Fall In Place
The horse raced through the night. A rider crouched low on its back, using his hands and knees to squeeze out more speed. The land was empty for miles around, and they thundered across it. The full moon rose high in the autumn sky, and dark, ragged clouds rushed across it, just like the rider below on the pale landscape.
The end, when it came, was abrupt. The horse put its foot down wrong, hesitated, and broke stride. The rider flew over its head as it went down, tumbling across the hard-packed sand. His head struck a rock and the light vanished from his view. He sprawled face down, perfectly still. The horse struggled on the ground, crying out for a time, and then it fell silent too.
***
"Johnny!" Scott sat up in bed suddenly, drenched with sweat. He looked wildly around the moonlit room, his heart pounding.
"Scott?" Murdoch Lancer appeared in the doorway, his face concerned. "I was on my way to bed and I thought I heard you shout."
"Something's wrong with Johnny."
"By now, your brother is probably all too fine," Murdoch said dryly. "He might have a headache in the morning, but I'm sure he'll still manage to get himself onto the stage."
"No, Murdoch, he was riding," Scott insisted. "I saw him riding across the moon. And then he fell."
"You and Teresa told each other too many ghost stories by the fire tonight," Murdoch said, dismissing his older son's concern. "Your brother should have reached Crockett today from Stockton. You know perfectly well he's probably drinking too much tequila and playing poker for too much money in some saloon, before he gets on the next stage for home tomorrow."
"Murdoch, it was so real," Scott said, rubbing his face.
"It was only a dream, Scott. Try to get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow and we're short-handed with Johnny away. I want to finish moving the cattle to the winter pastures."
Scott knew his father was probably right, but his heart still hadn't slowed down when Murdoch went on down the hall and he couldn't shake an uneasy feeling.
He considered turning on the light and reading for a while, but his father was definitely right about one thing. He did need to get some sleep. Morning came early in the Lancer hacienda, far too early as far as Scott was concerned. One of the Bostonian's biggest adjustments to life on a ranch had been the ungodly hour it started every morning.
He smiled, thinking of his younger brother. Johnny knew a lot more about ranching than Scott did, but he wasn't any more accustomed to getting up at dawn. In fact, Johnny wasn't used to keeping any kind of regular hours, or to taking orders. He'd answered to no one but himself for most of his life. Murdoch had hauled him out of bed unceremoniously more than once.
Johnny did learn quickly, and it was a lucky thing, Scott thought, but he didn't think his brother had fully adjusted yet to life with a home or a family. He had actually been glad when Murdoch decided to send Johnny to Stockton to deliver two mares to the Barkley ranch. Scott thought his father and brother both needed a break from the arguments that still rang through the house.
He just wished he had been able to go with his brother. Johnny had taken care of himself most of his life, but Scott didn't think he did a very good job at it. The youngest Lancer had an incredible talent for finding trouble. Granted, he usually managed to get himself out of it again, but he also had a talent for getting hurt in the process. Scott thought Johnny had been hurt more than enough over the years.
He took another deep breath, and tried to settle down to sleep again.
Scott still felt uneasy in the morning. Thunder rumbled in the mountains, miles away.
"Think we'll finally get some rain?" he asked Teresa, downstairs in the kitchen.
"I hope not," she said. "Flash floods in the mountains are dangerous this time of year, Scott. And Johnny's crossing them in the stage today."
"I hope so," Scott said without thinking.
Teresa stared at him, her eyes suddenly alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." Scott was embarrassed. "I had an odd dream last night, that's all."
"I did too," she said.
Scott's skin crawled as he stared into the girl's big brown eyes. "What did you dream, Teresa?"
"I saw Johnny riding fast across the moon," she said. "And he fell, Scott. He fell and I couldn't see where he was."
"That's not possible." Scott set down his coffee cup, his eyes on his foster sister. "I had the same dream."
Maria crossed herself at the stove and said something in rapid Spanish. Scott tried to follow it but couldn't catch more than a few words.
"What did she say, Teresa?" he demanded.
Teresa shook her head slightly. Her eyes were full of tears.
"It's nothing, Scott. Just an old wives tale."
"Tell me," Scott insisted, but Teresa shook her head again and fled up the back stairs to her room.
Scott didn't have much time to worry about Johnny once Murdoch assigned him a long list of chores for the day. Finally, in the afternoon, he took the buckboard into Green River to pick up supplies and his brother. A wheel broke on the way in, and it took him more than an hour to fix it. The stage had come and gone by the time he pulled in.
"Did you see my brother?" he asked at the express company that handled bookings for the stage.
"Johnny? Not for few weeks, maybe more," the owner said.
"He didn't get off the stage?"
"Nobody got off the stage today."
"Are you sure?" Scott's face was dismayed.
"Positive. I was standing right here when it pulled in."
Scott headed to the store to drop off the ranch's grocery order and then stopped at the telegraph office. He waited impatiently for a reply, and frowned at it when it arrived.
"Something wrong, Scott?" the telegraph clerk asked.
Scott sighed. "I hope not. Thanks, Mr. Garvey. I have to get back to the ranch."
His mind raced as he drove the buckboard back to the ranch. Not only had Johnny not departed on the stage from Stockton two days earlier, as planned, he had never even arrived there, according to the telegram. It had been more than a week since his brother left the ranch to deliver a pair of mares to Murdoch's friends, the Barkleys. But they hadn't seen him. The oldest son, Jarrod, had wired back that they'd received a telegram canceling the trip.
Scott wondered miserably where his younger brother could be and what he was going to tell their father.
