Responsibilities

by StarGzer

Danger from the past finds Scott at Lancer.

A/N: Woah, this is an old story, from 2007, and possibly my second or third "longer" story that I'd written back then for the Yahoo Lancer Group. Re-posted by request. I have scanned it pretty quickly and changed a word here or there as it seemed fitting but did not do a real "beta" on it. StarGzer

Responsibilities

Chapter 1

Setting up the hiring table in front of Baldemeros' general store had been a stroke of genius on Johnny's part. Everyone eventually ended up there for one thing or another even if just to pass on a bit of stray gossip. His first choice had been the saloon but that establishment's owner didn't take too kindly to a rival businessman setting up shop on his turf. Still, the barkeep did offer to send any customer interested in a job over to him at the store.

This was such a customer and beggars couldn't afford to be choosers, Johnny reminded himself. "Twenty-five dollars a month plus beans," he remarked to the man standing in front of him. A sudden flash of a gap-toothed smile along with a whiff of whiskey- tainted breath told him that his offer had been accepted. At this rate, the hiring for the spring round-up and subsequent cattle drive would be complete by mid-afternoon and thoughts of a cool beer suddenly beckoned him. Spring was a busy time of year for the Lancer ranch, but with Murdoch offering top dollar, the hiring was fairly easy in Morro Coyo despite the fact that every other rancher was hiring men as well.

Trying to uncork real money from the old man in the first place had been the hard part, but Johnny had finally won that argument after much persuasion. He laid the fact that he had to do any arguing at all directly at Scott's feet. His brother had conveniently shied off to Sacramento on ranching business for Murdoch before the hiring was to take place. Johnny smiled to himself; he'd won the bet that he and Scott had made together that Murdoch would eventually cough up the extra coinage to hire more men. He'd make real sure that older brother paid in full when he arrived back home in a week or so.

Johnny scraped back the rickety chair borrowed from the general store and gestured impatiently for the man to make his mark on the sheet of paper. As he was giving directions to the new hire, his eyes drifted to two men riding into town. They reined up at the saloon and took their time looking around at the dusty clapboard buildings that made up the town.

The first man wore a black beard and had long hair flowing from under a dusty slouch hat pulled deeply forward over his eyes. A long, battered great coat in what Johnny surmised used to be the color grey, completed his outfit. Around his hips was a gun belt, slung low and tight. The dun-colored horse he straddled was not much to look at, but appeared to be serviceable. The second man was much slighter in build and younger looking than the first, with fair hair bristling from under a straw hat. Regardless of how old he appeared to be, the kid wore the same deadly-looking weapon, although this one rode high on beaten-up overalls and was worn to the front of the boy on the right side. Across his saddle bounced a full sack of possessions and the usual bedroll was tied on back. Both of them dismounted and walked into the saloon. His throat dry and his interest piqued, Johnny stepped off Baldemeros' front stoop and ambled over to get a beer.

Just as he cleared the swinging doors of the saloon, the bartender nodded his way. "That'd be him. That's the man to see about a job." He hailed Johnny, "These two'er lookin' for work."

Johnny regarded the two men thoughtfully for a moment and said, "Gents, why don't we sit down and have a beer?" The older of the two men met the appraisal with unflinching black eyes. Up close, Johnny could see that rough pock mocks had gouged the man's cheeks well into his rough beard line. This man was tall, taller than Johnny and barrel-chested. The stranger sat down heavily and threw his hat into an empty chair. The younger of the two threw Johnny a lopsided grin and copied the elder man, swinging his gun out of the way before hooking a leg over the back of the chair to sit down.

"Name's Baker, Jeff Baker," the black-haired man began in a surprisingly soft voice. He jerked his head toward the blond boy, "This here is Sid Davis and we're looking for work. Man at the bar said you might be hiring on."

"That depends," began Johnny, "have you ever done ranch work before?" As he finished speaking, Johnny glanced at the man's sidearm, visible on the man's leg under the table.

Baker sat back in his chair, eyes flashing. "The fact is, Sid and I have done all sort of work. Some on farms, some on ranches and…even some hiring out to those who needed the help." Baker waited a beat and issued a thinly veiled challenge. "But I 'spect you might know something about that yourself." The two gunmen regarded each other for long moments before the tense mood was broken by the nervous bartender, who appeared at the table delivering their drinks. Baker picked up the beer and stared into its foam. "Truth be told, we've been drifting a while and could use a job to store up some cash. We don't aim on making any trouble." Hard flinty eyes met Johnny's once more.

Johnny studied the men from under the brim of his hat. He'd seen men like them before, down-on-the-luck drifters who turned to just about anything to make their way through life. Hell, Baker was right, he'd managed to find himself in that same situation a time or two. Johnny figured that he'd be around to keep an eye on them to make sure they kept their act straight and it would be readily apparent after a few short days if they couldn't keep up with the workload. He gave a short nod to the two men, "You'll do. Drink up, then we'll head out. We start early and you're on Lancer time, now."

LLLLL

Murdoch sat back in the saddle, pushed his hat a few inches off his sweaty forehead and let the sounds of ranching fill his head. He thoroughly enjoyed the view, this part of Lancer with its fertile range and wide-open vistas never failed to capture his attention. He had ridden down, ostensibly to get Johnny's report on branding activities and movement of the herd, but had stopped to spend a few precious moments looking over the land that he, and now his sons, owned. Contentment flowed into him and it was a good feeling. Murdoch spied Johnny amongst the drovers and rode down to meet him. He reached his son just as Johnny released an entangled, bawling calf back to the herd. He leaned over the saddle horn and asked, "Giving you a little trouble, son?"

Taking his hat off to swipe at the sweat streaming into his eyes, Johnny turned to his father. "Murdoch, remind me to tell you sometime how stupid cows really are…."

A wide grin on his face, Murdoch chuckled, "Ah, there's no need to John, I've known that since before you were born. But I was wondering when you and Scott would figure it out…."

"Well, as of today, you can check my name off that list." He smiled slyly up at his father. "We'll have to wait on Scott, though…at least until he comes home tomorrow and can experience the thrill for himself."

The snapping crack of a whip down range drew Murdoch's interest. He watched intently as a few men, hired by Johnny the week before, rode point on the slowly moving bunch of red and white Herefords. "How are the new hires getting along?"

Johnny looked at the men and his grin faded. "They're slow but able enough workers, I suppose. Both Baker and Davis mostly keep to themselves. On Tuesday, the boys thought they'd play a joke on Baker. He's the one with the beard there. Davis, the light haired kid, tags along beside Jeff like a shadow and neither of 'em ever saw it coming. There were some fists flying afterwards and one of the hands said that Baker flashed a gun but no one has come forward. Cipriano doesn't trust Baker and thinks they'd been sharing a bottle beforehand. He says the whole thing threw a wedge between the two men and the rest of the boys. There are some bad feelings running in the bunkhouse all right but it's too early to tell how bad."

"It sounds like the hands might have gotten their noses out of joint when the joke didn't go through as planned, but I trust Cipriano. Keep me posted. The last thing we need is to lose any workers." With that said Murdoch wheeled his horse around and rode away from the herd, leaving Johnny to contemplate on the futures of Jeff Baker and Sid Davis at the Lancer ranch.

LLLLL

That evening, after Scott had finished bedding down his horse, he found that he was anxious to hear the sounds of family conversation again. Johnny's rolling laugh accompanied by Murdoch's deeper one met his ears as he neared the hacienda. The wonderful smell of Maria's roasted beef surely didn't hurt either, and he stepped up his pace. He had the good fortune to get his work finished early in Sacramento, and while this trip didn't pan out to be the great opportunity it seemed to portent, it did make a satisfying profit. He rubbed his hands together and smiled; right now he was in the mood for family, food and a soft, clean bed, in that order.

"Scott, you're back early!" exclaimed Murdoch. He yelled out towards the kitchen, "Maria, we have another mouth to feed. How did the trip go?"

"Yeah, Scott, tell us how the trip went; maybe it'll save us from hearing another story about Teresa's new hat," Johnny deadpanned and was rewarded with a swift kick under the table from the young girl.

Scott nodded to Johnny and favored Teresa with a quick wink and a sheepish smile. "The trip went well, not exactly how you planned it, Murdoch, but well enough I think. At least we were able to sell the mineral rights at a fair market price. How have things been here?"

Johnny wore a fat smirk and took the opportunity to answer for his father. "I'll tell you how things are going…the round-up is behind schedule, some of the men are already fighting and I've saved most of the branding, waiting on you to get your a…ah, hind end, home. That fence line on the south side has your name written all over it and your crew's already been picked out for tomorrow. Welcome home."

Scott took the gentle gibes in stride and groaned for effect. "Well, brother, it's always good to be needed." As the conversation ebbed and flowed around the dinner table, Scott found himself pulled into the dance of it once more and was grateful.

LLLLL

Scott had approached the craggy problem of the south side fence line with true military precision and he organized his crew as such. Unfortunately, those well-laid plans had collapsed after two of the men were pulled off to attend another problem on the far side of the ranch. It was time to fall back and regroup, a tactic that he had intimate knowledge of and had practiced many times before. After getting a promise from Johnny to send more men his way later in the day, he forged ahead.

By mid-afternoon, he drew off his stained hat and emptied half a canteen-full of water over his sweat-soaked hair and neck. Scott threw his head back, sending spritzes of water flying, and cocked an eye at the bright, yellow sun hanging in the sky. He sighed, resigned to the fact that this job wasn't getting done today. He and the crew had been hard at it, though for every two steps forward there seemed to be one back. The two replacements had crested the ridge, and couldn't be a more welcoming sight to him, but several of the hands in the crew had different sentiments.

The men his brother had sent looked to be the newest hires at the Lancer ranch, and although Scott had heard about them, he hadn't yet met them. Last evening, Johnny had filled him in about the incident that had occurred at the bunkhouse; he also learned that Murdoch had quickly dismissed it as men letting off steam after a hard day's work. It was no guess what Cipriano thought of the two; he had voiced his feelings in loud, expletive-ridden Spanish when asked about them. Scott really had no opinion on the matter; he just wanted this job accomplished and if they could hold it together to do that then so much the better.

