"For me? Now who would be sendin' me telegrams?" Heath smiled absently at his little sister as he opened the envelope and read the message. "Huh." He turned and started to go toward the stairs.

"Heath? Is everything all right?" Audra pried gently to find out who had sent the message.

"What? Oh, sure, Sis. It's from Jarrod. He wants me to come up to San Francisco for a few days."

"WHAT? AT THIS TIME OF YEAR? WHAT DOES HE THINK WE'LL DO BACK HERE WHILE YOU'RE GALLIVANTING ALL OVER SAN FRAN--"

"Nicholas." The familiar voice carried the familiar rebuke; anyone who heard would recognize that this was a common situation.

"Well, Mother, it's ridiculous. Jarrod wants Heath to go to San Francisco; that means he'll be gone for the branding and for -- "

"Nicholas, I'm sure your brother has a very good reason for wanting Heath, and I'm also sure that the ranch will survive for a few days. Now, Heath, when does Jarrod want you, and did he say why?"

Heath's familiar half-smile flitted across his face as he looked at the petite woman who, by strength of character, managed to control his tempestuous brother's outburst. "He doesn't give too many details; read it for yourself, Nick." Tossing the telegram at his brother, he turned back toward the stairs.

Nick caught the telegram and muttered aloud: "Heath, need you to come here for a few days; have a project that might interest you. Have Mother pack for you. Jarrod." With a frown, he looked up at the head of the stairs.

"You know that means he's got some fancy place he wants you to go to," he called up to Heath. The only response he got was the closing of his younger brother's door.

"Well, whatever Jarrod has in mind, we need to eat dinner. Nicholas, I suggest you follow Heath's example and clean up immediately." Victoria's pointed comment caused her middle son to run up the stairs as well; as he turned to his room, Heath left his. They almost collided.

"Whoa, Big Brother! Breaking my leg won't get those calves branded any faster."

Nick grinned and walked toward his room. Heath descended the staircase, whistling lightly.

"Heath, you certainly sound cheerful."

"Oh, no reason to be sad, except for the idea of a fancy dinner. Last time I was with Jarrod in San Francisco, he took me to a place where they kept settin' fire to everything he ordered. Never was so glad to get out of a building in my life."

Both women laughed as they listened to Heath relate the story. His love for simple food and a simple lifestyle had become obvious to all of them in the two years he had lived with them. Some of his comments about the "fancy foods" Victoria served at parties were cherished so much that the silver-haired matron had written them down in her journal to mull over in privacy.

"Well, Sweetheart, if it gets too bad, surely you can escape and find some plain cooking somewhere."

"I hope so. Mother, do you have any idea what he has in mind?"

"No, I don't, but I'll pack your clothes this afternoon. Do you want to leave on the night train?"

"Frankly, I don't want to leave at all, but I guess it's just as good to leave in the morning." Heath's sharp ears caught the sound of his brother's door closing. With a wink at Audra and Victoria, he raised his voice. "Reckon if I stay this afternoon and help Nick, he just might manage to figure out how to get some work done while I'm gone."

Nick cleared the last few steps in record time and swatted his brother playfully. "Just you wait, Heath. You'll think work when you get back and see all the things I've saved for you to do."

"Now, Nick, what makes you think I'll be comin' back to work? Maybe Jarrod has some fancy idea of me takin' up residence in that big apartment of his and learnin' how to live high."

"That'll be the day, Little Brother. I can just see you now, wearing a suit every day and going to the opera every night."

Heath laughed involuntarily and almost choked on the drink of whiskey he had begun to swallow. Pounding him on the back, Nick continued to draw a word picture of the lifestyle of a rich dilettante in San Francisco; the contrast between what they knew of Heath's preferences and Nick's wild imagination had both Audra and Victoria laughing as well. Throughout dinner, one of them would sputter and add a new idea to Nick's fantasy. Finally, as Heath stood to leave, he grinned and said, "Well, Nick, if even one-tenth of what you've come up with is true, I reckon I'd better be gettin' out to say goodbye to those cows." Kissing Victoria tenderly, he winked at his sister and left the dining room.

"Mother? Do you have any idea what Jarrod wants?" Audra's voice carried more concern than earlier.

"No, Dear, I have no idea. I just hope that everything goes well for both of them." Victoria smiled absently at her daughter as Nick finished his meal and stood to leave.

"Well, whatever that lawyer brother of mine has in mind, I just hope he remembers that Heath isn't comfortable with fancy living. He'd better be careful." With that, Nick kissed his sister's head and gently kissed his mother's cheek.

"Audra, would you mind helping Silas clear?"

"Not at all, Mother. You go get Heath packed; if you don't, you know he won't even think to take any of his dress clothes."

Both women smiled as they went to their appointed tasks. Victoria paused briefly as she entered Heath's room; somehow, even though Heath knew she was doing this, it seemed to her that she was violating this very quiet man's privacy. Shaking herself, she began to choose clothing for about a week's stay in San Francisco. Just before she closed the valise, on a whim she went swiftly to her room and, returning, packed one more item carefully.

That night, after supper, the family adjourned to the library. Heath wandered outside and stared out at the corrals. Placing his back against one of the pillars, he half-leaned, half-sat on the railing. Lost in his reverie, he didn't stir when Victoria followed him out.

The tiny woman smiled at the ease with which Heath relaxed. She had seen him out on this little porch in many moods, but this one was the most restful she could remember.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

A fleeting smile and a slight head shake provided her first answer. After a minute, the cowboy replied.

"Not worth half of that. Just lookin'."

"And what do you see?"

"A life I never thought possible but always wanted."

"Does it belong to you now?"

Another long silence ensued. Finally, Heath moved; turning his head, he looked directly at his stepmother. "I think so, at least mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Sometimes, I get the feelin' that it's too good; too--comfortable to last."

"Well, maybe that's why Jarrod wants you in San Francisco. Maybe he wants to take you to a new, fancy place so that you'll feel more at home when you return to Stockton."

Both laughed, but Victoria had trouble shaking her youngest son's statements from her mind. She wanted him to feel comfortable, to belong, but she feared that his former life might preclude that from ever happening. Gently, she rested her hand on his head; running her fingers through his hair, she gently scratched his head.

"Mmmm. Feels good. My mama used to do that."

"So did mine."

"Maybe it's something all mothers do. If so, I'm luckier than most."

"Why is that, Sweetheart?"

Heath reached up and caught Victoria's hand. "Because I got a second chance at the same thing. Thank you, Mother." He rose; gently kissing her, he went on inside. Victoria remained on the porch for a few minutes, cherishing the warmth of Heath's statement.

The next morning, Nick was full of complaints as he drove Heath to Stockton. "Boy, you're leavin' at the worst possible time. What does Jarrod think he's doin', sending for you like this?"

Heath remained silent. Inwardly, he was chuckling at his brother's tirade; he knew that the best way to encourage more was to say nothing. Sure enough, the lack of response infuriated Nick to the point of adding some masterful cursing to his repertoire of complaints. Finally, he turned to his light-haired brother and demanded, "Well, Boy? Aren't you listening to me at all?"

Heath grinned and shook his head. "Nick, I'm learnin' so much that I just don't have any time to answer."

A reluctant grin crossed the dark cowboy's features. In a typically mercurial switch of mood, he asked, "You wire Jarrod that you'd be on this train?"

"Nope."

"AND WHY NOT?"

"Nick, I'm a big boy. I can get to his office by myself."

"Don't you think it would be better to have him meet you?"

"Nope."

"Well, I do!"

"Nick, I'm just not comfortable with Jarrod waitin' around for me to get off a train. It's not as if I've never been on my own before."

"I know that, but I just want to make sure . . . " The level blue gaze stopped his words. Shaking his head, he said, "Just be careful. And get back soon, you hear?"

"I hear, Nick."

Heath lightly jumped out of the wagon; walking to the station-master's window, he bought a ticket for San Francisco. Nick hoisted his valise out of the back of the wagon and waited for Heath to join him at the edge of the boardwalk. Hooting like a mournful owl, the train chuffed its way into the area. Heath took the valise and climbed aboard the train. His last glance showed Nick standing there, alone.

The ride was uneventful. Heath found it boring and wished he could be up and doing something active. No one was happier than he when he finally heard the words, "San Francisco, next stop!" Rising, he took his valise and walked off the train, into an experience that would stretch his abilities more than he could ever have imagined.

After taking one glance at the crowded station, Heath chose to stretch his cramped muscles by walking, at least for a ways. His sense of direction took him unerringly toward his brother's office, but even he finally had to admit that the hills had bested him. Looking around, he spied a horse-drawn streetcar; preferring that means of travel, he leapt aboard. Paying the fare, the cowboy walked back to an empty seat.

As he sat there, Heath watched city life go by. He wondered about all the people; smiling, he remembered talking to an old farmer who had gone to San Francisco once. "Not for me, Son, not for me."

When Heath had asked the man why the city wasn't for him, the grizzled old sage carefully spat and then with scorn so delicate it would rival Jarrod in the courtroom, replied, "Son, cain't walk in the city. Gotta take big steps and little steps, big steps and little steps. Not what God intended a man should do."

The cowboy understood what his friend had told him so long ago. Ruefully rubbing his calf muscles, he had to admit to himself that his easy stride was impossible in the city, but he was glad to have had the chance to stretch. He had the feeling that the time with Jarrod wouldn't give him the normal physical activity he was used to. Glancing up, he saw the street where Jarrod's office was located and as soon as the streetcar paused, he swung down with a lithe motion that belied the soreness he felt in his legs.

He was soon looking at his brother's office sign. For a minute, the light-haired man thought of turning around and leaving, but with an inward chuckle at his lack of anticipation, he went inside. The young man at the desk looked up and frowned.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, you may. Is Jarrod in?"

"Mr. Barkley is in; may I inquire who is asking?"

Irritated, Heath replied, "You can tell him that there's a hot, thirsty cowhand out here who is just about ready to turn around and leave on the next train!"

"Indeed!" The young man raised a supercilious eyebrow as he stood to go inside Jarrod's office. "May I ask your name?"

With malicious satisfaction, Heath smiled. "You may, indeed. It's Barkley."

"Oh! I'm so sorry; I--I didn't know--" The young man was clearly flustered. Heath finally took pity on him.

"There is no reason that you should know; now, would you let me go see my brother or am I going to have to make an appointment?"

"Oh, no! I mean, Mr. Barkley told me that he was expecting his brother, Mr. Barkley, but I never dreamed that Mr. Barkley's brother would be, well, er -- " Heath untangled the multitudinous Mr. Barkleys and realized that there was little help for the situation.

"Look. Why don't you just call me Heath. It's going to get too confusing around here otherwise. And I'll just go on in now, all right?" With a half smile, the cowboy left his valise and went into Jarrod's office. The clerk sighed with gratitude as he heard Jarrod's delighted shout.

"Heath! My boy, you're a sight for sore eyes! I was wondering if you would come."

"Well, my choices were San Francisco or digging the mud out of the bottom of Sky Meadow. It wasn't hard to make the decision."

Jarrod laughed as he raised a decanter of whiskey in a mute invitation. Catching Heath's grateful nod, he poured his brother a double.

"Thanks. Now, Jarrod, what's so all-fired important?"

"Well, Heath, let's get you settled and then we'll talk, all right?"

The cowboy narrowed his eyes at the lawyer's evasion but nodded in acceptance. Jarrod talked desultorily until Heath finished his drink; then, jumping up, he strode to the door. "Let's go get you settled, Little Brother."

"I remember the way, Jarrod. If you've got work to do, just give me a key and I'll wait for you at the apartment."

