Warnings: Shootin’, shaggin’, and sayin’ shit.

Chapter 1

Damn mud. It was even in his hair. He raked his fingers through it, trying to dislodge some of the dried chunks. Too late. The rush of people from the street, the pounding of hooves, and the yelling of the driver to whoa signaled the stage’s arrival even before it careened around the corner, a frenzy of mud flung in its wake. He crammed his hat down on his head. That should help.

Thumping the palm of his hand on his leg, Johnny tried to figure the odds on whether Murdoch would just give him that ‘you screwed up again’ look, or if he’d go ahead and start yelling. Probably the look. Save the yelling for when they got out of town. The thumping dislodged some more dried mud that had been caked in his conchos.

Hell, he didn’t need to hear any more about it. Mud, cracked and flaking, was all over him, his shirt was ripped, and his spurs had lost their jingle. All because Murdoch had insisted he meet him with the buckboard. True, the fact that he’d been running late and had taken that shortcut he took all the time on Barranca, and taken it fast, probably had something to do with the getting stuck and the messed up axle that happened trying to get it unstuck. How was he to know that gulley could fill up like that just because it rained, hard, for a couple of days? Nobody’d ever mentioned it. 

He’d worked on pushing it out and digging it out and yelling it out until the mud just grabbed hold of it deeper, then he unharnessed the horses and rode one, saddleless, to town to meet Murdoch, leading the other just so nothing would happen to it out there alone. Somehow he didn’t see Murdoch riding the broadbacked horse back to the ranch, even if they could find a saddle to fit it, so he’d already lined up a buggy from the livery. That was all he could do. That, and plaster a smile on his face as the stage drew up.

Wooden planks were stored next to the boardwalk for days such as this, so he grabbed a couple and aimed them toward the coach door, plopping them in the puddled mud. He let out a stream of mumbled curses when the road spit fresh mud on him, but caught his tongue as the coach door opened and a vision stopped in the doorway, like she was posing for a painting, her blond hair glowing as the sun picked that instant to finger through the clouds.

An angel on high. And he’d thought they were only in heaven. She raised her brow just a bit, and he spurred himself into action, helping her down and steadying her delicate weight on the wooden planks as she stepped toward the haven of the dry boardwalk. She smelled like spring, felt like silk. She looked at him expectantly, big blue eyes, so he started to introduce himself.

“My bags?”

Damn! He backed and slipped toward the stage, just catching himself from falling in his haste to retrieve the case that was lowered to him. He plunked it next to her, along with his best smile, and was trying to think of what to say when a voice called out behind him.

“Young man, I’d like some assistance here!” An older woman peered from the door, a parasol in her hand, a cool look on her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, clomping back to help her, wondering why Murdoch couldn’t do it. She wasn’t all that old, not for the old man, in fact she was what some people called a handsome woman, fair, in some ways an older version of his angel. Maybe her mother? It wouldn’t do to slight her, not if he was going to make points with the daughter. Either way, it was a good chance to show off how helpful he was. He delivered her to the boardwalk, guiding her along the planks careful as if she was a prize heifer while he slid alongside in the mud, watching his angel out of the corner of his eye. These were the sort of ladies he’d often wondered about from across the street in his former life; the kind off-limits to Johnny Madrid. But not Johnny Lancer. Now he could cash in on his new name, get to know them. Or at least, one of them.

“Mother, this place is horrid!” The angel’s voice was like the breeze on a warm night, the kind that made the curtains billow just a little. She looked around Green River, wrinkling her nose as though the streets were filled with sewage, not mud. Well, it was kind of sloppy today.

Suddenly remembering Murdoch, Johnny skidded back along the plank to meet him. But when he stuck his head in the door, he found the stage held only a couple of priests who appeared to be sleeping.

“Boy, the bags?” The older woman waved toward the stage impatiently.

“Uh, yes ma’am,” he replied, then turned to the driver. “Did a big man get on the stage?”

“Your name Johnny?”

“Yeah?”

“Here. He dropped this off.” The man handed him a note with his name on it. A quick reading told him Murdoch had been detained but would be along on the next stage. Great.

“The bags?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m coming, I’m coming.” She seemed kind of pushy. He hefted the remaining bags and carefully balanced himself on the plank back toward the ladies. “Name’s Johnny, ma’am,” he said, placing the bags on the boardwalk and tipping his hat, “Johnny Lan...”

“Yes, yes, so I heard. Please take them to the hotel,” the older woman ordered, gesturing to the pile of luggage. They were already walking toward Green River’s only hotel before Johnny could protest. He looked after them, his jaw working but the words still stuck in his mouth. “Glad to meet you, too,” he muttered.

He shrugged and grabbed the largest bag in one hand, tucked the smaller ones under his arms, and finally hefted the other big bag in his left hand. Walking as though avoiding a rock slide, the bags slipping with every step, he finally made his way to the ladies now leaving the hotel desk.

“Upstairs,” the mother motioned, flitting her gloved hand, handkerchief waving, toward the stairway. Her beautiful daughter was already on her way up.

Johnny let out his breath with a huff but they kept on marching up the stairs, never looking back, so he sighed and followed them, up the stairs and to their room, finally depositing the bags with a small crash just inside the doorway.

He tried his smile again, the hat tip too. “Like I said, ma’am, name’s Johnny...”

The woman slipped a coin in his hand. “Thank you, Johnny, that will be all,” she said, closing the door slowly, nudging Johnny back with its advance, closing off his chance to meet his angel.

“Um, ma’am, I’d be honored to escort you two ladies to dinner,” he said hurriedly, trying to stay ahead of the narrowing crack into their room, “seeing as you’re not from around here. They got a place serves real good Mexican food, if you like that.”

“I hardly think so, on both counts. Good day.” The last thing he saw was her tight polite smile before the door closed. It was a start. A lousy one, but a start. He wondered what Scott would have done different.

Johnny looked at the coin in his hand. He’d been too busy trying to keep her from shutting the door to really notice it. Shit. No wonder. He knocked on the door. “Um, about this money, ma’am, you...”

The door opened abruptly, and now she wasn’t smiling. “That’s all you’re getting! Now please leave.”

“Uh, no ma’am, you got it wrong, I don’t work here, I’m not even from town.” He thought hard. If he could impress her with his newfound name and fortune, she’d maybe warm to him better. “I’m from Lancer, um, it’s a really big ranch...”

The door stopped its swing inward. “Lancer? Murdoch Lancer’s ranch?”

Damned if it didn’t work. “Yes, ma’am! Like I said, I’m...”

“Yes, yes, I heard you.” She looked him up and down in a way that made him feel like a spoiled side of beef. “Murdoch’s still taking in strays, I see. That man always was a soft touch, especially for your kind.”

“Uh, well, yeah, I mean, not exactly. Um, I’m his son, Johnny. You know Murdoch?” He tried to peer around her to catch a glimpse of his angel, but she was out of view.

If anything, her expression turned suddenly stonier, the way she looked him over more critical. “His son? Not Maria’s son?”

“Yes, ma’am.” That got his attention. She knew his mother?  “You an old friend of Murdoch’s?”

“Murdoch and I are very old friends, from around the time you were born,” she replied, a smile now on her face but a frost still clinging to her words. Fancy people tended to be like that. “In fact, I was planning to look him up.”

Johnny couldn’t help but smile at the news. He’d have at least one more chance, one where he’d be ready. “I’m sure he’s gonna be real pleased, soon as he gets back in town. Should be tomorrow, Miss...”

“It’s Mrs. Florence Sinclair,” she said, seeming to warm a little, “and my daughter, Miss Anastasia Sinclair. My son, Ian, will be joining us soon.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Sinclair.” His angel had a name, and she had joined her mother at the door. He couldn’t take his smile off her. “You sure you don’t want to get some food?”

They both looked him up and down. “We’re really quite tired from our journey.”  

“I understand, ma’am.” Looking at the mud still clinging to him, he did understand, too.  He started to leave before he remembered what he wanted to ask. “So, you was friends with my mother, too?”

“No,” she said, closing the door between them. It struck him how she could put that same expression on her face her daughter had, when she’d looked like she’d smelled shit.

Chapter 2

“Johnny!” It was a screech that had the birds fluttering up from the loft and Johnny grabbing for his gun.

Dios, why did she have to scream like that? He took his hand from his gun, gave Barranca one last pat and ran toward the rear of the hacienda, where Teresa was still yelling loud enough to pop a lung. He’d been shocked the first time he’d heard her use some of those words. Bet she wouldn’t be using them if Murdoch weren’t off in Green River.

“Whoa!” he yelled as he turned the corner around back, taking in the scene. Clothes were strewn about in the dirt, some half buried. A few still hung in tatters from the clothesline. Teresa was brandishing the rug beater, glaring at a small dog with hair like damp straw that in turn simply danced about, landing every few steps with his elbows on the ground, yipping and wagging his tail.

“I’ll kill him!” She advanced on the dog, which only made it bark more.

“Awe, he didn’t mean it! He’s just playing. I’ll clean it up, Teresa!” Johnny jumped between the irate woman and the dog, which took the opportunity to clamp onto his flared pants leg and start tugging, growling ferociously. Johnny swatted at him. “Come on, Teresa, don’t tell anybody. I’ll help you with the laundry for a week.”

“Help? You’ll do it all! I quit!” She threw the beater in the direction of the dog. The dog grabbed it and raced around the yard, stopping when he was tantalizingly close then springing back into action when Johnny made a move to retrieve the stick. Teresa stomped back into the hacienda.

“Dios, Rojo, you done it now,” he muttered, stooping to pick up one of his own shirts. He looked around at the casualties and sighed at the thought of spending his day washing clothes. Actually, the shirt in his hand wasn’t all that bad. The mud was just on one side, and once it dried he could probably just brush it off. It’s not like it wasn’t going to get muddy again as soon as he wore it. He laid it aside carefully and stooped to examine another. Scott’s shirt. It was even cleaner than the one he’d just looked at. Just a sleeve. But Scott was so persnickety about his clothes. Maybe he could just dunk the sleeve. He walked around, separating the clothes into salvageable and dunkable piles, glaring at Rojo as he worked.

Rojo cocked his head and barked, then nudged the stick toward Johnny. “You better hide that stick if you know what’s good for you.”

He sure hoped Teresa wouldn’t go complaining to Murdoch when he got home.  Murdoch was already itching for a reason to ban Rojo from Lancer entirely. Sure, he’d dug up the garden a few times, chewed almost through the cinch on Murdoch’s saddle so it snapped when Murdoch tried to mount up, and stampeded the herd that one time. Murdoch never called him by name, just “that good-for-nothing mutt.” Teresa just called him “your dog,” always delivered in an accusing tone — although he’d caught her sneaking Rojo treats when she thought nobody was looking. Scott usually had more colorful descriptions for him, such as “that canine catastrophe” or “the barking tumbleweed.” Rojo did kind of look like a tumbleweed, with wiry hair that stuck out in a confusion of wild angles.

What’d they want him do? He’d come across the dog in the middle of nowhere, hanging around the well-dead body of another dog, maybe his dam. He couldn’t leave him there. So he’d scooped him up and brought him home. He didn’t tell anyone that he’d wanted a dog his whole life, or that there was something about the little varmint that just always made him happy when they were together. Even when the red devil (that was actually Jelly’s term for him) was being a butt hole. But he was barely full grown. Johnny had been working with him, teaching him to help with the cattle, and he couldn’t wait to trot out his prize pupil once Rojo’d learned the ropes. At least he hadn’t caused any more stampedes.

He reached for one of the shirts still clinging to the line. The sleeve was ripped. Scott’s shirt. How many tan shirts could one person wear? He looked around furtively. One less, as far as he was concerned. He balled it up and flung it to the side for later disposal. 

“Hey, Johnny!” Shit! Scott. He quickly kicked the tan shirt under a low bush.

He ambled back to the line as Scott appeared. “Yeah, I’m just helping Teresa with the wash.”

Scott looked around at the two piles of clothes on the ground. “Interesting technique,” he said. “Have you demonstrated it to Teresa?”

Johnny was fishing for an answer when Rojo bounded up to Scott, shaking his head as though he were killing a rat. The dog stopped in front of him, offering the now muddied tan carcass of his shirt. Scott held it out gingerly in front of him, quirking a brow at Johnny.

“You kinda rough on clothes there, Scott,” Johnny mumbled.

***

At least nobody’s fancy clothes had been in the wash. Else he might have actually had to wash them again, what with everyone having to get fussed up for the Sinclairs. Johnny hadn’t been able to see Anastasia since that first meeting in town. Ranch work had kept him away, and Scott had been the one to finally pick up Murdoch. At least Murdoch never found out about the wagon., which Johnny’d finally gone out with some mules and hauled on until the mud gave in. As excited as Murdoch had been to learn of the Sinclairs, though, he maybe wouldn’t have even cared.  

Sure, he’d only known Murdoch a few months, but Johnny’d never seen him this addled. The old man had them cleaning the hacienda like the queen was coming. It was a wonder he hadn’t put somebody to sweeping the dirt in the corral. It hadn’t escaped Johnny’s eye that he’d had them gussy three guest rooms. Anastasia’s brother, Ian, was due in today, and then Murdoch planned to bring all of them out to the hacienda for supper. Scott and Johnny had been given strict orders to stay around the hacienda and clean some more — and to make sure they were spotless themselves. This last order was given with Murdoch staring directly at Johnny.

Now they sat awaiting the royal carriage.  Johnny was afraid to move.

“You tied this too tight,” he said, sticking his fingers between his neck and collar. “I won’t be able to swallow any food.”  The smells wafting from the kitchen had had him drooling all day.

“It was the only way I could make sure there was some left for the rest of us.” Scott gestured to the buggy just visible heading toward the Lancer arch. The ground was still too wet for it to throw up any dust. “Too late now, anyway.”

They waited impatiently as the buggy finally pulled up. Johnny had filled Scott in on his angel Anastasia, hoping Scott would get the hint she was spoken for. He took one of the horses and steadied it while Scott and Murdoch helped the ladies out, and a young man hopped nimbly to the ground. Johnny’s first reaction was that he could be Scott’s brother. He was tall and lanky, with a long face, blond hair and light eyes. 

“Florence, I’d like to present my sons,” said Murdoch, beaming. “You’ve met Johnny, I know, and this is Scott. Catherine’s boy.”

“Mrs. Sinclair, I’m pleased to meet you,” said Scott, like he did this all the time. “I’m anxious to hear how you and Murdoch know each other.”

Johnny had thought Mrs. Sinclair was the picture of elegance that day off the stage, but now he realized that had been a mere shadow of what she really was. Not a hair was out of place, and the white lace on her dress almost hurt his eyes it was so bright—not that it could distract him from the angel at her side. But he tried to follow Scott’s lead, pay attention to the mother.

Mrs. Sinclair’s words poured from her like honey. “I’m very pleased to finally meet you, Scott. I know your father must be ecstatic to have you home at last. He spoke of you often.” She turned to his angel. “I’d like to present my daughter, Anastasia.”

Scott took Anastasia’s hand and kissed it. “Lancer has never been visited by two lovelier visions.”

Damn, he was good! Johnny sidled up closer, anxious for the ladies to get to see him all cleaned and duded up.

Anastasia smiled warmly. “Why thank you, Mr. Lancer.”

“Please, it’s Scott. And you may remember Johnny,” he added, pulling Johnny into the group, “although I understand he looked a little different when you met previously.”

Johnny stepped forward, wondering if he was supposed to come up with some flowery malarkey like Scott had, settling for just reaching for her hand. Her brother stepped in before he could close the distance. 

“I’m Ian Sinclair,” he said, shaking both Johnny and Scott’s hands as the brothers welcomed him, doing the same with Murdoch.

“Why don’t we go inside where we can be more comfortable?” suggested Murdoch. “I especially want you to meet my ward, Teresa. Besides, I know you ladies don’t want to get your dresses dirty out here.” He held his arm out for Mrs. Sinclair, and after a second, Scott held his out for Anastasia. Damn. Nobody’d told him he was supposed to do that. And he sure wasn’t going to hold his out for Ian.

He had just turned to follow them when he heard a screech.

“Rojo, no! Get down!” Johnny dove for the dog before he could muddy up their dresses any more. He succeeded in slipping in the mud, landing at Mrs. Sinclair’s feet but grabbing Rojo by a rear leg.

“Get that good-for-nothing mutt out of here!” bellowed Murdoch.

“Oh no!” Mrs. Sinclair held her soiled dress up in dismay, staring from it to Rojo to Johnny, adding under her breath, so quietly only Johnny could hear it, “Filthy mutt!”

Chapter 3

“Murdoch and I are very old friends,” Mrs. Sinclair was saying, the tiniest morsel of roast beef balanced on her fork as it hovered just above her plate. Johnny wondered how long she could hold it like that without it dropping off. She’d been doing a lot more talking than eating. “My husband and I actually lived in Green River for several years. He owned the bank. Both Ian and Anastasia were born here.”

“Why’d you leave?” Johnny bit into a big hunk of meat and chewed heartily. He’d hastily secured Rojo in a stall, rinsed himself off, and changed into other clothes just in time to sit down with the rest of them. Unfortunately, the only clean shirts he had were the ones from his salvage pile, which suddenly didn’t seem all that salvageable. He’d felt both Murdoch and Teresa’s stern looks, and seen Scott’s amused grin, as soon as he’d sat down and tried his best to cover the dried mud he hadn’t been able to brush off. Damn mud.

Mrs. Sinclair dabbed at her mouth after she delicately nibbled the beef on her fork and sipped her water. “I can’t say that the town has changed very much. Anyway, I wanted Anastasia and Ian to see where they were born, so we decided to pay a visit. Of course, I have to confess I was hoping to see Murdoch again. What a bonus to meet his whole family, too!”

“I assure you, the pleasure is ours,” replied Scott. “I take it you moved away?”

“Yes. My husband, God rest his soul, had an opportunity in San Francisco to go into business with his father.”

Johnny studied the silverware puzzle some more. He’d been sure Murdoch would have words with Teresa for trying to show off how many forks and stuff they owned. If they’d had more people to feed they could have just given each one the normal amount and still showed how many they had. As it was, piling up several for each person was almost embarrassing, like they assumed everybody was going to drop theirs and the floor was too dirty to eat off. He was being careful to use only one so Maria wouldn’t have to wash more. He glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, noticing she’d already eaten off two different forks. Maybe she was trying to be polite and pretend she needed them, only she hadn’t even dropped one. 

“Besides,” she was saying, “San Francisco is so much more civilized for raising proper ladies and gentleman. You were fortunate to have Boston’s cultural opportunities, Scott.”

“In some ways, absolutely. But I missed out on a lot by not growing up here.”

“Compared to Boston? I’d give anything to have spent more time there,” Ian chimed in. Johnny noticed he was on his second fork, as well. Maria wasn’t going to be happy with them.

“You’ve been to Boston?”

“Only briefly. I spent two years in New York attending Columbia University, until my father’s ill health called me home. I was able to visit Boston on several occasions. New York is a wonderful city, but Boston, well, Boston is the simply the cultural center of America.”

“Scott attended Harvard,” said Murdoch. Johnny could swear his father sat a little taller when he said it. “You two will have to compare notes sometime.”

“Indeed,” replied Scott. “Columbia is an excellent institution.”

“I wish I could have gone to school back east,” Anastasia said. She had been quiet throughout most of the meal, and Johnny smiled at her encouragingly. Maybe she was shy. “But I did attend the best finishing school in the west, Mrs. Harmon's Pacific Female Seminary.” The smile must have worked, because she looked his way and asked, “What about you? Where did you attend?”

“Anna! Don’t embarrass the boy! He didn’t go to college!” Mrs. Sinclair put her hand on Anastasia’s arm and looked at Johnny apologetically.

“Oh! Of course not. I didn’t mean to...”  His angel looked at him like he was someone to be pitied. Shit.

“It’s okay. I ain’t embarrassed.” Just because he was obviously the stupidest person at the table. At least they didn’t know he hadn’t even gone to grade school, except for a few weeks here and there. Murdoch looked uncomfortable, like he was trying to think of something to say, but Mrs. Sinclair beat him to it.

“And there’s absolutely no need for you to be,” she said. “We are all born with different proclivities.”

Johnny looked at her blankly. He couldn’t figure out if she was talking about some sort of religion, or disease, or what. Sounded like one of them Scott words his brother was always throwing around like they were normal.

“Don’t worry about it, Johnny,” Ian said gently, which somehow irked him more than anything. Hell, irk, that was another of them Scott words, not the first time he’d caught one in his own head. “What my mother means,” Ian continued, “is that different groups of people are just naturally good at different things.”

“Tell me more about Mrs. Harmon’s Seminary,” urged Teresa, blessedly taking the attention from him. “Murdoch, maybe I could go!”

Murdoch smiled approvingly. “I think we should look into it. It certainly would make me proud, darling. I’ve always said a good education is the most important thing a person can have. Even for a lady.”

Johnny dropped his gaze to his plate. Hell, what about learning how to stay alive? It was no secret Murdoch didn’t count perfecting a fast draw as any kind of education. Next time Murdoch was in a gunfight maybe he should try quoting some of them dead writers him and Scott was so fond of, see if he could get to the end of a sentence before a bullet ripped his throat out. He felt Scott’s eyes on him, and quickly took another stab at his meat.

“Oh I don’t know, since I’ve come west I can’t tell you how often I’ve wished I’d taken classes in roping instead of Rome!” Scott quipped, quickly turning to Mrs. Sinclair. “So did you know Murdoch when he was just learning to ranch? How long did you know each other?”

Florence smiled at Murdoch, their eyes meeting before she answered. “Three years, eleven months, and nine days. Not that I counted. He’d been ranching for a couple of years by then, but Murdoch always seemed to know just what he was doing.”

“Scott, you were already born. But you two boys,” Murdoch gestured with his fork to Ian and Johnny, “were born within a couple of months of one another. We had hopes of you growing up together. Sort of like brothers.”

“That so?” Johnny said as he chewed. He already had a brother.

“Murdoch certainly talked about it. But then, I guess your mother was too unhappy up here, away from her own kind like she was, so that was that.”

Johnny stopped chewing. “That what she said?”

“Well, not in so many words. But from what I understand, she went back to Mexico, correct?”

Murdoch held his hand up. “Let’s not bore everyone with past history. The truth is, nobody but Maria knows why she left.”

And me, thought Johnny. At least she’d told him plenty of reasons, some more or less believable. Missing her ‘own kind’ hadn’t been among them.

“Besides,” Murdoch continued, “the important thing tonight is that you and your lovely family are here, and we’re all together, finally reunited. I feel truly blessed.” He raised his glass. “To friends and family!”

Scott drank to the toast before asking, “How long can we anticipate the pleasure of your company?”

“This is just a short visit. Now that my husband’s gone I’m thinking of selling that big house in San Francisco, maybe moving on.”

“I know a small town that could use some culture,” Murdoch said.

“Oh, you could come back to Green River!” Teresa exclaimed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“It just might be, at that,” Mrs. Sinclair replied. 

****

After dinner Anastasia and Teresa went to look at a fashion magazine Anastasia had brought, oohing at some of the newest styles. Scott and Johnny showed Ian first around the barn, and then around the collection of books in the library. The books were Scott’s idea. At that point Johnny wandered off to snag some milk and scraps from the kitchen for Rojo and rescue him from his stall.

Rojo wasn’t allowed inside the hacienda, but Johnny had become adept at sneaking him into his bedroom after dark and back out before dawn. So far Teresa hadn’t said anything about the stiff red hairs on the blankets. And Scott had pretended not to notice the couple of times he’d barged in unannounced and caught Johnny throwing a blanket over something that wouldn’t stop wiggling. The truth was, there was just something comforting about sleeping pressed against Rojo’s warm body, so comforting that the nightmares that had plagued him for most of his life seemed to have moved on to somebody else’s bed.

“Shhh,” he cautioned once he’d crept up the back stairs and into his room with him. Rojo finished lapping up the milk. “Yeah, you and me, got no manners I guess. Look at you, look like you’re foaming at the mouth,” Johnny whispered, making a grab for the dog’s milk speckled whiskers. Rojo dodged away and grabbed one of Johnny’s boots he’d just pulled off, shaking it with a mock growl. “You chew my boot up I’m gonna chew your foot off, see how you like it.” The dog let go of the boot and went for his foot. “Ouch! Mad dog, mad dog!” Johnny pushed him away, laughing as Rojo dove back at it again and again.

Rojo finally occupied with a bone, Johnny flopped backwards in bed. He was a little disappointed in how the evening had gone. The thing with Rojo sure hadn’t helped. Mrs. Sinclair’s pretty green dress had ended up with a dog paw design, although she seemed to get over it quickly after her initial outburst. Mostly, he’d hoped Anastasia would have warmed up to him more. Instead, if anything, she’d spent more time batting her eyes at Scott. Now that he knew she was such a fancy lady, he guessed he couldn’t blame her. He’d been so stupid thinking that just changing his name to Lancer was going to give him license to approach real ladies, but now it was obvious a name change wasn’t enough. “Culture and breeding,” Mrs. Sinclair had said at one point in the dinner, “that’s what makes a man.”

It was pretty clear he didn’t have culture. Heck, even the whole fork thing had turned into a fiasco. During dessert Scott had kicked him under the table and pointedly indicated the big fork in Johnny’s hand, subtly shaking his head. Scott had then picked up yet another of his clean forks and made it pretty obvious Johnny should do the same. Damn. Johnny couldn’t figure the need for switching forks, especially when he hadn’t dropped his. Even then, nothing a little wiping wouldn’t fix. Heck, he’d been fine eating off his knife for years. If culture meant making more work for Maria in the kitchen, he just plain didn’t get it. Sure didn’t see how that made a man.

As for breeding — well, it looked liked he’d failed that test about 22 years ago. 

Chapter 4

Johnny’s hand automatically went to his gun as he heard hoofbeats approaching. He looked up from the creek bed, shading his eyes with his left hand as he strained to make out the rider framed against the sun. Only when he recognized Scott's posture in the saddle did he smile and relax. Rojo ran barking to greet their visitor, tearing straight up the creek bank to emerge practically under Scott’s horse. Scott had to grab the saddle horn to keep from being unseated as the horse shied violently.

“Rojo, get back here!”

“That miscreant mutt of yours is going to get trampled if you don’t teach him to quit doing that.” Scott dismounted and gave Rojo an affectionate swat with one of his gloves.  Rojo grabbed the glove and tried to pull it from Scott, growling fiercely.

“Don’t call him that.”

“What? Miscreant? Okay, your malfeasant mutt.” Scott picked up a stick and threw it for the dog so he’d let go of the glove.

“No, mutt. I’m tired of people callin’ him that.” And he was tired of people using words he didn’t understand, either. Seemed like it’d gotten worse since the Sinclairs had come.

“Oh? Does he boast some sort of illustrious heritage I should be made aware of?” Scott grinned as he tried to wrest the stick Rojo had retrieved from the growling dog’s mouth.

“Just no call to always be throwin’ off on him.”

Scott looked at Johnny curiously, then shrugged and gave a mock bow in Rojo’s direction as he gave up on the stick. “Okay. I’ll bow to his royal Rojoness.”

“And quit makin’ fun of him.”

“Alright, alright. I really do like him, you know.”

Johnny finally smiled faintly back. “Yeah, I know. Sorry to be all prickly.”

“And you know, you don’t have to hide him when I come in your room.”

Johnny grinned sheepishly as he waded farther out into the creek. “So I thought you was showing the Sinclairs around the ranch.”

“Mrs. Sinclair wasn’t feeling well, so we postponed it again until tomorrow. Ian took Anna and Teresa to Green River for some shopping and to pick up the rest of their belongings. So I figured I’d come help you.”

“Good timing. I’m almost done,” Johnny said, throwing another branch from the jumble of debris clogging the creek. Rojo barked and gave chase, laboriously dragging the branch back down into the water.

“Yes, I can see the progress you and your partner are making,” Scott said in that sarcastic tone he was so fond of using. He waded into the creek and grabbed the branch, Rojo still attached, to drag it higher on the bank.

“So whatcha think of Murdoch and Mrs. Sinclair?” Johnny asked as Scott returned to wrestle another branch loose.

“What’s there to think? They’re old friends.”

“I dunno. Don’t it seem kind of funny, her showin’ up here right when she’s a widow and all?”

“Grab that end. Oh, I don’t know. When did you want her to show up?”

“All I’m saying is she seems kinda pushy to me.” Johnny grunted as he strained to dislodge his end of the branch from the mire, then helped Scott drag it up the sandy bank. “Like she’s out to snag herself a replacement.”

They both waded back into the cold water. The recent rains had the creek rising, and they figured it still had more to go. Johnny had already littered the banks with the dismembered skeletons of trees caught in last year’s flood, the wood dark and waterlogged even in the afternoon sun.

“Murdoch’s managed to stay single for twenty years. I have a feeling he knows how to fend off any woman with a wedding on her mind.”

“What if he don’t want to?”

“Want to what? Fend her off?” Scott lugged an armful of smaller sticks to the bank. “Then good for him. He deserves to be happy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess.” Johnny looked hesitant, thrumming his fingers on his legs.

“You have something to say?” Scott climbed on the bank and began to tackle the debris alongside the creek that would otherwise just be sucked back in the next time the water rose.

“No.” He shrugged and bent to toss a stick up. “I don’t know. Just seems like he’d be past all that. Like maybe two wives would be enough.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear you think he has one foot in the grave. Besides, the woman’s been here two days. Aren’t you jumping the gun?”

Scott snatched up a heavy log, but stumbled back, stunned, as he saw Rojo launch himself, snarling, toward him. The dog’s snapping jaws barely missed his hands, instead clunking shut just in front of his ankles. The attack was over in seconds. Several quick shakes of his head and Rojo pranced around, tripping every few steps over the dead snake he triumphantly dragged behind. The rattles still jingled ominously with every bump.

“Scott!” Johnny scrambled up the bank. “He get you?”

Scott just stared at the rattler. At least a five footer. Never even had a chance to shake his rattle before Scott lifted the log off him and he struck. He shook his head slowly, still dazed. “No. No, it never touched me. Thanks to Rojo.”

“Let me see, boy.” Johnny tried to coax Rojo into giving up his prize, but Rojo was keeping it just out of reach. Johnny finally pulled a piece of jerky from his pocket and worked a trade, then knelt and started examining the dog carefully. “You okay, fella?”

“Did the snake get him?”

“I don’t know.” His voice shook. “I don’t see anything.”

He continued parting the wiry fur until he’d gone over Rojo’s entire body, finally satisfied he was okay. He sat back and Rojo jumped up, licking at his face. “Man, you see that, Scott? Snake never knew what hit him. Bam! Right behind the head, too! I bet that dog could beat me in a draw.”

“Rojo’s getting the juiciest steak on the ranch tonight!” Scott thumped the dog enthusiastically. “Good boy!”

“Dios, Scott, that was close. I don’t know what I’d have done if that snake had, well, if he’d bitten...”

“Well, don’t worry, it didn’t. I’m fine.”

Johnny looked confused for a second. “Oh, yeah, I’m glad you didn’t get bit either.”

***

The hacienda was deserted when they arrived, so they decided to feed Rojo his promised reward before everyone returned home and discovered what they were doing. No matter what the dog had done, Johnny couldn’t see Murdoch going along with feeding a dog a good steak. They were home much earlier than usual, so it was unlikely they’d be caught. Maria wasn’t even scheduled to be there for another hour. Nonetheless, Johnny kept peering out the back door for signs of Murdoch or the buggy. Rojo had pattered into the kitchen alongside them, holding his nose upward as he whiffed in the scents of past meals.

“Rojo, prepare to embark on an epicurean feast such as few dogs have ever experienced,” Scott announced.

“You said you was gettin’ him a steak!” Johnny called from the doorway. “And we don’t want him barking, just in case...”

Scott rolled his eyes. “I am. I just assumed a dog of Rojo’s high breeding and discriminating tongue would want his steak prepared and presented properly.”

“Oh.” He thought for a minute. “You really think Maria will cook it for him?”

“Ha ha. I’m sure I’m entirely capable of cooking a steak for a dog.” Scott pulled down a skillet.

Johnny looked doubtful. “I thought you was gonna give him a reward for saving your life, not poison him! Just give it to him raw.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve observed one of Boston’s finest chefs prepare steak on many an occasion.”

“Yeah, well I’ve watched ladies dance the can-can a few times, don’t mean I can do it.” Johnny did a poor imitation of clomping around.

Scott stopped what he was doing to make a show of scrutinizing Johnny, finally puckering his lips in a mock kiss. “Oh, I don’t know, you look like you might be pretty good at it.” He dodged as Johnny tried to elbow him.

Together they managed to get the skillet over the fire and the steak in the skillet. They let it emit a satisfying sizzle until the kitchen was choked in a fog of smoke and Scott declared it done to perfection.

“They like it black like that in Boston?” Rojo was jumping up and down as Johnny suspended the still-smoking meat by a knife.

“Looks like Rojo thinks it’s just fine.”

“Maybe we better give it to him up in my room, before anyone comes to see if the place is on fire. Smoke in here’s burnin’ my eyes.” Johnny grabbed a rag and started fanning the smoke around.

“Yeah, well let’s get it done fast, before Murdoch comes home.” He gestured for Johnny and the dog to go ahead, shaking his head. “You going to cut it up for him?”

Johnny ignored him, coughing on the thick haze of smoke filling the back stairway. Once upstairs, Scott grabbed Johnny’s arm. “Mrs. Sinclair!” he hissed. “I forgot she stayed in her room today!”

Too late, a shout of “Smoke!” came from one of the guest room they were passing, the door flying open. Scott and Johnny stopped in their tracks. Rojo took advantage of Johnny’s sudden lapse in attention to grab the steak and begin wolfing it down.

Mrs. Sinclair took a step back, her hand to her chest where her blouse had fallen just slightly open. Murdoch stared at Rojo and hastily shoved in his shirttail.

Chapter 5

Johnny hadn’t been fooled, not then, not now. Not by Mrs. Sinclair thanking Murdoch for retrieving the brooch she’d dropped behind her dresser, not by Murdoch bellowing about a dog in his house and eating his steak. Johnny could have sworn the woman smirked at him then.

Murdoch had been in her room, plain and simple. With the door closed.  If that had been him in some woman’s room he could just imagine the scene. Instead he’d been the one in trouble for having the dog inside. To Scott’s credit, he’d taken the blame for the steak. Murdoch had barely listened to the tale of Rojo’s heroics as he’d demanded the dog be thrown outside immediately.

Johnny had chosen to eat in the barn with Rojo and Barranca. Better company. Better drink, since he’d had some tequila stowed out here for just such an occasion. Better food, too, since he’d managed to get something with some bite to it from the bunkhouse. From the look on Mrs. Sinclair’s face last night, he might as well have suggested they’d serve skunk guts instead of one of Maria’s Mexican dishes. Mrs. Sinclair had said she just couldn’t stomach Mexican food, but Johnny had a pretty good idea she just couldn’t stomach Mexicans. He’d seen the way she recoiled from Maria’s inadvertent touch when being served, noticed how she didn’t mind being close to Scott or the others but moved away if he stood too near. It wasn’t like she made a big deal of it or anything, just a small shift of position, but he’d experienced it enough before in his life to recognize what was going on.

Truth was, he just wished they’d leave, angel and all. Murdoch had no business fooling around with a woman. If he wanted a poke, he could go to town and pay a working girl like the rest of them did. He sure didn’t need to move some snooty old woman, and her whole family, into their home, carry on right under their noses. So maybe it had just been one time, and maybe they hadn’t really done anything, but Murdoch still had those thoughts, he was pretty sure by the way he acted around her. What was the old man thinking, that he should maybe get married again, have some more children? Maybe some he’d keep for a change?

“Missed you at dinner.” He’d heard Scott coming. Had expected him, actually. 

“Felt like something a little spicier.” He picked up his bottle of tequila and waved it. “Want some?”

Scott grimaced, then accepted the bottle and took a swig, shuddering afterward.

Johnny grinned at his reaction. “You tell ’em all what Rojo did?”

“You bet I did. Everyone was suitably impressed. Even Murdoch seemed considerably more appreciative of him saving my life than he did earlier.”

“Yeah, well ol’ Murdoch seemed kinda preoccupied earlier. You believe that story of his?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. I told you she was after him.”

“What makes you think he’s not after her? He was in her room, you know. She wasn’t in his.”

“Mean old biddy like that? No way. Murdoch’s got better taste than that.”

“I don’t know. She seems pretty nice to me.” He slapped the side of the bottle on Johnny’s leg. “And you better watch what you call her. She might be your mother one day!”

“Hey Scott! Are you in here?” They both turned to the door at the sound of Ian’s voice.

Shit. Ian always seemed to be hanging around Scott. And Scott didn’t seem to discourage him. They pulled down books, talked about people Johnny never heard of, and generally bored the hell out of him. Ian had been to lots of fancy places, not as many as Scott, but a hell of a lot more than Johnny. The two kept trading stories about their travels; last night, after Murdoch and the women had gone to bed, they’d even compared the prostitutes from different places, finally agreeing on Paris as having the best. Johnny figured he’d share some information that was a bit more helpful, seeing as they weren’t likely to get to this Paris place any time soon, and suggested the border towns were the best place for a wild time and a good deal. Ian had quipped he’d sooner have his dick fall off than stick it into a border girl. And that it probably would soon after, anyway. He’d laughed pretty hard at that one before turning back to Scott and Paris. Johnny hadn’t laughed. He knew a lot of nice girls who worked the border. Heck, his mama had been one of them.

“Ah, there you are!” Ian pulled up when he saw Johnny and nodded. “Johnny, missed you at dinner.”

“Grab a seat, have a drink.” Scott held out the bottle and motioned to the remaining hay bale where Rojo snoozed on one corner.

Ian looked at the bottle and made a face. “Scott, surely you’re not drinking that! Now perhaps if you had some brandy hidden away...”

“You ever tried it?” Johnny asked.

“I meant no offense. I’m sure it’s an acquired taste. I just don’t care to acquire it.” Ian waved the bottle away and turned to the hay bale, stopping to study Rojo. “Don’t tell me this is the miracle mutt himself!”

“He ain’t no goddamn mutt!” Johnny jumped to his feet as Ian stumbled back in surprise.

“Whoa, Johnny! He didn’t know.” Scott turned to Ian. “We don’t call Rojo a mutt anymore.”

“Oh? You’ll have to excuse me for my ignorance, but I’m surprised my mother didn’t identify his pure breeding immediately. She’s somewhat of a canine connoisseur.”

As much as he shared the sentiment, Johnny was stunned Ian would refer to his mother as some kind of sewer. But before he could follow up, Scott asked, “Mrs. Sinclair likes dogs?”

“Well, not dogs, per se. She dabbles in the blue-bloods of the dog world. In fact, she has a rare pair of Peking palace dogs back in San Francisco. Their pure breeding can be traced for centuries.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a beast,” Scott said.

“Little yappers. Anyway, I’m not here to discuss dogs. I wanted to challenge you to a game of chess.”

“Sounds good. Johnny? How about it? Play the winner?”

Ian looked surprised, then recovered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to exclude you, Johnny. We don’t have to play chess. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable playing checkers. I’ll play the winner.”

“Nah, you two go on. I got things to do.” Hammerin’ a nail in his own ear hole would be better than listening to Ian and Scott start spoutin’ all their book talk again. He took another swig and leaned back, allowing his lids to relax. Checkers. Asshole.

***

The rumbling in Rojo’s chest beside him awakened him. Johnny had listed over, leaning against the side of the barn, the near emptied bottle at his fingertips. Rojo had joined him. “Shhh...” he whispered, prepared to go back to sleep. Then he heard the voices.

“Anybody here?” That was Murdoch. Johnny didn’t feel like facing him. Not with a good part of a bottle of tequila in him. Especially not when he recognized her voice as well. He could just see that. Imagine what she’d say about the drunk Mex sleeping with the livestock. He grabbed Rojo to keep him still. Maybe they’d leave if they didn’t know he was there.

Murdoch called out again. The sound of horses rustling their straw was the only answer. “It looks like we’re alone.”

Johnny could hear the creak of the barn door closing as his father spoke. Dios. Maybe he should say something after all if they planned on staying. He leaned forward to call out, but the view of Murdoch and Mrs. Sinclair embracing silenced him. Maybe they just wanted one quick kiss and then they’d leave.

“When I think of how much time we’ve missed…”

“We’re together now,” Murdoch answered. Then more silence as they locked their lips together.

“My God, I’ve missed you. I don’t ever want to let you go again.”

“I don’t plan on letting you.” They were kissing again, more passionately, grinding their bodies against one another, making little moany and slurpy sounds. Johnny wondered if he could make it to the rear door unnoticed. Or before he started puking. Maybe he could plug up his ears and scratch his own eyes out. They pulled apart before he could decide. Or rather, she appeared to push Murdoch away.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” He was pecking at her cheek, her chin, her nose.

“I want more this time, Murdoch. I don’t want to sneak around in barns. I don’t want to hide our love.”

“I want more, too,” he heard his father say. Johnny peeked out and could see him pulling up her dress, reaching between her legs. Dios, he should have poked his eyes out. He squeezed back closer to the wall and held Rojo tight.

“Stop it, Murdoch. I’m serious. I want all of you this time.”

Murdoch chuckled. “I’ll give you all of me…”

Johnny prayed somebody would come out to the barn. Maybe if he caught it on fire.

“Murdoch, be serious! There’s no reason we can’t get married now. Brice is gone, and that tramp of yours is long gone. We don’t have to sneak around. Not that that awful woman was ever worth sneaking around for.”

