Smith walked over to the edge of the outcrop with Mary and watched as the posse drew nearer. He had counted six before, and still did now. He left the AR-10 leaning against a nearby boulder, within easy enough reach.
“Still just six,” Smith said.
“‘Still?’” Mary said. “That’s four more than us, Mr. Smith.”
“Just remember what I told you: Don’t do anything until I do.”
Mary nodded, even as she adjusted her stance. Smith had a mental flash of Mary in an old Wild West town getting ready for a showdown with her Glock, hidden in her jacket pocket, her finger on the trigger.
It was kind of cheating, but hey, whoever said there was anything fair in a gunfight?
They didn’t have to wait long for the riders to finally reach them. The men—and they were all men—spread out as they neared the outcrop, giving Smith a good look at all six of them.
He picked out the leader right away: He was in the middle and had stayed there even as the others fanned out around him. Early fifties, gray hair visible along the temples underneath his wide-brimmed hat, which looked as if it’d seen more than a few winters, summers, and every other seasons in-between. He wore a gun belt like the rest, but instead of a semiautomatic, there was a revolver in the holster. That just further increased Smith’s image of the man as a sheriff leading a posse.
The question was: What was this posse after? Because you don’t put together a posse unless you were hunting down criminals.
The others were less interesting. They all looked like they knew their way around horses, though, and not a single one seemed awkward in their saddle. Besides their gun belts—they all wore one, though of different varieties—three carried automatic rifles in scabbards along their mounts while the other two favored pump-action shotguns.
They stopped about twenty yards from where Smith and Mary waited for them. The leader stood up slightly in his saddle to get a look at Aaron in the background, decided the kid was no threat, before settling his eyes on the two adults.
Then they fell on Smith, and stayed there. “You got a name?”
“Yes,” Smith said.
The man waited for Smith to continue, and when he didn’t, flashed something that almost looked like a smirk. “And what would that be?”
“You first,” Smith said.
“Fair enough. My name’s Hobson. These are my men. You don’t need me to name all of them, do you?”
“Up to you.”
“So what’s yours?”
“Smith.”
“Smith what?”
“John Smith.”
A man with red hair, wearing a Nebraska Cornhusker ball cap, chortled even as he leaned forward in his saddle. “John Smith, huh?”
“That’s right,” Smith said. “You got a problem with that?”
“You couldn’t have come up with a more believable fake name?”
“I’m not that creative.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s enough, Travis,” Hobson said. He focused on Smith. “You were involved in some shooting last night, Smith?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” Smith said.
“Asking. We found a body missing its entire face—hell, most of its head—at a campsite south from here. You know anything about that?”
Smith caught Mary shifting her stance slightly next to him. She had remained very quiet throughout the brief conversation between Smith and the riders, and this was the first time she even reacted. He didn’t blame her, considering that Hobson was clearly talking about Peoples.
“Yeah, I know something about that,” Smith said.
Again, Hobson waited for Smith to continue, and when he didn’t, the “sheriff” said, “And?”
“And what?”
“What happened to him?”
“He was a motherfucker, and he got what deserved. So what?”
Hobson seemed to sit up straighter in his saddle as if trying to get a better look at Smith. The others fidgeted slightly in theirs.
All except the redhead named Travis, who actually let out a small chuckle.
Smith concluded right then and there that he didn’t like the redhead. The man had what people back on Black Tide used to call squirrely eyes. And if Smith had learned anything in his life, it’s that you couldn’t trust someone with squirrely eyes.
“Any reason why?” Hobson finally said.
“I just told you,” Smith said. “He got what was coming. What’s it to you?”
“Well, this is our area. We take killings seriously around here.”
“He a friend of yours or something?”
“No. We don’t know him from Adam. But he was still killed in our jurisdiction, and we want to know why.”
“I already told you.”
“Saying he was a motherfucker isn’t enough justification, I’m afraid.”
“It is to me.”
“Unfortunately, your word isn’t law around here.”
“Is that right? Then whose is?”
“The Judge’s.”
“And who is the Judge?”
“The Judge is the Judge,” Hobson said, as if that should explain everything.
It didn’t. At least, not to Smith.
He said, “I don’t know any Judge. But that’s not a surprise; we’re not from around here.”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Hobson said.
“It is when you don’t give a damn.”
Again, the man named Travis chuckled.
“Something funny to you?” Smith asked him.
“You,” Travis said.
“What’s so funny about me?”
“The fact that you’re standing there, acting like a tough guy, when there’s six of us and just two of you.”
“There may be six of you, but I have ten rounds in my gun,” Smith said. “Seems to me like I’m ahead.”
Again, Travis chuckled. He seemed to do that a lot, though whether they were genuine or just an attempt to act tough was debatable. Smith was leaning toward the latter.
