Chapter Four

When he woke in the middle of the night, Scott possessed a terrible clarity of mind.

It wasn't Johnny's bullet, this time. But a bullet from another man, in faded Union wool, his face twisted in surprise and shock.

All he could do was watch, lying in bed, helpless. The beamed ceiling turned into darkened sky, with sheeted rain and tumbling storm clouds.

No, not Johnny. Clay. And hanging in the air, unfettered by the storm, were sounds—appalling, feral screams.

It changed. Not sky or ceiling, but a pool of ocean blue and green. All he could see was a ripple that marked the water from its hidden depths, and his reflection, which he barely recognized.

Then sky again. It was spring and airless, anvil hot. The clouds moved and a shadow fell across his face. He smelled an awful scent of animal that shuddered down his spine, made his breath hitch. The smell of wild.

A shadow blotted out the blaze of sky, and hovered close, right beside him. He couldn't move. It was a huge beast, teeth gleaming white and snapping. It took a rasping breath and Scott thought he just might die there.

The sky turned back to ceiling. And all the while, Clay's screams hung in the air, ripping into him like a blade.

Finally, Scott yelled Clay's name, because his voice was the only thing that would reach his friend. But it was swallowed by the rending sound of a pistol shot and he knew that, in time, the same would come to him.

His arm pulsed like a live thing.

The door to his bedroom opened and the scent of wood smoke drifted in.

"You okay?" Johnny asked. "I heard you shouting." He didn't wait for Scott to say anything before continuing, a thread of panic to his voice.

"We got a man missin' in the storm. We're gonna have to go out."

He struggled up to the side of the bed, legs tangled in the sheets. His thoughts were sluggish, weighted with his dreams.

"Hey, where are you goin'?"

"To help search."

Johnny shook his head. "Murdoch just wanted you to know where we'd be. We can handle it."

After a while, he made himself move. He white-knuckled the bedpost to pull on his shirt and pants, then went downstairs.

#-#-#-#-#

Two days after the storm, the sun had baked the ground into a fine powder again. It clung to Murdoch's cheeks and hands as he rode to meet Scott. The taste of fine California grit was on his teeth, at odds with the tang of coffee left over from lunch. He felt heavy in the saddle. It was as though everything was flying up, pinging around in his skull, buzzing like a bee in the marigolds. Scott's injuries. The flooding from the storm. Assessing the loss of cattle. Talking to the bank. Burying one of their own who had gotten trapped by falling debris and drowned. The widow who needed visiting. After it all, Murdoch felt out-of-place.

The trail led to a small rise where his son, Isidrio and two strangers stood under an oak. A few cows milled about, snuffling water-damaged grass.

From their worn-at-the-heel boots to their shabby hats, Murdoch memorized every detail, and tucked the knowledge away for a day and time when he might need it. They rode wiry cow ponies, staked nearby. The taller one had his sleeves turned back, hands bloody. A half-butchered steer lay not ten feet away.

He kicked his horse forward.

"What's the meaning of this?" The words were out of his mouth before his boots hit the ground.

The older one turned and met his eyes. "We didn't know it was Lancer land."

"That was Lancer beef. It's worth twenty-three dollars."

The other one spoke. He was younger, with a voice that cracked into a high note. "Mister, if we could pay do you think we'd steal the animal?"

Murdoch fought the urge to grab him by the arm and shake, but was saved when the friend cuffed him on the back of his head, bloody hand and all. So they had manners after all. It was one point in their favor, and the only concession they would get. "Pack up what you've already done and leave."

The tall one looked at Scott and nodded. "Thanks."

They watched as the man and boy tarped the steer and rode out, horses burdened with the load.

"Who allowed this?" He looked from Isidrio to Scott.

"I did." The words came out in a rush, as if they were all penned up inside of Scott just waiting to explode.

"You should have run them off at first sight. Once they get a toe-hold they'll be like fleas on a dog."

"Patrón," Isidrio began, the word a warning. Although Murdoch pinned him with a glare, Isidrio held steady. He'd been with Lancer from almost the beginning, and knew Murdoch's moods. Knew when to stand and when to ride and Isidrio wasn't going anywhere. But in this instance he should have known better.

