Let it work,

For 'tis the sport to have the enginer

Hoist with his own petard; and 't shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines

And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet

When in one line two crafts directly meet.

William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"

Stockton, California, Afternoon, December 2, 1874

Deputy Marshall Jim Roberts was an easygoing, even-tempered sort of fellow who moved through the world, for the most part, with a muted and humane sense of humor. He was personable, kind, and attentive to detail without being obsessive, all qualities which contributed to his remarkable efficacy as an investigator. His easy manner, however, overlay a fervent and tireless commitment to his duties as a lawman; he was competitive and contentious nowhere in his personal life, except when it came to the pursuit of justice and the catching of bad guys. Then, 'competitive' and 'contentious' could only begin to describe the ferocity with which he practiced his profession.

Still, even in the midst of success or failure, danger or celebration, Roberts was not a man given to loud or dramatic expressions of emotion. Even young Roman Thomas had figured this out in their short time working together. And so, when Roberts reacted as he did to the contents of the crate he'd brought from Jamestown, Roman knew that they had something very important.

Roberts was initially silent as he removed first a large leather-bound ledger and flipped through a few pages. He then lifted out several documents, studying them one at a time before he set them carefully aside. Many appeared to be notarized and bearing official seals. There were several photographs; notated maps; receipts and invoices. About halfway through, Roberts had to pause. Roman watched him raise a shaking hand to wipe his upper lip. Roberts seemed to be slightly short of breath as he stepped back from the table and began pacing around the room; he stopped at the far wall and turned back to stare with intensity at the crate as he raked a hand through his hair. Several times he opened his mouth to say something, but then went back to pacing and staring at the crate. Finally, Roman felt he had to speak.

"Marshal Roberts? What do you think? Can we use this?"

Roberts tore his eyes from the crate and looked at him, for a moment still a bit wild-eyed, which made Roman uncomfortable. Then Roberts let his breath out in a laugh. He came back to the table with an incredulous, wondering smile, shaking his head in amazement.

"What we have here on the table, Roman, is a domino, the biggest, heaviest, most dangerous domino I think I personally have ever seen. Our first order of business is to get it safely out of town and up to where it can do us some good. As soon as possible. Immediately, in fact."

"I can take it. Should I bring it to Marshal Smith?" Roman was blazing with his readiness carry out whatever duty was assigned to him.

That question settled Roberts down a bit. He was on fire himself, but the kid's eagerness reminded him to slow down, think, and make sure he wasn't sending his young assistant into harm's way.

"Need to get it to Smith, ASAP, but I don't like the idea of you riding out alone - you're green, for one thing, and both you and this box are very important. But I gotta wait in town to talk to that Christopher kid." He frowned, thinking.

"My Pa'll ride with me. He's waiting over to the Cattlemen's, getting somethin' to eat. He rode with me here from Jamestown 'cause he knew what I was carrying."

"Your Pa, huh? Ol' Sheriff Thomas, from back when I was a kid?"

"That's him," Roman said proudly.

"I heard he was lamed up."

"Too lame to be sheriff, but he rides good as me, and he shoots better 'n anyone I know."

"Well it sounds like he was thinkin' way better 'n me, if he rode shotgun with you here. He willin' to shadow you up to Sonora?"

"Willin'? I'd like to see you try to get him to stay behind," Roman grinned.

Army Encampment, Outside Sonora, California, Late Afternoon, December 2, 1874

Sunset was approaching. The vast rolling southwest horizon lay in misty arcs of dark blue and green, arms wide and waiting to embrace and swallow the warmth of the setting sun and sink the valley into darkness. Sunlight still lay bright on the peaks of the mountains, and the snowfields blazed with almost painful clarity. More snow up there every day, he thought, squinting at the brilliant whiteness. A breath of winter flowed over him, and he could picture it clearly. He could smell it, taste it, hear it – the crunch of the ice under his boots; the deep blue-black of the sky; the thin, cold air; the mountainous horizons encircling them from where they stood, on top of the world. Top of the world, Jimmy! his uncle would laugh, throwing his hands in the air, and Jimmy would laugh too, speechless and enchanted, full of a purest joy like nothing he'd ever felt since.

