CHAPTER TEN

Before the end of the first scream’s echo, Barranca’s attention was full in the direction of the heart-wrenching sound. It was very faint, but Johnny knew what it was immediately; Madrid had heard more screaming than he cared to remember. His fist squeezed the reins tighter in response.

Carefully, and with barely contained control, the professional gunfighter emerged as each piece that was Lancer was isolated and locked away – the pain, the emotion, the connections, the desire for family. Without it all, he could do what needed to be done with total focus.

The second scream lined up his direction of travel a bit more accurately.

The night had seemed long so far, and the position of the moon told Johnny it was just barely half over. The palomino kept on, nose to a barely visible deer trail, an occasional stumble telling of his weariness. When they crested a hill that was strangely barren on its peak, Johnny finally got his first glimpse of his quarry. In the ebony hills surrounding the Mesa he saw the tiny golden flicker of a campfire; the kid had finally made a mistake.

Johnny pulled the tired horse to a stop, sharply aware of the sticky stiffness of dried sweat on the golden neck. Urgency told him to push on but common sense made him realize the folly of forcing Barranca to his limit right now. Thoughts of what Teresa could be going through threatened to overwhelm him entirely, refusing to be locked away with the other thoughts of family. The palomino seemed to feel the conflict and took a tentative step, willing to push on. Johnny considered it as he gauged the darkness.

He squinted at the waxing quarter moon slightly west of its apex and figured he’d seen all the light it was going to offer tonight. It was time for a rest. Stiffly, he slipped from the horse, his knees wobbling alarmingly, as a lance of pain jarred his temple. His stomach began to rise in protest, but Johnny clenched his jaws and willed it into submission. The fever was easier to ignore than the symptoms of the concussion.

Focus. He had to focus. The mechanical motions of caring for his horse helped. The measure of grain was not only welcome, but necessary if he was to continue to push the horse.

As Barranca consumed his confection, Johnny chewed on jerky and studied the golden flicker of fire, trying to calculate the distance. With that in mind, the gunfighter began to absorb his surroundings in more detail. A light strip in the darkness indicated a dry creek bed at the bottom of this rise. Johnny noted that it ran in the general direction of the fire. He nodded in satisfaction, his path for the night chosen.

When Barranca finished his treat, Johnny tightened the cinch. The tired horse gave a sigh, and Johnny was hit with a pang of guilt. He rubbed the gold face. “Just a little further, amigo, then we’ll stop for a while longer. Promise.”

Johnny climbed as gracefully as he could into the saddle and found his stirrup. His head swam. “Come on,” he said softly with a subtle nudge of his knees. Barranca dropped his nose along the requested trail and began to pick his way down the slope to the sandy path below.

Barranca’s hooves made a shussing noise in the dry sand as he moved. Johnny pointed the horse in the right direction and the pair followed the curves and bends at a steady pace. When the scent of smoke hit the gunfighter’s nose, he knew he was as close. Estimation put him to be very nearly below the campfire, and much closer than Johnny had dared hope to get.

By the position of the moon, Johnny estimated dawn to be only a handful of hours off. All he had to do was set up and wait for morning and he could stop this before it went any further. Sliding from the saddle, he hit the sandy earth with watery knees. He took a moment to gather strength and focus. Finally feeling somewhat sturdy and able to ignore his pounding head, Johnny looked around.

Finding a suitable spot in the sandy creek bed, he ground tied Barranca and began to dig in the sand. Soon he was rewarded with damp sand, and eventually a trickle of muddy water. His mount’s nose interfered with his deepening of the hole, but the horse was eventually rewarded with a shallow pool of muddy water. Barranca drank thirstily. When the palomino was done, Johnny pushed his canteen in the hole and managed to fill it. He drank some, wiped his hot face down, and hung the vessel on the saddle along with his hat.

Resting his hand on the saddlebag fat with cash, Johnny considered for a moment simply following orders and showing up on the Mesa like he’d intended when he got the cash from the bank. Was he risking Teresa’s life with his plan to push? Was it possible she would simply be let go? At that moment, Alexandra’s face came to mind, and, coupled with the memory of the earlier scream, his heart skipped. He couldn't hope for a good outcome following their rules.

This kid wasn’t going to catch him flatfooted again. Something told the ex-gunfighter that if the kid walked away with the cash, it wouldn’t be over. Johnny wanted to be sure that this was going to end here, today. With that in mind, he considered the cash an ace up his sleeve to be used if necessary. Johnny gave the horse a reassuring pat on the rump. Again, he had to bring the gunfighter attitude to bear, trying not to acknowledge his slipping ability to keep the mask in place.

“I’ll be back. Get some rest, compadre.” Gold ears flicked in his direction as he spoke, and he left his friend after an affectionate and welcome rub at the base of the horse’s ear.

With the cinch slightly loosened Johnny felt the horse was as comfortable as he could make him, and tied him to a sturdy manzanita. Anxious to get a bead on his quarry, Johnny took a deep breath and began to climb upward into the shadows of the night.

By dawn, he planned on having the kidnapper in the sights of his Colt.

The girl’s screams had unnerved Dawson. The kid, too, seemed to be unable to settle down and that set the older man’s teeth on edge. His rifle had been at his side ever since, and the gunman found himself prowling around outside the mouth of the mine in a larger and larger perimeter as the fire slowly died.

There was no way anyone could know where they were, but Travis Dawson knew better than to underestimate Johnny Madrid. He’d seen and heard of the pistolero conquering the worst situations by being totally unexpected as well as impressively fast. He also recalled the few hard earned lessons early in his own career where he’d underestimated his opponent but had managed to survive. Never again.

The kid had shown a level head to call in an expert after his first meeting with the Pinkerton agent; Josh Stedman would never survive a meeting with Madrid. Dawson’s casual friendship with the brothers was about to pay off and he could put enough space between himself and this state to feel comfortable.

Madrid was the only thing in his way at the moment.

Dawson absently caressed the rifle as he squinted into the dark. The kid finally fell asleep around midnight, but the older man’s senses were on full alert. Keeping the horses within his sight, he’d noticed the animals’ interest in one particular direction for the past hour. He could easily dismiss their attention to the proximity of coyotes, owls or some other night creature, but Dawson wasn’t about to take anything for granted, especially with five thousand dollars at stake.

Dawson was realistic enough to know anything was possible. The narrow path they’d taken to get to this mine wasn’t the only way out - he’d made sure of that. The kid would be following a deer trail he’d scouted to the Mesa where the exchange would take place. After making sure he was alone, Dawson would take out Madrid from another angle and they would be free and clear.

The kid hadn’t asked about the girl and assumed she would be released. Dawson had other ideas.

The rifleman made his way back down the trail naturally keeping to the shadows. The path here was carved in stone hard clay, the parallel wagon wheel marks from years past still visible. Earlier, Dawson had nearly turned an ankle in one of the tracks, and now was careful to stay between them.

At one point the trail skirted around a large boulder and curved very near an edge that sloped away to the valley below. Dawson considered the boulder a prime object to hide behind for an ambush, so he took the turn wide to go around it. As he did so, he glanced down into the valley beside him.

The moon’s light barely illuminated a light patch below and Dawson paused, remembering the dry creek bed below. Mentally, he traced its path in relation to the neighboring hills and realized it curved around in the same direction that caught the horses’ interest a little earlier.

He wondered, mentally calculated, and a spark of possibility came to him. Rooted to the path, he quickly estimated the probability of Madrid getting this far; his answer pushed him into motion. Still keeping to the shadows, Dawson slinked back to camp, his eyes in constant motion. He put his hand over the kid’s mouth and shook him sharply.

