"Been awhile, Gunny."
"It has been that. Heard you went down, last year. Something up at Caplinger Mills?” The eyes of Gunnery Sergeant Melbourne Thomas were brooding and penetrating, his face, after the initial surprise, lacking expression.
"It was a near thing."
Trent was puzzled. Where he expected a more animated reunion, all he received was a perfunctory and lukewarm greeting. The reunion was short-lived.
"Sergeant!"
Another voice of authority. Trent decided at once there were too many voices of authority around here.
Gunny turned, waving indolently at Trent, and said. “Here, Lieutenant."
"Better get them together, Sergeant Thomas. We're ready to move out.” He looked with obvious distaste at Trent. “Is this our scout?” His voice left the impression that he hoped it was not. “Why can't we get army scouts?"
Trent stepped forward. “John Trent, Lieutenant. I will be going with you, and I know the country. So does she.” He had heard the packhorses coming toward them, so he just pointed his thumb back over his shoulder.
"Very well, Trent. I am Lieutenant Spencer. You'll take orders from me, and I have already been briefed on the woman.” He turned briskly to Gunny. “Sergeant, we'll move out in thirty minutes. I'd like to meet with Miss Stephens, you, and the scout in fifteen. We will have a troop meeting in twenty. Understood?” Not waiting for a reply, he walked off in the direction of Katie's pack train.
"Nice guy, huh?” Trent said.
Gunny did not reply, just turned and walked off while Trent looked after him with a troubled gaze.
"This is going to be a fun trip,” Trent said to himself. “I can tell."
Fifteen minutes later, they stood under the same tree. The pack train was waiting, and the trainees were standing at ease, at least as much as they could with a sixty-pound pack strapped to their backs, sweltering in the heat.
"There are a few things I want to get straight, before we leave.” The lieutenant's gaze riveted both men. “Chain of command. I am in charge of this training mission. You both take orders from me. Is that understood?"
The sergeant's ‘Yes Sir’ dwindled into nothing as Trent walked away.
"Who gave you permission to leave, Mr. Trent?” Lieutenant Spencer's voice thundered.
Trent stopped and walked back toward the lieutenant. He saw Katie's shocked expression, and Gunny rolling his eyes, before turning his full attention on Spencer. He stopped with his nose about an inch from Lieutenant Spencer's face, and knowing how important it was to keep the trainees from losing faith in their commanding officer, kept his voice purposely soft.
"Spencer, I'm going to say this just once. First, you have no authority over me. I am a United States Marshal. New, to be sure, but it is your superiors who gave me that authority. Now, I have been around the park a few times, Lieutenant, and you will not run over me. If push comes to shove, according to the articles in my pack, and signed by Colonel Bonham, you are to assist me."
Gunny quietly tried to insert himself between the two men.
"Second,” Trent continued, “I am leaving this group and going my own way, Lieutenant, because you are a walking dead man. The only chance you have for survival in these hills is to do everything your sergeant says, when he says, and how he says. Then, if your stupid arrogance doesn't get everyone killed first, you just might have a chance of coming back. Third, you did not have brains enough to get horses and pack animals for your men. Sure, they can walk it, they're tough kids. That's not the point. You need to make time, and your men need to be fresh in case you come up against raiders. And, lieutenant, you will come up against raiders. The fourth thing is this.” Trent's voice became deadly quiet. “If you ever yell at me in that tone of voice again, I will piss on your campfire and ruin your whole day. Now, is that clear?"
The lieutenant tried to respond. “I'm a lieutenant in the—"
"Shove it, Lieutenant,” Trent said flatly. “No one cares."
He brushed by Katie as he left. She reached out and caught his arm. “John, please don't go. I need you."
Trent stopped reluctantly. “Why? You've got Lieutenant Green Jeans."
"Do you remember those men you had trouble with outside Charley's place? They came this morning and offered to herd my pack animals. When I turned them down, they didn't like it much. John, I can smell raider a mile away. So can you. You know they will hit us on the trail, somewhere. It is just a matter of when."
