Tom Barkley was buried on a shady knoll near the eastern edge of his property. The lot had been one of his first purchases outside the original homestead, and he'd remarked on the beauty of the place more than once. He'd never expressed any wishes regarding his funeral or burial. He wasn't the sort of man who had any fear of death, or had any particular belief that it would truly catch up with him. Since the shooting on Apple Hill it had become more important to Victoria to hear her husband's views on the matter, but it had been that much more difficult to approach him. She had mentioned the site to the children, and they'd each agreed. Of course there was a proper cemetery in town, but each of them resisted the idea, preferring his grave to be private, and on his own land.

It was a still, hot day. In a rote sort of way she noted the sheer number of people, first in and around the church and, more impressively, the number who made their way out to the burial site. It was a hot day, and a weekday, and the trip was no small sacrifice. Wonderful, in a way, to realize how highly people had thought of him. He hadn't been a particularly warm man, or an outgoing one. People did not travel miles in black clothes on a hot summer day because they'd shared a companionable drink or a hand of cards with the man.

They came because he had been a man of rare dedication and drive. A man of true confidence, who, once resolved, never wavered. A man whose quiet confidence fed others'. He had not engaged in the sorts of derring-do that were already clogging the pages of novels about the wild west. But he had come west, when it was still a foreign and unsettled country, and from sheer perserverance had carved out a fortune. In making that fortune he had made a name, too, and it was a name to be borne proudly.

A balm for the children, she thought, to know how highly others thought of Tom Barkley.

As for her--well, her feelings were deeply divided. He had been her husband for more than thirty years. She had trusted him through fire and flood and drought and death. There had been times when the trust had thinned and weakened, but it had never snapped. He had made big promises to her and he had kept them.

He had always been more to her, more even than husband or lover or friend. She had lost her father early, and the man she remembered had been charming but more than a little feckless, scarcely freeing himself from the wreckage of one failed venture before launching himself on the next. Tom Barkley had been young, only a few years older than she, but he'd had a weight and a solidness and a surety that her own father had never possessed. Tom Barkley had been a life raft. She'd grasped it; and though she was frequently tossed, she never lost her belief that the raft would come safely to shore.

Now he was gone, and he had taken her faith with him.

Once she had wondered, and feared the worst. He'd always told her her suspicions were groundless. Eventually she'd believed him. Now, though, she knew. He would not have been in that alley unless he believed that man was his son. And he could not have believed unless...

Nick might be right: the whole mess might have been a clever plot dreamed up by James Ledyard or Hannibal Jordan or the young man himself. But it must have had some root in fact. Tom Barkley wasn't the type to waste his time denying baseless rumors. Only one thing could have drawn him to that alley.

She looked at her children. Jarrod, looking far calmer and more reserved than the others. He was the most like her, the least like his father: of course he would show that grave but placid face to the world. He was the brightest of the three, and the one least blinded by admiration of his father. Clever Jarrod. Clever Jarrod, who probably was already wondering.

Audra, the youngest, the one child who could draw from Tom an open gesture of affection or amusement. His pet. Audra, who was poorly prepared for the harsh realities of the world, and had just lost the one man whose protection she would have accepted. For Audra the future had suddenly turned rocky and dangerous. Did she even suspect the strange ways losing her father would change her life?

Nick. Nick, who tried so hard, who wanted so desperately to be the man his father was. A pointless exercise. Nick, who was already such a good man, but so burdened by the weight of an image. The evils of idolatry. The truth about his father might set him free, smashing the idol and allowing Nick to find his own way. Or it might destroy him.

And the other one. There was another child of Tom Barkley's in this world, and all too likely to soon join his father in the next. Did a lifetime's rejection justify murder? In his jail cell did that man feel rage? Or remorse? Or nothing?

Was it possible, she wondered. Was it possible that a son of her husband's could be a cold-blooded murder? If her husband had wilfully ignored this child for twenty-odd years--what coldness, what selfishness had lurked in the man she knew? What else might he have passed on to his children?

How much easier it would be to forget all of these thoughts. Accept the surface explanation: a great man cut down in a ruthless business dispute. Accept the condolences and the admiration. Keep her children safe. But she knew it could not be. Suspicion was already tainting grief, even for Nick and Audra. They had to have the truth, however ugly it was.

At least she had to have the truth.

No one came back to the house with them. It was the custom to put on a spread for a funeral, but Victoria had been repulsed at the idea of strangers or near strangers wandering through her house, eating her food, intruding on her privacy. They had so little privacy left; when this was over they would perhaps have none. Her deepest impulse was to keep her house sacrosanct.

Once there she took charge. "Jarrod," she said, "we need to find out what really happened on Sunday night."

Nick said, "Mother, we already know."

"No, Nick, we don't. You may be right, but we don't know."

"Mother," Jarrod said gently, "let the law sort it out."

"The law," she said sharply, "has a man in jail and won't stir itself beyond that. Jarrod, I don't want a trial or a jury verdict. I want the truth."

"Are you sure?" Jarrod asked.

"Yes, I'm sure." Her dark eyes met his blue ones squarely. His father's eyes, her expression. Oh, forgive me, she thought suddenly. Forgive us. We did not mean to hurt you, any of you.

"All right," Jarrod said. "I'll start with Lyman and see if he's learned anything else."

"I'm going with you," Nick said.

"Nick, I don't think--"

"Yes, I know what you don't think," Nick said hotly. "You don't think I can be trusted with anything that requires discretion--or even thought. Well, damn it, Jarrod, he was my father too." Unspoken were the words: this can't be left to your reason. Someone has to stand up for Father.

Jarrod sighed. So impossible to fight Nick. "All right," he said. "But, remember, Nick, we're not judge and jury."

"Yet," Nick said grimly.

Heath had drifted in and out of consciousness those two days. In his more lucid moments he'd gotten it from the sheriff that he was being held for murder--Tom Barkley's murder. At first that night was a frightening blank. Then fragments of memory returned to him. Stepping into that alley. The strange look on his father's face. And then--then the fear and those shiny black boots. The last time he'd seen those boots they'd been festooned with jinglebobs and cutting spurs, but he recognized them well enough.

Yes, he figured out pretty much what had happened. Something had obviously gone wrong, since he was alive and the old man was dead. Or maybe they'd wanted the old man dead, too.

But it didn't matter. If they couldn't kill him in an alley they'd kill him with a rope. He'd learned, again, in San Francisco that the law had no interest in folks like him. It lived to serve the Barkleys and their ilk, to make sure nothing came along to disturb or embarrass them. To make sure anyone who dared threaten their big-white-house comfortable ways got his comeuppance.

They were his family. Yet in this jail cell, sick and sliding into despair, he believed they had tried to kill him, and he believed they'd use all the legal machinery at their disposal to finish the job. And then they would go out and spit in the teeth of the railroad, who couldn't really hurt them, and folks would call them heros.

When the sheriff or the deputy brought in food he just pushed it away. Even if he had an appetite, even if he could choke something down and keep it there, what did it matter? He'd trespassed, ventured into places he didn't belong, and he was going to pay the price. Nothing could stop that.

Frank Sawyer reached Stockton late in the afternoon of Tom Barkley's funeral. He found the town strangely idle and anxious. Not knowing about the funeral, or the combustable situation, he was puzzled by the town. But he found the sheriff's office soon enough.

Lyman had gone to the funeral, but he'd decided against going to the burial. The sight of Crown in the church had reawakened all his fears about a mob hanging. He decided he was more needed in town. Strange, though, to exchange bidding farewell to a fine fellow like Tom Barkley for keeping an eye on a fellow whose neck was likely to be stretched. Course, Lyman reminded himself, it did matter who did the stretching, and when. So he was in his office, looking at ease, but actually on his toes.

Frank found two men, one young, one middle-aged, in the well-kept office. "I'm Frank Sawyer," he said. "Looking for Sheriff Lyman."

The middle-aged one rose, a clear look of surprise on his face. "I'm Harry Lyman," he said, extending a hand. "Pleased to meet you. Begging your pardon, sheriff, but how the hell did you get here? Spanish Camp must be five hundred miles or more."

"Not in Spanish Camp these days. Took up Jubilee a year or so ago." Frank gestured toward the pot. "Mind if I take a cup?"

"No, not at all. Fact, it's a pleasure to meet you, Sawyer. That was some nice work you did a few years ago, picking up those Simpson brothers."

"You think so?" Frank raised an eyebrow. "That fella you got back there, he did most of the work."

Lyman's shock was evident. "That Heath fellow? He was your deputy?"

"He was. Best damned deputy I ever had." Frank took a long drink. "So you'll excuse me saying you've made an awful bad mistake here."

Lyman shook his head slowly. "I don't reckon so, Sawyer. Situation was pretty darned clear." Lyman rubbed his chin. "Though I'm not really easy in my mind on this one. Just have the feeling more's going on than anyone's told me about."

"I reckon," Frank said grimly. "Can I see him?"

"Sure thing, sheriff. Right through there."

If he hadn't known in advance it was Heath, he wouldn't have recognized him. The clean white linen bandage wasn't clean anymore. The whole face varied from black to purple, with the left eye swollen completely shut and the right eye only half-opened. The shirt was too small and his pants were both muddy and blood-stained. Two full trays of food lay on the floor.

But apparently the one half-opened eye still worked. "Frank?" Heath said, his voice a little faint but obviously surprised.

"Yeah, it's me."

Heath frowned. "Is it a week already? Spanish Camp..."

"No, it's only a few days. I ain't in Spanish Camp, don't you remember?" Frank squatted by Heath, trying to get a better fix on how clear the boy was. From the looks of it, he wouldn't be much help. "This is a hell of a fix you're in, son. They say you did murder."

"I didn't," Heath said.

"I didn't think you did. But that sheriff out there seems to think he's got you dead to rights. What on earth were you doing in an alley with Tom Barkley?"

Heath swallowed. He was so relieved to see Frank. Hard to remember the other stuff. Finally it came to him. "He's my father."

That knocked Frank back. "What--are you sure about that?"

Heath nodded slowly. "Mama--mama told me." He fixed on Frank more clearly. "Mama's dead, Frank. Mama died...I can't quite remember when. That's why I come here."

Frank whistled, long and low. "Well, that changes a few things. I don't think that sheriff knows that, son. You tell him that?"

"Didn't ask."

"All right," Frank said. "You say he's your father. Even so, it's a damned funny place to meet. Why there?"

"I don't know," Heath said. "Ambush. It was an ambush."

"An ambush? Someone's after Tom Barkley and he got you instead?"

"No," Heath said with sudden intensity. "It's me, Frank. They want me dead."

"Who, Heath? Who on earth wants you dead?"

"The Barkleys," he rasped. "They want me dead, Frank, and they're gonna get it."

Frank was about to contradict Heath, and then he stopped. Was it so crazy? Heath didn't seem all that level right now; it could have been fever or injury talking. Frank hadn't ever had any dealings with the Barkleys, but he recognized the name, knew the old man had a reputation for square dealing.

The Heath he'd known three years ago in Spanish Camp had been basically a good young man, but he'd had his moments of temper and impulsiveness. His illegitimacy had been a raw wound that led to unpredictable outbursts. The boy had taken a bad knock in Spanish Camp, losing that girl, and Frank had the sense that the years since then had not gone easy with the boy. Uneasily, Frank thought: this is the one situation that might bring him to murder. Coolly, he asked, "What makes you think they want to kill you?"

"He was there," Heath said. "Nick. One of em. He was there." Heath caught hold of Frank's arm. "I didn't have no gun there, Frank. Didn't take my gun. How'd I kill somebody?"

"Hold on there," Frank said gently. "Well, if that's true, this should be easy enough to sort out. Where's your gear, son?"

"Hotel," Heath said vaguely. His passionate outburst had drained him, and he was drifting away.

Frank realized, sore with disappointment, that Heath wasn't going to be any more help. The one lid had slid downward, and the only sound in the cell was raspy breath. Frank took a peak under the bandage. The wound was swollen and raw-looking and the skin around it was terribly warm to the touch. He stood up, suddenly doubting that Heath would even live long enough to make it to the gallows.