Leaning close to Stedman’s ear, Dawson whispered firmly as the boy’s eyes flew open. “Quiet! I think he’s here. You need to keep watch and saddle the horses. Now that the fire’s dead and the moon’s about set he can’t do anything until dawn. I’m setting up now and will keep an eye on you and the site. Understand?”

Josh nodded, and once released from Dawson’s grip, clambered to his feet and checked his gun. His eyes were huge in the dark. “Madrid? Here?” he choked.

“I’m not takin’ any chances. Keep your eyes open. If he shows himself, I’ll be coverin’ him. Go on with the exchange. I’ll be watching. I won't do anything until the money is secure.” Josh nodded quickly and moved to saddle the horses as the rifleman melted into the night.

It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Dawson was sure he had the upper hand, and by noon tomorrow, planned on being $5,000.00 richer with no witnesses.

When the moon finally dipped below the hills, Scott knew that dawn would be showing itself very soon. Still not sleepy, he pulled up the buckskin and decided to wait out the darkness until the trail was visible again. Some time ago, he wasn’t exactly sure when, Scott had made the decision to follow this meager trail to its end. It may have had something to do with the noise he’d heard earlier; it wasn’t so much that he was unable to identify it, but the fact that it seemed to come from the other end of the parallel tracks he followed. If there was one thing Scott Lancer had learned about this land, it was that coincidence wasn’t usually found in nature.

Allowing his mind to wander, the young widower found his thoughts inexorably settling on Alexandra. For the first time since her death, he finally felt the trace of a smile on his face as he recalled her laughing face and parts of the many conversations they had had. It was comforting for a little while until he began to recall how she and Teresa had become so close. Suddenly, he felt a cold stone in his stomach, and he pulled his thoughts back into the present.

Scott jerked back into awareness and was surprised to see the barely perceivable lightening of the sky that indicated the start of dawn. He quickly glanced around, a bit surprised at being so engrossed in thought and memory that time had passed unnoticed. Clearing his throat nervously, he nudged his horse onward. The parallel trail of golden grass was becoming easier to see with the hint of light.

Eventually, the overgrown ruts wound and climbed. Then the flat openness disappeared along with the grass and the hard packed trail began to wind around one hill, a narrow path along the edge of a valley. Once he pulled abreast of a particularly large boulder that the trail jogged around, Scott saw the openness of Saddleback Mesa open before him in the flat light of pre-dawn.

He stopped, suddenly aware that the buckskin’s attitude had changed, and Scott was instantly on edge - something around the bend had the animal’s attention. Scott slipped from the saddle intending to peek around the boulder, but a soft whickering from the other side stopped him cold. He slipped his hand over the buckskin’s nostrils so the horse was unable to respond to the unseen horse.

Someone was on the other end of this trail.

Carefully, Scott led his horse back the way they came and looked for a tall stand of brush to conceal and secure his mount. Tingling with anticipation, he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Deeply engrained military training took over as the ex-officer scanned the area for his best position. He chose to go up and over.

The sky was as bright as it would be before the sun would actually appear. Johnny was satisfied that when the sun crested the eastern hills, it would be nearly in line with the mine opening behind the dead campfire – a small advantage, but one advantage nonetheless. The horses that he’d heard rustling during the dark hours became visible with the pre-dawn light, and he’d studied them closely. Two horses, fully saddled. Shortly after, he saw the kid and felt a race of rage spike his blood.

The kid still had the nervous edge Johnny remembered, and that’s when instinct kicked in; Josh Stedman wasn’t working alone. There was nothing blatantly glaring about the kid or the campsite that told him this, but he’d learned to trust his instincts a very long time ago. As it got lighter, the one thing he did notice was that there was an empty rifle sheath on one of the saddles with no rifle in sight.

It could be in the mine, where he had no doubt Teresa was at the moment, but Johnny couldn’t convince himself of that. His inner voice was telling him that the rifle and its owner were out there, doing just what he was doing right now. Johnny’s actions had been second guessed all along, and he was sure that it was happening again. This had all the earmarks of an ambush.

Although part of him wanted to storm the mine and get Teresa, the other part knew that they would be picked off like sitting ducks. Johnny knew he had to locate the rifleman before making any moves and his only choice was to wait. If he couldn’t pinpoint the gunman by 9:00, he’d have to go in for the scheduled exchange and take it from there.

Johnny settled in, working to push aside the vision of Teresa in the cave and the pain of his pounding head. One of the horses at the site nickered softly, and the kid moved in to quiet the animal. Johnny watched Josh look around nervously. After quieting the horse he moved to the relative cover of the mine opening.

Many quiet minutes passed. Johnny scanned the hills constantly, searching for any sign of the second man. Then, just as the sun broke over the hills, something caught the interest of the two horses at the mine, and their ears snapped forward. Their gaze was in the direction of Saddleback Mesa.

Johnny followed their stares and saw figures moving in the distance – two people on horseback. They were too far away to identify them, but after a few moments of study, Johnny could see that they were following his own trail and just beginning the descent into the dry riverbed.

Whoever it was left Johnny no choice. He had to push the schedule and face the kid now. If the two riders were backup for the kid, he needed to get Teresa now. If the unknown riders were from Lancer, they were unknowingly riding into an ambush.

Johnny took a few seconds more to study the distant forms again. His decision was made as soon as he recognized the stocky profile of his father’s sorrel as they turned downhill.

Without a second thought, Johnny descended down to Barranca, tightened the cinch, and mounted up. Directing the palomino up the rim of the wash, the pair of them came out on the Mesa as close to the mine as they could be. He pulled the horse to a stop, and, with the rising sun backing him up, waited to be noticed.

Dawson was surprised to see Madrid seemingly pop up out of nowhere and completely expose himself on the Mesa, but wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by. He repositioned himself slightly, having to step more into the open than he desired, but still feeling confident. Now all he had to do was wait until the kid had the cash in hand.

Josh Stedman’s heart about leaped from his throat when he saw the single rider seemingly appear from nowhere  and face him from the Mesa. Stumbling back into the mine, he unceremoniously hauled his captive to her feet. Teresa gasped and tried to break free, but she was no match for the agitated young man as he dragged her from the mine and into the open. He held her in front of him like a shield, his handgun pressed into the soft part under her jaw until she cringed.

The young man squinted into the sun, unable to discern any details of the rider. His gut told him who it was.

“You’re early, Madrid!” the boy shouted, his voice sounding a bit higher than he’d hoped. “I’ll shoot!”

The rider didn’t move. Instead a low, even voice, void of any emotion, sounded back. “Let’s get this done, Stedman.”

The use of his name frazzled the kid some more, but he held his ground. “Drop your gun and we’ll come down!”

After a moment, the form did as he was told. Keeping his hostage between him and the dark form, the kid moved to the horses, glad that Dawson had told him to saddle them earlier. He shoved the girl up into the saddle of the closest one and then managed to mount up behind her. The kid wrapped one arm around her waist and grabbed the reins, and held the gun to her side with the other. Carefully, he guided the horse down Dawson’s previously laid out path.

Josh knew Dawson was out there somewhere and it gave him the courage to approach the shadowy form. As soon as the cash was in his hands, Madrid would be dead. Closer now, he could make out the golden coat of the horse and the frightening, hooded eyes of Madrid. The gunfighter sat in a relaxed slump, motionless, both hands resting on the saddle horn.

“Where’s the money?” Josh snapped, stopping his horse about twenty feet from the palomino.

“Saddlebag,” Johnny drawled without moving. His relaxed posture made the boy tense a little more, and Teresa groaned as the gun pressed deeper. Johnny’s eyes flicked to the girl’s face for a moment, and then settled back on the boy. “Want me to show you?”

