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CHAPTER SIXTEEN Scott made some noise as he approached the open door, knocking on the door frame before stopping just short of entering the room. His brother was seated on the bed, fingering the silver conchos on the black pants folded in his lap, apparently lost in thought. This Johnny was much slower in raising his head to see who had arrived. The older brother, smiling, was taken aback by the haunted look in the indigo eyes, but held his smile to cover his surprise. “Just thought I’d see how you were doing.” Scott crossed his arms across his chest and leaned his lanky frame against the door way, waiting for an invitation in. “This is a lot to think about.” “Yeah.” Johnny’s reply was a barely audible breath of air as he went back to fingering the shiny silver. Scott noted his slumped, tired attitude, then took Teresa’s request to heart and really looked at his brother. Beneath the deceptively relaxed posture he noticed the tenseness in Johnny’s muscles, especially around the corners of his mouth, and the tremor in his fingers was unmistakable. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? “May I come in?” The dark head didn’t even look up. One shoulder hitched in an indifferent shrug. Scott stepped in, taking the motion as a ‘yes’. He moved to Johnny’s side and sat next to him on the bed. “You always barge into my room without asking,” Scott said lightly, fighting the urge to say 'look at me, will you?' Instead, he mirrored the posture and rested his elbows on his thighs, interlacing his fingers together. When he didn’t get a response to his comment, Scott continued in the same light tone. “I bet this is confusing. We don’t want to push you into anything you aren’t ready for, but we miss you.” Fingers worked the silver discs without interruption. “Johnny, our goal is to get you home to Lancer. It’s where you belong. I’m trying to figure out how you could possibly be feeling, but I can’t. All I can say is that you just have to trust us. You love Lancer, we all do. It’s part of us, and when one part is . . . missing . . . none of us feel complete.” Scott paused, waiting for any kind of response. “Maybe that’s what it is; you feel incomplete.” The only indication that the raven-haired form heard was a further tightening of his long fingers on the shiny decorations. “Is that it?” Scott asked softly. “Am I even close?” Frustration began to edge his words, finally bringing a response from the other man, but it wasn’t one he expected. He’d expected confusion, anger, or even one of the persistent headaches; what the fair-haired Lancer got instead was a look that rendered him speechless. The sorrow was so deep and so pointed Scott couldn’t stop the tiny gasp that escaped him. This was a man in deep, deep pain that went beyond the physical and etched the soul. Johnny Lancer’s eyes never bared that kind of emotion; as a gunfighter, it would be a death sentence. This was a look that came directly from the heart, fueled by raw emotion and fired by something unknown to the older man. It was at that moment that Scott realized he would never be able to understand what his brother was going through right now. If Johnny had any inclination to speak at that moment, Scott’s non-verbal reaction brought that possibility to an instant end. Instead, Johnny dropped his eyes and scrambled to his feet, the silver-edged pants sliding unnoticed to the floor. In the passing of a second his lax posture changed to that of a trapped puma as he quickly put distance between them. Alarmed, but attempting to keep his cool, Scott rose, too, and let his hands hang loose and unthreatening at his side. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he said in a calm voice. “I wasn’t expecting . . .” ‘What?’ Scott thought frantically. 'What exactly was I expecting? Too much, maybe? ' He ended the sentence with a shrug that emanated nothing but exasperation. 'So much for keeping my cool.' He shook his head in a silent apology; he'd backed himself into a proverbial corner and couldn't see a way out. Johnny edged to the door, raising his hand to his temple in a familiar pain-filled motion. His eyes narrowed between pinched skin, as he uttered his words that broke Scott's heart. “S-s-s-sorry,” he stuttered softly and sorrowfully before he disappeared out the door, leaving a frustrated brother in his wake.