Back out in the sheriff's office, he said roughly, "That boy needs tending."

Sheriff Lyman said mildly, "We had the doctor put him back together Sunday night. I suppose I could have him come by tonight or tomorrow."

Frank made an impatient noise. "He needs regular tending."

"Well," Lyman said, "I don't rightly know where he could get that. We don't have an infirmary round here. And as far as I know he don't have any kin around. Or does he?"

Frank hesitated, then said, "No one around to take him in, no."

Lyman noted the odd phrasing, but ignored it for now. "In any case," he said, "he's been charged with first degree murder. Don't like him having out of a cell. Besides, he may have an accomplice."

"An accomplice?"

"James Ledyard was in town. Left right around the time of the shooting." Carefully, he added, "The Barkleys seem to think this fellow of yours was working for Ledyard."

Frank snorted. Now he knew this was nonsense. Heath might have had a few bad years. He might have been angry enough to lay hands on the old man. But working for a killer and a mercenary like Ledyard? Impossible. Folks didn't change that much. "There's no way in hell he was working for Ledyard. Besides, sheriff, I don't reckon that boy's in any shape to run off."

Lyman had to agree with that. He'd noticed his prisoner hadn't been eating, and he did seem worse today than yesterday. "Well," he said at last, "I reckon we could ask Doc Merar. Mrs. Merar's youngest is grown up and married now. I suppose she could do a little tending." But then he grew sterner. "Of course she might not like having a murderer under her roof."

"He ain't a murderer," Frank said sharply. "And I'll vouch for him. I'll give you my damned star for a bond." More quietly, he said, "I know the boy. Sheriff--" He swallowed. "I don't know what's gonna happen. But I'd hate to see the boy die in jail. And I think it'll come to that."

Lyman hesitated. Of course the star meant nothing; the folks of Jubilee, not Harry Lyman, would decide if Frank Sawyer kept him job. But the offer impressed him just the same. "All right. Steve, you run down and see if Mrs. Merar would mind taking this fella in and looking after him for a few days."

While they waited for Steve to return, Frank said, "You said earlier you're not all that comfortable with this mess."

Lyman shrugged. "I didn't say I think your friend's innocent, Sawyer. Just--well, just a few details not tied up."

"How long you been a sheriff, Lyman?"

"Seven years. Five as a deputy before."

"Then you know your instinct's probably right. After we get him settled at Merar's I'd like you to show me around--show me what you know so far."

Lyman grinned. "I doubt the prosecuting attorney's gonna like that one bit."

Frank grinned a little in return. "All the better. But still, I might save you the trouble of a trial and an embarrassing acquittal. Tell that attorney feller that."

Steve came back. "Believe it or not, Miz Merar said yes. Doc wasn't in, so I don't know if he'll cotton to the idea."

"Obviously you ain't never been married," Frank said dryly. "If the missus says yes, it's yes."

Heath needed to lean heavily on Frank, and it was slow going. He felt little on being released from jail, even temporarily; he was past feeling much of anything. He was glad Frank was there, but he was already cloudy as to why.

Accompanied by Sheriff Lyman, they were just out the door when Nick Barkley hurried over, followed by Jarrod. "Harry," Nick snapped, "what the hell is going on here? You ain't letting this--this snake go, are you?"

"No, Nick, of course not," Lyman said. "But you can see the fella's in pretty poor shape. Mrs. Merar's offered to look after him til he's come around a little better."

"He's charged with murder!" Nick exploded. "For God's sake, Harry, he's a hired assassin and he works for James Ledyard. You can't leave him out of a cell. He'll be gone before you know it!"

"He ain't going nowhere," Sawyer said.

"You stay out of this," Nick said heatedly. "This man killed--murdered my father. This is none of your business." He turned to Harry. "Maybe he's just faking it, waiting for an opportunity to escape. And even if he can't on his own--who's to say Ledyard won't come bust him out?"

"He ain't working for Ledyard," Sawyer said.

"Damn you, I told you to stay out of this. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Frank Sawyer." He paused to let the name sink in. To judge by their faces it did.

Jarrod asked quietly, "We recognize the name, Sheriff. But I don't understand what you're doing here, or what gives you the right to intervene. This man is charged with a serious crime. Letting him free, even for medical care, is quite irregular."

Frank looked them over. So these were the Barkleys. These were the men Heath himself believed had conspired to kill him--and perhaps kill their father as well. Well, the older one was a cool enough customer, to be sure. But the big one--any man with a lick of sense could tell there wasn't a devious bone in his body. He might have called Heath out and shot him down in broad daylight, but a midnight ambush in an alley? Never.

Still, Frank thought, they ain't being over generous with the truth. "This boy used to be my deputy down in Spanish Camp." Again he saw the surprise on their faces. "I know him pretty damned well, and he ain't no murderer. In any case, it ain't right to just toss him in a cell and let him die for want of care. You wouldn't do that to a dog."

Much less your brother. The words were unsaid, but Jarrod met the narrowed eyes of Frank Sawyer and knew those words were in Sawyer's mind. So he knew, too.

"So the doctor can come to him," Nick said. He'd missed the exchange between Sawyer and Jarrod. "You can't just turn a murderer loose."

Lyman pushed back his hat, sighed. There was right on both sides. But Nick was more right: what if Ledyard did try to come rescue this fella? Alice Merar wouldn't be much of a barrier. "I think you're right, Nick." He turned back to Sawyer. "I'm sorry, but I think he'd best go back to jail."

Frank's jaw tightened, but he kept his temper. He looked from Nick to Harry. "Well," he drawled, "it's good to know who really wears the star in this town." Before Harry could make a rejoinder, Frank turned, with some difficulty, and led Heath back into the sheriff's office.

Jarrod watched them go. What he felt was a strange sense of shame. That man, in his ill-fitting shirt and his blood-stained pants, was his brother. He knew it. Since he'd first heard the man's story he'd wondered; now, somehow, he knew it was true. There was no good reason, for the man's face was bruised and darkened beyond the recognition of any resemblance. Yet he knew it, knew it with the same certainty that he knew his kinship to Nick or even his own name.

His thought was the same as Victoria's. His father would not have come to that alley unless he knew there was at least a possibility that Heath was his son. Had it been a blatant lie, had there been no possibility, Tom Barkley would have merely shrugged and gone about his business. For all his faults he'd been a man who little cared for the opinion of most folk. Rumors had never bothered him.

What a horror, Jarrod thought. When Heath had pulled the trigger, had he truly believed he was killing his own father? He must have. What must that have felt like? What ancient angers were being unleashed in that alley? What might they have said to each other? Perhaps Heath's amnesia was a mercy. Jarrod couldn't imagine waking to the knowledge that you were a cold-blooded parricide.

And worse: he himself might have prevented it. What might have happened if he'd gotten his father that night, if his father had had to face Heath in his own home, in front of his own sons? To think there might have been some conclusion short of murder...

Nick said, "We'd better keep an eye on that sheriff."

Jarrod said, "You do it." He turned and began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Nick called to him.

"Strawberry," Jarrod said. He knew in his bones that Heath was his brother, but he would go to Strawberry and see if any evidence remained togive the lie to his intuition.

After getting Heath back to the cell, Frank came out with a sense of urgency. This had to be cleared up, now, or it might be too late. He said, "Heath says he didn't take a gun to that alley. Did you find one?"

"Of course," Harry replied, nettled. He was still stinging from the accusation that the Barkleys, not him, were the real law in this town. Not so long ago Nick had complained, bitterly, that it was the railroad who pulled the strings. He wanted to be fair, but he was in no mood to back down to either of these men. He pulled out the gun and handed it to Frank.

Frank gave it a cursory examination before handing it back. "It ain't his."

Harry snorted. "How can you be so damned sure of that?"

"He has a long-barreled Colt. Gave it to himself."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "And how long ago was that?"

"Three years, about."

"Well, then," Harry said, "how can you be sure he still has it?"

Frank shrugged. "He may not. But he sure wouldn't be carrying a weapon like that. Few years back the firing pin on a cheap gun failed on him. Nearly got killed cause of that. He wouldn't rely on a gun like that again. Sides, he knows his weapons. Ain't you seen that Mexican blowpipe of his?"

Most of this talk blew past Nick without making any impression. He was looking at the abandoned gun as if it were a cobra, poised to strike. In a way, it was. He couldn't wipe out the vision of that long-barreled Colt, blue-black and shining. He would have recognized that gun anywhere. Outloud, unwillingly, he mumbled, "It's not his gun."

"What?" Harry said. "What'd you say, Nick?"

"I mean," Nick said, "it's not the gun he had at the ranch." He turned to Frank. "Long barreled Colt, dark finish. Clean, too." He turned back to Harry. "That's what made me suspicious of him in the first place--didn't seem like the gun a regular cowhand would have."

"You sure about that, Nick?"

Nick wavered. A glimmer of doubt had been opened in his mind. Was it possible--Oh, God, if that man wasn't guilty of the shooting--if that wasn't as it seemed--what was? But his honesty won out. "I'm sure," he said finally.

"Well," Harry said uncertainly. Then, with greater surety, he said, "Mighta lost that fancy Colt on Saturday night. He was playin cards. Or might have lost it elsewhere."

Frank rolled his eyes. Yes, and an elf might have carried it off. Not very likely. Impatiently, he asked, "Where's his gunbelt?"

"Gunbelt?" Harry echoed. "Didn't find one."

Frank struggled to keep his tone level. "He always wears one. Didn't that strike you funny?"

"Didn't notice," Harry said. "Besides, Sawyer, I don't know him. How would I know?"

Frank looked at Nick levelly but said nothing. Nick looked away. "I don't know either," he muttered.

"Well," Frank drawled, "we got a strange gun and no gunbelt. If we find his real gun and his gunbelt, would that convince you?"

"No," Harry said. "It's not enough." Unwillingly, he added, "But it's a pretty good start."

"How many hotels this town got?" Frank asked.

Harry smiled a little. "Depends on what you're willing to call a hotel. Three proper ones. Two saloons have a few rooms." Harry cleared his throat delicately. "And of course there's a lady or two that will put up a gent for the night."

Frank looked back at the cell. He figured he wasn't going to get anymore help from Heath today. Three hotels, two saloons, whatever else. "Let's go."

"Where?" Harry asked.

"Find out where he spent the night."

"What for?" Harry asked. "Shooting happened in an alley, not at the hotel."

"Just come on," Frank said.

Nick stood up quickly. "I'm coming too," he said. "This is my business, too."

Frank looked hard at Nick, looked back at Heath, then back to Nick. "I guess it is," he said quietly.

Fortunately they didn't have to take a tour through all of Stockton's accomodations. The second hotel had a Mr. Heath registered. "Paid up through the week," the clerk said. "Don't know if we've seen him lately or not."

"I sure hope you haven't," Harry said. "He's in jail. He shot Tom Barkley."

"You say he shot Tom Barkley," Frank snapped.

Harry shrugged. "Paid up through the week?" he said. "That's lucky. His things still oughta be there."

"Paid through the week?" Nick asked. "Where'd he get that kind of money?"

The clerk looked at his book. "Mr. Heath's room was paid for by another guest. A Mr. Ledyard."

"Ledyard!" Nick erupted. He turned to Harry, his face red with angry excitement. "I told you he was working for Ledyard. This is proof!"

"Proof of nothing," Frank growled. "I trust you know this is the sheriff. Give him the key. We need to look over that room."

The clerk handed over the key. "If Mr. Heath's not coming back, you might clear out his things and let us relet the room."

"Hell, no," Frank said. You never knew what the room might hold. Besides, he needed a place to sleep himself.

The three men went upstairs. Nick was impatient. The doubt that had struck him in the sheriff's office had evaporated. Ledyard paying for the room! What more proof did you need? The gun--well, there was some good explanation for that. He'd lost it in a poker game--hadn't he been playing that night? Maybe he'd even been forced to pawn his good weapon for a poorer one. Working for Ledyard! A rope was too good.

