.  Taking out a big slab of yellow cheese, he cut several slices and laid them on the plate next to the bread.  Reaching into the big ceramic bowl he used as a centerpiece, he took out some grapes, which he washed carefully.

The kettle began to hum as he prepared his dinner, setting the plate carefully on the gleaming table, and laying silverware and a starched calico napkin next to it.

It was shrieking as he opened the tea tin, carefully measuring the correct amount into the teapot. Removing the kettle, he poured the water in, relishing the slight scent of bergamot as he did so.

“Is it good?” he asked the cat, still headfirst in her bowl. A switch of the tail answered him and laughing, he set out his fine china teacup.  After the tea had brewed, he poured some into his cup, enjoying the amber gleam of the liquid.

When everything was perfect, Larry sat down, spreading his napkin across his lap.  He ate carefully, using a knife and fork with delicate precision.  Lola finished her meal and came to sit at his feet, licking her whiskers and blinking with sleepy satisfaction.

When he was done, he washed all of the dishes carefully, then dried and put them away.  Then he mopped the table and shook out Lola’s placemat for tomorrow.

Larry lit a fat candle from the kitchen gas jet before snuffing the flame.  Holding it aloft, he went into his bedroom and put on his pajamas and a burgundy satin dressing gown with a velvet collar.

Returning to the living room, he looked carefully in his tall mahogany bookcase.  All of the volumes were hardbound, and many of them were first editions.  Some were old and very rare.  He was in the mood for some Yeats, Larry decided, lifting the book down and lighting the gas lamp.

Lola leaped into his lap as soon as he sat down.  Putting on his spectacles, he rested one hand on the cat’s silky head as she purred contentedly.  Reading until his eyes grew heavy, Larry retired to his bedroom, placing the candle and his spectacles on the table beside the bed.

Lola Montez jumped to her accustomed place at the foot, turning around in circles several times before lying down and curling her tail around her front paws.  “Night-night,” Larry told her.  “Sweet dreams.”  She blinked incandescent green eyes as he blew out the candle flame.

Terrified, he struggled up from the depths of sleep, clawing at the sweaty hand clamped over his mouth. The candle had been lit and cast a weak glow. The owner of the fat hand, one pudgy arm clamped around Larry’s head, jerked it warningly.  All the tendons creaked until Larry thought his neck would break.  Rolling his eyes wildly, he clawed at the hand, desperate to draw a breath.  He heard the click of a gun’s hammer being drawn back just as something cold touched his temple.  Frightened, Lola Montez shot off the bed and disappeared down the hallway.

Sour breath blew into Larry’s face as the stranger spoke, digging the gun into his temple.

“Don’t look at me!”

He continued, his voice oily and insinuating.

“You promise not to make a sound and I’ll put this here gun down.  One noise out of you and I’ll blow your head off.  You got it?”

The fat man eased his grip slightly and Larry nodded.  Removing the gun, the fat man said, “That’s better.  Now you and me is gonna have a little talk.”

The stranger removed his arm and Larry gasped, putting his hands to his throat.  It felt like his Adam’s apple had been crushed.

“What….what?” he stuttered.  “What do you want?”

The stranger cuffed him in the head with the gun.

“I’ll ask the questions here, boy!”

Warm blood trickled into Larry’s eye as the strange man spoke again.  “You got that?”

Larry nodded.

“Good.  Now, who was that man in the hotel?”

“Man?” Larry stammered.  “What man?”

“The one in black.”

Larry thought wildly, but so many men wore black. None stood out.

“I don’t know what you mean!”

The stranger cuffed him with the gun again, harder.  Tears started to Larry’s eyes as more blood trickled into his face.  A drop rolled off his chin, leaving a crimson stain on the snowy sheets.  It was followed by another and another.  His nose began to run.

“You better think hard, boy!  I mean the one checked out sudden-like Saturday night.”

“This past Saturday? I have to think for a minute.”  He strained to recall, his mind shuffling back over the clientele, but so many people came to the hotel on weekends, it was hard to recall one in particular.

The stranger sighed.  “You stupid or somethin’?”

“No!” Larry said wildly, “Please, just let me think.”

The man’s rank breath blew into his face again.  “Maybe I better help you.” 

He stood up.  In the candle’s weak glow,  Larry saw that he was fat, dressed in a brown corduroy jacket that strained over his massive belly.  The hair beneath the hat was curly.  The man’s triple chins shook as he looked at Larry.

Crossing to the dresser, he swept an arm across it, driving the washbowl to the floor where it shattered like a bomb. His collection of tiny Limoge boxes flew wildly into the air, falling with distinct little crashes.

Driving an elbow into the mirror, he smirked at Larry as it erupted into dozens of pieces.

Larry watched, horrified.  Finding his voice, he begged, “Please, please stop! I’ll tell you!  Just give me more information!”

The fat man turned his head and the raised purple scar on his cheek glowed evilly in the half-light.

“Young man. Dark hair.”

Recognition tolled in Larry’s mind but the memory refused to surface.

Keeping the gun trained on him, the fat man reached into the bookcase where Larry kept his most special volumes, collected from booksellers from all over the world.  Each was a work of art in itself.  Putting the gun within easy reach, he picked up one fine leather-bound volume and tore out a handful of pages.

The tears in Larry’s eyes overflowed and rolled down his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his scalp.  The fat man smirked as he held the book in front of Larry’s face with both hands.  Then he tore it down the middle.  He began tossing precious books out onto the floor where they landed, pages crumpled.  The fat man stepped on them as he paced the floor.

“You ain’t rememberin’ too good, boy!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!”

The fat man approached the bed.  Backhanding Larry across the face, he snarled, “Well, try harder!  I ain’t leavin here without a name!”

Whipping his hand forward, he struck again.  Larry felt his nose break and choked on the sudden rush of blood in his throat.

Clutching his streaming nose, he looked at the stranger mutely.

Something of his genuine confusion reached the fat man because he frowned.  “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Screwing up his face, the fat man squinted as he tried to the recall the man he’d been shooting at a few days ago.  His dead brother had described the man a little before the stranger had shot him.

“Had a chestnut horse.  Wore his gun tied low.”

Recognition crashed into Larry’s mind.  “Black pants?  With conchos down the legs?”

Pleased, the fat man came closer, covering Larry with rank breath.  He was so close, Larry could see the pus-filled pores on the side of his nose and the stray hairs between his bushy eyebrows.  The overhanging brow ridges gave him the look of something primitive, like an ape.

The man nodded.  “That’s right!”

He took a knife out of his pocket and held it to Larry’s throat.  “You sabe?”

Larry nodded.  “His name was Johnny.”

The fat man pressed the knife’s point into his skin, drawing a tiny bead of blood.  His beady pig eyes, set far too close together, shone.  “You got a last name?”

“Lancer!  Johnny Lancer! Please don’t kill me!”

Instead of withdrawing the blade, the fat man pressed harder.  A small moan escaped Larry’s lips.

The fat man laughed, standing up. The blade flashed downward, burying itself in the pillow.  Feathers flew wildly.  He continued stabbing the blade into the bed as Larry flinched, expected any moment to feel it entering his body.  More feathers flew out, covering the room.  Some of them stuck to the blood on Larry’s face.  He looked pleadingly at the monster who had invaded his home, his eyes round circles of pure terror.

Still laughing, the fat man plunged the knife into the upholstered chaise lounge.  He dragged it the length of the cushions, exposing the springs and stuffing.  He struck the back, doing the same thing.

Returning to the bed, he put on hand on the wall behind Larry, looming over him.  His rank breath, smelling of beer and aged cheese, made Larry want to vomit but he dared not.  Struggling to hold in his gorge, he raised his terrified eyes to the obese man’s face.  The fat man’s face, shiny with sweat, leaned closer, filling Larry’s vision.  His nose almost touching Larry’s, he spoke again.

“And that’s what I’ll do to you if you ever say a word about this to anybody.  I’ll gut you, split you open just like that fancy sofa there.  You got that?”

Mute, Larry nodded.

“Good.  We understand each other, then.”

Pausing in the doorway, he took one last look at the terrified man in the bed.  Larry’s hair stuck up in a wild halo around his head.  His nose had run as he cried and his face was covered with blood, sweat, and mucus. His smashed nose had swollen to the size of a tomato.   One eye was swelling shut and an ugly bruise covered his forehead where he’d been struck by the man’s gun. Crimson blood was puddled on the snowy sheets and on the coverlet.

The fat man went into the living room and Larry heard him overturning furniture, breaking mirrors, and smashing plates.  He heard his grandmother’s heirloom cuckoo clock chime crazily as it struck the wall.  The sound went on and on until the mechanism wound down.  He hoped Lola Montez was well hidden.

The noise finally stopped and Larry heard the fat man’s boot heels clocking faintly down the brick walkway. The gate snicked faintly as it swung shut behind him.  Leaning out of the bed, he vomited onto the floor, his dinner leaving him in a steaming rush.

Mutely, Larry looked around at the ruins of his bedroom.  Stabbing pains shot through his head as he turned it but Larry was beyond caring.  He sat there, stunned and unmoving, breathing heavily through his mouth.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the dark when a small voice broke the thick silence. “Krrrrrrr,” sounded the cat’s tiny, questioning trill.  Lola Montez jumped onto the foot of the bed, one forefoot in the air as she paused, looking at him. She put the foot down, padding  forward over the rumpled bed.   The little animal curled into his lap. 

At her touch, Larry’s tears came, hot and burning.  He tried to choke them back because of his smashed nose but he couldn’t help himself.  Together, he and Lola Montez looked at the shattered ruins of their home, a place where they would never, ever, feel safe again.

Ch. 16

It was still dark when the girl woke the next morning.  Even the birds in their nests in the oak outside the window slept on without a peep, as did the other occupants of the house.

Opening her eyes, she barely made out Johnny buckling on his gun.  Her slight movement caused him to look up.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Startled, she drew the afghan up under her chin, casting a glance down at the other side of bed.   It was undisturbed.

Seeing her head turn, Johnny explained.  “I slept in the chair. There were no other rooms.” 

She nodded, remembrance flooding back.  Shyness swept over her as she realized that he’d drawn the afghan over her as she slept. Color rose in her cheeks, making her grateful he couldn’t see her sudden blush.

Speaking quietly, he said, “I have to leave.”

Her eyes flew to his face.  Realizing how it sounded, he hastened to reassure her.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Lock the door behind me and don’t talk to anybody but Becks.”  He smiled.  “Go back to sleep.”

Closing the door quietly, he went down the steps.  A short time later, she heard the horse being led away.

A minute later, a faint tap sounded at the door and Becks’ voice whispered, “Honey, you up?”

