A sequel to ‘To Die Game’
by Layla
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
Chapter
11
While Jude stood outside the doorway with a revolver, it
was Titus who came for them. He
snatched the woolen blankets off the brothers and threw them aside. Titus grabbed Heath by the left arm and
dragged him off the cot and onto his feet.
A jagged streak of pain stabbed at Heath’s lower back, making him hiss
with pain. His ribs felt sore and
tender.
“Get out to the big room.” Titus ordered Heath.
“Malachi is waiting.”
Titus turned to the dark-haired cowboy. Laboriously, with slow, groaning movements,
Nick had already begun to struggle to his feet. His muscles were achy and stiff from yesterday’s tumble down the
mountainside as well as the bone-chilling cold of the water torture.
Titus yanked Nick upright and roughly shoved him toward
the door. “Get going!” he growled.
The brothers walked on stiff legs out to the spacious room
of the near-empty warehouse. Zechariah
and Reuben stood shoulder to shoulder.
Zechariah was armed with a double-barrel shotgun.
He was in their shadow.
Reuben and Zechariah moved sideways and the sect’s leader stepped
forward. Malachi turned his face into
the light. His pale complexion was a
stark contrast to his raven’s wing ebony hair and long, black coat. The confusion that had registered in the
gray-blue eyes during the previous night had passed. The prophet had returned.
Malachi stood erect, and slowly outstretched his arms with
palms upward. He smiled at the
strangers. “The consummation of the ages
is at hand. The Pale Horseman
cometh. Behold his messenger!”
Heath said nothing.
Nick let out an exasperated sigh.
“Sell crazy somewhere else, Murphy, we ain’t buying.”
“It is you who are insane.” Malachi looked Nick straight in the eye. “You are both doomed and I offer you
salvation. Joining my Remnant is your
only hope for survival. And surely you
want your sister saved from the Wrath to come.”
“I’d kill you with my bare hands…” Nick’s words were cut
off as Titus’ strong arm wrapped around his neck from behind.
Heath felt Jude’s revolver in his back even as Zechariah
leveled the shotgun and eased the hammers back with his thumb. “We’ll die before we tell you where to find
our sister, Murphy!” Heath’s eyes had
hardened to steel blue. “No amount of
torture will ever get it out of us!”
“I did not come to torture you this morning. I came to offer you a final opportunity… the
last chance to believe the words of the prophet. The last chance to save yourselves and your sister. But…” Malachi shook his head. “You are not worthy to be part of the
Remnant. You must suffer the fate of
the filthy, the vile and the profane.”
Malachi’s mind replayed the blasphemous words that the
dark-haired cowboy had uttered and the rage began to build anew. He remembered how cleansed he had felt to
carry out Martha’s final judgment. The
rage that infected his mind had to be directed at some outlet as it had been in
the past.
Malachi stared into the hazel eyes of the man in Titus’
chokehold. The glare that returned was
acid, withering and unrepentant. The
cowboy had called the prophet a ‘mad dog’ and now the voices decreed he must
suffer the same fate as Martha for those blasphemous words. But this time, the offender was a big,
muscular cowboy, not a diminutive Mexican girl. Malachi realized that he could not personally mete out Nick’s
punishment. His pale eyes glinted with
satisfaction at his huge, obedient disciple.
Titus’ fists would be the instruments of retribution.
Malachi moved out of Heath and Nick’s vision as he moved
behind the huge bulk of Titus. Malachi
pulled up his pants leg several inches and reached down into his boot. “Now.” he said.
Nick’s breath cut off as he felt something sharp pressing
at his back. “I guess you know what
that is,” Malachi whispered. “My trusty
old Bowie. One hard shove and you’re a
dead man.”
Nick hissed through clenched teeth as he felt the sharp
point of the blade breaking his skin.
Malachi pressed the sharp Bowie a little deeper into Nick’s flesh and
hitched the blade to the right. The
flare of pain made Nick press his teeth together tightly and he felt a dribble
of blood down his back.
“If you’re waiting for me to tell you where to find her,
Murphy, you might as well kill me.” Nick said hoarsely.
“I will, Cowboy.”
Malachi told him. “But not right
away. Impaling you on my hunting knife
would be the easy way out.” Malachi’s
voice became low and guttural in Nick’s ear.
“So, you’re not afraid of dying…
I can understand that. Even if
you didn’t believe in afterlife, dying would end the pain. But first you must suffer for your lies
about the prophet! Before Titus is
finished with you, you’ll think staying alive is worse than dying.”
Nick braced himself for the beating he was sure Titus was
about to inflict on him. With his hands
bound, he could offer no defense. Nick
pressed his lips together tightly. He
would take whatever Titus dished out in silence. Maybe – if the beating were severe – he’d pass out.
Nick felt the tip of the blade removed. The pain lessened but he could still feel
warm blood trickling down his back. To
his surprise, Nick felt the sharp tugs on his wrists as Malachi cut the rope
away. Titus released his chokehold and
shoved Nick forward into the empty center of the old warehouse.
Titus unbuttoned his coat never breaking eye contact with
Nick. He peeled off the coat and flung
it against the wall. Standing about
fifteen feet in front of Titus, Nick did the same.
Jude shoved Heath back toward the periphery, keeping his
revolver in Heath’s ribs. Malachi
smiled confidently at his followers as Titus stepped forward. Nick maintained eye contact with the
towering hulk.
“I’m gonna beat you to death for what you said about the
prophet!” Titus growled.
Nick tuned Titus’ voice out. He watched his eyes, his hands and his feet instead. Nick didn’t know a lot about Titus, but none
of it was good. He was huge, he was
mean and he was completely under Malachi’s control.
Heath felt his heart pound in his chest. His big brother would brawl with most any
man and either come out on top or pummel his opponent to a draw. But Nick’s adversary was no ordinary
man. This foe was a real heavyweight. Heavy and very strong. Heath feared that if his brother were hit,
he would go down. And if Nick went
down, he would never get up again.
Hazel eyes were taking in the full measure of the
opponent. Nick watched him, thinking
hard. Titus was heavier than nature
intended, maybe by a hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds. That kind of bulk can make a man strong, but
it can also make him slow.
“Here I come!” Titus called. He launched himself forward and his right arm arced around in a
giant roundhouse swing. Nick
sidestepped Titus’ body and ducked beneath his arm. The momentum carried Titus forward and whipped him back around to
face Nick. They had changed
places. He came at Nick again. Same move.
Titus’ right arm swung. Nick
sidestepped and ducked and they were back where they started. Titus’ face reddened and he was breathing heavier
than Nick.
“Come on, Titus!
Get him!” Zechariah called.
“Bust him good, Titus!” Jude chimed in.
Titus seemed to swell up.
“Coming to get you, Cowboy,” he sang.
He came at Nick again, same exact move.
This time Nick crashed an elbow into Titus’ ribs as he spun under his
arm. Titus stopped short on stiff knees
and came right back at the dark-haired cowboy.
Nick felt the breeze as the giant fist passed an inch above his head.
Titus stood panting as the two men squared off again. Heath held his breath with every lunge the
huge man made at his brother. He had
seen Nick in several brawls and had even been on the receiving end of Nick’s
fists a time or two. But the footwork
and moves Nick was displaying today were something totally different. Heath had seen a few boxing exhibitions
during his stretch in the Army. Nick
obviously had competitive boxing training and experience. “Come on, Nick,” he whispered. Heath was beginning to believe his big
brother had some kind of chance.
Nick was warming up nicely and had sized up his
adversary. Titus was a very poor
fighter. Nick had fought in many a
saloon on the west coast and experience had taught him that most of the very
big men had little skill. Either their
sheer size was so intimidating it stopped fights from ever starting in the
first place, or it let them win after the first punch was landed. Either way, they didn’t get much
practice. They didn’t develop much
finesse, footwork or defense. Mere bulk
was no substitute for the ample experience Nick had gained over the years. He blew Titus a kiss.
Titus came on like a raging bull. Nick deftly arched around the wild
lunge. Titus’ fist missed his gut by a
quarter-inch. The near miss and close
proximity left Titus’ head open for a right uppercut. Nick let go with everything and landed a colossal right to his
jaw. Nick’s follow-up left hook crashed
into the big man’s ear and Titus staggered back.
Nick stood his ground and tried to assess what damage he
had done. It was not as much as he’d
hoped. Most any other man who had taken
those two punches would have been down for the count. Titus wasn’t unconscious; he appeared only slightly dazed. Titus
just stood there shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs. The dull brown eyes glanced over briefly at
the prophet. Malachi said nothing, but
his pale eyes brimmed with anger and impatience.
Titus rose on the balls of both feet and lunged straight
at Nick. Nick dodged left, but Titus
was ready for that maneuver and he managed to land a roundhouse right to the
center of Nick’s chest. Nick’s sternum
seemed to crack as the impact knocked him off his feet and he went down on his
back.
Heath’s heart sank.
This was the eventual outcome that had filled his heart with dread. The big man had Nick down and could proceed
to tear him apart. Then the
inexplicable happened. Titus turned to
gage the reaction of the sect’s leader.
Malachi nodded, and his satisfied smile distorted into a terrible wide
grin of pleasure.
Heath stared straight into his brother’s eyes. The hazel eyes were clouded with pain and
Nick grimaced as he drew in an agonized breath. His chest hurt badly and for a moment, Nick thought his heart
stopped from the shock of the blow.
Heath’s blue eyes were pleading with his brother to get up. Heath knew that sometimes it all came down
to choosing to live or choosing to die.
His brother had mere seconds to make the choice. The hazel eyes turned to iron.
Nick chose to live.
He rolled over and pushed with his hands and levered himself
upright. Titus turned around with a
wide smile and was met by a powerful right jab to his face. It broke his nose. Blood trickled from both nostrils onto his upper lip and the
cracked nose began to swell.
Titus’ eyes watered from the powerful punch. He panicked and swung at Nick with another
wild right. Nick’s mobility was not
what it had been, but he managed to dodge the massive fist. After Titus’ near miss, his stance was wide
open for a split second. The big man’s
mouth was open to breathe because of the swollen, bloody nose. Nick wound up and landed a huge uppercut
under his chin. It was solid
bone-to-bone contact. The punch slammed
Titus’ mouth shut, busted a few teeth and knocked him on his back in a stunned
heap.
Nick moved in with eyes ablaze, no hesitation, no
inhibition, and no gentlemanly conduct.
The only rule in this kind of fighting was when you get your man down
you finish him. Nick knew the rule and
Titus had not. The thought flickered
through Nick’s mind that if Malachi was any kind of ‘prophet’, he’d have known
this fight was about to become a historical fact.
Nick kicked the huge man as hard as he could in the
face. Titus was rolled to his stomach
from the blow and the dazed man labored to push himself up on his hands and
knees. Two hundred pounds of weight and
sheer force transmitted through Nick’s boot-heel shattered the bones of Titus’
right hand. Nick stomped again and
broke his right forearm.
You finish him, Nick’s mind had screamed. The big man collapsed to the floor, curled
on his side cradling his useless right arm.
He turned his battered, bloodied face and dazed brown eyes toward
Nick. This fight was over and both men
knew it.
Chapter
12
A stunned silence fell over the men in the warehouse
following the sickening crack of Titus’ forearm. It had all gone terribly wrong.
Malachi had decreed the dark-haired cowboy would suffer the penalty of
his sins at Titus’ hands, but it was Titus who lay battered and bleeding. Jude stood open-mouthed. Zechariah took in the scene in wide-eyed
disbelief.
Titus sat up, levering himself upright with the strength
in his massive abdominal muscles. His
broken right arm flapped toward the floor.
The big man hissed in pain as his crushed knuckles struck the
floor. Titus grabbed the arm that hung
uselessly by his side with his left hand and cradled the shattered appendage to
his body. His pained eyes searched out
Malachi for further direction.
Nick stood back and surveyed the damage. Titus was sitting there like a stunned ox,
his broken nose streaming blood. In
spite of the fractured arm, Nick watched him like his life depended on it. Which it did. Nick knew that if he turned his back on Titus, the huge man could
still knock him over with a left hook and crush him to death with his knees. If the big man was still inclined to fight,
Nick was prepared to flatten him again.
Reuben, too, was shocked by the turn of events. The sect had seen its’ share of trouble
throughout their years-long journeying.
Titus had always been the little band’s intimidating force, an almost
mythic figure protecting the cult. One
solid contact of his huge fist and a fight was over. No man had ever bested him in a fistfight. Reuben knew their champion had no chance
anymore against the quick, deadly cowboy.
He stole a sideways glance at their leader. The prophet’s pale eyes were unreadable, as if they had turned to
stone.
Heath could barely suppress a smile of relief at his
brother’s victory. When Nick had gone
down, Heath had feared that the giant of a man had the fatal advantage on his
brother. But then he’d seen that look
again, that no-give hazel stare – the same look he had seen in the moments
before the avalanche. The same look he
had seen during the horrendous water torture.
