Johnny looked up at the man on the horse. He was tall, near Scott’s height, but he didn’t pack much meat on his shoulders or chest. Johnny pegged him to be about twenty-six or –seven. He’d had the pox at one time; scars peppered his cheeks and forehead.

But what drew Johnny’s attention was the purplish-red ring floating under the man’s left eye. “He give you that, too?”

The cowboy’s face darkened.

Johnny’s view shifted to his compadre. Not a bad-looking kid. He wore a gun; right side, a Remington, judging by the shape of the handle.

He heard a rustle from the barn and the sound of boot heels. Murdoch stopped short of the loose circle of men and horses. “What’s going on here?”

“This man says Scott broke his watch.”

“That’s right; it was a gold piece. Took it right outta my hand, and stepped on it. Cost me a job, too. ”

Murdoch shot Johnny a look and raised his eyebrows. “If that’s what happened, and I say ‘if’…you can take it up with my son when he returns.”

The man in the saddle puffed out his chest. “There’s witnesses. Albie, here for one.” The kid looked like a jack-rabbit waiting for that first ping so he could jump down the hole to protect his tail.

“Just what do you want?” Murdoch’s deep voice drew the man’s head around

“My watch money. Twenty dollars all told. It’s fair enough compensation.”

They were bullies and they found someone—Scott—who wouldn’t put up with their shit. Well, Murdoch wouldn’t, either.

“Name’s Cooper. And I could ask for more...a lot more. I would’ve made good wages at Petersen’s.”

“Like I said Mister Cooper, you need to take this up with Scott when he gets back home.” Murdoch folded his arms. “After all, we only have your word against his—and I don’t know you.”

“When will he be getting back?”

Looking like his irritation needed a place to go, Murdoch took a step forward. “I’ll tell you what, when my son returns, I’ll send him into town to find you.”

Albie reached over to tug on Cooper’s shirtsleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”

Cooper’s eyes swept around, taking in the hacienda and the corral full of horses, finally fixing them with a glare. “We’ll be waiting.”

Murdoch turned to face him. “Scott didn’t say anything about his trip into town?”

Johnny shook his head.

“Did your brother cause Cooper’s eye condition?”

“So the man says.”

Murdoch sighed. “There’s more to this than a broken watch and a shiner. I’d wager there’s a bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere in this story. Those boys look ragged around the edges.”

“You know Scott’s due in tomorrow morning, right? You gonna send him into town when he gets back?

“I think it might be best to put a little time between Mr. Cooper and Scott. With a little luck, this will all blow over.”

Thoughtful, Johnny looked back at the two cowboys now beating it back to town. Nothing against Murdoch, but dealing with them in their own way was sometimes the only thing men like Cooper understood.

~o~o~o~

The sun baked the wet ground until it was steaming. Sweat clinging to his cheeks, Scott took off his hat and wiped his forehead and hatband, then settled it back in place. He urged his horse to an easy canter.

The morning became noon, and noon soon pushed shadows behind him as the day wore on. He watered his horse at a swollen spring and let her crop a patch of green grass. Looking up at the sound of oncoming hoof beats, he grinned at the approaching rider.

“Did Murdoch send you out here to check on my work, Johnny? Or just enjoying the scenery?”

“You’re late.”

“The washes were running bank full after the rain last night. Did you think I’d taken off for the seven hills of San Francisco to consort with all manners of women, leaving you to do all the work?”

“You’re real funny this afternoon. Besides, that’s one trip I would’ve joined you for.”

“Somebody would have to supervise, I suppose. What really brought you out all this way?”

“You know anyone by the name of Cooper?”

“Cooper…name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

“Rough-looking cowboy. Dirt brown hair, black vest that hasn’t seen a clothesline in a while, scarred-up face. Might’ve been drunk the day you picked up the mail.”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t recognize the description of the man without a bottle in his hand. He and I met the other day over his whiskey and my fist.”

“He sure remembers you.”

“I do tend to stick out in a crowd.”

“Says you owe him twenty dollars.”

Scott reined up his horse. “For what?”

“His watch. He came out to the ranch looking for money. Told us that you broke it and now he wants to be paid.”

“As I recall, and I was the sober one, he swung the bottle at my head. I didn’t have much…time…to see where my feet were, let alone worry about a watch.”

“Also said you cost him a job.”

“Cooper went to jail for shooting holes in Hick’s granary sign. The fact he missed his job was his doing, not mine.”

“Whatever happened, the man’s in a snit and wants his money.”

“Must be if he came out to the ranch.” Scott crossed his arms on the pommel and leaned forward. “So you, ah, took the time to come all the way out here to tell me that?”

“The scenery is nice out this way.”

“You feel like a little fishing before we go back?”

Johnny fingered the handle of his pistol. “I have my pole.”

Scott straightened and smiled. “Let’s get to it then, Brother.”

