For If They Fall

Chapters 1-10

by Kimberly

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

The continuation of "Winner Lose All", Heath has now been with the Barkley's over six months. Martha and Matt Simmons were not aware of Heath's parentage until after Leah Thomson's death.

 

 

 

 

"Two are better than one,
Because they have a good reward for their labor.
For if they fall, one will lift up his companion."
Ecclesiastes 4:9,10

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Heath remained on the slight rise long after Maria had turned away, his arm still outstretched as though lifted and held by the wind. At first when he saw her emerge from the halted carriage and swiftly walk toward him, his heart beat like a boy's, robust in the belief of happy endings. But as she stood before him and he listened to her words and watched her face and her eyes that were liquid and golden brown, although resolute, his heart froze. His sorrow paralyzed him and he could not find his words. He tried to reach inside of her with his eyes and for a brief time, she seemed to weaken, her resolve to leave him wavering. However the purity of an eight hundred-year-old bloodline, a crimson thread having ancient ties to Spain, had won again over love. He reached out his hand to her, to touch her, but it was as futile as trying to touch the moon and stars. And acknowledging that, he felt the sting of tears.

 

Heath knew, in fairness to Maria, bloodlines were of little concern to her, wealth and influence meant nothing to a lonely child who had only wanted love and nurturing, a home and family, so much like him. It had been the need for her father's approval, her father's love that she had made her choice. Heath understood this, even though he did not have first-hand knowledge of a father's concern or keeping; he, also, understood because of that he would always feel incomplete. He now looked ruefully toward the wagon trace, watching the barouche carry his Maria away and his heart broke in two.

 

In the beginning of everything, when he had first arrived at the Barkley's, his anger had fueled him, blinding him to all else. He did not allow himself to feel awkward or ashamed. He was looking to set down roots and he did whatever it took to get what was his, what he was entitled to as Tom Barkley's son. For Heath it had never been about the money, able to live on less than most men, but it had been about a name, a heritage, his birthright, his own crimson thread. He needed to know if he walked or talked or laughed or angered in the same way his father did or his father's father. Those were the things that mattered to him, that he searched for and the Barkley's had tendered it to him for the most part with grace and generosity. Would he have been willing to give it all up for Maria, as she would have had to do for him?

 

If only he had been able to measure up, but he knew he never would in a few people's eyes. He had known this, had lived this since boyhood and times like these made it crystal clear, driving it home to him again and again. He had run up against stonewalls too many times and he felt spent and scraped raw.

 

Heath slowly lowered his arm now that the carriage was no longer in view. He turned and passed the bridle reins from back to front, and then gripped the saddle horn two-handed, vaulting Indian-fashion onto the horse. Squaring his shoulders, Heath rode away with the wind at his back and for the moment allowed only that to guide him.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

It had never been in Heath to hate. He had always been able to forgive, needing only to recognize some redeeming element in his persecutor, no matter how infinitesimal. Anything at all that showed there was a measure of repentance, a near regret. When Heath was a child, it had been much easier to pardon the cruelty, craving amity and acceptance, even from the worst of them, especially from the worst of them, particularly his Aunt Martha and his Uncle Matt.

 

Since before Heath could talk, his mother and Aunt Rachel and Hannah had instilled in him the capacity to love strongly and forgive readily. That had always been his way until the War, until Carterson and Matt Bentell, until Tom Barkley. Even now his deep and leprotic impulse for vengeance had not been entirely dispelled, the sentiment strong in moments of discontent. He had many times welcomed or more accurately relished the flaws in the godly armor of Tom Barkley: crusader, hero, father and husband. Heath recalled one such occasion, bursting into the drawing room just back from the mining town of Lonesome. He had stood there beneath Tom Barkley's portrait, all bluster and anger and all the way glad to have had found some unworthiness, some duplicity in the man that had sired him and nothing more.

 

It had been much different when he was a boy; Heath remembering his mother speaking affectionately of his father and he believing there was no greater man that ever lived. But then seemingly overnight, the laughter stopped, the joy in the small home gone. After that in the evening hours when Heath would settle by the fire and pretend to study his lessons, he would watch his mother as she sat at the old, worn table, reading over and over what he believed to be a letter by the oil lamp's dim, yellow light. He had known better than to question her about it. The look in her eyes had troubled him and his heart ached deeply to have his mother fully restored to him.

 

In the years that followed, a dark disquiet grew in him, and while acknowledging it made little sense for him to despise a man he did not know, he still could not control the anger, the shame, the hurt. He had taken up the idea that his mother had decided not to seek out his father, knowing full well the man would never accept him. And if that thought had not been unbearable enough, Heath could not help, but taunt himself further by imagining that his mother, in fact, did tell his father and the man had with indifference rejected him, his son. Of course, his mother, loving him so and wanting to spare him, had remained close-mouthed until her time of dying. But whatever the case, the silence and his own gloomy imaginings only caused him more self-doubt and a strong and unreasonable resentment toward a man he never knew.

 

The grand house came into view then, and Heath felt an unidentifiable pang. Although it had been nearly six months since he had come to live there, the ranch's grandeur still stole his breath. As was his way, Heath slowed his mount to a walk and then paused under the shade of an old elm, taking in the sight of his home. The unsettling pang gradually lessening and a warm, steady feeling now in its place. In many ways, he was more content than he had ever been, except for his early childhood days before things changed, before he realized the one thing he did not have in his life. Heath shook his head and laughed; still did not have.

 

At first things had been difficult for him, except for the work. That Heath knew well and he bested most, even big brother Nick for which he could not help, but feel a degree of pride and pleasure, although his mother had taught him differently. She was a humble soul, kind and compassionate and above all tolerant. Tolerant of her fate, her lot in life and it had seemed to Heath that he alone was all she had needed to make her living worthwhile. If only he could have been as satisfied as she had been, to live that simply. It would have been easier if he too remained insular, but he had chosen out of need and restlessness to leave Strawberry for what he hoped to be better things.

 
What he had found had been far worse than the poor, simple life of the three women he loved. The ugliness was far worse than his Aunt Martha's cutting remarks or his Uncle Matt's razor strap. He had not been prepared, but what man would be? What man? Heath shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. No matter the years passing, he always drifted back to the bad days, the War, Carterson. Each suffering called up and catalogued with practiced efficiency, the only difference being, he now no longer wept because of them.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Victoria Barkley watched Heath from the upstairs' window with a mother's concern, knowing it was the day Maria would be leaving the Valley. It was not the first time that she had watched Heath watching the house. She was not sure what emotions played within the young man, but she hoped it was contentment, happiness, and above all love.

She and Tom had tried to live their lives with the deepest integrity, walking through their days with kindness, compassion and moral righteousness. If a wrong had been committed, it would be corrected; just as it had been for the people of Lonesome; just as it had been for Heath Thomson Barkley. Victoria smiled then as she watched the young man, Tom's son, from the window, now the son of her heart. What she had determined to be the greatest blow to her life, an unbearable heartbreak, had instead given Tom back to her. Every gesture, smile, the timbre of voice, even the walk was Tom Barkley incarnate and what she had deemed to be insurmountable had not once been a chore.

 

Heath was the image of a younger Tom, passionate, kindhearted, bright and a bit of the devil. Victoria saw it often with his affectionate teasing of his brother Nick, his words softly spoken, but able to render the more vocal man speechless. He brought out the laughter in her, the way Tom had been able to do. Her head tossed back in girlish delight; her laugh, strong and true, was the sound of pure joy. Heath was her joy as Victoria was sure he had been Leah 's joy -- a gift. Victoria could tell that Heath had been cherished like a treasure. The love and nurturing were unmistakable in Heath's gentle ways, his sensitive heart and his sweet devotion and deep respect he held for her, his father's wife, his stepmother.

 

Audra quietly stood beside Victoria, pushing aside the draperies to see what captured her mother's attention. "Why, there's Heath. What is he doing, Mother?"

 

Victoria sighed. "I'm not sure."

 

"I don't understand why he's just sitting there." Audra was persistent.

 

"It just may be Heath needs time alone to make sense of things."

 

"What sort of things, Mother?"

 

Victoria was not willing to speak of Maria with Audra, feeling it would be a disloyalty to Heath. She still bristled when she recalled Don Alfredo's suggestion of sending Heath away, wanting Maria to wed Nick instead, and then using the land as a means of getting his way. Victoria recalled Don Alfredo's words dismissing Heath: "He is not yours." And she heard herself again saying: "As much as the others."

 

It had been the first time she had given voice to her feelings and the truth of it nearly brought her to tears. She knew it was not something that one worked through in one's mind, it not needing to be understood consciously. The rational often had little influence over emotion. Oh, she had told herself it was her duty, her moral obligation to the boy, to afford him the same opportunities of his half-siblings. The rational side of her tried to keep her distant, though congenial. But she could not deny, having recognized it from the first time she looked into his eyes, that Heath, too, belonged to her heart, "as much as the others".

 

Audra was very sweet and still a bit too naive to recognize the treachery that sometimes lurked behind civil conversation and impeccable manners. No matter how it was stated, the threat was just as real. Victoria remembered the look on Audra's face when Bert Hadley had burst into the house and had spoken angrily to Heath, casting blame. She saw the confusion and was aware Audra had many questions. But Victoria could not bring herself to tell Audra the truth of things because her pain went as deeply as Heath's. Each time Heath's legitimacy was questioned and was used against him, hurting him, it also wounded her.

 

Victoria looked at Audra and responded vaguely, "It's all still new to Heath and I'm sure it will take many months, even years, for him to feel comfortable with all of this, especially for a man who has gone without many times in his life."

 

"But it's all good things, Mother. A wonderful home, family and love."

 

"I believe Heath knows that and does want that, but it still can all be a bit overwhelming and I suppose somewhat frightening for him."

 

"Frightening?"

 

"Umm hmm."

 

"Heath isn't frightened by anyone or anything."

 

"Audra, I need you to understand that to fear something, to be afraid, truly afraid is not a sign of weakness. We are all afraid, but to rise above that fear, to overcome it and act in spite of it, that is true courage. Your brother, coming here and confronting Nick and Jarrod, fighting for his birthright took a tremendous amount of courage and he did it despite his fear."

 

Audra nodded, recalling that night. "He seemed so angry, at first. I thought he would never be able to forgive Father or forgive us. Which made me sad, but then very angry. I felt Heath was blaming us for...things."

 

"And what made you start to think differently?"

 

"I'm not really sure. I suppose it was the way he protected me from those horrible men in town. Although, I had acted shamefully toward him...cruel, really...he still helped me. There was this look in his eyes -- more than just concern. I had no doubt in my mind that he would have done whatever it took to keep me safe. I felt something then and I just knew he was my brother." Audra looked at Victoria. "Did you hear him that night, Mother? His story?"

 

Victoria was silent, her eyes becoming distant. "I heard enough. But it wasn't so much what he said as it was his eyes. I saw your father in those eyes." Victoria sighed and held Audra's hand. "I had hoped to God it had all been a lie, a drifter's chance at easy money. But it wasn't. From that moment, I decided what your father was not able to give him; I would give to him. Your father would not have had it any other way nor would I."

 

"Oh, mother!" Audra hugged Victoria firmly.

 

Victoria returned the hug and then held Audra at arms' length. "So what are your plans for today?"

 

"I was on my way to the orphanage. It seems several of the children are ill and they're shorthanded." Audra paused and looked questioningly at Victoria. "Was there something you wanted, Mother?"

 

"Oh, no, no. I was hoping to go through several of the trunks in the spare room and see what I might be able to donate to the church."

 

"If you wait until I get back, I'd be more than happy to help out."

 

"Thank you, Audra, but I think I'll start on it myself. I was looking forward to rummaging through it all." Victoria smiled. "Go on. I'll be fine and if I need help with anything, I believe your brothers are more than capable to come to my aid."

 

Victoria walked Audra down the long, wide staircase into the large foyer. As was her habit she walked to the circular table and checked for telegrams or letters and then rearranged the beautiful vase of freshly cut flowers to her satisfaction. And although the arrangement looked perfect to start, Victoria was able to make it even more so stunning.

 

"Just beautiful."

 

Victoria smiled and turned her cheek to receive the kiss of her older son, Jarrod. "Aren't they exquisite?"

 

"Yes, they are, but I was speaking of you two lovely ladies. Nothing compares."

