Chapter 7

The poor quality of the writing aside, Scott was so focused on the book in his hand that he did not hear the opening of his door or his sock-footed brother's steps.

"Whaaa…" The dime novel was snatched from his hands so suddenly his response was inarticulate. Johnny's first utterance was an expletive.

"What are you…"

"No, Boston, what are you doing reading this trash?" Johnny waved the volume in his brother's face.

Scott sat up and swung his legs off the bed. "Since when is my reading matter your concern, little brother?"

Johnny's hands moved again, and only the fact that Scott had risen to a standing position kept Jonny Madrid, Scourge of the Border from smacking him in the face. Scott stepped back and gazed down into his brother's blazing eyes. "You've no reason to be angry, Johnny."

Johnny snorted, snatched the book from the floor, turned on his heel, and strode out the bedroom door. Unfortunately, three steps later he collided with his father's chest.

"John!" Murdoch bellowed and at the same time reached out to steady his son. The book in Johnny's hand fell on his father's foot, and Murdoch bent to retrieve it. Scott arrived in his doorway in time to see Murdoch straighten with eyes blazing.

"Get it out of this house." Johnny Madrid, Scourge of the Border was thrust under John Lancer's nose. "I'll not have such rubbish in my home."

"Murdoch..." Scott's attempt to speak was cut off by his brother.

"Shut up, Boston! He thinks I brought it; he thinks I have it because... he thinks I'm proud of it!" The paper volume slapped into the wall with resounding force. "That's it, isn't it, Old Man! You think I'm proud of it!"

"Are you?" Murdoch's voice was controlled, low in volume, and steel-edged.

Johnny's arms went around his stomach as if Murdoch had delivered a body punch. Scott barely heard his brother's softly exhaled no. He spoke his brother's name, but only that, as Johnny suddenly straightened and began to shout.

"No! No, I ain't proud of it, Old Man. You stripped me down when I had Day's bullet in me. Don't tell me while I was out you didn't go through my pockets, my trappings. If ya didn't then, ya can now. I don't carry no clippings, Old Man. I don't carry no clippings!" Johnny pushed past his father and hit the stairs at a dead run. He went down them quicker on two feet than he usually did when he took the banister.

"Johnny!" For the first time ever, Scott's call carried more volume than Murdoch Lancer's. He started to follow his brother when Murdoch brought him up short with a hand on his arm. Scott turned.

"I brought it into your house. I did, not Johnny. He was as mad about it being here as you." Scott shook off his father's hand. I'll never catch him now even though he's on foot, most definitely not once he's on Barranca! Scott slumped against the wall. "What was all that about clippings?"

"Newspaper clippings. Your brother's exploits have been in more than one newspaper."

"Madrid's exploits." Scott straightened.

Murdoch continued as if Scott had not spoken. "Most gun hawks are found with clippings of their exploits saved in a pocket or saddlebag."

"Do you really think Johnny..."

"No, no, I know he doesn't."

"Because you looked." Scott's voice would have caused any other man to wither like a young plant under the desert sun. Murdoch simply returned his son's stare. In one quick movement, Scott reached out, retrieved the cheap volume of popular fiction, and slapped it into his father's chest.

"You're right, Murdoch; it is rubbish. Pure rubbish! It has nothing to do with Johnny. Not my brother, not your son, and I have no doubt it has little to do with anything real in Johnny Madrid's past." Scott dropped the book at his father's feet and then strode past him and down the stairs.

He headed straight for the stables but stopped when he saw a figure sitting in the dark rocking back and forth. "Johnny?"

"Go away, Boston!"

Scott ignored the command and went to stand behind his brother. "What?"

Johnny swore and then sighed. "No boots. Cut my foot. Bleeding like a stuck pig!"

Scott dropped to his knees. "Let me see." He grabbed his brother's ankle.

"You ain't gonna see nothing out here in the dark!" Johnny tried to jerk his foot out of Scott's hand.

"That's why we're going back inside, little brother."

Johnny jerked harder. "No way!"

Scott slapped his brother's thigh. "Stop that!" He settled back on the ground taking firmer hold of Johnny's ankle with both hands. Would you go back inside? Scott chewed his lower lip. "I'll help you to the barn then; I'll look at it there." Scott had carried Johnny when Pardee's bullet was in Johnny's back; with more ease than most would have expected he managed to pull Johnny over his shoulder and stride forward.

"Scott!" Johnny's voice was sharp, yet he did not struggle enough to disrupt his brother's stride or risk bringing them both to the ground.

Scott ignored his brother. The barn is hardly the most sanitary place on the ranch. Sam would have a fit. Besides, getting him closer to Barranca is certainly not a wise idea. Scott swerved and, in the end, entered the tack room depositing Johnny on a tall stool. "Keep your foot off the ground!" He turned, found a lamp, lit it, and brought it over next to his brother. "Give me your foot!"

"I ain't one of your little soldier boys, Lt. Lancer. I don't have to obey none of your orders." Johnny crossed his arms over his chest.

