No Place Like Home
***
Part 1
Murdoch glowered at the empty place at the table. "Where's Johnny?" he growled as Maria brought in a platter of grilled steak. She disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with bowls of mashed potatoes and peas.
"Well?" Murdoch said impatiently. "Have you seen him, Scott?"
"No, sir," Scott said. "Not since breakfast."
"Teresa?"
She shook her head, her face concerned. "I don't think he's back yet."
"Well, we're certainly not going to wait for him," Murdoch said. "He knows what time supper is served."
Maria plunked the gravy down in front of him, with a bang.
"Have you seen Johnny, Maria?" Murdoch asked.
"No, senor," Maria said coldly.
Supper was mostly silent. Johnny still hadn't turned up when they'd finished their pie and Maria poured coffee.
Scott excused himself as soon as he could, and went down to the bunkhouse to see if any of the hands had seen his brother. Teresa disappeared into the kitchen, probably to make sure that Maria had tucked some food into the warming oven for Johnny. Scott smiled. He was sure that Maria had already set aside some supper for his little brother. The housekeeper took good care of all of them, but she was especially, fiercely protective of the youngest Lancer.
None of the hands had seen Johnny since morning, when he headed up north by himself to check on the fences. Scott chewed on his lip thoughtfully, wondering if he should take a ride out there. It was already dark, there was no moon, and there was little chance that he'd be able to find his wayward brother, he decided reluctantly.
He decided to go upstairs early, rather than sit in the great room and watch his father seethe. He settled down in his room with a book, but he couldn't concentrate. The book slid down and he slept.
It was late, well past midnight, when thunder woke him. Rain was sweeping across the roof, and lightning flashed outside the windows. He stepped across the hall to see if his brother was back yet. Johnny's room was empty, but a door creaked downstairs. Scott went down the main stairs carefully, hoping Murdoch had already gone to bed and wouldn't wake.
Johnny closed the front door behind him, as quietly as he could, and headed across the dark great room toward the liquor cabinet.
"Pour me some too," Scott said, lighting a lamp.
"Scott, don't fuss," Johnny said wearily.
"I haven't fussed yet," Scott said, strolling forward. "How about some brandy, little brother?"
Johnny poured brandy for his brother and tipped some into his own glass. His shoulders were slumped.
"You usually don't like brandy," Scott observed.
"Still don't," Johnny said. "But I'm cold."
"And wet," Scott observed.
"It's raining," Johnny pointed out.
"It's pouring," Scott said. "I would have figured that you'd have enough sense to come in out of the rain, Johnny."
Johnny poured himself some more brandy and settled down on the rug in front of the fire, his head down.
"I did," he said softly.
Scott frowned. "Johnny," he said. "I guess I am going to fuss. You need to change into dry clothes and to eat something."
"I'm fine," Johnny said.
"Go upstairs, right now, or I'll wake up Murdoch," Scott threatened. "I'll be up with some food."
Scott carried a tray into Johnny's room a few minutes later, but he wasn't surprised to find the boy sprawled, fast asleep, across the top of his bed. Scott pulled off his brother's boots and wet clothes and covered him with a blanket. Johnny didn't even stir.
Scott fully intended to drag an explanation out of his brother early in the morning, but Johnny was already gone when Scott pushed open the door of his room. He went downstairs to the kitchen, but Maria was the only one there. She was banging pots and muttering to herself. Scott's heart sank.
"Senora, have you seen Johnny?" he asked.
The woman's lips tightened. "Si," she said. "He has already left, Senor. He said he had not finished checking the fences yesterday, as Senor Lancer ordered."
"Did he eat anything?" Scott asked.
"He took a biscuit on his way out the door," Maria said, pouring coffee into Scott's cup.
A biscuit wasn't nearly enough for a day of ranch work, especially after missing supper, but Scott dropped the subject when Murdoch stomped into the kitchen.
"Where's your brother?" he asked immediately.
Scott took a sip of his coffee. "Your son is already on his way to the north pastures," he said, slightly emphasizing the first two words.
"Did he say where he was last night?"
"No," Scott said.
"As if we can't guess," Murdoch said. "I don't know how that boy thinks he can spend his nights in the saloons and get his work done here."
"I don't think Johnny was in a saloon last night, Murdoch," Scott ventured.
"Where was he, then?" Murdoch said.
"I don't know," Scott confessed. "But something's wrong."
"What's wrong is that your brother isn't pulling his weight," Murdoch fumed.
"I don't think that's fair, sir," Scott objected. "You didn't honestly expect Johnny to finish checking all of the north fences yesterday, did you?"
"I expect him to put in a full day's work, turn up on time for supper, go to bed at a decent hour and to sit down to breakfast in the morning with the rest of the family," Murdoch said. "Is that so unreasonable?"
"Yes," Scott said.
"What did you say?" Murdoch was startled. Scott rarely argued with him, unlike his brother.
"Murdoch, you know this is all new to Johnny," Scott said. "He's trying, but you can't expect him to adjust to a whole new life overnight."
"Scott, do you have any idea how quickly time could run out for Johnny Madrid?" Murdoch said. "In fact, it already did. If the Pinkertons hadn't shown up when they did, that boy would be dead. Five more minutes, and we wouldn't be having this discussion."
"I know," Scott said. "And so does Johnny, Murdoch, but you're pushing him too hard."
He stood up, as Maria carried a platter of eggs to the table. "I'm not hungry," he said abruptly, heading out the door.
Murdoch stared after his older son, dumbfounded, then looked at Maria.
"Well?" he demanded. "Do you have something to say too?"
Maria had plenty to say. She burst into rapid Spanish.
Scott slowed down on his way to the barn. He wasn't hungry, but he knew he would be later, when his stomach stopped churning. And Johnny would likely be starved by the time he caught up to him. Scott decided to pay a visit to the bunkhouse. He didn't have any trouble persuading the old hand who served as cook to slice some cold beef and pack some sandwiches.
"Saw your brother ride out early," the cook said, tucking a generous packet of molasses cookies and some apples into Scott's saddlebags, to go with the sandwiches. "Missed supper last night too, didn't he?"
"I'm afraid so," Scott said.
"I like that boy," the cook said, unexpectedly. "We weren't too sure, at first, when we heard about him, but Johnny is nothing like we thought he'd be, from what we heard about Madrid."
"No," Scott agreed. "He's not."
"Shame that Murdoch is so scared he can't see it," the cook said. "He usually has more sense, but he's fretted about that boy for a long time."
"Scared?" Scott said, surprised.
"He's scared to death he's going to lose him again," the cook said. "That he's going to get himself killed, or that he's going to leave."
"Like his mother did," Scott said slowly. "Did you know her?"
"Prettiest filly I ever saw," the old cook said. "But wild. The boy looks a lot like her, but I reckon he's got a lot of Murdoch too, from what I've seen. Don't rightly know which of them is more pig-headed. Go find him."
"I will," Scott promised. "Thank you."
"Go on, boy," the cook said.
Scott caught up with his brother late in the morning, far to the north of the house. Johnny's blue eyes were stormy when Scott rode up.
