by Tom Abrahams
“All true,” echoed Rudy.
“Heck,” said Marcus. “Consider yourself lucky that all she’s doing is hazing you with the names of Dallas suburbs. She tried to kill me.”
Dallas glanced at Lou and back at Marcus.
Marcus nodded. “Seriously.”
“If I wanted to kill you,” said Lou, “you’d be dead.”
“Okay, enough of the backtalk,” Marcus said. “We need to do a little planning. Not too many townsfolk are going to want to get involved in this. They’re as sick as I am of the would-be Battle killers who come to town.”
“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?” asked Lou.
Marcus held his finger up to his lips to silence her. “We might be able to get a couple of guys to help out. My neighbors, Aaron and Blake, will want in. But mostly, it’s going to be the four of us.”
“Aaron and Blake?” asked Lou. “The handymen? The Aaron and Blake who fix gaskets and door hinges?”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “They’ll be good. They can handle themselves, I think.”
Lou sighed. Dallas looked at her, then Marcus, and back at Lou.
“So six against dozens?” asked Dallas. “That’s suicide.”
“And this is why I don’t respect you,” said Lou.
“We’ve had worse odds,” said Rudy. “This is our turf. We know it. We’ll be ready for them.”
“Wouldn’t it be helpful if we knew exactly how many people we were facing?” asked Dallas. “Then we’d know how to set up our defenses.”
“Why does that matter?” asked Lou. “A gunfight is a gunfight.”
“Says the woman who brings a knife,” Dallas shot back.
Marcus half expected Lou to quick draw a blade and fling it blade first into Dallas’s gut.
She smirked. “Maybe I’ll respect you yet.”
“He has a point,” said Marcus. “Not about the knife, but about knowing what we’re up against. We need a little recon.”
“How do you suppose we do that?” asked Rudy.
“Not we,” said Marcus. “Me. I do this alone. I’m heading to the jail. Gotta set up some welcome gifts for our visitors. Then I’ll head out. The three of you round up whoever you think will join us. Get the town prepped. Tell everyone to stay at home and lock the doors.”
He expected protests but didn’t get any. He walked over to Dallas and handed the kid his rifle. “I expect they’re no more than two days out. Maybe closer. They’ll be coming north. If I leave now, I’ll catch ’em no matter the exact direction.”
“Are you seriously leaving Wylie here with us?” asked Lou.
“Yes,” said Marcus. “He’s a good shot and, from what I can tell, a good man. Remember, Lou, sometimes you get more with sugar than with vinegar.”
Lou huffed. “Fine. I’ll be nice.”
“Even if she isn’t,” said Rudy, “we’ll be ready when you get back.”
CHAPTER 13
FEBRUARY 8, 2044, 9:31 PM
SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS
COLEMAN, TEXAS
Junior Barbas slid from his saddle and planted his feet in the dirt. He wrapped his reins around a mesquite and stretched the stiffness from his lower back and shoulders, drew a deep breath of the cool south-central Texas air, and looked up to the dark sky above. Stars flickered and danced. The moon was somewhere between half and full. Dark clouds drifted across its white light. There was something deceptively peaceful about his surroundings.
The rest of his men stopped their horses, gathering in the clearing a few yards from the highway, where there was a watering hole for the animals to rehydrate.
Grissom crossed the dirt and stood next to his friend. “I think all twenty are still with us,” he said. “None of ’em dropped off along the way.”
Junior grabbed his elbow with his opposite hand and pulled it toward his chest. He grunted, stretching his aching muscles.
“They’re asking if they should go ahead and set up camp.”
Junior repeated the exercise with his other elbow. “Sure,” he said. “Tell ’em to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be a big day.”
After Grissom walked away, Junior pulled a glass bottle from a saddlebag. He uncapped it and walked toward the pond. Halfway there, Bumppo joined him.
“We do the job tomorrow,” he said. “Leave early, finish early, get paid early.”
Junior kept walking, forcing Bumppo to keep pace. “Yeah,” he said, “tomorrow.”
