Western Nevada, July 1874
Jarrod looked across the clearing from where he stood by his chestnut gelding. As he finished tying off his saddle bags he considered his brother Heath, who was sitting at the foot of a pine tree with his eyes closed and his face tilted up to the morning sun. One could almost imagine he looks peaceful, Jarrod thought. Be a blessing if he were actually getting a little sleep.
He walked over to check on him.
He looks so young. He is so young. All he wants me to bring him in prison is books, says he's got so much to learn about the world we live in.
Heath dozed in the pleasant smell of the pines. The sun, not yet risen to its full summer strength, filtered through the branches. The dappled light moved over his eyelids.
He stumbled through the dim passageway, straining to see ahead through the dust that floated in the stagnant air. There was a light ahead, indistinct, and he lurched forward, pushing debris and fallen timbers out of his way. He could taste dirt and blood in his mouth, felt the pain of his exhausted muscles and his burning throat. More than once, he fell to his hands and knees, or was struck by falling rock and wood. Pulling himself free, gasping for air, he kept moving forward. He was closer now, he could see that it was daylight ahead, could see two women with linked arms looking toward him. It was Audra - and Victoria, standing in sunlight. He thought he could hear birds singing, or crickets, and a breeze in the tall grasses. He fought his way toward them, called out to them, "Mother - Audra - ", but could not produce more than a whisper. They could not hear him.
They both stood clutching each other, looking toward him in the darkness with growing fear, as if a monster was approaching them. They backed away. "Mother, I'm afraid," Audra cried, covering her face, turning her back to shelter herself on her mother's shoulder.
As Jarrod watched, he saw Heath's eyes moving, saw him frown, his breathing quicken. His hands closed into fists. He moaned in his sleep, begging, "No, no - ". Concerned now, Jarrod moved to kneel beside him, and reached out to wake him from the nightmare.
Heath tried in vain to call to them again. "No. Don't go. It's me. Don't be afraid. Please don't go - " He threw himself forward, but found his arms and legs were entrapped by the grasping hands of dead men, so many dead men, pulling him down into the debris of the tunnel, dragging him back, dead men behind him as far as he could see.
Heath fought ferociously then, screaming silently, the sound of his fear heard by no one. "No, please, don't go, wait for me - " Desperately he tried to crawl toward the retreating women in the sunshine, sure that if he could reach them, he would be safe and they would no longer be afraid. With all his strength he tried to free himself from the cold, implacable hands that claimed him. He looked down at his body, and saw himself as he was ten years ago, a dying boy no more than skin and bones, bleeding, beaten and starved. His hands were red with blood. Of course his family would flee from him in fear. He was little more than a corpse himself. He belonged here with the dead.
And now there was a third person standing with the women in the sun. It was Risley, standing straight and proper, solicitous and protective. He spoke to them with reassuring words, guiding them away from the horror they had glimpsed. As he turned them away with a gentle, chivalrous hand, he looked back at Heath.
"Let them go, 597," he commanded sternly. "Let this good family go. Why do you want to drag this horror of yours through their lives any more than you already have? For what selfish reason would you do that to them? Take your punishment. You are a killer, no matter how you justify it. You will always be a plague upon this family, and they have already given you far more than you deserve. Let them go. Leave them in peace."
Weeping, hopeless, he tried once more to speak. "No. Please - I want to stay - I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry, let me go with you - " His words reached no one, swallowed by the darkness.
"Don't fear, Yankee boy," said a smooth, sardonic, southern voice, and he felt arms wrap around him, hands stroking his hair. "Don't fear. You're not alone. I'm here with you."
Heath came awake with a start, gasping for air, frantically pushing away Jarrod's hands, fighting to get free. In a blind panic, he struggled to his feet, oblivious to his injuries or the chains upon his wrists and ankles. Before Jarrod could contain him, he made an attempt to run. The first step brought him up short, and he fell into some underbrush, rolling onto his back and moaning in pain. Jarrod rushed to his side. Smith and Ramos ran over at the commotion.
