May 2002-March 2003

 

Email: lewiethecat@yahoo.com and diana1187@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 for violence and language (some scatological terms, some cuss words, some oaths that some readers may consider blasphemy). Heck, don’t read this if you’re not grown-up enough to stop reading if you find something you don’t like.

Credits: Many thanks to Geraldine, Cat and Amy for beta work above and beyond the call of duty. Other thanks and credits appear at the end of the piece.

Disclaimers: The usual. 

A note from Diana:

    Jeanne (Lewie) began posting this story in May of 2002. She drew me into working with her first as a beta and then, by Part 4, as plot meister and  co-writer. Our collaboration continued through to Chapter 14, when health problems forced Lew to withdraw. With her blessing, I picked up the reins and drove our buckboard back to the barn.

    The true “trade off” of this piece, then, is ours. We were two women, strangers to one another, living in two  different countries, on opposite coasts of the continent, who came together to write and have a wonderful, madcap time. Because Trade-Off was a collaborative effort, and because it was written in installments as a WIP for the Yahoo Lancer groups, readers will find a number of bumps and clunks and inconsistencies .Oh yeah, and not a few confusing POV shifts. But rather than try to smooth out everything for this, our final copy, I’ve opted to mostly leave things as they were originally written.

~*~

Part I

Chapter 1

 Carlos Suarte tried to get the story told, but he was nearly dancing in his excitement. "Señor Avante, I recognized one of them. Reconoci uno de ellos.  The one who shot the kid. El pistolero."

Jason Avante had just about had it with the nearly hysterical stage driver. He was tired of standing out in the sun trying to piece together a coherent story about the daring stagecoach robbery that had left one man dead and $30,000 in the hands of the two surviving outlaws.  The driver kept slipping back and forth between languages, almost apoplectic with remembered panic. Information was pouring out of his mouth, but nothing of value was being said. Trying to get what he needed out of the man was like hauling water up a mountain without a bucket. And Avante had a very good reason for being impatient at that moment, though he was not about to share that reason with the stage driver.

"So who was he?" Avante said for the third time, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable. Calm and reasonable were about to run out.

The man was windmilling his arms to punctuate his outpouring of words. "El pistolero! Yo lo vi en Nogales. The gunfighter. In Nogales... I saw him in Nogales. He killed three men right there in the street. Alone! Three men! Dead in a second’s time. Mi Dios. Three men..."

"His name!"

Suarte stared at him for a moment as if he was either insane or just plain stupid. "Johnny Madrid. I saw him, Senor. It was Johnny Madrid. He killed his own man in cold blood. I saw him. Mi Dios. Then he... and the other man... they just ride off. They leave him there, bleeding in the dust."

‘Finally!’ thought Avante.
 

* * *
 

"I am NOT eating one more bite of that... that gachas you call stew!"

Scott Lancer glanced up at his irate brother, trying to make out his features in the dimming light. He was tired of his own cooking, too, but that was no call to insult his efforts. "Do I even want to know what gachas means?" he asked dubiously.

Johnny stared back at him for a heartbeat, then white teeth flashed in a grin. When Johnny Lancer smiled at you, you smiled back. It was inevitable. And he had an entire repertoire of smiles: sweet, shy, feral, conspiratorial and disarming. This was his disarming special and Scott found himself grinning back.

Probably not, Scott," he admitted, then with a weary shrug of his shoulders said, "I think I spotted some rabbit warrens about a mile back. Maybe I should go get us some real food?"

Exasperated, Scott got to his feet, temporarily abandoning his culinary efforts in light of this new idea. "Come on, not even Johnny Madrid can shoot rabbits in the dark. Give it up. Unless you want to cook?" With an exaggerated look of dawning horror, he amended, "Forget I said that. I want to get back to the ranch alive."

"Hey!" His sensibilities offended, Johnny turned back to his horse and hauled the rifle from the saddle scabbard, absentmindedly checking the load. "I’m not that bad. I lived on my own cookin’ for a few years you know."

"Yeah, and you’re lucky you’re alive to tell the story."

Sliding the rifle back into place, Johnny checked the palomino’s cinch, the horse sidestepping him as if protesting at the thought of his rider getting back in the saddle after hours on the trail. "I don’t see why we couldn’t have spent a little of that steer money on somethin’ decent to eat," he complained as he dropped the stirrup back into place and leaned his shoulder against Barranca’s side. I mean, it ain’t like Murdoch wants us to starve on the trail back home.”

Shaking his head, Scott squatted beside the fire again, poking a finger at the pot to see if it was warm enough to drink yet. "Ouch!" Oh, yeah, it was hot enough.

Johnny laughed. "Stick it where it don’t belong, brother, and it’s bound to get burned."

Pouring out two cups, Scott agreed, "And you should know, little brother. You of all people should know."

Pushing off from his horse, Johnny strode over to the fire and took the offered cup. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it." Scott took a long swallow of hot coffee. It tasted good; the air had taken on a nip of chilly dampness.

Johnny dropped to a squat across from him. "Gonna storm soon. We’re gonna get soaked." His voice had taken on that needling complaining tone that sometimes grated on Scott’s nerves. "Don’t see why we couldn’t’a taken a night or two off and stayed in Stockton, seen some of them sights you’re always on about in the big city. Murdoch wouldn’t have minded."

"Murdoch would have eaten us for breakfast if we dragged our feet getting this money back to the ranch and you know it."

Another self-satisfied smile lightened Johnny’s face. "We done good, didn’t we? The old man’s gonna be impressed."

Scott didn’t want to abort that smile by such mundane facts as the cost of ranching versus the small profit margin on the beef sale. They didn’t see nearly enough of that smile, that almost childish delight that took the hardness out of his younger brother’s face. "Yeah, Johnny, he’s going to be impressed."

"Then why couldn’t we have stayed in town for a while?"

"I just told you why."

"Yeah." Johnny tossed back the last of the coffee, and sat back on the ground. "I don’t think Murdoch has any concept whatsoever of what the hell fun is. You reckon he was always that responsible?"

It was Scott’s turn to laugh. "I suppose he was. Besides, brother, the rest of us HAVE to be responsible just to counterbalance you."

Scott’s comment did not have effect he had intended. Johnny suddenly tensed and jolted to his feet, pacing a few steps away in unexplained anger. "I think I been damn responsible this past year, Boston."

"Hey, relax, Johnny. I was just kidding."

Johnny turned back to look at his brother, the anger draining from his body.  He had the grace to look sheepish.  "No, sorry, I’m just on edge or something. Somethin’s not right. I can feel it. Ain’t just the comin’ storm, either." 

Gunfighter’s nerves, Scott thought, but didn’t say it aloud. It seemed that no matter how hard they all tried to help him settle in, Johnny Lancer was just not going to let go of Johnny Madrid. Maybe shooting the hell out of some defenseless rabbits might be just the thing Johnny needed to calm him, a little murder and mayhem to take the edge off. The image of his brother stumbling around in the dark trying to draw down on four-pound prey was suddenly intriguing.

A little primal stalking and killing.

"Maybe some rabbit wouldn’t go amiss," he suggested. "I can always save my stew for tomorrow night."

"Oh, great," Johnny spun around with a genuine laugh, "Somethin’ to look forward to." Decision made, he hauled his straying hat back onto his head. "Yeah, I think I’ll go find us something a bit more palatable."

"You do that." Scott was on his second cup of coffee and willing to wait a while for supper. Who knows, he thought sagely, if anyone could hunt in the dark it was probably his brother.

When he looked back up, Johnny was already in the saddle, reining in his skittish horse. "Be back before you know it."

"I’ll hold you to that."

 

Chapter  2 

A long, cold hour later, his stomach protesting its emptiness with a rumbling complaint, Johnny gave up his futile hunt and headed back to their makeshift camp. Storm clouds rolled ominously overhead and the wind picked up the pace to match Barranca’s ground-covering trot. It would serve Scott right to bed down with only his own stew for company and a cold rain to soak him during the night. If he’d listened to Johnny, they’d be belly up to a Stockton bar right about now, after a good meal and a long, hot bath, with a night in a real bed awaiting them.

Murdoch had been keeping a tight rein on them for weeks and Johnny was chafing at the restraint.  His months at Lancer had tempered him, but there was still that lure of footloose and fancy-free living tugging at him at the most inopportune times.

Lost in his own musings, a luxury he rarely allowed himself, he’d almost trotted right into camp before noticing that they that they were no longer alone. A second horse nosed at the grass next to Scott’s chestnut gelding, unsaddled, its sides still lathered from hard use.

The wind peaked and squealed, causing Barranca to shy beneath him, costing him whatever element of surprise he might have still had.  He barely had a moment to pick out Scott, sitting beside the fire, hands behind his back with a huge man standing behind him, leveling a gun at his blond head.

"Sorry, Johnny," Scott said, and Johnny read genuine apology in his upturned face.

"No problem, brother." The horse continued to jitter under him, and it took both hands on the reins to control him. The first sprinkle of pre-storm rain pattered on Johnny’s hat brim for a moment, then quit, hinting at the storm to come. "Just wasn’t expectin’ company."

The still unidentified man -- Johnny quickly assessed him as being as tall as Murdoch but more solidly built, younger, harder --  spoke up, "That horse is a might spooky, son. Why don’t you light and set a spell."

"Trust me, mister, you don’t want Scott’s stew bad enough to hold a gun on him. It ain’t that good."

"I said, on the ground. Now, before I get nervous."  The stranger’s voice carried the weight of authority.

With no other choice, Johnny dragged his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, using his left hand on the reins to control his nervous horse. His hand instinctively dropped towards his gun the second his boots hit hard ground.

"Son, you don’t want to do that. Just ease your hand away from that gun before it gets you killed. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you force my hand. I know who you are and it may be in my best interest to put a bullet in you right now, but I’d rather not have to do that. Usted entiende?" The large man stood with feet firmly planted, his gun held rock steady.

"Oh, I understand," Johnny drawled softly as he took his hand away from his gun and locked his fingers into his belt. In that position his hand was still dangerously close to his gun, and they both knew it.

"Take it out, left hand, slowly. Your friend here would probably like to see the sun rise.

Stalling, his eyes never leaving the big man with the big gun aimed at Scott, Johnny asked quietly, "You okay, brother?"

"Never better," Scott said. "You get those rabbits?"

A grin touched Johnny’s face. "Naw," he admitted, almost shyly, "too dark. Got any stew left?"

"I said, take it out slow. Left hand." The trigger of the gun held to Scott’s head was cocked with an unnaturally loud click.

"Okay, okay," Johnny said in his soft drawl. The fingers of his left hand found the butt of his pistol and eased it from the holster. There was nothing else he could do, cross-handed and off balance. He laid it gently on the ground at his feet.

"Uh-uh. Kick it over here."

Sighing, he complied. The gun skittered across the rocky ground to land precisely in front of the other man’s booted foot. The stranger’s own gun never wavered from Scott’s head nor his eyes from Johnny’s face as he stooped to retrieve the surrendered weapon, jamming it into his belt. "Stay put," he advised Scott, and crossed to Johnny.

"Turn around, hands behind your back, crossed at the wrist.”  He waited a second for the order to be followed.

Johnny complied. Expecting rope, he was startled by the metallic clink of handcuffs as they clamped around his wrists. What kind of thief carried along a set of handcuffs?

He turned back and looked up at their captor. "I didn’t get your name."

The man grinned at him. The change of expression made the craggy face almost pleasant. "I didn’t offer it. But it’s Avante, recognize it?"

Confused, Johnny shook his head negatively. If this man wasn’t a thief after the money from the beef sale, who was he?  He’d never seen him before.  "Should I?" he asked coolly. 

"Yeah, you should."

Johnny considered him again. He was older than he’d thought at first glance. Maybe 40, 45, his face weathered and carrying some ghosts from his own past. That was one thing Johnny Madrid Lancer could recognize without any trouble  . . . ghosts. He shook his head again. "Nope. Sorry. Not a clue."

"That’s okay. It’ll come to you. Give it time."

 

Chapter 3

 

Johnny lay back against a convenient rock, hat low over his eyes, seemingly perfectly comfortable in the rising air and oncoming dampness. 

Across the fire from him, Avante helped himself to a bowl of stew.  Lancer, the older one, said testily, “Help yourself.” 

“Thanks,” Avante shot back, “I just did.”  He nodded at Johnny who was still ignoring them both.  “I’d offer you some, Madrid, but I don’t think I want you with your hands loose and I sure don’t intend to spoon feed you.” 

Johnny peered up from beneath the hat brim.  “Thanks.  You can have my share. I’ve tasted Scott’s cookin’ before.” 

Avante settled back and spooned some stew into his mouth.  He’d had worse.  He took the opportunity and the light provided by the waning fire to study his quarry.  Madrid didn’t have the cold dead eyes that Avante had become accustomed to seeing on the men he’d had to track down over the past twenty years.  But, then, he’d seen some pretty harmless looking killers in his career.  The third holdup man, Chris Avante, had only been a kid, barely twenty-one, when he’d died at his partner’s hand in that stagecoach robbery. 

Avante found himself taken off-guard when he realized that the killer was only a year or two older than Chris had been.  Somehow Johnny Madrid’s reputation had grown to such proportions that it was a shock to find out that he was just a kid himself.  And a good-looking kid at that.  Avante could see now why the young gunfighter had cut such an impressive figure in the border towns where he had plied his trade until a year ago.  Well, that career -- and his newly found one of ranch owner -- were both over now. 

The older brother kept a conversational tone as he asked, “You mind telling us what your intentions are? I mean, if you want to rob us, you didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”  He jangled his manacled hands behind him as illustration.  “We would have let you have the money.” 

“Now, Mr. Lancer, it isn’t the money I’m after.  It’s the two of you.” 

“Both of us?” Johnny cut in, surprised.  “You mean you want Boston here, too?  What for?” 

“Oh, thanks, Johnny,” Scott retorted as a huge droplet of rain plunked him on the nose.  He shook it off. 

“No offense, brother,” Johnny assured him solemnly. 

“You remember a little border town, boys, down below The Pass?  A stagecoach?  Little matter of robbery and murder?” 

“When?” from Scott. 

“Two months ago.  You should remember it.  Your brother killed your partner, right there in front of five witnesses.  Chris Avante.  Remember him now, Johnny?” 

Still obviously puzzled, Johnny shook his head.  “No. Relative?” 

Avante nodded.  “Kid brother.” 

“Oh.”  Johnny ducked his head.  “Sorry.”  It sounded genuine enough.  “I still don’t know him.  And two months ago we were in the middle of rounding up cattle to drive to a sale, not in some Mex border town.” 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”  Avante leaned forward and poked at the dying fire with a piece of kindling.

 Johnny gave an elaborate shrug of one shoulder.  “Sure.  But you’ll have a little trouble provin’ that.  We got our own witnesses.  About thirty or forty of them.”

 “You old man’s vaqueros?  I don’t think that’ll carry much weight with the law, kid.”

 “And lemme guess. You’re the law.”

 “Texas Ranger.”

 “Long way from home.”

 “Long ride.”

 “Yeah, sorry to put you to all that trouble for nothin’.”

 Avante decided to try a little dig of his own, see if he could shake this kid’s composure some.  “Cómo sea se siente para ser el medio hijo de la casta de un ranchero grande?” 

“I’m pretty sure Murdoch doesn’t think of Johnny as a half breed,” Scott interrupted before Johnny could respond.

 His answer brought a grin to his brother’s face.

 “I’m sorry,” the big man said with a half-laugh, “didn’t know you spoke Spanish, friend.”

 “I been teachin’ him,” Johnny said, the grin still comfortable on his face.

 “Been teaching him how to rob stages, too?”

 “Naw.  We hadn’t got to that lesson yet.  That’s next week.”

 “Uh huh.  Well, son, get all the fun out now while you still can.  You got a lot of bad years waiting for you back in Texas.”

 “Got a lot of bad years behind me, too, amigo.”

 Another plop of rain decorated Johnny’s hat.  It was going to be a long, cold, wet night.

  

Chapter 4 

He hadn’t slept well. It had been cold and wet but he’d been cold and wet before. No, he’d been thinking about his kid brother. Not, for once, about how Chris had died but rather how he’d lived. For the past two months Avante had forced himself to focus only on his brother’s death and the need to bring to justice the man who killed him. That was, after all, Avante’s job, a job that had been his life for more years than he cared to count. And he was good at it.

But Avante had never been good at being a big brother to the youngster who was more than fifteen years his junior. Chris had been young enough to be his own son. And with their pa dying so soon after the kid’s birth, the older brother had to step into their father’s shoes and put food on the table. He’d done whatever he could, took whatever jobs came his way, until he’d ended up as a deputy sheriff and found the job suited him. He’d worked long hours and made enough money to insure the family got by. But he wasn’t around home much. After he’d joined the Rangers, he hadn’t been around at all. There was no one there to help an ailing, soft-hearted mother to discipline a rapidly growing boy who seemed to have a talent for finding trouble.

Avante scowled, stretching stiffly as he straightened up. What makes a kid go bad, he wondered, not for the first time. What makes a Chris Avante yearn to walk the wrong side of the law? What, he asked himself as he looked at the huddled figures lying across from him, makes a kid into a Johnny Madrid?

“Thinking of moving out, Ranger Man?” Johnny’s soft drawl startled Avante out of his reverie. He realized both the gunslinger and his brother were awake and that despite the battered hat covering his eyes, Johnny Madrid was watching him closely.

“We’re breaking camp,” the Ranger said, shaking out his bedroll. “Got a lot of country to cover today.”

“Now wait a minute,” Scott Lancer protested heatedly as he sat up. “This has gone far enough.”

“Scott,” warned Johnny from beneath his hat.

“No, Johnny. I don’t see why we have to put up with this any longer. Look, Avante,” Scott began. He struggled to his feet and faced the tall Ranger angrily. “In my saddlebags I’ve got a signed receipt proving we delivered five hundred head of cattle to the buyer in Stockton, and that he paid the agreed on price of $8 per head. I’ve also got the account book that shows from that $4,000 we paid off thirty-two drovers and took care of a few bills. All duly listed and properly noted.”

“Account books only prove what you want them to prove,” Avante observed.

“You’re wasting your breath, Boston.”

“Johnny. . .” Scott turned back to the expressionless Ranger. “What about the drovers? That’s thirty-two witnesses who can testify we were both with them rounding up cattle in the back country north of Morro Coyo when that stage was robbed and your brother was shot. I know, I know.” He raised his cuffed hands to still any comment. “You say our father could bribe them to provide us with an alibi. But that just doesn’t make sense. Thirty-two drovers is a helluva lot of bribe money and a helluva lot of risk. How could Murdoch be certain someone wouldn’t make a better deal and talk?”

Avante shrugged his shoulders. “Who keeps track of the days during cattle drives? Who knows where every cowpuncher is every minute of the day? No one can say for certain that you two didn’t slip out at some point.”

“You think we could ride all the way to Texas and back without being missed? All that time? All that distance?” Scott was incredulous.

“He don’t want to hear it,” Johnny said. Still prone, he reached up and tilted his hat back out of his eyes. Then, with an insolent smile, he yawned. “I got a question to ask of you, Ranger Man.”

“Get on with it, Madrid.”

“Well, you seem to have done a little homework on us,” Johnny mused, chewing on his lower lip as he held the Ranger’s eyes. “You knew Johnny Madrid is Johnny Lancer and that Johnny Lancer has a brother, Scott here.”

“I made some inquiries, yes.”

“Then you know that Boston and me, we’re partners in Lancer with the old man. Each of us owns a third interest in one of the biggest spreads in this part of the country. Tell me why we’d risk all that to rob some stage outside a two-bit border town?”

“Because. . .”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in your blood, Madrid,” Avante said tersely. “I don’t know about him,” he nodded in Scott’s direction. “But you, you do it out of hunger for the risk. For the thrill. Men like you, you’re like those old Chinese coolies suckin’ on their opium pipes in the dark bowels of ‘Frisco.” He stood over Johnny and stared down. “Death is your addiction.” 

Johnny was silent as he tried to probe the cold depths of the Ranger’s eyes. What he saw there chilled him as much as the words Avante had spoken. It was a picture of himself he had seen before, a picture of what too many people had expected, had wanted him to be.

“There’s no thrill in killing a man, Ranger,” he said finally. “Not for me, anyway. Never has been. You’re talking about another man. I’ve met men like that, but I ain’t one of ‘em.”

“Tell it to the jury back in Texas,” Avante snapped. “Tell it to the families of the men you’ve killed. Tell it to the witnesses who swear they saw you gun down my brother. I’ve given you your say. I’ve heard enough – let’s get going.”

“You haven’t heard a thing,” Scott retorted. “ I thought the Texas Rangers had a tradition of being tough but fair and just. Keep that tradition, for God’s sake, and listen to reason.”

“I’ve…” began the Ranger before stopping as Johnny snorted with derision. “Something amuse you, boy?” he asked.

“ No, not really.” Johnny replied quietly. “I don’t find it funny that a Texas Ranger can be so deaf to the sound of the truth.” He sat up, his cuffed hands resting loosely in his lap. “That tells me a thing or two about that Ranger,” he said steadily, holding Avante’s eyes with his own.

“And just what might that be, Madrid?”

“Well,” Johnny’s voice hardened. “First of all, it tells me that Ranger’s so hell-bent on bringing in somebody, anybody, that he don’t want to have the truth interfere.”

“And the second thing?”

“The second thing it tells me is that Ranger wants real bad to punish somebody so he can stop punishin’ himself.”

Quick reflexes had saved Johnny more than once over the years. They’d saved him when Johnny Madrid was called out by young guns on the make or when he’d gotten roped into the chaos of border town brawls. The same sixth sense about danger had served Johnny Lancer well, too. So it was odd, really, that Avante’s sudden and savage kick found its mark, smashing into Johnny’s ribs with a brutality Avante himself hadn’t known he possessed.

“Johnny!” Scott dropped to where his brother lay in the mud clutching his side and drawing in great ragged draughts of air. “No, let me see,” he demanded as Johnny pulled away from his touch, bringing his knees up to his chest in self-protection.

“‘S all right, Scott,” Johnny gasped. “Leave it.” He looked up to where Avante stood as if frozen and then closed his eyes as a wave of pain and nausea swept over him. When the wave subsided he looked at Avante again. “That make you feel better, Ranger? Did that take away your guilt?”

The tall Ranger returned Johnny’s gaze without flinching. “We ride in fifteen minutes,” he rasped, then turned on his heel and strode off to where the horses were tied.

“Well, brother, was that all part of one of your brilliant plans?” Scott tried for flippancy as he gently lifted Johnny’s arm away from his injured ribs. “C’mon now, and let me take a look.” Cursing the handcuffs that were rubbing his wrists raw and making his movements awkward, Scott felt gently along the rib cage and frowned at what he discovered.

“Leave it, Scott,” Johnny said, clenching his teeth against the pain. “There’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll hang and rattle.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, boy.” Scott smiled and pushed an errant lock of his brother’s hair out of his eyes. “Though your demise would mean I’d be half owner of, what did you call it, the biggest spread . . . “

His brother’s foolery brought a smile to Johnny’s lips. “Don’t count your chickens, Boston.”

“Seriously, Johnny, what are you up to?” Scott asked. “Needling this man doesn’t seem a particularly good idea to me.”

“Yeah, well, reasoning with him was getting you where exactly? ” Johnny retorted. “Help me sit up, Scott.”

Carefully, Scott slid his arm beneath Johnny’s shoulders and, lifting him up from the now greasy mud, eased him into a sitting position.

“All right?” Scott questioned worriedly as Johnny’s breathing became more ragged and painful.

“Scott….” 

“Don’t talk.” 

“No, listen… gotta,” Johnny gasped. Shaking his head in impatience, he tried again.  

“Scott…” 

“What, Johnny?”

“Avante knows he’s wrong – no, wait, listen,” Johnny said as Scott started to shake his head. “I realized last night, when he told us about his brother, when he told us it was his brother who was shot during that stagecoach robbery…. I got to thinking about it and wondering how a Texas Ranger feels about his kid brother making a living breaking the law. I guess I thought about Murdoch,” Johnny admitted, his voice growing thick. “I know he ain’t exactly proud of my past.”

“Johnny…”

“Hear me out, Scott.” Johnny looked down at his cuffed hands then back at his brother. “I know the old man feels guilty about my past, maybe as guilty as me – and maybe that’s why we keep knocking heads every once in a while.” Johnny flashed his brother a boyish grin before turning serious again. “I don’t know, but I think that Texas Ranger is blamin’ himself for letting his brother end up as a corpse lying in the dust on some stage route. I don’t know why, or what happened – I haven’t got it all figured out in my head.”

“That’s a wonder, and you the chess master of Lancer,” Scott scoffed.

“C’mon, Scott, this is serious.”

“So what are you going to do, brother, let him haul us all the way back to Texas and hang you just so he can assuage his guilt?”

“We play for time, Boston,” Johnny said. “We play for time.”

 

Chapter 5

Long hours on the trail after a night huddled in a freezing rain with no shelter and little sleep were taking a toll on the three riders. Avante had reluctantly stopped and allowed a cold breakfast of jerky. Having no hot coffee had displeased Johnny Lancer, who didn’t hesitate to remind his brother that they could have been warm and cozy in a hotel room if he’d been running things.

The lingering drizzle did nothing to settle frayed nerves as their trail led over uneven ground made treacherous by the rain and runoff. Avante had left both prisoners with their hands cuffed in front so they could ride safely, but more than once the slick going had caused a horse to scramble, throwing his cuffed rider perilously off balance.

Although he had regretted his actions the second his booted foot had smashed into the kid’s ribs, pride and deep-seated anger kept him from acknowledging it. He kept a close eye on Madrid, and could plainly see the boy was clearly favoring his injured side. Johnny continued to ignore his brother’s voiced concern with a stubbornness that rivaled Avante’s own tenacity.

Whenever the trail widened, Scott surreptitiously reined in his mount so that Avante would come abreast. He had tried a couple of times to reopen their early morning discussion, but Jason Avante was quite skilled at ignoring the protests of desperate prisoners.

Scott finally gave up attempting to persuade Avante to listen to reason and tried instead to draw the man out and talk about himself. But Avante was no more receptive to this line of conversation than any other.  Sitting stolidly in his saddle, he ignored Scott and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the trail ahead. 

‘Might as well be talking to one of those bluffs,’ Scott thought to himself as he looked through the increasing downpour at the rock formations on the gray horizon. 

‘Damn.’ thought Avante irritably as he successfully evaded Scott Lancer’s attempts to pull up beside him. ‘Whoever Murdoch Lancer is he’s sired sons who don’t give up.’ He could feel the brothers’ stubbornness fanning the fires of his own anger and obstinacy. 

It didn’t make sense, he admitted to himself, for the Eastern-raised, Harvard-educated Lancer to have cut himself in on his renegade brother’s criminal escapades, but stranger things had crossed ther’s path. The Lancer ranch was a lot closer to their present location than Texas was, though. He was beginning to wonder at his own intractability. Pride in his own integrity and moral code had been his personal standard for too many years for him to rest easy with his current course of action. But two months of anger and anguish helped him to stifle any internal unrest. 

As the trail wound down near to the river’s edge, he found himself occupied with keeping his horse anchored to the increasingly dangerous trail as the rain picked up its icy assault. They were going to have ford that river soon and he wasn’t looking forward to the crossing. Controlling his horses and his prisoners at the same time was becoming increasingly hazardous.

"‘Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink,’" Scott Lancer intoned solemnly as he drew up beside his weary, shivering brother.

Johnny cocked his head. "What?"

"You’ve got to read more, Johnny. You have no idea what you’re missing."

Johnny laughed shallowly. "If that’s all the sense all your readin’ makes, brother, then I’ll pass." 

"You boys enjoyin’ yourselves?" Avante asked lightly.

Madrid cut him a sideways glance, blue eyes considering his captor from beneath his soaked hat brim. "Don’t reckon we’re havin’ anywhere near as much fun as you are, Ranger. What with your righteous indignation and all." 

Avante refused to be baited. "You sure do push, don’t you, boy. I bet that mouth of yours has gotten you into all kinds of trouble." 

"More than you know." The older Lancer shot his brother a cautioning look, which he was sure would go unnoticed.
.

Surprising him, Johnny sobered. “Scott, look, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“Now how do you figure you got me into anything, much less this?” Scott protested, waving his cuffed hands vaguely.

“If I hadn’t been Johnny Madrid, you wouldn’t keep gettin’ dragged into this kinda thing.”

Scott shrugged the comment off. “You can’t change the past, Johnny. Don’t even try.”

Johnny tried for a smile, almost caught it, then frowned. “Don’t guess so. Always comes back to bite you in the ass just when you think things’re goin’ good.”

“Well,” Scott shot a glance over his shoulder, “if some people would listen to reason...”

The rest of his sentence was cut off as he flinched at a streak of lightning and the almost immediate crackling roll of thunder that followed. A bolt of fire flared out of ebony cloud and split a scrub pine less than thirty feet away. Johnny’s horse danced sideways into Scott’s gelding, then skidded and slammed backward into Avante’s mare. For one long moment it looked like they would all slide down the treacherous slope, but Johnny spurred Barranca back onto sure footing, narrowly missing taking a plunge into the rushing waters just below the trail.

Settling his own mount, Avante was surprised to realize that he had no desire to see the young gunfighter drown. He wanted to see him hang.  In twenty years on the job, he’d never allowed himself to invest his own emotions in anyone he’d brought in. It was a dangerous thing to feel and a luxury he never allowed himself. It rankled that the kid could get that much reaction out of him.

It also bothered him that Scott Lancer was starting to make sense. He didn’t like second-guessing himself.

His thoughts carried them to the end of the trail. It was either ford the river or try to climb sheer rock, not much of a choice. Avante reined his horse in and considered the alternatives. Trying to skirt around the rain-swollen water would cost them hours and he frankly wasn’t sure how far out of the way such a trek would take them. The water was fast moving and peppered with the stripped branches of trees that had grown too close to the banks, dangerous and forbidding.  The trail around was mud-washed rock, not a good choice either.

At least they had three good horses. The river was the obvious route to take. In order to ford it the safest way possible meant he had to uncuff his prisoners.   No problem; he had two of them and they had the tie of brotherhood to bind them to each other. One at a time would work. 

He called a halt and dismounted, digging in his pocket for the handcuff key. He handed the key to Scott, then pulled his pistol and made a show of covering Johnny with it.

“I’m sure a smart fellow like you can figure this out, Lancer,” he offered Scott. “Unlock ‘em and give me the key back. You cross first, then put the cuffs back on. Your brother will be under my gun the entire time, so I’d advise you to behave yourself. Got it?”

“Got it,” Scott agreed, unlocking the cuffs, then handing the key back obediently.

“Scott...” Johnny’s voice was soft and tentative. “Be careful. That current’s fast.”

“Don’t worry, brother, I’ll be fine. You sit still and don’t fidget. I’d hate the Ranger to get itchy and decorate you with any new holes.”

Johnny shrugged and grinned. “I’m bein’ good.”

“Yeah, well see that you stay that way.” With one last glance at his brother, Scott gently kneed his horse into the water. The chestnut immediately slipped and lurched in the muddy bottom, the current slapping against his side and nearly bowling him over. He lunged, scrambled madly for purchase on the slick bottom, then plunged forward. With Scott urging him on the gelding had nearly made it to the other bank when a huge branch boiled out of the current and rammed into his hindquarters.

The horse gave another great lunge and Scott lost his seat in the saddle, snatched for the horn, missed and went headfirst into the swirling water. He thought he heard his brother scream his name before he sucked in a lungful of dirty water.
 

* * *
 

“Scott!” Johnny screamed frantically.

“Hold it!” Avante might as well have been shouting into the wind. Johnny Lancer raked a Mexican spur into his mount’s side and the horse reared, then plunged into the racing water. 

It was pure reflex.

Avante got one shot off and Johnny toppled off his struggling horse into the river.

Almost as soon as he squeezed off the shot, Avante spurred his horse into the rushing water. As they reached midstream, horse and rider felt the full force of the river and, losing her footing, the panicked mare floundered and lunged. Avante felt himself losing his fight to stay in the saddle. As the horse’s last desperate lurch for her footing tossed him into the icy water, the Ranger reached wildly for his prisoner and, catching the collar of Johnny’s coat, began fighting the current to drag him toward shore.

The bank on the far side of the river was steep and rocky, but a hidden shelf ran out to midstream.  Finally Avante felt his knees scrape bottom. The strong current threatened his hold on his still-unconscious prisoner, but as the Ranger found his feet he was able to reach under Johnny’s arms and heft him up out of the water onto a narrow outcropping of rock. Steadying the injured man with one hand, Avante pulled himself up onto land and sat with his back against the ragged, muddy bank, breathing raggedly from exertion. The grassy bench above was just another four feet away, but his tension-tired muscles threatened to betray him as he hoisted and pushed at Johnny’s dead weight. 

Not twenty yards from the river’s edge, the bench ran into a rock bluff. Avante saw a small overhang in the face, and hoping it would provide some shelter from the relentless rain, the Ranger staggered over to investigate. Satisfied the small bit of shelter was better than nothing, he returned to where Johnny lay face down in the wet grass. For the first time, Avante allowed himself to think about the damage his instinctive action might have done. There was a small round hole low on the young gunslinger’s back and his jacket was turning dark crimson. Quickly, Avante tugged up the jacket and the shirt underneath to study the seeping, already swollen wound just to the left of the spine.

“Damn,” the Ranger swore aloud. It was in a bad spot, and the bullet was still in there somewhere. Without thinking, he reached for his boot knife. Gone. His gun was still, blessedly, firmly wedged in its holster. He looked around for his mare: anything he might be able to use to remove that bullet would be in his saddlebags. But there was no sign of his horse or of Johnny’s palomino or the elder brother’s chestnut.

Scott Lancer, Avante thought bleakly, remembering how the deadfall swept the man under water and out of their sight. A death to lay at his door. Madrid had been going after his brother: The Ranger had known that, had even in some ways accepted that, but he still couldn’t stop his gun hand from responding to years of training.

A half-stifled moan disturbed Avante’s morose thoughts and he realized his captive was semi-conscious. Half standing, half kneeling, he grasped Johnny under the armpits and tried to lift him. When his own fatigued body refused to cooperate, Avante was forced to grab the younger man’s wrists and drag him through the grass and mud to the base of the bluff. For a moment he stared blankly at the handcuffs that encircled his prisoner’s wrists. Instinctively his hand went to his inside vest pocket and there, miracle of miracles, he found the key safe in its usual resting place. Grunting with exhaustion, he bent over Madrid and unlocked the cuffs. Then the Ranger sank down, his back against the cold rock wall, and closed his eyes.

 

Chapter 6

Avante awoke with a start. A crack of thunder -- had that been what he heard? No, he thought, something else. There. A soft nicker, the stamping of feet. A horse was close by. Avante stood and peered out through the sheets of rain. Darkness had fallen and he felt as if he were trying to see through thick black velvet curtains. Then a flash of lightning revealed the outline of a horse not forty feet away. Madrid’s palomino had found his master.

“Whoa, easy, boy,” the Ranger said softly as he slowly advanced on the nervous gelding. Although not an admirer of palominos, Avante knew fine horseflesh when he saw it. And this was one fine animal. He continued to talk softly to the animal, taking his time while the palomino shook his head nervously and stepped back. Keeping his tone low and even, Avante made his way to the gelding’s head and put a quieting hand on the horse’s velvety muzzle. “Easy there, pretty boy,” he murmured, stroking the horse’s neck before reaching for a trailing rein to lead him closer to the rock face.

