Stages of Trust

Chapters 21-30

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 21

He eased his way down the side of the embankment, clinging to small trees to slow his descent, his feet threatening to slide out from under him in the slippery loam of thick pine needles and rich, wet dirt.

His progress was somewhat hindered by the fact that he never took his eyes from the two men lying in the road as he approached.

His rifle aiming down at the first, he kicked away the man’s still warm pistol from its place in the slick dirt. Then, he moved around to the second and repeated his motions, all the while keeping a sharp eye on both men.

They never moved.

He rolled the larger of the two over, looked dispassionately into the dead green eyes staring up at the dark sky. He had already noted the blood still oozing from a shoulder wound he had not caused, as well as a large swollen area in the back of the man’s head.

Then, he moved to check the other.

The side of the smaller man’s head was creased by a bullet and his eyes were closed, making it harder to tell if he were dead. Ogden touched him with his boot, watching for a reaction. He was unwilling to lean down and check him, to risk letting the man get the drop on him by putting the weapon within his reach, in case he was only wounded. He nudged him harder. Not hearing any response, nor able to see any breathing as he watched, he decided he would have to risk leaving the man and hope he was dead.

He knew he had to get to Mrs. Barkley.

Carrying his rifle in one hand, he began his hopping, limping gait along the road and up the hill. The rain was slowing, but still coming down steadily, the large drops unable to find their way to any part of him that was not already soaked completely through.

As he reached the top of the ridge and the crest of the curve, he could see his lantern still shining through the rain from its peg outside the door of the barn. Its glow was protected from the wet by the overhang of the roof, and it illuminated the empty area surrounding the outside of the barn’s wide open door.

Picking up his pace on this relatively flat, last section of road before the station, he trotted toward the barn, his eyes still searching for the horse and woman he knew had to be there somewhere. As he approached the barn, he heard her voice.

“Easy there. Just stand still. Good Boy.”

Then, he heard her calling his name, “Ogden! Ogden Haverty!” He entered the open double doors and saw the soaked horse and an even more bedraggled, silver-haired woman standing together, next to one of the stalls.

“Mrs. Barkley! Are you alright?” he implored as he stepped up beside her. Suddenly, he stopped and stared. Her hands were tied to the saddle horn, and her toes were barely touching the hay-strewn ground beside the tall chestnut.

She was hanging exhaustedly from the horse---the horse that had headed toward the open barn door, the shelter from the rain, the accompaniment of other horses, and the promise of dinner.

Turning, he limped toward an inside wall, and he grabbed a knife he kept handy for trimming hooves. Making his way back over to her quickly, he propped the rifle against the stall and reached over her shoulder to cut her loose.

He steadied her as she slipped down to the floor, keeping her from falling too quickly. Then, without another word, he left her there, led the horse into a stall, and returned with a dry horse blanket that he shook out and placed around her.

He eased down to the ground next to her and reached out for both of her arms.

“Are you alright?” He repeated as he held onto her shivering form.

She sat rubbing her throbbing wrists and started shaking her head, water droplets still running down her face. She was so glad to see him, but she was scared for him, too.

When she could catch her breath enough to speak through the cold and wet that had her in its grasp, she gasped, “Ogden, two men, they’re right behind me!”

It was his turn to shake his head.

“No. They’re dead. They’re not coming here. It’s alright.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide now.

“Dead?”

He nodded.

“You killed them? That was you firing at them?” she struggled with the idea. “But, . . . I thought they were firing at me.”

“They were firing at you. But, it’s alright, now. They’re dead.” His thoughts returned to the one man that he wasn’t as sure of, but he put it out of his mind for the moment. He was pretty sure the man hadn’t been breathing.

“Ogden, we have to go. Those men attacked the stage this morning. Your friend, Ellis,-------I think he’s dead.” She stopped at the look of anguish that crossed the old man’s face.

He closed his eyes for a second and took in a deep breath. Then, he opened them and stared back at her. “Heath?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know. . . . We have to hurry.” She began struggling to her feet, but cried out when she tried to put weight on her right foot. He reached out to steady her again, then, helped her hop over to a nearby hay brick. As she sat down on it, she grabbed his hand.

“Ogden, will you go with me? I have to go back to him.”

“I’ll gather some supplies and saddle some horses. Just sit here and rest----I’ll bring you something to eat and clothes to change into.”

“No! Forget all that----we have to hurry, Ogden. He could already be . . . . ,” she trailed off and tried to get to her feet again, her worries and fears driving her, her thoughts of all that could have happened to him overpowering her exhaustion and her aching body.

“Alright, alright. Wait here.”

He half-limped, half-ran toward the station, where he quickly gathered bandages, a precious bottle of iodine, a leather pouch to put the supplies in, and several blankets. On his way out, he grabbed a blue plaid shirt and a couple of rain slickers hanging by the door on wooden pegs.

Dropping the items at her feet, he threw her some rope looped around a nail stuck in a nearby wall, and hurriedly unsaddled the chestnut, before saddling three other horses.

Before he led them from their stalls, he paused to load another rifle and grabbed a handgun. Then, he returned to the tiny woman sitting with her arms loaded down with tied bundles. Taking them from her one at a time, he noticed that she had changed into the plaid shirt and had used the corner of the blanket to squeeze some of the water from her hair while he had been in a stall at the other end of the barn. She looked a little drier.

When he took the last rolled blanket from her, she pulled the rain slicker over herself. He immediately noticed the damage done to her wrists as she reached up.

He stopped, took one arm and pulled back the sleeve of the too-big shirt. “That needs tending,” he said quietly, reaching behind him for the bag of supplies he had just tied on the saddle of the closest horse.

She pulled her arm from his grasp, “Later, Ogden. First, we find Heath.”

Staring into her intense grey eyes, he nodded.

He assisted her into the saddle, wincing with her as she tried to put her weight on her right foot long enough to reach up with her left and place it into the stirrup. She bit down on her lip, and he helped lift her up off her foot as quickly as he could.

Once she was in the saddle, however, she wasted no time in urging her horse forward and back out into the slow, but steady rain. He took up the reins of the second horse and dallied those of the third around his saddle horn. Leading them both from the dry building, he grabbed a well-worn hat hanging by the barn door before he turned the horses and closed both doors.

Dousing the lantern hanging nearby, he removed it from the nail and tied it to the saddle of the extra horse, before he mounted his own. Then, riding over to her, he handed her the hat.

“It’s not much, but it’ll keep the rain outta your eyes.”

She nodded, as she followed him out of the station yard at a fast trot.

* * * * * * * *

The hand that shook him was determined.

It refused to be batted away.

Then, the voice began, its irritating volume all the more aggravating for its ridiculous attempt to whisper.

“Jarrod. Are you awake?”

The dark-headed man under the blanket fought the desire to turn over and cover his ears with the pillow under his head. He forced his eyes open, and blinked at the fully-dressed spectre of his brother bending over him.

“Nick,” he groaned, “What’s wrong?”

“Get up Jarrod.” Nick’s voice continued, though Jarrod was not at all sure he knew who it was that his brother was trying to avoid waking. The best that his groggy brain could remember, Audra was staying at Eleanor Westman’s house following a party, and Mother and Heath were not. . . .

Suddenly, he sat up and shook his head, looking around.

“What time is it? I feel like I just closed my eyes.”

“You did,” Nick’s voice sounded almost apologetic, but not quite.

“Nick, what time is it, and what is going on?” Jarrod demanded, glaring at him.

“C’mon, Jarrod. It’s just after eleven, but, I’m going to find Mother and Heath, and you need to get dressed if you’re going with me.”

“Now?” Jarrod queried, his eyes growing wide. “Nick, I just went to bed an hour ago!”

Nick had let go of him when he had sat up, and now, he started pacing up and down the length of the room. His spurs were no more dulled by the rugs on Jarrod’s bedroom floor than they had been by the rug in his office earlier in the day.

“Jarrod,” he began, squeezing his temples between the thumb and fingers of his right hand, “I can’t sleep. I can’t . . . . Oh, forget it. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I’ll go alone.”

Seeing his brother’s agitation, Jarrod threw his feet over the edge of the bed and reached for his jeans, the leather belt still in place from when he had removed them a little while before.

“For crying out loud, Nick. If you’re bound and determined to go tonight, let’s, by all means, go. But, I’ll join them both in teasing you when we find them still asleep in the stage station at Murphy’s Camp. You know Brother Heath is going to find some choice things to call you, most of them related to mama bears, mother hens, and nanny goats.”

As Jarrod left the house and headed to the barn a little while later, he was still shaking his head at Nick. He carried his bedroll under one arm, and his leather saddle bags over the same shoulder. He grumbled to himself all the way to the barn, already uncomfortable in his rain slicker, the slow drizzle dripping off of his hat as he walked.

But, he stopped in his tracks as he entered the barn and saw Nick. His brother had his arms wrapped around the neck of Heath’s wet, but fine-boned, very fit bay, and he was leaning into the saddled horse, talking into his ear.

“Let’s go get that boy of yours. When we get him home again, we’re not gonna let him out of our sight for the next year, are we?”

Jarrod swallowed hard, the lump in his throat at the sight of big, bad, trail boss, Nick Barkley, caught in a private moment of worry, seeking solace in his brother’s horse.

All thoughts of his own grumbles were pushed aside, and Jarrod reached out with one foot to kick the open doorway with his foot as if he had just entered, making enough noise to warn Nick of his presence.

Nick quickly gathered the reins of the three horses and turned toward him.

“Ready?” he asked, his gruff voice now at its normal volume and confidence level.

“Yeah, Nick, I’m ready,” Jarrod said, his hand catching his brother’s arm as Nick almost elbowed him aside in his haste to get moving, to put his worries behind him. However, he stopped at Jarrod’s side, the iron grip of the hand he often called ‘lily white,’ still resting on his upper arm.

Nick stared beyond him, out into the gentle rain, out into the dark.

For a moment, Jarrod searched the profile beside him. Then, he said compassionately, “It’s alright, Nick. They’re both fine. I’m sure of it.”

Nick narrowed his eyes, then, turned toward Jarrod, anxious hazel eyes meeting dark blue. “Jarrod, I just can’t get that night out of my mind. . . .”

Jarrod stared at Nick, his own eyes clouding over for a second at the painful memory. He did not need to ask what night his brother was talking about; he knew.

“I found Gal by those rocks after I’d been hearing gunfire for a while riding in. I couldn’t think, couldn’t understand what was going on. I only knew I needed to find Heath, and help him. I . . . I don’t know, Jarrod. I think a fear started in me that night, a fear that I was going to lose him, lose part of myself, and I’m not sure that that fear will ever go away now. He’s so headstrong, so apt to put himself at risk helping somebody else, so. . . . I can’t explain it. It’s like part of him doesn’t even think about what he could lose, what we would all lose----like he doesn’t think that he’s even worth the worry. He needs us to keep showing him, to convince him that he’s too important to us to ever lose.”

Jarrod swallowed again, and took in a deep breath, letting it out through his nose----his lips pressed into a hard line, as the memories of that night tore through him. He dropped his head and stared down at the ground.

“Nick, I know that he would’ve died protecting me that night, if necessary. And, he would’ve done it without regard for the fact that he’d been cut to the bone by my lack of respect for his choices involving Bentell and Anders. We could have both died that night, and I would’ve never gotten a chance to tell him I was wrong. . . But, you didn’t let that happen. You were there for both of us, and I have no doubt that you are just the man to convince Heath, once and for all, how much he means to you, to us.”

Shifting his hand to grab Nick by the back of his neck and shake him, the way Nick often did with Heath, Jarrod added, “Let’s go find them both and bring your little brother home.”

