Lancer stories by Whistle

Reluctant Californian (AR)

This story is a sequel to an earlier story, Improper Bostonian.

***

It was a glorious afternoon in early October. The leaves were changing over to red and orange, and the city looked cleaner than usual under the vivid sky. The air was crisp. It held just enough of a hint of winter's bite to be refreshing after a long Indian summer. Sunlight burnished the State House dome. The rest of Boston seemed golden too, cast in its best light.

Dr. Nathaniel Cobb strolled across the Common on his way home from a call. He looked forward to a peaceful evening.

He picked up the mail from the table in the front hall as he came in and headed for the sitting room, where his wife greeted him with a smile. He poured himself a drink and sank into his favorite chair, sorting idly through the mail. One envelope, torn and dirty, looked like it had traveled a long way. He tore that one open first.

The eager look in his eyes faded as he read its contents, and his shoulders sagged.

"Is something wrong, dear?" Mrs. Cobb asked.

"It's from Sam Jenkins. You remember him?"

She paused, just for a moment. "The doctor from California, the one who was here this summer with Scott and Johnny Lancer's father? Of course I do. I hope they reached home safely. I know you've been waiting to hear from them."

"Well, Sam and Murdoch are home now."

"What about Johnny?" She looked alarmed. "He's all right, isn't he? He didn't have a relapse on the way home?"

"No," Nathaniel said. "He didn't have a relapse. Sam says the trip did him a lot of good. He wasn't seasick at all and he loved Jamaica. They stopped over for a few weeks to give Johnny a break from traveling and let him get some sunshine on the beaches. He was running around again, almost as if nothing had happened, by the time they left for Panama. Sam says his arm healed beautifully and the headaches practically disappeared."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Johnny ran away from them in San Diego."

"What? Where is that?"

"It's in California, near Mexico. The steamer stops there before heading north to San Francisco. Johnny gave them the slip and went over the border. They tracked him to a Mexican town named Tijuana and then lost him completely."

"He's still missing?" Mrs. Cobb's face was horrified. "An eleven-year-old boy?

"I'm afraid so." Nathaniel sighed. "Murdoch called in the Pinkertons right away to look for him, but they haven't had any luck so far. He and Sam searched too, but they finally decided it was no use and headed for home."

"Oh, Nat. Why would he run away from them? He's too young to be on his own."

"I don't know. Johnny has a mind of his own, and he's at least as stubborn as his father and brother. I guess he just couldn't accept that his mother lied to him."

"Miranda Forbes is going to be so upset."

Miranda Forbes was going to be furious. Nathaniel thought it was fortunate for Murdoch and Sam that they were on the other side of the continent, out of the range of her wrath when she heard the news.

"I wonder if Scott knows," Jane said.

"They've written to him, of course, but there's no telling when the letter will reach him. I know he was somewhere in Virginia the last time Miranda heard from him."

"She told me Harlan is still angry that Scott left the general's staff and volunteered for the front lines."

"He's a damn fool," the doctor said. "He should have known that boy wouldn't be content to spend the war running errands. If Harlan hadn't stuck his finger in the pie, maybe none of this would have happened. Scott might have gone to California with his father and brother, and Johnny might not have run away. They'd both be safe, or a lot safer, anyway."

"He'll never admit that."

"I don't know," Nathaniel said. "Maybe not to anyone else, but I think even Harlan has his doubts about what he did. He and Scott had words, you know, before Scott left. The boy and his father finally did talk, and he had some questions afterward for his grandfather."

"I should think so." She jabbed her needle angrily into the tapestry she was stitching.

"Harlan really does love his grandson, probably more than anything else in the world," Nathaniel said. "I think he honestly believed that everything he did was for Scott's own good."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No." Nathaniel folded up his letter and replaced it in the envelope, tapping the edges to straighten it. "It doesn't make it right. But it's too late now. It's done."

***

The doctor came down the stairs slowly, holding onto the long, curved banister. He was beginning to feel his age. He crossed the familiar foyer and looked into a paneled library. Another older man sat by himself in a chair by the fire, brooding. He lifted his head as the doctor came in.

"Well?"

Nathaniel Cobb took a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "He's resting," he said. "I managed to slip him a sleeping powder, although he won't thank me for it."

"No," the other man agreed, the lines on his face deepening. "He won't thank you for anything."

"Harlan, it's been almost two years since Scott came home. This can't go on."

"What do you suggest, Nathaniel?"

"Physically, he's recovered from his injuries. But he needs something to get his mind off the war and on with his life."

"You don't think I've tried?"

"I know you have." Nathaniel sighed and watched the flames flicker on the hearth for a few minutes. "Lord knows, we both have. But maybe there's nothing in Boston that will do the trick."

"I suggested that we tour Europe. He refused."

"I had something different in mind."

"What's that?"

Nathaniel rubbed his face. He didn't really know if this was a good idea but he had run out of ideas to reach the promising young man he'd watched grow up. Scott Lancer had come home from the war with a shattered leg and an even more fragile state of mind. Nathaniel did what he could to heal the badly broken leg and it was far better than he had dared to hope the first time he saw it. Nothing had worked to heal the other injuries, the ones that weren't as obvious. Scott could walk and ride again. He barely limped any more and didn't really need to carry the cane he'd used for months. It was no more than a prop now for an angry, haunted young man who seemed to want to hit back and hurt the world as badly as it had hurt him.

Scott had defied just about every convention in Boston since he got back on his feet. Nathaniel knew Harlan was at his wit's end and didn't blame him. Just the other day, an irate father had accosted Harlan in the club and told him loudly to keep that young wastrel away from his daughter. Scott was once one of the best catches in Boston. But that wasn't true any more. The parents of debutantes could see the train was off track and headed for a deadly crash. Everyone could.

The crash had nearly taken place the night before, and all too literally. Scott and some of his new friends had decided to borrow a cab when they emerged from a waterfront dive. Scott drove the cab through Beacon Hill's narrow streets at breakneck speed while his friends shrieked and hollered drunken insults. Lights began to come on all over the hill, roused from its staid slumber at an ungodly hour.

Somehow, only the horses were seriously injured when he took a corner too quickly and overturned the cab, spilling all of them out. The police had already been chasing the stolen cab and quickly took charge. If someone hadn't recognized the dazed young driver as Harlan Garrett's grandson, Scott would have landed in the Charles Street jail. As it was, Nathaniel knew the police had warned Harlan this was positively the last time they'd bring Scott home. He was a danger to others, as well as to himself. Harlan had paid off the irate cabbie and had probably scattered some largesse in the police officers' beefy hands as well. Nathaniel arrived at sunrise, which wasn't so long after the police departed, to treat the cuts and bruises and to make sure there wasn't anything worse involved.

"I've been wondering if maybe it would help if he visited his father's ranch," Nathaniel said slowly.

"What?" Harlan's pale blue eyes widened. "No, Nat. Absolutely not."

"Harlan, this isn't all about the war. It really started five years ago when Murdoch came here to get Johnny. Scott hasn't been the same since, and you know it. He took every kind of reckless chance during the war, and he's doing the same thing now that he's home again. He's throwing his life away."

"And so you think I should send him to a place where men casually wear guns on the street and use them too?" Harlan's tone was acerbic. "He can't even manage to stay out of trouble in Boston, and you want me to send him out west?"

"I want you to send him to his father," Nathaniel said. "He should have gone with him five years ago."

Harlan stared at him. "What do you think Murdoch Lancer can do for him that I haven't?"

"I don't know, Harlan. I do know you've tried everything, and it's not working."

The door opened and the butler carried in a tray. Harlan was silent while the man poured coffee. He waited until the door closed again before he spoke. "Scotty will come around, Nat. He's a young man, and he's just sowing a few wild oats. You'll see."

"It's more than that and you know it," Nathaniel replied. "Harlan, please. Don't make the same mistake all over again."

***

"You must be joking." Scott took another sip of coffee and stared at his grandfather, who had invaded his bedroom at noon.

"I'm quite serious," Harlan said. "Nathaniel thinks it's a good idea as well. In fact, he suggested it."

Scott laughed. "I'm not surprised at Nathaniel. He always was a sentimental old fool. You, on the other hand, are hardly sentimental, Grandfather. You can't really think that running to daddy is going to make it all better."

"Scott, do you have any idea what it cost me this morning to keep you out of jail - and the newspapers too?"

"I don't know and I don't care. I do wonder, which would be the worse as far as you're concerned?" Scott looked up at his grandfather, his mouth twisting. "No, now that I think of it, I don't wonder that much. I'd bet on the newspapers."

"Scott!"

Scott sighed inwardly. He didn't know, really, why he couldn't seem to resist taunting his grandfather. But he didn't intend to apologize either.

"California is not in the cards," he said. "For one thing, aren't you the one who told me that I should finish school? At least, this time?"

"You're failing all of your classes," Harlan said. "I doubt very much if you're going to reap any benefit from finishing the term. You may not even be allowed to finish."

Scott didn't have anything to say to that. It was true. He returned to the original subject of the conversation. "I am not interested in traveling to California."

"You're not interested in much of anything these days, Scotty. I think you should go."

"No," Scott said flatly. "I'm twenty-two years old now, Grandfather. Not a child you can manipulate, even if you still insist on calling me by that childish name. I'll go where I please, and do what I want, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"Scotty - Scott - it's for your own good."

"We've already tried that, remember? Not again, thank you very much."

A flush rose on Harlan's face. "I arranged for a safe assignment for you."

"You arranged for me to spend the war as a goddamn message boy. No, Grandfather, I've had quite enough of your arrangements." Scott set his cup down with a bang and flung back the bedcovers. He hadn't bothered to put on a nightshirt and was pleased to see that it shocked his grandfather. He gave the older man a mocking smile. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'm not quite decent."

Scott's anger lasted him all the way through his bath. He got dressed slowly, not sure how he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon. He could run over to Cambridge and look in on his classes, he supposed, but Grandfather was right and there was little point.

He left the house and wandered toward the Common. It was a pleasant day, warmer than usual for winter in Boston. Perhaps he'd rent a horse at the livery and go for a ride. Maybe it would clear the last of Nat Cobb's cursed sleeping powder from his brain, and banish his lingering headache. Once, he would have been tempted to go out to his godmother's estate in Chestnut Hill and take a ride in the country, but he wasn't anxious to see Aunt Miranda.

He paused, watching as a gang of small boys raced across the stubby grass. The one in the lead outpaced the others easily and made an extra circuit around the Frog Pond. It reminded Scott of something, although he couldn't think quite what.

He caught a glimpse of an exuberant, teasing grin, and then he remembered. Johnny. It would be five years this summer since he had watched his younger brother run around the Frog Pond during their first excursion into the city. Johnny was eleven then. He'd be sixteen now, if he were even still alive.

It wasn't likely. The odds were stacked against an eleven-year-old boy fending for himself. Most likely, Johnny hadn't made it to his sixteenth birthday. He might not have made it to his twelfth.

Scott wondered idly if his father was still looking for the boy, or if he'd finally given up. The rancher had written a few times, but Scott had never bothered to answer his letters, not after he let Johnny get away. Eventually, the letters stopped.

Murdoch had probably given up on Johnny too, long ago.

Scott's anger stirred, as it did so easily these days over nothing at all. It actually felt good to have something to be angry about, something he could actually do something about. Maybe he would go to California after all and tell his father exactly what he thought of him.

Johnny had wanted to shoot Murdoch for what he thought the rancher had done to his mother. Scott had seen and done enough shooting since then to last him a lifetime. But he certainly wouldn't mind punching the rancher in the face.

His mouth twitched. He didn't think this was what Nathaniel had in mind when he suggested the trip. But it would do. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

And maybe, while he was in California, he would visit the border, just on the chance that he could find some trace of what had happened to a blue-eyed boy.

***

"You can't be serious." Sam Jenkins stared at the tall rancher. "Johnny Madrid?"

Murdoch nodded, his face glum. "They say there's no doubt about it."

"I've heard of Madrid," Sam said. "He has to be older than your Johnny, Murdoch. It's not possible."

"Don't you think I wish they were wrong?" Murdoch slumped lower in his chair. "I've prayed they would finally find him, but I never expected this, Sam."

"Johnny Madrid." Sam tried to wrap his mind around the idea. He remembered a small boy with a contagious smile and mischief in his eyes. Johnny had a temper, no doubt about that, but a killer for hire? He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. Madrid was quickly making a name for himself as a fast, deadly young gun. It had never occurred to Sam, reading about his exploits in the newspapers, that he might be quite this young. He looked at his friend. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Murdoch said slowly, his head down.

"Do you want him to come home?"

"I always have." Murdoch made a helpless gesture with his hand. "But Johnny Madrid, Sam. I don't know."

"Damn." Sam thought back five years. "I wish we hadn't let him get away from us."

"It was my fault, not yours," Murdoch said. "Only, I thought he had finally come around and believed his mother ran away, not that I wanted to get rid of the two of them. I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"I did too."

"He knows where the ranch is," Murdoch said. "He could have come home before now."

"You're not going to send for him." It wasn't a question. Sam knew Murdoch well, and he could read the decision on the rancher's face. Murdoch wasn't happy about it and neither was Sam, not exactly. But it made sense. You might as well invite a stick of dynamite into your fireplace. You'd have just about as much chance of a peaceful life.

"I can't." Murdoch stared at his boots. "I have responsibilities, Sam, to the ranch and the people who live and work there. I have responsibilities to my neighbors. What would any of them say if I invited my son the notorious gunfighter to ride into the valley? My god, I know exactly what I'd say if one of the neighbors brought Johnny Madrid here."

"He's Johnny Lancer too," Sam pointed out.

"Not any more. He made his choice, Sam."

That left a sour taste in Sam's mouth, even though he thought he agreed with Murdoch's decision. It was the sensible decision, a lot more sensible than the alternative. But Johnny was only eleven years old when he ran away from them in San Diego, on their way home from Boston. Sam was surprised at the time and he still didn't understand it. He didn't have any idea of what that boy was thinking. Years after the fact, it still baffled him.

And whatever he was thinking, Johnny wasn't old enough to make that kind of decision. He still wasn't old enough.

"You don't agree?" Murdoch was watching Sam's face.

"Yes, of course I do," Sam said crossly. "It's just, well, I wish I knew why."

"He didn't seem unhappy, did he?" Murdoch said wistfully. "I know he was missing Scott, but I thought he enjoyed the trip."

Sam thought of a thin boy dashing in and out of the waves on a Jamaican beach, laughing when one of them caught him and knocked him down. Johnny was happy, once the cast finally came off his arm and Sam eased some of the restrictions on his activities. He'd easily made friends among the crew and passengers on the steamer when they left the island. The forbidding captain had even succumbed to that cheeky grin.

Sam could still conjure up their last night in Jamaica. Johnny had picked up some healthy color playing on the beach, and his eyes were luminous. Murdoch and Sam had arrived in Boston just after he fractured his skull in an accident, and they had met an invalid, not the bundle of energy who emerged in Jamaica. Miranda Forbes told them what to expect once Johnny was stronger, but it was still a surprise. The hotel served dinner on the beach that last night, lit a bonfire and brought in musicians. Johnny played tag with the other children and asked what seemed like a thousand questions until he finally fell asleep on the sand as the bonfire burned down to embers and the tide took it. It was a good night.

The days and nights that followed, as they sailed for Panama and crossed the isthmus to board another steamer, were good too. Sam remembered watching dolphins leap effortlessly off the bow and grabbing Johnny's belt when he leaned impulsively over the rail to see them better.

What had happened? Murdoch and Johnny had a few battles of will, but they also had a pillow fight one morning in the cabin they shared. They'd both been helpless with laughter when Sam stuck his head in to find out what was going on.

And then, in San Diego, Johnny had just disappeared while they were watching a fiesta in the plaza. One minute he'd been standing next to Murdoch, watching the dancers, and the next he was gone.

They'd asked themselves the same question, many times, over the last five years. And the answer was always the same.

"I don't know, Murdoch," Sam said. "I just don't know."

***

Scott disembarked in San Diego, his lip curling. By now, he knew better than to expect a city at every steamer stop, but he had expected more than this from the first stop in California.

The ragtag buildings clustered around a dusty open plaza. It certainly wasn't a city, or even much of a town. Scott watched as a barefoot boy wandered through the plaza, driving some goats with a stick. Chickens scratched in the dirt, and the inhabitants apparently drew their household water in buckets from a common supply in the plaza.

How in the world could their father lose Johnny in this sleepy little place?

"Is there a hotel?" he asked the agent who was checking the steamer's cargo. The man hooked a thumb at a two-story building with a rickety porch.

The hotelkeeper didn't even show him to his room, just handed him a key and instructions to jiggle the lock if it stuck. "First door on the right at the top of the stairs."

The room overlooked the plaza. The wallpaper was faded and the bed sagged, although it certainly wasn't under the weight of the limp, nearly threadbare bedclothes. The water pitcher was empty when he went to wash. He grimaced, annoyed, and went back downstairs.

"You could've brought it down with you," the proprietor grumbled. "Save us a trip."

"That is hardly my concern," Scott said icily.

The proprietor opened a door and hollered. A young Mexican girl appeared and ran up the stairs for the pitcher. Scott watched idly as she crossed the plaza and filled it.

She was halfway back to the hotel when the pitcher shattered in her hand. She dove for cover as the gunfire continued. Half a dozen men on horseback rode around the plaza, discharging their guns and hollering. The girl had crawled behind a wall and disappeared.

"Hey!" The hotelkeeper grabbed at Scott as he headed for the door. "Are you crazy? Stay inside, Mister."

"But the girl," Scott began.

"She's fine," the hotelkeeper said. "She got away. You won't. And you ain't paid me yet for your room."

"Who are those men?" Scott asked as another burst of gunfire sounded.

"Pistoleros. The big one, Santana, is the top dog around here. Him and his gang hire out their guns to whoever's willing to pay. They mostly hang out in Tijuana, on the other side of the border, but they come over here to raise a little hell too. You better stay out of their way, if you know what's good for you."

"The local police don't do anything to maintain order?"

"The what?"

"The police." Scott looked at the man's whiskered face. "Surely you have some law enforcement?" He reached into his memory of the dime novels he'd read. "A sheriff, perhaps?"

"Well, there's a federal marshal, but he don't stop by too often. He'd be outgunned if he did."

Another shot sounded and one of the front windows shattered. The hotelkeeper scowled. "Dammit. I just repaired that dang glass."

There was one more volley of gunfire before the pistoleros disappeared into a ramshackle building the hotelkeeper identified as the local saloon. The Mexican girl came in through the back, apparently undisturbed by her adventure, and went out again to fetch more water.

"I'll go with you," Scott offered, but the hotelkeeper shook his head.

"Ain't no need for it," he said. "Santana and his boys will have their snouts in their glasses by now and won't come up again until the tequila runs dry."

Scott returned to his room with another pitcher, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. He'd read about the Wild West, but hadn't believed the stories had much truth to them. He wondered, more than ever, what had happened to his brother. He could just imagine Johnny getting himself into the middle of whatever excitement was going on.

He sighed and stretched out on the bed to rest. He'd packed a derringer into his bag back in Boston, but perhaps he needed to purchase something more powerful before he traveled to Tijuana tomorrow. He preferred a rifle, but hadn't bothered to purchase one for the journey. It had been nearly three years since he last fired a gun. Three years now since his capture. He pushed those thoughts away firmly, and closed his eyes.

***

The stage was appalling. Scott braced himself as the coach careened to a stop, and peered out the window. He didn't think they were supposed to stop again until late in the afternoon. He heard voices. The driver had apparently stopped along the road to pick someone up. He heard someone say something about a horse with a broken leg, and catching a ride to the next town.

The door opened, and the new passenger fell in, sprawling across the seat as the stage began to move again.

"Sorry," he said, looking up with a crooked smile.

Scott's jaw dropped as he looked into his brother's blue eyes. It had to be Johnny. No one else had eyes that color. This boy was older, of course, not a little boy at all. But the unruly dark hair was right too, and the handsome features. Even the crooked smile was right.

"Johnny?" he said, his mouth dry. "Is it really you?"

The blue eyes surveyed him coolly. The smile had vanished. "Don't know you, Mister."

"It's Scott. Johnny, I'd know you anywhere." Scott stared at his little brother. He couldn't believe it. He hadn't been able to find any trace of his brother in Tijuana, which was even smaller, dustier and meaner than San Diego. He hadn't even found many people willing to admit they spoke a word of English. On the advice of the hotelkeeper, he hired a man to translate and to watch his back, but they had no luck with any of their enquiries. Frustrated, he finally boarded the next steamer for San Francisco, followed by a series of stagecoaches to the San Joaquin Valley. Johnny was just about the last person he expected to tumble onto the stage, just a day away from their father's ranch.