Rojo squirmed as Johnny’s fingers bit into him, his knuckles white. His mama had told the truth. This was the bitch who’d done it. The one who’d ruined his mama’s marriage, the one who’d made her take off. Rojo yelped and wriggled loose, rushing off toward the voices.

Chapter 6

“Oh! Get it away!” 

Damn! The dog just had to go greet Murdoch and that bitch. And she was already complaining.

“Go away!” Murdoch shoved the dog away with his foot. So much for Murdoch’s appreciation of him. Johnny was already shaking with rage over what he’d just learned. He’d kill the old man if he hurt that dog. No, he couldn’t wait to find out. He jumped to his feet and started toward them.

Before he could yell out the pounding of hooves and the shouting of a rider outside intruded into the barn. Murdoch strode to the door, flinging it open as the rider again shouted. This time it was clear what he was yelling: he had an injured man. Johnny could see two mounted men silhouetted against the moonlit sky, one slumped precariously in his saddle.

By the time Johnny ran outside, men had rushed from the bunkhouse and gathered around. Several of the hands were helping pull the injured man from his horse as Murdoch directed them. Rojo ran into their midst, eager to be part of the excitement.

“Get that mutt out of the way!” Murdoch bellowed, shoving Rojo away with his foot forcefully. He never saw the blow that threw him to the ground.

Johnny stood over Murdoch rubbing his fist, staring at what he’d done. He didn’t know who was more stunned, his father or him. He shook out his hand, scooped Rojo up under one arm, and headed for the privacy of his room. His dog could sleep where he damn well liked, and screw it if Murdoch didn’t approve. Johnny didn’t exactly approve of Murdoch’s sleeping habits.

He could see Mrs. Sinclair run to Murdoch’s side as he sat up, could hear her shrill voice in the distance. “Oh my god! I knew he was dangerous! They can’t control themselves!”

Light spilled from the front door of the hacienda as Scott and Ian ran outside to check the commotion.  “What’s going on?”

“Pedro got hurt,” Johnny answered without slowing.

“Pedro’s hurt? How bad?” Teresa stood in the doorway.

“I don’t know. He looked kind of bloody.” He felt a pang of guilt for not noticing more about Pedro’s condition. Pedro was a good man, someone he was proud to consider a friend. He looked like he had plenty of help, though. Johnny continued on inside, depositing Rojo on the floor once he crossed the threshold. He started toward the stairs, then stopped. He needed a drink. Goddamn right he needed a drink. He turned and strode into the great room, poured himself a whiskey, then another.

Teresa ran back into the kitchen, emerging with a handful of bandages and blankets. She threw a blanket at Johnny, telling him to spread it on the sofa.

He’d gotten it into place when the hands came in supporting Pedro between them, followed by Murdoch and Mrs. Sinclair. Johnny looked away when he saw the blood trickling down Murdoch’s chin. Scott was asking Murdoch what happened, but Murdoch only stopped in front of Johnny and stared.

“He attacked him!” Mrs. Sinclair pointed at Johnny, then made a face. “He smells like a distillery, too!”

Pedro was helped onto the sofa. Mrs. Sinclair glared at the bloodied man and looked as though she would say something, but Murdoch pushed his way toward a chair and sat heavily in it. Teresa started dabbing a cloth into a bowl of water and cleaning Pedro’s wounds as Josh explained he’d been cut and trampled while extricating a panicked steer from some downed barbed wire.

“What about Murdoch?” Mrs. Sinclair pushed between Teresa and Pedro. “He has a bloody lip, thanks to him!” She gestured toward Johnny again. Murdoch was too busy glaring at Johnny to pay attention to her. Shit. Johnny tried to calm himself with some deep breaths. He’d fucked up now for sure.

“Pedro needs tending to first,” Teresa answered, rinsing the cloth in the bowl. “But here, you can start with this.” She wet another cloth in the bowl and handed it to Mrs. Sinclair.

Mrs. Sinclair recoiled as though Teresa had handed her a dead rat. “That’s been in the same bowl as the cloths you’ve been using on that Mexican!”

Teresa looked confused, but simply answered, “You can get another bowl in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Sinclair glared at Pedro, then stomped toward the kitchen. Rojo jumped up, pouncing back and forth at her clomping feet. “I thought Murdoch said to keep this mutt out of the house! The place is being taken over!” She kicked at him with her pointed boot, catching him in the ribs so he gave a surprised yelp.   

“You don’t touch that dog, you bitch!” Johnny crossed the room in three unsteady strides, snatching Mrs. Sinclair by both arms. She screamed, a tight little screech that reminded Johnny of a chicken being strangled.

“Johnny!” Murdoch was out of his chair, storming across the room. “Have you lost your mind?” He spun Johnny around, Johnny losing his balance and staggering. Murdoch’s eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk. Get out. Get out of this house until you can sober up and act like a civilized human being. And get that mutt out before I throw him out. And apologize to Mrs. Sinclair!”

Johnny just glared at Mrs. Sinclair before turning and lurching out the door, Rojo prancing behind. 

***

“Johnny!” Scott had watched the developments in the great room with disbelief. He knew Johnny was touchy about the dog, but assaulting Mrs. Sinclair like he did? And apparently hitting Murdoch? There was something more. He started after him.

“Scott, wait up!” Ian trotted up beside. “I don’t think you better confront him by yourself, not drunk like he is. You know, I wondered about letting him drink like that!”

“Thanks, Ian, but I better handle this myself.”

“Damn! His kind and booze, like nitro and glycerin. I guess he can’t really be blamed, not really. But Scott...” He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder, stopping him. “I don’t want him around my mother when he’s been drinking ever again, and I plan to make that clear to him.”

“What? Listen, don’t... no, just, just go back inside. Whatever happened, I need to talk to Johnny alone.”

Ian shrugged. “Have it your way. You just be sure to remind him what I told you.”

Scott continued to the barn alone, mulling over Ian’s ramblings momentarily but quickly returning to the mystery of Johnny’s behavior.  Sure, he’d been drinking, but that wasn’t too unusual. Maybe a little more than usual, from the unsteady way he’d been walking when he left the house. He pushed open the door and peered into the gloom, feeling his way over to the lantern. Once lit, he saw Johnny squatting, leaning back against a stall, head back and eyes closed. Rojo was sitting next to him.

“Just leave me be, ’kay Scott?”

Scott couldn’t help but be impressed. Even drunk and with his eyes shut, Johnny didn’t miss much. But Scott wasn’t about to leave him alone. “What’s going on?”

Johnny opened his eyes and lifted the bottle of tequila to his mouth. Scott noticed it was considerably depleted since the last time he’d seen it. “Whoa, there, Johnny, why don’t you ease up there?”

Johnny wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then looked at Scott unsteadily. “So how was your checkers?”

“We played chess.”

“Figures.”

“Okay...”He wasn’t quite sure what that was all about. Probably one of Johnny’s infamous change-the-subject ploys. It wasn’t going to work. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Why dontcha ask Murdoch? Or that snooty-ass bitch of his?”

Scott decided not to say anything about Johnny’s choice of labels. “I’m asking you.”

Johnny lifted the bottle again.

“Come on, Johnny, stop it.” He reached for the bottle. “Give me that and tell me what’s eating at you.”

“Go play chess with your buddy.”

Scott sat down on the bale beside him. Surely this wasn’t because Johnny was jealous of Ian? No, that wouldn’t explain accosting Murdoch and Mrs. Sinclair. Besides, it was Johnny who had chosen not to come with them earlier. Still, it was all he had to go on. “Ian’s our guest. It’s only proper we entertain him. Both of us.”

Johnny snorted. “Proper, eh? Guess that lets me out.”

“Listen, I know you think Mrs. Sinclair is a little stuffy. But she’ll be leaving soon, along with the others. Just bear with it.”

Johnny held the bottle to his lips, then pulled it back, studied it, and hurled it across the barn to shatter against the far wall. “Bitch’ll never leave! Got her claws out f’Murdoch.” He slumped back, closing his eyes and mumbling, his voice trailing off. “Bitch stolem, stole m’ole man... Stole everything... Shoulda killed the damn bitch. Kicked my dog, she kicked my dog, Scott. Nobody kicks my dog...”

“Okay, come on, let’s go get in bed.” Scott tugged on Johnny’s arm.

“Leave me here.”

“Fine.” He found a horse blanket and tossed it to him.

“Ain’t gonna sleep inna same house with zat bitch. Ain’t gonna to no weddin’ neither.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “The Sinclairs are going to be gone soon, and there’s certainly not going to be any wedding.”

It was the next evening, at dinner, with everyone but Johnny sitting around the table, that Murdoch proudly announced his engagement to Florence Sinclair.

Chapter 7

Scott had just sat there for a second, stunned, before he regained his composure and offered his congratulations and a toast. Ian and Anna didn’t seem surprised; Mrs. Sinclair had no doubt already told them. Teresa wasted no time in rushing to hug Murdoch and Mrs. Sinclair. Johnny’s chair sat empty.

He was still unaccounted for, but Scott wasn’t surprised. Not after last night. Jelly had said he’d found him in the barn that morning, looking like something a buzzard gagged up, and that he crawled up on Barranca and headed out.

Murdoch stood to offer another toast. “To my future family: Florence, Anna, Ian, Teresa, Scott.” Murdoch looked at the empty chair. “And Johnny.” He raised the glass and drank.

Murdoch’s smile stretched his face as he sat back down and shared his vision of the future surrounded by his new wife and family. Scott tried to catch his enthusiasm. He really did like Ian and Anna. Anna especially would be good for Teresa. And Mrs. Sinclair wasn’t nearly the witch Johnny had her pegged for. The truth was, Murdoch deserved to be happy, and she certainly seemed to be the ticket. But why couldn’t Murdoch have waited to announce this until whatever was eating at Johnny was settled?

Then again, Johnny had spoken last night as though he already knew they planned to wed. Perhaps Murdoch had sought him out ahead of time, knowing that Johnny might need some easing into this new family situation. That may have accounted for Johnny’s surly mood, even the drinking. The slamming of the front door interrupted his thoughts. He glimpsed Johnny heading for the kitchen.

“John!” Murdoch called. “Come in here, please. I have some good news to share with you.”

Damn, Johnny didn't know. Scott watched as his brother scuffed to the doorway, wearing an expression of indifference as he casually shuffled to a stop. Only his eyes betrayed his intensity. Scott had a fleeting image of his brother facing off in a gunfight, one that would surely end in Johnny being wounded.

Murdoch stepped next to Mrs. Sinclair, taking her hand in his. “Mrs. Sinclair has consented to become my wife.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Johnny?” Teresa went to Johnny’s side and took his arm, but Johnny pulled away, stomping back toward the stairs with only the chinking of his spurs for an answer.

***

“John! Get back here!”

The old man could go to hell. He heard steps hurrying behind him before he even reached the stairs. Scott. He’d figured on that.

“Don’t do this, Johnny,” Scott said quietly, slowing him with a hand on his shoulder. “You have Teresa all upset, she looks like she’s about to cry. Just go back and say a few nice words, act happy, get it over with, give it a chance. You might just find out she’s not so bad, you know.”

Heavier footsteps pounded toward them. Johnny glared beyond Scott to see Murdoch bearing down on him, Mrs. Sinclair following. “Have you been drinking again?” Murdoch hissed. “Because that’s the only thing I can think of to explain your behavior.”

“Murdoch, please! Let me talk to him,” Mrs. Sinclair said, catching up and placing her hand on Murdoch’s arm. “I’m sure this is quite a surprise. We really should have given him a little more time to get to know me, adjust to the idea.” She extended her hand to Johnny, smiling. “I think John and I just need to talk, heart to heart. Just the two of us. Please, sweetheart?”

Murdoch shifted his gaze from Johnny to Mrs. Sinclair, finally nodding and saying “Thank you, darling. I knew this family could benefit from a cooler head.” He turned to Johnny. “It’s up to you, son. What do you say?”

Johnny knew what he wanted to say. But language like that would surely get him kicked out and labeled a filthy-mouthed Mex, play right into the bitch’s hands. Did Murdoch really think he’d ever welcome the woman who ruined his mama’s life? But he nodded, hating himself for doing so. And he followed her into the great room, turning to watch her quietly close the door behind them once everyone else had left.

He eyed the glasses of wine still on the table. He felt like downing every one of them. But no way would he give her the satisfaction. So he simply stood there and waited, leaning against the big chair and watching her pour herself a fresh glass. She took her time, swirling the wine and holding it so the light from the candles on the table shone through it.

“You do want your father to be happy, don’t you?” she finally said.

Johnny didn’t answer. He knew when he was being set up.

“I make him happy. I expect he would be happier with your blessing, but don’t think by acting like a spoiled child you can make him change his mind.”

He finally spoke. “You ain’t ever getting my blessing.  That’s all I got to say on the matter.” Otherwise, he’d let loose and say a lot of shit he’d most likely regret.

Her snooty smile turned to a frown momentarily, but then she seemed to remember to plaster it back on. “Thank you for being so honest. I think that’s the best way we can reach an understanding.” She sipped her wine, set the glass on the table, then leaned toward him. “And because I really have no interest in hearing anything out of you. You’re here to listen to me, and to listen up good. You’ve already ruined your father’s life once. I have no intention of allowing you to do it again.”

Johnny had planned on not rising to any bait, not saying anything, but he couldn’t sit there and ignore what the bitch had done, not now. “I know what you and Murdoch did back then. You ought to be ashamed, both of you married folk and carryin’ on.”

For a brief second he thought she was going to throw her wine on him. Instead she took another sip and acted all casual. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Murdoch and I were in love, then and now, long before that Mexican strumpet got him drunk and enticed him into her bed.”

Johnny forced himself to chuckle. “Hoo boy, lady, you sure ain’t got no room callin’ names.”

This time she did fling the contents of her glass at him, but there were only a few drops left. “Your mother was the one who jumped into his bed! Murdoch and I were in love, we’d planned to marry as soon I divorced, but then she came along, a one-night fling when he’d been drinking too much down in Mexico, and she used his mistake, you, to get a ring on her finger because she knew he’d feel obliged to give his mistake his name. I told him he wasn’t doing anyone any favors, there was no way of even knowing if you were his mistake or any of the other men’s she was sharing her bed with. But he didn’t find out I was right until it was too late. You can’t blame good people for not wanting to do business with a man who brings a Mexican tramp and her halfbreed bastard right into his home, and sure enough, he started losing business right off. To the woman’s credit, she did finally realize what a millstone she was and left, and thank God took you with her.”

Johnny thought he might rip the stuffing out of the chair, he was gripping it so hard. But it was either that or grip her neck that hard. “She have any help making that decision?”

“I helped her see what she was too ignorant to see for herself.”

“Yeah I bet you did, you goddamn bitch.”

She smiled sweetly as she picked up a fork to examine. “I should have expected language like that from you. I’ll be speaking to Murdoch about it. It won’t do to have Ian and Anastasia exposed to that kind of foul talk.”

“Yeah, you go right ahead and try it.”

She rose and walked to him. “You get this straight. Murdoch loves me. He always has. If you do anything to interfere, you’ll be hurting him. Is that what you want?”

Johnny could think of nothing to do but glare at her. Could Murdoch really love this bitch? More than he’d loved his mama?

She raised her brow like he was too stupid to answer. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough harm already? Murdoch’s losing business all over again because of having you here. Did you ever think of that?”

“That’s a lie.” Yeah, he’d thought of it. Plenty.

“Oh? Ask Murdoch. Ask him about Mr. Sweeney and why he’s not doing business with Lancer anymore. But while you’re asking him you’d better keep one thing in mind. I know who you are. Murdoch told me all about your past. All about how you’re trying to keep it quiet so none of your old buddies will know where to find you. So here’s the deal: If you do one thing, just one thing, to jeopardize my relationship with Murdoch, I’ll plaster Johnny Madrid’s whereabouts in every paper from here to Mexico. You think about that.”

“You’re bluffing. Talk about hurtin’ Murdoch’s business, puttin’ everyone in danger…”

“Only if you stayed.”

Johnny stood up, doing everything he could to keep from strangling her. “You’re a fucking bitch.”

She cocked her head and smiled again. “Shall I tell Murdoch you said that?”

Chapter 8

Scott had sat outside with Murdoch, talking over the logistics of moving the Sinclair belongings down from San Francisco. Murdoch was anxious for the wedding to take place as soon as possible; he said they’d waited long enough.

Every so often they both fell silent. Scott imagined Murdoch was listening for the same thing he was, the sound of Johnny shouting, Mrs. Sinclair screaming, or dishes flying. To their relief, all they could hear was the muffled sound of voices so low they were almost drowned out by the chirping of crickets.

It was during one such lull that Scot suggested what he thought might explain Johnny’s behavior in a way that Murdoch could accept. “I expect he just needs time to get used to the idea of a bigger family. You know, he’s just getting used to having a family at all.”

Murdoch nodded, said, “I hope so, but I don’t see why he has to take it out on Flo. I’m just thankful she’s been so understanding.”

Scott actually had another, simpler, theory. Johnny was jealous. He had finally found a father, and now a strange woman threatened to steal his father’s attention. He was behaving like a child.

He turned toward the doorway as he heard the inner door clunk open and Johnny’s distinctive clomp and jingle head toward the foyer, stop, then turn toward the stairs. A good sign. When Johnny was upset he was more likely to head to the barn, another reason Scott had chosen to guard the door, so to speak.

Murdoch rose and announced he was going to go check on “the future Mrs. Lancer.” His words. Scott wondered what he was supposed to call her once they were married. Mother? No, he didn’t even call Murdoch “father.” And that’s when it hit him. Maybe Johnny’s resentment of Mrs. Sinclair was because he felt she was taking his mother’s place. Hopefully she had set him straight about that.

***

Johnny paced back and forth in his room. The bitch! The fucking bitch! The only reason he hadn’t lit out on Barranca was because that’s exactly what she wanted. He heard footsteps coming down the hall, a knock at his door. He tried to calm himself as the door edged open.

“I found somebody outside the kitchen door,” Scott said, offering up Rojo. “He looked lonely.”

Johnny couldn’t help but smile and relax a bit as the little dog frisked and weaved between his legs as though they’d been separated for months. “You miss me, fella?”

“Oh, a little bit, I guess,” Scott quipped. “But I got over it pretty fast.”

Johnny smiled sheepishly, caught off guard and figuring Scott was maybe still a little rankled about that snake comment. “Thanks for bringin’ him up.”

Scott wandered around the room, running his fingers along Johnny’s empty dresser top, finally just leaning back against it. “Did you and Mrs. Sinclair get things settled?”

Oh sure, she hates my guts, she ruined my mama’s marriage, and now she’s blackmailing me to shut up about it all. Yeah, we got things settled alright. That’s what he wanted to say. If anyone would believe him, it’d be Scott. Maybe then they could both convince Murdoch to dump the bitch. Snatch away the old man’s happiness. Destroy Lancer. Get everyone killed.

“Yeah, we got it worked out.”

***

The next couple of days were filled with making plans for the wedding, as well as the trip back to San Francisco. Murdoch had suggested they combine their honeymoon with the trip to collect the Sinclairs’ belongings, but Mrs. Sinclair said she wanted him all to herself when that time came, not supervising movers. So it was decided Mrs. Sinclair and Anastasia would go. They’d also purchase what they needed to make the wedding “an affair,” as she put it. As he watched the dust obscure the buggy headed for town and the stage, Johnny wished they’d never come back.

Ian was staying behind so he could learn more about the ranch and ranching. Johnny begrudgingly admitted he was a quick study and already a pretty good rider, adept at jumping fences although sharing that sort of funny straight posture Scott had. And he didn’t seem to mind getting his hands dirty when the situation called for it. Since his mother and sister had left, he’d helped Scott and Johnny unload hay, fix the pump handle, and even work on some fence mending one day. Ian still had plenty to learn, though, like remembering to never ride off without his canteen. Johnny had noticed Ian eyeing his canteen while he was drinking and had offered it to him, surprised when Ian declined. Fence mending was hot work, and Johnny had figured Ian must be tougher than he looked until he overheard him asking Scott for a sip from his a few minutes later.

Ian had freely admitted he wasn’t much of a roper, and since Scott wasn’t very good at it either, Johnny had gritted his teeth and volunteered to teach him. He was immensely relieved when Ian said he’d already made arrangements with Buck for some lessons. But then Ian had surprised him by pulling out a shiny new pistol and asking for some shooting pointers.

“I simply never had much reason to become overly proficient in the finer points of gunplay before, but if I’m to live amongst the uncivilized, I need to beat them at their own game,” he’d explained.

He’d smiled amiably when he said it, but Johnny had a feeling Ian was once again throwing off on him. Still, he recognized the truth in what he was saying. And the danger. “I can get you better, but you ain’t gonna be beatin’ anyone at their own game. And you gonna get yourself killed if you think you can.”

Ian had laughed at that. “I assure you, I have no intention of engaging in gratuitous shootouts with riffraff. I merely need to be able to defend myself credibly.”

So early one morning they’d ridden out, Scott too, and blasted the hell out of everything they could hit. Which turned out not to be much, in Ian’s case. When Ian had finally insisted his new gun must have a problem, Johnny asked to try it and promptly shot six out of six targets, handing it back without comment.

He could see Ian eyeing his own well-worn gun, once again in his hand, could have almost predicted what he was going to ask before he did: “How many men have you killed with that gun?”

“I don’t keep notches, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.” Johnny quickly added, “Time to go.” He wondered who had told him about Madrid.

Murdoch had seemed pleased to see the three of them ride in together, until Ian told him what they’d been doing. “He doesn’t need a fast draw,” he’d said to Johnny, as though it had been Johnny’s idea to fashion his dear stepson-to-be into a gunslinger. Johnny hadn’t been able to resist flinging back that there was no worry of that. Ian had even agreed.

Later that afternoon Johnny had to get a new shirt from his room after the one he was wearing got drenched. He glanced in the great room and stopped when he saw Ian at Murdoch’s desk, hunched over the ledgers. Ian assured him Murdoch had gone over the ranch’s finances with him, and that in fact he’d asked Ian to study them. “He suggested I take over for you, Johnny, since you’re not comfortable with this sort of job.”

Johnny had left the room seething. True, he hated bookkeeping. Every number fought him. But it wasn’t right to just hand Ian his duties, wasn’t even right for Ian to be privy to their business affairs. He’d mulled it over the rest of the day, finally deciding he’d say something to Murdoch when he could.

To his surprise, Murdoch gave him the perfect opportunity after dinner when he asked to speak to Scott and Johnny alone in the great room. Johnny was still working on a polite way to tell him to keep Ian’s nose out of their business when Murdoch opened his drawer and removed some papers.

“Boys, I have a request of you. I want you both to know that having you as my business partners has made running Lancer more rewarding than it ever could have been for me in the past. Sharing it with the two of you, my family, it’s always been a dream of mine. Now, well, now I’m asking you to help me expand my dream just as I’m expanding my family.”

He shoved the papers in front of them. “I’d like you to sign this, and welcome Ian not only as your brother, but as our new partner in Lancer.”

Johnny thought he must be hearing things.

Chapter 9

The room was so clogged with smoke she wondered more than once if the building was ablaze. Such a shame to treat fine draperies this way. But nobody seemed alarmed, not that half of them would notice if their own clothes caught fire. They were too engrossed in various games of cards, studying their hands, counting chips, or simply trying to bluff their opponents. She tried not to get too near any of them, or to touch anything. She did not condone gambling.

She stood as close to the ornate bar as she dared without risking touching it, bent forward and spoke to the man behind it. “I was told I could locate a Mr. Clive Edmund here. Could you please direct me to him?”

The barkeep motioned toward a table in a dark corner, the dull light from its lamp casting the single man seated there in harsh relief. The man at the table was bone-poking thin, but he was clean-shaven and dressed in a neat black coat. A half-empty bottle and a very few chips kept him company. He was leaning back in his chair, but stood and pulled a chair out for her as she approached.

She hated having to take care of business like this on her own. But some things were best done with few confederates. Looking about furtively before she spoke, she decided to get right to it. “I’m told you can take care of unwanted people for a price.”

The man studied her for a second, his face never changing expression. “How unwanted?”

She wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, surprised at his question. “Most unwanted. He’s a bad man, but he’s been able to avoid the law.”

He seemed amused at her answer. “No, I mean how much money’s worth unwanted is he?”

She looked around again. With all the racket of cards, chips, and laughter she practically had to shout. Either that, or lean in close, which, as uncomfortable as it made her, she chose. “I can make it well worth your while. Five hundred dollars.”

She saw the monetary gleam in his eye. “Just supposing, how would I find this bad seed?”

“He’s on a ranch near Morro Coyo. He’s half Mexican, with dark hair and blue eyes.”

“Lady, I’m not planning on courting him. How do I tell him at a distance?”

“The ranch he’s on is called Lancer, and he’s the only one there who rides a big palomino, and wears concho pants and always some kind of audaciously colored shirt.”

“Morro Coyo, huh? That's a good trip. Gonna need travel expenses.”

“That’s all I have. One hundred and fifty now, the rest when the job’s done.” She’d worry about the other part later. But the man was staring at her expectantly, so she pulled a ring off her finger. “I can give you this, too.”

Edmund examined the ring. “This ain’t much, but it’ll take care of travel money.” He flipped it from hand to hand, as though contemplating. “This fella, he any kind of shot?”

She’d learned her lesson with the first man she’d asked. This one she wouldn’t scare away. “No. I mean, he can shoot, but nothing special.”

***

“No.”  Johnny’s answer, given with quiet determination, would have been obvious even had he said nothing. He looked like someone was threatening to steal his last meal. 

Scott was still trying not to look shocked. He’d never once considered Murdoch might give Ian a share of Lancer, but he was trying to see the situation from all angles. He wondered just how invested his father was in this idea. “This is rather sudden, sir,” he said slowly. “Have you discussed it with Ian?” 

“I know it seems sudden to you, but I’ve been thinking about it for some time.”

“Some time?” Johnny blurted. “How’s that, when you ain’t been engaged for hardly more than a week?”

Murdoch ignored his outburst. “And to answer your other question, I’ve not discussed it with Ian yet. I wanted to see how much interest he had in staying here before giving him that incentive. I think you’ll both agree he’s been working very hard to learn the business.”

“Yeah, well Jelly and Cip know a hell of a lot more than he’ll ever know, I don’t see you giving them a slice.”

Murdoch leaned forward, hands on his desk as he looked Johnny in the eye. “Jelly and Cip, as valued as they are, are employees, not family. Once Florence and I marry, Ian will be as much a part of this family as you are, and I don’t intend to treat him any differently.”

“Hell, then, just split it into six pieces, deal that bit... Mrs. Sinclair and Anna in for a cut. Give the whole ranch away!” Johnny clomped in a small circle as he spoke, finishing with a kick that sent the corner of the rug tipped back on itself. 

“Johnny, don’t be childish. Florence will share my part and if I go before her, will inherit it. Anna, I expect will marry and share in her husband’s prosperity. But Ian’s father had nothing of substance to leave him, nothing he could make a business with. I won’t have him living here without the future my other two sons enjoy!”

“Other two sons?” Scott raised his brow. Funny, Ian was more like the brother he’d always imagined having when he’d wished for one as a child, but now he had a hard time imagining the Lancer brothers as a threesome rather than a pair. Apparently Murdoch planned to welcome him on an equal basis. 

“You know what I mean. I don’t plan to treat him any differently just because he’s a stepson.”

“Seems to me you’re treatin’ him plenty different! We had to work for our shares.” Johnny sounded mad, but he looked more hurt. “What the hell he’d do for it? You wanted our guts, remember? For a third, that was the deal! I got shot in the fucking back earning my third!”

“Johnny! First of all, there’s no need for that kind of language. Florence has asked me to speak to you about it, and I agree. Second, it’s hardly Ian’s fault that the ranch isn’t under attack any longer. Scott managed to stay out of the way of any bullets, and he got his share. Getting shot was not a requirement, and if you’d followed orders, you probably wouldn’t have even been hurt!”

“Hold on, both of you!” Scott tried to think of something to diffuse the situation before Johnny did his storm-out-the-door act, or Murdoch did something more to encourage it. Or they both killed each other and solved the whole problem.

Before he could speak, though, Murdoch held up his hand. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. But I do want you to know I’m giving up part of my share, and I hope you boys will do the same, welcome him as an equal.”

“Fuck if I will,” Johnny mumbled, adding more loudly, “You go ahead and give him whatever you want, I ain’t signing nothing!”

“Just hold on a minute,” Scott said, once again feeling himself thrown into the role of arbitrator. “Murdoch, this is a pretty big surprise. You can’t expect either of us to agree without thinking about it, and as much as I want Ian to feel at home and be part of the business, I think this seems premature at the moment. I’m not saying never, but I think we should wait. On the other hand, Johnny, before you get too upset, remember, this is a huge ranch. Quite honestly, none of us is going to notice the difference between owning a third of it or a quarter of it. I’d be willing to bet you’d have agreed to fight for a quarter share in the first place, am I right?” He knew he was right. Johnny probably would have done it for whatever the going rate was for his gun, and that was probably closer to the price of a few steers.

“You goin’ along with this, Scott?” Johnny now managed to look both hurt and incredulous. It was true Scott didn’t really care whether he owned a third or a fourth. He had enough assets in his trust fund that the difference was inconsequential. But besides Johnny’s horse, saddle, and paltry assortment of loud clothes, his Lancer share was all Johnny had. As much as Johnny pretended not to care about possessions, Scott knew he was passionate about the few things he owned.

“No, I’m not, not as is,” Scott replied, adding to Murdoch, “Sir, while I agree it’s thoughtful to provide for Ian equally, Johnny is right. We did make a bargain, and asking to change the terms of the agreement now isn’t really fair. Perhaps you could arrange a buy-out, so that we’d be financially compensated for giving up some of our shares.”

“I ain’t sellin’ my share.”

“Not the whole thing, Johnny. You’d have some spending money, and you could reinvest the rest. You could even buy stock if you wanted, diversify.”

“I got plenty of stock with my third already. Why would I sell ’em and then buy more, ’specially when I had less land?” Johnny looked at him like he was an idiot.

“I meant stock, as in stocks and bonds. Shares of companies...” The blank look on Johnny’s face stopped him. “You could buy horses.”

“Lancer is not going into the business of horses,” Murdoch growled. “Besides, I don’t have that kind of cash. All our money is tied up in Lancer. I can’t very well sell off parts of it in order to buy back parts.”

“Then I’d say you got yourself a problem.” Johnny smirked when he said it. It reminded Scott of that first meeting, when he’d said pretty much the same thing, the same way, about Pardee.

Damn those two. Not an ounce of budge in either one. It wasn’t like Johnny to be selfish, and it sure wasn’t like Murdoch to be giving away land. “Murdoch, what would be the harm in waiting awhile? Make sure Ian really wants to stay, make sure he’s really cut out for this. Then if he does, let him pay for it, or work it off. I know he’s going to be your stepson, but really, you, we, scarcely know him. Maybe this isn’t the life for him.”

“If you’ll recall, I scarcely knew you and Johnny before I offered you your shares.”

Scott held back from reminding him whose fault that was, at least in his case. “True, but Johnny and I had been your sons for more than twenty years. Johnny was even born here. I’d hazard to say that makes a difference.”

Murdoch paced to the other side of his desk, then back. “I saw Ian the day he was born. Actually knew him for longer than I knew Johnny, certainly longer than I knew you. He was like a son to me.”

“He ain’t gettin’ what’s mine.”

Before Johnny and Murdoch could get into a battle of raw wills, Scott figured he’d better step in with some reason. “That’s all well and good, but it’s still different. Nobody expects you to turn over part of Lancer to him just because you’re marrying his mother, no matter how long you’ve known him or much you liked him when he was a child.”

Murdoch’s pacing increased, his boots pounding on the floor like the heartbeat of an angry man, until he stopped before his desk, pursing his lips and staring from Scott to Johnny. The three stood, each refusing to look away, until the room’s sudden quiet was abruptly shattered by Murdoch’s fist slamming on the desktop, the glass lamp dancing with the impact.

“Goddamn it! Ian was named after my father!” He looked at them as though that was supposed to mean something. When neither responded, he fell back in his chair, his voice almost inaudible. “He’s my son. Flo’s and mine.”

Chapter 10

He hadn’t signed. But he hadn’t hit the bastard, either. It had taken everything he had in him to just walk out of the room without jumping over the desk and slamming Murdoch’s face into it, over and over and over. Hell, it’d taken everything he had not to look like he’d been kicked in the nuts. Judging by the way Scott gaped at him, he probably hadn’t been so successful there. 

God damn Murdoch to hell. Mama had been telling the truth. At least some of the time. The story she told about Murdoch trading them out for a gringo woman and boy. About how the husband she’d loved had betrayed the two of them, how he and his gringo woman had made it impossible for Mama and him to stay. She didn’t tell the story too often, only when she was really drunk, and then she always ended up crying so much he could scarcely understand her, hadn’t really wanted to. Hell, he almost felt like crying himself right now. He picked up his pace, putting as much distance between him and that fucking son of a bitch as he could before he changed his mind and killed him.

He flung open the barn door, letting it bang back and forth behind him, sucking in the comforting aroma of hay and horses like a drowning man. Rojo danced around his legs, practically tripping him, but even the dog’s exuberance couldn’t entice him to stop. He hurried into the stall and just gripped Barranca’s neck for a moment, leaning his head on the warm body, before finally bending down to gather up Rojo. Rojo licked his face then squirmed loose.

“We’re gettin’ the hell outa here, fellas,” he said, grabbing his saddle and flinging it on the palomino’s back, just as Rojo rushed to the barn door. Sure enough, Scott.

Scott wasn’t too often at a loss for words, but he didn’t say anything as he entered the stall, and when he did say something, it was, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I do. He’s a goddamn son of a bitch.” He bent under to grab the cinch, jerking it tight until Barranca stomped and fidgeted in protest. “He can keep his fucking ranch—give the whole thing to his fucking new son for all I give a damn!”

Scott put a hand on the horse’s flank. “Come on, Johnny, I know this is a shock, but running off isn’t going to help anything. We need to sit down and discuss this, the three of us, give Murdoch a chance to explain.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t know how that works? He stuck his dick in that bitch and they had a baby. There’s your explanation.”

Scott sighed. “You know what I mean. Maybe there were circumstances we don’t know about. I’m just not sure it’s our place to judge so quickly.”

“There were circumstances, alright! Like being married to my mama! And he better hope I don’t judge him, cuz I tell you what, I’d give the bastard a death sentence. Along with that fucking slut of his!” He grabbed Barranca’s reins and yanked him from the stall, the horse throwing back his head at the rough treatment.

“Johnny!” He reached for him but Johnny pulled from his touch. “I know he was wrong, but it happened a long time ago. This is not the answer! Come on, we need to talk, all of us!”

“You want to talk, go talk.” He led Barranca to the door, mounted and started away, then jerked the horse around and spoke quietly. “Cuz I tell you one thing, if I see the son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill him.” 

***

He could tell by the retreating sound of Barranca’s hoofbeats that Johnny slowed down after he disappeared into the night, probably to let Rojo catch up. Scott kicked his toe into the ground, finally trudging back toward the light that still burned in the windows to the great room. Sometimes he wished he could stay out in the dark forever.

Murdoch should have known better. Should have known better than to have an affair, and then a child. Should have known better than to break it to them, to Johnny, that way. But that was Murdoch’s way. It was easier to get him to shout something he didn’t want to tell you than to whisper it. Well, he’d sure shouted this plenty loud. Or at least it had seemed like it.

Scott wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing. Yes he was; he was disgusted and angry and sick to his stomach. But if Ian really was Murdoch’s son, then Ian deserved his share as much as he and Johnny did. He liked Ian, and if he had to choose a brother, besides Johnny, Ian would be near the top of the list. It was just going to take some getting used to, but that had been the case when he’d come to Lancer and discovered he had one brother. Another shouldn’t be that different. Maybe Johnny would come to that conclusion once he slowed down to think. Granted, Murdoch had apparently had an affair while he’d been married to Johnny’s mother, but that was over twenty years ago. He pushed open the door, noticing his father was still seated behind his desk. He needed some answers.

When he left an hour later he’d been surprised at how forthcoming Murdoch had been. Yes, he’d had an affair when he’d been married to Maria. It had started even before his marriage, but Florence was married at the time. They’d planned on getting married after she divorced, had even chosen names for the children they planned to have. But before she divorced he’d met Maria on a trip, and when he found Maria was pregnant, he married her. He’d known it was wrong, but he hadn’t given up Florence, couldn’t, even though he couldn’t marry her now. Ian was born only a few months after Johnny’s birth. Florence’s husband learned of the affair, and that he wasn’t Ian’s father. He divorced her, sold the bank, left Green River, and was never heard from again. Murdoch had vowed to take care of Florence and her children, and had hoped Johnny and Ian would grow up like brothers. Florence had tried to convince Murdoch to divorce Maria, but he refused. Then one day Maria just left on her own. Florence had expected they would marry then, but Murdoch was preoccupied trying to find Johnny and they ultimately drifted apart. They’d argued, she’d left and the next thing he knew, she’d married somebody else and moved to San Francisco. Ian knew his stepfather wasn’t his father, but didn’t know Murdoch was. Her new husband was prosperous enough, but Murdoch wanted Ian to have the best education. Besides, he’d made a vow to take care of his son. So he sent him money and funded his tuition over the years, funneling it through a trust fund. He’d financed his trip to Europe, which is where Ian was when the ranch was attacked. That was why he hadn’t sent for him then, as he had Scott and Johnny. That, and the fact Ian had no idea who Murdoch was. That would change when Florence came back tomorrow.

He knew he’d been wrong in having the affair when she was married, and continuing it after he was married. But he did not regret the fact that it had resulted in a fine young man.

Murdoch’s dream was to bring his sons together. He told Scott how he was enjoying watching him and Ian together, how much they reminded him of himself and his own brother growing up in Scotland. He confessed he’d hoped that Johnny would be getting along better with the Sinclairs before telling him of Ian’s relationship. At the same time, he couldn’t cater to Johnny’s whims forever. Although he didn’t blame Johnny, it had been the search for him that had ultimately prevented him from marrying Florence after Maria left; he wasn’t going to let her slip away again.

Yes, he’d loved Maria. Yes, he’d loved Florence. And still did.

Scott reluctantly consented to be his best man.

***

By the time he’d made it to the closest line shack he’d emptied the flask of tequilla that he kept in his saddlebags. He did a slipshod job of getting Barranca settled in and proceeded to take the place apart looking for some whiskey. He knew the hands always had some hidden, usually in places where the other hands couldn’t find it. He opened every bottle he found in the shelves, tossed the cot, pried open loose floorboards, and generally flung things around enough so that it made finding anything nearly impossible. Ian was probably sitting in the great room, sipping brandy with Murdoch and Scott, talking about books, playing chess, and laughing his ass off at how he’d replaced his stupid halfbreed half brother. Murdoch was no doubt proudly watching his two fair-haired sons, happy he finally had the right pair under his roof, looking forward to his wedding where he could officially replace his Mexican wife with one he could show off around town.  He could just imagine their reaction when they saw what he’d done to the line shack in his ranting. Good. He picked up a bottle of oil and flung it to shatter against the wall, the shards and oil tinkling and trickling to the floor. It was then he noticed Rojo huddled next to the door, scratching to go out, flinching when Johnny reached for him.

“Shit, fella, I ain’t mad at you.” He sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as he felt Rojo creep into his lap and tentatively lick his arm. Damn. All he’d managed to do was scare a dog.

Murdoch could have his slutty new wife and his perfect new son. Johnny didn’t need him, never had. But as much as the shouting in his head told him to keep on riding and never turn back, that was bullshit. That’s what Mama had done. In the end, that’s why Mama had died. And that’s why he’d grown up stupid, without the education Murdoch was always harping on. No, he wasn’t leaving, wasn’t giving up his share of the ranch— not even a part of it. He’d make a new home right here, in the line shack, him and Rojo. And Barranca. That’s all he needed. And his stuff from his room. And some supplies. They were his, too. Tomorrow he’d go back and take what he wanted.

But damn, tonight he wanted some goddamn booze! Where the hell was it? He thrust himself up and starting looking more methodically. He thought of Murdoch’s expensive scotch and brandy again, of the three of them toasting one another. Thought, even, of riding all the way back and grabbing every bottle he could carry. Problem was, if they really were in there, he knew he’d be wanted for murder once he left.

Chapter 11

He was halfway down the hall to his room when some sort of a strange varmint scuttled out of Murdoch’s bedroom and began yapping at him. Johnny jumped back, his hand on his gun, when another one joined it. They sounded like dogs, but they looked like scalps come to life. Whatever, they were the last thing his throbbing head needed. Anastasia came out of her room and squealed, “Don’t touch them!”

“What the hell are they?” Johnny was still backing, the things nipping at his boot toes.

Anna rushed to gather them up, managing to heft one in each arm and kissing each on what looked to be some sort of smushed-in face. “Now, now, it’s alright, sweeties. You can let him in.” She turned to Johnny. “These are Peking Palace dogs. They’re Chinese. Aren’t they something? We brought them back with us from San Francisco.”

“Dogs, huh? You find them runnin’ in Chinatown?” It was about the most Anna had ever said to him at once. She must share his soft spot for dogs in need. “That’s good of you, cuz they was probably gonna be somebody’s meal.”

Anna gave him a pained look. “Hardly. Ian brought them back from London several months ago. Their grandparents came straight from the Empress of China’s palace. They’re extremely rare and valuable blue bloods, and we plan to have puppies in the near future.” She kissed the dogs again, cooing to them, “Isn’t that so?”