"That would be very helpful. Here, let Morrison take your valise and call a cab."

Heath smiled at the hapless clerk. "Mr. Morrison and I have an agreement; I don't bother his things and he doesn't bother mine."

The canny lawyer took in his clerk's red face and his brother's smile; realizing that the clerk had met his match, he agreed to let Heath get to the apartment by himself. Giving him a spare key, Jarrod warned his brother to be ready to go out to supper by 6:00.

"And do I dress fancy or comfortable?"

"Well, Heath, for this one night, you dress comfortably and so will I, all right?" His brother's delighted smile was reward enough for Jarrod. Laughing, he clapped Morrison on the back and ushered him into the main office to take some dictation. Heath paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and then moved off toward the apartment.

By the time he arrived, the cowboy was happy to be able to put his valise down. Unlocking the door, he entered and went straight to the room he had occupied on his last visit. "Reckon I'd better unpack, or those fancy clothes will be full of wrinkles," he muttered to himself. Opening the valise, a small package caught his eye. With a smile, he picked it up, opened it, and read Victoria's note:

"Sweetheart, I wanted you to have something familiar. Bring this back when you come home. Love, Mother."

He opened the locket and saw the familiar faces of his brothers, sister, and stepmother. Shaking his head and smiling, he slipped the trinket into his pocket and continued to unpack. "She must be expectin' me to get married or meet the President," he muttered as he realized she had packed his two best suits.

He occupied the rest of the time before his brother got home in exploring Jarrod's library. "Guess he's got more books than the San Francisco Library," he muttered. Finally, he chose a book to read, poured himself a drink, and settled down in what was obviously Jarrod's favorite chair. Before long, Heath was lost in the story and didn't notice when Jarrod came in.

The lawyer smiled at the picture of his younger brother sitting by the fireplace reading; Heath's love for books had become legendary in the family. He had once let a revealing comment slip when Jarrod was teasing him.

"Reckon if you hadn't been welcome in your own school, you'd be hungry to learn, too."

Jarrod had frozen with shock as he listened. The younger man had smiled at his brother and added, "No call to get upset now; it'd be like trying to put feathers in a pile while the wind is blowin' to get bothered over things that can't be fixed."

Finally, Jarrod moved and Heath looked up.

"Want your chair?"

"No, you seem too comfortable. Let me just get changed out of this suit and we'll go out to eat."

"Where?"

"How about you taking me?"

"Lawyer, you're too refined to eat at the places I know!"

"Heath, you just guide; we'll see what I can and cannot do!" With that, Jarrod disappeared into his room and Heath returned to his book. When the lawyer came out of his room, he said, "Heath, I have an idea."

"Now when Nick says that, I get ready to run for the hills."

Jarrod laughed before explaining. "Last time you were here, I took you around to show you my San Francisco. I have a feeling, however, that there is another side to the city--a side you could teach me. Tonight, why don't you return the favor and show me your San Francisco?"

"Well, Jarrod, like I said before, my San Francisco probably would make you pretty uncomfortable."

"Heath, for this one night, let's just forget that I'm a lawyer and Tom Barkley's oldest son. Let's just be brothers, all right?"

Heath looked directly at Jarrod. "All right, Jarrod. But don't say you haven't been warned!"

That night was an education for the sophisticated lawyer. He had never been to the areas Heath took him; oh, he had heard of them, but never had he considered that someone related to him would go there. Yet, everywhere Heath took Jarrod, someone would call out the blond cowboy's name.

Most addressed him as Heath Thomson; the first time it happened, Heath felt uneasy. When Jarrod took it in his stride, however, he relaxed. The black-haired man was interested in the fact that Heath seldom corrected anyone who called him by his mother's name. Instead, he simply joined in the free and easy teasing.

"Now, Heath, just who is this fancy fella you've got with you?" The man asking had been reminiscing with Heath about the time they both had earned money fishing for salmon. Jarrod had sat back and listened; he felt as if he were looking in on his brother's life through a window that Heath had opened. Strangely, he felt privileged.

"Well, Red, this is my long-lost brother, Jarrod Barkley."

A shout of laughter was his reply. "Heath, that's the best one you've ever told! Ain't no way you're brother to this man; don't know how you can keep that straight face when you tell them tall tales of yours."

Heath grinned as he noticed his brother's discomfiture. "And just why couldn't this fine man be my brother?" he asked in mock indignation.

"Cause he's got soft hands, Ole Buddy. Look at 'em; he's never had chilblains or calluses in his life! No way you're related to someone this soft, now is there?"

"Guess you've caught me, Red. How about believin' this is my lawyer?"

"You one of them do-gooders that help out us poor, downtrodden sinners?" Red's mockery brought Jarrod back to the present; Heath's last remark had really startled him.

"That's right, Red. He's one of them crusaders--you know, the kind that see a wrong and don't let anything stand in their way until it's fixed to meet their fancy. Good to see you, Red. Jarrod?" With a smile, Heath clapped Red on the back and stood to leave. Red reached out and grabbed Jarrod's coat.

"Lawyer Boy, you got yourself a ring-tailed twister there with Heath. Don't know what he needs a fancy-pants lawyer like you for, but I'll tell you this. There ain't no one man on the face of this earth more honest than Heath Thomson. If'n he tells you somethin', you can believe it. Hear me?"

Jarrod smiled down at Red. "I hear you, Red. Thanks for the tip."

Turning to leave, he saw Heath's back as he exited the swinging doors. Following swiftly, he saw Heath standing on the pier, looking at the water.

"Heath?"

No response came verbally, although Heath moved slightly to the left. Jarrod took that as the invitation he knew it was and joined his brother.

"First time I ever came to Frisco, I stood just about here. Looked out at the water, wondered just how far it went. Tried to imagine what it would be like to know what was out there."

"To know what was out there?"

Heath swept his arm out toward the ocean. "Places, people, things that aren't what they seem. I wanted to see for myself."

"And did you?"

"Some. Never did go on a ship; couldn't stand the thought of being locked into one thing for so long."

"Locked in?"

"Yeah. All my life, I've moved on to different places, different people. Always lookin' and never findin'. So, I'd pick up and move on to the next place, the next job."

"But you weren't--locked in."

"Never could handle being forced to stay somewhere. That's why I became a sharpshooter and scout in the War; we had a whole lot more freedom than the regular troops. Reckon Carterson was all the proof I needed that I'm not made to be kept in a place I don't want to be."

"And you didn't tell your friends about the change in your life because you didn't want to admit you were beginning to settle down?"

Heath looked at Jarrod for a long time. Finally, with a trace of a smile, he said, "For a man with all the college you have, you sure are slow sometimes. You saw Red's reaction to the idea of a man like you bein' brothers with a man like me."

"I think it's my privilege to be brother to a man like you."

"That's the crusader comin' out in you again."

"Heath, when I was a little boy, I used to read about the knights and King Arthur. I wanted to be Sir Galahad and Lancelot--I wanted to right all the wrongs of the world. It amazed me to hear you call me a crusader."

"Didn't take long to see that in you. You know, that book I was readin' was about a knight."

"Really? Which knight was that?"

"Don Quixote. Remember? He fought windmills and thought they were giants." Heath laughed at the expression on Jarrod's face. Clapping him on the shoulder, he said, "Come on, Sir Jarrod. Let's go back to your side of the world and get some sleep."

Heath slept that night, but Jarrod was up for a long time. Thinking through what he had seen and heard, he began to wonder if his idea was a good one. Finally, shaking his head, he muttered, "Well, Heath, you can always say no." With that, he went to bed.

The next morning Jarrod woke up to the smell of bacon cooking. As he wandered into the kitchen, he beheld Heath, fully dressed, deftly stirring a pan of scrambled eggs.

"Mornin'."

"Good morning to you. Smells good."

"Plenty here. Dig in."

As they ate, Heath waited for Jarrod to bring up the reason he had asked him to come. To his surprise, Jarrod said nothing. Finally, as they finished breakfast, the lawyer looked up at him.

"Heath, I'll bet you're wondering just what this is all about."

"That'd be right."

"Will you trust me until noontime? I'd like you to join me and some other people to talk about what I have in mind."

"Does this mean one of them fire-food places?"

Jarrod's curious look evolved into a laugh as he remembered their last trip to San Francisco. "Yes, Brother Heath, it does. But I promise to order food that has never been set on fire if you'll come."

"Fancy suit?"

"If you don't mind."

"I trust you, Jarrod. When do you want me?"

"Why don't you meet me at the office at twelve, and we'll go together."

"Noon. No problem."

"Will you be all right alone?"

Now it was Heath's turn to look at his brother curiously. Both of them broke into laughter at the absurdity of Jarrod's question. "All right, Heath. Just remember that I do want you to enjoy yourself."

"I'll remember, Jarrod."

As the lawyer walked to his office, he reflected on the differences in his brother's temperaments. Nick would have exploded by now, demanding to know just why he had been summoned to San Francisco. Heath was obviously curious, but he was willing to wait until Jarrod was ready. The two cowboys couldn't be more different, but they shared a bond that transcended blood and family loyalty.

Jarrod found himself smiling as he realized how privileged he still felt that Heath had felt comfortable enough to share part of his former life with him. The blond didn't open those windows very often, and Jarrod realized that Heath had drawn a line of trust that went deeper than ever before. The lawyer was astute enough to see that his brother had placed a responsibility on his shoulders, a responsibility to bear that trust with honor.

Promptly at noon, a tall, well-dressed gentleman entered the offices of Jarrod Barkley, Esquire. Morrison looked up and smiled at the obviously refined visitor.

"Yes, Sir. How may I help you?"

"Is Jarrod in?"

Morrison stared in shock as Heath removed his hat.

"Oh, Mr. Barkley! I'm sorry; I didn't recognize you."

"That's all right. I'm not sure I recognize myself. Is Jarrod ready?"

"I'll check, Mr. Barkley."

"Heath."

"Yes, Sir." The flustered clerk scurried into Jarrod's office; before Heath had time to sit down, Jarrod emerged.

"Ready, Brother Heath?"

"Let's go." His martyred expression made Jarrod laugh.

"It won't be that bad. We're just going to dine with some people who are interested in--"

"In one of your crusades?"

"You might say that."

The lawyer took his brother to a private club in an elegant section of San Francisco. Looking around, Heath saw the opulence and frowned slightly.

"Everything all right, Sir?"

Heath looked at the waiter and smiled. "Fine. Thanks."

"May I take your hat?"

"Sure."

The waiter bowed as he left with Heath and Jarrod's hats. Jarrod, watching the interaction between the two, was aware that he would be in for some interesting observations from his brother later.

"Jarrod!"

"Hello, Stephen. How are you today?"

"Fine, just fine. And you?"

"Never better. Stephen, may I present my brother? Heath, this is Stephen Milford, California's finest and most prominent lawyer."

"Heath! A pleasure, Young Man. How are you enjoying San Francisco?"

"Just fine, Sir. Thank you."

"Well, we've reserved a private room; you two are the last to join us. Will you come this way?" The politician led the way into the room he indicated. There, Heath saw two other men, obviously very wealthy.

"Gentlemen, this is Heath Barkley. Heath, this is Judge Wayne Headen, and this is Senator Aaron Butler."

The men all shook hands; settling back into their chairs, they conversed quietly while the waiters served them. Heath watched carefully to see what was being served; catching Jarrod's eye, he grinned when he saw that the food wasn't to be set aflame. Jarrod coughed lightly to cover his laugh and turned back to the Attorney General.