Tying the rein to a nearby branch, Avante began to root in Johnny’s saddlebags. To his relief, he found Madrid, like any trail-wise man, carried his matches and bits of kindling protected in oilcloth. ‘What else you got packed in here, boy,’ Avante mused as he continued to search through the tooled leather pouch. ‘Some old paper would be mighty nice,’ the Ranger thought to himself. ‘Don’t suppose you got any of that, Johnny Madrid?’ Wire cutters and a hoof pick, clothes and a tin cup. Not much help there. Avante closed the flap on the first saddlebag and, running his hand soothingly along the palomino’s flanks, walked around the horse’s hindquarters to his offside.

‘Now what do we have here?’ Avante asked himself as he dug through the contents of the second saddlebag. His hands closed over what could only be a book of some sort. Like the matches, it was wrapped in protective oilcloth. A sudden loud explosion of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightning startled both horse and man. Book in hand, Avante jumped back as the gelding danced nervously. ‘Too close for me, too,’ the Ranger silently soothed as he gave the horse a final pat. He untied Johnny’s sodden bedroll, lifted the saddlebags over the animal’s back and walked over to where he’d left his prisoner. There he began the almost impossible chore of hunting for dry firewood.

* * *
 

There was thunder inside his head.

The thought sifted through Scott’s sluggish mind, though it made little sense: how could there be thunder inside his head? He considered opening his eyes, but they felt welded shut and he was sure somewhere back in the furthest recesses of his brain that if he opened them and let in any light at all his skull would explode.

And then there was the matter of his belly. Something was roiling around in there just waiting for an excuse to ambush him into vomiting all over himself. Water. He vaguely remembered water. Lots and lots of water. It was in his mouth and in his nose and running out of his ears. He was afraid to take a breath because he was sure he would inhale only water. There would be no air.

If he didn’t move, maybe the contents of his stomach would remain where they belonged. Maybe his head wouldn’t burst open into a kaleidoscope of bizarre colors and flashing lights. That was all he had to do. Remain perfectly still. Face down in mud and smashed grass.  Don’t breathe, don’t move.

Suffocation was a heartbeat away when he finally gave in and gasped in a huge gasp of air. His entire body protested, his belly cramped, he jackknifed and had nearly lurched to his knees when he vomited the meager contents of his stomach into the mud. It seemed to take forever, retching up water and mud and bile, until finally he flopped back down onto his side, panting and gasping. 

It was too much of an effort to even think, much less wonder what he was doing lying in the rain emptying his stomach onto a riverbank; too much struggle just to breathe. He was sleepy, bone weary. Just a minute to rest . . .

When he opened his eyes again, it took a minute for him to realize that they were, indeed, open. It was as dark with his eyes open as it was when they’d been wedged shut. The rain was still a faithful companion, and it hadn’t abandoned him. Building an ark was becoming closer to reality. His mind kept wandering and he had to force himself to think. For some reason, it was important that he think. Vital that he remember. 

But it was so much work to try to edge rational thought past the hammer in his right temple. He raised his hand and brushed trembling fingers over his forehead; they came away pink with diluted blood. 

His hand wavered, wobbled away from his blurred vision, then wandered back into focus. He wondered a moment whose blood it was, and then his headache claimed ownership with a crescendo of pain. It was all too much effort and he sank gratefully into a bed of trampled, wet grass and let the darkness merge with his fading vision.
 

* * *

Fire. There was a fire close by. He could smell it, he could hear it. And, oh God, he could feel it. Some damned fool had set his back afire. Frantically, Johnny tried to roll from his stomach to his back to smother the white-hot pain. But the fire moved with him like his own shadow, spreading from his back, burning its way through his chest. He heard a strangled animal-like cry of agony and realized, in a moment of lucidity, the pain it protested was his own. Then another, quite different burning sensation seared his throat and he felt rough hands turn him quickly onto his side. His stomach heaved to rid itself of what seemed like a lifetime’s worth of hot bile. 

“Puke it up, kid,” a vaguely familiar voice advised. “You probably got half the goddamn river in that belly of yours. Just puke it all up, Madrid.”

Through watering eyes, Johnny saw the seamed face of Jason Avante watching him impassively. The Ranger’s hand rested on Johnny’s forearm, steadying him.  Before he could brush it off, he began to retch violently again. He felt Avante’s grip tighten on his arm as he continued to gasp and heave. The force of his body’s rebellion, the agony in his back and protesting ribs, all took him to the brink of unconsciousness. But only just. When the violent spasms were finished, he lay drained, too exhausted even to deal with the trail of tears and mucus left in the aftermath of battle. The fire was still burning; the pain was still there. He closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *
 

Avante put a final knot in the makeshift bandage wrapped around Johnny’s midriff and carefully checked that the pad of cloth he’d placed over the still bleeding bullet wound was back in place. All the flailing and convulsive vomiting that marked the young man’s return to consciousness had interrupted the Ranger’s attempts to do some basic doctoring. Satisfied the dressing would hold, he ripped the remainder of Johnny’s extra shirt into long strips, rolled the strips into bandages and tucked them back into a saddlebag for later use.

This done, he turned and busied himself with the campfire flickering at the sheltering base of the rock bluff. As he threw on another piece of precious dry wood, a rogue gust of wind swept rain into his face. Miserably the Ranger turned up his collar and stared hollowly at the fire. Avante wasn’t pleased with himself – there were very few times in his life when he’d felt helpless and wrong-footed. This was one of them. The last time he’d felt this way was the last time he had seen Chris alive. They’d argued, fiercely, and the older brother had said a lot of things he wished he hadn’t.

He shook the painful memories from his head. No sense thinking about that, he thought angrily. Restless, he stood up. Despite the campfire he felt chilled and stiff. His clothes were no longer sopping wet but the damp garments were sucking away precious body heat.

“Avante.” The word was a hoarse, whispered gasp.

The tall Ranger turned and looked into the depths of Johnny Madrid’s unguarded blue eyes.

“You back with me, Madrid?”

“My brother, Avante. What happened to my brother?” Johnny’s voice was halting and barely audible. When there was no immediate answer, he rolled awkwardly to his side and raised himself on one elbow, breathing shallowly.

“I asked you a question, Ranger Man,” he said deliberately, his voice taking on the insinuating tone Avante found so insolent and so familiar. It raised his hackles like nothing else could.

“Settle back, boy,” Avante answered harshly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“What do you mean?” Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “He was there – he was. . .”

“There was nothin’ you or me or anyone coulda done, Madrid.” Avante’s voice was flat.

“No,” Johnny shook his head, “that’s not true. You got it all wrong.” Clutching his ribs, he pushed himself awkwardly to his knees and paused there, catching his breath. “You don’t know Scott, Ranger Man.”

“It IS true, boy.”

Without looking at Avante, or even bothering to reply, Johnny staggered to his feet. “You just don’t know Scott,” he repeated desperately, talking more to himself than the Ranger. Slowly, one foot after another, he began to walk away from the shelter into the relentless rain. “Oh, people think ‘cause he grew up in the East and went to a fancy school that he’s soft. But he’s tough. He’s tough and he’s strong and he made it out of that river.”

“Madrid!” Avante called out sharply. “Where do you think you’re going?

“You didn’t even look, did you, you dumb sorry bastard,” Johnny accused, raw emotion making him hoarse. Unsteadily, he half turned and looked at his captor. Tears streamed unnoticed down his face. “You just couldn’t be bothered. You’re so full of hate and guilt you’d leave an honest man dying on a riverbank instead of admitting you mighta made a mistake.”

“Wait. . . “

“My brother’s down there and he needs me, Avante.”

“Your brother was hit by a deadfall in the middle of a flooding river, Madrid,” said the Ranger harshly. “He drowned before our eyes.”

Johnny Madrid Lancer froze, his bloodied back toward Avante. Then he sank to his knees in the mud and the rain, head bowed, his arms wrapped tightly around his own body. He barely noticed when, after a few minutes, Avante slid strong arms under his elbows and half guided, half carried him back to the sheltering wall.
 

 

Chapter 7 

It had to be morning. Through closed eyelids he could sense it was brighter. Or maybe it was just less dark, he thought in confusion. There must be a sun up there somewhere but the rain didn’t seem disposed to quit anytime soon.

When he forced his reluctant eyes open this time, the pain was less. He was shivering uncontrollably, the aftereffects of a night spent asleep in pouring rain. Scott figured he’d be very lucky not to count pneumonia among his various ills if he ever got through this ill-fated trail drive.

Memory flooded back. Avante. Johnny. Avante alone with Johnny. And no Scott Lancer to act as a buffer between them. No reason for Johnny to even believe his brother was still alive. Waterlogged, but alive.

"Oh, damn," he muttered as he struggled to his feet. The headache rushed back, but he rode it out as he tried to get his bearings. No horse in sight, only the rain and the rushing water of the bloated river. His hat was gone. But he still had his jacket, for all the good the soggy material did; the cold was penetrating and constant. Nausea was going to be his companion as well. Cold, nausea and hunger: not pleasant traveling companions.

He had no idea where he was or how far he’d been swept downstream. He wondered where Johnny and Avante had spent the night. Had they gone on and crossed the river, or had they stayed put? Resolutely, he pushed these and other questions to the back of his mind and tried to take stock of his situation. Walking downstream, he decided, didn’t make much sense. The odds were good his horse had made it to shore before he did and was probably somewhere above him on the river. He put his head down under the onslaught of rain and cold and started plodding back upstream.

By his own estimate it was two hours later before the weak sun began to make some progress through the lumbering black clouds. Rain still slanted down on his unprotected head and the cold had long ago seeped into his bones, making his movements stiff and awkward. In places he slipped and slid across muddy, eroding banks, grabbing at scrubby bushes to prevent a fall. In others, his path took him along soggy grass benches where the overflowing river skirted his boots as he forced each laborious step. The wind had picked up and taken on an eerie quality, vacillating between sharp whistles and creaky moans. His head ached. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, he was confused when he first heard a rustling of bushes off to his left.

A glimpse of brown caught his eye and he had a momentary surge of hope. He veered off the path and pushed his way through the tree line. Avante’s mare and his own chestnut were contentedly grazing on the thick river grass, side by side, oblivious to the rain and the man carefully approaching them. Then a windfall snapped under Scott’s foot and the horses raised their heads, ears pricked forward, nostrils quivering as they considered flight.

“Whoa, boy,” Scott called softly. At the sound of the familiar voice, his gelding tossed his head and nickered a greeting. Stepping quickly out of the bushes, Scott grabbed at a trailing rein. He patted the chestnut’s neck gratefully and stroked its flanks as he tried to understand the implications of finding Avante’s mare without her owner.

Something had happened after his own abortive fording attempt. Had Avante gone in the river? Had Johnny? Were Johnny and Avante sharing Barranca between them? There was no way to tell. Feeling thick-witted Scott stared at the mare as if she held the answers he sought.

Scott noticed Avante’s rifle was still in its scabbard. His own rifle was gone, confiscated by Avante when he’d taken the brothers prisoner. Speaking soothingly to the mare, Scott reached over and slowly pulled the Winchester free. He checked the load, slipped it into his own scabbard and felt strangely comforted.

The odds looked better now. Avante no longer held all the cards. The only question was, Scott thought ruefully, whether he could find the Ranger and Johnny and deal himself into the game. He dragged his weary body into the saddle, scooped up Avante’s horse’s reins and started riding upriver. 

* * *  

The rumbling of his stomach reminded Avante he’d had little to eat since the stew he’d shared at the Lancer brothers’ camp – when, two nights before? He thought back ruefully on his refusal to take time for even a basic trail breakfast the day before. He was breaking a lot of his own rules on this trip, Avante admitted to himself grimly. But he realized there was no sense in taking inventory now. Madrid’s fever suggested infection setting in. The Ranger knew he had to take action soon if he wanted to stem its spread. Removing the bullet would be the best course of action. But for that he needed the knife he’d lost in the river.

Running his fingers tiredly through his hair, Avante considered his options. First things first, he told himself. He’d restart the fire and heat some river water in the cup stashed in Madrid’s saddlebag. He didn’t question why he cared whether Johnny Madrid died on the trail instead of at the end of a noose. If he’d been honest with himself, he wouldn’t have liked the answer.

Fifteen minutes later he’d gathered a small, hard-scratch pile of kindling, twigs and branches – some of it dry, most of it not. Even in daylight the pickings were slim; last night he’d picked up most of the dry wood to be found under the sheltering overhang. Loath to waste any of his precious store of matches, Avante wondered how far afield he’d have to trek to find more kindling. Then he remembered his other discovery from the night before, the book wrapped in oilcloth. He could use pages from that.

Suddenly curious to see what kind of book a man like Johnny Madrid would be toting around, Avante reclaimed the bundle from the small ledge on which he’d left it and squatted under shelter to unwrap it. Freed from several layers of protective cloth, the book proved to be a handsome black-leather volume similar to the kinds of books Avante had seen payroll clerks use. With a glance toward his still unconscious prisoner, the Ranger opened the front cover idly and saw, inscribed on the fronts-piece, a sentiment written in a girlish hand:

To Johnny Madrid Lancer,
With love from his new “sister,” Teresa O’Brien
Blank pages for a new beginning
 

The inscription was dated not eight months before. Avante thumbed the pages casually and then sucked in his breath. The book appeared to be a sort of journal or diary. ‘Cocky son probably wrote down all his triumphs,’ Avante told himself. But he knew that wasn’t so. This was not a book filled with the boastings of a vain man. Nor was it the proper sort of day-to-day recording of events he’d heard was becoming a popular pastime with fashionable young ladies and some gentlemen.

No, this book was something entirely different, the Ranger realized as his eyes were caught first by a pencil sketch of a horse’s head, then a hastily scrawled note reminding the reader “T. birthday – talk to S.” This book seemed a lot like Johnny Madrid himself: half wild, half tame, following its own laws and discipline. Unpredictable, contradictory and, often, unfathomable.

Avante forgot about time and the rain and the fire he was going to start. He read about the supplies needed for rebuilding a bridge, what the sky looked like on the morning a new colt was born, what someone named Shakespeare said about honor. There were pages where the writer talked about his hopes and fears, others where he put down his anger with such vehemence that his penciled words scratched deeply into the paper. There were places where it was evident pages had been ripped out, and not a few entries were marked by dark spots Avante sure were coffee stains.

The drawings were what moved Avante most, what made him feel he was plunging into the depths of Johnny Madrid’s soul. A horse running, a young woman with fluttering hair ribbons looking off into unnamed distances, a smiling Scott Lancer – these were not drawn with great detail but sketched with a few quick, sure lines that suggested more than they told. They were the most alive drawings Avante had ever seen.

Toward the back of the journal, hidden between still-unfilled pages, was a surprise. It was the portrait of an older man and had been much reworked, the paper in some areas rubbed almost through. The artist had put in more detail, attempted more likeness than in any of his other work. It was labeled simply “M.”

Avante sat staring into the distance, the book open in his lap. He thought back to the words about honor he’d found when he first started reading:

Mine honor is my life, both grow in one,
Take honor from me, and my life is done.*
 

The Johnny Madrid he was meeting between the black leather-bound covers of Theresa O’Brien’s gift was not the cold-hearted killer of dime store novels. Nor was he the border-town legend Avante’s own brother wanted not only to work with but become. It was with the legend of Johnny Madrid that Chris Avante had taunted his older brother during that bitter last encounter.

A muffled sound brought a halt to Avante’s musings. He looked over to where Johnny was stirring, trying to throw back the blanket that covered him. Avante wrapped the journal back up in the protective oilcloth and reached over to tuck it back into its original resting place in Johnny’s saddlebag. It was more than time he started that fire and made a decision about his fevered prisoner.

* * *  

By the time he had the fire going well, the wind was rising, chasing the storm westward. Avante was glad to see the rain lessen but the wind brought with it new problems. His fire, tenuous at its best, would die entirely unless he could find more dry wood. But as the day had progressed, so had Johnny’s fever. Several times Avante had been forced to pin down the young gunslinger by his shoulders and with the delirium giving him strength, Madrid had fought until unconsciousness claimed him.

Earlier Asante had managed to remove the now blood-soaked bandages, clean the wound with water boiled then cooled in Johnny’s battered tin cup and put on a new dressing. But he was worried. The wound was still oozing blood, and it had taken on an angry inflamed look.

Now as he squatted next to Johnny, he wondered about the decision he’d made earlier. Was he right to stay put and not try to move the injured man any farther? Avante was continuing the unfamiliar exercise of second-guessing himself when he heard a horse nicker in the distance and Madrid’s palomino answered in return. Quickly he was on his feet, and twenty years of instinct and training again forced his hand down to his gun. 

* * *  

Later he would find it hard to estimate how long he rode. Slouched in his saddle, trying to ignore the constant drizzle, Scott found his horse’s rhythmic stride lulling. They were reaching a section of the river where a large rock formation rose like a fortress wall directly above the grassy bench.  He let the chestnut pick his own way along the ever-narrowing trail.

Suddenly the gelding neighed shrilly and broke into a nervous jog when there was an answering call. Shaken out of his stupor, Scott reined in sharply and took in the scene ahead. In the distance he could see the pale shape of Barranca and close to the rock wall someone squatting in the smoke of what could only be a struggling campfire.

‘Well,’ Scott thought sourly, ‘so much for the element of surprise.’ He should have expected it. His horse and Johnny’s had been stablemates for nearly a year now. The cold, exhaustion and the persistent headache had all conspired to dull his thoughts. One decision taken out of his hands, he tried to think through the fog numbing his brain. Go for the rifle still inconveniently stowed in his scabbard or raise his hands and make a show of turning himself back in to the Ranger’s custody?

Avante wasn’t going to give him long to puzzle it out. He was on his feet, gun in hand.

As he raised his hands reluctantly in surrender, Scott searched frantically for his brother. Only then did he see that Johnny was on the ground and putting up a struggle, just enough of a diversion to give him an edge if he did decide to try to pull out the rifle.

Avante was thrown off balance as Johnny reached out and grabbed his ankle, trying to wrestle the armed Ranger to the ground. Tripping forward, Avante fell to one knee and Johnny caught a loose grip on his arm. Avante easily swatted him aside, but it was enough of a distraction that Scott had time to knee his mount forward as he yanked Winchester free.

The situation instantly disintegrated into a standoff.

But the odds favored Avante. He still had Johnny, and Scott could see his brother wasn’t up to any more shows of resistance. Scott wondered again just what had happened in the aftermath of his own plunge into the river. Broken ribs alone wouldn’t be enough to take his stubborn, hot-headed brother out of a fight.

Avante didn’t give him long to figure it out. Focusing on Scott’s obvious weak point, the Ranger shifted direction with his gun muzzle, bringing it to bear on Johnny. "Looks like we got us a problem," he suggested amiably.

Without hesitation, Scott lowered his rifle and with elaborate slowness slid it back into its scabbard. "No problem," he countered. "I didn’t come back to fight you."

Ignoring Avante’s skeptical look and the gun barrel beading down on his brother, Scott slowly swung a leg up over his saddle horn. Hands raised in surrender, and holding Avante’s eyes with his own, he slid off his gelding and started walking toward his brother. Three steps took him under the relative shelter of the makeshift camp to where Johnny lay on his back drawing in deep but uneven breaths.

Dropping to his knees, Scott could see the bandage then and the dark stain of old blood that had seeped around to the front. It didn’t take much guesswork to realize Johnny had added another bullet hole to his already excessive inventory of old wounds. Scott reached down and slid his arms under his brother, gently bringing Johnny’s shoulders into his lap. With a quivering hand, he touched a muddy cheek and was relieved when the injured man opened his eyes.

There was a long silence as the two men held each other’s gaze. Scott felt his stomach lurch as he saw Johnny’s blue eyes fill. He brushed a hand over Johnny’s forehead. The skin was clammy and too warm.

"Scott... I thought you were..."

"It’s okay, little brother, I’m right here."

"Scott..." Johnny hitched in a breath, then his eyes closed. "I’m cold."

 

Chapter 8 

 

"We’ve got to talk." 

Avante turned from his saddlebag to find Scott Lancer standing behind him. The young man’s eyes were dark with anger and he had an obstinate set to his mouth the Ranger recognized as trouble. He looked at Scott with assessing eyes, gave a slight shrug and again began rooting in his saddlebag. 

Scott grabbed his arm roughly. "I said . . ."  

"I heard what you said," Avante growled without turning. "But unless you settle down and stop thinking how much you hate me and want to do God knows what to me, we’re not doing much talking. Now take your damn hand off me." 

The grip on his arm loosened and Avante withdrew a small oilcloth-wrapped package from his bag, closed the flap and turned back to Scott. In the elder Lancer’s face he could read fatigue and pain punctuated by worry. 

"Look, boy." His tone was almost gentle. "You gotta put aside your hate . . ." 

"The way you have?" Scott interjected bitterly. He turned away from Avante’s steady gaze and bit his lip. "Go on." 

"There’s one thing we both agree on," the Ranger continued quietly. "That slug has to come out of your brother’s back – and soon. But I think you’ve been around, son," Avante paused, looking questioningly at Scott. "And I think you know as well as I do your brother’s not going to be able to take much. Frankly, I don’t know where he got the grit to go after me when you came up on us." 

"Johnny isn’t very good at knowing when to give in." Scott smiled in spite of himself. 

"Noticed that." Avante flashed a sardonic grin in return. Sobering, he continued. "I’ve seen bullets kill too many men, Lancer. Good man or bad man, a bullet’s poison isn’t choosy." 

Scott nodded. It was the first thing he’d learned as an idealistic young cavalry officer riding with Sheridan: death doesn’t take sides. "What are you saying?" 

"I’m saying I’d like to give your brother a chance," Avante answered simply. "Hear me out," he warned as he caught the beginning of a sneer playing at Scott’s lips. 

"All right." 

"We’ve got to remove that bullet but first we’ve got to make sure he’s strong enough to stand what we’ve got to put him through." 

"We?" Scott questioned tersely. 

"Yes, we." Avante’s reply was emphatic. "Stop fighting me, son. You’re wasting time. Look."  He held up the small oilcloth package he’d pulled from his saddlebags. "I’ve got a few things in here will help the pain and, just maybe, slow down the fever. We . . . wait a minute – let me finish." He stopped Scott’s half-uttered protest with a raised hand. 

"Go on." 

"You heard him tell you he was cold," Avante said. "You know what it means when a shot-up man says he’s cold? He’s on the edge. We gotta pull him back, get him warm. Get him wrapped up warm, let him rest." The Ranger took a deep breath and looked away, struggling with an emotion he couldn’t name.  "Lancer," he said finally, his voice sounding almost disembodied, "I saw -- hell, I felt-- what happened when you came waltzing in, sassy as all get out. There’s Johnny Madrid, half-dead and rolling in pain, but ready to take on the world again. All ‘cause his goddamn brother’s come back from the dead. Well, let’s give him time to let that brother thing do its job again." 

The bitter edge to Avante’s voice took Scott aback. But without stopping to question it, he knew what the Ranger said was true. The bond he and Johnny had forged was stronger than any emotion he had ever experienced. Both had long since stopped wondering at its unlikelihood. 

"All right, Ranger," he replied. "We wait." 

* * *

Johnny struggled to open his eyes. Someone was talking at him again and although he didn’t much care to listen, someone was insisting he should. It was mighty nice where he’d been:  warm, safe. And no pain. Or not much.  

But he’d been to this place before and he knew he couldn’t stay there unless he planned on staying there forever. And he wasn’t ready to do that. Leastways not yet. Not when he had a brother who was, who was . . . a brother who going on about him opening his eyes and . . . 

"Scott?" 

"About time, brother." 

Johnny closed his eyes again briefly and swallowed. Then he looked up at the familiar features now etched with strain and worry. "You never did believe in siestas, did ya, Boston?" he asked lightly. 

"They go against the grain of my New England upbringing." Scott smiled, reaching out and taking one of his brother’s icy hands in his own. 

"Gotta work on that, don’t we, brother?" came the hoarse, almost whispered reply. 

"Johnny, you know what we need to do here." Scott aimed for casual, but only managed concern. 

A weak, lopsided smile met his efforts. "Oh, I dunno, Scott," Johnny protested, "can’t we just... you know... ignore it... maybe it’ll go away.” 

“Somehow I don’t see that happening.”  Scott glanced over at Avante who was heating the knife he’d retrieved from his bedroll in the meager campfire.  “Though I think maybe I’d better do the doctoring.”  He smiled down at his brother’s ashen face.  “Unless you want it to be the man who intends to see you hang.” 

Avante looked up from his grim preparations. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned solemnly. “I figure I might just have a little more experience in trail doctorin’ than a Harvard educated fellow.”  He looked at Johnny.  “Confieme, chico?” 

“Now why the hell should I trust you, amigo?” 

“I don’t know,” the big man shook his head as if really considering the question, “maybe ‘cause you got no choice in the matter?” 

Johnny tried for a grin, almost found it.  “That works for me.” 

“How about you?” Avante turned his gaze to Scott. “That work for you?” 

“Do I have a choice?”  Scott didn’t bother to keep the edge out of his voice. 

“There’s always a choice,” Avante replied with an elaborate shrug of one shoulder. “Just thought I’d ask.”  He turned that same considering gaze back onto Johnny.  “I know it hurts, kid, but I don’t think you really want to go and die on me now, do you?  I think it just might piss off your brother here, and I don’t need two of you mad at me.” 

“I ain’t mad,” Johnny responded, though it was obvious that the banter was costing him, “Just kind of put out.” 

Avante went down on his knees, his joints protesting both the movement and the cold with a crackle as he sank to the hard ground.  He looked up at Scott.  “We have to turn him and with busted ribs, that’s going to hurt.” 

With a sigh that signaled his obvious reluctance, Scott knelt at his brother’s head.  When he spoke, his voice was as strained as his body language.  “Ribs you broke.” 

Matching the sigh with one of his own, Avante sat back on his heels and considered Scott.  “Look, Lancer,” he said, “you want me to do this or not?  Because if you want me to take a knife to your brother, it don’t pay to remind me of things I ain’t so proud of.” 

“Regret?” Scott countered.  “Somehow that doesn’t suit you.” 

Avante’s gaze never wavered.  “I’m not asking for your forgiveness.  Just saying take your spurs out of me.  Your brother’s got a smart mouth on him.  That’s what earned him them ribs.” 

There was no time for a retort as Johnny reached up a shaky hand and tugged at his brother’s jacket.  “Scott . . .”  It was barely a whisper. 

Scott leaned over close so he could hear and felt Johnny’s shallow gasps of breath against his cheek.  “What, Johnny?’ 

“Let ‘er buck.” 

Johnny’s face was pallid and damp with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes too large and over bright, the blue washed out and pale.  The fever already plaguing him was all too obvious, another worry for his brother to add to a too-long list.  In the war he’d seen too many men survive bullet wounds only to succumb later to fever and infection.  And he was forced to trust a man with a killing vengeance on his mind to remove the bullet.  The irony was hardly lost on him. 

He laid a hand on his brother’s cheek, heat meeting the cold of his palm, and rubbed gently, taking comfort himself in the brief contact. 

“Help me roll him over,” Avante interrupted him. 

“Wait . . .” Johnny gasped.  “Give me a minute . . . get my breath . . .” 

No point, Scott thought, and said, “Let’s get it done, brother.”  He didn’t wait for any response, just helped Avante turn Johnny and tried to ignore the raspy moan the movement forced out of his brother. 

“You’re gonna have to hold him down,” Avante instructed unnecessarily as he straddled Johnny’s lower body.  “That bullet’s in a bad spot.  We don’t want him squirming around while I go digging in his back.” 

“He needs . . .” Scott couldn’t stop the protest, wanting delay even as he knew it was useless.  “Something . . .something to . . .” 

Avante dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a leather fob with his Ranger’s badge pinned to it.  He pulled the metal badge free and handed the leather to Scott.  “Let him bite down on this.” 

Scott slipped the leather into Johnny’s mouth, then took a grip on his shoulders.  As he leaned forward, he felt a tug, glanced down to see his brother’s left hand fisted into the material of his jacket, the knuckles white.  He searched blindly for words of comfort, but nothing came.  His mouth was too dry to speak anyway.

 Avante took the knife from the flame, held it up a moment, red reflecting eerily in his eyes, then said, “Hang on.  Just keep hanging on.”

 The blade met inflamed skin with a searing hiss, then probed into the wound.  Johnny bucked against Scott’s hold.  Avante dug deeper, hoping for the feel of metal against metal as he sought the trail the bullet had furrowed into yielding flesh.  He felt the blade skid against bone and backed it off.  Sweat dripped into his left eye and he swiped at it. 

“Get it out,” Scott snarled through gritted teeth. 

“I can’t find it.” 

“What do you mean you can’t find it!”  Scott jerked his eyes up to meet Avante’s look.  “He didn’t kill your brother, Avante.  Help him.” 

“Just wait.  Gotta go slow,” the Ranger said.  He wiped his forehead again with the back of his wrist and looked at the wound.  Blood pooled around the hole he’d just enlarged, obscuring his vision.  He probed with the knife once more and Johnny lurched again.  “I’m trying to feel if the bullet traveled.  Have to cut him more then go in with my fingers.” 

Johnny moaned, deep and throaty and his body convulsed beneath them.  “Let go, Johnny,” Scott pleaded, “just let go.  Pass out, damn it.” 

“Hold him!” Avante barked. 

“I’m trying to!” 

“If I stick the knife in any further, it’s gonna do even more damage.” 

Scott shot him a look that told of anger and fear.  “You said you could do it.”  It was both challenge and plea.

“And I am doing it.  Just hold him still.  One wrong move right now and we do more damage than good.” 

Scott felt like he had stopped breathing.  Avante was in his line of sight as if he were centered in the crosshairs of a rifle scope.  “You cripple my brother, Avante, and there won’t be anywhere you can go.” 

The Ranger met his gaze.  “You going to help me, Lancer, or are you going to sit there and make threats you can’t back up?”  He didn’t wait for an answer.  His fingers gouged into the wound and he could feel Johnny’s muscles tense and tremble. “Bite down,” he said.  “Bite down good and hard, Madrid.  You just keep thinking about how mad you are at me and how you’re gonna open that mouth of yours and tell me exactly what you think of me.” 

Johnny was now struggling in earnest, as much as his weakened body would allow, and a strangled grunt brought Scott down close. 

“Just a little longer, Johnny,” he urged. 

“Enough.”  It was a strangled gasp around a mouthful of leather, but Scott could easily understand the single word, the helpless protest. 

“Give him a minute,” he said. 

Avante didn’t even look up.  “Give him a minute and he could bleed to death on us. You want that?” 

“Why can’t he just pass out?”  Scott wasn’t aware of saying the words aloud. 

Avante managed a grim smile.  “He’s too damned hard-headed.” 

Scott ducked his head.  His eyes were stinging and he didn’t want to show any weakness to the man digging into his brother’s back.  “He can’t take much more.” 

“He doesn’t have a choice.”  Avante actually managed a tense chuckle.  “He didn’t give up on you.  I had my hands full with him for a while there.”  He jerked as his fingernail scratched against something that didn’t belong lodged in the young gunfighter’s back.  “Hold on a minute.  I got it.”  He snatched up the knife again, inserted the glowing tip and flipped the bullet out. 

Scott stared blankly at it.  Even after his years in the cavalry, it still amazed him that something so small could do so much damage, could actually steal away a man’s life. His brother’s life.  He was pulled out of his silence by a deep, heaving sigh of the body beneath his hands. 

“It’s okay, Johnny,” he leaned in close and whispered, “it’s all over.  Sleep now.  I’m here.  I’m right here.”

 

Chapter 9 

His eyes closed and for a fleeting second he wandered into sleep.  It only lasted a heartbeat before Scott shocked himself awake with a guilty start, tears still streaming unnoticed down his face. 

His senses slowly returned, smell first.  Wet horses, steam still rising from their flanks.  The acrid stench of blood.  Mildew and moss and the fresh smell of rushing water.  His head throbbed with the pulse of a toothache, his shoulders ached with remembered strain, and the rain had finally stopped. 

Color came last.  The sky had grayed out to evening, white light from the waning fire gradually took on yellow and red tones, and his hands . . . his hands were scarlet and brown with his brother’s drying blood.  So much blood. 

He had no idea how or when he had changed position, but he had somehow shifted so that he was sitting flat on the wet ground.  Johnny still lay on his belly, his head cradled in Scott’s lap.  Avante, sweat streaking through his grim features, was packing something into the gory wound.  Whatever it was, it smelled horrible, and it must have hurt because Johnny suddenly twitched and his hand, still fisted into Scott’s coat tail, jerked and tightened.  Instinctively, Scott stroked a stained hand over Johnny’s cheek.  He murmured something, though he had no idea what he was saying or if his brother was even hearing him. 

He wanted to ask Avante what he was packing the wound with, but it would have taken too much effort to string the words together.  Johnny startled again, and Scott hissed out a weary, “Shhhhhh . . .” 

“Hurts . . .” 

It was a bare whisper and Scott had to haul in the edges of his concentration to even understand the single word.  He pulled in some fading strength from somewhere.  “I know, Johnny,” he soothed, finding himself surprised to realize that he was actually angry that his brother was still fighting unconsciousness.  “It’s almost over.  Sleep, damn it, please . . . just sleep . . .” 

Another gasp of air that told of effort and stubbornness . . . “Scott . . .” 

“I’m here.”  It was getting bizarrely difficult to force words out past his lips.  Johnny’s body shivered uncontrollably in his lax hold.

“’s okay, Scott.”

“What?”  He leaned close, his cheek nearly touching Johnny’s flushed face.  He could feel the puff of air as Johnny forced out more words.

“Been shot . . .before . . .”

So now Johnny was trying to reassure him.  That was a bit ridiculous under the circumstances.  If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have laughed.

“. . . but . . . never had a . . . brother . . . to hold me . . . before . . . so, it’s . . . okay . . .”  Johnny finally sighed and went still, the shivering evening out, his breathing going soft and slowing. 

Scott was glad that he was still cheek to cheek with his brother; that way Avante wouldn’t see the rush of tears that spilled over onto Johnny’s waxen face.  

* * *  

It was late afternoon, almost evening. The rain had stopped at some point but neither of them could have said when. They sat in silent exhaustion, two men stretched beyond the breaking point, too tired to do anything but lean back against the cold rock wall, close their eyes and let fatigue have its way.

Long minutes passed before Scott found the energy to speak. “Avante?”

“Yeah.”

“What next?”

“What do you mean?” The Ranger’s tone was almost flat. Scott opened his eyes and looked over at the man curiously, seeing for the first time how the seams of Avante’s weathered face had become deep creases and his cheeks wore a stubble of silver gray. Then he turned his gaze on Johnny, lying – so still – wrapped in blankets by the flickering fire.

“I mean my brother needs help, a lot more help than you or I can give him.” Scott inhaled deeply, tamping down the anxiety that ate at the edges of his thoughts. He closed his eyes again and unconsciously searched with his head for a more comfortable bit of rock.

“Meaning what?” came Avante’s wary reply.

“Meaning just what the hell is your game?” Scott said impatiently. Exhaustion, the dull pounding of constant headache, the agony of the past few hours. . . Suddenly he couldn’t control his anger and bitterness. “What kind of man are you? Did you dig that slug out of my brother’s back so you could watch him die on the trail?”

There was no reply. In the silence that followed, Scott took a tight rein on his emotions. He knew he had to be calm if he was to have any chance of persuading the Ranger of the plan he knew was Johnny’s only hope. Logic and reason has served him well commanding men on the battlefield; now he needed to call on those talents in another kind of war.