Harry settled down in the one chair to watch Frank search. Nick stood glowering in a corner. Frank went straight to the bed, pulled back the bedcovers, turned up the flimsy mattress. The gunbelt was buckled to the underside of the frame. In spite of the circumstances Frank smiled a little to himself. The boy did remember a few things!

Frank quickly unworked the buckle and pulled the belt free. The long-barreled Colt was in the holster. The gun was cold and clean, all six chambers full. And every ammunition loop on the belt was full. "There you go," Frank said, handing it to Harry. "Not lost or pawned or stolen. Tell me why a man with a weapon like that leaves it in the hotel if he's got murder on his mind."

Harry looked the weapon over. To Frank, he said quietly, "That is a mighty fine piece." He thought for a moment. "But Tom Barkley wasn't much of a gunman. No, Nick, you know it's true. Anyone from around here would know it wouldn't likely be a quick-draw contest."

"But Heath ain't from around here." Again Frank's eyes met Nick's. Nick realized then that Frank knew the secret, too. "He'd no way of knowing what kinda shot Barkley was. Why take the risk? Why not take your best weapon?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "Truth is, Sawyer, the whole setup seemed wrong to me. Why take the risk of shooting a man in an alley like that? When he's armed to boot? Why not pick him off on the road?"

Well, Frank thought, the sheriff wasn't a total fool. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe Mr. Barkley here has some ideas."

Nick looked away.

"It's a mystery," Harry said. "You got some good hunches, Sawyer. Where to now?"

"Look around here some more." Frank set to methodically searching the room, drawer by drawer.

"What else are you gonna find?" Harry asked.

Frank didn't answer. He scoured the chifferobe. Nothing. Finally he tossed the contents of Heath's saddlebags on the bed and began sorting through them. For a moment he thought he'd found it. But the paper was old, the writing faded. And it was addressed to a woman, anyway. "Damnation," he said under his breath. It was nowhere in the room. Where the hell was it?

"What on earth are you looking for, Sawyer?" Harry asked.

A note, Nick realized. A note like the one Father had gotten. Proof that somebody else had set up the meeting in that alley. If there were a note--and that other gun---But Frank had found nothing. Of course not, Nick thought shakily. There is no note. There is no note. He is not--He can't be--

It wasn't in the room, of that Frank was certain. He felt a sudden wave of despair. What if Heath had just thrown it out? Why would he keep it? Or worse, perhaps he'd taken it with him, and the shooter had thought to retrieve it. If the note wasn't found--well, all the guns in the world probably wouldn't save Heath.

He said to Harry: "How closely did you search that alley?"

"Not very," Harry admitted. "Sides, it was dark. And it all looked pretty clear cut then."

Frank said, "That alley get much traffic?"

"Just about none at all."

"Good," Frank said. Maybe it would be there. A slight chance--well, it was all the chance they had. "Let's us go look."

It was dark by then, and the alley looked much as it must have been that night, Frank thought. Damned fine choice for an ambush. Even on a weeknight the saloon provided plenty of covering noise. Not surprising no one heard gunshots. And a gunman could hide in that brush easily. Hell, there could be a platoon back there now for all Frank could see.

Frank thought the alley was a good argument for Heath's innocence on two counts. How'd a stranger decide to come back here? And why on earth would he have exposed himself to gunfire? Heath could have hidden in the brush, shot Barkley from ambush, and then ridden off. In fact, Frank thought, that's probably exactly what had happened. In the morning, with the light, he'd have to come back and sweep through that brush.

But otherwise the alley had nothing to tell. That Sunday night there might have been telltale tracks. Or the lack of them. But any number of folks had trampled through this alley in the following days. You could still see faint rusty spots in the dirt. Someone had been tactful enough to spread some sawdust to cover the indecent remains, but the sawdust had been trampled and blown about.

Still, Frank looked over the alley carefully. If that note wasn't here it was probably gone for good. And as best as Frank could see, it wasn't here. Not likely it would have lain in this alley, undisturbed, with all those ghoulish sight-seers poking around. Frank sighed. He'd have to go back to the hotel room. And back to the jail, to go through Heath's pockets again.

Frank felt certain that Heath wouldn't have parted casually with the note. Back in Spanish Camp the boy had gone all soft over that plain-looking girl. And even now he was hauling around some ancient letter. No; if Heath really believed Barkley was his father, he would have hung onto the note.

Nick was too caught up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to Frank's searching. This spot would never just be an alley again. It would always be haunted. That man with his bloody face and bloody shirt rearing up before him before tottering over. And just a ways back, shrouded by shadow but still recognizable, the immobile form of his father. Why, father? he wondered. Why did you come here that night? What on earth did you hope to accomplish?

He could ask the question now, knowing there would be no answer. Had his father still been alive, would he have dared? His towering father, who for many years now had been shorter than Nick. Nick hadn't noticed. His father had been a man whom other men followed without reservation or resentment. Nick had followed him just that way. He hadn't been a warm man. But even now Nick could remember the peaceful solidity that had filled the household when his father came home from one of his many business journeys. Nick slept more soundly as a child, undaunted by the thought of wolves or Indians or evil magicians. No such creature would dare approach a house containing Tom Barkley.

Other men might have been impatient under such a heavy father's hand, for the time had long passed when other men might have considered a father's strength to be a son's restraint. Not Nick. Oh, it was fine for Jarrod to raise an eyebrow now and then, fine for Jarrod to make cryptic remarks about being your own man. Well, damn it, Nick thought, he was his own man. And he knew his duty. Once Tom Barkley had protected the family. He was gone. It would be Nick's job hereafter. And Nick understood that it was no longer just a matter of repelling bears or Indians.

Despite the poor light, Frank was scrutinizing the walls carefully, running his hands over them. At a corner, with a thick solid joist, he found an indentation. He dug out a spent cartridge. It hadn't penetrated very deeply. It was a normal size, but it had been much deformed by its encounter with the joist. Still, Frank struck a match and looked it over. He gestured to Harry. "See them marks there?"

Harry squinted. "Not in this light, I don't."

"Well, they're there." The match went out and Frank handed the bullet to Harry. "Hand loaded, I reckon."

"That doesn't mean anything, Sawyer. Lots of men hand load."

"True," Frank said. "Lots. Not all."

"Still," Harry said a little sheepishly, "surprised you found it in this light. Course you can't be sure it's from that night."

"Really?" Frank asked, an eyebrow up. "How many shootins you have back here, sheriff?"

"Well," Harry huffed, "we're right behind Piper's here. Busiest bar in town. I ain't all that surprised."

"But it's fresh," Frank insisted. "You take a look tomorrow, in better light. You'll see it's fresh."

Harry shrugged. "It still doesn't prove anything, Sawyer."

Well, Frank thought, it didn't prove much. But it was another little bit. Until tomorrow he'd have to be satisfied. "I guess that's all I can do tonight," Frank said. "Where's the telegraph office?"

"Just around the corner," Harry said. "You'd best hurry, though, they won't be open long."

Frank left. Harry and Nick walked out of the alley together slowly. When they reached the stable, Harry said, "I know you don't like this, Nick. And I don't suppose it'll matter in the long run. But giving Sawyer a chance to nose around won't hurt."

Nick shrugged. "He can nose all he wants. I know what I know."

The ride home was familiar to Nick from childhood. Nearly all his life had been passed in this same corner of the world. He'd seen staggering changes and figured he'd see more. It was big enough for him.

So familiar was the route, even in the dark, that Cocoa needed no guidance. He gave none, letting the horse find his own way home at his own somewhat leisurely pace. In the early summer night there was a greenness everywhere, palpable even in the dark. Soon, on either side, his own acres were spooling out, every foot of it testimony to the loving care which had gathered and cultivated those acres. In recent years much of the care had been his. He might ride this way almost every day, but the sight of those acres, budding crops, neat white fences, young horses--it rarely failed to move him.

Tonight, though, he had no sense of the rich bounty around him, or the wonderful rewards of his father's labor and his own. He'd told Harry defiantly that it didn't matter, he knew what he knew. Alone now, in the dark, he was not quite so sure he knew what he knew.

Sawyer was a troublesome fellow. And yet--and yet there was a rough integrity to the man. An impartial observer might have seen that Sawyer's former deputy carried himself in a similar way. But without acknowledging that, you still couldn't miss the fact that Sawyer was no ordinary man, and he certainly wasn't a sentimental or foolish one. He wouldn't be here, he wouldn't be working that hard, unless he really believed Heath was innocent. For a terrible moment, seeing the gun in that hotel room, Nick had had a premonition, a sudden belief that Sawyer was right, Heath was innocent, and Nick--Nick hardly knew anything.

Oh, he'd pushed that feeling aside. He was good at that. You learned to be good at it when you were a volatile man with a hasty temper and a wide appetite and abilities a little too closely corraled. You learned to do that when your world was bounded by another man's footsteps, and you couldn't bring yourself to step off the track.

Outsiders might have looked at Jarrod with his education and his polish and thought a romantic was just behind the blue eyes. But that romantic vein was larger, and closer to the surface, in Nick. Twenty-eight, for ten years and more doing a man's job and then some, he still hungered for the simplicity of those fairy tales where knights were good and dragons to be slain. Here on the ranch, with his father still alive, his family still young and together, it was almost possible to still live in that world.

Cocoa had brought him home safely. He tended to his horse himself. He thought briefly of that other man's horse, the ugly little pony, shaggy as her namesake. She'd never win points for conformation but she was a tough, smart little animal. Modoc: you could tell right off. He'd had a Modoc himself for a time; they didn't come any smarter. Strange to think they had that in common.

No, Nick reminded himself, they had nothing in common. Nothing. He went into the billiard room for a quick drink. The portrait over the mantle looked down at him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look up.

Frank sent his telegram, then went back to the hotel for a little supper. It was getting late, and he was the only customer left in the dining room. The waitress looked plenty glum and anxious for someone to talk to. Frank put on his best kindly-father and drew her out a little.

Turned out the little lady had suffered a recent disappointment in the romantic way. Fine-dressed stranger, big tipper--well, the little lady had formed a few hopes, based on the gent's spritely manner. Those hopes had led the little lady to be--well, here she blushed and didn't give particularls, but Frank gathered the girl had been hospitable indeed. Then the gent had up and left in the middle of the night, no good-bye or nothing. He had, it turned out, left a note. But--here the girl blushed again and looked around--she was not so sharp with letters. And she was too embarrassed to ask anyone around the hotel--or worse, her mother!--just what the note might say. She still nursed a little hope that the note promised undying love and, of course, a swift return.

Frank tsk-tsked and kindly asked for the note. It was written in a bold but readable hand. The service was exquisite. It was signed J.L.

Frank suppressed a smile. In his gravest, kindest tone, he said, "You'd best put him out of your mind, Aggie. This is--well, this note is downright insulting. Good thing you didn't show it around."

The girl looked even glummer, but she put out her hand for the note. When Frank shook his head, she whined, "But I ain't never had a letter before."

"You will," Frank said. "I reckon there'll be plenty of fellas writin you love letters pretty soon. And you don't want to remember this, now, do you? Of course not. Best you just forget all about this, Aggie. That fella was a varmint."

"I s'pose so," Aggie sighed. She cleared away Frank's supper things with weariness. Frank left her a nice tip. The service hadn't been so bad.

The next morning Victoria rose with determination. Hers was a generation that placed appropriate sentiment on a pedestal, but it worshipped duty as the highest of all virtues. She was no different. It had only been a few days, but Victoria rose with the knowledge that it was time to face the tasks of clearing away Tom's things. To let them linger was only to encourage morbid and depressing thoughts. To let them linger was a sign of a weakness scarcely more admirable than outright criminality. So she rose, and ate her breakfast, though in the last days food had become strangely tasteless.

She absorbed the news that Jarrod was gone to Strawberry. For a brief moment it seemed her despair might overwhelm her resolve. Gone to Strawberry. Are there any proofs there? she wondered. Probably not. But you do not need proof, you know. What you need are explanations; and those certainly will not be found. Not this side of the grave.

