CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CREDIT: All lines from "Forty Rifles" (Season 1, Episode 2) are credited to Christopher Knopf, episode screenwriter; .com also credits A. I. Bezzerides and Louis F. Edelman (creators) with writing this episode.
~-oo0oo-~
As the camp emptied like a bottle broken at its base and streaming its contents, Wallant slowly turned to Nick, pulling out a wad of bills and peeling off some notes. "By the way. . . I'll need a wagon. I think twenty should cover it . . . " He held the notes out to Nick, who stared for a moment, then furiously slapped away Wallant's hand, sending the notes fluttering to the ground, Nick's expression a fierce last stand of defiance.
"Nick," the older man smiled, with a nod, and headed for his mount.
Nick stared around him, deserted and powerless.
~-oo0oo-~
Eleven men on horseback approached the lineshack from the western side, until Wallant, leading the pack, held up a hand, stopping the column. He dismounted and nodded to the rest to do the same. Barrett, Schad, Brown and Spock came around the general as he smoothed his jacket, tugging it into hanging straight on his shoulders . . . like a uniform.
"Wait here," Wallant ordered, heading up toward to the shack on foot, while the others dismounted, sipped from canteens and rested themselves.
Wallant strode toward the building until a bullet missed his foot by about six inches. He heard the commotion behind him as the men quickly took cover and pulled out their rifles and pistols. "Hold your fire! Don't shoot," he warned. "This place is a powder keg."
Catching the eye of a couple of the men, Wallant nodded and turned back to the shack. Narrowing his eyes against the sunlight backlighting the building, he spotted the shine of a sweaty face. . . the glint of gold-green eyes, staring him down.
"I'll kill you, General, if I have to," Nick Barkley spat out.
His head tilted to one side, Wallant studied the former young star-struck second lieutenant. "Unless?"
"I want those men back," snapped Nick. "They've got a job to do. After that, stay or leave is up to them, but by God, I want them back!"
"Men are not given, Barkley," Wallant observed, "They're earned.
Nick gave a mirthless laugh. "Right. . . Or stolen."
Wallant chuckled outright then. "Oh, Barkley, what a lot you've got to learn," he said a little softly. . . just loudly enough for the two of them to hear. "Some people want to be stolen. Don't you know that? Relieves them of all responsibility for their impotence and weakness. Men are sheep, Barkley. These men are all sheep, going willingly to the slaughter . . . preferring it rather than facing their own inadequacy and failure."
Sadly, Nick shook his head, remembering three years back. Had the monster always been in there, just hidden away? God help him, but Nick just couldn't believe that. . . wouldn't believe that.
"What happened to you, General?" he asked softly, sadly.
Wallant appeared not to have even heard him. "Take you, for example," he mused. "What a curious place to make one's stand - in a coffin."
Nick's face hardened, as he realized the literal powder keg he was standing in.
"Think about it," Wallant advised, as he turned around and headed back, totally uncaring that his back was plainly available to Nick's rifle.
Nick stepped back from the kicked-out wallboard and glanced back at Heath. "You stay low and keep that rifle quiet!" he hissed at his younger brother, sternly. "Right now, he thinks I'm the only one in here and that's to our advantage!"
Heath hesitated, lower lip caught in his teeth, then nodded, accepting his brother's authority. "All right, but if they charge - "
"If they charge, you'll wait for my orders. You hear me, boy?" Nick demanded as quietly as he possibly could. Despite the low tone, the older man poured every ounce of authority he possessed into that statement, willing his brother to obey him.
Your job. . . is to have his back. . . Heath remembered his father saying, just before he rolled out of the camp. . . God, was it really just yesterday? And chain of command. . . follow the chain of command. . . Heath didn't like it, but he realized this was his chance to prove to his father and his older brothers that he'd heard what they'd all tried to teach him. That he was ready to step into his role on the ranch, and that role wasn't to try to solve this alone; it was to stand, side-by-side, with his older, in-charge brother . . . stronger together.
Silently, his eyes met Nick's, and though he didn't like it, he nodded, relenting. "All right. I hear ya, Nick."
As Wallant maneuvered back down into the gulley behind the ridge with the ten others, Barrett waggled a chin toward the line shack. "That Nick Barkley in there?"
"Yeah," Wallant responded, and the men, troubled, looked at one another. "Barrett, Spock, you draw his fire. Schad, you come in from the east, the sun to your back. They'll keep him occupied. Take him through the door," said Wallant, pulling a brutal, 10-inch knife from his waist scabbard and slapping it into Schad's hand.
