Dead Wrong

Chapters 31-44

by Redwood

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31

 

The train depot was not one of Nick Barkley’s favorite places. Though it was dark and extremely noisy, with the night full of shouting porters, the banging of metal on metal, and the harsh, earsplitting sound of escaping steam, his dislike had nothing to do with any of this.

 

For him, it was always a reminder of the bitter past.

 

After all, it had been men employed by the Coastal and Western that had murdered his father six years before as he, and the farmers and ranchers he led, stood up to them for trying to force the owners of the smaller operations out of their homes and off of their land.

 

Having bought their tickets to San Francisco, Nick walked back outside the station and stood, arms crossed, waiting for Jarrod to return.

 

Inside, the abrasive, whining night clerk, Jim Staley, had tried to engage Nick in conversation about the trial, . . . just adding to Nick’s irritation.

 

“We all thought we were rid of that vermin, Kyles, Nick. But, it seems your brother just couldn’t get his story straight, and now we may have to put up with Korby around here forever if he and Jarrod can persuade the jury he’s innocent-----after they catch him, that is.”

 

His temper reined in on a short line, Nick had reached in beyond the ticket window and grabbed Staley by the shirt collar, hauling him in close. It took all his restraint to keep himself from punching the man right then and there.

 

“Staley,” he had growled, “I’m not sure which of my brothers you’re trying to insult the worst, but THIS Barkley doesn’t take kindly to you running your mouth about either one of them!”

 

Letting the suddenly silent, wide-eyed man go, Nick had dusted off his gloves as if he had gotten something foul on them, tucked the two train tickets inside his vest, and stormed outside the door.

 

Now, he stood watching the activity outside and wondering where Jarrod had gotten off to. If he didn’t return in the next few minutes, they would miss their train. As he stood there, waiting impatiently, he mumbled under his breath.

 

“Blast him, anyway! Where did he go?”

 

Their bags were still standing where Jarrod had apparently left them, his two neatly stacked, while Nick’s were lying haphazardly against the wall of the depot.

 

Suddenly, as the engineer released a piercing blast of steam in preparation for leaving, Nick was afraid he knew exactly where Jarrod was, and, turning toward the right, he stalked down the boardwalk past the tightly closed warehouses, passing several small Chinese men hurrying by.

 

Just as he approached the first alley, the light of the departing train’s engine passed over him.

 

Feeling as if he had been in this same situation before after having heard Heath tell the story of Colonel Ashby’s murder several times, he broke into a jog, heart pounding. An unreasonable, unfounded, nameless fear for Jarrod surged through him, and he turned the corner abruptly.

 

“Jarrod!” he shouted, grabbing his brother by the arms as he nearly crashed into him from behind. His natural agility allowing him to quickly regain his balance, Nick came to a halt, holding onto his brother, whose back was still to him. Turning Jarrod around, Nick just caught a glimpse of his anguished face before the light from the engine was gone.

 

In the long, deafening minutes that it took for the thunderous sounds of the train to trail off as it made its way west from town, Nick just stood there, holding onto him, watching his brother shake his head.

 

Finally, when the train was gone, he heard Jarrod’s anguished words. “I didn’t believe him, Nick,” he said, his head dropping. “I didn’t believe him, . . . but, he was right. . . You both tried to tell me, but I just didn’t believe him.”

 

Nick closed his eyes, his grip still strong on Jarrod’s arms, lending his older brother the support he knew he needed at that moment, but fighting with himself in anger and irritation to stay calm and in control of his own emotions.

 

Then, as if he could hear his younger brother’s quiet words inside his head, he calmed down, realizing that getting angry at Jarrod all over again wouldn’t help either one of them, . . . wouldn’t help Heath.

 

“I know, Jarrod,” he answered tonelessly.

 

Then, turning him toward the entrance to the alley, Nick silently headed them both back toward the depot. Reaching it, he steered Jarrod to sit down on one of the wooden benches outside, and he grabbed up three of their four bags, one in each hand and one under his arm. Then, glad he had not punched Jim Staley in the face after all, he carried the bags back inside the building.

 

“Hey, Jim, we missed our train! See that these get on the early train for San Francisco in the morning, and trade these in for me, will you?”

 

As the nervous man did as requested, glancing up at the glowering Barkley and hoping he remained completely outside the window this time, Nick surprised him by pulling out a silver dollar and plopping it down on the counter that separated them.

 

“Thanks, Jim,” he said as he turned back towards the door with the new tickets in his hand.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Barkley,” he heard the little man say as he exited.

 

Returning to the bench, Nick picked up Jarrod’s smaller bag and, reaching down to offer his brother a hand up, turned and walked beside him away from the depot.

 

As they headed through the still busy, rowdy part of town, with its bars and saloons all lit up and the sounds of tinny piano music drifting out of several of them, Nick decided they both needed a drink.

 

“C’mon, Jarrod,” he said, “We’ll head for the hotel in a little while. Right now, we’ve got more important things to do.”

 

Holding open one side of the swinging doors of Piper’s, Nick watched in concern as Jarrod made his way inside, as if he were a man sleep walking through knee-deep water. They crossed the floor, found a table at the back, and, dropping Jarrod’s small bag beside his chair, Nick headed to the bar to get a bottle and a couple of glasses.

 

When he returned to their table, Jarrod was just sitting there, leaning against the back of the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at the wall.

 

Nick slapped him on the shoulder as he walked by, then turned his chair around to face his brother. Watching his expressionless face for a moment, he opened the bottle with the cork in his teeth and poured them both a half glass of whiskey.

 

“Not exactly your favorite,” Nick said, “But, it’ll do in a pinch.”

 

Watching Jarrod’s face for another moment, Nick leaned in close and said, “Jarrod, you did the best by your client that you could. Isn’t that what you always say your job is?”

 

Jarrod turned sad blue eyes to face him. “Considering that I was dead wrong about Korby Kyles from the start, I’d say that I did more than I should have, wouldn’t you, Nick? I mean, I tried to pressure Heath into changing his testimony, I’ve made everyone in town doubt his word, and now, he’s gone. He went off trying to catch the man I defended. And, all the while, he knows, . . . he knew, . . . that I didn’t believe him.”

 

Hazel eyes beginning to harden at the change of words, Nick reached out and gripped Jarrod’s arm in a vise. “Jarrod. He’s not dead. You don’t need to change your words as if you think he is. And,” he added, shaking his older brother, “You made a mistake. You didn’t believe the words of one of the most honest, trustworthy men I’ve ever known. Don’t make it worse now, by trying to take all of this on your shoulders. You did your best, and Heath knows, . . . KNOWS that, Jarrod. And, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Heath, it’s that he respects you for it.”

 

Taking a deep breath as he looked into the blue eyes that were beginning to get some of their life back at his words, Nick continued, shaking him again, “First thing’s first, though, Jarrod. We’ve got to find him. Make sure he’s alright. Convince him to give this. . .  whatever he’s hell bent on doing, . . . give it up, or help him finish it, so he can come home. Then, there’ll be all the time in the world for making your apologies.”

 

Jarrod sucked in a deep breath and sitting up a little straighter, he replied, “You’re right. Thanks, Nick. . . . First, we have to find him.”

 

Sighing slightly in relief, Nick patted Jarrod’s arm twice. Then, he said, grinning, “That boy has lots of experience accepting apologies. Just look how many times I’ve had to grind out an apology for lighting into him first, then thinking about my words, or my fists, later!”

 

Jarrod smiled slightly, and said, “I guess you’ve warmed him up for me pretty well, at that, Nick.”

 

Then, sobering, he sat there quietly a few minutes, sipping the burning liquid, before he added, his eyes searching Nick’s face, “Did I tell you what he said to me, the day before he left?”

 

His eyes immediately wary, Nick shook his head and said, “No.”

 

Closing his eyes in remembered pain, Jarrod said, “It was the same day you told me off for trying to talk him into admitting he was wrong, telling me that he had finally started to feel like the ranch was home, and I was making it harder for him by staying on him about the trial there.”

 

Nick nodded. He knew exactly what he had said, because he still felt that way about it.

 

Then, Jarrod opened his eyes, locked them onto Nick’s hazel eyes, and said, almost in a whisper, “Except for those few minutes when he came back in while we were all in Mother’s parlour, and he headed straight upstairs, it was the last time I saw him, Nick. We were outside the barn that morning, and he tried to tell me how important his integrity and honesty were to him. But,” Jarrod paused, breaking his eye contact with Nick and looking away.

 

Then, he continued even more quietly, “I interrupted him, and after I’d said what I wanted to say, he stood up and walked away from me. Then, he stopped and said something over his shoulder that I’ll never forget. He told me it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to talk him into forsaking those two things, integrity and honesty, those two things that made him who he was, but. . . but, it was the first time he’d been asked to give them up by a brother.”

 

They sat quietly for a few moments, neither one knowing where to begin.

 

Jarrod dropped his eyes to his hand curled around his drink glass, resting on the scarred wooden table, and Nick clenched one hand into a fist, while he drained the amber liquid from his glass.

 

Then, Jarrod started speaking again, “. . . I’ve given those words a lot of thought, Nick. Here he was, standing there in front of me, with my saddle that he’d cleaned and repaired for me in his hands. He’d gone his whole life without brothers or sisters, never even knowing what it meant to have or to be a brother. . . .”

 

His piercing blue gaze boring into Nick, Jarrod added, “I don’t want him to think that’s what being a brother means, Nick. We have to find him. And, I have to explain to him that I was wrong, dead wrong.”

 

Able to feel the pain of the man sitting next to him, Nick reached out and clasped Jarrod by the shoulder, as he thought about how hard it was for this big brother of his to admit when he was wrong, but how much harder it was for him to forgive himself when he had hurt someone else.

 

Then, he refilled both of their glasses and leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, and offered a toast, “To Brother Heath.”

 

Lifting his eyes and his glass, Jarrod joined him.

 

As one, they swallowed their whiskey and wondered how they would locate the blond they both desperately needed to find, . . . and how he was right at that very moment.

 

 

 

Chapter 32

 

Heath was breathing hard from the exertion of walking around the small cramped room once, right hand gripped on the rough brick of the inside walls, when he heard the door open in the dark and saw the tiny woman enter, carrying an oil lamp.

 

She immediately looked terrorized at seeing him standing nearby, and began rapidly saying something to him while she grabbed him by the arm and walked him back to the rice mat near the wall. She prodded at him until he lay back down. Then, she covered him with his blanket, covered his mouth with her hand, and met his eyes for a few seconds.

 

Finally, she left him there, realizing that he was to remain quiet, and hurried back across the room.

 

Dousing the lamp almost completely, she returned to the hallway beyond and watched as two men approached and entered, carrying a small limp figure that they unceremoniously dumped on a rice mat against the closest wall to the door. The men then glanced around furtively and hurried from the room.

 

Long minutes passed before the figure seemed to rouse slightly and turn her head to face the room, though her eyes never opened. With this movement, Heath could see that she was a young Oriental girl, dressed in a pale, canvas-like cloth shirt and loose, black cotton pants. Though the tiny woman hovered over her, trying to get her to wake up, to drink something, she only rolled her head back and forth listlessly.

 

She never made a sound.

 

A few hours later, the woman rose from the floor beside the girl and moved through the room, checking each of her patients. When she reached Heath, he could see the deep sadness that gripped her, though she shed no tears. He reached out to grasp her tiny hand in his, and smiled slightly at her, nodding to her silently.

 

She brightened a bit, ran her fingers through his hair above the bandage wrapped around his head, and spoke to him in words he could not understand. Then, she dropped her hand to his good shoulder and encouraged him to sit up.

 

Despite the groan that escaped, he was pleased to find that he could comply without the return of the blinding headache and overwhelming dizziness that had followed his earlier attempts to do so. With her help, he got slowly to his feet, and, his hand braced against the wall, she led him over to the mat with the young girl lying on it.

 

As a coughing spell gripped him, he eased down to sit beside her on the floor, his back against the wall, and he watched the diminutive woman again try to coax the girl into waking.

 

Sadly, after a little while, she shook her head and just sat quietly, watching.

 

Within a few hours, the young girl breathed her last and the woman covered her body with a dark silk cloth. She bowed her head and began a low keening noise, deep in her throat.

 

Unsure of what to do to help her, Heath moved closer and painfully pulled her against his chest, silently rocking with her in her grief and sorrow.

 

Long moments later, she roused from her sadness enough to turn and pat him on the chest, and climbing to her own feet, she motioned for him to join her. She led him slowly back to his mat, where he sank tiredly to first sit, then lie down, his back against the wall.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

The next time he opened his eyes, the body of the dead girl had been removed.

 

He lay there in the early morning light seeping through, exhaustedly watching the old woman move among her patients. He was reminded of the women that had helped the men in the army hospital tent years ago where he had spent months recuperating after Carterson.

 

With that image strong in his mind, he was grateful that the other memories that had been plaguing him since Korby Kyles’ trial were finally leaving him alone.

 

Breathing out a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes briefly, and realized that ever since he had found the two men, that particular part of his past seemed to no longer have any leverage against him.

 

Maybe it was because he had done something to help Harmon, to help the two men carrying the information Harmon and the senator needed.

 

His thoughts turned from Harmon to Murphy, then to Charlie Rogers.

 

Maybe just spending time talking to Charlie again had helped.

 

Finding Rogers had not been an easy task. It had taken him several nights and had become more difficult with each failed attempt, because his energy had begun to wane, and the pain had seemed to be winning.

 

That part, he admitted to himself, had still not changed.

 

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on trying to remember the search.

 

There were three locations mentioned on the paper hidden in his room, places that had been given as possibilities for finding the man. The first two were fairly easy to check, both being open to anyone.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Dressed in sailor’s garb, he made his way unsteadily down Cooper Alley, intent on finding a particular one of the nameless opium smoking dens called tabazies. They were numerous in the area, but he was hoping there was only one on this end of this alley.

 

Most of his unsteadiness was an act, as was the reek of whiskey that clung to his clothing, but some of it was just sheer exhaustion from pushing himself night after night.

 

More than anything, he needed to feel warm again, not constantly shivering from the chills that seemed to invade whenever he stopped moving. The cold wind from the water seemed to whip through him, despite the thick layer of wool from the coat worn over the heavy, dark brown shirt he had purchased from a street vendor two days before, and he knew the chill he felt was due to a slowly building fever as much as the weather.

 

Half-way up the alley, an open door led to a dark courtyard. The smell coming from inside, like that of burning ground nuts mixed with the stench of unwashed bodies and other filth, was easily recognizable and let him know he was probably in the right place. Light escaped from several partially covered windows on both sides of the enclosed area, but his attention remained on his destination, a closed red door at the other end, through which several men emerged.

 

The paper he had found in the room had said he could identify Rogers by his unusual boots, silver-toed and grey. Otherwise, the man could be dressed as a sailor, as a rich merchant, or in clothing as nondescript as the rest of the riff-raff that emerged each night from every nook and cranny at the first sign of darkness.

 

But, smiling lopsidedly, Heath hoped that finding him would not come down to staring at every pair of boots that passed him on the streets.

 

Pushing the door open, he was immediately hit by the thick fumes coming from within the otherwise clean room. The pungent odor was not necessarily unpleasant; it resembled that of nuts being roasted over a fire. In the center of the room was a table, and against the walls on three sides ran a row of bunks that looked like two wide, wooden shelves. They were covered in thin rice mats, and at regular intervals, a round wooden log lay, each with a hollowed out depression in the middle.

 

Some of these had small pillows added, as they were intended to keep the reclining smoker’s head elevated, with or without comfort. After a little while of directly inhaling the fumes from the thick black opium paste, Heath knew the smoker would not know the difference.

 

His eyes swept the room nonchalantly, tipping his hat at the large man of Oriental descent seated at the table, watching him steadily. Most of the bunks were filled, with men either actively smoking by using long, bamboo pipes with small clay bowls at one end, or lying unmoving, eyes open, staring at nothing, in a drugged stupor. All of them were obviously Chinese.

 

As he stumbled against the table and grinned, the man watching him laughed and offered him a pipe, inclining his head, his dark, shiny queue of black hair hanging down behind him catching the little bit of candle light in the room and reflecting it.

 

Heath shook his head and walked unsteadily, as if drunk, toward a door on the other side of the room.

 

As he opened the inner door, he was immediately struck by the contrasts between the two rooms. As opposed to the stark wooden shelves in the other one, those in this alcove were neatly fitted with thick mattresses, and each contained its own small tray with a lamp, pipe, and ball of opium paste nearby.

 

The clientele, however, is what set this room apart from the outer one.

 

The patrons were equally stuporous, but none of them were Chinese. However, each was as distinct in clothing styles, from sailors of foreign shores to fishermen and dock workers to raggedly-dressed beggars, as the men in the previous room had been dressed in a single, almost uniform style.

 

Staggering drunkenly toward the table to his right, Heath smiled at the man sitting there watching him and slurred, “Here. . . ’Lookin’ fer-a buddy’a mine.” He reached inside his pocket and slid a ten-cent piece across the table, leaning against the rough wooden surface unsteadily.

 

Then, he walked around the room, smiling benignly, shaking his head and laughing lightly at the oblivious expressions worn by most of the men. While he stumbled purposely into one of the shelves for a better look at one particular man’s boots, he was certain in a matter of moments that the man he was looking for was not here.

 

For another few minutes, he wandered around the room, patting a darkly clad shoulder here and there, smiling at all the men for the benefit of the eyes of the attendant still watching him. Then, shaking his head sadly, he headed back for the door.

 

The silent man, convinced by now as to the nature of his visitor, stood up and took Heath by the elbow, pointing his other hand toward an empty bunk in one corner.

 

Heath held up his hand, and shaking his head, patted the stained, pale green silk over- shirt of his host and said loudly, while pantomiming drinking from a bottle of liquor, “No, no. I’m in search’a my drinkin’ buddy.”

 

When the man released him, Heath nodded his head at him and opened the door. Stumbling past the table in the outer room, he nodded at the larger attendant, and stepped through the door, running into the doorframe with his shoulder as he did so.

 

Outside, he wove his way drunkenly through the courtyard, coughing hard. Then, he eased himself down to rest against a boarded-up doorway, the once red paint between the rough boards peeling and clinging to the dark wool of his coat. His breathing was slightly ragged, though he was exceedingly grateful to be outside the smoking den and in the relatively clear, though distinctly chilly, sea air.

