Holstering his gun, he walked toward the colonel’s office. The private didn’t follow him so closely this time. As they passed the livery doorway, he called inside. “Pops, put that rifle away. I like to shot you when that barrel poked out the window.”
Pops’s shrill cackle echoed from deep within the barn. He wondered if the cap was back, or forward. Probably forward.
Maybe.
THE OZARK PROJECT
1
The old building shuddered from the storm within its walls. The office seemed to expand, forcing dust from the nooks and crannies of ill-fitting lumber by the sheer force of the noise. Army personnel standing guard at different points in the building avoided looking at each other and turtled their heads down a little tighter to their shoulders. Lieutenant Saints, who just sat down outside the door, got up and walked up the hall away from the noise.
Along the hall were wooden chairs, available for people waiting to see the colonel. The girl sitting in one of the chairs shook her head at the adjutant’s invitation to go with him. She sat smiling, hands folded across her stomach, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, listening to the tirade going on inside.
The army colonel behind the desk was getting older by the minute, his face swollen in rage, blood pressure at record levels for a man still alive and standing.
“Christ on a pogo stick, Trent! Have you gone insane? You going raider on me? Losing your grip? What in God’s name are you trying to do? Kill all the outlaws by yourself? Are you crazy? I watched that little scene from the window. What was that? Code Duello? Shootout at the OK Corral? Jesus, Trent.”
The words launched at the man lounging in the solitary chair in front of the desk were delivered with enough force to make a private in a foreign army thousands of miles away snap to attention.
Trent could not keep the smile off his face as he contemplated the irreverent picture conjured up by the army colonel. Leave it to an ex-drill instructor to come up with something like that.
The smile did not quite extend to his eyes. Eyes were a picture into the soul and that was haunted with too many memories, and too much death.
“Conversation kind of dried up, Frank.” His was voice soft, in contrast to the verbal fusillade coming from his superior, echoing through the building like a thunderstorm over the horizon. Too many had made the mistake of thinking he was like his voice. Too many had died trying to figure out the difference.
2
Frank Bonham, a field colonel retired to a desk job by a host of 7.62mm pieces of lead fired from an AK-47, glared at the man lounging in the chair before him. An enigma. A throwback. Born two centuries too late.
The colonel finally wore down, bringing his breathing back to normal, glaring intensely at him. The man before him always rankled his sense of honor and fair play, even when he’d been married to his daughter. But he was so damned good at what he did. His gun, an old single action revolver, was so damned fast. What had he read in an old novel? The sibilant whisper of snake-fast hands. Most men carried some brand of auto-loaders. They’d have anywhere from eight to sixteen shots as fast as they could pull the trigger. Trent told him you just need one shot. If you need more than that, it’s time to ‘beat feet and get out of Dodge.’
He didn’t often play by the rules, albeit rules being freshly made up or rekindled from the old days. Usually, they just didn’t apply. His honor was a closely-knit thing that only Trent could fathom, and he didn’t share much.
He watched him unwind his lanky frame from the wooden chair, finally standing in front of the desk, making a visible effort at straightening sore muscles and stiff joints.
“Trent, you can’t just up and shoot people like that.” The colonel’s voice and blood pressure finally seemed back down within reasonable limits.
“What would you like me to do, Frank? The man was a hard case, a merc for hire, and Ben Hobbs was out there with him. I don’t know what his problem was, maybe he just didn’t like the way I put on my hat. It doesn’t matter because I didn’t have any choice. You, more than anyone else, should realize that. These people won’t come in peaceably. They aren’t afraid of us, Frank. To them, the army is trying to tear down their way of life, and they don’t like it. That’s how you got your legs, or don’t you remember?” His voice was level, and controlled. Turning back to the chair, he stooped to retrieve his hat from the floor.
“Wait a minute, Trent.” He waved a packet of papers at him. It was twenty years since The Fall, and the army was still trying to run on paper.
“I have a proposition for you.” He talked fast trying to hold Trent’s attention. “All the particulars are in these sheets. These are letters of authority, signed by me. Who to contact, stuff like that.”
Trent wheeled to look at the Colonel. “Letters of authority for what exactly?”
“There’s a situation west of here, about sixty miles. Big lake area in the Ozarks. It’s a place called Big Springs. They have a good thing going out there. The place is starting to grow and has its own economy. Do you realize how important that is? They’re raising their own food, making their clothes, running two grist mills so they can grind grain and another one to saw lumber. They are not dependent on anyone. Unfortunately, raiders are also terrorizing them. The name Pagan Reeves keeps popping up. He may be the head snake, or just working for Jeremiah Starking. We don’t know. I need you to find out.”
“You mean scout the situation, and report back.” Trent was skeptical, and showed it. Taking the sheets of paper, scanning the information. “Why doesn’t the Army take care of this? That’s right up their alley. The exercise would do them good.”
Frank stood up, looking seriously at him. John was his oldest courier. He was also one of his closest friends, yelling and screaming aside. “John, civilization is gaining a foothold. That news flash may have passed you by. You are making people nervous around here. My superiors think you’re getting a little wild for the present locale.” He smiled grimly. “Besides, most of my men are busy guarding the pack trains coming out of the cities. They can’t be spared.”
“So what’s the deal?”
He eyed his friend with the same scrutiny he’d give a live grenade. “I have a commission for you.”
“I don’t want to be an officer in your damned army.”
“Not that kind of commission.”
3
Trent smiled as he saw the colonel had just about reached the end of his patience.
“We’re reinstating the office of the United States Marshal. I want you to be the first charter member.” Bonham reached into a drawer, pulled out an object, and tossed it on the desk in front of Trent.
The object on the desk was a five-pointed star, surrounded by a smooth silver circle. In the center the inscription, US Marshal. They’d tried, but couldn’t buff out the dents and scratches in the old star.
“What’s this, Frank, a bullseye?”
“Take it, John. It’s about the only job I’m going to have for you.” There was just a hint of pleading in the colonel’s voice.
He sighed, and held the colonel’s gaze. “Nope.”
“What?”