by Layla
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program
"Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and
have been used without permission. No
copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.
“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have
hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.” ~ Ernest Hemingway
Jim Hansen was good at his job. When it came to extracting information from
the sprawling bureaucracy that was Washington D.C., the Pinkerton Detective
Agency had no one better. Years of
cultivating key contacts throughout the city had paid off for him time and
again. This time was no different. Ira Taylor was his man in the Department of
Defense U.S. Army Records Division. This was by no means a straightforward case,
but Ira had come through. If the U.S. Army had skeletons to hide, Ira either knew
exactly where they’d be buried or the most likely place to start digging.
Records of the hearing that resulted in the
Dishonorable Discharge along with stripping of rank, commendations and medals
were easily located. The rest of the
files had taken some digging. And no
wonder...it wasn’t the U.S. Army’s
finest hour.
What a sorry mess this is... Jim had thought after poring over the
records that Ira had produced. Jim made
copious and detailed notes. The boy had
joined the Union Army out in California at age “18”. He was assigned to Company C, 2nd California Infantry but had
immediately set himself apart on the rifle range. The talented novice quickly won Expert Marksman honors and had
out shot his fellow recruits in competition.
Thus the hard-shooting young private had come to the attention of Col. Hiram Berdan and had been transferred at Col. Berdan’s request to his elite United States
Sharpshooters Regiment.
The list of accomplishments as a sharpshooter
was extremely impressive. The young
sharpshooter had been sent off on dozens of dangerous missions behind enemy
lines. The young soldier would work his
way into position to make a shot on his target and then he was on his own to
try to make it back to the Union lines and his own Unit. This could take days... Sometimes a “spotter” accompanied him, but
mostly he was alone. With each mission
that he managed to pull off, his reputation grew within the elite unit. 57 confirmed kills - couriers carrying
intelligence reports, orders and dispatches, Confederate officers, and even a
couple of Confederate spies before they could rendezvous with their contacts. Col.
Berdan also sent out these elite sharpshooters in advance of the regular
infantry to engage the enemy in “skirmishes”.
They sniped the enemy, pinning them down and slowing their forward
progress.
The impact on the enemy through loss of
leadership and access to communications had been severe enough that the boy had
been brevetted in rank to Sergeant, earned numerous Commendations and
ultimately had been awarded the Medal of Honor.
The boy had been taken prisoner in
mid-December, 1864 near Nashville, Tennessee as the battle raged between the
Confederate troops under Gen. Hood and
the Union forces under Gen. Thomas. He had ended up in a prison for Union POWs
in Louisiana - that hellhole known as Carterson.
There were no records as to what exactly had
occurred during the months prior to the war’s end and the prison camp’s
liberation. But Jim Hansen knew all
about Carterson by reputation and through the staggering death toll that had
occurred there. The boy’s medical
records from his 6-month stay in a U.S.
Army Hospital after the war were graphic enough to fill in the blanks. The boy had well earned his Purple Heart.
The doctors at the Army Hospital had known
immediately upon examining the boy that the stated age according to his Army
records was obviously wrong. They were
appalled that such a young boy had been allowed to join the Army in the first
place. It was the formal complaint
filed by several of the doctors and request for investigation into U.S. Army Recruiting policies and procedures that
had opened a real can of worms. Despite
the doctors’ good intentions, the Army managed to escape any accountability in
the matter. The official inquiry ruled
that the boy was at fault for “deliberate falsification of eligibility status”. It was well known that the recruiters rarely
challenged these boy enlistees and almost never requested the required
signature of parental consent.
Tail-coverage was the order of the day and
these boys were often chewed up in its wake.
This boy had been mangled… busted back down to private, stripped of all
commendations as well as his medals. Lastly,
he was dishonorably discharged and therefore rendered ineligible for further
hospitalization or rehabilitation in any U.S.
Army facility.
Thus the U.S.
Army had officially closed the books on young Heath Aaron Thomson. What a terrible injustice… Jim thought as he
closed his notebook and rubbed his eyes.
Ira Taylor had read the records with growing
interest and his mind was now churning as well. What had it been? Probably
six or seven years ago but Ira had always been blessed with an excellent memory. That’s why he was so suited for his present
position in Records.
Ira thought back on that long-ago conversation
with Jack Donahue. He’d located the
records of the four men Donahue had been interested in and had made notes from
each which he had given to Donahue. Easiest
$200.00 Ira had ever made.
“What do you want with these fellows, Jack?”
Ira had asked.
“A little unfinished business…” the enigmatic
Donahue had replied. “Your little side
business is selling information for a price, Ira… it’d be safer for you not to
concern yourself with what I do with it.”
They had started to part but almost as an
afterthought Donahue spoke again. “
Listen Ira, there’s one man I’d like to find … I’d pay double the usual.”
“Well what’s his name?” Ira asked.
“I don’t know his name.”
“So how am I supposed to identify this
nameless soldier?” Ira threw Donahue an incredulous look.
“ I don’t know… every sharpshooter kept a
sniper’s log and had to submit a situation report to his officer in charge
after each mission. He killed Gen. Stark several days before the battle at
Franklin, Tennessee. I was a
sharpshooter myself, and a damn good one.
Gen. Stark was a military genius
… I would have given my life for the man.
Gen. Lee said after Gen. Stonewall Jackson was killed ‘I have lost my
right arm’. Gen. Stark was Gen. Hood’s ‘right arm’. He
believed we should keep retreating; doing hit-and-run raids along the way but
ultimately beat Sherman to the mountains and cross over into Virginia and join
forces with Gen. Lee. The other generals favored going on the
offensive against Schofield’s forces. We
lost badly at Franklin. In a series of
reckless charges, we lost over six thousand men, including six of our generals. Defeat at the Battle of Nashville two weeks
later was a foregone conclusion. Gave
that bastard Thomas one of the biggest victories of the war! What was left of our army had to retreat
into Mississippi.” Donahue paused, his steel gray eyes flashing with rage. “Like I was saying, this Union sniper snuck
into our perimeter – my perimeter – and shot Gen. Stark dead! I was sitting
just outside my tent with my binoculars within easy reach. I knew as soon as the shot was fired where
I’d be if I had been the shooter. I
scanned the knoll and I saw him just before he disappeared into the woods. He turned and looked back toward the camp
for just an instant. Hell, he was just
a boy! Couldn’t have been more than 13
or 14 years old. A golden blond-haired,
blue-eyed… for a moment, a vision of a Botticelli angel came into my mind.”
Ira snorted, “Sounds more like the Angel of
Death to me. My guess is this was some
kid running around out there without enough sense to be scared, who just
happened to pull off the luckiest shot of his life!”
“Just the same, if you come across an incident
report that mentions Stark…”
“Jack” Ira cut in, “it just doesn’t work that
way. Talk about finding a needle in a
haystack! I need a name … if you don’t
have that then you’ve got nothing for me to work with. Sorry.”
Ira’s mind snapped back to the present and he
looked at the photograph on the inside jacket of the file. A blond boy of about fourteen, clean and
clear faced. The eyes seemed to him to
be the dominating feature in the handsome young face. Yes, very handsome… angelic even.
Ira cleared his throat as he pocketed the $20
gold piece Jim Hansen gave him. He
tried to sound casual. “Is this boy in
some kind of trouble?”
“No, not that I know of, Ira. A lawyer out on the west coast asked for a
background check. Seems the boy showed
up at the family ranch claiming he’s a long lost relative. The family is rather well-to-do so naturally
they intend to check out his story thoroughly.”
“And what does Papa say?” Ira chuckled.
“Well that’s a problem. The patriarch, Thomas Barkley, has been dead
for six years.”
“Let’s see…” Ira rubbed his forehead absently. “Barkley Ranch. That’s in Texas, right?”
“No, Ira.
It’s near Stockton, California.”
“Oh,” said Ira. “I guess I was thinking of somebody else.”
Jim smiled.
He really shouldn’t have divulged any client information at all. But he needed to maintain a kind of
backslapping, friendly relationship with Ira.
After all, he needed Ira’s help fairly often. Anyway, Ira was just being Ira – a little bit too nosey. He’d forget the little tidbit of gossip
there at the end soon enough, Jim felt sure.
After all, what could it hurt? There
was nothing Ira could do with the information.
Ira Taylor sent the telegraph that same afternoon. He had prepared some notes from the files. As soon as Jack Donahue wired the money, Ira
was ready to send him all the information he had. Ira tried to shake off the recollection of the “Death Notice”
that had come through his office within months on each of the four Union Army
veterans that he had helped Donahue locate.
But hell, those notices trickled into his office on a daily basis. It could have all been just coincidence. He couldn’t concern himself with that. He had other worries. He needed to make a pay-off on the gambling
debt he owed. And soon.
* * * * * * * *
THREE MONTHS LATER:
“You’re not as slick as you think, Pappy.” Nick said as he
poured himself some whiskey from the decanter and eyed his older brother. “You know I was planning on taking Ben
Timmons with me to buy those horses. I’ve
been picking the breeding stock for this ranch for years and I’ve never heard
any complaints about the quality! I
don’t need Heath to go with me.”
“No,” Victoria broke in, “you don’t need Heath to choose
the breeding stock. We all know that
you are perfectly capable of doing that on your own. You’re right, Nick. Jarrod
and I do have an ulterior motive…”
“Oh, I knew it,
Mother!” Nick began to pace.
“Come on, Nick.” Jarrod said. “Heath is a member of this family now. I know you’re both stubborn but it’s time for the two of you to
stop butting heads and try to become friends.”
Nick stopped his pacing and shot Jarrod a defiant glance. “I was outvoted when it came to that boy
living under this roof!” Nick seethed. He
still wouldn’t refer to Heath as a ‘member of the family’. “But know this Pappy, I pick my own
friends!” Nick began to pace again. “Ben
could use the experience…”
“Nicholas!” Victoria’s tone was stern. “You will take Heath with you on this trip!”
“But, Mother…”
“No buts, Nicholas.
This is what I want.”
“Oh, all right!” Nick put his glass down and strode out
the door grumbling under his breath.
Jarrod took a sip of his Scotch. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call that getting off on the right foot
but at least Nick has agreed to let him go.”
Victoria sighed. “They
both have so many good qualities in common, and so many more that could
complement the other. You know I have
always believed that it’s hard to dislike a person once you get to know them. I believe these two weeks on their own -
just the two of them - well, it could begin a whole new chapter for them.”
Jarrod chuckled. “I’m
not sure that two weeks is enough, but I defer to your unfailing mother’s
instinct and keen insight.” He walked over to where she sat and kissed her
cheek.
“Thank you, Jarrod.
We both know that my record isn’t perfect but I do hope and pray that I
am right about this.”
Nick stomped up the stairs, spurs jingling. Outvoted again, he thought, well, they’d
better not start meddling too much. This
is my ranch to run and my men to rule. I’ll
decide what part that boy will play – if any.
When it comes to the daily running of this ranch… it’s a democracy of
one!
He stopped at Heath’s door and rapped on it sharply. In a few moments, the door opened…only
partially. The blond just stood there
silently. He didn’t ask Nick in.
“That horse-buying trip I’m taking day after tomorrow. You’re going with me.”
“Nick, I thought you said…”
“I know what I said and now I’m telling you different.” Nick
responded as he saw a hint of suspicion in those easily read blue eyes. “I’ll get everything lined out for McCall
tomorrow. That way we won’t have to
waste any time getting an early start out of here before daybreak.”
“Okay, Nick. Whatever
you say.” Heath sighed. “That all?”
Nick nodded and Heath closed the door. Heath walked over to the bed and began to
undress. Sounds like one of Jarrod’s
ideas, he thought, I’m sure it wasn’t Nick’s.
Both Nick and Heath had the same idea the next morning. Get a quick bite of breakfast in the kitchen
and head on out to work. They each had
things they wanted to do today before starting a two-week trip. Heath was just putting his empty plate in
the sink when Nick came down the back stairway. He gave Nick a quick nod, picked up his hat off the table, and
walked out the back door. Two weeks on
the trail with him for company, Nick thought, I might as well be by myself. “Hell, I’d rather be by myself!” Nick said
to no one there.
Heath walked out to the corrals and the adjoining round
pen. There were five 3 year-old remuda
horses in the corral that he’d been working with. They were barely green broke.
Heath had decided to use his morning giving them each a good workout
since he was going to be away for two weeks.
Nick met up with McCall.
They planned to ride around and check the progress of several of the
projects going on around the ranch. McCall
knew Nick would tell him exactly what he expected to be finished by the time he
returned and that Nick relied on him to keep the men on task.
At lunchtime, both Nick and Heath returned to the house. Victoria smiled as everyone took their
places at the table. It was a rare
treat to have everyone home for lunch.
“This is so nice!” Victoria said and smiled at her
youngest sons. “It will certainly be
lonely around here the next two weeks with you two off buying horses and Jarrod
going to San Francisco.”
“At the very least it’ll certainly be quieter while Nick’s
gone.” Jarrod said.
“That’s for sure!” Audra giggled.
Nick shot them an unamused glare. Heath took a sideways glance at Nick but
didn’t crack a smile.
Jarrod’s eyes met his mother’s. It was obvious to them both that Nick’s mood hadn’t much improved. Maybe Heath would be more receptive.
“Well Brother Heath, while we’re enjoying a little peace
and quiet, don’t let Nick talk your ears off.”
Heath looked up from his plate. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem.” he said.
“It’s not like he’d hold up his end of the conversation
anyway.” Nick muttered.
Victoria shook her head slightly at Jarrod. Best to let it drop for now…
Heath and Nick finished their lunch quickly in silence and
started to leave.
“Oh, Heath…” Jarrod said.