Travis sat two horses to Hobson’s right, with a thin man in a striped shirt between them. The man to the immediate right of Travis wore a similar but way more faded Cornhuskers cap and was about the same age. He looked bored, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
The two on the left of Hobson had remained quiet throughout the whole thing. An older man in his forties sat immediately to Hobson’s left while a much younger man—the youngest by far, he couldn’t have been older than twenty, if that—finished out the line of six riders. The youngster kept looking at Mary and Aaron, still somewhere in the background, and seemed preoccupied with mother and son and not much else.
As far as he could tell, Smith had three immediate targets: Hobson, Travis, and the older man.
Hobson, because he was the clear leader, and once you took out the leader, most, if not all, of the rest usually fell apart. The forty-something guy, because he was very composed and wouldn’t be startled by the sudden burst of violence.
And Travis, because, well, Smith just didn’t like the man very much right now.
“You need to come with us back to Gaffney,” Hobson was saying. “It’s not far from here. Once we get everything cleared up, you’ll be free to go.”
“I don’t think so,” Smith said.
“That’s not a suggestion. That’s an order.”
“Whose order?”
“Mine, by authority granted to me by the Judge.”
“And I’m telling you, I don’t recognize your authority or this Judge of yours.”
“Listen, mister. There’s no need for bloodshed. But you have to come back with us to face what you done. Either you do it willingly, or we’ll take you back by force.”
“He raped me,” Mary said.
She hadn’t said anything until now, and the sound of her voice clearly surprised Hobson and the rest. Even Travis, who finally seemed to notice her for the first time.
“What was that, ma
’am?” Hobson asked.
“The man whose body you found,” Mary said. “He raped me. He and two others. They kidnapped me and my son, and killed people in our group. If it wasn’t for Mr. Smith, God knows what else they would have done to us.”
Hobson squinted at Mary for a moment before refocusing on Smith. “Is this true?”
“Yeah,” Smith said.
“Why the hell didn’t you say this before?”
“I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“Goddammit, mister,” Hobson said. “This could have gone bad when it didn’t have to. You realize that?”
“I don’t see how.”
“You don’t see how? Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all,” Smith said. “If it’d gotten bad, all that would have happened was I’d have six horses that I didn’t have before.”
Seven
When it was over—and it was over when Hobson climbed off his horse to talk to Mary, then with Aaron. Not that the boy could suddenly say anything, but Hobson seemed to see the same things that Smith had when he looked Mary in the eyes. In fact, he even might have seen more when he talked to her son. Things that Smith might have missed, or maybe he just didn’t know what to look for. Smith wasn’t a father or a brother, and he assumed Hobson was either one of those things, or both.
Mary walked over to where Smith stood, her hands now outside her jacket pocket. From the expression on her face, Smith already guessed what was going to happen next.
“We’re leaving with them, Mr. Smith,” Mary told him.
Smith nodded and said, “That’s probably a good idea.”
“You think so?”
“It’s better than walking around out here with me. Aaron will appreciate the comforts of a town. You will, too.”
“I’m used to roughing it, Mr. Smith. Tom…” She pursed a smile. “But you’re right. Aaron will be better off in a town.” She glanced quickly over at the riders, before looking back at him. “You really think this is the right decision, though?”
“For you and the boy, yes,” Smith said.
“What about you? You should come with us.”
“It’s not for me.”
“You’re not the settling-down type, I take it.”
He forced a smile. “No.”
It was more than that, though. He didn’t know these men, and although Hobson seemed like a decent enough fellow, Smith didn’t care for Travis, the one with the squirrely eyes. He also didn’t know anything about this Judge character that Hobson kept talking about or why the man—and these men—assumed he had any authority whatsoever out here. As far as Smith knew, there were no reconstituted state governments anymore, so how did someone manage to get himself appointed “judge” of anything? Unless, of course, the man did it himself. That wasn’t the kind of authority Smith found convincing.
But Smith didn’t give voice to those doubts. It wasn’t his job to take care of Mary and her kid, and if Hobson was offering to take them off his hands, then, well, who was he to argue?
While Mary and her son packed their things, Hobson’s men climbed off their horses and loitered about. Travis and the other guy in the Cornhuskers cap—Smith assumed they were buddies, thus the identical ball caps—kept to themselves while the others did various things to fill up time. The youngest and the oldest ones were rubbing down their horses, while the fifth rider had wandered off to pick up something on the ground about fifty yards away.
Smith stood by himself and looked north, already charting his next move. He wasn’t entirely sure what was up there, but it would be interesting to find out. There was, after all, nothing for him back south or west. There was east, but he’d spent too much time out there when he was with Black Tide to want to go back anytime soon.
Hobson appeared next to him. “Where you from?”
“Here and there,” Smith said.
“Texas?”
“Why do you care?”
“Trying to be friendly, son.”
“No offense, but I’ve had enough of people ‘trying to be friendly’ to me this week.”
“You talking about the three that took Mary and her boy?”
