Part Two
Dinner that evening was quiet. Strained. Nick kept his eyes on his plate, knowing Mother would not approve of the fury that simmered just under his skin. She was still wearing black, of course, and would do for at least a year. He and Jarrod still wore their black suits. Even their white shirts were trimmed in black and had black buttons. Audra, being only twelve, wore a white dress with black ribbons. The three of them would wear mourning for their father as long as their mother did. They'd agreed on that much.
"Shall I bring in the coffee now, ma'am?" Silas asked quietly.
His customary white coat had been exchanged for another one, this one with black piping, and he wore a black armband. His brown face seemed a little more lined now, his hair a little whiter, his dark eyes a little more weary, but as always he served with perfect correctness, perfect graciousness.
"Yes, please," Mother said. "We'll have it in the parlor."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And some tea for Miss Audra."
"Yes, ma'am."
Audra looked at her mother with tear-filled blue eyes. "I don't want any tea."
She had sat through dinner, ramrod straight in her chair, barely picking at her food, speaking only when spoken to. Now there was ragged emotion in her voice.
Mother gave her a serene nod. "Silas, Miss Audra will not be having tea."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I don't want tea or dinner or anything else," Audra sobbed. "I want Daddy."
"Honey," Jarrod murmured, going to her and taking her into his arms.
Nick threw down his napkin, and Mother raised one eyebrow.
With a huff, Nick looked down at his plate again. Why hadn't he killed that stranger there on the road when he'd had his chance? There hadn't been anyone else. He and Jarrod and every hand on the ranch had searched the whole area around where Father had been killed. They had found nothing that shouldn't have been there. Nothing but the tracks of that one little pinto pony.
That man couldn't have been much older than Nick was. Twenty-three maybe. Twenty-four at most. Who'd have thought anyone could be a cold-blooded killer at so young an age. Murderers had to start somewhere, he guessed. Well, he could start somewhere, too.
He lifted his chin. "I'm going after him."
Jarrod's eyes flashed at him over Audra's head. "Nick, we already talked about this. The law will take care of it."
"The law won't do anything." There was the screech of wood on wood as Nick shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "The railroad owns the law, and we both know it."
"We put out a reward the day Father was killed." Jarrod kissed the top of Audra's golden head, soothing her as she clung more tightly to him. "There are wanted posters everywhere. With that much money at stake, somebody will bring him in."
"Somebody?" Nick spat. "Was he somebody's father or was he ours?"
Audra began to sob again.
"That's enough, both of you." Mother looked Nick and Jarrod and then pointedly at Audra. "This is hardly the time or place for this discussion. Audra, darling, come here."
Mother stood up, and Audra flew into her arms. They were of a height now, but she nestled her head under Mother's chin. Mother murmured something soothing into her ear, and Audra nodded, smiling faintly.
"All right, then," Mother said. "You go on up. I'll be there in just a few minutes."
Audra sniffled, daintily dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and then walked out of the dining room.
Mother turned flashing eyes on her second son. "Nicholas, I absolutely forbid you to go after that man on your own."
"I have to go!"
"No, you're wrong about that," Mother said. "You don't have to go get yourself killed. You don't have to throw your life away to prove how much you loved your father. You don't have to break my heart any more than it's already been broken."
She was crying now.
"Mother."
He put his arms around her, holding her close, and then he felt another pair of arms, arms still with a child's slenderness, go around him from behind.
"Don't go, Nick," Audra begged. "Please don't go and get killed, too."
He pulled her to his side, still with his arm around Mother. He wanted to tell them both that there was nothing else he could do. He wanted to promise them he'd come back, that nothing bad would happen to him, but the words wouldn't come out.
Mother turned his face to her, fixing her gray eyes on his. "Promise me, Nick. Promise you won't go."
He pressed his trembling lips together and said nothing.
She looked pleadingly at Jarrod.
"Mother, why don't you and Audra go now," Jarrod said mildly. "Nick and I have a few things to discuss."
Mother nodded. Then she cupped Nick's cheek in her hand, still with pleading in her eyes. After a moment, she took Audra upstairs.