It was a look worlds apart from the silent pleading Heath could see in
the eyes of Malachi’s huge disciple.
Would the insane cult leader require Titus to fight on?
Malachi made decisions fast and direct; give the bastard
that. He raised his hand as if he had
foreknowledge of the fight’s eventual outcome.
“Enough!” he shouted. “There is
a ‘time to kill’ as the good book says.” Malachi pronounced, forcing cool. “This is not how or where these filthy
blasphemers will die. The ‘where’ will
be the old Delco mine, for it will be their tomb for eternity.”
Malachi’s pale eyes swept over the room and settled on the
table where Jude and Titus had sat keeping watch the night before. A water canteen was looped across the back
of one of the ladder-back chairs. “Get
me that canteen, Reuben.” he said.
Reuben dutifully retrieved the canteen. Malachi grasped the straps and slung the
canteen over his shoulder. “Tie the
cowboy’s hands!” he ordered Reuben, motioning at Nick. Malachi strode to the door and turned to his
followers, his lips curving into a malignant smile. “When I return,” he said, “I will reveal to you the ‘how’.”
Ellen sat by the window in the old Delco office building
that she and Reuben had converted into their home. Whoever had vacated the building had left a desk and office chair
behind. Ellen had pushed the old office
chair by the window and she sat waiting.
Ellen stared at the front of the storage building, her heart heavy with
guilt and recriminations.
She had managed to steal a gun and ammunition from the Assay
Office, but she could conceive no workable ploy to get the gun to Nick. Ellen had tried, one last time the previous
night, to shake Reuben’s faith in Malachi.
He had come home late again. Reuben had refused to tell her what had transpired during the intervening
hours, but Ellen was relieved to know the brothers had not been killed.
He listened quietly, staring into the firelight as she
stated her case. After Reuben’s angry
response earlier in the day to her defense of the cowboys, Ellen expected a heated
exchange. Instead, his sad,
soul-searching eyes found hers.
“Esther,” Reuben took her hand. “The prophet warned there would be times like these. Times that would test our faith… Times that would separate the wheat from the
chaff, the sheep from the goats, the believer from the infidel.” His voice held sincerity and a need. “Esther, please… our time is near at
hand. You must not backslide. Only the true believers are worthy to be
among the Remnant. Malachi has said
Death awaits the unworthy!”
Ellen pushed open the cartridge box sitting on the
windowsill. She picked up the revolver
that lay in her lap. The steel was
cold. Ellen opened the cylinder. She looked toward the storage building once
and then thumbed a bullet into a chamber with trembling fingers. The ratchet clicked in the silence as she
loaded all six chambers. Ellen closed
the cylinder and placed the Colt into the right hand pocket of her coat.
Ellen peered out the window again and shivered, though not
from the cold. It had all come down to
this. It was all up to her now. Her best-laid plans now tasted like bitter
ashes in her mouth. Though Ellen had no
regrets about helping the girls escape, the fate of two innocent brothers still
hung in the balance. Sometimes life was
no easy proposition. Sometimes there
were no good options to choose between.
She imagined pointing the firearm at the men and
threatening them. But would that be
enough to convince them to let the brothers go? What if her plans again went awry? Would she be able to pull the trigger? Ellen thought she could kill Malachi, perhaps. He certainly deserved it for murdering poor
Rosa. But what of the other men? What, her heart bled at the very thought, of
her husband?
Ellen’s shoulders slumped. She draped her arm on the windowsill and buried her head in the
crook of her elbow. Tears that Ellen
could no longer hold back soaked the woolen sleeve of her coat. Her world, at least, was destined for
apocalyptic change if she dared to defy Malachi.
The high wood and wire fence and the twisted corral posts
were coated white. Beyond the compound,
the leafless hardwood trees were white.
And so were the resistant evergreens that stood covered in a thick,
sugar-white shroud. Everything was
blizzard-white, except the raven-haired man in the long black duster who exited
the warehouse unnoticed except by the livestock. The horses and even the milk cow pricked their ears and watched
him intently, like chiseled marble statues.
Malachi made his way toward the old Delco mine, careful to
walk along the backbone of the path cut through the snow by the miners. He turned off the path at the last
structure: the vacant, ramshackle storage building. The old building served as a storage shed for the sect’s mining
tools and supplies. Malachi hesitated
for a moment and his brow furrowed at the puzzling footprints leading toward
the plank steps. He swung the large
door back on its hinges. Daylight
streamed into the still, silent building and Malachi stepped inside.
The wooden box marked ‘Explosives’ sat atop a large,
up-ended barrel. Malachi eased the lid
open. The contents of the box held
sticks of dynamite, caps, and a long coiled length of fuse – everything Malachi
would need to entomb the brothers in their final resting place: the old Delco
mine.
Malachi reached in his boot and withdrew the hunting
knife. He cut off a generous amount of
fuse and set about preparing the dynamite.
A ball of twine lay in the box as well.
Malachi wound the string around the four sticks of dynamite. He clipped the string and tied the ends
securely. Malachi smiled and stuffed
the dynamite into one of his large coat pockets. The well-placed blast he had in mind would seal the entrance to
the old mine.
Malachi even intended to leave a note for the posse to
find when they arrived at the compound.
It would say that the two cowboys were trapped alive within the
abandoned mineshaft. If the posse
believed the note and began digging for the brothers, it would give the Remnant
even more time to make their escape.
Malachi’s pale, malevolent eyes glinted. Of course, the note would be a deception. The brothers would be dead before the fuse
was even lit. Their last drink would
see to that.
Malachi walked over to a shelf. When the men had begun to fix up the Assay Office for the
prophet’s home, they had moved all the abandoned assay chemicals to this
building. Malachi picked out a canister
and turned it in his hands to read the label.
‘Lead Carbonate’. He frowned and
put it back on the shelf. Malachi
removed the other canister and silently studied the label. ‘Potassium Cyanide’. He grinned back at the ‘skull and
crossbones’ and knelt on one knee.
Malachi started to pry the lid with his knife, but it
almost fell off into his hand. The odor
of bitter almonds rose to his nostrils.
Malachi unscrewed the cap from the canteen and poured in a liberal
portion of the white, crystalline chemical.
He recapped the canteen and swirled the lethal mixture within. Malachi smiled again and dusted the white
residue off the canteen.
The prophet’s pale eyes swept over the maze of discarded
boxes and barrels as he slung the canteen over his shoulder and rose to
leave. Suddenly, Malachi whirled
around.
There between two old wooden boxes, he had seen it – the
furry brown of the dog’s tail. Malachi
shoved an empty box aside. He recoiled
at the sight of Goliath, a thin slat of light a slash across the dog’s body. The huge mastiff’s back was arched, his paws
frozen awkwardly in the throes of death.
Goliath’s neck was arched toward his back. His dead eyes bulged, and a purplish tongue hung from his
mouth. The dog’s powerful jaws had
snapped shut on that tongue during the final convulsion. Also clenched between his dagger white teeth
was the remainder of his last meal, liberally sprinkled with cyanide.
Chapter
13
The bell tolled.
Ellen’s head snapped up at the signal for the Remnant to assemble. They came filing out of the buildings as if
they had been waiting for the summons, as if they had been listening for just
that command. To Ellen, it was a
sinister thing, offering not peace but premonition.
Naomi made her way through the snow, one hand carefully
lifting the hem of her skirt and the other clutching at the shawl hanging loose
from her shoulders. Seth was right
behind her. He had a clean bandage
wrapped around his head that was as white as the snowy ground.
Zechariah and Jude marched the prisoners out in front at
the point of their guns. Reuben kept a
steadying hand on Titus’ left arm as the big man lumbered through the snow,
cradling his right arm.
Her fear held her rigid.
Fear that clutched Ellen’s soul before her mind had grasped what there
was to be afraid of. A vague
unformulated terror loomed, a great black cloud that splintered into the
constituents of her dread. Pulling a
gun on the men of Remnant and perhaps being forced to use it. Her husband’s reaction to this act of
betrayal and disobedience – would his heart belong to her or to the
prophet? And then there was Malachi.
The curtains at the window were wide apart. Knowledge of what was out there began to
give the prospect form. Ellen saw them
all with remarkable clarity: a so-called prophet who was the embodiment of
psychotic evil and his willing disciples who would consent to the murder of two
innocent men without protest or question.
‘A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single
step.’ – the observation of a Chinese philosopher certainly fit the people of
Remnant, Ellen mused. In those
desperate, perilous final months of the Civil War, safety and self-preservation
seemed the only things that mattered.
And safety and survival were, as far as they go, noble ends.
Malachi had grafted in the perversion and folly so subtly
over the intervening years that the sect was even blinded to its own moral
bankruptcy. The society of other people
the cult had eschewed. They lived
isolated, beyond society’s boundaries, unconcerned about the ultimate fate of
others. Only the Remnant was worthy to
survive the coming Apocalypse. All
other men were unholy infidels, the remainder of humanity damned. And if the rest of humankind was destined
for destruction, then anything could be taken from them without remorse – their
money, their property, their children and even their lives.
Opening the front door, going outside and closing it
behind her was the hardest thing Ellen had ever done. It exhausted her and she leaned against it for a moment. Perhaps nothing would seem so hard
again. The others stood assembled by
the Assay Office. Malachi gazed into
her eyes beckoning her silently to come.
The chill of the winter wind touched her face like a cold damp
hand. No, she mustn’t think of the
possible outcomes. These next few
moments had to be lived through – not some future Apocalypse – lived in marked
contrast to the rigid doctrine the cult had been taught. She began to walk along the path, slowly at
first, then faster. Ellen had been
holding her breath and now she expelled it with a long sigh. In a strange way, she felt liberated at
last.
They were all there.
The brothers stood two or three feet behind the small assembly with Jude
positioned behind them, his revolver aimed at their backs. Zechariah, still armed with the shotgun, had
taken his usual place at Malachi’s right hand.
The other members of the little sect were gathered in a loose
semi-circle in front of the prophet.
Ellen took her place beside Reuben, her hands thrust deep in the pockets
of her coat.
Malachi’s head was bowed.
His slim arms hung loosely from his sloping shoulders and the windswept
black locks seemed to have taken on a life of their own. The Remnant stood silent and expectant. The prophet finally clenched both fists and
lifted his head to gaze at his followers.
He looked like he could raise the dead with his silent stare.
His first words to the Remnant were hushed. “I have received a revelation. Your response to the words of the prophet
will determine the rest of your life and your eternity.” Malachi was quiet just long enough for that
thought to take hold.
“The time has come for the Remnant to find another place
of refuge,” he continued. “Before we
leave Delco, those two sons of Satan will suffer the penalty of death for their
deeds.”
Ellen’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the revolver
in her pocket. Malachi suddenly looked
right at her. She did not know how, but
she felt as if there was nothing hidden from the prophet’s eyes.
“Before we leave Delco, there is one amongst you who must
renounce Satan and repent.” There was a
sharp intake of breath and then an awesome hush fell over the cult.
“Come to me, Esther.”
Malachi held out his hand, his voice was soft and pleading.
Nick and Heath glanced at each other. Each man knew the situation could spin out
of control and they were virtually helpless to come to Ellen’s defense. Her sad green eyes met Reuben’s bewildered
gray briefly before Ellen stepped forward.
“Esther, do you remember how things were when I came to
you? You had seen with your own eyes
the devastation that the riders of the Apocalypse wrought. I alone offered you hope and salvation from
Death, the final horseman. These
serpents have whispered lies to you and deceived you, Esther. Repent of your sins so that you may be found
worthy to be among the true remnant.”
Something in his soft voice deeply moved her. Malachi had not erupted in rage as Ellen
expected. He seemed more like the
caring, charismatic young man who had captured her fascination many years
before. Though Ellen now knew Malachi
was sick to the point of delusion, he had once held her total trust. Perhaps he was still capable of enlightened
thought… Perhaps the other cult members
could be convinced of the error of their ways as well.
The brisk mountain breeze stroked Ellen’s face and hair
and she realized God was like the wind.
She could feel him everywhere, an invisible presence giving her strength
in her convictions. Ellen’s soul had
been like a wavering compass needle, but now it finally pointed true north.
“Yes, I have sinned, Malachi.” Ellen’s fear of him evaporated like morning dew under a scorching
sun. She looked him in the eye. “For most of my life, I never questioned one
man having the right to own another man, woman or child. I never pondered what it might be like to be
captured and carried off into slavery in a distant land or to die a miserable
death en route… The sacred rights of
life and liberty only applied to those who looked like me. And then you came along, Malachi, and we
were taught to embrace a new creed – only those who believe as we do are worthy
of life.” Ellen shook her head. “My conscience, wherever it had been hiding
all those years, could finally take no more.
Yes, there are things I should be in repentance for, but helping those
girls to escape isn’t one of them.” Ellen
turned to face the Remnant. “How can we
condone kidnapping and murder? We must
let these innocent men go free!” She
motioned to Nick and Heath with outstretched right hand. “We can’t go on justifying our crimes for
the sake of some deranged delusion!”