“Let me know when you start into town to go to the bank. I’ve got to pick up some paperwork at my
office. I’ll ride in with you.”
“Sure, Jarrod.” Heath smiled. “It’ll be nice to have the company.”
Nick and Heath walked out together and before Heath headed
back over to the round pen to work the last remuda, Nick caught his arm.
“Don’t waste any time getting back here after you finish
up at the bank. It looks like there’s a
cloud coming in and I’ve got two wagonloads of feed sitting over by the barn that
need to be unloaded.”
“I won’t be gone for long, Nick.” Heath said as he turned
and walked away.
Heath and Jarrod headed for town under increasingly
overcast skies. They packed a poncho in
their saddlebags and headed their horses toward Stockton at a canter. They did not notice the man who had been
watching from the cover of some nearby woods mount up and follow them.
Jack Donahue had arrived in Stockton a little over two
weeks before. Probably the only person
even vaguely aware of his presence was the hotel clerk. And the fellow at the General Store… he’d
bought some things there after he arrived.
He left the hotel very early in the morning and came back into town
quite late in the evening, when he came back at all. Donahue had kept a very low profile. Perhaps the only thing about him that would arouse suspicion was
the rifle scabbard that hung behind his saddle. It was of unique design, fitted to house a sharpshooter’s rifle
complete with scope.
He rode in right by them as they stood in front of the
bank entrance chatting. Donahue reined
his horse in to a nearby hitching post, swung down and tied the reins slowly. He discreetly glanced over at the two men. He quickly studied the blond. The years had brought about a transformation. He had grown into a six-footer with a
muscular, athletic build. The hair had
darkened a little. The boyish face was
mature and ruggedly handsome now. But
the eyes…the sky blue eyes had not changed at all. The other man was raven-haired but had the same clear, piercing
blue eyes. Must be the lawyer brother,
Donahue thought, I’ll be sure to send him a little thank-you note.
Just then another man exited the bank. “Jarrod, I’m glad that I ran into you.” The
short dark-haired man extended his hand to Jarrod and nodded quickly toward
Heath.
“What can I do for you Phil?” Jarrod asked.
“Well, Jarrod, I’d like to move Thad Sutton’s trial date
up a couple of weeks. I ended up
dropping the indictment against Calvin Langer and that opened up some time on
the court calendar.”
“Well, I don’t know, Phil. I could use the extra time preparing my defense and I’ve also got
some court obligations in San Francisco.”
Jarrod never missed an opportunity to remind him that he
had a high-power law practice in the big city, Phil Archer thought. “I’ll remind you, Jarrod, it’s the District
Attorney’s office that sets the trial dates.” Archer said.
Jarrod sighed. “I’ve
got to run over to my office for a little while. But when I’m finished there I’ll drop by your office. I’ll bring my calendar and we can hammer out
the dates.”
Archer nodded, “See you then…” and walked away.
“Well, Heath, it looks like you’ll be on your own riding
back to the ranch. I trust you won’t
get lost without my expert guidance. Nick
mentioned that he had your afternoon’s activities already planned.”
Heath gave Jarrod a lop-sided smile. “No problem. Now don’t let that jaybird Archer jerk you around. Ya hear?” He turned and walked into the bank
and Jarrod headed off toward his office.
Alone… at last… Donahue thought as a smile toyed at his
lips. He was a patient man, like any
good sniper, but it seemed to him this moment had been far too long in coming. But patience, planning and preparation
always paid off in the end.
He walked briskly across the street and into the Hotel. He didn’t acknowledge the desk clerk’s
courteous “Good day, Sir.” Donahue took the stairs two by two up to his room. He hurriedly stuffed a few articles of
clothing into a carpetbag. He didn’t
bother to check the desk in the room or even take the razor and comb that laid
on the dresser. As Donahue laid the
hotel room key and money on the desk in front of the clerk, the man smiled
pleasantly at him.
“All finished with your business in Stockton, Sir?” Donahue
looked up and the clerk was taken aback by the hard, cold look in the steely
gray eyes.
“Just about…” Donahue said and walked out.
The eyes were so cold and serpent-like that the shaken
clerk didn’t even get out his usual “Come back soon!”
* * * * * * * *
Nick looked up at the sky. There was definitely a storm brewing. Dark gray clouds were moving in and the sky was beginning to look
dark and threatening.
He went back to the task of unloading the wagon and
stacking the 100lb. sacks of horse feed
in the barn. Every time he walked back
out to the wagon to remove another sack, he did the same thing. He paused and looked out through the front
gates and gazed as far as his eye could see down the road that led into town.
They should have been back by now. Or at least Heath should have been. Didn’t he make it clear to Heath that he
wanted him to come straight back? Nick’s
frustration was growing by the minute. A
confusing mix of emotions was churning within him. Anger – yes, he was certainly angry. Nick hated it when his orders weren’t obeyed and it surely did
not sit well with him that Heath was trying to duck out on his chores. Especially when it meant that Nick was left
to do the work alone. The anger was
explainable. But what Nick couldn’t
reason away were the other emotions and impulses that kept fighting their way
from his subconscious mind into his thoughts.
He felt a deep sense of unease and gloom. Something felt very wrong and he had the urge to act. But to do what? An impulse continued to compel him to saddle up Coco and gallop
off down that road that led to Stockton.
“Crazy.” Nick muttered.
He had another wagonload of feed sitting there that would go moldy if he
allowed it to get wet. He let the
practical, rational part of his mind take control. He focused all his nervous energy into unloading the wagon at an
even faster clip. He resisted the urge
to even look toward the front gates. Nick
had just gotten the last sack stacked in the feed room when the first drops of
rain began to fall.
It was almost time for dinner and the family members that
were home were gathered in the Sitting Room.
Victoria looked up from her cross-stitch at her two
children. Audra was curled in a big
leather wingback chair contentedly reading a Jane Austen novel. Victoria smiled. The contrast between the two could not have been more striking. Nick was pacing again. Drink in hand, he would walk over to the
French doors, stare out through the glass panes for a few moments, and then
he’d try to wear a hole in the rug again.
Victoria did not ask him about what accounted for this particular
display of restless energy. She simply
assumed it was all due to his irritation over having been coerced to take Heath
along on the trip in the morning.
They heard the front door shut and seconds later Jarrod
entered the room while stripping off his poncho. “Sorry to drip on the floor Mother, but it’s a real soaker out
there!”
“Is Heath taking care of the horses?”
“No, Nick. I left
Jingo in Ciego’s capable hands. Why do
you ask?”
“Well, I just thought… Where is he anyway? Didn’t he ride back with you?”
“No, he didn’t. I
haven’t seen him since I left him in front of the bank. I ended up getting tied up with Phil Archer
and then Judge Burke. I assumed he was
coming straight home after he made the withdrawal. He should have been here a couple hours ago.”
“Well, he never showed!” Nick slammed his whiskey glass
down on the bar.
“Easy, Nick. Maybe
he stopped by the saloon for a beer. Don’t
tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing if you had been in town today
knowing it’ll be two weeks before you’ll get another one. Perhaps the rain started while he was there
and he’s decided to wait it out a while.
You know, see if it slacks up or quits before he heads home.”
“Maybe…” Nick decided to grasp Jarrod’s theory even as the
afternoon’s uneasiness continued to gnaw at his mind. “I’ll tell you what! He’d
better not be playing poker with those fifteen hundred dollars! Just let him lose any of that money in a
card game and I’ll take every red cent of it out of his hide!”
“Now, Nick!” Victoria interjected. “I don’t believe Heath would do something
that irresponsible.”
“Well, if he’s not playing poker I wouldn’t put it past
him to have snuck over to Big Annie’s…”
“Nicholas, please!
Come, now. Let’s have dinner. I’m sure your brother will have a reasonable
explanation for his tardiness when he gets home.”
The family had finished their dinner and was headed toward
the Billiard Room when there was a rapping on the front door.
Jarrod opened the door, surprised to see the Sheriff. “Fred!
What are you doing out on a night like this?”
Jarrod stepped back and extended his hand toward the foyer. “Come in Fred… Gentlemen…”
The sheriff stepped inside along with the two strangers
who had been standing at his heels. “Jarrod,
this is Edward Logel and Samuel Ferguson, Federal Marshals. They’d like to have a word with you.”
“Certainly.” Jarrod said confidently although he was somewhat
perplexed. What business could these
U.S. Marshals have with him? Guess he would know soon enough. He turned to the other members of the family. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take these
gentlemen into the Billiard Room.”
“Of course.” Victoria said. “Audra, why don’t we go to the Parlor? Good evening Fred, gentlemen.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Barkley.” Fred replied and the two
strangers simply nodded. She put her
hand on her daughter’s elbow and they turned and walked away.
Nick had not moved, but continued to eye the two men with
a suspicious gaze. He watched as Jarrod
ushered the three men into the Billiard Room.
Their eyes met briefly as Jarrod closed the wooden doors. Only then did Nick move. Might as well go up to his room and pack a
few things.
Nick had joined Victoria and Audra in the Parlor when the
men emerged from the Billiard Room some 45 minutes later. They continued to converse in hushed tones
as Jarrod saw them out the front door.
Jarrod closed the door and then leaned back against it,
closing his eyes. He dreaded the task
that lay before him. But it had to be
done. He had to go and face the music. And if what the Marshals had told him was
true, he had to prepare the family to expect the worse. Jarrod was not a man to put off even the
hardest of tasks.
As he walked into the Parlor, his mother was the first to
read the solemn expression and the distant, haunted look in his eyes.
“Jarrod?”
He didn’t answer but strode over to the whiskey decanter
and poured himself a double with slightly shaky hands. He took a long swallow and squeezed his eyes
shut as the whiskey burned the back of his throat. By now, all eyes were on him, waiting for him to finally speak.
Jarrod took a deep breath. “The two Federal Marshals that were here tonight came to Stockton
with a warrant for the arrest of a man named Jack Donahue.”
“Don’t know him…” Nick’s brow was furrowed and he frowned
as he searched his memory.
“No, you wouldn’t.” Jarrod continued. “Donahue isn’t from here in the Valley. He’s from Alabama. According to the Marshals, the Justice Department believes he has
been involved in a series of crimes dating all the way back to the months
following the Civil War. Some of these
crimes were committed as a part of his involvement in a secret society in the
South known as the Ku Klux Klan. This
secret society has been involved in the murders of Negro leaders, Yankee
carpetbaggers, and former Abolitionist leaders as well as an ongoing campaign
of intimidation and terror. The
Marshals have evidence that Donahue has been waging his own private war as well. Col.
Walter Burnham, a former Union Army officer, was killed about six months
ago by a long-range rifle shot while visiting Montgomery. The State Attorney General’s office was
investigating the murder and the case was at a standstill until about a week
ago. A man had been arrested in an
unrelated case and he offered information on the Burnham case in exchange for a
plea bargain. The prisoner claimed he
was attending a Klan rally several months ago and overheard Donahue bragging to
the Grand Wizard about the Burnham murder.
Donahue also said he had paid a contact in Army Records in Washington
D.C. named Ira for some information and
was planning another ‘hunt’ as soon as he got it. The ‘Ira’ turned out to be a man by the name of Ira Taylor. He works in the U.S. Army Records Division and apparently is a
poor gambler in his spare time.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with you, Jarrod.” Nick
was getting impatient.
“It has to do with all of us, Nick. Heath, in particular.”
“Heath?” Victoria was the first to voice her surprise.
“Yes, Mother.” Jarrod locked gazes with her for only an
instant and then stared down into his whiskey glass. “A Federal Marshal in Washington picked Taylor up for questioning
and he spilled his guts pretty quickly.
Donahue had been trying for years to identify one particular United
States Sharpshooter.”
Victoria could feel her throat constricting; in her heart
she knew where this was heading.
“Donahue had given Taylor some facts to work with but
Taylor had never been able to match them to a name. When a Pinkerton detective by the name of Jim Hansen paid Taylor
to pull Heath’s Army Records, well, Taylor realized Heath was the man that Donahue
was after. He ended up selling the same
information to both Hansen and Donahue.”
“And why was Pinkerton’s investigating Heath?” Nick’s eyes
were starting to flash.
“Because I asked them to, Nick.” Jarrod said quietly.
“Jarrod, no!” Victoria’s
eyes were filled with pain.
“YOU WHAT?” Nick exploded at full volume.
Audra simply stared at him, her eyes now wet, brimming
with disappointment.
“Now, listen to me everyone…” Jarrod began to pace: the
same stride he sometimes used in the courtroom when presenting his case. “When Heath rode onto this ranch and made
the claim to be Father’s illegitimate son, I believed it was a lie and an
attempt to extort money from the family.
I tried to buy him off but he refused.
The next morning when he fought beside us at Sample’s farm… Well, I knew
he either sincerely believed he was a Barkley or that he was one of the
shrewdest operators I’d ever run across.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt and voted to let him stay on. But, I suppose it’s the lawyer in me. I needed to be convinced beyond all
reasonable doubt. I retained the
Pinkerton Detective Agency the next day to launch a full-scale investigation.”
“Jarrod!” Audra’s voice was tremulous with anger. “How could you? You know Heath is our brother!”
“Yes, Honey, I have no doubts about it now but at the time
we knew nothing about him. I was only
trying to protect the family.”
“And in doing so, you have endangered Heath. Isn’t that why those Marshals were here
tonight?” Victoria’s question stopped his pacing.
“Yes, Mother. Logel
and Ferguson are in Stockton under orders from Washington, D.C. They arrived by train today from San
Francisco in the hopes of locating and arresting Jack Donahue. He was to be taken back to Washington for
Federal prosecution. They questioned
the clerk at the Cattlemen’s Hotel and learned that a man who fit Donahue’s
description had checked out an hour or so earlier. They were allowed to search the room the man had occupied and
found that he had left some of his personal effects behind. They found a copy of Heath’s Army Records as
well as some notes Donahue had made about the lay-out of the ranch in a desk
drawer.”
