Inspired by a most entertaining web article, the 2006 Boston Con and Rita Hazlett.
And thanks to beta Maureen that always knows what I meant to say!

 The acute senses of Johnny Madrid came in very handy to Johnny Lancer. During his years of living on wits alone he had developed a sixth sense that allowed him to pull together a successful plan in an astoundingly short amount of time when certain events aligned in just the right way.

 This was such a time.

 Johnny had been reading the signs for a few weeks now and knew that something needed to be done. When it would be done became a question of timing and patience, along with alert eyes and ears. Today was the day – the day to execute an uncomfortable task that needed to be dealt with without witnesses.

 The hacienda was empty – an unusual happenstance in itself – and Johnny readied himself to complete his task with the renowned speed for which he was known. He knew he had at least a pair of hours in which to accomplish the deed, which meant he didn’t have to rush. He knew the perils of a hurried job in this type of delicate situation. Having adequate time, as well as privacy, was the only way to get it done right.

 As soon as the wagon containing Murdoch’s tall figure disappeared over the horizon, Johnny set to work. He knew that many men faced this same situation and, again, wondered briefly how they handled it; it wasn’t something that lent itself to verbal discussion. He’d decided long ago that each technique was probably a reflection of the man himself. With that thought, he went directly to the kitchen pantry and pulled the container of molasses from an upper shelf.

 Scott jogged Charley under the Lancer arch, a tired slump to his shoulders. Right now all he wanted was a drink and a bath – and not necessarily in that order. When he pulled up in front of the hacienda the first thing that struck him was the silence; usually Teresa or Jelly was on hand with a greeting and kind word. Today, it was quiet enough to hear the lizards skittering on the courtyard wall.

 The second thing that struck him was the smoky and mouth watering smell of baking. ‘That must be why Teresa’s not out here,’ he mused. Scott could think of worse things to come home to. He hadn’t eaten since his pre-dawn breakfast of coffee and leftover rolls in Cross Creek much too long ago. His stomach growled, reminiscing.

 He was home early, having been unexpectedly shut out of the Army contract bids by an unscrupulous rancher from Nevada . Scott figured the Army would soon learn the folly of accepting the lowest bid. Meanwhile, he would relish the rare quiet time at home with his acquired sister. His first two desires could be easily usurped by fresh cookies.

 Following his nose to the kitchen, Scott Lancer was more than astounded to find his rough and tumble brother the only occupant of the room. Scott came to an abrupt standstill in the doorway, speechless, as he surveyed the normally pristine kitchen.

 Loose oats were scattered about the work surface and floor. Molasses dribbled down the side of the labeled canister. Flour dusted the counters and every visible surface of cooking area in an imitation of snowfall. Johnny, still unaware of his presence, moved from Scott’s line of sight.

 The weariness he’d felt evaporated as Scott entered the kitchen and witnessed Johnny, his hair spotted white with flour, shoving a tray of – something – into the hot coals of the oven. His brother spat a line of Mexican curses and jerked his hand back as the heat bit his knuckles. Scott was astonished that he was able to get this far into the room without his little brother noticing.

 “Johnny?” Scott queried out loud, puzzled. Johnny spun around awkwardly, burnt hand clutched to his chest and eyes wide in total surprise. His normally coordinated brother lurched sideways to catch his balance.

 The third thing Scott noticed was the half-empty tequila bottle on the table.

 “Johnny?” he repeated as the humor of the whole situation began to sink in. As he slowly surveyed the room again, his grin grew with each soundless flap of Johnny’s jaws. A short laugh escaped him before his hand rose to cover his mouth, giving him time to fully absorb the scene before him.

 “Sco . . . what the hell are you doing here?” Johnny finally managed to spit out. One hand shot up to shove a dangling clump of hair away from his face. It left a swatch of flour across his forehead.

 Scott bit his lip behind his hand to stop the laughter that threatened to erupt. He knew he had to keep calm to fully milk this situation of blackmailable information.

 “Um . . .” he started.

 “Y’re not supposed to be . . . you’re in Nevada !”

 Scott took a breath and straightened, forcing himself to wipe emotion from his face before crossing his arms over his chest. Finally feeling in control, he turned his gaze on Johnny. “Obviously not.” He cocked his head aside. “Am I . . . interrupting something?”