The mentally distraught young man could only think how he wanted to escape the house; the walls suddenly seemed too close and he couldn’t think. Head throbbing, he glanced to the living room and saw the girl – Teresa – standing by the large window, her back to him. He quietly slipped around the corner to use the kitchen exit, and saw the woman he felt was his mother kneading bread. Maria had a wide-eyed, yet blank look as she physically assaulted the dough that bumped his own anxiety level up a notch; he recognized the same look of pain in the small, cracked mirror in his room. Her red-rimmed eyes indicated recent tears. He hesitated at the edge of the kitchen, and she looked up, feeling his presence. They both froze for a moment, and then her eyes began to shine and her lips to quiver. “Mijo,” Maria said in a low, husky voice, the dough forgotten. Unable to respond and unable to hurt her any more than she already was, he turned away and rushed outside, one palm pressed to his temple. “Johnny!” he heard a voice call when he was halfway to the barn. “Johnny, wait!” Part of his mind recognized the calling voice as that of the big man, Murdoch. My father? “Wait!” Caesar’s pleaded 'Papa?' he thought automatically, the headache blooming as he began to run. The whirling, confusing thoughts grew even more chaotic. Johnny hit the barn door solidly, the sudden loudness causing the goats to scatter and the other stock to jump in their stalls. Even in his agony, the tormented soul felt a shot of guilt for scaring them. He forced himself to pause and try to control his wildly beating heart. Dual nickers caught his attention – something wasn’t right. His gaze slowly found that his big-eared friend wasn’t alone. What stopped his heart was standing in the stall next to Conejo; there, watching him intently with the warm, topaz eyes he’d come to know in his mind, was the golden horse he thought existed only in his dreams. Johnny didn’t hear the running feet enter the barn, or the concerned voices asking how he was. He didn’t feel any of the hands on him as his knees suddenly turned to water and he sank bonelessly to the floor. White, piercing pain stabbed his head and his vision faded away, but the image of the shimmering palomino remained burned into his memory. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN By the time the sturdy surrey rolled into San Andreas, Dr. Sam Jenkins’ body ached more than he cared to admit. I’m getting too old for this, he thought with a sigh. And I’m not really sure I can do anything anyway. Sam scolded himself mentally and tried to get into a more positive frame of mind despite his aching bones. He pulled the rental horse to a stop in front of the small mercantile and allowed the animal a brief respite at the watering trough. He had just set the hand brake when he heard a familiar voice. “Sam! It’s good to see you.” Murdoch stepped out from the business, and the doctor raised his eyebrows at the condition of his friend. “Do you need anything before we head out to the farm?” “No, but you look like you could use some sleep, Murdoch. When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” The big man waved the old doctor off. “I’m fine, Sam. Food is not a problem.” Murdoch untied a horse from the hitching rail and retied him to the back of the wagon. “Shall we go or do you need to stretch your legs first?” Sam snorted and moved over to make room for the Lancer patriarch who had become a friend over the years. “What I need is a softer wagon seat, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.” The surrey swayed with the additional weight, but then settled down. Sam slapped the horse’s rump with the reins and they were off on the final leg of the doctor’s trip from Morro Coyo. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your coming, Sam.” Murdoch’s voice was controlled, but a sideways glance told the cagey doctor that his friend was more troubled than he let on. “We feel so much better knowing you’ll be there for the trip home.” “Is there any change?” “No, not really.” The Scotsman sighed, drawing his hand briefly over his eyes. “It’s been five days now. We’ve discovered that he can follow simple instructions, like eating and even standing, which makes caring for him easier, but in a lot of ways it makes it harder.” The big man had locked his attention on some distant spot on the horizon as he spoke. “Teresa’s worried and pushing herself too hard, Scott’s tired and withdrawn and I think feeling guilty. The Arroyos are a big help, but they’re pretty torn up. I'm not sure the Senora will ever recover.” Sam took a moment to digest both the spoken and unspoken information, knowing that all of the Lancers tended to understate their problems. The Doc knew things had to be bad; very bad. “Murdoch, this kind of fugue state you’ve described has its good points. Johnny’s mind has simply