A prequel and an extra scene to High Riders, not exactly AR.
Pasaba Por Aqui
Dios, it was cold in California. And wet. The rain dripped off his hat and down the back of his collar. The serape he wore over his shirt and jacket was sodden, no help at all. This place was green, incredibly green, but he wished he hadn't left the hot, dusty and familiar border towns.
He kept going down the narrow road, hoping to come to a town before dark. He'd never find enough dry fuel for a fire, and the tall grass and scrub offered no shelter for him or his horse. The thought of a hot meal and a bed, maybe even a girl to share it, beckoned. That idea warmed him up some. It was still a relatively new experience, but he was learning with enthusiasm.
When the pinto lost a shoe, he couldn't say it was sunset, not exactly, because he hadn't seen the sun all day, but the murky gray light was fading fast. He swore and looked around. He hadn't seen a soul on the road. For all he knew, the nearest town could be just around the next bend in the road or miles off. He'd taken back roads deliberately since he came through the pass into the big valley, but maybe that wasn't such a good idea. Maybe none of this was a good idea and he should just turn around and get the hell out of here.
He slogged on for a few miles on foot, leading the pinto. His boots were killing him when he spotted the light. Not a town, just a single light through the brush. It was a small place, a cabin with an open front porch, a barn and a garden enclosed in a split-rail fence. He watched awhile. A lamp glowed inside, and he could smell wood smoke. It looked peaceful, but something held him back.
The pinto nudged him.
"Yeah, I know, boy." He leaned against the horse's neck, relishing the heat. "Hungry, huh? Me too. But I dunno about this. Maybe we should just hightail it back to Yuma. What do you think?"
The pinto snorted and nudged him again, harder.
"No, I'm not likely to forget about your shoe. Or the Apache." He smiled and gave the pony a rough caress. "Guess we better see if we can spend the night in that barn, huh, and find a smith in the morning."
The owner of the house greeted him with the business end of a shotgun, pointed out the half-open door, and demanded in heavily accented English to know what he wanted.
"No trouble," he said, switching to Spanish. "Por favor, Senor, my horse threw a shoe and we're just looking for a dry place to spend the night. I was wondering if you'll let us sleep in the barn."
He could hear whispering, and waited. Usually, he did his best to look older and dangerous, but this wasn't the time. Besides, it was hard to be menacing when you were soaked and shivering. Finally the man spoke again. "I don't recognize you."
"My name's Madrid. Just passing through, Senor." That name wouldn't mean anything, not up here. He stood in the rain while they whispered some more. The other voice was a woman's.
The man never did lower the shotgun. "Put your horse in the barn and then come to the house."
That surprised him. "I don't want to put you out," he objected. "Me and Caballo will be fine in the barn."
"No. If you wish to stay here, come to the house after you take care of the horse."
He hesitated. He never liked being told what to do, but he was so wet and cold. In the end, he trudged over to the barn, occupied by an old burro and a couple of milk cows, along with a mother cat and a litter of kittens. Did the farmer seriously think he'd steal a burro -- or a cow. Maybe the kittens? That would really add to his reputation, traveling around with a calico kitten.
He stripped off his serape and hung it on a peg to drip while he brushed the pinto, taking his time. It was warm in the barn and dry, and he hated the idea of going out in the rain again, even to cross the yard.
The woman opened the door this time, her eyes suspicious. The man sat in a chair by an open fireplace, his leg propped on a stool. The shotgun was still handy. Johnny pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and looked at the heavy splints on the man's leg and the crutches against the wall.
The woman relaxed a little once she got a good look at him, and began to scold. "Come inside, chico," she ordered. "You will catch your death of cold. Wipe your feet on the mat, give me your jacket to dry in the kitchen and go over by the fire with my husband."
The man watched him. "My name is Baldemero," he said at last.
"Johnny Madrid." The heat from the fire felt good. "I'm looking for a town named Morro Coyo, Senor Baldemero. Thought I'd come to it before dark from what a man told me in Bakersfield."
Baldemero frowned. "You passed the turnoff to Morro Coyo many miles ago, coming from the south. If someone waits for you there, they will be worried."
"Nobody's waiting." He held out his hands to the fire. Back home, it was bad manners, the kind that could get you killed, to question a stranger, but the rules could be flexible depending on who the stranger was and who was asking. And the indirect question -- well, that was a fine art, almost a game.