A sudden, shooting pain exploded across Ellen’s scalp as
Malachi whirled her around and slung her to her knees by the hair. The revolver flew out of Ellen’s coat pocket
and landed with a thud at Seth’s feet.
Ellen at once realized her fatal mistake. The sect’s expressions hardened from surprise to
condemnation. Seth reached down and
retrieved the revolver from the snow.
Reuben’s eyes darkened with hurt and betrayal.
“What did you plan to do with that gun, Esther?” Malachi snatched her head back with the grip
he maintained on her long braid. The
look in his eyes left Ellen speechless.
It was evident now in his eyes how he brimmed with a vicious,
human-hating animus.
“Jezebel!” Malachi
hissed, his body trembling with rage.
“Red-headed whore!” If it were
necessary for him to be feared, then let him be feared. Malachi spoke harshly to his followers. “This apostate is no longer worthy to be
part of my remnant! She has denied the
prophet and taken her place with the blasphemers. She must now partake of their final judgment. Come, Titus!”
The huge man lumbered forward and he grabbed the nape of
Ellen’s neck like a vise with his powerful left hand.
Malachi released his grip and stepped in front of the
woman. He pulled the strap over his
head and grasped the canteen in both hands.
Malachi sloshed its contents against the sides of the canteen and smiled
at Ellen. “You weren’t the only one to
pay a visit to the old storage shack, Esther.”
Ellen’s eyes widened with a terrible certainty as to the
nature of the white, powdery residue still evident around the mouth of the
canteen.
“Reuben?” Ellen’s
voice was small and tremulous. “Help
me, Reuben… the water is poisoned with cyanide!”
“Her soul is black, Reuben!” Malachi locked his confused disciple with a withering stare. “Do you not understand how she tempted Seth
and lured him into an attack?”
His wounded eyes found hers. “I’ve never loved anyone but you, Robert.” Ellen held his gaze, unwavering, as tears
slid down her cheeks. “I couldn’t let
Malachi hurt those girls!”
Malachi began to unscrew the cap. “Robert!
Help me! Please!” Ellen’s anguished cry reverberated to her
husband’s very core.
“ELLE!” Robert cried and lunged for Malachi.
The Colt revolver thundered in Seth’s hand, the lone
report echoing through the thin mountain air.
“Robert!” Ellen screamed as her husband sank to his
knees. He tried to rise up but did not
have the strength. “Elle…” Robert’s
voice thinned to a whisper as he reached vainly for her. With a groan, he collapsed forward into the
snow; his eyes wide open at the last.
Ellen lowered her head and her body quaked with sobs.
“YOU MEN DROP THOSE GUNS!” A command rang out above the soft weeping. Jude wheeled to face the intruder. Nick and Heath recognized the familiar voice
and used the moment’s diversion to dive for cover behind the Assay Office
porch.
Jude swung the long barrel of his revolver toward the
outsiders who had breached the Remnant’s gate.
“Why, you g-” The last part of the obscenity was cut off as Hank
Watson’s rifle roared.
“To the mine!” Malachi ordered. If this was to be the Remnant’s final stand, it would be the
place of his choosing. The prophet
started for the refuge ahead of his disciples.
Zechariah, knowing the light load in his shotgun was
useless at this range, broke and ran for the mine. Naomi did her best to keep up with her husband. Seth saw one last opportunity before
following Malachi’s lead. He grabbed
Ellen’s left wrist.
“Malachi’ll want her, Titus!” Seth enlisted his slower brother’s help. Titus released his grip on the nape of her
neck and his huge hand clamped around Ellen’s upper right arm. “Got ‘er Seth!”
Hank Watson and his five armed wranglers watched
helplessly as the cult retreated into the old Delco mine. With two women in the fleeing band, the men
were determined to fire only if they were fired upon. The men dismounted and fanned out taking cover behind various
buildings. Hank Watson scurried over to
the Barkley brothers.
“Is that all of ‘em?” Hank asked nodding toward the old
mine as he dug out his pocketknife.
“That’s all of ‘em.” Nick replied as Hank sliced through
the bindings around his wrists. “Glad
to see ya, Hank!” Nick said as his old friend turned to Heath.
“How’d you know to ride up here?” Heath rubbed his freed wrists.
“Annie Blake. Her
daddy’s brought her along with him to the ranch on horse-buying trips at least
a half-dozen times.” Hank shook his
head. “Annie told me what’s been going
on up here. I knew there was some kind
of doomsday cult living in Delco, but I thought they pretty much kept to
themselves. Never figured them for
kidnappers and murderers.”
“Their leader is crazy.” Nick growled.
“One of those women tried to help us, Hank. We gotta get her outta that mine.” Heath said peering over the porch floor
toward the mine entrance.
“There ain’t no good way to rush ‘em when they’re holed up
in a mine, Heath. I sent a man down to
San Andreas for the sheriff. The best
thing to do is to just wait ‘em out, boys.”
Nick shook his head.
“There’s no way Murphy will let anybody take him alive. I got my doubts he’d let any of the rest of
his people surrender even if they wanted to.
Ellen’s only chance is us going in there and getting her out!”
Hank let out a sigh.
“That’s a dangerous proposition, boys.
Even if we make it over to the mine, all that old man has got to do is
lay back there behind some rubble with that scatter-gun and wait for some fool
to come through the entranceway.”
“This ain’t your fight, Hank. We’re much obliged for what you’ve done. All we need from you now is to borrow a
couple of guns.” Heath’s jaw clenched
with stubborn resolve.
Hank ignored the suggestion. “The Barkleys ain’t the only ones who’ll stand with their friends
in a firefight, Boy.” He handed his
revolver to Nick and motioned to one of his men. “Throw another sidearm over here, Pete!” He eyed the two brothers. “I just wanted you boys to know the odds.”
“We know what the odds are, Hank.” Nick said. He glanced over at Heath checking for a
cartridge in every cylinder of Pete’s gun.
Nick caught his eye. “You ready,
Heath?”
“I’m ready, Nick.”
Seth stood guard behind the large beams of timber that
framed the mine’s entrance. He watched
the men who had fanned out behind the old buildings beginning to make their
advance.
“They’re coming, Malachi!”
Malachi motioned to Zechariah to herd the others deeper
into the mineshaft. “Hold them off a
little longer, Seth!” he said as he backed away from the entrance, unwinding
more length of fuse with each step.
Seth could only catch fleeting glimpses of the approaching
men. The two brothers were in the lead,
darting from the cover of one building to the next. With the suddenness of a thunderclap, Seth fired off a shot at a
briefly open target. Then another at a
wrangler who had taken cover behind an old water trough.
“Leaves him three.” Nick said shrewdly as he and Heath
took up a position behind the walls of the final storage shack.
“Two.” Heath’s
face was without emotion as a bullet splintered the corner post inches from his
shoulder.
Hank eased up behind the brothers. “This is the last building we can use for
cover, boys. It looks to me to be about
forty yards of open territory between here and that mine.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed.
“If we can lure him into taking two more shots, he’ll be outta
ammunition, Hank.”
Seth put another slug into the frozen water trough.
“One.” Heath said, easing the hammer back on his pistol.
As Seth expended his last cartridge in another wild shot,
Malachi touched a match to the fuse.
“That’s it! Let’s
go!” Nick’s voice was brusque. The Barkley brothers charged through the
snow toward the mine entrance. Hank
Watson peered around the corner post, struck by their resolve and speed of
reaction. Tom’s boys sure don’t lack
any nerve, he mused.
The bundle of dynamite sticks blew up with a massive
force. The concussion, when it struck
the brothers, threw them back several feet into a nearby snowdrift. Seth staggered out of the mine. He was charred black, his clothes singed and
one of his arms hanging only by threads of skin. Seth took a final teetering step, then his knees buckled and he
pitched forward into the snow. The wind
carried the acrid scent of smoke and sulfur as the Barkley brothers rose slowly
to their feet. The ground beneath them
trembled until the thunderous rumbling of the collapsing mineshaft subsided
leaving the entrance clogged with rock and debris.
The din rolled down the length of the dark mineshaft and
then faded into silence. There was the
scratch of a match followed by the flicker of flame in the darkness. Malachi lit a kerosene lantern. The lantern’s glow illuminated his lean
features and danced eerily on the crypt-like walls. Malachi sat the lantern on
the ground and slipped the canteen strap off his shoulder. The unexpected turn of events twisted his
delusions into a savage, paranoid fantasy in which these few survivors played
no role. They would only slow him down
and the prophet’s survival was all that mattered. Malachi smiled. Their
sacrifice on his behalf would not go unrewarded.
“The time has come for the greatest test of your
faith. Perdition awaits the apostate…”
Malachi’s pale eyes shifted briefly to Ellen.
“But resurrection awaits the worthy…”
Like a jackal, the mad cult leader left himself an escape
hole – an adit that opened on the far side of the mountain.
Chapter
14
Heath paused for a moment on the boardwalk outside the
Bank. He folded the bills and stuffed
them down in his front shirt pocket.
The chill wind whipped around him and Heath buttoned his sage green coat
and turned up the fleece collar. He
stepped off the boardwalk and slopped across the muddy street. The same storm that had brought snow to the
higher elevations had dumped torrents of freezing rain and sleet on San
Andreas.
Above the door of the business across the street was
nailed a sign: Post Office & General Store. Heath touched the iron latch and the door swung open to the
jangle of a bell bouncing on its coiled spring. He saw at a glance the store was well stocked. On the counter was a round of cheese under a
glass cover, a scoop scale with iron weights and pink and orange gumdrops in an
open dish.
A woman was kneeling beside the flour barrel. Around her on the wood floor were cans of soup,
army beans and tinned peaches. The
woman’s attention was focused on the task of replenishing her shelves. She didn’t bother to turn at the sound of
the bell.
“That you, Percy Smith?
You tell your ma I’m fresh out of baking powder. But I’ll send her a mite of soda and cream
of tarter. Makes better biscuits
anyhow. Be sure to wipe your boots and
while you’re waiting take one gumdrop.
No more, so mind your manners.”
Heath cleared his throat.
“I’m not Percy, ma’am,” he said apologetically.
She turned around.
Warm brown eyes met his.
Youthful eyes peering from a face cobwebbed with fine wrinkles and
framed by gray-streaked blond hair pulled back in a precise bun. As she stood up she wiped her hands on her
apron.
“Well, if you ain’t Percy, have a gumdrop anyway. They’re getting mighty stale.”
She smiled as he popped a pink candy into his mouth. “I guess you ain’t here for candy. What can I do for you?”
“No ma’am,” Heath told her, “I came in to buy some
blankets. Three of ‘em.”
“SAM!” she called.
“Bring me three blankets from the supply room!”
Her eyes were incredibly searching, as she looked him
over. “You’re one of those two cowboys,
aren’t you?”
“What makes you think I’m not a miner?”
She leaned back, squinting along his lean figure. “See it from head to heels,” she pronounced
and stuck out her hand. “Margie
Carver.” She nodded toward the elderly
bald man in a long white apron who emerged from the supply room with a stack of
blankets. “This is my husband Sam.”
Heath shook her hand.
“Heath Barkley, ma’am.” He
nodded to her husband. “Mr. Carver.”
Sam Carver dumped the blankets on the counter and squinted
at Heath through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Is it true what they say went on up there in Delco?” he asked
eagerly seeking a juicy tidbit of gossip to relieve the insidious gnaw of
monotony.
“Depends on what they say.” Heath unbuttoned the top button of his coat and reached in his
shirt pocket for the folded cash. Let
it go, thought Heath. “How much for the
blankets, Mr. Carver?”
Sam ignored the question.
“Whole town’s been talking about it!” he exclaimed. “How those folks up there traveled clear
across the country, stealing children and killing ‘em all along the way.”
“No, Mr. Carver.”
Heath sighed. “Several men from
the cult kidnapped the three local girls and their leader killed Rosa Sanchez.”
Sam stepped behind the counter and took off his
spectacles. “Plum crazy!” he said. “I heard that when they were cornered in the
old mine, they set off a charge of dynamite and caved in the entrance. And…” his eyes grew wide, “when you boys
cleared out enough rubble to craw inside, they was all dead. Poisoned themselves with cyanide! I hear you boys didn’t find that fella
Malachi’s body. The sheriff says he
thinks it’s buried under the rest of that rubble and he ain’t got the time or
the inclination to dig it out. Just
leave ‘im in that old mine, I say.” Sam
polished his glasses on the tail of his apron, holding them to the light to
wipe away a finger mark. “Plum crazy,”
he repeated.
“Too isolated!”
Margie spoke up. “Yes, that’s
it. It was too isolated in that old
deserted town. Isolation breeds queer
notions in folks, young man. Isolation
and loneliness – they stir up dark things in a person’s mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sure glad you boys came along and rescued Annie Blake and
the little Pearson girl.” Margie’s face
brightened. “Annie’s a clever
girl. Her ma’s some sort of kin of
mine, third, fourth cousin, however you reckon it.”
