Chapter Eight

Scott got the better deal out of the next few days, the final days before the round up.

He was out on the range most of the time getting in as much practice as he could in cutting, roping and herding cattle and driving them from one place to another. He rode mostly with Toledano and Walt or Frank—Eduardo and Jaime were busy breaking the last of the horses and Cipriano… well, Cip was the most important hombre at the round up. He was everywhere, overseeing Lancer getting ready and the work on the first collection point by day, and sittin' looking at maps of the district with Murdoch every night after supper.

But Johnny? Johnny had been told he was responsible for the tack room. He had to make sure that every last bit of tack and harness had been gone over and repaired where needed. Someone, he reckoned, had blabbed about what he'd said about liking to work with leather. Apart from one trip into Green River to get his new guns, he'd been stuck in the barn for the past three days and only let out a couple of hours a day to school Barranca, and even then Murdoch watched over him like a broody hen.

"At least you're sitting down all day." Scott made a show at rubbing hard at his backside when Johnny complained about his big brother's big mouth.

"So're you." Johnny looked up from rebraiding the worn end of a rawhide reata.

"It's not the same. And while my rear end has gotten used to it, the rest of me can't believe what hard work it is chasing cows around the countryside." Scott leaned up against the saddle tree, watching Johnny work. "I have never worked so hard. I'm not sure that I expected it. My experience with cows back East was so very limited."

Man, but Johnny was getting to love hearing this man talk. It was better than reading a book. He grinned up at Scott. "They have cows in Boston?"

"They certainly have them in the farms around. But cows in Massachusetts are nice, well behaved creatures, Johnny. They chew the cud and stay in their fields until they're wanted at milking time. It's all very pastoral and peaceful, and I'm very sure that farmers don't have to gallop all over the Commonwealth to find them."

"Whitefaces?"

"If by that you mean Herefords, then yes, I think so. There may be Jerseys involved as well, for all I know." Scott waved a hand, real grand and hoity-toity. "I was not much interested in agriculture before I came west. I think our cows here are Hereford crosses although the Lord alone knows what they're crossed with. Something large and monstrous, whatever it is; possibly even biblical in its malevolence."

Damn, but that flood of fancy words was something. Dios alone knew what they all meant.

"Murdoch's running longhorn-whiteface crosses. There's not a lot of longhorn left in 'em, but what bit there is, is longhorn orneriness. Cip was tellin' me the other day that Murdoch got the first bulls from some hombre up near San Francisco ten or more years ago. They're easier to herd than longhorns and have more beef on 'em." Johnny thought about it. "Still as stupid."

Scott stared at him. "Have you suddenly developed a passion for breeding cattle?"

"Nope." Johnny finished the reata, coiled it, and stood to rehang it on the hooks on the wall, keeping it from snarling and tangling. "I went to see Señora Isabella while you and Murdoch were out chasing cows yesterday. I needed to thank her for those shirts. Cip came in to eat at midday and I stayed too. We talked, that's all."

"About Murdoch's cattle breeding plans?"

Johnny grunted. It was one helluva lot safer than talking about Murdoch. "She made enchiladas. And flan. Damn, it was good."

Scott stretched and groaned again. "Don't talk about food. It's almost midday and I could eat one of our own cows. Raw. With the hide and hooves as garnish."

"That's what doing an honest job does for you, Boston. Works up an appetite on a man."

"Very true. If it wasn't that I'm working it all off, I'd be twice the man I was when I arrived. It's almost noon. Come on up to the house and eat. And Johnny, something tells me I'll tire of this long before you will, but can I remind you, yet again, that Boston is just where I come from?"

"Sure you can, Boston. You remind me of anything you like." Johnny dodged the slap Scott aimed at his head and grinned. Damn right that Boston would tire of that before he did.

They left the barn together. The sun was warm on Johnny's back, glaring off the hacienda's white adobe in front of him. He tipped his hat over his eyes. Teresa appeared on the loggia and waved, calling them to the midday meal.

"What work was it you did back there in Boston?"

"As little as I could get away with." Scott laughed, and shook his head as Murdoch hailed them from the smithy. "I don't think that would happen here, somehow. Murdoch isn't anywhere near as indulgent as my grandfather."