Schad stared at him a moment, then down at the knife, uneasily. "Sir?"
"And keep your fire high," Wallant warned Barrett and Spock.
Schad glanced at Barrett, the reality of this situation suddenly crashing into him - and several of the others - like a runaway locomotive.
Barrett grimly set his mouth and, he tapped Spock's arm as they moved to position themselves to draw Barkley's fire. Hesitating just a moment, Schad finally turned and hurried off to find the best way to infiltrate from an eastern position, as directed. But to stab Nick. . . to stab Barkley? In cold blood?! Schad kept moving, struggling to keep his legs pumping in order to keep from thinking about how this sparkling dream was rapidly spinning out of control into a terrifying nightmare.
In the shack, Nick moved back into position at one of the boarded up windows, seeing movement out over the expanse. He slipped to the side just slightly and looked at Heath, hesitating. He's just a kid, Nick! You can't ask this of him. Grimly, Nick sighed, and looked at his brother. "You let me handle this."
Heath moved up beside him, gripping his arm, his eyes fiery. "Not a chance," he glowered. "We stick to the plan!"
"Heath - "
"Together… we do this together, or not at all," Heath insisted firmly, looking up at Nick.
You two . . . Barkleys. . . stick together . . . Nick heard their father's parting words from the day before as he stared at his oh-so-fierce little brother. . . looking at him with Father's eyes.
Heath continued, "I'll draw him out. You cover me, you're faster."
Startled and incredulous, Nick stared at his younger brother. "I've seen you draw, remember?! Why, you little …. you're as fast as I am!" hissed Nick… faster, in fact, but there's no way I'm tellin' you that!
"Well, I'm just following your rules, big brother. You're in charge," Heath grinned, nervously. Seeing the taller man shake his head in frustration, Heath sighed and reached out, gripping his brother's forearm, his blue eyes gazing straight into his brother's green-gold ones. "Nick…it's gotta be this way. The men, they've got to see YOU doin' this. YOU'RE the one they'll follow, not me. And, 'bout me being as fast… "
"Yeah?"
"Just remember ya said that down the road, all right?" grinned Heath, his nervously wavering lop-sided smile making Nick want to reach out and grab his little brother to him and hold him tight… hold him safe. But this was no boy… this was a man standing in front of him. And his partner.
Nick closed his eyes, exhaling in frustration, then snapped open his eyes and his hand shot out, cupping Heath behind the neck. "You be careful!" he said fiercely. "Promise me! No unnecessary chances, or so help me I'll make that last belt on the cheek seem like one o' Mother's good night kisses!"
His lips trembling a little, Heath smiled and nodded, allowing his hand to grip the arm that supported him. "I promise," he said, seriously, patting his brother's arm, then slipping out of his grasp and heading for the back door.
At the back entrance, Heath stopped, hesitated, thinking of something, and then turned back. "Nick, remember… like he said, 'every snake has two fangs'," he whispered, seriously. He tilted his head in the direction of the mad general out there. "I'll bet ya anything he's got another gun or weapon, somewhere. Be careful, all right? I really don't cotton to havin' my head blown off."
Grimly, Nick nodded. Suddenly, the boys heard gunfire and Nick darted back to the window. There, off to the side, Barrett and Spock drawing fire. "Dammit…" Nick muttered, and glanced back, but Heath was already gone.
As Heath slid quietly out the back of the building, unseen, Schad had approached, knife in hand, from the east as directed, and made for the front of the building. He heard the gunshots coming from inside, aimed to the west where he knew Spock and Barrett were drawing Nick's fire. Blotting out everything else from his mind, Schad gripped the knife and barreled through the flimsy door, crashing to the floor.
Nick whirled, making sure he was out of the line of fire from Barrett and Spock and praying to God the walls were sturdy enough to keep out stray rifle fire. He saw Schad scramble quickly to his feet, the 10-inch Bowie in his hand, and grimly set his mouth. Schad saw the strength and intensity in that gaze, and faltered just long enough, before attempting his lunge, for Nick to set himself. He pulled the rifle down and used it to slam first into Schad's gut, then sickeningly into the man's face, sending him back out the door, blood spraying from a smashed nose.
Schad landed on the porch. . . and didn't budge.
Nick quickly slipped back into position by the window, desperate to keep one eye on the men out there, and one on Schad, just in case the idiot's head was even harder than he'd though and he'd come around. . . God, Heath, just be careful! he prayed.
Down in the gulley, the men watched as the drama played out before them, and groans were audible as they watched Schad, battered and unconscious, fly back out the shack's door.
