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CHAPTER 12 - RAMBLING

Scott rushed over to Johnny and immediately put an arm of support around his unsteady brother. "What do you think you're doing?"

Johnny didn't turn his head or even acknowledge Scott's presence, but just stared off into the distance, in the vicinity of the barn.

"How did you manage to. . .?" Scott asked disbelievingly. "You have to come back to your bed, Johnny." He was seriously concerned that the trauma that his brother had gone through had affected his mental functions. It was amazing that Johnny was standing and that he'd maneuvered himself out of his bed and all the way over to the window.

Johnny raised his bandaged hand slightly, causing Scott to look in the direction in which he was pointing. Beyond the stucco wall bordering the patio the barn was visible, and past that was the pasture with several horses, including Barranca, grazing peacefully. When he realized that Johnny had discovered his palomino, a laugh escaped Scott's lips, one of relief. "Yes, Barranca's safe, Johnny. We got him back. Now come on over to your bed. If Teresa catches you wandering around like this, there'll be hell to pay."

As Scott started to turn from the window, out of the corner of his eye he saw a rider just coming through the big Lancer gate. With Johnny's weight heavy on his arm, he hesitated only long enough to see who was coming. Even from a distance, he recognized the visitor as Mr. Rinaldo, leading Scott's own horse. He saw Murdoch cross the yard and stop, waiting to greet the approaching company. After a few words with the man, Murdoch then directed him to the barn.

Glad that his horse had been returned, Scott smiled and turned back to the task of guiding Johnny the few steps back to his bed.

Part way there, the wounded man's eyes closed involuntarily and for a moment his knees became so weak he was in danger of collapsing. The arm of support around his waist tightened and inadvertently pressed against the wound in his back. Even though it was well padded with heavy bandages, the acute pain cut through his dulled senses and woke him right up. Gritting his teeth, Johnny held back any sound, but Scott looked sharply at him and deftly adjusted his grip.

With a lot of help, Johnny made it safely into his bed. He sank appreciatively onto the soft mattress with a grunt, closing his eyes as Scott pulled the covers up over him. When he opened them again a couple of minutes later, Scott was sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of water in his hand and a look of recrimination on his face.

"Hmm?" Johnny mumbled. His head was swimming and all he wanted to do was sleep.

"You know Johnny, you're the only man I know who can be lying on his deathbed at breakfast yet be up, strolling around, by noon."

The corners of Johnny's lips lifted in the semblance of a smile, but the look in Scott's eyes was far from humorous. Johnny tried to respond, but to his dismay he couldn't get any words to come out. His brain wasn't exactly clear, and he took a moment to corral his disordered thoughts. He tried again, but his lips moved soundlessly. A moment of near-panic ensued.

Scott, aware of his brother's inner struggle, laid a hand on Johnny's chest. "It's all right. Just take it easy, nice and slow."

Johnny took a few breaths and composed himself, then pointed to his own chest. "Okay," he whispered with difficulty.

"You're okay?" Scott asked. "That's good. There's no hurry, it'll come back, Johnny." He looked over his shoulder and considered the distance his brother had covered in order to seek a glimpse of his horse. "How the heck did you get out of bed and all the way to the door?"

Johnny fumbled for the glass of water in his brother's hand. When he had drunk half a glassful, he made another attempt at speech. "Rolled," he croaked.

"You just rolled out of bed," Scott said skeptically.

Johnny nodded. "Heard Barranca." He reached out with his left hand and clasped Scott's hand in thanks. Inspecting the bandage on his right arm, Johnny clumsily started picking at a knot that secured the strips of white gauze.

"Hey, hey, you have to leave that on, Johnny," Scott warned. He reached to stop his brother, but Johnny retracted his arm and continued pulling at the knot.

"Stubborn," mumbled Johnny.

Scott sighed. "Both of you. Look, if you have to remove it, at least let me help you."

Johnny paused for a few seconds, the proffered the bandaged arm.

Scott eyed him as he undid the knot and carefully unwrapped the bandage. Johnny looked like he could barely keep his eyes open, but his pallor seemed less pronounced. Scott had been fearful that Johnny had incurred permanent damage from being smothered, but the few words he had managed to speak so far had indicated he still had his faculties. Trust his brother to alarm them and then to bounce back so quickly.

Even knowing he had to ask Johnny who had suffocated him, Scott hesitated. On one hand, he didn't want to have confirmation that Harlan Garrett had attempted murder, and on the other, he was afraid that Johnny might not know what had happened to him. Then there would be little choice but to release Garrett. Scott liked things to be neatly wrapped up, tied with a secure knot and put safely away, and he had a feeling that it was not likely to happen in this instance.