Smith glanced over at the older man. The one thing he could say about Hobson was that the guy had the eyes and crow’s feet of someone who had seen some shit. He’d probably used that holstered sidearm of his more than once, and he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Then again, Smith had met plenty of people who hadn’t seemed like bad guys but had proven otherwise.
“I hear a pitch coming,” Smith said.
Hobson cracked a grin before tossing a quick look back at Mary as she continued helping Aaron pack their things for the upcoming trip. Then, turning back to Smith, “We could use a man like you back at Gaffney.”
“And what’s a man like me?”
“Someone who knows how to handle a gun.”
“This town of yours needs a lot of people who can handle a gun?”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Sounds like a dangerous job.”
“It is.”
“So why would I want it?”
“You mind danger?”
“I don’t go looking for it.”
“That’s not what Mary told me.”
“That’s her interpretation. Who am I to tell her she’s wrong?”
“The only reason others get to live in peace is because there are men like you and me willing to pick up a gun and give it to them.”
“Is that what you do in Gaffney? You uphold the peace, along with this Judge character?”
“The Judge is the reason we even have Gaffney in the first place.”
“If you say so.”
“So that’s a no, I take it?”
Smith shook his head. “I have places to go.”
“Mary told me you guys were headed north.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s north?”
“Not south.”
“You’re an interesting man, Mister Smith.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Smith said.
Hobson chuckled before turning around. “All right, everyone, let’s mount up!” Then, looking back at Smith, “Last chance.”
“Thanks, but no chance.”
“All right. Good luck out there, then. Try not to get into any more trouble.”
“Whatever you say, sheriff.”
“Sheriff? What gave you the impression I’m a sheriff?”
“So you’re not the sheriff of this Gaffney?”
“No. The Judge is the only authority in Gaffney. The rest of us just work under him to help uphold the law.”
“Sounds like an interesting character, this Judge of yours.”
“He’s something, all right.”
“Is that good or bad?”
The older man flashed Smith something that almost looked like a grin but wasn’t quite one. Smith wasn’t sure what it was, though.
“That’s for history to decide,” Hobson said as he walked back to his horse.
Smith looked after Hobson, trying to figure out what all that was about, when Mary and Aaron walked back to him. She looked a bit sheepish, as if she was feeling guilty about something.
Before she could say something—she was going to apologize, he guessed, though he didn’t know why or want one—Smith said, “Good luck.” Then quickly, to the boy, “I got something for you.”
Smith went over to his pack and unzipped it, then returned to the boy with a small can of SPAM. He’d picked it up about two weeks earlier and hadn’t had the courage to try eating it yet. The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of his gift.
“Try not to eat it all in one sitting,” Smith said, handing the can to the kid, who grabbed it happily.
Mary pursed a smile at Smith. “Thank you,” she said, and she didn’t have to tell him that it was for more than just the SPAM.
Smith nodded. Then he leaned closer to her and whispered, “Keep the Glock in your jacket pocket. When you get to Gaffn
ey, hide it somewhere safe. Don’t let them know you have it. Okay?”
When he pulled back, Mary gave him a concerned and slightly puzzled look.
“Just in case,” Smith said, in a softer, quieter voice.
She nodded. “I will.”
“Don’t let them know.”
She sneaked a look back at Hobson and the others, far enough from them that Smith didn’t think they could be eavesdropped on. She said, matching his pitch, “You think they’re dangerous?”
“No, but you can never be too careful.”
She nodded again, and said, in a louder voice, “Be careful out there, Mr. Smith,” before taking Aaron’s hand and joining the others.
Mary climbed onto the older man’s horse to ride double behind him, while Aaron did the same thing with the younger one. Hobson didn’t say anything else to Smith as he turned and headed off, with the others following.
All except Travis, the redhead, who tipped his cap at Smith. “See you around, tough guy.”
Smith narrowed his eyes back at the man. “You should hope not.”
Travis chuckled before turning and riding off. He caught up to the others in no time.
Mary glanced back once or twice, and she might have done it a third time or more, but Smith had already picked up his pack and continued walking. He thought Aaron might have waved at him, but the kid could have just been adjusting his arm to get a better hold on his rider to keep from falling off.
Smith wasn’t sure where he was going, but continuing north sounded like a good plan. The worst that could happen was he ended up in Canada. He’d probably need to pick up a thicker jacket along the way.
Or a big wool coat. Maybe two.
Either/or.
Eight
Was letting Mary and the boy leave with those men the right thing to do?
Hobson had looked all right, and he was in charge, so…
…maybe…
He was still debating with himself when he saw the smoke.
There wasn’t a lot of it, but in absence of anything that even remotely signaled the existence of other humans out here besides himself, it was unmistakable.
The other reason Smith kept walking toward the smoke and its source was because they were in front of him. It hadn’t been more than a couple of hours since his run-in with the posse from Gaffney, and Smith wasn’t looking for more potential headaches. But the smoke was directly in front of him, and he was going there anyway, so Smith thought, What the hell.
After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 2): Run or Fight Page 5