But she gained control of herself over a second cup of strong coffee. If duty was the highest virtue control was the only sure path to that pinnacle. She had faced the usual rigors of life on the rawest of frontiers: drought, flood, bitter cold, the death of children, loneliness. Yet she was proud of the fact that her children had never seen her overwhelmed. Tears might have come to her eyes, but it was a rare soul that could boast of having seen them fall, save for perhaps a few sentimental tears of pleasure. Those were permissible. The other kind, the kind sprung from the deep well of unanswered hope or lost dreams, they were not.

She hesitated. Where to be begin, his study or his dressing room? The dressing room it would be. The study would contain papers whose importance she might misjudge. Best to wait for Jarrod. Allowable to share that task, allowable for its practical reasons. She turned Audra away, however. She needed no help in the homely task of taking away her husband's personal things. She patted the girl's arm, noting her daughter's tear-stricken cheeks. Well, such tears were allowable in one so young.

The dressing room, kept neat by Silas. Tom had had a methodical mind but little interest in anything regarding the household. Less interest in his clothes. They might say clothes make the man, but Tom Barkley had made himself without the least concern for fashion. Long past the days when he could afford to be a man of leisure, could wear the finest broadcloth or linen every day of the year, he continued to pass most of his days in the rough clothes of his workmen. Continued to pass as many of his days as possible engaged in those rough tasks. And so most of the room contained faded shirts, of chambray or flannel. Pants much worn at the knee and the seat, from long hours in the saddle.

There were only a few good clothes, most of them relatively new. He had been a broad young man, and he'd spread some with middle age, though he'd remained hearty and active. But the shooting at Apple Hill had drained away much of his strength, though not his appetite. His growing stoutness had embarrassed him. Grown heavy even to the point that he needed bigger boots. He would huff and complain that the situation was temporary, and he hated to waste good money on clothes that soon--soon! He would be up and about even more soon!--would be too big again. As a result the newer things, though more numerous, were less nice than the old.

The newer things, then, she had little trouble discarding. This last year of his life, so different from all the preceding ones. He had not been quite the same man, in body or spirit. But the older things--they were hard to touch, harder still to place in the discard pile. The linen shirts, still snowy white. How he'd grumbled at the cost. But she had been right, the wear had more than justified the cost. Not to mention the look; how handsome, how solid he'd looked. What a fine contrast between the rugged young man he'd once been and the successful man he'd become. And the black broadcloth, cleverly cut to hide his spreading waistline. Made especially for the trip to Jarrod's graduation. The satisifaction of knowing you had placed your children so much farther along the road than your parents had managed for you.

(Or at least some of your children. That other one, in jail, just waiting for the rope. He had started very far behind--farther back than either she or Tom. What a strange road he had taken.)

And the boots. Custom-made by the finest bootmaker in San Francisco. That, he'd snorted, was the final nonsense! Custom-made boots! Why, they had cost nearly fifty dollars! In a day and an age where fifty dollars would buy a magnificent horse...But you have magnificent horses, she'd said. What you don't have is a good pair of boots. The bootmaker had winked. They'll bury you in them, he'd said jovially. A common saying. But they hadn't; they couldn't. There was still so much wear in them. Despite the bootmaker's assurances Tom had never worn them regularly, had kept them for occasions. Jarrod's graduation from college. Christmas. Even the fourth of July. So much wear in them. She put them back. Perhaps one of the boys could use them. Really too fine to part with...

And the hardest of all. These, these were the things he'd worn Sunday morning. Since the shooting he no longer accompanied them to church, the trip into town was too hard for him. Not that he'd ever been much of a church-goer. Not that he disliked the discipline of weekly services, but that he thought the ones on offer in Stockton were too weak and watery. He'd been raised in a hard New England sect. He'd shaken off some of those teachings but had retained a certain contempt for those faiths that had a more generous take on human failings.

But, still, he typically dressed for Sunday. Even to a hard-working man like Tom Sunday dinner had had certain imperatives. All the family came, regardless of what else called them; all the family dressed for it. Sunday dinner was the one meal of the weak where Silas was permitted to exercise his greatest skill, the one meal where more luxurious appetites could be slaked.

Another black broadcloth, not half as fine as the older one. Plain black waistcoat, not so cleverly cut. He had changed for his meeting in the alley, discarded this suit for working clothes. But he had taken his watch and chain...the chain had been broken by a bullet. The watch had survived. It lay on the dresser now. Neither of the boys ready to claim it. The day would come, the day would come. To which should it go? Tom had said nothing. Jarrod, the eldest? Nick, who needed it more?

(Or the other one, the last one? No, he would never wear it. Between now and the time that son had yet to live, the watch would probably only need to be wound once or twice. No, he would never wear it.)

Holding the waistcoat but thinking of the watch, her control weakened a little. That watch. A gift from her to him, many years ago. A luxury she was not quite sure they could afford. And yet she had felt the need for a grand gesture. Those strange empty years, when the boys were young and Tom was so often gone, and so distant when he was here. Those times when she had wondered if all of his efforts were worth the distance and the separations and the growing formality between them. She had known poverty, so had he; was a little want anything compared to the gradual loss of the intimacy that had once blossomed between them? His ambition had inspired her once. Ambition palled.

Ambition palled, gold did not. The watch as burnished and beautiful as the day she'd chosen it. The words inside: To my beloved husband. The hell of it, she thought suddenly, was that the words were no less true. What, exactly, did a man have to do before he lost, for good and all, your love? Why was it possible to kill trust without killing love, or need, or loss?

Her fingers were suddenly thick and clumsy, trying to fold the waistcoat and making a bad job of it. Crinkling sound in her hand. She fumbled through the pockets, hungry for some last contact. But it was not his handwriting, nor that of anyone she knew. Neat and bold. That phrase. Your son Heath. The presumption of it! But--those words had drawn Tom to his doom.

She looked at the note for a long time. Your son Heath. Oh, Tom. Of course she had suspected it was true. That very first day: the chill just the sight of the young man had given her. She was not superstitious, she did not believe in premonitions. Yet she had known Nemesis when he stood before her. Had Tom known, too? Or had he gone to that meeting hoping for something more? Had he intended--had he intended to acknowledge the man? Make him a son for good and all? Oh, if that were true--how terrible those last moments must have been. The realization--that alone was almost enough to make her forgive him.

And yet...was it possible, was it possible that any chain of events could have made a son of her husband's into a cold-blooded murderer? He had come here--come here for what? Somehow she felt certain he hadn't come here for murder. She had just caught a few of the words thrown about that night. He hadn't had murder on his mind then. But then he had been turned away. Perhaps there had been a lifetime of being turned away. Perhaps that last time had been one time too many.

She hesitated. The note was embarrassing. And perhaps it would be fatal. Your son Heath. But of course the truth would come out anyway. Was perhaps out anyway. Others might have heard the fight; and the young man had been drinking and talking at Piper's. Already the rumors were probably running.

Duty. Honesty. She folded the waistcoat, placed it in the discard pile. She went downstairs, found Audra loitering, aimless, in the parlor. "Where's Nick?"

"He went to town hours ago," Audra said.

Gone to town? There was so much to do here. But of course she had an idea of why he was in town. Well, she would have to take the note herself.

Late afternoon was, in Jarrod's opinion, usually the finest time to see a new place. Slanting light had a way of hiding flaws and throwing drama into high relief. At least it had been so in Europe, and it had been so in the many places where nature, rather than construction, had provided the eye's interest.

No light, he thought, could hide the ugliness of Strawberry. The late afternoon light should have cast long green shadows through stands of fir. But the stands were long gone, and harsh red light lingered over Strawberry. Timber had been clearcut as far as the eye could see. Running up the mountain you could see enormous gashes where concentrated streams of water had been turned against the rock. Abandoned flumes straggled across the mountainside, the work of an enormous, drunken spider. Here and there the rock was also marked with smaller, deeper pits.

The town looked as ill-used as the mountain. Buildings leaned like drunks and more than a few had given up the struggle for verticality all together. Improbably, a faded banner, ripped but still legible, flapped in the wind.

It struck Jarrod that he didn't even know who he was looking for. Whatever Heath had used for a last name--he'd never mentioned it. Jarrod hadn't thought to look in the Bible. And of course his father had told him nothing...

Off to one side Jarrod noticed a graveyard. A good place to start--hadn't he said his mother had died recently? But the likelihood of there being a stone? The graveyard was as bedraggled as the town, with broken stones, decayed wooden crosses, overgrown, unblessed with any shade.

One plot, though, was different. Even now you could tell it was of recent vintage. No weeds grew on it or around it. A few wildflowers had been neatly placed by the wooden cross. Leah Thomson, 1829-1872. The lettering was a little uneven and unprofessional, but it was deeply scored into the wood. It would last a few winters.

Leah Thomson. She had to be the one. None of the other graves looked recent enough. Leah Thomson. Heath had said he was--what?--twenty-four. Jarrod did the math. Good God, he thought. Seventeen, eighteen. No more. Hardly older than Audra--and already sentenced to life in this dry hole. His father was a good fifteen years older. More improbable than ever, Jarrod told himself. Scarcely more than a child--in this town--how could she have captivated a man like his father?

And yet...looking around town, Jarrod remembered his sense of shame and felt it again. That raggedy man he'd seen in Stockton was connected to him, and through him, this town was connected too. The big white house outside Stockton, its immaculate fences, carefully tended fields--it was as if that place were just a facade, and this stripped town was what truly lay behind. Suddenly Jarrod was conscious of the trail dust on his hands, his face, and longed to wash it off.

Knowing her name hardly solved Jarrod's problem. Where were the people? Were any people even left here? Jarrod had a suddenly ghoulish vision of a petite, dark-haired--as his mother had been ten or fifteen years ago--wandering alone through the street, through the tumble-down graveyard. He shook his head. Nearby was a hotel and a saloon, both with roofs still on. He decided on the saloon.

He was in luck. The mayor had recently returned from his pocket mine, no richer than he'd gone up. But his pleasure at receiving a guest was only partly caused by the likelihood of a sale. "Well, young fellow!" the mayor crowed. "Come on in! The beer ain't cold but it's still wet."

Jarrod shook his head a little. "Whiskey?"

"That's what it says on the bottle," the mayor grinned. A number of his teeth were gone. Jarrod wondered when the town had last boasted a dentist.

Like the beer, the whiskey was warm and wet, and that was about all that could be said in its favor. Still, Jarrod drank it with some relief. A little bracing whiskey to drive out the cobwebby fantasties this dead town inspired.

The second went down a little more smoothly than the first. The mayor's grin widened. Jarrod said: "Have you been in Strawberry long?"

"Since the beginnin," the mayor said. "Some Spanish was up here pokin around these rocks since the back of beyond. Americans first come up for timber--you see that creek, runs right down the mountain, you seen it. Then folks got the idea to dig for gold. Found some, too."

"But it ran out," Jarrod said.

The mayor winked. "Don't you believe it, mister. There's still gold up on this hill." He tapped the bar. "I know it. Gonna find it one of these days. Say!" The mayor leaned over. "Maybe you here to dig. Maybe you lookin for a partner? You look young enough to do some diggin. I know a few likely places."

"No, thank you," Jarrod said politely. He must be dustier than he realized. "Actually, I'm looking for information about someone. Leah Thomson."

"Oh, poor Leah," the mayor groaned. "Mister, you're too late to see ol' Leah. Gone to her reward, that done did. Maybe a month ago."

"Did you know her?"

"Well, mister, in a town this lonesome, sure, you know what souls are left. I knowed Leah twenty year or more."

"Did you know her well?"

"Well enough." The mayor hesitated. With a dirty rag he mopped down the bar, which was heavily scarred and already dry. "She had her troubles. But a nice little lady just the same."

"And her son?" Jarrod asked.

The mayor shook his head. "He was back here to bury his ma. But fore that, I don't reckon I'd seen him in these parts five years or more. At least five years or more." He leaned in. His breath was as dirty as his rag. "Bit of a wild one, if you know what I mean. Course," the mayor said judiciously, "those sort do generally turn wild, I always say."

"What sort?" Jarrod asked delicately.

