Like a young eagle who has lent his plume,
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart,
Which rank corruption destines for their heart -
Thomas Moore, "Corruption"
Sunrise, Barkley Ranch, December 2, 1874
Hannah woke with a start and sat bolt upright, her heart racing. She stared without seeing the rough pine walls of her cabin, her hands relaxed and still on the quilt that covered her lap, her breath slow and steady as she examined the dream image in her mind. It was as vivid and clear and as undeniable as the day that was dawning outside.
"How did I not see this before? I should have seen it. I should have seen it." She could hear the flowing water of the swollen river, could see the fog moving silent and ghostly among the trees. The sky wept without ceasing, the rain falling and falling on the oak and pine; falling on the burned ruins of the village; on the skins she had fashioned into a shelter; on the brim of the rider's expensive but well-worn hat as he crouched down to see them. Friend, he had said, and she could see how full up with pain he was at what he had witnessed. Something innocent in him had been wounded near unto death by what he had seen, and Hannah sensed no danger from him. He had a deep voice for such a slim young man. His eyes were so blue. She remembered them now. So blue – just like my boy's. Just like Heath.
Hannah rose from her bed to wash and dress. She needed to think this through, let this knowledge sink in and simmer a bit in her mind. She could think of no better way to do that right now that to go talk to Silas about it. Her eyes roamed over the golden foothills to the south as she pulled her wrap around her shoulders and set out to walk to the Big House. She prayed as she walked, prayed for all of the family to come home safe and well. "Good people, you are, and brave. It's a good, brave thing you're trying to do up there. God is with you, and we're here waiting for you to come home."
Sunrise, outside Sonora, California, December 2, 1874
"Malila -! Stay where you are –" Heath was running for the barn, and Nick instinctively moved to go with him. Whatever else they needed to talk about, this was an emergency, and he was going with his brother.
Several pairs of hands stopped him, and with surprise and no small amount of annoyance he turned to see it was Jarrod and Rivka - and one of Frank Sawyer's men. "What the hell –", he fumed, trying to throw them off.
"Nick, you can't go up to that barn," Rivka explained. "Not yet. I have new typhus cases developing so rapidly I can barely keep track, and I don't want you to get sick."
"But Heath –" His eyes searched for his brother, who had moved out of sight as he reached the run down farm buildings. The heartache Rivka could hear in Nick's voice threatened her resolve, but she held firm.
"Heath would be furious with me if I let you go up there, if I let any of you get sick, and you know it."
"Besides, Mr. Barkley, sir, there's no more time. We have to get in position, and you and your brother have to get out of this camp. I don't know what that little girl was yelling about yayali, but I know what she saw, 'cause my scout saw it too. Those two companies of Morgan's are less than an hour's ride away. Shift change for the fence guard is in fifteen minutes. You have to go now."
"Jarrod –"
"I know, Nick. I know. I'm worried too. I don't like it at all."
Rivka hugged them both. "I'll talk to him, I promise. And maybe Haja can help. She sees it clear, I think." She looked over her shoulder at the barn, then off to the western horizon. "But right now – Yayali's coming, you've got to get out of here, and we've got to get that little girl safely off the roof."
Their ascent to the Barkley's campsite didn't take long. As the two buckboards rumbled up the hill, Nick and Jarrod could hear Frank Sawyer barking orders down by the gate, as his men hustled to get in position. The two night shift soldiers had been turned loose with a message for Colonel Morgan and whoever his most senior representative was on site: they were to deliver a written notice to the Army that the fence patrol had been relieved of their duties by the U.S. Marshal Service, on the order of Marshal John Smith, in the exercise of their jurisdictional powers to police, protect, and investigate any legal matters pertaining to any Indian peoples, such powers being duly assigned to the USMS by the legislative bodies of the federal government and signed into law by the Chief Executive of said federal government, such Chief Executive being also the Commander in Chief of the U.S. Army. By the time Nick and Jarrod reached their hilltop, the encampment was wide awake, on full alert, and the troop was mobilizing men to notify the approaching Colonel of the situation and to surround the internment enclosure. Climbing down from the wagons, the two men turned to watch, as John and Victoria joined them.
Frank had made sure he had control of the most advantageous of the potential firing and observation points, they could see, but he couldn't control them all. As the soldiers surrounded the prison, the four watchers followed with anxious eyes, as several riflemen took up positions on high ground from which they could fire into the camp.
Something in the camp had caught the riflemen's attention. They were shouting to each other, and pointing, and now bringing their rifle sights to bear on a target inside the fence.
Heath kept his eyes on Malila as he ran to the barn, cursing the fatigue of his muscles for slowing him down, cursing these self-serving men and their guns and their cruelty; cursing whatever ill fortune had caused this farm to be abandoned and this barn left to rot. He cursed the disease that was killing Malila's parents, leaving her unattended to climb these rotting timbers. And Heath cursed his father. From the depths of his broken body and the pain that was crushing his heart, right then, he cursed his father.
