Lancer stories by Whistle

He's My Brother (AR)

This story takes place several years before High Riders, and is an alternative version of the Lancer story. It opens early in 1865. It has a sequel, Banished In Boston.

***

A young man watched from the deck as the steamer approached the coast. Long swells rolled in from the open ocean, lifting the steamer as it chugged toward shore. Mist still clung to the land, but the sun was rising to burn it away. Not a breath of wind ruffled the glossy surface of the water.

It had been a little more than a month since he left snowy Boston, on the other side of the continent. He took the train to New York and then a steamer to Jamaica and to Navy Bay, where he picked up the Panama Railroad across the isthmus and caught another steamer bound for San Francisco, although he planned to get off at San Diego.

He would be glad to set foot on land again, but the passage gave him time to think about what he'd just recently learned in Boston, in the library of his grandfather's stately brick house. It gave him time to think about the day his world spun around and changed.

Scott Lancer had lived in that house nearly all his life, arriving when he was only eight months old on another ship, a sailing ship that labored all the way around Cape Horn from San Francisco. He left it for a set of rooms at Harvard when he was almost 17, and then to go to war when he was 18, at the end of his second year.

He returned a few months before his 21st birthday, a frail shadow of the young man who departed so confidently. He had spent more than six months in a Confederate prison, and another month in an army hospital after the escape.

His grandfather traveled to Washington to watch over him and arranged for a private railroad car to take him home to Boston as soon as the doctors agreed he could travel. Scott didn't care at the time, didn't care about anything. The comfortable cocoon wrapped around him again. The servants fussed over him, trying to coax him to eat, to sleep and to take an interest in life again. His grandfather called in the best doctors in Boston. None of it mattered to Scott, still locked up in his own misery even after his physical injuries mended.

A week after his birthday, Scott wandered into the library late one morning, after picking listlessly at his breakfast. He sat down at the desk and opened the drawer to get some writing paper. He still had to write to the mother of the young private who hadn't survived the escape. Scott's thoughts dwelled for a minute on an earnest, freckled face. Then he ducked his head, trying to push the images of that night away, and lifted a thick folder to get to the supply of paper kept in the drawer. It wasn't like his grandfather to shove a file into a drawer, instead of putting it in its place in the locked cabinets that lined the wall. He stopped as his eye caught on its label.

"John Lancer." Scott frowned at it. His father's name wasn't John. It was Murdoch. Who was John Lancer?

He opened the folder curiously. It contained a sheaf of reports from the private investigators his grandfather often used in his business. Scott glanced at the top sheet and froze.

"John Lancer, AKA Johnny Madrid," he read. "Age 14. Occupation: gunfighter. No fixed address, frequents the border towns in Mexico and California. Family: father, Murdoch Lancer, Lancer Ranch, Morro Coyo, California, and half-brother, Scott Garrett Lancer, Boston, Massachusetts."

Scott stared at the sheet, his hand shaking, as the door to the library opened. His grandfather strode in and stopped.

"Ah, Scott, you're up," he said uneasily, his eyes going to the folder in Scott's hands.

"Grandfather, what is this?" Scott said.

Harlan Garrett pursed his thin lips. "It's nothing, Scott."

"Nothing?" Scott's voice rose a little. "It says here I have a brother."

"A half-brother," Harlan corrected immediately.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Scott demanded.

"He has nothing to do with you," Harlan said firmly. "He isn't fit to be your brother."

Scott shook his head. A brother. For as long as he could remember, he'd wished for a brother or sister, but especially for a brother. Someone near his age to talk to, play with and look out for, someone whose voice and laughter would fill some of the lonely spaces in the Boston house and in his life. His eyes went down to the report and he turned the top page.

"Scott," Harlan said. "I'll take that."

"You will not," Scott said, his blue-gray eyes as bleak as the Atlantic in winter. He rose, tucking the report under his arm. "I'll take it to my room to read."

"You have to understand," Harlan said, a little desperately. "It's best you have nothing to do with him, Scott."

Scott pushed past him into the hall. He stopped with one foot on the stairs, looking back. "Best for whom, Grandfather?"

"It's best for you, Scotty," Harlan said. "Whatever decisions I've made, they've always been what's best for you, my boy."

Harlan certainly hadn't done what was best for his brother, Scott thought later, when he finished reading the reports and collapsed onto his bed.

He felt sick. His little brother lived in hell, had lived in hell most of his life, ever since his mother ran away from Lancer and took her young son with her. It was a wonder Johnny had survived at all.

Scott had spent more than six months in an enemy prison, helpless to protect himself from the brutal guards. He was beaten and he was hungry, for the first time in his life. At times, in solitary, he was desperately alone. It had nearly defeated him and he was a man, not a child.

Murdoch Lancer had at least looked for the boy and was still looking for him, according to the most recent report in the file. Harlan's investigators couldn't resist their opportunities to gloat about the Pinkertons' failure to locate Johnny. Once they came close and Harlan's investigators actually diverted them with a false trail.

Harlan had known, for years, where Scott's brother was. The investigators located Johnny and his mother when the boy was only seven. They reported to Harlan when 10-year-old Johnny shot the man who killed his mother and beat him.

Harlan knew the small boy was on his own, fending for himself in the streets. He received a report when Johnny spent 30 days in jail, locked in a cell with a convicted murderer, for stealing food when he was 11. He knew it all, and he hadn't lifted a finger to do anything about it.

He hadn't even had the decency to tell Murdoch Lancer where his younger son was, although it was clear he knew his son-in-law was still searching for the boy.

Scott wondered uneasily about that. He knew his grandfather didn't like his father, and with good reason from what he knew. Murdoch Lancer had never shown any interest in his older son. He hadn't even been there when Scott was born and his mother died. Harlan took the baby back to Boston and raised him as if he was his own son. Scott never heard from his father, never received even one letter from him. His birthdays passed unacknowledged. When he was younger, he imagined a letter would arrive all the way from California on one of his birthdays, and Murdoch Lancer would come up with some kind of explanation for his indifference. He imagined his father really did love him, like other boys' fathers. That hope faded, as he grew older, and finally disappeared.

Scott didn't care any more, or so he told himself. But he couldn't help but wonder as he read about the amount of money Murdoch Lancer spent over the years to look for Johnny. For a long time, it was far more than his father could afford, according to his grandfather's investigators. That didn't sound like a man who cared more about his cattle ranch than his family.

Scott dropped the report on the bed. He didn't care about his father. He did intend to take care of his brother. Johnny had started hiring out his gun almost a year ago, killing four men in a shootout shortly after his fourteenth birthday. He was fast and deadly, according to the investigators, and his reputation was spreading along the border but Scott knew Johnny didn't have a long future ahead if someone didn't step in. He didn't know if he could get the boy to listen, if it was too late to reclaim him, but he intended to try.

"You're going where?" Harlan sputtered that evening at dinner.

"I'm going to Mexico to find my brother," Scott said coldly. He had already booked his passage on the next steamer from New York.

"Scotty, you can't," Harlan protested. "You're not strong enough."

"I'm fine," Scott said. "And the doctor suggested a sea passage, if you recall."

"I forbid it," Harlan said sharply. "That boy is dangerous. You've read the report; you know what he is."

"I know someone should have taken care of him a long time ago, instead of leaving him on his own to survive any way he could." Scott's eyes fastened on his grandfather's face.

"He's nothing to me," the older man said, suddenly feeling defensive.

"He is my brother, Grandfather. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"That half-breed?" Harlan sneered. "His mother was a whore. Who knows if Murdoch is even really his father? Think about that, Scott."

"My father doesn't seem to have any doubts about it," Scott said.

"Murdoch's a fool!" Harlan said violently. "Scotty, if you insist on meeting that boy, I'll tell the investigators to get him and bring him here."

"No, Grandfather," Scott said. "He'll never trust me if you do that."

"Trust you? That boy doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"No one has ever given him any reason to know it, have they?" Scott said sadly. "Grandfather, I'm going to Mexico for my brother and I'm warning you, if I even think you or your investigators have done anything at all to interfere with him or with me, you will never see me again. Do you understand me?"

Harlan knew the determined look on his grandson's face, the same look he'd worn when he foolishly insisted on joining the army.

"Do you understand?" Scott repeated.

"Yes," Harlan said. "I won't interfere. I just hope you don't regret this."

***

Scott rode into the little town and left his horse outside a small cantina while he went inside. The place was full, and he picked his way carefully through the crowd toward the bar.

It had been a long week. He visited a series of cantinas in mean little towns along the border, asking if anyone knew where he could find Johnny Madrid. He learned quickly to be cautious. Gunplay could and did erupt at a moment's notice, sometimes for no apparent reason. Scott had seen three shootouts already, two in the hot, dusty streets and one inside a cantina.

He nearly made it to the bar when someone jostled him, and he stumbled against another man, a large Mexican man wearing bandoliers crossed over his shoulders. The man hissed and said something in Spanish.

"I'm sorry," Scott said politely. "Someone pushed me."

The man spat out something else.

"I'm sorry," Scott said again. "I don't speak Spanish. Do you speak English?"

The man responded by punching him in the stomach. Scott doubled over and the man punched him again in the jaw. He sailed backwards and finally reached the bar when his head smacked against it. He saw stars for a moment before he lost his temper. He scrambled to his feet, fists clenched, and launched himself at the other man.

It was dark when he woke. He lay flat on his face in what felt and smelled like a pile of rotting garbage. There was music somewhere nearby, penetrating his throbbing head. He moaned and sat up, reaching for his head. His hair was matted and sticky. He touched the bump on the back of his head gingerly.

"When you bounced off the bar and punched him, Martinez hit you with a bottle of beer," an amused voice said from the darkness. "Before he drank it. Lucky for you he couldn't afford a bottle of tequila tonight."

"You speak English," Scott said gratefully. "Thank God."

"Most everybody down here speaks both," the voice drawled. "Just a question of which they're willing to speak, and who they're willing to speak to."

Scott realized he was no longer wearing the holster and gun he'd purchased when he'd landed in Mexico. He reached next for his wallet and found it was also missing, along with his watch and even the money belt that had been hidden around his waist.