Heath’s blue eyes warmed.
“I believe everything happens for a reason, ma’am. I’m glad we got snowed in up there if it
meant Maggie and Annie’s lives were saved.”
“I hear the roads are good enough now that George Pearson
ought to be arriving some time today to pick up Magnolia.” Margie said.
“George Pearson!”
Sam Carver’s lips puckered as if he’d bitten into a sour apple. “I sure hope they don’t need anything from
the store. Pearson works a little
one-mule farm about fifteen miles outside of town. He buys on credit till his crops come in and it’ll take most of
this year’s profit to pay last year’s tab.
Then it starts all over again. A
miner, Mr. Barkley, a miner earns money all year round and he’ll pay with
cash.”
“Aw shush, Sam!
You know George Pearson always settles his bill after the harvest.” Margie said.
“What if his crops fail, Margie? He’s already run up an eighteen dollar credit.”
“Eighteen dollars ain’t gonna make us or break us,
Sam!” Margie spoke quickly now as if
rehashing an old argument. “George has
had it hard since Maggie’s ma died a few years back. His mother, Eula, lives with him and she’s getting on in
years.” She glanced at Heath. “Not everybody can be in your family’s
class, Mr. Barkley. The Pearsons are
good, hardworking, honest people but they struggle to get by. You know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. Carver.” Heath peeled off some bills and laid them on
the counter. “I’ll be paying for those
blankets now. I got a few more things
to take care of before my brother and I leave town.”
Sam Carver blinked down through his eyeglasses and shook
his head. “This is a hundred dollars,
Mr. Barkley! Way too much for three
wool blankets.” He started to push four
of the twenty-dollar bills back across the counter. “And I’ll still be owing you change…”
“No.” Heath pushed
the greenbacks toward the store clerk.
“Take out what I owe for the blankets and apply the balance to George
Pearson’s account.” He gathered the
blankets under one arm and then smiled over his shoulder at Margie. “Mind if I take one more gumdrop, ma’am?”
She winked at the handsome young man. “You help yourself, Sweetie.”
The traffic on the boardwalks on either side of the street
was light. A few locals had chosen to
brave the frigid, blustery outdoors.
Stolen glances and whispers followed Heath as he made his way over to
the livery, just as they had for the past two days the Barkley brothers had
been in town.
There was a crackling fire burning in the forge. Heath laid the blankets on a bale of hay and
stepped over to warm his hands. The
livery’s owner stepped out of the tack room.
“Fire feels good.” Heath said.
“Today feels even colder than yesterday.”
“For a fact,” the man replied, his eyes narrowing as he
looked at Heath. “I hear tell you boys
are catching the train for home today.”
“That’s right, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you go. Business gets slow this time of year. How’s your brother doing by the way?”
Heath smiled.
“Nick’s alright. He’s just got a
bad cold. He wanted to head back to the
ranch on horseback and I wanted him to rest here a few more days. Taking the train is our compromise.”
Edgar Smith chuckled.
“You ride herd on your brother, Mr. Barkley. I’ll see to it your horses are loaded onto the stock car. I’ll have my boy Percy shovel the car out
and make sure the horses have a ration of oats and plenty of hay and clean
water. The two stallions are in stalls
and I put all the mares out back in a holding pen.”
Heath peered out through the runway at the horses milling
around in a nearby corral. “Is that the
stock from Delco?”
“That’s them.” Edgar replied.
Heath’s brow furrowed.
“I seem to remember a gray.”
“That’s all the sheriff dropped off here, what you see out
there. Could be he found a buyer for
the gray before he left them here for me to sell. That’s what he’s doing, you know. I’m supposed to sell off all the Delco stock and their gear to
boot. Whatever’s left after I take out
for board will go to the Sanchez family.”
Edgar shrugged. “I know it ain’t
much considering what they lost, but it’s something.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate the gesture, Mr. Smith.”
Edgar Smith did not miss the wistful expression or the
yearning that flooded the expressive blue eyes. “You boys did everything you could, Son.” Edgar clapped Heath on the back. “You know that Maggie Pearson sure has taken
a shine to your little black mare. No
sooner than I run her off, she’s right back!
I keep telling Maggie to leave that horse be and stay indoors or she’s
gonna catch her death of cold. I can’t
keep her run off though… I betcha she’s
back there right now.”
Heath leaned against the rear wall of the livery and
watched them. He couldn’t help the
smile that formed on his lips. The
small girl who had seemed so timid on first impression was talking nonstop as
she petted the little Modoc. The mare’s
head rested lazily over the fence rail and her eyelids had dropped to half-mast
under Maggie’s constant pampering.
Heath almost hated to break the spell.
The mare startled to alertness at his approach and then whinnied to her
familiar master.
Maggie backed away.
The wary chestnut eyes met his only briefly before staring down at her
shoes, the warmth of childhood imprisoned behind long lashes. “I… I was only petting her a little.”
“I know, Maggie.
It’s okay.” Heath soothed. “Gal likes being petted and I can tell she
likes you.”
“Is that her name?”
The girl was still studying her feet.
“It’s what I call her.”
Heath shrugged. “Her Indian name
is a real mouthful. That’s where she
was bred, up in Modoc country.”
“You couldn’t come up with something more original?” Maggie glanced up at him.
Heath wanted to smile at her willingness to engage
him. There was spunk behind the
shyness. “You don’t like it?” he
probed.
“I been calling her Ebony.” The girl reached out and stroked the black muzzle.
“That’s mighty pretty, Maggie. Fits her.” Heath patted
the Modoc’s neck. “You don’t seem so
afraid of her now.”
Maggie stood tall and placed her hands on her hips. Heath saw that she was no higher than five
feet with the reediness of body that was common in children from meager
backgrounds. “I weren’t scared of her!”
Maggie declared. “I jest said I didn’t
know how to ride. My daddy’s got a mule
for plowing and pulling the wagon, but we ain’t never had no riding horse.”
“I’m glad you’re not afraid of her, Maggie.” Heath smiled down at the girl. “Cause you see my brother Nick just bought
me a new horse – that big stallion in the livery. I was just a couple years older than you when I got this mare and
she’s getting a mite small for me.
She’d be the perfect size for you, though. I can’t think of anybody I’d rather give her to and she’s already
taken to you, Maggie. I can tell.”
Maggie stared at Heath wide-eyed. The apprehension that had once flickered in
her bright eyes was gone. For the first
time, Heath saw a brilliant smile on the tiny Black girl’s face. Now he found an elfin creature, twinkling up
at him.
“Oh, Mr. Heath!
Thank you!” She threw her arms
around his waist.
Heath hugged her back.
“It’s the least I can do for you girls sending help for me and Nick.”
Maggie pulled away and sobered. “It was Annie what knew about where to find Mr. Watson.”
“I know.” Heath
nodded. “But it was you who was looking
out behind and let Nick know my horse had stopped under Rim Rock Cliffs,
Maggie. Take good care of, ah… Ebony,
ya hear?”
“I surely will, Mr. Heath.”
Heath walked back into the livery. “Mr. Smith, I made Maggie Pearson a gift of
the little black mare. Leave her in the
pen when you load the rest of the horses.
I want you to pick out the best set of tack for her from the Delco gear
and add the cost to my tab.”
“That’s mighty generous of you, Mr. Barkley.” Edgar smiled.
“I just hope her father won’t have any objection.” Heath sighed.
“Well, there’s your chance to find out.” Edgar nodded toward the street. “He’s just pulling up in front of the
sheriff’s office.”
George Pearson pulled back on the aging mule and brought
his well-traveled wagon to a halt. “You
jest sit right here, Mama,” he said to the elderly woman seated next to him on
the buckboard. He stepped off into the
mud and started tying the mule to the hitching post. He turned to the sound of sloshing footsteps approaching behind
him.
“Mr. Pearson?”
Heath stuck out his hand. “I’m
Heath Barkley.”
The handshake was firm and vigorous and the brilliant
smile Heath had seen on Maggie was mirrored on her father’s face. “You be one of the men what saved my little
girl. A deputy rode out to the house yesterday
and tole us all about it. We’s mighty
beholdin to you and yore brother, Mr. Barkley, both me and Maggie’s
grandma.” He nodded up at his mother.
“Ma’am.” Heath
tipped his hat to her in respect.
The petite lady was well wrapped: in addition to her hat
and coat, she had been lovingly cocooned in several layers of warm
blankets. Heath could imagine the care
with which George had prepared her for the journey – her only son treating her
like a queen, even if it was only of the little homestead. Eula Pearson stared deeply at Heath as if
trying to see through him. Her
quietness seemed unnatural. Everything
about her told Heath she was not afraid to say exactly what she thought. She radiated inner strength and insight.
“You got dem blankets for yore brother?” She finally spoke, wisps of lily-white hair
peeking out from beneath her bonnet.
“Yes, ma’am.” Heath said.
“I want to keep him warm during the trip to Stockton.”
“You a fine boy!” Eula declared. “Jes like my boy, George.
The deputy tole us one of you boys got to feelin poorly up there in that
town. I brung yore brother some of my
home remedy. You give him a big swig
three times a day and it’ll help him rest.
Keep him wrapped up and it’ll break up that catarrh and sweat it all
out.” Eula pushed through her wrappings
and offered Heath the quart jar that she’d been holding in her lap with
gnarled, knotty hands – hands that could once pick three hundred pounds of
cotton in a day.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pearson.
I’ll see that Nick takes it.” Heath
smiled and accepted her gift. “The
reason I stopped you all was to tell you I gave Maggie a mare pony, if that’s
alright.”
George Pearson stared at him in silence. “The mare is as gentle as summer rain.”
Heath added quickly. “She don’t bite,
kick or buck. I wouldn’t have given her
to Maggie if the mare had any bad habits.”
George’s eyes were very nearly the same rich, dark brown
color of his skin. They welled with
emotion. “That girl’s been wanting a
riding horse for as long as I can recollect. But I done tole her there weren’t no way we could afford to buy
her one. I thank you for such a fine
gift, Mr. Barkley.”
“You’re welcome.”
Heath smiled. “You’ll find
Maggie over behind the livery with her horse.”
Heath nodded to Eula. “Thank you
again for the medicine, ma’am.”
Heath was whistling a little tune as he elbowed the door
shut to the depot waiting room. An oak
wood fire blazed in the Franklin stove, its iron doors swung wide. A pair of black leather boots toasted upon
the narrow hearth, above them long legs in matching black pants.
“Glad to see you stayed put.”
“I promised you I would, didn’t I?” Nick rasped back with
a hint of irritation. “You get
everything taken care of?”
“Sure did.” Heath replied. “The liveryman is getting the horses loaded and the train porter
is taking care of our gear.”
“What’s that you got?”
Nick’s hazel eyes narrowed.
Heath sank into a nearby chair. “I bought the blankets so you’ll be all nice and cozy on the
train ride home, Big Brother, and Maggie’s grandma sent you this cold remedy.”
“I’m not riding that train wrapped in blankets like some
invalid and I’m not drinking any homemade cold medicine either! It probably tastes worse than Mother’s
herbal tea.” Nick crossed his arms in
defiance.
Heath leaned over and let the blankets slide to the
floor. “Fine. Have it your way, Nick.”
He unscrewed the lid from the jar and took a whiff. “Boy Howdy!” Heath took a small sip from the jar and then another.
Nick’s brow furrowed.
“Heath, what are you doing drinking that stuff?”
“It ain’t nothing like Mother’s herbal tea, Nick.” Heath took another sip. “This stuff must be at least ninety-five
percent corn whiskey.”
“Give me that!”
Nick reached over and took the jar.
“She sent it to me, not you.”
Nick tasted the tart liquid and smiled. “First rate corn liquor, too.” He took another swallow and smacked his
lips. “There’s some honey and
peppermint candy dissolved in here… She
puts in some lemon juice, too.” Nick pronounced after another swig.
“Hey, put the lid back on that!” Heath bossed. “You’re not supposed to drink it all at one
sitting.”
“Maybe not, but it would sure help kill some time waiting
for the train to leave.” Nick twisted
the lid down tight. “I’m ready to get
back home.”
Home. The sound of
the word ignited a pang of longing in Heath as well. “You said it, Nick.”
“We could have been on the road first thing yesterday
morning.” Nick grumbled.
“Yeah, and you’d have been on the road to pneumonia.”
Heath shot back. Then his voice softened. “The train leaves in less than an hour,
Nick. I’ll be glad to get this whole
trip behind us, too.” He paused for a
moment. “How much do we tell the
family, Nick? The papers are gonna
print something for sure.”
Nick coughed into his handkerchief and cleared his
scratchy throat. “Nobody needs to know
about the torture, Heath… or why we were tortured. Especially Audra.”
Heath nodded his agreement with Nick’s opinion and then
stared absently out the depot windows toward the street. He suddenly sat up straight. “Hey look!”
