Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

He’d just disarmed the explosive charge when the answer came in the form of Cruz. He looked on, astounded as Cruz and two other men were herding a small herd of cattle ahead of them, and coming up the trail. Suddenly an explosion rocked the mountainside and one of the steers came apart in a shower of blood and hide. The rest bolted, panic stricken, into the brush. Two more men came up the trail, pushing more cattle ahead of them. Bovine mine sweeping was cruel but effective, and something used in past war and conflicts. Two more explosions and the men came up even with Trent.

Cruz grinned at Trent. “It’s all I could think of, and the trail just looked too inviting.”

“Chico, how many more cattle down below?”

“Many more, my friend, and my riders have found a way up the other side of the mountain.”

He nodded. “We have to hurry. Gunny will figure out what we’re doing. If he thinks he’ll have to run, he’ll kill her.” Trent slid down the boulder he had been perched on. “I need an old-fashioned stampede, Chico. Everything you’ve got all in one push, right up to the cabin.”

Gunny stood by the window, listening intently. He heard three explosions, then silence. “That boy’s smart.” He turned and walked toward Katie. “He’s trying to find all my satchel charges so he can explode them. Smart, but it’ll take him too long.” He stood by her side, rubbing the side of the blade against her abdomen. “Right now, it’s time for us to….”

The sounds of bawling cattle, shots fired and men yelling, signaled the start of the stampede. Chico’s men drove the panicked cattle straight up the mountain trail, causing one explosion after another. Gunny leaped to the window in time to see what was left of the herd of cattle already pouring into the clearing around his cabin. Turning, he looked out the back window of the house to see riders coming in through the trees. Cursing, Gunny grabbed his rifle and threw open the front door. Bringing his rifle up to fire, a charging horse knocked him sprawling. He came up firing, emptying saddles all around him. His AK-47 clacked open and he threw it from him. Pulling his knife, he waited for the one he knew would come.

“It’s time, Gunny.”

“Come get it, boy.” The older man’s face twisted in a snarl. “I’ll give you a belly full.”

They came together in a clash of metal as razor-sharp knives made deadly designs in the air. A silent crowd on their horses encircled the fighting men, each mesmerized by the fight before them.

Gunny lunged at Trent, his knife slashing across his arm. “Got you, boy.”

He stepped back and laughed.

The laugh died in his throat as he backpeddled away from Trent’s attack. When they pulled apart again, Gunny was bleeding from several places on his chest and arms.

He waited quietly for Gunny’s next move. When it came, it was so fast he barely avoided it. With his blade pushing Gunny’s knife aside, he buried his fist in Gunny’s belly. Then, when Gunny folded up, he met his lowering head with a rising knee. Gunny snapped backward and hit the ground shoulders first, and then rolled frantically away—fearing Trent would be on him.

He stood quietly waiting again. No emotion showed in his face as he stared at Gunny.

The soldier stood slightly bent over, his left hand against his side. “That was good, real good. But not good enough. Now it’s time for you to go, boy.”

He came at Trent with all his strength and speed until, panting for breath, they stood eye to eye in the middle of the clearing, their knives locked together as they strained against each other. As they stood, Gunny suddenly came up with a knife in his other hand. Trent wrenched away, as the blade slid along his side against his ribs, then completed the turn, knocking the older man sprawling in the dirt. Gunny came up spitting dirt and rushed him. He brushed aside the thrust and felt his blade bury itself in the old noncom’s belly.

Gunny looked down at the knife, then up at Trent. His breath was coming in gasps as he looked into his eyes. “Guess I’ll go… instead.”

“Bye, Gunny.” Trent pulled the knife up and over in a figure seven, then pushed the body away.

He stood looking at his old friend for a long time, no sound coming from the men gathered in the circle. Finally, the horses parted and he saw a blanket-wrapped Katie coming toward him. Cruz had cut her loose and she was running to him, laughing and crying at the same time. As his arms were full of Katie, he looked over her shoulder at a grinning Cruz.

“A long day, my friend.” His voice was tired.

Cruz sobered and looked seriously at him. “It will get longer, for us, anyway.”

Trent, alarmed, pushed Katie away. “What is it, Chico?”

Chico gazed down the trail. “We have all this hamburger….”

The crisp, cool air of an early fall day gently rustled the golden leaves in the towering oaks. The day was resplendent in color as different kinds of trees tried to outdo the other, each trying to be the brightest and biggest.

Colonel Frank Bonham walked past the mass graveyard that chronicled the fall of the United States far better than the printed word would ever do. He climbed a grassy knoll, toward the lone grave at the top. Brushing away leaves stranded against the stone, he placed a small bunch of wild flowers on the grave of his daughter.

Standing again, curious, he reached down and picked up an object lying on top of the stone. Looking around the clearing, wondering who had left it, he finally let his gaze fall on the object. It was a small branding iron with a cross on the end.

He nodded his head once, and then reverently, he placed it back on the stone. Walking back down the hill, his steps slowly regained a youthful spring, his eyes clear, and vindicated. His smile—a small thing, growing slowly.

Darrel Sparkman resides in Southwest Missouri with his wife. Their three children and eleven grandchildren live nearby. His hobbies include gardening, golfing, and writing. In the past, Darrel served four years in the United States Navy, including seven months in Viet Nam as a combat search & rescue helicopter crewman. He also served nineteen years as a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician, worked as a professional photographer, computer repair tech, and was owner and operator of a greenhouse and flower shop. Darrel is currently retired and self-employed. He finally has that job that wakes you up every day with a smile.

Follow Darrel on all his writing adventures on Facebook. You can also contact him directly by e-mail at newfrontierwriter@gmail.com.

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“Sparkman is a rare new talent. He knows the people and the history, and delivers a story with guts as well as brains.”

Coble Bray was content. He sat on a limestone shelf weathered flat by the erosion of time and high water and looked out over a slow-moving creek below. Tendrils of fog drifted over the water in the early morning coolness. The sun would soon chase the fog away. What little breeze there was came from the west and he could faintly hear the lowing of cattle and guessed someone was moving a herd north. The willow tree behind him offered shade from the sun and filtered the smoke from the hatful of fire he used to boil water. He needed the water for coffee—and to clean the wound picked up at a no-name settlement corral trying to serve a warrant to a couple of men wanted for murder. They didn’t like it much, and they’d brought friends.