Johnny wondered if Anna knew how Murdoch was about dogs in the house. Had it been Ian, he wouldn’t have said anything, but he decided he better warn Anna. “Murdoch know you got ’em inside? You might want to hide ’em.”

“Of course. He’s the one who suggested it. He’s already very fond of them. This is Ming, and this is Tang. It’s almost time for them to marry.”

Johnny hadn’t registered much after she claimed Murdoch was fond of them. He looked closer, taking in their twisted legs, flattened faces, bulging eyes, and tousled hair, wondering what his father liked about them. “They good ratters?”

Anna practically made a face. “No. They’ve never touched a rat in their life, and I hope they won’t encounter one here. She let Tang down and held onto Ming, bouncing her in her arms. Tang barked at Johnny then leaped up at Ming, at least leaped as best he could, which wasn’t much. He snuffled and wheezed with the effort.

“Jelly can probably get you something for what’s wrong with him, fix up his breathing some.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” she said, giving him a look that plainly said she thought he was stupid. She called Tang to follow her downstairs.

Johnny watched them for a few steps, then headed back toward his room. If those were blue bloods, he’d take his mutt any day. It figured his old man would let them in the house, no problem. Just like that fucking Ian. Opening his door, he made for his dresser. He wanted to get his stuff before Murdoch came home. He hadn’t counted on Mrs. Sinclair and Anna being back yet, but at least Anna wasn’t too bad. Still, the fewer Sinclairs he met up with the better. He pulled open his top drawer, grabbing his favorite shirt, next to the one he was wearing. His other drawers were empty, but he opened the bottom one and pulled it all the way out. Behind it he kept his prized possessions: his old working gun, a hiding gun, a stick knife, a Bowie knife, and spare ammunition. Along with some old gun he’d been meaning to work on one of these days. Things he didn’t want Murdoch and Scott to know he still kept. If he was going to live at the line shack he wanted most of his stash there with him. He placed them into the saddlebags he’d brought along, stuffing the shirt on top. He gave one last look at the room he’d called home for longer than any other in his life, not counting a couple of cells, at the sun streaming in its open window, the curtains billowing softly, the little Indian rug, the bed with its quilt and pillow. It was certainly the nicest room he’d ever had. Maybe he’d haul the bed out to the shack eventually.

He thumped down the stairs, intending to grab one thing from Murdoch’s desk—his mother’s picture, since it was damn sure his father didn’t appreciate it—when he heard the dogs yapping from below. Damn. There was Anna and the dogs in the great room. He changed directions and headed for the pantry, figuring he would stock up on some food. He found a sack and filled it with some coffee, flour, salt, and tins of beans. It wasn’t much, but since he couldn’t cook much, it would do. He found some cooked biscuits and sliced meat in the kitchen, and helped himself to as much as he could without fearing that Maria would have to cook more.

The door opened and shut, and it sounded as though Anna had taken the dogs out, so he hurried into the great room. The picture wasn’t in its place on the desk. On a hunch, he rummaged through the drawers and found it pushed to the back of one. It was all he could do not to take his hand and hurl everything off the old man’s desk. Instead he strode to the cabinet where Murdoch kept his fancy booze and crammed every last bottle he could fit into his bags. See how much fun they had toasting with rotgut tonight, them with their hoity-toity tastes. 

He almost dropped the last bottle when the screaming started outside.

***

Scott had started out right after breakfast. He figured Johnny hadn’t gotten far, probably only to one of the line shacks. He’d checked a couple before he hit pay dirt. As soon as he opened the door he stopped in his tracks, awestruck by the scene of destruction within. Everything tossable—cans, bottles, tools, bedding, even furniture—had been tossed. A few cans had even made it through the window and lay in the dirt outside. If vandals hadn’t done it, and it seemed unlikely they had, then it had to have been Johnny. Johnny had a temper, yes, but Scott had never seen evidence like this of just how violent it could be. And now he was gone. Scott remembered his parting words of the night before. He jumped on his horse and galloped back to the hacienda, praying his brother had calmed down. Or at least hadn’t met up with his father.

He tried to ignore his mount’s first hobbling steps, then hoped it was just a stone in a shoe. But when he dismounted, there was no stone to be found, only a shoe that was too loose to hammer back in with a rock. Cursing his bad luck, he walked the last mile home, leading his horse.

He had just made it to the Lancer barn when he heard a woman’s screams.

***

The screaming was coming from Anna’s mouth.  At first it looked like she was swatting at her dogs, but soon Johnny realized she was mostly swatting at Rojo, who was trying to play with one of her dogs—which one, Johnny had no idea. They both looked like something a cat would gag up. Rojo was standing with his head high, neck arched, his tail wagging in a blur. Johnny couldn’t help but think how handsome the dog had become, standing there like a little stallion.

“Get him away!” she shrieked, obviously unimpressed by Rojo’s good looks.

“He’s just playing,” Johnny said, before he realized Rojo was looking stallion-like because he was trying to act stallion-like. Rojo gave the other dog, he was pretty sure it was the girl one, a doggy embrace that made his intentions clear. Ming bucked and tried to squirm away. Anna shrieked again.

“It’s rape!” she yelled as she ran forward and started kicking at Rojo. “Get off!”

Johnny reached them and pushed her away, holding her back while she screamed and kicked at his dog. “Stop! I’ll get him,” he said as he held her back, trying to keep from getting angry. “I can’t get him if you don’t stop kicking!” That’s when he heard the steps run up behind him, right before the crash to the side of his head. He staggered, one side of his vision going black.

“Get your filthy hands off her!” It was Ian, fists up and ready to do battle. That was fine with Johnny. He shoved Anna back, away from Rojo, and lunged toward Ian, landing a good blow to his gut that sent him doubled up to his knees. Then he stepped over and dragged Rojo off Ming before Anna could start her kicking again. She’d fallen when Johnny shoved her and was screaming like a stuck pig. Ian pushed himself up and lunged at Johnny again, but Johnny, still holding Rojo under one arm, sidestepped and caught him in the jaw, this time knocking him on his back. He was ready to pummel the shit out of him when Scott’s voice made him stop.

“Johnny!” Scott had appeared around the corner, staring with mouth agape. Johnny brushed by him to gather up his stuff from where he’d dropped it.“Johnny, stop! What’s going on?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak right now, so he flung his saddlebags and sack over Barranca, mounted with Rojo in front of him, and spurred the horse out of range of the whole bunch of them. He could see Anna hugging her dogs, could see Ian getting to his feet, could hear him telling Scott that Johnny had attacked Anna and then flown into a rage, could hear Scott once again calling after him.

Murdoch was nowhere in sight, but he could also hear what he’d have to say.

Chapter 12

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time, with the wedding the very next day. Ian’s jaw was purple, as was Murdoch’s face when he heard what had happened. Murdoch had planned to go up to the line shack and have what he called a serious discussion with Johnny about his behavior. Scott figured the wedding would definitely be canceled if that happened, what with Murdoch being dead and all. So he volunteered to ride up there, which he’d planned to do anyway, and talk to him.

Johnny’s behavior was troubling. No, Scott didn’t for a minute think he’d attacked Anna, although he could see how Ian might have jumped to that conclusion. And thankfully, Murdoch didn’t believe it either. But as Murdoch pointed out, several times, he could have just calmly removed Rojo and explained to Ian what the mix-up was. Anna reported it had been Johnny’s dog that started the whole thing, that Johnny had gone crazy when she yelled and tried to get Rojo off of Ming. That didn’t do much to ease Murdoch’s temper; after the last incident when Johnny went after both Murdoch and Florence for the way they treated Rojo, Murdoch had been, if anything, less tolerant of the dog and Johnny’s excuses for it. It certainly didn’t excuse Johnny shoving a woman to the ground, or beating Ian to the extent he had, not in Murdoch’s eyes. And while Scott knew Johnny doted on that dog, he had to agree with Murdoch on this one. Something else must be eating him.

Judging from how he’d wrecked the line shack before heading for the hacienda, Johnny had been in a volatile state of mind from the outset. He certainly hadn’t taken the news of his new half-brother well at all. Sure, it was a shock, but no more so than discovering they were each other’s half-brothers that first day. Why did Johnny have to be so churlish about Ian?

Johnny’s inebriated state when Scott got to the shack only reinforced Scott’s convictions. Scott couldn’t help but notice Murdoch’s expensive bottles of sipping liquor set out in a row, nor the one Johnny held to his lips as he waved Scott in. Told him to close the door behind him, so he could let go of Rojo. Apparently the dog wanted to head out and play with his new friends back at the ranch.

The place was still a wreck. He had to step over a bottle that was rolling toward him, kicked by Johnny. His gaze stopped at a new addition: Johnny’s saddlebags thrown on the bed, assorted guns and knives spilling out of them. Johnny was ranting about something.

“Bitch thinks Rojo ain’t good enough t’court that bitch,” he slurred. “Fuckin’ he’s fifty times, no, a hundred times the dog that dust mop is.”

Scott reached down and patted the dog on the head. “I know he is. It’s just, well, they want to make sure they have pure-blooded puppies. So they’ll be worth a lot.”

“Worth a helluva lot more if they’s Rojo’s.” He grabbed at the dog but missed. “C’mere, boy!”

Scott really hadn’t ridden all the way up here to discuss the merits of dog breeding. “The wedding’s tomorrow, you know...”

Johnny appeared more interested in stumbling after Rojo, finally catching him and clutching him to his chest as he fell back on the cot. “Murdoch really alright with them dogs in the house?”

“What? Yeah, I guess, I don’t know. Look, you need to be there early, it’d be best if you came back and stayed in your room.” And stop drinking, he added to himself.

“She said he was ‘fond’ of ’em. You really think he is?”

Scott stared at him, trying to figure out what he was talking about. “Fond of... who?  The Sinclairs? Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Fuck th’ Sinclairs. Them dogs! Why would Murdoch like them dogs?”

Back to the dogs. He threw up his hands. “I don’t know! I guess, uh, maybe because they’re purebreds. You know how he is about his blooded bulls, his stock, how he’s impressed by the best blood. Maybe that’s it. Who knows. Now, back to the wedding, Teresa has your clothes ready...”

Johnny let Rojo jump down from the cot. “Ain’t going.”

It wasn’t a complete surpise. “Johnny, I know you’re having some problems with this Ian thing, but don’t let your feelings right now make you do something you can’t make up for. It’s going to really hurt Murdoch if you don’t go.”

“Fuck it will! He just wants his purebreds, like you said. Me and Rojo, we’re stayin’ here.”

“That’s ridiculous!” He got ready to say more, but the image of Rojo wreaking havoc at the wedding overwhelmed his thoughts. “Uh, I don’t really think any dogs are going to be at the wedding, but you could put him in your room. Get him a bone to occupy him. But you really have to go. Murdoch doesn’t want to get married without you.”

“Then tell him not to get married.”

Was he talking to a drunken 12-year-old? “He’s getting married, whether you like her or not. You’re not the one marrying her, you know. All you have to do is be cordial to her. What happened between her and Murdoch and your mother was their business. It’s over.”

“Who the hell’s business is it when they killed my mama, sure as sticking her themselves!”

Scott felt an icy tingle in his spine. Johnny had never spoken of his mother’s death, but it wasn’t exactly like he wanted to encourage him right now. “Come on, Johnny, just come.”

Even through the slurred words Scott could recognize some of the more colorful Spanish profanities he’d learned. By the time he tried to drag him out forcibly, only to get a fat lip from it, and figured out Johnny probably couldn’t ride in his condition anyway, he was about done with it. Between incoherent rants about “that bitch” and “that son of bitch,” Scott reminded Johnny what time to be there, threw up his hands and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving Johnny practically passed out on the cot. Scott had briefly considered lugging him back home unconscious, but decided it wouldn’t look good if he had to be tied in his chair for the ceremony.  Or if he continued threatening Murdoch and the future Mrs. Lancer.

***

He couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the suffocating weight off his chest. And he couldn’t open his eyes. But he had to open them. No, he knew better, he’d done it before. Dios, if only he could scream, but he couldn’t, couldn’t suck in enough air to make more than a gurgle. He was gurgling, only he wasn’t, he knew he wasn’t, it was her gurgles, her weight. No, please make it not her. He opened his eyes, saw her, saw his hands. And screamed. Screamed to make her go away, make it all go away, screamed because maybe this time it was real, screamed until he woke himself up and lay there shaking. He brought his hands, still trembling, to his face, turning them over and over, checking, wiping them on the sheets. Dios, it was back. It had found his cot at the line shack. At least this time he didn’t have to hear Scott’s steps paused outside his door, or worse, feel his hands waking him up. Damn, that was embarrassing. Rojo might think he was crazy, but at least he wouldn’t tell.

He sat up, swaying a little still from the effects of last night’s drinking, his head starting to throb. Had Scott been there? His skin was glistening with sweat, and his hands were still shaky enough he sure hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot at anything. Last night’s bottle still sat open on the floor next to the cot, the few inches of amber liquid at the bottom promising to fix him right up. A couple of swigs later he was pushing himself to his feet, wondering just where Rojo was, exactly.

Hell, he wondered where his boots were, exactly. The front door was sitting open, so that probably explained Rojo’s whereabouts. He figured maybe he’d better follow his example and shuffled through the door, then hung onto a post while he relieved himself off the side of the porch. Still didn’t see the dog, but his boots were out there. The sun was well up, its rays too bright for comfort. Good thing Murdoch wasn’t around to yell at him for sleeping late.

He called for Rojo then ambled back inside. Damn, the fire was out. He got it going, fortifying himself with a few more swallows of whiskey while he was waiting for the coffee to get ready. He rustled around until he found some hardtack and jerky, all he could manage to cook that morning. Rojo could share. Where the hell was that dog?

The damn dog must have abandoned him early on. Maybe Scott had taken him with him. Yeah, now he remembered he was there, tryig to get him to do something. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d finally given up on him and left. Johnny went to the porch and called again, gentle fingers of unease tickling at his gut. This really wasn’t like Rojo. If he’d found trouble, he’d be barking. Then what the hell could he be doing?

Shit. He’d had to just about drag him away from Lancer yesterday. Damn! He grabbed his boots and started shoving them on his feet. So much for a leisurely hangover. Damn dog was probably halfway to the hacienda by now.  He’d probably hear screaming any second. He scooped up his saddlebags and rushed out to ready Barranca. Damn dog!

Chapter 13

“Some sort of shindig goin’ on, for sure.” Deeter lowered the spyglass and spit. He’d been perched along with his partner on this ridge for going on two hours.  The sun was getting high in the sky, and he was starting to sweat, but he wasn’t complaining. It was fun seeing all the people duded up.

“No shit.” His partner was lying down, his hat pulled over his eyes so just his gray streaked stubble gave a clue to his age. Deeter had been providing a running commentary of all the buggies heading to the Lancer ranch, enough so he’d never get to sleep. “Just let me know if you see our boy. Wake me up then.”

“Ain’t seed him yet, Vom.”

“I figured.”

A buzzard circled far overhead, and Deeter turned his attention to its fingered wings until it was too far away for even the spyglass to capture.  There were no more buggies on the road. Nobody left to spy on. “Maybe we should go lookin’ for him.”

“This is the main road in and out of the ranch. Whatcha gonna have us do, just ride around ’til our butts fall off? Better off just relaxin’ here. Sides, this is where Clive knows to find us, if’n he ever gets his ass up.”

“How come he gets to sleep all day?”

“Cuz he’s the one outta the goodness of his heart give you this job. You got some other way to earn fifty bucks?”

***

Every step Barranca took pounded his head down to the insides of his teeth. The sun was going to make his eyeballs pop like bloated corpses if it beat down on him any harder. At least, that was the case before lady luck took him in her arms and led him to discover there was still one sweet bottle left in his saddlebags. He knew it wasn’t the answer, not long term, but right now he couldn’t face riding to the ranch feeling the way he did. By the time he rode under the Lancer arch he was actually feeling pretty good.

At least he was until he spotted all the buggies and horses tied outside. Shit. The stupid wedding was already underway. Fuck ’em. He was just here for his dog. He stopped Barranca and dismounted, falling backward with his left foot still in the stirrup before catching himself. The horse turned his head and looked at him, twitching its tail. “Yeah, I’d like to see you do better,” he said, slapping the animal affectionately.

Looking around, he quickly stole into the barn. “Rojo? You in here, boy?”

No dog. A bunch of horses, but no dog. Maybe he was in the house. He tried to stay behind things and creep there without being seen, but one of the guests spotted him. “Hey Johnny! What are you doing sneaking around? Better get in there, the ceremony’s about to start.”

He thought of pretending he didn’t hear him, but when he tripped on a wood pile and sent it and him tumbling, he decided he’d better wave. The man waved back, and Johnny lurched toward the back stairs.

Rojo wasn’t in his room. Maybe Scott had him in his. But he wasn’t in there either. Johnny kept calling for him, trying to be quiet. He stumbled down the hallway and started opening doors and calling into each room. Maybe he was in with those funny looking new dogs. The pure-bloods. That’d be funny. The two yapping hanks of hair tumbled out when he opened Anna’s door, taking him by surprise. By the time he collected his wits they were heading down the stairs. Shit, shit, shit. He ran after, calling, “Here, boys!” 

He half toppled down the stairs behind them, catching himself on the banister at the bottom and swinging around before stumbling toward the great room. It was only when he found himself surrounded by people all gussied up, all staring at him, that he figured out where he was. “Lookin’ for m’dog,” he mumbled, backing out.

Damn! He could have told himself Scott would be right there before he could get out the door, getting on him like a flea on a dog. Scott was looking at him funny, but all he said was, “Glad you could make it. I’ll show you your seat,” and tried to take him by the shoulder.

Johnny slapped his hand away. “Ain’t made it nowhere. Lookin’ for the damn dog! Seen Rojo?” He started looking under the table, lost his balance and fell against a chair.

He could hear murmuring in the other room, and suddenly Murdoch appeared beside him. “Johnny, come sit down. Now. The wedding’s started.”

Johnny tried to level his best glare on him, although it was hard keeping him in focus. Hell if he was going to any wedding. “I ain’t goin’ to no wedding ‘tween a couple of cheaters. You cheated on my mama!”

Damn, how the man could expect him to sit there and watch them get married after what they did. He shouted, “You fuckin’ killed her! You and that whore bitch!”

That was when he felt Murdoch’s fist against his jaw, and saw the floor come spinning toward his face.

***

If Scott had ever seen his father angrier, he couldn’t recall when. It’s not like he could blame him, though. Johnny had shown up drunk and belligerent on one of the most important days in Murdoch’s life. If that wasn’t enough, he’d been loud enough that everybody knew it, and worse, that everybody heard what he said.

They’d taken a break while Murdoch calmed down and Val helped Scott settle Johnny into a downstairs guest room. With luck, he’d still be passed out when Murdoch and his bride left to start their San Francisco honeymoon.

The rest of the ceremony went ahead without any interruptions. Scott poked his head in a couple of times during the ensuing festivities, but Johnny was still dead to the world. The rest of them danced and ate and drank and talked in hushed voices about the scene with the wild son. After a few drinks himself, his interests left his brother and settled on Louisa, a local girl who suddenly looked prettier than he remembered. They waved goodbye to the newlyweds as Murdoch drove their buggy toward town and the stage. Louisa was looking prettier all the time.

***

He could hear music and laughter. Even when he tried to blot it out by smashing the pillow over his head. His eyes cracked open. Where the hell was he? It wasn’t the line shack, and it wasn’t his room. Gradually the furniture of one of Lancer’s guest rooms registered. He sat up, groaning, then winced as he rubbed his face. Shit, now he remembered. Somebody hit him. He thought. Whatever, he sure as hell wasn’t staying here.

Rojo! That’s why he was here! He was looking for the damn dog. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling as he tried to balance. Had to find Rojo. Give the damn dog a piece of his mind.

A bunch of people were in the courtyard. He tried calling Rojo, but all he got were a few odd looks and he could swear people seemed to scurry away. Kind of reminded him of walking into a saloon in the old days. He’d never really liked that. The dog didn’t appear to be here, so he decided to leave. He’d never liked crowds to start with, sure didn’t like this one.

He stumbled back to the barn, veering off to the side before he got there. Figured he hadn’t checked behind it yet. Besides, he had to piss.

“Johnny!”

It was Jelly, running after him. Damn, he sure didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, not even Jelly. He turned the corner and walked faster, catching himself on the side of the barn every few steps.

“Johnny, stop!” The old coot sure was persistent.

He was turning to avoid the manure pile when he caught sight of Rojo’s leg. Should have known he’d be there. It was one of his favorite places to lounge, soaking up the sun’s rays as well as all the heat rising from the fermenting manure. Damn dog, just lounging around and ignoring all of Johnny’s calls. “Dammit, Rojo, get your sorry ass over here! You know what kind of trouble you caused me?”

When he ignored him Johnny sighed and tried a nicer voice. “Boy, you know how worried you had me, runnin’ off like that? Put a fright in me. Come on, we’ll go some place we can have our own fun.” He bent down to scoop him up.

His rear half looked fine. It was his front half that had Johnny falling to his knees and gasping for breath. The dog’s side was matted with blood, and his lifeless eyes looked out from his bashed and splattered skull. “Oh, Dios, no!” Johnny clutched him to him, his eyes stinging, throat choked down too tight to say more.

Chapter 14

“Johnny!” Jelly was behind him. “Dang, Johnny, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find him like this.”

He twisted around and grabbed the older man by the collar. “Who did this?” he shouted hoarsely.

“I know that dern dog meant the world to you, Johnny. I was gonna bury him, get him a real nice marker even, jes as soon as everyone left out, and, you know, you was in a better state, have us some private time.”

“Who did it?” he shouted louder.

“She come up on him, he was stuck in one of them furballs of hers, she jes went crazy and grabbed a shovel, took it to him ’fore I could even get in shoutin’ distance. I’m sorry, Johnny, I’m real sorry, he was passed by the time I run up.”

“Who did it?”

Jelly looked scared. “I don’t think you’re in a state of mind to be knowing that just now, Johnny. She said it were accidental, I gotta believe that, and you do, too, if you know what’s good for everybody. It ain’t gonna do nobody no good flying off the handle.”

Johnny let go of him and put Rojo down, tried to stand, then leaned over and puked until he thought his heart would come up with everything else. “God damn them all to hell,” he whispered. “And Murdoch too, for bringing them killers here. They killed him jes cuz he weren’t fancy blooded, like them and theirs.”

“Johnny, you watch what you’re saying, now...”

“Just like they did my...” He stopped as he caught sight of his hands, smeared with Rojo’s blood. He scrubbed them against his pants, then got up and staggered away. “I’ll kill ’em, the whole fucking lot! See how they like it!”

Jelly rushed after and tried to turn him. “Now, Johnny, don’t you go doin’ anything rash minded. You been drinkin’, you ain’t thinkin’ clear.”

“I ain’t never seen so clear.” He reached Barranca and swung up. “Just do me a favor, Jelly, take care of Rojo.”

He could hear Jelly yelling for Scott as he spurred Barranca mercilessly into a full run.

***       

“Buggy comin’!” 

“Mmmm.”

“Looks like a man and a woman.”

“Uh huh.” Vom figured Deeter wasn’t going to let him sleep in peace no matter what. They’d been there for several hours now, Deeter managing to be into something almost the whole time. Vom wondered how a body could find that much to entertain himself with just a spyglass and the contents of a saddlebag. Then again, maybe he’d been like the kid once, with big ambitions and an itch for excitement like he’d rolled buck naked in poison ivy.

Vom, he’d had his ambitions. Seen where they took him, and it weren’t far. But he’d always liked seeing his old spark in kids like Deeter, had taken more than a few under his wing over the years. Maybe that weren’t always such a good thing, not in this business. Some of them got killed even with him showing the way, some turned badder than even he was, and some just drifted away and he never heard from ’em again. Them was the ones he held out hope for. He pushed his hat back and ran his fingers through his hair. Clive hadn’t ever showed up, and neither had their target. May be time to just head back, report in.

“Rider comin’!”

“Damn, Deeter, you shoulda just joined the army the way you like to announce things.”

“Yeah, well, this feller’s ridin’ like Satan hisself is after his tail. Wanna see?”  He started to lower the spyglass then jerked it back up. “Vom, it’s him! Big palomino, shiny shit on his pants...”

Vom was next to him in a second. “Lemme see.” He raised the glass and honed in on the moving trail of dust approaching below. He could make out the horse as well as the glint of sun off the silver conchos of its rider. “Yeah, yeah, I’d say that’s most likely our boy.”

Deeter got up and pulled his rifle from its scabbard. Vom gave him an exasperated look. “I know you ain’t planning on shooting that rifle at him from here.” When Deeter didn’t reply he continued, “Cuz first off, you’re gonna miss from this distance, and second off, all you’re gonna do is clue him in that somebody’s shootin’ at him. What we’re gonna do is go down around that bluff on the other side of that pond, so when he comes around the corner, bang! Pistol sound won’t carry far. You think I picked this place by accident? Jesus.”

“We better git hoofin’, then, way he’s riding.” Deeter was already cramming the rifle back in its scabbard and mounting his horse.

Vom took a last look at his money on the hoof and stuck a foot in his stirrup. Hell of a way to make a living.

***

The horse was flecked with lather, his sides heaving, but still Johnny spurred him on. He didn’t really know where he was going—just running away, putting as much distance between him and the ranch as he could. Making sure his horse was too tired to turn around, because so help him, if he saw Murdoch or a single one of his so-called new family, he was going to enjoy killing them more than was healthy. Bash their fucking heads like pumpkins! Jesus Christ! They’d killed his dog! His mama, too, that was their fault, not his, and now his dog! It’d been years since he’d been so completely wrapped in hate. God damn them! God fucking damn them all to hell!

Barranca was heaving, fighting him, and he knew he had to let the horse rest. He let him slow to a canter. He’d ended up on the road to town, opposite direction he’d come in from the line shack. The pond was around the bend, a good place to stop and get hold of himself. He felt like he was going to heave again. His stomach hurt. He doubled over on the horse’s back, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold it in until he got to the pond. Only when Barranca snorted did he snap them open, just in time to see he was almost on top of the parked buggy.

It felt like he was in a nightmare that wouldn’t let him go. Murdoch and that bitch were staring right at him, Murdoch with his arm around her, and he could swear the murdering bitch was smiling, gloating. His ears roared with fury, and all he could see was that smile, Rojo’s limp body, the blood, Dios, the blood, and he didn’t remember how he got off his horse and wrapped his fingers around her throat, just that that’s where they were. He vaguely knew Murdoch was grabbing at him, shouting, heard the shot, felt his hand leave her neck to instinctively reach for his own gun, heard another shot, felt like he’d been thwacked hard in the head, and then another, like it was far away now, saw Murdoch pitch forward on him, spewing blood. Lifted his hands, saw them glistening with his father’s blood, heard the rattling of bloody breathing, felt himself slipping away and wondered how much of the blood was his.

***

“Yeehaw!” Deeter was off his horse and running to the heap of bodies. Damn kid had no caution. Vom kicked his horse and trained his gun on the two men and a woman, although they didn’t look in any danger of stirring any time soon. Truth was, it’d be good enough for the kid if one of them came to life and shot the fool idiot. Killing bystanders was never a good idea. They should have turned right around when they saw the buggy was still there, but Deeter was already blasting away. Too late now, though.

“That’s him alright! Look at them pants!” 

“Yeah, sure seems like it is. Course, the time to figure that out would’ve been before you starting sticking bullets in him.”  The bodies lay twisted together in a death orgy. The big man had landed face down right on top of their target, and they were both bathed in blood. The woman also lay face down, her hands still at her own throat.

He shook his head. “Damn, Deeter, what a fuckin’ mess!”

Deeter had scrambled into the buggy. “I’m gonna see what they got!”

“Why’nt you see if they’re dead first?” When Deeter just kept nosing around, Vom finally sighed and dismounted. He nudged the woman with his foot until he could see both her hands were empty, then bent and felt for a pulse. Her neck was reddened where their target had been choking her; no wonder concho boy had been unpopular enough to warrant a kill price. Attacking a woman. There was just no call for that. A thready pulse surprised him. “Woman’s still alive!” he called.

Deeter jumped down from the buggy. “Really? Bet the others ain’t.” He kicked at their target’s limp hand. “Hey, we got to get a souvenir, don’t we, prove we got him? How about this bracelet he got on?”

Vom nodded distractedly. He was bent over the old man, who was still face down on top of the younger one. “This one’s got a pulse too, boy.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t feel no pulse on Mr. Fancy Pants. You want I should finish them two off?” He pulled his gun, cocked it, and stuck it to the back of the gray-haired man’s head.

“Shit, Deeter, what sense would that make? You trying to just make sure they get a posse after us? Now your fancy pants boy, from what I’m hearing, nobody’s gonna much care when they find him with a bullet, but these folk, they’re trouble. That’s why you don’t take nuthin’ from ’em. Maybe when folks come on ’em they figure they just managed to shoot each other. But if stuff’s missin’, how’s that gonna work?”

Deeter still looked like he wanted to shoot them. Vom sighed, wondering if Deeter was another that was going to fall into his failure category. “Look at it this way: maybe they got enemies, enemies who might pay good money for you to snuff ’em one day down the road. So why you wanna do it for free now?”

That seemed to convince Deeter. He holstered his gun as Vom continued, “Now check Fancy Pants’ pulse proper, on his neck. Wrist ain’t good enough. You can be my guest and off him if’n he’s still pulsin’.”

“He’s dead. Sides, he’s all bloody, I don’t want to get all sticky.” Deeter wandered off toward the roadway, something catching his attention.

“Goddamn it!” He was going to have some serious lessons for that kid. Like for starters, maybe keep his fifty bucks if he couldn’t do the job proper. Vom kicked the older man off so he could reach the younger man’s neck, and was half bent down to him when he froze. He used the man’s sleeve, his limp arm flopping, to wipe the blood from his face so he could make out the features. Lifted a lid and looked at one eye. For a second he just stared, gape-jawed. Then he groped for a pulse.

“Shit, Vom, there’s a rider coming!”

This time he paid attention.

Chapter 15

Scott spurred his horse to gallop faster, even though he knew the animal was at its limit. He could just see Ian up ahead now, or at least, the dust billowing from his horse’s hooves. Ian had gotten a head start when Jelly came rushing to the party to tell them about Johnny storming off with murder on his mind. Scott had been in the garden with Louisa, but he’d heard the commotion when Ian started shouting for everyone to go after Johnny. Jelly hadn’t made much sense, but he’d gathered Rojo had been killed and Johnny was raging against Murdoch and Florence. This was bad any way you looked at it.

Scott wasn’t sure how Johnny knew Murdoch and Florence were even gone, but he’d apparently gone racing off after them. Johnny had been drunk and combative earlier, and he probably still wasn’t in his right state of mind. Scott was surprised he’d even gotten up, much less that he could hang on to his horse. He could imagine another unpleasant confrontation if Johnny caught up with the newlyweds. Maybe he’d fall off first.

Ian seemed ready to think the worst, calling for the men to help avert a disaster, reminding them all of Johnny’s earlier behavior and his dangerous propensities. Not surprisingly, that hadn’t done much to convince anyone they wanted to be up front, so they had mostly milled about at first, and those who had reluctantly joined in the chase had ridden slowly enough they were now well behind Scott. He had a feeling every one of them wished their horse would go lame. Ian had finally headed out on a guest’s saddled horse nobody seemed to want to claim, and Scott had followed as soon as he and Jelly got his mount saddled. Val had managed to get himself so drunk at the party Scott half hoped he’d pass out before he remembered to strap on his gun, but he was hanging on his horse and not too far behind.

He was mad at Johnny for his behavior that day, mad at Murdoch for hitting Johnny no matter Johnny’s behavior, mad at Ian for assuming the worst of Johnny, and mad─no furious─at whoever it was that had killed Johnny’s dog, even if it was an accident. He’d kind of liked the little rascal, and Johnny had doted on him. The whole blessed day could not have gone worse.

At least, that’s what he thought until he heard the gunshots, three pops in short succession, echoing in the distance.

***

Vom started tugging on Johnny’s arms. “Deeter, help me get him on the horse!”

“Huh? Vom, we don’t need the whole body. Thought you said his bracelet would do.” He dangled the bracelet from his fingertips.

“He’s alive!”

“Oh.” Deeter pulled out his gun. “Better stand back.”

“Goddamn it, put that away! Listen, we was hornswaggled. This ain’t no cowhand─it’s fuckin’ Johnny Madrid! Now help me!”

It was Deeter’s turn to go slack-jawed─and pale. “We’re fuckin’ dead men if he gets well! Jesus, Vom, we gotta finish him, get outta here quick!”

“You’re a fuckin’ dead man if you don’t get over here and help me get him on that horse!”  Vom strode over, grabbed Deeter by the collar, and thrust him toward the prostrate man.  Thinking fast, he added, “Think, boy, Johnny Madrid, bounty! Big bounty!”

Deeter jumped to his job, and in no time they’d dragged and shoved the limp body until it was hanging over Vom’s saddle, then Vom mounted behind and started away, every step making the dangling limbs dance.

“That rider’s gonna be here in no time!” Deeter called, a scrape of panic in his voice. “You want me to go shoot him?”

“Fuck no! Let’s just go! Grab his palomino!”

They’d almost made it over the rise when the rider rounded the bend. Vom saw the man stare at them momentarily before he half fell from his horse and rushed to where the bloodied man and woman were sprawled. Shit. He hesitated, wondering if he should send Deeter back down to shoot him after all.

No, road was too busy to chance it. He jabbed his spurs into his horse, too late realizing the limp body was slipping off to one side. He grabbed at  Johnny’s pants, but couldn’t hold him, and Johnny flopped to the ground like a rag doll. “Watch it, Deeter!”

Deeter’s horse tried to avoid him, but its attempt to jump to the side was pulled short by the palomino pulling back against Deeter. One of its hooves thudded against the fallen man’s head.

“Goddamn!” Vom was off his horse after only a few strides.

Both men again shoved and pushed Johnny back up. Deeter looked at the nasty gash and the bump already bulging on his head and asked, “Is the bounty dead or alive?” 

***

Ian was holding his mother when Scott rounded the bend and came upon the carnage. He leaped off his horse and ran to Murdoch. There was so much blood, he was sure he wouldn’t feel a pulse, so he actually blurted his thanks to the Lord out loud when he felt a tingle.

“She’s hurt!” Ian sobbed, raising Florence’s head in his shaking hands. He looked like he had no idea what to do.

“Ian! Where’s she hurt? Put pressure on it to stop the bleeding!” He was doing the same with Murdoch, figuring from the blood the wound was on his chest. Oh Jesus, how could this be happening? He ripped Murdoch’s blood-sodden shirt open and slid his fingers over his bloody chest until he found the wound, then he took the shirt, wadded it up, and pressed it as firmly as he could over the hole. He looked over and saw Ian was frozen, looking at his mother’s dress wet with blood without daring to touch it. “Ian! Find the wound!”

The thrum of hooves announced the arrival of the other men, who rushed to Scott and Ian amid shouts and whispers. Two men jumped back on their horses and turned the tired animals back to the ranch to fetch Sam and to get a buckboard out there. Several others gently guided Ian out of the way and began tending to Florence. Scott refused to relinquish his pressure on Murdoch’s chest, but he did let another man check for more wounds.

Ian stumbled around, a dazed look on his face, before stopping and pointing up the rise. “I saw him, I saw the bastard riding off!”

Nobody paid much attention to him and he sank to his knees, beating his fist in the dust.  “It was that damn Johnny! Oh God, I should have known! Somebody go get him, kill him!”

Scott felt even sicker. So far he hadn’t allowed himself to think the obvious. But Ian had seen him. Oh Jesus, please, please, please make this all a bad dream...

 ***

This time they’d quickly tied Johnny to the horse so he wouldn’t flop off again, and Vom was able to get his horse to maintain a rocking lope. He tried to block out Deeter’s excited chattering so he could think. Johnny! He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe even more that somebody had set them up to kill the killer.

How far had the confabulation extended? Clive had stayed conveniently in town all day, well out of range of even Madrid’s guns. But Vom had worked for Clive before, and that was the general plan. He’d stay in town, catch up on what was going on, pass any pertinent information to Vom, and make sure he spent the day very visibly gambling so as to have an alibi. Sometimes he’d make it to the lookout site, sometimes not. And to be fair, the plan had been to just check things out today, not go ahead and blast the target. That was damn Deeter’s enthusiasm tilting out of control again.

Clive just told him it was a job he got in San Francisco, which was weird, because Vom never thought of Madrid having much to do that far north. Still, he’d be bound to have far-flung enemies. He’d also mentioned it was a lady who was paying, which wasn’t all that unusual when it came to hiring somebody to do men’s work. Clive hadn’t given him a name; didn’t need one, not what with the physical description. It wasn’t like he and Deeter planned to go make how-de-dos before they shot somebody. So that was the question: did Clive know?

“How much you reckon the bounty is, Vom?” Vom was vaguely aware of Deeter repeating himself, more insistently.

That brought up something else that didn’t make any sense. He’d heard Madrid had met his end down in Mexico a few months ago. Nobody had heard from him since. As far as he knew, everyone thought that, and he wasn’t aware of any bounty on him north of the border.  Not that he kept up with bounties all that well, but he liked to keep informed. You never knew when it would be financially advantageous to put a bullet in somebody you met on the trail. But if Madrid hadn’t died down there, and if the rumors were true and he’d been fighting against the rurales, then it was possible he had a Mexican bounty on his head. Still, if Clive knew that, he would have wanted the whole body, not just a souvenir. He wondered what Deeter had done with the bracelet. They might still want to give it to Clive.

Deeter was asking again about the bounty. He figured he better answer before the fool kid decided to ride on over to the sheriff’s office and ask. “Don’t rightly know the amount. Just know it ain’t for dead.”

That last part he was sure wasn’t true, but no use giving the kid ideas. He reached down and felt Madrid’s clammy skin again and figured it might not matter.

Chapter 16

Florence had given no sign of regaining consciousness even when she was being loaded into the straw-padded wagon. She’d been shot in the chest, and Sam feared the bullet had lodged in the lung. Every breath wheezed, and Scott didn’t even want to look at what the wound was doing. Murdoch had also been shot in the chest, but higher up and to the side, and the bullet had passed all the way through. As far as Sam could tell, his main problem was extensive blood loss. He at least moaned and stirred some when he was moved, although part of Scott wished he hadn’t—at least wished he hadn’t said anything. There was no mistaking the look on everyone’s faces when the words he mumbled were “Johnny” and “no.”

He still had a hard time believing Johnny would actually shoot them, but Ian claimed he’d seen Johnny fleeing the scene, and now Murdoch seemed to confirm something bad had happened. Then there was Johnny’s behavior before the wedding. And he could no longer ignore all those threats Johnny had made over the past couple of days to kill Murdoch and Florence. Even Jelly had said those were his parting words.

Val, still feeling the effects of enjoying himself a little too much at the party, had returned from galloping up the hill in the direction Ian had pointed. He hadn’t seen anything, and the ground was so rocky there it was going to take a much more sober Val to follow. Meanwhile, he staggered around looking for clues, although Scott suspected the clues he really wanted to find were ones that would exonerate Johnny. So far that hadn’t happened. There were so many tracks from all the traffic that day that nobody could tell how many horses had been there, much less which way they’d gone.

The hands were taking care of driving the buggy back, and Scott tied his horse to the back of the buckboard so he could ride with Murdoch, Florence, and Ian. He kicked at the blood-soaked sand, trying to cover up the most gruesome reminder of the tragedy. His kick unearthed something that caught the sun, perhaps a bit of Florence’s jewelry, that had been just under the trodden surface. He bent to retrieve it, hoping it might point to a robbery attempt. His breath caught as he recognized Johnny’s bracelet. 

***

He couldn’t breathe. Something was pounding on his chest, squeezing him. Was she back? He tried to lift his hands to shield his face, even though he knew they’d be bloody. Dios, wake up, open your eyes! He tried, finally cracked them open, pushing himself to escape from the nightmare again. It didn’t work. When he opened them he could see his hands, dangling strangely below him, red and brown with blood. He squeezed his eyes shut. He still couldn’t breathe, and there was somebody on his chest, only this time it was a gray-haired man, and there was blood, blood everywhere. He tried to yell, make himself wake up, but it was frozen in his throat.

***

“He’s makin’ some funny noises, Vom!”

Vom had heard them, too. He pulled up to check on the man across the saddle and had just noticed his back heaving when he saw he was spewing all down the side of his horse. Damn! He pulled Madrid’s head up by his hair, and at least managed to keep his horse from getting further soiled. Madrid seemed to lapse back into unconsciousness, or maybe he’d never been conscious. Whatever, he sure didn’t look too good.

He knew transporting an injured man like this wasn’t helping, but he didn’t have much choice. They had to put as much distance as they could between them and the people who would almost surely be coming after them. They’d been riding over rocky ground, doing a pretty good job of hiding their tracks, at least until that puddle of puke, but they weren’t making near as good time as he’d like. Plus he needed to figure out how to handle Clive, and he couldn’t exactly go trotting into town like this. So he’d decided to head back to the cave they’d scouted out earlier. He didn’t like it, but the other choice was to dump Madrid and keep on going. If Deeter didn’t get a firm answer on that bounty soon, he knew that would be the boy’s choice.

The smart thing would have been to just leave Madrid back there, let him take the blame. Heck, from what he saw, Madrid was well on his way to killing that woman even without a gun. That didn’t make any sense. If Madrid was on a job, why wouldn’t he have shot them? And if this was some sort of range war, it was the darndest one he’d ever seen, one side hiring a top gunslinger to choke a woman, the other side hiring old Clive to kill Johnny Madrid and not telling them who he was.  No, the way Madrid had hurled himself from his horse he’d looked like he was killing for satisfaction, not for money. He shook his head. Johnny Madrid should have known better than that. Vom had taught him that lesson early on.

