After the Fall

by Darrel Sparkman

  A single shot echoed up and down the street. One of the bar girls gasped, hand to her mouth as she looked at Trent, sure he was dead. But no blood appeared on Trent, and he was holding his Ruger steady on the merc.

  The merc slowly bent at the middle, a macabre bow at the end of a poor performance. He had not even got a shot off. The merc raised his eyes to look at Trent and then crumpled face down in the street. Tail up, and nose in the dirt, he was dead.

  Trent shifted his gun to cover the group across the street. Ben Hobbs and John Trent locked gazes across the narrow street. Hobbs’ right hand was on his half-drawn gun, and his men were waiting, their eagerness to kill apparent in their faces.

  "Any reason I shouldn't kill you too, Hobbs? You put that boy up to this,” Trent said in a hard voice.

  When Hobbs spoke, his voice was a painful rasp. “I'd just as soon not die today, Trent."

  "Then take your hand away from the gun."

  Hobbs’ hand moved as if jerked with a rope. His auto fell back into its nylon holster.

  Trent kept his single-action lined on Hobbs’ belly. He chuckled. “Reckon you owe me one, Hobbs."

  Hobbs stared angrily at him a moment, then turned and walked away. His men followed more slowly, casting murderous looks between their fallen comrade and Trent.

  Trent was surprised. They had lost face twice in the last hour. Any self-respecting group of mercs could not afford that. People might get the wrong idea and think they were soft.

  Holstering his gun, Trent walked toward the colonel's office. The private did not follow him so closely this time. As they passed the livery doorway, Trent said, “Pops, put that rifle away. I like to shot you when that barrel poked out the window."

  Pop's shrill cackle echoed from deep within the barn. Trent wondered if the cap was back, or forward. Probably forward. Maybe.

  Chapter 5

  THE OLD BUILDING shuddered from the storm erupting within its walls. The office seemed to expand, forcing dust from the nooks and crannies of ill-fitting lumber by the sheer force of noise. Army personnel standing guard at different points in the building avoided looking at each other and turtled their heads down a little tighter to their shoulders. Lieutenant Saints, who had just sat down outside the door, got up and walked up the hall away from the noise.

  Lined up along the hall were wooden chairs, available for people waiting to see the colonel. The girl sitting in one of the chairs shook her head at the adjutant's invitation to go with him. She smiled, hands folded across her stomach, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, listening to the tirade going on inside.

  The colonel, sitting behind the desk in the exploding office was getting older by the minute, his face swollen in rage, blood pressure at record levels for a man still alive.

  "Christ on a pogo stick, Trent! Have you gone insane? You going raider on me? Losing your grip? What in God's name are you trying to do? Kill all the raiders by yourself? Are you that crazy? I was watching that little scene out the window, Trent. What was that? Code duello? Shootout at the OK Corral? Jesus!"

  Trent could not keep the smile off his face as he contemplated the irreverent picture conjured up by the colonel. Leave it to an ex-drill instructor to come up with something like that.

  "Conversation kind of dried up, Frank,” Trent said softly, in contrast to the verbal fusillade coming from his superior, echoing through the building like a thunderstorm over the horizon. Too many had made the mistake of thinking John Trent was like his voice. Too many had died trying to figure out the difference.

  Frank Bonham, a field colonel retired to a desk job by a host of 7.62mm pieces of lead fired from an AK-47, glared at the man lounging in the chair before him, and Trent knew what he was thinking; had heard it all before. An enigma. A throwback. Born two centuries too late.

  Trent unwound his lanky frame from the wooden chair, finally standing in front of the desk, making a visible effort at straightening sore muscles and stiff joints.

  "Trent, you can't just up and shoot people like that,” the colonel said. The colonel's voice returned to normal and his blood pressure finally appeared to be within reasonable limits.

  Trent answered calmly. “What would you like me to do, Frank? He was a hard case, a merc for hire, and Ben Hobbs was out there with him. I don't know what his problem was, maybe he just didn't like the way I put on my hat. It does not matter because I did not have any choice. You, more than anyone else, should realize that.

  "The raiders won't come in peaceably. They are not afraid of us, Frank. To them, the Army is trying to tear down their way of life, and they do not like it. That is how you got your legs, Frank, or don't you remember?"

  The colonel was not through. “Wait a minute, Trent.” He waved a packet of papers at him. It had been twenty years since the Fall and the army was still trying to run on paper.

  "I have a proposition for you.” The colonel talked fast, trying to hold Trent's attention. “All the particulars are in these sheets. There are letters of authority, signed by me. Who to contact, stuff like that."

  Trent wheeled to look at the Colonel. “Letters of authority for what?"

  "There's a situation east of here, about sixty miles. Big lake area in the Ozarks. It's a place called Big Springs. They have a good thing going out there. The place is starting to grow and has its own economy. Do you realize how important that is? They raise their own food, make their own clothes, and run two grist mills so they can grind grain and saw lumber. They are not dependant on anyone. The bad news? Raiders are also terrorizing them. The name Pagan Reeves keeps popping up. He may be the head snake, or just working for Jeremiah Starking, we do not know. I need you to go in there and find out."