 

Struggling to keep his head up, he watched the courtyard for anyone standing or walking nearby that could fit the vague description of the man called Charles Rogers.

 

It would make more sense for anyone trying to gather information to focus on how many men entered, how long they stayed, and other facts, rather than getting caught up in the pretense of smoking the black paste by going inside. If the man he was waiting on really was the Charlie Rogers he knew, Heath was certain the man would be as miserable inside one of the tabazies as he had been a short time before.

 

But, if he wasn’t inside, and he wasn’t standing out here. . . where was he?

 

After waiting for several hours without seeing anyone, he moved off into the darker shadows on the other side of the courtyard, to try watching from another angle.

 

However, as the sky heralded the eminent arrival of the early morning, he began making his way back toward Stockton Street, less than half a mile away.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

No longer pretending, Heath stumbled into his room.

 

He had paid the almost toothless woman downstairs for its use for the next two days, commenting about his run of good luck at cards tonight, and he immediately fell on top of the rough, wool blanket covering the bed.

 

He lay there for long moments, coughing so hard that bright flecks of light shot across his vision like shooting stars in the dark heavens, and he fought for breath.

 

As he closed his eyes, he tried to think about the two other places he knew to look in his search for Charles Rogers. He knew he could attempt the other, probably similar, smoking den down in Sullivan Avenue tomorrow night. But, he acknowledged to himself, if the man were really focused on getting information about who was involved in the opium trafficking, and how it was done, he would not be spending much time frequenting places like the opium den Heath had visited tonight.

 

It was more likely that he could find Rogers in the more affluent district, outside the Coast, known as the Cremorne Garden.

 

Pulling one end of the blanket up over himself, he shivered violently, promising himself that he would look there next.

 

Just before he gave in to the exhausted sleep that claimed him, Heath thought again of home, of the compassionate blue eyes of his little sister, the concerned grey eyes of the tiny silver-haired woman he called Mother, the midnight blue eyes of his oldest brother, bright with his heart-felt desire for justice, and the laughing hazel eyes of his rancher brother, lit up with sharing some funny exploit of some of the hands at a local saloon.

 

Then, coughing once more, he wrapped his arms around the tightness in his chest, and fell asleep, still wearing the coat that smelled of opium smoke and cheap whiskey.

 

 

 

Chapter 33

 

The steady, pervasive rhythm of the train’s metal wheels passing over the evenly spaced wooden railroad ties was normally one that made sleep both effortless and comforting.

 

But, this time, both men were finding it difficult to succumb.

 

Neither one had much to say, and both were deep in thought.

 

Jarrod was trying to think ahead, trying to figure out how they were going to find Heath in the infamous three square block area of San Francisco bordered by Washington, Broadway, Montgomery, and Stockton Streets, the area known throughout the state and beyond as The Barbary Coast.

 

His only experience with this area just southwest of the docks was in striving to avoid it, or in the once or twice he had ventured there in the company of at least two heavily armed policemen while trying to locate a witness in a case he was trying.

 

Spending any time there out of choice was not something he could imagine, any more than he could picture his quiet, younger brother working the docks there three or four years back, as Asa Harmon had described.

 

Though the area was not exactly the same as the sprawling Chinatown just to its west, both had a reputation for gambling, drugs, crime, and prostitution that rivaled any other city of which he had ever seen or heard.

 

Shaking his head again, Jarrod admitted to himself that finding Heath was going to take all of the formidable “Barkley luck” of which Nick was so fond of speaking.

 

Glancing over at the restless Nick, Jarrod wondered at the change in his dark-haired brother since he had parted company with him last night at the saloon. Nick had chosen to stay to finish the bottle, while Jarrod had thanked him for his uncharacteristic patience and gone on over to the hotel to rent them each a room.

 

And, Jarrod was sure, the change in his brother wasn’t just a result of the idea of being cooped up on the train, though he knew how Nick felt about it. In fact, Nick had been acting very subdued, but . . . almost itchy, as if he were uncomfortable in his own skin, and he had been that way since before breakfast.

 

“Nick,” Jarrod asked, “What’s wrong? Yesterday you seemed eager to get on our way, to be finally doing something to find Heath. Now, you act like. . . .”

 

His words were interrupted by an injured growl emanating from deep in Nick’s throat. But, otherwise silent, his unusually dark, hazel eyes turned on Jarrod as if daring him to continue.

 

Holding up his hands in defeat, Jarrod left the rest of his words unsaid.

 

Nick raised his boots, gave the wooden seat across from him a hard, angry kick from beneath with one of them, crossed his arms, propped both feet up in that same seat, and pulled his hat down over his face.

 

He remained that way, in silence, but not in slumber, for most of the remainder of the trip, not even stirring when Jarrod rose and headed up front to find the smoking car.

 

For the moment, Jarrod sorely regretted that he had offered the use of the family’s private car to his assistant, Martin Haskell, from his San Francisco office. Martin should be returning to the city tomorrow with his wife and child, however, so he vowed to make sure the richly appointed car was available for their return trip to Stockton, . . . whenever that proved to be.

 

Pausing outside the car to light his cigar, he was glad they had run into the telegraph operator in Piper’s last night and had been able to send Harmon word of their later-than-planned arrival. Then, glancing back out at the swiftly passing landscape for a few moments, Jarrod hoped fervently that on their return journey there would be three of them traveling home, together.

 

Nick remained in his seat, his thoughts chasing each other with the same frantic pace as the metal wheels traveling over the rails, leaving the rolling hills bordering the valley behind in their wake.

 

Why hadn’t Heath said anything when he entered the courtroom?

 

Why hadn’t he told them what had happened to him that morning?

 

No wonder the boy was out of his head in that cabin in the hills on Monday night!

 

Behind his closed eyes, Nick saw Heath on that Monday morning, quietly entering the rear of the courtroom, all eyes turned to him. He saw again the painful movements as his brother was called to and, then, returned from, the stand each time. He saw him, back turned to the room, as he lay on Jarrod’s couch, his hand coming up to grip their mother’s in reassurance, despite his silence.

 

“Dammit, Heath!” he thought, his boots dropping to the floor abruptly, his body leaning forward and hands raking through his thick, dark hair, eyes staring out the window without seeing, without blinking.

 

It could have been seconds or minutes or hours between, by the time he felt the comforting clasp of the hand on his shoulder, then felt Jarrod easing into the seat vacated by his boots.

 

Without glancing at his brother, Nick heard Jarrod say quietly, leaning forward toward him, hand on his arm, “Nick, please . . . tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Hauling in a deep breath, Nick finally responded, with the single word, just as Heath had done that morning in the courtroom when Nick had questioned him as to his tardiness.

 

“Piper.”

 

Puzzled, Jarrod just looked at him, waiting, knowing once Nick had uttered the first word, the rest would follow.

 

Nick raked his fingers through his hair again and said, “After you went to the hotel last night, Piper came over to share a drink with me. He asked about our little brother.”

 

Turning his face back to the window and the sun brightened land stretching out beyond the train, he remembered their conversation.

 

“I have’na seen your brother since the morning the trial began, and, since I happened up on the trouble at the end of the alley, I just wondered how he was afterwards.”

 

Nick asked, “Trouble? What do you mean, trouble?”

 

Thinking back, he realized that that morning in the courtroom he had asked Heath what had taken him so long in returning from the livery, and the blond had deliberately rankled him by answering enigmatically, “Piper.”

 

Nick had fleetingly wondered at the time if Heath had had the audacity to stop off at the saloon for an early morning drink on the way to the courthouse.

 

But, the large Scotsman continued, dispelling that myth, “It was early, but I headed into the alley between the storage barn and the livery. As you know, Laddie, I keep my best barrels in that storage barn, and I was having a wee bit of trouble with the lock. I could’na open it at first, and I was cursing it with my usual zeal, when I heard a commotion from around the corner behind it.”

 

“Thinking someone was looking for another way into my stash, I headed back behind there in a big hurry. You can imagine my surprise to see your brother standing up against the building, a board in his hand holding off those two scoundrels, Alan and Emmet Kyles. They saw me coming, but since they were at the opposite corner, they had time to fight Heath for control of the two-by-four first. Your Heath swung at Alan, who backed away, but that weasel Emmet jumped right at him and got two good licks in before they both cleared out.”

 

Piper looked at Nick with a sigh, “I offered to help the lad inside my place to check him out, . . . and to call the law, . . . but he turned me down flat, that he did. ‘Said he needed to get inside the courtroom before you left your dear mother and little sister to come looking for him.”

 

Nick, his rage mounting, cursed Heath under his breath, “Dammit, Boy! Why didn’t you say something? No wonder you struggled through the day the way you did!”

 

Then, turning to Piper, he said, “My thanks to you, Piper. The two of them, plus Jake, had already beaten Heath into the ground on Saturday night. But, they just weren’t satisfied, were they?”

 

Taking two steps toward the door to go find Jarrod, he turned back and asked quietly, afraid he already knew the answer, “Piper? I didn’t see any signs of the fight when he came in the courtroom a little while after that. Where did they hit him, do you remember?”

 

“Sure, Nick, that I do. He was breathing pretty rough afterwards, and hearing you say they beat him on Saturday may explain it. Emmet got him hard, twice, in the lower ribs,” he said, indicating the right side of his own well-padded girth.

 

Slowly, Nick turned back to look at Jarrod, his hazel eyes more worried than before.

 

“Piper found Heath holding off Alan and Emmet Kyles behind his storage barn that morning before the trial started. He said he saw Emmet get in two hard licks to Heath’s ribs, the same side as before. Then, they took off running.”

 

Then, returning his eyes to the window, and remembering the information his worried mother had shared with them from her conversation with Howard Merar, he shook his head.

 

Suddenly, he closed his eyes and reached up to ground the palms of his leather gloves into his forehead, and a low growl of worry and guilt escaped his lips.

 

He could hear Heath’s voice on the same morning he had disappeared. They were outside the barn and Heath was asking him to stop pacing and listen to him, but he had been too irate and worked up to heed him.

 

“Nick.” Then, Heath repeated again, “Nick! Slow down a minute, will ya’?”

 

When Nick just ignored him, continuing his angry pacing, Heath turned to face him and moved to stand resolutely in his brother’s path.

 

“Nick!”

 

Heath reached out to grab Nick’s arm as he passed by and said, “Please, Nick. I won’t be the cause’a the two’a you stayin’ at each other’s throats the way you’re doin’ now.”

 

The tension of the last few days, the lack of sleep, and his anger at Jarrod, combined together to create a Nick Barkley that was completely worked up and suddenly beyond reason. By the time Heath tried to stop him from going by, tried to turn him around to face him, to look at him, Nick had had enough.

 

He reached out with both hands and shoved Heath away, then followed closely with the force of his whole body, slamming the blond against the white fence in one quick stride.

 

Growling into Heath’s ear from behind as he pinned him there angrily, he snarled, “You’re not listening to me, Boy! I told you to stay out of it! Jarrod and I are completely capable of solving our problems all by ourselves. We’ve always managed in the past!”

 

Remembering the way he had manhandled Heath against the fence, remembering his callous, snarling words, Nick squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a long moment.

 

Then, dropping his head into his hands, he shook his head again and asked quietly, his words coming out in hardly more than a whisper, “How much more can he take, Jarrod? How much more?”

 

 

 

Chapter 34

 

As he lay there, panting hard after a severe coughing attack, he tried to focus on the small window set high in the wall above him. His side was throbbing with renewed fury, the knife wound to his shoulder was on fire, and his head was pounding unmercifully.

 

Outside that window, miles and miles away, was the ranch he desperately wanted to return to, and the family he had grown to love more than life itself.

 

It no longer seemed to matter what he had come here for. In truth, much of it now was a vague, shadowy blur, like ominous shapes moving through the poorly lit alleys of this part of the city after dark.

 

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to will the room to stop spinning and the sparks to stop shooting behind his eyelids. Then, he coughed again, spitting out the thick, rising congestion between gasps for air and pulling his legs up close to his chest as he lay on his side.

 

Unbidden, a moan slipped out as the movement of his legs brought its own searing pain.

 

He fought to stay conscious, knowing he had to continue coughing up the foul stuff or it would slowly suffocate and choke him.

 

A single tear, born of the pain and the effort, escaped through his tightly closed eyelids.

 

He knew he had to get out of this deadly damp place before its numbing, chilling cold killed him. Beginning to shake with the pain and cold, he promised himself he would try again in a little while to make several trips around the edges of the room.

 

Maybe it would help him keep his strength up.

 

Maybe it would keep him warm.

 

Then, as the coughing gradually eased, he gasped for breath and tried to uncoil his body.

 

If he could only make it back to the livery, or even back to the room on Stockton Street, he would feel that he had a chance of getting home. But, he knew that, if this place was by the docks as he suspected, if it was anywhere near the waterfront or where he and Korby had fought, he knew that to go out on his own, in this condition, without being able to protect himself, was to invite attack and certain death, even during the daylight hours.

 

No, he wasn’t strong enough yet. He was a prisoner here, not by the kindly woman who came off and on throughout the day and night to tend to his injuries, nor by the door at the other end of the unlocked room. But, he was a prisoner, forced to remain by his own inability to leave, as surely as if he were still trapped among his comrades in a cursed place called Carterson.

 

As he stared up and out of the broken window, searching unsuccessfully for any sign of warmth from the weak, watery sunlight filtering through the years of dirt and salty grime, his thoughts again circled around behind him . . . this time, focusing on the events of the last week and the act of violence that had brought him to this small, damp space, to the thin rice mat on this cold, filthy floor.

 

He remembered lying on the blanket-covered mattress in the room on Stockton Street, trying to gather the strength to rise from the bed and head back out into the growing darkness. Now, it seemed that it had been years ago, instead of only three, or was it four, nights ago?

 

His thoughts that day had repeatedly drifted toward trying to figure out part of the puzzle surrounding the trial and the people involved in it.

 

One of the things that had made no sense to him about the murder of Colonel Ashby, once Jarrod and Asa Harmon had linked the dead man, and Korby Kyles, to opium trafficking, was why Korby, or the Hip Soo Tong as Jarrod asserted, would kill a man who played a significant role in bringing either of them a profit.

 

If Korby worked for Colonel Ashby. . . . ?

 

Unless it was just an act of Korby’s anger at some unknown slight by the Colonel, the only answer must be that Korby had been paid by one tong to betray his own boss, to kill the Colonel, who distributed to or from a rival one.

 

During the long waking hours between contacting Murphy and trying unsuccessfully to make contact with Rogers for two unproductive nights in a row, Heath had begun to add to his previous, but somewhat limited, knowledge about the tongs of Chinatown.

 

From what he already knew, there were some twenty tongs, or “halls,” operating in the Chinatown district of San Francisco. Each of these organized gangs had their own membership and their own large financial operation.

 

Though they were known as the rulers of gambling operations, opium dens, and houses of prostitution, he also learned from pieces of idle conversation with various sailors and laborers, that some of the businesses the tongs ran were legitimate, and that this was probably a hold-over from the earlier days when the Six Companies controlled Chinatown.

 

As one old salt had explained to him, the Companies had made a benevolent attempt to act as go-betweens from the growing Chinese society and the more established San Francisco citizenry about fifteen years before. But, he had told Heath, the tongs had changed much of that, even to the point of growing very ruthless with each other and their own people, after they shoved the Companies into the background.

 

Years ago, Heath had heard stories of the tongs making money off of their own countrymen who, as individuals, participated in the practice of “yellow slavery” involving Chinese women. In his casual discussions and patient listening now, he learned more specifics. He had seen the results on every street corner and in every back alley in the area, and both the practice and the profit being made, brought him a very deep disgust, as much as that he felt for those participating in the opium trafficking.

 

For every girl imported from China at a cost of around forty dollars and destined for virtual slavery in America, whether she was put to work in a “crib” or “bagnio”, or was sold outright for more than four hundred dollars to some other individual, one of the tongs exacted a tax, adding to their profits.

 

With a groan, he got up from the bed and made his preparations for trying yet again to locate Rogers. If the man did not make an appearance tonight, in the last place Heath knew to look for him, he promised himself that, as much as he hated to give up the task he had accepted from Harmon, he would shift his focus to finding Korby. Then, after a few more days, even if he was unsuccessful, he would leave the navy, wool pea coat, and the violent despair of this place behind, and he would return, knowing he had done his best, to the ranch and the people he longed to see again.

 

For a moment, as he sat back down on the side of the bed, pulling on his boots, he paused, thinking about the wretched existence lived by the young girls brought here in the holds of ships from the Orient. He wondered fleetingly if there were any laws to protect them.

 

Then, thinking of his brother, the lawyer, and his ability to tackle any legal problem at its source, Heath wondered briefly, as he climbed tiredly to his feet, if yellow slavery were something that could, with the right people working behind the scenes, be a problem with a legal solution.

 

Later, shaking his head, as he leaned against the post of a gas lamp on Howard Street, he attempted to keep his thoughts and energies focused on the two problems that he could hope to impact now, that of finding two more men, the first so Rogers could escape the area unharmed to return with his information to help Harmon, and the other so Heath could protect his own family by returning the murderer to Stockton to stand trial. They would not be safe until the man, his brothers, and father were all behind bars.

 

There had never been any doubt for Heath about who he saw stab the Colonel, but when Jarrod had raised the possibility of a member of the tong committing the murder, Heath had disregarded it immediately. Anyone who had spent any time in the more unsavory areas of San Francisco knew that tong warriors were unfailingly loyal to their group and undeniably proud of their actions, almost always leaving behind their signature weapon for easy identification of the powerful tong for whom they had killed.

 

And, their weapon of choice was almost always a hatchet.

 

Often, these men, with their stealthy black garb and their queues wound tightly around their heads like the bandages Heath wore to protect his ribs, were pitted against each other, one tong against another, as wars of territory and control were violently waged.

 

However, along with recruiting their own force of fighting men from among their members, each tong was also known to employ other men from among the riff-raff of the streets for the sole purpose of murdering others.

 

Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was a possibility that Korby had been paid to do the deed, perhaps by one of the tongs trying to move in on the operations of another.

 

But, if that were the case, would Korby really have returned to San Francisco. . . and, where would he most likely be now?

