Chapter Nine

Scott kicked gently at the sole of Johnny's foot. "I can see you've had a hard morning."

"Sam told me to rest when I needed to."

"How very virtuous of you. I'll make sure Murdoch notices, shall I?"

"If it'll stop him fussin' like a wet hen, you go right ahead."

Johnny lifted his hat off his face and grinned. After his gun practice, he'd taken a ride onto the Conway ranch and then wandered around the campsite. Despite what he'd said to Murdoch, he had given Hernán a hand, mainly by fixing the door of one of the Dutch ovens while the cook set a fish trap under a low waterfall. But he'd spent most of the morning getting to know the mean-eyed paint mustang in the caballada. Jaime had passed the word that Johnny was interested in it, and none of the men had chosen it as a mount that day. He'd had a good morning; the paint was feisty and smart. But when the horse was tired, then there'd been nothing else to do but catch up on lost sleep.

Boston, now, looked like he'd been working. Johnny looked him over. "Have fun out there in all that dust?"

Scott took off his hat, beating it against his pants legs to get the dust out of them. "Very funny. How could you sleep through us getting here with all those cows?"

Johnny got to his feet in his own time, and stretched. "Who says I was asleep?" He glanced over at the growing herd. Damn, but a hundred men could sure as hell herd a lot of cattle even in just a few hours. "¡Dios! Are there any cows left on Conway land?"

Scott just laughed. "Hundreds, Cip says. We just skimmed off the first batch. I have to say I'm impressed by how Cip's approaching this, sweeping through each section in turn. He even has it all planned out on maps, like a military campaign."

Johnny nodded to the chuck wagons. The men were already crowded around the one belonging to their own ranch. Hernán was busy ladling out what should have the midday meal, although, from the glance Johnny gave to the sun, he figured it was past the midday point. "Well you're the military man, so you would know. They say an army marches on its stomach, don't they? I could eat."

"You can always eat. I don't know where you put it." Scott followed Johnny over to the hoodlum wagon. "Where did you put my… what did you call it? My nesting tin? I can't find it."

Johnny turned over his bedroll and pulled his tin from under the pigging strings. "In your bedroll."

"No. It's not."

Johnny blew out a sigh. "Hell, that was quick." He scrabbled in the hoodlum wagon, looking under the other bedrolls and stuff in there, but Scott was right. No nesting tin. "Damn. I meant to warn you. They were faster than I thought they'd be."

"Warn me?"

"Yeah. Look, you're new at this. The old hands, they like to… " Johnny paused, pulled a face. "Well, they don't mean anything by it, but they tease a greenhorn a bit. Sort of break him in. I promised Murdoch I'd warn you, but I didn't get the chance. Sorry, Boston."

Scott had both hands on the wagon side. He rested his forehead on them, muffling his voice. "Oh joy. This is going to be like being a freshman at Harvard all over again, isn't it?"

Johnny shrugged. How the hell should he know? "That the fancy school you went to?"

"Yes, that's the fancy school I went to." Scott pushed away from the wagon. "What will they have done with it?"

"Hidden it somewhere. It'll turn up. Maybe not today. Or this week. But it will turn up."

"Wonderful." Scott looked up to the sky, raising his hands. "Why me, Lord?"

Hell, he'd never shown sign of gettin' religion before the round up. Strange what working beeves could do to a man.

Johnny sniggered and punched him gently on the arm. "They just want to know what sort of hombre they're riding with, big brother. See if you can take a joke, a bit of teasing; see whether you laugh it off or get mad. And sometimes a greenhorn gets all above himself, thinks he knows it all, and needs takin' down a peg or two. It's not usually mean, though. Just a bit of fun."

"It's not that much fun when you're as hungry as I am. Am I supposed to eat out of my hands or something?"

Johnny grinned. "C'mon. Hernán will have a tin plate you can borrow until yours turns up. He'll likely yell at you, though."

Hernán did. Not much and not too loud, because Scott was the Patrón's son, but Scott's ears were burning red by the time Hernán handed over a battered tin plate loaded with pork and beans. It was worse when Scott had to go back to borrow a fork. The sniggers from the hands were so loud it was a wonder they didn't spook the cows into a stampede. But Boston… well, Boston took it like a man. He grinned and nodded and said *Oh yes, very funny, all of you*, and if his eyes were narrowed and his mouth thinned down like Murdoch's when Murdoch was mad about somethin', then maybe only Johnny could see it. What the men saw was Boston passin' the first test, standing the gaff like a man.