The boy's face was remote. "Don't know you and don't want to." He settled in the corner of the stage and tilted his hat down over his face, hiding his eyes.

Scott couldn't get another word out of him. Johnny either slept or pretended to sleep all the way to the next town. He grabbed his saddle and a worn pair of saddlebags from the top of the stage and headed for the saloon without even acknowledging Scott's existence.

Scott took a few long strides after him and grabbed his arm. "Johnny, listen." His voice faded away as the barrel of a Colt poked into his ear, and the boy drew back the hammer.

"You listen," Johnny hissed. "I don't know who you are and I ain't interested. Back off and leave me alone. Comprende?"

Scott hadn't even noticed the movement when the boy drew the gun, not until it was too late. Johnny released him, still holding the Colt. The blue eyes were ice cold.

"A lot of people have been worried about you," Scott said, beginning to get angry.

"No need," Johnny said. "Get lost, Boston. Next time you bother me, I'll shoot you."

Scott watched, stunned, as the boy holstered his gun and disappeared into the saloon without a backward glance.

He eventually followed and looked around the dim, crowded room. It took a few minutes to locate his brother, who had chosen a seat up against the wall at the far end of the room. A bottle stood on the table in front of him.

Scott started to pick his way across the room but he hadn't made it far when a voice rang out. "Madrid!"

The buzz of voices in the room stopped abruptly. Scott looked around, bewildered, as people began to get up and leave. A tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a dirty gray and brown poncho, faced his brother. Two other men flanked the tall man, a step behind. Their hands hovered over their guns. Johnny hadn't moved. His body was still relaxed, his chair tipped back against the wall, but his eyes were alert.

"Madrid, I been waiting for the chance to put you in the ground."

"Yeah?" Johnny looked up. His voice was bored. "You think you got what it takes, Coleman? You or your brothers?"

"You little bastard," Coleman hissed. "I'm going to enjoy shutting that smart mouth of yours."

A smile played on Johnny's mouth. "Doubt it."

Coleman swore again. "Get up and make your move, boy. If you got the guts."

Johnny's smile grew. He brought his chair down and stood, still relaxed. "You sure you want to do this, Coleman?"

"Draw, damnit!"

Johnny shook his head slightly. "You first."

Scott had stopped breathing. He watched, frozen, as the tall man grabbed for his gun. Johnny's Colt appeared in his hand, faster than Scott would have believed possible. He fired, diving to the left as a shot shattered the bottle on his table. The sound of gunfire filled the room. Scott's ears were ringing when the acrid smoke cleared. He searched desperately for his brother and found him stepping casually up to the bar. The three men were sprawled on the floor. Blood seeped out of a hole in Coleman's forehead. He twitched once and went still. The other two men weren't ever going to make another move either.

"Tequila," Johnny drawled to the bartender, as the man lifted his head cautiously from behind the counter. He flipped a coin across the bar. "Guess you better keep the change to clean up the mess."

***

Scott didn't punch his father in the face when he climbed off the stage in Morro Coyo the next afternoon and found the tall rancher waiting for him. He was still in shock from what he'd seen the day before.

He'd seen men die before, too many men, during the war. He'd seen other boys, not much older, become blank-faced killers. But Johnny was his little brother. His mind couldn't make the leap from the eleven-year-old he'd last seen in Boston, five years ago, to the cool gunman.

Johnny had taken his new bottle of tequila and walked out of the saloon, ignoring Scott completely. He was nowhere to be found when Scott pulled himself together and went looking. The man at the livery stable told him Madrid had ridden out. He also advised him to stay away from the gunfighter if he didn't want to end up dead.

"They say he's already killed twenty men, and I believe it," the old man said, spitting. "Twenty-three now, not that the Coleman brothers are any loss."

Scott didn't take the stable hand's advice. He hired a horse and headed out of town too, determined to talk to his brother, but he couldn't find Johnny. The boy had disappeared in the barren landscape. Scott finally rode back to the town, unable to think of anything else he could do.

"He acted like he didn't even know me," he told his father and Sam Jenkins the next afternoon in the doctor's office, where they went to talk. "I know it's been nearly five years and he was only a child, but I didn't think he'd forget me completely."

Murdoch looked at the doctor. "Sam? Could he have lost his memory?"

Sam frowned. "It's possible, I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "Another blow on the head, especially if it happened back when he was still recovering from that skull fracture, could have serious results. Amnesia is one of them."

"Maybe Johnny didn't really mean to run away," Scott said. "Maybe he hit his head somehow and just didn't remember us. That might explain why he's using another name."

"Maybe," Sam said. He didn't look fully convinced.

"We have to find him." Scott's voice held no doubt.

Murdoch hesitated. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean?" Some of Scott's resentment returned as he stared at his father.

"Johnny is a gunfighter," Murdoch said slowly. "If it's true that he doesn't even remember us, it's even more dangerous to approach him. You're lucky he didn't shoot you."

"Johnny is a sixteen-year-old boy and he's my brother. I don't believe he'd hurt me."

Murdoch shook his head. "I can't take the chance. He's gone bad, Scott."

"Whose fault is that?" Scott scowled at his father. Maybe his original plan had been the best one. But that was childish. He sighed, feeling his anger slip away from him. It was all he'd had, for so long, all he dared to feel since the first time he looked a young Confederate soldier in the eye on the battlefield, and failed to squeeze the trigger.

The southerner was desperately young, about Johnny's age, but he fired his rifle when Scott hesitated. And he didn't hit Scott. He hit Scott's best friend.

One moment, Sterling Crocker was standing next to Scott, swearing, shooting and making wisecracks. And the next, he was gone, practically cut in half. His green eyes, still open, looked faintly surprised. As the memory rose, Scott dropped his head and the argument with his father.

It was much later, as he continued to replay the previous day's events in his mind, that he remembered something else. Johnny had called him Boston when they got off the stage. He didn't remember saying anything to the boy about Boston.

He sighed and walked to one of the windows. It looked out over the range to the west, where the sun was sinking into the horizon. He could hear cattle lowing somewhere, not far away. The ranch was beautiful, more so than he'd ever imagined. He hadn't been prepared for anything like the large adobe house with its massive arched walls. Inside, it was quiet, an oasis from the glare and bustle of the yard. The floors were tile and wood, and books lined one wall of the big room downstairs. It was a comfortable house, far more casual than his grandfather's home in Boston, but hardly rough. Scott didn't know what it was like when his parents first came here but he'd quickly revised his mental picture of his mother struggling with life in a hovel.

Of course, Grandfather had never actually visited the ranch. He had met his daughter on the road between the ranch and San Francisco, and that's where he formed his firsthand impressions of California. Scott wasn't impressed either, twenty-two years later, by some of the ramshackle little towns the stage had bounced through.

It had rolled, without stopping, through the town where his mother died. It was virtually a ghost town now, the driver said. Scott wouldn't even have known it except he saw a faded sign on the burned shell of what had once been a store, and asked at the next stop.

Scott's eyes moved to some riders crossing the range, coming up fast on the hacienda. He couldn't get over how much land there was out here, miles of wild, empty land. The sky looked bigger somehow, and he felt smaller. It had taken them nearly two hours to reach the house from Morro Coyo, riding in a buckboard, and they'd been on Lancer land most of the time.

His father hadn't had much to say during the drive to the ranch. Scott didn't mind. He didn't have much to say either. When his anger drained away, he felt as empty as the land.

***

Johnny had holed up in some rocks, not far outside the town where he'd threatened his brother and killed three men in the saloon. A little while later, he watched while his brother passed by on the road. When Scott was out of sight, he leaned back and took an absent swig from the bottle of tequila. No, he reminded himself. Not your brother. It was nice while it lasted but he didn't have a brother. Or a father, least not one he'd ever know.

He'd wondered, on and off, if Scott had survived the war. A little news had filtered west, even as far as the border towns. Johnny had only a hazy idea of the war's events, but knew it had been bad, some of it, real bad. He was glad to know Scott had made it through OK. The easterner looked older, of course, older and sadder too. Scott's trust used to shine out of him like a new copper penny, never dinged, or smeared by anyone's fingers. Now, there was a cautious look to him, not suspicious, not exactly, but more observant.

Johnny didn't think that was such a bad thing. Scott was too trusting when they first met. Johnny, six years younger, thought it was loco. He'd learned a long time ago not to expect much from anyone.

He took another swig of tequila and corked the bottle. It was going to be a long night, and he didn't dare light a fire. He'd been camping out for a week and had looked forward to eating a real meal and sleeping in a bed. Damn Coleman anyway. And damn Scott too. It was good to know he was safe, but why in hell couldn't he just leave Johnny alone?

Johnny sighed. Scott didn't know they weren't really brothers. He could have just told Scott, instead of pretending he didn't know him, but didn't feel like discussing it. He never had discussed it, not with anybody, since the day he found out.

It was in San Diego with Murdoch Lancer and Doc Jenkins. They were on the way to the ranch from Boston. Johnny originally planned to run away from them as soon as he could, but changed his mind sometime during the journey. He kind of got to like the tall rancher, better than he ever expected. He figured he might as well at least see Lancer before he decided what to do.

He wandered away from the two older men during a fiesta in the plaza, but only because he wanted to see better. He knew he could find Murdoch again without any trouble; the man towered above most people.

He was watching a blindfolded, laughing child whack at a pinata when a beefy hand clamped down on his shoulder, propelling him into an alley. Johnny looked up, instantly on alert, and recognized Felipe, a friend of his mama. He didn't trust Felipe an inch, but he wasn't afraid of him either, at least, not this close to the plaza. For one thing, he knew he could outrun the barrel-shaped Mexican.

"Juanito," the man said, showing his gold tooth. "What are you doing with those gringos, chico? If you've changed your mind about working, I can take care of you. I told you before, you can make good money."

Johnny shook his head, pulling his face away from the man's greasy fingers. "No," he said. "Not interested. And it's not like that."

"No?" Felipe looked dubious.

"He's my father," Johnny said.

"The big gringo?" Felipe laughed. "Juanito, I thought you had some brains in your head."

"What do you mean?"

"He's the one who married your mama, si? What makes you think he's your father?"

"Mama told me," Johnny said without thinking.

Felipe's smile grew. "No doubt she also told him the same thing, but that does not make it so. You know what your mama was like, chico."

Johnny flushed. He did know. But he'd never thought of this.

"You don't look anything like him," Felipe observed.

That was true.

"Tell me, his eyes, are they the same color as yours?"

Johnny shook his head. Murdoch's eyes were blue too, but lighter than his.

"Well then." Felipe laughed. "You know you did not get your eyes from your mama. They must be from your gringo father, whoever he is. Now, why don't you be a good boy and come with me? I have a customer who will treat you very well if you behave yourself."

Johnny took a step backward, still thinking furiously but alert to danger. "Go to hell."

Felipe's smile faded. "I can make you."

"No." Johnny's voice was adamant.

The man glanced at him, and sighed heavily. "You're making a mistake," he warned. "What do you think that gringo will do to you when he figures out your mama cheated him?"

"Get away from me," Johnny hissed.

Felipe shrugged. "It's your choice, chico. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"I won't." Johnny yanked free from Felipe's grip and ran down the alley, away from the plaza. The fat man's laughter followed him, and he ran faster.

***

Murdoch was up before sunrise, as usual. The housekeeper had his coffee waiting. He growled his thanks and settled at the kitchen table with one of the bundle of newspapers he'd picked up when he went into town for Scott.

He didn't expect his city-bred son to make an appearance for hours, but Scott surprised him. Murdoch hadn't finished his first cup of coffee when he heard footsteps on the front stairs. Maria shot him a quick look from the stove, where she was scrambling eggs. Murdoch got to his feet and went down the hall.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, sir." Scott turned away from the French windows.

"You don't have to call me sir."

A small, mirthless smile curved Scott's mouth. "What should I call you? Under the circumstances, Father hardly seems..."

Murdoch cut him off abruptly. "Call me anything you like. On the steamer, five years ago, your brother just used my name."

Scott nodded. "Very well, sir - Murdoch."

"We usually eat breakfast in the kitchen. If you don't mind."

"Not at all." Scott followed his father to the big room at the back of the house. A dark-haired older woman beamed at him and said something to him in a rush of Spanish.

"How do you do?" Scott said politely when his father introduced her as the housekeeper. He couldn't imagine his grandfather introducing the housekeeper. He couldn't imagine his grandfather sitting in the kitchen. The housekeeper filled his coffee cup and brought him a full plate. He dredged his memory for one of the Spanish words he'd picked up from his younger brother, years ago. "Gracias. Is that right?"

She smiled and directed another burst of Spanish at him before she went back to her stove.

"You'll pick it up quickly," Murdoch said.

"What?"

"Spanish." Murdoch put a spoonful of a coarse red sauce on his eggs and swirled it in.

Scott didn't intend to stay at Lancer long enough to learn Spanish, but he didn't say so. "What is that?" he asked, gesturing toward the bowl of sauce.

"Salsa. It's not too hot, but maybe you better just try a taste."

Scott put a spoonful of the mixture on the side of his plate and touched a fork to it gingerly. When he tasted it, he wondered just what his father would characterize as too hot.

"Is that the morning newspaper?" he asked.

Murdoch turned red. "No, not exactly. I subscribe to a paper in San Francisco, but they're usually at least a week old by the time they get here in the mail. I hope that doesn't bother you."

"Not at all," Scott said, although he couldn't help but think of Newspaper Row, where eager boys hawked papers with sharp black ink still damp from the press. "May I?"

"There's a story about your brother." Murdoch's voice was glum. "Page three."

"If it's a week old, how could it have anything about the gunfight yesterday?"

"It doesn't. It's about another gunfight, a few weeks ago."

"I see." Scott perused the story while he ate his eggs.

"They said he was hurt," Murdoch observed.

"He looked all right." Scott was trying not to show his dismay at what he'd read. "Sir, we have to find him."

"It's too late."

"I don't believe that." Scott's voice was sharp. "I've been thinking. Johnny did know who I was."

"Why do you say that?"

"He called me Boston."

"Is that what he used to call you?"

"No, it's not. Never."

Murdoch was baffled. "I don't understand."

"I don't understand either, not completely, but I don't believe that Johnny has amnesia. I think he knew exactly who I was. And I want to talk to him."

Murdoch shook his head. "It's too dangerous. He doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything, Scott. He can't, not in his line of work."

"We don't know that," Scott argued. "I won't just give up on him."

Their eyes met, and Murdoch looked down first. Scott probably thought he had given up too easily, all those years ago. And he had. He never should have left Scott in Boston, no matter what his grandfather threatened. And he shouldn't have waited so long to speak to him about it five years ago and try to explain. It was too late by the time they finally talked. Harlan had seen to that. Scott had already enlisted in the cavalry and had no choice to make about going to California with his father and brother, or staying in Boston with his grandfather. Instead, he went to war.

The silence hung between them. There was so much the rancher wanted to say to his son, so much he wanted to know about this blond stranger. And he couldn't find the words.

"It's not because I don't care," Murdoch muttered at last. He did care. He cared about the solemn five-year-old he'd left in Boston, now all grown up and sitting across the table. He cared about the too-independent eleven-year-old he'd lost, for the second time. God help him, he even cared about the sixteen-year-old gunfighter, even if he had no hope of reclaiming his younger boy. The newspaper story hadn't done anything to change his mind.

He switched tactics. "Scott, you've just arrived. I was hoping you'd stay on the ranch awhile, learn something about it."

"I need to find Johnny."

Murdoch shook his head. "He could be anywhere. He doesn't stay in one place, you know. He goes wherever he has a job. A few weeks ago, according to the paper, he was in Modesto. You saw him up north a few days ago. You don't have any idea where he went from there."

That was true. Scott glanced at the newspaper. It might report on his brother's activities after the fact, but that wouldn't help, especially if a week passed before it arrived. "I'll hire the Pinkertons then."

He was stubborn. Murdoch stared into his elder son's eyes, so like Catherine's. She wouldn't back down either, not if she thought she was right. Perhaps Scott was right, but he had a deep sense of foreboding. He sighed. "You'll stay here, at least, while you wait for them to report?"

Scott hesitated and nodded. He might as well.

***

The amount of labor, sweat and dirt involved in getting a steak to the table had never occurred to Scott.

The Pinkertons were looking for Johnny, but he seemed to have dropped out of sight. Scott spent most of his first week on the ranch trailing behind Murdoch's foreman and friend, Paul O'Brien.

Paul was a cheerful soul, far more talkative than his employer. He explained what the men were doing and why, as if Scott were interested. Scott wasn't, not at first, but he stored the information away absently. By midweek, he began to ask questions. It didn't mean he was interested in ranching, or so Scott told himself. He didn't have anything else to do while he waited for the Pinkertons to find his brother.

The foreman didn't just supervise the work. He frequently pitched in, whether the hands were mending a fence or clearing a stream. Scott did too. He wasn't used to manual work, and was surprised to find it oddly satisfying.

It also wasn't so easy. He struggled to keep up with the other men, even the older foreman, but wasn't about to admit it. He was ridiculously pleased to earn an approving smile from Paul, who also gave him a jar of ointment for his blisters.

Paul lived in a small house on the ranch with his daughter, Teresa. She was thirteen, going on fourteen, or so she informed Scott airily, tossing the long brown braid she wore down her back.

She didn't have a mother and spent her afternoons, when she returned from school, with the Lancer housekeeper. Scott wasn't sure what had happened to Mrs. O'Brien. When he ventured to ask his father, Murdoch snapped that she was gone and returned to his book without any further explanation.

Scott sighed. His father clearly wasn't accustomed to offering explanations.

Paul invited him to supper at the end of the week. Murdoch was in town and planned to dine with Sam Jenkins before returning. Teresa served a savory beef stew and chattered throughout the meal. Scott answered her eager questions about Boston as best as he could.

Paul poured whiskey when Teresa excused herself and went off to bed. "She asks a lot of questions," the older man said. "Sorry."

"No need." Scott sipped his drink. "I enjoyed talking to her."

"We don't get much company." Paul relaxed into his chair. "Reckon it's a lot different from what you're used to, back in Boston."

"Yes," Scott agreed.

"Your father sure was excited when he heard you were coming," Paul remarked.

"He doesn't show it."

"No, that isn't his way."

Scott glanced over at the foreman. "You've known him for a long time."

"More than twenty years. I went to work here the year he and your mother bought this place."

"You knew my mother?" Scott was surprised.

Paul nodded. "She's the one who hired me, not your father. I was just a kid, still wet behind the ears. And I didn't know much about ranching. But your mother was willing to take a chance, and she persuaded your father."

"She didn't know anything about ranching either."

"She sure learned fast. She had all kinds of ideas for this place. Both of them did. The peach orchard was her idea. And she's the one who started breeding horses, while your father concentrated on building up the cattle herd. She hired me to help out with the horses."

This didn't make sense. From what his grandfather had said, his mother hated the ranch. "But she left," Scott said.

Paul's face lengthened. "She sure didn't want to. Raiders were hitting all the ranches in the valley then, and Murdoch didn't think it was safe for her, especially since they were expecting you. She wanted you to be born here on the ranch, but your father figured it would be better if she went to San Francisco and stayed awhile there. We didn't have a doctor then, and he was worried about that too."

"She didn't plan to return to Boston?"

Paul shook his head. "She didn't even want to go to San Francisco. She and your father were still arguing about it when she left."

"But my grandfather was already on his way to escort her home."

"She didn't know he was coming," Paul said. "She was surprised when we met him on the way to San Francisco. They argued some too."

"You were there?"

Paul nodded. "Your father sent me and Cipriano to look out for her on the road. She sent us home after she met up with your grandfather, figuring Murdoch needed every hand if the raiders came. I sure wish I had stayed with her, but she wouldn't hear of it. She knew the ranch was short-handed, and your grandfather had hired enough men to keep her safe. We headed back to the ranch and she went on to Frisco. But she told me she'd be back, just as soon as she could, with a son to raise on the ranch. She figured, right from the beginning, that you were a boy."

Scott didn't let any of his thoughts show on his face, but he felt cold. The Lancer foreman had no reason to lie. Scott knew, looking at Paul, that he was telling the truth, at least, the truth as he knew it.

But if this was the truth, that meant Grandfather had lied, all his life. His mother hadn't left his father. He'd sent her away for her own safety, but only temporarily.

Paul gave him a curious look, but didn't say anything more. Scott put his glass down and rose to his feet. "I should be going," he said abruptly. "Thank you for a pleasant meal and for telling me about my mother."

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I appreciate it, Paul. Murdoch hasn't - he hasn't said much."

Paul hesitated, and spoke again. "Your father isn't one to talk about how he feels, especially not about your mother. He took it real hard when she died. Those two had something special."

"He married again."