“Do they have any idea where this man is now or what has
happened to Heath?”
“No, Mother. And
there’s no way we can mount a search tonight in this storm. If Heath doesn’t return tonight we’ll begin
searching in the morning. Fred is going
to get some men together from town and the Marshals want to be involved as well. Along with our hands, we’ll have search
parties all over the ranch tomorrow.”
“This man, Donahue…” Nick said. “Is he former Confederate Army?”
“Yes, Nick. He was
a Confederate sharpshooter.”
“Where is it?” Nick’s face was expressionless and his eyes
as hard as iron.
“Where is what, Nick?”
“The file, Jarrod.”
“It’s in the safe.”
“Get it.”
Jarrod did not argue and went straight to the safe and
retrieved the file. Nick’s tone had
been somewhat low, his delivery slow and even.
Nick loud and fierce could strike fear in most anyone, but Jarrod knew
that when Nick’s voice became low and controlled he was at his most dangerous.
Jarrod silently handed over the file to Nick. Nick said nothing either but his jaw muscles
were tense and contracting and the hazel eyes were still as hard as iron. Nick stormed out of the Parlor and up the
stairs to the privacy of his room.
Jarrod looked at the stricken expression on Victoria and
Audra’s faces. A gloom had descended on
the household. He knew this would be a
long and sleepless night; spent in fear, anxiety and prayer.
Nick closed his bedroom door with a slam! He strode over to his desk and laid the
somewhat thick file down. He walked
over to the window and gazed out into the dreary, wet darkness. He ran his fingers roughly through his dark
hair. Nearly four months…four months
they had lived under the same roof and worked side by side. He hardly knew any more about the man than
he’d learned that first night. He had
not tried to learn any more. He had not
wanted to know any more. What was the
point? Hell, he’d spent every day
trying to keep up a not so subtle wall of hostility, hoping the man would get
the message that he’d never gain Nick Barkley’s acceptance. Never let up on him, make it tough, and keep
the pressure on every day and then maybe he’d decide to leave the Valley for
good. He’d had no intention of getting
to know this man who claimed to be his brother. Why? It dawned on Nick
there had been the danger of actually starting to like him, becoming friends,
starting to care… Nick sighed.
He walked back over to his desk, sat down and opened the
file. From the beginning, it was not an
easy read. Heath’s life had been one of
poverty, hardship, bigotry and struggles.
It began with interviews of some of Strawberry’s few
remaining citizens. They remembered
Leah Thomson as a beautiful, quiet, hardworking young woman. She had enjoyed a stellar reputation among
the townspeople and could have settled down with any of the eligible men. Folks had been shocked when she had turned
up pregnant. Local gossip at the time
had alleged that she had found a man robbed and beaten in a back alley and had
taken him home and nursed him there. Everyone
had considered this highly improper…and the suspicions had obviously been right
on target given the little bundle that arrived nine months later. The handsome man was from out of town,
definitely not a local. Some thought he
had owned an interest in one of the mines.
One thing the interviewees were adamant about; no one had ever known of
Leah having any type of romantic involvement with any other man following
Heath’s birth. Her family, her work and
her faith consumed the remainder of her life.
Nick rubbed his eyes.
He thought back to some of the insults he had thrown Heath’s way in his
anger. He’d intimated on several
occasions that Heath’s mother was a promiscuous woman – little more than a slut. Heath had rode in and knocked Tom Barkley
off his pedestal in the minds of many. All
Nick knew to do was retaliate in kind. But
Leah had no doubt been a good woman, just as his father had been a good man. They had both simply been all too human. Nick had always held his father in absolute
admiration and awe. But Tom Barkley was
a man like all others – imperfect – with his share of mistakes.
At this moment, finally accepting this truth about the man
Nick viewed as larger-than-life surprisingly did not pain him. The realization didn’t diminish Tom Barkley
in Nick’s eyes as he once feared it would have. Nick was a passionate, impulsive man with a natural proclivity
toward temptation. His father had feet
of clay as well, and strangely enough, Nick found that comforting. He read on.
Leah and two other single women also trying to make it on
their own had thrown in their lots together, forming a tight little “family”. Treated as outcasts by most of Strawberry’s
townspeople, Leah and young Heath had worked hard just to eke out a meager
existence. Heath had worked as a
“charge boy” in the mines beginning when he was age six and had taken a second
job at the Livery when he was eight. The
town began to die as the mines played out.
At age fourteen, and with limited options, Heath had joined the Union
Army.
Nick read Jim Hansen’s notes from the Army Records with
astonishment. Nick was well aware of
the role Col. Hiram Berdan’s famed 1st
and 2nd Regiments of United States Sharpshooters had played in the
war effort. Col. Hiram Berdan was loyal to the Union and a
millionaire as well. The former
engineer from New York had been the top sport rifle shooter in the country for
the fifteen years prior to the start of the Civil War. He believed that snipers could be critical
in the Union war effort. Col. Berdan believed the best Union marksmen should
be identified through shooting competition and merged into elite regiments,
which would be supplied with the finest rifles money could buy. The two special regiments of crack marksmen
organized by Col. Berdan were said to
have killed more Confederate soldiers than any other two regiments in the Union
Army. Casper Trepp had been in charge
of the Sharpshooters specialized training.
Hansen had copied excerpts from Heath’s commendations. “Pvt.
Thomson is exactly the type of young man we are after.” Trepp had
written. “Pvt. Thomson is an excellent marksman with
exceptional outdoor skills. But he is
no hotshot, nor is he a loudmouth or braggart.
Those types tend to fold when the going gets tough and their precious
lives are on the line. Pvt. Thomson is quiet, intelligent, courageous
and dedicated. The young man is of the
highest moral fiber. Pvt. Thomson epitomizes what a United States
Sharpshooter should be.” The words that were written about his brother who was
just a mere boy filled Nick with pride.
And to be awarded the Medal of Honor for “gallantry in action”… This boy
was indeed something very special. His
eyes were hot and flashing and his fists clenched in rage by the time he
finished reading the medical reports and the “Official Findings” from the U.S. Army Inquiry fiasco. Nick’s passion for fairness and justice ran
as deeply as Jarrod’s. He cringed at
the thought of the brutality and injustice Heath had endured.
The next section was rather sketchy. Following his convalescence, Heath had
apparently wandered around almost non-stop.
He drifted from town to town and odd job to odd job. His wanderings had taken him pretty much all
over west of the divide and even down into Mexico.
Was Heath running from the trauma of war or the ghosts of
Carterson prison? Nick remembered a
look that sometimes crossed Heath’s face.
Nick recognized the look now, that ‘thousand miles away’ stare. The look men sometimes get that have seen
their fill of combat.
Perhaps Heath wasn’t running from something as much as he
was searching for something. He had
fought hard for his place in the family.
He had been willing to put his life on the line that day at Sample’s
farm to prove that he belonged. And
despite whatever Nick threw his way, he had continued to hold on tenaciously.
Nick walked back over to the window. He stared out into the blackness, not really
seeing. His mind was a million miles
away.
Nick had come to appreciate this night that fate had
brought an extraordinary young man into his life. Regret was a hard emotion for Nick to grapple with. He was a man of action. And he always acted with the strongest of
convictions. Always sure, at least at
the time, that what he was doing was right.
Heath’s arrival had triggered Nick’s protective instincts. He wanted to protect his mother, his
father’s memory and the ranch that represented so much of his father’s legacy. It had felt so right at the time to try to
run Heath out of the Valley. Even when
the rest of the family chose to accept Heath, Nick had stubbornly clung to his
position on the matter. Nick was not a
man who set out deliberately to cause anyone added pain. No, his was a sin of omission. He simply had not reached out the hand of
brotherhood and friendship when the opportunity was there. He wondered if he’d ever have the chance
again.
* * * * * * * *
The rainstorm that had swept into the Valley was gone by
dawn. The day looked like it was going
to be bright and clear. A dark cloud
still hung over the Barkley house. Heath
had not returned home. While the family
tried to keep up a hopeful front for each other, each one silently believed
that Heath and Donahue had crossed paths and foul play was involved.
The family gathered at the breakfast table. Although Silas brought in the usual platters
of food, no one touched a thing. Heath’s
empty chair was yet another reminder of the sense of loss they were all feeling
right now.
“Judging from everyone’s appearance, it doesn’t look like anyone
got much sleep last night.” Jarrod finally spoke. Only Audra, who eventually cried herself to sleep, had gotten any
at all. But she looked as tired and
worn as everyone else. “I was up all
night wishing to God that I’d never requested that damned investigation. I wish there was a way to turn back time and
change things. I can only say that I am
truly sorry.”
The look of remorse was clearly evident on his features,
conveyed most clearly through his eyes.
No one doubted the sincerity of his words.
“I know that, Jarrod.” Victoria tried to be of some
comfort even as she dabbed her own eyes with her napkin. “We all do.”
Nick bore a haunted look as well. “I spent the night finally getting to know
my brother.” He said. He placed his
elbows on the table and his head in his hands, the dark hair sticking out
between his fingers. “I know what
you’re all thinking. Well, it’s about
time, Nick! You’ve got regrets, Jarrod? Well, I got a few of my own. At least you did come to accept Heath. Hell, I was still holding out after all this
time like some pig-headed fool when it was as plain as the nose on your face
that Heath was a Barkley! I was still
hoping that by ignoring him except for working the hell out of him that he’d
finally decide to leave. You might have
made a bad decision that first day, but I’ve been making the same wrong
decision every day for the past four months.
Talk about taking the prize for being a blind, stubborn…”
“Nicholas, stop it!” Victoria interjected. “Beating yourself up is not going to solve
anything. If Heath is found alive, and
I pray to God he will be, you’ll have the chance to make amends. And I know you, Nicholas, I know that you
will. If he is not…” Her voice began to
catch, “if he is not then the guilt and responsibility lies with an evil man by
the name of Jack Donahue, and Jack Donahue alone.” Although she had been
addressing Nick, Victoria locked eyes with Jarrod for a long moment as well.
Nick got up from his chair and began to pace the room. “Well, I’m ready to get out and get started,
Jarrod. I know this ranch like the back
of my hand. I don’t need anybody else
to start MY search!”
“Nick, Fred and the Marshals will be here just as soon as
they can gather up some more men from town.”
“Well, I could take some of our men and get started!”
“Nick, I promised those Federal Marshals that we’d wait! The Marshals are the only ones with an
arrest warrant. There is no evidence
yet of a crime in regards to Heath…”
“You mean we haven’t found a body!”
“I mean if we find Donahue the Marshals are the only ones
with the legal authority to deal with him right now. We’re going to have to leave it to them!”
“Well, if we find Heath and that fiend Donahue has – DONE
ANYTHING – TO MY LITTLE BROTHER…I’VE GOT THE AUTHORITY TO DEAL WITH HIM HANGING
RIGHT HERE ON MY HIP!”
“Simmer down, Nick!
You are NOT going to play vigilante!
The law will deal with Donahue. Now,
we’ll wait on Fred and the Marshals and then decide how we’ll split the men to
do an organized, coordinated search. I’m
as anxious to get started as you are, Nick.
I know how you feel!”
“No, you don’t Jarrod!
You don’t know how I feel!” Nick shook his head sadly and his voice
softened. “Do you remember how I was
the one who found Father after he was killed by that assassin the railroad
hired?” Jarrod nodded. “Well,” Nick
sighed, “that day I had started to go check on a crew doing some branding in
the South Meadow when I had the strangest urge to ride to that grove of trees
near the North Road. It was more than
an urge… I felt compelled to ride to that grove as hard as I could go. But it was too late. It had just happened a few minutes before. I never told anyone about the premonition I
had, but that’s why it was me who found…” Nick closed his eyes and tried to
push away the memory of the vision that greeted him in those trees. “I felt it again yesterday and it was just
as strong. I had that same compulsion
to saddle Coco and head out down the road to Stockton as hard as I could ride. I might have made it in time if I had
listened to that feeling. But, God help
me, I just ignored it! I would never
have imagined I could have the same kind of connection with… Heath. I never…” Nick’s voice trailed off. I never… His mind seemed to overload for an
instant with images of all the things he’d never said, and all the things he’d
never done. The dark head dropped and
he rubbed his eyes. “I’m going out to
the barn. I’ll have the horses saddled
and ready to go.”
The family watched Nick exit the Dining Room. The change was unmistakably evident in his
demeanor and words. “My little
brother”… He had never even breathed those words before. Nick was a man who said what he meant and
meant what he said. When he claimed
possession of a thing, it became his in every way. “My search”… They all knew that Nick Barkley would take charge of
this search and that he would leave no stone unturned to either find Heath or
to bring Jack Donahue to justice.
* * * * * * * *
Heath awoke to a pounding headache and the sound of rain
falling on the rooftop. It was a hard
rain at the moment: it sounded like hail hitting a barn roof. He was sitting on the floor, his back
against the wall, with his ankles bound and his wrists tied firmly behind his
back. His clothes were soaked through
from the ride in the rain. He lifted
his head to survey the room. He
recognized where he was immediately… in one of the Barkley line shacks. He had been up here about a month before. Nick was a well-organized man and he wanted
each line shack inventoried and well stocked before winter weather arrived.
A man sat at the square table in the center of the sparse
one room shack. Directly behind the
man, set in the back wall, was a stone fireplace. Two low cot-type beds sat beneath the windows on opposite walls
on either side. There was a washbasin
sitting on a small table in one back corner.