Barrett and Spock trotted back up to the group, frustration and, to some extent, shame on their faces as Wallant glared at them, his expression dripping with derision.
His jaw working, Brown suddenly lunged for the grade, only to have Wallant grab him and pull him back down. "Where the devil do you think you're going?" the General demanded.
Brown glared. "To get him back!" he spat, gesturing toward Schad.
Grimly, Wallant pulled out his pistol spinning the cylinder to make sure it was still loaded. "Brown, Spock."
"Sir?"
"And you two men," he added, pointing to two younger hands, "fan out. On my shot, take him," Wallant said grimly.
Brown stared. "Take him?" He glanced at the other three.
"Head on," nodded Wallant.
Uneasily, the four men moved into position. This cart is rapidly having its wheels fall off, thought Brown, angrily. Chargin' Nick Barkley, armed with a rifle? Judas Priest. . .
Wallant raised his hand and fired, sending the four men off, Brown and Spock to the left and the other two to the right.
In the shack, Nick was scanning the layout, constantly, watching for movement and noticed some shifting off to the west. . . no wait. . . to the north, too. What the hell? Coming at him from two sides, he thought grimly.
"Well, alrighty-then, boys," he muttered, fiercely, black brows lowered, pulling his rifle up to sight it, "let's dance!"
Brown moved forward, and suddenly realized he wasn't getting any cover from the two men approaching on the other side. Grimly he raised his own gun, figuring if nothing else, he could lay down cover for Spock, behind him. Before he got closer than thirty paces to the cabin, a rifle shot sounded and it felt like a horse kicked him in the leg, dropping him like a poll-axed steer. Gasping in shock, he felt Spock grab his arm and drag him back into the cover of the trees.
"Brown, how is it?" demanded the older man.
Brownie grimaced, his eyes squeezed shut and shook his head. "Yeah, 'Take him,' he says," he muttered in derision.
Barrett came up beside him, "You okay?" only to feel his vest and shirt clutched and himself pulled back, hard, rocking him on his pins.
"No!"
All of them stared in shock at General Wallant.
"You can do better than that, boys. This is no good," the man was saying, a wild expression in his eyes. "There's only rebs out there on that line so it's yells and musket fire and up! 'Cause never- not once, not now, not this one Pioneer Ridge," he spat out, making Barrett stare at him in shock, "are they ever gonna say that Wallant was stopped!"
And the bubble the men had been existing in for the last few days and hours suddenly burst, leaving a clear view of the mental wreck of the man they'd followed so zealously standing before them . . . crazed and unstable.
"So we take 'em- and then it's letters to your sweethearts and your wives and medals, boy! And whiskey from the officers' table," Wallant grinned, nodding at them, but not seeing filthy, trail-dusty cowboys in chaps and Stetson, but boys in blue wool uniforms, tired, weary but still ready to follow him to hell and back. "I always did that for you. You know that I did," he nodded, smiling indulgently.
Shocked and uneasy, as is always the case when in the presence of palpable insanity, the men exchanged glances and pulled away a little.
Wallant drew himself up and laughed. "So, we take 'em now, boys. And then . . . it's cheers." Raising his pistol, Wallant whirled and using the power of his long legs, crested the small ridge shouting, "Charge!"
In the shack, Nick was still grimly glancing back and forth out the door checking Schad's inert body on the front porch and out the window, watching for any sign of an advance, when he heard the "Charge!" Grimly raising his rifle, Nick readied himself and saw Wallant clear the ridge. If I can do this without killing anybody, he thought, that'd be best, but . . . Grimly, he brought his rifle up and drew a bead. And frowned. . .
Wallant came over the lip of the gulley, gun drawn and trotted slowly as though leading his men. . . but he was completely, and utterly, alone.
"Ten more yards, boys!" he called behind him, earnestly, urging them on. He could hear them behind him, heard them panting. . . heard their footfalls . . . heard their breathing as they trotted behind him . . . he could smell the reek of their intensity, fear and sweat and God knew what else, but they were with him . . . they were there, climbing Pioneer Ridge with him . . .
"That's all it is, just 10 more . . . " Suddenly confused, Wallant slowed . . . the terrain . . . it's all wrong. . . He blinked, shook his head, squeezing shut his eyes, and looked again. The line shack? . . . but . . . where were his boys?. . .
Slowly he turned and saw no one. Nothing. And further back, he saw the clump of nine men, standing exactly where he'd left them, including Brown, wincing in pain on the ground, wounded.