"My older brother owns the store in Morro Coyo," the man volunteered. "It is a good business, although I would not care to spend all day indoors myself."
"Me either," he agreed warily. He did not offer a piece of information in exchange. "This is a nice place."
"We like it," Baldemero agreed. "It is part of Rancho Lancer."
Shit. He knew it was close, but not that he was on it. His face must have shown something because Baldemero looked puzzled. "Is anything wrong, chico?"
"No," Johnny said.
Something clattered in the back room and he spun around, startled, but stopped himself from going for his gun. The woman emerged with a plate, which she set on the table. "We were finishing our supper when you came, and there is plenty of food for one more. Come and eat while it is hot."
He eyed the generous helping of beans and rice, and his stomach grumbled, but he didn't move. "Gracias, but you don't need to be feeding me, Senora."
"Sit down and eat," she ordered.
***
He could hear rumbling, wheezy snores from the next room, where the Baldemeros slept. Johnny yawned and stretched, too comfortable to get up just yet. He'd slept in their son's old bed, practically smothered in the blankets Senora Baldemero had heaped on it. Gabriel would be about his age, perhaps a little older, she said, but he'd died of fever when he was ten. They'd only had the one kid. She sighed and crossed herself, her face so sad that Johnny didn't argue when she insisted on brewing him a cup of hot, sweet tea that she said would help ward off a chill. She watched him drink it too, down to the last drop.
It had been a while since anyone fussed over him, or since he'd slept in a bed in somebody's house. He thought about that, his eyes half-closed. When he had the money -- and it was getting easier now to hire out -- he got a room at a cantina instead of camping. For some jobs, there was a bunkhouse. A few times, when things went real sour, he'd ended up in a jail cell or a doc's place. Johnny wrinkled his nose at a too recent memory of carbolic and rubbed his side. Some beds just felt safer than others, and smelled a whole lot better. This one wasn't fancy, but it felt good. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he wasn't the least bit worried about the Baldemeros. They were nice people.
He drifted back toward sleep until a creaking noise started up outside.
Senora Baldemero was filling a bucket of water at a screechy pump in the yard when he went out into a gray, foggy morning. Johnny took over that job, filled the woodboxes and did the barn chores while she gathered eggs and fed her chickens.
She was humming and chopping peppers when he returned to the house. When he set down the milk pails in the kitchen, she looked as if she was going to cry, or kiss him or something. He backed away and she smiled and poured him a cup of coffee.
"You are a good boy to help me," she said.
His face was warm. He dropped his head and took a gulp of the hot coffee, and then another because it tasted so good.
"It is difficult since my husband broke his leg," she explained. "An accident with the Patron's best bull. The doctor says he must keep it clean and stay out of the barn until it heals. It is good that we have the cows, and I make extra money from my queso, but Senor Baldemero usually does the milking. And the roan cow, she kicks."
He smiled at that, a real smile, not the one he used when he was trying to be especially menacing. "I noticed that. But can't you get anyone to help you? Your husband said he has a brother in Morro Coyo."
"Yes, but he and his son are busy with the store. And his wife would not like it. That one, she has grand ideas for her son and grandson, who is only a baby." Senora Baldemero sniffed.
Johnny hid this smile in his coffee cup, recognizing the tone from the feuds between the ladies in just about every place he'd ever lived with his mama. If you asked him, pistols, knives or fists were a whole lot quicker and cleaner than the way women used words to rip each other apart.
"Sounds like he's going to be out of work awhile," he said. "You know, I have some money. Let me pay you for letting me stay here last night, and for feeding me. I would've paid for a room anyway if I hadn't missed Morro Coyo."
"No, no." She waved the knife before putting it down and wiping her hands. "Senor Baldemero told you last night that we do not want your money. It would not be right to charge a guest for hospitality."
"You didn't invite me," he protested, but she shook her head.
"No. It is not our way." Senora Baldemero broke eggs into a bowl. "I will make you a good breakfast. Your mother, she must worry about you traveling alone."
He knew she was fishing, but she'd been good to him. "No," he said softly. "She's dead, has been awhile. It's just me."
"Ai, I am sorry." She looked it too as she traced a cross across her ample bosom. "Your papa is also gone?"
"Looks that way." Papa, for him, meant his stepfather, not the gringo bastard he didn't remember. But he was still mad enough at Gil so it didn't hurt as much. Mama might still be alive if Gil hadn't left them to play hero. "He went into the Texas army when the war started. They told Mama he went missing in a big fight and was most likely dead."
