From Highlands to Homecoming by Margaret P.

(With thanks to my betas, Terri Derr and Anna Orr.)

Chapter 51: Highriders (Words: 5,527)

Today was the day.

Supported by a cane, Murdoch stood in the great room gazing blindly out the picture window, his thoughts far away in Carterville, in Boston. Scott had never been to Lancer. What would an Easterner raised in the affluence of the Athens of America make of a Californian ranch? Well, he would soon find out. Teresa and some of the hands had gone to meet the stage in Morro Coyo. They should be back soon, and then he would learn what kind of man this grown-up son of his had become.

"Muchachos! Muchachos!" the vaquero keeping watch called out from the rooftop.

Muchachos?

Startled out of his reverie, Murdoch strained his eyes to see the still distant buckboard as the road took it past the window before turning into the grounds of the hacienda. There were two young men with Teresa. Both his sons—together? Murdoch had not known when to expect Johnny. What were the chances? He must have come in on the same stage as Scott.

Butterflies filled his stomach. Murdoch had not felt this nervous since he was seven years old; when he braved the wrath of Mr Carmichael, the local minister, and owned up to accidentally breaking the stain glass window in the vestry. Not the same kind of situation at all, but his butterflies had been having a full-on fracas then too. He was not prepared to meet both his sons at once. He had thought out what he could say to Scott, but he had no idea what to expect or say to Johnny. Relieved though he was that the boy had actually come—he had entertained a few doubts on that score—he had hoped to establish some kind of relationship with Scott first and then meet his brother together.

Murdoch limped back to his chair feeling shaky; he hoped it did not show. Picking up the photographs of Catherine and Maria lying on the desk, he prayed they would give him the strength for what lay ahead. He had been looking at them earlier that morning, wondering if he would see their likeness in his sons. Would these young men still resemble the children he remembered?

There was a knock at the door.

"It's open." With the help of his walking stick, Murdoch rose to his feet as a tall young man fair-headed and in eastern dress opened wide the double doors from the entrance hall. Another young man in calzoneras, red shirt and cowboy hat followed him.

For several seconds the three men stared at each other, two against one. Scott still reminded Murdoch of his Grandfather MacKinnon. He was pleased about that. Johnny, it was hard to tell. Apart from the blue eyes, he had Maria's colouring, but there were other influences as well. They were both fine looking young men; very definitely men, however, and not the little boys he remembered. The knot in his throat got bigger with the thought and his butterflies were still battling inside him. Murdoch knew he needed to make the first move while he still could. "Drink?"

"No, thank you." Scott stepped towards him and stood his ground. His Boston son was wary. It was to be expected.

"You drink, don't you?" Murdoch pointed his cane at Johnny.

"When I know the man I'm drinking with, yeah."

Murdoch controlled the small smile that threatened to escape him. "You've got your mother's temper—" Then to Scott he said, "You've got your mother's eyes…I want a drink."

Willing his hands not to tremble, Murdoch went to the decanters on the side table. He was about to pour himself a whisky when his pistolero son spoke again with venom. "If you've got something to say old man, say it."

As if bitten by a snake Murdoch rounded on his son. So that was how it was going to be. He had offered the shootist money for an hour of his time and the clock was ticking. No doubt Johnny Madrid would want payment up front. Murdoch marched over to his desk. Opening a leather folder, he removed two envelopes and slapped them down on the desk. "A thousand dollars apiece."

Johnny was quick to pick up the envelope. Murdoch circled the desk and sat back down in his chair, appraising his son's reaction, disappointed he had been so right. Where was the child he remembered? All he could see was hardness and cynicism. "Maybe you better count it."

"I plan to."

Murdoch looked over at Scott. "Come and get your money."

"I'll settle for this drink." Scott moved towards the decanters, all suave sophistication as though the money was of little consequence, a diversion—like his father.