"Heath. Heath! Open your eyes. Wake up."
He opened his eyes, still terrified, but at least aware now of where he was. "Jarrod?" he whispered, hoarse, breathing hard.
"It's OK. You were dreaming."
"Jarrod, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry -"
"Nothing to be sorry for, Heath. Look at me. Stay here with me. Listen to my voice."
Heath took a deep breath in, the exhale more like a sob, as he felt the pain of the gunshot wound in his side. He closed his eyes, grimacing as he tried to get some control over himself. His head fell back on the dusty ground, and he looked up at the sky, taking another deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Ramos and Smith hung back, seeing that Jarrod didn't seem to need their immediate help.
"I feel like an idiot. I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"It's understandable that these nightmares and memories would be so much worse now. I'm worried that you're not getting any rest."
Heath spoke to the treetops. "All these years, I was on my own and I found ways to keep all that stuff at a distance, mostly. If it came back on me, if I couldn't stop remembering, I at least was alone so it wouldn't hurt anyone else. After the war, I couldn't stay home for too long with my Mama or Rachel, cause I didn't want them know what I did or where I'd been as a soldier. If I stayed they'd be able to get it out of me eventually. So I'd just visit, then I'd travel for work and write letters home.
"But now, I just can't shake the feeling that I'm dragging all of you into - into this - this mess. This is all my fault. I wanted a family. I wanted so much to stay. I wanted to keep you all safe. I thought - I hoped - I could be with you and all that past would stay put away.
"But now - it's all coming back and pouring out, and I feel like I'm poison to all of you. I don't want to share what happened with the people that I love, put that burden on you. I don't want you to have those pictures in your heads. I don't like how I must seem to you, broken, damaged, like a busted-up ornery horse should just be put down. I don't like all the trouble this is for you, for the rest of the family.
"I did what I did, I shot those men, because I had no other way to stop Risley from killing you. If I have to pay for that, then I have to pay for that. You should just let me go, Jarrod. You - all of you - have already given me so much more than I deserve, or ever dreamed of."
"Heath - "
"Listen, Jarrod, the most important thing is that Risley be tried and convicted for what he's done to all those men in the camp, and what he did to that doctor. He has to be stopped. Don't waste your time on me. I'm no lawyer, but I figure you get Risley, my case will take care of itself."
"Heath, you are my brother. You are not a waste of time. I can't just drop you off in the State Prison and forget about you."
Jarrod gripped his shoulders, willing Heath to look at him, listen to him. "What's happened is making the remembering worse. I know you feel that if you can't keep those memories boxed up tight, that your family would be better off without you around. I know you don't want us to see you as broken. I also know you take responsibility for just about anything you can, and I know there are times when you're not sure you deserve to be alive, much less part of a family that loves you."
Heath looked at him then, a confusion of feelings on his face. Jarrod continued, "I get that, and we'll work through that. But don't you dare use this legal problem of yours as a way to run away from us. You hear me, little brother? You've handed me plenty of courtroom challenges before this, so that's nothing new. I'll send you a bill, how about that? But I'm not just letting you go. Furthermore, I am willing to bet that I am the least stubborn member of this family. We love you. We need you. And so you are stuck with us."
Heath searched his face, his eyes sad, questioning, vulnerable. Jarrod felt as though his brother was seeking the source of his belief and certainty in the love of his family. Jarrod wished he could place that belief securely in his brother's heart, but he knew this needed time, and healing.
He could see Heath pulling in his feelings, armoring his thoughts against the day. "Get Risley," he repeated gruffly. "That's the best way to help me, and you'll be helping a whole lot of other men besides." He made an attempt to get up off the ground where he had fallen, with little success. He grimaced, trying to sit up, then fell back, frustrated. "Guess I'm gonna need some help."