"That was different. Murdoch loved Johnny's mother and she broke his heart when she left, but they weren't best friends, not like him and your mother. Murdoch and Maria, well, they never did much talking."

Scott nodded, his mind still racing. "Good night."

"Night, son."

Lights were burning in the great room when Scott walked through the orchard, his mother's orchard, and stepped into the courtyard. Murdoch must be back from town. He paused, reluctant to go inside. He wanted to think more about what Paul had told him. Murdoch was probably reading, as he seemed to do most nights. The books that lined the wall weren't just for show. His father was surprisingly well read. That was something else he hadn't expected from what his grandfather had said.

Scott dropped onto a bench. He had never really questioned Harlan Garrett's version of events. Even five years ago, when Murdoch told him gruffly he did always want him, Scott had filtered that information through the story that his mother had fled the ranch and was on her way home to Boston when he was born. Grandfather hadn't done anything to set the record straight, and Murdoch probably didn't even know about it, if what Paul said was true.

He shook his head. If Paul's story was true, his mother had been happily married to the tall rancher and full of plans for their future together in California. And she had planned to raise Scott here, on their ranch, not in Boston.

Scott knew his grandfather loved him, and he loved his grandfather. But the man had changed the entire course of his life, and his father's.

He didn't know what to believe, or what to think about it all. He was a grown man now, past the time when he needed a father. But Johnny wasn't. Johnny was only sixteen. Based on Murdoch's Pinkerton report, he was unlikely to ever reach twenty-one if they couldn't find him and turn him away from the dangerous path he was walking.

Scott sighed. He didn't know how he felt about his father or his grandfather, but he was sure about one thing. He needed to find his brother.

***

The Pinkertons cabled a report the second week after Scott arrived on the ranch. "Johnny is with a gunfighter named Santana," Scott told his father. "I think I actually saw him when I was in San Diego."

"Angel Santana?" Murdoch's mouth tightened. His eyes were bleak.

"Yes. Have you heard of him?"

"He's trouble. Big trouble."

"They're in a place called Paradise," Scott said. "Apparently, the railroad hired Santana to provide protection for some of their men, who are negotiating for the right of way."

"More likely to strong arm ranchers into selling their land," Murdoch growled. "It's a damn disgrace, what they're getting away with."

"The railroad is necessary, sir. It will be a great thing for California when a rail link is completed across the continent."

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm just glad it isn't passing anywhere near Lancer."

"How far is Paradise from here?" Scott's mouth curved even as he asked the ridiculous question.

"It's a few days ride. You're not seriously thinking of going there?"

"I want to talk to Johnny."

"Scott, Santana is a cold-blooded killer. If your brother is riding with him, there's really no hope Johnny is going to listen to anything you have to say."

"I know Johnny and don't believe he'll hurt me. He couldn't have changed that much."

"No?" Murdoch tilted his chair forward, hunching his shoulders over his big desk. Scott couldn't see his face. "You were in the war. That changed men, didn't it?"

Scott stiffened. He wasn't prepared to discuss his war experiences with his father. They had talked more this past week, and he felt he was getting to know the man, but not well enough for that. "Yes," he said curtly.

"Johnny's been in a kind of war too," Murdoch said quietly, his eyes still focused on the desk. "It must have been a battle for him to even survive. You saw what it's like on the border, didn't you?"

Scott nodded unwillingly.

"Imagine being on your own there, at the age of eleven. How do you think he lived?"

"Maybe someone took him in."

Murdoch looked up at that. "I wish someone had," he said after a pause. "But the Pinkertons didn't find any evidence of it. It's a brutal place, son. Johnny probably isn't anything like the boy you remember."

"Johnny lived a hard life before I ever met him," Scott said stubbornly. "He had been on his own for more than a year before Grandfather brought him to Boston, remember?"

"I'm not likely to forget it. But that was only a year. At least he had his mother before that."

"It didn't sound like she took much care of him, sir. I think he mostly fended for himself, and it didn't destroy him before."

"You watched him shoot down three men," Murdoch pointed out.

"They challenged him and they drew first," Scott said. "Johnny could have - but he wouldn't."

"Well, Santana would. From everything I've heard, he wouldn't hesitate to shoot a man in the back. And Johnny has to know what he's like. Let him go, son. It's too late."

"I have to try."

Murdoch stared at his elder son for a long time. He sighed, at last. "All right. But I'll go with you."

"Sir?" Scott was startled.

"I'll go with you. He's my son, and I'm responsible for him. If anyone's going after Johnny, it should be me."

"But, the ranch," Scott protested. "Paul told me this is a busy time of year."

"Paul can take care of the ranch while we're gone. He's done it before. Tomorrow is Easter, and I don't want to disappoint Teresa and Maria by missing the dinner they planned, but we'll ride out first thing Monday morning. We should be there by Wednesday, maybe even late Tuesday."

Scott nodded. He didn't want to wait, but supposed one day wouldn't make a difference.

***

Johnny put his horse back in the remuda and gave it a final pat. He wandered through the camp, chewing on a piece of grass. Most of the dozen or so men were still sleeping off a late night. Santana had come back from town with whiskey and a couple of whores, launching a raucous party. He'd guess it hadn't ended until the whiskey wore out. None of them would care - or stop - when they wore out the whores.

"Morning, John," a voice said after Johnny helped himself to a cup of coffee.

"Angel."

A stocky man moved out of the trees. "You didn't spend the night in camp."

Johnny took a sip of coffee. "Little noisy," he observed.

Santana grinned, his teeth gleaming under a bushy moustache. "The boys needed to let off a little steam. There's no harm in it."

Johnny shrugged and drank more coffee.

The older man eyed him. Like Johnny, he had blue eyes that signaled gringo blood, but his were pale, nearly the color of ice. "You're not any better than the rest of us."

Johnny glanced at the sprawled, snoring bodies on the ground, and smiled too. He deliberately chose to misunderstand. "No? You think any of them could beat me to the draw? Or you want to try yourself?"

Santana's smile turned to a scowl, but he ignored the challenge. "Stay in camp," he ordered. "That's what I'm paying you for."

Johnny shook his head. "Nuh-uh. You're not paying me yet, Angel. I just said I'd think about it. And if I do sign up, it's going to be for a job, not to stay in camp. You don't like it, I'll ride out now."

"Nobody else is complaining about not having anything to do."

"I didn't complain," Johnny pointed out.

"No," Santana conceded. "But you aren't trying to hide what you think either. You and me go back a long time and I let you get away with more than I'd let most men, but there's only one top dog in every pack. That's me. You're good, but you're still just a kid. Hell, I remember when you were a snot-nosed brat with an empty belly."

"You're wrong, Angel." Johnny drawled out the words, his voice soft.

"What did you say?"

"I'm not a kid, not any more. Haven't been for a long time now."

Santana stared at him, but Johnny didn't drop his eyes. The older man showed his teeth again. "Don't you push me, boy."

"Don't you push me either and we'll get along."

Santana cussed and started to laugh. "You always had more nerve than brains. Don't worry, we won't be here much longer."

Johnny swallowed more coffee. "No? I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for the ranchers to change their minds. McLean isn't gonna give in and sell out, not while he's still breathing. And the others will follow his lead."

"Then they'll follow him straight to hell or heaven, whichever place he's going. They're going to see the light real soon, John. Fact is, they're going to see it Easter morning. You need to decide today whether you're in or out."

"Easter morning?" Johnny gave the older man a curious look. "Sounds like you got something in mind, Angel."

"Always, kid. And don't you forget it." Angel poured some coffee for himself. "I hear McLean invites everyone on his ranch to a fancy Easter breakfast, and we're going too. Seems as good a time as any for that stubborn bastard to get down on his knees."

***

Scott and Murdoch heard about it before they reached Paradise.

They left Lancer at daybreak Monday and made good time. They could have stopped in a little town late in the afternoon and slept in a hotel, but decided to push ahead for a few more hours and camp when they lost the light. Once he agreed to go, Murdoch seemed to be just as eager as Scott to reach their destination. He took them cross-country several times instead of sticking to the road, saying they could shave time off the journey.

They didn't stop to talk to anyone until Tuesday afternoon, when Murdoch called a break by a river to water the horses and give them a rest.

Another man was already on the riverbank, doing the same thing.

"Howdy," he said after looking them over cautiously. "You gents headed for Paradise?"

"That's right," Murdoch said.

"Lots of excitement there yesterday. You wouldn't be lawmen, would you?"

"No." Murdoch's voice was short. He led the horses toward the water.

Scott paused. "What happened yesterday?"

"Well, they found out about it yesterday. It really happened on Sunday. Easter Sunday, imagine that." The man took out his kerchief and mopped his face, his eyes avid.

He told them the whole story. Angel Santana had hit the McLean ranch on Sunday morning.

It was a massacre. Hugh McLean and his employees, gathered with their families in the courtyard for a festive Easter meal, weren't even armed. When McLean ordered Santana and his men off the place, the gunfighter opened fire.

All the members of the McLean family were dead, even the children. Only a few of the employees or their family members had survived to tell the tale, most of them wounded and left for dead. They found one terrified six-year-old hiding under the porch, just inches from her parents' bloodstained bodies.

A posse rode after Santana, but he had more than a day's lead before anyone discovered the carnage.

Murdoch listened stone-faced to the story, but Scott could see a muscle jumping in his jaw.

The traveler didn't mention Johnny Madrid and the Lancers didn't ask about him. When the man finally went on his way, Scott glanced over at his father.

"We might as well turn around and go back to Lancer," Murdoch said.

"We don't know for sure Johnny was involved." Scott's voice was weak. Johnny couldn't be, surely.

"We know Johnny was riding with Santana." Murdoch clenched his jaw even tighter, grinding his teeth. "Hugh and Kate McLean were friends, Scott. Good friends. They had five children. Their oldest girl was the same age as you, and their youngest was only three. If Johnny had any part in this, he should hang. He will, if they catch him. And I won't lift a finger to stop it. If he did this, he's no son of mine."

"I certainly can't condone it either, sir. But we've come this far. We might as well go on, and make sure."

They rode into Paradise early in the evening. The town seemed uneasy, and the few men on the street glared at the strangers.

"Let's see if there's anyone in the sheriff's office," Murdoch said.

The door was locked and no one answered a knock. "Sheriff's out of town," an old-timer said from his seat on the boardwalk. "There was some trouble Sunday and he rode out with the posse yesterday. His deputy will probably be back later. He's got some young no-account locked up."

"Thank you," Scott said. "Shall we go and get rooms at the hotel, sir?"

"I suppose," Murdoch said slowly. He looked sour. He also looked years older than he had just that morning.

Scott pulled his riding gloves off, one finger at a time, his head down. He probably looked older too.

He felt like someone had kicked him in the gut, the same way he felt after he watched a lifelong friend die in action.

This was just as final, if it were true.

***

"We're trying to locate my younger brother," Scott said cautiously the next morning. The posse had returned empty-handed, and the sheriff was back in his office. "Johnny is sixteen. He has dark hair and blue eyes."

The sheriff looked from the blond young man to the big, gray-haired man glowering behind him. "Dark hair, huh? It doesn't sound like he looks much like you."

"No," Scott said stiffly. "Johnny is my half-brother."

"And your name is Lancer? I heard of a big ranch, south of here, by that name. But you don't sound like a rancher, son."

"I own Lancer." Murdoch clamped his eyes on the man. "Have you seen or heard anything of the boy, Sheriff?"

The sheriff scratched his jaw absently. He was about the same age as Murdoch, maybe a little older, and nearly as tall. He seemed wary of them, but Scott supposed that was natural enough, given what had just happened in his jurisdiction.

"Lots of kids with dark hair and blue eyes pass through town," the sheriff finally said. "I haven't heard of any by the name of Lancer."

Scott hesitated. "My brother doesn't use our name, although it is his name. He goes by Madrid."

"Johnny Madrid?" The sheriff's brows shot up. "The gunfighter?"

Scott nodded.

"From what I've heard, I'd figure Madrid is older than sixteen."

"He's sixteen." Murdoch's voice was terse.

"Johnny Madrid," the sheriff said slowly. "You know, Mr. Lancer, I been kind of busy the last few days."

"We heard." Murdoch scowled. "I knew Hugh and Kate McLean. You didn't have any luck picking up Santana's trail?"

"They already had a big lead on us by the time we found out what happened." The sheriff sounded defensive. "But we'll get them, sooner or later. All of them. Every lawman between here and Mexico is looking for them."

"Do you know who they are?" Scott had to ask. "Besides Santana?"

"Most of them." The sheriff shot a look at them. "I heard some talk last week that Madrid had joined up with Santana."

"Was he with Santana Sunday?" Murdoch asked that question. Scott couldn't. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, not if the answer was yes.

"If he was, you wouldn't be thinking of trying to get him out of it, would you?" The sheriff's eyes were suspicious. "This wasn't any fair fight, Mister. Nothing like it."

Murdoch shook his head. "Absolutely not, Sheriff. If John had anything to do with this, I'd turn him in myself."

The sheriff still looked suspicious, his eyes hard. "Hope so. If you two don't mind, I got a lot of work to do."

"You'll let us know if you do hear anything about Johnny?" Scott persisted. "We're staying at the hotel."

The sheriff nodded. Murdoch wheeled and headed for the door. "Come on, Scott. Let's go."

The deputy, who had kept silent through the conversation, whistled as soon as the office door closed behind the two Lancers. "Johnny Madrid. He told the truth about that too."

"Shut up, Zeke," the sheriff ordered. "I got to think."

The deputy subsided, but only temporarily. "How come you didn't tell his family he's out back?"

"I said, shut up." The sheriff stuffed a wad of tobacco in his mouth and chewed furiously. This was a disaster, and just getting worse. That damn kid was already trouble, and now he was Murdoch Lancer's kid too.

"We shoulda listened to him," the deputy said mournfully. "We could have stopped the whole thing, maybe."

"Well, we didn't, and I didn't hear you object any, so you shut your mouth now."

"What are we going to do, Uncle Jim? The town's not going to like it when they hear we knew about it and didn't do nothing."

"The town isn't going to hear about it. Nobody knows but you, me and that kid."

"You don't think he'll tell?"

The sheriff didn't answer the question. "You check on him yet this morning?"

"Yeah. Left him some breakfast and some water, even though he didn't eat none of his food yesterday. Maybe we should get the doctor to look at him. Thought about it while you were out with the posse, but figured I should wait to ask you."

The sheriff shook his head. Zeke was his own sister's son, but the sheriff had no illusions about his nephew's abilities. He was all brawn and no brains. "No. He doesn't need a doctor. You just leave him alone."

"Shouldn't we let him loose now?"

"He resisted arrest," the sheriff said. "And assaulted both of us."

"You gonna hold him until the judge gets here?"

"We'll see," the sheriff said. "I want to think about it. You go on and take a walk around the town, see what's going on. And don't you say anything about the boy to anyone, you hear me? Not one word."

"OK, Uncle Jim, if you say so." Zeke got to his feet and lumbered out the door.

***

Johnny stifled a groan and shifted carefully on the narrow bunk. This had been a big mistake. He knew better. He should've just ridden out and minded his own business, instead of sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

Look where it landed him. He kept his eyes shut while he took stock. He was sure they'd cracked a few ribs, at the least. That was the sharp, stabbing pain when he breathed too deep, but not the only one. He hurt all over. That fucking sheriff and his deputy had worked him over good. He couldn't do a damn thing about it either.

He'd considered shooting his way out. He didn't doubt he could easily beat the sheriff and deputy to the draw, both of them. But it wasn't worth the kind of trouble or jail time it would bring. So, he'd turned over his gun reluctantly when the sheriff demanded it Saturday night. He only resisted when he realized the sheriff didn't intend to do anything to stop Santana or warn the McLeans. And by then, it was too late. All it got him was a hell of a beating.

Shit. He should have just sneaked past Santana's sentries onto the ranch and warned McLean, instead of trying to get reinforcements from the town. Or, better yet, he should have stayed out of the whole thing. This was none of his business.

Santana was mad when Johnny objected to the plan, but not mad enough to take a chance on drawing on him or to try to stop him from leaving. Santana was fast, but Johnny was faster now and they both knew it.

Maybe Johnny should have taken him down. At least it would have been a fair fight, which sure wasn't what the older gunfighter had in mind for McLean or his people. Johnny hoped the rancher had given in, but had no real expectation of it. He'd only seen McLean once, but it was enough. The obstinate rancher reminded him of Murdoch Lancer. He'd bet Lancer would never back down.

He sighed and winced as his ribs protested. His mouth was desperately dry. He wasn't interested in food, didn't think he could keep anything down in his bruised gut, but he sure could use a drink of water. He shifted again experimentally, gritting his teeth, and managed to sit up.

"You want something, boy?"

Johnny looked up. The gray-haired sheriff was standing outside the cell, well away from the bars. "Not from you!"

"Still got your sass, huh?" The sheriff leaned against the wall, his arms folded.

Johnny looked across the cell at the water bucket. He was parched but wasn't going to ask the sheriff for help or let the man see him crawl. He'd just have to wait. He closed his eyes.

The sheriff was quiet too, but Johnny knew he was still standing there. A few minutes went by before he spoke. "I got a problem, boy, and I don't see any good way out of it."

Johnny didn't answer.

"Why didn't you tell me your name was Lancer when you came tearing in here the other night, instead of saying you were Johnny Madrid? I might have listened to Johnny Lancer."

Johnny's eyes opened at that. "It's not Lancer. It's Madrid."

"That's not what your daddy and your brother told me."

Shit. What in hell were Murdoch and Scott doing here? And why would they be talking to the sheriff about him?

"Your father, he was kind of upset to think you were with Santana when he hit the McLean place. Said he'd turn you in himself."

"He's not my father. And I wasn't with Santana, and you know it." Johnny's voice rasped.

The sheriff smiled. "Well, yeah. I know that, and my deputy knows that. But nobody else knows. You think about that, boy."

Shit. Johnny closed his eyes again. It would be easier to think if his head wasn't throbbing.

"I'll leave you to it," the sheriff said. "Then maybe we'll talk again, you and me."

"Wait." Johnny had to know. "What happened Sunday?"

"Santana slaughtered them," the sheriff said. "Men, women and children too. The town's all riled up about it. People might not be inclined to ask many questions if I caught one of them murdering bastards. They might not even wait for the judge to get here."

Johnny let his head fall back. He definitely should have minded his own business.

***

Zeke ambled down the boardwalk, his hands in his pockets. He knew he wasn't smart and he'd probably missed something, but he didn't understand why his uncle was still holding that kid in the jail, or why he hadn't told Madrid's family where he was. He also didn't understand why they hadn't summoned the doctor to look at the prisoner. Uncle Jim usually got the doctor to fix up the prisoners if they were hurt, even the ones they were going to hang. And this kid was hurt. Zeke figured he had some busted ribs and knew he'd been peeing blood in the slop bucket.

The deputy felt kind of bad now about hitting him so hard, since it turned out he was telling the truth. At the time, they thought they were dealing with some fresh young punk, trying to make fools of them, and Uncle Jim wasn't about to put up with that. Besides, when the boy decided to fight them, he put up quite a battle. And he hadn't stopped fighting either, not until Uncle Jim smacked his head against a beam and knocked him out cold.

He wandered into the livery stable. "Howdy, Jake," he said to the liveryman.

"Zeke. Any news?"

"Not today," Zeke said. "Uncle Jim sent out telegrams all over the state, but no one's seen Santana."

"Too bad," the liveryman said. "He's probably more than halfway to Mexico by now."

"Probably," Zeke agreed, sitting down on a barrel.

"That horse you brought in Saturday night is a devil," Jake observed. "Bet he hasn't been broke long, and he isn't exactly broke."

"Yeah?" Zeke plucked a piece of straw from a bale and chewed on it.

"If you're going to hold that boy for long, there's no point in keeping that horse here, eating his head off. Don't know how a kid managed to ride him, but don't think anybody else is going to do it."

"You mean it's a wild horse?"

"It sure ain't tame."

Zeke frowned. "I'll have to ask Uncle Jim what he wants to do."

"You do that. No point in running up a big bill. I can't get much if I sell that one. Be lucky to find any buyer."

"He looked like a good horse," Zeke objected.

"He's a damn good horse, but that isn't any use if no one can ride him. What are you holding that boy for anyway? Old Mike said he came tearing into town Saturday night like the devil was after him."

Zeke hesitated, and got up, uneasy. "I'll tell Uncle Jim what you said about the horse, Jake."

The liveryman gave him a curious look. "You do that," he said.

Uncle Jim was loading a rifle when Zeke returned. The sheriff just nodded at the message about the horse, and set the rifle carefully against the wall.

"Uncle Jim, do you reckon folks are going to think it's our fault, what happened to the McLeans?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if we had listened to that kid, we might have stopped it."

The sheriff frowned. "Maybe. And maybe it was a trap."