"You'll do as you're told," Murdoch snapped. Their suspicion of him was only natural, but the hostile demeanour of one son and patronising, superior tone of the other rasped his already over-wrought nerves.

"Will I?" Scott's voice suddenly sounded as cold and angry as his brother's.

Murdoch was handling this all wrong. He knew it and yet he could not stop himself from making it worse. The animosity and censure he saw reflected in glacial shades of blue had unleashed an intense, confused feeling of guilt for crimes he still did not know how he could have avoided. He was shocked by how much he resented these young men who in arrogance or ignorance had clearly come to judge him. The mental tempest was making him unapologetic and curt. He snarled at his sons. "The air needs clearing. Let's clear it." Rising to his feet and limping around the desk, he confronted Scott. "Your mother's family thought she was daft to marry me not a year off the boat from Inverness. And maybe they were right. You were born. She died. I left you in their hands. Period." He turned and faced Johnny. "A couple of years later I met your mother down at Matamoros. She…We got married. Two years after that I awoke one morning found her gone—you along with her."

"That ain't the way I heard it."

"I don't care what you heard. It's past. Bad or good, right or wrong, it's past and gone." Walking to the window, Murdoch looked out towards the hills over fields dotted with grazing cattle. "We're talking about now. What's happening out there...to this ranch. Last fall somebody made off with one of our horses. My segundo and I trailed him to a place called Morro Coyo. We walked right into it. O'Brien was killed and I ended up with this leg that's gone sour on me. Since then my fences have been cut, beef stolen, workers frightened off, burned out. Three months ago I had one hundred and fifty vaqueros. Now I've got eighteen."

"Well, then it's the ranch you're worried about, huh?" Johnny looked amused.

Murdoch was in no mood to be mocked. "I love this ground more than anything God ever created. I've got a grey hair for every good blade of grass you see out there. They're trying to drive me off this place."

"You mean to tell me that men can just come along and drive you off your land?" Scott apparently found that rather hard to believe. "What about the law?"

"There isn't any. They killed two good men: Joe Carvajal from Modesto, Peterson from San José." Murdoch left the window and went again to pour himself a drink. He felt in need of one even if his sons did not. "The others quit. Found business elsewhere. The only law we've got here is pack law. The big dog gets the meat. By summer they'll own half of this state."

"Does big dog have a name?" Johnny stood legs spread and his hands thrust into the front of his belt. This was a dilemma he evidently understood. He was listening, interested.

"Pardee."

"Day—Day Pardee."

"You know him?"

"Oh yes, I know him. He's a gunfighter and he's pretty good." Johnny spoke softly. Then taking a few steps towards Murdoch, he smiled as if he found Murdoch's situation entertaining. "Yeah, I'd say you have some kind of trouble."

From his perch on Murdoch's desk, Scott re-joined the conversation. "Just how many men does he have, this Pardee?"

"Twenty or twenty-five."

"That doesn't exactly put him in the class of Attila the Hun." Getting up, his elder son went over to the map of Lancer hanging on the wall. "It seems to me you have a very simple military problem here. One: find the enemy. Two: engage him. Three: destroy him."

Johnny chuckled. Murdoch understood why, but he was not laughing.

"Something funny?" Scott was not impressed; Murdoch could see he did not appreciate being laughed at by a dusty, upstart half-brother.

"He's saying it's not that kind of fight." Murdoch put down his glass, pleased at least that they were now seriously discussing the problem at hand. "But you could be wrong. I've got eighteen good men, only the best stayed. You two make twenty."

Johnny was quick to respond. "Now wait a minute, this is listening money. Now all of a sudden you're talking about gun money. Let me tell you something. That's extra. That don't come on no lunch."

"I want more than your guns. I want your arms and your legs and your guts—if you've got any."

Johnny looked back at his father, seemingly unruffled by the barb. He took a few seconds to consider. "All right, say I come up with all these arms and legs and guts you're talking about. What do you come up with?"