“No,” Josh snapped. “Get down. Keep your hands where I can see them.” Johnny slid from Barranca’s back and stood, eyes still locked on the kid. “Drop the reins and back up.” Again, Johnny followed the orders. As he backed up, the kid slid off his horse dragging Teresa to the ground with him. Still using her as a shield, the pair moved forward until they were next to the palomino. They stopped beside the fat saddlebag.

Not taking his eyes from Madrid and keeping the gun pressed firmly against Teresa’s body, Josh checked the saddlebag, unbuckling it and the inner bank bag without looking. Feeling the cash, the kid finally smiled. He'd won. “Good thing you believed me, Madrid, or the girl would be dead right now.” He backed up enough to get Barranca’s reins and positioned the horse between them and the infamous gunfighter.

“Trade’s done. Give me the girl.” Madrid’s voice gave the kid chills and he felt his heart race again.

“The trade’s done when I say!” Josh’s voice didn’t sound as strong as he’d hoped, and he wondered what was taking Dawson so long to shoot. Maybe I’m in the way. Sure would be nice to know where he is.

Figuring Madrid would be dead as soon as he mounted the palomino, the kid stuck his foot in the stirrup, and, still pressing his gun against the girl, swung his leg over.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

Scott made it to his vantage point just as the sun topped the far ridge and saw a drama playing out below. The kid, with Teresa in his grip, was checking Barranca’s saddlebag. Scott brought his rifle to bear. Just as he got a bead on the kid and his trigger finger began to squeeze, he saw a motion to the north in the periphery of his vision. Instinctively, he swung his rifle to it and saw the head and shoulders of a man lining up a rifle on his brother.

Scott coolly squeezed the trigger at his new target and yelled at Johnny to run.

It took a moment for Scott to realize the other shooter had fired almost at the same time. He jacked another round into the rifle, but when he looked for his target, it was gone. Scott turned the gun to the Mesa, where he saw Johnny pushing himself to his hands and knees. The kid was trying to get Barranca to move, but the frightened horse was fighting him. Teresa was on the ground next to the prancing hooves, struggling to sit up.

Scott scanned the brush looking for the shooter. Not seeing him, he started down to get the single horse tied below him before the shooter made another move. It was a steep grade, and the desperate blond found himself scrambling for control and balance as he descended at an ever increasing speed. Near the bottom of his slide, he saw the shooter break from the brush on the edge of the Mesa, rifle still in hand, and run right up to the recalcitrant palomino. The figure pulled the kid off in one mighty yank and quickly took his place on the dancing horse. The kid jumped up and the gunman shot him point blank with the rifle.

Scott felt sick.

Johnny was on his feet and stumbled toward Teresa. The gunman got Barranca turned using brute force. As Scott’s feet hit level ground, his rifle was instantly on his shoulder and he got a quick shot off as the other gunman was bringing his rifle to bear on Johnny. Barranca reared and bolted when Scott's shot hit by his feet. The gunman shifted his rifle, and changed his plans, pulling the palomino’s head aside and smacking him hard across the flank with the flat stock of the rifle. Barranca leaped forward and dropped out of sight into the dry wash below.

Scott jumped on the horse near him and lit out for the Mesa, yelling Johnny’s name. By the time he forged a path to the Mesa, Johnny had veered away from Teresa and caught the kid’s horse.

“Let him go, Johnny!” Scott yelled as he galloped to them, shocked that his brother was ignoring Teresa. All the anger from a week ago surged to the surface again in the apparent disregard of the girl’s safety. “Damn it, Teresa needs us!” Instead, Johnny pulled himself into the saddle none too gracefully. Scott roughly pulled his mount to a stop near the girl and jumped off, stumbling a few steps before falling to his knees next to her. Teresa writhed uncontrollably as Scott loosened the gag and blindfold, and she sobbed in great gulps of air.

“My gun!” Johnny yelled in a hoarse voice. “Toss me my gun!”

Scott’s hands continued to work Teresa’s bindings. He glared at his brother with icy eyes. “Let him go, Johnny! He doesn’t matter!”

“He’s heading right at Murdoch, Scott!” Johnny’s tone was a terrifying mix of anguish and desperation. When Scott’s head jerked up at that news, he saw that his little brother’s eyes were wide with fevered fear. “I’ve got to stop him! My gun! There!”

It took a second for the words to sink in. Scott dropped his eyes over Teresa’s shaking shoulders and saw the Colt on the ground. He held her off a moment and grabbed it. Johnny rode right up on them and snatched the gun from his brother’s hand as he galloped by.

That’s when Scott noticed the blood. The gunman hadn’t missed after all.

“Johnny, wait!” Scott called, now frantically trying to release the girl from her bonds.

“Stop him!” Teresa begged between her tears. “Scott, we have to go after him! One of them is a hired gun. Johnny’s sick. . .”

“He’s more than sick,” Scott grunted, finally freeing her hands. “He’s shot, too.” He stood and hauled her to her feet, then firmly held her shoulders. He could feel her violent quivering. “Teresa, honey, are you all right? Can you ride?”

“They didn’t really hurt me,” she said weakly, her tingling hand automatically feeling the cheek that Dawson had slapped. “I was just so scared.” Her eyes trailed past her brother to the body on the ground, and she let out a little groan. “Scott, the hired gun’s still alive.”

“I know. Can you ride?” She nodded shortly, and they both got on the remaining horse. “My horse is right around the hill,” he said, kicking the jittery animal into a lope back to the mine. In no time, following the dried wheel tracks, they collected Scott’s buckskin. He glanced back in the direction of Lancer and on the distant horizon he saw the shimmering shadow of a moving mass. “It’s Cipriano! Teresa, ride to them and tell them what happened. I’m going after Johnny.”

Scott glanced up and saw that Teresa’s eyes were wide and heavy with tears. She was obviously more than terrified, but she bit her lip and nodded. He smiled encouragingly at her, and then reached out to gently grasp her trembling hand. “You’re quite a girl, you know that? Now go get my backup for me.”

That was enough to get a spark in her eyes and a determined set to her mouth. Teresa nodded, and then kicked the horse into a run and headed toward the ranch hands while Scott turned the buckskin to help his brother and father.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Johnny pushed his horse up the wash and was finally rewarded with a glimpse of silver tail. Without slowing, Johnny pursed his lips and whistled.

When they rounded the curve of the wash, it was obvious Barranca's gait had broken - the distance between them had narrowed. Johnny whistled again, and the horse slowed even more. The gunman spurred the palomino's sides and cracked the golden flank with the ends of the reins; Barranca, becoming agitated, bucked as he was forced forward. When Johnny whistled a third time, the horse tossed his head, fighting the bit, and dug in with all four feet. Leather slapped hide in sharp retorts.

Finally, Barranca reared. The kidnapper jerked the reins sideways and they both toppled over. Johnny saw his chance and drove his horse hard, hoping to get within Colt range before his foe gained his feet.

At a full gallop in deep sand, Johnny’s horse seemed to be moving in slow motion. Johnny raised his Colt and began to aim but Barranca was struggling to place his feet and blocking the shot. Dawson’s rifle, which had been lying across his lap in the saddle, was now firmly in his grip as he kicked free of the stirrups.

The maneuver seemed impossible, but Dawson managed to roll to his stomach, pull the rifle to him and aim from the chest. For anyone else, the shot would have been wild.

Johnny’s horse went down in a spray of sand with a guttural squeal, burying Johnny with its body. A blinding flash was followed by the dull thrum of pain as his head struck the riverbed. It stunned him for several moments. He felt the animal twitch momentarily after coming to a rest, but there was no follow-up motion or effort to rise. Johnny tried to roll, confused as to why he couldn't move his leg.