"Murdoch figure now that I can't manage to follow a fence line by myself?"
"No," Scott said. "I figured that you needed the benefit of talking to your older and wiser brother. And some lunch."
"Lunch?" Johnny said unbelievingly. "Scott, you didn't chase me miles cross country just 'cause I missed a meal? I've missed lots of meals."
"Lunch," Scott said firmly. "And talk, little brother."
Johnny sighed. "There's a stream down there," he said.
Scott didn't say a word until Johnny's first sandwich disappeared. "You want to tell me about it?" he asked as his brother bit into his second sandwich.
"No," Johnny said, putting the sandwich down.
"Finish your lunch, little brother," Scott said.
Johnny glared at him for a minute, and suddenly his anger blew away. Scott still wasn't used to how quickly his brother's mood shifted, from shadows to sunshine within seconds.
Johnny took another bite of sandwich and chewed it. "I stopped at the McDonalds on the way home last night," he finally said. "They're both ailing so I rode into town for the doc."
Flora and Angus McDonald were in their late 70s, but insisted on staying in their own house on their small ranch, north of Lancer.
"Are they going to be all right?" Scott asked.
"Don't know," Johnny said. "Doc says Angus's heart isn't so good. And Flora fell, trying to do the chores by herself, and hurt herself. Doc sent me to fetch Mrs. Talbot from the Bar T to stay with them awhile."
"You should tell Murdoch," Scott said. "He'll send someone out to help with the chores."
"Mrs. Talbot's husband said he'd send a hand over every day. They seem like nice folk. Doc says she's a good nurse, best in the valley." Johnny finished his sandwich and took a handful of cookies and an apple. He took a bite out of the apple and gave the rest to his palomino, who nuzzled him affectionately. "I should get back to that fence line."
Scott stood up. "I'll help," he said. "You take the right fork and I'll check the line along the left. I'll meet you back here in two hours."
Johnny had already disappeared down the trail before Scott realized that his brother's explanation didn't begin to account for why he was so unhappy when he came home last night, or why he'd taken off in the morning, before breakfast.
"Damn," Scott swore. He recognized the feeling from the chess games he'd played with his reckless, ingenious little brother. He'd been successfully diverted. Again.
***
No place like home, Part 2
Murdoch stopped in to see some old neighbors in the afternoon. The McDonalds had already settled in the valley when he came to Lancer, and Murdoch didn't know if he and Catherine could have lasted that first year without their kindness and good advice. Later on, they'd been delighted by frequent visits from Murdoch and little Johnny. They'd lost their own son long ago, before Murdoch knew them. Flora always had cookies for Johnny, and Angus would hoist him up onto his shoulders and take him off, laughing, to see the horses. They'd treated him like a favorite grandchild, and they'd been devastated too when his mother took the little boy away from his home. Angus had pulled Murdoch aside and offered him money to help pay the Pinkertons to look for Johnny. Not a loan, but an outright gift. Murdoch refused to take it, but he'd never forgotten it.
He was surprised to find a Bar T hand doing the barn chores and Maura Talbot hanging laundry outside the porch.
"Is something wrong?" he called.
"Hello, Murdoch," Maura said cheerfully. "Come and have some coffee. Angus and Flora are both a bit under the weather. Didn't your son tell you?"
"Scott?" Murdoch said, puzzled, dismounting.
"No, Johnny," Maura said. "He stopped by last night on his way home and found both of them laid up, so he fetched the doctor."
"I didn't see Johnny last night," Murdoch said, a little uncomfortably.
"It must have been late when he got home," Maura said. "After he got Doc and Doc sent him to get me, he did the chores that Angus hasn't been able to do this past week."
"Johnny?"
"I hope he didn't take a cold in the rain," Maura said. "He was soaked through by the time he finished the chores and I tried to persuade him to stay the night, but he wouldn't and I couldn't get him to eat anything either. I think he was still upset about drawing his gun on me, but that was my own fault, Murdoch."
"What? Johnny drew his gun on you?" Murdoch said, his voice suddenly angry.
"Now, I said it was my fault and I meant it, Murdoch," Maura said. "I should know better than to come up suddenly behind someone in a dark barn, without even calling out. It wasn't the boy's fault."
Murdoch shuddered. "Maura, he could have killed you. When I see him..."
"When you see him, you won't say a word to him about it," she ordered. "Murdoch, he's a darlin' boy. Why haven't you brought him and his brother over to the Bar T?"
"Johnny?" Murdoch said blankly.
"He's been awfully good to Angus and Flora," Maura pointed out. "Most boys his age wouldn't think to take the trouble to check on them. Flora says he's been coming by at least once a week, to make sure they're okay and to give Angus a hand with the work. They think the world of him."
Murdoch hadn't made the time to check on his old friends in weeks, since the boys came home. "I didn't even know that he had met them," he said slowly.
"It sounds to me, Murdoch, that you can't be talking very much with your son," Maura said sternly.
Murdoch flushed. "My son doesn't talk very much to me, Maura," he said. "Mostly, we argue."
"It's been a long time, for both of you," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "And he's so different."
"Murdoch, he wasn't even 2 years old the last time you saw him," she said. "Surely you didn't expect him to be the same."
"No," he sighed. "I didn't. Maura, do you know what Johnny's been doing the last five or six years?"
"I've heard some of the talk in town," she said. "It doesn't matter, Murdoch."
"I wish that were true," he said heavily.
She shook her head. "Murdoch Lancer," she scolded. "You have absolutely no reason to be ashamed of that boy."
"I'm not ashamed of him, Maura," he protested. "Not exactly. But I sure don't understand him."
Johnny didn't turn up at their meeting place. Scott waited nearly an hour before he gave up and turned his horse back to Lancer. He hoped that Johnny had gone home, but his brother's palomino wasn't in the barn when he rode in, late in the afternoon.
Murdoch was sitting at his desk. "Did you find your brother?" he asked immediately.
"Yes," Scott said, pouring himself a drink.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," Scott admitted. "He got away from me again."
Murdoch frowned. "Did he talk to you at all?"
"A little," Scott said, puzzled. For once, Murdoch didn't seem to be angry with Johnny. He almost seemed to be worried about him.
"I stopped at the McDonalds," Murdoch said abruptly, and light dawned on Scott. "Have you met them too?"
"Johnny took me over there a few weeks ago," Scott said carefully. "They seem like nice people."
"They are," Murdoch said. "I should have checked more often on them myself. With everything that's happened here, I just didn't make the time."
"Johnny stops in when he can," Scott said.
"Flora told me," Murdoch said. Flora's old face had glowed, and Angus's too, when they talked about Johnny. Murdoch could still hear Angus's thready old voice, rejoicing over the boy's return home.
"Was he all right when you saw him, Scott?" Murdoch asked aloud. "Maura said he got drenched in the rain last night. And he missed supper and breakfast."
"I took him some lunch," Scott said. "But something is wrong, Murdoch, and he wouldn't tell me what it is."
"Maura said he drew on her last night in the barn," Murdoch said. "She said it was her fault, for coming up behind him in the dark, but he was upset about it."