He didn't often let himself think about Uncle Nathan, his mother's brother. Nathan was a man of the mountains, crazy in love with the wild terrain that surrounded him, and Jimmy's parents were ambitious, driven, citizens of progress. The couple moved with their sons to the booming city of San Francisco, and Uncle Nathan was utterly exiled from the memory and consciousness of the family. Jimmy wondered sometimes if he was real, or if his uncle was a fantastic childhood character he had invented - but when the sun glinted off the snowfields, he couldn't help but admit that the happiness they had shared was more real than anything else for him.

This evening, the memory left him even more horribly unsettled and uneasy than usual. Sunset was coming, and soon after there would be bloodshed. He was trapped. There was no joy for him in his life here, he had long ago accepted that as truth. What he had in its place was a role to fill, orders to follow, and an absolute, invulnerable leader to obey. Here, he was Major James Henry Mills. Each day, he gave himself to the numbness of his narrow path, and kept his senses averted from joy, and from the beauty of the wilderness. Today, however, the mountains were demanding he remember; they were screaming for his confession. Today a mask had slipped from his invulnerable leader, revealing the grimacing face of a weak, angry madman.

A soft voice spoke in his ear, and Mills jumped, thinking for a brief second he was losing his mind. He whirled to stare at a man who seemed to have materialized right behind him. He pulled out his pistol with a shaking hand and aimed it at the intruder.

Jed held up his hands with a reassuring smile. "Easy, there, Major, I'm no danger. Didn't mean to startle you."

Mills continued to stare, breathing hard; then, as his heart rate slowed, he relaxed and holstered his weapon. He rubbed at the headache growing over his eyes. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Well, the fella I work with could explain it better than me, but I'm the messenger, so here's the thing. There's been a change in the status of this territory here, that could cause you and your chain 'a command some big problems if you go into this thing not knowing what's what. Wanna make sure y'all have the right information, and you seemed like the level-headed one to get it to. 'Cause your colonel, y'know, he seems a little – unstable, kinda. Figured you'd be in a better position to think it through and explain it to him so things don't go all sideways."

Jed held out a sheaf of documents and a rolled up map. Mills paused, studying the young man's open expression, then he reached out and took what he was offering.

Internment Camp, Sunset, December 2, 1874

"Time to go."

Rivka ran her hands over his shoulders and kissed his cheek; his voice, usually so deep and fluid, was rough and wound up tight as a rope. His hands were ice cold. She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eye. "Don't you start thinking like an inmate, Heath," she warned him as she had in the past. "He is a criminal. He is a thief and a murderer, and he has no power over you."

"You're right, darlin'. I just wish I knew what he was after." He gave her a smile and made a visible effort to relax. Reluctant to move away, he instead pulled her close and kissed her, one hand caressing the back of her neck and giving her chills. She loved the way he kissed her. He gave all of himself to it, as though there was nothing else but just the kiss; it was reverent, passionate, gentle, ravenous, all at the same time.

Finally he had to step back and she found she already ached with his absence. "I love you. Hurry back."

"I love you, darlin'." Dread filled him once again as he walked to meet John at the gate. Don't start thinking like an inmate, Heath. He took a deep breath and blew it out as he reached John's side. John was acutely aware of the tension coming from Heath: he was restless and jumpy, so much so he could barely stand still for the few moments it took to swing open the gate.

This bothered John. Over the past six months, he had been at Heath's side through some truly terrible, violent, dangerous moments. He personally had shackled Heath as a fugitive criminal and delivered him to prison; he had seen Heath give himself up to an armed, mercenary lynch mob in order to save another man's life. Each of those times, and on many other occasions, John had been impressed by Heath's stillness in the midst of the storm, and his willingness to see things as they are; his ability to draw strength and understanding from many sources. That stillness seemed nowhere in evidence right now, and it worried John greatly.

