It was late afternoon when he rode out of the warm valley sunshine, summer down here already in May, and into the shade of a stand of mature white pines. He stepped down off Gal and led her slowly through the big trees as he admired their tall straight trunks and enjoyed the break from the heat and sun. Normally, he liked the heat. He enjoyed the feel of the heat on his muscles as he worked, the heat of the sun and the heat of the work building the sweat on his back and chest. He surely liked that better than the perpetual cold and dark of the work underground, where a man could work all day and never feel the real heat of his labor. But this was the first warm day of the season and he felt the heat in his head, made him dizzy and tired. He supposed it was the sleeping half the afternoon away had made him lazy.

At the edge of the clearing, he found a single grave, surrounded by a little picket fence so low it wouldn't keep out a rabbit. He surely couldn't see the purpose of that fence. It was planted all around with flowers, most of them eaten by the rabbits that the fence had done nothing to prevent. Pure foolishness, he thought as he walked over to look at the stone on the grave.

Well, Boy Howdy, he thought, the big man himself. Thomas Barkley 1813-1869 buried here behind a fence couldn't even keep squirrels from tramping on his flowers. He stood and looked at the big marble stone at the head of the grave. Sorry he decided on the whole that he had never gotten to at least see the man. To see what had made his mother act so foolishly that it had ruined her life and made his.

He guessed it was either being so surprised to find the old man buried here in the middle of the range, far from the fancy cemetery he had expected, or else it was the ache in his head that hadn't stopped since the bridge came down with him, but he never heard the horse come up behind him. First thing he knew, someone was beating him about the head, the sore, achy head. He reached up toward the blows, grabbed an arm and ducked back and pulled his assailant over his head.

One thing you learned fast in the infantry was how to deal with mounted attackers. If you couldn't unhorse the other man first he killed you. Was just a plain question of weight. With the weight of the horse and the height of the horse, a mounted man would win every time if you couldn't get him on the ground.

He'd begun his schooling on fighting when he was six and then later he'd had the advantage of three years of serious schooling on killing, on killing on foot, on horse back, in wagons, in ditches and behind stonewalls. He figured most of his life had been spent learning to either fight or kill. The staying alive part was just a gift he had. He'd seen plenty of men, better fighters than him, dead from bad luck while he lived. So all and all, he thought his gift was staying alive and his skill was fighting and killing. He was good with horses and knew a fair amount about cattle but he considered himself an expert on killing folk, up close and at a distance.

He'd learned the hard way - if a man attacks you, attack back harder; a man hits you, hit him back harder. Wasn't a hard lesson to learn, not always easy to apply but easily learned. So when the horseman hit him on the head, he pulled hard, turned under the weight and threw himself down on top of the body, ready to do some serious damage.

Only trouble was he'd never had a girl attack him before. Didn't quite know what he was supposed to do. She had some sort of little whip thing in her hand. He hung on to her wrist to keep her from hitting him with her whip while getting as far from her as he could, because a girl who went around on a big horse hitting strangers, was for sure some kind of trouble.

He pushed himself as far away as he could while keeping a hold of the wrist of her whip hand to make sure she didn't come at him again while he wrapped his other arm around his sore middle. He guessed between train races, bridge crashes and wrestling girls, he should have spent another week in the Sierras before riding down to civilization. He caught his breath with some difficulty, and said "For the love of…"

"Get off of me."

Not bothering to point out to her that he was already as far away as he could get he said, "A cat. A blond-haired…" The awful truth of it slowly dawned on him. Thomas Barkley's grave, a blond, blue-eyed girl, a sister. He looked at her with amazement.

"Off me." She sure was angry, almost spitting, just like a cat.

"Blue-eyed," his mama had green eyes. Rachel and Hannah had brown eyes. She had blue eyes and blond hair the same as he did. A sister. He was silent, almost overcome with the wonder of it.

"I'll feed you to the wolves. I'll cream you! You're hurting." She was clawed at his hand with her free hand, not making much progress, her gloves saved him from any damage from her nails, 'cause he was sure, like a cat, she would have claws.