Scott stared at him. "That could be it," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"Johnny worries that one of us is going to get hurt because of his past," Scott said slowly. "If he drew on Mrs. Talbot, he's probably thinking he could do the same thing to you or me or Teresa. Did you check his room?"
"It is too late for your father to check his room now, Senor Scott," Maria said, coming in to set the table for supper. "He is gone."
"What do you mean?" Scott said.
"Your brother left more than hour ago," she said. "I am sorry. He would not listen when I tried to persuade him to wait to talk to you."
"What!" Murdoch said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Maria turned a cold eye on him. "It is not for me to tell you about your son, Senor," she said. "You said so this morning. Senor Scott, he also tried to tell you, but you did not listen."
Scott headed upstairs at a run, while Murdoch and the housekeeper broke into loud Spanish again. Johnny's rifle and saddlebags were gone, his room bare. There was a note on the table, along with Johnny's copy of the ranch partnership agreement.
"Sorry," it said. "This won't work. Johnny."
"That's it?" Murdoch said, staring at the paper when Scott handed it to him. "That's all he has to say to us?"
"I'm going after him," Scott said.
"Scott, wait," Murdoch started.
"He can't be that far ahead," Scott interrupted, his jaw set. "I'm going."
"Wait," Murdoch said again, his voice sharper.
Scott turned impatiently. "Don't try to stop me, Murdoch," he said. "I'm not coming back here until I find my brother."
"I'm coming too," Murdoch said unexpectedly. "Wait for me, while I grab my saddlebags."
Ten minutes later, they rode out together at a gallop.
***
No place like home, Part 3
Johnny skipped a stone across the lake. The surface was as smooth as glass and he couldn't resist making a mark on it. The stone skipped four times and disappeared, as if it had never been there. He sighed and leaned back against his saddle.
It was awful quiet. Back home, Teresa or Maria would be setting the table for supper, plates and glasses chinking, and Murdoch and Scott would be talking in the great room, catching up on the day's news. Johnny caught himself. Home, he thought. When did he start thinking of the ranch as home?
He'd never had a home, not that he remembered. They'd moved often when he was a kid, never staying in one place more than a few months. Frequently, they moved on after just a few days.
Johnny never really understood his mother's explanation that his father was looking for them. If he didn't want them, then why was he looking for them? But he'd quickly learned that questions about his father made her sad, or mad. And neither was a good idea, especially if one of her men was around.
Johnny paused, and pushed those memories away. The past is done, he heard his father's voice say. The old man was right about that, at least. It's done and there's no point in picking at the scabs. It'll just hurt you some more.
He mostly followed the same restless pattern when he was on his own. At first, it was by necessity. He was only 11, and he had a hard enough time scrounging and stealing enough to feed himself. He slept wherever he could, in livery stables, alleyways and outbuildings, always poised for flight. Johnny pushed a few more unwelcome memories away.
Later on, he didn't even think about settling down in one place. Nobody wanted a gun hawk to stay too long, Johnny thought, once the trouble was over.
He should have moved on as soon as Murdoch's troubles with Pardee were over. He would have, most likely, if he hadn't been hurt. He'd been crazy to ever think that he could just hang up his gun and play cowboy, as if Johnny Madrid had never existed. The past is done, but it can still reach out and shoot you in the gut, he thought. Or it can get someone else hurt, if you're stupid enough to risk it.
Johnny tilted his hat over his eyes and slid down a little farther, settling his shoulders against the saddle. He didn't feel like lighting a fire and cooking supper. He could always make do with jerky if he got hungry later. It wasn't like anything he cooked would taste much better than jerky. He wondered what they were having for supper at Lancer. It was strange, at first, sitting down at the same table with the same people every day. He smiled, thinking of some of those early meals. They didn't know what to say to each other, not even Scott, who was hardly ever at a loss for words. And Johnny didn't know what to do with all those extra forks, spoons and glasses. He'd watched the others and picked it up, enough to get by anyway. He yawned, and fell asleep.
The smell of coffee woke him, hours later. He sat up cautiously, on alert. He could hear voices somewhere close by, and smell coffee and wood smoke. It was dark now. He looked across the lake, and spotted a campfire on the shore, less than a quarter mile away.
The voices carried clearly across the water, and Johnny froze as he recognized them.
"Maybe we should have headed south," Murdoch said.
"I don't think so," Scott said. "Johnny doesn't want to go back to his old life on the border."
"What does he want?" Murdoch asked curiously.
"You don't know?"
"No," Murdoch admitted. "I was glad when he said he'd stay on the ranch, but I never really knew how long it would last. He hasn't settled down, not like you have."
"You don't yell at me every time I make a mistake," Scott pointed out. "Or watch me all the time, to see if I've made a mistake."
"I haven't," Murdoch protested, and stopped suddenly.
"Cooky says you usually have better sense," Scott finally said. "He says you're scared."
"I'm not scared of Johnny," Murdoch said, a little bit angry.
"No one said you were scared of Johnny," Scott said quietly. "Cooky said you're scared of losing him again."
"And now I have," Murdoch said.
"Now you have," Scott agreed sadly.
"Scott, what does Johnny want?" Murdoch asked again.
"I think he wants the same things I did when I came here," Scott said slowly. "A home. Family. Something I could do that would mean something, something to care about."
"It didn't seem like Johnny cares much about anything," Murdoch said.
"He cares." Scott's voice was confident. "He's just as scared as you are, only not of the same thing, exactly."
Johnny had heard enough. "I'm not scared of anything," he said furiously.
"Johnny?" Scott said, startled. Johnny saw two tall figures suddenly stand up by the fire. "Johnny, where are you?"
Johnny put his hand over his mouth and kept still. He hadn't meant to speak up. He'd meant to slip out of there as soon as they fell asleep and wouldn't notice the sound of his horse.
"Johnny, please," Murdoch's voice said. "Son, I don't want you to leave."
Johnny looked over at the trees, where he'd left Barranca. He didn't think either of them could catch the palomino. If he could get a good head start, he could cover his trail so they wouldn't find him.
The question was, did he want to get away? He swore at himself for losing his temper and opening his mouth before he thought. He really had gotten soft in the last few months. Johnny Madrid had learned, a long time ago, to hold his temper in check, to look and act as cold as ice. They said, down on the border, that the young gunfighter had no nerves and didn't know what it meant to be scared. That wasn't true, but he knew enough to never show it. At least, he used to know.
"John," Murdoch said again. "Let's talk, at least. Then, if you want to ride away, you can."
There was a long silence.
***
No place like home, Part 4
Scott waited. He couldn't see his brother, but he could feel his indecision through the darkness. Murdoch opened his mouth and Scott grabbed his arm, shaking his head.
Another long minute passed. "Johnny?" Scott finally said gently. "You still there, little brother?"
Johnny sighed. "Yeah, Boston," he said.
"Come over by the fire," Scott suggested. "There's still some coffee."
"No thanks," Johnny said. "Murdoch?"
"Yes," Murdoch said.
"It's not your fault," Johnny said. "I mean, you and me, we've argued some. But that's not why I'm leaving."
"Then why are you leaving, son?"