Johnny joined him in the shade of a bush, a little way off, away from the hands. Hernán's food wasn't as good as the meal Frank had made, but it sure as hell beat anything Johnny could put together.

Scott, though, poked at the beans with his fork and looked disappointed. "You know, I am hungry, but I'm already tired of beans. Is there ever anything else?"

"Nope."

Scott blew out a long breath, making a sort of puh-ing noise that sounded kind of sad. "Right now I'd give anything to have my grandfather's chef out here. His le tourin d'ail doux, followed poulet basquaise with carrotes Vichy, and maybe tulipes avec sorbet framboise for dessert… good lord, Johnny, but eat that and you'd think you'd died and gone to Paradise. Anton is an artist with food. He's French. You'd love the dinners he cooks."

Uh-huh. Johnny had come across the French right at the start of Juarez's war against Maximilian, learning a few words of their language here and there from the odd prisoner who'd parly-vu-fransayed at him. He'd not come across much in the way of good cooking. Anyway, who the hell wanted anything French after what those bastards did? "I don't like the French much."

Scott looked up, looking puzzled. "Oh? Of course it's only three years since Maximilian was executed, but I understood from Murdoch… I mean, you were a gunfighter then, weren't you? I wouldn't have thought you were caught up in the war with the French."

Well now. Scott and Murdoch had been talking had they? Maybe Boston had been reading those Pinkerton reports too. Johnny chewed on a piece of pork, watching Scott get red in the face. Nope, Boston really couldn't hide shit.

Scott pulled a face. "He didn't say much, Johnny. Just that you'd been a gunfighter for about five years."

Scott waited out the silence. He looked real sorry. It wasn't no blame, that he wanted to know what he was getting into. No point in blaming Boston for trying to scope out the deal; it's what any man with sense would do. Not that Murdoch could tell him that much, if all he had were the reports from the damn Pinks. Still, a man didn't like being talked about. 'Least, not that way.

After a minute or two, once Scott knew he wasn't to do that again, Johnny let up on him. "I was in the Mexican Army for a while, mostly wrangling horses for their cavalry. Long time ago now. We had a couple of run-ins with the French. It had to be seven, eight years ago when they first came to Mexico."

Scott stared. "You can't have been more than fourteen or fifteen."

"About that, yeah. Maybe a bit younger."

"I was a school boy at that age. My biggest worry when I was fourteen was mastering Latin declensions, not being in the army. You should have been in school."

"I went to school once, for about a year." Johnny rubbed at the scar on his finger, the one Sister Aurelia had left there. "I didn't like the nuns."

"A year. That's all?" Scott sighed. "You've had an interesting life, little brother. Were you in battle?"

Johnny shrugged and nodded. The long scar across the left side of his chest, so faded now it could hardly be seen, came from a French bullet. He'd been lucky. It had only glanced off his ribs and ploughed a long furrow over them. It'd hurt like hell at the time and he'd panicked, thinking he was going to die. It had been the first time he'd been shot.

Scott sighed again. "Too many children get pulled into wars."

Johnny only grinned. Hell, it was better than jail and that was all the choice he'd had at the time, until he'd managed to get away. He was probably still posted as a deserter, come to think on it. Maybe he'd better not mention that to a man who'd been an officer.

Scott frowned down at his plate and started picking at his beans and pork. After a minute or two he must've stopped thinking about his granddaddy's fine French cook and more about how hungry being a ranch hand made him. He ate like he was starved, but still he was real polite about it. Didn't belch once. He waited until he'd put away most of the plateful. "So, what else should I look out for in this breaking-in process?"

Johnny chewed on a tough bit of fried pork as he thought about it. "A few things. If a man offers real kindly-like to get your food for you so you don't have to wait in line at the chuck wagon, don't let him unless you want chilli peppers added that'll burn your lips off." He forked up beans. "I don't think they'd be dumb enough to stir in ipecac or chitticum bark, but maybe one or two would laugh themselves stupid at watching you having to go behind a bush every ten minutes."

"I know ipecac's an emetic, but what's chitticum bark?"

"Cascara. We call it cascara sagrada in Spanish; sacred cascara." Johnny grinned at him. "You come across it, Boston, or are you always regular and don't need it?"