Trent weighed the possibilities. He did not like any of them and realized she was right. He could imagine what Ben Hobbs’ men would have done, if Katie had hired them. They would go with the pack train and, when the time was right, take it over. Since that did not work out for them, they would probably be lying up in the hills somewhere in ambush, just waiting for their chance. A show of force might just keep them away.
"What's in your packs?” he asked.
She looked at him steadily. “Guns, ammo, medicine.” She smiled. “Toilet paper, which I had to promise half a forest in wood planks for payment. Just everything any self-respecting raider would kill for."
With an exasperated sigh, Trent relented. Turning back to the small group who waited for his decision, he said. “Gunny, there's a good place to camp about twenty miles east of here. On your map it's the junction of U highway and Eleven Point Creek, in grid fourteen. I will see you there tomorrow if you push hard, otherwise I will see you whenever you make it. I'm going to make a side trip first."
At Katie's questioning look, Trent said innocently, “I'm going to the library."
Chapter 7
IT WAS THE second day that John Trent had been waiting for the pack train, the third day out of base camp. He had scouted ahead of them, snooping through some of the obvious places an ambush might be staged. He did not really think the raiders would strike this early, but it was impossible to be sure. They were not stupid, and were completely unpredictable. But, a few days from now, the soldiers would be tired and irritable. Fatigue would cause them to cut corners to save time, and the soldiers would have trouble staying awake at night while they guarded the camp. That is when the raiders would strike.
Sitting with his back to a boulder the size of a house, Trent was cooking a noonday squirrel over a hat-full of fire when the pack train ambled toward the clearing. He had been hearing them for the last ten minutes, and marveled that they marched up a rocky wash, advertising their existence to all who wanted to hear. They could just as easily be walking on the soft earth next to it. He reminded himself to ask Gunny about it. The sergeant should know better.
Trent could see the lieutenant leading his men up the wash, with Katie and her pack animals bringing up the rear. As he watched, she raised her hand in greeting.
Slowly the party of pack animals and soldiers moved into the clearing. The lieutenant came straight toward Trent's small fire. Looking past him, Trent could see the men were dead on their feet. Leave it to the Ozark terrain to take the starch out of a man.
Katie, with the help of a couple of soldiers, hazed her animals toward a grassy clearing nearby. Gunny was missing.
Lieutenant Spencer looked at Trent a moment. Unconcerned, Trent turned the squirrel over the fire, browning it. The juices dripped into the flames, making a sizzling sound that brought rumbles of hunger from the watching soldier.
"We're late.” Lieutenant Spencer did not sound as authoritative as he had three days ago.
"Yes, you are,” Trent said simply.
Standing up, Trent glanced at the squad of soldiers. None had taken off their packs. They were waiting for orders, a plus for discipline but not much for common sense.
"Lieutenant, if you'll take some advice, I think you should camp here until tomorrow. Your men look done in. You could use the opportunity to check them out on camp procedures, defensive positions, that kind of thing."
Lieutenant Spencer sighed, “I think you're right, Trent.” He turned and made a hand sign to the men. With relieved groans and
grumbles, the squad dropped their packs, and went about their tasks with efficient movements and purpose.
Catching Katie's attention, as she finished hobbling her horses, Trent motioned her over to his fire. The lieutenant sat on a rock nearby.
"Where's Gunny, Lieutenant?"
"We saw some smoke yesterday evening. I sent the sergeant to investigate. He told me he would pull a cold camp then catch up with us this morning.” Gazing back down the trail, he said, “He's overdue."
Lieutenant Spencer looked at Trent. “Why?"
"I just wondered. You know, Spencer, you should not travel in creek beds. I know it is easier sometimes, but sound travels a long way in these canyons. I could hear you coming for nearly a mile."
As Katie came up to the fire, Trent pulled a wooden plate from his pack, and put half the squirrel on it. Digging into the ashes at the side of the fire, he produced two brown trout wrapped in leaves that had been baking in the coals. Putting one on the plate, he passed the food wordlessly over to her.
