Run Away Home
Murdoch Lancer rode through the arch to the ranch at twilight. Golden light spilled out the windows on the ground floor of the hacienda. He dismounted wearily outside the barn, his back protesting the long ride. A boy ran out to take his horse.
"Gracias, Tomas," he said, recognizing one of the nephews of his housekeeper. The boy ducked his head shyly and led the horse away while Murdoch slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and headed for the house. It was good to be home again, after a long week at a cattlemen's association meeting in Stockton.
He glanced into the pasture and froze in his tracks. There was a golden horse loping easily inside the fence. A figure stood on its back, balancing with fluid grace as the horse started to swing into a turn.
"Johnny!" Murdoch exploded. Johnny's head rose and Murdoch watched, horrified, as his younger son tumbled backwards. He rolled as he hit the ground, and finally landed in a heap.
"Damn it, John, are you trying to break your neck?" he demanded when he'd crossed the pasture in record time. Johnny was sitting up, to his relief. The palomino made another circle, prancing now and shaking its head.
"Nope," Johnny said. He stood, a little slowly, and rubbed one wrist.
Murdoch's fear turned into fury. "This is a ranch, not a circus," he said sharply. "Are you ever going to learn some sense, boy?"
Johnny's own temper flared right back. "I was doing fine until you decided to take a hand, Old Man!"
Murdoch's fist connected with his son's jaw before he even realized what he was doing. Johnny, knocked back onto the ground, stared at his father. Murdoch dropped his hand, ashamed.
"Dear Lord," he whispered. "John, I'm sorry."
Murdoch reached for his son, but Johnny flinched and scrambled to his feet, backing away.
"No," he hissed. "Don't touch me."
"Son, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Murdoch's anger was gone, replaced by regret. He couldn't believe he had hit Johnny. "John, please."
Johnny took another step backwards. "No," he said, his blue eyes dark. "Never again, Murdoch. Not you, not anybody."
"Johnny." Murdoch barely breathed his son's name.
"No." Johnny whistled for his horse. Barranca ran to him immediately, nudging his shoulder.
"John, don't get on that horse again tonight," Murdoch said. "Please."
"You think you can stop me?"
"No," Murdoch said frankly. "I know I can't."
"Johnny?" a voice called. Scott came down the path, and stopped when he saw his father. "Murdoch, welcome home. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow. How did the meeting go?"
"Fine," Murdoch said.
Scott looked curiously from his father to his brother and his eyes narrowed. "Did you take a spill off Barranca, Johnny?" he asked his brother. "Go on up to the house and I'll put him away for you."
"No, I'll do it," Johnny said, leading his horse toward the barn. He limped slightly, Murdoch noticed.
Scott watched him too. "Did he really fall?"
"Yes," Murdoch said. "He was standing on the horse's back, like a circus rider. I was surprised and I shouted at him."
Scott studied his father. There was more to it than that, he figured, to put that look on Murdoch's face.
"Why don't you keep him company while he takes care of his horse?" Murdoch suggested.
Scott nodded. They must have had another argument, he thought, sighing. He headed into the barn, where he found his brother grooming the palomino.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"No," Johnny said, not looking at him.
Scott had never heard his brother say he was anything less than fine, not even when he was bleeding or barely conscious. "Talk to me, little brother. What's wrong?"
Johnny leaned into Barranca. "Scott, there's nothing to talk about. This just isn't going to work."
"What did Murdoch say to you?"
Johnny was still, but his back was tense. "Nothing," he said.
"Johnny." Scott put a hand on his brother's shoulder, but Johnny pulled away.
"Not now, Scott."
Scott heard the strain in his voice and decided not to push him. "All right," he said quietly. "Whenever you want to talk, I'm here."
Johnny just nodded.
Scott found his father in the great room, sipping on a stiff whiskey and staring at the fire. He didn't waste any time getting to the point.
"What did you say to Johnny, Murdoch?"
"Where is Johnny?" Murdoch asked.
"He's still out in the barn. He wouldn't tell me what's wrong. What did you say, Murdoch?"
"It's not what I said."
"What is it, then?"