.

Chapter 2

Wrangling a bale of wire, Scott saw the men from his periphery; plumes of grey dust sent up from galloping horse hooves marked their arrival a ways down the stretch of naked wooden posts. He turned to help Jim, a seasoned hand, when the man started to unfurl the barbed wire roll made specifically for repairing the drift fence. It took at least two to handle the heavy, cantankerous wire, especially with it being wound so tight. When Scott looked down the line again, he noted that Cipriano was giving directions to the men and knew the situation was well in hand.

He stood studying the men a bit and frowned; from a distance, the larger of the two looked oddly familiar. A singular notion regarding the man was perched fuzzily at the edge of his brain but he couldn't bring it forward. A soft curse made by Jim recaptured Scott's full attention once more. The wire had sprung up and a piece was deeply caught in the sleeve that covered the man's forearm. A growing redness around the points told Scott that the sleeve was not the only thing caught by the barbs. He eased the wire from Jim's arm and motioned him off to the side, allowing the wire to snap back into place on the roll. Grabbing a bandana, he bound the trickling wounds then sent the protesting cowboy on his way back to the ranch for further care. Scott grumbled inwardly as he tried to figure out a way to make up for the lost manpower.

Loud voices from down the fence row broke his concentration. "What now?" he muttered. Long legs ate up the hard-packed ground as he stalked past the wagon that held the last few bundles of unopened wire.

The trio of men, Cipriano, Baker and Davis, stood facing one another in a loose circle. Several of the cowboys had abandoned their work and gathered around them, looking on expectantly. Baker was adamantly shaking his head back and forth while Davis merely looked sullen. Cipriano narrowed his eyes and lapsed into rapid-fire Spanish.

Scott arrived on scene just as Baker spewed out a stream of tobacco juice aimed to the left of the Segundo's boot. The moment erupted when Cipriano dove towards the man and the gathered cowboys scattered like so many quail in an effort to dodge the rolling men. Muffled thuds reverberated as Cipriano pounded a fist to the man's cheek, then Baker, in turn, landed a hefty punch to the foreman's torso.

"That…is…enough!" roared Scott and reached for the closest man to him on the ground. It happened to be the back of Baker's checked shirt that he grasped in his hands and he hauled the man up and off of Cipriano. He propelled the big man backwards and up against a fence post, while coming to stand between him, Davis and the Lancer foreman. "The rest of you men get back to work." Turning to the three who remained, he huffed, "What's going on here?"

"This man, he says he won't take orders from a 'Mexicano'," spat out Cipriano.

He looked to the two new men and saw them up close for the first time. A strong feeling that he knew Baker from someplace washed over him…but where? Pushing the thought away, he responded, with a hint of sarcasm. "That would be a problem since the Lancer foreman happens to be Mexican." Capturing the black eyes of Baker, who was staring intently at him, Scott added, "And we expect his orders to be followed explicitly by the men we hire. Do I make myself clear?"

Davis grasped onto Baker's dirty sleeve, started to tug on his arm and answered for his companion. "Why, yes sir, Mr. Lancer, we do understand. We'll do whatever needs to be done, won't we Jeff?"

Baker looked at Scott once more, snatched his arm away from Davis, and gave an imperceptible nod as he bent to retrieve his hat.

LLLLL

It was after nightfall when Scott finally returned to the house, grimy and spent. The fence line wasn't finished but with prudent organization, it could be completed within one or two days. Chaotic thoughts finally settled on Baker and his mostly silent companion, Sid Davis. He stripped the gear from his horse and started to groom the animal when recognition streamed into Scott like a thunderbolt. It staggered him and he stumbled a few steps away from the horse, the brush in his hand momentarily forgotten. A voice from the stable doorway caught him from behind and he spun around to meet it.

Jelly stood in the doorway with arms raised and palms turned outward, "Now, hold on a minute Scott, I was just wondering who was out here, making all that racket putting his horse away. A body can't seem to get any rest what with all the noise." Looking closer into the lantern-lit barn, he found that Scott was peering at him carefully, eyes wide. "Iffen I didn't know better, I'd a thought that you were seein' Lucifer himself when you turned around like that."

"Jelly." It was a simple word but it grounded Scott back to reality. "No, I'm all right. Just finishing up here. Is Johnny back yet? I noticed that Barranca hasn't been stabled."

"Nope, he sent a hand in earlier, saying he was spendin' the night out on the range. Wants to get it over and done with then head back tomorrow. Can't say as I blame'em."

Scott felt a quick stab of disappointment. He had wanted to talk to Johnny about Baker and Davis to see if he had any insight as to how the two men ended up at the Lancer ranch. After waving the grizzled old man off, he turned once more to the horse, but his thoughts were on Jeff Baker alone. It had been a long time ago, and both of them had changed in appearance. Although Scott remembered Baker as being tall, the man had gotten huskier over the years and then there was the heavy beard and unkempt, long hair. The last time Scott had seen Baker, the man had been much thinner and the beard straggly and patchy. The patchiness had allowed the scars on his cheeks to stand out like sentinels, which only enhanced his malicious smile. The thought persisted, what was he doing here? Because the odd thing was, Scott was almost positive that Jeff Baker had died seven years ago.

LLLLL

Scott was anxious to get going after a sleepless night, but was held up the next morning by Murdoch, who wanted to talk over a potential surveying project. He finally arrived to the work site at high noon when most of the men had broken for the midday meal. Cowboys were littered here and there, sitting or lying in the shadows of the plentiful poplar trees that dotted this part of Lancer, their lunch plates balanced on knees or bellies, accordingly. Cipriano had gotten a good morning's work out of them; the fence line in this area was almost complete. The combination of hard work and sun had sapped all pretense of talking so it was mostly quiet that met Scott when he rode into camp. He apprehensively scanned the group but couldn't find the one man that had caused his sleeplessness. He spoke with Cipriano and found that the foreman had sent Baker and several other men over the ridge into a small valley to continue with the fence repair. The pair of regular hands had returned for the noon meal but the new hires had elected to stay out in the valley by the supply wagon.

When he turned his horse towards the ridge, Cipriano called out to him, "Señor, tener cuidado, that man is dangerous." Scott nodded curtly and wheeled his horse around.

He crested the hill and looked at the sight in the valley before him. Holes had been dug but the posts were strewn haphazardly along an uneven line while bales of wire had been left untouched beside them. Fighting a rising tide of anger, he located the supply wagon and with it two horses staked out to graze, one of which was the dun mare that Baker had been riding. Dismounting near a small copse of trees, Scott walked around the partially emptied wagon and came upon Davis, sacked out and snoring, with an empty tin-plated flask tipped on its side near the wheel well. He bent down to shake the man.

"Don't."

The soft, single word came from a voice behind Scott, and it sparked grim memories from his past. Slowly, he rose and turned to face Jeff Baker.

The man continued, "Well, well, who do we have here? I do believe it's Lieutenant Lancer. My, what a surprise to find you all the way out in California. And as owner of this fine ranch, too." The tone of his voice deepened. "It took me a while to figure out just who you are; it's been a few years all right and you've changed some. I expect that it came as some surprise to you, when I showed up…not dead. Not that you didn't do your damndest to make that happen. No, I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me after it was all over, huh?" He grinned, startling white teeth showing through the darkness of his beard.

The knot that had started in Scott's belly was suddenly in his throat. He took time to steady himself and casually leaned against the wagon as he studied the man before him. "You're right, Baker, I am surprised…surprised that no one else finished the job when I apparently couldn't kill you."

The man before him stiffened at the harsh language and his eyes grew hard. "You always were handy with the words, Lieutenant."

"And you were always handy with your fists, amongst other things." Scott had wanted the man dead so badly at one time that he could see the sequence of events unfolding in his mind even now. Indeed, he thought he had killed Baker all those years ago.

The first thing he saw was a sea of dust rising and billowing, like waves on an ocean. About a quarter-mile away, the smell started. Next came the tops of the ramparts rising above the dust cloud; this was where the guards stayed. It was, he eventually learned, the safest area for them, with the added benefit of being able to shoot anyone caught crossing the 'dead line'. And finally, men had appeared, up close in filthy, torn and mismatched uniforms. This was the sight that welcomed Scott and several others from his unit on that grotesque day when they were captured. And this was also the day he had met Captain Jeff Baker, and lived to regret it.

Jeff was a Union soldier, but, as he was fond of saying, there were all shades of blue and Baker happened to favor the palest color. He was a mercenary of the worst kind, playing both sides back and forth for his own gain and to the detriment of those who were unfortunate enough to get caught in his wake. One of his most foul acts had resulted in the death of Lieutenant Gideon Morris.

Seeing Baker this close and hearing him talk had awakened the sleeping emotions from that time and he felt each of them roll through him in turn. He straightened away from the wagon's edge and stepped towards the man, blue-grey eyes held firm to black ones, "Get off my land, Baker, now." He looked over to where Sid Davis was attempting to stand. "And take Davis there with you."

Noise from fast moving horses cut into the tension that had wrapped around both the men like a thick, suffocating blanket. Cipriano, accompanied by several hands, rode into the clearing to where Scott and Baker stood. The foreman, with one hand placed on the butt of his pistol, looked from one man to the next and inquired, "Is there trouble, Señor?"

Scott replied, his voice hard, "No, but both Baker and Davis will be leaving now, and they'll need an escort off Lancer the quickest way possible."

Cipriano wore a ferocious smile and nodded.

.

Chapter 3

Murdoch angrily paced in the great room after dinner, his half glass of scotch ignored for the moment. "Scott did what? That fence line on the south side still needs a full crew to repair it and then we'll need the men to help get the cattle moved by tomorrow." Murdoch pinned Johnny with a glare, "Why did your brother fire Baker and Davis? Surely it wasn't that incident at the bunkhouse. Scott wasn't even here when that happened."