***
The small hunting party moved quietly, blending naturally into the landscape. The tallest brave paused, seeing the downed horse, and held up his hand. He checked it over swiftly, and shook his head. A knife flashed, and blood gushed from the doomed animal's throat.
Another brave looked around and moved over to the still body hidden in the shadows of a large rock. He turned it over with his foot, his face expressionless, and reached for his knife too. There was a sudden shout, and the tall young brave who had cut the horse's throat grabbed his wrist in an iron grip. He pointed to the hand flung over the unconscious man's head. His shirtsleeve had fallen away from his wrist, revealing a beaded bracelet.
***
Scott listened while his father's anger rolled through the great room.
"It's a simple errand," Murdoch fumed. "Take two horses to Stockton; take the stage home. What is so difficult about that?"
"Murdoch, Johnny must have run into some kind of trouble."
"Your brother always runs into trouble," Murdoch said. "Your brother is trouble."
"It's not his fault."
"No?" The big man paced across the rug. "Look back at the last five months, Scott, and you think about it."
Scott had thought about it, and he was afraid. Johnny had tried, he knew. He had really tried to shake his past life as a gunfighter. But it just wouldn't let him go easily. Scott was terrified the past had caught up with him again, and his brother hadn't managed to walk away this time.
"Sir, Johnny's tried to leave his old life behind and you know it," he said to his father.
"Not hard enough," Murdoch said.
"What else could he do?" Scott was getting angrier. "Tell me, sir, what else Johnny could possibly do?"
Murdoch stared stonily at his older son. "Don't you start talking back to me too, Scott."
"Maybe I should have started talking back to you months ago," Scott said furiously. "Instead of leaving it all to my little brother."
"Scott." Murdoch wasn't used to arguments from his older son. "Be reasonable."
"Reasonable!" Scott shouted. "No, sir, I am not going to be reasonable. My only brother, your younger son, disappeared more than a week ago. I don't know where he is. I don't know if he's hurt. I'm not feeling reasonable. I'm worried about him, unlike his father!"
"I didn't say I wasn't worried." Murdoch dropped into his desk chair and swiveled it around to face the windows.
"You sure as hell don't sound worried," Scott said to his father's back. "You sound like you're blaming Johnny. Again."
"Scott, that's not fair."
"None of this is fair, sir," Scott said, his voice dropping. "Johnny's whole life isn't fair. But I haven't ever heard him complain or make any excuses. I also haven't ever heard him blame anyone else, like his mother - or his father."
He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. It felt good.
"Scott!" Jelly Hoskins demanded his attention before he'd reached the barn. "Scott, what's all this about Johnny not turning up in Stockton?"
"The Barkleys said Johnny never arrived," Scott said. "They didn't think anything of it because they got a telegram that we weren't sending the mares."
"A telegram from who?" the old handyman asked. "And from where?"
Scott paused. It hadn't occurred to him to ask. "I didn't ask Jarrod Barkley about that when I wired Stockton this afternoon," he said. "Jelly, I'm going to head into town. Jarrod won't still be in his office now, but I want to wire him again first thing in the morning."
Jelly didn't hesitate. "I'm going with you."
"Jelly, you don't have to come with me. Murdoch won't like it."
Jelly's chin jutted out belligerently. "Murdoch can go to blazes. I just want to find that boy, Scott. I got a feeling in my bones that he needs us, and needs us bad."
Scott stared at the sturdy, grizzled old man. He and Johnny, especially Johnny, both teased Jelly unmercifully. And Jelly usually gave back as good as he got. Scott knew the old man had a soft spot for his brother, despite all the teasing, and he knew Johnny went to him sometimes when he'd argued with Murdoch and stormed out of the house. But he hadn't realized the old man's loyalty was so strong.
"Me too, Jelly," he said softly. "Me too."
***
Another band of hunters moved through the foot of the mountains. This group was white, and hunting human prey. They followed the vultures to the dead horse.
"Indians," one of them said, spitting with disgust. "No need to worry any more about Lancer, Gabe. He's a goner for sure."
"I dunno," another man said. "Maybe they're helping him."
The man called Gabe scowled at the ground, trying to read the tracks. "Well, if they are, they're going to be sorry. Dead sorry, just like Peters is for letting him get away from us in the first place."
The rest of the men looked at each other uneasily.
"What have you got against Lancer, anyway, Gabe?" one of them asked curiously. "This is more than getting some money out of his old man, isn't it?"
"Never mind that," Gabe growled. "Let's go."
***
The healer was old, so old that he could remember a time when there had been no more than a handful of the Americans in the land. There were none left from that time, other than him, and his people had dwindled from a mighty tribe to a handful of braves. He'd seen the Mexicans take over the valley first, and then the Americans drive away the Mexicans.
He crouched by the small fire and threw a handful of dry sticks on it. Pungent smoke filled the small chamber, and the old man started to chant in a thready voice.
"Why do you chant for him?" the chief asked. "He is not one of us."
The old man looked at him steadily. "His bracelet says he is one of us. That is why your son brought him here."
"He probably stole it," the chief said scornfully.
The old man's face was impassive. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."
"My son is a fool," the chief said.
The old man shook his head. "No," he said. "Your son honors the way of our people, since time began. Will you?"
The chief stared at him angrily. "He will die anyway, old man," he said. "He is too badly hurt."
"Perhaps," the healer agreed tranquilly. "It is not for me to decide. Or for you either."
His old eyes met the chief's, and held them until the chief dropped his head. He stood up abruptly and made a motion with his hand. "Do as you will, old one. You usually do, like my son." He strode out of the cave without a backwards look.