Ramos stepped in with Jarrod to get Heath back on his feet, steadying him as his knees buckled briefly. Heath nodded his thanks as the two helped him sit on the tailgate of the prisoner transport wagon.
Smith stood over Heath at the foot of the wagon, his thumbs hooked in his belt, cigar smoke curling around his head, studying him silently for several uncomfortable minutes.
"Chief, you don't much go for making a man feel comfortable, do you," Heath said, quietly, looking at the ground.
"Hmph." Smith continued his scrutiny. "Yep, that's the truth, I don't. Time to get on the trail."
Heath looked up over his shoulder at the cell-on-wheels that was the transport wagon. His stomach was clenched with anxiety at the idea of getting inside the thing. Further, he wasn't sure how he could climb up there cuffed as he was.
Smith followed his gaze, not missing the signs of apprehension. "Well, I don't know about you, son, but I'd rather travel in a wagon with trail dust coming in, than ride shut up inside a box. That makes me right sick to my stomach. So if it's ok with you, I'm gonna open up the side panels." He then unlocked and slid back the sides of the transport. "Ramos, you're driving. Counselor, I expect you'll be riding in back with us as I talk with your client. Hitch up those saddle horses to the lead lines. Then you and Ramos give our fugitive here a leg up into the wagon, and we'll get moving."
Once all were settled in the transport, Ramos moved the wagon out slowly, three horses on lead lines following. Smith leaned back, eyes still on Heath. "Mr Ramos tells me you rode with Frank Sawyer for a spell."
Heath looked up, surprised. "Did I tell him that?" He laughed to himself. "That was the morphine talking, I guess. Makes me wonder what else I was talking about last night. But yeah, I rode with him. 'Bout eight years ago."
"Frank's a good man. We cross paths about once or twice a year. And now that I think about it, seems I heard him mention you."
"That'd be Frank. He was partial to me, and he wasn't one to tell a good story just once. And we had a few good ones."
"You had some advice for your lawyer here on how he should do his job."
Heath glanced at Jarrod, looked down, uncomfortable again. "Yes, sir."
"What do you mean, he should just let you go?"
"I don't know how all this works legally. I escaped, and I shot those men. There's no arguing there. I didn't steal McGowan's livestock, and I never laid a hand on that doctor Risley says I killed. I shot those men to protect my brothers. The only way to prove any of that is to get Risley."
"What would you tell me to do?"
"Sir?"
"What would you tell me to do about this case? What would you do next?"
"You might start where Jarrod started. He knew where to look for us because there'd been talk of a scam with Sheriff Barnes. McGowan's part of it. Your deputies covering Barnes' office might want to look into just how many times that bull of McGowan's has been reported stolen, and what became of the men he accused." Heath hesitated, looking from Jarrod to Smith. "And for sure I'd try to find Peterson."
"Where?"
"I don't know. He was originally from New Mexico. He might have family there. But more likely he went to his brother, Mike Peterson, who's a blacksmith. I don't know where he lives, but I'm guessing Mike's not too far away, because Peterson talked about him like they saw each other regularly. Mike is a big red-headed guy with one leg. Find Mike, and you'll probably find Tom Peterson. After what he did to help me, seems to me he'd be willing to tell you everything about Risley, especially if he could get some sort of lighter sentence, or even immunity."
"Why did he help you?"
"He didn't at first. He was ready to beat me down, whatever Risley wanted." He winced slightly, remembering. "Turned out I knew his brother Mike in the war. We were friends."
"Friends?"
Heath smiled grimly. "Comrades in hell. We were in Carterson together. I pulled Mike out of a flash flood." He hoped Smith would let him leave the story at that.
"That doesn't explain Tom Peterson turning on Risely like he did. He'd been working for Risley for years."
"I think he found out something about what Risley did to the doctor. If I had to guess, I'd say Risley wanted the doctor to die so he could charge me with murder, so he told Peterson to finish the job."
