Chapter 8

The sun hung heavy in the early afternoon sky as a soft breeze ruffled the sweat-tinged hair at Scott's collar line. He was on top of the ridgeline looking at the few drops of blood that marked the spot where Baker had lain while firing at Johnny and him. Heat flowed through his veins as he realized once more how close his brother had come to dying that day. Thinking that Baker would leave well enough alone had been an almost fatal error. Scott flashed on the rage he had felt back in that Confederate prison. He remembered what his fists had done that day, but as terrible as it was, he wished it had ended there instead of drawing out into something that now threatened not only him but the rest of his family as well. Scott thought ruefully that he'd been running from that memory for too long, it was time to face it straight on. He kicked back from the rim and set to the task of tracking Jeff Baker.

The trail dipped downwards toward the river bed and coolness caressed his face. He had been picking his way around in the high country for several hours when he finally found what he was looking for. There was blood, stained onto a broken, shoulder-high tree branch. It looked like Baker was finally becoming sloppy. Scott followed a few faint hoof prints and found himself looking down a path which narrowed sharply between the rushing white waters and a sheer cliff face. He had a couple of options, neither of which looked very enticing. He could go back and start over at the base of the incline and work his way up or he could go through the slender pass in front of him. Decision made, he kneed his horse and moved forward.

He heard the rattle and thump of rocks rolling over the ground before seeing them. Scott stiffened in the saddle; the rock slide was starting to cover the trail. A sprinkling of pebbles falling on his horse's hindquarters made the animal nervous and it started to side-step. Clumps of vegetation and dirt upset by the tumbling boulders flew about his head, knocking his hat off into the river below. Scott desperately looked for an exit from the falling debris, and turned his frightened horse towards the best vantage point. Suddenly, a hurtling rock clipped him on the right shoulder and there was immediate, shocking pain, then a curious weightlessness followed by jarring coldness as he hit the swirling waters below the trail line. He barely heard the panicked neighing of his horse as it faded into the distance before he was yanked under the rapids.

Surfacing far downstream, Scott spewed and sputtered water as he gasped for breath, ribs aching from the effort of breathing. Finally hauling himself ashore, he looked around and saw his horse standing away from the waters edge, head bowed and blowing hard. He walked unsteadily towards his mount, murmuring softly under his breath in an attempt to keep the animal calm. Large hands lightly roamed over the horse's quivering muscles and swiftly took assessment of the damage. A sizeable scrape on the hindquarters and another shorter scratch on the neck, but that seemed to be the extent of it. Thankfully, it had made it through the gauntlet on the pathway relatively unscathed. His hand went to his side and he cursed when he found that his pistol had been wrenched away by the churning waters. He unbuckled the useless gun belt and flung it over the cantle. A sudden thought came to him and he reached over the saddle, grateful that at least his rifle was still in one piece, ensconced in the scabbard.

Feeling a sharp pain in his arm when he went to check for the rifle, Scott looked down at his shoulder. The shirt was sheared away from the seam and the skin underneath abraded; a dark bruise had already formed where the rock had hit. He tentatively moved the arm in a large circle, feeling a manageable ache and pull with each movement. Content that it was bruised and not broken, Scott began to gather his thoughts and led his horse further away from the river. He had no doubt that Baker was behind the rock slide, but hopefully the man would think he died in the fall and let his guard down.

~o~O~o~

The fire was piddling but it was enough to stand out like a beacon in the semi-darkness; Scott snatched that bit of good luck with all he had and moved closer to striking range. Within walking distance, he dismounted and descended into the outlying area. As he edged further into the camp, Scott could make out a bloodied shirt thrown haphazardly on the ground. A holstered pistol was coiled in a semi-circle by the stump, still well within reach. Baker was standing facing the fire, fumbling with a pair of bandanas, trying to bandage his still-bleeding arm. In garish illumination from the flames, Scott saw long lengths of tortuous scars across Baker's back and shoulders and was momentarily taken by surprise. He carried scars on his back as well, but the ones on Baker had been made by something more than a mere leather whip. Moving forward, he chambered a bullet in the rifle with an audible click and the man in front of him froze.

