The Ones We Trust The Most

by Kona Linda

Co-written with Maureen, a wonderful writer- I learned a lot from her. Something is amiss at Lancer. Written for Halloween.

4. Chapter 4

PART FOURTEEN

Johnny sat bolt upright in bed, unable to suppress the moan of pain the swift movement induced as he listened to a wail of anger coming from outside the hacienda. It took a moment for his sleep-deprived and drug-addled mind to register that it was Maria's voice, the normally well-mannered woman furiously slinging curse words in Spanish he had not heard spoken so proficiently by any other female since he'd been a boy.

Maria was mad. No, more than mad – she was incensed, infuriated, in an outright rage.

Still dressed from the night before, Johnny grabbed his gun as he stumbled from bed, working desperately to move despite his horribly stiffened muscles. He hurried out the door to find Scott coming out of his own bedroom, half dressed and equally bleary eyed, obviously woken by Maria's cries as well. Words were not needed, their mutual concern for their beloved housekeeper spurring them rapidly down the stairs and out the front door.

The pair hadn't bothered with boots, Maria's cries too alarming for delay. They ran across the courtyard as quickly as they could, following the housekeeper's continued litany of angry words. Turning the corner behind the barn, it became more than clear what had upset the older woman – the ground was littered with the dead carcasses of Maria's laying chickens. They had all been trampled.

"Madre de Dios . . ." Johnny proclaimed breathlessly, tucking the handgun into his waistband as he immediately crossed over to pull Maria into his comforting arms.

"Mucha mal . . ." she cried into his shoulder, instantly beginning to sob uncontrollably. "Much evil . . . we are not safe here!"

"It's okay, mamacita," he crooned as he held her tight. Looking over the carnage of the slaughtered chickens, Johnny understood the source of her fear, and knew that nothing would make her feel safe at Lancer right now. Her old superstitions were too well ingrained. "You can go visit your sister in Ojai, sí?" he asked.

Maria nodded vigorously, obviously grateful for Johnny's suggestion. "Por favor, you go too. All of you. Mucha Mal . . ."

"We'll be fine." He continued to sooth her as he led her back toward the kitchen, passing his father and brother, who was now similarly comforting Teresa, along the way. "This afternoon we'll put you on a stage to your hermana." Johnny caught Murdoch's nod of approval. "She'll watch over you until we can send for you again. Bueno?"

"Sí, Juanito. Sí."

Scott pulled Teresa away as well, leaving Murdoch and Jelly still staring in disbelief at the grisly scene before them.

LLLLLLLL

"Why do I always seem to be in charge of the messiest jobs?" Jelly grumbled as he headed for the barn, the sickening chore of burying the butchered chickens finally completed. The task had left him plenty of time to determine that he heartily agreed with Maria – there was a whole lot of evil around Lancer lately, ever since that black stallion had turned up nuzzling at Johnny's shoulder.

The thought of that stallion's stare made Jelly shiver. If it was up to him, he'd hightail it out with Maria, and drag Johnny with him – kicking and screaming if need be. By his take on things, Johnny was somehow at the center of all these nasty goings-on, and that was definitely not a good place to be. Jelly was fast developing a real fear that the boy was going to get hurt bad . . . or worse, if something didn't change around this ranch. "A cow, rabbits, cats . . . an' now them chickens. What next?" Jelly continued to mutter to himself as he went to return the shovel.

Jelly entered the barn just in time to see Barranca rear up in his stall, a look of sheer panic on the horse's face as he whinnied in distress. Suddenly the animal was quiet, standing stock-still.

"Barranca?" Jelly called out gently as he walked cautiously toward the horse's stall. He managed to get within six feet – and then the beast turned to look at him.

The old handyman was not sure how he kept from wetting his pants. He had never been so scared in all his born days. Barranca stood staring at him, and his eyes . . . Jelly took an involuntary step backwards. The horse's eyes were filled with that unmistakable essence of pure evil – as black as the night, and fixed right on him.

Jelly staggered backward and stumbled over his own feet, dropping the shovel and landing hard on the ground. Barranca's eyes followed him as the old man scrambled back up, finally tearing his own sight away from the foul vision and rushing directly to the refuge and safety of his room.

LLLLLLLL

Ezra laughed, enjoying the fear he had instilled in the old man. He had been with the Lancer family long enough now to feel certain that no one would pay attention to the rantings of an old superstitious man. If Mr. Jelly Hoskins chose to take any action against him on his own, Shanks would take care of him permanently. But he didn't think the old man had it in him to do anything that might hurt his best friend's beloved horse. No. Jelly could talk all he wanted, but Ezra was sure he would pose no real threat to the spirit.

Ezra was feeling emboldened this morning. Bringing death to any creature always left Shanks practically giddy with excitement. Johnny had been avoiding him since he'd slipped up the other day. Unable to physically release his pent up frustrations, the spirit had learned there were other ways he could deal with the building energy on his own. So he'd amused himself with the chickens instead. A sorry substitute he had to admit, but joyful nonetheless. He could only hope his favorite toy would come back to play – soon.

LLLLLLLL

Jelly thought he'd never get his heart to stop beating like a drum. He rummaged frantically in the bottom drawer of his dresser until he brought out a half-full bottle of whiskey. 'For medicinal purposes only,' he regularly told himself. Well, never did he need a dose of his own medicine so badly. Jelly's had to steady the bottle with both hands as he took a hefty drink.

Had he seen what he thought he saw? First the stallion – and now Barranca? It was impossible to believe . . . yet impossible to ignore. He wasn't daft – something wicked was afoot here, and it could be traced right to the eyes of that palomino.

"Johnny . . .!" he hissed. He had to make sure Johnny stayed clear of the horse until they knew for sure what the hell was going on.

Jelly rushed into the kitchen of the hacienda and saw Teresa clearing the table of the breakfast dishes – everyone else was gone.

"Where's Johnny?" he snapped.

An instant look of concern spread across Teresa's already worry-drawn face. "In the barn I guess. He was getting ready to ride out. Why?"

"Cause I gotta stop 'im is why. How long ago?"

"Ten minutes, maybe. Jelly, you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"Cain't say I know myself," he called as he ran back out the door. "We just got ta keep Johnny away from Barranca," he added under his breath.

Jelly slid to a stop on the hay-covered floor. Barranca's stall was empty.

"Aaaaa . . . How long ago did Johnny leave?" he demanded of no one and everyone.

"Five minutes . . ." Joe offered, coming out of the tack room unexpectedly – and making Jelly jump as if he'd seen a ghost. It was painfully easy for the hand to pick up on the older man's distress. "Why? What's wrong, Jelly?"

"Scott an' the boss take off too?"

" 'Bout fifteen minutes or so."

"They didn't go together?"

Joe shook his head. "Not the three of 'em. Mr. Lancer and Scott went one way and Johnny ta other. Surprised me that he could sit a saddle . . . he's still hurtin'."

"I know. Where'd he go?"

"Don't know. Just said he wanted to ride the kinks out of Barranca."

Jelly bowed his head and passed Joe to enter the tack room, practically slamming the door behind him. There was more wrong with that horse than just "kinks." Jelly paced, debating whether to mount up and track the boy down to . . . say what exactly? 'Johnny, Barranca done inherited the evil eye from that stallion.' "Yep. That'll surely keep the boy out of the saddle . . . and pigs'll be flyin' in the mornin'," he added sarcastically.

What in the world could he tell Johnny that he'd actually believe? What exactly did he believe himself? With a despairing shake of his head, Jelly sent up a silent prayer that Johnny would be all right wherever he'd headed off to, because he sure couldn't think of a thing that would bring him back without Barranca.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny felt foolish. He'd let a build-up of boyhood fears and unsubstantiated mistrust cloud his judgment. Whatever he thought he saw in Barranca's eyes could be nothing more than the figment of an overzealous imagination or the affects of the laudanum. In either case he felt guilty for abandoning his friend.

This whole situation was getting out of hand. Sure there had been some accidents with Barranca lately – but that didn't mean the horse was intentionally trying to hurt him. There was no way Johnny could convince himself of that, no matter what angle he looked at the facts from. His thoughts were just being confused by his nightmares, his family's overanxious concerns, the foolish ramblings of an old man, and Maria's irrational deep-rooted cultural beliefs. The Mexican housekeeper's reaction to the dead chickens had been the last straw. Maria may let her fears chase her away from the ranch, but Johnny wasn't going anywhere – and he wasn't afraid of Barranca.

This had to stop. Jelly and he had fought, Teresa was drugging him, Murdoch was back to coddling him, and he and Scott were now at odds with each other. None of this sat well with Johnny at all. One way or another, life at Lancer was going to get back to normal.

Nudging Barranca gently, the palomino picked up his pace and the pair was soon moving naturally – horse and rider in perfect tune, as always. The thought that he had questioned Barranca's loyalty, even for a moment, was something Johnny deeply regretted.

"Come on, amigo. Joe said there's some strays over by Snake Canyon. Let's get 'em back home where they belong."