She shook her head. "You are too young to be on your own."
"Old enough," he protested. "I do fine."
She snorted and began to fry the peppers in a big iron skillet.
The sizzle and smell brought back sunny mornings in Texas after he and Mama went to live with Gil, and made him restless. "I should get going. I need to walk my pony until I get him to a smith. Is Morro Coyo the closest town?"
"Si, but there is a forge at the estancia, a mile across the pasture. I must go there this morning, after breakfast, and I will speak to Senor O'Brien about asking the smith to shoe your horse."
"I thought a man named Lancer owned the place."
"Oh, he does. Senor O'Brien is the segundo. He and his daughter have rooms in the hacienda and I look after them and do their sewing."
"You have to work? Since your husband got hurt?"
"I have worked there since the little Senorita O'Brien was a baby. There is not so much for me to do now that she is twelve, especially since they take most of their meals with the Patron, but I took care of her after her mother -- after she lost her mother."
"You don't mind?"
"Of course not. I like the work, and there is plenty of company there. It would be lonely to stay here by myself all day when my husband is working. Gabriel went with me when he was small, and later he went to school on the estancia. The Patron is a good man. He hired a teacher for all of the children on the ranch so they would learn to read and write and do sums."
Johnny finished his coffee. He didn't want to hear about how good the Patron was to other people's kids. "They probably just shoe their own horses on the ranch."
"Usually, but it is not a busy time of year and the smith is also a good friend of Senor Baldemero. I do not think they will say no."
He did want to see the place, but he figured on scouting it out from a distance.
She stirred the peppers in the pan and gave him a stern look. "If they say yes, it is better than walking ten miles to Morro Coyo, is it not?"
No question about that. He considered it for about two seconds, and let her fill up his coffee cup.
***
The fog was still thick when they left Senor Baldemero sitting by the fire with his bad leg propped up and a sour expression on his face. Johnny led his pinto, who carried a couple of baskets slung across his saddle for the senora. They left the burro in the barn.
Caballo tossed his head at the indignity of carrying baskets, and Johnny whispered to him. He couldn't say those words in the senora's hearing, but Caballo knew them well. He tossed his head again, and Johnny grinned at him and whispered another dire threat in his ear. Caballo snuffed out his breath and pretended he was an angel pony straight from heaven. For about two minutes.
Even through the clammy fog, the estancia took Johnny's breath away. He could see the towers first, and the solid adobe walls rising out of the mist. The place was like a castle, standing on lush green land beyond his experience or wildest dreams. Mama had said it was a big place, but he'd never thought she was telling the truth.
He stared at it through the fog, stunned, and his jaw hardened.
"Es muy grande, si?" Senora Baldemero beamed at him.
Johnny dragged his eyes off the house where he'd been born, the fucking big -- no, huge -- house with no room at all for his mother or him, and looked at her. He didn't have any words.
She sighed a little. "It is too early in the year for the rancho to be hiring for the spring," she said. "But I wish you could stay here, Johnny. It was good to cook for a boy again. I could speak to Senor O'Brien, or to the Patron and perhaps ..."
"No!" He stopped to catch his temper and his tongue before they ran away. "Thanks, but no. Somebody I know is working up near Stockton, and they might have a job for me." No need to tell her what kind of job.
She sighed again, heavier, but didn't push it. They walked the rest of the way to the ranch in silence.
O'Brien was a stocky, square-faced man with graying hair. He looked Johnny over, his eyes lingering on the low-slung holster and Colt, and didn't look too happy with what he saw, but still agreed to shoe the pinto when the senora asked him. "Tell the smith I said it was OK, boy."
"Appreciate it." Johnny had pulled his hat brim down so it shaded his eyes, and he'd let the senora do the talking. He lifted his chin a bit and kept his voice cool. "Should I pay him or you?"
O'Brien waved his hand. "No charge. Mr. Lancer pays the blacksmith's wages. You thank Mac for his trouble and that will be fine. The forge is over on the other side of the barn. You can't miss it."
Johnny nodded, although he didn't believe for a minute that the smith would turn down his money.
Someone called out to O'Brien, who moved off without ceremony. Senora Baldemero touched Johnny's arm.
"You will come and see me before you leave," she said. It wasn't a question. "I'll pack you some lunch."
He smiled at her. "I'll get fat if you keep feeding me."