Now he had a voice to remember Tom Barkley by. He could hear it: it was a commanding voice, communicating concern and the urgency of the moment. But now, Heath realized, he had heard no fear in that voice: neither fear for the man himself or for his sons' safety, nor fear of the agony that would come from empathy, should he fail. Tom Barkley had no real reason to fear for his safety or that of his sons. They were not at risk in this gold rush frenzy of extermination. No fear. It seemed now what Heath heard instead in that voice was a certain combative excitement: the pleasure of the race, the thrill of playing the heroic White man with his sons, the appeal of the righteous drama.
Such motivations are all well and good, Heath reckoned – many good works have been done by people who didn't honestly care, but who chose for their own reasons to fight the good fight, stand up for the little guy, help the poor and the crippled. Shallow, maybe, but you hope that when an actual hard decision comes along, a life and death decision, you hope that most folks will choose right. You hope that they wouldn't choose murder. But maybe more people would, if they thought they could get away with it. I'd hate to think that way…
"They are coming here now. Now, Papati! Boy, tell him. Make him understand. The State of California has increased the bounty for Indian scalps. These are gangs of paid killers coming after you now. And we have at least six more villages to warn."
Maybe they did save some lives that night. But Heath cursed that man who would race like Paul Revere through the mountains, at little risk to himself, to rescue people he really didn't care about; a man who, when faced with a choice, chose instead to protect himself rather than a helpless child. Heath cursed this man, who offered up his bastard son as a sacrifice to his comfortable status quo, and left him there on the bloody altar of chance.
Did he want me dead? Not just out of sight or unknown – did he wish me dead -? Heath had never really thought of his unknown father that way, when he thought of him at all. He had Tom's voice now, though, and the idea became abruptly believable: it filled his mind with a feeling of a universe no longer just indifferent, but pervasively malevolent and actively predatory. A universe where choices like Tom Barkley's are commonplace truths.
"Me'weh, I can see him from up here! I see his head, falling toward us to the east! I see his body off to the west! Has he fallen already, Me'weh? Is he dead and on the ground?"
"Malila, please don't move – there's rotten wood up there – I don't want you to fall. I'm bringing a rope up to get you down safely, you understand me?"
"OK, Me'weh. I'll stay still."
Heath started climbing, and focused his thinking on that task. He was aware of Rivka reaching the base of the wall, calling to him to be careful. He sensed others of the Miwok men following behind him to help, but wisely keeping their distance to avoid overburdening the dry, termite-eaten beams. Hand and footholds weren't hard to find, as large gaps in the siding were everywhere.
He reached the ridgeline of the roof and began to move cautiously toward Malila. He carried a coiled rope across his chest. When he got close enough, he formed a lasso loop at one end and tossed it to Malila, telling her to put it around her chest, under her arms. The other end he wrapped an exposed upright beam that seemed pretty stable. Movement caught his eye and he spotted one of the Miwok men – Heath seemed to remember that was one of her uncles – who had appeared at the bottom of the roof. The man gestured to indicate that he could guide her back down, now that Heath had her on a belay.
"Jey, Kakah Istu!" Malila waved merrily to greet her Uncle Istu, and he scowled and scolded her. Heath didn't need a translator to know he was telling her to stop fooling around.
Heath was glad for the upright beam to help him with the rope – his arms were already shaking with fatigue from the digging and the climb. He wouldn't trust the little girl to his grip right now.
"OK, little one, I've got you. You just slide nice and easy down to Istu there. Nice – and – easy."
"I'm glad you came, Me'weh. I was glad I got to see Yayali, but I didn't know how to get down."
"No more climbing up here, y'hear?" he said sternly. "These timbers could break pretty much anywhere."
"OK, Me'weh. Me'weh?" Movement to the west had caught his eye, and he couldn't help but stare. "Do you see him there, his head and his body? Yayali?"
"Yes, yes I do, little one –" Yayali, indeed – Heath could see the giant's body: two marching, riding columns bristling with guns, snaking over the hilly terrain. And there was Yayali's head, the small command group riding smartly out in front of the mounted troop. There you are, Colonel. There you are.
Of necessity, Heath pulled himself back from brooding over the Colonel – another man who indicated clearly what he considered Heath to be worth, and took action accordingly – but there was no time to think about that right now. A thrumming drumbeat of anger lay down that path, and fear, and something else Heath did not yet recognize. No time, no time for that right now. He nodded to Malila to start scooting down to her uncle.
She swung her leg over the ridge and had started down. Heath had her weight supported by the rope, so far so good. He could hear distant commotion, sensed activity outside the fence, but he was focused on the little girl. Stayed focused on her, even when the riflemen opened fire on the barn roof.