Intervention by Margaret P.

(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr)

Chapter 1 (Words: 1,065)

Damn, was it morning already? Johnny raised his arm and squinted into the glare squeezing its way through the top edge of the stable door. He closed his eyes. Another half hour couldn't hurt—he hadn't enjoyed a bed this soft for weeks—but then again, last time he thought like that he ended up in a gunfight with Lucifer Harris and Silas Marks. It was safer to check out the lie of the land before anyone else woke up.

Rolling over in the straw, he got to his feet and kicked the noose free from his boot. Then he untied the other end of the rope from the door latch and wound it up before hanging it back on the hook where he'd found it.

"Sleep well, amigo?"

For a moment, his horse stretched its neck to stare at him; then, seemingly not in the mood to answer, turned back to the hay feeder. The dun sharing the same stall nuzzled the pinto's neck and nickered softly.

"Made a friend, I see." Johnny brushed the straw off his clothes and stretched the kinks out of his back. Then he bent down to scoop a ladleful of water from the bucket by the door. Swilling his mouth out, he spat onto the dirt floor, and filled the ladle again. He drank deeply; his throat was as dry as the desert he'd ridden in from. Ladling more water over his face, he rubbed his eyes, picking grit out of the corners, and shook his hair dry like a dog. "I sure hope that mare's owners are as glad to see me—ow."

He rolled his right shoulder twice and touched the graze he'd got in Santa Fe two weeks earlier. It was nearly healed. Soon there wouldn't even be a scab to remind him of the fracas and his five-days on the run.

Tucking his shirt back into his calzoneras, he adjusted his rig, and then with one hand resting on his gun, he pressed against the stable door and eased it open. Everything was quiet. The sun, rising up behind nearby buildings, painted dark shapes on the dried grass and trampled ground. Only the aging plum that had once been his hideout offered any greenery. The tree pressed against the fence closest to the alley, and a clothesline sagging from one of the lower branches stretched out to a pulley attached to another high fence along the opposite boundary, cutting the yard in half with a long thin shadow.

Johnny edged sideways into the open, keeping his back to adobe until he was sure no one was around. An old dog sat on the dusty road running between the back boundary and an empty lot. The crumbling pueblo beyond was too far away to worry about.

The mutt paused with one leg in the air, staring at him, but after a moment it went back to scratching. Johnny turned his eyes north. What part of the street he could see down the alley between the clapboard house and the adobe wall of the general store was deserted, and chirps of small birds told him it was still too early for townsfolk.

First things first: he ambled to the outhouse on the other side of the yard, looking left and right as he went, and when the necessities were taken care of, he checked for signs of life again. The dog had moved on, but everything else was the same.

Ducking under the empty clothesline, he quickened his pace to reach the shade of the house. As expected the back door was locked—the homeowners were still in bed— but if things hadn't changed too much he should be able to get in through the washhouse.

Sure enough, undercover of the lean-to the window into the house had been left slightly open. With the help of a wooden stool, Johnny climbed on top of the copper and managed to slip a finger under the latch, flicking it free and pushing the sash wide. The opening was smaller than he remembered. Undoing his gun belt he removed his colt and lowered the belt as quietly as he could onto the bench on the pantry-side. Then using the lintel and sill as leverage, he squeezed and wriggled his way through, gun in hand. He took care to catch the window sash before it banged shut behind him; it wouldn't do to wake up anyone just yet. He wasn't sure how they'd take to him being there.

His stomach growled as he re-fastened the window latch. Damn. Crouching on the benchtop, he held his breath and listened for footsteps. Stupid, but his rumbling innards sounded loud enough to wake the dead.

Dropping lightly to the floor, he hurried to put on his gun belt again before looking about, for something immediately edible. He found chili preserve on the shelf next to the beaded doorway, and the meat safe on the end wall delivered a banquet: a chunk of cheese as big as his fist, cold brisket and—luxury of luxuries—a clay jug still half full of cow's milk. He lifted the cloth and sniffed; yes, definitely cow. With luck there'd be bread in the bin in the kitchen to go with it. Laden down he crept out of the pantry, past the back stairs and into the kitchen.

He downed most of the milk as he made his sandwich; it soothed his throat much better than the lukewarm water in the stable had done. Mama always said cow's milk was better than goat's milk or water. "It will make you grow strong, mi hijo." Maybe so, but Johnny had only drunk it because he liked the taste, and it filled his stomach. Now he guessed he had another reason, and he silently toasted his mamá.

He was halfway through eating his sandwich when he heard movement above. A minute after the first floorboard creaked, heavy footfalls tramped down the back stairs. Johnny tensed, ready to be discovered, but the man didn't look into the kitchen. He coughed a couple of times as he unbolted the back door and went straight out into the yard.

Johnny exhaled and opened his mouth to take another bite. At least he would get a chance to finish his breakfast.

Or maybe not.

A rifle hammer clicked behind him. "Do not move, señor."

Notes:

1. This story is the sequel to Hate. Like Hate, it has its roots in The Beginning and From Highlands to Homecoming. All of these stories are back stories for characters created by Samuel A. Peeples for the TV series Lancer. See Warburton's Edge, Series 1, Episode 17 for the comment by Johnny that particularly inspired this story.