Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

“I need to spend some time in the forest. Alone. If I cannot see him, maybe I can feel him, smell him, or even hear him. This has gone on too long. I have to try something.”

“What about Reeves? You don’t want to have trouble on two fronts. You can’t trail this killer if you’re worrying about your back trail.” Chico’s voice hardened. “How about we take care of Reeves for you?”

“No.” At the man’s startled glance Trent held up his hand. “I’ve something better for you to do, Chico. If your men are willing, pull as many off the ranch as you can spare and put them on the trails. Two-man teams. I want to know who’s moving and where they are going. If we see Starking, we’ll ask him for help, too.”

“You think Starking would help?” Chico’s voice was skeptical.

He shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Won’t know until we ask.”

“And Pagan?”

“No,” he said, “Pagan is my responsibility. I’ll take care of him. And you’re right. It has to be done first.” He stood and adjusted his gun belt. “We’ll go to town tonight.”

It wasn’t until later that he remembered the dispatch. He opened the courier pouch, and retrieved a short, cryptic message.

Trent,

Moving your way with settlers in one month. If Springs not suitable, suggest alternate site to Lt. Saints. Charley Walsh closed saloon. Probably coming your way.

So, that was it. More settlers. He sighed tiredly, then in frustration, balled up the paper and sent it winging into the bushes. This wilderness haven was going to be knee deep in people before long, many of them young women. And the killer was still loose.

John Trent paused at the edge of the valley, testing the air like a prowling wolf. Katie kept glancing at him. He could see she was unsure of him. The night was warm and muggy. Their clothes felt damp in the cloying heat. An occasional flash of lightning would briefly illuminate the sky to the west, followed by a low growl of thunder.

They walked silently through the glade, moving toward the back of Murdock’s saloon. He’d tried to persuade Katie to stay away, but she’d stubbornly insisted. They found the back door locked, but as they turned to go around the building, it opened a crack, creaking slightly in the stillness.

Murdock’s husky voice broke the stillness of the night. “Get in here. We’ve been expecting you.” Once inside, she closed the door and turned up an oil lamp to look them over. “Must have been one hell of a week.”

He looked toward the front of the bar. “I’m looking for Pagan.”

Murdock ignored him and smiled. “Trent, you look like you been caught in a stampede of Arkansas Razorbacks, and Katie looks like the cat that ate the canary. I’d say the negotiating is over between you two?”

He ignored her baiting. “Is Pagan here?”

“Nope,” the big woman said. “Just some of his boys. Red Seaver is in there and Jumbo Smith. Jumbo is about the same size as Big Waters, only meaner. You’ll notice by the names they use, they ain’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.”

Trent looked a question at her.

“Big Waters is the one that walks on crutches now, being as someone got mad and broke his leg.” Murdock’s voice was quiet and sarcastic at the same time.

Katie broke in. “Have you seen my father?”

“I don’t know how to make this easy, girl.” Murdock reached out and brought Katie to her. “Hon, your father always was a stubborn man. He met up with Pagan and Red a few days ago. After they beat him around a bit, they came to the saloon. Red went back out and shot him. I’m sorry, Katie. He’s dead.”

Katie went pale in the subdued light. Her eyes went round, then closed in pain. “I should’ve stayed.” Her breath caught in a stifled sob. “I should’ve been here.”

“It wouldn’t have helped. The preacher’s whole flock was around. They didn’t help none either. We buried him behind the church, thought that’d be best.” Murdock continued to hold Katie as tears coursed down both their cheeks.

“Hey.” Murdock grabbed Trent’s arm. “By the way, some no-good bum is out there. He claims to know you. Name’s Walsh. Pesky little fella. I kinda took a shine to him, so don’t shoot him.”

He turned his stony gaze toward the door.

“You two stay here.” He opened the door a crack, and then turned and asked Murdock, “Where do you keep the Ithaca?”

“Under the bar, about middle way. You be careful, Trent. That gun will take saints and sinners, alike.”

Slipping through the door into the smoke filled room, he walked casually down to the middle of the bar, reached under and brought out the shotgun. He thumbed off the safety.

Charley Walsh was sitting at the far end of the bar. When Trent walked in, his eyes lighted up. “Well, if it isn’t…?” His comment died as he saw Trent take the shotgun. “Oh, shit.” Walsh scooted around the end of the bar and pulled his pistol.

The room got quiet in waves, starting close to him, and then expanding on into the room as more people looked up and realized who was there.

Red Seaver sat at a table with two other men. When he looked up and saw Trent, he went two shades whiter.

He pounded on the counter top with the butt of the shotgun. He had their attention. One of the men at the table stood up, hands out wide. Trent recognized him instantly. Dake Priest was an ex-courier. He’d dropped out of sight the last couple of years and he’d lost track of him.

“I’m not in this, Trent.”

“Too bad, Dake. I like to get all my chickens together.”

“Now, you got no call to act like that. What happened two years ago wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh, I know. Someone had to supply them with automatic weapons. Right? Tell you what, Dake. You go stand in that corner, and maybe I won’t shoot you.”

“You want my gun?” Priest asked.

“Keep it. You can use it if you feel lucky.” He moved his attention to the rest of the crowd. “Folks, there’s going to be some shooting. If you aren’t friends of Red here, you’d better get on outside. If you are friends of his, then stay and join the show. It doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other.”

“Now, Marshal, you hold on a minute.” Seaver was sweating. “This ain’t going to be fair. I got this girl in one hand and a drink in the other. You got to at least give me a chance.”

The area between Trent and the table cleared out and most of the patrons filed out the door. The table in front had three men, and standing in the corner was a fourth.

“You men were warned. Not only did you stay, you killed a man. And for what, Seaver? What do you get out of killing that preacher? Was that one fair?”

Seaver stammered an answer. “We were drunk, man. Besides, Pagan started that. Not me.”

Jumbo Smith had stood it too long. With a truculent voice, he said, “We got you three to one, Mr. Marshal. Maybe if you drop your guns, we’ll let you live for awhile.”

The bar girl started struggling to get away. It was all the distraction they needed. He could see it in Red’s eyes. It was going to be now. He made eye contact with the girl and said, “Drop.”

The girl fell down as if she had practiced the move for years, as Red’s gun was coming up. Trent dropped the barrel of the duck-billed Ithaca and pulled the trigger, aiming high to avoid the girl. The two men at the table exploded in a red froth as the number four shot blew through them. He whirled to face the man in the corner as a bullet nicked the top of his ear and he jacked another shell into the pump shotgun. The Ithaca jammed! He sidestepped up the bar as a second shot went through the side of his shirt, palmed his pistol and fired. Rocked back against the wall by the expanding slug, the man tried to bring his gun in line. He fired again and the man dropped, his gun falling from lifeless fingers.