The healer turned gravely to the man stretched out on his back near the fire. He was young, about the same age as the chief's son, the healer thought. White men's sons didn't grow up so quickly as his people's sons, but he didn't think this one was still a boy. There were marks on him that showed he had been fighting like a man for a long time.
He had barely stirred since the hunting party carried him into the cave and dumped him on the ground. The healer had been startled when he opened his eyes. He had thought the stranger was Mexican, from his hair and features, but those vivid blue eyes told another story. Mixed, he thought, shaking his head. It was a hard thing for a child to be neither one thing nor another, and even harder sometimes for a man.
The blue eyes were blurred and had closed again almost immediately. The healer didn't think the young man knew where he was or even, perhaps, who he was. He had hit his head hard when he fell from the horse and his dark hair had been matted with blood. If his head was too badly broken, his spirit would slip out and he would not recover. It was impossible to tell. There was little to do but wait, and see if he would wake.
The young man had other injuries as well, injuries that had not come from the fall. Deep rope burns marked his wrists and ankles and he had at least two broken ribs, a deep knife slash on his side and many cuts and bruises. Someone had been holding this man captive and he had apparently escaped. The chief's son reported the horse had galloped hard for many miles before it went down.
The chief's son had sent trackers out, but there were no signs yet of pursuit. Perhaps the young man had succeeded in getting away from his captors, whoever they were, and perhaps not. That was not the healer's concern. There were always watchers in the hills, and they would know if anyone dared to approach the camp.
The old man took a green paste from a pot and smeared it liberally over the rope marks on the young man's wrists and ankles and the knife wound. His body was warm, much too warm, and the healer shook his head and threw some more sticks on the fire. The smoke was thick when the chief's son walked in and dropped something casually by the fire.
"Does he still sleep?"
The healer acknowledged the young man's gift with a barely perceptible nod. The young hunters kept him supplied with meat, as was his due, but Hawk always brought him something special. "He is not asleep, Hawk, but in between."
"In between?" the younger Indian asked curiously.
"He walks between life and death. It is not decided yet."
"My father is angry that I brought him here."
"You followed the way," the healer said. "He wears one of our bracelets."
"My father says he stole it. Those bracelets are not given to others."
"Not often," the healer agreed.
"So he must have stolen it," Hawk said, his face suddenly hard. "And my father is right and I shouldn't have brought him here."
"What he has done may not be for us to know," the healer said. "If he stole it, he will pay a price for it, in this world or the next."
"What do you think, Old One? I know he hasn't been awake, but I also know you don't need to talk to him. You can also walk between worlds."
The healer hesitated. "I sense a troubled spirit," he said softly. "He is lost and he hasn't found his own way."
"Did I do the right thing?"
"I can't tell you that, Hawk," the old man said gently.
"Did I do the wrong thing?" the young man persisted.
The healer just shook his head and smiled.
***
Gabe swore as he looked for tracks. Lancer had the devil's own luck, which was only fitting for the devil's spawn.
The man's face tightened at the idea of the kid's father. Murdoch Lancer thought he was such a big deal in the valley. And he thought he was even bigger for his britches now that his two sons were home. Well, Gabe would show him. Gabe was going to teach him a lesson that would wipe the important look right off Murdoch Lancer's face, a lesson he'd never forget.
And if he couldn't find the younger son to finish him off, he'd settle for the tenderfoot.
***
The young man mumbled something and opened his eyes. The healer put a firm hand on his chest, holding him down.
"You must stay still," he said.
"Scott," he moaned. "Gotta warn Scott."
"What is your name?" the healer asked.
The blue eyes stared at him blindly, bright with fever. "Tell my brother to be careful," he said. "And my father too."
"What is your name?" the old man repeated.
"It don't matter," the young man said. "Tell them." His eyes closed again.
"Did he wake?" Hawk asked, entering the cave.
"Just for a minute," the healer said, troubled. "He wants us to warn his brother and his father."
"Warn them about what?"
"He did not say," the old man said.
"There are white men riding across the land," Hawk said. "They're looking for tracks."
"And are there any tracks?" the healer asked.
Hawk grinned. "There are many tracks now," he said. "They have wasted the whole day, going in circles."
"You should be careful," the old man said suddenly. "Hawk, these men are dangerous."
"And I am not?" Hawk said, drawing himself up to his full height. His eyes danced, and the old man shook his head, suddenly troubled.
"What do you see, Old One?" Hawk asked.
"I see grief," the healer said bluntly. "I see a young man dead before his time, and his father weeping."
Hawk looked over at the stranger. "I thought he was better," he said. "You said he woke."
"He is not the only young man in this cave, Hawk," the healer said.
Hawk laughed at him. "You worry too much, Old One."
"No," the healer said. "I did not worry enough. Hawk, this one is a danger to you."
"To me? How can he be? He can't even lift his head," Hawk said scornfully,
"You and he, your spirits are alike," the healer said suddenly. "That's what I felt when you brought him to me, but I didn't see it."
"He is a mestizo and I am the son of a chief," Hawk objected.
The healer frowned and Hawk dropped his head.
"I'm sorry, Old One," he said, his mood changing.
"Hawk, there is great danger," the healer said. "For all of us, but especially for you and for this one too. I should have seen it earlier."
"And would it have changed anything, if you had? Would you have found another way, Old One?"
The healer shook his head. "There is only one way for us, Hawk."
"Then it makes no difference, whether you saw it or not," Hawk said. He stood up. "I must go. I'm hunting tonight."
"And what will you hunt?"
Hawk flashed him a smile and was gone.
***
Johnny couldn't see. He kept trudging through a shadowy landscape, stumbling on the uneven path. He could hear voices somewhere, but he couldn't see and he couldn't make any sense of the words.
