Not that there were many comers. Oh, there were still a handful of fools, hoping to strike some overlooked vein. Mayor McFadden, elected twelve years ago and never again challenged, for lack of interest, still spent the early morning hours scratching around the old works. The rest of the day he spent behind his bar, reminiscing to anyone or no one about the town's better days and hopeful future. He'd been one of the first in Strawberry. The riches had passed him by, but he still hoped for the day when his bar would bulge with just-paid miners and shining new brass spittoons would replace the ones long since pawned to passing tinkers.

Like the good Mayor, Heath had had the sense to start his work in the cool of the early morning. His youth and strength were a bare match for this hard ground, the balance scarcely tipped by his only weapon, a fifth-hand shovel, wobbly and bent from years of fighting the tough rock of the Sierra Nevada. It was nearly noon when he was finally finished and hoisted himself out.

He'd had no breakfast. But it wasn't hunger that twisted his stomach. No, it was this place, this miserable dry hole with all the life sucked out. Everything in this town was brown or gray, no color anywhere, even at the start of the summer. Even the green shutters of the house were grey with blown dirt and neglect. He could remember Strawberry as it had been, when lights blazed from every window downtown and the piano music spilled out into the street and all the way town to the quiet dead end where they lived. He'd been forbidden to wander down there at night, but he could see the lights, hear the raucous music and laughter, the occasional shout or gunfire.

To him, her son, her only child, it was an obscenity that this miserable hole should be her final resting place. This town had never been her place, not in its boomtown finery nor in its tawdry mourning. She had passed through most of her life here, scarcely touched or contaminated by it. He'd been lulled to sleep by her reminisces of her childhood home on the other side of the country; he'd dreamed of tall stucco walls, ringed by camellias, guarded by the deep scented magnolia shade. All of those memories, all that she'd been, gentle, gracious, kind, innocent in spite of her shame--all of that would go down into a dusty, yellow hole, to rot. What was that hymn she used to sing? This is the day the Lord has made...

He didn't think much of the Lord's handiwork.

There were few at the funeral. The minister, an elderly man as parched and faded as the town, fetched from Pinecrest. Hannah, who'd been with his mother from birth. Rachel, the kindly widow he'd called Aunt, who'd taken them in, whose pension, meager for one, had stretched to cover all. The Mayor, wearing a dusty bowler and his sheriff's star. His aunt and uncle had the sense to stay away. Ten years ago, or more, his mother, usually so gentle, so unruffled, had threatened his uncle with a rusty shotgun and told him to keep his distance. The son had inherited his mother's dislike, in spades.

The sun was directly overhead, merciless. The parson's reedy voice, "We commit our dear sister Leah..." At the mention of sin the parson got a hot look from Heath and faltered. Hannah weeping into her apron, Rachel gulping hard. Even the Mayor found a few tears.

The dear departed's son had no tears. Grief lay cold and coiled like a snake in the very pit of his soul, but for now all he could feel was shame, shame and anger. No money for a headstone. The night before he'd carefully burned her name into a wooden crosspiece. Not fitting. Not good enough: this miserable town, that had ground down and spat out that gentle spirit. Unbearable, impossible, to admit that it was his very existence that had pinned her down, her badge of shame and weakness.

Through this red haze the words of the service penetrated only intermittantly. When too long a silence had passed, Rachel touched his arm. "It's over. Come inside and have a cool drink. A little supper."

"No," he said. "I'll finish here first."

The dirt went in more easily than it had come out. But the sounds of the clods dropping onto bare pine was more dreadful, more final, than any liturgy. At those first few shovefuls he came near to breaking. He could feel that treacherous snake unwinding. But he worked fast and hard and soon it was just dirt on dirt, nothing special. He pounded the stake in deep and fixed the crosspiece carefully. A brief look at the other ragged graves, stakes tilted drunkenly, names obliterated by heat and dust, would have told him his efforts were in vain. But he was not a man to do any job, however futile, carelessly.

Evening brought little cooling. He sat outside, the better to catch any errant breeze. There was no breeze; Hannah's laundry hung limp and lifeless in the twilight, though the faint smell of soap gave a little sweetness to the heavy air. On his lap was the Bible that had held the secret of his birth all these years, unsuspected.

Rachel came out. "Come in and have some supper, Heath. You've had a long day."

He dismissed her suggestion with a brief gesture. She sat down, uncertain. It was difficult to read his mood in the dim light. But then it was difficult to read him at the best of times. As a child he'd been sunny and open. Time and the world had done rough work on him. Too often the gentleness that was his greatest inheritance from his mother was jostled aside by a deep and abiding anger.

There was a small bottle in his hand. He'd found it under the bed. He knew that sweet, sickly smell by heart. The little bottles had been rare in his childhood, more frequent as he got older. Her crutch in this rough world. It had never made her vulgar or insensitive; rather it deepened her natural serenity. How he'd hated those little bottles, hated her weakness. Now, he thought wretchedly, she had needed it all those years. Dead at forty-two. Her pain must have been real.

Rachel saw the bottle and said sharply: "I wish you didn't judge her so harshly."

He looked up, surprised. He said, "I don't. At least I don't any more. Wish I hadn't."

There was genuine remorse in his tone, and she softened. "I wish we could have seen you more often these last few years."

"No work around here," he said. It was true, but it wasn't the true reason. These last few years had been difficult ones for him. He'd found it hard to settle before, but after a bout of woman trouble he'd found it even more difficult. For three years now he'd wandered throughout the west, from the Cascades to Mexico, from the Pacific to the Rockies. He hadn't been back to Strawberry in more than two years. And a poor correspondent, too. Oh, he sent money when he could, but little else. Sending just the money had robbed the act of any charitable impulse, at least for him, made the act seem cold and contempuous.

"You've been very generous," Rachel said.

Heath shrugged. Generous, but not with what Leah had wanted. Rachel was too kind to say it, but they both knew it. He said, "Don't you worry. Soon as I get another job..."

"We're not your responsibility, dear."

"Sure you are," he said. "Sure you are. You're family to me, you and Hannah." Who else I got? he thought.

Rachel saw the Bible. She knew what it held. Had he just found it, or had Leah told him? She didn't want to ask. Instead, she wondered at the time and what was keeping Hannah.

Her distracted flowed past him. Finally, he said, "Why didn't she tell me, Rachel?"

His question needed no elaboration; she understood. "I don't know," she said. "I truly don't know. Part of it was your uncle. He wanted--well, he wanted to blackmail Tom Barkley. Naturally your mother was horrified."

Heath grimaced. "I don't see where that was such a dreadful idea."

"Well, your mother thought it was--vulgar. Unworthy. But...whatever your uncle wanted to do, that shouldn't have stopped her telling you. I don't know why."

Her tone was hesitant. "But you got an idea, Rachel."

She shrugged. "Something--something changed. Before even your father left Strawberry. Before she got the letter. I don't know. But there were times--there were times I almost thought she was afraid of him. You know he went on to become a very successful man. Perhaps there was a certain ruthlessness to him. Perhaps she saw that or sensed that."

Leah had been very dear to Rachel: practically a daughter. This precious child, for whom Leah had sacrificed so much. Rachel couldn't bear to have him think harshly of Leah. "Perhaps it seems wrong to you, Heath. Selfish, even. Perhaps it was. But it was done with the best of intentions. She loved you, Heath. If she made mistakes, if she chose wrong, well, her mistakes were made from a good heart."

Her mistakes were made from a good heart. No, he thought foolishly, from a bad heart, if she had a good heart she'd still be here. She'd never been strong. Even as a young woman, even in his earliest memories, she was pale, a little breathless. Hard to imagine a woman less suited to life in a hardscrabble mining camp. Hard to believe she'd endured even this long. "I know," he said softly. "I know. I just wish--"

"Don't," Rachel said firmly. There was already too much regret in this world. "Don't. She knew, my dear."

Silence fell over them. He turned the little bottle in his hand, over and over, but his mind was on the Bible, and the papers in it. Rachel asked, "What will you do?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Don't much feel like goin all the back up the Klamath. May not be too late to get a cattle job. I reckon I'll head to Frisco and see where I can catch on."

"That's not what I meant."

Heath shrugged. "I don't know that I'll do anything," he said. "Long time passed. I don't reckon they're lookin for me." A hard edge crept into his voice. "They don't want me, I don't reckon I want them."

Rachel watched his restless hands. She'd never known Tom Barkley, but this restless certainly hadn't come from Leah. "Perhaps it's just as well."

"Only--only why'd she tell me now? Why not just let it go?"

"I suppose she just wanted to clear her conscience. And you would have found out anyway, I suppose, once you'd looked in the Bible."

"I suppose." She wasn't the type to clear her conscience if she'd thought it would give him grief. But perhaps it was just a hunger to speak the truth. The flicker in her eyes. Had she cared about that man, after all these years? Maybe it was fear? Maybe it was fear of him, not his father.

He stood up slowly. "I'll be off to Frisco at first light. You two don't need to be up."

Rachel smiled. "We're old," she said. "We're up with the birds anyway." Her smile faded. "You're not going to Stockton, then."

He shook his head.

Good, she thought. Let sleeping dogs lie. Let go of this town, let go of old trouble. Perhaps with Leah's troubles over and gone he would find some peace himself. She doubted he'd find any in Stockton.

He rode out the next morning. To the south and the east the magnificent forests of the Sierra Nevada still loomed, tall and blue and cool. But the land around Strawberry was largely denuded, and the road out was baked hard.

In the end he decided on Frisco. He'd been logging up the Klamath. Not bad work, not a bad place, especially if you were the sort of man who could stand long cold nights alone. But he'd had enough of swinging an ax for now. He'd worked cattle out of Corning last summer, and the owner'd said he'd be willing to take Heath on again this year. But it was already a little late, it was a long ways away, and there wasn't much else up there if Bailey didn't still have a job for him.

So Frisco it was. Of course he wasn't sure just what he'd find to do in Frisco, either. It was probably too late to catch on at a cattle place just about anywhere. Still, there were a few offices there you could check in at. He'd done a few odd jobs in Frisco before, mostly fishing. So far he hadn't sunk to longshoring. He hoped he wouldn't have to this time, either. But in general he didn't like towns, or the work you found in them. He'd been a deputy once, and liked that; but, he figured, it was probably more the situation than the work that he'd liked. It wasn't a memory he liked to dwell on.

The road took him south of Stockton. At the fork in the road he found himself slowing. He'd passed this way more than once. Hell, he'd even heard the name Barkley before. But somehow he'd never stopped in these parts, never worked around here. Almost as if he'd known this was dangerous ground.

Stockton. His horse pawed the ground, impatient at the delay. What, he wondered, would it be like? Rachel had said he'd been success, but that was understating the matter. Barkley was a big name around here, big enough that folks as far away as San Diego would know it. Big enough name for Barkley to be in the papers over that railroad shootout.

Strange to think of his mother finding that article, saving it. Had it given her pain, he wondered. Had she thought about him all these years? Loved him? When Heath was a child his mother would mention his father every now and then, always in glowing terms, but always in the most general way--no details, no stories. Just what fine man he was...

Fine man indeed. Heath took one last look up the northern fork that ran to Stockton. Fine man who takes advantage of a woman and never looks back. A married man, no less. Double damned. Well, they could keep their big name and their big ranch and their mines, Barkley this and Barkley that. He might not have a name but he had a code, and he doubted the Barkleys would share any of it. He dug his heels into the Gal's sides so sharply she nearly bolted.

He found no work in Frisco. As he'd thought it was too late to be signing on for ranching. Most places were already full up. "With a few exceptions," the man in the office said.

"What's that?" Heath asked.

"You have any objections to Stockton?"

"I might," he said uneasily. "Why're they still hirin out there?"

"Trouble," the man said simply. "Trouble with the railroad. Folks say it'll be a shootin business before long."

"Shootin business?" Heath echoed. "I thought they had that mess last year. Ain't it settled?"

"Not settled enough. But see here, you'd be safe enough ranching. The Barkleys are leading the pack but their land's safe enough. And they pay top dollar. You could do worse."