"I've heard of it." Scott's ears were red again. "Although I'm wondering why anyone out here would need it if all they ever eat is beans. They'd dose the food like that? That's not funny at all."

"I've seen it done, back when I was a kid working in the Panhandle. But the hombre who got it, well he kinda deserved it. He was lazy and nothin' was ever his fault, he was a braggart and always usin' his fists, 'specially if the other feller was littler than him. A four-flusher too; you sure as hell wouldn't trust him in poker or anythin' else. Well, the hands got real tired of his jawin' and someone slipped him a real good dose of chitticum from out of the medicine chest in the chuck wagon. He spent the whole of the next day shitting behind a bush, moanin' and groanin' that he was dyin', and all the time the hands were killin' themselves laughing and the round up boss was yelling at him for bein' the most useless, coffee-boilin' deadbeat in the entire state of Texas. Couldn't hardly sit his horse the next day, his ass was so sore. He was mad as hell, too."

"I do find myself feeling a little sympathy for his suffering. Of course, that could just be apprehension that they'll try it on me."

"I had to stay out of his way for days." Johnny grinned at the look on Scott's face. "Well, who the hell else was small enough to sneak into the chuck wagon and get to the medicine chest without bein' noticed? He knew it had to be me. The hands paid me five dollars to do it. A dollar was a lot of money for me back then; five dollars was a helluva lot."

"And he wanted to strangle you? I can't imagine why." Scott laughed, shaking his head. "I'm astonished you've lived this long. Can we put a lock on the medicine chest? I don't want anyone, especially you, getting at it."

"I wouldn't do that to you. Honest."

"Hmmph. I should hope not."

"Specially if you give me five dollars."

Scott laughed. "Family rate again, brother? Thank you. I'll bear it in mind. In the meantime, what other delight might they have planned for me?"

"We aren't in a dry country, so maybe they'll fool with your water bottle, thinking there'd be no harm in it. That's not real likely, but keep the bottle by you just in case. No one would cut another man's lariat, but it might make 'em laugh to get it tangled up and you with it. Watch it if someone offers to saddle a horse for you. Check the cinch. And then check it again." Johnny put down his empty tin, licking the fork clean. "What else? Oh yeah, watch out when you go and wash in the creek, because someone'll most likely take your clothes and you'll have to walk back, buck naked."

"Dear God. That brings an entirely new meaning to the phrase about the wild and woolly front—" Scott paused. "—ier."

Johnny laughed. That was kinda funny.

Scott smirked back. "Anything else?"

"Yep. When a man's done his stint of night herdin' and comes back to his bedroll, he likely dreams of sharing it with a plump little armful like that red-haired gal in the Green River saloon. But you'll be sharing yours with a toad or a snake, most likely."

"A snake," repeated Scott. He shook his head.

"A striped racer, maybe, or a gopher snake. Nothin' poisonous."

"Well, that's reassuring." Scott put down his empty plate. For all his moaning about fancy French cooking, he'd eaten everything Hernán had put on his dish. "How long will this go on, Johnny? I'm not sure I can hold out from yelling if it's more than a day or two."

"A few days, maybe. You'd better let them win one or two things and laugh and show you're willin' to take a joke. You can eucher 'em on the rest, now you're warned."

"Yes. I see that." Scott glowered. "You know, I was beginning to think that I'm going to like ranching. Now I'm not so sure. I suppose that they won't bother you with all this nonsense."

"Naw, they won't."

"Because you've done work as a ranch hand and you aren't a greenhorn?"

"Nope." Johnny touched the butt of his gun and grinned. "Because I scare the shit outa them."

"Indeed?" Scott snorted. "On a diet of beans and cascara, I doubt there'll be any shit left to scare."

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Scott washed the plates this time and took his borrowed one back to Hernán, with thanks. Can't think what happened to mine, he said, eyeing all the hands and grinning. He got a lot of grins back, but no nesting tin. Not yet.

They saddled up their personal mounts after they'd eaten. Barranca must have caught up on his sleep while Johnny had tried out the paint. He was less bad-tempered this time and only flicked his ears and tossed his head up and down a couple of times as Johnny talked to him.

And that reminded him. "You ever going to give that horse of yours a name?"