"You can't change the past," Johnny said. "You said so yourself. And mine, well, my past is likely to come riding into Lancer if I stay there. Somebody's going to get hurt."
"That's not what I meant, Johnny," Murdoch said, mentally kicking himself again for what he'd blurted to his sons that first day, when he'd been so shocked to see both of them. "And that's a risk we're willing to take."
"Guess I'm not," Johnny said. "I drew on one of your neighbors yesterday."
"Maura Talbot," Murdoch said. "She told me about it, son. She said it wasn't your fault."
"Yeah?" Johnny said. "What if I'd shot her, Murdoch? Would you say then that it wasn't my fault? I wouldn't."
"Johnny, you didn't shoot her," Murdoch said. "And, in time, son, well, maybe you won't feel the need to draw your gun when someone comes up behind you."
"Then I'm likely to be the one who gets shot," Johnny said flatly. "It's just not going to work, Murdoch. Madrid isn't going to go away. I can't just hang up my gun and be plain Johnny Lancer. It's too late."
Scott looked at his father, saw the pain in his face. This was something that Murdoch had already considered, he knew, already feared.
"Someone could ride in here looking for me too," Scott said. "Or Murdoch. Whatever happens, we'll face it together. That's what families do."
"Nope," Johnny said. "This isn't what most families do." He stood up and moved noiselessly toward the trees. Barranca nickered when he approached, and Scott's heart stood still, knowing what it meant.
"Johnny, please, don't," he pleaded.
Johnny slipped his saddle on Barranca quickly and tightened the cinch, then threw his saddlebags up and slid his rifle into the scabbard.
"John," Murdoch said suddenly. "Let us know where you are, son. And how we can reach you if we need to. Promise me."
Johnny hesitated.
"Johnny, promise," Murdoch insisted. "There's no danger in that."
"Okay," Johnny said slowly. "Bye, Scott. Bye, Murdoch. Uh, I'm sorry," He mounted Barranca and took off at a gallop.
Scott started for his horse, but Murdoch caught his arm.
"No, Scott," he said.
"What do you mean, no?" Scott demanded, trying to pull away. "I'm not giving up on him that easily."
"It's his choice, Scott," Murdoch said. "He's old enough to make his own choices."
"He's not even 20 yet," Scott said. "And he'll be dead before he's 25 if he goes back to his old life."
"You said you didn't think he would," Murdoch said.
"If he has any choice," Scott said bitterly.
"He'll have choices," Murdoch said. "He's still a partner in Lancer."
Scott looked at his father. "Even though he's left?"
"You have any objection?"
"No," Scott said. "None."
"Then he's still a partner in Lancer," Murdoch said. "Let's go home, son."
Johnny rode into a small town the next afternoon and left Barranca in the livery stable. He groomed the horse himself, to the liveryman's surprise, and gave him some extra oats before heading across the street to the hotel.
"Need a room," he said to the clerk.
"Dollar a night," the man said, pushing the book toward him.
Johnny hesitated when he picked up the pen. He shrugged and signed it Johnny Madrid. The man looked at the signature and his eyes widened.
"Uh, in advance, if you don't mind, Mister," he said.
Johnny grinned, and took a dollar out of his pocket. He left his saddlebags and rifle in the room. The bed tempted him, after two nights of little sleep, but decided he'd rather get a drink and something to eat first, and then go to bed for the night. He wandered over to the saloon, pausing in the door to look the room over, and ordered a beer at the bar.
"New in town?" the burly bartender asked, sizing him up. He noted the pistol, worn low.
"Just passing through," Johnny said. "What's for supper?"
"Steak or chili," the bartender said.
"How's the steak?"
"Tough, usually," the bartender admitted. "The chili's better, after all that cooking."
"I'll have chili then," Johnny said. He took his beer over to a table in the corner and sat down with his back to the wall.
He was finishing a bowl of chili and his second beer when his name was called. "Johnny Madrid!"
He looked up, apparently disinterested, at a kid dressed in black. He'd never seen him before.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
"My name's North," the kid said. "Billy North. Lotta people are going to know it by tomorrow, after I take down Johnny Madrid."
Johnny sighed inwardly, but nothing showed on his face. He assessed the kid coolly. He was maybe a year or two younger than Johnny, a red head with pale blue eyes and the beginnings of a moustache. He was sweating a little bit, and his eyes were excited. This kid liked what he did. Probably hadn't been doing it too long, Johnny thought.
"Billy, why don't you sit down and have a beer," Johnny said evenly. "I don't have any argument with you."
"Are you yellow, Madrid?"
"Nope," Johnny said. "Just not interested."
"I'm calling you out," North said. "Here or in the street. Don't make no difference to me."
The bartender gave them both a hard look, and Johnny sighed. "Outside," he said. "After I finish my beer."
Ten minutes later, he stepped outside the door. Billy North was waiting in the street.
"Took your time, didn't you?" he sneered. "You scared to die, Madrid?"
"Billy, how old are you?" Johnny asked easily.
"Eighteen," the kid said, puffing his chest out. "Old enough."
"I'm almost 20," Johnny said. "Got a whole year on you, Billy. Didn't get it by hurrying."
"Let's get on with it."
Johnny shrugged and moved into the street, deliberately choosing to put the sun at his back. Billy wheeled and squinted at him.
"You sure you wouldn't rather just go get a beer, Billy?" Johnny said.
"Draw, Madrid."
"It's your move," Johnny said, still apparently relaxed. "If you draw, I will too. If you back down, I'll buy you a beer, no hard feelings."
Billy looked at him. His face twitched a little. "You're going to die, Madrid," he said, and went for his gun.
Johnny shot him in the chest before he got his gun out of the holster. The boy flew backwards and lay flat on his back in the street, not moving. Johnny looked at him for a minute, then slid his own gun back into the holster and went back into the saloon.
"Tequila," he said to the bartender. "Maybe you better leave the bottle."
***
No place like home, Part 5
The sheriff picked up the bottle of tequila from the table. About a third of it was gone. "Boy, maybe you better head back across the street to the hotel," he suggested mildly, setting it down again.
Johnny focused on him and his badge a bit blurrily, sizing him up. He was a big man, nearly as big as Murdoch and about the same age. Not overly aggressive, like too many lawmen, Johnny thought. Not a pushover, but not necessarily out to pick a fight either. The sheriff looked back at Johnny calmly.
"Anybody pick that kid up out of the street?" Johnny asked.
"Yeah," the sheriff said dryly. "The undertaker picked him up a few hours ago."
"He from around here?" Johnny asked.
"Nope, he wasn't," the sheriff said. "He rode in a little while after you did."
"Guess I should probably pay the undertaker," Johnny said.
"That would save the town something," the sheriff agreed, sitting down. "Doesn't seem too likely that I'm going to find any family that cares enough to bury him."
Johnny looked up suddenly. He reached across for the bottle and poured himself another shot.
"You want a drink, Sheriff?" he asked.
"Nope," the sheriff said, taking the glass out of his hand. "And I don't think you really want that one either, son. Let's take a little walk."
Johnny considered it, and shrugged. "It's your town," he said.