"One third of everything you see out there." Murdoch smiled grimly. That shut him up. This time it was Johnny's turn to walk towards the window, looking out over the ranch as Murdoch followed. "One hundred thousand acres, twenty thousand head of beef, the finest campañero de palominos in the San Joaquin."

"One third, huh? You wouldn't mind putting that down on a piece of paper, would you? No offence."

Murdoch removed his pocket book from his jacket and unfolded the contract he had had Franklin Randolph draw up two days ago. He handed it to Johnny. "This do? Agreement of partnership. Equal shares to each of us, but I call the tune. Agreed?"

Palpably interested, Scott nodded his assent. That was gratifying. Earlier he had shown no interest in the money. What was his motivation? Something more positive than financial gain at least or so Murdoch hoped.

Johnny still appeared sceptical. "You didn't sign it."

"Nothing for nothing. You'll get your share of this ranch when you prove to me that your man enough to hold it. When you get the man that put the bullet in my back."

"Pardee? Let me tell you, old man, you want a lot."

"Take it or leave it." Murdoch looked Johnny straight in the eye, challenging him to make a decision, but at that moment they were interrupted by frantic ringing. "Fire bell."

All three ran to answer its call. A corn field east of the hacienda was ablaze. Smoke stung their eyes and caught in their throats as they and the small ranch community fought the flames with water, sacks and shovels. The heat scorched their skin, but men and women kept beating at the inferno until covered in soot Murdoch called a halt to their efforts. "Let it go. It's already got too much of a head start on us. Let it burn up to the ridge."

Spotting Scott and Johnny nearby, clothes in disarray and dirty, he joined them. "Take a good look at it. It's the third field that Pardee has destroyed. I told you you'd have to fight to hold onto this place. What do you say?"

"I've already given you my answer." Scott met Murdoch's eye and spoke with a pleasing certainty.

"What about you, boy?" Murdoch looked to his younger son.

Johnny continued to gaze out over the burning field. "I'd hate to see my property go up in flames."

"Our property," Scott qualified.

Murdoch could not help but smile, more on the inside than the outside, but his sons had taken the bait. They may never know how much it meant to him, but for the first time, they would fight for Lancer together.

L A N C E R

He had business with Cipriano so Scott and Johnny returned to the hacienda with Teresa. Murdoch did not see them again until they all sat down to dinner. He was feeling calmer by then, and he was content to let the young people drive the conversation with him as an interested observer.

Both sons came to the table having made some effort to clean up from the fire, but whereas Scott had changed his clothes, Johnny had merely brushed his off. After a short grace, they all began to eat. In honour of Scott's arrival, Teresa had organised a roast with all the trimmings. She was rewarded for her consideration with a casual display of Bostonian manners. "My compliments, Teresa. The table is looking almost as wonderful as the hostess and the food is delicious."

Johnny demonstrated his approval by ploughing in like he had not eaten for a week. "Yeah, it's good."

Later that evening, Johnny let slip his last meal had been nothing more than a rabbit shot and roasted over his campfire the night before. What caused more interest at the dining table, though, was that in his hurry he ate like a wrangler on the range using his own knife to scoop and stab at his food, completely ignoring the cutlery laid out for the purpose. The disdain on Scott's face would have been comical if Murdoch had not been so eager for the brothers to get on. Johnny's expression when he first met Scott's disapproving gaze was unreadable. Then he answered it with a crooked grin. Not breaking eye contact, he stabbed the next piece of meat with a flourish and chewed it with deliberate slowness. Scott coughed into his fist. Looking down at his plate, he began to eat, making polite conversation with Teresa between mouthfuls about the differences between Boston and California. First round won, Johnny reinforced victory by piling his plate with a second helping. Wiping his knife off on his napkin, he slid it back into his boot and then continued to eat in a more civilised manner. A small smile from Scott conceded the match and a nod between the brothers put all to rights. Even so Murdoch was left slightly rattled by the exchange. He had thought he had observed the whole interaction with detachment, even mild amusement, but when Johnny picked up his knife and fork and proved he did know how to use them, Murdoch was shocked by his own sense of relief.