She opened the door.   The large woman stood there, holding a tray.  Entering, she spoke softly.  “You’ve got time to eat and get cleaned up before the girls wake up, after that, you’ll have to be real quiet.  I’ll bring you up some water.”

After eating, the girl secured her hair loosely on top of her head and took off her clothes.  Leaning over the tub, she trickled expensive bath salts through her fingers, smiling happily as she did so. Free, she thought.  I’m really free!  She felt as though she were shedding all the oppression of the last two years as she stepped into the warm water.  Leaning back, she rested her head on the tub’s rim with a contented sigh.

Although it hadn’t gone exactly as planned, her escape had still been a success. Even the air in a bordello was better than it was inside the luxurious adobe mansion that had been her prison for so long. 

She could have done a lot worse than to run into Johnny, she realized.   With any luck, she’d be home soon.  And then she’d never leave again, she decided.

She lingered until the water cooled.  Rising, she wrapped herself in an outsized white bath towel and picked up a silver-backed brush from the tray on the dresser.  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she began to brush out her damp hair. Her slight smile grew as she drew the brush through the gleaming strands. She wondered what her proper mother would say if she knew that her well brought-up daughter was currently residing in a brothel, albeit as a guest. At the very least, her beleaguered parent would undoubtedly call for her smelling salts and take to her bed with an attack of the vapors.

Before escaping the mansion, she’d sat, numb, each morning while her lady’s maid arranged her hair n the latest style.  Not in the least relaxing, it had meant only preparation for yet another long, unhappy day in a never-ending string of them.

Gathering the heavy mass of hair at the nape of her neck, she tied it with a white ribbon, allowing it to stream down her back.  Dressing again in her boy’s clothes, she looked around for something else to do.

Unfortunately, nothing presented itself but the latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book, which Becks had brought her.  Bored, she soon tossed it aside. It was dim in the room with all the curtains drawn.  With nothing to do, the day crawled by with excruciating slowness.  She wished Johnny or Becks would return to keep her company.

As the lonely hours crept by, tension began to gnaw at her with little rat’s teeth. Suddenly forlorn, she wished she was sitting on an eastbound train at this very minute, closer to home with every mile. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the loving greeting awaiting her as she hurried up the steps into her parent’s arms.  Her mother would draw her into a scented embrace, reluctant to let her go, and her father would envelope her in a bear hug, and swing her around, laughing.  Her excited sister would be asking questions a mile a minute and even the house staff would appear, faces wreathed in smiles, to welcome her home.

Thousands of miles and many potential pitfalls lay between her and them. There was still no guarantee she’d ever see home again.

To get there, she had to put her faith in a total stranger.  The idea frightened her.  She had no way of knowing how far she could trust Johnny. Her brows drew together as she thought of him, turning over in her mind everything she knew so far.

He was a complete contradiction, she knew that much.  Johnny had shot a man with deadly accuracy and then gone out of his way to help her escape.  The madam of a house of ill-repute knew him well yet he’d spent the whole night in a chair, without laying a hand on her.  He’d been angry when she’d knocked him down in the street but hadn’t complained when she attacked him with a heavy ashtray trying to escape.

Johnny knew how to handle any situation, she thought musingly.  His reflexes were quick as lightning and he handled a gun like it was an extension of his body. He was certainly resourceful, taking control of situations and bending them to his advantage.

Yet, for all of that, he’d been so gentle in soothing her sudden attack of nerves as they walked in the desert, she mused.  She blushed, remembering how she’d gone unhesitatingly into his arms.  They’d been so warm, so strong; it had felt so right to be there.  Well, she assured herself, that had been a momentary lapse. And it wouldn’t happen again. She didn’t even know the man’s last name, for heaven’s sake.

She continued to consider him carefully, thinking of his lean, hard body, the tied-down gun, the confident air.  The silver belt and rose-colored shirt gave him an exotic look, unlike the starched dandies of her acquaintance, all slaves to fashion.  Here was no indolent society gentleman, bred to money and a life of ease, his time absorbed by gambling, horse racing, or idle flirtations, bound to ancient codes of behavior.

Johnny, she suspected, lived by his own rules.  What exactly that translated to, she wasn’t sure yet.

Her husband’s rules didn’t exactly match society’s either, she thought grimly.  Although she felt that God must have abandoned her long ago, she now offered up a quick prayer.  “Please, Lord, never let him find me.  And never let him find Johnny, either.”

She dragged her thoughts resolutely back to the present.  Anything was better than where she’d been.  And if last night was any example, she’d have plenty of adventures to tell her family about if she ever saw them again.

The house came alive as dusk neared.  Shrill voices and laughter were heard in the distance and doors began opening and closing as the girls got ready for the evening.  Down in the parlor, some musicians struck up a lively tune.

The party was going full swing when Becks took advantage of the distraction to slip back upstairs with a covered plate and a glass of wine.  “Here,” she said, indicating the glass.  “You probably need it.” 

She smiled at the girl.  “Don’t you worry about Johnny.  He’ll be back, and with an idea, I’m sure.”

Smiling, she’d taken the tray from the friendly madam before locking the door behind her.  She’d nibbled at the mashed potatoes, leaving the pot roast and the apple pie.  As the night wore on, drunken shouting and deep voices mingled with the shrill laughter of the girls downstairs. Heavy boots began clumping up the stairs, accompanied by feminine giggles and doors slamming.

Emerging from the water closet at the far end of the hall, a tall, black-haired girl watched Becks as she emerged from the supposedly empty room.  Curious, the girl had flattened herself against the wall, waiting for the proprietor to disappear down the stairs.

Two bright spots of color appeared on her sallow cheeks and the faint mustache above her upper lip twitched as she pursed them.  She’d been nursing a secret grudge against the madam for weeks, feeling that she favored the prettier girls in her establishment.  Kneeling, she placed her eye to the keyhole.  In the candle’s flickering light, she made out the young woman sipping her wine.  Now why, thought, Sally, why on earth would Becks be hiding a new girl?  And such a lovely one at that?  She’d just have to watch and find out.

The cowboy she’d been talking to yelled from the parlor.  “Hey, Sally!  You fall in or what?”

Smirking, she rose and stood in front the locked door, relishing the idea of having something to use against the older woman.

In the far corner of the parlor, Becks was making conversation with a skinny cowboy with slicked down hair.  She noticed the self-satisfied look on Sally’s face as she re-entered the room and frowned inwardly, sure that it portended trouble.  She’d never liked Sally, and worse, didn’t trust her.  The girl was sly, always sneaking around, eavesdropping and making trouble among the other girls.  Shaking her head, Becks decided to get rid of her soon.

Unlike most madams, big-hearted Becks was good to the girls who worked for her, treating them more like daughters than employees.  Becks could always be counted on to lend a sympathetic ear, a few dollars, or a swift kick in the backside if that’s what a girl needed.   She had tried to send business Sally’s way but the girl was unpopular with customers. 

In addition to being only passable in the looks department, Becks suspected she wasn’t quite bright.  Rather, she thought, Sally was cunning, like an animal.  It was that quality which had enabled her to survive this long in the business but when her meager looks were gone, probably within a few years, she’d be on the street, selling herself for pennies.

More men arrived at the house as the hour grew later and the party got louder.  Alone upstairs, the girl paced the floor, listening to the ribald jests floating up the stairs.  She wished again that Johnny would return.

She strained her ears for him, listening until the house finally quieted.  Growing tired, she put on the nightdress and robe she’d found in the dresser. Well into the wee hours, he finally returned, quietly unlocking the door and slipping inside.

“Damn!” escaped him softly as he stumbled over the Lady’s Book she’d tossed onto the floor and then forgotten.

“It’s all right, I’m awake.  Light the candle.”

Taking matches from his pocket, he fumbled with one, rewarded with a flare of light as he touched it to the wick.  Wide awake this time, she was under the covers, smiling.  He tossed his hat onto the bureau, running a hand through his hair as he smiled back.

“What are you doing up?”

“Waiting for you.”

He smiled, liking the sound of that.  He’d been thinking of her all day when his mind should have been on business.  She’d been so adorable this morning, her hair rumpled from sleep, regarding him warily over the high-pulled afghan.  She was even more so now, with the ribbon in her hair, soft tendrils escaping around her face, looking at him from the depths of the bed.

“Are you hungry?” she whispered.

“Starved,” came the reply.

“Turn around a minute,” she told him.

Obediently, he turned his back.

“You can turn round again,” she told him, and he looked back to find her attired in a white cotton robe that was far too big.  The square neckline of her eyelet nightgown peeked between the wide lapels.

“Here,” she told him, crossing to the bureau and picking up the plate.  “I saved this for you.”

On small bare feet, hitching up her nightclothes with one hand so she wouldn’t trip, she brought him the plate.

He looked at her, surprised.  “Why didn’t you eat it?”

“I wasn’t very hungry,” she told him, “but you go ahead.”

Smiling his thanks, he sat down in the velvet armchair and dug in.

Watching him covertly, she thought how tired he looked.  He couldn’t have gotten much sleep last night.  Her eyes fell on the package he’d dropped on the floor.

“What’s that?” she questioned, pointing.

“It’s for you.  A way to change your looks a little, help you blend in.”

As if she ever could, he thought.  As beautiful as she was, she’d stand out in any crowd.

“Go ahead,” he said, “take a look. Tell me what you think.”

Curious, she picked up the bag.  Emptying the contents on the bed, she realized he’d brought her clothes, but not the kind she usually wore.

She picked up the white blouse.  Low-cut, with tiny puffed sleeves, it was what she’d seen peasant girls wearing.  A full skirt of dark blue was next, followed by a pair of black riding boots and a short jacket.  The clink when she upended the bag told her there was more.  A pair of silver hoop earrings lay on the spread, next to two thin silver bracelets.  She held the blouse up in front of herself, thinking that it would fit.  The skirt and boots, too. 

Still eating, he watched her quietly as she examined each item, glad that she seemed to like them.  She hopped off the bed and went to the dresser mirror, pushing her hair back and holding one up to her ear as she turned her head sideways.

Turning to face him, she smiled.  “I love them all!  Thank you!  Is that my disguise?  I’m to be a Mexican peasant girl?”

He grinned in return, thinking there was no way anyone in their right mind would ever mistake her for a peasant.  “Well,” he said.  “Not up close.”

She slipped the bracelets on, enjoying the clinking sound they made.

“We’ll have Becks help you with your hair,” he added.  “From a distance, you can pass.”

The idea, he told her, was to have her blend into the crowd.  Few people would give a young Mexican peasant girl more than a glance, whereas a wealthy young woman in the latest styles would attract notice.