"Hah." She poked his ribs. "Not anytime soon. You will come to see me and say goodbye. Promise me."
He hesitated for a moment, but he liked her. His mama hated the women at Lancer, but Senora Baldemero hadn't been there yet, not from what she'd said.
"Prometeme," she insisted.
He still hesitated, and her face fell. Dios, the woman looked like she was going to cry. "OK! OK. Te prometo."
"Good boy. The smith, Senor Mac, can be a difficult man. Perhaps I should go with you, and ..."
"No," he cut in. "Gracias, but I can handle the smith."
He stopped to watch a vaquero schooling a flashy colt in the big corral, and gathered himself. He wasn't a kid and he didn't need a mother or a father, not any more. It was stupid to let some old woman who missed her own kid get to him. She was ready to mother any stray who came along.
Johnny Madrid took a deep breath and pushed away Senora Baldemero, pushed away the cold and the damp and the tiredness that seemed to have seeped into his bones. He took another long look at the big house and let the flare of anger warm him. Then he led the pinto around the barn.
***
The blacksmith was putting new shoes on a big bay with a white blaze. He was practically a giant, taller than anyone that Johnny had ever seen. Sweat had soaked through the faded blue plaid shirt he wore above his leather apron and curled his gray hair. He held the hammer in a meaty fist, swiped his forehead with the back of his other sleeve and frowned at Johnny.
"Do I know you, young man? Are you one of the Ortega sons?"
"Nope," Johnny said. He didn't know or care who the Ortegas were. "My horse threw a shoe on the way to Morro Coyo and the foreman said it was OK to ask you to take care of it."
"He did, did he?" The smith swiped his forehead again. "Well, you'll have to wait until I'm done with Prince here and then I'll take a look."
Johnny led Caballo over to a hitching rail, well away from the bay. He watched for a few minutes while the smith fitted a hot shoe on the bay's right fore hoof. The man was pretty good at the job. He nailed the shoe into place with a few sure strokes, examined the hoof again and released it.
Bored, Johnny wandered over to the forge while the smith trimmed the bay's other fore hoof. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the huge, shaggy shape in a corner of the open shed, and his hand went to his gun.
"Don't even think about it." The smith had a deep voice. "Larkin won't bite if you behave. And I'll break you in two if you hurt a hair on his head."
Johnny didn't take his eyes off the animal. It was huge. "A wolf?"
"No, he's a deerhound. A Highland deerhound. He and his mate are the finest hunting dogs in all of California."
Now that he looked past the teeth, Johnny could see that the animal was skinnier than a wolf, skinnier and taller. "Deer hunting, huh?"
"Deer, wolf, coyote, jackrabbit. They can outrun them all."
"Yeah?" Johnny didn't believe it, but he squatted down to the dog's level. A long tail flapped on the ground and he could see dark brown eyes gleaming behind the hair. He still didn't offer his hand. "Hey," he said softly. The tail waved some more. The dog didn't get up, but it whined. "So where's the other one?"
"Kiltie had a litter of pups a few weeks ago. She's in the hacienda taking care of them."
Johnny's jaw dropped and he twisted around. "In the hacienda? You telling me that old bas... uh, that Lancer lets a dog live in the house?"
The smith straightened his back and looked at him curiously. "Aye, and why shouldn't he? His house, his dogs."
Johnny ducked his head and reached out to touch the dog, scratching behind its ears. Dios, he was an idiot, shooting his mouth off at the smith. It was like showing his hand before he made a bet. His fingers moved down the dog's spine. It wriggled with pleasure but still didn't move, not until the smith said a word to release it. Johnny looked up. It wasn't English or Spanish or any Indian language he'd ever heard.
"What was that?"
"Gaelic," the smith said. "He's from Scotland, and so am I. We both speak Gaelic."
Gil had made him do lessons for a few years with an old Englishwoman who lived in the village. He vaguely remembered that Scotland had something to do with sheep and kings. Neither interested him.
The smith picked up another one of the bay's hoofs and began to trim it. "Would you get me a rasp from the workbench?"
Johnny gave Larkin one more pat and rose to his feet. He picked out a rasp from the tools on the bench and handed it over.
"Thanks," the smith said, and began to smooth the bay's hoof. "When did your horse cast its shoe?"
"Yesterday." Johnny moved away from him, casually, not liking the way the smith loomed over him. The dog shook itself and trotted over to stand with him. Absently, he reached out to stroke it.
