Come what come may;
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

William Shakespeare, "Macbeth"


Internment Camp, Afternoon, December 2, 1874

John watched it play out as he walked back through the stockade gate: Heath backing up, looking for an out and tense as a fenced-in mustang; Victoria reaching out and calling him back. Everything in her stance and expression told John she was speaking from her heart, and he near sighed in relief when he saw Heath give in to her embrace. It was a start, a necessary start – but now John needed to talk to them both about the deadline they all faced.

Sunset, Morgan had said. Sunset, and he wants Heath there. Why? Is Heath just a way for him to threaten me – or the Barkley family? Does he see Heath as their point of weakness? Or is there some other reason? Heath and I have barely talked about Morgan since this whole thing started. What am I missing -?

John met briefly with Frank at the gate, each updating the other on their developing situation. He scanned the hills around the camp as they spoke, thinking through the several strategies they had in play. Some John had set in motion before he had taken up his post at the gate; some – like the arrest and interrogation of Marco - had evolved over the past twelve hours.

They'd received periodic updates from Jed, Montana's laconic Deputy Marshal. Jed appeared to John to be in constant, swift, effortless motion – except when he wasn't. At rest, he was as relaxed and still as a mountain lion with a full belly, sleeping in the noonday sun. Frank had accused the boy of being a ghost; John suspected the accusation was not entirely in jest, after Jed had one too many times scared the daylights out of the veteran lawman by appearing by his side with no warning. Moreover, the patrolling deputy marshals and the surrounding army patrols and checkpoints apparently presented no impediment to Jed's movements: he seemed to be able to appear and disappear at will.

Frank had been told to expect something from Jarrod by sunset that might buy them some time. I dearly hope so, John thought anxiously. We're damned short on time. I need something to put in Morgan's way, something to slow him down, anything that'll give us a little room to maneuver –

He walked back to the buckboard. He returned Victoria's warm embrace deeply and silently, and admitted to himself that Morgan's taunting as regards his beautiful wife had rattled him more than a little. John then turned to Heath, who was watching him with stoic concern, a rough blanket draped over his shoulders.

"Where's your shirt, son?" John asked. He put an arm around Heath in greeting, but then stepped back to look at him more carefully when the boy flinched in pain at the contact. "What is it? Let me see," he ordered.

"Grazed. It's not much. Rivka cleaned it up but it's still pretty raw. Right now I'm just following Mother's orders and waiting for my shirt to dry." He gave Victoria a quick smile, then winced as John lifted the blanket to look at the red groove across his shoulder.

John growled under his breath. "Goddamned snipers." Anger tightened like a fist in his chest, and fear, as he pictured what Frank had so sparsely described. Good thing he ain't a quitter. His eyes met Heath's as his warm hand settled alongside the younger man's neck. The gentle squeeze of his fingers was a question, and Heath gave him a reassuring nod. After a beat, John nodded back, took a calming breath, and turned his attention back to the task ahead of them.

"We have until sunset to give our answer. Morgan's terms right now: unconditional surrender within 24 hours, or he will open a full-scale assault. He has further threatened to attack prior to the 24-hour mark if sufficiently provoked."

"Provoked?" Victoria asked.

"Evidence of insurgents within the camp – evidence that we now know he is willing to invent as needed. And-or –-"

"And-or what?"

John had to overcome a sudden reluctance to continue. "He states that he will attack immediately at sunset unless I bring Heath with me to discuss terms."

"What -?" Victoria looked confused. "Bring Heath? Why?"

"I don't know. I was hoping Heath could help me figure out what he's up to." They both turned to look at him.

Heath was staring out at the command tent, his eyes full of questions and no small measure of desperation. "Why?" he responded, an edge of anger now in his voice. "You're asking me? For twelve years I've been wondering why. What the hell does he want with me now?" Heath found himself surprised at the rage and frustration that came boiling up at John's words; all at once, there it was, steaming under his skin and fogging his thoughts. He abruptly turned away from them and stalked back to the buckboard, yanking the blanket off his scarred shoulders. Heedless now of the chill, he pulled on his damp shirt, and tried to focus on buttoning it with shaking fingers.

A warm hand covered his, and he looked up to see Rivka.

"I overheard. Also Malila informed me that Me'weh was all wet and needed a dry shirt." She held up a fresh garment with a small smile. She let him change, and then did up the buttons for him, her expression intense. "Morgan," she murmured angrily. "Did I hear John say Morgan is asking for you? What does he want, that vile, heartless bureaucrat?"

John had been thinking back to Peale's letter as he heard Rivka's words.

"It occurred to me that he and your deputy might also know of each other. Morgan was Canby's Judge Advocate officer when they liberated Carterson, though I suppose he could be forgiven for not remembering an undistinguished NCO."

A JAG officer. At Carterson. John spun back to Heath. Of course. "It was Morgan? Your discharge in '65? He did that?"

Heath and Rivka both nodded. Rivka's brows were drawn down in an expression of burning outrage. She glowered at the command tent in the distance, then turned back to John and Victoria. "As if that "dishonorable" discharge wasn't loathsome enough, what made it even worse was the fact that Morgan was the one who recruited Heath in the first place, knowing full well how old he was." She looked as if she could spit fire and eat army colonels for breakfast. John and Victoria took this in, both briefly speechless at this previously unknown history.