Heath was sitting against the front wall, just a few feet from the door.
The lamp on the table illuminated the room and the
stranger’s features. The man was of
average height and slim, muscular build.
The man had a somewhat thin face with sharp angular features. His hair was wavy black and he sported a
small moustache, which turned up slightly at the ends. The eyes were flint gray; so hard they
seemed to pierce and flash. Heath had a
good memory for faces. He found it hard
to believe he’d have forgotten those eyes if he’d tangled with this man before. They eyed each other in silence. Donahue pulled a cigar from his shirt
pocket, lit it, and began to smoke leisurely.
Heath thought back on the events of the afternoon. He’d been riding back to the ranch from
Stockton after making a cash withdrawal from the bank. He had been somewhat preoccupied with the
worsening skies. Heath could see the
approaching gray haze off in the distance and the breeze carried the scent of
rain. He had pulled his horse under the
canopy of a stand of trees and dismounted.
Might as well pull out the old rain slicker and put it on now, he had
thought. It was rolled up in one of his
saddlebags. As he pulled up the strap
and started to open the saddlebag, his Modoc nickered and fidgeted. Just nervous about the coming storm, he
figured. It wasn’t until he heard the
hammer click behind his right ear that he realized he wasn’t alone.
“Hands up… slowly… and don’t turn around.”
Heath did as he was told and turned his head just slightly
to try to see the man on the other end of the Colt. He believed he knew what the man was up to. Must have been in the bank, he thought, must
have seen me withdraw that fifteen hundred dollars. Heath believed the man was after what he carried in the other
saddlebag. It was a lot of money, but
Heath had no intention of doing something stupid. It ain’t worth dying for… he thought.
“Listen, Mister… if you’re planning on robbing me…” Heath
began but the impact of the gun butt on the back of his head drove him forward
against the Modoc’s flank and into a world of darkness. He had fought his way back up through the
darkness only once briefly. He knew he
was draped face down across his saddle, feet and wrists tied to the stirrups. He could feel the cold rain pelting his back. He tried to lift his head and see where he
was, but the lingering grogginess and the wetness that dripped down onto his
face obscured his vision. The effort of
trying to hold his head up seemed to revive the pain in the back of his head
and he succumbed to the darkness again.
Now, as he reflected on his present circumstance, he knew
his initial assumption was wrong. There
were plans for more than a simple robbery behind those cold, calculating gray
eyes. Donahue seemed to read his
thoughts.
“I’ve waited a long time to see your face again, Heath.”
“Again? I’ve never
laid eyes on you in my life, Mister!” Heath’s voice was rising with anger and
confusion.
“No, that much is true.” Donahue’s voice remained level
and controlled. “I suppose you only had
eyes for General John Stark that day.”
“Stark!” Heath knew instantly. He’d kept a little 3x5 inch notebook in his pocket for his
sniper’s log. He always submitted the
required “Incident Report” following a mission. Not that he’d ever needed the notebook to remember every detail
vividly. And like all the others, this
day too was stamped indelibly in his memory.
As the sun sent its rays across the Confederate encampment
in the wide clearing, he lay in the grass on a knoll some 400 yards away. His eyes searched through the scope on the
Sharps M59 rifle for his target. He watched
for signs of wind which could change the trajectory of his bullet – trees
rustling, smoke drifting from the cooking fires below, the grass and weeds
swaying between him and his target. All
was calm. When the general stepped
outside the tent, he waited for him to turn face-on. Get him standing still with either his face or his back to you,
he thought. The general was walking in
his direction. He placed the rifle’s
sight-post on the general’s chest. Now
stop! he thought. The general paused, speaking to a young
Confederate officer standing to his right.
Heath’s mind had raced through all the marksmanship principles that he
had been taught. They had practically
become second nature. Good firm grip,
watch the target through the scope, squeeze the trigger gently, wait for the
recoil. Don’t hold your breath, just
breathe naturally and relax, let it come at exhalation… squeeze gently. The Sharps’ recoil sent a kick through his
shoulder. He blinked through the scope
and saw that his target now lay flat on his back. Blood gushed from the man’s chest and his lifeless eyes stared
unseeing into the clear blue sky. The
young Confederate officer dove for cover.
The camp was a scurrying mass of confusion as he took one quick look
back and disappeared into the woods.
* * * * * * * *
“Stark!” Heath
knew instantly.
“My name’s Jack Donahue and I was in that Confederate camp
that day, Heath. I spotted you before
you disappeared off the knoll. I knew
exactly where that shot came from because I was a sharpshooter myself.” Donahue’s
nostrils flared with anger. “You
stinking bastard! I bet you think that
kill was the high point of your miserable life!”
“I never got pleasure out of killing anybody! I just did my job.” Heath looked Donahue
straight in the eyes.
“And you didn’t enjoy it?
You didn’t love the thrill of the hunt?
I’ve seen your Army Records, boy.
I know how many missions you took and how many kills you had. Enough for the Yankee Congress to award you
a Medal of Honor! I got more kills
unconfirmed than confirmed, and so did every other sharpshooter out there,
including you.” Donahue cast a rueful smile at Heath as if disbelieving that
there could be any other motive for killing the enemy.
Heath shook his head vigorously. “No! I never looked at it
like it was some sort of ‘shooting match’ where the man with the most kills
wins. I knew my job and maybe I was one
of the best there was at it. But I
never went on any mission with anything in mind other than winning that damned
war. The sooner the better to keep more
Americans on BOTH sides from dying!”
Donahue rose from the chair and shook his fist in the air. “Hate!
Hate, I tell you! Hatred for the
enemy is the only driving force in war!” The gray eyes looked wild for a moment
and then Donahue beat back his demons and took his seat again, breathing
heavily. “We should have followed Gen. Stark’s strategy and gone on into Virginia
and joined forces with Gen. Lee. The combined forces could have pushed past
Grant and joined Gen. Johnston in North
Carolina. It would have drawn Sherman
out of Georgia… It could have all been so different! After Gen. Stark was
dead, the other generals had Hood’s ear.
They convinced him to go on the offensive. Four days later we were crushed at Franklin.”
“No, Donahue. The
war would have gone on longer, but the eventual outcome was no longer in doubt. Gen.
Lee knew that as well several months later when Gen. Grant blocked his way into North Carolina. Gen.
Lee could have chosen to fight, but he knew it would only result in
thousands more useless deaths. It was
an honorable man who chose instead to surrender his troops at Appomattox. I respected Gen. Lee for that decision.”
Heath watched the wild gray eyes grow cold again. On the battlefield, hate can eventually
destroy any man – and a sharpshooter quicker than most. This man is insane, Heath thought; hate has
destroyed his very soul. Any humanity
he might have had was probably long dead, but Heath felt he had nothing to lose
in trying to reach him.
“Respect and honor on the battlefield was the ethic that
Col. Berdan insisted on and it was the
code I lived by. Col. Berdan wanted good, strong-minded moral men
– the best! Scalp collectors had no
place among the United States Sharpshooters!
They were weeded out and sent packing.
Gen. Stark was targeted because
our Intelligence had learned of his strategy.
The Union brass believed Stark’s strategy would prolong the war by
months. I believed in what we were
doing – that these efforts were defeating our enemy and that our selected kills
of Confederate officers and key personnel were preventing death and carnage
that the enemy would otherwise bring on my comrades. The war was a terrible tragedy for the entire nation. I welcomed the day that the war ended and I
could embrace my Southern brothers once again.”
Donahue’s eyes did not reveal even a glimmer of
comprehension. “No! The war is not over! Even now, another great Southern Army is
rising! Robed in white, we will never
surrender and give up the cause! We
won’t be forced to live as equals with our inferiors. We will prevail!” The voice had risen and the eyes looked wild
and maniacal again.
Heath had heard stories about the terrible crimes
committed by evil men who hid their identities behind masks and robes of white
while they terrorized under cover of darkness.
No, all that was once human in this man was dead.
“What do you intend to do with me?” Heath asked.
“You threw down the gauntlet that day you killed Gen. Stark.
You came in behind Confederate lines and killed my commanding officer. I have an old score to settle with you,
Heath. I intend to do just that
tomorrow morning. It will be sniper
versus sniper in a fight to the death! Second
place in this ‘shooting match’ will be a shallow grave. I have been waiting to complete this mission
since November 26th, 1864. I
chose this area on your ranch because it is perfect for the hunt I have planned
for tomorrow. The ridges behind this
shack are covered with trees, plenty of undergrowth, rocks, a stream… a
sniper’s paradise. We are two
gladiators and those ridges will be our arena.
Don’t even think about trying to leave my happy hunting ground, ya hear? If you try and double back and get to the
ranch there is not enough cover to keep me from seeing you and picking you off
on the way. Then again, maybe I
wouldn’t bother with you right then at all.
Deprive me of my hunt and I’ll ride straight back to your ranch and
shoot the first member of your family I get in my sights. Maybe it’d be that pretty little sister… Don’t
make me have to drag your family into what only has to be our business.” Donahue
took another drag from his cigar. “This
rain sure could ruin my plans though. I’d
be mighty disappointed if this rain doesn’t stop and I have to end up shooting
you right here.”
Heath closed his eyes and focused again on the sound of
the rain on the rooftop. He didn’t want
to look at or listen to the lunatic seated at the table anymore. The rain slackened and the rhythmic patter
on the roof finally lulled him to sleep.
He dreamed first of boyhood days in Strawberry. Every day in the late afternoon, he’d take a
little time to play before supper. “Heath!”
his mother shouted, “supper’s gonna be ready soon. Don’t go runnin off and getting yourself all dirty. You hear me, Heath?” “Yes, Mama,” Heath
called back. “I’ll be right out here.” He
made his way to the woods and once behind the dense, green cover of the bushes
and trees, Heath dropped to his knees. He
was a Patriot fighting for America’s independence and there were Redcoats
everywhere! They hid behind every tree,
stump, log and rock. He used his
stealth and skill to avoid them. Crawling
behind logs, ducking behind trees and rocks, and inching silently through the
underbrush he avoided being seen by them.
He was sneaking up on a British officer when his mother’s voice sang
through the woods, “Heee-ath!” He jumped up.
The squirrel aggravatedly flicked its’ tail and chided him angrily
before it abandoned the treasure it was burying and ran off. “Coming, Mama!” he answered apprehensively. Muddy circles outlined the knees on his
pants and his shirt was a mess as well.
He frantically dusted off the loose soil, but the muddy stains remained. He’d be in trouble for sure. Mama just didn’t understand the importance
of not falling into the hands of the Redcoats…
Dreams of pleasant childhood memories blurred into a dream
of making his way across the countryside behind enemy lines during the war with
his friend Charlie Whitehorse. Whenever
a mission required a scout he had chosen to be paired with Charlie. Charlie was an Indian and excelled at
scouting and woods craft. It was from
Charlie’s teaching that he’d finally mastered the art of stealth and
concealment. Charlie viewed sniping as
a complex craft that required not only skill, but also total self-discipline,
and an absolute awareness of every aspect of one’s environment. “Every one of your senses must always be on
the alert, Heath. Keep your eyes open
for any movement or anything unnatural that doesn’t fit the lay of the land. Keep your ears open for even the snap of a
twig. Stop and smell the air for the
slightest sign or scent of another human being. If you don’t Heath, one day you’ll run smack into a Reb scout
patrol out there.”
Heath dreamed of the lessons he’d learned and the habits
he’d established that were a major key to his survival and success in many a
desperate situation.
Donahue leaned forward on the table and rested his head on
his forearms. Soon, he too succumbed to
the patter of the raindrops as visions of a bloody revenge whirled like a
cyclone through his brain.
* * * * * * * *
By dawn the rain clouds had moved on. The warm orange glow of the morning promised
to turn white as the sun climbed toward a bright, clear day.
“Okay, Heath. It’s
time…” Donahue rose from his seat, walked over and kicked his prisoner’s leg
before opening the door. He then walked
over to a bed. He retrieved a carpetbag
from the foot end of the bed and pulled out a dark green Union Army jacket. Heath immediately recognized the jacket,
distinctive to only the United States Sharpshooters that had resulted in their
nickname “Green Coats”. “You’re going
to wear this. You’ll be dying in it,
too.” Donahue said as he draped the jacket over his left shoulder. He almost simultaneously pulled his knife
out of its’ sheath with his left hand and his Colt revolver with his right. Donahue pulled back the hammer as he knelt
by Heath’s feet. His knife made short work
of the rope binding Heath’s ankles. “Now
get on your feet and walk outside. Don’t
try anything or I’ll drop you right here.”
Heath pulled his knees to his chest, pushed his back
against the wall and began to wriggle up.
He rocked over on his knees and then managed to stand. He was stiff and sore and this effort had
brought back the pounding in his head. He
staggered a little as he made his way out the door and blinked in the bright
morning sunlight. He wished the sky
were still overcast; the bright sunlight seemed to sear right through his
throbbing head as his eyes adjusted to the light. Heath felt the revolver in his back as the knife freed his
wrists.
“Now step over there and turn around.” When Heath did so,
Donahue tossed him the Union Army jacket.
“Take off your shirt and put on the jacket, Yank.”
As Heath was doing so, Donahue untied his Modoc mare from
the hitching post and sent her running off with a loud “HEE-AH!” “That’s so
you’re not tempted to try to double back here and run off before my mission is
completed. Don’t forget what I told you
I’d do.” Donahue sneered.
Heath watched the disappearing form of the galloping Modoc. He envied her freedom to head for home and
maybe… just maybe…
“I know what you’re thinking, Heath.” Donahue’s voice
interrupted his thoughts. “Even if she
goes straight home to the ranch, they got no idea where to find you. By the time they do, it’ll be too late.”