"Yes, it is," the sheriff said. "And I aim to keep it that way."
Johnny got up and walked out the door with the sheriff.
"Madrid, right?" the older man said. "That's how you signed the hotel register."
"Yeah," Johnny said.
"My name's Whiting," the sheriff said. "Witnesses all say you tried to talk that kid out of drawing on you."
Johnny shrugged again. "Didn't work," he said briefly.
"I've heard of you, Madrid. I also heard that you'd hung up your gun. A friend of mine is the sheriff over in Green River."
Johnny's face was expressionless. "That didn't work either," he said.
"Sorry to hear it," the sheriff said. "You weren't planning to do any business in this town, were you?"
"Just passing through," Johnny said.
The sheriff nodded, his eyes alert. "Why don't you turn in for the night then, so you can get an early start? Before there's any more trouble."
"I'm not afraid of trouble, sheriff," Johnny said softly.
"Didn't say you were, son," Whiting said. "I'm not either, but I'm old enough to know it's better to avoid it than to go after it."
Earlier that afternoon, Scott rode out by himself, after catching a few hours of restless sleep. He needed time to think. Riding through what was left of the night, they'd reached the ranch in time for breakfast. Murdoch broke the news to Teresa that Johnny was gone, and she had questioned him sharply before running upstairs to her room. Murdoch looked like he'd aged 10 years.
Scott looked down over Lancer from the rise, remembering that first day on the ranch, when Teresa had stopped here to show them both the view of the land. At the time, the idea that he had a brother stunned him.
A few months later, he was stunned by the idea that he might never see Johnny again.
The two of them, even though they had so little in common, had quickly forged a bond, still growing. Johnny was wary, even warier than the reserved Bostonian, but Scott knew his younger brother well enough now to know Johnny wasn't happy either about the choice he'd made.
He also knew that Murdoch was right last night, and it would be no use to go after him. Johnny was at least as stubborn as their father. He thought he was doing the right thing, and nothing Scott could say was likely to change his mind.
Scott sighed. It still didn't feel right to him, letting Johnny ride away. He'd slipped easily into the role of an older brother, keeping a protective eye on his wild little brother. It was partly a joke between them, in the running banter they'd fallen into in those first weeks, when everyone was walking on eggshells. It was partly serious too.
There was no joke about the unlikely friendship between the brothers. These last few months, Scott had seen a new world through Johnny's eyes. Johnny lived in the moment, reveled in it, almost like a child. It was a novel experience for the Bostonian, schooled early to act like an adult and focus on his duties.
He looked up and watched a flock of birds spin high above the range. Three months ago, he might have noticed it, but he wouldn't have stopped to enjoy the effortless flight or to wonder at the way the birds moved in unison across the sky, catching the shifts in the wind with their wings.
Something else caught Scott's attention, and his eyes narrowed. There was smoke rising in the west. He stared at the big plume of dirty smoke as it rolled up, smearing the clear sky, and then spurred his horse, hard.
The next morning, Johnny gulped water out of the pitcher on the washstand, and then poured the rest of it over his head. He stared into the cloudy hotel mirror. "Guess it's going to be Madrid," he said to the image, and decided he wouldn't bother to shave. He wanted to get moving, out of this stuffy room and out of this town. He pulled on his boots, tucked his shirt in and buckled his gun belt, checking the gun automatically. He picked up his saddlebags and rifle and went down the stairs, past the clerk and out to the street.
Johnny picked up some trail supplies at the store and headed for the livery stable, where Barranca whinnied to him, and nuzzled his shoulder.
"Hey," Johnny said, smiling. "I'm glad to see you too, amigo."
He had mounted up when the sheriff called him.
"Madrid!"
Johnny looked at him coolly. "Morning, Sheriff," he drawled.
"You're up a bit earlier than I expected, son, " Whiting said, looking him over.
Johnny smiled faintly, but didn't say anything.
"Before you go, thought you might be interested in a piece of news I just got." Whiting said. "The sheriff in Green River sent out a wire last night. Seems there's been some trouble at a ranch outside his town."
Johnny's face was indifferent, but his vivid blue eyes locked on the sheriff's. "What kind of trouble?"
"Somebody set a fire, out in the range, yesterday afternoon," Whiting said. "Most of the hands rode out to fight it. While they were gone, a gang of men raided the house. Shot an old man and took a girl hostage."
"What?" Something flickered across the expressionless young face, and then disappeared.
"Sheriff says there were at least five raiders," Whiting said. "They may be headed this way, with the girl. Posse is after them."
"Was the old man hurt bad?" Johnny asked.
"Pretty bad," the sheriff said. "He's dead."
Johnny looked down.
"The Green River sheriff is also trying to get in touch with one of the rancher's sons, who wasn't home when this all happened," Whiting said. "Says he's about 20, dark hair, blue eyes, riding a palomino. The description sounds a lot like you, son, except for the name. The name isn't Madrid. It's Lancer. Johnny Lancer."
***
No place like home, Part 6
Teresa struggled furiously with the man who had pulled her onto his horse.
"Sit still, missy, if you know what's good for you," he ordered.
"Wait until my brothers catch up with you," she stormed. "You're going to be sorry."
He laughed. "That fancy pants Boston brother of yours is a little busy right now with the fire and all," he said. "And the gunslinger is miles away. We saw him pass by this morning, riding north. In fact, that's why the boss figured this was a good day to hit Lancer. We're not stupid enough to go up against Johnny Madrid."
Teresa struggled some more, and he clamped his arm around her.
"Stop it," he said in her ear. "All that wiggling is going to give me ideas that you ain't going to like, girl, least, not at first."
She went still, instantly, and he laughed.
"Course, I might have a few ideas for you tonight anyway," he said.
Scott argued when Sheriff Val Crawford called the posse to a halt for the night, after the moon set. "They can't be that much farther ahead," he protested. "I think we should keep going."
Val shook his head. "Too easy to lose the trail in the dark," he said. "And then we'd lose hours, Scott. We'll wait until first light. Chances are, they've stopped too."
That was what Scott was worried about, although he wasn't about to say it aloud. He hated to think of Teresa, alone with the raiders and helpless to defend herself.
"We're doing the best we can, Scott," Val said, looking at the easterner. He wished Johnny were there instead. Johnny would understand. He wouldn't like it any better than his brother. That was for sure. But he'd know what to do.
Besides, Johnny was a good tracker, one of the best. If he'd been there, they just might be able to keep that trail in the dark.
Teresa woke at dawn. They'd tied her to a tree and her hands were numb. She watched the raiders wake and get ready to break camp.
They'd left her alone, mostly, when they'd finally stopped late last night. One of them had started to paw her when he took her down from the horse, and Teresa had bit his hand. He slapped her so hard that she fell to the ground. He joined her there, his hands roving over her body, but the leader had yanked him off her.
"Not now, Martin," he said. "I'm betting a posse isn't that far back and I don't want any distractions. Tie her up and leave her alone, all of you. Plenty of time later for that, after we shake the posse."
Teresa shivered, thinking about it. Hurry, Scott, she thought to herself. She wondered if Johnny had heard anything about what happened, wherever he was. If only he'd been home, she thought.