As the men ate, the conversation turned to crime. All the men present were quoting statistic after statistic on the increase in violence and dishonesty. The judge said heatedly, "We've got to control these men better!"

Heath listened and said nothing. Milford watched him out of the corner of his eye. The debate went on, with the men proclaiming their concern over the state of lawlessness that seemed to prevail. They discussed legal repercussion and finally turned to talk of prisons.

"Well, all I know is that Quentin's new warden wants to get things back in control!"

Heath's head rose and his blue eyes sought out the speaker. He listened intently as the Senator continued.

"Laurence Hook has the right idea. He wants those felons to know that they can't get away with disobedience; he wants them to understand that the law is the law."

"And just how is he goin' about teaching them that, Sir?" Heath's voice surprised all the men. Jarrod smiled; just as he had thought, Heath was hooked.

"Why, he's working to keep discipline and order! Can't coddle these people, you know!"

"I would think that putting men in cages and keeping them there wouldn't be anyone's definition of coddling." Heath's jaw tensed in his attempt to contain his scorn for the Senator's obvious lack of concern for the inmates.

"The men put themselves there, Son. They're the ones who broke the law."

"And keeping them locked up is going to teach them not to break it again?"

"Warden Hook is convinced that once the men learn to obey the rules, they can be rehabilitated. You should go and take a tour of the prison since he's been in charge."

"No, thanks."

"Heath, it seems almost as if you're against the idea of prisons at all."

"Not my business, Sir."

"No, I want to hear from you. What do you think about what has been said here today?" Milford's eyes were boring in on the cowboy. Heath looked up at Jarrod, who nodded encouragingly.

"I think that you all have the wrong idea."

"Continue."

"I agree that crime is bad and that anyone who breaks the law should pay. But you'll never convince me that turning men into some kind of obedient dogs because they're afraid of a whipping will teach them to live responsibly and within the law."

"But surely, Heath, you see that the Warden must have control!"

"Of course, Sir, but control through violence is not control. It's just more violence."

Jarrod smiled at his brother. The rest of the men sat quietly for a minute. Milford broke the awkward moment gracefully.

"Well, Jarrod, you told me this young brother of yours had a mind of his own! Thank you, Heath, for letting us know what you think. Gentlemen, I appreciate your coming; perhaps we can get together soon again." He ushered the judge and senator out the door and shut it. Turning back to Jarrod and Heath, he asked the lawyer, "Does he know?"

Jarrod shook his head. Heath felt a knot begin in his stomach. Here was the key, the reason he had been invited.

"Heath, you heard what those men were saying about Warden Hook."

Heath nodded.

"Well, I've had my concerns as well. Rumors are that Warden Hook believes in using some older methods to control the inmates."

"Such as?"

"Do you know about Eastern State Penitentiary and Auburn State Prison?"

"No, Sir."

"Eastern is in Philadelphia; the philosophy behind that prison was that total solitary confinement was the only way to rehabilitate any prisoner. To keep silence and solitude, they used several rather brutal methods to control any inmate who broke the rules. Most of those methods were stopped twenty years ago, but my sources tell me that Warden Hook is using them at San Quentin."

"And Auburn?"

"Well, Auburn was built on a different philosophy. That prison contracts out convict labor and uses the money to profit the institution."

"Kind of like slaves."

"Yes, kind of like slaves. They, too, have stopped some of the cruelties, but again, I fear that the Warden here has borrowed some of their control methods to keep men from escaping."

"I've heard he uses the ball and chain."

"Yes, he does."

"It'd be hard to figure why he'd worry about a man trying to escape with a cannonball chained to his ankle."

"I agree; however, I need to know for sure what is going on."

"And just why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I need a man I can trust. I need a man to go inside that prison and watch; a man who is able to notice things. I need someone who can survive long enough to let me know what is really going on; I need you to help me help those men."

"And just how would I do that?" Heath's clear blue gaze left the politician feeling uneasy. The cowboy waited silently for a reply. Jarrod waited as well. He smiled, remembering the conversation he and Milford had shared last week.

"Jarrod, I need someone who isn't known well; he's got to be someone who can survive and still be smart enough to give me accurate information. From what you've told me, that new brother of yours would be perfect."

"Yes, he would, Stephen, but I'm not sure I want to ask this of him."

"Jarrod, you're not asking anything of him that you wouldn't ask of yourself."

"But I don't know him well enough to know if he would see that, Stephen." With a start, Jarrod came back to the present as Milford replied.

"Heath, we need someone to go inside as a convict; someone who will watch and be able to let me know just what is and isn't true."

"And for how long?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a couple of weeks? Do you think that would be long enough, Jarrod?"

"I don't think it would need to be that long."

"Is this what you want, Jarrod?" The two locked eyes; blue gaze met blue gaze. Jarrod's fell first.

"Want? No, Heath, it's not what I want."

"But you think it's a good idea."

"I think it's necessary."

"What kind of crime do you have me committing?"

"Murder."

"Who?"

"We've worked out all the details; if you agree, we'll go over it with you."

"And if I don't agree?"

"Then we'll have had a nice visit."

"What about the family?"

"We'll tell them you're doing a research job for me; they mustn't know until it's over."

"Why not?"

"It's for your safety, Heath."

"I'm guessing that I wouldn't be using the Barkley name."

"No, Heath. You'll use your mother's name."

"Excuse me." Heath nodded politely to Milford and Jarrod, rose, and left. Milford stared at Jarrod.

"Well? What will he do, Jarrod?"

"I don't know, Stephen. I'm not sure I want to know."

The lawyers took their leave, agreeing to be in touch the next day. After checking at the office, Jarrod went to the apartment. He was not surprised to see that Heath had been there to change; what surprised him was that his brother had not left him a note. Usually, even when he was upset, Heath was courteous. Jarrod began to worry seriously.

He waited until dark was threatening, but Heath did not return. As he waited, last night's conversation kept marching across his brain. Heath had never said so much to him, had never been so open. Jarrod fought a feeling of panic as he realized that the trust his brother had placed in him just might have been irrevocably broken by his assumptions that Heath would feel as strongly as he did about the prisoners' fate. Finally, he stood to walk through the streets of the city, hoping to find the one man who had become the center of his concern.

The man in question had done some walking of his own. After going to the apartment to change, he felt stifled by the easy comfort of the place. The more he thought about Jarrod's calm assumption that he'd be happy to jump back into a prison setting, the more his anger boiled in his brain. Replaying the past couple of hours in his mind, he strode through the town as if it were an open prairie. Blindly he walked, blindly he sought to find a place where he could think.

You're a fool, Heath. Don't listen to him; don't even think about doin' what he asks. No matter how many times he tried to face it, the thought of confinement, even for a short period, even though he would have agreed to it, filled him with panic.

The rational side of his mind tried to reassure the cowboy; he dredged up pieces of evidence in Jarrod's favor. Jarrod was a crusader--heck, the whole family could have fit in the times of King Arthur with nary a hiccup in the fabric of time. Jarrod had thought of this before Heath had opened up to him about Carterson; maybe he really didn't understand what it was like for his younger brother. Jarrod accepted him as a true Barkley--crusader spirit and all.

The cowboy pictured Dame Victoria riding at the front of an army filled with her children. "Maybe it's her blood, not Tom Barkley's," he muttered. "Maybe she's the one that gave them the idea that they have to fix every problem in the universe. That might explain a lot about me right now."

No matter how he tried to be rational, however, the emotions gyrated through his mind, deafening the calmer thoughts that fought to control him. Didn't choose Nick. Common sense answered him with a picture of Nick in prison; even in his present state of confusion, he had to smile at the thought of Nick's observing injustice without getting involved.

Emotion conquered the moment and returned him to his doubts. Could be he asked because I'm the unnecessary one. That'd make sense. He put his hand in his pocket for warmth and felt something strange there. Taking it out, he looked down at the locket Victoria had sent. He remembered the note and felt warmed again.

Fear clutched at his stomach; what would Jarrod say if he said no? Oh, he'd be polite, of course, but he'd be disappointed. Heath knew that. And if there was a man he didn't want to disappoint, it would be Jarrod. But could he do this? The cowboy sincerely thought of just leaving the city and never returning.

As Heath fought to know what he should do, Jarrod tried to think where Heath would have gone. He quickly rejected any thoughts of places with many people; suddenly, a picture popped in his mind. Heath, standing on the pier, looking out at the ocean. With certainty, Jarrod hailed a driver and directed him to the place he knew would give him Heath.

Paying the driver, the lawyer walked to the place where they had stood last night. At first, he saw no one and felt panic rise. Walking farther into the night, however, he saw a familiar profile. He felt ridiculously nervous; the feelings inside reminded Jarrod of the first time he had asked a girl for a date. Grinning, he stopped at his brother's side.

"Need this?" Jarrod handed Heath a coat.

"Thanks."

"Had supper?"

"Nope."

"Hungry?"

"Nope."

"Can we talk?"

"Heath, I want you to know that I was wrong not to tell you what the meeting would be about. I should have warned you ahead of time."

Heath looked at Jarrod thoughtfully. "But even if you had told me, you would still have wanted me to do this, wouldn't you?"

"Up until last night, yes. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Why?"

"Heath, you were the one in that hellhole of a prison camp. I have no idea what it was like. If it still affects you so much, I have no right to ask this of you."

"But if I hadn't talked about that last night, Jarrod, you wouldn't even consider not askin' me, now would you?"

Jarrod was confused; he knew Heath was trying to tell him something very important.

"Heath, that isn't what matters."

"That's where you're wrong, Jarrod. Dead wrong. You're not sorry about thinkin' of me; you're just sorry to find out that I'm a coward when it comes to locks and keys."

Jarrod stared at his brother in shock. "Coward? Heath, how can you think for one minute that I would even consider that thought?"

"Because you're Sir Jarrod and I'm just Heath the peasant. Because you'll always have a crusade in mind, and I'll always see other sides to your ideas."

"Heath, what exactly are you saying?"

"Lawyer, did you ever, for one minute, stop to think about how Mother and Audra would feel when you staged that court martial?"

"Now I'm really lost, Heath."

The cowboy leaned forward intently. "It's like this, Jarrod. Crusades are noble and causes are great. But one thing is needed to be a good crusader; you can't spend the time to notice what's left behind to clean up. Now, don't get me wrong here: I"m not sayin' that you're not right and good and more noble than I'll ever be. But I think you need to stop and consider who else is affected before you start a crusade."

"So you think I was wrong with that situation? You think I should have said no when I was asked to be a part of it?"

Heath sighed. "Jarrod, right and wrong get muddied up sometimes to where you can't ever get it clean. Sometimes, doing the right thing, even for the right reasons, causes so much mud in the water that the wrong doesn't seem to matter too much to anyone who's just thirsty for a drink."

Jarrod stood quietly, trying to comprehend what Heath was saying. For the life of him, he couldn't separate the feelings his brother obviously was dealing with from his desire to know about Heath's decision. He felt a curious shame when he realized that the next question he wanted to ask was whether or not Heath would do what had been asked of him.

"So you think we shouldn't get involved?"

"It's not as simple as that, Jarrod. Look at it this way: If you'd ask me to go through the desert for you, I'd go. No question. If you wanted me to climb a mountain to get you some herb at the top, I'd go. No question. You just happened to come across a really sore spot when you asked me to go be a prisoner again."

"Then you'll do it?"

Heath grinned as he watched the conflicting emotions play across Jarrod's face. He had never seen his older brother so vulnerable, so concerned, so confused.

"I don't see that I have any other choice."

"You could say no."

