Chapter 13

The white arch of Lancer was only a few feet away, a dark shadow in the early-morning light. He looked up, the sky bright with dozens of shooting stars. It was glorious. Glancing over his shoulder at the hacienda, Scott saw Murdoch's face, a pale oval at the window.

He looked terrified.

#-#-#-#-#

About halfway to Minerva's, Johnny realized he was mad. He was angry, and that's not what he wanted, not what was needed. Because the sounds Scott made when Murdoch gripped his hand away from the bad arm were indescribable, had raised all the hair on the back of his neck in a way that usually involved gun shots and back alleyways at midnight. Afterwards, Scott had gone silent again and Johnny had to leave.

He wanted someone to blame. Barring that, something to drink.

A movement ahead pulled his eye. The man from the saloon, the one the padre called Rodriguez, was standing outside Minerva's, his hand full of the boy's tattered shirt. The same boy who had led him and Murdoch to the pool. The fist tightened and twisted the fabric, Johnny saw a button pop off. He started to run when the man's other fist came up quick and hard.

"Get away from him!"

Startled, Rodriguez dropped his hold on the boy and Johnny stepped between them. "Stop," he said, voice edged with steel. "You don't touch him."

As Rodriguez teetered in the sunlight, the few people in the plaza scattered to various hidey holes in store fronts and behind selling tables.

They stared at each other, and he was reminded of that bible story, David and Goliath, deadly for all the battle appeared uneven. He was averaged sized, but next to the towering mangy dog thinness of Rodriquez and his gun, he probably appeared small. He'd used the distraction before, with good results.

Rodriguez edged around, trying to get at the boy behind him, but Johnny shifted with each step. He paid attention to the man's gun hand. Power was there, of course.

"This kid doesn't deserve to be beat," Johnny continued. "I can bet he hasn't ever done nothin' to you."

The laughter was surprising, it was so low it seemed to come from the ground, from far away, like the vibrations he felt under his feet from the running cattle in Los Angeles. Rodriguez was amused, and that was never a good thing.

Johnny pushed the kid behind him. Certain of what he was about to do, he took a step forward, and Rodriguez backed up. The boy put one hand on the back of Johnny's belt and tugged in warning. He reached around and touched the small fingers, trying to tell him that it would be okay, then took another step.

Finally, Rodriguez took the one step backwards that counted.

Bad men always knew when it happened, when the trap was sprung. Johnny wondered what it felt like, falling into the cacti bed. Rodriguez yelled and writhed like he'd been struck by lightning, lashing out. Johnny jumped back and hauled the boy with him, when his leg swung too close.

He hesitated as the man rolled in the needles, the white patch over his ear bobbing up and down like a gull in the ocean.

"Hey," he said. Rodriguez twisted, raised his head, eyes malevolent. His arm went to the gun at his side.

He felt calm, more so than he had in the past few weeks. "Don't even think about it."

The arm wavered. Johnny hadn't been the target of Rodriguez's fury. And now, he was. "Drop it."

Slowly, Rodriguez placed his gun on the ground near Johnny's feet. He ignored it. "I owe you for the bushwhacking, and I'm paying up."

Rodriguez tilted his head the way a dog did when it didn't understand the command.

"That gringo? He's my brother."

His eyes widened. Widened further when Johnny picked up the discarded pistol and spun the barrel, spewing bullets into the cacti. He slipped the pistol under his belt.

"The boy and I are leavin' now and there won't be any trouble. ¿Entiende usted?"

They left Rodriguez sitting in the patch of thorns and prickles, and Johnny could feel his eyes follow them down the street and into the little cafe.

Nodding to the woman behind the counter, he and the boy sat down.

He timed it, four minutes, twenty-two seconds. Under five minutes and the plate was practically licked clean. Johnny sure as hell hoped the kid wouldn't make himself sick, eating that fast. He was the sort of kid who wouldn't want to call attention to it, Johnny was almost sure of it. Maybe it would be enough to ease him through the night. A full stomach was all it took sometimes. One night, anyway.

The boy pushed a piece of biscuit into his mouth, barely stopping to wash it down with the glass of milk, furtively pocketing the rest of it—for later.

Johnny knew this was how it started.

He didn't even push away the plate, just stared at it when he was done, like he was wishing it full again. Don't be sick, Johnny muttered under his breath, told himself it was because he didn't want the boy to make a mess on the café floor, but it was so much more than that, he couldn't think about it at all.

"You done?" he asked. Because what else was he going to eat, the silverware?

"Sí," the kid said. "Gracias." But his glance was sliding around again, and Johnny noticed how one hand gripped the edge of the counter.

He swallowed. "Señor, I can't…you know…"

Johnny shook his head. "I didn't ask for any, did I?"

He nodded, and the hand that had been holding on to the counter's edge relaxed a little, finally fell on his lap.