The days that followed were confusing, full of things Murdoch did not understand and conflicting emotions. On the plus side, he was sleeping better. Since the Pinkerton's last report telling him where they had finally located Johnny, he had been plagued by nightmares of firing squads and death. Having his son at Lancer seemed to have relieved that tension, although others replaced it. He did not feel comfortable in the presence of either son, but he cherished every moment that went well and analysed every encounter that did not. Scott appeared cautious, but at least willing to work with him in the best interests of the ranch. Johnny was a mystery, always defensive, often for no apparent reason.

The first morning Murdoch left the young men to sleep in after their long journeys and pursued his normal routine. When he came in for his breakfast, he met Johnny in the hallway bare-chested and holding a new white shirt. "Guest money is one thing, but I don't need you buying me clothes, old man. Where's my shirt?"

Murdoch examined the white shirt and smiled. It was in Mexican style with the embroidery that Maria and Estella were both so good at. "Nothing to do with me. I expect Maria left that and took yours to be washed."

"Who's Maria? She has no right."

"Maybe not, but you can tell her. She's my housekeeper. You'll probably find her in the kitchen or out by the clotheslines seeing it is washing day. When you tell her though, just remember she used to change your diaper. I suspect she thinks she has every right." Murdoch did not hang around to see Johnny's reaction, but he noted later when he drew the buckboard up near the corral that the boy was wearing the white shirt.

From a distance, Murdoch witnessed both sons exhibit their horsemanship before going about his business for the rest of the morning. Pride as well as satisfaction warmed him as his ranch hands cheered them on. This was what he had hoped for; that the men would look up to his sons and gain strength from their presence—and in time their leadership.

He intended to let them settle in with Teresa as their guide for the first day. That seemed to work for Scott, but Johnny had other ideas. Even though Teresa and Scott had apparently voiced the intention of going into Morro Coyo to buy Scott more suitable clothes, Johnny did not wait for them. He went in alone. Murdoch was aware that Pardee and some of his henchmen were hanging around the town. He was in two minds about letting Scott and Teresa go there later without an escort, but the mere suggestion of a guard earned him a scathing look from his elder son. "I think I am more than capable of escorting Miss O'Brien without assistance."

Murdoch said no more. Teresa knew to steer clear of the highriders and from what he had seen, Pardee kept his men well away from respectable women. Although Murdoch doubted that was for any reason he would have sympathy with, it still gave him hope that the visit would be uneventful.

But why had Johnny gone to Morro Coyo alone? The question plagued him throughout the day. It made no sense or none that brought him any peace of mind.

"Señor Murdoch! Cipriano! Isidro!" The cries of one of his vaqueros interrupted his thoughts. Diego galloped up to where Murdoch supervised the branding of some new calves, just as Scott, Johnny and Teresa arrived back together.

"What is it, man? What's the matter with you?"

"I ride. I see smoke at Gaspar's place. I ride over there. What I see, Señor!" Distraught Diego buried his face in Murdoch's shoulder.

Leaving Teresa safely behind, Murdoch and Scott drove the buckboard to Gaspar's farmhouse. The other vaqueros and Johnny rode along side. Smoke from a smouldering wagon and chicken coop obscured their view until they entered the yard, but then Murdoch was crushed by what he saw. Gaspar dangled upside down from the barn hoist—dead.

As Scott and Johnny helped the ranch hands cut the body down, Murdoch hurried to the house to check on Gaspar's wife. "Oh, my God. My God."

Death had not come quickly enough for Maria Mendez. Murdoch turned away from her dishevelled body, appalled by the brutality, the savagery.