"Let's get going," the leader said, cutting the ropes around Teresa's wrists and yanking her to her feet. "You ride with me today, girl," he said.
Johnny had headed out of the town and back toward the ranch at a furious gallop. After an hour or so, he let up.
"Sorry, Barranca," he whispered, leaning forward. "Wasn't thinking about you."
He walked the horse, giving it time to cool down. His own head drooped too as he wondered what was going on at the ranch and whether the posse had caught up yet with the raiders who had taken Teresa.
Then he faced up to the idea that he'd pushed away with his wild gallop, the idea he didn't want to think about. Murdoch gone. Sheriff Whiting hadn't known the name of the old man killed in the raid, but Johnny figured it had to be Murdoch. He sure wouldn't let anyone put a hand on Teresa without a fight.
Johnny wasn't sure exactly how he felt about his father. He'd hated him for a long time, hated him and wished for him all at once. He didn't know what to think when he discovered his mother had lied, that his father hadn't thrown them out. He was mad at both of them, he guessed. But when he was hurt, that first week on the ranch, he'd been reassured by Murdoch's voice, telling him he was safe and to just go back to sleep. Johnny didn't have any whole memories of Murdoch and the ranch, but there was something familiar and comforting about that deep voice, something he didn't remember feeling for a long time.
Johnny chewed on his lip. He didn't know if he loved his father, but he sure couldn't picture Lancer without Murdoch. And if he'd been there, nobody would have shot his old man unless they went through him first. He shouldn't have left, he thought.
He gave Barranca some water, took a gulp himself, and headed south again, this time at a canter that ate up the miles.
It was just about noon when he heard gunshots. He listened for a minute, and headed into the woods, up what looked like an old trail. He knew there was an empty cabin up the hill, and wondered if the raiders might be using it as a base.
Scott crouched behind a rock and reloaded his rifle. The posse had ridden into an ambush. Val figured the raiders were still more than an hour ahead of them, from the tracks, but they must have doubled back and taken up positions in the rocks surrounding a little pass. It was the perfect place to pick off the members of the posse, one by one.
Val, at the head of the group, was the first one to go down with a bullet in his arm. Scott had dropped back to take a stone out of his horse's shoe. He grabbed his rifle, yelling to the other men to take cover.
"Val!" he said, working his way forward as a bullet ricocheted off the rocks. "You okay?"
"Hell, no," Val complained, scooting himself behind a rock and knotting a bandanna around his bleeding arm.
"Keep your head down, Scott," he ordered as another bullet whizzed past them. "If you get hurt, your brother's going to kill me."
Scott spotted some movement in the rocks and aimed his rifle carefully. There was a cry, and one of the raiders stood up, and then pitched forward, landing in the road.
"There's one, anyway," Val said. "Johnny always says you're good with a rifle."
"Not as good as he is," Scott said ruefully.
"No one is," Val said. "Not even me."
"Lancer!" a voice shouted. "Hold your fire, or I'll shoot the girl,"
Scott froze. "Let me see her," he called back.
"You ain't in charge, Mister High and Mighty Lancer," the voice said. "I am."
***
No place like home, Part 7
Johnny left Barranca and worked his way up the last few hundred feet of the trail on foot. He could hear more gunfire now, both rifle and pistol shots. He guessed that they were in the pass. He'd choose that pass for an ambush, if he were planning one. He stopped for a minute to think about the terrain.
He'd noticed the path one day, on his way back to Lancer after he delivered some horses to another ranch, and decided to see where it went.
The cabin was in a hollow, just below the top of the pass. The trail wound up a steep hill to the door and it was pretty much the only way up, unless you climbed the rocks. Johnny guessed they'd left at least one man to keep an eye on the trail and the rest of them were up in the rocks on both sides of the pass. Teresa was most likely inside the cabin.
He pulled off his boots and his socks, tied them together with a length of rope, and slung them around his neck. Then he stepped off the trail and started to climb the rocks, clinging to them with his fingers and toes. As he came up behind the cabin, he heard the raider shout and Scott's reply. Johnny slipped around the side of the building cautiously, still barefoot. There was a man near the top of the trail, looking down, holding a rifle.
"I mean it, Lancer," the leader of the raiders shouted from the pass. "That girl is dead if you fire again."
Johnny pulled a knife from a sheath and tested the weight in his hand. He hadn't practiced with it for too long, but he couldn't afford to fire a shot and alert the other men in the rocks above the pass. He measured the distance thoughtfully, and tried to empty his mind. The Indian who taught him to throw a knife, years ago, had told him that he had to see it on its path. Johnny concentrated for a minute, and then he threw. The guard at the top of the trail keeled over without a sound, the blade buried in his back.
Johnny checked him swiftly. He retrieved his knife and wiped it on the ground, then went to the door of the cabin. He kicked it open and went in.
"Johnny!" Teresa gasped.
"It's okay, querida," he said, cutting the ropes that bound her hands and feet to a chair. "Come on. We have to get out of here quick."
"Johnny, I don't know if I can walk very far," she said. "The rope was so tight. My hands and feet are numb."
He picked her up without another word and carried her to the top of the trail, just past the dead guard.
"How many are there?" he asked, setting her down carefully.
"Six," she said, averting her eyes from the dead man. "Six, counting that one. Johnny, they shot..."
"Shhhh," he said. He couldn't think about that right now, couldn't let it get in the way of doing what he had to do. "As soon as you can walk, go straight down the trail. Barranca is a little way down the hill. Wait with him, and I'll come and get you when it's safe."
"Johnny, no," she said.
He took his pistol out of his holster. "You take this," he said.
"No," she said. "You need it more than I do."
Johnny wrapped her hands around his pistol. Then he took a few steps up the hill and picked up the dead man's rifle. He checked it, and took a box of ammunition from the man's jacket.
"You use that pistol if you have to, Teresa, you hear me?" he said.
"Johnny, be careful," she pleaded.
He grinned at her and headed toward the pass.
"Lancer!" the leader shouted. "I want $5,000 in gold for the girl. And I want you and your old man to deliver it here, alone, first thing in the morning, along with a dozen good horses."
The reference to Murdoch puzzled Johnny, but he kept climbing the rocks. It was more difficult and a lot slower to climb with a rifle. There was a man crouched near the top. He was the one who was shouting to Scott.
Johnny peered around a rock, frowning, and assessed the situation. Scott was sheltered behind a rock, out of range from the top of the pass, but he could see another man working his way down the other side toward him, holding a rifle.
There was a third man in the rocks on the opposite side of the pass, and one more on this side, down to the left of the leader. That made four of the five remaining raiders. Where was the fifth man?
The man closest to Scott started to aim the rifle, and Johnny decided that he couldn't wait. He took out the leader with his first shot, then spun and fired at the man aiming at his brother. His partner on the opposite side of the pass was next. Then Johnny swung the rifle on the last man he could see.
"Drop it," he said.
The man looked at him and dropped the gun. "Don't shoot," he said, and put his hands up in the air.
"Johnny!" Scott shouted, seeing a flash of faded pink above him. "You okay?"