 

Just then, Heath got a glimpse of a man coming out of the rear of a richly appointed apartment and descending a short flight of stone steps. The man turned to the right and headed up the cobble-stoned hill away from the water.

 

Heath had only made it down the long hallway beyond that same door and into the first room on his previous attempt to find Rogers inside, earlier in the evening. With the interior dimly lit by two chandeliers, he was able to take in some of the protected area within. He had seen heavy gilt and dark brown furnishings, the woven tapestries and heavy, brightly colored velvet curtains hanging along the walls and numerous raised, cushioned platforms, about two feet high, covered in thick rugs. On them lay over twenty men, lounging on vivid-colored, silk-covered pillows.

 

Though it served the exact same purpose, it was a place vastly different in comfort, than the opium dens he had visited previously.

 

Then, despite his ploy of near drunken joviality, they had taken one look at his clothing, and he had been quickly grabbed, just as his eyes took in the haze of smoke and the silent attendants moving among the platforms. He was silently escorted from the premises by two burly men, each of them a good forty pounds heavier, and two or three inches taller, than his own six foot frame. They had worked together to hold his arms roughly behind him and had propelled him from the apartment, throwing him roughly down the stone steps with no more than a curse and a backward glance in his direction.

 

Picking himself slowly from the street, he had made his way painfully toward the shadows, and he had sat, leaning against the brick wall of another building, facing the doorway, struggling to find the energy to regain his feet.

 

Now, he was glad he had.

 

Shaking his head again to clear it, he swallowed hard to stifle the cough he felt building inside his burning chest, and he followed the slightly built, dark-suited man. Though he could not make out the man’s face, it was obvious from the way the intermittent lamplight reflected off of the man’s boots, that they could be trimmed with ornate silver around the heels and toes.

 

As the hill became steeper, however, Heath began to be concerned that he was going to be unable to keep up with the man’s pace. Shaking his head, he grinned lopsidedly as he thought that the man now displayed none of the real or feigned, stuporous lethargy he had upon first leaving the Cremorne Garden apartment.

 

It was obvious that the man had not taken part in the smoking ritual as had the other inhabitants of that ornate den, or he would not be walking as fast, as steadily, as he was now.

 

Cursing under his breath, he saw the man turn a corner up ahead. Approaching cautiously, Heath nevertheless had to stop and cling to the frame of a street level window as a deep cough shuddered through him. Bending over, one hand on the window sill, he was completely unaware of the person standing next to him until he opened his eyes, gasping for breath, and saw the boots of the man he hoped was Charles Rogers.

 

Pushing himself up with one hand on his thigh, Heath nodded to the man as another cough kept him from speaking.

 

Then, with a cry he could not suppress, he felt himself being spun around and his back pressed against the rough brick of the nearby building.

 

“Who are you?” a rich, deep voice, bigger than the size of the man, demanded.

 

“I’m just. . . visitin’. . . ,” Heath ground out, his breathing coming in raspy wheezes, as the cough finally subsided. He took a deep breath and tried to finish, “. . . Visitin’ a friend’a mine . . . by the name of Asa.”

 

The brown-haired man, one hand supporting Heath, grabbed his face with the other, turning it up into the light. “Heath? Heath Thomson?”

 

Blinking hard, Heath sought to focus on the man, and he nodded, sagging against him, as he answered with a question of his own, “Charlie?”

 

Clapping his hand down on Heath’s shoulder, the man tried to ease the young man toward the low stone steps of the dark building beside them, but Heath refused to sit down.

 

“No. . . . You’ve gotta. . . get off the . . . streets, . . . Charlie.”

 

Nodding, Charles Rogers pulled one of Heath’s arms across his shoulders and assisted the younger, though larger, man up the rest of the hill and flagged down a passing hack. Helping the obviously sick blond inside, he started to give the driver an address.

 

Then, Heath spoke again, “Stockton Street, . . . as close. . .  ta Washington. . .  as he’s willing . . . ta go.”

 

“Heath? What are you doing here? And, what do you know about Asa?”

 

“Sent me . . . ta get you out, . . . .” Heath’s voice trailed off, as his eyes closed, and he slumped against the worried man beside him, a man he had not seen in over three years.

 

 

 

Chapter 35

 

With the semi-conscious blond beside him, Charles Rogers ignored the halting directions Heath had spoken and gave the driver his own address, that of a Mason and California Street townhouse, which was, ironically, only three blocks over from Stockton Street, but a world away in clientele.

 

Over a week ago, Rogers had abandoned his original strategy of focusing on the opium smoking dens of the Barbary Coast as the best place to gather information for Asa Harmon. He had quickly learned that the allure of the drugs did not stop at the Montgomery Street border, but crossed lines of race and financial circumstance as easily as a ship at sea traverses boundaries between countries.

 

Choosing to focus his efforts on working his way into the more exclusive dens, he had set up operations from a friend’s seldom used townhouse in the Nob Hill district.

 

Reaching over to tap the bruised face of the young man beside him, he scowled at the implications of Heath’s sudden appearance here.

 

“Wake up, Heath. We’re almost there,” he said.

 

What had happened that had made Harmon send someone in after him at this point? In another few days, he would have made enough contacts to have a better picture of exactly who might be profiting from the opium trade. Knowing the political climate of San Francisco right now, he knew the opium problem was perceived as a Chinese issue, not one that involved nor harmed the more established society.

 

But, his recent information said otherwise.

 

As the cab came to a halt on a street that seemed to be slowly sliding down a sharply sloped hill, he said, “Come on, Heath. You’ve got to wake up now.”

 

With a groan, the blond came around, just as the driver climbed down and opened the door.

 

“Here, Sir. Let me help you,” the tall, slender man said, though his eyebrow raised as he reached in and caught the arm of the blond dressed more appropriately for the docks than the area around this particular hill.

 

Together, the two men managed to get the third out of the carriage’s narrow doorway and pointed in the direction of the row of distinctive townhouses lining the street behind them.

 

When Charlie opened the door and assisted the groggy Heath inside, he and the driver eased the young man down to the gold upholstered settee next to the cold fireplace. Dismissing the driver with a handsome tip, Charlie set about warming the room and fixing the silent blond some water.

 

“Heath,” Charlie said, “Drink this. Then, I’ll get you some coffee.”

 

Nodding, Heath silently took the glass and drank a couple of swallows gratefully.

 

“Charlie, . . .” he said, “This place. . . . Not exactly . . . what I expected.”

 

Bending down to light the fire before removing his coat, Charlie sighed.

 

“How much did he tell you?”

 

At Heath’s questioning look, his head lifted slightly from the back of the settee where it had been resting, the man clarified, “Asa Harmon. I assume he gave you some information about what we were trying to do here.”

 

Struggling to lean forward, one arm wrapped around his ribs, Heath said slowly, “His information pointed me to the Barbary Coast, . . . an’ the Chinese district. But, the more I’ve learned since I’ve been here, . . . the more I could picture you, if you were really the Crusty Charlie I knew, . . . in the Cremorne Gardens area I kept hearin’ about.”

 

“How’s that?” the man standing across from him asked, smiling hugely, one hand raking through his short brown curls.

 

Heath pointed down at the fancy boots, grinning back at him through his exhaustion, “I knew if there was a way you could get out’a laborer’s clothes . . . an’ inta something more gentlemanly, . . . you’d find it.”

 

With a laugh, Charlie replied, “You know me too well, Heath----even if it has been over three years.”

 

Then, walking over to pat Heath on the shoulder, he said, “You lie back there, now, and I’ll cook us something to eat and get you that coffee I promised. You look ready to keel over. We’ll talk some more after that.”

 

Reaching out to take Charlie Rogers arm as he turned toward the hallway beyond the slowly warming room, Heath said, “Ya’ can’t go back there, Charlie. Colonel Ashby from Stockton an’ Asa’s man, Smith, have both been murdered, . . . an’ I’m afraid you’ll be set up if ya’ do.”

 

“Harmon’s all wrong about some of this, Heath, though I have no doubt that he’s right about his concerns. Believe me, I’m touched by his worry, and you rest easy. I’ll heed your warning, my friend. It was almost time anyway.”

 

Then, he added, patting the blond on the shoulder, “I worked the back alleys for over a month before I realized that I was only seeing part of the problem. I now know this opium trafficking has its tentacles in every level of this city’s citizenry, and Harmon and Senator Erickson need to know that too-----or they’ll never be successful in their attempts to create laws to stop it. There’ll be too many people who’ll be affected if it keeps growing unchecked, and too many influential people who might try to stop the laws if we don’t hurry.”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Charlie had taken charge the next day, bringing in a doctor to look at Heath closely for the first time since he had been beaten by the Kyles in the smithy at the ranch. The doctor had cautioned the exhausted young man that, though he could not find any evidence that a lung had been damaged, something inside had caused the blood Heath admitted to coughing up several days ago.

 

He had re-wrapped the three, definitely broken ribs and had admonished him to stay in bed for the next few days to allow them to heal. Then, he had warned them both that Heath could not tolerate any more blows to his body, nor exposure to much more dampness. He was already headed towards pneumonia as it was.

 

After resting all day and eating the simple, but hot meals Charlie prepared for him, Heath enjoyed talking with his old friend. They spoke mostly of the hardworking days spent on the docks together.

 

“Heath, do you remember how Old Riley Harden used to get when he was drunk?”

 

Smiling, the blond nodded his head. He had been just barely twenty years old, and the older man, with his huge size, had constantly tried to intimidate the young blond.

 

Charlie continued, “He was forever trying to get you and me both to call him Boss Harden and to run scared of him. I’ll never forget the way you out-drank him that night down at that deadfall on Beckett.”

 

Chuckling a bit, he added, “He got madder and madder, finally picked up that whole table and threw it at you, missing you by a good foot, before he collapsed to the floor. It took five men to carry him out of there, and he kept his distance from you after that.”

 

Heath’s blue eyes twinkled at the memory, then he said, “Ya’ never did tell anyone, did ya’, that I got only as far as Gold Street before I slid ta the ground, an’ ya’ had ta practically drag me the rest’a the way to our rooms?”

 

“Me, say anything?” Charlie feigned hurt feelings. “Heath Thomson, you know me better than that!”

 

In the blink of an eye, Heath’s smile faded, and he looked at the older man, holding his dark brown eyes in his gaze. He said seriously, “It’s Barkley, Charlie. Heath Barkley.”

 

Shock, as the words registered, surfaced and encroached on Charlie’s features. His eyes grew wide and both eyebrows rose as one.

 

“Barkley? But. . . ? You found your Daddy, Heath? After all those years?”

 

Heath smiled lopsidedly and looked down at the fine, white linen tablecloth. He picked up his cloth napkin from his lap and tossed it to the table beside his plate, before pushing his chair back and crossing the polished wood floor of the well-appointed dining room to stand by the fire.

 

Charlie stood, headed to the buffet at the opposite side of the room, and poured them both a drink. Then, he carried it over to his friend.

 

As Heath took it, he lifted his eyes from the flames to Charlie’s face.

 

“When I left here, you had gotten that job with one’a the merchants down at the end of Battery, an’ you were on your way up in the world. Ya’ seemed ta really like what you were doin’, . . an’ you were makin’ yourself useful there. I was proud for ya’ ta have found a place for yourself, Charlie. . . . But, for me, it was different.”

 

“I tried to get you a job, Heath, but you didn’t . . . “

 

“I know, Charlie, an’ I still appreciate it, but I just wasn’t cut out ta stay here, in this city. I went south, went back ta horses an’ cattle the first chance I got. I worked a number’a spreads down near Corcoran, then headed down toward Coachella.”

 

“Coachella? That’s almost in Mexico, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Heath replied, following Charlie back toward the more comfortable sitting room at the front of the house. There, he gratefully eased down into one of two dark blue wing back chairs facing the fireplace. “I eventually wound up in Mexico, too, for a while. But, . . . “

 

He trailed off for a moment, lost in the memories of losing his mother, while Charlie waited patiently.

 

“But, I found out my mother was sick, so I worked my way back ta the Sierras after months down there. ‘Had a few other jobs, wound up east’a the divide workin’ as a deputy for a while.”

 

Heath grinned lopsidedly at Charlie’s raised eyebrows. Then, he continued, “But, finally, I went back ta Strawberry, ended up back in the mines for a time . . . . When she died, I found out about my father. ‘Turned out he was also dead, had been for six years. His name was Tom Barkley, an’ his family, . . . my family, had a ranch near Stockton.”

 

Charlie’s eyes widened at this information. He knew of the Barkleys. . . everyone in the state of California did. In fact, he knew Jarrod Barkley had an office here in San Francisco and a townhouse around the corner from where they were now sitting.

 

Suddenly, he felt a surge of anger for his friend and all the years of not knowing. . . .

 

“Heath! The Stockton Barkleys?” he said, his eyebrows rising once again as he struggled with his growing outrage. “You and I probably loaded their goods on ships leaving the harbor many times, . . . more times than we could count. And, all that time. . . ?” Charlie broke off, unable to finish the thought.

 

Blinking, Heath stared at him for a silent few seconds. He had not thought of that, and for a brief flicker of a moment, he felt anger rekindled deep inside his heart.

 

Then, he abruptly let out a loud sigh and shook his head.

 

“They’ve been good ta me, Charlie. I went ta them with nothing, an’ . . . “ his words trailed off again, this time as thoughts of their faces, their eyes, their love for him and for each other, drifted before him.

 

“An’, they’ve shared so much with me, Charlie, more than I demanded, more than I had a right ta ask. I wanted the respect the name created in other people, but what I found ta be most important was the family I gained.”

 

Charlie sat back in his chair, watching his friend intently. No matter what Heath said, he could tell everything was not completely settled, though. He knew Heath well enough to know the words were partly for him and partly for himself, as if he were trying to remind himself of what he spoke.

 

“But?” Charlie asked, after a moment.

 

Heath raised his eyes and said, “But, . . . I left without tellin’ them why, an’ I threw my hand in with Harmon on this, came here at his request ta find you an’ another man. He asked me ta talk ya’ both inta returnin’ ta help him face his senate committee before ya’ got hit over the head with a blackjack,” Heath smiled and finished, “An’ forgot everything you’d learned here.”

 

Charlie laughed for a moment. Then, he asked seriously, “You came looking for me, Heath? I don’t even think Harmon knows my name. Smith knew, but. . . if you’re here. . . You couldn’t have known then that it was me you’d be looking for.”

 

He paused again, watching Heath intently as the truth of it registered on Charlie. Then, he asked quietly, “You left the family you’d just found to come searching the Coast for two men that you didn’t know, didn’t you?”

 

When the blond beside him didn’t answer, Charlie added, “The devil if I’ve ever been able to figure out your particular brand of honor, my friend.”

 

Heath looked across at the fire and said quietly, “I didn’t know it’d be you, Charlie. You’re right. . . . I didn’t know names ‘til I got here, but,” he said, lifting his eyes back to those of his friend, “Don’t talk ta me about honor. I’m not the one who’s been livin’ among the opium dens an’ deadfalls for almost two months, when you’ve probably got enough money tucked away by now ta own two houses like this one. You were driven by the same kind’a demons I was, because’a the time ya’ told me about, from when you were shot in the war. . . . Weren’t you, Charlie?”

 

Rogers nodded, sure that Heath, of all people, understood what had motivated him to help Harmon. But, he asked, “So, you found me. What about the other man?”

 

“He’s already out, I hope. He was a good man, name’a Murphy, had a family, children that needed him. I didn’t tell him what else I was doin’, didn’t want him ta feel obligated ta stay an’ help me. I started with him, ‘cause I figured you, bein’ an old wharf rat, would be tougher ta find. . . an’ tougher for anyone here ta harm. Any who tried’d probably just bend their blackjacks, tryin’ ta hit you over the head with it.”

 

After a moment, in which Charlie looked into the fireplace, puzzling over all of this new information, he lifted his head and stared at his friend.

 

“Heath, are you going back to Stockton?”

 

Without hesitation, he answered, “Yes, Charlie, ‘soon as I’m finished here. There’s no place on this earth I’d rather be. My family, . . . the woman that accepted me, that allows me ta call her Mother, the little sister that shines like an angel, an’ my brothers. . . .”

 

“Your brothers?” Charlie prompted after a moment of silence, in which Heath turned his face back to the fire.

 

“My two brothers, Jarrod an’ Nick, are the two men I respect more than anyone I’ve ever met, includin’ you, you wharf rat,” Heath grinned lopsidedly, “And, if I never make it home, my greatest regret’d be that I didn’t take time ta tell them how much being their brother means ta me.”

 

Shaking his head, Charlie asked suspiciously, “Then, what are you doing sitting here with me, talking about it? That’s not like you, despite what that doctor said. Go home!”

 

“’Still got unfinished business, Charlie,” Heath answered, shaking his head.

 

 

 

Chapter 36

 

The cold sea air and the chilling gusts of wind cut through them in silent contrast to the warmth of the crackling fire the two of them had left hours before.

 

Charlie had left Heath asleep on the settee in the sitting room after their discussion, and he had moved through the first two stories of the narrow townhouse, gathering his things and straightening up the borrowed space. While his plan was for them to return to the house in the early morning hours, he optimistically hoped that he could help Heath finish his quest tonight and could get his friend onto a train headed home tomorrow, though he was afraid the search for Colonel Ashby’s murderer might take longer than either of them wanted to contemplate.

 

When they had left the warm townhouse and walked downhill toward the rougher area of the docks a little while later, Heath looked better, despite his tattered clothing, and Charlie looked worse, his fancy attire exchanged for garb similar to Heath’s.

 

Now, as they worked their way from bar to bar, deadfall to deadfall, they both were beginning to think that, even with Charlie’s contacts, finding Korby Kyles was going to be a cold, daunting task.

 

Charlie had listened to Heath’s descriptions of the man, and had decided that their best bet was to stick to a few, specific places where the kind of clientele they attracted matched what Heath had had to say about Kyles. While some of the places were frequented by sailors of various nationalities, and others catered to men looking for female companionship, it sounded like Kyles would be looking for whiskey and fast money.

 

Unfortunately, Charlie thought, as he eyed his tired companion, that forced them to seek the man in the more dangerous alleys and the deadfalls of the worst areas.

 

“Heath,” Charlie said, quietly, reaching out to take his blond friend by the arm, “I think we’d better head back. It’s a long way to the house, and most of it’s uphill. You don’t look like you can walk two blocks, let alone up and down two hills.”