Johnny was sitting in front of Murdoch's massive desk watching him stride back and forth, absently twirling his own glass lightly in his left hand while flexing the right; it was a nervous habit from old times. He had been placed in the unenviable position of trying to defend his brother against the man who called the tune. As a matter of fact, he didn't have much experience at playing the lead in this role. "Look Murdoch, that crew was almost done with the fencing, at least that's what Cipriano said. Whatever reason Scott had for firing those two, I'm sure it was a good one."

It had better be a good one, Johnny thought, Lancer needed those men. Usually he and Scott talked about the goings on at the ranch and then presented a united front to Murdoch. They always came to a conclusion, albeit sometimes heated, but they always came at it together. This time, however, Scott had made the decision all by himself. He'd like to hear that reason just as much as Murdoch, especially if it meant an increase in workload not only for the Lancer brothers but on all the rest of the hands as well.

"We're short on men and now we're going to be that much shorter," Murdoch snapped. He stopped pacing and strode to the large window behind the desk and pensively looked out. "The second herd was already supposed to be moved to that pasture yesterday and now we'll have to wait another few days because your brother felt the need to let go of perfectly good workers!"

The conversation abruptly died as Scott came into the room, slapping his gloves against dusty trousers. He stopped, looked warily from one man to the next, and tried to shake off his unease, "Well, nothing like making an entrance, I always say. What's going on?"

Murdoch stepped forward, "Scott, Johnny said that you fired both Baker and Davis today. Do you realize how hard it is to get good hired help this time of the year? We were already short on men!"

Scott threw his yellow gloves on a nearby chair and strode to the decanter. Pouring a drink, he watched the amber fluid swirl around the glass before sipping. He grimly looked from Johnny to Murdoch, set his jaw and spoke, "Sir, with all due respect, I don't owe you an explanation."

"No, you don't owe us an explanation…but I'm asking you for one anyway," said Murdoch, his voice softened. He looked at his eldest son carefully, something was niggling at his brain. He knew that Scott had a temper, most likely had inherited it from his side of the family, but this was different. Scott was angry, yes, but he also looked this side of…was the word desperate? Desperation was one emotion he'd never seen in his son before. Murdoch spared a look at Johnny, who shrugged with annoyance at his brother's reticence.

Scott walked to the fireplace and leaned on the mantle, staring fixedly into the flames. He looked haunted in profile as orange and yellow shadows danced across his angular features. He began in such a quiet voice that Murdoch and Johnny both leaned forward and strained to hear. "Baker and I were locked away in the same Confederate prison during the war…and he caused the death of a man who I called brother at the time. Is that enough of an explanation?" His voice gained in pitch as he turned around and stabbed a finger towards Murdoch. "The bottom line is this… if he works at Lancer, then I don't," his rich voice boomed and echoed off the stucco walls. Scott gulped down the last of his liquor, flung the empty tumbler into the fireplace, and stalked away even as the glass shattered against the burning logs.

The room was charged from Scott's outburst. Murdoch's mouth gaped slightly and he wore a pinched, wounded look as though someone had slapped him hard across the face. Johnny simply stared after the invisible trail of energy that was left as Scott exited from the room. Both taken aback, they turned to look at each other in miserable surprise.

Realization suddenly dawned on Johnny and he pounded the chair arm, thundering, "Oh hell, Murdoch! I hired those two to work here while Scott was out in Sacramento." Both men headed toward the doorway to find son and brother. Johnny reached out a beaded wrist to grasp his father's arm, "No, let me talk to him…I think I need to do some explaining."

Murdoch needed to go and find his son but understood Johnny's necessity to go first. He nodded to his youngest and watched him leave. Scott had stunned him with his vehement statement by the fireplace. Did he really think that he'd choose strangers over him? One more unexpected, shocking revelation. How many did Scott, or Johnny, for that matter, hold? He'd kept the past in the past, or at least he tried. He had wanted to start anew with his sons, but not really knowing everything about them always kept him on unsteady ground. No matter how callous to the facts he tried to be, that one hurt to the core, and he figured he had only himself to blame for that.

Plowing fingers through grey hair, he was suddenly very tired. There was a time when he felt vindicated for allowing Scott to be taken from him. He rationalized that his son would be safe in Boston with his grandfather, away from the wilds of California. He never reckoned on a war calling his son to do battle, let alone thinking about him in the enemy's prison for close to year.

Murdoch could only surmise what atrocities his son had survived in prison since Scott was not forthcoming with any details and the Pinkerton report had been entirely too vague about that time in his son's life. The faded white slashes on Scott's back, seen purely by chance, bore mute testimony to the fact that he had indeed been mistreated while imprisoned. And Murdoch had felt no right in demanding answers from his son. He sat down at his desk and refilled his drink with a less than steady hand; it was his turn to bleakly stare into the fire.

LLLLL

Scott breathed in huge drafts of air; he was vaguely aware that he'd been holding his breath during the tirade to his father and brother in the great room. He'd stalked outside and let the soothing air of the cool twilight wash over him. Coming to the corral, he grasped the top bar of the fence and squeezed, the blood draining from his hands, leaving white skeletal shells behind. God, it was Baker…here at Lancer! Somehow he had blocked it out, Scott thought, for even in his wildest nightmares he'd never envisioned meeting that animal again. He subconsciously curled the fingers of his right hand down to rub at the deep scar located at the base of his thumb. Vibrant, horrifying images of gaunt men in ragged, dirty uniforms shouting out for release from their pain came unbidden to his mind and filled his ears with raucous noise. Scott shook his head back and forth hoping that the sheer physicality of the movement would jar the thoughts from his head. Lost in his contemplation, he didn't hear his brother come to stand behind him and jumped when a warm hand was placed on his shoulder.

Johnny felt a shudder go through Scott at his touch. "Easy, Brother," he murmured and dropped his arm, coming to stand beside Scott. In silence, both men leaned on the corral fence, looking out through the rapidly encroaching darkness at the horses held within its circle. Johnny was the first to break the quietness. "I just didn't know, Scott. I never would have hired them if I knew who they were."

Scott dropped his head; he was achingly drained. The adrenaline had left and sanity had returned; along with it came an awareness of what Johnny was saying. He hadn't even thought of the fact that Johnny had hired the two men for the spring round-up. This was irony at its best, Scott thought ruefully, and under any other circumstances he could appreciate the cleverness of it all. But not this, he still held this too close. He hadn't anticipated a brother sharing in his misery, though, and right now this brother was feeling the brunt of it. Scott picked at a splintery knot hole in the pine fencing and began hesitantly, "Johnny, this isn't your fault…you had no way of knowing. And besides, I'd like to think that if you had known who Baker was, you wouldn't have hired him, but more than likely would have run him off instead." He glanced at his brother with a hollow smile hovering about his lips.

Sharing the sentiments, Johnny softly growled, "Damn straight, brother." He expected more history from Scott about Baker but wasn't too disappointed when nothing else came for the moment. He already knew a little about Scott's military service at a place called Yellow Tavern and even small bits and pieces of his prison time that had come out during long working afternoons on the range. Questions had arisen, especially after he'd seen the thin scars across Scott's shoulders during a late, unscheduled swim one hot summer day. Johnny figured that they had really gotten to know each other that day, as they shared a few scars and secrets.

Scott sighed; the altercation with Baker at the fence line had stirred up more things than he was willing to admit to himself. After so many years of trying to deflect all feelings about the war, here they came, in an avalanche that threatened to bury him very quickly. He leaned heavily on the railing. "I tried to kill Jeff Baker," he said thickly.

Johnny's head snapped up at his brother's confession and he stared at Scott in the growing darkness. His brother was very adept at taking care of himself and those around him, especially in a tight situation. But a calculated murder? That was another thing all together. Getting accustomed to one another had taken some work when they were first thrown in together at the ranch, but growing close to his brother had been purely natural, and this image of Scott just didn't fit with the brother he had come to know. He waited patiently.

Scott shook his head at the memory. "They called us 'fresh fish', that's what the new prisoners were called." The sounds echoed now in his memory. "Twenty-three unwounded men had been brought with me to that place yet only a handful of those lived to be set free at the end of the war. Second Lieutenant Gideon Morris was one of those who died."

"Gideon Morris, is that the man you called 'brother'?" asked Johnny.

Scott nodded. "Captain Daniel Cassidy was in command while I was his second. At the time Gideon was assigned to our troop, he had just turned eighteen; I was older at nineteen and more experienced with the cavalry. We shared an East Coast upbringing and had some of the same experiences growing up so it happened that we grew close. I was glad to have him, for he was an excellent horseman, a fine strategist, and later on, a good friend." The remembrances of those times from long ago and the part that Baker had played in Gideon's death flooded into Scott's mind.

.

Chapter 4

"The conditions in the prison were…unfortunate. Men were packed into rooms like sardines in a box. The rations that were handed out consisted of a very small loaf of bread and a little thin broth. Toward the end, when the war finally started to wind down, that lot soon gave way to just a small piece of poor corn bread…and on many days there was nothing at all. Some of the worst fights I saw grew out of soldiers dividing rations, and those were on an almost daily occurrence."

"Hunger often controlled out thoughts, but some plan of escape or exchange always occupied our minds. Rumors bled through the camp about exchanges and no matter how wild or unreliable it might seem, that was one rumor we always believed would come true. In our hearts at least, we wanted the possibility of an exchange to be true, unfortunately it never occurred except for a favored few. We were heartily glad to see someone get away from that prison and bode the men who had been picked to go north no animosity, but we were guilty of wishing it was us leaving instead of them."

"Captain Baker had made his presence known on the day I arrived to the prison and for all outward appearances, he looked to be a tough but competent man. I found out much later that Baker was cruel by nature, made hard by Army life and driven to frank desperation by imprisonment. He had not only survived the months of incarceration, but appeared to flourish. I learned the hard way that Baker was the self-imposed commander of a group of men who had turned against their own. They were allowed to travel the camp, allegedly to maintain some type of discipline and order among the soldiers. On many days they degenerated into a mindless, roving mob, prone to thieving and beating those who couldn't run away from them. And, all too often, Baker didn't mind switching allegiances when the mood struck, alerting the guards to potential escape plans and turning over prisoners who tried to hoard what precious little food they had."