It didn't take Johnny long to spot the first couple of strays, and he smiled when he felt Barranca respond to the sight, prancing nervously, eager to begin his job. Working in harmony, the pair quickly had over a dozen cows rounded up and boxed into a draw at the head of the canyon.

Man and horse had been working their way through the rocky terrain all morning without a mishap, steadily adding to their corralled herd. But suddenly Barranca was everywhere at once – turning right for left . . . left for right. Once the normally careful steed galloped forward so quickly he nearly toppled Johnny out of the saddle and onto a boulder before the cowboy could rein the horse back under control. The uncoordinated and erratic movements ripped at Johnny's injuries. The cows mewled in terror and spread out in every direction, mostly deeper into the canyon.

Finally Barranca stopped and stood stone still, his head raised in a defiant pose, the heaving of his sides the only indication that the animal had just been in frantic motion.

Johnny jumped out of the saddle, regretting the ill-advised movement as his hip cramped, leaving him staggering. "What the hell's wrong with you?" he shouted directly at the horse, not caring for one minute that the animal might be spooked into running off. But Barranca didn't move. "I have half a mind to stall ya again and never let ya out!"

Seething with anger, Johnny began to pace. All the hurt, all the fear . . . all the emotions that had been building for days came spewing out in a torrent of words that he regretted even as he said them. But they exploded from his lips anyway, until he sank to his knees, his energy wasted. He looked up at Barranca, the horse's head still held regally high in what could only be described as defiance, and it spurred Johnny on. His injuries and pain could be traced to one source – Barranca. And he was tired of it.

"Dammit, Barranca. When's this gonna end?"

There was no answering whinny of concern, no gesture of regret – only the maintaining of that irritatingly arrogant position.

"That's it," Johnny spat, climbing awkwardly to his feet. "You're gonna spend some stable time." He gingerly raised his arms to drag himself back in the saddle when Barranca whipped his head around and bit Johnny in the side.

Johnny dropped to the ground and staggered backward, stunned. Barranca had nipped him before – most horses did at one time or another as a show of affection or in play. But this was not just a friendly nip . . . it was a bite that was meant to hurt. And hurt it did. Johnny quickly undid his shirt buttons and slid his hand down around the wound. When he pulled his hand back out there was blood on his fingers. Johnny stared at the sight in total disbelief.

Barranca was suddenly in front of him, nickering softly, and Johnny took an involuntary step back. The show of defiance was gone, replaced by a look of confusion. Barranca came forward to nudge his partner in the shoulder, their gesture of familiarity and companionship, but Johnny again jumped back in alarm.

Barranca responded to the rebuff, his head dipping toward the ground before he trotted off a few steps, distancing himself from Johnny's palpable anger.

Johnny paced again, as he eyed the horse warily, his thoughts in turmoil. 'Something's wrong with Barranca,' his mind shouted – but his heart shouted back, 'Please . . . not Barranca!'

Disbelief turned to confusion then betrayal – then full-circle back to anger. It was almost an hour before Johnny could bring himself to get near the horse. Finally he cautiously grabbed the reins and once again mounted Barranca. Holding his side he nudged the palomino into a slow trot, hoping he could get the cattle they'd gathered moved to grazing ground and himself back to Lancer before Barranca did anything more that both man and beast might very well seriously regret.

LLLLLLLL

Barranca took a step toward Johnny, but his herd-partner moved back from his advance. The horse was confused . . . What had just happened? They'd been herding, working hard, enjoying the hunt, the chase . . . Now Johnny stood before him, and he was afraid . . . the animal could sense it, smell the fear. Johnny never feared him. Not from the first. Something was wrong. Something had happened. But Barranca had no idea what. And the man-beast's fear was spreading – the high-spirited horse picked up the feeling and was left confused and edgy, and not a little worried. Things were now horribly different. His compadre was afraid . . . of him . . .

LLLLLLLL

Ezra slipped back into his hiding place, relishing the confusion emanating from the horse as he watched the cowboy struggle with his doubts. The game was going so much better than he could have ever hoped for. Shanks could feel his own strength growing as Johnny Lancer's weakened, physically and mentally. But there was still so much fight left in the boy . . . and the horse. Neither was running away. Ezra knew that surely meant there would be plenty of more opportunities to play.

LLLLLLLL

Jelly saw a flash of color in the distance and waited. No one else but Johnny Lancer had the audacity to wear a shirt in that bright salmon hue. The old man heaved a sigh of relief at the young man's safe return, but his slight smile promptly saddened. Things were not right here at Lancer, he could feel it in his bones . . . and whatever was happening revolved around Johnny and that palomino of his. And he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

During the whole trip to town to meet the stage, Maria had gone on and on about "the evil" that had descended upon the ranch. She had made Jelly promise to take care of all the Lancers, but especially her Juanito. "El Diablo haunts him," she'd said. Well, Jelly couldn't have agreed with her more. If only he could somehow find a way to get the boy to stop and think . . . to add together all the things that had happened. Johnny would have to come to the same conclusion – something evil was afoot . . .

The old man had thought about approaching Scott with his supposings. Jelly was not as close to Scott as he was to Johnny . . . but he was close enough, and more than that, he trusted the elder brother. But in the end Jelly feared he would come off as nothing more than an old superstitious lunatic if he tried to explain what worried him to the sensibly serious young man.

As horse and rider rapidly approached, Jelly felt himself running out of time – and made a decision. He would have to step in . . . for Johnny's sake. Damn the consequences.

Johnny trotted in under the Lancer arch, and Jelly couldn't help but notice the uneasy way he sat in the saddle. Most times the boy was so comfortable in that rig they became as one. But not today . . . today Johnny held himself awkwardly atop the horse. He was still in a lot of pain, and Jelly knew he was about to compound the boy's misery.

Jelly heard Joe say something to another hand behind him, and turned to snag his arm. "You mind takin' care of Johnny's horse fer me? I got some jawin' ta do with that boy."

Joe pushed his hat back and studied the horse and rider coming in, and could guess why Jelly wanted to talk with Johnny. He recognized it too . . . the obvious, and something else, intangible, but too real to dismiss. Something was mighty wrong with Johnny, more than just physical pain. "Sure, Jelly," he quietly agreed.

Both men waited as Johnny reined Barranca to a stop in front of them, and gingerly slid down off the horse. The boy was hurting for sure, Jelly thought.

"Here," Johnny snapped, shoving the reins toward the old handyman. "He's still favoring that hind leg . . . Stall 'im again. I'll ride another horse tomorrow."

"But . . ." Jelly had not seen Barranca showing any indication that he was having trouble moving – but he thought better of challenging Johnny on the issue. The old man pointedly avoided the palomino's eyes as he handed off the reins. "Joe's gonna take care a him fer ya. You an' me . . . well . . . we gotta have a talk, Johnny."

"Later," Johnny answered sharply, walking away.

"No," Jelly pressed, following closely. "Now. We kin either do it here, or somewheres more private."

Johnny unexpectedly turned on Jelly, his eyes seething. "I ain't in the mood for talk right now, Jelly. Now just leave me alone."

Jelly reached out and grabbed Johnny's arm. "But Johnny . . ."

Johnny yanked his arm free, the swift action making him grunt in pain, his hand going reflexively to his side. Jelly followed the movement, and noticed a splotch of blood on the boy's shirt.

"What happened? Johnny?"

"Nothin'."

Jelly watched helplessly as Johnny stomped away. Turning back toward the barn he saw Joe leading Barranca inside, the horse's head hung low. 'There ain't nothin' wrong with that horse's leg,' he thought. Something had happened out on the range today. Something bad. Johnny was mad at Barranca. That was apparent. And Barranca looked broken. It was painfully clear that the spirits of both man and animal were being shattered.

'Lord a'mighty,' Jelly thought. "What in heaven's name is happenin' 'round here?" he pondered aloud.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny headed straight to his bedroom, stopping himself from slamming the door behind him. Instead he yanked off his gun belt, threw it on the bed, then grabbed the chair by the window and wedged it up under the unlockable door handle. Only then did he tear off his shirt and place himself before his mirror.

"Damn," Johnny muttered. He looked at the dark bruising already forming over his ribs and the ripped skin where Barranca had "nipped" him. He'd had his share of bites before. Barranca was a high-spirited horse, and sometimes in his exuberance he could get carried away. But it was always done in a playful or sassy mood. Today it was plainly malicious – and that scared Johnny.

He wiped at the nasty wound . . . one more to add to a litany of injuries. The fresh bite mark was already darkening to a deep blue-black bruise, the skin red and oozing slightly where the horse's teeth had scratched deeper. The older bruises across his chest and up his back had turned a lighter purplish black with a reddish-blue hue, but were still apparent – and painful. He didn't have to look at his hip to know that he'd find the deep contusion there still dark and angry – every step he took reminded him of the damage that had been inflicted to his side . . . that, and all his other pains, provided courtesy of the palomino.

Johnny grabbed a handkerchief out of a drawer, and paced as he laid it over the open bite wound, applying pressure to stop the slight bleeding. Something was wrong, and he was not embarrassed to admit that he was a little scared . . . no, a lot scared. But he didn't know what to do about it. Barranca was out of control. That was for certain. But why? And could he get the horse to stop his troubling behavior? If he couldn't, the consequences could be deadly for his friend. But could he let it go on? How many more "accidents" could he have before he was maimed – maybe even killed?