Nick nodded, and they both stepped out into the drizzle. Though it was a cold, seeping rain, Jarrod hardly noticed this time. His heart was full of warmth, . . . though, in his head, he was starting to worry.

Chapter 22

Just as they rounded the first curve and started down the first slope, Victoria saw Ogden hold up his hand to stop her. He walked his horse forward, his handgun in his palm and ready. He stopped the horse in the road and stared down at the still, lifeless eyes of the man she recognized as Jed.

Then, he dismounted and reached up to hand her the gun.

“This one’s deader’n a drowned rat, but, I want to check the other one again. Hold the gun ready.”

She took it and nodded, glad of the feel of the heavy metal weapon in her hand. Its comforting presence kept her from shivering at the sight of the man lying in the wet road.

Ogden edged toward the side of the road, expecting to see the smaller man where he had left him next to some thick undergrowth. Instead, he could tell, even in the dark, that the man was no longer there. Quickly, he looked around and found a muddy trail leading into the brush, that indicated the man had drug himself out of the vicinity of the road.

Swearing under his breath, he limped back over to his horse. Then, glancing up at her, he said, “I think he’s probably dead by now, but, he’s gone off into the brush----hopefully, to die. . . . I wish I could be more sure. We’ll just have to hope he is. He’s caused more’n his share of trouble already.”

She handed him the pistol, and he mounted stiffly. He picked up a long lope, with the other two horses right behind him.

They did not speak again for a long time. When they slowed again, the darkness was complete and the rain had soaked through them in any places not covered by the oilskin of their slickers.

She sat her horse just off the road, under the limited protection offered by the overhanging branches of a giant red fir. As she let the horse beneath her breathe, she sent her thoughts miles ahead, searching the dark for any sign of what had become of her son.

Ogden reached over with one hand and, as if reading her mind, touched her shoulder gently and said, “He’s tough, Mrs. Barkley, real tough.”

She nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened, and tried to smile over at him. “I know he is, Ogden. I just wish. . . .”

“You wish he didn’t always have to be, don’tcha?”

She let out a long sigh, “Yes, that’s it exactly. He’s been through so much, so much that I’m sure I don’t know about, things he protects me from.” She swallowed hard, then, continued, “He has always had to fight for the things my other sons were, in many ways, handed. Things like the respect of those around him and the right to be seen as a man worthy of the pride he has burning deep inside him.”

She shook her head.

Ogden had dropped his hand from her shoulder when she had started talking. Now, he stared off into the distance as well, seeing the past clearly in his memories. “You know, Mrs. Barkley, that boy’s a survivor because of that pride, because of the self-respect he carries inside him. Just from what I know of him, he has proven he is a man worthy of those things time and again. ‘Sounds like he’s continued to prove them, even to you.”

She dropped her head and said, “Ogden, I’m ashamed to say that is one of the reasons he and I were on this trip together. I have made some terrible mistakes where Heath is concerned in the last few months, and though I finally figured it out and apologized to him, I know I have hurt him deeply. He’s forgiven me, I know he has, but I also know it has put a barrier between us-----one that I wanted to break down, if he would let me, on this trip. But, now?”

She took in a deep breath and stared up at the sky, then, closed her eyes, letting the slow, continuous drizzle that found her through the thick branches of the tree, wash over her face.

“Mrs. Barkley, if I know anything about that boy, it’s that, though he’s a survivor with a fierce will to live, though he can be down-right lethal with almost any weapon in his hand, he has more compassion than any man I know. If the proud and angry young man that I knew could set aside his feelings about the man that was his father, enough to finally become who he is, to become Heath Barkley, I am quite sure his heart is big enough to let you back in as well. You are the woman that offered him a place in her family, and there is probably nothing that you could do to turn him away from you.”

Slowly, she pulled her face away from the sky and opened her eyes to stare at the grizzled old man beside her, his white hair plastered to his head beneath the sopping hat.

“You do know him well, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I love that boy.”

She nodded and acknowledged quietly, “So do I, Ogden. So do I.”

As if of one mind, they turned their horses back onto the open road, and continued their long, curving descent.

* * * * * * * *

“Nick! Nick, we’ve got to stop a little while. These horses can’t take this pace much longer. Slow down, or better yet, stop. Let’s give them a breather!”

Jarrod saw his brother’s head turn toward him slightly, followed by a quick, single nod of acknowledgement. He followed Nick, then, toward a grove of small trees on the side of the road, careful to avoid the darker areas on the uneven ground that could have been rocks or holes.

In the dark, traveling like this through an unfamiliar tract, having a horse step in a hole could spell disaster for both horse and rider.

Jarrod dismounted and loosened Jingo’s girth slightly, to allow the horse a chance to blow. Then, he untied his canteen and walked around the damp flaxen tail toward Nick, who was still mounted.

He reached up, offered his brother a drink, and said, “Get down, Nick. We’re going to rest these horses a while.”

Above him, Nick shook his head, anxious to push on.

Jarrod rested his hand on his brother’s boot, and said, “Nick. Get down. I know you’re worried, but we won’t get there any faster by riding them into the ground. That makes no sense!”

Finally, Jarrod received another nod and felt Nick’s weight shift as he threw his leg over to dismount. When Nick was standing beside him, Jarrod placed both hands on Nick’s shoulders and looked him square in the eye.

Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Everything is going to be fine, Nick. The stage probably just lost a wheel or something. It happens all the time.” He shook Nick slightly, trying to get a rise out of him, to help him release some of the tension he felt in the younger man’s shoulders.

Nick nodded, then turned his eyes away as he moved to loosen both girths, Coco’s and the bay’s.

His head knew Jarrod was right. He was just being as jumpy as a toad-frog with hiccups. He knew it was ridiculous to ride off into the drizzling rain in the middle of the night, just because a stage was a little overdue.

But, in his heart, he couldn’t get past the idea that if he hadn’t left the ranch to ride to Coreyville in the middle of the night over a month ago, both of his brothers might have been dead by morning.

He leaned against Coco, on the off side, away from Jarrod, and closed his eyes. He felt again the fear that had latched onto his heart when he had realized Heath was bleeding inside from the severe beating he had taken—all because he had tried to protect Jarrod from one. He felt again the terror that had gripped his heart when he had thought Heath was going to die before they could get him home.

Heath.

He had come so close to losing him.

But, he hadn’t, not then.

And, he wouldn’t now, either, if he could do anything at all to prevent it.

Shaking his head, he wondered at the fact that he didn’t have the same fears where his mother was concerned. Maybe it was because she had always been there. Maybe it was because he hadn’t recently confronted her possible death, like he had his little brother’s.

As he absently rubbed the patient horse’s damp neck, he knew that doing something was preferable to staying home and waiting, doing nothing.

Then, he stood upright again, and he caught Jarrod’s eyes on him from across the pommel of the saddle.

He raised his eyebrow at Jarrod, and said in his best Heath voice, “Boy Howdy, Counselor, some’a your classy clients would run the other way if they could see ya’ standing there like that----like a cat thrown overboard an’ forced ta swim ta shore!”

Then, he reached across the saddle to touch the shoulder of his smiling, blue-eyed brother. He added quietly, more seriously, “Thanks for coming with me, Jarrod.”

Jarrod nodded and responded, “Let’s go bring them home, Nick. Both of them.”

Chapter 23

The old hat had lost its shape long ago, and somewhere between when they left the man lying in the road near the top of the ridge and their second hour of travel, its floppy brim had succumbed to the soggy weight of the continuous rain. Two tiny rivulets of water now streamed down her face, one on each side, one by her right ear, and one by her left eye. Though she constantly shook her head, trying to send the water flying off into the night instead of into her face, she was only partially successful.

In disgust, but very glad her hands were now free to do so, she reached one of them up and turned the hat around backwards, tilting it at a greater angle, trying to keep the water running down her back instead of into her eyes. But, it was too big for her, especially with her hair beneath it already plastered to her head, and it kept sliding forward again.

Irritated and desperate for better visibility in the dark dampness, she tossed the hat into the bushes on the side of the road.

She peered into the night, trying to see beyond Ogden, trying to make out where they were exactly, trying to compare each curve, each large boulder with what she remembered. But, going in this direction and at night, it was nearly impossible to distinguish one set of landmarks from another.

Besides, the only two times she had really turned around and looked back, were when she had halted the horse at the top of a slope to rest him, and when, . . . when she had been in horrified agony that Heath had been shot from his place behind her saddle.

She certainly had not been paying attention to rocks and trees at that point. All she had been able to focus on were his eyes, as well as his hand and voice urging her on. . . .

Suddenly, Ogden, two horse-lengths ahead of her, stopped.

She reined her horse around his, avoiding the rider-less horse he led, anxious to see what had made him stop this time.

A cry escaped her lips, as she almost threw herself from the saddle, the sight of the dark shape in the middle of the road drawing her out of her tortured memories. Gasping when pain from her injured ankle shot up her leg, as it made sudden contact with the ground, she still did not slow her pace. Her half-running, half-hopping motion resembled that of Ogden’s as he joined her in limping toward the figure lying on the road in front of them.

“Heath! Heath!”

The hope that had surged through her heart at catching sight of him was quickly hacked back down as a dagger of fear stabbed through her. He had not responded to her voice.

She went down on her knees beside him in the slick, wet dirt of the road, and she gently scooped his head up and cradled him in her lap.

“Heath,” she breathed, stroking his face and bending over him to keep the rain off, rocking him slightly, trying to find any sign of life, trying desperately to hear him draw a breath or see him blink his eyes open at her.

Taking in the chilling sight of the knife still buried in Heath’s shoulder and the dark blood that mixed with the thick, wet dirt smeared all across his shirt, Ogden’s worry turned to icy fear as well. He squatted next to Heath and tried to help her obtain a response from the silent young man. Using two fingers, he pushed on the soaked neck and hoped to find a pulse, while he yanked open Heath’s torn shirt with the other, placing his work-calloused hand directly over Heath’s heart.

Stillness descended over them, as Ogden closed his eyes and focused all his attention, all his concentration, toward his hands. He willed his fingers to locate blood coursing through veins, his hand to detect the beat of a strong heart.

Unaware that he was holding his breath, he suddenly sucked in air and began nodding his head. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared into hers.

“He’s alive, Ma’am, but only just. We’ve got to get him out of the dirt and to a doctor.”

She closed her eyes and leaned down to place a kiss on Heath’s forehead. She whispered, rocking him back and forth, “Hang on, Sweetheart. Just hang on.”

Through eyes filled with rain and tears, she glanced up at Ogden, and said with fear in her voice at the anticipated reply, “Where, Ogden? Where is the closest doctor?”

“There won’t be one between here and Stockton, Ma’am. All we can do is get him up on a horse and hope he makes it that far.”

Ready with her response, she immediately shook her head, “No, Ogden, the stage should be just down below us.” Then, thinking through the problems for a moment, she asked, “If you brought it up here, would there be room to turn it around?”

He stood up and looked around, then walked over toward the edge of the road closest to the steep slope on one side, and paced off the distance to the other side. He walked through the slight depression, running with water, at that edge and toward the trees and rocks beyond. Then, he stood there, scratching his beard for a few seconds, drops of rain dripping from his hat.

“Yep,” he said upon his return, “I can turn ‘em around right through here at the widest point. We’ll have to load him up first so I can use this flat area, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Lowering himself to his knees behind Heath, he watched her probing fingers as she tried to find his specific injuries through the sticky blood and the dark dirt that covered his head and left shoulder. He reached out and tried to assist her by checking the area around the knife, while she concentrated on the side and back of Heath’s head.

He said, “Looks like he tried to pack around the knife with handfuls of mud. ‘Probably would’ve bled out if he hadn’t. But, somehow, we’re going to have to get that knife out of there and clean it up.”