 

Grinning back at him lopsidedly, Heath started to say something about Charlie being too used to the good life to lower himself to the idea of paying for lodging somewhere along these streets.

 

Then, suddenly, he narrowed his eyes, watching a man behind Charlie scurrying toward them from the opposite direction.

 

“Charlie,” Heath hissed, “It’s him.”

 

Immediately, Heath took a step toward Charlie, then abruptly let his legs go out from under him, and he fell against a couple of wooden crates stacked up against the wall of an unlit warehouse.

 

He cursed loudly, drunkenly, but remained where he was. Then, as Charlie reached down to help him up, Heath laughed out loud.

 

“C’mon there, Lad,” Charlie slurred. “Let me git you up and outta the s-s-street. I tole you to s-s-stop your guzz-zzling an hour a-go, but you w’dn’t lis-s-sten to Ol’ Crusty, now would you?”

 

Heath laughed again, then let Charlie help pull him up and drape one arm over his shoulders. He patted Charlie on the head drunkenly, and said, “Thanks-s-s, Crusty, Ol’ Buddy. I owe ya’ one. . . . How ‘bout right now?”

 

“No way, S-s-sailor. I’m not iner-es-s-sed in any more booz-ze. You’re on your own.”

 

Crusty pushed Heath away, and the blond staggered against the wall. But, he turned and began to make his way toward the end of the alley and the intersection of a street that ran back downhill toward the docks.

 

Charlie turned the other way and headed into an open doorway advertising overnight lodging. Then, he backed out of sight inside the dimly lit entrance.

 

He immediately recognized the man who passed by on the other side of the alley, pursuing Heath stealthily. He was a low life he had seen recently hanging around in the area and preying on drunken sailors. Charlie had carefully avoided this man’s kind for years, though the area was full of them.

 

Easing back out of the doorway after a moment, he was dismayed to see that the two men, one following the other, had both made it further down the alley than he thought they would have. As he approached rapidly, trying to still the sound of his boots on the cobblestones, he saw the smaller man raise his blackjack over his head in preparation for bringing it down on Heath from behind.

 

But, Heath turned suddenly, blocked the arm holding the silent weapon, and grabbed the wiry man by the collar. Spinning him around, he had the momentary satisfaction of seeing the recognition widen Korby’s eyes as he realized that once again, he had been caught in the act by the same, blond-haired man.

 

Only after he brought a fierce punch across his body and slammed it into Kyles’ face, did Heath release his tight grip on the man, who sunk to the ground bonelessly, spinelessly.

 

Shaking his hand to dissipate the pain of the punch, Heath grinned at Charlie’s approach.

 

Surprised that the man had gone down with only one blow, Charlie grabbed Heath’s hand and examined it in the almost non-existent light. Then, eyebrows raised, he whistled and said, “I take it you enjoyed that?”

 

Nodding, Heath said, coughing slightly, but still grinning, “You can’t begin ta know how much.”

 

Clamping his hand down on Heath’s shoulder, Charlie said, “You always were a scrapper, Heath. I can see that tacking on a new name hasn’t changed you much.”

 

Heath’s eyes shone as he confirmed, just before he began coughing again, “Only for the better, Charlie.”

 

Nodding, Charlie said, clinging to Heath’s arm, holding him up, “I know some of the police around here. I’ll see if I can find a couple of them and get some assistance to carry him out of here. Will you be alright to stay here with him until I get back?”

 

“Kyles an’ I’ll be right here waitin’ on you. . . . Hurry back, though, ‘cause come daylight, . . . I plan ta be headed home.”

 

“Alright, Heath. Just wait here.”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

When Nick and Jarrod stepped down from the train as it reached the San Francisco depot on Market Street, they cast tired eyes around the throngs of people, searching for Asa Harmon.

 

“Maybe he didn’t get your wire, Jarrod,” Nick said, having no trouble communicating his growl over the noise from the steam engine behind them.

 

But, as they made their way through the people milling about, Jarrod spotted the investigator talking to a large, sandy-haired man over by a carriage.

 

“There he is,” Jarrod said, pointing.

 

As they approached, Harmon and the other man turned around and saw them. Shaking hands, the older man introduced them.

 

“Nick and Jarrod Barkley, this is Robert Murphy.”

 

Immediately struck by the man’s size and his bright green eyes, Nick watched Murphy carefully as the tall man asked, “You’re Heath’s brothers? I would’na have thought it to look at you. There is no resemblance.”

 

Jarrod reached out to stop Nick from whatever retort he was sure his brother had for the man, and said diplomatically, “Mr. Murphy, if you know Heath, you’ll know why we are so anxious to find him. And, any help you can offer would be appreciated.”

 

The man looked Jarrod in the eye, nodded, and responded, “Aye, he’s a good lad. But, then, you know that already. If you’re here to help us find him, then that’ll be good enough for the likes’a me.”

 

Relaxing a bit, though he was amazed to hear the protectiveness and worry in the larger man’s voice, Nick motioned for Harmon and Jarrod to climb in, while he followed Murphy up into the driver’s box behind the horses.

 

As they headed toward Jarrod’s Nob Hill residence, Nick questioned the driver.

 

“How exactly do you know my brother, Mr. Murphy?”

 

“Call me Robbie, Lad. I do’na know him well, Mr. Barkley, but. . .”

 

“Nick.”

 

Robbie nodded, “Aye, Nick, then. As I was saying, I do’na know him well. I only met him the one time, but he stuck his neck out for me, getting me out of here the way he did before something happened. It were’na two days after that before one’a the men I’d recently been talking to turned up dead on the police precinct steps.”

 

He shook his head ruefully and added, “It’s glad I was to get home to my family. . . . Now, we’ve got to find that boy and get him home to his.”

 

Cheered by the simply spoken, heart-felt words, Nick looked out across the sprawling hillside covered with homes and businesses, as they climbed up and away from the water.

 

He took in a deep breath and released it, feeling for the first time since Heath had disappeared, that there was still hope.

 

 

 

Chapter 37

 

The fire in the masculine, bookshelf-lined study crackled in the grate. For a while, it was the only sound.

 

Then, Nick hit his hand against the wooden mantle, breaking the tense silence that hovered over all of them.

 

“Harmon! Couldn’t you tell he was hurting those last two times you saw him?”

 

Asa Harmon’s eyes had been lowered to the floor, listening intently, as they all had, as Murphy described how Heath had found him in the bar. When he had explained how he had hit the young man and afterward Heath had needed his assistance in getting back to Stockton Street, Harmon had closed his brown eyes, wondering what trouble the blond had run into between his last conversation with him and meeting up with the large Scot.

 

Then, when Nick’s words had struck him, as the vehement, dark-haired rancher had described the beatings Heath had endured before and during the trial, he had started trying to remember any signs he had missed previously.

 

Shaking his head, he slowly lifted his dark brown eyes and met Nick’s hard hazel.

 

“I’m deeply sorry, Mr. Barkley,” he said in his serious, formal voice. “I did not know he was hurt when I met with him after the trial. He did look very tired on that Thursday, on the train, but I just figured he hadn’t slept for worrying about what he had agreed to do.”

 

“My brother doesn’t worry that way, Harmon,” Nick said, the growl in his tone unmistakable. “Once he makes up his mind, there’s no amount of dynamite in this state that would change it. If he worried, it was about what he was afraid his decision was going to do to us, to my mother and sister, especially since you told him he couldn’t tell us where he was going or why.”

 

Quietly, Jarrod interjected, “Nick, you know as well as I do, that if Heath didn’t want Asa to know he was hurt, then . . . .”

 

Nick whirled around and stared dark hazel daggers at Jarrod, who was standing by the small oak buffet near the door, pouring Robbie another drink.

 

For a moment, the two locked eyes across the room, and Jarrod was sure his brother was about to light into him again about his role in all of this, beginning with not believing Heath about what he had seen in that alley.

 

Then, silently, Nick’s eyes changed to a more compassionate green-gold, and he nodded once, his face a mask of pain, to let his brother know he understood the truth of Jarrod’s words.

 

Without a word, he turned back to the fire.

 

Murphy spoke up, “Lads, it seems ta me that we best be figuring out what we’re about next. We won’t find him by sitting here all nice and warm by this toasty fire.”

 

“Hold on, Murphy,” Harmon said, holding up his hand. “I won’t risk any more lives by sending everyone in looking for him with all the unrest going on down there. The tong, with their hatchetmen, have been showing themselves in places we’ve never seen them before.”

 

“First of all, Harmon,” Nick replied steadily, “You don’t risk my life. I do. And, second, Murphy’s right. I didn’t come here to sit by the fire and crochet doilies.”

 

Rising, the shorter man stepped next to the fireplace, looking up into Nick’s fierce gaze. “Mr. Barkley, if you’ll just hold on a minute, there’s more than just what Murphy told you. That’s just the beginning. I have another man that. . . ”

 

They all turned as a knock on the front door penetrated the tension in the room.

 

Jarrod met Nick’s eyes across the room, and they both moved toward the doorway. The other two remained, though Harmon moved quickly and grabbed Jarrod’s arm as he set down his drink and headed for the front door.

 

“Jarrod, it may be my other man. His name is Charles Rogers.”

 

The blue-eyed attorney nodded and moved toward the front of his home, where he cautiously opened the door facing the cobblestone street.

 

Quickly, moving past both Jarrod and Nick, a slightly built sailor, carrying a tightly tied bundle, slipped inside. Nick stepped into his path to stop him, his gun drawn. The man stood his ground, a smile on his face as if he were mocking Nick.

 

Immediately, Harmon and Murphy stepped into the room, and the sailor’s brown eyes found Harmon’s. “Good evening, Gov’nor,” the man said as he reached up, taking off his hat and making a sweeping bow towards Harmon.

 

Puzzled, Nick and Jarrod looked at each other. Nick noticed that Murphy was trying hard not to break into loud laughter.

 

Then, the smaller man turned to Nick and said, “Well, I’ll say this, Cowboy, you’ve got the same fierce protectiveness that he does, though I’d wager the ladies probably find him much more attractive.”

 

“Who the hell are you? And, who are you talking about?” Nick snarled, holstering his gun. If anything, he was going to enjoy taking on this filthy upstart, but he now knew he would enjoy doing so bare-knuckled, not with a gun in his hand.

 

“Uh, Nick, . . .” Asa Harmon started to speak.

 

But, the sailor cut him off, his eyes sparkling, enjoying this as well, “Name’s Crusty, and, as your brother said recently, I’m just an old wharf rat.”

 

“My . . .” Nick started, then stopped. He glanced at Jarrod and back to Murphy, who was trying to look away, mirth about to burst forth.

 

Asa Harmon stepped in.

 

“Nick, Jarrod, meet Charles Rogers, my other man on the inside, the second man your brother got out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, both of them have insisted on going back several times in the last few days, trying to locate Heath.”

 

At the incredulous look from Nick, Charlie winked, then turned to Jarrod, reached out to shake his hand, and said in a more serious voice, “Mr. Barkley, if I could trouble you for a drink, I have some information for you.”

 

Jarrod led the way into the study and poured for them all. Nick began pacing up and down by the fireplace. Harmon took a seat in a brown leather wingback, and he and Murphy locked eyes for a few seconds. Only Charlie Rogers was completely relaxed as he grinned at Jarrod and took the offered glass.

 

He lifted it toward Nick, who was watching him as he paced.

 

Suddenly, the dark-haired rancher could contain his impatience no longer.

 

“Out with it! What do you know about all this?”

 

Still staring at Nick, Charlie said, “Mr. Barkley, I’ve known your brother a long time, and I have no intention of leaving him to die out there, if he’s still alive.”

 

Jarrod spoke up, “You knew Heath before this?”

 

Charlie nodded, “The two of us used to work the docks here. But, that was before I became a more respectable merchant, and . . . and Heath found out who his daddy was.”

 

Jarrod and Nick looked at each other across the room. Obviously, Heath had talked to this man about some of the changes that had taken place lately. Both of them found themselves wondering briefly what else he had told the man about them, especially of the turmoil that had divided them recently.

 

It made them simultaneously uneasy and very proud to realize with startling clarity that Heath had friends in places they knew nothing about, friends that obviously cared a great deal about what happened to him.

 

But, quickly, they each focused on the most important issue at hand, finding Heath and getting him home----if he was even still alive and they could talk him into coming back with them.

 

“Mr. Rogers,” Jarrod began, but was quickly waved off with a shake of the man’s hand.

 

“Charlie, please.”

 

“Alright, Charlie. Please call us by our first names as well.” Jarrod paused, “Will you tell us about meeting up with Heath recently and anything you know of what has happened to him?”

 

Nick spoke up from across the room, as he stopped behind the chair where Asa sat, gripping the top of it with his black-gloved hands.

 

“How was he when you last saw him? I take it you don’t think Korby Kyles killed him as he claims?”

 

Holding up his hand, Charlie stepped over by the fire and said quietly, dropping his eyes to his glass, “Maybe I’d better start at the beginning.”

 

When Nick and Jarrod both nodded, he began speaking again, “From the moment I first realized someone was following me four nights ago, I also knew whoever it was, was sick or hurt. He kept on coughing, finally stopped, all doubled over from an uphill climb. When I realized who it was, I got him back to the place I had borrowed from a friend.” Turning to Jarrod, he added, “A townhouse, just around the corner from here.”

 

Jarrod closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, and Nick turned toward the window, hitting his fist inside the palm of the other hand forcefully.

 

Both could almost feel how close the blond had been, . . .

 

If they’d only known he was even in San Francisco at that time. . . .

 

Nodding, and holding himself in check, Jarrod finally said, in a voice filled with regret, “Go on.”

 

“I had him examined by a doctor, and the man warned him to stay in bed for several days to let his ribs start to heal before he did himself irreparable damage. He told us Heath had apparently bled somewhere inside, that it had stopped on its own, but cautioned him against any more injuries to that area, and told him to stay warm and dry----that he was headed toward pneumonia.”

 

“But, he wouldn’t listen, would he?” Nick asked, shaking his head. “Of all the stubborn, mule-headed, . . . he just had to go after Kyles, didn’t he?”

 

Amused in spite of himself at Nick’s words, Jarrod said over his raised drink, “Does it make it worse if one mule calls another that?”

 

Nick narrowed his eyes and glared at his blue-eyed older brother. “Big Brother,” he growled across the room, “I think I’d be just as careful wading into the mud being slung in this corral, if I were you. It’s getting pretty deep in here, mud and otherwise.”

 

Jarrod touched one hand to his imaginary hat, tipping it to Nick, and smiled. Then, as one, they both turned back to Charlie.

 

Murphy, who had stayed quiet up to now, said remorsefully to Charlie, “Maybe if I’d stayed to help him like you did, he wouldn’t be missing now.”

 

But, Charlie was quick to speak up, to reassure the man he had met and gotten to know in the last few days they had spent searching for Heath.

 

“No, Robbie, we’ve been over this. Heath didn’t want you to stay. He knew you had little ones to get home to. He’ll be angry at Asa and me for letting you get involved with this now.”

 

Murphy nodded morosely, not entirely assuaged by the words, but appreciative of them nonetheless.

 

“Mr. Barkley, . . . Nick,” Charlie said, “I think if you’re willing, there are many more places we could go, you, me, and Robbie, the three of us together, . . .  to look for more information about your brother, especially if you’re willing to spend some more cash in the process.”

 

“Let’s go!” Nick said, catching the bundle of dark clothes that Charlie leaned over, picked up from the floor at his feet, and tossed over Asa’s head to him.

 

“Jarrod,” Charlie said, turning to the lawyer, who was listening and watching intently, the irritation at being excluded beginning to build. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but, you’ll stand out too much where we’re going.”

 

Jarrod’s midnight blue eyes flickered with a moment of anger, like a flash of lightning in a dark sky streaking across the foothills in the distance beyond his family’s ranch.

 

Then, he said dangerously, “Mr. Rogers, if you think I’m going to sit this round out just because. . . .”

 

“Mr. Barkley,” Charlie demanded in kind, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. “Let me see your hands.”

 

“My hands?”

 

“Yes.”

 

One at a time, Charlie turned the hands over and offered his own in comparison. “One look at your hands, as you reach in your pocket for money to give a bartender, or as you reach to turn up the collar of your coat in the wind, and you just telegraphed to anyone watching that you’re an easy mark-----whether that’s true or not. Your very presence would endanger us all.”

 

“Endanger you? But, . . .” Jarrod began, his usual eloquence being overwhelmed by his anger at the audacity of this man he had just allowed into his home. Then, he swallowed and recovered his objectivity, thinking fast.

 

He asked, “Gloves? Why not a pair of old, worn out gloves? I could. . .”

 

Nick had moved around the room to stand in front of Jarrod, as the smaller, curly-haired man finished speaking. He reached out to take Jarrod by the shoulders and looked deeply into his brother’s eyes.

 

Swallowing hard, Nick said, looking only at his older brother, despite feeling the eyes of everyone else in the room on him, “I know. Believe me, I know, Jarrod. We’ve both done things we’re not proud of where Heath is concerned. We both want him home. More than anything. . . . But,” his hazel eyes softened and his dark eyebrows pushed together and rose in compassion, as he added, “He’s right. And, we both know it. Besides, I know that your headaches haven’t completely gone away after Jake Kyles and his boys took you on that little ride out of the courthouse, have they?”

 

Staring into Nick’s eyes at length, Jarrod finally dropped his eyes and shook his head.

 

“He won’t believe that you can ride drag at the back of a herd and eat dust all day long with the best of them, though we both know you can. But, that’s not the best use of your talents at home, just like forcing you into the role of a Barbary Coast ruffian is not the best use of your talents here. . . . Let us do this. You concentrate on something else just as important.”

 

At Jarrod’s lifted eyebrow and steady, staring blue eyes, waiting for him to continue, Nick gripped Jarrod tightly on his shoulder, and asked, “Harmon can’t go in either, right?”

 

Charlie turned to the older man, and, with his eyes twinkling, he laughed, “No. Asa would cause his own stir down there. Probably got some old girlfriends that’ll remember him from his days as the investigator for the District Attorney’s office, and they’ll send in the crimps they work for specially to shanghai him or something.”

 

Harmon just sat in his chair, sipping his drink, and chuckled once.