"They clean you out?" the voice asked, still amused.

"I'm afraid so," Scott said ruefully.

"Where are you from, anyway? You don't speak English like anybody I ever heard."

Scott hesitated. "Boston," he said. "Look, I could use some help. I'm trying to locate a boy named Johnny Madrid. I was told he might be here."

"Might be, Boston. What do you want him for?"

"I need to talk to him," Scott said. "And my name is not Boston. It's Lancer. Scott Lancer."

Scott couldn't really see the owner of the voice, except as a shadowy figure in the dark, but he could tell he had gone still.

"Maybe you better just head back to Boston," he suggested after a pause. "It's not too smart to mess with Madrid."

"I just want to talk to him," Scott said. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"Yeah."

"Will you take me there? I can't pay you until I wire for some money, but I will. You have my word on it."

"Don't know you, Boston. Why would I take your word on anything?"

"Look, this is important," Scott said. He struggled to his feet, swaying a little, and moved toward the voice.

"Please," Scott said as the figure backed away from him. The street was spinning and he watched it, fascinated. His knees buckled and he fell again.

This time he woke on a bed in a small, hot room. Someone had dumped him on top of the bed and left him there, still wearing his boots and filthy clothes. Bright sunlight came in through the single window, lighting rough adobe walls. Scott stood up painfully and went over to the washstand. He poured water from a pitcher into the basin and washed his face. His head still throbbed and he ached all over. He also smelled like the pile of garbage, he realized, wrinkling his nose.

The door opened and Scott turned. A thin, dark-haired boy leaned casually on the frame, looking at him with incredibly blue eyes. He wore a gun on his hip, tied low.

Scott stared at him, surprised, before he found his voice. "Johnny? Are you Johnny Madrid?"

The blue eyes were cool. "That's right," the boy said, and Scott recognized the voice from the garbage dump. "What do you want, Boston?"

"I'm your brother," Scott said.

"My mama only had one kid," Johnny said. "And if she ever had another one, he sure as hell wouldn't be a blond gringo."

"My mother was married to Murdoch Lancer first," Scott said. "She died when I was born and he married your mother a few years later. That makes us brothers."

Johnny's face was expressionless. "Your daddy send you here?"

"No, he didn't. I've never met him," Scott said.

There was a pause. Johnny looked Scott over carefully again.

"How come?"

"I grew up in Boston," Scott said. "My grandfather raised me. I've never met Murdoch Lancer and I didn't know anything about you until recently."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Scott said. "I've always wanted a brother."

"I haven't," Johnny said briefly. "Don't need one."

"Johnny, you just turned fifteen a few weeks ago. You're not old enough to be on your own."

The blue eyes widened, just a little bit, and Scott saw a flicker of uncertainty cross that deadpan face. Then he was looking at the mask again. One corner of his brother's mouth turned up. "You reckon you're going to take care of me, Boston? It's the other way around right now. I paid for this room."

Scott flushed. "I'll wire for some money and reimburse you, of course."

"There's no telegraph office here," Johnny said. "You'll have to go to Sonora for that. Only you don't have a horse any more either. And you're likely to get yourself killed if you keep wandering around the border towns without a clue. Don't know how you lived this long."

"Will you help me get to Sonora?"

"Why should I?"

"I'll pay you," Scott said.

The boy paused. "How much?"

"A hundred dollars," Scott said.

Johnny shook his head. "It's not worth the trouble."

"Five hundred, then."

The blue eyes looked thoughtful. Scott couldn't believe the color of them. He'd never seen anyone with eyes so blue. They glowed in a finely modeled face. It could have been a very expressive face if its owner didn't have it so firmly in control. Scott had absolutely no idea what was going on in his brother's head.

"Your grandfather must be rich," Johnny said finally.

Scott reddened. "It's my money, not his."

"Yeah?" Johnny sounded skeptical.

"What about it?" Scott asked impatiently.

Johnny shrugged. "Why not? I have a job waiting in California anyway. Might as well ride with you part of the way."

***

They rode all day. Scott had insisted on a bath before they left and persuaded Johnny to find him some clean clothes, although the brightly colored shirt was not exactly what he had in mind. He had purchased some western clothing shortly after landing, aware his tailored suits were drawing far too much attention, but his taste ran toward conservative colors.

The shirt was soaked with sweat now. Scott took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a bandanna. The sun glared off the empty desert and he could feel his skin crisping in the reflected light.

He was standing outside the place where they had spent the night when his brother appeared on a bay horse, leading a roan. Scott recognized his own saddlebags slung over the saddle.

"Where did you get those?" he asked suspiciously.

The corner of Johnny's mouth turned up, for the second time. "I sure as hell didn't bother to steal them from you. You want to go to Sonora, Boston, or not?"

Scott swung onto the roan and settled it down efficiently when it started to sidle sideways.

"So they did at least teach you to ride in Boston," Johnny drawled.

"They did," Scott said. "And serving in the cavalry helped, of course."

Johnny shot a surprised look at him. "You were in the cavalry?"

"The last three years," Scott said shortly.

"Seen any of the fighting?"

"Some," Scott said. His tone didn't invite any further questions and Johnny didn't ask any.

They didn't stop until long after sunset. They made camp for the night, instead of riding into a town. Johnny got a fire going quickly and made a pot of strong coffee.

"What is it?" Scott asked, looking at his supper dubiously.

"Jerky," Johnny said, taking a bite. "Dried meat. It's easier on the trail."

After supper, Johnny unrolled his bedroll but didn't get into it. Instead, he cleaned his gun. Scott watched drowsily from his own bedroll. Johnny's deft fingers handled the Colt without conscious thought.

"Aren't you going to turn in?" Scott asked finally, when Johnny finished and put the gun back in its holster.

"Nope. I'll stand watch."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Wake me then, and I'll take a turn," Scott said. Johnny didn't answer.

Scott woke hours later. Johnny was still brooding over the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Scott sat up and ran his hands through his hair. "Get some sleep, Johnny. I'll watch the rest of the night."

"It's part of the job," Johnny said.

"I didn't hire you to stand watch. I need a guide, not a babysitter. Get some sleep. You're not going to be much use tomorrow if you're exhausted."

"You even know how to use a gun, Boston?" Johnny asked, not moving.

"Yes," Scott said. "I'm better with a rifle, but I know how to use a pistol too."

The blue eyes measured him and Johnny sighed a little. "Wake me up right away if you hear anything."

"I will," Scott said, his lip twitching. His younger brother clearly had little faith in his ability to protect either of them.

Johnny fell asleep as soon as he put his head down. Scott poured himself some coffee and wrapped his fingers around the tin cup. The day's heat had long disappeared.

Near dawn, Johnny started to mumble and move restlessly. Scott realized he was having a nightmare and went over to him. The boy said something in rapid Spanish.

"Johnny, wake up," Scott said, shaking him gently. "It's all right. Wake up."

Johnny snatched his gun and pointed it at Scott. His eyes were enormous. Scott couldn't believe how quickly he'd produced the gun from his bedroll, but he didn't flinch.

"Hey," he said calmly. "It's all right. You had a bad dream."

Johnny shuddered and lowered the gun, his breath ragged. He ducked his head. "Sorry," he said.

Scott handed him a canteen, and Johnny took a quick gulp, still not looking at his brother.

"I've been having a few nightmares myself lately," Scott said, his throat tightening. He hadn't talked to many people about those dreams, didn't know why he was telling a 15-year-old boy he barely knew. Johnny was far too young to understand.

"About the war?" Johnny asked.

"Yes," Scott said.

The boy curled up under his blankets again, turning on his side. "How'd you get out of the army? Didn't think they let anyone out during a war."

"I'm on leave," Scott said.

"Did you get hurt, Boston?"

"Everybody got hurt, Johnny," Scott said softly. "Just in different ways."

Johnny sighed. "I thought about joining up a couple of years ago," he said sleepily. "Only I don't think I'd be too good at taking orders."

Scott smiled at the idea. He'd only met his brother yesterday, and he was sure he would be no good at all at taking orders. "You're not old enough to join the army. You're only fifteen now."

Johnny shifted a little. "You sure about that, Boston?" he asked.

"What? Of course I'm sure. Your birthday is December 21st. You're six years and one month younger than I am, to the day."

Johnny was quiet. Scott thought he'd fallen asleep again. He was stunned at the idea his brother didn't know how old he was, or when his birthday was. Even if he'd waited all his life for a birthday letter from his father that never came, Scott's birthday was always celebrated.

He'd been lucky, he thought bleakly, compared to his brother.

"Scott?" Johnny said.

"You should try to get some sleep," Scott said.

"Did you ever wonder about him? Our father?"

"All my life," Scott said.

"My mama said he didn't want a half-breed kid around, and kicked us out." Johnny's voice was soft and it sounded like he was thinking aloud. "Only you're not a mestizo and he didn't keep you either."

"He didn't kick you out," Scott said, surprised. "He's been looking for you ever since your mother ran away from the ranch and took you."

Johnny sat up again abruptly. "That's not true!" he hissed.

"Yes, it is true," Scott said, surprised by his brother's anger. "He still has Pinkertons looking for you."

"How do you know, if you've never met him?"

"My grandfather hired investigators too," Scott said slowly. "He doesn't like Murdoch much. I found the reports in Grandfather's library and read them. That's how I found out about you."

"I don't believe you," Johnny said. "Why would my mother lie?"

"I don't know," Scott said, meeting his brother's furious eyes. "I never met your mother, or our father. All I know is what I read in the reports from the investigators."

"Well, they're wrong." Johnny pushed the blankets away and got up.

"Where are you going?" Scott asked, reaching for him.

"Wherever I want," Johnny said, yanking his arm away and heading into the darkness. "Just leave me alone!"

***

Johnny walked back into camp at sunrise, to Scott's relief, and bent down to get some coffee. He made a face as soon as he tasted it.

"You didn't put in enough coffee, Boston."

"Sorry," Scott said. "I've never made coffee before."

The blue eyes looked surprised, but Johnny didn't say anything. He sat down and sipped the weak brew, dropping his head so Scott couldn't see his face.

