Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

“Left, Trent!” Charley’s hoarse scream galvanized him back into action. Jumbo Smith, covered in blood, was coming up from behind the overturned table. Trent dropped onto one knee as Smith’s first shot went over his head. Carefully, as if on a target range, he fired one shot. Smith stood stiffly for a moment, and then collapsed lifelessly behind the table.

The door opened behind him as Walsh got up from the floor. Katie came in, and with one look at the carnage around the table, slowly slid down to the floor. She sat that way, with her arms folded across her knees, forehead on her arms.

Murdock stood protectively over her, but with a sheepish look on her face as she spoke to Trent. “I forgot to tell you. That Ithaca jams a bit. Needs some work.”

He just looked at her.

“I said I was sorry.” Her customary belligerence was coming back as she went around the bar to help the bar-girl to her feet.

He helped Katie get up. “Let’s find a place to hole up for the night,” he said gently as he folded her into his arms. “And Murdock?” He pointed at Charley. “Take care of my friend, here. He looks a little under the weather.”

Morning was still a promise in the eastern sky as they stood by the preacher’s grave. The roar of the water, rushing from beneath the mountain, seemed muted by the fog. The errant breeze, pushing the mist around the small graveyard, was cool and damp.

“We never got along.” Katie’s voice was subdued, barely audible above the background noise of the Springs. “I’m sorry for that.”

“He died doing what he believed in. Even in the face of death. I heard from some folks he did not give in and was telling them to get out of town when they took him. I would say that’s a fair judgment of any man. He died facing his troubles. That’s all any man can ask.” Trent’s eyes roved around the meadow, and toward the town.

“Do you have to go?”

“You know I do.”

Her head turned away so he wouldn’t see the start of more tears. “Isn’t there some other way? There has been enough killing.”

“If there was another way, I’d do it, Katie. There’s been too much killing, that’s a fact. But there will have to be some more before this is over.”

“I’m afraid.”

“I know, Katherine. So am I. There’s a lot at stake, now.”

“I should have fallen in love with some hillbilly and raised pigs and chickens.” She sighed and leaned her head against his chest. “I don’t want to lose you, John. Not now.”

He looked steadily into her eyes. “It could happen, you have to know that.”

“Why can’t we just ride out of here? Why not just grab our stuff and go?”

“What about little Tommy? Or Murdock, do you think she can last—or any of the settlers?” He looked at her, a humorous glint in his eyes. “Don’t I remember you telling me I should take this job? It was my duty?”

“I didn’t love you then. Ah, damn you. I don’t know why I stay with you.”

He chuckled and pulled her to him. “Sure you do. You said us old guys were more interesting.”

She leaned back, looking at him. “You can’t do all those interesting things if you’re dead.”

“Point taken. This won’t be a contest, Katherine. Not if it’s just Pagan.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I know him. I know me.”

As the sun started to climb, running the shadows from the street below, people began showing up in small groups, positioning themselves along the street and between buildings for what small protection they would afford. Trust the mountain grapevine. Word gets around.

Leaving Katie sitting on the church steps, Trent was just starting down the hill when he heard his name called. He turned to confront the small group of horsemen just coming in from the trail above the springs. Just what I need. “Mr. Starking.”

“Marshal Trent.”

He wondered if the thong was off his pistol and vowed to cut it off. He’d just have to chance his gun falling out of the holster. “I’m asking you to stay out of this, Mr. Starking. It would be a favor.”

Starking smiled crookedly. “We never had much in common with Pagan Reeves, Marshal. No, actually we are here to meet with some of the townsmen. It’s peace we’re looking for, not war. We won’t interfere.”

He pulled his pistol, the thong was off, and smiled as several of the men tensed, and then relaxed. He was just checking the loads. “Do me a favor, then?”

If Starking noticed the byplay, he didn’t let on. “If I can.”

“Pagan still has several men. If I go down, make sure they don’t take over the town. There’s a future here. If you and your people merge with the settlers, you’ll be strong enough that you won’t have to worry about the Pagan Reeves of this world.”

Starking didn’t answer, just clucked to his horse and led his people toward town.

Trent stood in the center of the street, with the sun warm on his shoulders. The morning breeze gently ruffled his shirt, and carried a hint of lilac and cedar. At times like these, every sense is incredibly alive and each breath is pure and sweet, as if the body is trying to savor the last feelings it will ever have. He mentally shook himself. Take care of business. This was all for show. The townsmen needed to see the outlaws, or badmen, vanquished. The outlaws needed to show everyone who was in charge. It may have an Old West look to it—but it was necessary.

Pagan Reeves stepped smiling out of the saloon where he had been filling up on liquid courage. Two men flanked him. He felt his blood run cold. One of the men was a small time merc for hire, always wearing an idiot smile. Trent had seen him around but could not remember his name. The other man was Dake Priest. Priest, the ex-courier gone bad, was now a gun for hire. His mouth turned dry with tension and adrenalin, as he willed the knot in his belly to go away. No one said it would be easy. “You’re running in rough company, Priest. I should’ve taken you down last night.” His voice echoed between the buildings as he purposefully ignored Pagan.

“I like it rough, Trent.” Of them all, Priest was the most dangerous. He’d already figured his odds and planned his moves. Standing slightly behind the other two, Priest knew he was in the best position to get a shot off.

“Way I’ve got it figured, Priest, my first two shots will be for you. At this range, I won’t miss. The next shot will be for smiley, there. I’ll save Pagan for last.”

As he kept staring at Priest and steadily advancing toward them, the gunman began to sweat, eyes darting side to side. This wasn’t going the way it should. They should stop. Square off. They should taunt each other. This way, and at this range, they would all be killed.

Pagan could not stand it anymore.

“What about me, Trent? Ain’t you worried about me? Don’t you want me?”

When his left foot hit the ground, he pulled his pistol. “How about now, Pagan?” His gun was up and firing. Priest took one in the shoulder as he dove for cover. The other, his hand on his gun, was looking down at the hole in his chest. Bright red blood was pumping out of his shirt. He started to say something, but ran out of time. He folded up and fell in the dust.

Trent brought his gun to bear on Pagan. Pagan’s hand was on his gun, but he hadn’t drawn it. It was too late.

“Don’t shoot, Trent.” Pagan’s eyes were ferreting from side to side, desperately looking for help.

Trent just stared at him, while keeping track of Priest at the same time. A sudden shot rang out, and Priest flopped from behind a boardwalk.

The musical voice of Chico Cruz said, “We’ll watch your back, compadre. You have a trial to do, yes?”