 

Then, Charlie turned back to Nick and asked, “But, it sounded like you had an idea you were leading up to.”

 

“If I know anything about my little brother, he’s going to be anxious to know that the information you two found,” he turned to include Murphy in his words, “Was making a difference in getting that committee of Harmon’s moving on creating laws, or whatever you fellows do.”

 

All three of the men involved nodded, watching Nick.

 

“Well, I don’t know a better lawyer in this state to help you see that through. I know Heath will be mighty glad to know that law is on its way to being written when we find him. It’ll probably be his third question.”

 

Jarrod, swallowing hard at Nick’s words, asked, “And, the first two?”

 

“He’ll ask about the family, Mother and Audra, of course. Then, he’ll want to know about his horse!”

 

Jarrod smiled, nodding his head. The tension seemed to drain out of him with his brother’s words. Then, he asked, “Asa, are you willing to have some help?”

 

“Of course, Jarrod. Knowing the Barkleys are behind this will carry a lot of weight with the committee and when the first draft returns to the floor. I haven’t had much time to do anything with the information since this happened, and your help would be greatly appreciated.”

 

Nodding again, Jarrod added, “But, there’s one thing I’ve got to do first, tonight.”

 

Puzzled, Harmon asked, “What’s that? There’s not much to be done with the information until tomorrow.”

 

“Can you get me into the jail tonight to see Korby Kyles?”

 

Nick’s head came around, from where he stood, adjusting the ill-fitting wool jacket, and he stared at Jarrod.

 

“Yes, Sir. I think I can do that,” Harmon answered.

 

Jarrod nodded at his brother and said, “For Heath, Nick. And, for me.”

 

As Nick slowly nodded back and returned his eyes to what he was doing, Jarrod and Asa gathered their coats and hats to head back out.

 

Suddenly, they all stopped, hearing Charlie’s words.

 

“Jarrod, before you go, there’s something I need to tell you, both of you.” Turning to face Nick, before he eyed the other two men, Charlie said, “Asa, Robbie, please give us a few minutes.”

 

Harmon and Murphy nodded and headed out to the foyer. Charlie followed them to the double doors of the study and closed them. Then, he turned back to the two Barkleys standing there watching him warily.

 

 

 

Chapter 38

 

Worried that he was going to give them more bad news about Heath, tell them something that he was afraid they would prefer to hear privately, neither one was prepared for Charlie’s next words.

 

“Heath and I were pretty close, but he never really was an easy man to get much out of. I always found him to be an excellent listener, but not much on conversation, especially when it came to talking about things that were important to him.”

 

Charlie wandered over to the fireplace and stood looking down at the flames, his clothing, more appropriate for the docks than the drawing room, standing out in odd contrast to the well-appointed study around him.

 

He turned back to the two men, watching them for a moment.

 

Nick, with his arms crossed, staring hard at him, was the larger and tougher looking of the two, and Charlie had found him to be the more openly worried and angry about his brother’s disappearance.

 

Jarrod, with his reserve and tendency to watch closely, looking for deeper information than what the speaker shared with his words, was somehow hurting in a different way over Heath being missing, almost as if he thought he were at fault for some reason, almost as if he were feeling guilty about it.

 

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then, Charlie asked softly, his voice in quiet counterpoint to his salty exterior, “How many years has Heath been with your family? It can’t be any more than two, right?”

 

Jarrod glanced at Nick, who continued staring at the smaller man as if taking measure of his worth.

 

The attorney spoke up for both of them, shaking his head, “Not years, Charlie. We only met each other a little over two months ago.”

 

Charlie’s eyes widened, his dark brown eyes staring harder at first one, then the other of the two men.

 

“Just over two . . . months . . . ?” echoed Charlie, trailing off in disbelief. He turned around and stared back down into the fire, perplexed.

 

The words he wanted to tell them and the conviction beneath them, . . . he was so sure that Heath must have known these two men for much longer than that.

 

Then, turning back to face them, Charlie took a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure if we’ll ever find him. You both must already know that down that hill there, between here and the waterfront, the odds are against it.”

 

He looked at Nick, who stared back at him steadily. His words had not changed the sheer power of the man, the confidence Charlie could read in him from eight feet away, the determination that if there was anything that could be done to influence the odds, then Nick Barkley would see to it.

 

Charlie added, keeping his eyes on the dark-haired rancher, “The chances are better that something will happen to one of the three of us, . . . and you, being new there, will be the most likely one for that to happen to. Robbie and I, well, we’re more used to the ways of the Coast, . . . little things,” he grinned and added, “Like which part of the floor near the end of the bar at The Whale to avoid while you’re drinking, so you don’t find yourself falling through the trapdoor, then caught in the cellar with a bad headache . . . and the next two years on some ship to get over it.”

 

Nick’s eyebrows moved, and Jarrod’s penetrating gaze narrowed in renewed concern. He glanced at Nick.

 

“Get to the point,” Nick growled.

 

Charlie nodded, “Well, I felt like there was something you should both know before we separated, something Heath said to me the night we found Kyles, and I. . . I lost contact with him.”

 

Neither man moved.

 

Charlie took a deep breath.

 

“I asked him if, now that he had found Robbie and me, if he were going back to Stockton.”

 

Nick and Jarrod turned their heads to glance at each other. Again, Charlie saw that flash of pain in the lawyer’s eyes that told Charlie he was carrying a lot of guilt around about something.

 

Neither asked the obvious question, so Charlie continued, “He assured me that he planned to. He said, ‘There’s no place on this earth I’d rather be.’ Then, he mentioned your mother and sister, and the two of you.”

 

Jarrod closed his eyes briefly, pulling in a deep breath full of relief at this information.

 

Charlie continued, “I asked him specifically to tell me about you, about his brothers, and he told me something that you both need to hear. He said, ‘My brothers, Jarrod and Nick, are the two men I respect more than anyone I’ve ever met,’ . . . and he included me among the latter.”

 

Charlie grinned broadly, remembering the lopsided smile and the comment about being a wharf rat.

 

Then, he added, “And, Heath said if he never made it home, his greatest regret would be that he didn’t take the chance to tell you how much being your brother means to him . . . I hope you both know what a compliment he paid you, especially since he compared you to me, and you came out ranking higher!”

 

His brown eyes twinkled with the memory and his own humor. However, his attempt at a jest was lost on at least one brother.

 

At Charlie’s words, Jarrod had turned away from the other two with a stunned cry, as if he were suddenly in sharp, piercing physical pain. He reached one hand up to grasp the edge of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf above him, and he dropped his head.

 

Immediately, Nick was there, his strong hands gripping Jarrod’s shoulders from behind.

 

Neither of them heard Charlie, as he slipped out of the double doors as quickly and quietly as he had entered the front door less than an hour before.

 

Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire burning in the grate. Nick felt like he could hear his own heart beating in the all-encompassing quiet.

 

Nick held on tighter as he felt a tremor pass through his brother’s body.

 

“Jarrod.”

 

Stepping closer when he received no response, he pulled his brother’s back up against his own chest, offering him the only comfort he could.

 

Nick was instantly reminded of that early morning by the cabin, as he and Heath had sat on the rock. He closed his eyes at the thought that he might never see his younger brother again, and he rested his dark head against the tweed of Jarrod’s suit, the dark, scratchy material stretching taunt across his brother’s well-built shoulders.

 

Finally, he felt Jarrod lift his head, and heard his quiet words, “Nick. I understand about you, but how could he say those things about. . . about me, after what I put him through?”

 

Nick, lifting his eyes, his hands still gripping Jarrod’s shoulders, said quietly, “You made a mistake, Jarrod. I told you he wouldn’t hold it against you.”

 

Then, taking a deep breath, he decided Jarrod needed to hear what else Heath had said about his oldest brother, what he had said to Nick the morning he had disappeared.

 

Closing his eyes once more, Nick remembered those moments again, the last few moments he had spent with Heath, . . . and the knife in his gut twisted sharply, the agony traveling straight up, through his chest, to his heart, with the memory.

 

“Nick,” Heath said, starting slowly, “I don’t usually interfere in your business, . . . an’ I know I’m new at understandin’ how things work in a family. But, . . . I’m askin’ ya’ ta let your anger with Jarrod go.”

 

Immediately, Nick reacted, hitting his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

 

“Dammit, Heath! I don’t need you telling me what to do where Jarrod’s concerned.”

 

Heath remained quiet for a moment or two, then turned his head to look at his angry brother, reaching out to put one hand on Nick’s arm.

 

Quietly, but seriously, he said, “I know I have no right ta ask ya’, Nick, but he has his own beliefs that he follows, an’ even if I don’t think he’s right in this, I don’t want him ta change because’a me.”

 

Swallowing hard, Nick said aloud, stepping back from Jarrod a bit and turning his brother around to face him, “In looking back on it, the morning Heath left, I’ve realized that he knew then that he was leaving. He . . . he made one last appeal to me to let go of my anger at you. He told me . . . ,” Nick hesitated again, before he continued, “He told me that he didn’t have any right to ask, any right to interfere between us.”

 

Nick took a deep breath, shaking his head a bit at that remembered piece of information.

 

How must it feel for Heath to not be secure in his importance in the family, to feel so new at being with them, that he felt he had no right to ask something of one of them, to ask for something important to him?

 

And, how had he, Big Nick Barkley, responded to his younger brother?

 

Hadn’t his actions just assured Heath that he was correct to be so unsettled about it?

 

Hadn’t his response just assured Heath that he was correct, that he didn’t have the right to ask such a thing?

 

Growling in frustration at not being able to reach out and shake Heath, to grab hold of him and let him know face to face that he hadn’t meant that at all, Nick gripped Jarrod’s shoulders harder, causing the dark blue eyes to look up into his.

 

With anguish in his voice, Nick said, “He told me that you have your own beliefs that you go by, and that even though he didn’t think you were right this time, he didn’t want you to change your beliefs, not because of him.”

 

Jarrod closed his eyes again at the words, but Nick’s next, quiet comment brought them wide open again.

 

“I hurt him then, Jarrod. I got so angry that I grabbed him and slammed him up against a fence post, holding him there, and I told him to stay out of it, . . . I told him,” he faltered, his agonized hazel eyes gazing into Jarrod’s, before he continued in a strangled voice, “I told him we had always managed to work things out between the two of us in the past, before he came.”

 

Immediately, the older of the two reacted by reaching out and pulling Nick against him in a protective hug. Jarrod’s arms wrapped tightly around this younger brother, the one he had fought with and protected since before he could even remember, and he said of the brother they had both gained and may have lost, all in the space of a few months, “We’ll find him, Nick. We’ll find him, and we’ll both make our apologies. Then, we’ll just have to rely on that compassion and integrity he carries deep inside to persuade him to listen to us, to believe us and to give us another chance to be the brothers that he needs us to be.”

 

Nick nodded, his forehead resting on Jarrod’s shoulder. Then, he lifted his head, pulling back from the embrace, and he said softly, “Don’t forget the stubbornness, Pappy, the mule-headed stubbornness that he carries inside. Because, I’m afraid before it’s over with, we’re going to hope he has plenty of it to help us get him through this.”

 

With a bit of sparkle returning to his worried blue eyes, Jarrod nodded back and echoed, “Yes, Nick, we’d better hope, from what these three men have been telling us, that our little brother possesses enough sheer, cussed Barkley stubbornness to still be alive somewhere, and that he has enough faith in us as his brothers to hold on, believing that we’ll come and find him.”

 

 

 

Chapter 39

 

Nick awoke from a restless sleep and pushed himself up from the hard, thin mattress.

 

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then, looking around the large, chilly room, he shivered and remembered the nightmare he was living, the days spent sleeping for a few hours and the last two, endless nights spent searching for any word, any sign, of his brother along the back streets of the Barbary Coast.

 

Rubbing his hands through his dark hair, he longed for a hot tub and some of Silas’ good, rich coffee. Then, glancing around the room, he was struck again by the differences between these accommodations and that of the clean, orderly crews’ quarters at the ranch.

 

The smell alone was overpowering, with so many unwashed bodies crowded in an open walled room, like a large horse stall fitted with double rows of shelf-like beds attached to the walls. He, Robbie, and Charlie had paid twenty cents each for the fine luxury afforded, and if tomorrow held to the same pattern, they would find similar lodging somewhere else, close to wherever they ended up at daybreak.

 

It struck him, in a sharp, dagger-like thought, that his younger brother must have spent the months he and Charlie had worked the docks several years ago living night after night in places just like this.

 

Suppressing the growl that threatened to break out, and shaking his head in almost hopeless frustration, he stood up and headed for the open doorway. Since Silas’ coffee was not an option, what he wanted was a strong drink.

 

Fear of drinking something laced with a sleeping draught and of waking up on a vessel setting sail for the Orient, had forced Nick and his cohorts to avoid drinking anything more than a sip here or there at the various places they had entered. For two nights, they had roamed the area, stopping in all of the deadfalls along the way, asking questions of surly men and sallow women.

 

Twice, they had heard descriptions of stabbings that could have involved the blond they sought, but the details were so vague as to be useless.

 

After narrowly avoiding attack by four men swinging blackjacks on the first night, Nick had finally let Charlie more surreptitiously dole out the money from then on. Apparently, to do so any more blatantly, was to attract too much attention from thieves and murderers.

 

But, so far, none of the contacts they had made, or questions they had asked, had gotten them one inch closer to locating Heath.

 

Dispirited, Nick stood in the doorway, looking up at the narrow strip of sky visible between the dilapidated buildings of the alley. He longed to leave this place and return to the ranch he loved, with its wide-open views, endless blue sky, and rolling land where a man could ride for hours and see no one.

 

Then, he thought again of his younger brother, the man with the eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky over the San Joaquin Valley, the son with the lopsided smile of the father he had never met.

 

“Heath,” he said quietly, his heart heavy.

 

How could he go home and tell his mother, the woman who had taken Heath’s disappearance so hard, even after knowing him for only two months, that the son she hoped to have years to get to know was gone?

 

How could he tell Jarrod that he would never have a chance to make those apologies, never have a chance to get the answers to the puzzles he saw in Heath, never have a chance to learn to be a brother to a young man who had grown up without him?

 

“Dammit, Heath,” Nick said aloud, kicking out at an empty crate lying in the alley, as his pacing began. “Why’d you have to stay to find Korby? Finding that snake was not worth your life!”

 

Looking down at the empty crate that had once contained salted fish, the words of the half-deaf sailor in the last saloon the night before came back to him, the words that had put another twist of the knife through Nick’s heart.

 

“If it’s a man near dead yer look’in fer, ye might ask the fishes out in the bay.”

 

The old man’s words brought Nick’s hazel eyes immediately to his white whiskered face.

 

“Why do you say that, Old Man?” Nick queried, gripping his untouched beer between his hands.

 

“’Cos, Me Boy’o, when the crimps row their shanghaied crews out to the ships at anchor there, they’ve oftentimes already been paid fer part’o their load before they ever left the docks.”

 

At Nick’s lack of understanding, the sailor tried again, “A man black-jacked on the back’o the ‘ead by one’o the thieving bastards what litter this place, ‘e is easy enough to dispose of at sea. So the thief sometimes pays the crimps to row ‘is dead victim out to the ships with the rest, and then the crimp collects a bloody bounty fer each’o the poor drunken, sleeping beasts he delivers to the captain.”

 

He took a swallow of the beer Nick had bought for him and laughed heartily, “They’ll already be at sea the next day a’fer the captain discovers that one’o them bodies ain’t ever get’in up! Then, the poor murdered lad’s dumped over the sides and none the wiser.”

 

“And, no one ever reports these crimes,” Nick asserted, finally understanding, “Because all three of them, the murdering thief, the crimp who got paid twice for the same body, and the captain with his shanghaied crew, are all engaged in illegal activity to begin with.”

 

The old man nodded, lifting his glass again. “’Ere’s to yer ‘ealth, Mate. I ‘opes yer never crosses paths with one’o them three!”

 

Staring at the sky once more, Nick knew deep in his heart that Charlie’s words from two nights ago may prove true. They may never know what had happened to Heath.

 

But, he did know one thing, could feel it deep inside his heart, . . . that if they were going to find him alive, they were running out of time.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Jarrod sat at the corner table, with its fine white linen tablecloth and crystal glassware, staring out of the broad, sparkling windows. He loved this city, with its incomparable views afforded by one hilltop after another. But, it, just like all interesting people, was a study in contrasts.

 

Even as he sat in this fine restaurant, with its quiet hum of voices and laughter, high-pitched clatter of silverware, and the aroma of deliciously prepared seafood, he knew that both of his brothers could be fighting for their lives, right now, in this very same city.

 

At the very least, he knew they were not enjoying the respite from the cold, windy salt air, the fine food, and the clean comforts of white linen that this place afforded.

 

All that he could see in his mind, as he looked out the window at the sun shining on sparkling water, was the row upon row of warehouses and alleyways, with their violent lifestyle, that occupied the waterfront not two blocks away.

 

All he could see was a pair of pale blue eyes looking back at him, staring at him inside his head, eyes full of sadness and pain that he had put there.

 

All he could see . . .

 

Suddenly, Jarrod brought his attention back from the window to look over at Asa Harmon. The man was leaning back, chatting with a city councilman behind them at the next table.

 

What had caught his attention? Some word, some phrase. . . ?

 

Leaning forward, Jarrod attempted to catch back up with the conversation.

 

“Harmon, I tell you, the council wants to see an end to this influx of Chinese. Ever since they started coming here to build the railroads years ago, they’ve brought nothing but trouble to this city. They’re taking over the area between Pacific and Jackson, and we have nothing to show for it, but opium dens, gambling, and prostitution.”

 

Asa chuckled softly and said, “While I won’t argue with you about the dens, Altman, you certainly can’t put the latter two off on the Chinese. Besides, what about the Six Companies? No one can say they didn’t try to keep order, even setting up their own system to care for their people and a government that worked hard to cooperate with those of you at city hall.”

 

“I’ll give you that one, Harmon, but,” the portly councilman nodded, his hand fingering the grey-silk vest covering his ample belly as he spoke, “Now, recently, the tongs seem to have taken over and the Companies have been hard put to continue the work of helping their own people, let alone, reaching out to ours.”

 

Jarrod reached over to Asa, touching his arm, and said, “Excuse me, Gentlemen, but did you say the Six Companies do take care of their own people? And, did you mean that in the sense of medical care?”