He couldn't bend his own rules, the ranch depended on them. Their ranch depended on them. And without the armor, he was nothing. Just another rancher prone to attack.

"You may not think much of this, Scott, but I've seen what happens. One cow here, two there, soon it gets to be a free-for-all. It's bad enough the cattle have been scattered with the storm, I'll not have them rustled as well. Not under my own nose."

Scott fingered the white bandage at his wrist. Murdoch had seen him worry it over the last day or so, almost to the point of shredding. "Sir, this wasn't any rustling…"

Murdoch interrupted. "Johnny's waiting to go into town."

Scott's mouth opened then closed and he shook his head, but not before Murdoch saw what was in those expressive eyes: betrayal. He'd placed his son in charge then stripped him summarily.

Isidrio stood beside him as Scott mounted and turned Jack for home. "Patrón, we came upon the steer, injured. The man and his son needed the beef, they've been without since the storm. Señor Scott gave it to them."

Damn it. Sometimes he couldn't see beyond what was in front of him—his Da all over again. A hot wave of recrimination hit him as he watched Scott ride away. He would need to make amends.

#-#-#-#-#

He was driving the horses faster than usual, so Johnny was surprised when Scott cleared his throat and drummed his fingers—a hurry up—on the box seat.

"How's the arm?"

"How do you think it is?"

"Don't bite my head off, I'm just askin'."

His brother was quiet for a few moments, watching the green and brown flash by. "Look Johnny, I'm sorry. Murdoch and I…well, let's just say we had a difference of opinion."

"Is that all?" Johnny grinned, mostly because he saw a furrow start on Scott's brow.

He kept his silence, wondering if his brother would circle back to the problem.

Sure enough, "He just assumed he knew what happened." And that started them off about fathers—old, new and absent, with a little bit about grandfathers thrown in for good measure—and how they didn't know everything. To which both of them went on at great lengths.

While they were talking, Johnny noticed Scott kept his right arm in close, playing a little with the bandage.

Johnny knew some of it—in the same company of cavalry, a battle in Virginia, a camp dog that turned mean—but not all. When it came to the details, Scott choked his way through them: Clay was bitten, slowly went out of his mind, had to be tied down, screaming until he died. Johnny knew that was as much as Scott would give, but the way he yelled out Clay's name the other night, there had to be more. Much more, but Johnny bided his time.

They pulled into Spanish Wells and stopped at the mill. Johnny set the brake and jumped out.

"I'll see to the boards, if you wanna go see Sam. Then we'll both find Charlie."

He didn't know if it was possible, but Scott needed some good news. Maybe he'd get some at the doctor's office.

#-#

Scott looked down the dusty street of Spanish Wells and saw the doctor's sign above his office swaying with the breeze. He didn't exactly object to seeing Sam, but hope was a vicious thing.

As he was mulling it over, sounds of raucous laughter came from the saloon.

Even at a distance, he heard Charlie's plaintive voice and Ed Blake's loud retort. In a sprint, he reached the boardwalk in front of the saloon and worked along the side to a place where he could hear better.

"I've been patient with you so far, Charlie," Blake was saying, "but when you welsh on another bet, then the time's come I need to step in and do something."

"Give me some more time, Mr. Blake. There's a few jobs I got lined up and ready to go."

"What jobs might those be? Who, in their right mind, is going hire an old man like you?"

Scott had heard enough and stepped into the saloon. "I'm going to hire him, if Charlie will accept."

Charlie hovered by a table, one gnarled hand out to steady himself. His face was creased, and bore the signs of every day lived hard. So too, did his rheumy eyes that traveled over Scott like he was a map to somewhere interesting.

"Why Scott Lancer, as I live and breath."

Then something shifted and the light went out of the old man's eyes. He reached up to pat his cheek with finger tips the color of old cinders. "Have you seen Kirby? We always meet here, have a little something to eat and play some cards." He grinned up at Scott. "I'm two ahead."

Blake stepped close enough so that fan of his breath reached Scott. It reeked of whiskey.

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"I believe the entire town of Spanish Wells heard you."

"I've always wondered why the high and mighty Lancers would soil their hands on someone like Charlie Wingate. He's a drunk. And loco to boot."