He didn’t tell her about the rest of his plan.  Knowing that the train and stage depots, as well as their ticket offices were being watched, he’d decided against trying to go that way, or even trying to put her on a ship.

He’d thought it over carefully and made his decision.  He was going to take her home himself.  Home to Lancer.

Ch. 17

"This place is becoming a ghost town,” Murdoch told Scott, shaking his head.  He let the reins go slack, causing Zanzibar to slow down.  They were passing the Miller ranch, pausing to look at the “For Sale” sign on the front gate.  The neighboring ranch was the latest estancia to be repossessed by the bank.  The buckboard came to a halt.

“I’ve known Bruce Miller for thirty years, since I first came to the San Joaquin Valley.  This is a sad day.”

Scott agreed.  “It makes me nervous, having so many of our friends and neighbors gone.  At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left.”

Murdoch nodded sadly.  “And our luck could run out at any time, too. I don’t like it.”

Scott looked at him.  “It’s been awhile since we heard from Johnny.  Any word?”

Murdoch sighed, suddenly looking weary and much older. “No. Not since he wired me from Oaxaca.  But you know how he is, Scott.  He’s pretty self-sufficient.” 

Scott nodded, considering his younger brother.  “That’s true.  Anyway, I’m looking forward to hearing more when the train arrives and we meet Julio and Manuel.”

Murdoch brightened.  “Me, too.  Maybe they can shed some light.”  He flapped the reins on Zanzibar’s back and the horse obediently began to move again.

Looking at the older man’s profile, Scott had to ask.  “Has Vick Roberts said anything more to you about Johnny?  After he asked you to send him to Mexico on behalf of the Cattlemen’s Association?”

Murdoch snorted.  “No, and I don’t think he will.  He knows how I feel about that.”

Scott turned away, suddenly pensive.  Murdoch had made his feelings perfectly clear on that score, refusing Vick’s plea for Johnny’s help in no uncertain terms. “I won’t have my son sent off on a wild-goose chase,” he’d told Scott later, after the debacle of the last Cattlemen’s Association meeting.  “Those men are perfectly capable of pooling their money and finding another gunhawk if that’s what they want.”

Privately, though, he and Scott had had to admit they saw the wisdom of the Cattlemen’s Association’s plan.  They also had to admit that they, too, were disappointed with the performance of the Pinkerton agents and the federales assigned to the case.

Even the famed Texas Rangers had come up short in the quest to find the gang pulling off train robberies from California to Kansas, with apparent impunity.  At this point, they still had only the vaguest descriptions of the robbers.  No one had roused suspicion by suddenly spending undue amounts of money on this side of the border, at least, raising the suspicion that the gang was fading back into Mexico between robberies, out of U.S. jurisdiction.

The loss of so many of their neighbors and friends, left homeless when the banks foreclosed on their properties, had weighed heavily on the Lancers.   Thousands in vital operating funds had disappeared when the robbers had struck train after train.  Usually attacking after big stock sales, the gang had blown open each train’s safe and made off with the money.  At this point, Lancer was one of only a handful of ranches still in the hands of its original owner.

Scott and Murdoch had wondered privately when their turn was coming.  Something was bound to happen.  “This type of thing leaves us vulnerable to land pirates,” Murdoch had told Scott.  “Or some big corporation could sweep in here, buy up all the land, and beginning running huge herds of cattle.”

“If that were to happen,” he’d continued, “we’d be likely to start having issues over water rights and right-of-way in transporting the herds, to say nothing of stripping the graze.”  If the graze were ruined, Murdoch had said, they’d start having problems with water runoff and erosion.

Johnny had known all of this, of course, although he hadn’t mentioned it to either of them. Instead, Murdoch’s worst fears about his youngest had been confirmed when he arose one morning, tapping on Johnny’s door when the young man had been late to breakfast.  “Johnny!” he’d called through the closed door.  “Get a move on!”

When there was no answer, he’d tapped again, then opened the door.  On the pillow was a note.

Reading it, Murdoch had gritted out an oath and flung it angrily to the floor.  Scott and Jelly, running in to see what was wrong, had looked at each other with grave faces after Scott picked up the missive and read it aloud.

What Johnny wouldn’t do for the Cattlemen’s Association, he’d done for his family.  He was going to Mexico, he’d said, to track the train robbers.  And he was going alone. 

Scott had wanted to saddle up and ride after him immediately but Murdoch talked him out of it.

“He’s got a big head start on you, Scott. You can’t catch up with him, you don’t know which way he’s gone. And you don’t speak the language.  Johnny knew what he was doing when he left like this.”

 Jelly had agreed with his boss.  “Don’t do it, Scott.  Isn’t worth your time.”

After much argument, Scott had finally given in.  Since then, the three of them had been tense and silent, hurrying to the window at the sound of a horse’s hooves or when wagon wheels had betokened a visitor.  None of them of them had been Johnny.

Although his wire last week from Oaxaca had been brief, merely requesting funds and warning of his friends’ arrival, it had been a huge relief.  At least he had been alive…then.

Until it had arrived, with no way to know what had become of him, they had all been worried.  Murdoch said nothing to the others, but recalling that Johnny had almost been executed in Oaxaca during the revolution, had privately worried that he’d run afoul of some old nemesis.  If it wasn’t a political issue, he feared, there was always the worry that someone would try to win his fifteen minutes of fame by shooting Johnny Madrid.  And not, Murdoch brooded, necessarily in a fair fight.  Since that one telegram, there had been no other word from Johnny and their faces once more began to wear worried looks.

All of their nerves were drawn taut as piano wire when Scott had eventually suggested they take a trip to town.  A break, he’d said, would do them good.  Murdoch had agreed and much relieved, Scott had hurriedly harnessed Zanzibar.  Asking Jelly if he wanted to go, they had settled for leaving him in charge when he replied that he had too much work to do.  Stroking his graying beard with one hand, the old man, clutching his pet goose, Dewdrop, had waved goodbye as they set out early that morning.

They caught sight of Diablo and the mare they’d named Felina, crowded close together in the black stallion’s specially built corral.  Cows bawled in the distance and an occasional shout from a vaquero could be heard as they rolled off.

Arriving in Morro Coyo, Murdoch had halted the buckboard directly in front of the saloon, stopping to let Scott off before he headed to the bank.

In an upstairs bedroom, a blonde woman arose from her rumpled bed, casting a glance at the man still sound asleep in it. She wrinkled her nose at the room’s smell.  It stank of smoke, rank sweat, and sex.  Pulling on a cheap cotton robe, she strolled to the window and opened the sash, leaning out to breathe the fresh air.

Her eyes widened as she spotted the buckboard and its occupants.  She recognized the tall older man right away.  Her mouth twisted down at the corners as she saw the younger man full face.  There was no doubt it was the same one.  Scott Lancer, in the flesh.  Hat in hand, he was waiting for the stagecoach to pass before crossing the street to the general store.  The morning sun struck his blond hair, turning it to spun gold.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.  And where, she wondered idly, was his brother, the black-haired gunfighter? The famous…or, she corrected herself, infamous…Johnny Madrid?

She’d learned a lot about the Lancers in the months she’d been in Morro Coyo.  An idea suddenly occurred to her, causing her pretty face to fill with spite.  The same idea caused her full lips to lift at the corners and made her green eyes gleam.  In that moment, she resembled nothing so much as a stalking, hungry cat.

Tossing a last contemptuous glance out the window, she returned to the bed, shedding her cheap robe on the way.  Naked, she crawled back into the sheets, putting one hand on the cowboy’s crotch a she did so.  “Dan,” she told him.  “Wake up.”

Beginning to stir as her warm hand caressed him, the sleeping cowboy looked into amused green eyes.  They disappeared from view as her head lowered.  Covering his chest with kisses, she slid slowly down his body.

The cowboy woke up completely as one small hand grasped him tightly and her warm mouth touched him. She looked up, smiling. The cowboy grasped her head with both hands, trying to force it down again.

Her warm tongue made a circular motion before traveling up and down.  The cowboy moaned a little.  She stopped again, looking at him until he opened his eyes.

“Dan,” she whispered.  “If I do this for you—you have to do something for me.  Agreed?”

He agreed instantly, without even waiting to see what she wanted.

When she was done, she slid back up his body, smiling at the spent man lying beside her.

Placing her lips close to his ear, she began to speak.

“This,” she told him.  “Is what I want you to do.”

Ch. 18

After an excellent dinner, the Lancers and Jelly had retired to the great room as Rosita came in to clear the table. Lighting the lamps as evening approached, Murdoch flipped idly through the newspaper while Scott rousted Jelly at checkers.

“Again!” the old man cried, “Another game, but I want to be red this time.”

“And why is that?” Scott teased him.  “You feeling lucky?”

Knowing Jelly was a superstitious soul, Murdoch had joined in. “Change your colors, change your luck, hey Jelly?”

The old man’s gray whiskers had wagged as he replied.  “Well, yeah, somethin’ like that!”

He glared at Scott.  “You gonna change sides with me or what?”

“Sure, Jelly, sure.” Scott replied soothingly.  “It won’t make any difference, anyhow, it’s all a matter of skill.  Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“Why, you smart aleck!” the old man had bristled.  “Just you give me the red ones now.”

Pushing the red checkers across the board with both hands, Scott laughed.  The sound trailed off suddenly as he heard hoofbeats in the distance.  “Maybe it’s Johnny!” he said to the other two, rising to go look out the window into the early dusk.

A moment later, there was a brisk rap on the door.  He flung it open, hoping to see his brother.  Dave Bell, the sheriff, stood there, one of his deputies behind him.

“Evenin’ Scott,” he said, nodding at the other two men.  “Murdoch, Jelly.”

“Hello, Dave,” Murdoch greeted him, coming to stand behind Scott.  “Come right in.  You, too, Todd,” he said to the deputy, who returned his greeting somewhat nervously. “Care for a drink?”

Dave entered the great room, his hand in his hands.  “This ain’t exactly a social call, Murdoch.”

Murdoch paused in the act of pouring Scotch from the crystal decanter.  He looked sharply at the lawman.

“What’s this about, Dave?”

“I need to talk to Scott, Murdoch.” Dave replied.  “I need to know his whereabouts on the night of June 21^st.”

Surprised, Scott looked up. “June 21^st?  Why?”

“Just answer the question,” the sheriff replied.

Murdoch put the decanter down and came to stand beside his son.  He looked sharply at the sheriff.  “Sounds like you’ve got something on your mind, Dave.”

Dave looked at him.  “Another Pacific and Western train was robbed outside of Sacramento,” he said simply.  “And the description of the gang’s leader matches Scott’s.”

Scott laughed.  “C’mon, Dave, you don’t really think I held up a train, do you?”