"No." Johnny watched as their father walked towards them. Murdoch had been shoeing horses and hammering on the metal rimmed wheels from the chuck wagon all morning; he was dusty, grimy and despite the bad back that Day Pardee had left him with, looked as if he could work all day without a rest. And he'd likely expect his sons to be the same. "I don't reckon he is."

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The day before the round up some of the men took the caballada up to the first meeting place, driving the herd of over a hundred horses to be ready to start work when the rest of Lancer's hands got there. That was a sight to see, all those horses running, with Frank and half a dozen hands keeping them bunched and moving north, heads tossing and manes flying, and hooves drumming on the ground.

The horses had run free once, goin' where they wanted to go and when. They'd moved to where the graze was better, or there was fresh water, or maybe just because they wanted to see what was over the next rise. Now they ran where Frank and the hands made them run.

Johnny was in the corral with Barranca when the horse herd left, taking some time to school the palomino now his work on the tack was finished. He sat on the corral fence to watch the caballada go and even Murdoch stopped work at the smithy, straightening up and shading his eyes with his hand. Barranca ran backwards and forwards in the corral behind Johnny, whinnying, half rearing and coming down hard on his front hooves, excited by the herd and wanting to run with them. Horses never did like bein' by themselves. Not like men.

The chuck wagon and the hoodlum wagon followed the caballada, moving slowly over the grass, pulled by the biggest draught horses Johnny had ever seen: short-backed, real powerful hindquarters and big shoulders. Murdoch had been shoeing the last of the draught horses that morning, and damned if he wasn't nigh on as big as they were. Good lookin' animals, but hell, they made Barranca look small and Johnny felt downright puny.

Murdoch came up to the corral fence to watch him take Barranca through his paces. "Don't overdo things today, Johnny."

It was stupid. Johnny wasn't a kid and he'd been looking after himself for a long, long time now. He knew when to push himself and when to lie down in the shade and let his hat brim slide down over his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Indulge me on this, John. We've got a very early start tomorrow, the next couple of weeks are going to be hard on everyone and you aren't fully recovered yet." Murdoch leaned up against the corral fence, watching. "That's a good horse. He'll make a fine cow pony."

Yeah. Barranca was a good horse and he was takin' to the training, real well. Maybe he didn't remember runnin' free with the rest of the herd, to see what was over the next rise. All he knew now was being broken in, learning to do what Johnny wanted him to do, answering to spur and rein and voice; goin' when Johnny told him, stopping when Johnny told him, resting when Johnny let him. Bein' useful, not free. Dancing to Johnny's tune.

"You broke him really well." Murdoch straightened up and, with a nod, turned back to the smithy.

Johnny watched him go. Was that what Murdoch was doing, breaking him real well? Making Johnny Madrid into a fine cowhand, breakin' him in, making him useful, tellin' him when to work and when to rest, making him dance to Murdoch Lancer's tune?

Barranca shifted beneath him, dancing, impatient to be told what to do, waiting on spur and rein and voice but maybe wanting to run free with the other horses. Wonder if they'd ever get used to it, Barranca and him, bein' broke in real well.

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"Dear Lord." Scott stumbled around beside Johnny in the barn. "Back in Boston I'd just be going to bed about now. This is an evil time to be starting work."

It was still hours before dawn. The sky was only beginning to lighten up a mite in the east, making everything grey. Without that, Johnny would hardly have been able to see the mountains as he'd crossed the yard to the barn; they were a deeper darkness against the dark sky, like shadows.

It was the middle of the damned night. Everyone in the barn was stumbling about, most of the hands cursin' and looking like a Sunday mornin' after Saturday night in the saloon, all blurred and aching and wondering how much rotgut they'd downed. But they weren't cursing too loud and their voices were muffled, like they were scared they'd wake something. Themselves, likely.

It was damned cold, even here in the barn. He could see little clouds on the air every time he breathed out. Barranca snorted, and tossed his head. Didn't look like he was any better pleased at being woken up this early than Johnny was. Johnny got him on cross ties to the stall walls and got the warm saddle blanket into place.

"Easy, boy." Johnny ran a hand down the palomino's long face. He pulled his jacket closed, shivering, and turned to pick up his saddle. "At least being a gun hawk, the workin' hours were more…" He paused and waved a hand. Boston was smart. He'd get it.

"Congenial?"

Knew Boston would get it. Johnny nodded. "Yeah, if that means I didn't have to get up in the middle of the night to herd cows."