Barranca, shaken, backed away from the scene and Dawson divided his attention between getting the palomino and his cash or making sure the chase was over.

Slowly, it came to Johnny that he was trapped under the dead horse. It took several fleeting seconds for him to realize his gun was gone. He glanced groggily around while trying to free his leg and arm from under the dead weight, and a stab of pain in his thigh sharpened his senses. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the gunman finally snatch Barranca’s reins and turn toward them, his rifle at his side like an extension of his arm. Johnny turned to face him, keeping his Madrid mask firmly in place even though his head pounded and his vision blurred. Neck muscles shrieked at the effort it took to keep his head lifted from the earth.

The predator's eyes brightened.

“Name’s Dawson,” the gunman said with triumph in his voice as he measured up his rival with his eyes. “And I get to be the one who finally puts Madrid in the ground.” Barranca danced at the end of the reins. “All I really wanted was the money, but I won’t turn my back on the added bonus.”

Johnny felt his searching fingers bump the Colt under the dead horse’s thick crest. “Kinda low class, shootin’ a man when he’s down,” Johnny drawled as his fingers wrapped around the pistol butt tangled in the mass of mane. Dawson opened his mouth to reply, but Johnny was finally able to pull his gun free in a disjointed motion, distracting Dawson, whose rifle barrel came up in an instinctual response for a shot from the hip.

Dawson managed to get off a shot that solidly hit near the dead horse’s withers and ricocheted off the pommel of Johnny's saddle. Johnny’s shot was better, and winged the gunman. Dawson stumbled backward, the rifle falling from his useless grip. Cursing, Dawson caught his balance as he grabbed his right arm, and moved behind Barranca. Johnny knew he had just shattered his opponent’s elbow and hoped that gave him a precious few seconds to get his wits about him. His vision swam; focus pulsing in time with his throbbing head. The burn of a new injury in his thigh made itself known with blinding clarity.

Johnny fought to keep his thoughts in order and keep track of Dawson. He held his Colt aloft, but it wavered like a sapling in the wind. Dawson finally managed to climb on Barranca, but he listed to one side. Dizzy and with fading vision, Johnny tried to whistle again, but his mouth was too dry and his lips didn't seem to want to obey him. He tried to shout, but he didn’t seem to have any energy left. His arm dropped, the gun suddenly too heavy to hold aloft.

His head sank back into the sand, his fuzzy thoughts heavy on Murdoch. As a surge of strength from somewhere deep inside helped Johnny to raise his pistol at the blurry pair. “Lo siento, amigo,” he muttered softly to the spirited palomino. Johnny knew his aim wasn’t too accurate at this point and that he would probably hit his four footed friend, but Murdoch was just ahead and riding right into danger. It was a sacrifice he had to make.

Johnny forced the drooping gun up again and took shaky aim, but the sharp gunshot from another direction made him jerk with surprise. Dawson flew from the saddle and landed in the wash with a dry thump. Wearily, Johnny let his arm drop into the sand, consciousness fleeing at an alarming rate. Pain enveloped him, but he had to smile when he felt the warm breath from Barranca's soft muzzle on his cheek.

That’s when Johnny’s world went dark and he was almost grateful for it.

Scott thundered back past the mine and onto the Mesa, his mind racing. A mental clock ticking in his head told him he was too far behind his brother and he quickly assessed alternatives. The dry wash was too winding and sandy to catch up, but he could cut across the Mesa and come in from above; he just hoped the pair hadn’t left the wash already.

He leaned low and the buckskin responded, hooves pounding on the hard ground. Although the horse was already weary from being ridden all night, it answered the request to open up without question.

The horse’s ears were pinned back with effort, the tawny neck foaming with sweat. The sound of gunfire at first seemed to echo from everywhere, but when Scott put the horse near the edge of the Mesa and slowed a bit, he was able to pinpoint the location. Finally, a golden flash caught his attention. Scott backed from the edge to keep from being spotted and reined in, pulling his rifle before vaulting to the ground.

Prone on his belly, Scott pulled himself to the edge and looked over. Below was the heart stopping sight of a dead horse and a trapped rider – Johnny, whose gun hand was obviously failing him. Even though his heart was pounding Scott carefully placed the rifle and sought his target. The shifting palomino made it difficult, but not impossible, to get a fix on Teresa’s tormentor.

The injured gunman sat the golden horse crookedly, his bloody right arm pressed against his stomach, and Scott could see the feral smile on the man’s face as he made a quick wrap of the reins around the saddle horn with his left hand.

Johnny’s shaky gun tracked the movement, but sagged alarmingly.

The mounted killer looked down at Scott’s injured brother with that deadly grin as he drew his handgun awkwardly with his left hand. He swung it toward his target.

Scott fired and at that second, for the first time in a week, he found he didn't feel completely helpless. 

Murdoch and Val followed the sound of gunfire having no idea what to expect. When they rounded the final curve, Barranca spooked and threw his head, but didn’t go far from the body on the ground at his feet.

“Johnny!” Murdoch pushed forward and Val was about to do the same when a still form off to the side caught his eye. Instead, the Sheriff dismounted to check the other body.

Murdoch stiffly dismounted next to his son and placed his shaking fingers on Johnny’s neck. Faint and racing, but the pulse was there against the boy’s hot skin. The gash from a week ago was split even wider open, caked with sand and dirt, and oozed pitifully. Johnny’s head lolled side to side with the motions of the big man’s hands as Murdoch checked the boy for injuries.

“MURDOCH!” The senior Lancer’s head jerked up at the distant call, and he saw a lanky form waving at him from the edge of the Mesa. “I’M COMING DOWN!”

Murdoch gave Scott an acknowledging wave. “Val!” he called after turning his attention back to Johnny. His normally strong voice was shaky. “Help me dig him out. I can’t tell if he’s hurt anywhere else. I don’t understand where Teresa is!”

The sheriff dropped next to the older man and began to dig from one side of Johnny as Murdoch dug from the other. They were still unable to extricate the unconscious man.

“We’re gonna need help,” Val panted. “Maybe pull the horse off? We need to keep looking for Teresa, too, Murdoch.”

“Let’s see what Scott knows,” Murdoch said faintly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Breathing heavily from their effort, both men tried to think of other options as they struggled to keep their worry about both the boy and Teresa in control.

Muted voices caught their attention and they turned in time to see Scott, followed by Cipriano and Teresa. Scott dropped from the buckskin and sprinted past his father to kneel by his brother’s side. He gently held the limp head in his hands. The other men swarmed around the trapped son, throwing out ideas on what to do.

Something broke inside the big Scot when he watched the girl slip from her horse amongst all the frenzy, and he found himself pulling the trembling girl into his arms without even knowing how he got to her side.

Teresa finally broke down when she felt the strong arms of her guardian envelop her, the feeling of being safe allowing the release of her tears. Murdoch rested his cheek against the top of her head as she sobbed, and he calmed her with a low, reassuring voice.

His eyes, however, were on Johnny and he couldn’t help but wonder if, after all this, his family would stay intact.

While they discussed how to best extricate Johnny, Cipriano escorted a reluctant Teresa home. She tried to convince her guardian that she was fine, but Murdoch would not be swayed. Teresa was going home. Finally, she gave in, taking comfort in knowing that she would have the house ready to receive Johnny. She and the Segundo were to direct a wagon back to meet up with the rescue party, and make sure that any other needed supplies were on board.

Another hand was sent to alert the doctor while a pair of men began to rig a travois to get Johnny out of the wash and meet the wagon on the trail. Scott directed all the action from his brother’s side, refusing to leave.