His mouth twisted in a grim smile. "I doubt it," he said finally. Working for the Barkleys! No doubt they'd think that was just about right for the old man's leavings--set him to mucking out the stalls. And target practice for railroad guns. "No thanks."

"Well," the office man sniffed, "that's all that's on offer."

"I'll find something else," Heath said. The irony: in the heart of the big anonymous city he ran smack into the Barkleys. Well, he thought, he wasn't likely to meet any fine folks at his next few stops.

He wasn't likely to meet with any work, either. Frisco was usually a boon town, and work was usually plentiful. But the whole country was laboring under a recession, and work was suddenly dear. Even down at the docks the harbor master shrugged. "Try tomorrow," he suggested. Try tomorrow, because some longshoreman was likely too drunk to turn up for work. Or one would drown in the harbor.

He heard tell they were hiring over in Nevada, some new silver mine. Times were hard enough that some men were undertaking the journey over the Sierra Nevada. It was a longer shot than he liked to take. A week's ride or more, just to go underground? He suppressed a shiver and turned away.

Last he'd heard, Ward and Nora Whitcomb were somewhere in the city. Ward supposedly had an interest in a fishing boat. Heath couldn't imagine where Ward had ever gotten the scratch together to have an interest in anything. Heath couldn't remember Ward having the least interest in, or knowledge about, fish, but the letter had said it was a sure-fire bet. Well, Heath knew a bit too much about Ward's sure things. It was a sure thing that Ward owed him a few bills at least. But Heath hated trying to collect from a friend. In any case, he doubted Ward would really have the ready.

The lumber camp had owed him a few weeks' wages, but he'd been in a hurry to get down to Strawberry. The foreman had written him out a note. But no one in Frisco would take the note. He figured that money was as good as gone.

Well: he was pretty short by now, and the Gal was eating her weight in expensive hay in a livery stable. If he was just to get out of town he needed a little quick. He went back to the waterfront and found a bar and a game.

Cards had never been a hobby with him. He treated it like a skill. He had no respect for men who made a living just by cards. It seemed dirty and underhanded to him; real men had jobs out in the open air, jobs that stretched their limbs and their nerves. Too, the idea of finding weak men and preying on their weaknesses--that in particular didn't appeal.

That said, he was a good player and he watched others closely enough to get better. And when times were really tight, well, it was a damned sight better to play a few hands than to pawn a saddle or his guns or, worst of all, his horse.

You needed all your wits to play for money, especially if it was your last few dimes. He liked his drink as well as the next man, maybe more. But when he played serious he let the glass stand empty for hours on end.

The game ebbed and flowed throughout the afternoon and evening, but there were two constants, himself and a lean dark man in a once-fine suit. The frilled shirt had also seen better, and cleaner days. But for all his slightly seedy appearance the man wasn't a bad player. Between the two of them they skinned a few partridges that afternoon. But by 10 p.m. it was just the two of them.

At first the hands went back and forth, neither staying up for very long. Heath eyed his pile. It was enough to get him out of town and then some. Probably time to stop. But he was enjoying the game, until it started to turn.

It took him a few hands to understand what was going on. Cheatin dog, he thought. He knew most of the tricks and this fella didn't have any new ones, though Heath had to admit the handiwork was as good as he'd ever seen. But he was plenty quick himself, and he caught the man's hand before he could slide an extra ace into the deck.

"I'll take my money back now," Heath said coolly. The commotion in the bar suddenly stopped. Heath could swear he could hear the man sweating.

"All right," the man said grudgingly. Heath let go of the man. Before he knew it the man had drawn a tiny two-shot derringer. Fool, Heath thought. You're losin it. Droppin your guard like that. Those tiny things weren't too reliable, but they could do plenty damage at close range, and this one was mighty close. The man scooped a handful of money off the table, stuffed it under the dirty shirt. He was reaching for Heath's pile when the door to the bar swung open, and, startled, the man fired.

For a moment Heath's ears rang with the noise. Who'd have thought such a tiny gun could make such a noise? The shot had gone wild, shattering one of the crystal wall fixtures.

The noise broke the spell. There was a sudden surge toward the table, with other hands reaching for Heath's stake. He had to fight to hold onto what was left.

The noise had drawn a nightwatchman. The saloonkeeper was shouting about damage to his property. Obligingly the nightwatchman took the gambler into custody.

"Hey," Heath asked. "What about my money?"

"What about your money?" the nightwatchman snapped.

"That fella, he was cheatin. He took some of my money."

"That true?" the nightwatchman asked. The gambler just shrugged. "It ain't my business," the nightwatchman said. "I didn't see it. You want to press charges, you come see the city attorney when this bird goes to the judge."

"When's that?"

"Tomorrow morning, starts at nine a.m. for all this night's miscreants. City courts building. They can help you there."

Heath watched the man go with disgust. Tomorrow morning! He figured he'd lost about half his pile. He doubted the city attorney would do much of anything. But now he felt riled. No doubt he'd feel even more riled after another night dossed down in the shadows of the livery stable. Oh, he'd been at the city courts all right. He was in an angry and confrontational mood and didn't feel like just shrugging this off. Damned cheat.

Heath knew enough to find a clean shirt and get a proper shave that morning. When he got to the city court he was amazed at the bustle, the sheer number of people, and the casual roar. He had little experience with the formal machinations of the justice business, but he'd expected it to be--well, more formal.

A large number of men, and a few women, in varying degrees of shackles lined the benches on the left side. The dark man in the dirty suit was there. On the right, a ring of well-dressed men pressed around one prickly, sweating man. There was a good deal of talk all around. Heath decided the man on the right was the man he needed to speak to, since everyone else wanted to speak to him, too. He joined the press of men, trying to ignore the surprised and contemptuous looks he garnered.

When his turn finally came, the city attorney looked him over and said, "I don't deal directly with accused. Send your lawyer over. Elsewise someone'll see you after arraignment."

"I ain't accused," Heath said, trying to keep his temper.

"Well?" the attorney snapped. "If you're not looking for a plea bargain why are you here?"

"I need some help."

The city attorney sighed. "This isn't a soup kitchen. I doubt I can help you."

"Well," Heath said with a great deal of patience, "the nightwatchman said you could."

"What on earth does a nightwatchman have to do with us?"

"I'm gettin there. Look, sir, that fella over there stole some money from me."

"Oh," the attorney said. "You're a witness. Sit down. I'll call you when the case comes up." He frowned. "Who is it? I don't have any larceny cases here."

"Well, he ain't here cause he stole from me. He's here cause he shot out a light fixture at the Golden West."

All the attorney's snappishness returned. "Well, if he's not here for stealing I can't help you today. Move along."

"Hey," Heath said. "That fella committed a crime. I can testify to that. And then I can get my money back."

"By the bye," the attorney asked, "where did this alleged theft occur?"

"At the Golden West."

"Ah, a barroom dispute." The attorney's distaste was evident. "We don't enforce debts of honor here, mister. In any case I'd want a witness."

"It ain't a debt of honor, it's a theft. He took my money right off the table. And I'm a witness."

The attorney looked him up and down; his lip curled. "You from around here? You have someone else that can vouch for you?"

Hotly, Heath said, "I don't need nobody else to vouch for me."

The attorney shrugged. "Your word against his. I don't have time for this trash right now. After the roll call's finished you can talk to a bailiff about swearing out a warrant. But if you can't come up with a resident who can vouch for you I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Now move out of the way or I'll have the bailiff move you."

He backed away, his face hot. The lawyers gathered around the city attorney were trying to hide grins--or at least some of them were trying. He moved away, blinded by anger.

He bumped into a man. Instead of being angry, the man said, "You weren't looking for a lawyer, were you?"

"No," Heath said, his anger still raw. "I look like I need one to you?"

The man looked him over. He was obviously not a lawyer, but he didn't look like a criminal, either. He wore miner's jeans, but his boots were those of a cowboy, and they were well-worn. He was freshly shaven and his shirt, though rumpled, was clean. It was funny--the two men looked nothing alike, for this stranger was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and shorter and broader, but he had an air that reminded the lawyer of his brother Nick. An air of vitality, poorly disciplined, that verged almost on belligerence. "Well, there are lots of reasons people need lawyers."

"Maybe you can help me," Heath said suddenly. "One of those fellas took some money from me. Nightwatchman said to come here, the city attorney could help. But he don't want to."

The man said sympathetically, "I don't suppose he does. As you can see, the docket's already pretty full. And this isn't really the right place. You should go down to the station and swear out a warrant."

"How long will that take?"

"Oh, I don't know. You say the fellow's already in custody? It might come up tomorrow. It might not. In any case, you probably wouldn't get your money back. I daresay the fellow will use it to post bail."

"In other words," Heath said dryly, "the law ain't interested."

In all likelihood the law wasn't interested, but the lawyer hated to be so cynical. "If you have time you should wait," he said kindly. "Mr. Patterson--the city attorney--might be more inclined to listen after the docket's been run through."

Heath shrugged. The man nodded and went over to the left side of the room.

Still angry at the shabby treatment, Heath finally decided to sit down. Maybe the city attorney would be more helpful later; maybe he'd get a chance to say something when the dark man's turn came. He found a space on a crowded back bench and sat down to wait.

The court's business passed speedily, with names being called and cases postponed or pled out in a matter of minutes. The dark man must have been low on the list.

Finally, the bailiff called, "Annie Sellars. Prositution and facilitation in the first degree."

A long low whistle went through the room. A red-haired woman--who, Heath wondered, had hair that color by nature?--a bit heavy, but beautifully dressed, heavily veiled and unshackled, rose and approached. She was followed by the lawyer who'd spoken nicely to him.

"Miss Sellars," the judge said. "How nice to see you in the courtroom at last. Jarrod, the variety of your practice never ceases to amaze me." He turned to the city attorney. "What's the status on this, Mr. Patterson?"

"Defendant has requested bail. We oppose the request. The--um, defendant is a--lady of substantial means, your honor. We believe her to be a flight risk and request she be held pending trial."

"Jarrod?" the judge asked.

"Your honor," the lawyer said. His tone was deferential with a slightly humorous edge, and his expression would have been decorous but for a hint of amusement in his blue eyes. Heath, in the back, watched with some interest. This was as good as a show. The lawyer was wearing about the finest suit he'd ever seen.

"Your honor," the lawyer said again, "my client is a business woman of some repute. She has significant investments in the city, investments which she wishes to protect. She runs a thriving business which demands her constant attendance. She represents no risk of flight."

"Significant investments? Thriving business? Mirrors must be more expensive than they used to be." The judge pondered for a moment. "Your suggestion on bail, Jarrod?"

"I would ask that Miss Sellars be released on her own recognizance, your honor."

The judge barely suppressed a laugh. "Her recognizance, indeed. No doubt she is prepared to offer her word of honor."

"And I'm prepared to offer mine as well, your honor."

The judge harumphed. "Well, I suppose the word of a Barkley is worth something, even in this context. But not quite enough, Jarrod. Bond is set at ten thousand dollars. Cash, no bond. Next?"

"State versus Kilrain."

"That's mine, also," the lawyer said.

"You are busy today," the judge said dryly.

Heath heard nothing more. The name reverberated. Barkley. It took a long moment to realize. That man is my brother, he thought slowly. He watched the rest of the maneuverings with a combustive mixture of awe and envy. Jarrod--the judge had called him Jarrod--moved in the courtroom the way he himself moved in a cowpen, at home, at ease, in control. The city attorney, the bailiff--even the judge--showed him deference. Respect.

Heath thought: they wouldn't dare brush him off. They wouldn't dare send him away. They wouldn't dare look at him like he's dirt. It wasn't just being a lawyer, or wearing a fine suit, for none of the other lawyers were shown that kind of treatment. It was the name. Here the name was heavy and solid and tangible, shiny like gold.

What would it be like, he wondered, to carry that kind of coin? A lifetime of proving himself: over. A lifetime of petty slights and insults: over. The name like a shield against the splatters of doubt, disrespect, disdain. The land, the mines, the money: that all paled into nothing before the peculiar power of the name. That could have been yours.

No, he thought suddenly, it should be mine. It should be. It will be.