Wallant stood there, confused. What was happening? Where did they go? Where was he?
In the cabin, Nick lowered his rifle and slowly came to the door, glancing down at Schad, still out like a snuffed candle. He quickly stepped around him, kicking free the knife and grabbing the man's pistol, tucking it into his belt, and slowly advanced toward Wallant, stopping about ten yards back.
"General," he called, softly, to no response. A little more loudly, then tried again. "General Wallant!"
This time, the general lurched slightly, and slowly turned his head toward Nick.
"General," he said. "Give me the gun."
Wallant stared at Nick, seemingly unable to make thoughts and actions come together, shaking his head.
"Please," asked Nick, softly.
Wallant's haze seemed to clear slightly, and he turned abruptly.
In reflex, Nick aimed a shot a foot or so in front of the general's boots. And blanched. Empty. His rifle was empty. Grimly, Nick gripped the useless rifle in his hands, and stared into the eyes of his old idol. Damn.
Wallant's own eyes widened suddenly, and he glanced down at the gun in his hand, and suddenly brought it up toward Nick.
From out of nowhere, Wallant's gun hand flew as a bullet nicked it, blood spattering his clothes as the pistol was dropped.
Heath stepped around the side of the cabin, deliberately coming closer into Wallant's range, making his body block Nick's, his own gun down as though Wallant held no threat any longer.
. . . Every snake has two fangs . . . God, Nick, I'm trustin' you . . .
"It's over, General!" the boy yelled, walking steadily toward the man.
The men in the gulley watched in astonishment as a sixteen-year-old boy grimly advanced on the old warrior, determination and courage written all over his face, drawing the fire away from his seemingly disarmed older brother, until suddenly the General's left hand slipped into his boot and pulled out a small pistol . . . small, but with enough range to kill that kid. Several of the shell-shocked men start to move, bringing their own guns slowly, too slowly, up into range to protect him.
But before Wallant could bring the little pistol all the way up, Heath suddenly dropped like a stone, flat to the ground, there was a report of gunfire and the General was laid out, still as death. And standing there, just behind his brother's prone form, was Nick Barkley, arm extended and pistol in his hand, the useless, empty rifle on the ground.
Heath closed his eyes and breathed in relief, a tremor going through his body, as he slowly rose back to his feet. Boy howdy, but that was close. . . .
Cautiously now, Nick and Heath moved together toward the General's inert form, this time both of their guns drawn carefully on him. They watched as the ten men, including the wounded Brown, arms draped over two others' shoulders, came up to join them, standing over the body of the war hero . . . the man who'd saved Nick's life and that of countless others' . . . and who had completely lost his way.
Nick and Heath noticed Lillard had joined the group as well, now.
Barrett slowly stepped forward, looking at both Barkley brothers. "After we . . . well, we do what we gotta do here," he said, quietly, gesturing toward the General's body, "I figure we can still make the cattle up that grade. . . Mr. Barkley." This last was said, respectfully, to Nick, then turned, flushing beet red, but with an added nod of acknowledgement toward Heath. "Lillard just got back from scoutin' . . . and like you said, there's a fresh water lake up 'ere."
Heath nodded back, and glanced at his older brother, who stood tall, forbidding against the backdrop of the powder keg behind them . . . the 'coffin' that had turned out to be Wallant's own. The good ol' boy was gone. Nicholas Barkley had stepped into his power.
Slowly, Nick holstered his pistol, and nodded.
EPILOGUE
The Mansion, Barkley Ranch
"Not only water in that dry lake, but you oughta see the trout . . . the size of yer feet!' Heath, covered in trail dust, blue eyes wide, crowed to Tom as he chomped on an apple, using it to punctuate his comments.
"Well, no, not yours," he amended impudently, winking at Tom, and waving the apple at Nick. "His!" The prodigious boot size Nick wore was a family joke.
Audra and Gene laughed out loud, while Jarrod raised an amused eyebrow at Nick, who stood to the side with a tired grin, a cigar clamped between his teeth, listening to their younger brother.
Jarrod snorted. "Uh, is that with or without his boots on?" he asked, nodded toward Nick.
"Ha ha ha," Nick snorted, lighting his cigar. As he did, he noticed their father quietly stumping with his cane toward the verandah, his head down.
Both he and Heath had been so relieved that afternoon to see Tom up and around with a sturdy cane, if limping pretty badly. Still filthy and covered with most of the trail they'd ridden home over, the boys had been hailed like conquering heroes, dragged into the drawing room and, for once, allowed to sit, dirty as they were, on their mother's furniture. Perpetually hungry Heath had immediately snagged an apple, while Nick made a beeline for the humidor on their father's desk.