"It rained pretty hard yesterday and last night." The smith stopped to examine the hoof and then used the rasp again.
"It sure did." Johnny made a face, remembering it.
"Not a good night to be camping out," the smith observed.
"I stayed with some people named Baldemero. She's the one who asked the foreman about shoeing Caballo."
A small smile flickered across the smith's grim face. "Maria is a good woman. I bet she treated you well."
Johnny toed the ground with his boot. "Yeah, she did. It's not right that she's trying to do all their barn chores."
"What?" The smith stopped work abruptly.
"Senor Baldemero can't milk the cows with a busted leg. Shouldn't have to, either," Johnny added bitterly.
"Good lord, I never even thought about their dairy cows. She should have said something."
"Yeah, like your boss would care." Johnny glared at the house. "He probably cares more about those dogs."
"You don't give him much credit."
"I don't give anyone much credit." He kept his voice flat. "Saves a lot of disappointment."
"Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, young man. Lancer takes care of its own, and that includes the Baldemeros."
"Yeah, right."
"It is right, not that it's any of your business." The smith's smile had disappeared. "I admit that someone should have made sure they had everything they needed, but I'll take care of it before Maria goes home today. Now, if you'll pump the bellows, I'll finish with Prince and shoe your horse."
***
"That should do it," the smith announced at last. He'd finished the job in silence, apart from an occasional brusque order for Johnny to hold the damn pinto still.
Johnny petted Caballo, who never did like getting new shoes. Johnny couldn't blame him; he felt the same way whenever he grew out of his boots. But he had to admit that Caballo had been exceptionally restless this time, doing his best to kick or bite for the last few minutes. "Thanks, Mister," he said grudgingly and fished in his pocket for a coin.
The smith waved it away. "I don't want your money, boy."
"I pay my own way."
The smith just shook his head. "No." He had no budge in his voice, just a flat, definite no, and his face was about as readable as a rock. They glared at each other until the dog barked. They both turned to look.
The big dog had bounded off while the smith was busy with Caballo. Now he was over by a paddock, barking furiously at a live oak. A mare and a foal bunched up at the far end of the paddock, about as far from the tree as they could be.
"What the devil?" The smith strode toward the tree. Johnny followed until the man reached out and blocked him with one long arm.
"Hold on. Don't move."
A tawny mountain cat balanced on a branch about eight feet up, snarling at the dog. Larkin was going loco. He barked and jumped at the tree, ignoring the smith when he called.
"Go back to the house, on the double," the smith ordered. "Find one of the men and tell him to bring a rifle as quick as he can."
"No time for that." Johnny's Colt was already in his hand. He tried to duck past the smith, who grabbed his arm.
"You can't take down a mountain lion with a pistol. Do what I say."
Johnny tried unsuccessfully to pull free. "I can get him."
"Don't be a fool." The smith's eyes were on the dog. "Go, and hurry."
Johnny let the smith push him toward the house. He took a few steps before he spun around and brought his gun up, fanning it as the cat screeched and launched itself into the air. It hit the ground hard, twitched a few times and didn't move again. Gunsmoke hung in the air, as sharp as the sudden silence.
Johnny lowered his Colt but didn't holster it yet. He kept his eyes on the cat while the blacksmith grabbed the dog's collar and hauled it back.
"Stay there!" the smith said when Johnny took a step forward. Johnny kept going. "Damn it, don't you ever do as you're told?"
"Not too often." The cat had two bullet holes between its eyes, just where he meant to put them, and another that had grooved its face. Not perfect, but damn good shooting. Johnny allowed himself a smile, stepped back and emptied the three spent shells. "The dog's OK, right?"
"Never mind the dog," the smith stormed. "If you were my son, I'd make damn sure you never pulled that kind of stunt again. Do you realize that if you'd missed, the cat would have gotten you as well as the dog?"
Johnny shrugged, feeding fresh cartridges into his gun. "I don't usually miss."
"Drop that gun, boy!" He heard the unmistakable ratchet of a rifle lever behind his back and froze. Mierda, good shooting didn't matter if you were stupid enough to let someone walk right up on you.
The smith was still holding the dog's collar, but waved his free hand. "It's all right, Mac. No need for that."
"I heard shots, Boss."
Boss? Johnny hadn't moved, or dropped his gun either, but aimed a look at the smith.
"Mountain lion," the smith said to the man holding the rifle. "The boy shot it. Get another man and get the carcass out of here -- unless you want the skin, young man?"