Heath punched Nick. “There goes
Maggie.”
The old wagon rolled slowly by and the Modoc mare followed
behind, her reins tied to the wagon’s rear.
Maggie sat tall in the saddle, her feet not quite touching the stirrups
and both hands gripping the saddle horn.
The brilliant white smile still graced her face.
“I never thought I’d see the day you’d part with that
mare, Little Brother. Turn her out to
pasture, maybe, but not part with her.”
“I’ll miss ole Gal, but if you’d seen the look on Maggie’s
face when I gave her the mare…” The familiar crooked smile played on Heath’s
lips at the recollection. “You just
can’t imagine, Nick.”
Nick’s mind flashed back on the cherished memory of his
overwhelmed younger brother in those first moments after he had gifted Heath
with Charger. “I think I can, Heath.”
Nick was dozing even before the train pulled away from the
station. He stirred when the steam
whistle signaled their departure. A
folded blanket had been gently placed as a pillow between the window and his
head, where he’d slumped a little sideways.
The other two blankets had been snuggled around his body and tucked
in. Nick smiled and then let the gentle
rocking and rhythm of the rails lull him back to sleep.
Percy Smith lingered on the depot platform and watched the
train rumble off into the distance.
“I saw you help load those horses on the train.” The stranger’s voice startled the boy for an
instant. “I was real impressed by the
way you could handle them.”
“Weren’t nothing really.”
Percy shuffled his feet.
“Fine looking string of horses.” The man smiled at him.
“Well, they ought to be.” Percy said. “They belong to the Barkleys. The Stockton Barkleys!” he added with
emphasis.
“PERCY!” Edgar Smith called out from the doorway of the
livery. “Don’t you have an errand to
run for your ma?”
“Gotta go!” Percy
lit off, secretly relieved by the interruption. Something about the thin face and the pale eyes of the
black-clothed stranger made Percy uncomfortable.
Chapter
15
Malachi reined up at the small sign that read ‘Barkley
Ranch’. He had always kept to the
mountains, never venturing down into the San Joaquin Valley. Its beauty took his breath even in
winter. What must it be like in the
blush of spring? Lush green grass
covering the rolling hills, every tree and wildflower blooming…
Malachi pulled the small photograph from his pocket as he
often had along the way. Her beauty
mesmerized him: the golden blonde hair, those eyes, that straight nose and the
full lips. Her face was pure, unlined,
and full of joy. It was the face of Eve
somehow once again gracing the countenance of a mortal woman – reborn on his
Chosen One. Malachi smiled and returned
the picture to his pocket. She was
near, somewhere amid this little piece of Eden.
Heath and Jarrod stood by the banister at the bottom of
the stairs. They listened to the heated
exchange that was taking place on the second floor with amusement. Jarrod was relaxed, his forearm draped over
the end of the railing.
“He’s making a good argument.” Heath said at his shoulder.
“I think he’ll get out today.”
Jarrod shook his head.
“I have a little experience in the art of reading a jury, Heath.” He allowed himself a smile. “Mother isn’t at all convinced and I can’t
say that I blame her. Nick’s logic
seems a bit obtuse… it sometimes sounds like he’s got a load on.”
“Sometimes he does.”
Heath grinned. “Especially right
after he’s had a dose of Miss Eula’s cold remedy. Nick may not always make sense but he’s always the last man
talking, you know?”
“Except for when it comes to dealing with Mother!”
Heath narrowed his eyes.
“How much is riding on this, Counselor?”
Jarrod turned. “I
didn’t say we bet.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“How does twenty dollars sound?” Jarrod asked.
“Sounds fine to me.”
Heath patted his pocket. “How
bad are you going to feel when you have to pay up, Big Brother?” They turned their attention back to the
discussion overhead.
Heath’s eyes widened when Nick suddenly held up his hands
in surrender and stomped back to his bedroom.
“Boy Howdy,” Heath breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. He reached into his pocket, found his money
clip, extracted a twenty and offered it to Jarrod.
Jarrod glanced down at the bill, and then pushed it
back. “Keep it,” he smiled. “Call it education money, Brother Heath.”
“You heading out?” Heath asked.
“Yes.” Jarrod
nodded. “But I’ve got to get some
papers from the study first.”
“I guess I’ll see you at dinner then.”
“And just where do you think you’re going?” Both Jarrod and Heath froze at the sound of
their mother’s stern inquiry. The men
looked up again and were relieved to see it was Audra held fast in the
matriarch’s forbidding gaze.
“I’m going riding, Mother.” Audra said cheerily.
“Not dressed like that, you’re not!” Victoria had just argued with her middle son
to the point of sheer exasperation and she was in no mood to be trifled with by
her daughter. “Go change into your
heavy coat.”
“But, Mother…” There was a hint of little-girl pout on
Audra’s lips.
Victoria stopped the beginning of a protest with a raised
hand. “No buts, Audra. Your winter coat and don’t forget a scarf
and gloves.”
Jarrod and Heath exchanged smiles as they watched Audra
disappear down the hallway. “We better
get while the gettin’s good!” Heath said and hurried out the front door.
Heath started to make his way over to the bunkhouse to
find Duke McCall. They had planned a
ride out to the south pasture to check the herd. Then he thought of his little sister. Ciego had driven into town for supplies and Audra might have a
hard time saddling her gelding dressed in a heavy winter coat.
Heath turned and walked to the barn. Whistling as he stepped inside, Heath headed
straight for the tack room, unfastened the latch and swung the door open. He looped Audra’s bridle over the horn of
her saddle. Heath draped a saddle
blanket over the seat and then gathered the gear in his arms.
Heath swung the tack across a wooden partition between two
stalls and paused for a moment to make sure it was going to stay put. “Hey fella,” he called over to the bay
gelding. “Your mistress wants to go
riding today.”
Malachi rose up and swung, clubbing iron into the skull
and back of the blond cowboy. If only
for the briefest of moments, Heath felt the explosion of intense pain, was
aware of the splatter of wetness hot and sharp across the back of his neck, saw
the blinding flash that just as suddenly turned to darkness. He watched Heath’s hands clutch the saddle
briefly, then slide away as his body crumpled to the ground. Malachi tossed the hoof trimmers aside. He was breathing hard after dragging the
unconscious cowboy’s body deeper into the stall.
The Chosen One was near; Malachi could feel her with every
fiber of his being. He must take her by
surprise just as he had her brother.
Malachi would not shirk from what must be done – slamming her beautiful
cheekbone with his fist and taking her dazed from this place. Taking her from the destruction to come so
that he and the new Eve could repopulate a decimated world. Salvation was what he was granting her. It was what the prophet had offered her
brothers.
But her brothers were unworthy. They were… Malachi’s head
snapped around, expecting to see someone, anyone. There was no one though.
He groped into the confusion of his mind and thought: Who shouted at
me? Malachi heard the voice in his head
once more, telling him her brothers were… Evil! He saw the word in his mind, saw the letters rearrange themselves
to spell ‘vile’, and then the very same letters became ‘live’. Malachi’s pale, gray-blue eyes became bright
devils. The prophet had received the
meaning of this latest revelation.
Is evil to live?
Malachi ran his gaze across the interior of the barn. He smiled.
Surely it was a sign – the instrument of judgment left there for him in
clear view. There beside a nearby stack
of hay bales, leaning against the wall, was a hayfork.
Pitchfork in hand, Malachi walked back into the
stall. He looked down at Heath’s
face. There was a contradiction here,
of course. The clean-shaven young man
appeared so deceptively innocent and yet Malachi knew his soul to be
black. He drew in a deep breath and
thought of Martha… and of Esther.
Malachi stepped straddle the blond cowboy’s body and raised the
hayfork. Yes, he told himself, judgment
is sure.
Audra made her way to the stable in the chill morning air
and opened the door. She started toward
the already opened tack room and then sensing a presence, she turned toward the
stalls. A look of perplexity replaced
Audra’s smile when she spied the figure standing in the shadows. More curious than alarmed, she thought him a
new hand and slowly approached the raven-haired, black-clad stranger. He stood there frozen, his face raised
toward the rafters as if his attention was fixed on a sudden noise from
above. The man gripped the handle of a
hayfork so hard his knuckles were blanched.
Startled by this discovery, Audra quickly looked beyond
the mysterious stranger. Her eyes
widened in horror as she recognized the tan boots and pants and realized the
pitchfork he held was poised to strike deep into Heath’s stomach.
“NO!” The word
rang out from behind him moments before Malachi felt two hands lock onto his
wrist and forearm, straining to stay the delivery of the fatal thrust. Malachi struggled to finish what the voices
were telling him he must do, even as his brain registered the opposite command
in a woman’s voice.
“STOP!” Audra screamed again, fighting with all the
strength she could summon, determined to save her brother’s life. Malachi was equally determined to accomplish
the execution of the cowboy, as the voices had demanded. He fought to free his arms from the desperate
woman’s grip, finally managing to elbow her against the side of the stall.
Malachi turned to fight his new adversary. Audra lay momentarily stunned as the sharp,
bloodstained tine tips moved ever nearer to her neck. Her hat had flown off and Audra’s long blonde hair cascaded
around her lovely face with the softness of a cloud. Her golden tresses seemed to reflect the light so that there was
a mystical sheen about them.
As if just coming out of a trance, Malachi suddenly
retracted the pitchfork and tossed it to one side. Audra sensed his weight on top of her as her eyes fluttered
open. He sat astride her hips pinning
her arms to her sides between his knees.
Malachi clamped his hand over Audra’s mouth to stifle her screams.
“No, don’t struggle.”
He leaned in over her, his long, greasy locks touching her own golden
blonde. Malachi felt the stirring of a
powerful desire and whispered, “Eve, my Chosen One, I have come for you.”
Audra’s attempts to wrestle free were futile and Malachi
wrenched her face to look into his eyes.
His irises were so pale that they appeared almost white and had small,
irregular pupils. There was unbridled
terror in Audra’s blue eyes as she stared at the thin face of the demented
stranger who loomed above her.
Malachi sought to make her understand. He wanted her to understand. “Eve, I have come to save you. The pale rider is coming, my love. I offered him refuge…” He glanced over at
Heath. “I offered them both salvation
if they would lead me to you, my bride.
Because of them, my Remnant is dead.
Only you and I will escape the Wrath to come…”
Nick stared down at the stable and surrounding corrals
from his bedroom. The room was
quiet. He watched with envy as first
Heath, and then Audra crossed the yard and disappeared into the barn. Nick had watched Heath start toward the
bunkhouse and then veer off instead to the barn. He smiled. Nick had
overheard Audra’s plans to go riding and he could imagine the two of them right
now. Heath, brushing and saddling
Audra’s gelding, not letting his little sister lift a finger. Audra, standing there smiling like a
pampered princess. The boy doted on her
and she ate it up.
A swooping movement in the air caused Nick’s gaze to jerk
upward. The huge black bird descended
quickly in a shallow glide. It swept
low over the barn roof, braking wildly, and then dropping like a stone to light
atop a corral post. Nick’s attention
was drawn to the bird. It was not the
yellow-eyed blackbird so common to western ranches and corrals. They could be seen scavenging around the
feed buckets, wings slightly drooping, looking for oats and other grain.
The raven was well over twice the size of a
blackbird. Its eyes were the same
midnight black as its beak and plumage.
The raven’s talons released their hold and it sidestepped on the post
until it faced Nick’s window. The huge
bird rose up to its full height, wings flapping and gave a loud croaking call.
The raven startled the horse tied behind the corner of the
barn. The stallion jerked backward
against its reins and then the jittery animal skittered sideways. The horse swung into Nick’s view. He was light gray in color with scattered
dapples and distinctive gunmetal gray mane, tail and stockings.
Their eyes were locked as silent tears slid from the
corners of Audra’s eyes. The fear and
stark terror in those eyes had not waned.
Malachi sought to calm Audra’s flailing, kicking, struggling legs. His words were carried on hot reeking breath
she nearly choked on.
He saw her look above him with a split-second eye-popping
stare. The blow struck Malachi high on
the right shoulder. The sick crack of
his collarbone produced an animal scream.
Nick snatched the large iron hook with all his strength, embedding the
tool deep in Malachi’s shoulder and throwing him out into the center of the
barn.
Malachi grunted and moaned in pain as his body writhed on
the ground. Nick’s hazel eyes were
ablaze with fury. His blood was hot and
scalding in his veins as he went over and picked up another tool. The axe felt so natural in his hands, it had
heft, it had grip. Its shining honed
edge was perfect to quench his lust for revenge. Nick spun it easily in his strong hands, turning the axe from
hammerhead forward to blade.
“Come on, you murdering bastard!” Nick growled, beckoning
Malachi to challenge him.
Wide, pain-glazed pale eyes turned to Nick. The sight of the axe in the hands of the
fearsome dark-haired avenger left the false prophet in raw shock. It was not supposed to end this way. His fear was momentarily jolted by the
amazement of the utterly unexpected.