 

"You're very kind." Victoria watched as Audra smiled at Jarrod and received her kiss on the cheek with pleasure. To Victoria, she still saw the young, long-legged, stunningly beautiful blonde child that chased after Nick with the same zealousness as her black-haired brother and then remembering those times of Audra's quiet play with her porcelain dolls, all bows and lace and gentleness of spirit. Her children, each one of them, were as intricate and captivating as the rich and complex designs of her tapestries.

 

"Mother?" Victoria looked over at Jarrod who was watching her closely, a bit concerned but more so curious. "You seemed to be miles away."

 

"More like years." Victoria laughed and then gave explanation as Jarrod raised an eyebrow to her. "Mothers do that sometimes, getting caught up in memories."

 

"Pleasant ones, I hope." Jarrod held out his arms to his mother and sister and walked them into the dining room.

 

"Always."

 

Victoria sat after Jarrod pulled out her chair and nodded her thanks to him. She watched as he offered the same courtesy to Audra. The morning's quiet then suddenly came alive with Nick's shouts and Victoria jumped markedly in her chair and shook her head in mild exasperation and amusement.

 

"HEATH! HEATH! RISE AND SHINE, BOY! DAYLIGHT'S BURNING!"

 

"Nicholas, there is no need to shout. Heath has been up for quite some time now."
Jarrod grinned. "Well Brother Nick, it appears you're the one that needs to step a bit more lively."

 

Audra laughed at Jarrod's comment and Nick's predictable incredulousness. "You would think, Jarrod, that Nick would have learned by now."

 

"You would think, dear sister, now wouldn't you?" Jarrod lifted a forkful of egg to his mouth, smiling.

 

"Well...sure...who doesn't know that Heath is an early riser? I know that. It's just...well...it's just that I don't think he's been getting himself all that much sleep lately."

 

"It's because of Maria, isn't it?" Audra's voice was sorrowed.

 

Nick impatiently spooned a large quantity of scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Yes, because of Maria; among other reasons."

 

"Reasons that will not be discussed behind your brother's back." Victoria looked intently at each of them, silently indicating an end to the discussion. She knew Nick would not be subdued when it came to Heath, recognizing Nick's impertinence as concern for his brother. But she also knew that Nick's good intentions sometimes were far too heavy-handed for the gentle, quiet spirit of his brother Heath.

 

"BEHIND HIS BACK! BEHIND HIS BACK!  I've tried talking to him to his face. Straight out. Point blank. He won't say a word about any of it."

 

"Good mornin'." Heath quietly entered the room and walked toward Victoria, giving her a soft kiss on her cheek. She looked at him, her eyes questioning and he answered her with a canted smile and reassuring nod.

 

Nick watched Heath closely and did not resume eating until his younger brother sat at his place across the table from him. "You best fill that plate of yours, Boy, we've got a big day ahead of us. You'll be chompin' on your knuckles come nightfall."

 

Heath looked up at Nick, but did not answer right away. He nodded, reaching for the eggs. "I've gone longer."

 

"What was that?" Nick leaned over his plate and stared at Heath.

 

"I was just sayin' that it wouldn't be the first time."

 

Victoria's heart ached, hearing Heath's words. It took all her will not to harbor any bitterness toward Leah, and to be equitable, toward Tom. Their indiscretion distressed her when she brought herself to think of it. But fortunately, she was able to reason things through, finding that forgiveness and tolerance came easier with age. She had also gained a measure of solace from Tom's letter to Heath's mother and had spent many nights reading it when sleep would not come to her.

 

"Well, now..." Nick paused and then cleared his throat; his gaze remaining focused on Heath's, his voice gentle. "You won't be needin' t' worry about that anymore."

 

Victoria smiled as she saw Heath's face and eyes soften. Both men stared at each other closely for a long moment and then Heath raised an eyebrow, nodded and smiled at Nick. "Well, I won't be holdin' you to that Nick. The way you pack it in, I'd be hard-pressed to find crumbs."

 

Nick laughed and banged a hand on the table and again Victoria jumped slightly at the sudden outburst. "Nick, please. I won't have my china shattered into a thousand pieces."

 

With a mumbled apology, Nick returned to eating his eggs, feeling momentarily at peace with the world. "We've got twelve new colts to break, the west boundary fence needs mending and then there's the branding."

 

Heath avoided Nick's gaze. "I'll be going away for a few days."

 

Victoria's head shot up and she drew in a breath. "Away?"

 

Nick stood abruptly, throwing his napkin angrily down onto the table. He began to pace, placing his hands on his hips. "You're not going anywhere. We're too busy."

 

"I'm not looking for your permission, Nick." Heath looked at Victoria. "I didn't mean to blindside everyone with this, but I've made up my mind."

 

"All right, Heath." Victoria nodded and watched each of her children. Audra and Jarrod remained silent, but Nick was not ready to give in so easily.

 

"ALL RIGHT, HEATH?" Nick continued to pace, his hand lifted in agitation as he spoke, "Just like that? No explanation as to why he's going or where he's going."

 

"The last time I looked, Nick, Brother Heath was a grown man capable of making his own decisions." Jarrod tried to sound unconcerned, but Heath's sudden plan to leave caused him a measure of unease.

 

Heath sat with his head down, hunching low over his plate. "Shouldn't be gone, but a few days."

 

"Heath, you do what you need to do." Victoria looked at the young man who sat with his head hung and hoped her words gave him comfort.

 

"And who's going to get the work done around here?"

 

"For heaven's sake, Nick, you've got plenty of men to help you." Victoria's voice rose in exasperation.

 

"Plenty of men, yes. And each and every one of those men all ready has a load of work to do. Each one of them pulling their weight, doing their share and not one of them running off to God knows where to do God knows what. Loyalty and a full day's work, that's what I expect and that's what I get."

 

Heath sat up straighter with Nick's words, but remained silent. His face for the most part was unreadable, although Nick did find succor in the momentary flash of temper in Heath's eyes, always secretly taking pleasure stoking the fires in his usually imperturbable brother. Nick was about to goad Heath further, shaming him into staying if that was what it took, but then became bitterly disappointed hearing Heath's heatedly voiced words as the younger man stood and walked around the table toward him.

 

"Is that what I am to you, Nick? Just another hired hand? Well, I've done put in my time and I'm takin' me a hard-earned holiday."

 

Nick rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet, his fingers hooked on his belt behind his back, considering his brother. "Heath, you know, I don't think of you like that. I'm ...well, I've just gotten used to having you around is all and anyway you're the one that keeps telling me that two's better than one. You listen to a thing long enough you start believing it."

Nick watched Heath and saw the man clench his hand into a fist and saw the muscle in his jaws working violently. "Ah, Heath. What I'm trying to say is you're all I got, you and me, running this ranch. And you're right, two is better than one, any day of the week."

 

Heath looked at Nick and nodded his head a few times and then gave a slight half-smile, silently offering his hand to the dark-haired man.  Nick grinned full-toothed and pulled Heath to him, embracing the slighter man for a moment and then giving a strong slap to Heath's back.

"So what do you say? You ready to forget all about this nonsense about leaving and let us get some real work done around here?"

 

Heath visibly stiffened, clenching his fists and turning his back on Nick. "Haven't you been listening to me at all, Nick? Get it through your head. I'm going."

 

"All right, Heath. All right. You go. Do what you need to do. Just...just take care of yourself. Where ever it is you're going." Nick sat down and rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands.

 

Victoria looked across the table at Jarrod and smiled faintly at the encouraging nod given her, bolstering her as she spoke, "Heath, I know we will all sleep much better knowing where you are. I know I will. Is that too much for us to ask, for me to ask of you?"

 

"It's not that I don't want to tell you, Mother. It's just that I'm not sure where it is I'll be headed. What I do know is that I need to go away for awhile."

 

"OH! COME ON NOW, HEATH!"

 

"Nick! Please be quiet!" Victoria focused on Heath. "All right, Heath. But promise me this. When you get to where you're going, wire us, let us know where you can be reached. Can you at least do that?"

 

Heath looked over at his stepmother, and then nodded. Victoria smiled at him, but her eyes reflected her worry. "I would appreciate it now, if we all finish our breakfast."

 

Audra smiled at her mother and grasped Victoria's hand, giving it a squeeze. Victoria was grateful to her daughter as Audra spoke gaily of the upcoming dance in August, the Sacramento County Fair and the children's larking about and mischief making at the orphanage. Jarrod joined in with the frivolity, but Victoria saw the uncertainty in his intense, blue eyes. Nick was quietly brooding as he poked at his food and Heath sat across from him, his head lowered and his shoulders again slumped. Victoria sighed disconsolately, feeling at a loss as to how to make things right.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

It had only been a remote idea; the thought coming to Heath while standing alone on a shallow rise near the North Ridge at dawn.  The early morning sky had been blue and cloudless and the sun had begun to climb steadily, although it had seemed to Heath to have had all occurred in a matter of moments. Maria's words garbling in his mind when she had told him that he must love again and that she loved him so very much and would always love him.  It had made no sense to him at the time, his thoughts whirling in confusion. Maria wanting him to love again when he knew his heart to be irreparably broken. But now, as he rode away from the Valley, distancing himself from everyone and everything, he thought he understood.

It had only been a remote idea; to leave, to get away from men like Bert Hadley and Don Alfredo. This morning he had done just that and had left without goodbyes, noting with recrimination that Maria had been less of a coward than he.  All he needed was a few days alone to take stock, to cool the heat of his blood. It had not been in him this time to just go on, to forget, to behave as though everything was the same as it had been before Maria.  He was sure that Nick thought him to be a fool to have fallen so hard for a woman so quickly. And maybe Nick would be right. Heath thought it ironic that a man like himself should carry such a deep romanticism when his boyhood held no such thing. Only witnessing the pain and struggle of having loved and the aftermath of its loss. Of course, he never quite understood his mother's circumstance until he was much older.

Propriety and social climes in a mining town such as Strawberry were far different than the more populated, civilized areas. Victorian standards held sway in the West, but premarital relations still continued. When pregnant, a woman might eventually marry, sometimes just a few months or even a few hours before the birth. There were no churches or schools and Heath knew he was fortunate to have his Aunt Rachel and mother to teach him his lessons. He was far better off than most who were growing up fatherless in a rat-hole of a mining town.

It had not taken long for Strawberry to gain notice, people coming in droves to strike the mother lode along with Heath's aunt and uncle, Martha and Matt Simmons. Shortly after that, his mother seemed to cry more than laugh and spent every evening brooding, reading a frayed and stained letter.  Heath now understood the letter had been from his father, Tom Barkley.  Loving his mother, but loving another far more and unaware of his birth. Why had his mother remained silent?  Heath found that to be an impossible question.  A question that haunted him as he worked the mines, as he struggled to survive the war, and then Carterson and after when he had gone to the Klamath. 

Everywhere he wandered, every odd job he took that question dogged him right up to the moment he was called to his mother's side and discovered the newspaper clipping of Tom Barkley that slipped from the back of her Bible. Finally he knew or so he thought he knew, until he met Victoria Barkley. She had taken him in and had shown him every day the great man his father had been and not just to others, but to him in a sense. And Heath, though at first fighting against it, began to accept all she told him, listening to her words of what his life might have been if Tom Barkley had only known about him, his son. She made him believe that he too would have been loved "as much as the others".  That thought had brought him peace, but with that came expectations and challenges to face head-on and it had not always been easy for him. 

Stockton was still young, still wild, but it was no mining town. With its school and churches came the close-minded, the judgmental, and the ones who saw him only as a whoreson.  His anger was not because of the ignominy he suffered, but from the realization of all that his mother had endured.  He could not bear to see her the way others saw her. The look that came to their eyes shamed him, but then the shame became anger and that anger, as it had done in the past, drove him to run, drove him away from all he loved. 

Heath pulled on the reins and halted the Indian pony. He sat motionless and considered what he should do next, but was not yet ready to return home. His thoughts drifted to Strawberry and the death of his Aunt Rachel and then to his aunt and uncle. He recalled the family meeting after returning from Strawberry on the evening of the commemoration, discussing what should be done about "Aunt" Martha and "Uncle" Matt. Victoria had chosen to let it go and Heath knew she did so for his sake. There had been no love loss between them, but they were still his aunt and uncle and unreasonably, he supposed, he felt an inescapable loyalty. Jarrod and Eugene had agreed, but Nick was Nick, hell bent for justice. At the time, Heath had thought it was only Nick's concern for their mother that prompted his response, but Heath soon came to realize Nick's affection and fealty for him as well.