"And then for the rest of my life, I'd live with the knowledge that I backed out from fear. And when you found someone else, if he got hurt, I'd live with that knowledge, too. That's too much for one person to carry."

"Heath, there's no cowardice to the word no."

"I know that, Jarrod. The coward in me is what's sayin' yes. Now let's go get some supper before we start talkin' all this through."

The two talked long into the night. Jarrod came to appreciate his brother's quick intelligence as they went over the plans to get Heath in the prison.

"How will I contact you?"

"I'll serve as your lawyer; I'll come to visit you. Once you have the information we need, just tell me; the judge will sign for your release."

"Will there be anyone in the prison I can trust?"

"Warden Hook is a very respected man. If we let anyone know about our suspicions, we'd be laughed out of town. No, Heath, I don't think there is anyone inside you can turn to."

"What if something goes wrong? How would I get a message to you?"

"Heath, all you have to do is to live there for a few days and watch what happens. There's no possible way for things to go wrong." As Jarrod spoke those confident words, the picture of Nick's face as he came in from the trail drive early rose up to haunt him. The Secret Service had assured him then that nothing could go wrong; their mistake almost cost him the lives of the people he held most dear.

Suddenly doubtful, he looked up at the man he had called brother for only two years. "Heath, you will be careful, won't you?"

"Sure, Jarrod. I'll be careful."

That night, Jarrod didn't sleep well. Tossing and turning, he soon had his bed so torn up that sleep was impossible. He walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water. That was when he heard the hoarse cry coming from Heath's room.

As he ran to his brother's side, he saw Heath sitting up in bed, his eyes wide open. He was shouting incoherent words; sweat was pouring off of him. Jarrod realized he was in the grip of a nightmare. Listening to what Heath was shouting, the lawyer realized that his brother was reliving an episode from Carterson in his dream.

He quickly learned how unwise it was to awaken a former prisoner of war abruptly. Heath's response sent him flying across the room. Jarrod's next approach was more cautious. Gently, he laid his hand on Heath's bare, sweaty shoulder. He tried to talk Heath awake and finally succeeded.

"Heath, you're just having a bad dream."

"Sorry, Jarrod. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Do those happen often?"

"Depends. Sometimes I go for weeks at a time; other times, they just come and come and come."

"Heath--"

"Goes with the territory, Jarrod. Now, let's try to get some sleep so I can enjoy my last day of freedom for a while."

Reassured, Jarrod left his brother. He quickly went to sleep. Heath, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling for what was left of the night.

Morning came too soon for both Jarrod and Heath. Their breakfast, unlike the first one they had enjoyed, was an uncomfortable meal. Jarrod felt constrained and guilty; Heath was busy trying to stay calm.

"So what are you telling the family?"

"I'll wire them and say that you'll be back in two weeks."

"And the reason for such a long visit?"

"A friend of mine has some horses he wants to sell, and you're looking at them with an eye for adding to Barkley stock."

Heath nodded.

"So when does all this happen?"

"Well, I'll meet with Stephen at nine this morning; he'll summon a marshal to come and take you in. He has the paperwork all ready."

"Where will you be?"

'I'll be with you."

"At your office?"

Jarrod looked at Heath seriously. "No, I'll bring you to Stephen's office. That way, we can keep Morrison out of it all."

"When will I be arrested?"

"Probably about one p.m. or so. You'll spend the first night in the city jail; they'll take you to San Quentin in the morning."

"Got it all wrapped up real neat, don't you?"

Jarrod looked at Heath to see if he was being sarcastic, but Heath was wearing what Audra called his "not-there face." He could read no expression, no emotion.

"Heath--"

"Let it go, Jarrod."

The morning passed all too swiftly for both of them. They arranged to meet at ten o'clock; Jarrod went off to meet with Stephen and put things in motion. Heath went back to the ocean front and sat there, staring. Jarrod found him there. Walking to his brother, he was struck by how alone Heath looked. Shaking himself mentally, he put on an attitude of cheerfulness and tapped Heath on the shoulder.

"Ready for me, Counselor?"

"Ready, Brother Heath."

They walked together while Jarrod went over all the details again. Finally, Heath turned to him.

"Lawyer, I've got it in my head. Ain't no reason to say all this again."

"Heath, I just want you to know that you're not alone; I'll be there as much as I can."

"But you'll be on the other side of the fence, Jarrod. Get this in your head; I will be alone."

When Heath saw the stricken look on his brother's face, he relented and forced a smile. Clapping his brother on the shoulder, he added, "And when I get out, you owe me a fishin' trip, right?"

Jarrod recognized the effort Heath was making and responded in kind. But his eyes grew more and more dark with worry as the appointed time approached for them to go to Stephen's office.

"Jarrod, you'd better eat."

"Don't worry about me, Heath. I'll be fine."

Looking at the two plates, Heath smiled. "Well, from the looks of what's on the table, I just might have reason to worry."

"How can you eat?"

"I've seen the elephant and I've heard the owl."

"Heath, I've heard you say that before. What does it mean?"

A smile flitted across the blond man's face. "It's just a saying, Jarrod. When someone says that, it means they've faced something mighty scary and come out alive. In this case, it just means that I know a little more about prison food than you do, Big Brother. Reckon I might as well enjoy this last meal."

"When you get out, I'll take you to the fanciest restaurant in town!"

"Oh, that'll be grand! Maybe they can set the coffee on fire, too!" Heath's teasing broke the tension between the brothers. Standing, he smiled down at his brother and said, "You'd better pay the bill. Don't want to be late for my big moment."

As they walked to Milford's office, Heath grew more and more silent. By prearrangement, they went in the private door to the Attorney General's office. There, Milford greeted the two brothers with satisfaction.

"Now, Heath, you remember the details of your crime?"

"Yes, Sir. I was robbing an old man; when he fought back, I killed him. I ran, but they caught me. Jarrod defended me and got me life in San Quentin instead of the rope; I ran again, but I finally turned myself in."

"Good, good! And your name?"

"Thomson. Heath Thomson. It's not a name I'm likely to forget, Sir."

Heath's response left the sophisticated attorney nonplussed. Recognizing that this was delicate territory, he retreated. As a knock came on his door, Heath tensed. Milford answered it to find two marshals there.

"Sir, we're here to take the murderer into custody."

"Yes, yes. Come right in. He's here."

Jarrod watched as his brother was handcuffed. When they bent to put the shackles on his feet, he protested.

"Papers say he's run twice before, Mr. Barkley. He won't be getting away again, not on our watch." With that, the marshal turned back to Heath, who had said nothing at all.

"Come on, Thomson. You've got a night in jail; in the morning we'll take you to your new hotel."

Heath attempted to walk, but the shackles hampered him so badly that he almost fell. Jarrod reached out to help him but the marshal grabbed the cowboy and roughly pulled him upright. "Look, Thomson. You'd better get used to these; you'll be wearin' them for a long time. Now git!" With a rough shove, he pushed Heath from the room.

Jarrod walked to the door and watched the reaction as the marshals pulled the shackled man with them. There were four clerks in Stephen's outer office, and several people were waiting. All eyes were on Heath as he struggled to maintain his balance. Only Jarrod saw the flush of red on the captive's face; only Jarrod wanted to help him.

Milford closed the door and smiled. "Well, that certainly went smoothly. Now, Jarrod, how about a drink?"

Jarrod looked at him incredulously. "Would you be offering that as a celebration, Stephen?"

Milford's eyes fell. "No, of course not! I just meant--"

"I know, Stephen. I know. What I didn't know was how hard it would be to watch my brother go through this." Jarrod nodded at his friend and left.

Heath's experience at the city jail wasn't pleasant; as a convicted murderer and a two-time fugitive, he was regarded as a maximum security risk. The marshals ordered the shackles kept on him at all times. Signing for the cowboy, the police sergeant laughed as he watched the marshals shove Heath into the cell. The tall man fell headlong. As he tried to rise, one of the marshals booted him down again. Heath lay there, panting.

"You've got a lot more of that coming, Thomson! Just you remember where you are; you won't be getting away again." The rattling of the keys in the lock clanged in Heath's brain as the raucous laughter of the guards echoed throughout the cell.

He struggled to get to his knees; from there, he stood. Wavering unsteadily, he gazed around the cell that would be his home tonight. A brief grimace was the only emotion that was visible as he hobbled to the his bed. The stench was overwhelming. Heath sat down, his back to the iron bars that made up the wall, and waited for what would come.

After a long night, the coming of the marshals was prefaced with the laughter of the prison guards. Heath tensed himself in anticipation. The treatment he had received yesterday, he reflected, was proof that Jarrod had done his part of the job well. A sour grin crossed his face as he mentally acknowledged his brother's efficiency. Reckon he didn't cut any corners at all, he reflected as he stood ready to be taken to Quentin.

The trip to the prison was mercifully brief. Heath was chained to three other men who were also being sent to do their time. Once there, they were dragged out of the transport wagon and forced to stand in a line.

"Welcome, Gentlemen! Welcome to Hotel San Quentin!" Heath looked up to see the features of a burly prison guard smiling in anticipation. The marshals pushed the four men forward; as they stumbled, the Quentin guards laughed at their clumsiness. Heath gritted his teeth and told himself to stay quiet, to submit. He was beginning to realize already that it wouldn't be easy.

Each man was processed separately. When it was Heath's turn, he was greeted with appreciation. "Murdered an old man, huh? Took a lot of guts, didn't it?" Heath said nothing.

His shackles were removed when he arrived in the clothing room.

"Take off your clothes!" Heath looked down at the guard who was ordering him to strip. "Now, Thomson!" The guard looked up at the captive defiantly; slapping his club from one hand to the other, he made it clear that Heath would obey or else.

As he stripped, Heath decided the only way he would be able to keep his calm was to make a mental list of indignities and decide what Jarrod had to do to repay him. Inadvertently, he smiled at the picture of presenting the suave lawyer with a long list of debts.

"Somethin' funny, Thomson? Why don't you share the laugh with us?" Heath looked up in surprise as he realized he had let his guard slip.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Standing naked, he waited for his next instructions.

"Whooeee! Look at this one, Eddie! He's been through it before, sure enough!" The guards circled the captive, all laughing and commenting on the scars he bore from Carterson. Heath began to understand how an animal being circled by a pack of ravening wolves would feel.

"Hey, Thomson, I've heard tell that once you've felt the lash, it gets worse each time. Think it's true?"

Heath knew enough not to respond. But he couldn't help the tensing of his muscles; seeing the ripple under his sweat-drenched skin, the guards continued their taunting.

"C'mon, Thomson! Cat got your tongue? Sure looks like the cat's gotten your back before!"

"That will be enough, Gentlemen." The voice cut through the room like the whip the guards were taunting Heath about. The blond turned his head to see a tall, cadaverously thin man wearing a dark suit standing in the doorway.

"Uh, sorry, Warden. We were just funnin'."

"Get this man his clothing."

"Yes, Sir."

Heath was quickly outfitted with the loose fitting prison uniform. Before he was allowed to put on his shoes, he was taken to an adjoining area, where the warden was standing.

"Thomson, you were convicted of murder."

Heath stood still, not knowing what to say.

"Is it true you escaped twice?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Life will be very different for you here. As a murderer and a proven flight risk, we need to take some special precautions. Put your left foot up here."

As Heath obeyed, he watched the expression on the warden's face. The man seemed to be fascinated with the process of attaching the shackle around his prisoner's ankle; he licked his lips as the rivet was permanently fastened. Only then did Heath look down to see that he was now wearing San Quentin's famous ball and chain. Looking back up at the warden, he waited to see what would happen next. His calm seemed to unnerve the man who had ordered the shackling.