"What?"

"Maybe Santana sent Madrid here. Maybe he planned for us to ride straight into an ambush, before he even hit the McLean place."

Zeke's mouth dropped. "I never thought of that."

"You just let me do the thinking, boy. And you keep your mouth shut."

***

Johnny could tell the deputy's attitude had shifted again. He had been almost human while the sheriff was away. Now he was keeping his distance and didn't have anything to say when he brought food and water.

The young gunfighter didn't waste much time wondering about it. He had other problems. He still didn't feel so good but he'd been beat up before and didn't think there was any permanent damage. No, the real problem was the sheriff and whatever it was that he was thinking.

As soon as the sheriff confirmed that Santana had hit the ranch and killed its owners, Johnny realized he was in deep shit this time. The sheriff wouldn't want it to get out that Johnny had warned him and he hadn't done a damn thing about it, not with all those people dead. But that meant he probably wasn't going to take any chance Johnny would get out. Hell, he probably wouldn't even risk taking Johnny in front of a judge, not unless he had a tame one somewhere.

Once his headache subsided to a dull misery, it occurred to Johnny that plenty of people had still been on the street when he rode into town early Saturday night. If they stopped to think about it, they'd realize he didn't have anything to do with the raid. He couldn't have, not since the sheriff had already locked him up.

Trouble was, people probably weren't thinking too straight, not after what Angel did. They just might lynch him first and stop to think later.

He needed to get out of this jail and he needed to do it quick. Course, busting out of jail would give the sheriff a damn good excuse to shoot him. Johnny gave that twenty seconds consideration before he decided he might as well take the chance. It was better than hanging.

He wondered idly about the Lancers and what they were doing in town, but pushed the thought away. Even if Murdoch hadn't ever figured out that Johnny wasn't his son, he doubted the rancher or his real son would help him now. They hadn't even bothered to visit the cell. Whatever story the sheriff had told them, they clearly believed it.

Nope, he was on his own. Nothing new there. And he had to make a move and he probably didn't have much time.

The sheriff, not the big deputy, brought his supper. Johnny watched from the bunk, not moving. The man didn't leave right away. Instead, he pulled up a chair and leaned it against the wall.

"Always wondered why some men go bad," he remarked. "Look at you. You're a rich man's son, probably grew up with anything you could ever want, and you threw it all away to be a two-bit gunfighter. Did somebody spoil you, boy? That it? You think maybe the rules don't apply to you?"

Johnny didn't bother to answer.

"Your father seems like a good man," the sheriff said. "I did some checking, and people seem to think pretty highly of him."

"Leave him out of it," Johnny blurted. "I told you, he's not my father."

"Reckon I'll take his word over yours, boy."

"Reckon you should have taken mine in the first place," Johnny shot back. "Lot of people would still be alive."

The sheriff flushed. "You got a mouth that just don't quit, don't you?"

"You could have stopped it." Johnny fastened his eyes on the sheriff, watching the man squirm. "Maybe I've killed a few men, but I've never killed women and children, or let anyone else if I could help it. But you did, you asshole, just the same as if you pulled the trigger yourself."

"You little bastard." The sheriff got out of his chair and took a step toward the cell. "You better be quiet, or I'll give you another lesson in what happens when you run off your mouth."

"Go ahead," Johnny taunted. "We both know you're going to try to shut me up anyway. You don't want anybody to know what you did, do you, Sheriff? What kind of man does that make you? I'm not in here because of anything I did. It's what you did."

The sheriff's face was purple. Briefly, Johnny thought the older man was going to give into the temptation to unlock the cell door. He waited, still apparently relaxed, but ready to launch into action if only he got the chance.

The moment passed. The sheriff stepped back again, struggling to keep his temper in check, and turned without another word. Johnny heard the connecting door bang shut as the older man entered the front room.

Almost. He'd have to do better the next time - if there was a next time.

***

Scott stopped at the livery stable to check on their horses. After a long discussion, he had reluctantly agreed with Murdoch that they might as well leave for Lancer in the morning.

They still didn't know, not for sure, if Johnny had been involved in the raid but they weren't likely to learn any more until the law caught up with some of the raiders. No one in Paradise was anxious to talk to strangers about what had happened. The town was in an increasingly ugly mood. Scott would have liked to talk to one of the survivors, but knew that wasn't likely to happen. The doctor wouldn't even talk to him.

He had cabled the Pinkertons, asking them to keep looking for his brother. Murdoch thought that was a mistake, but Scott insisted. He wasn't prepared to find Johnny guilty yet, not without more information.

At least the liveryman wasn't as surly as some of the other townspeople. Scott arranged to have their horses saddled and waiting for them in the morning, and settled their bill, which made the man even more cooperative. As he turned to go, a horse trumpeted angrily, and he strolled down the barn to look at it. It was in a stall by itself, away from the other horses.

"Careful, Mr. Lancer," Jake called out from the front of the barn. "That one will bite your hand off if you get too close."

The black horse's hooves thudded against the stall as Scott approached. His eyes widened as he looked at it.

"Good-looking horse," he remarked.

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Too bad he's too damn wild."

"What's he doing in the livery stable?"

"Somebody rode him into town and got arrested," Jake said. "The sheriff couldn't leave the horse standing in the street, so I took him. If the kid gets out soon, and has the money for the livery bill, he can have him back."

"A kid?" Scott's ears perked up. "What did he look like?"

Jake shrugged. "Dark hair, thin, maybe seventeen or thereabouts. He rode in just around sunset Saturday, like someone was chasing him, and went straight into the sheriff's office. Don't know exactly what he did, but I can tell you he must be a hell of a rider."

"He's still in jail?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "Listen, you wouldn't be interested in that horse, would you?"

"I might be." Scott was thinking furiously. It couldn't be Johnny. Surely, the sheriff would have said something if he had a prisoner who matched Johnny's description. It must be some other boy. "You don't know the owner's name, do you?"

Jake shook his head. "He's not from around here. Never saw him before."

"Did you happen to notice the color of his eyes?"

"Huh? No. What about the horse, Mr. Lancer? If you wanted to buy him, I could talk to the sheriff. The kid is probably broke anyway."

"I don't know." Scott looked at the horse. Johnny was a very good rider when he was eleven. He made up his mind suddenly. Just in case, it might not be such a good idea to advertise his interest in the horse to the sheriff. Chances were that it was a different boy sitting in the jail, but he needed to make sure. "I don't think so. It's two days ride back to Lancer, and I don't want to lead a wild horse all that way."

Jake sighed. "Suppose not," he agreed. "Well, I'll have your horses waiting for you at seven."

"Thank you. I'll see you then." Scott left the stable and walked down the street, still thinking.

A whiskered old man was sitting on the boardwalk outside the sheriff's office, the same old-timer they had spoken to when they arrived. He appeared to be a fixture on the street, now that Scott thought of it. He fished his gold watch out of his pocket.

"It's stopped," he lied, frowning at it. "You wouldn't happen to know the time, would you, sir?"

The old man gave him a scornful look. "Course I do," he said. "Don't need no fancy watch to tell the time of day. All a body needs is eyes in his head to look at the sun. It's going on half-past five, I'd say, or thereabouts."

Scott nodded. "I'm in your debt, sir. I'm supposed to meet my father at the hotel at six, and he expects me to be prompt."

"I should hope so," the old man grumbled. "It ain't right for a boy to keep his father waiting."

"Well, Murdoch would certainly agree with you about that," Scott said.

"You call your pa by his name?" The old man's eyes were curious. "I don't hold with that."

"The circumstances are a little unusual, sir," Scott said. "I was raised back east and only recently came out here."

"Even so, he's your father," the man said, fairly launched on a long, rambling diatribe about young whippersnappers who didn't respect their elders.

"I hear the sheriff is holding a boy under arrest," Scott said casually, when he had a chance to get a word in. "About seventeen, from what I heard."

"Huh," the old man said. "More like fifteen or sixteen, if you were to ask me."

"Is that right? What did he do?"

"Dunno, but he sure put up a fight." the man said. "I was sitting right here, and heard some of the ruckus. From the sounds of it, I bet that boy learned his lesson and learned it the hard way. Sheriff Hardy isn't one to put up with any guff."

"No, I imagine not," Scott said slowly. "I wonder if this could be the same young drifter who got in trouble not long ago in Morro Coyo, near my father's ranch. A blond boy with brown eyes, riding a black horse?"

"Well, the horse is right, but that's all," the old man said. "This one has black hair and blue eyes."

"Black hair and blue eyes? You're sure?"

"Course I'm sure. Just about the bluest eyes I ever saw."

***

Murdoch listened to the story, frowning. "It must be some other boy, Scott," he said. "Why wouldn't the sheriff tell us if he was holding Johnny?"

"I don't know, sir, but I think we better find out and quickly. Based on what I was told, there was a fight and Johnny may be injured."

"Saturday," Murdoch said slowly. "If it is your brother and he was arrested Saturday, then he couldn't have been with Santana on Sunday."

"That's right."

The sheriff wasn't in his office. The deputy lowered his chair with a crash, startled from a nap. "Sheriff went to supper," he told the Lancers. "Something I can help you with?"

"Yes, there is," Scott said. "We'd like to see the prisoner you're holding."

Zeke looked surprised, but he shook his head. "You'll have to ask Uncle Jim - I mean, you'll have to ask the sheriff about that, Mr. Lancer."

"Right now," Murdoch demanded in the tone of a man used to instant obedience.

Zeke wavered. "Uncle Jim won't like it."

"Now," Murdoch insisted. The deputy sighed and got the keys. He unbolted the door, and led them down a short hall to the last cell.

Inside, Johnny watched them warily. He was sitting up on the bunk, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped loosely around them. Bruises marked his face.

"Johnny?" Murdoch said tentatively. "Are you hurt, son?"

Johnny shook his head slightly, his face expressionless.

"What charges are you holding him on?" Murdoch rounded on Zeke.

"Um, assault and resisting arrest." Zeke's broad face flushed and he avoided their eyes.

"Assault?" Scott couldn't keep the outrage out of his voice. He'd been a prisoner too, although not in a jail. And he knew the signs of a beating, all too well. He didn't think Johnny's face was the only bruised place. "It looks more like the other way around."

"Open the cell, Deputy," Murdoch ordered. "I want to make sure my son is all right."

"I'll have to take your guns first," Zeke said.

"Unlock that door, or I'll open it myself."

Zeke opened the door. Murdoch pushed through it first, Scott on his heels.

"Johnny. I can't believe it's you." Murdoch approached the bunk and put a hand on Johnny's arm. The boy flinched visibly. Murdoch withdrew his hand, but sat down on the bunk. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." Johnny wouldn't look at his father or brother.

Scott didn't believe him. "Has the doctor seen him?" he asked Zeke sharply.

The deputy scuffed his boot on the floor, clearly uncomfortable. "No," he admitted. "Uncle Jim said there wasn't no need."

"What's going on in here?" The sheriff appeared in the hall, holding a rifle. "Zeke, close that door and lock it. Don't you have any sense at all?"

Scott turned to face the sheriff as Zeke pulled the cell door shut. "As you can see, we found my brother, no thanks to you," he said icily. "We'd like to arrange for his release, right away. It appears he needs medical attention."

The sheriff shook his head. "He's not going anywhere, and neither are you."

"What?" Murdoch glared at the sheriff. "What do you mean, Hardy? What do you think you're playing at?"

The sheriff's face was unhappy. "Why couldn't you just stay out of it, Lancer?"

"Stay out of it? Johnny is my son. And I'd like to know why you didn't tell us you were holding him."

"Shut up. You're not in charge here." The sheriff noticed something and his face got harder. He pointed the rifle at Murdoch. "Put your hands up, both of you, nice and slow. No sudden moves."

Scott measured the distance between the rifle and his father, and froze. He lifted his hands. Murdoch did the same after a pause.

Johnny moaned suddenly and leaned forward, clutching his gut. Murdoch swung toward him, his hands still in the air.

Scott didn't know how Johnny managed to get Murdoch's gun out of its holster, but he did. He pointed the Colt at the sheriff, drawing the hammer back, in one fluid movement. The sound, in the sudden silence, made the rest of them jump.

"Maybe you better put the rifle down and your hands up." Johnny's voice was soft.

"You drop it, boy." The sheriff didn't lower the rifle. "Or you ain't gonna have no father."

Johnny shrugged. "Already told you, I don't. Drop it, Sheriff, or you're going to be dead."

Scott didn't dare breathe. Johnny pointed the Colt at the sheriff. Hardy sighed and finally lowered the rifle, putting it down on the floor.

"Johnny." Scott said. "This isn't the way."

"Stay out of this." Johnny got to his feet. Scott noticed he moved carefully, but the gun was still steady in his hand. "Unlock the door, Deputy."

"Uncle Jim?"

The sheriff scowled. "Do it."

Zeke fumbled with one of the keys on a big ring, and swung the door open.

"Take your gun out, real slow, and put it on the floor," Johnny said. "The keys too. Don't try anything."

Zeke did as he was told.

"Get in here, both of you," Johnny said. "Over by the wall. And keep your hands up."

"Johnny, no." Murdoch spoke up. "We'll get this straightened out. There's no need of this."

Johnny ignored him. When the sheriff and deputy were standing against the wall of the cell, hands in the air, he went through the door and slammed it shut. He didn't lower his gun until he used Zeke's keys to lock the door. Then he rested against the wall for a moment. All the energy seemed to have drained out of him.

"You are hurt, aren't you, Johnny?" Scott frowned at the sheriff and deputy. "What did you do to him? And why did you have him locked up? The real reason."

One corner of Johnny's mouth turned up and he gestured with the gun. "Why don't you tell him, Sheriff?"

"Resisting arrest," the sheriff said. "And assault on me and my deputy."

"Why were you arresting him in the first place?" Scott persisted.

The sheriff closed his mouth.

"We thought he was trying to pull something," Zeke explained.

"You keep quiet," Hardy ordered.

Zeke looked down at his big feet. Scott didn't think he was going to speak and was surprised when he did. "He came in while we were closing up for the night. Said that Santana was going to hit McLean's place Sunday, and we needed to get some men out there and warn 'em."

"What?" Murdoch stared at the deputy. "And you locked him up? Instead of doing something about it?"

"Uncle Jim figured it was some kind of trick," Zeke said, still addressing his boots. "He's just a kid - and he said he was Johnny Madrid."

"He is Johnny Madrid," Scott pointed out. "We told you that Wednesday.

"Well, yeah, but we didn't know it then. Uncle Jim said he couldn't be."

"Why didn't you release him afterward, once you found out he told you the truth?"

"Well, Uncle Jim said he did resist arrest," Zeke said. "And assaulted both of us."

"Was that when you were beating the hell out of him?" Murdoch's voice was a low, ominous rumble. "For trying to prevent a massacre?"

Zeke hung his head. "I wanted to get the doctor, only Uncle Jim said no."

"You sonuvabitch." Murdoch stepped up to the sheriff, breathing heavily. He clenched his big hands into fists.

"Sir," Scott said hastily. "I agree, but I don't think this is the time." He looked over at his brother, still drooping against the wall. "Johnny, let us out."

Johnny shook his head and straightened up. "Nope."

He moved toward the door to the office without looking back.

***

Murdoch slammed his fist into the sheriff's jaw, sending the man flying against the wall. Hardy slid down in a heap. He didn't try to get up. The rancher turned his glare on the deputy.

"Wait," Hardy mumbled from the floor, holding his jaw. "Don't, Lancer. It's not Zeke's fault. It's mine. He just did what I told him."

Murdoch scowled. "He's a grown man. Unlike my son."

Hardy snorted a little and winced. His mouth was bleeding. "Your boy isn't exactly wet behind the ears."

"Why?" Murdoch demanded. "Why did you do this? Johnny tried to stop Santana."

"I know that now." The sheriff sighed, still holding his jaw. He paused, gathering his words. They came out reluctantly. "I really did think he was playing some game, trying to make a fool of me, when he came in here. Thought he needed to learn a lesson and that I'd teach him. When I found out he told the truth, well, I didn't know what to do. I've been sheriff here for going on fifteen years. Made some mistakes in my time, but never one like this."

He looked up. "I didn't know what to do. Hugh and Katie were friends of mine too - and I could have stopped it if I'd listened. I guess I didn't want anybody to know. And if your boy was out of the way, nobody would. I knew all along it wasn't right, but I couldn't see any other way out."

"You could have admitted your mistake. Instead of taking it out on a sixteen-year-old boy who tried to do the right thing." Scott wanted to hit the sheriff too.

"Yeah," Hardy agreed, shamefaced. "That's what I should have done. Only, I didn't."

Scott still wanted to hit him, but was afraid he didn't have time. "Sir, don't you think we should postpone the rest of this discussion?" he said to Murdoch. "We need to go after Johnny."

"I know we do," Murdoch said grimly. "Just tell me how, when he's locked us up."

Scott eyed the keys, out of reach across the hall, and unbuckled his belt, pulling it free from the loops. "I haven't learned to rope a cow yet, sir, but I've always enjoyed fishing. If we can fashion some kind of hook, perhaps I could snag the key ring."

Murdoch frowned. "I suppose it's worth a try."

Zeke was standing against the wall, staring at his uncle, who was still slumped on the floor. The deputy's jaw was moving, like a cow chewing on its cud, and his brows were furrowed. He looked over at the Lancers and spoke. "I got a jackknife, if that will help."

"That could be a big help," Scott agreed.

Zeke glanced again at his uncle, who didn't say a word.

***

Johnny found his own gun and belt in the sheriff's desk and buckled it around his waist, settling the holster low on his hip and drawing his Colt a few times. It didn't make him feel much better, but he took the time to adjust it anyway.

He had to sit down and try to gather himself. He was still sore and dizzy, and thought he was running a fever, but it really wasn't so bad. He'd had worse. He concentrated fiercely. He needed to get his horse, and get the hell out of Paradise. He'd be fine if he could find a place to hole up for a few days. More than anything, he just wanted to curl up and sleep. Only he sure couldn't do it here.

He roused himself. First, he needed to get his horse. He found his saddlebags sitting in a corner of the sheriff's office and slung them over his shoulder before he opened the door and headed for the livery.

The liveryman raised his eyebrows when Johnny demanded his horse. "There's five days board to pay."

"How much?"

The liveryman named a price, and Johnny paid him. He always kept some money stashed in his boot, along with a knife. The sheriff had taken the knife, but not the money, somewhat to his surprise. In most jails, the lawmen cleaned you out.

"You'll have to saddle him yourself," Jake said. "He won't let anyone near him."

Johnny nodded. The liveryman gave him another curious look, and trailed after him as he walked down the barn. The black kicked the stall when he approached, its eyes rolling

"Easy." Johnny fastened his eyes on the horse and murmured to it in a mixture of Spanish and English. This was going to take time he didn't think he had. He'd been making progress with the stallion, captured not long after he ran into Scott on the stage, but they'd clearly lost ground while he was in jail.

The liveryman didn't say anything, just watched. The horse pricked up his ears, but still shied away from Johnny's hand. He forced himself to take his time. If the sheriff and the Lancers got out, he'd have to deal with them. He didn't want to deal with them, not now, but he didn't want to leave the black horse behind either.

Ten minutes later, the horse allowed Johnny to touch him. But he still had to get the saddle on him. And he was definitely running out of time now.

He wondered wildly if maybe he should just try to ride the stallion bareback, anything to get out of town. He ducked his head, trying to think.

He didn't even hear the liveryman step toward him.

"No!" Scott shouted, skidding into the stable. It was too late. Johnny went down as if there wasn't a bone in his body.

"I figured something was wrong," Jake said proudly to Zeke, dropping the empty bottle he'd broken over Johnny's head. "Where's your uncle? How did the kid get away from you?"

Scott bent over his brother, trying desperately to find a pulse.

***

He didn't open his eyes. He seemed to be in a bed, not on the narrow bunk in the cell, but didn't know where or why. His head pounded, and he thought he might throw up his guts if he moved, even an eyelid.

"Johnny, you have to wake up." Someone had a hand on his shoulder. "Just for a few minutes. Come on. Open your eyes."

He sighed inwardly when he recognized the voice. Scott Lancer. Damn it. That meant Murdoch was probably here too. He wondered hazily why he wasn't in jail again.

"Johnny, I'm sorry, but the doctor said we have to wake you every few hours. Open your eyes."

Johnny considered which was worse, listening to Scott continue to call him or doing what Scott wanted. He finally cracked his eyes open cautiously, blinking at the light. It looked like he was in a hotel room. And someone had taken his clothes off and wrapped some tight bandages around his ribcage.

"That's it." Scott gave him a worried smile. "Do you know who I am?"

"Huh?" Johnny scowled. "Yeah. Told you to leave me alone."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Piss off." Johnny closed his eyes again.