Scott flashed a small grin. "On a particularly fetid day, a month or so into my prison stay, a visitor came into the camp with a small dog. That fat bulldog strolled into the prison yard like it owned the place. After a few weeks of starving, I'm here to tell you that the dog looked pretty good to us. Gideon lured it away from the guards and one of the men cut its throat. The animal was immediately skinned and the meat, the first we had since our arrival, was boiled into a soup." His brief smile faded. "Baker found out about the incident, and the sentries appeared just as we had started to spoon it up. Gideon and I, plus the few others involved, were taken away and pegged out in the courtyard for that minor infraction." Scott rubbed at the deadened scar tissue below his thumb and wrist and said, wryly, "In their haste to set us up as an example, the guards came a little too close with their pegs for my liking."

"Three months later, whether it was from the poor treatment, colder weather or the forced starvation, Gideon succumbed to a bad cough. That morning when the rolls were called, he staggered to his feet and fell back again to the floor. The Confederate Surgeon came and decided that he had pneumonia in one of his lungs and that he must go to the hospital. Disease was our second greatest enemy in the camp and there was no respite from it. We shook hands somberly and he gasped out his goodbyes to the rest of the men. I told him not to give up, that relief would come shortly, but we both knew that once a man went into the hospital he seldom came out alive. He smiled, a rare thing among us at the time, and gave me a mock salute in acknowledgement. The situation appalled me; I was accountable for him not only as a commander, but also as a friend…and I was helpless to do anything for him."

"A few days after he was taken away, we heard news of an impending exchange of prisoners. A few noncombatants, a Union chaplain and an assistant surgeon, plus an additional number of hurt and ill men, were to be exchanged. Gideon was still alive and he was rumored to be among those selected to leave. I was riding high that day with hope that Gideon, at least, would survive that place. My feeling of goodwill lasted until I overheard Captain Baker talking about the exchange that was to happen the next day. He was boasting that he would soon be leaving because he had figured out a way to take Gideon's place."

"That was all the incentive I needed, and frankly, I welcomed the battle. There was no way I would allow him to take Gideon's place. Before I realized what I was doing, I had leapt at Baker and sent both of us sprawling in the dirt. A crowd of men rapidly gathered 'round and cheered us on. Then hands were suddenly pulling me back, forcing me to let him go, but before I did, I landed one solid blow. He took it to the side of the face and stumbled backwards. From where I was being held, I could see him cartwheel, his head hitting against the brick rampart that we had rolled towards. He didn't move after that. The guards came then, firing their weapons, and the crowd backed away from the bloody scene."

"I was hauled away, punished, and thrown into solitary confinement for the next two weeks. A couple of days before I returned from solitary, one of the men had seen a wagon backed up to the hospital door, and a tarp-covered body carried out and placed into it. Gideon had never been released; his name had been dropped not only from the exchange list but from the list of the living as well."

"I never saw Captain Baker again, and assumed I had succeeded in killing him…I had his blood on my hands and had seen it in the dirt after the fight. According to the men in the yard, he had been taken away to the hospital, but no one around me knew anything else. I was never tried for the crime because none of the other soldiers would come forward as a witness and the Confederates had already exacted their pound of flesh from me for the brawl. It was all for nothing in the end, since Baker had succeeded in turning off the exchange. Gideon had died, and I carried the burden of guilt for Baker's death…that is, until I saw him here at the ranch." Scott's voice trailed off and he was silent once more.

Johnny's gut roiled and he swallowed hard trying to fathom what had just been said. He had once told his brother that he had learned life's lessons the hard way. Johnny suddenly realized that he and Scott had something in common, for his brother had learned some hard lessons himself along the way. He turned away from the corral fence to face his brother, concern evident in his eyes. One other notion tugged at him, "What about Murdoch? He…."

Scott looked away briefly and tiredly rubbed a hand over the short stubble on his jaw. "I know, I know…he deserves an explanation."

Standing close and lightly touching his brother's shoulder, Johnny waited for Scott to start towards the house. As he listened to the subdued night sounds just beginning to hum from beyond the corral, dark thoughts ran straight to Baker and Davis. He would make sure that they'd find their way out of town quickly, one way or another.

LLLLL

Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair until Maria accidentally dropped a piece of heavy crockery that clattered to the kitchen floor. Scott visibly jerked in response to the loud noise at his elbow. Both Murdoch and Johnny saw the flinch and raised their eyebrows, but said nothing.

Murdoch had made up his mind. Looking at both his sons across the table, he drained his coffee cup and started in. "Scott, I want you and Johnny to work on the north side today. The rest of the crew can finish up the south fence, then they can start to move the cattle forward to pasture after they're done."

Scott's own cup, raised partway to his mouth, stopped in midair as he quizzically studied his father. "I thought Johnny and I would work on getting the fence completed, and then help the crews to move the cattle; we'd get done a lot quicker."

"No, no argument. I want both of you working the north side today. That stream will need clearing out before too much longer and now's the time to do it. Better take the wagon, some of the planks on the bridge have rotted through and they'll need replacing."

The now-forgotten coffee was set aside; Scott sat and looked intently at his father. He wanted to question Murdoch, but in his mind he already knew the answer. The north side was the area closest to the house and his father wanted them, no him, close by.

The conversation last evening with Murdoch had lasted well into the night, leaving Scott exhausted and his father distressed. It had been a long time in coming. Scott missed having a father the most when he had returned from the war, battle-weary and broken, anxious to share his grief. He hadn't been sure of how his father would receive the news now, over seven years later, from a son he was still getting to know. And while the discussion did nothing to alleviate the gamut of emotions within Scott, he did think that it had somehow helped his father to understand that what had happened during that year in prison had a hand in shaping the son before him. It chafed, this forced protection, and it was something that he was patently unused to, but Scott could understand the thought behind it and accept it for what it was…at least for the time being. He stood, turned to collect his things, and said over his shoulder, "Coming, Johnny?"

"Yeah, Scott, I'm coming, I'll meet you at the corral." Johnny waited until his brother had left the kitchen and leaned over to chide his father. "Cleaning up the stream on the north side, Murdoch? You don't think that he realizes what you're trying to do? Scott knows I'll watch his back, and you should, too. How long do you think he's gonna stand around and be coddled?"

"Long enough, Johnny, for Baker and Davis to make their way out of this valley so we can put this behind us. Just long enough…."

.

Chapter 5

It was a few days later and not quite evening by the time Johnny could finally shake off work, and his brother, for the ride into town. He had to make sure that his intuitions were right. The town air was stale and still, the odor of men and horses and piles of manure mixed in with smoke from the nearby smithy. It was debatable what could smell worse in the summer, the streets of Morro Coyo or its saloon, but Johnny hoped that this time it was the former.

He hesitated just outside the doors; the man he was looking for was at the bar nursing a drink. There stood Jeff Baker, late employee of the Lancer ranch courtesy of his brother, who had one hell of a good reason to fire the man. Johnny was only vaguely surprised that he was still in town. His kind didn't run; they needed to be pushed. Baker's friend, Davis, was sitting off to the side at one of the round tables, with his head in his hands. He looked hungover and probably was. With grim determination, Johnny passed through the saloon's swinging doors and up to the bar.

"Baker," he said, his voice low and hard. The man didn't respond at first, then turned to face Johnny. During his years of throwing a gun, Johnny had seen plenty of dead men whose eyes had turned to cold, unfeeling bits of glass when life had left. What faced him now looked almost as bad. The man turned to him with eyes black as pitch, and it was like gazing into emptiness. Baker suddenly veered off to the left, as if intending to go out through the doors. Johnny shifted to the side blocking his exit. Again, Baker moved to go around, and this time Johnny put his hand on the man's arm. For an instant, both of them locked eyes and Johnny could see the cool calculations going on in the other's mind. The man was deciding whether or not to dip his hand toward the Colt strapped to his right side. After a few long moments of contemplation, Baker jerked his arm away and went back to the drink on the counter.

The man seemingly relaxed as he hoisted a foot on the running board and leaned on one elbow, studying his drink. He intoned in a voice that was level and emotionless, "Better not grab me again, Lancer. That's a good way to get hurt. Or didn't your brother tell you that?"

Johnny propped himself up on an elbow and traced a finger along the cracks in the wooden surface of the bar. "Oh, he told me about a lot of things…including the times you had in that Confederate prison together."

Baker's head rose up and he glared at Johnny. "Did he also tell you that he tried to kill me while we were there?"

Johnny smiled thinly. "The way I heard it, he had good enough reason."

"So is that what you're doing here? Trying to finish what he started all those years ago?"

"No, I'm just here to make sure that you and him don't ever cross paths again. It's up to you on how it goes. I see that you have two choices in the matter, the right one or the wrong one. I'd be choosing the right one, if I were you and make my way out of town.

"And if I don't?"

Johnny straightened, fixed on Baker with bright eyes and said softly, "Well then, if we have to, let's get this over with." Heads popped up and the room quickly became still, the bartender started to edge silently towards the far end of the counter. Abruptly, a loud voice from the batwing doors shattered the unexpected quietness in the saloon. Johnny recognized the voice as Nils Petersen, the owner of the Lazy P, a large cattle ranch due east of town.

Petersen yelled out again, "Baker, Davis, we're moving out."

Johnny looked on in disbelief as Baker threw him an icy smirk and walked over to where Davis was sitting. Nudging the cowboy but not gaining a response, he finally gave up and hauled Davis to his feet and proceeded to walk out of the saloon, supporting the unsteady man under the elbow.

Johnny left the bar in time to watch Baker and Davis mount up. He tapped Petersen on the shoulder and asked, "Mr. Petersen, did you hire those two?"

The portly man turned to Johnny, reins in hand. "It's not a crime is it? My ranch needs just as much help as Lancer does, especially this year; we've been having a good season."

"No, but it's just that we…."

"Johnny, I know that you fired them, but it's no business of mine if Murdoch wants to throw away help. We can sure use them for the drive. Oh, and tell your father that I'll expect some competition from Lancer at the rodeo next week." Chuckling, he mounted and started off.