shut down, and now his body can take the time to heal. And knowing that boy, that may have been the problem all along and his body finally said ‘Enough!’” The low chuckle that came from Murdoch’s throat gave Sam a little hope. “I hope you’re right, Sam, but tell me the truth – what are the chances that Johnny will be his normal self again?” That was a loaded question and one that was not unexpected from the no-holds-barred Murdoch Lancer. The Doctor and the Lancers always had an agreement of total truth between them. The doctor’s reply was prefaced with an appraising glance at his friend. “Truth is, I can’t say. It depends on the original injury, his current physical state, and the patient himself. We both know what a fighter John is.” Murdoch pursed his lips for a moment before he dropped his fixation on the horizon and cocked his head to his old friend. “There’s a chance he won’t recover, isn’t there?” Sam hesitated, measuring his words carefully. “Yes, there’s that chance. But there’s also the chance he’ll be fine. Let’s just put all these chances aside for now and focus on what we know about the stubborn John Lancer, shall we? He always seems to beat the odds.” Murdoch wearily dropped his head in acquiescence. “You’re right. Hope is the last thing we should give up.” The rest of the trip was punctuated with light chatter about who was covering for Sam in his absence, and what the town was doing to prepare for the winter, both here and in Morro Coyo. Murdoch also filled the doctor in on what he knew about the Arroyos. The country doctor was very happy to finally step down from the surrey when they stopped in front of the small Arroyo house. He took a moment to stretch each limb, and warmly greet the familiar Lancer clan before he lifted his black bag from the surrey. In his mind, he noted the same frail state in each one of them. A small Mexican man moved to take charge of the horses. Murdoch introduced him as Caesar Arroyo, the owner of the farm. Sam shook his hand warmly. “Thank you for coming, doctor.” The small man’s accent was thick. “I’ll need to talk to you later about John’s injures, Señor Arroyo,” Sam said. “Thank you for opening your home.” Caesar nodded and left with the surrey and animals. The four of them entered the house and Sam was immediately struck by the size of the place. “Six of you are living here?” he asked, surveying the tight quarters. “We’re managing,” Scott said quietly, turning the rim of his hat through his fingers as he spoke. “Where is he?” Teresa took his elbow and tilted her head in the direction of a short hall. Sam heard low humming before he reached the bedroom and when he entered the room, saw it was coming from a small Mexican woman sitting in a rocking chair at the head of Johnny’s bed. “Maria, this is Dr. Jenkins,” Teresa said quietly. “He’s here to check Johnny.” When the small woman raised her head to greet the Doctor Sam was taken aback by the depth of suffering he saw there. Murdoch mentioned something about a dead child, he thought. I must ask about that later. He offered his hand and she shook it shyly, then she rose from the chair and left the room without a word. Sam watched her go and then gave Teresa a questioning look. “Maria’s not doing very well,” the Lancer ward said softly. The doctor nodded, and turned to his patient. As he automatically reached for Johnny’s wrist to check his pulse, his visual examination had already begun. Johnny was very pale, and his facial features lax. Considering the usual animated nature of this particular Lancer, that alone disturbed the experienced doctor. John’s eyes were half open, dull and unmoving. The pupils responded to light, which was good, but there was absolutely no reaction to the match in front of his face. Sam didn’t feel a fever, and the skin tone felt normal. Sam pulled his stethoscope from his bag and unbuttoned the top button of the young Lancer’s nightshirt. As he pressed the device to his patient’s chest, he noted the stark features of ribs and other bones. “He’s lost a lot of weight,” Sam murmured as he listened to Johnny’s heart and lungs. “Yes,” Teresa said solemnly. “We can get him to eat, but only a little bit at a time.” Sam nodded and continued his exam, next checking the reflex actions in both arms and legs. “Can you bring in some more lamps so I can examine the head wounds?” Both Scott and Murdoch, who had been lurking outside the small room, disappeared instantly, returning shortly with lamps. Teresa opened the window drapes to their fullest while Sam sat on the bed next to his unmoving patient. Carefully, he parted the thick hair with his fingertips