Murdoch had a hard time meeting Scott's clear eyes, so like his mother's, and he dropped his head. "I hit him."
"You did what?" Scott was horrified.
"I didn't mean it," Murdoch said. "I didn't even think." His hand tightened on the glass and he turned away from his older son's angry, disappointed face.
It was late when Scott heard his brother come up the stairs. He had deliberately left the door of his own room open. Johnny's footsteps slowed a little as he approached, and then went by. Scott closed his book and got up from his chair.
Johnny was stuffing spare socks into his saddlebags.
"Don't fuss, Boston," he said, when Scott stepped inside the door.
"Johnny, Murdoch told me what he did."
"Yeah?" Johnny's face and voice were carefully indifferent.
"He's sorry, Johnny," Scott said. "For what it's worth."
Johnny sighed, and closed the saddlebags. "It's not worth much, Boston."
Scott had to ask. "Johnny, do you really think that riding away is going to solve anything?"
"For a few days anyway. I need to do some thinking."
"You can't think here?"
Johnny just shook his head.
Scott felt cold. Johnny had bolted before while he was still furious at Murdoch. This felt different. Johnny wasn't angry, as far as Scott could tell. He was remote, as if he had already left the ranch and his family behind.
"Promise me you won't just disappear," Scott said. "I just found you and I don't intend to lose you, brother."
Johnny's blue eyes fastened on Scott's. "I need to do some thinking," he repeated, picking up his rifle.
"Johnny, you think about the fact that we're brothers," Scott said. "I'm not going to let you just ride out of my life."
"Maybe you should," Johnny said. He slipped past Scott and quickly went down the stairs. The front door opened and shut.
"Damn," Scott swore, and drove his fist into the wall.
***
Scott decided there was absolutely no reason why his father should sleep peacefully through the night. He rapped sharply on Murdoch's closed door, and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.
To his surprise, the room was empty. No one had slept in the smooth bed, and Murdoch's saddlebags were missing. Scott stepped up to the dresser and picked up a note.
"I'll be back in a few days," it read. "Take care of the ranch and behave yourselves. Sorry. M."
Scott's eyes widened unbelievingly. He wasn't too surprised when his younger brother rode away. It was another thing entirely for their father to run away too.
Scott wondered where Murdoch was. He knew Johnny was likely to head for the northernmost line shack, located in a wild, remote area of the ranch at the foot of the mountains. He'd found his brother holed up there before, more than once.
It would be interesting if Murdoch headed for the same place. It wasn't impossible, Scott thought, his lips curving in a smile at the idea of Murdoch and Johnny sharing a one-room shack in the mountains. Murdoch had once told him he really put that line shack there because he used it for fishing and hunting, whenever he felt the need to get away for a few days. It was far from any of the pastures, and rarely used by work crews.
Scott paused as an idea occurred to him. He took all of a minute to think about it, and then headed to his own room. Fifteen minutes later, he had saddled his horse and was headed north himself.
Johnny rode up to the line shack just before dawn, bone tired. Instead of heading straight for the shack, he'd spent a few hours galloping Barranca at top speed across the open range. Now he was exhausted and just wanted to sleep.
His instincts wouldn't let him ride up to the shack without checking it out first, and he froze as he spotted thin smoke coming out of the stovepipe. Someone was already inside. Johnny frowned. He knew none of the crews were working in the area.
He tethered his horse in the trees and slipped cautiously across the clearing to the shed first, but he didn't find a horse stabled inside. Puzzled, he approached the dark shack cautiously, and peeked in the window before he unlatched the door and opened it. He went in quickly, rolling and coming up half-crouched with his gun drawn and pointed at the intruder's head. His jaw dropped.
"Murdoch? What are you doing here?"
His father glared at him from the bunk. "I was trying to get some sleep. What are you doing here?"
"Same thing," Johnny said, putting his gun back in the holster. "But don't worry, I'm leaving."
He headed for the door again, even as Murdoch pushed back his blankets and followed him.
"Wait, son," Murdoch said, just outside the shack. "It's late and there's plenty of room."
Johnny tried to shake the bigger man's hand away from his arm. "Don't feel like company," he said. "Let me go!"