Scott looked up from tightening the bay's cinch. "I hadn't thought about it. I haven't owned a horse of my own for years and I've got out of the habit. I did name the first horse I had in the in the war. He was called Copenhagen, after the Duke of Wellington's horse."

"Who?"

"The Iron Duke. He was a famous British general, over in Europe. You'd like him, I think. He defeated the French at the Battle of Waterloo about fifty years or so ago."

Johnny had never heard of it, but anything that caused the French grief was fine by him. "Good for him."

"It was one of the world's great military engagements. I'll see if I can find an account of it for you. Anyhow, Copenhagen — my Copenhagen — was a damn good horse. He was shot from under me one day, though, and after that I never bothered naming the horses. They made too good a target for the Reb riflemen and it didn't pay to get too attached." Scott rubbed the bay's neck. "But, you know, this is a good horse and he deserves a name. I'll give it some thought. I'm sure I can come up with something that fits him."

Johnny nodded, and swung up into Barranca's saddle. "What now?"

"Murdoch said to join him when we'd eaten."

Murdoch was sitting in a surrey parked in the shade of a big California oak, eating with Aggie Conway. She'd brought a covered basket with her. Didn't look like Murdoch was eating beans and pork, not if those chicken legs were anything to go by. He nodded as they rode up. He didn't even look guilty.

They looked real friendly together. Looked like she could cook, too.

"Ma'am." Scott took off his hat and bowed in the saddle. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Mama had always said he was to be polite to everyone. Johnny touched his hat brim. "Miz Conway."

He leaned forward. Was that apple pie? Looked like it might be apple pie, and it had those little brown dried up grapes that tasted so sweet mixed into it. What were they called, now? And that sure seemed like it was cinnamon that he could smell.

"I'm delighted to see you both." The Widow Conway had a real nice smile, to go with that real nice-lookin' apple pie. "I thought I'd drive out here and see how things are going. It looks as if you've made a good start."

So she was here to see how things were goin', and bring Murdoch chicken and apple pie? Next thing you know, she'd be offerin' to sew buttons on shirts.

Barranca snorted and danced a bit just then, feisty after standing all morning doing nothing. Johnny took a minute to settle him back down again.

Scott was real polite and so far as Johnny could see, he didn't even look at the pie. "It's been quite a day so far, Ma'am."

"I'm sure it has, Scott, and I hope you're enjoying a new experience." She smiled at Johnny. "That's a very fine palomino, Johnny. Murdoch told me that you broke him and how you're training him." She turned the smile to Murdoch. "We have a rivalry, he and I, about horses."

"A friendly one." The old man sounded gruff.

And what was he supposed to say to that? Johnny gave her a small smile back.

Murdoch wiped his mouth on a big red-checked square of cloth, like the ones Teresa made them use back at the hacienda. If he was trying to hide the crumbs, it was too late for that. "There's still a lot to do before we're finished for the day. Why don't you two join Cipriano? I'll be along in a few minutes."

"Of course." Scott touched his hat and bowed again. "Ma'am."

She smiled and nodded, real gracious, like a grand lady. Johnny nodded back, turned Barranca and followed Scott to where the herd was gathered. He knew better than ask for some pie—when he was a kid, Mama would have whaled him for not waiting to be offered a piece, and damn it, but he remembered the manners she'd taught him. Mostly. But a piece of pie would have tasted real fine. He sighed.

"One of the privileges of ownership, I guess." Scott must have heard him. He twisted in the saddle to face Johnny and grinned. "Owners get to sit in the shade, and eat chicken and pie. We have to make do with beans."

"Reckon we should each get a third of that pie, then, if we're supposed to be partners with the old man these days."

Scott snorted. "Good luck with that. A man may give up two thirds of his ranch, but he'll defend to the death his rights to a pretty widow and apple pie."

Johnny stared at him. What? He shook his head. "Naw, brother, you got me all wrong, there." He waited a beat. "I just wanted the pie."

Scott let out such a great crack of laughter that his horse jittered and hopped about with surprise.

Johnny grinned. "You'd better look to your horse, Boston. You almost fell outa the saddle."

Scott spluttered out something that didn't sound too complimentary. He said he'd been in the cavalry and didn't need riding advice, thank you very much and "I respectfully suggest, Johnny, that you shouldn't try teaching your grandmother to suck eggs." But he was still laughing.