He was still standing on the porch of the log cabin, sickened, when Cipriano rode up to him. "The trail was clear. They rode to the San Benitos."

Pulling himself together, Murdoch instructed Gaspar's cousin, Isidro, to get another man and take care of the deceased while he went with the rest to fetch firearms. Back at the hacienda, he stayed quiet as Scott questioned his foreman about the San Benitos. Cipriano knew those mountains like the back of his hand. When he confirmed there was a steep pass that he could easily find, Scott was eager to ride out in pursuit of Pardee's gang.

But Johnny was against it.

"Do you know what's going to happen up there with a couple of cowhands and a tin soldier?" He demanded of Murdoch before addressing his brother. "That sun will be coming down in about half an hour and you're going to be stumbling around in the dark blowing each other's heads off."

Scott looked to his father. "You call the tune, what do you say?"

"I say you go." Murdoch knew Johnny could be right, but a decision had to be made and he would support the son, who seemed committed to acting in the best interest of the ranch—and who showed him some deference.

Johnny threw his hat down in disgust. Scott went with Cipriano to join the vaqueros waiting armed and ready outside. Johnny made no move to follow.

Murdoch considered the enigma before him. "Are you going or not?"

"Is that an order?"

"There is only one man that's going to run this ranch." Murdoch was firm on this point. His son needed to learn to abide by his decisions even if he disagreed. Even if Johnny was ultimately proven right, and Murdoch was experienced enough with land pirates to know his younger son could be right.

"Pardee is sucking you out in the open. He'll either cut your cowboys to shreds up in that pass or go for you in this house when nobody is here." Johnny spoke with the certainty of experience. Murdoch stood his ground, but he was shaken by his son's persistence. "Now you've got one chance. Fort up here and wait until I find Pardee."

"Maybe you've found him already. What were you doing in Morro Coyo?" This was the crux of the matter. After only one day Murdoch was confident he could trust Scott. Facing this angry young man, who appeared at this moment to be more gunhawk than son, Murdoch did not know if he could trust Johnny. The very thought sat like a lead weight inside him.

Johnny paused. "Is that what you think of me?"

"I don't know what to think of you." Murdoch shook his head slightly as he spoke the unpleasant truth.

"Think what you like. I never was much good at taking orders." Johnny left without a backward glance.

That night Murdoch sat in the dark stretched out in his armchair in front of the fireplace, worrying about Scott facing armed men in darkness and unfamiliar territory, and about Johnny—God knows where. What were they thinking? Of him? Of all this? Having been in the army Scott was used to taking orders, but he had been brought up in luxury. How long would he really put up with taking orders from a father he did not know on a ranch that could never offer the lifestyle he had been used to, even if it was not 'a mud hut' on 'a desolate strip of sand'? And Johnny—Murdoch did not know even where to begin. At Gaspar's his vaqueros had been obviously distressed. Scott had been a soldier, he had experienced the horrors of a prison camp and yet he had still appeared as sickened as Murdoch. But Johnny? Sorrowful, yes, but not shocked, not nauseated by the barbarity. Resignation—that was what Murdoch had seen—acceptance of the unacceptable and the calm calculation of a gunfighter when everyone around him was distraught. How many times had he witnessed scenes like that? How many times had he instigated scenes like that? The bile rose in Murdoch's throat at the very thought that his son could have done to any woman what had been done to Maria Mendez. Somehow even the killing did not compare to the brutality that involved. What kind of man was Johnny Madrid? Was he still a man who could be his son in any real sense? As the clock struck ten, Murdoch wondered what the morning would bring.

Teresa came into the great room to check on him. Taking the poker she stirred life back into the fire. "You're thinking about your sons out there, aren't you?"

"They're strangers to me."

Teresa picked up an Indian rug and draped it over him. "It'll take a little time, but once they get to know you…"

"And stop hating me."

"Oh, they don't hate you. They want to love you."

"I ought to get myself a dog. They don't answer back."

