Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

Gran thought the killer had been with the patrol. Had they taken a prisoner? Was one of the patrol members an impostor? And how would he find the attacker in a few million square miles of forest?

Trent’s musing totally occupied his mind, so when his horse pulled up and stopped, he had to look around to get his bearings. The trail, once a fire access road around the mountain, narrowed here with a steep fall on his left side and a high bluff on the right. The path was grown up with grass as high as his horse’s knees. Sitting in the partial sunlight that filtered through the trees, he was just nudging his horse forward when he saw a wink of sunlight reflecting off something high on the bluff above him.

He started to wheel his horse when the first bullet caught him high on the shoulder, turning him in the saddle. The second scraped along the top of his head, just under the skin, snapping him off his horse and into the brush along the trail. Head ringing and barely conscious, he kept rolling down the steep embankment trying to get some distance between him and the shooter. Finally, coming up against a lichen-covered dead-fall, he lay gasping in pain. The forest fern and grasses were waist high here, and he couldn’t see the trail above from where he lay. Waves of nausea went through him as the initial shock wore off and the pain hit. He shook his head trying to clear his vision and that just brought on dizziness.

Move. He had to move.

Suddenly the air around him buzzed like mad hornets as several guns opened up on full auto from the trail above. Leaves puffed up around him, and clipped twigs and splinters flew into the air, falling on him as he struggled to move. With a huge effort, he rolled up and over the log as he felt two smashing blows in his side and back.

He gave a hoarse cry and went headfirst over the log, fighting for consciousness before he hit the ground. One arm still showed on the trailside of the log, until it slowly slid from sight, leaving a trail of crimson on top of the log.

After the attack, the silence of the forest was nearly total, and the sound of a man laughing came clearly down the slope.

The steady spattering of blood on the leaves was the first thing Trent heard when he came to. His blurred vision could barely see the blood dripping from his nose. He turned and looked painfully at the sun, surprised to see it had moved hardly at all. He must have been out only a few minutes.

Using the log as a crutch, he got his feet under him. Looking longingly up the hill he realized everything he needed was still up there somewhere with his horse. He had his pistol, and the hunting knife. It would have to do.

Trent started to walk… and fell on his face.

All right, he’d crawl. Just like swimming. Reach out and grab a handful of dirt, and pull it toward you…

Three men rode out on the trail, having gingerly traversed the bluff. They stopped to survey the damage.

“What do you think, Red?” Pagan Reeves was searching the brush below for any sign of Trent. All they could see was the red-stained log.

“I think we got us one dead marshal.”

Shoving his rifle down in the boot, Pagan turned in the saddle. “I didn’t hear you shooting, Hobbs.”

Hobbs shook his head. “Not much of a back shooter, Pagan.”

“Hell, what’s the difference? You’re just as dead one way as the other.” Pagan eyed the merc suspiciously. “You’re not getting religion on me, are you? I never heard of a born-again raider.” Both he and Seaver laughed.

Hobbs pulled his horse back from the trail. “You boys go on to the Springs. I think we’ll part company here.” His rifle remained pointed at the two men, who were staring angrily at him.

“When you’re out, you’re out.” Pagan’s voice was low and threatening. “No second chances.”

“Don’t try to scare me. I don’t feel like laughing right now.”

After the two men had pounded down the trail, Ben Hobbs sat looking down at the place he knew Trent must be. Sighing, he began a careful descent from the trail into the ravine. Hell of a way to go, he thought, but he could at least bury him. He owed him that much, anyway.

Hobbs approached the blood-stained log. It had taken longer to find it than he first thought it would, and he was anxious to be on his way. Pagan might decide to come back and use him for target practice. Hurriedly he looked over the top of the log.

Trent was gone.

With a soft curse, Hobbs quickly looked around for a trail. It was easy to find. Trent hadn’t gone far.

The Marshal’s scalp wound still bled slightly, the rest of his body seemed painted in red. Hobbs felt for a pulse and was shocked to find it—not strong, but steady. He sat back on his heels a moment, thinking it out. He would retrieve Trent’s horse and take him to the Sanchez ranch. If he lived that long, so be it. It was too dangerous to take him back to Big Springs. Murdock was not that good of a medic anyway. And Pagan would be there. Nodding his head, Hobbs started moving.

Hours later, he was hailed at a sentry post. “It’s Ben Hobbs. I got a wounded man here, and thought you might want him.”

“You are alone, Hobbs?” Cruz had come up silently behind him, holding his short M-4 level with Hobbs’s belly.

“I am.”

Cruz couldn’t hide his dislike for the man in front of him. He knew Hobbs was no good. “And who is this man you think we want?”

“Trent.”

With a curse, Cruz grabbed the reins of Trent’s horse and began leading him toward the house, shouting rapidly in Spanish as he went. The front door slammed open like a shot and Consuelo came rushing out. Together, she and Cruz pulled Trent from the saddle. His head rolled limply, and his breathing was so shallow they could barely see any movement.

Chico Cruz put his hand gently on Trent’s head. “Ah, compadre. It’s a poor end. Someone will die for this.”

Consuelo looked strangely at Cruz, never before having seen this kind of gentleness in him. Suddenly, Katie shoved her aside.

“John?” Her hands were covering him, helplessly, touching and probing as tears welled up in her eyes. “God, I’ve never seen so much blood. How can he still be alive?” Suddenly, Katie gasped, talking to herself. “Oh, thank you, Lord.” Now her hands were strong and had purpose. Consuelo and Cruz were looking at her strangely. “Get Murdock. He’s going to make it. Look at this.” She was sobbing and laughing at the same time. Her strong hands ripped the front of his shirt open to reveal his back and side. “One of the bullets just cut through the meat on his side. It went straight through. The second must have hit a rib as he was turning. The bullet followed it around his body and came out the front. If we can keep out the infection, he’ll make it.”

Cruz surveyed the wounds, at once skeptical and hopeful. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I know. But he’s strong. He’ll make it. He has to.” She turned back to Trent. “You crazy, wonderful man. You weren’t shot with bullets, you were shot with luck.” She was still crying and laughing when she turned to the others. “Come on, let’s go. He will be all right. Go.”

Cruz sent one of his riders for Murdock with a stern admonition to hurry, then helped carry Trent inside. Disdaining the normal trail, the rider went bursting through the brush heading for the backside of the Springs. He’d probably kill the horse, but this was a friend of Cruz, and anyone who crossed Cruz….

Katie was holding him close, covered in his blood, kissing him in relief.

Ben Hobbs clucked at his horse, pointing him toward the gate.

“A moment.” Cruz walked out on the porch.