Murdoch's grip tightened. "Johnny, it's got to be three in the morning. Get a few hours sleep, at least, and then you can leave if you want."
"No," Johnny said, pulling free. "I'll camp out. I've done it before."
"Johnny, please. I am sorry, son." Murdoch looked into those stormy blue eyes. "Please don't go."
Johnny cursed in Spanish and headed for the trees where he'd left his horse. Murdoch sighed. A minute later, there was a yelp from the trees and he straightened up.
"Barranca!" Johnny whistled shrilly, but there was no response from the golden horse.
"What's wrong?" Murdoch called.
"Barranca's gone," Johnny said. "I left him right here."
"Could he have pulled free?"
"No, he couldn't. I know how to tether a horse, Old Man." He whistled again.
"Whatever happened, you're not going to be able to track him in the dark," Murdoch said, his tone reasonable. "You might as well get some sleep, John. Chances are that Barranca is on his way home. I'll ride over and check at first light."
"Oh yeah? What are you riding?"
"My horse is stabled in the shed," Murdoch said.
"No, it ain't," Johnny said.
"What do you mean?"
"I checked the shed first," Johnny said. "It's empty."
"It can't be," Murdoch said blankly.
"Murdoch, I know a horse when I see one and I know when I don't see one too," Johnny said. "There's no horse in that shed."
Murdoch crossed the yard, suddenly in a hurry, and swung open the shed door. Johnny was right. His horse, saddle and tack were gone.
"What the hell?"
"Maybe you left the door open," Johnny suggested.
"I did not leave the door open," Murdoch said, seething. "What's more, young man, even if I had, the saddle could hardly have walked out after the horse, could it?"
Johnny just shrugged, and walked away.
"Where are you going?"
"Like you said, it's too dark to track them," Johnny said. "I'm going to turn in until it gets light enough to pick up the trail."
Up in the trees, Scott watched until his father followed Johnny back to the shack. The door slammed behind them, and Scott grinned, and picked his way up a path to where he had left his own horse. He'd saddled Murdoch's horse and unlatched the door, giving the giant gelding a slap on the rump to get him started on his way home. Barranca had taken a little more persuasion, even after he was freed, and Scott had been worried that his brother would hear something.
He swung up into the saddle. He couldn't hear any shouting from the shack, not yet at least. His smile widened. It was miles to the nearest road and even farther to the hacienda. Like it or not, Johnny and Murdoch were going to spend some time together. And this time, neither of them could get away.
***
Johnny didn't bother to take off his boots. He dropped onto a bunk on the opposite end of the room from the one where Murdoch had been sleeping, and slipped his gun under the pillow. Despite his bravado, he didn't think he'd sleep. He hoped Barranca had just pulled free and headed for home. He hated to think of a thief getting his hands on the golden horse, the best horse he'd ever owned. Barranca wasn't likely to be too cooperative with any stranger, but that might just make it worse.
Murdoch had given him the horse on his first day at the ranch. At least, he'd said Johnny could have him if he could break him, and he'd kept that promise anyway.
No one else had been able to break the palomino and Johnny knew Murdoch hadn't expected him to succeed either.
For a minute, Johnny allowed himself to think of the approval he'd seen shining in the older man's eyes that afternoon, for the first time. Murdoch had actually looked as if he was proud of his younger son.
Right, Johnny said to himself. For about five minutes, maybe, just until he remembered who you are and what you are. Then it was back to the pained look, the shamed look or the angry bellow.
He yawned, in spite of himself. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a minute. Not long. He had to be up as soon as the first light appeared, to see if he could figure out from the tracks what had happened to his horse. He yawned again, and his eyes slid shut.
The sun was already high in the sky when Johnny opened his eyes again. He stretched like a cat, not quite sure where he was or why, and then sat up in a hurry as he remembered.
"Take it easy, son," Murdoch said from the stove. "We're not going anywhere. Your brother made sure of that."
"What?" Johnny was entirely awake now, and angry. "Why didn't you wake me earlier? You knew I wanted to start tracking as soon as it was light."
