Splash
Scott Lancer took his hat off and wiped his face with what had been a clean handkerchief in the morning, a lifetime ago. He didn't think he'd ever been so dirty, so sweaty or so tired, not even in the cavalry. Waves of dust rose from the herd. Scott groaned as a steer broke away, bawling, and spurred his horse after it.
Johnny had warned him about roundup, but Scott hadn't believed his younger brother. He wasn't quite sure yet when to take Johnny seriously and when the boy was pulling his leg. Johnny's face didn't give anything away, most of the time. Scott sighed, and reached for his rope. He still wasn't very good at this, despite hours of practice. He said a silent prayer and aimed the lasso at the steer, which was tangled up in a thicket.
To his amazement, the loop fell over the steer's head the first time. He quickly tightened it up, and applied a little pressure. The steer bawled again, and Scott found himself flying through the air. He landed hard, skidded, and saw stars as his head connected with the ground. The rope fell away from his hands.
The sun was low in the sky, and the steer and the rest of the herd were gone when he woke up. He sighed, and swore under his breath. It took a while to get untangled from the thorns in the thicket. Scott was relieved to see his horse grazing quietly nearby. He got to his feet and plodded over to the horse, reaching for his canteen. He took a long drink, and then dumped the rest of the water over his head.
"Lucky thing there's a stream nearby," a soft voice drawled, and Scott looked up at his younger brother, sitting easily on his golden horse.
"Whatever you're thinking, don't say it," Scott warned.
Johnny grinned at him, his vivid blue eyes alight in a tanned, dusty face. "You okay, Boston?"
"No," Scott said. "I am most definitely not okay. I am filthy, I am bruised, and I am in absolutely no mood for any lip from you, little brother."
Johnny unfastened his canteen and tossed it over to Scott.
"Cool off a little more," he advised. "I told you cows were the dumbest critters under the sun."
Scott wet his handkerchief and daubed gingerly at his temple, which seemed to be bleeding. His new jeans were ripped, and his knees were bleeding too. He sat down, carefully, on a rock, and rubbed his elbow.
"I don't know," he said bitterly. "Cowboys might be even more foolish."
Johnny laughed. His smile lit up his face, despite the dirt. "You think you can ride, Boston?"
"Not very far," Scott said frankly. "Where's the herd?"
"Couple hours ride by now," Johnny said.
Scott groaned and rested his head in his hands.
"There's a good place to camp, not far from here," Johnny said. "Come on, Scott."
"Shouldn't we try to catch up with the herd?"
"Probably," Johnny said. "But I won't tell Murdoch if you don't."
"Done," Scott said promptly.
Johnny's campsite was a green meadow off the trail, bordered by a clear stream that tumbled down from the mountains into a deep pool. Scott pulled off his boots and his belt and waded in, fully dressed. Johnny watered both horses and filled both canteens before he set about lighting a fire. Scott unbuttoned his shirt and rinsed it, then slid out of his pants. His bruises were interesting shades of black, blue and green but he didn't seem to have anything worse than scrapes and bruises. He climbed out of the water, shivering, and pulled clean clothes out of his saddlebags.
Johnny had coffee brewing. His brows rose a little when Scott produced a change of clothes from his saddlebags, but he didn't say anything.
"Okay," Scott sighed, after he'd finished a cup of hot coffee, laced with something fiery from a flask, and taken a few half-hearted bites of jerky that Johnny produced for supper. "What did I do wrong now?"
"Scott, do you have any supplies in your saddlebags?"
"What do you mean?"
Johnny shrugged. "Ammunition," he said. "Coffee. Matches. Fish hooks. Jerky. Tequila. Trail supplies."
"No," Scott said. "Murdoch told me we'd get our meals from the chuck wagon. And I'm not planning on shooting anything."
"The chuck wagon is miles ahead of us," Johnny pointed out. "And you'd better plan on shooting, brother, just in case you have to."
"I'll leave that to you," Scott said.
Johnny's blue eyes turned dark. "Don't count on me, Boston," he said coldly. "Or anybody. Not on the trail."
"You aren't going to watch my back, little brother?" Scott asked.
"If I can," Johnny said. "But next time you still pack your saddlebags with supplies, not shirts, as if I couldn't. Just in case."
Scott looked at his brother, stunned again at Johnny's bleak view of the world.
"Johnny," he said. "I trust you."
"Maybe you shouldn't," Johnny said. "Murdoch don't."
Scott didn't know what to say to that. It was true. There was a difference in the way Murdoch treated his two sons, only he'd hoped that Johnny somehow hadn't noticed. He should have known better. The boy noticed everything.
"You should talk to him," he said finally.
The corner of Johnny's mouth turned up. "We don't do much talking," he pointed out, settling into his bedroll. "And all the shouting might spook the herd."
Scott woke at dawn. Johnny was still curled up in his blankets, fast asleep. His dark hair was ruffled and he looked about 12 years old. Scott smiled at him. Johnny could go from dangerous to disarming in seconds. He'd never met anyone like his brother before. Despite their differences, Scott had felt an immediate connection that he couldn't begin to explain.
Scott made coffee and cautiously raided Johnny's saddlebags for the fish hooks he had mentioned. He had a string of trout by the time his brother woke up. Johnny stretched, and headed for the water to wash up. Scott couldn't resist. He leaned toward his brother, intending to push him in, and suddenly found himself flipping over Johnny's head and into the water. His younger brother grinned at him cheekily from the water's edge while Scott sputtered.
Suddenly Scott doubled up, and his head disappeared underwater. Johnny stared, shocked. "Scott?" he said. "Scott, that ain't funny. Scott!"
A few bubbles were the only answer. Johnny dropped his gun on the bank and dove in, searching frantically for his brother. He surfaced only when his lungs were about to burst, took a deep breath to dive again and looked into Scott's smiling face.
"It's a little cold, but invigorating, isn't it?" the older man said, easily treading water.
Johnny pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and lunged for his brother. They both went down again, laughing.
When they climbed out, dripping, they draped their clothes over bushes to dry in the sun and Scott cleaned the fish while Johnny got the fire going again.
"This is nice," Johnny drawled lazily, an hour later, splitting the last of the coffee between their cups.
Scott agreed. "Too bad we have to catch up with the herd," he said.
"Mmmn," Johnny said drowsily.
Scott shifted his shoulders and tilted his face up toward the sun. "We really should get started," he said, and let his eyes close for just a few minutes.
The sun was high in the sky when Scott woke again. He sat up, looking for his brother, who had disappeared. Johnny's shirt and trousers were gone from the bushes. Scott pulled on his own clothes, dry now, and walked down to the stream. The horses were both still in the meadow, so Johnny couldn't have gone far.
"Johnny!" he shouted.
"Right here, Boston," Johnny said, stepping noiselessly out of the woods.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" Scott said. "It's past noon."
Johnny gave him a crooked smile. "I just woke up too, Boston," he confessed.
"Murdoch's probably worried," Scott said. "We better get moving."
"Murdoch is probably mad as hell," Johnny said. "But yeah, let's go anyway."
When they'd saddled up, Johnny looked at Scott, his eyes full of mischief. "Race you!" he said, and kicked Barranca into a run.
Scott spurred his own horse and went galloping after the boy on the palomino.
THE END
Whistle, June 2004