Baker reined his snorting horse around towards Johnny and held the animal in place, causing clouds of dust to float upwards from the dancing hooves. His feral grin widened and he flicked long, stringy hair back over his shoulder with a quick jerk of the head. "You make sure and tell the Lieutenant that I'll see him around."

Frustrated, Johnny stood on the boardwalk and slapped his hand hard against the wooden strut beside him. Unsure of what to do next, he spied the sheriff walking into his office and an idea came to him.

LLLLL

Some days he just wanted to cut loose, and this was one of those days, Scott thought. Murdoch had made sure that they kept hard at it for over a week of the same grind–up before dawn, home after sunset and only the mind-numbing, back-breaking work of clearing the stream in between. At least the end was in sight. Scott figured that they could have had it done yesterday but Johnny needed to go into town for "something" that his brother was being rather tight-lipped about.

Today had been a good day all around, made even better when Johnny had managed to fall into the now debris-free stream and had gotten soaked up to his hips. Scott had done a fine repair job on the bridge, so fine that even Johnny missed what really wasn't fixed, much to the younger man's discomfiture. It was an inspiration getting his brother to try and cross it first. Scott pushed his hat back and took his time surveying the situation. Shooing away an errant fly buzzing around his head, he put his hands on his hips and said, "Sorry about that Johnny, I guess I must have missed a nail."

"You guess you must have missed one?" Johnny yelled. His voice died down to a grumble as he picked up the offending boards from the water and showed them to Scott. "From where I'm standing, I can tell that you missed one…or two." Johnny peered closer at the boards and finally realized what Scott had done. "In fact, I'd say you missed a whole lot of nails…"

"Now, no need to get upset, those pants will dry. You were just complaining about how hot it is an hour ago and now you're all cooled off. You know, you really should try to look at the positive side of things." Scott tried to ignore the outraged look on his brother's face, but failed miserably and a loud chuckle escaped.

"At least you could help me out of this mess!"

"That's the oldest trick in the book, Johnny. No, I'm doing fine right here, thank you. Here comes Murdoch, maybe he'll help you get out."

Murdoch braked the wagon near the two horses tethered under a large tree and took note of Johnny's predicament and Scott's laughter. It was good to see Scott smile again, even if it was at the expense of his brother. "Johnny quit fooling around down there. I was just passing by after dropping off supplies to the crew and thought you two might need something, but I can see for myself that you're doing all right."

Johnny muttered from the water, "Yeah, that's right, we're both doin' just fine, Murdoch," and he sloshed his way up the short embankment.

Laughter was cut short when Murdoch saw a rider approaching from over the hill. "It looks like the sheriff. What's he doing all the way out here?" Murdoch said.

Sheriff Jayson rode up to the three men and pointedly looked at Johnny. "Had a little accident? I finally got word back from the authorities over at Chico on those two strangers. Your idea was right on the money; those two boys have been in a bit of trouble, but nothing they can be pinned down for. Very convenient, if you ask me."

Confused, Murdoch interjected, "What are you talking about, Sheriff?"

Sheriff Jayson looked at Murdoch and said, "I think it was a real good idea of Johnny's to see if those men had any problems before they came to Morro Coyo. After all, he didn't get much from them at the saloon the other day."

Irritated, Scott turned to face Johnny. "This is the 'something' that you had to do in town yesterday? And just what did you do, threaten him? I can handle my own battles without you butting in Johnny. Leave it alone; this isn't your problem."

Anger sparking in his eyes, Johnny said, "That's all well and good, brother, but there's something else you need to know. Both Baker and Davis were hired on by Nils Petersen for the season…so I'm making it my problem."

"Is there something I missed here?" the sheriff asked, leaning over his saddle horn.

Scott answered, "I knew Baker a few years back, Sheriff, during the war. Let's just say he wasn't a model of good citizenship back then and I can't believe that he's changed any." The face of Gideon Morris as he was being taken to the Confederate hospital flashed in his mind for a moment. Scott's anger dissolved when he realized he didn't want Johnny to get involved with Baker because he feared the outcome. "I'll finish up the bridge tomorrow. Right now, I think I'll ride over to see how the south side fence is getting along." He had some thinking to do and the long ride would be just the thing for his current state of mind.

Before leaving, he turned to his brother, "I'm serious Johnny, leave this alone. It's not for you to handle." With that said, he mounted up and kicked his horse into a gallop.

"Scott, wait…!"

Murdoch touched Johnny's arm, "Hold on Johnny, let him go. Maybe I've gone about this in the wrong way, keeping him tied down and close to the ranch. Sheriff, just what did you find out about Baker and Davis?"

LLLLL

It was nightfall by the time Scott made his way back to the hacienda. He tried to slip past the great room and up the stairs to his bedroom, not relishing the thought of speaking to anyone, but was caught by Murdoch calling out his name.

Murdoch looked at Scott and saw the tiredness around his eyes and in the slump of his shoulders. "Drink? You look like you could use one."

Scott took the proffered glass and swallowed half the fluid in a single gulp, feeling it burn and bite all the way down.

"Did you come to any decisions on your ride?"

Contemplating his drink, Scott brought up his head, "Decisions?"

"Well, I really didn't think that you were checking out the south side since I have it on good authority that the fence line was finished there two days ago. What have you decided to do about Baker?"

He smiled sheepishly, then frowned. "Murdoch, I won't have him hurt anyone at Lancer…but I won't be going after him, if that's what you were thinking. And I don't want Johnny going after him, either. No, the past is over and done with, although some of the bad memories still remain. It's time to move on."

Murdoch let go of the breath he had been holding. He knew that Scott was entirely too capable of doing whatever he set his mind out to do, including taking down Jeff Baker. But he also knew that his son, whether born that way or bred, was an inherently decent man despite the hardships he had encountered in prison. He had faith in Scott to do the right thing; unfortunately he didn't have that same faith in Baker.

.

Chapter 6

The whole town felt different on rodeo days; it took on a new, exciting air and had everyone from the minister on down to the youngest school boy betting on who would win the horse races set for the afternoon. The vaqueros clad in their finest and gaudiest trappings, would exhibit well-honed skills at the bull-dogging and bare-back riding contests in the ring. Each of the large ranches, and several of the smaller ones, would have their cowboys entered in at least one of the events and the bragging rights of the winners would be enough to ride herd on conversations throughout the entire winter. The Lancers were no different in that most of their men had entered with intentions to win. And Murdoch hoped that they'd win a lot, so he would have enough ammunition to crow about it to Nils Petersen over aged whiskey and cigars at the annual Rancher's Association meeting.

Murdoch pulled the wagon to a halt and watched as Teresa fairly ran over to where her friend, Annabelle, was standing on the boardwalk. Peals of laughter soon followed as the two young ladies, with heads pressed together, engaged in an animated conversation. He winced slightly and eyed both Johnny and Scott as they came abreast of the wagon. "All right boys, which one of you is going to escort Teresa? She's made it quite clear that she doesn't need an escort, but looking at this crowd, I think I'll overrule her on this one. Whoever does it has to make sure to get her and the cake over to the booth or we'll never hear the end of it."

Johnny nodded smugly toward his brother. "I think old Scott here lost the coin toss on this one, Murdoch." He saw Scott open his mouth to say something but cut him off. "Just think of it as payment for those wet pants, brother. Maybe next year you can bake a cake and enter it in that contest yourself." Chuckling at his joke, Johnny clicked to Barranca and slowly ventured off, picking his way around the milling crowd.

Scott looked glumly towards the young ladies and sighed. It was going to a long afternoon. Things suddenly brightened, though, when Belinda Little, single daughter of the local banker and a statuesque brunette to boot, sauntered past holding a cake. Getting an appreciative eyeful, he turned to Murdoch, "You know, I think a little cake wouldn't be so bad after all. Teresa and I will see you at the barbeque." He dismounted, threw the reins to his father, and grabbed the confection from the front seat. Reaching the boardwalk, Scott tipped his hat to Annabelle and teasingly admonished Teresa for not hurrying to the cake booth.

LLLLL

Scott and Teresa walked along the street in the cool night air, making their way to the large open barn that held both the barbeque and dance for the evening's entertainment. Lively music could be faintly heard in the distance. Teresa bemoaned, "I still don't see how I could have lost to Belinda Little, Maria's recipe never fails and Belinda's wasn't all that good. You should know, you had more than one piece of it. Hey, I thought you didn't like cake all that well?"

"Now I never said I didn't like cake. Besides I had to check out the competition for you, didn't I?" Scott didn't have the heart to tell Teresa that the main reason why Belinda had won was that she had promised one of the judges a fair number of dances tonight. Scott had found her charms rather lacking after that, but unfortunately the revelation had come after he had eaten two pieces of her only so-so cake. Feeling a bit nauseous, he continued to try and cheer up the young woman. "At least you won second place, and look at the nice ribbon you have, that's something isn't it?"

Teresa nodded her head and was about to say something when a shrill cry pierced the night air. A lone woman came running out of the alley and bore straight into them. With disheveled hair and a long tear in one sleeve, her eyes were wild-looking with fear. Scott caught her about the shoulders and shook her slightly as she fought and clawed at him.

"Scott, it's Annie Hawthorne," Teresa murmured.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Scott demanded of the hysterical woman.

Jeff Baker emerged from the dark alley, holding a whiskey bottle in his right hand. "I'll tell you what's wrong, her and I came to a little misunderstanding, that's all."

Scott gently pushed the woman towards Teresa and stepped in front of them. "Teresa, take Annie and go to the dance hall. Now." He spoke firmly, his eyes never leaving Baker's face.

Teresa held the trembling woman against her and reached out an arm to pluck at his sleeve, "Scott, no…you come with us."

His voice went hard. "Do as I say, go to the dance. Move!" Wide-eyed, Teresa whirled around and tugged Annie along with her. The forgotten red ribbon was dropped in the dirt.

Baker moved a little further out into the open and stared at Scott with a sneer on his lips. He gestured with the bottle, "Here we are Lieutenant; surely you can't fault a man for having a little bit of fun, can you? Now that little gal you were walking with, I saw her at the ranch a few times, is she taken?"