"Oh, well, you know--Leah was a nice enough girl. Most of the time. Got in trouble the one time. Well, once is enough, ain't it? Got left flat with a baby. Mild little sort of woman. Not the kind could handle a boy like that. And with that uncle of his--"

Jarrod cleared his throat. He didn't want an extended genealogy. "Left flat? Didn't the father help out at all?"

"Not so's you'd notice."

"Didn't the town go hard on him for that?"

"I don't suppose this town would have--this was one wild-open town, mister. But I don't think he was a local. Matt--Leah's half-brother--said more'n once that the fellow was some big rich fellow. Said that Leah could be in easy street if she'd just let him manage it." The mayor sighed. "Course Matt's always been full of tales and fool's gold. If you follow me."

Jarrod got the idea. And, he thought, perhaps Heath had gotten the idea from a scheming uncle rather than a dying mother. "So you don't believe it."

The mayor shrugged. "Well, not really. I mean, if he was such a rich fellow, why didn't she tap him for some? Or at least try."

"But you don't know who else it might have been."

"Naw. Like I said, she was a good enough sort of girl. Not the walking-out type. But you can't be too sure. It's them quiet types that'll fool you, ain't they, mister?"

By now Jarrod was tiring a little of the mayor, his joviality, and his breath. "Anybody else still round? Long timers, like yourself?"

"Well, Matt's still here---and that pesky wife of his, too. But not today. Been gone a day or two. Now, Rachel's still about. And Hannah, of course."

"Where are they?"

"Why, at Leah's, of course, where they always been."

"They knew Leah?"

"Hell, yes. Those three ladies been scratchin out a livin together many a year. Can't say just how long."

"How can I find them?"

"Just ride out that-a-way. Last house on the left. Green shutters. Plenty o' washing out side. That Hannah, she washes all day long. Walks down to Pinecrest to pick up folks' dirty clothes or bring em back clean ones. Can you imagine likin washin that much?"

Jarrod could not imagine liking washing that much. He placed a few coins on the bar, including a goodly tip. The mayor's eyes lit up. "Say, you ain't wantin any supper, are you? I could--"

"No thank you," Jarrod said, and walked with deliberate speed out the door.

Jarrod found the house easily enough. As promised, there were long lines of laundry hanging limp in the heat. Even without a breeze there was a strong scent of soap in the air, a strangely pleasant perfume in this flat landscape. He caught sight of an elderly black woman amongst the lines. "Excuse me," he said. When he got no response--he could hear her humming--he repeated his greeting more loudly.

She was clearly startled, and just as clearly not used to seeing people. She shrank away. But her tone wasn't unpleasant. "You here to see Miss Rachel?"

Jarrod nodded. Already he assumed that this woman would have no help for him. While he waited for someone to come back, he looked over the house. Flowers grew out front, though they were straggling. Facing this way they must have taken the full brunt of the mid-day sun. Vegetables growing around the side. Clumsy attempts to repair the steps. The shutters were crooked. Everywhere paint was peeling.

There was a small porch. But Jarrod guessed the inside of the house could not have been any bigger than the kitchen at home. Three women, and a boy, all shoehorned into that house? With only the laundry and the garden to keep them going, perhaps. Again Jarrod felt revulsion, shame. Who would I be, he wondered, if I had come out of that little house? A killer? Easier to believe...

His unpleasant reverie was broken by the appearance of another older woman. She was sixty, perhaps more, and from her squint she was obviously nearsighted beyond the power of her spectacles. But there was a sinewy toughness to the lady, as if she'd made her way through a passel of storms and could fight through a few more still. Yet her tone wasn't as rough as Jarrod expected. "Can I help you? I'm Rachel Caulfield."

"I hope so. My name is Jarrod Barkley." He saw a reaction, quickly suppressed, on her face. So the name wasn't completely a surprise.

"I see," Rachel muttered. More loudly, she said, "Why do you I think I can help you?"

"You were a friend of Leah Thomson's."

"Yes--yes, I was." Her chin came up a little at that.

"The bartender told me--"

"What did he tell you?" Rachel snapped. "That old magpie--he's the worst gossip this side of the divide. A walking plague. Whatever he told you about Leah was probably a lie. Or a terrific exaggeration." Rachel caught her breath. "Leah had her troubles. Perhaps I wouldn't have handled them as she did. But she certainly wasn't--" Rachel stopped suddenly. "Why are you here, Mr. Barkley?"

"I think you know," Jarrod said quietly. "Leah's son came to visit my family."

Rachel's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no. I thought--I thought he'd decided against that. Leah never--at least I think Leah never wanted him to."

Her obvious sincerity rocked Jarrod. Solid moorings were coming unfastened. He made one last grab for the dock, for his old certainty. "Are you saying that my father was Heath's father?"

"Of course," Rachel said. "Of course he was." A troubled look came over her. "Don't tell me he denied it!"

"No," Jarrod said. "He never got the chance." Jarrod swallowed. "When Heath told us the story--told it to my brother and I--I threw him out. He had no proof. I had no reason to believe him."

"No proof?" Rachel frowned, her surprise obvious. "No proof? But what about the letter?"

The last mooring snapped under pressure. "Letter?" Jarrod echoed.

Frank woke that morning still elated by his luck at getting Ledyard's note. That had just been a little instinct and a lot of luck. Well, Frank figured, we're owed a little luck at this point. Ledyard in the dining room meant Ledyard in the hotel. Bright and early, before even breakfast, Frank found the chambermaid and talked his way into Ledyard's old room, which was still unoccupied.

The note to the waitress had a clean top margin and a ragged bottom one. Frank was hoping the rest of the sheet would still be about. His hopes rose even further when he noted the chambermaid didn't look too industrious and finally admitted, red-faced, that in fact she hadn't been all the way up to number 12 just yet. For a reasonable promise-- "We'll just keep this twixt ourselves," Frank suggested--she let him into number 12.

But number 12 held no further secrets. Certainly no piece of paper with a ragged edge. An inkwell stood on the table, but it held only common black ink. The same as the note to the waitress--but even Frank wasn't impressed by that coincidence. Ledyard was a cool one, he thought. Come into this town, stay in the hotel under his real name. Smart enough to leave this room cleaner than he'd probably found it. Frank thought: better not plan on gettin lucky again.

The telegraph office held little joy, either. Frank's Pinkerton friend promised to nose around, but, as of yet, Ledyard wasn't known to be in San Francisco. The Pinkerton man didn't have any scuttlebutt as to Ledyard's whereabouts. Figures, Frank thought. Ledyard's too damned smart to go runnin right up to Jordan. Specially if he had the stones to shoot Barkley down in cold blood. Not that he didn't make hisself a nice little frame up. If Ledyard were working for Jordan, he might already be on his way out of the country. How much was the job worth? Enough to keep a man plenty happy in Mexico. Or South America. Or wherever crooks ran with their money.

The Pinkerton man had no idea where a sample of Ledyard's writing might be found, either. Frank had checked the hotel register. The writing looked the same to him, but it wasn't much to compare. Wouldn't matter so much if he could just find that darned note. Or one of those darned notes. What had happened to Barkley's note? Frank remembered that big sullen son and wondered if that note would ever find its way into the law's hands. His basic guess was that Nick Barkley was plenty angry but not the cheating kind. If he had the note he'd give it in. But perhaps not right away--perhaps he'd need a bit of time to cool down. And time, Frank thought, I ain't got.

That was pressed home even more forceably when he got to the jail. Heath was noticeably worse than he'd been the day before. He was feverish and restless, not quite understanding what was said to him, muttering to himself but nothing useful. If anything the swelling looked worse. Frank tried to coax a little coffee into him. Again, he thought: the boy needs proper tending. But the Barkleys don't like that. You think they'd not want to cheat the hangman.

He found Nick Barkley just at the door of the sheriff's office. Suddenly cautious, Frank didn't show the note to either Barkley or Lyman. There'd be time for that--time when one of those other notes was in his hand.

Frank did say to Harry: "Didn't you say that doctor was comin? He's worse today."

Lyman shrugged. "He's coming. And I'm sorry, Sawyer, but I ain't letting that fellow out of jail while there's a murder charge hanging over him."

Frank rolled his eyes. Well, he thought, then I'd best get on doin your job for you. Nick Barkley, though, was blocking the door. "Where are you going?" Barkley asked.

"For a walk," Frank said dryly. "If either you or your sheriff would like to walk along I'd appreciate the company."

Lyman fell in along Frank's side, with Nick a pace or two behind. "You know, Sawyer," Lyman said, "that Ledyard's a pretty clever fellow. Law's been on him for a while. Nobody's ever gotten a good piece of evidence on that fellow. You really think you will?"

"Yep," Frank said.

Lyman looked over his shoulder at Nick, shrugged. "Well, I'm kinda of enjoying watching you try."

"Watch," Frank snapped. "Maybe you'll learn you something."

They were behind Piper's now. Frank went right past the alley and into the brush. Nick started to follow him, but Frank waved him off. "Don't need no herd of elephants back here."

It didn't take long to find what he'd been looking for. Close to a little creek back here, and the ground was a little soft. One set of hoofprints. So he'd even tied his horse back here. Tracks led toward the road running west out of town. Of course. Ledyard had run probably as soon as he'd shot.

And there--yes, somebody had sat a little spell here. Resting on that stone, no doubt. Deep hell marks in the soft ground. Some tobacco grounds, the ends of a cigar. Through the bushes you had a clear enough line of sight into the alley. Once you came out of the brush it wasn't more than ten yards to the alley proper. Easy shot. Even in the poor light.

He called Lyman over, pointed out what he'd found. Ledyard shrugged. "Don't know how long it's been here."

Frank looked over the remnants of the cigar. "When's your last rain?"

"Been a spell. Ten days, maybe?"

"Well, that butt ain't more than ten days, then. Top side's dry. Been dry, too."

Lyman nodded, but said, "So someone's been back here in the last ten days. Maybe some fella was just sparking a girl, came back here for privacy."

"Only one set of tracks," Frank said.

"Must not have been a lucky courtship, then." Lyman grinned a little.

Disgusted, Frank hissed, "This ain't a joke, Lyman. If you'd thought about looking back here three days ago..."

Serious again, Lyman said, "I'd have still thought what I think now, Sawyer. Maybe that fella's innocent but there's more'n enough evidence to hold him."

Frank didn't argue. He was honest enought to admit that, if he were in Lyman's shoes, if he didn't know Heath from Adam, he wouldn't be all that ready to believe, either. But Frank had no where else to look. They went back to the sheriff's office to wait. Frank, in particular, was waiting for the doctor. Waiting for a telegram. Waiting for inspiration.

Lyman was ready to agree this was a serious business. But he took a certain professional pleasure in watching Frank Sawyer work. Sawyer had a good little reputation. This, though, was almost as good as show. Hell, Sawyer even had him wondering if his eyes might have deceived him that night. Though he doubted if Nick Barkley was convinced.

Nick wasn't convinced. The tracks in the brush were just one chink in the wall. Just one. On its own, the chink meant nothing. But enough small holes could weaken any wall to the point of collapse.

The three men sat.

The doctor did not come. Frank shifted about in his chair, frustrated, even a little fearful now. Twice he went down to the telegraph office, shadowed--and not pleasantly--by Nick Barkley. Twice he came back empty.

The big man was starting to irritate him. Frank looked him over. He didn't notice any resemblance between Heath and this fellow. Except perhaps in a certain dogged thrust of the jaw. Not an easy opponent to overcome. Probably a good man to have on your side, Frank admitted grudgingly. But Nick Barkley wasn't on his side, and Nick's presence was like a magnet, working on the rather weak resistance of Harry Lyman. No doubt the Barkleys were used to getting their way around here. Not this time, Frank thought. But he realized he'd have a hard time weaning Harry Lyman from his lock on Barkley. Perhaps, Frank thought suddenly, the better way around was to convince Nick, rather than Harry.

But Frank let go of that idea quickly. Convince Nick Barkley! Everything about the man bespoke his stubborn determination to not be convinced. A delegation of archangels might not be enough to change his mind. But I got to, Frank thought suddenly. I got to. If he won't go for it Lyman won't neither.