Jarrod left for Stockton early the next morning. He was alone. On the one hand he was uneasy about the likelihood of Annie Sellars skipping bail. Ten thousand wasn't such a large sum, and a woman of her--talents could gin up a successful business in just about any town or country. On the other hand, she was intrigued with the commercial potential of Stockton and had mentioned, more than once, a desire to get the lay of the land. Jarrod had convinced her that this was not the right time to be expanding, although, afterwards, she might want to take up the topic of entertainment opportunities in Stockton with his brother Nick or any of the ranchhands.

He traveled alone, and in privacy. The private railway car had been an extravagance impulsively entered upon by his father a few years back, while his business interests were multiplying and before relations with the railroad had gone irretrievably sour. Nick and Audra had been particularly enthusiastic, although, since the events of last year, Nick avoided traveling by rail whenever possible. Use of the luxurious car fell mostly to Jarrod. Its ostentation made him just a little prickly. He was afraid it looked just a little hypocritical to decry Hannibal Jordan's price gouging from the comfort of a custom-made car brought all the way from St. Louis.

On the other hand the car had its uses. The privacy meant he essentially had an office while in transit and a quiet one at that. Furthermore, awe had its uses, both in the law and in politics. Clients had a tendency to equate an attorney's wealth with his ability, even when the wealth was secondhand. And when you were tryin to woo reluctant state officials--well, a private ride, a good smoke, a little vintage Napoleon brandy made a politician feel flattered and important.

A good deal of his time this last year had been spent on just such exercises, the Annie Sellars of this world notwithstanding. Since the gunfight last year, an injunction had prevented further action by either the farms or the railroad while a negotiated settlement, without further bloodshed, was sought. But the injunction was set to expire in a matter of weeks. Without some solution Jarrod feared the deadly gun battle of last year would just be repeated--with even greater loss of life.

Jarrod had been amazed to even get the injunction. Here and there existed an honest, unencumbered judge, but most of the black robes in this state were owned, lock, stock, and barrel, by Hannibal Jordan and the other railroad magnates. Every legal battle had ended in victories for the railroad, even when law and custom blatantly favored the farmers. But the gun battle had shocked even the complacent judiciary. Ugly scenes from the Parisian revolution of a few years past were still in people's minds. The gun fight had raised the idea that such unrest could occur even here, that mild-mannered farmers could be pushed to the point that death by gun fire was preferrable to surrender. The idea that such defiance might spread to other disenfrancised--the Indians, the Chinese, the Irish, the human raw material that fed California's ever expanding industrial maw. With red-blooded American farmers leading the way, who knew where revolution might spread?

The farmers of the San Joaquin had no such ambitions, but Jarrod wasn't quick to point that out. Whatever motivated the judges and the state assemblymen to do right--what did it matter? Jarrod had managed once to get a bill passed confirming the farmers' ownership of the disputed land, only to have it vetoed by the governor. A new bill was due to be voted on soon, and Jarrod felt confident that he'd garnered enough support to get it passed again. The governor was up for re-election this fall. Would he be afraid to veto the bill in an election year? Or could the vote be postponed until after the election, when a new governor, a governor less beholden to the railroads, would sign it? But the injunction was running out. Time was not on the farmers' side.

Jarrod summoned a porter. "Did I see Mr. Crown's car being attached?"

"Yes, sir, you certainly did. You have a message for Mr. Crown, sir?"

Jarrod thought a moment. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Would you ask Mr. Crown to join me back here? I'm having an early meal. Ask if he'd do me the honor of joining me."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Barkley, sir. Right away."

A pile of papers regarding his most recent criminal cases spilled out over the desk. He gave them a glance, then realized he wasn't likely to give the work the attention it deserved. He put the papers away and treated himself to the last of the coffee in the flask. By now the train was well clear of the fogs and chills of San Francisco and heading into the rich hills of the San Joaquin.

Jarrod sipped the cooling coffee and lit the first cigar of the day. What, he wondered, was Crown doing in Stockton? Of course he could be on his way elsewhere; Sacramento, for example, or someplace east of the Sierra Nevada. Didn't Jordan have interests in a railway in Nevada? But somehow Jarrod doubted that Malachi Crown, Jordan's most trusted lieutenant, would be going anywhere but Stockton. Irrigation and development had made the disputed property the richest jewel in Coastal & Western's burgeoning empire. Jordan would not let it go without a fight.

Fortunately, Jarrod thought, Crown would not let it get to a fight if at all possible. Crown was smarter, subtler, than most of the others around Jordan. Crown understood, as his boss seemingly could not, that it was no longer possible for a business like Coastal & Western to simply bull its way through, oblivious to public opinion. The solid majority for Jarrod's bill alone told him that.

Coastal and Western could afford to let the disputed property go. The railroad was profitable, and it would grow more so as the San Joaquin developed. The lines were already laid and there wasn't much need for additional construction over the disputed land. But Jordan wasn't the sort to let something go just because he'd already gorged.

Dinner arrived at eleven-fifteen, with portions for only one. The porter explained. "Mr. Crown won't take lunch with you, sir, but he'll be down about eleven-forty-five, if that's agreeable."

"That's fine."

Jarrod ate the meal in solitary splendor. Idly he wondered what Crown was having for lunch and if his own wonderful meal came from Crown's own car. It probably did.

Promptly at eleven-forty-five, Jarrod owned the door to Crown. He was alone. Jarrod waved him to a seat, offered a drink. "A magnificent meal. You should have joined me."

"I don't eat at mid-day."

"You should, Crown, it's good for your digestion." Jarrod treated himself to a splash of sherry and a new cigar. Crown declined both offers. Jarrod smiled a little. "You're all business today."

"I'm always all business. I've been told I should take up a hobby. I can't imagine where I'd find the time. Or the interest."

"Well, in that case, I won't waste time on niceties--especially since I'm not interested in your employer's health or happiness." Jarrod inhaled deeply, let out the smoke slowly. "Stockton's rather dull this time of year."

"It's my impression that Stockton's rather dull at all times. I can't imagine why you don't shift completely to San Francisco. From what I read in the papers your practice is flourishing. Your criminal practice," Crown added.

Jarrod smiled sweetly. "My political labors also seem to be flourishing. Tell me, Crown, if Stockton's so dull, why are you headed there?"

"I don't recall saying I was."

"You don't need to. Your master has a hot little fire there, and no doubt you're going to try and put it out--in the most advantageous way."

Crown shrugged. "It's not illegal."

With an edge to his voice, Jarrod said, "Both parties are enjoined from taking any action to alienate or transfer that land."

"Indeed. But the injunction will expire, Barkley. A prudent man plans well ahead."

"And you are prudent. A prudent man knows when to surrender, too."

"A prudent man knows a bluff when he sees one. Barkley, we've been down this road before. Get your bill passed. Maybe it will be vetoed. Maybe it won't. But it will die in the courts, and you know it. I just wish you could convince your clients of that."

"I don't know anything of the kind," Jarrod said.

Crown shrugged again. "Perhaps your clients need another lawyer--one not so convinced that he can turn the law on its head. Look, Barkley, we've made a fair offer--those mortgages are at rates well below any market rate, and no questions asked. It's the best deal those farmers are going to get."

"No, it's not. Crown, they own that land. They don't need to buy it again, no matter how advantageous the mortgage terms."

"Let's not get started on that, Barkley. You'll never convince me and I'll never convince you. On second thought, I'll take you up on that cigar." After it was lit, Crown said, "Why are you in this, Barkley? It's not your fight. It's not your land. I can't imagine those clients are paying you anything."

"It is my fight," Jarrod said quietly. "It's not our land--but it's our principles. My father was at Apple Hill because diminishing those farmers would diminish all of us."

"Very nicely said," Crown said with something very close to a sneer. "No doubt those dead men feel diminished indeed. Barkley, I can imagine what you think of me. I don't care. But I'm as earnest as you are in wanting to avoid bloodshed. Please believe me when I say you will get no better offer."

Jarrod said, "I think we will."

Crown shrugged again. He was a big man who looked quite at home in his elegant clothes and his shrugs had a peculiar eloquence to them. He said, "If there's one thing we've learned from this century, Barkley, its inventions and its wars and its changes, it's that there are forces at work larger than any one of us--larger than any group, no matter how well meaning. Your farmers hate the railroad."

"They don't hate the railroad, they hate the way it's run."

Crown waved the comment off. "Of course they hate the railroad, just like most people hate and fear progress. Progress does inconvenience the few--the stubborn, the slow moving, the incompetent. But it benefits the many, Barkley. It benefits the many. There's no point in a handful of men trying to stop progress. Much less one." Dryly, he concluded, "No man beats the spike and iron."

Jarrod looked out. The ride was familiar to him. They were approaching a great curve that would take them into Stockton. The town was over the next hill.

There was a growing commotion from the front of the train. "What's that?" Crown asked.

"Perhaps Stockton has prepared a welcoming party for you, Crown."

Crown didn't look amused. But the commotion grew, and it was clearly a celebration. Jarrod, followed by Crown, went to the window. He soon understood what was causing the excitement.

A rider on a small black pony was racing the train. The horse and rider had the inside line, cutting across the chord of the rail's great arc. Though small, the pony was eating up the ground. If she were to beat the train she'd have to cross the rail just where the track straightened out for the entry to Stockton. Jarrod thought she'd make it, but it would be a near thing.

Still, it was an exhilarating thing just to see. "No man beats the spike and iron, eh, Crown? Well, there's one that's trying."

"He'll never make it."

"Fifty," Jarrod said impulsively.

"A hundred," Crown smiled.

They headed into the forward cars, the better to see the race. In each car people were on their feet, cheering and arguing, money rapidly changing hands. Jarrod and Crown made it up to the first car. Leaning over the rail, they saw the horse and rider cut across the tracks at the last possible moment, only a nose ahead of the train.

"I think we were at fifteen hundred," Jarrod said, laughing. "Apparently progress can be beaten by one man."

Crown took out his wallet and pulled out the fifteen hundred in cash. "By one man. But like all men he'll die. You can't stop progress, Jarrod."

Jarrod took his money and made his way back to his car. You can't stop progress. Unsaid were the words, You can't stop bloodshed, either. It was their job--his and Crown's--to try. They hadn't made much progress so far.

Nick Barkley was a tall, well-made young man. He walked with the swagger of a confident horseman, and he was. He could be loud and quick-tempered, and he had about him the air of a man who expects to be obeyed, immediately, and the air of one not used to being contradicted. A less casual glance might give the impression that he was a man not quite ready for the authority he carried, or that perhaps the method of gaining that authority had been distasteful to him. A sense that the air of bluster about him was in danger of hardening into a shell.

He was waiting at the depot for his brother, holding a horse. Without a greeting, he said to Jarrod: "Isn't that Crown's private car?"

"Yes, it is," Jarrod agreed. "We had a little chat. I skimmed a few bills off him but the chat was otherwise unproductive."

"What's he here for?"

Jarrod shrugged. "Aside from the obvious? I don't know. The injunction doesn't expire for several weeks. Perhaps he'll try and sell the mortgage plan."

"And maybe he's selling something else. Guess who rolled into town two days ago."

Jarrod frowned. "I'm no good at guessing, Nick. I know it's not Jordan, since I left him in San Francisco yesterday. Who?"

"James Ledyard."

Jarrod gave a low whistle. "In the flesh? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Nick said dryly.

"Ledyard," Jarrod said meditatively. "You don't suppose--"

"Why else would he be here, Jarrod? And the fact that Crown's in town, now, too--well, that just makes it certain."

Jarrod's face had gone very solemn. "Crown didn't mention..." He looked at Nick. "If Ledyard is really here--"

"He's really here."

"And for Crown--Nick, we don't know it for certain. Ledyard may be here just to see if he can stick his nose in. You don't know that Crown's actually hired him."

Nick nodded, a little unwillingly. "Should we hire him--if Crown doesn't?"

"Nick," Jarrod said sharply, "I'm shocked. No, of course not."

"Hold on, Jarrod," Nick said. "You know how likely it is to get ugly again. We've only got a few weeks left and there's no settlement in sight. The idea of hiring Ledyard--well, it chokes me, too. But the others might not have such scruples."