Scott lunged and the whiskey bottle went flying.

LLLLL

The ladle clinked against the glass bowl as Johnny filled up two cups with the watery punch. He took them both to where Murdoch was having a heated discussion with Nils Petersen about the Lazy P's hiring practices. He offered a cup to his father, then turned to look around at the converted barn. Rich cords from the fiddle set up a toe-tapping tune and couples whirled about the wooden floor. He grinned over his cup across the room at Miss Belinda Little, who smiled back and raised her eyebrows slightly in invitation. Pushing off from the table he was leaning against, Johnny started to leave the older men to their conversation but saw Teresa run into the building and anxiously look around. Something was wrong.

"Johnny, there's trouble…Scott and Jeff Baker are down the street. Hurry!" Teresa cried out.

Johnny dropped the cup of punch he'd been holding and threw a look toward Murdoch. He ran out of the barn, scattering dancers and eaters alike in his haste, with his father trailing behind.

A small group of curious bystanders had stopped to take in the street fight and a few of the more inebriated patrons were yelling out encouragement to the two men brawling in the dirt. Johnny plowed through the crowd just in time to see Scott take a swing at Baker. His brother's fist connected with Baker's jaw and the man sagged to his knees. Taking advantage of the break, he grabbed Scott and pushed him off to the side, against a brick scaffold. Johnny supported his brother as he leaned into the wall in an effort to catch his breath. Black-looking in the moonlight, blood seeped out from a shallow cut high on Scott's left cheekbone, a dark bruising readily evident.

Murdoch, along with the sheriff, arrived quickly, with the lawman going to Baker's side and helping the man up. "What happened here?" he inquired.

"He jumped me!" howled Baker. He was holding a grimy hand to the right side of his face, one eye already starting to close shut from the swelling around it.

Scott stood away from the wall and swiped a torn sleeve across his cheek. "That's right, Sheriff, I did attack him, but not before he accosted Miss Hawthorne and threatened Teresa."

Nils Petersen jostled his way through the crowd and what Scott had to say wasn't lost on him. "It's final, Baker, the Lazy P has no room for you or your drunken antics anymore; you can pick up what's owed to you…after you get out of jail. I'm sorry I ever hired you on."

The sheriff took Baker's arm and started to lead him off. "I expect we can find something along the lines of drunk and disorderly to keep you in jail, at least for tonight. Could be longer since I'm guessing that you probably don't have bail money. Maybe then you'll want to leave town, seeing as how you're not welcome here anymore."

LLLLL

"C'mon, Sheriff, you have to let me out of here!" Jeff Baker, pacing the short length of his cell, was desperate. No, he'd never liked tight spaces and this one was getting smaller and smaller the longer he was here. He ran a hand through his greasy hair in frustration. At least when he was under the thumb of the Confederacy all those years ago, he had the luxury of being able to roam out in the prison yard rather than being cooped up all the time in some tiny room with a hundred others. He'd made a concerted effort to stay out of jails, one way or another, ever since.

He and the Army never did mix right and the timing of his capture had conveniently saved him from being dismissed for conduct unbecoming an officer. And although he didn't miss the prison at all, he did yearn for the raw power that it had given him. He had thrived when he was there, all the while playing the part of a Confederate patsy. Then it had spun out of control and he had decided it was time to go; Morris had been his ticket to freedom, a means to an end. He just knew the boy was going to die and it still rankled that Lancer tried to stop him. Hell, he couldn't even remember what the kid looked like during the day. But during the night, those prison remembrances were as worrisome as a dog with a bone, gnawing at him in nightmare-filled sleep. They were the last bad memories in a war full of them and seeing Lancer again had whipped them into high action. The shaking of door keys brought his attention back to bear on the sheriff.

"You're not going anywhere for a while yet. So just settle down," growled Sheriff Jayson through the doorway. "There's a visitor for you."

Sid Davis, hat in hand, nodded to the sheriff as he made his way to the cell that held Baker. His eyes were bright with apprehension. He knew that Jeff would be raging after spending time behind bars.

"Do you mind, Sheriff?" Baker thrust his arms out between the steel bars to lean against them.

Shaking his head and the keys to the cell, the sheriff returned to the anteroom, leaving the door partially ajar, and made his way back to his desk.

Nervous and defiant all at once, the jailed man barked at his companion, "It's about time you made it here. You need to hustle me out of here. How much money do you have?"

"Just calm down a mite, Jeff. You know I haven't got any money on me." His voice dropped a notch lower. "And you know the sheriff's got you covered six ways from Sunday so I can't risk breaking you out."

"We could have had some greenbacks by now if Lancer hadn't of gotten me fired from the Lazy P. Damn him anyway." Baker started to pace again. Force of habit had him rubbing the back of his head, and his fingers swept over the long, ridged scar. Lancer had put that scar there. And for what? Over the life of some poor sick boy who was bound to die anyway? No, he owed Lieutenant Lancer something for that scar.

"There's something else. That sheriff, he's been asking questions, mostly about Chico, but he's hinting that he knows about the other places, too."

"There's nothing to tie us to those places, and you know it, so keep your mouth shut, Sid."

"Sheriff said that you'd be getting out soon anyway, let's just move on up north and start new like we was going to. Forget Lancer, it'd be for the best."

"Like I said, keep your mouth shut, Sid." He thought for a moment and a gleam came into his eyes, causing Davis to involuntarily back up a step. "Let's give the Lancers a little worry…."

LLLLL

Sheriff Jayson rode hard into the courtyard. He spied Murdoch out by the corral and spurred his mount to where the elder Lancer stood looking over a batch of newly broken horses. He nodded to the animals in the corral. "Fine looking string you have there." He turned his attention back to the Lancer patriarch. "Rode out here this morning 'cause I thought you'd want to know about Baker. I kept him in jail until after the doings from the rodeo died down. Figured we didn't need a man like Baker out running around in the crowd. I couldn't keep him anymore but he didn't look in any all-fire hurry to be moving on, so I escorted him over to the Petersen place and he and Davis lit out from there."

Murdoch contemplated what the sheriff was telling him. "Sheriff, when exactly did you let him out of jail?"

"It was yesterday afternoon, late; we caught Nils at his supper table. Why?"

"Lancer had its first real setback of the season last night. One of our fences was laid low, with the wire cut and tangled and posts broken. I was thinking that Baker may have had a hand in it."

"Do you want me to go out and take a look?"

"No need, Scott and Johnny are out there now, with Cipriano and a few of the hands to see if they can pick up any tracks. It's going to take us a few days of hard labor to get that fence back in working order again and to get the cattle rounded up again. We'll let you know if we find anything."

"Murdoch, that Baker is one cool customer. I can't say for sure that he's gone from the area; all I know is that he's not in town. If Scott and him have a bad history together…well, I'd be keeping an eye peeled if I were you and I'll do the same from where I sit."

LLLLL

"Señor, take a look at this." Cipriano was bending down at the site of the largest destruction and motioned to Johnny. The Segundo was pointing to the few tracks left in the dirt; most of them having been obliterated by the stampede of cattle through the gaping hole in the wire.

Johnny stared down at the track; it was made by an unshod horse and was oddly shaped, like a half-moon with a notch taken out at the two o'clock position. "Hey Scott, c'mere, take a look. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Scott bent over the impression and made an outline of its form with a stick. "It looks like somebody's horse has a cracked hoof."

"Exactly. And that means that he's probably been slowed down some by it," opined Johnny. "At least we can hope. Cip, take the men and fan out towards Boar's Head. Scott and I'll go through the valley up to the high country; maybe we can find him or them camped out somewhere."

They had been on the trail for over an hour and it seemed to Johnny that Scott was getting quieter and quieter the further along they rode. He edged a quick look at his brother. The granite-set of Scott's jaw told him that Boston was doing a lot of thinking. He gently prodded, "You know who we're probably following, don't you?"

"I can make an educated guess. What do you want me to do about it?" Scott snapped.

"For starters, you can quit biting my head off every time I bring it up."

"It happened so many years ago, Johnny, what did you want me to do? Gun Baker down in the streets of Morro Coyo? Or worse yet, have you face him down?"

"People have turned to gunfighting for less than what you went through, brother," Johnny said soberly, then turned to smile at Scott. "Hell, I would have come cheaper than most and been happy to do the job for you."

The corner of Scott's mouth quirked upwards. He shook his head, "No, nothing says I have to forgive or forget what happened, but its old history now, and time to move on."

"And what if Baker won't let you 'move on'?" Johnny persisted.

"Then I guess I'll have to…" His words were cut short by the sound of a gunshot.

.

Chapter 7

"No." Sid Davis said firmly. "I can handle cutting wire or rustling a few cows here and there. Hell, I'll even fight for those that pay, but you're wantin' to kill Lancer outright, and that puts a bad complexion on the whole deal. You're playing a pretty high hand right now, but if you kill him and don't think that his brother and old man won't be comin' after us, you'd better think again."

Baker snarled, "Boy, when you decide to talk, you really let the flood gates open, don'tcha? Lancer tried to kill me!" The two men had stopped to rest and make a dry camp in the forest of pine and spruce trees. They were well guarded with a high, solid rock face to the right and the plentiful conifers blocking them from all other views. Davis' horse had come up lame, and the going was slow, but Baker had unfinished business back at Lancer and he was in no hurry to leave anyway. It had been pure coincidence finding Scott Lancer out here in California and it was the only right thing to come along in a good while. He aimed to take full advantage of the situation.

Davis snapped back, "You got out of that prison though, didn't you? Did Lancer? I been thinking that maybe that fella might have had good cause to off you in that place. Things change Jeff, but you haven't, not since the day we met. You always have been a mean sonuvabitch and I'm sorry I throwed in with you."

Baker was seething; Davis was turning on him, just like the men in his Army unit and in that godforsaken prison. He angrily shot back, "You threw in with me, huh? I seem to remember that I took you in, Sid. You're forgetting Las Cruces." He had found the kid in the ugly streets of that backwater town in New Mexico, face down and halfway dead, nearly two years ago now. He never could figure out why he had stopped to help the boy, but it had worked out for the both of them, at least until now.