So far as he knew, Johnny didn't have a grandmother. He didn't know if Scott did, but all he had ever mentioned was the abuelo back in Boston. Murdoch had never said anything. "You reckon we got kin back in that place Murdoch comes from? In Scotland?"

"Wha—?" Scott stared for a moment, then grinned. "Oh, you mean grandparents we can offer eggs to? I have no idea." He looked real thoughtful. "Do you want to ask Murdoch?"

Hell no! Johnny shrugged. "I'll reckon he'll tell us if he wants us to know."

Scott's mouth twisted up the way Murdoch's did sometimes. "In that case, I wouldn't expect to find out any time soon. As I think we've mentioned before, he's close-mouthed, is our father."

They were at the herd by then, and riding around it to where Cipriano sat his horse. Cip must have eaten in the saddle. He was drinking coffee, real relaxed and slouching against the cantle, his reins dallied around the horn. His horse, a big grey, stood like a stone, only its ears flicking when they joined him.

"Hola, Cip." Johnny nodded a greeting. "Murdoch sent us. He'll be along when he's finished with those… what did you call them, Boston? Ownership privileges, wasn't it?"

"I might call it that. You called it pie."

"Señors." Cipriano drained the tin cup and tossed it to a waiting vaquero. He straightened up in the saddle and waved his sombrero over his head to get Joe Penn moving. "We are ready to begin. Joe has the first cutting teams ready." He glanced at Scott. "This is not something you can do yet, señors. That is not a matter for blame, but for experience. The Patrón wants you to watch today. Most of the cattle will be Senora Conway's, so we will cut out everything else first and herd them over to those branding fires there. The rest, the Conway cattle, we will brand last when all the others are done. It will take the rest of the day."

It was years since Johnny had seen this dance, the one done by the hands on their trained horses, the personal mounts they rode summer and winter. They flitted in and out of that great herd of cattle and calves, the sea of horns moving as the cows moved, cattle and calves closing in on each other and then breaking apart to keep away from the fast horses, dodging and twisting, every calf real close on its Mama's heels. The men on their sharp little ponies dodged and twisted faster and better, cutting out each cow that didn't carry the Hooped C brand, edging her to the edge of the herd and chivvying her and her calf away. Cows didn't like being away from the herd, no more than horses did. The cows wheeled and ran one way, and then the other, trying to get back to the main herd, their calves doggedly running at their heels like little shadows. The men and the tough cow ponies were there at every turn to keep them from getting through.

Scott looked at Johnny and his mouth twisted. "Dear God. I'll never be able to do that!"

"You will. You're a good rider. This takes practice, is all." Johnny leaned forward in the saddle, crossing his arms on the horn. "Practice, and a horse with some cow sense."

Murdoch had ridden up to them while the men cut the herd. He looked real relaxed and cheerful, as cheerful as a man should be who was chock full of a pretty widow's apple pie. "Johnny's right, Scott. It'll come. I love watching this. They're a damn good bunch. Cip, is that Eduardo chasing that cow?"

It looked like it was Eduardo, dodging around and getting a balky cow clear. Every time she dodged right, he was waiting for her, and when she dodged left, until she gave up and he got her to the smaller herd. That was some damned good riding, like Eduardo and the dun he was riding were one animal.

"It is, Patrón."

"He's a fine horseman. A very fine horseman." Murdoch nodded. He twisted in the saddle to look at Johnny and Scott. "He's been at this for a long time, of course, since he left school. Eduardo is a top hand, one of the best we have."

Cip stroked a hand over his moustache. Dios, but he looked like he'd burst. Johnny ducked his head to hide a smile. He wouldn't want the proud Papa thinking he was laughing at him.

Scott was real polite. "I'll have to work very hard to emulate that level of skill." He looked at Johnny. "Have you done this before, Johnny? Did you learn to cut a herd like this when you worked in Texas?"

Johnny straightened in his saddle. He glanced at the old man, seeing him stiffen. Johnny took his time answering, pushing back his hat and settling it on the back of his head where it was real comfortable.

"I done it some, yeah."

Scott gave him a sharp look and nodded. He got the message, anyhow, and seemed to make a point of turning away to watch the cutting.

Murdoch didn't let it go that easy. "You've worked on a ranch? When?"

Dios, did the man always have a tune to call?