Once Teresa was out of sight, Murdoch was able to settle across from his older son. Scott had positioned Johnny’s head on his thigh so the injured man’s spine was level. Someone handed the eldest Lancer a canteen and he began to wipe down his younger son’s face.

“He’s hot,” Murdoch said.

“I know,” Scott replied quietly. “His fever’s not that high, though. I don’t know why he’s not waking up. I know he’s shot somewhere near his hip; that must be it.”

They finally got Johnny free by both digging and dragging the dead body of the horse off of him. It took the better part of an hour since the young man never stirred and the group could not tell if they were injuring him more or not. Jelly managed to clean and wrap the head wound while in the middle of the busy workers. The travois was assembled and hooked up to the most willing horse, but before transferring him, Scott, Murdoch and an ever-clucking Jelly gave Johnny a thorough check.

“Here,” Scott said, pointing to the thigh that had been trapped under the horse. “Here’s the bullet wound.” When they rolled him onto his back, the large blood stain in the sand was impossible to miss. “Looks like the dead weight of the horse stemmed the flow a little.” He used a knife to cut around the bloody hole in the pants and uncovered an ugly wound covered with dirty sand.

Murdoch rinsed the area with water, and it began to bleed again. A pair of kerchiefs tied together worked as a bandage. It soon blossomed red. Jelly grabbed more bandages from his quickly deflating saddlebags and swore softly when he dropped next to Johnny’s leg. As he added more pressure to the bandage, Jelly began to mutter to himself.

Scott had been sitting quietly, wiping down his brother’s face and trying to clean off the blood with a kerchief and water. Something in Jelly’s tone caught the fraught young man’s ear, and he jerked his head up. “You think he broke his leg?”

“I’m not sure,” Jelly answered immediately. "I think his thigh bone is broke, maybe his hip, too. Cain’t tell - it's a funny shape near his hip. An' he's done opened his head again; probly why he's out cold. Well, that ‘n the fever ‘n the fall . . . the boy’s a mess.”

Scott’s thoughts turned inward when he saw the look of naked fear briefly exposed in his father’s face. Murdoch Lancer wasn’t one to wear his feelings on his sleeve and the fear was quickly pulled under control, but the effect on the elder son had already been passed on.

Val returned to the group after checking the dead man’s body. “His name’s Travis Dawson. He’s a hired gun.” The sheriff adjusted his gun belt unconsciously.

At the mention of the dead man’s name, Scott turned his eyes to Val. “There’s another one up on the Mesa, at the north end. He was so young and Dawson shot him. He’s dead.”

Val nodded and mounted up, a long look lingering on his injured friend. “Sounds like Josh Stedman. Must have met Dawson down south. Stedman wasn’t more ‘n a kid. A stupid kid.” He picked up his reins, knowing Johnny couldn’t be in better hands. “I’ll take care of ‘em, Murdoch.” He left them to check the Mesa.

The travois was waiting, and it was time to move the injured man. Jelly wisely bound Johnny’s legs together so that the uninjured leg could act as a splint. Johnny was stripped of his shirt so it could be soaked in water and draped over him to keep him cool. The young Lancer never moved a muscle or batted an eye during the preparations.

“I bet he didn’t sleep all week ‘ceptin’ when he was at the building site. An’ that was more like bein’ unconscious. He’s exhausted.” Jelly insisted on walking with the travois and keeping the shirt wet. “An’ so are you, Scott. You ride, I’ll walk.”

Scott nodded, feeling a little like he was in a dream. He took charge of the travois horse with no argument and spoke quietly to his father. “Jelly and I can take turns walking and riding.”

Murdoch nodded. “We need to get out of this wash and onto the main road to meet the ranch wagon. You men,” he spoke to the rest of the group “Go ahead and follow the trail. It’s sandy, but still pretty clear. Move any obstacles out of the way for the travois. Stop and wait where the trail goes up and out of the wash. We’ll need everybody to get Johnny to the top.”

The men nodded and mounted, then began to move off. One of the hands managed to catch the skittish palomino and hand him off to Murdoch to pony out. The horse settled down immediately, and like his owner, seemed to surrender to his weariness. Murdoch followed the travois on his horse, watching Jelly’s ministrations and feeling a little more confident about the outcome.

Scott was glad to have some quiet and space. He let the horse follow the trail, making sure they avoided the larger rocks. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts; thoughts of the East, the West and the definition of family. The scenes of the past hours played over and over in his mind. He suddenly realized sympathy for his brother if this was how his mind had been working for the past week.

The one point of view that always rose to the top was that of his spunky sister-by-heart. With her in mind as he thought back, Scott began to see the error in his thinking this past week. Teresa also represented the West; and then it hit him that Alexandra – being born and bred in San Francisco – was also part of this land, and he loved them both.

Scott hung his head in shame. Anger and sorrow had made him misjudge everything and everyone terribly. Scott had been so angry at himself for allowing the West to influence him that he’d failed to see the part of the land that he’d embraced without question.

Suddenly, his heart felt a little lighter. His eyes misted when he reminded himself that his beloved Alexandra and their unborn child were not here physically, but accepted the fact that they, in essence, were always with him. His wife would be happy knowing he had his family to lean on. Scott could now feel that in his newly softened heart.

He glanced back at is too-still brother and knew that he would be all right. Scott didn’t have to know what happened at South Mesa anymore, or how Dawson and Stedman fit in. It didn’t matter because he trusted Johnny more than anyone else, and knew that he’d done the best he could at the time, if not more than his best, to protect Alexandra. Murdoch was right; he simply had to trust the bond he had with his brother.

The schism of his heart began to mend.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Harlan Garrett was sitting in Teresa’s rose garden with a glass of lemonade, enjoying the peace and quiet. Waiting in the house had become uncomfortable with that Maria woman cleaning all around him. He shook his head at the latitudes given to the hired help here. It was appalling.

Garrett was not good at waiting, and that’s exactly what he was forced to do before he could see if his opportunity had panned out. Truly, his grandson wouldn’t let the horrid roughness of this land absorb him. Scotty had to see that he was better than this, and only in for more hard times if he stayed. Surely, he’d had enough by now.

A motion in the distant hills caught his eye and he stood to see over the garden wall. Squinting, he could barely make out the forms of two riders coming in fast. He put the glass down and made his way to the front porch where he saw, to his astonishment, the girl Teresa and the Mexican foreman. Had all that careful maneuvering failed again? How could this happen? Quickly, he backtracked in his mind and was sure that there was no way for anyone to know his dealings in all this – unless he came face to face with Josh Stedman. Garrett swallowed hard, and then put on the proper concerned face when the girl and the man rode under the white arch.

Maria hustled from the door and stood next to the Bostonian, nervously wringing her hands. When Teresa became clearly visible, the small Mexican let out a little gasp and began muttering in Spanish. When the pair crossed under the white arch, Garrett took a step to meet them but was taken aback as Maria cut in front of him to greet the girl. The older woman was babbling incoherently as Teresa dismounted directly into her arms.

Teresa wavered a moment and allowed the intimate hug, much to Garrett’s chagrin. He forced a polite smile on is face as he approached her, his mind whirling with unspoken questions. He picked the one that seemed to be the most innocuous.

“I’m so glad to see you, my dear!” he said. “Where’s Scotty? Where’s Murdoch? Do they know you’re all right?”

“Yes, yes, they’re all fine, too. I just left them.” She turned to Maria and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Garrett was irked, but kept the plastered smile on is face. After the small Mexican woman gasped and hurried off, Teresa turned to him. “Johnny’s hurt and I need to set up his room. I need to gather some herbs . . .” the young woman’s voice trailed off and she ran a shaky hand through her hair. “I must look a sight,” she murmured, sounding on the edge of exhaustion.