"From now on, Thomson, you will be known by your number. No longer do you have a name; you are 2791. You do not speak; you never communicate verbally without permission. When you are ordered to do something, you will obey immediately. Is this clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

The hand lashed out so quickly that Heath had no chance to avoid the blow. "Silence! You will not speak unless given permission. Eddie, I believe this one will need the collar for a few days."

As Heath watched, the guard scurried over to a shelf where a row of small cages was sitting. Taking one down, he came back over to where the tall cowboy stood.

"Get on your knees."

Heath obeyed, still watching to see what was going to happen. To his surprise, Eddie opened the bottom part of the barred cage and slipped it over the cowboy's head. Pushing it down firmly, he slid the bottom hinges together and locked them.

"It's not a painful thing at all, but we've found it to be a most effective reminder of what stiff-necked pride will do. You may struggle with finding a comfortable position for sleeping, and many find that it's difficult to eat or drink, but you'll have no pain. Now stand."

Slowly, Heath rose. He discovered that the collar very effectively kept him from moving his head; he could only look straight ahead.

"It is our practice to keep new prisoners isolated for the first three days. If you handle that time well and adjust to living in silence, we will remove the collar by the end of the week. It is completely up to you. Take him to his cell."

The warden watched as Heath was taken away. Heath felt his eyes burning into his back, but he soon discovered that dragging a cannonball was enough of a problem to deal with. In an attempt to figure out how to move swiftly, he tried to bend his head but could not because of the collar. Eddie and the other two guards laughed at his obvious discomfiture.

"Our new guest doesn't seem to enjoy all we have to offer."

"Oh, I think he's going to be one who will discover that we can provide all sorts of recreation for him, don't you, Eddie?"

Pushing and shoving at the cowboy, they continued to mock their victim. Heath recognized the tactics; if he fought back, he knew he'd be a candidate for "discipline."

No way am I gonna play that game, he resolved. Just keep your calm, Heath.

Gritting his teeth, he made no response to the taunts and jeers. Ironically, it was a relief to him to arrive at his cell and be locked in. He reflected on what he had learned and began to wonder if Jarrod's optimistic timeline was feasible. If he was to be kept in solitary confinement for three days, that only left eleven days for him to discover what types of punishment the guards dealt out. With an involuntary shudder, he realized that he would most likely have to make a decision: Stay confined for a longer period of time, or become a disobedient prisoner and feel the guards' wrath for himself.

Heath hobbled over to the slab of concrete that would serve as his bed and began the process of trying to find comfort. First, he tried to bend to lift the cannonball that already was causing his leg and hip to ache. The collar prohibited his bending down easily, so he surrendered that task. With his fingers, he explored the humiliating cage locked over his head. The strips of iron were so close together that it was hard to get his fingers between them; he began to understand why it would be hard to eat or drink. "Reckon this'll cost Jarrod a whole lot," he reflected. Settling back against the wall, he began to plan the steps he would take to make Jarrod pay.

As his brother tried to think positively, Jarrod was trying to concentrate on the duties in his office. Morrison received the sting of his tongue frequently; finally, Jarrod realized what he was doing and apologized.

"Morrison, I'm sorry. I guess I'm not paying close enough attention to what's going on. What do you think about calling it a day?"

"Whatever you want, Mr. Barkley. Perhaps you and your brother might enjoy a longer evening together. You certainly seemed to be good friends!"

Jarrod winced at the mention of Heath. "Yes, Morrison, we are good friends. I hope." With that, he stood and prepared to leave.

That night, as Heath vainly fought to find an easy way to get a spoonful of soup through the bars of his collar, Jarrod stared at his steak and found it impossible to eat. The waiter was greatly concerned about his favorite customer's lack of appetite and volunteered to bring something else. Jarrod mutely shook his head; paying his bill, he walked to the apartment, which he had never considered empty before.

Neither man slept well; Heath found that he could not lie down because of the iron bars. Jarrod paced his apartment, trying to decide when the first feasible visit from the condemned man's lawyer could take place. He knew that Hook required three days in solitary for each new prisoner; since it was Wednesday, he realized that it would be Saturday before he could see his brother.

I'm beginning to think we're both captives, Brother Heath. The lawyer poured himself a drink and began to count the hours. Walking into the room that Heath had occupied only last night, he saw an envelope propped up on the chest of drawers. Walking to it, he read his name. Recognizing his brother's handwriting, Jarrod opened the note and read:

Jarrod,

Mother sent this because she thought I might feel a little out of place. She was far more right than I ever imagined. Please take care of this for me until I'm out. Thanks, Heath.

Jarrod clenched his jaw as he held the familiar locket. "I think I'm beginning to understand the cost, Heath. I'm sorry," the lawyer whispered as he stared at the faces of the people he loved most in the world.

As the three days crawled by, Heath fought losing control. The walls began to cave in on him; realizing that his only chance of release from the cell would be his maintaining self-discipline, he forced himself to remain silent. The only light in the cell came from a slit high up the concrete all; gauging the passage of days from the light that filtered through, Heath found himself full of excitement on the fourth day. When the keys rattled in the door, he jumped to his feet; standing there, he forced himself to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

As the door opened, he looked with anticipation for the first sight of humanity he could find. His eyes fell on a brutish face; gradually, Heath realized that the guard was waiting for him to exit the cell. Dragging the ball as best he could, he hobbled out the door. The guard's hairy hands turned him to the left and slammed him into the wall. Blinking back tears of pain, the cowboy stiffened as hands came to rest on his shoulder. Suddenly, he noticed that in front of him were prisoners in a row; each one rested his hands on the shoulders of the man in front. He put his hands up on the shoulders of the man in front and prepared to move.

The combination of the effort it took to drag the ball and stay in step with the rest of the line took all of Heath's concentration. He was exhausted when they were ordered to stop. The guard who had opened his door tapped several inmates on the head with his club; Heath was one of them. The cowboy watched to see what he should do; when those inmates turned to follow the guard, he joined in.

"Heath! My God, what is this!" Jarrod's voice was welcome to Heath's ears. Opening his mouth to reply, he felt a blow on his back.

"The rule is silence until you're in the visiting room."

Heath maintained silence obediently as he followed the guard and Jarrod to the visiting room. There, he was allowed to sit, and the hated collar was unlocked and removed.

"Five minutes, Counselor. That's all he gets. Knock on the door when you're done."

Watching the guard leave, Heath dreaded turning to look at his brother's face. The humiliating memory of the collar began to burn anew through his soul. Finally, biting his lip, he turned to look at Jarrod.

The lawyer's eyes were suspiciously bright. "What was that, Heath?"

He discovered that three days of silence were difficult to overcome. Clearing his throat, he managed to say, "It was just temporary; I didn't know I wasn't allowed to answer questions without permission. They said it was just to teach me."

"Teach you! Why, those--" Jarrod broke off when he felt his brother's hand on his arm.

"It's part of what you wanted to learn, isn't it? Well, Lawyer, did you take a good look! From what Hook told me, that was nothin' compared to what's in store for those who don't toe the line." Heath's blue eyes burned defiantly as he stared at his brother.

"All right, Heath. All right. I just never thought--"

"I tried to tell you, Jarrod. Guess we both have to learn some things the hard way, huh?"

The two tried to talk, but Jarrod was so upset that he couldn't think of anything to say. Heath knew that he should try to comfort his brother, but he was going through so many conflicting feelings that he just didn't have the energy to spare, so he sat quietly. It was a relief when the guard came to take him back.

"I'll be here on Monday, Heath."

"No visitors until Wednesday, Counselor."

"I'm his lawyer! I have a right to see him."

"His case is settled. No visitors until Wednesday." With that, Heath was pushed from the room. Jarrod heard the dull thud of his brother's body hitting a wall and winced in sympathy. As he walked from the visitors' room, he failed to see the small man who had pushed himself up against the wall by the door. As Jarrod walked out, the man scurried to the warden's office. Gaining admission, he began to speak rapidly to Warden Hook.

As Heath was taken to the main eating area, he saw many men wearing the collar. He began to hate it with a new passion. Sitting down, he looked around to see what system was followed. Each man was provided with a plate and a spoon; the central bowl of stew was in the middle of the table. He watched to see how the plates were to be filled; following the system, he avoided any notice from the guards who patrolled, clubs ready to discipline anyone who dared to commit an infraction.

At the end of the meal, each inmate stood, turned, and began a reverse of the bizarre shuffle that had brought them out of their cells. Heath joined in and was soon back in his cell. The only break came when he was asked through the observation slot if he was going to the preaching service. He stood, wondering if he was allowed to answer; when the door was not opened, he realized that he should have spoken. Resigned, he sat back down and waited to find out what work detail he would be given on Monday.

Monday was a welcome change from the deafening quiet of his cell. For one who cherished solitude, Heath reflected, he sure was hungry to hear some words. He thought about what would sound the sweetest; a grin flashed across his face as he admitted to himself that he longed to hear Nick's voice shouting at him. Reality hit when the guard's whip cut into his body.

"Our new guest seems real happy today. Want to let us in on the joke, Boy? What's so funny, huh?"

Heath bit back the hot words that threatened to come, forced himself to stand still with his head lowered. His muscles ached with the tension of control; his entire body throbbed with the desire to fight back.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a real yellowbelly here. Yes, Sirree! Ain't nothin' that'll get him riled up. Come on, Yellowbelly. Let's see what a day of work will do to you."

It soon became obvious that he would work without breakfast. Wondering just what his job would be, Heath was relieved to be taken out-of-doors. He was taken to a construction site; there, he was commanded to help dig the foundation of a new building.

He worked stoically, never pausing. Gradually, he came to recognize which of the men he was working with would actually be of benefit. There was a younger man--no, a kid of about seventeen--working to his right. Heath was amazed that a kid like him would be in such a place.

The cowboy also observed the guards. They seemed to take special pleasure in tormenting the young boy who worked with Heath. Each time he faltered, they would swing the lash; finally, Heath muttered, "Just be sure you spread some dirt each time you move the shovel. I'll do the rest."

Gratefully, the boy turned to thank Heath. The cowboy frantically shook his head, but it was too late. The lash came swinging down on the kid. Heath whirled, ready to defend him, only to be met with a guard's club swinging into his stomach. Winded, he hunched over, wheezing for air. While he was recovering, the guards dragged the kid away. He heard them laughing and saying, "It's the mad chair for you, kid. That'll teach you."

He didn't have time to reflect on what they meant by the mad chair. Two guards descended on him.

"Well, looks like our new guest here isn't as much of a yellowbelly as we thought, now is he? Let's see here, Boy; looks to me like you're wantin' to eat a little dirt." They clubbed him mercilessly; as his face hit the dirt, he felt a boot descend on his neck.

"Eat a little dirt, Boy. See if you like the taste. Then we'll see if you need cleanin' up a bit in the showers. What you got to say for yourself, huh?"

Heath lay still, forcing himself not to fight back. He realized that if he made a hostile move, he was in for the beating of his life; somehow, he doubted that there would be good medical care to help him recover. With his face in the softened dirt of the foundation, it soon became difficult for him to breathe. His chest heaved with the effort and he began to wonder if it was possible to drown without water. Finally, the pressure on his neck was released; he turned his head with gratitude.

"Get up!" The order was accompanied by the crack of a whip.

Heath struggled to his knees. Still fighting for air, his eyes red and streaming with tears, he was a far cry from the handsome young man who had lunched with a senator and the Attorney General just a few days before. He felt, more than saw, movement; involuntarily he raised a hand to protect himself.

