Chapter 8

The three, steady gun blasts caused a dozen, scattered men to pull their horses to a standstill, their heads jerking to localize the sound.

"That way!" Murdoch shouted to the men on either side of him, spanned out several yards away. They had left the main hacienda grounds before the sun broached the eastern hills when enough light entered the sky with the promise of a new day. South. The last few carcasses of the mountain lion attacks had been to the south and the hunters would have started with the latest kill. The Patrón had ordered a wide search pattern that encompassed all the known kill sites. The heavy rains had destroyed hopes of tracking, and the men were dependent on observation and knowledge of the area to locate the missing heirs. His sons.

In a waking dream, the image of the fading cards in his hands tapped behind his eyes against the soft thud of the loping horses' hooves in the mud. He resisted spurring them into a gallop to outrun the disappearing faces on the cards. That dream had been just that. A dream. Nothing to do with this moment. This need to find his boys and return them home. And what have you won by bringing them home if you let them slip away? The words taunted as the golden eyes spun.

"Which way?" Murdoch called out, not for lack of knowing but rather an urgency to wipe those thoughts from his mind.

"Toward the rocks, Patrón," Emil, riding to Murdoch's left, gestured with his head, his wide sombrero pointing the way.

The rancher kicked into a gallop then, pressuring his large Percheron toward the rising rock face, its surface slick in the still damp terrain. As he trotted around the rising boulders, he spied Frank, a long-time hand, in a field of high grass just as a lasso settled around the neck of a sorrel gelding. Murdoch kicked into a canter for a closer look.

"It's Charlie," the cowboy confirmed what Murdoch already knew when they reached his position. "Saw him out here on his own. No tack. Doesn't looked injured but he sure was pleased to see me." Murdoch twisted in his saddle as other men converged on them.

"Anyone see any signs of them?" Heads shook. Murdoch held his eyes shut for a moment, shoving the unwanted stab of fear back into its corner. The man who ruled this domain emerged with a stern expression when he resumed command. "Spread back out. They will be nearby." Murdoch waved his hand as the men scattered. "Kyle," the patron addressed a recently hired nineteen-year-old hand who rode with them, mostly because he had not yet earned the privilege of working without supervision. "Go find Jelly. Take Charlie. Tie him to the buckboard and lead the wagon this way."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Lancer." The boy grabbed the rope of the gelding and trotted out of sight around the rocks. The remaining hands moved out on their assignments, some with heads bent toward the ground in search of sign, others dismounting and climbing into the rocks. Murdoch found himself looking up at the escarpment that cut through the field.

The scowl on his face suggested a memory. The mines. He had sealed them over the years, but it was shelter. His tongue clicked a command along with his heels spurring his mount into action. As he drew near, he realized the dark discoloration on the side of the mountain was not the boards nailed there years ago, but their absence. He leapt from the horse as he reached the entrance, his heart squirming like a hooked fish in his chest when he spied the rope snagged on the jagged edges of the wood, hoof prints made in agitation in the mud near the standing water at the cavern opening. Once dismounted, Murdoch saw the chaotic dance of overlapping boot prints outside the mine ending with a staggered trail into the cavern.

He reached for his gun to signal his find but caught himself. He wanted to be sure before disrupting the men from the search. He tugged a collapsable lantern out of one of the sacks tied by its strings in the rigging dee at the rear of the saddle. The large rancher maneuvered through the broken boards and paused in the entrance out of the wind to snap the head of a match with his thumb. The wick lit, Murdoch had to bend forward to maneuver through the narrow, rough-hewn pathways. Men of his height were never meant to be miners, but his mother spoke of the debilitating conditions suffered by her kin who were not released from the colliery where they were legally bound until 1799. Yet another impetus that drove him to the new world. He refused to be held in bondage, at the mercy of the dictates of another man's profit. Murdoch Lancer bound himself to the land in an unspoken vow free from the yoke of an overseer.

Murdoch entered a room where both sound and shadows warned him was a larger space. He caught his breath feeling as if the air had grown thin. The promise of light lay behind him and an inborn fear of the broadened expanse of darkness begged him to turn back. The image of the lifeless profiles of knaves on a flat piece of card fading into the nothingness fought off any attempt to bring the vision of Scott and Johnny to his mind. He thrust his lantern above his head and waved it like a lighthouse beacon guiding lost sailors home.

Ignoring the cold sweat dampening his shoulders, he scanned the area, the thin beam of light bouncing haphazardly off the rough surfaces of the ceiling and the floor to press the shadows away. Startled, Murdoch dropped back striking his head as he fell bringing a shriek to his throbbing hip. On the opposite side of the cavern, he swore he saw the translucent shades of his missing boys. They may have been pressed together in sleep. Or death. He cried out in shock as he slammed against the floor before silence returned. As effective as a gag, his breath caught, the stagnant air refusing his attempts to suck it in.