"If you're trying to get on my good side, you've made a good start.” Katie's strong white teeth were already tearing the meat apart.
The lieutenant looked at her portion, then at Trent's. Taking the hint, he got up to leave.
Trent moved about his part of the camp, putting out the fire, cleaning utensils, and stowing away his gear. Katie was unashamedly licking her fingers as she used them to clean the last of the grease from the wooden plate. Her steady gaze had not left Trent since she came to the camp, a fact that made Trent more apprehensive by the minute.
"Why?” he finally asked.
"What?"
"Why are you watching me all the time?"
"I like to watch you. You remind me of a big cat. You don't waste any movement, are sure handed, and quiet. I like that.” She grinned at him as she held the wooden plate out to him. “You're also going to make some lucky woman one hell of a good cook."
Trent smiled as he bent to take the plate. “I'm just used to doing for myself.” He looked at her pointedly. “That's something you should consider. I have been doing for myself a long time. I'm set in my ways. Likely, some younger man might be better for you. After all, I am probably twice your age."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"
His smile was slow in coming. “Now, that would be plain crazy on my part. I just want to lay it out so there are no misunderstandings."
"You are worried, aren't you?” Katie laughed. “Afraid I'm going to get...” She searched for the right word. “Amorous?"
"You do that here, you'll get spanked.” Trent tried to be serious, but it was a losing battle.
"See.” She chuckled. “That's what I like about you older men. You have more imagination."
Trent laughed and changed the subject. “Did you have any trouble coming up the trail?"
"No, none to speak of,” Katie said soberly, “but I have some brewing here."
As Trent raised his eyebrows, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the soldiers. “One of the Green Jeans has been staring at me a lot. He tried to talk to me a couple of times. I think he's working up to something, and I'm going to be the main attraction."
"Need me to speak to him?” Trent asked.
"Nope. I am a big girl. I will handle it.” Katie smiled at him. “Of course, you might stay close..."
Trent chuckled as he walked off to see the lieutenant, leaving Katie to stew in her own juices.
Chapter 8
THE MAN WHO called himself the Watcher pressed his hands to the sides of his head, eyes closed in pain. This one had screamed. She was strong and fought hard. He did not plan to do this again ... not this soon. He didn't want to, but there she was and she was young and pretty, her shiny black hair pinned into a bun in the back, and she looked scrubbed and clean, and the virginal innocence was an aura around her ... and he could not stop himself.
She was fast—he had to run her down, and her long black skirt kept tripping her, making her easy prey. Even then, she almost got away. The girl struggled and fought, and lost the funny little white cap she wore on her hair, the lace soiled with dirt and grass stains. He stuffed it in her mouth to shut her up. Finally, he tied her to the stakes he had hammered into the ground. He pulled flint and tinder from his pouch and started a little fire. With reverence and gentleness, he placed the end of the small branding iron in the fire, the one with the cross on it that would become cherry red in a few moments.
Later, as he pulled up his pants, he looked at her scornfully. She had stopped crying and her gaze followed him everywhere he went. Just like the others. They always settled down, right at the end. Always thought that what they had given would be enough. She might even try to smile soon.
Contemptuously, he pulled out his hunting knife. Eyes wide in terror, she started screaming again, her mouth a red rictus of pain.
* * * *
The gelding moved restlessly under Trent as he sat in a clearing, considering his options. Lieutenant Spencer had casually mentioned that Gunny was overdue. Trent had left immediately to back-trail the squad of soldiers, hoping to run into the sergeant. Following the trail had been easy, at least until now.
The soft earth in the clearing showed tracks of more than one band of horses, making any particular sign impossible to find. It looked like a regular parade of people had gone through this clearing since morning. He could picture the native hill people stopping to look at the tracks, gazing after the patrol, probably shifting their cud of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other, then spitting a long brown stream at the tracks. Their contempt shown, they would disappear back into the forest. One thing was certain. The patrol was not fooling anyone. By nightfall, the news would be all over the hills. They might as well have brought a brass band with them.