She continued focusing on trying to make sense out of what she was finding in the dark, the mud and blood confounding her efforts. She said quietly, the worry making her almost whisper, “There’s so much blood back here, I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like the old wound is open again, and there’s at least one more on the side of his head.”

Then, she glanced over at the knife buried up to the hilt in Heath’s shoulder, shaking her head before saying, “I think we should head for Stockton as quickly as we can. I’ll just have to clean him up on the way.”

Ogden nodded and climbed back to his feet. He reached out his hand to assist her in rising as he said, “We can leave him here and go get the stage, get her turned around down there, come back and load him up. . . .”

But, she interrupted him, refusing to leave her kneeling position, refusing to take his hand, “No! I’m not leaving him here alone. You go. We’ll be alright until you get back.”

Ogden stared down at her, not sure that he had heard her right. “Mrs. Barkley, I’m not going off and leaving you here, sitting in the middle of the road. I know you don’t want to leave him, but you can’t stay here, Ma’am.”

Her eyes shot grey glints of cold steel up at him, as she replied with a flinty voice, “Mr. Haverty, I am not leaving him, not for any reason.”

He tried again, “But, Mrs. Barkley, those men, one of them might not be dead. It was impossible for me to tell, and with him disappearing, . . . . He could. . . .”

Again, she cut him off, her voice leaving no room for discussion, “I’ve already left Heath once, and I’m not leaving him here again alone, Ogden.”

He shook his head and stared back at her. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and walked toward his horse, muttering as he went, blowing away the rain threatening to drip from his nose, as he huffed, “Never heard of such a stubborn woman! If I didn’t know that boy wasn’t your real son, I’d sure think two such stubborn folks had to have the same blood running through ‘em!”

He began untying one blanket and the extra rain slicker from his horse, and he removed the saddle bag and canteen. Then, he walked around to the extra mount, where he untied the lantern before returning.

After handing her the supplies, he lit the lantern and placed it in the dirt beside her. Then, he handed her his pistol. “I assume you do know how to use this thing? Any woman with your kind’a grit probably knows how to defend herself, too.”

She smiled up at him and nodded. Then, taking the pistol from him, she returned her attention to Heath. Ogden joined her in the mud once more and ripped open Heath’s shirt the rest of the way down. With her help, he carefully removed Heath’s vest and peeled back the shirt from his shoulder, working carefully to avoid touching the knife. As he removed the soaked shirt, most of the mud and still wet blood from around Heath’s shoulder came with it.

Meanwhile, she carefully worked herself out from under Heath’s head, and she slid one side of the saddle bag beneath him.

Together, she and Ogden looked at his shoulder. Ogden shook his head and said again, “This knife’s got to come out. Let’s do that first. The longer it stays in there. . . ,” he trailed off before adding, “Then, I’ll go, while you clean it.”

She nodded.

He touched the bullet hole, now visible only from the back, and glanced over at the woman beside him, questions evident in his eyes.

She answered them as best she could, most of her concentration on checking the injuries and getting the old man on his way, “They beat him, Ogden. Then, they shot him from behind me as we tried to escape. The bullet must have hit him there, but I know it went clean through.” She gently touched the entry wound that marred his tanned shoulder, and she added, “Because it scraped my shoulder going out, but I don’t know about what happened next, . . . .”

Her words faded, her eyes, like his, on the knife buried in Heath’s shoulder from the front.

In a quiet voice, she asked, clearly puzzled, as his fingers gently probed the area surrounding the knife’s blade, “But, where did the bullet come out?”

Then, she blinked and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath to push down the instant nausea that assailed her at the thought. “Ogden, that man, he was, . . . ,” she shook her head, “He was the kind of person who fed on the pain of others.

“Only an animal would have done something like this,” Ogden said with anger rising in his voice. “He must’ve pushed the knife right into the wound the bullet had already cut through him.”

He took hold of the knife’s handle, trying to free it. Immediately, as the blood flow began again at his attempts, he started shaking his head. “It’s not just a matter of having cut through muscle. Whoever did this must have rammed it into him or beat on it after he had it in there.” He grunted, trying to budge the blade, both hands struggling now. “I’m not sure I can get it out. It must be lodged against bone.”

A few seconds of silence followed as both of them tried to stem the trickle of blood that emerged. Having seen the rest of what the redheaded man called Mason had already inflicted, she hoped fervently that Heath had been unconscious during the brutality Ogden had just surmised.

Finally, after watching him unsuccessfully struggle again to remove the knife, she swallowed hard and wrapping her arms tightly around her waist to steady herself, Victoria said, “Go, Ogden. Get the stage. I’ll wash around it the best I can. At least it’s only bleeding a little right now.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment. Then, the old man quickly untied the parcels he had brought and covered Heath with the blanket, rolling him enough one way, then the other, to tuck the blanket under him. Then, he covered him with the rain slicker, before moving toward the horses.

The rain was still drizzling down on them as she knelt in the dirt beside Heath, listening to the fading sound of the horse’s muffled hoof beats as Ogden rode toward the stage.

Chapter 24

No lights were visible as he staggered inside the wooden building. He managed to make it to a worn, but cushioned, chair before he passed out again. The hand that had been holding the soiled bandana to the crease along the side of his head gradually lost its hold as unconsciousness pushed away his resolve to find the woman and stop her desperate flight.

* * * * * * * *

The station at Cherokee Flats was a welcome sight, its lights blazing from four windows even at this early morning hour called them out of the miserable rain and into the dry brightness within.

Tired beyond belief, Jarrod gladly turned his horse over to the hostler who scrambled toward them at the sounds of their approach. He had the distinct impression that visitors at any hour were the norm here, as he was divested of his slicker and hat, and was handed a thick, dry towel and a steaming cup of coffee by a man inside the station that looked to be part prospector, part chuck-wagon cookie.

As Nick moved to stand by the fire and began asking questions of the older man, Jarrod slumped in his lumpy, but comfortable, chair and closed his eyes. Even the thick coffee was not enough to keep him awake for long.

The questions and answers were at first distinct, Nick’s deep voice washing over him, surrounding him, followed by the quieter, but raspier, voice of their host.

“Any word on the missing stage yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Is there a search started?”

“No, the sheriff over in Sonora is sending a deputy at first light.”

“What time was the stage due in?”

“You mean, due in here?”

“Yes, here.”

“About now, but the word we got was that it never made it to Tamarack.”

“What about. . . ?”

Nick’s voice faded into nothingness as Jarrod’s exhaustion claimed him, no matter that he was sitting half-upright in the chair, one boot crossed over his other knee.

Sometime later, he was covered in a thin blanket by Nick, who had accepted the offer of a bed in the corner. The lights were dimmed in deference to the sleeping guests, though the activity in the large, single room never completely stopped.

Both men slept through the stoking of the wood stove and the preparations of food for the next day.

* * * * * * * *

Ogden pulled his friend’s body up to the top of the stage as gently as he could. There, he wrapped Ellis in a wet blanket and lashed him to the roof of the coach. He was unwilling to leave the body behind for fear of predatory animals, nor was he willing to take the time for a proper burial. He would leave his friend at the next way station and ask the stager there to care for the body.

After quickly checking each horse for injury and the harness for damage, he climbed back into the driver’s box, sorted the reins, and turned the team around to head them back up the road. He left all of the soaked luggage and parcels strewn across the ground, except for two trunks of equal size, now empty, that he loaded into the inside of the coach. These, he wedged into the narrow aisle separating the forward-facing bench seat from the one facing the rear. His thoughts were that they were just the right height to be used to connect the seats, offering a raised platform long enough for Heath to almost stretch out across during the journey toward Stockton.

As he turned the team, he talked to them, “Easy there, Girls. Come on, now. That’s right. Good Girls.” Once the direction they had been standing in had been reversed, he began apologizing to them, “I know, Girls. You’ve been hitched all day with no water and no supper. I’ll make it up to you, My Ladies, just as soon as we get you to the next barn.”

Just as they hit their stride, he noticed again the two additional dead bodies that lay in the dirt just beyond the edges of the road. That made a total of five men that must have been involved in the shoot-out that had occurred, not counting Heath and Ellis. The fifth man had been lying beside the stage, and he had been forced to pull the body out of the way in order to turn the stage around.

What had the men been looking for?

There had been nothing of much value loaded on the stage that he knew of. He couldn’t imagine what was so important that five men had been willing to die for it.

* * * * * * * *

Her heart bled for the brutality that had been inflicted upon him. The bruises from his fall from the bronc days ago had a yellowish cast to them in the light of the lantern. But, the new ones were just beginning to emerge, their shadowy darkness against the tanned, wet skin in sharp contrast with the older ones.

His eyes remained closed, and his breathing was hard to detect. Though he was soaked through and cold to the touch, she knew the fever was there, building inside of him as it always seemed to do with any of his injuries.

He had not made a sound, even when Ogden had tried to remove the knife. And, it was this silence that worried her most of all.

She concentrated her efforts on keeping him dry and as warm as possible, while using the water from the canteen to rinse the dark, murky mixture of blood and mud from the back and side of his head. She puzzled over a dark, bloody mark on the side of his face, smeared by the rain, but still visible. It looked almost like a handprint, though she could not imagine how or why it was there. As she wiped at it with a blue piece of Heath’s torn shirt, she was relieved to see that it did not cover an additional wound on his face.

Once or twice, she glanced up from her efforts to look at the sky or out into the dark that surrounded them. The two horses that had been left behind were nearby, tied to a tree limb on the side of the road, and they moved restlessly against each other. Once, she had to call out to them both, as one took offense to the other being so close.

“Ho, there! Quit that!”

They calmed down after that and stood quietly.

The rain had slacked up, and the clouds to the west were beginning to thin, at least as far as she could tell from the limited light of a slender moon that peeked through intermittently. The breeze was picking up, pushing the clouds away to the east, but raising the hairs on the back of her neck as it brushed across the wet strands that still dripped down her collar.

She shivered as a coyote howled, off in the distance behind her. Then, she said a silent thanks to the animal and its cousin, the one that had given her the idea that had probably saved her life a few hours before. Almost unseated completely from her horse when the coyote had crossed her path unexpectedly, she had realized that it was an action she could use to her advantage if necessary----if the pursuing men got close enough to shoot at her. Hanging down accidentally from the saddle for a long moment before she could pull herself back up had given her the confidence to try it purposefully later, in a moment of desperation as she had tried to reach the ridge-----and the station she had been almost sure had to be nearby.

Trying to shield Heath’s face from more rain, she leaned over him and tried to get a closer look at the two gashes on his head, now that she had removed some of the blood and dirt. The first, the one furthest back, was obviously a tearing of most of the stitches placed there by Dr. Bray, while the other, on the side of his head, was a new one. It appeared to be more than two inches long and straight across, as if a boot or gun butt had caught him there.

Though both of these were no more than oozing blood by now, they had bled profusely at some time during the night. She knew head wounds tended to do that, often looking worse than they really were. But, she was just as worried about the swelling she felt in the back of his head in two places, the worst area located around the original gash and the other just to the right of it and over several inches.

He had already been so sick and disoriented from the original blow. How much more could he endure and survive? Even without the rest of his injuries, a person could die from an aggravated head wound alone, couldn’t he?

She remembered how long it had taken Ogden to be sure Heath was still alive. His heart beat must be faint, his pulse very weak.

Then, just as quickly, other unbidden thoughts pushed their way into her head. Even if he lived, would he ever remember his family, ever remember the last eight, almost nine, months with them? Would he ever look at her again with recognition and love in his light blue eyes?

She reached down and pulled his head up and into her lap again. Then, she closed her eyes and held him to her while she tried to keep the rain out of his face, rocking slowly back and forth.