"If they don't," Jarrod said through his teeth, "then I'm done with them, and I hope you are too." Jarrod thought for a moment. "I bet he's here on speculation. I can't believe Crown would stoop so low."

"I can't quite understand your faith in Crown," Nick growled.

"It's not his morals--although I think he has them, unlike Jordan. And I think he has a better sense of what's publicly acceptable than Jordan. He has to know that getting involved with a man like Ledyard will sink him even further with the legislature."

"The legislature," Nick sneered. "They haven't been able to stop Jordan yet."

"Not for lack of trying, Nick."

Ledyard. James Ledyard. Yes, it was a terrible name. Ledyard had supposedly gotten his start with Quantrill, raiding during the Civil War. Despite his Southern sympathies he'd done a brief spell with Pinkerton--just long enough to learn how to outwit the detective bureau. Since then, Ledyard had followed trouble, and profited from it mightily. He was a hard man with a talent for finding other hard men and putting them to ugly tasks. Ledyard had freelanced down in Mexico, selling his unique services first to one side and then to another. He'd been used in the Territories to drive out small stakeholders so big mining operations could consolidate their claims.

But Mexico, the Territories--they were different, more lawless places. Surely even James Ledyard couldn't operate with impunity in Stockton. Could he? A suspicion came over Jarrod. "You haven't tangled with Ledyard already, have you?"

Nick bristled. "No, of course not. What makes you think so?"

"You seemed upset from the minute you got here."

"Upset? Ledyard's here and now Crown's here. Shouldn't I be upset?"

"Something more than that," Jarrod pressed.

Nick shrugged. "I had a little trouble in town."

Heath's heart was still pounding when he reached town. That had been a near thing, closer than he liked to cut it. He knew racing trains was foolish, but he'd grown adept at figuring the angle and the speed, and the Gal had been restive after so many days in a livery stable; a little ride to Stockton wasn't enough to get all the kinks out.

Perhaps it was just the excitement of the race, perhaps it was something more. Riding into Stockton, with the train still behind him, he felt an itch of anticipation. Not purely pleasurable anticipation. More like the feeling you had when you were out with the herd and there was thunder in the air, a sense that something big might happen but that you could meet it. The feeling just before shots were fired.

It looked just like any other town, and it took no notice of him, though he felt conspicuous and even a little guilty. One good thing about these new towns, it was never hard to find a saloon. He pulled up at the first one he saw--The Piper--and went in. More than just trail dust making him thirsty.

He ordered a beer. Right behind him a big fella walked in like he owned the place. He pushed up to the bar between Heath and a miserable little fella hunched over a whiskey. He started in on the little fella right away.

"Thought I told you I didn't want to see your stinking carcass around here any more," the big fella snarled.

"I'm just havin a drink," the little fella mumbled.

"Well, have your drink in some other town. In some other county, more like, because you won't be getting any work in this one. I don't want to see hide or hair of you around here anymore, Powell. Now git."

The little fella didn't say anything, just hunched further over his glass. The lack of response seemed to make the big fella even angrier. "Did you hear me?"

"We all hear you," Heath said irritably.

"This ain't your business, mister," the big fella said.

"Is this here your bar?" Heath asked politely.

"What the--why are you asking that?"

"I'm just askin. Is this here your bar?"

"No, it ain't."

"Well, then," Heath said reasonably, "I don't reckon it's your business where the fella has a drink. If the owner don't mind why do you?"

"I'll tell you why I mind." The big fella stood up, pulled him up to his full height. He was clearly a cowboy, but he wore the nicest clothes Heath had ever seen on a cowhand, fine wool trousers and a snowy white shirt. His boots were shiny black. He wore big silver cutting spurs, so shiny you could see your reflection, and jingle bobs.

Heath thought: long arms, but I think I could take him. Those jingle bobs, it's a wonder he don't spook a whole herd. Heath had never liked wearing spurs and with the Gal under him he didn't need them, so closely attuned were they. He had a certain contempt for men who did wear them. You shouldn't get from a horse by pain what you couldn't get by persuasion. He knew some hands say you couldn't do proper cutting work without them, but he didn't believe it.

"You mind your own business, stranger," the big fella said warningly.

"You made it my business with your shoutin. This here's a public bar. You don't like the company, move along."

"You know what this man did?" the big fella said heatedly. "He hit a horse in the face."

Heath winced at that. But he was in no mood to back down to this big mouth. "So you say," he said coolly. "But why should I take your word on it?"

That was enough. With a gleam in his eye the big fella doffed his hat, started rolling up his sleeves. "I don't know who you think you are, son, but I'm gonna enjoy teaching you some manners."

"If you're gonna teach me," Heath drawled, "don't you reckon you oughta have some yourself?" He finished his beer, took off his hat, and languidly pushed away from the bar. He was going to enjoy this, too.

Just then a short, barrel-chested man hurried over, put out his stout arms to separate them. "I'll have no fightin in here, lads. Specially not so early in the day. Have your drink peaceable or take it outside."

"Piper--"

"Nick," the stout man said, "you're a fine broth of a boy and a finer customer. But it's not a month gone since you last busted some of my furniture, and I'll have no more of it."

"I paid," Nick snapped.

"Sure and you did, sure and you're always a gentleman afterwards. But, please, Nick, you're givin the place a bad name. And even if you pay it's a month or more waiting for new furniture, and where will my friends sit until then? No, I'll have no fightin in here." He turned to the little man. "Move along, you've been nursin that whiskey for more'n an hour."

"Now," Piper continued, "the trouble's gone. You two fine young fellas, belly up and have another one and shake hands on it. It's a fine day and not one for wastin on foolish arguments. If you'll sit down and drink together peaceable it's on the house."

The two eyed each other warily. Nick said, "I've got to meet the train." With a last look that promised a future engagement, Nick sauntered through the swinging doors.

Heath took the offer of a free round. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Oh, the local hothead," Piper said. "He's a fine man but a bit of a short fuse on him. You're lucky I was here to stop it."

Heath bridled a little at that. "I can take care of myself," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure you can, I'm sure you can," Piper said a little doubtfully.

Heath finished his drink and sauntered out himself. He half expected to find the big fella waiting for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, irresolute. He'd come to Stockton on a whim. Now that he was here, he had little idea of what to do.

Well, he thought, ain't gettin nothin done just standin here. He saw the sheriff's office and headed for it, thinking it was a likely place for directions. On his way he passed a big bay window with gold lettering. Jarrod Barkley, Attorney at Law. He grinned a little. Would that fancy lawyer have come bailed him out after a common barroom brawl? He doubted it. The lawyer looked too fancy even to set foot in a place like The Piper. Uncertainty hit him again. What was he doing here? What did he want from those people?

A name, he reminded himself. A name. A name that even barroom bullies would have to take note of. He walked on with greater determination.

He found the sheriff in. Politely, he asked, "Can you tell me how to get to the Barkley place?"

The sheriff was an amiable-looking middle-aged man with a pipe. Reminded Heath a little of Frank Sawyer. The sheriff stopped rocking and asked, "Why're you askin, son?"

"Lookin for work," Heath said impulsively. "Heard in Frisco they still needed hands."

The sheriff looked him over. The stranger was wearing boots, and his pants, though they were jeans more like a miner would wear, were worn on the inside of the knees, like a cowboy's. He decided this was on the level and gave him directions. He was a little surprised at how nicely the fella said thanks. Then he went back to his paper.

For Jarrod and Nick it was a quiet ride home. At the gates, Jarrod said, "I don't want any of this mentioned here. About Crown or Ledyard."

Nick nodded. "I agree with you on that. I don't want to raise any of this until it's absolutely necessary."

Audra was waiting for them on the porch, all smiles. As Ciego led the horses away, she hugged Jarrod. "It seems like every time you go away you stay away longer." She grinned. "What about this client I read about--a Miss Sellars? What did she do, Jarrod?" Her eyes were round and innocent.

Nick grinned too. "Yes, Jarrod, what about Miss Sellars? And how do you propose to help her?"

Jarrod mustered his dignity. "I can't break client-attorney confidentiality." He chucked Audra under the chin. "And you, reading the papers! You'll be off to Harvard next. Stay away from the papers, Audra, or at least the ones that mention Annie Sellars. You won't learn anything useful there."

A rider was approaching. Nick muttered, "Well, I'll be damned."

At the same moment Jarrod recognized the horse, and the rider. He stepped down off the porch. Nick, bristling, was right behind him. Audra, puzzled, followed them.

Heath pulled up in front of the group. He recognized the fella from the bar right away. Just his luck, he thought. He smiled a little. "Small world, ain't it?"

Jarrod smiled back. "I don't suppose you got any help from the city attorney in San Francisco."

"Don't suppose I did."

"I was on that train today," Jarrod said. "That's some pony you've got there."

This time the smile was real. "She's a runner," he said, patting the Gal's neck. "It's no contest, the way them things come off a turn."

"Mister," Nick said, "you've got about five seconds to get off this property. And then I'll throw you off."

"Nick," Jarrod said. He turned back to Heath. "What are you doing out this way?"

"Lookin for work. Heard you were still hirin."

"What can you do?"

"Jingler, hasher, haywaddy, cowprod. You name it, I've done it."

Jarrod turned back to Nick. "Hire him on, Nick."

"Now just a darn minute," Nick huffed. "We don't--"

"Aren't you still short?" Nick nodded, unwillingly. "Well, hire him on, then. He did me a favor today. You've complained for weeks you haven't been able to take on a full crew."

"What's your name?" Nick asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Heath."

Nick waited for more; it wasn't coming. "Last place you worked?"

Heath thought a moment, then decided to give his last cow job. "Corning. Man named Bailey."

"Just do it, Nick," Jarrod urged.

"We don't know a damned thing about him!"

"We know as much as we generally know about anyone we hire. Besides," Jarrod added, "I know he's pretty straight."

Nick snapped, "He's a troublemaker. In town--"

"Half the boys in the bunkhouse are troublemakers. Nick, you need the help. I don't ask you for favors often. Count this as one."

The two brothers looked hard at each other. Nick finally wavered. "See McCall in the bunkhouse. He'll get you settled in. It's twenty dollars a month."

Heath frowned. "In Frisco they said twenty-five."

"Twenty-five," Jarrod said agreeably. "Come on, Nick, I bet Mother's got tea on the back veranda."

Unwillingly Nick followed Jarrod, a hot look over his shoulder that promised: this ain't finished. Heath met the look coolly.

He turned his horse toward the corral. The girl stepped up. "I'm Audra Barkley," she said.

Fine-looking girl. His sister. Was she always this forward? "Glad to hear it," he said, tipped his hat, and trotted off. He felt her eyes on him the whole way.

There was tea on the back porch. Victoria had been cutting some early roses. She rose to greet Jarrod with a kiss. "I do believe you're putting on weight, Jarrod. You really must spend more time down here and get some more exercise."

"If I don't get more hands soon," Nick said, "you may have to peel off them city duds and lend a hand."

"I think not, brother," Jarrod said lightly. "I just found you a substitute. You should be more grateful."

Nick slammed down the glass. A wonder it didn't break. "He's an arrogant, interfering--"

"He's a cowhand, and you need one," Jarrod said bluntly.

"Who on earth are you talking about?" Victoria asked.

"Jarrod has taken over the hiring," Nick growled. "And that's what he came up with." He pointed.

Heath had reached the corral and jumped easily out of the saddle, leaving the dark little pony hitched to a fence. He headed for the bunkhouse. But he turned as he walked, looked over his shoulder, a long look at the group on the porch.

The look irritated Nick: arrogant bastard, I'll show you, he thought. The look pleased Audra, for she thought it was for her. The look intrigued Jarrod: he felt instinctively this was no ordinary cowhand, but what was it?

And Victoria. She told herself, they all have that walk, that long-legged rolling stride. It was nothing unusual. But if that were true, why did her blood run cold at that look?

"Mother," Jarrod said with concern, "you shivered. I hope you're not catching a chill. Perhaps you shouldn't be out in the garden in the heat of the day."

Victoria tried to shake the unease. "It's not a chill," she said. "Just--just a ghost walking over my grave."