Jelly spoke up, chin whiskers wagging with indignation.  “That’s just plumb crazy, Dave!”

Dave sighed wearily, accepting the drink Murdoch was holding out to him.  Settling into one of the blue velvet armchairs, he put his hat down on the table. Behind him, his deputy accepted another glass.

“I think you best sit down,” he said.  “All of you.”

After all of the men had seated themselves at the table, Murdoch leaned forward, frowning. “You better tell us the rest of it,” he said.

Dave shuffled his feet and looked away.  “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” he said.  “But there’s no way around it.  I’m here to arrest Scott.  For armed robbery.”

Ch. 19

Glasses slammed onto the table as the Lancers and Jelly shot up in their chairs.

“What?” Murdoch thundered. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Dave sighed, putting his drink down.  Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a folded paper, which he handed to Murdoch.  “You better read this.”

Murdoch accepted it, glowering as he unfolded it.  Scott got up and peered over his shoulder.  Finishing, Murdoch handed it to Scott.

Scott scanned the document quickly, letting it drop to the table when he was through.  He and his father regarded Dave, their initial anger giving way to shock.

“This is a federal warrant!” Scott said.  “What’s going on here?”

Dave spoke up.  “You know that gang that’s been robbing trains all over?”

“Of course, we do!”  Murdoch snapped.  “What of it?  That has nothing to do with Scott!”

Dave sighed.  “I’m afraid it does, Murdoch.”

“Dave! You can’t tell me you think Scott had anything to do with that!  It’s ludicrous!”

Looking the older man in the eye, Dave picked up his drink, finishing it.  “I’m not saying I do, but folks have been talking for quite some time now.”

“Talking?  About what?” Scott snapped.

The deputy chimed in.  “About how all the other ranches in the area have gone under but Lancer. They think it’s strange you’re still afloat.”

Murdoch snorted.  “And that makes us complicit in robbery?”

“No, of course not,” Dave soothed him. “But we got a break in the case.  The gang’s leader has always been well-disguised.  Somebody finally got a look at him.”

“And?” Scott prodded him

Twirling his glass, Dave picked up the story. “It was outside of Tucson, last month.  They’ve been putting the passengers off before they blew up the safe.  This time, the explosive was defective.  The fuse didn’t work.”

Todd chimed in.  “Several of the passengers took the chance to rush the ringleader.  There was a fight.  His hat got knocked off.”

Murdoch nodded.  “What’s the rest of it?”

Dave continued.  “He got away, but it was the first description anyone’s gotten.”  His eyes turned toward Scott.  “He was tall,” the witnesses said.  “Tall and blonde.”

Murdoch snorted, crossing the room for the Scotch decanter. “That and five cents will buy you a cup of coffee!  Talk about flimsy evidence! That’s entirely anecdotal!”

Returning to the table, he refilled the glasses.  “Means nothing, Dave.”

Scott spoke up.  “From train robbery to me, that’s a pretty big jump.”

Dave sighed.  “Hold on a minute, you two.  There’s more.”

Taking a swallow, Scott set his glass down and leaned forward.

“Well, come on, Dave, tell us the rest.”

Dave bolted his glass of Scotch and set the glass down.  Leaning forward, elbows on the table, he looked both of the Lancers squarely in the face.

“On the surface, it’s nothin’, you’re right, Murdoch.  ‘Cept today, a witness came forward.  An eyewitness.”

Murdoch slammed the glass down. “Who?” he demanded.

“Doesn’t matter who.  All that matters is that he says he was on that westbound train when it was robbed.  He got a good look at the ringleader.  And he says it was Scott Lancer.  You’ll have to come with me.”

Ch. 20

Johnny smiled, running a hand through his thick black hair as he set the empty plate back on the bureau.  “That hit the spot. Thank you.”

She nodded, smiling.  “Didn’t you get a chance to eat today?”

He shook his head.  “No, I was a little busy.”  He looked her in the face.  “You and I have to talk.”

Her smile faded as she nodded.  “I know.”

Cursing himself for being the cause, he hastened to lift her spirits again.  “Don’t worry.  We’re going to work all of this out.  Just takes a little planning, is all.” He smothered a yawn.  “But not tonight.”

She looked at him, concerned.  “You look tired.”

He nodded.  “A little.”

Sympathetically, she nodded.  “That chair couldn’t have been very comfortable.”

“It wasn’t,” he said, eying her hopefully.

She slid off the bed, again hitching up her nightclothes with one hand as she padded to the armoire.

Johnny’s eyes followed her, noting the trim ankles and rounded derriere as she went.

Removing a pillow and blanket from the depths, she crossed back to him.  “Maybe these will help.”

Somewhat crestfallen, he took them.  “I’m sure they will.”  His smile reappeared. “It’s late.  You better get some sleep and so should I.  I have to leave early again tomorrow.”

Dashed, she looked at him.  “Why?”

“I have a few more things I have to do.  Can you stand it one more day?”

Her chin came up.  “Don’t you worry about me.”

He eyed her admiringly.  “Good.  Then we better say goodnight.”

He spread the blanket and the pillow in front of the door.  Noticing her look, he smiled.  “It’s best if I sleep here.” He didn’t add that although he’d watched to be sure he wasn’t followed, it was always wise to careful.  Waiting until she crossed back to the bed, he blew the candle out, listening as she took off the outsized robe and climbed into bed.

Sighing inwardly at being condemned to a night on the floor, he wrapped himself in the blanket and stretched out, his back to the door.

Her voice spoke softly in the dark.  “Good-night, Johnny.”

Smiling, he replied.  “Goodnight,” before he closed his eyes. Tired out, sleep overtook him quickly. 

Slumber took longer to find the girl.  Listening to Johnny’s soft, even breathing,  she lay there, her mind whirling with all the questions she hadn’t been able to ask.  But with his presence, she felt secure and soon, she, too, was fast asleep.

The next morning followed the same pattern.  Johnny had come awake silently in the dark, every sense alert.   One minute he’d been sound asleep and the next he was wide awake, his inner sense telling him it was time to move.  Moving quietly, he got up off the floor, placing the blanket and pillow on the chair. Taking extra care not to wake the girl, he put on his jacket and picked up his hat from the dresser.  Unmoving, she slept on, one hand cuddled under her cheek like a child’s.

Slipping soundlessly out the door, he locked it behind him and went downstairs.  A moment later, he was gone.

A few hours later, Becks, once again bearing a tray, tapped at her door.  Getting no response, she waited a moment, then tapped again.  Rousing, the girl went quickly to the door and unlocked it.  Standing aside, she allowed the madam to enter, smiling sleepily.  Wide awake, Becks put the tray down, noting how much happier the girl looked this morning and wondering if the handsome gunfighter had anything to do with that.  She smiled at her young charge, promising to bring her some bath water shortly.

Unknown to Becks, down the dark hall, Sally’s customer from the night before roused.  Beside him, the strumpet snored on, mouth open.  A trickle of drool ran from one corner, wetting the pillow. Still drunk, the man smacked his lips, grimacing at the cottonmouth.  His head pounded and he had to pee, badly. 

Getting up, he fumbled his way to the door, intent on making his way to the water closet in the hall.  Guests weren’t supposed to sleep over, the man knew, unless they wanted to pay the hefty fee.  Not many did, and the girls, preferring to sleep alone, usually kicked the customers out before curfew, anyhow. Last night, both he and Sally had passed out and his presence had somehow been overlooked.   Knowing he’d be charged, the man was anxious to leave before Becks discovered him.

He stood in the doorway a moment, fumbling with his belt, just in time to see Becks leaving the room at the end with two empty buckets.  Wondering what she was about at this hour, he weaved down the hall and put his eye to the keyhole.  It widened suddenly at what he saw.  Inside, a young girl, her back to him, dropped her robe as she prepared to step into the tub. 

Licking his lips, he watched as the robe slipped down, revealing creamy shoulders and a tiny waist.  His eyes started from his head and he pressed closer, forgetting to breath.  A sudden whack! broke the silence as Becks, sneaking up behind him, slapped him in the head with an empty bucket. Suspicious at an unaccustomed noise, she’d listened on the stairs, returning in time to see him slavering over her young charge.

 The drunk crumpled to the floor, unconscious, as the large woman stood over him, hands on hips and a heavy frown cleaving her forehead like the blade of an axe.  Putting the bucket down, she stepped between his legs. Grabbing him by each foot, she threw her weight forward, dragging him toward the stairs.  She lugged him downstairs, not caring that his head slapped each carpeted riser with a little thump.  It would only add to the headache he already had, she thought grimly.

Arriving in the kitchen, she dropped his feet, leaving him in the middle of the floor.  His head lolled, mouth open.  That settled it, she thought grimly.  Both he and Sally were about to be history.  Taking a bottle from the locked cabinet, she put it on the floor nearby, and propped the man up, holding him against her shoulder.  Picking up the bottle, she gripped his chin with one hand, causing his mouth to open. Putting the bottle to his lips, she sloshed the liquor in.  He coughed and sputtered.  Giving him a chance to swallow, she picked up the bottle and repeated her actions.

When she was satisfied he was too drunk to remember anything he’d seen, she put the bottle away, locking the cabinet.  Returning upstairs, she picked up the bucket, putting that away, also.  Arms akimbo, she glared down at the man.  He was damn lucky it was her that had caught him and not Johnny Madrid, she thought.  She guessed shrewdly that the gunfighter would have let daylight through him first and asked questions later if he’d seen the drunk licking his lips in front of the keyhole.

Becks opened the front door, propping it with the stop.  The lawn, thick with grass, was wet with early morning dew.  Dragging the drunk up by a handful of his shirt, she hauled him to the door, pausing on the threshold.  With a mighty heave, she threw him out.  The drunk described a perfect parabola as he flew off the porch, landing with a poof of dandelion fuzz on the front lawn. 

Leaving the door open, she went back up to Sally’s room.  Crossing quickly to the bed, she untucked the bottom sheet at all four corners.  Gathering them in her hands, with Sally rolled up inside, she dragged the bundle down the stairs, allowing it to thump down every step.  With another mighty heave, she tossed the whole sheet-wrapped bundle out.  It landed on the lawn with a satisfying thud.

Becks glared after it, then marched back up the stairs.  Like a whirlwind, she tore through the closet and dresser drawers.  Gathering Sally’s things, she marched back down the steps to the door.  Stepping onto the porch, Becks flung them all straight up into the air.

