Maverick: Nick's Story BV 15 July 1876

Nick fidgeted in his seat at the California Cattlemen's Association meeting in Vallejo. The speaker was droning on and on about slaughterhouses and local regulations being considered in Sacramento and Washington, DC. A warm breeze came through the open windows.

"Oh good grief, how much longer can you keep talking? Just kill the cow. Get a damn butcher. I need a drink and a card game. Cattle prices up, sheep herding down, anthrax vaccine working, good snow melt on the horizon—what else can a rancher need?"

This was the first year that he attended in recent memory without Heath or Jarrod—-or his father.

Jarrod and his family had a trial in Sacramento; Heath was finishing up the order for army horses. He chuckled thinking of Jarrod's arrest and conviction, "I couldn't be prouder of Pappy. He's got some Nick in him i'ffn he admits it or not."

Jarrod's law career had booned among the middle class and working class since Modesto in March. He turned away clients. San Francisco's elite were still not calling but Sacramento's citizens had finally landed on the Barkley side of events since March. When Jarrod finished his 30-day sentence in April, he walked out to applause and a stack of letters from clients. Fred had carried out his misdemeanor incarceration with an open door policy and partial house arrest on weekends—Jarrod worked from his cell or the ranch. He kept up the ranch business and his clients by using Mark Bromley to plead in court. His fine was paid to the town clerk in gold. And a misdemeanor did not harm his law license,

—&—-

There had been a Barkley in attendance since its inception in 1852. (Fictional date. The formal foundation began in 1917 but groups met for years)

"I almost invited Brother Jack Darby to come. As mayor, he needs to know more about the cattle industry. 'Cept he would beat me at cards."

"First one of these I really remember—-I was fifteen. Father brought me up here after Jarrod went to college. "Time to learn the politicking side, son. You know the lay of the land, the cattle, even the banking part. Now gotta see what the blowhards and the working ranchers gotta do—-politick. Be careful where you step son, it gets real deep in here. Worse than a pasture."

"Father—-you left some mighty big boots to fill. Sometimes I wish I could hear ya bark orders or laugh with McColl—-play chess with Jarrod. I'd like ya to see the new pool table. You would best us all. That's the kinda man you were, bigger than life. Tom Barkley. You would shake your head at that big statue in town. Waste of money you'd say but I know ya, you would like lording over the town, you know you would. Oh little Audra ain't so little. No man is good enough for her, you'd agree. Gene takes after Jarrod, book smart. I take after you. Ranch smart. And mother. She gave me your room. You would hate all the flowery wallpaper she put up. Didn't feel like staying there after you left us. Didn't blame her. I still think I hear yore boots in there sometimes—Cept I know Heath wears them now. Only special occasions. Fit him perfect-like. Don't really like thinking about you and Heath's ma. Still don't set well with me at all. But Heath, he's my brother for sure. I would still like to knock you on your butt for hurting mother but Heath, he's well, what the ranch needed. Me, too."

Nick's thoughts were finally interrupted as the meeting adjourned. "Finally!" as his silver spurs jingled out the door.

He sat down at the round dining table with four friends from Modesto, San Jose, Farmington, and Lathrop. He heard stories of Jack and Zella. Matthias Finn was doing his job as head of the town council. Zella single-handedly ran out a new brothel madam who tried to set up shop. Tried to skirt the law calling it a gentleman's club. She hired her girls right from under her. And threatening to out church-going customers since she was a regular every Sunday, with or without Jack.

The steaks were thick and rare with juice. Homemade bread and baked beans were served with several pies. The conversation was loud and raucous as they told stories and compared the past year's experiences. They made plans to join the card games in the gaming parlor about ten pm.

Nick went out to enjoy a cigar and he walked around the town. He grabbed some newspapers from around the state to read before the gaming started.

He read the San Francisco paper cover to cover. He caught the name, Hester Converse in the society paper. He bit his bottom lip and waited for the pain to begin in his gut. He was pleasantly surprised that he only felt regret—-and some relief that he hadn't lost his brother over the trollop.