Maybe if he talked to Scott. His brother was understanding of almost everything – but how could he be with this? The Boston-bred brother had instantly dismissed Maria's warnings of "inquietud" as nothing more than the ravings of a superstitious old woman. Could Scott understand that some of those same superstitions were imbedded deep within him? That a very young Johnny Lancer had listened to stories of evil, believed them as a boy, and still could not dismiss them now?

Perhaps Jelly was the one to talk to. He certainly owed the old man an apology. There was no excuse for his behavior this afternoon. Johnny felt bad about the way he had treated his old friend. He would have to make amends, and then maybe they could talk. But not yet . . . not while Johnny couldn't make sense of what he thought himself. No . . . he would have to wait.

Johnny resolved to give it a few more days. He would ride another horse . . . give him and Barranca both another rest. Give himself a chance to think. He had a lot of thinking to do.

Decision made, Johnny pulled on a clean shirt, and then retrieved the small brown bottle from beneath his pillow. He stared at it, considering he just had to get himself through a few more days. Let the pain lessen. He'd feel better then, and be able to think clearer. 'Just a few more days,' he thought – then pulled out the stopper.

LLLLLLLL

Dinner was quiet, especially without Maria's familiar presence hovering around the family. She was dearly missed, and the absence cast a gloomy layer of anxiety over them all. The day's events were recounted. Nothing in detail . . . just the facts. Plans for the next day were made. They had fallen behind a little, and Johnny lowered his head, knowing he was partly responsible for slowing things down.

Murdoch noticed that Scott was unusually quiet this evening, he and Teresa both avoiding eye contact with Johnny. 'What now?' he was left to wonder, as obviously none of them was going to come forward with an explanation.

For his part, Johnny looked worse than the night before, but Murdoch knew the boy would buck if asked how he was. He cleared his throat before glancing over at Johnny, gauging the boy's disposition by asking, "Jelly tells me that you think Barranca may be coming up lame."

"Just a slight sprain," Johnny said softly. "Thought I'd give him a rest."

"Good decision. Jelly will take good care of him."

"Better than you're taking care of yourself," Teresa snapped, throwing her napkin on the table. "Look at you, Johnny. There's something wrong, and it's about time you told us what it is."

"Teresa," Murdoch warned, fearing she was going to set Johnny off before he could express his own concerns. The tension in the room was palpable, and for once Murdoch was afraid of making it worse. But he also wasn't willing to let it lie.

"I'm sorry, Murdoch. But I just can't sit by and watch Johnny looking worse every day."

"I have to agree with Teresa here." Murdoch attempted to exert some control. "I told you last night to stay home today, Johnny, but you went out and worked anyway. I think it's time we have Sam take a look at you."

Johnny stood up slowly. "There's nothin' wrong with me but some bumps and bruises." He looked pointedly at Teresa. "I'll say what I need and when. I don't need Sam, and I don't need the rest of you fussin' over me. I'll be fine in a few days. Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna go to bed. It's been a long day."

He felt their eyes on his back as he walked out of the room. God, if only he could believe his own words.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny turned the wick down in the lantern just low enough to leave a little light in the room. He didn't feel safe in the dark. When the nightmares came, and he knew they would, he didn't want to wake up to darkness.

He closed his eyes and tried to drift away. Tried not to think of Barranca. Tried not to remember the look of worry in his family's eyes.

He heard the door open quietly and the soft pad of bare feet on the floor – Scott was back . . . to keep him safe. The only problem was, Johnny wasn't really sure what he needed to be kept safe from. The nightmares would come whether someone was with him or not.

The chair near the window scraped slightly against the floor. Johnny opened his eyes and caught the shadow of his brother as he tried to move it closer to the bed. "No, Scott," Johnny said quietly. "You ain't stayin'. I don't need your help."

Scott stopped, still holding onto the chair, knowing Johnny had every right to kick him out, but feeling a desperate need to do something – anything – to care for his brother. The way Johnny was pushing them all away was getting frightening. The worry made him bold. "Johnny, I'm sorry about last night. Teresa and I had no right to do that to you. But you do need help. Something's wrong, brother, but none of us can figure out what. And it's more than just a few bumps and bruises. Talk to me, Johnny. Please."

Johnny felt his chest tighten as he worked to contain his emotions. He did need to talk to someone – and there Scott stood, ready and willing to hear him out. But what could he say? 'Well, brother, I think my horse is out to kill me. What do you make of that?' Johnny stifled a laugh at the thought, sure it would come out laced with insanity. No. Until he could do some real thinking on this himself, he couldn't explain it to anyone else. 'I wish to God I could, but I can't. Not yet.'

"Nothin' to talk about," was Johnny's half-true response. "I'll see you in the mornin', Scott."

The sigh could be heard across the room, as Scott let his disappointment slip out. Despite his reservations, the chair was quietly returned to its place near the window, and Scott reluctantly made his way to the door, pausing only briefly to glance back at his young brother's still form on the bed. No more words passed between them, but Scott thought he'd gotten the final say: He left Johnny's door cracked open a bit, vowing to listen through the night for any sign of another nightmare.

Scott left his own door open halfway, and sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating the stubbornness of his brother. From that position it was indeed easy to hear the next sound coming from the younger man's room. The message was delivered loud and clear – it was the soft click of the latch catching, as Johnny firmly shut his door.

LLLLLLLL

PART FIFTEEN

Johnny skipped breakfast entirely, having neither the desire nor any extra energy to spar again with his family. Two more days of work and he would get a rest. That's all he was focusing his mind on. That . . . and apologizing to Jelly.

He didn't have to go far to find the old man. Jelly stood just outside the barn door, and the look of apprehension on his face at Johnny's approach made the young man feel even worse than he already did. He didn't feel like smiling, but Johnny made an effort nonetheless and was rewarded with a small grin in return.

"Mornin', Jelly," Johnny greeted.

"Mornin' back at 'cha, Johnny," Jelly answered back nervously.

"Jelly . . . 'bout yesterday. I'm sorry for snappin' at you. I . . . well . . . it's just . . . Well, I'm sorry."

The pair weren't used to fighting, let alone apologizing, and their awkwardness was mutual. "It's all right, Johnny. I know you've had a bit on yer mind lately. You think we might be able ta have a little talk?"

"Not today, Jelly." Johnny sounded more than tired, he sounded as dispirited as Barranca had appeared the night before. "Can you get Mosey ready for me?" Johnny asked, changing the subject.

Jelly really wanted to push, but he could tell he wouldn't get anywhere trying to get the boy to talk today. He'd try again some other time . . .

"Sure, Johnny. Sure."

LLLLLLLL

Johnny rode in late, good and tired, hoping his fatigue would translate into some real sleep that night. He cleaned up and headed into the house, finding Val Crawford talking with Murdoch in the great room. The sheriff was Johnny's friend, but it always made the ex-gunfighter nervous whenever a lawman paid an unexpected visit.

"Val. What brings you out here?" he inquired quickly.

Johnny's appearance stunned the sheriff. He'd known the younger man for a few years, and had seen him when he'd been banged up, broken, feverish, even shot. But the friend before him looked gaunt and sickly, his normally vibrant and aware eyes now dull and fatigued. 'What the hell's happened to him?' he couldn't help but ask himself.

"Evenin', Johnny," he said instead. "Just wanted ta let ya'll know that I got a telegram 'bout that McKinney guy, sayin' someone thought he might be related to a McKinney somewhere near El Paso. But the marshal in them parts never heard of him, or no other family. Got no idea what he was doin' over here in California, so looks like you inherited yerself a stallion."

The younger Lancer lowered his head and walked over to pour himself a drink, a carefully concealed limp easily spotted by the sharp-eyed lawman. Johnny's response was quiet, came as a surprise to Murdoch and puzzled Val. "Reckon' we'll just be lettin' 'im go. Don't guess he'll be much good as a saddle horse no more, and sure wouldn't want to breed 'im."

"You're the one who knows best about horses, Johnny," Murdoch stated, but his disappointment with the decision was obvious as he added, "It certainly is a shame though."

"Can't be helped," Johnny answered evenly, then immediately knocked back his shot of whiskey. "Drink, Val?" he asked, even as he poured himself another.

"Got me one already."

"Stay for dinner?" Johnny was trying to be polite, but his heart wasn't in it. He kept his back turned to the other men as he slowly sipped at his second glass of liquor.

Murdoch and Val shared a look, the visitor knowing there was a heck of a story to be heard if he stuck around. "Sure, Johnny. Thanks."

Somehow Val sensed that was the last thing Johnny wanted to hear.

LLLLLLLL

Crawford was very good at his job, his powers of observation well honed. Johnny was an expert at hiding his feelings, but he couldn't disguise his condition. As usual he merely picked at his meal, two glasses of wine getting more of the ill man's attention. While the others seemed eager for Val's company, his supposedly good friend barely added to the conversation. None of this was lost on Val, and his worry followed him and Johnny out onto the veranda.