“Avante, you’ve got us traveling an impossible trail,” Scott began. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees, and continued in a low voice. “If you insist on pushing on, you’ll kill Johnny. And I guarantee you I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life living with the knowledge you killed an innocent man. You have to let me go for help.” He took a deep breath and continued. “You have to let me ride to Lancer for a wagon, men, more medical. . .”

“To Lancer?” Avante asked with surprise. Looking at Scott for the first time he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“It’s the only solution,” confirmed Scott. “Stockton’s a two-day ride and a rain-swollen river away. You’ve been down there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the river. “You know nobody’s going to be able to cross for days. The closest town on this side of the river is what, four days ride? Five?”

Avante nodded. “I figured four, pushing through. And Lancer?”

“Three or four, depending on the man and the horse.” Scott held up a hand to still what he assumed was a protest. “But that’s if you follow the trail. There’s a pass, up through the high country south of here. If a man could make it through there he could be at Lancer in two days, maybe less. He could send a wagon back here with help and medical supplies, even send word to the sheriff in Green River that you want his help.”

“And you’re thinking you’re gonna be that man?” the Ranger queried wryly. “You think I ought to let a man I’m holding in custody go gallivanting off without me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re gonna leave your brother here in my care, leave him to be watched over by the lawman who’s sworn to see him hang.”

Scott hesitated slightly, then answered softly, “Yes.”

“All right,” Avante said, leaning back against the rock wall and tipping his hat over his eyes.

“Excuse me?” Disbelief turned Scott’s voice hoarse. The suddenness of the Ranger’s capitulation hit him like a blow to the stomach. He'd expected any answer except this and had carefully planned a campaign to win the lawman over to the reasonableness of his plan. The ease of victory made him suspect ambush.

“You heard me,” Avante retorted from beneath his hat. “Better wait until morning. Night’s comin’ on and maybe a night’s sleep will take care of that drum beatin’ in your head.”

Scott stared. He couldn’t think of anything to say; the lump growing in his throat would have made it tough to get words out anyway. He moved over to where Johnny lay wrapped in his cocoon of blankets, touched his hand to his brother’s cheek and then stretched out next to Johnny, giving in to the seduction of sleep.
 

* * *
 

When Scott awoke again it was dark and he could smell something cooking. The thought of food made his empty stomach cramp, and he sat up to find Avante squatting by the campfire, stirring a steaming pot.

“Cook gear was still tied to my saddle,” Avante answered Scott’s wondering look. “Looked for yours but couldn’t find anything.”

“I must have lost it in the river.” Scott nodded. “Johnny had the grub.”

“He didn’t,” the Ranger said. “Looked last night. Rabbit stew,” he added, watching bemusedly as Scott tried to sniff out the contents of his pot. “Or it would be in there was anything in there except rabbit and water. I got lucky while you were sleeping, before it got dark. The little guy just came calling.”

Scott smiled despite himself.

That smile gave Avante the opening he was looking for. He flashed his own crooked grin in return, catching Scott’s eyes and holding them until the young man looked away in confusion.

“Son,” Avante said softly, “I’m not interested in getting to the rights and the wrongs and the whys of all this right now. I agree with you the kid needs help. And you and I have to make some sorta separate peace, comprende?”

“Yes.”

“I just got one problem with your plan,” the Ranger answered, reaching behind him for a deep tin plate. Filling it with the watery broth and bits of grayish meat he passed the plate and a battered spoon over to Scott, who fell on it eagerly.

“I don’t think it’s smart to have me and your brother just sitting here waiting on you to send your father’s vaquerros back to help.” Avante made his voice as neutral as he could. Fishing a fork out of the cook gear at his feet, he reached into the stew and speared himself a chunk of meat.

“Johnny can’t travel,” Scott objected. “He can’t even sit up let alone stick to a saddle.”

“I know, I know,” Avante agreed. “But I can rig up a travois, like the Indians use. If I wait a day after you leave, and go slow, we can meet your hands on the trail and maybe save some time.”

“But . . .”

“Think on it, son,” the Ranger advised. “What if something were to happen to you in the high country or in that pass? How long would we be sitting here waiting for someone to show up? You’re right about the river. No one’s gonna be crossing it for days so it’s not likely your brother and me are going to have any company stopping by.”

There was silence as Scott considered what Avante suggested and knew the lawman was right. It made sense, although he hated to think of how hard the traveling would be on Johnny.

“Think we can wake up the kid and get some of this broth into him?” Avante’s question broke into Scott’s thoughts. “I don’t want to give him more than that. He’s not gonna be able to stomach much in the way of solid food, least of all some of my gachas.” The Ranger gave Scott another of his rare grins.
 

 

Chapter 10

He was swimming under water in a deep mountain lake and his lungs were bursting. He wanted to go back to the surface for air but he couldn’t tell which way was up and which down. It scared him; his heart was beating like hail on a cantina’s tin roof. Teresa swam by and told him to take off his boots or he’d drown. She looked so pretty, her long hair swirling in the water and framing her face. . .

Scott was calling his name but he couldn’t see him. Confusing. Someone touched his shoulder. But when he tried to turn to see who it was, his back exploded with pain. He heard a groan, knew it came from him.

“Scott?” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

“I’m here, brother.”

Johnny looked up into his brother’s worried eyes. In the meager light cast by the campfire Scott’s lean face appeared almost fleshless. There were deep hollows beneath the high cheekbones and his eyes were large in their sockets.

“Told ya.”

“Told me what?” Scott’s brow wrinkled.

“Told ya . . . we shoulda . . . stayed in a hotel.” Johnny attempted a grin, and almost made it. He saw some of the strain in his brother’s face ease as Scott shook his head in amusement.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Try. . .” In truth, Johnny was finding it was surprisingly difficult to talk. Sleep, or something like it, was what he craved. His eyelids seemed to have weights on them but Scott was talking to him, so he thought maybe he ought to listen. When Scott talked, he was worth listening to. Scott. His brother.  He felt himself fading.

“Johnny, you’ve got to stay awake.”

He could feel Scott cupping his chin, thumb and fingers on either side of his face giving his head a little shake . . .Goddamn it, that just gets me so riled . . .

With effort, Johnny opened his eyes again and heard his brother’s sigh of relief.

“You’ve got to try to stay awake,” Scott repeated.

“Can you raise him up a tad?” Johnny heard Avante’s voice and tried to focus on the tall form standing in the dark behind his brother. But now Scott was bending over him, gently lifting his head and shoulders into his own lap. Johnny got a glimpse of blue shirt and a mouthful of coat before the fresh wave of pain in his back and chest made his eyes water and blur. Enough, he thought exhaustedly. More than enough. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“I know, Madrid,” the Ranger said, as if reading his thoughts. Avante was now squatting by his side. “Look, kid, we’re gonna give you something to fill that hole in your belly. Make you a little stronger.”

“Not hungry,” Johnny murmured. Turning aside, he didn’t catch the glance that passed between the two men.

“Johnny.” Scott’s tone was firm. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You know what that means as well as I do.” Pausing, he took a deep breath, looked at Avante and then back at his brother. “Tomorrow morning I’m going for help – riding to Lancer. Don’t make me make that long ride for nothing.”

There was a silence while Johnny looked into Scott’s eyes, reading in their bottomless depths everything too difficult to say.

“Ranger Man,” Johnny said finally with a faint hint of his old insolence. “You gonna let my brother do that? Or are you going to shoot him in the back, too?”

“I’m gonna let him do that, Madrid,” came the cool, emotionless reply. “Now are you going to let your brother feed you some of this broth or do you want to waste what strength you have arguing.”

“You. . .you do the cooking, Boston?”

“Nope, you’re in luck,” Scott answered with forced cheerfulness, his heart aching at his brother’s attempt at their old banter. “You’re about to sample the Texas Rangers’ recipe for rabbit soup. With no rabbit.”

“Gachas,” Johnny pronounced with a weak stab at a grin.                         

Avante looked at Scott wryly. “Told you.”  

* * * 

Scott rechecked the meager contents of his saddlebag and closed the flap with stiff fingers. It was too early for the sun to hold any warmth and the chill of the long night was still with him. He felt terrible, as bone-weary and achy as an old man. A hung-over old man, he ruefully amended: headache remained his companion.  

Joining Avante by the fire, Scott rubbed his hands together briskly then squatted beside his sleeping brother. Placing the back of his right hand against Johnny’s forehead, he felt for fever.

“Hasn’t changed from the last time you checked,” Avante drawled laconically as he stirred the heating soup. “This stuff is just about ready.”

Silently Scott held out a battered cup and let the Ranger fill it. Johnny was right, he thought. It was terrible. And it would be a long time before he’d be ready to face rabbit-anything again.

“I don’t think we’ll see any rain today,” Avante ventured into the silence. When there was no answer from Scott, he shook his head and asked softly, “What’s bothering you, son?”

“Nothing,” Scott said shortly. And everything, he thought. As he watched Johnny sleeping, he remembered the flash of fear he’d seen surface briefly in his brother’s eyes the night before as Scott talked about what the next few days would bring. It was only a flash, a glimpse of startlingly raw emotion. But it had made Scott trip over his words and look away. When he had the courage to look at Johnny again he found his brother’s eyes hooded and unfathomable.

It bothered Scott that he couldn’t put a name to Johnny’s fear, couldn’t do anything to put it to rest. He knew Johnny didn’t like the idea of being left on his own with Avante but somehow Scott knew that wasn’t the problem. Maybe part of it, but not all of it. The few comments Johnny had made as his voice faded, becoming barely audible, had more to do with Scott’s plan to try the high country pass.

Without thinking, Scott reached out and felt his brother’s forehead again. There was no other way; he had to ride ahead for help. But he was divided, hating the thought of leaving Johnny helpless and sick. He’d lost so much blood, the bullet had been in there so long, the conditions under which Avante had operated were so primitive. . . Scott’s stomach churned as he ran through his litany of fears.

Fear. Fear that his brother would die, that he would lose an extension of himself. Scott bit his lip. Was that what Johnny feared too? That something would happen to Scott and he would lose his brother?

“I better hit the trail.”

Avante heard the attempt at gruffness and gave him an assessing look. “Maybe you better help me get some of that broth into your brother first,” he suggested carefully.

Scott shook his head. He couldn’t speak. Then he muttered, “I need to go.”  Without a backward glance, he strode over to where his horse was tied and scooped up the reins. In one fluid movement he swung into the saddle and kneed the chestnut forward.

As he passed Avante he heard the Ranger call out, “Wait a minute, Lancer. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Scott turned questioningly.

Avante walked over to his mare, rooted in his saddlebag and withdrew Scott’s gun.

“You might need this,” he said, handing it up. Then he casually turned his back on the astonished young man and went back to the campfire. “Vaya con Dios, Lancer.”
 

* * *

The river had risen dramatically overnight. Standing on the grassy bench that only two days ago provided safe haven, Avante found the muddy waters now scant inches from his feet. Just how high would the river get, he wondered, squinting upstream appraisingly. The sun would do as much damage as the relentless rain. Runoff from melting snow in the mountains already was overwhelming the narrow creeks emptying into the river.

Without thinking, Avante stooped down, picked up a broken branch and tossed it into the brown torrent. He watched for a moment as his small vessel bobbed and dipped before disappearing. Then he turned, gathered the butt ends of the three sturdy saplings he’d scrounged and began dragging them through the scrub back toward camp.

He dropped the saplings not far away, turned and saw that Johnny was awake and restlessly pulling at his blankets. Kneeling down, Avante put out a quieting hand.

“How’s the pain?”

Johnny looked steadily at him, his eyes dark and unreadable, before turning away. 

“Lo siento,” Avante whispered softly.

Jerking his head weakly, Johnny turned his smoldering eyes back on the Ranger.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. Closing his eyes he swallowed deeply and tried again. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Ranger. . .I don’t want to hear it.”

“Madrid. . . “

“Not . . .in English. And ‘specially not in . . .Spanish.”

“All right,” Avante said brusquely, biting back the anger he felt at his own foolishness. What the hell had gotten into him, apologizing to a gunslinger. He forced his voice to be matter of fact.

“You don’t have much of a fever but I expect that to change by this afternoon. Meanwhile, you need to take in some more of that broth.”

“How long. . .has Scott been gone?” Johnny asked, as if Avante hadn’t even spoken.

“Five hours, thereabouts.”

“And you just . . . let him go. . .”

“We settled that last night, Madrid.” The Ranger’s tone was curt. “Your brother insisted and I agreed. He’s right. No matter what you think, I’m not enjoying this and I got no intention of sitting here and watching you die.”

“No,” Johnny rasped, struggling to roll away even as Avante restrained his shoulders. “Instead you let an unarmed man ride . . .”

“I gave him his gun.”

All at once Johnny was still, his momentary show of strength flowing out of his body like sand. As Avante watched he could see the battle being waged as the injured man fought back unconsciousness and won. The Ranger shook his head.  Stubborn son-of-a bitch, he thought again.

“You gonna listen to me now, kid?”

There was no reply, just that familiar mute look of suppressed anger. And something else which at first Avante had difficulty identifying and then realized, with shock, could only be fear. What was Johnny Madrid afraid of? Avante asked himself as he studied the strained face before him. Death? No, the gunslinger had faced that demon ever since he drew on his first man. Then Avante knew. It was not the spectre of his own death which haunted Johnny but his brother’s. Avante now had the leverage he needed.

“Madrid, your brother is out there risking his life to save yours,” he said mildly. “Seems to me you owe him a debt and you can start payin’ right now by letting me help you.”

Again, there was no answer. But Avante thought he detected the faintest release of tension.

“You gonna let me give you some of this broth?” he questioned and was surprised when Johnny’s pale cheeks colored and the young man looked away. Perplexed, the Ranger considered for a moment. Then he understood.

“Well, we might as well deal with this right now,” Avante said, not unkindly. He slid his arms beneath Johnny, scooping him up as if he were a child, ignoring the startled groan the movement provoked.  It was going to hurt no matter how gentle he was, so he figured he might just as well get the task done as quickly as possible. “You know and I know I’m the last person you want helpin’ you answer Mother Nature but the way I see it you don’t have much choice.” Straightening, the Ranger shifted Johnny’s weight then made his way to a large boulder on the edge of the make-shift camp. Gently, he lowered Johnny’s legs to the ground and half held, half propped him against the waist-high rock.

“Can you manage the buttons?”

A nod.

“All right.” Keeping a steadying arm under Johnny’s shoulders, Avante turned his head and began to talk about the design of the travois he planned to build and how he’d rig it to Barranca. It was prattle and both men knew it, Johnny grateful despite his anger.

“Done?”

 Another nod.

“Let’s get you back in bed. Or,” the Ranger amended, hearing the faint snort, “what passes for bed right now.”

Settling Johnny back in his blankets, the Ranger took a quick look at the rough bandage covering the still-open incision. He couldn’t see any signs of new bleeding; the bloodstains were all rust-colored and dried.

“Let’s change this later,” he said, “after you get something in your belly.” He poked at the embers of the campfire and set the blackened soup pot among them.

“Avante?” Johnny’s voice was so exhausted the Ranger had to bend close to hear him.

“What, kid?”

“Gracias.”

* * *
 

The long days of rain had dug deep, eroded gullies into the flanks of the foothills and washed out long sections of the trail leading into the high country. Early on, Scott found the trail to be faint at best and more than once he had been forced to dismount and backtrack on foot to discover a change in direction.

With worry the spur that goaded him on, he found it difficult to rein in his impatience and concentrate on following what was only a vague mental map. He hadn’t been really truthful with Avante. Or maybe forthcoming was the proper word. He’d given the Ranger the impression he had traveled this trail before. He hadn’t.

What information he had was what he’d heard from Cipriano, the source of so much of what he had learned about Lancer. The old segundo knew and loved the land with a passion Scott saw nearly matched Murdoch’s. And he loved telling stories that not only spoke of the land’s history but linked it to the peoples who walked it.

As he slowly picked his way through the scrub, the faint mid-morning sun warming his back, Scott thought of the day Cipriano told him about the pass. They’d been stringing wire in the Green Meadow section, wrestling with rotting fence posts and rocky, unyielding ground.

Suddenly, there had been a storm of angry Spanish as Emilio, the hand manning the post digger, threw down the heavy iron rod he was using to loosen the soil and stormed over to the buckboard to grab a canteen. As he stood there sputtering, Cipriano laughed heartily and called out, “Mind your manners, young one. If you speak English you will not be as embarrassed to visit the padre on Sunday.” The warning evidently tickled the younger man and he broke into a smile.

“What’s going on?” Scott had asked curiously. His Spanish was not yet up to following conversations, especially if they were long, or angry, or even joking. But the laughter and the sense of companionship had been contagious. Remembering it Scott even now found a smile playing at his lips.

“Ah, Señor Scott,” grinned Cipriano. “Emlio is angry at the rocks and the hard clay which are making it so hard to dig these new holes.”

“And that’s what’s funny?”

“No, Emilio said something very rude. He made a comparison, which is perhaps a good one but not something he should say in front of a patrone.” Cipriano’s eyes twinkled. Seeing Scott’s incomprehension, he asked, “Do you know the Spanish name for what your father calls the ‘Stockton Pass’?”

Scott shook his head. “Tell me.”

“No,” Cipriano smiled, “I will let Señor Murdoch do that. But I will tell you that the name describes a lady of many charms who teases men and then denies them.” The old vaquero’s eyebrows gave a wag. “Comprende?”

“Si.” Scott had laughed ruefully, knowing full well what was meant. “There was a name we used for such ‘ladies’ back in Boston, too.”

The trail was a tease, Scott thought as kept his eyes trained on the uneven ground. But Cipriano had been specific about landmarks; at Scott’s urging he’d described them with detail and not a little color. Scott had been intrigued by the segundo’s suggestion the trail might have been used by the country’s first peoples long before the Spanish arrived with their horses and guns and sickness. Perhaps, he’d thought then, he could persuade Johnny to go exploring with him someday.

Johnny.

He felt a chill the sun couldn’t warm and tried to push away the memory of his brother lying motionless by the morning’s campfire. How hard it had been to turn his back and ride out. How necessary.

“God damn it all to hell.” The words erupted unbidden from nowhere, but Scott was surprised at how good they made him feel. He added a few more, some especially choice ones from his cavalry days, and felt even better. 

 

Chapter 11 

He felt like a kid skipping rocks over still water. Only the water was anything but still and he hadn’t been a kid in a long, long time, and right now he felt the burden of every one of those years. Without his brother there to act as buffer, Johnny had been a handful. Not all his fault, Avante berated himself. The fever kept spiking and it had been a wearing night of sweats and delirium and no sleep for either of them.

Madrid, when rational, had cursed him both in Spanish and English. But it all boiled down to one thing. The kid was worried about his brother, and that fear and anger had focused on the only logical choice -- Avante. That was okay, he’d certainly been cursed before and he sloughed it off easily. What wasn’t so easy to shake off was the nagging guilt that he was wrong, wrong about all of it. And Jason Avante wasn’t a man used to making mistakes or letting his heart rule his head. He resented the uncertainty and he resented the boy who kept reminding him of it.

Early that morning he’d managed to find a stand of cottonwoods that had been dismembered by the storm, plenty for a cook fire and to assemble the rest of the travois. Cottonwood burned poorly, but it was what was available and he wasn’t turning down any free firewood.  Now the only question was whether Madrid would be able to make the trip in a rig that was sure to hit every rock, every dip, every piece of uneven ground. There was nothing to help with the pain, either. Well, he decided, picking through river-smoothed stones, they were about to see just how tough Johnny Madrid was. His arsenal collected, he hefted a couple of stones and went in search of unwary quail.

He found three in short order. It was almost sad to bash in the heads of the unsuspecting birds; they showed nothing but curiosity until rock met skull. A well-aimed rock was much better than the .45 at his hip . . . that is, if they wanted to eat more than feathers. Still tired and stiff, he headed back to their makeshift camp.

Madrid was awake, a little scared looking, maybe, at waking up alone. Avante noticed the unconscious grab at his right hip, fingers seeking the gun that wasn’t there. The kid recovered quickly, though, his face going blank and expressionless.

“You look cold,” Johnny said flatly.

“Well, you’re hoggin’ all the blankets,” Avante answered wryly, and was pleased to see a weary grin in response. 

But Madrid was obviously exhausted, his face that odd mix of fever flush and pallor. Although he was fighting to hold onto consciousness as Avante started stripping feathers and boiling water, he drifted. An hour and a half later, Avante woke him with a hand on his face, surreptitiously checking for fever at the same time. 

"Come on," Avante said, "try some of this. It ain’t much more than the rabbit was, but it’s hot and it’ll make you stronger."

"I don’t mean to be beholden to you." Another odd statement. This boy was full of them.

"Don’t you think it’s a little late for that, boy? I mean, who do you think took that slug out of you?"

"I didn’t ask you to."

"Your brother did. You not willing to honor your brother’s wishes?"

"Yeah, well, I know who put it there in the first place."

"Well, there is that," Avante said thoughtfully. "So, since the stew’s not any better than the rabbit anyway, and my puttin’ the bullet in kinda balances out my takin’ it out, I figure you can eat this broth without owing me any life debt."

Johnny watched the sky and considered; he knew he was being contrary out of pure cussedness. And because he felt so goddamned helpless. He hated to be at this man’s mercy, hated being so dependent on him. He wasn’t a very good patient at the best of times, and this sure wasn’t the best of times. But Johnny knew Avante was right; he had to eat something. And hunger was finally kicking in.

Awkwardly, Johnny rolled to his side and with a sharp intake of breath struggled up on one elbow. Avante reached out a hand as if to help but withdrew it as Johnny shot him a dark look and said, “I can do it.” Silently, Avante handed him the steaming cup and watched as Johnny tested the lukewarm broth. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead and the hand raising the cup to his mouth trembled slightly, but he managed to finish the full cup of broth.

Avante considered offering another but had no desire to be on clean-up detail if it proved too much of a good thing. Instead, he picked at a piece of quail and gave into curiosity. "Usted mató a muchos hombres, chico?"

At first he thought Johnny wasn’t going to answer. For a time the silence between the two men hung heavily in the air. Then Johnny inhaled deeply, as if releasing some inner tension, and looked at Avante. "A few," he agreed amiably, setting the cup down beside him, but remaining propped on one elbow. "I’ve killed a few."

"You’re still just a kid, Madrid. Hard to believe you already killed as many men as that report read. Got any regrets?”

"Some," Johnny said after a moment’s hesitation. "You?"

"Some."

Johnny shifted unsteadily, wincing with the effort at movement and sagged back down into the blankets. His head seemed clear; to Avante he appeared to be making a lot more sense than he had during the night, maybe even gathering back some strength. Well, the fever would probably hit later and that strength would vanish as quickly as it had come.

Now Johnny was looking sideways at him, his gaze disturbingly assessing. "You know, you’re a fraud."

That wasn’t what he expected either. "And why’s that?" He covered his surprise at the offhand statement by pouring himself some more of the pallid coffee.

"Texas Rangers were disbanded."

Avante took a sip of the weak brew. It didn’t even taste like coffee. He swore he would pack his saddlebags full of the stuff so he didn’t have to skimp on strength again. "Ah. Well, that’s not exactly true.”

“Not what I heard,” Johnny said intently. "Los diablos Tejanos, those murdering bastards that’d as soon kill a Mexican as look at ‘em, they had their day."

“Naw, Madrid,” Avante stood and stretched casually. “The politicians, they use us or abuse us. Need us or don’t. Depends on who’s holding the reins and who ain’t. But we’re always there, one way or another. And as for the ‘Texas Devils’, you’re talking history, boy, when us and Mexico were fightin’ for the same bit of land.”

“Yeah? Well, I hear that instead of Rangers, Texas got itself a fancy force of crooks callin’ themselves ‘State Police.’” Johnny’s fingers played with the edges of the blanket as he watched Avante carefully.

“You think I’m one of those, boy?” Avante asked, unintentionally letting a measure of anger seep into his voice.

“Aren’t you?”

Avante swore. “Corrupt bastards,” he said. “No, boy, I’m a Ranger. Don’t make no difference what you call me, that’s what I am. The honchos got a new name for us – Frontier Ranger Scouts.” 

"Pretty fancy."

"Yeah, it does have a ring to it, don’t it. Hell, it’s just another name for the same thing. One way or another, Texas’ll always have Rangers." 

Johnny was fading fast and his eyes shut before his mouth... “Well, well, ain’t Texas lucky.” 

* * * 

As the day progressed, the trail became steeper and rockier and more twisting. It was easier to follow but harder to ride. Runoff from the slopes above had carved channels in the narrow path and Scott’s horse stumbled and slid, shod hooves scraping on rock as they climbed.

No longer a stranger, the sun beat down intensely. Patches of wet appeared on the gelding’s neck and Scott could feel his own sweat running in rivulets down his back. Without a hat, his head was taking the full brunt of the sun’s heat: the pounding was becoming relentless. His clothes felt stiff and rough, as if they had just come off Teresa’s clothesline. 

Feeling utterly drained and miserable he still was unwilling to stop for even the briefest rest. The trail ahead was, at the moment, unmistakable. They could go up. Or they could go down. For a few minutes he could let the horse pick the way while he practiced a long unused talent. Locking both hands around his saddle horn, he settled back and closed his eyes. I must look like the greenest, most timid Eastern tenderfoot imaginable, he thought ruefully as he relaxed into the rhythm of the horse’s stride. 

What seemed like only seconds later Scott felt the chestnut come to an abrupt halt. Reluctantly opening his eyes, the exhausted man realized he’d slept much longer than he’d intended. It was late afternoon. Although there was still plenty of light, the sun was all but hidden by the mountains above. As he tried to get his bearings, he became aware of the sound of rushing water, an ominous roar that made his stomach twist.

Kneeing the now-skittish horse forward, Scott found himself unconsciously holding his breath. The trail ahead was a narrow passage between two rock outcroppings; he had to quickly slide his legs forward high on his horse’s shoulders to avoid getting rubbed off. Another twist, a turn and the trail disappeared into the angry torrent of a mountain stream swollen with runoff. Scott’s heart sank.

This time the obscenities that came to mind brought no relief. The violence of the white water as it crashed and tumbled against rock was numbing. A change in wind sent the spray Scott’s way and he shivered, chilled by its cold touch and by the thought he might have hit the end of the trail.

He dismounted stiffly and with shaky legs led the hesitant gelding closer to the water’s edge. The horse picked his way carefully, head low, blowing air out of his nostrils in suspicion. Thirsty, he extended his velvety muzzle toward the water then snorted and drew back quickly. Scott watched absently, considering his next course of action.

If he was going to go on, the stream had to be crossed. There was no way to ride around it, nor any way to follow its course and look for a better crossing. And he was going to go on. There was no question about that.

Suddenly hungry and grateful for any delay in making a decision, Scott felt in his pocket for the piece of jerky Avante had handed him that morning. “Been in the bottom of my saddlebag a while,” the Ranger had said wryly. “But it’ll put something in your belly.” Now, with hunger rumbling in his gut, Scott found the scrap no more appetizing than he had earlier. White with age and stiff as shoe leather, the jerky was covered with light brown flakes that looked a lot like tobacco crumbs. He popped it in his mouth and started to chew.

The stream wasn’t all that wide, he reasoned, taking a closer look. Five feet or maybe six at most. About the width of the water obstacles cavalry horses were trained over. Ignoring the nagging voice reminding him the water in those training obstacles had been still, the approaches smoothly raked and prepared, Scott stuck his foot in his stirrup, turned his toe in toward the cinch and pulled himself back into the saddle.

Using his hands, his legs and his voice, he gently urged the chestnut closer to the water. When the horse backed up nervously, Scott responded firmly with his legs, increasing the pressure and all the while talking reassuringly, his voice just loud enough to be heard above the sound of the water.

After a few minutes, the gelding seemed to relax. Scott patted his neck and let him stand quietly before reining back toward the trail downward. Just before the narrow rock passage they’d squeezed through before, Scott drew up. Neck-reining to the right and using his boot heel to apply pressure to the horse’s right flank just behind the cinch, he eased the gelding into a parade-ground-perfect turn on the forehand. Then he clucked the horse forward to the water again.

Advance and retreat. The process was methodically repeated several more times. Then after a final retreat, a final turn, Scott dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks, leaned forward in his saddle and urged the horse full-tilt toward the torrent. The startled horse faltered slightly at water’s edge then, bunching his hindquarters under him, took off. Scott grabbed wildly at his saddle-horn as the horse’s jerky take-off threatened to catapult him from the saddle.

The landing was inelegant. The gelding scrambled on slippery rock as he felt his hindquarters slide back toward the water. Scott found himself thrown up on the horse’s neck, one stirrup lost, a rein dangling. But they’d made it. Scott righted himself as the chestnut trotted nervously away from the water, head held high, following the trail upward.

 

Chapter 12

Scott turned up his collar, slipped his hands into his coat up under his armpits and leaned wearily against his dozing mount. With the darkness had come the cold, the sharp, crisp cold of a mountain night. Hatless and with only his thin coat for protection, he felt the chill begin to take hold.

Darkness had brought a halt to travel; the trail was just too treacherous to navigate by guesswork. But in the clear night sky the stars were starting to come out and a sliver of light heralded the arrival of the moon. A full moon, Scott figured, or near enough. When it rose, he’d push on. Until then he’d wait here, in the relative safety of the narrow passageway between two rock outcroppings.

The last stretch of trail they’d traveled had been tough. An old slide, its steep slope formed by loose shale, had forced Scott to dismount. In mid-crossing the gelding had panicked, frightened by the uncertain footing and the small avalanches of pebbly stone set off by each footstep. Floundering, he slid onto his haunches, regained his feet and then lunged forward, knocking down Scott in the process.

   With great awkward bounds, as if fighting quicksand, the horse had fled to the open, meadow-like patch which lay beyond the slide. Once there, he broke into a trot, his exaggerated, extended movements and flaring nostrils signaling distress. Then to Scott’s astonishment -- and relief -- the horse stopped, snorted and put down his head to graze.

     Ruefully, Scott stood up and slid his way across the rest of the slope. "Easy, boy," he soothed as he approached the chestnut slowly. With no reason to feel alarm,t he horse allowed himself to be caught and mounted. Maybe he should get Johnny to teach him that whistling trick he used on Barranca.

    Nightfall had found them twisting through another long section of narrow rock passages. Scott dismounted, leading his horse and feeling his way for as long as he could. But after a misstep sent him to the ground, clutching at the sharp wringing pain of a wrenched ankle, he knew he had to stop.

    Now as he waited in the cold for the moon that would light his way, Scott knew he’d been lucky. The ankle was sore but not sprained, not broken. It complained when he stamped his feet to keep his circulation going. But complaints he could handle. It was the waiting that was growing hard.

    While he had been wrestling with the challenges of the climb, Scott had been able to push thoughts of his brother to the back of his mind. It was something he’d learned to do during the war, when the unbearable had, somehow, to be borne. Standing around waiting gave him too much time to think, and he ran through his litany of fears again

    Could he trust Avante? Well, he had. There’d been no choice. He’d had to trust the Ranger with Johnny’s life. Trust that the man would do everything necessary to keep Johnny alive.

 

Johnny.

  His brother.

 

The shudder that rippled through Scott’s body had nothing to do with the cold. It was fear and anguish, which held his heart in an icy grip. He’d gone most of his life without feeling close to anything or anyone. Grandfather was different, a man he’d grown up respecting, and obeying, but from whom he’d always felt emotionally distanced. And none of his numerous dalliances either before or after the war had stirred in him anything but amusement. He had broken heart but never given his away.

 

Now there was someone with whom he felt such a strong tie, such deep friendship, such gut-wrenching love, that at times he felt frighteningly vulnerable. It was if his skin had been peeled back, leaving the raw nerve endings exposed. They were so very different, he and Johnny. But sometimes he felt as if his brother’s soul had been grafted onto his own. Johnny had woken something in him that he hadn’t even realized was there.

 

"Men don’t embrace one another," Harlan had sternly told his five-year-old grandson when Scott, excited and moved by his grandfather’s return after a long journey, had reached out his arms in greeting. "Men don’t weep," he’d rebuke the boy when his favorite spaniel died.

 

Johnny wouldn’t allow that kind of distance between them. With Johnny he’d hugged and been hugged. And he had wept. And wrestled in boyish horseplay. He had lost his temper, and laughed until his stomach muscles ached. He had given loyalty, and received it in return. From a man who too often was forced to fight the demons of his past, Scott had found hope for his own future. If
someday the woman with whom he shared his life and his dreams thought him a loving husband, a caring father, he knew the credit should go to his brother. Johnny had taught him how to care.

 

And a damn bit too successfully, Scott thought miserably, shifting position again. Images of the previous day’s horrors kept flashing to mind. Johnny in pain. Avante probing, probing . . . And the blood. . .

 

Scott shook his head. Once more his brother’s past was wrapping its tentacles around Johnny Lancer and dragging him back into the dark realms of Johnny Madrid’s world. The legend refused to die. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much Johnny tried, the legend had taken on a life of its own. And, Scott was learning, there were people who found it useful to keep it alive. Who had spun a tale about Johnny Madrid to Jason Avante, Scott wondered. And why?

 

As one part of his mind focused on that question, the other began a silent refrain. It wasn’t a prayer really; Scott would have scoffed at the thought for the war had destroyed most of his belief in organized faith. No, it was more what his Religion professor at Harvard would have labeled a mantra:

 

Please, God, take care of Johnny. Please, God. Please, God. Please. Please. Please. Please. . .

* * *

Avante poked at the small fire. Beside him, the remains of the quail sat in a battered, blackened pot, congealing in its own grease. It had been a long hot day and he was tired. Too tired to face dealing with that mess. He was tempted to toss the pot right into the river but knew that would be just plain foolish. When the fire got hot enough and the grease melted, he’d dump the grease and bones into the fire then clean the pot with pebbles and hot water. It was the trail routine he always followed. He set the pot back on the fire.

He’d spent the day alternating between struggling to put together the travois and watching over Madrid. Both had proved more troublesome than he’d expected. Simple as the design of the primitive carrier was, he hadn’t been able to get it quite right. He didn’t trust it to hold a man’s weight or to hold together through the scrub they’d have to travel through to get back on the trail.

Numbly, he looked at the sky. The stars were out and the moon was rising. It was getting late but tired as he was he wasn’t in a hurry to turn in. With one blanket already attached to the half-finished travois, the other, along with both saddle pads wrapped around Madrid, it was going to be a long cold night. He knew his bones were going to protest both the unyielding ground and the
night chill.

Can’t be helped, he thought as he cleaned the pot and set it beside the fire. He stretched out and laid his head on the relative comfort of his saddle. The cold and exposure could take Madrid as surely as the fever that made its reappearance late that afternoon.

"Nuestro padre que arte en el cielo, santificó es el nombre tu..."

Startled, Avante started to get wearily to his feet when he made out the words of the old prayer. The kid probably didn’t even know he was talking out loud; he was too wrapped up in fever and pain and a worry he couldn’t hide. He smiled at a gentle nudge of surprise. Who’d have thought it, he mused, Johnny Madrid, a good Catholic boy, resorting unconsciously to prayer. Well, seemed natural. The kid had been raised by a Mexican mother in border towns. He wondered as he was fading into sleep at last himself, if there was a patron saint of brothers.