He was so tired, but he kept going, putting one shaky foot in front of the other. There was something behind him. He didn't remember what it was, but he knew it was bad and he had to keep moving. He tried desperately to remember and the pain swept over him, crushing him. Darkness took him again.
***
Scott frowned at the telegram he held in his hand. Jarrod had wired him that the telegram to cancel Johnny's trip had come from Green River and had been signed by Murdoch himself. Scott didn't understand, and the clerk didn't remember, but he hunted through the office until he found the original message.
"Mare lame," it said. "Trip postponed. Murdoch Lancer."
"But you don't remember Murdoch sending this?" Scott asked.
"No," Mr. Garvey said. "Oh, wait a minute, I do remember now. Murdoch didn't send it himself. One of the hands came in with it."
"One of the hands? Who?"
"Don't know his name. He's a big, redheaded fellow with a burn mark across the left side of his face. Never saw him before, but he told me he was new."
There were no red-haired hands at Lancer. Scott looked at Jelly, who scowled.
"You seen him since?" Jelly asked.
"No." The clerk was troubled. "You mean this didn't come from Mr. Lancer?"
"I'm afraid not," Scott said.
Outside the telegraph office, Scott untied his horse. "You'd better get back to the ranch and tell Murdoch," he said to Jelly.
"And just where do you think you're going?"
"I thought I'd ride out the way Johnny went," Scott said. "See if I can find anything."
"Scott, it's been more than a week. There ain't likely to be any trail left."
"I know," Scott said. "But I don't know where else to look, Jelly."
"I'll go with you," Jelly said.
"No. I think you should tell Murdoch what happened."
Jelly grumbled, but he finally agreed. They rode part of the way to Lancer together, and then Scott branched off on a road that led south while Jelly headed for the hacienda.
Scott nearly missed it. He would have missed it if he hadn't left the road to water his horse at a stream. There was a crumpled hat on the ground. Scott picked it up slowly, recognizing the conchos on the leather band. Johnny wouldn't have left his hat behind, not given any choice.
He stared at the sandy soil. He was no expert, but it looked to him like there had been at least a half-dozen horses. At least one had the L-shaped mark on its shoes that the blacksmith in Green River put on all the ranch horses.
Scott bent down, looking at a deeper impression in the sand, near where he'd picked up the hat. Something or someone had fallen there, hard.
***
Gabe called a halt. "Somebody's been messing with these tracks," he said.
"Injuns, you reckon?" one of the men asked, looking nervously into the gathering shadows. The sun had fallen, and the light was fading quickly.
"It sure ain't Lancer," Gabe said. "Doubt that boy has much energy left to spare." He laughed, and the sound was evil. His men looked at each other.
"Let the Injuns have him, or what's left of him," Gabe said, suddenly making up his mind. "We'll camp here tonight and then we'll go after the other brother, that blond one, in the morning."
***
Murdoch listened to Jelly, his face bleak. "I didn't send any wire," he said flatly.
"We know that," Jelly said. "Garvey said it was a redheaded man with a scarred face. He told Garvey he was working here."
"We don't have any redheaded hands," Murdoch protested. An unwelcome thought occurred to him. "Did Garvey say anything more about the man? What did he mean, a scarred face?"
"He just said the man had burn marks down the left side of his face."
"What?" Murdoch turned pale.
"You know who he is, Boss?" Jelly asked.
"I'm afraid I do." Murdoch's heart thudded as his mind raced. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.
"Who is he and why's he after Johnny?" Jelly asked curiously.
"It's nothing to do with Johnny," Murdoch said. "Nothing at all. He's trying to get back at me."
"What do you mean?"
"His name is Gabe Carter. His father used to have a small ranch just south of Morro Coyo," Murdoch said. "When Gabe was about Scott's age, more than 10 years ago, he got into trouble in town. I was a witness, and the judge sentenced him to six months in jail. He and a few of his friends jumped a young cowboy, four against one. I came along and broke it up. They could have killed that boy."
"Don't make sense that he would still be mad at you about that."
"While he was in jail, there was a fire at his father's ranch," Murdoch said. "His parents and his younger brother were killed."
"And he blamed you?"
"Yes. He thought he might have saved them if he'd been there, and he wasn't there because of my testimony."
"That's crazy," Jelly protested.
"Gabe always was a little crazy," Murdoch said ruefully. "And mean. He was constantly in trouble of some kind. His parents were good people, but they couldn't control him."
"If he was in jail when the fire happened, then how'd he get burned?" Jelly asked.
"That came later," Murdoch said. "He set the barn here on fire, but one of the hands caught him at it and they got trapped inside. He got 10 years in state prison for setting the fire. I didn't realize he was already out."
"You don't think he's still carrying a grudge, all this time later?"
"I'm sure he is," Murdoch said. "But I don't know why he'd go after Johnny, instead of me. Johnny didn't have anything to do with this. He was only a child at the time and he wasn't even here when it happened."
"You said Carter blamed you when his younger brother got killed in a fire?" Jelly said.
"Yes," Murdoch said. "Andrew was barely 20."
"Just like Johnny," Jelly said.
"Just like Johnny," Murdoch echoed. His mind reeled. He'd worried for months about his son's past, afraid it would put all of them in danger. Now Johnny was in danger, maybe even dead, because of Murdoch's past. He stood up suddenly and went to the gun cabinet for his rifle. "Jelly, you said Scott's trying to pick up Johnny's trail?"
"Yeah. But you know that ain't likely, Boss, not after more than a week."