The feeling was abruptly replaced by panic as the muscular cowboy
advanced slowly.
Malachi withdrew from the seething cowboy. He crawled and dragged himself along in the
dirt until the stable wall stopped his retreat.
“Remember what I told you I do to mad dogs, Murphy?” Nick raised the axe.
“NICK!”
“Stay back, Jarrod!” Nick ordered through clenched teeth.
Jarrod looked at the terrified man shrinking away from his
brother. He recognized immediately the
stranger’s identity from his brothers’ description. Martin Murphy cowered against the wall, whimpering in pain. A large, T-handled iron hook used for moving
hay and straw bales was embedded deep in his shoulder.
“You just can’t murder him, Nick.” Jarrod took a step forward.
Nick reacted like it was a bayonet drill, his hands and
the position of the axe changing in a split-second blur. He stood ready to use the end of the axe
handle for a butt stroke.
“Don’t try and stop me, Jarrod.” Nick’s voice was low and controlled.
Jarrod took a step back, realizing the very real
threat. His brother meant to knock him
senseless if he dared to interfere.
Jarrod knew this was Nick at his most dangerous. He could not hope to overpower his younger
brother. Jarrod knew his only option
was to try and reason with Nick.
“Nick, I promise you justice will be done!”
“That’s a fact.”
Nick’s hands slid to their former position on the axe handle to leverage
a powerful swing. “And you’ve got a
front row seat.”
“Justice!” Jarrod implored. “Not vengeance.”
“Today they’re one and the same.” Nick raised the axe-head.
“Nicholas!” He
froze at the sound of her voice.
“Stay out of this, Mother.”
“Nicholas?” He had
not taken his eyes off Martin Murphy.
“Nicholas, give your brother the axe.”
He shook his head. “Look at me,
Nicholas!” Victoria knew she had to
establish eye contact. He had always
been the most unpredictable and unruly of her children. As Nick grew into a man, Victoria knew she
bent his will not through the threat of a wooden spoon but through the love and
respect that he felt for her. “Nick,
look at me,” she asked him once more.
Nick turned his head and gazed into his mother’s pleading
gray eyes. “Not cold-blooded murder,
Son. That’s not the answer.”
Duke McCall slipped into the barn and his eyes widened at
the scene unfolding. He stopped in his
tracks and observed in silence this contest between the matriarch and her
equally strong-willed son.
“You are nothing like Malachi!” Victoria shook her head.
“I know it’s not in you to commit murder, Nick. Give Jarrod the axe, Son.”
Victoria broke through to the inner code of ethics that
bound Nick Barkley to obey just as surely as the honor and esteem that he
accorded her. He let out a long
shuddering breath and lowered the axe.
Nick handed it to Jarrod as he walked past them. Victoria did not fail to notice that Nick’s
hazel eyes appeared defeated and dim, like gems that had lost their
luster. All three turned to watch him
walk toward the stalls.
For the first time, the later entrants on the scene became
aware of the occupants of the rear stall.
Audra was on her knees with her head lowered. Her face was in her hands and her shoulders shook with sobs
though she made no sound. They could
only see Heath’s tan boots and pants from the knees down.
“Oh, God!” Victoria breathed and rushed to the stall.
“Duke, get that man out of here and off the ranch. Send one of the hands for the doctor!”
Jarrod ordered and hurriedly followed his mother.
Nick dropped to his knees between Audra and Heath. His fingers brushed her disheveled hair from
her face, and then Nick put a comforting arm around Audra’s shoulders and
pulled her close. His other hand
tenderly cupped his brother’s cheek. “Heath!”
he choked out.
Victoria was opposite him now. “Let me look, Nick.” She
turned Heath’s face toward Nick. There
was a jagged gash on the back of his head.
Blood pumped out of it, trickling down through Heath’s blond hair to
stain the straw he was lying on.
Victoria drew in a quick breath. “Give me your scarf, Audra.”
She didn’t move and Victoria and Jarrod looked closer at her in
concern. They saw the dazed fright in
her teary blue eyes.
“Your scarf, Honey.” Jarrod said softly and helped Audra
unwind it from her neck.
Victoria pressed the scarf firmly against Heath’s scalp
wound. “We need to get him to the
house!” She didn’t want to delay. Nick and Jarrod could start for the house
with their brother and the hands from the bunkhouse could assist them as soon
as they arrived.
“I… I tried to stop him.” Audra finally spoke, her tone
distressed and her eyes fixed on the back corner of the stall.
Victoria turned to follow the path of her daughter’s
pained stare. She saw the discarded
hayfork lying in the straw. Victoria
drew in another trembling breath, a shudder running through her body.
Chapter
16
“Did you convince Audra to take the sedative?” Howard
Merar asked, motioning his head toward the bedroom down the hall. The doctor was scrubbing his hands
thoroughly in a basin of hot sudsy water.
“Yes.” Victoria said, but her attention was on her blond
son lying so still on the bed. “She
didn’t want it. She wanted to be awake
for any news of Heath.”
“So she said.” Dr. Merar replied, wiping his hands on a
clean towel. “But Audra has been
through a terrifying ordeal this morning and a rest will do her good.” There was a momentary pause before he
added. “It may be some time before
there is any news to share.”
The doctor had given Heath a quick examination. His heartbeat was steady and his pulse
strong. Heath was breathing comfortably
but still out cold. His ears had no
evidence of blood or spinal fluid drainage, but his pupils’ reaction to light
was sluggish. Howard began to lay out
his freshly boiled surgical instruments on a clean linen cloth.
“Wash your hands before you assist me, please,
Victoria.” Howard nodded to the
washbasin. “Heath’s wounds don’t need
the further insult of unwashed hands.”
“Of course, Howard.” Victoria said.
Howard glanced over at the petite, silver-haired
matriarch. He had no doubt she would
conscientiously comply with any directive she was given. It was one of Victoria Barkley’s many
attributes that never ceased to amaze him.
If it was a fact that it is how a person reacts in the face of adversity
that truly defines them, then the woman standing before him was nothing less
than extraordinary.
Victoria’s love and concern for her children was deep and
abiding. Yet in any crisis, she could
control those emotions and place her child’s welfare above all else. Howard Merar had been in the first days of
his practice in Stockton when he met Victoria Barkley. He had been called upon to suture a
particularly bad laceration on Nick.
She had firmly insisted on being present. When the doctor had expressed his hope that she wouldn’t get
hysterical and that he wouldn’t need his smelling salts, Howard had seen her
body stiffen and her gray eyes flash.
She had coolly replied, “My son is the one you need to be concerned
with, Doctor.” Throughout the ordeal,
she had remained as steady as a rock. Howard
Merar never again questioned her resiliency or resolve.
“Are you ready?” the doctor asked softly.
Victoria looked into his eyes and nodded. There was the beauty of motherhood in her
look, and the pain of it as well.
Howard looked away from her eyes. His demeanor became dispassionate and
clinically detached. “Turn down the
sheet and remove that bandage.” His
tone was curt and professional.
Victoria folded the bedclothes down to Heath’s hips and
removed the cotton cloth that had been draped across his stomach. The four small puncture wounds were no
longer oozing. The thought loomed in
her mind of what damage may lie beneath, but Victoria resolutely pushed the
thought from her head to concentrate on the doctor’s instructions.
“There’s a bowl of soapy water mixed with tincture of
iodine that I prepared, Victoria. Scrub
the entire abdomen well, please. I
expect those punctures will begin to ooze again, but don’t mind that.” Howard was picking through his instruments
for an appropriately sized probe.
The doctor chose a ten-inch long silver probe. One end had a blunt, rounded tip that was
somewhat larger than its slender shaft.
Victoria stood back to let the doctor near. Her breaths came quick and shallow as she
watched Howard begin to probe the wounds.
He began with the puncture on the right side of Heath’s belly. Howard slid the probe in easily some three
inches before meeting some resistance and retracting the instrument.
The doctor flipped the probe around and showed Victoria
the other end. It was rounded and blunt
as well, but tapered flat with an inch-long slit eyelet. “Cut some long thin strips of linen,
Victoria. Thin enough to thread through
this eyelet. Soak them in iodine before
you hand them off to me.”
Howard threaded the long, iodine-soaked strip of fine
cloth through the probe’s eyelet and gently pushed both back into the
wound. “I am going to clean this out
the best I can, Victoria. I don’t intend
to sew these puncture wounds shut. I
want an open pathway for drainage as they close from the inside out.”
Victoria nodded her understanding as the doctor moved on
to the next puncture. “Hmmm.” Howard
breathed when the probe met resistance at two and a half inches. “Let’s just see…” he whispered to himself.
Howard moved quickly to the third puncture near the midline of Heath’s
abdomen. Its depth was two inches. Howard allowed himself a faint smile when
the fourth puncture probed to a mere inch deep.
“Audra did her brother more good than she realized. She obviously kept that man from stabbing
Heath with full force. These wounds are
progressively more shallow such that I don’t believe the last one even
penetrated completely through the abdominal muscle.”
Victoria let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God!” she breathed. “Audra was inconsolable that she hadn’t been
able to stop the attack.”
“I’ll take another iodine strip now. I still need to clean these punctures as
well as I did the first.” Howard paused
and glanced at Victoria before resuming his work. “Don’t get me wrong, Victoria.
The first wound I probed was fairly deep. Deep enough to have punctured bowel or an artery or even
penetrate the liver. You will still
have to watch Heath closely for signs of infection or bleeding. The other two barely penetrated the abdominal
cavity and with any luck they didn’t nick his intestines.”
Howard finished with the cleaning and laid aside the
silver probe. “I’m ready for the
dressings now. Prepare a charcoal
poultice just as I taught you to do.”
Victoria spooned enough moist charcoal paste onto a
bleached muslin cloth to cover it with a thin layer. She then laid another muslin cloth on top of the poultice and
handed it to the doctor. While Howard
positioned the poultice, Victoria stood ready with the rolled bandages they would
use to hold it in place.
Howard tied the dressing snugly around Heath’s
middle. “Let Jarrod and Nick know we
are ready for their assistance, Victoria.”
The brothers hurried up the stairway when they were
beckoned. They helped the doctor gently
position Heath on his left side.
“Thank you, boys.” Howard said. “That was perfect. I
stirred up some bleeding when I probed and cleaned those puncture wounds and I
want Heath moved carefully to permit them to clot.”
“What about those pitchfork wounds, Howard?” Jarrod’s blue eyes were solemn and filled
with concern as were his brother’s.
“They could have been much, much worse, Jarrod. Had Audra not limited the damage by fighting
Heath’s attacker, I am almost certain the outcome would have been fatal.”
“That news should be of some comfort to her.” Jarrod said.
“I hope so.”
Howard nodded. “Audra doesn’t
need to upset herself anymore thinking that she somehow failed Heath.” He noted Nick had kept a possessive grip on
Heath’s hand and how both men appeared reluctant to leave the room.
“I’ll tell you what.”
The doctor began to unwrap the bandage around Heath’s head. “You boys can stay while I check this head
wound. Just don’t touch any of my
sterile instruments. And Nick, if you
get the urge to sneeze or cough, please leave the room.”
Nick nodded and he and Jarrod retreated to the foot of
Heath’s bed while Howard and Victoria tended to their younger brother.
Howard washed Heath’s scalp wound thoroughly with the
mixture of soapy water and iodine. The
laceration began to trickle blood with the doctor’s cleansing, though the
bleeding was much lighter than when Victoria had initially applied the pressure
bandage. Howard probed the jagged cut
with his finger.
“I don’t feel any indentation or fracture lines.” The doctor finished his examination. “I’ll get the bleeding stopped and suture
the laceration closed.” He pressed a
wad of gauze firmly against the wound and held pressure for a few minutes.
Howard removed the gauze and watched the wound closely. “It’s still oozing in a couple of
places.” He reapplied pressure with the
gauze. “Victoria, there is a container
of silver nitrate sticks in my bag as well as a caustic holder. Get them for me, please.”
“Thank you.” The
doctor removed the gauze again. He
began touching the small oozing vessels with the silver nitrate stick. “Silver nitrate is what’s known as a
styptic. It’s a chemical irritant that
causes a torn vessel to contract so that it tends to halt bleeding and speed
clot formation.” Howard talked as he
worked. “There, just like that!” He handed the holder and used stick back to
Victoria. “I’ll take the small curved
needle and silk suture now.”
The doctor closed Heath’s scalp laceration using an
interrupted technique, letting Victoria snip off the excess thread after each
tie was knotted. He covered the wound
with soft cotton wadding and then wrapped a clean white bandage around Heath’s
head.
“Let’s move him onto his back, boys.” Howard said.
The men repositioned Heath as Victoria removed the soiled
pillow and placed a fresh one under his head.
The family stepped back as Dr. Merar gently lifted Heath’s eyelids with
his thumb to check the pupils’ reflex contraction to light. It remained slow and therefore worrisome to
the doctor.