* * *

The chestnut gelding ducked his shoulder and shied once again, snorting at the moon shadow blackening the already dark trail. Scott grabbed for the saddle-horn even as he reined in sharply. Damn horse is going to get me yet, he thought wearily. The night was becoming one long battle between skittish horse and determined rider. Every moonlit rock outcropping, every odd shadow sparked a skirmish. It was taking all of Scott’s expertise and too much of his energy to force the gelding on.

Scott angrily dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and snapped the ends of his reins across the chestnut’s shoulders. Silently he forced his will on the animal, knowing the chestnut, like all horses, was acutely sensitive to the moods of man. The horse had heart; he’d proved it just that afternoon. But his reaction to dark and the dangers it hid was primitively ancestral; his instinct was to flee.

Snorting nervously the horse danced a detour around the shadow, curving his body away from the danger. Scott tightened his reins as he felt the animal’s hindquarters bunch, ready to run, and put a soothing hand on the chestnut’s neck. Once back in the moonlight, Scott dismounted. His point had been made but it was time to capitulate. They would both walk from now on.

Later he would remember little of the torturously long hours that followed. Numbed by exhaustion and the increasing cold, he concentrated only on the immediate, urgent need to keep moving. That urgency drove him when his thigh muscles shook after climbing a steep grade, when he stumbled into an unseen hole and fell heavily, when the chestnut, shying yet again, spun and slammed him
violently to the rocky ground.

He had struck the point of his elbow as he fell that time, and the sharp flash of intense agony made him afraid for a minute the elbow had been broken. Head bowed, he sat cradling his arm and rocking away the pain. For the first time, he wanted to weep with frustration. But as the pain faded he staggered to his feet, gathered the reins and walked on.

* * *

Avante spent the morning readying for the trail. He cleaned the pot and cups and plates as well as the circumstances would allow, forced some more broth down an increasingly unresponsive patient, and went back to work on constructing the travois. The saplings were waterlogged and hard to shape and cutting up a sodden lariat to use to finish lashing the carrier together had left his hands raw and sore. His gloves had vanished somewhere in the rushing water and he found he really missed them.

Then more time caring for the horses, the most important task he had assigned himself that day. If they lost either mount, their odds would drop perilously and Madrid’s palomino seemed to be as hard-headed as his rider. He was pretty and purebred and high-stepping but Avante figured he would be a handful for a stranger rider. So fancy breeding notwithstanding, the gelding was going to find himself turned into an Indian pony for at least the next few days.

Madrid had spent the previous night virtually in a coma. Then, in the morning he wavered in and out of feeling stronger and restless, then losing it all in the next round of rib-shattering coughing.

It was midday before the travois was finished, the branches reinforced and one blanket stretched over and lashed with a cut-up lariat from Madrid’s saddle. The palomino was leery of the contraption and gave Avante some trouble as he tried to maneuver the crossed poles into place over the horse’s broad back. If the horse didn’t settle down, Madrid was going to have one rough ride. He finally got things situated and their small amount of gear stowed.

One last cup of watered-down coffee and he decided it was time to head out in spite of the rising heat. The idea of sitting around waiting for rescue wasn’t an acceptable one. It would be just as hot here, and the sooner they hit the trail, the sooner the young gunfighter would have a chance to survive. One thing they had plenty of was water; wet bandanas would do some good toward keeping Johnny from too much exposure.

Besides, there was no guarantee Scott was going to return. It had nothing to do with thinking the older Lancer would abandon his brother. By now, Avante had given up on that idea altogether. These two were close, much closer than he and Chris had ever been. He found that he resented that too.

He took a handful of the comfrey paste from the cooling pan and headed for his sleeping prisoner. It took a couple of good shakes to wake Madrid. "Roll over."

Instant suspicion. "Why?"

"You want to get better?" He managed to stare Johnny down, then regretted the blatant power play and asked, "Hurting?"

Johnny started to open his mouth, obviously thought better of it and bit his lip.

Avante chuckled and shook his head, "You are one stubborn little shit. C’mon let’s get you turned so I can put some of this stuff on that wound."

Johnny managed a glance at Avante’s handful of white paste, but was sidetracked by the agony of changing position as the Ranger forced him over onto his stomach. For a good five minutes, questions were out of his reach. By the time his entire body stopped twanging pain, Avante had the bandage removed and was pressing the glop into the wound.

Replacing the soiled bandage, Avante eased him over again and ran a hand across his forehead. The fever was on another spike.

"Can’t be helped," Johnny said softly.

Avante agreed. "Yeah, but it could be a problem on the trail."

Johnny laughed weakly. "Hell, Ranger Man, I’m liable to be your problem on the trail."

* * *

Murdoch Lancer would never forget the sight of his first born son riding into the stable yard that brilliant sunlit afternoon. At first he hadn’t noticed the rider approaching so slowly. Working with Jelly to replace an old outdoor hand pump, his attention was focused on trying to pry loose the rusted bolts holding the pump to its rough-hewn washstand. He didn’t look up until he heard Jelly’s urgent, "Boss!"

"Heh?"

"Look!" Jelly jerked his chin as he stared wide-eyed over Murdoch’s shoulder.

Turning swiftly, Murdoch stared toward the far end of the yard to see an exhausted chestnut horse approaching at a plodding walk, head bobbing low with each stride it took, its flanks white with dried sweat. The man listing in the saddle appeared to be lashed in place at the waist, so acute was the angle of his body with its lolling head and ragdoll limbs that Murdoch could account for his defiance of gravity in no other way.

"Scott!" With an anguished, strangled cry of recognition, Murdoch dropped his tools and ran toward the horse and rider. "Jelly! Quick! Help me get him down."

With trembling hands Murdoch fumbled at the strange mixture of leather and cloth Scott had used to tether himself to his saddle horn. Desperation made him clumsy but he was aware of Jelly calmly working on the offside of the horse, sawing through layers of cloth with his pocketknife. When the last bit of cloth gave way, Murdoch caught Scott’s unconscious weight as his body slipped out of the saddle.

"Let’s get him in the house, Boss." Jelly placed his hand gently on Murdoch’s arm, leaving unasked the question both men dreaded having answered: where was Johnny?

 

Chapter 13

"That boy looks like he’s bin to hell and back," Jelly muttered as he stood by Teresa’s elbow holding a basin of warm water. "I think we kin jus’ thank our lucky stars that he ain’t got no bullet holes in him and nothin’ seems to be broke."

"What could have happened, Murdoch?" asked Teresa as she dipped her cloth in the water and wrung out the excess. Her eyes filling with tears, she bit her lip as she glanced across to where her guardian sat silently on the opposite side of the bed. His face was set in those hard lines she recognized all too well; he was trying to hide his emotions. Without thinking, she darted her small hand over to cover his large rough one before returning to her task. Gently, she wiped at the scratches that covered Scott’s cheeks and hands, cleaning away the accumulation of dirt and dried blood.

Oblivious to everyone around him, Murdoch could not take his eyes off his unconscious son. Fear had constricted his heart while he and Jelly carefully examined Scott for injury. And that fear had only slightly lessened when they’d determined that aside from cuts and bruises and a nasty lump on his head, Scott seemed relatively unscathed by whatever ordeal he’d been through. That it had been an ordeal, Murdoch did not question.

His son was gaunt, exhausted, filthy . . . and alone.

Where was Johnny? The question struck at Murdoch’s heart like a hammer striking a smithy’s anvil. He knew the boys had planned to travel together. The cattle sale money was too tempting a target for any down-on-his-luck saddletramp who just might happen to catch wind of it. Is that what happened? Murdoch wondered. Had someone gotten the jump on Scott and Johnny, robbing them and . . .

"Señor Murdoch?" At the door to Scott’s room, Cipriano paused inquiringly, looking at the silent man sitting watch.

Murdoch roused himself. "Si?" he answered without moving his eyes from Scott.

"Ramon has seen to the horse," the old segundo said softly. "When he was removing the saddle, something dropped from the saddlebag. I think you should see it, señor."

At last Murdoch looked up and saw in Cipriano’s outstretched hand a battered, tooled-leather document folder. It was the folder he’d handed to his sons before they left. Tucked in it had been the various papers and documents they’d need to conduct business at the end of the drive.

"And I bet you want us to bring it back to you full of money?" Johnny had quipped with a smile.

"Of course, I’m counting on you – but of course I’ll be counting it, too," Murdoch had retorted in mock warning and had enjoyed the laughter that followed.

Wordlessly, he rose from the bed and took the folder. Opening it he saw currency bills tied in neat bundles inside. Cash on the barrelhead had been the agreement with the buyer, a man who distrusted banks and bank drafts.

"So they wasn’t robbed?" Jelly asked wonderingly.

"No, apparently not," Murdoch answered absently, lost in thought. "Cipriano . . ."

"Si, señor." The segundo nodded. "The horses will be ready. As will I, myself."

Startled, Murdoch jerked his head up and met the penetrating gaze of his old friend.

"We will find him," Cipriano said, a quick smile flashing under his huge gray mustache. "Miss Teresa," he turned to the young woman who sat with a hand gently resting on Scott’s forearm. "I think perhaps you should start baking so you will be ready when we return. It is always wise to have many sweet things on hand for a brother who has been on a journey."

"Yes, you’re right, Cipriano." Teresa smiled through sudden tears. "I wouldn’t want to disappoint Johnny."

"I guess I better see about puttin’ some grub together for the trail," Jelly said, setting the basin on the table by the bed. He patted Teresa on the arm. "You jus’ sit here and keep an eye on him, missy, and call me if you need anything."

"There are a number of the men who would like to ride with us, Señor." Cipriano looked questioningly at Murdoch.

"I’ll leave it to you, old friend."

"Murdoch!" The urgency in Teresa’s voice made Murdoch whirl around. Scott was stirring restlessly, plucking at the sheets and turning his head from side to side. Cipriano hesitated, hovering at the foot of the bed while Murdoch moved swiftly to his son, bending low to speak softly into Scott’s ear. Teresa tried to soothe away the young man’s unease with her touch.

"Scott, it’s all right, son. You’re at home. Safe."

But instead of quieting, Scott struggled more. Murdoch could see his son fighting to regain consciousness and was torn between wanting Scott to wake and wanting him to rest and recoup his strength. Then he saw his son’s eyes flick open and he knew Scott’s will had won out. He was awake.

As awareness flooded back, Scott saw his father by his bedside and reached out in shaky panic. "Murdoch," he rasped, bunching the older man’s sleeve into a weak fist. "We’ve got to ride out. Now!"

"Whoa, son." Murdoch sat down on the bed and gently disengaged Scott’s grip, taking his hand in his own. "What you need . . . "

"What I need is for you to listen to me, sir," Scott said in frustration. He looked at his father intently and their eyes locked.

"Scott," Teresa tried to intervene. "You’re not well. . ." He looked at her briefly, almost unseeingly and turned back to his father.

"There’s been a . . . there’s been an accident," Scott began, ignoring Teresa’s swift intake of breath. "Johnny’s pretty badly hurt."

"Where. . .?" Murdoch spoke with icy calm.

"Somewhere on the Stockton trail, this side of the river," Scott answered. "I’m not sure exactly. He’s, he’s not alone," he added hastily. "There’s a man with him. Avante. A Ranger, from Texas."

"Los diablos Tejanos!" Cipriano spat angrily. "Pueda ellos se pudren en. . . Yo, yo soy Señorita Teresa arrepentido y." He flushed under his tan. Teresa looked at him with wide eyes and hid a nervous giggle behind her hand.

Murdoch shot Cipriano a dark look and turned back to his son. "A Ranger? Are you sure, Scott?" he began doubtfully, then shook his head. "Never mind. How many days’ ride?"

"I think at least three, Murdoch," Scott answered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "They were going to start the day after I left. Avante was building a travois . . .”

"A travois?" Teresa’s voice was shrill with alarm.

Scott turned to his adoptive sister, his eyes compassionate in spite of his own exhaustion. "Johnny took a bullet in the back, Teresa," he said softly. "The bullet’s out but . . . but, well, we figured it would be better if he didn’t try to ride." Scott glanced at Murdoch expressively.

"You’re going to need medical supplies, Murdoch," Teresa said resolutely. "I’ll go down and tell Jelly." She rose, gave Scott a swift kiss on his forehead and was gone before they realized it.

"What haven’t you told us, son?"

Inhaling deeply, Scott looked at his father and then at Cipriano. "I don’t. . . I don’t know if he can make it," he whispered shakily. "It was . . . bad. The bullet was in so deep and there was so much blood." He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them the older men saw in their haunted depths the horrors of the past few days.

"That’s been all I can think of," he admitted. "All that blood. And the pain. And if he gets pneumonia because of those broken ribs . . ."

Murdoch started to speak and then fell silent.

"Señor Scott," Cipriano said. "You said you think Johnny and this man are three days’ ride from us?"

"I think. If they were able to start traveling today, the day after I left.”

"Excuse me, but I am confused," the old segundo shrugged apologetically. "You left Johnny and this man yesterday?"

"Yes, Cipriano. Your directions were very good." Despite his worry, Scott found himself grinning at the old vaquero’s confusion. "And you are right, the Stockton Pass is no lady."

"What?" Murdoch demanded sharply looking from his son to the now smiling segundo.

"I am most pleased that for once you listened closely to my advice, Señor Scott," Cipriano teased. He then turned serious. "You made that crossing in less than two days, chico?"

Scott nodded. Cipriano patted his leg and turned to go. As he went through the door he looked back over his shoulder. "You are a true vaquero, compadre. And a Lancer, I think, also."

"Cipriano?"

"Si, Señor Murdoch, I will make the buckboard ready."

Gazing at his son appreciatively, Murdoch tried to find the words to express the admiration he felt. And the love.

He was not a demonstrative man. Growing up in poverty with a mother made mean-spirited by suffering, he had never learned much about giving or receiving love. In adulthood, he had been lucky enough to find two very different women who had seen through his initial awkwardness and reached past his hard shell. But he had lost them both and, for a long time, their sons, too.

In the end, he simply reached over and squeezed Scott’s hand. "Get some sleep, son, " he advised as he rose to go. "Don’t worry. We’re forming a search party and now we know where to search. We’ll find them."

"Yes," Scott said firmly, "we will." Pushing the sheets aside he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Now wait a minute, son."

"I’m going, Murdoch. I don’t care if I have to tie myself onto my saddle again to make it. But I’m going with you." Despite the pallor of his face, there was iron in Scott’s voice and Murdoch knew it would be useless to argue.

"All right," he agreed crisply. "But you’ll be riding with Jelly. In the buckboard."

Scott opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it. "Agreed," he said. "But we bring a horse so I can ride later."

Murdoch nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Cipriano was right. A Lancer indeed. Stubbornness going toe-to-toe with stubbornness.

"You better get some food in your stomach, son. We’ll leave in an hour."

 

Chapter 14

The late afternoon sun beat down on the odd little caravan as Avante reined his mare off the trail into a clump of tall willows. Madrid’s palomino, reins dallied around Avante’s saddle horn, followed sedately, resigned now to being ponied instead of ridden. Dismounting stiffly, Avante unlooped a canteen and walked back to where Johnny lay cushioned on his back, silent and unresponsive

A half-smile touched Avante’s sun-cracked lips as their initial argument replayed in his weary thoughts. He’d tried to put Madrid face down on the travois to keep pressure off the bullet wound low in his back but the kid was having nothing of that.

No compromise would do. Or in Madrid’s own words, “If any part of my anatomy is gonna crack against every rock between here and Lancer, it’s gonna be my well padded backside, thank you very much.” He’d balked at being tied onto the travois too, but Avante rode right over those objections. He had no intentions of stopping every fifteen minutes to drag 170 pounds of limp body back up onto the blankets, so ropes it was.

"Madrid," he called softly, going down on one knee beside the travois. Not even an eyelid flicker. Black hair was plastered with fever sweat to a forehead so pallid that the skin appeared almost translucent. For a heartbeat, he thought the kid was dead.

With uncharacteristic reluctance, he reached out tentatively and shook one shoulder with a gentle hand. He was rewarded with a weak moan of protest. Deciding against forcing water down the throat of a semi-conscious man, he took the dried-out bandana from Johnny’s throat and soaked it again, as he had been doing ever since they had broken camp, with lukewarm water from the canteen. When he brushed the wet cloth over Johnny’s cheek the young man turned toward it as if seeking the source of the small comfort. His eyelids flickered, opened for a split second, then closed again. It was evidently too much effort to reach for awareness.

After a chilly night, they had endured a sun-soaked day. Dust kicked up in puffs of brown by plodding hooves intermingled with splatters of mud that dotted the horses’ legs and flanks. The still-racing river was close enough that Avante had no qualms about using copious amounts to douse his young prisoner regularly with water from the canteens, trying to combat both the heat and fever that had reached a level of real threat to Madrid’s life.

The kid wasn’t going to make it.

That was a bitter pill, too, considering that Avante had nearly come to terms with the fact that he had put a bullet into the back of the wrong man. Whatever larger-than-life reputation Madrid had earned for himself had little to do with the soft-spoken, brashly irreverent young man who now lay, probably dying, on a crudely constructed mish-mash of poles and rope. He had just about mentally buried the boy when startlingly clear blue eyes opened and pinned his gaze.  

There was a fight for recognition, a shift of statement that might have been fear, then Madrid released the stare and glanced past Avante’s shoulder as if searching out another face in the dimness of his vision. Avante saw his muscles tighten, recognized the beginning of an effort to rise and easily halted it with one hand to Johnny’s chest. The effort clearly stole any reserves of strength away. Johnny sighed, closed his eyes against the sun’s glare and let his head drop sideways. 

Avante held Johnny’s chin in place and lifted the canteen to his lips. "Drink some," he said softly. His dry, graveled voice carried enough weight of authority that he got no resistance. 

* * *

Johnny was too exhausted to fight the forced attention or the tepid liquid being poured into his open mouth.

Lukewarm water trickled down his parched throat, hit an empty stomach and nearly caused an internal rebellion that would have dismayed them both further if he hadn’t forced himself to swallow. Johnny squinted his eyes tightly shut and willed his stomach to settle. 

Questions tumbled through his mind, demanding answers, but then wandering off before he could make the connection between thought and voice. Scott? That was the main question, the only one he could hang onto. Memories tugged at his half-conscious mind. The water swallowing his brother up like a tale of monsters at sea. Scott’s horse lunging out of the water, riderless, panicked. The trail of fire in his own back when he spurred Barranca forward. Then even more vague memories of cold, pain, and his brother leaning over him, holding him against the fear and the loss that threatened them both. He wasn’t sure which was the dream and which was the reality. 

"Scott?" It was barely a whisper, a mere breath of air past cracked lips. 

It must have been a question he’d asked before, he decided, for he could see the film of weary patience slip over Avante’s face. When the Ranger answered, the words had the feel of repetition. "He’s on his way home to get help. He’ll be back. Give it time, boy." 

"...‘self...?" 

"Yes, he went by himself. Yes, he had a gun. Yes, he will be back." 

"We need to … go… on.”

"We’ll go in a few minutes." The Ranger sat back on his heels and rubbed a dirty hand across his face, fingers scratching audibly on days’ worth of untended beard. 

It was hot. Johnny almost thought he’d spoken the complaint aloud when Avante immediately poured more water over the stained bandana and laid it across his flushed face. It felt wonderful. The pain had been buried for a while now beneath layers of exhaustion and numbed by the fever that stole through his body, draining his strength and even his ability to think. He wondered how many days it had been since they’d set out from Stockton, intent only on getting the money from the cattle sale safely into Murdoch’s hands. Past that, his plans wavered between seeing the ranch, eating a hot meal, then wandered no further than a ride to Morro Coyo with Scott, a bottle of tequila, and a bowl of lime and salt.  He was lost in half-sleep and the tantalizing images of being home that he didn’t notice they had started moving again until the first lurch of the travois tore a path of agony through his back and side. He wanted to cry out, to beg Avante to stop, to wait, just a while, but sheer stubbornness clamped his teeth into his lower lip and he concentrated on breathing in and out through his nose.

* * *

Watching each step taken by the palomino rigged into the travois harness had been Avante’s first mistake when they’d set out on this trek. Every pace took a tug on the makeshift bed, every rut, every rock jerked or jolted the man strapped to the rig. For a while Madrid had buffered any responses to the obvious pain with sheer stubbornness, gritted teeth and the hamburger he was making of his lower lip as he bit down each time a moan demanded escape.

An hour later, that stubbornness deserted him. By then he was too weak to make more than an occasional groan and then even that stopped. The silence was much, much worse.

Avante tugged his hat lower to shield his eyes from the lowering sun and sagged into his own saddle. They’d try for another few miles before it got too dark to safely negotiate the broken ground and then set up a camp and fire to ward off the chilled night to come. Madrid needed the rest. He wasn’t quite ready to admit that he needed it too.

 

Chapter 15

 “You had enough?”

Arms full of trail gear, Jelly leaned over Scott’s shoulder and eyed the half-finished plate of food suspiciously.  

“I’m fine, Jelly.”  

“Don’t look fine.” Jelly pursed his mouth into a scowl as he continued on his way toward the kitchen door, headed for the stable yard beyond. “Gonna unload this and be right back in. You stay put. I wanna brew you up one of my ‘coctions.”  

Scott groaned and looked at Teresa sitting across from him at the broad, scarred oak table. The lines of worry disappeared suddenly as she broke into a giggle.

 “You might as well give in,” she advised, rolling her eyes. “Otherwise he’ll go on about it for hours.”  

“I know, I know.” Scott smiled in return and was dismayed when the light in Teresa’s face disappeared as quickly as it had come. She was not to be distracted.  

“Scott, are you well enough to do this? To ride with them?” She reached over and put her hand on his forearm. “You look, well, you look . . .”  

“Like hell?” Scott suggested with the ghost of another smile playing at his lips.  

“Scott Lancer! Be serious!”

“I am, Teresa,” he replied earnestly, placing his hand over hers. He looked down at the table and then up into his adoptive sister’s troubled eyes. “I’ll be honest with you, Teresa. Yes, I’m tired – so tired I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sleep again.”  

“So. . .” Teresa began.  

“So, nothing,” he interrupted firmly. “I’ve been tired before, will be again. I’ll be fine. Jelly will see to that,” he added lightly, hearing the backdoor slam as Jelly returned.  

“I’ll see to what?” Jelly asked, hands on his hips and his chin jutting out like a pugilist’s. He looked so ornery that Teresa had to smile.  

“Murdoch’s ready to go.” Dropping his pose of outrage, Jelly looked meaningfully at Scott. “Told him I had to fix a ‘coction first.”  

“Bring it with you,” Scott said, pushing away from the table. “I’ll go check in with Murdoch.” He stood slowly, trying to mask the sudden shakiness of his legs by pretending to stretch as he rose. Neither Jelly or Teresa was fooled but they said nothing.

Once outside, Scott found the buckboard pulled up close to the house, a harnessed team of bay geldings already dozing comfortably in the late afternoon sun. The bed of the wagon was loaded with rolled blankets, ropes, canvas tarpaulins and bags, and an assortment of wooden provisions boxes. He saw his own saddle, horn down, leaning against one of the boxes, an unfamiliar rifle in its scabbard and full saddlebags slung across the top. Someone had been packing for him, he thought with a feeling of wry gratitude. He sure hadn’t been up to doing it himself.  

Across the stable yard he saw Murdoch, already mounted, giving directions to Frank and Emilio, two of the vaqueros who’d asked to be made part of the rescue group. They would take over control of the remuda.  The outriders would go through their mounts scouting ahead and return for fresh horses before going ahead again. 

Rescue.  

Scott fought back the sudden wave of worry that chilled his stomach. Johnny was all right; everything was going to be all right. Returning Murdoch’s acknowledging wave, Scott pushed back thoughts of his brother and resolutely tried to focus again on the wagon-bed full of supplies.

“I wonder what’s going on?” Teresa was by his elbow, handing him a steaming mug that could only be one of Jelly’s vile ‘coctions. At his questioning look she nodded behind him and to his left where Cipriano and his wife Elena were standing, obviously arguing.

“Whatever she’s selling he ain’t buyin’,” Jelly observed, dumping an armload of canteens unceremoniously into the buckboard. Without a second glance, he returned to the house.

It was true, Scott thought, whatever Elena was saying to her husband was not carrying water. Cipriano stood impassively, arms folded across his massive chest, legs spread, weight back on his heels, listening as Elena spoke rapidly and emphatically. Every once in a while he would shake his head and Elena would throw up her hands in disgust then return like a terrier to the fray.  

“I’ve never seen those two so angry at each other,” Teresa said wonderingly. Cipriano suddenly stepped toward his wife and they heard his angry “Enough, mi esposa!” before he turned on his heel and stomped off toward Murdoch and the vaqueros.  

“Hmmpf.” Jelly had reappeared by the buckboard. “End of the Mexican stand-off?”

“Jelly!” Teresa gave a strangled gasp, half amused.

“Uh-oh,” Jelly said, spying Elena coming their way. “I gotta pick up some more stuff inside. Here,” he said hurriedly, handing Scott a revolver and some boxes of ammunition.

Before either Scott or Teresa could say anything, Jelly was gone and Elena was standing before them, her usually composed face still flushed with the fires of her anger. Strands of graying hair had escaped the neat bun at the back of her head and her eyes were darkly smoldering.  

“Señor Scott,” she began, her low melodious voice soft and surprisingly calm.  

“Si, Señora Justiano” Scott answered politely. Between them there existed an odd formality suggesting a distance that had bothered Scott until one hot summer’s day when Johnny explained its basis.  

“Naw, she likes you all right, Boston,” Johnny had said as they worked together re-hanging a gate on one of the corrals. “Hold it up a little higher – there – now let me tap in some nails. . . It’s just that you’re the patrone, after Murdoch of course.”

“Didn’t . . . anybody . . . tell her, tell her we’re partners . . . equal thirds?” Scott grunted, struggling to hold up the heavy gate. “Johnny . . .”  

“Almost got it. There.  Let ‘er go.”  Johnny stepped back, took the nails out of his mouth and eyed the top line of the gate. “Looks pretty level – See, you’re the first-born son, the one to carry on the name. Elena, she’s Old School.”  

“And the second son doesn’t get any respect in the ‘Old School’? I think I like that, little brother,” teased Scott.  

“Yeah, well,” Johnny was suddenly serious. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he ran his fingers thoughtfully along the valley of his hammer’s claw. “I don’t know, Scott, it’s like I’m, I . . .” He looked out across the rolling grasslands to the mountains in the distance. “Maybe it’s because my mother was, was a la mujer Mexicana. Or maybe it’s cause it don’t seem to matter to Elena or Cipriano who I was or even what I am now.” Turning back to Scott, he said softly, “We can sit down at the table together and eat a meal and . . . and it’s like I been there before.” He gave a little shrug and smiled self-consciously.  

“You don’t have to explain.”  

“Yeah, I know that, Boston.” Another smile, this one growing. Johnny poked his brother gently in the stomach with the butt of his hammer. “But as first-born son and patrone-in-training you’re gonna have some explaining to do to Murdoch if we don’t finish with these corrals. Let’s go.”

Teresa’s voice, then Elena’s, broke into Scott’s reverie.  

“Scott?”

“Señor?”  

“I’m sorry,” he said with embarrassment as Elena regarded him gravely.  

“It is all right, señor. He is your brother. It is natural that he will be in your thoughts.”  

Scott started. How did she know? As he looked at her in wonder, she smiled reassuringly. And he was struck anew not only by the classic beauty of this middle-aged woman, but by a sense of her warmth and generosity. When she reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder, he felt strangely comforted.  

“He is a very insistent man, our Juanito.”  

Scott swallowed. “He is that.”  

“There is something you must do for me, señor,” she said quietly. “For Johnny. My foolish husband has refused.”

As Scott raised his eyebrows, she shrugged. “He also is a very insistent man. And very superstitious. He does not agree with what I shall ask of you.” She looked intently at Scott and he felt the heat of her gaze. “My husband believes that we can change what is meant to be. I do not.” Elena turned to Teresa, reaching out to touch the young woman’s cheek gently. “I think what is to be is to be.”  

“What do you want me to do, señora?” Scott whispered. 

“I want you to give this to Johnny,” Elena said, taking Scott’s hand in hers. She pressed something into his palm and folded his fingers tightly closed.  

“What is it?” 

“It was a gift to me,” Elena continued, still holding Scott’s hand closed. “A long time ago. It was from a, a friend. . . A beautiful, kind and generous friend. Who was also a very, very angry and stubborn lady.” She looked meaningfully at Scott.  “You must give this to Johnny,” Elena whispered, her eyes suddenly glistening, “when it is the right time.”

 “How will I know?” Scott said, desperation rising in his throat like bile.  

“You will know, caballero mio. He is your brother, you will know.” With a hand to the back of his neck, she pulled him low enough so she could give him a swift kiss on his forehead, a kiss Scott knew to be a benediction of sorts, then Elena was gone. Slowly, he uncurled his trembling fingers.

“Scott?” Teresa’s voice was tremulous.  

“It’s, it’s a cross, Teresa.” Scott held out his palm. In the center lay a thin gold chain and a small, hammered-gold cross with delicate etching, obviously the work of a master goldsmith with poetry in his soul.  

“Oh,” Teresa gasped. “It’s so beautiful. Scott, do you think. . . I mean, was it really . . .”  

“Johnny’s mother’s? Yes, it must have been.”  

“But why would Cipriano be against taking it to Johnny?” Teresa asked, puzzled.  

“Because,” Scott drew a deep breath, “I think because he is afraid that giving Johnny the cross is like. . . like giving him the Last Rites.”  

Teresa bit her lip, looking searchingly at Scott.  Without thinking, he shook his head slightly.  He knew he couldn’t give her the reassurance she sought.

 “Scott! Are you ready?” From across the stable yard they heard Murdoch’s call. Beside him, Cipriano, Frank and Emilio were mounting up, ready to move out.  

“Just waiting for Jelly,” Scott called guiltily, feeling like a child caught in wrongdoing. “What should I do with this, Teresa?” he whispered frantically. “I don’t want to lose it.”  

“Here,” she said, taking the necklace from him. “Bend over.” Reaching up she slipped the chain around his neck and quickly fastened its clasp. “This will keep it safe until. . .”  

The kitchen door slammed and Jelly returned. “That’s the rest of it. Boss ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he hoisted himself up onto the buckboard’s seat and gathered up the reins.

“Yup,” Scott answered, quickly tucking the cross down the front of his shirt where it would be hidden. It felt funny against his skin, alien, foreign. He had been raised an Episcopalian, Back Bay-Beacon Hill, Anglo Episcopalian. Gentlemen, Harlan would have said, do not wear jewelry.

He gave Teresa a crooked smile and climbed up into the buckboard to sit beside Jelly as Murdoch rode over.  

“We’re going to handle this like one of our drives,” Murdoch told Scott. “I want to keep some horses fresh so that as we get closer to the point where we might meet up with them, Cipriano and I can push on ahead.”  

“And me.”  

“Yes,” Murdoch smiled briefly, “and you. Frank will ride with me until then. Emilio will lead the remuda and ride with the buckboard. We’re going to go as far as we can before dark tonight and then hunker down until the moon comes out. Then we’ll press on.”  

“What about grub, Boss?” Jelly asked.  

“We all have something in our saddlebags, Jelly. I want to keep moving as long and as fast as we can.”  

Scott nodded approvingly.  

“Murdoch?” Teresa ran over to where Murdoch’s horse was restlessly shifting from one foot to another. Holding onto a rein with one hand, she reached up with the other. Murdoch grasped it and gave her knuckles a soft kiss. “Take care, sweetheart. We’ll be back with Johnny as soon as we can.” Turning away, he reined his horse over to where the others waited.

 “Now, Teresa, honey, don’t you worry.” Jelly called as the young woman, head down, walked slowly back toward the buckboard. “Ever’thing’s goin’ to be fine.”

When she reached Scott’s side of the buckboard, Teresa stopped, her eyes meeting those of her adoptive brother. And Scott felt lost in the depth of her enormous sadness.  

“Bring him home, Scott,” she whispered. “No matter what, bring him home.”

Beyond words, Scott simply nodded.  Then Jelly slapped the reins and the team of bays jerked forward.  Emilio and his string of five horses fell in behind.  

As they pulled out of the stable yard, passing the corrals and the bunkhouse, they approached the small house belonging to Cipriano and Elena. In the darkness of the doorway, Scott saw Elena standing, watching silently. He saw a flash of motion and knew she was making the sign of the cross.

Against his chest, her gift rested safely.

 

Chapter 16

The campfire crackled and spit sparks, forcing Scott to move his legs back from its comforting heat. Carefully, he sipped his coffee. By the time Jelly had poured him a second cup, the pot was close to empty and Scott was sure he’d gotten a pretty good dose of grounds. Maybe there was time to brew more; even two cups of Jelly’s coffee weren’t enough to chase the grogginess from his thoughts.

They’d driven for less than an hour when he had been forced to give up his seat and surrender to the constant sway of the buckboard. He crawled into the back to sleep; Jelly had pursed his lips, sniffed and given him a knowing look. But he hadn’t said a word. A blessing, thought Scott before closing his eyes and drifting off, a blessing.

He had wakened to dark and the sounds of the others talking in muted voices, the words lost in a murky background of night noises. Throwing off the blanket that had appeared out of nowhere, he’d made his way over to the campfire and gratefully accepted Jelly’s offered cup of coffee. The beef jerky he declined.

“Think you could brew us another pot, Jelly?” Murdoch asked with a sideways glance at his heavy-eyed son, who was curled around his own steaming cup like a surly bear protecting disputed prey.

“Sure, won’t take me but a few minutes,” Jelly agreed. “Scott, you oughta eat something. Try that jerky, or I got some of Teresa’s biscuits tucked here somewhere.”

“I’m fine, Jelly,” Scott called, shifting his shoulders. Catching Murdoch’s inquiring look he said it again, more emphatically. “I’m fine.”

“All right, son.” Murdoch looked back at the fire and there was a long silence as each of the men sat alone with their thoughts and watched Jelly fuss with the fire and his coffeepot.

“Scott,” Murdoch said finally. “What happened out there on that trail? How did . . .” The older man paused, seemingly unsure how to continue. “How did you boys come to be travelling with a Ranger? What’s the man’s name?”

“Avante.”

“Avante. ” Murdoch tipped his hat back on his head and rubbed at his tired eyes. “What does this Avante have to do with Johnny’s . . . accident?”

Everything, Scott thought as he allowed himself to be mesmerized by the flickering flames. Avante has everything to do with it. And I’m gonna kill the son of a bitch if . . .

“Avante arrested Johnny and me the first night out of Stockton,” Scott forced his voice to be calm and matter of fact. He ignored his father’s jerk of surprise. “Apparently, he’d been tracking us for some time. He was convinced we’d robbed a stage a couple of months back.”

“Two months ago? But that’s when . . .”

“I know, I know.” Scott nodded. “That’s what we tried to tell him. But he didn’t want to hear it. A man was killed during the robbery and some deluded eyewitnesses said Johnny had done it.”

Murdoch groaned. Angrily he set his coffee cup down and rubbed his face with his hands. “Good God, when are they going to leave him alone?” he asked with a naked anguish that Scott could never recall seeing there before.

“There’s more,” Scott warned.

Murdoch looked at him questioningly.

“The man who was killed was Avante’s brother.”

From across the campfire came Cipriano’s muttered curse. “So you have run into a Ranger with la venganza ,” he said, his heavy brows knitting together in a frown. “And this Ranger, he is the reason Johnny has a bullet in his back?”

“Yes.”

“Bastardo!”