 

Asa looked up at Jarrod’s sudden interest, narrowing his eyes and grasping the significance of the question immediately.

 

He said cautiously, “Jarrod, from our information, they did try to provide for their citizens during the early years, when they first started coming here in such droves. They offered them a place to go when they were sick, provided them a way to die and have their bodies shipped back to China, which seemed to be important to them.”

 

He paused and took a sip of his wine before continuing.

 

“Now, though, we’re just not sure who does it or how they’re provided for, but I think it’s reasonable to assume that the Six Companies are still active in the background, caring for the sick and injured. But, remember, the tongs seem to control most everything we now deal with, have for the last couple of years.”

 

Seeing the haunted look in Jarrod’s eyes, Harmon turned back to the councilman and said, “Altman, I’ll suggest to Senator Erickson that he contact you to get your feedback on this bill he hopes will be sent to committee. But, we’ve taken enough of your valuable time. We’d best be going. Have a nice afternoon.”

 

Once they were outside, Jarrod walked over to a covered walkway through the surrounding garden and stood looking out toward the water again. As Asa joined him, Jarrod said, “Harmon, do you think there’s any chance someone in the Chinese community knows anything about Heath? And, if they did, do you think they would help us?”

 

Considering his reply carefully, Harmon said, “I think there’s always a chance, Jarrod. But, getting them to help us, even if they do know something. . . well, we don’t exactly have contacts in their community to assist us with something like this. Hell, we don’t even speak the language!”

 

Lifting his eyes, Jarrod started nodding, as an idea began to solidify in his mind.

 

“C’mon, Asa,” he suddenly said, excitedly, grabbing the man by the elbow, “We’ve got to see a man about a horse, . . . an iron horse.”

 

 

 

Chapter 40

 

His trip to the jail to talk to Korby Kyles two nights ago had sent Jarrod into a downward spiral of despair. The man had been just as insolent, just as irritating as he had been when he was in the Stockton Jail, and this time, he had smirked at Jarrod with an unnerving smile and demeanor that indicated he thought he now had the upper hand.

 

“Well, if it ain’t the hoity-toity lawyer from that coyote town down in the valley, come to lord it over a poor Kyles one more time!”

 

“What did you do to my brother, Korby?” Jarrod demanded.

 

Rubbing his jaw, Korby smiled and replied, “He busted me a good one, the bastard. . . . But,” he added, getting up off of the narrow bed where he had been lounging, and walking over to grip the bars of the cell in front of Jarrod, “He was already pretty bad off, sick or something, I don’t know, and it weren’t no trouble to help him along a little, no sir, no trouble at all.”

 

Jarrod stepped closer, amazed that the man was gloating over it.

 

If Heath were really dead, since he was the main witness against Korby in the Colonel Ashby murder, it would make it more difficult to bring a guilty verdict against the man in Stockton. Of course, since Heath had finished testifying, it would be possible to do so------if the judge didn’t call for a mistrial and reconvene a different jury to hear the whole thing from the beginning, due to the long delay.

 

But, if Korby didn’t know all of that. . .

 

Jarrod glanced over his shoulder to lock eyes with Asa Harmon, who was standing in the background leaning against the wall by the door. Then, he looked back at Korby, his dark blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

 

“Korby, what happened down there?”

 

“I done tole you, Jar-rod. . . . But, why do you care, anyway? You can’t think too much of him, not the way you lit into him up on that stand!” Korby laughed, taunting him with the use of his first name.

 

At Jarrod’s silence, Kyles continued on, as if he only wanted to fill in the quiet space, as if he expected Jarrod to be ready to defend him again,  “First of all, there were two of them. I was walking along, nice as you please. Then, the bastard, he and the other one jumped me for no reason other than who I am, and together, they knocked me out. When I woke up, there was only the one of them there, your bastard brother,” he grinned at Jarrod, “And, he was sick. . . . With him bent over double, coughing his guts out, it was easy enough to return the favor, so I jumped on him, and hit him over the head. Once he was on the ground, a few kicks to the ribs, and my knife in him, . . .” he smiled at Jarrod’s pale face beneath the glare, as he demonstrated by jabbing at Jarrod’s shoulder with his hand into the thick air between them,  “And, after that, it was easy to get away from. . . ARGHHH!”

 

Harmon, moving quickly, was able to grab Jarrod and pull him back before he got a good grip on the squirming, protesting Korby. As it was, Jarrod had reached out, hauled the scrawny, but tough, little man forward, and had him pinned with his face against the bars.

 

“Jarrod! Jarrod!” Harmon hollered, working the white-knuckled fingers loose from the man’s grimy shirtfront. Releasing him, Harmon shoved Korby backward in the cell, away from the bars, and sent him sprawling out on the mattress behind him.

 

Grabbing Jarrod, whose hands were now gripping the bars, Harmon heard the livid lawyer’s words cut into Korby, demanding additional answers from across the small space. “What happened next, Kyles? What happened to him? What did you do?”

 

Korby sat up, straightening his shirt.

 

“What’d’ya think I done? I left him there, lying in that forsaken alley, and took off running!”

 

Harmon continued for the man standing rigidly in front of him, “So, if you ran, how is it that you’re in here, now?”

 

The smirk gone, replaced by a petulant look, Korby sat forward on the cot and shook his head. “That friend’a his and a couple of big, ugly officers caught up to me, way at the other end of the alley, over two blocks away. Mean ones, they were.”

 

Then, brightening, he glared back at Jarrod’s hard, blue eyes and said, “But, it was too late for your brother. I left him lying in a puddle of blood. The jackals that roam that alley’d carry him away, strip him of anything useful, and throw him to the fish down by the waterfront, sure as I’m breathing. I might be going to prison, but at least I’ll be drawing breath and eating three meals a day in the meantime. And, they can’t hang me but once. . . . At least, if it comes to that, I’ll be buried in the warm ground. . .  Your daddy’s bastard, . . . he won’t never even know that comfort, Mist-ter Couns-el-or Barkley!”

 

Now, thinking back to that conversation as their carriage took them the short ride to his office, Jarrod turned his eyes toward the cloudless sky visible through the small window. He had not even seen Nick since going to the jail, had not even been able to tell him what Kyles had said that night.

 

He closed his eyes and imagined the response of his brother when he did. It was a story that would haunt Jarrod forever, knowing he had been dead wrong about Heath, and now his brother was most surely dead, having paid the price for Jarrod’s mistake of defending the man’s actions during Korby’s trial.

 

If Korby was right about Heath’s fate. . . . ?

 

With no grave to visit, no burial ceremony to attend, would there ever be any closure to this for any of them? Would his mother and Audra ever get over this?

 

And, he knew, for Nick, it would probably be even worse. He and Heath had grown so close in such a short period of time. While Nick had continued overseeing the work of the ranch in the week since the blond had disappeared, it was as if his heart had been torn out and replaced with a hollowness that allowed no one, nor any thing, not even the ranch, back in to fill the dark, empty space inside of him.

 

Glancing over at Harmon, Jarrod cleared his throat, pushing away the desperate feelings of despair that filled his heart with tears he could not express.

 

Then, after another moment, he said quietly, “Asa, I didn’t thank you for pulling me off of Kyles the other night. I couldn’t . . . .”

 

As he trailed off, Harmon spoke up, reaching out to lay his hand on Jarrod’s forearm, “It’s alright, Jarrod. I just hate that you had to hear all that.”

 

Shaking his head, Jarrod said, “I needed to know.”

 

Then, resting the back of his head against the padded cushion behind him, Jarrod reached up to rub his temples. He had thought he was over the worst of the headaches that lingered from the concussion he’d suffered in the aftermath of the trial, but this situation had seemed to bring them back in increasing intensity.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Once they paid the driver and climbed the steps to Jarrod’s office, he felt somewhat better.

 

Eager to have something constructive to do to keep himself occupied, rather than sit and listen to men discussing future creation of laws while his brother was missing, Jarrod, nevertheless, admitted to himself that it would be a while before he was ready to concentrate on work.

 

As they entered the suite of rooms, his assistant, Martin Haskell looked up from his conversation with their secretary. Crossing the room toward them, the tall, red-headed young man extended his hand.

 

“Welcome back, Jarrod,” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother.”

 

“Thank you, Martin. But, we haven’t given up on finding him yet,” Jarrod said, shaking the tall, thin young man’s hand. “Good morning, Bridget,” he added, nodding toward the dark-headed woman sitting behind the desk. Then, he turned to include the man entering with him, and said, “This is Asa Harmon. Asa, Mrs. Bridget Porter, our secretary, and Mr. Martin Haskell, my assistant.”

 

Asa nodded and said, “Nice to meet you both.”

 

Immediately, Jarrod turned the conversation toward the idea he had in mind. “Martin, how was your trip?”

 

Smiling, Martin replied, “It was wonderful, Jarrod, though it took a little longer than expected, and we just returned last night. Thank you so much for the use of your family’s private car. It made all the difference for Mary and me in traveling with the baby.”

 

Nodding, Jarrod then asked, stepping past the young man and motioning both gentlemen toward his inner office, “Martin, I need for you to do something for me. Come in with us, please.”

 

Once inside, he walked over to his desk, wrote down some information on one of his engraved cards, and handed it to Martin. “Please deliver that for me and return with him, both of them, if at all possible.”

 

Glancing down at the card in his hand, Martin nodded and said, “Right away, Jarrod. Is there anything else I can do while I’m out?”

 

“No, Martin. That should take care of it.”

 

The young man crossed the room and closed the ornate mahogany door behind him.

 

Puzzled, Asa turned from watching Martin’s exit to look at Jarrod, who had removed his coat and was standing by the fireplace warming his hands with his back to the room.

 

He asked, “Jarrod? What was that all about? What are we going to do now?”

 

Glancing over his shoulder to look at the dark brown, worried eyes of the senate committee investigator, Jarrod said, “Now, Asa? Now, we pour ourselves a drink, . . .  and we wait.”

 

“Wait?”

 

“Yes,” Jarrod reiterated, “We wait.”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

From the time that Jarrod was old enough to ride in front of his father on a horse, he could remember listening to the sometimes quiet, sometimes demanding, voice coming from the man behind and above him, as Tom Barkley spoke to others with whom he came into contact on the ranch, in town, and all along the road in between.

 

His father had instilled in his oldest son, in both of his sons, a deep respect for others, and his persistent beliefs in the worth of the individual. He taught his sons to look for the signs of character in others, not to look at their size, the cut of their clothes, nor any other aspect of their outward appearance. He believed in judging a man based on his honesty, willingness to work for what he wanted, and in the way that man treated others.

 

It was a lesson that Jarrod had taken to heart, one that had helped him earn a reputation in both Stockton and San Francisco as a fair man who was willing to help, sometimes in spite of who a man was, . . . or was not.

 

Over the years, if he believed in someone’s innocence, he had defended a variety of clientele, from bankers and doctors to sailors and prostitutes. Once, he had defended the young son of an older Chinese couple from Hunan on a theft charge. After he had proven that the theft had been committed by the store owner’s brother and wrongfully blamed on the young man, Jarrod had gone further by proving his personal belief in the veracity and character of the youth, by offering him a job.

 

While he had started out running errands and delivering messages for Jarrod’s law office, the young man had quickly made himself essential, because Jarrod had discovered that he was an exceptional cook.

 

Now, several years later, Sune Yun-shan made an excellent living for himself by taking care of Jarrod’s Nob Hill residence and the private train car owned by the Barkley family. He had also endeared himself to both Barkley women, as well as to Nick, who often referred teasingly, incorrectly, to the fine looking young man with the impeccable manners, as, “Sune, you ugly Mandarin!”

 

Sune, however, had yet to meet Heath.

 

As the inner door to the office opened and Martin entered with Sune, as well as his elderly father, Jarrod suddenly felt that their chances of finding the younger brother he had barely had time to get to know had just taken a turn for the better.

 

 

 

Chapter 41

 

Jarrod turned from the fireplace and bowed slightly toward the wizened figure of Mr. Yun-shan, then reached out his hand to grasp Sune’s. Facing them both, Jarrod indicated Asa Harmon, standing off to their right.

 

“Honored Gentlemen, I’d like for you to meet Mr. Asa Harmon. Asa, this is Sune Yun-shan and his father. Sune just returned yesterday with Martin, though he usually takes care of my San Francisco residence and is known for preparing the best dim sung on the west coast. However, I suspect it was his father who taught him.”

 

Jarrod watched as the father’s eyes lit up with delight at the praise for his son, indicating that he had understood the lawyer’s words.

 

Then, the elderly man spoke in clear, precise English, his voice much deeper than his stature would imply, but almost melodious in tone, “Mr. Barkley, you honor my family with your words.”

 

Smiling, Jarrod indicated that they should sit on the dark green settee against the wall, and Asa should sit across from them in one of the black leather chairs. Then, he stepped to the doorway, opened the door, and asked, “Mrs. Porter, would you prepare some hot tea for our guests?”

 

“Certainly, Mr. Barkley,” she replied with a smile.

 

Returning to the men inside, he sat down on the closest chair and looked into the intelligent eyes of the oldest gentleman. With no more preliminaries, he said, “Mr. Yun-shan, I need help. One of my family members, my brother, has disappeared.”

 

With a glance at his father, who nodded permission for his son to step into the conversation in his place, Sune asked worriedly, “Something has happened to Mr. Nick?”

 

Shaking his head, Jarrod said, “No, Sune. I have another brother, one you have not met. He,” hesitating as he glanced at Sune’s father, “He has only been with our family a short time. He is my father’s son, and his name is Heath.”

 

Nodding, both men continued to look at Jarrod, clearly reading the worry that powered the man’s speech.

 

Jarrod added, “I do not wish to endanger your family, Sune, by speaking of this, because Heath’s disappearance may be tied in to the tongs. You need to know that he came here, to San Francisco, to assist Mr. Harmon in finding two other men. They were all trying to gather information about the trafficking of opium, because they work for people who are interested in putting a stop to it.”

 

He was relieved when the two men glanced at each other, and then the elder nodded at him encouragingly.

 

“He was able to reach these two men fairly quickly, but he remained here longer to find a third, a man who escaped from a courtroom where he was on trial for the murder of Colonel John Ashby, known in some circles as a middle man and supplier of opium.”

 

Nodding, Mr. Yun-shan said, “Mr. Barkley, you do not have to worry at the effect of your views, or those of your brother. The drug has been the source of much violence among my countrymen since we have come to your shores----not because of the effects of the drug itself, but because the profits to be made have led many young men to seek power for themselves through their tong, over what is good for their families or their Company. . . . How can we help you?”

 

Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath in relief, Jarrod did not realize how much he had been concerned about this part of what he had had in mind when he had asked them to come here. He had talked with Sune enough in the past to know that opium use in the Chinese community, primarily the smoking of it, was more accepted than in other circles.

 

“I need information. Heath was last seen in the area known as the Barbary Coast, and we know that he was probably badly injured.”

 

At the look that crossed Sune’s face as the young man shook his head, Jarrod felt again the despair of the near hopelessness of their task.

 

Quietly, he said, “I know, Sune. It doesn’t sound good. And, we have checked all the places we could in that area and outside of it, looking for him. But,” he continued, locking onto the unreadable eyes of Sune’s father, “I have heard that your community has facilities and people who care for the sick and injured among you, places to which my family and I would not have access to search for him.”

 

Nodding, Sune spoke up proudly, “Yes, Mr. Barkley, just as most communities do, we have such places and healers that tend to those of our countrymen that need assistance. But, they would not. . . .”

 

Mr. Yun-shan reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it on his son’s arm, silencing him. Then, he said, “Mr. Barkley, when my son was in trouble, I heard then of your fairness and willingness to seek justice for individuals, despite who was asking. You have proven to us what a fine, honorable family you represent. . . . In my country, a son is to be revered and is always honored, but I find that here that is not always the case. It does not surprise me to find that your family accepts a brother and son who many would reject. Nor, does it surprise me to hear that he was in this city to right a wrong done. It would be our honor to assist you and your family in your search for him.”

 

At the son’s questioning look, Jarrod quickly spoke up. “Mr. Yun-shan, please, let me explain again that I have no wish to place you or your family in any danger over this. My brother would not want that either.”

 

Shaking his head, the older man said quietly, “I assure you, that will not happen. If your brother was injured and found his way into the streets of my community, someone there may have helped him, regardless of who he was or where he came from. There are numerous places that could have taken him in. But, I must caution you that many of those care only for the poor, and some of them also accept payment from the bagnios that support the filthy yellow slavery that plagues our community. They accept payment for easing the death of the girls who work there. Finding him if that is the case, will not be easy, for their benefactors might not know of what the individuals have done, might not be so understanding. And,” he paused, holding Jarrod’s dark blue eyes in his honest gaze, “The conditions in those places are not good. . . . But, I assure you, searching for him, asking questions, will not put my family at risk.”

 

Standing then, he bowed slightly to Jarrod, who quickly stood and inclined his head, before stepping over to open the door for them.

 

“Thank you, Sir, for whatever information and assistance you can provide. My brother is very important to my family.”

 

Again, the elderly man hesitated. Then, he asked, “This brother, he goes by the honored name of Barkley?”

 

Swallowing hard past the instant tightening in his throat, Jarrod’s eyes reflected the pain he had been holding onto, pushing it down deep inside throughout the discussion.

 

“Yes, Mr. Yun-shan, my brother is one of the most honorable men I have ever known, and his name is Heath Barkley.”

 

Nodding, the man placed his compassionate hand on Jarrod’s sleeve for a moment. Then, turning silently, he left, followed by his son, the whirlwind visit having concluded before Bridget had even been able to return with the hot tea.

 

As Jarrod turned back to look at Asa Harmon, the older man said with new-found respect, “Mr. Barkley, perhaps you should consider a career in politics. If I had not witnessed it, I would never have believed that anyone could gain so much cooperation so quickly.”

 

Shaking his head, Jarrod replied with a sigh, “No, Asa, I like my career just as it is, here and in the valley, where it is about working to find solutions to individual problems. But, . . . unfortunately, there is no guarantee that what we started here will ever lead us to Heath.”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

It was cold, teeth-chattering, bone-chilling cold.

 

He pulled the collar of his coat up higher around his neck, and hunkered down into its thick, dark wool.