Nothing was more difficult than keeping a straight face as Scott watched his normally unflappable brother’s jaws wordlessly open and close like a landed fish. Johnny first glanced to the stove, then to the white-flocked workspace, and then back to his big brother’s face without a successfully spoken word.

 Finally, Johnny’s eyes narrowed and his mouth clamped shut. He pulled himself together, albeit rather spasmodically, and reached for the tequila bottle. Snatching it from the counter he pulled the cork and swished around the remaining liquid with a critical eye.

 “Are there hors d’oeuvres with that?” Scott asked brightly, tilting his head toward the stove, now belching smoke unlike he’d ever seen with Teresa’s cooking.

 Johnny frowned, the bottle still held aloft. “My horse?” he sputtered, his cheeks flushing pink under the flour as his eyebrows rose. “Uh . . . well . . . you know . . .”

 Scott immediately honed in on the flash of panic he saw in Johnny’s eyes and the completely uncharacteristic stutter of speech. Still not sure what was going on, he decided to simply press the obvious and see what he found out. “What are you cooking, brother?” he tipped his head to the oven. “Or should I say, burning?”

Johnny gaped at him a second then swung his head around to the stove. “It ain’t burnin’. Well, those aren’t, anyway. A couple slid off the tray before . . .” Johnny’s mouth snapped shut and he faced his brother again, the tequila bottle now in his grip at his side. “They’re . . . uh . . . you know. Cookies?”

 “Molasses cookies?” Scott guessed, trying to keep Johnny unbalanced.

 “Uh, yeah.”

 “For you?”

 “Not for me, for Barranca!” Johnny snapped. He looked suspiciously at Scott. “You said horse . . . somethin’. Ain’t that what cha meant?”

Scott had to admire his brother’s ability to read people even when under the influence of his beloved mother’s milk; Johnny would soon figure out that his brother was fishing for information if Scott didn’t put him at ease.  “Sure, that’s what I meant. May I?” Scott held his hand out for the bottle as if all this wasn’t the least bit odd.

 Still not quite yet clear as to what was going on Scott decided to back off and let Johnny get back to his business, hoping to figure this all out by observation alone. Even drunk, Johnny still had remarkable intuition and if Scott wasn’t careful, he’d never find out the reason for this . . . event.

 Scott took the bottle and downed a swig directly from it in an effort to throw off Johnny’s suspicions. The tequila burned a trail from his tongue to his stomach. His eyes instantly watered. The following cough and gasp for breath was unavoidable.

 Johnny smiled crookedly and laughed. “Thought you weren’t gonna touch that stuff again!” He playfully punched Scott’s shoulder. “Guess this is what it takes, huh?”

 Johnny turned back to the oven leaving Scott gasping for breath and puzzling over the last comment. ‘Just go with it,’ he told himself as he wiped his eyes. “Sure is,” he croaked. Then he remembered something. “Doesn’t Barranca take exception to your drinking? Didn’t a dunking in the river instill that in your memory?”

 Johnny sidled over, leaned in as if addressing a fellow conspirator, and whispered, “That’s the reason for the cookies.” With a wink, he was back at work.

 Amazed, Scott watched as Johnny pulled the oven open and looked inside with a critical eye. “They’re done,” he announced. Grabbing a towel, Johnny pulled the tray from the oven and plunked it down on the counter, causing about a dozen round, brown and lumpy objects to bounce once in unison. Johnny plucked a kerchief from his back pocket, unfolded it, and spread it out next to the tray. Engrossed in the production, Scott took another hit from the bottle.

 “Don’t those need to cool?” Scott asked in a hoarse voice, his throat not quite recovered from the tequila.

 “Nah, they’ll be cool soon ‘nough.” Johnny plucked the molasses and oat clumps from the tray and, one by one, carefully piled them in the middle of the kerchief. He finished by tying it all up in a bundle. He picked up the package and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Okay, that should do it. How about ‘nother shot, there, brother?”

 Scott wordlessly handed over the bottle. His previous joy at finding an opportunity to acquire potentially embarrassing information to use against his normally secretive brother was quickly turning to confusion. What the hell was this all about? Johnny gulped down a mouthful of the vile liquor and handed the bottle back to Scott.