Val didn't waste any time. "You gonna tell me what's eatin' at you, boy? Or am I just gonna have ta get real nosey 'n ask Murdoch 'r Scott?"

Johnny had to laugh. It was small, brief, and kind of on the ironic side, but it was the most emotion the man had shown all night. "Nothin' much to tell, Val," he lied easily. "Just been havin' a rough month is all. Nothin' that won't pass."

"I'll be sure ta tell everyone how optimistic you was durin' yer funeral. Ya look like hell, ya know that?"

Johnny dipped his head, too tired to fight with his friend. "Gettin' enough of that from my family, Val. Don't fuss at me, all right?"

"All right, Johnny. I'll be good and leave ya to yer misery."

The pair shared a look, and Johnny couldn't help but give up a small, genuine smile to his friend, who gave him an easy grin in return.

They sat quietly for a minute, listening as the cacophony of night sounds strengthened. Finally Johnny asked, "Val, you ever had a horse go bad on you before?" Johnny had been reluctant to ask anyone at the ranch that question, fearful that the query would lead to implications for Barranca. But he had desperately wanted someone else's opinion on the subject.

For his part, Crawford had no idea that Johnny's question had anything to do with concerns about the palomino's recent behavior, naturally figuring that his friend was asking because of the stallion. "Not myself. Sold off a few horses 'cause they was either just plain stupid or kind of on the ornery side. But I ain't never come across a man killer before. Heard of a rancher who outright shot a horse. Three of his best bronc busters tried to break 'im, and he bucked every one of 'em off. Broke the third man's arm.

"Knew a cowboy once who had to put down his horse. Saddest day of that man's life. Darn animal got too unpredictable . . . started fightin' with other horses . . . even threw that boy a couple of times. Was a local kid, so everyone in town knew 'bout that horse's problems. No one else'd have 'im. So one day the young man led him off . . . an' come back alone. Never will forget the look on that boy's face."

If Val had been paying more attention, he'd have noticed the look on Johnny's face at that moment – and he'd have witnessed a greater depth of sadness than he had ever known.

Val left not too long after that, leaving Johnny out on the veranda, brooding over his ever-troubled thoughts. He heard an unmistakable whinny come from within the barn across the courtyard, then a couple of loud banging sounds as Barranca kicked at his stall – as if he knew Johnny were nearby and able to hear him, beckoning his herd-partner to restore their bond.

Johnny leaned heavily up against a pillar, and considered going to check on the horse. But he couldn't. Not now. Not in the day, and certainly not in the night. In the darkness. Johnny ignored Barranca's call and turned away, entered the house, and went straight up to bed.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny woke, but couldn't remember falling asleep. His conversation with Val had left him with more questions than answers, each of them darker than the last. The only thing Johnny was sure of was that he'd never be able to put Barranca down. Just the thought of it chilled him to the bone and sliced through his heart. It was a stupid thought, he knew, but killing that horse would be to him the same as killing his own brother. He could not bring himself to even consider it as a solution. Johnny would let his beloved horse go free first. As difficult as that would be, he'd give Barranca up before he'd let anyone on earth hurt him.

'Anyone on earth . . .' Johnny rolled that phrase over in his mind, and something sparked. He'd been trying to drive the memory of Barranca's rage-filled eyes out of his thoughts for weeks, but lying there, quiet and alone in bed, he forced himself to remember the image.

For two years he and that horse had begun every morning face-to-face, eye-to-eye, reaffirming their bond as partners. Barranca had always met his gaze, and Johnny had never seen anything but horse staring back at him. But if you paid attention – and Johnny always did – it was easy to discern a liveliness in Barranca's gaze that was unlike anything he'd ever seen in any other animal's eyes. The man knew that the horse was observing just as much as he was being observed – equally wanting to know about his compadre.

But on two recent occasions, Johnny had seen a life-force staring back at him from Barranca that was not – could not have been – a part of the horse. The ex-gunfighter lay on his bed and concentrated hard, rejecting his skepticism and fear, willing himself to admit what he had seen.

Johnny had tried all his life to deny the cultural superstitions that had been rampant in every little Mexican village where he and his mother had lived. He'd fought to ignore the dark tales of evil spirits that were meant to instill fear in impressionable children. But Barranca's behavior was unnatural, and something he could no longer ignore. And then there had been that look . . . that increasingly undeniable vision of pure evil that continually haunted his dreams.

The familiar answer to what he had observed threatened to send him back into disbelief: Human hatred. There was no other way for Johnny to describe it. He was well acquainted with how base human beings could really be. From an early age Johnny had seen men take out their rage on their fellow humans for the iniquities that life had supposedly dealt them. Johnny Lancer had started out as a victim, a young boy staring up into the eyes of men five times his size, recognizing their anger and pleading with them not to hurt him. But they always did anyway. And that had made Johnny Madrid a defender . . . of himself, and anyone less fortunate around him. He'd learned to face these men unflinchingly, to look straight into their eyes and tell them "not this time."

That same look of unconcealed human rage is what Johnny had recognized in Barranca's stare. But even if he could bring himself to admit that this was what he'd seen, what could he do about it? And what in God's name was causing it? Johnny had fought evil men before, and never backed down – but how could he combat now what he couldn't touch? What he didn't understand . . .

Johnny thought back on his conversation with Jelly in the tack room, when the old man had mentioned seeing "something" in the black stallion's eyes he hadn't ever seen in a horse before. Whatever it had been had scared Jelly. Well, now there was definitely something appearing in Barranca's eyes, and it was scaring Johnny. For the first time in a whole lot of years, Johnny was really and truly frightened. What was happening at Lancer was much more than common bad luck and simple coincidences.

Johnny needed strength – strength to accept what his mind told him couldn't be but what his heart told him existed. His instincts were still screaming at him that Barranca would never hurt him, despite all the evidence to the contrary. But he needed help to continue to trust the horse. Above all, he needed a way to overcome this evil that had befallen the ranch, that seemed to especially target him for . . . what exactly, he didn't know. But whatever it was, he had to find a way to stop it.

He sat up slowly, taking careful measure of his condition – a new daily ritual Johnny was getting very tired of. He wasn't surprised to find that he still hurt everywhere, the bite to his side burning and his hip already aching to the bone. Tomorrow was Sunday, so he'd get another much needed chance to rest then, without drawing too much attention to the fact that he was still hurting. But how to make it though the day?

No longer able to avoid the inevitable, Johnny slid gingerly across the mattress and, hanging on to the bedpost, slowly stood up. He peered down at the bed, knowing that the bottle of laudanum was still secreted beneath his pillow. He hated the thought of taking any more of the drug, but he had Barranca to think of. No one could know the horse had hurt him again. Johnny knew that Murdoch and Scott were already suspicious of Barranca. Nothing had happened in their presence that he couldn't make an excuse for . . . but proof of the horse's abuse was plainly evident on his body. He just needed to keep his family from finding out just how badly he was hurting long enough so he could figure out how to get he and Barranca out of this mess.

Johnny let go of the bedpost and tested his hip, taking a step away from the bed. The muscle tightness immediately grabbed hold, and he turned back quickly, plopping himself down awkwardly onto the mattress before he fell to the floor. He sadly wondered when the day might come when the bruises would no longer be so painful that he could finally once again walk straight. But that day was not going to be today. Johnny reached under his pillow, and retrieved the hated laudanum. 'Got to hold on until tomorrow,' he told himself – then he pulled out the stopper and swallowed a dose.

He remained seated on the edge of the bed, slowly working the tightness out of his muscles, giving the laudanum a chance to take hold. But the day was growing old, so he once again stood slowly and made his way over to the washstand.

Feeling the stubble on his face, Johnny picked up his shaving mug and turned toward the mirror. "Dios . . ." he uttered quietly. "No wonder everyone's been harpin' on me." The man staring back at him from the glass was more than haggard – he looked downright done in. Johnny noticed just how pale he'd become, which only accentuated the dark circles beneath his eyes. He'd lost too much weight on his already thin frame, leaving him looking gaunt and weak.

Taking a good look at himself, Johnny wondered why the hell he kept pushing himself. But that question could be answered in one word: Barranca. A horse. A partner. A friend. Johnny never turned his back on a friend, and he wasn't going to do it now. But looking back into the mirror, Johnny knew he needed help. They needed help. But where in God's name could he turn and not be considered insane?

LLLLLLLL

With the laudanum performing its magic and after a few more minutes of light stretching, Johnny felt relatively steady and limber enough to tackle the stairs. Running the family gauntlet seemed more daunting, but he nevertheless put in the effort and joined them for breakfast. Blessedly nothing was said about his injuries except for general inquiries into how he was feeling, a strained truce being observed by all. Barranca never came up in the stunted conversation at all.

Johnny forced himself to eat, his appetite lacking more than ever with Maria's warm presence missing. But he nonetheless thanked Teresa for her efforts at fixing the meal, verified his jobs for the day with Murdoch, then quickly exited for the stables, considering himself a very lucky man to have gotten away so easily.