Garrett found himself reaching a hand out and sympathetically patting her shoulder. “You must be tired,” he said. “You should rest.”

She smiled briefly, and then pulled herself together right in front of Garrett’s eyes. The girl’s toughness surprised him. “I’ll sleep later. Right now, a quick wash and a change of clothes is what I need. Maria’s gathering the supplies.” She hurried off to the house, leaving the perplexed older man in her wake. The girl should have been in hysterics; he had an idea of what she must have been through based on the fresh bruise on her face.

Curiosity was making him edgy, but Harlan Garrett could wait. There could still be a return in this for him. All he had to do was wait for all the players to assemble to see if his gamble had worked.

Coordinated teamwork and a heavy dose of determination got the travois-turned-stretcher up and out of the wash. The next decision was to either wait for the wagon or keep moving. Jelly insisted they keep going as long as Johnny was unconscious. So they rigged the travois once again. It would still be hours until anyone would reach them.

“Town would be closer,” Jelly pointed out.

“He needs to be home,” Murdoch quietly insisted, Teresa’s voice ringing in his mind. “This family has been apart for too long.” Then the elder Lancer sent the hands back to the ranch ahead of them.

Scott wearily nodded his head in silent agreement, dismounted, and put himself at his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll stay with him.” Jelly gave him a wry look, but mounted the blowing horse without comment.

After the rest and adjustments, they continued on. The slow parade moved quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Scott kept his brother’s shirt damp and checked for any signs of life in Johnny’s eyes. The older brother had no idea how long he’d been walking when he finally saw some motion in his little brother’s features.

“Hold up, Jelly, I think he’s coming around.” Scott fell to one knee next to his brother’s head, which was now dazedly rolling back and forth. A groan escaped Johnny’s dry lips. “Come on, Johnny. I know you can hear me.” Scott wet a handkerchief and wiped down the once lax face. “Open up. Look at me.” Scott could see motion behind the closed lids, then Johnny’s body twitched.

The darkness had been quiet and soothing. Now all he felt was hot and sore - incredibly sore. The higher he climbed out of the shadows the more pain he felt, but there was an inner drive to keep on climbing despite it. A lighting bolt of pain flared in the blackness and Johnny couldn’t help but jerk, and that caused more fireworks of pain. He heard himself groan and he searched with one hand to try and push away a pressure he felt on his face. Then he felt more hands on him.

They were crowding him. He needed space to collect himself. Johnny tried to push up, but the hands he felt against his shoulders wouldn’t allow it. The pain flashed again. His eyes snapped open, and the sudden brightness made his head explode. His grimace screwed his eyes closed against the light.

“No, no . . .” he insisted, trying to break free. The more he moved the more pain he felt and the heavier the pressure on his shoulders. Johnny felt trapped which immediately ignited panic from some dark place inside. “Let go of me!” he thought he shouted, escalating his resistance.

“Johnny, stop! Stop fighting!”

The words were finally becoming clear, and the voice hit another place in his whirling, pain-plagued mind. He paused, breathing hard.

“That’s it, Johnny, listen to me. You have to stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself even more.”

Johnny forced his eyes to blink. The brightness hurt his head tremendously, but the fuzzy forms were beginning to coalesce before him. He felt his own hands grasping something solid, and he relaxed the grip a little. In response, the pressure lessened on his shoulders. The pain, however, was relentless and he couldn’t quite figure where it was coming from yet. “Scott?” he croaked dryly.

“Here, son, try to get some water down.” One of the blurs in front of him grew larger and shaped up to be his father. Johnny felt the hard coolness of a canteen against his lips. He swallowed thirstily, the cold wetness feeling wonderful. “That’s good for now, son. You have to stay still for awhile.”

“Scott?” he whispered again. His hands gripped what he now recognized as forearms. Scott’s forearms.

“I’m here, brother.” Johnny’s eyes centered on the familiar face as it floated into his circle of sight, and the blond head of his brother came into focus. “Just like you to let us do all the work while you lie around.”

Johnny couldn’t help but smile, but it was taken away by another lighting bolt. “Hurts,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes against the light as he tried to shift away from the fire stoking somewhere below his hips. Another agonizing stab was the result, and he groaned, feeling the panic beginning to rise along with the burning fire. “Oh, God, it hurts!”

“I know, Johnny, I know.” Scott’s hand pressed Johnny’s shoulders again, and this time the injured man didn’t fight. The pain wasn’t coming from the shoulders – even the pain from the light in his eyes seemed trivial. Johnny locked his watering eyes on his brother in a desperate attempt to gain control of it all.

“Ya have to stay still, boy.” Jelly’s voice entered his mind, but he kept his eyes on his brother.

“My leg,” Johnny ground out through tightly clenched teeth. “On fire.” His grip on Scott’s forearms tightened again, and he panted heavily through locked jaws.

“I know, I know, brother, but if you lay still it should help. Come on, Johnny, lie still.”

“Oh, God . . .” Johnny’s wretched eyes squeezed shut as the agony swelled.

Even in exquisite pain, Johnny tried to latch on to his brother’s voice and use it as a focus for control, but it wasn’t working. The lightning in the dark was relentless, and his swimming head made concentration impossible. He gripped Scott’s forearms in panicked desperation, but the pain below his hips grew, licking like a firestorm down his legs and up his back. It took his breath away and he began to fight it again as the fire consumed him.

“Git his mouth open, Murdoch! Scott, don’t let him get up!”

Johnny’s body convulsed and writhed uncontrollably as he fell into the arms of fever and panic, his groans on the edge of screams. Scott continued to speak, inches from his brother’s face, but his voice fell on deaf ears. Murdoch’s strong hands immobilized his son’s head and he used his thumbs to pry Johnny’s lower jaw open enough for Jelly to get the neck of the brown bottle in his flailing son’s mouth. When Jelly poured out a measure of the contents, most if the laudanum ran down Johnny’s jaw line and neck, and even more was sprayed back at them with Johnny’s gasping breath.

One good dose finally made it in, and Murdoch held Johnny’s jaw shut until he swallowed, and even then some of the vile liquid leaked from his nostril. Scott spoke soothingly, keeping Johnny pinned to the travois until he saw the wildness leave his brother’s blinking blue eyes. Tears trailed from the corners of his eyes. Finally, after a long few minutes, his lids sagged and then Scott was able to release his grip. Johnny’s hands fell away from the exhausted blond’s forearms. Murdoch withdrew with a relieved sigh. The three of them stepped back, badly shaken, to catch their breath.

Murdoch trembled as he wiped his forehead. It took a moment for him to speak. “I certainly don’t want to do that again,” he said.

Scott shakily unbuttoned his cuff and rolled one sleeve up to his elbow. The hand-shaped bruise from Johnny’s grip was already forming on his lighter skin. “Any longer and he would have broken my arms,” Scott noted lowly, gently rubbing the area.

“It’s the fever and the concussion. It’s makin’ him loopy.” Jelly had a little difficulty capping the brown bottle because his hands were shaking too much. “An’ there must be a broken bone doin’ something nasty inside. Sure would be nice to get him home before that dose wears off.”

“How long . . .?” Scott asked.

“We got a couple of hours, I think,” Jelly responded, glancing up the road.

Murdoch moved to his horse and mounted, gathering up Barranca’s reins again. “We should be meeting the wagon soon. Let’s get moving, then.”

No one mentioned the possibility that they had injured Johnny more when they pulled him from under the horse, but the idea played in the backs of their individual minds as they forged onward.