“Now what, Donahue?”
“Now the fun begins, Heath. Sniper stalking sniper. Just
you and me in the greatest hunt of our lives!”
“So you brought me up here just to shoot me like some
animal?”
“No, Heath, if I’d just wanted to shoot you I would have
picked you off that horse yesterday. I’ve
found that anticipation is half the pleasure.
Reach in the pocket of your jacket.
I put something in there for you.”
Heath reached down in the pockets and pulled a single
rifle cartridge from the right one. Perplexed,
he tilted his head and looked at Donahue with an unvoiced question.
“I intend to give you a sporting chance, Heath.” Donahue
chuckled evilly. “Adds to the thrill of
the hunt. Of course, I have the
advantage of a whole box of bullets but for you it comes down to just one shot. But knowing you got that one shot will keep
me sharp.”
Donahue’s expression hardened. “You’re going to make your way to that tree line over there…” He
pointed to the forested ridge about a hundred yards behind the line shack. “There’s a path that runs through those
trees up across the ridge and goes all the way down to the stream. A couple hundred yards in, right beside the
path, you’ll find a Sharps rifle complete with scope, leaning against a pine
tree. It’s just like the one you
blue-belly snipers used to use.”
Heath just stood there as if frozen. This was a nightmare.
“Come on, War Hero!
Look alive! I want you to give
me a challenge out there today!”
The man’s crazy… Heath thought.
“Get going!” Donahue growled. “I’m going to sit on these steps and have a smoke. As soon as I’m done, I’m coming to kill
you.”
Heath took one last look at the hard-edged face with its’
cruel, savage gray eyes and broke toward the tree line in a run. As he ran he was aware of the brass buttons
on his jacket glinting in the sun. Just
the kind of thing that could give his adversary an advantage… Heath had all the
buttons ripped off the sleeves and front of the jacket and flung to the ground
by the time he disappeared into the tree line.
Twin Ridges, they called this area. Heath quickly recalled what he knew of this
part of the ranch. He knew this wooded
area would taper upward in elevation until it reached a narrow crest. The trees were more dense and the
undergrowth heavier on the far side where the ridge sloped downward toward a
rippling stream. Across the stream another
ridge stood like a mirror image of the first.
To the south, about a mile downstream, the ridges began to flatten out,
kind of like a saddle. It served as a
good place for cattle to drink or ford the stream, but it was treeless,
offering no protection. To the north,
the elevation of the Twin Ridges became more acute and the gully between them
more narrow. There was whitewater there
and the footing was more treacherous, but there were rocks and trees for cover. Heath had a rough working knowledge of the
area. But what had Donahue said? “I chose this area on your ranch…” How long
had Donahue been up here? A week? Two weeks?
Becoming familiar with the lay of the land no doubt… an advantage for
any sniper.
Donahue watched as Heath ran toward the tree line. He even smiled when he saw the brass buttons
go flying. “The old instincts are
coming back, aren’t they boy?” He stepped back into the line shack. When Donahue emerged again he was wearing
his Confederate Gray jacket and carried a British-made Whitworth rifle mounted
with a short 3.0X scope. He sat down on
the step with the hexagonal-barreled rifle resting across his lap. He lit a cigar and savored its’ taste and
aroma. This would be his last smoke until
he finished here today. Donahue never
smoked during a “hunt” – the enemy might pick up his scent and use it to
pinpoint his position. A pinch of
tobacco in his cheek would have to do to curb his craving. He stroked his English ladylove. She had been the favorite of the Confederate
sharpshooters. Her twisted hexagonal
bore imparted a steady flight to her unique hexagonal-shaped .45 caliber
bullets. Armed with a telescopic sight,
the muzzle-loader’s effective range was 1500 yards. At that range, she had already whispered “death” to her victim
before the sound of the rifle’s report had made it to his ears.
Donahue took one last drag off the cigar and flicked it to
the ground. He put his rifle in its
scabbard and mounted his horse. He
headed off in a gallop toward the southern crossing point of the stream. He would then take up his position on the
eastern ridge opposite the one Heath was on and begin his “hunt”. The eastern ridge had the denser foliage of
the two. It had several natural
snipers’ nests that afforded good visual coverage of the opposite ridge as well
as the stream. Donahue had left a few
surprises on the western ridge. Plus,
he’d have the rising sun to his back.
Heath ran down the path that led through the woods down
the slope of the ridge. Just as Donahue
had said, he saw it leaning against a pine tree just to the right of the path:
a beautiful, custom-made leather rifle case.
He picked it up and ran his fingers along the fine-grained leather. He unfastened the buckles on the stock end
and pulled out a well oiled, mint condition Sharps Model 1859 rifle. He had not held one since the war, but its’
weight, shape, balance and feel were immediately familiar. It was like caressing an old lover. He turned the rifle on its’ side. A man could get off nine rounds a minute
with this efficient breach-loader. He
took the cartridge from his pocket and chambered the round. One round.
If he could effectively position himself for the killing shot, it’d be
all he’d need. One shot, one kill: just
the way the Army had taught him.
Heath’s mind had already reverted back to the old wartime
mentality. His eyes took in every thing
as would the big-game hunter of the battlefield. The skills of the woodsman, marksman, and hunter melded into one
formidable adversary.
Heath eyed the gently downward sloping path in front of
him. It was tempting to head down to
the stream for a quick drink of water. He
was awfully thirsty and his throat felt dry and scratchy. Donahue had offered him no water during his
time in the line shack. That was
probably a deliberate, calculated move as well. There was no cover on the banks of the stream so Heath quickly
decided he couldn’t afford to risk it. As
he looked down the path, his eyes caught a faint glint of metal beneath the
leaves that were strewn on the path. He
picked up a stick and prodded the suspicious indentation. A bear-trap snapped shut, breaking the stick
in two. It had been placed in a small
dug out hole so there would be no telltale mound and covered with leaves.
“You’ve been a busy man, Donahue.” Heath whispered. Best to hit virgin territory, he thought,
and the more impassable appearing the better.
Heath made some deep footprints leading off to the left side of the
trail. He then stepped backwards in the
same prints and leapt off into the woods to his right. He didn’t know if Donahue would track him in
or take up a predetermined position to start his “hunt”. But just in case…
Heath headed off cautiously beneath the thick undergrowth. He faced the inner struggle of speed versus
stealth and concealment. I ought to be
able to move pretty fast, he thought, shouldn’t make much noise with the ground
all soft and wet. Concealed amid a
thick growth of bushes, he laid the rifle down and cleared away the mulch of
wet, decaying leaves. He wallowed in
the muddy earth, making sure the light tan pants were completely covered. He grabbed handfuls of mud and smeared it
through his hair, on his face, neck, chest and stomach. Bits of decaying leaves clung to his clothes. The only contrast was the whiteness of his
eyes, which stood out like pearls inlaid with sapphires in a dark, muddy pool. His camouflage complete, he picked up the
rifle and moved deeper into the forest.
Warm damp air still hung heavily in the morning stillness. Heath pushed his way into the brush, careful
not to leave a trail of broken stems, plants or skid marks. He tried to step only on the scattered
leaves so that his footprints were only faint impressions, which required a tracker’s
skill to spot.
The world seemed quiet as he moved noiselessly through the
woods. Just the occasional chirping of
birds could be heard. Heath paused
often behind the cover of a tree or rock to carefully survey his surroundings. Heath’s eyes carefully studied the terrain;
he looked for anything out of place or changed by man. His ears took the track his eyes took,
listening for even the snap of a twig. Smelling
the air, searching for any scent that might give away another man, Heath
scouted for a sign that would reveal Donahue.
He searched for alterations in the foliage that would allow his
adversary a clear shot. Heath saw
nothing but green stillness, heard nothing except the natural sounds of the
forest, and smelled only the earthy mildew of the forest floor from where he
hid behind a tree. Slowly and
deliberately Heath pushed forward, cautious as he moved to another hiding
place.
It takes a thief to catch a thief. The thought passed from Heath’s mind as
quickly as it came. He was nothing like
Donahue. Donahue was a cold-blooded
killer who needed to be stopped. And if
anyone could, perhaps it was he. He’d
match his skills as a sniper with anyone.
This situation was different from the war, though. As Heath continued on what had now become
his “mission”, he was well aware that this quarry was, in fact, a cunning
sniper stalking him as well. There was
no room for error.
On the other ridge, where thick vines and tangled brush
covered the granite rock that cropped out from the earth, Donahue hid. He watched through his binoculars the area
surrounding some rocks on the west ridge.
He believed Heath would head north from the trail and might choose this
outcropping of boulders for cover. Donahue
hoped the “hide” would look tempting to Heath.
Every few yards, Heath scoured the ground ahead. He searched for any sign indicating the
presence of another bear-trap or any other booby-trap Donahue may have left. He would carefully scout once again for any
sign of Donahue as well. He moved
forward cautiously through the underbrush and wet, rotten leaves. Heath suddenly froze. He focused on the rock out-cropping thirty
feet away. Its perimeter was bare of
trees or bushes.
Heath eased himself closer, trying to see how far the
clearing extended laterally and how much exposure it offered. He could not tell for certain, but he did
know that if he considered this as a sniper’s lair for himself, he would have
wanted closer coverage of bushes or trees near those rocks. It would have alternate escape routes from
it that offered good coverage, too. The
coverage within the rocks was good, but getting in from the trees or back out
again was far too exposed.
I don’t like it! Heath
thought to himself… Donahue’s over there and he’s bound to have a direct line
of sight to these rocks! Without a
sound, he moved off to his right and slowly began to make a wide circle farther
up the ridge around the rocks.
On the eastern ridge, the gray-clad sniper lay still,
covered with ferns and vines, ready with his rifle. But as time wore on, Donahue was wary of the possibility that
Heath had detected the trap and was now moving in another direction. Donahue scanned the western ridge again with
his binoculars. His predetermined hides
had been chosen for maximum visibility and field of fire while at the same time
offering maximum concealment. He had
moved carefully from one to the other as the sun slowly climbed overhead. By this time, he should have seen some sign
of Heath. The boy sure knew how to
conceal himself and move with stealth, Donahue thought grudgingly. He’d been at this for several hours; the
“hunt” should have been over by now. But
his bag of tricks was not empty. I’ll
get a read on his position soon enough… Donahue thought.
* * * * * * * *
It had taken far too long in Nick’s estimation for Sheriff
Madden, the Federal Marshals and a few deputized men from town to arrive.
“Sorry,” Marshal Logel addressed Nick and Jarrod, “we
needed to wait for the telegraph office to open so we could send a message back
to headquarters with an update.” Nick shot them a hot glare. It was all Jarrod had been able to do to
keep Nick from leaving before the Marshals arrived. Jarrod felt responsible and the last thing he needed right now
was Nick going on a tear with a dangerous sharpshooter on the loose.
They had all huddled by the barn to discuss how best to
commence the search when one of the ranch hands galloped through the gates and
reined his horse to a stop.
“Mr. Barkley!” Josh shouted. “We found Heath’s horse!”
“Where?”
Josh Adkins had everyone’s full attention. “We found her on the other side of the fence
line above the North Pasture. She was
pacing back and forth near the gate like she was trying to make a beeline back
to the ranch. Avery is bringing her in,
but he’s walking her. She’s lathered
down with sweat and all muddy like she had a hard run this morning.”
“Come on,” Nick said.
“Let’s go!”
Everyone mounted up and followed Josh toward the North
Pasture. They met Avery leading the
black mare along the way. She was
limping on her right foreleg. Nick
swung down off his horse and walked over to examine her. She was still blowing hard. As Josh had said, she was soaked with sweat
and lathered beneath her chest and between her back legs. Her legs and belly were splattered with mud. Nick looked over the saddle carefully and
was relieved to see no spatters of blood.
He checked the saddlebags and found the poncho in one and the fifteen
hundred dollars still in an envelope in the other. He handed the money to Jarrod who put it in his own saddlebag.
“You boys say she was on the other side of that fence
line?” Nick asked.
“That’s right, Mr. Barkley.” Avery said.
“Well,” Nick addressed the posse, “the way our various
fence lines run, there are only two possibilities for her ending up on that
side of the fence. She either had to
come from the direction of the Tangle Bluff line shack or else from Twin
Ridges.” Jarrod nodded in agreement.
“Lead the way!” Marshal Ferguson said.
“Just a minute.” Jarrod said. “Josh, you and Avery take the mare back to the ranch and have
McCall bring the buckboard out to Tangle Bluff and, if we’re not there, on to
Twin Ridges.”
“Yes, sir.” Josh replied as they rode off. Nick was staring at Jarrod, his expression
unreadable.
“We need to be prepared for all possibilities, Nick.” Nick
simply nodded as he mounted up.
“Let’s go!”
The line shack at Tangle Bluff appeared undisturbed but
the men looked carefully inside and out anyway. When it was checked to Nick’s satisfaction, the search party
headed off toward Twin Ridges.
* * * * * * * *
Heath had been carefully making a wide circle around the
area of the rocky out-cropping higher on the ridge. He wanted to try to pinpoint Donahue’s sniper’s nest. As he was crawling through some tangle and
thorns, he began to notice birds pecking and scratching among the leaves. Both farther up and lower down the ridge,
more birds gathered. Heath took a
closer look through his rifle’s scope and saw what attracted the birds – grain! Donahue had scattered corn and seeds in
small piles in a line down the ridge and now birds had been attracted in flocks. Their presence created a natural
early-warning system that would alert Donahue to Heath’s whereabouts. Donahue was certainly a cunning adversary.