She had missed all of his years growing up. She had never held him close to her heart and rocked him to sleep like she had her other children. She had been denied the chance to watch him grow, to watch him mature, to watch over him. And, he had only known her for a short time, had only had a chance to get to know her during the last year.

They had missed so much time together.

He couldn’t die here----after all he had been through to find his family. He couldn’t die now----after all he had endured to help them finally understand the kind of man he was, the kind of respect and trust he needed from them.

“Heath,” she whispered, as she rocked his head gently, trying to lend him her strength and convey her love, as she struggled to keep him warm and dry.

Suddenly, she froze.

She heard a sound, something behind her that did not belong.

Carefully, she reached beneath the slicker with one hand, searching for the pistol Ogden had left her. With the other hand, she clutched the blanket up around Heath’s neck. Then, she slid his head back down, gently, to the saddle bag beside her, and she turned, one hand still touching his blanket, to get her feet under her.

As she knelt beside him and stared out into the dark, she was determined to protect him from further harm, as he had done for her, no matter what the next few moments required her to do.

Chapter 25

Ogden was only one curve below his destination when he heard the retort of the gun. His heart thudded in his chest, and he responded by yelling to the team for greater speed than he knew was safe. As they careened up and around the bend in the road, he could see the pale, yellow glow of the lantern up ahead.

“Hi! Hi!” he shouted.

The rifle was within his reach, propped against the driver’s box beside his boot, ready for him to grab the instant he could control the team with only one hand.

Breathlessly, he hauled them to a skidding stop, and climbed down from the rig.

“Jumping Jezebel, Woman!” he hollered. “What’re you trying to do? Stop my heart for good?”

She was sitting in the center of the road, holding Heath’s head in her lap, one arm wrapped around him protectively, the gun in the other.

“Sorry, Ogden, but I thought you’d rather not have a big cat attack one of your horses.” Very calmly, she nodded towards the two horses. Though both were still tied, he could see that they were very skittish, that one had his ears flattened against his head and was staring wall-eyed out into the dark, wet night.

Incredulously, the old man returned his gaze to her. “You hit it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but it was enough to scare it away for now.”

He nodded at her in amazement. Then, he turned his back on her and limped back over to his lead horses, muttering, “Woman, if you didn’t have a husband, and I was twenty years younger. . . .”

Coaxing gently, he used the two lead animals to maneuver the stage closer to the blanketed figure lying on the ground. Then, he returned to her.

“Mrs. Barkley, I don’t know if you and I can lift him up enough to get him inside. Has he shown any signs of coming around?”

She shook her head at him, “No, but I haven’t really tried to wake him, either. I think I can lift his legs, if you can lift his head and shoulders.”

“I’m really worried about that knife. I don’t want us to hit it on anything and push it in deeper,” he said. “Let’s try to get him to help us.”

Squatting down on his haunches, he reached toward Heath with both of his hands. He started tapping the pale face with one hand, while lightly supporting Heath’s head with the other. “Heath! Heath, Boy! Wake up, now.”

After several attempts, he shook his head. “He’s out, Mrs. Barkley. We’ll have to try it your way.”

They settled on letting Victoria lift his right shoulder, taking a firm grip on his right arm. Ogden steadied Heath’s head, while lifting under his left shoulder and trying to keep the wounds from further harm. They let Heath’s boots rest in the dirt as they worked together to drag him the few feet toward the stage.

Propping him up in the doorway, they both struggled for breath and did not resume their conversation. Finally, Ogden climbed up into the stage and began pulling him into the coach from behind. She ran around to the other side, unlatched the door, and climbed up to assist as much as she could by leaning in over the two trunks wedged in between the seats. Carefully, they lifted him so that his body lay across the two seats and the trunks separating them.

She smiled up at Ogden, patting the two trunks, when she had caught her breath. “I believe this will work, Ogden. I wondered how we were going to manage.” She reached over and squeezed his arm, “Thank you.”

Embarrassed, the old man nodded and looked away.

Working together again, Ogden lifted Heath enough for her to pad the area beneath and around him as best she could, using the extra blankets Ogden had given her almost twenty-four hours before. Finally, she lifted his head and placed the now, slightly-damp, pillow beneath him. In fact, everything, from their clothing to the blankets, had a slightly-damp feel to them from all the rain-----that had finally let up.

Ogden quickly retrieved the remaining items lying in the road and stashed them in the boot, all except the canteen and leather pouch full of supplies, as well as the lantern, which he tied for her up high inside the coach. Then, he led the two horses over from beneath the trees and tied them to the back of the stage with his own mount.

It was getting lighter, the grey of approaching dawn starting to lift the weight of the dark and dampness pressing down on the mountains around them, as he returned to close the door for her. Squeezing her hand, he smiled in encouragement and left to climb back up into his box.

Despite the smile he had given her, she was well aware of how worried he was. His expressive, blue eyes gave him away.

* * * * * * * *

Jarrod was standing in the doorway with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand when Nick approached him from inside. Silently, they stood, sipping their thick brew, and wondering what the day would bring. As one, they turned at the simple announcement of breakfast coming from behind them, with Nick clamping down on Jarrod’s shoulder as they turned. His hazel eyes found Jarrod’s dark blue, and they exchanged encouraging smiles with each other.

Neither needed to ask what the other was thinking. Each knew that the other was pondering the next few hours, hoping that their worries were all for nothing.

As they ate quietly, only occasionally joining in the conversation swirling around them, they mostly filed away information they might be able to use. By the time they had cleaned up their plates of eggs, sausage, and buttermilk biscuits, they had learned the distances between the next few stations, as well as a few names of the stagers gathered around them at the table.

With unusual quietness, Nick stood, carried his and Jarrod’s plates to the sink along the closest wall, and spoke to their host, “Thanks again, Willis. We appreciate the hospitality. Tell that deputy that we’re gonna ride on ahead, but we’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Shaking hands with Willis, Nick grabbed his bedroll and the sack of food that Willis offered, and headed for the door, confident that Jarrod would be right behind him.

Jarrod, too, stood, drawing out his wallet and placing a couple of bills on the table, “Gentlemen.” He touched his hat, nodded his thanks, picked up his belongings, and followed Nick.

Once outside, he accepted his sorrel’s reins from Nick, tied on his bedroll and, grateful that he did not need his slicker this time, climbed into the saddle.

Together, and without another word, they headed east, toward the higher elevations of the Sierra Nevadas.

* * * * * * * *

She sat holding on to Heath’s right arm as the motion of the stage threatened once again to toss her from the seat to the floor. She kept one hand on the edge of the bench, struggling to keep them both in place. The pillow kept shifting, every time his head rolled from one side to the other as the coach negotiated each curve.

Or was that the reason his head was moving? She felt the fanning flame of hope leap up into her throat. Was he coming around?

She stared closer at his pale face, trying to see if his movements were deliberate. A few moments later, she felt the despair that had had her in its grip for hours now, clamp back down on her. No, he was still unconscious, his movements coinciding exactly with the swerving of the coach.

She had cleaned the two gashes on Heath’s head as best she could, the brown stains of the iodine blending with the rust-color of the drying blood. Despite the bumps and bends in the road, she had managed to wrap his head in a clean, white bandage, hoping to keep additional dirt out of them both. She was particularly worried about the swelling in the back of his head that surrounded the earliest gash, the gash that had been made much worse by the tearing away of the stitches placed there by Dr. Bray.

While shuddering at the thought of what more trauma to his head could mean for his already faulty memory, she knew she should just be grateful that he was still alive. Inside, however, she screamed for the injustice of all that he had been through, for all that he had found so late in life, for all that he had had ripped from him again because of a fall from a horse and, possibly, aggravated by a stranger’s cruelty.

As another bump rattled her teeth, she clung to him, struggling to contain the tears that threatened every time she thought of how the moments of joy for him in the last few months had not balanced out the deep sadness that had gripped him-----and of how she had played a central role in heightening his sense of betrayal at his family’s hands.

“Oh, Heath Honey, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, reaching over to stroke the side of his face. Though she knew he could not hear her, she needed to apologize to him one more time, to let the words that overflowed from her heart touch the air that he breathed.

“For the thousandth time, I wish that I had listened to you more, given you more choices, and talked at you less than I did. After Coreyville, I felt that we were beginning to reach an understanding, you and I, that I was seeing you laugh a little more, smile a little more,” she reached up and touched her cheek, remembering the first light kiss he had placed there after her apology, “And, now, this. . . .”

She took in a deep breath, trying to get a grip on her emotions, trying to keep his serious condition from frightening her and tingeing every word that left her lips with heart-wrenching hopelessness for his survival, for his future, for her family.

Slowly, she reached up and pulled the locket from inside her blouse. Afraid to open it and chance breaking it with the roughness of the road, she did not need to touch the hidden latch to remember all of the promise for a bright future that it held. She did not need to see it pop open in her hand, revealing the four faces she loved most in all the world, for it to remind her of all she held dear. It was enough to just be comforted by the weight of it in her hand.

Her family, her four children, meant everything to her. The thought of losing any of them, any one of them, even this one son that she had not given birth to, simply took her breath away. She bowed her head over the locket, and continued to clutch Heath’s arm, willing him to wake up, willing him to remember her, willing him to keep fighting-----willing him to live.

Chapter 26

“Whoa!” Ogden called to the team the moment the leaders’ hooves left the main road and entered the barn area of the next station. He sat for a moment, taking in a deep breath and letting his arms stop shaking before he climbed down. It had been a good while since he had Charlie-ed a stage, most of his jobs since his injury revolving around caring for the horses on the ground, instead of driving them from behind.

Two figures came out of the barn, one of them leading a saddled horse. Both waved to him, with smiles on their faces, visible even in the early, grey light.

“Ellis! Where’ve you been?” one of the men yelled. Then, he stopped and stared, as he took in the white hair and beard of the driver. “Where’s Ellis?”

Both came cautiously forward, staring at Ogden in puzzlement. They stopped and waited for the old man to climb down.

“Haverty?” the other said slowly. “That you? Now that the rain’s let up and it’s light enough, we were headed out to look for Ellis. Figured he’d lost a wheel or something. What happened?”

“It’s me,” Ogden said wearily, choosing to ignore the rest of the questions, at least for the time being, “Got some passengers back here. One’s hurt.”

He reached toward the door, anxious to see how the two inside were faring. “George, how about some food for all of us, some extra blankets, and have you got a tick we can put across the seats? We gotta get this boy to a doctor.”

“Sure, sure,” the shorter of the two men answered. He gaped in the open window at the passengers for another second, before he turned to dash inside the cabin. The other man had tied his horse and was already unhooking the tired team.

Haverty called to the latter, “Al, they’ve had a terrible time of it. No water in too long, and no feed neither. Take extra care with’em, will you? And, just keep the three extra horses. I’ll get them another trip.”

The taller man waved his understanding as he led the two leaders into the barn.

“Mrs. Barkley, how’s he doing?” Ogden inquired, climbing stiffly into the stage to sit on the seat across from her.

Her tired, worried eyes were all the answer he needed, as he reached out to touch Heath’s sweaty forehead.

“Fever’s beginning to build,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay with him. Why don’t you go freshen up for a few minutes. As soon as Al hitches up the new team, we’ll be on our way.” Then, he added, offering her a brief smile and trying to lighten her worries, “Oh, and remember what I said about George’s cooking. Don’t get too excited about it---you’ll have had better, I ‘spect.”

Grateful for the chance to stretch her legs, but concerned about leaving Heath, she gripped Ogden’s arm. She appreciated Ogden’s attempts to give her a reason to smile, but simply responded, “I’ll just be a minute.”

Carefully, she climbed down from the stage, wincing as she placed weight on her ankle, but sighing in relief when it held her.

She passed the one called George as he came back out of the building carrying two canvas bags and some blankets. He tipped his hat at her, noting the bruises on her face, and said, “Ma’am.”