 

Suddenly, he heard a sound, other than that from the heels of their boots on the uneven stones beneath them, and he glanced to his right.

 

The hairs standing on the back of his neck had nothing to do with the brisk, bone-searing chill of the wind whipping up the hill from the water below as they stepped out to cross the relatively wide expanse of poorly-lit alley meeting darker street.

 

Quickly, Nick turned, just in time to see the fist that came out of the dark as it smashed into his face.

 

Staggering backwards, he heard the whistle of the air moving across his chest as the knife blade in the second man’s hand barely missed slicing him open. When his back came up against the rough brick wall behind him, he braced himself against it only long enough to push off, throwing his weight into the man with the knife, before the smaller man could recover and plunge the knife deep into him.

 

To his right, he could hear Charlie cursing under his breath after the third man caught him under the chin with a swift uppercut and sent him falling backwards.

 

Nick’s attention was quickly brought back to his own battle, as he sent two fists in rapid succession into the gut of the same larger man who had hit him in the face seconds earlier. Sending him reeling to the ground, Nick barely had time to note the sailor garb of the man, as the smaller one came back at him with his knife again. Reaching around behind his back, under his coat, Nick came out with the gun he had tucked in his belt, just as the smaller man brought the knife up.

 

Deflecting the thrust with his left arm, Nick felt the white-hot slice of the sharp weapon cut into his forearm as he leveled the pistol and said menacingly, “Back off! Now! And, take your mates with you.”

 

As if frozen, the small man’s leering smile remained on his filthy face as he began stuttering and shuffling, backing up away from Nick and the gun pointed at him convincingly.

 

“Get them out of here, before we haul the three of you down the hill and toss you to the fish,” Nick finished, indicating the two men slowly rising from the stone-cobbled street around them.

 

As the three men slunk off into the darkness, two of them helping the third, Nick slowly put his gun away. Then, he leaned down to help Charlie to his feet, an injury to his leg causing him to groan with the weight placed on it.

 

Pulling the smaller man’s arm across his shoulders, Nick said, “C’mon, Charlie. Let’s find Murphy and head back to Jarrod’s place for the night.”

 

“No, Nick,” Charlie said, trying to pull away, “We have to keep looking.”

 

Shaking his head, Nick held on firmly as he reached up painfully with his left hand to unbutton the middle of his coat. Then, as he carefully tucked the injured arm inside his coat to support it, he shifted his weight under Charlie’s sagging form and began the long, uphill walk through the dark street running through the area.

 

As he walked, he tried to ignore the hot, sticky feel of his own blood dripping inside his sleeve, his hopes for finding his brother trickling away with each drop, with each exhausted step uphill, and he angrily pushed his arm against his body in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

 

Nick had to stop twice, leaning Charlie against the brick steps of some old, tumble-down building, as he caught his own breath. The second time, he released Charlie’s arm, and patted the face of the pale curly-haired man, as he propped him up against the bricks.

 

“Charlie,” he asked, glancing up to make sure this was the corner where they were supposed to meet Robbie, “Are you doing okay?”

 

“Yeah, Nick,” Charlie said, “It’s just my ankle. I think it’s sprained, and I’m just not much help to you on these hills.”

 

“You’re doing fine, Charlie.”

 

Taking out his knife from his pocket, Nick lifted the edge of his coat, pulled his shirttail from his pants, and awkwardly cut off a strip of his dirty cotton shirt. Then, with Charlie reaching over to help him, he shrugged out of the dark woolen coat and, shivering in the wind, wrapped his left forearm with the strip of cloth, tying off the ends with Charlie’s assistance.

 

Quietly, the man asked, “Caught you a good one, didn’t he?”

 

Nick replied, “It’ll be alright, Charlie. It’s not as deep as it could have been, thanks to this thick coat you supplied me with.” Looking up, he added, “There’s Robbie. C’mon. All three of us need to get moving before the wolves smell blood and come after us.”

 

 

 

Chapter 42

 

It was almost four in the morning when a wary Jarrod edged down the stairs of his townhouse, revolver in hand, to find Nick, Charlie, and Robbie eating turkey sandwiches in his kitchen.

 

Easing down wearily to sit beside them at the small round table, Jarrod took in their bedraggled appearance. All three looked, and smelled, like they had not had a bath in days, which indeed was true. It was obvious that Nick and Charlie had been in some kind of brawl recently, for both, even visible beneath the dirt, sported the cuts and swollen jaws to prove it.

 

Looking closely as he silently watched them devour the food, Jarrod realized that Nick was only using one hand.

 

Getting up to bring over the coffeepot and refill their cups, Jarrod said from behind his brother, “Nick, what happened to your arm?”

 

Between bites, Nick glanced up and said, “It’ll be fine, Jarrod. . . . Nothing to worry about.”

 

With a sigh, Jarrod sat back down and watched in amazement as the three finished off the loaf of bread and the whole turkey breast.

 

Then, as one by one they pushed their plates away and leaned back in their chairs with satisfied groans, Jarrod smiled and leaned toward them.

 

Watching Nick’s tired expression, Jarrod caught the hazel eyes as his brother drained the last of his coffee. As Nick lowered the cup to the polished wood surface of the table, he spoke.

 

“I hear you, Pappy. You don’t have to say a word. If you and Robbie’ll help Charlie upstairs to bed, I’ll go wash up.”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Seated in the comfortable, plaid navy chair in his quiet room, Nick grinned at the soft knock on his door.

 

Yep, there was Pappy, right on time.

 

“Come in,” Nick said, as the door opened and Jarrod entered carrying a bottle he recognized immediately as one of his mother’s liniment containers. His smile at his brother’s predictability faded as he thought ahead to the sting of the stuff.

 

“No protests, Nick,” Jarrod said. “We both know that this is necessary, and we both know we just complain about it to Mother as part of the game of pretending resistance, then loving every minute of it, as we let her take care of and fuss over us.”

 

Laughing softly, Nick said, “If Heath were here, he’d tell you to get to the point a little faster next time.”

 

Jarrod lifted his deep blue eyes from the task of soaking the soft white rag with the fiery liquid, to stare into Nick’s. Then, nodding, he acknowledged the words quietly, “That he would, Brother Nick. That he would.”

 

Then, with both of them wincing at the sharp pain of the liquid on the much cleaner, slicing gash across Nick’s arm, Jarrod asked carefully, “I take it you’re no closer to finding any sign of him.”

 

With a slight strain in his voice as Jarrod began to carefully bind the four-inch long gash with a soft, white strip of cloth, Nick replied, “All we can do now is wait, Jarrod, wait and hope that some of our money and questions work their way to the right people.”

 

Nodding, Jarrod said, “I’ve asked for Sune’s family to help us, Nick. There is a slight chance that Heath made it to the Chinese district and someone there is helping him. But,” he added quietly, “I can’t say I have much hope of it.”

 

Turning his gaze away, Jarrod concentrated on smoothing each turn of the cloth as he wrapped. He could feel the questions in Nick’s eyes on him, and he was not surprised to feel Nick’s other hand reach out and grab him by the shoulder after a moment. Slowly, he lifted his eyes again to meet Nick’s.

 

“What is it, Jarrod? What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

 

Closing his eyes a moment to block out the look in Nick’s hazel eyes, he then blinked his own anguished blues open and said, “I talked to Korby Kyles at the jail the other night, Nick. Harmon was right. Korby openly bragged to me that it took two of them, Heath and Charlie, to bring him down, and that it was evident that Heath was sick, coughing violently. He said he jumped Heath after Charlie left to get them some help with moving him.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, his throbbing arm and overwhelming tiredness forgotten, Nick demanded, “Jumped him? What exactly did he do?”

 

Shaking his head, Jarrod said wearily as he tied the knot keeping the bandage in place, “He told me he left him there, made me think that if he weren’t already dead, that he would be soon.”

 

Leaping up from the chair, Nick growled, “Jarrod. Tell me what he said.”

 

Jarrod continued to shake his head, and said quietly, “That’s enough Nick.”

 

But, Nick grabbed his shoulder with one hand, gripping him tightly in silence, though his eyes demanded the rest of it.

 

Looking up into the anguished face, Jarrod knew now, having started this conversation, there would be no way to get his brother to let go of it-----no way except by the telling of it, . . . all of it.

 

With a sigh, Jarrod said bluntly, “He told me he hit Heath in the head, kicked him in the ribs, and stabbed him. Then, he left him lying there in a puddle of blood while he tried to escape.”

 

The wounded growl emanated from deep inside Nick’s chest. He turned away, stalking toward the front window that looked out on the street. Unseeing, Nick rested his head against the cold panes of glass and leaned heavily on the one hand gripping the windowsill.

 

Silently, they remained like that, both deep in thought, both longing for something they both feared would never occur-----the safe return of their younger brother.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

The narrow passageway was dark, with only a dim light shining from somewhere up ahead, slightly above him and probably from around a corner. The tunnel-like corridor smelled of salt and sickness, as well as the cloying scent of incense. But, more than anything else, it was cold and damp, even more so than the room he had left behind him.

 

Heath paused half way up toward the corner, after realizing the upward slope of the passage had ended in what appeared to be a short flight of rising steps. Then, with nothing else to hold onto to help him, he kept one hand against the rough brick of the interior wall for balance, and he struggled with every step as he climbed.

 

When he reached the slightly slanted landing at the top, he bent forward, holding himself up between his good shoulder against the wall and his good hand tightly gripping his thigh. His loud breathing sounded sharp and wheezy, almost to the point of echoing in the enclosed space.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut against the dizziness, he concentrated on hauling in enough air to stay on his feet. But, when the coughing began, he knew he couldn’t stay there, or he would soon be discovered and forced, out of concern he would be unable to defend against, to return to the room he had left behind him.

 

Using his hand against the wall, he straightened up and pushed himself forward, toward the corner and the dim light beyond it.

 

He figured he must be somewhere above the docks, deep in the Chinese district. Though he knew he was not a prisoner, the woman seemed petrified that someone would discover him there, so at the very least, he was aware that she was probably hiding him.

 

The old woman had been incredibly kind with her care of him, but he knew if he stayed here, he would be unable to keep fighting off the coughing and feverish chills that seemed bent on consuming him. Though he felt stronger than when he had first stirred in the cold room days ago, he knew he was beginning to weaken again, and that he had been, from the beginning, too sick and weak from blood loss to make it if he had tried to leave on his own.

 

Someone in the back alleys would kill him just to steal his boots and coat, never thinking twice about it.

 

Leaving this place was out of the question, but, if he could just go outside long enough to figure out where he was, perhaps he could somehow convince the tiny woman, then explain to her how to get a written message to Charlie.

 

Suddenly, a fierce bout of relentless coughing seized him again, and he doubled over. Fighting for breath and unable to stand any longer, he slowly dropped to his knees, down on the cold, wet floor.

 

No longer able to see beyond the tiny points of light shooting across his vision, like a fireworks display he had once seen in this very city, he slid sideways, lying across the cold, wet, uneven stones. Thinking only of the loving faces of the family he had left behind to come to this place, he was unable to stop the wracking cough that continued to shake him.

 

Then, like a dark cloud descending suddenly over the sparkling water out on the bay, he saw again Korby Kyles bending over him several nights ago, pulling his knife out of his shoulder and smiling his leering grin, as his vile, sneering words caused Heath’s breath to choke in his throat.

 

His eyes closing tightly over the image, over the dark memory, over the pain that pushed him down and held him there, he concentrated on the man’s words, on the message behind them, and, though the coughing seemed to suck the air and the life right out of him, he knew that, somehow, he had to get back to them, to last long enough to get word to them. . . .

 

 

Slowly, the sound of coughing died away, until all that remained was its echo, and the constant noise of water dripping along the sloping floor of the passageway.

 

 

 

Chapter 43

 

The loud, demanding voices warred with the higher, shriller incensed voice of the woman as he felt himself being pulled up roughly from the floor and held hard against the brick wall at his back.

 

Shaking his head, chin almost touching his chest, trying desperately to clear it, he could open his eyes enough to tell that she was trying to insert herself between him and the two men facing him, holding him up in anger.

 

He struggled against them weakly and could immediately feel the blood dripping down from the reopened wound to his shoulder, as the shorter man on his left angrily pushed him back against the wall again, trying to force him into compliance. The furious tone of the words cut into him like a knife, though he could not understand any of what was being said.

 

Blinking hard, he saw the fire in her dark eyes as she pushed at the two men, trying to command their respect for her wishes.

 

Wrenching his right arm from the grasp of the taller man, he added his meager strength to hers, pushing the man back a step, and he used the space gained to wrap his arm around her, pulling her to him, pushing her behind him, trying to protect her.

 

When the coughing began again, however, he could do little more than lean into her, as she reached up and tried to support him, as she continued to rail at the two men, while he kept his right arm across her protectively.

 

He maneuvered his throbbing left arm, now freed by the sullen, more verbal of the two men, so he could reach inside the pocket of his jeans and slowly pull out all the money he had there. Not entirely understanding what was going on, though he vaguely remembered them as the same men that had carried off the dead girl a day or so ago, he pressed the folded bills into her hand, trusting her to use them as she needed to, to pay them off if necessary.

 

Above all, he wanted to protect her, and to let her know that he trusted her with his life.

 

More rapidly spoken words filled the damp, darkness of the space, echoing off of the hard brick and stone surfaces, as she continued to fling her anger at the two men, though she finally reached out and paid one of them some of the money he had given her. Then, she worked to turn the blond around and to lead him back down the slick steps, dripping with moisture.

 

Heath immediately began to try to extract himself from her grip. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “No! I’ve already . . . endangered you . . . enough. . . . I can’t stay here . . . any more.”

 

As he turned around and stumbled back up the top two steps, holding onto the slick, damp bricks of the wall, she began to implore the men to stop him. They grabbed him once more, and held him there roughly, his back pressed against the bricks again, as the coughing threatened to return him to his knees.

 

Realizing that they were now reacting to her demands, Heath lifted his head and turned to her with feverish eyes, imploring her to understand.

 

She scurried back up the steps and placed her hands on the sides of his face, looking up at him. She smiled briefly, stroked his hair above the bandage, and motioned the two men to carry his sagging frame back down the steps to the room that contained his rice mat.

 

Her words began again, as she apparently gave the two men directions about helping him lie down, for he immediately found himself staring up at the broken window once more, his back pressed into the mat.

 

The woman, quiet now, deftly changed the dressing covering the bleeding wound, and, as he thought again of his family, of his fierce need to get home to them, his eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

In the darkness, she sat silently, watching him breathe, waiting for him to awaken. Beside her, the smoke from the small oil lamp wafted toward the ceiling, finding its way toward and out through the broken window set high in the brick of the wall facing the alley above her.

 

Behind her, the room was quiet.

 

It had been hours and hours since the two men had carried him back inside this room. And, no others had been brought in to take the place of those that had been removed, one at a time, to return them to their dwellings in this city if they were able, or to return them to their homes in the vast lands of China by boat if they were not.

 

She knew that, now that he had been discovered, and for as long as he was here, they would allow no more patients to come. With a tremor of fear, she wondered what would happen to him when he died. Would they take him away, as they had already tried to do once, and dump him in the cold waters of the bay? Or would they make an attempt to find his home and return him to it?

 

But, how could they, even if she could somehow implore upon them to do so? Even she did not know who he was, or where he was from.

 

Without that knowledge, she would be unable to help guide the return of his bones to the place of his ancestors. . . but, perhaps, . . . brightening a little, she thought that he was already home, right here in this city.

 

Running the fingers of her hand through his hair, she felt the heat radiating off of him in waves, his skin hot and dry to the touch. Loathe to try to cool him with water in this already chilly place, knowing she would not be able to get him warm afterwards, she also knew that she could not just sit here and watch him die without trying. Chanting softly, the sing-song sound of her voice rose and fell as she rocked back and forth, watching him, hesitating.

 

Suddenly, the rhythm of her song was broken by the sharp staccato sounds of running feet from the passageway behind her. Rising stiffly, she headed to the open doorway.

 

After a quick, urgent conversation with the man who had come to speak with her, she walked lightly back across the damp stones of the room’s floor and folded herself into a seated position beside the young man again.

 

Picking up the cloth from the waiting bowl of cold water beside her, she wrung it out and hesitantly wiped at his face, neck, and upper chest, trying to offer him some coolness to offset the fever that held him in his grip, without soaking him.

 

As he had off and on for most of the day, he tossed his head away from her and mumbled words she could not understand. Again, mixed in with the others, she heard him repeating the one word that she had heard him say over and over, since he had first been brought here.

 

Could it be a name of someone he was calling out to?

 

“Ni-i-i-ck,” he moaned, his eyes closed, his flushed face moving away from her, turning toward the wall.

 

Leaning further forward, and opening up the cloth to lay it across his bare chest, she reached out to turn his head back toward her. Then, tapping his face with her other hand, and pulling his filthy wool coat up around him, she struggled to wrap her mouth and voice around the strange sounding name the man had shared with her.

 

“Hea-ea-th-th. . . . Hea-th Bak-k-ley?”

 

When he silently tossed his head away from her, she waited, soaking the cloth in the water again, and wringing it out before lifting his head and working the cloth beneath the back of his neck.

 

Then, she turned him toward her again, looked into the pale blue, unfocused eyes, and asked, “Hea-ea-th  Bak-k-ley?”

 

Shaking her head, she knew he was too far away, too firmly entrenched in the fever that had taken hold of him to answer her.

 

She resumed her soft chanting, picking up a second cloth, dipping it and wringing out the cold water.

 

Suddenly, she heard him groan and say very clearly, “Ni-i-ck? . . . Jar-rod?”

 

She left the opened cloth on his chest and grabbed the right hand that came up, reaching for something, taking hold of it in both of her tiny hands. Then, partially imitating his words, she could see her breath in the cold as she asked, “Ni-i-ck  Ja-l-od  Hea-th  Bak-k-ley?”

 

When the light blue eyes immediately turned to her and searched her face in confusion and pain, she smiled at him and repeated the words, “Ni-i-ck  Ja-l-od  Hea-th  Bak-k-ley?”

 

He struggled to one elbow, pulling his hand from her grasp, and looked at her, blinking hard. Trying to rise, he asked, “Nick? . . . Jar-rod? . . . M’ broth-ers?”