And Johnny had been pretty good about sticking to it. Sure, he had a temper — a dark temper — but Vom couldn’t remember him really wanting to kill too many people. His mother’s men — Johnny had never said so, but Vom figured that out pretty easy from things Johnny hinted at awake and screamed asleep. But mostly, his old man — what was his name? An American, had a California ranch, kicked Johnny and his mother off it when the kid was real little. Johnny had vowed to kill him more than once for what he’d done.

“Shit, Lancer,” he mumbled. No wonder that had sounded familiar.  “It was fucking Lancer.” Huh. Johnny had finally done it. Or almost. Until he and Deeter screwed things up.

“Deeter, we gotta get some things straight ’bout what we’re gonna say to him when he comes to.”

“Like ‘please don’t shoot me?’” Deeter managed a nervous grin.

Vom couldn’t help snorting. “Sort of. You know, if he finds out it was you who shot him, that’s exactly what you’re gonna be sayin’, for what good it’ll do you. So we ain’t gonna tell him. We gonna tell him it was them folk who done it, and we ain’t gonna tell him it was us who done shot them neither.”

“Alright.” Deeter rode some more, studying. “Why not?”

“Cuz them was his targets. You want to take the credit when it was his job to do? You think he’s gonna look too kindly on that?” Vom didn’t necessarily want Deeter to know Madrid’s personal details, but one thing he did know: if Johnny had finally come all the way up here to finish off his old man, there was no way in hell Vom was going to let him find out he hadn’t succeeded because of their interference.

“Listen, Deeter. If it comes up, you just be sure to tell him he killed ’em, least the old feller. Course, that’s assuming he’s around to ask.”

***

Sam looked solemn as he checked Murdoch’s vital signs. “It’s the blood loss,” he said. “The bullet must have nicked an artery because I can’t see any other reason for it.” Murdoch lay unnaturally pale, his breaths shallow and rapid. A large white bandage was wrapped around his chest, but lines of crimson were already seeping through it, like the talons of death clawing at him.

Sam squeezed Teresa’s hand. “He’s strong, you know it.”

Scott nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He caught his breath as Ian burst in the room shouting Florence was worse, sending Sam and Teresa rushing across the hall. Ian had insisted Sam spend most of his time with Florence, so Scott wasn’t particularly surprised he’d come up with this latest alarm. But it didn’t matter now. Sam had done what he could for Murdoch.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, remembering how the day had started out, him in his finest suit, his father and new stepmother radiant. They’d all been so excited about the day, the future. Now his suit was covered in blood, and the newlyweds would spend their first night as a couple in separate rooms — fighting for their lives. The future of their family was dead.

Dear God, Johnny, what have you done?

No matter how he looked at it, there was just no excuse for his brother’s violence. No matter how threatened Johnny felt about having a new stepmother and brother, no matter how resentful he was of her role in the breakup of his own mother’s marriage, no matter how much he didn’t like Florence, no matter how drunk he was, no matter how upset he was about his dog — he’d ruined everything. Scott felt the fury rise within him like boiling oil. Johnny and his temper and his drinking and his violence and his chaos had almost killed his father and the woman his father loved! He’d shot them and rode away, left Scott to deal with the disaster in his wake. Scott felt in that instant that he had never hated a person that intensely in his life.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard his new brother crying out to Sam from across the hall to do something more. When he got to the hall Anna ran from Florence’s room sobbing hysterically. 

Chapter 17

A few fire pots still burned along the main street of Morro Coyo as Vom walked his horse into town.  He hated leaving Deeter in charge of Madrid, but sending him to talk to Clive would have been a worse idea. As it was, this was going to have to be handled with finesse. The deal was that Clive would pay them $125, once they’d finished their job. Only they hadn’t exactly finished their job. And he had no intention of finishing their job.

He could tell that to Clive, ride away, go look for another job. Problem was, he and Deeter were dead broke. This job had been the answer to a prayer: an easy target and a big pay off. They’d ridden all the way here in good faith, spent time scoping the area, sat up on that damn ridge all day, shot the target—would have finished him off if Clive, or whoever was responsible, had been straight with them and the fellow was who he was supposed to be. Of all the screwed up luck.

Nobody saw him turn into a shadowy alley, tie his horse to a tree, and toe his way up the back stairs of the hotel. Clive had told him the room number, but hadn’t really invited him up. His soft knocks were answered by the click of a gun and a suspicious voice.

“It’s me,” he whispered, “Vom.”

The door opened and allowed him in, shutting silently behind him. “We got him,” Vom said with more confidence than he felt.

“Damn it, what the hell happened? I been hearing people talking all night about some sort of bloodbath out there.” Clive lit the lantern but kept the flame low, his gaunt features appearing skeleton-like in the flickering light.

“What was the name of the target?” Vom asked.

“Why you want know, you plannin’ on sending a condolence note or something?”

“I just like to know these things.” He’d decided against asking about a bounty, figuring that might tip Clive off to thinking Vom was holding out to collect it himself. He had to wonder if Clive was planning to collect one himself, without telling them.

Clive didn’t answer, whether because he was busy rolling a cigarette or because he’d thought of the bounty angle himself, Vom couldn’t decide. He finished rolling it and turned his attention back to Vom. “Lancer, like the ranch,” he said slowly. “Johnny Lancer.”

Vom tried to hide his surprise. Johnny had apparently been working on some sort of a long-term scheme to get to his old man. He wondered just how badly Deeter had messed it up. But maybe somebody had suspected. “Who wanted him dead?”

Clive struck a match and lit the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face long enough to warn Vom he’d overstepped. “You writin’ a book?” he asked as he shook the match out. “Thing is, I heard your target shot up two other people, then rode clean aways. Now you come in here telling me you got him. You got some proof?”

Deeter had somehow managed to lose that bracelet he’d been showing off. As much as Vom hated pulling the medallion from Johnny’s neck, he figured he needed everything he could to pull this off. He opened the sack he was carrying and pulled out the gaudy bloodied shirt Johnny had been wearing, presenting it and the medallion to Clive. “He didn’t make it far.”

The other man barely glanced at the items before tossing them disdainfully on the dresser. “Thing is, this isn’t the way I do things. It’s messy, and I don’t like messy.” He took a drag on his cigarette, the tip glowing orange briefly.

It was starting to sound like Clive was trying to weasel out of the fee. “Dead is dead,” Vom said. “It ain’t always like a church picnic.”

“I hear they’re out looking for him. When they find him, you’ll get your money, assuming I get mine.”

“What do you mean, assuming you get yours? Damn it, Clive! I can’t hang around here! You know that!”

“Yeah, how ’bout that? Wouldn’t be no problem if you hadn’t fucked things all to hell like you did. You got a problem, come see me in San Francisco in a week or so, assuming they got a body here. And assuming them other folks don’t die. How you know one of them weren’t the one paying?”

Shit! “We need supplies. We gotta have the money.”

Clive fished in his pocket and tossed a coin at Vom, who missed it in the dark. He groped around on the floor until he felt it. Holding it to the light he could make it was a $20 piece. He weighed his options. Clive was a big fish, likely to call on him for more jobs if he didn’t piss him off here. And truth was, Deeter’s twitchy finger had made a damn mess of things. Hell, they hadn’t actually done the job. Problem was, if Clive figured that out they’d never get paid.

Clive made up his mind for him when he casually waved his gun at him. “Now get the hell out of here before somebody sees you. San Francisco. You know where to find me. And Lancer better be dead, or you gonna have lead on you like buzzards on rot.”

***

It was a man this time. When had the woman changed to a man?  Falling on him, suffocating him, accusing eyes staring, the blood—oh Dios, the blood—covering him until he was sucking it in, drowning in blood, heaving and retching to get it out of him.

The man’s hands were grabbing at him. He tried to fend them off, but the movement had him gasping in pain, and he gave in. He puked until the pain chiseled into him, forcing a moan. It was then he realized the hands were still on him, holding him on his side. His lids fluttered open in alarm.

He did his best to focus on the arm leading from him to a shape, a man—or no, more like a kid, maybe. His eyes danced from one direction to another, but everything was dark except for a tiny fire. Where the hell was he?

“Mr. Madrid, uh, you awake? Jesus, I can’t believe you got any more in your gut to squeeze out. I been turning you so as you don’t choke to death on it.”

Johnny looked at him dully. “Blood?” he rasped.

“Yeah, you got a bullet tried to slice your skull in two. I didn’t shoot you. The old man did it.”

No, the old man was a dream. This was a dream. The blood would be all over his hands, like always. He dragged his hands to where he could see them, hissing at the pain in one shoulder. They were brown with dried blood. Dried? That was different. He wanted to rub it off, but it was just too hard to move so he gave up. He tried harder to wake up, but nothing changed.

“Name’s Deeter,” the shape said. When Johnny didn’t respond he just kept on talking. “Me and Vom, he’s my partner...”

“Vom?”  Vom. Why did that sound familiar?

“Yeah, Vom, he’s my partner, we come on you fighting with them folks. Thought you was a goner at first.”

What the hell was he talking about? “Wha’ folks?”

“You know, the old man and that lady. Yeah, you shot ’em up good.”

Wait...the old man was just in his dream, right? But the woman—how could this kid know what he’d done all those years ago? He really needed to wake up.

Chapter 18

By the time he reached the cave where Deeter and Madrid were holed up Vom felt like he could break his own rule and kill somebody for free. He just wasn’t sure if it was Clive or Deeter. The kid better not start whining about the lousy twenty dollars or it might help him make up his mind.

They sure couldn’t stay where they were. Vom was one of the best when it came to covering his tracks, and the rocky ground had been a godsend, but eventually all any posse would have to do would be start checking caves. It might take a while, but in the end it would just be a matter of time. He didn’t want to abandon Johnny, but he sure couldn’t be foolish and stay holed up while he waited for him to recover. Getting him and Deeter arrested wouldn’t help anybody, and every hour they stayed made that a greater possibility. 

Johnny had acted like he might be coming to a few times while he was still flung over Vom’s horse, but each time it was just to puke more. He wasn’t quite sure why his injuries would lead to that much puking. When Vom finally got a good look at him in the cave it appeared he had a graze to one side of his head, and then another wallop on top that left a big knot and a gash. Probably had a concussion. That made a lot of fellas puke.

Course, there was no denying he reeked of alcohol, and it wasn’t like Vom hadn’t seen Johnny do his share of puking from drinking in the past. Vom prided himself on being a thorough teacher, and learning to hold your liquor was important when a lot of your job meant hanging out in saloons. Many a night he’d spent plying Johnny with whiskey, and the kid had hurled like a champ at first. That’s when Johnny had told him all about his plans to kill his father. Found out a few other things, too, although even as drunk as he was Johnny never did go into much detail about how he came to be on his own. What was he, maybe 13 or so when he met up with him? Vom still didn’t know what possessed him to step in that day. He’d managed to land himself in jail for a while, and a few days later the sheriff pushed some snot-nosed half Mex kid in the same cell with him and some other fellas. A couple of them, big ones, started telling the kid he couldn’t have whatever cot he tried to sit on, then when he sat on the floor they kept telling him he was in their spot, until the kid was pressed into a corner near Vom. Vom didn’t get involved; he’d figured the kid would live and maybe he’d learn not to get hisself thrown in jail next time if he had an uncomfortable stay. Maybe send him running back home to mommy and daddy, grow up a respectable citizen. Besides, one of Vom’s rules was to mind his own business. 

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he’d been awakened by noises and the bumping of his cot. The lanterns were dim, and all he could make out were shadows at first. It was the kid, fighting like a wildcat, for all the good it was doing him. He’d been gagged, and one man was holding his arms and trying to shove his shoulders down. The other had already managed to get the kid’s pants pushed down around his knees and was unbuttoning his own, deftly avoiding the kid’s kicks, which were restricted from the pants being so low. All the while the both of them were taunting the kid with what they were going to do. Vom clamped his eyes shut, turned over in his cot, and smashed the pillow over his ears, but there was no way he could avoid hearing the ongoing skirmish and the kid’s muffled curses. Goddamn it! He’d broken his rule about not sticking his neck out and ended up jumping out of bed and pulling the man off, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs for the deputy. He ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye for his trouble, but in the end it had worked out since it was clear neither Vom nor the kid was safe in there anymore. Since there was no other place to put them, the deputy cuffed them to the outside of the cell for the night and the next morning the sheriff sent them both on their way. Vom had headed straight to the cantina for breakfast, and on impulse asked the kid if he had any money to eat with. From the way the kid put away the food Vom bought him, he hadn’t had money to eat with in a long time. Found out he’d been arrested for trying to steal food—and Vom knew they hadn’t fed him in the jail. When Vom told him to get on home where he belonged, the kid finally admitted defiantly he had no horse, no home, and as far as Vom could tell, no hope. Vom couldn’t do much about the home and the hope, but when they rode out together, the kid had a horse.

Now here he was sticking his neck out for the damn kid again. Shit. Something about Johnny seemed to make him break those rules he’d so carefully set out for himself years ago. The ones that had ensured his survival all this time. He felt a tingle of apprehension as he approached the cave. Right before he heard the screams.

***

They buried Florence in the plot on top of the hill, with the sun turning the western sky orange and throwing long shadows from the handful of mourners. Anna broke down sobbing and Ian had to support her back to the buggy. Teresa’s cheeks were shiny with tears. Scott stood numbly. He still felt like he was in the middle of somebody else’s nightmare. He’d pulled himself away from Murdoch, but was anxious to resume his vigil. Murdoch hadn’t yet awakened, still didn’t know.

His attention was caught by a small mound of turned earth over to the side. So Jelly had buried Johnny’s dog there after all. Scott still wasn’t sure just what had happened with the dog; he’d caught snippets from Jelly’s initial alarm, but it hadn’t exactly been at the top of his list since. Given all that had happened he wasn’t so sure he wanted the dog to remain where it was. His attention was pulled back to the open grave as the preacher finished his blessings, and the first handfuls of dirt were sprinkled into it. Scott trudged to the buggy to the thump of shovelfuls of Lancer earth covering her coffin. Teresa caught up to him, and he wrapped his arm around her.

The winding road back to the hacienda was one of the prettiest routes on the ranch, but right now it just seemed full of dead brush and skulking shadows.  They tried to make small talk, but it was hard with Anna sniffling like she was, so everyone pretty much gave up after a while. Scott was relieved when they pulled up at the front door. 

Ian asked Teresa if she could help Anna, then motioned to Scott to join him in the great room. “There’s still no news from that sheriff.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But Val is good, and it’s only been a day.”

Ian poured a drink, offered one to Scott. “I heard he was friends with Johnny.”

“Yes,” Scott said slowly, not sure where this was headed. “That should give him an advantage in finding him.”

“Assuming he wants to find him.”

Scott pursed his lips. He knew Val had to have mixed feelings about bringing in Johnny, especially since the charge was now murder. “He’s a good lawman. Give him a chance, I’m sure he wants him as much as we do. And with Val, it’s less likely anyone will get hurt.”

“Yeah, I see how Johnny refrains from hurting people he knows,” Ian said disgustedly. He eyed Scott, then sat on the edge of Murdoch’s desk. “How badly do you want to find him?”

Scott had wrestled with that question over and over as he’d sat next to Murdoch. He’d loved having Johnny as a brother. But even Johnny had warned him not to be so trusting, and he’d obviously been much too trusting of the man he’d thought of as his only brother for these past few months. He’d chosen to ignore his dark past, thinking it was just that: past. Because of that their father lay on the brink of death, and their father’s love lay in the cold ground. And Johnny just rode away, not even bothering to face what he’d done, leaving Scott to fumble with the pieces that could never be picked up. Not even apologizing to their father and begging him for forgiveness. Not even looking Scott in the eye and explaining himself. More than anything from him right now, that’s what he wanted. “Very badly,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Then I think we need more help. Bounty hunters.”

Chapter 19

Damned if he wasn’t at it again. “Goddamn, Johnny-boy, wake the fuck up and shut the fuck up!” Vom smacked his face enough it should do either. Johnny’d never been this bad before. Vom’d told Deeter it was the fever, and maybe it was. Deeter had looked scared to death when Vom had run into the cave and found Johnny yelling and thrashing, Deeter pressed against the cave wall fingering his gun. Most of what Johnny was babbling was in Spanish, but Vom had heard similar things from Johnny before. He leaned in and said firmly, “Boy, stop your shit. Wake up.”

Johnny opened his eyes. He’d done it a few times before, always looking disoriented. Johnny studied him like he’d done every time, blinking his eyes like he was having a hard time focusing. This time he licked his lips as though he was trying to muster up the strength to speak. Vom didn’t want to give him any more water; so far it hadn’t stayed down for long, and the heaving just seemed to make him weaker.

“Johnny? You awake? It’s me, Vom.”

Johnny looked confused, blinked his eyes several times more, but finally whispered hoarsely, “Vom?”

He smiled. “Damn, boy, if you ain’t a sorry sight for sore eyes.”

Johnny’s eyes darted around the dim cave. He looked again like he was going to speak, but didn’t.

Deeter spoke, though. “You know him? You know Johnny Madrid, for real? That’s really Johnny Madrid, right? You know that for sure?”

The kid reminded him of a fucking bee the way he buzzed sometimes. “Yeah, that’s really Johnny Madrid, and yeah, we go back a ways.”

Johnny’s eyes were closing as Deeter looked from one to the other. “What do you mean go back? You never told me that. You got him for the bounty, didn’t you?”

Nope, he never had told Deeter. Some subjects were still too sore, even after all these years.

***

The nightmare was different. He was pretty sure there didn’t used to be a bloody old man on top of him before. And it seemed worse now, more real. He’d tried his hardest to keep his eyes open. He didn’t want to face it again, and whenever he woke up, there was some kid staring at him all bug-eyed. But he hadn’t been that successful, and his eyes had slipped closed again, and the blood and the terror and the guilt had poured over him again.

This time he’d awakened to a new face, one that seemed familar even though the fellow kept smacking him in the face. Maybe because the fellow kept smacking him in the face. If he had the strength, he’d reach up and grab his hand next time, pull him down close and smack the shit out of him, see how he liked it. Only all he could do was stare at the face. That must be a dream, too.

Vom. That’s what he said. Vom. Vom? He wasn’t sure if he’d asked it out loud. Vom. That didn’t make any sense. Vom had been, what, somewhere, somewhere bad, and Johnny, he’d been, damn, where had he been? Mexico, he thought. Dios, he had a bad headache, way too much of one to work on puzzles.

The kid was saying something now. A bounty? Shit! They were bounty hunters?

***

“No.”

“Listen, the longer you wait the farther away he gets. You want him to get clear to Mexico? He’ll blend right in and we’ll never find him then. I say we put out a bounty right now, plus go ahead and hire some bounty hunters flat out.”

“I don’t trust bounty hunters. Give Val a chance.”

“What do you mean, you don’t trust them?” Ian was pacing the room. “They bring us Johnny, we pay them. No money up front, except maybe a retainer for the ones we actually hire just to go after him.”

“I mean I don’t trust their methods. Even when the bounty isn’t for dead or alive, they’ve been known to incapacitate their prisoners by permanently crippling them so they can’t escape.” Scott stared into his glass. “Val won’t hurt Johnny unless he absolutely has to. And Johnny wouldn’t make him.”

“Are you kidding me? My mother is dead! How much more incapacitated do you want her? You think Johnny absolutely had to hurt her? Hell no!” He swiped his arm across Murdoch’s desk, sending papers flying.

“I’m sorry about your mother! You know I am. But we don’t know what happened out there. We’re not getting bounty hunters!” He emptied his glass and thumped it on the table before stooping to pick up a sheaf of papers.

“Don’t know? I saw him! You saw him at the wedding! He threatened her, killed her!”

“I need to talk to him. And to Murdoch,” Scott said, stacking the fallen papers on the desk top. “And if he did it, and I say if, he’ll have a chance to explain and if he’s really guilty, you can bet he’ll be prosecuted, but we’ll do it legally, how Murdoch would want it.”

“That’s easy for you to say, that’s not your mother in that grave! Maybe if Murdoch had been more discriminating about who he laid with we wouldn’t have had to deal with a damn hotheaded halfbreed, and my mother would still be alive! So don’t lecture me about what Murdoch wants!”

Scott whirled to face Ian, the last paper he’d just picked up crumpled in his grip. When he spoke his voice was quiet but forceful. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just said because I know you’ve been under a lot of stress. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to go check on Murdoch.” He flung the paper to the desk and stomped up the stairs.

After Scott left, Ian flopped in Murdoch’s chair. He didn’t need Scott’s blessing to hire a bounty hunter, or put out a bounty. It was his mother who was killed, not Scott’s. And he intended to do everything he could to punish her killer. He fished through the desk drawers until he got to the locked bottom drawer. It seemed kind of silly to keep the key in the top drawer. He turned it in the lock, smiling as he saw the document his mother had told him about sitting right on top: a booklet with the Pinkerton emblem and the words John Lancer (AKA Johnny Madrid).

***

Val knew he should turn in. It was way too dark to be out here. He couldn’t see any tracks even if there were some. Which there weren’t. Johnny was way too good at hiding his tracks if he wanted to, and he obviously wanted to. Val felt sick about what had happened. It just wasn’t like Johnny. He snorted at that, realizing how stupid it sounded. It just wasn’t like Johnny Madrid, gun for hire, to shoot somebody? Yeah, right. But damn it, it wasn’t! Not a woman, not his old man!

He’d checked out the line shacks, hoping maybe Johnny had just gone back and passed out. No luck. The one he’d been staying at was disturbing, though. It looked like Johnny had had a full fledged explosion in there. And from what he could gather, he’d done that even before he’d shown up at the wedding drunk, or got in the fight with Murdoch, or found out his pup got killed somehow. Apparently that had been what really set him off. Johnny always had been kind of funny when it came to his horses, treating them better than he treated most people. The dog probably fell in the same category. 

The caves were a pretty obvious hideout, assuming Johnny hadn’t kept on riding. Probably too obvious. He’d check a few, then maybe bed down in one himself and start early tomorrow.

***

Snores echoed in the deep cave. Johnny opened his eyes carefully. Bounty hunters.  He rolled onto his stomach and slowly pushed himself up, careful not to scrape his boots—or fall down. He leaned against the wall once he was on his feet, trying to get his bearings. It was a big cavern, but he could see a slightly lighter shade of dark that indicated the entrance. He’d long ago figured out where the horses were just by listening to their snorts and scuffling, just a bit toward the front. He took a couple of steps at a time, partly to listen for the bounty hunters’ snores in between, and partly because he couldn’t manage any more. He’d also already figured out his gun wasn’t in its holster. With luck they hadn’t gone through his saddlebags and discovered the extras he always carried. He stopped when he got to the horses. His was missing! Damn! He’d loved that pinto! He had to put it out of his mind, at least for now, get away, get better, then maybe come back and hunt him down. He chose the handsome palomino in its place, feeling somehow drawn to it, noting with surprise they’d tied his saddlebags to its saddle. Strange for bounty hunters to mount a prisoner on such a fine animal. Probably something wrong with it.

He felt around inside the bag and smiled as he hefted his working gun and placed it in his holster, then checked the horse’s cinch. They’d left it tight, like they was ready to run. If they were really sound sleepers he might be able to lead the horse out without awakening them. If they weren’t, he’d be better off slapping the other two horses into a run, but he’d surely be shot at.  They were still snoring pretty heavily, so he decided to loosen their horses’ cinches and try to sneak out. He wasn’t in the mood for a gunfight. His head was splitting. He had to lean on the palomino as the cave floor swam, finally forcing himself to get walking toward the entrance. Once outside he again leaned heavily on the horse, grasping the stirrup strap. The stars were spinning slowly above him. He was mustering his strength to mount when a movement to his left caught his attention. That, and the voice commanding him to stop. He spun and shot, noting with relief that the shadowy figure fell, but enjoying only a moment of victory before he lost his balance completely and the stars were spinning, really spinning now, spinning out of control.

Chapter 20

Vom’s first thought was that Deeter was shooting, being that he’d been the one on watch. When they banged into each another in their haste to get to the entrance he figured out that was wrong, and when he saw Johnny’s empty blanket he had to admit he was relieved. Johnny shooting in the dark was a lot better than Deeter shooting in the dark. Problem was, Johnny wouldn’t be shooting at shadows. Something real was out there.

They both paused when they reached the cave entrance, Vom cautiously peering out. His heart sank as he saw Johnny, fallen, his horse off to the side. What the hell was the kid thinking? They waited, straining their ears to pick up any clue about the location of the shooter. The strange thing was, he’d only heard the one shot, and it sounded like it had come from right outside the cave. His attention was caught by Johnny’s arms and legs moving. At least he was alive.

“I’m gonna crawl out there, see if I can drag him back. You see anything, you shoot the place up until I’m clear, you hear?” He started out, thought better and added, “Making sure not to shoot me and Madrid, of course. Or the horse.”

By the time he reached Johnny, having crawled between boulders and over sharp rocks on his knees and belly, he was starting to chastise himself for not sticking to his rules better. Hell, for all he knew the shooter had a bead on his head right now. He strained his hearing, although he realized he didn’t have to in order to hear a gunshot. So far all he heard was the yapping of coyotes singing their praise of the night, his own throaty breaths, and Johnny’s boots scraping the gravel as his legs tried to gain a purchase.

“Where you hit, boy?” At least his eyes were open, but he had that same confused look in them.

“Fine...”

Vom couldn’t help but grin. The kid remembered his lessons. Still, this wasn’t helping—any fool could see he was lying. “That don’t exactly work when you can’t stand, Johnny-boy. And it sure as hell don’t work with ol’ Vom.”

“Vom?”

Damn, he hadn’t aged that much, had he? Sure, it’d been a few years, but the boy should still recognize him. “Yeah, it’s me, Vom, gonna take care of your no-good hide just like old times.”

“Vom?” This time he said it different, like he’d recognized an old friend. Vom could see Johnny’s eyes relax, his mouth twitch up. “I ain’t shot, really. Head hurts somethin’ fierce, though.”

At that moment all hell broke loose as a barrage of gunshots filled the air. Johnny and Vom both pulled their guns and fired to the right, where Deeter was firing, even though they didn’t know what they were shooting at.

***

It didn’t take Vom long to decide they needed to get out of there. Damn Deeter and his twitchy finger had done it again. He’d claimed he’d seen something, but when Vom went to look all he found was a little bunny rabbit tenderized to a pulp with bullet holes. At least the kid’s aim was improving—if he’d even been aiming at it. Whatever, anybody in earshot was definitely keyed into their position now. He couldn’t be too mad, though. It was past time to hit the trail, and he’d just as soon ride at night. Besides, Johnny’s shot had apparently been a false alarm, too, since he just looked blank when Vom questioned him about it.

Johnny wasn’t really in condition to do any fancy riding, but he’d managed to sit his horse once Vom helped him up, and Vom was keeping an eye on him in case he started slipping to the side or anything. Johnny still seemed kind of out of it, but the sheen on his skin suggested it was from a fever. He’d get better. His injuries weren’t all that bad, just a couple of conks on the head.

He still couldn’t quite figure what Johnny was doing outside the cave with his horse all ready to go. But then, fever could make a fellow do strange things. He chuckled to himself as he remembered Deeter’s expression when he’d gone to mount and his saddle slid right off on top of him. Fool kid should have checked the cinch; even so, Vom knew they’d left them tight in case they had to make a quick exit. Had to be Johnny. That boy never forgot a trick, not even near passed out with fever.

They kept to the rocky shale that lay strewn across so much of the land. The moon was out, covered intermittently by clouds so it wasn’t difficult to pick their way between the rocky crags and occasional sage. The coyotes had finally started singing again, after a long silence following the gunfire. Vom always liked listening to them, liked the way they kept in touch but at the same time, stayed apart. The night would have been almost peaceful were it not for Deeter’s buzzing. Did he see how fast Madrid drew? Did he see the gun he used? How many men did Vom suppose Madrid had killed? Where did he think he learned to shoot like he did? Why didn’t he say more? Vom had gotten pretty skilled at just grunting in response at the right time, which he’d found out early on was as good as an answer to Deeter on most things. Finally, though, he did figure he’d reply when Deeter kept on asking where they were headed.

“South.”

“Mexico? That where the bounty is?”

Vom looked at him sharply. Johnny may not be at his keenest, and in fact right now his head was flopped forward and he looked to be asleep in the saddle, but no need to take chances. “We’re headin’ south on account of it’s safest. Not so crowded, more places to hole up.”

“But how we gonna get the rest of our money from Clive?”

Vom worked his jaw. He knew he shouldn’t blame Deeter for the mess they were in; after all, it wasn’t him who had accepted the job from Clive in the first place. And if he’d been a better shot, Johnny would be dead. Still, the whole situation was a sore spot with him, and Deeter was like a fly on that sore. Clive might be sickly, but he wasn’t too sickly to pull a trigger now and then, or to hire somebody else to make an example of hired guns who crossed him. He’d been the best there was before the coughing started getting out of hand. “Listen. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get a belly full of lead from Clive. That’s partway why we’re goin’ south. Clive don’t like being lied to, and he don’t like not finishin’ a job. I’m just hopin’ we’re not his next job.”

Deeter looked from Vom to Johnny, then rode up close beside Vom. Leaning over, he whispered, “We could still finish it.”

***

“Scott!”

Scott’s feet were on the floor before his brain could even get oriented. He’d finally agreed to sleep in his room, once Teresa promised to wake him if there was any change. Sam had made a trip to another ranch to check on a sick kid, leaving them to tend to Murdoch without him for the day. Anna had turned out to be a capable nurse, and between the three of them, Murdoch was never alone. Scott ran across the hall, still trying to get his shaky legs working properly, noticing with alarm the sun was already firing through the windows. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so long.

“He’s moaning. I think he might be coming to!” Teresa was pressing a wet cloth to his head. Her hair was disheveled, and the dark circles under her eyes showed the strain she’d been under.

Scott was kneeling by the bed in an instant. Murdoch’s color reminded him of a gray Boston sky. It didn’t seem possible he could be any better. “Murdoch? Murdoch, can you hear me?”

His father’s breathing accelerated, and he started to move his head. Finally his lids cracked open and his eyes seemed to drift around the room. Teresa grasped his hand, almost sobbing as she said, “Oh Murdoch, we were so worried. You just be still now, I’m going to get you some water.”

He licked his lips feebly, and Scott lifted his head up so Teresa could place the sipping cup to his cracked lips. Most of it ran down his chin, but he was trying to swallow. “Not too much, now, or you’ll get sick,” she said. “Wait a few minutes and you can try some more.”

His bleary eyes turned to Scott, and he was obviously trying to form words, finally rasping out, “Wha?”

“You lost a lot of blood,” Scott said, reluctantly adding, “from being shot in the chest.”

Murdoch seemed to be assimilating this information. Scott hoped it might be enough. He didn’t want to break the news about Florence now.

“Flo...John... Oh, God...Why?”

Scott and Teresa exchanged glances. “Shhhhh,” said Teresa. “We’ll talk later. You need to save your strength.”

“Flo?” he said weakly, a look of pleading despair in his eyes that too plainly said what he was asking.

No one had noticed Ian quietly entering the room. “She’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Johnny killed her.”

Chapter 21

They’d finally rested beside a river. Near the end Johnny had used all his concentration just to hang on to the saddle horn. Now that he was in the shade, leaning against a tree, he had time to think on his situation more.

First off, he was not in Mexico. That was very clear.  There was too much green, not just here, around the river, but even in the rocky areas they’d been in. How the hell’d he get here?

He could tell from the way his sweat still reeked of alcohol, not to mention the pounding in his head and the taste in his mouth, that he’d been drinking heavy, but that didn’t explain ending up way north of where he last remembered being. Sure, he’d come to his senses wondering how he got places before after a heavy bout, but it was usually in some whore’s room, within staggering distance of where he started. Somehow he’d gotten on a horse, ridden maybe hundreds of miles, and didn’t remember a damn thing about it. Could he have done that drunk?

Then there was Vom. He’d spent almost two years of his life with him. But not recently. Vom had gone to prison and left Johnny on his own, long time back.  But here he was, riding along like the old days, like he didn’t hold what happened against him. Had a different horse, of course, a gray. Then there was this other fellow, Deeter he called him. He didn’t recollect him from nowhere.

Hell, he had a couple of bumps on his head he didn’t even remember getting. Course, that could have happened when he was drunk, but still, a thing like getting a bullet graze to your scalp, that’s a thing a fellow ought to recall, drunk or not.

He squinched his eyes together and tried to figure out the last thing he remembered. Mexico. He was damn sure he’d been in Mexico. He remembered fighting. Of course, that didn’t narrow it down much. He’d been fighting his whole life. But no, it was a big fight, not your regular range war. And—oh shit, he’d been captured. A firing squad! Yes, he’d been waiting his turn in front of a firing squad. Then... what? He dug through his mind, clawing frantically at the mud that was his memory, but that was it. He was there. And now he was here.

A firing squad. Was this what it was like to be dead? Riding along with Vom through eternity? That would mean Vom was dead, too.

Vom knelt beside him and handed him some jerky. “You doin’ alright?”

He wanted to scream hell no! He didn’t know where he was or how he got here or what the hell happened to him and maybe he was dead and this was hell and he thought he was losing his fucking mind! “Yeah, Vom, doin’ fine.”

“Well, we gonna take us a little siesta, ’bout an hour or so, let the horses rest up. Better try to get some shut-eye. You look like a cold turd, boy.”

Johnny grinned feebly. Vom always could see through him. Dead or not. But there was no way he could let on even to Vom he didn’t know what the hell was going on. Vom had taught him that himself. First time he’d ever whined about a bullet graze, Vom had promptly punched him right on it. Told him that’s what happened when you showed your weakness. 

He tried a tentative bite of jerky. He still felt kind of queasy, but figured you probably didn’t eat in hell, so he better try eating. Vom settled back and nudged his hat over his face. The kid Deeter was throwing rocks in the water, the plop, plunk interrupting the shallow river’s soothing hum. Johnny leaned back and closed his eyes, but as soon as he did he was overcome by apprehension. His visions had been bad, real bad, bad enough he didn’t want to visit them again. Then again, maybe he was in a bad dream now, and all he had to do was wake up.

“So Johnny,” Vom mumbled, “see you finally got around to sending your old man to meet his maker.” 

***

The sun was high overhead, throwing stubby shadows from the people of Green River as they went about their business, which mostly consisted of talking about the awful thing at the Lancer ranch. A good many shook their heads and lamented how they’d always known Murdoch taking that wild son of his in was a big mistake. Now look where it’d gotten him. Murdoch’s beautiful bride was in the ground and rumor had it he wasn’t far behind.

A few stopped talking when the riderless horse ambled down the main street. It detoured to take a drink from the closest trough before jumping away and trotting determinedly on to the stable when somebody tried to catch it. They all knew such a sight was never good news, and a few men trotted after the animal until it reached its stall. It wasn’t long after that they were mustering the town’s men together. One man galloped out of town toward the Lancer ranch. After all, it was their situation that started all this.

***

Murdoch had squeezed his eyes closed and shakily told them all to leave him alone. They’d peeked in on him several times since but he just lay there with one hand over his eyes. Scott thought he was choking once, and was ready to run in, when Teresa put her hand on his wrist and shook her head. That was when he realized he was more likely silently sobbing.

Teresa went in once to try to get him to drink some laudanum, but he waved her away. Scott was almost grateful that the man was so weak he finally slipped off on his own. He just couldn’t believe Ian had told him the news so bluntly.

Ian had gone downstairs to the great room, and Scott decided to talk to him. He poured them both drinks, shoving Ian’s next to him. Somehow it rankled him that Ian was sitting at his father’s desk, in his father’s chair, although he seemed hard at work on some sort of business.

“Don’t ever do that again. It’s not your place to break bad news to Murdoch,” he said, sitting on the sofa.

Ian met his gaze. “Then whose job was it? Was it your mother who was killed?  Was it I who sired her killer? Besides, he was there when it happened. He already knew.”

“We don’t know what he saw.”

“You heard him say it. He knows exactly what happened.” He straightened his papers and stood, walking to Scott. “Look, I’ve been working on this. A list of all Johnny’s known haunts and associates. Chances are he’ll head south to some of them, maybe join up with some old buddies. We can give this to the bounty hunters.”

“What?” Scott snatched the paper. “I thought we agreed there would be no bounty hunters!”

“Nope. I never said that. Listen, you may not give a damn about justice, but I sure as hell do, and I’m not letting that killer cur get away with this! I’ll hunt him down myself if I have to!”

Scott was busy scanning the list. “Where’d you get this information?”

“From this.” Ian tossed a booklet at him. The Pinkerton report. Scott knew it existed, but he’d never actually seen it. “You might want to read this, if you haven’t already. I can’t believe Murdoch allowed him in this house.”

Scott felt the heat rising to his face. “Where did you get this? This is personal information!”

Ian stood, leaning forward over the desk. “I don’t care what it is as long as it helps wrap a rope around a killer’s neck! Now are you going to pussyfoot around and worry about who read what, or are you going to get some gumption and help me?” He shook his head and pointed his finger at Scott. “You know, I can’t decide if you’re just so lily-livered you’re afraid of catching him, or if you just don’t give a damn about your own father! Who knows, maybe you’re thanking Johnny, figuring to cash in on your inheritance sooner!”

Scott leaped half over the desk, smashing his fist into Ian’s jaw and sending Ian flopping back into the chair. “You don’t know a damn thing about what you’re talking about! He’s my brother, and that’s my father, and I’ll be the one who decides what’s going to be done, not you, and I say let Val handle it!”

Ian twisted his head back and forth while rubbing his jaw. “Seems I hit a nerve.”

Scott shook his hand out, appalled at his loss of control. “Look, I, um, I’m sorry...”

“Apology accepted, brother.” He put his hand forward to stop Scott from speaking. “Yes, Murdoch and my mother told me all about my parentage. And while I refuse to claim Johnny as my brother, Murdoch’s my father, and I have just as much say in this, and in Lancer, as you do.”

Scott was too stunned to speak, although he didn’t know why he was so surprised. Of course they’d told him.

“Personally, I wish the cursed report didn’t exist. My mother, dear trusting soul that she was, told me she told Johnny she knew all about his past. That she could forgive him, but, of course, that he had to prove himself trustworthy around Anna, for one.” Ian sighed and shook his head, his hand still cupping his jaw. “I think that’s why he killed her, he didn’t want anyone to know his secret past.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” Scott said icily. But he felt a cold lump in his gut. Johnny had done his best to keep his past quiet, fearing it would catch up to him. The way he hadn’t trusted Flo, it would have been one more reason to wish her...well, gone, one way or the other.

“Is that why she said we weren’t to tell anybody?” Ian raised one brow to show he clearly did not believe Scott’s assertion. “Regardless, even though my newfound brothers did not see fit to give me my share of the ranch, my father did make provision for me through my mother, so I am a part owner now. That’s not what’s important to me, though. What’s important is that that’s my mother lying in her grave, and my father lying in that bed, and God help me, I plan to set things right!”

Scott was trying to imagine what Murdoch could have done. It didn’t matter. “We’re leaving it to Val,” he said more forcefully. He was going to say more, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

When he answered it, a man from town burst in, out of breath. “Scott, we figured you should know. Val’s horse came into town. Val wasn’t on him. We got a search party up, but I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

Chapter 22

It was a good thing Vom’s hat was over his eyes when he told Johnny about his old man, or Vom more than likely would have seen right through the impassive mask Johnny tried to plaster on his face, right through to the explosions the news set off in his head. So he’d finally done it. He couldn’t count how many nights the only thing that had kept him going was his pure hatred for the man who had spawned him, then kicked him and his mama out in favor of some gringa witch. The gringa story—he paused for a second, unsure of when he’d become convinced that particular tale was true. No matter, gringa or not, he’d wanted to live just to spite the old bastard, just so one day he could go there, spit in his face, and burrow his bullets deep into him. Maybe a gut shot, yes, so he could leave the bastard to die, let him see how it felt to be abandoned. Let his gringa see what it felt like to lose someone you loved.

Damn, he’d finally done it, and he’d missed it! Or might as well have; he couldn’t remember a damn thing about it.

Strange, though, because he hadn’t really been thinking so much of that lately. Sure, it was still on his list, but that was killing for free, and as Vom had always hammered into him, you took care of business before pleasure. He’d always sort of figured he’d get around to it, but it just hadn’t seemed so pressing of late. Guess he’d found some spare time.

Funny thing, it just wasn’t filling him with the sense of triumph he’d always thought it would, and he wasn’t sure it was just because he couldn’t remember it. He had that same queasy puke-in-your-mouth feeling he used to get after his first gunfights, when he’d dwelled too much on the man’s death-rattle breaths, or the blood slowly spreading on his shirt, or even the look of eternally dead surprise. He rubbed his face, leaving his head buried in his hands. No mystery to that; he’d been puking something awful of late. Pretty much anything would make him feel queasy now.

He wondered what his old man had said when Johnny had identified himself. Wondered if he begged for his life, or for forgiveness. Damn, he’d missed the whole show! And it sure wasn’t like it was something he could do over. He’d have to figure out if there was some way Vom could fill him in on the details, some way he could do it without letting on he didn’t recall if Vom was there or not. Dios, there was that sick-in-his-gut feeling again. He pulled his hands from his face, searching them for traces, rubbing them against each other, wiping them on his pants, over and over. 

