As the two men came together again, Trent noticed a small crowd had gathered. The would-be rapist took a wild swing at Trent that he easily evaded, then Trent slapped him, first one hand, then the other, until the man was whining in frustration. With his pounding fists, Trent drove the man back down the street.
Finally, Trent pinned the man against the awning post next to his office. Turning to the crowd who had followed, he said, “Someone get me a rope."
"You going to hang him, Marshal? We've all had trouble with that man.” The question came from one of the women in the crowd.
"It's a thought,” Trent replied.
A few minutes later Trent had the man tied to a post with the rope thrown up over a crosspiece, pulling his hands over his head, and taking most of his weight off his feet. Trent stood looking at him a long time while the man groggily looked back. Finally, he turned to the crowd. “Has anyone checked on the woman?"
Murdock pushed her way through the crowd. “She's all right, Marshal. Just scared."
"Good.” He turned back to his prisoner. “So, what do we do with vermin like this?"
The comments from the crowd were varied and sudden, ranging from death to emasculation. Trent noticed a puddle forming under the man that was not sweat.
Turning to the crowd, Trent said, “We'll let him hang here all night. Murdock, in the morning you can turn him loose. If he's still alive, he can leave town.” Trent turned back to the man. “Mister, I don't want to know your name, where you've come from, or where you are going. If I see you again, I'll beat you to death."
Trent turned to the crowd again. He had noticed a few men in the outskirts of the group that were not local; they just were not dressed right. He directed his comments to them. “The people of this town will not be bothered. Anyone causing a problem will answer to me. I won't be giving any more warnings."
Trent was in his office soaking his hands when Katie came in. She leaned on the door as she closed it. There were no lights inside, so he could barely see her in the dusk.
"I can't leave you alone for a minute."
"Just doing my job ... I think,” Trent replied.
"What are you doing to your hands?"
"Found some Epsom salts on the shelf. It will help keep the swelling down."
"I heard this ‘porch ornament’ tried to rape that poor woman. Do you think he's the one you're looking for?"
"Not likely. He's too clumsy, and not smart enough. No, he is not the one.” She was still standing by the door. “What's wrong, Katherine?"
"I don't know. You killed a man earlier today, while he was just sitting there talking to you. Then, I see what happened out here and it bothers me. Sometimes, I do not know you and that scares me. You were so brutal. I have never seen you like that."
"You don't know me, Katherine. I tried to tell you that. I am not hiding anything from you. This is who I am.” He dried his hands and held one out to her. “Come and sit with me. We can talk."
Katie shook her head, “No. I ... I better not. I need to think."
"Then go do your thinking.” Trent's voice sounded harsh in the gloomy room. “While you're at it, stop by and make sure that piece of filth hanging on the porch is being treated right. Maybe you could take him home with you."
Trent did not get up to close the door after she left. He wasn't too sure it would close after the way Katie slammed it. As he sat in the darkness, his throat felt raw and his mind was full of emptiness. He knew his world had just walked out that door. What he did not know was how to get her back.
Chapter 14
DAWN HAD BEEN gone a couple of hours and the midmorning heat pressed a heavy hand on John Trent. The trail written in the bent grass and churned earth, turned up by the passage of horses, was easily followed. Pagan Reeves and his men did not try to cover signs of their passage.
Trent thought back to the night before. His simple ruse had worked. Sure Reeves was a back shooter, he had taunted him until the man went running to the raider chief, Jeremiah Starking. Trent could have wasted days scouting around the hills looking for Starking, but now the trail was like a paved highway.
Topping a rise, Trent saw a huge encampment spread out below him. Groups of people milled around a cleared area between at least fifty cook fires. Children ran and whooped through the camp, and farther away a small herd of horses grazed under the watchful eye of a guard.
There was only one tent in the clearing. Trent pulled out his binoculars to study the area. Standing next to the dwelling, a boy in cut off bib overalls held horses that looked hard ridden. Pagan must be in conference with Starking. It was time to move.
