He studied the men he was to fight with. Most of them were farmers armed with Springfields and Spencers, although he saw the odd shotgun and smoothbore among them, a few with side arms and no rifles. Once the fear and movement and dust got going, he thought most would be lucky to hit a horse let alone a rider.
The railroad men had already arrived. He saw the three from the fight in the general store off to the right; one of them smiled at him, touched the brim of his hat at him making the motion of a gun with his fingers, made it personal. The railroad men mostly wore side arms. Mounted, shooting side arms, these men too would be lucky to do much damage. Oh, men would die here today but this was no Chickamauga, unless it was allowed to go on for long enough for the able shooters on both sides to do serious harm. He figured it would be his job to make sure that didn't happen.
He saw Sample standing in the front of the men. He was vaguely aware of Nick telling some sort of humorous story beside him. What concerned him was Jarrod, Jarrod walking out with Sample, Jarrod talking to the sheriff. Jarrod was standing out there with Sample. Standing in the front the way officers stood. Everyone knew the first thing to do in a fight was kill the officers. Had he been fighting for the railroad, the first one he would kill was Sample and then Jarrod. He would need to fight for Jarrod. Nick was too far to his right, off Jarrod's sight line, he wouldn't know who was aiming at his brother. He figured Nick was there to kill railroad men, not defend his brother.
He could make this mark on his family before he left. He knew he could never be a part of this family, but he could do this thing for these brothers, so later when he remembered Jarrod speaking for him in front of the house and Nick defending him from Barrett, he would know he had done this thing for them. He had saved his sister and he could save his brothers. He could save Jarrod from the bullet meant for an officer out in front of the line and he could save Nick the guilt of not protecting his brother. He, Heath, could do this thing for his family.
The sheriff was giving his ultimatum and he looked over the men in front of him, picking his targets, choosing the men he would shoot by who was looking at Jarrod. He would like to have saved Sample as well, but he knew he couldn't save them both. He would have to save Jarrod and hope Sample had someone watching out for him as well.
Jarrod spoke his lawyer line, telling them to wait for the courthouse to open and the shooting began. He shot the two men closest to Jarrod first, hitting them each in the left shoulder, not wanting to kill anyone if he could avoid it. Then he shot his assailant from last night, knowing he could do Jarrod no good if he was dead, and since the man had made it personal, he knew he needed to get him gone.
Three down and someone was riding directly at Jarrod, gun blazing, trying to shoot from a moving horse with a handgun. He shot him in the shoulder; the man was an idiot but even an idiot, given enough ammunition, could get lucky. The next shot went for a man who had dismounted and was using his rifle kneeling, clearly not a fool and he now with only two shots left. One went for the man who had killed Sample and was now shooting at Jarrod. He had fired at Jarrod twice already but with the man's horse spinning, this was the first clear shot he'd had at him. His last shell took out the man who actually shot Jarrod. Having no time for a wounding shot he had to kill the man. He didn't think the man had even been aiming at Jarrod, been aiming at anything. Just bad luck that he'd hit his brother and had then died from the last round in his rifle.
He dropped the empty rifle, jumped down off the porch and grabbed the back of Jarrod's vest with his right hand and yanked him back behind a barrel. As he yanked him back, he grabbed Jarrod's handgun from the ground where he had dropped it when he was hit and shot another man who had dismounted and was actually aiming at them.
The pistol was a beautiful piece of workmanship. The barrel came up no more then a fraction of an inch when he fired. It was so perfectly balanced that once it was discharged, the weight of the barrel pulled the gun right back down to the point of aim. Must be one of those fancy English pistols, he decided. Maybe it could core an apple, falling from a tree, in a hurricane, but he thought, doing it at a half mile he'd for sure want a rifle.
He shot another man who was attempting to dismount and then it was over. The railroad men were leaving, quirting and spurring their horses and gone from the yard in a moment. A few of the farmers fired at their retreating backs, but he'd been in too many retreats to fire on a man's back for no good cause.
He set Jarrod's handgun on the barrel in front of the porch and went and picked up his rifle. He walked across toward the barn to a pile of wooden crates and sat down. After reloading his rifle with the shells he had stashed in his pocket earlier, he pulled out his makings.
He should have shot the man riding at Jarrod before he shot the man on the spinning horse. Unlikely that spinning man could have hit anything the way his horse was acting. He'd almost killed his brother. He watched the men they'd shot to make sure none of them were going to keep fighting after the battle was lost.
