The problem was, Trent liked this man, and of course, what he said was right. He respected him as one fighting man does another. All he had ever heard about Chico Cruz was that he was a tough man in any kind of fight, and never a word about senseless killings or brutality. But he had been Starking's right hand man. And Starking was a raider. Was Trent's opinion of Starking wrong too?
Here, standing in the approaching gloom of evening, in a ranch yard he had never seen before, John Trent felt he had found a kindred soul. Both men understood each other as can only happen when the same ground has been covered, the same battles fought. Each had tasted the blood and dirt of victory and defeat.
Trent took his time. He wanted Cruz to understand. “Chico, ever since I joined the army, I was about seventeen I guess, I have always tried to do the right thing. I have always had a deep feeling for what is right. I guess we can call it the law. Not laws written by legislators and congressmen that are written on a whim and can't be enforced. There is an older law. The one most people are born with.
"From the first time man sprung from the well of life, he has had a sense of right and wrong. Someone has to stand up against those who take advantage of weaker people. I guess that's where I've always tried to be."
Cruz flipped the stub of the cigarillo into the corral. “But now, you have a disadvantage. Now that you have the badge, and if you honor it, you must be right and just. Above all, you must be sure. Sure of your position, and what you do. You must be all these things before you pull your gun, my friend."
"So, you think I should throw the badge away?” Trent looked quizzically at Cruz.
Cruz shrugged eloquently. “The man on the other side of this line we talk of, like Pagan Reeves ... has no decisions to make about right or wrong. He knows exactly where he is. He knows where you are, and will not hesitate, or be bothered with doubts. That gives him the advantage because you will always have to wait that extra second until you know, until you are sure. The other man does not care if he is right or not.” Cruz reached over and tapped the butt of Trent's pistol. “When that time comes, you will have to be very fast, my friend, and very, very good."
"Which side of this line are you on, Chico?"
Chico thought a moment. “For each man, and each circumstance, I must draw the line.” As Trent raised his eyebrows, Cruz continued. “You wonder about this? We can't be brave at all times. We can't even be right all the time. To survive, we must deal with each situation by itself. My job is to protect the Senora Sanchez and help preserve her rancho. This I will do."
"Then if I yell for help ... none will be coming."
"I heard about the fight at Caplinger Mills. There were six men? I don't think you will need much help."
"Maybe.” Trent smiled ruefully. “And maybe I have bit off more than I can chew."
* * * *
The Watcher sat in the shade of an old incense cedar that was twisted and gnarled with age. The shady blanket of needles kept the setting sun from reflecting on the glass of the binoculars he was using.
The women below him, brought into sharp relief by the ten-power lens, were beautiful, full breasted, full of life and vigor. But no, he would have to look somewhere else. These women were worthy, but too well guarded. The pistolero would guard the Mexican girl, and guard her well. The blonde haired woman was with Trent and the Watcher did not want to antagonize Trent. At least, not yet. He returned his gaze to the blond woman. Watching her walk across to the corral below, he felt the heat stirring within him. She was beautiful. He knew she would be soft in places she needed to be. Would her nipples be large and soft, or small and hard? Her skin would be tight, and part like ... he forced his eyes from her. Maybe later. It would be fun ... later.
Chapter 11
BIG SPRINGS WAS built on either side of the old Conservation Department's access road which entered the small basin between the hills. Mills populated the part of the road that paralleled the springs, using the rushing water to power huge paddlewheels, which turned the gears and grinders that processed corn and wheat, or turned the blades for sawing lumber. Across the old and broken tarmac were buildings that housed a trading store and meeting hall. A few houses and a church were at the south end, and a lone building used as a saloon was on the north.
As Trent made his mid-morning ride into town, his thoughts were on how best to handle this new situation. He had dressed with care, wearing jeans and knee-length moccasins, a blue cotton shirt with his new star pinned on the front in plain view. His SKS was in its boot, and his right hand was on his hip near his gun. Sitting tall in the saddle, he rode down the middle of the street toward the saloon.
His reason for coming in alone, he had discussed with Cruz last night...
"At least let me go in with you in the morning,” Cruz had said. “My riders can watch your back for you."
"Thought you didn't want to help,” Trent had replied chidingly. “I'll go alone, Chico. If we go in with a show of force, there will be a fight for sure. If I go alone, maybe they will not be so jumpy. I could use the loan of a horse though."
In the end, Cruz agreed and the horse he gave Trent was magnificent. Too large to be a good cattle horse, the sorrel gelding reminded Trent of stories of the Conquistador horses ridden into battle. A battle horse. Fitting.
When faced with a problem, Trent only knew one way to solve it. Straight on ... don't pull your punches and the devil takes the hindmost.
Chairs lined the porch of the saloon, most of them filled with mercs and hangers-on, the likes found in most any settlement. The local spit-whittle-and-chew club.
Trent looked the men over as he stepped down from his horse. He thought they could be bad as a group, but did not see anyone who might be trouble by himself.
"Mornin',” Trent said as he took the steps two at a time. He held a rolled up piece of cardboard that he had taken from the back of his saddle. “Who runs this place?"