A muffled curse issued from the sheet as the cowboy’s boots landed on it.  A moment later, Sally’s head appeared, withdrawing suddenly as a half-empty bottle of tequila sailed toward it.  Landing a little way beyond, it rolled to a stop.  A skinny hand reached out and quickly drew it back under the sheet.  The last thing to strike the sheet was a small purse full of coins.  It, too drew a curse as it landed with a meaty thud.  That, Becks reckoned as she dusted off her hands, should shut them both up. Goodbye, she thought, and good riddance.

Trusting to the wet grass and cold morning air to sober them up, Becks went back inside, closing the door gently behind her.  When she looked out an hour later, both they and their belongings were gone.

Drawing her head back in, Becks sighed.  Leaning against the door, she began to laugh, her massive bosom and double chins shaking gently.  Well, she’d planned on getting rid of Sally and she’d never liked that particular cowboy anyway. If they were ever able to recall exactly what had happened that night, which she doubted, they were still lucky they had ended up in one piece.

She couldn’t have said the same for their welfare if Madrid had handled their exit.  The cowboy, especially, had been lucky.  His life wouldn’t have been worth a plugged nickel if the gunfighter had seen him ogling his woman.  Still smiling, she considered her choice of words, deciding she’d picked the right ones.  Whether he knew it or not, it looked like Johnny Madrid had found something special in the girl.  She only hoped he’d be able to keep her.

Johnny returned earlier that night.  The house was already quiet, it being a Sunday.  This time, he was leading a small bay filly with four white stockings. Her saddlebags bulged with some more things he’d bought the girl. Women, he had thought as he packed them, sure required a lot of gear.

Johnny had looked carefully for the right horse, wanting one that was strong but had a good gait and was easy to ride.  Leading the two horses into the stable, he put them into stalls and went upstairs.

As he’d hoped, she was still up, although the room was dark.  Slipping in quietly, he turned to see her smiling at him from the bed, pillows propped against the headboard.  Attired in her nightclothes, she slipped out of bed as he tossed his hat on the bureau, smiling at her.  The charming grin woke a response within her and her own smile was bright as she returned it.  Crossing to the bureau, she picked up a plate, on which she’d saved most of her own dinner.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking it from her and admiring the view as she returned to the bed, slipping under the covers to keep warm.

He ate quickly, pausing when he got to the large piece of lemon pie.  “Don’t you want that?” he asked.

She shook her head, smiling.  “No, you go ahead.”

Taking a big forkful, he put it into his mouth, chewing with obvious enjoyment.  She had to smile, watching him.  He sure had a sweet tooth, she thought.

When he was finished, he put the plate on the bureau and seated himself in the velvet armchair.

“So, are you ready to go crazy yet?  Cooped up in here?”

“A little,” she replied truthfully.  “Can we leave soon?”

“Yes,” he told her.  “Soon.  I promise.  But we can’t talk here, so let’s get some sleep.”

A few hours later, he woke her, sitting beside her on the bed with a gentle hand over her mouth.  Seeing her eyes open, he removed his hand, explaining, “I didn’t want to scare you.  It’s time to go.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed her.  “This is the best time to travel.”

Turning away, he lit the candle.  “I’ll go get the horses ready.  I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”

Slipping outside, he saddled both horses, leading them to a spot away from the house and tethering them.  Returning to the room, he tapped faintly and she opened the door, fully dressed.  She’d blown out the candle already and he nodded, pleased.

Indicating she should go first, they tiptoed down the stairs, closing the door softly behind them.  Outside, she took a deep breath of the cool air, enjoying the sight of the stars.  But there was no time to linger. Taking her by the hand, Johnny led her to the filly, boosting her into the saddle.  He’d never asked her if she could ride, she thought, but the idea left her as he handed her one of the horse’s reins.  He kept the other in his own hand as he mounted, leading the mare forward.

At his urging, both horses broke into a trot.  He watched her and the mare carefully for a few minutes. When he was satisfied that they were a good match and she could handle the horse, he passed her the other rein without breaking stride.

Touching the horses with their heels, they cantered away from town.

Ch. 21

As the train neared Sacramento, Manuel sat perched on the edge of his seat, submitting to his uncle’s ministrations.  Spitting into his palm, Julio tried again to flatten the boy’s unruly cowlick.  Giving up, he sat back again, smiling at his nephew.  The child had been agog with excitement throughout the whole trip, even more so now that they were about to be taken to their new home at Lancer.

Although neither had mentioned it, both had butterflies in their stomachs now that they were about to meet Senor Johnny’s father, and his hermano, Scott.  Shiny as a new penny, Manuel grinned back, one arm draped over the box holding the food Johnny had bought them at the beginning of their journey.  Amazingly, there were still a few things left at the bottom.

Well-fed and happy, Manuel was an entirely different boy from the one who had left Oaxaca not long ago, his uncle thought.  They’d eaten better on this trip then they had in their whole lives.  It had been better than Navidad, Manuel had told him, exclaiming as each new item was removed from the box and laid on the seat.  They had looked at each one carefully, gravely deciding which to share next.

Julio grinned, remembering the boy’s first bite of Boston cream pie.    As the delicate yellow cake had touched his tongue, Manuel’s eyes had widened, the chocolate icing providing the perfect counterpart.  The next bite had contained custard and the boy had been transported.   At the expression on his face, Julio had laughed so hard that tears had spurted from his eyes.

“Is it good?”  Julio had teased him.  The boy, a chocolate mustache adorning his upper lip, had only spread his hands and shrugged as he smiled, at a loss for words.

Both of them had been overwhelmed by recent events, plucked from their desert hovel and swept off to California virtually overnight, although Manuel had adapted quickly.   Never, thought Julio, had he dreamed that he would go so far from the tiny village where he had been born and expected to die. He sometimes thought his brain would burst as he tried to comprehend the vast distances he’d already come.

Until now, Julio had never been further than the hermit’s hut in the desert where they’d met Johnny.  His life had been even, uneventful for the most part.   Sometimes Julio had to take his handkerchief from his back pocket and mop his face when he thought of everything that had happened in the short time since they’d met Johnny Madrid.  He’d finally given up, deciding that the mind of the young was more elastic.  Manuel, by comparison, had not only adapted, he had thrived in his stimulating new environment.

Looking at his excited nephew, Julio felt only gratitude toward the gunfighter.  No matter what awaited them in California, the man had plucked them from misery and given them a second chance at life.

Julio leaned back, looking out the window.  There was nothing wrong with his vision, even at this age, and he could make out the train station in the distance.

On the platform, a small crowd was milling about.  Murdoch watched the train grow larger as it approached, black smoke billowing from its stack into the cloudless blue sky.  He frowned slightly, wishing Scott was with him.  He knew how much his older son had wanted to meet the two travelers and hear their news of Johnny.  But Scott was in jail and no bail had been set.

Murdoch sighed inwardly.  One more thing to worry about, he thought.  He wished, not for the first time, that his youngest would come home.  It would be good to get Johnny’s viewpoint on the problems facing them.

“One thing at a time,” he decided, “one thing at a time.”

As the train drew abreast of the platform, he spotted a child’s face pressed to the window.  Smiling, he guessed that must be Manuel.  The train shuddered to a stop, hissing, and passengers began disembarking.

Shortly, his guests were standing solemnly before him, the child clutching a large box as he tilted his head up to see into the tall patron’s face.  Murdoch offered his hand, smiling.

“Julio. I’m Murdoch Lancer.”  Shaking hands, they had searched the other’s face. Each man liked what they saw.

Julio thought inwardly that the patron looked like a man of authority, honest, and strong.  He wondered briefly where the brother was, as Johnny had told him to expect both men.  Something, he had decided, must have come up.

For his part, Murdoch liked the other’s man’s air of integrity and quiet dignity.  He bet the two had a story to tell, having spent time with Johnny.  He was anxious to hear it.

“And you,” Murdoch said, extending his hand to the boy.  “You must be Manuel.”

“Si,” the child replied.  “Soy Manuel.”

Murdoch ruffled his hair, drawing a smile from the child.  He noticed both were wearing new clothes and suspected his son had something to do with that.

Indicating the buggy, he looked around for their luggage.  Seeing that it consisted of the cardboard box, he swung the boy up, seating him in the back. “Welcome,” Murdoch told them.  “Welcome to California.”

He stopped Julio as he was climbing into the back.  “No,” he said.  “Sit up front with me.”

Surprised, Julio climbed into the front seat.  Murdoch picked up the reins, flapping them gently on Zanzibar’s back.  Obediently, the well-trained horse trotted off. The two men made small talk, while Manuel bounced from one side of the carriage to the other, craning his neck to see everything as they drove along. 

Murdoch maneuvered the carriage carefully through the crowd, leaving it behind.  Reaching the outskirts of town, he pulled the horse to the side of the road and stopped the carriage, turning to face Julio.

“Now,” he said, “Tell me about Johnny.”

Julio was silent for a moment, considering.  Then he began his tale.  He left nothing out,  including Lupe’s actions, his own shame, and how Manuel had first met the youngest Lancer. Julio described their mean living conditions and how the child had found Johnny unconscious in the desert, about to become a meal for buzzards.

Giving Julio his full attention, Murdoch’s brow furrowed as Julio described Johnny’s bout with heatstroke, clearing as he learned of his rapid recovery.  That, he thought, had been too close for comfort.  Thank God these two had been there to help.

Speaking slowly, at times searching for words, Julio described the plan he and Johnny had come up with and how they’d traveled to Oaxaca together. There, he told the patron, their paths had parted.  That was the last time he had seen Senor Madrid.

“Madrid,” Murdoch mused.  “So that’s the name he’s using?”

“Si, patron,” the man had replied gravely.

Murdoch sat for a few minutes, considering what Julio had just said.  He wished Johnny had thought to send another wire, if only to say that he was all right.  But since that one message from Oaxaca, there had been only silence.

“Well,” Murdoch said.  “I wish Johnny Madrid would come home.  I need to talk to him.”

He picked up the reins again.  “Thank you, Julio,” he said.  “I may have some more questions for you later, after I’ve had a chance to think it all over.”

He looked at Manuel in the back seat and smiled.  “And now, let’s get you home to Lancer!”

The boy, soft black eyes aglow, smiled in return, looking up eagerly at the word ‘home.’

Watching the innocent face, Murdoch wondered if Johnny had ever looked like that.  Somehow, he doubted it. Not growing up a half-breed child in Mexico with Maria for a mother.  Unlike Manuel, his youngest son had spent his early life far from the people who would have loved and protected him.

Johnny, Murdoch suspected, had worn a half-wary, distrustful expression from the time he left babyhood.

As an adult, his youngest still kept a certain emotional distance, even from family. Murdoch speculated that even his charming smile was a form of protection at times.  It allowed the real Johnny and his thoughts to remain safely behind the disarming facade while lulling enemies into a false sense of security.

