Crossing Rubicon

Chapter One

Deputy Morton of Rubicon was bull-big, probably hired on because of his size alone and used to being heard, seen, and obeyed. A purple shadow grazed his cheek, dipping down towards a swollen lip. It was obvious to Johnny that the deputy didn't like the looks of him, viewed him the same way he might a fox in the middle of the henhouse. The deputy's expression told him that any friend of the man they arrested was akin to a hanging offense. Johnny just hoped he wouldn't be hauling out the rope anytime soon.

"I heard at the saloon he was here." Johnny paused. He didn't know exactly how much information to give out, but the lesser the better. "I was hoping to see the man you picked up."

"Uh-huh, how do you know him?"

He made a show of not being too interested, picked at a piece of loose string on his shirt. "Rode with' im a few times." It wasn't a lie. Much, anyway.

The deputy's eyes narrowed. "Have you now?"

Johnny bit the inside of his cheek hard, a shrill bell ringing in his head as heavy keys were thrown on the desk. Morton jabbed a finger to a straight-backed chair in front of a pitted desk. The skin on the back of Johnny's neck began to crawl, and he had to stop himself to breathe normally—it was just a jail, he'd seen plenty of them.

"So, can I see him?" But he knew the deputy wanted to talk to him now. The thought proved right when the man sat behind the desk and pulled out a pencil.

"How long ago did you see the prisoner?" Morton barked out.

"Three days." That at least was the truth. A single thought occurred. "You already got him guilty and hung?"

The deputy's head came up at Johnny's implication. They were dueling in a way, both drawing pistols. "We took him in because he set fire to the lawyer's office. A man died in that fire." He leaned forward. "Maybe he told you something about it?"

Johnny swallowed. "Not me, like I said at the saloon, I just got to town. It's the first I heard." He looked carefully at the big man sitting across from him. He'd long known that there were certain kinds of people who became lawmen. Those who wanted to do good and protect the innocent and those who liked the power, who lived for the yes sir, no sir of the position. Johnny hadn't quite figured out this one yet, but he was leaning towards the latter.

The talk went on for a few minutes, questions drifting back and forth, Johnny's easy recollection of a cattle drive last spring with the prisoner, exchanged for the deputy's admission that there were no eye witnesses to the crime. Beneath his jacket, under his blue shirt, he'd sweated right through at armpit and back.

Morton finally led Johnny past a big board pinned with posters and papers, down a short hallway.

Johnny cast a look to the man sprawled on the dirt floor, still wearing handcuffs despite the locked bars, and smiled for something to do.

Scott tried to smile back through a split lip, one eye half-closed from swelling. Bruises dotted the side of his face and neck. One cheekbone, red with burn.

Johnny looked steadily at his brother, took in the torn and bloodied shirt, the way one shoulder was hitched higher than the other. "Gave you some trouble, did he?"

"Oh, no, docile as a lamb when we brought him in. Not much trouble at all."

The deputy pressed Johnny at his side and told him to back away from the bars. He wasn't of a mind to listen and shrugged past Morton, not really thinking about what he was doing. A shiver started up in him that went straight down all the way to white hot anger.

The deputy grabbed a handful of jacket, turned him around. He was taller, had Johnny by about twenty-five pounds—all muscle. "Get back," he hissed.

There was only one or two ways this would go. "You always beat someone before putting him behind bars?" It was the most polite thing he could muster right at the moment.

"I think you need to leave."

He yanked Johnny away from the bars and marched him past the two cells, out to the side door where twilight had put long shadows in the alley. Johnny had been to a few places just like it, and all he needed was time to calm down, but the deputy slammed him against a tall wooden crate and interrupted the slow seethe.

One punch to the side of his head, and Johnny was down on the ground. One more to the face, quick like the deputy meant business, but had better places to be. Johnny landed hard, his arm folding up between the crate and his body, making it difficult to bring his feet around. But it also gave him time to figure out that if he stayed down, the deputy would probably walk away. He gritted his teeth, blood filling his mouth, waiting to see what the next move was going to be.

The deputy got down close, in Johnny's face, and pulled him by the collar away from the wall. "I wouldn't worry too much about some murderer. I wouldn't worry about him at all. I'd worry about yourself." Released, he crumpled.

Johnny heard the scrape of boots as the deputy turned around to go inside because his job was done. He angled to his knees on a prayer, launched himself before Morton had a chance to fully look back at the noise. He tackled the deputy around the waist, getting a firm grip on the vest and leather belt, the sinews in his hands ropey and taut. There was nothing to it, really, as they both lost their footing and crashed into the brick wall, Morton headfirst, bearing the brunt of it.

Dazed, he rolled to the side as he fell, out of the way, far enough so that even Morton with his long reach couldn't find him. Nothing came. Silence. Johnny came up on his elbows, scrambled back, listening. Still nothing. He weaved over Morton's legs, sliding between door and frame, and skidded into the brightly lit jail.

He stood for a moment at the cell, watching his brother try to stand. Come on, Scott, he thought, then the ghastly sound of Morton's labored breathing came in from outside. He jostled the key into the lock, a growing sense of unease prickling the back of his neck. He'd made it through the cell door when Scott elbowed up to a lean against the wall, tapering into teeth-restrained expletives.

Johnny couldn't have said it better himself. He unclipped the shackles and dropped under Scott's arm to come up with his hand around his brother's waist.

Scott huffed out a sound. It was raw and wild; so completely unchecked and un-Scott that Johnny forgot his caution and yanked open the top of his brother's shirt.

"Where? What's wrong?"

"Morton. He had a knife. My side's on fire."

Johnny sent an exploratory hand into Scott's shirt, worked his fingers around until his brother hissed and snapped his head back against the cell wall. His hand came back out bloody.

"Where is he?" Scott twisted, tried to look around, and Johnny got another earful of that nerve-jangling sound for his effort.

He pinned Scott with a hand against his chest. "Stay still." Johnny lifted his shirt, checked Scott's side and let out a low whistle.

"David Walker was killed." The words were labored, choked.

Johnny was busy shoving a bandana down the inside his brother's shirt, froze when he heard. "The bartender said a lawyer'd been killed. You sure it's Dave and not someone else?" He tossed a look over his shoulder, tilted his chin to listen. He shook his head. "I don't hear anything yet. We're safe for now."

"I was there when it happened." That whipped Johnny's full attention to his brother. He stared until Scott gritted out: "Morton killed him."

Johnny's spine went cold. He snapped his eyes from Scott to the open back door, barely seeing the booted foot beyond in the now inky darkness. Then grabbed Scott by the front of his shirt.

"Forget what I said, we gotta move."

They tumbled out the front door and down the deserted walkway.

Two steps inside the stable, Johnny kicked the door shut behind them. It didn't feel like Scott was helping much, the last few yards, but when Johnny panted "Okay," into his ear, Scott took it as his cue. He grunted and buckled, nearly took them both to the floor. Johnny stumbled, grappled with his brother's dead weight.

Scott had been helping plenty.

Scott landed on his side, temple glancing off the floorboards. Johnny let go of his shirt collar, slapped an exhausted hand against his shoulder. "Okay, there'll do."

Both of them startled at the sudden noise.

Johnny had lost his bearings completely; the scream might be in the direction of the saloon, he supposed. Or the jail. Dios mio, the jail.

tbc