Jarrod noted the momentary disappointment cross the
physician’s face and he slipped a protective arm around his mother’s shoulders
as they awaited a prognosis.
The doctor’s brow furrowed. “Nick, when you and Heath returned by train several days ago and
he brought you by my office for a quick once over…” Nick nodded at the
recollection. “I found all those bumps
and bruises that you told me occurred in an avalanche.” The doctor continued. “As I recall, you told me both of you were
caught in that avalanche and Heath was unconscious for some time after.”
“That’s right, Doc.” Nick answered. “We were both knocked out in the tumble, but
Heath was out a good six or seven hours after I came to.” Victoria drew in a sharp intake of breath. Nick shrugged and addressed her. “We didn’t see any need to tell you about
the avalanche, Mother.”
Victoria’s answer was the flash of an annoyed stare. “Howard, is the prior injury important?”
Howard sighed. “It
very well might be, Victoria. That
concussion was a significant one for Heath to have remained unconscious for
that many hours. Now he has another
concussion just as the residual contusion and swelling was resolving…” The
doctor paused and added with emphasis.
“And this concussion is a bad one!”
Jarrod’s arm tightened around his mother. “What should we expect, Howard?”
“There’s no way to predict right now, Jarrod.” The doctor
replied. “The cerebral swelling may
continue to increase, or it may stabilize and then start to subside. Just continue with supportive care and watch
him closely.”
Howard took a small wooden case from his bag and removed
the mercury thermometer that it held.
It was a fragile instrument and the patient’s temperature was taken from
the axilla.
“Come closer, Victoria, and I’ll show you how to use
this.” Howard placed the mercury-filled
bulb carefully in Heath’s armpit. “You
have to use care not to break this,” he said.
The hollow glass tubing made a gentle curve about an inch above the
bulb. A temperature scale was not
etched into the fragile glass, but rather a thin piece of ivory was fastened
behind the glass. The ivory had been
etched with a scale that began at ninety degrees Fahrenheit and topped out at
one hundred and fifteen.
“Leave the thermometer bulb in place a few minutes until
the mercury reaches its peak.” The
doctor instructed. “Then you remove it
and read Heath’s temperature against the ivory scale. Do you see?”
Victoria nodded.
“Normal is between ninety-eight and ninety-nine degrees and Heath is
hovering around one hundred right now.
That’s not unexpected given his recent trauma. I am going to leave the thermometer here so you can keep a check
on his temperature. Send for me
immediately if there are any drastic changes in his condition.” Howard paused. “You know, given the frequency that I’m called out here, buying
one of these little gadgets for yourself might not be a bad investment.” He snapped his bag shut. “I’ll be back this evening to check on
Heath. I’m going to head back to town
now because I understand there’s a prisoner in the Stockton Jail who needs my
services.”
The doctor fiddled with the handles of his black bag in
the silence of the room and then added.
“Just as Jarrod is ethically bound to apply the precepts of Law without
fear or favor and sometimes defend the indefensible, I too, am bound by
professional oath.”
Victoria placed a hand on the doctor’s forearm and gave it
a firm squeeze. “We all understand
that, Howard,” she said softly.
“I know you do, Victoria.” His brown eyes warmed to hers.
“But there are some times I need to keep reminding myself!” Howard Merar picked up the bag and left the
bedroom without another word.
Nick placed an armchair close beside his brother’s bed for
their mother. She sat down and took
Heath’s hand in her own.
“Nicholas?” Victoria turned to
face him.
“Yes?” he answered.
There was a heavy silence as they looked at each other.
“I want to hear everything that happened to you and Heath
in Delco.”
Nick put his hands on her shoulders. “Mother, there were things that happened up
there that Heath and I felt the family didn’t need to know.” He glanced over at his blond brother. “It’s not going to change anything now.”
“No, not for your brother,” Victoria agreed. “But that man said things to your sister…”
Nick turned away and walked over to stare out the window,
his hands clenched into fists.
“I need to know the entire story, Nick. I need the whole truth if I am to help Audra
make sense of the terrible things she was told.”
Nick took a deep breath and stroked his fingers through
his thick dark hair. “Alright, Mother…”
he stared off into the distant horizon.
He finished telling every detail and there was silence for
a long moment. Nick turned away from
the window to gage the reaction. Jarrod
was leaning back against the wall, both hands in his pockets, his blue eyes
downcast.
Victoria sat rigid in her chair, quietly staring at the
opposite wall as her mind conjured up a picture of her son bound to a post,
freezing water cascading down his body for hours. She involuntarily shivered.
A few tears trickled unnoticed down her cheeks as if she was so lost in
thought that she no longer felt their coursing.
“Mother?” Nick
moved quickly to her side and knelt on one knee by her chair. He gently wiped a tear from her cheek with
his fingers. “I… I’m sorry,
Mother. I never wanted you to have to
hear all that.” Nick’s voice held a
melancholy, falling cadence.
Victoria looked down at him. Her lids were red and swollen from silent weeping, but the gray
eyes were brimming with pride. “Oh,
Nick!” She took his face in her
hands. “You are always the protector,
aren’t you, Son? You endured the brunt
of Malachi’s torture to keep those men away from Heath and both of you would
have given up your lives to keep that madman away from Audra! Thank you for telling me everything. I’m so very proud of you, Nick
Barkley!” Victoria lovingly stroked
back a tendril of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I was even proud of you in the barn this
morning. Proud of the love and fierce
protectiveness you showed, and prouder still of the deep sense of right and
wrong that triumphed in the end. Jarrod
sought to protect you out there by reminding you of that higher code. And Audra never hesitated to attack that
madman to protect Heath…”
Victoria leaned over and kissed Nick’s cheek. “Sit here with your brother for a little
while. I’m going to check on
Audra. As soon as she wakes, I want to
tell her the real story of Delco. It’s
a story of great love and sacrifice.”
Dr. Merar knocked softly on the door to Heath’s bedroom
and let himself in. It was quite an
ample-sized room. It had a mahogany
bedroom set, a desk with matching chair, two armchairs and a settee. The windows were hung with Hunter green
velvet draperies that matched the bedspread.
Jarrod was sitting at the desk with paperwork spread in
front of him. Victoria was sitting in
one of the armchairs by Heath’s bedside.
Nick and Audra were on the settee.
She slept, turned sideways on her seat, her head pillowed on his
shoulder. Nick’s arm was curled around
her. Audra stirred at the sound of the
knock and sat up. She gave the doctor a
warm, serene smile.
Howard smiled and nodded to her with satisfaction. “I see Heath isn’t lacking for
attention! Have you noted any changes
since I left, Victoria?”
“No.” Victoria
rose from her seat. “He hasn’t shown
any signs of regaining consciousness and his temperature is still between one
hundred and one hundred and one.”
Howard sat his medical bag on the bedside table. “I’ll just see if his vital signs or
neurological examination has changed at all.”
The doctor finished his examination and turned to the
anxious family. “Heath’s vital signs
are still good.” There was a hint of
encouragement in his voice. “His reflexes
are no better, but they are no worse either.
With any luck, that means the swelling from the concussion has reached a
plateau.”
Howard reached into his pocket. “Oh, by the way, Jarrod.
There was a telegram for you that your secretary asked me to drop
off. She said you’d want to read this
in light of what happened today.”
Jarrod took the folded telegram and opened it. His blue eyes scanned the contents of the
telegram and then he looked up into his family’s puzzled faces.
“It’s from Martin Murphy’s father.” Jarrod hesitated before continuing to share
the pained contents. “Mr. Murphy states
that his own physician informed him that his son was suffering from syphilis. He attempted to confine Martin to the home
and the doctor began treatment with iodide of potassium. Martin came to believe that his father was
attempting to murder him. He was
convinced that his father and the doctor were conspiring to poison him. Martin suffered a violent fit of rage and
escaped from the house. Mr. Murphy has
had no clue to Martin’s whereabouts ever since.”
“I suspected as much.”
Dr. Merar spoke up. “After I
treated his shoulder wound, I carefully examined Murphy. The disease is many years advanced from the
initial infection and has invaded the cerebral centers. Given Murphy’s thin appearance and extreme
dementia, I would say he is in the final stages of syphilitic cachexia.”
“What do you believe should be done with Murphy given his
condition, Howard?” Jarrod knew the man
wasn’t mentally fit to stand trial for his crimes.
“I believe Martin Murphy should be confined to an asylum
where he would no longer pose a threat to the public.” Howard’s brown eyes were solemn. “I have some knowledge of how patients like
Murphy in the final stages of this illness are treated. He’ll be given daily morphine injections to
sedate him and ease the pain of his severe headaches. The dosages will be steadily increased until the end.”
Chapter
17
It was just before dawn when Silas softly tapped on the
bedroom door. As Victoria opened the
door, her faithful houseman entered with a tray bearing coffee, toast and
marmalade. He placed the tray on the
table near Heath’s bedside.
“I thought you could do with some nourishment, Mrs.
Barkley.”
“Thank you, Silas.” Victoria answered. “I’ll pour myself some coffee in a little
while.”
More than refreshment for his mistress, it was worry that
had driven him to the bedroom at this early hour. “How’s Mr. Heath doing this morning, Mrs. Barkley?” Even as he asked, Silas could feel the
strain in the muscles of his throat and his concern for the boy bunched up in
his gut.
“There’s been no change.” Victoria told him. “I was just about to check his temperature
again.” She opened a rectangular wooden
case on the table and removed the mercury thermometer. Silas took a step closer to observe her
curiously as Victoria inserted the glass bulb under Heath’s arm.
The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on
the chest of drawers. Victoria removed
the thermometer and frowned as she read the scale.
“Silas, would you ask Jarrod to step in here and then
bring up a pitcher of cold water and some towels.”
“Right away, Mrs. Barkley!” Silas hurried out.
Victoria replaced the thermometer in its case. She instinctively felt her son with her
hands, her cool palms confirming what the medical device had indicated. Heath’s cheeks and upper chest were very
hot.
“Mother?” Jarrod
bolted across the room to stand at her side, his voice tight with anxiety.
“Jarrod, he’s got a raging fever!” She looked up at her eldest son. “It happened so quick. I only checked him an hour ago.”
“I’ll get Dr. Merar, Mother.” Jarrod squeezed her shoulder lightly and then was quickly out the
door.
The sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs and the slam
of the front door alerted Nick. There
had been a change for the worse in Heath’s condition and he knew it. Silas was coming up the back stairs
hurriedly with a pitcher in one hand and a stack of towels folded across the
other.
“Fever?” Nick’s
deep voice greeted the gaunt-faced servant.
“Yes sir, Mr. Nick!
Mr. Jarrod is getting the doctor.” Silas replied as Nick swung the
bedroom door open for him.
“How high, Mother?” Nick frowned and looked down at his
unconscious brother.
“One hundred and three, Nick.” Victoria grabbed a basin.
“Pour the water in here, Silas!”
Victoria and Nick worked together, soaking the towels in
cold water, wringing them out and placing them on Heath. Cold cloths were positioned behind his neck
and draped over Heath’s chest and lower abdomen. Victoria rolled up two wet towels and tucked them alongside his
chest and flanks. They re-wet the
cloths as Heath’s body warmed them.
“It’s back down to one hundred and two.” Victoria said
after taking Heath’s temperature again after several changes of the cooling
cloths.
“At least we’re making some headway, finally.” Nick let
out a sigh. He hunched his shoulders
and let his head loll to the side to briefly ease the tension that had settled
between his shoulder blades.
Victoria sank into the armchair and placed her hand on
Heath’s arm. She had sent her other
children to rest the previous night and had kept vigil over him alone. Other than his quiet breathing, Heath had
not moved a muscle throughout the long night.
Victoria had checked him frequently, stroked his arm and talked to him
in soft, soothing tones.
In the stillness of the night, she had also contemplated
the inhabitants of Delco. The waning
days of the Civil War saw their way of life left in tatters. Ruin, despair, hopelessness and uncertainty
were the portion of a defeated South.
Perhaps the followers of Malachi were desperate for a messiah who could
bring order to their personal chaos.
The members of the cult were no different than anyone else. They hungered for something or someone to
believe in. Faith, Victoria reasoned,
seemed as necessary to humanity as breathing.
Yet, it is the object of that faith which is all-important. Never one to believe that another’s
enlightenment could far outshine her own and not given to idol worship,
Victoria was hard-pressed to understand the cult. To follow any man with blind devotion is its own delusion. To make the object of their faith a twisted
madman had been fatal.
A path of his or her own choosing had led to the sect’s
ultimate end. Not so her son, he had
not been deserving of even a bruise.
Victoria thought of how her golden child had been graced with the ‘Seven
Virtues’. Prudence meant merely
practical common sense. Heath was
nothing if not thoughtful and deliberate, always taking the trouble to think
out what he was doing and what was likely to come of it. Her young man evidenced Temperance, not
abstaining from pleasures, but going the right length and no further. His sense of Justice was marked by his
fairness and honesty to all without prejudice.