Walking his horse into the clearing, the SKS across his thighs, Trent rode straight and relaxed in the saddle. He pulled his hat brim down to his eyes. His badge glittered in the sunlight. He noted that this raider camp was different from others he had seen. The people at the campfires were bedraggled, and most looked like they had missed a few meals, but they appeared clean. The area around the fires was not littered and Trent noticed for the first time, a garbage pit dug to one side, and farther out, the latrine. Someone kept a tight rein on these people. A germ of an idea crept into Trent's mind.
A wave of people preceded his way through the camp, then broke and split at Starking's tent when Trent reined in the gelding. The curtain brushed aside, and a tall white-haired man stepped out. Several others, including Pagan Reeves, Ben Hobbs and Red Seaver, instantly flanked him.
Trent and Starking took stock of each other, matching what they had heard against what they saw.
"Speak your peace, Marshal Trent."
So much for cordial introductions. Trent looked around the circle of faces, feeling like a bone in a wolf den. If he did not make this good, he would have about as much chance.
"Mr. Starking, it sounds like you have heard of me. If that is so, you should know I would not ride in here without good reason. We need to talk. I think we can avoid a lot of needless bloodshed and come to terms that would help us both. That is, if you're willing to listen."
"And why should I?"
Trent lifted his rifle, causing a hasty stir behind Starking, then shoved it into the boot on the saddle. Pushing his hat onto the back of his head, he hooked one knee around the saddle horn and gestured to the people around him.
"The word is, you want to take Big Springs and make homes for these people. I can sympathize with that. Your people trust you, and I can see you care for their welfare. The problem is, Big Springs is already settled."
Starking nodded. “A few hill people are there, I understand."
"Have you seen it, Mr. Starking?"
"Reeves told me about it."
Trent pinned the man standing behind Starking with a penetrating gaze. “Then you've been lied to."
The crowd stirred, muttering and shifting their feet in the grass.
Reeves started to speak, but Starking raised his hand to silence him. “Your story is different?"
Trent turned in the saddle a little so he could see more people, especially the men and women with small children. “Big Springs has as many people as you do, maybe more. There are families there, just like here. They have a church and a preacher. They have a store that deals in trading, and two gristmills for grinding grain and sawing lumber. There is a ranch nearby that is busy rounding up cattle, and there are enough of those to keep a good many people fat for years. Most important of all, the water at the Springs is clear and clean."
Starking turned from staring at Reeves and asked, “What's your part in this?"
"The Army sent me here to keep the peace, any way I can. I am supposed to keep the lid on until they can come to the area in force. You know what will happen then. The Army's rule is that raiders are shot on sight. I have a better idea."
Starking and his lieutenants bristled at the last statement, some of his men laying hands on their guns.
Reeves pulled his weapon and said, “If you—"
"Let's hear him out,” a voice fr
om the crowd interrupted.
Again, Starking called for quiet. “Go ahead, Trent."
"If you try to take Big Springs by force, the people there will fight. You will lose good men trying to take the place, and so will they. It is a natural fortress, and there are not many ways to get at it. Thing is, you do not need to fight for it. I don't see you folks as raiders. You just need a place to live. There is plenty of room at the Springs and the surrounding area. If you come peaceful, that is. I will talk to people and let them know about you. The most important thing is to keep the peace. People start showing up dead and the deal will be off."
"We get along all right by ourselves,” Starking said.
"Really?” Trent looked around the circle of faces. “Where are your hunters, Mr. Starking? The forest is full of deer and boar, and the flatlands have cattle running free. I do not see much but rabbit and squirrel in your cooking pots. I see running sores on your children, and they wear rags for clothes. Personally, I do not think you are doing so well. Know why? Someone has all your best men trying to push honest people off their land, when they should be putting meat in the pot."
The last comment he directed at Reeves, who did not speak, just raked his hot gaze over Trent. Starking nodded, realizing the truth.
Reeves, obviously sensing that Starking was starting to agree with Trent, stomped to his horse. “I'm taking my men with me, Starking, and we'll take care of Big Springs. I can see you don't need us anymore."