and clucked his tongue. “What?” Murdoch asked. “He had a lot of damage here. I see fresh scars, and there’s still some evidence of bruising. How was he before this . . . state? You said he had trouble talking?” “Yes,” Scott answered quickly. “He stuttered when the talked and got headaches. Bad ones.” “His head hurt when he collapsed,” Murdoch added. “I thought that’s why he passed out; from the pain. But then . . . this.” Sam sat back and studied his charge as his mind worked. “And the amnesia, of course.” He was quiet for a few moments. “Well?” Murdoch urged. Sam snapped from his reverie and stood. “Straight-up, Murdoch? This is beyond my abilities, as I told you in Morro Coyo. But from what I understand there’s not much that can be done. He has damage inside his skull.” Sam tapped the left side of his own head. “There may have been an actual fracture, but I can’t tell that at this point in time. His brain has to heal, and it has to do that on his own. There’s nothing we can do but wait.” “We can take him home, then? It won’t hurt him any more?” Teresa asked hopefully. Sam patted her arm. “That’s why I’m here, Teresa, and I see no reason why we can’t continue with our plans. The familiar surroundings of Lancer just may be what he needs.” And what the rest of you need, the doctor added mentally. Johnny isn't the only one who needs to heal. Quiet. It was wonderful silence that brought him around. Nothing assaulted his ears or his eyes or his quiet mind. He awoke slowly, rising out of a pleasant dream that was orderly and bright with colors; no blood, no screams, no falling bodies. Johnny took a quick breath and blinked in confusion. 'Where am I?' The dark shadows of the room refused to reveal details save the oily smell of a lamp, wick low, somewhere outside the room he lay in. Ever so slowly he examined the room as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, not daring to move and rustle the sheets in an announcement that he was awake. Soft breathing touched his ears, and he dared to turn his head enough to find the source - the lean, blond man that was in his dream was stretched out on the rough, wood hewn floor next to him in a bedroll, sound asleep. The man's hand twitched in some unknown dream, and Johnny froze until the sentinel was settled into deep sleep once again. 'Scott,' he remembered. 'He told me to call him Scott Lancer. There was an 'L' brand on his horse. He's my brother.' The connecting thoughts brought a twinge and a twitch to his temple. Fearing another blinding headache, he abandoned that train of thought and tried another. 'Murdoch, the big man, and Teresa, the girl. They came here to . . . to what? ' More frustration, another path: 'Caesar is not my father and Maria not my mother?' Sweat broke out on his palms and he quickly tried to sidetrack his mind as he felt the familiar and dreaded tickle in his head grow stronger. He did not want to hurt the woman he felt was his mother, and he knew that accepting the other thoughts would do just that. It was a crossroad of choice that he didn't want to face. There was too much hurt involved, too many destroyed feelings, no matter which way he went. Johnny pushed the palm of one hand against his forehead in a vain attempt to stop his racing mind and threatening headache. 'I need to get away to stop the pain.' Slowly, he sat up. A flash of something on the trunk at the foot of the bed caught his eye: the black concho pants and fancy embroidered shirt. 'They all agreed those were mine. And I already know the palomino in the barn belongs to me, too. That’s one thing I’ve always known.' The memory of the horse, in the flesh, made his heart race and he noticed that his head did not threaten to erupt in pain with that thought. A small smile curled one corner of lips and he carefully sat up and turned so his feet were on the floor, opposite the sleeping man that was his brother. Standing, he was amazed at how weak he felt but the thought of riding out on the horse gave him strength. Carefully, he dressed in the fancy clothes, pausing occasionally when the room began to wobble. Boots were under the bed, and he slipped them on. A small feeling of satisfaction settled over him. The clothes were like a piece in a puzzle that fit perfectly with another piece, but didn’t quite make a whole picture. He plucked the hat from a hook next to the door, and slipped the stampede string around his neck so the hat lay flat against his back. 