"Tell Cipriano to saddle up," Murdoch said. "We're going to ride after Scott. I don't want him out there on his own, not with Carter around."
"What about Johnny?"
Murdoch sighed. "I don't even know where to start looking, Jelly."
***
The fever had finally broken, but the young man did not wake. His heartbeat had slowed down and he seemed to be barely breathing. He hadn't opened his eyes again.
The healer squatted by the fire, watchful. There was nothing to do but wait.
***
Murdoch turned Johnny's hat over in his hands while Cipriano checked the tracks in the sand. Scott had been on his way to the ranch for help when they met him on the road. He'd led them back to the stream, hoping Cipriano could read more from the tracks.
"Scott," Murdoch said to his older son. "You know Johnny can take care of himself. He might be OK."
Scott's face was glum. "He was hurt, Murdoch. I know he was hurt."
Murdoch looked over at Cipriano, who shook his head.
"The trail is too old, Patron," he said. "They went south, but it has been so long. We won't be able to follow their trail on the road."
"Boss, didn't you say Carter's parents had a ranch south of Morro Coyo?" Jelly asked. "What happened to it?"
"Nothing," Murdoch said. "I don't think anyone's lived there in years, not since the fire."
"Could he be using it?"
"The house is gone, but there could be some outbuildings left," Murdoch said slowly. "We might as well check it."
The barn looked like it would blow over in a strong wind, but it was still standing. They found frayed pieces of rope, stained with blood, in one of the horse stalls. There was more blood on the filthy straw. Murdoch gripped a length of rope, his knuckles white. Scott looked stricken.
"He was here, wasn't he, Cipriano?" he asked.
The foreman reached down and picked up a tarnished silver concho from the straw. "Si," he said heavily. "Johnny was here. Two, maybe three days ago."
"He was still alive then," Murdoch said, clinging desperately to hope. "And it looks like he got away from them."
"They followed him," Cipriano said. "They headed west, toward the mountains."
"Then we will too," Murdoch said stubbornly.
He thought about his younger son as they galloped across the range. Johnny wasn't what he expected, not from the Pinkerton reports on the deadly young gunfighter.
Murdoch had tried to keep him at arm's length, afraid to lose his heart again to a young man who was all too likely to ride away, or to get himself killed. It hadn't worked.
Murdoch had been stunned the first time he saw the mischief sparkle in the gunfighter's eyes and even more stunned by the sadness Johnny tried so hard to hide. In some ways, his hard-as-nails younger son was far more vulnerable than his brother. Johnny didn't believe anyone could love him, Murdoch thought. And he'd done a damn poor job at showing the boy he was wrong. Murdoch sighed. He should have sat his son down and talked to him a long time ago. Hell, he should have just welcomed him home that first day, instead of snarling at him that he had his mother's temper. He wondered if he'd ever get another chance.
Murdoch glanced over at his older son. Scott's back was as straight as ever in the saddle, but his face was worried. Scott had come the closest to getting through Johnny's defenses. He'd stepped into the unlikely role of protective older brother, and Johnny let him, at least to a point.
Murdoch had watched the brothers, secretly enjoying the teasing they'd fallen into so naturally. He sometimes felt left out as the two of them grew closer, but he also rejoiced at the bond between his sons. Sometimes he even let himself imagine what it might have been like if the two boys had grown up together on the ranch. They'd all missed so much. In the last few months, Murdoch had lost some of the bitter anger that soured his thoughts of his sons for so long. He still felt sad when he thought of those lost years, but the wounds were healing.
If Johnny was gone, that would leave a new, deeper wound, one Murdoch didn't think would heal. He'd been so frightened of Johnny's past that he'd pushed him away, and now his own past had reached out to hurt his son. Murdoch thought of the blood on those ropes and closed his eyes briefly. Gabe Carter had been the kind of boy who tortured small animals. Murdoch didn't even want to think about what Gabe might have done to Johnny.
***
Hawk looked down at the white men's camp. They'd built a large fire and were gathered around it. His lip curled scornfully. They made enough noise to wake the dead.
He waited until they'd climbed into their bedrolls, and slid silently through the darkness to the horses. A single man had been left on watch and he was nodding off. Hawk came up behind him, clapped a hand over his mouth and thrust a knife between his ribs. The man fell to the ground and Hawk went to the horses, releasing them. He slipped again into the shadows.
***
They rode all night, pushing their horses farther into the mountains. Scott was relieved when his father refused to call a halt and set up camp. He was impatient when they stopped even briefly to rest and water the horses.
Cipriano had no trouble following the trail. It was near dawn when they found the dead palomino mare.
"What happened?" Scott said. "Did they catch up with him?"
Cipriano looked at the marks on the ground, his face impassive.
"I don't think so," he said after a few minutes. "Someone else found him first."
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"Indians," Cipriano said softly.
"Indians?" Scott's voice was alarmed. He shot a look at Murdoch. "What kind of Indians?"
Cipriano shrugged. "Modoc, perhaps, or Chumash. I don't know."
"Are they friendly?" Scott asked.
"Not particularly," Murdoch said heavily. "Can you follow their trail?"
Cipriano shook his head. "No," he said flatly. "They left no trail."
"What about Carter's trail?"
"That one is clear," Cipriano said.
Murdoch hesitated. "Let's go, then," he said.
"What do you mean?" Scott said. "If the Indians have Johnny, shouldn't we try to find him?"
"There's no trail," Murdoch said patiently. "The only trail is Carter's, Scott, and we might as well follow it."
Scott bit his lip. His father was right, he supposed. He looked around, wishing his brother would stroll out from behind a rock, even if he were wearing his most irritating smirk. Where are you, Johnny, he thought. Damn it, little brother, where are you?