  "You mean scout the situation, and report back.” Trent was skeptical, and showed it. Taking the sheets of paper, scanning the information, he said, “Why doesn't the army take care of this? That is right up your alley. The exercise would do your men good."

  Bonham stood up, looking seriously at Trent. “John, civilization is gaining a foothold. That newsflash just may have passed you by. You, on the other hand, are making people nervous around here. My superiors think you're getting a little wild for the present locale.” Bonham smiled grimly. “Besides, most of my men are busy guarding the pack trains coming out of the cities. They can't be spared."

  "So what's the deal?” Trent asked.

  "I have a commission for you."

  "I don't want to be an officer in your damned army,” Trent said levelly.

  "Not that kind of commission,” the colonel said huffily.

  Trent smiled a little as he saw the colonel was about to the end of his patience.

  "We're reinstating the office of the United States Marshal. I want you to be the first charter member.” Bonham reached into a drawer, pulled out an object and tossed it on the desk in front of Trent.

  It was a five-pointed star, surrounded by a smooth silver circle. In the center the inscription, U.S. Marshal.

  "What's this, Frank, a bulls-eye?"

  "Take it, John. It's about the only job I'm going to have for you.” There was just a hint of pleading in the colonel's voice.

  Trent sighed, and held the colonel's gaze. “Nope."

  "What?"

  "I'm done, Frank. I am tired, and I don't want to do it. Did you know there are parts of the country where I can go and not see anyone for months? Months, Frank. That sounds good to me. Real good."

  At that moment, a girl strode into the office. Offering her hand to an astonished Colonel Bonham, she said, “I'm Katherine Stephens ... call me Katie.” She turned to Trent. Her voice became soft and throaty. “Hello, again."

  She had changed out of her buckskins into homespun's and shirt, and he was right about her hair. It fell to her waist.

  She reached out and softly caressed his side. “How's the wound?"

  Trent felt heat start at his collar and work its way upward, as Colonel Bonham looked suspiciously between the two of them.

&nbs
p; Just to show he still had some control, he said, “I have decided to call you Katherine."

  Katie looked at him, appearing momentarily nonplussed. Regaining her composure, she turned back to the man behind the desk. “Colonel, I need to talk to you."

  "Please, have a seat.” The two men looked quizzically at each other, mentally shrugging.

  "I couldn't help overhearing you mention Big Springs. That is where I live."

  It looked like she was getting ready to launch into a long story. Trent found another chair, turned it around so he could lean his forearms on the back, thumbed his hat off his forehead, and settled in. Even if he did not like the story, he could always just watch the girl.

  "I have some pack animals with supplies that I have to get back to Big Springs. I had hoped to hire some men to help, but so far, I haven't found anyone. Colonel, I need an escort."

  "You realize, Ms. Stephens, that we are not in the business of escorting settlers around the country,” Colonel Bonham said patiently.

  "I know that, Colonel. I also know you are sending out training patrols for your Green Jeans."

  The colonel grimaced at the analogy.

  Katie turned her persuasive gaze on the colonel. “It would be a simple matter for you to send a squad along as a training mission."

  Trent sat with his chair tilted back on two legs, grinning at Bonham, enjoying the man's discomfort.

  "How did you know that?” the colonel asked.

  "There are not many secrets around here, Colonel."

  Katie turned and faced Trent. “And now for you, Mister Trent. You told the colonel you wouldn't take the job of Marshal."

  At Trent's cautious nod she continued. Her voice was soft and insistent, harboring a sudden, deeply suppressed anger.

  "Have you forgotten the body of the girl you found? Remember Markie? Is your memory so short? Who is going to right that wrong? Who would be able to find the person who could do such a thing and then disappear into thin air? Who else but you, John Trent?"

  She paused for breath, scooting her chair around to face Trent. Placing her hands on his knees, her gaze intent on his face, she said, “I've been asking around, talking to folks. People will talk to you, John, people from both sides. They know you and respect you. They'll listen to you. No one else but you could walk into a raider camp and come out alive. The settlers that are left in this area need you."

  "It'll be dangerous,” Bonham said, seeing an opportunity, and teaming up with the girl. “There will be no courts out there, and no military backup. Just you and that damned six-gun you like to wear. You could take your time, John. Weed it out, get the right of it, and then do not waste my time with reports. Any actions taken will be by you, on your own authority. Do you understand that, John? Do what needs to be done."

  "I always have, Frank.” Trent turned to Katie. “What makes you think people are ready for the law?"

  "Because that's what makes a community work. Rules. So people don't step all over each other."

  Trent stared at both of them momentarily. “All right. I will do it. However, understand this; I'll do it my way.” He looked at Katie. “I was going back anyway, Katherine. That's one wrong I do intend to right."

  The two men shook hands, gazes lingering on each other. Each knew the risks and the dangers. The handshake was a long embrace between two friends.

  Colonel Frank Bonham sat back in his chair, studying the situation. “All right, here's the deal, young lady. You get a squad. They will take you as near as possible to Big Springs, and then return here. You are lucky one of our more seasoned sergeants is in camp.” He paused for effect. “You'll also get our number one U.S. Marshal as scout for the trip."