Heath berated himself then, knowing he had hurt them all by leaving and he at once knew where he belonged. His heart still ached for Maria, but he began to question whether the pain was more so from the "reasons" that they were not together, rather than just from the loss of a woman whom he thought he loved.  Reasons that he knew would always be there to hurt him. He realized now that the running was over, and the past, though not to be forgotten, should rest in peace with his mother, with Thomas Barkley:  crusader, hero, husband, and -- yes -- father. 

Heath continued east up the Stanislaus to Strawberry, knowing he soon would return to the San Joaquin Valley, to Stockton, and to his family. 

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Nick walked out the French doors and stood quietly on the veranda watching the night sky. He puffed on an after dinner cigar and brooded over the well being of his younger brother. He wondered where Heath might be, where he possibly made camp, and thought that Heath more than likely would be bedded down for the night after having roasted a rabbit over coals of mesquite.  It was not that he worried about Heath keeping himself out of harm's way, as he knew his brother had survived the hell of war and the privations of a prison camp for the most part unbroken. But it was more so from an unexplainable feeling of doom he carried. 

His own time during the War, particularly the Wilderness campaign, had been disturbing and difficult to bear. Oh, he spouted about the glories of each battle and made grand toasts, drinking down his whiskey and hurling crystal glasses into the fires, but no matter the theatrics, he always remembered the pain, the fear, the staggering horror of men, wounded and dying, crying out for their wives or mothers, begging for God's tender mercies.

He had never been imprisoned or nearly starved to death (six days at Benton Crossing with only bark and moss was his only measure) or flayed to an inch of his life, although he had seen the photographs of those prison camps and their aftermath. The men, unclothed and skeletal, the shrinking skin stretched thin, tentatively holding sharp, frail bones in place. No, he had not suffered those degradations and he chose not to think of Heath enduring such things, but he knew -- deep in his heart -- he knew. Grim memories and unresolved passions would sometimes stir up in his younger brother in the twilit hours, Nick finding him semi-wakeful and shuddering in night sweats.  They never spoke of it the following morning, each aware of their own fragility, not wanting to lay themselves bare in the light of day.  Nick long wondered how much a man could endure, although irrefutably believing in his own invincibility, but was not so sure of this newest, younger brother. 

Nick thought Heath to be too sensitive, too compassionate. Even his anger was driven by hurt feelings, the sentiment almost childlike, and to Nick's great relief, was not driven by some deep-rooted depravity, some corruption of soul.  A man could not carry all the burdens of the world on his shoulders, as Heath seemed to do. The take-up of every stray, every old man, orphan and widow and somehow roping Nick in ... by God, he had a working ranch to run, and he vowed each and every time not to get involved. 

Nick shook his head and laughed aloud. He was not aware that his mother now stood beside him, until he felt her arm slide around his waist. 

"Your laughter always brings me such joy." Nick smiled down at his mother and raised her hand up to his lips, kissing it gently.

Victoria saw the worry in her son's eyes. "Heath will be fine, Nick."

Nick nodded.  "I know."

Victoria waited knowing something more was troubling her son.  Although, Nick appeared at times to be gruff and demanding, a man of action rather than a deep thinker, Victoria knew differently. 

"What's troubling you, Nick?" 

Nick was not sure how to explain this presentiment, this dread that sat on his chest since Heath's leaving.  Not one to be predisposed to superstition or fatalistic thought, he did not feel right in his own skin.  "I don't know."

Victoria gripped Nick's arm as she spoke, "Heath will be fine."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Just call it a mother's intuition."

Nick smiled at her certainty and prayed she was right.  

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

At dawn Heath broke camp, eager to reach Strawberry before midday. The need to talk with his Uncle Matt had been a long time coming and somehow the business with Maria had brought it all to the forefront for him again. Heath had concluded after days of deliberation that his life had been in some sort of temporary lull, an interval of goodwill and grace.  After the cattle drive just about five months prior, he had gained the respect of the men, as well as, Nick's, the latter being all that truly mattered to him.

The Barkley family had been hospitable and accepting, Victoria Barkley believing that he had proven whom and what he was when he had fought alongside his brothers against Coastal and Western.  But Nick had mixed feelings and had made Heath work for his due.  The man had been suspicious and hardheaded and Heath respected him all the more for it, although on occasion Nick's hardheadedness had almost brought them to blows.

With his mind still on Nick, Heath began whistling a somber version of "Weeping, Sad and Lonely," as he rode, but then was deeply overcome by his choice of song, an acutely sad reminder of the War and his continuing struggles. It occurred to Heath that no matter the distance or time passing, it always led him back to the old mining town up Stanislaus way. He saw his youthful wanderings as a web, concomitant, encircling and connecting the moment of birth to the immediate present. But then at once scoffed at what he considered to be philosophical drivel, a pretense, though he did own a propensity for speculative thinking. No matter his skepticism, Heath held the notion to him, recalling a Paiute Indian entertaining the same opinion. Yet his rebellious nature did not fully concede to the belief that all men's destinies are given and ordered without say or agreement.

With that in mind, his thoughts then shifted to Jubal Tanner.  During a time of grave anxiety, Jarrod had confided in Heath the story of Oak Meadows and the events leading up to the death of Jubal's wife. Heath now wondered if Jubal, as well as, his mother would have made different choices if they had been aware of the outcome. Would his mother have told his father of his birth if she had known the misery and disconsolation that would come to pass because of her silence?  Or Jubal, knowing he would lose his wife? 

Heath knew the answer would be "no" to both questions. He reasoned Jubal's choice to be reactive, having little time to think of every consequence, but knowing his lack of action would see Victoria Barkley dead. His mother, conversely, had months to deliberate, to make a sound choice; and perhaps she thought she had whether he agreed or not. Heath then recalled when he was about eight years old, his mother's recurrent tears, her moments of brooding, her sullenness that was so out of character and remembering it all had started with the arrival of Aunt Martha and Uncle Matt. 

He thought back to the day of Tom Barkley's commemoration. On the ride from Strawberry to Stockton, his stepmother had told him of Hannah's fear and her suspicions that his aunt and uncle had a hand in the death of his Aunt Rachel. He remembered being told that the two, after learning of his parentage, had tried persuading Rachel to ask the Barkley's for money and, of course, his Aunt Rachel's refusal.  What was it that Hannah had said?  "Miss Leah wouldn't want it that way."  Heath now gave Hannah's words careful consideration and granted that his mother's choice might have very well been just as noble as Jubal Tanner's.   

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Now clearing the foothills, Heath rode on into the mountains through pine forests and up switchbacks of narrow rock paths and across a high saddle leading him to a wagon road scarcely traveled.  Aspen and Holm oak and firs and the cool air of the high mountains reminded him that heaven and hell carried the same weight and substance on this earthly plane. The proof of it, that a rotten, rat-hole of a mining town such as Strawberry could hold a footing in this ancient earth, this soil, this rock -- a festering upon deified lands. Heaven and hell, compassion and vengeance, paths taken and choices made as a salvific God in His silence sees all. 

Heath pushed aside his troubled thoughts and began to whistle a spirited march, "Battle Cry of Freedom". He smiled, remembering that even in Strawberry there had been bits of heaven: His home, his mother, Aunt Rachel and Hannah. He had been greatly loved and because of that he carried an ease of soul, able to make proper choices in an oftentimes-improper world.

Although the weaving of his life the past twenty-four years, save the first eight or so, seemed to be fraught and fated, Heath still remained of a sentimental, reasonable nature. Even the strongest of men, if having had to endure all of his sufferings, would have without doubt fallen into madness or mindless violence or outlawry, losing sight of their own humanity, taking for themselves what had never been given.  So easily becoming godless men in a world of darkness and despair, but Heath knew his saving grace to be the love and discipline of his mother and two fine women.  His origins were not lost to him, no matter the passing years, always maintaining his equanimity and that thought brought him comfort as he rode. 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Earlier in the half-gray light of dawn, Heath knew it to be raining before day's end and it had done so by midmorning as he made his way into Strawberry.  The town's buildings were grayed and weathered and stood mutely as he rode past, the windows bare and void like black, vacant eyes.  A tattered banner that stretched across Main Street gnashed and gyrated in the stiff winds.

Lightning flared and the town suffused brightly and all the street-facing windows lit up and were momentarily alive.  A loud thunderclap made the pony shy and tense, but then calmed to Heath's soothing reassurances.  It began to rain heavily as he rode on and continued still when he finally halted, dismounting at Strawberry's hotel. 

The dry earth muddied rapidly and Heath sank nearly ankle-deep on the dismount.  He stepped on to an old narrow plank laid down years ago for this purpose and he walked lengthwise across it toward the rail post.  Heath tethered the sopping pony and ran an apologetic hand down the animal's muzzle.

Up on the boardwalk, Heath stood and looked over the unclaimed and desolate town, seeing no one, but the rain now coming down in gusty sheets.  He removed his hat, shaking off the water and then put it on again, soundly stomping his boots.  He quickly removed his oilcloth slicker, keeping his eyes and ears alert, and turned to study the hotel. He stood there well over five minutes and then decided to go in, gripping the knob. The double doors stuck and Heath shoved against them, and made his way into the familiar lobby.  The room was empty and Heath could feel the wind that blew in through the cracks of clapboard and broken panes, bearing with it a spattering of rain. The thunder rumbled from the north and came overhead like a wave rising and crashing and the loose windowpanes quivered and trembled because of it.  

Heath walked to the front desk, looking to the stairs the entire time and called out his uncle's name.  No one came or replied to his call.  He called out again, this time walking to the side room.  He pushed to one side the old draperies brittle with age that separated the two rooms and then startled when he heard his name spoken. He turned to see his uncle standing there on the last step, his arms hung along his sides unmoving, his posture defeated.  He wore his hat as if he was headed out and Heath wondered where a man would go in a place like Strawberry.

"Uncle Matt."

"Boy."

They eyed each other charily as his uncle came down the remaining stairs and stood for a long time not speaking. 

"I expect you're here about Rachel." 

Heath remained quiet, watching his uncle run a hand down his pants leg.  "I told that woman, the one that took you in, Mrs. Barkley, it was all an accident.  I'd never be a party to murder."

Heath walked toward a frayed and stained upholstered chair and sat.  "Where's Aunt Martha?"

He watched the older man pass a hand over his face and remove his hat.  He watched still as his uncle with wet eyes looked out the nearby window. He listened closely, straining to hear his uncle's words.

"She's gone."

Heath leaned forward.  "Gone?"

"Gone off with some saddle tramp.  I couldn't make her happy.  Never could."

"Sit down, Uncle Matt.  I've got questions that need answering."

"If it's about your father, Tom Barkley, I don't know much at all.  We found out about your daddy, Martha and me, in '72 a little after your mama died.  I never did right by your mother.  Leah and I, we were half-brother and sister.  Did you know that?  Had different daddies.  My pa died when I was nigh on ten years old, my ma remarried to a William Thomson.  He'd be your granddaddy.  He was a good man, a kind man."

Matt paused and looked at Heath. "When your mama was born, I never saw a happier man.  Fever took him and my mama, your grandma, Sarah Simmons Thomson.  I took care of Leah after that, but when I met Martha and married, Martha wanted no part of caring for Leah.  She was just a young 'un then, nearly fourteen.  The town seamstress, Rachel Caulfield, took her on.  I hadn't seen your mother in all that time until we come to Strawberry."

He leaned closer to Heath, but his eyes were remote. "Martha told Mrs. Barkley lies.  Told her stories about your mama and Tom Barkley and in the doing, she hurt two fine women.  Making it seem that your mama was being kept by that man and that your mama all the time knowing about him having a wife and children.  Your mama swore to me that it was one time.  I could see she loved him.  Martha, well she figured maybe your daddy might have had some money, might have struck it rich here in Strawberry and she didn't give Leah a moment's peace about it.  Leah never came around much after that. All of them women getting so closed-mouth.  I don't blame them none, Martha can be a hard woman to bear.  She had a cruelty in her that I didn't see at the onset. I know it ain't no excuse."

The older man shook his head slowly and held up one hand. It hung there a moment trembling and then lowered down to the frayed leg of his pants. Heath thought that his uncle had wanted to touch him.

"It weren't my choice giving you them strappin's.  I never thought you to be that bad a boy.  No accountin' for who you love.  I'm not looking for forgiveness, just telling you how it was.  Rachel died tryin' to get away from Martha, pushing and pushing that poor woman to write the Barkley's for money.  Martha almost had her hands on that money when Mrs. Barkley was here, but she just couldn't stop herself from cutting her down, telling those lies, trying to hurt that fine woman."  Matt looked at Heath.  "If truth be told, it weren't all Martha's lies though.  I said that your daddy courted your mama and that they met in a bar.  Truth is I didn't know how they met or what they shared.  I am sorry for having a hand in any of it." 

