Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

William Shakespeare

Titus Andronicus, act 2, sc.3, l.38-9.

I may not be thinking clear about much of anything at the moment, but I do know one thing. I ain't goin' back to Nevada.

Heath had the sensation that the whole rotten building was shaking with the tremor that was thrumming through him. Outside, as if in agreement, the wind gusted and shrieked through the gaps in the siding, and intermittently threw angry handfuls of hail against the roof. He heard Nike's questioning whinny next door, and both horses stomped and shifted restlessly.

It suddenly occurred to him that Nox had allowed him to bring her into the barn with no fuss at all. None. He had been thinking about the weather, and had done just what he would have done with any horse at that moment. Nox, for her part, had gone right along with him, calm as you please, just as if she hadn't broken a man's arm once fighting to get back outside. He hadn't tethered either of them, just left them standing by the watering trough.

He allowed that surprising fact to pass through his mind. He'd have to think it through later -

Right now there were men circling around him where he knelt on the smithy floor. Glancing to either side he was faintly glad that there appeared to be only four of them in all, with rifles, no handguns: two men flanking him that he didn't recognize; Mitch, with a shiny new Henry rifle and a rusty sheriff's badge hanging from his coat pocket, coming around into the point position; and Matt, who remained out of sight to his rear. Heath listened as best he could over the rattling of the hail and the creaking of the walls, and he was pretty sure no-one else was behind him.

The presence of Matt Simmons, hovering behind him out of sight, was threatening to make him crazier than he already was. From the moment Heath heard his voice, he had been fighting back that nauseating internal vertigo. He could not afford to lose his hold on himself right now.

With an effort, Heath turned his attention to Mitch Harper, a man about his age, Strawberry born-and-bred. They had grown up in the same town but in different worlds, and Heath had learned early on that he was important to Mitch, very important.

Mitch had a mother and a father who were married. His father was a carpenter who made a decent living, even as the mine gave out. Mitch got to go to school, and church, and the local fair – no one questioned his right to be there, or chased him off with a leather belt or a broomstick in their hand. Still, even with all that, Mitch needed Heath.

He would watch his father swing at the blond kid to chase him away from his workshop, or laugh at Heath running to work at the livery while Mitch and the other children were in the schoolhouse. He would see the preacher glower in stony silence at the bastard in the back of the church, waiting while the whole congregation turned to stare, until finally the boy would get up and flee the service. Mitch would seek out these acts of malice – create them, if needed – and cling to them as proof that he himself belonged and was worthy.

As a grown man, with no real desire to work and make something of himself, Mitch had been feeling the lack of such reassurance and validation for some years. The drama over the summer - the rise and fall of the town bastard, the killings and the condemnation and the manhunt - had been like manna from heaven for him and his cronies, paving the way to his current position as town sheriff. The very recent return of Matt Simmons only solidified Mitch's credibility with the like-minded folks in town. He gazed proudly down upon the man kneeling on the dirt floor before him.

Heath glanced up at him, his expression unreadable. "So, you're a lawman now, Mitch, is that right?"

Mitch sucked his teeth and nodded. "Town needed a leader. Town also needed someone who could read, and besides I had this here new rifle." He chuckled, holding it up and rotating it to admire the shine. "This was a gift from a soldier who always sleeps with his rifle, but unfortunately was too drunk to wake up when I took it from him. The sheriff gig keeps a roof over my head, which has been fine, but now, with you here –-" He smiled widely and looked around at his grinning companions. "I think Simmons is right. I think I'm gonna retire in Nevada. They know how to treat a dog like you over there, that's for certain. We all could see that, y'know, but clearly they didn't finish the job."

Mitch began pacing back and forth, enjoying himself. "We been hearing about you all summer, Thomson - you went running off to be all fancy down in the valley, but they see the truth of you now too, down there, don't they. Can't imagine why they took you in in the first place, and for sure can't see how they'd want you around after your – um – legal troubles. So they run you outta Stockton finally? Is that it? Looks like you stole a couple nice horses on your way out. You go running back to that crazy old Negro woman? She at least wouldn't be able to run you off, I figure, right? Where else would you go, anyway. Yeah, she'd be stuck with you. Maybe we should go knock some sense into her head. She could work for us instead!"

Before he could check himself, Heath lost the iron grip he was keeping on his anger and launched himself at Mitch, wanting nothing more than to rip his head from his shoulders.

Relaxed, leaning on the door jamb, Matt Simmons watched with equanimity as the three younger men laid into his sister's brat and beat him back down to the floor. He himself was getting too old and stiff for that kind of exertion. He'd done a fourteen month stretch of a five year sentence in Folsom, and then they let him out for good behavior, and because he was coughing up blood from time to time. Not much of a favor they did him, turning him loose from a place that at least fed and housed him, with winter coming on, and nothing to his name. With nowhere else he could think of to go, he made his way back to Strawberry, thinking he could at least spit on Rachael and Leah's graves before he died.