"How much farther is it to Sonora?" Scott asked.

"Should be there by noon," Johnny said.

"It will take some time to get the money," Scott said.

"I won't have any trouble finding you when I want to."

Scott looked at him and took a deep breath. "Johnny, I want you to come home with me."

"To Boston?" Johnny shook his head definitely. "No way."

"It doesn't have to be in Boston, but you need a home. You should be in school."

"I said I'd get you to Sonora and I will," Johnny said. "And then we're done, once you pay me. I have a job waiting up north."

"Hiring out your gun?"

"That's my business, Boston, not yours," Johnny said.

"You're my brother. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Johnny's eyes were cold. "Nope."

"Well, it means something to me," Scott said. "I'm not going to just let you ride away."

"You can't stop me," Johnny said. "And you better not try."

Early in the evening, Scott walked down the street to a bar where he had agreed to meet Johnny. His brother was in the back, sitting against the wall, where he could watch everyone who came in. There was a bottle and glass in front of him.

"What is that?" Scott asked.

"Tequila," Johnny said. "Want some?"

Scott shook his head. He didn't think a boy Johnny's age should be drinking in a bar, but didn't intend to start that battle now. "I've got your money," he said, sitting down.

"Well, don't take it out in here," Johnny advised him. "Not unless you want to get robbed again later."

"Madrid!" a deep voice boomed. Johnny's eyes went instantly to the doorway.

"I thought you were dead, boy," a tall man said, pushing through the batwing doors and heading for the table. Other people looked at him and hurried outside. Within seconds, the bar nearly emptied.

Johnny's chair was still tilted against the wall and he looked relaxed. "Sorry to disappoint you, Day," he drawled.

The older man laughed and pulled out a chair. "I didn't say I was disappointed, Johnny boy, just surprised. Last time I saw you, you were all shot up and it didn't look like you were going to make it."

"I did." Johnny's voice was terse.

"You interested in doing a little business? I could use your gun."

"Doing what?"

"Range war, up in the San Joaquin Valley," the big man said. "Stupid ranchers are fighting over water rights. Could be good money. A lot more than the ranchers think."

Scott opened his mouth and closed it when Johnny shot him a look.

"You planning on settling more than the water rights?" he asked the other man.

"Could be. What about it, Johnny? You want to ride with us?"

Johnny paused, thinking it over. "Why not," he finally said.

"Good," the man said. "We're leaving in the morning." He looked at Scott. "Who's this?"

"Nobody," Johnny said.

"My name is Garrett," Scott said quickly. "Scott Garrett. You wouldn't want to hire another gun, would you?"

"You?" The big man laughed. "You don't look or sound like a gun hawk, boy."

"Not with a pistol," Scott said. "But I'm pretty good with a rifle."

"Oh, yeah? That true, Johnny?"

Johnny shrugged. "Don't ask me, Day. I just met him."

"You don't sound like you're from around here, Garrett," the older man said said.

"I'm not," Scott said. "I'm from back east."

"Let's see what you can do then. Outside."

Scott stood up.

"You coming, Johnny?" Day asked.

Johnny shrugged and got up, following them outside. His bay was tied up in front, a rifle in its scabbard. Scott glanced at him, surprised. It looked like Johnny planned to ride out, by himself, as soon as he collected his money.

"Mind if I borrow your rifle, Madrid?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Johnny leaned casually against the hitching post.

Scott checked the gun, grateful to find it clean and well oiled. It was one of the new repeating Winchesters. He handled it confidently, and he caught his brother looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Johnny was wearing that lopsided smile.

Day pointed out a row of flowerpots sitting on a balcony railing at the far end of the street.

"Think you can hit any of them pots, boy?"

Scott looked at them. "I believe so," he said confidently, raising the rifle quickly. He squeezed off four shots and the four pots jumped off the railing and landed in the street.

Johnny's smile tilted further upward. "Guess they did teach you something in the cavalry, huh, Boston?"

"You were in the army?" Day looked at him with interest. "How come you're not still in the army?"

Scott shrugged, like his brother. "Long story," he said.

Day laughed. "I bet. You're in," he decided. "We'll meet here in the morning, first thing. Buy you both a drink?"

"Not tonight, thank you," Scott said before Johnny could answer.

"See you tomorrow, then," Day said, turning back into the bar.

"Don't answer for me again," Johnny warned his brother, his eyes stormy. "You're not in charge of me."

"I thought you wanted your money," Scott said innocently. "And you didn't want me to take it out in public."

"I do want my money," Johnny said. "Right now."

"Then come over to the hotel," Scott said.

Upstairs in his room, he counted out $500, which Johnny counted again and shoved in his pocket.

"It's a lot of money," Scott said.

Johnny shrugged. "I usually make good money," he said. "You will too, working for Pardee. If you don't get killed before you see any of it."

"Pardee?"

"Day Pardee," Johnny said. "Man you just signed up to work for."

"Is he trustworthy?"

Johnny snorted. "Nope."

"Then why do you work for him?"

A sudden smile flashed over Johnny's face. "I didn't ever say I was working for him, Boston. All I said was I'd ride north with him."

Scott's eyes narrowed and he stared at his younger brother. "You told me earlier you already had a job up north."

"Yep," Johnny said.

"For the other side? You're the one who's likely to get killed," Scott warned.

Johnny shrugged. "Sooner or later," he said, his voice indifferent.

***

Scott was thoroughly tired of Day Pardee and all of the men who rode with him, except his brother, by the time they passed Visalia.

Their casual brutality appalled him. The first day out, they met an old man on the road who failed to get his wagon and burro out of their way fast enough. Pardee shot him dead and torched the wagon, still hitched to the burro.

Johnny rode up to the flaming wagon, and cut the terrified animal's harness.

"What did you do that for?" Pardee demanded.

"Wind's blowing north," Johnny said coolly. "I don't like the smell of burnt meat."

Pardee stared at him and then started to laugh. "You got a point, there, Johnny boy," he said.

The second night, there was a knife fight in camp and Johnny was in the middle of it.

The boy mostly kept to himself, Scott noticed, and most of Pardee's men stayed out of his way.

But one of them clearly resented the young gunfighter and wasn't afraid to say so.

The second night, Ruiz deliberately jostled Johnny's arm when the boy poured himself a cup of coffee.

Johnny promptly threw the hot coffee at him, and the man leaped back, reaching for a knife from his belt.

"You've gone too far this time, mestizo," he swore. "I'm going to teach you a lesson."

A knife appeared in Johnny's hand too.

"Aren't you going to stop this?" Scott asked Pardee, who was watching.

"Why should I?"

"Ruiz is more than twice Madrid's size and age," Scott pointed out.

Pardee's face was impassive. "It's none of my business if Ruiz is stupid enough to get himself killed, Garrett. Or yours. You watch."

Ruiz feinted at Johnny and swung the knife in a vicious circle. Johnny dodged him easily and backed away. He moved like a cat, fluid and sure-footed.

Ruiz lunged at him again, slashing at empty air as the boy jumped backward. Johnny spun around and kicked the knife out of the older man's hand, sending it flying uselessly into the air. He barely flicked his wrist and his own knife left his hand, burying itself deep in the other man's chest. Ruiz stared down at it, his hands going to the knife's hilt. His mouth opened but he didn't get a word out before he dropped to his knees and fell to the ground.

Johnny turned him over with his foot and retrieved his knife. He wiped it on Ruiz's shirt, and put it back into its sheath in his boot. He wasn't even breathing hard.

"Sorry, Day," he drawled. "I didn't mean to mess up the camp."

"No problem, Johnny," Pardee said, nodding to two of the other men. They picked up Ruiz's legs and dragged him away while Johnny poured himself another cup of coffee.

The men returned quickly. Clearly, they hadn't bothered to bury the dead man. Scott moved over to sit next to his brother.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

Johnny's face was remote. "Why wouldn't I be, Boston?"

"It doesn't bother you at all you just killed a man?" Scott stared at his younger brother.

"It sure beats the alternative," Johnny said and swallowed the rest of his coffee. He got up and walked away.

They arrived at last at their destination, a small town to the north of Visalia, and settled into a saloon.

The sheriff promptly appeared. He was a stocky older man with a badge pinned to his leather vest. He was carrying a shotgun casually in one hand.

"You think you got business in this town, Day?" he asked.

Pardee smiled at him, but his eyes were cold. "Long time, Harry," he said.

"Not long enough for me," the other man said. "I asked you a question."

"My business is just that," Pardee said.

"As long as you keep it that way," the sheriff agreed. "You start anything in my town, and then it's going to be my business. You catching my drift?"

"I don't have any quarrel with you, Harry," Pardee said.

"Let's keep it that way." The sheriff looked over at Johnny, slouched at a table on the other side of the room, and crossed over to sit down with him and Scott.

"Johnny Madrid," he said.

"Sheriff," Johnny said coolly.

"I see you still haven't learned any sense, boy," the sheriff said. "You won't live long enough to grow up if you ride with Pardee."

Johnny poured some tequila. "Want some?"

"No," the sheriff said. "And you shouldn't be drinking it either."

Johnny flashed him a smile and changed the subject. "Harry, it's not what you think."

"That's what I'm worried about," Harry said bluntly. He gave Scott a questioning look.

"You can talk in front of him," Johnny said. "He's not what you think either."

"OK. I know Tim Carter hired you and I know you well enough to think you won't double-cross him. And then you ride in with Pardee, who's working for the other side. Are you trying to get yourself killed, boy?"

Johnny swallowed his tequila. "Where do I find Carter?"

"Couple miles north," the sheriff said. "Double C Ranch. There's a sign on the turn-off. Johnny, how old are you now?"

"He's fifteen," Scott said, speaking up.

The sheriff shook his head. "Son, get the hell out of this," he said. "It's not your fight."

"Can't," Johnny said. "I already took some of Carter's money."

Johnny disappeared for a few hours. Scott hadn't seen him leave the saloon and he worried the entire time.

To Scott's dismay, Day Pardee had decided that he enjoyed talking with him. At least, he enjoyed talking while Scott listened.

