Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

Quail exploded into the air, leaving the clump of bushes with rocket-like force. Startled sumac leaves rustled frantically, as small brown feathers drifted slowly to the ground in the filtered sunlight washing over the small clearing in the forest.

John Trent kicked free of the stirrups and left the saddle of his horse in a long dive, rolling up behind a log next to the trail. After the initial flurry of movement, he became completely still. He tried to blink away the sweat trickling into his eyes. A black wood ant, flushed from the crumbling bark of the log, crawled across his knuckles. He still didn’t move.

This was the new frontier. The first to move often became the first to die, and he didn’t intend to die.

He cast a quick glance at his horse standing a few feet away—a horse that seemed unconcerned with the actions of its master. A big help you are. The horse didn’t even glance his way, entertained instead by cropping grass at the edge of the trail and swatting flies with its tail. Bunched clumps of tall fescue were the only thing holding the horse’s attention. The roan gelding seemed unaware of any danger, and it was usually a good watchdog.

Maybe something else had flushed the covey of quail? A fox or coyote, maybe?

He sighed, and glanced at the leather saddlebags draped over the horse, stamped US Army. If someone wanted the courier bags, they would try for the horse right away. He’d been a courier between the few remaining army outposts left in the new frontier for the last three years. Documents in the bag were of little interest to most folks. What was left of the army was impotent at best, rarely conjuring up anything but disdain and contempt.

That left one other alternative. Someone wanted him, and not for a moment did he consider any other option. There were hunters out there, and he was the prey.

Trent took stock of his weapons. His lever-action .44 was in its boot on the saddle and as far away as next week’s rabbit stew. The matching .44 revolver, his fighting knife, and a sore shoulder from rolling over the log, were all he had with him. They’d have to do. He took a lot of ribbing for carrying the old guns, but simplicity was his rule. Those guns worked for a hundred years and would probably last a few more.

In the old books, the hero would whistle for his horse and it would come bounding up, eager to save the day. This horse would end up sixty miles away if he whistled at it.

Normal sounds gradually came back to the forest, creeping on silent feet and whispering in the wind. The curious brown thrush and raucous blue jays finally went about their business, throwing disgusted looks back at the bushes where nothing moved. It was hard for them to be nature’s sentinels when there was nothing to see.

In the distance, Trent could hear a mockingbird making its idiot calls. Closer in, a marmot came out of its burrow, nose up to the wind, red fur shimmering in the sun, deciding it was safe to go back to digging roots.

Chiding himself for not keeping better watch, he began a slow scan around the surrounding forest. The day was hot—too hot for early May—and the small brown lizard perched on the log just inches from his eyes panted to rid itself of the heat. Looking at the lizard directed his gaze to the log. No wonder the ants were out in force. The thing was so rotten he could practically see through it. Nice protection.

Minutes later he eased his position a little, moving his leather-handled hunting knife around to a more comfortable position. The wide, heavy blade, honed to razor sharpness, was used for everything from shaving to cutting wood. Under his heavy buckskin shirt, sweat ran rivulets down his body and pooled in the small of his back. His mouth felt cotton ball dry and the canteen hanging on his saddle momentarily distracted him. But wishing wouldn’t bring it to him.

The grazing horse snapped its head up, and the raiders leaped out of the undergrowth where nothing seemed to be but low bushes and rocks, and a few forest fern—half-naked men burned brown by the sun. Disdaining the use of firearms and true to their newfound mantra, these men favored knives and clubs.

The first man came over the bushes in a magnificent leap, brandishing a knobby-ended club and screaming at the top of his lungs in primeval fury.

The blood-curdling cry abruptly cut short as Trent’s thrown knife buried itself just under his breastbone with an audible thump. All that strength and stamina fell in a loose heap over the log.

While he slid to the ground, the second came bounding in. Still on his knees behind the log, and out of position to do anything else, he reluctantly palmed his gun and fired. The slug took the running man in the chest and jerked him up on his toes. The man went to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hearing a grunt from behind, he whirled in a flurry of leaves, partially evading a swipe at his belly with a knife. He winced as the blade swept away, and then blocked the overhand stab from the young raider. His gun went flying from his sweaty hands.

No one taught the young man how to fight with a knife, and he wasn’t old enough to have learned from experience just how vulnerable you are with an overhand stab. He should have stayed with the sideways slashing that left the burning gash in Trent’s side.

Even though he was just a boy, there was no more time to learn. School was over and this was the final exam. There was a man-sized knife in his hands, and a real sense of urgency driving Trent. If there were more assailants around, the sound of the shot would bring them in droves.

Stepping quickly inside the boy’s downward swing, he caught his wrist and twisted the arm around and up behind his back. Heaving upward to dislocate the shoulder, the knife came away in Trent’s hand. Hearing someone coming from behind, he shoved the screaming boy away, slashing his throat left to right in a shower of blood. Pivoting on the follow-through, he faced the last attacker amid the retching sounds of the boy behind him drowning in his own blood.

He crouched with his weight on the balls of his feet, lightly holding the captured knife with the cutting edge up and wishing he could dry his bloodied hands. He willed his breathing to slow, but his heart trip-hammered in his chest and wouldn’t let him.

Except for the one shot, this encounter was relatively quiet. He wanted it to stay that way. Raiders rarely traveled in large groups, so there was a good chance this was all there were of this bunch. He glanced around for his own knife, but it was too far away and he couldn’t easily get to it. Looking quickly around for more men and not seeing any, he turned his gaze on the last man before him.

The raider, standing well over six feet and heavily muscled, confident of his prowess, saw Trent glance toward his own blade.

“Go ahead.” The grinning man made an expansive gesture toward the body holding Trent’s knife. “I’ll wait.”

Trent, warily watching the big man, walked over and retrieved his knife, taking his time as he wiped the blood off on his victim’s jeans. He stood drying his hands on his pant legs, waiting for him to make his move.