Johnny got Joe to saddle Mosey for him and immediately headed out to the range, avoiding both Jelly and Barranca. He worked quickly to get half his tasks done as early in the day as possible. By that time the horse bite to his side was refusing to be ignored, the pain flaring in ever increasing waves, the bruise pulsating with every breath while the torn skin pulled tighter as it scabbed. He dared another small dose of laudanum before turning Mosey toward town.

Morro Coyo was bustling on Saturdays, but Johnny deftly avoided all the activity by heading directly to his destination using back trails. Located near the outskirts of town, the Catholic mission's church would be fairly quiet this time of day. With morning mass long over, the children from the orphanage would be off working at their delegated tasks around the grounds. And evening prayers wouldn't start for hours. This was the perfect time for a troubled ex-gunfighter to seek some private spiritual guidance.

Johnny had been raised a Catholic, instilled with a belief in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. But Johnny Madrid had never called on God to keep him safe in a gunfight, to watch his back, to help him prevail in his quest to take the life of another human. To stand face to face with a man and will yourself to gun him down was not something God needed to be responsible for. That was man's choice – more Satan's call on who might live or die. Divine intervention was never something Johnny counted on to survive.

But Johnny Madrid's skill with a handgun wasn't going to save Johnny Lancer now. Something unworldly was happening – something more spiritual than secular, and definitely unholy in nature. Johnny shuddered involuntarily. He didn't know what he was fighting let alone how to fight it. All he knew was that he needed help. Johnny had fought his battles alone for a long time, and he knew there wasn't another man on earth who could help him win this one. So for the first time in a long time he turned to God for an answer, hoping against hope that there was enough of his soul left for God to want to protect.

He looked around carefully before entering the church. Sure that he had not been seen, Johnny closed the heavy door behind him. He pushed his hat off his head and let it dangle on his back by the stampede string, then stood at the entrance for a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The only light came from a few small windows left un-shuttered to allow some air to circulate while keeping the oppressively moist heat at bay on the outside.

Johnny felt uncomfortable, so much so that he almost turned and left. He knew he was welcome here – the padre told him so every chance he got. The old pious man knew all about the conditions under which Johnny had been raised, and what Johnny had been . . . how he had made a living for so many of his young years. Johnny had come to feel that his prior occupation made him a sinner of the highest caliber, and he had too much respect for God to dirty his house with his presence any more than on occasion. But Father Martin felt that church was meant especially for men just like Johnny, and he'd told the young man to come by whenever he felt the need, day or night.

Well, Johnny certainly did feel the need today. He had no place else to turn, no one else to talk to honestly.

Remembering his purpose for coming, Johnny quietly made his way toward the front of the church, his boots and spurs against the stone flooring too loud to his own ears. He passed the altar, genuflecting and crossing himself instinctively before the cross. The gestures were second nature, instilled in him as a child, but the signs of respect were well meant. He walked over to a table full of devotional candles and found one to light. Then he pulled some bills out from under his gun belt and deposited them in the poor box.

The whole church was his, but what he needed to do was quiet and private, between him and God alone. So he returned to the back of the church down a side aisle, and found a half-hidden space on the floor behind the last pew. A small moan escaped his lips as he knelt, but then there was only silence as Johnny sought answers from the heavens.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny Madrid Lancer knelt unmoving for a long while, head bent in thoughtful prayer, undisturbed until a door opened at the front of the church to the side of the altar. He kept his place but slowly raised his head, hoping to avoid being seen.

Father Martin moved to the altar and knelt briefly before it, crossing himself and muttering a short quiet prayer. He then stood and went to the poor box to retrieve the donations from the earlier service. Opening the small wooden case, he was surprised to find not only the few meager coins normally given on Saturday mornings, but several bills totaling close to twenty dollars. The padre held the much needed money in his left hand as he crossed himself in thanks with his right.

But then, he had an intriguing thought . . . the priest knew the poor box donations were always highest when a certain young man decided he was worthy enough for a visit. Without turning, Father Martin called out, "Are you still here with me, Juanito?"

Johnny had to smile at the old man's observant deduction. He knew if he didn't speak that the priest would most likely respect his privacy and leave him alone. But here in the house of God, he was inclined to be polite. "Sí, padre. Buenos tardes." He stood up from his hiding place as he spoke the greeting, suppressing a groan of pain the best he could, his muscles having stiffened considerably.

The old priest turned and stared into the dimness, past all the pews to the figure lingering in the back amongst the shadows. "Buenos tardes. It is good to see you, my son." The Father's own smile broadened and he took a few steps forward, hoping to talk with his elusive parishioner.

"Good to see you too, Padre, but I can't stay." Johnny was already backing toward the door. "Gotta get back to work now." He waved his hand and turned to leave.

"Juanito!" The pair had been trying to keep their voices hushed, but Father Martin suddenly felt a desperation to keep Johnny within the church. The oddness of the Saturday visit between masses was concerning enough, but there was something more niggling at him, a deep sense that Johnny's visit had not been made by chance, but for a more serious purpose.

Johnny stopped, now sorry that he had acknowledged being there. He couldn't face the priest . . . already knew all the holy man could offer, and that it most likely wouldn't be enough. But he waited for the question anyway.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He sighed quietly. "No, Padre. Apenas hable un rezo para mí." (No, Father. Just speak a prayer for me.)

Father Martin knew the very private Johnny Lancer just well enough to realize that the small and simple request was the loudest cry for help he had ever heard. But he also knew that Johnny would accept nothing more than what he'd asked for from the priest. "Sí, Juanito. Vaya con Dios." (Go with God.) He offered up the blessing as he made the sign of the cross in the air in front of him.

Johnny caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye, and knew the old priest would indeed keep him in his thoughts and prayers. "Gracias, Padre," Johnny answered, then crossed himself and left the sanctuary of the church to return home to what await him at Lancer.

LLLLLLLL

With dinner long over and the lamps dimmed throughout the hacienda, Johnny stared at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom and settled in to wait out the night. He was resistant to the sleep that would most likely change quickly into yet another painful nightmare. Instead he pondered his day, glad he'd managed to finish all the necessary chores assigned to him, despite his side-trip to town, guaranteeing him a much-needed break from work.

The visit to the church had provided Johnny no solid answers to his dilemma, but he somehow felt emboldened, as if he truly might not have to solve this mystery on his own. He was still unsure of what exactly he was dealing with, but he knew he couldn't let it gain an upper hand. Whatever the game was, Johnny was ready to ante up.

Before he knew it the tired cowboy had succumbed to his great fatigue, and fell into a deep slumber. The sun rising over the distant mountains peeked through his curtains, but for the first morning in what seemed like forever, Johnny slept on in peace.

LLLLLLLL

Teresa made her way up the mission church steps as Murdoch and Scott headed the wagon over to the orphanage. Father Martin stood just outside the church doors, offering individual blessings to his congregation as the parishioners exited from the Sunday morning service.

"Buenas dias, Senorita O'Brien," the padre greeted her.

"Good morning, Father," she replied cheerfully, always happy to see the benevolent and hard working priest. "I just wanted to let you know that we brought in half of the fruit and vegetables we promised to the orphanage for this week. I'm sorry we couldn't gather everything. Maria went to visit her sister, and we've been shorthanded, and . . ."

The priest cut her excuses off short, distractedly replying, "Do not worry, Teresa. Juanito was very generous yesterday. The orphans have been provided for."

The old man missed the confusion written all over Teresa's face, but caught it in her inflection. "Johnny was here yesterday?"

Father Martin finally turned toward the young woman standing beside him, his embarrassment now apparent. "Lo siento, Teresa," he apologized in a whisper. "I did not realize that Juanito had not made his visit known to his family. He is, of course, welcome in the church at any time."

Teresa was stunned at the news that Johnny had come into town without any of them knowing. But she kept her head, and allowed for both she and the priest to keep Johnny's confidence. Keeping her voice equally low, she replied, "Of course, Father. It's just that, had I known he was coming yesterday, I would have asked him to bring you the supplies earlier. Johnny certainly need not tell us each time he chooses to come visit with you."

A small crowd had gathered to receive the priest's blessings, so the good Father felt pressed to give them his full attention. "The generosity of Lancer is welcome whenever it can be had. Gracias, Teresa."

"You're welcome, Father," Teresa replied, then quickly retreated down the stairs, leaving the priest to his flock.

The young woman slowly made her way over to the orphanage to join Murdoch and Scott. 'Johnny went to church yesterday,' her mind repeated. 'First Jelly, now Johnny . . .' Teresa pondered the implications of the unusual religious observance, then stopped herself to wonder, 'Is that my place? Surely a man's relationship with God should be personal . . . special. I have no right to question.'

'But should Murdoch know?' Teresa asked herself. She was loath to keep secrets from her guardian – and given Johnny's recent behavior, this might be very important . . .

'Haven't you interfered in Johnny's life enough for one week?' she chastised herself. The answer was plain: Yes. Teresa would say nothing about Johnny's secret trip to the church. She could only hope he'd found some comfort in the visit.