It was so rare to hear such superstition from her. All three of her children were unnerved. She saw it, and moved quickly to change the subject.

The next few days passed in hard work. Heath loved ranch work, loved being in the saddle from dawn til dusk, he loved even the heat and the dust. Good to be back where he belonged. But his natural isolation was even stronger here. He might look like the other hands; for the time being he wanted to taken for just another hand. But he knew he wasn't, and he couldn't be quite easy around the others.

Heath understood he was being tested by Nick. He took a certain grim amusement from this. Boss Nick Barkley on his big liver chestnut with the creamy mane: what would he do if he knew the grimy man he was running around was his own brother? How would the boss handle taking orders rather than giving them?

How big would he be if he knew his pride was built on the ruin of one innocent young woman?

Anger was mostly what he felt, anger and envy and a strange twisted kind of sadness. Anger at all these people seemed to think they were, when the truth was they were liars and hypocrites. People talked like Tom Barkley was some kind of saint, protector of the little man. He could tell these fools a tale or two.

Envy--he hated it but it was awake and restless in him. That fine house, with the deep porches and the big columns and the roses growing around. He couldn't begin to imagine what it looked like inside. Like one of them fancy Frisco hotels, no doubt, but he'd never stepped over the threshold of one those, either. No doubt there was velvet and gold and plenty of light even at nightfall. And not just the house but the stables, too, with rows of fine riding horses, blooded stock, big handsome draft animals. Not just to own them but to know all their names, hear their soft nickering in welcome.

Apparently having a late afternoon drink on the back porch was a habit. You couldn't see them all out like that without thinking--against your will, of course--that they made a nice picture. A family. No place for him there, no hole. He wasn't missing from the picture, he just didn't belong in it. Just like the Gal, for all her worth, would have looked wrong among those blooded animals.

At night he lay awake long after snoring filled the bunkhouse, wondering. Why, Mama? Why didn't you tell him? Did you know he wouldn't want us? Want me? This big house, all this land, all those animals--did she know? Did she know what Barkley had, did she lay awake at night wondering if she were doing the right thing, if she were right to hide the truth? No wonder she'd needed the refuge of those little bottles...

No, that was disloyal. Easier to be angry, easier to hate them for the wrong done her all those years. Easier to focus on the long-ago harm done by a stranger than any more recent hurts he might have dealt himself. Easier to think of her young and wronged and noble than to remember the scar in the ground and the crude cross.

Still--he did not know what to do. He was here; he was seeing a world he'd never imagined. But what good did it do? What did he want? Even as envy hollowed his stomach with wanting, a sadder voice told him it was all pointless. The law said they owed him nothing, and the world would say just the same. What did he want from them? What could he take without choking?

But he stayed.

Yes, he was being tested. Nick watched him like a hawk. He told himself it was senseless dislike sprung instantly from that encounter at Piper's. And yet he knew it was more than that. There was something wrong with that cowhand, something that didn't ring true. He was a cowhand, sure enough, he knew his way around a ranch as well as anybody. And that horse--well, she wasn't what you'd call pretty, but she was one of those rare animals, a tight bundle of brains and nerve and speed. Man and horse moved as one. His Coco was as fine a cutting horse as you'd find, but Coco was from the finest stock and had been trained by the best.

All right--so the stranger was really a cowhand. Fine. But Corning was awful far away. What cowhand rode that far looking for a job? How many spreads--and real spreads, not poky little one-horse operations--had he pased by? Ten? Twenty? Late in the season, too. If not for this trouble with the railroad, making the hands all nervous, they'd have been full up weeks ago.

Already he had a reputation among the men as a loner. One man swore he'd worked with him way down south three-four years ago, and the fella was one heck of a card player. If it was true, the stranger had no more interest in cards, for he turned down more than a few hands. Who ever heard of a player turning down a game?

And the name. He'd offered nothing more than that one word. Who on earth only had one name?

No, this bird meant trouble. As if Nick didn't have enough on his hands, working with a short crew. And all that railroad mess on his mind. Crown. Ledyard. The injuction, expiring. Folks would be looking to the Barkleys to show the way, as they always had. Which way would they go? Nick knew that, in his rational mind, Jarrod favored taking the railroad up on some modified version of the mortgage plan. End the controversy, end the bloodshed, find a way for the farmers to keep their land without risking defeat in the courts.

Nick was smart enough to know that Jarrod was probably right. It wasn't a terribly fair solution, but it might be the best that could be achieved. But he couldn't accept it. The railroad had become a mortal enemy, one that couldn't be trusted or compromised with. Force--revenge--that was the only thing that would settle the matter to his satisfaction.

It was not until Saturday that these two separate strains of thought came together.

Audra had been intrigued with the new hand from the start. She knew Nick didn't appreciate her hanging around, didn't approve of her dating the hands. As if it were any of her business. It wasn't her fault that they all took it too seriously and more than a few rode off after she tired of them. She knew her mother didn't really approve, either. But what else was she to do? In a town like Stockton there were cowboys and farmers and precious little else. And she had no desire for anything else.

And this one--well, he was particularly fine. Not as tall as Nick, but broad-shouldered and broad-chested and with good strong-looking arms. And something more. Something electric. In the afternoons she hung about the back porch, idly, watching. And she knew he was watching them with a covert intensity. Watching her, she thought.

That Saturday afternoon she caught him in the stables. He'd been given the inglorious job of cleaning out the draft horses' stable. In the heat of the afternoon it was unpleasant work.

She hung about the door. "I see Nick's giving you all the good jobs."

He looked up, smiled a little. "If this is a good one I don't want to see a bad one."

She sauntered in. "How do you like it here?"

"Fine," he said tersely.

"It's Saturday night," she said. "I know a bunch of the boys are going into town tonight. You going with them?"

"No," he said. "Ain't got paid yet."

"Perhaps you'd like to do something closer to home. Take a walk. Or a ride."

He put down the rake. She was the most brazen girl he'd seen outside a cheap saloon. He had no idea nice girls--shouldn't the only daughter of a house like this be a nice girl--talk like that. "You always this forward?"

She thought about it. Then she smiled. "Yes, I am. And I don't think of it as being forward. Just--forthright."

He went back to work. If you only knew. "Well, miss, I don't reckon it's a good idea. You never know who you'll find yourself bein forthright with."

"Oh, I think I'm safe enough."

He shook his head a little and went on working. Hands on her hips, she said, "Is it my manners you don't like, or me?"

He bit back a smile. "Your manners," he said finally.

She fumed. "Of all the nerve--as if you would know--as if you' d presume--"

Heath looked up to see Nick framed in the doorway, just behind Audra. "If you don't like my presumption," he said, "maybe you'll like his." He jerked his chin toward Nick.

Audra turned to see her big brother, frowning. With a disappointed toss of her head, she stomped off. The two men looked hard at each other, before Nick also turned away, puzzled. His sister infuriated him, but he knew most men found her more than attractive. But this fellow hadn't shown the least interest, though Audra had been more forward than usual.

Then, Nick thought, maybe I am unfair. Maybe he's not such a bad fellow. Then, remembering the crack about Audra's manners, he actually found himself smiling a little. Maybe he wasn't such a bad fellow at all. He went back.

Heath was finished. He splashed water over his face, then reached for his gunbelt to put it back on.

The gun caught Nick's eye. This cowhand wasn't carrying any ordinary gun. It was a Colt, blue-black, and it was clear the gun had been meticulously kept. It was the top of the line, the best weapon Colt made. What was this cowhand doing with a gun like that?

"Where'd you say you're from?" Nick growled.

"I didn't," Heath said. He wrung out his bandana and put it around his neck. If you only knew. He grinned and left Nick there, fuming.

Nick thought: he's no ordinary cowhand. And I'm going to find out why he's here.

By nine o'clock darkness had fallen. The bunkhouse was empty but for one quiet table of card players; everyone else was in town. Nick found Heath on sitting on the steps, smoking. "I want to talk to you," Nick growled.

"So talk," Heath said pleasantly.

"I want to know what you're doing here."

Heath grinned. "Last I looked I was muckin out stalls. Them's some mighty big horses."

"That's not what I meant. Why are you here?"

"Workin."

"But why here? Why come all the way from Corning?"

"I didn't come all the way from Corning. Worked in Corning last summer. Bailey let me go at the end of the year. Worked up on the Klamath this winter."

Nick frowned. "That's even farther. You can't expect me to believe you rode three hundred miles for a twenty-five dollar job."

"Top dollar," Heath smiled. "Look, mister, there's no mystery. I didn't start lookin til last week. Yours was the only place still hirin."

Nick shook his head. "You won't put me off that easily. I know you're lying. I know you're here for another reason."

"Really?" Heath was only mildly surprised. They know, he thought. They've known about me all along. Anger started bubbling beneath his smooth surface.

"Crown sent you here, didn't he? Or was it Ledyard? Which is it?"

Now Heath was genuinely puzzled; this wasn't a turn he'd expected. "Crown? Ledyard? Who're they?"

"Don't fool me with me, boy. I seen that gun you're packing. No way a simple cowhand carries a weapon like that."

It was true; the gun had been a gift from Frank Sawyer some years ago. It was a finer weapon than he would have ever bought himself. He grinned again. "Maybe I got a rich daddy," he said softly.

"The hell you do. You're a hired gun. You work for Coastal & Western."

"The hell I do," Heath snapped. A hired gun! For the railroad! This brother of his sure had a vivid imagination.

"You tell me the truth, boy. I demand the truth."

Heath stood up, ground out the remains of his smoke. A slow smile came over his face, but there was no mirth in it. "You don't want the truth, mister. And I ain't tellin you no more than I told til I'm good and ready. You don't like it, you fire me. But you ain't got the right to no more."

Nick saw red. All the evasions: he knew what it meant. It meant this fellow was the lowest, dirtiest sort of dog to walk the earth. Come out here, work with them, try to be one of them, all the while scheming against them in the worst way. And all for the railroad's dirty money. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said.

"You might enjoy the startin of it," Heath said, "but I promise you won't like the endin of it."

Nick was taller and he had longer arms, but Heath was heavier. They were pretty evenly matched and it was a long but inconclusive struggle. The card players had drifted over to the window to watch the spectacle.

Finally, his lip bloody, his hands bruised, gasping for breath, Nick slowly pulled himself up on his feet. "Who are you, boy?" he rasped. "Who are you?"

Heath got to his feet slowly. He felt as bad as Nick looked. "Your father's bastard son."

The few remaining hands were watching, rapt. Nick caught a glance of their eager faces. He grabbed Heath by the shirt and dragged him into the house.

It was surprisingly quiet in the house. For all the finery of the house they were country people and went to bed early, even on Saturdays. Neither Audra nor Jarrod were either entertaining or out visiting. Nick's voice, bellowing for Jarrod, reverberated.

Nick pushed Heath into a big room, with a wall full of books and a billiard table. A heavy desk stood off to one side. And on the wall, a portrait. Tom Barkley in his vigorous middle age, heavy but healthy-looking, bearded and balding. For a long moment Heath stood before the portrait, looking both for any familiar feature and wondering what the man might have like twenty-some years ago. Nothing in the portrait seemed likely to tempt a virtuous and timid young woman into sin.

Jarrod, struggling into a shirt, came into the room. "What the devil is all this shouting about? Nick, you know what time it is, they've gone to bed--"

Through his teeth, Nick managed, "You have to hear this."

"Well?" Jarrod said.

Heath turned to face the two men. His brothers. Adversaries. "So this is what it is," he said softly. "Well, I wondered."

"He thinks," Nick hissed, "that he's father's bastard son."

Jarrod's jaw dropped. He quickly recovered and said, "I presume you have some proof--of this relation?"

"I have," he said. In some part of his mind he was amazed how easily the words came, how telling his mother's story gave him a power, a confidence his words had never had before. "She'd written it in the Bible," he finished, "and this was in the back." He handed Jarrod the clipping.

In bold letters it said, Gunfight in the Valley--Tho. Barkley, Six Others Shot. Jarrod looked it over. "What mining camp was this?"

"Strawberry," Heath said.

