Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

He idly watched a line-side bass chasing a dragonfly too close to the water break the surface of the placid creek only to fall back without a meal. For this creek to have a pool so wide, a beaver or two must have built downstream. A fruitless project since these small creeks were subject to flooding during heavy rains that would wash away the dam. He chuckled. At least they’d have job security the rest of their lives—before some coyote or big cat caught them away from the safety of their domain.

Frowning, he raised the side of his shirt. It wasn’t much of a wound, just a crease along his side, but it hurt like hell. What he didn’t need was the cloth sticking to the wound or it getting infected. There was a sawbones in KC, but that might be a few days away and he was used to doing things on his own.

The sound of the bass breaking water again, and his grumbling stomach made up his mind. He rose and walked to his horse ground-reined by the willow. Old Red liked the shade too, and nipped at him as he went toward his saddlebags, probably thinking they were leaving. He swatted him on the nose.

“I’m just getting my bags, Red. Go back to sleep.” He carried the heavy bags, and as an afterthought, his bedroll and oversized canteen, back to the fire. This would be a good place to rest for a while.

Taking out a clean white rag, he tossed it into the open pot of boiling water, and then got out a bottle labeled Sloan’s Horse Liniment . He wasn’t going to like this—really, really wasn’t going to like this.

He pulled his heavy-bladed knife and stuck the blade in the boiling water. After a few minutes he used it to lift the cloth and let it cool for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his shirt and cleaned the crease in his side. The bullet had cut through the meat, just under his short ribs, and left a burning gash in his side. Satisfied the wound was clean, and thankful it hadn’t penetrated into his belly, he pulled the cork from the liniment bottle. He looked doubtfully at the horse on the label.

Hell, if it works on a horse….

Pouring some on a clean corner of the rag, he took a deep breath and applied it to the cut.

Old Red flinched at the sound of the barely suppressed screech that came from his owner. For a moment, everything was quiet except for his deep breathing. Even the birds stopped their chatter and he distinctly heard another fish hit the water. A few minutes later things returned to normal, except for Red grinning at him. He put all the gear back into the leather saddlebags.

The sun climbed in the sky and the temperature with it, and his stomach growled again. He cut a long and limber branch from the willow and got out his fishing rig, which consisted of long twine and a fishhook. The water just below the rock was shady and cool, and the bass would come there to hide from the heat. It took a few minutes with a piece of red flannel cloth for a lure, but he snagged a couple of medium-sized fish for the pan. The heads, tails, and guts went back into the creek for the turtles to eat. With a couple of hardtack biscuits thrown into the grease and a sigh, he was content.

Sidestepping a foot stomp from Red, he retrieved his rifle and sat with his back against a rock to clean his guns. The .44-caliber Henry was old by 1878 standards, but like his Navy pistols, he was used to them. They felt right, and that was important in the many gun scrapes he’d dealt with as a Deputy US Marshal. As a marshal, he went on special assignments, but it seemed trouble always dogged his trail. Even if he wasn’t a marshal, life was just that way.

Kansas City was north and east of him, and once he got there he’d have a few days’ rest. He knew a few ladies in the saloons, or maybe a soiled dove or two who could offer comfort, but since the loss of his wife he just didn’t have much interest in that. He’d lost the one thing he longed for most—a good woman and family life. He’d had it once and wanted it again. But deep down inside, he felt it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t believe like some folks that there was a magic bullet out there with his name on it. That happenstance would only occur when he got outsmarted, or old and slow. Or had a run of bad luck. Eventually his number would turn up and God would say, “Everyone has to die, it’s your turn.”

He gathered up his gear, abruptly deciding not to spend the night in this place. It was too comfortable and for some reason he was on edge. His inner reflections had made him morose and he felt the urge to move.

Besides… he needed a beer.

He was tightening the cinch on Red’s saddle when he heard them coming, slow and easy. Easing his pistols in their holsters and his right hand near his belly gun, he calmly waited. The noise stopped a few yards out.

“Hello the camp.” The voice came through in a soft drawl in a matter-of-fact tone.

His reply was immediate. “Come ahead if you’re friendly.”

Two men rode slowly into view. Both had their hands near their pistols, but in this situation, he’d do the same. He could tell they were working cowhands just by their dress and manner. Both wore wide-brimmed hats bordering on sombrero size covering weathered faces with piercing eyes and faded shirts tucked into homespun pants. Their leather chaps were weathered and scratched. Leather, hand-braided, California style riatas were looped next to the oversized pommels of their saddles—and again, they’d seen a lot of use.

He relaxed and walked out in front of his horse, keeping a tight hold on the reins. Not that the horse would run away—Red was a back biter. “I just broke camp or I’d offer you boys some coffee.”

The larger man nodded. “Just our luck.” He gestured at the other man. “This here’s Otis. I’m Jake Wheeler. We got a mixed herd yonder we’re pushing up to KC and the stockyards. We figured to see if any strays were along this creek.”

One glance at their horses showed a JW brand and it made him relax a little more. “I didn’t see any, but then I haven’t been up or down the creek any—just came straight to it.” He knew the routine. Any cow outfit was always looking for unbranded strays that lacked ownership and would round them up as they went. “You boys are a little east of the normal track, but you’ll catch the Kansas Pacific a little farther north. There’ll be some holding grounds to the east, if they’re not already grazed out. You’re on the home stretch.”

Jake offered him a friendly plug of tobacco before he spoke. “Much obliged for the information. Actually, we come over here because we thought we heard a catamount a while ago. You seen any big cats? Wouldn’t want them to scratch up the cattle.”

He smiled sourly at them, and then pointed at the red smudge on his shirt. He figured they’d already seen it and were pushing a little cow pusher humor at him. Both men looked like they were trying to hold in a smile.

“After I cleaned up this scratch, I put some Sloan’s on it.”

Both men grimaced. Anyone who rode a horse knew about liniment.

Otis shuddered and spoke for the first time. “That had to hurt, some.”

Coble shared a laugh with them. “Damned right it hurt. Like to peed my pants.”

Jake’s expression sobered. “I see the star on your shirt. I didn’t get your name?”

He’d neglected that courtesy, and the man shouldn’t have had to remind him. “Sorry. I’m Coble Bray.” It pained him to see both men kind of set back and settle in their saddles. “I’m on my way to KC myself, but I’m in no hurry.”

It was clear Jake would carry the conversation—Otis didn’t say much. “Pleased to meet you, marshal. You the one they call The Deacon?”

He tipped back his hat and then stiff armed Red away from his back. “Well, as you can imagine I get called a lot of names. That’s one of them.” He grinned at them. “Don’t worry… I won’t preach at you.