LLLLLLLL

PART SIXTEEN

Dewdrop the gander, clever escape artist that he was, finally succeeded in maneuvering his way out of his pen to freedom. With a vigorous waggle of his tail, and an impressive flapping of wings, he was off, testing the limits of his self-gained liberation. The needs of the ranch were lost on the goose – all he knew was that Jelly had been ignoring him lately, and he'd had enough. If attention were not going to be offered voluntarily, he would insist that interest be paid – one way or another.

Having already investigated all his favorite spots nearest his pen, the goose grew adventurous and wandered farther, heading toward the main stable and corrals, hoping to find the elusive and inattentive handyman. If there was one thing old Dewdrop was good at, it was raising a ruckus, and he planned to thoroughly express the displeasure he felt over his recent treatment. The customary apology of much cosseting and an extra ration of feed were fully expected in return, for the goose knew he had Jelly wrapped around his little webbed feet.

Coming around the back of the barn, the goose grew uneasy. The chickens should have been clucking at him to go away by now, but there was only silence – an oppressive kind of quiet that made the bird extremely nervous.

Dewdrop wanted nothing more than to get away from that particular spot as fast as possible, so he waddled his way over to the barn door, which stood open. He took a few tentative steps toward the darkened interior – and then froze. Everyone thought the goose was good for nothing but getting into trouble. But what he actually was good at was getting attention, which he craved. Trouble was something the bird tried to avoid at any cost, and that is exactly what he sensed within the barn. Rather than detecting his favorite human, Dewdrop perceived a presence that instantly scared him.

The poor goose felt himself getting more and more agitated, and he let out a tentative honk, trying to draw Jelly's calming presence to him. But what he got in response from far within the blackness of the barn was a deep threatening neigh from a very familiar horse – and that was all the confirmation Dewdrop needed that he was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Frantic to distance himself from the enmity emanating at him from within the barn, Dewdrop set off in a panicky display of flapping wings and loud honking – an exhibition guaranteed to draw him some attention.

LLLLLLLL

Joe felt his unease worsen as he threw open the barn door and walked into the darkened interior. The young hand had been working the Lancer ranch for near six months, and once he'd gotten past Murdoch's gruffness, he found it one of the best jobs he'd ever held. He liked getting orders from Scott, who always talked to the men directly and with respect. Finding out who and what Johnny had been had taken some getting used to, but now he considered the younger Lancer just plain fun to be around. Well, usually . . .

Things had definitely not been normal around the ranch lately. Joe could feel a nervous tension on the rise in everyone . . . especially Johnny and Jelly. Jelly was jumpier than cold water on a hot skillet. When Johnny wasn't losing his temper, he was way too quiet, and he looked worse everyday. Joe still couldn't understand why a man who found it too painful to saddle his own horse would want to go out and put in a full day of grueling work. At first the men had assumed it was old demanding Murdoch forcing his son to keep working, but they'd since figured out that it was Johnny keeping himself in the saddle. Joe now knew firsthand that the Lancer men's reputation for stubbornness was more than well deserved.

That Johnny hadn't ridden out on Barranca in days had Joe completely baffled. He trusted and respected the youngest Lancer's horse sense just as much as everyone else in the area. But lately the hand found himself doubting if Johnny knew what he was talking about. The repeated insistence that Barranca had a bruised leg didn't make a lick of sense. No one could find even a bit of heat coming from the palomino's limb. And even if the horse was lame, that didn't excuse Johnny ignoring the animal, especially since the man normally insisted on personally seeing to Barranca's every need.

No, something was definitely wrong at the Lancer ranch.

Feeling a need to get out of the barn as quickly as possible, Joe set about his first chore for the day. Across from Barranca's stall he found the buckboard loaded with empty vegetable crates, a couple of wobbly chairs, and some busted tack the Lancer's had picked up from the orphanage the day before. Joe was supposed to get all the crates back out to Teresa's garden and refilled for another trip to town, and help Jelly either get the chairs and tack back into some kind of usable shape, or replaced. 'Sounds like a full day's work ta me,' Joe affirmed to himself.

Barranca stretched his head out over his stall gate, nickered and bobbed his head for attention. Joe spared him a glance, but kept to his task, only offering an assuring, "You just hold on fer Mr. Jelly. He'll be in ta feed ya presently. Reckon he'll take another look at that just awful injury of yers, too!"

Joe laughed out loud at his little joke as he moved a crate aside and hefted a heavy harness from the buckboard, trying to clear a path to the chairs. Looking around for someplace to set the gear, he spied a hook on a post next to him. About waist high, it was an easy toss. But the weight of the harness was too much for the old iron hook and it broke off at the shaft, leaving a sharp jagged spike about a half-inch thick and an inch long.

"Great," Joe declared as he stared at the busted metal. "Reckon I just added one more thing to my list a' have-ta-do's today." He was just bending over to pick up the fallen harness when he heard a small but distinctive honk echo its way back to him from the barn doorway.

Barranca answered what could only be Jelly's Dewdrop, but the tenor of the horse's neigh made Joe straighten immediately and turn to look at the animal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but he'd never heard a horse whinny in such a manner before, and if truth be told, he didn't think he'd care to hear such a sound ever again. Wasn't anything he could put a finger on, but his skin had crawled on him just a bit nevertheless.

Apparently old Dewdrop hadn't been comforted any more than him by the horse's answering call, because the next thing Joe knew the barn was filled with the sound of flapping wings and a whole lot of honking.

"Oh, lordy," Joe stated with a shake of his head as he trudged out of the stable, following the commotion as Dewdrop took off in a panic. "As if there ain't enough to do 'round here . . . Jelly!" he shouted, breaking into a run. "Jelly! Yer damn duck is out again . . .!"

LLLLLLLL

Ezra listened to the cowboy's fading calls, then slowly turned Barranca's head until he could once again view the broken hook on the post across from him. //'If only I had someone to play with,'// the spirit lamented, then dejectedly tucked himself back into hiding.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny heard Dewdrop honking frantically over by the bunkhouses as he made his way to the barn. The goose's calls were mixing inharmoniously with the voices of several of the hands, and Johnny knew from experience that meant the gander was out of his pen and raising a ruckus. From the sound of things and the amount of men already involved, Jelly was going to have his hands full trying to corner that bird for quite awhile – plenty of time for Johnny to finish with what he felt he needed to do first before he could get on with his day.

The minute Johnny entered the barn, Barranca's head came up and over his stall door, and he whinnied noisily. The movement was not aggressive, but wanting . . . needy.

For his part, Johnny found himself still wary, but feeling guilty. Even from a distance he could tell that the horse before him was not the standoffish, arrogant beast that had bit him only days before. No. This was Barranca, the horse that he'd formed a close bond with. The animal he'd truly come to love and cherish.

Johnny stepped forward, embarrassed when he noticed himself skirting more toward the equipment and stalls lined up on the opposite side of the barn from Barranca. There was no way he could bring himself to ride the palomino today, but he needed to see him. He'd finally gotten a whole day to rest, a couple of good night's sleep, and a chance to think. He still hadn't been able to reconcile in his mind the strange happenings that had been plaguing Lancer . . . him. But he somehow continually felt at peace whenever he thought of Barranca. Whatever was going on, the horse was not at fault. That belief contradicted all good reason, but Johnny couldn't shake it.

He was suddenly right across from the horse, next to the buckboard still loaded with items from the orphanage. Johnny thought of his own trip to town, to the church, and he smiled a little. If nothing else he'd been blessed with some sleep from his visit, and that went a long way to making him feel good for a change.

Barranca's head was nodding up and down, almost as if he had read Johnny's mind and was thoroughly concurring with him. Johnny took a tentative step forward, and the horse instantly lowered his head, looking for a scratch.

He took another step forward. Then another. For the first time in days, his hand reached out, and he found the soft forelock of his beloved compadre. 'Dios. This feels so right . . .' Johnny thought. His fingers were moving, finding that special place that only he dared scratch, and Barranca was responding, nickering softly, so quietly not another being in the whole barn would have heard it. But Johnny heard, and considered it a lucky thing that he'd caught up on his sleep – otherwise he'd have been weary enough to let his tears flow. But he held them back, and just relished the old familiar feeling of man and animal in friendship, in harmony.

His hand unconsciously found the latch to the stall, and if he hadn't been so focused on Barranca, he may have noticed the teeth marks of a horse dug into the wooden handle.

But the gate was being thrown open, and Barranca was there before him, not a thing between them – and this time when the horse stepped forward to nudge Johnny's shoulder, the man didn't recoil. He took the bump – their familiar gesture of companionship – and in spite of the actual pain he felt in his bruised chest from the push, it still felt good. Real good.

The pair was practically still. Only a slight bobbing of the horse's head and the slow movements of the man's hand could be seen. But there was so much more passing between them, nothing spoken but everything totally understood.

Barranca's head was down, and that's why Johnny missed it. Ezra couldn't stand it another minute. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. The initial daily contact that Johnny and Barranca usually shared had spoiled the spirit. The more recent distance between man and horse was certainly understandable and expected, but had left Ezra feeling impetuous – and more than a little needy himself. Shanks surged forward in Barranca's mind and gained control before the animal could emit any sound in warning. Shanks compelled the horse to nudge Johnny's shoulder again, just as gently as before, and the cowboy took it, didn't back away – and Ezra smiled.