He skimmed the other papers and picked up the last one, San Diego Weekly Bulletin. The paper was three months frowned, "I paid good money for this."

His hazel eyes stopped on an obituary for Walter Davis. His heart stopped. He subconsciously rubbed his jaw.

Walter John Davis, 61, of San Diego county passed away February twenty-first, 1876 at his ranch. Mr. Davis was a leader in the cattle industry and breeding programs in the state. His family was an original settler in our county and was present at the Treaty of Cahuenga.

He was surrounded by his loving wife Nellie Jane and seven sons , Peter, Matthew, Paul, Jude, John, Joseph and James. And a daughter, Mary. He had six grandchildren. He was buried at his family cemetery.

He read the article over and over. His jaw still smarted in his head; he would remember that punch in the face for the rest of his life. The only time Tom Barkley ever doubled up his fist and hit him in anger. He had pulled out a strap when they were boys a few times but never in anger. Just loving discipline. But San Diego, that was man-to-man. He had the marks to prove it. And a shiner that even his mother questioned.

"Your mother never needs to know about this Nicholas. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir."

Years later, he realized that Heath had already been born in Strawberry. Did his father punch him in anger or shame or learned lessons? Or maybe a combination of all three?

—&—

The last time he saw Walter Davis was ten years ago in 1866, after the Cattlemen's Association meeting. It was his first meeting after the war—he was throwing all his memories and pain from the war into the ranch business. He, his father, and Walter traveled south to inspect breeding stock. Davis had bulls from Mexico and Tom had read up on Spanish breeding programs. He wanted to see them for himself.

It took two weeks by horse to end up in San Diego. They were tired and dusty from the trail when they rode up to the Spanish-style ranch hacienda.

"Nell? Nell? We are home." Walter bellowed through the house. A tall blonde boy about eighteen, lumbered down the hall, "Pa. Glad you are home! Ma is out at the foreman's cottage. Baby on the way."

"Hmpf. Where is Rosita? I brought guests."

"I will get her Pa."

"Peter, this is Mr. Tom Barkley and his son Nick. Get that housekeeper here! These men need some food, rest and clean up. So do I."

More stairstep boys made their appearance as Nick and Tom took a drink in the parlor.

An elderly Mexican houseman showed up, "Welcome Mr. Davis. Rosita went to help Mrs. Davis. There seems to be a bit of trouble getting the bambino here."

"Fine. Scrounge us up with some grub. My guests are hungry."

"Yes sir. Sorry, Barkley. My wife seems to think she is a servant to my workers. Stupid woman. We gots boys that needs looking after and she is out birthin' a baby. Just like her. My first wife wasn't so daft. Trying to earn her way into heaven, I say. Don't believe in all those things. Just me and my land and my sons. That's all that lasts,"

Nick snuck a look at his father. He could tell he was annoyed at the man. Victoria Barkley was the center of his father's world and he made sure his children knew how to treat a lady, their mother. They ran the ranch and their businesses with mutual respect. Nick knew his father often asked her opinion on deals and life.

"If anything ever happens to me, I expect you and Jarrod to take care of your mother."

The houseman showed them to the guest rooms and brought hot water up for a bath.

Tom could read Nick like a book.

"Son, we keep our noses to ourselves. How people live is their own business."

"But did ya hear how he talked about his wife? Downright mean-spirited."

"I did, Nick. And it's wrong. Don't ever treat your wife like a servant. He married real quick after his first wife died—-someone to raise all his boys. Good Lord says to love yore wife like Jesus loved the church. Gave up his life for it. She's the weaker vessel so you take care of her for as long as you live."

"Yes sir but—-"

"No buts," and he chuckled to lighten the mood, "Don't be telling your mama I called her weak."

Nick chuckled but was still disturbed by Walter's harsh tone. He had acted fine when it was just men. Changed his tune for his wife and servants.

They bathed and changed for supper quietly, deep in thought. Both already hating Walter Davis.

And Tom Barkley was dead the very next year—-and Victoria's sons honored their mother and remembered their raising.