The dose lasted just long enough. Jelly was sure the boy’s depleted state contributed, but they were all glad he was still out when they transferred him to the wagon. Scott rode in the back with his brother while Jelly clipped orders and inquiries from the passenger side of the seat. Sam Jenkins was waiting for them when they got to the hacienda and climbed in the back as soon as the wagon stopped.

Murdoch dismounted his horse stiffly and passed on Barranca’s and his own mount’s reins to the stable hands. Teresa was at his side in an instant with her arm around his waist. They waited patiently, giving each other support. Scott and Sam spoke quietly back and forth with Jelly pitching in while the doctor checked the boy carefully. No one missed the frown on the old physician’s face when he examined Johnny’s leg.

Finally, the doctor suggested taking Johnny to his room and the waiting hands jumped into action. Scott began giving orders, but Sam put a hand on his elbow and nodded in Murdoch’s direction. Jelly took over and the pair of them approached Murdoch and Teresa.

“Well?” Murdoch asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he would hear.

“The concussion’s obviously been a problem, as well as that infection from last week, but those are the least of my worries. He’s broken his femur, Murdoch. The big bone in the thigh.”

“How can a broken bone be so painful? I’ve never seen him like that.” Murdoch sounded tired, and he scrubbed his cheek with a big hand.

“Well, the problem is the surrounding muscle. The thigh muscles are the biggest on the body, and the broken bone has shifted and is now causing the muscles to spasm. That, in turn, grinds the broken ends of the bones together. It’s a very painful kind of injury. I have to set the bone, and then he has to stay very quiet until the bone knits enough to keep from shifting. The leg needs to be in traction to stop the spasms, or they could separate the break again.”

“Traction?” Teresa questioned.

“Traction is weight. He has to stay in bed with a weight on the end of his leg to keep the muscles stretched, but it has to pull against something. The patient’s body is usually the counter weight. Johnny will be secured to the bed around the waist so the weight can pull on the leg. It keeps pressure off the break.”

The three Lancer family members looked significantly at each other. They knew what that meant; it was going to be a miserable experience for Johnny, and therefore for the rest of them.

“Johnny was shot,” Scott recalled. “In that leg. Is that what broke it?”

“You also said a horse fell on him,” Sam answered. “Could be the bullet either broke or weakened the bone, and the fall completed the job and separated the bone. I need to open up the thigh to take out the bullet, so I’ll be able to see more then.” His eyes met the young woman’s. “I know you’ve had a bad time of it, Teresa, and you certainly are holding up well, but I want you to get some rest while I do this. Maria can help me.” Before she could protest, the doctor gently laid his fingers on her bruised cheek. “And put a cold compress on that. Rest, young lady. Now.”

Teresa ducked her head. “All right.”

Sam smiled and patted her arm. “You are amazing, young lady. Let’s get going. We’ll do the surgery in Johnny’s bed. Scott, this is what I need. . .” The small group broke up after a few minutes. Dr. Jenkins, Teresa and Murdoch went into the hacienda while Scott turned to the barn.

Garrett watched the entire homecoming from the front porch, taking note of every face, very relieved that Stedman wasn’t with them. Then, he waited for an appropriate moment to join his grandson. From his vantage point he was unable to hear much, but he was patient and moved immediately to his grandson’s side when the lean young man headed to the barn. The older man was a little miffed that his legacy hadn’t greeted him in any way.

“Scotty! I’m so glad you are all right.” Scott didn’t break his stride, but did give his grandfather a glance. “You are all right, aren’t you? What’s the matter?”

Scott paused to open the barn door and looked at his grand relative with an expression of complete disbelief. “What’s the matter? Are you serious?”

The old man frowned. “Don’t you speak to me in that tone. Really, your manners . . .”

“You’re worried about manners?” Scott managed to control his voice, stood for a moment with his mouth open, ready to explain what every other able bodied human being on the ranch seemed to be able to grasp, but suddenly he realized it did not matter. It didn’t matter because there was never going to be understanding from this man. Scott signed loudly, shook his head, and continued into the barn to collect the things Sam had requested. The differences between East and West tumbled through his mind, and, like Johnny representing the West, Scott realized that in his mind, Harlan Garrett represented the East. And right now, he didn’t need any input from that quarter.

“Scotty?” Garrett inquired, taken aback by the boy’s attitude.

“Go home, grandfather.” Scott yelled from the other side of the barn. “Get your things together today. I’ll take you into town tomorrow when I know Johnny will be all right.”

“Aren’t you going to even tell me what happened? How did John get injured?” he asked, sounding hurt. In his mind, however, all he needed to know was if young Stedman was going to be a problem.

“There were two kidnappers,” Scott explained as he dug through some harness rigs. “One shot his partner, and I shot the other but not before he shot Johnny. It’s over.”

“So you saved your brother!” Garrett sounded pleased, but it wasn’t for the reason Scott assumed.

“And Johnny saved Teresa, Murdoch and Sheriff Crawford. It’s all neatly tied up, well, except for the part where Johnny nearly died!” Sarcasm dripped heavily from the statement, and Garrett stiffened.

“Well, I’m not going to stand here and take this attitude, so I will follow your request and go pack.” He spun on his heel and marched back to the house.

Scott watched him leave the barn and shook his head. Surprisingly, he felt no guilt. As he gathered the straps, ropes and other things he needed, he let his mind wander with the intricacies of blood relatives and family. He smiled when he realized that, blood wise, he and Johnny had more in common than he and Harlan. As brothers, they both had half of Murdoch Lancer’s blood. As Scott’s grandfather, Harlan and he only shared one quarter blood. That must drive grandfather crazy, he thought. Then he made himself concentrate on his task, realizing that he must be more tired than he thought to let his mind wander so.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel relief at the thought.

Murdoch and Scott sat in the great room trying to piece together leather into a shape close to what Sam had sketched for them. The closer they got to it, the more apprehensive they became. Still, it was better to be busy than to be pacing the floors waiting for answers.

“He’s going to hate this,” Scott said softly as he spliced two pieces together in a way his brother had showed him years ago.

“I agree. Maybe the pain will convince him. After what I saw on the trail . . .” he let the sentence stop there. Neither one of them wanted to deal with a scene like that again. Murdoch decided to change the subject. “Scott, how are you doing? We haven’t had time to talk much since . . .” Again, the sentence trailed off to its obvious end.

Scott concentrated on the leather, feeling the pain of loss sharply. “I’m still a bit foggy,” he said quietly. “I feel like I’m standing in quicksand sometimes. Like I’m not able to move or think. It’s like being frozen.” His voice hitched at the last word, and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “It’s draining, Murdoch.”

Murdoch paused, then rose and filled two glasses with his best Scotch. He handed one to his son and studied him for a moment. Scott looked depleted. When he replied it, too, was in a quiet voice. “I’d like to tell you it gets better, son, but I can’t.”

His elder son raised his head and gave a very weak half smile. “I know. I’m just glad to have you all. Alexandra . . .” his voice cracked again, and he took a moment to swallow the pain. “Alexandra loved you all so much.”

“To love, then,” Murdoch said, raising his glass in a toast.

“To love,” Scott repeated in a stronger voice.

They both took a sip and then heard slow footsteps on the stairs. Sam, followed by Maria and Teresa carrying armloads of things, descended the steps. The doctor turned into the great room while Maria hustled to the kitchen. Teresa paused at the great room doorway and spoke before Murdoch had the chance.

“I got some sleep and I’m fine. Now talk to Sam.” She whisked away before anyone could protest.

Scott and Murdoch rose to their feet as the doctor joined them.

“Sit, sit. Jelly’s with him now and he’s still out. He’ll be asleep for a little longer. I gave him some morphine just before the operation. I’ll give him some more in a bit.”

“Sam,” Scott started.

