Scott’s Journal 

Journal Entry for June 6, 1870

Monday, Monday

I was reminded again today that for all I have learned I still don’t know very much about my brother’s history. He is remarkably reticent when it comes to discussing it, or indeed, anything about himself. Nor is our father any more forthcoming. Fortunately, I’ve always enjoyed a challenge, because it seems that getting to know my sibling is going to be very like assembling a jigsaw puzzle. The difference being that here all the pieces are hidden, and I have to dig them out before I can fit together the picture. It’s going to require determination (read Lancer stubbornness) and vigilance, because I never know when or where another piece might appear.

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Mondays would be much more enjoyable if they didn’t follow directly on the heels of Sunday. Today is Monday and unfortunately it is suffering greatly by comparison with yesterday’s day of rest.

Sunday, at least my Sunday, was taken up with church, socializing, meeting the neighbors and catching up on the San Francisco and Denver papers, which, by the way, are at least a week old by the time they arrive here. On Sunday there is time to read a good book, nap in the sunshine or take a walk in the meadow.

In any case, Sunday does not involve being covered in mud from head to foot, which unfortunately is exactly how this particular Monday started.

The day began well enough. The weather was pleasant, just a few puffy clouds in a brilliant blue sky. I had a good horse beneath me and a challenging list of tasks to accomplish, a recipe for a satisfying and productive day. Then I saw the cow.

She was brown and white and not particularly attractive and she was belly deep in the mud. To make matters worse, she had a new calf following after her that wasn’t going to get its breakfast until someone dragged the cow out of the mire. Being the only one present, it seemed that I was elected.

I shook loose my rope, apologized to my horse and began the task.

Forty-five minutes later, the exhausted cow was out of the muck, lying on her chest at the edge of the slough, panting heavily. My horse was less than happy with my handling of the situation and I, I was half buried in the oozing mud where the calf had knocked me down and run over me in its anxiety to rejoin its mother. When I finally managed to drag myself out of the mire and convince my horse that we really did need to resume our partnership, the cow and calf were disappearing over the hilltop and I was mentally cataloging the advantages of a return to civilization.

By the time noon rolled around, I had a short temper, a sore foot, and mud drying in places where mud had no right to be. The only good thing I could see about the day so far was that I was close enough to the hacienda for a good lunch and (praise be) a change of clothes.

As I topped the hill that overlooks the main ranch, a flash of gold announced the presence of my new brother. He had just been released for light duty after being injured in the fight against Pardee and I was surprised to see that Murdoch had allowed him out on his own. Then again, I thought as I approached, I doubt that Murdoch actually had.

Johnny sat his horse in the shade of a huge old oak, leaning on the pommel of his saddle and staring intently down at the buildings below. I drew up beside him and looked to see what had caught his eye. Nothing that I could see would seem to merit such rapt attention. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence so I leaned back to wait. I’ve found over the last few weeks that I can often get more information if I wait than I can if I question him.

Often, mind you, but not always. Just as I was about to give up and ask what he was looking at, he spoke.

“It’s Monday.”

“Yes,” I said carefully,  “that was my impression too.”

The corner of his mouth quirked a bit but his attention never wavered. “I’m gettin’ to like Mondays.”

I rolled my eyes, sighed and reminded myself that while he might talk, I should never have assumed that he would actually communicate. “And what is it,” I asked, “that makes Mondays so special?”

He finally looked at me and I saw his eyes widen as his gaze swept from my mud-encrusted hair to the bottoms of my stiff and filthy trousers. A strange noise escaped from his nose then transformed itself into a strangled cough.

“Don’t say a word,” I hissed.

He pulled his hat down further over his eyes and after a deep breath and a moment to collect himself, he indicated the scene below with a jerk of his chin. “That’s what’s special.”

“That, what?” I snapped.

“It’s wash day.” He carefully refrained from looking at me again.

This time when I looked I noticed the laundry pegged out on the lines, swaying in the breeze from the hill. I studied the area for a moment more and then looked at him and shrugged. “So”?

I suppose he finds me almost as frustrating as I sometimes find him because he shook his head and sighed. “It’s wash day,” he repeated. “Tonight there’ll be fresh sheets, all crisp and cool and smelling of lavender. Happens every Monday.” He paused a moment and shook his head. A brilliant smile broke over his face. “Ain’t that just the damnedest thing?”

He put his heels to the palomino’s sides and then with a whoop, he bounded down the hill toward lunch and the wonder of laundry.

I was left sitting on the hill holding one more piece of the puzzle with absolutely no idea where to fit it in.