"Johnny, no. I'm sorry, but you can't go to sleep again yet. It's on the doctor's orders. You have a concussion. Open your eyes and tell me how many fingers you see."

Johnny opened his eyes reluctantly. Someone had closed the curtains and turned the lamp low, but the dim light still stabbed him. Scott's fingers blurred, and he fought for focus. "Four," he said at last. "Now will you leave me alone?"

"I'm afraid not," Scott said. "Do you know who the president is?"

"The president of what?"

"The United States." Scott's face was perfectly serious.

"You don't know? I thought you went to a fancy school."

"Answer me."

"I don't know who the fucking president is," Johnny said. "Why would I care?"

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen. Or thereabouts." Johnny had no trouble reading Scott's sudden frown. "OK, seventeen."

"You turned sixteen in December."

"Whatever," Johnny mumbled. "Haven't really been keeping track. Can I go back to sleep?"

Scott bit his lip. Johnny seemed to be reasonably coherent, even if he couldn't answer the questions in conventional fashion. "Yes. I suppose so. But we're going to have to wake you again in a few hours."

"Can't wait," Johnny said sarcastically. His eyes drooped and he drifted off again.

Murdoch was there too the next time Scott woke him. Johnny scowled at both of them, answered Scott's questions tersely and asked one of his own.

"Where's my gun?"

"It's over on the dresser," Murdoch answered. "You don't need it. We'll look out for you."

"Rather have the gun."

***

The wakings blurred together. Johnny answered the questions blearily and slept whenever they let him. They made him drink some gawdawful tea, cleaned up the mess when he couldn't keep it down, and made him drink some more. He couldn't do anything about it.

A brisk doctor came and prodded at him a few times. He thought he heard the sheriff's voice once. Mostly, it was all Scott and Murdoch.

Finally, a time came when he opened his eyes and didn't feel like his head was going to explode. Scott was fast asleep in a chair, and Murdoch was snoring in the second bed in the room.

From the light in the windows, it was early in the morning, before sunrise. Johnny wasn't quite sure which morning, but it didn't matter.

He looked around. He needed his pants, his boots, and his gun. And he needed to get the hell out of there.

The liveryman came into the stable while Johnny was still crooning to his horse, trying to settle it down. He had progressed as far as getting the bridle on.

"Are you supposed to be out of bed?" Jake demanded.

Johnny's hand drifted warily toward his gun. Jake's face flushed.

"Look, boy, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you had busted out of jail."

One corner of Johnny's mouth lifted. "You don't think so now?"

Jake gave him a sharp look. "The sheriff said it was OK, that it was all a mistake and he wasn't holding you no more. And your father and brother damn near took my head off for hitting you."

Johnny turned back to his horse, leaning his head against the sleek neck. "How much do I owe you now for keeping him?"

"No charge," Jake said. "You sure you're supposed to be here?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "I'm fine. Can you give me a hand with the saddle?"

Jake hesitated, but plucked the saddle off its rest. Johnny soothed the skittish stallion while the liveryman lifted the saddle to its back and stepped back. He fastened the cinch himself, still talking to the horse, and led it out of the barn.

His sore ribs pulled when he mounted. The horse danced across the yard, trying to lift its forefeet off the ground. Johnny kept him down, turning him in tight circles until he settled.

"He's awful fresh," Jake observed from the door.

"He just needs to run," Johnny said. "He'll be all right."

"Do your father and brother know where you're headed?"

Johnny grinned at him. "They know what they need to know." He nudged the stallion forward, holding it to a walk for a short distance. Then he let it go.

Jake watched, leaning on his broom, as the horse and the boy disappeared down the road at a flat-out gallop.

***

Scott rubbed his eyes and stretched, trying to work out the crick in his neck. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in the chair, but there was no harm done. Johnny was huddled under the bedcovers, finally getting the rest he needed.

The boy hadn't stirred by the time Scott returned from a visit to the privy. Murdoch was asleep too, but hardly still. His snores rumbled across the room. The rancher was sprawled, fully dressed, on his back. He had balked when Scott offered to take the night watch, but the older man was exhausted and dropped off as soon as Scott persuaded him to lie down.

The last few days had been hard on all of them. For a full 24 hours, they had to wake Johnny every few hours to check on him. Each time, he was increasingly hostile. Scott supposed he couldn't blame him. Johnny looked and clearly felt awful. In addition to the concussion, he had two broken ribs and bruises just about everywhere.

Murdoch was obviously concerned about his younger son's condition, but he was also clenching his jaw at Johnny's language and attitude before long. If Johnny wasn't so sick, Scott suspected Murdoch would have a lot more to say about it. He could foresee some shoals ahead, once Johnny was well enough so they could leave Paradise and travel back to Lancer.

Scott washed, shaved, and changed into a clean shirt while his father and brother slept on. He felt much better now. While he was downstairs, he'd ordered breakfast. He hoped it didn't take long. He could use a cup of coffee. He picked up his book and settled in the chair, glancing across at Johnny. He was quiet, unusually quiet. So far, Johnny had proven to be a restless sleeper.

Scott's eyes slid to the dresser. Something was missing. He realized what it was, and his jaw dropped. He stood up and yanked back the covers on Johnny's bed, staring blankly at the artfully arranged pillows that occupied the mattress.

"Murdoch!" Scott said. He shook his father frantically. 'Wake up. He's gone."

The rancher sat up, his hair wild. "Wha-?"

"Johnny is gone," Scott said. He opened the wardrobe to look for his brother's boots and other belongings. "Damn it."

"You were supposed to be watching him." Murdoch's voice was still thick with sleep.

Scott's eyes flew to his father's. He remembered guiltily that he had blamed the rancher for losing Johnny when he was eleven. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I fell asleep."

Murdoch stared at him. "No. No, it's not your fault."

"We have to go after him," Scott said.

Murdoch paused at that, as if he were thinking it over. "Scott, he's pretty wild," he finally said slowly. "Maybe too wild. I don't know if he can settle down."

"He'll settle down." Scott wore a determined expression. "We'll settle him down. You'll see."

Murdoch finally nodded and reached for his boots. "I hope so. When we find him, I'm going to have a talk with that young man."

"So am I," Scott said. "Believe me, so am I."

***

Johnny let the horse run, reveling in the speed. The ground flashed by underneath them. They turned off the road and cut across the range, heading west. He finally reined the stallion in, miles from the town. "Sorry, boy," he said, patting the horse's neck. He was breathless too, and conscious of some aches and pains. He wasn't ready to ride far, but it felt good to be out in the open air again.

He needed a place to hole up for a few days and thought he knew where to go. He'd done some exploring when he was in Santana's camp and he'd found a cave in the hills. It would be a good place to stay, well hidden and easy to guard.

He'd headed south when he left town and if the Lancers tried to follow, they'd probably figure he was on the way to Mexico. Johnny didn't think they'd be able to tell when he left the road and changed direction.

He also didn't think they'd bother to follow him. He hadn't even tried to be cooperative the last few days and he knew Murdoch, at least, was itching to say something about it. Before his mother died, a series of men had tried to teach him not to mouth off. And they'd taught him some lessons, all right, but not necessarily the ones they had in mind.

He sure didn't need anyone now, trying to tell him what to do.

Johnny sighed. In a way, it wasn't so bad to have other people to look out for him. He had snarled at them and couldn't stand the way they hovered, but he also hadn't been scared to close his eyes and sleep. He didn't think either of the Lancers would hurt him, and even thought they'd do their best to protect him if someone else tried anything. If Murdoch knew Johnny probably wasn't his son, he hadn't let on. And Scott was just the same as Johnny remembered him. Too damn bossy.

He nudged the horse forward. He didn't need a bossy older brother. He just needed a few days to rest up, and maybe work his new horse a little bit, and he'd be fine.

He was exhausted by the time he reached his destination, but approached the cave cautiously.

It looked all right, but something screamed at his instincts. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He really needed to sleep now.

The sound of the gun hammer was loud. Cold steel poked in his ear.

"You're losing your touch, John," a familiar voice said. "Didn't anybody teach you better?"

Johnny forced himself to relax. "Angel," he said. "Thought you'd be in Mexico by now."

"I thought you would be too." Santana didn't lower the pistol. "What are you doing here?"

Johnny shrugged and couldn't entirely hide a wince. "I figured this would be a good place to camp out for a few days."

Santana turned Johnny's head with the pistol barrel. His eyes widened at the sight of the bruises. "Looks like you ran into some trouble, boy."

"Nothing much," Johnny lied.

Santana laughed and lowered the pistol. "Get into the cave. I want to talk to you."

"Don't want to put you out any," Johnny said. "I can go someplace else."

"Move, John."

***

"Where'd you go when you left?" Santana asked.

Johnny shrugged. "No place." Santana appeared to be alone. "Where is everyone?"

"Don't know." Santana's voice was indifferent. "You hear what happened?"

"Yeah. I heard. Angel, every lawman in a hundred miles is looking for you. Maybe more."

"They're looking in the wrong places, aren't they?" Santana produced a flask out of his pocket and took a swig. He offered it to Johnny, who hesitated before he accepted it and took a small sip. "They put up a reward yet?"

Johnny nodded. "Five hundred, dead or alive."

"Huh. That's not much." The older man seemed to be irritated.

"Lot of men would put a bullet in your back for five hundred."

"Would you?"

One corner of Johnny's mouth turned up. "Not in your back."

Santana looked at him suspiciously. Then he roared with laughter and cuffed the boy. "Not in the back." He sobered quickly. "You got a price on your head too?"

Johnny shook his head. "I was in jail when you hit the ranch."

"Jail, huh. That where you got beat up?"

Johnny didn't answer. "How come you didn't light out for Mexico, Angel? You had a whole day before they even found out what happened."

"That's where they'll be looking. Not too smart to go where people are looking for you."

"Guess not," Johnny said. "What about the others?"

Santana smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "They headed for Mexico."

Johnny looked around the cave. He still wanted to sleep, craved it desperately, but didn't think it was such a great idea. "So you've been here ever since you hit the ranch?"

"That's right." Santana slid down against the wall and took his flask out again. This time, Johnny shook his head. "I still got some business here. Maybe you can help."

That got Johnny's attention. "What kind of business?"

Santana finished off the contents of his flask. "Don't suppose you got anything with you?"

Johnny tossed the older man the flask from his saddlebags and sat down on the opposite side of the cave, his back against the wall.

"You don't want none?" Santana gestured with the flask.

"Still don't feel much like drinking," Johnny said. "You go ahead."

"That sheriff must have worked you over pretty good." Santana observed. "Just like old times, when one of your mama's friends would beat the crap out of you and you'd go running for a place to hide until you healed. Most kids run for their mama when they're hurt, but not you."

Johnny didn't bother to answer that either.

Santana's smile grew. "Kind of funny. That's how I met you the first time. You remember? I found you sleeping in a cave outside Tijuana."

"Yeah, I remember. You beat the crap out of me too."

"And you pulled a knife on me. You couldn't have been more than seven or eight. You're lucky I like a kid with guts, or I would have slit your throat with it."

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

"Those railroad men, did they come back to town yet?"

"I don't know." That was true. Johnny had no idea. "They wouldn't be too smart if they did. The town's kinda worked up about what you did."

"You sure you don't know?" Santana kept his eyes on him.

"That's what I said. What do you want with them? They owe you some money?"

"They're going to pay a lot of money for something I have."

"Yeah?"

"Deed to McLean's ranch," Santana said. "I took it out of his safe."

Johnny frowned. "McLean didn't sign it, did he?"

"Hell, no. McLean was bleeding out by then."

Johnny didn't know a lot about deeds. He carried all of his property in his saddlebags. But he had a vague idea that deeds had to be signed, and in front of lawyers too. Course, he also knew signatures could be forged and lawyers could be bought. And the railroad surely had enough money for both.

"I need somebody to get a message to the railroad men for me," Santana said. "I'll make it worth your while. Found a few other things in the safe too."

Johnny didn't want any part of this, any more than he wanted any part in raiding the ranch in the first place. The risk of catching a bullet in a fight didn't bother him, but he didn't intend to hang. Besides, the raid repelled him. He wished again that he had warned McLean directly. But the rancher probably wouldn't have believed him any more than the sheriff did.

Santana was watching him. "What do you say?"

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"No," Johnny said definitely. "I'm not interested. If you were smart, you'd take what you already got and get the hell out of here."

He kept his eyes on the other man, his hand poised near his gun. Santana was itching to draw on him. Johnny could read the moment when he thought better of it, but also knew that didn't mean Santana wouldn't change his mind. Or just shoot him in his sleep. He'd always had an uncertain temper, veering from one extreme to another. It had saved Johnny's life when he was small, and Santana decided to be amused instead of angry. But it sure wasn't anything to count on.

"Maybe you should get the hell out of here," Santana snarled.

Johnny couldn't agree more. He got to his feet and backed out of the cave, keeping his eyes on the older man.

"Hold on! How do I know you're not going to turn me in?" Santana asked.

"You know, Angel."

Santana paused, chewing it over. "Yeah," he finally said. "I guess I do. Listen, you don't have to leave. You don't look so good."

"I'm fine." Johnny backed the last few feet out of the cave and headed down the hill for his horse.

***

Scott was surprised when the sheriff decided to ride out of Paradise with them, leaving his nephew in charge of the office.

It turned out to be fortunate. A mile or so down the road south, the sheriff turned off and stopped to talk to a surly man mending a fence. He had little to say, even to the sheriff, and Scott was sure he would have refused to talk to strangers. But he finally did admit, spitting on the ground, that he'd seen a rider on a black horse turn off the road early in the morning and head west across the range.

They came to the McLean ranch late in the morning. Murdoch's face was grim as he looked at the burned barns and broken corrals. The house still stood, but just about every window was shattered. The place was unnaturally still, a broken shell with no horses or cattle, no people moving. A few stray hens pecked in the yard, the only signs of life.

The sheriff's face was grim too. "We buried them as decent as we could," he said. "The banker sent a message to Hugh's sister back East, but I don't suppose she'll be interested in running the place. She'll probably sell out to the railroad."

Murdoch nodded.

"There's some caves up in the hills," Hardy said. "If your boy knew about them, they'd be a good place to hide out."

"Let's go." Murdoch turned away from the dead ranch.

An hour later, a bullet whistled past Scott's ear as they dismounted in a clearing under a rocky outcrop. He ducked, startled.

"Get down!" Murdoch shouted. Another bullet whined by and Murdoch swatted Scott onto the ground.

The sheriff had his rifle out and was pointing it toward the ledge where the bullet had come from.

"No!" Scott pushed the barrel down. "Wait. If it's Johnny, he may not realize it's us."

"Well, he damn well ought to look before he shoots," the sheriff grumbled. Murdoch glared, and Hardy subsided.

"Scott, what do you have in mind?" Murdoch asked.

"I could climb up there."

"No," Murdoch said flatly. "We don't know if it is Johnny, or what he's thinking. It's too dangerous."

"I really don't think Johnny will hurt me, sir."

"And I don't think you should take the chance."

"You're not sure if your own boy is going to shoot his brother?" Hardy asked.

Murdoch scowled. "It's complicated, Sheriff. Scott and Johnny didn't grow up together. And I didn't raise either of them."

The sheriff's face was curious, but he didn't ask any more questions. Another shot sounded, ricocheting over the rocks.

"Is there any other way into that cave?" Murdoch asked.

"Not that I know," Hardy said.

"It's a simple military problem." Scott was getting impatient. "We need to outflank and disarm him."

Murdoch's face was dubious. "I don't think you're going to find it so simple to disarm your brother, Scott."

"Hell, no," Hardy agreed. "From what I've heard, you'd have to be a damn fool to try to disarm Johnny Madrid."

"What's the alternative?" Scott stared at his father. "Wait until he runs out of bullets?"

"That's not such a bad idea," Hardy said. "Do you have any idea how much ammunition he has?"

"A lot," Scott said, recalling the contents of his brother's saddlebags, which he'd gone through. Johnny didn't seem to own many shirts or socks, but did carry plenty of ammunition.

"We don't even know for sure that it's Johnny in that cave." Murdoch sounded irritated.

"You could call to him," Hardy suggested. "See if he'll talk."

Scott looked at his father, who finally nodded. Scott peered around the rock where he'd taken shelter.

"Johnny! Johnny, it's me, Scott. And Murdoch's here too."

Complete silence answered him. Scott waited a few minutes. "Johnny? I'm coming up there, little brother."

"Scott, no," Murdoch said.

"It will be fine. Wait here." Scott stood up cautiously. The hillside was still quiet. He began to pick his way up through the rocks.

Scott had disappeared behind a large rock near the top of the hill before the rifle fired again, a single shot.

"Scott!" Murdoch started to jump to his feet and the sheriff reached out to stop him. "Scott! Johnny!"

Silence.

***

Johnny hadn't made it far from the cave. He knew he should, but just didn't have the energy. He didn't think Santana would be eager to leave his hidey-hole anyway, especially since Johnny had left a full flask of tequila behind.

He found a reasonably sheltered place to make camp and was sound asleep when rifle shots woke him.

He sat up, listening. From the position of the sun, he'd only slept for a few hours, but felt a lot better. He wondered if someone had thought to check the cave for the missing outlaws. They'd be sorry if they had. There was only one approach to that cave, from a clearing under the ledge, and a rock in front of the entrance provided cover. Santana could pick them off easily as they climbed up.

He yawned and stretched. The shooting had already stopped.

His curiosity got the better of him after he relieved himself and splashed some water from the creek onto his face. He tucked in his shirt and checked his gun. His horse was grazing, apparently content and securely tethered. Johnny fished in his saddlebags for a pair of plain deerskin moccasins. He pulled his riding boots off and stuffed them in the saddlebags, along with his spurs. The battered Indian boots were a lot better for moving silently through the woods and he could ride in them too, if necessary. He slipped into the trees.

He could hear voices arguing as he approached the cave. And he knew both of those voices.

Johnny slid noiselessly into a thicket and crawled closer on his belly.

Murdoch and Hardy were arguing about what to do. Scott wasn't with them, which puzzled Johnny. He didn't think anyone would try to follow him, but if anyone did, he'd have bet Scott was most likely. He never would have bet on Murdoch or the sheriff.

"You'd be a fool," Hardy said. "Nothing to stop him from picking you off too before you get anywhere close."

"I have to go after Scott."

"No," Hardy said. "I say we just sit tight. He may have plenty of ammo, but he can't have much in the way of supplies. When he gets hungry enough, he'll come out and we'll get him."

"Scott may be hurt."

"Scott may be dead," the sheriff pointed out bluntly. "Either way, it won't do him any good if you walk into the same trap."

"I may be able to talk to Johnny." Murdoch sounded uncertain. "Make him understand we just want him to come home with us."

"He run away from your ranch?"

"No. His mother left when he was just a baby and took him with her. I've been trying to find him ever since. We did find him, about five years ago, but she had filled his head with a lot of lies and he got away from me."

"So he went back to his mama?"

Murdoch shook his head. "She died when he was ten. He's been on his own."

"All this time?" The sheriff whistled. "It's probably too late to get a kid who grew up like that to settle down, Lancer."

"I know," Murdoch said. "I've thought about that."

The sheriff hesitated. "I used to have a boy of my own," he volunteered. "He and his mother died of fever when he was four."

"Sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Hardy's voice was gruff. "But I reckon I would have killed anyone who tried to take him away from me. Even his mama."

Murdoch sighed. "I was angry. Mostly though, I just wanted to find my son and bring him home."

Johnny kept his mouth shut and didn't move, although he registered the fact that the rancher didn't seem to question whether he really was Johnny's father. Maybe he hadn't known Mama so well.

Johnny still wasn't sure where Scott was. They couldn't have been so stupid as to let him approach Santana. Nobody could be that stupid.

Murdoch started to rise. "I'm going to try to talk to him."

"Keep your head down. Talk, if you have to, but don't give him another target."

Murdoch scowled but he stayed behind the rock. "Johnny!" he shouted toward the cave. "Johnny, is your brother all right?"

Johnny's jaw dropped. "He damn well better be, old man," he said quietly from his hiding place.

Murdoch spun, looking for the voice. Johnny crawled out of the thicket.

"Where's Scott?" he demanded, afraid he already knew.

Murdoch stared at him. "He went up to the cave."

"Shit!"

Murdoch didn't say anything about Johnny's language. Instead, he reached out and clapped a big hand on Johnny's shoulder. "If you're here, who's in that cave?"

***

Scott held his hands up in the air, his eyes on the stranger pointing a gun squarely at his chest.

"I'm afraid there's been some mistake," he said politely. "I thought my younger brother was up here."

"You thought wrong. Move."

