The Fall of America: Winter Ops (34 page)

“Yes it does and by the way, that is a lot of vodka in your room for just three men.”

Smiling, the Captain said, “Yes sir, it is and we earned every drop. I am sure it will last us a long time.”

The End. . .for now.

Coming Soon, 

Fall of America: Fallout, Book #5

W.R. Benton
is an Amazon Top 100 Selling Author and has previously authored numerous books (over 30) of fiction, non-fiction, young adult, and Southern humor. Such notable authors as Matt Braun, Stephen Lodge, Don Bendell, and many others have endorsed his work. His survival book, “
Simple Survival, a Family Outdoors Guide
,” is a 2005 Silver Award Winner from the Military Writers Society of America.  James Drury, "The Virginian," endorsed two of his Westerns, "
War Paint
" and "
James McKay, U.S. Army Scout
."

Mister Benton has an Associate Degree in Search and Rescue, Survival Operations, a Baccalaureate in Occupational Safety and Health, and a Masters Degree in Psychology completed except for his thesis. Sergeant Benton retired from the military in 1997, with over twenty-six years of active duty, and at the rank of Senior Master Sergeant (E-8). He spent twelve years as a Life Support Instructor where he taught aircrew members how to use survival gear, survival procedures, and parachuting techniques. Mr. Benton and his wife, Melanie, live near Jackson, Mississippi, with four dogs (Dolly, Newt, Benji, and Skillet) and two cats.

V
isit
him at:

 
https://www.facebook.com/gary.l.benton

or

 
https://www.facebook.com/wrbenton01

Excerpt from

THE BLAST
of the double-barreled shotgun was loud in the small saloon. The target of the shot, knocked violently against an adobe wall fell slowly to the sawdust-covered floor, his eyes unseeing. The big bore shotgun’s breech snapped open and two empty shotgun shells flew into the air to land on the sawdust covered floor near the bar.

The bartender ran from the bar, squatted by the fallen man and said, “Good God, he’s almost blown in half!”

The man holding the gun replied, “That’s what I had in mind when I pulled the triggers.” He then inserted two new shells and snapped the breech closed.

Standing, the bartender wiped his hands on a badly soiled towel and said, “I’ll get the undertaker and sheriff.”

Pulling his coat open, so a second pistol was seen, the shooter replied, “Get ‘em if you want, but there is no need for the law. I’m Jake Masters, bounty hunter, and I’ve a warrant for this man, dead or alive. His name is Lester Poor and he was a woman killer, wanted in six states.” Jake pulled a folded wanted poster from his shirt pocket.

“I had no idea you was a bounty hunter. I saw it all and he pulled iron first! Hell, I thought you were a dead man!”

“Killing is my job, and I do it well.” Masters said and then asked, “Can you get me a double shot of bourbon?”

“Sure, but what about this dead man, shouldn’t I get the undertaker first?”

Masters glanced at the man on the floor and then said, “Nope, not until after I have my drink. He’s dead and I figure he’ll stay dead until I finish my whiskey.”  Jake placed the wanted poster on top of the bar.

“S . . . sure.” The bartender said as he moved to the bar, pulled a bottle and poured a generous amount into a water glass. The bounty hunter didn’t seem bothered by the killing at all.

Jake had just lifted his glass when the local sheriff walked in, looked at the dead man and then asked, “Masters, did you do the killin’?”

“Yep, that’s Lester Poor on the floor, and he's a wanted man. Make sure the man is properly cared for until I get the reward. I’ll be wiring the Federal Government as soon as I finish this drink.  The wanted poster for him is on the bar.”

“I’m sure you'll wire for the money.”

“How are you doing these days, Luke?” Jake took another sip of his bourbon as he waited the lawman’s reply.

“Doin’ fine, I guess. Jake, look, I want you out of my town as soon as possible.  Every damn time I meet you, there’s a body on the floor.”

Taking another sip of his drink, Masters grinned and said, “Luke, that just ain’t true. The last time I was here, I left the body on top of a table, not on the floor!”

Growing angry, Luke replied bluntly, “Jake, get out of my town! If there’s any law broken here, I’ll take care of it.  Besides, I don't like your kind.”

“Did you like Poor?” Jake said with a smirk.

“He never broke any laws in Cactus Canyon, so as long as he minded himself, I had no call to bother ‘em.”

 “I disagree, but you and me ain’t never really seen eye to eye about things.”

“Especially durin’ the war, right, Masters?”

During the Civil War, Jake had been a colonel and Luke a lieutenant colonel assigned to the same Southern cavalry unit. Luke was Jake’s deputy commander, but they'd fought so many times over orders and decisions, that after two years Masters had him reassigned. Luke was obviously still angered by the move.  

“Yep, we had our disagreements back then too, didn’t we? Look, Luke, the war is long over and it’s time to let the past go.”

“Not for me it ain’t over. You ruined my military career Masters.”

“Career? Hell, there was no future or career in the Southern army! We lost our war or did you forget that small detail? There is no Confederate army anymore, so forget about it. I’d say your hopes of ever having a military career died the morning Lee surrendered to Grant.”

Luke turned and walked to the batwing doors, where he stopped and said, “You’ve an hour to get out of town, Jake, or I’ll lock you up.”

“You mean you’ll try, but I don’t want any trouble, so I’ll be a good boy and leave.”