Johnny shook his head, his brain busy. The foreman and Senora Baldemero both said the blacksmith's name was Mac. So why was this other man -- this other man named Mac -- calling him Boss?
"Go on, then, Mac. When you're done, you can have the forge back. I've finished shoeing Prince."
Mac was big too, with massive shoulders, just not as tall. "I'll take care of it, Mr. Lancer."
***
"I'm in your debt," Lancer said when the blacksmith, the real blacksmith, headed back to the house. "It was a damn fool thing to do, but a brave one and I'm grateful."
"Didn't do it for you." Johnny holstered the Colt, hoping his face was blank. His mind spun and he took a deep breath, forcing the thoughts down until later. He needed to play this cool, not give anything away. Dios, Mama never said his old man was a giant.
A small smile cracked the stony face. "Then Larkin is in your debt, and both of us thank you," he said. "At any rate, you certainly don't owe me anything for shoeing that pinto. I should pay you."
Johnny shook his head and took another deep breath, willing his voice to come out cool and quiet and, Madre de Dios, not crack. He'd just wanted to see the man, put a face on the hate -- but not this close, not close enough to be tempted to shoot the bastard and get hanged for it. He couldn't even slug him in the jaw. The rancher was too damn tall. "Call it even."
"It's not even," Lancer said. "That dog is worth a lot to me."
Yeah, the dog was clearly worth more to him than his wife or kid. It even got to live in the house. Johnny didn't begin to understand and he couldn't think about it now, couldn't let his fury take over and do something stupid. That was a fast way to get dead. Gil had drummed that into him, and he'd seen it often enough now in a fight. "So's Caballo," he flashed.
The giant studied him for a long minute. "If that's the way you want it, son."
The word flayed him, but he knew it didn't mean anything. He kept the flinch off his face, flatly refused to take any Lancer money and held Caballo to a trot as he rode out. He didn't look back. Out of sight of the buildings, he let the pinto go and thundered across the range in a breathless, mind clearing gallop.
It was much later in the afternoon when they entered Morro Coyo and headed for the cantina. It smelled glorious inside and his stomach rumbled as he sat down at a table. That's when he remembered he was supposed to stop to see Senora Baldemero. His conscience niggled at him until a girl in a thin white blusa and full red skirt brought him a beer, a plate of enchiladas and a tantalizing smile. She leaned in close as she put the plate down, brushing up against him.
Johnny's mood brightened instantly.
***
"You wanted to see me, Patron?" Senora Baldemero knew the big dog snoozing on the rug was not fierce, but that was not necessarily true of Senor Lancer. She approached the desk timidly. She had heard about the mountain lion, of course, and the young stranger who shot it dead. It didn't surprise her that Johnny hadn't stopped to see her, although she wished he had. She knew boys, and had no doubt that the cat and the Patron's reward for saving his dog had driven any thought of her from his head.
Murdoch Lancer looked up from his ledger. "Yes, I did. I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Walt Clark. He or his son will go over to your place every morning and evening to milk your cows and take care of anything else that needs doing until your husband is back on his feet. I don't want you chopping wood or trying to do the barn chores. If you need anything, anything at all, just tell Walt."
Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her breast. "Oh! Gracias, Senor."
He waved his hand. "It's only right. He got hurt doing his job. If Cipriano and Elena weren't away, they would have told me, but I didn't think ... and I'm sorry."
She stared at him, surprised into objecting to what he said. "But you have been good to us, Patron. Perdon, but to pay his wages when he cannot work, and for the doctor too ... it is not necessary to do anything else."
"Yes, it is." His voice was gruff. "I don't appreciate hearing that I've been neglecting my responsibilities from a boy, but I'm glad he told me."
"Johnny?" She was shocked. "He said something to you?"
"Johnny?" He stared at her for a moment. "Is that his name? I didn't realize until he rode away that he'd never told me his name."
She nodded. "Si. He is a good boy, Senor, and helped me this morning, but he should not have said anything to you."
His mouth twisted. "He's a little too handy with a six-shooter to be a good boy, Maria. It's your business, of course, and it worked out this time, but you might want to be careful about taking in a stranger like that."
"It was so wet outside, and he is so young," she explained. "I thought of my Gabriel. I would not want him to be sleeping in a barn, or going without his supper."