After a few seconds of silence, a low, mean voice stated, "You're a hard man to kill, Lieutenant."

"I could say the same of you," Scott replied. Baker glanced over to where his pistol lay but was stopped by Scott's fierce voice. "I wouldn't…you don't need to give me another reason to shoot. Take the gun out with your left hand and throw it to the side."

Baker complied with the order and raised both hands slightly. "So is this how it is? You shooting me in the back while I stand here? I took you for a better man than that, Lancer."

Scott was being baited and knew it, but he had some barbs of his own to fling. "Then we're both full of surprises, aren't we? Take, for example, Sid Davis; what did he do to deserve a bullet in the back?" Baker's spine became rigid at the mention of Davis' name and he turned around to face Scott.

His long hair partially concealed his face as he looked down. "I didn't mean for that to happen, I liked Sid, I really did…but he…"

Scott heard something akin to remorse in Baker's voice and he wondered over it, but pressed onwards. "He did what? He got in your way, just like Gideon Morris did, so you had to kill him?"

The façade dropped over Baker's face once more and he shrugged. "Prison was long time ago, Lieutenant. You knew that Morris boy was dying anyway. Hell, he had one foot in the grave already. I saved him some suffering."

"It wasn't your decision to make," gritted out Scott.

He grinned and looked at Scott appraisingly, the light from the fire shining in his black eyes. "You're looking for revenge. For Morris? I'd say we're more alike than you want to believe, Lieutenant. Your hands aren't as clean as you think they are, since I'm sure you did your fair share of killing during the war too."

Scott's eyes narrowed sharply. "The men I fought against during the war stood as much chance of living to see the next day as I did. And you took that chance away from Morris. You might not have laid a physical hand on him, but you played a part in his death just the same. Scott shook his head, "No, we're two very different men, Baker. Now move away from that stump, slowly."

Baker moved out to the side, saying "Let me get my damn shirt…"

The man reached down to the ground and yanked the shirt upwards, then whirled around at the same time, knocking the rifle sideways from Scott's grasp. As the weapon clattered to the hard earth, Scott pounced in a diving tackle and the men fell down heavily. Impact with the ground forced the two apart and Baker came up to his knees, slamming Scott on the jaw with a hard right. The force drove Scott backwards towards the fire, but he recovered quickly and let loose a roundhouse punch that caught Baker in the mid-section. Pent-up anger rode Scott hard and he lashed out with a volley of short thrusts that had Baker falling to the ground once more. Once, twice, and then again, Scott drove his fist into the man's face until he lay limp. Chest heaving from exertion, Scott stumbled away and looked for Baker's pistol. He grabbed the weapon, leveled it at the prone man, and gasped out, "You're not worth being on my conscious a second time."

~o~O~o~

Murdoch made his way to stand on the front portico, looking out into the very early sunrise. Soon there would be enough light to gather the men and go find his son. It was bad enough that one son lay in bed with a bullet wound, weakened from blood loss, but to have another be gone so long on such a desperate mission was nearly unbearable.

His heart had dropped when Cipriano had brought Johnny into the house, bloody and only semi-conscious. Murdoch only needed to hear two names muttered from his son's lips, "Scott" and "Jeff Baker", to understand what had happened. The whole story had come out before Sam had made the first cut into Johnny's shoulder, but by that time it was too late to send men up into the hills.

Something at the edge of the lane caught his eye. He watched as a lone figure on horseback made his way under the Lancer arch through the cool morning mist. The horse was held to a slow, methodical walk while the man slumped in the saddle. It was Scott, he immediately thought. In that instant he could envision what his son had looked like during the war, clothed in ragged Union blue, astride a worn out cavalry horse at the end of a long, hard campaign. Nineteen, Murdoch thought, Scott had only been nineteen years old when he had faced, and survived, the horrors of war and prison. Regretful for Scott's past, and his own, he hurried out to meet him.

