*Note: this was written in response to a picture of two men on a trail drive for LancerFanFiction.
Fuego (Fire)
They've been on the trail drive for three or four days, eating dust amongst a few buzzy flying things, when Murdoch comes around.
It doesn't surprise them. They'd spent their lives elsewhere when growing up, doing other things, but nothing that resembles pushing cattle from one place to another. They've seen the other cowboys—vaqueros, Johnny calls them—with shiny, black hair and sharper faces poke and cajole the cows into a semblance of order with ease. Overall, a humbling experience.
"All I ask is for you to be willing. To work hard and see it through. It's a tough job for an experienced hand." Murdoch glances out at the cattle, turned almost-grey in the sun from fogs of dirt. "I'd learn quick enough, if I were you two."
Normally, Scott would have fumed over the lecture and its unspoken content, but he understands. He and Johnny simply don't have any background in cattle and their father needs to make sure his sons are up to the task. A challenge issued.
"Are we able to finish this drive?"
"Why? You feelin' like takin' off all of a sudden?"
Scott shrugs and flicks a fly away from his horse's neck. "I could stay a little longer."
~L~L~L~L~
They don't really do much at the day's end; he half-way reads, his back to the fire to get the best light, and Johnny cleans his weapon. Scott pretends not to notice Johnny's still limping a little, and Johnny doesn't crack any more jokes about the bruise on Scott's forehead that makes him look like a murderous blackguard.
That night, the vaqueros assemble around camp. When the stories get more and more outrageous, they refill their coffee, slip back to their bedrolls and pick apart the storylines, laughing over the rims of their tin cups.
At one point, Johnny actually snorts a mouthful of coffee out his nose.
~L~L~L~L~
A few days later, Johnny comes back late with a sack of blackberries from some godforsaken corner of the trail. He unpacks the loot with a little smile on his face that infects Scott when he realizes the sheer volume his brother brought back.
"Did you bring the bush back with you, too? Maybe all wrapped up in your saddle bag, Johnny?"
"I'm tired of beef and beans. Thought we could do with something sweet."
But Scott has a feeling that isn't entirely true.
With an even wider grin, Johnny hands him a silver flask.
"Oh, no. No, no…," says Scott.
Johnny is mock stern. "Yes."
"Pulque? I can't drink that anymore. Not after the last time."
Johnny nods and rat-a-tats out a snicker. "Oh, that was funny."
"It wasn't funny when I revisited the enchiladas Maria had made for dinner."
"Yeah, but those enchiladas were bueno."
"Well, I suppose it can be called tradition. Or will be after today as we have several years to make up." Scott knows there's no way around it; he'll be drinking tonight. For a family that was put together like the tatty crochet of his Great Aunt, they adhere to a lot of rituals.
Scott takes a sip from the flask, squinting with the burn, as Johnny shoves a few blackberries into his left hand. "Here's to new ones, as well as old, brother."
~L~L~L~L~
In a misguided effort to impress the saloon patrons, Scott had taken a large gulp of the pulque. Stored under the bar and brought out with a flourish, the bartender had blown the dust from the top of the jug—and declared it aged to perfection. Really, he had known better than to take the first drink. And the several more afterwards. Johnny had burst out laughing.
"PULL-kay, Scott. Not PALL-kay. It's Spanish. You say it like PULL-kay."
Johnny had joined in the crowd's frivolity, much to Scott's dismay. Scott had tossed up the enchiladas over his brother's boots in the alleyway afterwards, much to Johnny's dismay.
~L~L~L~L~
It's one of those western spring nights that promises summer while still courting a bit of cool winter. They've dragged their bedrolls away from the main camp to a small rise with a tall piney tree, so as to get a bird's-eye view of both cows and men. They've hauled their makeshift dinner with them, as well as the flask Johnny obtained. The ground still tics and fidgets from the hot day and crawlies he doesn't want to think about, sending up warmth through cotton sheeting. They set to build a small fire they really don't need. Picnic, ala Lancer.
The pulque works its magic, and the crowd of horns and hats below morph into something resembling a sleeping dragon from his school books, its limbs twitching every now and then as cowboys ride alongside to keep the cattle calm. He's declined any more drink and refused to acknowledge the sly grin on Johnny's face. His entire dinner has consisted of three handfuls of berries. Johnny's had half that much, and although he's holding the flask in his drinking hand, he doesn't seem even slightly tipsy to Scott. And then Scott laughs because, after he thinks it twice in his head, the word 'tipsy' doesn't make sense anymore.
Johnny shoots him an exasperated look that melts into a smile. "You feelin' okay?"
"I'm quite well, thank-you."
His brother nods and shakes the near empty flask to hear the slosh.
~L~L~L~L~
Johnny settles back into his bedroll, one hand stuck inside the now limp bag of berries.
They both catch the movement at the far edge of the herd. Two cowboys, one of them taller than the other, has a bass voice that floats toward them on the night breeze. Melodious, he's in fine tune as he sings to the cows.
"Isn't that Josh Markham singin'?"
"If that's Josh, then the other one must be Jesse."
Johnny nods in agreement.
Jesse is perhaps seventeen. Perhaps. He's nothing but a too-big leather vest, and a pair of dirty jeans, but like Josh, pulls his weight. Two peas in a proverbial pod.
"He's my brother," Josh said at Murdoch's persistent questions. "He don't have to be anythin' else."
Indeed.
~L~L~L~L~
Johnny looks up at the stars. "About time to turn in, I figure tomorrow'll put some more sting into this pulque."
"Already?" Scott's picking his way through his wallet, looking for the card he'd ferreted away the first day he arrived in California. He's gone through a receipt for new clothes and is working his way past a short missive from Grandfather, when he finds it.
"What do you mean, 'already', Scott?"
"It's just that it seems early still."
Neither of the twin Johnnys Scott is currently seeing looks particularly jocular. And the quiet song over the herd of cattle is no joke. In fact, it's a little sobering. He takes out the white Pinkerton card with black lettering.
"Did you get one of these?"
Johnny takes the card carefully, turns it around in his hand like juggling a few marbles. The other snakes into his back pocket and pulls out his money clip.
Johnny stares at him; he's not being indignant, he's not cursing. He's telling Scott with his eyes that it's important to him.
They nod slightly to one another, return their eyes to the flames.
Scott gets up with a small sway. Holds his hand out to Johnny for his card. He fingers it for a moment and remembers the tang of apple in Barbara's apartment, the hard, cool cobblestones of the street where he landed. The little man in the bowler hat. The 'I didn't lose any'. He sends the card flying with a flick of his wrist. As he watches the flames lick a little higher, consuming the paper like a match to oil, he catches his brother's eye.
Johnny stands—unsteadily—and throws his card into the little inferno. He pulls the flask from his bedroll, uncaps it and takes a swig. Passes it to Scott.
Fire has a way of purifying.
They are letting go of every stumble, and every miraculous victory. The quiet regrets, the louder anger. They're burning a reminder of what's transpired before. And it feels good.
Without meaning to, Scott inches his way next to his brother. Johnny doesn't move.
Among the lowing of cattle and murmurs of night riders, the flask passes back and forth several more time until its emptied, and the flames take on the patina of forgiveness and hope.
The End
4/8/2017