"Your men?” Starking said. “Maybe we'd be better off without ‘your men'. Hear this. Whoever quits me and goes with you had not better cross paths with me again, Pagan. I will not tolerate that kind of loyalty."
Most of the men stayed, while Reeves and a few of his followers left.
Starking turned back to Trent. “Light and set, Marshal. It seems we have a lot to discuss. By the way, we have one of your Green Jeans in here. He's in a bad way."
As they walked into the tent, the smell of rotting flesh assailed Trent's nose.
"Not much we could do for him,” Starking said. “He's gut shot."
Thinking of Gunny, Trent pulled the blanket away from the man's face. It was Lieutenant Spencer.
"We found him yesterday; I don't know what's keeping him alive."
Lieutenant Spencer's eyes fluttered open. Seeing Trent, he tried to speak.
"What happened?” Trent leaned close to the man's face. “Ambush?"
The man nodded, finally giving up trying to speak. His breathing came ragged and shallow, his fevered gaze holding on Trent.
Trent thought for a moment, then asked, “Raiders?"
At this, Spencer became agitated and feebly shook his head. The effort was too much and it left him staring with sightless eyes at the side of the tent.
"Guess we'll never know,” Starking said.
"I'd be real disappointed to find out you had anything to do with this, Starking.” Trent looked levelly at the raider chief.
A voice cut into the semi-darkness of the tent. “Don't get your feathers ruffled, Marshal."
Trent turned, recognizing the drawling voice belonging to the old matriarch from the village he had gone through.
"Do you know this woman?” Starking asked Trent.
"I know her.” Trent smiled. “She kept me from getting shot awhile back."
Starking spoke to the woman. “Well, I'm not sure you did the right thing, but let's hear your story."
Gran ignored the man, instead giving her attention to Trent. “We been scoutin’ the hills, like you said to do. Keepin’ watch. We run onto that army patrol you was with, ‘cept they was headed the other direction this time. They'd been ambushed, all right, but from the inside.” She paused to let it sink in. “Someone right in amongst them cut loose and shot them all. We buried all of them, except for this one."
Trent tried to absorb his information. He was missing something. What about Gunny?
Gran continued. “When we found the girl you looked at, Lon saw just a piece of a track. It came from a shoe with an odd stitch. Whoever did the shootin’ of the patrol had that same track. We thought you'd want to know."
"Did you bury a man with stripes on his sleeves, a sergeant?"
"Don't know what a sergeant's stripes look like, Marshal."
"Three stripes pointed down with two over the top.” He drew the figure in the air.
"Nope. They all had just one of those stripes."
Relieved, Trent said, “Then one got away. Thanks, Gran."
She was not through talking. “Marshal?"
Trent raised his eyebrows.
"You watch your back, son,” Gran said. “There's something not right about this, but we just can't seem to pin it down."
"Yeah, I hear you, Gran."
"Then hear this, Marshal. Lon may do the job for you. He was supposed to marry that gal you saw. He is lookin’ for the killer awful hard. It is makin’ him crazy. Just don't you shoot him by mistake."
"Gran, if you see him ... you tell him good luck."
"I probably won't see him. He spends all his time over in this neck of the woods. Do I see him, though, I'll tell him."
* * * *
Trent left Starking's camp with more questions than answers. He had a cold feeling in his stomach that the answers were staring him in the face, but he just could not see it. There were not many clues, and hardly anything to investigate. So far, all he had was bodies.
Ignoring his wife's death, and thinking only of the more recent killings, he knew there was a thread that was tickling his mind. The only connection between the murders he could see was ... himself.
And he was worried about Gunny. Where was Gunny? He had mentioned joining Trent. But maybe he wouldn't. More likely, he was trailing the one who ambushed the patrol.
Trent's mind kept at the problem. So, what did he have? Two partial footprints of a moccasin that had been torn and repaired, which pointed to a woodsman. And the fact that the man, and it had to be a man, left little or no trail. This fact pointed to someone trained to hide. Army? Special Forces? Gran thought the killer had been with the patrol. Had they taken a prisoner? Was one of the patrol members an imposter? And, how would he find him in a few million square miles of forest?
