Stave Four

Harlan slowly approached, his face grave. It was a silent walk, for all his chains and books had disappeared and he was dressed in formal black. The second Scott touched his grandfather's sleeve, they crossed the bleak night sky, to a point where time seemed to collide. He stared down at the almost-greening trees budding out of season. It felt like spring. Pasture and cattle flashed by broken wheat stalks bent over like brittle old men, new growth bursting in the seams of the earth.

Spring, but it felt like a final spring. Not a beginning, but an end. It wasn't even spring, was it? It was still December, a good couple of months before the seasons turned no matter which calendar you consulted. He felt something stirring here, could feel the fragile grass straining for the sky, reaching to touch the pale wash of sun, getting what it could from something so far away. Morning in California, pre-dawn, fog forming on the warm ground, mixing with the chill air. They had arrived back at Lancer.

Two cowboys strode out to the corral from the bunkhouse.

Walt pulled on Frank's sleeve. "I'm glad he's dead."

"He wasn't that bad, and you know it."

"I do not. Walking around with his chest puffed out, all hoity-toity and whatnot."

"You'd better not let Mr. Lancer hear you," Frank drew his thumb across his neck, "or it'll be adios because you know how he felt about him."

Walt shook his head. "You have to wonder on that. Tolerated him more likely."

They pulled up at the corral and leaned on the slats. "Truth be told, I kind of liked him."

"He was a pain in the ass, Frank. And you know it."

"He was a quick learner, though."

Walt spit onto the ground. "I will give him that. Of course, he had to being as he was just thrown into the ranch. One day he's living the high life and the next he's underfoot here."

"And faithful, to a fault."

"Yeah, but he wasn't really a Lancer, was he? He wasn't raised here anyway."

Frank shot Walt a side-eye. "Johnny seemed to take to him like a duck to water."

They looked at each and guffawed.

Frank swiped at his eyes. "Well, I'll not speak ill of the dead. Anymore." He clapped Walt on the shoulder. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"I guess." He heaved out a sigh. "I will say one thing, it'll be a different place without him here."

Uneasy, Scott grabbed Harlan's elbow. "Grandfather, who died?"

But the old man simply pulled on his cuffs and pointed to the barn.

Johnny had finished mucking out Barranca's stall and proceeded to pull out the curry comb and brush from the wooden box at his feet. He only got in three slicks across the horse's back before he stopped.

"It's too quiet in here," he mumbled.

He started again and curried out a particularly muddy spot from Barranca's shoulder. "I guess I got used to his talking. For someone who could be so quiet all the time—almost sneaky quiet—he sure made himself known when he wanted to."

Barranca stamped his hoof. Johnny stopped, realizing he was brushing too hard. He came out from under the tie-downs and rubbed the horse's muzzle. "I guess you miss him, too, huh?"

He eyed the empty stall. It had been that way ever since…no he wasn't going to think about what happened. It caught everyone by surprise, him dying like that. The stall needed cleaning and he was a little surprised that no one had done it yet. He grabbed the fork and started to muck.

The hairs on the back of Scott's neck prickled. He left the barn quickly, feeling childish because he was…afraid. Afraid of that empty stall. Harlan placed his hand on Scott's shoulder, and they were inside the hacienda.

The dining table had been set with good china and silverware polished to a high sheen. Murdoch stood at the sideboard pouring wine when Johnny came in, followed by…Carter Willoughby? Scott gasped.

"Are we late for the festivities?" Carter's impudent grin grew. "As I was saying earlier, Murdoch, I'm hopelessly glad to finally meet the paterfamilias on the Lancer side. I only wish it could have been sooner and under better circumstances."

"And we would have been back to the hacienda sooner, but Carter insisted on seeing Scott's favorite place on the ranch. Over by Tio Creek."

Carter made a short bow. "I thank-you for the afternoon and the tour, Johnny. It was magnificent."

Murdoch cocked his head and smiled. "You have to fill me in on all the ah, shenanigans you and Scott managed back in the day. I heard they were quite extensive."

"Do you have several hours to set aside? I'm afraid to tell you that your son's exploits were rather extensive."

"Just his?"

Carter raised one eyebrow. "He might have had a bit of help here and there."

"I think we're all ready," Teresa chimed in. "Everyone please be seated."

They sat down to the table, but one chair was conspicuously empty.

Murdoch raised his glass of wine. "To my eldest son, Scott."

Johnny raised his glass. "Wherever he might be."

A knock sounded at the front door.

Maria came to the table. "Patrón, there is a young lady here, I've shown her to the parlor."

Murdoch excused himself.

She had auburn hair, pulled up by a bright blue ribbon, and stood beside the fireplace. When she turned around, her wide smile wobbled. "Oh."

"Miss…Hutchins? Caroline Hutchins?"

"Mr. Lancer, I'm here to see…I thought…well, you're the wrong Mr. Lancer."

Harlan's cold hand on his shoulder startled him. "Wait, who was she coming to see?" But he heard the tick, tick, tick of a shovel striking the ground somewhere in the distance instead of Caroline's answer.

They were at the far side of the ranch. The cemetery. Wrought iron fence outlined the well-kept grounds and its small tool shed with fine curlicues and flourishes.

He looked behind them, saw blackness closing in while crows shuffled on the roof peak of the shed like excited children expecting to see Santa. "Grandfather," Scott said, low, a warning; he knew what Harlan would do, because his grandfather was predictable once he set his mind to something. The silence, however, was becoming unbearable.

The old man simply pointed to a mound of freshly turned earth, a well-used shovel resting beside it. At its end stood a poorly made grave marker. A shoddy piece of wood to mark someone's passing. It seemed so trite.

Scott shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

Slowly, the blackness caught against more solid things, eddied like a brook around rock and trees. Became stuck on other grave markers. They were shadows from his world, past present and future.

"Is this real, Grandfather?"

Scott looked up and saw Harlan's stare. He followed it with his eyes at first, then his feet. He bent down, trying to make out the crude writing on the marker. His heart twisted in his chest as he brushed off the fine dirt with the edge of his sleeve, knowing what he'd find.

"No!" he cried out. "Wait…what?" He bent closer, then straightened up so fast he heard his spine click into place.

He cocked his head in puzzlement. "Dewdrop?"

Grandfather slowly nodded.

If Murdoch, Johnny, and Teresa were all right and this was Dewdrop's grave, then…where was he?

Harlan cleared his throat. "Counting cattle. You are late. Again. Wake up, my boy, or you'll miss Christmas." He started to back away.

"Hold on, Grandfather! I want to know one thing. Who was Caroline there to see?"

But darkness crowded around him until he knew no more.

tbc