A crisp, energetic captain appeared before them. "Sir," he said, including only John in that honorific, "I am instructed to escort you and Thomson here to the meeting. I am also instructed respectfully to inform your wife that she is invited to attend if she so desires." He made a slight bow in her direction.

Wary, surprised, Victoria and John hesitated, wondering what Colonel Morgan's agenda could be; still, it didn't take long for them to decide to go into this together.

Heath hung back slightly. 'Wary' did not even begin to describe his burgeoning sense of alarm about the whole scenario, and he had no idea how to assess Morgan's invitation to Victoria.

Following, he moved numbly toward the tent as though he no longer inhabited his own body. A feeling that he was directing his own movement from a foggy, empty place outside himself kept coming over him in waves, horribly strange and disturbingly familiar. The ground itself had become a shifting, lethal, unpredictable field of battle that might vanish from beneath him at any moment. As they stepped into the tent, Heath swallowed against the nausea, and realized he was shivering from head to toe. He hoped in passing that his shaking was not visible, at least not to the encircling officers, though Heath was sure a man like Morgan could smell the fear that was steaming off of him.

The officers. Heath watched as a lieutenant brought two chairs to offer to John and Victoria on one side of the desk. He then positioned himself with the other officers behind and beside Heath, just out of his line of sight, effectively isolating him to stand in front of Morgan's desk alone. He could feel the heat of their joyful hostility on his skin as they hovered by him. It required a conscious effort to stop himself from flinching every time one of them moved or made a sound.

Morgan was ignoring Heath for the time being, offering pleasantries instead to Victoria. It gave Heath time to study the man. Morgan had aged well, and it was not difficult to see in him the captain he had been twelve years before.

"I think I overheard you are supporting a family back in Strawberry? Very responsible. I admire that in a young man."

Heath swallowed again, his jaw clenched against any sound that might escape him as the ground and the tent around him moved sickeningly. Morgan leaned forward as if to rise from behind his desk and all at once he became someone else – somewhere else – Morgan became that slim, dark Confederate officer, stepping out from behind his desk to look him over.

Linceul.

"You seem pretty damn skinny for a Yankee sewer rat who's been caught - for a third time now - stealing food from me and my staff. Why is that, boy? Are you stealing for someone else? I'd be happy to keep you fed, boy, if you could share a little information in return…If not, well, I'll just beat it out of you…That will be a pleasure for me. You, I'm afraid, will not benefit in that scenario."

Heath did moan faintly then, unable to stop himself from retreating from the desk and closing his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off Linceul's invasion into his mind. He backed up into a tall, broad-shouldered captain, who growled in annoyance and promptly dropped Heath to the ground with a hard fist to his right flank.

The pain was enormous, the blow having caught him precisely where he'd been shot over the summer. He waited it out as it wrapped an angry giant fist around him and momentarily squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

Boy, it don't take much to put me down anymore, he thought in passing. If I ever do get back home, I don't know that I'm gonna be rough breaking any stock, not any more. Only twenty-five, and I'm busted as old Brahma.

These distracting thoughts helped marginally – he could hear Victoria's and John's anger in his defense, the low laughter of the officers standing over him - but what he needed urgently was to get his feet steady on the ground and his head back into the proper time and place.

Get a grip on yourself, Heath, for God's sake, he thought desperately, but he seemed to be yelling at himself from a great distance away, and it really wasn't helping. He was, in fact, coming apart so fast he couldn't keep track of all the pieces and fragments falling to the ground around him, and the colonel hadn't so much as even looked at him yet. He didn't know what Morgan wanted to accomplish here, but Heath was sure of one thing – they hadn't even gotten started.