"I already took a look." Murdoch poured strong coffee from the pot and held the mug out to his son. "It didn't take an expert to recognize the marks of Charlemagne's shoes."
Johnny hesitated for a few seconds before he accepted the coffee from his father. He sipped it cautiously. "Murdoch, are you saying Scott took our horses? As in my brother Scott, the responsible one?"
"Yes," Murdoch said.
"Why would he do that?" Johnny said. "It's not funny."
Murdoch smiled grimly. "I don't think he meant it as a joke, John," he said. "Your brother wants the two of us to talk."
"Wait 'til I talk to him," Johnny said.
"I'm first in that line." Murdoch turned back to the stove. "Why don't you go get cleaned up? Breakfast will be ready in five minutes."
Johnny gulped down the rest of his coffee. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up, retrieving his gun. He still looked exhausted, Murdoch thought, wondering what his son had been up to in the past week, while he was away at the meeting. There were shadows under his eyes. There was also a faint bruise on his jaw. Johnny looked up and caught his father looking at him. He didn't say anything, just went out the door and headed toward the river.
Johnny returned in 30 minutes, not five. Murdoch's nerves had stretched to the jangling point by then as he tried to imagine where his son could have disappeared to, horseless and miles from anything. He thought Johnny knew better than to set off on foot in the mountains, with no supplies, but he was never quite sure what this son might do.
He bit back an angry question, and simply indicated the flapjacks he'd left warming on the stove. Johnny poured another cup of coffee and sat down at the table. He poured syrup on his flapjacks and took a bite.
"Son, I'm sorry I hit you last night," Murdoch said.
The blue eyes lifted warily, half hidden by long dark lashes, and then dropped again. "I've had worse," Johnny said, concentrating on his breakfast.
"I know," Murdoch said softly. He had been furious when he read the Pinkerton reports about his son. He wanted to strangle his lovely, heartless wife and to kill the men she'd allowed to knock their son around. Murdoch knew his son had been badly hurt, more than once, and he'd seen some of the scars. Some couldn't be seen, but he knew they were there.
Johnny paused. "I decided, a long time ago, that no one was ever going to do that to me again," he said.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Murdoch said.
Johnny's eyes flickered at him. "No?" he said. "Just how do you suppose I managed it, Murdoch?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was just a kid," Johnny said tonelessly. "Only way for me to stop a grown man from beating on me was with a gun."
"I know you shot the man who killed your mother," Murdoch said slowly.
"Not fast enough, that time," Johnny said. "I should've shot him before he hit her."
Johnny cut up a flapjack and moved the pieces around on his plate, his head bowed. Murdoch tried to wrap his mind around the idea that Johnny blamed himself for failing to save his mother, at the age of 10, because he hadn't shot her last lover quickly enough. Murdoch knew the story from the Pinkerton reports, not from his son. Johnny had taken a vicious beating from the man, who turned on Maria when she finally intervened. He knocked her down, breaking her neck, and Johnny had shot him with his own gun.
Other people had heard the whole argument, and told the Pinkertons all about it, but no one in the village had lifted a finger to help the woman or her child, either before or afterward.
"Johnny, you were only 10 years old," Murdoch said slowly. "It wasn't your fault. Your mother should have protected you, not the other way around."
Johnny shrugged. "That's not the way I saw it. I had to take care of myself, and my mama too, because there wasn't anybody else to do it. Finally figured out there wasn't any way to do it, except with a gun. Only it was too late."
"I wish someone had sent you home," Murdoch said, his voice filled with an old regret.
Johnny looked at him coldly. "I wouldn't have let you hit me either, Murdoch. I'm sure as hell not going to let you now."
Murdoch met his son's eyes. "It's not going to happen again, John. Ever. Will you give me another chance?"
Johnny thought about it. Murdoch's heart thumped as he waited for his son's answer.
***
"I don't know," Johnny said at last, ducking his head.
"Johnny," Murdoch said. "I don't want to lose you again."
"You haven't found me," Johnny said frankly. "Murdoch, I'm not that little kid you've got in your head, the one you lost. I don't even remember him, or you."
"I know that."