"Thank you for tellin' me all this, Uncle Matt.  It helps clear up a few things for me."

"That's good."  The old man looked down at the frayed knees of his pants and nodded his head several times. "That's real good."

Heath rose from the chair, gathering up his slicker. 

"It was because of Martha."

"What?" Heath stood still and looked at his uncle.

"It was because of Martha hounding your ma day in and day out.  She was afraid, your mother, afraid that Martha would take you from her and cause trouble for your pa. Martha would have kept you if there was money to be had."

Heath nodded.

"Never did right by you or your mother."

"It's done and over with, Uncle Matt."  Heath held out his hand. "But if it gives you any comfort, you've got my pardon." 

"Thank you for that, Boy."  The old man looked at Heath with moist eyes.  He stood there with his hat in his hands and then slowly raised it to his head.  He nodded at Heath and turned to leave.

"Is Hannah still at the old house?"

"She is, but she ain't there right now.  Went down Pinecrest way to some big church service.  I expect she won't be back for some time, most likely days."  He turned to leave, but hesitated at the door.  "Take care of yourself, Boy."

Heath smiled slightly and lowered his head.  "You do the same, Uncle Matt."  He watched the older man leave and felt unexpectedly moved. 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Heath rode on through the mountains past scrub juniper and pine with only the sound of creaking tack and the clattering of shod hooves against the rocky escarpment. The day had turned warmer and he had removed his oilskin slicker midway into the foothills. The sky was now cloudless and blue and the sun bore down solidly.  It was quickly approaching evening, but still the heat of the sun on rock could burn the skin off a man. He continued on over the loose shale, sitting the Modoc lightly like moving liquid -- smooth and effortless.  He did not come upon another human soul during all his hours of riding.

Before leaving Strawberry, Heath had stopped at his mother's grave and tended to it. He had knelt down on the soft, wet ground, feeling the dampness soak into the knees of his pants and had remained there unmoving for so long that a whiskey-jack had settled on the headstone briefly and had flown off without being aware of his presence. In that stillness he no longer felt the miseries plaguing him and his brooding thoughts were all but silenced as he watched a bald eagle deftly ride the rising currents.

He had left Strawberry with a clearer understanding of things and had found that the granting of forgiveness to be a worthwhile endeavor. Like a slate cleaned, his resentment was wiped away when he had offered his hand and pardon to his uncle. But his greatest joy came from unraveling the motive behind his mother's silence. It did not change the measure of his love for her. He would love her forever, no matter the discoveries he may very well have had to brace.

Heath rode on, now anxious to get home, a nagging at the back of his mind and then full remorse knowing he had forgotten to wire the family. He knew darkness would come quickly to the foothills, the sun snuffed out like that of a tallow candle's flame pinched between thumb and forefinger. He could only hope that they were not too worried and decided to stop at Soulsbyville or Sonora to send word of his whereabouts. But for tonight, he would make camp on a distant butte that overlooked the valley's expanse. 

He reached it at dusk, halting near a rock shelving, talking freely to the pony into the soft cup of its ear as he cared for it and then built up a fire. He opened a can of beans, heating it over the cook fire along with coffee and pulled on some jerky, chewing deliberately through its gristle and then washed down some sourdough bread with a scalding cup of coffee.  To his north he watched a fire burn on a distant ridge and another that winked beneath him from a narrow gorge not more than ten miles off. 

He turned to watch the sky that was draped with stars, giving room for only bits of black to show and   a full and fat moon that hung there nearly close enough to rope and to tether to the earth.  He smiled remembering as a boy climbing to the highest point in Strawberry and reaching out to that white, wide moon with his hands snatching at air and thinking it would be his to touch when he was full-grown -- a man.  He stood now on tiptoe with his arms lifted and stretched out toward the sky, laughing at himself and grateful the moon was out of humankind's reach, well and good for man to be forever humbled by it. 

Heath returned to the fire, resting against his saddle with his hat pushed back and carefully removed a small pouch from his vest pocket. He took the makings from it, pinching tobacco into a paper and deftly rolled a cigarette in the semidarkness.  He lit it with a stick from the fire, the ember tip glowing as he drew the smoke in deeply and let his mind wander. He remembered his boyhood days and as he did his thoughts turned to Chad Tanner, Jubal's grandson. He smiled in the dark, hearing the boy's voice in his mind, aware that Chad's life and his own were in many ways quite similar. Their first taste of beer licking the foam from the can, sneaking rides on cars deep into the mines, and the work, washing miners' clothes in the camp's nearby stream to make a bit of money.  Hard times, but for the most part happy. Chad was a good boy, no matter being raised in mining towns from Calaveras to Angels Camp without a true home or father and he had every reason to be angry at the world, losing his mama and daddy to fever and losing his grandpa to a bullet.

Heath shook his head and drew on the cigarette and watched the distant fire on a far-off ridge. The blackness all around it gave him the notion that the sky had slipped down over the mountains and with it one small star. He yawned deeply then and felt quietly satisfied that although life had been at times heartlessly cruel and he had been worn thin and stretched to his limits many times over, he still remained intact, still remained whole without rage or embitterment and he knew Chad Tanner to be of the same heart and make-up.  He smiled at that and tipped his hat down over his eyes, the cigarette now finished and tossed away into the fire. He closed his eyes and his head nodded and he slept. 

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Heath woke to the morning cold and stared across the fire that was all but out into the dark, haunted eyes of a boy not more than sixteen.  He wore pants and shirt that were more rags than clothes and his hair was matted greasily on his head. His boots were worn down badly at the heels and when the wind stirred, the unwashed stench of him reached Heath.

"Morning." Heath nodded to the boy and picked up his saddlebags cautiously. He took note of the old sawed-off rifle that laid across the boy's thighs as he sat cross-legged near the fire. The twine handle of a knife showed at the top of his right boot. "Hungry?"

The boy looked at Heath. "Yes, sir."

"Where you headed?" 

"Ain't headed no place in particular."

"You got yourself family?"

The boy spat into the dying embers and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. "None t' speak of."

"You on your own then?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long?"

"Nigh on three years. Don't rightly know for sure."

"How you been getting by?"

"Anyway I can. Day's wage here 'n there working farms and such.  Got paid with an old nag last place I worked.  Ain't much to look at, but she'll do."

"Looking for work?"

"Anything I can get. You offering?"

"I am."

"Why?"

Heath regarded the boy. "Why what?"

"Why would you be offering the likes of me a job?"

Heath thumbed back his hat, quietly considering the boy's question. "I know what it's like."

The boy squinted at Heath, his head held at an angle. "I'd call you a liar from the looks of you, but I won't.  I need that job."

Heath smiled at the boy. "Don't let these fancy duds fool you. I know what it's like to be hungry and I know what it's like to do without."

"Sure don't look that way t' me. But don't hold store by what I think. Most folks are all the time telling me, I ain't too clever.  Thick-witted by most accounts." 

"Here."  Heath raised himself on one knee and handed some sourdough bread to the boy. "Toss a few of them sticks into the fire and I'll put us on some coffee."

"Yes, sir."  The boy stood and set the rifle down, glancing at Heath.

The wind blew again and the boy's rankness with it. Heath held his face without expression. "By the way, name's Heath.  Heath Barkley."

The boy turned back. "Gabriel Hatch."

"Please to meet you, Gabriel."

"Likewise."

Heath set the coffee pot by the coals to warm and watched as the boy built up the fire. They sat and ate in silence. 

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

By mid-afternoon the sun had begun to copper Nick's face. He journeyed on hearing the distant roar of the winds blowing across the Sierra foothills. His eyes focused on the roadside marker that read: JAMESTOWN, and he knew he had made good time, riding more than thirty miles since leaving Stockton earlier that morning.

No longer able to hold back his worry over Heath, Nick made his farewells to his mother and brother by the first light of dawn. He had been grateful to them for not scoffing at what he presumed they saw as an obvious overreaction. But whatever they had felt over the matter of him leaving to find Heath, nothing and no one would have been able to persuade him to do otherwise. The press of something weighty and undefinable against his chest was enough to prompt him to seek out his brother.  

He had headed east toward the Sierras, to Strawberry, though he had no real clue as to where Heath might have gone, just a gut feeling that was impossible to ignore. Now as he pressed on in his search, he was staggered again by the ever present presentiment of doom, although this time it was much more strongly felt. Still what was truly much more frightening to Nick was the overwhelming sense of loss.

He spurred his horse on, agitated and distracted, thinking of Heath and believing the man to be too kindhearted, too forgiving, and too self-castigating for his own good.  How many times had Heath walked away from him rather than fight?  How many times when a well-placed punch would have been justly deserved?  Without doubt, Heath was patient. Had to be to work with him, to put up with him.  Always able to accept his grudgingly given apologies, always giving him second chances. It was not so long ago that Nick felt Heath should prove himself worthy to be called a Barkley.  But now, to know the man, Nick felt quite the opposite and wondered most days if he was worthy to be called Heath's brother. 

Oh, he would never admit to such a thing and most times rode Heath harder than the other men, knowing full-well Heath could take it, had taken it time and time again. They were two-of-a-kind, him and Heath, in the ways that mattered most, especially when it came to the work, to the land, to the ranch. It was in Heath's blood just as fiercely and as powerfully as it was in his own blood, and its potency was incomprehensible to those who did not feel its pull, its draw. Horse and cattle and earth €“ it was in the blood, a thing to love or hate. There was no halfway about it, offering little console or clemency. 

With those thoughts came an uncharacteristic impulse in Nick to weep, but did not, not having fully cried in some time. Nevertheless, the sentiment he felt for his brother was immeasurable and because of that was difficult to bear. While he loved his family well and profoundly, he loved this newfound brother most of all.

Nick thought back to the comfort he took in Heath's soft, even breathing while he slept beside him on the last cattle drive. He had kept Heath's words close to his heart, "Two are better than one," believing in them. He struggled to recall the scripture passage in its entirety, but knowing the trying would be futile at best. His Sunday school teacher and mother had reconciled themselves to the fact, after only three Sundays, that they could not keep him seated and indoors long enough to memorize even one line of scripture. He could still see quite vividly, his mother's lovely, scowling face, her hands on her hips and the disapproving shake of her head.  His father had stood behind her, making an effort to show disappointment, but Nick all the while knowing he had his father's full understanding. Thereafter, Sunday mornings had been spent fishing together with a Bible in tow to at least make a good showing of it.

Nick smiled then and decided that he would ask Heath about the scripture when he saw him and with that he felt more buoyant, a little less gloomy. He then halted his mount, removed his hat and blotted his arm along his forehead. In that moment, he heard Heath's voice and saw his brother's customary half-smile, and this vision, unnerving and unexpected, caused him to shudder as if chilled by something other than the burst of wind that suddenly blew up around him.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

Gabriel Hatch sat his horse loosely, slouching down into the saddle that was little more than a bare tree covered in rawhide. He was ragged and gaunt in appearance, a soiled and pitiable starveling by all accounts. He barely spoke and kept the whole of his face purposely hidden beneath the wide-brim of his hat. The sawed-off rifle was carried with vigilance across the bow of his saddle.

Although Heath had grown accustomed to the boy's foulness, his skin still crawled when his thoughts fixed on his own time of enervating filth, an acute remembrance of body lice, the bane of all soldiers in war. In between the marching and skirmishes, his time in camp had been spent cooking the meager rations of cornmeal, getting needed sleep, and the other time heating the lice from his clothes over a small fire. He could still hear the pop, pop, pop of them like popping corn as they fell from his wretched garments into the flames. It had given him satisfaction at the time, no matter how short-lived, aware if not that day then the next would find him infested again.

The day-to-day sufferings of war had not been limited to Carterson. Most of the boys took to stealing, including Heath. But the thievery on his part was done with great reluctance, aware that he took from those as down-at-the-heels as he had been and his heart was heavy because of that. It had been hard and desperate times.

Heath saw himself strongly in Gabriel Hatch and found that he had become quite protective of the boy. He was not sure where this tendency sprang from, thinking that perhaps he was trying to make an amends to his younger self for the concern and keeping that he had been denied. The crisply vivid sight of Gabriel's unwashed hair falsely darkened by grime, the pale blueness of the eyes that lacked contemptuousness, his countenance unexpectedly innocent. Heath's habitual and well-founded wariness was put aside and an acknowledged and immediate trust had been granted to the boy.