The men were in with their ropes now, catching the calves by the two back legs, dallying the rope around the saddle horns, and dragging them over to the branding fires. At the nearest fire, a couple of hands threw themselves over the calf to hold it still while another touched its rump with the red-hot iron. The calf bawled, kicking and bucking, when a fourth man stooped in fast, a penknife in his hand. Johnny winced. The tallyman's shout of "Lancer steer!" cut through the bawling, and then the calf was up and free, running to its mother and the ranch hand with the knife threw the balls into a bucket. The men laughed, cheering the first new-branded calf, waving branding irons and hats in the air. They were already grimy with dirt and sweat.

Half-hidden under the shade of his hat, Murdoch's mouth thinned right down. "Johnny? Have you done ranch work?"

"Didn't that Pinkerton report of yours tell you?"

"No. It doesn't tell me that."

Johnny blew out a quiet breath. "Seems to me you got cheated, old man, if all it tells you is how many men people say I've killed."

He touched his spurs to Barranca's sides and rode off towards another of the branding fires, putting some distance between them. Behind him, another scared, bawling calf was dragged to the fire to get his balls cut off and a brand burned into his hide.

A man had to think about that. What it meant, to be tamed like that.

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By the end of the day, Johnny finally had some work to do. The branding was over and the day herd had been cut out to be handed over to him. He'd spent the afternoon staying out of Murdoch's way and wandering from fire-pit to fire-pit. He stayed out of the way of the branding teams too, mostly, although he took the chance to have a word with one or two of the hands.

It had been a long day. The sun was almost gone behind the mountains when Scott and Jaime hazed the cattle over to him.

Johnny tipped his hat to them in derision. "That's all I get? ¡Dios! So far the hardest thing about ranchin' is going to be stayin' awake."

"Most of them are unbranded, Johnny. There are three earmarked cows from one of the small ranches around here and two beeves from the Conejo district, and we'll likely find more. We'll send a rider around to the little ranches and the Conejo rep will be here tomorrow or the day after to take their cows back." Jaime bowed in the saddle, saluting Johnny with a flourish of his hat. "Until then, they're all yours, amigo.

"Oh, thanks." Johnny looked the beeves over. Fourteen head of cattle and their calves and two lone little dogies. "I do appreciate the kindness."

Scott sniggered, damn him.

Jaime didn't bother trying to hide that he thought this was the funniest thing since Toledano's last joke. "My father said to tell you that he'd send someone over to take the first night watch in a couple of hours. Hernán will keep back some food for you."

Scott looked like he was trying not to laugh out loud. "The job isn't too big for you, then, Johnny?"

"I've had some tough jobs to do in my life, Boston. I think I can handle this one." Johnny waved a hand at his little herd. "All these sorry critters are goin' to do is stand there and eat grass." He waved at himself. "And all this sorry critter is goin' to do, is sit here and watch 'em and think about how warm an' pretty Mexico is this time of year."

Jaime laughed. "Ah, amigo. It's not Mexico I miss, but the señoritas."

"That's what I meant. I'm gonna sit here and look at them beeves an' think about how warm an' pretty the Mexican señoritas are, this time of year."

Scott choked, he was laughing so hard. This time, he didn't look like he was about to fall out of his saddle, but if Johnny moved real fast, maybe he could spook the bay and change that. He could do with a laugh, himself.

Instead, he let Scott slap him on the shoulder—the right one, this time, so at least it didn't hurt – and got their help to herd the cows over to the spot Cip had pointed out to him for the day herd. Cip had chosen a place on the far side of the camp, well away from the main herd and the campfires themselves but with good graze and water.

They rode off together to eat, leaving him with the cows. Jaime had worked on one of the branding fires all afternoon, bulldogging the calves down to let the brander at them, and for all his foolin' around, he was almost asleep in the saddle. Like most of the men, he'd be hitting his bedroll as soon as he'd eaten supper. Boston had ended up as tallyman at one of the branding fires. That wasn't too hard, maybe, not as hard as bulldogging calves that was for sure; but he'd spent the morning since before dawn chasing and herding cows. He was new to this kind of work and it'd take him a day or two to get used to it. For all his laughing, he looked tired and hungry.

Johnny wasn't that tired, but he was hungry. He glared at his little herd of straggly cattle. Bedding them down for the night might take a whole five minutes. Man, but Murdoch had better let up on the coddling soon or Johnny'd be bucking harder than a broom-tailed bronc.