Once his arm was revealed, Johnny inspected it. There was severe bruising, his hand was badly swollen from his wrist to his fingers, and there were several long scrapes where he had been restrained. He flexed his fingers slowly, then frowned. "Hell," he muttered. "Stiff. Can't shoot." He shrugged ruefully. "I'll be a lefty."

Scott watched Johnny assess the damage to his own body and replied, "Maybe so. You're sure it isn't broken?"

With a curt shake of his head, Johnny said, "Just sorta bent." He took a deep breath to tell Scott how he'd once worn a two-gun rig, and although he'd been pretty good with a pistol in each hand, he'd chosen to be best with just the one gun. But as his ribs expanded with a lungful of air, his back muscles cramped, the sutures in his back strained, and his torn flesh screamed in protest. Searing pain coursed through his back as if a hot poker had been jammed into it. Johnny wrapped his arms around his middle and tried to hold the agony in check, but got little relief.

Knowing that Scott was scrutinizing him worriedly, Johnny stared at the ceiling and waited for the pain to recede. For a few minutes he could barely catch his breath. It got worse before it got better but eventually the pain passed, leaving an intense throbbing in its wake.

"Take some laudanum, Johnny." Scott had to offer it even if he was sure that Johnny would choose not to take any medication. Sometimes it was best not to ask, but simply to give him the dose. The terse shake of Johnny's dark head was not unexpected. Nevertheless, Scott carefully measured a dose into a glass of water. Ignoring the surprisingly strong hand that pushed the glass away, he ordered, "Drink this."

The look Scott received from the blue eyes was caustic enough to cause many a man to back off, but it didn't deter him at all. Contrary to being displeased, he took it as a sign that Johnny had a reservoir of strength he was drawing from, somewhere deep inside. Scott just pushed the medicine to Johnny's lips and didn't give an inch.

In the end, Johnny drank it all.

Scott put the empty glass aside and said, "Let me wrap up your arm again."

"No." Johnny cradled his wounded limb to his chest and sank into the bedding, exhausted. "Gonna sleep." He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

Scott leaned over his brother and started to question him before the laudanum took over. "Johnny, can you hear me? It's important. I need to know. . . we need to know, Johnny. . . when my grandfather came in here yesterday, what happened?"

Johnny reluctantly opened his eyes again. The bruised lid was puffy and was colored a purple shade, but he was able to open it enough to see through. "Wha' day is't?" he asked in a voice slurred with sleep.

Scott pursued his line of questioning. "I'm talking about yesterday. Did you ask him to come in to help you with something? Maybe you were in pain? Or had to use the chamber pot?" Johnny looked straight at him in silence, but Scott was pretty sure that his brother comprehended his meaning. Scott took a deep breath and said slowly, "Johnny, I believe that my grandfather came in here and threatened you, and even hurt you. It's very difficult for me to believe that he is capable of such a thing, but it appears that is exactly what he did." He spoke deliberately, every word measured. "You see, it will only take one word from you and we'll take him to Green River and press charges. He will be banished from here forever."

Johnny evaluated what was being said as well as the consequences of his reply. He knew what Scott was asking, and grasped the situation better than his brother was aware. He turned his gaze to his forearm, looking at the bruises and cuts that marred it. It was very painful, as was his back and his stomach, but all of these injuries would fade and heal with time. "He's. . . your kin," Johnny said quietly.

Scott was taken aback for a moment. "Well so are you, Johnny, but I won't be choosing between the two of you. I don't need to. You will always come first. Always. No matter who hurt you, we intend to let the law take care of it. Do you understand?"

The steadfast look in Johnny's eyes wavered, then the lids came down and the head turned away.

"Johnny!" With a hand on his brother's shoulder, Scott tried to get his attention. Afraid that the laudanum had taken effect before he could get an answer, he was relieved a minute later when Johnny's eyes slowly reopened.

Johnny shifted his shoulders and blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. It was just as if he was awakening on a normal morning, without a concern in the world. Seemingly puzzled to find Scott hovering over him, he asked in a reed-thin whisper, "What happened t'your face?"

Scott's fingers went to touch his own cheek and he remembered he'd been cut while riding after Macon and Flanagan. "This? Nothing. A sliver of rock hit me, that's all."

Johnny's brows raised in query.

"Isidro and I ran down the men who attacked you in Morro Coyo, after we left the posse. One of them took a potshot at me. Didn't even come close," Scott explained impatiently. "Johnny, tell me what my grandfather did to you," he insisted.