“I thought you said this fella was a Ranger.” Jelly squatted by the fire and pulled the bubbling coffee pot off to the side. “Last I heard Texas got rid of Rangers and was hirin’ some sort of, oh, what’s the word, Murdoch? They got ‘em in cities.”

“Police.”

“That’s it. But I heared what Texas got now is a buncha gun-happy crooks.”

“Heard that too.” Frank spoke for the first time. He glanced at Cipriano. “That friend of mine passed through here a month back, the one that was looking for a week’s work?” Cirpriano nodded. “Used to be a deputy back in some small town near Brownsville. Said things was bad for honest men lookin’ for honest work.”

Scott shrugged. “All I know is the man has a badge and a grudge. And he shot my brother in the back because Johnny was trying to rescue me from the river.”

“The river, Senor Scott?” Cipriano puzzled.

“We were at the ford. The river was already high, because of the rain. I was supposed to be the first one to cross but. . . I didn’t make it. Deadfall, I think. I don’t really remember much.” Scott’s voice was grim. He sighed and looked at the cup of coffee held between his hands, savoring the warmth. For some reason it was hard to talk about what happened, about how it gave him this pervasive feeling of failure.

“Scott?” Murdoch was so uncharacteristically gentle that Scott almost smiled.

“I woke up somewhere downstream,” he continued quietly. “The next day I found them, Johnny and Avante. Johnny was. . . pretty sick. The bullet was still in there and Avante had a hard time getting it out.”

“You let that varmint . . .”

“Jelly!” Murdoch’s tone was knife-edge sharp and cut off Jelly’s sputtering immediately.

“I had no choice!” Scott snapped angrily. “It was a bad wound, in a bad place. The man’s had far more experience . . .”

“Scott.” His father held his gaze. “You had a decision to make, and you made it. Don’t beat yourself over the head about it.” Murdoch watched as his son turned back to the fire, his mouth set in an obstinate line. “You mentioned something, back at Lancer, about Johnny’s ribs. I didn’t understand . . .”

“The bastard kicked him,” Scott said shortly, his tension almost palpable.

Cipriano stood up abruptly and walked away into the dark. Murdoch watched his old friend for a moment and then, like his son, studied the fire. Frank motioned to Emilio and the two men withdrew. Endless minutes passed until Jelly broke the quiet.

“Moon’s up, Boss. Maybe we oughta get on the road.”

Murdoch nodded mutely. But still he sat, chin cupped in his hand, index finger over his lips, thinking.

“Son,” he said finally. “Why did this man, this Avante, let you leave? Because he did, didn’t he? You didn’t escape, he let you ride off for help, isn’t that right?”

Drawing his knees up and encircling them with his arms, Scott silently considered. “Yes,” he said finally. “I proposed it, and he agreed. And I’m still not entirely sure why, Murdoch. But hell, I don’t even understand why he dug that slug out of Johnny’s back; he was so damned determined to see him hang. Why turn around and save his life? Why pull him out of the river in the first place?” Scott shook his head ruefully. “The man is a walking paradox.”

“A what?” Jelly asked suspiciously.

“A paradox, Jelly – contradictory.” Murdoch smiled.

“Well, why didn’t he say so in the first place?” sniffed the older man. He picked up the coffee pot, emptied the grounds into the dying fire and stood up. Working quickly, he gathered the dirty coffee cups and scattered bits of personal belongings, all the while muttering to himself.

“Fellas with fancy educations like to use them two-dollar words when any fool knows the two-bit ones work jus’ as good. Contrary, that’s a good ole plain word. ‘The man’s contrary’ – see, ya say that an’ everyone knows ‘xactly what you mean . . .Mind your feet, Murdoch,” he warned as he carefully nudged the hot stones away from the fire and kicked dirt over the embers.

“Time to hit the road.” Murdoch rose to his feet and stretched a helping hand down toward his son. “Ready to ride, son?”

“More than ready,” Scott said as he let his father help pull him to feet.

In the night sky, the big, sugar-cookie moon glowed brightly.

Man in the moon, Scott thought. Hello, old friend. . .

They had to stop meeting.

* * *

Full moon tonight, Avante thought, poking at his campfire with a long, charred stick. Why is it that the bigger that moon, the colder the night? Never have figured that one. But then there’s lots of things I never quite puzzled out. The how’s of this. The whys of that. Don’t reckon it makes any difference if I know the answers to a lot of ‘em. Some, though.

He’d planned to keep traveling through the moonlight. But by the time nightfall signaled its arrival, he knew they’d pushed on about as far as he dared. Madrid couldn’t take anymore. Hell, HE couldn’t take anymore. The morning and the late start had taken a lot out of him. He’d been almost too exhausted to cook up the rabbit he’d managed to scare up.

Ugly memories of that rabbit. Hadn’t known rabbits made sounds.

He’d caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, drew and fired. It wasn’t a clean shot. For the first time since he was a boy, he’d had to grit his teeth and force himself to skin and clean his kill.

In the end, once he’d lifted the semi-conscious Madrid off the travois and settled him on blankets, started a fire and put the rabbit on a makeshift spit, he’d had no energy to eat. Nor had the kid. The constant rise and fall of fever was exhausting him almost as much as the sun and the grind of travel.

The wound was oozing again and Avante knew that despite the comfrey salve, the infection was slowly spreading. Almost as bad was Madrid’s breathing, too shallow and quick. With everything else going on, the kid was probably getting pneumonia.

Happens like that with kicked-in ribs sometimes, the Ranger thought guiltily. My fault. It’s all my fault.

Scott Lancer was right – he’d set them all on an impossible trail. And he was paying for every mile of it. Stiff, sore and disheartened, he felt like there was a lump of lead in his belly. With Madrid desperately ill and his brother’s fate unknown, the road ahead seemed long indeed. And at the end, all he would find was more self-loathing.

He’s been so sure when he started this trek. Everything seemed to fit. All the pieces. The descriptions of the robbers, the slick coolness of their leader. And Chris -- what his brother had said, what he had taunted, about Johnny Madrid. Maybe Avante the Ranger heard from the stage driver and from the eyewitnesses only what Avante the Older Brother wanted to hear. The Older Brother had hated Madrid from the minute Chris started bragging on him.

Chris. Shit. If Chris hadn’t died on that dusty road where would he have ended up? What kind of man would the kid have become? With a start, Avante realized sadly that Chris already had been a man, just a little younger than the man now across the campfire from him lying so still and quiet. Chris had wanted to be a Johnny Madrid but he’d missed a turn somewhere, missed a truth Madrid had somehow managed to find and keep out of the muck.

My fault, Avante repeated the haunting thought. I didn’t do right by him. And I tried to get rid of my guilt by doing my best to kill Madrid.

The fire needed feeding. He threw on another stick of wood, then got up and went over to squat stiffly beside Johnny. Even in sleep, the former gunslinger appeared to be in pain. Avante placed his palm against the furrowed forehead and shook his head at the heat pulsing off the skin. Reaching behind him, he found the canteen and the bandanna he’d used earlier in the day. Madrid flinched weakly as the cool, wet cloth touched his skin then was still again.

Returning to his seat by the fire, Avante settled back against his saddle. Tired as he was, sleep felt a long way off. It’s the moon, he thought. So damn bright. Mama used to talk about the man in the moon, watching us.

For long minutes, the Ranger watched the night sky, staring as if searching for his own features in a distant mirror. He didn’t much like what he saw.

 

Chapter 17

Madrid seemed stronger in the morning.  

At first light, Avante found him awake and lucid, his eyes following the Ranger as Avante worked on the dead fire. 

“Hungry?” Avante asked as he reached for the blackened pot filled with the congealed remains of his previous night’s attempt at a stew. He held it up inquiringly. 

“Naw,” Johnny rasped and shook his head slowly. He gave Avante a weak grin. “You’re a . . . terrible cook.” 

“Gotta eat, boy.” 

“Let’s hit the trail, Ranger,” Johnny said shortly, looking away. “I reckon we didn’t cover much ground yesterday.” 

Avante studied his young prisoner carefully. Suddenly he thought of the one time he’d seen the ocean, when he’d been outside Corpus Christi – and stood watching on a sandy beach, fascinated by the movement of the tide. He’d been spellbound by the way the water rushed in and then rushed out. Each advance was a little smaller than the last; each retreat deeper. An old man mending a fishing net had told him the tide was going out. 

Madrid’s tide was going out. 

Shit. 

“Wait a minute, kid,” he said, shaking off the chill that gripped his gut. “We’re not going anywhere just yet. Lemme look at your back – and I figure we’ve got to get you to sit up and cough a little.” He smiled at the mulish look Johnny gave him. “And you ain’t goin’ nowhere until you put something in that belly.” 

Silently the Ranger moved over toward Johnny and began what by now was a familiar routine to them both. Gently, the injured man was rolled onto his side, his shirt lifted, the bandages checked. In truth, there was little Avante could do. He was afraid to disturb the cloth that adhered to what he knew were the edges of the incision, afraid he would start a torrent of bleeding he’d be unable to halt. A little cleansing water, a little more salve smeared where the bandage lifted easily. They were gestures more than anything. The skin around the wound was still hot and red with infection. 

“Bleeding?” Johnny asked as Avante rolled him back. 

“Not much. Only to be expected.” The Ranger shrugged, pretending unconcern. 

“Infected?” Johnny’s knowing eyes now held his and Avante found he couldn’t look away. 

“Salve’s doing its job,” he answered as cryptically as he could manage. But he could see Madrid wasn’t fooled. He changed the subject. “You hear nature callin’ yet, son?” 

A small smile played at Johnny’s lips as he shook his head. 

“Look, you gotta drink more water,” Avante told him frankly. “You don’t drink, you don’t piss. And you don’t piss, well . . . that’s trouble.” The Ranger eyed his prisoner appraisingly. “All right, let’s get you upright.” 

Leaning down, Avante draped each of Johnny’s arms around his own neck and reached behind his shoulders. Ignoring the choked sob that escaped the injured man, Avante lifted him to a sitting position. 

“You gotta help yourself now, kid,” Avante whispered to the top of Johnny’s head. “You gotta try to cough.”  

He could hear Johnny’s breath coming in rasps, a faint crackle punctuating the end of each inhalation. Avante closed his eyes and mentally muttered the most vulgar obscenity he knew. 

“Cough, son.” 

“. . . Can’t . . .” The reply came breathless and weak. 

“Give it a minute. Then, Goddamn it, you’re gonna cough.” 

Avante waited. A minute passed. Two. And then there was a weak sputter, more like a clearing of the throat than a cough. It would have to do.

* * *

He felt as if he’d been in the saddle all his life. 

It was only midday but the night had been a long one. Already the hours were beginning to blur. And the journey had only just started. How long? Murdoch wondered. How long could he hold out? How long before that niggling complaint in his back, Pardee’s memento, became an outraged roar of protest? 

Well, let it roar, he decided grimly, I’m damned good at ignoring what I don’t want to hear. 

Have to stretch, he told himself, shifting his weight forward so he could stand in his stirrups. Lightly holding onto his saddle horn for balance, he felt the big chestnut’s easy loping strides lengthen beneath him: Ajax needs a stretch, too. Thank God for a horse with a rocking chair ride.  

Out of the side of his eye he caught Scott’s inquiring glance and nodded in return. I’m fine, son, he thought. It’s you who looks like hell. Drawn, exhausted and . . . haunted. I’d do anything if I could ease the pain in your eyes, vanquish the spectre that’s haunting your thoughts. My thoughts.  

Oh God. 

Johnny. 

My son. 

He was so tiny when Elena held him up for me to see. So tiny. I was too afraid to hold him. Afraid I would drop him, hurt him. But Elena insisted. Put him in my arms and showed me how to hold him. My son. A wee little dark thing, his face all red. Angry then, too. And Maria so proud . . .  

No. Murdoch grimly pushed the memories back. It is over and done with. Long gone. A lifetime ago.  

Johnny’s lifetime . . . No! 

He settled back in his saddle and tried to concentrate on landmarks, fiercely ticking them off in his mind as they passed. The road was so familiar to him that groups of trees or outcroppings of rock or even scrubby patches of brush were the only mileposts he needed.  

Less than three days now to the ford, he thought. Two? Surely we will meet them before then.  

* * *

Two days, Cipriano guessed, riding easily. If they are traveling slowly . . . perhaps a horse loses a shoe. Perhaps they do not leave in the morning as early as they should . . . at most two more days will pass by before we will see them. . .  

Listen to me, he thought with wry amusement. A child still, despite this gray hair, this great gray mustache that reminds me of my abuelito, of Papa Vincente. Telling myself stories so the waiting is easier. So I will not be disappointed. If I do not expect to see them so soon I will be surprised when we meet them on the road. Or see the light of their campfire in the dark.  

Two days, at least. I must not be so anxious. It will bring on bad luck. Elena is right; I am a superstitious old man. 

At the thought of his wife, he scowled, remembering their angry conversation of the day before. Unconsciously, he glanced over at Murdoch astride his big chestnut gelding, one of the few of the Lancer string of horses that could accommodate a man of such height. Cipriano remembered when the chestnut colt with the full white blaze was born. All legs, a big foal with his destiny already mapped out for him. How they had enjoyed breaking and training him together, he and his old friend. 

His old friend whom he did not want to hurt. Who had been hurt so often and was still so angry. 

Elena had no right to ask me to carry Maria’s cross, Cipriano told himself defensively. No right. She knows how I feel about that matter. And about Maria. Her cross can only bring bad luck to Johnny. And it will give Murdoch pain. Maria has much to atone for, he thought darkly, may she burn . . . 

Guiltily, he caught himself and said a silent prayer for Maria’s soul. But not for her son. Not yet. His chico was strong and a fighter. He had no need of Cipriano’s prayers or his stubborn wife’s jewelry.  

Johnny would be fine. They would see. He was going to be just fine. 

* * *

It’s the cavalry all over again, Scott thought grimly. The endless hours in the saddle, constantly on the move, constantly on watch. Not knowing what you’re going to find when you stop 

If you stop. 

Gut bothers me as it did then, too. Can’t help it. Always takes me that way, my stomach feeling like it’s eating itself. Because I’m scared. More scared than I’ve been in a long time. Not supposed to admit that, I suppose. But it’s true. Oh, Johnny boy, you better be putting up a damn good fight . . . 

Wearily, Scott shifted his seat and wished he was riding his own chestnut gelding. This brown, the mount he’d chosen without thinking from the remuda last night, had a bone-shattering trot and a lope that was not much better. The miles were taking their toll. 

Still, he thought, Murdoch’s plan was a good one. Late last night they had been able to exchange their tired mounts for fresh horses. And by the end of this day’s ride, when they stopped again in the dark, these horses would be worn out and in need of rest. The riders could eat and move out when there was enough light, rested horses carrying them forward. 

Have to hand it to the old man, Scott told himself. We could have used him in the army. 

To his left, he saw his father lean forward in the saddle and stand, balancing in his stirrups. Stretching out his back, Scott thought. He shot a questioning look and noted the noncommittal nod in reply. Sore though he may be, Murdoch was not going to let up on himself. Well, with luck they would meet Johnny and Avante in a couple of days.  

With luck Murdoch’s back would hold out and he himself could stick in the saddle and ignore the renewed pounding in his head. Funny thing, headache, he decided. Makes your head feel heavy and light at the same time. Makes it hard to think about things. 

Well, don’t think, he told himself. 

Don’t think about how your head feels, or your stomach – or your butt. 

Don’t think about how many days are ahead of us. 

Don’t think about your brother, maybe fighting for his life, alone with the man who tried to kill him. 

Ride. Just ride.

 

Chapter 18

 

Avante had lost track of the days. And the nights. 

When had they crossed the river? When had they left it? He couldn’t quite remember. It seemed like all he’d ever done in his life was sit on this horse and plod through time. The slow pace, the passage of the sun, the steady drone of the travois dragging through the dirt all conspired to lull him into a stupor. He had even become hardened to hearing the moans Madrid wasn’t quite able to stifle. 

The only changes in their day came when they stopped, and Avante had increasingly found it necessary to stop. Constant travel had proved too much for Madrid; the travois too compressed and uncomfortable. He did better when they made frequent rest breaks. Then Avante would unlash the travois and lower it carefully to the ground, and they’d both doze until it was time to move on. Again. 

Despite the moon that lit their nights, Avante had opted for staying put after sunset. In his lucid moments, Madrid would argue they should push on. But the Ranger knew that as the kid sensed the last remnants of his strength ebb away, he was feeling an urgent need to travel, to meet up with his family.  

“Look, Madrid,” he’d told Johnny sharply one morning. “I’m not real excited about hauling a corpse around with me. And I reckon that’s what you’ll be if we start gallivantin’ around in the moonlight. No, boy,” he added more gently. “We’ll do it my way. And you’ll see that damned brother of yours soon enough.” 

Now, as he reined his mount toward a cottonwood grove and what had to be a small creek beyond, Avante wondered if Scott Lancer had indeed made it through that pass and found his way home. And if he had, how long would it take for him to return with help? 

Never mind, he chided himself. You got other worries to attend to. 

The center of the grove suggested a perfect campsite – there was even an old fire ring – and Avante abruptly decided to stop here for the night. Never camp under a big old cottonwood tree, his grandfather had told him years ago. Roots are too shallow and a big wind’s liable to knock it over on you. But these trees were young and not yet weary; the night would be clear and still. And the creek, with its promise of cool water and good graze, was too good to pass up. 

Avante dismounted and went back to check on Madrid. Sleeping. Or unconscious. Didn’t much matter which, the Ranger thought, and went about the business of unlashing the travois and setting up camp. In a bit, maybe he’d do something about looking for food. Or maybe not. His stomach was so empty he was past hunger and the kid could barely choke down water anyway. 

Madrid’s not going to make it. 

The thought, cold and unyielding, fixed itself in his mind again. He was finding it harder and harder to push away.  

Get some wood, Avante told himself wearily. Start the fire. Get some water. Let the kid sleep for a while longer before you go foolin’ around with that back. And wait. 

Wait.

* * *

Hot . . . madre, I’m hot . . . Desert, must be . . . mouth’s dry, thirsty. . . What are ya doin’ crossin’ the desert without a canteen, Johnny Madrid? . . .Shoulda learned that lesson . . . Sixteen, thought you knew it all . . . didn’t. . . Just a kid trying’ to be a man . . . Tryin’ to be a hardcase . . . Cold! . . . ’s gone all cold now . . . Hate the desert . . . need . . . Hard to breathe. . . God. . . oh God . . . Somebody, please . . . That goddamn fire . . . burning a hole in my back . . . Let me up . . . by la Santisima Virgen . . .please . . . 

“Easy, kid, rest easy.” 

Johnny’s eyes flicked open. Above him he saw the stubbled face of Jason Avante, deep creases of worry lining his forehead. The Ranger’s hands were on his shoulders, firmly pinning him to the ground.  

Not the desert. Johnny told himself, closing his eyes. Worse. 

“Madrid?” 

The pressure on his shoulders disappeared; he felt a hand rest on his forehead then disappear. He struggled to open his eyes again. Night, he thought as he won the battle and became fully awake. It’s night and we’ve stopped.  

“How’re ya doing, son?” Avante asked, eyeing him intently. “Hungry?” 

The Ranger was now hunkered back on his heels, holding out a bowl of something that smelled a lot like chicken. No, chicken entrails. Johnny felt the nausea rise in his throat and tried to swallow.  

Mouth’s so dry. . . 

“Thirsty.”  

Silently, Avante put down the bowl and reached for a canteen. He filled a battered tin cup then slid an arm beneath Johnny’s shoulders, raising him slightly. Johnny felt the burning in his back shift, flare and then settle. The rim of the cup clanked against his teeth, splashing water over his cracked, bitten lips. He gulped greedily, trying to catch it all.  

“Whoa, slow down,” Avante warned, pulling the cup back when he choked and gasped for air. Quickly setting the cup aside, the Ranger raised him to a half sitting position. 

“. . .’M okay,” Johnny said finally. “I am,” he insisted as Avante continued to watch him closely.

“More water?” the Ranger asked quietly. 

Johnny nodded. He was too hot again, and his mouth still felt like someone had lined it with cotton lint. With a trembling hand he guided the cup Avante brought up to his lips. This time he sipped slowly, pausing often to breathe the shallow breaths that seemed to be all he could manage. He felt the Ranger’s eyes on him but when he looked up they slid away, fixing instead on a point somewhere off to the side. What was wrong with the man?

The water gone, he drew back his head a little. “No,” he said as Avante held out the cup with a questioning look. “No more.”  

“You up to me doing some doctoring now?” the Ranger asked, lowering him carefully back to the ground. Again Johnny saw the man was having trouble meeting his eyes.  

Odd. The Ranger seemed almost ill at ease. 

“You . . . giving me a . . . choice? . . . Somethin’ new.” Despite his breathlessness, Johnny tried for a semblance of a grin, hoping to josh the man out of his disquieting strangeness.  

“Naw,” Avante drawled, briefly flashing a smile. “Just givin’ you the fun of thinking you got a choice.” 

“Most fun . . . I had all. . .day.” 

“Yeah,” Avante said somberly, cutting short the banter. He reached for his saddlebag and retrieved his pouch of herbs and medicines. “Used up the made-up salve last night,” he explained, his tone matter of fact. “Time to make more.”  

As Johnny watched, the Ranger began to measure ingredients into a small pot, his movements uncharacteristically awkward and self-conscious. Fumbling with his canteen’s plug, he swore softly. He poured a splash of water into the mixture and then set the pot on a rock close to the hottest side of the fire. With a spoon he stirred slowly and steadily. After a few minutes he lifted the pot, gave the mixture a few rapid stirs and set it aside to cool. Then, still studiously avoiding Johnny’s gaze, he sat back, leaning against his upturned saddle, and morosely watched the fire. 

What was wrong with the man, Johnny wondered tiredly. It was bad enough the two of them were thrown together this way -- Avante’s doing, he reminded himself grimly. Bad enough that he had to depend on the man for everything, even the most, well, the most embarrassing things. But it was going to be nigh on impossible if the bastard went all squirrelly on him. Funny, for a while it seemed they’d come to some kind of unspoken truce. Now . . .  

God, I hurt, he thought. Shot up, busted up. Can almost forgive the bastard that. A man acts out of instinct, that’s what you do. I’ve done it. Scott. Murdoch, even. And Val . . . You’re wandering here, Johnny. . . Can’t help it. . . Forgive, huh? Can’t forgive him leavin’ Scott to die in that river. Never forgive that. Stubborn vengeful bastard. . .Maybe not the ribs either. . .Well, ya knew he was gonna react, wanted him to . . . 

Energy flagging, he half-closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift on their own until a sudden sharp twinge in his back caught him up short. He tried shifting his weight to relieve pressure on the wound but pain followed him as he moved.  

“Okay, Madrid,” he heard Avante say brusquely. “Let’s get you up again and coughin’ before I see about tendin’ to your back.”  

Resignedly he watched the Ranger step around the fire and come over to squat beside him. Their eyes met briefly before the Ranger flushed and suddenly found something of interest on the ground above Johnny’s shoulder. All at once, with the clarity fever sometimes brings, Johnny realized what was wrong and fury worked on him like adrenaline. 

The stupid shit! Pity! He’s feelin’ pity. For himself? No, for me. Damn him anyway! 

“Don’t you go getting’ soft on me, Ranger Man!”  

Startled, Avante sat back on his heels, surprise and discomfort written in equal proportions on his face. 

“I don’t need your . . .pity,” Johnny spat with disgust. He paused, angrily struggling for breath. “Need you to, to . . . get me outta this mess.  

“I . . .” 

“You listen!” A spasm of pain suddenly shot through him like an arrow and he arched against it, head back as if searching the stars. 

“Madrid!” 

“Shut up,” Johnny hissed, gritting his teeth, waiting it through. When the spasm no longer held him in its grip, he turned back to Avante. “Listen . . .you wanna pity somebody you go . . . shoot some other . . . old . . .gunhawk . . .hear? Or maybe . . . just another . . . innocent man.” 

He saw the Ranger’s face flush again, saw him angrily bite back whatever it was he was going to say. And then Johnny recognized another look on the man’s face. A look that scared him as much as it enraged him. Guilt. 

Guilt was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Now more than ever he needed Avante to be tough and capable. Needed him to be every bit the hard-nosed lawman. His survival, their survival, depended on it.  

“Ranger,” he said, his tone as insolent and as contemptuous as he could manage. “You want absolution . . . you go find yourself a padre.” 

The words hung in the air between them. A challenge. 

Then Avante spoke, his voice cold, flat. “That’s enough, Madrid.” His face, now expressionless, hovered above Johnny’s. “You had your say. Now you and me got some business to attend to.” 

Before Johnny could catch his breath enough to protest, the Ranger was straddling him, placing his weakly resisting arms around his own neck and lifting him to a sitting position. As Johnny tried to steady his heavy head, instinctively resisting the urge to let the Ranger’s shoulder take the weight, a flash of movement caught his eye and he stiffened. 

Out of the darkness a strange voice called, “Evenin’, friends.” 

* * *

Something close to panic had gnawed at Scott all day.  

Each time the rescue party stopped to rest their horses, every time they stopped to fill their canteens, he found himself too restless to do anything but pace. He had calculated and recalculated the times and the distances, and always the arithmetic added up to the same alarming conclusion: they should have met Johnny and the Ranger by now. 

He knew Murdoch shared his anxiety. When they had stopped at nightfall that evening, it had been Murdoch who proposed they not wait for the moon but rather continue and pick their way through the dark. Scott knew the long hours in the saddle had been tough on his father. He had seen the way the older man kneaded his back when he thought no one was looking. More telling still were the new lines in his face, lines etched by pain and worry and fatigue. But like Scott, Murdoch was impatient with any delay. 

And Cipriano . . . As the days passed, Cipriano had grown increasingly silent and uncharacteristically remote. The man Scott had grown to value as much for his warmth and sense of humor as his vast store of knowledge had become a distant, smoldering presence, a volcano threatening to erupt. He had said nothing earlier that evening when Murdoch talked of pressing on; he had simply gathered up his horse’s reins, swung up into the saddle and ridden off. 

Now, as they jogged their horses through the night, Scott knew they were all thinking the same desperate thoughts and all cursing the darkness which refused to yield those they so needed to find.  

He shivered. The nights seemed to be getting colder. Or maybe it was him. Maybe his body was finally betraying him. Giving in. No, he decided, pushing the thought away, it’s definitely colder. And it’s the darkness that’s making you feel lightheaded. Riding like this, when you can’t really see the ground beneath you, it’s disorienting. Just tough it out ‘til the moon is up. 

Resolutely, he forced himself to peer ahead into the black night, willing his eyes to find a glimmer of light. He suspected Avante and Johnny would not travel much after dark; he hoped the Ranger had enough sense to camp near the road so their campfire could be easily seen.  

Johnny’s face, smiling across a campfire. The memory was so vivid and so unexpected that Scott sucked in his breath. "We done good, didn’t we? The old man’s gonna be impressed." Oh, Johnny, would things have been any different if I hadn’t been so hard-headed about getting that cattle money home to Murdoch? What would have happened if we’d stuck around Stockton like you wanted and Avante had found us hunkered down in some hotel?  

Tired, dispirited, Scott no longer had the strength to fight off the tide of remorse that had been threatening to overtake him for days.  

I’m sorry, brother. I’m so sorry. 

* * *

Avante froze. His mind felt blank, like an empty revolver. God . . .Damn!  

“Two men,” he heard Johnny murmur. “One real twitchy. . . ‘bout twenty feet behind you . . . past fire. . . Let go – let me. . . sit . . .” 

“You can’t,” Avante muttered dazedly. 

“Gotta,” Johnny rasped, sliding his arms from Avante’s shoulders to his own sides and balancing tenuously. “Stand up . . .face ‘em,” he ordered hoarsely. 

Still stunned by Madrid’s angry attack, the Ranger sat back on his heels. Slowly, his gaze met Johnny’s and he was shaken by what he saw. In space of a few fleeting seconds, the angry fever-bright blue eyes had become darkly opaque, immune to scrutiny. 

His Madrid mask, Avante thought. The cold-eyed, expressionless gunslinger. Damn, the kid is good. Half dead, fighting pain, he’s still got the brass to play poker. 

“Do it!” Johnny ordered again. 

Gathering his wits, the Ranger realized something about the intruders had alerted Madrid to danger. Without thinking twice he decided to trust the kid’s instincts and follow his lead. 

Unhurriedly, Avante stood up and forced himself to turn casually toward the strangers, his gun hand hanging loose and relaxed by his side. Into the circle of light stepped a tall man, maybe 35, a reddish scruff of beard barely hiding his pock-marked skin. Behind him, still in the shadows, was another man of about the same height and weight but decidedly more nervous. Twitchy, as Madrid had said. 

Both men, Avante noted, wore their guns low. Not gunslicks but lethal just the same, he judged. Opportunists who wouldn’t hesitate to use guns to get what they wanted. And the second man, with his hand hovering close to the butt of his gun, looked as if there was something he wanted -- now. 

“What can we do for you, gentlemen?” Avante asked calmly. 

“Name’s Callahan,” the first man said. “This here’s Marks.” Marks gave a quick jerk of his head and stepped into the dim light to stand a few feet behind his partner. “On our way to Stockton and lookin’ for some information. We was wondering -- you know anything about that crossing up ahead? The ford?” 

“River’s pretty high,” Avante said. “Don’t think anyone will be crossing it for another couple days at least.” He paused and let his silence speak for a moment before adding, “Might be best to go back the way you came, Mister.” 

Callahan looked over his shoulder at Marks then turned his gaze on Johnny. “Looks like you had yourself some troubles.” Cocking his head inquisitively, he pulled a tobacco pouch from his breast pocket and began rolling a smoke. 

“My partner got thrown from his horse a couple days back,” Avante answered, the lie coming easily, instinctively. “Just a mite banged up.”  

“Your partner looks a sight more than banged up,” Callahan said. He bent low to strike a match on a campfire rock, lit his cigarette and looked closely at Johnny. “How about it, boy? Fact is you look ‘bout done in, don’t he, Sam?” 

“Just about,” Marks agreed tersely. 

“Don’t say much, your partner.” Callahan took a deep drag on his cigarette then exhaled noisily, his eyes still fixed on Johnny. “You always let someone else do your talkin’ for you, boy?” 

“Whenever possible,” Johnny agreed with an insolent half-smile. “Don’t much like wastin’ words.” 

Avante sucked in his breath. “Let me handle this, Madrid,” he growled. 

“Madrid, huh?” Callahan shifted his weight onto one leg and hooked a thumb in his gunbelt. “Now that wouldn’t be Johnny Madrid, would it? Someone said the bastard was dead. Killed down in Mexico. But me, I heard that half-breed gunslinger lost his nerve and was keepin’ his head down, hangin’ round some little two-bit town. Morro Coyo or somethin’, weren’t it, Sam?” 

“Morro Coyo. That was the place.” 

“You any relation to that Madrid, boy? To that Mex coward Johnny Madrid?”  

“No relation,” Avante answered quickly. “This here’s Jesus Madrid, from El Paso.”

“The Madrids. . . now, we’re a big family,” Johnny drawled softly, the half-smile still in place. 

“For crissakes, kid,” Avante muttered. “Keep your yap shut. You don’t have the breath for this.” 

Ignoring the Ranger, Johnny added: “And some of us . . . have more cojones than others, cabron.” 

Avante saw Callahan’s eyes narrow. He could tell that although the man didn’t understand Spanish he had not mistaken Johnny’s tone and intent. The Ranger felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise; the menace in the air was so thick he felt he could reach out and touch it. Beside him he heard Johnny’s ragged breathing and wondered how long the kid could stay in the game. Maybe it was time to change dealers. 

“Somethin’ we can do for you?” Avante repeated carefully. 

“Now that you mention it, there is.” Callahan grinned. He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the fire. “Norton!” he shouted without taking his eyes from Avante. 

Out of the darkness stepped a third man, the rifle in his hands aimed directly at the Ranger’s chest. “Don’t,” Johnny rasped as Avante’s hand involuntarily moved toward his gun. “Wait . . .” 

Avante froze, his hand stilled. Then he sensed rather than saw Johnny sink back to the ground and his stomach twisted as he heard a stifled groan of pain. Maybe the kid had passed out; the effort he’d expended was almost beyond comprehension Maybe it was better this way. For what had to happen. 

“Well now, seems your partner’s takin’ a turn for the worse,” Callahan said, still watching Avante closely. “Kind of a shame seein’ as he’s got a such a long ride ahead of him.” 

“Oh?” Avante raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah.” Reaching for his tobacco pouch again, Callahan slowly began rolling another cigarette.  

This one’s for show, Avante thought as he watched the intruder carefully shake flakes of tobacco along the length of the cigarette paper. This one’s to show me he’s in control. 

“See, me and my friends, we’re short on cash and thought we just might find some in Stockton.” Callahan lit the finished smoke, took a deep drag and then exhaled through his nostrils. “But maybe we found ourselves a mother lode right here, right, boys?” 

Without waiting for an answer he continued. “Just goes to show it always pays to keep your eyes and ears open. Sam, here, he didn’t think you fellers would have more’n a couple dollars in your pockets. Not worth the effort, he thought, even though it would be kinda easy pickin’s, what with your partner stove up and all.” 

Callahan paused and took in another lungful of cigarette smoke. With elaborate casualness he put his foot up on a nearby rock and rested his gun hand on his thigh. “Well, Sam, he’s a ‘pessmiss’ but not me. I told him and Norton both if we was just patient and hung back a little we jus’ might learn somethin’. So what happens but turns out we got us Johnny Madrid and his wet-nurse.” 

“Jesus,” Avante said dully, “Jesus Madrid.” 

“Naw, Mister,” Callahan shook his head. “Sam seen him before, a few years back. Some range war, weren’t it, Sam? And you and him on opposite sides of the fence? All it took was hearing the name to decide Sam we should pay you boys a visit.” 

“And now?” Avante questioned. Adrenaline rushed through his body and his mind was suddenly going a mile a minute, weighing the options, considering his course of action. He resisted an urge to steal a look at Johnny; he was playing this hand alone. The third man, Norton, was still in the shadows with his rifle trained on Avante’s chest and Marks still stood on the balls of his feet, his hand close to his gun butt. 

“And now we got us Johnny Madrid,” Callahan repeated. “While back, when we was in Texas, we saw a wanted poster on Madrid. Made Sam think about the grudge he got with that boy – from bein’ in the range war, see?” 

With a sinking heart Avante realized he had provided the instrument for his own destruction if not Johnny’s. The wanted poster was the one he’d written out and authorized and distributed. At $500, the bounty was large enough that scavengers like Callahan would feel no compunction about killing anyone who got in the way of efforts to secure their prize.  

That the reward was to be issued only if Madrid was brought in alive mattered not one whit. If Madrid died on the way, Callahan would either dump him by the side of the trail or bring in the body, hoping that someone somewhere wanted Johnny Madrid bad enough to pay for a corpse. And someone would, Avante thought bitterly. A legend has currency, even in death. 

He wondered, briefly, why Callahan hadn’t just shot them from the shadows. It would have been far easier, quicker, too. But maybe the man was like a cat. Likes to play with his prey before he kills it. Or has someone kill it for him. 