He didn't count on the welcome he found in Strawberry from this small group of well-wishers. These dissolute young men devoted their energies to three things: complaining about their lack of opportunity and income; arguing over who would pay for their whiskey; and maliciously gloating over the misadventures of Leah Thomson's upstart bastard kid. Matt Simmons had limped unexpectedly back into town a few months after their supply of news entertainment from Nevada had dried up. Mr. Simmons was welcomed by these youth as a prophet, one who had given the dog his due, and right from the beginning.

Surprised but pleased, Matt had accepted their homage, and let it be known that Martha had taken far more credit for Rachael's death than she deserved. "I was happy to let her take the fall," he had explained to them philosophically, as he lit a pipe Mitch had filled for him with fresh tobacco. "She was insane, no reason to live. And it meant I'd have a chance to get back home. Oh, yes, once Leah was dead and the brat rode off to go try to weasel into a decent family, Martha ranted and raved about what we should do, but I was the one who knew that Caulfield woman had to go, and I got it done."

He found himself treated with respect, for the first time in his life. It was intoxicating; still, he couldn't see where this reprieve could lead him - until today. Today he had received another miraculous gift - the mongrel dog himself, the cause of all the trouble, right here in Strawberry all by his lonesome, and with reward money on his head to boot. It was too good to be true.

Smiling pleasantly on the scene before him, Matt lit his pipe and nodded his approval to Mitch, who was looking a little winded. The boy was getting back up on his knees. He always had been a tough one to get to stay down.

Heath coughed and put the back of one hand against his head in an attempt to staunch the bleeding from a split brow and clear his vision. He squinted up at the faces he could see – Matt was still out of sight.

"With an uncle like you, Matt, who needs nightmares," he commented, hoarsely.

He cleared his throat and spat more blood into the dirt floor. His head was spinning and he felt again as if he would vomit, but he was pretty sure this time it was just from being beat on.

Matt didn't answer, but Heath heard him give a short, satisfied grunt. The smell of pipe smoke wafted over, and Heath skidded sickeningly inside.

No. No. Stay here. Here. Now. Stay.

He straightened himself up with a groan, holding his ribs, hoping the pain would help him anchor himself.

Mitch had stepped aside to set his shiny rifle down on the desk next to the dollar coin Heath had placed there. His two young buddies did the same, wanting to free up their hands. This was the fun part. Mitch returned now, wrapping a bandana around his knuckles, and knocked Heath back down to the floor. Happy, he then kicked him a few more times in the back for good measure, before he took a break to catch his breath and give the other two guys a chance.

"I don't know what kinda – kinda bounty they're offering over there but – but those horses're worth a lotta money – more'n you'd get paid for my head I bet – if – if it's money you're after –"

Matt chuckled at that, and Heath heard him step a little closer. "No reason to choose, mutt. We'll take both." The four men were relaxed now, enjoying themselves, masters of the moment. Heath was no longer a threat, he was entertainment and a financial asset.

Heath groaned, trying to pick himself up again from the ground. The taste of dust and blood in his mouth was sickening him, filling him with rage. Other times, other places, other moments of blood and dirt and fear and anger echoed in and around him, resonating and rising in intensity and flooding his mind. Other faces, other men – and with a sudden shock of pain he remembered Jarrod standing over him where he lay, dazed, beat up, and sucking wind on the floor boards of the stable back at the ranch. Saw Jarrod look concerned, but then watched him nod and walk away, leaving Heath behind with the hands who had jumped him.

Not helping. Not going there now, not thinking about that, no.

He squeezed his eyes closed, though that gave him no protection from the painfully vivid detail of the images that flashed through his mind. The tremor was thrumming inside him, reverberating with the rattle of the windows in the wind. Desperately, he grabbed for anything he could focus on to help push away the sound and fury in his head and get his eyes back on where he was. He listened for the wind, the weather, the horses, anything. The sky suddenly tore open and hail began hammering the roof in an explosion of noise. Nike whinnied loudly, several times, and he could hear both horses circling nervously. Heath pushed himself up to stare desperately at the old double doors that connected the two buildings. A tentative idea began to take shape.

Matt followed his gaze, intrigued by the worry he saw in the boy's eyes. How much were they worth, really? He wondered. He admitted that horseflesh was not something he knew much about – but Heath did, and he seemed much too preoccupied with those animals for someone who was down on the ground and busy getting beaten to death.

The youngsters were continuing to take their turns pounding on the mutt, taking their time, and Heath continued to fight back some, just enough to keep it interesting. Matt considered maybe once they were done here, they'd go drop the kid's body on the Negro lady's doorstep – but no, they'd need to take him along into Nevada to collect their money.

Finally, Heath stopped fighting back and just lay there for a moment, exhausted, his breathing harsh. But as Matt watched, he again tried to get up, looking anxiously toward the livery doors.

"Alright, Mitch, that's enough for now. Let's get a look at those horses he's so worried about."

"You bet." Mitch practically skipped over to the doors, lifting the drop bar and throwing the doors wide.

Face down in the dirt, Heath felt the earth herself echoing in rhythm with the hammering of his heart. Hooves struck the ground and drummed in his bones. The wind and hail shook the building. He lifted his head, took a breath, and called to her.

"Nox – help –"