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Scott was still awake when Johnny handed over his herd to a couple of hands for the night and got back to the campsite for some supper. It was full dark by the time he'd turned Barranca into the rope corral, rubbed him down some and let him loose to graze. He'd expected Boston to be asleep. He put his saddle down beside Scott's.

Scott was yawning so hard his jaw was cracking. "I had to use your nesting tin, Johnny. Sorry. Mine hasn't turned up yet. I cleaned it up though."

Johnny took it from him, frowning. "That's okay, Boston. I thought you'd be asleep by now."

"Well, I might have been, but for the fish in my bedroll."

Hernán had left a plate of fried potatoes inside a Dutch oven for him, and pork chops on the bone, brown and glistening. He snagged two, stared at them for a minute, then snagged another two. Pork three times a day was about his limit, but hell, he was hungry. There was a big slice of apple pie, too, warm and smelling of cinnamon.

Johnny glanced at Scott. Boston was leaning up against his saddle with his horse's saddle pad and a ratty lookin' blanket around his knees. He didn't look too happy.

Johnny forked up some potatoes. The crispy bits melted on his tongue. "Fish?"

"Floppy, silver, cold-blooded things with no legs." Scott's hand made floppy-fish movements. "They live in water. They're wet, usually. Mine were."

Johnny sat down beside the fire and tucked into his supper. "Were they still alive?"

Scott took a deep breath. His voice was real controlled. Man, but he was a cool one. "They were very dead." He paused. "My bedroll smells like a fishing boat."

"I guess it would, at that."

"I'd braced myself for toads or snakes. I was prepared for those. You didn't warn me about fish." Scott looked sad and sorry. "I'd rather have had a snake."

"Puttin' in fish is a new one on me. How did they do it? I warned you about critters so's you'd keep an eye on your bedroll."

"I had to go to the latrine."

Hope in hell that wasn't because of the chitticum.

Johnny grunted and turned his attention to the pork. The chops were chewy, but the browned fat tasted real good. "Take your bedroll with you, next time."

"I left Jaime to keep an eye on it." Scott glared at a blanket-wrapped shape a couple of yards away, closer to the fire. "He was asleep when I got back and my bedroll was full of fish."

Somewhere in the darkness, more than one of the men were sniggering. If Jaime was awake he wasn't letting on, but those blankets he was wrapped in were shaking a bit. Johnny wouldn't snigger himself, though. Wasn't dignified.

"Fish." Johnny shook his head.

Scott raised his voice a mite. "If I weren't such a nice guy, I'd be trying to find the man whose hands smell fishy."

The sniggers were louder. Jaime rolled over and sat up, grinning. "We got you good this time, Scott."

"I knew you weren't asleep." Scott sighed, but he managed a grin. "I'll get you back for this."

"Si, si." Jaime waved a hand and lay back down, still grinning.

"I've got the blankets out over some bushes to air. Hopefully that'll get the smell out by morning, although I'd better get up early to grab them before someone decides they'd look good tied around some cow's neck." Scott's grin looked like almost like he meant it.

"I hadn't thought of that one, Señor Scott." Toledano sounded real regretful. Johnny couldn't see Toledano in the dark, but he'd stake any amount of money that the vaquero was laughing himself silly.

"I thought it was probably you." Scott rolled his eyes. Toledano just laughed.

It grew quiet around the fire again. All the men had to be bone-weary. It had been a damned long day and not even laughing at the Patrón's sons would keep them awake long.

Scott sighed and spoke soft. "Do you think I passed their test?"

"Yeah. I think you did. You stood the gaff and they'll respect that. They'll likely leave you alone now. Ease off, anyway." Johnny scooped up the last of his beans. "It's gonna be a cold night, Boston."

Scott pulled on the ratty blanket. "It already is. I've got this blanket I scrounged from Hernán—who's beginning to look a bit harassed every time I see him—and I've got my coat. I'll manage. I'm warm enough, with the fire. And Johnny—"

"I know, Boston. Your name's not Boston."

Scott chuffed out a laugh. He yawned again, slid down against the saddle a mite and pulled the ratty blanket up around his shoulders. "Missus Conway came back with pies enough for everyone, by the way. She must have been baking them for days. There's some for you in the Dutch oven."

"I saw it."