Using the incredible strength of the magnificent palomino, Ezra pulled back the animals head, but this time he put every bit of energy the horse had into a power-filled head butt to the cowboy's shoulder. Totally unexpected, Johnny staggered backward, his injured muscles screaming as they tried to control his fall. He felt his leg's scrambling, desperate to keep their purchase, and he almost found his footing. But then suddenly he was tripping over an object on the floor, something was cutting into him, stabbing into his back, and then he was falling forward . . .

LLLLLLLL

Johnny gripped his back as he quickly crawled backward on the ground, trying to add some distance between him and Barranca, wary of the horse's hooves. Hitting a stall wall stopped his movement, and he immediately focused totally on the animal, fearful of what might come next. Johnny felt vulnerable, and he hated his weakness.

Barranca pranced toward him aggressively, but stopped abruptly after only a couple of steps. The horse's head bobbed wildly up and down for a moment, and then was still – and that's when Johnny locked on Barranca's eyes. Once again they were filled with a kind of ethereal darkness, but the blackness was implausibly in motion, churning like those low hanging dark clouds that had been dogging Lancer for weeks. Quickly the black faded to the familiar velvet brown of Barranca's eyes, and the horse emitted a doleful nicker.

Johnny had seen that look before, but he'd never witnessed the transition from mystifying to familiar. The vision left him stunned. This had been no accident – something other than simple bad luck was hounding him, had singled him out for heaven knew what reason, and was using Barranca to get close to him. The attacks were a cowardly way to challenge a man, but were affective nonetheless – and definitely deliberate.

He pulled his right hand away from his back and gazed forlornly at the blood dripping across his fingers. He couldn't believe he'd been hurt again, and turned his once more saddened and tired eyes back to Barranca.

His own pain was forgotten.

Barranca was pacing between the stalls, obviously agitated. He then stood still, and began weaving, shifting his weight back and forth – another readable horse signal that the animal was in distress. 'Maybe he's sick,' Johnny thought. But then that image of blackness roiling in Barranca's eyes filled Johnny's mind, and he denied the possibility, fast. 'No. He's more than sick . . . and just as bad off as me.'

Johnny put his hand back over his newest wound, and pushed himself to his feet. He hung onto the stall wall to steady himself, then limped forward and approached Barranca cautiously, his left hand held out before him as he crooned quietly. The horse let out a woeful nicker, then stopped his movement and dropped his head. Johnny's fingers once again found that special place in Barranca's forelock, and man and horse were surprisingly calmed through the contact.

"Don't worry, amigo," Johnny whispered into Barranca's ear. "We'll beat this. Don't know what it is yet, but we'll meet it together. Ain't nothin' gonna get between us. Not never." Once more the horse nickered quietly.

The pain was starting to flair in Johnny's back, and he knew he had to get to his room and take a look at the new damage. He thought briefly about going to find Jelly instead, but he could still hear Dewdrop honking in the distance, and knew the old handyman would have his hands full right about now.

"Come on, boy," he said, and patted Barranca on the neck. "Let's get you stalled." The horse obeyed immediately, and was easily led. Johnny gave him one last pat, then closed the stall gate.

LLLLLLLL

Barranca hung his head over the gate and watched as his partner limped out of the barn, the disturbing scent of blood wafting through the air behind him. Something had happened again. Something bad. But his human herd partner wasn't mad at him this time. He wasn't much scared either.

No. The horse was sensing confusion, and concern, and pain, but not anger or fright. Johnny had left him behind, but he knew the human would be back. They were still compadres, partners. Barranca was worried, but he still had trust in his friend. Johnny would make sure everything was all right. They'd both be fine, he just had to give it time.

LLLLLLLL

Joe had followed the honking and flapping Dewdrop all the way to the bunkhouses, where other hands joined him in a vain attempt to corner the agitated bird. Most times they found the goose's escapades rather humorous, good for a laugh or two at Jelly's expense. But there was something about the bird's behavior this time that was different, and all the men sensed it.

Already on edge because of all the strange happenings that had been occurring lately around the Lancer ranch, the men were sensitive to anything out of the ordinary. Dewdrop didn't seem to be just misbehaving as usual, but actually more truly terrified about something. As Jelly finally showed up to join the chase, some of the hands began to look around for a rattler, anything that might have upset the animal so obviously. Given the recent spate of animal killings around the ranch, the men figured the goose had a perfect right to be nervous.

Quicker than normal, Jelly had Dewdrop cradled in his arms. As the old man comforted the exhausted bird, the hands offered up their explanations for what had set him off. But no theory proven, the boys went along to their chores as Jelly took the poor bird back to his pen. The originally expected pampering and extra feed was given, and Dewdrop was left more than content to stay just where he was for a very long time.

Joe made his way back to the barn, cursing the goose for putting him behind with his work. He noticed Barranca weaving nervously in his stall. "Damn bird got you all upset too, didn't he?" he commented, then bent over to pick up the fallen harness.

Something caught his eye, and he stopped to peer at the small spike now sticking out of the post, the remnant of the broken hook. The metal was stained red. Joe gingerly touched the iron, and his fingers came away moist. He rolled the wetness between his fingers, and could only come to one conclusion: blood.

"I was only gone . . ." Joe could not believe someone or something could have happened upon the broken hook so quickly, and gotten themselves hurt through his carelessness. He looked around carefully, and spotted more droplets of blood on the stable floor in the stall next to the buckboard.

"Anyone in here?" he called out, continuing to look around closely for whatever might have been wounded. But he saw nothing or no one. Once again his skin had a kind of crawling feeling, and he shuddered violently. "Definitely somethin' wrong 'round this place," he uttered under his breath.

He picked up the harness and headed to the tack room with it, intending to grab a hammer and rid that post of the dangerous spike before something else got snagged on it. It took longer than needed, because Joe found himself stopping to look over his shoulder more than once, seeking what he couldn't have told you.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny bunched up his shirttail and wadded it against the wound to his back as he made his way toward the hacienda. Taking advantage of the empty kitchen, he grabbed some bandaging Teresa always kept on hand in one of the cupboards, before making his way up the back staircase to his bedroom, quickly shutting his door and once more wedging a chair up under the handle.

He threw the bandaging up onto the dresser, then tossed his gun belt on the bed, unbuttoned and removed his shirt. The wound was just above his beltline on the right side of his back, and he twisted himself awkwardly toward the mirror, trying to gauge the severity of the injury. After dabbing at it several times with his already bloody shirt, he didn't think the wound was very deep, but he was annoyed at the way it kept oozing fluid.

Keeping the shirt pressed against the wound, Johnny took a minute to think. He could make up an excuse and get someone else to help him with the injury, but they would most likely notice the other assaults to his body and start asking questions – questions he wasn't ready to answer. Barranca has caused all the injuries, but he wasn't responsible. Johnny knew it in his heart – he just had to find a way to get his mind to explain it.

He pulled the shirt away and assessed the bleeding, which had slowed but not stopped. Johnny pressed against the wound again, and considered his day. If need be he'd be able to find time to take it easy. He stared at his pillow, knowing help lay beneath it. The morning had started out so promising . . . he'd felt sore, but rested, and had left his room initially without a thought to needing any of the dreaded laudanum to get him through the day. But now . . .

'Dammit all to hell,' he silently cursed. 'Buck it up, Madrid.' Mind made up, Johnny took himself a dose of the painkiller, then went about cleaning his injury before placing a dressing over it as tightly as he could manage on his own. He balled up all the bloodied materials into his hand towel, then hid them at the bottom of his dresser before grabbing a clean shirt. With the laudanum dulling his pain, Johnny took a final look at himself in the mirror, and convinced he'd hidden all evidence of the injury, exited his room to once more try to drag himself through another day.

LLLLLLLL

Johnny didn't get far. He spent a couple of hours moving a small bunch of cows away from a muddied pond to better grazing land. He was fine as long as the animals behaved, but every time one would cut and run, Mosey's quick reaction to turn the cow yanked at his injuries – his back most of all – and he thought for sure he was going to pass out more than once. Johnny hated to admit it, but there was no way he was going to be able to get any work done for the ranch today.

He decided to head back in, trying to think of some excuse that would get him another day of rest without raising too much suspicion. Keeping his mind preoccupied on that task helped to temporarily stave off having to figure out what the hell was happening to Barranca. The question had weighed heavily in his thoughts all morning, but he felt no closer to an answer.

A figure on horseback moving toward him caught Johnny's attention. In no time he was able to easily recognize that it was Jelly. Johnny briefly debated whether to stay and see what he wanted – or to cut and run himself and avoid the older man's further prying. Something told him to hold his ground.

"Was thinkin' I'd run into you out here," Jelly stated as he reined up beside Johnny. He pointed off to their left and said, "I got that stallion corralled by the line shack over there . . . was kinda hopin' you'd come take a look at 'im with me." Jelly had made it sound like a simple request, but the expression on his face couldn't have begged Johnny any more deeply.