Scott felt heat rise to his face. A recklessness was building up in him. "You're not fit to carry Charlie's hammer."

Blake's fingers twitched. "Don't get smart with me. You know what I think?"

"I don't give a damn what you think."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie tip in a sickening way, taking a chair down with him when he collapsed to the floor.

Scott swept his arm out and shoved Blake away.

"Charlie Wingate owes me money, Lancer!"

Scott strode by him and heard a muted warning. He turned his head in time to catch a glancing blow from Blake's fist on his cheekbone. It spun and knocked him out the batwing doors against the railing. His head popped up, and he felt groggy for a moment.

He had a hazy impression of the saloon doors opening and Blake coming out to the boardwalk. A call went out for the doctor.

"Maybe that'll teach you some manners, boy."

He came off the rail fast. Ed Blake was a big man. Although Scott was no lightweight himself, Blake had an inch or two and maybe forty pounds on him.

Circling, knuckles bunched and hard, Blake lunged first. Scott easily dodged and swung his fist skimming the man's jaw, sending hot licks of agony up his injured arm.

Blake ducked, throwing out a low jab. Instead of backing away, Scott twisted sideways, close enough to land a solid blow to Blake's face.

Blake staggered. Then a curious fire came to his eyes and he bobbed his head, charging like an enraged bull.

He hit Scott hard, knocking the wind out of him as they both crashed through the railing to the ground. He landed on his hip and hit his head on something hard. Blake tore free and was on his feet like a dropped cat.

Scott scrambled up. In the distance he heard the quick thuds of people running. Someone shouted his name. Blake shuddered and lurched forward, fists whirling.

He winced as the blows glanced off his ribs. He fended them off and caught Blake with both hands on the back of his neck and shoved down hard, bringing his knee up at the same time. A gristly crack of bone and blood sprouted from the big man's face. A groan escaped Blake and he dropped to his knees in the dirt.

Scott stood over him, fists stinging, arm and shoulder singing with pain. But the fight was over. He huffed out a deep breath and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a long smear of blood.

He turned away and there was Johnny, watching.

"You done?"

"Wingate's in the saloon. Blake was having fun with him, at Charlie's expense," he panted out.

"Doc's with him now, said his heart gave out." He waited a beat. "Scott, Charlie's dead."

"What? No!" He started to push past Johnny but was stayed by a hand on his chest.

"Hold on. Just hold on."

Scott held Johnny's stare for a moment, not moving, not saying anything. Not able to speak.

"There ain't nothin' you can do. Besides, you're bleedin' again."

He held up one calloused hand, dripping with blood. His blood. From under the bandage.

Sam walked towards them, bag held low, looking tired and worn.

"The boys will get him down to Ira's for burial. It's a sad day when a man like Charlie dies, a sad day." Sam frowned at Blake, still struggling in the dirt. "When you're able to get up, I'll see you in my office."

The doctor trapped Scott with a stare. "You. Come with me. You've torn my stitches."

Scott's eyes tracked back to the saloon, where the laughter was gone. He remembered the few days working with Charlie on the jail. How proud the man was to complete it—as if it gave him a new start to life. He shook his head and turned to follow Sam and Johnny across the street.

Ten more stitches were needed and placed with a finer hand than Teresa's embroidery. Sam had used the word 'lucky' more than once during the sewing, and Scott took the word and tucked it away. He was a lot of things, but lucky usually wasn't among them. It hadn't been this time, or last time. Bad luck all the way.

But yes, perhaps lucky the wound hadn't opened further, lucky that he hadn't done more damage to Blake than break his nose. But where was luck when Charlie died, when Ferguson's dog came at him in the first place? Where was it in that damn tent, tucked away in the Virginia countryside?

He didn't feel like being grateful.

By the time they walked back to the wagon, Scott was ready to call it a day. The energy from the brawl was long gone and in its place a frank tiredness.

"Murdoch wanted those boards. You think it's gonna be as easy to sell him on the idea that he has to wait?" "

Scott rubbed his hand over his chin, rolled his shoulders and winced. "I'll talk to him. We can't get what isn't available, and a few more days won't matter."

Johnny took a breath. "It was stupid going after Blake alone."

Scott was surprised at the sudden change of subject.

"You should listen to me when I tell you an idea's stupid."