A quick look passed between Jarrod and Nick. The answer shook them a little. Strawberry; they knew their father had been there, knew he'd owned property there. A long time ago--Jarrod was old enough to know that it had been just about twenty-five years ago. Still: it was hardly proof.

Nick gave a nervous bark of laughter. "A lone widow in a mining camp. I can guess how she made her living."

Hotly, Heath said, "Don't you dare talk her down. She wasn't--she wasn't like that. She was a good woman--a lady. If it hadn't been for him..."

"A touching story," Jarrod said when he could finally trust his voice. "Very touching. But hardly believable." He reached for his wallet. "Still, even though it's hardly believable, there are people who could be hurt by it. What do you really want? Three hundred? Four?"

Heath shook his head slowly. "You ain't brushin me off that easy."

"Listen here, you miserable bastard--"

That was a word that made Heath see red. "No, you listen. He is my father. He is. And you ain't dumpin me the way he dumped her."

"Look," Jarrod said quickly. "I don't doubt that you honestly believe this. But anything can be written in a Bible. And the clipping--well, anyone might have cut that out. It's hardly proof. And if you knew my parents--you'd understand how unbelievable this is. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But it's just not true." He counted out five hundred dollars. "I realize you've come a long way for nothing. Take this for your trouble." He put the money in Heath's shirt pocket, along with the clipping. "But I warn you, if you repeat that sorry, you'll find yourself in trouble with the law for slander. And if you try to come around this place again you'll find even more trouble with the law. I won't stand for any further interference with the family. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Heath said bitterly. "Meanin you're rich enough and powerful enough to step on me just like he stepped on her. You think. Well, I ain't some poor helpless widow. You won't put me down so easy." He took the money out, threw it down. "That it? That the final word?"

"It's all you'll get from us."

"I want to--"

"That's it," Jarrod said harshly. "And you'll leave this house, and this property, immediately. Or you'll be taken off by force. And I warn you, any attempt to contact any member of this family--any member, do you hear me?--will bring severe consequences. And if I ever hear that you've been spreading this tale around, you'll buy more trouble than your fists can ever get you out of."

Heath looked back and forth between the two stony faces. His own was equally set. "Well," he drawled, "we'll see about that. You can throw me out but you can't change the truth. Not that I reckon you'll have any trouble livin with it." He pushed past the two men. He paused at the door of the library and looked up at the portrait one more time. Well, he figured, I reckon this is as close as I ever get. He'd seen the look that had passed between those two; he knew the name Strawberry had struck a nerve. They know, he thought. Fine passel of sons you got yourself. And then he walked away, slowly.

Nick and Jarrod were motionless until they heard the front door close. "Well," Nick said. "At least he wasn't a hired gun for the railroad."

Jarrod had picked up the clipping. To himself, "Why do you suppose...why would anyone have..."

Nick said sharply, "My God, Jarrod, you almost sound as if you believe it!"

Jarrod roused himself from his reverie. "No, Nick, of course I don't. Believe that Father would have--no, of course not. Of course I don't believe it. I just wonder--I just wonder what she could have been thinking. His mother."

Nick sneered, "What makes you think his mother had anything to do with it? He's probably just making that up. And the clipping--who knows where he found it or why he saved it. Probably for just this purpose."

Probably. Perhaps the young man was an accomplished blackmailer. And yet--and yet he'd been in court, trying to use peaceful, formal means to settle his problem. He'd seemed like a solid young man. And Strawberry--Strawberry, twenty some years ago...

"Nick," he said slowly. "This may be hard to keep quiet. The hands may have heard. He may have talked. I don't want this discussed here if we can avoid it. Mother--well, you can imagine how she would feel. This last year has been hard on her. So..."

"Of course," Nick said quickly. "Of course I won't bring it up. And if any of the hands spread this around--well, they can look for another job."

Struggling for lightness, Jarrod said, "Can you afford that? You've just lost another hand."

"We'll manage."

Nick left. Jarrod stayed in the billiard room for a few more moments. He, too, looked up at the portrait. It was a good likeness, taken a few years ago. He could see a resemblance.

Oh, nonsense, he thought suddenly. It's just surprise and nerves. Not such a fine judge of character as you think. Years of practicing criminal law should have taught you more. Shouldn't trust favorable impressions of strangers. Behind any friendly face...No, let it go. Too many other things to worry about, the railroad most importantly. He went up the stairs.

"Jarrod," a voice called out. "Jarrod, what was all that commotion?"

The door was ajar. He pushed it open. His mother sat at her vanity, rigid, staring sightlessly at her hairbrush. Jarrod thought: the damage already done. Would it be possible to contain? "It's nothing," he said softly. "Just some trouble with one of the hands. It's been taken care of."

He turned to the bed. "It's nothing to worry about, Father. It's been taken care of."

The gunfight at Apple Hill hadn't killed Tom Barkley, but it had been a near thing, and he had never completely recovered. Through sheer stubbornness and force of will he had learned to walk again, and he refused to give into his weakness by taking a room on the ground floor. Instead he insisted on struggling up and down the stairs by himself, though he could manage no more than one trip a day.

He had been forced to give up daily management of his growing financial empire. His sons were more than ready to step in and take over, but he was not yet quite ready to let go, and he questioned his sons closely on all major matters. He remained especially interested in the ranch, since it was still under his nose and because in general he believed Nick to be less thoughtful than Jarrod, more likely to act badly on impulse and regret it later.

He hadn't caught the tenor of the dispute the night before; it had just registered with him as an unpleasant amount of noise at an inconsiderate hour. But Victoria had, for she had gone rigid and silent and refused to discuss the matter. From Jarrod's manner, too, he could tell something unusual had occurred.

Nick escorted his mother and sister to church that morning. Tom settled in the library, where he spent most of his days, and had Jarrod summoned. "Now," he said without flourish, "I want to know what was going on last night. And for God's sake don't treat me as if my heart would go off at the least excitement. What in the devil's name happened?"

Seated behind the desk all of his recent infirmities were hidden, and Tom Barkley looked as formidable as when Jarrod had been ten and caught playing hooky. Jarrod knew there was nothing that angered his father more than the realization that people were tiptoeing about him in deference to his weakened state of health. He knew better than to hold back. "A hand we hired a few days ago--we didn't really know anything about him." Jarrod took a breath. "He claims to be your son. Can you imagine?"

"What utter rot," Tom growled. "I trust you showed him the door."

"Of course. Immediately. And I pointed out the unfortunate consequences inherent on his spreading this tale any further. I don't think he will. But if he does, Father, I want to pursue him as far as the law allows--if you're amenable."

"Certainly I'm amenable. I don't believe in wasting time on pointless gestures. But in protecting the name--well, of course we must use the law when we have no other recourse." Tom stroked his beard. "I suppose Nick took this rather badly."

"Well...he didn't much like the man. I talked him into hiring Heath. So I don't suppose Nick was very surprised or upset." Jarrod added hastily, "Of course he didn't believe it, Father."

"Of course not." Tom shook his head. "The arrogance, the presumption. How anyone could think I would yield to such blackmail."

"Perhaps he thought the issue would never reach you. I suppose he hoped we'd pay him off to keep the story from you and Mother."

"Indeed. I assume--I hope--you gave him nothing."

Jarrod hesitated. "Well, Father, to be honest, I did offer him money--just a little. He refused."

"He refused...How much, Jarrod?"

"Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred! That's a lot for a common saddle tramp to turn down." He frowned. "How on earth did he think he'd get away with this?"

"He claimed it was written in a family Bible, if you can believe. And his mother had kept a clipping about the shooting at Apple Hill."

"Absurd. I hope we don't run into anybody else that inventive."

"There was one more thing," Jarrod said quietly.

"Well?" Tom said finally. "I'm waiting."

"He's from Strawberry," Jarrod said. "He's twenty-four years old and he's from Strawberry."

"Strawberry? Strawberry..." Tom grew quiet. Then: "And what was this fellow's name?"

"Heath," Jarrod said. "Heath was all he said."

"Not his mother's name? He didn't mention that?"

"No," Jarrod said, his uneasiness growing. "Why?"

"He had nothing else?" Tom said. "Just a clipping?"

"Just a clipping and the story," Jarrod said. "Father, you're being rather mysterious. Did I do right by not calling you?"

Distracted, Tom said, "Yes, of course you did right, Jarrod. Now, if you don't mind, I need to review these books. I'll see you at dinner. And Jarrod--if you have any more trouble with this matter, I want to be informed. Close the door on the way out."

When Jarrod was gone he took a deep, raggedy breath, gasping as if he'd been underwater. Strawberry. Twenty-four years old. Good God! The things you could forget, the things you made yourself forget and never think about. Good God.

No wonder Victoria had gone so stony. She must have heard enough to understand what had gone on last night. He had never told her the truth, but all those years ago she'd guessed most of it, had never truly believed his denials. Now all her old suspicions would be rekindled and fed.

Was it possible? It was. But how unlikely! How unlikely that that one act...Why had he never heard of it? Why on earth wouldn't Leah have contacted him? She had been in fairly desperate straits then. To bear also the burden of a child, and an illegitimate one at that. Impossible. She would have contacted him. And the letter. Jarrod hadn't mentioned the letter. Surely, if he were Leah's son, he would have the letter.

You don't know that, he thought. She might have thrown it away. She might have been angry enough, and disappointed enough, to throw it away. No, he thought, it cannot be. Cannot be. How many people might have remembered his long stay in Strawberry? Any number of people. And what a good choice for a blackmailer and fabricator, for Tom had heard the town was nearly deserted these days.

Yes, it was impossible. It could not be. Yet why did he feel cold, and uneasy? He wished now Jarrod hadn't been so considerate, he wished he might have laid eyes on the stranger. He would have been easier in his mind. He would have known right away, comfortingly, that the man was an impostor. Now the doubt would claw at his mind. Worse, the doubt was already in Victoria. How strongly did Nick feel it? Nick would be the last to believe. But Jarrod--he could see doubt was already whispering in Jarrod's ear.

Impossible, he thought. Impossible. But he could not get back to the tedium of the ranch books.

Late that afternoon Silas came into the library after a gentle knock. He carried a folded piece of paper. "Rider from town just brought this in, Mr. Tom. He asked I was supposed to give it you directly and personally and privately. Here it is."

Tom looked over the note briefly. Then, he said slowly, "I suppose you realize there was some trouble here last night."

"Yes, sir," Silas said. Always better to tell Mr. Tom the truth.

Tom refolded the note. "I want the buggy at nine o'clock tonight, Silas. And on no condition are you to tell Mrs. Barkley or any one else in the house. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir. But, sir, don't you need--"

"I won't need any help," Tom said testily. More gently, he added, "I'm relying on you, Silas. I want to--take care of that matter that came up last night. It's in everybody's best interest if I can do so tonight, and alone. You will help me?"

Silas thought: Mrs. Barkley ain't gonna like this one bit. But what else could he do? "Surely, sir, I'll help you. I'll see the buggy's ready nine o'clock. I'll find you then."

"Thank you, Silas."

When Silas was gone Tom reopened the note. It was brief and to the point. Meet me at 10 p.m. the alley behind Pipers. Your son Heath.

Impossible. Impossible. Your son Heath. Impossible not to go.

Heath woke up late on Sunday afternoon. His mouth was bone dry, his mind full of cobwebs. The late afternoon light was still strong enough to make him squint. He sat up, carefully, took a slow look around. A hotel room, no doubt; but what hotel, and how had he gotten here?

He'd ridden away from the Barkley place, anger mixed with shame and misery. He wished he'd never gone there, never exposed himself to their contempt and their contemptible threats. Just giving them another chance to feel big. Pushing that money in his pocket, as if he were a common thief, a blackmailer, just dirt to be brushed away.

Five hundred dollars! It was a powerful lot of money, more than he'd ever hand in his hands by a factor of ten or more. And yet it was an insult, an insult. That house, that family, that name, all of it belonged to him just as much as the others.

And they'd turned him away without even letting him see the old man. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered. Perhaps he'd been just as quick to show the door. But at least Heath would know then, know the old man was as low as his sons. At least then Heath would feel clean in quitting them. Now he'd never know whether the old man would have been straight with him or not.