With what? Frank wondered. No note. No trace of Ledyard. The judge would be here in a few days. The judge, he thought sourly, would probably be here before the doctor...

The door opened. Not the doctor, but a small, strong-looking woman, crisp white hair. Dark circles under her eyes, but clearly not the weepy type.

"Mother!" Nick blurted out. "What on earth--what are you doing here?"

She hesitated. Nick: she could see how troubled Nick was already. Would this make it better or worse? But it didn't matter. She didn't really have a choice. She said, "I found something I thought the sheriff should see."

Rachel said sharply: "I can see what you think."

Jarrod, still stunned, mumbled, "No, I--I don't know what you--"

"Yes, you do. You look at this house and this town and you think you know what sort of woman Leah Thomson was. And you don't think your father could have anything to do with this. But you're quite wrong. Certainly you're quite wrong about Leah."

Jarrod could make no reply. It was true, at least a little; ever since laying eyes on Strawberry he had been wondering about what sort of woman could have tempted his father. Strawberry wasn't lovely in its decay, but even now it was possible to tell that Strawberry hadn't been all that lovely in its youth. Stockton was a city builty mainly on farming, sober, solid, church-going. Strawberry had been built with an eye to fleecing expectant miners of their hard-earned gold dust. On its best day it had never been more than tawdry and gimcrack. Too many colors, too much trim, too much red flocked wallpaper and too many gilt mirrors. And, yes, it was only too easy to imagine the sort of woman that would be drawn here. The sort of woman that would latch onto a married man. As cheap and overpainted as the town itself.

Difficult to see his father as anything but an impatient passer-through in such a place. Difficult--and, oh how distasteful--to see his father trapped by such obvious lures. Could the man who had valued Victoria Barkley been tempted by a little face-paint, by a shortened skirt and a generous decolletage? Repulsive. Did appetite claim us all?

Rachel said, "It's obvious you knew nothing about this. Sit. I'll fetch you a glass of wine. Hannah makes it herself. I don't think it's any stronger than grape juice, but I suppose it has its medicinal purposes."

Jarrod sat. His lawyer's mind said: it could still all be a lie. A few old timers remember the stranger who became a rich man. No real evidence but impossible to absolutely refute...

But no: apparently there was real evidence. A letter. Well, he would know easily enough if the letter were genuine; even after twenty-odd years his father's handwriting would be recognizable. Still: if Heath had had a letter, why hadn't he shown it?

Rachel returned with two glasses, each with a few thimbles' worth of wine. Jarrod took a sip: it was scarcely more than grape juice. Rachel, like the glasses, like the house itself, showed signs of age and hard use and yet retained an air of faded gentility. "Did you know my father?" Jarrod asked.

Rachel shook her head. "I didn't know Leah well at the time. I was rather new to the area--well, we were all rather new to the area then. Leah was a young--very young--widow. She'd only been married a few months before the man drowned. He'd left her in rather bad straits. Her half-brother owned a hotel. She worked there."

"As?" Jarrod said delicately.

Rachel's mouth twisted. "As a maid of all work. She was no dance hall girl."

"I didn't mean--"

"Of course you did." Rachel sighed. "But then, why would you think otherwise?" Her tone grew bitter. "I suppose your father thought no better of her, given the way he treated her."

"My father was married," Jarrod snapped.

"Yes, apparently he was. I don't know if Leah knew that. But I don't think she did. She wouldn't have...Leah was terribly naive. Sweet and naive. Hard to imagine how she stayed that way around here. But she did. I've never quite believed she would have done as she did if she'd known."

"I can't believe my father would have lied about that, either."

Rachel shrugged. "Well, there you are. People will surprise--and disappoint--you." She took a tiny sip. "Your father was robbed. Beaten and left for dead. Leah took him in and nursed him back. It lasted--oh, no more than a month. At the most. And of course most of that time he was invalided."

Jarrod winced; he didn't want to picture this part. Rachel went on anyway. "I didn't know her well in those days, but I remember them well. She was--she was lovely. Walking on air. She was pretty enough--a little thing, with dark brown hair and dark eyes. Very delicate. Not really the sort you noticed. But those weeks--well, you noticed the difference in her."

To avoid hearing what he didn't want to hear, Jarrod asked quickly, "But what about after he left?"

Rachel said, "For a few weeks after he left she was just the same. She expected him to return, of course. And then one day it was all gone." Rachel sighed. "When her brother found out she was--she was in a family way--he threw her out, and fired her too. I took her in. And Hannah, of course, for Hannah wouldn't leave her." Rachel smiled a little. "For a while she came back. She knew she ought to be ashamed--I think she was, a little--but the idea of a child made her so happy. When Heath was a small child, she was much as she was at first. Happy. If the town talked it didn't bother her. She had her child, and that was enough."

Rachel's voice had fallen enough. "What happened?" Jarrod prodded.

Rachel gestured vaguely. "Leah wasn't made for this life. She wasn't made for hard labor, for living in a place like this. The shame she didn't feel earlier caught up with her. She began to understand how difficult things were for Heath. And...she never said so, but I think she went on hoping your father would come back. That hope took a long, long time to die. When it did...well, Leah coped as best she could. She wasn't strong, you see. Not in body or--well, she coped as best she could." Rachel's chin came up, she looked at Jarrod with something like defiance. "I'm not sure I could have done any better. I'm not sure anyone could have."

Yes, Jarrod thought suddenly, it was only too easy to imagine the death of hope in this town. Hard to imagine it living here at all. "Did she talk about him much--my father?"

"Only in a general sort of way. But she stopped. I think she felt it made things harder for Heath, rather than better."

"Were they close? Heath and his mother?"

"Oh, yes. At least when he was younger. Oh, yes. Later...well, the young can be so judgmental. Of course he always did his best to look after her--after all of us. Always so good about sending us money, no matter how little he was making. But he left here when he was fourteen. He didn't come back much after that. I know Leah was hurt by that." Rachel took another sip. "But of course he would have come around eventually--seen her in a kinder light. He was just angry at the world, angry at the way things turned out. For her, too, as much as for him."

Angry at the world, angry at the way things turned out. That anger had led him to Stockton. Had it led him to a dark alley, too, and a few seconds of gunfire? For a last moment Jarrod fought the idea, fought his growing knowledge. He did not want it to be true. He did not want to be connected to this faded town, or this old woman, or to Leah Thomson's lost hopes. He did not want to be connected to that alley behind Piper's.

The struggle was fierce but brief. It had really already been decided, in those minutes in front of the Stockton jail. There was no escaping it. And it was all so much worse, worse than this town, worse than the lost Leah Thomson. Murder. He had to get back to Stockton. Oh, God, he thought, how can I make this any better?

And yet, with all that on his mind, he couldn't resist. "But what about my father? What did he feel about Leah?"

Rachel shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't know him. I never read the letter. Perhaps he didn't love her and that's why Leah never tried to contact him again. Or perhaps he did, and that's why Leah never tried. I didn't know him, and she never told me."

Jarrod stood up to leave. He had come to Strawberry for answers and had gotten a few. But he had gotten more questions, too. And a sense of dread and urgency now fell over him.

As if she'd caught some sense of his mood, Rachel said, "Why have you come now?"

"My father is dead," Jarrod said, "and Heath is in a great deal of trouble."

Rachel bit her lip. Quietly she said, "He is your father's son."

And my father's murderer? "I know," Jarrod said. "I know."

Victoria handed the note to Harry Lyman. Lyman read it through two, three times. Victoria could see the surprise wash over him. "Son?" Lyman sputtered. "Your son? That fella in there?"

"It's not true," Nick interjected.

Victoria looked over at her son, then back to Harry. "It's possible," she said. "I think Tom believed it was possible."

Nick's mouth dropped open at her words. That she believed--with everything that meant--Finally he regained his voice and said, "It doesn't matter. This is all tied up with the railroad."

"I don't know," Lyman said thoughtfully. "This sure gives that fella a motive. If he thought Tom Barkley was his father--and you'd shown him the door. Well, a hot-headed man might take to his guns over that."

Frank stepped over, looked at the note. He couldn't quite hide a smile. To Nick, he said: "You're right. This is all tied up with the railroad."

He pulled out the note he'd gotten from the waitress, compared it to the one Victoria had brought in. The handwriting was clearly the same, bold and black and thick. It was clearly the same type of paper, heavy rag bond. To his disappointment, the ragged edges didn't match. Of course, he thought; the other note must have come from the middle.

Lyman looked the two pieces over, whistled. "Where'd you come by that, Sawyer?"

"Waitress at the hotel. Ledyard left it for her."

"My, my," Lyman mused. "Sure looks like the same handwriting. J.L. Ledyard, no doubt. But," he said to Frank, "it still doesn't prove that boy's innocent. Ledyard could have written the note for him."

"Heath can write," Frank growled. "Don't it look like this was all one sheet of paper once? A few inches missing from the middle, and it's a standard size."

Lyman frowned. "Hard to be sure." He held the paper up to the window. "San Francisco mark. Collier's."

"Collier's?" Nick frowned. "They're a real fancy-dancy place in San Francisco. Even we don't bother with paper like that."

Triumphantly, Frank said, "Not the sort of place a cowboy shops."

"No," Lyman admitted, "but I've heard tell that Ledyard's a real dandy. He might think rag bond from Collier's was just the thing."

Frank bit his thumb. "That other note has got to be somewhere."

"What other note?" Lyman asked.

"I see it like this," Frank said. "Both Heath and Barkley got notes for them to go to that alley. Ledyard wrote both of em. And then Ledyard hung around in that brush waitin for both of em to show. When they did..."

Lyman shook his head a little. "Nice theory, Frank. But this paper don't prove it."

"But if we could find that other note," Frank said, "Would that prove it?"

"I reckon it would for me," Lyman said. "If you take into account the gun, too. I'd have to talk to Archer, but I'd be inclined to let your fellow go if we had that other note."

"All right," Frank said. "Then we just got to find it."

"Murder!" Rachel exclaimed. "It's not possible. Not our Heath. Not under any circumstances."

"Are you sure?" Jarrod asked. "You said yourself he left home at fourteen and you haven't seen much of him since. That's ten years. You said, too, that he was angry. And judgmental."

Rachel shook her head firmly. "Heath isn't perfect. And, yes, he can have a terrible temper--especially where--where your father was concerned. But deliberate, cold-blooded murder? To write your father a note and lay in wait? I'd sooner believe that Hannah could do such a thing. Or myself." Again her chin came up. "You see this place and you think you know what sort of man he is. You're wrong. You're completely wrong. No son of Leah Thomson's could ever be a cold-blooded murderer."

"There's a great deal of evidence indicating that he is just that."

"Evidence! I don't care. There's some mistake--some misunderstanding." She caught hold of his arm. "He's your brother, like it or not. Accept it or not. You can't let him--" She choked, regained her voice. "You can't let them hang him. You can't."

"It's really out of my hands."

She let go of his arm. Her lip curled a little. "Yes, it's out of your hands," she said quietly. "No doubt that's exactly what your father thought. I'm sorry. I hoped you might be a better man than your father." She turned away. "Apparently Tom Barkley isn't finished injuring this family."

Jarrod stood there, numb. Finally, he said, "You don't know that he actually turned his back on his child. You don't know that."

"You don't know that he didn't." Her faded eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "This is what happens when people like Leah get mixed up with people like Tom Barkley. They get ground up and spit out. And you'll stand by and watch it happen to her son, just like he stood by and let it happen to her."

"I can't--"

"Please," Rachel said. "Please get off my porch. Please go back to Stockton and your affairs. And if you hang him please let us have the body back, so we can put him beside his mother. No doubt you think that's all he deserves."

The door closed in his face.

He stood there for a moment. He felt the foolishness of trying to justify himself, his family, in these circumstances. Easy to judge harshly when you knew so little of the truth; Rachel admitted she had never known his father, yet he stood forever condemned in her eyes. A waste of breath to try and change her mind, especially foolish when Jarrod himself did not have all the facts. Even more foolish to writhe at the injustice of it. But he felt it just the same.