Seen from the last ridge he had crossed, a small cluster of buildings nestled at the bottom of the next hill. He turned his horse that way. Gunny was probably swilling moonshine, telling lies, and sampling the local women.
Topping a small rise in the dirt road, Trent reined in the gelding. The small hamlet spread out before him, a few rundown buildings on both sides of the path they called a road; or more likely, in this part of the country, they called it a trace. No one was visible along the street, not surprising considering the heat.
Sweat trickled down his sides as he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Drying his hands on his shirt, he slipped the loop off his revolver and pulled the SKS from its boot on the saddle. Clucking to the horse, he rode down to the buildings.
The slow-walking gelding was tense as a spring as he neared the largest of the buildings. Muscles bunching and nostrils flaring, the horse came to a stop in front of the only building sporting a sign, Ziler's Mercantile. Holding his SKS in one hand, Trent was starting to dismount when a voice startled him from behind.
"Better not."
The level of suppressed anger he heard spoke reams about what would happen if Trent did not obey. The tone surpassed any language barriers.
Several doors along the walk began to disgorge a ragged band of people, mostly women and kids. Glancing behind him, Trent found the men. They were all armed and looked ready for target practice with Trent the bulls-eye. His SKS was in his right hand. Swing and fire? Fatally slow. To draw and fire his pistol, he would have to shift the SKS, or drop it. They had him. Stone cold.
Let's see you talk yourself out of this, Trent chided himself as he turned in the saddle to confront the men. Most were holding weapons, not pointed in any particular direction. The sallow faced young man standing in front of the group pointed his double-barreled twelve gauge right at Trent's middle. Persuasive.
"What's the problem?"
"Like you don't know?” The barrel of the shotgun came up a bit.
"I don't, or I would not ask,” he replied reasonably.
Trent felt more relaxed now that he had gotten a better look at the man's weapon. He knew he could draw and shoot before the man pulled the trig
ger on the shotgun. It was an old piece with individual hammers for each barrel, and the man had not cocked either one. The man could fire by pulling the triggers, but that was a hard pull. The fraction of a second it took would cost the man his life, if it came to that.
"What are you doing around these parts?"
Trent tried to look around without being too obvious about it. “I'm looking for a man, thought he might have stopped here."
The shotgun came up to the man's shoulder as he aimed at Trent's head. “I think you're lying."
Watching the man's finger on the trigger, knowing he'd make his try if that finger so much as twitched, Trent tried to think of a reply that would not result in a shooting. Another voice broke in, an old voice, but one still strong with vitality.
"Let him go, Lon."
Lon jerked around, lowering the shotgun. “He is a stranger, Gran. I bet he is one of them raiders we keep hearing about."
"Don't matter, Lon. Use your head. If he done it, he would not ride back into town. Don't be stupid,” the woman said.
Lon appeared to be trying to figure out if she had called him stupid, when a gray-headed woman stepped around from behind Trent's horse. Tall and erect, dressed severely in black and gray, it was obvious this was the matriarch of the clan. Her eyes were sharp and bright. Anything less than the truth told to this woman would reap nothing but grief and pain.
"Let's start over, mister. You can see we're a bit touchy. What's your name?"
"John Trent, ma'am."
"Don't try to butter me, boy. What are you doing here? This place ain't exactly on the main trail."
With no hesitation, Trent laid it out for her. He told her who he was traveling with and why, and who he was looking for. Several of the men nodded when he mentioned the army patrol.
"I used to be a courier for the army. Right now, I am a brand spankin’ new U.S. Marshal headed for Big Springs."
At the mention of being a Marshal, the older people smiled, and most of the crowd nurtured looks of derision on their faces. Even the kids thought it was funny, having no doubt been raised with stories of moon-shiners and the law. He'd heard the stories too.
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