Fool, he thought. Fool fool fool. You know what those folks are like. They ain't wantin a dirty mistake like you sniffing around the door. The law! Yes, folks like that were always quick to call on the law. Law was always on their side: they wrote it for themselves and they used it to suit themselves. What about justice? What about what was fair? Well, that wouldn't matter. Not so long as folk like that held the key to the law.

But the shame--oh, the shame was the worst of it. How right Mama had been! How right she'd been to stay away from those folks. She'd had more sense than to go whining and sniffling around their door, hoping to be let in. More sense than to put out a hand for them to spit in. Oh, Mama, he thought incoherently. Why did I? What do I?

He rode into Stockton. His intent was to ride on through and keep riding, whatever way the road took him. He couldn't get away from this place or its humiliating rejection fast enough. Yet he slowed his horse as he rode through. A drink. Yes, he needed a drink. The noise and the distraction would be welcome, too. So he pulled up before one of the saloons, jumped down, and strode in.

There were some hands he knew in there drinking or gaming. He brushed them off brusquely and headed for the end of the bar. Anger had given him a terrible thirst. He dashed down two or three before he looked around. Games going on. One table a hand short. He didn't recognize any men at the table. Good. He joined them.

Anger made him reckless, but it didn't make him unlucky. He won, and he won. As the night wore away so did the other players, til it was just him and a man in a handsome suit, with a face lined by the sun. Pleasant fellow. Didn't seem to mind losing. In the mood to talk. Heath wasn't, not at first. But when it got down to just him and this other fellow--Jim, was it?--he went back to drinking. Whiskey loosened his tongue.

Groaning, Heath reached for his wallet. No doubt he'd been plucked clean. That Jim fellow was a sharpie, stringing him along. For all his prowess at cards he'd been skinned just like another pidgeon.

No; ol' Jim must have been one big-hearted fellow, for Heath's wallet still bulged with money he'd won the night before. He had a vague memory of Jim steering him up the stairs. Well. The stranger's kindness was both a balm and a goad. He was grateful, knowing he could have been rolled good and proper last night. Yet it was galling to think that he'd been shown such kindness by a complete stranger in a bar, while his own kin, just a few miles away, had shown him the door.

His head still hollow, he made his way carefully downstairs. To the clerk he said, "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing," the clerk said primly. These drunken yahoos! And their unsavory friends. "Your friend paid you up through the week."

Well--that was a friend indeed. In that case, Heath thought, he might get a bite to eat--and a little hair of the dog--and then get some more sleep. There would be time to ride out tomorrow--when, hopefully, his head would be a good deal quieter and his tongue less rough.

"Hey," the clerk called. "You--just a moment. You're Heath, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said warily. "What about it?"

"You've got a note."

Surprised, he took the note and read it over. He was even more surprised when he looked up. "Who left this here?"

"I don't know," the clerk sniffed. "It was here when I came on duty." Looking Heath over, he added, "The barber's open til five. It's not too late for a shave. If you're planning on eating in the dining room."

Another time he would have taken the words for the insult they intended. Now, though, he just nodded and headed for the barber. A shave wasn't such a bad idea. Shame he didn't have a clean shirt, but he could surely find one he hadn't slept in.

It was odd; it was damned odd. And it was likely to end badly. But there was a strange excitement humming through his head, which had stopped throbbing. He couldn't imagine what had brought on this change, and he couldn't quite imagine what would come next. He half hated himself for feeling a sudden lift, but he felt it.

Freshly shaven, fed, he went back to his room to wait. A few minutes before ten he got up. Instinct made him reach for his gunbelt, but he thought better of it. The gun had just made them suspicious before. Best to leave it here. He hid it in a way Frank had taught him years ago.

He looked at the note one more time. Meet me at 10 p.m. the alley behind Pipers. Thomas Barkley.

That evening Nick came looking for Jarrod, his face grim. "Did you tell Father about last night?"

Jarrod sighed. "Yes, Nick, I did. He knew something was wrong. I thought it was better to tell him."

"Well, it may be wrong, but not in the way we think. I think that whole story last night was a sham--just a trick to get close to Father."

"Why on earth would you think that?" Jarrod asked, genuinely puzzled.

"He hasn't left town," Nick said. "And guess who he was playing cards with last night?"

Jarrod frowned. "I don't know. What does it matter?"

"It matters," Nick said sharply, "because he was playing with James Ledyard."

"Ledyard? How do you know?"

"A few of the hands saw him last night. Very late. He'd been playing with Ledyard and the two were having quite a long, cozy chat." Nick pounded a fist into his palm. "I should have realized it sooner. That story--that was just rubbish."

"Ledyard," Jarrod said slowly. This was a turn he hadn't expected. Then: "Nick...Does that make any sense? If he were working for Ledyard, trying to get close to Father--why be seen in public with him? And, as a practical matter, what good would it do to get close to Father?"

"To kill him," Nick said. "Their hired guns failed at Apple Hill. Jarrod, you didn't see the gun he was carrying. It was no ordinary weapon. I think he's a hired gun, Jarrod. Of the worst sort."

"Nick...Even if he could get close to Father, how could he hope to get away?"

Nick waved an impatient hand. "Who knows? Jarrod, you know as well as I do that Father is still important to this fight. Even in his condition--you know people are looking to him. To lead them. They need him, Jarrod. Without him they might just lose heart and give in."

Jarrod frowned. The last part was true enough. But this sort of scheme--was even Hannibal Jordan low enough to try such a trick? And if so--couldn't he have come up with a better story?

But--Nick was right; Father needed to be told. What a relief if Nick were right. That would mean that Jarrod's own vague suspicion, his sense of his father's uneasiness, would be baseless. "Let's see if we can find Father alone," Jarrod said. "There's still no need to disturb Mother."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem. Mother's upstairs, helping Audra with a new dress. We can catch him before he goes up for the night."

But Tom was not in the library. Nor was he in the parlor, or the dining room, or the kitchen. Nor was he upstairs. The brothers met up on the stairs. "Where on earth could he be?" Jarrod whispered.

"I don't know," Nick answered. "But he sure isn't in the house. You check the front porch and I'll check the back."

But their search was fruitless. They were beginning to be uneasy. Jarrod went to Silas's door and knocked softly. "Where is he, Silas?"

Silas looked at them in turn. Then he said softly, "I can't rightly say, Mr. Jarrod."

"Silas," Jarrod said urgently, "I know you want to respect Father's confidence. But he could be in danger. We have to know where he is."

"I don't know for sure, Mr. Jarrod. Mr. Barkley got a note this afternoon--personal. One of the hands brung it back from town. I don't know what it said, Mr. Jarrod. But your pa, he asked for a buggy at nine o'clock. That's all I know."

"Thank you, Silas," Jarrod said. "You did the right thing. Father will understand."

They turned to see Victoria. "What on earth is going on? And where is your father?"

"He's--he's in town," Nick stuttered. "We're just about to go in too."

"At this hour?" Victoria said dryly. "Be sure you saddle my horse, too, Nicholas. I'll be down directly."

"Mother, there's no need--"

She faced them squarely, hands on hips. "This has something to do with that young man, doesn't it?"

Jarrod nodded sheepishly.

"In that case," she said, "I think I'd best come along. And we'd best hurry, because your father has a good head start."

An alley: strange place for a meeting. But private, at least, far from wagging tongues and prying eyes. It was a Sunday night, but Piper, for all his claims to be a good Congregationalist, saw nothing wrong in keeping his doors open until midnight, even on Sunday. This particular evening he'd even been moved to get out his bagpipes, despite groans from the middling-sized crowd. Soon the wailing of the bagpipes joined the tinkling piano. The sound rolled over the alley.

Tom got there first and parked his buggy in the back, not wanting to be recognized. He got down with difficulty and waited, pacing a little. He was certain he'd be met by an impostor, or a madman. And yet--yet there was a strange anticipation running through him. Was it possible? Leah: sweet, gentle Leah, with her delicate coloring and her fine little features, her shy smile. He had shunned the memory for more than twenty years. He knew how dangerous that memory was, the power that gentle spirit had briefly exercised over him. To give into those sweet but illicit memories--that was the road to perdition.

And then he came. The light was dim, but Tom saw well enough. From a distance he might have been any young cowboy. But closer up--closer up Tom saw, and knew. He had been a young man once, and those shoulders had been his, that neat waist had been his. The boy's mother wasn't totally absent; that finely molded, sensitive mouth had been her's. His heart stopped momentarily, then began again, but its beat was thick and irregular. My son. He is my son.

The young man approached him. His expression was neutral, but the stiffness in his walk bespoke his uneasiness. Neither one spoke, each waiting for the other to make the first gesture.

Over his son's shoulder Tom saw another man appear out of the shadows. He frowned, at first disappointed that privacy had been lost. Then he realized the man had a gun. "No," he said.

The report from the gun hit Tom like a blow. He saw his son's head snap sideways and then he fell, as quickly and shapelessly as a puppet with the strings cut. He stepped forward, trying to put himself between the gunman and his son's motionless body. He fumbled for his gun. He had never been very fast with a gun, and his injuries had made him even slower. He wasn't sure how many shots there were. He fell to his knees and then over his son.

He'd been close to death once before and he knew death had him this time, there would be no miraculous escape. The terrible irony of it--to see the boy just those few seconds, to see him cut down before his very eyes. Those last moments were terrible ones.

It was the smell. Stomach-turning mixture of blood and death. He'd smelt it before. Panic rose in him. There was a terrible weight on him, pinning him down. Deadweight. In the darkness and confusion he didn't even know what it was. He struggled to free himself.

There was blood in his eyes. A terrible pounding in his head. He couldn't even lift his head, or get to his feet. But panic was driving him forward. They would kill him. They would come back and kill him. He had to get away, however he could. On his hands and knees, crawling, barely able to lift his head out of the dust.

He struggled; he moved so slowly. He reached the end of the alley, thought for a brief moment he would escape. Shiny black boots barred his path. Shiniest black boots he'd ever seen.

He was done for; he knew it. Don't just die here like a dog; rise up like a man, he told himself. He couldn't quite make it. He got as far as his knees before darkness overwhelmed him.

Those few minutes in the alley were the worst in Nick Barkley's life. He scarcely recognized the man who crawled toward him, who reared up on his knees before toppling to the side. The face was sheeted in blood, the hair was matted with blood, the shirt front was soaked in blood. Nick felt a nameless, strangling fear. Then, he saw the motionless form further back in the alley. He had no trouble recognizing that man. Instinctively he reached for his gun.

Jarrod grabbed his hand. "No, Nick, don't!"

Nick turned to his brother, all his anguish in his twisted mouth, his voice. "He killed him! He killed him! It's right, it's--"

"It's wrong." Even at this moment Jarrod could stay calm, remember the facts. "Leave it to the law," he said. Then, remembering, he whirled to see his mother's pale, still face. "Mother--you shouldn't--"

She put up a hand to still his words and walked past her sons. She knelt by her husband. One look told her he was dead. There was no breath, no movement, no spark. His gun lay only a few inches from his hand. Surprised at her own control, she said, "One of you ought to go for the sheriff. And Merar, too, just to be sure."

Jarrod nudged Nick. "Go." He was afraid to leave his brother in the alley. If Nick finished Heath off people would certainly understand, and forgive, but the law was another matter. Not that Heath appeared to need finishing off. He too was motionless, and Jarrod figured that anyone with a shirt that bloody was doomed.

Victoria accepted Jarrod's hand, his help in rising. Grief would come, she knew, but for now she merely felt numb. And she saw with a peculiar clarity. Her husband's presence in this alley was confirmation of an ancient suspicion. She was strangely relieved to have it finally settled. And appalled: the tragedy that flowed from one act.

And would continue to flow. Her sons would be devastated, her daughter destroyed. Of course it would all come out. The publicity. The shame. And that young man... "It never ends," she said to herself.

Nick returned, followed by the sheriff and his deputy and Dr. Merar. Merar knelt by Tom. After a quick examination, he rose and said softly, "He's gone, Victoria. I'm so sorry."

She nodded woodenly. In a way she had been prepared; his escape a year ago had been close, and he had never truly recovered. Death had always been possible. Had he survived just for this?