"Come on, Scott," Murdoch said gently. "If we find Carter, we may find the Indians aren't too far away either."
Scott nodded, and Murdoch looked over at Jelly.
"Jelly, I want you to head back to Lancer," he said.
"I ain't going," Jelly insisted, setting his jaw. "No way I'm leaving until we find Johnny."
Murdoch's jaw was set too. "Jelly, somebody needs to tell Teresa what's going on and look after the ranch. And we're going to need some supplies if this takes long. It doesn't make sense for all of us to stay."
Jelly shook his head stubbornly. "Nope. Somebody's gotta look after that boy, specially if he's hurt."
"I'm his father," Murdoch said. "I'll look out for him."
Jelly scowled and Scott stepped in hastily before he said too much. "Please, Jelly. Teresa really shouldn't be alone. You know Johnny wouldn't want that. If you won't, I'll have to go."
Jelly closed his mouth and gave him a frustrated look. "You can't leave, Scott. You're his brother."
"I don't want to," Scott said, his eyes on Jelly's.
The old man gave in reluctantly. "You make darned sure you find that boy, and take good care of him," he said to Scott.
"You know I will," Scott promised.
They heard gunshots less than an hour later, as the sun rose. Scott's head went up, and he looked at his father.
"Let's go," Murdoch ordered, and they spurred their horses.
They nearly rode into the middle of a confrontation. A red-haired man aimed a gun at a tall young Indian, who stood proudly in the rocks, facing him. Scott grabbed his rifle without thinking and pointed it at the red-haired man. Murdoch did the same with his pistol. The Indian looked surprised.
"Drop it, Carter," Murdoch ordered.
Gabe turned and a smile spread across his face.
"If it ain't Murdoch Lancer," he said, swinging his pistol around. "You come looking for your kid, Murdoch?"
"Where is he?" Murdoch demanded.
Carter's smile grew. "I did enjoy meeting your boy, Murdoch," he said. "Don't think he did, much. Course, it wasn't any part of the plan for him to enjoy it."
Scott felt sick. The man in front of him was insane, he thought, wondering what kind of hell his brother had been through now.
"Carter, Johnny never did anything to you," Murdoch said. "Tell me where he is."
"Better ask that Injun, there," Carter said. "Reckon he finished what I started."
"Drop that gun," Murdoch ordered again.
"I'll see you in hell first," Carter snarled. He lifted the gun, and Scott aimed his rifle and fired, even as Carter fired at his father. Carter dropped to his knees, a surprised look on his face, and then collapsed. Scott kept the rifle on him.
"Murdoch, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Murdoch said. He turned, looking for the young Indian, but he had melted back into the rocks. "Damn, he's gone."
"There are five dead men in the camp," Cipriano reported, a few minutes later. "One was knifed, and the others were shot."
"Shot? That Indian didn't have a gun," Scott said.
Cipriano considered what he should say to the patron's older son. "I don't think the Indian shot them," he finally said carefully. "They were still asleep in their bedrolls."
"Carter?" Scott said with horror. "Are you saying he killed his own men? While they were sleeping?"
"It looks like the Indian knifed the sentry and released the horses. And then Carter went loco when he woke up and found the horses missing."
Scott looked at his father. "If he would do something like that, what do you suppose he did to Johnny?"
Murdoch shook his head. "I don't know, son," he said. "I just don't know."
***
The young man opened his eyes and looked at the healer, who said something in his own language. The young man hesitated before he answered in the same language. The old man shook his head slightly, a faint smile on his face. Two questions were settled. He had not stolen the bracelet he wore on his wrist. And he was indeed like Hawk, who also always said he was fine when he was hurt.
He was asleep when Hawk came into the cave. "His people are looking for him," Hawk said.
"You're back," the healer said, not bothering to hide his relief.
"Yes," Hawk said. "You were right, old one. There was danger, and great evil, but it is gone now. The evil one is dead."
"You killed him?"
"No," Hawk said slowly. "This one's brother did. He saved my life."
***
Johnny didn't know where he was when he woke again. He looked around the cave cautiously. An old Indian was watching him. Johnny blinked, recognizing him as a healer.
"So, you also have returned," the Indian said.
"Yes," Johnny said. He sat up and the old man offered him some water. He gulped it eagerly.
"Not too much," the healer warned him.
"How did I get here?" Johnny asked.
"The chief's son found you after you fell from your horse. He saw that you wear one of our bracelets."
Johnny looked at the beaded bracelet on his wrist. It seemed to be the only thing he was still wearing.
"Yes," he said, a little sadly.
"It is not usually our way to take outsiders into our families," the old man said.
"Long story," Johnny said.
"And it is one you do not want to tell, I think?"
Johnny gave him a small smile. Then he looked around for his clothes.
"Your people are looking for you, down on the floor of the canyon. Do you think you can walk?"
Johnny froze, suddenly remembering who was likely to be looking for him. "A red-haired man?"
"No, that one is dead," the Indian said. "The men in the canyon are your father and brother, I think. The chief's son heard them talking after they killed the red-haired one. They are camped a few miles from here. If you can walk, Hawk will take you there."
Johnny didn't hesitate. "I'll walk."
"Good." The old man produced his clothes and Johnny put them on slowly, fighting a wave of dizziness. When he'd pulled on his boots, the healer poured something into a bowl and handed it to him.
"Drink this," he said. "All of it. It will be enough to get you down to your family. But don't push too hard. You are better, but you are not healed yet. Remember what I say and go slowly for a while."
Johnny sipped the dark liquid, tasting herbs. He made a face but finished it. The dizziness passed and he got to his feet.