"Do you?" Johnny took a bite of flapjack and chewed on it. "Murdoch, I don't think this is gonna work. You got an idea in your head that don't have anything to do with me. Maybe it did, a long time ago, but not now."
"Johnny, you're my son," Murdoch said.
Johnny shook his head. "I tried to be. I just can't do it, Murdoch. Not the way you want."
Murdoch felt like a fool. Johnny was good at reading people and he'd read his father's ambivalence with devastating accuracy.
Murdoch desperately wanted Johnny Lancer back, not Johnny Madrid. And Johnny knew it. He had known it all along, Murdoch realized.
He also suddenly realized he couldn't bear to lose this Johnny either. He just hoped it wasn't too late. Johnny wasn't still the innocent, laughing little boy he'd loved more than anyone or anything else in the world. Murdoch hated what life had done to his son, and some of the choices he'd made as a result. But he still loved his son.
"John," he said and stopped. What could he say?
An idea occurred to him. "Look, Johnny, we're likely to be stuck here for at least a day or two, thanks to your brother. We have two choices, the way I see it."
"Yeah?"
"We could walk out," Murdoch said, smiling at the expression on Johnny's face. The idea of walking at least 20 miles in riding boots didn't appeal to Murdoch either.
"What's the other choice?"
"We could spend some time together," the older man said slowly. "Get to know each other a bit better before you decide if you want to stay or go."
"What do you have in mind?" Johnny asked warily.
"Let's go fishing," Murdoch suggested.
"Fishing?" Johnny was doubtful.
"Yes, fishing," Murdoch said. He'd never had the chance to take either of his sons fishing. The idea suddenly appealed to him strongly. "Come on, John. It's fun. And fresh trout will be a lot better than beans for supper."
"Fun," Johnny repeated.
"Yes," Murdoch insisted. "You'll see."
Two hours later, there were only six small trout on their string and Johnny was fidgeting restlessly by the side of the river.
Murdoch gave his son an amused look. Johnny's eyes had lit up when he caught his first fish and Murdoch had enjoyed watching him bring it in. They'd stopped biting, though, and Johnny was clearly tired of sitting still and just waiting for a fish to take the hook.
"I could get a rabbit," Johnny suggested.
"A rabbit?" Murdoch was puzzled.
"Better than beans and a whole lot quicker than trout," Johnny said.
"We have plenty of time," Murdoch pointed out.
Johnny sighed, and subsided temporarily. Minutes later, he started to tap his fingers.
"Johnny, why don't you stretch your legs?" Murdoch finally suggested.
Johnny leaped at the idea. "Want me to try to get a rabbit while I'm gone?"
"I don't think that will be necessary," Murdoch said dryly. "When it quiets down here, the fish might start biting again."
Johnny flashed a sudden smile at him, and turned to pick his way across the rocks surrounding the quiet pool where they were fishing. He headed toward the main river, swollen with the spring runoff from the mountains.
"Careful on those rocks, Johnny," Murdoch called, and cast his line again, to the middle of the pool. "They're slippery and a lot of them are loose."
A low rumbling pulled his attention away from his line a few minutes later. He turned to find Johnny standing absolutely still on the riverbank, facing an enormous brown bear. The bear's cub was between them, exploring the rocks curiously.
"Johnny, don't move!"
"Don't worry, I wasn't planning on it," Johnny said. "You didn't bring your rifle fishing, did you, Murdoch?"
"I'm afraid not," Murdoch said.
"Mine was in the scabbard on Barranca's saddle," Johnny said. The bear growled again, staring at Johnny with small eyes. It moved back and forth restlessly, pawing the ground. "Don't think a .45 slug is going to have a lot of effect on a bear this size."
"John, stay still," Murdoch ordered, thinking desperately. He reached for the string of fish. "Don't make her mad."
"I think she already is kind of mad," Johnny pointed out, but he stood his ground. Murdoch had to admire his courage. Not many men could have stood there, apparently relaxed, while a brown bear prowled back and forth less than 20 feet away, deciding whether to charge. If the bear did charge, Johnny didn't have a chance.
"Murdoch?" Johnny said, his voice calm.
"Yes, son."