  The chair legs hit the floor with a sharp bang. “Frank!"

  "What better way for you to get into the area?"

  Katie rose from her chair, a pleased look on her face. “We leave in the morning.” She looked pointedly at Trent. “First light."

  "How old are you, Ms. Stephens?” Colonel Bonham asked. “Aren't you kind of young to be running around the forest alone?"

  "How old do you have to be?” She paused, looking at each one for a moment, then quietly closed the door on her way out.

  "Wow.” Frank Bonham's voice was full of admiration.

  "I think we've been had, and it only took her about thirty seconds."

  "No shit,” came the colonel's garrulous reply. He raised his hand as Trent started to leave. “Son."

  Frank Bonham's voice had changed. Trent looked at him with dread. The only time the colonel had called him son was after his daughter's death.

  Colonel Bonham cleared his throat. “We need to talk..."

  The sun turned the sky to a golden hue, behind silver rimmed clouds looming in the west. A breeze found the grassy hill that stood sentinel duty above the mass graveyard in the field below. John Trent had not wanted to bury his young wife in the common graves, so he had picked a quiet place that was surrounded with boulders and trees, and had a thick carpet of grass and prairie flowers. He had laid her to rest over a year ago. Now, finally, he knew the truth about how she died.

  He was just starting to leave when he heard footsteps behind him.

  "Katherine."

  "You got good ears."

  Trent shook his head. “You walk soft enough."

  Katie moved around to the other side of the grave, sat on a chair-sized rock and looked intently at him. Finally, she asked, “Did you love her?"

  "I don't know. Maybe,” Trent said. “We were young. We needed each other. That was enough for us. She didn't deserve what she got."

  "You blame yourself."

  "If I had been there, it wouldn't have happened."

  "You can't know that. Look at me, John."

  When she had his full attention, she said, “Women aren't helpless. We're not all fancy playthings in lace and bows who have to be protected all the time. Some of us actually do things by ourselves, with no help from anyone else. Sometimes we have to stay by ourselves. It has been that way since the first farmer took his wife west to the Promised Land. It will be that way until the end of the earth. So, it is nonsense to think that you are to blame. The only one to blame is the one who did it."

  "Did I tell you she was the colonel's daughter?” Trent asked.

  "No, you skipped that part. Does it make a difference?"

  "He was the one who found her."

  "Okay ... and?"

  "He just told me she died like the girl we found in the clearing."

  Katie was silent for a moment. “God, I am so sorry."

  It was nearly dark, and Katie moved over by Trent. Her hand was like a burning brand on his arm, and he felt uncomfortable sitting by his wife's grave with another woman.

  "Do you think she would like me?” Katie asked.

  Trent laughed and surprised himself. Laughing was something he had not done in quite awhile.

  "No way,” he said. “She would be jealous as hell."

  "Maybe. I will tell you something, though. If she were still alive, I'd take you away from her."

  He looked at her quizzically.

  "You were cheating yourselves, John. Needed each other? That is not enough. You need love. Passion. You need that fire in your belly that you cannot get rid of. Your senses fill with each other. Nothing else matters. If you love someone like that, you won't even see anyone else."

  "That doesn't come along very often,” he said.

  "Oh, really. What did you feel when we were in the clearing, John? And, what about the second time? When you found me bathing in the pool, I damn near fainted. I can't believe you did not feel the same thing."

  "We'd better go, Katherine."

  As they stood, she was suddenly in his arms, holding his head with her hands and burning him with a kiss that stopped time in its tracks. When she released him, they were both panting and Trent could not take his eyes from her lips.

  "Why don't you see,” she said softly, “if you can get that out of y
our belly, John Trent.” She moved her hand downward and chuckled. “Well, at least you want me."

  After she was gone, Trent stood in the darkness. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

  Chapter 6

  DAWN FOUND TRENT at the holding area, just outside of base camp. He had been up before daylight, packing his gear, and cleaning his weapons. There was little to get ready, just some dried jerky for times he could not hunt, a bedroll and ammunition. It would be enough.

  Settling himself under a tree, he leaned back against the trunk. He did not worry about the pack train getting by him. They had to leave camp in this direction, so the unit would probably form up around here somewhere. He automatically scanned the area, saw nothing of interest, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and went to sleep.

  A few minutes later, he awoke as the first of the trainees started arriving. The soldiers were in full battle gear, carrying at least sixty pounds per man, their packs piled high on their backs. They had pots on their heads, and clunky boots on their feet. There was the usual complaining and grumbling found with any group of soldiers. Some stomped around asking foolish questions of other men who did not know any more than they did.

  He could see the soldiers stealing glances at him. Dressed in jeans, with buckskin leggings and shirt, and brown bush hat that had seen better days, Trent knew he was not an impressive sight to them. He heard some comment to each other about his single-action revolver in a land of semi-automatics, and his lack of equipment. None came close enough to bother him.

  "All right, fall in,” a new voice shouted. The voice of authority. Trent sat up. He knew that voice.

  "Gunny?"

  The grizzled sergeant turned with a surprised look on his face and strode toward Trent. The men shook hands, each staring at the other.