One of the mercs turned his head and spat a brown stream into the street. “Who wants to know?"
Without breaking stride, Trent reached out with a toe and kicked the front of the chair out from under the man. The merc flipped over backwards with a crash, his head cracking against the building on the way down. A look of dumb surprise washed over his face.
"I do.” Trent waited, as if he did not give a damn what the merc did, and in truth, he did not.
Finally, when the merc saw no one was going to rush to his rescue, he said, “Murdock runs it."
"Thanks.” Turning to one side, Trent palmed his Ruger, reversed it, and used the butt for a hammer to tack his poster to the wall. He stepped back and surveyed the men on the porch. “Read it. If you can't, find someone to read it for you."
Moving into the gloom of the saloon, he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. This saloon was different from others he'd seen in that it was neater than most; the bar across one end was polished, the floor swept and clean. He looked around at the men and women sitting at tables and leaning against the bar. Some he knew from other places, some he had never seen. Still, there were not any he would call raider.
"I'm looking for Murdock.” The noise level had fallen to a whisper when he came in and his voice carried easily.
A large woman in her late twenties got up from one of the tables and crossed around behind the bar. Leaning forward on her elbows, she looked him over; the way a schoolteacher does the class prankster.
"I am Murdock."
Trent could see now why the place was neater than usual; it had a woman's touch.
When he thought ‘big’ to himself, he did not mean fat. This woman was over six feet tall and proportioned to size. When she leaned forward, her breasts nearly exploded from the low-cut dress. In the subdued light, her face was expressionless, her eyes unreadable as obsidian. Trent vowed to be very careful, and not low-rate this woman.
"You run this place?"
"Every inch of it, mister. What'll you have?"
"How about a speech and a beer, in
that order."
She grinned and the hardness left her face. “You give the speech and I'll get the beer."
Trent turned and hooked his elbows on the bar. While looking nonchalant, the position actually put his hands closer to his gun. He knew at least one in the room that did not miss that fact. “My name is John Trent. Some of you know me. If you do not, you will get to.
"What passes for government these days claim I'm a United States Marshal, but you and I know that has not meant much in these hills for the last hundred years. That does not matter. You can call me marshal, or law dog, or anything else you want. That does not matter either.
"What does matter is this; I am serving notice right now, anyone not showing some sign of work, or serving some purpose around Big Springs, will leave. It can go easy or hard, and you can have it any way you want it. The trouble in this settlement is over.
"There is a list of people outside on the wall. If your name is on the list, you have until sundown to get out. After that, I will kill you on sight. That's the speech."
Trent turned and took the beer Murdock handed him. It was cold and beaded with condensation. He swallowed half the contents before he put the bottle down.
"How do you keep it cold?"
"There is a well in the back that feeds in from the Springs. The water is cold enough to make your teeth hurt. Is my name on the list?"
He looked sideways at her. “I didn't know your name. Besides, looks to me like you have a job."
"I thought maybe you would try to run off all the newcomers and just leave the original settlers."
"Nope. That is not my intention. Just run an honest place. When people get too drunk to navigate, send them out the door. If they won't go, send for me."
"If they won't go, I'll show them this.” She reached under the bar and came up with an old sawed-off Ithaca pump shotgun. On the front was an attachment called a Duck-bill, a deadly item spawned in the jungles of Vietnam that would spread the shot in a horizontal pattern.
"I inherited this from my grandfather. He was a Nam Vet,” she said.
"Have you ever used it?"
She grinned at him. “Just once. It was one hell of a sight. I don't get too many arguments any more."
"I can imagine."
"One more question, Marshal. What about my girls? Do they stay?"
Trent was not aware she ran prostitutes. He idly wondered what they took for pay as he said, “You still don't understand, Murdock. I do not have a problem if you are doing normal stuff, and not causing trouble. I am not going to run the oldest profession out of town, unless they are spreading disease or rolling drunks. Just keep it clean."
"Well, I'm not sure the local parson would consider our normal stuff very normal, but I appreciate your attitude just the same."
He noticed her glance at the door. Looking around, he saw a cluster of men at the poster he had tacked up. One of the men ripped it from the wall and threw it down on the deck.
Trent sighed and started for the door. “Well, time to go to work."
Murdock called to him. “The big man is the one they have brought for you, Trent. He likes to stomp and he is a nutcracker."
As he passed through the door, the human bear jumped forward and wrapped him up, picking Trent's feet off the porch and trying to break his back. Trent knew if he did not end this fight now, he was a dead man. He struggled to free his left arm; his right hand pushing the man's chin back and up. Finally, his arm came free and he opened his palms and slapped the man on both ears, a move that ruptured his eardrums. The first time the man just whined. The second time his grip loosened. When Trent slipped down in the giant's grasp, he kicked the man on the instep and slid free. The man howled in pain.
Trent suddenly found himself propelled into the street and surrounded by a ring of spectators. Most were shouting encouragement to the giant.
It was hot and humid, and Trent was fast losing his temper. “Mister, I don't know you, so you will get one warning. No more of this,” Trent said, panting.