"I said, GET UP!"

Heath rose and leaned forward, hands on his knees. Weaving his fingers through the cowboy's hair, the guard yanked his head up and back just as another guard threw a bucket of water in Heath's face. The blond choked but was able to keep himself from falling again.

"Now, Boy, you get this straight. You want some time in the mad chair, you just try that little trick again. Do we have an understanding?" The guard bent down and stared into Heath's swollen eyes.

Heath nodded.

"Then get back to work." He was roughly shoved back into position and began numbly lifting shovelfuls of dirt again.

The noon whistle blew; this was the signal for the inmates to drop their shovels and form their bizarre line again. Heath was starved; he was amazed at how well a man could adapt. The watery stew was something he wouldn't normally consider feeding as slop to a pig, but he was so hungry, he was anticipating it. Shuffling carefully to keep in step, he wondered if bread would be served, too.

To the blond's dismay, he felt the tap of a club on his head. Recognizing that as a signal to fall out, he let his hands drop from the shoulders of the man in front of him. Turning, he took one step toward the guard. The rest of the men averted their eyes and joined up again. Heath waited to see what was in store for him.

The burly guard who had taken him to see Jarrod stood in front of him. Heath had learned that he was called Pete.

"2791, I understand that you got a little excited today. That true?"

Heath bit back the retort that swelled up inside. Keeping his face expressionless, he waited to see what would happen next. Feeling the tip of Pete's club under his chin, he realized that the guard wanted him to look up. The cowboy met Pete's eyes; he did his best, but it would have taken a far more stupid man than the guard to be unaware of the contempt that blazed from his blue gaze.

"Well, now. Warden Hook said we needed to keep a special eye on you. He just doesn't feel that you're understanding what's expected of a guest in his fine hotel. Just look at you, all filthy and nasty like that. It's a shame, ain't it, Sam?"

The guard named Sam laughed in agreement. The sound chilled Heath's blood.

"Guess we need to clean you up just a bit, don't you think, Sam?"

"Yep, Pete. Looks like to me he's wantin' a good long shower." Pete jerked his thumb to the left; Heath realized that he was being ordered to move. Walking as evenly as he could, he wondered what would happen when he reached his destination. It wasn't long before he found out.

As they rounded a corner, Sam darted ahead and opened a door. Pete shoved Heath through it. Looking around, the cowboy saw a wooden stall with a chair. There was an odd sort of deep trough in front of the chair. The guards dragged Heath to the chair and forced him to sit. He felt the straps go around his chest and belly; soon they were digging into his arms and legs. The only part of his body he could move was his head.

Pete grabbed his hair and jerked his head around to face him. Heath could smell the alcohol on his hot breath. The guard leaned in and said, "Warden Hook don't approve of his guests takin' it on themselves to interfere in discipline. He's a righteous man, the warden; he likes things to run proper and nice. We're just gonna clean you up a little here, Boy. Won't hurt, you'll see."

He snapped Heath's head against the high back of the chair. Heath felt the strap tighten around his forehead. The trough was lowered and latched into place around his chin. There was a type of bowl at the end of the trough; as it was fastened, Heath realized that the sides rose almost to the top of his head. He heard the guards laughing. The hot fist of fear clenched in his belly so badly that bile rose in his throat. Gagging, he forced himself to stay as calm as possible.

The water came. At first, it wasn't too bad, but it kept on coming. Heath realized that his only option was to drink as much as possible to keep it from covering his nose; quickly, he realized the impossibility but could not keep from trying. He held his breath as long as he could but finally surrendered. Choking, he tried to cry out for help but only took in more water.

Suddenly, the water stopped. Heath gagged and coughed as he desperately strove for air. The guards' laughter warned him that the water was coming again; this time, it seemed to cover his face even faster than before. He never knew how many times he breathed in water; he lost count of the times he choked and spat and gagged when it receded. He only knew the blessed relief when it stopped.

Pete's brutish face loomed in front of him. "Boy, you learned your lesson?" Heath couldn't help it. He knew it was stupid; he knew he'd regret it. But he spat in the guard's face.

The beating didn't last as long as he expected. Or maybe it did, but he was so dazed that he didn't realize it. All he knew was that when it stopped, he was alive. He tried to remember why he was there; he knew it was important.

"Jarrod," he croaked. And then he was still.

Warden Hook stepped in front of the stall.

"I think that's sufficient evidence that Weasel was right, don't you, Pete?"

The brute who wore the uniform of guard nodded. "Yes, Sir. No one would call someone like Jarrod Barkley by his first name unless they were real good friends."

"And Barkley is a do-gooder who's interested in humane treatment for prisoners. Almost too convenient, don't you think?"

The warden's only answer was a fiendish smile from Pete and an eerie giggle from Sam.

"You want we should have an accident?"

"Let's let him spend the rest of today and the night learning to restrain himself from interfering. Then we'll see. It just might be that we can use this one to turn the tables on the gallant Mr. Barkley."

As the men began unstrapping Heath from the chair, he gradually came to. His vision was blurred, but he recognized the warden. Pulled to his feet, he wove to and fro, trying to remain erect.

"2791, I understand that you have decided to fight against the system. These good men are here to teach you the error of your ways."

Heath's eyes darted from the warden to the two guards beside him. He recognized that he couldn't escape; it was all too obvious that he had no way to fight back. Fearing for his life, he simply stood quietly. Only the dilating of his eyes showed the fear that rose within him.

"Gentlemen, 2791 needs to learn the value of restraint. I recommend the jacket; perhaps by morning, he will be more interested in the value of self-discipline."

Sam scurried back to a door on the other side of the room. He emerged quickly, carrying a white canvas object. The two guards forced Heath's arms into the straitjacket; pulling the straps as tight as possible, they then booted him to the floor. Using the leverage his new position gave them, they pulled the cruel straps even tighter. The arms were next; Heath felt them being crossed and wrapped around his body. As they rolled him over, he realized that the arms of the jacket were being fastened behind his back. The last step was to use leather straps to fasten his legs together at the knees and ankles. They drew the bonds more tightly than Heath would have imagined possible.

Pete lifted the cowboy's head so that he could look directly at Warden Hook. The warden bent down and tested the restraints.

"Very nice, Gentlemen. I believe this is the best you've ever done. 2791, you will notice that you have very little movement possible. It is interesting to observe what happens when a normally active man is kept immobile for a period of hours; unfortunately, many have called this type of discipline inhumane and abolished it. I, however, find that the older methods work the most quickly to cause a man to become a model prisoner. Do your best to enjoy the time you have alone. We will be back tomorrow morning; perhaps by then, you will be willing to discuss some options that will help you to survive."

The closing of the door, the turning of the key, and Sam's eerie giggle were the last sounds the battered man recognized. Lying on his side, he vomited and coughed for hours. It seemed that every drop of water he had ever seen was in his stomach; each time he coughed and vomited, the pain from the beating burned deeper. He longed for air, but each time he tried to inhale deeply, he felt more and more short of breath.

Jarrod crossed his elegantly shod ankle over the knee of his tailored suit. Leaning back in the chair, he allowed the waiter to light his cigar. Swirling his cognac, he looked up at Stephen Milford and waited for his response.

"Jarrod, you're being ridiculous! You were the one who told me just how tough your brother was and how smart. Now, what can happen in two weeks?"

Jarrod looked at the Attorney General seriously.

"Stephen, when I suggested Heath, I didn't stop to think about what he's been through in the past. Carterson was a terrible time for him; to this day, the family teases him because he has to sleep with an open window, no matter what the weather."

"Jarrod, I'm sure that was a bad time. But the War is over; you can't be implying that the things which happened so long ago are affecting Heath in San Quentin today."

"Stephen, I'm not implying it. I'm telling you that it's true."

"Then why did he consent to go? No one forced him, now did they?"

"You're wrong, Stephen. I'm afraid that the Barkley name forced him to go." Jarrod looked bleakly at his friend, who shook his head in confusion and disgust. Sighing, Milford poured another drink for his friend and changed the subject.

The pain was unbearable. Heath felt as if every inch of his body was being hammered. The muscles, constricted by the straps, were cramping; he recognized that his hands and legs were swelling, which caused the straps to cut even more cruelly. He discovered that even the movement of his neck was restricted. It was dark in the room; he had no idea just how long he had been out, no idea of how long he had to wait for release from his personal hell.

His throat burned; he didn't know how to explain it, but the inside of his face was on fire. The spasms arched his body; each time he fell back, he grunted with pain. He tried desperately to find a position which would give him relief, but his bonds held firm. The cowboy was unaware that he was being observed from a window in the wall; thinking he was alone, he cried out in his agony.

"Jarrod! Oh, God, help me! Jarrod, please!"

His fevered brain confused the current time with his time in Carterson. He forgot where he was; he only knew pain. Coughing, vomiting water, fighting pain in every inch of his body, he moaned aloud. "Nick, Jarrod, please! Help me!"

"Warden, beggin' your pardon, but are you sure you want to leave him all night? We've never left anyone that long before." The guard shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

"You seem unusually concerned about the welfare of a prisoner."

"Sir, not meanin' to question you, but what if you're right? What if he is a spy and that fancy lawyer planted him here?"

The warden stared at his henchman. "If we are unable to break him, then we'll just have to have a regrettable accident."

Pete licked his lips as he returned the warden's stare. Defeated, he nodded once and turned to go back to his observation post. Arriving there, he saw his partner and heard him laughing. The moans of the tortured man in the next room were clearly audible.

"What's he been sayin'?"

"He's callin' out names; keeps callin' for Jarrod and Nick. Isn't that fancy lawyer's name Jarrod?"

Pete froze as he took in this information. "Yes, it is. And if you know anything about the California Barkleys, you know he's got a brother, name of Nick." Quickly, he turned and went back to the warden's office.

Heath's eyes had become accustomed to the dark. The sudden glare of the lantern sliced through his eyes; shutting them, he groaned aloud.

"Well, 2791, what have you learned?"

Heath heard the words, but it took him a long time to process them. Another muscle spasm caused his back to arch again in agony; this time, it was even more prolonged. The coughing never ceased; he felt as if he had vomited tons of water and would never breathe right again. The warden watched him dispassionately.

"Would you like the restraints removed?"

Heath still said nothing. Hook nodded at Sam and Pete, who bent down and pulled the helpless man to his feet. He almost lost consciousness at the new knives slicing through his body. The water still in his lungs felt heavy; he wondered if he was going crazy or if it really was sloshing around inside him. The guards dragged him toward the chair again; as his eyes focused, he hoarsely screamed.

"What was that, 2791?"

"No! Please, no!"

Hook nodded at the men, who continued to pull Heath toward the chair. He continued to protest, to try to fight. Just before they reached the chair, they released the cowboy and let him fall. He lay there defeated, unable to move. The warden placed his foot under the blond man's chest and turned him over. Looking down at him, he was satisfied.

"Release him."

The two guards began the long process of releasing the straps that had held Heath so tightly. The relief was indescribable but short-lived; as circulation began to return to his limbs, a new agony commenced. When the pain was at its peak, he felt his head being lifted up again.

"We can continue this as long as you like. Are you willing to cooperate?"

Heath nodded.

"What is your name."

"Heath Thomson." His voice was hoarse and raw; his breath still came in gasps.

"What is your relationship with Jarrod Barkley?"

Heath said nothing. He turned over and curled into a fetal position, trying to find surcease from the pounding agony. Hook had no mercy. Nodding to the guards, he pointed. They picked up the cowboy and put him back in the chair.

"No! No!"

