Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

“And just how many older men have you had?”

He wasn’t ready for her serious answer. “None— yet. ”

He laughed and changed the subject. “Did you have any trouble coming up the trail?”

“No, none to speak of.” Katie said soberly. “But I got some brewing here.”

As he raised his eyebrows, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the soldiers. “One of the Green Jeans has been staring at me a lot. He even tried to talk to me a couple of times. I think he’s working up to something, and I’m going to be the main attraction.”

Trent looked out over the men. “Need me to speak to him?”

“Nope. I am a big girl. I’ll handle it. Of course, you might stay close….”

He nodded as he walked off to see the lieutenant, leaving Katie to stew in her own juices.

This one screamed.

She was tough and strong, and he hadn’t meant to do this again—not this soon. But there she was and she was young and pretty, her shiny black hair pinned into a bun in the back, and she looked scrubbed and clean, and the virginal innocence was an aura around her… and he could not stop.

She was fast. He had to run her down, and her long black skirt kept tripping her, making her easy prey. Even then, she almost got away. She struggled and fought and lost the funny little white cap she wore on her hair, the lace soiled with dirt and grass stains. He stuffed it in her mouth to shut her up. Finally, he tied her to the stakes he hammered into the ground, smiling at her reassuringly. He pulled flint and tinder from his pouch and started a little fire. With reverence and gentleness, he placed the end of the small branding iron in the fire, the one with the cross on it that would become cherry red in moments.

Pulling up his pants a few minutes later, he looked at her scornfully. She’d stopped crying and her black eyes followed him everywhere he went. Just like the other, she enjoyed it.

Contemptuously, he pulled out his hunting knife. Eyes wide in terror she started panting and screaming, her mouth a red rictus of pain.

The gelding moved restlessly under Trent as he sat in a clearing in the forest, considering his options. Lieutenant Spencer had casually mentioned that Gunny was overdue, and then promptly ignored the situation. You don’t leave a man behind, not in this country, so Trent had left immediately to back trail the squad of soldiers, hoping to run into the missing man. Following the trail was easy, at least until now.

The soft earth in the clearing showed tracks of more than one band of horses, making any particular sign impossible to find. It looked like a regular parade of people had gone through this clearing since morning. Over one track he saw a wet brown spot. He could picture the native hill people stopping to look at the tracks, gazing after the patrol, probably shifting their cud of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other, then spitting a long brown stream at the tracks. Their contempt shown, they would disappear back into the forest. One thing was certain. The patrol was not fooling anyone. By nightfall, the news would be all over the hills. They might as well have brought a brass band with them.

Seen from the last ridge he crossed, a small cluster of buildings nestled at the bottom of the next hill. He turned his horse that way. Gunny was probably there, swilling moonshine, telling lies, and sampling the local women.

Topping a small rise in the dirt road, he reined in the gelding. The small hamlet spread out before him, a few rundown buildings on both sides of the path they called a road, or more likely, in this part of the country, they called it a trace. No one was visible along the street, not surprising considering the heat.

Sweat trickled down his sides as he took off his hat and ran fingers through his hair. Drying his hands on his shirt, he slipped the loop off his revolver and pulled the rifle from its boot on the saddle. Clucking to the horse, he rode down to the buildings.

The slow-walking gelding was tense as a spring as he neared the largest of the buildings. Muscles bunching and nostrils flaring, the horse came to a stop in front of the only building sporting a sign. Ziler’s Mercantile. Holding his rifle in one hand, he was starting to climb down off the horse when a voice startled him from behind.

“Better not.”

The level of suppressed anger in the voice spoke reams about what would happen if he didn’t obey. The tone surpassed any language barriers.

Several doors along the walk began to disgorge a ragged band of people, mostly women and kids. Glancing behind him, he found the men. They were all armed, and looked to be ready for target practice, with him as the bullseye. His rifle was in his right hand. Swing and fire it? Fatally slow. To draw and fire his pistol, he would have to shift the rifle, or drop it.

They had him. Stone cold.

Time to see if he could talk himself out of this one.

He turned in the saddle to confront the men. Most were just holding weapons, not pointed in any particular direction. The sallow faced young man standing in front of the group, however was pointing his double-barreled twelve gauge right at Trent’s middle.

Persuasive.

“What’s the problem?”

The shotgun barrel came up a bit. “Like you don’t know?”

“I don’t, or I wouldn’t ask.” He was more relaxed, now that he had gotten a better look at the man’s weapon. He knew he could draw and shoot before the man pulled the trigger on the shotgun. It was an old piece— real old, with individual hammers for each barrel, neither of which the man had cocked. He could fire by pulling the triggers, but that was a hard pull. That fraction of a second it took would cost him his life, if it came to that.

“What are you doing around these parts?”

“Passing through—” He spoke reasonably, needing desperately to defuse the situation. “—looking for someone.”

“I think you’re lying.”

Trent tried hard to think of a reply that wouldn’t result in a shooting, but couldn’t come up with anything. Then another voice broke in—an old voice, but one still strong with vitality.

“Let him go, Lon.”

“He’s a stranger, Gran. I bet he’s one of them raiders we keep hearing about.”

“Don’t matter, Lon. Use your head. If he done it, he wouldn’t ride back into town, right down the middle of the trace. Don’t be stupid.” The woman spoke evenly, but it was obvious she was used to being obeyed.

Lon looked to be trying to figure out if he’d been called stupid when a grey-headed woman stepped around from behind Trent’s horse. Tall and erect, dressed severely in black and grey, she was the matriarch of the clan. Her eyes were sharp and bright. Anything less than the truth told to this woman would reap nothing but grief and pain.

“Let’s start over, mister. You can see we’re a little upset. What’s your name?”

“John Trent, ma’am.”

Her expression said she’d just bit down on something sour. “Don’t try to butter me, boy. What’re you doing here? We ain’t exactly on the main trail.”

He decided to lay it all out for her. Who he was traveling with and why, and who he was looking for. Several of the men nodded when he mentioned the army patrol.

“I used to be a courier for the army. Right now, I am a brand spankin’ new US Marshal, headed for Big Springs.”

At the mention of being a Marshal, though, several people smiled, and most of the crowd nurtured looks of derision on their faces. Even the kids thought it was funny, no doubt raised with stories of moonshiners and the law. Their mistrust of the law was inherent in their genes—from way, way back.