Joys of Branding

Written by Desert Sun - May, 2004

Send Feedback to Desert Sun          Printable Pages: 6          Rating: G

(Please note: the characters of the Lancer television series do not belong to me and were used without permission. This was written for fun, not profit.)

Over a thousand head of cows and their young milled about inside a circle of riders. The constant trampling of hooves pulverized the ground until clouds of dust shielded the surrounding hills from view. Scott Lancer, the Boston raised elder son of Murdoch Lancer, was reminded of fog moving in over Boston Bay and hiding the harbor.

A short ways from the herd, smoke rose from a fire where red coals cradled the ends of several branding irons, their handles stretching out like spokes on the hub of a wheel. Blinking his stinging eyes, Scott picked up one of the metal rods. He rubbed the back of his other gloved hand across his eyes then walked over to where Johnny, his younger half brother, sat on the shoulder of a struggling calf that had three legs bound together.

"What're yuh waitin' for, Scott?" asked Johnny, sounding impatient.

Scott shot a quick glare at the younger man then grimaced and lined the Lancer "L" over the calf's right hip. He settled the branding iron into place then held his breath as the hot metal sizzled through hair, the stench penetrating the collection of dirt inside the easterner's nose and reminding him of the atrocities of war. His breakfast surged into his throat, and it was all he could do to keep from tossing the iron into a far bush when an enraged bawl erupted from the small critter's gaping mouth.

"Do it again. Yuh barely touched his hide. In a few weeks, we won't even be able to see it."

The branding iron wavered in the air as the thought of branding his bossy brother passed through Scott's mind. He quickly resisted the temptation. Branding was part of being a rancher.

Gritting his teeth, Scott firmly held the iron in place on the calf's hip. Suddenly, he was in another place and time. Booming cannons and crackling gun-fire mingled with men screaming in agony and the thundering of hooves as horses, in mad retreat from the raging battle, raced through a stand of trees--branches ripping at clothing and snatching some of the riders from their saddles. The urge to get away from the smell of death was overwhelming.

"Hey! Yuh tryin' to burn a hole clear through him?"

Scott felt the branding iron slide through his gloved fingers as the handle was jerked from his grasp. Sweat dripped down his face, and he swiped the moisture away with the back of his other gloved hand. At that moment, he would have given anything to be in Boston. He had just branded his first calf and already he detested the whole ordeal.

"You all right?" A touch of concern had crept into Johnny's softened voice.

Scott swallowed and squared his shoulders. "I'm fine," he snapped then immediately regretted his cryptic tone when he saw his brother's jaw flex.

Johnny let out a low snort. "Sure yuh are. Yuh always look a little green," he smirked.

Scott folded his arms across his chest. "Are you going to get another calf . . . or stand there diagnosing my health?" he demanded, not wanting to let on that his knees were trembling or that his stomach was feeling queasy. He had to face enough teasing from his western-raised brother and the ranch hands as it was.With a shrug of his shoulders, Johnny dropped the branding iron in the dirt. He knelt, removed the cord binding the calf, and slipped the noose of his lariat off over the animal's tossing head. The calf lunged upward on wobbling legs then bolted back toward the herd where its mother was trying to dodge past a vaquero on a cagey cowpony.

There was little time for Scott to recover his composure. By the time he returned the used iron to the fire and had the end of it properly positioned, Johnny had dragged another calf near and was dismounting. The squalling critter was grabbed by the flank and flipped to its side then three legs were quickly lashed together. Scott snatched up another hot iron and ran to slap it on the calf's hide.

The sickening odor and wailing calf again reminded Scott of the war. However this time, he managed to keep his mind on his work, and a blackened circle-L was plainly visible against a backdrop of light-red hair when the branding iron was lifted from the animal's hip.

"Looks good," Johnny grinned.

"Thanks," replied Scott with a weak smile in return.

The next calf was a bull. Johnny slid a knife out of his boot and waved it at Scott. "Want me to do the honors while you watch . . . or yuh want me to walk yuh through this?"

A chill crept up Scott's spine and his shoulders shuddered involuntarily. Just the thought of cutting into flesh and smelling the blood brought back memories long locked away in the darkest room of his mind. Johnny was giving him that quizzical look, though, so Scott quickly swallowed and replied, "Why don't you do this one? I . . . I wouldn't want to make a mistake."

