In the end he hadn't really had any choice about the shirt. His blue shirt had the hole mended in the left side of it. Mrs. Morton had tried to match the fabric, but the patch was the blue the shirt had been two years ago. It was now, where it was any of its original color, faded almost to white. The fight with the girl had half torn the chest pocket off, but the worst of it was the dark brown stain from the blood all over the front of it, now further heightened by grass stains all down the one side. He stopped and pulled out his good shirt from the saddlebag. It was wrinkled from the washing in the river but it was clean, had all its buttons and only the one small hole mended in the sleeve. He carefully folded the blue shirt and put it in the saddlebag. He could mend the pocket. It would still make a good work shirt, but he didn't need to be showing that bloodstain around while he was looking for work.
He'd seen houses like this in Tennessee, Mississippi. He didn't know there were any in California. He'd seen big Spanish haciendas in the south of California, but he didn't know there were any of the big plantation houses in California. He rode Gal right up to the front porch, wanting to get a good look at the house. It was grand. Big white pillars all along the front porch, great huge windows, the whole thing two floors high with big windows all around it.
He felt proud. When he'd seen the train, he'd been angry. Angry that old man had so much money he could buy a train but couldn't share enough of his gold to keep them from freezing in the winter.
But this was different. He'd been in a house like this once when he was delivering dispatches for the Colonel to General Woods. But grand as that house was, it wasn't as fancy as this one with its trees and flowers. This was probably the grandest house in California and his family owned it. A man couldn't help but feel a bit of pride in that. He sat Gal about ten feet from that big front porch, just studying on the house. No wonder that girl thought she was a fancy lady out of some book. She maybe was, coming from a place like this.
Movement caught his eye so he looked down from his admiration of all those fancy windows and wondering how they kept them all so clean looking? Two men were walking around from the back of the house on that fancy front verandah. He took off his hat and leaned forward slightly, balancing his weight on the horn of his saddle as he looked at the big dark rancher from the bridge.
"Small world, ain't it?" He greeted the man offering him a small smile in remembrance of the bantering of the morning.
So this was his brother, had to be, walking so proud down the verandah of that fancy house. He didn't know if he was more amazed at the brother part of it or the sheer magnitude of the gap between his world and this world. The wonder of what it must be to be a Barkley, a real Barkley, not a forgotten bastard abandoned in some godforsaken mining town so far into the Sierras no one ever heard of it. What must it be to be a Barkley with this house, that fancy English pistol, that rich father?
"Something for you?" He even sounded rich. Standing there so proud of all he had, his head up high so he could try and look down his nose at him, up above in the saddle. Hard to look down your nose at a man three feet above your head, but he figured the big rancher had managed. Must be the result of a lifetime of being better than everyone around you.
"Mr. Barkley, if you know where I can find him?"
"Take your choice."
He looked at them, at the two of them looking so clean and proud in their fancy clothes on their fancy porch, and almost shook his head with the wonder of it. He wanted to just sit and stare until he could remember their faces clearly.
"Well, I was told Nick did the hiring." He was glad he had come. When he first saw the fancy house, he was amazed, but that was nothing to the fancy brothers. They were so happy to be there, hands on each other's shoulders, so proud.
"Of what?" The big rancher all but sneered at him, the supplicant come begging work at his fancy house.
He gave him a small half smile. Well, maybe his father hadn't left him some fancy ranch or a big house with pillars but he had plenty of pride too.
"Well, line boss, hay waddy, hasher, cow prod, jingler. You name. I've done it." When you're not born with a fancy house and a rich father who bothers to take care of you, then you get to do plenty. He stared into that rich rancher's eyes, those rich brother eyes and waited for him to sneer again.
"What's your name?" He turned his eyes toward this other brother. This would be the lawyer brother, Jarrod, all fancy in his suit. Who wore his suit in the middle of the day on his own front porch? He bet the man had more then one suit. Bet he had a whole house full of suits, suddenly conscious that he was wearing his last shirt. He sure was glad he hadn't worn that bloody, torn, faded blue shirt where these men, these brothers, could see his poverty.
The very richness that he had wondered at a few moments before began to turn in his stomach. He blinked his eyes a couple of times to settle his anger. He'd learned a long time ago to manage his rage. He saved it up for when he needed it. A man couldn't go through life just letting his rage loose every time it felt like going. He had to save it for when he needed it, like when he's bleeding to death on the side of the trail and needs a good head of anger to get on his horse. A man didn't waste his anger where it would do no one any good. He sure didn't waste it on rich kin who didn't even know he existed.
"Heath," he told him simply, the rest of it being no business of theirs. He answered all their questions without telling them anything, none of their concern where he was from or where he'd been. They wanted to know about his life, the time to ask was twenty years ago. Now his life was no concern of theirs.
The big rancher didn't want him. That surprised him a bit. He thought the big man had enjoyed the sparring on the bridge as much as he had. Guessed he didn't like that they had fallen into the same river. Didn't like that he hadn't gotten to shoot him dead with his fancy English pistol. Didn't like that he hadn't won the face-off on the bridge. He bet this big rancher wasn't used to not winning.
In the end, his older brother Jarrod had spoken for him. Told Nick to hire him. Had spoken right up for him like he knew they were brothers. Gave him a warm feeling and he nodded his thanks to the man when Nick finally relented and told him he was hired. He touched the brim of his hat to the two men, nodded to Jarrod and turned Gal away from the fancy house to ride around back to where the hired help lived.