He was listening with half an ear to the man brag when Johnny finally walked back into the bar.

Pardee scowled when he saw him and motioned him over to the table.

"You figure out yet which side you're on?" he asked.

Johnny sat down and poured himself a shot of tequila from Pardee's bottle. Apparently relaxed, he tossed it down and poured another. "Same as always," he finally said. "My own. Just like you, Day."

Pardee looked at him. "You cross me, Johnny boy, and you'll be sorry you were ever born."

Johnny swallowed the second shot of tequila and put his glass down on the table. Then he stood up and gave the older gun hawk a small smile. "Too late, Day. Sometimes I already am."

***

They rode out at dawn and took up positions along a ridge overlooking a ranch. Scott could see horses in the corrals below. Smoke rose from the stone chimney in the main house, where a lamp already burned in one window downstairs. It looked peaceful. He wondered if Lancer looked anything like this.

A girl stepped outside, carrying a basket. She had long blonde hair, braided down her back, and she moved with easy grace as she crossed the yard to the henhouse.

"That's mine," Pardee said, a wolfish grin spreading across his face as he watched her. "That's Carter's oldest daughter. Thirteen years old and never been kissed, not yet."

Scott looked over at his brother, who looked away. One of the other men said something.

"Don't worry, you'll get your chance after I'm done with her," Pardee said, laughing. "We'll all take a ride on that little filly before we break her pretty neck."

Scott was horrified, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He wondered, not for the first time, just how many times Johnny had worked with Pardee. He knew no one had ever taught the boy right from wrong, but there were still some things that couldn't be excused.

"Johnny?" he said as soon as he got a chance, when they were riding back to town after scouting out the ranch's defenses. "I thought this was about water rights."

Johnny sighed a little. "Day don't ever know when to stop," he said. "He'll torch the place and kill everyone on it."

"What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where do you draw the line?" Scott asked bluntly.

Johnny gave him a look. "I told you before, what I do is none of your business. You should get the hell out of this, while you still have a chance."

"And I told you I'm not leaving you on your own," Scott said just as stubbornly.

"You're in my way, Boston."

"Tell me what you're going to do and maybe I can help," Scott said.

Johnny shook his head. "Nope," he said definitely. "Just get out, before the raid starts."

Scott thought about it seriously. Pardee and his men went back to the saloon and started doing some heavy drinking. Johnny kept up with them, he noticed. Johnny and Pardee were drinking tequila, shot for shot, but Pardee was a lot taller and heavier than his brother. By noon, they each emptied a bottle and Johnny passed out on the table, his dark head pillowed on his arms. Pardee grinned at Scott.

"Looks like Johnny boy needs a nap. Hey, drink up, Garrett. You've hardly touched your whiskey."

"It's a bit early in the day for me," Scott said stiffly.

Pardee laughed. "A bit early in the day," he mocked him, aping his accent. "It's never too early, Garrett. Drink up."

Scott lifted his glass of whiskey reluctantly and took a sip. The gunfighter banged on the table with his empty bottle and the bartender brought him a fresh bottle of tequila.

"You should try this," Pardee said.

"Thank you, but no. If you'll excuse me, I'm a bit fatigued. I'd like to get some rest before the raid tomorrow."

Pardee laughed. "It's a wonder, the way you just roll them sentences out."

Scott looked at Johnny. "I might as well take him upstairs to his room to sleep it off," he suggested.

Pardee shrugged indifferently, pouring himself another drink. "Ain't worth the trouble but suit yourself."

Scott pulled Johnny up by the back of his collar. The boy was as limp as a rag doll. Scott hoisted him over one shoulder and headed for the stairs.

He dumped his brother on the bed in his room and tugged his boots off. He looked down at him, frowning. He just didn't know what to think of the boy. He spread a blanket over him and went out, closing the door.

Johnny waited a few minutes, until he was sure Scott was gone, and sat up, pushing the blanket away. He pulled his boots back on and went out the window.

Scott watched unbelievingly from his own window in the building's ell as Johnny swung down from the second floor porch to the top of a board fence. The boy walked the fence a few feet, balancing easily, and jumped down into an alley. He didn't look the slightest bit drunk, Scott thought blankly as he watched his brother disappear around a corner.

He shook his head and sat down on his own bed. He didn't know how, not yet, but Johnny had been playing possum. There was no way the boy who had just walked that fence had swallowed a whole bottle of tequila, but Scott had watched himself as Johnny tossed down the clear liquor recklessly, matching every drink Pardee took from his own bottle.

Scott smiled as he solved the puzzle. Just because it was in a tequila bottle didn't necessarily mean it was tequila. He remembered the way Johnny had grabbed his bottle protectively when the older gunfighter reached for it. "Thas' mine," the boy protested, his voice slurred. "You drink your own, Day."

Johnny had missed his calling, Scott thought grimly. He should have gone on the stage.

He just wished the boy was willing to share whatever plan he had in his head. He also hoped it wasn't going to get both of them killed.

***

Johnny still hadn't returned to his room by midnight, the last time Scott checked. He did turn up downstairs before dawn with the rest of the raiders. His dark hair was tousled and his eyes were heavy.

"Still got a headache, boy?" Pardee joked from the bar, where he was helping himself to an eye-opener. "Have another shot. That should cure what ails you."

Johnny shook his head. Scott knew his brother didn't really have a hangover but exhaustion masked it perfectly.

"What are you up to?" he asked in a low voice, as soon as he got a chance to pull Johnny aside. "You were gone all afternoon and most of the night too."

Johnny glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Told you yesterday, stay out of my business."

"You are my business," Scott retorted. "I'm your older brother."

The blue eyes studied him. Johnny smiled suddenly, a dazzling smile Scott hadn't seen before. It lit up his entire face.

"Boston, I reckon you and me, we would've fought a lot if we grew up together."

"Probably," Scott agreed cautiously.

"This is on our account then," Johnny said, and drove his fist into Scott's jaw. Scott staggered backward. For a 15-year-old, Johnny packed quite a punch, he thought groggily, just before Johnny hit him again. This time Scott landed on the floor. He started to climb up, on his hands and knees, when something slammed across the back of his head and he went out like a light.

The bar was empty when Scott woke. He sat up, holding his head and trying to remember where he was and why.

It all came back suddenly, and he staggered to his feet. The sun still wasn't up, but the early light through the windows was shifting through shades of blue, paler by the minute. Pardee, Johnny and the others must have left already for the Carter ranch. Scott grabbed his hat from the floor and ran for the livery stable, cursing independent little brothers.

He pounded north at a flat-out gallop. He could hear shots when he finally came to the sign that marked the road for the Double C, the rough lettering burned into a battered piece of wood.

Scott slowed down as he approached the ridge. He picked his way cautiously up the narrow trail but there was no one at the top. He looked down, searching desperately for his brother in the confusion below. Day Pardee was on his black horse, a smoking gun in his hand. A few raiders were on the ground. Two lines of defenders were firing at them, a row of men advancing down the ridge on horseback, led by the sheriff, and others hidden in the ranch buildings. Pardee had ridden into a trap.

Scott's eyes locked suddenly on his brother, standing near the bottom of the ridge. Johnny was on his own, not with the raiders or the defenders either, and completely uncovered. As Scott watched, he fired at a raider who was aiming at the sheriff and the man dropped.

Someone else was watching him too. Pardee snarled and wheeled his horse around, bringing his gun up to point at Johnny. Scott pulled his new rifle from the scabbard, already knowing he would be too late. Pardee fired and he saw the boy fall. Scott's hands were shaking when he fired the rifle at Pardee and the bullet went wide. Pardee crouched low and spurred his horse, galloping for the open range. What was left of the raiding party followed him. The sheriff and his men promptly gave chase.

Scott rode down the ridge to his brother, who was sitting up. Johnny held his shoulder with one hand. Blood spurted through his fingers.

Scott grabbed a shirt from his saddlebags to use for a bandage and knelt down next to the boy. "This is what you call a plan?"

"Nothing wrong with the plan," Johnny drawled, wincing as Scott tied the bandage tight. "Damn ranchers got nervous and started firing too soon, before Pardee was even in range. If they waited like they were supposed to, they could've taken him easy."

Scott noticed his brother's leg was bleeding too. "It's a wonder you weren't killed."

Johnny grinned at him faintly. "You must have a hard head, Boston," he said, changing the subject. "I thought you'd be out longer than this."

"You and I will discuss that at length later on," Scott said icily. "Right now, though, you need a doctor."

Johnny shook his head and stood up shakily, whistling for his horse. "Not now, Boston." Shots whined from the ranch buildings. "Those cowboys are kind of mad, and Harry ain't here to explain. We better get out of here."

"Johnny, you can't possibly ride," Scott protested.

"Yeah, I can," Johnny said. "And you better too, if you know what's good for you."

***

Scott held onto his brother with one arm, aware blood was seeping again from the boy's roughly bandaged shoulder. Johnny slumped against him, dead weight. He'd passed out hours ago. Scott knew he needed to find some help and soon.

At this point, he'd welcome a posse but there had been no signs of pursuit. It had been hours since they last heard gunshots in the distance.

Johnny had still been holding onto consciousness then and he kept riding when the shots echoed over the range. Scott followed him, unsure what else he could do. He didn't think his brother would be able to ride far, not with one of Pardee's bullets in his shoulder, and he was right. Johnny gradually slowed down as the morning wore on and finally toppled off his horse before Scott could catch him.

Scott managed to get Johnny up onto his own horse and to mount up behind him. He continued to head north, hoping they'd reach another town, preferably one with a doctor. The bullet in Johnny's shoulder had to come out. The wound on his leg was just a graze, not nearly as serious. But both injuries needed attention, and the sooner the better.

The sun was going down when Scott rode into a little town named Green River and stopped in front of the sheriff's office. A rawboned, scruffy man was dozing out front in a chair tilted against the wall. He straightened up his chair, took one look at them and pulled his gun.

"Hands up," he said to Scott, pointing the gun at him.

"He'll fall," Scott protested, putting one arm in the air but continuing to hold onto his brother with the other.