Frank went back into the cell. He stopped for a moment, disturbed. Heath was worse than ever. By now he was running a high fever. The swelling around the wound had gotten worse. He couldn't be roused. Frank thought: I'm too late this time. Once he'd reached Heath just in the nick of time. This time...

No, Frank thought, I can't worry on that now. Work to be done. Gently as he could, he checked all of Heath's pockets. Nothing. Not even in the little rattlesnake pouch. "Damn," he muttered. Half to himself he continued, "This damned shirt. I don't remember him every being such a dandy."

"It's not his shirt," Nick said. "It's Doc Merar's. His own was--well, it was pretty bloody."

Frank bolted.

Mrs. Merar opened the door to them. "How is that young man?" she asked. "You know, I'm still willing to have him here if it would help. The doctor said..."

Frank cut her off. "His shirt," he said.

"Oh, don't worry about getting that back to me. The doctor's got quite a few shirts. Of course in the doctoring business you need to. You wouldn't believe..."

"No," Frank said, controlling his nerves with difficulty. "Heath's shirt. The one he had on Sunday night. What happened to it?"

"Oh, that thing. It was terrible--a bloody mess. Surprising, really, considering he'd only taken that one injury. Of course the doctor always says head injuries bleed something fierce."

"But where is it?" Frank pressed.

"Where is it?" Mrs. Merar repeated. She thought. "In the trash barrel, I suppose. Of course the doctor might have burned it. But he's a bit tardy about household chores. Why, I've been after him about that roof since...."

"The barrel," Frank said. "Where is the barrel?"

"Around back. Just outside the kitchen door. I don't think it's quite safe having that around. Of course if there were children underfoot I wouldn't stand for it. But..."

Frank wheeled around, nearly toppling Nick and Harry Lyman. All three darted around the corner. Frank found the barrel and starting digging through it. The good doctor was still tardy with his household chores, for the barrel was overflowing. Half way down Frank laid his hands on a blue chambray shirt. It was crumpled and stiff, the whole shirt front rusty with dried dark blood. Impossible to believe that one head injury had bled like that. Impossible to believe anyone could lose that much blood and live.

Frank shook off those thoughts; what did it matter how much blood there was on the shirt? His fingers were uncertain, and it took a little effort to pull the front pocket open. There was a sliver of paper. Stained here and there, but still legible. Fine, heavy rag bond. Bold handwriting, thick black ink. Signed by Tom Barkley. Or so it appeared.

Frank pushed past the other two men, loped back to the sheriff's office, still carrying the awful shirt as well as the note. Back in the office, he laid the sliver of paper between the other two. The two ragged edges on Heath's note matched perfectly with the other slivers. It was obvious the three slivers had once formed one solid sheet. And it was obvious that one hand had written all three notes.

"Well, I'll be damned," Lyman muttered. "Sawyer, you're one hell of a bloodhound. I hope if I'm ever in trouble you're around to dig me out."

"Will you let him go now?" Frank pressed.

"I'm not prepared to say the charges are dropped. Phil Archer--he's our prosecuting attorney--he'll have to give the go ahead on that. But I'm more'n ready to let him out of stir, especially since Mrs. Merar's still willing to take him in. You've sure convinced me that Ledyard set this whole thing up."

Harry opened the cell door. Frank realized he was going to have a hell of a time managing Heath alone, even for the short walk to Merar's. But Nick was just behind him.

"Let me help," Nick said.

Heath was a dead weight in their arms, but together they managed well enough. Victoria looked at little shocked at the young man's condition, but her tone was level. "We should take him home," she said quietly.

Frank hesitated. He remembered Heath's obvious antipathy towards these people. Well, no doubt he'd been wrong to think that the Barkleys themselves had lured him to that alley, but no doubt, too, he had reason to dislike them. On the other hand, Nick had turned out to be helpful. And the lady had done the right thing by bringing that note forward. She could have just destroyed it, and no one would have been the wiser. No doubt, now, that the story about Heath and Tom Barkley would be out and about. Couldn't have been an easy choice for her.

But Nick spoke first. Victoria had expected an outburst from him at her suggestion. Instead, he said simply, "It's too far to go, in his condition. Doc Merar's is the best we can do right now." He looked at Frank. "If you can stand her chattering. Let's go."

Mrs. Merar did keep up a steady stream of chatter. But she had a nice guest room, as neat as a pin. And she did seem to want to be helpful, though it seemed that helping went a lot faster without her around. She decided that Doc Merar's shirt was beyond saving. Decided, too, that the dirty pants weren't likely to ever be clean again, and that they were best suited for the trash barrel, too. Frank had to move quick to save the precious little rattler bag.

"What a dreadful thing," Mrs. Merar said. "Why on earth would anyone keep that?"

"Heath claims it protects against rattlesnake bites." Frand had no idea where the bag had come from; Heath had had it as long as he'd known him. The story actually raised the ghost of a smile on big Nick Barkley's face.

The guest room was neat as a pin, but it wasn't big, and the three of them made a crowd, much less with Mrs. Merar flitting in and out. Yet none of them could bear to leave. Victoria roused herself from her own thoughts to check on Nick every now and again. His face showed too clearly that his new knowledge was an unpleasant mouthful to swallow--and yet he was working on it. Some combination of today's events had convinced him that this man was neither a murderer nor a liar--was his own brother, in fact. No one had thought more highly of Tom Barkley. None of her three children had been so close to him, so quick to defend him. Accepting the truth about this young man would be perhaps the hardest thing Nick ever had to do. And yet, Victoria realized, he would do it. Was doing it. How much of his father-worship would survive was unknowable. Perhaps he would be better off without it.

Jarrod, she thought. They must get word to Jarrod somehow. Perhaps Heath's legal troubles weren't really over. It seemed clear enough to her--but there was something in Phil Archer that raised Victoria's hackles. Judgmental and superior, for such a young man. She had a distasteful premonition that Archer would enjoy parading Tom Barkley's weaknesses in front of a jury. In front of the whole town.

In front of the whole town. The boy was in bad shape. Perhaps he wouldn't make it through the night. But if he lived? Then what? Tom had gone to town to meet him that night. To Victoria that meant only one thing: Tom knew the boy might be his son. And he meant to claim him. Embarrassment: Tom would have shrugged it off. Tom would have taken the boy in. Tom would have given him his name.

Because it would have been the right thing to do. The easy thing? Certainly not. Pleasant? Who could say? Tom might have grown fond of him. Proud, even, for a young man didn't command the sort of loyalty that Frank Sawyer had shown without good reason. In time he might have made Tom Barkley both pleased and proud. A son of his that was not hers, too. What--oh, God, what if he had preferred the son as he'd preferred the mother?

Terrible thought. And selfish. The young man had been deprived of so much already. Now no one would ever know what might have grown between his father and him. A tragedy for him; a secret relief for her, for her children. Oh, what an uncomfortable feeling. Since this young man had come to Stockton it had been nothing but unpleasantness and grief. From that first moment she'd seen him, when that cold chill had come over her. Even then she'd known.

And yet: her sense of duty, her sense of propriety could trump all that unpleasantness. He was her husband's son, brother to her own children. His father had meant to take him in. She could do no less. Only time would tell if she could do more, if she could learn to look at this young man without feeling this twisted mass of guilt and grief and jealousy.

In that battered face it was impossible to trace any resemblance. She had seen a little that first day, in the way he walked, the way he held himself. Now, it was the hands that drew her. Square plain hands, shaped for hard work. His father's hands had been much the same. Sturdy hands. Sure hands. Tom had grown rich largely through his brains rather than brawn, but his hands had never turned into the soft pampered hands of a rich man.

Terrible, terrible. Tom, how I am to do this? How could you have left us to face this? How could you have not told me? These questions had been plodding through all of her thoughts for days now. Even as she'd gone through the motions--as she went through the motions now--they would not die down. They leapt out at her from every corner of her mind.

She told herself: He must get well. Focus on that, now. He must get well; he must live long enough to know his father's family will not desert him.

So Mrs. Merar flitted in and out, but Victoria took charge. There was little enough to do. She bathed his face and hands in cool water often, but it didn't seem to bring him any relief. Shorn of the dirty bandage, the head wound looked even worse, a swollen knob straining against the thick black stitches. His breathing was increasingly labored, and he jerked every now and again as if his fever-sleep was tormented.

The doctor finally arrived late that afternoon. He looked over Heath and tsk-tsked. "You remember I told you how deep the wound was. Infection, of course. There's really nothing to do. Probably already in the brain."

Brain fever: they were horrible words. "And yet people do recover," Victoria said.

"Of course. A few. But that's in God's hands, Victoria, not ours. It looks to me as if you're doing all that can be done."

Nick said, "I think those stitches need to come out."

Merar raised an eyebrow. He wasn't used to having his judgment questioned. "The stitches are essential," he said coolly. "To promote healing and prevent infection."

"Well," Nick said patiently, "he's not healing and it's obviously infected. Those stitches have to come out."

Merar snapped, "I won't be responsible for that. If those stitches come out he'll die."

"He's dying as it is," Nick said bleakly. He turned to Frank. "You agree?"

Frank nodded. "Take them out."

While Merar stood by, his arms crossed and disapproving, Nick sterilized his knife and carefully cut open the stitches, exposing the raw mass of injured tissue. The sight was so gruesome that Nick's certainty wavered. Well, too late to undo what he'd done.

For a long time it looked as if Nick's actions would have no effect. But late that night Heath's fever began a slow decline. By morning it was mostly gone. Instead of the troubled, twitching fever-sleep he sank into a deeper, more restful sleep. Nick yawned and stretched and offered Frank a bed at the ranch. Frank yawned and stretched and declined, remembering he hadn't checked the telegraph office in some time.

Victoria stayed.

James Ledyard had the reputation of a dandy. The Pinkerton man lingering along the hedge separating Hannibal Jordan's property from his neighbors' was on the lookout for a sharp-dressed man, medium height, middle 30s. He was watching the front door.

Ledyard had prospered in a dangerous business. Measure twice, cut once; errors were rewarded harshly, sometimes fatally. He had survived by developing a sense of caution bordering on the paranoid. That man at the hotel desk this morning had just had the air of a Pinkerton. Nothing Ledyard could put his finger on, and yet the man was loitering a little too purposefully, his eyes stealing a glimpse at the hotel register. Ledyard wasn't registered under his real name, and the Pinkerton could have been searching for an errant husband shacked up with a dance hall girl. But the greatest safety lay in assuming the worst, and Ledyard assumed the Pinkerton was looking for him.

So he kept his meeting with Hannibal Jordan. But he did it on his terms. Around ten o'clock a carter, roughly dressed, pulled up to the back door. Had the Pinkerton man been able to see the back door, he would have been surprised to see the man of the house open the door himself. He would have been even more surprised to see the man of the house beckon the dirty carter in with a wide smile.

Ledyard was relieved to see no servants about. "Gave them the night off, as you insisted," Jordan said. "No need, really, they're very loyal and well-paid."

Ledyard gave no response. He had an idea of what Jordan might consider well-paid, and that sum didn't begin to equal the price that was likely to be on his head before long. Loyalty was like any other commodity: it had a price. The price was usually a lot higher than most people reckoned. He wasn't taking any chances on the gratitude of Jordan's scullerymaid.

Ledyard had grown up poor and hard in Missouri, but he'd learned a great deal in his travels. He was a dandy, and proud of it. His suits were made by an English tailor, his boots by the same bootmaker that Tom Barkley had so grudgingly patronized. He liked fine cigars and good heavy paper and gold-tipped pens. He knew quality when he saw it. One of these days he'd give up the dirty business and build himself a real showplace. So he looked over Jordan's place with a judicious eye.

He found little to please him. The furnishings in Jordan's study were costly, but there were too many of them and too little thought behind them. Like the man himself. Jordan was bald, with a big round shiny head, and he gave real meaning to the word rotund. Jordan was a bit of a dandy himself, and he could afford the yards--or acres, Ledyard sniggered to himself--for that vivid waistcoat. To have that much money, Ledyard thought longingly, and better taste. Yes, retirement would be sweet.

