"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah, you are such a gentleman.” She gave him a peck on the nose and left him to get into his shirt by himself, her fingers leaving feathery tracks across his stomach.
* * * *
Supper was over and the two men sat on the front porch. The church and parsonage were built on higher ground, so the valley lay open before them like a mural. Trent tried to remember where he had seen a painting like this. In the distance, he could hear a piano playing in the saloon and occasional laughter drifted by, carried by the summer breeze on its way out of the valley.
The Reverend, perhaps trying to circumvent the melancholy atmosphere the evening brought, did not waste any time on preamble. “They are a godless people, with little thought for life or propriety."
"Which ones?"
"All of them, Mr. Trent. Each and every one of them."
Trent thought about it a moment. “I guess I am glad I'm not down there."
Reverend Stephens snorted at his sarcasm. “You think you are better, Mr. Trent? I am not blind or deaf. I have heard of you, and know of your kind. Frankly, I can't tell much difference between you and the people you're supposed to protect us from."
"So your answer to the problem is..."
"Leave, Mr. Trent. The will of God can be done without your assistance."
"With you interpreting God's will, I suppose."
The Reverend ignored the barb. “The killing has to stop. With you here, posing as a U.S. Marshal..."
"Posing?"
"The situation will only get worse. No one will have respect for your kind of law. The badge you are wearing is a vain trinket that you should put away. That...” he pointed to the worn handle of Trent's pistol, “won't solve anything here."
Vain trinket? Trent thought a moment, rubbing the star on his chest, realizing he and the reverend were at an important juncture. He needed to pick his way carefully. “Has it occurred to you that I may be as much God's instrument as you? When you think about it, we have the same goals. We want an end to the killing, and we want peace.” Trent stood and leaned against a worn post. “Do you think for one moment that your preaching of peace will make any difference to those people down there? They only understand one thing. Survival. The quick and strong live. The slow and weak die. They do not want to die, Reverend."
"Violence is never the answer."
The reverend seemed to be warming up to the subject and Trent could feel a sermon coming on.
Abruptly, Trent said, “What happens when they come for your daughter? What happens when they decide they want to live in your house? What happens when the raiders become tired of the girls in the saloon and take after the women in your congregation? How will you stop that, Reverend?"
Stephens stood and looked over the valley.
"I'll tell you, Reverend. Unless the raiders know you will hurt them more than they can hurt you, unless you make the price so high they will not chance it, you don't have a chance in hell, Reverend. Not one."
"And your way, Mr. Trent?"
"You say you have heard of me. So have they. Most of the raiders down there are followers. Oh, they'd kill you soon enough if they thought they could get away with it, but most of them don't want to die trying. For those, my presence will make a difference. That leaves the rest, like Pagan Reeves and a few others. Those I'll have to fight, Reverend, because there just isn't any other way. I will not have time to debate the issue, or bring them to you for conversion and counseling. The bad ones have tasted blood, and it will take blood to stop them."
"And you, Marshal Trent. You have tasted blood. Can you not stop until you have tasted theirs?"
Trent thought a moment. “You may be right ... at least for one person."
The preacher was obviously thinking of the raiders, but Trent was thinking of the mysterious killer.
"I'm curious, Mr. Trent. What possessed you to take such a job?"
Trent snapped back to the present and grinned ruefully at the reverend. “Now I've thought about that. I have to tell you, if God has made me do this, then I wish He had left me alone. My way has always been to let others do as they want, as long as they did not bother me. Somehow, that is not good enough anymore. I guess, when it comes right down to it, there just was not anyone else around to do the job."
"The Commandment says ‘thou shalt not kill', Mr. Trent."
"See, there you go again, thinking you are the only one who has ever read a book. The original translation in the Greek says ‘thou shalt not commit murder'. There is a world of difference in that. It wasn't until modern times that the clergy changed the wording to kill."
"And you think that distinction absolves you from the responsibility of your killing? The premeditation?"