She nodded at him.

Leaning in the open doorway of the coach, George stashed the blankets and one bag of food next to Ogden. “What happened? Where’s Ellis?” he asked.

Sadness etched across Ogden’s features, and he simply pointed straight up, over his head. Looking at him strangely, George slowly backed out of the stage and climbed up to the roof above. When he lowered himself back to the ground, he reached in the doorway and gripped Ogden on the arm without a word. Then, he turned around to find his partner.

A few minutes later, they both returned and climbed back up on the roof. Carefully, they worked together to lower the blanket-covered body of their friend to the ground. Picking him up gently, they carried him inside the cabin.

Then, they returned, carrying a thin mattress, and they grunted as they maneuvered it inside the stage doorway. They gently lifted Heath, as Ogden positioned the mattress under him and replaced the blankets.

As they worked, George asked, “What happened? Is he related to the woman?”

“They were attacked. He fought them off, and yes, he’s her son,” Ogden replied.

The man nodded and continued, “He don’t look too good, Haverty. Don’t you think we should get that knife outta him?”

Ogden nodded, “Done tried once. ‘Can’t budge it. ‘Don’t reckon I know if it’s best to leave it for a doc to take out or just keep trying to remove it. There’s other things to worry about now, though. So, we’ll let it stay a while longer.”

They nodded solemnly, both figuring the young man, so obviously close to death, could die just as well with it in there as putting him through its removal first. They all stepped down to the ground, and Al turned back to Ogden.

“Lost a lot of blood, has he?”

Ogden glanced at the tall, slender man, and back at Heath before he said, “Yeah. A lot. He’s got a bad head injury and a bullet through him. The jaspers that did all this, and killed Ellis, too, ain’t fit to be called men. I shot two of them just this side of the pass. He killed three,” Ogden nodded toward Heath, “But you keep your eyes open. I’m not for sure that they’re all dead. One crawled off into the brush up there.”

“Know what he looks like?”

“Small, like. Dark clothes. Kind’a pointy-faced, like a fox. Even got red hair. I creased his head with a bullet, but he didn’t stay down.”

“What were they after, Haverty?” Al asked.

He shook his head, as he saw Mrs. Barkley emerge from around the corner of the cabin, and said, “No idea, Boys, no idea.”

The two on the ground helped her inside.

“Ma’am,” George spoke up, “Is there anything else we can get you or your son before you pull out?”

Having noted the addition of the thin mattress, she smiled slightly at the men. “No, nothing. Thank you both for making him more comfortable.”

George handed the other sack of food up to Ogden, who was back in the driver’s box, tipped his hat to her, and stepped back as the stage pulled out of the yard, with the reins laced firmly through Ogden’s fingers.

* * * * * * * *

“Jarrod,” Nick said, holding up his hand in a signal to stop. “There’s probably some water over there among those trees. These horses need a breather, and so do we.”

Nodding, Jarrod followed with Jingo held to a slow walk, letting him cool down slightly before reaching the stream that the trees seemed to be lined up around. He was grateful that Nick was being more reasonable about stopping this time than he had been in the middle of the night.

He dismounted and loosened cinches, before looping Jingo’s and the bay’s reins over a couple of low lying limbs, and stretching out to sit against a tree a few feet away. Nick unbuckled his saddlebag before joining him.

Nick handed Jarrod a bandana wrapped around a thick piece of bread cut down the center and filled with grilled beef. Though cold, the sandwich, chased with cool water from his canteen, greatly eased his hunger. Glancing over at Nick, however, Jarrod was surprised to find Nick staring out at the road, instead of devouring his half of the simple meal.

“Nick,” Jarrod prodded quietly, “Nick, what is it?”

Shaking his head, his dark-headed brother said, “I was just remembering when you and I stopped with Heath beside that stream coming back from Coreyville. . . .”

He lowered his eyes and covered them tiredly with his hand.

“Nick, we don’t even know if they were on this stage. Quit torturing yourself. Besides, you know as well as I do that Heath is more than capable of taking care of both of them if it comes right down to it. We both know how he protected me, even after I’d betrayed his trust the way I did. He’d never let anything happen to Mother, and . . . .”

“That’s just it, Jarrod,” Nick interrupted. “He’d do anything to prevent her from being placed in danger.”

Nick lowered his hand, then, and searched the wisdom shining from his brother’s deep blue eyes. “You know it, and I know it. He’d do anything, anything, to keep her safe. It scares the hell out of me, for both of them.”

Jarrod nodded, and unable now to finish his sandwich, covered it back up and said, “She’s hurt him in the last few months, Nick, but we all see everyday how much he loves her, loves her for the way she accepted him, loves her like all of her children do.” Then, patting his brother on the shoulder, he added, “You would do whatever you had to do to protect her, Nick. So would I. Why would you think he should expect any less of himself?”

Nick nodded. His thoughts were far away, working themselves up a steep mountain road to the east, searching for answers.

Watching him, Jarrod stood and said, “Just rest, Nick. I got more sleep than you last night. I’ll water the horses.”

* * * * * * * *

The road was narrowing steeply in places, but seemed to spread out and flatten in others. The trees seemed to be taller, with more yellow pines mixed in, and thicker, with stands of white fir throughout. The various shades of green seemed to include more bright hues of flowers, of fuchsia mustang clover and violet larkspur. Even the delicate, lacy white of parsnip was more noticeable here, especially in the glaring light of the late-morning sun shining across the open areas.

She lay the cool, wet cloth across Heath’s chest, and rested a second from her constant attempts to lower his rising temperature.

In some ways, her wishes had been granted. He was beginning to come around, now, his head tossing back and forth with greater frequency than the motion of the stage dictated. His lips moved occasionally, mumbling incoherent words that she could not make sense of.

However, now, she began to fear that he would wake up, and that he would be all the worse for the jostling of the stage. She could tell by the deep furrow between his eyebrows and the low groans that punctuated his soft murmurings, that he was already in pain.

Suddenly, he began panting harshly, and his eyes flew open. He stared up at the roof of the stage for a few seconds, not moving, before he closed his eyes again and tried to curl toward her on his right side, cradling his left arm against him with his right hand. A deep, groan erupted from his clenched teeth, and his eyes squeezed shut. He began thrashing about with his legs in the enclosed space, and rocked back and forth with his upper body.

Trying to steady him, she half-stood and grabbed both of his arms with her outstretched hands. She spoke calmly to him, struggling to remain calm, despite the feeling of helplessness that suddenly crashed into her.

“Easy, Heath. Easy now. It’s okay, Sweetheart. Just lie still.”

His eyes opened, and she could see the cloudy blue of delirium reflected from deep within them.

“Heath, lie still. Just try to relax. It’s okay, Heath.”

It was impossible to tell if he even heard her, and she watched in horror, as he reached up with his right hand, trying to grasp the handle of the knife. After two attempts, he found the strength to hold onto it, and began trying desperately to dislodge it from his own shoulder.

His eyes were open, but unfocused, as he bit down on his bottom lip and continued to jerk on the handle. Until the blood began pouring from the shoulder wound, she had limited herself to trying to hold him steady despite the motion of the stage. But, as she watched him continue to struggle unsuccessfully with the knife, the moans escaping from his bleeding lip as he opened his mouth to pant wildly, she became seriously worried about the damage he was doing to himself.

She tried to hold onto him with one hand and lean back toward the stage window with the other. “Ogden! Ogden!” she yelled.

When the stage showed no signs of stopping, and Heath’s violent, unsuccessful, attempts to remove the knife continued, she turned her back on him and leaned further out of the open window, calling, “Ogden! Please help me! Ogden, stop!”

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the old man holler for the team to halt and felt the stage slowing. Then, he quickly joined her inside, lending his strength to hers to help her in removing Heath’s hand from the bone handle of the knife.

“Heath! Heath!” she continued to call to him as she and Ogden fought him into exhaustion.

The light blue eyes finally cleared for the briefest of seconds as Ogden held his right arm in a tight grasp, and she thought for a second that Heath may have recognized her, as he slowly slipped back into weary unconsciousness.

She and Ogden sagged onto their respective benches, both of them completely undone by the strength and determination of the young man beside them.

When he could speak, Ogden slowly shook his head and said, “Remind me to never wager against him in an arm-wrestling contest, Mrs. Barkley. I’d say he’s got a good chance to beat this thing if he’s still got that much fight in him, Ma’am.”

Then, he leaned forward and reached out to touch her son again. Even before his hand made contact with Heath’s face, however, he could feel the heat radiating from him. He glanced over at the silver-haired woman who was working to stem the fresh flow of blood from the shoulder wound, in the front, and now from the bullet hole in the back, as well.

“The fever’s found him, that’s for sure.”

She nodded, “It’s been steadily rising for a while now.”

He touched the handle of the knife, afraid to bother it and bring on more bleeding, but wanting to see if Heath’s struggle had loosened it enough that he could successfully pull it out. Getting no complaint from her, he wrapped his fingers around the handle and tried to remove it. After straining for what seemed like an eternity to both of them, he swore softly, sat down across from her and wiped his brow with the dark blue bandana he pulled from his pocket. He was distraught to see that all either of them had succeeded in doing was to increase the blood flow.

“I’m sorry,” he added regretfully, “I just thought it’d be better to see if we could get it out after all that. All I did was make it worse.”

“No, Ogden. It wasn’t you----you did nothing wrong. You just tried to help. It was that vile creature Mason that did this to him!” she said vehemently. Then, softly, she finished, “It wasn’t you.”

He nodded. Then, when he saw how much trouble she was having stopping the bleeding, he said slowly, “I think we’d better tie his other arm down. I’m a’feared for what’ll happen if he wakes up and tries that again.”

“No! No, Ogden. I can’t bear to think how he’ll react if we tie him down.”

He looked deeply into her worried grey eyes, placed his hand on her shoulder, and asked, “Mrs. Barkley, what if he starts hauling on it again, and I don’t hear you calling me? He was out of his head a little while ago. If it happens again, he could bleed to death, and you’d be powerless to stop him. Believe me, I know how he is about his freedom and about some’a what he’s suffered to keep it. But, Ma’am, it’s the only way.”

Slowly, she nodded.

Ogden squeezed her shoulder, and pointed toward the leather pouch full of bandages by her feet. She bent over and handed them up to him.

She went back to holding a cloth against Heath’s bloody shoulder, while Ogden wrapped a bandage several times around Heath’s right forearm and lashed it around his belt. Then, he tied it off.

Before he climbed out of the stagecoach door, he looked back up at her and said, “I’m mighty glad he’s got you to look out for him, Mrs. Barkley. If a mother’s love can save him, then this boy is gonna be alright.”

Chapter 27

The towering mountains had given way to an area of hills with fewer trees than before. Whenever the stronger light could break out from behind the full, white, rapidly moving clouds, a reddish cast from the late afternoon sun chased them across the bald sections,

Tamarack was behind them now, a brief stop and a new team giving them all renewed energy and hope. She had wired Stockton from there, asking that Nick and Jarrod bring the doctor to meet them near Cherokee Flats.

Ogden was riding inside the coach, having been relieved by a fairly inexperienced, but willing stager, by the name of Joshua Holcomb.

The old man had finally talked the silver-haired woman into getting some rest, and she was curled up on the seat, sharing one end of the pillow that cushioned Heath’s head. A dark red, woolen blanket covered her, and her eyes were closed, though he suspected that she was not yet asleep. Her wrists and shoulder were now cleaned and bandaged, something that had needed doing for hours, but that she had ignored until now.

So far, Heath had only stirred once, other than the time she and Ogden had restrained him from trying to pull out the knife.