The big man smiled, showing gapped teeth. Blood trickled from both of his ears. “The name is Big Waters, lawman, and I am going to kill you with my hands. I'm gonna break you like a stick."
The man was clumsy, but a monster of strength. Trent sighed. He just could not chance a long fight, not in this heat.
"All right then, Waters. Come and get it."
The big man rushed him again. When he was an arm's length away, Trent jabbed his fingertips into the man's throat. When the giant stumbled to a stop, gagging for air, Trent slipped sideways and kicked in the man's right knee. The leg broke with a liquid sounding pop, and the giant went down like a felled tree, screaming and holding his leg.
Trent looked at the rest of the men and women. “Anyone else?"
The crowd was stunned. Not at the violence, he was sure they were used to that. They had seen men crushed in Big Waters’ hands. The man they were afraid of was defeated with no more effort than taking out the garbage. Trent meant it to be that way.
One man dressed in a partial camo uniform said, “Tell it to Pagan Reeves. He will skin you alive."
Trent singled him out. “No. You tell him. Right now.” He stared at the man until he turned and left.
"All right, move out of the way,” a woman's voice broke in.
Murdock pushed her way through the crowd, carrying a black bag. “Jesus, Trent. You should have killed him."
"Why?"
"After I set his leg, we'll have to cut a tree for him to use as a crutch. None of us are big enough to carry him around."
"Use a horse."
* * * *
Later that afternoon, after one of the townsmen found him a building to use as an office and place to live, Trent stood in the empty room wondering what to do with it. A knock on the door saved him.
"Mister.” A young boy stood at the door.
"What can I do for you, son?"
"Preacher Stephens wants you should come down to his place for dinner."
"C'mon in,” Trent said. “You got a name?"
"Tommy."
Trent held out his hand. “My name is John, Tommy. Nice to meet you."
Tommy wandered inside looking around, ignoring the outstretched hand. “Not much of a place."
"I just got here,” Trent said defensively.
"No kiddin'. Know what my dad says?"
Trent raised his eyebrows in question.
"He says you got a bulls-eye painted on your butt, and people are goin’ to be linin’ up soon for target practice."
"Your father is a wise man."
"My dad says—"
Trent raised his hand to stop the continuing avalanche of ‘dad says'. “Tommy, you are depressing the hell out of me. Why don't you show me where this Preacher Stephens lives, huh?"
"That's easy, Marshal. Next to the church.” The boy left, shaking his head, undoubtedly wondering why someone would not know the preacher lived next to his church.
Chapter 12
TRENT TIED HIS HORSE to the fence bordering a small white house, loosening the girth on the saddle. He unlatched the gate, let it swing shut behind him and walked up to the porch. The house matched the white church beside it. The whole place looked bleached. A tall, lank man opened the door. Although pushing sixty, he held himself erect, and proud.
"Reverend Stephens?"
"You must be Marshal Trent."
The preacher opened the door and Trent passed through into a spare-looking room with a few chairs parked against the walls. An ancient sofa seemed to be the main gathering place in the room.
As they stood, sizing each other up, the reverend said, “My daughter seems quite taken with you, Marshal. She talks about you all the time. I am surprised a man of your age would encourage that."
No beating around the bush here. “Your daughter seems to have a mind of her own, Reverend. She will make up her own mind concerning who she is with."
"No doubt. She is headstrong. How old did you say you w
ere?"
"I didn't say, Reverend, but since you are asking, I am thirty-six."
"That would put you about twice my daughter's age, wouldn't it?"
"Reverend, you are grinding this axe a little thin. If you have got something to say, spit it out.” Trent was beginning to dislike this man. A lot.
Reverend Stephens didn't reply as Katie entered from the kitchen.
"I see you two have met,” she said. “I hope you are playing nice."
"Hello, Katherine.” Suddenly Trent was tongue-tied as a schoolboy on his first date.
Wearing a full-skirted dress with ruffles at the shoulders and a dip in the front that went way below her open-throated tan line, Katherine Stephens had gone from beautiful to breathtaking. Trent was suddenly aware of his clothes, still dirty from the trail, and the fact he had not had a bath in days.
Katie took him by the arm. “Close your mouth, boy, the flies are gettin’ in. You will excuse us, Father?” She led Trent out the back door. “I thought you might want to wash up."
There was a bench by a well pump, with two pans of water. Trent took the hint and stripped off his shirt. Katie leaned against the side of the house, watching as he washed vigorously in the cold water, then stood looking around for a towel. Katie reached inside the door, snagged one off a hook, and tossed it to him.
Trent flattened his wet hair with a comb, which made him wish he had a haircut. This, in turn made him think of his chin and wish he had a razor, which made him wish he were somewhere else entirely.
He smelled her before he felt the towel rubbing his back. Lilac and sweetness, mixed with cooking smells of bread and chicken. When he turned, she stepped inside his arms, her breasts nudged up against him, her expression serious, yet humorous at the same time, searching his eyes.
"Don't let my father run over you. It just makes matters worse. We will have dinner, and he will likely preach at you awhile. Then he will go over to the church to study.” She smiled at him. “Well be alone then."
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