Teresa settled down on the floor next to him and rested her head on the arm of his chair. He stroked her hair. "You miss your daddy don't you?"

"Yes, but I've got you."

"Yes you have. You surely have." And for that he was truly grateful, especially now as he struggled to build some kind of rapport with his sons. Teresa was his safe harbour in stormy seas.

Just before daybreak Scott and the men returned from the San Benitos, and Murdoch breathed a little easier. Scott was confident that they had fooled Pardee's men into thinking they had taken the bait. To Murdoch's surprise, he had been convinced by Johnny's argument from the outset. He had coupled it with ideas of his own, and before leaving the hacienda, he had decided to ride only so far and then come back to the house and fort up as his brother recommended. Why in God's name had he not said that in the first place? Maybe the falling out with Johnny could have been avoided.

For all his outward civility, Scott was no easier to decipher than his brother. Why had he come? Less than four years earlier he had totally ignored Murdoch's telegram and left it to his grandfather to convey the message he was not interested in establishing a relationship with an absentee father. If not the money, why? Briefly, Murdoch had entertained hope that Harlan had intercepted the birthday telegram. It was one reason why he had insisted the Pinkerton agent deliver his letter away from Louisburg Square, but that pipe dream was soon destroyed. On the first evening, after Johnny and Teresa had retired, Scott and Murdoch had been finishing their drinks together in the great room. Murdoch had risked voicing his disappointment that Scott had not come in more settled times. The boy had muttered something about 'circumstances' before gulping down what was left of his brandy and going to his bed.

Was that only two days ago?

Now the sun was rising and soon Pardee and his men would attack. Scott helped himself to a glass of port to give him strength for the confrontation to come. "Where's Johnny?"

"Gone."

"Gone where?" Murdoch could hear concern and censure in Scott's voice.

"What difference?" Why could he not admit he cared? Pride, stubbornness, twenty years of restraining his emotions—whatever it was, it did nothing to smother the fear Murdoch actually felt for Johnny's safety, and now Scott's silent response was adding to his misery. Damn the boy! His rivalry with his brother was partially to blame for Johnny leaving so what right had he to criticise? Murdoch's head throbbed, but the pounding did not prevent his brain answering its own question. Every right: the fundamental right of a son to expect his father to be the wiser, bigger man.

Gunshots!

Murdoch snapped out of his thoughts. The fire bell sounded. The raid had begun.

Vaqueros dashed to their positions. Murdoch ran with Scott and Teresa, rifles in hand, to mount the stairs ascending the south wall. Scott took control like the army officer he once was. "Hold your fire! They're still out of range."

His son was right. They were out of range so why were the highriders shooting, alerting the hacienda to their assault? It made no sense. Puzzled, Murdoch searched the approaching riders for an answer.

Scott cocked his rifle. "Here comes the first one."

"Wait!" Murdoch recognised the palomino jumping the rough-sawn timber fence. "It's Johnny!"

Murdoch gripped his rifle, paralysed, cold sweat forming on the back of his neck, as Johnny galloped towards the hacienda, frantically pursued by shooting men. Teresa screamed when the bullet hit. Johnny jerked and fell from his horse only yards from safety. Murdoch closed his eyes, his heart now a solid lump in his chest. Scott pushed past him.

"Scott—it's no use." Murdoch stood numb and without hope. "I don't understand what that boy was trying to do."

"He was coming back to us." Teresa cried from the landing below. Was she right? The possibility he had lost his son at the turning point, cut Murdoch to his core as Scott continued down the stairs.

There was no time to think about it. Scott ran forwards to take cover behind the outer courtyard wall. Murdoch and Teresa also found safe positions. All three started firing their rifles as a second wave of highriders bore down on the hacienda. Bullets filled the air; attackers and defenders vied for the upper hand and men on both sides met their maker.