His horse pulled up and stopped and Trent, totally absorbed in working out the problem, had to look around to get his bearings. The trail, once a fire access road around the mountain, narrowed here with a steep fall on his left side and a high bluff on the right. The path was grown up with grass as high as his horse's knees. Sitting in the partial sunlight that filtered through the trees, he was just nudging his horse forward when he saw a wink of sunlight reflect off something high on the bluff above him.
He started to wheel his horse but a bullet caught him high on the shoulder, turning him in the saddle. A second round scraped along the top of his head, just under the skin, snapping him off his horse and into the brush along the trail. Head ringing and barely conscious, Trent rolled down the steep embankment, trying to get some distance between him and the shooter. Finally, coming up against a lichen-covered deadfall, he lay gasping. The forest fern and grasses were waist high here, and he could not see the trail above from where he was lying. Waves of nausea rippled through him as the initial shock wore off and the pain hit. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
Move. He had to move.
Suddenly, the air around him buzzed like mad hornets as he heard several guns open up from the trail above. Leaves puffed up around him, and clipped twigs and splinters flew into the air, falling on him as he struggled to move. With a huge effort, he rolled over the log as he felt smashing blows in his side and back.
After the onslaught of noise, the forest fell quiet. Trent lay gasping for breath. He felt light-headed. The last sound he heard was of a man laughing.
* * * *
The steady spattering of blood on leaves was the first thing Trent heard when he came to. Through blurred vision he could barely see the blood dripping from his nose. He
turned and squinted at the sun, surprised to see it had moved hardly at all. He must have been out only a few minutes.
Using the log as a crutch, he got his feet under him. Looking up the hill, he realized everything he needed was still up there somewhere with his horse. At least he had his Ruger, and the hunting knife. They would have to do.
Trent started to walk ... and fell on his face. All right, I'll crawl. Just like swimming. Reach out, grab a handful of dirt and pull it toward you...
* * * *
Three men rode out on the trail, having gingerly traversed the bluff. They stopped to survey the damage.
"What do you think, Red?” Pagan Reeves scanned the brush below for any sign of Trent. All he could see was the red-stained log.
"I think we got us one dead marshal.” Seaver laughed.
Shoving his rifle down in the boot, Pagan turned in the saddle. “I didn't hear you shooting, Hobbs."
"Not much of a back shooter, Pagan,” Hobbs said.
"Hell, what's the difference? You are just as dead one way as the other.” Pagan eyed Hobbs suspiciously. “You are not gettin’ religion on me, are you? I never heard of a born-again raider.” Both he and Seaver laughed.
Hobbs pulled his horse back from the trail. “You boys go on to the Springs. I think we'll part company here.” His rifle pointed at the two men, who stared angrily at him.
"When you're out, you're out, Hobbs.” Pagan's voice was low and threatening.
"Don't try to scare me, Pagan. I don't feel like laughing right now."
After the two men had pounded down the trail, Ben Hobbs sat looking at the place he knew Trent must be. Hell of a way to go, he thought, but he could at least bury him. He owed him that much anyway.
Hobbs approached the blood stained log quickly, anxious to be on his way. Pagan might decide to come back and use him for target practice. Hurriedly, he looked over the top of the log. Trent was gone.
With a soft curse, Hobbs glanced around for a trail. It was easy to find. Trent had not gone far and Hobbs found him almost immediately.
The Marshal's scalp wound still bled slightly and the rest of his body seemed painted in red. Hobbs felt for a pulse and was shocked to find it not strong, but steady. He sat back on his heels a moment, thinking it out. He would retrieve Trent's horse, then take him to the Sanchez ranch. If Trent lived that long, so be it. It was too dangerous to take him back to Big Springs. Murdock was not that good of a medic anyway. Besides, Pagan would be there and he didn't want to deal with that. Nodding, Hobbs started moving.
After the Fall Page 13