Johnny studied his brother's troubled features. For some reason, what Garrett had done just didn't seem to matter at this moment. Not to him, anyway. He was trying to sort out what had happened on the hunt for the fugitives. But then it hit him, and he understood how far Scott had gone. "You killed 'em," Johnny stated with a nod of approval.

"What?"

"Macon and -."

"Oh. Yes. Johnny, did my grandfather-?"

"Both of 'em?"

Scott looked at his hands and took a moment to reply. "Yes. I didn't have it in mind to kill them. Not the second one, anyway." He met Johnny's eyes and saw no sign of judgment in them. "I was. . . rough with the man, Macon. It was almost as if it wasn't really me standing over him. It wasn't just anger I was feeling. Maybe. . ." He stopped to recapture the scene on the rocky slope. "I don't know exactly what it was, maybe vengeance. Anyway, I told him I was giving him a chance, but now I wonder if I ever really intended to allow him to live." Johnny reached out but Scott shook his head and waved his gesture away. "You see, I took hold of his shirtfront, then hauled him up."

"Scott––"

"I told him that what he'd done was unforgivable," Scott said with a ragged intake of breath. "Then I broke his neck."

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Scott passed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to ask Teresa to attend to Johnny, before heading out the back door.

There had been no mistaking the anguish etched on his features, yet she instinctively knew it was not because Johnny had taken a turn for the worse. Nevertheless, she dragged off her apron and made haste for Johnny's bedroom.

She rushed in to find Johnny asleep, peacefully snoring.

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Jelly was surprised to find Scott's horse, Victory, stabled in the first stall when he entered the barn. He hadn't seen anyone bring the steed back, which bothered him because he prided himself on knowing everything that went on around the Lancer ranch.

One of the chores he'd been putting off was giving the stall a thorough cleaning in readiness for some much-needed repairs to the flooring. Even the feed trough had rotted out and needed to be replaced. The horse nickered and made an attempt to eat Jelly's hat, but the wrangler took hold of its halter and led him to another stall. "Now you belong here 'til someone gets a chance to wash you down, Vic," Jelly told Scott's horse. "Don't know what kind of hay-for-brains put you in there. You stink as bad as a turkey vulture, an' no wonder, with them making you carry that dead feller back to town."

Jelly shook his head and picked up a pitchfork to remove the old straw from the rear of the stall. A sound from behind startled him and he swung around.

A man spoke from the shadows. "No need to be startled. I mean no harm."

"Identify yerself," Jelly commanded as he raised his pitchfork in the direction of the voice.

"Martin Rinaldo." The Lancer's neighbor slowly came forward, his hands slightly raised, a friendly look on his face. "I was with the posse." He jerked his thumb in a direction behind him. "I was back in your tack room cleaning the saddle from the horse I brought back. There was blood on the leather."

Jelly didn't like the thought that this man had been skulking about the barn without his knowledge. "Too much havey-cavey goings-on around here," he said huffily. "Who told you to put Scott's horse in here? Any fool can see it's not safe, splinters and broken floorboards and the like. I moved him yonder."

"Mr. Lancer told me to put the horse in the barn, but I didn't notice the stall was dangerous - it was dark compared to the brightness outside," Rinaldo explained mildly. He pulled on his hat string and comfortably situated his hat on his head. With a touch of one finger, he pushed up the brim so it sat off his forehead. "I've finished cleaning the saddle, so I'll be on my way. Unless you want me to wash the horse down?"

"No, I can take care of Scott's horse, and all the animals hereabouts like I always do, thank you very much."

Rinaldo accepted being rebuffed with a good-natured smile and walked out into the corral. He collected his horse from where it had been tied out of sight, in the shade of a lean-to against the barn.

Jelly watched the slim man saunter across the corral, and wondered about him. Rinaldo had moved to the area about a year ago; nobody knew where he came from. The man had kept to himself mostly, just worked his ranch and occasionally went to town, like any other neighbor. But as far as Jelly knew, until a couple of days ago when Rinaldo had turned up with the sheriff, he had never visited the Lancer ranch, not even come to supper. When Rinaldo spoke he was spare with his words, yet Jelly was sure that there was something not quite right about the fellow.

Jelly went back to work, but when he glanced up a few minutes later, he almost dropped the broom he'd just taken hold of. There, across the yard, was Rinaldo, the reins of his horse in hand as he stood near the new bunkhouse, talking in a most friendly way to Harlan Garrett.

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