'I may not know where I belong, but I do know these clothes are mine. And the horse - Barranca?' The name came to him from the deep, black void, and he smiled again. Slow and easy movements took him out of the small room, down the dimly lit hall and through the kitchen. Moonlight coursed thorough the windows and told him that once he got outside, he would have all the light he needed. The barn seemed to take an eternity to reach with the halting gait he used but he finally made it. Puffing in exertion by the time he reached the double doors, it took a moment for his shaking hand to work the latch. He slipped inside and leaned against the wall to get his racing heart and shaky legs under control. After a few moments, a pair of soft nickers greeted him. Despite his loss of breath, he smiled. "D-descanso, usted d-dos! Ssshhh! Don't w-w- wake th-the others!" he chided in a low voice. Two sets of ears pointed in his direction, and two sets of soft, wondering eyes watched him with interest. The goats and cow remained snuggled in their straw beds after a cursory look, their eyes quickly becoming heavy again. By then Johnny was as the palomino's stall door, his hands on the finely boned face. Then he tried to open the stall door latch with the persistent interference of the horse's muzzle. He smiled hugely, his voice nearly lost in happiness. "E-e- espera un m-momento, p-por favor! You are n-n-not helping m-m-.much." Finally, he threw the bolt and found himself at the horse's neck. Both hands ran over the gold coat in awe as he felt warm breath from the horse's nostrils on his hip. From the animal's strong crest to his muscled rump and down to his freshly trimmed and shod feet, the mentally weary man drew a measure of peace - the first he'd felt in a long while. Unshed tears burned his eyes in thankfulness at the calm in his mind. He knew then what he had to do. Quickly, he stepped from the stall and located the tack he knew would be here - a saddle with the Circle L on the fender and a simple bridle with rawhide bosal - on a rack on the wall . They were as familiar as the horse, and Johnny drew more strength from the feeling. Conejo watched in interest as his neighbor was tacked up, Johnny's hands fumbling with the latigo and buckles between breaks to gather his waning strength. When he was done, the man realized something was missing and searched the barn with his eyes. The other horses that the visitors had brought were stabled outside, but all the equipment had been brought in the barn. A buckboard wagon against the wall held another saddle, similar to his. "Lo s-s-siento, m-m-mi hermano, b-but I n-n-need this." He pulled the saddlebags - still fat with supplies - bedroll and rifle from the wagon and put them on his own saddle, then gathered up the reins and led the palomino from the stall. Conejo nickered worriedly, his big ears flicking back and forth as he shifted his feet, realizing he was being left behind. Johnny hesitated, and then dropped the palomino's reins in a ground tie before he walked to the small, brown horse's stall and placed the flat of his hand on the wide forehead. "Adios, m-mi amigo. T-t-.take c-care of Caesar." As a farewell gift, he dumped a measure of oats in his friend's manger and then quickly gathered the reins of his waiting mount and left the barn. Barranca arched his neck and trotted excitedly at Johnny's side, ready to hit the trail. Johnny felt his own excitement rise, pleased that the feeling did not make his head hurt. Going behind the barn to cover their escape, Johnny checked the cinch one last time and swung up with a bit of difficulty. He swayed for a moment in the saddle, finding his center of balance and the second stirrup before noticing how the saddle was formed to his body. A sense of belonging settled his mind. Before he reined the prancing horse away from the small farm, a small tingle of regret washed over him. Was he being a coward? Here was a place where he had a purpose and a tiny bit of peace; for what did he risk throwing it away? Then he knew why he was leaving - he needed to make this painful decision from a neutral place. He knew that no matter what the decision, someone would be hurt - very deeply hurt - and he simply did not have the capacity to live with that right now. Dark strands of hair fell loosely across his forehead as his chin dropped in a moment of silent farewell. Then, pushing his exhaustion aside and with a slight touch of heel, Barranca spun smartly and loped away from the Arroyo farm. