Disclaimer: I don't own Big Valley, nor the characters. Nothing is being made except for entertainment.

Alt. POG - Barkley's Bastard

The smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air, just as surely as the wail of the newly widowed woman, mourning the loss of her husband. It was a macabre scene, with the dead and injured strewn about the ground like so much flotsam on a pond. As the dust from the horses settled, the survivors began to take stock and help the wounded.

Jarrod Barkley took no joy in this victory, if indeed that was what it was. He doubted the railroad would give up on that much money just because of a few deaths. The death of his father made no difference six years ago, and neither would the deaths of those men who lost their lives today.

It infuriated him that the system had become so corrupt that it would allow the railroad to sell land to a man once, then come back to reclaim the land only so they could sell it to them a second time at a much higher price. Again, he cursed the corruption that allowed this to continue. No honest Judge or Governor, for that matter, would allow the railroad to sell a man the same land twice. Jarrod wondered how much longer this nonsense was going to last and how much would the final cost of victory be? The mournful weeping punctuated his thoughts.

It was still a battle he believed in. Tyranny would always rule unless the little man stood up for what he believed. The only way to defeat injustice was to hold strong against it. His father believed that and paid with his life. Yet Jarrod believed if he could do it all over, his father would stand tall against the railroad again.

Thinking of his father reminded Jarrod of the young man who claimed to be his brother. Glancing around, he finally spotted the boy sitting on a barrel, trying to roll a cigarette with shaking hands. Jarrod wondered what his father would have said when the young man showed up. Would he be outraged at such an accusation? Or would he be shamed and contrite?

For the first time, Jarrod considered the possibility. His first reaction had been that it was an obvious lie. His father would no more cheat on his mother than . . . than the railroad could sell land at auction, reclaim it, sell it again at $25 an acre and get away with it. Both seemed impossible, yet the later was more true than not.

Vague memories of his father spending time in Strawberry came creeping into his mind, invading his thoughts. Whispers of the possibilities sang to him. Jarrod's ingrained sense of fair play making him honestly consider the boy's claims.

His father had been gone too long that one summer. If Jarrod remembered correctly, he had been robbed and badly injured on that trip. When he finally did return home, he had been especially attentive, not only to the boys, but to their mother as well. He had brought her flowers and read her poetry. It was almost . . . Jarrod sighed heavily as the realization hit him. It was almost as though his father was trying to reaffirm his love for them, too much like a guilty man trying to make amends. It was only now, that the seed of doubt had been planted, that Jarrod could realize what he was seeing before.

Still watching the young man attempt to roll a cigarette, Jarrod reached into his pocket for a cigar and took unconscious steps to the man who may be his brother.

So lost in his thoughts, Jarrod didn't realize Nick had followed him until his brother stepped in front of him and inspected the bullet graze on his upper arm.

"We need to get that bandaged, Jarrod. Then we need to see about Mrs. Sample and the children." Nick followed Jarrod's gaze to Heath Thompson. "You can talk to him later. He's not goin' anywhere as long as he thinks he can still sink his claws into our family's money."'

"Nick", Jarrod began, intent on talking to the boy now.

"Save it for later, Pappy. We got a widow to look after, bodies to bury, wounded to tend to." He pointed to Jarrod's injury again, "That includes you. Mother will skin me alive if I let you stand there and bleed to death."

The Sample children's cries of distress was the deciding factor. They just lost their father and needed comforting. They had to come first. With one last glance to the young man claiming kinship, Jarrod turned to give his assistance to the others.

Heath cursed himself for his shaking hands, at a loss to understand it. He had been in gun battles before and not only as a sharpshooter in the war. His life had been on the line more times than he cared to count, so why was he shaking now?

The continued wailing of the grieving woman cut through his nerves just as surely as any knife would. Each agonized sound seemed like a fist clenching around his heart, reminding him of his own pain of losing his mother so recently. He still had trouble believing it was real, that she was truly gone and this wasn't some nightmare he was living.

When he thought of the opulence and finery in which the Barkley's lived and destitute lifestyle his mother had lived, he raged. How could any honorable man leave a fine woman like his Mother with child and just leave her to make a way for herself and her child all alone? Especially a man like Tom Barkley who had so much while his mother had so little? What kind of man did that?

Color rose to his cheeks as he remembered his meeting with the Barkley brothers last night, his brothers. They treated him like a lying stray dog, too mangy to possibly be their Pa's whelp. And that loud mouth brother of his, insinuating his mama was a saloon whore. He still wanted to bust him in the mouth for saying those words. His mama was a fine woman, she was nothing like that. To add more insult, they stood there, surrounded by all their treasures, and waved a mere pittance in his face.
Sure, it was more money than he'd ever seen in his life, but compared to what they had, it was pocket change.

That same money now burned a hole in his pocket. He'd gone back for it thinking he deserved it and so much more. If that was all they were going to offer him, he didn't see why he shouldn't take it. Now he wondered if it was worth his pride. Taking that money was the same as taking table scraps like the mangy stray they saw him as. His life was worth more than that. His Mama's life was worth more. If he kept the money, they'd just prattle to themselves about what a low life lying dog he was and only wanted to hustle them for small change.

Then he remembered Mrs. Barkley's words of doing the right thing. If he lived like a Barkley, then no one could deny the name to him. Well, he could be as Barkley' as any of them. Didn't he prove that by being here? Yet, not a one of them spoke to him. He sat on this barrel all alone, none of the neighbors he fought side by side with come to shake his hand. None of his brothers come over to make sure he was okay. He still wasn't worth their time. Still wasn't respected, not by the fellows he stood with and not by his family.

Well, he'd show them. The name Heath Barkley was going to stand for something. It was a name that was going to be respected.

After seeing the retreating railroad men pass by their land, the women folk from the neighboring ranch showed up to tend the wounded. After Mrs. Sample and the children were turned over to their capable hands, Jarod finally sought out the young man claiming to be their brother.

All he found was the makings of a cigarette laying in the sandy dirt along with three whiskey stained hundred dollar bills.

Nick's spurs could be heard approaching him, Whacha find, Jarod?'

"Brother Nick, I'm afraid it may not be a matter of what was found, but what was lost."