"Thank you," he said to the healer. "For everything."
"Go, young one," the old man said. "Hawk will be waiting for you outside."
A tall Indian stepped out of the shadows as Johnny left the cave. "This way," he said briefly. Johnny followed him on slightly shaky legs.
It took a long time to walk a few miles, and Johnny wasn't so sure he'd make it by the time they approached the campfire.
"Thanks," he said to Hawk. The two men stared at each other curiously for a minute. Hawk nodded slightly and disappeared into the trees.
Johnny headed toward the fire. He could hear familiar voices murmuring.
"Stop," someone said, and he heard the sound of a gun being cocked. "Who is there?"
"It's just me, Cipriano," Johnny said in Spanish.
"Juanito!" The older man went to him swiftly. After one look, he slid an arm around him. "You're hurt, nino."
"I'm fine," Johnny said, but he let himself lean a little against the Lancer segundo, who tightened his grip.
"Cipriano!" Murdoch called. "What's wrong?"
"Patron, look," Cipriano said, pulling Johnny with him into the light of the fire.
"Johnny!" Murdoch and Scott both leapt to their feet. Johnny's jaw dropped when Murdoch hugged him fiercely.
"Um, careful," he said, wincing. "My ribs are still kind of sore."
Murdoch steered him over to his own bedroll and pushed him down. "Son, are you all right?" he asked, his hands on Johnny's shoulders. "And I want the truth."
"I will be," Johnny said, ducking his head after one quick look up at his father. "The healer in the Indian camp took care of me. I'm just a little tired."
"Get under those blankets," Murdoch said. "We'll talk after you sleep. Do you want something to eat first?"
Johnny shook his head. The energy from the drink the old Indian had given him was gone and he could barely keep his eyes open. He settled into the blankets without any protests and looked up at Scott. His brother's face was worried. Hell, even his father looked worried. Johnny still wasn't used to the idea that anyone worried about him. It felt good, in a way, and it was a burden too, in another way. It made him uneasy to be the focus of all this attention.
"Hear you've been doing some shooting, Boston," he said, yawning.
"Go to sleep, Johnny."
"I'm glad you got him," Johnny said drowsily.
"Me too, little brother," Scott said. "Me too."
***
Hawk watched the camp. They were excited when the mestizo walked in. The big, silver-haired man and the blond one greeted him warmly.
Strange, Hawk thought, how a father and two sons could look so unlike. He never would have guessed those three men were family.
They weren't so strange as the redheaded man. Hawk shivered a little, thinking of the scene he'd witnessed that morning. He'd been watching the other camp at dawn, when the redheaded man woke. The dead sentry didn't seem to bother him, but he started to holler and carry on when he discovered the horses were gone. Hawk had watched, horrified, when he pulled his gun and shot his own men, still sleeping around the fire. He hadn't even thought when he'd stepped out of his hiding place in the rocks, reaching for his knife. The next thing he knew, the man was pointing the gun at him.
Hawk stared into his pale, maddened eyes, and knew immediately he had made a fatal mistake. He had straightened himself proudly. He would die like a chief's son. But then the others had thundered into the clearing. He had been stunned when they aimed their guns at the white man, one of their own, not at him.
***
Scott heard something in the night and rolled over. He got up hastily but Murdoch had already reached his brother and was shaking him lightly.
"Wake up, Johnny. Johnny, it's all right. It's just a dream."
Johnny stared at his father, his eyes wide. Murdoch offered him a canteen. Johnny took a gulp and then leaned forward.
"You want to tell me about it, son?" Murdoch asked.
"No," Johnny said.
"John," Murdoch said. "Tell me. What did that bastard do?"
"Carter?" Johnny glanced at his father out of the corners of his eyes. "Nothing much. He roughed me up some, and he kept talking about burning down the barn with me in it, but it wasn't a big deal. I've had worse."
"Then why did you just have a nightmare?" Murdoch asked.
Johnny stared at the fire for a few minutes before he spoke, his voice so soft that Scott could barely hear him. "When I was about 15, I lived with some Indians awhile. They were good to me. Took me in when I was hurt and treated me just like one of their own."
"What happened?"
"Soldiers raided the village one afternoon," Johnny said. "I wasn't there. I was hunting with another boy, a little older than me. When we got back, they were all dead, the elders, the women and the kids too. They didn't have a chance. The family that took me in, they had a little girl about 5 years old. I found her in the creek with her guts ripped out by a bayonet."
"I'm sorry," Murdoch said.
"Haven't dreamed about it for a long time," Johnny said.
"What happened to your friend? The one you went hunting with."
"He got killed too," Johnny said. "The men were away when this happened. When they came back, they went after the soldiers. They all got killed."
"I'm glad you didn't go with them."
"I would've," Johnny said. "I wanted to go with them, Murdoch. Only they didn't exactly want me any more."
He rolled over and pulled the blankets up.
Scott looked at Murdoch, and got up to get some coffee. He handed his father a mug.
"You heard that?" Murdoch asked, once Johnny's breathing had slowed down again.
"Yes. Do you believe him, sir, that it wasn't so bad with Carter?"
"No," Murdoch said. "Not for a minute. But I'm afraid I do believe him when he says he's had worse."
Scott watched his younger brother sleep for a minute. "I wish I'd gone to Stockton instead."
"I don't think it would have made any difference, Scott," Murdoch said. "Johnny is the same age as Carter's brother, the one he lost in that fire. I think he would have gone after Johnny anyway, not you. It's my fault."
"How is it your fault?" Scott asked, puzzled.
"Carter's grudge was with me," Murdoch said.