His hands were shaking too much to roll the quirley. His misjudgment had almost killed his beautiful lawyer brother. He'd never have any education. He'd never argue cases in court, save some innocent man's life with his clever words. But his brother could do those powerful things. His skill was with a rifle and a horse. His chance to do something fine had been to use his rifle, keep his brother alive and he had almost failed. Misjudged who to shoot. He stopped with the quirley, didn't want it anyway and sure wasn't going to get it made with his hands shaking.
Suddenly, right in his line of vision was a cigar. He looked up to meet his brother's blue eyes and a small smile. He dropped the unsuccessful quirley on the ground, took the proffered cigar and gave Jarrod a small half smile back, pleased to see him apparently only winged. Nodding his thanks, he watched him walk back over and join Nick. Then smiling to himself, he walked to the back of the house to call Gal. He didn't really like cigars, a bit too strong for his taste but this one he would savor.
Riding back toward the ranch, he tried to work out what to do. It was Sunday. No ditch digging today. As he forced himself to sit up straight in the saddle, against the pain in his stomach that wanted him hunched over, he feared there would be no work tomorrow either. He thought his time at the Barkleys was about done. He would stay tonight; see if he could work in the morning. For now it was a beautiful day and a Sunday, the best day of the week.
He surely loved a good Sunday. Used to be he and Mama went to church on Sundays. He hadn't gone to church since he left Strawberry nine years ago. Mama kept a special dress for church and tried to keep a good shirt for him to wear. But he grew so fast that some Sundays he had to wear that grey shirt from the mine. Washed and pressed to look as good as possible, but still dyed with the color of the earth he worked in, the dirt that could never be wholly washed out of his skin or his clothes.
The two of them would sit in the back of the church, careful to arrive with the last and leave with the first, careful not to call the attention of the minister or the parishioners down on their sinful heads. He'd sit in the back of the church and listen to the minister preach the evils of adultery and fornication and watch him point his finger at them. For a long while, he hadn't been able to figure out why being an adult was evil but he'd gotten it in the end. He knew it had to do with him having no father. Took him a while to figure out what was wrong, why he and Mama were among those cast out. But he'd figured it out. Once he left Strawberry, he could never find a reason to go to church again.
He surely loved his Lord but he had a harder time loving his enemies and praying for those who persecuted him. His mama had always said that was the true test of his Christianity, his ability to forgive and love. He surely did try, but he guessed he knew he purely didn't have the Christian spirit his mother had. He didn't want to go praying where he had to sit in the back of the church because his father didn't care enough to see he had a seat anywhere else. So on this Sunday, he would lay his tired stomach down by that river and have him a day of rest.
He spent most of the day sleeping. He knew he was running a fever now and tried again to clean the wound but just couldn't get it to the point when it wasn't oozing some puss along with the blood. He leaned back against his saddle and sighed tiredly. He was going to need a doctor for that hole and a dollar wasn't going to buy much doctoring. He knew the fever wasn't going to get any better with the wound seeping. The fever made it hard for him to think, but he decided he'd best head back into the hills again, see if he could wait the infection out. He knew he should be hungry, hadn't eaten anything since noon the previous day, but like all good fevers the first thing it took was his hunger.
Around 6:00, he knew he had to move or spend the night by the stream in fever dreams. He'd go back to the ranch, get his gear from the bunkhouse and then head back east toward the mountains. At least the high country would be warmer than the last time he was up there.
It was a struggle hauling himself out of the nest he'd made of his saddle and blanket but he got it done. Got good old Gal saddled and headed back toward the ranch. He spent the trip back thinking on his family. He was glad he had come to look. He had true memories of his brothers and sister now to take away. Perhaps they weren't as heroic as his childhood imaginings, but they had a reality that he thought would last him a good while.
It was coming up to dusk when he rode through the ranch yard and out back to the bunkhouse. Most of the hands were sitting on the porch, enjoying the last of their day off, smoking and yarning, their hands busy mending gear and clothes for the next week's work. Heath nodded generally to the group and went inside for his saddlebags and bedroll. Coming back out, he wasn't surprised to be braced by Barrett.
"So pulling out. Can't take a little hard work?" It wasn't so much what Barrett said, he thought, it was the sneer, the strut, the standing too close when he spoke that rubbed a man wrong.
"Yup," he agreed. No reason to fight with the man now he was going. He stepped around him headed toward his horse only to have Barrett step in front of him again his face a bare five inches away.