Scott moved. He didn't even have to duck his head to enter the cave. The stranger quickly bound his hands and feet, far more efficiently than Scott hoped. He was a tall man, as tall as Scott, but more broad-shouldered and at least ten years older. His hair and beard were dark but his eyes were light blue. Scott hadn't seen him up close before, but recognized him.

"You're Santana," he said.

"I can gag you too, gringo. No trouble at all."

"That won't be necessary," Scott said.

He watched as Santana moved to the mouth of the cave with the rifle. Murdoch had stopped calling. Scott hoped his father wasn't about to do anything as stupid as he had just done.

"So your brother's name is Johnny, is it?" Santana said. "What's his other name?"

"Lancer," Scott answered.

"Lancer, huh." Santana continued to look out. "Not Madrid?"

"His real name is Lancer, the same as mine."

"Yeah? Only he's not the same as you, is he? Guess your father didn't have no use for his mestizo brat when he has a fine gringo son." Venom filled Santana's voice.

"That's not true," Scott protested.

"That's the way I heard it when Johnny was a kid."

"It's a lie," Scott said and stopped. "You knew my brother when he was younger?"

"Johnny and his mama too." Santana turned back toward Scott, his teeth gleaming under his beard. "Course, I knew his mama a whole lot better. She was a damn fine piece of ass. Older than me, but not enough to make any difference. Your old man must have been crazy to throw that out of his bed. Or maybe he just wasn't man enough to keep her sweet."

Scott flushed. "There's no need to be offensive."

"No need to be offensive?" Santana repeated the words, mimicking Scott's accent. "Where in hell are you from?"

"Boston, actually."

"Boston. Where's that?"

"Back East."

"That right? I thought your daddy had a ranch in California. That's what Maria said anyhow. Funny, I don't remember her ever mentioning any other son."

"I didn't grow up on my father's ranch either. Look, this is all a mistake. We're just looking for Johnny. If you're a friend of his, you'll let me go. He's hurt and he shouldn't be wandering around on his own."

"I didn't say I was a friend of his. I said I knew him." Santana slid down and took a flask from his pocket. "Was that your father who was hollering?"

"Yes," Scott said.

"Who's with him?"

"The sheriff from Paradise."

Santana swore. Scott didn't know the Spanish words, but the English was even bluer than Johnny's. Perhaps Johnny had learned some of his vocabulary from this man. Scott shifted, trying to work his hands free, but the rope bit into his wrists.

"How come?" Santana's pale eyes bored into Scott when he stopped swearing.

"He's helping us look for Johnny."

"John told me he was in jail. He bust out?"

"You've seen him?" Scott's voice was eager. "When?"

"I'll ask the questions, gringo. Not you. You didn't answer mine."

"It was all a misunderstanding," Scott said. "Johnny's not in trouble with the law, if that's what you're asking. The sheriff is just helping us out. My brother is underage, you know."

"Who beat him up, the sheriff or your old man?"

Santana really had seen Johnny. Scott hesitated, wondering how much the outlaw knew. Surely, Johnny wouldn't have told Santana that he had gone to the sheriff to try to stop the raid. And where was Johnny? He wasn't in the cave, as far as Scott could see. "The sheriff," he finally answered. "But we've straightened it all out. Where did Johnny go after you saw him?"

"You don't listen so good." Santana crossed the cave swiftly and slapped the side of Scott's head with the rifle barrel.

***

Johnny's eyes slid from his father to the sheriff and back again. He had tried to stop the raid on the McLean ranch. But it was one thing to try to stop a slaughter, and another to turn Santana over to the law. Angel deserved whatever he got, but Johnny didn't want any hand in giving it to him.

"Who's in the cave?" Murdoch repeated. "Your brother went up there thinking that you were."

Johnny shrugged. "Damn fool thing to do," he said, stalling while he tried to think. "You should have stopped him."

Something snapped in Murdoch. He had held himself back until now, but he'd had enough of his younger son's insolence. "Don't you dare tell me my business, young man. It's past time someone took you in hand."

Johnny didn't bother to hide his scorn. "You ain't taking a hand or anything else to me. I can take care of myself."

"You're a sixteen-year-old boy," Murdoch said. "You're not going to take care of yourself, not any more, and you are going to learn some manners, starting right now."

"Go to hell!" Johnny spun and started to walk away. He pulled his gun when Murdoch came after him, and stuck it under the man's jaw. "Back off. Right now."

"John," Murdoch said calmly. "Put the gun away."

"You think I won't shoot you, old man?"

"I'll take that chance." Murdoch kept his eyes on the boy, who finally lowered the gun.

"I'll get Scott," Johnny said. "You stay here."

"No." Murdoch stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Who's in the cave?"

Johnny looked at the sheriff. Hardy hadn't said anything, just watched the two of them, his eyes alert.

"Santana," Hardy said suddenly. "He didn't take off for Mexico, did he, boy? He's been here all the time."

Murdoch's face fell. "John, is that true? Santana is up there?"

Johnny nodded.

"And your brother..." Murdoch's voice trailed off.

"I said I'd get him."

"Absolutely not."

"I know Angel." Johnny's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "He won't shoot me, least, not until he knows what I want."

"He's a killer."

Johnny pulled out his gun and checked it. "I know him," he repeated.

Hardy spoke again. "Did you know, all along, he was here?"

Johnny looked up, meeting the sheriff's eyes squarely. "No."

"But he let you go. He wasn't afraid you'd turn him in."

"No need to be," Johnny said coolly. "I wouldn't."

The sheriff nodded.

"You're not going up there. I won't allow it." Murdoch still stood in front of his younger son.

"You can't stop me." Johnny stepped around him.

"Son, no!" Murdoch grabbed his arm. Johnny went still.

"Take your hand off me," he drawled. "And don't call me that."

"Why not?" Murdoch, bewildered, let his hand drop.

Johnny gave him an icy look and started up the path to the cave. His voice, still soft, carried clearly. "Cause it ain't true."

"What? Johnny!" Murdoch bellowed when he regained his voice. "Get back here."

He took a step after the boy, but a rifle shot whined from the ledge, kicking up the dirt in front of his feet.

A second shot warned Murdoch from trying to follow, and the sheriff pulled him behind the rocks. Johnny didn't look back as he climbed. He reached the ledge and disappeared.

***

Scott roused. He thought he could hear voices. Had someone joined Santana in the cave? But how did they get past Murdoch and Hardy?

Maybe Murdoch and the sheriff had left. Scott's head was splitting and he wished he could take it into his hands, but Santana had tied them firmly. The outlaw must have dragged him farther into the cave while he was unconscious. It felt as if he'd tightened the ropes too. Scott groaned to himself and tried to listen.

Santana was talking. Maybe the outlaw was talking to himself. No. Scott heard a second, soft voice answer. He couldn't seem to make any sense of the words and realized belatedly that they were speaking Spanish. He also realized he knew the second voice. What was Johnny doing here with Santana?

Scott shifted on the ground, peering through the shadows. The sun flared in the entrance to the cave. He could see Santana's outline standing near it, and a smaller shape that must be Johnny.

His mouth was dry and his voice came out as more of a croak than anything else. "Johnny?"

The voices stopped abruptly. Scott saw the smaller shape move toward him. Johnny leaned over him and offered him a drink from a canteen.

Scott gulped the water eagerly. "Thank you."

"De nada," Johnny said.

"Are you all right?" Scott demanded.

Johnny's crooked smile appeared. "I'm fine. But you're not looking so good, Boston. Do you know who the president is?"

"This is no time for joking." Scott frowned at his brother. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to get you," Johnny said.

"And Murdoch let you?"

"It ain't up to him, what I do."

"Isn't," Scott corrected.

"What?"

"It isn't up to him. Which is not necessarily true."

Johnny gave him an exasperated look. "I ain't eleven any more. And you got other things you should be worrying about just now, not my English."

Scott looked past him at Santana, still standing near the entrance to the cave.

"Can you untie me?"

Johnny shook his head. "That might make Angel kind of nervous. Not a good idea."

"Angel?"

"Santana."

"How long have you known him?" Scott knew they should be planning something, not wasting time, but his curiosity got the better of him.

Johnny shrugged. "I dunno. Long time."

"John." Santana turned. "You've had enough time to drown him, let alone give him a drink of water. What are you two talking about anyway?"

Johnny corked the canteen and stood. "Nothing much," he said. "Scott's kind of surprised the old man let me come up here. You being a wanted man and all."

Santana snorted. "Like he could stop you."

Johnny grinned. "That's what I said."

Santana shook his head. "Hard to figure how he could be your brother. Is he right in his head?"

"I don't know him all that well," Johnny said. "What makes you think he's not?"

"Fool way he has of talking."

"He's from Boston," Johnny said. "Everybody talks that way there."

"That right? Well, it's a wonder somebody hasn't shot them all."

"They don't carry guns in Boston," Johnny said.

"You shitting me, boy?"

"Nope." Johnny sat down against the wall of the cave, near the door. Scott could barely make out his profile. "It's true, Angel. I was there once."

"In Boston? What are you talking about? You never been East."

"Yeah, I was. His grandfather brought me there when I was a kid," Johnny said.

"How come?"

"I don't know." Johnny suddenly sounded tired. "Lancer came and got me. Only I ran away."

"Lancer went to get you? All the way back East?" Santana sat up straighter. "Your mama never said nothing about it. You neither."

"Mama was already dead. And you were gone." Johnny's voice was cold.

"You know I was in San Quentin when your mama got killed. Otherwise, I'd have taken care of that bastard."

Scott wished he could see his brother's face better. He shifted and grunted with the effort. That drew Santana's attention.

"You sure that he's tied up tight?"

"You tied him, not me."

"And you didn't loosen him, right?" Santana moved over to Scott and checked the ropes, yanking at them viciously. "Guess not," he conceded.

"What are you going to do with him?"

Scott was definitely interested in the answer to that question.

Santana laughed. "He might be worth as much as that ranch deed you wouldn't help me with. Maybe even more. You too."

"What do you mean?"

"I always thought your mama was just talking big. But I've heard of Lancer since then. I stopped to look at it on the way up here. What do you suppose your rich daddy will pay for his sons?"

"Nothing," Johnny said.

***

Murdoch stared at the ledge, willing his sons to emerge. They hadn't heard a sound from the cave since Johnny disappeared inside, or seen any movement near the entrance. The time passed slowly, but his thoughts churned in his head and stomach.

Johnny's last words echoed in his head. The boy couldn't really believe that, could he? Murdoch ground his teeth. He knew Maria had lied to their son, but never realized Johnny doubted he was a Lancer. Damn that woman anyway. What could she have told him? And how could she? She was never the most responsible mother, but he always thought she loved Johnny. Hell, he had thought she loved both of them until the morning he woke up and found she was gone. A stick snapped in his hand and he jumped. He hadn't even realized he had picked it up.

The sheriff looked at him. "It's been close to an hour, Lancer."

Murdoch nodded glumly. He knew exactly how long it had been.

"We could use some help from town. But I shouldn't leave."

"I'm not leaving either. My sons are up there."

The sheriff hesitated. "Might not be anything you can do for them."

"You think I don't know that?" Murdoch glared at the man as if he were Santana.

"Well, you don't want to take any chance Santana will get away, do you?"

"He won't get away." Murdoch would see Santana in hell before he let him escape if anything had happened to Scott or Johnny. And if he'd lost both of them...

The idea stopped him, and he swallowed hard. Not again. He wasn't going to lose his sons again, either of them. He couldn't. He wasn't sure he could manage to tame Johnny, but he did want to try. He couldn't believe he had decided to let the opportunity pass without making any effort. He would have, if not for Scott's insistence on finding the boy.

He wanted Scott to stay at Lancer too, although he didn't think it likely. Scott wasn't a boy, but a grown man, and he had another life in Boston. His grandfather had given him everything he could ever want, more than Murdoch could have. It wasn't realistic to expect him to leave that behind for life on a cattle ranch, not permanently. But maybe Scott would be willing to stay awhile, at least, to help get Johnny settled.

Murdoch dragged himself away from a vision of riding over Lancer with both of his sons.

"Are you sure there isn't some other way into that cave?" he demanded.

"Not any more. Used to be a passage, but a rockslide closed it off a while back."

Murdoch's head rose eagerly. "Is there any chance we could open it?"

"Don't see how, not without dynamite. And that just might bring the whole thing down."

Murdoch glanced up at the ledge, squinting. The light was beginning to fade. "We'll just have to wait then. Unless you want to go back to town for some more men?"

"Not likely," Hardy said, his face closed. "It's my job to stay here."

"Mine too," Murdoch said.

"You're not a lawman, Lancer."

"No. But I am a father."

***

"Nothing?" Santana drew his bristly brows down. "What do you mean, nothing?"

Johnny shrugged. "Nada," he translated.

"I know what it means! Don't you give me any of your lip." The older gunfighter strode across the cave, agitated. "He's your father. And he's rich. He'll pay."

"Doubt it." Johnny didn't sound like he cared, one way or another.

"I want $5,000."

Johnny shook his head. "You're loco, Angel."

"If I am, you'll be dead. And that fancy brother of yours too. I got your gun, John, remember."

Scott's eyes widened. Why had Johnny given up his gun to Santana? That gun was the only thing he'd asked them for when he was sick. They hadn't given it to him either. They left it on the dresser, assuring him that he didn't need it and they'd take care of him now. Scott didn't feel as if they'd done a very good job.

"He won't pay it," Johnny said coolly. "And you won't get to spend it anyway."

Scott didn't think it was such a good idea for Johnny to make that point.

"We'll see." Santana was pacing up and down, like a caged animal in a zoo. "You're going to ask him."

"What?"

"You go and tell your daddy I want $5,000 in cash by sundown tomorrow. And if you're not back here in an hour, I'll start cutting up the gringo. And you know I'll do it too."

Johnny was silent for a few moments. They were long moments for Scott. "Angel, maybe you should be thinking about how you're going to get out of here."

"You get going, boy. Five thousand by sundown, and he better make sure that sheriff doesn't get any bright ideas."

Yes, get going and don't you dare come back, Scott thought. Surely, Murdoch wouldn't let Johnny return. Scott couldn't believe their father had allowed him to come up here in the first place.

Johnny didn't move and Santana produced a wicked blade, smiling. "I thought I taught you to listen, John, long time ago, but maybe you need another lesson. Maybe you and your daddy will pay more attention if I send you down with one of your brother's ears."

He loomed over Scott and grabbed him by the hair, holding the knife against his skin. Scott's heart pounded, but he willed himself to keep his fear off his face. He looked at Johnny.

"You better go," he managed to say.

Johnny didn't go. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Santana touched the knife to Scott's neck. It was so sharp he didn't have to bear down to draw a line of blood. "It sounds like your big brother's smarter than you are, John. You do what I say right now."

"Told you before, I'm not a kid," Johnny said. "And I don't give a damn what you do to that gringo. Why don't you try to make me? If you got the balls?"

Santana cursed. He dropped Scott's head and took a step toward Johnny, who stood his ground. Scott watched, helpless. The older man was taller and heavier than his brother. He towered over Johnny, the knife in his right hand. Johnny still hadn't even shown the sense to back up.

"You're going to be sorry you said that!"

"Give it up, Angel," Johnny advised him, his voice still emotionless. "I don't care what you do. But Scott and me are leaving."

"You forgetting you don't have a gun, boy?"

"I haven't forgot you have my rig," Johnny said softly. "That don't mean I don't have a gun."

***

Santana froze, his eyes going to the bulge in Johnny's right jacket pocket. Scott's did too.

"Drop the knife and back off," Johnny ordered. He heard Scott's sharp intake of breath, but didn't look at the Bostonian. Instead, he kept his attention on Santana, alert to every twitch.

"You back off, boy, or you'll be sorry."

"Drop the knife, Angel," Johnny repeated. "Now."

"You won't shoot me." Santana drew his lips back, showing his teeth. "You were always too damn soft, kid. I should have knocked it out of you."

"Isn't like you didn't try," Johnny observed dispassionately.

Santana took a step backward, but didn't drop the knife. "What have you got in your pocket, John, your hiding gun? You think you can stop me with a little popgun? You got one shot, maybe two."

"I only need one." Johnny took a step toward him.

"Johnny." Scott spoke up. "Don't. I think you should go down, like he said, and talk to Murdoch."

"See, he is smarter than you," Santana agreed. "You do it, John."

Johnny shook his head and took another step. "I'm not going to tell you again to drop the knife."

Santana stared at him, his eyes calculating. Johnny stared right back, careful to keep his face deadpan. The seconds ticked by. Johnny let them tick.

The knife thudded to the ground.

"Put your hands up over your head and move back," Johnny ordered.

Santana laced his hands over his head. Johnny moved toward the knife and crouched to pick it up with his left hand. His right hand was still in his jacket pocket, covering Santana. He cut Scott's ropes without taking his eyes off the other gunfighter.

"Get his rifle, at the front of the cave," Johnny said.

Scott shuffled toward the entrance, rubbing his wrists, and picked up the rifle. It was a Spencer carbine, like the one he'd used in the war. He returned to stand next to Johnny, holding the rifle at his side.

"You might want to cock it and point it at him," Johnny advised. "He's still got a six-shooter in his holster. If he moves his hands, shoot him."

Scott did as his brother said. Johnny took his right hand out of his pocket and transferred the knife to it.

"Where's your gun?" Scott asked.

"Over here." Johnny moved across the cave, still keeping a cautious watch on Santana, and rummaged in a pack.

"No, I mean the gun in your pocket."

"Don't have one," Johnny said.

Scott's eyes swung to his brother, just for a second. A roar of rage erupted from Santana's throat as he went for his gun. Scott fired, but his shot went wild, ricocheting off the wall of the cave. He pulled at the rifle's lever desperately, even as Santana brought his gun up.

Two more shots rang out.

***

Something moved up on the ledge. "Murdoch!" Scott's blond head looked around the rock. "I need help, quickly. Johnny's hurt!"

"What about Santana?"

"He's dead." Scott disappeared again.

Murdoch started to charge up the path. The sheriff called him back.

"It could be a trap, Lancer."

"It's not a trap." Murdoch kept going. After a few minutes, the sheriff followed him.

Scott was bending over Johnny, pressing on the boy's shoulder. "He's bleeding too much," he said, his face worried.

"Let me see." The blood spurted as soon as Scott moved his hand, and Murdoch frowned. He began to take off his belt. "We need to get more pressure on it. Hold on for a minute."

The sheriff was checking Santana's body. "Who killed him?"

"Johnny did," Scott said, looking at his brother's still face. "I missed. It's my fault he got Johnny."

Murdoch had grabbed Santana's pack and pulled out a shirt, folding it into a pad. Scott moved his hand and Murdoch pressed the pad against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. All the color had drained out of Johnny's face. "We need to get him to a doctor," Murdoch said. "There isn't time to get a wagon. Scott, go and saddle the horses. I'll carry your brother down."

Scott stumbled down the slope to the clearing and saddled the horses in a daze. It only occurred to him that Johnny's black horse was missing after they got Johnny up onto Murdoch's horse. He asked about it.

"I don't know," Murdoch said impatiently. "He came in on foot."

"I don't think Johnny would like it if we just left his horse out here."

"Scott, we need to get started. It's going to take hours."

Scott looked at his brother. Johnny hadn't stirred, not even when the sheriff found a half-filled flask of tequila in Santana's things and Murdoch used it to clean the wound. He was slumped in the saddle in front of his father, who had one arm clamped around him. Murdoch said Johnny's collarbone was almost certainly broken, and they'd rigged a sling to support his arm after they'd bandaged his shoulder.

"You go ahead, sir. I'll catch up as soon as I find it." Scott had already let Johnny down today, just as he'd once let his friend Sterling down. The horse wouldn't make up for it - nothing would - but at least it was something useful he could do.

Murdoch hesitated before he nodded. "Be careful. If you don't find it within a half hour, leave it and start after us."

Scott found Johnny's horse ten minutes later, tethered to a high line strung between two trees. He didn't think he had a prayer of putting Johnny's saddle on the stallion, but he grabbed his brother's saddlebags and slung them over his own saddle. When the sheriff returned for Santana's body, perhaps he'd pick up the saddle. It took some doing, but Scott finally got the black horse's lead rope attached to his saddle horn, as he'd seen some of the cowboys on the ranch do. It wasn't unlike cleating a line on a sailboat.

The black horse balked a few times, but Scott caught up with Murdoch and Hardy long before they reached town. Johnny was still slumped against Murdoch's chest.

"Has he regained consciousness at all, sir?"

Murdoch shook his head, grim-faced.

An hour out of town, Hardy volunteered to ride ahead and make sure the doctor was ready for them. Scott offered again to take Johnny for a while, but Murdoch refused curtly.

They rode along silently. The motion had started the bleeding again, and they'd slowed to a walk after stopping to tighten Johnny's bandages.

