Chapter 4

Luckily the lightning rousted me out of my daze in time for me to see I only had one minute left 'til the appointed time. I raised my head too fast, making the room spin out of control. The watch slipped out of my fingers and it took all my concentration to get a good grip on the pitcher. I counted off the minute and just as I heard voices raised loudly in the dining room, I slung that heavy old can across the room with as much weight as I could muster.

The noise of it careening off the wall, hitting the window, breaking glass and finally landing with a great clang was lost on me. All I could hear was the sound of gunshot and a woman's scream from the other room. I was sure that shot was Joey putting a bullet in Scott, and I knew it was too late.

I wanted, more than anything, to be able to rush into the dining room and face down those killers with my gun, to do what I was best at, just to meet them on equal ground. No way was that going to happen, but I had to do something, even if it meant crawling in there on my belly and working them over with my fists.

Rolling off the couch, I crawled a couple of feet and blacked out.

~ • ~

I came to with Scott kneeling behind me, pulling me up into his lap. "Scott?" I couldn't believe it was him, unharmed.

"Yeah? I'm right here."

"I thought they'd killed you."

He gave a rueful laugh. "No."

"What was the shot?"

"One of the overly-brave customers out there thought it'd be a bright idea to rush Lockley. I had to knock the guy down before anyone killed him."

"You hurt him so he didn't get killed?"

Scott nodded. "Something like that. Johnny, what're you doing on the floor?"

I looked around and sort of wondered that myself. "Thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help." I tried to shift myself up, but when I attempted to lever my body off the floor, my right arm flopped out, useless. My left arm wasn't much better and gave way under my weight.

Scott reached out and pulled my arm back towards my side. "Your arm. . ."

"It's fine." I said lightly. "You get the bad guys?"

"Afraid not. They weren't too happy about me running back here to see you, but I told them if they shot me down, there wouldn't be enough time for them to mop up my blood before Montgomery arrives." He was checking out my flaccid arm, running his hand along it, maybe feeling for a bullet. "You sure your arm's all right?"

"Sure. Told you. Gunfighters get it in the shoulder all the time. Couldn't be better." The odd thing was that I did feel better. Or maybe it'd be more accurate to say I felt very little at all. I don't know why, but at the time, it didn't concern me much. I asked, "How'm I doin'?"

"You look terrific," Scott replied as he worked his hand along each of my ribs on my right side.

"You bet I do." It was plain to see that something was bothering my brother. "Scott?"

"Mm?"

"You looking for the slug?"

He hesitated, then admitted, "Yeah."

"It ain't there."

He was very still and I looked up at him from where I rested across his lap. Even in the shadowed room, I could see his pale blue eyes seeking mine for some answer. "You know where it is, Johnny?"

"I think so." I managed to guide his fingers to a spot between my ribs, high up near my armpit. "Feel it?"

Scott's fingers suddenly stopped their search and I knew he had located the lump of lead beneath the surface. He swore under his breath.

I knew what he was thinking: that if the bullet had entered my back and traveled all the way to my armpit, what on earth had it damaged along the way? "I think it's moved some," I said, stating the obvious.

For a minute he didn't say anything, then asked kindly, "You want to stay where you are, or should I sit you up?"

"You think you can?"

"I'll give it my best shot, cowboy."

"I'll try to help." I strained to get up off my back, but my legs had got all tangled up in the overcoat that'd been covering me while I lay on the couch. Scott carefully hoisted me up until I was in a sitting position, using the couch as a backrest. He was being so careful, I guess he was afraid he might hurt me. Truth is, my head was floating and had very little connection with my body. It was like I was drunk or something. Must have been the crease across my skull. Head wounds tend to make you loopy.

Scott steadied me with a hand on my chest, and watched me carefully. "Just hold it right there," he directed.

I was so weary, yet I knew I had to gather my strength for the next go-around. In only a couple of minutes, all Hell would break loose and if we didn't get the upper hand, somehow, it would be the last few moments we spent on this Earth. With no weapons and no bright ideas, the outlook was grim. "What do you want me to do now?" I asked, closing my eyes. I had to get a grip. I couldn't let go yet.