They reached the water’s edge. The sound of frogs croaking stopped when Junior dipped his bottle into the pond. The murky drink gurgled its way into the narrow opening.
“Do you know the lay of the land?” asked Bumppo. “I mean to say, you been to Baird?”
Junior shook his head. With the bottle full, he drew it from the pond and wiped the neck dry with his thumb. He was crouched on his feet like a baseball catcher. Bumppo was on one knee next to him.
“Do you think we need to do a little recon?” Bumppo asked. “Find out what it is we’re up against? With a man like Battle on the other side, might not be a bad idea.”
Junior snorted, spit into the pond, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Not a bad idea.”
“I could send one of my guys if you want,” said Bumppo. “He’ll ride fast, sneak up on the town like a ghost, get a lay of the land, and head back.”
Junior dug his elbows into his knees and pressed himself to his feet. Without answering Bumppo, he slugged back to his horse, dragging his feet along the surface of the dry, cracked earth. From the feel of the ground under his feet, he could tell he was walking on what used to be the bottom of the pond behind him. He looked back up at the stars, specks of light from the center of places untouched by the Scourge, unaffected by this drought. Clouds sailed across the sky. They needed rain.
He finally answered Bumppo as he reached his horse. “Okay. You send one of yours and I’ll send Grissom. Two’s better than one.”
“All right,” Bumppo replied. “They can head out now if you want. More time they have to make the round trip, the more time we have to formulate a plan.”
Junior yanked a camping pot from his saddlebag and tapped it like a tambourine. “Formulate,” he said, facing his hired gun. “Form-yoooo-late.” He chuckled. “That’s a mighty fine word, formulate. You got a lot of fancy words, Bumppo? You got a lot of smart things up your sleeve? Lots of ideas? Lots of plans?”
“What? I don’t—”
Junior’s tone melted into seething distrust and he slithered closer to Bumppo. “You ride all quiet like for the last day, talking all hushed to your men and the fellas we picked up from San Angelo. You don’t bother talking to me.”
“Serious—”
Junior jabbed the pot at Bumppo’s chest, knocking him off balance. “Then you come over here telling me we need recon. You offer to send one of your men, talk about formulating things.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You listen to me,” said Junior. The muscles in his arms flexed. His lips curled as he bared his teeth. “You’re working for me. I paid you. You understand? I make the decisions. Not you.”
Bumppo stepped back and raised his hands in surrender, trying to deescalate the sudden tension. The madman was pointing with the pot toward a tall, broad-shouldered man called Whisper. “Get your man, the one over there. That one. He goes with Grissom. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Bumppo backed away, his eyes on Junior, and walked the short distance to Whisper. The man’s vocal cords were damaged and he could barely speak. He was unpacking his saddlebag for the night. A cigarette hung from his lips, the orange glow of the tobacco intensifying as he sucked on the hand-rolled smoke.
“Hey,” said Bumppo, “might want to put that stuff back. I got a job for you.”
Whisper scratched at the long scar across his neck that interrupted the thick knots of curls that made up his black beard and pinched the cigarette, pulling it from his mou
th to blow a ring of smoke into Bumppo’s face.
“We need recon on this town we hit tomorrow,” Bumppo said. “You and Junior’s guy, Grissom, are going to ride up to Baird. Check out the main street, see what it looks like, maybe find some spots we can exploit. Then ride back and tell us what’s what.”
“Why I gotta ride with some other dude I don’t know?” asked Whisper. The rasp in his voice was like gravel on glass. He took another drag, his cheeks pulling inward to inhale.
“’Cause I’m asking,” Bumppo replied simply.
Whisper stuffed his canteen and ragged blanket back into his bag. He climbed back onto his horse and flicked away the ashes from the end of the butt. “Who’s the dude?”
Bumppo winced at the shard in his man’s voice. He nodded toward Grissom, who was getting a talk from Junior. Grissom nodded like his head was on a loose spring and glanced over at Whisper. When they were finished talking, Junior marched toward them, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“You best get going,” he said. “Time’s running out.”