"It most certainly does, in this context." Scott threw his saddle up on the big raw-boned bay he'd been using as his personal mount. The bay snuffled and danced a bit when the weight landed on his back. "Murdoch was disgustingly chipper at breakfast."

"Was he?" Johnny lifted his saddle onto Barranca's back, managing not to grunt with the effort. His shoulder didn't pull too bad. He could still feel it, though, and dammit it was four weeks, more'n four weeks, since Day'd backshot him. He shouldn't be feeling it now. He should be back on form. Getting too soft and comfortable, that was the trouble.

"Come on, Johnny! He was almost bouncing around the kitchen, he was so excited. He must love round ups or something." Scott slid his yellow-boy Winchester into the rifle boot and reached for the bay's bridle. "There was smiling involved and Murdoch trying to be jocular. You can't have missed that. It was very disturbing."

Barranca was real mad about being woken up this early. Damn horse took a deep breath and puffed his gut out.

"I was only makin' out like I was awake. Like play actin' or pretendin'. I slept through breakfast, brother. I just learned to do that with my eyes open." Johnny pressed one knee against Barranca's belly and waited for the horse to breathe out, then darted in to tighten the cinch harder. Barranca snorted, tossed his head and gave him a look. Johnny grinned and slapped the warm, sleek neck and whispered in the horse's ear. "You're a good old feller. But you don't fool me."

Barranca snorted and twitched the ear at him, like Johnny was a pesky little fly bothering him.

"Good move," approved Scott. "I can spend the rest of the day only pretending to be a ranch-hand."

Johnny untied the crossties and slid the halter off, fitting the bridle into place. Barranca chomped on the bit for a minute or two, just to show Johnny he didn't give in too easy. Good horse, this. The best he'd had since the paint. "Between Murdoch and Sam fussin', I'm gonna be the one pretending. I don't know why in hell Murdoch rousted me outa bed this early if they ain't going to let me do anything."

Scott patted him on the shoulder like he was a horse about to shy. "It's only been a few weeks, Johnny. You'll feel that shoulder for a while yet."

Sure as hell will if folks keep patting at it like that.

Cipriano appeared behind them. "Ready, señors? Time to leave."

Scott just moaned, and led the bay to the barn doors. Johnny grinned and followed, Barranca grumbling behind him. Cipriano, damn him, just chuckled and stroked his moustache with one hand to hide his big grin. Nothing got to Cip. He'd seen it all. He was one helluva fine foreman, and a damned good man.

They gathered in the yard in the starlight. One or two of the men brought the lamps out of the barn, fastening them to poles to light their way to the meeting place. A horse danced, its rider cursing as he hopped along with one foot already in the stirrup. No one laughed. Everyone was too miserable and sleepy to laugh. The rest of the hands mounted up, more'n a few awake enough now to curse at the early start. Not even Toledano was singing, although he did grin at Johnny as he passed. Nothing could keep old Toledano down for long; he had a real cheerful nature.

It was damned cold. Johnny huddled into his jacket. Dios, but it'd be better to have a gringo's coat like Scott's or Murdoch's or the ones the gringo hands wore. Fine as charro style was, it was meant for Mexico, where the sun always shone and a man was always warm and comfortable. Why in hell hadn't someone warned him that it was so damned cold this far north?

Scott stared at the hands for a minute. Johnny turned to see what he was looking at. Nothing he could make out, just hands getting on their horses and swearing. Scott swung up into the bay's saddle.

"Did you get caught up in the war, Johnny?"

"Your war? No. We had our own war to keep us busy, what with El Presidente takin' against the French and all. Heard about it some now and again, when I came north of the border lookin' for work. It was easier getting ranchin' work then, with so many men away at the fighting."

"You were too young, anyway. I'm glad you missed it."

Huh. It wasn't as if he hadn't done some fightin' against the French before he and the Mexican Army had parted company. Johnny glanced sideways at Scott. "That was when you were in the cavalry, in that General's unit?"

"Yes." Scott's mouth twisted. "Briefly."

The hands were passing them now, following Cipriano. Scott watched them go. His eyes were on Beedie Simpson and his friend, Wilf Travis, in their grey overcoats. They'd seen a lot of wear, those old army coats. Neither man even glanced their way, but Johnny watched Scott watching them.