Murdoch shook the reins, his mind still whirling, and Zanzibar moved off.  There was much about his youngest he’d probably never know.  He could only hope that one day, there would be no need for Madrid and Johnny would be secure enough to be plain Johnny Lancer.

He sighed inwardly.  That was just the problem, that day got farther away each time they had to call on Johnny Madrid.  And now, Lancer needed him more than ever.

They arrived back at the ranch in late afternoon. At the last curve in the road, Murdoch pulled the horse to a stop, indicating the view below.  A gentle mist was rolling into the lush valleys and the hills, muting the colors, and softening the light to a mellow gold. 

“This,” he told them, “is Lancer.  As far as the eye can see.”  His love of the estancia was evident in his voice and both Julio and Manuel were silent as they looked at the sprawling countryside, drinking it all in.

Murdoch picked up the reins.  “We best get going.  Maria will have my head if you’re late for her special dinner.”

Julio and Manuel looked at each other, surprised.  They had not expected to be welcomed into the patron’s home.  The Lancers, Julio thought, had done enough for them already.

When the carriage rolled under the adobe arch and up the drive a few minutes later, the first sound that greeted them was the honking of Jelly’s pet goose, Dewdrop.  Wings spread and waddling rapidly, the garrulous creature honked as he approached, followed quickly by Jelly.

“Darn goose is better than a watchdog,” the old man told Murdoch, taking Zanzibar’s reins.

He looked up, smiling, as Murdoch made the introductions.  He extended his hand to Julio.  “I hope you’ll be as happy here as we are, right Dewdrop?”

Recognizing his name, the goose honked as they all laughed. 

“I’ll put the horse up,” Jelly told Murdoch.  “And be right back for dinner.  Maria says we still have a few minutes before it’s ready.”

Thanking him, Murdoch climbed carefully down, bending his stiff knee with a sigh of relief.  Indicating they should follow, he said, “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

Clutching his box, Manuel looked at his uncle, eyes wide.  His uncle returned the look, equally surprised.  They had expected two bunks in the barn, maybe, or a shack in the distance at most.  Never had they expected to be housed in the estancia.

Murdoch led them to a door on the east wing of the house.  “This,” he told them, “will be your room.  We thought it better for the boy than the bunkhouse and we didn’t want to separate you.  Jelly’s room is right over there.”

Throwing the door open, he told them, “Go have a look.”

Julio and Manuel entered the neat adobe room, taking it all in.  There were two sturdy wooden beds, already made up, and two dressers. Twin washbowls and pitchers awaited, as did several thick cotton towels.  An Indian rug covered the floor, lovely in shades of rust, black, and white.  Rust-colored curtains were at the windows, partway open to reveal the view.  There was even a half-barrel, meant to serve as a bathtub, in one corner.

Julio raised his eyes to Murdoch’s face.  “All this…is for us?”

Murdoch thought he saw the sheen of tears in the man’s eyes.  “Of course, yours to do with as you wish.”  He entered the room, putting both hands on Julio’s shoulders as he looked him earnestly in the face.  “This is nothing compared to the gift you’ve already given me…the life of my son.”

A squawk from behind broke the moment.  Unseen, Dewdrop had entered behind them and stood now on the rug, flapping his wings.

Laughing, Murdoch turned to him.  “Is that your two cents, Dewdrop?”

Jelly bustled in.  “Dad-ratted bird!  Always has to be underfoot,” he said, picking the bird up with an affection that belied his words.  “Lucky Maria hasn’t cooked YOU for dinner.”

They laughed as Murdoch urged them all toward the door.  “Welcome to Lancer.  Now, let’s eat!”

After enjoying Maria’s excellent dinner and spending some time talking in the great room, it had grown dark.  The travelers returned to their room, stuffed.  A man, thought Julio, rubbing his belly, could get used to this.  The patron had promised to show them around the estancia tomorrow and he was looking forward to seeing the sprawling rancho.

Drawing water from the pump, he and Manuel had washed up and gone to bed.  Climbing into the crisp, cool sheets, Julio had blown out the candle.

His nephew’s voice spoke.  “Buenos noches, Tio.”

Julio replied, “Buenos noches, muchacho. Sueños dulces.”

Smiling, they fell asleep.

 Ch. 22

At the same time that Julio and his nephew were arriving in Sacramento, Johnny and the girl were making camp for the day.  Having left the higher elevation of Oaxaca behind as they traveled south, it was already much hotter, even at that early hour.  The high desert vegetation had given way to arid wastes, dotted here and there with saguaros. Remembering his last experience in the Sonoran desert, Johnny hoped for better luck this time. Spotting a rocky outcrop, he dismounted and turned to lift the girl down. Perching on a boulder in the shade, she leaned her head back, saying nothing, relieved to be off the horse.

Johnny, too, was quiet as he unsaddled the horses and checked the ground for snakes before spreading their bedrolls side by side.  Realizing what he was doing, she shuddered, but remained quiet.  Wondering silently about scorpions and the like, she resolved to say nothing, even if one of them walked on her.  She’d seen a scorpion in a specimen bottle once and considered it the ugliest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.   Devoutly hoping not to see one up close, the girl climbed wearily into her bedroll, summoning a tired smile. Two years of being under house arrest hadn’t prepared her for this kind of exertion and every muscle ached.

“Good-night, Johnny,” she said, “or should I say, ‘good morning?” 

He smiled back, white teeth flashing against his tanned skin.  “Either one’ll do,” he told her.  “Have good dreams.”

She rolled onto her side and was almost immediately asleep.  He stayed up, leaning against his saddle which he propped against a boulder.  He wanted to watch for awhile, make sure there was no pursuit.  Satisfied, he slid down into his own bedroll and pulled his hat over his eyes.  He’d been on short sleep rations for quite awhile and soon, he, too, was sound asleep.

After what seemed about five minutes, but was actually early evening, he woke her, saying, “It’s time to go.”

She opened her eyes, stretched, and winced as every muscle in her body screamed in pain.  Trying to hide it, she sat up.  He’d built a small fire, she saw, and now he offered her a cup of strong coffee.  She took a small sip, then put it down.

Johnny gave her his arm to help her up.  “Walk around a little,” he advised her.  “See if it loosens up.”

She did so, but the stiffness was in her bones.  What she really needed was a hot bath, she thought.  Johnny offered the next best thing. Seating her on the boulder, he came to stand behind her.  “Sit down.  Let’s see if this helps.”  Putting his warm hands under her heavy hair, he began massaging her stiff neck, sliding his hands up to massage her scalp and moving down to her shoulders when he felt her neck loosen up.  She almost purred, eyes closing. She was vaguely sorry when he stopped.  Offering his hand, he helped her from her rock, boosting her into the saddle once more.

Swinging to his own saddle with his usual lithe grace, he took up his horse’s reins, keeping him to a walk until he saw how the girl was doing.  Realizing she felt better once they were moving, he picked up the pace.   She was getting a touch of sun, he noticed.  Her blue eyes were even more vivid against the faint golden sheen of her skin.

Stopping during the hottest part of the day, they reached the port city of Santa Cruz in late afternoon.  The girl had been a trouper, Johnny thought, but he could see her yearning for a bath and clean clothes.

Crossing the town square, where a dais and tables were being set up, they entered the hotel’s lobby and asked the young clerk for a room.

“You got lucky,” the young man replied. “It’s the last room in town. Wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Johnny asked him. “All them tables bein’ set up?”

“Big fiesta tonight in the town square.  The local patron’s daughter just got married. Everyone’s invited.”

After paying for the room, Johnny carried the girl’s saddlebags upstairs.  Their room was plain but comfortable, with pale blue walls.  The main feature was the large brass bed covered with a white counterpane and a nicked dresser of golden pine with an oval mirror atop it.  The faded blue and white carpet had a pattern of large pink cabbage roses. White curtains fluttered in the breeze from the open windows. Turning to go care for the horses, he told her, “I have some things to do but you’ll be safe here.  I’ll have them send up a bath for you.”

She smiled, reviving visibly at the thought of being clean again.  She wasn’t the only one, he thought, rubbing his hand over the beard stubble on his chin.

Taking the horses to the livery stable, he made arrangements for them to be taken to the ship and loaded before their departure.  His next stop was the bathhouse. After cleaning up, he felt like a new man.  Dressing in clean clothes, he asked the barber for directions to the local steamship office. 

“Down the street on the right,” the man replied, wiping the lather from the razor before putting it away.  “Boat leaves every day at 11:00 p.m.”

After booking passage for the two of them, as well as the horses, on the steamship Santa Cruz Queen of the West, departing for San Francisco that evening, he made one more stop.  The girl needed this last gift, he told himself, to complete her disguise before they appeared publicly.

“Oh, hell,” he thought disgustedly.  “Who am I kidding?  If I never see her again after this, I want her to have it to remember me by.”

He decided to see if she was ready yet, looking forward to the chance to finally sit and talk. 

Tapping gently on the door and receiving a soft, “Come in,” he opened it to see her dressed in the spare clothes she’d discovered in her saddlebag.  She’d braided her hair in a long plait down her back, tying it with a ribbon, and the heavy braid swung as she moved.

She gave him a radiant smile as he entered.

“Feelin’ better?” he asked.

“One hundred percent better!” she laughed, twirling so he could see her outfit.  “I didn’t know you’d brought me more clothes, you’re spoiling me!”

He could spoil her forever, he thought, watching her pirouette in front of him, with the skirt twirling out and the light catching the small silver hoops in her ears.  This outfit was much the same as the first, except the long skirt was red and the blouse, with tiny puffed sleeves and a deep neckline, was white with tiny embroidered flowers and leaves in shades of red, blue, yellow and green.  They made the golden color of her skin even more attractive.

“Wait,” he told her, taking his hand from behind his back.  “There’s one more thing.”

She took it from him, wide-eyed, and held his gift up.  The silver conchos, on a belt of black leather, were exquisite works of art, finely detailed and delicately wrought.  It looked a good deal like his, which she had often admired covertly as they rode.  Slipping it quickly on, she tightened it about her waist.  It was a perfect fit, she thought, admiring the way it complemented her clothing.

“Like it?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, Johnny, I love it!  You shouldn’t have!” she said, flinging her arms around him in a spontaneous hug.

At her touch, his arms went quickly around her, his dark head lowering as his lips sought hers.  She melted in his embrace, dark eyelashes lying like fans against her cheeks as she raised her chin. 

Gunfire erupted in the street out front.  Shoving her to safety behind him, Johnny pulled his gun and dove for the floor.  Approaching the window from the side, he nudged the curtain aside with his gun so he could see out.

A plump girl in a white wedding dress stood on the dais, clinging possessively to her new husband’s hand.  Somewhat dazed in his black suit, the groom stood passively, tugging on his cravat.