 “So, is Charley due, too? Should we kill two birds with a rock?” Johnny turned to the stove, picked up a previously unnoticed pail, and moved to the kitchen door. He shoved it open to the bright outdoors and shrank back momentarily from the glare. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light.

 “Stone,” Scott corrected without thought. “You mean stone.”

 “Stone?” Johnny rubbed his eyes with his one free hand and cocked his head toward Scott. “Thought it was called a bean. They’re beans ‘round here. Don’t be callin’ ‘em stones, brother, no one will know what cha mean. Not that anyone talks about ‘em anyway.” Johnny strode out the door, the liquid sloshed from the bucket as Johnny walked away.

 Feeling the wooziness of the alcohol on his empty stomach, Scott frowned at his brother’s receding back. The initial joy of being one up on his brother had gone; now he was just plain perplexed. Frustrated, he took another hit from the bottle and knit his brow. “What the HELL is he talking about?” he mumbled to himself. Determined to make sense of all this, Scott downed another fortifying swallow, tucked the bottle under his arm and marched after his brother.

 Johnny headed directly for the barn. Even as the lightheaded tequila effect already hampered his own gait Scott was still able to marvel at Johnny’s straight and true path while under the influence. His secretive brother was running on pure instinct, he realized, which meant that whatever he was planning to do now had been done many times in the past.

 And whatever it was, it was taking place in the barn.

 Scott fixed his eyes on the barn door where Johnny had disappeared and followed at a steady, but not entirely even, pace. By the time he stepped inside, Johnny had already disappeared inside Barranca’s stall. The bucket from the porch was on the ground by one of the tie rings. Scott tripped on his way to see what was in it. He was disappointed to see it was simply water - warm, steaming water.

 “Hey, get some cold water, will ya? Don’t wanna burn Barranca’s parts, ya know?”

 “Sure,” Scott agreed, trying to follow the logic of all this. Looking around, he spied a bucket hanging on the wall and weaved his way to it.

 Johnny momentarily appeared in the doorway of Barranca’s stall, fumbling with he halter, rope and the bulging bandanna. The palomino’s nose was an additional obstacle hampering his progress as he was apparently drawn to the molasses treats. “Damn it, Barranca, hold on a minute, will ya?” He shoved the horse back a step and tilted his head in Scott’s direction. “Where’s Charley? Ain’t he joinin’ us?”

 Scott blinked. “Sure,” he replied. “Okay. I’ll get ‘im. In a second.”

 Johnny finally maneuvered the halter onto the recalcitrant Barranca with the treat-laden bandanna balanced precariously on his arm. Johnny shuffled from the stall and tied off the lead rope on the tie ring.

 “Water?” Johnny asked, nodding at the bucket. “I’ll hold that for ya.” He indicated the tequila as Barranca nipped at the bandanna. Johnny tried to whack the horse’s nose as he reached for the bottle, but the palomino deftly dodged the strike and tried again for the bundle. “Stop it, will ya?” Johnny ordered, clutching the bundle tightly under his arm, fending off the horse and snagging the bottle from Scott at the same time.

 Scott was distractedly awed by the stunning display of dexterity and balance.

 Barranca pinned his ears and shook his head in frustration.

 Johnny took a swig of the bottle and handed it back to Scott. Scott copied the move, the burn of the swallow less than before, and handed the vessel back.

 “I’ll get th’ water,” Scott uttered with a thick tongue, wishing he’d stopped to eat in Morro Coyo prior to coming home.

 “ ‘n Charley. Bet he’d like these, too.” Johnny had stepped aside and put the bundle on a hay bale to untie the kerchief knot.

 Scott found that his feet didn’t go exactly where he wanted with each step, but he eventually found his way to the water trough and filled the bucket. The time outside gave him a few minutes to regroup and realize that he still didn’t really know what his brother was up to. Or why Barranca was involved. And now, apparently, Charlemagne and himself.  

 Lugging the bucket, Scott started back to the barn with the nagging thought that he was forgetting something and was reminded of it was almost immediately upon entering the barn.

 “Didja lose Charley?”

 “Oh. That’s it,” Scott said, snapping his fingers while setting the bucket down none too gently. Water sloshed over the side. Johnny offered the tequila bottle. Scott downed a slug and left again to get his horse. It took a moment to untie the reins and get turned toward the barn again. When he again entered the barn he realized he didn’t know what was next expected of him.