Heath needed to get Donahue moving. He knew that luring Donahue into the open
would require a change in strategy. Heath
was going to have to let Donahue know where he was. From the place where the birds pecked for grain, he could get a
clear view of the eastern ridge as well as relatively clear fields of fire
through a number of routes that Donahue might take. But Heath also knew it would offer Donahue the same open field
toward him as well.
Heath found a rest where a rock protruded up from the
ground. He lay quietly listening to the
sounds of the forest, hearing the birds’ songs carried on a light breeze that
moved through the treetops and rustled the leaves. Heath could also hear a slight wheeze in his own lungs as he
breathed in a slow rhythm. He swallowed
hard to clear his scratchy throat that felt so irritated and dry. Heath squinted his eyes with each gulp,
reacting to the soreness in his throat.
The muddy camouflage, which once covered his face, was now being eroded
off by the rivulets of sweat that ran down his hot face, revealing his tanned
bronze complexion and the flush that now spread over his cheeks. Aww hell!
Probably caught a cold from that ride in the rain… Heath thought of his
few conscious memories of the ride to the line shack. He knew that the risk of a coughing fit only increased with time. That would put him at a deadly disadvantage. It didn’t appear as though the “Cavalry” was
going to come riding in… He’d have to up the ante.
Heath took a stone and tossed it into the flock of birds. The sudden stir of the bird’s wings flying
up through the forest echoed to the other ridge where Donahue lay scanning
through his binoculars. The gray eyes
shifted quickly toward the sound. A
cougar or some other predator might have sent the birds scattering skyward, but
Heath might have done so, too. Donahue
smiled as he slipped from behind the cover of the vine-covered rock and
stealthily headed toward another of his sniper’s nests.
* * * * * * * *
Donahue’s got to be there… Heath thought to himself after
searching through his rifle’s scope every conceivable hiding place and seeing
nothing. From his low, prone position,
he could only see the flat front angle that the fallen log and nearby rock on
the eastern ridge presented. They
represented the best cover from which to view this particular opening through
the trees, but there was no sign of a rifle muzzle protruding from behind
either object. “But where else could he
be?” Heath asked himself.
A large tree grew to Heath’s right and offered enough
cover to allow him to climb up and possibly see over the low rock and log. Grabbing branches with his right hand and
clutching his rifle with his left, Heath began to work his way up the tree’s
trunk. He hoped to climb up far enough
to where he could point his rifle’s scope from a high enough vantage point to
see if Donahue was indeed lying behind one of the objects.
Heath had climbed up about ten feet off the ground when the
small branch on which he’d placed his left foot gave way with a noisy crack. He reflexively started to throw his left arm
around the trunk of the tree for a surer hold.
The stock of his rifle hit a branch and it was twisted from his grasp. It ricocheted off several limbs before
hitting the ground with a thud several yards from the base of the tree. Heath swung by his right hand momentarily
before regaining his hold.
The gray-clad man who hid behind the large rock heard the
noises and peering through his rifle’s scope saw the flash of movements in the
tree. The sudden crack of rifle fire
sent a surge of adrenaline through Heath’s body. The bullet sliced through skin and muscle on the outside of his
right thigh. The sharp pain caused
Heath to lose his hold and he dropped to the ground behind the cover of the
tree trunk. Heath’s leg gave way and he
sat hard, crunching twigs and leaves beneath him. The flesh wound in his thigh burned like a hot iron and Heath
could feel the blood wetting his pants leg.
There was no time to think about that now. Heath had to retrieve his rifle. How long would it take Donahue to chamber
his next round? Do it fast! Heath thought. It was harder to get a bead on a moving target through a scope
than it was a scopeless, open-sighted rifle.
Despite the sharp pain in his thigh, Heath leapt up and in
a fluid motion had moved to the rifle where he paused momentarily to scoop it
up with his right hand.
The crack of a rifle echoed through the Twin Ridges again. This time, the red-hot poker lanced through
the left side of Heath’s belly. His
stomach muscles contracted causing him to “crunch” at the waist and his left
hand grabbed for his side, but Heath never lost grip of the Sharps rifle as he
crashed into the cover of a thicket.
Donahue had finally had the elusive Heath clearly in his
sights, if just for a moment. In his
excitement, he had “yanked off” on the trigger: a novice mistake. The hard jerk Donahue had given his rifle’s
trigger had bucked the shot wide and low of his center chest aim.
Heath crashed his way through the thicket, snapping
branches and ripping the low-lying vines.
Pain and adrenaline drove him and for some moments his brain seemed only
to scream, “Just run!” Then his brain flashed back to a deer hunting
experience, which quickly replayed in his mind.
The large buck was standing still in a clearing in a
three-quarter away stance. It was not
the broadside he preferred, but still a good position for a clean, fatal shot. He instantly imagined the bullet’s path
through the left side of the chest, hitting lung, heart and lung before exiting
the right shoulder. Should drop like a
rock, he thought. But just as he
squeezed the trigger, the deer had caught his scent. The old buck suddenly shifted as it started to bolt. Heath saw the animal’s back arch like a
bucking bronco when the bullet hit. He
knew that the misplaced gut shot meant he’d now be tracking the buck for a
while. Heath remembered how the sounds
of the buck’s wild crashing and thrashing in the bush had helped him trail the
deer.
Stop! Get a hold
of yourself… Heath thought, don’t make it any easier for him! Heath stopped behind the cover of a tree. He knew he must go back to the principles
and practices that had served him so well in many a desperate circumstance
during the war. None quite this bad… he
thought grimly.
Heath decided that moving back up toward the crest of the
ridge and southward might give him a better chance at Donahue. Blood had soaked through his pants leg and
the left side of the dirty green jacket was bloody as well. Heath knew that time was no longer on his
side. He had once held out the hope
that if he avoided Donahue long enough a search party might arrive. Now, he needed to move carefully but quickly. Would he even have the strength or
steadiness to take his shot when and if the time came?
Heath had made it as far up and southward along the ridge
as his waning strength and stamina would allow. He rested for a minute behind a tree.
They say that your life can flash before you in an instant. Heath’s did, and as he sat there
contemplating that it could end this very day, he thought of his newfound
family.
Mrs. Barkley.
She had chosen to embrace him as a son – her son – from
the very beginning. She had been
nothing but kind and loving toward him.
She might have easily rejected him and his claim and held on to all of
Tom Barkley’s inheritance for her own children. Ultimately, everything had hinged on the choice she had made. She was truly one-in-a-million. He regretted that he had yet to say the word
to her. “Mother!” he murmured.
Audra.
His little sister was beautiful, a little spoiled, and a
bit rebellious at times. But she had
always been open and loving toward him.
He enjoyed her company immensely.
She had lived a life untouched by much of the ugliness he had witnessed. She drank in life with an enthusiasm and
innocence. When he was with her, it was
like he could recapture some of his lost innocence, too. He could see the world as she saw it, if
only for a little while.
Jarrod.
He seemed to have it all: brilliance, education and
refinement. But what truly set Jarrod
apart were his principles. He was
nonjudgmental, fair- minded and possessed an unyielding sense of right and
wrong. He was always seeking to right
injustice. It’s men like Jarrod Barkley
who make the world a better place. He
had been so proud to have a man like Jarrod call him “brother”.
Nick.
It was not until just this moment that he suddenly realized
that it was Nick that he would miss most of all. It was Nick that he had most longed to truly connect with. For everything there was about Nick that
grated on his last nerve, there was another side to the man that never ceased
to fill him with admiration and respect.
The passion that he brought to everything that he did inspired Heath. He had seen, too, the soft loving side Nick
sometimes revealed to the rest of the family.
The fact Nick had never warmed to him… Well, there was no pretense to
the man. Nick was a straight shooter. Nick had always been brutally honest about
his feelings and Heath expected no less.
Even though it hurt…
Heath had lived a nomadic existence for so long that he
had hardly dared to dream of a home and a family. His mother’s deathbed revelation was the spark that lit a flame
within him. Tom Barkley was six years
dead, but still he was drawn like a moth to a flame to that ranch. Not for money, though his father had left a
rich inheritance. No, it was the wealth
of family that he really longed for. Did
he have brothers? Sisters? How many, he’d wondered. He longed to know them, love them, live with
them. Their labor would be his labor,
their fight his fight. He thought of a
Bible verse in the book of Ruth that his Mama loved to read: “the Lord do so to
me, and more also, if anything but death part thee and me.”
As Heath thought of how much his family meant to him, a
new level of determination was born deep within him. It had all been too long and too hard in coming. Had he been given just a glimpse of
fulfillment, just a taste, to have it all taken away? Heath wouldn’t give it all up without fighting with his last
ounce of strength and resolve. He had
been the youngest prisoner of war at Carterson and one of the few to walk out
of that hellhole alive. Grown men had
dropped like flies. Every morning the
first order of business had been to remove the corpses of the men who had died
during the night. The men who died were
no sicklier, no more malnourished, and no more injured than he. Some even appeared to be in better shape. They had simply quit fighting. Heath had been born with the indomitable
spirit of a true warrior. Giving up or
giving in was anathema to his very soul.
He’d fight Donahue; he’d fight Death itself until his last breath. He still had his one shot, and he meant to
take it!
* * * * * * * *
Donahue cursed himself for his mistake. In his excitement at having finally gotten a
clear view of his quarry, he had hurried his shot. He’d scored a hit, but he would have preferred to see his target
drop immediately instead of seeing him disappear into the brush. From the sounds as Heath crashed through the
underbrush, he was headed down the ridge toward the stream and farther
northward. All was quiet again, now.
Donahue hurried back to where he’d tied his horse to cross
over to the western ridge. He would
begin to stalk Heath in earnest now; looking for broken branches and drops of
blood. His mouth nearly watered in
anticipation. Perhaps he’d find his
adversary dead, but he’d once learned first hand that a bear was at its most
dangerous when wounded. It was a lesson
that he’d never forgotten, so he intended to use all care in finishing this
“hunt”. One must retain a healthy
respect for the abilities of his foe, Donahue reminded himself. Even at this final stage of the “hunt”, the
tables could be turned in an instant.
The sun shone brightly in the early afternoon sky, sending
its rays down the ridge at Heath’s back and casting shadows downward toward
where two cold, gray eyes squinted back up toward the crest. As Donahue gazed up again toward the top of
the ridge, something caught his eye. He
glimpsed a man half-crawl, half-drag himself to cover behind a fallen, rotting
log. Donahue squeezed his eyes shut and
looked again, squinting to see through the blinding rays of the sun. Donahue had taken a position behind a log
which was well covered with foliage and felt sure he had not been spotted. “But I have found you, my elusive young
sharpshooter. You are about to meet the
real Angel of Death!” Donahue whispered with a smile.
In one smooth motion, Donahue raised the Whitworth rifle
and tucked it firmly into his shoulder, steadying it with his left hand, which
he rested on the log for added support.
He would not make the same mistake twice. Donahue concentrated on the sight-post beyond the scope, but his
target disappeared in the sun’s glare. The
bright flash in Donahue’s eye caused him to tilt and cant the rifle as he tried
to pinpoint Heath once more through the short scope and deliver the fatal shot.
Heath’s trained eyes caught the flash of light. Something shiny danced below, reflecting the
light. It looked just like someone
flashing a mirror in the sun. He
remembered Charlie Whitehorse’s teachings, “anything unnatural…” The bright
shimmer could only be one thing. Carefully,
Heath centered his rifle’s sight-post on the shimmer of reflected sunlight. Heath released his breath and let the
sight-post settle on the target, and as it settled, his Sharps .52 caliber
rifle cracked down the hill, echoing through the Twin Ridges.
The shimmer disappeared and Heath could now see Donahue’s
body where it had been hurled backwards when the bullet struck. At the moment the back of Donahue’s head had
exploded in a crimson spray, his suddenly lifeless body thrashed and kicked a
dance of the dead before becoming completely still.
Heath made his way down the ridge to the body. Donahue was lying on his back and Heath
stared at the face expressionlessly. The
cruel, cold look was gone. The right
eye socket was shattered and the left pupil was wide and transparent. It looked like a black glass marble. It seemed to Heath as though a man’s soul
drained away through his eyes, leaving only clear black pools where life had
once been. Heath took no pleasure in
this and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he turned his head away.
The adrenaline that had been driving him seemed to drain
away as well. Heath suddenly felt very
tired. Somewhere back toward the trail,
he heard Donahue’s horse whinny. He
gripped the barrel of his rifle tightly in his right hand and leaned on it like
a staff, his left arm clutched to his injured side. Heath decided to make his way down to the stream for that drink
of water he was so thirsty for. It
couldn’t be far. Then he’d find that
horse. “Just keep moving,” he told
himself.
* * * * * * * *
“Jarrod! Look!” Nick was the first to spot the blue
shirt draped over the hitching post in front of the line shack. His spurs had dug into Coco’s sides and he
was off in a full gallop before a reply could come.
Nick was already off Coco and holding the blue chambray
shirt in his hands when the rest of the search party reined their horses to a
stop. The door to the shack was open
and it was obviously empty but Marshal Ferguson checked inside anyway.
“Donahue’s been here!
I found more of his personal effects inside.”
Nick eyed the forest-covered ridge. “They’re somewhere on that ridge. Let’s follow the trail in.”
“Everyone be careful!” Ferguson warned the men. “Donahue is sure to be armed and is very
dangerous!”
Nick reined his horse toward the trail and galloped off in
the lead without a hint of caution. Nick
slowed to a stop when he saw the scattered brass buttons strewn on the ground. Jarrod rode up beside him as Nick leaned
forward to get a better look.
“Looks like buttons off a Union Army jacket, Jarrod. And those boot prints look like Heath’s.”
“That would explain the shirt if Donahue made Heath wear a
uniform.” Jarrod observed.
“Come on. He’s
close. I know it!”