"What in the name of heaven are you thinking?" Jarrod demanded once they were gone. "Can't you see what you're doing to them?"
"All I can see is you're doing nothing."
"What's that supposed to mean? I'm no gunslinger, and neither are you."
"We're both fair enough hands with a gun." Nick began to pace. "I don't know why one of us shouldn't bring him in. And I don't know why it shouldn't be me. I'm the one who saw him. I'd recognize him in a heartbeat."
"And be dead the next."
Nick grit his teeth. He knew his brother was no coward. Why couldn't he see this was something that had to be done?
"Nick, Mother asked you for a promise. I think you should give it to her."
"Didn't you love Father?" Nick demanded.
"Don't you love Mother?"
Jarrod said the words quietly and so reasonably that Nick wanted to punch him right then and there. How was he supposed to argue with him when he didn't fight fair?
Nick looked down at his polished black boots. "I, uh, I'm going to, uh, ride out and check on that fence line we were working on. I guess nobody's seen to it since . . . uh, since we were there last."
"The fence line? It'll be dark in half an hour."
"That's all right. I won't be long."
Jarrod looked at him warily. "Maybe I ought to go with you."
"No."
"Nick—"
"No. Look, Jarrod, I'm not going anywhere but out to the fence line. I swear, all right? I just need a little time. By myself."
"All right," Jarrod said at last.
Nick managed at halfway smile. "You tell Mother I'll be back in awhile."
"We'll be waiting for you."
"Yeah," Nick said, and he knew they would be.
OOOOO
Nick crept into the kitchen before dawn the next morning. He wasn't wearing mourning anymore, just his regular trail clothes. It might have been any other day when he was heading out to work with Father, except for the black armband and the wad of bills he'd taken from Father's desk. He'd left a note in the money's place.
Now all he needed was some food for the trail and he'd be gone. He packed up the usual things, beans and bacon and one of the fresh loaves of bread Silas had made yesterday. Then, with a grim smile, he wrapped up a big hunk of the cherry pie from the icebox. Silas had just about said he'd made it especially for him anyway.
"Mr. Nick."
Nick winced and turned to see Silas standing in the kitchen door, his robe clutched around him.
"Uh, good morning. I was just—"
"Mr. Nick, I knew I should ought to've locked up that pie. Where do you think you're going to this early in the day?"
Nick dropped his eyes. Silas could always see through the slightest deception. He was worse than Mother that way. "Well, there are some horses I'd like to look at down south. I didn't want to wake up the house."
Silas was already fussing over the food he had packed, clicking his tongue as he pulled everything out and then started putting it back in. "Who taught you to pack things this way? That pie gonna be no more than mush by the time you ready to eat it. Now here."
Nick bit his lip, watching as the capable hands rearranged his supplies so they'd keep better and take up less room. Last of all, Silas put the pie into a tin and secured the lid over it.
Silas handed the bag to him at last, his old eyes searching Nick's. "Are you sure you ought to be going all that way yourself, Mr. Nick? Maybe them horses can wait for somebody else to see to 'em. Or maybe you and Mr. Jarrod—"
"No, Jarrod's got work to do. Don't you worry now, I'll be back before long."
"Are you sure, Mr. Nick?" Silas asked, and Nick knew he'd have to go before he lost his nerve.
"Gotta go," he said, smiling as he patted the old man's thin shoulder. "You tell Mother not to worry. I'll be back."
"Lord keep you, Mr. Nick," Silas said, and he stood in the door watching until Nick couldn't see the house anymore.
OOOOO
I want a look at those palominos of Strittmatter's down in Barstow, and now's a good a time as any. McColl will see to things while I'm gone. Took some cash in case I decide to buy. Will be back. Nick.
Jarrod handed the note to Mother.
"Do you think that's where he really went?" she asked once she had read it.
"I suppose so. It wouldn't be like him to lie to you. Still, he didn't take Coco with him. That worries me."
"It's a long way to Barstow," Mother said. "Maybe he thought Coco deserved a rest."
"Maybe. And maybe I ought to go try to catch up to him. Silas said he left only a little while ago."