"What is your relationship with Jarrod Barkley?"

"He--he's my lawyer!"

They began to strap him in. Heath fought, but he had little control. He felt the straps go around his chest and stomach; knowing that he had little time, he swung wildly but made no connection. The coughing began again in earnest.

"Gentlemen."

They stopped and waited. Between paroxysms, Heath looked up at the warden.

"What is your relationship with Jarrod Barkley?"

It would be so easy. All he had to do was tell them. He wasn't a crusader; that was Jarrod's job. He turned his head away.

"Others have tried what you are trying. They did not succeed; neither will you."

His mind told him to give in; he was ready to tell them all they wanted to know. But the face of that young kid rose in his mind. Who would fight for him? Jarrod--Jarrod would fight to free Heath; all he had to do was live. But who would fight for the boy? He opened his mouth. The warden smiled.

"Go. To. Hell."

As he felt the straps tighten, he realized a great truth: He had to fight. If he gave in, others would be put through what he was experiencing. He had to live; he had to win. Gritting his teeth, Heath Barkley prepared to live through another long session designed to break his will.

Another night without sleep passed for Jarrod. He sat in his chair by the fireplace, haunted by his brother's voice. "You're Sir Jarrod, and I'm just Heath the peasant." Images of Nick's face rose up before him; the confusion, the bewilderment, the pain when he found out that Jarrod had helped stage the court martial.

But wasn't he supposed to fight injustice? He had taken an oath when he became a lawyer; he had promised to fight for truth and against unrighteousness. He thought back through his life, trying to remember a time when he hadn't felt compelled to fight. After all, wasn't that Tom Barkley's greatest legacy? He had given his life to fight against the railroad. Could Jarrod do less?

Hours passed as the lawyer looked at decisions he had made. He thought of Korby Kyles; he had been wrong then, dead wrong. That was another instance where Heath had been involved; what had he thought when his own brother defended Kyles? Was he hurt? Victoria had talked to him then, but she had not asked him to give in to her pressure, just to consider Heath. Had he? He didn't know anymore.

And what about the Matt Bentell episode? He was the forerunner in asking--no, ordering Heath to protect Bentell. When had he ever asked Heath what he really thought about it all after it was done?

Carterson. Milford said it didn't apply. Well, that was easy to say; Jarrod admitted that he had been impatient with Heath when he brought it up. But that was before he had seen the nightmares; that was before he had witnessed the scars on his brother's soul.

Now, Heath was again the one he had volunteered to fight in his personal crusade. He began to realize what Heath had meant when he said, "It's the coward in me that's saying yes." What kind of pressure had he put on the man to conform to Tom Barkley's ideal? Jarrod faced it square on. He had expected Heath to fit into the role of a son of Tom Barkley's with ease, but he himself had done little to help him learn how.

As he castigated himself, he became more and more aware of his concern for Heath. He wanted to see him; he had to know that he was all right. Rising, he dressed swiftly and prepared to do battle for his brother.

Heath had lost all track of time, even of any reason why he still lived. The water, the beatings, the constant pressure to give in and admit that he was a spy all took their toll. He held on to a nugget of hope: Jarrod. Sir Jarrod would come; he would rescue his brother before he died.

The warden tried other methods. Heath remained adamant. He knew that if he gave in, he would die; he couldn't remember why it mattered so much that he lived, but he knew it was important. So he fought.

Tuesday afternoon, he lost consciousness completely. When he came to, he was lying on the floor again. His body burned with pain; he longed for one easy breath. He felt the shackles go on his wrists; he felt his arms being pulled and stretched to their limit. He remembered the position from Carterson. The whip was coming. Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the red glaze in front of his eyes. Live, Heath. Gotta hang on. Jarrod'll come. Don't give in. As he talked to himself, he wondered if he could truly hang on until his brother came.

The warden knelt beside him. Again, he whispered, "What is your relationship with Jarrod Barkley."

Heath couldn't have answered if he had wanted to. The hours of vomiting and coughing had made his throat so raw that he couldn't even croak out a sound. He only wanted to sleep; he longed to rest. One breath, he thought. One good deep breath, and then I'll go to sleep. But one deep breath was impossible.

Jarrod couldn't believe what he was hearing. Milford was refusing to give him the release papers.

"Jarrod, you have no reason to be so worried. You saw him Saturday; it's only Tuesday afternoon. What could have happened?"

"I don't know, Stephen, but I want to see him, and I want to see him today!"

Milford heard the resolve in Jarrod's voice and realized that there would be no dissuading his friend.

"All right, Jarrod. But why don't you just make an attorney's visit?"

"Because, Stephen, they won't let me see him until tomorrow."

"Jarrod, what's Heath going to say if we get him released before he has the information we need? Won't he be a little upset with you?"

"Frankly, Stephen, I don't care. Now, if you can think of a way to protect your investigation and still let me see my brother, that's fine. If not, I'm going to go in on my own and get him, regardless of what that takes."

The two put their heads together and planned carefully. Finally, Jarrod nodded.

"All right, Stephen. I'll wait until tomorrow. But if anything is wrong with him, you'd better step in. Do you understand me?"

Milford nodded as he prepared to help his friend.

The warden offered Heath one last chance to talk. He explained to the helpless man that confessing would give him rest; he would never go back to the shower treatment again. Heath ignored him. In anger, the warden grabbed his head and slammed it to the floor. Blood poured from new cuts in his face, but still he did not surrender. He realized that his feet were still free and feebly tried to kick Hook. Contemptuously, the warden laughed.

He gestured to the guards to unlock Heath's chains. The exhausted man fell back to the floor, shocked that he had not felt the lash of the whip as he had expected to.

"Pete, this man doesn't want to talk. Perhaps you can help him maintain his silence."

Sam laughed maniacally. Idly, Heath wondered what they were doing as they worked on a piece of chain and some metal, but he was too wrapped up in his personal pain to understand what new hell was coming his way.

"So, Boy, you still gonna stay quiet, or are you gonna talk?"

Heath just looked at Pete, saying nothing. The guard grabbed his head and forced it back as far as his neck would extend. Prying his mouth open, he ordered Sam to come.

Heath felt something going in his mouth and fitting over his tongue. He tried to resist but had no energy.

"You want to stay quiet, Boy? We're gonna help you do just that!"

He felt a chain go around his face and fasten in the back. Then he was yanked to his feet and dragged through the hall. He recognized his cell door and braced himself for the impact as they unlocked the door and threw him inside. The guards followed him and twisted his arms up behind his back. Crossing his hands behind his neck, they fastened manacles on each wrist. Heath felt the weight of his hands drag his head back; he realized that the iron gag in his mouth was now anchored to the cuffs. With a few more kicks, the guards left, promising to get him when the "accident" was arranged. The cowboy lay prone on the floor, dispassionately watching pools of blood form on the floor.

"Well, how are you doing?"

Heath ignored him.

"Your lawyer is here, asking to see you. Too bad you won't talk to him; I'm amazed that you are rejecting such a famous attorney."

That got his attention.

"Amazing that you would be so loyal to one who would allow you to come here and go through all this while he remains free."

The sudden move from his victim was enough to make the warden's guess a certainty.

"Well, Gentlemen, we have a problem here. It's too early to arrange an accident; is there anything you can suggest?"

"Let's just keep him here in his cell for a while, Warden. We've gotta make arrangements, anyway."

"Do what you want, Sam. Just make sure the accident is . . . permanent." Hook looked down at the bloody mask that was Heath's face. "Amazing, what the mind can do to make the body survive. Well, some can't be broken. Those are the ones who must die."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY WON'T LET YOU SEE HIM?" Nick stared angrily at his brother.

"Nick, I went; they said he was in solitary confinement, that he had broken some rules. I couldn't get through." Jarrod had known that by sending the wire asking for Nick to come, he would be on the receiving side of his brother's temper; he just hadn't realized how much it would hurt.

"And what with this wonderful Milford fellow? Did he give you the release papers?"

"Nick, he was in meetings; I have an appointment to see him first thing in the morning."

"An appointment. Well, isn't that nice. You two put my brother in that jail to find out if the warden's doing things wrong. Milford gets praise in the papers for his courageous act, you get applauded for your determination to protect the helpless, and I get to bury our brother! Will that be enough for you, Jarrod, or do you need something else as well?" Nick turned on his heel and started to walk out the door.

"Nick? Where are you going?"

"To get my brother."

Jarrod came along for the ride. He found himself in a strange position; recognizing that his actions had possibly created an insurmountable wall between him and Heath, he had still been committed to the need to find out what was happening in San Quentin. He knew he had good reason to worry; still, Milford had managed to keep his feathers smoothed.

Here he was, the oldest, the one who was supposed to be the leader, and he was dithering along in Nick's wake much like Morrison had acted when first confronted with Heath. Curiously shamed and yet greatly encouraged, Jarrod prepared to observe what Milford would do when confronted with Nick Barkley. He didn't have long to wait.

Nick had no patience with clerks who tried to tell him that Milford was unavailable. Pushing them aside much as he would brush away a mosquito, the juggernaut relentlessly stalked to the office door. With one blow of his hand, it opened. Jarrod followed and saw an amazing sight.

Nick was leaning on the desk; Milford was looking at him, speechless.

"My name is Barkley. Nick Barkley. I want the release papers for my brother. Now."

"Mr. Barkley, Jarrod and I have agreed--"

"I'm not Jarrod." Nick's hand rose; palm extended, he waited for the papers. While he waited, his voice developed a conversational tone.

"If you can't find those papers, and if you don't get me some marshals to back me up, I'm leavin' here. I'm goin' to the telegraph office, and I'm wirin' the governor, telling him just what's happened here. And from there, I'm going to each newspaper office and giving them the full story of how the great Stephen Milford and the wonderful Jarrod Barkley put themselves out to find out about prison corruption. Think they'll be interested in the fact that you put somebody else's life on the line and stayed all comfortable in your fancy offices? I'll bet they'll eat that up, don't you?"

"You--you wouldn't! That might endanger your brother's life!"

Nick reached over the desk; grabbing the man's pristine shirt, he effortlessly pulled Milford to his feet.

"His life is already endangered. The papers. Now."

Milford looked at Jarrod, who smiled at him. Recognizing that Jarrod had permanently aligned himself with Nick, he nodded.

"All right. I'll get them."

Nick released him. "And the marshals?"

"They'll be waiting for you at the prison gates."

Nick took the papers and turned to leave. An afterthought hit him; turning around, he leaned over the desk again.

"I want a doctor there with those marshals, and I want a private train car ready to attach to a train bound for Stockton. My brother is going home. Do it."

Milford nodded. Jarrod followed in Nick's wake, feeling nothing but pride. He realized that any political ambitions he might have had were probably ground into the dust, but he felt more like a Barkley than he had in a long time.

Heath was past desperation. He couldn't stop coughing, but the gag kept choking him. If he rolled on his side, blood went down his throat. He vomited water and blood; each time he coughed, new agony sliced through his chest. With each heave, the gag restricted his ability to eliminate the water he was coughing up. His face was on fire; his breathing was ragged and rattled in his chest. His stomach was swollen with the water he had swallowed, but his throat burned for relief. He knew that if help didn't come soon, the guards wouldn't need to arrange any accident.

The ride to the prison was silent. Jarrod had no words to say; Nick was totally concentrated on his mission. Milford had been faithful; the marshals met the brothers at the door.

"Mr. Barkley? Mr. Milford said you had some release papers for a prisoner."

Jarrod nodded toward Nick, who silently handed them the papers.

"Thomson, huh? Isn't he the murderer?"