They continued to ride without speaking, lapsing into a preoccupied silence, until they came to a river, the south fork of the Stanislaus. Here they dismounted and allowed the horses to water. The Modoc pony going first into the waters and Gabriel's old silver grulla behind, slowly making its way to the river's edge. Heath saw the distinct blue of the horse's eyes, knowing with age they grew darker. It had been a fine horse, its coloring rare, showing a prominent dorsal stripe down its backbone.

Heath stood quietly and watched the horses drink and occasionally raise their dripping muzzles to him. He thumbed back his hat and grinned as he saw Gabriel walk knee-deep into the river, remove his hat, fill it with water and pour it over himself. The boy's shirt was worn thin, nearly see-through and Heath went to the Modoc, rummaged through his saddlebag and took a brown shirt from it. He saw that the horses had now had their fill and led them to the river bank to graze on the good grasses. When he returned to the river's edge, he handed the shirt to the boy without speaking. Gabriel watched him closely and then reached for the shirt, running a filthy hand over it.

 

"Sure is fine." Gabriel looked at Heath. "I 'spect I'll be needin' to take me a bath. Don't seem fittin' not to."

 

Heath nodded. "I'll tend to the horses and rustle up somethin' to eat."

 

"Much obliged t' ya." The boy turned to the river and stripped down to bare skin. Heath watched Gabriel swimming for a time from where he had built up a fire near a grouping of willows. He laughed as he saw the boy startle a moment at the sharp click of Black Phoebe's bill as it snatched at insects swarming above the nearby waters. Yellow Warblers and a Green-backed Heron regarded the curious, pale boy in the river, but then turned back to the business of finding prey.

 

Heath smiled and thought, "origenes humildes", and wondered what prompted that as he settled by the fire. He opened a can of beans, stirring them now and then and placed the coffee pot deep into the red-hot embers, anticipating the taste of it.

 

"Origenes humildes." It came to him again, this time saying it aloud as he rolled a smoke and watched the boy. "Humble origins."

 

He and the boy were birds of a feather. Heath smiled at that while he scraped a lucifer down his pant's leg and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette, drawing the smoke in deeply. He smiled when he heard Gabriel whooping and splashing in the river. Heath whistled and gave a shout to him, signaling to come eat. While he waited, Heath sat by the cookfire and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. He felt at peace.

Gabriel came up to the fire then, buttoning the new shirt. There was a pureness about him as his hair dried and lightened in the noonday sun and as Heath watched him work the shirt buttons, he realized that he had not once gotten a smile out of the boy. It did strike Heath odd, but he shrugged it off and handed Gabriel a tin plate of beans and a hunk of bread. He poured coffee into his cup and handed it over to the boy.

 

Gabriel shook his head, reaching for the canteen. "Water's fine."

 

Heath nodded and settled back against the trunk of an alder tree.

 

"I reckon you see somethin' in me then."

 

Heath paused from drinking his coffee and raised an eyebrow, studying the boy with curiosity.

 

Gabriel looked at him, taking a spoonful of beans. He swallowed the mouthful down and took a swig of water. "I see it in your face."

 

Heath sat up straighter and watched the boy a moment before he spoke. "What do you think you see?"

 

"I ain't sure. It ain't pity. More like you tryin' to set things right. But it ain't really 'bout me a'tall."

 

"That's not true."

 

"What part ain't true?"

 

Heath smiled. "The part about not being about you."

 

"Oh." Gabriel nodded and started to eat again.

 

Heath shook his head. "Besides some things can't be mended."

 

"Speakin' them words don't keep you from tryin' and don't go denyin' it. I'll tell you one thing for sure, you need t' quit thinkin' on things so much. Ain't nothin' can bother you if you don't dwell too long. Hell, I done things and things been done to me, but it don't bother me none. Don't pay to think too much on things. Don't pay a'tall." Gabriel nodded, watching Heath. "You can't be takin' it all so personal-like. Don't mean nothin' at all"

 

"That's where you're wrong."

 

"Thinkin' like that can only git you dead."

 

"Maybe."

 

"Mark my words, Heath Barkley. Mark my words."

 

The wind blew up then and Heath threw the rest of his coffee into the fire.  He looked at the sky. "Best clean up these things at the river and then we'll head to Jamestown. Need to send off a wire and it's starting to look like rain."

 

Gabriel gathered up the coffeepot, cup and tin plate and carried them down to the river. His rifle remembered was taken with him. Heath quietly walked to the horses, knowing there still would be enough of the wild in both horses to cause them to bolt from him, grullo blood and Indian pony. He felt it in himself often enough. Once he caught the pony's trailing reins, he made quick work of it, throwing the blanket on the horse, then the saddle, rocking it in place. Latigo and back-cinch done and then took up the old hull of a saddle, simple
Texas stock, and placed it on the old grulla. The boy came over to him with the saddlebags, his rifle in his free hand.

 

"All set?" Heath continued readying the silver grulla with his back to Gabriel.

 

"I don't figure on goin' t' Jamestown."

 

Heath turned to the boy, curious. "Not one for crowds?"

 

"Hell, people don't bother me none. I don't rightly think I'll be gettin' me a warm reception there."

 

Heath nodded in understanding. "People can be downright inhospitable sometimes. Don't look too favorably on drifters."

 

"And some such . . . "

 

Heath studied the boy. "I'll catch up with you on the trail then. Head on toward Stockton. Ask around for the Barkley ranch."

 

"Don't seem right."

 

"What doesn't?"

 

"You being so kind 'n all and what I got t' do." Gabriel shifted his gun. "I killed me a man in Jamestown."

 

Heath stared at the boy. "If it was in self-defense, I can help you make things square with the law. Running's not the way."

 

Gabriel grinned and then spat in the dirt. "Ain't the first man I killed. I was headed to Mexico when I came across your camp." Gabriel took off his hat and looked at Heath and then walked down to the river's edge without saying another word.

 

Heath watched him, suddenly unsure of the boy, but not able to give up on him. He looked away and placed the saddlebags on the Modoc with his back to the river, but a sense of something made him turn and as he did he heard the crack of a rifle. He staggered from the sudden slam of a bullet that quickly passed through him. Its course straight, but losing velocity, having made its way in and out of Heath's body to finally embed itself into the trunk of a willow tree. Another crack of the rifle came as Heath fell to the ground, feeling the bullet pass by his head, a momentary brush of air as brief and soft as a whisper. His shirt began to grow wet with blood and he willed himself to crawl to find cover, remembering to slip the leather thong off the gun-hammer. He pulled the gun from the holster and waited, hidden in the grasses among a stand of willows, aware that his blood trail would be easily read. His mind was too muddled to grasp what had happened, too shocked to believe the boy would do this and wondering if they might have been ambushed, worried that Gabriel lie hurt or dying near the river. His ears perked to the sudden sound of retreating horse hoofs and another bellow of a rifle and then nothing.

 

Long after, Heath remained in the grasses unable to move. His only thought was to survive and with that he saw Nick kneeling in front him. He reached out his bloodied hand to him, but too weak from shock and blood loss, his arm dropped to the ground.

 

"Nick." The name called out and caught up on a sudden burst of wind.

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Heath did not know how long he had lain there among the willows, bleeding. The day had grown cooler and he saw the elongated shadows of the aspens penciled along the sandy riverbank. Worried that he might die of blood loss, he turned over gingerly onto his back to try to see the extent of the wound. As he gathered himself, he watched the sun-dappled leaves overhead and listened to the wind in the trees while he caught his breath and tried not to cry out from the pain. He had bled on and off throughout the day, and he now felt the thirst of blood loss strongly. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick, and he craved water.

Not able to stand, he pulled himself forward through the grasses and dirt toward the river. He squirmed on his belly to the shallow rise of the riverbank, startling when he came upon the carcass of the grulla. It had been shot in the head and the sand around it had darkened with blood. Flies swarmed all about it, walking and clambering over the rank beast. Suddenly exhausted, he stopped not more than ten feet away from the horse, grateful the vultures had not yet come. But the need for water pushed him on and he rose to his knees and then to his feet, reeling shakily. His progress was slow and when he turned his head to study the trees behind him, he saw that his path was marked by blood. He was weak from his wound and his vision refused to clear. He faltered, recovered and stumbled on, misjudging the nearness of the bank's edge. His foot momentarily hung in the air and then he pitched forward, rolling down the bank to the water's edge.

When he came to, the first sounds he heard were of ducks. They were descending on the river unaware that he lay there on his back, the right side of him immersed. The cool waters had seeped through his clothes, half of him burning, the other half feeling the cold into his bones. He wriggled himself onto his belly, the movement causing unease in the ducks, their harsh honks rising up in the late afternoon silence and then unexpectedly to the side of him and above, he heard the whirring of wings as they rose up in a panicked, but organized formation and headed west into the lowering sun. Something had frightened them, but Heath was too groggy and very close to losing consciousness to worry about what, his thoughts only on his thirst.

He knew his situation was dire and no matter the praying for it or the wanting of it, he knew there would be no one coming for him. Besides the very real possibility of dying, he had broken a promise, not keeping his word to his stepmother. If he had only sent that wire, there would have been some hope of being found alive. He thought he should feel anger toward the kid, to harbor vengeance, but he only felt a deep sense of regret. He knew Gabriel had somehow lost sight of his own humanity and what Heath had taken to be guilelessness was in actuality a lack of conscience, a nature incapable of remorse, a boy devoid of all morality. He was too tired to make sense of things or try to understand Gabriel Hatch or even to try to pinpoint that particular and fatal moment in his own life that could have made him look at the world far differently than he did.

He had found men caught by Apaches skewered by their heels and hung over fires with their brains oozing, he had come upon villages in Mexico, burned and in ruins, all citizenry, including the children, left for dead in their mud houses and along the streets and in their churches, scalped and naked and desecrated. He had seen all this and had survived, as he did after the war, as he did after Carterson. And not once did he forget his humanity or his faith in God, no matter his anger, his horror, his need for answers, no matter his grief. As he lowered his face into the river and drank deeply, all memory came back to him and though it rocked him to see it so vividly in his mind, he took from it one thing, the will to survive.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Heath had crawled a distance from the river after having cleaned the wound and using his knife to cut the sleeve of his shirt at the elbow, taking the flannel cloth which he folded and pressed against the festered and bloody mess of his chest. He had followed the river with a course toward Jamestown and had just now stopped to check the wound's bleeding.

Carefully, he grabbed hold of a slender trunk of a willow and settled on a log with his back resting against a boulder. His head throbbed, his forehead was hot and he was hungry and thirsty. Again the idea of death came to him so actual, his breath caught and he did not start to breathe until he was able to accept the inevitableness of it. It had not been the first time he had come to terms with such things and he held little fear of dying, not allowing intellect to be clouded by emotion. But he did regret the timing of it, having made a tentative peace with the past and coming to embrace his father's family as his own. He had become less brooding, less introverted, his natural lightheartedness and spontaneity resurfacing.

Now sitting on a log under a grouping of hardwood trees with the weight of his own mortality on him, he found his mind enlivened, more than likely, because of the fever. But he had also grown more confused and he had all but forgotten why he had gone off alone. And when he finally remembered Maria and all that came about, his heart broke again and he softly wept into his hands until he was no longer aware.

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

It would not be in this lifetime, Heath supposed, that Gabriel Hatch would feel the reach of God's punitive hand. Believing otherwise was folly, for justice, most times, was not tendered in this world. He had watched good men go mad because of this, becoming soft-witted, lost, and only in death reconciling themselves with the world's inequities. The true fault of it was in their own arrogance, believing their power over the world afforded them the privilege to see all things through God's eyes. They questioned God, asking what right "He" had to toy with them, as though marionettes on a string. But their anger toward God was misguided, no man willing to look inside himself, no man willing to see the truth that it was all done of their own will and God could not be faulted for the darkness in them. 

Heath shivered then as he became more aware and realized he very well may be dying in the dirt alone because of his own darkness, his own anger and inability to forgive or at the very least overlook the faults of other men. He rode away of his own will and now lay in the last of his life's blood, shivering and burning and indeed dying.

With his thoughts growing more dismal and pointillistic, he discovered that a surprising clarity came to those in their last moments. He was not afraid, a bit heartsick for the ones he loved, but he had given himself over to life a long time ago, making peace with the good of it as well as the bad.   