John could certainly understand the anger. He absolutely shared Rivka's sentiments, but her words were also bringing up for him a cascade of questions. "Heath – are you telling me Colonel Morgan recruited you - at thirteen - to serve in one of Birge's spearhead units?" He honestly was having a hard time imagining any officer with the slightest understanding of combat doing such a thing to a child. He was having an even harder time believing that an intelligent, compassionate boy like Heath, who cared for his family, would willingly sign up for such an assignment.

"No," Heath replied. "Captain Morgan recruited me to the Cavalry at age twelve along with a bunch of other mail riders. Entered just after my thirteenth birthday, 2nd Regiment California Volunteer Cavalry. Told me I'd be a stable hand and spend the war in California, sendin' my pay home to Mama."

John nodded. That scenario made sense – knowing Heath as he did, he could imagine it seemed an attractive option: travel away from the dead-ends and bigotry of Strawberry; a chance to provide for his family; the lure of being able to serve in the Union Army by doing something he loved to do. He imagined it wasn't a difficult pitch for Morgan to make. "So then what happened?"

"Basic training at Camp Alert, and then stable work, like he promised. About five weeks in, though, I got a transfer order, effective immediately, to report to Col. Birge and Cpt. Welker in St. Louis - signed by Major Harrison Morgan. Couple of big sergeants I'd never seen before hustled me off the base that very day and physically put me on an eastbound train. I got off the train in St. Louis and made my way to Benton Barracks. Didn't have anywhere else to go, and if nothing else I wasn't a deserter.

"Welker was a good man, a good captain; he looked out for me and taught me a lot. Pretty soon after I got there we were deployed and up to our eyeballs in the war. Chickamauga was a year and a half later. Those few of us that survived were sent back into the western theater. Then we had a year, maybe a little less, of skirmishing and recon across Texas and the southwest, until we were ambushed and locked up in Carterson. Eight months later, Canby arrived to turn us loose. Morgan arrived with him, and decided to swat me like a pesky fly. Why? I don't know. I've never understood it, and believe me, I tried to figure it out.

"I seriously considered some years back that maybe Morgan was actually my guardian angel in disguise, steering my course to make sure I found Rivka. Though why my angel found it necessary to kick me out in the middle of the desert without even a blanket to my name, I don't know. It's not like the Levis needed any more reason to feel sorry for me than they already had." He tried to laugh, but knew his reach for humor right then would fall short. He focused instead, gratefully, on Rivka's hand holding his. The anger had ebbed and eddied into a deep current of anxiety; Morgan loomed in his mind as a harbinger of unexpected cruelty and loss. The thought of being commanded into the man's presence made Heath's mouth go dry; it made his hands go numb; it set his every muscle humming to run away, as fast and as far as he could.


Stockton, California, December 2, 1874

Deputy Marshal Jim Roberts drank a leisurely whiskey, leaning against the dark aromatic wood of the bar in the San Joaquin Gentlemen's Club. He had dressed in more casual street clothes this evening, and though he still wore his sidearm, his badge was nowhere in evidence. Following a trail of possible and probable dominoes to this pleasantly masculine establishment, Jim had struck up a friendly and slightly flirtatious conversation with a very handsome, very engaging young waiter named Christopher. Roberts had tipped him generously in advance; when the time came, Christopher was receptive to the marshal's polite request for a more private conversation as soon as he ended his shift.

That left Roberts with a few hours to wait, but he had other errands to attend to in the meantime. He gave the waiter a smile and a pat on the shoulder as he rose to leave. Christopher smiled warmly and watched the marshal walk to the door with a slightly wistful expression. Roberts caught the young man's look as he stepped through the mahogany doors; as they swung closed behind him he laughed softly and shook his head. My goodness, he thought to himself, if I was that sort of man…well, Christopher, let's just say I can see why a man of that sort would take all kinds of chances to have your company. My goodness.

Still chuckling, his next stop was his hotel room, where he expected to be meeting up with the eager young Roman Thomas, a brand new Deputy Marshal who made up for his lack of experience with his dedication, energy, and heart. Last night, while Sheriff Peale was conducting business in Stockton that had nothing to do with law enforcement, Roman had high-tailed it back to Jamestown to conduct a search and seizure of evidence. Roman didn't know exactly what he'd find, but he did know where to look. As an added benefit, the hiding place Roman had observed Peale to use lay just within an abandoned mine entrance with no private ownership on record. Roberts was greatly looking forward to seeing what Roman brought back.


Barkley Ranch, Sunset, December 2, 1874

Silas pulled up the buggy in front of Hannah's cabin and climbed out, looking around to see where Hannah might be. He had brought her some pots she could use for planting, as well as a trowel, a watering can, and some other hand tools that might be useful. He could have brought these to her in the morning – it would be dark soon, and Hannah certainly wasn't likely to start a gardening project right this very minute. No, Silas just felt a need to offer her some company as the evening came on.

He saw her up on the rise behind the cabin, her back to the grove of oaks that sheltered the headstones of Leah and Rachael. She was looking to the southwest, watching as the sun grew big and heavy and burning orange-red, watching as it sank toward the distant dark curve of the ocean. Silas climbed up the slope to stand beside her and she smiled at him. His heart ached for the worry he could see in her eyes. He took her hand and they watched the sunset together. She was humming a slow tune, and he picked it up with her, and they sang together until it was full dark.

Children, don't get weary,
No, no, oh,
Don't get weary,
Till your work is done.

Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'
Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'
Keep your lamps trimmed and burnin'
The time is drawin' nigh

Children, don't get weary…