"No,” Trent said. “When you strap on a gun, you strap on the responsibility that goes with it. A gun is a tool, used to save lives, as well as take them, Reverend. Your problem is, everything has to be black or white. Unfortunately, we live in a world of gray."
"There is only right and wrong, Mr. Trent."
"Then I envy you your clarity, Reverend Stephens, however short-sighted it is."
Both men turned as Katie came out of the house, looking fresh and vibrant. Every time Trent saw her, she looked more beautiful.
"I think you two have about beaten that subject to death, don't you?"
Reverend Stephens turned to Trent. “I must go to the church, Mr. Trent, but I want you to know something. I love my daughter very much. I do not want to see her hurt, and I cannot see how you could do anything else but hurt her.” The reverend smiled. “It's been an experience talking to you."
As her father went down the steps, Trent spoke. “When you think about it, Reverend, you may realize we are on the same side."
"I can't imagine that, Mr. Trent.” He continued toward the church, a tall man in a black coat, his back unbending to age or differing opinion.
As they stood on the porch, Katie studied Trent's face, her eyes dark and serious. “Now this is a side of you I didn't expect. I thought your arguments were eloquent."
"You were eavesdropping?"
Her laughter was a welcome diversion after talking to her father. “Of course."
"Your father is not a bad man, Katherine. He just has tunnel vision. Our only difference is a matter of viewpoint."
It was then he heard the yelling. Young Tommy came tearing around the house, cutting under the reins of the horse. The animal reared and nearly broke free from the rail. Trent moved quickly to calm it.
"Marshal, you got to come quick. Somebody went by the Clark's house and them people are all dead. The whole bunch of them are dead. Folks are saying it's the plague."
Not waiting for a reply, the boy was off and running again, looking for the next place to tell his news.
"I'd better go, Katherine. Most people wouldn't know plague if it bit them on the ass."
"Not without me, you don't. I'll be just a minute."
* * * *
The cabin sat well back in the woods and a small crowd of people were gathered in front as Trent and Katie rode up. Silently the crowd parted to let them through.
Someone said, “I think it is plague."
Trent stopped and looked around at them. “Would any of you know plague if you saw it?” When no one answered, he said, “I want everyone to stay back. You're tromping up the ground where there may be tracks that I need to look at.” As Trent went up the steps, he told Katie, “Stay outside unless I call you."
At her nod of assent, he went through the open door. Quietly, he moved through all the rooms of the small house, his passage known only by an occasional squeaking board in the tongue and grooved floor.
Trent wandered through a rumpled bedroom full of homemade toys and piles of clothes. The other rooms were equally in disarray, not surprising with small children running about. Long lines of meat adorned the back porch, cut into thin strips and dried for jerky. He paused to smell it, thinking it might be a source of trouble. Finally
, he stepped from the dirty back porch into the room he had been avoiding.
The family was around the kitchen table. He had purposefully saved this room for last. There didn't seem to be any reason to hurry, it was obvious they were dead. Trent was old enough to know something about plague; at least enough to know this was not it. Plague takes awhile, following the usual course of one person being infected, then spreading it to others. Even the new viral strains that cropped up during the Fall weren't this quick. Whatever had killed this family had gone full course in a matter of minutes.
Finally, he did what he had put off for so long. He looked at the Clark family, individually ... personally. The man and woman were both young and healthy looking. The woman had fallen forward onto the table and the man had fallen out of his chair onto his left side. The baby, about nine months old and sitting in a homemade highchair, looked like it was asleep. Trent stood there, absently brushing back a lock of wispy hair on the baby's head. At a small noise, he glanced up and saw Katie watching him from the door, tears in her eyes. Looking at the table full of food, he knew it had to be something they ate, or the water they drank. The house was much too drafty to harbor any poisonous fumes or gas, and there were no wounds. Seeing a pot of stew on the wood stove formed a question in his mind.