If he remained alive through the night, it would be the vulture to contend with come morning, but the darkness would draw the wolf.  He thought of this as his eyes opened and he looked up at the blackened sky, sighting the polestar, the dipper, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia. He laid there awake through most of the night, but eventually lost consciousness and after several hours of fitful sleep, he awoke again.  It was a little before sunrise, the morning star, Lucifer, rising in the sky, as his eyes adjusted to the thin light, and then startling greatly as a shadow over him articulated into that of the boy.

"Reckoned you'd be dead."

"Just a matter of time."  Heath's words came out in a wheeze, his breathing coming in shallow bursts.

"Glad you ain't."  Gabriel dangled a locket in front of Heath.  "Wanted t' give you this."

Heath reached for it, clutching it in his bloody hand. "So now you have." He closed his eyes as a spasm of pain went through him.

"I reckon you're feeling a mite spiteful."  Gabriel squatted down beside Heath and lifted a canteen to his mouth.  "Drink."

The water choked Heath, but he continued drinking, his thirst hardly quenched when Gabriel pulled the canteen from him.  "More."

"After I git a fire goin'."  Gabriel stood over Heath.  "I'll git a blanket, you're shivering to beat the band." 

"I don't understand."  Heath felt himself drifting, the boy seemed to be moving further away from him. He forced himself to focus, taking a breath. "Why are you helping me?"

"I'd kill a man just as soon as look at him, but that locket got me to thinkin' on my own ma.  Those that give to you and show you nothin' but kindness ought not be lookin' down the business end of a rifle. Ain't exactly her words, but my meaning's plain."

Heath smiled wryly, his voice cold and level. "Turning out to be a red-letter day."

Gabriel regarded Heath, his face without expression.  "Ain't no cause to be sassin' me."

Heath did not answer.  He began to shiver harder, his body nearly convulsing. 

"Let me git that blanket." 

Heath watched Gabriel walk to the Modoc and watched as he untied the blanket roll from behind the cantle and as he carried it over to him. He followed Gabriel with his eyes as the boy crouched down lightly next to him, unfurling the blanket and tucking it up around his neck. Heath started to laugh softly then, bringing on harsh coughs.

Gabriel stood up and walked over to the Modoc again, retrieving the saddlebags and the rifle. He stood over Heath, watching him as he dropped down the bags.  He lifted the rifle and set it yoke-wise behind his neck.  "What's set you to laughing?"

Heath rolled his head from side to side in the dust. Tear streaks marked his face through the grime.  "Nothing."

"Reckon that fever's makin' you addle-brained."

Heath looked at Gabriel with dull eyes.  "Must be."

"Tell me about the locket."

Heath closed his eyes and gripped the locket he held in his hand a bit tighter. Gabriel Hatch was as close to crazy as Heath had ever seen a person, but the boy was his only hope for survival. All he could do now was to wait and see what played out. He felt the weight of the revolver holstered snug against his thigh and his skinning knife against his hip.  The feel of them comforted him as he struggled to remain conscious.

"Don't you go out on me."  Gabriel bent down and gave a hard tap to Heath's cheek.  "Tell me about the locket."

Heath looked at the boy, his vision fuzzy. "What's it to you?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Don't mean nothin' to me.  Just curious is all."

"Was my mother's."

"She dead?"

"Umm hmm." Heath closed his eyes, his head aching and his heartbeat pulsing loudly in his ears. 

"I ain't got nothing. My ma ain't never had nothing quite so fine."  Gabriel's eyes grew dark. "Instead of whorin' herself, she worked the pest-houses. A good Christian woman, believin' in a God that didn't give a plug nickel about her."

"Sorry."

"What for? Ain't your doing."

"Like I said, I've been where you are."

Gabriel watched Heath's eyes. "When you were a young'un did you have a roof over your head most nights? You have somethin' in your belly at the end of the day?"

Heath considered Gabriel's questions. "I suppose I did."

"Well then I reckon you ain't hardly struggled at all." Gabriel shook his head.  "And look at you now.  Fine clothes, fine saddle, fine horse." 

Heath looked at the ragged figure standing over him. "I got lucky."

"Hell the only luck I ever had was all bad."

"Hay justicia." 

"You sound like one of them Mexicans."  Gabriel squatted down on his haunches and raised Heath's head up slightly, putting the canteen to his mouth.  "Reckon I should learn me some Mexican, too."  He lowered Heath's head and raised the canteen to drink himself.  When he was finished, he replaced the stopper and stared at Heath for a long time.  He knelt forward and brought the blanket down to Heath's hips. "Need to look at that hole in you."

He pulled at the corner of the bloodied cloth and peered thoughtfully at the wound.  He did not speak as he stood up without effort and looked around the small grove of oaks, quickly gathering up sticks and limbs. He built up a fire and then reached for the saddlebags and rummaged through one, pulling out a dirty, buckskin parfleche.  "I ain't got no whiskey, but I got me some turpentine. Got laid up a while back, took a bullet to the foot and could have lost it to gangrene if it weren't for this old hermit. He said he fought in the war and knew a thing or two about doctorin'. Gave me a bottle of turpentine for medicinal purposes. That's what he said, medicinal purposes." 

Heath listened to Gabriel, but was too weak to respond.  It occurred to him vaguely as he lay there that the boy could easily kill him. He was vulnerable and plainly was not strong enough to lift even a finger. When Heath felt Gabriel starting to remove his gun-belt, he moaned and slowly moved his hand to stop him.  It was too late as he felt the pull and tug and sudden give of the belt as it slid out from beneath him.

"No."  Heath's hand dropped back to the ground, having barely lifted it more than an inch.  "No."

"Ain't no need to get riled.  I ain't goin' to hurt you."  Gabriel took his knife from his boot and began to cut at Heath's vest and then his shirt. He took the white pouch from the vest pocket before tossing the clothing aside and brought the pouch to his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of tobacco. "What was that you were spoutin'?  Something about *hay*." 

"What?"  Heath swallowed several times, struggling to overcome the pain from his wound, searching his confused thoughts.  "Oh €“ hay justicia.  There is justice."

Gabriel sat back on his heels and studied Heath's face. "You really believe that?"

"If not in this world, then the next."

"Hellfire!"

Heath grimaced, closing his eyes.  "Sounds about right."

Gabriel shook his head disgustedly. "Far as I reckon, cain't get no worse."

Nothing more was said as he gently turned Heath on his side.  Heath let out a loud groan, his hand reaching out to brace himself, his arm shaking from the effort. He gasped as Gabriel pulled the bloodied flannel completely away from the wound.  The area beneath his arm was swollen and discolored and there was a small hole in the upper left side of his chest. The larger exit wound to his back yawed bloody and black. Gabriel took the tin cup and poured turpentine into it.  He then added some water, diluting the turpentine.  He began to cleanse the back wound with the liquid, swabbing it with the pieces of Heath's cut shirt. 

Heath arched his back and threw back his head, but remained quiet. The muscles of his jaw worked frantically, his eyes squeezed shut and his free hand fisted around clumps of grass and dirt. The locket in the other hand was gripped so tightly, it drew blood. 

Gabriel put down the cup and reached for his knife.  He cut the dead skin from around the wound and took up the turpentine, but this time chose not to dilute it with water.  Heath grunted when the liquid flooded the wound, sweat beaded on his face. 

"I know it hurts." Gabriel continued his task, now pressing neat squares of cloth against the wound. "That ain't so bad."

When he was done with the back wound, Gabriel turned Heath again and looked at the small wound above and diagonal to Heath's nipple.  "Ain't hit nothing vital as near as I can tell.  But you're about bled dry and cain't go losing no more." 

Gabriel picked up Heath's shirt and rented the fabric with his teeth.  He felt around Heath's ribs and then sat back on his heels for a time, folding the cloth into a thick square.  A sudden burst of wind blew up and Heath, laying bare-chested on the ground cooled from the night's dampness, shivered markedly from the mix of cold and blood loss. He watched the fire's flames leap and yaw in the wind, but could not feel its heat. He tried to hold himself still, anticipating the coming pain with the cleansing of the bullet hole. A trickle of blood ran down his chest and darkened the fabric that Gabriel had placed beneath the wound. The turpentine was applied, and Heath sucked in a long, wheezing breath. Runnels of sweat ran down his face and he groaned deep in his throat, but did not yell out.

The gray light from the east gave shape to their surroundings and Gabriel worked silently, laying squares of cloth on the wound and then with some difficulty wrapped several long, wide strips of fabric around Heath's chest to hold the dressings in place. Heath tried to help, but found he had little control of his movements, his head lolling with each lift and roll. He was aware of things to the point of feeling irritated at his weakness, not willing to give himself over wholly to Gabriel's ministration.

But soon it was no longer a concern of his as he found himself falling into a long space of blackness interrupted occasionally by brief flashes of memory and distinct images that floated across his mind. Maria, her smile, her eyes, the feel of her lips on his, the familiar warmth of her pressed against him while they lie together in the summer grasses. The pictures of his mother, Leah, his boyhood home, Nick and Audra, Jarrod and "Mother" suspended there idly in the darkness, but then it all suddenly grew menacing as battlefields and stockades and Matt Bentell blotted out the others.

Heath struggled against those memories, hearing his own voice clearly in his ears, as if standing outside his dreams, watching himself as the dreamer, shouting, cursing, weeping in another tongue.  He remembered the young, brown-skinned faces as they lay cold and wooden in all attitudes of death, their blood stark against a recent snow.  His shouts frantic as he raced from one lifeless soul to another, railing at the world two-fisted until he was subdued by his enemy. He stood before them with his heart rended and his mind bruised, mumbling to himself in Spanish and English:  "Esto es no la voluntad de Dios.  This is not the will of God." 

The dream changed while still feeling the movement of his lips. The dead lay all about, and he could not pass forward nor back without defiling the wretched souls, and he stood there in his dream for what seemed to be for all eternity, until he thought he would go mad and he called out to God to save him. And when he thought all was lost to him and he would succumb and join the dead all around him, one soul rose up and reached out to him and the strength of the specter was such that he was safely lifted above the carnage. He heard a voice like the roar of wind through high country timber that blew over him clean and sure, saying: "For if they fall, one will lift up his companion." With those words, Heath's surety and faith in his brother to deliver him rekindled.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Nick had begun his search for Heath at the Jamestown livery, watching for a time while the blacksmith trimmed and leveled the hooves of a large, half-wild roan. Its mane and tail were twisted and snarled and the hooves and coat had grown long. Nick had stood there patiently, listening to the familiar ring of metal on metal as sledge struck against shoe. But after a while, his patience flagged and he had wandered the livery only finding three more unshod and near wild horses.

A short time later, he had gotten no satisfaction from the blacksmith who had told him he had not seen anyone that fit his brother's description nor that of the Modoc's. Even the sheriff was of no help, the only talk in Jamestown that day was of a violent and bloody murder of an old-timer and his wife who had taken in a down on his luck youngster. It was said that the boy had turned on them on a fatal night that was moonless and dark as lampblack. The old man and woman were found bludgeoned in their bed. The woman's head split-wide had remained on the white pillow slip encircled by a perfect halo of blood. A wooden cross that the old man wore had offered no protective charms as he laid there, blood-splattered and wide-eyed, his white beard and flowing hair, reminding all witnesses of a bizarre and horrifying biblical scene. 

Nick's mood turned foul while he listened, fighting against a choking fear that rose up and settled under his breastbone. His heart physically pained him as he stepped up into the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle. He sat his horse for a long time watching the town. He looked at the sheriff and then up and down the wide, dirt road, finally reining his horse around toward the Stanislaus River. As he loped off, he heard the sheriff calling out to him, wishing him luck and Godspeed. But Nick did not turn back, not wanting to acknowledge what those words implied. He chose not to believe that things that had been set in motion ultimately stemmed from the sin of his father; the consequences of an act like roiled waters from a dropped stone. 

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Nick  rode all that day, at first following the old wagon road and then moved closer still to the Stanislaus.  He rode steadily north along the narrow river trace, finding no tells of his brother.  The aspen quivered in the wind, their flat leaves like golden paper fluttered in the rich light of the late afternoon sun. Cowbirds scoured about in a predatory search for surrogates to brood their young. A kingfisher flew upriver beside him and then vanished. 

Not long after, the darkness fell hard around him, but Nick rode on by the full light of a gibbous moon that hung in an ink-black sky spangled with stars. He was weary and was about to make camp near a stand of willows by the river, but reined up short smelling wood smoke. He dismounted and led the horse as it sniffed the air, catching sight of a fire burning in a small clearing not far beyond him.  He peered through leaves, holding a gentle hand over the horse's muzzle and watched the fire. He saw a horse staked near the far-side of the camp, but could not clearly make it out in the darkness. Nearer the fire was a saddle and what appeared to be a sleeping figure crumpled under a blanket. No one else seemed to be around and Nick entered the encampment with his gun drawn, his eyes quickly adjusting to the patterns of light and dark cast by the fire.