Mother gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "Let him go, Jarrod. He came back last night as he said he would. If he said he's going to Barstow, then I'm sure that's where he's going. Give him a little time alone. He'll come back."
Jarrod read the note over again and wished he could be so sure.
OOOOO
Nick urged his horse into a trot. The man had nearly four days on him now. It wasn't going to be easy to catch up, especially since he had headed for the state line the minute he'd shot Father. The only thing Nick could hope was to catch him on the other side of that line, once he'd slowed down and felt safe.
The sheriff had told them he'd crossed into Nevada at Lake Talley. They expected he'd head either to Reno or Carson City to enjoy the profits of his labor. Carson City was a little closer, so Nick headed there first. His description of the man and the horse paid off at the sheriff's office. The man was Jeb Clinton. He'd been through town spending money and throwing his weight around until the sheriff let him know he ought to be moving on. That had been just the morning before Nick's arrival.
The sheriff gave Nick a lecture about taking the law into his own hands, about Clinton not being wanted for anything in this state, and about kidnapping and murder still being illegal. Nick thanked him for his advice and promptly ignored it. The man was headed east. So was Nick.
OOOOO
Nick was close. He could feel it. People noticed that little pinto, and he'd run into more than a few of them who remember seeing it heading east and not very long ago. He'd passed a little place called Fryestown and almost stopped there for the night, but something told him to keep on just a little longer. When he spotted a campfire in the trees up ahead, he was glad he had.
He left his horse a little ways back up the road and, gun drawn and cocked, crept up to the fire. There was the pinto. Clinton was heating up a skillet full of beans. His gun was on a rock beside him in easy reach of his hand, and he was keeping a wary eye on the territory around him. Nick took a few noiseless steps closer, concealing himself behind a broad-trunked tree.
"I've got this gun pointed straight at your head, Clinton."
The gunman dropped the skillet, but he made no other move.
"You just throw that pistol over into the bushes there," Nick told him. "Go on."
Clinton obeyed.
"Now drop the gun belt and put up your hands."
Clinton did that, too.
Nick stepped out from behind the tree. "My name's Barkley."
Clinton's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah, that Barkley. We met the other day over near my ranch, if you remember. I'd have come to visit sooner, but I had a funeral to go to."
The gunman grinned appreciatively. "Well, go on and shoot. Can't nobody stop you now."
"Oh, no. I'm no murderer." Nick knew now that he wasn't. Couldn't ever be. "You're going back to Stockton. Now get up."
Again, Clinton obliged him.
"Now come this way, and no quick moves."
Clinton took one step and then dove for his gun. Nick's bullet caught him in the shoulder, but he managed to scramble behind the bushes. Nick ducked behind the tree again, hearing the ping and thud of two shots that took off the bark beside his head.
"Go on and ride out, boy," Clinton growled. "I killed your old man, and I was well paid for it. Got no reason to kill you unless you make me."
Nick let Clinton have a glimpse of him as he fired over the bushes and got the return fire he'd hoped for. That was three. He waited a moment and then fired again, but the report sounded too loud. Was that four now? Hard to say.
His heart trying to fight its way out of his chest, he stood there, waiting. "You're going to need a doctor, Clinton. Throw away the gun and come out."
His only answer was another shot. Five. He thought.
Nick fired once more, and Clinton obliged him with another. That was six. Maybe.
"I'm coming to get you, Clinton. You're through. You're out of bullets and your gun belt is closer to me than you."
Clinton didn't make a move.
Nick took a quick look around the tree. There was a distinct click and then nothing. Definitely six.
He reloaded and then stepped out into the light, still with his gun pointed toward the bushes. "Come on out. Let's go."
"I'm coming," Clinton said. "Don't shoot."
He stood up, his left hand clutching his bloodied shoulder, his gun still held in his right.
"Throw it away," Nick told him as he stumbled closer.
Clinton looked at the gun as if he didn't remember he still had it, then in a flash he fired, catching Nick low in the side. Nick fell against him, grabbing for the gun. Clinton pulled the trigger once, twice more, but now there really were no more bullets. With a low growl, he clubbed Nick in the side of the head with his empty gun, and everything went black.