He found the answer in the trash under the sink. Several empty cans of prepared beef stew. The cans were green with corrosion, and had to be pre-Fall. How stupid could they have been? The food in those cans was spoiled. He knew from experience the toxin from bacteria growing in food was virulent and quick. They had probably just warmed the stew enough to eat, had not cooked it long enough to kill the bacteria. He had seen the same thing in the jungles of Central America. And the same thing here. Trent had seen enough.
"What'd you find?” The voice boomed loudly in the room.
Trent's head cracked against the bottom of the sink. Cursing and rubbing, he looked up. “Who let you in, Murdock?"
The big woman held up her black bag. “I go anywhere, Trent."
"Next time, hum a tune or something. You should not sneak up on a man like that. I have never seen someone so big be so quiet."
"So, what do you think?” she asked, ignoring his complaint.
Trent held up a can, careful not to get any of the contents on him. “Botulism."
"Bot ... what?"
"You're some medic, Murdock. Old cans. The food was spoiled."
Murdock's mouth made a round ‘oh’ as Trent went past her and onto the porch.
"You folks gather around.” His quiet voice carried easily in the silence surrounding the house.
The people waiting outside shuffled closer. Trent saw a few mercs in the outer fringes of the crowd. Judging from the number, it looked like most of the honest townspeople were here.
He put it to them straight. “The Clark family is dead. All of them. The cause is not the plague or anything like it. This is what killed them.” Trent held up one of the old, rusty cans. “I should not have to be telling you this, especially so long after the Fall. We all use material things made years ago. Material things. It is the way we live. But, you can't do that with food, no matter how good it looks, or how clean you think it is. If you do not grow it, raise it, or kill it yourself, do not eat it. That is survival rule number one, people. Anything you find in cans or jars may be spoiled. When something lies around for years, there is no end to the kinds of sickness it may breed."
Trent looked over the crowd. “Whatever was in those cans killed the Clark family in a matter of minutes. You think about that. It just is not worth the chance. If any of you have food like that stashed away, get rid of it. If you know where this family got these cans of stew—go get the rest and bury them.” Trent paused a moment. “Now, these people need to be buried. Any volunteers?"
When several men stepped forward, Trent turned to Murdock. “You want to take care of this?"
"Sure."
He looked at her quizzically. “You got a first name, Murdock?"
"None you'll ever hear."
Grinning, Trent left things in her hands, then walked back to the horses with Katie.
Katie looked back at the house. “Sometimes people can be so stupid.” Her voice broke. “The baby..."
"Katherine."
"What?” Her gaze moved to what had hardened his voice.
Pagan Reeves was waiting for him, and it did not look like a social call. Red Seaver was beside him, grinning widely. The third man was a raider who called himself Tommyknocker. He had two guns strapped to his waist, and a mind totally void of conscience. Trent had heard a lot about the Tommyknocker. Mostly that he was insane and mean. Trust Reeves to bring a crowd.
Trent sighed as he slid the thong off his Ruger. “You better stay out of the way, Katherine. I'll be talking to these men."
Chapter 13
TRENT RODE TO see Pagan Reeves, sidestepping his horse down the hill. His right hand was on his hip, inches from the butt of his pistol, his left hand shoulder high, holding the horse with a tight rein.
"You lookin’ for me, Marshal?” Pagan's truculent voice rang out.
"Not until morning.” Trent's gaze never left the three of them. Of the three, he worried about Pagan Reeves the least. He knew Red Seaver, who was deadly with any kind of weapon, but it was Tommyknocker he would watch the closest. The man was wild-eyed and high strung.
"Which means?” Pagan asked.
"Your name is on the list."
"What if we don't wanna leave?” Tommyknocker spoke in a high-pitched voice as he moved his horse away from the other two.
"Then I'll kill you.” Trent said it matter-of-fact, with no bravado or embellishment. It was just a simple statement of truth.