***

Scott hadn’t thought it was possible for Murdoch to look worse than he’d looked when he was unconscious, but now that he was half awake sometimes, he somehow looked even closer to death. It was his eyes, he guessed. Maybe because they’d been closed before so he just couldn’t see how weak his father’s usually intense gaze was. Or maybe he really was closer to death, allowing himself to be sucked downward into a whirlpool of hopelessness without trying to swim out. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak, just stared at the ceiling in the darkened room. Teresa had tried to open the curtains and let some cheer into the room, but he had turned away from the light, just as he did anything that might have made things better.

They’d called in Sam, but he said there wasn’t much he could do but put in a feeding tube. As weak as Murdoch was, they could probably hold him down and do it, but somehow Scott thought the indignity would do more harm than the food would do good. Besides, he’d just pull it out once they let go his hands. And that wasn’t really his problem. Nor was it the fever that still burned at him. That was the only fire he had left. It was as though he’d lost that inner spark that usually made him shine when obstacles darkened his path. Like he was lost in the shadows of sorrow and wasn’t even looking for the light.

Scott had tried to ask him what happened, but it had earned him only Teresa’s glares and Murdoch’s barely whispered statement that he’d lost his dear Flo. Anna had brought him a picture of Florence, which he looked at when he wasn’t staring at the ceiling. 

Now Scott sat in Val’s room. He’d had about all he could take of Murdoch’s room. The air was thick with anguish, and after awhile he just felt like he couldn’t breathe when he sat there, like he was inhaling tears. Teresa and Anna weren’t helping. Half the time they were in there they were crying. They were in there now.

After a day of looking, the search party had found Val hobbling around the cave area, a bullet wound through his inner thigh. Since Lancer was between the caves and town, and since Sam was spending time at Lancer anyway, they brought him to the ranch. No, he hadn’t seen who shot him.

Val was sleeping, having been dosed with laudanum much earlier. Scott was nodding off, one leg sprawled across the arm of the chair, when he heard a quiet tapping on the door and Jelly walked cautiously in.

The man looked curiously at Val before turning to Scott and starting to talk rapidly. “Scott, thought you might wanta know, but Ian, he took off outta here like he was dynamite and his nag’s tail was a lit fuse!”

Scott clambered to his feet, hiding his irritation. Why couldn’t the man ever just get to the point? “Did he say where he was going?”

“Well, nobody ever tells me anything, so why should he be any different? No, no need to tell Jelly where you’re goin…”

“What did he have with him?”

“Well, not that I’m the nosy type, but I did happen to notice he was stuffing his saddlebags with some kind of little book and some papers.”

“Damn!” It was no mystery what he was up to, especially since it was obvious Val was out of commission. “Jelly, go to town and see if you can find out what he’s doing.”

“Sure, got nothing else better to do with my time than go traipsing around the countryside spying on folk.”

“Thanks, Jelly.” But he’d already left, anxious, Scott knew, to get started on anything to be helpful.  He only wished he could go in his place, but he just couldn’t leave Murdoch, not with him in the condition he was in. Even if he did catch up with Ian, he wasn’t sure how he could legally, or even justifiably, stop him from his plan. Without Val on the trail, it only left townsfolk, and they weren’t about to face off against Johnny. True, if he rode to another town, many of them didn’t know he was Johnny Madrid, but Scott couldn’t exactly ask them to bring him in and leave out that little fact. He plopped back in his chair, leaning forward to study Val, only then noticing the man’s eyes staring back at him.

“You’re at Lancer,” Scott said, sensing his unspoken question.

“Johnny...”

“Take it easy.” He poured some water for him and helped his head up so he could drink. “Nobody’s seen him.”

He took a long sip before wearily wiping his mouth. “Saw him,” he slurred.

Scott leaned forward. “Did you say you saw him? Where?”

“Caves.” He focused his unsteady eyes on Scott. “Keep secret? Shot me. Damn Johnny shot me.”

Chapter 23

Clive had heard just about all he needed. Vom had lied to him. He hadn’t killed the target. The whole town was abuzz with talk of Johnny Lancer, apparently alive and well, if on the run. Yet Vom had sauntered right into his room that night, lied right to his face, and stuck his hand out for payment for a job not done. That wasn’t the way Clive did business, and he’d make damn sure Vom wouldn’t being doing business like that in the future.

He gulped down the rest of his whiskey, letting the glass thump on to the table. He should be relaxing in San Francisco now, enjoying his regular haunts. Instead he was still in this mud hut town, drinking fresh whiskey and winning stingy pots. And listening. Lots of peculiar rumors going around, but that was to be expected when something like this happened in a town like this. Most of them you had to discount. The way they talked, Johnny Lancer wasn’t just some rancher’s spoiled son, but according to some overheard whispers, was in fact a ruthless gunslinger. Clive couldn’t help but chuckle at that bit of hyperbole. The rich kid had probably fancied himself a fast draw, won a shooting contest or two, maybe even stirred up some trouble. Trouble enough so somebody wanted him dead.

The thing with Murdoch Lancer and his new bride was a more curious development, one he didn’t quite understand. He had to wonder if Vom and that idiot boy he had hanging onto him had anything to do with it. It was definitely an unwelcome complication. Johnny Lancer had been spooked, apparently scared underground. That was going to make ferreting him out a headache. And killing extras just wasn’t clean work. Any moron could do that. Clive was a professional, and when people hired him, they expected a certain amount of professionalism, which to his way of thinking, meant killing the target clean, leaving no extra victims and no witnesses. The idiot twins had managed to do both, and to let the target get away in the bargain.

That was the problem these days. If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. He’d done his share of hired killings, hell, he’d been one of the busiest in his prime, before the coughing fits slowed him down. Now he was at the stage in his life when he felt he could pick and choose which jobs deserved his personal attention. This one had just moved into that category. His business depended on delivering what he promised, and he’d promised Johnny Lancer with a bullet in his brain. 

It was time to start doing something. He rose slowly, adjusted his jacket, his hat, and his gun belt before pushing through the doors to the unnaturally bright day outside. Only when his eyes had ceased being dazzled did he notice a group of men staring at a poster he hadn’t seen before. He pushed his way to it, read it once, and again, before walking away trying to make sense of this new information, his hand absently caressing his gun.

***

It had been Johnny’s idea to ride in the middle of the river, knowing the waterway split only half a mile upstream and figuring out which fork they took would slow down any trackers. The curious thing was, he didn’t know how he knew about the split. How could he, when he didn’t even know what country he was in?  Oh wait, he did know. Old man Lancer had lived in California. He must be there.

Vom had ridden ahead along the right fork so he could lay a false trail from it a ways down. He hadn’t actually said who was trailing them, or why, but Vom was generally pretty careful about such things. Johnny wondered how long he’d been out of prison.

Meanwhile Johnny had taken the left fork. He was feeling better, actually enjoying the sound of splashing and the sight of water rushing against his horse’s legs as he stepped against the current. It was the sort of day and place that made you wish you were alone on the trail. The sky was that kind of blue you’d see—well, you’d only see in the sky on a day like today. There was plenty of green squeezing out of the ground all over and the river was running clear and friendly, dancing over the rocks and sparkling in the sunlight. Only he wasn’t alone. The kid Deeter was riding alongside him. Johnny could see him staring at him, his gaze tracing down his arm to linger on his gun hand, and then settling on his gun. It was the sign of someone who hadn’t necessarily known him long, but knew who he was. If he could get him to talk, the kid might be a good source of information.

He figured he’d better start digging at him before Vom caught up. Vom could see right through him if he started asking questions he oughta know the answers to. The problem was, he didn’t know which questions those were. Except, of course, where the hell was he and how had he gotten here and what the fuck was going on and was he losing his goddamn mind?

Instead he asked, “Something I can help you with?” He fitted the kid with a cold gaze.

The kid actually jumped in his saddle. Heck, he looked so rattled for a second Johnny was worried he was going to go for his gun, assuming he could figure out which side it was on. Either that, or fall in the river. “Um, no, I mean, nothing, Mr. Madrid.”

Mr. Madrid. Another sign the kid didn’t know him. Johnny waited a second, then said, “Folks who don’t think I’m aimin’ to shoot ‘em generally call me Johnny,” as he picked some burrs out of his palomino’s mane. It only took a few seconds for the invitation to work.

“You bet, Mr., I mean, Johnny! Hey, that horse of yours sure is a beaut!” So the palomino was his. Things were looking up, because the kid was right about one thing: he really was a beaut. He begrudgingly admitted he was a better horse than the pinto he remembered owning, but damn, he’d loved that horse, and he still planned to find him if he could. It’d be nice to keep this one, too, though. He continued to neaten its flaxen mane, running his fingers through it, hoping the kid was a talker.

“How much he run ya? Or’d ya steal him, maybe from some dead guy? Or, I know, you got him as payment for a job, right?”

Johnny nodded slightly. “Somethin’ like that.” Hell, he was wondering how he’d ever afforded such a horse, himself. Either one of the kid’s choices sounded like a good possibility.

“Me and Vom, we hire out, too. I do most of the shooting.”

Johnny raised his brow. “That so, huh? You must be pretty good, then.” The kid was telling him stuff you’d say to someone who didn’t know you, so Johnny must have recently joined up with them.

“I reckon I am. You want a see?” The kid suddenly drew his gun and made as though to fire at a tree.

“No!” A shot would have sent Vom galloping back, ruining all his work.

“Aw, I wasn’t going to shoot, just funning with it!” Deeter twirled the shiny pistol deftly and plunged it back into his holster, all the while smiling broadly at Johnny.

“Yep, that wasn’t bad, not bad at all.” And it wasn’t, either. Maybe that was why Vom kept the kid around, because so far Johnny couldn’t figure it out. His chattering was sure making his headache come back.

“You’re pretty fast, too. I seen it, when you was after that old man and that lady. Only, how come you did it the hard way like that?”

Johnny tried to look calm, but his gut was starting to twist. And what was this about a lady? “Like what?”

“You know, jumpin’ off your horse and chokin’ on the lady first. Somebody pay you extra to do that?”

Johnny sucked his breath in hard, even though he tried not to. Dios! What the hell had he done? Killing his old man was one thing, but he’d never killed a woman before, not for pay or for pleasure. And choking, that just wasn’t his style. The splashing behind him announced Vom’s return just as he was trying to figure out how to ask if the woman had lived. Dios, if he’d killed a woman—no wonder he kept feeling so queasy.

He started to take a swig from his canteen but realized that wouldn’t settle his stomach, so he reached back and fumbled through his saddlebags, alarm rushing through him as he felt the hollow weight of his flask.

Chapter 24

It was some time during that night that Murdoch started to slip away. Teresa said Anna had been with him earlier, and hadn’t reported anything amiss when Teresa came to spell her around midnight. Teresa just assumed he was finally sleeping well, so she said she’d tiptoed around, kept the lanterns down low, and decided not to wake him for his scheduled broth. It wasn’t until he started to thrash and moan that she realized he was delirious with fever, and by then, all her efforts to cool him with wet cloths were like spitting on coal in a bucket. It helped, but not much.

As soon as Teresa shouted for him, her voice quavering from across the hall, he knew something was very wrong. He’d jumped from bed, barely touched Murdoch’s forehead, and rushed to get some hands to help him carry Murdoch outside. He sent another hand to town for Sam. 

He ran back up the stairs three at a time and started stripping Murdoch’s bedclothes from him. When he was through he poured the pitcher of drinking water right over him. As soon as the men rushed in he directed them to grab Murdoch’s feet, and they hastily carried the feverish man down the stairs and outside, where they immersed him in the nearest water trough. It wasn’t pretty, but it was quick. As the cool water gradually wicked the heat away, he seemed less flushed and even started to shiver a bit. At that point they carried him back up to his bed. Scott had a washtub brought up and filled in case they had to cool him again.

When Sam showed up and examined him he looked grim. The wound had turned ugly. He opened it back up, a putrid flow of greenish pus oozing from it. Murdoch scarcely flinched when he cleaned it out with carbolic acid. Sam went ahead and put in a feeding tube just so they could get some willow bark tea down him. Murdoch hadn’t protested nearly enough about that, either.

Now Scott just sat there, numbly staring at his father, watching his chest rise and fall, listening to his labored breaths. Scott prided himself on being decisive, on weighing the pros and cons of any situation, and taking quick action. But right now he felt paralyzed. Jelly had come back with his report late last night. Ian had really done it. He’d made posters up offering $1000 for the capture of Johnny Lancer, AKA Johnny Madrid, wanted for the crime of murder of a woman. He’d paid the stage driver and several other men to post them in adjoining towns. Word was he’d tried to find some bounty hunters to hire, but as far as anyone knew, he hadn’t had any luck. Last seen, he’d ridden south. But not before walking up to Jelly, who was spying from behind a wagon, and telling him to tell Scott he’d gone hunting on his own, and when Scott grew balls, he was welcome to come join him. Jelly had looked kind of embarrassed when he relayed the latter, assuring Scott he knew Scott had heavier concerns right here at home.

And that was the problem. How could he leave Murdoch like this?  What if his father didn’t pull through? What if he asked for his son in his time of death? Scott rubbed his face in his hands as though he could massage his brain into thinking of a solution. It didn’t work. If he left now, Murdoch would have no son left to reach out to. The man’s fevered shouts of ‘Johnny’ and ‘No!’ when Scott had been stripping his bed clothes had been enough to convince him he wouldn’t be asking for Johnny to hold his hand in his dark hour. At least Ian wouldn’t be here for him, either. Scott wasn’t sure why that gave him some satisfaction.

The problem was, if Ian caught up with Johnny, chances are Ian wouldn’t be anywhere—except in the ground. And that didn’t give him any satisfaction at all. His father apparently loved Ian, and Murdoch had already suffered enough loss at Johnny’s hand. When they’d first come to the ranch, Scott and Johnny had fought in front of Teresa, and she’d shamed them both. “Brother against brother—fighting!” she’d admonished, and made it sound like the most despicable thing on earth. Yet now, it would be Ian and Johnny fighting, and they’d be using guns, not fists.

And what if bounty hunters caught up with Johnny instead? Ian would be safe, but Johnny—well, the outcome of that would depend on numbers, more than likely. Even Johnny couldn’t hold off a well-placed group of sharpshooters. He’d probably take out a few, but the bounty hunters would win in the end, and they’d be certain to take out their losses on his brother.

That was the problem. Johnny was still his brother. He didn’t want him dragged, crippled, through the street, a rabid dog on display for the town’s entertainment. Murdoch stirred and moaned, his breaths rasping as he feebly called out Flo’s name. The fury rose within Scott as the immensity of what Johnny had done once again struck him. He’d shot Val, killed their father’s wife, possibly killed their father, and killed the brotherhood Scott had held so sacred. Damn him, damn him! He hated him for what he’d done, and damn it, he wanted to see him brought back to face his brother, his family—and the law. He rubbed his eyes again as he admitted what he’d not wanted to before. He wanted Johnny Madrid brought back. He wanted him punished.  

***

Clive rolled a cigarette as he studied the ground, finally dismounting to get a better look. He had to grin. Sneaky bastards. Just not sneaky enough. They laid traps for all levels of trackers. Easy false trails so even beginners could think they’d outwitted their quarry, until they ended in dead ends. Clive didn’t fall for those, or for the ones aimed at mid-level trackers. It was the ones like this one that were aimed at the likes of him, and he’d ended up backtracking enough to keep him on his toes.

He wondered what the hell Vom was trying to pull. There were clearly three riders: Vom, his idiot boy—and who? Johnny so-called Lancer? He pulled himself back on his horse, waited for the damn coughing to stop, then lit the cigarette and turned his mount down the rocky path that fell to the left. No. Johnny fucking Madrid. Somebody was running a con, and he aimed to find out who. Nobody in their right mind would take a job on Johnny Madrid for $500. Actually, weren’t too many would take a job on him for any amount of money.  Didn’t matter how much it was if you was lying there bleeding out. Lucky thing Clive wasn’t much of a bleeder.

No, this had to be something Vom and Madrid had cooked up between them. But he just didn’t get what they were up to, unless it was to get the killing money from him. But Madrid could do better than that on his own. Unless maybe something was wrong with him, maybe his gun hand wasn’t working so good anymore. Might make sense. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard any news of Madrid killing anyone in months. So maybe he got crippled up and went tail-tuckin’ it back to ol’ Vom for protection. Yeah, Clive remembered the kid when he clung to Vom like a flea on a dog. He was just surprised Vom took him back, after what Madrid had done. The whole thing was most perplexing.

And then there was this Lancer thing. Johnny Lancer? Murdoch Lancer was the rancher who’d been shot. And there was a dead woman. He squeezed his brain for a while ruminating on that, then gave up. Some things you didn’t need to know. Some things just worked out for the best, and you just didn’t sit around puzzling about them. He’d taken a $500 job to kill somebody, and now there was a poster out making it a $1000 job. With luck, he could collect twice. And regardless, Vom and whoever else involved was going to be damn sorry they thought they could snooker Clive Edmund.

Chapter 25

The funny thing was, the kid actually looked surprised when Vom sucker punched him. Johnny’d seen it coming just as soon as Deeter came back from town and admitted he’d lost most of their money playing poker. Vom had sent him there to pick up some whiskey and other much-needed supplies. It shouldn’t have taken long, but it did. By the time he returned, Vom had been ready to ride in after him. At least he’d bought a couple of bottles before he lost the rest of the money. Johnny sat back against a tree, wrestled the cork out of a whiskey, and waited for the entertainment.

Vom didn’t even look upset when the kid explained how he’d spied some surefire suckers at the poker table, and how he was winning all the hands at first, but then just had a run of really bad luck. Could have happened to anyone, and after all, he’d just been trying to improve on their financial situation. Which wouldn’t have been necessary if Vom had collected the rest of their money. That was when the punches came, first to his gut, then to his gun arm, then assorted places too fast for the kid to hardly protect himself. Vom was good at that. He could look calm as a mud puddle one second, then the next, he was on you like a mudslide. And when it came to whupping up on somebody, he knew how to put a hurt on you so you wished you’d die, but you’d like as not be walking around within the hour.

Vom left Deeter curled in a ball, whimpering, and joined Johnny under the tree. Johnny couldn’t help but tense. You never knew when you’d done something to deserve a Vom whuppin’—only this time he knew he had. He just wasn’t sure if Vom knew.

“Don’t make ’em like they used to, eh, Johnny-boy?” He gestured for the bottle and took a swig, finishing with a long sigh.

“That really all the money?”

Vom took another drink, wiped his mouth and handed the bottle back. “Yep. Damn fool kid.” He looked at Johnny. “You got any?”

Johnny shook his head. He’d already been through his saddlebags, his pockets, and his boots. Whatever he’d been doing, he hadn’t been doing it very well.

“Any jobs comin’ up?”

He tried to concentrate, but damned if he could think of anything he’d had planned. Last job he could recall was trying to escape from a Mexican prison, dammit! For a second he heard a voice offering a thousand dollars for an hour of his time, then it was gone. Yeah, right. Whiskey was working. He’d be lucky to get a dollar for a day. He took another drink, watching curiously as Deeter pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Kid looked like he was going to puke. “No, ain’t got nothing.”

“Shit.” He picked up a stick and started drawing lines in the sand. “I heard there’s a range war over around Hardpan, figure ’bout two, three days west. Might still be hiring. Ain’t my first choice, but, hell, starvin’ ain’t either. You got other plans?”

Not a plan in this whole fucking mixed-up world of his. Except maybe to see the bottom of this bottle, pass out, and wake up in front of that firing squad. At least there, he knew where he stood.

***

The land here was undulating, Johnny thought, looking at the rolling hills covered by long, swaying golden grass. Undulating? What kind of a highfalutin word was that? He couldn’t remember ever having heard it, much less used it, in his life, yet here it had popped into his head like a gussied-up whore expecting a dollar just for showing up and parading around. And he even knew what it meant.

It wasn’t the first weird thought that had just made itself at home in his mind over the past couple of days they’d been riding toward Hardpan. More than once they’d come across streams choked with brush and he’d calculated how long it would take a couple of men to clear it, or a nice big area and he’d volunteered how it was prime grazing, or a gully that for some reason led him to cursing at how stupid cattle were. It wasn’t like nobody knew these things; it’s just he’d never given a damn. But not to worry. All simply part of the new, crazy-out-of-his-head Johnny Madrid.

As it did so often when life swirled around him in a confused storm, his hand went to his hip. Just feeling his gun, faithfully by his side, always seemed to bring sense to his world. It was the one thing you could always rely on, the one friend that never lied.

“Wanta do some shooting?”  It was the stupid kid. He’d been itching to get Johnny into some kind of a shooting match. Must have noticed his hand on his gun.

“Nope.” Thing was, Johnny just wasn’t sure how fast he was right now. Not with all the other strange shit going on. And he sure wasn’t going to find out with some trigger-happy kid looking on. Deeter hadn’t been shy about showing off his draw. The kid wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

“Wanta race?”

“Nope.” Although he had little doubt this palomino of his could run like a hurricane. That was another thing. He’d never taken to a horse like he had to this one. Barely had to tell him what to do, and it was almost like he was reading his mind and just doing it. Not that he was what you might call complacent. The beast could be downright mulish when it had the notion. It’s just that Johnny always seemed to sense his shenanigans before they came. Shenanigans? What the hell kind of word was that?  Shit, he really was losing his mind.

He knew someone once, fellow back on the border, started complaining of headaches, then just started acting peculiar-like. Kept holding his head and screaming. Acted like he didn’t recognize anyone near the end, right before he tried to eat sand. Johnny reached up to touch his head. It still pounded regular. And he was starting to wonder if it was just from them bumps. The cuts had pretty much scabbed over, and the knots had gone down considerable. Headache was still there. This fellow he knew, his head hurt, and he didn’t have a mark on him. Least ways, not ’til he took his own gun and shot hisself through the eyeball. Damn. He just hoped if that was the way he was heading, he’d shoot hisself a lot sooner than that.

He’d been able to fish a fair amount of information out of Deeter, and some from Vom, too. He hadn’t been riding with them, that much was clear. As far as he knew, Vom hadn’t seen him since Vom got out of prison. That whole thing was still a little dicey, and since Vom hadn’t seen fit to talk about it, Johnny figured maybe he wouldn’t either. Vom and Deeter had been together about six months. Deeter was from Kansas, had a mother and a father and a farm and a future and somehow didn’t think that was good enough for him. He really was an idiot. Vom and Deeter had been working odd hire-outs. Funny thing, they’d both gotten real quiet when it came to the subject of what job they’d been working around Morro Coyo. Vom had just said it was something that hadn’t worked out, but the way he said it didn’t feel right to Johnny. But hell, what did?

He still didn’t have a clear idea of how his head had ended up looking—and feeling—like it’d been under an avalanche, although he was pretty sure it had to do with killing his father. Guess the old coot must have put up a fight. Damn, he’d give anything to remember it! All his life, he’d had no greater goal, and now he’d done it and couldn’t remember it. The whole thing left him feeling empty inside, like maybe he had nothing left to aim for.

The part that left him barely able to speak, though, was this: Vom happened to mention it was September. That didn’t make any sense, because Johnny remembered knowing he was going to die on April 1. He remembered that date because he’d been sitting in his cell, thinking how if he had a tombstone, which he wouldn’t, and if he knew what day he was born on, which he didn’t, that both of those dates would go on it. But if he’d died back in April, what the hell was he doing walking around here in September?

He couldn’t wait to get to Hardpan. Nothing like a good range war to clear your head, get your mind focused like it ought to be. His hand crept toward his gun.

Chapter 26

Deeter screwed up their entrance to Hardpan, as far as Johnny was concerned. He’d done everything short of shooting his guns off to attract attention. Even got his horse to rear a couple of times. So much for subtlety. Subtlety? Shit. Another one of them words. The whole snotty sentence echoed around in his head like he’d heard it some place before, more than once. ‘So much for subtlety.’ He shook it out of his thoughts. Anyway, Johnny preferred to slide into a town, get a feel for it. Ride in so dead easy it sucked the calm right out of folk.

Not that it mattered much here. The streets were unnatural quiet for this time of evening. A couple of shopkeepers poked their faces to their windowsills, a drunk weaved down a side street, and a group of women scurried out of one shop and into another. Only the saloon seemed alive, with voices jumbling out into the street from it. The sort of town you could make some money in, if you were in Johnny’s line of work.

That was good, because they sure needed this job. They’d managed to shoot a few skinny rabbits on the way here, but not enough to keep them all from sucking real hard on the bones and thinking about them while they rode. Usually, he’d stop in the saloon, wet down his thirst, find out what he could. But they couldn’t exactly go plopping down at a table and have to admit they couldn’t afford a beer between them. That just wasn’t good for the image.

Hell, they couldn’t even leave their horses at the livery. Johnny gave Deeter a disgusted glance, not for the first time. The palomino had earned a good rub down and some oats. Weren’t right to treat a good horse this way. He knew Vom felt the same about his gray, always told him you take care of your horse and your gun first. But it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d ridden into a town dead broke. Just hitch the horse and stall a bit. Something was bound to happen. ’Specially if you helped it along.

They dismounted and stretched, the palomino taking the opportunity to shove him with his muzzle while Johnny’s back was turned, sending him scrambling to regain his balance. Damn horse was as bad for his image as Deeter! He glared at the beast before turning toward the general store.

He was distracted, though, by curses flying from the meat market next door as a dog yelped and slunk into the street, followed by an irate shopkeeper brandishing a broom. The dog took refuge under the shade of a wagon. His haunches poked up from his scruffy manure-colored coat, and Johnny found himself staring at the hungry-looking animal until Vom prodded him impatiently.

Once in the general store, the shopkeeper scurried out from behind the counter to follow them nervously about, quickly volunteering that he was just closing up. None of them paid him any nevermind, just kept picking up stuff and looking it over while the man hovered around them. Johnny tried to avoid looking at anything edible; drooling wouldn’t help them make their point. Deeter, though, was hanging over the candy bin. Johnny noticed Vom nudge him away and toward the ammunition. Johnny found some knives to examine, holding a particularly fierce looking one up so the light rays filtering in through the window glinted off its blade. It really was a beauty, small enough to stick in a boot, big enough to stick in a body. He already had two knives, but you could never have too many. Maybe if they made some money he’d come back for it.

“We be on our way, once we get directions,” Vom was saying. But the shopkeeper never had a chance to reply before the door opened and four men, all with guns tied low, clomped into the store. The short one stood by the door, while the other three did about as good a job of pretending to shop as Johnny and his group had done. The largest of them, a man with a beard about as full as a cactus, and almost as well groomed, sidled up next to Deeter and pushed him away from the ammunition. Deeter, miraculously, moved aside. So the man shoved him out of the way again. This time Deeter shoved back, snarling, “Watch it, asshole!”

The only sound in the place was the shopkeeper running behind his counter. Vom walked quietly to Deeter’s side and tried to pull him away, but the stupid kid’s balls were bigger than his brain. He wouldn’t budge.

“You got about three seconds to crawl out of here, boy,” the big man was saying, “or I’m gonna put a bullet where your mouth is, see how much lip it’ll be doing.”

“The boy didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Vom said, still pushing on Deeter. Johnny knew they were getting themselves in a fix. If they let on they were looking to hire on, whatever side this fellow was on might be full up, and he’d like as not just prefer to shoot the three of them now before they could join up with the other side. If Deeter backed down, it would hurt his chances of getting signed on, and that would eat into their finances, might even prevent all three from getting hired. If Deeter didn’t back down—well, he was fast, but as far as Johnny knew, he’d never been in a gunfight. And the way Deeter talked, he’d have told Johnny all about it if he had. Johnny noticed the telltale bead of sweat on his brow, the hitch in his breath, the tremor in his hand. The kid wasn’t ready. He could tell Vom knew it, too, the way he kept pushing at him. Vom was practical, though. Vom wasn’t all that fast, and he knew it. He couldn’t take the heat off Deeter without jumping into the fire himself.

There really wasn’t much choice. “Ain’t nobody crawlin’ nowhere, ’less it’s you into your grave.” Johnny moved the knife into his left hand and stepped away from the table, clearing his gun hand.

“No, no, please, no fighting inside! I was just closing up!” Nobody looked at the shopkeeper.

The big man studied Johnny, then turned his attention back to Deeter. “This is between me and this scrawny dickless wonder. You got any balls, boy?”

“Why, you wanna court him?” Johnny asked, an amused smile crossing his face. “Deeter, be sure you don’t go bendin’ over in front of Nancy, here. Think he’s got notions about you.”

That worked. The man turned murderous eyes on Johnny. “Who the hell you calling a Nancy, you pretty boy? I’ll splatter your fuckin’ guts all over the fucking place, paint your lips with your blood!”

Johnny had seen the man’s friends easing their guns out of their holsters, saw them pointing at Deeter and Vom.  “I ain’t lookin’ for a fight,” Johnny said calmly. “Leastways not one I ain’t gettin’ paid for.”

One of them walked over and ran his gun barrel along Deeter’s body, who was the stillest Johnny had ever seen him. Johnny figured he might have to remember that trick. If Deeter lived. The gun finally stopped at his crotch. “How ’bout I just shoot his nuts off, Charlie?”

Shit. He didn’t really think the fellow would shoot off Deeter’s nuts. He didn’t really much care, actually. But if Deeter, or any of them, backed down now they’d never get hired on. He sauntered to the door. “No need to bloody up this fine man’s store. But I warn you, I ain’t gonna be aimin’ for your nuts. Kinda outta practice, gonna need a decent size target.”

He could hear the man’s buddies snickering as he walked into the street, heard the heavy pounding of the irate man’s steps following him. Good. He’d got him riled. He needed every edge he could get. Damn, damn, damn, he should have taken Deeter up on his shooting challenge. How long had it been since he’d practiced? He’d been with Vom about a week, hadn’t shot except at some rabbits. He never liked going longer than that without practicing, but hell, he couldn’t even remember what he’d been doing for the last four months! He limbered his fingers, conscious again of the calluses he’d discovered on his hands. Had he been sentenced to hard labor? If he’d been in prison all this time, it was a good bet he hadn’t been shooting, except maybe to escape.

Oh wait, he’d shot at a person at least once. He shot his old man, maybe a woman too, remember? No, goddamn it, he didn’t! And besides, he’d managed to get himself shot in the process. By an old rancher and a woman. Shit. He was going to die. Goddamn it stop it! Them kind of thoughts now is exactly how fellows did end up dead!

Several more men filed out of the saloon, beers in hand, ready for the show. A few called out shouts of encouragement to Charlie, giving such needed advice as where to aim on his opponent and which way to jump, all the while laughing and slapping each other. A few others taunted Johnnie with tales of Charlie’s past kills, gut shots one and all, they assured. Charlie never took his eyes off Johnny.

Johnny swallowed, his mouth and throat both sucked dry. He figured he’d try one last time. At this point there was nothing to lose. “You know, I hate to be doing away with somebody I was plannin’ on fighting next to,” he said, forcing the words through the cotton in his mouth, hoping they didn’t sound too dry. “We come down here to hire on, help you out.”

“Don’t need no help,” Charlie sneered. “Specially from somebody trying to weasel out of a fight.” The bunch of men laughed heartily. Except for one who stepped cautiously into the street, studying Johnny.

“Hey! He’s the one who turned on Day! Day Pardee! Joined up with him, lied to him, shot him dead! It’s Madrid! Johnny Madrid!”

Johnny sucked in his breath. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. After Vom, Day had been his biggest influence growing up. Dios, he hadn’t betrayed him, too. He couldn’t have. Suddenly his mind filled with the image of Day’s face, Day filled with confusion over something Johnny’d said, Day clutching at his chest and falling, then he was an old man clutching at his chest, falling on Johnny, the blood, everywhere the fucking blood, Dios, he couldn’t breathe, he had to get it off his hands, wipe them clean. Charlie reached for his gun.

Chapter 27

Val wasn’t sure who he was more upset with. He was sitting at his desk, back in his sheriff’s office, his bum leg propped up on another chair. It still hurt like hell, but only if he moved it.

Johnny was near the top of his list. Shooting his old man. Killing the new Mrs. Lancer. Damn, shooting him in the leg! He hadn’t told anyone else, and he’d tried to brush over it with Scott, but he remembered every detail. Johnny had swung around, pointed his gun at him. That had happened before, but Johnny always looked before he pulled the trigger. He looked this time. Stared him right in the face. And still pulled the trigger.

As much as his leg hurt, that part hurt more. He’d played the scene over and over. Yes, it had been getting dark, but it wasn’t that dark. He’d been able to recognize Johnny. He’d been able to see his face clearly enough to see not only his features, but the fact that even though they were all where they were supposed to be, something was wrong. It wasn’t even the Madrid cold mask he’d seen on occasion, although that might have been part of it. There was a blankness, and—almost a fear, or confusion—a look that was totally alien to Johnny.

Then there were Johnny’s brothers. He shook his head at the thought of that. Brothers. No wonder Johnny had snapped. The new one, Ian, was real high on Val’s shit list. He looked like Scott, he half talked like Scott, sometimes it seemed like he acted like Scott. But now he’d upped and done this stupid stunt. Val picked up the flyer once again, although there was no need for it. He’d memorized it, the description, the reward. He was only surprised it wasn’t for dead or alive. Not that that always made much difference in the condition of their quarry once bounty hunters got them subdued enough to bring in. Johnny was good, but with this kind of reward, bounty hunters could afford to group together and go after him.

And just to complicate matters, Ian had ridden off in search of bounty hunters to recruit, or maybe after Johnny himself. That brought Val back to cursing Johnny for his leg. If he wasn’t stuck behind this damn desk he’d be out there trying to save his friend’s ass. At least Val would bring him in with as few holes as possible.

That left Scott. What the hell was he doing? Sitting beside his old man’s bed. Sure, he was worried, and sure, it was noble. But damn it, Sam and Teresa and that new girl, Anna, could take care of Murdoch without Scott’s help. Scott sitting there, day after day, wasn’t going to spell the difference between whether his father lived or died. But it could mean the difference between whether his brother lived or died. Or maybe Scott didn’t care any more. Maybe now that he had his new twin brother, he had no more use for the black sheep brother. He’d heard the bitterness in Scott’s voice when he spoke of Johnny. Maybe he just didn’t give a damn if bounty hunters caught him. And that’s why Scott held the top position on Val’s shit list.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Val put himself in that top position. For sitting here behind his desk when he should be hanging onto a horse, somehow, finding his friend. Goddamn bum leg.

*** 

Another dilapidated tumbledown town. It came as no surprise to him that the farther south he traveled, the more primitive the people and their excuses for civilization became. And to think, he’d thought Green River was roughing it. Still, he was on a mission to avenge his mother, and if that entailed certain hardships, so be it. It wasn’t as though he’d expected to find Johnny or his ilk in any but ignominious surroundings.

As usual, he first checked with the sheriff’s office to confirm they’d received the bounty flyer. As usual, they had not. It appeared at least half the vagrants he’d paid to distribute them had never made it farther than the saloon in whatever town they’d stopped in first. He’d see to them when he returned to Lancer.

Nor had the sheriff here seen Johnny, although he certainly had heard of Johnny Madrid. Ian never admitted to any relationship to the gunfighter. Like all the other sheriffs, this one advised Ian to turn around and leave Madrid’s capture to the professionals. And like the others, this sheriff made no move to assemble a posse and go on the hunt.  It was hardly any surprise. Half the town looked to be Mexican.

He walked across the street to the saloon, careful not to let his guard down as he hammered a flyer to the outside of the building. One never knew what men accustomed to such squalor would resort to when faced with the opportunity to steal. Several Mexicans crowded around, exclaiming at the reward. A few started talking rapidly, in Spanish. Ian could make out Johnny’s name, but that was it. They made Ian nervous.

As expected, nobody stepped forward to volunteer their services as bounty hunters. That would require initiative, and courage, both in short supply among Mexicans. He’d find him himself, if need be.

Ian’s only guide on his hunt was the Pinkerton report. He’d studied it until he knew every town Johnny had ever visited, which ones he couldn’t dare show his face in again, and which ones he seemed to gravitate back to. Maybe those were the ones with those cheap Mexican whores he’d once spoken of. He probably had one for a girlfriend, probably couldn’t wait to get back to her disease-ridden cunt. Anna had told him how Johnny had approached her in town when she and their mother had first arrived. It turned his stomach to think the filthy halfbreed thought he could consort with his sister, and he’d warned Anna never to be anywhere that Johnny could catch her alone. But they’d also all had a good laugh over it, and had things not ended so tragically, they’d have still been chuckling at the fool’s audacity.

He steeled himself to dine at whatever establishment might be masquerading as a restaurant here. The food seemed to be getting hotter, and he was sure, less sanitary, the farther south he rode. Giving a resigned sigh, he walked resolutely toward a sign with an American-sounding name, hope springing within. He heard heavy footsteps behind him, and gauged his chance of making it to the entrance before he was overtaken. He’d almost made it when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he whirled to face a burly man who looked like he’d never seen a bath.  A weedier, even filthier, man stood behind him. Or was it just that their skin was dark?

“That bounty for real?” the big one asked.

***

Deeter watched nervously as Johnny stood in the street, where he knew by all rights he should be standing. At least now he’d know. He’d tried his best to tempt Madrid into a shooting match, trying to gauge just how fast he was. Madrid wouldn’t play. Which made Deeter wonder what he was hiding.

Vom shouldn’t have done what he’d done.  He didn’t have to go and beat on him like he did just because Deeter’d lost that money. And then he and that damn Johnny Madrid had sat over under the tree, drinking, probably laughing at him while he tried his best not to cry, not to puke. In the end, though, tears had spilled from his eyes, and vomit had spilled from his gut.

Well, the last laugh was going to be on them two. He may have lost that piddling amount of money in town, but he’d found out something there that more than made up for it. He would have told Vom, too, but after that, fuck him.

The problem, though, was that the bounty was only good if Madrid was alive. And the way he was kind of swaying like that, Deeter wasn’t so sure he was going to be able to collect.

Chapter 28

Something wasn’t right. Johnny’s voice was strained. His steps were faltering. He looked unbalanced. Vom had seen Johnny in many a gunfight, hell, he’d arranged his first few— unknown to Johnny—and even pure green the kid had looked better than this.

Vom felt his gut jump. Jesus, if Johnny lost…well, there was the practical matter that none of them would likely get hired on then, but that didn’t explain his gut twisting like this. He’d lost jobs before and still managed to eat, would do so again. And yeah, if Johnny lost, so much for that bounty down in Mexico, but Vom hadn’t decided yet what to do about that. Having Johnny ride with him and Deeter would probably pay off better in the long run than any bounty, depending, of course, on how much it was for. Assuming Johnny planned on staying, which he hadn’t really said yet. One way or the other, Johnny wouldn’t be earning anything dead. 

But even that didn’t really explain his gut bucking like a bronc. Hell, as much as he hated to admit it, he had a soft spot for the kid. Well, maybe not a soft spot. That kind of spot could get you killed in his business. But Vom was proud of what he’d made of the boy. He’d never had a kid, but watching Johnny gun down an opponent, he’d sometimes figured this must be how a father felt when his boy did good. Only right now Johnny didn’t look so good at all.

The fellows across the way were taunting him, but that shouldn’t bother Johnny. Vom had even set that up before. But Johnny did seem bothered, especially after one of them shouted something about Day Pardee. Pardee? Where the hell did that cocksucker fit in?

And Charlie had heard the fellow call Johnny by name, but he hadn’t backed down. No surprise, he was kind of committed by now, and he had a lot to gain if he could outdraw Johnny Madrid. And the way Johnny was acting, he had a very good chance of doing just that. Charlie was going for his gun. And Johnny still didn’t look right. Jesus, he was looking at his hands!

***

The damn blood always settled in the cracks, in all those little lines the gypsies called life lines. More like death lines, he thought. The sight, out of the corner of his eye, of Charlie’s hand snaking toward his gun did an amazing job of refocusing Johnny’s attention, of slowing down time, but even though he could see Charlie was by no means a fast man, he wasn’t the slowest around either. Johnny’s own hands blurred to their appointed positions, but by the time he was raising his gun Charlie’s was out and leveled at him.

That was when he noticed the ruckus just behind Charlie. Charlie heard it, too, the big man instinctively swinging and shooting at the figure hurtling toward him at almost the same time that Johnny squeezed his trigger. But Charlie’s sudden lurch to the side took him out of the path of Johnny’s bullet. Still, screams ripped the air as the dog that had been running toward Charlie, sausage links dangling from its mouth, fell. Johnny froze, inexplicably horrified at the sight, even as Charlie aimed again at the dog. Johnny shot without thinking, and Charlie yelped and dropped his pistol as he grabbed at his bleeding arm. Only a second later Charlie started raging at the fallen dog, kicking at it and yelling to get the goddamn mutt out of there.

Johnny didn’t remember running, just remembered cursing himself for missing Charlie’s chest. But he did clearly remember hurling himself on top of Charlie and throwing him to the ground, rearing back and pounding his fists into the man’s shuddering flesh with all his fury. The burly man shook him off, rolling Johnny to his back and driving his fist into his gut. The air exploded from Johnny’s lungs. He struggled to breathe, but couldn’t before Charlie was on top of him. Johnny pitched back and forth, trying to escape. He finally got a leg to move and kneed Charlie in the nuts. Charlie fell back, doubled-up and groaning. Johnny pushed himself up and practically fell on him, but Charlie rolled on top again. He managed to wrap his hands around Charlie’s neck and start choking him, his fingers squeezing until they ached, Charlie’s eyeballs growing so large they seemed to pop out of his head, until he started to look like a startled woman, blond and bloody, until he was an old man, falling on him, smothering him in his blood. Dios! He let go and struggled to pull himself from Charlie’s weight, until Charlie’s friends, no longer hooting and laughing, finally pulled the injured man away.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, his eyes finally focusing on the fallen dog. He crawled to it, drawn there, finally kneeling beside it and pushing its tousled hair from its face. Its pain-filled eyes looked back into his, and its chest heaved in time to its labored breathing. It still held the sausage links clamped firmly in its jaws, despite sucking noisily for air. The butcher scurried up, holding his broom out ready to whack the beast, and reached to pry the sausage treasure from the dog’s mouth. Johnny’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the wrist. “Drop the damn sausages or I’ll cram ’em up your ass,” he said quietly, almost soothingly.