As Heath continued to entertain his brothers and sister with the story of the pain-in-the-neck steer that had fought them not only all the way down to San Diego, but even fought them trying to get him into the railcar the Army had waiting, Nick followed Tom to the verandah, to go talk to him, a little concerned.
But he was forestalled, by a gentle hand. Victoria, smiling up at him, patted his arm. "Let me," she suggested gently, and, understanding, Nick smiled and leaned down to kiss her.
"How about both of us, Duchess?" he acquiesced.
Victoria and Nick followed Tom outside, where he stood, puffing on his pipe. "You really shouldn't be up on that leg for so long," Victoria said gently.
"You going to be the one to put me to bed?" he smiled back at her, though not turning completely around. "If so, I might think about it."
"Oh, you behave! Not in front of Nick," she scolded, affectionately, smacking his arm. She came up beside him, listening to Heath share the story of the eight men it had taken to get that foolish beef into the railcar. "That's a mighty big cloud he's on in there," she said softly, smiling.
"He did a mighty big job," Nick replied, softly, gazing back at his animated kid brother, excitedly talking with their siblings.
Tom turned and gazed affectionately at his second born. "You both did."
Victoria stroked Nick's arm. "And burst a big bubble," she said gently.
Wincing a little, Nick sighed. "Yep."
Tom smiled at him. "Nick, there's always something tragic about a fallen idol because the tragedy, y'see, is that it makes us wonder how we could have been so wrong about them in the first place. Usually, there's a little bit of truth in that worship. The man did save your life, after all."
Nick nodded, but the flush on his face made it clear he still blamed himself for much of the mess that had occurred. Then he thought . . . really thought about what his father had just said, and looked at him, squarely. That's true of a lot of things, Father, he thought to himself, as he remembered how angry he'd been when news of Heath's existence, and his father's betrayal of his mother first surfaced. But Father was also right; there's a little bit of truth in that worship. Thomas Barkley was human, and flawed. . . but a powerful, intelligent, deeply loving and amazing man to be honored, none the less.
Victoria took a couple of steps closer to her son. "Worship idols, Nick. All do and must," she reasoned, a gentle hand on his chest, "but never, never believe their light is brighter than your own."
Tom drew in a deep breath and faced his son squarely. "Someday soon, Nick, this ranch will be yours," he said firmly. "Yours to rule. So will be the men, by your choice and your decisions. It's clear to me now . . . that time is closer than I thought, and changes need to be made. We're stronger together than with just one man at the helm." Tom reached out and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "And I'll tell you, son. . . I couldn't be prouder of you, truly."
Nick smiled then, truly smiled, and drew himself up a little straighter.
"Hey, Nick, what was the name of that saloon girl you met in San Diego?" Heath's voice rang out from the drawing room.
Nick's grin faded into a look of outrage. "Hey! That was supposed to stay between you and me!" he cried, turning and striding back into the drawing room, as Heath impishly winked at his siblings, and made an agile leap to keep the settee between himself and his approaching older brother.
Nick got some of his own back when he leaned over at his kid brother and hissed one word, audible only to Heath and himself: "Jubilee!"
Heath gulped a little, while Nick offered an evil little smile and nodded, smugly.
Tom grinned, shaking his head, as he watched his five children alternately squabbling and laughing and teasing each other.
"They're your legacy, Thomas Barkley."
Questioning, he turned and looked down at Victoria, a soft smile touching her lips as she gazed first at them, then up at her husband.
"Each one of them is part of you, shows a part of you that will live on forever . . . in themselves and then in their children. That legacy is so much more than just a ranch . . . It's a bloodline. . . an idea."
He contemplated them, and then looked down at her. "Well, now you're quite a doctor, aren't you?" he chuckled.
"Oh, I've cured an ego or two in my day," she smiled back, gently touching his arm.
". . . Fish as long as your foot. . . " Tom mused suddenly, making Victoria frown slightly.
"What?"
Tom turned, and called, "Heath!"
"Yes, sir?"
"How long did you say that fish was?" Tom asked, looking straight at Victoria with a burgeoning grin on his face, and hers quickly matching it.
"Boy, howdy, Father, I tell you," the boy responded eagerly, using his nearly finished apple core to run the length of hand to shoulder, "as long as your arm!" With a big, happy grin, he then turned back to his siblings.
"Cure that, Doctor," Tom smiled, leaning over and kissing his wife.
THE END
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