by Lindabrit
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.
Obedient to the curt command of the man with the rifle
trained so carefully upon him, he pulled the wagon off the road and into the
clearing. He cast one swift, searching glance around the quiet grove, his eyes
taking in every detail of the situation in which he and his little son now
found themselves. His mind assessed and analysed the position and he came to a
bleak but inescapable conclusion. There was no hope, none at all, he was about
to die and it was possible, that his innocent child's life was also about to be
forfeit.
There were just too many mounted and armed men surrounding him to make any
escape attempt feasible. It seemed almost absurd to him, he was on his own land
and less than ten miles from his own front door, but his proximity to his home
was not going to help him now.
The ambush set for him had been carefully planned, obviously he had been
watched, for no such attack had been made when he was with his men, it was now,
when he was driving a wagon load of supplies from town, with only his youngest
boy for escort, that his killers had cornered him.
With wry honesty, he acknowledged that he was about to die of arrogance, he had
believed his enemies would not attack him on his own land, an error of
judgement and one that was about to prove fatal. He wished with all his heart
that his eleven year old son was not here with him. No child should have to
watch its father die, the experience could do the boy incalculable harm and he
resolved to try and prevent that harm. He surveyed the ring of masked faces and
made his quiet, urgent plea.
"Let the boy go, he's no threat to you, you're all masked so he can't
identify you, let him walk away."
It made the bile rise in his throat to beg from such scum and for his own life
he wouldn't have done it, but the boy was sitting beside him on the wagon, pale
blue eyes wide with fright, one small hand gripping the sleeve of his father's
shirt in a frenzied hold, his pale face rigid with shock. As a parent, he had
to try to save his child, even if it meant humbling his own fiercely proud
nature to a set of ruthless mercenaries and thugs.
He knew before he finished the plea that he was wasting his time, these men had
masked their faces, but their eyes showed clearly enough, the empty dead eyes
of assassins. Not one among them moved or spoke and he knew then that his fate
and perhaps the child's fate too were sealed, he would beg no more from men he
despised.
There was a sharp pain in his heart, compounded of many emotions and feelings,
he knew that he was in the last seconds of his life and in swift succession, a
surprisingly large number of final thoughts went through his mind. He felt
detached, almost unrelated to what was happening around him and it allowed him
to think with supernatural speed and clarity.
He thought back over his life and felt a surging thrill of pride in all that he
had achieved and accomplished. He had built a small empire and he had done it
by the sheer force of his will, without any dishonesty or underhand dealings to
mar its lustre. He could leave behind him a proud name and a clean reputation,
his children could wear his name with dignity and he hoped they would add to
the regard and respect his name already inspired.
He thought of his wife, the brave, beautiful little girl that had so valiantly
accompanied him into the wilderness of the West and who had laboured alongside
him as they forged their path together. She had been loyal and loving and
utterly true to him. How he wished that he had treated her with the same
honour! He had betrayed her and he would go to his death regretting his lack of
fidelity, for she deserved better, much, much better.
He thought of the other woman who had loved him, the one whose freely given
gift of herself he had taken and then discarded again. He had treated her every
bit as badly as his wife, he could admit that now, admit also that it was a
truth from which he had done his best to hide. For what it was worth, he
regretted any harm his presence in her life had caused her and he wished her
well, as he wished his beloved wife well.
He thought of his children, the youngest of whom was even now clinging to him
in speechless terror, a sweet little boy, as loving and as lovable as his only
daughter, the longed for little girl, now just twelve years old and the petted
darling of her father. He could rely upon his two older boys to care for these children,
he prayed this child beside him would survive to receive that care.
He wondered if his older boys, the one so coolly intelligent, the other so
passionately brave, would be able to hold together what their father had
forged. With a fiercely exultant pride he told himself that they both could and
would do so. He had faith in his sons, they would ensure the continuance of all
that he had begun, his legacy would not die here, only his body, he didn't want
to die, but he drew a strange comfort from the thought that his boys would
carry on in his name.
His beloved wife's image swam before his senses again and this time what he
felt was a warm tide of gratitude for the forgiveness she had given him when he
had confessed his infidelity. He had feared that his marriage might be over,
that she would not feel able to forgive him or continue to live with him. She
had pardoned his sin, never once casting it back up again and he blessed every
day of their union and the dear soulmate who had been his life's companion.
His last conscious thought was a sense of self-satisfaction and pride in his
life so powerful and all pervading that it blotted out everything else, even
the fear of death itself. As the assassin fired the bullet that took him from
the world, Tom Barkley commended his family to a future without him and his own
immortal soul to God.