Merar knelt by Heath. His eyes widened. "I need a hand," he said. "Let's get him back to my surgery."

"He's alive?" Jarrod said.

"So far," Merar said doubtfully, looking at the bloody mess at his feet. "Well, I'll see what I can do."

"Why?" Nick snapped. "He's a murderer. You're just saving the town the cost of a rope."

"Now, now," Sheriff Harry Lyman said. "You might be right, Nick, but let's leave that for the law to figure. Steve, you help doc Merar. He ain't likely to walk away from your office, is he, doc?"

"No, of course not."

"Good, then. Steve, you stay with him til I get there." He turned back into the alley. "Now let's see if we can figure what happened."

"It's pretty clear what happened," Nick said. "Father got an anonymous note telling him to come into town. He was led into an ambush."

"Hm." Lyman's tone was noncommital. "This your pa's gun?"

"Yes."

"Fired one shot." He found another gun lying in a corner. "All six chambers empty on this one. Still warm, too. Must be that other fellow's. You know who he is?"

Nick and Jarrod exchanged quick glances. "He called himself Heath."

"Heath? Heath what?"

"I don't know what else. He claimed--" Jarrod stumbled.

"He was working for James Ledyard," Nick said quickly. "Harry, if you'd run that fellow out of town when he first showed up--"

"Nick," Harry said wearily. "We've been through this. I didn't have any reason to run him out of town or arrest him. All those things you've heard--they're just rumors. There's no proof against Ledyard, least not that I know about."

"Well," Nick said grimly, "looks like you may get some."

Jarrod felt Victoria's eyes burning into him. Haltingly, he began, "I don't know about the Ledyard business. He did claim--"

"He was working for Ledyard," Nick said harshly. "He was playing cards with him last night."

Lyman sighed. "Well, it does sound likely. And you know, I heard that Coastal & Western fellow--what's his name?--took supper with Ledyard a few nights ago. I reckon it's possible."

"It's what happened," Nick growled.

"Well," Lyman said. "I'd best go on to Doc Merar's and see about this Heath fellow."

"We'll come with you," Jarrod said.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. Shouldn't you see about your pa? And I think it's about someone took your ma home. She looks a little peaked."

"I'm not going to faint," she said.

"Still, Victoria, this has got to be damned distasteful for you. There's no need for you to hear the details--if we get any."

"Nick, you see about Father. I'll go with Harry."

Jarrod and Harry Lyman found Merar at work stitching an ugly wound on the side of Heath's head. "How is he, Doc?" Lyman asked.

"Hard to say. I'm amazed--this is the only injury, even though there was all that blood on his shirt."

"So he'll be all right?"

"I didn't say that. It's a deep wound--right down to the bone. And the bone itself may be injured." Merar tsk-tsked. "Hard to tell with an injury like that. If infection sets in--well, if the brain's involved, it will make short work of him. But he might recover."

Merar finished up his stitching. Alice Merar handed him a clean strip of linen for bandaging. She picked up the bloody shirt with two delicate fingers and put it in the dustbin. "Perhaps one of your old shirts would fit," she suggested.

Merar smiled. "I doubt it, he's a big young fella. But let's try, shall we? No need to have him catch pneumonia as well." His smile faded. "Though I suppose we're just saving him for the gallows?"

"Kinda looks that way," Lyman agreed. "When will he be able to talk, doc?"

"I have no idea. We'll just have to wait and see." Merar yawned. "I think a nip right now would be medicinal for everyone. Harry? Jarrod?" At their nods he pulled out a bottle and a few glasses.

Merar mused, "Damned shame, Jarrod, damned shame. Your father--what a constitution. Not one man in 50 could have survived Apple Hill. And now this..."

Jarrod said nothing, though the irony wasn't lost on him. The railroad had finally gotten Tom Barkley. Or had they? What did that note really say? What had Tom really expected to find in that alley? Wasn't his presence there proof of Heath's story?

He crashed back into consciousness suddenly. He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding with the same panic that had driven him earlier. The light, the sudden movement: he was overwhelmed with dizziness and nausea. A firm hand leaned him over while he heaved. Hollowed out, still shaking, he lay back down on his side, his head heavy and throbbing.

A face swam into view, its edges hazy. He didn't know it. The face said: "What's your name?"

His name. His memory was as thick and indistinct as a wad of cotton. There was something about his name; what was the problem? "Heath," he said finally. What was the rest of it?

"Do you know what day it is?"

Day. It was not day, for he realized there were gaslights blazing on the wall. "Saturday," he guessed.

"Pretty close. What happened tonight?"

Tonight? What happened? How slow his thoughts were; he could almost hear his mind straining. Memory rolled around in his head, elusive and insubstantial. Then he had a picture. "Dinner," he said finally.

"Dinner," the face said. "Where'd you eat? Who'd you eat with?"

He saw a table with red checks. Nothing more. No name, no place. "I don't know," he said.

"Then what?"

Then what? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing but the panic that had flung him into wakefulness. There was nothing in his memory but darkness and fear, some terrible weight. Death on his shoulder. He could hear harsh rasp breathing, the tone of desperation. He realized the sound was coming from him, and he put a hand to his face to stop it.

Lyman backed away, motioned to Merar. "That likely? That he doesn't remember?"

"With a head injury like that? Of course."

"Will it come back?"

"Hard to say. It might, it might not."

"Well," Lyman said finally, "I guess he's well enough to go to jail. Come on, fella, let me give you a hand there."

Alice Merar had returned with a shirt. It was too small, but better than nothing. Heath moved slowly, as if his limbs weren't quite his own. Fortunately it was a short walk to the sheriff's office. He was too befuddled to quite understand he was being locked into a jail cell. He collapsed onto the hard bunk with relief.

"What next?" Jarrod asked.

"Well, you know better than I, Jarrod. Of course I'll hold him. It seems pretty darn clear to me. We won't have a judge for two weeks, though." Lyman said carefully, "I realize folks may be pretty upset about this, Jarrod, especially if this fella is tied up with the railroad. And I realize that fella's probably headed for the gallows. But I don't hold with mob justice, Jarrod. And I'm sure that, if you and that hotheaded brother of yours stays calm, other folks will too."

"Of course," Jarrod said.

"Oh, and Jarrod," Lyman added. "I surely would like to have that note your pa got. Would help this out a lot. Make the case stronger. Course you know that."

"Of course," Jarrod said again.

Lyman unbuckled his gunbelt. "And if there's something else you figure I oughta know, Jarrod, well, I'd sure like to hear it."

"Of course," Jarrod said again. "If there's anything else you ought to know." What should he tell? What could he tell? He felt deeply uneasy. Better, he thought, to talk to Nick and Victoria first. Perhaps none of this needed to come out...

Lyman watched him go. He had a suspicion something wasn't quite right. How on earth had Tom Barkley ever been fool enough to walk into that kind of ambush? And with Ledyard around, why hadn't it been done more neatly? Tom Barkley had gotten off one shot. Enough to drop a fella. But the fella hadn't dropped, he'd gotten off six shots, hit with five. No, Lyman thought, something ain't right. But the Barkleys are square folks...

He walked back. He opened the cell door, knelt by Heath. "Young fella," he said. "You are in a heap of trouble. You got any kin you want to know?"

Any kin? Mama, he thought. Mama. But Mama was gone. He'd forgotten that. And those people--those people were his kin but they'd thrown him out. There was no one, no one who would come help him in trouble or would even care.

No, that wasn't quite right. He'd helped him before. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, but he'd been a good man, a good friend. Called him son. No other man'd ever done that, or at least not so to make him wish it was true. "Frank," he said.

"Frank? Frank who?"

"Frank Sawyer. Spanish Camp."

Lyman scratched his head. "You mean Sheriff Frank Sawyer? That one?"

"That one."

Lyman stood up, backed away. Sheriff Frank Sawyer? He didn't know Sawyer, but he knew the name. Sawyer had brought in the Simpson gang, not once, but twice. Had a bit of a name west of the divide. This saddle tramp, this hired gun, knew Sawyer?

No, something wasn't right. Spanish Camp was a good week's ride away, or more. If Sawyer cared to come he might get here in time to see the sentencing. Still, he'd offered, and he'd carry through. The next morning he sent Steve to the telegraph office with a telegram for Frank Sawyer, care of Spanish Camp.

Frank Sawyer was no longer in Spanish Camp. But the telegraph operator remembered him well, and knew where he'd gone. The telegram was a might surprising--hadn't there been a deputy by that name, once upon a time? In any case, the operator forwarded the telegram.

Frank Sawyer had finally gotten tired of the heat and the dust of Spanish Camp. He'd been there long enough to squeeze a good bit of the lawlessness out of the town, and he'd been ready for a new town for a bit. Jubilee was in the Sierra Nevada, a just-settled mining camp. Just the sort of place that needed a Frank Sawyer.

He read the telegram once, twice. Impossible to believe. He hadn't heard from the boy but twice or thrice since he'd left Spanish Camp a good three years ago. But Frank felt certain a terrible mistake had been made. Murder? Impossible.

Jubilee was two days' ride from Stockton, a day and a half if you pushed it. Frank pushed.

They buried Thomas Barkley on Tuesday morning. The town was full to overflowing with people, come from all around the state. The governor came, and a senator, and three congressmen, too. Any number of business folk, ranchers, miners, dozens of men that had worked for or with Tom Barkley over the years.

The little church was packed, making the early summer heat that much worse. Jarrod was shocked to see the big frame of Malachi Crown in the crowd. More than a few recognized the railroad man, and an ugly hiss ran through the congregation. Curious, Jarrod sought Crown out after the service. "You're a brave man," Jarrod said.

"Not really," Crown said. "Barkley, some rumors have reached me. I trust you know--I would never stoop to such actions."

Dryly, Jarrod said, "Your hired guns nearly killed him last year, Crown. And your boss is permanently stooped by such actions."

"That was different. Those were duly empowered deputies seeking to enforce a valid court order."

"They were hired guns."

"They were deputies. You may not have liked the order, Barkley, but you won't deny its legality."

Jarrod couldn't deny the legality, despite the corruption that had produced the legal document.

Crown continued: "I'm genuinely sorry for your loss. But even more so, Barkley, I hope this doesn't prove an impossible impediment to some peaceful solution."

Sourly, Jarrod said, "No doubt you're hoping the resolve of the farmers will crumble without Father to lead them."

Crown shrugged. "It's the best solution, Barkley, and you know it. No doubt in time your father would have seen the same, and perhaps he could have led the others to also see it as the best solution."

"Not likely," Jarrod drawled. "This is all so convenient for you, Crown." He lowered his voice. "Especially since you've been keeping company with James Ledyard."

Crown bit his lip to control his temper. Finally, he said, "I had a meal with the man. I was trying to convince him to stay out of this--that he'd get nothing from Coastal & Western if he took it in his head to interfere. That his interference was the last thing we wanted."

Jarrod thought this over. "The last thing you wanted," he said. "But are you so certain of your boss? I think Hannibal Jordan would see James Ledyard as manna from heaven."

Crown was silent. At last he said, "I made no arrangements with Ledyard. I know of no arrangements with Ledyard." To himself he said, "If I did know..."

Jarrod almost felt sympathy. Crown was a gifted and insightful man. How had he managed to stay with Jordan so long? Perhaps now he'd realize the sort of man he worked for. Perhaps Crown would finally abandon Jordan. Without Crown Jordan would be a less subtle opponent. Perhaps Tom Barkley had not died in vain.

Jarrod said, "I don't think you should hang around Stockton, Crown. I might believe you--but there's a few people that won't."

"I understand the man's already in custody. Surely if he could implicate Ledyard, or Coastal & Western, he would have done so."

"You're so sure he hasn't?"

"Since I haven't been stoned, yes. But I do have pressing business elsewhere."

"Crown," Jarrod said, "the injunction expires soon. I don't suppose, in light of the trouble here, you'd agree to a voluntary extension?"

"You suppose correctly. However grievous the loss of your father might be--as I said, Barkley, progress waits on no man. Especially a dead man. Excuse my bluntness. And again, my condolences."

Crown moved away; the crowd parted for him, but the air was distinctly unpleasant.