"It wasn't a legitimate grudge," Scott said. "You didn't do anything wrong, sir."
"Neither of you did anything wrong," Johnny said, his voice muffled. "Will you both shut up and let me sleep?"
Scott grinned. "Only if you promise not to get into any more trouble tonight," he said, moving closer to his brother's bedroll and running his hand through his hair. He was startled by the size of the lump he found on Johnny's head, and he shot a look at Murdoch. His hand slid down and he rubbed Johnny's tense shoulders until he felt him relax completely.
"Murdoch, he's got a hell of a bump on his head," Scott said quietly, once he was sure Johnny was fast asleep.
"We'll get him back to the ranch tomorrow and get Sam to look at him," Murdoch said. "You better try to get some sleep too."
***
Sam Jenkins spent more than an hour in Johnny's room the next afternoon. Murdoch and Scott were both waiting impatiently when he came down the stairs.
"Well?" Murdoch said.
"I'd like to meet that Indian healer," Sam said, accepting a drink from Scott. "And I'd especially like the recipe for whatever salve he used to stop the infections in the knife wound and those rope burns."
"The knife wound?" Murdoch said blankly.
"He didn't tell you?"
"He told us he was a little tired," Murdoch said. "And that he's had worse."
"Not much worse," Sam said.
***
Four weeks later, Scott pulled his horse up on the hill overlooking the ranch. He could see his brother's palomino streaking across the range at a full gallop and he shook his head, smiling a little bit. Doc had finally cleared Johnny to ride again, to everyone's relief.
Doc had also told Johnny to take it easy, but they all knew he wouldn't. Scott trusted the wise old doctor had accounted for that when he flatly refused to let Johnny get on a horse for a full month.
Johnny's head injury was serious, Doc had told them, more serious than the knife wound, the broken ribs, or the nearly bone-deep rope burns. Another fall, too soon, would have dangerous consequences.
It hadn't been too difficult the first week. Johnny slept most of the time, like an exhausted child. He woke long enough to grumble a little at the diet that Doc decreed, but he didn't have enough energy to put up much of a fight. By the second day, he was running a low-grade fever. They made him swallow broth whenever he woke, didn't ask any questions, and let him sleep as much as he could.
It was harder once Johnny finally shook off the fever and started to feel better. He was never a good patient, and he was impossible this time.
He still refused to talk about Carter. Scott and Murdoch had both tried to bring up the subject a few times, but Johnny's face closed stubbornly.
"Don't push him," Sam advised, when Scott asked about it. "Let him deal with this in his own way, Scott."
"He always does," Scott said, a little bitterly. "Doc, it's not just Johnny, not this time. It's Murdoch too. He feels so guilty."
Sam paused. "It wasn't his fault," he said. "And Johnny doesn't blame him."
"No," Scott said. "But it doesn't matter. Murdoch blames himself."
Sam sighed. "I'll talk to him, Scott."
And he did, but Murdoch's eyes still looked haunted whenever they settled on his younger son.
Scott nudged his horse forward and cut across to meet his brother at the arch. Johnny pulled up, his eyes sparkling and a smile on his face. Scott smiled back. He hadn't seen that dazzling smile in weeks, and it had been too long.
"Good ride?" he said.
Johnny nodded and stroked Barranca's neck. His hat had fallen back on its stampede strings, and his face was slightly sunburned. He was still too thin, but he looked like himself again, Scott realized, young, recklessly confident and full of life.
"You didn't exactly take it slow," he observed.
Johnny flashed another smile at him. "I'm fine, Scott. Stop fussing."
"We worry, Johnny," Scott said. "Both of us."
"I know." Johnny glanced at his brother. "Lo siento."
"You're sorry? What do you have to be sorry about?"
Johnny sighed. "Bout as much as you do or Murdoch does," he said. "Scott, Carter was loco. It wasn't anyone's fault, and I'm fine, and I'd just as soon leave it behind."
"Can you really leave it behind?"
"Yeah, I can," Johnny said. "He was a little scary, Scott, but I've been tied up before and I've been beat up before. He's not going to win, not unless Murdoch lets him."
"He's not going to become another nightmare?" Scott asked, his eyes fastened on his brother's.
Johnny shrugged. "What if he does? He's sure not my worst nightmare, Scott."
Scott stared at his brother. "You know, I think that's part of what bothers us."
"What?"
"You've had too many nightmares in your life, little brother," Scott said. "Murdoch is beating himself up for Carter, but it's not just Carter."
Barranca turned restlessly in a circle, and Johnny calmed him down. "The past is done," he said. "That's what Murdoch said that first day."
"That's what he said. Only it's not true, and you know it, and so does he."
The corner of Johnny's mouth tilted upward. "Do you believe in ghosts, Scott?" he asked suddenly.
"Of course not." Scott was used to his brother's diversionary tactics, but he was puzzled by his choice of a new topic.
"I do," Johnny said. "There's all kinds of ghosts at Lancer, Scott. You have some, Murdoch's got some and I have a few. Only I know they'll take over your life if you pay too much attention to them."
Scott looked at his brother, beginning to understand what he was saying. "If you confront them head on, they may go away," he countered.
Johnny shook his head. "Don't think so, Boston. No point forcing a fight before you're ready for it."
"That could be reckless," Scott agreed. A smile grew across his face. "I've never known you not to be reckless, Johnny."
Johnny laughed. "Race you to the house?" he suggested.
"Johnny!" Scott protested. "You're supposed to be taking it easy."
His words fell on empty air as Barranca shot forward. Scott spurred his own horse and rode after his brother.
THE END
Whistle, October 2004