Johnny chuckled. "Okay. Don't guess he'd like it much if you cut the wrong thing. He's gunna holler bad enough as it is."

Sitting astride the calf's shoulder and holding onto the one hind leg that wasn't tied, the elder Lancer son forced himself to watch the deft movements that were accompanied by words of instruction. When Johnny sliced into tender skin, the calf let out a bellow, and Scott shivered despite the sweat dripping down his cheek. He was more than glad when the operation that turned the bull calf into a steer was over.

Johnny took Scott's place at the calf's shoulder. He wiped the blade of his knife on the animal's neck then lifted a bloody hand toward the older man. "Here. Toss these in that bucket on your way to get the iron,"

Again, Scott's stomach revolted and his nose wrinkled as sticky pouches of flesh, hardly bigger than his thumbs, were dropped into his outstretched hand. He was sure the food he had eaten less than an hour earlier would end up in the dirt at his feet. What's the purpose of keeping these? he wondered in disgust.

"Scott? Are you okay?" Humor colored the sympathy in Johnny's tone.

"Yes," whispered Scott, turning away from his brother's prying eyes.

The city raised Lancer son was revolted by the entire branding operation, but he was determined to hide that fact from his brother. With raised chin, he strode to the fire to get a hot branding iron to finish the job. Along the way, he gladly deposited the slippery nuggets into the bucket Johnny had pointed out him.

One by one, three more heifer calves were brought to the fire. The smell of burned hair and hide was far from pleasant, but Scott determinedly performed his assigned task. His resolve soon faltered when his brother dragged a much larger calf toward him.

"This one's yours, Boston," Johnny panted once three legs were tightly cinched together just above the top edge of cloven hooves. With the calf lying on its side, Johnny grabbed the fourth leg and held it out of the way while his palomino horse, Barranca, backed a step to keep the lariat around the critter's neck stretched tight.

Scott pulled the knife from his brother's boot. He sucked in a deep breath then carefully took hold of the bulging sack between the calf's hind legs and slit the outer skin as he had seen Johnny do. His stomach rolled, but he ignored the wave of nausea. You can do this. Amputating Billy's arm was far worse, he silently scolded himself, remembering a fifteen-year-old boy who had developed gangrene while the two of them had been confined in a Confederate prison camp during the war with the southern states. The doctor had been to drunk to operate.

At last, the task was done, and the calf had trotted away to meet its mother before being herded through a gate to join the other newly branded calves in the field on the other side. Johnny gathered Barranca's reins and looked over at Scott. "Not bad for your first try. A little more practice an' you'll be a top hand at this."

"You think so?" Scott, the bloodied blade of the knife pointing upward, took a step toward his brother.

Feet not even touching the stirrups, Johnny leapt into the saddle and sent his mount racing toward the main herd. Scott smiled for the first time that day and called out, "Coward."

The day wore on. Calf after calf was thrown and branded. Memories of the war gradually faded as Scott determinedly went about his work. He didn't grow any fonder of the job of branding, however, and had little appetite when a lunch break was taken at noon. With the lingering smells of blood and burned hair in the air, food seemed to have lost its appeal.

By sundown, Scott had lost track of how many bulls he had cut and how many calves he had burned with Lancer brand. He really didn't care. All he wanted was a chance to clean up and get rid of the dirt and splatters of blood on his face.

Grandfather would be appalled if he could see me, thought Scott as he knelt beside the stream that meandered along one side of the meadow in the foothills of the mountains east of the ranch headquarters.

The water did little to alter Scott's appearance other than remove the dirt and grime from his face. If he had been at the ranch house, he would have had a bath and changed into clean clothes before supper. However, that wasn't an option. The creek was too shallow for bathing, and he didn't have any other clothing with him. His father and brother had both warned him that whatever he wore would be stained with blood, so he had thought it senseless to ruin more than one outfit.

Flickering light from a fire beckoned and Scott headed back to camp. Upon reaching the back of the chuck wagon, he stopped when he heard his brother say, "Scott did look a little green."