An outlaw made a dash across the ground where Johnny lay. Suddenly the son Murdoch had thought was dead came back to life. Johnny shot the man down, and then another, and another; he shot four of the enemy within seconds. Murdoch could not believe his eyes. He could not believe the relief he felt. "Look at that. Look at your brother!"

"Cover me. I'm going out after him." Scott ran to where Johnny lay injured, firing his rifle as he went. Murdoch watched in dread for the safety of both his sons. Scott reached Johnny and attempted to haul him one handed to shelter, but he was too heavy. Through the smoke, Murdoch saw a vaquero emerge from behind a wall to help. Together they dragged the wounded man across the grass to the partial protection of a tree. Returning his attention to the battle in the nick of time, Murdoch aimed and fired. A bandit with Scott in his sights clutched at his belly and keeled over. Then Scott shot another highrider. Moments later through the gun smoke Murdoch spied Pardee himself take aim from behind an acacia. Scott's rifle fired and Day Pardee collapsed to the ground.

"They've got Pardee!"

Leaderless, the other highriders fled. More were shot as they tried to escape, and then as suddenly as it had started, the battle ceased.

Through the clearing haze, Murdoch limped towards where his sons were talking. Johnny rose shakily to his feet, using the tree as support. His brother put an arm out to steady him, but Johnny brushed it away and staggered towards his father alone. For the briefest moment, Murdoch relived his younger son's first steps. Then the boy fainted. Scott caught him neatly over his shoulder and carried him home.

L A N C E R

Thankfully the bullet had missed Johnny's spine. Doc Jenkins drove out from Spanish Wells to tend him. On the first night Johnny was feverish and Murdoch's mind persisted in fearing the worst. He fell restlessly asleep in the chair and awoke sweating and shaking. The firing squad nightmare had returned, only this time he not only knew it was his son who fell to the ground riddled with bullets, this time he saw his face and his dead, empty eyes. Murdoch had to splash his face and drink water from the ewer to rid his mouth and skin of the taste and feel of dust and fat-laden smoke.

Johnny's fever broke around dawn as Doc Jenkins had predicted, and the nightmare did not reoccur. During the next few days the boy lay unconscious, drugged against the pain. Murdoch sat with him almost continuously, thinking of all the things he wanted to say, but when Johnny finally awoke Murdoch found he was unable to say any of them. He allowed Teresa and Scott to take over the bedside vigil, only entering the room briefly each day for gruff enquiries about how Johnny was doing. It was not all Murdoch's fault. Johnny seemed to find it difficult to talk too.

Thankfully, Murdoch's relationship with Scott became more relaxed as the days passed. There were still things that neither of them wanted to talk about, but they also had interests in common, not least their concern for Johnny. By the time Johnny was fit to go into town to sign the contract that would make him and Scott part owners of the ranch, Murdoch had decided he liked his elder son, and he was hopeful that the feeling was mutual.

Murdoch, Scott, Johnny and Teresa all attended Franklin Randolph's office in Morro Coyo for the signing of the contract. Scott signed first above his name and then Murdoch. When it came to Johnny, Murdoch suddenly remembered he had forgotten to tell Randolph Johnny went by another name. "Oh Mr Randolph, I should have told you. That last name should read John Madrid, not Lancer."

Murdoch hoped he had said the right thing. He looked uncertainly at his son. Unreadable as always, Johnny looked back, but said nothing. Mr Randolph went to make the change.

That evening, Murdoch wrote to his brother, Jock, in Scotland. Words could not express the joy he felt having his sons back—nor convey what it meant to Murdoch when Johnny had stopped the lawyer making the amendment.

"No," he had said. "Let it stand."

Notes:

1. Most of the events and much of the dialogue for this chapter is taken from the pilot movie, The Homecoming, and The Highriders, Series 1, Episode 1.

2. To find out more about Murdoch's nightmare read What If…?, 2013.

3. To learn more about the background of Day Pardee read Five Facts for Day Pardee, 2014.