"Tell Scott this definitely wasn't a good idea, will you."
"I intend to tell him," Murdoch said grimly. "But you're going to tell him too."
"I hope so," Johnny said, giving his father a lopsided grin. "But the louder the better."
Murdoch took the most lively trout off the string and held it in his hand. "Johnny, I'm going to throw a fish to the bear. With any luck, that will take her attention off you, but don't make any moves yet."
"OK," Johnny said. "Let's just hope she likes trout better than cowboy."
Murdoch tossed the fish, aiming to the right of the bear. It flopped and wiggled on the ground, and caught her attention. She lumbered over to it and sniffed it suspiciously, then took it in her mouth and crunched it in one bite. Murdoch threw another fish, farther toward the woods, and the bear moved toward it.
"Not bad, Old Man," Johnny remarked.
"Be quiet, John," Murdoch said, throwing a third fish and then a fourth.
The cub followed its mother as she moved toward the woods. Suddenly it squealed and Murdoch's heart nearly stopped as the bear swung around suspiciously. The cub squealed again and ran past its mother toward the trees. The mother wheeled after it immediately, and they both disappeared into the brush.
"Thank God," Murdoch said, daring to breathe again. "Johnny, are you all right?"
"Sure," Johnny said, stepping onto another rock. It rolled under his weight and Murdoch watched, horrified, as Johnny threw his arms in the air, trying to catch his balance. He teetered wildly at the edge of the river and then fell, head first, into the rushing water.
"Johnny!" Murdoch shouted.
***
Murdoch waded into the river, searching for any sign of his son. The current was strong, tugging at his legs as he moved downriver from the spot where he'd seen Johnny go down. The water was ice cold.
The seconds were passing by quickly and he knew he was running out of time. If the fall had knocked Johnny unconscious, as he feared, he had to find him fast, before he drowned.
He lunged suddenly, as he caught a glimpse of something pink under the water, and pulled Johnny up by the collar of his favorite shirt. Limp at first, he finally sputtered weakly and started to cough up water. Murdoch towed him toward the bank and tugged him out of the water. Johnny continued to cough up river water, and Murdoch turned him on his side and rubbed his back.
"Easy, Johnny," he cautioned, when the boy finally stopped coughing and tried to sit up. "Take it slow."
"I'm all right," Johnny said.
Murdoch was dubious about that. A cut on Johnny's temple was bleeding and Murdoch could feel a bump on the side of his head, under his hair. He winced when his father touched it.
Murdoch checked him over swiftly for broken bones. Everything was fine until he reached Johnny's right ankle.
"That hurts," Murdoch said, looking at his son's face and stopping.
"I probably twisted it or something," Johnny said. He bit his lip as Murdoch handled the ankle carefully.
"Or something," Murdoch agreed. "I can't tell if it's broken, Johnny. It's already swelling too much."
"Pull my boot off," Johnny said.
"I'll cut it off when we get back to the shack," Murdoch said.
"No," Johnny said. "I like these boots, Murdoch. It took a long time to get them just right. Pull it off now while it'll still come off."
"Johnny, I don't want to hurt you," Murdoch objected. "You can always get another pair of boots."
"I don't want another pair of boots," Johnny insisted. "I want to keep these boots."
Murdoch sighed, but he felt the same way about his favorite riding boots and he finally did what Johnny wanted. Johnny set his jaw and didn't make a sound. He took the boot in his hand while Murdoch helped him stand.
"Don't put any weight on that leg," Murdoch said, holding him up. "I can take the weight, Johnny."
"What about your back?" Johnny said.
"Never mind my back," Murdoch said. "Come on. I want to get back to the shack before that bear decides to come looking for more fish."
Johnny tried, despite Murdoch's order, but he couldn't put any weight on his ankle. He was leaning heavily on his father by the time they finally reached the shack. Murdoch helped him over to a bunk and went back to shut the door.
"You need some help getting out of those wet clothes?"
"Nope," Johnny said, his head down. "I'll do it in a minute."
Murdoch put some more wood in the stove and took off his own wet clothes, changing into a dry union suit from his saddlebags.