The sheriff glanced at Johnny. He moved closer to Scott, and lifted his gun out of his holster. He took Johnny's too, and the rifle from the scabbard.

"Get down, nice and slow," he ordered.

"Sheriff, I just want some help for my brother," Scott said. "I'm not going to try anything. He needs a doctor."

"Down," the sheriff ordered again.

Scott leaned his brother forward over the horse's neck and dismounted. He reached for Johnny, lifting him down and carrying him into the jail. He put him down carefully on a narrow cot in one of the cells. "Is there a doctor in this town?"

"Yeah," the sheriff said, locking the cell door. He glanced at the unconscious boy on the cot and frowned. "That's Johnny Madrid, isn't it?"

"That is a 15-year-old boy who could bleed to death if you don't get the doctor," Scott said, checking the bandage on Johnny's shoulder. "Could you hurry, please?"

"Madrid? He's only fifteen?"

"Sheriff, please," Scott said. "The doctor."

"Okay," the sheriff said. "Only I never heard Madrid had a brother. Especially not a blond brother."

The doctor was a brisk middle-aged man who gave Scott a surprised look before all his attention focused on Johnny. "How long ago did this happen?" he asked, unwrapping the bandage.

"Early this morning," Scott said.

"The bullet's got to come out," the doctor said. "My name is Sam Jenkins."

"Scott Lancer," Scott said. The doctor looked at him again sharply, started to say something and shook his head.

"Val!" he shouted. The scruffy sheriff appeared outside the bars.

"You need me, Doc?"

"I need some hot water. And step on it."

The bullet was in deep and the doctor had to probe for it. Johnny woke while he was still at it and Scott held him tightly.

"Easy, little brother," he said. "Easy. He's almost done."

Johnny clenched his jaw and tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn't make a sound. After just a few minutes, he passed out again.

"There's one blessing," Jenkins said under his breath. "Hold him, son. I've almost got it."

Metal finally clanged in the bloody basin, and Jenkins went to work to clean and stitch the wound.

"Sit him up and we'll get him to swallow some laudanum before I clean out that graze on his leg," the doctor said.

Johnny came around and tried to spit out the laudanum as soon as he tasted it, but Jenkins tilted his head back ruthlessly until he had to swallow it or choke.

"Sorry, son, but you need it," he said, smiling as the blue eyes glared at him. "Close those eyes now and get some rest."

"No more," Johnny said, his voice rasping.

The doctor offered him some water and Johnny took a thirsty gulp before his eyes shut. Jenkins picked up his wrist. "He's out now," he said.

He cleaned the leg wound thoroughly and bandaged it too. Then he looked at Scott. "What about you, son? Are you hurt anywhere?"

Scott shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. "Will he be all right, Doctor?"

"He lost a lot of blood. Keep him quiet and get him to drink as much water as you can. I'll be back in the morning, but if you need me tonight just tell Val and he'll get me."

Scott nodded. Jenkins took another look at him and then at the boy on the cot.

"How did you find Johnny, Scott? And does your father know you're here?"

"What?" Scott's eyes widened. "How did you know his name? Did the sheriff tell you?"

The doctor smiled. "Nobody has to tell me his name. I helped bring that boy into this world. And I patched him up every time he took a tumble or got into something he shouldn't in his first two years - and it was frequently."

"I can imagine," Scott said.

"Where did you find him, son?"

"In Mexico," Scott said. "My grandfather hired private investigators. I found their report at the beginning of December and decided to go after him. I never knew I had a brother until then."

"Does your father know either of you is here?"

Scott shook his head. "Johnny won't want him to know. And neither do I."

"You're twenty-one now, aren't you? Since November?"

Scott nodded, surprised the doctor seemed to know so much about them.

"You're an adult and you're entitled to make your own choices," Jenkins said. "But John is only fifteen and he's badly hurt, Scott. Your father does have a right to know that."

"Are you going to tell him, sir?"

"If I have to, I suppose so. I'd rather you decided yourself to let him know."

"Is Lancer near here?" Scott asked.

"You don't know?"

"How would I know anything about Lancer? I've never been there and I've never heard from my father." Scott couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"That wasn't his choice, Scott."

"That's not what my grandfather told me," Scott said without thinking, and stopped. He could hear an angry boy telling him there was no reason for his mother to lie to him. Scott was pretty sure Johnny's mother had lied to him. Could his grandfather have lied too?

Scott looked down at his brother. Johnny did need a father, even if Johnny didn't think so.

"All right," he said slowly. "Could you get a message to him, sir?"

***

A man charged into the jail early the next morning.

"Hold your horses, Murdoch," Scott heard the sheriff grumble. "What's the matter?"

"You've got my sons locked up."

"Your sons?" Val sounded surprised. "The older one said his name was Lancer, come to think of it, but he didn't say he was related to you."

"I want to see them, Val. Right now."

"I don't know if they're even awake," Val protested. "The kid is pretty sick, Murdoch, and the other one was up all night taking care of him."

"Has Doc been here yet?"

"He was here in the middle of the night," Val said, yawning. "He'll be back this morning."

"Give me your keys and go get him," Murdoch said.

"I can't do that," Val protested. Scott heard his father's deep voice rumble, and the sheriff backed off. "Well, if you're sure you'll be all right."

The front door opened and banged shut. Then the door to the back room opened. A very tall, broad-shouldered man appeared and unlocked the cell door.

"Scott," he breathed, his eyes fastened on him. A big smile spread across the older man's face. "You look just like your mother, son. You have her eyes."

Scott stared at him, frozen. He didn't know what to say. Johnny mumbled something and Murdoch's eyes pulled away from Scott and fell on him. He sat down on the side of the cot and put an enormous, surprisingly gentle hand on the boy's forehead. "He's burning up."

"He's been feverish all night," Scott said. "Dr. Jenkins said it was to be expected."

"I told Val to get Sam," Murdoch said. "Scott, how in the world did you find John? I've been looking for him for years."

"That's a long story, sir," Scott said.

"I want to hear all about it," Murdoch said. "First, though, I want to get both of you out of this cell and back to Lancer. Johnny needs more care than he's going to get here and you look like you could use a hot bath and some sleep yourself."

Scott glanced at his brother. "I don't think Johnny wants to go to Lancer, sir," he said.

"Why not? It's his home."

Scott hesitated. "He doesn't think so, sir."

The door opened again and Sam Jenkins came in.

"Morning, Murdoch, Scott," he said. "How is he doing?"

"His fever still seems high," Scott said as his father stood up.

"It is," the doctor said dryly after he checked the boy.

"Val, I want them out of here," Murdoch said to the sheriff, who was standing in the cell door. "What are you holding them for?"

"There was some trouble over in West Creek yesterday," Val said. "Day Pardee rode on the Carter ranch, only someone tipped them off and they were waiting. Carter's hands got jumpy and started things too soon, and Pardee and most of his men got away. Sheriff sent out a wire out to all the towns around asking us to stop and hold anyone suspicious who mighta been involved."

"So there are no specific charges against my sons?" Murdoch said.

"There could be," Val said. He looked at Scott. "I dunno about you, boy, but I bet Johnny Madrid was involved."

"He didn't do anything wrong," Scott said. "Look, wire the sheriff in West Creek. Harry Black. He'll vouch for Johnny."

"Johnny Madrid?" Murdoch said sharply. "What do you mean?"

Val pointed at Johnny. "Him. He's Johnny Madrid. The gunfighter."

"He can't be," Murdoch protested, his face shocked. "Madrid is a killer. He's just a kid."

"That may be, but he's still Johnny Madrid," Val said stubbornly. "I seen him before, Murdoch, down near the border."

Murdoch looked at the boy on the cot, a strange look on his face. "Scott, is this true?"

"It's true he's Johnny Madrid," Scott said unwillingly. "It is not true that he did anything wrong in West Creek."

"Can you discuss this later and someplace else?" Sam said. "He's waking up."

Murdoch frowned but held his tongue. Johnny's eyes were fluttering. Sam held his hands and Johnny tried to pull away from him.

"Easy," Sam said quietly. "You're all right, John. Just stay still."

Johnny stared at the doctor, then looked up at the others. He relaxed a little when he saw Scott. "What happened, Boston?"

"You got shot," Scott said.

Johnny looked around. "Looks like I got arrested too," he said, the corner of his mouth tilting.

"We'll clear that up," the doctor said. "You just rest and don't worry about anything. Before you know it, you'll be in your own bed at Lancer."

"Lancer?" The hint of a smile disappeared and the blue eyes turned to Scott. "You didn't."

"I had no choice," Scott said. "You're under age. He has a right to know."

"Who has a right to know?"

"He does," Scott said, indicating Murdoch. "Our father."

Johnny closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the 15-year-old boy was gone. His face was expressionless and his eyes were cold.

"John," Murdoch said tentatively. "You'll feel better when you're back at Lancer."

"I'm not going to Lancer," Johnny said flatly.

"Oh yes, you are," Murdoch said firmly.

Johnny said something in Spanish and Murdoch flinched as if he'd been hit. Val's jaw dropped.

"I won't tolerate that kind of language," Murdoch said, getting mad.

"No one's asking you to," Johnny said. "I don't need you and I'm not going to your ranch, Old Man. Get out and leave me alone."

The doctor glanced at his flushed face and decided it was time to intervene. "That's enough from both of you," he said firmly. "John, you need sleep right now. Murdoch, go out into the front room. I'll talk to you later."

"He's my son, Sam," Murdoch said angrily.

"And he's my patient. Go, Murdoch."

Johnny's eyes widened just a little as his father turned and went without another word. The doctor turned back to him.

"As for you, young man, you'll do as I tell you while you're under my care. Do you understand me?"

Johnny measured him and nodded slightly, to Scott's surprise. Sam poured some water and offered it to him. Johnny looked at it suspiciously, and the doctor smiled.

"It's just water. We need to get some fluids into you to replace some of the blood you lost."

Johnny took a cautious sip, and then gulped half of it. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. His shoulder throbbed painfully and he was hot. The doctor took the cup away and put a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. Johnny sighed and his eyes finally closed.