Fortitude? Victoria knew that
Heath possessed both kinds of courage in abundance – the kind that faces danger
as well as the kind that endures under pain.
She had witnessed his Faith, been buoyed by his unflagging Hope, and
blessed by the precious gift of his Love.
The thought of losing Heath due to the actions of an evil reprobate had
driven her to intercede on high.
Victoria’s unceasing prayers through the long night were that her son’s
life might be spared. She now sat
silently praying again as Heath’s condition had taken a sudden downturn.
Dr. Merar, accompanied by Jarrod on horseback, turned in
through the gates and reined his buggy to a halt at the front steps. At the precise moment the men rushed into the
bedroom, Victoria had just taken Heath’s temperature.
“Jarrod tells me Heath experienced a sudden spike in his
temperature this morning.” Howard said.
“Yes, but we’ve managed to keep his fever down to one
hundred and two with cooling cloths.” Victoria told him.
“If Heath’s temperature is one hundred and two in his
axilla, then his actual core temperature is one to two degrees higher.” Dr.
Merar observed. “Obviously, one or more
of those wounds is infected.” He opened
his black medical bag and removed a light pocket instrument case. For the most part, the various blades inside
were folded jackknife fashion into tortoise shell handles to save space and
protect the cutting edges. “Please
immerse these in boiling water for several minutes, Silas.” Howard addressed
the houseman standing in the doorway.
“Yes sir. I’ve got
the hot water ready on the stove!”
Silas took the instruments and disappeared to perform the task he was
well familiar with.
The doctor soaped and rinsed his hands at the washbasin and
then toweled them dry. He picked out a
pair of angular scissors from his case and sliced through the bandages
surrounding Heath’s stomach. Howard
peeled back the layered poultice cloths and examined the puncture wounds.
To the doctor’s trained eye, the three shallower wounds
appeared to be doing nicely without signs of infection. The deep puncture on the right side of
Heath’s belly, however, was worrisome.
Howard knew that its symptoms of heat, redness and swelling could easily
send his patient on a downhill course of sepsis and death. The germ theory that had been laughed off as
an outlandish notion little more than a decade before was now in wide
acceptance. Scotland’s Dr. Joseph
Lister proved in 1865 that using an antiseptic carbolic acid spray in the
operating room could save lives and prevent the usual pus-ridden
complications. The year after Lister’s
surgical triumph, Louis Pasteur discovered that microscopic organisms were
responsible for turning fermenting wine into vinegar. His solution was simple enough: destroy the offenders by heating,
which became known as pasteurization. A
long overdue rethinking of popular medical theories followed these
discoveries. Dr. Merar was certain
similar microscopic invaders had entered Heath’s body through the dirty wound.
Silas had returned with the instruments by the time the
doctor had finished his examination and re-cleaned the wounds. Howard picked up a small scalpel with a
slender, sharp-pointed blade.
“Inflammation and swelling has caused this puncture to
seal itself closed.” Howard explained as he made a precise incision through the
wound. “I cleaned this as well as I
could yesterday morning, and then it was up to Heath’s white blood cells to
engulf the remaining bacteria. But any
pus that is formed must have a pathway to drain out or an abscess and
septicemia will follow.” He chose a
long, probe-pointed bistoury and opened a larger channel into the depths of the
wound. A bloody, purulent drainage ran
from the open puncture. The doctor took
a six-inch piece of loosely woven silk tape, soaked it in iodine and then
pushed half of it in the length of the wound.
“This silk tape will act as a wick as well as make sure the channel
remains open. I will remove it as soon
as the drainage stops.”
Victoria and Howard reapplied a fresh poultice and clean
dressings. The doctor then checked
Heath’s scalp laceration and was satisfied that it had not contributed to the
fever. He checked Heath’s reflexes as
he had the previous morning.
“No significant change from the standpoint of the
concussion.” Howard said without expression in his brown eyes. “It’s still a waiting game. I do think we caught the infection in time.” He smiled in spite of himself, but only
briefly. “I would be quite shocked if a
strong young man like Heath didn’t overcome the infection now.”
The doctor rinsed off his used instruments in the
washbasin and dried them. “Try to get
some water in him. Dehydration also
contributes to fever and can make Heath a little hotter than he ordinarily
would be.” Howard packed his black
bag. “I’ll be back to check him again
this afternoon. How’s Audra feeling?”
“She needed more of the sedative to finally get to sleep
last night, but she’s going to be fine.” Victoria said.
“I think someone else here needs to get some sleep as
well.” Howard gave Victoria a
no-nonsense stare.
“I will, Howard. I
promise.”
“Nick and I will see that she does!” Jarrod interjected.
“Good,” the doctor said.
“I’ll see you folks this afternoon.”
“Thank you again, Howard.” Victoria smiled at her old friend as he turned to leave. While Jarrod saw the doctor out, she poured
a glass of water from a pitcher.
“Whoa, Mother!”
Nick took the glass she was holding.
“The doc was right. It’s time
you got some rest yourself.” He wagged
his finger at his mother just as she’d done him the morning before. “And I don’t want to hear any arguments!”
“Alright, Nick.” Victoria said wearily. “But you’ll wake me if you need me…”
“Yes, Mother.” Nick nodded. “Now go! I’ll take good
care of the boy.”
“I know that you will, Son.”
Nick propped Heath’s head and shoulders higher on a mound
of pillows and draped another cool, damp towel across his brother’s chest. “Okay, Boy.
You and me have got some work to do.”
Nick picked up a tablespoon from the tray Silas had brought up
earlier. “We’re gonna work on getting
this water in ya.”
Nick paid no attention as the bedroom door opened and
Jarrod peeped inside. He went right on
talking as if Heath could hear every word of the one-sided conversation. The fever caused intermittent chills to pass
through Heath’s body and as he shivered, his teeth rattled violently against
the rim of the spoon.
“You keep that up and I won’t have to re-wet your towel,”
the dark-haired cowboy grumbled. “The
whole point is to get fluids in ya, not on ya!” Nick was not going to be deterred in his efforts. Between the waves of chills, the stiff
tension in Heath’s jaw relaxed and Nick was able to feed him tablespoons of
water.
Jarrod’s heart was lifted at the sight of Nick’s loving
and patient ministrations. He left the
room, knowing that if anyone could reach the heart and subconscious of their
little brother, it would be Nick.
Bats flicked erratically through his head, bats with
razor-edged wings that cut like fire.
Only the hellish red eyes were visible, their jet black bodies almost
impossible to discern in the darkness.
“Unnghh,” Heath groaned, his eyes moved fractionally
beneath his eyelids.
“That’s it, Boy!
Come on, Heath, open your eyes.” Nick demanded.
Heath groaned again as his lips spasmed with pain and
stretched back across his teeth.
“I mean it, Heath.
Wake up!” Nick’s voice grew louder and more insistent.
His mind was without clarity, but Heath managed to focus
on the familiar voice. “Niicck…” he
muttered and his eyes fluttered open.
Nick, truly delighted, broke into a wide grin. “That’s right, Little Brother. It’s about time you decided to wake up!”
“Aahhh.” Heath moaned.
“My head!” He blinked his eyes
and strained to focus on Nick.
“Yeah, Heath, you took a pretty good lick on the head.”
“H…how?” Heath
remembered nothing of the injury.
“Malachi.” Nick said grimly.
Heath struggled up on one elbow before collapsing back
onto his pillows from the searing pain in his head and the ache in his gut even
as Nick’s strong hands pushed him back.
“It’s alright, Heath! Malachi’s
gone for good. He’s where he’ll never hurt
anybody again.”
Confusion clouded Heath’s eyes. “What happened, Nick?”
Nick took a deep breath.
“He wasn’t killed in the cave-in like we thought. Somehow he trailed us back to the ranch,
Heath. He ambushed you in the barn and
tried to kidnap Audra.”
Heath’s expression became even more pained. “She okay?”
“Audra’s just fine, Heath, but she’ll be even better now
that you’ve come around. This is the
third day since the attack.” Nick
reached over and felt of Heath’s cheek.
There was no sign of any fever at all.
“Everyone’s just been waiting for you to wake up.”
“Boy howdy, I’m not sure it was such a good idea.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nick’s voice was softer and he gave
Heath a sympathetic squeeze on his arm.
“The doc left some laudanum and he said to give you a teaspoon if you
woke up with a bad headache. But
Mother, Jarrod and Audra will kill me if I give it to ya and you fall asleep
before they get a chance to say ‘hello’.”
Heath smiled. “I’d
kinda like to see them, too.”
It wasn’t déjà vu.
Not exactly. But it felt that
way – just like they both knew how this was going to end.
“Your brother has no business going on this cattle drive!” The petite, silver-haired matriarch was
standing her ground with hands on hips.
“Mother, we’ll only be gone three days! We’re just going to move the herd to one of
our other pastures. We’ll never be off
Barkley property so I wouldn’t exactly call this a cattle drive, for Pete’s
sake!”
“And how are you going to persuade the cattle to move,
Nicholas?” Victoria asked.
“I’m gonna tell ‘em all about the good grass and water and
then ask ‘em real nice.” Nick said.
Victoria narrowed her eyes and started to wag a finger at
him. “Okay, okay…” Nick retracted. “We ARE going to drive them over there,
Mother. But Heath won’t be sitting a
horse the whole time, I promise you.
He’ll be riding on the wagon.”
“Heath could still have a dizzy spell out there.” Victoria glanced over at her blond son. He was sitting on the sofa beside his eldest
brother looking rather forlorn. Jarrod,
on the other hand, had a wry little smile on his lips as she spied him laying a
twenty-dollar bill on the coffee table in front of them.
Nick wasn’t ready to give in. “I’ll fix him a nice little bed in the wagon and he can crawl
back there and lay down if he gets to feeling dizzy.”
“But, Nicholas…” A body could wear their tongue out
arguing with him.
“I’ll look after him, Mother!” Nick’s hazel eyes were pleading.
“There are essential areas of expertise that I gotta have Heath for.”
Victoria caught Jarrod laying another twenty on the table
out of the corner of her eye. So the
betting was up to forty dollars, she thought.
“So Heath has certain expertise that is necessary for the drive?”
“Essential, Mother!” Nick declared.
Victoria sighed.
“Alright, Nicholas, but if I hear tell of Heath having been on a horse…”
Strong arms scooped her off the floor before she could finish the threat. “Nick, put me down!”
“Thanks, Mother!”
Nick planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Get your stuff packed, Boy!” he called over to Heath.
The pair on the sofa were stunned, but Heath quickly
overcame it. He jumped up and stuffed
the two twenties in his pocket. “I’ll
just call it beer money, Brother Jarrod.
Had my saddlebags already packed, Nick, just in case! Thank you, Mother.” Heath stepped over to her and gave Victoria
a quick hug.
Victoria watched her two youngest sons heading up the
stairs to Heath’s room. Nick had an arm
draped around Heath’s shoulder and was chattering away. Jarrod came and stood beside his mother. “Heath said that Nick was always the last
man talking in any argument and I told him you were the exception. When did you decide to let Nick have his
way, Mother?”
“About the time you laid down the second twenty,
Jarrod. You know you really need to
stop all that gambling!” Victoria teased.
“Well, I’ve learned not to bet on you being predictable
anymore,” he laughed.
“No, seriously, Jarrod.
The thought occurred to me that it wasn’t that long ago that we were
forcing Nick to take Heath along on the horse-buying trip. We were hoping in that two weeks alone
together they might at least return as friends. And then Jack Donahue came into our lives and in two days they
had become brothers.” Victoria
smiled. “That bond is even tighter than
I dared hope or imagine. It’s hard to
play the villain now and keep them apart.”
Jarrod chuckled.
“Was it more Little Brother’s constant badgering or Baby Brother’s
sulking?”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other.” Victoria shook her head in mock
surrender. “What will I ever do with
them now?”
The pair strolled down the stairs to the foyer. Nick had Heath’s saddlebags draped over his
shoulder. “We’ll see you people in
three days.”
Heath kissed his mother on the cheek and whispered softly
in her ear. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be fine.” She stroked his cheek with her hand. “I’ll miss you both. Take
care.”
“See ya, Jarrod!”
“Goodbye, Brother Heath.
Oh, by the way, I was wondering just what essential area of expertise
you’d be supplying on the drive.” Jarrod raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I’m gonna help Charlie cook.” Heath explained.
“Crew’s gotta eat!”
Nick spoke up.
“It’s funny, Jarrod.
A man once told me there weren’t no way any outfit would keep me around
as a hasher and now I’m gonna be cooking for Nick and the boys.”
“Who told you that, Dear?” Victoria asked.
“Nick did, Mother.”
Heath grinned. “Ain’t that
right, Nick?” Victoria and Jarrod
couldn’t help but laugh at the consternation spread over Nick’s face.
“Hush up and let’s go, Boy. I practically wear my self out convincing Mother to let you go
and you turn around and let them know I’m having to eat crow?”
“Just save some room for my beans, Big Brother!” Heath
laughed.