"Sure," Johnny said, keeping the rifle on the last man. "Scott, Teresa said there were six. I only got five."
"I got one," Scott said. "Where's Teresa?"
"She's safe," Johnny said.
A half hour later, Teresa finished bandaging the graze in Val's arm. The surviving raider was tied up, ready to take to jail in Green River. One Lancer hand was dead, killed in the ambush. His friends wrapped him carefully in a blanket and tied him to his horse, to take back home to his family. The posse had retrieved the bodies of the raiders too.
"Recognize any of them, Johnny?" Val asked.
Johnny shook his head. "Nope," he said. He'd looked at all of them carefully. "Never saw any of them before now."
"How about you, Scott?"
"No," he said.
"I think I know some of them," Teresa said, a little hesitantly. "Only it's been a long time, and I'm not sure."
"Tell us about it, honey," Scott said gently.
"The leader," Teresa said. "I think he worked on the ranch a few years ago, and that my father and Murdoch fired him. I don't know why. And that one, I think he used to work for the McDonalds."
"We'll stop at the ranch on the way back," Val said. "Murdoch will know."
Johnny stared at him. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, if he ever worked at the ranch, chances are Murdoch will remember," Val said.
"Johnny," Scott said softly, looking at his brother's face. "What is it?"
"The sheriff in Reliance told me this morning that an old man got shot during the raid on the house," Johnny said slowly. "And that he died."
***
No place like home, Part 8
Scott stared at his brother. Teresa's eyes filled.
"I'm sorry, honey," Johnny said, touching her cheek with one finger and catching a tear as it fell. "Maybe, if I hadn't run out on you..."
"No," she said quickly, picking up the guilt in his voice. "This is not your fault, Johnny Lancer. None of this is your fault, not even a little bit. You hear me?"
"And it's not what you think, Johnny," Scott said. He gripped his brother's shoulder and turned him to look into those dark blue eyes. He wasn't prepared for the pain he could see in them.
"Cooky got shot in the raid, Johnny," he said softly. "Not Murdoch. Murdoch was out fighting the fire, with the rest of us, when they attacked the house. He wanted to ride with the posse too, but he threw out his back and Sam Jenkins wouldn't let him."
Johnny looked a little dazed. "Cooky?" He liked that old man. Cooky had fed him more than once, when he'd stormed out of the house, given him salve and encouragement when he started doing ranch work, and told him stories about his first two years on the ranch, happy days that Johnny didn't remember.
"He was the only man left at the ranch," Teresa said. "He saw them ride in, and came up to the house with a shotgun, to try to stop them. And they just gunned him down and left him there, bleeding."
Her head dropped, and Johnny wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, whispering something in Spanish. Teresa buried her head in his chest and cried as if her heart was broken.
"Teresa, don't," Scott said, but Johnny shook his head at him.
"Let her get it out," he said.
"Did they hurt her?" Scott asked, his voice low.
Johnny shook his head faintly. "Don't think so."
"Johnny," Scott said. "Are you coming home with us?"
Johnny looked down. "Nothing's changed," he said.
"This was not your fault," Scott said. "You said you didn't know any of them."
"They knew you," Teresa said, lifting her head and trying to catch her breath. "They said, they said they saw you riding away. That's why they thought it was safe to raid the ranch. They said they weren't crazy enough to go up against Johnny Madrid."
Scott didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the look on his brother's face.
"Heads or tails, you lose, little brother," he said.
One corner of Johnny's mouth tilted upward reluctantly. "Sounds that way," he admitted.
"So, let's go home," Scott urged him.
Johnny's smile grew, just a little bit. "You worried that you'll have to do all my work too, Boston?"
"That sure won't take much time," Scott retorted, grinning back at him.
When they rode into the yard at the ranch, Murdoch lifted Teresa down from her horse, heedless of his back, and hugged her tight.
"Are you all right?" he asked, tilting her back in his arms to look at her. Her big eyes filled with tears again.
"I'm fine," she said, and started to cry. Maria emerged from the house, and swept her away, crooning to her in Spanish and English.
Murdoch's eyes went to his two sons. They both looked tired but, for once, neither of them was bleeding. His gaze rested on Johnny for a minute, traveled to the bodies slung over the horses, and then moved back to his sons.
"I'm glad to see both of you," he said carefully. "Come inside and tell me what happened out there."
"In a minute," Scott said. "Murdoch, Teresa said one of the raiders looked familiar. She thought he might have worked here a few years ago, but she didn't remember his name."
"Show me," Murdoch said. Scott led the way.
"Jake Smith," Murdoch said after a minute. "That's the name he gave, anyway. He worked here two or three years ago, for about a month. Teresa's father fired him."
"How come?" Val asked.
"He was trouble," Murdoch said. "There was a fight in the bunkhouse, and he nearly killed one of the other hands, just a kid. Cooky pulled him off."
"Looks like he carried a long grudge," Val said. "You recognize any of the others?"
Murdoch looked at the other men. "He worked for Angus McDonald," he said, pointing to one of them. "I don't remember his name."
Val nodded. "Thanks, Murdoch," he said. "We better be getting to town."
Murdoch nodded. He looked over at his sons again. They'd both dismounted, to his relief, but it looked like Johnny was balking at the idea of handing Barranca over to a hand, instead of taking care of the horse himself. "Where did you meet up with Johnny?" Murdoch asked Val.
"He found us," Val said. "Lucky thing, too. They'll tell you about it. I want to get back to town."
Murdoch listened to Scott tell the story, after pouring brandy for all of them. Johnny was sitting on the rug by the fire. He hadn't said more than a few words since he'd returned from the barn. He hadn't touched the brandy either.
"Thank you, John," Murdoch said when Scott had finished the story.
Johnny looked up then. "Thank you?" he said, incredulous. "Murdoch, I've killed five men since yesterday."
Murdoch paused. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, not again. But he didn't know the right thing to say to his son.
"Wait a minute," Scott objected. "I did get one of them, little brother. You only got four, and don't you dare tell me that you're sorry about any of them. You shouldn't be, and you know it."
"There was one yesterday too," Johnny said slowly. "Just a kid, 18 years old."
"What happened?" Murdoch asked.
"He called me out," Johnny said. "Couldn't talk him out of it. He thought he'd be famous, taking down Johnny Madrid. Only he wasn't fast enough."
Murdoch still didn't know what to say. He looked over at Scott. The Bostonian suddenly set his glass down hard.
"You feeling sorry for yourself or for him?" he asked Johnny angrily.
Murdoch's eyes widened. He didn't think that was the right thing to say. "Scott," he started, but his older son glared at him, and then turned his glare on his younger brother.
"Well, Johnny?" he asked.
Johnny's blue eyes sparked dangerously. He and Scott stared at each other, not speaking. Murdoch was amazed when the spark fizzed out and Johnny suddenly shook his head.
"Both, I guess, Boston," he said.
"Stop beating yourself up, little brother," Scott said. "You played the hand you were dealt. What else could you do?"
Johnny thought about it. "Walk away?" he suggested.
"You think that would have worked?"
"No," Johnny admitted. "Kid wanted it too bad. He'd have shot me in the back."