Scott couldn't have been very old in the gringos' war, riding with that general of his. Couldn't tell what he saw and what he did; though it probably wasn't good, not from the look on Boston's face. What was it he'd said, the day they'd gone to Zimmermann's? That he'd lost a whole lot the day he'd lost his gun; that was it. And then he said something else the first day they'd gone to the box canyon to practice, something about doing things you regret. Well, Scott couldn't have been all that old, either, to have losses and regrets like that. He was only about three years older than Johnny.

Johnny swung up into Barranca's saddle, letting the palomino shake the fidgets out. "Texans."

Scott gave him a sharp look.

"Simpson and Travis. They're not from around here. East Texas, 'less I miss my guess."

Scott reddened. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore." He put his heels to the bay and it sprang forward, moving to catch up to Murdoch at the front where he rode alongside Cipriano.

Uh-huh.

What was it Murdoch had said? Good or bad, right or wrong, the past didn't matter. It was over.

Sure it was.

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The first round up camp was up well past the northeastern corner of Lancer, over on the Conway ranch.

They got there just after dawn. They passed a few groups of cattle on the way. Many of the cows were still down sleeping and it was funny to watch them get up, all bony legs and as clumsy as a kid at his first church dance, and lumber off into the darkness. The long-legged calves skittered away from the horses back to their Mamas, staring at them with big eyes in the gloom. The light grew stronger. All around them now the grasslands were alive with birds starting up from under their horses' feet, pipits and thrushes and little ground sparrows calling to each other and making the ponies dance. For little birds, they sure were loud. A lark flew up from beneath Barranca's hooves, already singing.

They rode into the round up camp as the pink and gold of the eastern sky was brightening into blue, and Johnny finally managed to make himself stop shivering. The new sun, big and red as it came up, was at last beginning to warm him. He tilted back his hat and looked up into the sky, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sun. Dios, it was nice that the sky was so pretty at dawn, but that warm sun was the best thing about it.

Cipriano had chosen the camp well. It was a sort of half-hollow, very wide and shallow but deep enough to drop them down below the rest of the valley floor, so that all they could see looking west was a rise of that good grass that had given Murdoch such grey hair with the sky above. A creek, still rushing fast with the spring thaws, came into the bowl from the San Benito mountains to the west, dropping down in a flurry of little falls, and flowing out of the flatter eastern side where the land dropped away. Probably found its way down to the San Joaquin River someplace past the eastern boundary of Aggie Conway's spread. There was plenty of graze and plenty of water. It was a good spot. It was real pretty.

The day before, the men had built a dozen or so rope corrals for the horses and stone lined fire pits where the chuck wagons stood. Farther off were more fire pits for the branding teams, six or seven of them. The bigger rope corrals already held the ranches' caballadas. About twenty or so men, some from each of the ranches in the district, had spent the night guarding the horses and were waiting by the chuck wagons; some of the luckier ones were still wrapped in their bedrolls by the fires. Johnny reckoned he could hear them snoring. Wished he was, too.

Joe Penn spotted them and waved his hat around his head in greeting; he'd been in charge until Cipriano got there. The Alcántar and Stobart ranch-hands were coming into the meeting place at the same time as Lancer and Cipriano went off to meet them and tell them what needed to be done, Joe trailing along with him.

Johnny was near the back of the group of Lancer hands, riding with Jaime. It had been a long, cold ride. Damn, but it was good to get there and maybe get something to eat and some coffee. The cook fires were already alight and Johnny could smell breakfast. It smelled great. He nodded to Jaime and urged Barranca up to join Murdoch and Scott.

"We'll be here for a few days." Murdoch eased his back, stretching up in the saddle. That was a helluva big horse of his, probably crossed with a draught horse, it was so broad in the ass. Mind you, carrying Murdoch around must be like carrying the San Benito mountain. The horse needed a broad backside. "The round up crews will work their way through Aggie's ranch and the top of ours, bringing all the cattle here to be sorted and the calves branded. Then we'll move southwest to a place on the borders of Driscoll and Alcantar's spreads and clear that area, and finally we'll move over to the Adams place and do that side of the district. We'll be at least a couple of weeks at this, all told. More than two, probably. It's a job that takes a while."

"It sounds like it." Scott grinned. "Cipriano said I'd be on cow herding duty. He said something about it just being for the morning?"