The search party followed the boot prints down the trail
until they veered off into the woods.
“Looks like he went in right here.” Sheriff Madden said.
“Wait!” Nick dismounted and carefully studied the slightly
odd tracks. “I think he might have
back-tracked and went in over here. Why
don’t we split up? Fred, you take these
boys and check to the left of the path.
The Marshals can head on down toward the stream. Jarrod and I will head to the right. If anybody finds anything, fire off a shot.”
Nick and Jarrod weaved their way through the trees. Jarrod scanned the ridge below them while
Nick’s eyes strained toward the crest. The
elevation began to gradually steepen as they headed north.
“Nick! Look!”
Nick whirled to look in the direction Jarrod was pointing. He could see the body of a man sprawled on
the ground beyond a fallen log. The face
was covered with blood. Their hearts
raced as they hurried down to where the body lay. Nick examined the body and he could not help but smile even at
this gruesome sight.
“The boy got him, Jarrod!
Heath got him! HEATH! HEY, HEATH!
WHERE ARE YA, BOY?”
The forest was silent.
Nick’s smile faded when he noticed Jarrod solemnly examining the rifle. Jarrod considered the bloody stock and the
lensless scope.
“What’s the only way Heath could have made a shot like
this?”
Nick looked puzzled.
“What do you mean, Jarrod?”
“Stop and think about it, Nick. Donahue had to be sighting his rifle directly at Heath in order
for Heath’s bullet to pass clean though the scope and get him in the eye like
that!”
Nick felt weak in his knees for a moment, the silence of
the forest was almost deafening as his ears roared. He regained his composure.
“Let me see that rifle, Jarrod.”
Jarrod handed over the rifle and their eyes locked briefly. Nick’s hands trembled slightly as he checked
the Whitworth for the presence of a round.
Both men breathed an audible sigh of relief when the unused bullet
popped into view. Their eyes met again
and Jarrod could read the unasked question in Nick’s eyes: “But where is he?”
Jarrod fired off a shot into the air to alert the rest of
the search party. His mind was already
racing over the best possible options for locating Heath. Should the party split up and just fan out
in all directions? Could they make a
reasonable guess as to the most likely trajectory of the bullet by the scatter
of gore from Donahue’s exit wound? Should
they start searching for Heath in the direction the shot had originated from?
As Jarrod stood there lost in thought awaiting the arrival
of the Marshals, Fred, and the other men, Nick was pacing around. His eyes were searching the surrounding
terrain hungrily, taking in trees, bushes, and rocks; scouring the ground…
That’s when he saw it: a drop of blood on a leaf. The little spatter was no bigger than a
raindrop and it was too far away from the body to have come from Donahue’s head
wound. Two feet further down the ridge
Nick spotted another drop.
Nick’s heart raced as he locked on to the trail. He was so engrossed in his single-minded
objective that he did not even think to alert Jarrod. Once he had discovered it, Nick had no problem reading the trail. Heath was moving slowly, the right boot
partially dragging. Obviously, Heath
was headed down the ridge toward the stream.
The ridge began to drop off at a steeper angle and the
footing was becoming more treacherous. Nick
spotted the telltale skid marks before he saw the Sharps rifle lying among the
leaves. So thoroughly did the prone
figure in the dark green jacket covered with dried mud and leaves blend in with
the undergrowth that Nick may have missed him altogether had it not been for
exposed blood-covered hand.
“HEATH!”
Nick rushed to where Heath lay underneath an umbrella of
low-growing bushes. They had stopped
his tumble down the embankment and Heath lay there beneath their canopy on his stomach
with only his right forearm and hand extending from underneath. His face was turned away from Nick.
“Heath?” Nick was kneeling down beside his brother now. He hoped to see the mud-caked blond head
lift and swivel toward him or at least see movement from the right hand. There was no movement or response from Heath. Nick said a silent prayer and grasping his
brother under the arms, he pulled Heath from beneath the bushes and flipped him
over to his back. Nick felt Heath’s
neck for a pulse. The pulse was racing,
but it was there. “Thank God!” Nick
breathed.
“JARROD!”
Jarrod had already noticed Nick’s absence and had started
down the ridge. “What is it, Nick?”
“I’ve found him!”
Jarrod rushed down to where Nick was kneeling over their
younger brother. “How is he, Nick?”
“Not good.” Nick replied.
He had taken off his bandana and tied it around the bloody thigh to put
some pressure on that wound and had pulled aside the front of Heath’s jacket. “He took one in the side, too. Looks like he’s lost a lot of blood. He already feels hot and his breathing
doesn’t sound so good. Jarrod, we need
to get him back to the ranch fast!”
Jarrod could see the fear and worry in Nick’s eyes. He could hear the strain and concern in
Nick’s voice. “You stay with him, Nick. I’ll go get the horses.” Jarrod’s eyes bore
the same fear and worry as well as the remorse that had dwelt there since the
evening before.
When Jarrod returned to the spot where they’d left the
horses, Marshals Logel and Ferguson rode up with Donahue’s horse in tow.
“Donahue’s dead.” Jarrod nodded toward the body. “We found my brother, he’s badly wounded. My brother Nick is with him. We’ll take him back to the line shack until
the buckboard arrives.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barkley.” Marshal Logel said. “We’ll take care of Donahue.”
Jarrod looped Coco’s reins around his saddle horn and rode
back down to Nick and Heath. Nick
remained on his knees beside Heath, stroking the dirty hair and speaking words
of encouragement softly.
“We can put him on Jingo and I’ll…”
“NO!” Nick’s head turned sharply and his eyes flashed with
a sudden possessiveness. “He’s riding
with me on Coco!”
They put Heath’s limp body in the saddle. He moaned a little and coughed once, but
that was his only response to the movement.
Nick settled in behind his younger brother.
“Got him?” Jarrod asked before letting go.
“I’ve got him.” Nick replied as his strong left arm
wrapped around Heath’s chest and hugged him tightly to his own. Nick reined Coco in the direction of the
trail leading back to the line shack. Jarrod
picked up Heath’s rifle before mounting his own horse and following.
Jarrod and Nick met up with Sheriff Madden and his men as
they reached the trail. Heath looked in
bad shape, Fred thought, but at least he was still alive. That was more than Fred had really expected.
“We need a couple of you boys to ride to town as quickly
as you can and have Doc Merar to meet us at the ranch. Tell him Heath has been shot.” Jarrod
addressed Fred as the two men galloped off toward town. “Heath killed Donahue. The Marshals will be along with the body.”
Fred eyed the bloody, unconscious man. “Clearest case of self-defense I’ve ever
seen in my life!”
They arrived back at the line shack just as McCall was
pulling up with the wagon. One of
Fred’s deputies ran into the line shack and grabbed several blankets and a
pillow off one of the cots. He and
McCall made a bed in the back of the wagon as Jarrod and Nick carefully eased
Heath off Coco’s back. They laid Heath
on the makeshift bed and wrapped a couple of blankets around him.
“You want me to ride back here, Nick?”
“No, I’m going to.” Nick was already settling in beside
Heath.
The Marshals rode up leading Donahue’s horse. His body was draped over the animal’s back
with the ankles and wrists tied to the stirrups. The Marshals had tied a blanket over the body and the blanket was
saturated where it contacted the bloody head.
Drops of blood dripped to the ground.
“I don’t think Jack Donahue ever expected to die game in
one of his own hunts.” Marshal Ferguson said.
“I sure hope your brother makes it, boys.” Jarrod and Nick nodded a
silent “thank you”. Marshal Ferguson
had just voiced their most fervent prayer.
The Marshals, Sheriff Madden and his deputies rode off
toward town as McCall and the Barkley brothers headed back to the ranch as
quickly as they could.
Heath was trying to follow the sound of the voice. The words were spoken by a voice soft and
low; a voice that was strangely familiar.
How had he gotten so turned around?
He hadn’t found the stream or the horse. Now, he was alone in the woods on a moonless night. The dark forest was silent, but every now
and then, he could hear a voice carried gently on the wind. The few words he heard from time to time
brought a message of hope and reassurance.
“… You’re going to be all right… I’ll get you home…” The words were
spoken with such feeling and resolve that he knew they were spoken from the
heart. Just keep moving, he thought, go
toward the sound of the voice. He just
wanted to get home after this ordeal. The
source of the voice could finally take him there.
* * * * * * * *
When the wagon pulled up in front of the white-columned
house, Dr. Merar’s buggy was already there.
Dr. Merar had been waiting inside with a very anxious Victoria and Audra. He had tried to be of some comfort, but
there was very little he could say to the worried mother and sister as they
gazed out the window hand-in-hand. The
time had come to see for themselves what awaited them in the back of the wagon
and they rushed outside to meet it.
“Heath!” Victoria cried as she peered over the side of the
wagon. The dark forest reverberated
with the sound of a voice he recognized.
Heath’s eyes flickered open briefly.
He wanted to call to her. “Mmmm,”
he moaned. His lips were pale and his
complexion wan where rivulets of sweat had washed the dirt on his face away. Victoria reached over and stroked his hair,
which was stiff with dried mud. Audra
covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a gasp. As Nick peeled away the blankets, Howard Merar climbed into the
back of the wagon to do a cursory examination of his patient.
The young man was covered with dirt and leafy debris. His body was already hot and feverish. “Audra, go tell Silas to draw a bath. Make sure the water is no more than lukewarm. The first order of business is to get him
cleaned up, then I’ll do what I can to clean out these wounds.”
Nick and Jarrod carried Heath straight up to the bathroom. By the time they had Heath’s clothes
stripped off, Silas had the bath ready.
Heath began to moan and thrash when his body was immersed in the tepid
water and they began to bathe him. “Be
still, Darling… You’re home now… We’ve got to get you cleaned up… Be still…”
His mother’s voice had reached him again.
Heath calmed and relaxed as he tried to focus on her words. Victoria shampooed Heath’s hair and gently
washed his face while Dr. Merar, Jarrod and Nick lathered and scrubbed the rest
of his body. The water quickly became
dirty. “Drain this water and run some
more!” Howard said. Heath was scrubbed
and rinsed again before Dr. Merar was satisfied. After the third bath was run, the water was clear other than a
bloody pink tinge.
Victoria laid a clean blanket on the bathroom floor. “We’ll towel him dry, Victoria,” Howard
said, “if you’ll let Silas know we’ll be ready for the bandages and those
instruments we boiled in Heath’s room in a few minutes. He can bring up the poultice, too.”
Jarrod and Nick carried Heath to his bed and placed
several clean towels beneath his right thigh and lower back. Dr. Merar had carefully washed his hands and
laid out his instruments, clean sponges and antiseptic.
“Turn him on his right side, boys. I’ll deal with the more serious wound first. He’ll need anesthesia when I clean out and
debride those wounds. Jarrod, if you’ll
do the honors. Wet that cloth with
chloroform and hold it over his nose and mouth. Not too much… you don’t want to put the whole room to sleep! I’ll let you know if it’s wearing off and he
needs any more.”
Dr. Merar began washing the wounds on Heath’s left flank
with some soap and a dilute iodine solution.
“Why anybody would want to keep fighting the Civil War after all these
years is beyond me!” He passed the bullet probe carefully in through the
entrance and out the exit wound. “Good! I don’t believe the bullet hit any internal
organs in the abdominal cavity. Heath’s
lucky.” Dr. Merar said. “I just need to
clean this wound out.” The doctor folded a small piece of moist gauze into a
wad and grasped it firmly with long forceps.
Dr. Merar carefully pushed the wad through the length of the wound,
bringing a small amount of dirt and fiber debris with it. He grasped the wad on the exit side and
pulled the forceps back out the entrance wound. Dr. Merar reloaded another wad of gauze and reflected on his own
recollections of the Civil War as he worked.
“During the war, we didn’t know anything about antisepsis. Careful hand washing wasn’t practiced before
operations. We’d go from patient to
patient with dirty hands and dirty instruments, wearing bloody, pus-covered
aprons. Just about every wound got
infected. Hell, we thought it was a
milepost on the road to recovery! ‘Laudable
pus’, we called it. We were working
under what light Science had shed at the time… Joseph Lister began advocating
antisepsis for surgery in 1865. There
we go! I think I’ve got this flank
wound cleaned out about as well as I can.
Turn him on his back, boys, and I’ll clean that leg.” Howard turned to
Victoria. “I’ll be ready for that
poultice soon.”
He had instructed Silas to take powdered charcoal and mix
it with boiled water into a paste. Victoria
spooned a generous layer of the moist paste in between two layers of thin
cloth.
“I’m just glad that crazy fool didn’t want to duel it out
with muskets and those damn soft-lead Minie balls!” Howard continued. “Those bullets weighed an ounce or more and mushroomed
or distorted like hell on impact! That
they made large, ugly wounds goes without saying. And the damage they did to limbs and bones… seventy percent of
the wounds were to limbs. My God,
amputation was the only alternative we had!
Wounds to the head, chest or abdomen were a virtual death sentence.” Dr.
Merar shook his head. “What a waste! I’ve never believed that war was any way to
carve out our nation’s future.”
Dr. Merar covered the wounds with the poultice and
bandages to hold them in place. “Clean
around the wounds and put on a fresh poultice two or three times a day. The charcoal paste will absorb any pus or
fluids from the wounds. I’ll check back
in tomorrow. Start with sips, but let
him have all the fluids he’ll take once he comes around. I don’t have any magic potion for that fresh
cold. Chicken broth and your herbal tea
will do as well as anything, Victoria.”
The one constant in Heath’s bedroom throughout the entire
evening had been Nick. While the other
family members were in and out at various times, Nick had refused to leave his
vigil.
“Nick, I brought you up a sandwich along with Heath’s
tea.” Victoria said as she placed the tray down on the dresser top.
