Boys to Men ch2

 Chapter Two

 

Not again. No way he could face this, not now. Johnny stirred through the brown mess. It might have taken some of the long out of the men’s faces if Cookie had put some meat in the ground, slow-cooked it, or even put it on a spit to roast over coals. The man could have figured out something besides beans to feed the crew. But no, the best thing he thought to do with Lancer beef was to throw it in with some frijoles, boil it down, and serve it up.

 

At least when the sun dropped behind Macon’s peak, some of the gosh-awful heat had left. Maybe tempers would cool some, too. “Coffee hot?” Johnny saw Mateo filling his cup from a pot near the fire where the men had gathered.

 

“Si. Cookie fix it strong. Te gusta el café fuerte.”

 

Johnny helped himself to a cup, blew on it, and took a sip. “Tastes perfect for me.” It was one thing Cookie made just right. Checking around, he saw where he needed to eat his supper.

 

“Davie.” Johnny balanced his meal and sat on a log beside him.

 

“Uh. Here, you can have my place.” The kid moved.

 

“Sit.” Davie sure had his spurs in a tangle about something. The fight? “I haven’t had much chance to get to know you what with rounding up beeves and playing catchup today.”

 

“Ain’t nothing says you got to know me.”

 

He was being an asshole, but Johnny acted like he hadn’t heard him. “You from around here, Davie?” Then he took a bite of his supper. Why couldn’t Cookie put a few spices in, some onions, anything to change up the taste a little?

 

“Uh, no. I lived in Arizona Territory.” The boy stirred his food some, but he had quit eating.

 

“Yeah? How’d you come to be at Lancer?” He didn’t blame him for not having a big appetite, seeing how this made the third night with the same damn thing on his plate. But Davie kept cutting his eyes toward Scott and Miguel. They had their heads together and looked to be getting along a mite better than him and Davie.

 

“What? Oh, uh, just drifting around.” The kid pulled his gaze back to his food and took a bite of his stew.

 

Two of the men looked their way, appearing to listen to the conversation. Johnny eyeballed them, and they went back to talking among themselves. Lowering his voice, he continued, “Your Ma and Pa mind you being away from home?”

 

"I don't reckon so, since someone murdered both of them," the boy met his eyes, but only for a beat before he jumped up, letting his plate clatter to the ground, and then he ran off toward the stream.

 

Johnny put his half-eaten stew aside and started after him, but Walt stepped in his path. “Let him go.”

 

“You know what that’s about?”

 

“Some.”

 

“You want to fill me in?” Johnny gestured at the log the kid had left.

 

Walt nodded and, along with his cup, brought the pot from near the fire. Shaking it, he grinned. “It’s full. We might need it.”

 

Spring branding had gone to Hell six ways from Sunday. The heat had worn them down, then dealing with Hanes’ mouth—and now, that open gate making them a day late, troubled kids fighting—what new mess could Walt tell him? Johnny picked his half-eaten plate up, and oh yeah, three days of lousy chow hadn’t helped anything. Now that Walt planned to drown him in coffee, he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

 

“So, what’s this kid’s story?” The stewed beans didn’t taste any better cold, but he’d seen plenty of times when this would have been a feast, so he ate it all and set the plate aside. Walt pulled his saddle alongside the log and leaned against it, making himself comfortable. Whatever had messed this kid up must make for a long tale.

 

“Gimme your cup and I’ll fill it up for you.”

 

“Sure.” The steam gave him a whiff of the strong brew, and he figured he might as well enjoy a few sips of coffee by the campfire, even if it didn’t look as if his pleasure would last. Walt rubbed his finger back and forth across his chin. It was something the man did when he had bad news. “Get it said, Walt.”

 

“I will, Johnny. But it’s hard to explain, not a simple thing to tell you. Now, Mr. Scott….”

 

“What do you mean, Mister Scott? And why’s it easier to talk to him than me?” Having raised his voice a little, Johnny looked around to see if anyone noticed, but the other hands were closer to the fire and two were laughing at Jerry Hanes while he spouted out his sick jokes. “Well?”

 

“No. No. It ain’t that.” Walt put his cup down and sat straighter. “It’s what the boy told me. That’s what’s harder to tell you. Now, saying it to Mr. — uh, explaining it to Scott, well, that would be easier than laying it out to you.”