The butcher opened his hand and almost tripped over his own feet stepping back, while Johnny reached down and tenderly cradled the dog. “Them’s yours, boy, them’s all yours,” he murmured. The dog only stared back at him with blank eyes. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, waiting for the breath that never came, feeling his eyes sting, before he gradually became aware of everyone staring at him. What the hell was he doing? He was kneeling in the middle of a street, in a strange town, on the verge of tears over a dog he’d never set eyes on, after almost killing a man with his bare hands because he’d somehow flown into a red rage. And that old man had been there again, bleeding on him, and now a woman, a new one. Not to mention how he’d almost been gunned down because he’d decided, right in the middle of a gunfight, to look at his own fucking hands!

He laid the dog’s body down gently and stood, noticing his hands as he did. His gleaming, bright red bloody hands. Had it been Charlie’s bullet that had torn into the dog’s flesh? Or his?  He tried to replay the scene, figure the path of the bullet once Charlie had leaped to the side. It could have been his. The dog had saved his life. And he’d likely killed it in thanks. He wiped his hands against each other, but it only smeared the blood, made everything redder, and he knew the more he wiped them, the bloodier everything would get. Everything he touched would be bloody. He couldn’t breathe. They were all looking at him. A hand clamped on his shoulder and he jumped.

“Why don’t you go find us some graze, Johnny?” He nodded as Vom’s hand pushed him toward their horses. Johnny forced his hands to his side to tap on his legs instead, a trick he’d learned way back.

He was losing his fucking mind.

Chapter 29

“That some new way of gunfighting you come up with?” Vom had finally found Johnny sitting beside his horse a mile or so out of town. He’d found some graze next to a almost-dry creek. The other horses joined the palomino nibbling at the sparse grass. Vom had put Deeter to the task of grooming both their mounts, but not Johnny’s. They’d found that Johnny’s mount tended to bite them when they tried doing anything to the devil, so he was Johnny’s problem. Actually, judging from how his coat burnished in the setting sunlight, Johnny’d already polished him up real good. Maybe the boy should get a job as a hostler if this was the way he intended to do his gunfighting.

Johnny had obviously been cleaning his gun and was now examining it.  He didn’t answer Vom, just stood, replaced his gun in its holster, and turned away to go to his horse. His hands were red, as though they’d been scrubbed raw with sand. Vom jerked Johnny’s elbow. “What the fuck were you doing, boy?”

Johnny jerked his arm back defiantly, so Vom knocked his hat off so it hung by its strings. His eyes almost looked rubbed red, too, like he’d managed to get sand in them. But he’d cleaned his face up, and all that was left was a glowing purple bruise along one cheek. “I asked you a question, boy.”

When Johnny still didn’t answer, Vom drove his fists deep, one after the other, just below Johnny’s ribcage, sending him doubled-over on his knees. “You wanta get yourself killed, you go do it somewhere else. I don’t need this shit.”

He went to help Deeter with the horses, leaving Johnny looking green. He always hated it when he had to reprimand one of his boys, but it was for their own good. He prided himself on never punishing out of anger. He was more like a judge, he reflected, impartially meeting out sentences for crimes. And what Johnny had done back there was sure as hell some kind of a crime. Playing with his hands when he was supposed to be drawing his gun. Fist fighting when he was supposed to be gunfighting. Going all weird in the street right in front of everybody. This was not how he’d raised his prize pupil to act. Damn. He didn’t really want to collect the bounty on him, would rather have Johnny Madrid by his side, but if this sort of thing kept up, what choice did he have?

At least they’d managed to get hired on, although the wages weren’t great. Why would they be? An old man, a green kid, and a crazy gunfighter. Yeah, surprised they didn’t just shower the three of them with money.

***

Johnny staggered over to where his horse was tied for the night, pausing to lean on it before clambering unsteadily into the saddle. Damn, how he loved this horse! Now the two of them was going for a little ride. Three, counting the jug. They’d joined up with the camp earlier that evening, just as soon as Johnny could pick himself up and ride without puking. Since he’d puked before Vom hit him, actually right after he rode out of town, it really hadn’t been so tough.

It was a small camp, with just a few hired guns, most of them has-beens or never-gonna-bes. They were gathered around a sheep on a spit, peeling its flesh off and popping it in their mouths as the outer layers cooked. Johnny was starving, but for some reason when he’d put the meat in his mouth he could hardly swallow it, and when he did, it felt like it was going to come back up. The damn sheep kept looking at him, accusing him of killing that stupid dog. He’d finally given up and focused his attention on an untended jug of whiskey.

They’d ended up with the group that Charlie wasn’t with. From what he could figure, it was the poor side. Big surprise. Their job was to stand up to a rancher named Martin Fremont, fuck him over as best they could. Fremont was well-connected, so they couldn’t just kill him or do anything too stupid. Fremont needed to leave voluntarily, so to speak, and do some deed-signing in the process. The pay was bad, but they’d keep them supplied in food and drink. Johnny liked being on the side against the big rancher, maybe because he knew his old man had been one. But he weren’t that particular. Hell, he thought, sucking on the jug, he’d shoot for anyone as long as they kept him liquored up.

They were being paid by a group of smaller ranchers and homesteaders. As usual, it was over water, this time some puny trickle called Crawford Creek. Or Cripple Creek. Some kind of crappy creek. That he was pretty sure about. It dribbled out of the hills, through the rough hills where the homesteaders had settled, then through Fremont’s big ranch, and on westward, or somewhere, through yet some more small ranches. Only in dry weather, which was most of the time, the creek was down to dust by the time Fremont’s cattle had slurped it all up. Most of the downstream ranchers had given up and left, sold out to Fremont, but a few were hanging on.  Now he was trying to buy out the surrounding ranches, but they weren’t selling. And he was trying to run off the homesteaders and their sheep altogether. He’d started hiring people to help persuade them. And they’d started hiring people of their own. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Whatever, he was supposed to make trouble for somebody, and that he could do.

The men hadn’t seemed all that kindly disposed toward the new guns, which suited Johnny just fine. He was glad to stay clear of the whole bunch, and they seemed to make it easy, going out of the way to find something else to do whenever he came close. He’d seen the way some of them looked at him, like he was liable to just go loco on ’em for getting too close, and that was good with him. That’s how he’d ended up with the jug. The fellow who’d been nursin’ it had just up and left it when Johnny came strolling over. Johnny thought that was real hospitable of him.

He’d taken enough swallows from the jug to get rid of his hurts—both Charlie and Vom packed a heavy punch—and headed out on that damn pretty palomino to find himself a peaceful place to rest. Tomorrow he was supposed to cut some fences, burn some fields and maybe a few line shacks. Kid stuff, but a paying job. 

Once he’d found a sheltered area, he decided to practice his draw some, but it was hard when he had to steady himself against his horse with his other hand. When, after a few draws, he tried to return his gun to his holster and missed it, so his gun fell and hit him on the boot, he figured he’d better quit before he blew a toe off.  Tomorrow he’d work on it, maybe find somewhere to do some target practice.

Meanwhile he was tired, so he spread his bedroll out between some rocks and flopped his saddle down, almost going down with it. The saddle was another damn mystery, along with the horse and the bedroll. All good stuff, top quality, nothing like he’d ever be able to buy. Sure, he could have afforded it a couple of times, after big jobs, but it just wasn’t smart to put all your money into a saddle you might get shot out of the next week. He must have gotten them all off a dead person, he thought, running his hand along the fine leather. He bent closer, sucking in his breath as he noticed a tiny L in a circle tooled into the saddle’s leather. Lancer. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew it. That pretty much explained things. Murdoch Lancer was the dead person it had all belonged to. So he’d gotten his inheritance after all.

Hell, big fucking deal. A horse and a saddle. All the wealth his old man had, and he’d been so damn stingy he’d thrown him and his mama out penniless. Or what was it his mama had told him sometimes? Oh yeah, that the old man had been fucking some gringa, got rid of his Mexican wife and her mestizo son on account of he got a fancy new family to take their place. Dios, there was something he hadn’t thought about in a while.

Thing was, he’d had a hard time thinking of his mama at all. His memories of her were fading, and hard as he tried, he could barely conjure up her face anymore. Except for in those damn visions that jumped him in his sleep. And now she seemed to have friends come to haunt him alongside her. He raised the jug to his mouth and sucked on it, hard, gulping until he hit air. If he was drunk enough maybe she’d stay away.

That didn’t turn out to be the case. She came, and the old man, and the ugly woman, and the damn dog from the street, and Day, damn, there was Day, looking at him all confused, telling him he weren’t no Lancer, shit, he knew that, and then they all bled on him, each and every one, until he was sucking in their blood. Fortunately, he was far enough from camp that nobody heard him scream.

Chapter 30

He’d known he was making a mistake, insisting on accompanying those two miscreants, one a Mexican at that, even before they’d started out. But they’d made a fairly convincing case to him that he was headed in the wrong direction. It was the Mexican who pointed out Johnny Madrid would be foolish to head back to Mexico, where he happened to know there was a bounty on him for dead or alive. It was the American—although Ian hated to claim kinship with him—who suggested it was more likely Johnny would be looking for easy money north of the border. He said the two of them planned to check out a place called Hardpan, north of where they were, because there was a nasty range war that just might attract the likes of Madrid.

Had he been sensible, he would have bid them good luck, made sure they knew where to bring their captive, were they so fortunate, and continued on his way. The thing is, he wanted to be there, see the look on Johnny’s face when he was captured, see his expression when he looked up and saw Ian sitting there smiling while the bounty hunters tied him up. That moment was going to be second only to seeing the look on his face when they put the noose around his neck. Ian planned to be there smiling for that occasion, too. So he’d told the men—Hank and Hector were their names—that he was going with them. They’d objected, but when Ian pointed out he would arrange for hotel lodging along the way, that changed their minds in a hurry. Ian had no intention of camping with them anyway, since he wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep with a Mexican surely ready to slit his throat. It was going to be difficult enough riding with them.

However, he’d determined to watch them carefully lest they make a move to rob him. Unfortunately, he was unable to watch them while he was asleep in his own room the very next night, and they were downstairs drinking and fighting in the bar, and pulling a knife on the sheriff, and getting locked up in the jail. Ian had investigated their bail the next morning, but when it became apparent the sheriff was considering incarcerating him alongside them, he tipped his hat and quietly left town.

Once again he was without a bounty hunter. Only now he had a destination.

***

Val felt like a damn fool riding around in a buggy. But he still couldn’t set his horse without a hive of hornets feeling like they was inside his leg stinging to get out, and this was all the livery had to lend him. Besides, he didn’t care how dandy he looked, he had to get out to the Lancer ranch. So here he was, the sun just now sending orange streaks across the gray sky, riding in a fancy buggy at this unholy time of day when he should still be snoring in his bed.

Not that he’d gotten any sleep last night anyway. Johnny’d been spotted. Val had been sitting in the saloon, keeping an eye on some shady looking fellows who’d just arrived in town, when he’d overheard one mention Johnny Madrid and Day Pardee. Val hadn’t been here back when Day and his men had made their headquarters over in Morro Coyo and tried to take over the local ranches, but from what he could gather, this fellow had ridden with Pardee. At least he’d lived to talk about it. From what Val knew, he was one of the lucky ones.

Anyway, being so close to where it happened, the fellow was telling the other fellow about Pardee, and how Johnny Madrid had turned on him and caused this big massacre. That much wasn’t all that interesting, but it was the next part that made Val catch his breath.

“And now that double-crossing Madrid just went and joined up with the bunch I was riding with down south,” he’d said. “I tried to warn them, but they hired him on anyways. So I quit. Got my ass outta there quick, afore he turned on us and got us all killed. I ain’t got the sort of luck I’d make it out twice.”

Then they’d had a discussion about Johnny and where they’d seen him in various gunfights before, half of which Val knew were bullshit tales, until the fellow came up with something curious. It was probably bullshit, too, but he’d said, “He ain’t right in the head, either, I tell ya that much. Plumb loco, that’s what he is.”

The two had kept on drinking, moved on to other topics, and Johnny’s name never came up again. Val waited until they were swaying out the door, and then did the only thing he could. He arrested the talkative one on a trumped-up charge. Then he spent the rest of the night grilling him about Johnny. The man had accidentally fallen against Val’s fist a few times in the process.

Lights already shone in the windows of the hacienda as he clucked the horse under the arch. It was possible the lights had burned all night. When he’d been staying there after his leg was first injured the hacienda never slept. Murdoch had seemed so close to death at times that he’d heard Maria rushing down the stairs sobbing on several occasions. He hoped he wasn’t coming during another crisis.

His knock was answered by Scott, who looked as though he’d been up all night. His hair was disheveled, his shirt tail out, and his eyes bloodshot. Val hobbled after him into the great room, thumping along with his damn crutch, finally easing himself onto the sofa where he could raise his leg.

“Johnny’s been spotted.”

Scott didn’t say anything, but for a second Val was sure he was going to pour them both drinks. He’d walked to the sideboard, laid his hand on one of the bottles, then must have realized it was just barely dawn. “Where?” he said dully.

“A place called Hardpan, three, maybe four days southwest of here. Word is he’s mixed up in some kind of a range war.”

Scott sat behind his desk, in his father’s chair, gesturing to the mound of papers and receipts. “I’ve been going over the books. There’s money missing, a fair amount. I’ve traced the discrepancies to Johnny’s entries. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he needed a job.”

It was Val’s turn to be silent. He looked around the usually immaculate room, noticing for the first time the crumpled papers strewn about on the floor. “How’s Murdoch?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know.” Scott rubbed his face in his hands. “If I say he’s better, he won’t be, the way his condition fluctuates. But, no, I guess he is better. The fever’s down, mostly, but sometimes it spikes, and Sam can’t figure out why. Teresa’s gotten him to eat some. He’s still mostly sleeping, not talking to us even when he wakes.”

Val nodded. The only sound in the room was the slow ticking of the big clock. He took a deep breath and continued. “The thing is, I talked to this fellow who saw him there, and he seemed to think Johnny wasn’t acting right.”

Scott’s head jerked up, an incredulous look on his face. “You think? Let’s see, he’s shot Murdoch, Florence, and you, he’s stolen Lancer funds, and oh, by the way now he’s in a range war, and I’m supposed to take notice because somebody says he not acting right? Well, I hope you’ll pardon me if I don’t sound too impressed at this revelation.”

Val took a slow breath to keep from replying in kind. “No, I’m saying this fellow thought he was acting kind of loco-like. Like there was something wrong with him.”

“You’re damn right there’s something wrong with him! I guess Ian was right about that.”

“Listen, Scott, you or me, we need to go get him, and my leg ain’t gonna let me ride there.”

“Look around you. Does it look like I can go riding off, leave my father, leave the ranch in financial straits, all because Johnny’s not acting right? We can’t even pay our bills!”

“Ian put that bounty out on him. He’s gonna get hurt unless we bring him in.”

“Goddamn it, Val! I’m tired of pulling Johnny out of whatever scrapes he gets into! I’m just plain tired of it! Maybe if I hadn’t covered for him so many times he wouldn’t have figured he could just do what he pleased, go kill some people, go steal some money, go destroy two families, go ruin everybody’s lives!” He slammed the ledger shut.  “No. He got himself into this fix, and this time I’m not going to bail him out. I just can’t handle dealing with him anymore. I can’t!”

Val pushed himself slowly to his feet, levering his crutch under him. “I just hope you can deal with him when they got him propped up on a plank in the middle of town, flies buzzing all around. Cuz that ain’t something you can change your mind about.”

***

Damn that man! Who did he think he was, coming here and practically lecturing him about his own brother? It wasn’t Val’s father who lay upstairs lacking the will to fight, wasn’t Val’s stepmother who lay cold in the ground, wasn’t Val’s money that jingled in Johnny’s pockets. 

Scott tipped the coffeepot to his cup then slammed it back down in disgust as he remembered it was empty, compliments of him spending the whole night laboring over the ledger. He’d been willing to go after Johnny until he’d discovered the thing with the books. Before then, he’d just thought Johnny had snapped, acted in his typically impulsive if violent way. But now it was clear this was something Johnny had been planning for a long time. Damn him. If he’d wanted money that badly, he could have simply sold his share of the ranch and left without killing anybody in the process. But Scott guessed Johnny didn’t know any other way. Murdoch had once confided in him that he worried Johnny couldn’t be brought back from his violent past, and Scott had disagreed. Well, Johnny had been right about one thing: Scott always put way too much faith in people.

A gentle rapping at the door roused him. When he looked up, Anna walked in quietly. She’d been a godsend to them when it came to caring for Murdoch, pitching right in even when she’d been so stricken with grief from her own loss. “What did the sheriff want?” she asked, placing a hand tenderly on his shoulder.

Scott sighed. He’d come to avoid mentioning Johnny around Anna, knowing how it must hurt to be reminded that the man who’d killed her mother was still at large. And as much as he knew he wasn’t responsible for what Johnny did, he couldn’t help but feel that way. Johnny was his brother, and Florence would still be alive had Johnny not been here, had Scott not always vouched for him and smoothed the often rocky road he was traveling at Lancer. But there was no avoiding it. “Val thinks he knows where Johnny is.”

“I see.” She checked the coffee pot, found it empty. “I wonder if Ian knows.”

Ian had assured them he would keep them apprised of his progress by way of telegrams, but they hadn’t received one in several days. “I think he’s well south of there,” Scott said.

“But what if he finds out where he is? Johnny will kill him...” Her lip quivered as she leaned in toward Scott as though for comfort, and he couldn’t help but pull her close, let her hide her face in his shirt.

“I think Ian’s headed even farther south,” he said, patting her back soothingly. “I wouldn’t worry.” 

But he did worry. He’d already lost one brother.

Chapter 31

This was one of the best jobs he’d ever had, thought Deeter as he got off another shot at the Fremont supply wagon headed for town. He drew a bead on the driver, who had thrown himself into a ravine alongside the road. He could probably hit him, but there was too good a chance he’d have to move closer and take a chance of getting hit himself. Mostly, though, there was too big a chance Captain Figg would find out. He didn’t think any of the fellows was around, but you never knew. And he’d already seen what the Captain did if you disobeyed him. Deeter hadn’t made a lot of friends in camp, but he’d sort of gotten to know a boy about his own age named Jimmy Moss. One morning Jimmy didn’t get out of his bedroll when the Captain told them all to get moving. The Captain never asked him again, and Jimmy never had to get out of his bedroll for the rest of his life. 

Both Vom and Johnny had warned him about the Captain, but he hadn’t believed them until then. Johnny had protested when he found out who was in charge, but he’d ended up staying anyway. Deeter noticed Madrid mostly stayed away from everyone else. That was probably for the best. A lot of the fellows figured Johnny wasn’t right in the head after what he’d done in the fight with Charlie, but nobody wanted to cross him. Deeter wasn’t so sure about Johnny himself, and he still didn’t have a good feel for how fast he was. He’d been fast, very fast, once he’d gone for his gun, but he’d been actually looking at his hands when Charlie drew on him. What he’d done had upset Vom enough that he’d punched Johnny later on. It was all Deeter could do that day not to break out snickering.

The driver waved a bandana in the air and cautiously climbed back to the road. He stayed afoot, keeping the wagon and horses between them, slowly easing the team around until the wagon was facing the way it came. Then he walked alongside the off horse and led them back toward the ranch. Damn! Deeter had wanted an excuse to kill somebody. This stupid chicken shit knew they weren’t supposed to shoot—yet. Well over a week and nobody dead, unless you counted Jimmy. Personally, he thought Captain Figg was wrong about the no killing the enemy thing. If he were in charge he’d kill as many of the other side as fast as he could, make his point and move on. But he wasn’t about to share his opinion with the Captain.

The man wasn’t even a Captain, according to Vom. He just called himself that. Still, he looked like he could have been. He was a big, tall man, with a full black beard. He tended to walk around with a quirt, which he liked to tap on his leg, sometimes hit people with it. Deeter had seen cavalry officers, and Figg looked like Deeter thought one should look. Only meaner.

Deeter aimed his rifle carefully and squeezed the trigger, yipping gleefully as a puff of dirt spat up in front of the near horse, making it half rear in surprise. The man tried to settle it, but both horses fed off each other and started to trot nervously toward home, dragging the man along with them. He thought of shooting again, seeing if he could get the horses really running. If one of the horses stomped the man, or dragged him to death, would that count as killing him? Deeter pondered on that, then not wanting to risk a bullet like Jimmy got, watched them go down the road without shooting again.

When the wagon was finally out of sight, he stood and stretched, disappointed the fun was over. He leaned his rifle against the only tree around and started throwing stones at other stones, but after awhile lost interest. Too bad there weren’t any birds to aim for. He was seeing how far he could throw the rocks down the hill when he caught sight of a lone rider heading from town. Shit! Had he let one get through? This part of the road was supposed to be his responsibility. He waited for the rider to get closer, but still didn’t recognize him as one of Fremont’s men. His finger twitched as he leveled the rifle barrel to aim at the man’s head, then with a sigh of disappointment, he lowered his aim and shot at the horse’s front feet. The horse reared and bolted to side, throwing the rider, who lay still on the road. 

Deeter jumped on his horse and scrambled down the rocky hillside, dismounting cautiously as he neared the fallen man. Shit! Figg might blame him if the fellow turned out dead. But while he was looking for a place to stash the body the man started coming to, so Deeter jumped to his side and removed the gun from the man’s holster. It was a real beauty, the sort of pistol Deeter had only seen in catalogs or from a distance, in the hands of fancy hired guns. His eyes narrowed at the implication, and he jumped to tie the man’s hands before he could come fully to his senses. One of Fremont’s hired guns!  The Captain would surely be pleased with him for this.

He shoved the awakening man to his feet, eager to get off the road and back to cover.

“What? What are you doing? How dare you! Who are you?” the man asked, now fully alert and jerking against his bindings. Deeter thought he looked like an unlikely hired gun. He seemed almost prissy, with his blond hair and fancy clothes. Then again, he might just be an expensive gun who could afford such fineries. Deeter had heard stories.

“I’m the one what asks the questions here,” Deeter said, shoving him toward the horses. This job just got better and better. He was definitely going to wait until it was over before collecting that bounty.

They walked along for a ways before the man spoke up again. “Very well, do you intend to ask one?”

“I’ll ask when I’m good and ready!” Deeter was seldom at a loss for words, but he wasn’t sure what you were supposed to ask a fancy hired gun from the other side. “You’re my prisoner, you’re gonna go see the Captain.”

The man let his eyes roam over Deeter dubiously. “You’re in the army?”

Before Deeter could fashion a reply to the man’s ridiculous question he spied a rider coming over the bluff and recognized him as Vom. Good. Vom would know what to do.

But when he got there and Deeter filled him in, Vom looked just as confused. He sat on his horse and stared from one to the other while Deeter explained the man was one of Fremont’s hired guns. Finally he turned to the man and asked, “You working for Fremont?”

“I don’t know who this Fremont is, but I assure you I’m not in his employ. Now, I would appreciate speaking with your Captain. I’m offering a bounty for an outlaw I have reason to believe may be lurking in this vicinity. If you’ll look in my saddlebags you’ll see some posters for him.”

Deeter rustled through the man’s saddlebags until he found the flyers. His heart sank as he read one. Damn, damn, damn! He should have made his move sooner. He reluctantly placed them in Vom’s outstretched hand.

Chapter 32

Vom was an unhappy man. He should be happy, he knew that, what with a handful of flyers promising him a thousand dollars to turn over Johnny. Instead, he felt like beating the shit out of Deeter. Deeter was babbling away over how he’d caught this fellow, had started in on Johnny until Vom had given his shut-the-fuck-up look.

Damn kid, why couldn’t he just think before he did something, for once? There was no telling what Figg was going to do when they came prancing into camp with a prisoner—one that it turned out wasn’t even working for Fremont. It wasn’t so much that he thought Figg would shoot them. He knew Figg liked to shoot one person at the start of every big job just to get the point across to the new men. After that, the men tended to pay attention to what he said, and even tried to follow orders—not easy with these kind of men. It hadn’t escaped Vom’s attention through the years that whoever Figg chose to shoot was usually someone who wasn’t pulling his weight anyway. He hadn’t mentioned that to Deeter, though, figuring if anyone could convince Figg to make an exception and shoot two, it’d be Deeter.

He’d thought of just telling this dandy to ride away, no such person as Johnny Madrid here. But the fellow didn’t seem like the riding-away type. Thought of shooting him. But that would be burning the bounty bridge, and Vom still wasn’t sure what he’d eventually decide to do. This new bounty certainly tipped the scales more in favor of collecting. It’s just that he didn’t like being pressured into a decision. He’d briefly thought of hiding the man, keeping him as their private prisoner, but if anything would drive Figg to shoot some extra people, being caught at that would do it. He wondered who else knew the man was here.

“So, Mr. Sinclair, is it? I take it you’re not from around these parts?” 

“That’s correct, this is my first foray so far south. I can’t say I find your customs very hospitable.” He held up his bound wrists and glared.

“I’m right sorry for that, but what with outlaws lurking and all, we got to be careful, you understand,” Vom said. “Now speaking of outlaws, what is it got you so fired up you’re offering such a sizable personal reward for this Madrid fellow?”

“He murdered my mother and tried to kill my father, who still may not survive.”

“Bad business, that.”  Looked like Johnny had gotten over his refusal to hurt women, what with killing this one and choking that one back with Lancer. Vom couldn’t say he approved, least not as a regular habit. Sometimes, of course, it just had to be. Then again, maybe Johnny had just let himself get sucked down deeper and deeper, like a lot of men who sold their guns. Sooner or later, they all sold their souls.

“How come you don’t just want him dead?” For once, Deeter asked what Vom was going to.

“Because I’m a civilized man, and I live by civilized rules. To do otherwise would be to sink to his level, and I refuse to have him dirty anything else in my life.” The man seemed like he sat even straighter as he said that. He sounded real fine saying it, too. “Until he’s convicted, it’s only legal to have him brought in alive. I plan to see him convicted of murder and then hanged by the neck, legally.”

“You got many bounty hunters after him, or you planning to take him yourself?” Vom asked. He’d noticed how shiny the man’s pistol and holster were, now in Deeter’s possession. Neither one looked like it’d seen much use.

“I did know of some, but they’ve been waylaid for a short time. I expect they’ll catch up eventually. Regardless, I hope to engage additional help.”

Once word got out Vom expected the man would have to beat off the help. “What makes you think Madrid’s here?”

“The bounty hunters I made acquaintance with suggested it was a likely destination for him. Then when I stopped in town, a shopkeeper confirmed my suspicions. Apparently he was involved in an altercation right in the middle of the street.”

So much for telling him he wasn’t here.

Vom rode silently for a while before saying, “If you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice, Captain Figg ain’t exactly what you call a tolerant fellow. He don’t abide by bounty hunters, ’specially ones after any friends of his. And Madrid’s a special friend. You know what’s good for you, you don’t mention what you’re here for. Don’t mention Madrid at all. Not to no one.”

“I don’t see why I should hold my tongue. It’s not against the law to hunt a murderer.”

“Listen, me and the boy here, we’ll get your man. But we ain’t going against all Figg’s men. And if you tell any of  ’em, it’s gonna get back, and either Madrid’s gonna run, or they’re gonna protect him—or they’re just gonna kill you flat out. And there goes our money.”

It was the blond man’s turn to ride in silence, mulling things over. “I see,” he said finally. “But what I don’t see is why you don’t just turn me loose, then.”

Vom was wondering that, himself. If the fellow would just wait in town, keep his trap shut, things might work out. Him and Deeter could turn Johnny in if the mood suited him, or all three could ride out in the night before the fellow caught on.

***

He gave the palomino his head, watching the ground below him blur as the horse leapt forward. Things were falling into place. Sure, he still had that big hole in his mind, but he was learning just not to worry about it. It didn’t do him any good, and only ended up giving him a headache. And yeah, he had that lunatic Figg for a boss, but Johnny knew how to skirt out of his way. Unfortunately, Figg had objected to Johnny sleeping out of camp, which had been a worry at first. But he’d found that if he drank enough to pass out at night, he’d usually sleep so soundly he didn’t scream out loud. At least, nobody had said anything, so he figured he’d been quiet.

During the days he kept busy burnin’, beatin’, and botherin’, as Vom put it. Today he’d cut some Fremont fence, scattered some Fremont cattle down into a ravine where it’d take at least a week to pull them out, and tailed some Fremont hands until they lost their nerve and took off for parts unknown. Then he’d snuck off and practiced his draw as much as he could get away with. He didn’t know how the hell he’d gotten this slow. But it was coming back.

The best part of the day, though, was just being outside on this palomino. He’d never had a horse like this, not even his pinto he’d loved so much. He knew he ought to name him, but the names that popped into his head never seemed right. He’d caught himself calling him “Bronco” a few times, but that was stupid; he clearly was no mere bronco. And “Rojo” was just as dumb; he wasn’t exactly red, but it still kept pushing its way to his lips. So he was just calling him his palomino for now. Anyway, he sure could run.

Now he was on his way over to see how Deeter was doing keeping the road clear. He finally pulled the horse to a lope as he approached a narrow part of the trail that snaked around a hill. He’d taken the long way there. If anyone asked, he was scouting. Only he and the palomino had to know the truth, and if he was lucky, he’d miss Deeter and get to keep riding.

So he was really disappointed when he rounded a bend and came head on into Vom and Deeter. And some other fellow who was staring at him like he was shit he just scraped off his boot.

Chapter 33

He couldn’t peel his eyes off the blond man. There was something about him that made his head and his gut both start swirling. The man was shouting something, but Johnny was so busy staring at him it took a moment for him to realize what he was saying. Even then, it made no sense.

“Get him!” he was shouting, gesturing at Johnny with bound hands. It made no sense at all for a prisoner to be talking that way, not about him, not to his friends. “That’s him, get him!”

Then Deeter did something insane. He went for his gun. He jerked his eyes from the shouting man to Johnny and kept them there, signaling that Johnny was his intended target. Johnny had been stuck pondering this crazy man when he was caught off guard by Deeter’s unexpected move. He’d been foolishly holding his reins in his right hand, but now he dropped them and reached for his gun, even as Deeter was already raising his. Shit! He’d screwed up again!

Deeter was just taking aim when Johnny’s gun cleared his holster. Johnny saw the look of triumph glide over the boy’s face as he realized he’d outdrawn Johnny Madrid, saw his finger tighten on the trigger even as Vom kicked his own horse into Deeter’s, sending the bullet wild, then reached over to grab Deeter’s gun hand. Johnny pulled his own shot as he held his gun steady on Deeter.

Deeter had aimed an expression of outrage at Vom at first, but it quickly changed to terror as Johnny kept his gun leveled at Deeter’s head. “I weren’t drawing on you, Johnny! I swear!” He looked from Johnny to Vom. “I was just funnin’, seein’ how fast you was!”

Johnny rode over to him and placed the barrel of his gun to Deeter’s head. “You wanna see fun? Let’s see how fast your head blows apart.”

He hadn’t really decided what to do with Deeter when the blond stranger suddenly kicked his horse and took off galloping back toward the road below. Johnny slammed his gun butt into Deeter’s head and spurred his horse after the escaping man. He didn’t know who the hell he was, but he wasn’t getting away.

After awhile, though, Johnny realized he was losing ground. His palomino was still winded from the run they’d had, and the stranger’s horse was obviously fresh. Still, he urged his horse faster, trying to get close enough for pistol range. The palomino was heaving as he barely pulled into range. He took as careful aim as he could on the man and fired, missed, fired again. The man curled down a hill and was lost from view for a second, but Johnny was determined he’d not escape. Not until he knew what the hell was going on. Rounding the bend, though, he saw he’d lost the race. The man was riding hell-bent toward a group of Fremont’s hired guns surrounding a Fremont wagon headed to town. Several of the guns surrounded the blond man, holding him at gunpoint, while another group split off and came galloping after Johnny. He whirled his horse around and spurred him back up the hill and around the bend, hoping they’d give up after they’d chased him away.

They didn’t.

***

Vom paced back and forth, finally kicking his boot into the dirt, hard enough to send rocks flying. “Damn, boy, I could kick your ass! Only Johnny’s going to do it better!”

“What the hell were you doing? I had him!” Deeter was still sitting on the ground, rubbing his head and wincing as he felt the knot already rising. He pulled his hand away again to look for blood.

“You had him?” Vom shoved Deeter down. “You had him? What exactly did you plan to do? Or did you plan at all?”

“I had him in my sights!”

“Yeah, and he about had you in his. So you could have shot him, wounded him, only then he’d shoot you and kill you, or you could have shot him and killed him, only then the bounty weren’t gonna be any good on account of him being dead! So come on, genius, tell me exactly what part of your plan I’m missing!”

Deeter glared at him, then finally said, “I was gonna shoot him in his gun hand, so’s he’d be wounded but couldn’t shoot back.”

Vom burst out laughing. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen you shoot, remember? You may be fast, but you ain’t accurate enough to hardly hit a whole body, much less be picking out pieces to aim for.”

“You coulda helped, you know,” said Deeter, slowly standing.

“That’s exactly what I did, boy. I saved your ass. Cuz if Johnny didn’t shoot you, I would have.”  He slapped his horse’s shoulder, sending dust swirling, before mounting. Once up, he looked down at Deeter and asked, “I’m curious, boy, as to what you think you’re gonna do now to save yourself. Johnny’s comin’ back, and in case you didn’t figure it out in that half-wit brain of yours, he didn’t fall for your lame excuse.”

They were interrupted by gunshots from down the hill. “Somebody else is gonna get all that money!” Deeter said, looking toward his horse. “We could still go after him, get part of it.”

Vom shook his head. “We go down there now, not only is whoever’s shooting at Johnny gonna shoot at us, but Johnny is, too. Cuz that’s just what he’s gonna think, we’re coming after him. Thanks to your great plan.”

Deeter wobbled over quickly and grabbed Vom’s leg. “Vom, we gotta work together. Maybe get him while he sleeps tonight, overpower him, tie him up.”

Vom snorted and kneed his horse. “Boy, you ain’t gonna live that long.”

***

A bullet dug into the ground to his right. At least that answered the question about whether they were in pistol range. Johnny swung around in the saddle, took as careful aim as he could under the circumstances, and shot. He missed with his first, but his second shot found a man, who clutched at his shoulder and fell. That left two riders. And two bullets. Now he wished he hadn’t wasted two chasing that prisoner.

“Come on, fella, run!” Johnny urged, but the palomino had already given it everything he had. The animal was already wheezing, his steps less sure. To push him any further was to risk a fall, or damaging the horse. More shots echoed from behind, but there wasn’t any close cover. There was good cover in the hills ahead, but the wind was whipping down the hillside, making the going even tougher. To get there he’d surely ruin the finest animal he’d ever had his hands on. He spent another bullet, missed again. He pulled him up sharply and pushed out of the saddle before the horse had a chance to really slow, rolling toward a low outcropping that lay to his left. A bullet pinged into the rock, barely missing him, as his pursuers scrambled to slow their mounts before they were on top of him. Johnny took careful aim, fired, and held his breath as the man sat still on his horse for a minute, then fired his gun as he slowly toppled from his saddle. Before he could celebrate a bullet plowed into the rock next to him, sending shards flying into his face and eyes. His eyes stung and watered, reducing everything to shadows. The shadow of a mounted man loomed over him. Johnny pulled his knife from his boot and lunged, the rider’s shot going wild as Johnny pulled him from his horse and gutted him, the man’s falling weight driving the blade higher and deeper until the man shuddered and sagged.

He pulled the bloodied knife out and wiped it on the dead man’s pants, pausing for a moment to stare at the blood on his own hands before wiping them too. No, there was no time for that. He fell back against the rock to reload, meanwhile glancing to make sure that was the last of the riders. Damn, it wasn’t. Another rider was galloping up from the road. He couldn’t see him that well, not with his eyes still blurred from the dust and shards, but as he rubbed his eyes and watched, Johnny was pretty sure it was the same prisoner he’d chased down there. He could make out the light hair and the fancy way of sitting a horse he had. The man had sand, he had to give him that. Most fellows wouldn’t have slowed down yet after being chased by Johnny Madrid.

Johnny pushed himself up and ran to where his horse had stopped. Sand or not, the man needed to learn what a bad idea this was. He pulled the rifle from his scabbard and shot, twice, missing both times. Damn eyes. But that seemed to be enough to convince the man how foolhardy he was being. He pulled his horse up and just sat there, though, not turning tail like any normal fellow. Even looked like he was shouting something, but in this wind his voice was carried straight away. Johnny didn’t have time to worry on him. His horse was still tired, but he mounted and loped off, hoping the animal had enough in him to just get the hell away from here.

Then he wanted to have a little chat with Deeter.

Chapter 34

Jesus. He really hadn’t thought Johnny would shoot at him, no matter who else he’d turned against. But he had, twice. Looked right at him and pulled the trigger. Scott sat numbly on his horse and watched the man he used to consider his best friend and brother lope away on the familiar palomino, his rifle balanced across his saddle.

Reluctantly, he turned his horse back to the wagon. Even had it been safe to go after Johnny, even if he hadn’t felt so sick to his stomach at what had just happened he could have wept, his own horse was faltering from being pushed past its limits, having made the trip from Lancer in an exhausting two days, followed by the sprint toward the rifle shots. The animal wasn’t going much further, and Johnny was already vanishing over the ridge. Thanks, Val. Great idea to go ahead and leave Murdoch and the ranch to head out on some wild goose chase after his wild brother. Sure, shame him into racing south to Hardpan, make him think there was something amiss with Johnny. Yeah, there was something amiss alright. Scott was just lucky Johnny amissed his head.

Scott had been on his way out to the Fremont ranch when he’d heard gunshots ahead. He’d galloped into sight just in time to see Johnny chasing Ian down the hill, shooting at him. He hated facing Ian’s told you so look.

“You see? He shot at you, too!” Ian said after greeting him. He was rubbing his wrists where they’d just been unbound.

Scott just nodded, so deeply disappointed he felt he could weep. Somehow, somewhere along the marathon ride here, he’d gotten it into his head that he and Johnny could talk, that Johnny would turn himself in, and no blood would be lost. That it was all just a giant misunderstanding. He could see some of the men up on the hill now, loading bodies over the backs of their horses. He was suddenly very tired.

“You were tied up?” he asked, nodding to the discarded rope.  That didn’t fit in.

“Yes, as I was telling these men, I was accosted right here on the roadway and was in the process of being taken to somebody called the captain.”

One of the men snorted. “He ain’t no captain. Just a nutcase.”

Before anyone else could speak a man casually held a gun to Scott. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Scott looked irritated. “There’s no need for that. My name is Scott Lancer. Ian here is my brother, and we’re looking for Johnny— well, Johnny Madrid.”

“Looks like you found him,” one of the men said, chuckling.

“You looking to ride with Madrid or something?” asked the first man.

“I’d prefer to discuss my purpose with Mr. Fremont. My father, Murdoch Lancer, and he are acquaintances. I was told this road leads to his ranch.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take your gun while we all go see Mr. Fremont.” Scott did mind, but right now he’d trade his gun for a hot meal and a soft bed. And he bet Fremont had both. Besides, these men didn’t look like the negotiating type. 

Ian and Scott rode abreast of one another, flanked by several gunmen. The rest of the men had gone on toward town, still protecting the supply wagon. 

“How’s Murdoch?” Ian asked almost hesitantly.

“He’s hanging on. He’s had a couple of fevers since you left, but I think he’s coming around. Anna’s been helping with him a lot.” He glanced toward Ian. “She’s worried about you, you know.”

Ian smiled. “She always is. Is that why you came?”

“Partly.” They rode in silence for a while. The sun was setting behind them, throwing long shadows that their horses perpetually chased. “Why was Johnny chasing you?”

“Why do you think? I suppose he wants to finish off the whole family, whoever stands between him and inheriting the ranch. You’re probably next.” He buttoned his jacket against the cool evening air. “This is the first I’ve seen him since I left. Only saw him for about five seconds before he took off after me, trying to shoot me in the back.”

“Who tied you up?”

“A couple of his friends. Only,” and at this he bent close to Scott, “at least one of them might be willing to work with us.”

***

“Where is he?” Johnny stomped around the camp, kicking at Deeter’s bedroll more than once. “Where is that sniveling piece of snake shit?”

“He ain’t here, Johnny,” Vom said, his voice surprisingly quiet.

“I can see that! Where the fuck is he?”

“I said he’s gone.”

Johnny stared at him, breathing heavily. “What the fuck went on up there? And who the hell was that blond-headed fellow?”

Vom reached in his saddlebag, and Johnny reached for his gun. “Easy, Johnny-boy. I’m just getting you this,” he said, throwing the stack of bounty flyers toward him, “and this.” He took out a flask and handed it to him.

Johnny read the words over and over, like they were about somebody else. He really had killed a woman, and here was the proof. He rubbed his face. Dios! When had he sunk that low?

“The fellow we had, he’s the one who put this out. Claims this woman was his mother. Name of Sinclair. You know him?”