"Hey," he said sharply, and the kid looked up, begging him without knowing he was doing it, just had it in his eyes. "I need to get back to the church, my brother's pretty sick."

The kid nodded like he knew.

"Come with me, it's not safe here. And the Padre has soft beds." He wouldn't refuse, not when he'd taken the meal. He wanted to, raised his chin a little, met Johnny's stare. Then nodded again.

Johnny let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

#-#

"Rodriguez has the run of the town around here, and there's innocent people gonna get hurt. Or, they have already." He could have been speaking about Scott or the boy, or even the padre maybe, bystanders in their own destruction. "He was aimin' to hit that boy. And it wasn't any accident."

Johnny couldn't read Father Abascal's expression. It was hooded, tucked away in reserve like a store of food in a pantry, waiting for a storm.

He continued, "That man won't stop. You been here a long time, you know what's happenin', and you're the only one left who cares. You're the only one who can help him out."

Father Abascal's attention was on the scuffed planks of the hallway, faded from dark wood to a mud color and aged with streaks, his face held so still Johnny didn't know if he was going to yell, cry, or throw him out of the church.

Finally, he nodded once. "Mrs. Delaney has been feeding him, but we could not offer him shelter."

"Why not?"

"The child's name is Lorenzo," and his eyes flicked to Johnny and away. "He is Ramon Rodriguez's son."

Johnny sagged back.

Father Abascal shrugged, a bag of potatoes shifting themselves in black linen. "He would bring his evil to the church and convent if we sheltered the child. I would not take the chance—we have many people here, and students."

"So now you're gonna turn him out into the street? I don't remember you doing that a while back to a boy who needed your help."

He smiled softly. His gaze was long, staring down the years. "Sometimes an old man forgets. And you were well on your way to becoming a young man at the time. We were never in any danger, not from you."

"That makes it all the more important he stay, right?"

"Don't be foolish, Juanito." He nodded, but his eyes were flinty. "Of course he stays. And we will pray."

The padre looked at Johnny then, considered him with some interest.

"You left your gun fighting behind, so you could have this life with your father and brother," Father Abascal started, then caught himself, unsure. Johnny watched him as he tried to smile a little. "Are you happy?"

Johnny couldn't utter a word, had been sliced through cleanly, as though the padre was armed with a cleaver. Happy? What did that have to do with anything? He was alive, and Scott was—for the moment—alive and that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

He had talked to Scott of what it was like, to find a warm place where he was more than okay, where he felt just like regular folks. Where he wasn't putting everything he owned in a gunny sack every few days, weeks or months, tripping down an endless road of gunfights or shady deals or revolutions. He had just wanted to stop. After the first year at Lancer, walking down the street without looking over his shoulder quit being uncomfortable for him, had become a brother asking 'What about a beer after we get the fencing done?' instead of something else: the smell of spent shells, or a friend dead.

Only two years later and that was in danger of being wiped away.

"What about Scott, Padre. How is he?"

"I'm afraid there is no change, my son."

#-#-#-#-#

His father had walked up from the hacienda, and now stood with his hands held slightly apart.

"I sent Isidrio with more provisions for the strangers." Murdoch cocked an eye at him. "Ah, other than the steer, of course."

Scott's eyes flicked downward. He gave a little shrug like it was nothing. But it mattered to him, in the end. "It was wrong," he said, carefully articulating every word, staring straight at Murdoch, no ambiguity to the statement at all. "You were wrong."

To his surprise, Murdoch was already nodding. "I was. You're right. The whole thing was…" and he looked at Scott, "…wrong."

"The problem is that you hold on too tight. You never take the easy way." He shook his head. "You have to let things go sometimes." He was amused. Had to fight down a chuckle. Because he could have easily been talking about himself. He'd inherited much more than just his mother's eyes.

Scott didn't look at him, his eyes were on the dirt in front of his Murdoch's toes. It was easier that way. "I wasn't planning on coming back."

"Yet here you are." They landed hard, those words, as though his father had just laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I made a decision at Lancer. I can't go back." There was no time for this. But there was no other time for it, so he was stuck.

"You chose this." Murdoch called out and it stopped Scott dead in his tracks. "Remember? You chose to leave."

For one moment Scott stood very still. Was it was the right decision for Murdoch, for Johnny and Teresa after all? Doubts niggled at him. And what about him? Was it the right decision for him?

Then he looked at Murdoch, and his father's voice was low, but Scott didn't have to strain to hear it, his words like a salve. "Come home, son."

Murdoch's right hand turned outwards, an invitation.

The scales tipped, but it wasn't from the words. It was the look in his father's eyes.

Murdoch needed him.

The sunlight swam, and Scott couldn't look at him anymore. The door was open and all he had to do was step through. He twisted around at the noise in the wind.

The crows lifted en masse, wings blocking out the brightening sky, and Scott felt a pull—away from Lancer, away from Murdoch.

tbc