It had happened just before they had reached Tamarack. She had quieted him quickly, she had told Ogden later. In fact, she had been delighted that Heath had seemed to listen to her, seemed to stay calm at the sound of her voice, though she didn’t think he had fully awakened. She had said his eyes had not opened. He had just started moving around in obvious pain, and he had mumbled words she could not catch, before slipping into unconsciousness again.

Ogden looked out of the window at the passing landscape without really seeing it. He thought about the young man and the life he had led, the stories slowly pried out of the boy over long hours working together with no one else around to hear. He reminisced about the sadness that seemed to creep into the boy’s eyes whenever he had too much idle time on his hands, and he nodded to himself as he remembered the way Heath had constantly looked for more work that needed doing.

The boy knew himself well, and he was both astute and accurate at figuring out other people. A well-honed survival skill, probably, Ogden realized.

He thought about what Mrs. Barkley had said, about how she felt she had hurt Heath deeply, and he knew she feared that her plans to rebuild her relationship with him were lost because of his lost memories.

He shook his head.

Somehow, he couldn’t see Heath holding anything, any amount of hurt, against her for long.

Somehow, he knew the young man held her in high regard and that no amount of lost memories could erase that.

Glancing over at the sleeping woman with the bruises standing out on her face, he smiled softly. Her gentle, even breathing made it apparent that she was truly asleep now.

She sure was a spitfire!

He, of course, had never met Heath’s father, but if the father was anything like the son, he could imagine the sparks flying between him and her----two stubborn, and fiercely protective individuals, over what Ogden hoped had been many good years of marriage for her. He nodded to himself. He sure hoped they had been good years, despite whatever had occurred with Heath, though she had not said anything much about her husband, except that he was now dead.

She was sure something!

He could still see her in his mind the way she had clung to the side of the galloping horse as it passed him on the road in the drizzling rain, her silver-hair shining in the moonlight.

How many women would have taken in their husband’s son, fathered with another woman? Again, he shook his head as he tried to wrap his mind around such a thought. She had said how much she loved the young man, and he could tell that what she said was only a small piece of how deeply she cared about his well-being.

Whatever it was that separated them, beyond Heath’s lack of memory, Ogden was positive that it would not keep them apart for long. This was a woman of determination and an incredibly strong spirit.

And, Heath? What had she said------that he knew Heath well? Yes, he did. The depths of the boy’s compassion and respect for Mrs. Barkley were not hard for Ogden to imagine, not at all.

He glanced over at Heath, studied the dark bruises, the bandage wrapped around his head, and the reflection of sunlight on the handle of the knife. Seeing him like this, in much worse condition than when they had left Ebbet’s Pass, Ogden knew that much of what had happened to him had probably been a result of Heath’s attempts to protect Mrs. Barkley from the brutality of the men that had attacked the stage.

The old man shook his head again, his now dry white hair standing out wildly from his head.

Ogden had had little time to ask her what had happened. But, he had seen the area around the stage, had seen the three dead men, as well as the injuries already inflicted on the large man he himself had killed later.

Ellis was a good driver, but he was not a very good shot. Heath, on the other hand, well, Heath was deadly with a rifle. It was not difficult to piece together what had happened to the men, though even then, it was tough to understand how these two passengers had escaped at all.

Again, he glanced over at Heath, and, this time, he was surprised to see the light blue eyes watching him.

Quickly, he grabbed a canteen, and moved across the open end of the half-blocked aisle between the seats to lift the blond head.

“Ogden?” Heath’s voice came out in a quiet rasp.

“Easy, Boy,” he whispered, as he touched the blond hair gently.

“My turn. . . to Charlie?”

Ogden closed his eyes briefly in worry at the simple question. Then, he opened them, his blue eyes looking for clarity behind the pain in Heath’s. “No, not yet, Boy. You’ve done enough. Just rest.”

Carefully, he offered Heath a swallow of the water.

One swallow got down, before Heath began to cough on the next. Trying to support him, Ogden could feel the deep cough shaking his whole frame, adding to the pain he knew Heath must be in.

Beside him, Mrs. Barkley raised up and immediately worked her way behind Heath, taking his head in her lap, as she leaned against the side of the coach, her muddy, but dry, dark brown riding skirt and boots stretched out across the length of the bench.

She stroked his face as the cough continued to wrack him, the sounds of his raspy breathing cutting through them both. “Easy, Heath. Just let it go, Honey. Just relax,” she soothed.

He squeezed his eyes closed, the line between his eyebrows deeper now than before, and he began to move restlessly beneath the blanket.

“Mama?”

Though her head came up at his use of this particular endearment, the one she knew was not meant for her, she responded the same as before, with only a slight catch in her voice to give her away, “I’m here, Heath. Shhhhhhh. Just rest, now.”

Several times, he tried to raise his right arm, whether trying to reach her or the knife, neither of them was sure, but the bandage restraining him held. Clearly frustrated, his right boot began to scrape against the seat beside Ogden, his knee bending up and down, as he silently tried to escape the pain through tormented, random movements.

He tossed his head back and forth, and, as he raised his left hand and latched onto the open window of the stage, he growled through his clenched teeth, “Mason, . . . you yellow-bellied snake, . . . let her go! . . . Let her go!”

He tried to pull with his hand, to lift his shoulders from the make-shift platform, to raise up into a sitting position. But, the tenseness of his arm muscles around the knife blade and the rough spot in the road that the stage suddenly hit, turned his words into a cry of pain that left him gasping for breath as he fell back. She eased his head back into her lap, as Ogden held onto his heaving chest, and they both tried to talk him into lying still.

“Easy there, Boy. Just rest easy,” Ogden said, trying to hide his alarm at the pounding of Heath’s heart and the heat pouring off of him.

“Heath. Heath, Honey, just rest. It’s okay. Just rest, Heath,” her calm words were forced through a throat thick with fear. He was so hot, and, from his last words, she knew he was still back there on the road, still fighting for his life, . . . and hers.

She and Ogden looked at each other, as the old man wasted little time wetting the cloth one splash from the canteen at a time. Instead, he lay the damp cloth across Heath’s chest, and poured more water directly on top of it, slowly letting it soak into the material. He tried not to waste it, but he was eager to quickly lower the rising temperature any way he could.

Silently, now, as her son’s frantic motions began to slow, she handed Ogden another cloth, that, once he had wet it for her, she worked behind Heath’s neck. She continued to stroke his face and talk to him, unsure how much he could hear her. She could see that his eyes were still open, but only slightly.

“Shhhhh. That’s right, just rest. We’re both okay, now. You got us out of there. Just rest, Heath. Sleep, Sweetheart, just rest.”

As his eyes closed, and she felt him relax slightly, she breathed a sigh of relief.

* * * * * * * *

By the time they neared Murphy’s Camp, they had almost decided to stop and wait there for the doctor to come to them. Heath’s condition seemed to be deteriorating, but in his delirium, it was getting progressively harder to keep him contained inside the coach.

“Of course, we’ll do whatever you think, Mrs. Barkley, but I don’t like his raspy breathing, and this fever. This road is so rough, and with that knife still in him. . . . Maybe we’d be better to stay in one place, and let the doctor come to him,” Ogden shook his head in tired worry. He had tried to get some sleep, but could do no more than catch a quick nap between bumps in the road.

She knew they were reaching the limit of what they could do for Heath under these conditions, and she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of ever having left Tamarack. But, as she watched Heath toss his head, heard his breathing go from faint and ragged to rapid and panting as he tried to come around, she realized that each time he fought the pain, he was weaker than the last.

“If they responded to the telegraph and headed this way immediately, how long do you think it will take them to make it all the way to Murphy’s Camp with the doctor?” she asked.

Ogden scratched his head a moment, then asked in return, “You mean how much longer than if we could get to Cherokee Flats and meet them there?”

She nodded, glancing over at him.

“Without a stage to keep him traveling at night, without changing horses constantly? It would add almost another day for him.”

“Then, the answer is no, Ogden. There is no guarantee that they started this way as soon as the telegram arrived. Heath might not make it until we can get him to Cherokee Flats as it is. I know that. But, we can’t add another whole day. We’ll have to take the chance and keep going.”

In agreement, they made a very minimal stop at the Camp----just long enough to change horses again, obtain fresh food and water, and switch the soaked blankets for dry ones. Then, they climbed back inside the coach and continued their trek west.

As they pulled out of the yard, the hostlers and a couple of men staying at the station stood together and watched them leave.

One of them, a thin, waif of a prospector staying out back for a few days, commented to anyone listening, “Sure hope they make it, but, mark my words, that young feller’s got more’n one boot in the grave already. ‘Spect they’ll be ordering a casket built a’fore too long.”

The others moved off to attend to their various tasks, and though no one else voiced an opinion, several nodded silently at their own similar thoughts.

Chapter 28

About eight miles out past Murphy’s Camp, Ogden leaned out of the open window to holler up at the driver, “Holcomb! Holcomb!”

Joshua leaned down to hear the words, careful to keep his eyes on the road beneath the horses’ hooves.

Ogden saw that he had the driver’s attention and yelled, “Next chance, find us a stop close to some water!”

Joshua nodded his understanding, and returned to his former position, his eyes scanning the roadside for an appropriate spot.

By the time he found a likely prospect, however, they had traveled another four miles.

“Whoa!” he called to the team, as he brought them to a stop beneath some live oak trees. From his vantage point high above the road and from experience in this area, he knew there was a small stream running through here, tumbling over the rocks on its way to meet the Stanislaus to the east.

As he climbed down from the box, concerned voices came from inside the stage.

Victoria was trying frantically to hold Heath’s head still, to help Ogden keep the struggling young man lying down on the mattress across the seats.

She soothed, “Heath! Heath! It’s alright. Easy, Son, easy.”

“Take it easy, Boy. Just relax, now. Hold on, there!” Ogden had his hands full trying to keep Heath’s restless movements from throwing them all to the floor.

Then, a third voice joined the other two, as Joshua reached out to open the door, “Mason! . . . Don’t hit her again!”

Ogden glanced over at the anxious face waiting in the doorway. “Joshua, you found some cold water?”

The driver nodded, “Yeah, a stream. Right over there.”

“Help us, then. We’ve got to cool him down.”

As Joshua propped up the rifle and climbed inside, Ogden grabbed Heath on both sides of his face, trying to give the unfocused eyes something to hold onto, “Heath. Heath. Look at me, Boy. It’s Ogden. You’re okay, Boy. Mrs. Barkley is right here. She’s fine. Can you hear me?”

“Barkley?” Heath repeated, clearly confused.

“Yes, Heath. C’mon. Help me, Boy. We’ve got to get you down from this stage. C’mon.” Ogden nodded at Joshua. Heath tried to stand, and with Ogden holding him up on his right side by grasping the arm that was still tied off next to his belt, he and Joshua got the injured young man down to the ground.

Both were alarmed at the heat radiating off of Heath, his skin almost too hot to touch.

Once on the ground, Heath’s legs immediately gave out on him, and his head sagged to his chest, his eyes closed. Ogden quickly borrowed Joshua’s knife and cut the restraining bandages loose. Then, he and Joshua struggled to pick Heath up, each carrying one leg with one arm draped over their shoulders. They carried him next to the streambed and groaned under his awkward weight as they gently set him down.

Her limp pronounced, Victoria had preceded them, carrying a blanket and the rifle Joshua had left leaning against the front stage wheel. She had spread out the blanket for Heath on the ground next to the stream. Now, she knelt down between the flowing water and Heath’s still form. She and Ogden worked together to pour tin cups of the ice-cold water over Heath’s chest and neck.

“He’s very sick, Ogden. I don’t think lying out in the road in the rain has helped his condition any, but. . . .”

She trailed off, concentrating on keeping the water flowing over him, soaking him to lower his body’s temperature.