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN It was still dark when the Arroyo rooster announced that dawn was coming. Scott cracked an eye at the noise and quickly organized his sleep-scattered thoughts. The room was pale yellow heavily accented in shadows from the low-wicked lamp in the hall, and he remembered that he was sacked out on the floor of Johnny’s room. He rolled over onto his back and realized he’d slept soundly all night – the first all-night sleep in a long time that was dreamless and deep. I guess I was due, he thought as he stretched and sat up. Rubbing his eyes, he automatically turned to check his brother’s bed. “You up, Johnny?” he said out of habit and hope. He wasn’t surprised there was no response, but something about the bed itself made Scott frown. Halfway to his feet, he realized the bed was empty. “Murdoch!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet to check the floor on the other side of Johnny’s bed. “MURDOCH!” he yelled again as he sprinted to the bedroom door after seeing that the room was empty. Murdoch, clad in a night shirt, nearly collided with his panicked son in the hall outside Johnny’s door. “What . . .” he started. “Johnny’s gone! The room’s empty! Check the house!” Teresa, still in the process of wrestling with her robe, stumbled from her room. “Johnny’s gone? How long?” “I don’t know! I woke up and he was gone. I’ll get my boots, you two check the house.” Murdoch and Teresa went in opposite directions. Maria and Caesar hurried from their sleeping area already in their robes. Murdoch briefly explained what they knew, and began to excuse himself to search. “It is your fault,” Maria hissed, her eyes smoldering and brimmed with tears at the same time. “You caused this! He did not want to go, and you forced him away!” Caesar grabbed his wife’s shoulders and forced her back into their room. “Maria! I will not have you speaking to our guests like that!” She began a tirade in Spanish, and Caesar gave Murdoch an apologetic look over his shoulder as he forced his wife down the short hall. Murdoch and Teresa had finished searching the small house when Scott exploded into the living room, fully dressed. “I’ll check the barn!” he said as he ran out the door. Teresa caught Murdoch’s arm. “Do you think Johnny’s all right? Where do you think he went, Murdoch?” The big man paused to give her a small smile and a reassuring pat to her hand. “I don’t know, honey. I’m embarrassed to say that we certainly didn’t give him a good reason to stay here. Let’s get dressed so we can keep looking.” By the time the pair were dressed enough to go outside, Scott was on his way back from the barn with a determined stride, speaking loudly in disgust. “He’s not here. Barranca’s gone, along with all the supplies in the wagon.” Caesar’s voice sounded from the house porch. “Where do you think he went?” The Lancers stopped when they met halfway between the barn and house, and Scott spoke again. “I don’t know, but whereever he went, Johnny Madrid is unarmed.” He held up Johnny’s gun belt, complete with gun, for all to see. “Oh, no!” Theresa pressed her fingers to her mouth. “What does this mean?” Caesar questioned, confused. “Did you say Johnny Madrid?” Murdoch bit his lip and met Scott’s angry and worried eyes. “Yes,” he said just loud enough for Caesar to hear. “Scott, get the horses saddled.” With a sharp nod, the blond son headed back to the barn with the gun belt thrown over his shoulder. Murdoch turned back to the house and indicated that Teresa should start packing their things. “Yes,” he repeated as he stepped up on the porch next to Caesar. Teresa continued in the house and Murdoch leaned on the porch rail next to Caesar with a sigh. “There’s something we haven’t told you about Johnny . . .” he began.
For the past hours Johnny had let Barranca choose the path they traveled, puzzlingly satisfied that it led south. The young man had other problems to deal with. By the end of the day it was a struggle to keep balanced in the saddle. Johnny was bone tired and annoyingly sore. When dusk settled around them, hunger was added to the list, and in addition, he felt light headed. Making a camp was a completely frustrating endeavor. When he tried to think of what he needed to do, it seemed that the black void in his mind that he’d been trying to ignore was all he could see. After numerous attempts, he gave up on a fire and grumbled that if he were the ranch hand Scott and Murdoch were telling him he was, this whole camping process should be a lot easier to him. Had they lied, too? The only thing that came easy was caring for the horse. He took satisfaction in that as he hunkered down with a thin blanket and a hunk of jerky. The small chunk of dried meat didn’t stop his hunger completely, so he added a dry tortilla to the menu and called the meal complete. With aching muscles and a somewhat quiet stomach, he stretched out under the stars and