As he moved further into the clearing, the form under the blanket became more familiar. Only the top of a dark blond head was exposed, but Nick knew at once it was Heath. He bolted forward, returning the gun to his holster and dropped to his knees. His hands shook as he pulled the blanket away from his brother's face and then carefully drew Heath up into his arms. He cupped his hand behind Heath's head, kneading his fingers through the damp hair. The heat coming off Heath frightened him and he whispered into his brother's ear urgently.

When Heath did not respond, Nick lifted him up higher into his arms and held him closer. He listened to the soft, shallow breathing, closing his eyes briefly. In his fatigue, he remembered the many nights he had laid awake under the stars, listening to his brother sleep and talking to him of the plans he had mapped out for the two of them. Again he spoke urgently into Heath's ear, rubbing his hand over Heath's back. When he heard his name in a low whisper, Nick smiled and pressed his cheek against the top of Heath's head.

"It's Nick, Heath. It's Nick."

Half-closed eyes tracked him and then a slow, canted smile followed.  "Nick."

"I'm here, boy. I'm here now. You're going to be all right. You're going to be just fine."

Heath nodded and then groaned.  "Nick . . ." 

Nick clutched his brother to him.  "Take it easy, Heath."

"Nick . . . you need to listen . . . need to listen to me."

"I'm listening, Heath. I'm listening."

"Be careful.  Watch out . . . "

"Heath--"  Nick called to his brother and stared hard at Heath's face. Pale as the moon, his features suddenly turned slack as though he had only fallen into a deep sleep. But Nick knew otherwise and his heart filled with dread when his hand became bloodied after only briefly touching the bandage that ran over his brother's chest.  "Heath  . . . "

The horse whinnied and Nick stiffened, straining to hear the night sounds around him.  He lowered Heath to the ground and brought the blanket up around his neck.  The horse whinnied again, shook his head and stamped the ground and Nick stood immediately, drawing his gun.  The instant Nick turned, a voice yelled out from a small grouping of trees and brush. 

"You try anythin' stupid, and I'll kill ya." 

Nick squinted his eyes, looking to where he thought the voice came.  "What do you want?"

"I want ya t' drop your gun and git away from my friend."

Nick repeated the word 'friend' half aloud and glanced down protectively at Heath.   Nick cursed softly when Heath began to stir.  "Listen . . . son . . .  I was just riding by and spotted your fire.  I've been traveling a spell and I was bone-weary.  Was just looking for a place to rest, maybe get a cup of hot coffee.  I'm not looking for any trouble."

"No matter. I expect I'll kill ya anyway. Set that gun down."  Nick did not move, watching the trees and then spotted a thin rail of a boy walk into the clearing.  The flickering light of the fire cast shadows over his gaunt face.    

"You look done in, son.  I've got some beans and some other provisions in my bags.  Why don't I just go to my horse and get -- " 

"You just shut your trap and set down that gun now, and git away from him or I'll shoot ya dead."

"I won't hurt him."

"Are ya hard of hearin' or just dumb as a rock?  I said drop it and I ain't saying it again."

"All right.  All right.  Just settle down, now." Nick moved away from Heath, but kept him from the boy's line of sight.

"Git away from him."

Nick moved forward a few steps.

"Drop the gun."

Nick complied, seeing the barrel of the sawed-off rifle bearing down on him.  He looked over his shoulder at Heath.  "What happened to him?"

"Drygulched upriver aways."

Nick jutted his chin in the direction of the hobbled Modoc.  "Lost a horse?"

"Grulla broke a leg.  Had to put it down."

"It'll be rough going traveling with only one horse and him hurt as bad as he is."

"Ain't no never mind to you."  Gabriel grinned.  "B'sides, I count two horses now."

"Two --" Nick stopped, suddenly aware of the boy's meaning.  "Now hold on there a minute --"

"Mister, you shoulda kept on ridin'.  Now git over there."  Gabriel directed Nick with the end of his rifle.  "Set yourself down.  If you're a mind to coffee, help yourself."

Nick squinted up at the boy and shook his head, unsure of what to make of him.  Ready to see what he was up against, Nick squatted by the fire and poured coffee into a tin cup he recognized as Heath's.  Figuring he was about to poke a rattler with a stick, Nick stood up without effort and faced the boy.  "There's some talk in Jamestown 'bout a murder."

Gabriel spat and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. "That ain't nothing. Hell, been lots of killin's."

Nick shook his head grimly at the truth of the boy's words. "Old man and woman.  Took somebody in and was murdered for their trouble.  Doesn't seem right, now does it?"

"I know of 'em.  All their preachin' and prayin' and repentin'.  About drove a body crazy.  Reckon somebody up and decided to help them git their eternal reward a little sooner than later."

"I * reckon*."  Nick drank from the tin cup and lowered it down thoughtfully.  "You know who had a hand in the killings?"

Gabriel stared at Nick.  "I might, but if'n I do, it ain't here nor there where you're concerned."  Gabriel grinned crazily, his head atilt. "Reckon I scare ya some?"

Nick smiled and shook his head. "No, son, I'm not scared. Not the first time I looked down the wrong end of a gun."

Heath woke slowly, hearing voices like the drone and hum of insects. The words were muddled, not understanding their meaning.  His eyes caught the light of the campfire, appearing like a balefire in his fevered mind. 

"You're going to kill me."

"Ain't got no choice.  Need your horse."

"Why not just take it?  There's no need for killing."

"Ain't lookin' to be strung up, dangling from the end of a rope for horse thievery."

"And you're not worried about hanging for cold-blooded murder?"

"If'n there ain't nobody alive to point no fingers, then there ain't no worries.  I ain't nothin' to nobody. I ain't got no roots, no home, nobody.  Ain't no one ever pays me no never mind.  I'm like one of them lepers, scarin' the holy hell out of all them fine citizens."

Heath's eyes tracked slowly to where he thought he heard the voices. He moved his fingers beneath the blanket, an urgency growing in him to find his skinning knife. At once, he recognized Gabriel, his back turned toward him. Suddenly, he heard another voice that was familiar, filling him with a quiet reassurance. He closed his eyes, almost slipping into sleep, but struggled against it.

The next moment, he felt himself free-floating away from the voices, away from Nick, unable to stop his descent, the blood pounding in his ears from fear and pain. He shouted Nick's name over and over in his head as he fell into the darkness, too weak to voice it out loud. And then with a start, he found himself again lying in the dirt beside the fire. Nagging dread prompted him to grab hold of the knife while he still could, taking all his strength to keep himself focused. He worked for what seemed hours to release it from its sheath.

When the haft of the knife was finally in his hand, his fingers trembled at the familiar and deadly feel of it.  He was said to be a dead-eye with any weaponry, but his knife for the most part was utilitarian.  He chose not to dwell on the killings, only on his ability and putting himself into the right frame of mind to carry out his task.  It would be difficult at best to throw the knife with any accuracy from his position and almost impossible with his nearly useless arm. Any movement would restart the bleeding and at that Heath brought his hand up, feeling the flannel's dampness from left to right.  It was soaked through; he was certain both front and back. He laughed to himself, no longer worried about bringing on the wound's bleeding.  A loud snick of the rifle's hammer brought him back around.  Now or never. 

Heath rose onto his right elbow, his left hand with the knife, fighting off the blanket. He pushed himself upright and sat with a groan, distracting Gabriel to the point that when the boy got off his shot, it went wide. Heath watched as Nick dove to the ground and rolled clear, finding cover. In the immediacy of that moment, Heath leveled the knife and threw it. The blade sank deep into the boy's back, only the handle showing from his bloody shirt. Gabriel teetered back and forth a few times, and then pitched forward face first into the dirt, dead.   

Heath scarcely had time to find his target, had not even felt the release of the knife from his hand, and had only vaguely been aware of his bandages tearing loose from the areas of his wounds where the blood had dried and blackened.  He was in some odd suspension, his mind far away from his pain and then only falling, floating and once more nothing. 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Nick rose from where he was sprawled out on the ground behind some brush, slapping the dust from his hat on his pant's leg. He walked over to the boy, feeling unnerved by the sight of the protruding knife. The wound appeared to be mortal to his studied eye and as he stooped over the still form, he felt his knees grow liquid, thinking of what his fate might have been if not for Heath. He grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled, feeling its slow release from the bloodied and marred flesh. When he rolled the boy over, Nick removed his glove with his teeth and touched bare fingers to the boy's neck. He held it there for a time, making sure the boy was dead. The blue eyes were open, but without light and shortly would become cloudy and sunken. Blonde hair, grown out long, fell in lank strands over the face and Nick pushed it aside with a gloved hand and stared at the young boy. He shook his head and stood, wiping the blade of the knife clean on his pants.

Nick turned away from the body and made his way to Heath. He began to talk nervously, mostly to himself, feeling his heart in his throat. "Don't you be dead. Don't you die on me."  He tried praying, but no prayers came to him, just turning the same words over and over in his brain, 'don't be . . . don't be'.

He dropped down next to Heath, covering him with the blanket that had been thrown off, and seeing even in the fragile light of the campfire the newer bright stain of blood covering Heath's chest and the much more appalling run of blood trickling down his side. He pressed his hand over Heath's heart, growing frightened at the utter stillness of the man and he shouted to God for His mercies, to spare his brother who was nothing, but good and kind and compassionate. His pleas were interspersed with curses, damning Don Alfredo, damning Bert Hadley and Maria, damning all for breaking his brother's heart again and again.

Nick's thoughts grew muzzy, unable to think straight, and he could not feel a heartbeat through the thick leather of his gloves. He stripped off one and then the other nearly frantic and tried again to feel for some sign of life. He placed his palms flat against Heath's chest as if his life-force would flow out from his fingertips and raise up his brother. His hands became cold and slick with blood, worrying him to no end, but taking faith at the sudden feel of Heath's heart beating beneath his hand, although heavy and slow, beating all the same. His relief and joy were tangible. "That's it, boy. You keep fighting."  Nick knew Heath was badly off, his breathing too shallow, too fast and no man could lose as much blood as Heath and still live. But Nick refused to believe that Heath would die, refused in all his cussed stubbornness and would fight against it with every fiber in him.

"Heath!"  His voice was soft, but hissed with urgency.  "Heath!"  Again relief pulsed through him when Heath's eyelashes fluttered.  "I'm here, Heath. We're safe now.  Everything's fine.  You done good, boy.  You done good."  

He was once more in the Secluded Valley of the Lamar River, far beyond the Stinkwater where the winds carried traces of sulfur scent from the Hot Springs, musky pungent and earth-strong. And he reached his hands out and opened them to the endless winds, the forever skies, the lifeblood lands, owning a joy beyond all things ever known to him, and he was gladdened, his heart full to be there again.

He had been just a year out of Carterson prison, still a starveling by all accounts, but he was free. Sweet Jesus, he was free. North to Colorado, he had traveled and further still to Wyoming out of reach of humankind. And he wandered there now through those mountains of granite slate and sandstone that gave life to pines in soil so fertile and rich that the scent of them was powerful, dizzying. He walked past a tumbling of timbers and he journeyed down mountains, watching as a grizzly clawed through the dirt of marshy lands, eating roots among the willows.

In a small prairie valley, he kneeled to drink from a clear running stream, a branch of the Yellowstone, a child born of its mother. He roamed through densely, thick forests, and into a small valley with beautiful groves of cottonwoods that embraced the low banks of a stream and all around grand, dark mountains enfolded and enshadowed him. He followed the stream through rock cut by waters that coursed through a thousand lifetimes, infinitival years and there below him stretched a valley touched only by God.  Here he would love to spend the remainder of his days. The ancient glories of the Big Horn and Wind River Mountains embraced him, consoled him as he was nearly broken  . . .

But then a voice called to him, pulling him back toward something he did not want to know, refused to feel . . . pain . . . deep . . . cutting . . . but again that voice called, now filled with fear and sorrow and something else, something stronger and urgent and truer than Heath had ever hoped to know €“ love. The one man, Heath never wanted to let down or hurt called to him and Heath desperately tried to reach out, would leave all *this* in a heartbeat.  And he became aware of his own heart's sounds, too slow, too hard even to breathe, and he would have stopped completely and given up, if it was not for that man calling to him now  . . .  his brother . . . his friend.

