Gunny looked down at the knife, then up at Trent. His breath was coming in gasps as he looked into his eyes. “Guess I’ll go… instead.”
“Bye, Gunny.” Trent pulled the knife up and over in a figure seven, then pushed the body away.
He stood looking at his old friend for a long time, no sound coming from the men gathered in the circle. Finally, the horses parted and he saw a blanket-wrapped Katie coming toward him. Cruz had cut her loose and she was running to him, laughing and crying at the same time. As his arms were full of Katie, he looked over her shoulder at a grinning Cruz.
“A long day, my friend.” His voice was tired.
Cruz sobered and looked seriously at him. “It will get longer, for us, anyway.”
Trent, alarmed, pushed Katie away. “What is it, Chico?”
Chico gazed down the trail. “We have all this hamburger….”
20
The crisp, cool air of an early fall day gently rustled the golden leaves in the towering oaks. The day was resplendent in color as different kinds of trees tried to outdo the other, each trying to be the brightest and biggest.
Colonel Frank Bonham walked past the mass graveyard that chronicled the fall of the United States far better than the printed word would ever do. He climbed a grassy knoll, toward the lone grave at the top. Brushing away leaves stranded against the stone, he placed a small bunch of wild flowers on the grave of his daughter.
Standing again, curious, he reached down and picked up an object lying on top of the stone. Looking around the clearing, wondering who had left it, he finally let his gaze fall on the object. It was a small branding iron with a cross on the end.
He nodded his head once, and then reverently, he placed it back on the stone. Walking back down the hill, his steps slowly regained a youthful spring, his eyes clear, and vindicated. His smile—a small thing, growing slowly.
About the Author
Darrel Sparkman resides in Southwest Missouri with his wife. Their three children and eleven grandchildren live nearby. His hobbies include gardening, golfing, and writing. In the past, Darrel served four years in the United States Navy, including seven months in Viet Nam as a combat search & rescue helicopter crewman. He also served nineteen years as a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician, worked as a professional photographer, computer repair tech, and was owner and operator of a greenhouse and flower shop. Darrel is currently retired and self-employed. He finally has that job that wakes you up every day with a smile.
Follow Darrel on all his writing adventures on Facebook. You can also contact him directly by e-mail at newfrontierwriter@gmail.com.
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Excerpt from
Hallowed Ground
By Darrel Sparkman
Darrel Sparkman’s riveting Western thriller, Hallowed Ground!
“Sparkman is a rare new talent. He knows the people and the history, and delivers a story with guts as well as brains.”
Coble Bray was content. He sat on a limestone shelf weathered flat by the erosion of time and high water and looked out over a slow-moving creek below. Tendrils of fog drifted over the water in the early morning coolness. The sun would soon chase the fog away. What little breeze there was came from the west and he could faintly hear the lowing of cattle and guessed someone was moving a herd north. The willow tree behind him offered shade from the sun and filtered the smoke from the hatful of fire he used to boil water. He needed the water for coffee—and to clean the wound picked up at a no-name settlement corral trying to serve a warrant to a couple of men wanted for murder. They didn’t like it much, and they’d brought friends.
He idly watched a line-side bass chasing a dragonfly too close to the water break the surface of the placid creek only to fall back without a meal. For this creek to have a pool so wide, a beaver or two must have built downstream. A fruitless project since these small creeks were subject to flooding during heavy rains that would wash away the dam. He chuckled. At least they’d have job security the rest of their lives—before some coyote or big cat caught them away from the safety of their domain.
Frowning, he raised the side of his shirt. It wasn’t much of a wound, just a crease along his side, but it hurt like hell. What he didn’t need was the cloth sticking to the wound or it getting infected. There was a sawbones in KC, but that might be a few days away and he was used to doing things on his own.
The sound of the bass breaking water again, and his grumbling stomach made up his mind. He rose and walked to his horse ground-reined by the willow. Old Red liked the shade too, and nipped at him as he went toward his saddlebags, probably thinking they were leaving. He swatted him on the nose.
“I’m just getting my bags, Red. Go back to sleep.” He carried the heavy bags, and as an afterthought, his bedroll and oversized canteen, back to the fire. This would be a good place to rest for a while.
Taking out a clean white rag, he tossed it into the open pot of boiling water, and then got out a bottle labeled Sloan’s Horse Liniment. He wasn’t going to like this—really, really wasn’t going to like this.
He pulled his heavy-bladed knife and stuck the blade in the boiling water. After a few minutes he used it to lift the cloth and let it cool for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his shirt and cleaned the crease in his side. The bullet had cut through the meat, just under his short ribs, and left a burning gash in his side. Satisfied the wound was clean, and thankful it hadn’t penetrated into his belly, he pulled the cork from the liniment bottle. He looked doubtfully at the horse on the label.
Hell, if it works on a horse….
Pouring some on a clean corner of the rag, he took a deep breath and applied it to the cut.
Old Red flinched at the sound of the barely suppressed screech that came from his owner. For a moment, everything was quiet except for his deep breathing. Even the birds stopped their chatter and he distinctly heard another fish hit the water. A few minutes later things returned to normal, except for Red grinning at him. He put all the gear back into the leather saddlebags.
The sun climbed in the sky and the temperature with it, and his stomach growled again. He cut a long and limber branch from the willow and got out his fishing rig, which consisted of long twine and a fishhook. The water just below the rock was shady and cool, and the bass would come there to hide from the heat. It took a few minutes with a piece of red flannel cloth for a lure, but he snagged a couple of medium-sized fish for the pan. The heads, tails, and guts went back into the creek for the turtles to eat. With a couple of hardtack biscuits thrown into the grease and a sigh, he was content.