"Drop it." Sister or not, no one whipped him with a little whip or a big whip, could he help it. She opened her hand and he took the little thing and threw it off into the woods. Nasty little thing, no good except to pain a man or a horse.

"I planted those flowers."

"So?"

"You were tramping on them. I saw you. Who are you?" He wanted to ask her if she had built the stupid little fence. He knew there was no point in telling her he hadn't trampled the flowers. He knew a 'What do you want here, boy?' conversation when he heard one. She wanted him gone. Him not good enough to even walk on the same earth as her father's grave.

"I was about to ask you the same thing." He couldn't let it go. He was still caught in the wonder of this sister. He wanted to listen to her talk. Watch the play of the sun and shadows on her long blond hair. Now that she wasn't so angry, her eyes were lighter and her face even prettier. He guessed she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. He wanted to touch her hair. He wanted her to smile at him. Say, "Hello, how are you," as impossible as that would be. But he would be satisfied if he could just get her to talk for a little while.

"I don't have to tell you that." She stood up, walked over and picked up her little whip thing. He began to think that the man on the bridge, dark as he'd been, was indeed her brother. The arrogance, the confidence, the walk down the middle of the sidewalk and twitch your skirts away from the little bastard were the same. Made him pretty sure why they'd never seen the great Thomas Barkley in Strawberry looking for his little bastard son. Not these high and mighty people. People like this didn't have little bastards in mining towns. God, he bet their dogs didn't even get bred out of season.

"No, ma'am, I guess you don't." He stood up as well, brushed the dirt from his britches and looked at the tear in the pocket of his shirt. He'd have to make this shirt into rags pretty soon the rate it was going. Make his best shirt his work shirt and just have nothing for getting buried in. Just take his chances to stay alive long enough to earn enough money to buy a shirt for dying in.

"Audra Barkley."

"Then…" Yup, then indeed he thought. He wanted to ask her if the big, black haired, arrogant man was her brother but couldn't think of any way to make that come out right.

"He was my father." Bet she always knew that. Bet he came home every night after riding on his train and told this little girl she was his daughter. He almost laughed, she was so proud of her father.

"Well, then I am sorry." He was sorry too. Sorry for her that her father was dead. Sorry for him that the father she loved so much was the one he hated. Sorry for, he wasn't even sure what. But suddenly he felt such a sorrow about the whole miserable thing, he just wanted to ride away.

"What are you doing her anyway? Who are you? You're not from around here?" Might have asked first and hit later, he thought and glanced at her little whip again.

"I was on my way to your place, looking for work. I got fouled up in the woods there and ran across this grave. It's not a likely place for a grave," or at least for a grave for the high and mighty Thomas Barkley, rancher, miner and fornicator. Trees worked to mark his mama's cemetery but he figured Thomas Barkley for fancy wrought iron gates and stonewalls.

"He died here. It's where they shot him. A thousand people came from the valley to bury him. He was that kind of man."

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"I mean I know what it's like to be without your father." He'd had enough of her. Of her pride and arrogance. He just wanted away from her now. He wanted time to think this through, this sister thing. He looked at her again and tried to make a memory of her face. "If you tell me the way, I'll be off."

"There's a trail about 10 yards off in the woods. It'll take you to the road leading up to the ranch." She pointed off into the woods the way he'dd come. He nodded and mounted Gal, looked at her again. He wondered if she would be as beautiful if she'd been washing miners clothes from the time she was six, if she'd been emptying chamber pots in the early morning hours wearing a dress two sizes too small for her. "Hey, see my brother Nick. He does the hiring."

He looked at her considered for a moment, done talking now. Wondered where all his words had come from.

See my brother Nick. Well, thank you, fair lady, for all your condescension. He was reminded of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Miss Rachel's Pride and Prejudice, so kind to the poor relatives so long as they remembered their place. He does the hiring. He sighed and gave her a half smile. "I'll do that." Then he touched the brim of his battered hat and turned Gal away.

He jogged for a few hundred yards and then pulled Gal back down to a walk. He needed to do some thinking on where he was going next. Did he ride north from here and head back up to the Klamath or south to the Barkley Ranch and get an eye full of his 'family'?