Johnny's first impulse was to say no, but then he considered his options – face Jelly now, or head back to the hacienda, and face Teresa . . . or heaven forbid, Murdoch. "Sure, Jelly. I'll look at him with ya."

More than relieved that Johnny had agreed, Jelly curbed his excitement and just headed them out before young Lancer could change his mind. 'Now if I can just get 'im to talk to me,' Jelly considered as they made their way.

It didn't take the pair long to reach their destination, and they reined up next to the corral. Under Jelly's care, the wound from Barranca's shoes to the stallion's side had healed well, but was still apparent. Luckily for Johnny, Jelly got down immediately and went to call the stallion over. It took all Johnny had to keep his footing as he dismounted himself, a flair of pain from the movement causing a sudden wave of dizziness that nearly had him sitting on the ground.

Johnny leaned heavily against the corral fence as the stallion cautiously came over to greet them. There didn't seem to be any life left in the animal – his head hung low and his pace was lethargic. Johnny's keen horsemen's eyes caught other signs that added up to the fact that the stallion's spirit had been broken. He remembered Jelly saying he'd seen "something" in this animal's eyes when he'd first shown up. Could that have been the same "something" that was now afflicting Barranca? And if so, was this the fate in store for his beloved palomino? That thought, added to his physical pain, made Johnny downright angry. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't going to defeat him – or Barranca.

"Johnny!" Jelly had already said the man's name three times, but he seemed to be off somewhere else.

"What?" Johnny turned abruptly, startled by Jelly's seemingly needlessly loud call.

"I asked if ya wanted some coffee."

Johnny ran a tired hand through his hair, realizing he'd been caught daydreaming. "Sorry, Jelly," he apologized. "Coffee'd be good. Real good."

LLLLLLLL

Jelly set the coffee to boil on the potbellied stove and blew the dust out of two cups before setting them on the old table that dominated the well-worn line shack. He eyed Johnny suspiciously as he watched the young man pace nervously. He was worried about the boy. The lithe movements he associated with the ex-gunslinger were gone. Johnny's movements were now halting, every action tempered by some kind of pain, both physical and mental Jelly suspected.

"Yer jumpier than a June bug on a hot rock, boy. What's botherin' ya?"

Johnny stopped his pacing, but merely glanced at Jelly. "Nothing," he snapped, his angry thoughts, spurred on from seeing the defeated stallion, still churning darkly.

"Well, I ain't one fer buttin' my nose in where it ain't wanted . . . but somethin' is mighty wrong with ya. Ya got everybody worried 'bout ya. Look at ya boy. Ya ain't eatin'. Ya move 'round like a man twice yer ole man's age . . . Come on Johnny, tell me . . . tell Jelly what's gnawin' at ya."

Johnny looked over at him, and the sorrow on the young man's face stung Jelly like a physical blow. But the look was gone in an instant as Johnny bowed his head, obviously fighting with a decision to speak or remain stubbornly silent.

"You kin talk ta me, ya know," Jelly prodded. "Now what's a botherin' ya?"

"I told you . . . nothin'." Johnny turned away a little too quickly and his side erupted in new pain. His hand automatically reached for his back.

"There now. See?" Jelly huffed. "There is somethin' wrong. Ya gonna let me take a look, or do I have ta tell yer pa? Cause I will, ya know."

Johnny's eyes met the old man's with daggers. But Jelly held his own and didn't back down. The younger man gave it a few moments consideration, then finally stated, "If I tell you, it stays between us."

The battle to get Johnny to open up having been hard fought, Jelly couldn't help but agree to such a compromise. "Just you an' me'll know."

Johnny sighed heavily, then pulled the shirttail from his pants, raising it high enough to reveal the blooded bandage he had managed to put in place that morning.

Jelly raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't ya say somethin', boy?" He didn't waste another minute, immediately hustling around the small room collecting the medical supplies each line shack had on hand for emergencies. "Yer just too dern stubborn fer yer own good. Now, take that shirt off so I kin get a good look at that."

"Shirt stays on," Johnny declared steadfastly.

Jelly knew better than to force the issue, knowing Johnny could still bolt if he was pressured. So he accepted the young man's terms. "How'd this happen?" he asked as he carefully unwrapped the bandage and got his first look at the nasty wound.

"Tripped in the barn this mornin' and gored myself on a broken hook."

"So it was you . . ."

Johnny looked back, confused.

"Joe broke that hook, and told me that before he had a chance ta fix it someone cut themselves. He saw the blood. This needs a good cleanin' out," Jelly tisked. "Take a seat."

Johnny spun a chair around and straddled it backwards facing the table, one arm draped over the back of the chair and the other holding his shirt up.

"Ya gonna tell me what's really eatin' at ya, boy?" Jelly asked as he began to gently clean the jagged and painful looking wound.

Johnny hesitated, still trying to find the words. "You ever saw somethin', Jelly, that you knew couldn't be, but you saw it anyway?"

"More'n once, I figure." Jelly finished cleaning the wound and wrapped a bandage tightly in place, encircling Johnny's waist several times – none too pleased that the task was made harder by Johnny's staunch refusal to lift his shirt more than a little. "I guess I been 'round enough years ta know that some things just got no answer. Ya got a problem like that, Johnny?"

Jelly let the young man ponder the question while he poured two steaming cups of coffee. He put one down in front of Johnny, who still seemed reluctant to answer. So Jelly continued on hesitantly. "I seen somethin' just awhile back that . . . that darn near took my breath away." He watched Johnny carefully, waiting for a reaction. "I tried to warn you 'bout it before. When that stallion came runnin' up ta ya the first day we seen him . . . just afore he went after Barranca . . . I saw . . . well . . . I saw somethin' in his eyes, and it looked like . . ."

"Pure evil," Johnny finished for him.

Jelly nodded slowly, as he felt a chill run slowly up his spine. "Ya seen it too?"

Johnny's already pale face whitened even more. "This mornin' . . . in the barn."

"Barranca?" Jelly asked breathlessly, remembering his own encounter with the palomino.

Johnny nodded – then it seemed like all the life drained out of him as he lowered his head onto his arm still slung over the top of the chair. "I saw it twice before . . . but I didn't want to believe it."

Jelly reached across the table and patted the hand that grasped the coffee cup. "Johnny, you ain't crazy. I seen it too," he admitted. "In Barranca."

The head came up, and Johnny's eyes were full of fear and pleading. "Jelly, it wasn't Barranca. Not when . . ."

"I know, boy. It nearly scared me into my grave when I saw it. Them eyes . . . black as death."

Johnny nodded slowly.

"Johnny, tell me true . . . all these accidents you been havin' . . . Barranca done 'em?"

"No!" Johnny stated emphatically. "It wasn't Barranca's fault. I don't know how . . . but it's not him when it happens. I know that doesn't make sense . . ."

"We gotta tell someone . . . get some kinda help . . ."

"No," Johnny said softly, shaking his head. "I've thought it over and over. No one else will understand. They'll just think he's gone bad and want to put him down. I promised him I wouldn't let that happen. You have to promise me you won't say anything," Johnny pleaded.

"But Johnny, what ya gonna do? How you gonna fight somethin' like this?"

"I don't know . . . not yet. But I'm not gonna let Barranca down."

"Ya need ta stay away from that horse 'till we can figure . . ."

"It ain't been his fault, Jelly," Johnny's temper flared, ". . . and he ain't endin' up like that stallion." Johnny grew contemplative. "Sometimes the only way to fight an enemy is straight on. I know it's not Barranca now. Just promise me you won't say anythin' 'til I can figure this out."

"Johnny . . ."

"I'll take Barranca and ride out of here today if you don't, Jelly. And that's not a threat . . . it's a fact."

Jelly nodded reluctantly. He knew the boy spoke the truth. Better to be silent and know Johnny was close by than let him run off to who knows where – alone.

"All right. I'll keep my tongue. But if somethin' else happens . . ."

"Fair enough." Johnny stood and stuffed his shirttail carefully back into his pants. It seemed to make his burden easier, having someone else in on his secret that not only knew, but also believed. "Let's get that stallion cared for and get on back. I'm more than ready to call it a day."

Jelly followed Johnny out the door, knowing he'd done a good job getting him to finally admit what was wrong – but wishing that he'd never made that promise.

LLLLLLLL

The pair made their way back to the hacienda, where Johnny insisted that he needed to check on Barranca before he would go inside to try to rest before dinner. Jelly in turn insisted that he accompany Johnny, who reluctantly agreed.

"Don't you ever be 'round this horse alone again before we figure this out. You hear me, Johnny?" Jelly demanded intensely as he stood nearby while the younger man scratched at Barranca's forehead.

"All right, Jelly," Johnny agreed quietly, knowing the old man was right. "We got help now, amigo," he intoned to the horse, who nickered quietly in response. "You, me, an' Jelly'll fix this. Just you wait an' see."

As the men turned to leave, Ezra Shanks was already considering this increase of players to his nasty little game. //'Oh, I'll be waiting, Johnny boy. For you . . . and Jelly, too.'