"No, Gentlemen, my brother is not a murderer." Jarrod's reply caught the marshals by surprise.

"And his name is Barkley." Nick's added comment caused the marshals to look at each other uneasily.

As they started to enter the prison gates, another man rode up. His doctor's bag testified to the reason he was there.

"Mr. Barkley? Mr. Milford asked to have me come here; he felt there might be a problem with an inmate."

"Thank you for coming. We'll know soon."

The group of men soon entered the warden's office. There, they met with resistance.

"Gentlemen, this intrusion is unwarranted! Prisoner 2791 is a convicted murderer."

Nick leaned forward and stared at the warden. "Prisoner 2791 is my brother. You've got the papers. I want him, and I want him now!"

"I'm afraid that might be impossible. There are procedures for release; the processing might take several days. He is so new in the system that we might--"

"My brother. Now." Jarrod's face was even more menacing than Nick's. Hook swallowed. Looking at the marshals, he realized that they would obey the Barkleys. White-faced, he played his last card.

"Prisoner 2791 has been quite violent. We have had to employ unusual methods just to keep him under control. I'm afraid that--"

"You heard the man. My brother. Now." Nick's hand caressed his gun; it was obvious that he longed to pull it. Nodding in defeat, the warden turned and ordered a guard to take them to Heath. One marshal stayed with him.

Nothing was helping. Heath realized he was in mortal danger if he wasn't released soon. There was no position that gave him relief; each movement, each cough brought its own hell. The gag was choking him. He wondered if it was possible to drown in his own blood. The sound of keys in the door gave him an odd sense of release; at least he didn't have to wait any longer to be taken to die.

"Heath! We're here, Boy. We're here."

In his fevered brain, Heath realized that he was hallucinating. He had longed to hear Nick's voice for so long; through the haze that clouded his eyes, he even thought he was seeing both his brothers.

"What kind of hell have you put him through?" Jarrod's voice confused him even more.

"Get him out of this now." He imagined he heard the sound of a gun being cocked. He felt hands touching the shackles.

His moan of pain cut through Jarrod's soul. Nick's eyes met his briefly; the lawyer realized he had an accounting there, as well. Forcing off all thoughts of self, he joined his brother in supporting the bleeding cowboy as the marshals unlocked the shackles that kept his head pulled back in such an awkward position.

Next came the gag. Jarrod stopped the marshals' hands; he gently removed the hateful thing himself. Heath began to cough in earnest; water and blood poured out of his mouth. The doctor knelt beside him.

"Doc, can't you help him stop coughing? He's in so much pain; that can't be helping."

The doctor shook his head. "Mr. Barkley, I have no idea just why or how any of this happened, but the coughing is the only thing that's keeping your brother alive. It looks to me as if someone has tried to drown him."

"Can we move him?"

"Mr. Barkley, the best thing you can do just now is to let me examine your brother. I cannot answer your questions until I've had a chance to check him over."

Nick and Jarrod waited for what seemed like an interminable time. They watched as the doctor cut off the filthy prison uniform; they winced at the bruises and cuts they saw. His stomach was oddly swollen; there were purple and red stripes and splotches all across his abdomen and pelvis. The horrible cough continued to tear Heath apart; Jarrod tried to hold him, but the wet rattle of his breathing compelled the cowboy to continually turn his head and expel more water.

"All right. Gentlemen, you have a decision to make. This young man has a broken arm and several broken ribs. He has multiple lacerations and bruises, and of course, the attempted drowning hasn't helped his condition at all. I think that he needs to be moved to warmth and comfort. But it's going to cause him even more pain to be moved."

Nick didn't hesitate. "We're taking him out of here. He needs to go home."

"Mr. Barkley, we need to get him stabilized before we think about his enduring any long trip."

"Let's get him out of here." Nick moved to Heath's side. "Heath? It's Nick. We're here now. We're gonna get you out of here. We'll be going home soon, Heath. All right?"

Jarrod had never heard him speak so softly. Nick brushed his hand through Heath's hair. "Heath, you just hang on. We're gonna have to lift you to take you out of here, but we're gonna have you in a warm bed soon. Nobody's gonna leave you, Boy. You're not alone anymore."

Heath reached a trembling hand toward the voice. Nick smiled reassuringly at him and squeezed his hand gently. Even that pressure caused his brother's swollen eyes to close in pain. Heath didn't see the look that crossed Nick's face; when he opened his eyes again, Nick was again smiling at him.

"Marshal? Can you help us find a stretcher?"

One of the marshals left the cell. He quickly returned with two guards and a stretcher. Only as they tried to put Heath on the stretcher did Nick notice the shackle on his ankle.

"We need to get the key to unlock this thing."

The guard muttered something. Nick stood; in one motion, he grabbed the guard and pulled him close. "What did you say?"

"There's no lock. Warden don't use locks and keys with lifers."

Nick turned in shock to stare at the sight before him. He realized the guard was telling the truth. Pulling his gun, he started to kneel at Heath's feet.

"Mr. Barkley, that's probably the easiest way, but we need to be careful. In this cell, the bullet could ricochet. Let's get him out of here first, all right?"

Nick growled deep in his throat but acquiesced. The macabre parade was led by a marshal; the prison guard scurried behind him to open and close doors. Nick and Jarrod carried the stretcher; one of the other marshals supported Heath's chained leg. The doctor walked beside his patient and made sure that his airway remained as clear as possible. As soon as they reached the outside, Nick dealt with the hated shackle. As he opened the iron band, he cursed at the bloody sight that met his eyes.

"Mr. Barkley, we'll do our best to help him with that, too. Right now, he needs a hospital." The doctor remained fixed in his purpose.

It was a while before that particular torment eased. Finally, although his breathing was still ragged, Heath seemed to be able to take in air. The doctor turned to his other medical needs.

His wounds had been cleaned and temporary bandages had been put over his body. The doctor decided to work on the broken arm first. He looked at the brothers seriously. "This is going to be rough on him. We can't give him any pain medication; it's obvious that these head blows he received have given him a concussion."

"We'll hold him, Doc. You just get it set."

The doctor nodded. Gritting his teeth, Jarrod held Heath's shoulders and head. "Heath? The doctor's going to set your arm. Nick and I are here; try to stay as still as you can, all right? We'll do all we can to help you."

To his shocked delight, he felt his brother's head move. Looking down, he realized that Heath was nodding. Nick gave a fierce shout of joy. Grinning, he said, "Heath, you just hang on. We're gonna get you home."

It didn't take long, not really. But it seemed like forever to the two men who were forcing their brother to cooperate and allow still more pain to be inflicted on him. The choked sound coming from Heath's throat alarmed them both; the doctor, however, stayed calm. Finally, they heard the snap of the bone being realigned and relaxed. Expertly, the doctor applied splints and bandages. He then looked at Nick and Jarrod.

"I think we need to strap his ribs next. That will mean that he needs to be lifted; it will cause him pain again. But he needs the protection of the strapping. And while he's lifted, I can stitch those cuts on his side and back."

"Let's do it." Nick and Jarrod began to work as a team. Nick took Heath's right side; Jarrod, his left. Gently, supporting his head, they lifted him to a half-sitting position. From there, Jarrod leaned in and Nick laid Heath's head on the lawyer's shoulders. Both helped support the wounded man as the doctor quickly stitched the deeper cuts; both gently explained each move to Heath.

The unearthly sounds their brother made as the needle bit into his torn flesh caused them to look at each other in worry, but again the doctor was calm. Quickly finishing his bandaging job, he instructed them to lay Heath back against the pillows. Then, he began to work on Heath's mouth.

Nick helped him. So did Jarrod. But as they opened his mouth and saw the deep cuts the iron gag had left, both shut their eyes in unconscious rejection of what he had gone through. As the doctor swabbed the cuts, he began to explain what was happening to their brother.

"He's coughed up most of the water; that's good. Now, his mouth and tongue are so swollen and damaged that he probably can't form any words at all. His throat and nose have suffered from the intake of water; having to cough and vomit for so long to get rid of the water has inflamed his throat even more. It will take a few days for that to settle down. I've never seen that contraption they had on him, but with his hands pulling his neck back in such an extended position, the gag kept cutting into the soft tissues of his tongue and mouth. That's why it's so bloody and messy inside here.

"Looks as if he got punched and kicked quite a bit, too. That's adding to his problems. We'll have to be careful to keep his head elevated; he's going to fight for a couple of days just to breathe. One thing we'll have to be careful about is getting nourishment down him. I doubt he was fed very well; although he's obviously very strong, his body needs nourishment or he won't recover..

"Now, another problem we'll have is just keeping him working to breathe. He's exhausted; drowning does that. But if he doesn't force himself to keep trying, even though the broken ribs hurt like fury, we can still lose him. He's going to want to stop coughing because it hurts so much, but he'll need to cough frequently. We're in a strange position, Gentlemen. You want your brother to stop hurting, but if you want him to live, you're going to have to help him continue to hurt himself so that he can survive. Also, with his head injuries, we won't know for a while just how affected he might be."

While he talked, he was expertly cleaning Heath's face. Jarrod had hoped that removing the mask of blood would help; however, it only exposed the horrible swelling that came from the blows he had received.

"Now, we need to look here at the back of his head. There's a lot of blood there, too."

The brothers helped the doctor turn Heath's head. "That's right, don't let him lean his head forward too far. Yes, there's a cut here. We'll need to cut his hair; this is going to need stitches."

A nurse came forward; for the first time, Jarrod realized that there was more than one person working on his brother. The sister began the work of clipping Heath's matted, blood- stained hair. Jarrod gently held him still as she shaved around the gash. The doctor swabbed the gash with a disinfectant. Heath moaned; Jarrod began to talk to him again.

"Heath, it's Jarrod. The doctor is cleaning a cut on the back of your head. I'm afraid you've got a strange haircut back there; looks like Nick took the shears to you instead of a barber."

As he looked at his brother's face, he saw Heath's lips twitch. Could he be laughing? Jarrod gripped the cowboy's shoulder. "Heath, Nick's right. We're going to get you home."

Finally, the urgent care was over. Heath lay on his side in the bed. His chest and head were elevated with pillows; his right arm was bandaged close to his chest. His face was unrecognizable; his eyes were so swollen that only a slit of blue showed. Each breath he took was ragged and obviously painful.

The doctor had explained that the many bruises came not only from the beatings but also from the restraints he had been in. He continued to warn them of the need to keep Heath trying to take nourishment and to cough.

"Doctor, when can we take him home?"

The doctor looked at them angrily. "Gentlemen, you need to realize that as much as you want him home, the best thing for your brother is to be right here. Now, I suggest that if you really are uncomfortable with that, you realize that moving him could be signing his death warrant!"

"How long will he need to stay here, Doctor?"

"I don't know, Mr. Barkley. That will depend, to a large extent, on your brother. If he is anywhere as strong-willed as his siblings, he just might surprise us all."

Jarrod turned to Nick and grinned. Nick returned the smile briefly. Looking at Heath, Nick replied, "He's twice as stubborn as us." The doctor smiled politely and returned to his monitoring of Heath's breathing and pulse.

"Nick, do you think we should send for Mother?"

"Doc? What do you think?"

"That all depends on what you know about your brother. If your mother is a person who can help keep him focused on survival, then by all means."

"Oh, Mother's a determined woman. She'll keep him focused, all right."

A strange sound came from the bed. Tears oozed from Heath's eye as his lips contorted in a strange grimace. They realized he was laughing with them.

Jarrod opted to stay with Heath while Nick sent the wire. Going to the door with his brother, he handed him the key to his apartment.