* * *
Marcus hadn’t ridden much in the last year. On occasion, he’d take his Appaloosa on lazy rides into the high grass meadows that surrounded Baird on all sides. Time had reclaimed what used to be farms and working ranches. Now they were overgrown open spaces with dying vegetation that ached for water. Marcus thought the horse liked their walks. She’d whinny and prance and always seemed a little sad at the notion of heading home when Marcus led her back along the path they’d taken out of town.
She was underfed and barely hydrated, but Marcus tended to her as best he could. He’d feed her before he fed himself at night, though he knew he should take her on walks and gallops more often than he did.
She’d long since lost her shoes and he wasn’t a skilled farrier, so she went without them, but she didn’t appear to mind. It didn’t affect her gait or her attitude.
She was eager to run south when Marcus had climbed aboard the comfortable, worn leather saddle that clung to her back. He had to hold her back and calm her excitement. She reminded him of Fifty when Lou offered to take him for a walk or play fetch.
The air was crisp. A southerly breeze blew at his face as they moved with purpose parallel to the highway. Marcus was a good fifty yards from the paved road. He didn’t want more than the rustle of the dying vegetation against his horse or the clop of the shoeless hooves on the dry earth to call attention to their trek.
The moon shone with enough light to see varying shades of blue-gray in the distance, although Marcus couldn’t discern much more than rough outlines of old highway markers or distant ramshackle buildings long-since abandoned or burned.
He’d been riding for a couple of hours, his eyes weary from straining to make out anything of value, when he saw it. A faint orange glow. It was such a tiny prick of light he almost thought his eyes were tricking him at first. But it grew and then virtually disappeared. Seconds later the familiar odor of stale tobacco smoke sailing on the breeze wafted past him.
Marcus stopped his horse and quietly slid to the ground. He slid his rifle from the saddle scabbard and checked the Springfield’s bolt to make sure he’d reloaded the five-round magazine. He knew the mag in the grip of the Glock was full. He remembered thumbing in the rounds that morning.
Leaving the horse to chew at the breezy wisps of grass and weeds in the field, Marcus lowered himself to a low crouch and worked his way toward the oncoming traveler. He didn’t know yet how many men might be approaching or if they were even a threat. He did know that anyone heading north to Baird was usually a threat. That was how it was, plain and simple.
He was five yards from the road, lying flat against the cracked earth, hearing the clop of worn horseshoes on the pavement, listening for clues as to who was approaching.
The first voice was nervous. The second was rough and laced with rasp. Marcus could only hear the words that traveled between breezy swirls of air blowing north.
“…many raids…killed…years…” said the first.
“…plenty…thirty…since the Scourge…” rasped the second.
“…plan…”
“…improvise…”
“…Junior…vengeful…”
“…paycheck…”
“…report back…”
There was no doubt, Marcus knew. These men were coming for him. They were scouting, looking for whatever they could find to make their attack more effective. That, in and of itself, was more than most had done.
Typically, the menace rode into town alone or in pairs. Sometimes a trio might ride into Baird, thinking they had the upper hand. They never did. Three shots and a pair of blades later, they were in a wheelbarrow on their way to the graveyard for misfit gunslingers.
Not these fellas. They were coming to win. He couldn’t kill them, though. He needed intelligence. That was the whole point of this trip. He fought the instinct to drop them dead in the road.
Marcus waited for them to pass, watching eight hooves move past him, before he rolled out onto the road, leaving the rifle in the grass next to the road. He stood up and called out to the men, who were ten yards north of him. He raised his hands above his head and cleared his throat to speak with the voice of a man who needed water in the worst way.
“Hey, brothers,” he called out, waving his hands. “Hey, fellas!”
Both men drew their weapons and twisted their bodies to face the surprise. One of them leveled a pistol at Marcus’s head. The other stopped and maneuvered his horse perpendicular to the road.
“Who are you?” asked the one ready to fire, his voice trembling. “Where’d you come from?”