"Scott, please keep that cloth damp," Sam said. "I want to get that fever down. I'm going to talk to your father."

***

Ten minutes later, the sheriff came back into the cell and unlocked the door. "Murdoch and Sam want to talk to you out front," he said. "I'll stay with him."

"Are you releasing us?" Scott asked.

"Not yet," Val said. "I sent a wire to West Creek, like you said. Haven't heard back. But I figure you won't leave the kid anyway."

"No," Scott said, looking at his brother. Johnny's temperature still seemed to be rising and his sleep was restless. "You'll keep cooling him down?"

"Yeah, I know what to do," Val said. "Go on, they're waiting for you."

Scott paused in the doorway. His father was sitting at Val's desk and the doctor was sitting across from him.

"Want some coffee?" Murdoch asked.

Scott shook his head.

"That's probably wise," Sam said. "Have you already tasted Val's coffee?"

"Last night," Scott said. "What did you want to talk about? I don't like leaving Johnny alone with the sheriff."

"Val will look after him, son," the doctor said. "Come in here and sit down. We need to talk."

"What about?"

"Your brother, to start with," Murdoch said. "Why is he so adamant he won't go to Lancer?"

Scott looked at his father and his chin went up. "Johnny's mother told him you kicked them both out because you were ashamed to have a half-Mexican son."

"What?" Murdoch's hands clenched into fists and he rose to his feet. "That's not true!"

"Murdoch, sit down and keep your voice down," Sam said. He looked at Scott. "It isn't true, by the way."

"I didn't think it was," Scott said. "I know he hired the Pinkertons to look for Johnny."

"But Johnny believes it, doesn't he?" Murdoch said.

"He grew up believing it, sir," Scott said. "He didn't have any reason to question it."

He told his father and the doctor, briefly, just how Johnny had grown up.

"Damn it, how could his mother do this to him?" Murdoch paced across the floor angrily, unable to keep in his chair. "How could any mother do this?"

"Murdoch," Sam said. "There's no point now in getting mad at Maria. We need to figure out how to deal with what she's done to that boy."

"I always wanted him," Murdoch said.

"I know that. Scott, did you tell Johnny your father was looking for him?"

"Yes, sir," Scott said. "He got mad at me."

Sam sighed. "Murdoch, I only met Johnny last night but I'd bet he's just as stubborn as his father. I don't think you're going to change his mind today."

"I'm not leaving my 15-year-old son in jail," Murdoch growled. "And I'm not letting him call the tune, either."

"From what Scott's told us, he's been on his own for at least five years," Sam said. "Don't push him too hard or he'll bolt and you'll be back to hiring the Pinkertons to search Mexico for him. Suppose we try to talk him into staying at my house for now."

"Your house?"

"Neutral ground. He's not in any kind of shape for a battle with you right now. He's hurt and he needs peace and quiet to recover."

"Do you think he'll stay there?" Murdoch said.

"We'll ask him," Sam said.

"How do we know if we can trust him?"

"I know. And he'll pick it up in a heartbeat if you don't."

Murdoch looked at Scott. "You know him the best. Is that true?"

Scott nodded. "He reads people remarkably quickly, sir."

"Survival skill," the doctor said.

Murdoch still looked unhappy. "Scott, will you come to Lancer?"

Scott looked down. "I don't want to leave Johnny, sir. Of course, I don't want to impose on the doctor. I'll stay in the hotel."

"You're welcome too," Sam said. "But let's see what Johnny has to say."

They went back into the cell, to Val's open relief. "He's getting awful restless, Doc."

Sam sat down next to Johnny and shook his good shoulder gently. "John," he said. "Johnny. Wake up, son, just for a minute. Come on."

Johnny's eyes cracked open. They were far too bright. "Hot," he said, trying to push the blanket away.

"I know you are," Sam said. "Listen to me. I have a spare room where you'd be more comfortable and I could look after you a lot easier. I want you to give me your word you'll stay at my house until I say you're well enough to leave, if Val releases you from jail."

Johnny hesitated, searching the doctor's eyes. He didn't read anything more than concern there, which puzzled him. The doctor didn't seem to be afraid of him, mad at him, or even suspicious.

"Well?" the doctor said. "Do we have a deal?"

Johnny looked over at Murdoch and Scott, and his eyes turned darker. "If you promise something too," he countered.

"What?"

"No visitors," Johnny said. "Especially not them."

The doctor considered it. "Tell you what. No visitors until you're back on your feet again, but you agree you'll hear them out before you go anywhere."

"Sam," Murdoch growled.

"Shut up, Murdoch," the doctor said. He turned back to Johnny. "What about it, John?"

Johnny was having a hard time focusing. "Deal," he said faintly, and his eyes slid shut again.

"Sam, he's my son," Murdoch protested. "You don't have any right to keep us out."

The doctor checked Johnny's pulse. "Do you really want him to stay locked up here?"

Scott spoke up. "No. Take him over to your place, Doctor."

"Murdoch?"

Murdoch reached out and touched Johnny's hair. "All right," he said reluctantly. "But you'll keep us posted?"

"Yes, of course."

"Wait a minute. I can't just release Madrid," Val protested. "I still haven't heard back from West Creek."

"Val, he's not going anywhere," the doctor said. "He couldn't make it across the room right now. He lost too much blood yesterday."

"I don't like it," Val said.

"You can come along too and sit with him if it will make you feel better," Sam said briskly. "I could use some help with him anyway, since he doesn't want Murdoch or Scott there."

Val's face fell. "Doc, I ain't a nurse," he complained.

Sam smiled. "You are now."

**

Johnny sat up cautiously and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up, grabbing at a chair as the room spun. His legs felt like jelly and he scowled. They'd insisted on him staying in bed, even after his fever broke. Well, at least that sheriff wasn't still sitting in the chair by the bed, or Doc, or Doc's dour housekeeper, all telling him what he couldn't do.

Johnny wasn't used to this much attention and he hated it. When he was hurt or sick, he usually holed up by himself until he could push himself back onto his feet, as quickly as possible. In his world, it was dangerous to be helpless or to depend on anyone else to take care of you.

He found his saddlebags hanging on the back of the door and pulled out some clothes. He sat down on the bed again to put them on. He had trouble with the buttons and with his boots, but finally managed and stood up again. He felt better already, now that he was dressed, although he'd feel even better if he had his gun. He frowned at the nightshirt he'd discarded on the floor and headed for the door.

He didn't intend to go far - didn't think he could get too far, even if he hadn't promised that doctor - but he needed to get outside for a breath of fresh air and some sunshine. The room was stuffy and he was so tired of it.

The housekeeper was talking to Doc out front, in the office. Johnny slipped into the kitchen and out the back door. He sighed with relief as he stepped outside. He listened cautiously to see if anyone had heard the door open and then crossed the garden to the small orchard behind the house, sliding down with his back against an apple tree. He was already tired. He closed his eyes and dozed off, turning his face up to the warm sun.

He woke when someone cocked a gun close to his head.

"Well, well, well," Day Pardee said, grinning at him. "Look at what we have here."

Johnny didn't move. Day pushed the pistol up against his head.

"I should send you to hell right now, Johnny boy," he said. "All I have to do is squeeze my finger, and your brains will be all over that tree. That scare you any?"

Johnny looked at him. "Not any more than it ever scares you, Day," he said calmly. "It comes to everyone."

Day laughed. "I always liked you," he said. "Too bad I've gotta kill you for double crossing me."

Johnny shrugged.

Day shoved his gun into his holster and grabbed Johnny's shirt, dragging him to his feet. "It's not going to come quite that easy," he said, spinning the boy around and pushing him forward. Johnny stumbled and Day's hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

"Still bandaged up, huh?" he said, tightening his grip as Johnny gasped. "Move, Madrid."

Johnny set his teeth, swearing inwardly, and walked.

An hour later, the sheriff looked at the tracks outside the orchard. "Four or five horses," he said. "Pardee, most likely. Can't believe he'd come this close to town."

Scott glanced at his father. Murdoch's face was grim.

"You want to join the posse?" Val asked.

Murdoch shook his head. "No," he said flatly, turning on his heel and stalking toward the doctor's house.

Scott watched his father disappear into the house, the door slamming behind him, and looked at Val.

"I want to join the posse," he said. "How long before you leave?"

"Thirty, forty minutes," Val said. "I gotta get some men and some supplies."

Scott nodded and turned toward the house.

Murdoch and Sam Jenkins were arguing in the front room.

"He gave his word and he broke it," Murdoch said to the doctor.

"We don't know that, sir," Scott said, stepping into the room.

"Don't we?" Murdoch said. "There are no tracks anywhere near Doc's house. Your brother got out of bed, got dressed, and walked down to meet him."

Scott didn't want to believe that. He didn't believe that. "Sir, Johnny would have to be crazy to go with Pardee. He's the one who stopped him in West Creek and Pardee knows it. That was Pardee's bullet in his shoulder."

"Johnny promised he wouldn't leave until Sam said he could," Murdoch said. "And he's not here."

"Sir, what do you think?" Scott asked the doctor.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It's been a battle to keep that boy in bed since his fever broke. He doesn't know what rest means."

"Is he strong enough to be back on his feet?"

"He thinks so, but he'll tire out fast," Sam said. "He got as far as the window of his room the day before yesterday and collapsed. I should have kept a closer eye on him, but I thought he learned his lesson then."

"We have to go after him," Scott said to Murdoch. "If Johnny just got up to stretch his legs and Pardee took him, he's in big trouble."

"I think Scott may be right, Murdoch," Sam said.

Murdoch shook his head wearily. "Pardee could decide to raid any ranch in the valley. I have to protect Lancer."

"Pardee will kill him," Scott objected.

"There are women and children on the ranch," Murdoch said. "I have to take care of them, Scott."

"Johnny isn't much more than a child, sir."

Murdoch's eyes were sad. "Johnny hasn't been a child for years," he said.

***

In the end, Scott didn't join the posse. He went back to the ranch with his father, who argued Val had plenty of men, more experienced on the trail, and Scott would just slow them down.

Scott didn't feel right about it but the sheriff clearly agreed with his father. The last thing he wanted was to slow down the search for Pardee and his brother, so he went along reluctantly.