 Only when he saw the bottle of cod liver oil in Johnny’s hand did a sense of unease start to tickle his thoughts. Trading Charley’s bridle for a halter was a hit-and-miss affair, accomplished simply because the horse was tired. Tying up Charley to a second tie ring, he watched Johnny carefully mix the cold and hot water. Then, Johnny collected the tequila bottle from the hay bale that held the cookies and cod liver oil bottle and took another hit. Then he traded the liquor bottle for the oil bottle.

 Johnny poured the oil on his hand, coating his fingers, and then snatched one of the molasses cookies from bale. He fed it to the palomino and then approached the horse’s flank. Then Johnny paused and Scott lifted his blurry stare to see Johnny glaring at him.

 “Do y’eh mind?” Johnny’s voice cut into Scott’s thoughts.

 “Huh?” Scott replied, tearing his eyes away from Johnny’s oiled hand. Johnny crouched at Barranca’s flank, the bucket of warm water by his feet and a disapproving scowl on his face. “Mind?”

 Johnny straightened with a hint of a sway, his face flushed. “Scott, this is embarrassin’ enough. Just do your job an’ I’ll do mine an’ we’ll pretend this never happened. Comprende?”

 Scott was rooted in place, slow realization dawning.

 Beans.

 It came to him then – the chore of those that owned stallions and geldings. The chore that Scott had managed to avoid all his life, first by his station in Boston society and then later by his Officer status in the cavalry. Someone else had always been relegated to do it for him.

 He felt his face grow hot.

 Sheath cleaning was a chore women were not allowed to acknowledge and men dreaded. Beans - the collected dirt, dust and bodily fluids within a male horse’s most private part. The balled mass was called a “bean”. If allowed to grow too large, the bean would interfere with urination and cause infection. Difficulty in peeing was the first sign a sheath cleaning was needed and, apparently, Barranca’s time had come.

 As had, apparently, Charley’s.

 Flustered, Scott quickly turned his back to Johnny and Barranca and lurched sideways, grabbing Charley’s black mane to keep his feet. He kept his balance but his head continued to spin. Johnny’s voice peppered the air.

 “Come on, B’ranca,” Johnny fussed. “Give it up, now, will ya? I don’t wanna be here all afternoon yankin’ on your . . .”

 Scott slapped his hands over his ears. There was no way he wanted to hear that part of the process; it was bad enough just now realizing he, himself, didn’t know the first thing about this . . . event. And he needed to. The idea of Johnny teaching him was, well, unthinkable. He’d have to watch and learn so Johnny would never know about his ignorance.

 Slowly, he turned. Two Johnnys and two Barrancas and two . . . Barranca parts . . . rocked back and forth in front of him. Scott cleared his throat. Both Johnnys looked at him over their shoulders with angry expressions. Or was it embarrassment? Scott shook his head.

 “What?” the Johnnys demanded.

 “I . . . er . . . never done . . . did . . .” The word loss was more than likely due to the tequila, Scott reasoned. Instead he just waggled his finger in the Johnnys’ direction.

 After a moment, the Johnnys broke into laughter. “You ain’t never done this, have ya, Boston ?”

 The Johnnys’ dazzling display of double negatives sent Scott’s reasoning ability reeling. He could only nod and hope it was the correct response. Then he realized he’d forgotten the question.

 After that, things seemed to happen in a series of separate vignettes.

 In Act I, the three of them emptied the tequila bottle.

 In Act II Scott saw the Johnnys plunk buckets next to Charley’s flank and he felt a reassuring and heavy hand on his shoulder. Something was said – directions, he thought – but they were a bit slurred and disjointed. There was confusion as to which bucket to use. The oil on his hand felt surprisingly nice.

 Act III was the act he wished to forget. There was a horse . . . part, possibly two, some arguing and those damn cookies . . . the Johnnys’ continual and droning voices, pointing fingers, some shouting and ducking . . . a loud bang . . .

 Act IV involved a very ticked off bay that looked very much like his Charlemagne, but he didn’t think his horse’s teeth were that yellow and that big and that numerous.

 The final Act took place in Teresa’s rose garden. That’s where Scott remembered thinking that the dirt there was so soft and cool and that the air smelled really sweet.