Reaching him in the courtyard, Murdoch gently placed a hand on his leg. The dozing man in the saddle jerked his head up along with the reins, causing the horse to dance a little. Scott looked beyond exhausted; his eyes were dull and flat and there was a distinct tightness around his mouth. Anxious eyes scanned him, taking in the dishevelment of the bloodied shirt, ripped open along the ribcage and torn at the shoulder to reveal a deep purple bruising. Sweat-dried hair stood askew at odd angles and the yellowed bruising on his cheekbone, in companion with newer darker ones along his jaw line, stood in direct contrast to the pallor of his skin underneath the light stubble of beard. Murdoch reached up to draw him down out of the saddle.

"Murdoch," Scott mumbled, and he looked about, seemingly surprised to find himself finally at home. "It's been a long day." Then, as if he had suddenly remembered something very important, he swung his head around to look at his father, "Is Johnny all right?"

"Johnny will be just fine in a week or so. Cipriano got him home without any problems and Sam was here to get the bullet out without too much fuss."

"Thank God."

Murdoch eased his arm under Scott's and steered him to the porch. Sitting him down in one of the chairs, Murdoch peered at him carefully and worriedly asked, "Are you all right?"

Scott draped bonelessly in the chair. Long arms lay over the armrests and legs splayed out to the front, while his head rested on the high back of the chair. "I'm all right…just tired." He continued on hesitantly, "It's over."

Murdoch looked at Scott apprehensively and waited. He clamped his mouth shut; the one question that he didn't dare ask was sitting there on the tip of his tongue waiting to leap out.

Scott breathed in the freshness of the new morning and spared a look towards his father. "I took Baker back to jail," he said quietly, then added, "The sheriff is holding him for the murder of Sid Davis."

This decision had come at a cost, Murdoch realized. He could see the weight of it mirrored in Scott's eyes. Wanting to hear the whole story but knowing that it should be left for another time, he clasped his son's shoulder and said thickly, "Come on, son, let's get you to bed."

While the prospect of sleep was terribly inviting, Scott had other plans for the moment. He snicked open the door to his brother's room and looked in. He wanted to make sure that Johnny was indeed all right. Looking towards the mound of covers on the bed, he outlined his brother's form as he lay on his side. Satisfied, Scott turned to leave when a quiet voice snagged him. He moved forward to the bed and sat down on the edge.

"Scott?"

"Murdoch said you were sleeping."

"Yeah, well, your old man doesn't know everything," Johnny said huskily.

Scott flashed a tired grin, "How come Murdoch is my father whenever he does something that you don't like?"

"That's just the way of it, brother, don't you know anything? He's been mother-henning me ever since I got back to the ranch. I'm glad that you finally came home to take some of his worries away from me." Johnny shifted in bed to get a better look at Scott and he scanned his brother with a critical eye. "You look like three miles of bad road."

"Thanks, brother, that's pretty much how I feel right at the moment."

He could hear the fatigue in Scott's voice and in the dim light of the bedroom his brother really did look ragged. "So…is he dead?

"You don't mess around do you?"

"Not when there's something I want to know."

Scott scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, I didn't kill Jeff Baker. I took him to jail instead, where he'll be tried for Davis' murder."

Johnny inched up a little further on the headboard and studied his brother for a few moments. "That took a lot of guts, Scott. Not to kill him, I mean. The easy way would've been to put a bullet between his eyes and send him on his way to hell."

Stifling a yawn, Scott nodded his assent; it would have been easier in thought but not in action, he considered bleakly. Gideon's memory didn't deserve another death attached to it; there were far too many of those already.

Johnny nudged him with his leg. "Go on and get to bed."

Scott got up from the bed and saw how pale Johnny looked against the bedclothes. Feeling a pang of guilt over the events that had cost his brother a bullet in the shoulder, yet thankful it wasn't worse, Scott gently scolded him. "Get some rest yourself. You don't look all that great, either."

Softly spoken words, with a hint of a smile attached to them, came from the middle of the bed and reached Scott's ears just as he was closing the door, "Welcome home, brother, welcome home."

~end~

2007