An older man in fine clothes stood behind them, gun pointed at the sky. “¡Deje la fiesta comenzar! Let the fiesta begin!”  With a crash, the band swung into a lively mariachi tune and laughing crowds began filling the square.

From the window, Johnny mentally damned them all.  When he turned, the moment had passed.  Pressing both hands to her hot cheeks, the girl asked him, “Shall we go?”

Holstering his gun, he extended his arm and she took it, trailing beside him as they went down the wide stairs to the lobby.

Descending the portico steps to the street, they were immediately swept up in the music.  Taking her hand, he pulled her into his arms, bending his body easily over hers. He had a strong, sure lead, she thought, following him effortlessly as he whirled her around to the lively strains.  Their laughter swirled and rose over their heads, mingling with the sounds of the crowd.

After a few dances, they were both thirsty and he led her through the crowd to the refreshment tables.  Laughing as she looked up at him, they moved around the tables with their plates, with Johnny pointing out the items he thought she might like.  Their plates loaded, he led her to a dark corner, returning with beer for him and horchata, the traditional Mexican drink made with rice and cinnamon and flavored with lime for her to try.

“I forgot,” he said.  “You’ve probably already tried these things.”

Her brow clouded.  “My husband wouldn’t let me.  We ate traditional American foods, as much as we could get the ingredients.  He said we weren’t going to go native.”

“Well,” he said, dipping a tortilla into some guacamole and offering it to her, “now’s your chance.”

She opened her mouth and he fed her a bite.  “Ooh,” she said.  “That’s good.”

Laughing, he took a bite himself and agreed.  In the dark corner, they were alone in the crowd. He put one arm on the bench behind her, leaning close to hear her over the noise. Suddenly very conscious of the blueness of his eyes, the scent of his skin, and the warmth of his body, she picked an albondiga off her plate, offering it to him in return.  He leaned closer, opening his mouth and she fed him the tiny meatball.

“Good?” she asked him.

He grinned down at her “The best I’ve ever had.”

Finishing their food, they danced again to the lively music.  When the musicians changed suddenly to a ballad, Johnny pulled her close, resting his cheek momentarily on the top of her head. They might have been alone in the universe as they danced, smiling as they gazed into each other’s eyes.  Sentimental abuelas nudged each other and pointed, while others in the crowd smiled, enjoying their happiness.

They had a wonderful time for the next few hours.  Keeping an eye on the clocktower in the square, Johnny finally had to tell her it was time to go.  Wishing the evening could go on forever, he steered her through the crowd, resting a hand on the small of her back.  In their hotel room, they gathered up their belongings and prepared to walk down to the pier.

“Better put on your jacket,” he told her. 

Slipping into it, she lifted her braid out of the back and buttoned it partway.

Crossing to where he waited for her, she stopped.  Unable to resist, he did up the top two buttons of the jacket, brown fingers working with great dexterity.

“It’ll be cool on the water,” he told her.

Putting their saddlebags over his left shoulder, he took her hand in his left, leaving his gun hand free. Leaving through the back door to avoid the crowds, he guided her through the alley toward the wharf.

They were almost there when two men appeared in front of them.  “Give us your gun,” they said, allowing the moonlight to glance off the knives in their fists.

“Sure,” Johnny said. “Sure. No problem.”

Taking his gunbelt off, he tossed it toward them. 

“Your money,” the tall one told him.

Johnny tossed them his wallet.  “You got what you want.  Now leave.”

The short one smiled, showing the gap in his stained front teeth.

“Oh, no, senor.  Not everything.  Now give us the girl.”

Ch. 23

Inside the Morro Coyo jail, Scott ran a hand through his blond hair, rumpling it as he talked to Mark.  His brother-in-law was acting as his lawyer but so far, it wasn’t going well.

“Think, Scott!” Mark demanded.  “There must be someone who saw you traveling to San Francisco on the night of June 21^st!”

“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Mark! I took the night train--most of the passengers were asleep.  I didn’t talk to anybody.”

Mark sighed, rubbing his forehead as if it ached.

The two of them were seated on Scott’s narrow cot inside the cell, papers spread out between them as they talked.  Murdoch stood by the bars, frowning as he listened.

His back resting against the cold adobe wall, Scott thought that as far as jails went, it probably could have been worse but it was bad enough.  He wished Mark could get him out on bail when the circuit court judge came through but he had to admit, it didn’t seem likely.

Word of his arrest for train robbery had spread like wildfire throughout the San Joaquin valley.   Crowds had gathered in front of the jail, causing Dave Bell to increase security.

Reporters from papers as far south as the Times-Picayune in New Orleans and as far east as the Boston Herald were camped outside, as were sketch artist and photographers, all anxious to get a look at the fiend who had orchestrated a crime wave throughout the Southwest.  Editors at distant newspaper offices waited anxiously for a telegraph describing the notorious mastermind.  Every hotel room in town was taken as people crammed in for the arraignment scheduled for tomorrow.

“I seen him,” one little boy boasted to his friends.  “He’s tall, and he has yellow eyes…like a cat’s”

“Ah, g’wan,” they said, eying him uneasily.  Specters of demons from Sunday School lessons haunted them as they dwelt on the image just presented to them.  Many of these same children would awaken that night, crying for their mothers, causing these beleaguered women to curse Scott Lancer along with everyone else.

Angry ranchers who had lost their homes and property after their operating funds were stolen when the trains were robbed were even now making their way back to the valley to sit in on the trial. 

Many of the townspeople, who had so recently been guests at Lancer when Murdoch threw a fiesta to celebrate the birth of his granddaughter, put their heads together, whispering.

It was odd, they said.  Odd that Lancer had escaped virtually unscathed when so many other estancias had gone under.  Odd that Murdoch was still running thousands of head of cattle and going about his business like nothing was wrong.  Odd that Theresa still came to town, bringing her baby and holding her head high. Many of the gossips conveniently forgot that Lancer itself had taken a big loss following the stock sale in Abilene last spring. 

“That Scott Lancer,” the townspeople whispered.  “He has the know-how to pull off such things.  Wasn’t he an intelligence officer during the war?”

The rumors grew apace and fact soon mixed with falsehood, making the mild-mannered eldest Lancer son seem like a pillaging Visigoth.

Murdoch spoke up.  “I took him to the train station in Sacramento, myself, Mark!  Check the manifest!”

His son-in-law shook his head. “Won’t do any good, Murdoch.  You could have put him on the train and he could’ve slipped off and headed for Tucson.  You need an eyewitness who can place him in San Francisco and you don’t have that.”

In the saloon, the president of the Cattleman’s Association was seated at a table with some of his cronies and one of the girls, talking as he knocked back a few beers. 

“Let me tell you something,” Vick Roberts said to the blonde.  “Where’s that no-good brother of his?  Nobody’s seen that damned Johnny Madrid for months now.”

One of the men seated nearby spoke up.  “Madrid’s good with a gun but that don’t make him no train robber, Vick.”

Roberts dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.  “I’m telling you, Stan, I don’t put nothin’ past that gunhawk.  How come this robber gang ain’t been caught before this?”

Stan shrugged, spreading his hands to indicate ignorance.

Roberts forged ahead.  “Because that gang’s been fading back into Mexico, that’s why.  Madrid knows the lingo, he knows the terrain.  I’m tellin’ you, Stan, Johnny Madrid was in on this.”

The blonde draped over his shoulder smiled, a triangular, cat-eyed smile, green eyes gleaming with spite.  Things couldn’t have gone better if she’d tried.  All of the cattlemen and the townspeople were leaping nicely to the wrong conclusions and the net of intrigue and suspicion was tightening around the Lancers more with each passing day.

 Soon, she thought, Murdoch Lancer and his two sons would be history, their ranch confiscated, their stock stolen, and their lives as ruined, just as hers had been.

Ch. 24

Facing the two thugs who were trying to steal the girl, Johnny thought quickly, even as he kept his voice low and unworried.

Looking at the fat one with the stained shirt and the broken front teeth, he said calmly, “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because, cowboy,” the tall one said, tapping the length of broken pipe he was holding against his palm.  “We said so.”

“And,” the fat one added, “because we’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Keeping the girl behind him, Johnny spoke.  “Well,” he said softly.  “I guess you could try.”

Taking a step closer to the fat one, he said, “That is, if I don’t take you both with me.”

Behind him, there was a sudden clatter as the girl tipped over a trash can.  The din of the lid striking the cobblestones diverted their attention only for an instant but it was all Johnny needed.

Driving his hard first upward, he knocked the fat one out with an uppercut to the chin. Pivoting on one foot with the grace and speed that had made Johnny Madrid a legend, he drove a fist into the tall one’s stomach, doubling him up and dropping him to his knees.  A second fist smashing into his chin knocked him out and the robber sagged gently forward, landing facedown in the street.

Johnny looked down at them for a second, rolling the tall one over with the toe of his boot.

“Do you know either of them?” he asked.

The girl came forward.  “No,” she said.  “I’ve never seen either one of them.”

“Good,” he said, taking her hand.  “Come on, we have to hurry or we’ll miss the boat.”

The Santa Cruz Queen of the West was already fired up when and the crew was about to retract the gangway when they ran up.  Quickly handing the girl aboard, Johnny took the tickets from his jacket pocket and gave them to the ship’s officer.

“This way, sir,” the man said.  “Let me show you to your rooms.”

Johnny and the girl made their way along the deck in the officer’s wake as the Queen pulled away from the dock.  The night air was crisp and cool and the stars were covered by a milky haze.  The moon, hidden behind some clouds, was barely visible.  Water lapped gently against the boat’s hull as the engine hissed, building up steam.

Checking his list, the officer showed them to the first stateroom.  Opening the door, he ushered them inside.  The lamps were already lit, casting a weak pool of light.

“And yours, sir,” he told Johnny, “Is right through there, the rooms are connected by that door,” he said, indicating one set into the wall. “Enjoy your trip.”

“Thank you,” he told the man, slipping him a tip.  “Good night.”

The girl crossed to the side of the room, her back to Johnny.  He put her saddlebag on the bed and went to stand behind her.  Turning her gently around, he asked, “Are you all right?”

She nodded.  “Just tired, is all.  I guess everything’s caught up with me at once tonight.”

He nodded.  “Will you be all right by yourself?  Shall I stay with you?”

She shook her head decisively.  “No.  I’ll be fine.  I think I need to be alone for a little while.”

A faint frown creased his brow as he answered.  “All right.  Call me if you need me.”

Crossing to the door, he double-locked it, turning to look at her back.  “Good-night.”

Without turning around, she replied, “Good-night, Johnny.  See you in the morning.”