Smith nodded. That guess would fit with the original message Peterson had sent to his office, that a false murder charge would be filed. Unfortunately, both Peterson and the doctor were missing.
"Then why'd he run off after he turned you loose?"
Heath grew somber. "I have an idea why. Don't know for sure."
"Why?"
"I think - " He sighed. "I think Peterson thought I would kill Risley, that I would kill all of them." He frowned, uncomfortable. "Or, if I got to my brothers before they were ambushed, we would just head out of state together. If Risley came back to the prison camp, he'd see the documents saying I was dead. Either way, I think Peterson thought he was done there, didn't need to help me out any more. Maybe he figured you marshals would catch Risley and the Sheriff and not come after him."
"Hmm. Interesting. Ramos, we're going to have to stop over in Gardnerville to send some wires to track down this Mike Peterson. Also, contact Roberts. Tell him to pick up McGowan and go through Barnes' files to see, and I quote, 'how often that bull of McGowan's has been reported stolen.' Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Smith leaned forward. "So, Barkley, why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what, sir?"
"Why didn't you kill Risley?"
"He was unarmed."
"Unarmed."
"Yes, sir."
"The man was allegedly ordering the execution of your brothers, after torturing you for almost three weeks, and you're telling me you didn't kill him because he was unarmed?"
"That's right."
"Are you sure you didn't just miss?"
Looking at his hands, Heath spoke softly, without a hint of bravado. "Chief, I think it's pretty clear I don't miss."
"So you let him live."
"Yes, sir." Heath was a little confused over Smith's interest in this point. "The rifleman who was coming up the hill toward me, I could possibly have tried to wing him instead of killing him, but I'd taken a bullet by then, and I'd run out of time. The other rifle was about to pull the trigger on Nick. I had to eliminate both threats as quickly as possible. I wish there had been some other way."
"Do you know what Risley has been saying in his statements?"
"No, sir."
"Probably just as well. I'm sure you can imagine. Did it occur to you that you could have made your situation simpler by killing Risley? Perhaps killing all six in the campsite and fleeing home with your brothers? Didn't you desire revenge for what he had done?"
"I want him to face justice. If that means he hangs, that's fine with me. As for running off to California, believe me, there's no place I'd rather be right now, but if I'm free it's gotta be clean. I'm not interested in being a fugitive the rest of my life."
Smith leaned back again, thoughtful. He looked at Jarrod. "Counselor, I don't envy your position, but your client may be right. Convicting Risley is his best hope of getting clear of this. However, Mr. Barkley," he continued, focusing on Heath, "you should not be so quick to dismiss your advocate.
"Regardless of how long this process takes, or what the legal outcome is for you, you do not want to give up your lines of communication to the outside. You understand me? I interviewed Risley. I know what picture he's painting, what he's saying to my men, and what tale he is very likely telling to the newspapers. Once he is transferred to the State Prison, as I'm sure he will be, he will be sharing his views with anyone there who will listen. You may find that you are received by some in Carson City as an incorrigibly violent inmate, an illegitimate mongrel who assassinated five lawmen. I am sure that you do not need me to elaborate on what that kind of reception could be like for you. "
Jarrod saw understanding and fear flash briefly through his brother's expression before he brought his shackled hands up, hiding his face as he armed the sweat from his brow and upper lip. Heath kept his gaze resolutely on the floor of the wagon.
"I will do my best to mitigate that belief among the staff and officers at the State Prison," Smith continued, "but I think it is prudent for you to hold close to any allies available to you. You will need them.
"Now, it is clear you wish to protect your family from pain and worry, but certainly you must know it is unrealistic to expect them simply to stop caring about you. Could you, if they asked it of you?"
Surprised by the sudden change in tone and feeling, Heath looked up, briefly overwhelmed by his conflicting emotions. His gaze moved from Smith to Jarrod, then to the settling dust of the trail behind them. He shook his head sadly. "No, Marshal. No, I couldn't."