“Leave it. I’ll
get it later.”
“Nick, I know you didn’t eat any breakfast this morning
and you were riding hard most of the day.
Why don’t you eat something and get some sleep? Even though none of us got any rest last
night, you look particularly tired. I’ll
sit with Heath tonight…”
“No, Mother. I’m
staying! I have to be here when he
wakes up.”
Nick’s eyes held not only a firm resoluteness, but also a
need. Victoria’s mother’s instinct told
her that he sought to finally close the chasm that had existed for four months. Victoria smiled. Yes, when Nick claimed a thing, it became his in every way. He was now ready to claim his brother.
Victoria placed the back of her fingers against Heath’s
forehead and cheek to satisfy herself that his fever was no worse. “Alright, Nick. Make sure Heath drinks his tea.
Wake me if you need anything.” She paused and kissed Nick’s cheek before
making her way out and softly closing the door.
* * * * * * * *
He was making his way through the forest. He was getting closer to the sound of the
voice. When he broke from the tree
line, he was standing on a grass-covered knoll. In the distance, down below him in the clearing, he could see the
front lines of Union and Confederate troops.
He decided to try and make it to the boys in blue. Two lines of cannons fired at the opposite
line simultaneously. Gray-white smoke
billowed from the cannon barrels. The
smoke did not dissipate, but hung low over the battlefield like a thick fog. He was disoriented again. Which way to the Union lines? He couldn’t see either front line anymore. The thick smoke made him cough and choke.
“Come on, Heath! Cough…
Cough it up!” The voice reached him again and it seemed so near now. He kept fighting his way through the smoke. It was beginning to clear. A mist-shrouded form was very near. The source of the voice that had led him
through the dark woods was beginning to take shape.
“Nick?”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake
up! How ya feeling?”
“I’ve felt better…” Heath said weakly.
“Well, you’re lucky to be feeling at all! How about some water?”
Heath nodded. He
was absolutely parched.
“Whoa, now, Little Brother! Take it slow. You can
ride farther at a trot than at a gallop!
Doc said to take it in sips.”
Heath wasn’t quite sure why it was Nick of all people who
was with him. Had Nick really called
him “Little Brother”? Nick patiently
held the glass as he slowly sipped all the water down. While Heath rested from his efforts, Nick
gently wiped his face and brow with a cool, damp cloth.
“We’re not done. I
promised Mother I’d get a cup of her herbal tea down ya. It’s for that chest cold you got. Come on, now. Let’s get it all down!”
Heath took a sip from the bitter cup. “Aaaagh!” As bad as it tasted it ought to be
good for something, he thought. He
didn’t want to finish it, but Nick seemed determined to get it all down.
“Bad, Nick!”
“I know. I won’t
touch the stuff… I like enamel on my teeth.” Nick smiled, satisfied that he’d
carried through Victoria’s instructions.
“Lay back and rest a bit. I’ll
clean those wounds and put on a fresh poultice in a while.”
Heath gave Nick a slight nod. Nick could see gratitude in the blue eyes but they seemed
perplexed as well. Nick cleared his
throat and looked his brother in the eye.
“I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here. I wanted to be here, Heath. I needed to be here. It’s time to set things straight between us. I should have done it a long time ago, Heath. I couldn’t let go of my anger. But when I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong! I shouldn’t have been blaming you for what
Father did. You’re the innocent party
in that whole mess and the one who suffered the most because of it. I’m sorry to say it took almost losing you
to make me see the light. The strange
thing is, I’ve always wanted a brother who was just like you. Then you come riding in here, a finer man
than I’d even dreamed of… and I tried to run you off! The night you disappeared, I realized I wanted to be your brother! I was afraid I’d never get the chance again. I prayed to God to give me another chance to
be the brother I should have been. To
be the brother you deserve. When we
found you alive, I wanted to start being that brother as soon as possible. I’ve been right by your side ever since. I don’t break my promises, especially not to
the Almighty! I had to be the first
person you saw when you opened your eyes.”
* * * * * * * *
Victoria quietly opened the bedroom door. She paused and listened as Nick’s words
drifted toward her. He sat in a chair
next to Heath’s bed, his back blocking her view of Heath’s face. He was dipping a cloth in a basin of cool
water and wringing it out before wiping his brother’s feverish skin. Nick was talking nonstop; his tone was soft
and comforting.
“… Hank Watson has been bragging he’s got some of the best
livestock on the entire West Coast. I’ll
have Jarrod wire him to hold on to them for us. I still want first pick, but I ain’t going till my partner can
come with me. No sirree! Hey, you know what else? He claims he’s got one of the best stallions
in these parts! A big bay named Charger. If he’s half as fine as ole Hank says, I aim
to buy him. Hank doesn’t even know he
wants to sell that horse yet but by the time I get through with him, he’ll do
it. You’re going to see a master horse
trader at work! I was thinking I’d get
that horse and give him to you, Little Brother. You know, the best horse in this part of the country for the best
little brother a man could ever have…”
Victoria moved to where she could see Heath’s face. He was gazing up at Nick with that look only
a younger brother can give. There was a
little smile on his lips. His blue
eyes, focused intently on Nick, were full of emotion and easily read. She could see love, contentment, admiration,
respect and an absolute confidence in Nick.
Whatever Nick was saying, his little brother believed it like the
veritable gospel.
She couldn’t help but smile. It had been the right decision to leave Heath in Nick’s care. He had done more for Heath this night than
simply minister to his physical needs. There
had been an uneasiness and uncertainty in Heath’s eyes since his arrival. It was gone now. Nick, and only Nick, could have taken that away. Heath was truly home at last.
Victoria walked up behind Nick and rested her hands on his
shoulders. “Why Nicholas! I never knew you’d make such an excellent
nurse! Good morning, Heath. How are you feeling, Sweetheart?”
“I’m good.” He said simply but his eyes rested on Nick for
a moment before shifting back to her. Victoria
knew exactly what he meant. She leaned
down and kissed Nick’s cheek. “Thank
you for taking such good care of your brother.
Now you’re going to go downstairs for breakfast and then you’re going to
get some rest. Now go! It’s time for a shift change. Ask Silas to bring up the chicken broth and
more herbal tea.”
Nick handed the cloth to his mother and pointed his finger
at Heath. “Don’t go anywhere cause as
soon as I get something to eat and a little nap, I’m coming right back. McCall’s all set to run this ranch for two
solid weeks without me!”
Heath started to laugh at Nick’s words as Nick walked out
the door, but he only managed to start coughing. Victoria frowned at the wet, rattling cough. She stroked her fingers through the blond
hair. “My herbal tea will help break up
that congestion. It tastes very bitter,
but it works wonders. I think I’ll make
up a chest rub as well - it smells ghastly but…”
“Awww, Mother!” Heath couldn’t help keep the pleading out
of his voice.
“Heath Barkley, don’t you ‘Awww Mother’ me…” Victoria
paused as the word hit her and tears welled in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “On second thought, it’s about time young
man!”
“Past time… Thought I might never get the chance to say it. Or to tell you that I love you, Mother.”
“I love you too, Heath, so very much. Never doubt that you are any less mine than
my other children. You are the child
born of my heart.”
* * * * * * * *
Jarrod had been checking in on Heath throughout the day. He wanted some time alone with Heath when he
wasn’t sedated from a dose of laudanum or snoozing after his herbal tea. When Jarrod opened the door, Heath turned
and smiled at him. His eyes were clear
and lucid. Audra looked up from her
book.
“Audra, would you mind if I sat alone here with Heath for
a while?”
Audra closed her book and gave Jarrod a knowing smile. She rose and placed a kiss on Heath’s
forehead. “Thanks Sis.” Heath said. As she walked by Jarrod, Audra grasped his
hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Thanks,
Honey.” Jarrod said. Audra quietly
closed the door as Jarrod took a seat in the chair by Heath’s bed.
Heath didn’t understand the haunted, troubled look that
clouded Jarrod’s eyes. It was
unsettling to Heath and Jarrod could see the confusion building in Heath’s eyes.
“Heath, there’s something I need to tell you and I’d like
you to please just hear me out. You
deserve to know the truth about how Donahue found you after all these years. It was my fault, Heath…”
“No, Jarrod…”
“Let me finish. You’ll
understand once I’m through. You see,
after the fight at Sample’s place I felt you deserved due consideration. I voted along with Mother and Audra to let
you stay on but I wasn’t completely convinced.
I hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency to conduct a full-scale
background investigation the next day. Pinkerton’s
man in Washington, D.C. had a fellow by
the name of Ira Taylor pull your Army records.
Donahue had been paying Taylor to locate Union Army veterans as well. Donahue had given Taylor some facts about
you, Heath, but he didn’t know your name.
It wasn’t until Taylor pulled your records for the background
investigation that he was able to match a name to those facts. Federal investigators were hot on Donahue’s
trail for a whole litany of other crimes.
Two Federal Marshals missed arresting him by only hours. They rode out to the ranch that evening to
inform me of Donahue’s intent. That
night you didn’t come home, Heath… I hope to God I never have to live through
another night like that! I kept
thinking that you could be dead and how I would have had a hand in my own
brother’s death. And when I say ‘my own
brother’, I mean it Heath. I came to
have absolutely no doubts about you and the irony of it all is it’s not because
of anything that was in that damned report!
I have all the evidence I need right in front of me. I don’t believe I could have ever forgiven
myself if… I’m sorry Heath, sorry for my role in helping that monster find you.”
“Jarrod, there’s nothing to forgive. You had no way of knowing about Donahue. I’ve always believed that everything –
everything – happens for a reason. Donahue
was a cold-blooded murderer. He was
insane and filled with hate. The man
would have never stopped killing, Jarrod, never… If ever there was a killer
that needed to be stopped, it was Jack Donahue. I never lost faith on that ridge that I could do it. I got no regrets, Jarrod. I don’t want you to have any either.” Heath’s
eyes were solemn and sincere. Jarrod
could also see an unwavering conviction burning in them as well.
“You’re right, Heath.
Donahue has been involved in murders and lynchings spanning all the way
back to the war. I got a telegram from
the Marshals today. The Attorney
General is pleased that Donahue’s decade-long crime spree has finally ended. The boys in Washington think you deserve a
medal.”
Heath gave Jarrod a little half-smile. “Well, knowing the government,” he drawled,
“they’d just find an excuse to take it back.”
Jarrod winced. Poor
choice of words, he thought. But the
amusement in Heath’s eyes at his own little joke showed he’d taken no offense. The wheels were already turning in Jarrod’s
mind. Perhaps one day, with the right
political connections, the Army brass might be willing to consider re-opening
the matter…
“And Jarrod…” Heath’s words snapped him from his thoughts. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“What you said, about not having any more doubts.”
“I meant every word, Heath. I’m very proud to call you ‘Brother’. I brought the Sharps rifle home.
One day, I’m going to gather your children and all your nieces and
nephews around and I’m going to take that rifle out and tell them the role you
played as a Union sharpshooter in the Civil War. If I know you, you’ll never tell! I guess your big brother will have to claim the bragging rights. At least that Pinkerton Report will have
served one good purpose!”
Heath smiled shyly, but his eyes sparkled at Jarrod’s
words.
“And when you’re up and around again, how about we take
some time and do a little fishing? Let
Pappy show you how it’s done. We may
even let Nick tag along.”
“I don’t know…” Heath said poker-faced. “After all, this IS a working ranch! Sweat – everyday- no dry shirts around here,
Pappy! I got a job to learn…”
Jarrod dissolved in laughter at Heath’s delivery of the
familiar “Nickisms”. Heath couldn’t
help but laugh himself.
“You’re a great addition to the family, Brother Heath.” Jarrod
said as he rose to leave. “I’ll see you
as soon as I get back from San Francisco.”
* * * * * * * *
Jarrod quietly cracked open the door to Heath’s bedroom. Nick was there as he was every evening: with
a book, or cards, or the checkerboard. Jarrod
smiled as he listened to them banter back and forth.
“Hah! KING ME!” The
whole bed shook as Nick bounced up and down where he was sitting.
“Stop it, Nick! You’re
messing up the board! Besides, it makes
my belly sore.”
“Then you better quit losing, Little Brother. Stop whining and crown that king… there you
go! It’s a wonder you even made it
through Basic Training.” Nick teased. “Your
move.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were nothing but a baby!”
“Baby! Nick, when
I reported for Basic Training I was already hard as woodpecker lips!”
Jarrod opened the door and walked in. They both looked at him and smiled a
greeting.
“Well look who’s back from San Francisco. So, Counselor…” Nick said. “Did you get that land dispute business
straightened out with Montero’s lawyer?”
“No, Nick. It’s
rather complicated and it looks like it may take months to resolve.”
Nick shook his head.
“I thought that you’d have that business finished in an hour or two. What kind of deprived Law education did you
get anyway?”
“Yeah.” Heath chimed in.
“What other classes did you skip?”
Jarrod grimaced. They
had formed an alliance and he was sure that this was only the first of many
times that he would be on the receiving end of their jabs.
“Why Brother Heath, I’ll have you know I graduated summa
cum laude.”
Heath smirked at Nick.
“And what did you graduate, Nick?
SOME… COME… LOUD?”
“Watch it, Boy! I
ain’t the dumb cowpoke in the family that got the brawn and none of the Barkley
brains. When I was a boy, the teacher
always said I was special and she hoped I’d go a long way…”
“Well, Nick, I expect she’d have been satisfied with the
next county.”
“You ain’t funny, Woodpecker Lips! And it’s still your move.”
Jarrod laughed. Perhaps
they wouldn’t be on his case so much after all…
Maybe, just maybe, they’d wear themselves out going after
each other.
THE END