"I'm afraid I don't have any other spare clothes," he said.
"They wouldn't exactly fit anyway," Johnny said with a small smile. He'd taken off his shirt, and his belt. Murdoch moved over to his bunk and pulled off Johnny's other boot, then unbuttoned the conchos down the sides of his leather pants and eased them off too. He pulled off Johnny's socks and frowned at the sight of his swollen, bruised ankle. It had already turned purple and the skin was tight.
"Get under the blankets, Johnny, and give me your wet drawers," he said. "I'll get some bandages and strap that ankle."
"My drawers ain't all that wet," Johnny objected.
"John, you are not going to sit around in wet clothes and catch pneumonia," Murdoch said sternly. "Now, do you want to do this yourself or not? Because that's your only choice."
Johnny sighed, but he did it himself. Murdoch took his wet clothes and hung them up by the stove to dry. Johnny wrapped a blanket around his waist and hopped over to the table.
"Is there any gun oil?" he asked, sliding his Colt out of his holster.
"Johnny, I want to bandage that ankle," Murdoch said. "And then you should get some rest. You banged your head pretty hard."
"I need to clean this gun before it's ruined," Johnny said stubbornly.
"Johnny," Murdoch said, but he recognized the obstinate look on his son's face. He'd seen it before in his own mirror.
"Put your foot up on the chair," Murdoch said, taking a container of oil and a roll of cotton down from the shelves. "I'll bandage your ankle after you clean your gun. And then you're going straight to bed, young man."
Johnny broke the gun down expertly, and cleaned and dried it. Murdoch brewed a pot of coffee and watched his son's deft fingers, fascinated in spite of himself.
"I'm going to have to strap your ankle tight," he said, when Johnny was finished with the gun. "It's likely to hurt."
"I know," Johnny said. "Just go ahead and get it over with."
Murdoch went ahead grimly and got it over with. Then he produced a flask from his saddlebags. "Take a sip," he said. "Not too much, Johnny, not with that bump on your head."
Johnny took a mouthful of whiskey. Murdoch did too before he helped his son hop back over to the bunk and covered him with more blankets.
"Try to get some sleep," he said, looking at the pale face. He reached over and traced his hand over Johnny's cheek, gently brushing the damp, spiky hair off his forehead, and Johnny finally closed his eyes.
Murdoch went over to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Murdoch?" a quiet voice said.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Johnny said drowsily. "Thanks, Old Man. For pulling me out of the river. And for feeding the fish to the bear too."
"You're welcome, John. Now go to sleep."
"Mmmn," Johnny said. "Hey, Murdoch?"
"What is it, Johnny," Murdoch said, exasperated.
"I'm not so sure you were right about fishing."
"What do you mean?"
"Not sure it was exactly fun," Johnny said.
Murdoch chuckled, and started to laugh.
***
Scott rode up to the line shack early the next afternoon, leading his father and brother's horses behind him. The rain had started in the morning. It streamed off his slicker and dripped down from the brim of his hat.
At least the shack was still standing, he thought, pausing outside on the small porch after he left the horses in the shed. And he still didn't hear any shouting.
He opened the door quietly. Johnny and Murdoch were playing checkers at the table. Scott noted Johnny's bandaged foot, propped up on a chair. He also noted that he hadn't opened the door quietly enough. He stared into the barrel of his brother's Colt, which had appeared with lightning speed.
"You're not that mad at me, are you?" he said with a smile.
Johnny replaced his gun in his holster, as quickly as he'd pulled it. "I've told you before you shouldn't come into a room too sudden."
"Shut that door, Scott," Murdoch growled. His voice was hoarse and he sneezed twice.
Scott closed the door and moved forward, still cautious.
"It sounds like you're coming down with quite a cold," Scott said to his father.
"Yes, I am," Murdoch said. "Thanks to you."
"Thanks to me?" Scott said, puzzled. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, still poised for flight if necessary.
"Murdoch was in the river yesterday," Johnny said, jumping two of his father's checkers.
"The river? Did you fall in, sir?" Scott asked.
"No, your brother fell in, after we chased off the bear without a rifle."