"By gawd, if that's all you remember then your memory's getting cloudy! Who made sure that you lived to take another breath after that fracas with the law in Denver last year? I tried to do right by you, but it ain't enough. And plannin' to kill Lancer is the straw that broke the camel's back." He turned to his mount and tightened up the cinch. "No, I've got a real bad taste in my mouth, I'm leaving."

"Hey, cowboy!" rang out Baker's voice. His pistol cracked at the same time the man started to turn around, and Sid Davis fell into a heap beside his horse. Baker looked down at his still-smoking gun and wondered what had just happened.

LLLLL

Both Johnny and Scott wheeled their horses around at the sound of the gunfire. It was a ways in the distance but still made an unnerving resonance as it echoed through the hills. They galloped towards the sound even as it faded out to nothingness. The trail they came upon snaked and turned, forcing the horses down to a slow walk as they picked their way around outcroppings exposed in the soil. Coming around a curve, the path ran straight for a few hundred yards, then twisted back on itself to the right at the base of a rocky incline. The area here was heavily forested with fir trees and was eerily quiet for the time of day. A horse whinnied up ahead and, almost as one, the two brothers dismounted and pulled their animals off the trail. Scott grabbed his carbine from the scabbard and motioned for Johnny to go around to the left while he moved out to the right.

Ghostlike, Johnny eased into the shelter of the trees alongside the trail. From his vantage point he could see Scott move off just as silently up the path, his rifle primed and ready. There was no movement in the air except for the distant sounds of the horse pawing at the rocky ground, its hoof making a thumping noise against the loose stones. Moving ahead, he could see that the animal, which he noted belonged to Sid Davis, was tethered to a tree branch. Scott was already there, on bent knee, looking at something on the ground by the horse's hooves. Glancing around to scan the tree line and upslope, a flash of brilliant white caught his eye. All pretense of staying quiet was lost, he yelled to his brother, shooting as he ran forward.

Scott started at the sound of Johnny's loud voice and twisted around at the same time that he heard the whipcrack of a rifle shot. The bullet pinged past him, dangerously close, to crease the shoulder of the horse. The animal screamed in pain, then lunged forward to rip the reins from around the tree. Scott had a close-up view of flaring nostrils before being thrown to the side by the stampeding horse.

He fell over Davis' body to land hard on his back, the rifle thrown aside. Shaking off sudden dizziness, he came up to a crouch, found his rifle, and aimed it high towards the rocky bluff, in the direction from which the bullets seemed to be coming. A second shot blasted from above and planted a burning furrow along his side. The bullet went on to land in the dirt next to him, spraying a small shower of pebbles and dirt against his legs. Clamping a hand over his ribs, Scott scurried behind a small crop of boulders. He briefly saw Johnny working his way back from the thickly wooded ridge where he must have taken refuge when the frenzied horse ran past. Another shot exploded and this one found its intended mark.

Scott's heart thudded as he watched the bullet catch Johnny and spin him around, causing his brother to tumble and roll a short ways down the slope. Catching a movement atop the rise, Scott fired at will towards it, all the while shouting out his brother's name. Anxiously scanning down the way, he could see Johnny finally pulling himself into the woods once more.

The rifle shots from the ridgeline abruptly ceased when Scott heard the sharp sound of galloping horses coming towards them from down the trail. He hurriedly picked his way down, staying fully in the shelter of the trees, to make it to the place he last saw Johnny. He finally spied a glimpse of the blue and white shirt his brother had been wearing that day, partially covered behind a woody thicket, and ran towards him. He bent down to one knee, eased Johnny over to his back and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from his brother. "Johnny, easy there, let me take a look. You had me worried."

"Stupid, stupid, stupid…going in there like a green boy." Johnny spat out the words and clutched his left shoulder.

"Are you referring to me or you?" Scott lightly remarked as he pulled Johnny's hand away from the wound. The bullet had caught his brother high into the shoulder, leaving a neat round hole, and blood was rapidly soaking the front of his shirt. As he looked over the wound, silence once more assailed Scott; the horses he had heard earlier were now quiet. He grabbed his rifle and motioned to Johnny; both men fell silent. Moving off to take aim down the path, Scott was relieved to see the Lancer foreman and another hand slowly making their way up the slope. He waved to them and went back to his brother.

Johnny was sitting up now, his back against a gnarled tree trunk. His face blanched as Scott jostled the wound trying to get his shirt off.

"Sorry, brother," Scott murmured as he glanced up at Johnny.

"Can't be helped, but can you move it along a little faster? My arm feels like it's on fire."

Scott ripped Johnny's shirt in two, padded the wound with a small measure of the cloth and used the rest to make a quick swathe for the affected arm. "That should hold you for a while. Cipriano and Jackson will be up here soon, then we'll get you home in no time. It looks like we have one less man to worry about; Sid Davis' body is up there. He's been shot in the back."

Johnny nodded, then nudged Scott's arm with his right hand. "You'd better take a look at yourself while you're patching me up. There's blood on your shirt."

Scott had completely forgotten about the crease during the action, and he stood up to look down at his shirt. Pulling the bloodied cloth away from his side, he winced as it clung a bit to the shallow wound along his ribs. Taking a peek inside the torn opening, he proclaimed, "No, it's just a scratch, looks worse than it is."

Cipriano appeared and nodded to Scott, "The rest of the men are still in the valley at Boar's Head, we were close enough to hear the shots and came, although perhaps too late," and gestured towards Johnny. "Jackson and I found blood up on the ridge…but the man is gone."

Scott looked over to Johnny sitting against the tree and saw him grimace with pain. He could feel red-hot anger starting to settle in his bones. The anger was directed at himself, at least in part, for letting his inaction in the past few weeks nearly end in tragedy. He scowled at the news from Cipriano and thought blackly that since Baker was injured, he'd be easier to follow now. Formulating a plan in his mind, Scott drew both Cipriano and Jackson off to the side. He might not have been able to save Gideon but he could make damn sure that no one else got hurt by Baker's hand.

Johnny could see Scott quietly talking to the two cowboys, and the Segundo didn't look very happy. Jackson nodded his head to whatever Scott was telling him and took off at a quick pace down the slope. Cipriano looked one more time at Scott, then he too turned around on his heel and followed Jackson down the hill. Johnny didn't like it; he was feeling edgy watching Scott give orders to the two men and couldn't tell if the feeling stemmed from being shot or from the look on Cipriano's face as he left. His brother's closed expression wasn't giving anything away.

"Cipriano is bringing up the horses." Scott said, fussing with the shoulder bandage once more. "This is a good job of bandaging if I do say so myself; it looks like the bleeding has slowed already."

"Where did Jackson go?" Johnny asked irritably.

"I've sent Jackson on to town to get the doctor. By the time he arrives there Cipriano should have you almost to Lancer."

Johnny's feeling of uneasiness was back in full force. "That's a good plan Scott, but it leaves one man unaccounted for and that's you."

Scott looked down briefly. "Well, brother, I have another job to do. I need to rectify a mistake that I made several years ago."

Johnny stared at Scott and knew what his brother was contemplating. He could also tell by the matter-of-factness in Scott's voice that he had already made up his mind. Johnny exploded, "Damn it, you can't do this alone. What do you think you're going to do? At least wait until we can get back to the ranch to get more men."

Scott gave him a small smile. "I'm going to persevere, Johnny. It's what soldiers do best. Besides, can you really tell me that it would be different if I was laying there and you were here?"

His brother had him there, Johnny thought. What if the roles were reversed? He'd probably be doing the exact same thing as Scott. Frowning over the lack of options, Johnny looked away.

"I didn't think so. And you know as well as I do that in the time I wait for either the men at Boar's Head or from the ranch to arrive up here that it would be nightfall and we'd never find Baker in these hills."

"What am I supposed to tell Murdoch? You know he's not going to like it."

As Cipriano arrived with the horses, Scott thought for a moment, "Just tell him that I've been…delayed."

Johnny was assisted to his horse by both Scott and Cipriano. Before mounting, he turned to cast a guarded look at his brother and said gruffly, "Just remember, Scott, that north side bridge still needs fixing, and I'm sure as hell not going to do it. So you do what you have to, but make sure you come home, brother, in one piece."

.

Chapter 8

The sun hung heavy in the early afternoon sky as a soft breeze ruffled the sweat-tinged hair at Scott's collar line. He was on top of the ridgeline looking at the few drops of blood that marked the spot where Baker had lain while firing at Johnny and him. Heat flowed through his veins as he realized once more how close his brother had come to dying that day. Thinking that Baker would leave well enough alone had been an almost fatal error. Scott flashed on the rage he had felt back in that Confederate prison. He remembered what his fists had done that day, but as terrible as it was, he wished it had ended there instead of drawing out into something that now threatened not only him but the rest of his family as well. Scott thought ruefully that he'd been running from that memory for too long, it was time to face it straight on. He kicked back from the rim and set to the task of tracking Jeff Baker.

The trail dipped downwards toward the river bed and coolness caressed his face. He had been picking his way around in the high country for several hours when he finally found what he was looking for. There was blood, stained onto a broken, shoulder-high tree branch. It looked like Baker was finally becoming sloppy. Scott followed a few faint hoof prints and found himself looking down a path which narrowed sharply between the rushing white waters and a sheer cliff face. He had a couple of options, neither of which looked very enticing. He could go back and start over at the base of the incline and work his way up or he could go through the slender pass in front of him. Decision made, he kneed his horse and moved forward.

He heard the rattle and thump of rocks rolling over the ground before seeing them. Scott stiffened in the saddle; the rock slide was starting to cover the trail. A sprinkling of pebbles falling on his horse's hindquarters made the animal nervous and it started to side-step. Clumps of vegetation and dirt upset by the tumbling boulders flew about his head, knocking his hat off into the river below. Scott desperately looked for an exit from the falling debris, and turned his frightened horse towards the best vantage point. Suddenly, a hurtling rock clipped him on the right shoulder and there was immediate, shocking pain, then a curious weightlessness followed by jarring coldness as he hit the swirling waters below the trail line. He barely heard the panicked neighing of his horse as it faded into the distance before he was yanked under the rapids.