"Are you angry?" Scott asked.

"You're like Old Charlie, you know? That could be you, that's what you're thinking, dyin' crazy and afraid."

Johnny laughed and it was a hard sound, like scratching a match to flame. "But not even that. You wanted to save him." He paused. "You wanted to save him," he repeated, locking eyes with Scott.

They were looking at each other, but Scott wasn't sure what he was seeing. Johnny's eyebrows crooked together, like he was holding in or holding back. Anger was tough for his brother. Although he went to it quick enough, it had a hard time coming out except in voice or a hard right fist. He wondered if Johnny's upbringing had anything to do with that.

"We're going to lose the light," Scott said.

"No," Johnny said, hand moving fast, grabbing Scott's sleeve. "You don't take chances like that."

Scott smiled a little, shook his arm out of Johnny's grasp.

"Pot calling the kettle, brother? We take a chance every time we walk out of the door at Lancer. Why is this so different?"

"Could you at least think that maybe you're not gonna get sick?" Johnny swallowed. "You're not Clay."

Scott's lips pressed together. "Enough. Can we just finish this up and go home?"

Johnny swung so fast that Scott almost caught it on his jaw, only two things prevented it: he stepped back instinctively and Johnny pulling his punch at the last moment.

His brother wheeled away, cursing. "I owe you."

Scott tilted his head, genuinely confused. "You owe me? A punch to the face?" Then he remembered when they were both too new, down by the river, and thumping Johnny so hard his hand sung.

Johnny wouldn't look at him, wandered the full length of the wagon and back again, disbelief marking the set of his mouth. He shook his head, once, like he was having an argument with someone.

They stood in silence for a long minute, the breeze dashing between them, around them, the sound of the stagecoach pulling out with a sharp whip crack, the smell of dust and dry. Scott finally shifted, drawing Johnny's attention. His brother's eyes caught the light, showing a mixture of anger and unease, and Scott didn't know how to move forward.

#-#-#-#-#

It took Murdoch a good half hour in front of the ledger books to decide something was wrong, and only then by the way Johnny's eyes followed Scott when he got up to poker the fire.

After dinner, small talk was the order of the day up until that point, with Teresa and Johnny filling in most of the blanks: the new foal, a spring dance, Maria's newest recipe. Scott hadn't really joined in, which was surprising because he usually wasn't reticent about giving his opinions.

Teresa hm'ed under her breath, then cracked a wide yawn. "That's it, I'm for bed. Scott, here's your book."

He tapped the green binding of the book thoughtfully. "Teresa, wait." He handed it to her. "Keep it."

"Scott, no. You said your aunt gave it to you. It's inscribed by the author himself, I can't take it. If I want to read it, I'll borrow it." She pushed it back to him. "Well, goodnight."

"Pretty big gift, son," Murdoch said after Teresa had left. "She knows how much the book means to you. Why would you want to give it away?"

He shrugged. "She likes it, and I've had my use of it."

Scott looked away, and Murdoch knew he wasn't going to get the real story. But his son was jumpy, and something else that was indecipherable.

It took Scott another minute to collect himself, Murdoch watched him do it, readying himself for whatever he was going to say. He was also gray as wet adobe, but with a determined line to his mouth that Murdoch would actually admit to dreading.

"I'd like to take a few days."

Johnny's head snapped up.

Murdoch stared in surprise, put down the ledgers. "Does this have anything to do with Isidrio and the steer?"

"No."

"Charlie's death?"

Scott held up his hands as if trying to fend off the questions. "No. With most of the issues from the storm resolved, I thought it would be a good time. I know it will be an imposition." He wasn't apologizing, though.

"What about the irrigation project?"

"Johnny can help with that. Right?"

Johnny's brow was a knot of concentration, eyes hard. "Sure, sure, Scott."

Murdoch frowned. Maybe Scott needed more time to recover from his injuries. God knows, he hadn't said anything about it, and the storm hadn't allowed for much downtime. Yet something pinged in the back of his mind, took him all the way back to when Scott's grandfather had visited the ranch: he's leaving.

His mind balked at the implication.

After a loaded minute, he sat back in the sofa, the ledgers pushed away and forgotten. "All right. If that's what you want."

tbc