A soft moan brought Nick down lower to Heath's face and when Heath's eyes opened, Nick saw the  pupils that were blown open and his inability to focus. Nick was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He had lost much in his lifetime, the death of his father, a pain he thought he could never get out from under. But he did finally because of Heath . . . remembering now the smell of burnt cowhide, wood smoke, dust and sweat, and the red-hot glow of the branding iron and Heath's full grin, a rarity, and he felt it then, that hole in the pit of him that was cold and hollow filling up and he was nearly close to busting from the joy of it. 

"Heath, hey there, Heath . . ."  Nick's voice was soft with affection and his heart swelled when he saw Heath smile at him. His brother's face, unnervingly white, made the darkness under his eyes look like bruises. His hands and fingers were covered in blood and he began perspiring in earnest.

"Nick . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Nick . . .  didn't hurt you . . . did he?"

"No, he didn't hurt me."  Nick swept a glance around the camp. He spotted the canteen nearby and reached out a long arm for it. With his knees up close and tight to Heath's head, Nick lifted his brother slightly at the shoulders, and dribbled water between dry, cracked lips.  "How's that?  Better?"

Heath murmured with contentment, his face relaxing a moment and Nick could see that he was fighting sleep. Nick shook his shoulder gently and called to him.  "Hey there, brother. No sleeping just yet.  I want you to listen to me.  I'm worried, Heath. You've been bleeding way too much.  I need to stop it and I know it's going to pain you something fierce. We're goin' to get you cleaned up some, get you out of those pants . . . you'll feel better, I promise. Get you some clean clothes, fresh bandages.  A little something on your belly, you'll feel like a brand-new man.  Maybe some of those beans you're always foisting on me.  How's that sound to ya?"

Heath thought he nodded in response to Nick's question, but he was not sure. Although he did smile, knew that for certain when he felt the pain of his splitting lips.

"All right."  Nick gripped the bare shoulder and grinned into his brother's face.  "Don't you go anywhere."  Heath smiled again at Nick's attempt at humor, tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough.  He saw Nick's worry in his eyes.

"Don't Nick . . ."  Heath struggled to lift his hand, but could not move it.  Nick saw his failed attempts and took the bloody hand into his own and gave it a strong squeeze.  "Nick . . . want to tell you something . . ."  Heath swallowed hard, unashamed of the tear that slid down the side of his face.  "Thanks . . . thanks for coming." 

Nick smiled, gripping Heath's hand tighter. He found it difficult to speak.  "You rest easy. I'm not going anywhere without you. We're going home. You hear that Heath?  We're going home."

Heath nodded, his eyes drifting and then closing. Nick watched him for a while and then stood slowly, his body far beyond weary.  A solemn vow whispered before he turned away, "I promise." 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

Nick stared down into Heaths' drawn and pale face. Beads of sweat covered his forehead and he was hardly breathing. A pair of Nick's pants hung off him loosely and the shirt folded neatly was set aside on a nearby saddlebag. When the bleeding stopped, Nick would dress Heath in it, though he dreaded the task with the recent struggle of cleaning, bandaging and changing Heath still fresh in his mind. The agony heard in Heath's strangled moans, trying so hard not to yell out for his sake, but Nick saw the raw pain, bright and eloquent, in his blue eyes. He now felt drawn to touch Heath and with a shaky breath, he reached out, flexing his fingers nervously. He clutched the hot, bare shoulder and took up the limp hand just to feel the life still there, the fear of losing his brother running deeply through him.

In sleep, Heath appeared much younger than his years and Nick still startled to see it. A man full-grown a long time ago, no matter his age. The hardships endured for the most part were unknown to Nick, but sure it had been a hard life lived in a short time. Gradually, Heath had shared parts of his life in his soft-spoken way, telling his stories only to Nick in those quiet times around the camp's watch fire or when riding nighthawk together. Some were amusing, some sad. The places he had been and the life he had led, never failed to surprise Nick, bringing up a well of admiration, although it was tempered with an edge of the bittersweet. 

Carterson like Andersonville was hell on earth, and Nick had remained quiet while Heath had haltingly told him about the sufferings; the camp plagued with greybacks and rats, bad water and dysentery, scurvy, small pox, measles and pneumonia, with no shelter to speak of, clothing all but rags and barely any food to eat. The men had turned against each other because of their wretchedness, attacking the weaker ones even in the light of day in front of the guards. Heath had spoken of one particularly bad time when close to 1,000 new prisoners entered the camp with their knapsacks full and pockets filled having been recently paid. Many were attacked and robbed of their belongings; several had been murdered and Nick could not ignore the deep sorrow he heard  in Heath's voice when he spoke of it.

Bentell like Wirz at Camp Sumter allowed the Federal prisoners to capture, try and pass sentences on those who preyed on the weak, the sick, the young and old. But Heath equated Bentell and Wirz to Pilate, in the end, washing their hands of the blood of those men, of *all* the men, as Pilate did with the blood of Christ.

In war, it was difficult to see black from white, right from wrong, lines becoming blurred, unable to see beyond the grey. To lose sight of one's own humanity seemed to be an impossibility to Nick, but to have lived through that, to have lived through Andersonville or Carterson or even the Confederates' similar plight in Elmira or Fort Delaware  . . . well, who was he to judge?

He gave a stiff roll of his shoulders and drank down the last of his coffee. Heath had not stirred since he had stripped him of his bloodied and ruined pants, his leather belt soddened and stained, the bandages so laden with blood, Nick's heart nearly stopped when he felt the weight of it. The soggy thud of the cloth against the ground made Nick curse. He had gathered moss, moistening it, and packed the wound and had found the supply of pemmican and jerky Heath carried with him out of habit. He had grinned at that, recognizing that Heath had learned far more from the Paiute and the Miwok than making pemmican and how to launder clothes in a creek. Heath was as much at home in the wilds as he was in town and often preferred to sleep under the stars.

Nick grimaced, wondering if the need for open spaces and sky and stars had more to do with Carterson than anything else. Nearly 30,000 men lived shoulder-to-shoulder in confinement marked clearly by a deadline that when crossed meant sure death. At first, Nick had found it peculiar when Heath disappeared during dinner parties or dance socials, even on drives when the men would blow off steam with their singing, or roughhousing or just simple conversation. "Just gettin' me some quiet," he had said, "Just gettin' me some quiet." 

When Nick had returned that first time with two cups of coffee and sat beside Heath, he did not coax, waiting out his brother's silence. He had been relieved when after a time, Heath began to give explanation of how it had been in Carterson, especially the nights. With so many in such a small area of confinement there had never been a time of true silence. The moaning and lamenting of the sick, the prayers over the dying and the dead, the scuffling and muffled yells of those being robbed, perhaps even murdered, the criminal element most virulent in the night. But the most disturbing of all to Heath was the muttering and ravings of the lost, the broken -- the men, half-crazed.  

Nick had heard the fear profoundly in the telling of it, and nearly broke down himself at the image of a young boy in the midst of that horror. He had watched Heath's long fingers worrying the brim of his hat, his eyes lost, his thoughts elsewhere. Nick knew that all had not been shared with him. Some personal tells left unsaid, buried deep, too hurtful to release.  He allowed his brother this, understanding that necessary remove, a need to distance oneself from things that could cripple a man, if not put down.

His eyes suddenly closed, his chin dropping to his chest, hardly asleep more than a few minutes when he awoke with a start from something he could not identify right away. A susurrant sound  . . .  a voice  . . . Heath . . . Nick was now fully awake, his eyes searching the chary light, stopping on the quiet form of his brother. He convinced himself that he had imagined it all from being tired and overwrought. With one last reassuring glance toward Heath, he got to his knees and picked up the coffee pot, satisfied his brother was asleep.

A sudden, hard shiver coursed through Heath, shaking his body from head to toe. Nick turned, dropping the coffeepot down into the red coals and with his eyes fixed on his brother quickly felt around on the ground for his blanket roll. Heath's head moved restlessly, awful strangled sounds and clenched-back groans rose up from him and filled the silence around them, sounding to be in the throes of some terrible dream. Nick practically hurled himself across the space between them with the want of stopping it and he hastily draped and then tucked the blanket around Heath, his bones nearly rattling. He did not need to touch the man to feel the heat coming from him and it shook Nick up badly to see how sick his brother was. While trying to get him warm, he lowered his head close to Heath's and lightly touched his fingertips against the bloodstained bandages with tenderness not seen by most. He closed his eyes, and would have likely been amazed if he had been aware of the tears tracking down his whiskered cheeks.    

After a while, Nick lifted his head and rubbed a hand over his face, catching his breath. He was frightened and damn well did not like the feel of it, but he was at least grateful that Heath had settled down and was resting quietly for the moment. Before moving back to the fire, he rested his palm on Heath's forehead and was worried all over again by the extent of his fever. He swore and ran a hand through his straight, coal black hair, a few pieces falling back down onto his forehead.  He needed coffee to stay awake to keep watch over Heath and he crawled wearily over to the fire, filling the tin cup. Nick had no idea what Heath had been dreaming, did not want to even venture a guess . . .

But no matter his struggle against it or his good intentions, he was not able to stay awake and again his head drooped and his eyes closed, being pulled down into sleep . . .

Nick jerked himself awake before spilling the hot coffee into his lap, hearing Heath talking low in a language unrecognizable to him.  

 

Starving and sick, he laid shivering in the *street* of the camp. The New Mexican Volunteers who had fought with him at Valverde and Glorietta were all gone. Ramon Chavez, Salvador Rial, Jose Maria Gurrera, Ramon Alaria, Jose Peralto, and Mauricio Chavez. One dead of dysentery, another of scurvy and the others of small pox. The last of them lay beside him only just now passing in his sleep. Heath laid there, seeking warmth from the still warm body, curling around his drawn-up legs and dreamed of eggs frying, bacon and enchiladas de pollo, corn tortillas and beans.

A kind, old man with white hair and a wide white smile came up to him and looked at him, suddenly lifting him up from the muddy street. He wiped the mud away from Heath's face with a blanket and bound him up tightly in it. 

Heath felt ashamed when the man had stared at him as he had taken to wearing only his under things because his pants were so badly worn. The man smiled at him as though he saw and understood his shame. 

"Eres puros huesos. You are pure bones."

"Esta es verdad. Si, that is true."

"Que joven tan valiente. So brave for one so young."

"No, no valiente."

The old man seemed not to hear. "Que dice?"

"Nada. Nada."  Heath began to cry and the old man touched his shoulder, holding his fisted hand in front of Heath. 

Heath looked up through blurred eyes, curious. Black spots from his hunger hovered on the edge of his vision, nearly taking his sight. "Que es eso?"

The old man opened his hand slowly, his old fingers shaking as if palsied.  Heath rose laboriously from the ground and staggered forward toward the object laying in the old man's palm.

His throat closed tightly and he fell to his knees, crying. "El anillo de mi Padre."  They had taken it from him during the night while he slept, too sick and weak to fight them. He had worn his father's ring around his neck by a deerskin cord. A gift given to him from his mother before he left for war, along with a pocket Bible he kept wrapped in oil cloth.  They had taken it all . . .

 

Nick suffered to see the tears of his brother and he held Heath close to him.  He had no words, only able to offer comfort in his touch and the soft murmurings of his reassurance that all would be fine, all would be all right. It took well over an hour to settle Heath down and Nick watched him now as he slept, trying to piece together the words he thought he understood.  One word had pierced him as a knife through his heart -- padre.  What was it that Heath had said?  Anillo de mi Padre.  Anillo meant ring.  Padre, Nick knew that to be father.  The ring of my father.  What ring?  Did his father, Tom Barkley, give Heath's mother a ring?  Was it a token of love?  Nick felt guilty for the rise of jealousy that settled in his gut like a rock.  He had faced up to his father's infidelity months ago. It had been only a one time thing, his father, a man alone, nearly beat to death, finding comfort in a woman -- a lovely woman, no doubt, with a kind heart. Nick believed that to be true, seeing so much of Heath's mother in the gentle ways of his brother.  A ring?  For payment?  Heath had hated Tom Barkley. Nick had seen it that first night, and now was just slowly coming around to recognize the great man their father really had been to his family, to the people of the Valley.  Why would a ring, belonging to a father he never knew, to a man that he came to despise, mean so much to Heath? 

Nick's head ached and his eyes dimmed with the pull of sleep. He laid down on his side next to Heath and put his right arm gently across his brother's stomach and finally slept.

 

 

 

To be continued…