Surfacing far downstream, Scott spewed and sputtered water as he gasped for breath, ribs aching from the effort of breathing. Finally hauling himself ashore, he looked around and saw his horse standing away from the waters edge, head bowed and blowing hard. He walked unsteadily towards his mount, murmuring softly under his breath in an attempt to keep the animal calm. Large hands lightly roamed over the horse's quivering muscles and swiftly took assessment of the damage. A sizeable scrape on the hindquarters and another shorter scratch on the neck, but that seemed to be the extent of it. Thankfully, it had made it through the gauntlet on the pathway relatively unscathed. His hand went to his side and he cursed when he found that his pistol had been wrenched away by the churning waters. He unbuckled the useless gun belt and flung it over the cantle. A sudden thought came to him and he reached over the saddle, grateful that at least his rifle was still in one piece, ensconced in the scabbard.

Feeling a sharp pain in his arm when he went to check for the rifle, Scott looked down at his shoulder. The shirt was sheared away from the seam and the skin underneath abraded; a dark bruise had already formed where the rock had hit. He tentatively moved the arm in a large circle, feeling a manageable ache and pull with each movement. Content that it was bruised and not broken, Scott began to gather his thoughts and led his horse further away from the river. He had no doubt that Baker was behind the rock slide, but hopefully the man would think he died in the fall and let his guard down.

LLLLL

The fire was piddling but it was enough to stand out like a beacon in the semi-darkness; Scott snatched that bit of good luck with all he had and moved closer to striking range. Within walking distance, he dismounted and descended into the outlying area. As he edged further into the camp, Scott could make out a bloodied shirt thrown haphazardly on the ground. A holstered pistol was coiled in a semi-circle by the stump, still well within reach. Baker was standing facing the fire, fumbling with a pair of bandanas, trying to bandage his still-bleeding arm. In garish illumination from the flames, Scott saw long lengths of tortuous scars across Baker's back and shoulders and was momentarily taken by surprise. He carried scars on his back as well, but the ones on Baker had been made by something more than a mere leather whip. Moving forward, he chambered a bullet in the rifle with an audible click and the man in front of him froze.

After a few seconds of silence, a low, mean voice stated, "You're a hard man to kill, Lieutenant."

"I could say the same of you," Scott replied. Baker glanced over to where his pistol lay but was stopped by Scott's fierce voice. "I wouldn't…you don't need to give me another reason to shoot. Take the gun out with your left hand and throw it to the side."

Baker complied with the order and raised both hands slightly. "So is this how it is? You shooting me in the back while I stand here? I took you for a better man than that, Lancer."

Scott was being baited and knew it, but he had some barbs of his own to fling. "Then we're both full of surprises, aren't we? Take, for example, Sid Davis; what did he do to deserve a bullet in the back?" Baker's spine became rigid at the mention of Davis' name and he turned around to face Scott.

His long hair partially concealed his face as he looked down. "I didn't mean for that to happen, I liked Sid, I really did…but he…"

Scott heard something akin to remorse in Baker's voice and he wondered over it, but pressed onwards. "He did what? He got in your way, just like Gideon Morris did, so you had to kill him?"

The façade dropped over Baker's face once more and he shrugged. "Prison was long time ago, Lieutenant. You knew that Morris boy was dying anyway. Hell, he had one foot in the grave already. I saved him some suffering."

"It wasn't your decision to make," gritted out Scott.

He grinned and looked at Scott appraisingly, the light from the fire shining in his black eyes. "You're looking for revenge. For Morris? I'd say we're more alike than you want to believe, Lieutenant. Your hands aren't as clean as you think they are, since I'm sure you did your fair share of killing during the war too."

Scott's eyes narrowed sharply. "The men I fought against during the war stood as much chance of living to see the next day as I did. And you took that chance away from Morris. You might not have laid a physical hand on him, but you played a part in his death just the same. Scott shook his head, "No, we're two very different men, Baker. Now move away from that stump, slowly."

Baker moved out to the side, saying "Let me get my damn shirt…"

The man reached down to the ground and yanked the shirt upwards, then whirled around at the same time, knocking the rifle sideways from Scott's grasp. As the weapon clattered to the hard earth, Scott pounced in a diving tackle and the men fell down heavily. Impact with the ground forced the two apart and Baker came up to his knees, slamming Scott on the jaw with a hard right. The force drove Scott backwards towards the fire, but he recovered quickly and let loose a roundhouse punch that caught Baker in the mid-section. Pent-up anger rode Scott hard and he lashed out with a volley of short thrusts that had Baker falling to the ground once more. Once, twice, and then again, Scott drove his fist into the man's face until he lay limp. Chest heaving from exertion, Scott stumbled away and looked for Baker's pistol. He grabbed the weapon, leveled it at the prone man, and gasped out, "You're not worth being on my conscious a second time."

LLLLL

Murdoch made his way to stand on the front portico, looking out into the very early sunrise. Soon there would be enough light to gather the men and go find his son. It was bad enough that one son lay in bed with a bullet wound, weakened from blood loss, but to have another be gone so long on such a desperate mission was nearly unbearable.

His heart had dropped when Cipriano had brought Johnny into the house, bloody and only semi-conscious. Murdoch only needed to hear two names muttered from his son's lips, "Scott" and "Jeff Baker", to understand what had happened. The whole story had come out before Sam had made the first cut into Johnny's shoulder, but by that time it was too late to send men up into the hills.

Something at the edge of the lane caught his eye. He watched as a lone figure on horseback made his way under the Lancer arch through the cool morning mist. The horse was held to a slow, methodical walk while the man slumped in the saddle. It was Scott, he immediately thought. In that instant he could envision what his son had looked like during the war, clothed in ragged Union blue, astride a worn out cavalry horse at the end of a long, hard campaign. Eighteen, Murdoch thought, Scott had only been eighteen years old when he had faced, and survived, the horrors of war and prison. Regretful for Scott's past, and his own, he hurried out to meet him.

Reaching him in the courtyard, Murdoch gently placed a hand on his leg. The dozing man in the saddle jerked his head up along with the reins, causing the horse to dance a little. Scott looked beyond exhausted; his eyes were dull and flat and there was a distinct tightness around his mouth. Anxious eyes scanned him, taking in the dishevelment of the bloodied shirt, ripped open along the ribcage and torn at the shoulder to reveal a deep purple bruising. Sweat-dried hair stood askew at odd angles and the yellowed bruising on his cheekbone, in companion with newer darker ones along his jaw line, stood in direct contrast to the pallor of his skin underneath the light stubble of beard. Murdoch reached up to draw him down out of the saddle.

"Murdoch," Scott mumbled, and he looked about, seemingly surprised to find himself finally at home. "It's been a long day." Then, as if he had suddenly remembered something very important, he swung his head around to look at his father, "Is Johnny all right?"

"Johnny will be just fine in a week or so. Cipriano got him home without any problems and Sam was here to get the bullet out without too much fuss."

"Thank God."

Murdoch eased his arm under Scott's and steered him to the porch. Sitting him down in one of the chairs, Murdoch peered at him carefully and worriedly asked, "Are you all right?"

Scott draped bonelessly in the chair. Long arms lay over the armrests and legs splayed out to the front, while his head rested on the high back of the chair. "I'm all right…just tired." He continued on hesitantly, "It's over."

Murdoch looked at Scott apprehensively and waited. He clamped his mouth shut; the one question that he didn't dare ask was sitting there on the tip of his tongue waiting to leap out.

Scott breathed in the freshness of the new morning and spared a look towards his father. "I took Baker back to jail," he said quietly, then added, "The sheriff is holding him for the murder of Sid Davis."

This decision had come at a cost, Murdoch realized. He could see the weight of it mirrored in Scott's eyes. Wanting to hear the whole story but knowing that it should be left for another time, he clasped his son's shoulder and said thickly, "Come on, son, let's get you to bed."

While the prospect of sleep was terribly inviting, Scott had other plans for the moment. He snicked open the door to his brother's room and looked in. He wanted to make sure that Johnny was indeed all right. Looking towards the mound of covers on the bed, he outlined his brother's form as he lay on his side. Satisfied, Scott turned to leave when a quiet voice snagged him. He moved forward to the bed and sat down on the edge.

"Scott?"

"Murdoch said you were sleeping."

"Yeah, well, your old man doesn't know everything," Johnny said huskily.

Scott flashed a tired grin, "How come Murdoch is my father whenever he does something that you don't like?"

"That's just the way of it, brother, don't you know anything? He's been mother-henning me ever since I got back to the ranch. I'm glad that you finally came home to take some of his worries away from me." Johnny shifted in bed to get a better look at Scott and he scanned his brother with a critical eye. "You look like three miles of bad road."

"Thanks, brother, that's pretty much how I feel right at the moment."

He could hear the fatigue in Scott's voice and in the dim light of the bedroom his brother really did look ragged. "So…is he dead?

"You don't mess around do you?"

"Not when there's something I want to know."

Scott scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, I didn't kill Jeff Baker. I took him to jail instead, where he'll be tried for Davis' murder."

Johnny inched up a little further on the headboard and studied his brother for a few moments. "That took a lot of guts, Scott. Not to kill him, I mean. The easy way would've been to put a bullet between his eyes and send him on his way to hell."

Stifling a yawn, Scott nodded his assent; it would have been easier in thought but not in action, he considered bleakly. Gideon's memory didn't deserve another death attached to it; there were far too many of those already.

Johnny nudged him with his leg. "Go on and get to bed."

Scott got up from the bed and saw how pale Johnny looked against the bedclothes. Feeling a pang of guilt over the events that had cost his brother a bullet in the shoulder, yet thankful it wasn't worse, Scott gently scolded him. "Get some rest yourself; you don't look all that great, either."

Softly spoken words, with a hint of a smile attached to them, came from the middle of the bed and reached Scott's ears just as he was closing the door, "Welcome home, brother, welcome home."

The End