Dr. Jenkins raised his hands in surrender. “I know, I know, he hates the stuff. Believe me, I do know that, but he has to lie still until we get the traction set up. How’s it going? And do you have another one of those?” The elderly doctor pointed at the Scotch.

“Of course, Sam. Well, we’re pretty close. . .”

“And he’s going to hate this more than the morphine,” Scott said morosely, fingering the leather in his hand.

The doctor took the moment to give Scott a visual once over. He was pale, thin and tired looking, but something in his eyes had changed. Feeling the exam, the young man looked up and that’s when Sam saw a measure of peace in the haunted blue eyes. Sam raised his Scotch. “To family,” he said simply.

They all downed the amber liquid as one, and then the family friend sat them down and told them what went on upstairs in the past hours.

Harlan Garrett’s mind worked furiously as he packed. Everything had gone perfectly, but the expected outcome hadn’t occurred. His grandson should hate this place. The violence of the war had nearly driven him over the edge, and this wasn’t much different. Blood was blood, and there was enough shed in this uncivilized country to push anyone over the edge.

Anyone, that is, but his enigmatic grandson. What did I overlook? he thought. What did I fail to consider? Gambling on peoples’ reactions had gained him favor in the stock market and business. What worked there apparently didn’t work here, and he was perplexed. But then again, Harlan Garrett wasn’t one to take a beating and give up. He filed the whole incident away as a learning experience to possibly draw from in the future.

He may have lost this round, but Harlan Garrett wasn’t out of the fight. He’d go back to Boston, keep his ears open, and simply wait for the country to wear Scott Garrett Lancer down. When the opportunities arose to make the process faster, he’d take them. It was simply a matter of time, he concluded smugly as he continued to pack.

The application of traction was both interesting and sickening to Scott. Sam patiently directed the proceedings while father and son assembled the items Jelly handed them one at a time.

For a moment when they’d first entered Johnny’s room, Scott couldn’t take his eyes from the thick, blood stained bandage that encased his brother’s thigh. A wound like that would be cause for immediate amputation in the war, and the ex-cavalryman clearly saw in his mind’s eye the brutal surgery that usually took place without anesthesia. The screams echoed in the back of his mind, and he immediately pushed it aside with a shake of his head and a mental condemnation to himself. He looked at the obscene device with a new respect, knowing the alternative was worse.

Basically, Johnny was strapped to the bed frame at the hips, low enough to prevent his sliding to the foot of the bed but enabling him to sit up. Pillows and blankets were under both thighs to also prevent sliding down the mattress. A wooden frame cradled the injured leg from hip to ankle to keep it straight with cross straps keeping the knee from bending. The ankle was surrounded by what looked like a small halter, to which a line was attached and threaded through a small pulley suspended from a frame attached to the bed. Acting as a weight at the end of the line, a small bag of flour twisted lazily.

When it was done, both Scott and Murdoch could see the purpose of the device, but they also saw the restrictions. They were both glad Johnny was asleep.

“He can be propped up to sit for a little bit each day, but the leg must be kept straight and the weight constant. Until the bone knits, the thigh muscles can spasm and separate it again and we’re right back where we started. Both the surgery and his head wound should be checked often for infection.”

“The head wound looks all right?” Murdoch asked blearily.

“I cleaned it out and re-stitched it. Fortunately, it looks like it will heal fine with Jelly’s poultices. As far as the concussion goes, we won’t know anything until he’s awake. If he hit his head in the fall, it could complicate things. We’ll see.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Murdoch sighed. “It’s the middle of the night. There’s a room waiting for you when you’re ready.”

“I’m more than ready,” Sam replied, stretching tiredly. “The injection should be wearing off soon. I’ll go after I give him another dose. That should hold him until mid morning.”

As if on cue, Johnny’s head rolled to one side and his arm twitched. Scott immediately stepped to his brother’s side and laid a hand on the warm forehead. He glanced up and saw the doctor filling a syringe. Scott’s mouth opened to issue an automatic protest, but the haunting screams of the battle field echoed in his mind and he closed it again.

Johnny’s arm jerked when the needle pierced the skin and foggy blue eyes were visible for a few seconds when his lids dragged partially open, but soon his whole frame seemed to sag into itself with the effects of the drug. Scott felt a small measure of both relief and guilt.

“That gives us all at least six hours of rest.” Sam packed away the drugs and picked up his bag. “Come and get me if you need me, and I suggest the rest of you take the opportunity to sleep.” He joined Teresa in the doorway, and she escorted the tired doctor to his room.

“I’ll sit first,” Scott said immediately, moving an armchair next to the bed. He still wasn’t ready to face his own room anyway. Jelly told him when to change the poultice, and the tired blond nodded as he fell into the chair. “I know what to do. You get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jelly humpf’d and said good night.

Murdoch gave Scott’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Try and rest yourself while you have the chance,” he said with concern. “We both know what’s in store for us.”

Scott rubbed his eyes, feeling the beckoning of sleep already. “Yes, sir. Seems like it never ends, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” Murdoch mused. “But there are a lot of good times that overshadow the bad. Let’s concentrate on those.”

Scott’s brows furrowed at that idea and he realized that his father’s comment was meant to entail more than just this incident. Taking the Old Man’s advice, Scott settled down and focused on happier times. Soon, he was in an exhausted sleep, and for the first time in over a week, it was peaceful.

After showing Sam to his room, Teresa paused in the hall to gather her thoughts. When she’d come into Johnny’s room after the surgery, she had been momentarily taken aback by the amount of bloody bandages. She’s seen the size of the wound Sam was closing and felt her stomach churn.

She must have made a motion or a noise, because the elderly doctor threw her a glance over his shoulder and managed to give her a weak smile. “Come here, young lady, and I’ll tell you what I did so you’ll be prepared. All right?”

After nodding numbly, she moved next to him and found herself studying the wound with more detachment as Sam explained what he had done. As he described the broken bone, the picture became clear in her head. His description of how the muscles then reacted suddenly made some kind of sense, and she was able to grasp what was needed before the doctor explained it more fully.

She took over the final bandaging as he checked and re-stitched Johnny’s forehead. Maria bustled about, picking up the remains of the surgery. They worked like as a well rehearsed team, and Teresa felt an odd sort of comfort in their familiarity of each other; it helped her to push aside the dark feeling of violation she’d had since her kidnapping.

Intellectually, she knew her capture could have been worse. Much worse. But still, the violation of her sense of safety hung heavily on her feelings of security. She wondered if she would ever be able to ride alone on Lancer land again and feel that special kind of freedom. Teresa pressed her lips firmly together as she finalized the wraps on Johnny’s leg and stood back.

Freedom. Here before her was a man that symbolized the word. Scott meant security, Murdoch and her father Paul equaled strength, Jelly persistence, and Maria loyalty. Alexandra had come to mean poise and grace, along with sisterly bonds, and the young girl was very grateful for the time they had together. She felt tears well in her eyes, and immediately used what she had learned from her sister-by-heart about grace under pressure and pulled herself together. Teresa squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t allow strangers to take what was hers ever again. She would ride Lancer land someday soon.

In a perverse way, she realized the kidnapping had pulled the Lancer family together under one roof, and her foundation was back under her feet. They would be fine, she could feel it. As Sam tied the final stitch, Teresa moved with newfound grace to his side and began to apply the poultice Jelly had prepared. She could hear the doctor gathering his things and calling to Jelly, and when she was done, Teresa assisted Maria with the laundry.

It was time for everyone to heal and Teresa O’Brien would make sure she was there to insure they didn’t stray again. She followed the doctor and Maria from the room.

She knew Alexandra Salvadore Lancer would be proud of her.

THE END

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