The whiskey was in an ornate decanter, but it was a smooth old make. Ledyard sampled it. No doubt someone chose for Jordan, he thought; the man who chose that waistcoat couldn't possibly know good whiskey. The cigar was middling.

Jordan, never suspecting the cynical strain of his guest's thoughts, was bubbling with good humor. "Well done, Ledyard, well done indeed. It's all gone just as we'd hoped--better, really. A lucky thing, that fellow turning up in Stockton just then. The papers are all full of the story, that Barkley was gunned down by a sacked employee." Jordan took a big gulp of his whiskey, smacked his lips. "That was a brilliant move--you meeting with Crown in Stockton. Crown doesn't suspect a thing. When he denies the connection he'll be believed."

Ledyard didn't respond. He had his doubts about what Crown really knew. Crown had certainly preserved his own good name by publicly walking away from Ledyard. But that was a sharp man, Ledyard thought, and he was probably already putting the pieces together.

"Now for the next phase," Jordan said. "With Barkley gone it should go fairly smoothly. But of course I'll still want your assistance. When the injunction expires we'll have to start evicting those farmers."

Jordan said the word farmers as if it were the lowest epithet. Ledyard had come from a line of dirt farmers who had drifted further west each generation in search of productive land. They'd found it in Missouri, but the war had ruined their prospects. The war, too, had killed any chance that Ledyard himself could be satisfied by a life behind a plow. But he retained a certain sentimental fondness for the life. His dislike for Jordan deepened a little.

So it was with no particular regret for Jordan that he said: "You'll have to get through the rest of it without me, I'm afraid."

"Without you?" Jordan sputtered. "But I may need you. Those farmers may put up a fight--not much of one, but still, I need a man I can trust. It was my understanding that you'd see this through."

"It was my intent to see it through. But things haven't gone according to plan."

"Of course they have. The papers--"

"Papers be damned. There's a Pinkerton on my tail. I have the feeling that someone in Stockton's tumbled onto me."

"Impossible," Jordan huffed.

Impossible indeed. Ledyard had scarcely been able to believe his luck when that cowboy--how many whiskeys had it taken?--finally mumbled a little of his story. Enough for Ledyard to use. It had been a brilliant stroke, and he'd made brilliant use of it. Tom Barkley was the head of the snake that was troubling Hannibal Jordan. Cut off the head, and the threat would end. That it could be cut off in such a way as to cast aspersions on the pious Mr. Barkley--well, so much the better.

A brilliant stroke, a brilliant plan. It had come so near to succeeding. The fact that he hadn't actually killed the cowboy would hardly matter--who would believe him? But those notes, those damned notes. They'd been essential, but it was also essential that he retrieve them--or at least retrieve the one reputedly written by Tom Barkley.

Oh, he'd chosen so well. That alley was dark and secluded, yet the saloon provided convenient cover noise. And a protected route out of town. It should have gone off perfectly.

Except it didn't.

He'd just tossed the gun down when he'd heard footsteps. That damned Nick Barkley--how had he gotten on the scene so fast? No time to retrieve the notes. He'd had to get away as fast as he could. At the time he'd been fairly confident that he hadn't been seen. Now he wasn't so sure.

Seen or not, it hardly mattered. Ledyard wouldn't have thought that Stockton had a sheriff sharp enough to unravel the plot, but apparently he had. Or perhaps Nick Barkley had seen him. In any case, Ledyard had the distinct sense that he was being watched for, and was in danger. Jordan had paid him, and paid him well--but loyalty did generally come at a very high cost, and Jordan hadn't paid quite enough. Not enough to make Ledyard stick around.

"There's at least one Pinkerton following me," Ledyard said. "I think someone in Stockton's gotten wise to me. And that means to you, too."

"Impossible," Jordan said. "The papers--"

"I don't care what the papers say. I know a Pinkerton when I see one."

"But why would a Pinkerton be following you? Why wouldn't they send the sheriff?"

Paper, Ledyard thought suddenly. Something with my writing on it. That's what that damned Pinkerton was looking for at the hotel. Good thing he'd left nothing. "I don't know why," he said, his impatience beginning to show. "After a few years you get an instinct about this sort of thing. Or you get killed. They're on to me. And it's best that I get out of town for a while."

"My good man," Jordan began, but his town belied his friendly words. "They can't possibly make a case against you. And if they did try--well, I would certainly provide you with the finest legal representation money could buy."

"That would be the nail in both our coffins. And, Jordan, I won't lie to you. If the law cornered me I'd probably give you up in a heartbeat."

"I paid you!" Jordan erupted.

"You paid me all right, but not enough to face a rope. Believe me, Jordan, it's in your best interests that I don't get caught. Without me there's no real evidence to connect you. And Crown to disconnect you. But if I get caught, all bets are off."

Jordan bit his thumb. Regretfully, he said, "I do understand. Perhaps it's best you go. But what am I to do about those farmers? If the word gets out that I had anything to do with Barkley's death, they'll be twice as stubborn. And his sons--they're trouble enough as it is."

Ledyard shrugged. "I agree it's likely to be a difficult situation. Sorry I can't handle it for you."

"You could refund some of my fee," Jordan sniffed.

"Unfortunately I can't get to your fee right now. And considering that my work for you has probably made it impossible for me to work in the states again, I don't consider the fee outlandish." He grinned. "Since I can't give you help or money, I'll give you a little advice. There's a fellow that might be able to help you. He hasn't done much here, but he's been active in Mexico. Around here I imagine he'd prefer to stay behind the scenes. But he's experienced. He's got some contacts." Ledyard smirked. "And he's got beautiful cover--what I could do with a reputation like that. He won't come cheap, but he's the only one on the spot I could recommend."

"All right," Jordan sighed. "Who is he?"

"Wallant," Ledyard said. "The name is Wallant."

"Not General Wallant!"

"The one and the same. He seems to have misplaced his patriotism these days, but not his fervor. You might want to send him down to Stockton." Ledyard's tone grew a little drier. "You might want to make sure you give him plenty of men, too. He has a bad habit of losing them."

"Men I can provide. He can lose as many as he likes if he gets rid of those farmers."

Ledyard's dislike deepened into full-blown contempt. As if men--even the sort of men that would take this kind of work--were just so many railroad ties. Suddenly Ledyard was glad to be free of this job, and this scarlet-breasted jackass. "Don't bother seeing me out," Ledyard said. "It would just make the Pinkerton more suspicious."

"Good luck," Jordan said. "Did you say you were heading back to Mexico?"

"Same to you. And I didn't say. And, Mr. Jordan, I don't recommend that you ever try to find out. Good night."

He woke once. Everything was white. White sheets. Sunlight bright behind the white curtains. So bright he had to shut his eyes against it. He had no idea where he was. He felt no real pain, more like the memory of pain. But there was a vague sense of dread. Something bad had happened. Something very bad. But his mind had gone blank, as blank as the curtains. He had the idea that if he tried very hard he could remember the bad thing, but he was too tired to try.

A voice. He struggled to place it. Not quite Mama. Not quite. But the touch. That was Mama. Mama as he remembered her from long ago, when he was still very young, when she was still happy and hopeful, when she still sang to him, before she had found those little bottles, before she would come in with her breath too sweet, her hands gone slow and a little uncertain. Yes, that was Mama. He was safe, then, safe in the little house at the very edge of town. The bad thing must have been a dream. Mama was here; Mama was here, and perhaps today would be the day, the day Mama was waiting for. He drifted back into sleep.

Victoria went home that afternoon, after it was clear the fever was really gone and that Heath would probably recover. She had the sense of intruding on the Merars; Mrs. Merar fancied herself a fine nurse, and Doc Merar was perhaps a little nettled by having been proved wrong. It was just was well, she thought. Much still needed to be discussed and decided, but that could wait until the young man was stronger. Of course much still needed to be discussed and decided amongst her own children.

She noticed Audra's horse was gone. She found Nick on the back porch. The sight of him sitting alone stabbed at her. It was just about about the time of the day Tom liked a little afternoon refreshment. "Did you get any rest?" she asked. "You've had a full day or two."

"More than a day or two." He ran his hand through his hair. "Audra's out somewhere. I told her as much as I know. I thought--well, I wasn't sure how much she understand and I thought she'd best be prepared."

"I'm sorry you had to do that, Nick. You could have let me handle it."

"You've got so much...But maybe I should have. You probably could have done a better job. She's pretty upset."

"I don't suppose there's a good way to tell this story, Nick. I'm sure you did as well as any of us could."

"She went storming out of here. I've been sitting here wondering if I should go after her."

"Give her a little time yet. It's hours before dark." Victoria frowned. "Why did she have to be told today, Nick? What's going to happen tomorrow?"

"Lyman told me Archer's planning on holding an inquest tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Victoria gasped. "But what about Heath? He can't be ready to testify tomorrow."

Nick's mouth twisted. "Archer said he'd have to decide that himself, but he figured they could hold the inquest without him. Archer naturally thought he had a bang-up case against Heath. Lyman and Sawyer were going to lay out the evidence against Ledyard." He bit his lip. "The irony is, of course, to exonerate Heath all of the other--well, it has to come out, Mother. There's no other way."

Victoria couldn't suppress a sigh. How tired she felt. When was her last night of unbroken rest? Impossible to remember. Those afternoons here on the back porch. All that quiet contentment, gone. Filling that void would be far more difficult than facing gossip. "It would have come out anyway, Nick. It probably already is. In any case, Heath's legal situation can't be compromised in an effort to--to hide who he is."

"I wish Jarrod could be here in time."

"Perhaps he will. I forgot to check the telegraph office."

"I don't suppose there's anything to really worry about. Jarrod's always said Archer's a good enough fellow. If Sawyer could convince Harry Lyman, he shouldn't have any trouble with Archer."

Victoria didn't answer. Jarrod had brought Phil Archer home once or twice, back when they were both in school. The young man had been polite enough, but there had been something harsh and hungry in his dark eyes. Envy. Do we climb just so our neighbors can enjoy the fall? Unworthy thought.

"Anyway," Nick continued, "I think we need to be there. At the inquest. At least one of us."

"Of course. I'll go. If you don't have pressing business here--"

"It's hard to imagine what could be more pressing than that. Besides, I'll have to testify."

"Oh, Nick," Victoria said. "I hadn't thought. I'm sorry."

"No, it's just--" He pounded one fist into another. "If I'd just been a few minutes earlier--I might have stopped it. I might have seen Ledyard."

"Or he might have killed you, too. Don't blame yourself, Nick. Ledyard is a dangerous man."

"I know..." He shifted, sighed. "It's not just that. I keep thinking--if I hadn't been so damned suspicious, if I hadn't forced the issue that night--none of this would have happened."

"Nick..."

"No, it's true. If I hadn't picked that fight--and then thrown him off--" Exasperated, Nick turned to Victoria. "But what was he doing here? Why didn't he say something? Why come all this way and then not say anything?"

"I don't know. I've wondered about that myself. Perhaps he was afraid."

"Rightly so," Nick snapped.

"Nick, don't. This is so fruitless. You couldn't have known. It was perfectly natural for you to think as you did."

Softly, he said, "I was just trying to protect Father."

Yes, that was what Nick had always tried to do. These last few years, it had been difficult to watch his struggle, his natural ability at war against the deference he'd felt towards his father's authority. But this time Tom had deprived his son of the knowledge that might have made that protection worthwhile. "Of course you were, Nick. No one could have done better."

Restless, Nick said, "She's been gone a while. I think maybe I will go looking."

She watched him ride off. He knew, as she did, where Audra was likely to be. She'd spent the last day or so in a frenzy of planting, putting in flowers around the bright scar of the new grave. Victoria felt certain her daughter would be there. Today was bad enough. Tomorrow: tomorrow would be worse. But then every day had been worse than the one before since that Saturday night. When, she wondered, would this stop? When would she awake in the morning with the belief that the day would hold--not pleasure, but just a cessation of fresh injury? The day would come, she thought bleakly, but it would not come soon.