Scott stared down his nose. "Don't be petulant, John, and don't give me that infamous Madrid glare. I'm not one of your little would-be pistoleros. I don't have to worry about you shooting me."

"Sure about that?"

"Absolutely." Scott held out his hand, and slowly Johnny stuck out his foot. Scott clamped his hand around Johnny's ankle, peeled off the bloody sock, and studied the sole in the lamplight. He shook his head. "Only you, little brother, only you. It needs cleaning and stitches."

"Just get me my boots, Boston." Johnny jerked his foot free of Scott's hand.

"No." Scott sounded simply adamant.

Johnny leaned back against the wall. "Wouldn't be the first time I went without shoes." A smug grin settled on the former gunfighter's lips.

"Don't give me the I-spent-half-my-life-barefoot story. That was years ago. Johnny Madrid or Johnny Lancer you'd be the talk of the town riding in without any boots." Scott watched a petulant pout settle on his brother's face.

Johnny shrugged. "Half the town twitters behind their hands whenever I ride into town."

"True, and knowing you, you'd be willing to ride into town sans boots and clothes." An even smugger grin settled on Scott's face."But would you, little brother, be willing to ride in sans pistol?"

Johnny's eyes widened, his hand flew to his hip, and an expletive flew off his lips. "I'll get them myself!"

"You'll have to go into the house." Johnny's unwounded foot shot out and hit his brother in the shin. "Owe!" Scott stepped back and reached down to rub the spot where he was sure a bruise would appear before morning. "A two-year-old, yes, a two-year-old and a bratty one at that." Scott made his voice sing-song sweet. "Now if you'll be a good little boy while I fix up your foostie, I'll get you a cookie."

Johnny swore again and then capitulated. "At least three cookies."

"Three cookies and a bottle of tequila. You're not going anywhere after I'm done."

Johnny shrugged. Scott started toward the door but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "You'll be here when I get back?"

"Yeah."

"Promise me." Scott watched exasperation appear on his brother's face followed by a slow grin.

"If I've gotta promise, I get six cookies."

"Agreed, but you have to say the words."

Johnny shook his head and traced a cross on his chest with the tip of his finger. "I'll be right here; I promise."

"Good boy!" Scott went to gather the necessary supplies.

He returned juggling an array of items. He immediately handed a napkin-wrapped bundle of cookies and a bottle of tequila to his brother. Then he set the rest on a shelf and pulled another stool to sit opposite Johnny.

"We could send for Sam Jenkins, or I could…"

Johnny snorted. "For a little cut in my foot! He'd laugh his head off or pop you in the jaw for making him ride all that way for nothing. Just let her buck, Boston; I ain't no city boy."

"Fine then." Scott bit his lower lip and reached for Johnny's ankle. "Maria or Teresa would sew a finer seam."

"Don't you go getting none of the women!" Johnny straightened in indignation. "You ain't telling none of them…you ain't telling nobody else for that matter. I ain't having no fussing from the womenfolk and no riding from the men. So just shut your… Oweeee!"

Scott managed to hold Johnny's foot in his lap even as it jerked away from the carbolic acid that he had just poured into the wound. He waited for Johnny's string of curses to end before he spoke. "You don't want it to fester; do you? Drink some of that firewater of yours, or maybe I could kiss it and make it all better." Scott laughed as Johnny told him just what part of his anatomy Scott was welcome to kiss. "Do I need to get someone to hold your foot still while I stitch it?"

"No!" Johnny took a long swig of tequila and then another. "No, just give a fellow some warning."

"Fine." Scott finished wiping the foot clean and then poured some carbolic onto his hands. He doused the threaded needle with carbolic also and then picked it up. "Here's your warning, little brother." He drew in a long breath as Johnny took another swig.

"Get her done!" Johnny leaned back to brace himself against the wall and let his fingers grip the stool on which he sat. Scott proceeded to do just that.

"All done." He reached for the clean socks he had brought with him and pulled one then the other onto his brother's injured foot. "No boots until the morning."

"You ain't carrying me into the house, Boston!"

"I was of the opinion that you wouldn't want to return to the house before morning." Scott rubbed his hands up and down his thighs and then reached for the tequila bottle. "I should have brought the brandy bottle too." He shrugged and raised the tequila to his lips.

"Murdoch know where we are?"

"No. At least I don't think so; I didn't see anyone while I was in the house."

"Good."

Scott dropped his eyes to the floor. "Johnny, I... I told Murdoch I was the one who brought it into his house." Scott raised his eyes to study his brother's reaction.

Johnny shrugged. "Don't make much difference. It ain't that it's in the house that burns Murdoch; it's that it's anywhere at all that he hates."

"He knows..."

"No, no, he don't, Boston. Mama's temper, Lancer pride. Old Man knows I got a good douse of both." Johnny closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him. "And I know what eats the Old Man's pride the most."

"Do you, Johnny? Maybe..."

"Maybe we should just finish this here bottle instead of this conversation." Johnny reached for the tequila.

Should I push him? Scott chewed the corner of his lower lip. "I'm sorry, Johnny."

"No need to be, brother, no need at all."