Stepping into the adjoining stateroom, he shut the door behind him, already missing her small presence.  He closed his eyes, leaning against the door as he fought the urge to go back in and talk to her.

Common sense won.  There were some things that couldn’t be forced.  With a muffled oath, he tossed his saddlebags onto the chair and began taking off his clothes.  In the next room, she heard his boots hit the floor, spurs clanking.  The sound made her want to cry, why, she didn’t know. 

Upset by the turn the evening had taken, she undressed, and climbed quickly into bed, leaving her hair in the braid. On the far side of the door, Johnny punched up his pillow and turned on his side, angry that the evening had been ruined. 

Alone on her side of the door, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as she lay on her back, wetting the pillow.  She suddenly felt very alone.  What would he do, she wondered, if she climbed into bed with him and asked him to just hold her?

She had crossed the room and her hand was on the latch when common sense stopped her.  Wiping her eyes, she climbed back into bed, sighing.  Too much had happened recently for her to take on any more entanglements, no matter how inviting. 

Clutching the pillow, she turned her back to the door.

Sleep took a long time to find both of them that night.

Ch. 25

Safely at Lancer, Julio and Manuel settled into their new lives.  After a sound night’s sleep in their fine new room, they joined the patron and Jelly for breakfast the next day.  He usually ate with his sons, Murdoch told them, but since Scott and Johnny were both gone, he preferred not to eat alone. At the mention of his other son, whom Julio still had not met, he had noticed a strange expression on Jelly’s face.  Quickly changing the subject, the old man had asked Murdoch what he wanted to do about repairing some fence.

After breakfast, the patron had taken them around the estancia personally, introducing them to the vaqueros and to Maria and Rosita in the kitchen.  Wiping her hands on her apron, Maria had bustled forward, making much over the boy, while Rosita smiled shyly from her post at the stove where she was stirring a large pot.

Julio had thought privately that Maria was a fine figure of a woman, in addition to being a wonderful cook.   He immediately liked her immaculate kitchen and the air of coziness and warmth that it exuded.

After giving Jelly instructions, Murdoch had taken them down to the barn to show them the horses.

“But stay away from this one,” he warned the child about one in particular, the black stallion named Diablo.  “He’s dangerous and unpredictable.  Johnny is the only one who can do anything with him.  Comprende?” he’d asked the child.

“Si,” Manuel had promised.  “Si, Tio,” he repeated to his uncle.  I’ll stay away from him.”

Murdoch  ruffled his hair.  “We have to see about getting you some schooling, too, so enjoy your time off while you can!”

He turned to Julio.  “Come, let me introduce you to Cipriano.”

After introducing both Julio and the boy to his head wrangler, Murdoch had asked the man to saddle up his horse.

“I have to go into town,” he told Julio.  “Some personal business. But Cipriano will finish showing you around.”

As his horse was led forward, he climbed into the saddle.  “I’ll see you both later.”

With a wave, he was soon gone.  Arriving in town, Murdoch made his way to the jail, shouldering his way through the crowd which was beginning to gather outside.

“How are you holding out?” he asked Scott after Dave Bell had let him into the cell. “Nervous?”

“No,” Scott replied, “I’m not.  I didn’t do anything.  Surely the judge will see that.”

Murdoch’s son-in-law arrived and joined them in the cell.

“Mornin’, Murdoch,” he told the older man.  “Scott.”

“Morning, Mark,” they replied.

“Quite a crowd gathering out there,” Mark added.  “I don’t like it.”

He exchanged worried looks with Murdoch as Scott got ready to leave. 

“This thing sure is getting a lot of publicity,” he told his brother-in-law.  “How’s Teresa holding up?”

“She’s fine.  I asked her to stay home today.  Didn’t want her or Catherine here with all this going on.”

Murdoch nodded.  “Best place for them.”

“Besides,” Scott added, “it’s just the arraignment.  I should be out in no time.”

Dave Bell took his ring of keys off the wall and opened the door.  “Good luck today, Scott.  I think Todd and I best go with you over to the courthouse.”

Blinking in the harsh sunlight, Scott emerged onto the street.  The other men formed a circle around him, deflecting the growing crowd.  Reporters shouted questions and townspeople, many of whom had never paid the smallest attention to Scott Lancer, gathered.  Small boys ran up and peered at the young man.  He noticed that several photographers had set up cameras outside the jail.

“Mr. Lancer!” a young reporter yelled, waving a pencil and notepad.  “Please!” 

Startled, Scott looked his way just in time for one photographer, hidden beneath the  black curtain connected to his large camera, to snap a picture.

“Mr. Lancer!” another called, “Do you think you’ll be released on bail?”

“Yes,” Scott replied firmly.  “I do.”

Frowning, Murdoch walked faster.  “That’s enough questions now,” he said.  The other men tightened the circle around Scott as they entered the courthouse.

Seating themselves at the front table, Mark spread out his papers. “I don’t have much to go on,” he told Scott.  “But I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask,” his brother-in-law replied.

The crowd shuffled in behind them, filling the available seats. More spectators stood along the back wall and trailed out the door.  Still more stood outside the open windows, watching and listening.

“All rise!” intoned the bailiff as the circuit court judge appeared through a door behind the podium.  “The Honorable Franklin Earle presiding!”

Horrified, Murdoch and Mark looked at each other.

Seeing their expressions, Scott was concerned.  “What?” he demanded.

Murdoch and Mark looked away.  Mark shuffled the papers on the table, not looking at Scott.

“Mark!” Scott demanded.

Taking a deep breath, his brother-in-law lifted his head and looked Scott in the eye.  “I thought you’d get the regular judge, Hiram Gates.  Franklin Earle must have taken over for some reason.  They call Earle the “Hanging Judge.”

Ch. 26

In the stateroom on the far side of Johnny’s, a middle-aged man took off his spectacles, putting them on the night table. Looking down at the black and white cat curled in his lap, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, which ached.  “Well,” he told the cat.  “Time for us to go to sleep.”

“Rrrrrrrr,” the tiny creature trilled in agreement. 

Putting her aside on the bed, he crossed the room and snuffed the gas lamp, almost tripping over the little animal as she darted between his ankles.

Picking her up, front paws draped across his shoulder, he rubbed his cheek against the silky head.  Passing the mirror, he caught a glimpse of their reflection and stopped.

He looked much the same as he always had, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch.  His nose, however, had never been the same since the night the monster, as Larry thought of him, had invaded their home.  The fat intruder had beaten Larry savagely in his quest for information about a former guest at the hotel.  Larry’s nose, the doctor had told him as he molded it painfully back into place, had been broken in two places.  It would never be the same again.

And it wasn’t, Larry thought with a sigh.  Now it had a hump in the bridge and lay askew, with a definite bend to the right.  His nose wasn’t the only thing that had changed.  Poor Lola Montez had, too. The little cat shadowed him wherever he moved these days.  Never a clinging vine in the past, Lola was now always within hands’ reach, as if her only safety resided in him. Well, he thought, all they really had now was each other.

 He remembered the sadness he’d felt when he left his little jewel of a house for the last time. Walking down the brick walkway, boot heels clocking faintly, he had paused at the end, one hand on the wrought-iron gate.  He looked back at the neat adobe house.  Beautifully landscaped, it boasted a small terracotta statue of St. Francis in the flower border and a tiny, tinkling fountain on the patio.  The sign in the yard read “Sold.”

Lola Montez, a trunk holding his clothes, and a few salvaged mementos were already in the hansom cab, waiting for him in the street. They were all that remained of his previously happy life in Oaxaca.

The home that he and Lola had loved and been so happy in was now just an empty house. Taking one last look, he allowed the gate to snick shut behind him.

Putting his bowler hat on and touching his breast pocket to be sure his glasses were safe, Larry climbed into the cab, taking Lola’s carrying case onto his lap.

With a snap of the whip, the cab clattered over the cobblestones, heading for the stage depot.  Unable to help himself, Larry hung out of the window, watching as his little house faded into the distance.

At the depot, the cab driver had transferred his belongings to the stagecoach.  Mentally bracing himself for the long, uncomfortable trip to Santa Cruz, Larry had climbed in with Lola’s case.  Fortunately, the coach only had two other occupants and he was able to sit by the window.  The fat woman and her skinny little husband merely nodded without speaking.  He was glad of that, he thought, as he didn’t want to make conversation, either.

“Meow!” complained Lola, indignant at being jostled so much.

Lowering his head to the mesh screen covering the opening, Larry had soothed her. “It’s all right, Lola.  We’re on our way.”

Confirming his words, the stagecoach took off with a jerk that snapped his head back.  Soon, they were on their way out of Oaxaca.  In his heart, Larry was glad. 

He didn’t remember how long he’d sat in his bloody bed the night the fat man had invaded his home, with the ruins of his house around him and Lola in his lap.  His hotel coworkers had finally come looking for him when he failed to arrive for his shift.  Exclaiming fearfully at the mess as they entered, looking warily over their shoulders, Hugh and Sophia had called for him, their voices echoing in the destroyed space.

Finding him in his ruined bedroom, they had gasped in shock.  Unrecognizable, both eyes swollen shut and his nose smashed, covered with dried blood, the sight of Larry had frightened both of his co-workers but not as much as his blank stare and immobility had.

Hugh had fled for the doctor while Sophia had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Tears started to her eyes at the pile of ruined crockery on the floor.  She remembered the day she’d gone with Larry to the potter’s shop and the fun they’d had selecting them.  The whimsical little cows made of rusty iron had been another find, marching  in a row across the shelf over the sink.

There were no glasses left.  Grabbing a towel from the floor, she soaked it under the pump, hurrying back to hold it to his battered face.  The cold had roused him somewhat from his near-catatonia; the doctor rushing in with smelling salts had accomplished the rest.

Hugh and the doctor had taken Larry quickly to the small hospital in town while Sophia had taken Lola Montez home with her. While he was gone, Hugh and Sophia, and a few other co-workers, had tried to put the house back to rights.  An impossible task, they’d soon decided, and they settled for sweeping the debris into large tarps that they bundled and put into the trash.

During visiting hours, Sophia had told Larry that the house was waiting for him.  He looked at her sharply, shaking his head.

“I can’t go back there,” he’d said.  “I’m going to sell it and go to California.”

Sophia had tried to talk him out of it but Larry had been adamant.  The house had been violated, just as he and Lola had been.  It would never be their refuge again.  When he left the hospital, he had refused to return even once.  Instead, he and Lola had taken up residence at the hotel.  Hugh had packed Larry’s clothes and the few belongings he’d been able to salvage and brought them to him there, along with a specially-built carrying case for Lola Montez.