Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

Big Springs was built on either side of the old Conservation Department access road that entered the small basin between the hills. Mills populated the part of the road that paralleled the springs, using the rushing water to power their huge paddle wheels, which turned the gears and grinders that processed corn and wheat, or turned the blades for sawing lumber. Across the old and broken tarmac were buildings that housed a trading store and meeting hall. A few houses and a church were at the south end, and a lone building used as a tavern was on the north.

As he made his midmorning ride into town, he thought about the best way to handle this new situation. He’d dressed with care, wearing jeans and knee-length moccasins, a blue cotton shirt with his new star pinned on the front, in plain view. His rifle was in its boot, and his right hand rested on his hip, near his gun. Sitting tall in the saddle, he rode down the middle of the street toward the tavern.

He’d discussed his reason for coming alone with Cruz last night.

“At least let me go in with you in the morning.” Cruz argued vehemently. “My riders can watch your back for you.”

“Thought you didn’t want to help,” he replied chidingly. “I’ll go alone, Chico. If we go in with a show of force, there’ll be a fight for sure. If I go alone, maybe they won’t be so jumpy. I could use the loan of a horse, though.”

In the end, Cruz agreed, and the horse he gave Trent was magnificent. Too large to be a good cattle horse, the sorrel gelding reminded him of stories of the Mexican Conquistador’s horses they rode into battle. A battle horse. Fitting.

He could do all the planning and figuring he wanted, but when faced with a problem, he only knew one way to solve it.

Straight on.

Chairs lined the porch of the saloon, most of them filled with men he assumed were mercs, and hangers-on, the likes you would find in most any settlement. The local spit-whittle-and-chew club.

He cataloged them as he stepped down from his horse. They’d be bad as a group, but he didn’t see anyone that might be trouble by himself. He took the front steps two at a time. He held a rolled up piece of cardboard that he’d taken from the back of his saddle. “Who runs this place?”

One of the men turned his head and spat a brown stream into the street. “Who wants to know?”

Without breaking stride, Trent reached out with a toe and kicked the front of the chair out from under the man. The man flipped over backwards with a crash, his head cracking against the building on the way down. A look of dumb surprise washed over his face. “I do.” He stood waiting, as if he didn’t give a damn what the loudmouth did, and in truth, he didn’t.

Finally, when the man saw no one rushing to his rescue, he muttered, “Murdock runs it.”

“Thanks.” Turning to one side, he palmed his .44, reversed it, and used the butt for a hammer to tack his poster to the wall. He stepped back and surveyed the men on the porch. “Read it. If you can’t, find someone to read it for you.”

He stopped just inside the doors to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. This saloon—he no longer thought of it as a tavern—looked different in that it was neater than most. The bar across one end was polished, and the floor swept and clean. He looked around at the men and women sitting at tables and leaning against the bar. Some he knew from other places, some he’d never seen. Still, there weren’t any he would call a raider. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m looking for Murdock.” The noise fell to a whisper when he came in, and his voice carried easily.

A large woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, got up from one of the tables and crossed around behind the bar. Leaning forward on her elbows, she looked him over the way a schoolteacher does the class prankster.

“I’m Murdock.” She didn’t ask what he wanted, or who he was.

He could see now why the place was neater than usual. It had a woman’s touch. When he thought of her as “big”, he didn’t mean fat. This woman was over six feet tall, and proportioned to size. When she leaned forward, her breasts tried to explode from the low-cut dress. In the subdued light, her face was smooth and featureless, her eyes unreadable as obsidian. He vowed to be very careful and not low-rate this woman.

“You run this place?”

“Every inch of it, mister. What’ll you have?”

He brought his attention back to her, trying to keep his eyes off her cleavage. “A speech and a beer, in that order.”

She grinned at him, and the hardness left her face. “All right, this should be interesting. You give the speech and I’ll get the beer.”

He turned and hooked his elbows on the bar. While looking nonchalant, the position actually put his hand closer to his gun. He knew at least one in the room that didn’t miss that fact. “My name is John Trent. Some of you know me. If you don’t, you will get to. What passes for a government these days will claim I’m a United States Marshal, but you and I know that hasn’t meant much in these hills for the last two hundred years. That doesn’t matter. You can call me marshal, or law dog, or anything else you want.” He shrugged and watched the crowd, trying to not make the mistake of meeting someone’s gaze. “None of that matters.”

He paused for a moment to let that sink in. The only sound in the room was someone’s asthmatic wheeze and the creaking of chairs as people shifted in their seats. “This is what matters. I’m serving notice right now. Anyone not showing some sign of work, or serving some purpose around Big Springs, will leave. It can go easy or hard, and you can have it any way you want. This is a working community. The trouble in this settlement is over.”

When there wasn’t any comment he pointed toward the door. “There’s a list of people outside on the wall. If your name is on the list, you have until sundown to get out. After that, I’ll kill you on sight. Anyone not on the list will have to prove up and be okayed by the people of the town. That’s the speech.”

He turned and took the beer Murdock handed him. It was cold and beaded with water. He swallowed half the contents before he put the bottle down. “How do you keep it cold?” He kept half his attention on the folks shuffling out the door.

“There’s a well in the back that feeds in from the Springs. The water is cold enough to make your teeth hurt.” She changed the subject. “Is my name on the list?”

He looked sideways at her. “I didn’t know your name when I wrote that up. Besides, looks to me like you have a job.”

“I thought maybe you would try to run off all the newcomers, and just leave the original settlers.”

He hoped a good explanation would make her spread it around to other people. “Nope. That’s not my intention. Just run an honest place. When people get too drunk to navigate, send them out the door. If they won’t go, send for me. But be warned, I can’t be around all the time.”

“If they won’t go, I’ll show them this.” Reaching under the bar, she came up with a sawed-off pump shotgun. On the front was an attachment he’d never seen, but knew they called it a duck-bill or gator, a deadly item spawned in the jungles of Vietnam that spread the shot in a horizontal pattern.

“I inherited this from my grandfather. He was a ‘Nam Vet.”

He reached out and traced the opening with his finger. “Have you ever used it?”

She grinned at him. “Just once. It was one hell of a sight. A whole bunch of guys came busting in the door. They’d been in earlier and tried to convince me I should be their entertainment for the night. Didn’t sound like much fun to me, so I ran them off. When they came back, I let them have it. I don’t get many arguments anymore.”