*****************

 Murdoch topped the ridge and looked lovingly down at the heart of his home. He never tired of the view, especially on a Sunday. It was usually so peaceful with the men off for the day. He smiled.

 “It’s good to be home,” Teresa commented, pulling her shawl across her shoulders. “It looks pretty quiet down there.”

 “Yes, it does.”

 As the wagon passed through the arch, something niggled at Murdoch’s sense of peace.

 “Isn’t that Barranca?” Teresa said, perplexed. “Going into my VEGETABLE GARDEN ?”

 Murdoch urged the team into a faster trot with a snap of the reins. The vegetable garden was on the far side of the main house, across from the barn. As he pulled up in front of the hacienda, Teresa leaped from the wagon and stormed to the garden gate.

 “BARRANCA!” she yelled, charging out of Murdoch’s sight.

 Murdoch jumped down and intended to follow but a motion on the near side of the hacienda caught his eye.

 There was Scott’s horse, saddled, strolling from the back of the house right into Teresa’s rose garden. He was about to call to Teresa, but decided against it when the horse grabbed a mouthful of his ward’s favorite red blossoms. Beginning to worry about his sons, Murdoch approached the garden to collect the horse and look for clues before alarming Teresa.

 When he entered the courtyard and got his first clear view of the garden, the sight of his son lying in the groomed garden dirt alarmed him. He charged forward and knelt next to him.

 “Scott?” he called softly, brushing the wheat toned hair back from Scott’s forehead.

 His well-schooled Boston society son replied with a jagged snore and a hiccup.

 Taken aback, Murdoch quickly noticed there wasn’t any blood but there was a distinctive odor of . . .

 A mumbled curse drew his attention to the second body. Johnny was sitting upright, slumped against the garden wall. Charlemagne had apparently nibble flowers too close to his gunslinger son’s face. With his eyes closed, Johnny attempted to swat the beast away but missed by a mile. The horse continued on with his snacking. He’d moved on to the pink flowers.

 Shocked and somewhat amused, Murdoch got an inkling as to what had transpired when he saw the nearly full tequila bottle in Johnny’s lap, loosely held with one lax hand. There wasn’t much gone from that bottle . . . and what was that white stuff in his hair?

 Turning back to Scott, Murdoch looked more closely at his surroundings. There was an empty tequila bottle under the bench behind Scott’s body. His suspicion was confirmed.

 A scream from inside the house startled him. He rose and took a pair of steps backward to where he could see the front door. Teresa stormed out as mad as he’d ever seen her.

 “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY KITCHEN?”

 Another piece of the puzzle clicked in place as Murdoch took a guess as to what the white stuff was in his younger son’s hair. He surmised he knew exactly what . . . or who . . . happened to her kitchen. The “why” was still out there to be answered, but that dissertation simply had to wait for the two sources to sober up.

 Murdoch decided to handle one thing at a time and quickly moved to Teresa’s side, turning her back to the house.

 “I’m sure this can all be explained, honey. Why don’t you start in the kitchen and I’ll take care of things out here.”

“Where’s Johnny?” she demanded, resisting his direction. “What ‘things’ need taking care of?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Murdoch had to think fast. He waved toward the palomino now tied to the hitch rail. “You know, Barranca, the vegetables, unloading the wagon . . .” He gently pushed her again. “I’ll let Johnny know you want to speak with him, too.”

 The hard line of Teresa’s mouth twitched slightly. “All right. It probably wasn’t Johnny anyway. The only thing in the kitchen he knows how to work is the coffee pot, and that’s only to pour it.”

 Murdoch patted her shoulder and chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll handle things out here.”

 Teresa entered the house, somewhat appeased. Murdoch knew it wouldn’t last. As soon as the door shut he sighed and returned to the rose garden where he collected Charley from his banquet. A cheery yellow bud disappeared in the horse’s grinding jaws. On their way out of the garden, Murdoch stopped next to the now snoring Johnny and gently removed the tequila bottle.

 “I think you’re done with that,” he said softly. Then he leaned down and whispered. “And by the way, Teresa wants to speak with you.”  

THE END

 Except for a link to the site that started it all: http://www.equusite.com/articles/health/healthSheathCleaning.shtml