"Tell me about what happened, son," Murdoch finally said.

Scott sighed, dragging his thoughts back to the present. "Santana took me by surprise. You were right, sir, it was foolish for me to go up there without knowing who was inside. He disarmed me and tied me up. I'm not sure exactly what happened when Johnny got there because he had knocked me out. When I woke, Santana had Johnny's gun, but hadn't tied him. They seemed to know each other quite well. It sounded like Santana knew Johnny and his mother too when he was younger."

Murdoch looked up at that. "Go on."

"Santana decided to send Johnny down to tell you he wanted $5,000 for our release. He threatened me if Johnny didn't return, but I hoped you wouldn't allow it. You shouldn't have allowed him to go there in the first place."

"I couldn't stop him," Murdoch said. "He told me I shouldn't have let you go up there. What happened then?"

"Johnny pretended he had a derringer in his jacket pocket and was holding it on Santana. He cut me loose and told me to get Santana's rifle. I was supposed to be covering Santana while Johnny retrieved his Colt." Scott's voice turned bitter. "When Santana realized Johnny didn't really have a derringer, he lowered his hands and pulled his gun. I had taken my attention off him, and I missed when I fired. Johnny found his gun, but Santana got a shot off too. He apparently didn't think I was much of a threat. He aimed at Johnny, not me, even though I was closer. It's my fault. If I hadn't failed to do my part, he would be fine."

Murdoch frowned. "Scott, you don't know that. Anything could have happened. Santana was desperate and had nothing to lose. He's the one who's responsible for shooting your brother, not you."

Scott shook his head. "If he dies, it will be my fault." He glanced at his father and brother, a lump rising in his throat. He couldn't say the words anyway, couldn't tell his father about Sterling. He couldn't tell him it wasn't the first time he had failed.

***

"There it is!" Murdoch drew up the surrey at the top of a hill and feasted his eyes on the land that stretched out below them. "As far as you can see, it's all Lancer!"

Johnny slouched on the seat, still sulky about their refusal to allow him to ride any horse, let alone the black stallion Scott was leading. He looked, and Murdoch watched carefully, hoping to see the blue eyes light up. Murdoch loved this land and hoped his sons would share his feelings for it. He'd created the ranch for them, after all, and for their sons after them.

Johnny tilted his hat down so his father couldn't see his eyes and slouched more. Maybe he was tired. He probably was hurting, not that he'd ever admit it. They should have stopped earlier, but they were so close and Murdoch was anxious to get home, where they could look after him properly. He glanced again at the boy and picked up the reins.

"We'll reach the house soon."

Johnny didn't bother to answer.

Murdoch sighed. This wasn't exactly the homecoming he'd dreamed about for so long. They'd nearly lost Johnny. For days, Murdoch was desperately afraid they were going to lose him.

The doctor had operated to remove the bullet as soon as they reached Paradise, but warned them it was dangerously deep. The risk of infection was high, and the boy was weak from losing so much blood. Johnny's temperature had soared within hours. He'd raved wildly in Spanish and English and they couldn't calm him. Scott didn't know Spanish, and Murdoch refused to translate any of it for him. What Johnny had to say in English was disturbing enough, but the Spanish was heartbreaking. Murdoch couldn't bring himself to repeat it.

The fever finally broke on the third night, and Johnny slept through most of the next two days. He had little to say during the brief periods he was awake.

When he did feel better, he was hostile. Murdoch was determined to bring his younger son home, but wasn't sure he would have succeeded if Johnny was healthy. Johnny didn't even give in when they pointed out he couldn't work or protect himself if someone challenged him, not with a broken collarbone. They also pointed out he didn't have nearly enough money to support himself for the month it would take to heal. He had flatly refused to take the reward money for killing Santana. When the sheriff persisted, Johnny gave it to the doctor and told him to use it to look after the people injured in the raid.

Of course, they wouldn't have left him on his own without making sure he had enough money, but Johnny didn't know that. He insisted he'd be fine and could just camp out awhile. It had been another shock for Murdoch when he casually announced he'd done it before.

Fortunately, the doctor stepped in at that point and told Johnny not to be a damn fool. He also threatened to drug him, if necessary, to get him into the surrey.

Murdoch had tried a few times to talk with his son, once Johnny could keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes, but had little success. Johnny wasn't responding to any overtures, his or Scott's either. It was almost as if he was determined to push them away. He clearly hated being dependent on anyone.

Murdoch let out another sigh. He had hoped things would get better once they got home, and Johnny saw the ranch. But his doubts rose as they rolled closer to their destination. The trip had been sheer hell. Johnny balked at wearing his sling in public, or riding in the surrey Murdoch had rented from the livery. He'd given in, but Murdoch was well aware of the fact that his sixteen-year-old son had cradled his Colt inside the sling. Johnny obviously had no faith at all in his father and brother's ability to protect him.

Murdoch's eyes went to Scott, riding alongside the surrey. Scott was another problem. He seemed to be blaming himself for Johnny's injury to a degree that just wasn't reasonable. Of course, Murdoch also wished Scott had taken Santana down before the outlaw shot Johnny. But he had tried. As far as Murdoch could tell, Johnny didn't blame his brother.

The Lancer housekeeper broke into rapid Spanish as soon as she saw Johnny. He backed up, dismayed, and bumped into Murdoch, who put a hand out. "It's all right," he said softly. "Maria helped deliver you, and she took care of you when you were small."

Johnny shot him a strange look, but let the housekeeper advance on him. She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. Hers were full of tears. She kissed him on both cheeks, to his embarrassment, and promptly steered him toward the stairs to the second floor, scolding all the time that he was too thin and pale as a shadow. Scott followed them.

"He sure looks like his mama," Paul O'Brien observed.

Murdoch poured Scotch for both of them. "He does - and I don't understand him any better than I ever understood her."

***

Murdoch pushed the door open cautiously. All the windows in the room were wide open. Johnny was fast asleep, and so was Scott, sitting in the chair next to the bed with a book open on his lap.

Murdoch nudged his older son and Scott's eyes flew open.

"Shhhhh," Murdoch warned quietly. "Don't wake your brother. He needs his sleep."

Scott's eyes went to the bed. Johnny had curled up on his left side, his breath deep and even. Scott rose carefully and headed for the door.

"Senora Maria couldn't persuade him to get undressed and into bed properly," Scott observed, out in the hallway. "But she did make him drink some willow bark tea. I don't know what it was that he said in Spanish, but I don't think he swore at her."

"Thank God for that. Supper's ready, but I think we should just let him rest. He can have something on a tray later."

Scott nodded and followed his father downstairs.

Johnny opened his eyes as soon as they were gone and sat up, dragging his good hand through his hair. He had wakened the moment Murdoch touched the door, but he was tired of their fussing.

He looked around the room curiously. It was his room, the housekeeper had told him, waiting all these years for his return. It was bigger than many of the homes he and his mother had shared. He had no memory of it, or of anything else about the hacienda.

The windows faced toward the barns and he could see the shapes of horses in the corrals, even in the twilight. This sure was a big place. It made no sense that his mama had left it. He rubbed his face and turned away from the window, reaching for his boots.

He could hear voices murmuring in the kitchen when he slipped down the back stairs. He didn't want to run into the housekeeper again, not right now. And he definitely didn't want to run into Murdoch or Scott. He made it out the door and sat down on a bench to pull on his boots. It was hard with one hand, but he finally managed. He flexed his right hand inside the damn sling, letting it curl around his gun. His hand still worked, at least. He'd been shot before and he'd broken bones before, worse than this. The doctor said he'd heal, but it was taking too fucking long. And why did it have to be his right arm? He kicked at the ground, frustrated. He didn't want to be here. Murdoch had tried to talk to him, insisting he was Johnny's father, but Johnny believed it even less after seeing this spread. His mama never would have walked out on this without some good reason, and he could only think of one good reason. She'd have to be loco, otherwise.

He paused. Maybe it was loco of him to turn his back on this. Maybe he should just enjoy it while it lasted, and be ready to go on his way when they came to their senses. It wasn't like he could do much of anything else, not until his shoulder healed. He supposed he had nothing to lose.

Johnny stood and headed unsteadily toward the barns. No one was around. He'd spotted a building that must be the bunkhouse, out past the barns, and figured the hands were eating their supper too.

He found his horse in the first barn. He spoke softly to the stallion, knowing he'd have to start practically from the beginning again. It wouldn't be too smart to try to brush it left-handed, not until the horse got used to him again. It didn't look like anyone else had dared to get close enough.

Johnny slid down onto some hay bales, still talking to the horse. It was quiet in the big barn. He breathed in the familiar smells of hay and horses, and fell asleep again as the last light faded away.

***

There was a lantern, and someone was moving nearby. Johnny closed his hand around his gun before he opened his eyes.

A big Mexican vaquero, Murdoch's age or a little older, stood looking at Johnny. He didn't have his gun out, or appear to be angry, just curious. Johnny waited for him to speak.

The vaquero set down the lantern and offered him a hand. Johnny just looked at it, and the man frowned. "I am Cipriano, your father's segundo," he said in Spanish. "I mean you no harm. Let me help you up."

"I can do it," Johnny answered in the same language, still cautious. He stood, trying not to show he was still a little shaky on his legs. "You're the segundo?" He was a little surprised to find a Mexican who was second in command on a gringo ranch. But the foreman was a gringo. Johnny vaguely remembered meeting the foreman when they arrived. The segundo hadn't been around.

"Si," the other man answered, letting his hand drop. "I have worked here for many years, before you were born. This is not the first time we have met. Although, I think, you do not remember me."

Johnny shook his head. "Don't remember any of it," he said softly.

"You were very young," Cipriano said. "Does the patron know where you are?"

Johnny glanced at him. "He don't need to know."

"You should respect your father." The segundo gave Johnny a stern look. "And you do not look well enough to be here by yourself."

"Nobody tells me what to do." Johnny responded quickly. He flushed under the older man's steady gaze. He usually didn't feel like a kid, hadn't for years. But there was something about those dark eyes.

"You are still young," Cipriano said. "Come. I will walk back to the house with you."

"I know the way."

"I have business there." Cipriano picked up the lantern again. "Come."

Halfway back to the house, the vaquero slowed some more to match Johnny's flagging pace. "Do you need to rest?"

"I'm fine," Johnny said, irritated. He was breathless and his legs wobbled under him. The deep ache in his shoulder, stilled by the housekeeper's bitter tea, had returned. He had a feeling the tea might come up too.

Cipriano said something under his breath and grabbed Johnny's good arm. Johnny found himself sitting on the ground, his head pushed between his knees by a firm hand.

"You are as stubborn as your papa," the segundo said after a few minutes.

Johnny took another breath. He wasn't quite so dizzy now.

"I'm not anything like him," he protested.

Cipriano snorted. "You are just like him. You always were."

Johnny gave him an uncertain look.

The segundo reached down and hauled Johnny to his feet, keeping a hand on his belt to steady him. "It is time you returned to your father's house."

***

Scott watched as the stallion nuzzled his brother's hair. They had turned it out into one of the lush paddocks near the house after it tried to kick a hole through its stall. Johnny wasn't supposed to ride it yet, but that hadn't stopped him from spending hours with the black horse once Maria and the local doctor let him out of the house. He seemed more comfortable talking to the horse than to any of them.

The horse butted Johnny and he laughed and pushed it away. "Soon," he promised.

"Don't even think about it," Scott said from the railing.

Johnny climbed over the fence and leaned against it too, watching the horse run. "I'm not stupid, Scott."

"No, just a bit reckless," Scott teased. He hesitated. He had told himself he had postponed this conversation until Johnny had recovered more, but wasn't sure that was entirely true. "Johnny, you and I need to talk."

"What about?"

"First, I need to apologize," Scott said. "I was supposed to be covering Santana. I'm sorry. You wouldn't have been hurt if I did what I was supposed to do. I wish he'd shot me instead."

"Why would you wish that?" Johnny sounded baffled.

"You're my brother. I'm supposed to look out for you."

Johnny shrugged. "Nobody has to look out for me. Nobody made me go up there, or piss off Angel."

"Why did you?"

Johnny grinned. "Didn't think much about it," he admitted. "Mostly, I guess, 'cause it pissed off Murdoch."

Scott shook his head. "You do seem to have a talent for that. I thought he was going to have apoplexy at dinner last night."

"Yeah." Johnny's smile faded. Scott watched him closely. The last few weeks had been anything but peaceful in the Lancer household. Murdoch and Johnny couldn't seem to be in the same room for long before some battle began. So far, there had been a lot of yelling and slammed doors. Scott sighed. Johnny honestly didn't know most of the rules he broke so casually, but he didn't seem to be trying very hard to remember them either. In fact, at times, he almost seemed to be trying to test just how far he could go.

Scott had a feeling it wasn't much farther. He half dreaded the explosion, and half wished they could get it over with. He just prayed Murdoch passed the test, whatever it was.

"Don't get it," Johnny mused to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing." Johnny played with the beaded bracelet he wore looped around his wrist.

"If you're not angry at me about what happened in the cave, are you angry that I didn't go to California with you and Murdoch when you were eleven? That I joined the army instead?"

Johnny looked confused. "Why should I be?"

"I told you I'd look out for you."

"And I keep telling you..."

"I know," Scott interrupted. "You keep telling me. Only it didn't look that way in Sheriff Hardy's jail, Johnny. Or in the cave, when I was afraid you were going to bleed to death. It didn't even look that way back in the saloon, when you faced three men by yourself in a gunfight. You're not very good at taking care of yourself."

Johnny dug a hole in the ground with the tip of his boot, head bowed.

"Tell me why you ran away from Murdoch five years ago. Did he do something or say something? Did the two of you have a fight, like you did at dinner last night?"

Johnny shook his head. "No. He was OK."

"Then why? If you weren't mad at me, and you weren't mad at Murdoch, why didn't you go to Lancer with him?"

"Maybe I just wanted to stay in Mexico."

"On your own, at the age of eleven? That doesn't make sense."

"Things don't always have to make sense."

Johnny was shutting down, not that he'd opened up much. In fact, he really hadn't explained anything. Scott's frustration rose. "That is why people talk things out, until they understand exactly what happened and why."

"What difference does it make now? It's done."

"If you make a mistake, it's important to figure out why, so you don't make the same mistake twice."

"Maybe it wasn't a mistake."

Scott stared at his brother, trying to read his face. "And maybe you're going to do it again. Is that what you're not telling me, Johnny? You're going to run away from Lancer, just like your mother did, and leave us wondering why."

Johnny's temper flared. "Leave her out of this!"

"How can I?" Scott was just as angry. "Do you think she did the right thing, running away and taking you with her? You can't be so stupid as to do the same exact thing."

"You don't know why she left."

"You don't either, but it doesn't matter. There is no possible good reason for what she did to you. You belonged here, with your father."

"Maybe he's not! Would that be enough reason for you?"

"What?" Scott stared at his brother. He didn't understand at first. When light dawned on him, his mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious. That's crazy."

"Is it?" Johnny set his own jaw stubbornly. He looked so much like Murdoch when he did it that Scott could have laughed. At least, he could have if this wasn't so serious.

"Johnny," he began.

"Shut up," Johnny said, spinning away from him. "You don't know a fucking thing about my mama or me, and you never will. Just shut up and leave me alone."

***

Johnny slammed the barn door behind him, hoping Scott wouldn't follow. He leaned back against it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He didn't have any answers for Scott. He didn't know the answers. After three weeks at Lancer, he knew what he wanted, but didn't think he could ever have it.

"Is something wrong?"

Johnny jumped at the unexpected voice and reached for his gun, finally back in its place in his holster. Shit. He was getting soft after just a few weeks with these people. Soft and slow could be a deadly combination in his business.

Cipriano moved out of the shadows, apparently untroubled by the gun pointed directly at his chest. He was carrying a bucket of mash. Johnny put the Colt back in its holster. "Sorry. I didn't know you were back."

He hadn't seen the segundo since that first night. Most of the hands had gone out on spring roundup before the housekeeper let Johnny set foot out of the house again.

"You are much better than you were when we left." Cipriano looked him over gravely.

"I'm fine. I'll be able to ride soon."

"Perhaps you should begin with something a little easier to handle than that stallion," Cipriano suggested. "He is a fine animal, but lacks training."

Johnny flushed. "I haven't had him long enough yet to train him."

"It is not an easy thing, to train a wild stallion to the saddle. Did you not realize he had not been broken when you bought him?"

"I didn't buy him. I caught him in the canyons," Johnny said. "I know what to do."

"There are many horses on the ranch."

"I have a horse." Restless under the man's gaze, Johnny moved across to a stall and patted the pregnant bay mare inside. She nosed him familiarly, clearly expecting a treat. "Sorry, querida. I didn't bring you anything today." His voice changed completely from the flat tone he used with the segundo. He rubbed her gently, leaning into her neck a little.

"The mash is for her." Cipriano handed over the bucket, and Johnny offered it to the mare. The segundo folded his arms across his chest, watching them.

"You are good with horses," he said when the mash was nearly gone. "Why do you choose to make a living with your gun?"

"I'm good with the gun too," Johnny said softly, not turning.

"So I have heard."

"It isn't your business."

"I work for your father," Cipriano said. "It is my business to protect his interests, whether that means teaching an untrained horse or a foolish boy."

Johnny swung around to glare at him. "Don't push me," he warned.

Cipriano's teeth flashed in a sudden smile. "Why? Will Johnny Madrid shoot me?"

Johnny didn't smile back. "He might."

"I don't think so." Cipriano took the empty bucket.

"You don't know me."

"You don't know yourself, nino," Cipriano said. "Tell me, when you are able to ride, where do you intend to go?"

Johnny shrugged. "It don't matter."

"Perhaps it does not matter because it will end the same way if Johnny Madrid rides away from here, no matter where he goes," the segundo said.

"Perhaps," Johnny agreed. He didn't sound like he cared.

Cipriano shook his head when the boy left the barn. "Madre de Dios," he whispered, crossing himself.

***

Thunder rumbled ominously and lightning flashed in the windows. Scott flung back the bedcovers and moved to the windows. The rain hadn't started yet. When lightning flashed again, he could see a towering bank of dark clouds piled up to the west, moving in fast. The air was still and he could feel the hair rise on his bare skin. He stepped into his trousers and buttoned them up, conscious of the tremble in his fingers.

It was late, well past midnight according to his watch. He lit a lamp and sat in the chair by the windows, but didn't bother to pick up his book. He wouldn't be able to concentrate. He played nervously with the smooth gold watch, replaying the evening in his mind.

Johnny hadn't even made it through the soup before Murdoch lost his temper at the boy's language and told him to leave the dinner table. Johnny promptly headed for the kitchen, a smirk on his face that made Scott itch to shake him. They finished the meal in complete silence and moved into the great room.

Scott had tried and utterly failed to come up with the right words to tell his father what Johnny had said earlier. He was still thinking when he excused himself and went upstairs. Perhaps it would be better if he talked to Johnny again first. But what in the world was he going to say?

He jumped when the thunder boomed again, closer this time. It rattled all the windows in the house.

It sounded too much like the artillery. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but his mind filled with horses and men. He could smell the blood again and hear the screams. Sweat and mud streaked across grim, tired faces. They'd been fighting all through the gray afternoon while the shells rained down on the lines and exploded around them.

He stared again into a young face, and curled his finger around the trigger of his rifle, resting his cheek against the smooth stock. A pair of blue eyes met his, surprised. It was his duty to fire. But the Confederate soldier was a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen. The face changed to Johnny's just as Scott steeled himself to pull the trigger. He swung the rifle away, horrified, and found Sterling looking quizzically into the barrel. He wore immaculate formal evening dress, his top hat tipped back, and was just opening his mouth to speak. Scott let the gun drop and heard Santana laughing. He raised it again and aimed at the outlaw's gloating face, his heart pounding. His finger squeezed the trigger.

"Scott?" The voice yanked him out of the nightmare. He looked up and saw Murdoch standing in the door, dressed in a robe, nightshirt and slippers.

"What's wrong?"

"Your brother isn't in his room. When I saw the light, I hoped he was in here."

Scott shook his head. "I haven't seen him since dinner, sir. Maybe he's downstairs."

"I hope so." Murdoch's face was worried. "It's going to be a bad storm."

A thought occurred to Scott and he reached for his boots. "Johnny's horse is still out in the paddock," he said. "He may have gone to bring it into the barn before the storm hits."

Their eyes both went to the windows as a cold gust billowed the curtains. Another blue flash of lightning fizzed outside, the thunder crashing almost simultaneously.

"I'll get dressed," Murdoch said, but Scott was already moving, pulling on a shirt as he ran down the stairs. The rain started as he snatched his hat and coat and went through the front door, heading across the yard.