Tommyknocker laughed. “You'll never see the day."
"Do you remember the last time I saw you?” Trent asked. “It was at Caplinger Mills. You were wounded and running like hell."
With an oath, Tommyknocker dropped his hands to his guns.
Trent shot him out of the saddle.
As the man flipped backward off his horse, Trent moved the barrel of the pistol to cover the other two. Reeves sat in stunned silence while Red Seaver cursed under his breath.
"What'd you do that for?” Reeves yelled at Trent.
"Never could see talking when it's a shooting matter. You would do well to remember that, Reeves. Now, you have a choice. A choice you did not have a minute ago. Either you can pull that fancy pearl-handled pistol, or you can gather your people and leave town. The choice is yours, Reeves, and I don't have all day."
Red Seaver said, “Someday it will be you and me, Trent."
"Forget it, Red. I've seen you draw."
"You haven't seen me draw, Trent.” Reeves’ tone was taunting. “Have you thought of that? I've seen what you can do and I'm not worried one bit. What do you think of that, lawman?"
"I've seen you start to draw,” Trent said. “You just never finish. That's the way people like you are, Reeves. You start, but never finish. You try to get other people to do your killing for you."
Pagan Reeves’ face turned a mottled red, then faded to gray. When he finally spoke, it was in a choked whisper. “Red, go get the rest of the men. Meet me at Sliding Rock, then we'll go see Starking.” He smiled maliciously at Trent. “I think open season is about to start on our Mr. Trent."
"Would you care to start now, Reeves?"
Reeves shook his head. “No. I can wait. When the time is right ... we'll meet."
Trent relaxed slightly. “It may never come, Reeves."
"Why?"
"I can't imagine ever turning my back on you."
As Trent rode back toward town, he raised his hand in salute to the Reverend and Katherine. Neither looked very happy.
* * * *
Marshal John Trent lounged in a tipped-back chair that graced the front of his makeshift quarters at Big Springs. Katie had called after him, following the confrontation with Reeves, with a promise to return later and talk. It did not
take much to figure what the subject would be. He had even surprised himself with the suddenness of the killing of Tommyknocker. But there simply was not time to do anything else.
As he sat watching the townspeople go about their evening chores, Trent tried to collect his thoughts on his first day in town. One crisis with the food poisoning, and the raider element certainly knew where they stood. Trent's fight with Big Waters had seen to that. Coupled with meeting Katie's father, it had been quite a day. Hopefully, within a few days, the townspeople would start to see him as a help instead of a hindrance. In the meantime, Trent needed to figure out just how to go about this marshaling job he'd fallen into.
He was about to get up and make a circuit through town when he noticed a large man in a floppy hat walk out of Murdock's saloon. His wild hair was barely contained, and from his appearance, Trent was glad he was upwind from the man. It was not his rough appearance that brought Trent's attention to him, it was his manner. The man had walked toward Trent, but stopped at a small cabin set slightly back from the street. After furtively looking around, he quickly snatched open the door and ducked inside. In the cool night air, Trent heard the sound of a slap and a woman's scream. What the hell?
Trent ejected from his chair and ran to the house. The screaming and cursing continued as he mounted the porch. Trent quietly turned the knob and let himself in.
The man had a woman backed into a corner, holding her with one hand, the other raised to slap her again. As Trent moved toward him, he caught sight of children's faces peering from another room. The man stopped with his hand paused in mid-air when the woman's eyes shifted.
With a curse, the man lunged toward a back door, but Trent's foot intercepted his legs, piling him up on the floor. The woman's assailant came up spitting mad from the floor, but his anger was no match for Trent's cold fury. As the man stepped in, Trent met him with a straight left jab that crushed his nose in a shower of blood. Not giving the man any chance to set himself, Trent bent him over with a short jab to the ribs, then straightened him up with a solid uppercut to the jaw. Then, Trent grabbed him by the neck and threw him bodily outside into the street.
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