A round of laughter followed Johnny's comment, and Scott clinched his fists as a surge of anger urged him to put an end to the fun being had at his expense. He took a step then the voice of reason caused him to stop and listen instead of barging around the corner of the wagon.

"So, Amigo . . . that is what slows you down, sí?" asked a voice that Scott recognized as belonging to Miguel Sanchez, a young vaquero who had grown up on the Lancer Ranch.

"Nope . . . he did fine. He's just a little more particular than some o' you boys when it comes to slapping an iron on a calf's rump, is all," Johnny drawled, the words of praise bringing a smile to his brother's face.

"So, Scott did all right?"

Hearing his father's deep voice, Scott tensed. Being scoffed at by the hired men, or even Johnny, was one thing. That could be tolerated. Somehow, Murdoch's disapproval was an entirely different matter and much harder to accept. Scott supposed it was because of all those years he had been left with his grandfather, during which he had not received even one letter from Murdoch that made proving his worth to the man so much more important.

"You'd have been proud, Murdoch," replied Johnny. "Scott got the hang of it real fast. Only had to show him what to do once."

"Good."

Scott drew in a deep breath, the weariness of the day evaporating. The dust and grime, blood, and gut wrenching odors he had forced himself to tolerate suddenly seemed worthwhile. Johnny's praise and the hint of pride in Murdoch's single word were proof that he had passed the test for yet another lesson in ranching. His appearance might not meet with his grandfather's approval, but that was of little consequence. At that moment, Scott felt far more satisfaction in knowing that he had proved his worth to his father and brother.

A couple minutes later, the clanging of the cook's metal triangle announced that the evening meal was ready. Scott gave the other men time to form a line before walking around the end of the chuck wagon. Any hope of going unnoticed by his father and brother died when he found them at the end of the lineup.

"Whewie, Boston. I thought yuh said yuh was cleanin' up some. Looks like yuh could've done a better job of it." Johnny pointed at Scott's right thigh where the leg of his pants was nearly covered with splatters of calf manure and smears of blood.

"I hate to be out of style," Scott replied, waving a hand at the stains on Johnny's clothing. This brought a chuckle from their father and started a bout of good-natured teasing between the brothers.

The line of hungry men ahead of Scott slowly dissolved as plates were filled and the men went to gather around the campfire. Finally the only ones left to be served where the two Lancer brothers.

"Here, Scott. You take this one."

Scott tried objecting to taking Johnny's filled plate, but the younger man insisted. The cook was scowling impatiently so the elder of the brothers gave in. "Thanks Brother," Scott said, taking the tin dish and lifting it in salute.

"Well, go ahead. Take a bite," urged Johnny. "No need yuh waitin' on me."

His appetite aroused by the pleasing aroma rising from the steaming food, Scott joined the rest of the men and decided to start with the meat, which resembled a fried oyster. The beans looked a little greasy.

"Mm. What is this?" Scott asked after swallowing his first bite and cutting off another. Something about the answering silence as he took that second bite gave him a sinking feeling that he might be better off not knowing.

"Remember that bucket?" Johnny smirked, having arrived at his brother's side.

Scott's stomach instantly rebelled. He raised the hand he held his fork in and pressed his thumb against his lips. If it hadn't been for his brother's triumphant grin and the feeling that all eyes in the camp were on him, he would have taken a walk.

With great effort, Scott finished chewing the piece of meat in his mouth and swallowed it. "Very tasty. Reminds me of the fried oysters I've had at the Oyster House in Boston," he said with a hint of a smile. In truth, it was the thought more than the taste that bothered him.

"No kiddin'." Johnny sounded dubious.

"They really are quite good," Scott insisted taking another bite. He then looked over at his brother's plate. "Aren't you having any?"

"Nope. I prefer beans."

Johnny's flat tone said the subject was closed. However, noticing that their father was eating the delicacy with relish, Scott couldn't resist the temptation to tease his younger brother. "Brother, you just have no appreciation of the finer things in life. Isn't that right, Murdoch?" Scott looked up at the tall man next to Johnny.

"Quite true," agreed Murdoch, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes.

Scott smiled back then went on eating his dinner. Another test had been passed. He had won a little more of his father's respect and had gotten the better of his brother for a change. Branding calves wasn't so bad after all.