 

Struggling to hold him down, struggling to push him back to the mat, she asked again, “Ni-ck Ja-l-od  Hea-th  Bak-k-ley?

 

Panting hard, trying to make sense of what was going on, of what she was saying, he asked again, “Nick . . . Bark-ley? . . . Jar-rod?” He pushed the coat away, struggling to rise, and asked, “. .  . . . Ni-ick?”

 

Stroking the side of his too-hot face, she tried to soothe him with words he could not understand, tried to get him to lie still as he continued to struggle.

 

When he finally lay back, exhausted, but still searching her face with his again unfocused, darker than usual eyes, she began saying it over and over again, quietly, using her words like a soothing balm, letting them wash over him like the cool water from her cloths, trying to calm him, “Ni-i-ck  Ja-l-od  Hea-th Bak-k-ley.”

 

Finally, his eyes closed, and she breathed a sigh of relief, as she continued to sit with him and watch his chest rise and fall in its constant rhythm.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

The strident sound of the boots on the polished wooden floor had a definite rhythm as the dark-headed rancher paced back and forth across the room from window to mantel and back again. The other men in the room watched, but tried to muffle the sounds with that of their own quiet conversation.

 

Harmon had overruled both Robbie and Charlie as they had continued to argue for the last hour about being allowed to return to the alleys and back streets of the Coast to look for Heath. Charlie had said he was going anyway, but Nick and Jarrod had also overruled him, assuring him, pointing at his elevated ankle, that Heath would not want Charlie to repeatedly risk his life for him.

 

Now, Rogers sat nearby, lost deep in thought, while Harmon and Murphy sat together across from Jarrod’s desk. Harmon kept trying to engage the quiet attorney in dialogue about how they should proceed with the senate committee and the information they had gathered.

 

Jarrod struggled to maintain his focus, and his composure, with Harmon.

 

He realized the importance of keeping the two men safe, not only for their own well-being, but, from Harmon’s point of view, also for their inability to testify at the committee hearing if they returned to the violence of the streets and were injured worse than had already happened.

 

Yet, like Nick, he was loathe to give up their search for their brother. And, he knew now, that without the assistance of the two, more experienced men, their chances of success were much less.

 

He stood up abruptly, ignoring Harmon’s words behind him, and crossed to stand by the window. As he looked out at the late afternoon shadows falling across the city, but not seeing the slowly growing number of lights being lit in homes, businesses, and streetlamps on the hill stretching out below him, he knew that they were running out of options.

 

No sign of Heath, nor anyone fitting his description, had been found at any local hospital.

 

No sign of him had been found throughout the area known as the Barbary Coast, including the room on Stockton Street where Heath had stayed over a week ago, despite Robbie’s constant check.

 

No sign of him had been seen at the livery where they had discovered he had left the brown mare, purchased on the day he had left Stockton from Joey Randall. They had recovered his clothes from the livery owner, and Jarrod had paid the bill to board the mare indefinitely, should his brother return. But, like other attempts they had made, this was not a link to Heath that had proven worthwhile as of yet.

 

No sign of him had been spotted in Stockton, despite daily telegrams----sent back and forth to keep their family and the sheriff informed. Though, from their information, Korby Kyles had arrived back in Liam’s jail under armed escort.

 

All the man needed now was for his attorney to return so the trial could resume.

 

Jarrod closed his eyes and rubbed his left temple with his fingers.

 

How could he even look on that man again, let alone defend him in a court of law, knowing what Kyles had boasted he had done to Heath? But, if he didn’t, the judge would most likely call for a mistrial, and Korby stood a chance of walking out, freed because he may have killed one of the only two witnesses to the Colonel’s murder, the man who had caught him immediately afterward.

 

But, would the judge even allow Jarrod to continue to represent the man, once he knew Korby had admitted to stabbing, possibly killing, his brother?

 

Shaking his head, he tried to think through the possibilities.

 

The judge could appoint a new attorney, they could start over, and the testimony of the engineer should be enough to convict Korby, shouldn’t it?

 

But, how were they going to convict the man for what he had done to Heath?

 

Then, suddenly, he knew. . . . Without being able to recover Heath’s body, proving that a crime against him had even been committed would be almost impossible. He and Harmon could testify as to what Korby had told them, but. . . .

 

Besides, didn’t he owe his brother more than to just let his last actions, that of testifying against Kyles back in Stockton, count for nothing. . . . ?

 

Then, he admonished himself silently for his deepening despair. How did they know he was really dead. . . . ? Korby could be wrong about Heath, dead wrong. . . .

 

He lifted his eyes and found one of the early evening stars beginning to grace the darkening sky.

 

How would any of them ever know?

 

How could they let him go, how could they stop looking, when they couldn’t be sure?

 

Turning back into the room, watching the three men seated across from him, he knew they had to make a decision now, and, glancing at his still pacing, already injured, brother, he knew it was up to him to guide them all.

 

Should he push for them all to continue?

 

Should he tell the others to go home, leaving himself and Nick to continue alone?

 

Should he begin trying to convince his dark-haired brother that they both needed to return home, to try to find a way to break it to his mother and sister that…?

 

Suddenly, a commotion outside his office doorway drew the attention of everyone inside the room, as the brass-trimmed mahogany door was flung open hard enough to rattle the etched glass set into it.

 

“Mr. Barkley! Mr. Barkley!” Bridget announced breathlessly. “Sune’s back!”

 

All five men turned as one to face the smaller, widely smiling young man as he entered the quiet space, his head nodding before he even located his employer among them.

 

Jarrod crossed the floor and took him by the arm, drawing him inside. His eyes on Sune’s face, he asked quietly, breathlessly, “You found him?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Barkley. My father’s contacts have located a man we think may be him.”

 

Quickly, Jarrod glanced behind Sune to find Martin standing beside Bridget in the doorway. “Please, hire a hack for us, Martin.”

 

“Right away, Sir!”

 

Asa Harmon jumped up from his seat beside Charlie and said, “Please, sit here, Sune.” Then, Murphy vacated his black leather chair across from the couch and allowed Jarrod to sit down near the smaller man. Nick stood at Jarrod’s left arm, his uninjured right hand closed on his brother’s shoulder.

 

As soon as he was seated, Sune began speaking.

 

“Mr. Barkley, it will draw much attention for all of you to go, but,” he paused, looking at the anxious faces around him, and swallowed hard, the smile noticeably gone, “If it is him, his condition is not good. You must make a decision about whether he is to be moved or not, and if you decide to, it may take all of you to carry him out of the alleyways. Some of them are too narrow for a carriage.”

 

Jarrod lifted his dark blue eyes to find Nick’s hazel, both of them feeling more hope than they had had previously, but deeply worried by Sune’s words. Nick nodded and Jarrod returned his eyes to Sune’s round face.

 

“Sune,” he asked quietly, “Will it endanger you, your family, or anyone else if we all go?”

 

Shaking his head, Sune said, “There is an elder woman who has been caring for him. She may not have employment after this, but no one else will be harmed in any way.”

 

“Can you take us there now?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Barkley. My father said you should go immediately.”

 

 

 

Chapter 44

 

In the near darkness, she sat silently, watching the crackling flames dancing in the hearth, waiting for something she could neither express nor explain. Beside her, the dim light of the small oil lamp gave off a slight hint of smoke, which found its way toward the high ceiling of the dark, wood-paneled study above her.

 

Behind her, the room was quiet.

 

It had been hours and hours since the morning’s telegram had come, the one that, despite the obvious attempt Jarrod had made to choose his words carefully, had convinced her from its tone that he was in the final throes of despair about finding his youngest brother, either way, either alive or dead.

 

Oh, she mused to herself silently, it wasn’t any particular word or phrase he had used. Neither was it the slightly longer than usual missive. And, it was more than the fact that his opening lines were not as glowing with optimism, as his previous telegrams had been in the last week.

 

It was probably most glaring in that Jarrod mentioned he may soon need her help in trying to persuade Nick to return to the ranch. Something about his words made her immediately feel that something had happened to Nick, something bad, but not so overwhelmingly so that Jarrod knew she would later be angry at him for not telling her sooner.

 

She looked up at the picture of her husband, hanging in the place of honor above the mantel, and she thought back to the pieces of conversation she had overheard, drifting up the stairs from this very room, months ago, . . . on the night Heath had first come to them.

 

Most of the words she had actually been able to make out were from Nick, though she had heard Jarrod call his name several times.

 

She had also heard another voice that night, one obviously lifted in anger, rising and falling with its own unique rhythm, its own distinctive timbre, one that could have been Tom’s voice, . . . except for the slight drawl with which some of the words had been spoken. It had been a voice sometimes dripping with sarcastic irony, sometimes so soft she could barely be sure he was still speaking, . . . except for the attentive silence that seemed to hold the whole house in its grasp, daring any of them to breathe.

 

Dropping her eyes from the steady gaze of those in the picture above her, she choked back a sob, then gave into it, letting the tears flow, unchecked, as she said quietly, “He has brought so much of himself, and so much of your spirit, to this family. . . . Never to hear his soft voice again, to see that smile, so much his own, but yet, so like yours . . . .”

 

Trailing off, her words continued, but so quietly this time, as to barely breach the silence of the room, “What will happen to Jarrod and Nick if they can’t find him, after only just beginning to know him? . . . . Oh, Tom,” she finished, bringing her shaking hands up to cover her face, “If he’s really gone, please watch over our sons, all three of them, but especially our Heath, the one that never knew you!”

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

Leaving Charlie fuming as he watched them disappear into the deepening dark, they had to leave the hansom cab and the man with the injured ankle behind, as soon as the hilly streets began to narrow too much for more than foot traffic.

 

Following Sune, they immediately found themselves hopelessly tangled among the activity of shopkeepers closing up for the evening, scurrying pedestrians, and closely packed buildings. As they moved deeper into the district, Jarrod noticed the smell that resembled that of burning chestnuts, which Harmon quickly identified for him as that of opium smoke.

 

They noticed right away that they were not the only non-Chinese moving through the area.

 

Nick watched closely, trying to understand the patterns of movement and keeping his eyes open for escape routes, should their forward progress suddenly be halted. As they progressed deeper into the area, he realized that most of the non-Chinese traffic was disappearing into buildings, each with a curious similarity. Each had what appeared to be a guard posted just inside a thick wooden door, watching everyone that approached through a tiny window open in that door.

 

No money was exchanging hands, at least not on the outside.

 

Harmon, seeing Nick’s curiosity, leaned in as they walked and told him that the places of business were open at all hours of the day or night, and that many of them housed gambling operations, called fan tan gaming rooms, like nothing found anywhere else.

 

Brightly dressed women called to them as they passed through the narrow streets, most of them leaning out of the small windows of their “cribs,” opened directly onto the street and with a man to guard them, similar to those found at the gambling houses, but seated outside the open doorways on tall stools. Occasionally, the women stood outside, their bright blue and red silk over-shirts and black silk pants a contrast to the squalor becoming more noticeable with every step.

 

As the streets, noticeably clean despite the increasing poverty, began to narrow into little more than tiny alleys, they dodged fewer pedestrians.

 

More worried than he cared to admit as he saw the worsening conditions of the buildings, Jarrod’s anxiety increased as they turned yet another corner.

 

Suddenly, Sune stopped and turned to him.

 

“Mr. Barkley, all that we know is that the man we seek was brought here by some others who found him unconscious, beaten and bleeding, several blocks from here. He must have made it that far on his own.”

 

Taking a deep breath, he continued, searching Jarrod’s eyes, “This place is one of several in the area where some of our people are brought as they wait to die, usually the women who are victims of the slavery and prostitution that plagues us, as well as old men with no one else to care for them. This end is close to the docks, which means it is not far to carry the bodies of the poor back to the holds of the ships that will return them to China---or so they are told before death.”

 

Reaching out to grasp his employer’s arm, Sune added, “He has been kept alive by a woman who was one of the few to escape this slavery with her life. . . . My father’s sources assure us that she has done her best, but his condition is not good.”

 

Jarrod turned to look at Nick for a moment, each drawing strength from the determination of the other. Then, he returned his gaze back to meet Sune’s worried, almond-shaped eyes, before he nodded and said, “No matter what, Sune, we will always be grateful for your help, that of this woman, and for that of your father.”

 

Satisfied, Sune turned back to the nearby open doorway and led them inside.

 

 

   * * * * * * * *

 

 

At the sound of heavy footsteps in the passageway near the door, Ah Lin Foon lifted her head. She had known that they would come as soon as she had passed the word that the young man in her care had responded to the names she had spoken to him.

 

Rising slowly, stiffly, she carried her lamp and made her way across the floor to the doorway and opened it before Sune could tap on it.

 

Conversing with him rapidly, she saw his eyes turn to find those of the tall, dark-headed man behind him wearing the dark grey suit and fine, wool coat. Lifting the lamp, she saw the blue of the man’s eyes, darker than those of the young man she tended, and she saw the worry etched deeply into them.

 

Immediately, another tall figure pushed forward, causing her to take a step back with a gasp of her breath in her throat.

 

“Nick!” Jarrod said quietly, reaching out to him, “Nick, wait. She’s frightened. She doesn’t trust us. We have to go slowly.”

 

The growl that came from this second man’s throat spoke of his anguish, and though he turned away, held back by the first man’s arm, she surprised them by stepping toward them both.

 

“Ni-i-ck?” she spoke tentatively, reaching out to touch the arm of the second man.

 

They all turned back to her in quiet amazement.

 

Did she understand them?

 

Nick nodded and answered, “Yes, I’m Nick Barkley.”

 

“Ni-i-ck Bak-k-ley?”

 

Nodding, slightly frustrated at her repetition, he said again, “Yes. Nick Barkley.” Then, pointing, he said, “This is my brother, Jarrod.”

 

Ah Lin bowed slightly before them and brought her head back up, gazing into first one pair of Barkley eyes, then the other. Finally, while they all held their breath, she said,   “Ni-i-ck  Ja-l-od  Hea-th  Bak-k-ley.”

 

Jarrod nodded his head and, smiles creeping onto both their faces, he answered for them, “Yes, . . . Nick, Jarrod, and Heath Barkley-----the Barkley brothers.”

 

She nodded once, as if she understood, and turned to lead them across the cold, damp stone floor of the room, holding the lamp for them.

 

With worry and fear for Heath continuing to rise as they stepped inside and saw the appalling conditions of the cold, damp place, they both searched the darkness for any sign of the brother they sought.

 

As their eyes adjusted, they both realized that the room was empty, except for one figure curled up facing the opposite wall, lying on a mat like those they had stepped around as they followed her inside.

 

“HEATH!” Nick suddenly yelled, his cry broken off by the fear choking him as he surged forward, past her, and dropped to his knees behind the still figure.

 

“Heath,” Jarrod breathed, as he joined Nick and they turned him gently, trying to get a good look at him in the dimness broken only by the lamp the tiny woman held above them.

 

Murphy joined them, down on his knees at Heath’s head, as Sune Yun-shan and Asa Harmon held back, waiting and holding their breath to find out if the blond was still alive.

 

“Heath,” Nick said, leaning over his brother’s head and shoulders, unable to stop himself from gathering his brother up and holding him against his chest, carefully supporting him. As he ran his hand over the blond’s hot, filthy face and heavily matted hair, he sucked in his breath at the injuries evident by the bandage wrapped around Heath’s head and the corner of the heavy dressing visible on his brother’s shoulder.

 

Placing his hand firmly on Heath’s chest, his hand inside the filthy, open shirt, Jarrod closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. Then, nodding his head, he said aloud, “His breathing’s shallow, Nick, but his heartbeat’s steady. . . . He’s burning up. I think we need to get him out of here and to a doctor as quickly as possible.”

 

Lifting the edges of the dressing on Heath’s shoulder, he added, “We’ll just have to be careful not to start any more bleeding. ”

 

Nick nodded once with a glance at Jarrod to let him know he heard him and agreed, but turned his full attention back to the blond cradled carefully against his chest. Jarrod pushed the unbuttoned shirt further open and sought the wrapping around his brother’s ribs, as he gently pushed on the area, trying to remember how Heath’s ribs had felt that night in the parlour of their home.

 

His concern mounted when his efforts produced no sound, nor movement, from Heath.

 

“Nick, Robbie,” he said urgently, “Do you think we can carry him out of here without jostling him too much? It’s a long walk back.”

 

“We’ll manage, Jarrod. Let’s go,” Nick said emphatically, catching Robbie’s silent nod from beside him.

 

“Hold on, Lad,” Robbie said, as Nick prepared to lift Heath’s upper body into his arms. Gently, he eased Nick back and, pointing to his injured arm, said, “You keep his head steady, and let me do the rest.”

 

Then, with the others looking on, Robbie positioned himself beside Heath, reaching one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders. He lifted Heath carefully toward his chest, his huge biceps and thighs bulging as he smoothly, almost effortlessly, lifted the blond from the damp stones and the thin rice mat. Then, nodding at Nick, who eased Heath’s head against Robbie’s shoulder and removed his own thick coat, wrapping it around his brother, Robbie headed for the door.

 

Immediately, the woman began talking, clearly upset, as she stepped in, taking hold of Heath’s limp arm, trying to prevent them from moving him.

 

Sune moved forward and began trying to soothe her, explaining to her as he gently eased her fingers from around Heath’s arm and led her to the side, that they were taking him home to care for him.

 

As they crossed the floor toward the door, Jarrod asked, “Sune, can you find out from her how long he’s been here, and what his condition has been like?  Wait…” he stopped talking, trailing off, thinking hard.

 

“Nick, you and Robbie stop a minute.”

 

As the others stopped by the doorway, Jarrod resumed his conversation with Sune, “Did you say she might not be able to continue making a living here because of what she’s done for Heath? Do you think she would be willing to just come with us? That way, we can figure out later how to help her, and, between the two of you, she can answer any questions the doctor has while he examines Heath.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Barkley. I will ask her.”

 

Then, the group made careful progress up the damp passageway, leaving Sune to try to calm the clearly distraught woman, and, if possible, to talk her into accompanying them.

 

As the men waited outside the door on the street, all four were relieved to see Sune emerging with the tiny woman by the hand a few minutes later.

 

“Lead the way, you ugly Mandarin,” Nick said softly, nodding, as Sune walked past him and grinned.

 

 

 

(This is the end of Part III of Dead Wrong.  Chapter 45 will begin Part IV.)