The pie was every bit as good as it looked, as good as the one Murdoch was eating earlier. Come to think on it, he hadn't seen Murdoch for hours and the Conway ranch was less'n an hour's ride away. He turned to mention this to Scott, but he was asleep. If he snored, Johnny was likely to shoot him.

He yawned. Doin' nothing was awful tiring.

His own bedroll was untouched. He always tied the pigging strings holding the roll together with a fiador knot, the one that Papa had helped him learn years ago now. It was a real mean bitch to tie and not many people could do it. Meant that he always knew if anyone had been messing with his gear and most people wouldn't bother, knowing they couldn't fool him by retying it. There wouldn't be any fish in his bedroll, if he could help it.

He unrolled the blankets near where Scott was sleeping, and settled in to be comfortable. Scott snored, just a little bit. His head had fallen to one side and his mouth was open. Johnny smiled.

Fish.

He let the smile broaden. It had worked like a dream, mentioning Hernán's fish trap to the right man to do something with it. Looked like he owed Toledano five dollars.

Damn, but this brother of his was turning out to be a man worth riding the river with. And maybe this ranching thing might just work out, too. There were worse ways of earning a living, that was certain.

He lay on his back, head against his saddle, looking up at the sky. The stars were very bright, so close that they looked like he could reach right out and touch them. One of the men on the other side of the fire moved. Johnny looked up sharply, hand reaching for his gun; but the man, Beedie, was only putting more wood on the fire. He relaxed, watching the sparks fly upwards, all glittery gold and red. He could hear the creek rush in the distance, sounding like two or three old biddies murmuring and gossiping to themselves a ways off. He couldn't see the main herd from the camp-site, but he could just hear the nighthawks singing, keeping the cattle quiet and making sure they didn't spook.

It was a nice night. .

.

.

.

They ended the round up down past Lancer's southern border, on Henry Reagh's land.

It had taken more than two weeks; getting up before the sun and eating in the dark, spending long, long days in the saddle gathering up the cattle, and hours bulldogging down calves for the branders and tallymen. Hell, but it was harder than Johnny had remembered. Maybe it wouldn't have been so hard if he'd been let to do any real work, but the most days all he'd done was haze the day herd from one place to another and train his horses. He'd fixed on keeping Pecos, the paint, as his second stringer and hell, but training the gelding and Barranca had been all that kept Johnny from exploding, some days. At least Murdoch was finally starting to let up and let Johnny do some of the gathering work, the last couple of days. He still hadn't been let to do any branding though.

But Boston, now! Well, Boston had made a hand.

He was leaner and browner than Johnny had ever seen him, his hair lightened to a real dusty blond, and he roped cows with the best of them. By the end of the round up, he said he was ready to try bulldogging at one of the branding fires and wouldn't be gainsaid. Murdoch had sat that big-assed bay of his, stiff-backed and watching, and keeping his face hidden by his hat. The old man didn't say anything, but his hands on the reins were clenched so tight that his fingers were white. Johnny had watched with one hand on his gun, ready to put a bullet through the fool calf's brain if it got the better of the fracas, but Boston and Jaime worked together real well. Between them, they brought down over twenty beeves before Scott had taken a break. He came to stand beside Barranca, dripping with sweat and so covered in dirt and mud that Johnny could hardly see the man underneath, stinking of cow shit and calf piss and burnt hide. He was grinning. Reckon that granddaddy of his wouldn't know him if he saw him.

Johnny leaned down from the saddle to tousle Scott's dirty, sweaty hair. "Not much of a dandy now, eh?"

Scott threw back his head and laughed, a great big laugh, like he was real happy. He swatted Johnny off with his hat until Barranca skittered away, snorting, and Johnny had to gather up his reins. Then the shout went up— "Last calf and it's a Santee steer!"— and Johnny jumped down from Barranca to grab at Scott, and like every other man on the round up, they were hollering and laughing and cheering while the cattle bawled and the horses danced and snorted and tossed their heads.

Scott tossed that stupid hat with the feather up in the air and threw an arm around Johnny's shoulders, grinning. Johnny let him.

He edged Barranca over a foot or two and well, whaddya know, Barranca's big feet ended up all over that hat where it fell to the ground. Scott just laughed and his arm around Johnny's shoulders tightened.

Yeah, this brother of his would do to ride the river with.