Then, she added, “I know he’s always prone to chest colds and high fevers, and he’s mentioned a bout or two of pneumonia in his life. But, I’m afraid this fever is coming from the knife blade and the bullet wound. With the knife in him that way, we can’t get it clean enough, and it can’t start healing.” Again, she stopped talking and used a cloth to wet down his flushed face, before she added, “But, I’m afraid for him to lose any more blood on another useless attempt.”

Ogden said quietly, “I know. Look here at this area. See how swollen it is, here, around the knife?” He stopped pouring water and gently touched the red, very angry area around the blade. Then, he continued, “It’s starting to look much worse, Mrs. Barkley. I don’t think we have any choice, but to get it out of there.”

Then, looking at her closely, he said in almost a whisper, “I’ll help you whichever way you want to go. We won’t give up on this boy. But, he’s your son. It’s up to you.”

She reached up and smoothed back the sandy blond hair, wishing for Heath’s blue eyes to open in recognition so she could tell him how much she loved him, how sorry she was for all that had happened.

But, he just tossed his head again, eyes squeezed shut in pain, a slight moan the only response.

She bent over him again, and whispered to him, as she brushed his scalding cheek with a gentle kiss, “Hang on, Sweetheart. We’re going to get the knife out. Then, we’ll take you home. Just hang on, Honey.”

Then, she turned to look over her shoulder into the worried blue eyes of the old man beside her. She nodded once.

Immediately, Ogden turned to the driver hovering nearby and said, “Holcomb, bring us some blankets and the supplies from the coach. We’re gonna need a fire and some hot water before we’re done.”

As the younger man turned silently to carry-out the requests, Ogden added, “Oh, and see what kind of tools you can scare up. We may need to use your knife again.”

Joshua nodded and walked back toward the stage.

She glanced up at Ogden’s bearded face, then back down to look at Heath, his bandaged head moving restlessly.

She said, “I know we have no choice, but it isn’t going to make it any easier.”

* * * * * * * *

The sun was dropping behind the tops of the trees to the west, creating long shadows across the ground near them under the overhang of those closest to the streambed. The shade and the water beside them had kept the temperature there slightly more chilled than out by the road, and now, it was beginning to lower even more.

The fire was beginning to die out, the water as hot as it would need to be. But, the three focusing on the task at hand barely noticed.

Holcomb had rummaged around in the boot at the back of the stage, producing some worn metal tools, including a file and an awl. He had also offered his own slim knife, pulled from a pocket of his jeans.

These had all been boiled in the water, using a coffee pot stored aboard to contain them, and they were laid out now on a clean, tan shirt of Holcomb’s, boiling water having been poured over it, before it had been placed on the ground beside Heath.

“You’re gonna have to hold him as still as you can, Mrs. Barkley,” Ogden cautioned her. “We don’t need him moving around none in the middle of all this.”

She nodded, assuring him that she would do whatever was necessary.

Ogden picked up the file. They had agreed that he would try first, using strength in his hands that she knew she did not possess, to try to remove the blade. If that did not work, she would try a more drastic approach. None of them liked to contemplate the idea of her trying to reach the point of the blade from the back of his shoulder with the awl, nor to think of the damage that might be done in the attempt of pushing or hammering the knife out that way, from the point end. The last resort, a third option neither was willing to try, was to cut it out.

Then, he asked her, “Ready, Mrs. Barkley?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice steady, but her worries pressing down on her chest with each breath.

She had placed both hands over Heath’s arms, and was leaning over him from his left side. Beside her was Ogden, and behind Heath’s head was the young Joshua, his face already pale and wide-eyed, even before they had begun. He looked like he was going to be sick at any moment.

Ogden’s plan was to work the edge of the file beneath the hilt that extended beyond the wound. Then, he would try pulling on the file with both hands, while Joshua pulled on the handle. Hopefully, with the extra leverage, and with both of them working together, they could work the knife loose, even if Ogden had to alternately place the file under one side for a while, then the other.

As he touched the edge of the hilt with the end of the file, however, he was immediately afraid that their plan was not going to work. There was not enough space. He used his fingers to press down on the swollen, inflamed area around the blade, trying to work the edge of the file beneath the protruding metal hilt. He could feel the heat from Heath’s skin beneath his fingers, and though he was careful, he knew that if Heath were fully conscious, his actions would be causing him immense pain.

Suddenly, surprised, he felt the file move forward, and he caught it under the edge of the hilt. With a sigh of relief, he took a deep breath and wiped his hands, one at a time on his legs, removing the sweat that would otherwise hamper his progress.

He glanced over at Mrs. Barkley. She was biting down on her bottom lip, but was outwardly calm, her hands holding Heath as still as possible, though his head had resumed its tossing motion, and he had begun to mumble again.

Then, he found Joshua’s wide-open brown eyes over his shoulder. “Okay, now Joshua, I’m going to try to move the file forward until it touches the blade. Help me by pulling the handle toward you a little at a time if you can. Not too much. We don’t want to move it sideways any more than necessary. We just want it out.”

The young man swallowed hard, and he nodded several times.

Ogden put his hands back on the file, and began to try to edge it forward, toward the blade. He nodded to Joshua and said, “Pull.”

They sighed together as the file finally touched the blade. But, both men knew the handle had not moved. Rather, the file had found space between Heath’s shoulder and the hilt.

And, as a result, the wound was bleeding again.

Profusely.

Heath was becoming more difficult to keep still, and Victoria was practically lying across his arms as she tried to keep him from wrenching free from her grasp.

“Ogden, I can’t hold him!” she cried.

Too late, Ogden realized their mistake. “Damn! We should have tied him again! Joshua, help her hold him.”

Heath’s eyes were open, and they heard him growl through clenched teeth, “Mason, you snake!” He struggled with them, trying to reach around her with his right arm to grasp the knife handle. His breath was coming in a panting frenzy, and he began cursing at the man none of them could see.

Suddenly, Ogden’s head came up, as he spotted someone over by the stage. Fighting off Heath’s right hand, he looked around for the rifle.

It was too far away.

He could reach it, but only if he let go of the struggling blond.

“Joshua!” He called, “Get the rifle! Now!”

Chapter 29

He was too slow.

With his attention turned first toward the road, and then, toward the gun, he lost his grip on Heath’s shoulder, as the delirious young man, in a burst of strength, pushed Ogden and his file away, grasping the knife with his own hand.

Heath’s growl grew in volume until it joined with his curses of pain-wracked rage, and he struggled to a sitting position, dragging Mrs. Barkley, the only person still clinging to him, as he gathered his feet beneath him and staggered to his knees.

Trying to stop him from hurting himself worse, and unaware of the approaching danger, she clung to Heath’s back and cried, “Heath! No! No!”

Intent on protecting them all, Ogden ignored her cries and grabbed the rifle from Joshua. “Get down,” he hissed, as he tried to keep his eyes on the man edging toward them from the other side of the stage. Ogden could see the dark-colored boots moving closer, but he could not get off a clear shot because of the coach’s wheels.

He took two crouching steps forward, hoping to reach Mrs. Barkley, who was down on one knee in the dirt beside her son, and he was trying to get in a better position to fire.

Suddenly, he heard a sound behind him and whirled around.

“Drop it,” a deep voice, from out of the encroaching dark, demanded.

Shock slammed into Ogden. There were two of them!

A second man he hadn’t seen was approaching them from behind a rock across the stream. Ogden glanced back over his shoulder at the one advancing upon them from the coach.

His surprise and fear for their situation hit him full force.

But, how?

How could there be two?

He knew he had killed one of the men up near the pass.

“I said, drop it!” the voice demanded again.

But, these two men. . . .

A few steps away and to his right, he saw Mrs. Barkley’s head come up, looking around her in disbelief. Joshua stood frozen in place nearby.

Letting the rifle slide slowly to the ground and fall at his feet, Ogden shook his head in tired defeat. He said, with quiet sadness at having failed her, “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

There must have been another one he had not seen, another one who had helped the redheaded fox escape.

But, where was . . . ?

Then, as he watched the first man step from behind the stage, a pistol leveled at his chest, his eyes widened to see the second man splashing through the water to reach Mrs. Barkley and her son.

“No!” Ogden yelled, as he held up the only weapon he had available, the metal file, and ran toward her to defend her from the imminent attack.

Suddenly, he felt himself falling, as the first man sprang toward him, tackling him, sending him rolling down the slight slope, back toward the stream. As he felt himself hauled up, the file still in his hand, he was face to face with an angry, dark-headed man, whose grip on his arm threatening to break him in two.

But, neither of them had red hair, and both. . . ?

“Now, Old Man,” the hazel eyes and menacing voice demanded, “I suggest you do as my brother said and drop this too, before I’m forced to . . . “

“Nick! Let go of him!”

Blinking, Nick turned and stared, open-mouthed, at Victoria Barkley as she knelt down behind Heath, her voice leaving him no room for discussion.

“Mother?” he began, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Nicholas. Now let Ogden go, and come help me with your brother.”

Her hands were on both of Heath’s shoulders, hoping he would not try to stand now that Jarrod was there in front of him, holding onto him. But, her eyes were on Nick, waiting for him to comply.

Joshua and Ogden, who was still in Nick’s fierce grip, were looking back and forth between the two of them, the scowling, dark-haired man and the tiny, silver-haired woman, waiting to see who would win.

Finally, Ogden felt the hold loosen, and he snatched his arm from the gloved hand that held him.

“Your mother?” he asked, incredulous.

“Nick! Please come help us with Heath,” she said, hoping her words would have the desired effect.

Forgetting the old man beside him, Nick left Ogden standing there and was at his injured brother’s side in three strides.

Jarrod was already on his knees in front of the blond, his hands on Heath’s arms, trying to steady him, blue eyes locked on blue. As Nick joined them, he saw them struggling.

“Whoa, Heath,” Nick started, “Hold on there!”

Heath stared back at Jarrod and snarled through clenched teeth, “Mason, if you follow her. . . you’re a dead man.”

Heath’s right hand was still on the knife, and he was oblivious to any attempts to help him. Instead, he was pulling with all of his waning strength, panting in ragged attempts to breathe through the pain he was in.

His hand was slippery with blood, and he continued to stare into Jarrod’s eyes.

“Heath! Heath, it’s us-----that’s Jarrod,” Nick tried to reason with him, but Jarrod was already shaking his head at him.

“He doesn’t know that, Nick. He’s burning up. . . .You know how he gets,” Jarrod said, trying to remain calm, his fear doubling as he watched an enraged Heath continue fighting to remove the knife while trying to get to his feet, in spite of them.

“Jarrod, try to get him to lie down. We’ve got to get that knife out.” Victoria said. She reached out to clasp Nick’s hand, her other hand still holding Heath’s uninjured shoulder from behind him.

But, accomplishing that took all of them, including Joshua and Ogden. Heath fought them wildly, cursing and snarling like an angry wolverine cornered in its den, as they manhandled him back to the ground.

By the time the blond was lying on his back, staring up at them with rage in his eyes, they were all breathing hard and amazed at the strength of the delirium’s hold on him. But, with Ogden, Jarrod, and Joshua pinning him to the ground, Heath could finally do no more than lift his head and strain against them, still cursing at the unseen Mason.

Nick Barkley, as ready for a fight as any man, had heard his mother’s cries and had been prepared to defend her from attack not five minutes before. But, now, instead, he found the situation was not what he had thought. His mother, though visibly bruised, was very much in control, and it was his younger brother who needed him.

He asked forcefully, his frustration rising, as he knelt beside Heath and removed his gloves, “Mother, what in the devil happened?” He reached out to touch Heath’s face and recoiled slightly at the heat that was drenching the angry, struggling blond.