How the hell would he know? A fleeting image of the man’s face floated through his mind, and out again, leaving him feeling uneasy, like an enemy he knew was hidden behind a rock. Just no idea which rock.  He opened the flask and drank several deep swallows, letting the burn in his gut soothe him. “No,” he said, shaking his head partly to clear it. “No, never saw him.”

“Deeter’s young, and he’s stupid. He saw that kind of money, and he didn’t think. He’s thinking now, Johnny, thinking real hard. He ain’t gonna fuck up like that again.”

“That’s for damn sure.” Johnny drained the flask some more, then studied Vom as he wiped his mouth. “What about you, Vom? What happens when you see that kind of money?”

Vom reached his hand out for the flask, and after some thought, Johnny handed it to him. “I think you already saw the answer to that, son,” Vom said, then lifted the flask to his mouth.

***

Deeter sat on his horse looking down at the campfires below. Madrid had ridden in a while back. He cradled his throbbing hand, barely biting back a sob as another spear of pain surged up his arm. Goddamn Vom didn’t have to break his hand. But he was pretty sure he had. The cocksucker’d bent down from his horse like he was going to shake hands, only he grabbed Deeter’s fingers, shoved them between his stirrup and his boot, and stomped, grinding his boot into them and twisting his fingers up until Deeter was hanging there screaming. Then he’d told him he’d just done him the biggest favor of his life, and to go home to his parents’ farm, meet a girl, get married, and live a long life.

His goddamn gun hand. Ruined. He was going to make a living with it, make a name. Not rot his life away begging some stupid plants to grow out of the dirt, watching his seeds go to dust or his plants go to locusts. Now Vom had ruined everything. Him and that Johnny Madrid. They was probably laughing right now. Well, the last laugh was going to be on Madrid. It was clear enough Vom just wanted the whole bounty to himself, figured he’d get Deeter out of the way, then take care of Madrid.

But no, the last laugh was going to be on Vom. Deeter sniffed again, wiped his face on his sleeve, and turned his horse toward the Fremont ranch.

Chapter 35

“Johnny Madrid? Believe me, I wish you would take him off my hands.” Martin Fremont poured drinks for Scott and Ian. Fremont was a slender man, younger than Scott expected, with a rakish moustache and disarming smile that instantly made you feel like a special confidant. His home, if anything, was even larger than Lancer, and definitely more elegant, with velvet chairs, satin drapes, and a quiet audience of mounted animal heads. “I thought we’d about run off the troublemakers until word was he joined up with them. Now I’m going to have to hire even more guns, and we’re likely to have more bloodshed by the time this is all done and settled.”

“It seems Johnny leaves a trail of blood wherever he goes,” said Ian, throwing Scott a look of disdain.

“Well, I wish he’d go leave it somewhere else. He’s been here just over a week, and half my men act like they don’t have a set of balls between them when they hear his name.”

Scott suddenly knew how Murdoch felt when others brought up Johnny’s exploits as Madrid. Having a family member who excelled at murder and mayhem was nothing to be proud of, even if he was at the top of his trade. He decided to follow Ian’s suggestion and not mention a relationship unless pressed. Fremont was an important friend of Murdoch’s, an influential member of the state cattlemen’s association. Murdoch probably would not appreciate having his association with Johnny Madrid advertised, certainly not under these circumstances. “Has he actually done anything, or is it just his reputation that has your men spooked?”

“Oh, Madrid’s done things, alright. You saw for yourself how he just shot and knifed three men, three good men, just today, and that’s not half a day’s work for him. I don’t think a day has gone by since he’s been here that we haven’t had some kind of a catastrophe. We’ve had cattle stuck in all sorts of places, bridges dynamited, fields burned, barns burned, horses run off. We can’t even get to town for supplies unless we use all the men as a guard force—and then we leave ourselves vulnerable elsewhere. My men tell me Madrid’s been in gunfights, knife fights, and fist fights. We’ve been lucky no deaths until today.”

“Has he been hurt?” Scott blurted. He noticed Ian gave him a curious look at that.

“No such luck. Only...”

Scott waited. “Only what?”

“Well, I didn’t see it myself. But they came close to getting him, at least once. A couple of men in town saw him in a gunfight when he first got here. They said he acted... I don’t know, addled, or something. Like he wasn’t right in the head, they said.”

Ian snorted. “I could have told them that.”

“No, wait,” said Scott. “What else did they say? What happened?”

“That was about it. One of them had seen him before, down on the border. Said he didn’t think he was as fast as he used to be. Thought he was going to lose the gunfight. Would have, except for a lucky break.”

“Or unlucky, I suppose, depending on how you look at it.” Ian finished his drink, examined the empty glass, and set it down.

“Lucky,” Scott said firmly, fixing his gaze on Ian. “We agreed we didn’t want him hurt, right?”

“Don’t want him hurt?” Fremont refilled Ian’s glass. “Listen, Scott, if I may call you that, Madrid is out to ruin me, pure and simple, only it’s not just me. If this ranch goes under, a lot of good people go under with it. Now, your father would understand what I’m talking about. We have people here who think because they’ve cobbled together some shack, gathered a few head, they can do what they want with the land. Hell, some of the Mexicans are even running sheep! You know what sheep can do to grasslands? And they’re upstream! That sort of thing is one reason men like Murdoch and I banded together to form the cattlemen’s association. The problem is, you get enough of these peons together, they gang up like a swarm of locusts and destroy everything in their path.”

When Scott didn’t answer Fremont shook his head. “Sorry for the speech. You just need to understand, I’m not a violent man, but if a few lowlifes like Madrid get killed in the process, I really don’t care. Not when so many good people’s lives depend on it. When a man makes the choice to kill people for money, he gives up the right to mercy. And quite frankly, after he’s done to your father and stepmother, I can’t imagine you would.”

Ian shuffled his feet and shifted in his chair. “I would prefer to take Madrid in alive, if possible, to stand trial. However, it’s true that if the alternative is his escape, then I’d have to agree with you.”

Scott glared at him. “No. Alive. It has to be alive.” But Fremont was already busy pulling out some maps.

***

They’d enjoyed one of the best meals Scott had had since he left Boston. For the first time in months, the food was blissfully bland. Ian looked even more appreciative of the lack of jalapeños. They were joined by Mr. Fremont’s wife, Jessica, and daughter, Leah. Scott made a mental note to think of an excuse to visit again when all this was over. Although the way Ian was smiling at the girl, he might have to race him back.

They were savoring a dessert of crème brulee when a knock on the door made everyone pause. Mr. Fremont rose to answer it, and Scott could just make out the figures of three men standing outside in the gloom.

“You know better than to come to my front door,” he overheard Fremont saying.

There was a mumbled reply, then Fremont strode back in the room. “Dear, I wonder if you’d excuse me while I attend to some business.”

“We were just finished, anyway,” his wife answered, rising along with Leah.

“You ladies best use the other way,” Fremont said. “I don’t want you exposed to these type.”

The women nodded and left using the rear way. “Some of the hired guns are at the door,” Fremont explained to Scott and Ian. “A necessary evil, but that doesn’t mean I’ll expose ladies to that sort of scum.”

Ian nodded solemnly, and Scott knew what he was thinking.

The three men had just walked into the house, standing nervously just beyond the door, when Ian jumped up and pointed to the one in the middle, the one the other two were holding. “That’s him! Madrid’s associate!”

The older gunman explained they had caught this kid riding into the ranch waving a bandana on the end of his rifle. He’d given up his guns without a fight, and said he had information about Johnny Madrid.

“I think we can trust him,” Ian said. “He’s the one who drew upon Madrid, and had that other man not hit him with his horse, likely would have shot him!”

Scott looked the kid up and down. This scrawny kid outdrew Johnny?

Fremont must have been thinking the same thing. “You got the drop on Madrid, with your hand all swollen like that?”

“It wasn’t swollen then. And yeah, I got the drop on him. Only reason he’s not here and bleeding is because Vom—he’s the fellow busted up my hand—he helped him. Then he did this to make sure I couldn’t come gunnin’ for the both of  ’em. They’re in cahoots!”

“Vom?” asked Scott. “Who’s he?”

“Wait.” Ian chewed his lip before continuing. “I remember a Vomer Jacobsen or something like that from the Pink report. But if recall correctly, that was somebody Johnny rode with a long time ago, around the time of some of his first gunfights. Kind of a two-bit hired gun. I thought it said he was in prison, though. Like most of Johnny’s cohorts.”

They all looked expectantly at the kid. “Yeah, that’d be him. Vom’s, uh, I guess you’d say he kind of takes in kids sometimes, teaches them a trade. Took in Madrid, way back. Took me in, tried to tell me what to do, but I don’t need him no more!”

“So what’s this information on Madrid?” Ian asked.

The kid shrugged the gunmen’s hands off his shoulders. “I want that bounty, but with my hand bummed up, looks like I can’t do it alone. I can give you the information you need to catch him and convict him, though. In exchange for half the bounty.”

“Convict him?” Scott asked hollowly.

“Yeah. Madrid shot that Murdoch Lancer fellow and that lady. I seen him do it. Vom said he’d been planning on killing the old man for a long while.” Deeter stopped for a second, took a breath and continued, “Him and Vom, they was in cahoots on it. Had a scheme to make some money and kill Lancer at the same time.”

Scott squeezed the back of the chair he’d been standing beside. Somehow, he’d always held out the hope that Johnny hadn’t done it, that there was some sort of explanation, a mistake. That he’d explain it all, be freed, and go on to lead his life, even if it wouldn’t be at Lancer. But now—this meant they were surely taking him to the gallows. Dear God forgive them all.

Chapter 36

They were back. Pointing fingers at him, mouths opening and closing in silent curses, laughing at him as he tried to scramble from beneath their weight, grabbing at him with bloodied hands, one after the other, Mama, Day, the old man, the gringa, grabbing and falling and screaming and laughing and bleeding and fucking. Mama was calling him to join the fun, she was naked, blood-covered, screwing a line of men, and Dios, Ricardo was in line. He tried to call out to her, warn her, but he couldn’t remember what he needed to say, and the words couldn’t get out, and she laughed and lay back and spread her legs as Ricardo came to her. Only Ricardo was the old gringo, and he wasn’t fucking her, he was stabbing her, and Mama wasn’t laughing anymore, she was crying, and somehow all of a sudden it wasn’t her the gringo was fucking, it was the old blond gringa, and they slapped against each other’s blood, and Mama was watching and crying, and that blond fellow was there, watching and smiling, and a dog came up, and he shot him, just like that, only then Johnny realized it wasn’t the blond fellow that shot him, but he’d done it, the gun meant for Ricardo still smoking in his hand, and Mama was dead somehow, too, and the gringo, and Day, and he tried to fix them, push the blood back in their holes, but his hands just slid and the blood kept coming, and Ricardo was laughing how he’d killed his own mama, how he’d never get his mama’s blood off his hands, and Johnny aimed the gun at him make him quit saying it, only then he was the old gringo again, grabbing at Johnny’s hands to see what he’d done, like he was looking into his soul and knew how he really was, and Johnny tried to wipe away the blood, hide it from everyone, but they all saw it, saw him, anyone could look at his hands and know he was a killer, and the scream finally broke through and Johnny was yelling he was sorry, Dios so sorry, until they were all grabbing him again, shaking him, and he screamed louder.

He struggled to get away as a hand smothered his mouth, but something held him down. He stared into his attacker’s eyes for several seconds, chest feeling like a wildcat was trapped in there the way his heart was bucking to get out, before realization hit him. Shit, he’d done it again. He nodded slightly and Vom removed his hand and stood. Then he left him. Johnny could hear him close by, rustling around. When he returned he handed Johnny some whiskey in a jar. Johnny sat up and gulped it down without looking at Vom, mumbling an embarrassed “Thanks,” when he was through. He wondered if there was any more.

Vom answered that question by taking the jar and coming back with it full. Handing it to him, he quietly said, “You gotta quit that shit. I think some of the fellows heard you again.”

Johnny rubbed his face with his sleeve, as much to wake up as to rub the sweat off.  “Just one of those things. It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh,” Vom said, sitting beside him. “What’s the matter you can’t dream about a pretty girl like the rest of us?”

Johnny tried to smile, but Vom’s question brought back the image of Mama getting fucked. He figured that wasn’t what Vom had in mind. “Hell, Vom, I ain’t gotta dream about pretty girls. That’s called real life.”

“Yeah, right. When’s the last time you poked anything but your hand?” Vom nudged him at that, then cocked his head. “Or, I don’t know, you been riding out to where they got them sheep an awful lot...”

Johnny shoved him back, smiling. “Yeah, well I guess you probably know ’em all by name!”

“Well, I’ll be glad to point you to the pretty ones, if that’s your problem…”

“Hell, you couldn’t get a pretty one.” Johnny smiled more. Vom always seemed to know what to say to get him over his scream dreams. Not that anyone else had ever known about them. That thought stuck. Had they? The image of the blond man blurred in his head again. “Hey, Vom? You never told me who that blond fellow was.”

“I told you what I knew. And this flyer says his name is Ian Sinclair, from up there around Green River. Must be rich. I just hope nobody else finds out how much your worthless hide is worth to him.”

Ian Sinclair. Meant nothing to him, except that familiar twinge of danger he was used to living with. “Where’s Deeter?” Johnny noticed his bedroll was still empty.

“I sent him home. His gun hand had an unfortunate accident.” Vom smiled broadly at Johnny.

But Johnny didn’t grin back. Instead he was silent for a while, twisting and breaking a twig between his fingers. When he spoke, it was quiet, even for Johnny. “Listen, Vom, I ain’t got no desire to be taken in, but if it ever looks like it’s gonna happen, I want you to draw on me, collect the bounty yourself, you hear? I owe you that.”

Vom stared back at him, long enough Johnny figured he was finally going to bring up what happened. But instead he thumped him on the head and called him an idiot.

***

He’d been relieved when he finally heard stirring downstairs and felt he could legitimately get up and get moving. Not that he had any idea what to do. He’d been up most of the night turning that question over and over in his head. Somehow the thought of going and retrieving Johnny hadn’t seemed so drastic when he’d been back at Lancer worrying about his father, and Johnny had been somewhere far away, living his own life. Sure, he’d known Johnny had to be brought back, explain things, probably stand trial. But then, he’d always thought there was a real chance Johnny didn’t do it. Now there was pretty much no question. When Johnny stood trial he’d be found guilty. And then he’d be hanged.

Why on earth hadn’t Johnny just gone to Mexico? Gone anywhere but to the closest range war? It was as though he didn’t care about being followed or caught. Ian had said he thought Johnny was thumbing his nose at them, but that didn’t sound like Johnny. From what Scott knew, he was skilled at staying out of sight. Why then, was he so flagrantly visible?

He needed to talk to that kid Deeter some more. Scott hadn’t wanted to probe into details in front of everyone last night, but he wanted to hear more about what Johnny was doing, get a clue about what he was thinking. Find out why he hadn’t run better than this. And maybe, just maybe, figure out what he was going to do.

The smells wafting from the kitchen sent his stomach growling, but he wanted to get out to where the hired guns were camped before they got going. Scott had been surprised to learn they weren’t staying in the bunkhouse, but Fremont had laughed and said predators didn’t sleep indoors. The gunmen were camped just outside the ranch compound. Scott could see the remnants of their fires still burning, surrounded by sleeping men. A few of them were up, coming out of the bushes, tending one of the fires, putting on coffee. They looked at Scott suspiciously but didn’t challenge him, probably because he was coming from the ranch house.

“I’m looking for that kid that came in last night,” Scott said to the closest one. “Deeter.”

The man looked barely awake, more interested in scratching his crotch than listening to Scott, but managed to nod toward a huddled figure sleeping on the ground nearby. Scott looked over and caught his breath when he realized it was the same kid, only bruised and bloodied. “What happened to him? He didn’t look like this last night!”

“Just the boys’ way of welcoming him,” the man said, graduating from scratching to pouring a cup of coffee. “You don’t cause all the trouble his bunch been causing us and then think you can just priss in here, say you switched sides, and nothing’s gonna happen. Hell, anyone knows that. Otherwise you’d have fellows switchin’ back and forth whenever they felt like a change of scenery.”

Scott bent over Deeter and shook him gently, taking an involuntary step back when the kid jumped and suddenly had a pistol aiming right at him. The man at the fire was chuckling. “You gotta death wish?”

How many times had Johnny said something like that to him when he’d awakened him, only to have a gun in his face? Clearly, this was not the way to wake up gunfighters. But Deeter put his gun away and looked at Scott through one swollen eye, rubbing the other. Scott noticed his right hand was bandaged now. He’d held the gun in his left.

“I want to ask you some more questions.”

“Said all I need to,” Deeter said, running his good hand through his tousled hair.

Scott produced a twenty dollar piece and showed it to Deeter, making sure nobody else could see. “When’s the last time you had a soft bed, good meal, a little fun?”

Deeter eyed the coin before snatching it with a furtive look around. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Why Johnny’s here instead of Mexico. Why he shot those people. If he’s really acting strangely, like somebody said. How I can talk to him.” The question he didn’t voice was what it would take to get him away from here and out of range of Ian and his bounty.

Chapter 37

Johnny had drifted back to sleep after finishing that second jar of whiskey. Tomorrow, Vom figured he’d buy some decent whiskey to replace the rotgut he’d helped himself to out of Andy’s stash. Meanwhile, he’d settled into his bedroll and tried to get some sleep, but it wasn’t coming. The sun was already rising, but the camp was still filled with snores.

Too much had happened that day. Deeter was gone. After all the effort he’d put into that boy, Vom himself had ended up smashing his own work. It wasn’t as if Deeter hadn’t played a part in it. As usual, he’d acted without thinking, without waiting to ask Vom. It was a miracle either Deeter or Johnny hadn’t been killed. But now he was gone, and as irritating a little shit he was, Deeter had been entertaining. More than that, he’d been Vom’s last hope. At Vom’s age, he didn’t have too much left to hang on to. He was slow, too slow to depend on his own gun. And unless he got a new set of fast hands to train up, his days in this business were numbered.

Of course, there was always Johnny. He was fast. But he was different now. Sure, he’d always been moody, always been secretive. He’d even always had those night screams. But he’d been focused before, even as a kid. Now he seemed addled, like his mind was somewhere else half the time, like now that he killed his old man, his focus was gone. That could get the boy killed. Vom, too, if he depended on him.

And the drinking. Johnny had never shied from a drink, at least not after he’d got over the puking those first times Vom had poured them into him, but he’d never leaned on one, either. But it was clear now that Johnny’s most trusted friend had moved from his holster to his flask. Vom snorted aloud. As much as he’d almost like to think he was Johnny’s most trusted friend, he hoped he hadn’t failed as a teacher so much that Johnny would trust any person so completely. That was one of the first lessons Vom’d taught him. A lesson that Johnny had once failed with dire consequences.

Johnny did owe him. He was right about that. Now he had the chance to make it up. A thousand dollars. The one small problem was, Johnny didn’t kill that woman. On the other hand, Johnny had earned his bounty legit down in Mexico. A little digging had turned up his Mexican bounty was for five hundred dollars. Of  course, it led to a firing squad.

Shit. It was a damned ethical quandary. Turn in a man for a crime he didn’t do for a thousand dollars, or turn in the same man for a crime he did do for five hundred dollars.  The gallows or the firing squad? Either one led to Johnny’s death. And Vom’s ability to retire. More or less.

He tossed again in his bedroll, trying to find a comfortable position. Damn rocky ground. He was getting too old for this.

***

The plan was to wait until nightfall. Deeter said most of the men drank heavily at night, and Johnny was among the heaviest drinkers. He often dragged his bedroll away from camp after Captain Figg turned in, although Figg didn’t like it so Johnny’d sometimes drag it back close right before it got light. Vom sometimes went with him, sometimes didn’t. Deeter figured it just depended on whether he noticed him leave or not.

Scott was trying to choke down beef stroganoff for lunch. He assumed it was delicious, but he couldn’t get his mouth to confirm it. Now that capturing Johnny was so close at hand, he felt sick inside. Nonetheless, he tried to swallow the food and act appreciative. At least Ian was making up for his lack of enthusiasm. Scott didn’t think he’d ever seen him this excited. He almost spoke with his mouth full.

Deeter hadn’t really told him that much for his twenty dollars. Johnny had apparently joined up with Deeter and this Vom fellow right after the shooting at Lancer, but Deeter said Johnny and Vom had apparently cooked up this plan long ago, before Deeter knew either one. That’s why Vom was there to ride off with him right after Johnny shot Lancer and the lady. According to Deeter, Vom had told them that killing his old man had been Johnny’s goal since he was a kid. Only Vom didn’t abide by killing unless profit was involved, which is why Deeter figured Johnny didn’t just ride up there and shoot Lancer right off. Deeter looked blank when Scott asked him what Johnny had said about his life at Lancer—or his brother.

Anyway, Johnny was riding with his old teacher, or whatever he was. Scott had no idea there was such a thing as men who taught little kids to be gunfighters. Sick bastards. He hoped he’d have a chance to wring this Vom character’s neck for leading Johnny astray. Still, he was confused about what role the man was playing now. Deeter said Vom told him he was going to trick Johnny and turn him in for a Mexican bounty, but when Deeter got the drop on Johnny, Vom bumped Deeter on purpose and let him get away. Deeter was pretty sure now that Vom was protecting Johnny, that the Mexican bounty was something they’d cooked up, and that they might need to shoot Vom as well. When Scott reminded him they weren’t going to shoot Johnny, he just shrugged. Scott didn’t like the kid.

Fremont and Ian had eventually shown up to formulate the plans for the day with the man who seemed to be in charge of the hired guns, and then the gunmen had ridden out to deliver offers to all the ranchers to buy their land. Fremont said it was his responsibility, as the valley’s major landowner and wealthiest inhabitant, to help out the smaller ranchers.

Scott chewed on his meat, trying to be polite. Fremont and Ian were in the middle of a discussion about cattle breeding. Ian seemed excited about brokering a cattle trade, his first. He said it would combine some of Fremont’s new bloodlines, European stock he’d just brought in from Texas, with those of Lancer. Scott knew he should listen but his heart wasn’t in it. The talk of Lancer reminded him of his father. There was no telegraph office in town, so he’d had no updates on his condition.

He ended up letting his eyes wander around the elegantly appointed room, wondering what Murdoch would want him to do. Johnny had killed his beloved Florence. He had shot his own father. Scott knew Murdoch was a stickler for the law, and he’d often voiced his opinion that Johnny’s problem was that he’d never had to face proper consequences for his actions. But did that mean he’d want his own son hanged?

Scott knew one thing. He had no more appetite for capturing Johnny than he did for this meal. But there was no dissuading Ian, he knew that without trying. And the chance of getting to Johnny and begging him to ride away was slim. Deeter hadn’t told him where the camp was, and he couldn’t exactly just roam around the countryside with hostile gunslingers on the prowl. Besides, Johnny wouldn’t be in camp now, and the possibility of finding him in a random encounter out on the range was infinitesimally small. And judging from yesterday, very dangerous.

He was in the middle of trying to swallow when the furious clanging of a bell outside almost had him choking. By the time he reached the window plumes of smoke were already rising from the golden fields surrounding the ranch house. They all charged out the door, quickly taking note of the riders surrounding them, lighting the dry grasses on fire. Several hands raced out with buckets and shovels, but gunshots sounded and bullets dug into the ground in front of their feet. They skidded to a stop and watched helplessly as the wind whipped the fire and drove it toward the barn.

Fremont raised his rifle and fired at the riders, but it was a nearly impossible shot through the billowing smoke and shimmering heat waves. One of the riders must have known it. He had the audacity to wave at Fremont while rearing his horse. His palomino horse.

Scott stood frozen for a second, then ran for the barn. The hands were racing there, too. He hoped they could get the rest of the horses out by themselves.

Chapter 38

He’d been a little surprised when he’d seen a mounted man come galloping from the barn and ride over the smoldering field, his sorrel horse kicking soot like a locomotive, headed dead for him. As far as he’d known, there weren’t any guns left at the ranch. And no smart gun would come after him by himself. No matter. His palomino could outrun him, he was pretty sure, and it might end up being kind of fun. He’d let him get just into rifle range, but far enough away that it would take one hell of a lucky shot for any bullet to be in shouting distance to him. Just close enough to keep the fellow’s hopes up. 

And what the heck, maybe he could combine business with pleasure. Keep him dangling behind him while he went about his errands. Maybe he’d go cut some fences over on the far side of Fremont’s range. That would be a nice ride. It was shaping into the the kind of day he loved. Black smoke billowing behind, dark clouds looming ahead, and the sun giving up trying. The air smelled different, the animals acted uneasy, and Johnny felt exhilarated. He pressed the powerful horse into a faster pace, and as he did he glanced back, shocked to see his pursuer had been gaining on him. And was now close enough that Johnny recognized that blond head.

That was when he came up with a better plan. If this was the fellow that was offering the bounty on him, he wanted to know why, know all the details. Sure, Vom had said he’d killed the man’s mother. Damn, he felt bad about that. Real bad. Even if he didn’t remember it. Hell, he’d done a lot of stuff he couldn’t remember when he’d been drunk. Didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible for it. Still, seems like he’d remember killing a woman, no matter how drunk he’d been.

He knew some hired guns didn’t really make a line, but he’d always had a sort of pride about who he chose to kill, or not. Well, maybe pride was the wrong word. Definitely wrong. Because no matter how he looked at it, there was no pride in what he did. No pride in killing folk for money. The best he could do was try to hold down the shame in it. Now he’d apparently failed at that.

He still couldn’t see himself doing it, at least, not sober. And maybe that was the answer to everything. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a whole day sober. He wasn’t quite sure when the drinking had gotten so out of hand. Had a hard time accepting that it was, really. Sure, he’d always enjoyed a few beers on a hot day, some drinks at night with the boys. And yeah, in his line of work sometimes you needed some stiff ones to take the hurt out of whatever you’d done to your body that day. Or to your soul. Mostly, your soul. Once in a while, a morning swig could get the edge off a hangover, get you ready for the day. And if you did that a few times, maybe you could kill women folk, and maybe you could forget doing it, and if you did it enough, maybe you could even forget what you’d been doing for the last six or so months.

Maybe he should abstain from drinking. Abstain. There was one of them three-dollar words again. Maybe he’d been sent off to some fancy school like he’d heard about, and he’d had to escape. Hell, that could drive anyone to drink.

Anyway, he knew a place right up here where the path snaked around the base of this bluff, and on the other side, a dogleg with a thicket to the right. He could get the drop on the fellow there, hold him at gunpoint, pound the truth out of him. Keep at him until the man told him everything, how he’d come to kill the woman, what he knew about him. Maybe even how he killed Murdoch Lancer. He looked behind. There he was, still too close for comfort. A good shot and the fellow could take him down from here. But he hadn’t even tried. Must be a lousy shot. 

So the rifle shot, when it did come, took him by surprise, had him slammed down on his horse’s neck at the same time he spurred him forward. He hadn’t been hit, hadn’t even seen where the shot went, but hearing it was enough. He’d gotten overconfident, sloppy. He hazarded a glance behind him, trying to see if the man was going to get off another shot. But the sorrel, skittering off to the side, looked riderless.

He pulled his horse up and swung him around, trying to figure out this change of events. The sorrel had calmed down and now stood uneasily. There was clearly no man on him. Was he on the ground, aiming his rifle at him? Johnny kept his horse moving, uncertain now if the man might be able to shoot well enough to put a leak in him.

He spotted the crumpled form on the ground right before he saw the figures rising to their feet on the bluff above. One of them called out, “What the hell you letting somebody follow you for?” Damn. Figg. That’s all he needed.

He trotted his horse back to the face-down man and sat staring, his gaze stuck on his back, before forcing himself to dismount.

“Lucky for you we saw this fellow following you!” Black Jack said as he and the rest scrambled down the hill. Black Jack looked like Figg, only even bigger and with an even blacker beard. At least he didn’t carry a quirt. “He done for?”

Johnny had his pistol drawn as he approached the fallen man. He felt all queasy and ripply, like important things were going fuzzy one second and stupid things were in too sharp a focus the next. His ears roared, but under the roar he could vaguely hear moaning. Johnny pulled the man’s gun from his holster, then pulled off his own bandana, the one he’d been using when setting the fire, then reached around the front of his head and gagged him tight from behind. The last thing he needed was for the blond to go mouthing off about the bounty. This bunch would sell their sisters for a bottle of whiskey.  He kicked him over. And felt the world go wavy again, this time like he was looking through a glass of water that wouldn’t hold still. Maybe it was the combination of black soot and red blood that colored the blond’s face, gave him a spooky kind of look.

“You gonna finish him?” Black Jack asked as he approached.

The man was groaning, reaching one hand up to cover part of his face, but blood still seeped between his fingers to meander down his blackened forehead, around one eye and across his cheek. More blood was coming out of his nose. As he watched, the man blinked open the eye Johnny could see and fixed it unsteadily on him. Johnny felt wavy inside now, dizzy. What the hell was wrong with him? He looked down at his hands, looking to see if he’d gotten any of the blood on them. He didn’t see any, but it was probably there. Blood was like that. Kept popping up all over the place. He started wiping them on his pants, juggling his gun, wiped his gun, too, but caught himself when he heard the man start to mumble through the gag. Probably trying to announce the bounty. And here he was playing with his stupid hands again, right when this fellow was about to get him hanged to death. 

Quickly kneeling next to him, he whispered, “You better shut that flytrap or you’re going to be fly bait.” He cocked his gun next to his sooty ear to make sure the man got the point. From the astounded look in his good eye, he did.

“Could be worth something in trade,” he said to Black Jack and Figg as he stood back up to face them. Pig Eye Sam was there, too, and Ethan and Efram, the brothers. He could hear more horses approaching.

“That ain’t your call to make, boy,” said Figg. “Just shoot him, we’ll all vouch it was self-defense.”

“You see, that’s where you got it wrong.” Johnny stepped between the man and Figg. “It is my call to make, and I ain’t gonna shoot an unarmed man.”

“No, that’s where you got it wrong.” Figg tapped his quirt against his leg, like he always did when he was trying to look tough. “You got no calls to make, because I’m the one in charge. You may have been the fastest around once, but the only thing you’re fastest with now is a bottle—and your mouth. Maybe you learn to shut both, you’ll be better off on all counts. Now move aside, or shoot him yourself.”

“I ain’t moving, and I ain’t—” Figg’s quirt hit him across the face, taking his breath away and making his eyes water uncontrollably as he flung his arms up. Or tried to. Before he could move, his arms were grabbed from either side, and his gun wrenched away. Somebody shoved him forward, and somebody else grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head back at the same time.

“You address me as Captain when you speak to me!” A punch to his gut sent his legs out from under him. He sagged, hanging from his arms that were still firmly pinned. Another blow smacked into his ear. “And you don’t sass me, boy!”

Johnny’s legs crumpled when the hands finally released him, the sides of his vision pushing in black.

“Shoot him,” he heard Figg say. He didn’t know which “him” he meant, but his fingers didn’t care, they took over his head anyway at the words, were already fishing the stick knife from his boot. His legs went along with the plan, pushing the rest of him up and forward to fall into Figg, and his arms obliged too, plunging the knife into Figg’s guts. Legs and arms and guts, the words swirled in Johnny’s head like something stupid tugging for his attention, just when he fucking needed it. He ripped his attention away, back to Figg just as they both thudded to the ground. He grappled for Figg’s gun, wrenched it away, rolled and aimed it at Black Jack, didn’t even wait to see how surprised he looked dead. That left Pig Eye Sam, Ethan, and Efram, the whole bunch who’d been hooting for Figg to finish off Johnny. They got real quiet as soon as Johnny swung his gun to point at Pig Eye. Least ways that’s what he figured had them hushed up. It wasn’t until he heard the click of a gun being cocked and heard the voice behind him that he figured out different.

“Let’s everyone play nice, boys, put ’em down.” Vom! It was Vom! Johnny smiled big, his gun still trained on Pig Eye.

“You, too, Johnny. Sorry.” Vom?

That was when he looked in Vom’s direction and saw the blond fellow. How the hell’d he get there? No, no he was still on the ground. Shit, he was losing his mind. But there he was, with Vom, along with some others.

With guns pointed right at him.

Chapter 39

Scott blinked, still trying to get his eyes to quit swimming in his head, still trying to make sense of things. Johnny gagging him, threatening him, as though he were his enemy. Talking of trades. Was he trying to protect him from these men? No, because he could just as easily have whispered to him to stay quiet, to play along, instead of telling him to shut his flytrap.

And while he knew Johnny could be violent, had seen it from a distance yesterday, he’d never seen the cold look of a killer in his eye until just now. He was glad for it, in a way, considering Johnny had saved his life from these men. Still, the glimpse he had into what his brother could be chilled him. As for the men, he assumed they were Johnny’s fellow guns, and that the dead man was their boss. Captain, he’d wanted Johnny to call him. Scott could have told the man that was a mistake.

Then there was the gray-haired man who held his gun aimed steadily at Johnny. The one Ian stood behind, smirking.

The one Johnny wouldn’t look at, even as he finally whispered, “Vom?”

“Sorry, Johnny. You screwed up once too often. Put the gun down.”

Johnny didn’t. He just kept aiming at the man they’d called Pig Eye Sam. Pig Eye had beads of sweat popping out all over his face, dripping into his beard.

“Boy, I know what you did. Knew it all five years I was in that prison. Now you’re gonna pay me back. Don’t make me wing you. Cuz you know I don’t give a damn what happens to Pig Eye there.”

Johnny turned to look at Vom, but ended up looking down. “Damn. I’m sorry about that, Vom, can’t tell you how sorry. You know it weren’t on purpose.”

“Yeah, I know. Still, wouldn’t of happened if you followed orders. Told you not to trust folk, and next thing I know, you spilling your guts to some little girl.” He took a deep breath and let it out shaking his head. “And now look—you trusted me, where’d it get you? When you gonna learn, boy? Put the gun down.”

“Wasn’t like that,” Johnny mumbled, but he dropped his arm and let his gun clatter to the ground. The men behind Vom immediately surged in to pin Johnny’s arms back. Ian strode forward and clamped cuffs around his wrists, careful not to get between Vom’s gun and their prisoner. Then he stepped in front of him, stared him in the eye, said he was going to pay for what he’d done to his mother, and drove his fist into his face. He followed with another, and another, hitting harder each time.

Scott tried to yell for him to stop, but could only manage to make noises through his gag. Ian was going wild, beating on Johnny, pounding him all over, cursing him, finally bending and retrieving Figg’s quirt and whipping him frenetically while Johnny tried to twist away. Scott staggered to his feet, but kept falling to his knees after only a step or two. The beating continued, Johnny finally sagging between his captors. Ian brought the quirt back to strike again, but this time it was wrenched from his grasp.

“That’s enough,” Vom said. “You’re paying a bounty for him alive, so he better stay that way until you pay up. Now where’s the money?”

Ian stood over Johnny, his sides heaving, then spit on him as he turned to walk toward Scott. He called over his shoulder, “You’ll get your money, dead or alive.”

***

He tried to get to Johnny but the guns shoved him back, reinforcing their point by pulling their pistols. He’d had to give up his gun. Damn, he felt like dog shit. It’s not that Johnny didn’t deserve a good beating. Hell, he’d have probably given him one himself if Figg and Ian hadn’t done it. Maybe two. One for letting this other blond fellow follow him, another for letting Figg get the drop on him. Difference was, Johnny wouldn’t be bleeding and unconscious after his beating. Hurting, hell yeah.  Really hurt, no.

Pig Eye and the rest of the boys had given up their weapons. Somebody had definitely screwed up. Word had been all of Fremont’s men were well away on errands. Obviously, not all of them.

The bounty man, Ian Sinclair, was helping the other fellow, who looked enough like him to practically be his brother. He’d eased his gag off and was telling him to take it easy, just stay still, but the new blond—Sinclair was calling him Scott—was pushing himself up and lurching over to Johnny. Vom stiffened. Johnny sure as hell didn’t need another beating, and if this fellow started on him, he didn’t know how he could stop him, not without his gun. Bunch of spineless bullies, punching on a trussed man just for the hell of it. It’d be one thing if they were trying to get information from him, but they were just being vengeful. That didn’t set well with him.

Damn, if he’d known that, maybe he wouldn’t have turned Johnny in. Hell, who was he kidding? Johnny was going to hang. Shit. Johnny had been his masterpiece, the greatest source of pride of his life. He’d taken a hungry kid from jail and made him into Johnny fucking Madrid. And now he was turning him back into jail, taking his creation and shattering it. First Deeter, now Johnny. Not to mention the ones who got killed before they ever made it. Now what did he have to show for all his work? Why the hell had Johnny pushed him to this?

He wished he could go to him, explain.

The Scott fellow was almost on Johnny, who lay there way too still. Vom stepped forward. “You gotta beat on somebody, whyn’t you find somebody who ain’t tied up? Beatings weren’t part of the bargain.”

“Your concern overwhelms me,” he said somewhat snootily, in Vom’s opinion. “Sounds to me as though he trusted you.”

Who the hell was this uppity cocksucker to talk to him like that? Damn, it hurt, though, because it was true. As much as he had lectured the boy, shown him how misplaced it was, Johnny still trusted him. Right now Vom felt like he’d sent a puppy to fetch a stick of short-fused dynamite. And this asshole was rubbing it in. “Mind your own fucking business,” Vom said.

The blond didn’t answer, instead practically fell on Johnny. Vom got ready to yell at him, but stopped when he realized the man didn’t appear to be hitting Johnny. Instead, he was speaking softly to him, calling out his name, telling him to wake up, it was him, Scott. The fellow even lifted Johnny’s head and tenderly cradled it, calling out for a canteen and cloth. Vom stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. No, no it sure didn’t make much sense at all. At least he didn’t think it did. As far as he knew, Johnny had always fancied girls.

That had been what led to the problem, to the fucking catastrophe that sent Vom to prison. That, and too much trust. He tried to tell himself he had no choice. If he hadn’t spent five years in prison he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Five years of hard labor and hard guards had taken a toll on his hands. They were knotted and arthritic. Another year, he wouldn’t be able to shoot at all. Without Deeter, he had no way to protect himself. He’d prayed Johnny would stay, but Johnny wasn’t the Johnny he used to know. He was distracted, addled. Undependable. He’d get them both killed. Vom needed to get out of the business, alive, but he’d never saved enough to retire on. Never figured he’d live long enough to retire. Sure, maybe he could clean stalls for the rest of his life, but even then, one day somebody would recognize him, somebody with a grudge. He needed to go east, where nobody knew him. And he needed money.

He needed that thousand dollars, bad. It was a mystery to him why it had taken him so long to trade Johnny for it. Maybe not a mystery, no, just a mystery how he’d let Johnny get to him like he had. Johnny was more than his masterpiece—he was in a way the son his profession had denied him. As much as Vom had lectured against forming attachments, making friends, he’d grown to have feelings—fatherly feelings, he guessed—for Johnny. He hadn’t turned him in, couldn’t just for the money. Not until Clive showed up this morning, telling him exactly how he’d torture and cripple first Deeter, who was apparently still around, then Vom, then Johnny.

Vom knew he was a damned coward. If his hands hadn’t been so fucking worthless he could have taken Clive out. He glanced up to the bluff above, where he knew Clive was watching, his rifle aimed and ready. And Clive’s hands weren’t worthless.

Chapter 40

He’d thought he was fine. Just a bump on the head from when his horse threw him. Last he’d remembered, he’d been worried about Johnny. Wondering if parents around here really named their children Black Jack and Pig Eye.

Next thing he knew, Ian was bending over him, telling him to stay down for sure this time, refusing to take no for an answer. Prying open his lids, pointing to one eye and getting Fremont to come see, both nodding. He vaguely remembered them mouthing “concussion,” then he just remembered bits of this and that.  Being helped to his horse, having to stop to vomit. That had been humiliating. As had having to be helped to mount. The excruciatingly slow ride back to Fremont’s. Ian riding beside him, reaching out to steady him as need be. Occasional glimpses of the gunfighters they’d captured. The gray-haired one, riding next to Johnny. Johnny, slumped forward, relying on the old gunfighter to catch him when he slid to the side. Ian, pulling Johnny off once they got to the ranch house.

Scott had protested, tried to jump off his horse and stop him, but managed only in flopping flat onto his face. Now it was dark, a single lamp burning low next to his bed. He darted his eyes around the room, gradually recognizing the fine lace and satin of the guest room he’d stayed in the previous night. He let his throbbing head sink back into the feather pillow, thankful for its cushioning.

“There you are,” a soft voice said in the dark. A woman moved closer, and he recognized Mrs. Fremont. “Let me get you some water.”

“Johnny?” At least that’s what he meant to ask, but it came out as a low rasp. He embarrassed himself by groaning when he sat up for the glass she offered. He drank hesitantly at first, unsure he could hold any water down. But the cool liquid felt so good in his mouth, he chanced it and drank more. “Thank you,” he whispered as loudly as his head would allow.

“We didn’t think you were quite up for formal dining, so I brought some light dinner up.”  She revealed a tray with soup, fruit, and dessert, helped him sit up and fluffed some pillows behind him. He thanked her again.

“Johnny? Is he alright?”

“Who?”

“Johnny, my—Johnny Madrid, the man Ian offered the bounty for. How is he?”

“The prisoner? I’m sure he’s being treated fairly.”

“No, no, I need to know. Please check.” It hurt his eyeballs to talk.

He winced from the slight pressure of her hand on his forehead, only then realizing he wore a bandage there. He should go check himself, but he wasn’t sure he could make it out of bed.

“We’ve sent for the doctor, but he may not be here until morning.”