Paul O'Brien, the ranch foreman, and his young daughter Teresa joined them at supper that night, as they did almost every night. Teresa chattered brightly, but the three men were mostly silent.

The girl went out to the kitchen to help the housekeeper with the dishes after they finished the meal. Murdoch sat down behind his desk and swiveled his chair around to face the windows. Paul glanced from him to Scott, who was staring into the fire. He jerked his thumb at Scott and walked out onto the terrace. The younger man hesitated, looking at his silent father, and then followed the foreman. In less than a week, he'd come to respect the dark-haired older man, who was more than an employee at Lancer. He and his daughter seemed to be like family to Murdoch.

"Mind telling me what's wrong, Scott?" Paul asked. "It's more than the chance Day Pardee is going to raid the ranch, isn't it?"

Scott hesitated for just a minute. "Johnny's with him."

"What?" Paul stared at him, shocked. "Your brother Johnny?"

It was Murdoch's decision not to tell anyone about Johnny yet, not even Paul. Scott didn't completely understand it.

He nodded. "I found him in Mexico," he said. "That's why I came out here. It's a long story, but we were both there when Pardee tried to raid the Carter ranch. Johnny got shot and he's been at Dr. Jenkins' house."

"I can't believe it," Paul said, a big smile splitting his face. "You really found Johnny after all these years? Why didn't your father tell me?"

"He said it would be better to wait until Johnny's back on his feet."

Paul looked at him curiously. "Is he hurt bad? How did he get shot?"

"Pardee shot him in the shoulder," Scott said. "He realized Johnny was really working for Carter and that he set up the ambush in West Creek."

"What?" Paul looked puzzled. "That boy can't be more than, what, fifteen now? How did he get mixed up with Pardee?"

Scott scuffed his boot across the terrace. "Johnny uses another name, not Lancer. He's called Madrid."

Paul's smile disappeared. "Johnny Madrid?" Our Johnny is Johnny Madrid?"

Scott just nodded. Paul sat down abruptly on the wall.

"I bet your father took that hard. Real hard."

"You can't blame Johnny," Scott said. "Sir, you don't know the way he grew up."

"I can imagine," Paul said. He looked at Scott. "Did you say he's with Pardee now?"

"He disappeared from Doc's house this morning. Murdoch thinks he joined up with Pardee."

"But you don't believe that?"

Scott shook his head. "I almost wish I did," he said sadly. "He might have a better chance."

"Why didn't your father tell me about this?"

"I don't know," Scott said. "I just met the man."

"Are you really sure you can trust Johnny, Scott?"

"I only just met him too," Scott said slowly.

"What's your gut tell you?" Paul asked.

Scott sighed. "Johnny is a gunfighter," he said. "And he's good at it. You'd never believe, sometimes, he's only fifteen. I saw him kill a man in a knife fight and walk away as if nothing had happened. I couldn't tell what that boy was thinking or if he cared at all, not from his face."

"What do you think?"

"I think he does care," Scott said softly. "He works very hard not to show it, but he does care. He's nothing like Pardee."

"If that's true, Scott, and Pardee caught up with him, he's probably dead."

"I know," Scott said, his head drooping.

"And your father does too," Paul said.

Scott looked surprised.

Miles away, Johnny opened his eyes cautiously. His wrists were tightly bound together, and his feet too. His injured shoulder ached, along with some fresh bruises on his ribs and face. He wished he could roll over onto his other side but he didn't think it was a good idea to draw any attention by moving.

Pardee and the other men were still sitting by the fire, passing a bottle around. Johnny listened to them, while trying to loosen the rope around his wrists. A sharp-edged rock caught his eye and he edged toward it cautiously.

"You awake, Johnny boy?" A rough hand grabbed the back of his hair, lifting his head. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Johnny stared at Pardee, his face carefully expressionless. The older man laughed and gave the rope on Johnny's wrists a vicious jerk, testing to make sure it was still tight.

"You and me need to have a little talk, boy," he said. "Bet you're wondering why you're still alive, huh?"

Johnny swore violently to himself as his shoulder started to throb but kept it off his face. Pardee hauled him up and propped him against a tree.

"One wrong move, and you won't be," he threatened.

"What do you want, Day?" Johnny asked.

"Lancer."

"What?"

"Jackson went into town and heard that Mr. Murdoch Lancer found his long lost son. Saw him too. It's that bastard, Garrett."

"Yeah?" Johnny said.

"Yeah, and you know it, kid, so don't you even try to give me that innocent look. I remember you telling me once you were Lancer's kid, only the old man didn't want no Mexican wife and no half-Mex kid. That makes Garrett your brother."

"Half-brother," Johnny said.

Pardee grabbed him by the throat and choked him. Johnny reached up, trying to pry the older man's fingers loose and couldn't. Pardee released him only when he started to pass out.

"Don't you push me, boy," Pardee warned him, giving him a final shake. "Wouldn't take much for me to decide you're going to be more trouble than use."

Johnny's lungs heaved, which hurt his shoulder and ribs. He leaned back, still trying to catch his breath.

"You listen good," Pardee said. "Your old man might not want you but your half-brother sure as hell don't feel the same way. I saw the way Garrett looked out for you. Figured maybe he's one of them that likes boys and you were gonna shoot him when he made his move, but now that I know you're his little brother, it makes sense."

Johnny's face was still expressionless. "He's not anything to me."

Pardee grinned. "It don't matter how you feel about him, Johnny boy. All that matters is whether he's stupid enough to ride into a trap to try to save you. And then we'll see how your old man feels about his gringo son."

***

Johnny's head drooped and he rested it on the ground. He'd been rubbing the rope against the edge of a rock for what seemed like hours, and he couldn't see that it was having any effect. He hurt all over now and just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but he knew there wasn't much time left before dawn. He sighed and started to rub the rope against the rock again.

He didn't know exactly what Pardee had in mind for Lancer, but he rejected the idea of becoming bait in the gunfighter's trap. He thought for a minute about his brother. He never met anyone like Scott before. It was just plain loco to cross the country and stroll into the border towns looking for a half-brother he never even met. It was a wonder Boston wasn't already dead. Johnny told himself he didn't care if Scott did get himself killed, but he also didn't want to be to blame for it. That damn gringo was likely to do something stupid, nearly as stupid as going to sleep in Doc's orchard without a gun or even a knife.

Johnny couldn't believe it when the rope finally frayed and then broke. His hands were numb. He looked over at the campfire, burned down to embers. Pardee and his men would be stirring soon. There was one man on watch by the horses, and Johnny needed to get past him. He couldn't hope for much of a lead. The sun was already starting to appear and someone could wake up any time.

Johnny rubbed his chafed wrists, flexing his fingers, and picked up a rock. He slipped through the trees cautiously.

The sentry was dozing. Johnny walked up behind him and slammed the rock against the back of his head. The man dropped and Johnny reached down to snatch his gun from its holster. He grabbed the reins of Day's black horse, the best in the bunch, and used the sentry's knife to slash the reins on the others. It took him two tries to get up on the black. He felt feverish again. He had to admit he almost wouldn't mind being back at Doc's house, even if they did drive him crazy with their fussing.

"Jackson, why are those horses making so much noise?" a loud voice demanded from the camp.

Johnny immediately kicked the black, steering it recklessly down the trail. A shot whistled past his head as the horse slid on loose rock. He leaned over its head, whispering encouragement, and the black leaped forward. They reached the bottom of the hill and Johnny kicked it into a headlong gallop. There were more shots and he could hear Pardee yelling. He figured they'd catch the horses without much trouble and then they'd be after him. He had maybe 10 minutes lead, 20 at the most. He just hoped the black horse was fast enough to keep it.

Scott rode out with his father and Paul O'Brien early in the morning, to look over the ranch and check on its defenses. They walked the horses up to the top of a rise, and Scott looked down, his breath catching in his throat. It was beautiful, this half-tamed land. Beyond the golden open range, he could see mountains. The adobe hacienda and the other ranch buildings stood to the south, shining in the early morning light. Hundreds of red-brown cattle grazed in the pastures, and horses and men were beginning to move among them.

"As far as you can see, it's all Lancer," Murdoch said, the pride obvious in his voice.

"It's amazing," Scott said. He wished his brother could see it too and sighed a little.

"Riders," Paul said suddenly, straightening up. Scott followed his eyes and saw a cloud of dust on the range. Then he could see a dark horse thundering across the range at full speed, about a half-mile in front of a tightly bunched group of riders.

"That looks like Pardee's horse," Scott said slowly.

"Let's get back to the hacienda," Murdoch said.

The other riders were gaining on the black. Scott and Paul watched from the roof of the hacienda. Scott was holding a rifle. Murdoch was down in the courtyard and more men waited behind walls and buildings.

Scott stared at the riders. The rider out front was traveling at breakneck speed, going over and through obstacles instead of around them. Whoever it was, he was an incredible rider, Scott thought.

He didn't think it was Pardee. The rider looked smaller than Pardee, but Scott still couldn't make out any details. He watched eagerly, allowing himself to pray, as the horse moved closer.

"Get ready to fire," Murdoch called from the courtyard.

"No!" Scott continued to peer at the rider. "Sir, it could be Johnny!"

"Get ready to fire," Murdoch repeated. "But wait until I give the signal."

Scott looked at Paul, who nodded. Scott ran down the stairs to the courtyard and confronted his father.

"Sir, you can't fire at Johnny!"

"I'll wait as long as I can," Murdoch said heavily. "But this could be a trap. We don't know what your brother is doing."

"It looks to me like he's trying to get away from them," Scott argued.

"It could be," Murdoch said. "He could also be leading them in, Scott, figuring we won't shoot at him."

Scott turned to watch as the black horse crossed a meadow, close enough for him to see at last that it was indeed his brother crouched on its back, standing in the stirrups. The black gathered itself to leap the fence without a check in its stride. For a moment, Johnny and the horse floated over the fence. Then a gun sounded, and Scott watched, horrified, as his brother crumpled and cartwheeled off the horse, landing in the grass.