"Then just what did you do wrong, brother?"
Johnny swirled his still untouched brandy. "I gave the kid something to shoot for," he said.
"Madrid," Scott said.
"Yeah, Madrid," Johnny said.
Murdoch had heard enough. "John, you didn't create Johnny Madrid all by yourself. Your mother and I had a hand in that too, both of us."
Johnny and Scott both looked startled. Johnny shook his head stubbornly. "I didn't have to pick up a gun," he objected. "I had choices."
"Not the choices you should have had," Murdoch said heavily. "That's where your mother and I failed you. Johnny Lancer was born at Lancer, and so was Johnny Madrid."
His eyes met Johnny's. "Either way, this is where you belong, where you've always belonged. And this is where I want you to stay. You hear me, son?"
Johnny tilted his head, his eyes searching for something in his father's face. Murdoch usually had a hard time looking too closely into those vivid eyes, but he didn't look away this time. He was rewarded when the question in them turned into a faint smile, and Johnny suddenly relaxed. "Yeah," he said. "I hear you, Old Man."
***
No place like home, Part 9: Epilogue
Murdoch rode over to the McDonald ranch one afternoon, a week later. Angus was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. There was a checkerboard on a low table next to him with an unfinished game on it. A dark-haired young man was fast asleep in the other porch rocker. Murdoch thought that young man was rounding up strays, miles away, and he frowned a little.
Angus chuckled. "Let it go, Murdoch," he advised. "And don't wake him. He took a fall, and your older boy sent him home."
"Is he all right?" Murdoch asked, noticing a fresh bruise on Johnny's jaw.
"Aye," Angus said. "I think he's just a bit bruised and shaken up. He should have gone straight home, like his brother told him, but he doesn't like to be told what to do."
"I've noticed that," Murdoch said dryly.
"Murdoch!" Flora appeared in the door, carrying a tray. "It's good to see you. Thank you for sending the bairn over."
"I couldn't stop him if I tried," he said, truthfully. "Flora, you're looking much better. You both are." It was true. The McDonalds were still a little frail, but their eyes were bright again and there was some color in their faces.
"Mrs. Callahan is a great help," Flora said, setting a pitcher of lemonade down on the table on the other end of the porch. "And, of course, it's wonderful to have her young ones on the place. They've finished up their chores and gone fishing, I think, in the creek."
"I'm glad they're settling in," Murdoch said.
Mrs. Callahan was the widow of the Lancer hand killed in the ambush at the pass. She and her two boys, aged 10 and 12, had moved into what had once been the foreman's house at the McDonald ranch. The two boys could do most of the basic barn chores between them, while Mrs. Callahan had taken over the heavy work in the house. Hands from Lancer and the Bar T stopped by regularly to check on them and lend a hand with any chores that were beyond the boys.
"You two come over here and have some lemonade," Flora said. "Let Johnny sleep a little longer."
Murdoch frowned at his son again, but he moved over to the table with Angus. Flora poured them both tall glasses of lemonade and offered Murdoch a plate of cookies.
"Johnny doesn't remember us, of course, from when he was little, but he still likes my molasses cookies," she said.
Murdoch tried and failed to picture the edgy, angry young gunfighter he usually saw sitting down to cookies and lemonade with elderly neighbors.
"How did you meet him?" he asked curiously, taking one of the dark, chewy cookies. They were good, and he still liked them too.
"I met him, out riding," Angus said. "It was just a few weeks after Pardee shot him, and the truth is, I didn't think he should be riding so far."
"He shouldn't have been," Murdoch said, a little grimly.
"Well, we started talking, and I brought him back to the house to see Flora," Angus said.
"You weren't worried about, uh, his reputation?" Murdoch asked.
They both looked surprised. "Of course not," Angus said. "Not once we met him again. I'm glad we did get a chance to see him again, all grown up."
Angus was one of the shrewdest traders in the territory, able to size up a horse, a cow or a man in minutes. Murdoch looked over at his younger son thoughtfully.
"He started dropping in," Flora said. "He'd give Angus a hand with the chores, and we'd talk. Angus took care that he didn't do too much, at first. We could see that he was still hurting, and not very strong, and we wondered a bit, why you and Sam weren't keeping a closer eye on him."
"We tried," Murdoch said. "Believe me, we tried. He's not a good patient."
She smiled. "We figured that out," she said. "He always was set on doing things for himself, wasn't he? Do you remember that last time you brought him to visit and he tried to take your horse for a ride?"
Murdoch did remember. Johnny always loved horses. And he had no fear. He'd climbed up the porch railing and somehow managed to clamber onto Murdoch's huge, spirited gelding, all by himself, while the adults were in the house. Murdoch had come outside to find a determined toddler sitting on the horse, his tiny hands gripping the mane and his feet drumming on its sides.
"Papa, make him go," Johnny had ordered while Murdoch held his breath, praying that the horse wouldn't move and the little boy wouldn't fall from that height. He'd lunged for Johnny and held him tightly in his arms. Then he spanked him. Tears had quenched those big blue eyes only temporarily. Even before they left that day, Johnny had managed to get into more mischief until he suddenly fell fast asleep in Flora's lap. Murdoch could still picture her sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, Johnny's tousled dark head pillowed comfortably against her shoulder. A few days later, his mother ran away and took him with her.
Johnny stirred in the rocking chair and mumbled something. Flora went over to him, touching his shoulder gently. He woke up instantly, and she smiled at him and tilted his jaw upward to look at the bruise.
He said something too low for Murdoch to hear. She pushed his dark head off his forehead, her hand lingering on his face.
"You need a haircut, lad," she scolded gently. "I could get my scissors."
Murdoch was stunned at how comfortable they seemed to be with each other, just as they'd been when Johnny was just a child.
Johnny laughed at Flora's suggestion and stood up, a little stiffly. He saw his father and his smile disappeared. The blue eyes flew to Murdoch's face, a little bit guiltily.
"You all right, John?" Murdoch asked calmly. "Angus said you took a fall and that Scott sent you home."
"I'm fine," Johnny said. "Figured I'd finish checking that fence line after I stopped in here."
"I'd rather you rode home with me," Murdoch said, noticing a cut on Johnny's forehead, half hidden by his hair, and grass stains on his shirt. Both knees of his pants were torn. Murdoch hoped a stray hadn't dragged the boy. It couldn't be too bad, or Scott wouldn't have let him ride home alone. It couldn't be too good either, or Scott wouldn't send him home and Johnny wouldn't agree to go.
Johnny looked rebellious and Murdoch braced for an argument, but Angus and Flora were both nodding. "Good idea," Angus said mildly.
Johnny looked at the older man, and the corner of his mouth turned up, just a little. "Okay," he sighed.
"You'll have to tell me how you do that," Murdoch said to Angus, when Johnny disappeared into the house with Flora to get something she wanted to send to Teresa.
The older man's eyes twinkled. "He's a fine boy, Murdoch," he said. "He's just as stubborn and independent as his father, mind, but a fine boy. You're a lucky man, to have two fine sons."
"Yes," Murdoch said slowly. "I am."
THE END
Whistle, July 2004