Scott stuffed a couple of cushions behind me, supporting my head and shoulders. "I'll let you know, okay? Right now, we have them on the run," he answered lightly. "Stay right there and take it easy."

I laughed and it came out sounding like a wheeze. "I ain't going nowhere, Scott."

Scott gave a small nod of assent, then stood and walked across the room. Keeping out of sight of the open door, he leaned tiredly against the wall, head down, eyes on the floor, thinking.

The girl, Theresa, came in, carrying a tray laden with food. Scott didn't even glance up at her as she passed him and laid her burden down on a table. The aroma of soup was strong but I was past hunger.

She went to Scott's side and asked, "How is he?"

Scott glanced back at me, then said to her, with lowered voice, "He can't feel a thing and he has a bullet in him. How do you think he is? And how am I going to get us out if this mess? We've run out of time."

She stared at him for only a second or two, then turned her back on him. The room was dark, but a flash of light from the storm illuminated her face, long enough for me to see a purposeful look on it, alarming me.

With half-closed eyes, I watched her reach under a cloth napkin covering the food. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, then pulled out a gun and pivoted towards Scott.

It was my cry that caused him to turn so rapidly, but my brother stopped in his tracks when Theresa lifted the small revolver and pointed it in his direction.

Her voice wavered as she said, "I don't know who to trust any more. All I know is that someone killed my brother and if I don't do something, you and your brother will be next. And everyone else in this place, I guess. Maybe even me." She suddenly stepped forward and handed the gun to Scott, who took it with a relieved look.

"You did the right thing, Theresa." He brushed past her and kneeled next to me as he quickly looked over the gun.

"I only just remembered it was stashed under the bar," she explained anxiously.

It was only a small hideaway pistol, and even though it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a year, it gave me a small bit of hope. "That gun looks in worse shape than me," I said, trying to laugh.

Scott agreed, "Older than Hell, and hasn't been cleaned in forever. There are four bullets in it, though. This thing is as likely to blow up in my face, as anything."

"Well, you're always talking about wantin' to know if there's a God."

Scott laughed and reached out to clasp my shoulder. "You know something? You look terrible."

"Don't let me fool you. I could eat a horse. We never got that supper, you know."

Scott moved over to the girl, giving her brisk instructions about how she should position herself near the bar and drop a serving tray to create a diversion. He'd be going for Joey first. She'd better duck behind the bar as soon as she dropped it because Lockley wasn't likely to miss getting off at least one shot. Scott looked excited and almost happy at the prospect of being able to go out shooting.

I had a bad feeling in my gut, experience telling me how the odds were stacked against him. I dropped my eyes, not wanting my brother to know that I didn't expect him to succeed. I didn't want my last sight of Scott to be of him going out to be cut down by those killers. Let his hope carry him proudly into battle.

He ushered Theresa out, then took a moment to crouch down by me.

I couldn't move or speak, or even look him in the eye. I couldn't form the words I wanted to say, the ones he needed to hear. There wasn't enough time. "Scott?"

"Yeah, Johnny?"

I swallowed hard. "I didn't mean it. About you wanting to meet up with God. Not so soon, anyhow."

"I know what you meant, Johnny. And I believe that God is on my side."

Finally meeting his gaze, I knew that even if this ended up badly, I was glad we'd had the chance to know each other. In what little time we'd had together, we'd formed a bond unlike anything we'd ever know with anyone else. Our time was up, though. "See ya," I said, hoarsely.

He stood quickly, tucked the small revolver in the back of his waistband and went out to meet the killers in the next room.

~ • ~

Within minutes, the shots came: one, then two more in quick succession. I couldn't move or even get my breath, with my heart banging away with fear and hatred. I could only think, "Please, please, please. . ." and found I was saying those words aloud.