"Fire!" Murdoch said, his eyes also on the boy who lay motionless on the ground. The other riders pulled up and took cover, firing back.

Murdoch grabbed Scott and yanked him back behind the courtyard wall as he started for the meadow.

"I've got to get Johnny," Scott said.

"No. It's no use," Murdoch said. "I can't lose you too."

Scott stared at his father and looked over at his brother again. Johnny hadn't moved. A cold fury took over him. He fired his rifle at the raiders, reloaded automatically and fired again.

"Scott," Murdoch said during a lull in the shooting. His tone was strange.

Scott looked up at his father and followed his eyes over to Johnny. His jaw dropped. The boy was dragging himself behind a tree, trying to get out of the crossfire. Scott lunged past his father and ran across the meadow. He heard Johnny shout a warning and he rolled the last few feet to his brother, bringing his rifle up. Pardee was standing at the edge of the meadow, aiming his gun straight at Scott. Scott fired first, knocking the gunfighter flat on his back.

Johnny's eyes widened. "Good shooting," he said softly.

The remaining raiders ran for their horses as soon as they saw Pardee go down. Scott watched them go, pursued by Paul and some of the other Lancer hands, and then smiled at his brother. "We'd just about given up on you, boy," he said.

"I've been kind of tied up," Johnny said, the corner of his mouth tilting up. He struggled to his feet and Scott gave him a worried look.

"Let me help you."

"I can make it," Johnny said stubbornly.

Scott didn't think so, but he kept back while Johnny took a few shaky steps. When he collapsed, Scott moved quickly to catch him before he hit the ground. He picked his brother up and carried him to the courtyard where Murdoch waited for both of his sons.

"Take him upstairs, Scott," he said. "His room is just across the hall from yours."

***

Murdoch sat in the chair by the bed, watching his younger son. Johnny was still, barely breathing. Sam Jenkins had taken another bullet out of his arm and splinted the broken bone, tying it in a sling so Johnny couldn't move it. He bandaged Johnny's wrists, rubbed raw, and taped his ribs. There were at least two broken ribs, Doc said, and many bruises. Another bruise marked the boy's cheekbone. There was a bump on his head too, probably from the tumble off the horse, and Sam said he was deeply concussed.

Murdoch picked up Johnny's good hand and held onto it. The boy had been feverish at first, raving deliriously, but that had changed after the seizures. Now he was too cool and too quiet. Sam sighed when he examined him and gave Teresa something to put into Scott's coffee to make him sleep. Scott had refused to leave his brother and he was ready to drop after sleepless days and nights.

Murdoch was tired too but he knew the doctor's tricks. His coffee cup was still sitting on the table, untouched.

"Murdoch?" Sam returned to the room.

"Is Scott all right?"

Sam nodded. "He'll sleep until suppertime, at least. You need to get some rest too."

"Johnny's been alone almost all his life," Murdoch said, his eyes going back to the quiet face on the pillows. "I don't want to leave him alone now."

"He won't know, Murdoch. He doesn't know you're here."

"Is he in any pain?" Murdoch asked.

"Not now. He's not asleep. He's deeply unconscious."

"So he can't hear us?"

"No," Sam said.

"Is there any hope at all? Tell me straight."

"I can't tell you much," the doctor said slowly. "We just don't know enough. There's no way to be sure what kind of damage the fever and those seizures did."

"What do you think?"

Sam hesitated. "The longer he goes without waking, the less likely it is," he finally said. "It's already been too long."

Murdoch pushed a stray piece of hair out of Johnny's eyes. "I was wrong about him, Sam. One of Pardee's men did some talking after Paul caught up with him. Johnny didn't go with them willingly. He was asleep in the orchard behind your house when Pardee found him. Pardee beat him up and nearly killed him in the camp but then he decided he might be useful as bait for Scott, when he found out they were brothers. Pardee didn't think I cared what happened to Johnny, but he figured Scott did."

Sam didn't say anything.

"Johnny didn't think I cared either," Murdoch said. "At least he knew Scott cares, but he didn't have any reason to think I do."

"Murdoch, you did try to get him to come home to Lancer."

"Not hard enough," Murdoch said bleakly. "I wasn't really sure I wanted him here, not after I found out he's Johnny Madrid. I didn't even tell Paul."

"How do you feel about him now?"

Murdoch shook his head. "When Pardee shot him off that horse, my heart nearly stopped. It was just as bad as it was when Maria took him. Worse, even, because I thought there was no hope. But I didn't let Scott go after him until it was nearly too late. Scott was ready to risk his neck for his brother but I gave up on him."

"You thought he was dead," Sam pointed out. "And you didn't want to lose your other son too. There's no shame in that, Murdoch."

"Isn't there? My 15-year-old son is probably going to die thinking I don't give a damn about him. How am I supposed to live with that?"

Sam didn't have an answer for that.

Murdoch was dozing in the chair next to Johnny's bed, still holding onto the boy's hand, when Scott woke and headed for his brother's room.

Scott froze in the doorway as Johnny turned his head on the pillows, his eyes shut tight.

"Sir," Scott said, his voice urgent, and his father woke instantly.

"Johnny," he said, leaning over the boy. "You're safe at home, John. Open those eyes, son."

"Johnny, please." Scott stepped closer to the bed and added his voice to his father's. "Time for you to wake up, little brother."

Johnny shifted against the pillows and winced, but still didn't open his eyes.

"Go get Sam, please," Murdoch said. "He's in the kitchen, getting something to eat."

Scott hesitated and then hurried downstairs. Murdoch put his free hand on Johnny's head. "Come on," he said, his voice deep. "Come back to us, Johnny. Please, son."

Johnny sighed a little and Murdoch felt his fingers flutter. He squeezed the boy's hand and hope ran through him when Johnny squeezed back weakly.

"That's it. Open your eyes now, John."

Johnny blinked, and Murdoch suddenly found himself looking into blue eyes. He smiled broadly. "Welcome home, son."

Johnny looked confused, and Murdoch smoothed his hair.

"You gave us quite a scare," he said softly. "I thought I'd lost you again."

The blue eyes got bigger. Murdoch's heart nearly broke at the surprise in them.

"Johnny, this has been your room ever since you were a little boy," he said. "I never wanted you to leave it and I'm glad you're finally back in it. You've got to believe me."

Scott hurried in with the doctor. Murdoch gave Johnny's hand one more gentle squeeze and let Sam take his place at the side of the bed. The doctor checked Johnny over quickly and sat him up a little to give him a drink of water.

"If you weren't sick, you'd be in big trouble, young man," he said, his eyes twinkling, when he'd eased Johnny back onto the pillows. "I told you to stay in bed."

"I'm fine," Johnny protested weakly and Sam's smile grew.

"You are not," he said. "Not yet, anyway. But you will be, if you stay in bed this time and do as you're told."

"He will, if he knows what's good for him, " Scott said, grinning at his brother.

"And even if he doesn't yet," Murdoch added.

***

Johnny sat on the railing, watching a long-legged young palomino run restlessly around the pasture.

"Don't even think about it," Scott warned him. For once, he could read the expression on his brother's face, all too clearly. "Doc said you could start riding next week maybe, at a walk, on a nice, quiet horse."

Johnny scowled at his older brother. His arm was still in a sling, but the doctor had finally let him out of the house.

"Boston, anybody ever tell you that you're awful bossy?" he complained. "You sound just like Murdoch."

"Is that so?" a deep voice said and both boys looked up.

"John, if you go anywhere near that palomino before Doc says you can, I'll change my mind and I won't give him to you," Murdoch told his younger son.

"Give him to me?" Johnny looked puzzled. "Why would you do that?"

"You turned fifteen not too long ago," Murdoch said. "I figured you might like him as a late birthday present."

Johnny hesitated. Murdoch was surprised. He expected those blue eyes to light up at the idea. Instead, they looked wary.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked. "I thought you kind of liked that palomino."

"I do," Johnny said immediately, his eyes going to the golden colt.

"Would you rather have another horse instead?" Murdoch asked.

Johnny shook his head.

Murdoch's temper started to fray. He reined it in, with difficulty. "Well, then he's yours," he said shortly. "Only you are not to ride him until Doc says you can. Is that fully understood?"

Johnny nodded. "Thanks," he added, after Scott nudged him.

"You're welcome," Murdoch said and stamped across the yard to the house.

"Scott, why wasn't Johnny happy about the palomino?" he asked later that night, after he sent his younger son upstairs to bed. "I thought he'd be thrilled."

"I don't think Johnny's ever received a birthday present before, sir," Scott said carefully. "He's a little overwhelmed right now. This is all new to him."

"I suppose so," Murdoch said.

"He's a little like that colt," Scott volunteered, watching his father's face. "Ready to bolt at the slightest movement."

Murdoch thought about it and frowned. "Do you think we can tame him?"

"I hope so, sir."

Murdoch paused. "You had a birthday too, the month before Johnny's," he finally said. 'Your twenty-first birthday."

"Yes, sir," Scott said. "Grandfather always celebrated my birthday very adequately, sir."

"I'm sure he did." Murdoch's tone was short. "But I'm your father and I figure your twenty-first birthday calls for something special. I just don't know if you want what I have in mind, son."

Scott looked nearly as puzzled as Johnny had. "What is it, sir?"

Murdoch sat down in the chair behind his desk. "A third of the ranch."

"What?" Scott stared at his father.

"My lawyer already drew up the partnership papers," Murdoch said. "All you have to do is sign them and a third of the ranch is yours. Another third will go into trust for Johnny until he's twenty-one. I'll call the tune if we can't agree, under the terms of the partnership agreement, but I want you to stay and learn to run the place. I want both of you here, Scott. I always have."

Scott was speechless. He still didn't have an explanation for all those silent years, but his father couldn't have done anything that demonstrated more clearly he did care about his sons. He didn't think Murdoch would ever willingly give up an inch of Lancer to anyone.

"What do you say, Scott?" Murdoch asked. "Partners?"

"Yes, sir," Scott said.

THE END

Whistle, December 2004

The stories on this site are works of fiction, based on the 1968-1970 television series "Lancer" and were written purely for fun, not profit.