“I’m so glad I heard you,” said Marcus. “I been out here for days. Ain’t got no water. Could you spare a drop, or maybe help me into town?”
The anxious one’s eyes darted from one side of the road to the other. He shifted in his saddle. “Who else is with you?”
Marcus took a couple of steps forward. “Nobody. I’m by myself.”
“Stop moving,” the man ordered. “Stay there.”
Marcus stopped his advance. He raised his hands higher above his head. His shoulders were starting to burn. His neck ached with a familiar stiffness. He ignored both and focused on the armed man with the shaky hands.
The other rider eased his horse toward Marcus and urged the animal even with his nervous compadre. He took a long drag from his cigarette. The orange glow at its tip bloomed as the man sucked in his cheeks. His pistol was in his hand at his side. He slumped in his saddle with the disinterest of a man who’d rather be somewhere else.
“I just need a sip of water,” said Marcus. “Maybe a ride? Wherever you’re headed would be fine.”
Nervous Nelly wagged the gun and shook his head. “What are you doing out here? How’d you get here?”
“I been wandering for a day or two,” said Marcus. “Got lost. Ran out of supplies.”
The cool customer with the cigarette pulled the butt from his mouth and flicked it to the road as he exhaled smoke through his nose. He scratched his neck. “What’s your name?”
Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Rufus Buck.”
“That gun loaded, Rufus?” asked the raspy-voiced man. His eyes were on Marcus’s hip.
Marcus followed the man’s eyes to his Glock. He nodded. “It is,” he said. “You can’t be too careful. Where you headed?”
“My name’s Whisper,” said the smoker with a sly smile. “This here’s Grissom.”
Grissom squeezed his eyes and shook his head. “What are you doing?” he asked. “We don’t know this man. For all we know, he’s come to spy on us.”
Whisper eased out of his saddle and unhooked a canteen from a bag. He walked toward Marcus. “He had the drop on us,” he said, passing Grissom. “If he was gonna kill us, he would’ve shot us both in the back.”
Marcus reached for the water and then raised it in a toast. “I ain’t interested in anyone dying, let alone me.”
He uncapped the metal canister and took a dramatically thirsty gulp. He sucked down a breath like a child drinking juice too fast, and swallowed another healthy pull. He handed back the canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.
“Much obliged,” he said.
“Rufus, huh?” asked Whisper, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “That’s an unusual name.”
Marcus nodded. “Sure. I get plenty of flack for it.”
Whisper’s eyes traveled up and down Marcus’s person. They lingered on his elbows, the bend of his arm, and his hands. “You shoot a lot?”
Marcus shrugged. “Some.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Grissom said, his voice dripping with irritation. “He’s got his drink. He’s fine. We need to get to Baird.”
As soon as he said it, Grissom pursed his lips. His eyes widened with the knowledge he’d leaked a secret.
Whisper’s expression flattened with exasperation. He sighed and shook his head. “Guess you know where we’re headed, Rufus.”
Marcus feigned surprise. “Baird?” he asked. “We close to Baird? So we’re not far from Abilene?”
“Yeah,” said Whisper. “Not far.”
Grissom waved the gun at Marcus. “Put your hands back above your head, Rufus. Keep ’em there.”
Marcus did as he was told. “What’s in Baird?”
“Nothing,” Grissom said sharply. “Nothing’s in Baird.”
“Just a waypoint,” said Whisper, the cadence of his raspy voice shifting to something less certain. “We’re headed…farther north. Maybe…toward the wall.”
“Can I tag along?” Marcus asked. “I’m good with a gun. I could help. I’ve been to Baird and—”
“We’ve got plenty of guns,” said Grissom. “We—”
Whisper shook his head. “Keep your mouth shut, Grissom,” he said and then stepped toward Marcus. “You’ve been to Baird? How long ago?”
Marcus took a couple of steps back. He shrugged with his weakening shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “A couple weeks ago, maybe. I thought I’d traveled farther than I have. Could be I been going in circles all this time.”