Johnny was alone in the paddock, the black horse rearing above him on two legs. He had managed to get a halter and lead line on it, but the storm had panicked the stallion beyond any hope of control. "Johnny, leave it!" Scott shouted, knowing the words wouldn't carry above the cacophony of wind, rain and thunder. "Johnny!"

The horse screamed as lightning lit the paddock, and its flailing hooves missed the boy's head by inches. Johnny tugged determinedly on the line, his lips moving, as he fought to keep the horse on the ground. He was hatless, and the rain had plastered his dark hair to his skull.

"What does that boy think he's doing?" Murdoch demanded breathlessly, coming up next to Scott. He wore oilskins and carried a rifle. The horse reared again and Murdoch aimed the rifle at it.

"No, don't!" Scott knocked the rifle up, even as the horse pulled Johnny off his feet. The boy went flying, still holding onto the rope, and skidded across the paddock behind the maddened horse. Scott ducked under the rail and ran toward his brother.

"Dammit, Johnny, let go!" he heard Murdoch bellow behind him. "Let go of the rope!"

Lightning flashed again, just at the wrong time. The horse leaped and twisted. Scott lunged desperately toward Johnny and slipped in the mud, falling flat on his face. Murdoch launched himself and fell over his younger son, shielding him as the horse bucked crazily over them. Scott, the breath knocked out of him, could only watch helplessly.

And then it was over. Paul O'Brien and Cipriano appeared in dripping oilskins. They got ropes over the stallion's neck and dragged it away toward the barn, even as the rain tapered and the storm rumbled eastward. Scott found his feet and staggered toward his father's prone body. The horse's hooves had slashed Murdoch's oilskins to ribbons, but the older man was still cradling Johnny in his arms. Johnny struggled weakly, unable to free himself. Scott rolled Murdoch's weight off, relieved to find a strong pulse in the rancher's neck, and helped his brother sit up.

"Easy," he said. "Just take it easy."

Johnny stared at Murdoch before he gave Scott a dazed look. "Why?"

Scott produced a handkerchief and daubed at Johnny's bleeding lip. "Why did you go out in the middle of a storm to try to bring that damn horse in?"

"Cause he's mine." Johnny tried to bat Scott's hand away.

"Exactly." A smile tugged on Scott's mouth. "That's why Murdoch went after you."

***

"What do you mean I can't ride?" Johnny couldn't believe it. "I'm fine, Doc! And you said I could ride this week."

"That was before you decided to tangle with a thunderstorm and a wild horse in the middle of the night," Sam said. "You are not fine, and you know it as well as I do, so don't even try it on."

Johnny rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go loco," he said. "Please."

"Sorry, John. Nothing doing." Sam closed his bag. "You can put your shirt back on."

Johnny burst into Spanish. Sam laughed. "I just might treat your mouth with a bar of soap, but I'm still not going to let you ride."

"Why not?" Johnny argued. "Doc, I've ridden miles when I've been hurt a lot worse than this."

"Not while you've been under my care, you haven't. Can you manage the buttons?"

"Yes," Johnny said sullenly. He winced a little when he pulled the shirt on and shot a look at the doctor to see if he had noticed.

Sam had noticed. His eyes twinkled. "That is just one of the reasons you're not riding yet, young man."

"Mierda."

"I do understand Spanish, Johnny."

Johnny heaved out a sigh, and slumped back against the pillows disconsolately.

"It won't be much longer - if you behave yourself this time," Sam said. "You just need to give it some time."

"Don't have a lot of time," Johnny said.

"You're sixteen," Sam said. "You have all the time in the world."

Johnny opened his eyes briefly and closed them again. He didn't contradict the doctor, but he was wrong. He was dead wrong if this damn shoulder didn't heal already so he could start practicing again. As soon as he left Lancer, he'd have to hole up somewhere and do some serious shooting. Maybe he should just leave now, no matter what Doc said. He might have a little trouble with the stallion, but he'd just have to manage.

"Don't even think about it," Sam said pleasantly.

Johnny opened his eyes again. "What?"

"I said, don't even think about it."

Johnny gave him a suspicious look. How could Sam know what he was thinking?

The doctor didn't show any signs of leaving. Instead, he pulled up a chair. "We need to talk."

"Don't want to talk," Johnny said. An idea occurred to him. "What about Murdoch?"

"He won't be riding either this week," Sam said. "But he'll be fine. He managed to get away with cuts and bruises, and a concussion. Both of you were lucky."

Johnny didn't feel lucky. Mostly he felt sore all over. But he was hardly going to admit that to Sam Jenkins. He didn't even remember how he had ended up back in his room, not exactly. He remembered pushing Scott's hand away when they headed back to the house. And he remembered O'Brien and Cipriano carrying Murdoch between them on a stretcher they'd brought from the barn. But he didn't actually remember reaching the house. He had been in bed when he woke this morning, and had just managed to get his pants and shirt on when Sam arrived.

"Can I come in?" A blond head appeared around the door. "Sorry to interrupt, Doctor. Murdoch is wondering if Johnny is all right."

"He will be," Sam said. "I told Murdoch to get some sleep."

"He doesn't seem to be a very good patient," Scott said, looking at his brother.

Johnny sank lower against the pillows. Scott was smiling as if something was funny. Sam was chuckling too. He stole another look at them through his lashes. These people were definitely loco.

"Murdoch isn't going to rest until he's sure," Scott said to the doctor.

"I suppose not," Sam said. "Come on, Johnny."

"What?"

"You're going to see your father. Briefly."

Johnny wasn't sure he wanted to see Murdoch, not until he'd had a chance to think out what had happened in the paddock. But the doctor and Scott were waiting. He got to his feet and looked around for his boots. They were next to the door, neatly lined up. Someone had cleaned off the mud.

"You don't need them," Scott said. "Or your gun either. You're not going outside, just down the hall."

Johnny thought about delaying this to tuck in his shirt and comb his hair, but it just wasn't going to take nearly long enough. He sighed again and followed Scott and the doctor down the hall to Murdoch's door.

The rancher was lying in a massive oak bed. A bandage wound around his head. He scowled at his visitors. "Where's Johnny?"

"He's right here, sir," Scott said, stepping aside and giving Johnny a push forward.

Murdoch stared at him and Johnny felt his face flush. Dios. The big rancher reached out his hand.

"Come here, son."

Scott gave him another little shove when Johnny didn't move. Johnny glared at his brother and took a few steps toward the bed.

"You're really all right?" Murdoch fastened his eyes on him. Johnny nodded, stopping short of Murdoch's outstretched hand.

"I'm fine. Um, thanks," he said reluctantly.

Murdoch dropped his hand, a faint smile appearing on his face. "If you ever do anything so stupid again, young man, I'm going to make you sorry you were ever born."

Johnny's chin went up. "Oh, yeah, old man? You don't think what you did was stupid?"

Scott glanced at Sam. The doctor tried to keep a straight face and failed completely. A snort escaped. That set Scott off. Johnny wheeled and Murdoch sat up in bed. When Scott caught his breath, he found two outraged pairs of blue eyes boring holes through him.

"What do you think, Doctor?" he asked, wiping his eyes.

Sam Jenkins smiled. "I don't think it's curable. Like father, like son."

***

"Your father is looking for you."

Johnny didn't look up. He'd heard the door open and recognized the distinctive jingle of the segundo's spurs. He continued to stroke the long-legged foal, born before dawn. "He's a beauty."

"Si," Cipriano agreed. He, too, had been present for the foal's birth. "But he and his mama are fine, and you knew that many hours ago. Why are you here, nino? They are waiting for you."

Johnny didn't know, not exactly. "They don't need me," he pointed out. "I can't sign anything anyway. Scott says it don't count until I'm twenty-one."

That piece of information had outraged him when he first heard it. It still made him mad. He didn't even believe Scott, not at first. He thought maybe his brother was trying to make a bad joke. But Scott wasn't kidding. He even pulled out some of Murdoch's books to show him. Johnny couldn't read well and he didn't understand all the fancy words, but he could get by enough to see the law considered him a child.

"Your father wishes you to be present," Cipriano said. "And you should be. It is not every day that a boy becomes a partner in his father's ranch."

Johnny rested his head wearily against the foal. "It's just a piece of paper," he mumbled. "It doesn't mean shit."

"It is your birthright, that paper," Cipriano said sternly. "And it is important to your father. If you do not have the sense to understand, you should still respect his wishes."

"Respect don't come from some stupid law."

"I did not say it did." Cipriano's voice was scornful. "A man knows who deserves his respect, and who does not."

Johnny's eyes flickered upward. "They're the ones who think I'm a kid."

"You are behaving like one."

The foal poked its nose into Johnny's hand, as if to remind him of its presence. He tickled it absently, his face blank. He didn't say anything and neither did Cipriano. Dust danced in the shaft of sunlight from the open door. The bay mare sneezed, breaking the silence that hung over the barn. Outside, someone began to whistle.

"It is your choice," Cipriano said at last. "I have work to do this morning."

The segundo turned to leave. Johnny watched him. "Cipriano!" he called as the man went through the door.

"What is it?"

"I'll be there in a few minutes. I need to clean up."

The older man nodded, his face as blank as Johnny's. "I will tell them."

***

Johnny's hair was damp from the pump when he slipped through the back door and started down the hall. He sneaked past the kitchen, hoping to escape the housekeeper's sharp eyes and tongue for the moment anyway. Voices rumbled in the great room. He peered around the door cautiously.

"Johnny!" Murdoch's voice was aggravated. "Come in."

A silver-haired stranger, dressed in a suit and string tie, was sitting in the chair next to the big desk. He put his coffee cup down and rose to his feet.

"Lucas, this is my younger boy," Murdoch said. "Johnny, this is Judge Barton."

"Nice to meet you," Johnny mumbled.

"It's good to see you again, John," the judge said. "But we've met before, you and I."

Johnny's eyes narrowed. "Don't think so," he drawled after a minute.

Barton laughed as Scott poured more coffee into his cup. "No, you haven't been in my court," he said. "You were still in diapers the last time I saw you."

Scott offered Johnny a steaming cup of coffee and he wrapped his hands around it, grateful for the distraction. He was tired of hearing memories he didn't share.

"Lucas retired from the bench years ago," Murdoch said. "His ranch is over on the other side of Spanish Wells. Fortunately, he still does some lawyering for the Cattlemen's Association and a few old friends. I asked him to draw up the partnership agreement."

Johnny concentrated on his coffee. He was starving, but he'd just have to wait until lunch. It sure wasn't like he'd never missed a meal before. He definitely was getting soft.

"Well, now that you're all here, I want to make sure you understand what you're signing today." The judge set down his cup. "Under the terms of this agreement, you three will each own equal shares in the ranch and its assets and will share equally in the profits. Murdoch is the managing partner. He is also, of course, John's legal guardian until he comes of age."

Barton's voice droned on. Johnny's attention had wandered. Outside the windows, he could look out on the sun-drenched range, toward the mountains. He wished he were out riding on it, instead of stuck inside. Scott nudged him, and Johnny looked up as the O'Briens, Cipriano and Maria entered the room. Teresa was beaming.

"I asked Paul and Cipriano to witness our signatures," Murdoch said. He picked up a pen and signed the document carefully, then rose to let Scott take his place. Scott leafed through the papers, his face serious, before he signed his name too, crossing the Ts with a flourish.

"Your turn, brother," Scott said, holding out the pen. Johnny realized they were all looking at him.

"You said it don't count if I sign," he protested.

"Legally, that's true," Murdoch said. "I have to countersign for you until you're twenty-one. But this isn't just a legal document, Johnny. It's also an agreement between the three of us. For that, your signature counts as much as mine, or Scott's."

"I agree." Scott was still holding out the pen. Johnny hesitated and took it from him. He sank into the desk chair, staring at the thick sheaf of papers covered with spiky writing. Shit. He should have paid more attention.

He turned a page, half afraid he'd leave a smudge on the crisp paper.

"If there's anything you don't understand, just ask," Barton said.

Johnny didn't understand any of it, not really. His eyes drifted over the words. They had nothing to do with the ranch, the miles of land, the horses and cattle, or the people who lived here. Dry words on paper didn't hold the cold, spring-fed pond where he'd gone swimming yesterday after galloping the black horse through the canyons. He could taste, smell, and touch Lancer. It was real. These were just words, too many damn words.

He flipped to the last page, and his eyes found some words he knew.

"It is your name," Murdoch said quietly. "You don't have to use it, but it's yours."

"Ours," Scott corrected. An elusive smile played on his face. "It's ours. Like the ranch, if your stubborn younger son ever gets around to signing the partnership agreement."

"He's your younger brother," Murdoch retorted, a rusty smile breaking out. "You're responsible for him too."

"Hey," Johnny objected. "I am right here, you know." He sighed, and went to work with the pen, forming the letters slowly. He finished, at last, and put the pen down. An unfamiliar sense of panic rose as he looked at the signature. He was tempted, for a moment, to smear the black ink before it dried. But Barton waved Paul and Cipriano forward to sign their names too, and then Murdoch was shaking hands with everyone.

"Johnny!" Teresa skipped over eagerly. "Cipriano says the bay mare foaled last night, and you helped."

"Yeah."

"Will you take me out to the barn to see the new colt?"

Johnny shot a quick look at her father and Murdoch. They had both frozen, dismay written across their faces. "No," Johnny said, detaching the girl's hand from his sleeve.

***

Scott looked across the table. Johnny had to be hungry after missing breakfast, but he hadn't tucked into his food with anything like his usual enthusiasm. He was moving it around on his plate absently and hadn't said a word. At the head of the table, Murdoch didn't have much more to say.

Paul and Cipriano had made excuses to decline Murdoch's invitation to join them for what was supposed to be a festive lunch to celebrate the new partnership. Paul looked embarrassed, and Teresa clearly didn't understand when he hurried her out of the room. The segundo wasn't embarrassed when he followed them out. His dark eyes were furious.

That left Scott to carry on the conversation with Judge Barton. Scott was angry too, as angry as Cipriano, but he had been trained since birth in proper behavior at the table.

Maria carried in a platter and set it down with a distinct bang. She said something in Spanish to Johnny, who answered without lifting his eyes from his plate. She stalked into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

Judge Barton cut his roast beef, ignoring the atmosphere just as politely as Scott. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it when you first asked me," he said to Murdoch. "I was over in Paradise, trying to straighten out the McLean estate. I understand you were there too, with your boys, just after it happened."

Murdoch grunted an affirmative.

"A bad business," Barton said.

"Yes, sir," Scott agreed. "Uh, how did you happen to hear that we were there?"

"I've known Jim Hardy a long time." The judge loaded his fork with Maria's mashed potatoes and swirled it in the rich gravy, apparently intent on his meal.

Scott glanced at Murdoch. They had agreed there was no point in telling anyone what the sheriff did, or didn't do. He'd have to live with the knowledge he might have prevented the massacre, but he wasn't directly responsible for it. They didn't like what he had done to Johnny, but he'd also helped them get Johnny back to Paradise later by the shortest possible route. And if he hadn't made sure the doctor was ready and waiting for them, it might have been too late.

They had also quietly decided to keep Johnny's name - both of his names - out of the whole thing. Officially, the sheriff was the one who killed Santana, not Johnny.

Johnny had been too sick at the time to have a say in either decision, but he hadn't objected when he heard about it.

"Hardy is gone, you know," Barton said. "He quit his job and left town. He and his nephew are going to try their luck at ranching in the Dakotas. Jim doesn't feel right wearing a badge just now, maybe never again. And I can't say I disagree with his decision."

Johnny looked up at that, briefly, but didn't speak.

"Just in case of trouble later, he thought it might be a good idea if someone else knew what really happened." Barton slathered butter on a roll. "He and Zeke wrote out statements and they're locked in my safe. That's where they'll stay unless someone ever tries to tie Madrid to the massacre and you need them, Johnny."

Johnny nodded slightly.

"You did the right thing." Barton put down his knife and spoke directly to Johnny. "I'd be proud if you were my boy."

"I am." Murdoch's voice sounded strangled. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. "I am proud of him."

Johnny went back to rearranging his peas. Scott pressed his lips together. He couldn't wait until he managed to get his father alone and tell Murdoch just what he thought of the way the man demonstrated his pride. Murdoch and Paul couldn't possibly have made it any clearer they didn't trust Johnny with Teresa.

"I suppose Hugh's sister sold the ranch to the railroad?" Murdoch asked after a few minutes silence.

Barton smiled. "No, she did not. They wanted the right of way through the ranch, but they sure didn't want the headlines about the Easter Massacre. They've fired the agents who hired Santana and they're taking another route. Between us, there will also be a substantial settlement, more than enough for Margaret to get the ranch back on its feet. It doesn't make up for what happened, of course, but I don't think anything like it will ever happen again in this valley. They know they went too far."

"Good," Murdoch said emphatically.

***

"How dare you!" Scott fumed later, facing his father. Barton had left soon after lunch and Johnny had disappeared. "Do you want him to leave?"

"Of course not," Murdoch protested. "You know I don't."

"I don't know anything of the sort. More importantly, neither does Johnny."

Murdoch got mad. "I didn't make either of you a partner in Lancer because I want you to leave. I want both of you here. I always have."

"You want both of us here, but you don't trust Johnny enough to walk Teresa out to the barn to look at a foal."

Murdoch reddened. "That's different, Scott. She's just a child. And Johnny - well, he's not used to girls like Teresa."

"They're not even three years apart in age. And Johnny would never hurt Teresa, any more than he'd hurt that colt he was up half the night with. If you don't know that, you don't know a damn thing about him."

"I don't think he'd hurt her on purpose," Murdoch protested. "And neither does Paul."

"Just what do you think then? And what is Johnny supposed to think?"

Murdoch leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his hands. "Scott, you've heard Johnny's language. Do you really think it's suitable for a thirteen-year-old girl's ears?"

Scott paused at that. "I'm sure Johnny would be careful with her."

"Maybe he'd try." Murdoch rubbed his face. "It's not his fault, but he doesn't have a clue about how to behave, not yet."

Scott gave him an unbelieving look. "He's not the only one who doesn't have a clue. You think about that, sir."

Murdoch spun his chair around and looked out the windows, resting his eyes on the view, when Scott left the room. Usually, the sight of his land soothed him, but not today. He could still see his younger son's eyes, stricken for just a second before the boy wiped his feelings off his face. Murdoch hated it when Johnny hid behind a gunfighter's cold mask. But it was just as hard, maybe even worse, when Johnny dropped his guard and he caught a glimpse of the pain behind that deadpan face.

He got to his feet, shoving the chair back viciously, and headed for the barn. He didn't know what to say but he needed to talk to his son.

He was sure he'd find Johnny with the new colt, and dismayed to find Cipriano instead.

"Have you seen Johnny?"

"Not recently, no," Cipriano said coldly. "Did you want him, Patron?"

Murdoch glanced at his segundo. "Of course I do."

Cipriano forked clean hay into the mare's box. "The colt is a good one," he said. "You can see it already. He has something of his mother's looks and his father's strength. If he is trained properly as he grows up, he will be one of the best horses to ever come from this ranch."

Murdoch wasn't interested in the colt, not just now. He was racking his brains, trying to figure out where Johnny might be.

The segundo wasn't finished. "Even if the colt was lost somehow and ran wild for a few years, he could still be one of your best horses. That is, he could be if he is not ruined by careless handling."

That got Murdoch's attention. He stared at the segundo, who looked back impassively.

"A curb bit and too much of the spurs can ruin a young horse. You know that, old friend, as well as I do."

Murdoch nodded. "I get your point."

Cipriano put the hayfork away and patted the mare. "I hope so. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for in the paddocks."

"Cipriano?"

"Si, Patron."

"Thank you."

The segundo smiled faintly and gestured toward the door.

Both of his sons were in the far paddock, sitting side by side on the fence.

Murdoch hesitated, looking at the fair and dark heads. Scott was talking, his hands moving. He had his mother's expressive hands, and her temperament. If anyone could reason with Johnny, it was Scott.

Johnny had his mother's fiery spirit, but even Maria would listen to reason. Unfortunately, Murdoch knew, he'd rarely been reasonable. He and Maria both had a tendency to lose their tempers and shout at each other instead of talking. It wasn't any wonder their son did the same thing.

Murdoch watched his sons for a few more minutes. They seemed comfortable with each other, despite all the differences between them. Johnny jumped off the rail, landing lightly on his feet, and looked up at his older brother. Murdoch could see the cheeky grin from the corner of the barn, even if he couldn't hear what the boy said.

Scott stepped down from the fence too, and reached for his brother's collar, shaking him like a puppy. Johnny promptly tripped him, knocking him off his feet, and they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

They had picked themselves up and moved into the shade of the nearby peach orchard before Murdoch made up his mind. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and stepped out of the shadow of the barn, walking toward his sons.

THE END

Whistle, May 2006

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