"I see." He looked down at the desk for so long that she thought he had forgotten she was in the room, but she could not leave until he dismissed her. When he looked up again, he had an odd expression on his face. "This boy -- Johnny. Do you know anything more about him? Where he came from or why he's apparently on his own?"
"Texas, I think. His parents are dead."
"Parents? Both of them?" His voice was sharp.
"Si. He told me his father went to fight in the war, and the army told his mama that he was lost in a battle. Then she died too."
The intense look faded from his face and he slumped back in his chair. She did not understand, but it was not for her to question the Patron. Perhaps he was thinking of his own sons. Her husband did not work for Senor Lancer then, but everyone in the valley knew about the faithless Senora Lancer who ran away with their child. The Patron also had another son, his first wife's son, but that one lived far away in the East with his abuelo and no one at the ranch had ever seen him.
"That war is destroying a lot of families. Ironic, that we're tearing each other to shreds to try to preserve the Union." Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when he spoke again. Whatever he had been thinking, it was gone from his face. "Thank you, Maria. You'd better be getting home."
In the morning, a burst of color caught her attention when she opened the door onto the porch. A bouquet of bright wildflowers rested on a board that covered two milk pails. She bent to pick up the flowers, puzzled, and peeked under the board. The milk pails were full.
Senor Clark had come to take care of the cows the night before and promised to return in the morning, but she could not imagine that he had ever picked a flower in his life, or why he would present any to her if he did. Senor Baldemero would not like it. Perhaps his son ... but the young Walt was as plain and serious as his father. A hard-working boy, but he had no spark in him at all.
She was still considering the flowers when a man rode into the yard.
"Morning, Miz Baldemero," he said, touching his hat.
"Buenos dias, Senor Clark," she said, even more puzzled.
His eyes rested on the milk pails. "You haven't already gone and milked them cows, have you? I told you I'd be here first thing in the morning."
"No, I didn't." Light dawned on her, and she smiled at the flowers. So Johnny had thought of her after all. "It was someone we know who was passing by. I am sorry, Senor, that you came over here for nothing."
"Oh, that's all right," he said. "No trouble. You tell Gaspar that I said hello and maybe I'll get a chance to visit with him for a few minutes tonight."
"I will, gracias," she promised.
EpilogueAfter the battle with the land pirates, Murdoch Lancer spent as much time as he could at his second son's bedside. They hadn't talked yet -- the doctor was keeping John sedated so he wouldn't thrash around and pull out the stitches -- but it felt like a miracle to sit in the room and just watch the boy sleep in his own bed. Asleep, minus the anger and the attitude, he looked so much younger than the gunfighter who'd arrived a few days ago. Meanwhile, Scott had taken charge of cleanup and repairs with brisk military efficiency. That was another miracle. His older son wasn't the useless city boy that Murdoch thought when he first saw him.
On the third night, after the doctor began to cut back on the laudanum, Johnny was restless, mumbling in Spanish and English. Murdoch brushed back the sweep of dark hair and rested his hand on a warm forehead. "I wish you'd shake that fever, son," he said aloud, and was surprised when Johnny blinked and opened his eyes.
"Hello there." Murdoch reached for the glass waiting on the table. Johnny gulped a few swallows of water before Murdoch eased him onto the pillow again.
"It's good to see you awake. Do you remember what happened?"
There was a long pause. "Yeah," he finally said. He looked up at Murdoch with blurred eyes. "Big dog OK?"
His heart sank. After everything that had happened, he couldn't believe John's first question was about Day Pardee. "What?"
"Larkin."
Murdoch stared at him, not sure he'd heard right. "Larkin?" he repeated.
"Did the cat get him too?"
"How do you know about ... " He broke off abruptly and dredged up the memory of a brash, defiant boy who'd saved his favorite deerhound from a mountain lion. Dear Lord, was it five years ago? Six? Larkin and Kiltie had lived to what counted as old age for deerhounds, but they'd been gone for a long time.
"Sorry," Johnny breathed. "Thought I could get it."
"You did." Murdoch checked Johnny's temperature again. He was definitely warm, but the fever really wasn't that bad. Maybe the laudanum was muddling him. "You did, John. The cat didn't touch Larkin."
"Where is he?" Johnny's eyes were heavy, weighted down by long, dark lashes. He blinked again. "You -- did you kick him out too?"
"Of course not." He was already reeling, and the question stunned him. "Is that what you think of me?"
There was no answer. Not fully aware in the first place, Johnny had drifted off to sleep again.
THE END
Whistle, October 2011