~o~o~o~

Scott saw it first, the sudden flash of sun on metal. Further up in the hillside, the gleam persisted, just a splinter of light amongst the brush. He dropped his eyes and let his gaze drift to the narrowed trail ahead. He shifted his hip in the saddle and turned half-way around to look at Johnny. He was a few paces behind and off to the side, looking down at hands fisted around his reins.

A slight nod—he’d seen.

Scott drew a bunched bandana from his pants pocket and reined in his mount until Johnny came abreast of him. “Something shiny up there.” He paused to wipe the cloth over his forehead and down his cheek.

“Bet that twenty bucks you owe it’s a rifle.”

“Sucker bet, Johnny. But who’s holding it and what he’s doing on Lancer land, is the real mystery.” He took his time folding the bandana into a neat square. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Feel like gambling?”

“What if he just shoots?”

“At least we’ll know where we stand.”

“I’m not so sure I want to take a chance on the gentleman getting nervous. There aren’t a lot of choices. If we turn and run, we’re likely to get a bullet. The trail narrows through here, no place to hide. Although we could get behind our horses.”

“I’d just as soon get shot than walk back to Lancer.”

Scott pushed the bandana back into his pocket. “Whoever it is, maybe he’s just out shooting game…”

He dropped behind Johnny as they edged along the rocky rim of the canyon wall until there was a good fifteen feet between their horses.

Loose rock glancing down the slant of the hill was startling, like a warning to look up. There was a man there, rifle at aim. All they could see was gun and hat.

“Don’t lift a finger or you’re dead!” The voice was full, clear...and familiar. “Sit still while I come down.”

The man picked his way down the slope, half sliding into a hollow. For a moment the man’s head disappeared, then bobbed up again. He hesitated, looking at them for a few seconds. Then he disappeared again into a deeper portion of the draw.

Scott’s hand darted to his holster.

Johnny’s voice was whisper-soft. “There was another man with him at the ranch.”

His hand slid back to the saddle horn while his eyes searched the brush. The cowboy moved toward them on the trail with short bowlegged strides, his face lowered close to the upraised rifle. There was no mistaking the arrogant swagger. A dozen steps away from Scott’s horse, the man raised his head and shouted, “Albie! Get down here.”

Cooper gestured with his rifle. “Off those horses.”

Scott cast a quick look glance at Johnny and swung down from the saddle.

“Now there’s no law here, so I’ll make some calls of my own. Drop those pistols, too.”

“You think you got it in you to try and take’ em?” Johnny’s cool voice waved the smile from Cooper’s face.

The cowboy stepped forward and jabbed the muzzle of his gun against Scott’s chest. “I want my money.”

Scott gave a small smile. “I’ve been fixing line cabins; does it look like I have any money on me? Turn around and ride out, Cooper. We can still forget this ever happened.”

“No. If I can’t get hard cash then I’ll take something else.”

“What? You’re going to kill me for twenty dollars?”

Cooper edged back a few steps, his eyes flitting from Johnny back to Scott. “Albie, you cover the dark-haired one.”

The boy shook his head. “Coop, no. You didn’t say nothing about killing.”

“Just do it! There won’t be any killing—at least not yet.”

Cooper waved his gun. “Now, mister, you lead that horse away from the draw to that tree.” He nodded. “I’ll take those horses with me, and your gun belts, they should earn top dollar all right.”

Scott shrugged and took up the slack in his reins.

“Uh-huh, give me that belt, first.”

His hand drifted down to his holster and stayed over the buckle. He flung up his arms, slapping the reins flat against his horse’s neck. The horse bucked away while Scott reached for his pistol.

Cooper dodged the flailing hooves and raised his rifle.

~o~o~o~

Johnny threw himself into the boy as he ran past, sweeping him up and dumping him on the ground.

Beside him, Scott’s gun roared.

Cooper took the bullet and went to his knees like a sinning man in church. His arm swung wide, snapping out a shot before hitting the ground.

Scott grunted as the bullet plucked his trouser leg. Driven backwards, he lurched to the edge of the draw and vanished.

Taking a fistful of Albie’s shirtfront, Johnny buried his pistol under the kid’s chin, forcing his head back. The boy’s eyes widened and bulged, all jack-rabbity again.

“You head out of here. Now.”

The boy stumbled to his feet and glanced to the fallen heap of man to his right.

Johnny shook his head. “My brother didn’t miss. Neither will I.”

He watched Albie’s retreating back for a moment, then ran to the edge of the draw. Tipping forward, he saw Scott’s haphazard path down the side of the hill, but no brother. He slipped over the edge and slid down. Undergrowth tugged at his boot heels and sent him sprawling. He popped up, surprised when his hand came away smeared with fresh blood. The grass parting before him, he stared to the side, finally seeing what shouldn’t be there—a boot.

“Easy. Let me take a look.” Johnny frowned, his view lingering on the torn trouser and the red running down the length of Scott’s leg.

“How is it?”