 

“I don’t understand.” What in the Sam Hill had that kid… Aw shit. Could it be something about being a gunfighter? No way. He sure hadn’t murdered anyone, never killed a woman.

 

“He’s not mad at you. Johnny. It’s your clothes.”

 

“You ain’t making sense. Scott wears plaid and ruffles. Dammit, Walt. What are you trying to say?”

 

“If you’ll slow down a minute, I’ll tell you.” His calm, soft voice had risen to a loud, harsh whisper.

 

“Sorry. It’s just…you caught me off guard. Now explain what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong with what you wear. It’s just that the kid came back from town and found his family murdered.”

 

Shadows played off Walt’s face, and he searched for words.

 

“Dios. I had no idea. Was he alone?”

 

“Yeah.” Walt lowered his head and shook it.

 

No one, especially a boy as young as Davie, should have to go through that. Pictures flashed in his head of things best forgotten. Johnny didn’t want to think about the death of his mother. Even now, it made him jerky all over; the memory cut like a knife. “The kid will never get over that. Maybe I ought to talk to him.”

 

“No. Johnny, no, you don’t want to do that.”

 

“Why not? And explain to me what any of this has to do with how I dress.”

 

“The thing is, Davie found more than just his ma and pa. He had a sister. And she was just a youngun, not yet thirteen.”

 

“Damn.” Johnny scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to imagine losing someone so young, plus both parents. This kid sure had been through a lot.

 

“There’s more, Johnny. And you ain’t gonna like hearing this part.” Walt looked down at his cup.

 

“Whatever it is, get it said.” Feeling uncomfortable, Johnny stood and stared toward the west. The sky glowed enough that the mountain peaks had turned a deep blue in the fading light. The moon, a ghostly white, had started its rise.

 

Walt walked up beside him. “That bunch of murdering scum did more than cut that little girl’s throat. According to the boy, Amy must have fought pretty hard. She was holding one of them conchos in her hand, ones like them you and Miguel wear.”

 

“Amy?”

 

Walt nodded.

 

“Aw, no.” Johnny closed his eyes. “They ever find who did it?”

 

“The only clue was what she held in her fingers.”

 

Walt put a hand on his arm. “So you see, them pants you and Miguel wear, for him, seeing ’em is like waving red in front of that bull over in the back pasture. It’s gonna get him riled.”

 

“So, you think that fight today was on account of Davie hating Mexicans?”

 

“Sure ain’t helped them boys be saddle sidekicks.”

 

“And that’s why he’s been so cross-grained around me, on account of these.” Johnny flicked the conchos on his thigh. “I can tell Davie’s hurting, but I’m not changing my style of pants. This kid needs to learn how to look past a man’s clothes.”

 

“Ain’t nobody would expect it.” Walt stepped back for the coffee pot, topped off his cup, and offered it to Johnny.

 

“Nah. Thanks for telling me about Davie.”

 

The sandy soil behind the log worked fine to clean off his plate and fork. As he knocked the last of the sand off, Scott brought Miguel to stand in front of Walt.

 

“Señor Walt, lo siento; Lamento los problemas que he causado.”

 

“In English, boy.” Scott thumped the boy on the back.

 

Miguel rolled his eyes upward but continued, “I am sorry, Señor. It is not for you to suffer because of a lying gringo.”

 

“Mi—guel.”

 

WhooWee. Johnny almost stood to attention and saluted. If that boy had any smarts, he would be an angel for the rest of the branding. Maybe Scott should have a go at talking to Davie.

 

For a minute, Miguel stared at Scott like he might refuse, but when Boston stepped toward him, he spouted out, “I will not cause more trouble, Señor Walt.”

 

Some play around the lips and twinkling eyes gave Walt’s good nature away, but only to someone who knew him well. “Come on over here.” He patted the place Johnny had left. “Let’s you and me talk about ranch work and getting along.”

 

It was pretty plain that if Miguel had his druthers, he wouldn’t be sitting on a log with the man in charge of the branding operations. But the others might not welcome him at the campfire just now, still if they saw him learning and trying, maybe…

 

Dios, Johnny looked at the darkening sky filling with stars; working with these boys had to go better tomorrow.