"We'll start here on Aggie's ranch where her hands will be waiting for us, and start herding the stock here, to this meeting place. We'll be spending the afternoons sorting the stock we bring in and branding the calves." Murdoch's mouth twitched up into a smile. "This will be a new experience for you, Scott. I think you'll enjoy it."

Johnny had brought Barranca up on the other side of Murdoch. "What will I be doing?"

"Watching the horses and managing the day herd."

Johnny pushed his hat back to stare at Murdoch. Dios, but the man put broody hens to shame. "Uh-huh."

Murdoch stared back. Hell, once the Madrid Stare would've had men running for cover. Murdoch didn't look any too scared. Johnny had to be losing it, getting too soft and comfortable.

"C'mon, Murdoch. That's not a real job. I can do more than that."

"Sam said not to overdo, John, and you won't. Scott and I'll see to that. You'll stay here this morning and keep an eye on things for me." Murdoch gave a nod and turned away before Johnny could figure out something to say. Scott was grinning and sniggering. "Frank!"

Frank had been in charge of the Lancer men overnight. He waved and jog-trotted over to them.

"Any trouble?"

"Not a mite, Mister Lancer. The horses settled down fine in the main corral. We set up the smaller corral for our personal mounts over by the Hooped C's space. They're sharing the smaller one with Lancer. Mister Kerr said Miz Conway's okayed that with you and Cip."

"She did. That's fine." Murdoch took another look around and nodded. "It all looks to be coming along well. Thank you, Frank." He twisted in his saddle to speak to the hands bunched up behind him. "All right, men, Frank will show you which corral's for your personal mounts. You've got time to grab some breakfast before saddling up from the remuda. We move out in half an hour."

The men cheered—that had to be for breakfast—and there was a lot of mumbling that might have been Si, Patrón. Most of the hands looked more awake now as they unsaddled their mounts and turned them into one of the smaller corrals. Toledano was singing again. The words made even Johnny's ears burn. Scott unsaddled his bay, but Murdoch stayed on his big-assed gelding and hell, what was the point of unsaddling Barranca if all Johnny was going to do was sit on him watching the horses eat grass? He swung down from Barranca when Scott came back to them, looping the reins over the hoodlum wagon tongue and giving Scott a hand with the heavy saddle.

Johnny watched the men head for the Lancer chuck wagon, where Hernán had cooked up a huge pan of fried salt pork. He could smell it, rich and fatty. His gut rumbled. "I could eat."

Murdoch laughed. "Then go and get something. Neither of you ate much breakfast earlier—"

"It was the middle of the night, sir." Scott stretched, spreading his arms wide. "I tend not to have much appetite when I'm supposed to be sleeping."

"Get used to it," was all the advice Murdoch offered before riding off to join Cipriano.

'Course, Boston not being a cowhand, he didn't have a nesting kit. Should have remembered to ask Murdoch before they left the hacienda, but Hernán had a spare one in the back of the chuck wagon and gave it to him. It was a lot better than the battered tin Johnny had had for years.

"Take care of it, señor. I do not have any more."

Johnny slid his fork from the holder inside the lid and let Hernán fill his tin with eggs and fried sliced pork. He joined Scott sitting on the ground a few yards from the chuck wagon and lit into his breakfast. It tasted as good as it looked, the crispy brown fat melting on his tongue.

Scott took a hunk of bread to sop up the yellow bits of his fried eggs. "I could have done with something like this when I was in the Cavalry. We had tin plates and mugs, of course, but these folding plates are neat. What'd you say they were called?"

"Nesting tins. I'd have thought you fancy officers ate off china plates and drank from silver cups."

"The General probably did. The most I had was a tin plate that I didn't have to share." Scott chuckled. "Grandfather wasn't keen on me fighting, but once I'd joined up and he realised he couldn't do anything to stop me, he started looking out for things that would be useful for me. He kept sending the oddest examples of Yankee ingenuity! My favourite was a combination knife, fork and spoon that folded up like a penknife." He prodded the salt pork with his fork. "I could do with that here."

"Get him to send you another one."

Scott sighed and shrugged and got stuck into his food. Johnny watched him for a minute, but he was too hungry to spend time on wondering what was bothering Scott now. They ate quickly. Johnny dropped the empty tin to the ground, gulped down his coffee and lay back in the grass, tilting his hat down to shade his eyes.

Everything smelled sort of green and fresh. The sun was starting to get hot and little flying things and crawlers buzzed in the grasses, sounding sleepy and lazy.