“Norton!” Callahan called to the man with the rifle. “Why don’t you see what our friends got in their saddlebags. Maybe we’ll find us a little pocket money for the road. Sam, you bin achin’ to draw that gun – well, pull it out and keep this feller covered while I take a look at Mr. Johnny ‘Jesus’ Madrid.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Avante saw Norton move off to where the horses were tied. And he saw Callahan walk over to Madrid and squat down beside him. But it was Marks who had the Ranger’s full attention. Despite the cool of the night air the man was sweating profusely. His gun, now drawn, was steady enough, yet Avante could see his thumb moving in a nervous tic back and forth over the hammer.  

The Ranger had seen men like Marks before. Men whose nerves had gotten the better of them. They’d draw on shadows, fire at phantoms. And they were dangerous. 

“Damn!” Callahan sputtered as he straightened. “Bastard’s out cold and looks like he’s a goner anyway. Norton!” he shouted. “You find anything?” 

“Just this, Boss.” The man with the rifle waved a small object in the air. 

“Bring it on here,” Callahan called. He glanced at Avante. “You fellers are travelin’ light.” 

The Ranger shrugged. “Had a little trouble at the river. Lost some gear.” 

“What’s this?” Callahan asked as Norton handed off his find. Startled, Avante realized Norton had found Johnny’s journal. He watched silently as the intruder yanked off the protective oilcloth wrapping and flipped roughly through the pages. 

“Just a book with writin’,” Callahan said with contempt as he tossed the journal aside. “Thought there might be some money stuck between the pages but looks like you fellers are clean out of everythin’ useful.” 

“Get on with it, Callahan,” Marks spat angrily. “You’re wastin’ time.” 

“Sorry about Marks, Mister,” Callahan said. “He ain’t got much patience for the niceties. But then he’s probably right. See, we got a use for Madrid whether he’s dead or alive. 

“But you, Mister. I’m beginning to think you ain’t no earthly use at all.” 

 

Chapter 19

 

Three guns to one. The odds weren’t good. 

I’ve seen worse, Johnny thought. Bet Avante has, too. But that don’t give me much comfort somehow. Three guns. A rifle and two revolvers. Ranger Man’s going to have himself a time when they make their move. And they’re going to do it. Soon. I can hear it in Callahan’s voice. Marks, well, I can smell it in him, even from here. His fear. What about Norton? 

Don’t know about Norton. 

Got to even those odds somehow. Callahan’s just written me off. Thinks I’m out. Well – let him keep thinkin’ that. Wish I was. God, do I wish I was. I’m so Godawful tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of trying to breathe normal. Tired of being tired. Feel like one of those sandbags we used to dam up that creek couple months ago, the one that broke open when Murdoch tried to throw it on top of the pile. All the sand just spilled out and left the bag flat. I’m flat. 

And hot. Sweet Jesus, I feel hot, so hot, like I got sunburnt. Skin hurts. . . Scott, where are you? 

Can’t think about Scott. Hafta think about three men with three guns. Who are gonna try to kill Avante. And sorry bastard that he is I think I’d rather stick with him than hit the trail with those three. 

What’s Callahan talking about now? A book? My book Teresa gave me. Damn him. Damn him. God damn him.  

Marks. He’s getting close to the edge. It’s gonna happen soon now, Ranger Man. And I’ve got no gun to help you out. No gun. No knife. No strength. Nothing . . . nothin’ but the tin cup you left on the ground around here – somewhere beside me, I think . . .yup, here it is . . . Could throw it . . . yeah, I’m gonna chuck this cup . . . and Marks, twitchy as he is, he’s gonna fire on it . . . and maybe, just maybe . . . 
 
Johnny heard the cold click of a hammer being drawn back and knew it was time. Summoning all his strength he drew back his arm and flung the cup as far as he could toward the darkness beyond the campfire. He felt something tear in his back and a shaft of ripping pain seemed to pin him to the ground. But before the red haze descended he saw Marks spin and fire into the dark while simultaneously a shot he knew was Avante’s rang out and slammed into Marks’s chest.  

Give ‘em hell, Ranger Man. I ain’t got no more to give.

* * *

Murdoch held up a hand, signaling the others to stop.  

“There’s a creek over there to the left somewhere,” he said as Scott and Cipriano looked at him questioningly. “Let’s water the horses and give them a breather.” 

The others nodded and Murdoch turned his mount off the road, letting the horse pick his own way along the narrow, moonlit path that lead through a rock-cut to the creek. With the moon out, they had been making good time and he really didn’t want to stop now. Or at all. He was sure that somewhere out there, not very far ahead, he would find his son. Around the next bend. Or the next. And he wanted to keep riding, keep driving them all, until they found Johnny. 

But that was one Murdoch Lancer, the impetuous, emotional inner man he’d spent so many years trying to understand and come to grips with. The other Murdoch Lancer, the rational self he credited with building up the ranch and managing to hold onto it despite all odds, that Murdoch knew both horses and riders needed a stop if they were to continue through the night. 

Reaching the creek, he stiffly swung his right leg over the cantle of his saddle and carefully felt for the ground with his foot, transferring his weight slowly so as to not jar his back. Beside him Scott had already dismounted and was lifting a stirrup to loosen his cinch. 

“Cipriano?” Murdoch looked over at his old friend, puzzled. The vaquero was still on his horse, his head slightly turned, as if listening. He held up a hand, hushing more questions. 

Suddenly the sound of gunfire, faint but unmistakable, reached Murdoch’s ears. He saw Scott freeze and then look wildly, first at him, then at Cipriano. “Shots! Is that what you . . .” 

“Yes, two shots first, I think. Then these,” the vaquero answered. “Could you tell – from where? My ears are too old.” Cipriano shook his head in dismay. 

“North, I think,” Scott said, looking to his father for confirmation. “Somewhere ahead of us. Do you think it’s them?” 

“I don’t know, Scott,” Murdoch shook his head. “But I think we should check it out – now!” 

* * *

It took Avante only a split second to recognize Johnny’s ploy and he reacted instinctively, drawing, aiming and firing his gun in one fluid and oddly graceful movement. He saw Marks stagger back and fall as a stunned Norton belatedly raised his rifle. Too slow, Mister, Avante thought, as he dove to the ground, rolled and fired twice from a squatting position. Norton staggered then went face down into the dust. 

Callahan, damn it, where was Callahan? 

“Nooooooo,” Avante shouted in rage and despair as he spied the tall intruder standing over Madrid’s still body, gun aimed directly at the kid’s head. Startled, Callahan turned and fired, the bullet catching the charging Avante in his left shoulder and throwing him off stride. 

The Ranger’s first shot went into the ground but his second found its mark. He saw Callahan clutch at his belly with a look of disbelief, the blood flowing between his fingers, turning his hands and his shirt scarlet – and Avante knew then that his slug had hit something vital, and that even as he watched Callahan was a dead man. 

The air was acrid with the smell of gunsmoke. Avante shut his eyes wearily and thought about how much he hated that smell. The smell of death. With a start, he remembered Marks and Norton. You’re getting old, hombre, he told himself. What if one of the snakes is still alive, waiting to sink his fangs in you or Madrid? 

Carefully, he checked first Marks and then Norton, bending low over each to feel for a neck pulse. They were dead.  

The dizziness hit after he’d stooped to collect Norton’s rifle and he waited, swaying slightly on his feet, for it to pass. His shoulder was still numb, a state he knew wouldn’t last for long, but he figured he wasn’t bad hurt. From what he could see, which wasn’t a helluva lot, he admitted to himself, there wasn’t much blood. 

When his world righted itself, he started to walk back toward Madrid. Something caught at his feet and he looked down curiously. Madrid’s book. Carefully, protecting his injured shoulder, he bent down and retrieved the journal and its oilcloth wrapping. His hands felt awkward as he tried to retie the string of the wrapping and he was forced to give up. Later, he thought, as he stumbled over to Madrid’s side. Deal with this later.  

“Avante?” 

The Ranger found himself fixed by a pair of translucent blue eyes. The gunslinger Johnny Madrid was gone. “Yeah, kid.” 

“Are you. . . in one piece?” 

“Yeah . . . Thanks for the . . .” But before he could even finish his thought, the Ranger heard the staccato sound of horses approaching at speed. Again adrenaline coursed through his veins, crowding out the weakness and putting his instincts on alert. Grimly, he lifted his gun and reloaded. Then he checked Norton’s rifle. No telling if he’d need it. Maybe Callahan had more cohorts out there in the darkness. 

He glanced at Johnny and saw the kid had passed out again. Maybe this is our last stand, boy, he thought as the riders drew closer. Maybe this is the end of the trail for both of us after all. Without thinking, he stepped protectively in front of Madrid’s still form, ready to face whatever forces were about to descend upon them. But a sudden wave of dizziness caught him, and he was confused by the sound of a voice that seemed familiar, calling his name, telling him not to shoot. 

Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead as he struggled to remain upright. Blearily he watched as one of the three riders slowly dismounted and walked toward him, hands held in the air, talking quietly. 

Abruptly, the Ranger sat down, the ground a lot farther away than he remembered. He had to use Norton’s rifle as a pole because for some reason he was having a hard time sitting upright and his left arm was useless. The talking man was beside him now and gently disentangling his fingers from his gun. But that was all right.  Because Avante knew him now, knew he could let down his guard. 

Wake up, Madrid, he thought. Your brother made it. 

 

Part II 

 

Chapter 20

 

Death was everywhere in that clearing.

 It rode the wisps of gunsmoke that lingered in the still night air and smothered the smell of the campfire with its own sour stench. It was in the moon shadows cast by the cottonwoods; it was in the silence, the profound, almost physical silence. Scott felt he had come upon one of the darkest places he had ever been and his gut cramped with the kind of dread he hadn’t known since the war.

Johnny . . . oh God, Johnny . . .

As if sensing the mood of the man on her back, the chestnut mare became skittish, stepping sideways and barking Scott’s leg on a sapling before allowing herself to be reined closer to Murdoch’s mount. It was then he saw the bodies . . . the dark, contorted shapes. Men once, before death had lain with them in quick and careless hunger.

Scott’s mind numbed to the possibility that one of them might be his brother, concentrated instead on the one man who was still standing. Avante the Ranger, whose rifle bore seemed to be aimed directly at Scott’s own chest.  

Instinctively he raised his hands and kneed his reluctant horse slightly ahead of Murdoch and Cipriano, into the Ranger’s line of sight. “Avante! It’s me, Scott Lancer – don’t shoot,” he called. From behind him came the click of the hammer being cocked on his father’s gun and knew that Cipriano, too, had his weapon at ready. “Avante!” he called again, slowly swinging his right leg over his horse’s withers and sliding to the ground. “It’s Scott – I’ve brought help.” He moved cautiously away from the protecting cover of the trees, walking slowly toward the center of the clearing, his hands still raised. 

The rifle’s bore was an unblinking eye staring at his heart.  

“Scott,” Murdoch rumbled in warning. 

“It’s all right, let me handle this, Murdoch,” Scott answered over his shoulder. He could hear the urgency in his own voice and he took a deep breath, forcing his worry, his desperation, into the far reaches of his mind.

Where had the night sounds gone? Again aware of the silence, and the overloud beating of his heart, he took in another deep breath and began to talk. Calmly. Steadily. About whatever came into his mind. And as he advanced into the open he kept his eyes fixed on the bearded, unkempt man who still refused to lower his weapon, who remained at war, on guard . . . Suddenly Scott knew without a doubt that the sprawled, motionless figure behind Avante was Johnny and that the Ranger was his protector. 

The hunter had become the defender of the hunted.  

He didn’t have time to wonder at that, or to question it. He just knew that the Ranger was standing between him and his brother. With a rifle. And nothing Scott was saying seemed to have any effect on the man or his aim. But he continued to talk, and to press forward, slowly, with care.

 “I was right, Ranger – the pass cut out a lot of time. . . But it was a son-of-a -- . . . tough, Ranger. Like you. Like my brother . . . Johnny. He’s alive, isn’t he, Avante? You’ve kept him alive, haven’t you . . . Well, you’ve got help now. . .You can put down that rifle – I’ve brought help. My father, and our segundo . . . We’ve a wagon and fresh horses coming . . .” 

Not until Scott was within spitting distance did the rifle waver and fall. He felt a rush of relief, dizzying in its intensity. Anxiously his eyes went to his brother and a prayer he wasn’t conscious of formulating kept pace with his racing pulse. When he looked back at Avante, he saw that the Ranger’s gaze was curiously unfocussed and that there were beads of perspiration on his brow. Without warning the man swayed, took a step backward and sat down, hard. Even sitting Avante’s balance was off-kilter, the rifle needed as an extra arm. 

Swiftly Scott moved forward to squat beside the exhausted, dazed man. He registered matter-of-factly the existence of a small neat hole in the Ranger’s jacket, high in the left shoulder. There was very little blood, but he knew there was a good chance that beneath the grimy canvas Avante’s shirt was soaked. His voice soft, reassuring, Scott reached out with a steadying hand while he eased the rifle from the Ranger’s grip.

Now Murdoch was beside him, and he could hear Cipriano moving around the clearing, collecting fallen guns and checking the anonymous mounds for signs of life. He felt Murdoch’s hand press his shoulder lightly before his father’s long strides carried him to Johnny’s side. Mechanically, Scott inspected the chamber of the Ranger’s confiscated rifle and discarded the live cartridges before setting the weapon on the ground. But all the while his eyes were fixed just beyond Avante, to where Johnny lay, half on his side, one arm extended across the ground in front of him as if he were reaching for something just outside his grasp.

The dying campfire flared suddenly, illuminating Murdoch’s face as he knelt in the dirt and stretched a shaky hand toward his younger son’s cheek. Scott watched his father bend at the waist to listen to Johnny’s chest and felt his own heart stop until Murdoch straightened, turned and jerked a quick nod of relief. His throat hurt; the huge lump that seemed to have settled around his Adam’s apple caused him to swallow painfully. 

“You better go to him, boy.” Avante’s harsh rasp drew Scott’s focus away from his father and brother. The Ranger sat with his legs spread over-wide in front of him, like a child playing jacks in the schoolyard. His gun hand was pressed tightly against the wound in his shoulder and his face had the pallor of shock. “I ain’t so bad off -- slug went through.” 

“Still have to stop the bleeding,” Scott said brusquely. He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief. “Let me see.” 

“Gimme that,” the Ranger ordered, his voice hoarse. He reached clumsily for the cloth in Scott’s hand. “I’m fine. Now go . . .” 

Scott stared, awkwardly torn between duty and desire. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet. He watched as his father peeled back Johnny’s coat and shirt, examining what even from a distance Scott could see were unspeakably dirty bandages. Grim-faced, Murdoch lifted his eyes to look at Scott before lowering the cloth and gently rolling Johnny to his back. “Ask him what he’s been doing for this,” Murdoch called, his expression tight, constricted. “There’s fresh blood – but I don’t think we should disturb these bandages until we can . . .until we can deal with things properly.” 

Before Scott could respond Avante gave a stifled moan and hunched forward in a vain attempt to keep upright. For the first time Scott saw the exit wound in the man’s back: It was bleeding heavily. Swearing softly, he knelt again by the Ranger. “Cipriano!” he shouted. “Could you throw me a canteen and my saddlebags?”  

“Scott . . . ” Avante’s face had gone ashen. Scott reached out quickly and caught the Ranger as he began to fall sideways. Suddenly Murdoch appeared, squatting behind the wounded man, easing him to the ground. 

“I’ll take over from here, son,” Murdoch said. His gaze met Scott’s and their eyes held the silence for a long moment. Wordlessly Scott touched his father’s sleeve and then, legs trembling with fatigue and dread, he crabbed his way over to Johnny.

“Johnny?”  

A feeling of helplessness settled about him like a cloak as he sank cross-legged at his brother’s side. Four days had passed since Scott left Johnny in care of Avante and those days had exacted a heavy toll. The man lying before him on the filthy, tattered blanket could have been a stranger. An impossibly fragile stranger wearing the clothes of a much bigger man. The hand Scott held in his seemed too large for its thin, almost delicate wrist. And beneath the thick black stubble of beard the cheeks were hollow, flesh stretched tightly across the underlying bones. Memory, like a shaft of pain, pierced Scott’s thoughts. A hotel room with one tiny, cracked mirror and two brothers laughingly elbowing for space.  

 

--Shove over, Boston. You don’t need a mirror to scrape at that peach fuzz you call a beard.

--That’s not a beard you’re sporting, Boy, that’s underbrush. You’re going to need a barber to hack that away.

--Not gonna let that leech touch me -- gimme room, Scott. You want to eat tonight or not?

 

Johnny. . .I’m here. I’m back. Just like I said . . .Come on, brother, open your eyes . . . Please. . . open your eyes . . . Squeeze my hand. Do something . . . anything.  

Tears burned unexpectedly, angering him, and he blinked them away, a distraction for which he had no patience. He willed Johnny to respond. It was the stillness that worried him as much as anything. His brother was so rarely still; even at repose there was always a part of him vitally alive, intense. But now – nothing. The restless energy, the vibrancy that was Johnny had been drained by illness and pain, leaving this shell. Flesh and blood were as stone, an effigy for a sarcophagus. The fallen knight atop his tomb.

 “Johnny . . .” The word caught in his throat. Scott shook his head; even to his own ears his voice sounded foreign, strangled. He coughed, tried again. “C’mon, boy. I’ve traveled a lot of miles . . . Murdoch’s here. And Cipriano . . .”  

Nothing. 

“We’re going to take you home . . . Jelly, well, he’s on his way. And Teresa and Elena, they’re back there just aching to spoil you . . .”

He paused. Reached out to touch the back of his free hand to his brother’s too-warm forehead. Cleared his throat. 

“Johnny?”  

Nothing. No tremble of an eyelid. No flinch or tensing of the jaw.

Emotion threatened to overwhelm him; he had to look away, look up, to where the tops of the cottonwoods brushed black against the night sky. Fiercely he searched for a constellation to trace, a myth to remember. But the storm broke over him anyway, robbing him of control. Everything he had been fighting to contain, the profound, dark fear, the agonizing remorse, the desperate, helpless anger, the exhaustion – it was all suddenly there. And so were the tears.

Burning, burning . . . This time he didn’t have the strength to wipe them away. 

* * *  

The exit wound was a vivid reminder of the violent damage a bullet could do as it tore through flesh. A bullet goes in so easily, Murdoch thought as he pressed his folded handkerchief to the bloody hole in Avante’s back. Too easily, God knew. But when a slug found its way out of a man’s body on its own it usually came busting through like a gang of bank robbers heading for their horses. 

This wound wasn’t as bad as some but it was bad enough. After he had helped the Ranger lie down, had maneuvered him out of his jacket and then cut through the fabric of the bloodied shirt, Murdoch had found a large ragged-edged hole bleeding profusely. Using water from the canteen Cipriano handed him he’d cleaned the area as best he could, folded his pocket handkerchief into a square and applied pressure. He had heard Avante’s hiss of pain as torn flesh was pressed back into place. And he’d ignored it. Just as he was ignoring the man himself. The man who’d tried to kill Johnny. Or save him. Which? 

Both. 

Time to figure that out later. 

Shifting his weight, Murdoch tried to find a more comfortable position. Kneeling was hard on him. But then, after so many hours in the saddle damn near every position he tried was hard on him. He lifted the handkerchief experimentally. The wound was still oozing blood. He replaced the cloth and pressed harder. Beneath his hands he felt Avante flinch. But the Ranger didn’t make a sound. 

Murdoch’s eyes again found the figures of his sons. The elder, sitting vigil, was as still and silent as his brother. Sensing his father’s gaze, Scott looked up and  shook his head. Murdoch’s stomach lurched; he closed his eyes, trying to block out the fear he saw written on Scott’s face. 

He had been fighting the same fear himself for days. It had begun the afternoon he had seen Scott arrive home lashed to his saddle, unconscious and alone. And it had traveled with him these many miles, goading, taunting, hectoring him about his helplessness. He was afraid, profoundly afraid, that the battle for Johnny’s life had already been decided.

Johnny had dodged death before, and the father was aware that his younger son -- too knowing, too old before his time -- had long ago accepted his own mortality. Murdoch could not. He had come to terms with the eventuality of his own demise. Oh yes, that he had done. But he could not, would not accept that death might claim one of his children. Not after he had just found them. He feared it, but he would not accept it. And God help him, he would do everything within his power to prevent it from happening this night or any other.

“Lancer? It is Lancer, ain’t it?” Avante’s gravel-voiced question startled him. He looked down at the man lying beneath his hands and briefly considered getting up and walking away. Just leaving . . . 

“What?” he answered, his tone even more curt than he intended. 

“I . . .” There was a pause while the Ranger struggled. But whether he was fighting to find words to say what he meant or whether the pain of his wound had made him lose the words altogether Murdoch didn’t know. Minutes passed. 

“Nothing,” the Ranger muttered finally. 

“Good,” Murdoch snapped. “I didn’t want to hear it.” 

“Look, Lancer --” Avante began angrily.  

 “I said I didn’t want to hear it.” Murdoch coldly cut off the protest. “There is nothing you can say. Nothing. Hold still.” He lifted the handkerchief again and surveyed the wound dispassionately. It appeared to have stopped bleeding; he rummaged in the saddlebag Cipriano had set by his side and found three rolls of bandaging. Not enough. Not near enough. But Jelly would be here before long.

Instinctively he looked back over to Scott and Johnny. Although he couldn’t hear the words, he knew Scott was talking to his brother, reassuring, cajoling, maybe even teasing – anything to drag Johnny back from wherever he was, that dark, that in-between world. Murdoch shivered. He had been there, to that place; he didn’t want to lose his youngest in its depths.

“You’ve got tough sons, mister.” 

Murdoch eyed the Ranger with disbelief. Avante’s tone had been soft, as if he meant to reassure. To comfort. Did the man think his pronouncement would bring solace? 

“If anything more happens to either one of them because of you. . .” Even Murdoch could hear the hate, and the promise, in his voice. Bile rose in his throat. He tried to rein in his anger, knew it was threatening to erupt. It had been a long time since he’d felt the urge to do violence to another human being. But now the feeling was there, and he fought to master it.

“I’m going to help you sit up,” he said finally. “We can’t bind your shoulder in that position. I need you to help me -- but without putting too much weight on that side.” Without waiting for the Ranger to answer he slid an arm behind Avante’s back, helping the man shift position. When Avante was once again sitting, Murdoch began the task of bandaging the wound. 

“Who were those men?” Murdoch asked after a bit. He looked closely at where the cloth strips crossed over the Ranger’s shoulder blade, decided the bandage was too loose, and readjusted his wrapping angle. 

“Huh?” Avante responded dully. 

“The dead men,” Murdoch said. “There are three of them,” he prodded, his tone caustic. “Or didn’t you notice?” He felt the Ranger’s slack muscles tense under his hands. 

“Scum.” Avante snapped. “Bounty hunters.” 

“And they were after . . .?” 

“Your son.” 

“What?” Murdoch froze. 

“They wanted Johnny Madrid,” Avante said tiredly. He brought his good hand up to his forehead and rubbed vaguely at his temples. “There’s a $500 bounty out there, for Johnny Madrid. Wanted for murder.” 

Stomach churning, Murdoch sat in stunned silence, the roll of remaining cloth bandage dropping unnoticed to the ground. His mind raced, returning, despite himself, to the ugly, coldly impersonal words of the Pinkertons’ report on John Lancer a.k.a. Johnny Madrid. 

“Wanted for murder,” Avante repeated, his voice curiously bemused. 

Murdoch looked at him sharply. 

“Who issued it?” 

The Ranger paused, looked up at the sky, and inhaled deeply. “I did,” he said at last. “Me.” 

“You bastard!” 

“The witnesses named Madrid.” 

“The witnesses were wrong,” Murdoch retorted. He picked up the dropped roll and pulled the bandage tight. Avante grunted.  

“Mebbe,” the Ranger said after a minute. “Mebbe they were.” 

“I’ll have your badge,” Murdoch answered tersely.

Avante’s head fell back, as if he was looking up at the sky, and he let out a shuddering sigh. “Too late,” he said. “Your boy’s already had it.” 

* * *

It was best he stay clear of the Ranger, Cipriano decided. He had answered Scott’s call for supplies, brought the canteen and saddlebags over to Murdoch. But he would not offer anything more. The patrón was down on one knee beside the injured Ranger, bandaging the wound. Cipriano wanted no part of it. The man could bleed to death and it would be fine with him.  An unworthy thought but an honest one. El Tejano may have saved Johnny's life or he just might have been interested in saving his own.  Either way, Cipriano didn't want to be near him.

His rage was too great.

He had very nearly given in to it earlier, when he’d realized just who was standing in that clearing, rifle aimed and at ready. His own gun had felt a physical extension of himself, his need to squeeze the trigger, to feel the gun kick in his hand as it sent a lethal message of hatred, almost overpowering. Only his concern for Scott, vulnerable and exposed, had kept him from abandoning the code he’d always lived by.

Warily, he had watched as Scott approached the Ranger and disarmed him. Then while Murdoch went to Johnny’s side, Cipriano had busied himself with the three bodies strewn about the clearing. It hadn’t been his place to go to Johnny. Scott and Murdoch had earned that right.  He knew he would have his own time with the boy, but it would wait.

The business of dealing with the dead gave him respite from his tension. It was impersonal, something that required no thought. He collected their weapons, searched for billfolds, papers or other bits of personal information. There wasn't much point, but he had checked for pulses, too. He was unmoved by their deaths. No loss there, he had decided.  They had obviously been opportunists figuring on an easy kill; he doubted they ever expected the opportunity to be dead at the hands of one man.

After delivering Scott’s supplies to Murdoch, he had set himself to the task of dragging the outlaws’ bodies out of the ring of light afforded by the fire. Corpses would not be the first things Johnny would see when he woke. At least he could spare the boy that. The night was cool but he found himself sweating with exertion as he hauled the first of the bodies toward a scrubby patch of cottonwood saplings closer to the creek.

A rustling in the darkness just ahead prompted him to drop the dead man’s wrists and draw his gun. Investigating, he found three horses ground tied just behind the stand of saplings. He holstered his weapon and again took up his load. As he dragged the body past the horses, a ewe-necked pinto snorted and danced backward, shying away from the sweet smell of blood.  If the animal hadn't been well trained he probably would have taken off.  No matter, Cipriano thought as he grimly arranged lifeless arms over a still chest, there were plenty of horses in the remuda traveling with the wagon a few hours behind them.

Once he had laid the last dead man beside his companions, Cipriano turned his attention to the outlaws’ horses. He gathered the reins and walked the animals in closer to the clearing. Taking a rope from the pinto’s saddle he fixed a remuda line between two trees and tethered the horses before removing their saddles. In the dim light he could see they had been ridden hard; white flecks crusted their necks and flanks and rings of dried sweat edged the damp spots were the saddles had rested.

It was growing colder. He looked up at the clear sky, trying to reckon the time. Then he went back to their own horses and led them around the edge of the clearing to where the Ranger had tied Barranca and his mare. Cipriano moved the mare to the far end of the remuda line and tethered his own, even-tempered gelding next to the stranger before tying Scott and Murdoch’s mounts on either side of Barranca. The palomino nickered. In recognition? Cipriano wondered. Does the animal know these are stablemates? Absently, the old segundo stroked the horse’s muzzle and felt comforted. He returned to his self-imposed tasks. When all three horses had been unsaddled, and he had rubbed at their damp backs with a saddlepad, he grasped first his saddle and then Murdoch’s by their horns and toted them back to the campfire.

Scott was sitting cross-legged on the cold ground , his head bowed, Johnny’s hand in his. At Cipriano’s approach, he looked up and the vaquero saw his physical exhaustion, evidence of the high price Scott Lancer had paid to return to his brother’s side. Yet Cipriano could also see in those drawn features the weariness of relief. Good, he thought, taking a measure of reassurance. That meant Johnny still lived. He looked away; the intimacy of the scene, the naked anguish in Scott’s eyes, touched him to the core and the boy’s pain fanned his anger.

A torrent of worries and questions spilled into his mind but he closed the floodgates and put off all thought. He set the saddles down on the far side of the campfire, away from where Scott sat with Johnny, still farther from where Murdoch was working on the Ranger. Then he returned to the horses for Scott’s saddle and the blankets.

When he came back, and had arranged the saddles and bedrolls to his liking, he hunched down by the fire-ring to stir the glowing embers before throwing on some more wood. A flame-blackened coffeepot sat almost in the coals; he pulled it aside and looked around for a cup. There was nothing except a battered cooking pot filled with a strange, pasty white substance. He brought it up to his nose and, recognizing its medicinal odor, carefully placed it on one of the cooler stones.

The casual desire for coffee had become a physical need, and he left the fire intent on retrieving a cup from his saddlebag. Partway across the clearing his foot found a dented cup and, deciding it would do, he returned to the camp. The coffee was bitter and not quite hot but that served him just fine at the moment. As he reached behind his back for more wood to throw on the fire his fingers brushed across a piece of cloth covering something hard. Curious, he set down his cup and brought the object closer to the firelight.

It was some sort of book, ineptly wrapped in a piece of oilcloth. Cipriano fumbled with the loosely looped string and off-handedly opened the book at its middle only to find himself face to face with his own likeness. Numbly he stared at the page, feeling both flattered and curiously ashamed. It was a portrait of him as he knew he would like to be seen. Not young, but strong, with machismo still but also something more. The wisdom of an elder. He turned to the flyleaf. His knowledge of written English was not very good, but he recognized the names, and the handwriting. Abruptly he closed the cover and set the book in the center of the cloth, wrapping it carefully.

A guttural sound drew his attention to the far side of the campfire, to where Murdoch was helping the Ranger don his jacket. Suddenly he realized Avante was watching him and that his gaze was fiercely – no, aggressively -- protective. What was this book to the Texan? Cipriano didn’t know. Nor did he care to find out. Blandly he returned the Ranger’s stare. Then he turned and tucked the parcel into his own saddlebag where it would remain safe, and secret, until its owner was well enough to claim it.

 

Chapter 21

 

The first time he tried to open his eyes he found someone had put pennyweights on his eyelids. Heavy. His eyelids were heavy and he hadn’t the strength to open them. Someone . . . who? A barber playin’ undertaker? Layin’ him out, weights on his eyes, his jaw held shut by a strip of white linen -- Johnny Madrid on display in a pauper’s coffin? Madre, he’d never wanted to end up that way. People gawking and pointing . . . 

No, it was dark where he was; he knew that. Didn’t have to look. Not a boardwalk in some dusty sun-bit border town. He was in a room without lamps, a cellar, a cave, a hole deep below ground. Any of them. All of them. It was nowhere and somewhere. Miserably familiar. He’d been there before. But a safe place, for all that-- the pain was far away, almost far enough to belong to someone else. Almost. A dull, distant throb pulsing with his heartbeat. 

Tired, tired . . . so tired. . . 

 Too tired. 

Someone was talking to him, the words indistinguishable, but that voice . . . Scott? . . . Scott. He wanted it to be Scott. . .  Scott had been gone too long. Where did he go? He went. . . and then he was gone. . .  And maybe the voice was just fever talking. Fever was a cruel enemy. Spiteful. Had a way of mocking a man’s hopes and throwing them back in his face . . . He had a fever. Must have . . . No, he felt cold. Cold and empty. Chilled to the bone . . . That voice again. He couldn’t catch hold . . . Let go, let go, just let go . . . 

He did.

 

* * *  

The fire was blazing now, stoked high as a signal that Jelly and the others could not miss. Murdoch stood back a little from its heat, lost in thought and nursing the cup of hot, bitter coffee Cipriano had thrust into his hand. He had finished with the Ranger and, with some effort, managed to help the man to the bedroll Cipriano had pointedly placed at some distance from theirs. Then he had returned to Johnny, sharing Scott’s anxious watch, sitting in silence on the cold ground until an angry spasm in his back had forced him gasping to his feet. 

The spasm had eased, but the stiffness and ache remained. Murdoch put a foot up on one of the fire rocks, shifting his weight. Sometimes that helped. Sometimes, like tonight, it didn’t. He resigned himself to the discomfort and pushed it out of his thoughts. It was not important. It could be borne. Much harder, impossible to bear, was the suffering of his sons. He tried to put that out of his thoughts, too, concentrating instead on making a plan, dealing with the morrow. Tried to ignore the fact that one son was possibly dying before his eyes and that the other had pushed himself inhumanly far beyond the point of mental and physical exhaustion.

 Unbidden, the image of a dirty, blood-encrusted bandage and fierce red streaks of infection crept into his memory. When he had first seen those streaks he had felt sick with fear, afraid to do anything that might loosen his son’s fragile hold on life. Now a cold, harsh voice told him there was nothing he could do that would make any difference. Johnny had no chance. Had never had a chance.

 He and Maria, between them, they had seen to that.

 He shook himself and ran a tired hand over his eyes. Fatigue was gaining a hold on him; he should know better than to give in to it. Johnny was a fighter. So was he; so was Scott.

 Think about tomorrow -- no, wait, today. It was probably well past midnight. At what point had he stopped winding his pocket-watch because the hours had been endless and there had seemed no point to marking their passage? This night was already tomorrow. The others -- Jelly, Frank and Emilio -- should be arriving soon. All right, they would need some sleep before starting out again. How much time should he allow?

 The sound of a hatchet striking wood startled him and he realized Cipriano was somewhere in the surrounding darkness, hunting additional fuel for the fire. Guilt nibbled at the edge of Murdoch’s conscience; he’d shifted the burden of their basic needs entirely on his old friend’s shoulders. Yet part of him understood this was how Cipriano wanted it. A complicated blend of respect, anger and superstition was governing the vaquero’s actions this night. Despite Cipriano’s feelings for Johnny, Murdoch knew he would keep himself apart and busy until his inner consejero advised him to do otherwise.

 Dragging his thoughts back to practicalities, Murdoch tried again to wrestle with the logistics of the day’s travel, reminding himself there were decisions to be made that only he could make.  But he was too restless for the answers to come easily. The need to sit with his sons, to have them within easy reach, was deep and inexorable. He finished the remains of his coffee in a gulp, set the cup on a rock and stepped around the fire.

 “Son?”  He placed a questioning hand on Scott’s shoulder and was disturbed by the vacant stare that was returned in answer. Stiffly, his joints aching in protest, Murdoch lowered himself to the ground.

 “He’ll be all right, son,” Murdoch said, trying to put assurance into his voice. To persuade himself as well as Scott.

 “He’s dying.” Scott’s voice was flat, his eyes haunted by an emotion Murdoch recognized with shock as guilt.

 “Scott . . .”

 “We’re too late, Murdoch. I failed him. He trusted me and I failed him.”

 “No!” His heart pierced by his son’s words, Murdoch’s self control slipped, pain robbing him of the ability to speak. Moved by an overwhelming desire to comfort and be comforted, he stretched his arm across his elder son’s back.

 Not for the first time did he wonder whether to bless or rue the profound attachment his sons had for one another. He recognized that on some fundamental level the two had found in one another the missing half of a secret whole. It had not happened instantaneously, but more swiftly than reason would normally suggest. And without it, Murdoch knew, father and sons never would have survived those first rocky months together at Lancer or become a family.

 But now, as Johnny balanced precariously above a yawning abyss, it seemed to Murdoch the boys’ bond was endangering Scott, too. His reserves depleted by his desperate efforts to bring help to his brother, Scott was bereft, as if John’s death had already taken place. Murdoch had never seen his elder son so empty, so devoid of his usual drive and resolve.  

 He tightened his arm, drawing Scott’s unresisting body closer, and they sat together in silence. Suddenly Cipriano was beside them, wordlessly handing him a cup of steaming coffee and two blankets before returning to his self-imposed isolation on the far side of the clearing.