“He’s hurt? What’s wrong?” He started to sit forward, felt the bed spinning.

“What? No, no, we’ve sent for the doctor for you. You have a concussion, young man, and that means you need the doctor’s approval before we can possibly allow you to get out of bed with a clear conscience.”

Scott laid his head back against the pillows, willing the bed to be still. No, he’d never make it to the door, much less to Johnny’s quarters. “Please find out how Johnny is for me.”

She shook her head. “You understand, my husband doesn’t expose me to such matters, but I will ask him to come up. He’ll want to see you anyway. And I know your brother is anxious to see you. Now you quit picking and eat your supper.”

Scott listened to her light steps fade down the hall as he forced himself to swish his spoon around in the soup. His head felt like somebody was stabbing it from the inside. He finally gave up, letting the spoon clatter to the tray.

Even the dim glow from the lamp made his eyes throb. He closed them, letting the soft sound of the falling rain outside lull him back to sleep.

***

The rain had started soon after they arrived at the ranch. Big, fat plops of water at first, pocking the dusty ground, until the drops came so close together the ground, and everything else under the sky, was drenched. The prisoners stood or sat shaking in the cold air, wet to the skin. Their captors had tied each one to a fence post while they themselves stood inside the barn and tried to decide what to do with them. They’d ignored requests from the prisoners for their oilskins.

Johnny didn’t look so good. He was slumped against his fence post, curled half on his side and shaking. He hadn’t said anything, even though most everyone else had been complaining, demanding their oilskins or to be let in the barn. But he was conscious, and it wasn’t anything that looked permanent. Vom had called to him, but he was several posts away, and Johnny didn’t respond. He might just be pissed off.

Vom wasn’t only worried and hungry and cold and miserable. He was disgusted. He was owed quite a bit of money, even if he was going to end up giving most of it to Clive. Nonetheless, this was a piss-poor way to treat the man who had delivered their thousand dollar prisoner. A piss-poor way to treat their prize prisoner, too.

Mr. Fremont had stayed only long enough to declare their kind wasn’t allowed inside his buildings, and suggest tying them to the fence. Ian Sinclair had told him the bounty money was in Morro Coyo, but he could get it wired to Wells Crossing. He’d hovered over the injured blond man, the one called Scott. That man was a mystery. He definitely seemed to know Johnny. That wasn’t always a good thing.  The peculiar part was that Scott got to go into the main house, with the proper folk. Then again, Fremont had been distracted by the gunmen earlier, seemed to purposefully look elsewhere when Sinclair had been beating on Johnny. He probably hadn’t picked up on Scott’s little exhibition. Vom wondered if that bit of information might prove to be worth something.

Light shone out through the ranch house door as it opened, then closed. Two figures sloshed across the yard toward the barn. As they approached he recognized them as Fremont and Sinclair. The men standing guard from within the barn stood to talk to them. After a while they splashed toward them, holding their hats against the wind.

Fremont spoke, raising his voice against the sound of the rain. “I expect you know you boys have caused me a lot of trouble. And now you’re still causing me trouble. You see, I could ride you over to Wells Crossing and get you locked up, on some charge or another. It’d be a nuisance, but I could do it. Or I could just shoot the bunch of you right here. From what I understand, you wouldn’t be missed. But then I’d have a bunch of bodies to dispose of. Again, a nuisance. Or, I could put you on my payroll, even pay you more than that bunch of squatters is doing, get this matter settled once and for all.” His smile was sincere looking enough to scare Vom. “There’s a hot meal signing bonus.”

As if there were ever a doubt. Efram, Ethan, and Pig Eye Sam were being marched into the barn within minutes.  They’d agreed to Fremont’s terms, which included serious consequences should any of them defect back to the other side. Vom knew there wasn’t any danger of that. They weren’t fighting for any cause except their own pockets.

They’d left him and Johnny. Leaving him was no doubt Deeter’s doing. He’d seen Deeter skulking around in the background. Too chickenshit to face him. He’d probably told Fremont that he couldn’t be trusted, not with Johnny being held. Idiot kid. Maybe he should let Clive get hold of him after all.

Vom was half surprised when they came for him and Johnny, but not so surprised when they left his wrists tied.

“I do truly apologize for your deplorable treatment,” Fremont said, offering him a towel once inside the barn “But you must understand, we must be cautious.”

He accepted it, rubbing his face and hair vigorously before looking up, expecting to see Johnny behind him. Instead, Sinclair was still out in the rain with him. He gestured toward them. “He need help with Johnny?”

“I understand your friend killed Mr. Sinclair’s mother,” Fremont said, pulling the barn door shut, muffling the sound of the rain. “No, I doubt he’ll need any help.”

Chapter 41

The lace curtains billowed slightly as the breeze flowed under them. Mrs. Fremont had opened the windows earlier, telling him the fresh air would help him feel better. That, and some scrambled eggs, strawberries, and biscuits with honey. The breeze did help. The rain, which had stopped some time during the night, had left the air cleansed. The food did not help. Still, he tried to swallow a few mouthfuls. The Fremonts had gone well beyond their duty in caring for him, something he’d remember when he got back to Lancer.

Ian hadn’t shown up yet, but Mrs. Fremont had assured him he’d been by to check several times during the night. He’d found it frustrating to ask her about Johnny. She clearly thought it was improper for her to speak of him, most likely because he was a gunfighter. So he was almost surprised when she finally answered one of his his queries as to his brother’s whereabouts, assuring him his brother was sleeping in a guest room. It was only then that he could allow himself to succumb to full sleep. Scott had thought about searching for Johnny’s room on his own, but his dizziness and nausea helped convince him that vomiting or passing out in the Fremont’s hallways would not be the mark of a good guest.

He stalled a bit more with his eggs, but finally some stuck to his fork and he had to take a mouthful. He nodded appreciatively as he tried not to gag. He felt awful.

***

He’d shouted himself hoarse. All it had accomplished was to get him shackled by his ankle to a post, hands tied behind him. The storm almost drowned out any sounds from outside, but not quite. Once in a while, he’d still heard thuds and groans over the roar of the pounding rain. About twenty minutes later Sinclair had come in, out of breath, complaining of needing a hot bath to get the Mex blood off him. Fremont jumped to accommodate him, both totally ignoring Vom’s pleas to bring Johnny inside.

He hadn’t heard anything more from outside, even when the rain quit. Even when he called out several times in the dark.

A rooster crowed outside the barn, and soon after, the door opened and allowed in a streak of gray light, along with two men dragging a limp form between them. Fremont and Sinclair took up the rear.

“Jesus! What the hell’d you do to him?”

“Chain him up in that stall,” Fremont ordered, pointing to one of the sturdy ones reserved for stallions. They flopped Johnny down, then locked one hand cuff to a ring on the wall, so his cuffed wrist hung, raised above his head, from the short chain.

“Vile Mexican creature,” mumbled Sinclair.

“Well, looks like you made him sorry,” Fremont said, placing his hand on Sinclair’s shoulder and shaking his head. “But I know it’s never going to make up for what he did to your mother. I have to be honest, I hate having scum like that even under my barn roof. Be glad when you take him with you.”

“Well, we’ll be getting him out of your way today. You know, we can take him back outside if you’d rather.”

“No, the doctor’s coming by to check on Scott soon. I’d rather not distract him.”

Vom looked at Johnny’s bruised face and otherwise pale skin. “Johnny’s the one who needs a doctor! What the hell’d you do?”

Sinclair looked at him disdainfully. “When we require your opinion we’ll ask for it. You’ll get your bounty money. That’s all you need concern yourself about.”

“That sounds like it could be him now,” said Fremont, striding to the barn door and looking out “Yep, it’s the doctor. Would you like to meet him?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll check our equipment, get things ready for the ride if you don’t mind. Perhaps I can help get our prisoner settled.” At that he smiled at Fremont, who smiled back and left to greet the doctor.

Sinclair turned to him. “If you make so much as a peep, you’ll be in need of medical attention yourself.”

Fuck the cocksucker. Vom peeped. He yelled, actually, right before he got hit in the head and gagged.

***

Mrs. Fremont cocked her head as though listening, right before Scott picked up on the voices downstairs. “That would be Dr. Morrow,” she said. “Let me show him up.”

The doctor proved to be a jovial man who immediately put Scott at ease. He prodded Scott’s wound, apologizing for making him flinch, and stared into his eyes for so long that Scott started to marvel at the tangle of hairs that made up the man’s eyebrows and sprouted from his nostrils.

“That pupil’s not right,” he said, cupping his hand over each of Scott’s eyes and pulling it away several times. “It’s sluggish compared to the other one.”

“What does that mean?” Mrs. Fremont asked.

“It means he has a concussion, definitely, and that he better stay in bed.” He was busy fishing a bottle from his satchel. “You hear that? Bed rest for you, son. Here, take this laudanum, because I’m sure you’ve got a headache to beat all there.”

Scott’s head hurt so much he gladly swallowed the vile tasting liquid. “I’m supposed to ride home today.”

“You’re not riding anywhere, unless you want to end up riding to the graveyard. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow, then we’ll see.”

“My brother—how is he? Have you seen him?”

The doctor looked to Mrs. Fremont, obviously confused. She answered for him. “He’s fine, Scott. He’ll be in to see you soon, I’m sure.”

“He’s here?”

“Why, yes, you know that. I told you. You’ve just been asleep when he checked on you.” She looked at the doctor. “I told him that earlier, several times.” The doctor looked concerned, but nodded.

“Wake me up next time, please?” Scott’s lids were drooping.

The western sun was streaming in the window the next time he awoke. It was with some relief that he realized he was alone in the room. Unfortunately, nature’s call was being rather insistent. Looking around the room, he spied the chamber pot pushed into plain view. No. He’d make it to the privy. Then he’d look up Johnny.

The room still spun when he sat up, but not as violently as before. He found his shirt, freshly laundered, on the dresser. His toiletries were laid out, so he also shaved and neatened his hair. As long as he was a guest here, he was going to look his best before he roamed the halls.

He almost groaned when Mrs. Fremont stuck her head in the door. It didn’t take her long to start guiding him back to the bed. He insisted he was better, and she finally relented, no doubt realizing he needed to visit the privy. He asked for his brother, and she left, saying she was going to go fetch him, but when she returned, it was with Mr. Fremont.

“I couldn’t find your brother,” she said, “but Martin’s anxious to see how you’re doing. Perhaps you two would like to get some fresh air.”

Scott found it curious they would let Johnny wander at will when he was supposed to be their prisoner, but perhaps he misunderstood. Mr. Fremont would no doubt be a better source of information. “He’s alright, then?”

“Your brother? Yes, yes, just fine.”

“Really? Because he didn’t look so good out at the bluff.”

Mrs. Fremont touched his shoulder lightly. “Well, that’s the truth. He was pretty worked up, but don’t worry, Ian’s just fine.”

Scott felt a numbness crawl up from his belly. He’d slept all day, thinking his brother was fine. He didn’t think of Ian as his brother, and in his state it just hadn’t occurred to him they did. Oh Jesus. He barely managed to croak out, “Where’s Johnny?”

“You mean Madrid?” Mr. Fremont shook his head. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to be hurting anybody soon. We’ve got him trussed up nice and secure in the barn, and your brother showed him the errors of his way.”

Scott pushed his way to the door, staggering on rubbery legs. “No! He’s my brother! Johnny!”

Fremont grabbed him, preventing him from falling. “Hold on, son! That concussion’s got you confused.”

“What’s the matter?” It was Ian, who had just climbed the stairs. He hooked Scott under the arms and helped prop him up. 

“It’s the concussion, I think, still has him mixed up. I’m not sure, but he acts like he thinks Madrid’s your brother or something. It could be the laudanum, too, maybe.”

Ian gently pushed Scott back to the bed. He curled his lip as though he smelled something bad.  “Madrid my brother? Hardly.”

Chapter 42

“Johnny? Goddamn it, Johnny, wake up, boy!”

Johnny did what he’d done all day in response. Nothing. That wasn’t quite true. He’d been shaking. Vom yelled again for somebody to come and tend to them. A ranch hand had come earlier and given them both buckets of water, untying Vom’s hands but not Johnny’s. He’d also given Vom a couple of blankets and a plate of decent food. The hand said Fremont didn’t cotton to gunfighters, didn’t even approve of sheltering them in his barn, but considering Vom had turned in Madrid, he would try to make him comfortable. He would make no such allowances for the prisoner, however.

After he’d left, Vom tried throwing both his blankets at Johnny, who was about fifteen or so feet away, but the best he did was to drape one partly over his leg. That’s why he’d been trying to wake him. If Johnny would just wake up he could pull both blankets over himself, maybe stop some of that damn shivering. Vom ate his beans, but saved his bread and anything tossable in hopes Johnny could eat it later.  Where the hell was everybody? The barn was deserted, apparently used more for storage than stock. 

He wondered why they hadn’t left for Morro Coyo yet. Sinclair had been all eager to get going earlier. Maybe he figured out Johnny couldn’t exactly ride now after he’d pummeled him. Damn cowardly piece of shit. Vom had always preached to his boys that you didn’t beat or kill just for revenge or pleasure. It wasn’t productive. Yet that sniveling Sinclair had done just that to Johnny. Beat a tied man until he was unconscious. Probably kept on after that, being that it was safer still. Well, two could play at that game. When he got loose, he might just have to break his own rule.

***

“No! Let me see Johnny!”

Both Ian and Mr. Fremont had pushed him back in bad. Mr. Fremont looked particularly concerned, and he’d called for Mrs. Fremont to go send a man after the doctor.

“I’m not confused! Johnny Madrid is my brother! Now I want to see him! Now!” He pushed himself up on his elbows but couldn’t manage any more unless he hit Mr. Fremont, something he doubted would do much to prove his mental stability. He laid back down and spoke as calmly as he could. “He’s really Johnny Lancer.  He’s my, our, half-brother.”

Fremont looked to Ian, who responded, “Madrid showed up, claimed he was a Lancer, and Scott always wants to believe the best in everybody. Unfortunately, this time it led to disaster.”

“There’s not exactly a family resemblance, son,” Fremont said to Scott. “Not like you two boys.”

“We’re all half-brothers, different mothers. Now where is he?”

Fremont arched his brow. “Far be it for me to say, but if your father had a dalliance with a Mexican, that doesn’t really count. A lot of men sow their oats south of the border—doesn’t mean they have to claim every Mexican bastard that shows up on their doorstep as family.”

He bit his tongue to keep from declaring which son was the bastard. Knew it was uncalled for. “Johnny’s not a bastard. His real name is Johnny Lancer. Please, just tell me how he is.”

Fremont let go of Scott and stood up straight, glancing at Ian.

Ian looked from one to the other, cleared his throat. “He got kind of banged up from that fellow they said was the leader there, Captain Figg I think, and he had a fall from his horse, but he’s doing alright. You’re the one we’re worried about.”

“I need to see him. Can you take me to his room?”

Fremont shifted his weight back and forth, looked a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, son, but you understand we don’t allow his kind in the house. Not what with the ladies and all.”

“I’m in full agreement,” Ian chimed in, nodding. “Mexicans can’t control themselves properly.”

“Well, I really meant hired guns, not to mention murderers, but you have a point there, too, I suppose.”

“Where is he?” It was all he could do to keep from yelling.

“Well, we couldn’t put him in the bunkhouse, because the hands wouldn’t appreciate that too much, so he’s in the old barn, the one we use for storage. No animals in there. He’s there with that old man that turned on him.”

Scott was already headed out the door. This time, nobody tried to stop him or help him.

*** 

He was outside of a huge hacienda. Men were riding by, walking by, nobody stopping. He ran from one to the next, telling them what his mama would do for their pesos, but they kept on. He was going to be in trouble unless he could find somebody soon. Finally he looked up to see a huge gringo towering over him. The man said he had money, lots of it, he would pay for her if Johnny came too, a thousand dollars for an hour of their time. Johnny couldn’t believe it, and he hustled to take the gringo to her room, but he couldn’t find it, the hallways were endless, and he couldn’t remember which one led to his mama’s room, and the gringo was getting impatient, and they kept opening door after door, until behind one there was a gringa, and the gringo went to her, they were pawing one another, and Johnny begged him to come back, that he’d find his mama’s room, but the gringo said he didn’t want a Mexican whore when he could have a gringa, and pushed him out and closed the door and left him alone in the hall with the tears threatening to well up. Ricardo was going to be mean, and Mama would cry when Ricardo hit him, and she’d cry when he hit her, and he still couldn’t find her room, and if he did, then how would he find his way back to the rich gringo? Somehow he was in a big room, and two blond men were there reading books, there were hundreds of books, and he tried to get them to pay for his mama, but they said something about vile Mexican whores, and then they started laughing, and suddenly Ricardo was there, but now they were in Mama’s room, and she was fucking that gringo after all, and the gringa was watching, and furry little animals, sort of like dogs but not, were running around, and they started biting him, and they were biting his mama, and the gringo wouldn’t get off her, and she was crying, the things were nipping at her, and the gringa was telling them to bite, and he knew there was something he should remember about her, but he couldn’t, and the things, they were dogs now, were biting, blood was everywhere and he tried to pull them off, he grabbed one that had her by the neck, and it wouldn’t let go and when he pulled it back it ripped her neck open, and he tried to stuff the pieces back together, but the blood wouldn’t stop, she was gurgling his name, reaching her hand to him, grabbing him and pulling him down, and the dogs were biting at him and all he could do was scream.

***

Scott had almost fallen in his haste to get down the stairs, across the yard, and to the barn Fremont indicated. Pulling open the door and stepping inside, he scanned the dark for his brother. He let his breath out with relief as he saw the figure sitting, knees drawn up, in the middle of the barn. It only lasted a second though, as his eyes adjusted to the dark and he realized the pants didn’t reflect light from any conchos, and the hair was too light. It was the older man.

“Where is he?” He pushed his way toward the man, still didn’t see Johnny.  He noticed the man gather his feet under him, but Scott just hadn’t expected him to launch himself at him, wrapping his arm around his neck. 

“You spineless asshole,” the man muttered as his arm tightened, right before Ian, who had been behind him, rushed up and punched the old man in the gut. Scott could feel the man’s breath let out in a whoosh at the same time his arm gave up its grip. He jumped away as the man fell to the ground.

Then he heard it, that harrowing half-scream only Johnny could muster in his sleep. Scott swung toward the sound, sucking in his breath at what he saw. At first he thought Johnny was waving, with his hand up in the air, but it took only a moment to realize his arm was hanging limply from a chained wrist. “Oh Jesus, Johnny...”

He knelt beside him, taking his head in his hands and shaking him gently, running a finger over the dried blood and purple bruises. Johnny was still murmuring, on the verge of another outburst. Scott pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dunked it in the bucket of water just as Johnny started to flail weakly. “Johnny! Wake up! Jesus, what happened to him?”

Ian looked uncomfortable, but before he could say anything Johnny began struggling. Scott doused him with more water and called his name more urgently. Finally his brother’s lids popped open, and the two stared wordlessly into each other’s eyes for several seconds.

Then Johnny really started to flail.

Chapter 43

It caught him off guard, but even when Johnny’s fist pounded his chest, it wasn’t with enough strength to do more than push him back momentarily. He’d been mostly hitting blindly, jerking his cuffed hand ineffectively against its chain. Scott wasn’t so much stunned by his blows as he was by the expression on his face—one he couldn’t decide was fear or hatred. Hatred, he decided. Right before Ian knocked Johnny on the head.

“Jesus!” Scott shouted, pushing Ian back. “What the hell’d you do that for?”

“He was attacking you!”

“He’s chained up! And he wasn’t exactly overpowering me. Jesus, Ian, he didn’t need that.” Scott bent over him, prying open one lid, half relieved he didn’t respond. Then he noticed his hand, the one hanging in the chain.

“Oh my God, quick, where’s the key?” The hand was swollen so much that the cuff bit into it. He hadn’t noticed it in the dark before. Scott tried to prop him against the wall, take some pressure off the cuff, but he kept sliding. He jumped up and grabbed Ian. “Where’s the damn key?”

“He has it.” The voice came from the old man. He was pointing at Ian.

“Uncuff him.”

“Scott, don’t be foolish,” Ian said, calmly unclenching Scott’s hands from his shirt. “He’s a prisoner, a murderer. My God, he just tried to escape! I can’t uncuff him.”

“If you don’t he could lose his hand.” Scott was trying to keep his voice calm, but it was only barely making it.

“Yeah, the hand he used to shoot my mother. Pardon me if I don’t rush.”

Mr. Fremont had walked over and was looking down at Johnny. “Although I agree with Ian in principle, I suppose he could be cuffed on the other wrist.”

Ian looked irritated, but said, “Fine, fine. Here’s the key.”

Johnny moaned as Scott manipulated the key in the lock and eased the cuff off.  The entire hand was swollen and purple. “What happened to his hand?” he asked, his voice cold. 

“I made sure he wasn’t going to ever hurt anybody again. Got the idea from that kid Deeter’s hand.”

The next thing he knew he’d barreled into Ian and shoved him against the far wall, pounding him against it over and over, as Fremont tried to pull him off.

***

“So, you queer for Johnny, or what?”

Vom had to give the Scott fellow credit for sticking up for Johnny, and especially for pummeling Sinclair. Now he felt bad he’d gone after him at first. He’d just confused him with Sinclair in the dark.  Scott was sitting over Johnny, trying to rouse him, even though Fremont had all but demanded Scott come back to the ranch house. Fremont had taken Sinclair to tend to his cut lip, cuffing Johnny by his other wrist before he left.

“He needs the doctor.”  Scott had already said that to Fremont, so Vom wasn’t sure why he was telling him. It wasn’t like he could go get him, what with his leg still chained.

“Yeah, good luck. Fremont ain’t getting no doctor for no gunslinger. Especially not to fix his gun hand.” He leaned back against the post and let his eyes half close, slitting them open enough to keep an eye on the blond. “Us hired guns, we’re just tools for folks like Fremont to use when they need us, then spit on when we done their dirty work. How it always is.”

“Who did this to him? That Figg fellow couldn’t have done it. Where was Ian, or Fremont?”

“Well, I’d say Figg did some, your friend Ian did some, then Ian did some more. A lot more. Fremont was in here, chaining me up, but he knew what was going on.”

Scott looked at him as though he didn’t quite believe, then lifted Johnny’s lids to examine his eyes. “Johnny, can you hear me? It’s Scott. Wake up.”

“I been calling him all day. Only thing woke him up was one of his dreams.”

Scott was quiet for a while, before tapping his fingers and asking, “What do you know about his dreams?”

“What? No, he was just sleeping restless, probably from getting hit in the head.” He hadn’t meant to let slip one of Johnny’s secrets.

Leaning back on his heels, Scott finally turned his full attention to Vom, scrutinizing him until he felt like a side of beef gone bad. “Are you the one they call Vom?”

He nodded. “Yep. What of it?”

Scott was still looking at him like he was a turd on china. “The one who turned a little kid into a gunslinger?”

“Which little kid...You mean Johnny?” He couldn’t help but speak with pride. “Yeah, yeah, Johnny Madrid, I made him what he is today.”

Scott gestured down at Johnny, his hand lingering on his arm. “What he is today is on his way to face a murder charge! Congratulations!”

“What he is today is alive for ten years more than he would have been if I hadn’t saved his butt—and I do mean saved his butt—in a jail cell, hadn’t given him his first goddamn meal in days, hadn’t given him something in life he was good at!” Jesus, Vom detested righteous assholes like this stupid cocksucker. He wondered what the blond’s interest in Johnny was. Actually, he was getting a pretty good idea. “And just so we’re straight, Johnny ain’t queer, so don’t go getting any ideas while he’s passed out there. I seen you feeling of him.”

“I beg your pardon, I’m checking for injuries! I can assure you I have no... I, well that’s absurd! He’s my brother!”

Vom raised an eyebrow. “That a fact? Yeah, you know, I don’t know how I missed that before. Like goddamn twins, the two of you.”

“Different mothers. Same father. We’re both Lancers. Or didn’t he ever mention his real name?”

“Oh, he mentioned the name Lancer, but he wasn’t about to wear it. Never mentioned a brother.”

“He didn’t know about me...we didn’t know about each other until a few months ago, when our father sent for us.”

“He still ain’t never mentioned a brother.”

He could almost swear the Scott fellow looked hurt. Thing is, he couldn’t figure out what his game was.

***

He wasn’t sure if he was dizzy from fighting with first Vom, then Johnny, then Ian, on top of his concussion, or just from looking at all the damage done to Johnny. Either way, he felt like he was going to keel over. He fell back against the stall wall, his hand resting on Johnny’s leg.

Vom’s assertion that Johnny had never bothered to mention him didn’t help matters. Had he really meant so little to his brother that Johnny didn’t see fit to mention him? Assuming this Vom had really been so important in Johnny’s life as that kid Deeter claimed, it just seemed peculiar.

“You really knew Johnny when he was a kid?”

“Hell, I’m closest thing to a pappy the kid ever knew.”

“Johnny has a father.”

“You mean Lancer? Oh yeah, some father. He told me all about him.” He shook his head.  “Never knew a kid so full of hate for somebody he’d never met. I always figured the main reason the boy got so good with a gun was to get ready to gun that son of a bitch down.”

The words hit Scott like a rotten tomato. Yes, Johnny had alluded to not caring about Murdoch, to perhaps even resenting him, that first full day back at Lancer, but to hate him like Vom claimed? To think of gunning for him? If that were the case, maybe the wonder was that it had taken him five months to finally attack him. No, that was nonsense. “He never knew him, not until this year.” 

Johnny moaned and moved a bit. “Johnny? Come on Johnny, wake up. It’s me, Scott.”

“Get up, boy!” called Vom. Johnny slumped back down, quiet. Vom stared at him a few seconds, then turned his attention back to Scott. “He knew he kicked him and his mama out, made it so she had to whore down on the border to feed ’em both.”

“He told you that?” Johnny had never told him much of anything about his childhood, although Murdoch had hinted at some things that were in the Pinkerton report. And apparently, she’d ended up in that situation because of Murdoch’s affair with Florence. Maybe Johnny did have reason to hate Murdoch. Florence, too. Damn. “So do you know what happened to his mother?”

“Know she was killed. Don’t know how or why—them’s topics always sure to make him clam up. Just know she got dead when he was ten.”

“Was that when you took him in?”

Vom raised one brow. “I thought you said you was close to him. What the hell you trying to pull?”

“I am! It’s just...well, he just always changes the subject when it comes to his childhood. I thought maybe if you knew him then...” The other man narrowed his eyes. Scott gave an exasperated sigh. “Listen, neither Johnny nor I grew up with our father. I was raised in Boston, I guess he was in Mexico, but our father sent for both of us last spring, and we’ve both been living at Lancer since then. And, and Johnny, well, the two of us have become quite close since then.”

Scott noticed Vom’s gaze on his hand, still resting on Johnny’s leg. He snatched it away.  “As in close like brothers.”

“Uh huh. Funny all the time he’s been back with me he didn’t mention any of that. You sure you don’t want to change that story, boy?”

Scott pushed himself to his feet, strode over to Vom and stood looking down at him. “Listen! I’m not the one who sold him out! Remember that, next time you want to compare family values!”

The old man glared at him, then spoke icily. “You’re the one who came here looking to bring him in. So don’t preach to me about family values.”

Chapter 44

“I just don’t like seeing you gettin’ taking advantage of, Mr. Sinclair. That’s all. It ain’t right, not what with that bein’ your dear mother and all.”

Ian tapped his fingers on the veranda railing, pondering this new information. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I ain’t got no reason to lie,” Deeter said, rubbing his bandaged hand.  “I mean, I always got along good with Vom. That’s why he told me what he and Johnny done. They killed your mama together.”

“And you’re just now disclosing this because of what, a pang of conscience?”

“It just ain’t right, Vom not only gettin’ clean away with murderin’ a woman, but now her own son payin’ him. That don’t sit right with me.”

“Why would he do that? He didn’t even know my mother.”

“Johnny. Him and Johnny, they’re real knit, been together since forever. Vom, he’s the one taught Johnny gunfighting. He’d do just about anything Johnny asked.”

“Then why did he turn him in?”

“They had some kinda fallin’ out. I heard ’em, right before I left camp and come here. Besides, that’s a lot of money. Johnny did it, but Vom helped. How else you think Johnny got away? Why you think they’re back riding together?”

Ian gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.

***

Scott smeared salve on the last of Johnny’s cuts. He’d asked Fremont for some medical supplies, and thankfully his host had supplied them without any lectures about gunslingers. The problem was, Scott was no doctor, and Johnny needed more than salve and bandages. He was still out of it, occasionally thrashing and moaning, refusing to join the real world. The hand worried Scott the most; he knew how upset Johnny would be over his gun hand, and although he realized, given what the future held for his brother, how foolish that was, it upset him too. Besides, there was no reason to make him uncomfortable, and there was still a trial to go through before his fate was determined.

A trial? Who was he kidding? Who else could have killed Florence? Johnny had blamed her for breaking up his parents’ marriage, justifiably so as it turned out, and he’d left that wedding in a rage, according to Jelly. Murdoch hadn’t said it in so many words, but it was clear he was distraught about what Johnny had done. And now Vom had said Johnny had wanted to kill Murdoch since he was a little kid. Then there was the missing money, traced back to Johnny’s ledger entries. Was it possible the brother he’d known for almost half a year had been living a lie? What did he really know about Johnny, about his past? 

He needed more answers from Vom, but the man obviously didn’t trust him. He’d been overseeing Scott’s bandaging from a distance, occasionally telling him he was doing something wrong, but otherwise just glaring. Scott had been too angry at the man himself to try conversing any more, but this behavior obviously wasn’t getting him any answers.

“Listen, um,” he started, then checked to make sure his hands weren’t anywhere Vom could get the wrong impression. “I came with my other half brother, Ian, because Ian hates Johnny for what he did to his mother. I thought maybe I could protect him, Johnny that is, maybe give him some moral support at least.”

The man just stared, his expression closed.

“The thing is, I care about him. He’s my brother, and I hate what he did, but I can’t help worrying about him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

Scott wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but just now, he wasn’t so sure. “Then tell me what I’m missing. Tell me why he killed Ian’s mother.”

Vom gave him a disdainful look. “That ain’t hard. He’s a killer. And a damn good one.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“You just want to claim the good parts, stay blind to what you can’t handle, that ain’t knowing somebody.”

They both stopped as Johnny stirred. Scott refreshed the wet cloth around his hand as he urged Johnny to wake up. Johnny started to mumble something Scott couldn’t make out at first, but then realized he was calling for Vom.

Vom shrugged, called to Johnny that he was there and to wake his ass up, which seemed enough for Johnny to drift back off.

“So, “Scott asked, “how is it you and Johnny happen to have found each other after, what, months? Years?”

Vom still watched Johnny as he replied. “Years. I ain’t seen him since he was 15 or so.”

“So he was with you for five years? Why’d he leave?”

Now he looked back at Scott. “Five years? No, more like two or so. Found him in a jail, about to get himself butt fucked, so I—”

“What?”

“What’s the problem? We was both in this jail...”

“He was what, 12 or 13? What was he doing in jail at that age? And why was he in with men who could, well, men like that?”

“You really don’t know a damn thing about your so-called brother, do you? Listen, a halfbreed Mex kid down around the border, he’s gonna spend a lot of time in jail, chances are, with all sorts of men. He ain’t gonna get many handouts by Mexes or whites, he ain’t gonna get many jobs, either, least not ones where he ain’t bending over, if you know what I mean. The way he was fighting in that cell, I didn’t get the impression that was how he was eating, so that leaves stealin’, and that’s what he was in jail for.” Vom chuckled. “I reckon he got tired of the small stuff, cuz it came out he tried to run off with a watermelon from the market, found out he couldn’t run so fast like that. Stupid kid told me he’d just grabbed it because it was the biggest thing there and he was real hungry.” Vom shook his head, grinning slightly. “You know, I went and bought the kid a watermelon a few weeks later, after I found out he’d never had one, never even got to taste the one he got caught with.”

“Oh.” He was at a loss for how to respond.

“So, yeah, I fed that boy, and I taught him a trade. And yeah, that trade was killing, and if you gotta problem with that, then you gotta problem with Johnny being alive.”

Scott thought perhaps a subject change was in order. “Well, if you were such a wonderful teacher for him, why did he leave you when he was only 15?”

Vom sighed, looked at his lap for a moment before speaking. “Johnny fucked up. He got me sent off to prison.”

“What? Is that why you turned him in, to get even, on top of the bounty?”

He looked at Scott with clear disgust. “"No. I was gonna punish him in good time. We all gotta pay for our mistakes. But I don't do revenge. And it was a mistake, one I shoulda seen coming. I told him to stay away from nice girls, their kind’s off limits for our kind, pretty girls and gunfighters don’t mix, but he got his eye caught on this pretty little town girl, doctor’s daughter, I seen him making eyes at her, sneaking off with her a time or two. Shoulda put my foot down.”

Scott couldn’t help but to smile. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Vom chuckled again. “Yeah, maybe you do know him some. Boy had a bad soft spot for the girls, always wanting the ones he couldn’t touch.” He looked at Scott pointedly. “At least, he used to. Anyway, we was there on a job, I got myself pretty shot up, sent Johnny to scrounge some supplies to fix me up, instead he gets this girl to give him some medicine from her daddy’s stock. The boy knew better than that; I can’t count the times I told him you don’t trust nobody, not even your mama, for sure not some gal. Problem was, it weren’t exactly what you’d call a real legal job we was on, and her daddy found out what was going on, told the sheriff, tracked Johnny to me. That part come out at the trial. Kid was gonna shoot it out with a whole posse, ’til I threatened to shoot him myself and made him ride out with some cock and bull story on how he could save the day. Might of worked, actually, but it didn’t.”

“I see. So that’s the last you saw of him?”

“No, the idiot kid showed up on the trail, tried to shoot up the prison wagon and bust me out, I guess, just ended up getting hisself shot instead. Last I seen of him his horse had run off and he was rolling around in the dirt grabbing at hisself. Guards just left him, reckon they figured him for dead or too close to it have to cart around. Then when I was in prison I started hearing about my Johnny from new prisoners coming in, Johnny Madrid making a name for hisself, and I knew he made it afterall.”

Vom looked like he was going to say something more when the barn door swung open. Ian and Fremont walked in, Ian striding over to Vom and looking down at him. “I understand you and Johnny are close.”

Vom didn’t answer.

“Exactly how did you two happen to be riding together here?”

Again, just an indignant stare.

Ian placed his hands on his hips and leaned over Vom. “Here’s the thing. I spoke to a young man who makes a pretty convincing case for you helping Johnny murder my mother. So once again, where were you?”

“Where was I when?”

“You know when! This is not a game, so you might as well know, you’re staying chained up and you’re going back with us until I find out the truth!”

“Had to go back anyway to get my money, remember? You didn’t bother bringing it.”

“You’ll remain my prisoner, and stand trial right along with Madrid. We’ll see about any bounty!” Ian whirled and headed for the door.

“What,” he called, “you ain’t gonna beat on me while I’m tied up like you did Johnny?”

Chapter 45

“Goddamn it, Deeter, you think you might try and miss one hole in this road?” The front wagon wheel climbed back to the surface, sending Johnny and Vom lurching to the side, just before the rear wheel clunked down into the same hole, throwing them back. Vom was pretty sure Deeter must be aiming for the deepest holes he could find. No road was this bad.

The little shit didn’t answer. Probably so scared to face him after what he’d done that his balls were lodged in his throat.

At least Scott had gotten some straw for Johnny to lie on. Ian had just planned to dump him in on the bare wagon bed. Not that the straw did much good. Johnny still moaned with every bump. And Deeter, driving the wagon, probably liked that.

He couldn’t figure the Scott fellow out. Claiming to be Johnny’s long lost Lancer brother was a new one. The thing was, it was so ludicrous he couldn’t imagine someone with half a brain making it up, and Scott seemed to have at least that. Vom still wasn’t totally dismissing the notion that Scott was queer for Johnny, but as far as he knew, Johnny’s eyes, and other parts, had only been focused on the girls. True, he’d known some men to become more open-minded during prison stays, but Johnny hadn’t mentioned being in prison, and Scott didn’t seem the prison type. But why hadn’t Johnny mentioned him? Why keep him a secret unless he wasn’t a brother at all?

Vom squinted up at the sky. The clouds had surrendered, leaving no defense against the sun’s heat. He fished a cloth out of the water bucket Scott had provided, and slapped it on Johnny’s forehead, already glistening with too much sweat. Johnny stirred again, his chains rubbing hollowly on the wagon bed’s planks. Scott had also managed to have them stop in the town of Hardpan on their way out, buying some leg irons from the sheriff to replace the uncomfortable wrist shackles. Not that either was exactly wonderful, but at least they didn’t have one arm stuck to one spot.

He heard a horse trotting up beside him, followed by Scott’s voice. “How is he?”

“Oh, dandy, just fuckin’ dandy.” 

“Listen, I don’t care what you think, I’m on Johnny’s side. I’m doing what I can for him.”

Well, he supposed that was true. It wasn’t like anyone else in this party was exactly bending over backward for him. Ian Sinclair was itching for an excuse to beat on either one of them, and Deeter, the little butt licker, would be sure to help hold them down.  Ethan and Efram, who had been hired by Sinclair to help guard, would do whatever they got paid to do, and as far as he knew, Sinclair was the only one with money. He checked out Scott’s saddle and horse more closely than he had earlier. Fancy, all fancy. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the same little Lancer L on it that was on Johnny’s saddle. If Scott really was a Lancer, and it looked like he probably was, he might have money, too.

“His fever’s worse. The boy needs a doctor, sure don’t need to be thumping around in this wagon, not in this heat.”

“I know, I know. That doctor in Hardpan must have taken lessons from Fremont. He said he didn’t work on hired guns.”

“He wouldn’t fix my hand, either!” called back Deeter, holding up his bandaged hand to show Scott.

“Good!” Vom spat. “Remind me to bash your face in next time, break your jaw so you shut your mouth.”

Scott looked from one to the other, shrugged, and continued, “I’m hoping we can find a doctor to look at him in the next town.”

Vom shaded his eyes as he looked up at him. “I can’t figure you, Lancer, if that’s really who you are. If you care so much about his health, how come you’re helping take him to get his neck stretched?”

Scott didn’t answer, after a while slowing his horse so he rode near the rear of the wagon, where Vom, Johnny, and Deeter’s horses were tied. Vom pushed himself back to where he was. Scott finally spoke quietly, saying, “I followed him that day to talk to him, find out what happened. And convince him to ride away.”

***

It was dusk when they rode into Waycross, so most of the shops were already closed up and half the lanterns were glowing, sending an orange haze through the gray. Ian called to a boy who was lighting a lantern in front of the Grand Waycross Hotel, asking directions to the livery and sheriff’s office. Scott asked him where the doctor’s office was.

The boy had pointed left for the sheriff’s office and right for the doctor, and Ian directed Deeter to the leftward direction.

“Wait a minute,” Scott said. “The doctor is this way. We need to go there. Either that, or get a room and send somebody for him.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Scotty. Getting our prisoners a nice secure room at the local jail.”

“What? There’s no reason they can’t stay in a hotel room! I’ll share with Johnny, keep an eye on him. Deeter can watch Vom.”

“I don’t know what sort of establishments you’re used to frequenting, brother, but I would have thought they would be at least as nice as this one, and I seriously doubt that even the fine Grand Waycross Hotel would welcome shackled guests.”

“Exactly who put you in charge, Ian? Just because you’re paying a bounty doesn’t mean you own my brother.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t think of a better reason to demand he stay in a secure cell than my paying out a thousand dollars, can you?”

The boy rushed inside the inn, the ornate but chipping door left open behind him. The Grand Waycross Hotel was a step above what you usually found in small towns, but not exactly high society.

“This is ridiculous. Johnny’s feverish, and he needs a good bed and medical attention. Nobody needs to know. We can walk them in without shackles. Johnny’s certainly in no danger of running off, if that’s your concern.”

“The jail has a bed better than what he’s been sleeping on, and you can send the doctor there. There’s no way I’m taking shackles off murderers in a public place. It’s not safe. We have a responsibility.”

The inn door burst the rest of the way open, a heavy man wearing a burgundy vest standing in the doorway, the boy peeking out from behind him. The man craned his neck as he studied the wagon. “Gentlemen, may I assume you plan to spend the night with us?”

“Yes, some of us,” Ian answered before Scott could say anything.

“All of us,” Scott added firmly.

“Wonderful! You’ll find our accommodations extremely comfortable.” He paused, twiddling his fingers momentarily, clearing his throat. “However, if you are considering housing prisoners here, please reconsider. We are not a jail, nor are we a flophouse. Our clientele cannot be exposed to that sort.”

“I assure you, we have no such intention, sir,” Ian answered. “We are just now headed for the jail to house them. We’ll be back once we’ve taken care of that matter. Meanwhile, could you have baths drawn for two of us? The hands will be staying at accommodations more suitable to their station.” Turning to Deeter, he ordered him to take the wagon to the jail.

Deeter clucked to the horses without his usual enthusiasm as he set them in motion. Scott kicked his horse over to Ian, who had already taken the lead. “You’re making the hands stay somewhere else?”

“That’s what they’re used to. I mean, Scott, these are all gunslingers, in case you hadn’t noticed. Fremont was right. You don’t put them up in nice places. There’s probably some rooms over the saloon, or the livery will give them a stall. Besides, I’m not made of money.”

“Just how are you paying for all this?”

“My stepfather left me some money. And to be quite honest, I’m assuming Murdoch will want to reimburse me for part of it, once he gets better. By the