Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

She took him by the arm. “Close your mouth, boy. The flies are getting in. You will excuse us, father?” Not leaving her father any time to disagree, she led him out the back door. “I thought you might want to wash up.”

“Thanks for saving me.” There was a bench by a well pump, with two pans of water. Trent took the hint and stripped off his shirt. She leaned against the side of the house, watching as he washed vigorously in the cold water, and then stood looking around for a towel. Katie reached inside the door, snagged one off a hook, and tossed it to him.

He flattened his wet hair with a comb found on the bench, which made him wish he had a haircut. This, in turn, made him think of his chin and wish he had a razor, which made him wish he were somewhere else entirely. He smelled her before he felt the towel rubbing his back. Lilac and sweetness, mixed with cooking smells of bread and chicken. When he turned, she stepped inside his arms, her breasts nudged up against him, her searching eyes serious and humorous at the same time.

“Don’t let my father run over you. It just makes matters worse. We’ll have dinner, and then he’ll likely preach at you awhile. Then he’ll go over to the church to study.” She smiled at him. “We’ll be alone, then.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Trent acquiesced with a smile and none-to-gentle squeeze.

“Ah, now. Patience is a good word to think of.” Her lips left a small wet spot on his nose and then she left him to get into his shirt by himself, her fingers leaving feathery tracks down his chest and across his stomach.

Supper was over and the two men were sitting on the front porch. The church and parsonage were set on higher ground, so the valley lay open before them like a mural. Trent tried to remember where he had seen a painting like this. In the distance, they could hear a piano playing in the saloon, or more accurately being beat into submission—and occasional laughter drifted to them, carried by the summer breeze on its way out of the valley.

The Reverend, perhaps trying to circumvent the melancholy atmosphere the evening had brought, didn’t waste any time. He waved at the town. “They are a godless people, with little thought for life or propriety.”

Knowing this was just another opening salvo, he responded lightly. He could imagine the thoughts of the good Reverend. “Which ones? There are a lot of people down there.”

“All of them, Mr. Trent, each and every one of them.”

He thought about how to respond to such arrogance. “Well, I’m sure glad I’m not down there.”

Reverend Stephens snorted at his sarcasm. “You think you’re better, Mr. Trent? I’m not blind or deaf. I’ve heard of you, and of your kind. Frankly, I can’t tell much difference between you and the people you’re supposed to protect us from.”

He could feel a headache coming on. There were men like this on both sides of any issue. Maybe this Marshal thing wouldn’t work after all. He wasn’t much of a fence straddler. “So your answer to the problem is…?”

The man answered quickly, like he’d given the subject a lot of thought. “Leave, Mr. Trent. The will of God can be done without your assistance. Lives will be saved.”

He nodded with a small smile and tried to meet the man’s gaze. “With you interpreting God’s will, I suppose.”

The Reverend ignored the barb. “This killing has to stop. With you here, posing as a US Marshal, the situation will only get worse. No one will have respect for your kind of law. The badge you are wearing is a vain trinket that you should put away. That,” he pointed to the worn handle of Trent’s pistol, “won’t solve anything here.”

He thought a moment, realizing he and the reverend were at an important juncture. This was a minefield that needed a careful path. “Has it occurred to you that I may be as much God’s instrument as you? When you think about it, we have the same goals. We want an end to the killing, and we want peace.” He stood and leaned against a worn post. “Do you think for one moment that your preaching of peace will make any difference to those people down there? They only understand one thing. Survival. The quick and strong live. The slow and weak die. They don’t want to die, Reverend.”

“Violence is never the answer.” The Reverend was starting to warm up to the subject and he could feel the sermon coming on that Katherine warned about.

Abruptly, he interrupted the man. “What happens when they come for your daughter? What happens when they decide they want to live in your house? What happens when the bad guys become tired of the girls in the saloon, and take after the women in your congregation? How will you stop that, Reverend?”

Stephens did not answer, just turned and looked over the valley.

“I’ll tell you, Reverend. Unless they know you will hurt them more than they can hurt you, unless you make the price of their actions so high they won’t chance it, then you don’t have a chance in hell, Reverend. Not one.”

The man turned back to him, with a sad look. “And your way, Mr. Trent?”

“You say you’ve heard of me. Well, so have they. Most of the men down there are followers. Oh, they’ll kill you quick enough, providing they can get away with it. But most of them don’t want to die trying. For those people, my presence will make a difference. That cuts down the numbers and leaves the real problem. Men like Pagan Reeves, and a few others. Those I’ll have to defeat, Reverend. There just isn’t any other way. I won’t have time to debate the issue, or bring them to you for conversion and counseling. The bad ones have tasted blood, and nothing less than blood will stop them.”

“And you, Marshal Trent. You’ve tasted blood. Can you not stop until you have tasted theirs?”

Trent thought a moment. He hadn’t talked this much… ever. “You may be right… but I’d like to think I’m still a fair man and will listen to reason. Except for one person.”

He knew the preacher was thinking of the raiders, and possibly Pagan Reeves, but Trent was thinking of the mysterious killer.

“I’m curious. What possessed you to take such a job?”

He snapped back to the present and grinned ruefully at the reverend. “Now, I’ve thought about that. I have to tell you. If God made me do this, then I wish He’d left me alone. My way has always been to let others do as they want, as long as they didn’t bother me. Somehow, that isn’t good enough anymore. I guess, when it comes right down to it, there just wasn’t anyone else around to do the job.”

The Reverend shook his head. “The Commandment says thou shalt not kill, Mr. Trent.”

“See, there you go again, thinking you’re the only one who’s ever read a book. The original translation in the Greek says thou shalt not commit murder. There’s a world of difference in that. It wasn’t until modern times that the clergy changed the wording to kill.”

“And you think that distinction absolves you from the responsibility of your killing? The premeditation?”

He had to think on that one a moment. The Reverend seemed content to wait. Finally… “No, I don’t. When you strap on a gun, you strap on the responsibility that goes with it. A gun is a tool, used to save lives, as well as take them, Reverend. Your problem is, everything has to be black or white. Unfortunately for you, we live in a world of grey.”

“There is only right and wrong, Mr. Trent.”

He replied sadly, with genuine regret. He knew that the two of them would never agree. “Then I envy you your clarity, Reverend Stephens, however shortsighted it is.”

Both men turned as Katie came out of the house, looking fresh and vibrant. Every time Trent saw her, she looked more beautiful. “I think you two have about beat that subject to death, don’t you?”