“I’d say you did it up real good this time. We gotta get that bleedin’ stopped.”

Scott took the bandana out of his pocket and thrust it into Johnny’s hand.

“Cooper?” The name was hissed out when the cloth was wrapped and knotted around his thigh.

“You drilled him. He won’t be causin’ anyone trouble.”

“The boy?”

“I let him go.”

“Think he was along for the ride, anyway. Got more than he bargained for.” Scott squinted to the top of the hill. “I don’t relish trying to get back up there. Any horses around?”

“No, they scattered once the shooting started.” Johnny stood and held out his hand.

Scott huffed out a breath and clasped it. “Sorry Johnny, it looks like we’ll be walking back to Lancer after all.”

~o~o~o~

Scott chewed on his lip, feeling hollow-eyed. He stared at the bottle of `Dr. Good' Johnny held in his hand. Shielding his wounded leg, he tried hard not to look at the blood covering the cot's ancient mattress. It was a sharp reminder of all that went wrong earlier in the day, making the lumpy pad slick with a warm, greasy feel.

Johnny tipped the half-empty bottle, and the fluid sloshed from side to side. Their eyes met over the garish yellow and black label proclaiming the contents a cure-all for everything from dyspepsia to the quaking tremors.

Looking intent, Johnny held the bottle up to the lantern light. "You know, we can try this to get it to stop bleeding," he said, in a soft drawl, "or that." He cocked his head towards the hearth.

Scott's eyes shifted to the blackened pit, seeing Johnny’s knife perched near the edge of the flames.

A sudden pop of cork and white-hot pain blossomed from his thigh. It spiked hard and bit into his brain. The breath whooshed out of him. "God, Johnny! What the hell…" Writhing into the pain, he clawed at his leg. Johnny’s hands clamped around his wrists, drawing them away.

He fought against the strong grip until the pain lessened, leaving him out of breath. “Next time…next time give me some damn warning.”

Johnny let go of his wrists and grabbed the clean linen pads. “Hope there won’t be a next time.”

~o~o~o~

“How you doin’?” A faint nod was all Johnny expected—and all he got. “Barranca and…your horse…are probably half-way to Lancer by now. If they go the south route, Cipriano will pick them up and know something’s wrong.”

Johnny tugged on the moth-eaten blanket to cover the dark stain on the mattress near Scott’s thigh. All that walking to get to the line shack—too much blood leaked out of the wound before they got it to stop. He raised his eyes at Scott’s hushed sigh of pain. “When are you gonna come up with a name for that animal?”

Scott turned his head on the folded-up coat to study him—and the question, before answering. “All right, I’m a little shy about naming my horse. Lost too many during the Rebellion to name them.”

“That good of rider back then, huh?”

“Adequate, more than adequate, though I was well-versed in a tuck and roll strategy as a form of dismount. Confederate snipers were better at shooting than I was at riding. Horses presented a larger target. The one I remember best did have a name: Little John. A strapping bay, seventeen hands high. It was at Yellow Tavern, only I didn’t lose him—he lost me. Little John was my last horse…for a good while.”

Yellow Tavern. The name meant nothing to Johnny, but despite Scott’s wan smile over his horse, it hinted of danger, bloodshed—death. Maybe it was Scott’s version of Sonora. He understood the mess, the chaos of a war. The dirty border wars anyway. When you didn’t know a friend from a bastard, and were always one bullet away from getting planted. He figured his brother knew something about that, too. Different, but the same somehow.

Scott’s eyes were closing; maybe he’d sleep a little. His face had lost color, except for two red spots, one high on each cheekbone. So a fever was coming then. Well, Scott had weathered worse.

Every now and then his brother would let go another bit of his life before Lancer—that prison back east still being a closed book. Johnny wondered what it had been like, locked up for a year. He knew about jails, had been in more hard-luck cells than what he’d ever tell Murdoch. And his time with the Rurales was short, almost ending with bang at the side of the road.

Johnny squinted at Scott and the lamplight blurred, leaving him framed in a golden oval. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t picture Scott as he might have looked back then. Skinny, chin dotted with a thin beard…maybe he just didn’t want to.

Restless, Scott shifted his good leg to bend at the knee, his eyelids opening. “What’re you doing, Johnny?” Slurred out, the question was tinted with demand, his normal accent deepening.

Johnny’s eyes sought out the veins on the back of his own hand. “Nothin’, just…nothin’. Get some rest; we still have to figure out a way to get back.”

Scott’s head lolled on the coat pillow and his eyes closed. “Going to walk. Give me…a few minutes…”

Smiling, Johnny leaned back against the hard slats of his chair. “Sure, Boston. You take your time.”

An eye slivered open at the old nickname, then closed again.

Johnny pulled the woolen blanket up higher on his brother’s chest and shortened the lamp wick. Thinking about an unseen prison far away in the east and peach fuzz on a brand new Lieutenant, he exhaled. “Yeah, Scott, you just take some time.”

~End~

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