"The bear?" Scott said. "What bear? And what do you mean, no rifle?"
"My rifle was on Barranca's saddle," Johnny drawled. "By the way, is Barranca all right, brother?"
"He's fine," Scott said hastily. "You know I wouldn't let anything happen to your horse, Johnny. What's this about a bear and falling into the river? And what happened to your foot, Johnny?"
Murdoch finally moved a checker, scowling, and Johnny promptly jumped him again.
"Murdoch fished me out of the river," Johnny said. A grin appeared on his face, and he looked over at his father, his eyes dancing. "You could say he fished the bear away too."
Murdoch smiled back at his younger son, to Scott's amazement. He knew he was still in trouble, but his plan had apparently worked. Murdoch and Johnny were both relaxed and at their ease with each other, for the first time he could remember since he and his brother arrived at the ranch. They were also apparently ready to gang up on him. That was not any part of his plan, but Scott figured it was a small price to pay. He braced himself.
"So, is that what you two did yesterday?" he asked. "You went fishing?"
Murdoch moved another checker, shaking his head as Johnny advanced across the board. He put his hands up. "Enough," he said to Johnny. "You win, this time."
"Want to try again?"
"Later, son," Murdoch said. "Right now, I intend to have a little talk with your older, supposedly sensible brother."
Johnny glanced at Scott. "Yeah, I kind of wanted to talk to your older, supposedly smart son myself."
Scott held his hands up. "Now, be reasonable," he started to say. That did it.
"Reasonable!" Murdoch bellowed. "Your little stunt nearly killed your brother, Scott. And it took a few years off my life too!"
Scott listened quietly while his father lifted the rafters. He'd heard Murdoch bellow before, mostly at Johnny, never at him. Scott figured he deserved it after Murdoch told him just how dangerous it was, in this country, to take another man's horse. Or rifle. Scott could have kicked himself about the rifle. He just hadn't thought about it.
Murdoch broke off, finally, and started to sneeze again. Scott looked at his brother, whose blue eyes were unreadable.
"Your turn, Johnny," he sighed.
One corner of Johnny's mouth tilted upward, and Scott felt a little better. "Reckon I'll just let what Murdoch said stand," he said. "Don't mess with Barranca again, Scott."
"I won't," Scott promised.
Johnny looked out the window. "If we're going back to the ranch, we better go now, before it gets dark."
"Johnny, riding isn't going to do that ankle any good," Murdoch said.
"The rain isn't going to do your cold much good either," Johnny said. "But I'm kind of tired of the inside of this shack. And of beans."
Murdoch had to agree with him about that, but he still wasn't sure they should ride out. He looked at Scott. "How's everything at the ranch?"
"Fine," Scott said. "The cavalry buyer came yesterday and took all of the horses you broke this week, Johnny. Paid top dollar for them too, and says he wants more."
"Yeah?" Johnny's face lit up.
"What horses?" Murdoch asked. "Not those horses we were going to sell green?"
"Johnny broke them while you were gone. After he finished his regular work," Scott added, as his father opened his mouth.
Murdoch's brows rose. Johnny flushed a little as he met his father's eyes.
"We going, or not?" he asked.
"Good job," Murdoch said to him quietly. "And yes, let's get out of here."
Scott helped boost Johnny up onto Barranca's back and carefully threaded his brother's right foot into the stirrup. Johnny still couldn't get his boot on or put any weight on that foot. He was wearing two of Murdoch's oversized socks over the bandage on his ankle and his mouth was already set in a determined line.
"Are you sure you don't want to take Charlemagne and I'll ride Barranca?" Scott asked his brother. "Charlemagne's easier to ride."
"I'll be fine," Johnny said, patting Barranca's neck and leaning forward to whisper something in the horse's ear.
"Johnny?" Scott looked up at his brother. "I'm sorry."
"It's OK, Scott," Johnny said, and glanced over at their father, who was closing up the line shack. "I'm not saying I wasn't mad at you, or even that I'm not still mad at you, but I guess I should probably thank you too."
"We both should," Murdoch said unexpectedly, coming up behind them. "Come on, sons. Let's go home."
THE END
Whistle, October 2004