Luke walked through the door, his boots heard on the boardwalk as he walked east.

“Well, since I got an hour, give me one more double,” Jake said and then smiled at the bartender.

Pouring his drink, the bartender said, “You’re a cold man.”

“Yep, the war did that to me. Was you in the war too?”

Lowering his head, due to Jake’s slow Southern drawl, the man replied, “I was in the Union army and served as a cook.”

Jake slapped the bar with a loud
whap
, which scared the bartender, and said, “Now, by God, now that was a job! We didn’t have no cooks assigned after the first year, because we didn’t have any food. The cooks all went into the infantry. But a cook has an important job—feeding men!”

Grinning now, his initial fear gone, the bartender asked, “Do you really think so?”

“Son, the South didn’t lose the war because you Yanks were better fighters! No, sir, we lost because we couldn’t produce enough weapons, deliver clothing, or find enough food to feed our army. Union men, just like you, beat us. Your Yankee supply Sergeants, cooks, northern factories and farmers beat us, not your army. Hell, we could out fight y’all any day of the week, except we had little to fight with.”

“I hear you, but I never thought of it that way.” The bartender smiled as if he finally realized he’d had a big part in the South losing the war. “I found the job borin' and not very glamorous.”

Jake laughed and replied, “You survived and helped the Yanks win the war, so you’re a hero of sorts in my book. Yes sir, a real hero.” Then, throwing his drink back, Jake said, “Well, I guess I’d better be movin’ on. How much do I owe you?”

“Forty cents.”

Laying the money on the bar, Jake turned and walked from the saloon. Mounting his horse, he rode to the end of town, and dismounted at the telegraph office. He quickly sent a message informing his contact with the Federal Government that Lester Pool had been killed and to send the reward money to Tobacco Flats, his next stop.

* * * *

The day was hot, with the sun a scorching orb overhead, and not a cloud in the sky. Jake turned his horse south and started from town at a slow walk. In a matter of seconds, he felt sweat running down his back to his waist. He knew from experience, all he had to look forward to on the way to Tobacco Flats was open desert and little shade. It was a hellish trip, but he strongly suspected the other men involved in the Tucson bank robbery were there, or had been until recently.

Besides Poor, there were four other men he was trailing, and he wanted all of them. He took his job and reputation seriously, and the only way to keep his social status high among other bounty hunters was to be successful in his manhunts. He was known as a no nonsense kind of man, who did his job very well, and he enjoyed the glory. Not really a man to socialize, he did like to be respected by other professionals. Respect was a trait he’d developed in the army.
Do the job right or don’t do ‘er at all
, he thought as he pulled his hat down to shade his eyes better.

The ride was scorching hot and more than once he’d looked for water, but found none. His canteens were full, as was the barrel on his packhorse, but Jake constantly looked for water when out in he desert. He’d once run out of the precious liquid and almost died, only to be saved by an old miner who'd found him. Since that day, water was constantly on his mind as he moved over the burning sand.

“We’ll rest overnight near those boulders,” Jake said to General, his big bay. He often talked to his horse like a cowboy on a long cattle drive. He and General went back to two years after the war, where he’d won the animal in a card game in Omaha. The animal could run all day on only a drop of water and was a quiet critter, just like Jake. Their personalities were almost identical; with the difference being General didn’t like bourbon.

Dinner was a few slices of bacon cooked over mesquite wood and two stale buttermilk biscuits. He washed it down with strong black coffee. He’d just leaned back on his saddle blanket when he heard a voice call out, “Hello the camp! I’m white and friendly! Can I come to yer fire?”

Sitting up, Jake pulled both hammers back on his shotgun and replied, “Come, but keep your hands where I can see ‘em. Any sudden moves and I’ll drill you right in the breadbasket! Just so you know I got a sawed off double-barreled Greener in my hands.”

“I’ll be there directly!”

As he watched a miner appeared from the cactus and made his way toward the fire. He was short, maybe five feet and four inches tall, with white hair and beard, and his clothing was filthy. When he neared the flickering flames, Jake saw his eyes were a deep blue. He was leading an ageless mule.

“I don’t like to camp alone in ‘Pache country iffen there’s another white man around. It ain’t safe.” The miner said as he stood grinning by the fire.

“You got a name?”

“Tin Cup is my miner name, but my given name is William.”

“There’s coffee on the fire, but you missed dinner.”

“I smelled yer bacon a mile off. No, I got food, iffen I can use yer fire.”

“Have at it. My skillets been washed, so if you use it, clean it.”

“I got my own. Ya read any Injun sign today?”

Pulling his pipe, Jake began filling the bowl as he said, “Saw four tracks about two miles south of Cactus Canyon, but nothing since. How about you, see anything?”

“Nope, not a thing. Last sign I saw was near on a week back and it was old.” Tin Cup replied as he kneeled by the fire and rearranged the wood. Moving to his mule, he pulled a slab of bacon and a skillet.

“We’ll pull guard tonight and I want you on the last shift.”

“Fine with me, but if ya was alone ya’d not pull guard.”

“Any time I’m on the move with another man, we pull guard, because it’s safer.”

“No argument out of me on pullin’ guard, I was jus’ commentin’.” Tin Cup replied and then began to shave his bacon into his hot skillet.