realized his mind was amazingly clear. Lacing his fingers together under his head, he studied the stars and the rising moon and felt the comforting blanket of peace envelope him. The quiet sound of Barranca grazing nearby, the crickets' night song and the wind rustling through the mesquite and chaparral soothed him into a blissful sleep. Johnny awoke with a gasp and found that he was sitting up, drenched in sweat, his heart wildly galloping in his chest. The breeze made him shiver as it dried the sweat, which helped to bring awareness back. What woke him? He glanced around nervously, but everything seemed to be fine. The moon had already followed its path across the sky, and dawn was almost upon him. All he could recall was inky blackness, and the vague memory of feeling like he was falling. A hungry rumbling in his stomach brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings. With a short laugh and shake of his head, Johnny wiped his brow and stiffly struggled to his feet. “Oowee, I’m n-n-not m-movin’ too well this m-m-mornin’, horse.” He stretched carefully and smiled at Barranca, who was watching him with interest from a short distance away. “D-d-don’t s-s-uppose you k-kin s-s-saddle yourself, huh?” The pain associated with speech seemed to be less this morning, and he took that as a sign that he’d made the right choice in leaving. He found the canteen and shared what was left with the palomino. It took some effort, but he got the horse saddled and packed, and they were ready to hit the road just as a slice of orange sun poked above the mountains. Sore and stiff, he mounted. “C-comon’,” he groaned, nudging Barranca with his knees. “Let’s f-f-find s-s-some water.”. Refreshing cold water helped both of them. With a few hours in the saddle under his belt, the stiffness wore off leaving only a few tender spots from the saddle. They kept a steady pace, moving in a southerly direction at a good pace. Around noon, they broke for a rest among some oak trees. For the first time, Johnny tried to gather what thoughts he had and put them in some semblance of order. No matter how he looked at it, he really didn’t have any choice but to leave. Distance was the only way to see things more clearly, and separate lies from the truth. But even with all the information he had, there was still the question of the bottomless, black void that haunted him. Something was missing, he knew. There was some fact or piece of information that would bridge the void and bring everything together - he felt that - but where to get this elusive fact was his problem. Inside, he knew that the Arroyos did not have what he needed. True, they had lied in the past, but they just didn’t seem connected to the blackness. Johnny also felt that the Lancers had the key, but they weren’t going to give it to him. That puzzled him greatly. This was a quest he had to deal with on his own. With a sigh, he remounted, and wondered if he would ever find what it was he was looking for on his own. He hoped so, because he knew he would never rest until he had. It was late afternoon when they came to a crossroad. There was a weathered post with a peeling sign hanging loose, but still pointing steadfastly south. “Sonora,” he read out loud, hoping to jar a memory free. When it didn’t, he leaned over to pat Barranca’s sweat crusty neck. “Well, a h-h-hot m-meal a-and a s-soft bed s-sound nice, and I k-know y-you’d like s-some d-decent ch-chow, too. Let’s g-git a m-move-on.” He wearily rubbed his now thumping head. The palomino eagerly moved out, his pace a little quicker. Sonora was bustling at dusk. Loaded wagons were making their way out of town while riders came into town looking for entertainment. The stage pulled to a dusty stop and discharged disheveled passengers who looked tired and ready to rest. Johnny looked around in interest, feeling safe studying everything from the back of a horse. Johnny pulled his hat low over his eyes so no one could see him examining the streets so intently, and wondered why he was concerned about it. The idea of everyone being able to see his face bothered him, he realized with surprise. As he rode, his right hand nervously thrummed his thigh and he began to feel growing nervousness – no, that wasn’t it exactly – awareness, that was it, concerning his surroundings. Reacting to the feeling, he reined Barranca around to a back alleyway, away from the bustling main street. Luckily, he came across a livery, small but clean. Keeping his hat pulled low, he pulled a few coins from his pocket and stabled the horse himself. The grooming put him at ease, but the calmer mind brought forth a rousing