Scott lay down beside him, tucking one arm behind his head to cushion it. "If ranching was more like this, I could get to like it."

"Mmmn."

Scott chuckled and said nothing more for a minute or two. His breathing evened out, grew soft, but a shout had them both sitting up. Everyone was bustling about now, saddling up mounts from the caballada and gathering where Cipriano and Joe Penn were waiting.

Scott sighed and scrambled up. "Damn."

"Yeah. Damn. I was kinda enjoyin' ranching myself there. Leave your tin. I'll clean it up and put it in with your bedroll in the hoodlum wagon." Johnny nodded at Scott's grin of thanks and watched him run off to saddle up. Jaime had picked out a big dun gelding for him. Nice lookin' horse, well put together. The ranch had some good horses, better than some of the stocky little cayuses he'd used when he was a kid working on ranches in Texas.

It only took a couple of minutes to swish the tins in the creek—why did the women make such a fuss about keeping house?—and he stowed them away. Scott's bedroll was brand new and easy to spot; most of the other bedrolls were raggedy and one or two were downright grubby, they'd been used for so long. He slid the tin under the leather strap. Barranca tossed his head at Johnny and whickered. "Not you and me, boy. Damned if I know why Murdoch rousted us out so early."

Murdoch rode up to him. "We're off to join Aggie's crew. Don't overdo. If you get bored, you could always give Hernán a hand. I'm sure he'd thank you."

"The hands wouldn't, if they had to eat what I fixed." Dios, but Murdoch was tall enough without sitting in the saddle of a damned big horse and looking down at a man. It was like bein' a little kid, staring up at his Pa. "Murdoch, did you warn Scott?"

"What about?"

"He's a greenhorn. They'll want their fun." Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. It was aching, from lookin' up all the time.

Murdoch pulled a face. "I didn't think of that. He'll be with me or Cip all morning."

Damn. He should have mentioned it when they were eating. "But not all the time. Better if you let them get it over with, Murdoch. I'll warn him later, tell him what to look out for."

"Fine. Stay out of trouble."

What sort of trouble could anyone get into with nothing but a few horses to look at? "You too."

He watched as Murdoch rode over to join Scott and Cipriano. Scott took off his hat and waved it at Johnny as they left; that damned stupid hat with the brim turned up at one side.

The feather on it was kinda neat, though.

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Johnny took Barranca back over the Lancer line, away from where the hands were starting the round up, riding uphill until he found a quiet little dip in the grasslands that looked like the old buffalo wallows he'd seen in the plains back east over the mountains. It was full of wild flowers, blue as the sky.

Hernán had given him a tin can. He stood it on a low rock and set about practising. It was the first day for a week that Scott hadn't been with him, and the first where he could just work through what he needed to do rather than watch what Scott was doing. He'd done this so many times that he went through it all without having to think about it. He unloaded his gun but for one bullet—there was no way anyone would ever catch Johnny Madrid with an empty gun—and spent the first half hour doing dry draws, again and again and again, aiming for speed and ease until it was smoother than a whore's silk chemise. And when he'd done that, he took the Walch and the other Army Colt and worked them until he could draw them as silky smooth as his main gun.

Shooting from the hip, even the slightest shift of his left foot tightened the aim. He shot the hell outa that tin can from every possible angle, making sure that he hit it every time, even if it was from his left side or he was twisted to make the shot more difficult, or shootin' on the move. Because sure as hell, anyone he went up against wouldn't be looking to make things easy for him. They'd take advantage of anything they could: for some men, for cobardes not worth a shit, straight shootin' wasn't how they tried to get the job done.

He finished up with one of his best tricks. He balanced a half-dollar on the back of his right hand, holding it out straight and level at shoulder level. Now some men, they figured to just tip their hand and let the coin fall, then go for their gun to draw, aim and shoot before the coin hit the ground. But see, that was for beginners.

Johnny gave the coin a little flip into the air, not much above shoulder height. He drew, fired and reholstered his gun, and snatched the coin out of the air before it fell as far as his waist. The can bounced off the rock. He hadn't missed. He never did.

He tossed the coin up again. It flashed in the sunlight as it turned and spun in the air, flipping over and over. He drew, shooting it on the fly. It was knocked away by the bullet, disappearing into the grass.

Johnny reloaded his gun and reholstered it, grinning.

Madrid was back on form.