There were footsteps and a shadow loomed over me. Looking up, it took me a second to realize, unbelievably, that it was my brother, returning to my side. I found I was shaking, and had to close my eyes to try to recoup a small sense of reality. A hand was on my shoulder, and there was Scott, squatting down next to me again, this time reassuring me that everything was all right.

He told me Theresa had thrown her tray down, making a noisy diversion, and Scott had gunned down the two men, killing Joey and wounding Lockley. Everyone else was safe, and the cook, having been released from his wine cellar, was guarding Lockley, with a meat cleaver in hand, until the law turned up. It had even stopped raining.

Scott said he'd heard the sound of hoof beats receding right after the last of the gunshots had died away. "Probably our dinner guest heard the shots and was beating a track for safety," he deduced. "It's all over, brother," he proclaimed with relief.

~ • ~

There's this old Mexican proverb. . .

Now, I'm not given to quoting from books or anything, but this was one of those proverbs that's passed down through a family. My grandmother was not a wealthy woman - far from it- but she counted her blessings all the time. Her riches were not counted in money or property, but in other currency, like children and health, strength and honor.

She used to say, "Never ask God to give you anything." As a kid, I didn't really understand what she meant. I never saw my grandmother again after I was about six or seven, when my Mama took me away, and I really regret not getting to know her better.

As I sat there in that back room, just propped up like a sack of potatoes while the girl was sent off to get the doctor and other authorities, my abuela's words came to me from out of the blue. I said them aloud. My voice was barely audible and Scott had to lean close to catch my words. "Never ask God . . . for anything," I whispered.

"The doctor's on his way, Johnny–." He was telling me to hang on.

One of the Blue Dove Cantina's customers who had come for a Christmas Eve supper and found himself smack in the middle of a shootout stuck his head in the back room, interrupting my brother. "Padre's on his way, too. Thought you might be needing him."

Scott cast the poor man a glare and then turned back to me. "We'll have you home in no time, Johnny. The Christmas tree will be up and lit up with a hundred of those little candles. Teresa will have a feast all laid out. There'll be venison and fruit cake, some turkey with cranberry dressing–."

I shook my head slowly, all I could manage, mouthing the word, "No."

He raised one hand as if to stop my thoughts, and continued, "Sure, I'll get you back to Lancer. You just wait, Murdoch will come downstairs, all decked out wearing that kilt they sent him. . . from back. . . home. . . " His voice was wavering and finally he stopped. "Oh God, Johnny. . . I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

Somewhere deep within me, I was able to find a small reserve of strength. Just enough to lift my fingers, and when he saw it, Scott grabbed my hand. He met my eyes, and seemed to be seeking something important, something he'd missed. I don't know what he saw, 'cause I sure wasn't thinking of much by that point, but he got a sort of stubborn look on his face and went on. "Then we'll get everyone to come here while you're recuperating. I'll send for Murdoch and Teresa and Jelly will come, too. They can haul all that Christmas stuff out in a wagon and we'll set it up and have our family Christmas right here."

"Scott. . . ."

"No, no! We can do it! You can do it, Johnny. Don't you give up now!"

My voice was a little stronger this time. "Scott, no." I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them up to look straight at my brother. This time he didn't say anything. "See, I don't need all that," I said. "I don't need . . . a tree . . .gifts . . .I got all I need. Right here." I was having trouble getting a breath, but I took it slow and continued, keeping my eyes on Scott's without wavering. "Mi abuela . . . she said . . . 'Nunca pida que el dios le dé cualquier cosa.' "

"I don't understand, Johnny." He turned to the padre who had just arrived and was standing in the doorway, appealing to him, "Por favor. I don't understand . . ."

I touched Scott's sleeve and he turned back to me. Smiling, I repeated what my grandmother had told me so many years ago. I told my brother, my kin, what I had never understood so deeply, so truly as I did now. "There's this old Mexican proverb. . . 'Never ask God to give you anything. Ask him to put you where things are.' " I watched his face to make sure he understood, then I closed my eyes.

Somewhere, not far away, the hollow sound of a church bell ringing could be heard, announcing the start of Christmas Day.

~ • ~