She shook her head, while she tried to wipe off the handle of the knife, “Nicholas, please, I’ll explain it all later. I’m happier than you know to see both of you, but, please, help Heath! Try to get the knife out of him. It’s been in there much too long, . . . I think it’s the main reason why he’s so sick.”

He nodded. Then, he tried to help the men hold Heath still, waiting for his mother to finish wrapping her brown bandana around the handle and hilt of the knife.

Trying to ignore Heath’s continued wrath, Ogden said quietly, knowing what Nick was going to do, “I’ve done tried that, twice now, Boy,”

At Nick’s glaring response at the use of ‘Boy,’ Victoria calmly continued her task and said, “Ogden, Joshua, these are my other sons, Jarrod and Nick.” Then, she reached out and stroked the sweat-soaked face, trying to look into Heath’s unfocused blue eyes to find the son she missed so much. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. Mason’s dead. You didn’t let him hurt me.”

She paused and briefly closed her eyes, trying to find the words. She opened them again, looking into Heath’s and said, “Trust Nick, Heath. Let him get the knife out of you. Trust your brother, Sweetheart.”

For just a second, she saw it again, that glimmer of clarity that searched out her eyes and held them, and her breath caught in her throat as he blinked once and slowly relaxed, asking quietly, “Mother?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, Heath, I’m right here. Just hold on, Sweetheart. We’re here. Let us get the knife out, so we can take you home.”

But, though he gradually stop fighting them, he continued speaking as if he did not hear her, “Mother, did he. . . did he hurt you?”

She changed tactics, as Nick looked at her fiercely to see if she truly was all right. “Heath, I’m fine. You helped me escape.” She stroked his face, and looked into his eyes, clouded over now with a pain she knew she could not reach. “Let us help you, Sweetheart. Please, trust us, Heath.”

When he did not resume his struggles against them, she nodded at Nick, “Go ahead, Nick. It’s got to come out.”

Taking hold of it, Nick was amazed to feel how firmly it was embedded.

Reading his expression, Ogden said quietly, “Pretty sure it’s lodged against bone. We may have to cut it out.”

Nick glanced at the worried old man, his words stirring a deep fear inside him. Then, he found Jarrod’s dark blue eyes, his offer of strength telegraphed loud and clear, and looked over at his mother beside him. The tears that threatened her loving grey eyes, as she nodded at him and whispered, “Please, Nick,” gave him the determination he needed.

He grasped the handle, covering the knot of the bandana that was wrapped around it with the palm of one hand. He tested his grip and found it solid. Then, he closed his other hand around the first. Finally, asking permission of her with his eyes and receiving her answering nod, he leaned one knee on Heath’s arm, as close to the knife as he could get it.

Heath was now quietly staring up into Nick’s eyes, and he seemed to be gathering himself, as if he were aware of what was going on. As Nick started pulling steadily, trying to shuffle the knife slightly back and forth to force it loose, Heath started breathing harder, squeezed his eyes shut, and a low groan replaced the cursing growl of a few minutes before.

Nick pulled as hard as he could, struggling to keep his grip on the knife, his knee in place without breaking Heath’s arm, and a continuous, guttural noise escaped from his mouth with his efforts.

Their hands, that had been holding Heath down to keep him from fighting, now held him down to anchor him to the ground, to offer resistance to the steady pull of Nick’s arms.

Though she never stopped stroking Heath’s face and talking quietly to him, encouraging him, Victoria could no longer watch either one of their faces. They seemed to be locked in some life and death battle, neither of them willing to give up, but both plainly suffering from the effort.

Then, as they all watched, their eyes glued to the knife in Nick’s hands, they saw it shift slightly. Nick felt it and found renewed strength from somewhere. Again, he pulled, focusing on the handle with all of his considerable force of will.

Suddenly, however, Nick heard Heath’s teeth-clenched groans of pain change to words of hatred, and he faltered. Like a bayonet, Heath’s words sliced into him, cut his heart open and left him kneeling above the heaving chest, bleeding from a betrayal months ago that he wished he had had no part of.

“Cut me loose, Bentell! Untie my arm. Cut me down!”

Nick gasped, trying to regain his momentum, trying to keep his purchase on the handle, as his brother began fighting them again.

Heath’s eyes had opened, and he was glaring at Nick with twin blue daggers, stabbing into his brother’s hurt-filled hazel eyes. He tried to break free of the hands holding him, tried to wrench his shoulder from under Nick’s knee, tried to snatch his right arm from under Jarrod, who was lying across him.

Through teeth clenched in determination to hold onto his brother, Jarrod ground out, “Nick! Hurry! We’re losing hold.”

Victoria pushed all of her slight weight on top of Heath’s chest, assisting Jarrod who was on the other side, and Ogden, who was pushing down on Heath’s right shoulder. Joshua was struggling in a losing battle, trying to hold Heath’s legs still.

Her tears flowed freely down his chest and neck as she buried her face against him and tried to shut out his words, the words he continued to spit at Nick, “Cut me down, Bentell! Cut me loose!”

With a cry, half-born of the fresh guilt cutting through him and half-born of the physical effort expended, he wrenched the blade free from Heath’s shoulder and fell back onto the ground.

But, immediately he was forced to roll to the right, toward the stream, as Heath threw the others off of him, turned and staggered to all fours, and launched himself at Nick, who was lying flat on his back, the knife still in his grasp.

Chapter 30

Jarrod, remembering the night in the rocks when he had heard Heath say the same words, was momentarily stunned. Then, he jumped up from where he had fallen to the side as Heath had thrown them all off of him.

“Heath! Nick!” he yelled, as he ran toward them both.

But, just as he reached them, he saw the blond collapse on top of Nick, after landing only one blow to Nick’s jaw.

“Jarrod,” Nick almost whispered, his fear of what they would find when they rolled Heath off of him, seizing his throat in its grasp.

Seeing Nick’s frantic eyes, Jarrod suddenly remembered the knife.

Where was it?

Nick had. . . .

Nick had held it in his hand!

Carefully, afraid of what he would see, and with the help of the old man who had joined him, Jarrod rolled Heath on his side, then to his back, trying to keep him out of the icy water.

With a sigh of relief, he saw that the blade of the knife in Nick’s hand had only grazed Heath’s chest, a faint red line about five inches long marking its path. He offered his worried, dark-haired brother a hand up, and patted him on the side of the face, touching the place Heath had hit him.

“It’s okay, Nick,” he said, “You didn’t hurt him. But, how about you?” His blue eyes twinkled slightly.

Nick pushed his hand away, growling at him.

Then, quickly, they squatted down next to the unconscious blond, and Nick reached out a tentative hand to trace the thin line on Heath’s chest that was only oozing blood in one or two places. He sighed, sat down heavily in the dirt, and gathered his younger brother into his arms as best he could.

Victoria was already leaning over them, flushing the raw, festering knife wound with cold water from a cup. The old man returned to them, a leather pouch in one hand, a canteen in the other. Over his shoulder he hollered, “Joshua, you get those horses some water, and then see if you can maneuver them a little closer for us.”

Jarrod looked on as the old man bent over his sweating brother and swabbed at the wound with an iodine-soaked cloth front and back. Then, oblivious to the dark stains being left on his hands by the brown liquid, he began squeezing a steady stream of the fluid into the front wound and continued until he was satisfied. He handed her some clean cloths from the bag, which she applied to the two open wounds. Carefully and neatly, the old man, began wrapping a rolled bandage around Heath’s shoulder and across his chest to create a neat, corner-shaped bandage that would stay in place and cover the dressings she held to both open wounds.

Several times, however, the old man had to grunt at Nick to loosen his hold so he could maneuver the bandage, and each time, he and Nick made eye contact with an almost shared snarl.

By the time the driver had brought the stage closer, both wounds were cleaned, dressed, and bandaged, and Jarrod was smiling in amusement at the two growling grizzlies trying to protect an oblivious cub.

“Nick, could you and Jarrod please carry Heath to the coach? We need to get him home.” Victoria said, trying to break the tension between the two men.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Barkley,” Ogden stood and touched her shoulder, “If your boys will carry Heath to the stage,” he eyed Nick as he said the word ‘boys,’ emphasizing it purposefully, “I’ll be right over there.”

He walked off into the deepening darkness, headed for an open, meadow-like area across the road.

They watched him go, puzzled at his actions. Thinking that if the man had had personal business to attend to, he wouldn’t be heading toward an open field, Nick quickly turned away, and motioned for Jarrod to help him, saying gruffly, “Pappy, give me a hand.”

With Jarrod across from him on Heath’s right side, Nick held Heath’s injured arm against his chest. They picked him up, with hands supporting his back and a hand under each knee. Together, they struggled to maneuver him into the stage doorway and up on the platform made of trunks between the seats and covered with a thin mattress and blankets.

While they got him settled, Victoria allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts. She perched on a low, flat rock next to the stream, and, after studying the bloody knife she had picked up from the ground, she plunged it into the cold water to rinse it.

Jarrod found her there a few minutes later.

Touching her gently, his palm open on top of her head, he then squatted down next to her and studied her face. Not surprised to see the tears she now shed, he wasn’t expecting to see the knife in her hand and the glazed look in the eyes that stared at it.

“Heath?” she asked, her stare unbroken.

“Nick’s with him,” Jarrod responded.

When she didn’t move or look up at him, he reached around to pull her close, holding her against him awkwardly with one arm. After a moment, he felt a sob escape, and he heard the fear and anxiety that it released.

“Shhhhhh,” he soothed, “It’s okay, now. Whatever happened, it’s over now.”

They stood up together, and she continued to cling to him, her face buried in his chest.

“Oh, Jarrod!” she cried softly, “Jarrod, I was so afraid for him.”

He stroked her hair and held her, as she cried. A few moments later, she added brokenly, “He almost. . . he almost died protecting me, Jarrod. And, . . . and I was so scared I was going to lose him!” She gradually stopped shaking and said more quietly, “I’m still scared.”

Then, she seemed to pull herself together, as he felt her nod her head against him and lean back slightly, squeezing his muscular arm with one hand, “I’m so glad you and Nick are here. We both needed you.” She reached up to kiss the cheek he offered her. Then, she touched his face and said, “We have to go. We need to get Heath home, to a doctor.”

As she turned to head toward the stage, suddenly, she stopped and looked up at Jarrod, and said, “Somehow, I’ve got to tell Nick. . . . Heath doesn’t . . . .” she trailed off, shook her head, and reached out for Jarrod’s arm, leaning on him as she limped toward the stage.

Puzzled by her last comment, Jarrod knew now was not the time to press her. But, he did stop her long enough to turn her toward him and gently take the knife from her other hand with a smile. “I’m sure you don’t need this for protection, with all of us here now, do you, Lovely Lady?”

But, at the sad look that crossed her face, he asked seriously, “Is this Heath’s?”

She closed her eyes for a second, before looking up into her oldest son’s concerned face, “Yes, Jarrod, it’s his. He kept me safe with it, but, . . . but, then, . . . “ she faltered, before taking a deep breath and finishing, “Then, he almost died because of it. And, . . . if we don’t get him to a doctor soon, he still might.”

Continued…

Author's note: I wanted you to know that the places listed are really "there". Ebbet’s Pass really does exist. Its elevation is 8730 feet and it is just off of state road 4 that cuts across the Sierra Nevadas from Stockton toward Nevada to the east/northeast.

Also, along that route are Tamarack, Murphy’s Camp, and Cherokee Flats, all near the Stanislaus National Forest. Upper Blue Lake, mentioned as Mason’s destination in the story as “the Upper Blue”, is just north of Tamarack and before Carson Pass. They do not all show up on road maps of California, but they are on a wonderfully detailed map of the area found in a beautiful book called The High Sierra by Ezra Bowen. It has greatly assisted me with getting a “feel” for the area, especially … what else? … its vegetation and its TREES!

----Redwood