 Scott shivered. “Here, drink this, son,” Murdoch gruffly ordered, pressing the cup into the young man’s hands. Perplexed, Scott looked at the cup as if it was something foreign. But he took it, and after a minute he raised it to his lips.  Relieved, Murdoch rose, shook out one of the blankets and clumsily spread it over Scott’s shoulders. Then he wrapped himself in the second, stretched out his back and sank again to the ground.

 “Johnny didn’t want to leave Stockton that afternoon,” Scott said dully. “If we’d stayed on, spent the night in a hotel instead of on the trail . . .”

 “Scott—“

 “It’s as if he had a premonition there would be trouble.”

 “No.” Murdoch studied the dark shapes of the cottonwoods across the clearing as he desperately searched for the right words to say. “No, Scott,” he continued after a bit, “you can’t think like that. There will always be ‘what ifs.’  It’s pointless to think about them. I should know,” he grimly added. “I’ve spent most of my life tormenting myself about what might have been had I done things differently. It’s a nasty habit. Pointless. Don’t let me see you succumb to it, too.”

 “What’s past has passed . . .?” Scott asked, a tinge of irony in his tone.

 “Yes.”

 There was a silence between them. Then Murdoch heard Scott let out his breath in a long, shuddering sigh.

 “Murdoch?”

 “Yes, son?”

 A whisper, so low, so halting, that Murdoch had to lean close to catch the words. “If . . . I don’t think I could bear it if . . .”

 The father reached out blindly and found his elder son’s free hand. He grasped it tightly.

 -Please . . . By all that is holy . . . please . . . 

* * *  

Avante watched dully as the grizzled little man in the funny cap squatted by the campfire and sniffed at the contents of the blackened cooking pot. He wondered if the man would recognize what he was sticking his nose into and cotton on to the fact the Ranger hadn’t exactly been ignoring Madrid’s wound. Had, in fact, been taking care of the kid the best he could. Avante wasn’t sure why he cared that someone understood that. But he did.

Shifting his back awkwardly against the skirts of his upturned saddle, he tried to find a more comfortable position, one that would make his throbbing shoulder give him some peace. He felt ill and out of sorts. If only he could return to the dreamless sleep he had fallen into earlier, after Murdoch Lancer had helped him to his bedroll. But the arrival of the wagon and riders had put an end to that. He had wakened to noise and an explosion of activity. At first his sleep-dazed mind had thrust him back into the fight with the bounty hunters, and he had made a panicked grab at his empty hip. Then he saw the slumped-shoulders figure of Scott Lancer sitting at Madrid’s side and his confusion had cleared. The help Scott had mentioned earlier, he realized. It had finally come.

They’d ignored him mostly. He’d seen their eyes flick his way as Madrid’s father talked in low tones. The old vaquero, the one that rode in with the Lancers -- he’d spat on the ground when he looked at Avante, the hate in his face so intense it burned. The Ranger had closed his eyes in escape. When he opened them again everyone seemed to have gone off toward the wagon. Except Scott Lancer and the old feller with the cap, the one who had started in fooling with the fire. And who was standing in front of him now with the medicine pot in his hands.

“This yore doin’?”

Avante nodded.

“You bin usin’ this on Johnny?”

The contempt in the man’s voice riled him. The old bird had his chin stuck out like a back-alley bully, like he was raring for a fight. Well, Avante thought tiredly, not tonight, old man. I’m sick an’ I’m sore and I’ve already had me a bellyful of trouble.

The Ranger took in a deep breath, looked across the clearing to where Madrid lay motionless. Exhaled.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, that’s what I been using.”

“Well, mister, you mind tellin’ me what’s in it?” The man brought the pot up to his face again, taking a tentative whiff before eyeing the contents suspiciously. Dabbing his index finger in the paste he brought out a small glob and rubbed it with his thumb, testing the consistency. He looked at Avante questioningly.

“Comfrey.”

“Well, I reckon I know that, don’t I?” Hunkering down on one knee, the man pushed his cap back on his head and gave the Ranger a disgusted look. “What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do ya mean ya don’t know?”

“Just that,” Avante said testily. He shifted his weight to change position and scowled back at the angry face stuck close to his own. “Look, mister, I know an old curandera – she gives me the makings. I don’t know what’s in it. She tells me the recipe’s real old, handed down from her grandmother, who learned it from the Chiricahua. All I know is it works.”

In silence, the other studied him closely for a minute. “Is it workin’ for Johnny?” he asked finally, without belligerence.

“As much as anything can,” the Ranger replied, his tone soft.

Their eyes met and held. Avante saw the man’s uncertainty, and his fear. “I don’t know,” he answered, forestalling the question he knew would come next. “He’s held out this long. Maybe – well, he’s a tough kid. But . . .”

“He don’t have much left.”

“No.”

The older man stood and looked thoughtfully at the pot of salve. Then his gaze went over to the campfire, where Murdoch and the others were carefully moving Johnny closer to the warmth.

“The wound’s infected,” Avante said bluntly. “But the poison don’t have hold of him. That salve’s doin’ its job. You use it, hear?”

Nodding, the other began to walk away, his attention now focused on the group by the fire.

“Mister!” Avante called. The weakness of his voice surprised him and he was relieved when the grizzled little man stopped and turned.

“What?”

“You tell Murdoch Lancer . . .” The Ranger paused for breath; he was more tired than he’d realized. Sleep, or something like it, was calling.

“Tell Murdoch Lancer what?” The belligerence was back in the other man’s tone and his eyes were cold and hard.

“Not to give up . . . he’s gotta fight.” Avante struggled to keep his head steady, but it felt too heavy and his eyes didn’t want to stay open anymore. Not yet, he told himself, this is important. Gathering his strength he forced himself to stare back at the man with the cap. “Tell him the kid’s worth it.”

The grizzled older man shook his head and gave him a look of pity.

“He knows that, Ranger. Believe me, he already knows.” 

* * * 

“Johnny?” 

Scott. Calling him.

--Yeah, I’m comin’.

“Johnny!”

Scott. Talking to him. Talking, talking. Telling him to wake up. And Jelly. Can hear Jelly, too. Fussin’ at somethin’. What? Something cooking, maybe. Breakfast? Must have slept in. 

-- I’m sorry, Scott . . .won’t happen again, I’m just so tired  . . . I . . .

His eyes jerked open. It was night still, not morning. A chill breeze fluttered over him, cooling his cheek, ruffling his hair before moving on. And Scott’s face suddenly above him, deep lines carved in the cheeks and around bloodshot eyes. Creases in his forehead. Looking old as Murdoch. Maybe older. And so weary. Scott . . . watching him unwaveringly, as if he were reading his soul.

Johnny knew then where he was: somewhere on the road home, closer than before. Maybe even close enough. He knew that Scott had made it back to Lancer and had returned with help. Scott had found his way through that pass, and hadn’t fallen off a ridge or down a rockslide, hadn’t tangled with a cougar or been thrown from his horse or broken his damn fool neck in any one of a thousand ways a man can get into trouble. The Madonna and los santos, they had listened to the silent, desperate prayers of a one-time gunslinger, ignored his past and his shame, and taken care of his brother.

He felt his eyes fill and overflow, the humiliating tears spilling down toward his ears. Blinking didn’t stop them. Nor could he say anything because the muscles along his jawbone were doing the craziest kind of dance and the ache in his throat was a tightening noose threatening to choke him. Scott had one of his hands and was holding it, tight, like he was never going to let go. The ache in Johnny’s throat became a convulsive sob and it escaped from his lips before he knew it.

“Murdoch!”  Scott looked up, shouting urgently into the night. “Murdoch!”

--Don’t let go, Scott.  Please, don’t . . . don’t let go. Brother . . . hermano mio . . . mi cuate.

Summoning his strength, Johnny tried to return Scott’s grip. To hold him; to keep him there. To let him know.  Once again his brother’s eyes met his.

--¡Dios mio! He knows, he knows. Look at them tears. It’s the same with him . . . Two growed men cryin’ like kids . . . don’t care . . . Oh God, Scott. . .

Scott lifted his sleeve to his eyes, to his running nose. He started to speak and couldn’t. His grip on Johnny’s hand tightening, he fought to compose himself. Finally Johnny saw that familiar half-smile, slightly bemused and mocking, faintly self-conscious, and heard Scott say, “Awake? Well, you took your sweet time about it, brother.”

The voice was thicker than normal, not quite right. But the words were pure Scott and Johnny felt a surge of fierce joy. He wanted to laugh with relief, to joke and rib and make the kind of smart-mouth remark that would set Scott to rolling his eyes as he searched for a suitable rejoinder. Most of all he wanted to wrap his brother in a headlock, the headlock that drove Teresa crazy but which was their code, their way of saying things. The things men felt but couldn’t come right out and talk about. Not even brothers.

 In the end all he could manage was the barest vestige of a grin. Because the tears would come again, and with them hiccoughing sobs that stole away what breath he had.

Suddenly he was in trouble. The noisy rasp of his straining lungs told him he was drawing in air but it wasn’t enough. He was a hungry man sucking on an empty spoon. Fighting panic, he arched his neck and looked into the night sky, away from Scott’s distress. His back burned and over his ribs there was an unforgiving iron band of pain, a reminder of his encounter with Avante’s boots.  It was – too much.

And then someone was behind him, raising him, with Scott’s help, to a half-sitting position, taking the weight of his head against his shoulder, supporting his upper body with his broad chest. Under the smell of woodsmoke and dust and sweat Johnny caught the faintest whiff of lime, the scent of the imported men’s toilette soap his father regularly had shipped in from San Francisco.

“Murdoch.” The name came out as a strangled gasp.

“Sssh, take it easy, son. Don’t try to talk,” Murdoch murmured into his ear. “You’re all right, Johnny. You’re going to be all right.”

Feeling the rumbling vibration of Murdoch’s chest as he spoke, Johnny was oddly comforted. An old, forgotten memory briefly stirred and then faded. He closed his eyes. Slowly his labored breathing eased a little, and so did some of the pain. He felt better if he kept his breathing shallow; that way his ribs didn’t hurt as much, and he didn’t sound like a used-up old cow pony with broken wind.

 But he knew the feeling of ease was deceptive, and dangerous. All too well he remembered his bout with pneumonia, in the aftermath of Pardee. It had taken pretty near everything he’d had to fight that battle; he didn’t know if there was enough of him left this time to do it again. Cough, that’s what the Ranger had kept ragging at him to do. He cleared his throat weakly and tried.

“Son?” Murdoch’s hands tightened on his upper arms and he felt himself being lifted more fully upright.

“Cough – Ranger Man says to cough.” For a moment Johnny wasn’t sure if he’d actually said the words or just thought he had. He heard a quick intake of breath at his side and looked over in time to see Scott’s contorted face turn away. Confused, he groped for his brother’s hand.

“Scott?”

“What, Johnny?”

“Avante . . . he all right?”

“What?” Scott asked, swiftly turning back in surprise.

 “He’s fine, son,” Murdoch answered. “He took a slug in the shoulder but it went through.”

“Saved my life,” Johnny whispered. He closed his eyes and let his weight relax back against his father. Oh Lord but he felt done in. There was just nothing left. He had to sleep. Maybe if he got some sleep –

“Johnny?” Murdoch’s chest rumbled.

-Later, Murdoch . . . talk to me later.

“Johnny!” There was an edge to his father’s voice this time and Johnny struggled to open his eyes.

“Yeah . .  .”

“Drink this, brother.” Scott’s face was before him again, and as he blearily tried to focus he felt a tin cup bump against his lips.

“No, Scott.” He turned his head aside and raised a weak hand in protest, then let it fall.

“John, listen to me.” Murdoch said gently, breath warm against his ear. “Are you listening?”

-Yeah, Murdoch, I’m listening.

“Johnny!” He heard the alarm in his brother’s voice, felt Scott’s hand pull at his arm.

“Yeah. ‘Kay.” He paused, made the effort. “I’m listening, Murdoch.”

“You’ve got to drink this. It’s one of Jelly’s concoctions – it’ll help.”

“Can’t.”

“Johnny, please . . .” Scott said.

He closed his eyes again. “Can’t, Scott. I’ll . . . puke.”

“Not if you take it slowly,” Scott argued.

“Can’t.”

“Son, I’m going to be straight with you.” Murdoch’s arms moved around him, encircling him, steadying him. “We changed your bandages earlier, while you were . . . asleep.”

“Murdoch!” Scott snapped in what sounded like angry warning and Johnny found himself smiling.

“It’s okay, Boston,” he whispered hoarsely. “He ain’t gonna tell me anything I don’t already know.” Breathless, he stopped to struggle for air. “Doesn’t look too good, does it?”

“No,” Murdoch said. “It doesn’t. So you’ve got to help us, son. Do whatever it takes.” Johnny felt his father’s arms tighten. “We’re going to take you home – to Lancer.”

“That a promise, old man?” He strove to make his voice light and felt rewarded when his father shook with silent laughter at the once-hated epithet.

“Yes, Johnny,” Murdoch said huskily. “That’s a promise.”

 

Chapter 22

The creek was so cold it made his feet ache. But a bath he wanted and a bath he would have. Gingerly, Scott waded to the center of the stream, counted to three, and then dunked down into the knee-high water. The iciness of it made him shout and he was suddenly ten again, braving his grandfather’s displeasure by eluding his music instructor to sneak off to an old millpond far from their summer hotel. 

He had never been sure what had bothered Harlan most: That he had skipped his piano lesson or that he had done so in the company of stable boys and cook’s helpers, a raggedy band of village boys enjoying an afternoon off from their work at “the rich folks’ hotel.” Afterward he had been sternly reprimanded, and punished -- he no longer remembered how. But swimming in cold water would always be associated in his mind with one of his favorite childhood memories, the feeling of utter freedom as his naked body cannonballed into that pond. 

Splashing vigorously he managed to wet his hair without actually having to stick his head in the frigid water. Then he rose and made his unsteady way over the slippery creek bed, back to the grassy bank. The midmorning sun began to warm his shoulders as he dried himself off with his shirt. A wave of unexpected optimism washed over him: Everything was going to be all right. Johnny was better this morning. Stronger. He’d kept down the foul brews they’d given him last night and again this morning. He was talking. He’d even back-talked Jelly. 

Murdoch had been right; a few hours’ sleep had done everyone good. 

Scott dressed, pulled on his boots and then gathered the buckets Jelly had asked him to fill. He walked upstream of his swimming spot, filled the buckets and, whistling, carried them back through the cottonwoods to the clearing. He could see Murdoch hunkered down by Johnny, and across the way Cipriano was deep in conversation with Frank and Emilio. 

“You’re soundin’ mighty chipper,” Jelly grinned as Scott set his load by the improvised kitchen set up near the buckboard. “Whatcha find down by that crick? Someone’s corn likker stash?” 

Clapping the old handyman on the back Scott smiled in return. “Something better, Jelly my man.” He looked over at the campfire, where two pots, a large and a small, were boiling. “What’s cooking?” 

“That there’s the makin’s of a stew.” Jelly jerked his chin in the direction of the larger pot. “But first I’m boilin’ down the jerky for beef tea. For Johnny. And that Ranger fella.” 

“Oh.  Yeah.” Scott looked over to the edge of the clearing, where Cipriano had set Avante’s bedroll apart from everyone else. Like a leper, Scott thought. As if the Ranger had a disease the rest of them might catch. “Have you talked to him this morning, Jelly?” 

“An’ what if I have?” Jelly retorted. 

Startled by the other’s angry defensiveness, Scott held up a protesting hand. “Whoa, slow down! I was just wondering how the man was doing, that’s all.” 

“Someone has to see to him, ya know. I ain’t forgettin’ what that varmint done to Johnny, to both’a you boys. But—“ 

“Someone has to deal with him,” Scott finished. “You’re right, Jelly, and thank you. So how is he doing?”  

But Jelly’s feathers, he saw, were still ruffled, and the older man’s answer was curt. “Wal, he’s about what you’d ‘spect of a man that’s got a hole in hisself.” Wryly, Scott shook his head, gave Jelly’s shoulder a squeeze and went over to sit with his father and Johnny. 

“’Lo, Scott.” The pleasure in Johnny’s voice was unmistakable. There was still no color in his face, and pain was lurking in the depths of his eyes, but Scott sensed in his brother a glimmer of something that had been missing in the grim hours before dawn. Scott wasn’t sure he could put a name to it. But he found it reassuring. 

“Hey,” he grinned in response.  

“Murdoch’s just been givin’me my marchin’ orders,” Johnny said. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “He’s a hard man, brother.” 

“Oh?” Scott shot a quizzical look at his father. But Murdoch’s gaze was fixed on Johnny and he wouldn’t meet his older son’s eyes. Troubled, Scott looked back at his brother and tried to keep his concern from showing. “And you’re just learning that?” he asked lightly. 

“Reckon I’m the slow one,” Johnny said. He squinted up at Scott and his smile slowly widened. “Hair’s stickin’ out in back there, Boston. You’re gettin’ careless about your ‘pearance.” 

Scott ran his fingers through his still-damp hair and shrugged. “Your bad influence, boy. Next thing you know I’m going to have hair down around my collar and Percy Trowbridge will have to take down that striped pole and shut his shop.” He saw Johnny’s eyes close and he reached out quickly, touching a suddenly relaxed hand. “Johnny?” 

“Give him a minute, son,” Murdoch said quietly. Scott looked up questioningly. “He’s only got so much strength.” Murdoch’s face was impassive but Scott could hear what was hiding behind his father’s stoic words. 

“What’s going on?” Scott asked in a low voice. 

“Nothing. Forget it,” Murdoch said tiredly. He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed fiercely at his temples.

 “Murdoch?”

 “Please, Scott, leave it for now.”

 In frustrated silence Scott watched his father gently rest his hand on Johnny’s forehead and then reach for the cloth soaking in the pan beside him. Squeezing out the excess water, Murdoch folded the cloth in thirds and laid it lengthwise across Johnny’s forehead.  “Fever’s up,” he explained tersely. “He’s been drifting off --”

 “Not drifting,” Johnny whispered, his eyes still closed. “Ain’t a drifter. I’m a rancher.”

 Murdoch snorted. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you grumble about having to get out of bed in the middle of the night to pull a calf.”

 “Scott’s turn.” Johnny’s head turned restlessly, his breath already going.

 “Thanks, brother,” Scott said with a soft chuckle.  “Just what I need to complete my education, an evening spent with my arm stuck up a cow’s nether end, trying to haul out a calf that would rather stay where it is, thank you very much. Give me those black ledger books any day.”

 “Boss?” Jelly’s shadow fell across Johnny’s feet. “Beef tea’s ready.”

 “Well, I ain’t,” Johnny drawled in protest before Murdoch could answer. He paused, and Scott could see him struggling for breath to continue the banter. “Boiled boot leather,” Johnny added finally, a half-smile at his lips. “Not much to my likin’.”   

 A scowl appeared on Jelly’s face and he slipped his thumbs under his braces as he theatrically puffed out his chest in indignation. Scott laughed in spite of himself. Jelly was trying to chase away their demons the only way he knew how. Earlier that morning, after Jelly had spent some time sitting with Johnny, Scott had come across the handyman standing at the buckboard’s tailgate, his expression stormy, beating a bowl of biscuit dough as forcefully as though it were the devil himself. The older man was fond of Johnny, Scott knew. No one could bring a smile to his face as fast as Johnny. But then there was no one who could make him quite as mad either.

 “Don’t give yerself airs, Mr. Persnickety,” Jelly groused, chin jutting.  He winked at Scott. “The boot leather’s for thems that does the work around here. You jus’ get the heel.”

 “My luck just keeps on gettin’ better, don’t it?” Johnny sighed.

 Shaking his head in amusement, Murdoch cleared his throat. Then his expression grew serious as he looked up at Jelly. “A little later with that tea? Thanks. I’d like to change his dressings first.”

 “Sure, Boss,” Jelly nodded. “You got all you need or there somethin’ I kin get ya from the wagon?”

 Murdoch looked at the ground beside him where there was an assortment of saddlebags and oil-cloth pouches. “Hot water?” he said finally. “And the Ranger’s salve. I think that’s over by the buckboard.”

 “Sure thing,” Jelly said. With another exaggerated mock frown in Johnny’s direction he hurried off.

 Absently Scott collected a handful of pebbles from the ground between his splayed knees and sifted the gritty bits from one hand to another. “When do you want to get started?” he asked his father, cocking his head quizzically. “On the road, I mean.”

Murdoch looked up from the saddlebag he’d been rummaging in. Scott saw his eyes meet Johnny’s and lock before he went back to checking the contents of the leather pouch. “Just after noon, I think,” Murdoch said as he drew out several rolls of bandaging and inspected them carefully. “After everyone, and I do mean everyone, young man –” he raised one eyebrow expressively and gave Johnny a stern look. “After everyone has put some food in their bellies. And,” he added, his tone almost casual, “after we bury those bodies.”

“Bury? You don’t think we ought to, er, bring them in with us?” Scott asked.

“No.” This from Johnny, soft but firm. Scott looked at him curiously. “The heat, Scott,” Johnny said, his eyes dark and impenetrable. “Don’t need that smell traveling with us.”

Scott swallowed then shifted his gaze to a point beyond the campfire. He began tossing pebbles, one after another. “Val might have different ideas,” he said doggedly. “And besides, someone might be able to identify them.”

“How, Scott?” There was scorn in Johnny’s voice, and not a little anger. “Now how is someone gonna identify them men when their faces have gone all black and they’re so ripe you can hardly get near ‘em? Whole town’ll be walkin’ on the other side of the street . . .  just to get away from the smell.” He drew a ragged breath and whispered what sounded like something akin to a plea, “Bury them here. Bury them here and just let ‘em be.”

Disturbed by Johnny’s vehemence Scott suddenly imagined the dismal scene his brother described. He saw the townsfolk breaking their daily routine of errands to stare and speculate. He saw the rough wood coffins tilted against a storefront like so many orange crates, a canvas awning rigged to keep off the worst of the sun. And he saw -- in one of those coffins he saw Johnny Madrid. The image was shattering. Murdoch was studying him intently and he flushed, realizing his father had imagined that same scene long before. And understood Johnny Lancer’s anger.

“Cipriano!” Murdoch called without taking his eyes from Scott.

“Sí?”

Murdoch turned and beckoned with his arm. “Please, por favor.”

Hesitantly, the old vaquero came over, first standing awkwardly across from Scott, then, at Murdoch’s nod, slowly lowering himself until he was sitting at Johnny’s side. Scott saw his brother’s hand snake out, meeting Cipriano’s in silent greeting. No one said anything for a moment. Couldn’t. The glistening tracks on Cipriano’s cheeks remained undisturbed until finally the segundo seemed to wake to them and banished the tears with a quick wipe of his glove.

“¿Cómo le va, chico?”

“Estoy cansado, tio,” Johnny answered, his voice just above a whisper. “Time to go home.”

Hearing a sharp intake of breath beside him, Scott looked quickly at his father. But Murdoch was pushing himself to his feet, his face hidden as he stiffly unfolded his tall frame and stood. “I’ll see what’s taking Jelly so long,” he said gruffly and was gone, leaving Scott to wonder whether his father was as troubled as he was to hear Johnny’s admission of fatigue. Or was it his brother’s use of “tio,” with all the respect and intimacy the Spanish equivalent of “uncle” implied -- had that bothered Murdoch? Did it remind him that while between his segundo and his younger son there was an uncomplicated bond of deep affection, his own relationship with Johnny was not so simple?

Scott shook his head ruefully. Johnny liked to rib him about thinking too much. Johnny was probably right. He was being ridiculous. Foolish. After all, hadn’t Murdoch brought Cipriano out of his self-imposed exile? For reasons known only to himself, the old vaquero had stayed away from Johnny, from the rest of them. Even earlier, when Jelly had come to sit with Johnny, Cipriano had disappeared into the trees, to check on the horses, he’d said.

Murdoch was back, a pan of steaming water in his hands and a small, blackened cooking pot precariously wedged by its handle under his arm. Scott rose swiftly to lend a hand, rescuing the small pot as it began to slip.

“Cipriano, I need your help here, to change Johnny’s bandages.” Murdoch’s gaze was fixed on his old friend, his eyebrows raised in unspoken question. “Good!” he pronounced as Cipriano nodded his agreement. “But first, would you ask Frank and Emilio to take care of those men? Bury the bodies?”

“It has already been discussed among us, señor.” Cipriano looked from Murdoch to Johnny and back.  “There is a place. Away from the creek.”

“All right,” Murdoch said. “That’s fine.”

Cipriano’s shrill whistle pierced the air, easily reaching Frank and Emilio on the other side of the clearing. Scott saw them look up and nod, responding to whatever silent signal Cipriano had arranged earlier. Scott was suddenly reminded of his first days at Lancer, when he’d been struck by the way Cipriano seemed to be able to direct the running of the ranch with so few words.

 The man was something of a legend around the San Joaquin ranchos, Scott knew. In the past, more than one neighbor had tried to lure him from Lancer only to be met by fierce looks from under bushy eyebrows and unspoken disdain. Cipriano’s loyalty to Murdoch was unshakeable; he would lay down his life for their friendship. And Murdoch, Scott had learned, would do the same.

“Scott?”

“Yes, Johnny?” Scott knelt by his brother and took his fumbling hand.

“Do something for me?” Johnny’s voice was weakening, his breath now coming in gasps, and Scott realized his brother’s small reservoir of strength had once more been depleted.

Feeling emotion rise in his throat again Scott searched for a flip reply but came up empty. “Of course, brother.”

“Go check on Avante for me, will yuh?”

“But, Johnny--” Scott was confused. “I was going to help  . . .”

“Please,” Johnny murmured. 

Scott glanced at Murdoch and was surprised by the look of compassion written on his father’s face. And something else. Something Scott did not fully understand.

 "Go on, son,” Murdoch urged gently. “I’ll call you when you’re needed.”

 Biting back the angry, hurt retort that made his mouth taste sour, Scott managed a smile.  “Sure,” he said. “Sure.” He pressed his brother’s hand.

The blue of Johnny’s eyes was now as clear and brilliant as a summer sky and as Scott rose he saw in their defenseless depths what Johnny had not intended him to see. He knew then that Johnny was trying to protect him, to save him from pain. Maybe even to prepare him.

Johnny was not better. He was only at the edge of worse.

Insides churning, Scott stumbled across the clearing toward Avante. His brother understood him far better than he had known.

* * *

 With frank curiosity, Jason Avante watched the older Lancer brother’s approach. Earlier, the old hombre with the cap, the one they called Jelly, had checked his wound and brought him a cold, hard biscuit and a cup of strong coffee. But no one else had bothered to come near. So why, the Ranger wondered, this sudden interest? He had no desire to butt heads with young Lancer. If Scott wanted to go over old ground and rub his nose in the mistakes he’d made – well, fly at ‘er. For once he would keep his yap shut.

 Hitching his shoulder uncomfortably, Avante scowled. He was achy and feverish and, yes, out of sorts. If he were to be honest with himself he’d have to admit he hated having everyone avoid him like he was carrying the plague. He’d admit, too, that he couldn’t get over the uneasy feeling he should be doing something to help the kid. The irony of that wasn’t lost on him. But he couldn’t help it; that’s how he felt. He and Madrid, together they’d managed to make it this far.

 Reason told him he should feel relieved, even grateful, that the tall young man now before him had made it back to his father’s ranch and returned with help. Avante could sit back, let Madrid’s family do the work -- and the worrying. Wasn’t his job anymore. Except he couldn’t get over this feeling that it was.

  “Avante?” Scott Lancer’s voice was coldly distant.

 In spite of himself, the Ranger felt his hackles rise and his scowl deepened. “What do you want?” he asked sourly. “Get on back to your brother, Lancer.”

 “My brother sent me over here. To check on you.”

 “What?” Avante gaped at Scott in disbelief. 

“Johnny sent me to check on you,” Scott repeated flatly.

Rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along his jaw, the Ranger studied the younger man for a moment. Then he looked across the clearing, to where Madrid lay. Murdoch Lancer and the old Mexican were carefully turning the kid on his side.

“How is he?” Avante asked, watching as Jelly appeared, squatting in front of Madrid and extending a comforting hand to the wounded man’s shoulder. “He can’t breathe good like that,” Avante said shortly. “Lyin’ on his side.”

“He can barely breathe at all,” came the almost inaudible reply.

The Ranger jerked his head up and regarded Scott sharply. The elder Lancer son seemed to have lost all his starch. Earlier Avante had heard him whistling as he walked back from the creek. His step had been light and his face animated as he talked first with Jelly and then with his brother. Of course, Avante had been surprised to find Madrid was even conscious. But then the kid had a way of constantly amazing him. And, equally amazing, he’d begun to count on it. He didn’t want to accept the despair that was darkening Scott Lancer’s eyes.

“You givin’ up on him? Look at me, Scott,” he commanded not unkindly as the other continued to stare at the group closer to the campfire. “You givin’ up?”

“No, Avante, I am not giving up on my brother.” The words were enunciated so precisely that the Ranger knew he had just been given a warning.

“You sure?” he growled, pushing. “He didn’t give up on you. An’ he needs you to be strong, boy.”

“Look, Ranger,” Scott turned swiftly, his expression one of fury and resentment. “You have absolutely no right to tell me what my brother needs, do you hear me? None!”

“Now wait a minute –“

“I haven’t forgotten who took that bullet out of Johnny’s back, Avante – but I damn well know who put it in there in the first place.”

Avante bit back a retort and looked away from Scott’s accusing glare. It came down to that. It would always come down to that. There was no denying that shooting Madrid in the back had been more than a mistake; it had been an indefensible breech of his own rules. But even worse was the brutal kick he had delivered to Madrid’s ribcage. He remembered with shame the pulse of savage pleasure he had felt as his boot connected with flesh and bone, halting the taunted truths he wanted to evade. That was the crime most difficult to admit, the sin for which he would forever do penance.

 A wave of nausea cramped his stomach and he put out a hand blindly, trying to get up.

“What --?” Startled into action, Scott crouched beside him, steadying him.

“Help me . . . up,” Avante gasped, his teeth clenched against the sickness that now threatened to spill. He felt clammy. “Hurry.”

With Scott’s help he managed to make it far enough away from his bedroll, from the clearing, that no one else would have to deal with the results of his body’s betrayal. There was very little in his belly, but what was there came up. Along with what felt wretchedly like the stomach itself. He ended up on his knees, bent over and balancing shakily on one hand.  Must have been the coffee, he thought, as he miserably tried to look anywhere but at the mess on the ground in front of him.

“All right?” Scott asked from above.

“Yeah.”

“Ready to go back?”

“Gimme a minute,” Avante said, closing his eyes. He straightened slowly and sat back on his heels. A small fire burned in his shoulder and at his back he felt something wet seeping below the bandage. He didn’t want to move. From a distance came a sound that seemed familiar yet vaguely disquieting. The sound of shovel and pick hitting hard-packed dirt.

They were digging the graves.

Opening his eyes Avante found Scott Lancer staring in the direction of the sound, his expression stricken.

“Scott?”

“What.” It was less a question than a statement; Scott seemed riveted by the ring of the pick striking rock, the shovel scraping at gravelly soil.

“You don’t want to hear it, but I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Avante said softly. “Listen to me, Son.”

Obstinately, Scott kept his face averted.

“That kid back there, he’s a stayer,” Avante ventured. “He’s got more grit than anyone I’ve ever known.” Pausing, he thought carefully, groping for the words.  He wasn’t good at talking about things like this. That was part of what went wrong with Chris; he was always saying the wrong thing to his angry little brother. He shook his head, tongue-tied and frustrated.

“Ranger, I don’t need you to tell me about my brother,” Scott rasped into the silence between them. “I don’t need you to tell me what I already know.”

“Well, then you know we shoulda have lost him way back,” Avante retorted angrily. “We shoulda lost him by the river, when we dug into him. Or somewhere on the trail – yesterday, the day before, the day before that.” The Ranger drew a deep breath and let it out in an explosive sputter. “Last night – commonsense would tell ya that a man sick as he is, half-dead with pain, the poison burning in him . . .”

He broke off uncomfortably, aware that Scott was staring at him. Avante couldn’t read his expression. Couldn’t tell whether the man was angry or disgusted or simply curious about what he intended to say. What did he intend to say? He wasn’t sure. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, waving away Scott’s offer of help. He stood for a minute, waiting for the world to stop tilting.

“Son,” he said finally, “I’m alive today because your brother doesn’t know when to quit.”

Scott closed his eyes. “Maybe he’s decided it’s time to learn,” he whispered.

Avante looked away, off through the cottonwoods toward where they had heard sounds of digging. Now there was only silence. Whether that was because the Lancer hands had finished their grisly chore or because the light morning breeze had changed direction Avante wasn’t sure. He suddenly wasn’t sure of much except one thing.

“No,” he said. “No.”

* * *

 The day was cooling, the sun less relentless than it had been even an hour before. Still, Scott was grateful for the shade afforded by the small canvas tent Jelly had rigged up for the back of the buckboard. Precarious the set-up might be, but at least it kept the sun off Johnny’s face and most of his chest.

 Scott shifted uncomfortably. The awning wasn’t quite high enough for him to sit fully upright by his brother’s side; he had to slouch down, a saddle blanket padding his back from the buckboard’s hard side. Later, they could take down the canvas. And then as they traveled through the night Johnny could see the stars. He’d like that. When he woke again.

 They had set out shortly after noon, after they had tended to Johnny, and the Ranger, whose reopened wound had given them some problems. And, as Murdoch had wanted, after everyone had eaten something. Even Johnny.

 Scott had returned from his efforts with Avante to find Murdoch and Cipriano had finished doctoring Johnny’s back and had managed to prop him up slightly using his saddle and a large number of rolled blankets. Johnny had called softly to Scott, asking about the Ranger and making a mildly rude joke about calls of nature. Scott was almost fooled. But then he saw the too-bright eyes and the flushed cheeks above the thick stubble of black beard, and he knew his brother’s fever was continuing its daily climb.

 It had taken surprisingly little time to break camp and begin the homeward journey. Jelly had efficiently organized his domain; Cipriano had done the groundwork with the two vaqueros. With their remuda increased by an additional five horses, Frank and Emilio would now share the wrangling chores.

 The buckboard was not spacious but Jelly had managed to load its bed so that there was plenty of room around the area where Johnny would be placed. The old handyman had snagged a straw-filled pallet from the bunkhouse stores and had obviously raided the same source for the many canteens and blankets he seemed to have on hand.

 Together Murdoch, Cipriano and Scott had lifted Johnny and moved him to the pallet. His brother’s frailty had taken away Scott’s breath; Johnny was as light as a child, and just as vulnerable. Scott had seen the alarm in his eyes as they’d lifted the improvised blanket litter and realized Johnny knew this final leg of his homeward journey had its own perils.

 Lifting an edge of the canvas tent Scott looked ahead for his father. Murdoch had ridden at their side while Johnny was awake, spurring up to ride with Cipriano only when Scott’s nod told him Johnny had drifted off. There was, Scott now knew, definitely some sort of secret agreement in place between his father and his brother. When he had tried to broach the subject with Murdoch, his father had firmly put him off. “I’m afraid that’s between your brother and me, Scott,” Murdoch said. “I’ve given my word.”

  He had known better than to ask Johnny about it. Close as they were there were times when Johnny closed the shutters and barred the door against any intrusion on his inner thoughts. Those were the times Scott feared the most, when Johnny went his solitary, stubbornly independent way. And this was one of them.

 “Please, son,” Murdoch had said, his hand resting on Scott’s sleeve. “Don’t worry about it – it’s just, well, it’s just something that is giving your brother some comfort right now.”