His hand waving in front of him, Murdoch sought to chase from his eyes the dancing sparks that competed with the darkness, confusion rocking his features. He sat at the head of the kitchen table. His table. At Lancer. A shadowed figure sat on either side. Across from him, at the far end, was the man in the black felt jacket trimmed in gold at the cuffs, white ruffles emerging from the sleeves. His eyes fell upon the diamond stickpin nestled in the red cravat before rising to his slim, neatly manicured bejeweled fingers steepled against his lips. Murdoch looked for the deck of cards and realized that he, himself, was shuffling them, an idle sound. His hands stopped and he stared at the golden eyes. A thin, brown eyebrow lifted as those eyes darted to the cards.

The rancher glanced to his right. His breath caught in his throat. Scott. Or an image of Scott, pale beyond measure. A hint of the man. He jerked to his left.

Johnny. For all that Scott was a washed-out suggestion, Johnny was dark, barely an outline giving him form. Both seemed to be staring at him. Waiting.

"What do you want?" the anger burst from Murdoch with a bellow. "My sons are missing. I was searc…I found them. Why do you interfere?"

"You have the Deal," a nod of the head that kept their eyes locked accompanied the bass voice resounding throughout the room.

Murdoch glanced at the table. The area in front of Scott was bare. The pale head tilted his way, but the figure was otherwise still, studious, stoic. Two dozen or more cards were strewn near Johnny's incessantly tapping fingertips. The aura around his shape seemed to hum with expectation, energy demanding release. Murdoch reluctantly acknowledged that the suggestion of Johnny's untamed presence stoked the belligerence which shaped his tone.

"These are my sons. I brought them into this world, and I called them to their place here by my side. Because of the distance between us, we needed a fresh start. Eyes forward. The past is the past. I told them. No more needed to be said. They know how much I…they know."

The Dealer shrugged. "Interesting thought." A ruby ring glinted in the lamp light as he waved at Scott. "You demand the one accept the past while you imply that your part in it has no place in his. And the other," an onyx stone sucked the light from the room as two fingers lifted toward Johnny, "is crushed by your view of it." A hint of sound, a huff of a laugh, burned Murdoch's ears. His efforts to block the accusations pummeling him failed.

"The stones of the past form the path each of you walks. One longs to understand what part your hands contributed to paving the road he traveled without you. The other cannot escape onto a new pathway when you thrust barriers of condemnation blocking his steps away from the rutted trail he followed."

The steepled fingers rejoined to tap against his lips, his thumbs tucked beneath his chin. The golden eyes remained bright as the surroundings faded to black, Murdoch's lost boys taken from his view. "You hold the deal, but it will not remain in your hands much longer. Best decide on your wager, sir."

"Boss! Boss!" A racket shoved its way into Murdoch's consciousness. Rock formations replaced the darkness. Disorientation swirled within the throbbing snaking up his back and blurring his eyes.

Murdoch pushed himself to one elbow, his other hand rubbing the rising knot at the back of his head. "Here, Jelly!" His eyes focused on the sputtering light of the dropped lantern resting on its side a few feet from him. A brighter light beam moved in the hallway as a voice came with the approaching footsteps.

"I done seen yer horse outside an' followed ya in here. Ya shoulda given a body some idea where you was headed a'fore goin' inta this ole mine on yer own. Why you'd be bustin' a gut if anyone else pulled such a…Scott! Johnny!" The handyman abandoned his haranguing of the large man and scurried to the far side of the room as soon as he broached the doorway. Murdoch pushed himself to his knees. "These boys are cold as ice, Boss. I'll grab some blankets from the wagon." Jelly bumped past him muttering about 'dang fool young'uns.'

The sound of gunfire, three shots, carried through the cavern as Murdoch lurched the distance to his sons, his hand reaching out but afraid to make contact. Jelly's lantern sat nearby, focused on the still figures. A grimy saddle blanket was tossed to one side of the light.

Scott leaned against the wall, his upturned saddle at his back. His arms were locked around Johnny's waist, the dark head tucked beneath his brother's chin. Johnny's damp, shredded shirt was discolored a rusty red in addition to the splatters of brown mud accentuating the paleness of his skin. Scott's face had a bluish hue. Their skin translucent, the image of the fading cards struck Murdoch with a force that caused him to crumple to his knees. Scott's pale hair flickered in the quivering light like a halo trying to form. Even Johnny's raven black hair glimmered like a ghost in the cave which held a natural chill. Neither moved. Neither responded. Neither challenged the vision of deathly pallor. Only the wisp of mist exiting their mouths proved that they breathed but to their father, it was if their life was being drained away in this frigid place.

"I found you, my sons." He started to move away intending to call the men to hurry their charge into the cave when a sound whispered into his ear.

Best decide on your wager, sir.

Murdoch jerked his head around before returning his stare to the faded countenances of his sons. "NO!" he hissed vehemently as he leaned in and pulled both boys into his grasp. "I found them. No one can take them from me!"

Your bet, sir.