grumble from his stomach. He laughed and patted his stomach as he turned the horse loose in his stall and dumped in a measure of oats. “Ok. N-n-now it’s m-m-my turn. You’ll g-g-get your h-hay with the r-r-rest of ‘em.” With a final slap on the golden rump, Johnny let himself out of the stall and stepped into the alley. Johnny let his nose find the food, grateful for the money clip he’d found in the pocket of his pants shortly after leaving the farm. He mentally thanked the Arroyos for putting the clip back when they cleaned the pants; when he left the farm he hadn’t thought about money. He’d spent some time on the trail studying the engraved Circle “L” on the silver clip, fruitlessly trying to find an emotional connection. Right now, though, the only thing he felt was hunger. He followed his nose to a small, dark saloon that was just off the main street. The smell of grilled steak drew him in. Johnny paused in the door and scanned the room. It was fairly crowded, but the darkness appealed to him and he made his way to a far corner table where he finally dragged his hat off from his head and relaxed. A short, bald man dressed like a bartender came around, order pad in hand. He looked tired and annoyed when he arrived but as soon as he snapped, “What’r ya havin’?” his expression changed. “S-s-steak and t-tortillas,” Johnny said, noting how big the man’s eyes suddenly widened. In response, he hunkered uncomfortably lower in his chair. “An q-quit s-s-s-starin’.” The man dropped his eyes immediately. “Yessir. Tequila?” Johnny nodded without thinking, and the man hurried off. Tequila. The word brought a flash of images to his head, one being Scott making a horrible face that made Johnny smile. The others were a blur of faces in dark rooms much like this one. Those flashes brought an uneasy feeling in his gut. When the waiter brought a shot glass and bottle, Johnny suddenly lost the desire to taste it. Instead, he swallowed hard to try and get rid of the dry feeling in his throat and let his eyes flick around the room When his food came he’d visually checked everyone in the room enough to feel comfortable enough to dig into the food. The hunger was overwhelming once the scent hit his nose, and he focused entirely on the plate before him, ignoring the comings and goings of the bar. “Hey, Johnny, long time no see.” The plate was almost empty when a voice next to him drew his attention. A pair of men who didn’t quite look like cowboys grinned down at him with partial-toothed smiles. Their faces were as weather worn and dirty as their clothes, and they stood with their thumbs hooked over gun belts heavy with ammunition. “What are ya doin’ in Sonora?” the foremost figure drawled as he adjusted his tattered hat with a filthy hand. “Ain’t heard ‘o no jobs here abouts.” Johnny squelched the rising apprehension he felt and fell into a dark mode that found him speaking without really thinking. “Passin’ through,” he said lowly, slightly surprised at the sound of his voice. It was like someone else was speaking through him. A look crossed the speaker's eyes that made Johnny hold his tongue. He didn’t drop his impassive stare, and hoped the nervous twitch in his gut wasn’t obvious. Finally, the impasse was broken when the man spoke again. “If’n yer lookin’ for work, we kin use ya. Not the kinda thing yer used to, but it’ll git ya a dollar or two if ya need it. We’re camped north ‘a here by the red rocks.” Johnny simply nodded. “Later, Madrid.” The men turned and moved to the far end of the bar. In the smoky darkness, they did not see the stunned expression on Johnny’s face. Madrid? At the sound of the name, something began a slow burn deep inside, and Johnny suddenly felt sick. He broke into in a cold sweat as he forced his mind to focus on paying for the food and leaving. He was so intent on his goal of simply getting to the door without vomiting that he didn’t notice the number of eyes that followed his progress out. The cool air shocked him as it hit his damp skin. He gasped for breath just outside and grabbed a post to keep on his feet. Feeling a bit steadier after a pair of deep breaths, he moved off from the saloon boardwalk and stepped down into the dark alley between buildings. Johnny leaned against the wall and calmed his breathing while his mind raced. The mention of Madrid had caused a black tidal wave of darkness that became awhirl with the visions of red that plagued his dreams. He’d finally found the key he was looking for, but what it meant was still a mystery. Johnny found himself mentally committed to a trip to the red rocks, hopeful that it would help him remember. |