 That had bothered Scott more than anything.

 There was no sign of Murdoch and Scott let down the flap of canvas. From the front of the buckboard he heard the lilt of Jelly’s voice followed by a short, grunted response from Avante. The Ranger had wanted to ride his own mare, Scott knew, and had been none too happy when Murdoch had ignored his arguments and assigned him to the buckboard.

 Scott reached over and retrieved the damp cloth from Johnny’s forehead. Digging beside him he found under a blanket one of the canteens he’d had filled just before they left. Unscrewing the plug, he poured some of the still-chilled water up and down the length of cloth before laying it back on Johnny’s head. Avante had warned him about the fever. So far they had managed to keep it in hand.

 Listlessly, Scott watched the road behind them slowly recede. Murdoch hoped they could keep moving into the night. But it all depended on Johnny.

 --I depend on you, Johnny. Never expected it – certainly not when we first met that day on the stage going to Morro Coyo. Or later, when you stood by and watched Pardee’s men try to beat the stuffing out of me. Certainly not then. But it happened, didn’t it? And now, now we depend on each other.

 The buckboard lurched and bumped as they hit a patch of rutted road. As Scott quickly leaned toward Johnny, trying to save him from the worst of the jarring, their forward motion stopped.

 "Y’all right back there?” Jelly called anxiously from the front. “There’s a bad stretch comin’ up.” The canvas behind the buckboard seat was suddenly lifted and Jelly worriedly glanced down at them, peering at Johnny. “Might wanna get under him if ya can, Scott,” he advised. “Roadbed took a beating during that storm, I reckon. Need some help?” he asked as Scott carefully slipped an arm behind and beneath his brother and gently moved Johnny’s head and shoulders onto his lap.

 “We’re okay,” Scott said, settling back. “Let’s keep moving.”

 “Right!” Jelly let the canvas fall. “Here she goes.”

 The bad bit was longer than Scott expected.  Jelly drove the impatient team as slowly as possible but the bed of the buckboard rocked and lurched. Scott grasped Johnny firmly to prevent his brother’s limp body from rolling off his lap.

 “All clear,” Jelly called from the front, and with relief Scott felt the buckboard resume its steady course.

 “That’s sort of what it feels like to be sailing through a summer storm off Cape Cod, brother.” Scott smoothed Johnny’s shaggy hair back from his forehead and readjusted the fever cloth. “Maybe some day I’ll take you out with me – we’ll sail out of Marblehead or maybe Gloucester, so you can see the working boats, the fishermen. You’ll like them, Johnny. They’re rugged, stubborn, a breed apart.”

 “You say somethin’, Scott?” Jelly called from the front.

 “No, Jelly.”

 He was tired. Body and soul, both were tired, worn out from ricocheting between hope and despair, faith and fear. He looked down at his unconscious brother, so frail, so desperately ill. The road home suddenly seemed impossibly rough.

  

Chapter 23 

Murdoch impatiently spurred his big chestnut gelding through the narrow neck of the small canyon, his eyes desperately seeking the wash that ran along the canyon’s western wall. At this time of year it was usually dry, but he was gambling the recent storm had brought the small creek back to life. Gambling because the canyon was a thirty-minute detour off the main road, and in this unseasonable heat that would be a hot and dusty thirty minutes too long if there was no water.

There was water farther on, of course. Two hours would see them to a good year-round spring. But they needed the water now. The buckets and canteens filled just recently were all empty, drained by the greediness of Johnny’s raging fever.

They had thought they had it under control, that between Jelly’s bitter brews and Scott’s cold compresses they had found the way to defeat their wily foe. The battle had been waged fiercely each of the three days and two nights they had been on the road. But never had fever gotten the upper hand as it had today. Despite all their efforts, Johnny had been comatose since mid-morning.

The chestnut heard and smelled the water before Murdoch saw it. The horse’s ears pricked forward and he snorted, dancing sideways as they rounded a large boulder and came upon the creek. It wasn’t much, just a small stream zigzagging through the rocky wash, but it was enough. Murdoch let the gelding stretch his neck and take a long drink. He had pushed the animal hard, afraid his judgment would let him down when needed most.

When the horse was done, Murdoch kneed him into a walk, following an old wagon track as it wandered at the edge of the wash.  The chestnut was too warm to stand around after drinking cold water; they didn’t need a foundered horse on top of everything else. The others wouldn’t be far behind, Murdoch figured, perhaps twenty minutes at most.

After a bit he came upon the remains of someone’s old campsite set back by a small stand of trees a short distance from the creek. Fire-blackened tins were scattered in the ashes of a fire ring and a broken board straddled two low, round rocks to form a bench. They would set up camp here, he decided suddenly. They would set up camp and fight Johnny’s fever until they could move on. Lancer wasn’t far. A steady five- or six-hour ride would do it. But not with Johnny in his present state. They couldn’t risk it. No matter what he had promised.

Slowly Murdoch dismounted, stumbling against the gelding as his bum leg buckled under his weight. Head against his saddle he rested for a moment, waiting for the tingling sensation to go. Sudden tears of frustration surprised and angered him; this was no time to give in to weakness. He sternly told himself to ignore the small voice deep within that was crying for succor. When the feeling returned to his leg he stretched out his back and limped to the chestnut’s head. He checked with the back of his hand the warmth of the horse’s chest. Satisfied the gelding had cooled, he tied his reins to a small sapling. Then he began to search for firewood.

He had just managed to get a fire going when the chestnut’s shrill whinny heralded the arrival of the others. In the distance Murdoch saw Cipriano pull up uncertainly, looking around as if searching for something, and then, spying smoke or perhaps Murdoch himself, he pointed in that direction.

The buckboard had barely stopped before Scott and Jelly climbed off, grabbed an armload of canteens and buckets and hurried over to the creek. While Frank and Emilio took the remuda horses downstream to drink, Cipriano pulled up next to the tail end of the vehicle and smoothly stepped from stirrup to buckboard bed. Ducking under the shaky little canvas tent he disappeared from view. But Murdoch was certain the segundo was touching his hand to a hot forehead, checking fever’s progress.

Without waiting to see the anxiety he knew would be written on Cipriano’s face, Murdoch turned back to the chestnut and began to unbuckle his cinch.

“Let me, amigo.” He turned to find the segundo standing at his elbow. “Go. Sit with your son,” Cipriano said softly. “I will do this, and unharness the team. We are staying here, sí?” At Murdoch’s mute nod, the vaquero grasped his forearm reassuringly. “It is better so. We will move on later, when the fever is down.”

Finding his voice, Murdoch managed a gruff, “Gracias, old friend,” before clambering into the buckboard. He made his way to the front of the wagon-bed, carefully stepping over Jelly’s store of supplies, and lowered himself down on the folded blanket at Johnny’s side.

Johnny lay as he had since morning, slack-limbed and still, his skin hot, dry to the touch. Despite his unshaven cheeks – or maybe because of them – he seemed to Murdoch appallingly young, a desperately ill, fever-ridden boy who was having increasing trouble breathing.

They had tried to make him more comfortable by placing additional layers of folded blankets under his back, raising his head and shoulders slightly higher than his legs. That had eased things for a time. Each shallow breath had still come as a crackling wheeze, but at least the lines of distress had disappeared from around Johnny’s eyes and his hands had no longer plucked restlessly at his chest. Yet now, Murdoch saw, even that slight advantage had been lost. The wheeze was louder, raspier. Johnny was laboring.

Was fever raging because of the back wound or had pneumonia finally, truly set in? Murdoch wasn’t sure. Not for the first time did he feel the blackness of despair begin to fall about him. Death was laying siege on his son. On them all. And their defenses were in danger of being overwhelmed.

Again Murdoch took himself to task, reminding himself of the promises he had made Johnny and those his son had given in return. Then, as if waking from a trance, he became aware he was sitting on something uncomfortable, something that was digging into his hip. Reaching down he found a half-empty canteen lying forgotten under the blanket.

First things first, he told himself. Get the fever down. He looked around but the cloths Scott had been using earlier seemed to have disappeared. Unknotting the bandana from his neck he dampened it thoroughly with the lukewarm water and placed the small blue scarf on Johnny’s forehead.

 “Lancer!” a voice croaked from behind the curtain of canvas, startling him so that he almost dropped the canteen. The Ranger. He’d all but forgotten he was there.

The canvas rustled and Murdoch looked up to find the Ranger had pulled back the flap and was watching him.

“What do you want, Avante?” he responded gruffly.

“How is he?”

“Not good. No change.”

“You gotta get some of that tea in ‘im,” the Ranger rasped. “He ain’t had enough – your man’s gettin’ more on the ground than in the kid.” 

Biting back a sarcastic retort, Murdoch took a deep breath and watched the canvas curtain fall back in place. He turned again to his unconscious son. Jelly had done his best. They all had. But during the increasingly rare times Johnny was fully awake the tea they had managed to get him to swallow had often come right up again. Equally unsuccessful were their attempts to get him to drink when he was semi-conscious and caught in the world of delirium.

“Lancer?”

“Yes, Avante.”

“You run out of that tea, remember I got some in my saddlebag, right?”

“Yes,” Murdoch answered, wondering if Avante was falling prey to fever, too. They had had this conversation several times already today. Each time the Ranger had become more and more insistent, his tone of voice verging on the aggrieved. The last time Jelly had checked the man’s shoulder he reported back that the entrance wound was beginning to look more inflamed. Shouldn’t be surprised, Murdoch thought. Although he had been careful to clean the hole thoroughly that first night, he also knew bullet wounds became infected more often than not.

Jelly had told him the Ranger refused the use of his own medicinal salve despite its purported effectiveness against infection. “Said he only had so much and we should save it for Johnny,” Jelly had said, shaking his head. “Don’t understand him, Boss, I surely don’t. He’s the reason that boy’s in the shape he is, but now it’s like he don’t trust us to do right by him. By Johnny, I mean.” Pulling thoughtfully at the loose wattle under his bearded chin Jelly had given Murdoch a puzzled look. “’Splain that, would ya?”

-I can’t, Jelly, I can’t, Murdoch thought now as he stared at the shallow rise and fall of Johnny’s chest. Except that Johnny has a way of getting under people’s skin – of drawing people to him, making them like him despite themselves. If they can see past the legend, that is. If they look past Madrid and see Johnny. Just Johnny.

 “Sometimes I haven’t been able to do that myself, have I, son?” he murmured. Bleakly he gazed past the awning into the distance, caught up in his memories and his self-reproach. The Pinkerton report had been thorough. Meticulous. Everything the agents had discovered about his younger son had been set out in neat black copperplate. And they had discovered a lot. Dates. Places. People. Twice he had read each page of the thick folder. Then he had gone to the backhouse and been sick. Something he ate in town, he’d told an anxious Maria. Something at the cantina.

Returning to his desk, he had written instructions to the agency. He wished no further investigation. If they would be so kind as to forward an itemized account, he would arrange for a bank draft. Payment for services rendered. Account closed. And then he had told no one. Not even O’Brien.

-Oh, Johnny . . . oh God, I am so ashamed . . . I knew. I knew and I did nothing. And I almost lost you because of it . . .

Shaking off the paralysis of guilt Murdoch checked the blue bandana and found it nearly dry. He removed the incongruously bright cloth from his son’s forehead, poured the last of the water on it and sponged Johnny’s face and neck. Outside the canvas he heard someone returning and before he knew it Scott was squatting beside him, handing him one of the cold, wet canteens before stashing the others under their insulating blanket.

“It’s taking some time to fill these,” Scott explained. “The water’s pretty shallow. Jelly’s put a bucket in the creek and has got the compresses in there soaking.”

Murdoch nodded. Wadding up the bandana he held it cupped in his hand and clumsily tried to dribble fresh water over it.

“Let me,” Scott said, taking the heavy canteen.

Jelly appeared at the back of the buckboard, canteens slung over his shoulder and two buckets in hand. “Them cloths are in this one,” he said, hoisting a bucket onto the tailgate. “Can ya take these canteens, Scott? Ranger don’t look too good up there.” Jelly looked at Murdoch inquiringly. “We gonna stay put for a spell?”

“Yes,” Murdoch answered as Scott reached for the canteens and pulled the bucket closer to them. Craning his neck to meet Jelly’s gaze, Murdoch jerked his chin toward the front of the buckboard and said in a low voice, “You might want to check him for fever, too.”

“Sure, Boss.” But Jelly didn’t move. His gnarled hands gripped the edge of the tailgate as he stared at Johnny. Even the visor of his cap couldn’t hide the lines of worry furrowing his brow.

“Jelly?” Murdoch prodded softly.

“Right, Boss.” Tearing his eyes away, Jelly gave Murdoch a wry look. “All the work that needs doin’ here and I’m standin’ round jawin’.” Like a dog coming out of water, the handyman gave himself a shake and squared his shoulders. “Few hours restin’ here’s going to make a world o’ difference,” he muttered. “You’ll see,” he added, his tone as scolding as if Murdoch had dared contradict him. “Johnny’s fever is gonna drop like a stone purty soon. You’ll see, Boss. Jus’ like a stone.”

Still talking, Jelly disappeared from view, moving off toward the front of the buckboard and soon Murdoch could hear the man barking an angry defense as the Ranger once again began his tirade about tea. Murdoch rubbed his eyes tiredly. He hoped he was wrong about Avante and that they wouldn’t have to fight fever on that front, too. One war was enough. More than enough.

“Murdoch?” Scott’s low voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to find his son holding out a folded wet cloth. “Put this under his neck, would you?” Silently Murdoch took the cloth and gently raised Johnny’s head enough to slip the compress in place. Then he exchanged the nearly dry blue bandana for a second cloth and began to wipe Johnny’s face while Scott sponged his brother’s chest and arms.

It was warm under the awning. The still air smelled like hot canvas and stale sweat. When the sun dropped, Murdoch thought, they would take down the shelter and let the cool of nightfall come to their aid. But for now the tent offered protection. Sitting by Johnny’s head, working beside Scott in the cramped space, Murdoch felt he was living in a small, separate world. There was no one else. He was alone with his sons, his boys.

He would keep them safe and allow no intruders. None.

* * *

Scott did up his trouser buttons and gave one more look at the night sky. The moon was waning; each night shaving off another sliver. Each night a little darker than the one before. But tonight, tonight there was light enough still.

Stepping away from the bushes, he turned and wearily began to walk back toward the campfire. It was chilly, colder than he had expected. He had come away from the buckboard without his coat; sitting these long hours with his brother he had not needed it.

Johnny’s fever had not come down although they had bathed him continually. All through the late afternoon and into the evening, they had swaddled his head and chest with cold, wet cloths. They had slipped off his pants, unbuttoning the conchas down each side, and cut the long cotton drawers away at the knee. They had soaked an entire blanket and laid it over him. But they couldn’t get the fever to relinquish its hold.

Scott kicked a stone from his path and heard a horse snort in alarm. Then the entire remuda shied nervously, surging and retreating as he passed near. Amidst the dark shapes he saw a pale horse, white mane and tail dancing, and he stopped, his heart caught in his throat. Barranca. Barranca and Johnny.

 Memories immobilized him.

“Scott!” Murdoch’s shout shook him out of his stupor and he ran, panicked, toward camp, startling the horses anew as he pushed through brush and stumbled over the rough ground. Approaching the fire he saw his father in the buckboard, bending over Johnny, and the others, even Avante, standing motionless by the tailgate.

-No, no, no, no, no, no . . .

“Whoa, boy! It’s all right,” Jelly said, catching his arm as he staggered against the back wheel. “He’s awake, that’s all. It’s okay.” But when Jelly helped Scott up into the wagon-bed the expression on his face belied his easy words. On trembling legs Scott made his way to the front. Murdoch was standing now, his hand stretched out to steady Scott as they exchanged places.

Dimly he was aware of movement, of Murdoch moving back and away, of men walking over to the campfire. But as he sat down at Johnny’s side he saw only his brother’s eyes, huge and strangely luminous in the gaunt face. Instinctively he stretched his hand out to Johnny’s burning forehead and he saw his brother’s lids close at the coolness of his touch.

“Johnny?”

“Scott . . .” Johnny’s voice was a soft, breathless whisper. The blue eyes opened again, fixed on something beyond Scott’s perception. “I bin dreamin’, Scott.” A pause. “Mighty odd, them dreams . . . Or maybe not.”

“Shhh,” Scott said, smoothing the hair back from Johnny’s forehead. “Don’t talk now.”

“Don’t want . . . don’t want to sleep again,” Johnny answered, his gaze still focused on the indefinable distance. “Don’t let me sleep . . . ‘kay?”

Struggling with the lump in his throat, Scott moved his hand to his brother’s bare arm. Hot, like Johnny’s forehead, so that Scott’s palm felt scorched. He looked up to find Johnny watching him. “Sleep’s supposed to help a man heal, Johnny,” he muttered.

“No.” Johnny said, his eyes fathomless. “No, Scott . . .Sleep’s ‘the brother of Death.’”

From somewhere beside and behind him Scott heard a guttural sound of distress. Glancing back he saw his father shift position and quickly look away toward the campfire.

“That right, Murdoch?” Johnny whispered.

Murdoch cleared his throat. “That’s what Hesiod wrote, yes.” He turned, his gaze meeting Scott’s. “The Theogony,” he explained softly.

“Warburton,” Johnny coughed. “He told me. . .”

There was a long agonizing pause as the cough turned into a choking wheeze. Catching his brother’s hand as it weakly grabbed at the air in front of him, Scott thought he had never felt so helpless.

“Can’t breathe . . .” Johnny gasped suddenly.

“Raise him up, son –  quick! Get beneath him!” Murdoch was kneeling now, reaching toward Johnny, and with his help Scott slid Johnny’s head and shoulders onto his lap. Immediately the heat radiating from his brother’s body made him feel over warm. But the desperate struggle for breath was won and after a few minutes Johnny began to relax.

“Promise,” Johnny said finally, looking up to search Scott’s face. “’Kay, Boston?”

 “All right. Yes,” Scott stammered. He forced a smile. “Just don’t go all surly on me when I start prodding you awake, all right? You know,” he added, his voice gaining strength. “None of your smart-mouth sass.”

A half-smile played at the corners of Johnny’s mouth, and its familiar boyishness made Scott ache. “No, “ Johnny whispered. The smile widened. “No sass.”

Scott felt a hand on his shoulder, Murdoch leaning on him briefly as he clumsily rose to his feet. “I’m going to get him some of that tea,” Murdoch rasped, his face contorted, pained. He wouldn’t meet Scott’s eye. “I’ll -- I’ll be right back.”

The wagon-bed rocked slightly as Murdoch made his way to the tailgate and eased himself down to the ground. Scott watched his father limp stiff-legged to the campfire where Jelly was leaning over a large pot. As the two conferred, Cipriano stood at Murdoch’s elbow, stroking his mustache and listening intently. From the shadows Frank emerged carrying an armload of wood. He threw it down and then began feeding pieces into the fire. Flames leapt as the dry wood caught on, snapping and spitting. Emilio lunged for Jelly’s pot, moving it to safety.

Scott felt Johnny’s head move restlessly in his lap. “Okay?” he asked, anxiously searching his brother’s face in the renewed firelight.

“Yeah . . . jus’ --  feel hot’s all.” Johnny swallowed.  His hand picked fretfully at the damp cloth on his chest. “Real . . .hot.”

“Well, then let’s cool you off, boy,” Scott said with forced optimism. Suddenly aware of his own body’s heat, he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt.  He was as warm as if he’d been working over a smithy’s forge. “Want to try lying back the way you were?” he asked, groping for a canteen. “Might be cooler.”

“No!” Eyes wide with alarm his brother reached blindly and caught at his elbow, distracting his search.

“All right, all right – it’s okay,” Scott soothed, his heart racing. Again his hand found its way to Johnny’s forehead, easing the pain lines, pushing back the long dark hair. He saw the panic recede from the fever-bright blue eyes, replaced by a look of such profound trust that he had to bite his tongue to keep his composure.

After a moment, he felt strong enough to test his voice. “You need a haircut, little brother,” he murmured, his fingers lightly combing shaggy ends. “Think we’ll set Teresa loose with her scissors when we get home.” The light grip on his elbow loosened and he heard Johnny exhale in an ugly, raspy wheeze.

Scott reached behind himself and found under the mound of blankets a half-filled canteen. He soaked the cloth that had been on Johnny’s chest and replaced it. Then he felt around, searching in vain for the cloth that had been on his brother’s head. Just as he was about to give up he saw a hint of white twisted into the rucked-up blankets covering the pallet where Johnny had lain.

He leaned forward, his unbuttoned shirt brushing over his brother’s face as he awkwardly stretched his hand out toward the cloth. Suddenly there was a light pull on his neck and he looked down to find Johnny looking at him in wonder, Elena’s chain caught around his fingertips, her cross dangling, turning in gentle spirals. Scott slowly straightened, the cloth forgotten, and the gold chain ran over Johnny’s fingers like sunlight before falling back against Scott’s chest.

“Never knowed you to wear jewelry, Scott.”

 There was an unasked question in the strained whisper. Scott’s hand rose self-consciously to his neck, touching the cross as a talisman. “It’s from Elena,” he said, watching Johnny carefully. All thumbs, he began fumbling with the clasp. “She asked me to . . . to give it to you – for good luck,” he added hurriedly, head down. “Teresa put it on me so I wouldn’t lose it. I almost forgot.”

“’Lena’s?” Johnny asked softly.  “She lendin’ me her faith, too?”

“It’s – it’s a gift, Johnny,” Scott stammered as the chain’s tiny clasp finally yielded. Carefully, he removed the necklace and held it in his palm. “She wants you to have it.” He faltered, unsure how to continue. Unsure of the words. How had Elena put it? He took a deep breath. “She said it had been given to her long ago, by a -- a dear friend. A very beautiful, stubborn and  . . .  very angry friend.”

The naked pain in his brother’s eyes flared like photographer’s flash powder, exposing his vulnerability and searing Scott’s heart. But Johnny didn’t make a sound. A pulse thudded at the base of his throat. His hand clenched and unclenched. But for a long moment Johnny said nothing. Then he closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“Johnny?”

“Put it on me, would yuh, Scott?”

Gently Scott slipped the chain around his brother’s neck, mentally flinching as his hand brushed the hot skin, and fastened the clasp. With Johnny watching him gravely, he checked the clasp a second time. A hand caught his. And held it.

“Thanks . . .”

Scott ducked his head, no longer able to meet his brother’s gaze. He had no strength to fight the tide of emotion welling inside. It was all gone. He was exhausted beyond measure. Then, startled by a rustling sound coming from behind them, he looked around to find Murdoch standing at the buckboard’s tailgate, his back turned to them, his head down. His shoulders shaking in silent grief. Scott was stricken.

--For whom are you grieving, Murdoch? For a son who is dying? For a wife who was lost?

Eyes brimming, he turned back to Johnny and saw that once again his brother was watching something he could not see, in a world where he could not follow.

--Grieve for us all, Father. Grieve for us all.

 

Chapter 24

Avante bit off another piece of the tough jerky Jelly had given him and stared morosely at the fire. With night, a pall had fallen over the camp. It had lifted momentarily when Madrid had first come to but descended again almost immediately, when everyone realized the kid’s fever hadn’t broken, only notched higher. His lucidity was just another of fever’s cruel tricks.

Like the others, Avante had rushed to the buckboard when he heard Murdoch Lancer shout for Scott. He had stood with them all as they watched the father tend to his waking son. But he soon became aware he wasn’t wanted. He was not welcome – not even, or perhaps especially, on a death watch. Cursing angrily he’d staggered away and defiantly took a spot on the rough bench by the fire. Let someone try to move him, he’d thought to himself. Let ‘em just try.

Time was playing him for a fool. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting alone by the fire watching the flames. A shiver ran through him. Either the night was getting colder or his fever was rising. With gloom he realized it was probably the latter. The hole in his shoulder wasn’t healing very well. The old cook had pushed some of his own tea on him earlier and muttered sourly about folks who made trouble for themselves and everyone else. But Jelly’s reproof was milder than the unspoken words than hung in the air whenever anyone happened to look his way.

For Old Man Lancer, however, it was like he’d ceased to exist. The tall rancher had not acknowledged him at all when he had returned to the campfire searching for more medicinal tea. His eyes hadn’t even flickered when Jelly told him the last cup had been given to “the Ranger” and that he’d have to wait for the next batch to steep. Instead, he’d stood staring at the fire for a while and then abruptly began to pace. When the tea was ready, he had taken it without a word and returned to his sons.

Why the hell was everyone givin’ up on Madrid anyway? The jerky suddenly seemed tasteless and Avante spat the wad he was chewing in the direction of the fire. Sure, the fever was high – but it would come down if they’d just get that damn tea down his throat. Lancer had said something about the wound looking better; the salve must be doing its job. And Madrid was a born fighter . . .

--Oh dear God, that kid don’t deserve to die.

The thought came unbidden, and he clamped down on it hard. Running a shaky hand over his rough cheeks, he stared fiercely at the fire and fought to ignore the self-loathing that sat like a bitter pill at the back of his throat. He wasn’t going to go there – not tonight.

The horse wrangler, Emilio, appeared from nowhere, tin cup in hand, and squatted down to pour himself a cup of coffee. Avante looked away. He could feel the man’s eyes on him, watching him. But when he looked up again the wrangler was gone.

A restlessness came over him and he felt an urge to move. He needed to walk. Rising slowly, he fought the wave of dizziness that threatened to pull him back to the bench. When his vision steadied he found his eyes being drawn to the buckboard, where Murdoch Lancer was still sitting with his sons. He took a tentative step forward, then another, and found himself grabbed roughly by the arm, the bum one, so that he gasped and had to double over with the pain.

“You are not wanted there, Tejano.” The warning in the old segundo’s voice was unmistakable – and so was the menace.

Avante straightened, blinking away the pinwheels of light that made it hard to see. Cipriano stood before him, an implacable barrier between Avante and the buckboard. Contempt was written on the vaquero’s face. And something more. A deep and primitively merciless hate. The Ranger felt his hackles rise, self protection overcoming his sense of guilt.

“Back off, old man!” he growled.

“Bastardo!” Cipriano spat in contempt, his eyes glittering.

 “This ain’t the time and that ain’t our fight,” Avante rasped. “I was a kid, a snot-nosed kid when the Rangers -- well, when some of them did what they did to your people.”

The old vaquero looked at him with disgust and Avante realized he had misjudged the man. Cipriano wasn’t fighting old grudges; his hate was deeper. For Avante the man rather than Avante the Ranger. Suddenly he was again aware of the pounding in his shoulder and he clapped his hand over the pain.

 --Whatever happened to the days when I could read a man and get it right? Used to be able to do that. Somethin’ I was proud of. Did it die or did I kill it off?

Cipriano’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You are wrong,” the old man said, his voice low, throaty. “It became my fight when you shot a man in the back, cobarde.” He stepped closer, so close that Avante could feel the heat of his breath and his anger. “It became my fight when you kicked in the ribs of a man who is like –”

Abruptly, Cipriano stepped away. The tension in him was like a metal coil just waiting to be sprung, and his hand had moved close to his gun butt. Avante knew he was looking death in the face.

“Hold on there!” Jelly was now at Cipriano’s elbow, his hand deflecting the segundo’s, his body moving between the two men. “That ain’t gonna solve a goldarned thing and you know it,” the grizzled little cook challenged Cipriano. “Sure, you could put another coupla holes in this hombre. Make him look like that fancy tea strainer Teresa’s got back home. But that ain’t gonna help Johnny. ‘Sides, Ranger ain’t even packin’ a pistol, Cipriano.” Jelly looked from Cipriano to Avante and back “Don’t reckon you ever shot an unarmed man, compadre. And I ain’t about to let you change your ways now.”

The minute it took for the angry segundo to regain control of himself was one of the longest Avante could remember. But as he watched, he saw the tension subside. Still the dark eyes smoldered as the man slowly moved a hand up to his vest pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

“You are like la peste,” the vaquero said, shaking the paper at Avante. “What you do not kill you scar -- ruin.”  Cipriano inhaled deeply and threw the paper in disgust at the Ranger’s chest. “You will pay, Señor. That I promise you.” Turning swiftly on his heel, he walked off into the darkness.

Stooping low, Jelly retrieved the paper from the ground.  For a moment he stood in silence, watching Cipriano’s disappearing back. Then he turned to Avante. “You don’t want to rile Cipriano,” he advised, his voice curt. “He loves that boy like his own son. Thinks the world of him.” Avante saw Jelly’s chin jut and a glimmer of something like defiance showed in his bloodshot eyes. “An’ so do I.”

Jelly opened the paper and read the printed words on the tattered, creased wanted poster.  Bright spots of color appeared on his cheeks above the beard. With deliberate movements he folded and refolded the paper until it was a small, bulky square. “Mister,” he said angrily, “this is—this is horseshit. An’ you know it.”

Tired and shaky, Avante hadn’t the energy to defend himself. He wanted to argue that he’d merely been doing his job; he’d put a price on the head of a man he had thought a murderer. A man who, after all, did have a reputation. Who was Johnny Madrid. But his strength had deserted him and he desperately needed to sit down. First, though, he had to go over to that buckboard. Had to see that kid. If Jelly made any move to stop him he would collapse. He knew that. He didn’t want the old man’s help but he did want – what did he want?

A truce.

“Look--” he began, grabbing at the cook’s arm and leaning on it rather more than he planned. “I don’t got much starch left but I gotta – I gotta go over there.” Jelly drew back, his face hardening. “No,” Avante pleaded. “Please – listen. I won’t . . .” He stopped. There weren’t any words to explain. Or at least none that would make sense to anyone else.

The older man regarded him steadily.  “All right,” Jelly said finally. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. “Scott said you was an ornery cuss.” Drawing in a deep breath he glanced over towards the buckboard and then back to Avante, his expression severe and unyielding.  “You go over there,” he said. “And you look at Johnny real close. And you think on how it’s ‘cuz of you he’s lyin’ there like that.  I want that to haunt you, mister. Whether that boy lives or dies, I want that to haunt you.”

Avante heard the catch in the old man’s throat and understood he’d just been given as close to a reprieve as he was ever going get from the grizzled cook Nodding his thanks, he turned and began walking toward the buckboard, his hand again pressed tightly against his shoulder.

As he approached, he saw Murdoch Lancer’s head lift and knew the man was watching his unsteady progress. Drawing closer, his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the light away from the fire and he could see the weary rancher working to keep his face impassive. Struck by a sudden awkwardness Avante hesitated by the tailgate. Murdoch Lancer stared at him but said nothing.

Avante made his way to the side of the buckboard to stand just behind the front wheel.  His knees were letting him down now, trembling with fatigue, and he had to let the wheel take part of his weight. Despite the coolness of the night he was sweating; the small of his back was wet. Wedged between wheel and wagon-bed, he closed his eyes and tried to will strength back into his legs. There was no way he was going to fall on his face right now. Not here.

“What do you want?” Scott Lancer’s husky voice roused him from his daze. He opened his eyes and returned the young man’s stare. He could think of no answer that would satisfy so he merely shook his head. Gathering his strength, he straightened and let his gaze fall and find Madrid.

The kid was lying with his head and shoulders across his brother’s lap and he was shivering. He was covered to the neck with blankets but his body was being shaken by violently strong shudders. Avante’s stomach dropped. He knew fever’s tricks all too well.  He knew the cycles of hot and cold. But this was different.

Avante drew in a ragged breath. Scott Lancer and his father no longer existed. He didn’t care what they thought or what they saw. Instinctively he stretched out an uncertain hand. But there was a distance between him and Madrid that couldn’t be bridged.

Avante’s hand fell back to the buckboard’s side, steadying his sagging weight. When he looked again at Madrid he found the startlingly blue eyes open, watching him with an expression that he at first found difficult to read.  The penetration, the knowingness of those eyes was almost beyond him. And when at last Avante understood what he was being told, he had to turn away.

--No, boy, I got a feelin’ it ain’t no longer yours to give. Now it’s somethin’ I gotta find on my own.

* * *

His brother’s voice drew him back.

He had been floating again. Drifting on the lake, the one T’resa always said was the best swimmin’ spot on Lancer. The one with water so clear you could see pretty near down to the gravel bottom. Even at the deepest part.

Just floating on his back and feeling the sun hot on his face.

But no, now Scott was pulling him back in, drawing him to shore and making him come awake. Scott -- keeping his word. Not letting him sleep.

Johnny struggled to open his eyes. The soft, low tones of his brother’s voice washed over him. Hoarse but familiar. Comforting. He smiled.

There really wasn’t much pain any more. There wasn’t much of anything. Damn shivers were gone. They had about done him in. And they had left him hot again.  But at least they had left.

So had the Ranger.

He’d known what Avante wanted even though the man himself had not. It wasn’t hard to figure, or to grant. But in some curious way he’d also known that Avante would never accept his forgiveness.

--See a padre, Ranger Man, Johnny thought. Let one of them deal with your Catholic guilt. I can’t do no more than what I done.

But Avante was unimportant. Everything was. Everything that had happened. Everything. Even the things that happened in his own past . . . it was too long ago. Another lifetime. And none of it mattered.

What matters is now. And Scott talking. Talking about whatever comes to mind. Just talking. Helping him hold onto the now.  Keeping away the nightmares. Fighting that dark.

Scott . . . telling him about the new barn he thinks they should build. Next to the old one. With larger box stalls for foaling mares.  A decent tackroom. Scott’s face growing more and more animated as he adds one outlandish embellishment after another.

--Think I’ll hold you to this foolishness, Boston. If we get home  . . .

His breath caught at the base of his throat, a wheeze choking him, and he felt Scott reaching under him, lifting him slightly as Murdoch slid more blankets behind and beneath his back. His father’s eyes caught his and he saw the worry in their depths. And something more. There was a pain in his heart then. Sharp as a honed knife blade.

--You know, Old Man. Yuh gotta know after all this time. Yeah, we’re always arguing and butting heads, like two of them mountain billys, both of ‘em too stubborn to give in. But yuh know, Murdoch, don’t yuh?

He must have drifted off because Scott was calling his name again, like he did when they were mending fences together and Scott wanted him to haul in on the wire. Impatient. Like he was needed in a hurry.

He tried to reach up, to brush away the hand that was cupping his chin. But there was no strength in his arms. None at all. It was hot. Too hot. Scott would have to tighten that wire all by himself.

“C’mon, Brother, open your eyes! No sleeping on the job. That’s what you said – and I’m going to keep you to it.”

Scott’s voice sounded hoarser now, as raspy as when he’d had the grippe and they’d just about had to tie him to his bed to keep him from going out and putting in a full day’s work. No slacker, Scott. A good man – more’n good. A man anyone would be proud to call brother.

--‘Cept what’d you do to draw Johnny Madrid as a brother, Boston? What crime coulda been bad enough to make Lady Luck give you them cards, huh? Any other man would have said she was dealing off the bottom of the deck. Not you – you never let on that you bin cheated. Just went and treated me as if . . . as if I was worth every bit of what you give me.

Johnny’s eyes opened. Met his brother’s.

--I’m tryin’, Scott. I’m tryin’ hard not to let you down.

* * *

Avante wakened slowly. For a groggy moment he couldn’t place where he was, or what had happened. His shoulder throbbed dully and he could feel his wound pull as he shifted on the hard ground. It was night still, not morning, and he wanted to sleep. Needed to sleep. But why was there so much noise and commotion? 

Someone was shouting, calling for more water. Someone was running. A man cursed. In Spanish.

Abruptly, memory f