Behold A Pale Horse

A sequel to ‘To Die Game’

Chapters 11-17

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.

 

 

 

 

“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death…” Revelations 6:8

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

THE END